Village Affairs (8 page)

Mr Salisbury, tapping his expensive pen against his expensive false teeth looked rather less patient, and cast meaning glances at the chairman.

Mrs Moffat had just embarked on a long and somewhat confused account about pickling walnuts when the Vicar rapped gently on the table and said kindly: 'Order please, dear ladies, I think Mr Exeter has something to tell us.'

Mr Salisbury, taking his new name in his stride, put down the pad and assumed an expression of disarming candour.

'Well, I don't quite know just
what
you have been hearing at Fairacre, and I can assure you that the office would always consult with the managers of any school as soon as the possibility of closure cropped up.'

'And has it?' asked Mr Roberts.

'There is always some chance of really small schools becoming uneconomic,' began Mr Salisbury cautiously.

He's been through this hoop many times before, I thought to myself. How far would he commit himself today?

'Fairacre's not really small,' said Mrs Mawne.

'I like a small school anyway,' pronounced Mrs Moffat.

'Much more friendly,' agreed Mrs Lamb.

'There are certain disadvantages,' siad Mr Salisbury. 'Lack of team games, for instance. No specialist teachers on the staff for certain subjects. Older children get deprived.'

'Deprived?'
squeaked Mrs Lamb. 'Our children aren't
deprived
are they, Miss Read?'

'I hope not,' I said.

'But what about Fairacre?' persisted Mr Roberts. 'Are you sharpening the knife for us?'

'Nothing will be done without your knowledge and cooperation,' repeated Mr Salisbury.

'But it's on the cards?' asked Peter Hale quietly. 'Is that it?'

'Numbers are going down steadily,' replied Mr Salisbury. 'We have to assess each case on its merit. Certainly, Fairacre is costing us a lot of money to maintain and the children might well be better off at a larger school.'

'Such as Beech Green?'

'Such as Beech Green,' agreed Mr Salisbury.

'When?' said Mr Roberts.

Mr Salisbury put down his pen and tilted back in his chair. I hoped that the rear legs of my elderly dining-room chair would stand the strain.

'It might be years. It all depends on numbers, on getting staff—a problem you are facing at the moment—and the feelings of managers and parents of the school.'

The Vicar was looking unhappy.

'But what about Miss Read? It is unthinkable that she should have her school taken from her.'

There was a rumble of agreement round the table.

Mr Salisbury smiled at me. I felt like Red Riding Hood facing the wolf.

'Miss Read's welfare is our concern, of course. There would always be a post for her in the area. That I can promise you.'

'But we want her
here
!' wailed Mrs Lamb. 'And we
don't
want our school to close!'

'Absolutely right!' said Mrs Mawne. 'People in Fairacre simply won't stand for their children being uprooted, and carted away in buses like so many—er, so many—'

'Animals?' prompted Mr Roberts helpfully.

'No, no, not
animals
,' said Mrs Mawne testily. 'Animals don't go in buses! What I mean is, we won't have it. We'll never let Fairacre School close.'

She looked round the table. Her face was red, her eyes bright.

'Agreed?'

'I do for one,' said Mr Roberts. 'I never heard such a shocking thing in my life. The idea of some of our little tots being hauled off to Beech Green fair gives me the shudders. This school's served the village for over a hundred years, and I don't see why it shouldn't go on doing so for another hundred.'

'Hear! Hear!' said Mrs Lamb.

Mr Salisbury scribbled something on his pad, then looked up.

'Well, Mr Chairman, I have noted the objections of the managers, though I must point out that no decision of any kind has been taken by the committee about Fairacre School.'

'I hope nothing will ever happen to disturb the
status quo,'
said the Vicar. 'We are all extremely happy with our little school. We should be deeply distressed if anything were done to close it, and we rely upon you to keep us informed of any developments.'

Mr Salisbury nodded agreement, and began to put his things together. The Vicar glanced at the clock.

'If that is all our business then nothing remains for me to do but to thank Mr Wells for coming here today and to remind you of the date of the next meeting.'

Mr Salisbury smiled at us all, shook my hand warmly and departed.

'He'd better not try any funny business with our village school,' said Mr Roberts, watching the car drive away. 'And don't you bother your head about all that nonsense, Miss Read. We're all behind you in this.'

'Indeed we are,' said the Vicar.

'They closed Springbourne though,' said Mrs Moffat thoughtfully.

'Took 'em ten years,' observed Mr Roberts. 'A lot can happen before they think of Fairacre again. In any case, we can all have a dam' good fight over it, and I bet we'd win. The parents would be with us, that I do know.'

One by one, the managers left, until only Mr Partridge remained with me.

'We don't seem to have gone very far with this business,' he remarked, 'but at least it has been mentioned, and I think that is a good thing. He seems a good fellow, that Mr Wells—Winchester, I mean—.'

'Salisbury,' I interjected.

'Salisbury,
yes,
Salisbury.
I feel he would act honourably and not do anything without letting us know first.'

'So I should hope.'

'Don't upset yourself about it, dear Miss Read. I cannot believe that it would ever happen here.'

'Let's hope not,' I said. I really felt that I could not discuss the the wretched business any more, and I think the Vicar sensed this, for he patted my shoulder encouragingly, and made his departure.

I felt more shaken by the meeting than I would have admitted to anyone. My mouth was dry, my knees wobbly. I tottered into the garden and sat on the seat.

Everything around me burst with healthy life. Sparrows flashed from plum tree to cherry tree. A peacock butterfly flapped its bejewelled wings from a daisy top. The pinks gave out their heady scent. The rose buds opened gently in the warm air. Even Tibby displayed every sign of well-being, with her stomach exposed to the sun, and her eyes blissfully closed.

Only I, it seemed, was at odds with my surroundings. Their very beauty emphasised my own malaise. Should I ever come to terms with this horrible nagging uncertainty? "Would it be better to take the bull by the horns, and apply for another post now? If I kept putting it off I should be too old to be considered by other managers. Perhaps I was too old already? How old was Emily Davis, I wondered, when she first heard that Springbourne was going to close? How long did Mr Roberts say that was hanging over her? Ten years? The suspense could not be borne.

At least, I told myself, no one need know yet about the shadow coming nearer. Enough to let the rumours die down, as they were doing quite comfortably, before stirring them up again like a swarm of angry bees.

I went indoors, at length, and tried to busy myself with bottling gooseberries, but the operation did not get my whole attention. I was glad when Mr Willet knocked at the back door and asked if he could borrow my edging shears.

It was a comfort to exchange a few general remarks with him on the state of our gardens, and the surprising need for rain at this time of year.

I accompanied him to the gate.

'All right if I bring these 'ere cutters back in the morning?' he asked.

'Fine,' I told him. 'I shan't be doing any gardening tonight.'

'I'd have an early night if I was you,' he advised me. 'You looks a bit peaky. I hears they brought up that school closing business again at your meeting. Bit of a shock, no doubt, but you put it out of your head.'

I was too stunned to reply.

He smiled kindly upon me.

'Us'll rout anyone who tries to shut up our school! You can bet your last farthing on that!'

He strode down the lane, my edging-shears across his shoulder like a gun.

'There goes a militant Christian,' I said to Tibby, 'but how on earth did he know?'

NOW that Amy had gone to attend to her other commitments, I was left to cope alone once again.

Luckily, it would be only for one week—or so the office told me. After that, help was at hand in the form of Mrs Rose who had been Headmistress of a small school nearby. That school had been closed for some two years, and Mrs Rose was now euphoniously termed 'a peripatetic teacher'.

This meant that she moved from school to school, sometimes helping children who found reading difficult, and sometimes acting as a supply teacher when staff was short.

I viewed her advent with mixed feelings. She was over sixty, and was in this present job because she was in the last stages of her forty years' service. Her health was not good, and she was a martyr to laryngitis.

On the other hand, she was of a gentle disposition, anxious to fit in, open to suggestions, and generally amenable. And, in any case, the mere presence of another human being—even one as frail as Mrs Rose—on the other side of the glass partition, was a great comfort and support.

In the meantime, I soldiered on and was relieved, in a way, to have the school to myself in order to try to come to terms with the dreadful possibility of becoming, like Mrs Rose, a teacher without a school of my own.

Despite my airy dismissal of rumours on so many earlier occasions, this time I had an uncomfortable feeling that change was in the wind. Something in Mr Salisbury's manner at the managers' meeting made me fear the worst, and I was surprised to find how upset I was.

Normally, I sleep for nine hours, drugged with work and good downland air. Now I took an hour or more before drifting off, as I tossed and turned trying to decide what to do. Even my appetite suffered, a most unusual symptom, and I found myself nibbling a biscuit and cheese rather than facing a square meal in the evening. What Amy would have said if she could have witnessed my more than usually casual eating habits, I shuddered to think.

Now and again, I found myself trembling too. Good heavens, was I becoming senile into the bargain? Fat chance I should have of landing another teaching post if I appeared before strange managers with my head shaking and possibly a drop on the end of my nose!

It was all extremely unnerving, and I was grateful for the children's company in my alarming condition.

There were other disquieting factors. The weather had turned cold and blustery, despite the fact that June had arrived. We could have done with some heating from the tortoise stoves, but that, of course, was out of the question.

Then Minnie Pringle's presence about the house on Friday afternoons was distinctly unsettling. On the first visit, she had managed to drop a jar of bath salts into the hand basin, smashing the former and badly cracking the latter.

Also, in a fit of zeal, she had attacked my frying pan with the disinfectant powder kept for the dustbin, and some steel wool, thus effectively removing the non-stick surface.

'I thought as it was Vim,' she explained, in answer to my questioning.

'But it says
DISINFECTANT POWDER
on the tin!'

'Can't read them long words,' said Minnie truculently.

'But you can read "Vim", can't you? And this tin didn't have "Vim" written on it.'

'Looked the same to me,' replied Minnie, and flounced off, tripping over a rug on the way, and bringing the fire-irons into the hearth with a fearful crash.

I fled into the garden, unable to face any more destruction. So must victims of earthquakes feel, I thought, as they await the next shattering blow.

It was during this unsettled period that the case of Arthur Coggs and his companions was heard at Caxley.

As they appeared in Court on market day, several people from Fairacre were interested spectators, among them Mr Willet. He had travelled in by bus to pick up some plants from the market, and having two hours to spare before the bus returned, decided to witness the fate of the four accused.

Mr Lovejoy, the most respected solicitor in Caxley, was defending all four, as he had done on many previous occasions.

'And an uphill job he'll have this time,' commented Mr Willet to me. 'They had the sauce to plead Not Guilty, too.'

'Perhaps it's true,' I said.

Mr Willet snorted, puffing out his stained moustache.

'Want to bet on it? Anyway, old Colonel Austin was in the chair, and he read out a bit, before they got started, about committing 'em to Crown Court if they was found guilty. Something about their characters and antecedents, whatever
that means. But it made it plain that they could get clobbered for more than six months, if need be, and I'd stake my oath that's where they'll end up. All four's got a list as long as my arm, as everyone knows.'

'A man is innocent,' I said primly, 'until he is proved guilty.'

'Them four,' replied Mr Willet,' are as innocent as Old Nick hisself. My heart bleeds for that chap Lovejoy trying to whitewash them villains. It'd turn my stomach to do a job like that. I'd sooner dig Hundred Acre Field with a hand fork, that I would!'