(18/20) Changes at Fairacre (25 page)

'He rings me at least once a day,' she said, 'imploring me to come back. Sometimes I feel sure that Jane is present and it must be most embarrassing for her. I've told him it is quite impossible, time and time again, but dear old Barney can't believe that he won't get his own way if he keeps at it.'

'Is such a job well paid?' I asked. I thought the amount she told me was astronomical, and wondered why I had taken up teaching.

Gerard, busy toasting crumpets by my fire, added his contribution. He was engaged, it seemed, on a script for a television company, about the changes in agriculture since the 1914–18 war, and at present was studying the wages earned by farm labourers at that time.

'I came across a quotation from A. G. Street,' he said, surveying his crumpet and returning it to the heat. 'He reckoned that a man working a fifty-hour week in the 1920s earned about thirty shillings. That's
real
shillings, of course, now worth our fivepence.'

'But surely they lived rent free?'

'Not always. His argument was that a man who could plough, pitch hay, layer hedges and shear sheep was a skilled worker. Many farm labourers, he maintained, were under-rated and under-paid.'

'Things have improved though?'

'Well, the wages have gone up certainly, but now a man is expected to be a mechanic as well, with all this sophisticated farm machinery. There's more risk of accidents too these days. Mind you, I wouldn't mind ploughing a field sitting in a nicely-warmed cabin with my earphones on, but shouldn't offer to plough behind two or three horses, with only a sack over my head and shoulders to keep out the weather.'

'So, on the whole, you think things have improved?'

'Definitely. But I still think A. G. Street was right. Farm workers are skilled men, even more skilled now than in his time, and I should like to see that recognized.'

'Well, they are a rare breed now in Fairacre. The vicar showed me some parish records the other day, and the number of farm workers came to almost eighty, what with carters, hedgers-and-ditchers, ploughmen, wheelwrights, shepherds or simply "Ag. Labourers". Now Mr Roberts only has two men to help him. What a change!'

'Isn't that progress?' demanded Gerard.

'It doesn't help my school numbers,' I said sadly. 'There used to be nearly a hundred children at Fairacre at one time. Now we've only twenty-one.'

'Cheer up,' said Gerard, blowing the flames from his cookery. 'Have a nice crumpet. Well done, too.'

18 Country Matters

IT was quite a pleasure to welcome Mrs Pringle's return to her duties. I am not really quite as slatternly as she is fond of telling me, but even I could see that the school was looking increasingly shabby under Minnie's haphazard care.

She gasped at the sight of the stoves, but I defended my efforts on their behalf.

'Now, come on,' I told her, 'you know they're not too bad. Why, I used nearly half a tin of that blacklead stuff.'

'That's the trouble,' retorted Mrs Pringle. 'You only needs a
touch
of that, and
plenty
of elbow grease, which these 'ere stoves haven't had in my absence, as is plain to see.'

However, she seemed pleased to get back after her enforced idleness, and even agreed that her leg was 'a trifle - only a trifle, mind', better than it had been. Her doctor's treatment, she admitted, grudgingly, 'could have been worse'. High praise indeed from Mrs Pringle!

It was good to get back to our normal routine, and I was glad to leave school at the usual time and not have to supervise Minnie's ministrations.

She had departed with her wages, a box of shortbread as a parting present from me, incoherent thanks on her side, and secret relief on mine. A little of Minnie Pringle goes a long way, and although I am sorry for the girl, I find that taking responsibility for such a hare-brained person is distinctly exhausting.

Amy called one afternoon just after I had arrived home. Looking very elegant in a grey suit, she deposited a paper bag on the kitchen table.

'I bought some penny buns on the way here,' she said. 'I guessed I'd be in time for tea.'

'I bet they were more than a penny,' I observed.

She ruminated for a moment. 'Come to think of it, I believe they were about half-a-crown each. Can that be right?'

'I shouldn't be surprised. Very welcome, anyway.'

We munched happily, and Amy told me that she had been to lunch with the widow of one of James's directors.

'He died some months ago. Great pity. He was dear, and very generous with his pots of money. He's left a pile of it to that trust for orphans. He was one of the founders actually. James was very cut up when he went, and still misses him.'

I enquired after James.

'Still worrying about that wretched Brian. He doesn't tell me much, but I don't think that man is settling down very well in Bristol, and of course James won't hear a word against him from the people there. Anyone who plays cricket as well as our Brian must be above reproach, James thinks. All rather trying, I find. However, he is taking me to the opera next week for a treat.'

'What are you seeing?'

'That Mozart one about those two silly girls who are so thick they can't recognize their own fiancés.'

'Cosi Fan Tutte,'
I told her.

'Ah! thanks for reminding me. At least the music should be lovely, and the sets and the costumes pretty. Unless, of course, the producer sees fit to set it in some back alley of an industrial town, with all the characters in dirty jeans and sweat shirts.'

'Keep your fingers crossed,' I advised. 'Have another penny bun. I seem to recall that there were even
halfpenny
buns when we were young.'

'There were indeed. And how sad that phrase: "When we were young" sounds! Nearly as sad as: "
If only
" which people are always saying. You know: "
If only
I had known he was about to die.
If only
I had been nicer to my mother.
If only
I hadn't married that man." Terribly sad words.'

'For me,' I said, 'the saddest words I know were put into the mouth of Sir Andrew Aguecheek in
Twelfth Night
.'

'But surely he was just a buffoon?'

'Maybe. But when I hear him say: "I was adored once", it breaks me up.'

Amy surveyed me thoughtfully.

'For such a tough old party,' she said at last, 'you are remarkably vulnerable. Now tell me all the Fairacre news.'

My prime piece of news about the sale of my old home, she had already heard from Horace and Eve, and she speculated about this.

'I told them that I thought they should try for one of those new houses while they are about it. After all, with this baby on the way, and possibly another while Eve is young enough, a larger house than your two-bedroom abode would be much more sensible.'

'What did they say?'

'They saw the point, but it's much too expensive for them to contemplate. So I suppose they will go ahead with an offer as soon as they can.'

I told her about Horace's telephone call, and my advice to have a word with the vicar.

We went on to gossip about Jane Winter's approaching confinement and Miriam Baker's new agency.

'And Gerard is writing a novel,' Amy told me.

'He was working on a script about farm labourers' conditions earlier this century. Has he given that up?'

'I'm sure he hasn't. He's just pottering along with the novel at the same time, but he says it's much harder than he imagined. I think he really started it because he's bought a word-processor and he likes to play with it.'

'But he'll have to think what to put in the word-processor, won't he?'

'That's evidently the trouble. He says that he is very conscious of keeping his readers interested, and he quoted Wilkie Collins's advice to Charles Dickens: "Make 'em laugh, make 'em cry, make 'em wait". He thinks he can make 'em laugh and cry, but making 'em wait is the tricky bit. He's dying to take his readers into the secret right from the start, but then would they want to go on reading?'

'Well, I'm glad to hear he is at least considering his readers. Far too many writers these days seem to write purely to relieve their feelings, and pretty dreary the result is. Good luck to Gerard!'

'If that's the time,' said Amy, looking at her watch, 'I must be off, or it will be baked beans on toast for James tonight.'

The vicar called at the school the next morning, accompanied by his yellow Labrador, Honey.

The vicar is always welcomed by the children with appropriate respect and affection. His dog is welcomed with rapture. Honey reciprocates with much bounding about, slavering, panting and licking any part of a child's anatomy that is available to her.

I am fond of dogs, and Honey is particularly adorable, but one cannot deny the fact that she is a destructive element in the classroom. Work ceases. Pockets are turned out, revealing a surprising amount of contraband delicacies such as bubble gum, toffee, biscuits and chocolate. All these secret hoards are readily raided by their owners for tit-bits for Honey, who never fails to gulp them down ravenously.

Meanwhile, the noise is enormous, and the vicar and I stand helplessly until, after a few minutes, Honey is put on her lead and my own charges are hounded back to their desks.

'That nice fellow Umbleditch rang me,' says the vicar, when partial order has been restored. 'It would be a great pleasure to have him in the parish. I've told him the position. Somehow I think the builders have been a little sanguine in thinking that the house will be ready by Easter. What do you think?'

'Builders are always sanguine. I've yet to meet anyone who has been able to get into their homes at the time the builders have forecast. Anyway, Easter's only a few weeks away. I can't see the job being finished by then.'

'My view entirely, and I think Mr Rochester at the office feels the same. He is in close touch with the powers-that-be in the diocese, of course.'

'Well, we can't do much about it, can we? I mean, the builders have the last word.'

The vicar began to look rather worried, and patted Honey's head distractedly. 'Mr Rochester, I mean, Mr Winchester -'

'Salisbury,' I broke in.

'Yes, yes, of course,
Salisbury
! He was mentioning the future of the school again.'

'But that was settled, surely?' I said, feeling alarmed. 'We were to stay open.'

'Of course. We were told that quite unequivocally. He was simply wondering if you have any news of fresh pupils arriving in the coming year.'

I thought of Jane Winter's baby and Eve Umbleditch's, but they would certainly not be ready for school by September next.

'Not a word,' I said, 'but I live in hope.'

'We must all do that,' said Gerald Partridge resignedly, and departed with Honey who, hopeful to the last, gave backward glances at her generous hosts.

In the week before the school broke up for the Easter holidays, we had a visit from Henry Mawne.

Henry and his wife own the most beautiful house in Fairacre, a Queen Anne building much the same age as the vicarage, but even more splendid.

An ornithologist of some note, we are very proud of Mr Mawne, and look out for his nature notes, and sometimes rather erudite letters, in
The Caxley Chronicle.
He is very good at visiting Fairacre School, and we can usually welcome him about once a term to give us a lecture on birds.

In a school such as ours it is particularly useful to have people dropping in. The children need to see other faces, hear other voices, and generally find stimulation in other people's points of view. Henry Mawne always appears to enjoy his visits, and so do we.

On this occasion he came bearing an armful of rolled illustrations about birds of prey. A band of willing helpers rushed to undo the tapes and to hang the pictures over the blackboard. Henry Mawne bore their enthusiasm with complete patience, but it was some minutes before we could get all the pupils into a receptive frame of mind.

'Anyone fidgeting or interrupting,' I said firmly, 'will spend the next half hour in the lobby.'

Silence reigned.

'How do you do it?' whispered Henry admiringly, his back to the class.

'Years of practice,' I told him. 'And self-preservation, of course.'

He began his talk, and the children listened attentively. Some of the birds of prey were familiar to them. They are quite used to seeing sparrowhawks winging their way along our hedgerows, disturbing the small birds who soon become their victims. The kestrel is another common bird in these parts, hanging motionless in the sky ready to drop like a stone upon any luckless small animal or bird below.

'My dad,' interrupted Ernest, 'don't call it a kestrel. He says it's a wind-hover.'

Henry Mawne embroidered the theme that this alternative name engendered, and then went on to birds which are rarely seen in Fairacre, the smallest hawk, the merlin, and the hobby which has been seen locally during some summers.

But it was the picture of the golden eagle which impressed them most, probably because of its size and its fierce looks.

'It sometimes strikes at a new-born lamb,' said Henry, 'or any other small helpless creature, but it's not nearly as fierce as it looks.'

'Do Mr Roberts know?' quavered Joseph Coggs. 'There's a lot of young lambs on his farm.'

'They're quite safe,' Henry assured him. 'You'll only find golden eagles in Scotland, and then only in the wilder parts.'

The class appeared relieved.

Henry turned to me. 'Would it be possible to take them to that falconry north of Oxford? Perhaps we could get a mini-bus, or arrange a few cars one afternoon?'

These remarks were made very quietly, and expressively to me, but there was a murmur of approval from the front row.

'Would you like to see real birds of prey one day?' I asked the children.

The roar of ecstasy was unanimous, and Henry beamed affectionately at his audience.

'We'll try and fix up the outing next term,' he assured them. 'Miss Read will come too, of course.' He turned to me and added in a conspiratorial whisper: '
To keep order
.'