Village Affairs (12 page)

I had not the heart to tell him that any book more than three inches thick, with footnotes and five appendices, killed any desire to read it, from the start. A quick look inside had confirmed my suspicions that this one had been written in the brain-numbing sort of jargon I cannot abide. There was no doubt about it. It was one of those books one keeps safely for a decent interval, dusts, and returns, praying that the lender refrains from asking questions on it.

'After all,' he continued, 'it always has before. Why should they close Fairacre at this particular moment?'

'I don't know, but the numbers are dwindling. We're down to twenty-six this term, and somehow there was a look in Mr Salisbury's eye which I didn't like.'

'He's always got that,' said George cheerfully. 'Comes of working in an office all day.'

He put down his glass and sprang nimbly to his feet.

I sighed and rose too.

'You sound uncommonly sad,' he said. 'Old age?'

'Probably. How long notice would I get, do you think, if they do decide to close?'

'Years.'

'Honestly? Really
years?'

'I believe so. Why, you'd probably be about to retire anyway by the time they get round to it.'

We walked together towards the church. The lime trees
buzzed with scores of bees, and the scent from the creamy flowers was delicious—the essence of Summer. Fairacre seemed very dear and sweet.

'You've got a good spot here,' said George, as if reading my thoughts.

'None better,' I told him, as bravely as I could.

ONE afternoon, towards the end of term, four candidates for the post of infants' teacher arrived for interview.

It was a sweltering day. The distant downs shimmered in a haze of heat, and the flowers drooped in the border. Tibby had found a cool spot among some thick grass under the hedge, and lay comatose. Even the sparrows were too exhausted to twitter from the school gutters.

Mrs Rose was taking charge of the school for an hour while I attended the interviewing session in my own dining-room, grudgingly polished by Mrs Pringle.

I had hoped that Mrs Rose might feel like applying for the post. She was not ideal, I know, but better the rogue one knew than the devil one didn't. However, since the row with Mrs Pringle, I was relieved to know that she would be leaving at the end of term, as had first been arranged. The frosty silences and cutting looks, which occurred when they met, may have given them some warped satisfaction, but I found the whole business extremely distasteful and childish.

The Vicar, as chairman of the managers, was being supported by Peter Hale. As a retired man, he seemed freer than the other Managers, and anyway his experience and wisdom, as a schoolmaster, should prove a help on this occasion.

I had had the job of making a short list from the surprisingly large number of applicants for this modest post. It was a sign
of the times, of course, as so many teachers were out of work. Normally, we are lucky, at Fairacre, to get two or three applicants. This time there were over fifty, and it had been difficult to choose four for interview.

They were all young. For too long we have had elderly ladies in charge of our youngest children, and though their motherly qualities were endearing, I felt that we were falling behind in up-to-date methods of teaching. It was time to have a change.

From my own point of view too, I wanted someone who could be trained towards my aims with the children. It is doubly important to have a united team when the staff is small, and I was getting heartily sick of trying to keep the boat up straight with people like Mrs Rose who were set in their ways before they even came to Fairacre, and who had no intention of changing them.

Two of the applicants had been teaching for two or three years. The others had just finished their training and would be in their probationary year if they were appointed. We saw them first.

'Charming girls,' said the Vicar enthusiastically, as the second one closed the door behind her.

'They are indeed,' agreed Peter Hale. Both girls were remarkably pretty, and I began to wonder if I were going to get an unbiassed assessment of their teaching powers from two males who, although elderly, were clearly still susceptible to female good looks.

The first, a fresh-faced blonde, had answered our questions with intelligence, but was not very forthcoming about methods she would use in teaching reading and number, which I found slightly daunting. She was engaged to be married, but intended to go on teaching for a few years before thinking of starting a family.

The second, Hilary Norman, was a red-head, with the creamy pallor of complexion which so often accompanies auburn hair. Her paper qualifications were very good, and she was thoughtful in her answering. Her judgement, in my opinion, was in advance of her years, and she seemed to have a delightful sense of humour. I warmed to her at once, and said so to my fellow-interviewers.

'She'll have to get digs near by,' observed Peter Hale, studying her address. 'Home is somewhere in Hertfordshire. Too far to travel. Know anyone in Caxley who might put her up?'

'Not a soul,' I said.

'And really there's no one now in the village' lamented the Vicar. 'And the bus service gets worse and worse.'

'I think we ought to see the others before going any further,' said Peter Hale, 'Let's have Mrs Cornwall, shall we?'

We turned our papers over, and the Vicar ushered in the lady.

To my eyes, she seemed just as attractive as the other two, and I could see that I should easily be out-classed in looks next term-not that that would take much doing, I am the first to admit.

She was very calm and composed, and I could well imagine that the infants would behave angelically in her care. But, as the questioning went on, I began to wonder if she would be able to stimulate them enough. Country children are often inarticulate—not dumb by any means, they often chatter quite as volubly as their town cousins—but they are not as facile in expressing themselves and are basically more reserved.

She had wonderful references, drove her own car, and I felt she would be a loyal aide. But would she stay in Fairacre long enough to be of use?

'If my husband is posted abroad, of course I shall go too, but it might not be for another two years.'

It clinched matters for me, I fear.

The last applicant was Amazonian in build, and if anything even better-looking than those who had gone before. She would be jolly useful, I thought, in forcing open the high windows which so often stuck fast at Fairacre School, and her appearance alone would cause respect among her pupils. One sharp slap from that outsize hand would be enough to settle the most belligerent infant.

Again, her qualifications were outstanding, and she excelled in all kinds of sport. This worked both ways, of course, in our tiny school. Would she miss team games? Would there be enough scope for her with small children, and a small class of them at that? I had the feeling that she would be happier in the livelier atmosphere of a large school, and would find Fairacre too confining before long.

It was certainly a problem that faced us, when at last she had returned to await her fate in my sitting-room.

'Fine-looking set of girls,' said Peter Hale. 'Must be something to do with all that National Dried Milk they were brought up on.'

'I thought that finished years ago,' I said.

'I've never even heard of it,' admitted the Vicar. 'Is it the same as pasteurised?'

This is the way decisions get made in village life, and only a fool would get impatient with the meandering paths that lead to our end, but Peter Hale brought us back to the point.

'Perhaps it would be sensible to use the eliminating method here. We've four excellent candidates. Has Miss Read any doubts about any of them?'

'After all,' put in the Vicar, 'you have to work with the lady, and at close quarters. You must find her compatible.'

'Well, I feel that the married lady won't stay long. She was quite frank about it, and it seems as though she fully expects her husband to be sent overseas within two or three years. I'd sooner have someone willing to stay longer.'

'Agreed,' said my two colleagues, putting aside one set of papers.

'And in a way, that goes for the engaged girl too, although I'm sure she would be able to give a reasonable length of service.'

'I liked that little red-haired girl,' confessed the Vicar. 'She is so lively. I'm sure the children would respond to her.'

'But we haven't gone steadily through our eliminating yet,' protested Peter Hale. 'Let's be methodical.'

'My dear fellow, I do apologise,' said the Vicar, flustered. 'How far had we got? Not the married one, wasn't it?'

'Provisionally,' I agreed guardedly.

'Nor the engaged one? Really, it looks as though you disapproved of matrimony, Miss Read! A holy state, we're told, a holy state!'

'My mind is open, I hope. I just think she is less quick than Miss Norman. She was pretty vague about methods she would use, and I suspect the children might find her too easy-going and get out of hand.'

'Right!' said Peter Hale, putting aside another set of papers.

The Vicar sighed.

'She had a remarkably sweet expression, I thought. Reminded me of the early Italian Madonnas.'

'What about the large lady?' asked Peter, ignoring the Vicar's gentle lamentations.

'Useful type,' I said. 'Could do all the jobs Mr Willet can't manage. Why, she could lift Mrs Pringle up with one hand!'

'If that should ever be called for,' agreed Peter gravely. 'But what about working with her? Her qualifications are excellent, and she looks in spanking health.'

'I have a feeling that she would find Fairacre a little constricting. She's obviously cut out for a much more demanding post, a bigger staff, older children and so on. There's not enough scope for her here. I wouldn't mind betting that she'll be a head teacher in a big school within ten years. It's like putting a lion in a rabbit hutch.'

'But why did she apply then?' asked the Vicar.

'Not enough jobs going.'

'I'm sure that's it,' I said. 'And we shall find that it's a sidestep for this girl, that she'll regret it herself before long.'

'Then that leaves Miss Norman whom you liked from the first. Still feel the same?'

I closed my eyes and thought again. It really is a staggering decision to make, this choosing someone to share one's life so closely in a remote school. Things can so easily go wrong.

I remembered Miss Jackson who had been with me some years earlier. It had been a disastrous appointment, and yet just as much care had gone into considering her.

The fact is that it is virtually impossible to sum up a person until you have lived and worked with them through good times and bad. Paper qualifications, references, examination successes, can only play a small part, and one interview, with the applicant highly nervous and on her best behaviour, can tell little more. Much must be taken on trust.

'Well?' said the Vicar and Peter together.

I opened my eyes.

'Yes,' I said. 'I'd like Hilary Norman, if you feel the same.'

'I think it's the best choice,' said Peter.

'Without doubt,' said the Vicar. 'And so pretty.'

He turned to Peter.

'Would you like to ask her in again, and apprise the unsuccessful candidates of the result?'

Peter took it like a man.

'I'll go and break it gently,' he said, and vanished to carry the good—and bad—news to the waiting four.

Amy came over that evening, bearing a beautiful bouquet of roses from her garden, and the news that Vanessa had produced a son and heir, weighing eleven pounds.

'Good grief!' I exclaimed. 'Poor girl! How is she?'

'Absolutely fine amidst all the rejoicing. It all sounds delightfully feudal, I must say. Tarquin rang last night amidst sounds of revelry in the background, and a bonfire to beat all bonfires blazing on the hill, or ben. Is it "
ben"?'

'Either that or "butt"', I told her. 'I'm not conversant with the lingo. But tell me more.'

'She had what is euphemistically termed "a good time", I gather.'

'Meaning what?'

'Oh, sheer unadulterated misery for twenty-four hours instead of forty-eight or more. But she's remarkably resilient, you know. Takes after Eileen who thought nothing of a twelve-mile walk as a girl. Uphill at that.'

'And what is he going to be called?'

'Donald Andrew Fraser Tarquin. One thing, people will know the land of his birth.'

'But the initials spell
DAFT
,' I pointed out. 'He'll have hell at school.'

Amy looked shocked.

'How right you are! What a blessing you noticed it! I shall let Vanessa know at once.'

She put her head on one side, and considered me carefully. I waited for her usual derogatory comments on some facet of my appearance.

'You know, you are remarkably astute in some ways.'

I began to preen myself. I so seldom receive a compliment from Amy.

'It's a pity you're so pig-headed with it,' she added.

I rose with dignity.