(20/20)A Peaceful Retirement (15 page)

I woke next morning with the comforting thought that there was absolutely nothing in the diary to upset my day, and also that it was the first of February, and surely Spring must come soon?

I promised myself a solitary walk in the woods nearby, and a leisurely potter in the garden sometime during the day. With any luck I might find that '
Peace came dripping slow',
as W. B. Yeats put it. It was high time it did, I thought.

It was wonderfully quiet in the little copse some hundred yards from my home. Only the rustle of dead leaves under my feet and the throbbing of a wood pigeon's monotonous song above disturbed the silence.

I sat on a handy log and surveyed the scene. It was still a winter one, with bare trees and little foliage apart from two sturdy fir trees which must have provided welcome shelter to the birds during the storms.

But there were small signs of spring. The shafts of sunlight sloping through the trees provided some warmth, and near at hand the wild honeysuckle, which twined about the trunk of a young beech tree, was already showing a few tiny leaves, 'no bigger than a mouse's ear', as I had read somewhere.

On moving the dead leaves with my muddy boot, I unearthed the small shiny upsproutings of some bluebells which, in a few months' time, would be transforming the scene into a mist of blue and filling the wood with heady fragrance.

I picked a sprig of the honeysuckle to take home as a forerunner of spring, and half an hour later I put it in a glass specimen vase to stand beside John Jenkins' pink hyacinths, now at their best.

Much refreshed in spirit, I set about a pile of ironing which had been awaiting attention for far too long, and then resumed my outdoor wanderings around the garden.

It was showing hopeful signs of spring too. Already the early miniature irises, yellow and blue, were showing colour, and a viburnum had broken into leaf.

There was a good deal of bird activity in the hedges, and I guessed that nest-building had already begun. Altogether I had a delightfully refreshing day of solitude, and it was seven o'clock before the telephone rang. Luckily, it was Amy.

'Do you know,' I told her, 'you are the first person I have spoken to today.'

'Good heavens,' cried Amy, sounding shocked, 'how dreadful for you! If only I'd known, I should have asked you here.'

I tried to explain that I had thoroughly enjoyed my day after rather a lot of visitors, but Amy could not understand it.

'I assure you, it's been like Paddington Station here the last few days,' I said, and told her about Henry's troubles.

'I think you've been very patient with him,' she said at last. 'He must be a rather silly man.'

'He's unhappy.'

"Well, I expect it's six of one and half a dozen of the other,' said Amy philosophically. 'They must sort it out together. You've done your bit admirably, I'd say.'

I felt quite flattered. Amy seldom praises me.

'It's about my proposed wine and cheese party,' she went on. 'The "Dogs for the Blind" do, I spoke about.'

'The children of Fairacre always called it "Blind Dogs",' I told her. 'They used to bring masses of silver paper for blind dogs. I can't think what they imagined the poor animals would do with it.'

'Didn't you explain?'

'Of course I did, but it went in one ear and out the other, I expect.'

'I know, I know,' said Amy sympathetically. 'Well, the point is that I must postpone the idea. James has a conference in Cyprus soon, and he wants me to go with him. I must say the thought of some sunshine attracts me, and as the dates I had thought of have already been snaffled by the local National Trust and the League of Pity, I'm bowing out until later in the year.'

'Fair enough. Count on me for help when the time comes.'

'Thank you, darling. And how's John Jenkins?'

'Very well,' I said guardedly.

'I gather he may be giving up his house in France,' said Amy. 'Friends of ours use the same agent over there. They know John slightly.'

'Oh? I hadn't heard anything about it.'

'Just a rumour, I expect,' said Amy lightly. 'You know how things get about.'

'I certainly do!' I said with conviction, and we rang off.

When Mrs Pringle arrived on Wednesday afternoon, it was obvious that she was bursting with news.

'You heard about our Minnie?' she asked. I felt my usual alarm at the mention of Minnie.

'Don't say she wants to call here,' I said.

'No, no! Nothing like that. But her Ern's run off.'

'Good heavens! It's usually the other way. Who with?'

Mrs Pringle bridled, and I felt that I had made a gaffe.

'With nobody! Just run off. Back to his ma, I expect. And he won't be welcomed there, that's for sure.'

I remembered Mrs Pringle telling me once of Ern's mother's high principles and her stern ways with malefactors, particularly those related to her.

'But surely she will send him back to Minnie?'

'That's the trouble. You see, Bert's moved in with her.'

Bert is one of Minnie's long-term admirers, and has caused more trouble than anyone in that storm-torn household.

'He must be mad!' I exclaimed.

A maudlin look came over Mrs Pringle's dour countenance.

'That's true. Mad with
love!
" she said, almost simpering.

There is a streak of sickly sentimentality in Mrs Pringle's otherwise flinty make-up, which never ceases to dumbfound me.

'But Bert must know he is making trouble,' I protested.

'He don't see it that way. He just wants to be with the woman he loves.'

I gave up. Minnie, Bert and Em must get on with their own muddles. Let them stew in their own juice.

'Of course, if you'd like to have a word with Bert,' began Mrs Pringle, but I cut her short.

'No!' I said, fortissimo.

'In that case,' she replied, 'I'll Flash the bathroom.'

She made for the stairs. Her limp, I noticed, was marked.

Later that day Bob Willet cycled over from Fairacre, ostensibly to return a cookery book I had lent to Alice, but really, I guessed, because he needed company.

We sat by the fire with a glass of wine apiece, and Bob told me all the news.

'Heard about Minnie?'

I said I had.

'Don't blame Em for slinging his hook, but that Bert wants his head seen to.'

I agreed.

'Mind you,' he went on, 'Bert is a useless article altogether. He's supposed to be a painter and decorator, but Mr Mawne had him in to do the doors and windows, and a proper pig's breakfast he made of it.'

I was secretly glad to hear of Henry, and rather hoped that Bob would tell me more.

'Bert with a paint brush,' continued Bob, 'was like a cow with a musket. I told Mr Mawne, on the quiet, to give him the sack. I could've done better myself, and I don't reckon to be a painter.'

He put down his glass and looked at the clock.

'Am I in your way?'

I reassured him on this point.

"Well, my Alice won't be back for an hour or so.'

I refilled his glass.

'Hey, watch it!' he protested. 'I'll be falling off my bike.'

"Well, you won't be breathalyzed.'

'That's true. Mr Mawne was the other night, but sober as a judge, so that was lucky. He still hasn't sold the house, you know.'

'So I gather.'

'It's not everyone's cup of tea.'

'Rather large, but someone might buy it as an investment.'

'Rather them than me,' said Bob stoutly, rising to his feet. 'I'd best be off before you gets me too tiddly.'

I watched him set off. He seemed as steady as ever on his ancient bicycle, and I returned to the fireside wondering once more about Henry Mawne's future.

11. A Fresh Idea

S
IGNS OF
spring grew thick and fast, lifting our spirits after January's gloom. The miniature yellow irises blazed in a sheltered corner, the first leaves of the bulbs were pushing through, and the horse-chestnut gleamed with sticky buds.

Two blackbirds were busy making a nest in the lilac bush near the gate, watched by Tibby with great interest.

But perhaps the most cheering sign was the lengthening days. I remembered Dolly Clare saying how she welcomed February, 'because you could have a walk in the light after tea'. From such little things does spring begin.

Some days after Bob Willet's visit, I had a telephone call from Henry Mawne. He sounded in his more usual, buoyant mood, and I felt relieved.

Evidently he had had some trouble in tracking down his elusive wife, but had taken my advice and got in touch with the solicitor friend who knew where she was staying at the time.

'Luckily, she answered the phone,' said Henry, 'and I must say was very sweet and helpful about everything. I'm flying over tomorrow, and that's why I'm ringing now. You were such a tower of strength, and I want to keep you in the picture.'

I must say that it was nice to hear that I had been a tower of strength. I must remember to tell Amy sometime, I decided.

'Did you mention the house?' I asked.

'Which one?'

'Yours, of course. Is there any other?'

'Oh!
My house
here, you mean? Yes, I told her it was up for sale. She was pleased about that.'

I thought he sounded a little hurt at Deidre's reaction.

'I do mind a bit about it, you know,' he said, as if he had guessed my thoughts. 'If I had the money to put it right, I think I'd have gone on with my efforts to persuade Deidre to stay here.'

Privately, I thought it would have been banging his head against a brick wall, but I voiced my thoughts more kindly.

Well, you tried, Henry, heaven knows, and you got nowhere by sticking to your guns like that. In fact, it may have made Deidre more decided, as it happened. I'm sure you are doing the right thing to put your marriage first.'

Whether he had been listening to my words of wisdom, I don't know, but his next remark was about another house.

'Deidre's been looking out for somewhere to live over there. That's why I was in a muddle when you mentioned a house. No hope yet, but property's not so expensive there, so with luck, the sale of the Fairacre one should provide something Deidre likes. And where she wants it, of course, which is the main object.'