by Miss Read
'Very well, miss,' sighed Bert, more in sorrow than anger, in the face of such feminine unreasonableness. 'We'll call in at the stores on our way home.'
I watched them clamber into the van. They were busy talking to each other. It was fortunate, I suspected, that I could not actually hear their comments.
That same evening, while the ham and tongue simmered comfortably on the stove, Mrs Pringle arrived.
'I had to go over the school,' she said, 'so I thought I'd pop in.'
'Do sit down. Coffee?'
'No thanks. It gives me heartburn. But I thought I'd give your brass a rub up with these visitors of yours coming.'
I was torn between gratitude for the kind offer and irritation at being disturbed in the midst of my preparations.
'Well,' I began, 'I don't think there's any real need, but if you like to come for an hour tomorrow afternoon, I should be grateful.'
'Better make it two,' said she. 'Besides the brass, I expect that bathroom will want doing, and I see them men have made plenty of dust everywhere. You don't want your visitors drawing their fingers along the top of the doors now, do you?'
'My guests,' I retorted, 'would do no such thing, and if they were so ill-mannered they would deserve to get dirty fingers.'
Mrs Pringle snorted derisively, which made me seethe even more.
'Why,' I continued, 'you might just as well suggest that my visitors would scrabble about in the chimney while they are at it!'
'And that,' said Mrs Pringle, puffing to her feet, 'can do with the sweep, and that I do know.'
She limped to the door.
'See you tomorrow,' she said.
As always, she had enjoyed the last word.
Bert and Perce appeared the next morning bearing two boxes. One held plain white tiles, the other some beetroot-coloured ones with a green sprig of some unknown shrub in the centre.
'All we could get in that size, miss,' they said. 'That's a very tricky bit of wall there, over that basin. Too close to ■ the door like, and that mirror on the wall takes up a deal of room. I said to Bert at the time we was measuring: "Here's trouble," I said, didn't I, Bert?'
'You did, Perce, you did.'
'You didn't measure it correctly,' I said bluntly, and they looked wounded.
'So which d'you like?' said Perce at last.
'I don't like either,' I told them, 'but it will have to be the white, I can see that, so you'd better get on with it.'
They went aloft bearing the tiles. The box of beetroot ones remained on the table, and I studied the sprig carefully. Could it be yew? Or rosemary? Come to think of it, it looked remarkably like a piece of butcher's broom which examiners like to present to botanical students for identification. There was a catch in it, if I could only recall what it was after some forty years. What looked like a leaf was a stem, or else what looked like a stem was a leaf. Unless it was something called an adventitious root, of course.
I decided not to waste any more time on the matter, and put the box of tiles in the front porch for Perce and Bert to return to the van. Those sprigs, let alone the colour, would have driven me mad in a fortnight.
I was now quite reconciled to living with the white ones.
6 A Change of Address
SATURDAY morning was all that an April morning should be. The small birds sang as they went about their nest-building, the daffodils waved their trumpets and the blue sky was dappled with high slow-moving clouds.
My four guests were due at twelve-thirty, and as most of the preparations were done, I even had time to peruse the fashion pages of my daily newspaper.
It appeared that ethnic colours - whatever they might be - were the only possible choice for our summer outfits. Such bourgeois ensembles as navy-blue and white, beige and cream were evidently anathema to the fashion writer. Wide belts of leather studded with bronze, or simply thick chains with dangling medallions would encircle the waists of those who had such attributes.
Hats were out too—vivid kerchieves of scarlet or yellow would bind our heads to make us look like Russian peasants. Cardigans, it seemed, were also forbidden. This necessary adjunct to an English summer had been thrown overboard for vivid shawls and ponchos. What you did with your arms whilst attempting to carry a tray and keep your wrap round your shoulders, was anybody's guess, as buttons were taboo. What a blessing I had so little money that last year's despised garments would form the bulk of my summer wear!
'Lucky old Tibby,' I said to the cat, as I threw aside the paper to go about my duties. 'Only one rigout for winter and summer! And it always fits.'
The Bakers and the Winters arrived within five minutes of the half hour, much to my relief.
We all know the friends that are bidden for, say, 'twelve to half-past', and cotton on to the half-past bit and arrive at five to one when the potatoes have turned to mush, and the Yorkshire pudding is black round the edges.
Frankly, I far prefer people to arrive too early, even if I am struggling into my clean blouse, and the white sauce has still to be made. At least they are there, and you have them under your thumb, so to speak, and are spared the anxiety of wondering if they have:
a) forgotten
b) had a crash on the way, in which case who should one ring first to apprise them of the accident and give the address of the hospital?
c) been told the wrong day, and may turn up tomorrow when the food is ruined.
My good friends were welcomed most warmly. The women knew each other, of course, and there was immediate chatter about their old employer Sir Barnabas Hatch, but Gerard and Tom had not met. However, within minutes, over their sherry, they were discussing the merits of Manchester United and Tottenham Hotspur, and I was able to slip away to put out the food.
It all seemed to be much appreciated. Appetites were hearty, and the ham and tongue was consumed by Miriam with as much enjoyment as the others. Nevertheless, the carefully prepared vegetarian quiche seemed equally popular with all. I felt positively smug at the compliments and was glad that I did not live in earlier, more formal times when young ladies were adjured never to comment on the food offered, and to eschew all talk of money, religion and politics; not that the latter two subjects cropped up very frequently, but money, or rather the lack of it, was a more common theme these days.
It was the reason, Jane Winter surmised, for the lack of buyers for the remaining two new houses.
'The price has been reduced by several thousand,' she told us. 'Perhaps we should have waited.'
'Nonsense!' said Tom cheerfully. 'We bought when we wanted to, and got a decent packet for the last place. It's simply that there's not the money about now.'
'There are several "For Sale" boards in our road in Caxley,' said Gerard. 'You can understand people's reluctance to lower the price, but it will have to come.'
'Have you seen any possible buyers at the new houses?' I asked Jane, hoping she would tell me of couples with large families of school age, all bent on living in Fairacre and attending my school.
'One or two elderly couples,' she replied, dashing my hopes. 'Retired people, I think. I spoke to one very pleasant woman. She'd be an ideal neighbour, I'm sure, but they thought the price excessive.'
'He'd had a bakery in Caxley High Street,' said Tom. 'I think it was 'Millers".'
'Oh, that's a marvellous shop,' I exclaimed. 'It's been there for generations. One of the founders was a brother of an old boy who farmed round here for years. The brother - the baker - used to live over the shop. I had tea there once with one of his daughters. You could see all the life of Caxley from their sitting-room windows.'
'These people moved from there long ago, I gather,' said Jane. 'Now they want to be even further out.'
I found this understandable, but sad. Of course, it had always been thus. The High Street traders, as they grew prosperous, moved to the higher and hillier suburbs of the town, probably only a mile away in Victorian times. Their descendants built their homes a little farther out, on the fields which ringe
d the town. With the coming of the car, the present generation could live ten or twenty miles away from their business. Many, of course, had sold long ago, which accounted for the national, rather than local, names over the shops in the High Street.
Times change, we know, but I gave a wistful thought to that long-ago tea party overlooking a busy, but not, as now, traffic-clogged Caxley High Street.
My thoughts were interrupted by a question from Miriam about Miss Clare.
'I shall be seeing her tomorrow,' I told her.
'I don't know her as well as you do,' said Miriam, 'but she always struck me as one of the most well-balanced people one could wish to meet.'
I heartily agreed, and gave a brief account of Dolly's early days at Beech Green and Fairacre.
Gerard became vastly interested and wondered if he could have a television interview with her. Always the professional, I thought!
'Would she come to Lime Grove?' he asked, eyes shining.
'I doubt it. She's very old and very delicate now. It's as much as she can do to get upstairs to bed.'
'We could do it at her house,' continued Gerard. 'Shall I call on her on our way home?'
'Good heavens, Gerard! Have a heart! I should think the very idea would make her collapse.'
The conversation turned to other things, and then the Winters said that they must go and collect Jeremy from his friend's house where he had been invited for lunch, and so the party began to break up.
'I can't tell you how I envy Jane,' said Miriam, as we waved goodbye to the Winters.
I wondered whether she was considering her own childless state, but other matters were on her mind.
'I do so miss the office,' she told me, in a low voice, so that Gerard, who was inspecting the garden, could not hear. 'Barny could be a sore problem at times, but he was always stimulating, and I miss the hurly-burly of all the arrangements to be made, and the comings and goings of interesting people.'
'Can't you apply for another job? I should think anyone with half an eye would snap you up.'
She looked pensive.
'I'm beginning to think about it. Barney has said that when Jane has her holidays he would like to have me as stand-in. But I wonder if that would work. Even if it would be enough.'
'Something will turn up,' I told her, wondering just what.
'When you women have stopped chattering,' said Gerard, approaching, 'we'll offer our sincere thanks for a lovely time, and let you have a rest.'
They departed, leaving me with much to ponder.
The next day I set off to see Dolly Clare, taking the promised picnic with me. It so happened that I met Mrs John on her way home from calling at Miss Clare's.
'She's looking forward to seeing you,' she told me. 'I've just had to break the news that I shall be away for a week or two. My father is very ill in Cardiff. They seem to think that he is near his end, and I must go to help my mother. Mrs Annett knows, and she has promised to keep an eye on things, but I didn't like telling Miss Clare, I'd be away.'
'It can't be helped, and in any case your family must come first. I'll see what I can do, and give you a ring before you go.'
'Thank you. Actually, I shall set off on Tuesday morning.'
'I'll remember,' I said. 'You've been absolutely marvellous to her, and I know she has always appreciated it.'
I drove on, my mind full of plans.
Dolly was pottering about in her garden. She used a stick for support these days, and moved very slowly, but she was still upright and greeted me with a smile.
We wandered about the garden together. The fruit trees were in small leaf, and the hawthorn hedges beginning to show buds. After a while we went indoors, and I wondered if she would say anything about Mrs John's departure to Wales. It would be typical of Dolly, I thought, to say nothing, independent spirit that she was.
We enjoyed our cold collation, and I was glad to see that she ate a good helping of tongue. The remains I insisted on leaving in her cool tiled larder for another meal, and was about to help her upstairs for her usual rest.
'Rest?' she protested. 'I don't have such a thing when I have visitors. I can have a rest any time. Visitors are rarer and more precious.'
So we sat and talked, but still nothing was said about Mrs John. At length, I broached the subject.
'I met Mrs John on my way here. She tells me that she is obliged to go to Wales. I just wondered if you would like to come and stay with me?'
I had been thinking of this, and other plans, ever since meeting Mrs John. It was true that the workmen were due to tackle my bedroom, but that could be postponed, or I could sleep downstairs for that matter. In any case, the spare bedroom was now in pristine condition should Dolly agree to use it.
But, as I guessed, she would not consider it.
'I shall be perfectly happy on my own. Isobel Annett will pop in, I know, and I have the telephone if I should need help. It's very kind of you, but you have enough to do.'
'Then I have an alternative to offer,' I told her. 'Let me come here to live while Mrs John's away. I can easily drive to school from here, and you would not be alone at night.'
'There's absolutely no need began Dolly, but I cut in with a very cunning argument.
'I shall be terribly anxious about you. You shouldn't be alone for hours at a stretch, and I've worried for months now about your sleeping here on your own. Suppose you fell? Or someone broke in?'
She was silent for a moment, and then began to laugh.
'Very well, you artful girl, you win! And thank you very much, my dear.'
So it was settled, and I made up her spare bed then and there ready for my sojourn. My routine could easily be altered. I should leave Dolly about eight-fifteen each morning, having given her breakfast, and go to Fairacre to let in the workmen, to pick up the post, feed Tibby, and go over to the school. At the end of the school day I could spend half an hour or so in my house, feed Tib again, see all was well, and return to my temporary home with Dolly.
To say that I had been anxious about her was perfectly true, and I felt considerable relief at these new arrangements. I only hoped that Dolly would not find my presence too irksome. As a single woman myself, I knew how precious one's privacy was, and I was determined to bear that in mind.
The following day was the last of the Easter holidays.
Bert and Pearce arrive to tackle my bedroom, and set to work with unwonted briskness. I commented on their progress when I took up their coffee.
'Well, you wants us gone, I expect,' said Bert. 'We likes to oblige.'
'Besides,' said Pearce, 'we've got another job waiting over at Bent. They're getting a bit shirty.'
Bert gave Perce what is known as 'an old-fashioned look', and I guessed that he would be rebuked for his moment of truth when I had left the scene.
But mention of Bent reminded me to ring Amy and to tell her of my temporary change of address.
'Good idea,' said Amy. 'I wonder you didn't think of it before.'
'I certainly did,' I protested, 'but you don't know Dolly Clare. She "won't impose", as she says, or I should have been there months ago. Tell me, how are things with you? Brian still with you?'
'Not for much longer. There's been a general reshuffle at the Bristol place as they've opened a new office in Scotland. Brian starts as treasurer in the Bristol office as soon as things have settled down there. To give the chap his due, he's willing to push off into digs in the Bristol area, so maybe he'll do that. James seems to think it would be unkind to encourage him to go. Still thinking of those heroic cricket matches of long ago, I surmise.'
'Men are trying,' I replied, and was about to tell her of my troubles with Bert and Perce in residence, but fearing that I might be overheard, I forbore to relieve my feelings.
'I was going to invite you to come with me to a charity concert next week, but I suppose you don't feel able to go out in the evenings if you are with Dolly.'
'It's nice of you, but I'm going to stay put while I'm at Beec
h Green.'
'Fair enough. There'll be other things later on, I'm sure, but it looks as though I shan't see you for some time. I'm going with James to see a new factory in Wales. He's a director of the firm, and I shall be staying on down there with my aunt. She's ninety-two, and will no doubt walk me off my feet.'
'Any more jaunts?'
'I may go up to Scotland later. James is also on the board of this firm Brian's joining, so we may go up to see how the new office is settling down. But that won't be until June. I'll see you before then, I hope.'
'As soon as Mrs John gets back,' I promised, 'we'll get together for a meal somewhere.'
At that moment, Bert appeared. 'Sorry to bother you, miss, but have you got such a thing as an old kitchen knife?'
'I heard that,' said the voice on the telephone. It sounded highly amused.
'See you sometime,' I replied, putting down the receiver.
'Now, Bert,' I said, 'do you really want an old kitchen knife or "such a thing as an old kitchen knife"?'
'We wants an old kitchen knife,' explained Bert, looking puzzled.
'Then say so,' I retorted. 'Though to tell the truth, all my kitchen knives are the same age, so you will have to take care of it. What's it wanted for, anyway?'
'There's a bit of something stuck under the skirting board. An old kitchen knife -' He caught my eye. 'I mean, a kitchen knife'd shift it easily.'
He followed me into the kitchen and I found him the desired object in a drawer.
'And bring it back,' I said.
'Yes, miss,' replied Bert meekly.
For a moment he looked exactly like Joseph Coggs, and my conscience smote me.
But not for long.
That evening I telephoned Mrs John and told her my plans, and hoped that she would have better news of her father when she reached Cardiff.
After that, I walked down to see Bob and Alice Willet to ask for their help at Fairacre while I was away at Beech Green.
