Farewell to Fairacre (2 page)

'I've heard tell as some of these kids come from towns.'

'What's wrong with that?'

'Remember them evacuees? All town lots they were. And brought no end of trouble. Head lice, fleas, scabious—'

'Scabies,' I corrected automatically.

'As I said,' continued Mrs Pringle, undaunted. 'Not to mention bed-wetting and
worse.'

'Well, these aren't evacuees, and are being properly brought up. Frankly, I'm looking forward to them, and so are the children.'

'You'll regret it,' said my old sparring partner. 'Mark my words.'

But her dark forebodings had not come to pass. The four new pupils had settled into Fairacre school very well, were accepted by the children with the easy camaraderie of the young and, to my mind, were a very welcome addition to the establishment.

The golden September weather continued. The children still wore their summer clothes and complained of being 'sweatin' 'ot, miss', but continued to rush around the playground, and occasionally up and over the coke pile when they thought they were unobserved, so they did not get a great deal of sympathy from me when they pleaded exhaustion from the weather conditions.

But I relished this balmy spell of weather. We had some lessons out of doors, particularly those which involved reading, either by me, or on their own.

Sometimes I suspected that the combined siren voices of a distant tractor driven by someone's dad, the cawing of the rooks above us in the vicarage trees and the humming of innumerable insects around us took more of the children's attention than the printed pages before them. But this did not perturb me greatly. They would remember those golden moments long after the stories had faded from their memory.

Sometimes I took my class for a nature walk. This was always exhilarating, particularly when we traversed the village street on our way to the chalky paths of the downs. A mother, on her way to see Mr Lamb at the Post Office, would greet us warmly. A distant tractor would be pointed out enthusiastically.

'My dad's over there. They're havin' swedes in that field this year.'

Someone would wave from an upstairs window.

'My gran,' said Ernest, waving back. 'She has a nap on her bed after dinner.'

Such encounters were very cheering, but I could not help noticing that there were far fewer people about in the village than when I first came to Fairacre years ago.

Now it was the norm for both parents to go to work, and nowadays at a distance, travelling by car. Certainly, both parents had worked in earlier times, but usually within walking distance of their houses.

Mr Roberts, our local farmer, probably employed eight or ten men when I knew him first, and their wives helped at the farm house or at nearby large homes with domestic work. Usually it was part-time work for the wives, for they arranged matters so that they could be at home at midday to dish up a meal for their husbands and any of the family who were at hand. A number of my schoolchildren went home to a midday meal when I first started teaching at Fairacre. Nowadays all stayed to school dinner. It was a sign of the times.

A few hundred yards beyond the edge of the village, a path led upwards to the downs. The first few yards were shaded by shrubby trees. The wayfaring trees grew here, their oval grey-green leaves encircling the masses of white flowers so soon to turn brown and change into autumn berries. Brambles clutched at legs, their fruits already forming into hard green knobs, and here and there a second flowering of honeysuckle scented the air.

But as we ascended we left the scrub behind, and found ourselves in the high windy world of true chalk downland.

We sat puffing on the fine grass and enjoyed the splendid view. There were pellets of rabbit droppings around us among the tiny vetches and thymes of the grassland, and the small blue butterflies which inhabit chalky places fluttered about their business, ignoring intruders.

We pointed out to each other various points of interest.

'There's the weathercock,' said Patrick. 'It says the wind's in the east.'

'Soppy!' commented John Todd. 'You be lookin' at his tail.' An ensuing scrap was quelled by me.

They noticed washing blowing on a distant line, a train making its way to Caxley station some ten miles away, and a herd of black and white Friesian cows behind Mr Roberts' farm house.

Was this, I wondered guiltily, really 'A Nature Walk'? Was it, more truthfully, 'An Afternoon's Outing'? Whatever it was, I decided, watching the children at their various activities or non-activities, it was, as Shakespeare said of sleep,

Balm of hurt minds...
Chief nourisher in life's feast.

We picked a few sprigs of downland vegetation and some twigs from the shrubs at the foot of the downs as we returned, as a sop to the Cerberus of education.

John Todd had collected a pocketful of rabbit droppings which he maintained were going to be used as fertiliser for his mum's pot-plants. My only proviso was that his collection should be put into a paper bag until home time. I heard him later telling another boy that he thought he might sell some to his granny.

Sometimes I think that John Todd will end up either in jail, or as a millionaire. He will certainly make his mark somewhere.

I relished returning to my Beech Green home on those golden afternoons of early term time. The gardening jobs which had waited during the rainy holidays were soon done, and Bob Willet came to lend a hand on Saturday mornings when he could spare the time.

'You heard about Mrs Mawne?' he asked, as we sat with our mugs of coffee in the sunshine.

'No. What's happened?'

'Been took to hospital. Lungs, they say.'

This was bad news. I liked Mrs Mawne, a strong-minded busy soul who took an active part in Fairacre affairs, and looked after her husband Henry very well. Henry was a well-known ornithologist and naturalist and wrote, not only for our
Caxley Chronicle,
but also for more erudite publications. At one time, when it was thought he was a bachelor, and before his wife returned to him, Fairacre had been busy arranging what it considered a suitable match between Henry and me. Naturally, neither of us knew anything about these romantic plans, and very cross we were when light dawned.

'Is it serious?'

'Must be if she's in hospital,' said Bob, who appeared to regard these institutions as the seemly place to die in. 'She do smoke, of course. Don't do your tubes any good.'

'And what about Mr Mawne? Can he look after himself?'

'Shouldn't think so,' said Bob cheerfully. 'Probably frizzle a hegg and bacon.'

'That's something, anyway.'

'Not as good as my Alice's steak and kidney pudden, or her rabbit pie with a nice bit of onion in it.'

'Well, you're spoilt,' I told him.

'That's right,' he agreed with much satisfaction.

He drained his mug and went back to his weeding.

During the next week, Henry Mawne appeared at school.

This was no surprise, as he is a frequent visitor bringing pamphlets and posters about birds and other natural matters which he thinks will interest the children. They always enjoy his visits, and sometimes he stays for half an hour and gives an impromptu nature lesson.

On this occasion I thought he looked older and shabbier. I enquired after his wife, and he shook his head sadly.

'Not too good. The medics tell me she had a slight stroke yesterday. Nothing to worry about, they tell me.' His face grew pink. 'I ask you! Nothing to worry about indeed! They told me not to visit her last night, but I'm damn well going up this afternoon.'

'I'm sure you'll find her getting on well,' I assured him, hoping that was the truth. 'Lots of people have strokes, and are as right as rain soon after.'

He was not to be comforted, however, and took himself off after a few minutes. It was sad to see him suddenly so old.

'What's up?' I heard Patrick whisper to Ernest.

'Mrs Mawne. She's been struck.'

'Struck? By lightning or something?'

'No, chump! With a stroke, like that chap down the pub.'

'But he's all—' began Patrick looking horrified.

'That'll do,' I said firmly. 'You can stop talking and get on with your work.'

Resignedly, and with heavy sighs, they returned to their labours, while I sorted out a pile of forms to take home to study in peace before returning them to our local education office. Somehow, there seemed to be more than ever these days, and I did not relish an evening poring over them.

Henry's sad face haunted me. If his wife were laid up in hospital for any length of time it might be a good idea to have him to a meal one evening.

What Fairacre and Beech Green would make of the matter I did not know, nor care. If two middle-aged old dears could not enjoy a meal together without scandal it was a pity.

Nevertheless, I resolved to ask our vicar Gerald Partridge and his wife, or failing that, my old friends George and Isobel Annett to join the party. Decorum apart, four would fit nicely round my table, and make more cheerful company for a sad man.

Mrs Pringle, when she appeared at midday to wash up the dinner things, knew all about Mrs Mawne's troubles. With lugubrious relish she told me about several stroke sufferers of her acquaintance. None, it seemed, had survived, or if they had, she told me, it was a great pity considering the plight in which they were left.

'I don't want to hear anymore,' I told her roundly, and left her quivering with anger and frustration amidst the washing-up steam.

Later that evening I tried to settle down to those wretched forms, but found my attention wandering. Mrs Pringle's ghoulish enjoyment of disaster, which I can usually dismiss with some amusement, irritated me unduly on this particular evening. I had lived long enough with her, in all conscience, to be able to ignore her habitual gloom, but I had to admit that latterly she had riled me more than usual.

Was she getting even more trying, or was I getting crabbier? Of course, we were both getting older and our tempers became less equable. Even so, I thought, stuffing the forms into a file and abandoning the task for the moment, should I be feeling quite so depressed?

Perhaps I was sickening for something? Perhaps I needed more stimulus? Perhaps I needed company? Even Tibby seemed to have deserted me on this particular evening, going about some private feline business.

I walked out into the garden, still troubled. Heavy clouds had rolled up from the west, and no doubt rain would fall during the night. This was the first overcast evening we had seen for many days, and it fitted my mood. The air was still, somehow menacing, and I shivered despite the humid warmth.

I would go early to bed, I told myself, and read the latest Dick Francis book, and perhaps plan my proposed dinner party.

We get the Hump,
Came lions Hump,

as Rudyard Kipling said. Doing something was the cure for that, and tomorrow I should be myself again.

I was in bed by nine o'clock.

The roads were wet when I set off for school the next morning, feeling rather more cheerful after my early night.

Mrs Pringle was limping heavily about her duties, and was decidedly off-hand with me. Mrs Pringle's bad leg is a sure pointer to prevailing conditions. If she is in one of her rare moods of comparatively good temper, she walks at her normal waddle.

If, however, the limp is noticeable, it means that she is resentful of all the work she is called upon to do, or she is in a flaming temper about one of her pet interests. Anything connected with the misuse of her precious tortoise stoves, for instance, puts her in a rage and the limp is most pronounced. When Mrs Pringle's leg has 'flared up', as she says, we are on guard.

Obviously, the present malaise was the outcome of my short shrift with her over Mrs Mawne's condition, and I did not propose to do any mollifying. She must just get on with it.

In my first months at Fairacre I had worried about Mrs Pringle's feelings, and had done my best to apologise for any hurt which I might have done her unknowingly. Now I knew better, and it was Bob Willet who had opened my eyes not long after my arrival.

'Don't you take no heed of that ol' besom's tantrums,' he told me sturdily. 'Maud Pringle's been a bad-tempered old bag ever since she was born. Turn a deaf ear and a blind eye.'

It was sound advice, and nowadays Mrs Pringle's temper and her bad leg's combustibility held no terrors for me.

Mrs Richards, my assistant, was on playground duty after we had finished school dinner, so I walked down to the Post Office to buy boiled sweets to replenish the school sweet tin, and to pay in some of the children's savings. This thrifty habit had started, years before my arrival, as a wartime effort, and somehow continued.

Mr Lamb greeted me with his usual
bonhomie
and his habitual crack about how many sweets I got through.

I asked after Mrs Mawne. Mr Lamb has his finger on the pulse of Fairacre life and knows more even than Mrs Pringle.

'Much the same, Mr Mawne told me. He's just been in for some eggs. Must be living on 'em, I reckon. They're keeping her in hospital for at least another week. He visits daily, afternoons mostly.'