Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre (11 page)

Both bachelors were of a suitable age to be married to me one day should any of the three of us feel inclined, but they were cheerful company, and prattled away about ski-ing and cheese dishes.

I was not much help to the one who was going ski-ing, but his companion, who had been given nearly three pounds of cheese for Christmas, was given a few recipes from my memory.

'Would you like some?' he asked eagerly. 'I could easily run over to Fairacre with a lump of Cheddar or Stilton - no bother at all.'

'It's terribly kind of you,' I replied, 'but I've been given quite a lot of cheese too, and shall have the deuce of a time eating it up.'

Afterwards, when all our guests had gone home to their cold turkey, and possibly over-cooked mince pies, Amy chided me for turning down Osbert's kind offer.

'It would have been so nice for you to meet again,' she said, 'I'm sure he was hoping to see you in the New Year.'

'He'll probably be giving a bumper cheese and wine party,' I said.

'That's possible,' agreed Amy, looking pleased. 'Good! You're bound to be asked.'

***

I left James and Amy after lunch on Wednesday so that I could drive home in the light.

I found Mrs Pringle just about to go home after putting my house to rights.

'And you had a good Christmas?' I enquired.

'A bit of an upset early on,' said she, 'but Christmas Day and Boxing Day went well, considering.'

I did not ask about the 'bit of an upset' in case it took too long to recount, but turned to wider issues.

'And all's well in Fairacre?'

'You'll be sorry to hear that Mr Mawne has gone to hospital.'

'Oh dear! What's wrong?'

A mulish look came over Mrs Pringle's countenance. 'That,' she said, 'I am not prepared to say.'

'Not prepared to say?' I echoed, absolutely dumbfounded.

If there is one thing Mrs Pringle loves beyond all others, it is the recounting, with nauseating details, of any ailment which has cropped up. As a squeamish woman I have suffered often in this way, and the thought that Mrs Pringle was willing to pass up a golden opportunity to discomfit me was more than I could comprehend.

My undisguised surprise prompted her to continue, however. 'It's a
gentleman's
complaint,' she said austerely, 'and farther than that I will not go.'

'I quite understand,' I managed to say. I was certainly not agog to hear about Henry Mawne's afflictions, gentlemanly or otherwise, and offered to run her home to change the subject.

'Thank you, but no! I have to go to the Post Office for my pension, and Alice Willet's for a sheet she's sides-to-middling for me.'

I accompanied her to the door. There she turned, and fixed me with a glinting eye. 'As well you know, I do my best not to speak Mr Mawne's name after
all that bother,
but I thought it was only Christian to mention it.'

'Oh, all that's forgiven and forgotten ages ago,' I said easily.

'Not by me it isn't,' said she implacably, and swept out to her errands.

'All that bother' to which Mrs Pringle referred had happened some months before.

After Miss Parr's death, her nephew John Parr inherited her lovely house. It was turned into three flats, and he kept the ground floor one.

As he was abroad on business a great deal, and later got married and moved away, Fairacre did not see much of John Parr but he had let the first floor flat to an acquaintance of his, a retired schoolmaster called Henry Mawne.

The village took to Henry Mawne. He was a friendly soul, and the vicar soon became grateful to him for his ease with figures and his willingness to straighten out some church accounts which had become sadly entangled by our highly literate, but completely innumerate, vicar.

He was a great bird-lover and had written several books on ornithology. He contributed to
The Caxley Chronicle
on topical nature matters, and altogether was considered a most welcome inhabitant of Fairacre.

He lived alone, and of course the usual rumours flew around:

(1) He was a widower, and his wife had died of cancer,

(2) He was a widower, and his wife had been killed in (a) a car crash (b) a train crash (c) a plane crash,

(3) He was a bachelor and had looked after his aged mother until matrimony seemed out of the question,

(4) He had been married but his wife had left him, and he was now (a) divorced (b) in a state of secret and well-hidden grief.

It was not long before the village made up its corporate mind that Henry Mawne and I should make a match of it. It was some time before this embarrassing fact percolated my innocent head and was then very difficult to ignore.

Mrs Pringle made arch remarks. Even Gerald Partridge meandered on about the happy outcome of marriages made 'when the partners are of mature years' and I began to get quite alarmed.

To give Henry Mawne his due, he seemed to be unaware of the gossip flying about, and apart from accompanying me to a concert in Caxley and bringing me a rather untidy bunch of daffodils picked from the thousands in his garden in the spring, he did not pay me any particularly ardent attentions.

But one day Mrs Pringle had gone too far. After telling me how much 'poor Mr Mawne' could do with a woman about the place, she told me that 'he was fair eating his heart out - and the whole village knew it.'

That did it. I told her that to repeat idle gossip could not only be hurtful but scandalous, and that I should have to consider consulting my solicitor.

At this, Mrs Pringle retaliated by giving in her notice - much to my secret relief.

She was away for a little over a week on this occasion, and very pleasant it was without her morose presence. Her niece Minnie, as mad as a March hare, came 'to oblige' in
the school, but it was obvious that she could never be allowed to take on permanent duties.

In the end, of course, my old sparring partner returned, but I had been so fierce with her that she did her best never to mention Henry Mawne's name again in my presence.

In fact, Henry's wife turned up some time later, much to my relief and the disappointment of Fairacre in general. They had had their differences, and evidently had lived apart for some two years, but had decided to throw in their lot together again. It appeared to work, and I grew very fond of vociferous Mrs Mawne as the years passed.

But at that time, I was the unwilling recipient of a great deal of sympathy from neighbours who thought I might be heartbroken.

Mrs Pringle's silent tribute to my feelings expressed itself in a fine plump partridge, ready for roasting. I accepted it partly as an expression of condolence, but also as a peace-offering, and very good it was when it was dished up.

'The bit of an upset' which had preceded Mrs Pringle's Christmas that year, was recounted to me by Mr Willet. It involved the black sheep of the Pringle family, Josh Pringle from Springbourne.

It seems that as Christmas approached, his numerous children began to clamour for such things as a Christmas tree, a turkey, and, above all, presents.

Josh shook off these scandalous demands until his wife, unusually outspoken, added her weight to the children's.

'Of course you must get 'em something,' she told Josh when the children were in bed. 'Pity you never paid into a club like most people do, then we could have a few sweets and oranges and that to put in their stockings.'

'They gets all they need,' replied Josh. 'Anyway, clubs is your business. You gets the housekeeping.'

His wife gave a sarcastic laugh. 'That'll be the day! You give me what's in your pocket now and I'll see what I can do.'

'There ain't nothing in my pocket.'

'Gone on beer, I suppose. Self, self, self, and them poor kids without a present between them.'

Josh swore, rose from his armchair and walked out into the night to get a bit of peace.

As he mooched along the dark lanes, he pondered about Christmas and its expense. He supposed he would have to provide the minimum for the festivities or he would never hear the last of it. The thing was, where to get the money?

He had been given two weeks' work on a building site and the wages had gone already. Not only on beer, but also on one of those 'dead certs' in the three-thirty at Newbury which had unseated its rider in the first fifty yards, and run happily unencumbered, with its fellow racers, finishing well down the field.

Turning over the uncertainties of life in general, Josh plodded along the miry lane until he found himself on the outskirts of Fairacre. It was then that he remembered his brother Fred. Could he possibly touch him for a quid or two? He knew better than to approach Maud Pringle - she wouldn't give anyone a brass farthing, and a clump on the ear may well be collected by an importuning relative, Christmas or no Christmas. It had happened to Josh before, and he was not going to ask for another.

By this time he had reached Fred Pringle's house. He walked silently to the back door, his feet making no noise. Josh was not a poacher for nothing, and had deceived many a gamekeeper with his noiseless movements.

He could see Maud at her ironing through the kitchen window. She was late at her task, although Josh was not to know that, for Minnie had not returned from the hospital on the bus expected. She had arrived with the patient, happily freed from peas in his ears, two hours later than intended, and by that time Mrs Pringle had had more than enough of Josh's family. Some paper chains made the room gay, and a large red paper bell hung close above his sister-in-law's head.

There was no sign of Fred, but he might well be in the sitting room watching telly. Having come this far, Josh decided to knock and trust his luck. He would certainly stay well back out of arm's length of Fred's wife. He doubted if the Christmas spirit of peace on earth and goodwill to all men would extend to embrace him in Maud's eyes.

When the door opened Mrs Pringle gave a gasp. 'And what do
you
want?'

'Just passing. Thought I'd wish you a merry Christmas.'

Mrs Pringle snorted. 'You'd better see Fred. He's down the shed. I'm busy.'

With that the door slammed. It was no more than Josh had expected, and at least he had not been injured. He made his way down the concrete path, beneath the clothes line, to Fred's shed at the bottom of the garden, hard by the chicken run.

There was a queer droning noise coming from behind the broken door. Josh listened for a moment, decided it was only his brother humming and knocked.

The droning stopped abruptly.

'What's up?' Fred sounded startled. Josh opened the door.

'Good lord! What brings you here?' said Fred.

'Just thought I'd wish you a merry Christmas,' replied
Josh, 'happened to be passing like.'

'My Maud seen you?'

'She spoke to me at the back door.'

'I wonder you didn't get a clip round the ear.'

'What you up to?' said Josh, feeling it was wise to change the subject.

A pile of matchsticks, some stout cardboard and a pot of evil-smelling glue lay on the bench before his brother. He was sitting on a backless kitchen chair which looked vaguely familiar. It must have come from their old home, he decided. Funny that Fred should have kept it, and funnier still that Maud had not thrown it out.

'Calendars!' replied Fred. 'See, I makes one of them little wooden houses
chalets,
they call 'em. It stands out in relief like and I hangs a calendar underneath. Go like hot cakes down "The Beetle and Wedge" for three bob a time. Not that I dares go in there with our Maud, but the landlord sends the money down.'

The mention of 'The Beetle and Wedge' combined with money acted as a spur to Josh's intentions.

'Very nice,' he said ingratiatingly, 'specially at Christmas. Could do with a bit of cash myself to tell the truth.'

'Oh ah!'

'The kids, you know. Need a few things, and I'm fair strapped for money. Times have been hard lately.'

'Thought you had work at Bailey's yard.'

'Ah! All that went on bills that come in.'

There was silence while Fred stuck on another matchstick.

'So you've come here for a loan, have you?'

'Well, if you could see your way clear, Fred, I'd be much obliged. I've got some beating coming up after Christmas. Three big shoots - ought to make me a bit. I could pay you back early in the New Year.'

Again silence fell. A hen squawked nearby. A large vehicle rumbled in the village street.

'That's the last Caxley,' observed Fred, picking up another matchstick. 'Must be half past seven.'

Josh was content to wait. He knew old Fred. Everything took time to decide.

'I see you've got one of our Mum's old chairs,' he remarked.

'Ah! Just the right height for this job. Maud was all for chucking it out, but I brought it down here.'

'We had good times as kids,' said Josh. There was a sentimental whine in his tone, and Fred was not deceived. Best get rid of him he supposed, stirring the glue pot, before he started crying over old times. At this rate he'd never get the roof done, let alone the doorway.