(11/20) Farther Afield (21 page)

With my lungs full of clear cold air I went indoors and made all fast. I was in my petticoat when the telephone rang.

It was Amy. She sounded incoherent, and quite unlike her usual composed self.

'James has had an accident. I'm not sure where. In the car, I mean, and the girl, Jane, with him, I'm just off.'

'Where is he?'

'Somewhere near Salisbury, in a hospital. I've got the address scribbled down.'

'Shall I come with you?'

'No, no, my dear. I only rang because I felt someone should know where I was. Mrs Bennet's not on the phone, and anyway, as you know, she's ill. I must go.'

'Tell me,' I said, wondering how best to put it, 'is he much damaged?'

'I don't know. They told me nothing really. The hospital people found his address on him and simply rang me to say he was there. He's unconscious – they did say that.'

I felt suddenly very cold. "Was this the dreadful way that Amy's affairs were to be settled?

'Amy,' I urged, 'do let me come with you, please.'

I could hear her crying at the other end. It was unendurable.

'No. You're sweet, but I must go alone. I'll be careful, I promise. And I'll ring you first thing tomorrow morning when I know more.'

'I understand,' I said. 'Good luck, my love, and call on me if there's anything I can do to help.'

We hung up. Mechanically, I got ready for the night and climbed into bed, but there was no hope of sleeping.

I think I heard every hour strike from the church tower, as I lay there imagining Amy on her long sad journey westward, pressing on through the darkness with a chill at her heart more cruel than the frosts around her.

What awaited Amy at the end of that dark road?

19 James Comes Home

A
FTER
my disturbed night I was late in waking. Fortunately, it was Saturday, and my time was my own.

I went shakily about the household chores, alert for the telephone bell and a message from Amy.

Outside, a wind had sprung up, rattling the rose against the window and ruffling the feathers of the robin on the bird table. Frost still whitened the grass, but great grey clouds, scudding from the west, promised rain before long with milder weather on the way.

The hands of the clock crept from nine to ten, from ten to eleven, and still nothing happened. My imagination ran riot. Was James dying? Or dead, perhaps, and Amy too distraught to think of such things as telephone calls? And what about the girl? Was she equally seriously injured? And what result would this accident have upon all three people involved?

I made my mid-morning coffee and drank more than half before realising that the milk was still waiting in the saucepan. A shopping list progressed by fits and starts, as I made one entry and then gazed unseeingly through the window.

Suddenly, the bell rang, and I was about to lift the receiver when I realised that it was the back door bell.

Mrs Pringle stood on the doorstep holding a fine cabbage.

'Thought you could do with it,' she said. 'I was taking the school tea towels over the kitchen so thought I'd kill two birds with one stone.'

I thanked her and asked if she would like some coffee.

'Well, now,' she said graciously, 'I don't mind if I do.'

I very nearly retorted, as an ex-landlady of mine used to do when encountering this phrase:

'And I don't mind if you
don't
!' but I bit it back.

Mrs Pringle seated herself at the kitchen table, loosening her coat and rolling her hand-knitted gloves into a tidy ball.

I switched on the stove to heat the milk again. As one might expect, it was at this inconvenient moment that the telephone bell rang.

'Make the coffee when it's hot,' I cried to Mrs Pringle, and rushed into the hall.

It was Amy.

She sounded less distraught than the night before, but dog-tired.

'Sorry to be so late in ringing, but I thought I'd wait until the doctor had seen James, so that I had more news to tell you.'

'And what is it?'

'He's round this morning, but still in a good deal of pain. The collar bone is broken and a couple of ribs cracked, and he's complaining of internal pains. Still, he's all right, the doctor says, and can be patched up.'

'What about his head? Did he have concussion?'

I was suddenly conscious of Mrs Pringle's presence and, without doubt, her avid interest in the side of the conversation she could hear. Too pointed to close the kitchen door, I decided, and anyway too late.

'Yes. He was knocked out, and has a splitting head this morning, but, thank God, he'll survive.'

'Now, my dear, would you do something for me?'

'Of course. Say the word.'

'Could you pop over to Bent and take some steak out of the slow oven? Like an ass, I forgot it in the hurry last night. It's been stewing there for about fourteen hours now, so will probably be burnt to a frazzle.'

'What shall I do with it?'

'Let Tibby have it, if it's any use. Otherwise, chuck it out. And would you sort out the perishables in the fridge? And cancel the milk and bread? I'm sorry to bother you with all this, but I've decided to stay nearby. There's a comfortable hotel and James won't be able to be moved for a bit. Mrs Bennet isn't on the phone, and I don't like to worry her anyway while she's ill.'

I said I would go over immediately, scribbled down her forwarding address, and was about to put down the receiver when, luckily, Amy remembered to tell me where the spare key was.

'I've moved it from under the watering-can,' explained Amy, 'and now you'll find it inside one of those old-fashioned earthenware honey pots, labelled CARPET TACKS, on the top shelf at the left-hand side of the garden shed.'

I sent my love and sympathy to James.

'I'll ring again tomorrow,' promised Amy, and then the line went dead.

Mrs Pringle looked up expectantly as I returned, but I was not to be drawn.

'Have a biscuit, Mrs Pringle,' I said proffering the tin.

She selected a Nice biscuit with care. It was obviously a poor substitute for a morsel of hot news, but it had to do.

***

Half an hour later, I was on my way to Amy's, and it was only then that I remembered that nothing had been said about James's companion – Jane, wasn't it? What, I wondered, had happened to her?

The wind buffeted the car as I drove southward. The sheep were huddled together against the hedges, finding what shelter they could. Pedestrians were bent double against the onslaught, clutching hats and head-scarves, coat-tails flapping. Cyclists tacked dangerously to and fro across the road, dogs, exhilarated by the wind, bounded from verges, and children, screaming with excitement, tore after them.

The leaves of autumn, torn from the trees, fluttered down like showers of new pennies, sticking to the wind-screen, the bonnet, and plastering the road with their copper brightness. Amy's drive was littered with twigs and tiny cones from the fir tree which must have caught the full brunt of some particularly violent gust.

I found the key in the honey pot, and went indoors. A rich aroma of stewed beef greeted me, and my first duty was to rescue the casserole. Amazingly, it still had some liquor in it, and the meat had fallen into deliciously tender chunks. I decided that I should share this largesse with Tibby that evening.

Amy's refrigerator was far better stocked than mine, and much more tidy. There was little to remove – some milk, a portion of apricot pie, four sardines on a saucer, just the usual flotsam and jetsam of daily catering.

There were a few letters which I re-addressed, and then I wrote notes to the baker and milkman, before going round the house to make sure that the windows were shut and that any radiators were left at a low heat.

All seemed to be in order. I checked switches, locked doors, and took a final walk around Amy's garden, before replacing the key. It was while I was on my tour of inspection, that I saw a man battling his way from the gate.

He look surprised to see me.

'Oh, good morning! My name's John Bennet. My wife works here and asked me to come and see everything's all right.'

I asked after her.

'Getting on, but it's knocked all the stuffing out of her. These children's complaints are no joke when you're getting on.'

'So I believe. Don't worry about the house. Mrs Garfield asked me to look in. She's been called away.'

'Yes, we knew she must have been. That's why I came up. My sister, who lives just down the road from us, saw her setting off last night – very late it was – and looking very worried. My sister was taking out the dog, and guessed something must be up.'

I had imagined that Mrs Bennet had been concerned for any possible gale damage, but now revised my views.

'Mr Garfield,' I explained, 'has had a car accident, but is getting on quite well, I gather, and should be home before long. Tell Mrs Bennet not to worry. I'll keep an eye on the place while she's laid up, and if she wants to get in touch tell her to phone me.'

We took a final turn round the windy garden together before parting. All seemed well.

I got back into the car and set off for home, marvelling, yet again, at the extraordinary efficiency of bush telegraph in rural areas.

The gales continued for the rest of the week, and the children were as mad as hatters in consequence.

Wind is worse than any other element, I find, for causing chaos in a classroom. Snow, of course, is dramatic, and needs to be inspected through the windows at two-minute intervals to see if it is laying'. But this is something which occurs relatively seldom in school hours.

Sunshine and rain are accepted equably, but a good blustery wind which bangs doors, rattles windows, blows papers to the floor, and the breath from young bodies, is a fine excuse for boisterous behaviour.

Up here, on the downs, the wind is a force to be reckoned with. Not long ago, an elm tree crashed across the roof of St Patrick's church, and caused so much damage that the village was hard put to it to raise the money for its repair. Friends from near and far rallied to Fairacre's support, and the challenge was met, but we all, (and Mr Willet, in particular, who strongly suspects any elm tree of irresponsible falling-about through sheer cussedness), watch our trees with some apprehension when the gales come in force.

The only casualty this time, as far as I knew, was a venerable damson tree in Ernest's garden. He brought the remaining fruit to school in a paper bag, and the small purple plums were shared out among his school fellows.

I watched this generous act with some trepidation. Damsons, even when plentifully sugared, are as tart a fruit as one could wish to meet. To see the children scrunching them raw made me shudder, but apart from one or two who complained that 'they give them cat-strings' or 'turned their teeth all funny', Ernest's largesse was much enjoyed.

My own share arrived in the form of a little pot of damson cheese, made by Ernest's mother, and for this I was truly thankful.

Apart from fierce cross-draughts, and a continuous whistling one from the skylight above my desk, we were further bedevilled by smoke from the tortoise stove. Even Mrs Pringle, who can control our two monsters at a touch, confessed herself beaten, so that we worked with eyes sore with smoke and much coughing – most of it affected – and plenty of smuts floating in the air.

Amy rang twice during the few days after the accident. The car, she said, on the first occasion, was beyond repair and James had been lucky to escape so lightly.

'And Jane?' I dared to ask.

'Simply treated here for superficial cuts on her face and a sprained wrist. She'd gone home by the time I arrived, fetched by mother. At least she'd had the sense to be wearing her seat belt. It saved her from hitting her head on the windscreen which is what happened to James.'

'And how is he?'

'Still running a temperature, which the doctor thinks is rather peculiar, I gather. He's very restless, and in pain, poor thing. He was terribly worried about Jane, but they've put his mind at rest about that.'

'Any chance of bringing him home?'

'They don't seem in any hurry to get rid of him. He's been strapped up and the collar bone set, and so on. And I'm afraid his beauty has been spoiled, at least for a time, as a little slice was cut off the end of his nose by the glass of the windscreen.'

'Oh, poor James!'

'He doesn't care about the look of it, but curses most horribly whenever he needs to blow it.'

I sent my sympathy, assured Amy that all was well at Bent, and we rang off.

I had not mentioned it to my old friend, but this was the evening when I had undertaken to give a talk to Fairacre Women's Institute about our holiday in Crete.

Accordingly, soon after her telephone call, I dressed in my best and warmest garments and got ready for my ordeal. The Mawnes had promised to bring a projector and I had looked out my slides into some semblance of order. Amy had offered her own collection, but under the circumstances, I had to make do with my inferior efforts. Luckily, the brilliant Cretan light had guaranteed success with almost all the exposures.

The village hall was gratifyingly full and a beautiful flower arrangement graced the W.I. tablecloth. Listening to the minutes, from the front row, I studied its form. This was obviously the handiwork of one of 'the floral ladies', expert in arrangement of colour and form with no 'Oasis' visible at all, as is usual with us lesser mortals. The whole thing had been fixed, with artistic cunning, to a mossy piece of wood, and I was so busy trying to work out how it was done, that it came as a severe shock to hear my name called and to be obliged to take the floor.

I began by a brief description of our journey out, and of the attractions of the hotel. The projector, operated by Mr Mawne, worked splendidly for he had brought the correct plug for the village hall socket, a rare occurrence on these occasions, and we were all duly impressed at such efficiency and foresight.

The vivid colours of the Cretan landscape were even more impressive on a grey October evening. The animals evoked cries of admiration, although someone commented that the R.S.P.C.A. would never have let a poor little donkey
that
small, hump a great load like that! I had to explain that, despite appearances, those four wispy legs beneath the piles of brushwood were really not suffering from hardship and that the load was light in weight.