(9/20) Tyler's Row (18 page)

The thought of finding another teacher filled me with despair. I have endured, in my time, a succession of temporary teachers, known as 'supply teachers', and though some have been delightful, more have been deplorable. Moreover, it is very unsettling for the children to have so many changes.

'I'm sorry it's such short notice,' said Mrs Bonny. 'I thought of leaving at the end of October—at half term. That would have given you plenty of time to find someone else. But this flat has turned up.'

I laughed hollowly. Finding a good infants' teacher is like searching for gold dust.

'And we should have had time to get the flat ready at weekends and during the summer holidays. But we've had a good offer for our house, and we feel we must sell it and go now.'

She seemed to have given the matter much thought, and obviously her mind was made up. I did my best to look at it from her point of view, but I felt sad and apprehensive.

A pellet of paper, obviously catapulted from a bent-back ruler, landed on my desk, and for a minute my staffing problems were forgotten.

Ernest, still holding the ruler, was scarlet in the face.

'I never meant—' he began fearfully, noting my expression.

'No play for you this afternoon,' I told him. 'You can write out your multiplication tables instead.'

Meekly, he picked up the pellet and put it in the waste-paper basket.

At the same moment, a bevy of infants converged upon the communicating door, babbling incoherently.

Mrs Bonny and I went to see what was the matter.

Beneath one of the diminutive armchairs a pool of water darkened the floorboards. The children pointed at one wispy five-year-old accusingly.

'Rosie Carter went to the lavatory,' said one self-righteous little girl.

'That,'
said Mrs Bonny, with awful emphasis, 'is exactly what she did
not
do.'

We postponed our plans for the future to deal with more urgent problems.

15. Sergeant Burnaby Falls Ill

FOR some days after the departure of Mrs Fowler's dog, peace reigned at Tyler's Row.

Sergeant Burnaby maintained an offended silence when his path crossed the Hales'. Even his radio seemed quieter, although his cough, Diana noticed, became more hacking daily. She wished he would smoke less, but it was really none of her business, she told herself, and there were very few pleasures left for the old man to enjoy.

Mrs Fowler, too, seemed unusually quiet, and was inclined to toss her head and look the other way when Diana met her. It was a pity that she felt like this, thought Diana, but nothing could be done about it, and at least things were more tranquil.

She was glad of the respite, for she awaited the results of the tests with acute anxiety. She did her best to put aside her fears, busying herself with the house and garden, and with entertaining all those Caxley friends who wanted to see their new home, but now and again the grim doubts would break through her defences, and she would be beset by dark thoughts.

She felt sure that the wretched mole, which had started all the trouble, was growing. It was certainly giving her twinges. If only she could know! Even the worst news would be better than this torturing suspense.

It was during this waiting period that the Hales invited the Mawnes to dinner. Peter's headmaster, another keen ornithologist, and his wife, were also invited.

'Henry Mawne,' said Diana, as she set the table, 'reminds me of one of my old flames.'

'Which one?' asked Peter. 'That terrible tennis-player I met?'

'No, no. He didn't last long. D'you know, I can't for the life of me remember this man's name.'

Diana paused, forks in hand, and gazed into the middle distance.

'He had just been jilted by another girl called Diana, and he seemed to think it was the hand of God—meeting me, I mean. He was really rather persistent.'

'I expect you encouraged him,' said Peter primly.

'That I didn't! He was frightfully old, forty at least—'

'Poor devil!' commented Peter.

'And I was only twenty. He had a silver plate in his head, or a silver tube in his inside—something metallic one wouldn't expect—and such a nice voice.'

'What an incoherent description!' remarked Peter. 'I wouldn't trust your choice in an identity parade.'

'It's all I can remember,' protested Diana, resuming her work with the forks. 'Anyway, Henry Mawne is rather like him. How I wish I could remember his name!'

The headmaster and his wife arrived first. They were sticklers for punctuality, and if the invitation was for seven-thirty, they were there on the dot, if not a trifle earlier.

Diana, in common with most people, disliked visitors who kept one waiting whilst the meal grew browner and drier in the oven, but she sometimes wondered, when the Thornes appeared so promptly, if it were not harder to appear sincerely welcoming when one's back zip was still undone.

The Mawnes appeared at twenty to eight. Mrs Mawne, whom Diana had only seen in tweed suits or sensible cotton shirtwaisters, was resplendent in red velvet, cut very low, her substantial bosom supporting the sort of ornate necklace of gold, pearls and garnets, which Diana had only seen in the advertisements of Messrs Sotheby. She would really look more at home, thought Diana, at a gala performance at Covent Garden, rather than a modest dinner party in a cottage.

However, it was good of her to do the occasion so much honour, and she certainly looked magnificent. Henry, in his dark church suit, made a suitably restrained background to so much splendour.

The two men took to each other at once, and such terms as 'lesser spotted woodpeckers', 'only a
cedar
nesting box attracts them', 'migratory habits' and 'never more than one clutch a season', were batted between them like so many bright shuttlecocks.

The two women found that they had attended the same boarding school, and though they were both careful to make no mention of dates, thus giving away their ages, they remembered a great many girls and members of staff.

'And do you remember Friday lunch?' asked Mrs Thorne.

'Friday lunch,' said Mrs Mawne, with feeling, 'is permanently engraved—scarred, perhaps I should say-upon my memory. Those awful boiled cods at the end of each table, swimming in grey slime, with their poor eyes half out.'

'They might have looked better on a pretty dish,' said Mrs Thorne, trying to be fair. 'But those thick white dishes added to the general ghastliness.'

'At least you knew what you were eating,' said Diana. 'At my school we had fish-cakes every Friday, concocted from saw-dust and watered anchovy essence, as far as I could see. The irony of it was, they used to be dished up with a sprig of fresh parsley—the only thing with any food value in it at all—and, of course, that remained on the dish.'

'Have you noticed,' said Mrs Mawne, stroking her red velvet skirt, 'that everyone talks about food these days? I think we got into the way of it during the war, and now whenever women meet they swap recipes or reminiscences.'

'I know,' said Mrs Thorne. 'I remember my mother drumming into me as a child that a well-brought-up person never talked of politics, religion, money or food. We should all be struck dumb these days.'

Diana retreated to the kitchen to dish up. Mrs Willet was coming later to make the coffee, and to wash up when the meal was over. It was a long time since she had taken on such an engagement, and she had welcomed Diana's tentative invitation with as much relish as if she were having an evening at the theatre. Diana hoped she would get a glimpse of Mrs Mawne's magnificence. It would please her so much.

The meal was a great success, the duck succulent, the fresh young vegetables, some from Mr Willet's garden, at their best, and Diana's strawberry shortcake sweet much admired.

Nothing, mercifully, could be heard of their neighbours. Ever since the earlier catastrophic dinner party when Robert was present, Diana had been painfully aware of how easily their peace could be shattered. The weather, perhaps, had something to do with it. The fine spell had broken, and heavy summer rain lashed the windows and dripped steadily from the thatch.

'Good for the grass,' commented the headmaster, who was a great gardener. The talk turned to flowers and trees, and then, suddenly, to neighbours.

'And how are you getting on with yours?' asked Mrs Mawne.

'Not very well,' confessed Peter, and told them a little of their troubles.

'You really must get rid of them,' Mrs Mawne maintained robustly. Diana hoped that Mrs Fowler's ear was not glued to the adjoining wall. Mrs Mawne's voice was notoriously carrying.

'That's easier said than done,' said Peter. 'They're sitting tenants.'

'I haven't seen the old soldier,' said Mr Mawne. 'At least, not since die week-end. Is he all right?'

'As far as I know,' said Diana. 'I think I saw him yesterday. Or was it the day before?'

'We often meet at the shop,' said Henry. 'I usually go to the post office at four, and he's going to buy his baccy. Interesting old fellow, but you don't want to be in a hurry. He'd talk till Kingdom Come if you'd let him.'

'He's lonely, I expect,' said Mrs Thorne. 'Particularly now, if he's taken umbrage about something, and isn't speaking to you.'

Diana began to feel worried. The conversation went on to other matters, but she had an uncomfortable feeling that it was quite two days since she had seen Sergeant Burnaby about. She must investigate as unobtrusively as possible. It was dreadful to think that the old soldier might be incapacitated so near at hand.

'I don't think we recognise,' she heard the headmaster saying, 'how much the country lost when that generation was wiped out in the First World War. All the best, you know—the finest minds. Must make a difference to have all those potential fathers gone. I used to have
My Magazine
as a child. There were pages of photographs of some of the chaps who died. The Grenfell brothers, Raymond Asquith, Rupert Brooke, Charles Sorley and someone in a bush hat called Selous, as far as I remember. Just a handful of well-known men, of course. When you multiply that by hundreds, it makes you think of what we are still missing.'

'I had
My Magazine
too,' cried Diana. 'My parents thought I should learn such a lot from it. The first thing I did was to turn to "The Hippo Boys"! They once made a sledge out of an upturned table, and flew Union Jacks from all the legs.'

'A fat lot of education you seemed to have gleaned from
My Magazine,'
commented her husband. 'I don't think you picked up many of the pearls cast by the editors before all the young piglets. I had
Rainbow,
and was brought up on Mrs Bruin. I wonder why she had her frock decorated with a poached-egg pattern? It used to intrigue me.'

'Easy to draw, I expect,' said Henry Mawne. 'I wasn't allowed such luxuries, but I used to buy Sexton Blake in secret when I was at school, and read him under the bed clothes with a flickering torch.'

The party broke up about eleven. The rain still tumbled down. The Thornes had come from Caxley by car, but the Mawnes had come on foot, sheltering under golf umbrellas. By this time, there were formidable puddles everywhere, and despite protestations by Henry Mawne of enjoying a good splash through the rain—Mrs Mawne, for once, remaining silent—the Thornes insisted upon taking them home, and the Hales waved them all goodbye.

Diana looked anxiously towards Sergeant Burnaby's cottage. It was in complete darkness, as was Mrs Fowler's, but this was only to be expected at that time of night.

She found herself listening for sounds of life, as she lay in bed an hour later. It was very quiet, and she made up her mind that she would call next door first thing in the morning, and risk the old man's wrath.

Then, faintly, she heard coughing. It was the old familiar rasping cough of the heavy smoker.

Much relieved, Diana turned over and fell asleep.

It was still raining the next morning when Peter went off to school. A long puddle, dimpled with raindrops, lay along the edge of the brick path, and the trunks of the trees were striped with little rivulets.

Still anxious, Diana peered through the hedge at Sergeant Burnaby's doorstep. She was shocked to see two full bottles of milk standing there in the rain. This must be the third day that the old man had been unable to go outside.

At that moment, the postman arrived. He called at the soldier's house first and then came to Diana's door. She enquired if he had seen Sergeant Burnaby.

'Come to think of it,' said the young man, dripping droplets from his peaked cap over the letters in his hand, 'I haven't. He's usually up and about. And now you mention it, yesterday's letter was still stuffed in his letter slit. You reckon he's okay?'

'I'm not sure,' replied Diana, 'but I'm going round immediately.'

'Shall I come too?'

'No, you've got your duties to do, many thanks. I'll manage. If need be, I can telephone for some help.'

The postman looked a trifle disappointed, Diana thought, at being denied a little drama, but she was sure that the fewer people who visited Sergeant Burnaby the better. No doubt she would get a hostile reception anyway, but she was willing to take the risk.

She shrugged on a mackintosh and splashed her way to the adjoining cottage.

The door was shut. She knocked and waited, watching the raindrops slide down the wood, and noting that all the windows were securely shut. After a minute or two, she tried the door handle.

The door was not locked or bolted, she was thankful to find. She opened it a little way and called. There was no answer.

Now she began to feel afraid, and wished she had accepted the offer of the postman's company. Suppose the old man lay dead? The house was unnaturally quiet, and had the frowsty smell of an old house shut up for days without air.

She picked up the milk bottles. They rattled together in her shaking hand, and seemed to make a terrible din.

Taking a deep breath, she entered the living room. The fire-place had a few cold ashes in it. The windows were slightly misted with condensation. A crumpled newspaper lay on the floor by the old man's armchair. It was dated, Diana could see, three days earlier.