(2/20) Village Diary (10 page)

'Made an idol of, that there cloth,' she told me once. 'I said at the rime it was too fanciful and would show the dirt. What's more, I offered my mother's best tablecloth that she used year in and year out in her front parlour for as long as I can remember. As fine a piece of red chenille, with a good deep fringe to it, as ever you see in a day's march. A mite faded maybe, but that's no cad for making personal remarks about my mother's care of it. Mondays and Thursdays that was hung on the line and brushed lightly with an old clothes-brush dipped in cold tea. Come up beautiful. But no! 'Twasn't good enough for the W.I., so this fal-lal has to be made instead!' Mrs Pringle bridled at the memory of this rebuff to her offer, and I attempted to comfort her.

'Never mind. You must be glad that you've still got it at home.' Of course I had put my foot in it yet again.

'In a foolish moment,' began Mrs Pringle heavily, 'and believing that the girl would treasure it, I let that Minnie Pringle over at Springbourne have it for a Christmas present.' She paused, drew in a long and sibilant breath, and thrust her face within two inches of mine.

'And you know what? A fortnight later, as sure as I stand here and may I be struck down if I don't tell the truth of it, I saw that very same cloth on her aunt's table up the road. Called there one day I did, to give her my club money, and there was my tablecloth on her table. "Where d'you get that, pray?" I asked her. Civil, mark you, but cool. "Our Min she give it me," she said. "Why?" I told her, and you know what? She just laughed!
Just laughed!
I was proper wild, I can tell you. Never said nothing more to her, of course. Wouldn't demean myself. But when I next saw that Minnie Pringle, I give the rough side of my tongue—the hussy!'

At last Mrs Partridge rose behind the tablecloth which had caused Mrs Pringle so much heart burning, and the meeting began. The minutes were read, approved, signed and, as nothing arose from them, Mrs Partridge came straight to the point and told us the latest news of the pageant.

'The draw has been made,' she told us, 'and it is Fairacre's privilege to open the pageant. Ours is the first scene.' A gratified murmur arose from the hall, and proud smiles were exchanged. Mrs Partridge, astute in the handling of these affairs, allowed us to bask in this glory for a few happy seconds, before releasing the cold shower.

'It is a wonderful thing, of course,' she proceeded smiling expansively, 'and we are very lucky to get this scene. It also means that our part will be over first, and we can relax and enjoy the rest of the pageant. So less tiring for the children too.'

'I just ain't gonna be in it,' said an audible but obstinate toddler to his mother, at this juncture. Mrs Partridge continued without batting an eyelid.

'And now you'll want to know the title of Fairacre's scene.'

Mrs Moffat caught my eye across the room and mouthed the word 'Wimples' at me. I smiled back.

'It is "The Coming of the Romans",' went on Mrs Partridge.

'
Romans?
said the members in one outraged breath. If they had been called upon to be earwigs, they could not have sounded more affronted. Mrs Partridge gathered us up again.

'The Roman soldiers' costume will be most effective, of course. A lot can be done with gilt paint and good stout cardboard.'

After the first shock of losing wimples, pearls-in-plaited-hair, ruffs, buckled shoes and other flattering accoutrements, the meeting came round to the idea of even earlier times and their sartorial possibilities. Seizing her opportunity Mrs Partridge continued glibly.

'The scene opens with the native people of this country—Ancient Britons then—busy about their everyday work. The men shaping flints for tools, dragging logs back for the fire and so on, and the women nursing their babies and cooking over an open fire. After a time, there are sounds of distant voices and marching, and one of the Ancient Britons runs into the camp, pointing dramatically into the distance. A Roman cohort approaches—the natives flee terrified, but gradually creep back. The Romans give them small gifts, and we see that the regime of Roman rulers and British vassals will soon be set up.' Mrs Partridge paused, at the end of this swift resume of our forthcoming task, and there was an ominous silence. At last Mrs Pringle broke it, in a voice heavy with foreboding.

'Madam President,' she began, becoming suddenly a stickler for etiquette, 'and fellow-members. Does this mean that some of us here have to be Ancient Britons?' Before her relentless gaze even Mrs Partridge quailed a trifle.

'But naturally, Mrs Pringle,' she replied, doing her best to answer with easy grace. 'Some will be Ancient Britons, and others Romans.'

'Humph!' snorted Mrs Pringle. 'And what, may I ask—if anything, I mean—do Ancient Britons wear?'

It was an anxious moment. You could have run a satisfactory heating system with the electricity generated in the hall at that quivering instant. Mrs Partridge, with the knowledge of past crises overcome and the rarefied blood of a vicar's wife beating in her veins, rose gamely to the challenge.

'We shad wear," she said steadily, 'furs—probably mounted on old sacks." There was a gasp from Mrs Moffat.

'And our hair,' she continued remorselessly, 'will be as rough and as dirty as we can make it.'

Mrs Pringle sat down with a jolt that made her companions on the bench shudder in sympathy. For once, she was speechless.

Mrs Partridge pressed home her attack.

'And our feet,' she said, with a hint of triumph, 'will be
bare?

There were faint sounds of dismay among the ranks before her, and the shuffling of feet clad, at the moment, in comfortable, if muddy, footwear. At this despondent moment, when dissension might so easily have reared its ugly head and wrecked our future revels, Mrs Moffat, a comparative newcomer to Fairacre, rose to her feet. Very pretty, very smart, an incomparable dress-maker and not much of a mixer as yet, she is still looked upon with a slightly suspicious eye by the old guard in the village.

'I don't know whether you want volunteers for the Ancient Britons,' she said, pink with her own temerity, 'but if you do, I'd like to be one of them.' It was a courageous statement, and made at a most strategic moment of the campaign. Moreover, it was a particularly noble one, when one considers that Mrs Moffat wed knew that her own good looks would be hidden under sacks and old fur bits, which in themselves must be anathema to her sensitive clothes-loving soul. This unselfish gesture did not go unnoticed. There were sounds of approval, and one or two encouraging nods.

'Come to think of it,' said another woman, slowly, 'I don't mind being an Ancient Briton myself. I got a nice bit of ol' hearth rug—'

Mrs Partridge clinched the matter by saying: 'I'm looking forward to being one myself. For one thing the costume will be so easy to contrive.' Then with consummate generalship she drew her ranks of broken women together, at this precise moment which, she realized, would be the most propitious that she could hope for in these adverse conditions.

'I'm sure we shall be able to arrange Ancient Britons and Romans quite happily among ourselves; and I don't think we'll go any further with our plans tonight. It's getting late, and I know some of the mothers want to get these young people off to bed. I propose that we have a first rehearsal and allot parts one day next week. Shad we say at the vicarage?'

There were murmurs of assent, as people rose to their feet.

'Wednesday afternoon?' shouted Mrs Partridge above the noise.

'Clinic!' bellowed someone.

'Thursday then?' persisted Mrs Partridge, in a stentorian tone.

'Market day,' shrieked another.

'Monday?' bellowed Mrs Partridge indefatigably. The noise of scraping chairs and forms was unbelievable.

'Washday!' said someone; but she was howled down, by a self-righteous group near the door with lungs of brass.

'Did ought to be finished that by midday!'

'I gets mine done by eleven. And eight to wash for, my girl!'

'You can get there Monday afternoon, if you gets a move on!'

At last Monday afternoon was decided upon. The children would have broken up by then, and those that could be press-ganged into the pageant's service would be able to join their mothers in the fun at the vicarage.

Mrs Pringle, picking her way over the puddles, as we emerged in a bunch from the hall, voiced her feelings on the proceedings.

'Heathenish lot of nonsense!' boomed the familiar voice through the darkness. 'Furs and old sacks and bare feet! Why, my mother would turn in her grave to think of me tricked out so common. We was all brought up respectable. Our feet never so much as saw daylight except at Saturday bath-night and getting into bed. Catch me exposing my extremities to the gaze of all and sundry, and as like as not getting pneumonia into the bargain!'

In the brief pause for breath which followed this diatribe a would-be peace-maker broke in.

'Perhaps you could be a Roman soldier, Mrs Pringle.'

The snort that this meek suggestion brought forth, would have done credit to an old war-horse.

'And what would my figure look like hung round with a few bits of gilt cardboard?' demanded Mrs Pringle majestically.

It seemed best to assume that this question was rhetorical and to be grateful for the merciful darkness which hid our faces.

The last day of term is over. It was spent in the usual jubilant muddle of clearing desks, tidying cupboards, searching for lost books and taking down pictures and charts from the schoolroom wads.

The last part of the afternoon was devoted to drawing a picture about Easter. Each child was given a very small piece of rough paper and a pencil, as everything else was packed securely away for three weeks, and had to do the best he could with this meagre ration.

I expected a spate of Easter eggs, chicks and the like, but was surprised by the various reactions to the word 'Easter.' The most striking use of paper and pencil came from Patrick, who had carefully folded his paper in half to form an Easter card, which he finally presented to me. It showed three large tombstones with crosses, and the letters R.I.P. printed crookedly across them, and inside was neatly printed 'Happy Easter.' I accepted this gloomy missive as gravely as I could. It had taken the artist half an hour and a good quarter of an inch of blacklead pencil to execute it.

When the pencils too had to be yielded up to the cupboard, we were reduced to the game of 'Left and Right,' that incomparable standby of empty-handed and busy teachers. Linda Moffat supplied a hair-grip and called upon Anne, her desk-mate, to guess which fist it was secreted in. She guessed correctly, took Linda's place, and the game followed its peaceful course with little attention from me, as I was engrossed in adding up the attendances for the term in the register. This wretched record does not hold the same fears for teachers these days, as it did when I was a girl, but it still exercises a baneful influence over me, and early memories of trips to my first headmistress with a wrongly-marked register in my trembling hand and instant dismissal hovering over me, have set up a horrid complex towards registers as a whole.

At the end of the afternoon we made our special farewells to Mrs Annett, and one of the Coggs twins presented her with a bouquet of daffodils, tulips, Easter daisies and narcissi, which the children had brought from their gardens. We shall miss her sorely. It has been decided by the managers to wait until after the summer holidays for the permanent appointment, when the newly-trained young teachers will be out from the colleges. Meanwhile, I was delighted to hear from the vicar that Miss Clare will be with us for next term. This is good news indeed.

I spent a very pleasant evening with the Annetts, after pottering happily about all day enjoying the freedom from school duties. I have turned out the cupboard under the stairs—one mad jumble of brooms, dusters, primus stove, and might-come-in-useful collection of pieces of brown paper, cardboard, carrier bags and the like—and feel much elated. From the schoolroom came sounds of Mrs Pringle at work scrubbing the floor-boards. Above the clanking of the pail and the groaning of heavy desks being shunted across the room, Mrs Pringle's carrying contralto voice could be heard raised in pious song, ranging from
A few more years shall roll
to
Oft in danger, oft in woe.

It was very pleasant to take my time over tea and dressing. The little car goes well now, and gone are the days when I imagined knots of children playing marbles in the middle of the road round each corner, and held my breath when another car approached. In fact I felt quite a dashing driver as I swept into Beech Green school's empty playground, and slammed the car door shut, only to realize that I had left my keys inside. Luckily, the other door was unlocked, so all was well; but I went in a more humble mood across to the school-house next door.

It is very much more comfortable now that Mrs Annett is there to run the house, and I remembered my first visit there, when Mr Annett was officially looked after by a housekeeper, and how I had noticed the general neglect.

Now the furniture gleamed and fresh flowers scented the house. In the corner Mrs Annett's violin stood beside Mr Annett's 'cello. They are both keen members of the Caxley orchestra, but Mrs Annett will probably not be able to take part next season, when she has a young baby to look after. Their radiogram is a great joy to them and we played Mr Annett's new records until supper-time.

After supper we fell to talking about country schools and I was interested to hear that Beech Green is developing the practical farming side with even more vigour.

'If I have to have the children here until they are fifteen,' said Mr Annett, 'and I have no woodwork shop, no place for metal work and mighty little other equipment, then I must find something that is worthwhile for them to do, and from which they learn. Otherwise they'd be bored and surly. Luckily we've plenty of land here, enough for a large vegetable plot, and we've got permission to keep hens, ducks and pigs as well.'

I knew that Beech Green school had sent garden produce to Caxley market for some years, but the livestock was something quite new.