Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre (6 page)

In times of drought the villagers were hard-pressed, and Fairacre pond furnished a few precious bucketfuls for cleaning operations. Mr Roberts, the local farmer, had put
in a bore to keep his cattle watered, and he let each household have a bucket or two of fresh water from this well for drinking when things became serious.

Of necessity we had earth closets, and thanks to Bob Willet and Mrs Pringle these were kept as hygienic as such primitive amenities could be, but it was a great relief to everyone when water was piped to the village some years after my arrival.

Even so, the old ways persisted, and I noticed that Mrs Pringle transferred what she termed 'lovely suds' from the new wash basins to a pail, in readiness to wash over the lobby floor.

Considering the somewhat primitive hygiene which the Fairacre folk had perforce to endure, it was surprising to see what a healthy lot we all were.

I suppose the air had something to do with it. Even on a still summer's day there is a freshness in this downland air, and in the winter the winds can be ferocious, blowing away not only cobwebs but any germs hovering about, I suspect.

Doctor Martin, who looks after the local population, does not get called upon unnecessarily. Accidents on the farms, unlucky tractor drivers pinned beneath overturned vehicles, men carelessly wielding scythes, hedge slashers and other dangerous implements may get Doctor Martin's ready attention, but minor ailments are usually dealt with at home.

Some of these remedies sound horrific, and over the years Mrs Pringle has curdled my blood with her first-aid tips.

'My young nephew,' she told me once, 'had the whooping cough something dreadful. Nearly coughed his heart up, and Doctor's medicine never done him a bit of good.

In the end, it was Bob Willet's old mother as suggested the fried mouse.'

'Fried mouse?' I quavered.

'Oh, it's a good old cure, is fried mouse. You want a
fresh
one, of course. And it's best to skin it, and then try and eat it whole.'

I must have looked as horrified as I felt.

'It does sound
unpleasant
, don't it?' said Mrs Pringle, with evident satisfaction. 'But no end of people swear by it.'

'Did it help your nephew?'

'Well, no, it didn't seem to work with him, but old Mrs Willet's cure for chilblains was always a winner.'

'And what was that?'

'A thorough thrashing with stinging nettles. Worked like a charm. Always.'

Pondering on this, after Mrs Pringle had left to resume her duties, I could only suppose that the stings from the nettles acted as a counter-irritant to the itching of the chilblains, but it all seemed unnecessarily violent to me, and I resolved to treat any chilblains I might suffer with more orthodox methods.

But in my early days at the school, I soon discovered that apart from the inevitable childish complaints such as measles and chickenpox, my thirty-odd pupils were a hardy lot, only succumbing occasionally to a bout of toothache or earache, or an upset tummy, the latter usually in August or September when the apples and plums were unripe.

The first-aid box, on the wall above the map cupboard, was seldom used; a bottle of disinfectant, lint and bandages for scraped knees and cut fingers were the things most often in demand and, as I pointed out, if the children kept off the coke pile half the injuries would never occur at all.

But I might just as well have saved my breath.

***

It was Mrs Pringle who first pointed out to me that it was traditional at Fairacre School to give a Christmas party to parents and friends.

'I thought as how it should be
mentioned,
' she told me, 'so's you can decide if you want to go on with it. Alice Willet usually bakes a cake - and very nice it is too,' she added graciously.

I said that I thought it was an excellent idea and would start planning straightaway.

Miss Clare confirmed Mrs Pringle's information, and was slightly amused at her early pronouncement.

'I meant to tell you in good time,' she said, 'but Mrs P. has got there first.'

I was careful to find out how things were traditionally done. One has to tread warily in a village, particularly if one is a newcomer. Mrs Willet, it seemed, had the largest square baking tin in the village, and was adept at producing enormous square cakes, ideal for cutting into neat fingers on festive occasions.

'Her coronation cake,' Mrs Pringle told me, 'was a real masterpiece, with a Union Jack piped on it in icing. And
waving
at that!'

It was Miss Clare who told me that it was right and proper for Mrs Willet to be given the ingredients for such an expensive product, but this had to be done with great diplomacy, and the money was usually taken from the school funds.

I negotiated these perils as well as I could, and rather dreaded my meeting with Alice Willet to arrange about making the cake, but my fears were groundless.

One misty November day I called at her cottage after school to broach the subject, but she greeted me with a smile.

'The cake? Why, I made it nearly a month ago. It's not iced yet, of course, but the cake itself needs a few weeks to mature nicely. I always put a spoonful of brandy in it, but I don't tell Bob. He's a strict teetotaller, you see. I don't drink either, but I think a spot of brandy in a good fruit cake, a little drop of sherry in a trifle, makes all the difference.'

I began to make a halting speech about the cost of the cake, and Mrs Willet opened a corner cupboard and took out a neat list which she handed me. It showed all the ingredients and the prices, and the total was shown clearly between two neatly-ruled lines. It seemed extraordinarily modest to me.

I studied the list again.

'But you haven't put in eggs,' I said, feeling rather proud of my perspicacity.

Mrs Willet looked shocked. 'Oh, I wouldn't dream of charging for the eggs! They come from our own chickens, you see.'

'But all the more reason why you should charge for such a first-class product.'

'No, no. I've never done that in all these years. Call it my contribution to Christmas, if you like.'

And with that I had to be content.

The Christmas party took place during the last week of term. The school room was garlanded with home-made paper chains, and a Christmas tree glittered in the corner.

The children acted as hosts to their parents and friends of the school, the stoves roared merrily, and Mrs Willet's Christmas cake was the centre piece of the long tea table. In its centre stood a snowman, some over-large robins and a tiny Christmas tree, and the children were loud in their admiration of Mrs Willet's handiwork.

Among our visitors was Amy, who was quite the most elegant figure among us, and also one of the most appreciative.

At the end of the proceedings, when we had waved goodbye to the children and their guests, we turned back into the quiet school room, crumbs and chaos about us, but also a blessed silence after the junketings.

'Well,' said Amy, 'I don't know when I have enjoyed a party more. You certainly know how to do things in Fairacre.'

I was just beginning to glow with pride at these kind words when the door was flung open and Mrs Pringle stood there surveying the scene.

'Humph!' said the lady, 'about time I made a start, I can see.'

Suddenly chilled, Amy and I made our escape to the school house.

As time passed, Mrs Pringle and I established a precarious truce. Every now and again she would broach the question of cleaning my house, but I resisted her offers as civilly as I could. Mrs Pringle during school hours was quite enough for me. I hoped that I could keep my home out of that lady's clutches.

There were occasional clashes, of course, and after each one Mrs Pringle's combustible leg would 'flare up', and oblige her to drag the suffering limb about her duties with many a sigh and a wince. I grew very skilled at ignoring these manifestations of Mrs Pringle's umbrage.

The stoves were the usual source of trouble. For some reason, pencil sharpenings near these monsters, usually inside their fireguards, were a major source of irritation. The milk saucepan sometimes left a ring on the jet-black surface, and this too caused sharp comment.

Wet footmarks, coke crunched in, bubble gum, crumbs from lunch packets and any other hazards to Mrs Pringle's floors were also severely criticised and, up to a point, she had my support.

She was indeed a sore trial, but I reminded myself that
she was a superb cleaner, as I was always being told, and that Fairacre School was a model of hygiene in the area.

I also remembered Mr Willet's advice. 'You don't want to worry about her funny ways. She's always been a tartar since a girl. All Fairacre knows that.'

It was some comfort in times of crisis.

Mrs Pringle's bossiness had been well to the fore during the war years it seems. Fairacre, in company with most rural communities, had its fair share of evacuees, and Mrs Pringle was lucky in that the couple billeted upon her were a middle-aged self-effacing pair who inhabited one room of her semi-detached cottage, and who were careful to creep into the kitchen when Mrs Pringle had finished her labours there.

Next door there lived a middle-aged lady, Jane Morgan, who was not as fortunate as Mrs Pringle in her evacuees, Mrs Jarman and her four boisterous children.

They ruled the roost, and soon clashed with Mrs Pringle next door. At the time, Jane Morgan's husband and Fred Pringle were both away in the army. Mrs Jarman's husband had been killed in the blitz of May 1941. It was then that the three solitary women, the four Jarman children, and Mrs Pringle's schoolboy son John were fated to meet at close quarters.

The Jarman family was an indomitable one. Despite the loss of a husband and father, not to mention their home and all that was in it, the Jarmans' cockney spirit remained irrepressible. The children took to taunting Mrs Pringle over the hedge, and when that lady reported the matter to their mother, Mrs Jarman joined battle with equal zest. For once, it seemed, Mrs Pringle was on the losing side.

One of their skirmishes took place in the village hall.
During wartime this building was in constant use for a great many village functions, and also as an extra classroom on weekdays to accommodate the London children evacuated to Fairacre.

It was on the occasion of a local jumble sale that the clash between Mrs Pringle and Mrs Jarman was observed by some dozen or so Fairacre ladies who were sorting out the contributions ready for the Saturday afternoon sale.

Mrs Jarman and Mrs Pringle had entered the hall together. Mrs Pringle deposited a large bundle on the floor before making her way with ponderous dignity to her stall, marked 'Junk', and starting to arrange chipped vases, moulting cushions, lidless saucepans and innumerable objects of china or tarnished metal to which no one could give a name.

Meanwhile, Mrs Jarman had fallen to her knees beside the bundle dropped by her neighbour, and was holding up threadbare underpants, cardigans washed so often that they resembled felt, and a number of men's shirts. She kept up a running commentary as she sorted out the garments. Some of the comments were ribald enough to shock a few of the Fairacre folk, but on the whole there was secret delight in seeing Mrs Pringle discomfited.

'Look at these then!' shrieked Mrs Jarman, scrabbling among the shirts. 'Not a button between them. Who's pinched them, eh?'

Mrs Pringle's voice boomed from her corner. 'I cut them off to use again, as any one would in wartime. There's such a thing as
thrift
which a lot of people not a hundred miles from here don't ever seem to have heard of!'

This lofty speech did nothing to curb Mrs Jarman's spirit.

'How mean can you get!' she yelled back.

'Nothing
mean
about it,' returned Mrs Pringle, putting a
headless garden gnome to best advantage on the stall. 'I simply collect shirt buttons. They're bound to be needed.'

'I'll remember that,' cried Mrs Jarman, unearthing a moth-eaten strip of fur. 'Ah, I wonder what sort of skin disease this ratty old collar would give you!'