Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre (15 page)

'No, don't bother Minnie,' I said hastily. 'I managed alone for years perfectly well.'

'That's as maybe,' retorted Mrs Pringle. '"Managed" perhaps. I wouldn't say "perfectly well". Never have I seen such a cupboard as that one of yours under the stairs. But there it is. Some are born tidy, and some isn't.'

I decided to be charitable and ignore these remarks.

'I shall ring the hospital on Thursday and see if you are fit to see visitors,' I replied. 'Anyway, good luck and we'll see you back on duty when you feel up to it.'

On Friday mornings, our vicar takes prayers in the school, gives a simple homily, discusses any problems with me and, all in all, is a welcome visitor.

I was able to tell him that the news from the hospital, about Mrs Pringle's affairs, was good, and that I proposed to visit her on Saturday afternoon.

He expressed relief, and then invited me to call at the vicarage after morning service on Sunday.

'Just a few old friends,' he said vaguely. 'I think you know them all, and the garden is looking at its best. Cordelia wants you to see her irises. She was so disappointed that you couldn't come the other evening.'

This, of course, caused intense feelings of guilt on my part, as I remembered my excuses about ironing and marking exercise books, when all I had attempted was the crossword, and a fine hash I had made of it, I recalled.

I promised to come and said how much I should look forward to seeing the irises, and mentally arranged a Sunday lunch which could be left to look after itself. Cold meat, or something in a casserole? Two boiled eggs would go down well, and one of the joys of living alone was the pleasure of making one's Sunday lunch as simple as that. No doubt a husband would expect a roast joint, two or three vegetables and a substantial pudding to follow. Oh, blessed spinsterhood!

On Saturday afternoon I set out for Caxley Cottage Hospital. It is situated on the outskirts of the town which is a good thing, particularly on a Saturday when Caxley High Street is choked with traffic and hundreds of shoppers
intent upon committing hara-kiri by crossing the road inches in front of moving cars.

I took the back route which involves waiting at a level crossing and having a view of a small tributary of the river Kennet which runs nearby.

It is always peaceful waiting for the train to come. Small animals rustle in the reeds by the water. Wood anemones star a little copse, and in the summer meadowsweet grows in the marshy ground sending out its heady scent. In the autumn, there are some wonderful sprays of luscious blackberries at this spot, but it is hopeless to try and pick them, for no sooner are you out of the car than the gates soar up, and it is time to push on again.

This particular afternoon, the waiting was enhanced by a mallard duck who crossed the road with six yellow ducklings, halting now and again to make sure that all were in attendance. Her beady eyes looked this way and that, not I think through fear, but because she wanted to be sure that we knew that we had to wait for her. And, meekly, we did.

The hospital car park was uncomfortably full, and the usual number of thickheads had parked diagonally so that they took up two spaces instead of one. However, I edged mine beside a magnificent Mercedes and hoped for the best.

Mrs Pringle was looking resplendent in a pale blue nightgown and bright pink bed jacket. The ward seemed stiflingly hot after the fresh air, but she appeared to be quite comfortable.

'I'm doing very well considering,' she replied in answer to my enquiry into her health. 'Should be out on Monday, the sister says.'

'Will you need fetching?'

'No, my John's coming for me soon after six, and he'll run me home. Fred's been told what to get ready for me.'

I bet he has, I thought.

'I have to see the doctor on Monday morning, just to make sure everything's holding up. Then I can have my lay-down in the afternoon, and my tea, and be ready to go home when John comes.'

I was busy gazing at the other patients during this conversation, and felt that I ought to know one woman in a nearby bed. After all, you can hardly enter 'the Cottage' without seeing someone you know. It is part of its attraction, unlike the enormous town hospitals where everyone is strange.

'Used to work in Boots,' replied Mrs Pringle in answer to my query. 'Then went on to the pork butcher's on the bridge. Nice girl. Had a brother with a hare lip.'

I returned the distant lady's smile with more confidence.

'And that woman in the next bed to her,' said Mrs Pringle, 'thinks herself the Queen of the Ward just because she's had her gall bladder out. Gets all the attention. Not that she's any worse than the rest of us, and sleeps like a log at nights, but you see she's got all her gall stones in
that jam jar on the top of her cupboard, so everyone goes across to see them.'

Mrs Pringle sounded resentful of this claim to fame.

'Not that they're much to write home about,' she continued. 'Why, my Uncle Perce had one much bigger than hers, and had it on his mantelpiece. Big as a walnut it was. Always attracted notice. Made a talking point, as people say.'

'Not at meal times, I hope,' I said.

'The meals aren't bad,' said Mrs Pringle, luckily mishearing me, 'not for a hospital, I mean. We had scrambled egg for breakfast. A bit too dry, but scrambled eggs is a bit tricky if they have to be kept warm. And fish in parsley sauce for our dinner just now. At least, they said it was parsley sauce but the parsley was pretty thin on the ground. Might just as well have been cigarette ash, and maybe it was.'

I put my little offering of spring flowers on her bedspread, and there was a slight lifting of the corners of her down-turned mouth.

'Well, thank you. Not that they'll stand a chance in this heat, but it's the thought that counts, isn't it?'

'You're not in any pain, I hope?'

'Not but what I can't bear,' she said, with a martyred sigh, 'I don't take no pain-killers at night. Not like
some
!'

She cast a malevolent glance across to the gall-bladder sufferer who was now holding up her jam jar for the admiration of half a dozen visitors.

'So you'll be back on Monday,' I said hastily, to change the subject.

'Not for
work
!' she cried.

'No, no. I know you won't be fit for work for some time -' I began.

'For
some time
?' she echoed. 'Of course, I'll be back the minute I can put one foot before the other. When have you ever seen me
shirking?'

I began to feel that I could never say the right thing, and that possibly I was making Mrs Pringle's condition worse than when I arrived.

'You
never
shirk,' I said stoutly.

'I will say one thing for this place. It may be noisy and too hot, and the pain is something cruel at times, but at least it's giving my leg a rest.'

'That's splendid,' I said. I looked at my watch. I had been by the bedside for over twenty minutes, and I felt we should both enjoy a rest from each other's company.

'I'm not going to stay any longer,' I said, 'because you need all the rest you can get. I'll pop in and see you when you have settled back at home.'

She nodded her agreement, and picked up the bunch of flowers, holding them up to her nose.

'That really do smell like Fairacre,' she cried. 'You couldn't have brought anything nicer.'

And with this rare display of grace and gratitude, she waved me away.

The next morning I gave my shoes an extra polish, my clothes an extra brush, looked out my prayer book, found finally among the cookery books, and went to morning service.

As the head mistress of a church school I ought to go every Sunday, but somehow it does not work out that way. Friends tend to invite me to share their Sunday roast, or other friends come to me from some distance, so that I do not visit St Patrick's as often as I should. Dear Gerald Partridge, however, never upbraids me, and I am grateful for his Christian forbearance.

The church, even on this sunny morning, was chilly, and I envied the sensible women who had put on knitted or tweed skirts and would be withstanding the clammy chill of the wooden pews more successfully than I was.

But the peace of the place soon exerted its customary soothing influence. The monument to Sir Charles Dagbury, who had worshipped here a few hundred years before, was as commanding as ever, but his marble curls, which cascaded to his lace collar, could have done with a dusting. Mrs Hope's little feather duster could have been useful here, I thought.

Our church is a simple structure, white-washed inside, and with a roof of stout oak beams. I remembered the magnificent fan-vaulting of Bent church at Christmas time, the beautiful carpets and the vicar's vestments.

Now Mr Partridge emerged from the vestry, followed by the ten or twelve souls forming our church choir. The four boys were all my pupils, and uncommonly angelic they looked in their snowy surplices and their hair sleeked down with a wet brush.

We began the service, and in due time settled down on our cold seats for the first lesson read by Henry Mawne.

My gaze roamed around the church. On the altar were bright garden flowers and, on each side, on the floor of the chancel, stood two large vases filled with blossom, probably from the vicarage.

I remembered the arum lilies which had flanked the chancel steps at Bent, and the plethora of exotic hothouse flowers which had scented the church that day.

St. Patrick's had no such grandeur, but it was just as moving in its homely simplicity. In both cases, honour and glory were being given.

It seemed particularly appropriate when the vicar announced the next hymn:

'Let us with a gladsome mind,

Praise the Lord for He is kind.'

It was good to get out into the sunshine again as the church clock struck twelve.

Mrs Partridge caught up with me and took my arm, waving the while with her free hand at Henry Mawne and his wife. Evidently they, and also Peter and Diana Hale from Tyler's Row, were making their way to the vicarage.

'I have my sister Edith and her husband with us for a few days,' she said, as we crunched up her drive. 'She's not been too fit, so she didn't come to church this morning. It's one of those sick headache maladies.'

I hoped she would not go into further details, and was spared as the sister in question and her husband came out of the drawing room to greet us. Both, I was relieved to see, appeared to be in robust health.

Peter Hale drifted over to me. He used to teach at Caxley Grammar School in the days when it went under that honourable name.

'This is quite a scholastic gathering, isn't it?' he said waving towards Henry Mawne with a dangerously full sherry glass, 'Cordelia's sister used to teach too, I hear.'

I enquired after his house and garden. He had bought all four cottages which comprised Tyler's Row, and was now spending his retirement improving his property.

'I must say it's absolutely engrossing, though terribly hard work. But so much more satisfying than teaching. I'd far rather lay bricks than discuss the Unification of Italy.'

'And you are now free of neighbours,' I commented. He and Diana had suffered much when they first bought the property, for Mrs Fowler, a virago of a widow, had lived next door in the end cottage, and had made their lives a misery.

'Thank heaven for that!' he said. 'I hear she is living in Caxley, and I don't envy her neighbours there, I must say.'

At this point the Mawnes came up and enquired after Mrs Pringle. I told them about my visit, sticking to the fact of the lady's good recovery, and her hopes to be home the next day.

'Not a bad hospital that,' commented Henry. 'They did a good job on my hydraulic system.'

'Well, we don't want to hear about
that
, Henry,' said his wife severely. He seemed unabashed.

'Then I'll tell you about a spotted woodpecker that comes regularly to our bird table,' he said with a smile. And he did.

Soon Mrs Partridge led us into the garden. She is one of those gardeners, maddening to the rest of us, who never seem to have any set-backs - if Cordelia Partridge plants anything, it grows. Even those most tricky of bulbs, the nerines, which bloom in October and November, flourish in the vicarage garden and supply the house with beautiful pink blooms when the rest of Fairacre is doing its best with hardy chrysanthemums.

The irises, of course, were superb. I was not expecting anything quite so foreign-looking as the dark brown and yellow, the burgundy and cream, and even a two-coloured beauty in pale mauve which delighted our eyes. Cordelia Partridge was suitably smug with the praise heaped upon her, and we were allowed to wander at will after we had paid our respects to the iris bed.

I found myself by the rockery in the company of Diana Hale.

'It must be a mixed blessing for you having Mrs Pringle back again.'

'That's true,' I admitted.

'One thing about her,' went on Diana Hale, 'she is the only person I ever met who could compete with our awful Mrs Fowler. They crossed swords once outside the Post Office, and I've never seen such a clash! I slunk home the other way, too scared to go near them. But I must say, it did my heart good to see Mrs Fowler being trounced.'