(18/20) Changes at Fairacre (5 page)

'So I shan't be able to do the washing-up, or put your place to rights.'

'Well, never mind,' I said. 'I can do it with the children, and it doesn't matter about my house.'

'
Doesn't matter?
' boomed Mrs Pringle, turning puce. 'I was all set to do that brass of yours, and not a minute before time, I may say. I thought of getting Minnie to step in for the day.'

At this my blood ran cold. Minnie Pringle is a niece, with as much sense as a demented hen. I have suffered from her ministrations in the past, and the thought of her at large in the school lobby with the dinner crockery was bad enough. Left to her own devices in my house was not to be borne.

'Definitely not!' I exclaimed. 'We can managed for one day without bothering Minnie.'

Mrs Pringle drew in an outraged breath. Her puce cheeks took on a purplish hue.

'I was only trying to help,' she said at last. 'Small thanks I gets for
that
, I can see. I'll say no more. Just to let you know I'll be catching the one o'clock Caxley to The Caxley next week.'

She limped heavily from the classroom, leaving me to wonder if she would possibly be reading
The Caxley
on The Caxley when she went for her appointment at The Caxley.

As usual it was Mr Willet who came to the rescue later.

'My Alice heard as our Madam Sunshine is off to hospital on Wednesday. You want her to wash up? She says she's willing. And she'll do whatever's needed at the school house.'

'I'd be glad of her help here,' I told him, 'but my house won't hurt. According to Mrs Pringle there's so much wants doing there that another week's neglect won't do much harm.'

'Right. I'll tell her. Mr Lamb mentioned it.'

Mr Lamb is our Fairacre post-master, and much respected, though I had often had the unworthy suspicion that he perused much that passed through his hands.

Bob Willet must have read my thoughts on this occasion.

'There was a postcard from the hospital,' said he. 'I don't say Mr Lamb exactly
reads
things like that, but he sort of
imbibes
them, as he's sorting out the mail.'

It seemed best not to comment.

On the next Saturday morning I had occasion to visit the Post Office myself. Mr Lamb was busy hanging up a multitude of various coloured forms around the glass enclosure which, we all hoped, would protect him in the event of robbers breaking in.

There was a young woman there and, to my delight, she had a boy of about four or five with her. A new pupil, I wondered, with my hard-pressed school in mind?

'Do you know Mrs Winter?' said Mr Lamb. 'She's come to live in one of the new houses.'

I introduced myself and expressed hope that she would enjoy living in Fairacre.

'I'm going back to make coffee,' I added. 'Would you like to join me?'

She smiled and accepted.

'Have you got a dog?' asked the boy.

'No, but I've got a cat.'

He looked pleased. They seemed a cheerful pair, and I looked forward to learning more about them.

We bought our stamps and bade farewell to Mr Lamb.

'What a nice man he is,' enthused Mrs Winter as we went back to the school house. 'He's introduced me to quite half a dozen people.'

'He did the same for me years ago,' I told her. 'And in those days one still had the older generation calling on the newcomers. It's a pity that nice habit has died out. Really, I suppose, I should have called on you, instead of leaving it to Mr Lamb.'

Over coffee, it transpired that she knew more about me than I had realized.

'You see, I worked with Miriam Quinn for several years and I believe she is a friend of yours.'

'Indeed she is,' I exclaimed, 'although I don't see quite as much of her now that she is married to Gerard Baker and lives in Caxley. How is she?'

She gave me all the news, and it turned out that she herself had succeeded to Miriam's post as personal secretary to the great Sir Barnabas Hatch, the financier.

'It's partly through Miriam that we decided to buy this house in Fairacre. She had always said how happy she had been in the village, and I visited her at Holly Lodge once or twice.'

'And will you continue with your job?'

'I shall indeed. Not only do I enjoy it, but we certainly need two incomes to pay our mortgage.'

'Does Jeremy go to school yet?' I ventured, watching the young boy engrossed in a picture book on the sitting-room floor.

'Play school twice a week,' said his mother, 'but he starts at the prep school in Caxley in September. It has a first-class Kindergarten group, and both my sister's children go there. We can drop him off each morning as we go into the office. My husband works for the same firm, but in another department.'

My hopes for a new pupil were dashed, but I did my best to hide my disappointment.

I showed her round the house and garden, accepted an invitation to tea one Sunday, and we parted company at the gate.

'
A
very nice addition to the Fairacre community,' I told Tibby on my return to the kitchen.

My encounter with Jane Winter and her little boy gave me much food for thought over that weekend. How things had changed at Fairacre School even in my own time there, let alone in Dolly Clare's! For one thing, there had been almost double the number of children on roll when I took over. The ancient log book showed almost a hundred pupils at the beginning of the century, but of course they could stay at school then until the age of fourteen. Nowadays they left at eleven.

But that was only one reason for the fall in numbers. Smaller families was another. The drift from the land another one. The two or three local farmers who employed a dozen to two dozen men as ploughmen, carters, hedgers-and-ditchers, harvesters, thatchers and piece-workers of all skills, now coped with the two or three employees and barns full of expensive agricultural machinery, supplemented by contractors called in for seasonal work.

There had also been a natural desire by parents to see their offspring better catered for than they had been themselves. A great many in Fairacre remembered the hard times of the thirties, and intended that their children should never be as deprived as they were in their youth. After the war, many of the farm labourers changed jobs and moved into the towns where wages were higher and the hours of work shorter. Consequently, children attending the school were few and far between.

And then there came the pleasures and convenience of owning a family car. Their parents' world had been limited to the miles they could walk, or ride on horseback or in a carriage. For many of that generation and earlier, Caxley was as far as they had ever ventured. Very few had seen the sea, some seventy miles away, and fewer still had been to London, less than seventy miles to travel. Now, it seemed, they could spend their leisure anywhere in the British Isles, or even farther afield.

Even more pertinent, from my point of view, the car could take children out of the village to nearby schools of their parents' choice. The preparatory school at Caxley, to which young Jeremy Winter was bound in September, was a case in point. It had been a thoroughly reliable and thriving school for many years, and was deservedly respected in the community. Many local people had passed through its hands, and in the old days had usually gone from there to the ancient local grammar school. One could see why the Winters would have no difficulty in taking the child in by car, and it was absolutely right that they should have the school of their choice. But it did not help my numbers, alas!

The proliferation of cars in the village certainly contributed, in some measure, to the plight of my own school and many others in the same quandary. But what could be done about it?

When I first came to Fairacre public transport was adequate. There were several buses a day to Caxley and back, and from there one could proceed to larger towns such as Oxford, Reading, Andover, and even Salisbury with a little planning. Now we had several days in the week with no buses at all.

There had been a branch line on the railway to Caxley, much used by school children and other daily passengers. When it closed, in company with hundreds of other lines after the war, there was a definite loss to the community. To have a car in Fairacre is now a necessity rather than a luxury, and what was once an added pleasure to life is now a vital means of getting to one's living.

Well, there was mighty little I could do to halt the dwindling of my flock. Perhaps the other two new houses would provide some future pupils for Fairacre School.

But somehow I doubted it.

4 Newcomers

MRS Pringle returned to her duties after her visit to hospital. Her mood was more militant than usual.

'That new doctor I saw this time said I was to lose two stone and take
more exercise. "More exercise,
young man," I says to him, "if you saw how much exercise I have to take, day in day out, at my work - which is Real Work, I'll have you know, not just looking at legs and writing out bits of paper for the chemist - you would get a real shock." He didn't say nothing after that.'

It was my private opinion that Mrs Pringle had not delivered the tirade quoted but wished she had, and I was being the recipient of her wishful thinking.

'A mere boy he was too,' she went on, puffing about the classroom with her duster. 'Could've been my grandson except I'd have learnt him better manners if he'd been one of mine, I can tell you.'

'Has he prescribed any medicine or ointment?' I enquired, really in order to stem this vituperative flow.

Mrs Pringle sat down heavily on the front desk, chest heaving under her flowered overall. I confronted her glaring eyes as bravely as I could.

'Much too posh for that, this one was. Going to get in touch with our own doctor, I gather, and says he'll see me when I've lost the first two stone.
The first two stone!
He'll have to wait a bit, and that's flat.'

She heaved herself to her feet and made for the floor. It was no surprise to see that her limp was much in evidence.

***

March was almost over and before long we should be breaking up for the Easter holidays.

Our vicar, the Reverend Gerald Partridge, paid his usual weekly visit and gave a talk to the children about the coming Holy Week followed by the Festival of Easter.

I always enjoy his visits, and so do the children, but much of his discourse is far above their heads. He had been a brilliant student, I had heard, at his theological college, and this I could well believe. But his beliefs were couched in such obscure and learned language that I found as much difficulty in understanding him as did my class.

However, he has a lovely voice, and kindness oozes from him like honey and this we all appreciate. The children are quite content to listen in peaceful bemusement as the words flow round them, and we all feel rested and happy.

On this particular afternoon, after the children had gone out to play, the vicar broached the subject of our falling numbers.

'I know,' I said. 'It is worrying, but what's to be done?'

'We've faced this before. It was the worrying part for you that my wife and I were concerned about. You can be sure that if the worst happens, which pray to God it won't, we shall all see that you can stay on in the school house.'

'I have no doubt that the education committee would be humane enough to allow that,' I agreed. I wondered if this were the moment to tell him about Miss Clare's wonderful bequest to me. So far, I had kept silent about it, although I had a strong suspicion that the news had been common knowledge for some time in the neighbourhood. I decided to take the plunge.

'As it happens,' I began, 'I don't think I should be entirely homeless -'

'Ah yes! Dear Dolly Clare's house. I had heard of her plans that you should have it.'

How
did
the news get about, I wondered for the hundredth time? I had said nothing, Dolly had said nothing, that I knew. Her solicitors presumably were like the proverbial clams. I suppose things are air-borne in rural parts. There seems to be no other explanation.

'It's true,' I said. 'I am an extremely lucky woman, and Dolly says I can stay at her house whenever I like.'

'Well, that's a great weight off our minds,' sighed the vicar. 'You are going to have a roof over your head one way or another.'

I went with him to the door. A few spots of rain were falling, and I called the children inside, waving goodbye to our chairman of governors at the same time.

Within two minutes the heavens opened and the windows were streaming with rain. At least I had collected my little flock before the chance of playing 'Splashem' had been a temptation.

The rain continued through the night and I lay in bed listening to it gurgling into the water butts. I heard the thump of the cat flap on the kitchen door, and a second thump very soon afterwards. Obviously Tibby had not spent long out in the garden, and had returned to warmth and a dry bed with the minimum of delay. I too enjoyed my bed, and thought how extra snug it seemed with the rain splashing outside.