Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre (2 page)

'There are no such things as
discreet enquiries
in a village,' said James. 'Everything is known within a flash. I should make up your own mind. Keep your ears open, by all means, but your mouth shut. I was brought up in a village and I know what I'm talking about.'

'I've had some experience of living in a village myself,' I responded, 'but not as one of the pillars of society as I suppose I will be in Fairacre. I shall have to watch my step.'

'If you are going to be a public figure,' remarked Amy, 'and an example of right living to the children and their parents, I should think that a clean house might be the first step in the right direction.'

She sounded rather waspish, I thought, probably rather cross with James for taking my part.

'Well, I haven't turned down Mrs Pringle absolutely flat,' I pointed out, 'but I'm not being rushed into anything.'

'Wise girl,' commented James.

Amy gave a snort.

In bed later, I recalled the pleasures of my first sight of the school house and garden. It gave me great joy to remember the pleasant rooms awaiting my furniture, and the pretty garden awaiting urgent attention by both Bob Willet and me.

I refused to be put off by the malevolent shade of Mrs Pringle.

'A mere fly in the ointment,' I said aloud, settling into my pillow.

I fell asleep within minutes.

What with one thing and another, it was the beginning of August before I could make my next visit to Fairacre.

Amy, hospitable as ever, was going to put me up, but I made the journey by train, and then caught one of the rare buses which went from Caxley to Fairacre.

It was market day in the little town, and the stall holders were doing a brisk trade in the square. It was hot and noisy, and my case was heavy. I was glad to climb aboard the bus and find a seat.

Fairacre was several miles distant, and the bus chugged gently uphill from the valley of the river Cax, stopping at the villages for laden shoppers to alight.

At Beech Green, the village before Fairacre, the bus stopped beside the village school, and I wondered who my next door colleague might be.

It was a scorching afternoon, the very best time to see this downland country. In some distant fields, harvest had already started, combines crawling like gigantic toys around the fields.

The hedges were heavy with summer foliage, still starred
here and there with late wild roses and the creamy flat heads of elderflowers. The grass on the roadside banks was sun-bleached, and as the bus swished by it undulated like ripe corn before a strong wind.

Amy was coming to pick me up at the school house at half past four, and meanwhile I had over two hours in which to visit Mr Willet, the Post Office and, best of all, my new house and garden.

It was no wonder that my spirits were high as we rattled towards Fairacre.

Mr Willet was hoeing in his remarkably neat vegetable patch. Despite the heat he was wearing a cap, and although he was in his shirt sleeves he had a tweed waistcoat as his outer garment.

After greetings and my compliments on his vegetables, I
broached the subject of help in the garden at the school house.

'Now I was hopin' you'd be along,' said Mr Willet. 'I've looked after that for more years than I can count. It may look a bit rough at the moment, as I didn't like to be too forward and trespass-like in there when I'd not been given permission.'

'But you'll come?'

'Of course I'll come. Be up tomorrow evenin' if you like. There's a row of shallots should be lifted by now. I wondered if I ought to do that, but thought Mrs Pringle might catch sight of me and tell all and sundry I was pinchin' 'em.'

This gave me an opening for further enquiries.

Mr Willet pushed back his cap and leant heavily on the hoe.

'Let's put it this way. I don't like to speak ill of anyone,' he began, obviously about to do just that, 'but you wants to start as you means to go on with that one. I'm not sayin' she's all bad. She done a lot for us when my Alice was took ill one winter, but she's a proper moaner. If you gets a smile out of her, you'll be the first as has.'

'Well, thank you for telling me. Forewarned is forearmed, so they say.'

'It isn't
arms
as is the trouble with her. It's
legs.
She's got one that gives her a mort of trouble, so she says, and everyone else too come to that, when she's crossed in any way. Ah, yes! Mrs Pringle's leg is a force to be reckoned with, as you'll find.'

We walked together to the gate.

'You lettin' her do your house-cleanin'?' he asked, coming to the point with a directness I already respected.

'I haven't decided..."

'You think it over well, Miss Read. 'Tis easy enough to ask people in, and a durn sight more tricky to get 'em out. Not that she isn't a good worker, I will say that,' he added.

'I'll be over tomorrow evening,' I promised, 'and we'll look at the garden together.'

'I'll tell Alice you called. She's over at Springbourne on some W.I. lark. She'll want to hear all about you.'

And so will the rest of Fairacre, I surmised, as I made my way to the Post Office.

After the few obligatory comments on the weather (nice to see the sun, but the peas need some rain to plump up), I introduced myself to Mr Lamb.

'Hope you'll be very happy here,' he said, shaking my hand. 'Thought it was you getting off the bus. Been to see Bob Willet?'

'As a matter of fact I have.'

'Good chap, Bob. Going to give you a hand in the garden?'

'I hope so.'

'Nothing that chap can't turn his hand to. Looks after the school a fair treat, and the church and graveyard. And always cheery.'

He stopped suddenly. 'You met Mrs Pringle yet?'

I said that I had.

'She'll be cleaning the school still, I suppose?'

I said that I hoped so.

'Excuse me asking, but is she going to work for you too? In the house, I mean?'

I said that I had not yet made up my mind.

Mr Lamb gave a sigh. It sounded like one of relief.

'Yes, well. She's a good worker, I'll grant, but I'd take time in deciding to have her regular myself.'

I thanked him, bought some stamps and a packet of biscuits, and made my way to the school house.

Amy had already arrived, and was wandering about the garden. She was smiling in a dreamy fashion.

'What a blissful spot. Absolute peace!'

There was an ancient bench lodged against the house wall. It looked as though it had once been part of the furnishings of Fairacre School in Queen Victoria's reign. We settled ourselves upon it, turning our faces up to the sun.

Some shaggy Mrs Sinkin pinks wafted their scent towards us. Two inquisitive chaffinches surveyed us within a yard of our feet, and far away some sheep bleated from the downland.

'"To sit in the shade and look upon verdure,"' I quoted.

'Except that we're not in the shade,' Amy pointed out, 'and I shall be done to a frizzle if I stay here too long. By the way, I brought a flask of tea.'

'You marvellous girl! And I've got some Rich Tea biscuits.'

'My word, you are going it,' commented Amy.

'Well, it was either Rich Tea or Garibaldi from the Post Office, so I settled for Rich Tea. After all, they'll do for cheese as well.'

'Very prudent,' said Amy.

She went to the car to fetch the flask, and I hastily shifted my weight to the centre of the bench, which bucked alarmingly when Amy left it.

'We could have it inside,' I said. 'I've got the key.'

'Better out here,' Amy replied, 'besides, I don't suppose there's anything to sit on in there.'

She was quite right - of course.

We sipped our tea. The chaffinches had flown to a nearby plum tree, but kept a sharp lookout for crumbs.

'Of course, you'll have to put in a lot of work on this garden,' said Amy, becoming her usual brisk self, 'it's been terribly neglected.'

I told her about my visit to Mr Willet.

'Sounds hopeful,' she conceded. 'And this Mrs Pringle?'

As if on cue, I heard the click of the garden gate and round the corner of the house stumped a thickset figure with a black oilcloth bag over her arm.

Mrs Pringle had arrived.

I made the necessary introductions and awaited the outcome with some interest.

We had both risen at the approach of our visitor and I invited her to share the bench.

'I wish I could offer you tea,' I apologised, 'but I'm afraid it's all gone. Have a biscuit.'

Mrs Pringle held up a hand as if she were stopping the traffic. 'I don't eat between meals. It don't do the digestion any good.'

There seemed to be no adequate reply to this dictum.

'I was just passing,' went on the lady, 'and thought I'd put this week's
Caxley Chronicle
through your door. No doubt you'd like to be up to date with what's happening. Fairacre news is on page six.'

'Thank you. Very kind of you. I will let you have it back.'

'No need for that. I've read all I want. I always turns to the Deaths first, and then the Wills, and if anybody local's up in Caxley court I sees what they've got. Not much usually. Probation or some such let-off, when a nice bit of flogging would be more to the point.'

I put the newspaper on the small space between Amy and me, and resolutely avoided catching my old friend's eye.

'Garden looks a real mess,' she continued lugubriously. 'I happened to see you going into Bob Willet's just now, so I suppose he'll be up to give you a hand.'

'That's right.'

'So I heard at the Post Office when I called in just now.'

The bench shuddered at Amy's ill-concealed mirth.

'Would you like to look round the garden?' I asked.

'Well, I knows it like the back of my hand, of course,' replied Mrs Pringle, 'but it'd be nice to get out of this blazing sun for a few minutes, and there should be a few gooseberries about still.'

Amy accompanied us. Despite the heat, the long grass was damp, and Amy examined her elegant sandals.

'Hot or not,' observed Mrs Pringle, 'I always wears good sensible shoes. My mother brought us up to respect our feet. "Nothing strappy or silly," she used to say, "or you'll be storing up trouble for your old age." And she was right.'

At this double insult to her footwear and her advancing years Amy could only respond with some heavy breathing. So far, I thought, Mrs Pringle was winning hands down.

There certainly were some fine late gooseberries at the end of the garden, yellow translucent beauties dangling from the thorny branches.

Mrs Pringle eyed them greedily.

'Do help yourself to a picking,' I said, 'if you could use some.'

'Very nice of you,' she replied, still unsmiling. 'Lucky I brought my bag.'

Amy and I helped, but Mrs Pringle's speed at gooseberry-picking was amazing. Within ten minutes, three bushes were stripped and the oilcloth bag almost full.

She straightened up reluctantly. 'I must say I like a nice gooseberry pie,' she said, 'and now I'd best be off. Pringle gets in about now.'

At the gate she stopped.

'I take it you'll need me on a Wednesday afternoon to do your house over? Been doing it for years now. If Wednesdays don't suit, what about Tuesdays?'

I took a deep breath. 'Can I let you know? I should like to see if I can manage on my own for a bit. But thank you for the offer.'

For the first time that afternoon, she looked taken aback. 'Are you saying you don't want me?'

'Not at the moment. Let's see how things go.'

Without a word she opened the gate and set off down the lane, her heavy bag swinging dangerously.

'Well!' exploded Amy. 'What a miserable old faggot!'

This archaic expression from my childhood days made me laugh.

'So
rude,'
continued Amy, 'criticizing my sandals! And greedy too! Why, she's got enough gooseberries there to make
two dozen
pies.'

'So you don't take to Mrs P? She did offer to help in the house, you know.'

'I thought you handled that very well,' said Amy, with rare praise. 'Personally, I wouldn't employ her for a pension, the wicked old harridan.'