(18/20) Changes at Fairacre (21 page)

'I hear as you might have been killed in your bed,' said Mrs Pringle conversationally, as we went to the door. 'Bob Willet said as it was all struck to kindling wood.' She spoke with relish.

'That's so,' I replied. 'The chimney fell through the roof.'

'I never did hold with that bed being where it was,' continued the lady primly. 'For one thing, anyone could see you if they'd a mind, being in full view of the window.'

'Well, it only overlooked the playground,' I pointed out. 'By the time the children arrived I was downstairs anyway.'

'There's such a thing as Peeping Toms,' said she darkly.

Her manner changed as she opened the door. 'Ah well! That's the end of that worry, isn't it?'

For once she sounded almost cheerful, and I made my way to the gate.

News of the devastation became more general as roads were cleared slowly, and people started to put things to rights.

We seemed to have caught the severest onslaught, unlike the earlier hurricane which had done most damage in the counties south of us. Now we were all in need of builders, electricians and plumbers, as well as haulage contractors, timber merchants and any company, in fact, which owned heavy shifting machinery.

The great landed estate which surrounded and included the village of Springbourne, and was renowned for its splendid collection of trees, had lost eight hundred of them in the two days of violent weather. The ancient cedar tree in Fairacre's vicarage garden, under which so many tea parties, bazaar functions and the like had taken place, was now stretched across the lawns and flowerbeds. Nearby the vicar's greenhouse lay in ruins, and his newly-potted geranium and fuchsia cuttings lay among the shattered glass.

There were horrific tales of people trapped in their homes, cattle and sheep mutilated by flying debris, or stampeding panic-stricken into distant parts.

But, it seemed, the travellers had the worst of it. Cars had been crushed by falling timber, roads blocked, and electricity cables and telephone wires brought down. It was impossible, as I knew from my own short but nerve-racking journey home from school, to get to one's destination directly, and a good many traffic accidents had occurred through frightened drivers trying to get through impossibly narrow lanes, or even cart tracks, in order to get home.

Abandoned cars were everywhere, adding to the chaos, and it was amazing that there were so few outright fatalities. As it was, the casualty departments of the local hospitals had worked overtime, patching up the stream of people with cuts, bruises, broken limbs and head wounds.

That afternoon I took out my car, and drove through the wrecked countryside to see Amy who was now on her way to recovery in her own home.

I found her sitting on the sofa wearing a very fetching white turban of bandages. It was at a rather rakish angle and, as usual, she looked quite stunning, although rather paler than usual.

We greeted each other affectionately, and she assured me that she was practically back to normal.

'And there won't be much of a scar,' she added. 'I've been experimenting with my hair style, and I can cover the one by my hair-line, and the ear bit will be invisible any way.'

I asked, somewhat tentatively, if it had healed properly.

She began to laugh. 'I don't intend to harrow you by displaying my wounds like some Indian beggar. I expect James gave you some horrific description which upset you for hours. I know you so well.'

'I was a bit shattered to hear you had had your ear sewn on again,' I admitted.

'Too bad of James to put it like that,' she said severely. 'He knows what a coward you are. Actually, it was really not much more than a nick at the top, and only needed four or five stitches. A very neat little job someone did, and I'm eternally grateful.'

We spent a pleasant hour or so comparing notes on our respective horror stories, and she was suitably impressed by my tale of the roof damage at Fairacre school house.

'Does this mean that it will be a total loss? Will it be worth repairing?'

'Oh, I should think so. I know Wayne Richards has been asked to come and look at the job, though when that will be, heaven alone knows. He's up to his eyes in emergency jobs, but he's promised to make good the lavatories so that school can open again. I imagine he'll inspect the school house then.'

'Heavens, you were lucky!'

'I know it. I have a lot to thank dear Dolly for, and now she has virtually saved my life. The thing that really irks me is the thought of all that wasted time and energy in decorating upstairs earlier this year.'

I told her about Eve and Horace's interest in the little house, and she looked thoughtful.

'Why don't they try for one of those new ones if they really want to live in Fairacre?'

'Too expensive for them. And too large too, I expect. After all, they have no family.'

'Well, they could soon put that right if they got a move on,' said Amy. 'Mind you, they must be fortyish, so there isn't a lot of time to spare. These professional women do run it a bit fine these days when it comes to babies.'

'Two incomes no kids,' I said quoting Bob Willet.

Amy sighed. 'I wish I'd had the sort of inside that coped with a nice string of babies, but there you are. So
unfair,
isn't it?'

'We live in an unfair world,' I told her. 'Shall I make us a cup of tea to cheer us up?'

'A splendid idea,' said Amy.

It was ten days before Fairacre School could open again, and I spent the time trying to tidy my own house and garden at Beech Green, and visiting the school to see how the repairs were getting on.

Wayne Richards had done a mammoth job on the school itself, coping with roof tiles, the smashed skylight and damage to the porch. But the biggest job was putting the lavatories to rights, and work was held up by trying to get new lavatory pans which appeared to be in short supply.

'Lord knows why,' said Wayne, sounding exasperated. 'I can't believe the gale smashed many lavatory pans. It's my belief the plumbers at Caxley are finding it a fine excuse for shilly-shallying.'

'We can't start school until they are there,' I pointed out.

'Don't you worry. You'll get the first I can lay my hands on, and that's a promise.'

His assessment of the damage to the school house roof was less bad than we had imagined, much to the vicar's and the other governors' relief. Horrific though the damage looked, the rafters could be replaced, and a rather less massive chimney erected above the repaired roof. The decorating would have to be done all over again, but I was told that it would not involve me in any more expense, for which I was relieved.

The repairs would take some time, but as there was no one living there now, it was not considered such an emergency job as so many others. A stout tarpaulin was fixed over my poor little home for so many years, and it had to wait its turn in the repair queue.

'It will definitely be put on the market then,' the vicar told me. 'And as for the school -' His voice died away.

'That's going on, full steam ahead,' I told him, with a conviction I did not wholly feel.

'Of course,' he agreed, rallying slightly. 'Why, of course!'

We had hardly got back into school routine, it seemed to me, when half-term was upon us.

Of course, I had to hear the children's accounts of the great tempest, some so hair-raising that I was forced to conclude that many of my flock had more imagination than I had realized.

However, as a resourceful teacher, I made good use of all this stimulating material; and essays, illustrations and even a long poem had 'The Storm' as subject matter. The fact that one of Mr Roberts's cows had been lifted from its field and deposited in John Todd's bedroom, and that one of the young Coggs twins had seen God sitting on a cloud directing the whirlwind had to be put in perspective, but Ernest's account of finding washing from someone's line entangled on the hedge near his garden sounded plausible. The fact that a pair of lady's bloomers was among these items made me uneasily aware that they could have been Mrs Pringle's.

Ernest's house certainly lay in the path of any wind blowing from the Pringle domain, but I thought it prudent to keep my suspicions to myself.

Luckily, no one had been hurt, although the cat from 'The Beetle and Wedge' had vanished, and Patrick reckoned it was 'stone-dead under that barn door as blew off what Mr Roberts should have lifted, but never done it'.

I was about to unravel this sentence when arguments arose around the class giving various heated conjectures about the fate of the unfortunate cat, and I let the grammar lesson go. There is a limit to a teacher's endurance.

The day before we broke up for half-term, we went over to the church to take part in dressing it ready for Harvest Festival. This is an annual pleasure, and we share the work with experienced ladies from the floral society, and such stalwarts as Mrs Partridge and Mrs Mawne who do their best to keep everyone in order.

The more ambitious floral ladies are given to making arrangements with little tickets on them saying such things as: 'The Earth's Bounty' or 'From a Thankful Heart'. These are usually set out in rustic baskets with a lot of cornstalks and highly-polished apples and, although to the layman's eye they look much of a muchness, there is a great deal of unladylike jostling for major positions in the church.

Fortunately, the school children know their place, and traditionally keep to such modest decorating as a row of carrots and turnips along one window sill, a tasteful display of upended marrows round the base of the lectern, and a giant punpkin which is allowed pride of place in the church porch when the ladies have lined the stone bench there with moss and finished adorning it with such sophisticated articles as wreaths of bryony, sprays of blackberries, and corn dollies.

The vicar was doing his duty by commending all the work. I caught him looking doubtfully at one of the floral ladies' efforts which consisted of a basin of flour, some wheat ears and some sprays of oats, and which bore the label 'Our Daily Bread'.

'My grandpa,' said one of the children, grandson of a local baker, 'could have given you a
real loaf
to put there.'

The vicar looked as though he heartily agreed with this sensible suggestion, but as the floral lady was within earshot he contented himself with a smile, and a kindly pat on the boy's head.

The church had got off lightly in the storm, although one of the stained-glass windows had been damaged. It had been put up about 1860 in honour of some local worthy, and I had never liked it. The colours reminded me of those in the paint-box of my childhood, Crimson Lake, Prussian Blue and Gamboge. Furthermore, it made that side of the church very dark, and I had often thought how much more suitable a clear window would have been.

'I suppose we shall have to repair it,' said the vicar sadly, 'but they are having difficulty in matching the glass.'

'Perhaps it could be replaced by a plain glass window,' I said daringly.

'That would be a
very
nice idea,' said the vicar beaming, 'but it might offend the family.'

'Are there any about?'

'A step-grandson, I believe, in Papua, New Guinea.'

'Is he likely to worry?'

The vicar sighed. 'I'm afraid we can't risk it. We must restore this one as best we can.'

He gave me a conspiratorial smile, and I went to inspect the children's artistic endeavours.

On Sunday the church looked magnificent. All the harvest decorations glowed against the ancient stone of the walls. The brass lectern shone with extra-zealous rubbing, and the silver on the altar shone in a ray of sunlight from the south windows.

Even more heartening was the size of the congregation. We country folk enjoy Harvest Festivals. For us it is the culmination of the year, when we can see, smell, touch and taste the fruits of the twelve months' labour. It is significant that St Patrick's church is even fuller for this festival than at Easter or Christmas. The hymns too are well known and loved, and we sing them lustily, our eyes on the marrows and apples from cottage gardens, and the grapes and peaches from the greenhouses of local wealthy families.

We all joined robustly in singing our favourite harvest hymn:

We plough the fields and scatter
The good seed on the land,
But it is fed and wor-hor-tered
By God's almighty hand.

Looking around the congregation it occurred to me that there were probably only half a dozen or so among us who had really ploughed a field. There might be rather more who had scattered seeds, if only a few sprinklings of hardy annuals in the flower border, or even some mustard and cress on a wet piece of flannel in a saucer.

No matter, we enjoyed our singing, although when I heard Mr Roberts behind me booming out the line, 'The winds and waves obey Him', I wondered if he questioned the obedience of the elements after all we had suffered so recently.

The vicar gave his usual homely address about being thankful for the fruits of the earth, and the satisfaction of seeing the results of our labours, which would be going to the local hospital in the next few days, and we all streamed out into the autumn sunshine after the closing hymn and blessing, mightily content.