Village Centenary (21 page)

'It sounds somewhat morbid.'

'Not really. It's supposed to be rather funny. You've no idea how dreadfully depressing that place was. It's doing me good to write it out of my system.'

'What was wrong with it?'

'Everything! For one thing, it was a symphony in green, of all colours.'

'Very restful, they say.'

'Not when you're bilious, as most of the inmates were. And the greens didn't harmonise, to make it worse. And the only decoration was a past pupil's lettering exercise in the most excruciating calligraphy, quite impossible to read from one's sick bed, but it was evidently that passage from Chaucer about the poor scholar who had twenty books clad in black and red. What with the writing and the spelling, one could feel one's mind giving way.'

'You should have closed your eyes.'

'Even so you were assailed by the most nauseating smell of something the mistress who had attended you burnt on an enamel plate on the floor. It was called Persian tape, if I remember rightly, and if you weren't sick when you arrived you pretty soon were once the Persian tape got going.'

'Were you allowed visitors?'

'Only the odd relative. Anyway, this ghastly place was at the very top of a high building, and most people jibbed at all the stairs. Patients were always in a state of collapse when they finally arrived, with their knees like jelly.'

'Well, 1 hope you can do justice to it,' 1 said. 'It sounds as though you have plenty of material.'

'It should do something for my suppressed emotions anyway,' said Amy, with evident satisfaction. 'Now tell me your news. How's the centenary programme going?'

'I'm having Linda and Patrick over here after school tomorrow to try them out with their lines. Miss Clare, bless her, needs no rehearsing, nor Mrs Austen, and Mr Lamb from the post office has promised to tell us something about the famous trip to Wembley in the 1920s. It's not going to be such a formidable job as I first thought, and Miss Briggs is being unusually helpful with the singing.'

'Do you think she'll stay?'

'I'm beginning to hope so. She's much more cheerful since she found that young man, and she's gradually forgetting a lot of the high-falutin' rubbish she was stuffed with at college, thank heaven.'

'Well, good luck with it all,' said Amy, collecting her things. 'By the way, James and I are having a short break in Wales next week to make up for his missing Tresco in the summer, so I shan't see you for a time.'

'Do you know, I thought I might go again next summer to Tresco. I loved it so much.'

'Then book up early,' advised Amy. 'We're going again, but in May, when you'll be hard at work, of course, and we've already staked our claim.'

'It seems rather soon,' I said, 'to book for August.'

'You do it now!'
replied Amy sternly. 'What a terrible procrastinator you are! I wonder anything
ever
gets done in this establishment. Now mind! Sit down and write to that hotel this evening.'

'Yes, Amy,' I said meekly.

I had written the simplest possible dialogue for Linda as Miss Richards, and for Patrick as the bad boy John Pratt, but even so they seemed to find it difficult to memorise.

'Don't worry if it's not exactly the same,' I implored them. 'As long as you get the meaning across, that's all that matters.'

If anything, this confused them even more. We had a break, and I produced lemonade and biscuits. Tibby entered and received a great deal of admiration from the two, and then we resumed. After two or three attempts, things went more smoothly. Linda seemed to be less self-conscious than Patrick and with practice 1 thought the little scene should go well.

'We'll try it with the other children one day this week,' I promised them, 'and by that time you'll know your lines so well, it will be much easier to concentrate on the movements.'

They looked doubtful, and I must confess that if these two comparatively bright pupils made such heavy weather of their parts, it did not look too hopeful for the rest of my cast. Again I felt thankful that most of the performances would be in the more capable hands of three or more adults.

They departed clutching their two-page scripts with them, their young brows furrowed with anxiety. Perhaps I was expecting too much from them, I thought, as I waved them goodbye? Fairacre children are shy by nature, and

perhaps the idea of displaying their modest talents in front of parents and, even worse, their schoolfellows, was going to prove too much for their nerves.

We could only wait and see.

As so often happens in October, the weather was balmy, the skies cloudless, and that clear light peculiar to a fine autumn bathed Fairacre in end-of-summer beauty.

The hedges were bright with glossy berries. The trees were beginning to blaze in all shades of yellow, bronze and crimson, and the cottage gardens, so far untouched by frost, were still gay with asters, Michaelmas daisies, chrysanthemums and dahlias.

I relish these sparkling autumn days, all the more keenly because one knows that there cannot be many of them before waking one morning to a hoary scene and the knowledge that winter has arrived. I took the children out for plenty of exhilarating walks on the downs, and after tea each day walked again on my own before the sun set. By six o'clock it was beginning to grow chilly, and I enjoyed lighting a fire and congratulating myself on having the best of both worlds while the fine spell lasted.

On one of my solitary walks, through a little copse at the foot of the downs, I came across Miriam Quinn who was enjoying the fresh air as much as I was, to judge by her pink cheeks and bright eyes. We walked along together in great content.

'This is the breath of life to me,' she said, 'after the office. I look forward to it all day. Caxley's all very well for working, but I simply couldn't go back there to live after Fairacre.'

'You're not proposing to, are you?' I asked.

She looked thoughtful, bending down to remove a briar which had caught her skirt.

'No. I'm staying, and I hope I'm doing the right thing. You know the young Mawnes are taking over?'

I said that Joan had told me.

'Well, I still have slight doubts about whether they truly want me living under the same roof. They've been terribly kind, and pressed me to stay, and as I honestly can't find a thing worth considering elsewhere, I have agreed. In any case, I love it here, as you know, and it would be a dreadful wrench to have to leave.'

'I'm sure they really do want you to stay. Henry Mawne was relieved to know you would be there when David was away on his business trips. I remember him saying how comforting it would be for Irene to have company in the house at night.'

'Really?' Miriam sounded pleased but slightly incredulous. 'I hadn't thought of that. I must say, it's nice to be useful. I have already offered to sit with young Simon in the holidays if they want to go out in the evening. Irene seemed pleased about that, which delighted me.'

'It would help them enormously, I'm sure.'

We walked along in silence for a short time, until we emerged into one of Mr Roberts's fields, and turned towards the village. Miriam seemed to be turning over my remarks in her mind.

'You know,' she said at last, 'one of the difficulties of being single is that there is no one to discuss these little problems with. It's so easy to see just one's own point of view. I'm glad you told me about Henry Mawne's comment. Of course, he's quite right. I'm afraid I've been far too self-centred over all this business - anxious not to intrude, anxious about finding somewhere else, in fact, thoroughly steamed up and not really thinking of Irene and David's side of the problem. That must be one of the bonuses of married life, I imagine - being able to share one's troubles.'

'Except that you've got two people's troubles then,' I pointed out. 'Think how relatively uncomplicated our spinsterhood is!'

Miriam stopped in her tracks and laughed aloud. It was good to see her usually pensive expression replaced by joyous animation. She ought to laugh more often, I thought.

'Perhaps you're right. Anyway, I'm glad we met in the wood. I'm going home in a much more cheerful state of mind. What about coming back to Holly Lodge for a drink?'

'I'd love to,' I said, and we stepped out briskly together.

The vicar called in to school one gloriously sunny afternoon, and we enthused about the weather. He is as devoted to the sun as I am, and when the rest of the villagers are collapsing with heat, he and I gloat together on perfect conditions for sun-worshippers.

He bore a jar of his own honey, and presented it to me with considerable pride. I thanked him sincerely, and enquired after the bees.

'They've really done splendidly. I collected about sixty pounds of honey. It's so rewarding to see it pouring out of the extractor in a beautiful golden stream. To think that those dear bees have made thousands and thousands of trips, all through the summer, to collect the delicious stuff from all our beautiful Fairacre flowers!'

Obviously, our vicar was enraptured.

'Are they still about?'

'Yes, indeed! As busy as ever. I think they are collecting from the bramble flowers and willow herb now. I don't propose to take any more. What they fetch in now will help them through the winter.'

'Is there much for you to do to prepare them for the cold weather?'

'A
great deal,
' said he earnestly. 'They will need some sugar syrup, and I intend to put up the mouse guards at the entrances. They creep in, you know, for shelter, and possibly the honey. Quite alarming for the bees. I shall certainly take steps to protect them from marauders.'

He took a slip of paper from his pocket and consulted it.

'A quarter of mushrooms, half of tomatoes, a dozen large eggs - no, that isn't it.'

He turned over the paper.

'Ah! Here we are, on the back of my wife's shopping list, you see. First of all, how is the new window?'

'So far, so good,' I told him.

'That's fine. Really, the old skylight was a sore trial when the weather was rough. We should have a snug winter with this new one.'

I said I hoped so.

'Then the next thing I have here is to fix a date for the centenary service.'

He lowered the paper and looked unhappy. 'I rather think I shall have to combine it with a Sunday service in December. My diary has suddenly become horribly full for that month. What do you think? I thought perhaps the Sunday before Christmas might be suitable. It would be the last Sunday of term, and we could have prayers and hymns suitable to the occasion at morning service, and my sermon would be on the subject of our heritage here in the village.'

'It sounds ideal,' I said, 'and the church would be looking festive too by that stage.'

'Certainly,' said the vicar looking mightily relieved at my amiability. What did he expect, I wondered? That I might fling myself to the floor, screaming and drumming my heels?

'The crib would certainly be in place, and no doubt some of the Christmas greenery. Perhaps we could arrange for the children to do some of the decorations, as they do for Harvest Festival?'

'That's a nice idea,' I said, but had private reservations
about how the flower ladies would react to juvenile assistance at Christmas time.

'Good, good!' said Mr Partridge, making for the door. 'I really ought to have a bonfire, I've so much garden stuff to burn, but I intend to wait until dusk. Nothing is going to detract from this beautiful sunshine if I can help it.'

'A case of "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may",' I quoted.

'Absolutely, Miss Read. Absolutely!'

He looked at the children with his usual benevolence.

'I should take them for a walk this afternoon,' he whispered confidentially.

'Don't worry,' I told him. It's at the head of the agenda.'

It was a relief to be without Minnie Pringle's three children. Not that they were naughty or rumbustious. In fact, they were just the opposite, and sat immobile in their desks contributing nothing and, as far as one could see, taking in nothing.

They were all mouth-breathers, which was hardly surprising considering the revolting state of their nasal passages, and no amount of advice, persuasion or example succeeded in showing them how to blow their noses. They were like their mother in being almost unteachable, but without her demented energy. What they would do when it came to earning a living I shuddered to think. No doubt an indulgent welfare state would give them far more for doing nothing than they were capable of earning anyway.