(2/20) Village Diary (29 page)

By now we had reached Tyler's Row and Arthur Coggs wished us good night before kicking open his ramshackle gate.

'Well,' he said unctuously, 'I suppose us old stagers 'll have to put our shoulders to the wheel again for this 'ere Flower Show!'

We proceeded through the village, the lighted cottage windows throwing a homely flicker across our path.

'That Arthur Coggs!' burst out Mr Willet testily. 'He fair gives me the pip—un'oly 'ypocrite! Great useless article! Why the Almighty saw fit to put waspses and adders and Arthur Coggs into this world, is beyond me! Good night, Miss Read—see you bright and early.'

Preparations for Christmas are now in full swing. For weeks past the shops in Caxley have been a blaze of coloured lights and decorated with Father Christmases, decked trees, silver balls and all the other paraphernalia. Even our grocer's shop in Fairacre has cotton-wool snow, hanging on threads, down the window, and this, and the crib already set up in the church all add to the children's enchantment.

It has turned bitterly cold, with a cruel east wind, which has scattered the last of the leaves and ruffles the feathers of the birds who sit among the bare branches. The tortoise stoves are kept roaring away, but nothing can cure the fiendish draught from the sky-light above my desk, and the one from the door, where generations of feet have worn the lintel into a hollow.

Yesterday afternoon the whole school was busy making Christmas decorations and Christmas cards. There is nothing that children like more than making brightly-coloured paper chains, and their tongues wagged happily as the paste brushes were plied, and yet another glowing link was added to the festoons that lay piled on the floor. All this glory grows so deliciously quickly and the knowledge that, very soon, it will be swinging aloft, above their heads, among the pitch-pine rafters—an enchanting token of all the joys that Christmas holds in store—makes them work with more than usual energy.

In Miss Jackson's room the din was terrific, so excited were the chain-makers. The only quiet group here was the one which was composed of about eight small children who had elected to crayon Christmas cards instead. Among them was the little Pratt boy. I stopped to admire his effort. His picture was of a large and dropsical robin, with the fiercest of red breasts, and very small and inadequate legs, as there was only a quarter of an inch of space left at the bottom for these highly-necessary appendages. His face was solemn with the absorption of the true artist.

'It's for Miss Bunce,' he told me. 'You knows—the one at Barrisford what took me to the hostipple to have my eye done. She writes to me ever so often, and sometimes sends me sweets. D'you reckon she'll like it?'

He held up his masterpiece and surveyed it anxiously at arm's length.

I told him truthfully that I was sure she would like it very much, and that ad sensible people liked robins on Christmas cards. With a sigh of infinite satisfaction he replaced it on the desk, and prepared to face the horrid intricacies of writing 'happy Christmas' inside.

The afternoon flew by amidst ad this happy turmoil, and we were clearing up hastily when Mrs Partridge arrived. She stayed with us while we sang grace, and helped to tie scarves, and button up coats, before sending the children out into the bleak world. I wondered vaguely why she had called, for she is such a direct and bustling person that it was unusual for her not to have stated her business on arrival. I invited her into the school-house for tea.

'Miss Jackson was wheeling her bicycle across the playground, and Mrs Partridge asked her how she was faring at Miss Clare's.

'It's lovely!' said my assistant with enthusiasm, 'I'm absolutely spoilt and she lets me do a little cooking if I want to, and we gossip away about school and the children——' It was the first time that I had seen her genuinely happy, and I thought how shrewilly Dr Martin had summed up the position when he had meddled so successfully in the affairs of Fairacre School.

Mrs Partridge seemed ill at ease as I made up the fire and put on the kettle. She followed me into the kitchen as I set out cups and saucers, and she began to pleat the dish cloth that hung along the sink's edge.

'Gerald asked me to cad,' she began, her eyes fixed on her handiwork. 'He felt that I should have a word with you.'

'Well, I'm very glad to see you,' I said cheerfully. 'Was it about the hymn list?'

'No, no. Nothing to do with the school!' She left her pleating abruptly and asked if she could carry anything. I gave her the biscuit barrel, picked up the tray, and followed my unhappy guest into the dining-room.

After a few sips of tea, she made a second attempt to broach this painful subject, of which I was completely in the dark.

'We've had some very unsettling news,' she said at last. 'About Mr Mawne.'

I said I was sorry. I hoped that he wasn't id? Mrs Partridge gave a heavy sigh.

'No, he's not
ill
——' she said, and stopped.

'Perhaps he's decided not to come back to Fairacre?' I said, trying to help her, and thinking that perhaps she was worried, on my account, about this matter.

'Yes, he's coming back. That's partly the trouble,' said the vicar's wife, stirring her tea meditatively. 'Gerald had a letter this morning from him.'

'I should think that's good news,' I said. 'I know he's an enormous help to the vicar.'

'But, my dear,' Mrs Partridge broke out in anguished tones, 'I ready don't know how to ted you! To be blunt, he's bringing his wife back with him!'

The relief which this thunder-burst brought to me cannot be described, but Mrs Partridge looked so distraught that I could hardly let out a cheer and caper round the room, when she had suffered so much on my behalf. I did the next best thing.

'Believe me,' I said earnestly, 'that's the best news I've heard since Mr Mawne came to live here. Now I hope I shad be left in peace!'

I wished that I hadn't added the last sentence, when I saw poor Mrs Partridge wince.

'We've all behaved insufferably,' said she, 'and I hope you will forgive us. Really I've been greatly to blame. It seemed such a very good thing—' She faltered to a stop.

'I'm delighted to know that he still has a wife,' I told her, 'and to be honest, I rather suspected it from the first. So you see I am not at all upset by this disclosure—in fact I am greatly relieved. He was sorely in need of companionship.'

Now that the first breach had been made Mrs Partridge's words rushed out in spate.

'They separated about two years ago evidently. That was why he took John Parr's flat, and his wife went to relations in Ireland. There was never any question of divorce, I understand—which makes me feel that if any overtures were made to you, he behaved very badly.'

'I can assure you,' I said, 'that I never for one moment imagined that Mr Mawne had designs on me; and if he had been free to offer marriage I should not have hesitated to refuse him. I am—quite honestly—much happier as I am. Fairacre's romantic heart is the only one that is going to be broken when the news leaks out.'

Much relieved, the vicar's wife accepted a second cup of tea, and our conversation turned to less painful topics. It was only when she departed that she returned again to the subject.

'You've taken it so well,' she said. 'You put us all to shame. I shall never be able to forgive myself for being so thoughtless, and such an old busybody.'

I assured her again that she was forgiven, and that I felt as though a great weight were lifted from my back.

I closed the door behind her, and waltzed gaily back to the kitchen, cutting the caper that had been pent-up for so long.

Tibby was not amused.

On Saturday morning I met Amy in Caxley. She was busy shopping for Christmas presents and had already accumulated half a dozen neat little parcels.

'I'm buying small things this year,' she said, 'that are easy to pack. Costs so much less in postage too.' I thought, not for the first time, how efficient and sensible Amy was. My own presents included a large cushion, and an adorable, but fragde, fruit set, and I was already beginning to wonder how on earth I was going to prepare them for the post.

'Let's have some coffee,' I suggested, shelving this problem for a moment, and we entered the doorway of 'The Buttery.'

A blast of hot thick air, and a noise like the parrot-house at the Zoo greeted us, and we settled ourselves comfortably among the oak beams, settees, warming-pans, chestnut roasters and other archaic domestic utensils which have witnessed the shredding of many a Caxley reputation. The coffee, as usual, was excellent, and over it Amy told me that she wanted a particularly nice present for James this year.

'I usually give him cigarettes,' said she, 'but he's had rather a worrying time lately at the office and I think he needs cheering up.'

I said I hoped that ad was well now.

'Oh yes,' answered Amy, lighting a cigarette, and keeping her gaze carefully upon the dame, 'he has had to get rid of a number of his staff; and things should go much more smoothly. He's buying me a garnet bracelet that I've wanted for some time, and so I'd like to give him something rather special.'

'Cuff-links?' I suggested vaguely.

'We went through the cuff-links stage when we were courting,' said Amy, somewhat impatiently, 'and talking of that—is Mr Mawne back yet?'

'Mr Mawne,' I said, with relish, 'is coming back almost immediately, and is bringing his wife with him!'

'
Never!
' said Amy, dumbfounded. Then she began to laugh. 'Snooks to Fairacre, I suppose you think—you heartless hussy! Well, it's best as it is!'

I agreed wholeheartedly, and Amy returned to the pressing business of James's present.

'There's a rather nice paisley dressing-gown next door. Let's go and look at that.' We gathered our parcels together, while Amy continued.

'James said last night that he thought it would be fun to go away for Christmas this year. It's been pretty hectic at the office, I gather, and as he said, we haven't seen much of each other lately, with so much business to attend to.'

I said that a little holiday would do them both good. Amy seemed to be far away in her thoughts. She stood in the crowded restaurant, amidst the chattering Caxley folk, and an impatient waitress tried in vain, to pass her with a loaded tray.

'He said,' she said slowly, oblivious of her surroundings, 'that old friends were best!' She looked very happy, and much as I remembered her twenty years ago. The waitress gave a final heave to her tray, and struggled past.

'Let's go and buy that dressing-gown,' I said.

The news of Mr Mawne's early return, and of his married state, has now leaked out in Fairacre. That it has been a shock, no one can deny, but I have been amused—and also touched—by the sympathy and staunch support which have been shown me, in the most delicate and unobtrusive manner.

Mr Willet took a long time working round the subject to try and find out if I knew yet of Mr Mawne's perfidy. At last I took pity on him and told him that I hoped to meet Mr Mawne's wife before long, and that it would be pleasant to have new people settled in Fairacre.

A great gusty sigh blew from under Mr Willet's stained moustache.

'Ah! Wed now—glad you've heard about it! My old dad used to say "Speak the truth and shame the devil," so here goes! I never took to that chap Mawne myself, and I don't know as I ever shad. But there, we must all shake down together, I's'pose—so "Least said, soonest mended!"'

He plodded off across the playground comforting himself with this homely philosophy of well-tried tags which serves him so well. In fair weather or foul, in joy or adversity, Mr Willet can always find an age-old snatch of country wisdom to guide him in his wanderings. His conversation is sprinkled with salty maxims, adding not only savour, but support, to his daily progress.

The first intimation I had that Mrs Pringle had heard the news was the discovery of a small parcel, wrapped in greaseproof paper, on my desk.

The classroom was empty, for it was only twenty to nine, but Mrs Pringle was already moving ponderously about her dusting, behind the closed door of the infants' room. I recognized her handwriting on the parcel.

'To Miss Read,' it said, in careful copperplate, and smudgy indelible pencil.

I undid it carefully, and found inside a partridge, trussed and dressed ready for the oven, even to the refinement of two fat streaky rashers lashed securely across its dusky breast. This gift, I realized, was a tribute of sympathy, and I was more touched than I should have cared to admit.

Sitting alone, in that quiet classroom, with only the tick of the wad-clock and the faint shouts of my approaching pupils to be heard, I felt, perhaps more keenly than ever before, just what it means to be a villager—someone whose welfare is of interest (sometimes of unwelcome interest) to one's neighbours—but always to
matter.
It was a warming thought—to be part of a small, living community, members one of another,' so closely linked by ties of kinship, work and the parish boundaries, that the supposed unhappiness of one elderly woman affected all.

The opening of the partition door disclosed Mrs Pringle looking sombrely upon me. I thanked her, most sincerely, for her present.

'My John had a brace from Mr Parr's week-end shoot,' she said, `I thought it'd make you a bit of supper. It's a change from butcher's meat.'

She bent down, corsets creaking, to dust the rails of the front desks. With her face thus hidden from me, she spoke again.

'You've heard the news, I don't doubt?'

I said that I had heard about Mr Mawne. She puffed along to the last desk and then straightened up cautiously.

'Wild horses wouldn't drag that name across my lips after what's been done between us, Miss Read, as well you knows! But in all fairness, I must say that I wasn't the only one in Fairacre as thought he was hanging his hat up to you. He ain't thought much of in the village, I can tell you—and him having the sauce to come back and live here too!'

Her face was red with indignation. She sat herself heavily on the front desk, arms folded majestically, and gazed grimly at me over the brass and mahogany inkstand.