Regret to Inform You... (2 page)

On this Friday morning in late March, they were breakfasting in the room overlooking the attractively created patio in their large garden. The room was high ceilinged, light and comfortably furnished, as Eleanor, whilst thrifty, was a splendid homemaker.

‘It is, of course, this evening that we'll be at the school hall for Peter's farewell. He really has achieved great things and I'm sure many of his old pupils will be there,' Eleanor ventured.

‘Indeed,' her well-groomed, fair-haired husband replied, ‘I hear there is to be something of a pleasant surprise for him, well deserved. After the shambles that I believe surrounded the former master, Peter has really moved things on. It's hard to find anyone who speaks ill of him and we'll be very fortunate if the new man achieves as much.'

‘I need to go round to the school at five o'clock to help set things up when the other teachers are making sure that Peter's out of the way.' A slight sound from outside the room caused her to pause. ‘Is that someone at the door?' she asked.

Arthur
moved his plate to one side, stood up, revealing his full height of over six feet and moved into the elegant hallway. He returned a minute later carrying two letters.

‘One for you, my dear, and one from the bishop's palace. I wonder what this is about.'

He sat down, took out his reading glasses, opened the letter using a spare knife from the table and read. A slightly quizzical look appeared on the face of this forty-four-year-old priest.

‘What is it my dear? You look troubled?' Her husband passed Eleanor the letter which surprisingly asked, or rather told him, to see the bishop the following Thursday, just six days away. The precise hour should be agreed with the bishop's secretary although late morning was clearly suggested. A communication from the palace was not uncommon; what caused Arthur some puzzlement was that it was personally addressed and signed by the dean, rather than one of the many cathedral secretaries.

‘Maybe,' suggested Eleanor, ‘he's going to put forward a change for you, my dear. Certainly all that you've done here deserves recognition.'

‘Would you like that?' repeating a question he had often asked her.

‘I'm not sure. I know that with all the sadness you suffered in your early years here you might have once been pleased to move, but times change. I like the village. What of you?'

‘I should only follow the best way of serving God. I'll just have to wait to see and find out what the bishop wants.'

T
WO

Evening, Friday, 22 March

Rarely were the streets so alive with villagers, least of all an evening with a slight drizzle in the air. March had been a wet month and following on from an unusually snow-stricken winter, the weather was a constant point of discussion among the villagers; but not tonight, as other thoughts were uppermost in Rusfield. Glimmers of light showed as doors opened and people set out on the short journey to the school along one of several ill-lit and poorly-surfaced streets.

Coming out of one of the cottages in Meadow Way, the sprightly Judith Johnson looked back over her shoulder and called out to her son, ‘Keep an eye on Ruby, Frank.' She knew that of her entire family, she and Ray worried most about dear Ruby. Some villagers called her simple, but her mother thought of her as innocent, sometimes lacking judgement for her own safety. Ruby was a girl who had always loved being held close, all right with her siblings but a worry to Judith now that her daughter was fast developing into a pretty, young woman.

As her neighbour emerged from next door, Judith commented to her, ‘We shall miss him. He seems to have been here for ever.' Her own seven children, including Ruby, had all come under the sound instruction of the schoolmaster,
Peter
Meadows. ‘My kids always knew where they were with him.'

Liz Smith nodded in agreement as she joined Judith. ‘Aye, you're right. I once thought he was harsh, but he was right.' Liz Smith had only the one child, of Fred's father she never spoke. The two neighbours took the short walk across the village green, quickly merging with the flow of villagers coming from Bury Way and Pond Street. There were many exchanges of cheerful greeting, all knew each other well. Approaching the well-lit school they went through the open double gate, along the short, stony path and entered the small, wood-panelled lobby opening into a well-lit room from which much chatter could be heard.

Major Sebastian de Maine, chairman of the school governing board, welcomed everyone. He was some sixty years old, slightly balding and wearing his customary thin-framed spectacles. ‘Although what he really knows about the school and the children beats me,' commented Susannah Jones. ‘He made sure his kids didn't come here, but went off to that posh school in Norwich.'

‘Their loss,' responded her fair-haired and tall friend, Pauline Richards. ‘They couldn't have done better than come here to find out about life and to set them up. Both of mine got good jobs when they left here.'

As they moved into the largest classroom, which also served the 130 children as a hall, they were surprised at the number of people there. The high room with beamed ceiling was painted a pale blue and displayed colourful pictures ranging from animals of the world to charts with handsome styles of writing, clearly examples for the children to copy. The early arrivals were sitting on chairs or ink-stained desks, the later ones standing near the back. The ever-elegant Olivia Atkins, attractive, almond-eyed and admired by all the bachelors and many other men in the village, smiled at the latest arrivals and moved nearer to the corner to give more space. A few
minutes
later a hush descended as the schoolmaster, his wife and governors, all holding a position of some importance in the community, walked on to the improvised stage. A little clapping from someone near the front, a number suspected it to be one of the teachers, started more enthusiastic applause. Sebastian de Maine was smartly dressed with high collar, regimental tie and lightly-checked waistcoat and matching suit, although a close look showed the latter to be slightly worn. He held up a hand, an obvious call for order.

‘Tonight, good people, we are gathered to thank the one who has given many years to our community. Our school opened in 1876 and of the intervening thirty-five years, our schoolmaster has been in charge for twenty-seven. He has ruled it well and that so many of you are here tonight is a measure of the high regard in which we hold him.' (Applause) ‘He has made us proud of being able to send our children here.' (Slight guffaws were apparent at his use of the words ‘our children').

Peter Meadows and his wife, Audrey, the only female occupant of the row of low chairs, looked a little embarrassed. The passing of years had treated them well. Peter had been appointed when he was an enthusiastic thirty-eight-year-old, and that enthusiasm, along with his charming smile and good looks, remained. His wife, who had done so much good in the village to support her husband, also retained both her health and attractive looks. They would be sorely missed as they moved to the West Country to be near their two children and three grandchildren. Now, the end of March, they would be settled in to their new home by Easter.

The clapping, joined by some cheers from the back of the hall, greeted the schoolmaster as he hesitantly rose from his chair, nodded and smiled. ‘My many thanks to our school chairman, Major de Maine, and to all of you who have come along this evening. I am amazed to see so many here, thank you for coming. I remember my first visit to Rusfield when
I
was appointed to this school. Is it possible that it's twenty-seven years ago? That was a special and proud moment. Any progress that we have made in that time has been due to our splendid staff.' He gave a special nod at Miss Rita Small, a lively and squat figure in the front row who had been at the school for all but two of his years. ‘There are so many to thank, but I must make special mention of our vicar; you have been so supportive as has your dear wife since she came to the village.' He spoke clearly and swiftly, recalling some of the traumas that the school had been through, like the fire in two classrooms some eight years previously, and of many joyful times.

‘Miss Small asked me earlier this evening what had been my proudest moment. There have been many, but let me remind you of a very special one that all of us share in feeling so proud. Remember that wonderful day in March 1908?' There were many nods. ‘Our football team had been strong for the previous two or three years, but in the Michaelmas term of 1907 and the spring term of 1908, they reached amazing heights. It was on that glorious Friday evening, 20 March 1908, four years ago almost to the day, when they won the Three Counties cup.'

Great applause rang out, whilst the faces of six young men in the far corner of the crowded hall reddened in embarrassment. People turned to look at them and one or two standing near them spoke or mouthed their congratulations.

The schoolmaster held up a hand and the audience quietened again. ‘It was a wonderful evening which I will never forget. I see six of them standing together now, though they've all grown a little since then! They were great friends then and it's good to see them together tonight. It was their behaviour as much as their skill of which I was so proud.' He looked very purposefully towards the young men who by now were even more flushed at the schoolmaster's words. ‘As I'm sure we all know, one of them has gone on to achieve
amazing
success on the running track. Abraham Richards, we are delighted. When you were five you could race faster than the boys three years older and when you played in our football team you could easily outrun the opposition. Your friends, even the newspapers, rightly call you Racer Richards. It's well deserved now you're one of the three fastest quarter-mile runners in the country.'

There was prolonged applause before the retiring master concluded: ‘There have been so many through the school of whom we can all be proud. It has been my joy to have given even a little help.' He sat down to much applause and the chanting, led by Willy Johnson, of “For He's a Jolly Good Fellow”.

The chairman stood and called upon young Florrie Edwards and Robert Groves from class three who had been waiting at the side of the hall under the eagle eye of their parents. The children came forward with a long box, wrapped in colourful paper with green ribbon. As carefully rehearsed, they stopped just short of Peter Meadows and waited for the chairman to speak. ‘To show our appreciation of our retiring schoolmaster, his many friends have collected for a present that we all hope will bring him much pleasure in his retirement.'

‘Open it up,' someone cried out from the right side of the hall, a cry immediately taken up by others. Peter Meadows bent down, took the package from the children and laid it on the table put in place on the platform. The ribbon proved easy to untie and the wrapping removed. He lifted the top from the box and Peter Meadows let out an audible gasp. He carefully lifted out a telescope. He had difficulty in expressing his thanks and his wonder at such a gift.

‘Remember,' Racer Richards said quietly to his neighbour, ‘how he used to show us those pictures of the night sky and get us to name the planets and clusters of stars?'

‘Aye, and everything in nature,' added Jammy Carey.

Miss Small quietly moved from her place to sit herself at the piano. She struck a chord and all stood as the national anthem
was
played. Some may not always have thought much about their relatively new monarch, but their loyalty to King and country was such that all joined heartily in singing. The well-rehearsed children at the front sang two verses, their parents less sure of the latter one, although those near the front of the audience easily heard a beautiful soprano voice. This was well supported by the small group of young men at the back of the hall; a fine baritone voice blending with the soprano and children. The Revd Arthur Windle thanked God for the retiring schoolmaster and pronounced a blessing. After the amen, a number of ladies hastily disappeared into the kitchen. Sandwiches and cakes soon appeared and cups of tea were collected from the serving hatch. Many gathered round Peter and Audrey Meadows and wished them well, including all six of the proudly remembered school team. He smiled at each of them. It was rightly said that Peter Meadows had a wonderful memory of each child that had passed through Rusfield School.

Eleanor had not been surprised to see her father, Charles Brown, in the audience; as she knew that he and Peter were good friends. ‘Father, I didn't know you were coming. You're very welcome to stay the night at the vicarage.'

‘No thank you, my dear,' replied the ruddy faced, fine-featured man. ‘I enjoyed the walk here and I will enjoy the walk back to Wensfield. There's a good moon, so I will be fine. But, if you'll excuse me I'll just have a quick word with Peter. I'll miss him.' He moved over to speak with his good friend. After much chatting, the first people, mainly those with young children at home, left and the trickle became a greater movement.

‘It was a lovely evening,' Eleanor said to her husband when they got back to the vicarage. ‘So many will be forever grateful to Peter for all he has done for the school, and for leading the effort to set up the reading room.'

Their minds dwelled for a few moments on how Peter Meadows had persuaded Fred Jackson to give up one of
his
unused barns to be equipped with whatever tables and chairs could be found and how Peter had personally bought, scrounged and begged for books to provide some kind of a place to read. Money had come from someone, known only to Peter. Books and newspapers were not things to be found in many homes in the village, but he had done remarkably well. They both knew that many of his pupils had been encouraged to use the reading room, which he hoped would become a habit on leaving school.