(2/20) Village Diary (28 page)

I said that he should have an Oxo tin for each. His mouth dropped open with admiration.

'What an excellent idea! I shall go straight to the vicarage and do it at once. Ready, Miss Read, what a grasp of business affairs you have!'

Much cheered, he bustled off, and I returned in the nick of time to prevent the first ink-dipped pellet from being projected, and to direct that the entire arsenal be put forthwith into my waste-paper basket.

***

As tomorrow will be the first day of December, I settled down this evening with my account book.

I am delighted to find that I have
£1
4s. od. left in the bank from this month's salary, and twelve shillings and fourpence in my purse. Greatest triumph of all is the fact that the dinner money and needlework money tins are untouched.

The account book makes depressing reading, however, for I ready cannot see that I can spend less than I do, unless I cut out such pleasant items as 'Anemones—9d.' and 'Sweets for Children—2s. 3d.,' which I don't intend to do. If only I lived in the kind of exalted circles where champagne parties, two yachts, diamond dog-collars and so on are normal—if such circles still exist, which I doubt—I believe I could cut down a bit. Say,
one
yacht, and
topaz
dog-collars...

Meanwhile, remembering Mr Micawber's well-known maxim about expenditure, I feel exceptionally smug, and having decided to abandon my gloomy and tedious account-keeping, I threw the book on the back of the fire, and Tibby and I ate our supper by the light of its flames.

It was only when I was snug in bed, still glowing with thrift and virtue, that I remembered that the grocer's bid was as yet unpaid. Another of life's little tweaks!

DECEMBER

M
ISS
J
ACKSON
arrived at school this morning, pink-cheeked and starry-eyed, and clutching a bulky envelope.

'It's from Miss Crabbe,' she told me, her voice trembling with awe. 'A copy of the lecture she gave to a W.E.A. meeting somewhere near Middlesbrough. Isn't it wonderful?'

I said I had not heard it—but I expected that it was.

'Oh, not just the
lecture,
' said Miss Jackson, slightly shocked.'I meant isn't it wonderful that she's sent me a copy? It's terribly enthralling!' Here she withdrew, with some difficulty, a wad of crumpled and flimsy typed literature, which bore the unlovely title of 'Some Psychological Interpretations of Play-Behaviour in the Under-Fives.'

'And in her letter,' continued Miss Jackson, sorting among the Utter feverishly, and fnally abstracting a grubby piece of paper, covered with large angular writing in green ink, 'she says that she wants me to read her notes with particular attention, as she hopes one day to start "an enlightened school of her own" based on her studies, and perhaps I may like to help her with it, when I have had a little more "work-a-day experience with the hum-drum." Doesn't she express herself wed?' sighed my assistant ecstatically.

The school bed, lustily pulled by Ernest, now reminded us that the children would be with us almost at once, and I said that the future looked most hopeful for her, but would she mind reverting to the hum-drum present for the moment, and go outside into her lobby where a vicious and strongly-worded fight appeared to be going on.

So exalted was Miss Jackson this morning that this request was met with a happy smile, instead of the scowl and flouncing with which she so often obeys my behests, and Fairacre School was lapped in bliss and peace ad day, thanks to Miss Crabbe's benign influence from afar.

'Heard about poor old Burton?' asked Mr Willet at playtime. 'Went early today. His son and daughter was up there with him. Nice old fellow—be missed he wid. Knew ad there was to know about sheep, and did some lovely carving too.'

I said I had not reailzed that he was so clever.

'Ah! Them pew ends in Springbourne church—they're his work; bunches of grapes and hops and that. A fair treat. Those old chaps was good with their hands. Miss Clare's father now—he was a wonder with straw. You should see the straw ornaments he made for his ricks; birds and little old men and women, 'twere wonderful! My missus said last night "These young chaps don't seem able to make like their fathers." And Mrs Partridge said the same, only yesterday. "'Tis a pity to see the old crafts dying out, Widet!" I told em both the same!'

Here he paused, pursing his lips up under his ragged moustache, and I took up my cue.

'And what was it you told them?'

'I said to 'em both: "There's no one disputes that 'tis a pity the old crafts is dying, but you never hears people say how clever the youngsters has been picking up ad the new ones. I bet old Burton couldn't drive a combine-harvester, or a tractor, and dry the corn or milk the cow by electric, like his boy can!" That's true, you know, Miss. There's new skid taking the place of the old, ad the time, and I don't like to hear the youngsters becalled, just because they does different!' said Mr Willet sturdily.

He looked across the playground and raised his voice to a formidable bellow.

'Get you off that there coke! Let me catch one o' you little varmints on that pile again, I'd give 'ee a lift under the ear that'll take 'ee clean over the church spire!'

Notices have been posted at strategic points in the village for the last fortnight announcing a meeting to discuss the possibility of reviving the annual Flower Show, which has not been held in Fairacre for a number of years.

Evidently, before I came here, the Flower Show was an event of some magnitude, and people came from miles around to enjoy a day at Fairacre. It was usually held in the field at the side of the Vicarage.

It was a frosty starlit night, and the muddy approach to the Village Had was hard and rutty. I had decided to go, as the children, I knew, used to play quite a large part in this village excitement, in earlier days, and there was a number of special classes, such as wild flowers, pressed flowers, dolls'-house floral decorations and so on, included in the programme, for their particular benefit. Also, fired by Mr Annett's horticultural efforts at Beech Green, I had been considering for some time, a modest school garden of our own, and this village show should give our efforts an added fillip.

By the time I arrived there were about ten people already in the hall. The vicar was in the chair, Mrs Partridge in the front row, talking to Mr and Mrs Roberts from the farm, and Mr Willet, Arthur Coggs and a few other men were warming their hands over the rather smelly oil stove, which was trying, inadequately enough, to warm the room. There was a strong smell of paraffin, mixed with the smoke from shag tobacco, and a few black smuts, trailing gossamer threads behind them, floated across the scene.

The meeting was called for seven-thirty—a most uncomfortable time in my private opinion—as it successfully throws the evening into confusion and plays havoc with one's evening meal. By a quarter to eight, only fifteen people had arrived. The vicar looked at his watch, then at his wife, and having received a nod, rose to his feet.

'I think we must begin,' he said, turning his gentle smile upon us. 'If you could shut the door, Mr Willet?'

Mr Willet shut the door with such firmness, that the oil stove belched forth a puff of smoke which reinforced the army of smuts already abroad. The vicar gave a brief little speech about the past glories of Fairacre's Flower Show, and his hopes that it might flourish again.

'Perhaps someone would propose that the Flower Show be revived?' he suggested. There was a heavy silence, broken only by the shuffling of boots from the bench at the back. All fifteen of us, I noticed, were elderly. John Pringle, Mrs Pringle's only child, must have been the youngest among us, and he is a man of nearly thirty. It was John who, at last, sheepishly answered the vicar's plea.

'I'll do it,' he said. 'Propose we has a Flower Show, then.' He sat down, pink and self-conscious, and the vicar thanked him sincerely, his thoughts, no doubt, fluttering about his postponed supper.

'Could we have a seconder?'

Again that painful silence. It was as though we sat in a trance.

`I'll second it,' I said, when I could bear the suspense no longer.

'Good! Good!' beamed the vicar. 'Those in favour?'

All fifteen raised hands unenthusiastically. To look at our faces, an outsider might reasonably have thought that we were having the choice of hanging or the electric chair.

Slowly the meeting ground on. It was uphill work for the chairman, as indeed it is for any chairman at Fairacre's public meetings. Eight o'clock chimed from St Patrick's church, and then eight-thirty. The vicar by that time had squeezed from his reluctant companions that they were in favour of reviving the Flower Show, that it should be held in the Vicarage meadow next July, and that there should be classes for outsiders to enter as well as for Fairacre folk, and a number of special classes for the children.

'Well now,' said the vicar, in an exhausted tone, 'are there any questions, before we close the meeting? Do please speak out now so that we can have a discussion while we're all together.'

This sensible appeal had its usual effect of casting everyone into utter silence again. Mr Willet coughed nervously, and we all looked at him hopefully. He looked unhappily at the ceiling, and fingered his stained moustache. Mrs Roberts made a slight noise as she moved in her chair, and the vicar turned courteously towards her.

'Yes?' he enqiured hopefully.

'Nothing—oh, nothing!' replied Mrs Roberts in near-panic, and looked as unhappy as Mr Willet at this publicity. The pall of silence fell upon us again. No one dared to move in case our chairman should suppose us anxious to spring to our feet with brilliant suggestions for the success of the Flower Show—which would have been unthinkable.

At last the vicar rose to his feet again.

'That seems to be all that we can do, at the moment then. I suggest that we call another meeting before Christmas, when we'll hope to see more people with us, and perhaps some of the younger generation. We'll leave the setting-up of a Flower Show committee until then. Thank you so much, everyone.'

Like so many released birds the men on the back bench hastened through the door. Once outside, in the fresh air, under the stars, they seemed to breathe more freely, for they gathered there and wagged the tongues which had for so long remained locked behind sealed lips.

The vicar collected his papers, and he and Mrs Partridge and the Roberts left the hall amid a chorus of cheerful 'Good nights' from the knot at the door. Mr Willet and I remained in the building.

From the wall glowered the long-dead footballers, flanked by a copy of the Scout Rules. Mr Willet turned out the oil-stove, which gave a last malicious belch before it expired.

'That the lot?' queried Mr Willet looking round the hall, and rubbing a smut across his nose thoughtfully.

'Looks like it,' I replied, as we made our way to the door.

'
HAVE YOU SWITCHED OF THE LIGHT
?' asked that maddening notice severely.

'Us has now!' said Mr Willet, snapping the switch in answer to this silent enquiry, and plunged the had into darkness.

He locked the door behind us, and we all set out for our own hearths again.

Mr Willet and I proceeded homeward, a few steps in front of the backbenchers, who were now as vociferous as they had formerly been tongue-tied.

'I don't hold with outsiders coming in on our Flower Show. We gets it up—has to pay through the nose for a marquee and that—and then, like as not, some foreigner gets the prizes!' said one.

'Ah! You're right there!' agreed another energetically. Little sparks, struck from the flinty road by his metal-tipped boots, accompanied this statement. Ad Fairacre meetings ready start in the lane after the official meeting has been formally closed.

'And another thing,' said Arthur Coggs morosely, 'where's ad the youngsters tonight? Don't know what'd become of the village if us older chaps didn't take an interest.'

'Never seems to care if Fairacre goes hang, does 'em?' commented the spark-maker. 'Why, when I was a boy, it was us young 'tins that turned up to ad the meetings, and helped to get this ol' Flower Show up every year, and a Glee Club in the winter, and them tableaus for the Red Cross, and a Nativity Play every Christmas in the church-'

'Ah! We made our own fun then! Fairacre always had something going on. But look at the young 'uns today! Take tonight—not one of 'em interested enough to turn up to this meeting and speak out like the rest of us!'

I remembered the abysmal silence of a few minutes before, and was glad that it was dark. Mr Willet spoke beside me, throwing his words back over his shoulder at the dark figures behind us.

''Course we made our own fun when we was young. 'Twas a case of have to, with no buses to Caxley, and no wireless or telly. We'd have gone plumb crazy setting about twiddlin' our thumbs. But times is changed. You can't expect young folk to want what we did. They've got all the world to amuse 'em now, and if you asks me they're a sight more civilized that we was! I ain't forgot the gangs of lads that used to lounge outside the "Beetle," kicking their heels, and not above chucking mud at folks passing, and swearing at any strangers as dared to come into Fairacre! You don't get them louts about now in this village, say what you like. They've got something better to do!'