Village Centenary (13 page)

'I'm glad to hear it.'

'We all squashed up together in the desks. Two of our teachers had come with us, nice lively girls they were. It couldn't have been easy for anyone, because every scrap of space was used, and we even had a couple of classes in the village hall. But after a bit, a lot of the children drifted back to London as there weren't any raids, so things settled down very comfortably. Mr Fortescue was the headmaster, and Miss Clare was teaching here then. How is she?'

I gave her news of our old friend.

'If ever there was a saint, she's one,' said Mrs Austen. 'I suppose she's coming to the celebrations?'

'I hope she'll tell us some of her memories,' I replied. 'She knows more about Fairacre School than anyone living.'

'She helped us all to settle in,' remembered Mrs Austen. 'You know there were a lot of things that shook us about the country. Cows for one, and earth closets for another. And I was scared stiff of real darkness in a winter's lane, after lamp posts along the pavements. I think our hostesses had plenty to put up with. On the whole I like to think that we three didn't give too much trouble. We'd been brought up quite strictly, and my parents came down at least twice a month, and made sure we behaved properly. But there were some pretty rough families, as you can guess, and all that talk about bed-wetting and head lice and impetigo and scabies and so on - well, a lot of it was true.'

'We get the odd case now,' I told her. 'Fairacre isn't unadulterated Arcady, you know.'

'I realise that, but to me as a six-year-old Fairacre
was
Arcady, and this part of England has stayed that way, to my mind, ever since.'

'I'm inclined to agree,' I said.

Mrs Pringle arrived the next morning looking full of importance, and with no trace of a limp. She had the appearance of one with a message to deliver.

It was sad news.

'Bob Willet says he won't be in today until later. His poor brother Sid has passed on, and Bob's gone over there to see his sister-in-law and fix up the funeral.'

I murmured condolences.

'Well, he's been bad for months, poor soul. Something to do with his digestion - the
lower
end of it, if you know what I mean. I never liked to ask Bob too much about it, as it was rather a
personal
complaint.'

'Aren't they all?'

'Some,' said Mrs Pringle frostily, 'is more personal than others.' And she swept away.

Mr Willet looked rather subdued when he appeared in the late afternoon, and shook his head sadly when I expressed my sorrow.

'Thank God I didn't have to see him dead,' he said. 'Never let anyone show you a corpse, specially if you've been fond of the person. My mum made me kiss my grandma in her coffin, and I've never got over it. What's more, 1 can never remember my gran as she was when she was alive. The look of her dead face is the only one I can see. A pity! She was a lively old party and I loved her a lot.'

I said I'd heard about her from several of her Fairacre friends.

'She was good to us kids. There was five of us, and not much money, of course. We lived in a cottage at Springbourne and my gran lived nearby. We always called in going to and from school, and she used to put an apple or some plums in our dinner basket.

'Sid was the eldest. He was quite a scholar, used to sit there when old Hope was headmaster.' Mr Willet nodded towards a corner desk at the back. 'He could have gone to the grammar school, but with all of us to keep Dad said he'd best get out working. Old Sid never complained and he made a durn fine cabinet maker in the end, but I reckon he minded a bit about not going to Caxley Grammar.'

Mr Willet sighed, and began to make for the door. 'It's a funny thing, when someone dies, you never remember them as they were then, but always as children. I saw poor old Sid in hospital last week, but all I can see now is Sid about ten, lugging the rush basket with our school dinners up the hill here to Fairacre School. Or swinging our little sister round and round by her hands, or feeding his pet rabbit.'

He opened the schoolroom door. 'Old Sid will always be about ten for me. Funny really!'

'Perhaps that's as it should be,' I told him.

When I saw Amy next I repeated Mr Willet's remarks about viewing the dead.

'It's perfectly true,' she agreed. 'I can't say I've seen many dead people, but the two aunts whose bodies I saw simply will not come to life for me now. I always do my best
not
to see corpses for that reason. I like to remember my relatives as they were.'

'I'm remarkably short of close relatives,' I said, 'though I'm told I look more and more like my Aunt Bessie the older I grow. I'm sorry to say she was remarkably plain, but very determined.'

'I often wonder if we only see the good points of relatives in ourselves. You say your Aunt Bessie was
determined.
Maybe she was just pig-headed. I know I like to think I have my Aunt Maud's efficiency, but really I know she was plain
bossy,
and nearly drove poor Uncle Edward demented. She would tidy away his jigsaw puzzle and put it back in the box when he was only halfway through.'

'Strong grounds for divorce,' I said. 'Have some coffee?'

And we went into the kitchen together to make it.

Speculation about Holly Lodge grew keener as the weeks passed. The preliminary announcement of its sale by auction, 'unless sold privately beforehand', whetted all appetites.

Mrs Pringle had heard from an unspecified source, but she told me it was as true as she stood there, that nothing under fifty thousand pounds would be considered. Mr Willet observed that people must need their heads examined when it came to buying houses these days, and Reg Thorn said he could remember when Holly Lodge belonged to that miserable old faggot that drove a Liverpool phaeton. His name was on the tip of his tongue, but he reckoned it had gone for the moment. Anyway, when he had died - and no one mourned his going, that was a fact - Holly Lodge went for six hundred to a nice old party from the other side of Caxley. Six hundred, mark you!

Later in the morning, he drew aside the tarpaulin, sending a shower of dried paint and wood splinters upon us, poked his face through the gap, and said:

'Potter! That was the name! Josiah Potter, and a nasty bit of work he was too.'

He then withdrew, allowing me to send Ernest out to the lobby for the dustpan and brush, whilst I continued my interrupted discourse on mediaeval farming methods.

The sale of Holly Lodge occupied the inhabitants of Fairacre very pleasurably. The history of the house, the quirks of its various owners and, of course, the scandalous amount of money being asked for it at the moment, were all mulled over with the greatest enjoyment.

Whether any would-be purchasers had inspected the house was difficult to say. Holly Lodge was a little distance from the centre of the village and well hidden from prying eyes by the high hedge which gave the house its name. It was one of Fairacre's more retired establishments, and as Mrs Pringle remarked wistfully: 'It's difficult to find out what goes on in there.'

It so happened that I met Miriam Quinn and Joan Benson on separate occasions within a week. I had gone into Caxley on one sunny Saturday morning to buy a pair of summer shoes, and was still reeling from the shock of the amount I had just handed over, when I bumped into Miriam Quinn.

She commiserated with me.

'I can sympathise. I've just come from inspecting cotton frocks, and have decided that my present shabby collection can do another year - if not two or three.'

I asked after Joan.

'Run off her feet at the moment, with people coming to view. She won't have any difficulty in disposing of it, I'm sure, but she does so want to see it in good hands. Half the viewers have appalling plans for turning it into flats, or a home for delinquent boys or some such.'

I said that it must be a trying time for them both.

'Well, there it is. I haven't found anything remotely suitable for myself, and I'm now at the limbo stage, telling myself I may as well wait and see, and perhaps something will turn up. Somehow one gets numb after a bit.'

'Maybe that's nature's protection,' I said, as we parted.

Joan Benson I met in the village a day or two later. She was struggling with an overloaded carrier bag which had collapsed under the strain, and only had one handle intact.

'I really should have brought the car, but I thought it would do me good to walk on such a heavenly day. In any case, I only intended to buy about four things, and now look at me!'

'Here, put some in my basket, and come back with me and I'll let you have a good tough bag. I'm going to have a cup of tea anyway, so do join me.'

The children had gone home, and I had been to the post office to send off a couple of urgent missives to the office, which would probably not be opened for days, if I knew anything about it.

Over tea, Joan told me more about the horrors of selling a home. 'I don't know which is worse - trying to find a home, or trying to get rid of one. For two pins, I'd call the whole thing off and just stay at Holly Lodge until I'm carried out feet first.'

'There would be general rejoicing if you did decide to stay,' I told her.

'Well, that's nice to hear, but I really must be sensible and look ahead. This wretched arthritis gets steadily more troublesome, and sometimes I find it quite difficult to get upstairs. And the house is far too big now that I'm alone, and costs the earth to heat. And much as I love gardening, I simply cannot cope with that great one at Holly Lodge, and help gets more and more impossible to find, and more and more expensive.'

She sighed, and shook her head at the proffered biscuit tin.

'What a misery I sound! I'm not really unhappy, I've been so kindly looked after in Fairacre I shall miss the life here horribly. But my daughter is quite right. If I can't drive, I shall be absolutely done for in Fairacre, and I'm finding it quite painful sometimes. And I'm sorry to say that I am now refusing to drive at night, or if it's foggy or icy.'

'That cuts it down quite considerably,' I agreed, and she laughed.

'But it's selling the house which is the real problem. I don't want Miriam to have to go. She's been quite wonderful to me, and is so happily ensconced in that little annexe. If only we could find a nice quiet family that would be glad to have her there, and people that Miriam could get on with, it would be perfect. But that means selling to someone we know, and so far no one in that category has emerged. And some of the viewers have fairly curdled my blood with their plans for the house!'

'They probably wouldn't get them passed anyway when it came to the point.'

'But I
love
that house,' cried Joan. 'I simply hate the idea of it being torn about. If only some nice couple who like it as it is would appear, I should sell cheerfully. As it is, I still have to find myself somewhere near Barbara. She is quite marvellous about vetting places, but with young children she is very tied, and I feel I must go and stay with her before long to have a good scout round myself.'

She began to collect her shopping.

'I've run on far too long, but you are so sympathetic. And thank you for the delicious tea, and the bag, and best of all for
listening.
'

On the doorstep she paused.

'You won't mention my concern about Miriam, will you? I should hate her to think I was turning buyers away because of her. It's not
quite
like that, as I'm sure you understand, but she is so independent...'

Her voice trailed away.

'Never fear,' I assured her. 'I've lived in a village long enough to know how to be discreet. Though even then, it's sometimes difficult to keep the boat up straight.'

She waved, and departed with her burden.

Mr Lamb at the post office unearthed a handful of ancient postcards from the back of a little-used drawer. He came across one of Fairacre School which he kindly gave me, and I pored over it with a magnifying glass.

This photograph must have been taken in the first decade of this century, judging by the dress of the children. They are all gathered in the lane outside the school and there is not a single piece of traffic in sight.

How instantly that picture carried me into a vanished world! The boys are grouped together on one side of the lane, and every one of them wears a cap. Some are in Norfolk breeches, some in short and some in long trousers. Quite a few have jackets too big for them, some too small, with their bony wrists hanging from tight sleeves, but almost all sport Eton collars and stout boots.

The girls, carefully separated from the boys by the width of the lane, wear black stockings and boots, white starched pinafores over their frocks, and some have hats as well. Altogether there must be around seventy children in this photograph. The staff seems to be hidden by the throng,

with the exception of one stolid-looking young man who towers above the girls.

I looked in vain for Miss Clare who must have been there at that time, but either she was absent that day or was engulfed by her charges somewhere at the rear of the party.