(16/20)Summer at Fairacre (8 page)

'Me too,' I said, 'particularly Joseph.'

'Perhaps she simply lacked early training,' continued Dolly. 'I know our family was quite as poor when we were young. As you know, my father never earned much at his job as a thatcher, and when he had his accident, things were pretty desperate. But somehow, my mother managed. We were always clean and tidy, and there was something in the pot for dinner, usually a rabbit given to us by a kind neighbour, or some good soup made from bones with lots of vegetables from the garden. We never went hungry, and we learned to be happy with very little. I honestly never remember being sorry for myself. My sister Ada and I thought we had a lovely home, and so we did.'

She rose and went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. I followed her and looked appreciatively at the sunny room which would one day—far, far ahead, I sincerely hoped—be my own.

From the rafters near the window hung some drying herbs and a string bag with last season's onions.

A row of blue and white striped china pots stood on the shelf near the stove, labelled currants, sugar, tea, coffee and salt. A fat brown tea pot stood beside the kettle waiting to be warmed, and on the brick floor there was a generous helping of milk, in an enamel pie dish, for Dolly's new companion.

'I simply love this house,' I said impulsively.

'That's why I'm so glad you are going to have it,' said Dolly, pouring a silver stream into the tea pot.

That evening I pondered on Mrs Coggs as seen through Dolly Clare's eyes. My old friend and Alice Willet were both warm-hearted realists. They must have spent many hours and much energy in trying to train Joseph Coggs' mother into more methodical ways. I liked the calm way in which Dolly had told me that they soon realised that their efforts were fruitless. There was no recrimination against their poor pupil, and no self-pity about the time wasted on her. There was simply this sensible acceptance of a hopeless case, but an awareness too of their own neighbourly duty to the family should any crisis occur. I could not help thinking that Mrs Coggs must have been heartened by the kindness and support of those two good women, even if her home and family still appeared as slovenly and neglected as ever.

I felt pretty sure too that Dolly Clare and Alice Willet must have helped Mrs Coggs with an occasional gift of money, as well as the more usual presents of garden produce which we are all proud to offer to our neighbours.

Teachers are not rich people, and Dolly would never have earned much compared with college-trained and certificated colleagues, for she was of the old pupil-teacher category. Nevertheless, she was always neatly dressed, never in debt, and managed to find something to give to those less fortunate like Mrs Coggs.

Her example made me feel a positive spendthrift. It was true that I was never seriously in debt, that my wardrobe was respectable, though nowhere near as extensive and elegant as dear Amy's, and that my home was reasonably furnished. But I should never be the careful manager of money that Dolly Clare was. I suppose, I thought ruefully, I fall somewhere between Dolly and Mrs Coggs for financial efficiency.

There are feckless bodies in all walks of life, of course, and I was reminded of a passage in one of William Howard Russell's letters to his wife. He was writing from the Crimea in 1856, in one of his rare free moments from following the campaign for
The Times.
Obviously, his wife Mary was adding to his anxieties by her imprudent spending, and I like the diplomatic way he expresses his concern.

'Riches,' he writes, 'are not happiness indeed, but there is great difficulty in living happy without them.'

A universal truth indeed, and one which poor Mrs Coggs would undoubtedly endorse.

I was beginning to count the few remaining precious days of the Easter holiday with as much concentration as a miser with his gold.

Half the things I had intended to do remained undone, but I had cleaned all the windows, defrosted the refrigerator, made four pots of lemon curd, and parted with the more disreputable of my garments for the benefit of the approaching jumble sale.

My chief accomplishment was the partial routing of Mrs Pringle intent upon the dreaded spring cleaning. I made the jumble sale a useful excuse.

'Just the sitting room,' I implored her. 'I've so much sorting out to do on the dining room table, and I promised to write the labels this time, so that I shall be in your way if we try to do too much.'

I feared that this feeble defence would fall before Mrs Pringle's implacable front, but to my surprise she agreed.

'Give me a chance to get to grips with it in there anyway,' she conceded. 'I don't suppose you've ever given the woodwork on them chairs a nice rub over with vinegar and water.'

'Well, no,' I admitted.

'Then that's what it'll get now,' she said flatly, making for the sink.

'I'll start the overall bottoming when you're back in school,' she continued. 'The top of them pelmets of yours would grow potatoes, I don't doubt, up therein your bedroom. Good thing you're not aspergic to Dust and Dirt. You'd be a hospital case in no time.'

Reprieved from the complete chaos of spring cleaning, I meekly said nothing in my defence, and tried to turn a deaf ear to the horrific hangings which emanated from the sitting-room.

I escaped into the garden, and revelled in the spring weather. No doubt, as soon as term started, we should get a return to the arctic conditions we had endured in March, but meanwhile it was bliss to hear the lambs bleating in the distance, and to watch the rooks building their ramshackle nests near the church spire. Did they recognise the gilded weathercock nearby as an inanimate kinsman, I wondered?

Mr Willet spent an afternoon with me and we planted a row of new potatoes, with some Celtic name, such as Aran Pilot or Ulster Chieftain, which Mr Willet assured me were the only really tasty ones to be grown in our soil.

We also planted peas and carrots and I had visions of modest dinner parties with the vegetable dishes overflowing with my own produce.

But the greatest thrill of all came three days before term started. As I shook out my tablecloth after breakfast, there was the unmistakable twittering of swallows, and there on the electricity wire were two little beauties.

For the rest of the day they flashed around the house, arrows of blue-black satin plumage, and before nightfall they had re-discovered last year's nest in the front porch, and were busy putting it to rights for this year's brood.

What did it matter if the doorstep would be plastered with droppings, much to Mrs Pringle's wrath? What did it matter if I had to hustle Tibby away during their rearing activities?

The swallows were back, and now summer had really arrived.

6 Public Duties

THE W.I. jumble sale took place in the village hall on Saturday afternoon. Fortunately, I was not required to man one of the stalls this time, as evidently a bevy of new helpers had volunteered for this hazardous job.

One of them I saw was Miriam Quinn who was in charge of the children's clothes' stall. She smiled across the room at me as I struggled with my own offerings for the produce stall. I had managed to find some pots of marmalade, one of my precious lemon curd—a real sacrifice, this—two cabbages, and a batch of flapjacks which I prayed had survived their journey intact, and not ended up in shame-making crumbs.

Mrs Partridge was in charge of the produce and accepted my contributions enthusiastically.

'Oh, how lovely! Marmalade is always a best seller, and what superb cabbages! Just look, Mrs James, aren't they splendid? May I sell you one for Sunday dinner?'

Mrs James looked at my offerings disparagingly.

'Got better'n them up home,' she announced, passing on to the next stall.

Mrs Partridge, accustomed to this sort of thing after many years as a vicar's wife, remained undismayed.

'Well, well, well! Someone else is going to be lucky, I can see.'

It is no wonder that our vicar's wife is unanimously chosen as president of so many village affairs. She has tact, resilience, and can rise with good humour to any emergency. I am one of her devoted admirers.

Mrs Pringle was in sole charge of the Shoe and Hat stall. This has been her prerogative for all the years I can remember, and she presides over it with implacable authority. Woe betide anyone foolish enough to try to bargain with Mrs Pringle! If a pair of size four grey suede evening shoes with Louis heels, dating from the twenties, has a chalked price of fifty pence on the soles, then that is what any would-be purchaser must be prepared to pay. I once saw a stranger offer her half the marked price for a pair of Wellingtons. After Mrs Pringle had finished with him he made straight for the door, poor fellow.

'How's it going?' I enquired of her. She rattled her pudding basin with some satisfaction.

'Doing quite nicely, although there don't seem to be much call for hats these days.'

'People just don't wear them,' I commiserated, eyeing the yellowing panamas, a small feather pill-box with a veil, four identical picture hats in mauve silk with pleated brims, presumable once the get-up of four unfortunate bridesmaids, and several floral confections, among which I recognised a rather fetching one of my own, and was hurt to see it priced at five pence. Why, I'd paid guineas for it ten years ago for somebody's wedding!

'There's a nice one here,' said Mrs Pringle, burrowing under the pile, and surfacing with a battered object which she held out for my inspection.

'Crushed velvet,' she said. 'Suit you nicely, I reckon.'

Crushed all right, I thought, and as it was a particularly dreadful beetroot colour, I turned it down flat. Mrs Pringle began to draw in her breath, ready for some verbal assault, and I fled to Miriam's stall to escape.

Poor Miriam was in the clutches of a middle-aged newcomer to the village who had arrived late with her contributions to Miriam's stall, and was busy shaking out children's garments and suggesting prices.

'These two skirts shouldn't go at anything less than a pound apiece,' she informed Miriam. 'And I'd put a reserve of seventy-five pence on these blouses. I made them myself, from best quality Viyella for my grand-daughters, and they're hardly worn, as you can see. These little track suits too are in perfect condition. A pity to part with them, but they are too small now.'

Miriam cast an agonised look at me. The lady was busy rummaging in another of her many carrier bags, and was now producing children's shoes of all shapes and sizes.

Some customers were beginning to get impatient, and were besieging Miriam with upheld garments and money. I decided to come to the rescue.

'Shoes,' I said firmly, 'have to go to Mrs Pringle next door.'

She looked up with some dislike.

'But these are
children's
shoes!'

'Nevertheless, all shoes have to go to Mrs Pringle. Shall I take you to meet her?'

'No indeed. I know Mrs Pringle quite well, and can deal with her myself.'

She bustled off, and Miriam finished dealing with the batch of importunate customers.

'That was kind of you,' she said with relief. 'Really, I'd no idea of the hazards of holding a stall when I took it on. As for people's exaggerated idea of the worth of the jumble they're delivering, you begin to wonder why they're parting with it!'

'T'was ever thus,' I quoted to her, and went to buy a cake.

As usual, I was far too late to find the sort I like. It is common knowledge that the cake stall, on these occasions, is the first to sell out. The number of fine fruit cakes and toothsome sponges, which are secreted in the shade under the table, tell all too clearly of those wise people who have dropped a discreet word to the stall holders beforehand and have 'Reserved' put on these goodies.

By the time I arrived, there were a few rock cakes with burnt currants in evidence, some home-made crumbly biscuits and one large cake which I eyed doubtfully.

'Madeira?' I asked Mrs Lamb.

'No, dear. It's caraway seed cake. I can't think why it hasn't been snapped up. It's one of Alice Willet's too.'

'If I liked seed cake, I'd have it like a shot,' I assured her, and passed on sadly.