Farewell to Fairacre (7 page)

I tossed and turned, trying to find some comfort. I reminded myself of the doctor's words. It was only a warning. My general health was sound. I simply had to take things gently.

But how on earth could I? Visions of all that paperwork, of the extra effort needed for our Christmas celebrations, of Mrs Pringle and her infuriating ways, floated before my sleepless eyes. It was interesting, I noted, that the children did not readily spring to mind as an irritant, only as a vulnerable element to be protected.

At four o'clock I descended to the kitchen and made a pot of tea. Sitting there drinking, with a bleary-eyed Tibby hoping for an early morning snack, I began to think seriously about taking early retirement. I had just over two years to do. Should I be able to hang on? Was I truly fit enough to teach properly?

I remembered my surprise at the high level of ability shown by some of the new pupils. Were they naturally more intelligent or had they been better taught? It was a dispiriting thought.

Much troubled, I limped back to bed and fell into a few hours of exhausted slumber.

Of course, by the time I drove over to Fairacre, everything seemed brighter. The fears of the night, like a flock of malevolent vultures, had flown away, and I was sure that the doctor's words were true.

I had been given a warning, and that was all. If I did as he advised and took things sensibly, there was no reason why I should not continue at Fairacre school until my allotted time was up.

My foot seemed much better, and I entered the lobby in a buoyant mood.

Mrs Pringle was cleaning the wash basins, but turned to confront me, Vim tin in hand.

'I can see you've had a poor night of it,' she announced with ghoulish satisfaction. 'I was told you'd been to see the doctor. Bad news?'

'He said that I was in good health,' I snapped. I suddenly wished that he could be present to see just what I had to face every morning.

Mrs Pringle's expression was expectant. I knew that she was hoping for an account of everything that had passed between the doctor and me. I was determined not to fuel the fire, and strode with great dignity towards my classroom.

It was unfortunate that I tripped over the mat. Mrs Pringle gave a gasp which could have meant 'I told you so', as unharmed, but very cross, I went to my desk.

School affairs went on as usual for the next week or two, and gradually I began to get over my shock.

I remembered to take the prescribed tablets now and again, and went to bed earlier than usual, and duly visited the doctor as requested.

He seemed quite pleased with me, and spent a few of his precious minutes talking generally about my way of life.

Did I ever feel lonely, he asked me? Could I get domestic help easily? Did I have bouts of depression? He had found that some women of about my age were unhappy at times, probably because they were past child-bearing.

I must admit that this appeared an extremely odd remark to make to me. He was obviously a kindly and sympathetic man, and I recalled the somewhat impertinent personal questions posed in that women's magazine out in the waiting-room. But surely most married women of my age would have had what family they wanted - or did not want - and were quite looking forward to an easier time now that their children were off their hands.

'Of course,' he went on hurriedly, before I had time to comment, 'you don't have quite the same anxieties, as a single woman.'

'I rather think,' I told him, 'that most women, whether single or married, look forward to a sprightly middle age.'

'Well, I'm certain you will have one,' he assured me, as he ushered me out. 'There's no need for you to come again unless anything worries you.'

I sang all the way home.

The relief at my return to normal health gave a great lift to my spirits.

Suddenly I was inspired to tackle all kinds of jobs I had been postponing for weeks.

The dreaded paperwork began to diminish after several evenings of concentration, and I took part in the Christmas preparations with renewed vigour.

Thoroughly frightened at the thought that I might be smitten again, I took care to go to bed earlier than usual and to take my tablets regularly. I admit that I had been terribly scared.

I told no one about my stroke, but did tell kind enquirers that I had slightly high blood pressure which was responding to the prescribed tablets.

Over the years I have discovered that it is as well to provide something for curious minds to pore over. A flat denial of everything only whets the appetite of gossip-seekers. A judicious amount of truthful fact, willingly handed out, is enough to protect the main issue from being revealed.

Sounding disappointed, Mrs Pringle grudgingly admitted that I was 'looking quite bonny again'. Bob Willet said he was glad to see me 'picking up', and Mrs Richards said how good it was to see me as I 'used to be'.

It was early in December when the Annetts invited me to supper to meet the Beech Green newcomer John Jenkins, the friend of Henry Mawne.

Henry too had been invited and picked me up on his way from Fairacre. He seemed to have settled back into his usual routine, and had acquired a housekeeper after whom I enquired as we drove the short distance to the school house where the Annetts lived.

'A bit bossy,' said Henry. 'I have to leave my shoes in the porch, and she will keep giving me onion sauce with everything. Still, she keeps the house very clean, and her cooking's passable. Nothing like as good as yours though.'

I felt gratified, although I doubted secretly if my efforts were any better than the housekeeper's.

Henry and John had already renewed their friendship, but this was the first time I had met John. He was a handsome man, tall and thin, with a mane of silvery hair and very bright blue eyes.

He looked ten years younger than the plump and bald Henry, but of course, I thought charitably, he has probably not had poor Henry's recent unhappiness.

It was a cheerful party, and as Isobel is an excellent cook we tucked into delicious food and drink. George Annett was in great form and was doing his best to persuade both men to join the choirs of their respective parish churches. He did not have much luck.

And then he turned to me and said something quite surprising.

'I hear you are thinking of retiring.'

I was considerably taken aback. My secret fears had been communicated to absolutely no one. What is there about country air which seems to dispense one's best-kept secrets to all and sundry?

'I have over two years to go until I'm of retiring age,' I managed to say.

'Oh! I somehow thought you had early retirement in mind. I'm soldiering on until sixty-five if my health allows. I must admit I'd like to go at sixty, but we can do with my salary for a little longer.'

'Retirement's really hard work,' observed John Jenkins. 'Everyone wants me to join something.'

'Like the choir?' said George.

John laughed, and Henry added, 'Well, I've been far busier as a so-called retired man than ever I was in business. Still, I do manage to enjoy my bird work, and that reminds me.'

He began to fumble in the breast pocket of his jacket, and brought out a leaflet.

'I'm giving a little talk with slides in Caxley early in the New Year. Would you like to support me?'

Of course we all agreed. John Jenkins said that he was sure he saw a sparrow-hawk near his bird table recently. George Annett mentioned the sighting of a green woodpecker, and my own decidedly inferior contribution was a pair of robins in my garden.

It was pelting with rain when we were about to depart.

Henry offered John and me a lift to our respective doors, and we splashed away after sincere thanks for a splendid evening.

After we had dropped John we drove the quarter of a mile to my home. On the way Henry asked me what I thought of John.

'Very good-looking,' I replied. 'Good company too.'

'I think he's improved with age. Mellowed a bit. He was pretty insufferable at college.'

'Probably shy,' I replied, 'and throwing his weight about to prove that he wasn't. Lots of young people are like that.'

'Well, that's a charitable way of looking at it, I suppose.'

He was silent for a time, and then gave a gusty sigh as we drew up at my gate.

'Will you be seeing much of Jenkins?' he asked.

'I doubt it,' I replied, a little surprised. 'Until we all go to your meeting, I don't suppose our ways will cross.'

'Good,' said Henry, sounding much relieved, and drove off, leaving me to splash to my front door feeling mystified.

The next weekend was spent at Amy's and there, for the first time, I unburdened my recent troubles upon my old friend.

Amy took the whole affair rather more seriously than I did, and enquired about the tablets. Was I taking an iron tonic as she had suggested?

'Well, no,' I confessed, 'but the tablets may have iron in them.'

Amy looked sceptical, but did not pursue the issue.

'And you are taking care?'

'Yes, honestly. I was too frightened by the first business to do otherwise. I'm fine now.'

I proceeded to tell her, with some pride, of all my post-stroke activities, but she was not congratulatory, rather the reverse.

'You'll have another if you rush at things like a bull at a gate. You never learn, you know.'

She sighed, and looked sadly at me. 'I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you. You mean a great deal in my life, and I don't like to see you in this sort of situation. Can't you retire?'

'Not while I'm fit. In any case, I gather from retired people that they work harder than ever when they have attained that happy state.'

'Rubbish!' retorted Amy. 'That's their own fault for taking on far too many activities for comfort. I know how persuasive people can be, telling you it's only a once-a-month short meeting of this or that charity, and then you find there are half a dozen sub-committees and you are the chump of a chairman. James is always getting caught that way - and he hasn't even properly retired yet.'

'I promise not to fall into that trap,' I said meekly.

'My mother had a very slight stroke, I remember,' said Amy meditatively. 'She woke one morning and couldn't speak clearly. Luckily, she took it all as a great joke and in two days' time she was normal again. But we were all rather scared, I remember.'

'What age was she?'

'About our age, I suppose. My father took enormous care of her always, and we had about four doctors in the house within twenty-four hours. They had to stand up to a barrage of questions from my father. I should think they were glad to get out alive from our house.'

'Wonderful for your mother, though, to have such a champion.'

'Of course. That's one of the reasons I worry about you so much. If only you would marry some nice man. Henry, for instance. He's devoted to you, and he's so well-mannered.'

'So was Dr Crippen, I believe.'

'How provoking you are! Have you seen poor Henry since he returned?'

'Briefly. He is still very upset over his wife's death.'

I told her about the Annetts' party, and her eyes brightened at the thought of yet another man, John Jenkins, who might fall victim to my middle-aged charms. I decided to change the subject, and asked her to keep two dates free, one for our nativity play, and the other for our annual Christmas party.

'Does that include James too? I know he'd like to see the new children. As well as the old, of course,' she added.

I assured her that James would be more than welcome, and the question of a possible husband for me was shelved.

But only, I suspected, for the time being.

Rehearsals for the nativity play seemed to take up an enormous amount of time. The vicar had presented me with a list of services to be held in the church until the end of term, but pressed us to use the chancel at any other time for our rehearsals.

Consequently we trudged, twice, and sometimes thrice, a week through the churchyard to continue our preparations.

Somehow it always seemed to be raining, but nevertheless I found the churchyard a pleasant place, despite the dripping yew trees and the few rain-spangled upright cypress trees, so reminiscent of sunnier climes.

The grey tombstones glistened in the rain, and the magnificent square gravestone above the long-dead Sir Charles Dagbury, which listed to the north-east, dripped steadily from one side upon the wet clay runnel cut around it.

I thought of the seventeenth-century poet's line:

The grave's a fine and private place,

and although I knew that Andrew Marvell was addressing 'His Coy Mistress', and that the next line was

But none I think do there embrace,

nevertheless I relished the fineness and the privacy which I trusted that earlier Fairacre folk were now enjoying around me.

The church too had its usual calming effect on us all. It seemed pointless to worry about my health, fresh forms from the office, that ominous drip in the kitchen discovered that morning, Tibby's coughing attack and the present shortcomings of our rehearsals, when one considered that these ancient walls had witnessed the hopes and troubles of generations of Fairacre people. I think we all returned to school much refreshed in body and spirit after our efforts.

As always, the parents rallied splendidly to help us with costumes and props for the play.

The new Cotton girl was chosen to play Mary, and very good she was too, having natural grace, a sweet face and a clear voice. Mrs Cotton, her foster mother, sent over a blue frock which she hoped, in the little note attached, would be suitable for Mary's robes.

Unfortunately, it was heavily besprinkled with a flower pattern, and I was obliged to take it back after school.

To my surprise, she seemed unusually agitated about this.

'It's all I have,' she told me. 'Do you want me to buy some plain blue material?'

I assured her that it would not be necessary, as I thought that I might have a plain blue curtain at home which had once hung in Dolly Clare's bedroom, and would be ideal for draping round Mary.