(11/20) Farther Afield (18 page)

'I have more respect for my publisher than to lumber him with that sort of twaddle. I should say your waiter friend wants definite discouragement.'

'He's a very good waiter.'

'Then let him stick to his last,' advised Gerard. 'A good waiter's more use in the world than a poor poet.'

Vanessa sighed.

'I asked Angus if he could help. His father runs a Scottish evening paper, but they don't print poetry, he said.'

'Angus has tact.'

'And Ian Murray too, but he was no help. In fact, he used a terrible Scotch word about my poor little poet. I didn't quite understand it, and he refused to explain.'

'Ian Murray has been properly brought up.'

'And as for Andrew Elphinstone-Kerr, he simply roared his head off!'

'Do all your friends have such very Scotch names?' enquired Amy.

Vanessa's blue eyes opened very wide.

'Well, they do
live
in Scotland, Aunt Amy, and were born and bred there, so it's hardly surprising, is it? Apart from being so horrid to my waiter,' she added, 'I love them all.'

'I'm glad to hear you've made so many friends,' said Amy. 'We were interested to hear you had met Hattie May. How is she?'

'Quite spry, really, considering she's so old.'

'So old?' we echoed in unison.

'What nonsense!' said Amy, 'she's only a year or two older than I am.'

'I'm sorry,' began Vanessa, 'I forgot that you used to see her.'

'We never missed one of her shows,' I said.

'They're reviving one,' said Gerard. 'In fact, Miss May is in town at the moment for the first night. There's to be a party afterwards.'

'And Gerard's been invited,' said Vanessa.

'Only because she heard that I would be in town,' explained Gerard. 'I knew her husband, years ago, and then we met in Scotland at Vanessa's hotel.'

'You'll have a super time,' Vanessa enthused. 'I hope your evening clothes are up to the occasion.'

'I shall do my best to appear respectable,' Gerard assured her.

'Come and have coffee,' said Amy, leading the way to the drawing room. 'Would you like a tot of rum with it, Gerard?'

'Nothing I'd like more,' he replied.

Amy began clashing bottles in the cupboard.

'I'm so sorry, there doesn't appear to be any, and I was so looking forward to some myself. James usually keeps his eye on the drinks. Have whisky instead?'

'Let me run to the local,' said Gerard, 'and get you some rum. It would do me a world of good to get five minutes' exercise.'

After polite expostulations on Amy's side, he had his way, and set off accompanied by Vanessa.

The coffee percolator belched and burped companionably on the side table, as we waited.

'I wonder,' said Amy, sounding unusually wistful, 'whether anything will ever come of this affair. She seems so fond of Gerard.'

'She's also fond, of half the eligible males in Scotland, as far as we can gather.'

'That's the pity of it. I really think that Gerard should realise that she won't hang about for ever. If he is really serious, I'm sure he should tell her so. Perhaps I could have a word with him. Tactfully, of course.'

'Amy,' I begged her. '
Say nothing
! They are both old enough to know what they are doing, and you will only cause everyone – including yourself – a great deal of embarrassment.'

'Perhaps you're right,' said Amy doubtfully. 'He's such a dear man, and it's time he was married. He'll start getting cranky if he waits much longer.'

'Gerard,' I said stiffly, 'is younger than I am.'

'That's what I mean,' replied Amy.

I was saved the necessity of answering by the arrival of Gerard, Vanessa and a large bottle of rum. And I was relieved to find that the rest of the evening passed without any reference to matrimony.

When the time came for me to go, Amy accompanied me to the car. A half-moon, low on the horizon and lying on its back, glowed as tawny as a ripe apricot.

'I haven't had a chance to tell you about James,' began Amy. She shivered. The night air was chilly.

'Get in the car,' I advised. 'We'll be more comfortable.'

'He came down last weekend, and we tried to have a straight talk. But oh, it's so sad! After all our years together we're becoming like strangers. I don't think I can bear it any longer. He's beginning to loathe me. I can see it in his face. Something will have to happen.'

'In what way?'

'I felt sure that I was right to give this matter time to fizzle out. Somehow I still think it will – but perhaps that's simply wishful thinking. I just don't know. All I can be sure of now, since we've been back from our holiday, is that he's getting more and more desperately unhappy.'

She fumbled for a handkerchief and blew her nose. After a moment or two, she went on.

'Now I ask myself, am I right in making three lives miserable? Has the time come to put my pride in my pocket and give in? Or am I right in thinking that one day he will give her up, and then need me? You can see how I torture myself. The position's getting more painful daily. What can I do?'

The question hung between us. A pinkish light from the rising moon warmed the front of Amy's pretty house. From the woods behind us, an owl cried.

'Amy,' I said slowly, 'I honestly don't know. I just can't drink what sort of advice one could give in such a situation. I'm no help to you, and how desperately I wish I could be!'

Amy dabbed at her eyes.

'I wouldn't want my worst enemy to go through the misery I've had during these last few months. I feel torn this way and that. Whichever path I choose may be the wrong one.'

She sighed, put her damp cheek against mine, and then opened the door.

'I must go back. Thank you for coming, and for being such a prop in a tottering world. I'll give you a ring later on.'

I started the car and drove slowly down the drive. For the first time, the lonely figure I left standing in the doorway looked old and defeated, and I drove home struggling with tears of my own.

***

Soon after this evening with Amy, I had to keep an appointment at Caxley Hospital. This was to check that the broken arm was in good trim, and as I could do practically everything with it I had no doubt that I should be paying my last visit there.

The time of the appointment was three-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, which meant that I should have to leave school at three, no doubt arriving at the hospital waiting room to find a score of other unfortunates called imperiously for exactly the same time.

I explained to my class that they must work on their own for the last half-hour or so, that Miss Edwards would leave the partition door ajar between the two rooms, and would keep an eye on them.

They knew, of course, that I was off to hospital, and were suitably impressed, not to say ghoulish, about it.

'Will they have to break it again? They did my dad's – to reset it.'

'I sincerely hope not.'

'Will you be put to bed?'

'Good heavens, no.'

'Will you come to school tomorrow?'

'Of course. Now stop fussing and get on with your work.'

Reluctantly, they took up their pens again.

After play, the new child, Derek, distributed boxes of crayons and enormous sheets of paper.

'You can draw a picture,' I told them, 'about any episode in history that you like.' This, I felt, should provide plenty of scope for the boys, who would settle, no doubt, for scenes of warfare involving a great many human figures in various attitudes both upright and prone, and for the girls who would probably decide to illustrate such events as Queen Victoria hearing of her accession, or Henry the Eighth meeting one of his wives, and needing a good deal of detailed work on the costumes. Such subjects should keep them busily scribbling until the end of school.

But for good measure, I wrote my old friend CONSTANTINOPLE on the blackboard, and supplied an extra piece of paper, to be folded long-wise into four, for lists of words made from that trusted standby.

'And you are to work quietly,' I said, 'and be a good example to the infants.'

They assumed unnatural expressions of virtue and trustworthiness, I bade farewell to the infants' teacher, and set off.

I arrived at the hospital in good time, and followed a fellow-patient to the waiting room. She was on two sticks, and attended by an anxious daughter. The path led by a devious route to the back portions of the building and was composed of so much broken asphalt, pot-holes, manhole covers and the like, that it was a wonder that anyone arrived at the waiting room without injury, I reflected, as I picked my way cautiously between the laurel bushes.

There were quite a few of us hurt and maimed distributed on the benches. Legs in plaster casts, arms supported at shoulder level, people with slings, people with bandages – it might well have been the aftermath of just such a battle scene as those being created at Fairacre School.

I sat in the middle of an empty bench, but was joined within two minutes by a mountainous woman with a bandaged leg who told me, in hideous detail, what was concealed beneath her wrappings. I learnt more about the vascular system of the human frame, in that unfortunate ten-minute encounter, than I wished to know, and it was a relief to hear my name called and to be ushered into the doctor's presence.

He seemed a morose young man, and he had my sympathy.

'And how is it going, Mrs Potter?' he asked. I said I was Miss Read, and he put down the photographs he was studying rather hastily, and fished out another envelope.

'Of course, Mrs Read.'

'I'm single,' I said. He appeared not to hear, and I remained Mrs Read throughout the interview.

He felt my elbow, and then directed me to put my arm into various positions. The results seemed to depress him.

'Yes. Well, you shouldn't be able to do that with your injury. It pains you, I expect, Mrs Read?'

'Not at all.'

He looked disbelieving, and took a firm grip on the upper arm with one hand and the lower with the other hand, and tried a wrenching movement.

I yelped. An expression of satisfaction spread over his dour countenance.

'Still some need for improvement,' he said smugly. 'Keep on with the exercises. No need to come again, Mrs Read.'

He shook my hand warmly. No doubt about it, I had made his day.

The mountainous woman was on her way in as I came out.

'Coming again?' she asked.

'No!' I cried triumphantly, and made my escape into the sunshine.

17 A Visit From Miss Clare

O
NE
blue and white October day, I went to Beech Green to fetch Miss Clare who was going to pay a visit to Fairacre School where she had taught the infants for so many years.

Miss Clare, now a very old lady, lived alone in a thatched cottage which had been her home since early childhood. She was always invited to school functions, and was greeted with much affection by many of the Fairacre parents who owed their own early education to her efforts.

But today's visit was somewhat different. I had long been aware of the avid interest, shown by the older children, in the accounts of life in their village as remembered by their grandparents and other folk of that generation. Mr Willet's memories frequently enliven our schoolroom, and naturally, these firsthand accounts of local history have far more impact on the children than something read in a book.

Miss Clare, who had been a pupil as well as a teacher at our school, was willing to come and talk to the children, and as soon as school dinner was cleared away, I drove to Beech Green to collect her.

As always, she looked immaculate. She wore a navy-blue suit, and a very pale blue jumper under it. I admired the colour which matched her eyes.

'Dear Emily knitted it a few months before she died,' she said calmly, speaking of her life-long friend who had shared her cottage for the last few years of her life. 'I keep it for best. I should like it to last.'

She was carrying a basket, covered with a white cloth, which she insisted on holding herself. She nursed it carefully throughout the journey and I wondered what it contained.

She was as long-sighted as ever, and on our drive back she pointed out a hovering sparrowhawk, which I confess I should have missed completely, and a weasel which emerged from the grass verge for an instant before turning tail and scurrying back to cover. Her mind was as keen as her eyesight, and she regaled me with snippets of Beech Green gossip, and with future plans for her garden, and a description of some new curtains she was sewing for her bedroom, until I began to feel lazier and more inefficient than ever.

She was greeted with enthusiasm by my class when we entered. Genuine affection, I knew, inspired nine-tenths of their exuberance, but I was aware that the fact that they would not need to exert themselves in work of their own that afternoon, partly contributed to their jubilation.

We set the most comfortable chair close to the front row, and the children at the back of the classroom came forward to squeeze companionably three in a desk, so that every word of Miss Clare's should be heard.