(2/20) Village Diary (24 page)

'It happened in the seventies,' said Mr Willet, who had come in to the classroom to borrow a boy to steady the ladder while he effected repairs to the lavatory roof. The children quietly put their pens in the grooves of their desks. I turned my history book face downward, and we all prepared to listen. Mr Willet, when wound up, goes on for a long, long time—and anyway still, in the country, thank God, there is always tomorrow.

'My old dad remembers it wed. He was doing a job for old Sir Edmund up the Hall, and Mrs Pringle's old dad was up there too, doing a bit of carpentering in the back parts.' He stopped suddenly and looked round, puffing out his stained moustache.

'Here! You say if I'm interrupting. Don't want to stop the work, you know!'

I assured him that we were ad keen to know the rest of the story. The children, seeing that their eavesdropping had been legalized, relaxed somewhat and flopped forward comfortably on to their desks. Mr Willet resumed.

'Well, it was about this time of year—soon after Michaelmas Fair, because Sir Edmund had got several new hands just come to work for him, and this ere old gale blew up. Did it blow?' Mr Willet swiveded his eyes quite awfully, and we ad shivered.

'The gals—the maids that was—fair screeched, and run about like a lot of chickens with their necks half-wrung. The cook got burnt with some sparks what blew out of the fire and give up doing the dinner, and there was a proper panic. Some of the chaps, with my dad, was sheltering in a bit of an old outhouse where they kept the firing and that, when ad of a sudden—!' Here Mr Willet, with a proper sense of drama, paused and lifted his gnarled fingers. The children's eyes grew rounder, and the suspense was almost unbearable.

'All of a sudden—' repeated Mr Willet, with relish, 'there was a groanin' and tearin' and crashin' you could 'ear as far away as Springbourne. A 'orrible roarin' sort of commotion, and then the biggest crash of ad! One of Sir Edmund's big old lime trees fed across the glass house! Coo—that were a crash! And after the crash my dad said you could 'ear the tinkle-tinkle of bits of glass as they fell on the tiles in the greenhouse floor. Poor old Jeff Rudge what looked after the stuff in there, he was crying, my dad said; and when they could fight their way through the wind to go and see the damage, he said there was tomatoes and cucumbers all hanging up with splinters of glass sticking out of 'em like a lot of hedgehogs!'

'And this Jeff,' he finished triumphantly, 'he put his hands up over his face, and swayed about and cried 'orrid!' Here Mr Willet did the same, much to the consternation of the children.

'And he kep' on saying, "I can't bear no more! I can't bear no more!" Poor chap-' commented Mr Willet compassionately, lowering his hands and speaking in his normal voice again. 'And old Sir Edmund had him in the kitchen and give him some of his own brandy to get him round again! Ah! That was a gale and no mistake!'

He stood silent for a few moments, his old eyes looking out across the heads of the children, as though he could see those cucumbers and tomatoes bristling with glinting glass, and the sorrow of the man who had tended them. The children watched him solemnly.

'Ah well!' he said, returning to this century with a jerk. 'I'd best choose a good stout boy for the ladder!'

At once, the children pulled themselves upright, and with chests outflung and breath held to bursting point, tried to look as stout and trustworthy as they knew Mr Willet would expect them to be, if they wanted to escape from the dull classroom to the joys of the playground and remain in his august company.

Eric was chosen and, grinning joyfully, followed Mr Willet through the door. Deflated, the rest sighed sadly and returned to their books.

Since the gale the weather has turned soft and warm. Mr Willet tells me it is Saint Luke's little summer, and very welcome it is.

Miss Jackson and I decided to take the whole school out for a nature walk, to enjoy it all. We made for the little lane that turns off by the 'Beetle and Wedge' and rises steadily until it peters out high up on the windy Downs.

The children dallied in the lane, scrambling up the high banks to collect the hazel nuts which flourish there.

'Gi'e us a bunk up!' rang the cry, and one would obligingly put his shoulder down and hoist his friend higher in the hedge. We meandered along eating nuts and blackberries and even sloes and damsons which grow thickly, powdered with a blue bloom, among their spikes.

We found a patch of dry grass half-way up the slope, sheltered by a clump of stunted thorn bushes, and here we sat to rest. The view of Fairacre below us was clear in the limpid October air. There is a unique atmosphere about a fine October day. The sky is a burning blue, which combined with the golden and auburn glow of the trees creates a sparkle and glory unseen at other more-vaunted periods of the year.

From this distance the yellow elm trees by the school looked like the chubby pieces of cauliflower that one spears from piccalilli; and in the field beyond we could see Samson, Mr Roberts' house cow, placidly grazing.

Blue smoke plumes waved from cottage chimneys, and Joseph Coggs was delighted to see his mother pegging washing on her line, far below. Some of the fields were still bright with stubble, but most of them had already been ploughed, and lay, clean and brown, awaiting next year's crops.

We spent a long time there, gazing and speculating, drinking in great draughts of the scented air. I was brought to earth by a vicious blow across the back.

Startled, I turned to see Ernest grinding something fiercely into the grass.

'A dummle wasp!' he explained. 'Crawling up you, miss. They always stings worse if they're sleepy. Ah wed! He've had it now!'

I thanked him, and called to the children that we must return. They came reluctantly, bearing all sorts of treasures with them. Rose hips, feathers and toadstools were among their souvenirs, but Eric was struggling along with a colossal knobbly flint, whose weight threatened to age him considerably.

When I remonstrated with him he turned an accusing eye upon me.

'It's a meatright!' he told me. 'Saw one just like it on the telly!' And shouldering his burden he bore it painfully back to Fairacre School.

Malcolm Annett's christening party was a great occasion. The sun shone through St Patrick's windows, catching the gleaming brass on the altar and the tawny chrysanthemums which Mrs Partridge had arranged.

Mrs Moffat had made the christening gown—a miracle of tiny stroked gathers and finely-pleated tucks, with a froth of old lace at the hem. Apart from making a few popping sounds as he withdrew a wet thumb from his mouth, the baby behaved with the greatest decorum, even suffering his pink forehead to be doused with water, from a silver scallop, in quite large quantities.

Ted, Mr Annett's brother, was resplendent in his best grey suit and the other godfather was in uniform. They spoke their responses in manly tones, undertaking to renounce the works of the devil on behalf of the infant I held, as I as godmother did too. It was hard to believe that the angelic bundle was 'conceived and born in sin,' I thought privately, watching a Red Admiral butterfly hovering in the church porch, as the vicar's beautiful voice fluted benignly on.

Mrs Pringle had come to the service with her cherry-decorated hat on, and a very dashing white organdie blouse which had once been Mrs Partridge's and had been the
pike de resistance
at a recent jumble sale. Outside, whilst brother Ted fussed with his camera and we squeezed obediently together in order to make a compact group, she came up to admire the baby.

'It's a wonder either of you are here to tell the tale,' she told Mrs Annett, 'that front room of yours is nothing better than a morgue—facing north and dripping damp. You mind you has ad the rest in your back bedroom where the hot tank is!'

Mrs Annett assurred her that she would give the matter her attention, and invited her to join in the historic group, which she did with the greatest pride.

The christening party at Beech Green school-house was a hilarious affair. Miss Clare had come over from her cottage and we found a corner together.

'I didn't come to the service,' she explained, 'as Doctor Martin insists that I have a little rest in the afternoon.'

I thought that this sounded ominous and enquired if she had had any more attacks. For a moment she was silent, and then confided:

'Well, yes, my dear, I have. Doctor says I shall be quite ad right if I rest more, so I'm being sensible and lying down every afternoon.'

There was not time to say much, for the cake was being cut and toasts drunk to the future felicity of young Malcolm Annett, but for me, at least, a shadow had fallen over the festivities.

Mr Annett implored me to come over to talk to brother Ted who is a mathematics professor, and who had just been honoured by an invitation to lecture at Cambridge, and was very pleased about it all.

With becoming modesty Ted admitted that his subject was to be 'The Triangulate Isotopic Hebdominal and its Associated Quotients,' (or something very like it) and would I care to be present?

Though decidedly flattered by his kindness, I was secretly glad that I was already engaged to go with Amy to the theatre on the same day, so that with polite sounds of regret we passed to other and more intedigible topics.

As six o'clock approached and young Malcolm, after patiently waiting for us to finish our refreshments, was now vociferously demanding his own, we made our farewells. I looked around for Miss Clare, hoping to take her back with me, but she had slipped away unobserved, and I determined to call on her before many days went by.

On Monday morning Miss Jackson did not arrive until nearly eleven o'clock. She had been away for the week-end and had missed the evening train.

I was inclined to be sympathetic at first, despite the difficulty I had had in collecting dinner money and savings money, reading parents' notes and marking two registers during the first part of the morning. However, it gradually came out, through chance remarks, that Miss Jackson had had no intention of catching the Sunday evening train, as she had had the opportunity to visit Miss Crabbe who happened to be staying in her neighbourhood.

So engrossed had they become in educational and psychological affairs that they had stayed talking until past eleven o'clock. On hearing this, my own flabbergasted rage gave way to the deepest sympathy for Miss Crabbe's long-suffering hosts, who could never have bargained for such verbosity when they invited Miss Jackson to tea to renew their guest's acquaintance.

I said nothing during school hours about this behaviour, thinking it better to cool down; but after supper I pointed out, as mildly as I could, that the school must come first and that it was essential that she appeared at the correct time after a week-end.

To my astonishment I was given to understand that I was old fashioned, narrow-minded and petty. Furthermore, the inestimable advantage of listening to Miss Crabbe's wisdom far outweighed such mundane affairs as collecting dinner money and the like—all of which could be performed by those with inferior minds, (like mine, I supposed!) thus giving the more visionary educationalists (presumably Miss Jackson!) a chance of using their talents for the good of the community.

When I had regained my breath I said that I had never heard such utter nonsense, that I would have preferred a straightforward apology, that an early night might be a good thing, after her late session, that she appeared overheated and if she cared for a dose of milk of magnesia there was a bottle in the medicine cabinet.

At this, she flounced towards the door, saying that nc one had ever understood her except Miss Crabbe, that it was no wonder that English education was in the state it was when prosy old women with antediluvian ideas still ruled the roost, and that she didn't want any supper.

With that she slammed the door, pounded up to her bedroom, slammed that door too and was seen no more by me. I was amused to find, later, that the top of a loaf and a hunk of cheese had vanished from the larder—and that the milk of magnesia had been used.

In all fairness to Miss Jackson I must record that she appeared very humbly at the breakfast table, apologized handsomely and brought me back a melon from Caxley, on her next visit, as a peace-offering. Moreover she went out to do her playground duty much more promptly and even got up a little earlier in the mornings, so that the outburst had good results.

A day or two after this, I was busy putting in some pink tulip bulbs, under the front windows, when I heard a hoot and saw Doctor Martin driving by. I waved and he drew up.

'What are you putting in?' he asked, seeing my trowel. I told him that I had treated myself to two dozen pink tulips and that he must look out for them in the spring.

At this moment Mrs Pringle appeared, on her way to sweep the school out. Doctor Martin hailed her. 'How's that leg?'

Mrs Pringle's gait, which had been normal, took on a shuffle-and-hop action, rather like a wooden-legged person essaying the polka. She drew a great shuddering sigh.

'Oh, doctor! If you only knew what I went through! Mighty little sympathy I gets, or asks for, for that matter, but if you was to realize the way it sometimes burns—then sometimes prickles—then sometimes jumps—then sometimes twitches—you'd wonder I didn't go down on my bended knee—always supposing I
could
go down on my bended knee, which is wed nigh impossible, as the vicar can vouch for, me having to lean forward in the choir stads, prayer-time—and beg of you to cut it off for me!'

Doctor Martin said: 'Oh rats to ad that! Got your elastic stocking on?'

Mrs Pringle nodded haughtily.

'Then get a bit of weight off,' said her unsympathetic medical adviser. 'You must be three stone too heavy. No starch, no fat and no sugar! That'd do it!'

'
Some people
,' began Mrs Pringle with awful deliberation, 'has a hard day's work to do, every day that God sends. Scrubbing, sweeping, carrying buckets, and cleaning up after others—who shall be nameless! And hard work can't be tackled on an empty stummick, as my mother could have told you any day. I don't suppose I eats more than a butterfly—but a woman with my job needs a trifle of cold bacon or bread puddin' to keep her going, if she's to do ad she's asked!'