(18/20) Changes at Fairacre (3 page)

'Of course I will. You know I always enjoy your meals.'

'It's not just my
meal
I'm inviting you to,' said Amy. 'It's your
support
I need on this particular occasion.'

I promised to do my duty; Amy relaxed, and I did too.

One good thing, this unhappy man was married. He might not be a contented husband at the moment, but at least Amy would not have designs on him as a future husband for me.

Over the years I have been the victim of Amy's machinations. In vain I tell her that I
like
being single. She refuses to believe it, and a procession of males, whom Amy considers suitable partners for an ageing spinster, have been introduced to me. Some I have liked and have remained friends with, some have been harmless and quickly forgotten, and some have been frankly appalling, but I don't hold it against dear old Amy. She was born a match-maker, and will continue her endeavours until death claims her, and I have had ample experience now in evading the state of matrimony. We both play the game like old hands, but I must confess that I find it rather trying at times. This new acquaintance should not give me any trouble.

'What's his name?' I asked.

'James calls him "Basher".'

'Well,' I expostulated, 'I can't call him
that
!'

'I suppose not. It may be Michael or Malcolm. Something beginning with 'M'. I'll find out before you come.'

(As it happened, he turned out to be 'Brian'.)

'By the way,' said Amy, 'I came across Lucy Colgate the other day.'

Lucy had been at college with us, and I had always detested her. Amy was more tolerant.

'I thought she had married,' I said.

'She has, but I can never remember her married name. She was buying fish in Sevenoaks.'

'And what were you doing in Sevenoaks?'

'James had a board meeting, and I went along for the ride. I was doing some shopping when I bumped into Lucy. We had coffee together.'

'And how was she?'

'As tiresome as ever. Intent on impressing one with her worldliness and high spirits.'

'Well, that sounds like Lucy! Do you remember how she used to boast about climbing over the cycle sheds to get in after hours at college? She always wanted to be the Madcap of the Fourth. What is it these days?'

'Oh, sex changes and abortions and various diseases which used to be happily unmentionable, but now people like Lucy feel obliged to parade even when having morning coffee. I think she imagines that she is shocking people like us. "Opening Our Eyes to Life As It Is," you know.'

'It's time she grew up,' I agreed, 'but she never will. Poor old Lucy! I suppose she still feels a dare-devil under all those wrinkles.'

'No need to be catty. It doesn't suit you,' said Amy primly. She put down her cigarette and then surveyed me closely. 'Nevertheless, we have certainly weathered the years better than Lucy Colgate,' she announced with great satisfaction.

And we both dissolved into laughter.

***

Half-term ended with a night of heavy rain. It drummed on the school house roof, and splashed and gurgled into the two rainwater butts.

I sloshed through puddles in the playground and met Mrs Pringle in the lobby. As usual she was taking the wet weather as a personal affront.

'Love's labour lost trying to keep these floors clean in this weather,' she grumbled. 'There's a puddle the size of a football pitch outside the Post Office, and half our lot are playing "Splashem" in it.'

'Splashem' is a simple Fairacre game which involves waiting by a sizeable puddle until some innocent victim appears. The far-from-innocent instigators of the game then jump heavily into the water sending up a shower which drenches their victim. At the same time, the triumphant shout of 'Splashem' is raised. Everyone involved gets wet feet and the unlucky innocent gets soaking clothing as well. It is a game which only a few enjoy, and I have been as ferocious as the outraged parents in trying to stop it. On the whole, the playground is free from it, but on the journey to and from school the malefactors still indulge.

'I'll give them all a wigging,' I promised Mrs Pringle.

'What they wants,' said she, 'is a good hiding. It's a great pity you teachers have got so soft with 'em all. As bad as the Caxley magistrates. I see as Arthur Coggs got something called a
conditional discharge
for fighting in the market place. Nothing but a
let off,
when he deserved a
flogging.
'

'Well, we can't go back to flogging and the stocks and hanging,' I said. 'We've got to put up with justice as it is.'

'More's the pity,' replied Mrs Pringle, bending down to pick a leaf from the floor. She was puce in the face when she straightened up, and her corsets creaked under the strain.

'I'm not the woman I was,' she said with some satisfaction. She must have noticed my expression of alarm. 'First thing in the morning my bronchials are a torment. Nearly coughs my heart up, I does. Fred says I should give up this job, and I reckon he's right.'

I have heard this tale so often from Mrs Pringle's lips, as well as second-hand comments from Fred, her husband, that I have grown quite callous.

'No one,' I told her, 'wants you to work when you aren't fit. If you really find the job too much then you must give in your notice.'

'And leave my stoves to be polished - or
half
polished more like - by some other woman as don't know blacklead from furniture polish? No! I'll struggle on as best I can, till I drop.'

At that, she preceded me into the classroom for a final flick round with the duster.

As I expected, she was limping heavily. Mrs Pringle's bad leg, which 'flares up' regularly, is a good indicator of that lady's disposition.

Today, after my trenchant comments, the leg was even more combustible than usual.

Ernest rushed into the lobby, leaving wet footprints, but luckily Mrs Pringle was busy taking umbrage out of sight.

'Can I ring the bell, miss?'

'Carry on, Ernest,' I said.

School had started again.

At mid-morning a neighbour of Bob Willet's appeared, bringing bad news.

She was the mother of three of my pupils as well as an older child at Beech Green school. The family, the Thompsons, were comparative newcomers to the village, and generally approved.

The father was employed by the local electricity board and went daily to Caxley. Mrs Thompson helped in the village shop in the mornings while the children were at school, but she gave this up during the school holidays.

'She's a good little mother,' Alice Willet had told me, and this was high praise indeed.

The children were well cared for, not overbright, but well-mannered and happy. I was very fond of them and they had settled cheerfully among the others.

I had heard rumours and, as I had feared, Mrs Thompson had come to tell me that her husband had been posted elsewhere, and that they were obliged to leave Fairacre.

'And we don't want to go. Not one of us,' she asserted, 'but it means more money, and if he turns this down he might not get another chance in the future. I'm real sorry about it, Miss Read, and the children don't want to leave any more than we do.'

'Have you got to find a house?' I asked, secretly hoping that this would mean keeping my pupils a little longer.

'No. There's a house with the job, so we can go in at Easter. It all looks fine on paper, but that doesn't change our feelings.' 'Well, at least I shall have them for the rest of the term,' I said. 'But we shall all miss them. They've been model pupils.'

I accompanied her to the outer door. The rain was pelting down again, but a large umbrella stood in the corner of the lobby and Mrs Thompson assured me she would be adequately sheltered on her return to her duties at the shop. I thanked her for letting me know about her plans, and watched her departure across the playground.

I returned to the classroom with a heavy heart.

At playtime, after the dire threats about 'Splashem' to my flock, I broke the sad news to my assistant Mrs Richards, formerly Miss Briggs. She was as upset as I was.

'But this will bring our numbers down to well under thirty,' she cried.

'Nearer twenty,' I told her. 'Mind you, we've been almost as low before, and always managed to evade closure.'

It is one of the shadows which hangs over many villages these days: none wants to lose its village school, and local newspapers, the length and breadth of the country, carry sad stories of battles to keep village schools thriving.

I thought of my recent conversation with Miss Clare, and the large numbers which once thronged Fairacre School. So much had changed over a life time. At eleven years of age, my pupils moved on, instead of staying until fourteen as in Dolly Clare's day. Families were much smaller. With the advent of the car, parents could deliver their children farther afield to a school of their choice. Salaries had increased, and many parents could now afford the fees at local private schools which, for one reason or another, they preferred for their children.

I had faced this problem of dwindling numbers throughout my years at Fairacre. So far we had been spared, but for how long? Many small schools had managed to combine with others for activities such as games, or had shared facilities for common ventures such as film shows, peripatetic lecturers, demonstrators and so forth. This was fine when the schools were fairly close.

Fairacre unfortunately was isolated, except for the neighbouring school at Beech Green. If we had to close, it was most likely that the Fairacre children would be taken by bus the two or three miles to the larger school, where George Annett was head teacher and had an excellent staff. I had no doubt that my little flock would settle there happily, in more modern surroundings and with the added attraction and stimulation of larger numbers which would allow team games such as cricket and football which my youngsters sorely missed.

But what would happen to this venerable old building with its leaky skylight and lobby walls flaking paint everywhere? And what about my beloved school house across the playground, where I lived so contentedly?

Even more alarming, what would happen to me?

All conjectures about the future were brought to a sudden return to the present, by the appearance of a tearful infant dripping water everywhere, who had become the latest victim of 'Splashem'.

I strode out of the classroom into action.

Mr Willet, of course, had heard the news of the Thompsons' departure long before I had, and he seemed to find great satisfaction in telling me so.

'I thought about that old saying,' he said, when I remonstrated with him, 'that one about ignorance being bliss. Seemed to me a pity to shake you out of your fool's paradise.'

I felt somewhat nettled by this remark.

'I'm shaken all right,' I told him crossly. 'This is one step nearer closure, you know, and we shall both be out of a job.'

'Won't worry me,' he said sturdily. 'I can turn my hand to anything. Gardenin', carpenterin', decoratin', grave-diggin', there's allus summat to do. Now with you it's different. What can you do except teach school?'

'I can cook —' I began.

'Not good enough to get a proper job.'

'Well, I could work in a shop.'

'You ain't that quick with money.'

'Or learn to type, and go into an office.'

'The young 'uns would run rings round you. They has
computers
anyway.'

'Perhaps I could do market research. You know, walk about Caxley High Street with a clip-board, and annoy everyone with my questions when they were hurrying home to cook the lunch.'

'You wouldn't be bossy enough.'

I began to feel somewhat mollified by this remark.

'I mean,' he continued, 'you're bossy enough in school with the kids, but you'd never stand up to anyone your own size.'

'Thanks!' I said, back where we had started. 'So what do you suggest, other than the Caxley Workhouse?'

'That closed years ago,' he reminded me. He looked me over speculatively.

'I s' pose you might get married.' He sounded doubtful.

'A desperate measure,' I laughed. 'And not one I'm going to consider.'

'Maybe you're right,' he conceded and began to move towards the door. Then he stopped and turned.

'The first of those new houses is up for sale. Might get some children there, with any luck.'

Mr Roberts, our local farmer, had sold a strip of land a year or so earlier, and three good-sized houses had been put up by a local builder. They were fairly innocuous in appearance and had decent gardens, but their prices were steep by village standards.

The sale of the land had provided plenty of gossip at the time. Bob Willet told me that his grandfather had always gone to work at Springbourne by a footpath which had once crossed that piece of land.

'Used to save the old boy a good mile,' he told me. 'But after the war that path was never claimed. Roberts's old dad was a cunning one, and it served his purpose to let the path be covered by his crops. There was plenty around here did that, and we lost no end of old footpaths then.'