(9/20) Tyler's Row (4 page)

His wife was less kindly disposed. A forthright woman, who has upset many a Fairacre worthy with her bluntness, she told her husband just what she thought of the project.

'Nothing but a hovel, and those two old people a positive menace! There's nothing wrong with this present place, except the stairs and your books. We can still manage the first, and if you would only weed out the second we should be perfectly happy.'

Henry Mawne doubted this privately, but had the sense to hold his tongue. He dropped the argument for the time being, but returned to it several times in the next few days, for it was a matter which obsessed him.

His wife remained adamant, but was beginning to realise that she was up against unusually stubborn opposition. Henry Mawne had been back and forth to the estate agent's and to Tyler's Row, and had even gone so far as to get the place surveyed.

'You see, my dear,' he told his wife, 'this might be an investment. It is ridiculously cheap because of the tenants and the dilapidation. I know we should have to spend a lot on it, but we've enough behind us to cope with it. We could make a start on the empty pair, making them one, and let it when it was done, until we felt we wanted to move in ourselves.'

'You mean, stay here indefinitely?' asked his wife suspiciously.

'I don't see why not. We should be on the spot for watching the building's progress, and as you say we can manage here for some time yet.'

'I'll think about it,' said Mrs Mawne cautiously.

'Well, think quickly,' adjured her husband. 'There are other people interested in Tyler's Row.'

But his heart leapt, nevertheless, at this tiny chink in his wife's armour. Dare he hope?

Much the same debate was going on at the Hales' house. The comparative cheapness of the property appealed particularly to Peter, for schoolmasters are usually hard up and this seemed to be a sound investment.

'The site alone is worth best part of the money,' he told his wife. 'Plots of land fetch astronomical prices now round here. We should get a good price for this place, and it would be comforting to have something in the bank. We'll be down to half our income when I retire. We must look ahead.'

'I know that,' answered Diana unhappily, 'but I really think that we shall find those two old things a terrible headache. If we could be sure they would be leaving soon—'

'If Nature takes its course properly they'll be leaving in the next year or two. That old soldier is truly in the sere and yellow. I doubt if he'll last the winter.'

'Don't be so horribly calculating.'

'Who started it?'

'I didn't so much mean
dying—
' began Diana, prevaricating.

'Well, they're not likely to move out just to oblige us,' said Peter flatly. 'They're fixtures all right, and we shall have to face the fact.'

'I hate being hustled,' said Diana, changing her tactics.

'Me too. I don't propose to leave this place until the next is habitable. That's understood. But if we made up our minds now, I could spend quite a bit of time during the summer holidays going over plans with the architect, and doing a certain amount myself.'

'I do see that, but oh dear!' sighed Diana.

'Look at it this way,' said Peter, pressing home the attack. 'It's nearer the mark than anything else we've seen so far. We've always liked Fairacre. It's only twenty minutes from Caxley, and the site of the house is perfect. Faces south, just enough garden, endless possibilities with the whole row to consider—'

'You sound like Masters and Jones rolled into one. Are you sure you're not being too optimistic?'

'Are you sure you're not being downright awkward?' retaliated Peter. 'What, in heaven's name, beside the two tenants, have you got against the place?'

'It's dark. It's damp. It's falling down.'

'So was that mill house the Kings bought ten years ago. When I went to see it with him, a mother rat the size of a rhino met us at the front door, with about twenty-five babies tagging along behind. Now it's superb, and would sell for a bomb. Tyler's Row could be even better than that.'

'If I could be
sure,'
said Diana slowly, 'that the middle part would be absolutely ready to move into, and that there was some possibility of those two going in a reasonable time, so that we could incorporate their cottages eventually, then I think I'd agree.'

Her face lit up, as an idea struck her.

'Couldn't we offer them alternative accommodation? I'm sure I've heard something about it.'

'They'd have to be willing to go, and you know what it's like finding something suitable. Still, I could find out about it.'

'Give me until tomorrow to get used to the idea,' said Diana. 'I think making decisions is the most exhausting thing in the world.'

'You want practice,' commented her husband drily.

She woke at two o'clock in the morning, the problem still unresolved. She had gone over the pros and cons so many times that her head buzzed.

In the other bed Peter snored rhythmically. Moonlight flooded the room, and an owl's cry wavered from the trees which edged the common some quarter of a mile away.

Diana lay there, savouring the quietness. It would be quieter still at Fairacre, she supposed, remembering the vast sweep of downs behind the village.

The remembrance of the neglected garden in the foreground flooded back to her, and she was shaken, yet again, by the longing to rescue it from decay. It could be so lovely in that setting, and the soil was rich, as the fine plants in the neighbours' gardens proved. Pinks should do well on that chalky soil, and lavender. A lavender hedge would grow easily...

Her mind drifted vaguely, and then came back to Peter. It was only fair that he should have his way in this matter. For years he had put up with Caxley for the sake of the family, always longing to settle eventually in the countryside nearby. This was their chance.

Diana sighed, and decided to creep downstairs to warm some milk. It might make her sleep. Experience told her that nothing short of clashing cymbals would stir Peter from his rest, but nevertheless, she went on tiptoe from the room and down the stairs. The moonlight was so bright that there was no need to switch on lights until she entered the kitchen.

The cat gave a welcoming chirrup, stretched luxuriously, and descended from its bed on the kitchen chair near the stove. It watched Diana expectantly as she poured milk into a saucepan. A little snack in the middle of the night never came amiss.

Diana shared the milk between her mug and the cat's saucer, and stood warming her hands as she sipped.

'How'd you like to live in the country, puss?' asked Diana, watching the pink tongue at work. But the cat, strangely enough, never answered questions, and Diana carried her mug and her problems back to bed.

'Go ahead,' she said next morning, when Peter awoke.

'Go ahead where?'

'With the house.'

'The Fairacre one?'

'What else?' said Diana, slightly nettled. Peter never came to full consciousness until after breakfast. This morning he seemed more comatose than usual.

'You're sure?'

'No, I'm not, but I think we could make something of it, and if we're going to move, then now's the right time.'

There was silence for a time, and then Diana heard humming from the other bed, proving that her husband was feeling contented. It was difficult to recognise the tune. It might have been 'Onward Christian Soldiers', 'Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes' roughly transposed for a tuneless baritone, or possibly the marching music from 'Dr Zhivago'. Peter's repertoire was limited, but gave him a great deal of private pleasure, and Diana a keen appreciation of variations on several themes.

'Better get up, then,' said Peter, throwing aside the bedclothes. 'I'll get down to Masters and Jones as soon as they open.'

Still humming—the Dr Zhivago motif coming through strongly now—he made his way to the bathroom.

Masters and Jones estate agents' office presented a fine Georgian front, all red brick and white-painted sash windows, to Caxley High Street. It looked what it was, a long-established prosperous family business which had served Caxley and its neighbourhood well for four generations. William Masters had founded the firm in the year of the Great Exhibition of 1861, and three of his descendants were still active in the firm. Clough Jones, a foreigner from Pontypool, joined the firm in 1920, and so was a comparative newcomer to Caxley. His beautiful tenor voice was soon taking the lead in Caxley's Operatic Society and he was reckoned to be 'a very steady sort of chap'. Some added: 'For a Welshman', in the year or two after Clough's arrival, but this proviso was soon dropped-proof that he had shown his worth.

Peter had taught two of the Masters' boys and Clough's only son Ellis. It was the younger of the Masters' boys, now a man of twenty-eight, who welcomed Peter to the office and set a chair for him on the other side of the desk.

The interior of the house was disappointing. The large square rooms on each side of the hall had been divided into four, with partitions of flimsy wood topped with reeded glass. Occasionally one would catch sight of a head, curiously distorted, in the next compartment, elongated like a giraffe-woman from Africa, or bulging sideways like a squashed Christmas pudding, according to the angle of the glass through which it was visible.

The floors were covered with linoleum of a pattern purporting to be wood blocks. As these were of such unlikely colours as pale blue, orange and pink, the effect was unconvincing, and to Peter, eyeing it distastefully, thoroughly shocking.

'Very nice to see you, sir,' said young Masters deferentially. It seemed only yesterday that he was waiting outside the detention room door under Mr Hales' stern direction. Something to do with the unification of Germany and Italy, if he remembered correctly, had brought him to that pretty pass, and now he came to think of it, he was still not much wiser on the subject, detention or no detention. But he had always felt a healthy respect for old Hale, and even now a slight tremor affected his knees at the thought of past bondage.

'I've come about this property at Fairacre,' said Peter. He looked over his spectacles at the young man. David, Paul, John? What the deuce was the boy called?

'Can't remember your name, I'm afraid,' he added.

'Philip, sir.'

'Ah, yes, Philip. Second fifteen full back.'

'Well, no, sir. That was my brother Jack. I wasn't much good.'

'Forget my own name next,' replied Peter cheerfully.

'Well, I'm thinking of going ahead with Tyler's Row. Better have a survey. Sooner the better.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Philip, with more confidence. 'You will certainly need to get moving, sir. Another gentleman is being rather pressing.'

Peter Hale looked sternly across his spectacles.

'Is this the truth?'

Philip was instantly transformed into a wrong-doing first-former, despite his six feet in height.

'Yes, sir. Honestly, sir,' he heard himself saying nervously. Heavens above, his voice seemed to have become treble again! He took a grip upon himself, and cleared his throat. Dammit, this was his office, wasn't it?

'A gentleman already resident in Fairacre—'

'"Living in" or "residing", if you must,' corrected Peter automatically. Philip, clinging to his precarious confidence, ignored the interruption.

' He is very interested in the property and has already had it surveyed. I think it's quite likely he will make us an offer. Probably in advance of the selling price.'

'More fool him,' said Peter flatly. 'I'm not bribing anybody.'

'Of course not, sir. But I should advise you to get a survey done immediately. I could go out myself.'

'Do that then, Philip, will you?'

'I'll just jot down one or two reminders.'

He pulled a sheet of paper towards him and began to scribble diligently with his left hand.

Terrible writing that boy always did, remembered Peter, watching his old pupil at work. Felt sure he'd be a doctor with that scrawl, but not enough brains really, nice fellow though he was. He looked at the bent head, the beautifully clean white parting, the well-shaven cheeks, and felt a warm glow. Should be able to trust him—solid chap, nice family, respectable firm. Why, young Philip might bring Tyler's Row to him eventually! He was smiling when the young man looked up.

'You'd be happy there, sir,' he said, stating a fact, not asking a question.

'I think we should,' agreed Peter.

He rose and went to the door, his gaze on the linoleum.

'Who chose this?' he asked, pointing a toe.

'I did, sir,' said Philip proudly.

'Pity,' said Peter, in farewell.

4. Mrs Pringle Smells Trouble

WHO was to be the new owner of Tyler's Row? This was the question which exercised the minds of his future neighbours in Fairacre.

Henry Mawne had been the favourite for so long that it was something of a shock to learn that he had retired from the race, and that an outsider was the winner.

The news came to me from Mrs Pringle during the summer holidays. She spends one morning each week 'putting me to rights', as she says, and although her presence is more of a penance than a pleasure, the results of her hard work are excellent. I try to do any of my simple entertaining on Wednesday evenings. It is the one day in the week when the place really shines.