by Miss Read
As always, they were able and willing.
'We'll look after things, don't you fret,' said Bob sturdily. 'And that cat of yourn will be fed regular. If I can't do it, then Alice will, and Tibby'll get double rations if she's on the job.'
'Well, I think animals miss their owners more than we reckon,' contributed Alice. 'I'll see Tib has any little tit-bits like our chicken liver or meat scraps. Cats like fresh stuff.'
Bob cast his eyes heavenwards. 'That cat's got fatty heart as it is,' he told me. 'Wouldn't hurt it to go on a few days' fasting.'
But I knew it would not with the Willets to look after it, and handed over the keys, and explained about the whereabouts of the tinned cat food and the milk arrangements.
'We'll all feel better knowing you're with the old lady,' said Bob, accompanying me to the gate. 'I suppose ideally she should have someone living there all the time, but I can't see Dolly Clare standing for that.'
The sun was going down as I passed through the village on my way home. The scent of narcissi and early stocks drifted in the warm air. Soon there would be lilac blossom and mock orange adding their perfume, and then the roses, which do so well in Fairacre, contributing their share too.
Above me, the rooks were winging homeward, black wings fluttering against a golden sky. They were building high this year, I had noticed, a sure sign of a good summer. Dolly Clare had told me that soon after I had come to live in Fairacre. Dolly Clare had told me so many things, just as she had told all those lucky children who had passed through her hands.
There were a great many of us who owed a debt to Dolly Clare. I looked forward to trying to repay her, in a small way, over the next few months.
7 'Love To Fairacre'
THE summer term began with a spell of hot dry weather. Even the wind was warm, and the distant downs shimmered in a haze of heat.
My move from the school house to Miss Clare's had caused the minimum of fuss. Each morning I drove the few miles from Beech Green to Fairacre, having given my old friend her breakfast in bed, and seen to her needs.
Isobel Annett, the wife of the headmaster at Beech Green School and once one of my assistants before her marriage, had arranged to call on Dolly at regular intervals during the day, and other friends also gave a hand while Mrs John was in Wales. I was back around five o'clock having seen to my school and home duties, and we spent the evenings together, before retiring to sleep in adjoining rooms under the thatched roof.
It all worked out very easily, and if Dolly sometimes found so many visitors irksome, she was too well-mannered and sensible to show her feelings. Secretly, I think she was relieved to have support, and was now accepting that she could do less and less on her own. After a life time of independence this must have been a difficult problem to face, but she did so with her habitual grace and good temper.
Sometimes, on these light evenings of early summer we went for a drive, usually threading our way through narrow lanes, fresh with young foliage, up to the cool heights of the downs above Beech Green.
On our way, Dolly would point out various landmarks: 'That cottage,' she would say, 'was where Mrs Cotter lived when I was young. She had ten children, and they all streamed out of that tiny place with polished boots and brushed hair, and the girls in starched white pinafores when those things were in fashion. Heaven knows how she did it on a carter's wage - but she did.'
As we approached a little spinney she would tell me that the very best hazel nuts grew there, and down in a fold of the downs she and Ada, her sister, used to go on September mornings to find mushrooms, in the dewy grass.
And once, as we drove along the lane which eventually led to Caxley, she pointed out an ancient sycamore tree, with limbs as grey and lined as an elephant's, which overshadowed the road.
'I said goodbye to my dear Arnold here,' she said quietly. 'I never saw him again.'
Her hand stole to the locket about her neck, and we drove in silence for a time, our minds troubled by 'old unhappy far-off things, and battles long ago'.
At school, the fine weather was especially welcome. The children relished their playtime outside, I relished their absence from the classroom for a precious quarter of an hour, and Mrs Pringle relished the comparative cleanliness of the school floors. An added bonus for her was the fact that her beloved stoves were not sullied with the inflow of fuel and the outflow of ashes.
She became almost pleasant in her manner, and expressed her approval of my move to Miss Clare's.
'Not that it couldn't have been made months ago,' she added. 'She could have done with help long since.'
I pointed out as mildly as I could that Dolly Clare wanted her independence, and that I had in fact offered my services on several occasions.
'Well, better late than never, I suppose,' she admitted grudgingly. 'And I will say that house of yours is a far sight easier to clean with only Tib in it.'
She bent, corsets creaking, to pick up a drawing pin from the floor.
'That could cause a mort of trouble,' she puffed, putting it on my desk. 'Minnie's Basil had a nasty septic foot after stepping on a tack. Minnie had to take him to The Caxley. Hollered something terrible, she said.'
Knowing Basil as I did, I was not surprised.
'Minnie's going to take all the kids to that new pleasure place they've built the other side of Caxley. Sounds lovely. Switchbacks and a giant dipper, and one of them swimming pools with great tubes you can dive down. The kids'll love it. She wanted me to go too, but I told her my switchback days are over, and I'm not flaunting my figure in a bathing suit even if my leg allowed it.'
It seemed wise to me, but I had to be careful not to agree too enthusiastically in case my old sparring partner took umbrage.
'I'd better bring the children in,' I said, making for the door. Diplomacy or cowardice, I wondered? In any case, the thought of Minnie's children at large on all that machinery made my blood run cold. Which would come off worst, I wondered, the children or the equipment?
'Miss,' shouted Patrick, red in the face with indignation, 'John swored at me. He swored twice. He said -'
'I don't want to hear about it,' I said dismissively. 'Go indoors, all of you.'
'But it was about you he swored,' protested Patrick. 'He called you a bad name. He said you was -'
'Never mind,' I said firmly. 'Go back to your desk.'
We had hardly settled down before the vicar arrived bearing a large envelope.
'This really should have come to you,' he said apologetically, after greeting the children. 'I can't think why it was sent to me.'
'Well, you are Chairman of the Governors,' I pointed out.
The envelope contained a sheaf of papers from our local naturalists' society and pictures of a dozen endangered species, as well as innumerable forms for donations, competitions, free tickets for this and that. They all managed to flutter to the floor, much to the delight of the milling crowd who rushed from their desks to rescue them. Such diversions are always welcome to children, and it took some time to restore order.
The vicar smiled benignly upon the scene, and when comparative peace reigned again he asked about Miss Clare.
'I thought I might visit her on my way to Caxley this afternoon,' he said. 'Would it be convenient?'
The Reverend Gerald Partridge, in common with most clergymen these days, was in charge of several parishes, and Beech Green was one of them.
He had been calling regularly on Dolly, but usually in the morning when Mrs John was around. I told him that Dolly would be glad to see him at any time, I knew.
'And you are happy together?'
'Perfectly. At least, I am, and I think Dolly is relieved to have someone in the house.'
'Good.' He surveyed my class. 'And how many on roll now?'
'Twenty-one, including the infants.'
The vicar sighed.
'Of course, there are those two new houses,' he said brightening.
'Have you heard anything?' I asked hopefully. 'The boards are stil
l up.'
'Well, no. But we must live in hope. They are both very well suited to families. Four bedrooms, I gather. Very hopeful. Very hopeful.'
He gave me his usual sweet smile and departed, oblivious, for once, of the children.
'He never said nothing to us,' said John-the-swearer reproachfully.
'If the vicar never said nothing, he must have said something,' I pointed out, embarking yet again upon the use of the double negative. A fruitless quest, as I should know after all these years, but as the vicar had just remarked, we must live in hope.
Mrs John returned a week or so later, bringing her mother with her for a little break after the sad days following her husband's death.
She was very like her daughter, small and nimble, with the same large dark eyes. She had been a nurse in her young days at one of the foremost Welsh hospitals, and she still had the lilt of the Welsh tongue. It was plain that mother and daughter got on very well together.
Dolly Clare was as pleased as I was to have Mrs John back again. Her presence eased my anxiety, and I suspect that Dolly found her assistance in dressing and other daily activities much more deft than my own efforts.
But I was greatly moved when my old friend asked me to stay on at the cottage.
'It is such a comfort to have you here,' she said, 'particularly when I wake in the night. If it's not an imposition, I should love you to continue here.'
There was nothing I wanted more and Mrs John was pleased too, so that my new routine continued, living in two homes at the same time whilst teaching went on undisturbed.
***
On the first Friday of June, I took Dolly's tray upstairs as usual, just before eight o'clock. There was not much to carry for she only had two slices of brown bread and butter, some marmalade, and a cup of weak tea.
She seemed to be asleep, and I put down the tray quietly. She opened her eyes, and smiled at me.
'Thank you, may dear. Just off?'
'Yes. Just off.'
'Goodbye then.'
She sat up slowly, and added as she always did: 'Love to Fairacre,' as I turned to go.
It was my turn to do playground duty at mid-morning, and above the din of exuberant children I heard my telephone ringing.
Hastening into the school house I lifted the receiver. It was Mrs John on the line, and she sounded distraught.
'It's sad news, I fear. She's gone. I found her in her bed when I got here ten minutes ago.'
'I'll come over at once.' I said, and went to arrange matters with my assistant, Mrs Richards.
***
I had always imagined that the death of my dear old friend would leave me shattered, probably in tears, and certainly trembling and shocked. But to my amazement, although I felt desolate, my mind was clear and I felt capable of dealing with all the practical problems which I should have to face.
There was a kind of numbness of body and mind which, I had no doubt, would soon desert me, but for which I was grateful when I entered the cottage and found Mrs John. She had obviously been crying, and she was shaky, but she was in control of her feelings.
'She must have gone soon after you left,' she told me. 'I thought she had fallen asleep again, as the breakfast wasn't touched.'
'We'd better go up,' I said.
She led the way up the familiar stairs.
'Mother came with me this morning,' she said, 'And she's done all that was needed. She's better at these things than I am, her being a nurse.'
I could not reply. This was my first encounter with death, and I wondered how I should react.
But there was nothing at all to fear. Dolly lay in her bed as I had seen her so many times. A light breeze lifted the curtain at the open window, and ruffled Dolly's fine white hair. She was in a fresh cotton nightgown, and the gold locket was still around her neck.
'I didn't quite know what to do with that,' said Mrs John, following my gaze.
'Leave it there,' I replied. I could not have removed it. As far as I was concerned, I felt it should accompany Dolly to her grave.
Mrs John carried the tray downstairs, and a little later I followed her.
'I rang the doctor,' she said. 'He's out on his rounds, but they said they could get him on the car phone, and he'd call as soon as possible.'
'And I'll ring the undertaker,' I said.
I was still in the dream-like state which cushions one from immediate shock, and I found I could do these routine jobs without undue emotion.
'It was good of your mother to cope with things,' I said. 'It's something I've never had to face, but I think I could have done it for Dolly.'
'I was glad too,' said Mrs John. 'As soon as she'd done, she went home to get the children's dinner ready.'
How life jostles death, I thought. But rightly so, for life must go on.
There was a knock on the door and the young doctor, who had succeeded dear old Doctor Martin, came in.
'This doesn't surprise me,' he said, after the first condolences. 'She was very weak when I came two days ago. She was a grand old girl - never complained. I shall miss her.'
I took him upstairs, and waited while he examined Dolly.
'If you'd pick up the death certificate at the surgery,' he said, standing up, 'I'll do it as soon as I get back. It's a simple case of heart failure. Everything has just worn out.'
Gently he drew the sheet over Dolly's face, and I began to have my first tremors.
A few minutes after his departure, a van drew up. Two kindly men from the Caxley undertaker's went aloft with a stretcher, and very soon they descended slowly bearing Dolly, still shrouded in her white sheet.
'She'll go straight to our Chapel of Rest,' said the older man, 'should you want to visit her.'
He dropped something on a side table as he resumed his task, and I watched Dolly go through the cottage door and down the garden path for the last time.
When the van had gone I saw that Dolly's locket lay on the side table. Somehow it seemed cruel to have parted her from it.
I drove back to school, still numbed, told Mrs Richards the news, read one of the Greek legends to the children, heard them recite one of Walter de la Mare's poems and saw them off home. Then I went back to the school house, fed Tibby, made a cup of tea and rang the vicar.
He was greatly concerned, more, it seemed, on my account than Dolly's, but I assured him that I was perfectly calm and that I intended to go to the cottage the next day to write to any relatives I could find, and to tidy up Dolly's things. He suggested that either he or Mrs Partridge would accompany me, but I refused as politely as I could.
I sat down in my quiet sitting-room and drank my tea. It was only then that I remembered that I had had nothing to eat since my breakfast at Dolly's, some eight or nine hours earlier.
It reminded me of that untouched breakfast tray.
I must have been the last person to whom Dolly spoke, and I recalled those last three words:
'Love to Fairacre'
It was now that grief engulfed me. My whole body shook as I returned the cup, clattering, to its saucer, and the tears began.
I seemed to spend all the evening crying, powerless to control my emotions. I did not cry for Dolly, now freed from pain and the indignities of old age. I cried for myself. I should never see or talk to Dolly again, and that, truthfully, was the cause of my tears and my desolation.
For now I knew. I was bereft.
8 Making Plans
NEWS of Dolly Clare's death was common knowledge within twenty-four hours and there were tributes to her from everyone. During her long life she had touched so many other lives as teacher and friend, that it was plain that her influence would linger for many years in Fairacre, Beech Green, and many places farther afield where old pupils had settled.
The funeral had been arranged for a date some ten days distant at Beech Green church, and she was to be buried in the churchyard there, beside her parents Francis and Mary.
In the meantime, I was doing my best to track down any li
ving relatives. I put an obituary notice in The Caxley Chronicle and hoped that I might hear of some descendants of her sister Ada.
The son, John Francis, had gone overseas after his mother's death, but somewhere there must be descendants of Mary, the daughter. No one seemed to know what had happened to her.
Dolly Clare had lived so long that almost all her contemporaries had gone, but one elderly lady living in a retirement home in Caxley, wrote to the vicar telling him a little about Dolly and the family, and from this it appeared that Mary had married twice, but no names could be discovered.
I very much doubted if we would hear any more about Dolly's family.
***
The funeral took place on a beautiful June morning.
The vicar took the service, a simple one with three of Dolly's favourite hymns. The church was full of roses and sunshine, a fitting setting for the small plain coffin at the chancel steps, whose occupant had always loved flowers and the joys of summer.
There was a large congregation, but most of the people slipped away as just a few of her closest friends accompanied the vicar to the graveside. It was a peaceful spot, shaded by a lime tree already showing flowers. Francis and Mary's gravestone was patterned with moss and lichen, but I saw that there was room below the inscription for Dolly's name and dates, and this I proposed to have done as soon as possible.
Some friends took advantage of the general invitation to come to the cottage for refreshments after the service, and when they had gone, I locked up the house, and drove back to my duties at Fairacre in time to serve out school dinners.
I thought of Mrs John's remark as I cut toad-in-the-hole into squares: 'Mother went back to get dinner for the children.'
So had it always been. My bedtime reading at the moment was Virginia Woolf's essay about my favourite clergyman, eighteenth century Parson Woodforde. I had come across her remarks on the entry: 'Found the old gentleman at his last gasp. Totally senseless with rattlings in the Throat. Dinner today boiled beef and Rabbit rosted.'
