(2/20) Village Diary (9 page)

'Just wait!' echoed Mrs Moffat, and her eyes sparkled as she met the equally enthusiastic glances of her friend across the tea-cups.

The
Caxley Chronicle
today published a short article of mine about Lenten customs in Fairacre and other neighbouring parishes. This is my first appearance in the paper, and I must say it all looked very much more impressive in neat newsprint, than it did in pencil in a half-filled spelling-book from school.

The vicar began this project by showing me accounts in parish magazines of the last century, and Mrs Willet also told me of many interesting things that her father and mother did during Lent. The reaction to my appearance in print has been most amusing, and Mrs Pringle addressed me with something like awe this morning. To be 'in the papers' at all, is something. To be 'in The Paper,' is everything at Fairacre.

Less welcome were such comments as:

(a) 'It is a real gift.' (The Vicar)
(b) 'I suppose it just flows out.' (Mrs Willet)
(c) 'If it's in you, I suppose it's bound to come out.' (Mr Willet, rather morosely)
(d) 'Wonderful, dear, and so effortless.' (Amy, on the telephone)

As I had spent six evenings at the dining-room table sitting on a hard chair with my toes twisted round its legs, chewing my pencil to shreds and groaning in much the same anguish as had my class when they composed their recent deathless verse, I found all these comments particularly souring.

On thinking over Mr Willet's gloomy comment I have come to the conclusion that he looks upon any kind of artistic urge as a sort of poison in the system, which is 'better out than in.' Perhaps this theory is more widely held than we realize, I thought to myself, as I knitted busily up the front of a cardigan this evening; in which case matters become very profound.

Instead of praising and envying artists, perhaps we should be sorry for them—victims as they are of their own pains. Is all art involuntary? Is it, perhaps, a bad, rather than a good thing? I paused to study the front of my cardigan, and found that I had decreased at both armhole and front edge, giving a remarkably bizarre effect to the garment, and involving two inches of careful unpicking.

I decided suddenly that literary fame had gone to my head, that the obscurer motives behind artistic impulses were beyond my comprehension, that a glass of hot milk would be a really good thing, and bed the best place for a bemused teacher.

APRIL

I
N
a week's time Fairacre School will have broken up for the Easter holidays. I, for one, am always glad to see the end of this most miserable of terms. In it we endure, each year, the worst weather, the darkest days, the poorest health and the lowest spirits. But now, with Easter in sight, and the sun gaining daily in strength, the outlook is much more heartening.

The return of the flowers and young greenery is a perennial miracle and wonder. The children have brought treasures from hedge, garden and spinney; and coltsfoot and crocus, violet and viburnum, primrose and pansy deck our classroom, all breathing out a faint but heady perfume of spring-time.

How lucky country children are in these natural delights that he ready to their hand! Every season and every plant offers changing joys. As they meander along the lane that leads to our school all kinds of natural toys present themselves for their diversion. The seedpods of stitchwort hang ready for delightful popping between thumb and finger, and later the bladder campion offers a larger, if less crisp, globe to burst. In the autumn, acorns, beechnuts and conkers bedizen their path, with all their manifold possibilities of fun. In the summer, there is an assortment of honeys to be sucked from bindweed flowers, held fragile and fragrant to hungry lips, and the tiny funnels of honeysuckle and clover blossoms to taste. Outside the Post Office grow three fine lime trees, murmurous with bees on summer afternoons, and these supply wide, soft, young leaves in May, which the children spread over their opened mouths and, inhaling sharply, burst with a pleasant and satisfying explosion. At about the same rime of year the young hawthorn leaves are found good to eat—'bread and cheese' some call them—while the crisp sweet stalks of primroses form another delicacy, with the added delight of the thread-like inner stalk which pulls out from the hairier outer sheath.

The summer time brings flower games, the making of daisy chains, poppy dolls with little Chinese heads and red satin skirts made from the turned-back petals, 'He-loves-me-he-don't' counted solemnly as the daisy petals flutter down, and 'Bunny's mouth' made by pressing the sides of the yellow toadflax flowers which scramble over our chalky Fairacre banks. And always, whatever the season, there is a flat ribbon of grass blade to be found which, when held between thumbs and blown upon, can emit the most hideous and ear-splitting screech, calculated to fray the nerves of any grownup, and warm the heart of any child, within earshot.

How fortunate too are country children in that, among all this richness, so much appeals not only to their senses of taste and smell, but to that most neglected one—the sense of touch. As they handle these living and beautiful things they run the gamut of texture from the sweet chestnut's bristly seedpod to the glutinous, cool smoothness of the bluebell's satin stalk. They part the fine dry grass to probe delicately with their fingers for the thread-like stalks of early white violets; and yet to pluck the strong ribbed stems of the cow parsley, they must exert all the strength of wrist and hand before its hollow tube snaps, with a rank and aromatic dying breath.

They leap to grasp the grey rough branch of the beech tree that challenges their strength near the school gate, and legs writhing, they feel the old rough, living strength of that noble tree in the very palms of their hands. Alas for their brothers in town who respond to the same challenge from a high brick wall! At its best it can but offer a dead stony surface, filthy with industrial grime, and, at its worst, the cruel shock and horror of vicious broken bottles.

For the most part country children say little of the joys that surround them. These are, rather naturally, taken for granted, and in the case of the boys they would think it vaguely effete to comment on the flowers and plants around them. The girls are less monosyllabic, and chatter interestedly about their latest finds. They enjoy finding the earliest violets—particularly a pinkish one that grows not far from 'The Beetle and Wedge'—and it is they who bring most of the contributions to the nature table. Their sense of touch is more sensitive and affords them greater satisfaction, and I remember Sylvia Burton's bunch of wild flowers, presented proudly one morning, with the comment: 'They've all got square stalks, miss. I've felt them.' Sure enough they had—it was a most satisfactory bouquet formed by members of the natural order
labiatae.

The vicar called in to give his weekly talk. This time, as wed as a little discourse on everyday Christianity, he told the children about Palm Sunday and the Easter festival, as is his wont before the school breaks up for the Easter holiday.

When he asked for pussy-willow to decorate the church, Joseph Coggs raised an eager, if grimy, paw.

'I can get a whole lot,' he said, eyes agleam. 'If I wriggles through the hedge down the bottom of Miss Parr's place, there's a pond and a pussy-willow tree.'

The vicar looked slightly taken aback.

'But I'm afraid that's a private tree, Joseph,' answered the vicar. 'It belongs to the people who live in the flats there.'

Joseph looked bewildered.

'But they never picks it,' he assured the vicar, 'and they'd never see me get in.'

The vicar drew in a sad breath, and very kindly and patiently gave an extra little homily about the sanctity of other people's property, and the promptings of one's own conscience, and the eye of the Almighty which is upon us all, even those who are but six years old and are wriggling on their stomachs through the long Fairacre grass. It was nicely put, and Joseph appeared to understand the vicar's words, but it was quite apparent to me that the principles behind the little homily were at war with the words of Joseph's feckless father, whose favourite maxims are 'Finding's Keepings' and 'What the eye doesn't see etc.,' principles which, unconsciously, Joseph has imbibed. There is no doubt that innocent children, from such a slack and neglected home as Joseph's, need most positive guidance in right behaviour, frequently and firmly, if they are not to slide willy-nilly, into the clutches of evil companions and so to drift into the ranks of criminals.

This evening the meeting of the Women's Institute was held to hear more about the formcoming pageant. We had had a heavy shower after tea, and the approach to the village had, which stands not far from Mrs Moffat's spruce new bungalow, was very muddy. Someone's tractor had made deep squelchy ruts, which were full of rain water, and the women clucked their tongues with disgust, as they tried to wipe their shoes free of mud on the grass at the side of the door. Loudest in her protestations was Mrs Pringle.

'No need for all this muck,' she boomed, as she arched an elephantine ankle and poked mud from her instep with a stick. 'Time this place was built you could buy a load of good gravel for a few shillings—but it never was done. Now look at it. A pity poor old Sir Edmund's passed on. He'd have put down a good path for us.'

'I suggest we all put a shilling towards a load of gravel,' I said. Mrs Pringle snorted, and turned on me a glance so hostile that it was a wonder that I did not fall, withered, at her feet.

Inside the hall were about forty women, many of them with toddlers and young babies.

'My husband said fat chance he'd have of getting down to "The Beetle" if he had the children to look after-so I brought 'em too.'

'Ah!' agreed her neighbour comfortably, 'The men don't like the kids round 'em. 'Tis only natural, I's'pose!'

This charitable remark was endorsed by other women around, who, in the kindest and most indulgent tones, recounted various incidents of male selfishness, which made me feel very glad that, as a single woman, I was not called upon to endure such affronts to common justice.

'Oh, mine's very good,' said another, 'He never minded me coming up here this evening. "I'd have a sit and look at the paper," he says, as nice as you like, "and you can wash the dishes when you comes back, if you're a bit late now." Oh, he's easy!'

The murmuring grew in the hall as the late comers arrived. The usual nicking of switches went on, as someone tried to find the best method of lighting the hall, with the few bulbs remaining that worked.

The had was erected about thirty years ago, and is a useful but ugly building of corrugated iron painted a dark red, which has, over the years, faded to a depressing maroon. The roof is also made of iron, and in very hot weather the building becomes stiflingly hot. If it rains heavily, the noise of the water drumming on the roof can successfully drown any speaker. If it is cold, the place is sketchily heated by means of four od stoves, which frequently smoke and decorate the room, and its occupants, with black floating smuts which play havoc with clothes and complexions.

The lavatory, of the bucket variety, is housed, at some distance from the building, in a bower of elder trees, and is a constant annoyance to our Mr Willet, as he is frequently asked to look after it. Actually, Arthur Coggs is supposed to do it, but more often than not he forgets his duties. As he is away all day in Caxley working as a builder's labourer, and Mr Willet is on the spot here in Fairacre, it so happens that the urgent and outraged cries for help are answered by our school caretaker.

The had itself is a fairly large building, with its inside walls lined with the sticky, ginger-coloured match boarding so beloved by our forbears. The First Fairacre Scout Troop, comprising about fifteen boys, holds its meetings here, and on one wall hang diagrams' showing how to tie knots, a copy of Scout rules, a chart showing birds and their eggs and various other fascinating documents.

A little further along, hanging somewhat askew, are several photographs of past football teams. There is not one smile among the many grim countenances here displayed, but the biceps, forced up by judicious folding of the arms, are a wonder to behold. The manly forms of some thirty or forty years ago appear to have been much more corpulent than those of today, but perhaps there were more staunch and bulky garments underneath the red and white striped Fairacre jerseys then.

On the door, thoughtfully placed, is a small white card, on which is printed in uneven capitals:

HAVE YOU SWITCHED OF THE LIGHT
?

The missing f tweaks at my schoolmistress's sensibilities so severely that I itch to be alone in the hall one day, when I shall give myself the exquisite satisfaction of adding the f. As it is, with possibly the perpetrator himself, or at least 'his sisters and his cousins and his aunts' all about me, I can do nothing, unless I am prepared to face a hornets' nest of buzzing family umbrage.

On the platform sat Mrs Partridge, our president, with Mrs Pratt, once Mrs Annett's landlady, beside her as secretary. The ink-stained deal table was covered with a magnificent cream linen cloth, embroidered by members of the institute. After each meeting it is folded into a clean piece of sheeting and borne away to Mrs Pratt's house and put safely into the first drawer of her sideboard, until it is time for it to see the light of day again. Mrs Pringle views this cloth, with something of the low churchman's disapproval of the high churchman's elaborate ceremony.