Farewell to Fairacre (5 page)

On the whole, I thought, as I put down on the kitchen floor some delectable remains of the chicken for Tibby, it had been a happy evening. But what a sad ending!

And what would the morrow hold for poor Henry?

The next morning Bob Willet met me in the school playground in a most unusual state of agitation.

'I've been that worried ever since the hospital called,' he told me. 'I didn't want to give 'em your number and upset the party, but they was so pushy - kept on and on - and in the end I thought I'd do as they said. I do hope that was right.'

'Absolutely,' I told him, and went on to explain the urgency of the matter and that Mr Mawne was staying with his wife.

He seemed much relieved. 'That's a comfort to me. If there's one thing I hates it's a Meddlesome Mattie, and I couldn't sleep last night for wondering if I'd done the right thing.'

'You did. And your vegetables were much appreciated.'

'And my brights?' boomed Mrs Pringle, who had appeared in time to hear the end of our conversation.

'They made the place look like Buckingham Palace,' I assured her.

With comparative peace restored we all three returned to our daily round.

Amy came to see me that evening, bearing a large suitcase filled with cast-off clothes and household linen, for an imminent school jumble sale.

'Good heavens, Amy!' I exclaimed, turning over some elegant jumpers and skirts. 'I think I shall take first pick.'

'Not your colours, dear,' replied Amy, settling herself on the sofa. 'Besides, it's quite wrong to snaffle all the best things before the sale starts. It's done far too often at Bent and elsewhere, but I hoped that Fairacre had more moral integrity.'

'My, my, Amy! You make me feel like an opium-runner or white-slaver! In any case, we have an admirable practice in Fairacre when it comes to jumble sales and bazaars.'

'And what's that?'

'The helpers are allowed to pick one object - and one only - before the doors open. After all, they've done the donkey work, and it does seem to work well.'

'I shall introduce the practice at Bent,' promised Amy. 'Now tell me how the party went.'

I told her all. She shook her head sadly.

'Poor woman! One wonders if it would be kinder to see her go if things are as bad as that. Poor Henry, too: he will be lonely.'

She looked at me with the speculative gaze I have learnt to dread.

'Like a cup of coffee?' I asked hastily.

'Love one. And by the way, James sent a message to say that your second house will definitely be ready at half term.'

Amy's husband was one of the directors of the Malory-Hope Trust, and his particular part in its work was the seeking of suitable family-sized houses for the orphans in the care of the Trust. He had recently been instrumental in buying some terraced houses in Glasgow for this work, and since then the two new Fairacre houses which had remained empty for so long.

I had wondered if James had thought of the possible closure of my school when the Trust had purchased this new property, and I had certainly felt somewhat guilty about the school's dwindling pupils.

When I taxed James with my guilty fears, he was hot in denying it. The fact was, he told me, that the property was never going to be as cheap again, so that he knew he would be getting a bargain on the Trust's behalf. Secondly, Sir Derek Malory-Hope, the original founder, had been keen to have several local homes and had expressed this wish a short time before his death. James, as his friend and colleague, was simply carrying out his desires.

I accepted this explanation absolutely, but I was aware that the decision to buy the two houses had been a lifesaver for the school I had cared for so long. We were all much indebted to the Malory-Hope Trust.

Amy and I sipped our coffee, and I was conscious that she was watching me closely.

'You look rather tired,' she said. 'That dinner party must have worn you out.'

'Not the party,' I told her, 'but I must admit that the news from the hospital shook us all.'

'It must have done. But James and I have thought you've seemed under the weather for some time. Are you overworking?'

'Me? Overworking?' I cried. 'Amy, you've known me long enough to know that I have an in-built laziness that makes sure that I don't strain myself.'

'Well, I know you
procrastinate
, and you
dither.
Look at the dozens of jobs you've thought about over the years and never applied for. And here you are, wasted and washed up, still at Fairacre.'

'Thank you for those few kind words. You make me feel like a dish cloth.'

Amy laughed, and patted my arm. 'No offence meant, and none taken I hope, but seriously, you do look a little
wan.
What about having a check-up with the doctor?'

'I'm not bothering him. He's quite enough to do with people who are really ill.'

'Then take a tonic. An iron tonic might be just the thing.'

'The sort you take through a straw so that your teeth don't go black? I haven't done that since I was about six.'

Amy snorted impatiently. 'No, no! They have
pills
these days. Sometimes I wonder where you have been all these years.'

'Here,' I said cheerfully. 'And here, Amy dear, I propose to remain.'

'Hopeless!' sighed Amy.

I studied my face in the looking-glass when I went to bed. As far as I could see, I looked much the same. Older, of course, hair greying, jaw-line definitely heavier, plenty of lines here and there, but I was still recognisable, I thought.

It was nice of Amy to worry over me, but unnecessary. I certainly felt tired, and once or twice had been slightly dizzy, as when the vicar had told me about the new pupils who would be attending Fairacre school. And, of course, I was reluctant to get up in the mornings, but with autumn beginning to cast its chill across the country this was understandable. As for consulting our hard-pressed doctor, the idea was simply ludicrous, I told my reflection sternly.

Two days passed with no real news about Henry Mawne's wife, who remained critically ill in hospital.

Henry was at home, staying within earshot of the telephone, and with his car ready to set off if a call came.

We all worried about him, and even Mrs Pringle seemed genuinely sympathetic, curbing her usually ghoulish comments and simply shaking her head when Bob Willet mentioned the invalid.

But one evening Gerald Partridge rang me. Our vicar's voice was shaking.

'I heard about midday,' he told me. 'She died without regaining consciousness, and I've been with Henry. He's taken it very quietly and bravely. I think he knew all along that it was hopeless. I grieve for the poor fellow.'

I asked about funeral arrangements.

'Family only at the county crematorium. No flowers or letters, as she directed. And the remains will go to the family plot in Ireland. A melancholy journey for Henry. I have offered to go with him.'

It was a short conversation and I put the receiver down feeling very sad.

Another link with Fairacre life was broken.

Half term came at the end of October, and I spent most of it in the company of my cousin Ruth who lives in Dorset.

Her parting words were, 'You look better than when you arrived,' which I found faintly disquieting. How dilapidated had I looked on arrival, I wondered?

I returned to find four Christmas catalogues, as well as the usual letters.

Could Christmas really be so imminent? Visions of carols to be learnt, a nativity play, the usual Fairacre school party given to friends in the village, paper chains, Christmas cards and calendars to be constructed, all passed before my inward eye, and I thought, like Wordsworth, of the bliss of solitude.

Ah well! I had done it before, I comforted myself, and no doubt I could cope with it again.

Mrs Pringle greeted me with the news that the Cottons' house was now in order, and that the children would be coming to school, probably that very morning.

I viewed the prospect with pleasure, and hoped that they would settle with us as happily as their next-door neighbours, the Bennett children, had done.

Sure enough, as Joseph Coggs pulled the school bell rope, a blissful smile lighting up his gipsy-dark face, Mrs Cotton arrived with three of the five children.

There was a fair-haired girl of about ten, and two brothers of seven and nine. These two, I knew, were the children who had lost their parents in a fire. A younger child, not related to the brothers, would be eligible for admission next term when she would have her fifth birthday. An even younger girl, sister to the two brothers, was still only a toddler, and it would be some time before I had the pleasure of entering her name in the school register.

All the three newcomers came into my class. There was a certain amount of staring and whispering among my old hands, but within half an hour the three had settled in, and there was a general atmosphere of acceptance from new and old pupils.

The brothers seemed to be exceptionally well advanced in their school work. They had been attending a school in a neighbouring county, and I began to wonder if my teaching methods were behind the times. Were these two unusually forward, or were my children less intelligent? Was I falling down in my duties? Perhaps I should go to those refresher courses always being urged upon me by the school authorities. Too often such missives ended up on the wastepaper pile, together with all those harrowing appeals to save deprived people, starving children, diminishing rain forests, endangered species and sufferers from a multitude of agonising diseases.

I am far from callous, and frequently have a few sleepless hours at night worrying about these horrors which come tumbling through the letter-box. But there is a limit to my ability to help, and I simply support four or five pet charities, and have done so faithfully over the years.

Perhaps those pamphlets about evening classes and weekend refresher courses should be rescued from the pile, and studied earnestly?

Certainly my three newcomers seemed to be well in advance of Fairacre's standards in reading, writing and arithmetic.

I was filled with misgivings.

***

Our vicar usually takes prayers at the school one day a week, but a message came to say that he was accompanying Henry Mawne to Ireland for the interment of his wife's ashes, and would not be able to come to the school as usual.

Mrs Pringle seemed to take this news as a personal af front.

'Poor Mr Partridge, having to go all that way for a burial! If Mrs Mawne had been laid to rest decently in Fairacre churchyard, he could have come to school like he always does, and I could have got my stoves polished just as usual.'

I enquired why the vicar's visits should upset the stoves' routine.

'They always gets a special blackleading before vicar's day,' she told me. 'Surely you've noticed?'

I had to admit that I had not. Her breathing became heavier than usual, and her face turned red with outrage.

'Sometimes I wonders,' she puffed, 'why I spend my time working my fingers to the bone in this place, day after day, week after week—'

She paused for breath.

'Year after year,' I prompted helpfully.

'Pah!' said Mrs Pringle, and limped away.

That combustible leg of hers would register disgust, I knew, for the rest of the day.

Henry Mawne was in Ireland for three weeks, staying with his wife's relations.

During that time he sent me a sad little note thanking me for the evening he had shared at my house with the Annetts. He described it as 'a warm and comforting spot in a bleak world', but felt that he was slowly getting back to normal after the distress of the past weeks.

The vicar was only away for two nights, returning immediately after the service in which he had taken part.

He told me something about it when he called just after school closed one wet afternoon.

I was unlocking my car when he arrived, the children and Mrs Richards having departed.

I went to greet him, and made tracks for the school door, but he waved me back to the car, and we sat side by side watching the splashing of raindrops into the playground puddles.

'I found the occasion very moving,' he said. 'Such a green and lovely spot. I think Henry might be persuaded to stay permanently. He met his wife there, you know, and her family are being very pressing.'

'Would it be a good thing? Is there anything to bring him back here?'

Gerald Partridge looked troubled. 'I hope he does decide to stay here. He is such a tower of strength to me over church affairs, and he is very well-liked in the locality. Also he said that this drier climate suits him better,' he said, surveying the puddles.

'In any case,' I said, 'he will have to return to do something about the house, I imagine.'

We sat in silence for a few minutes, the rain drumming on the car roof, and the windscreen running with water.

'Henry said how much he had enjoyed his evening with you,' said the vicar. 'But he thought you looked rather tired.'

My heart sank. Did I really look such an old hag these days?