by Miss Read
She tapped a finger on one of the photographs on the open page beside her.
'They're going house-hunting together before the main meeting.'
'House-hunting? You're not leaving Bent?'
'Nothing like that. They're both on the board of some charity trust for orphans, and they want to start up a home there for the Scottish lot. The point is this. I shall be driving up a little later, and hope you will come with me. James knows a lovely quiet hotel on the Tweed. Lots of salmon on the menu. What about it?'
'Oh, Amy! You are sweet to think of it, but I ought not -'
'My treat,' said Amy swiftly. 'My shares are doing well, and James wants you to keep me company as he'll be so tied up with business affairs. Do say you'll come. We'll take two days to go up, and two back, and have two there. It would do you good after all you've had to do these past weeks.'
She looked at me with such concern, almost tearfully, that I weakened at once.
'It sounds heavenly. Tell me more.'
She proceeded to give me details. A night in the Peak District on our way north. A leisurely drive along the A7 towards Kelso the next day. Visits to Mellerstain House and Floors Castle. It was apparent that Amy had been very busy working out routes, planning little treats such as these visits to lovely houses, and generally becoming acquainted with all that the neighbourhood had to offer.
'Then, yes please,' I said, 'I'd love to come. But I can't let you pay for me, Amy. It's too much.'
'If it makes you feel any better,' said my old friend, 'you can pay for the petrol, and any odd ice-creams.'
'Willingly,' I told her, 'but let -'
'But I warn you,' she said, 'my car is a thirsty one, and I have a great weakness for cornets and wafers.'
'As though I didn't know,' I told her, 'after all these years together.'
9 Holiday with Amy
IT is wonderfully exhilarating to set off on holiday. The days before, of course, and particularly the one immediately preceding departure, are fraught with as much anxiety as anticipation. Have you stopped the milk, the papers, the laundryman? Have you left enough cat food for Tibby? Should you switch off the electricity at the mains? If so, what about the fridge and the light that comes on automatically after dark? There is no end to the household problems.
Personal packing is comparatively easy. I have long given up trying to compete with other hotel visitors in the realms of sartorial chic. To be clean and decent, and not to shame dear Amy, is the limit of my ambitions these days.
Nevertheless, there are decisions to be made. The weather may be hot. It may be cold. Cotton frocks and a thick cardigan may be the basis for one's wardrobe, but it is necessary to have a little more flexibility.
Then there is the problem of underclothes. Should you take enough to ensure a change every day, and possibly an extra outfit in the unlikely event of falling into a Scottish burn or being soaked to the skin in a Scotch mist? Or would it be safe to hope that the hotel bathroom would have one of those clothes lines that pull out from the wall - and sag dangerously when a pair of tights is slung over it?
And what about a mackintosh? Should it be the heavy raincoat just back from the cleaners? The cost of its recent reproofing makes one feel it should be housed in a glass case rather than bundled into a suitcase or the boot of Amy's car. Perhaps the thin bedraggled one hanging on the peg behind the kitchen door might fit the bill?
But when one is actually in the car, cases stowed behind, keys and telephone number left with the neighbours, and handbag safely on one's lap, then the pleasure begins.
A certain recklessness takes over. What if one has forgotten toothbrush, handkerchieves, sun spectacles or talcum powder? Presumably all these can be bought in Scotland.
And what if I have forgotten to leave out the tin opener for Tibby's meal tins, or the bottles for the milkman, or that old piece of bread which I intended to throw out for the birds? Dear Alice and Bob Willet would see to it all.
'Amy,' I said, snuggling back into my luxurious seat, 'I am so happy!'
'That's the whole idea,' she responded, putting her foot down on the accelerator.
We sped northward in great spirits.
By lunchtime we were in the neighbourhood of Warwick, and I was beginning to look out hopefully for a cafe.
'Don't bother,' said Amy. 'I've brought a picnic. Just keep your eyes skinned for a leafy lane to the left.'
We soon found it, a lovely lane with ferns growing from the banks, and some pink campions among the cow parsley, and we got out thankfully. Even a car as large and magnificent as Amy's cannot quite overcome the stiffening of the human frame.
Amy produced one of those splendid wicker hampers that I always associate with Glyndeboume or glorious Goodwood. There were plates and glasses and cutlery and even two large linen napkins. We sat on the bank amidst the verdure with this splendid object between us. Amy had made smoked-salmon brown sandwiches, and egg and cress white ones. Lettuce hearts nestled in a plastic box. Pears and peaches supplied dessert, and two flasks contained coffee and hot milk respectively. There was even a bottle of sparkling wine to go with the smoked salmon.
I thought of my own slapdash picnics, comprising cut bread with crusts left on, and the contents usually hanging out in a ragged manner, followed by a banana or an apple from the garden. I was lucky if I remembered to put in a piece of paper torn from the kitchen roll at the last minute.
'This is superb,' I said, trying not to make my napkin too disgusting with peach juice. 'How do you manage to do everything so elegantly?'
'My mother taught me,' she answered. 'She was terribly strict about standards. One of her favourite maxims was: "Never let yourself go" And she lived up to it too. I don't think I ever saw her untidy, even in her last illness. She really was remarkable.'
'You take after her,' I told her. 'She would be proud of you.'
'Mind you,' said Amy, packing away plates and boxes briskly, 'she was very bossy with it.'
My private thought was that dear old Amy took after her mother in that too, but it would have been churlish to say so after consuming such a memorable meal.
'Thank you for that marvellous lunch,' I said instead.
We were in the Peak District for our one night stop in time for a refreshing cup of tea, before unpacking.
Then we walked along the path by the River Dove which had remarkably few visitors just then. We stopped to hang over the rail of a wooden bridge, and fell companionably silent as we watched the bright water cascading over the boulders beneath us.
What a benison water is, I thought, watching a wagtail enjoying the spray. Whether we drink it, wash in it, swim in it or simply stand and stare at it, as we were doing now, it has the power to refresh, to soothe, and to exhilarate. It has much the same beneficial properties as sleep, I thought, remembering Macbeth's tributes to that panacea. Certainly, gazing downward with the waters of the Dove below, and listening to the rustle of the Dovedale foliage above me, I could feel the pain of Dolly's absence, and the many petty domestic and school frustrations and worries ebbing away from me. Amy had been absolutely right. I needed to get away from Fairacre now and again.
It was Amy who returned first to the present. 'Let's go on. We haven't worked up an appetite for a four-course dinner yet.'
'Speak for yourself,' I retorted. But we went on all the same, and peace went with us.
The hotel in Scotland was old and grey, and full of years and tranquillity. It stood amid acres of grass dotted here and there with clumps of fir trees. The flowerbeds close to the house were bright with freshly-planted annuals, and some climbing roses, pink and white and red, nodded against the stone walls.
James and Amy had a bedroom on the first floor and from their windows they could see to the nearby valley where the river Tweed ran its course eastward to Berwick-on-Tweed.
I had a room on the ground floor which overlooked a particularly pretty part of the garden, with a bird bath and flowering shrubs, a private small gard
en of my own, it seemed, adjoining the larger grounds.
James joined us in time for dinner, and was good company. James is one of those fortunate people who really loves his neighbour, and likes to hear all about that neighbour's affairs. I have rarely seen him tired or depressed despite the busy life he leads, and tonight he looked as dashing as ever.
I told him about the photographs of his fellow directors in the only shares brochure which falls through my letterbox, and how he was by far the most handsome. Needless to say, he fairly glowed at the compliment. How vain men are!
'And Ted and I came across two decent little houses at the end of a terrace on the outskirts of Glasgow. I think something could be done with them, and we've asked the architect to see if they could house six children.'
'Who looks after them?' I inquired.
'There will be two foster parents. That's the principle of this charity - family units, not too big, in a smallish house. So far it seems to work. Now, tell me about the journey. Were you very long on the M6? It's quick but tedious, I find.'
Our meal was delicious, and afterwards we strolled in the grounds watching a number of thrushes stabbing the lawns to find their supper. At Fairacre, thrushes are in short supply these days, and it was good to see that they flourished here in the Border country.
I said my goodnights early, for I could hardly keep awake. It was seven o'clock when I woke to a fine sunny morning, and I reckoned that I had slept solidly for nine hours.
That day, James returned to his labours while Amy and I explored the market town of Kelso, some three miles away. We admired its fine square, its friendly shop keepers and, above all, the cleanliness of its streets.
We noticed this throughout our visiting. North of the Border, it seemed, people liked to see things clean and tidy. Caxley streets these days are littered with rubbish thrown down by the people too idle to walk six steps to a nearby litter bin. In the lanes around Fairacre I frequently pick up Coke tins, bottles, crisp packets, cigarette cartons and other detritus which the consumers have simply cast out of their car windows, careless of the damage these things can do to animals and plants, as well as making the countryside hideous.
We went on to visit Floors Castle standing close to the ubiquitous river Tweed which we crossed and recrossed dozens of times during our stay. It was magnificent, and Amy and I coveted the Dresden and Meissen porcelain more than anything else in that delectable array of pictures and furniture.
However, the next day we decided to visit Mellerstain, not far away, and its Adam elegance won us completely.
'"Comparisons,"' quoted Amy, as we gazed upwards at the superbly decorated ceilings, '"are odious," but I think I'd rather live here.'
'Either,' I said, 'would suit me.'
The Border country was gently rolling, with plenty of cattle enjoying grass far lusher than that which grows on our downs. We drove across to the Northumberland coast, and were refreshed by the salt winds blowing over the North Sea and a good lunch at Bamburgh, where the great castle dominates the little town.
By the end of our break together, my face was glowing as if I had spent days on the beach. I slept solidly both nights, ate the hotel's lovely food as if I were starving, and altogether felt a new woman as we set off for home.
James drove, and our first idea of spending a night in the Peak District on our way back was abandoned.
'Let's get on,' said James. 'I can't wait to get home.'
Sitting in the back of the car, thinking of the places we were now leaving behind, and occasionally snoozing, I realized how much good this holiday had done me. It had put things in perspective. To see those beautiful old houses, their contents, their well-kept gardens, all so enriching to the spirit, had made my own worries seem fleeting. It had also made me deeply conscious of the simple future pleasures I should enjoy at Dolly's cottage, and my good fortune in having friends as dear and generous as Dolly and Amy.
I returned to a host of minor irritations, and a pile of letters. The minor irritations included a leaking tap, a broken saucer of Tibby's, and a colossal branch ripped from the plum tree, its plentiful but unripe fruit scattered on the lawn.
The post included a fair amount of material for the waste paper basket. 'Had I thought of the best way to invest my savings?' (What savings?) 'Would I help a child?' (I already helped twenty-one, and would be glad to have those numbers increased, but under my school roof.) 'Had I considered a fun-filled fortnight on the exotic beaches of Florida?' (Well, no!)
Such missives were easily disposed of, but some heavy-looking correspondence from the office would need my attention, and several more welcome letters from friends. I put the lot aside to greet Bob Willet who hove in sight.
'My word, you look ten years younger,' he greeted me. 'Time you had that break. You was looking real white and spiteful.'
'Thanks,' I said. 'And proper thanks to you and Alice. Did you have much trouble?'
'No. Old Tib bolted the grub, as if starved, as usual. The only thing that went wrong was me droppin' the saucer. And, what's more, the mower's on the blink.'
'Oh dear! And you can't mend it?'
Usually, Mr Willet can cope indoors with anything from light bulbs to domestic plumbing, and outside, of course, he can turn his hand to anything growing, and the maintenance of my simple gardening equipment.
'I reckon it's had its time. We could get someone to see if spares here or there'd be the answer, but it's that old I doubt if anyone's seen 'em.'
'You mean, I shall have to buy a new one?'
'Looks like it to me, but you get someone else's opinion, afore you lash out on a new one.'
This was grim news, but I guessed it was probably the answer.
Bob Willet waved to the battered plum tree.
'That happened the night afore last. Had a sort of mini hurricane. Barmy, it was. Like a whirlwind. Took half the thatch off of Mr Roberts's barn, and flattened a field of barley down Springbourne way. Josh Pringle said three of his bantams was tossed up in the air like shuttle-cocks. But, mind you, you don't want to believe all Josh Pringle tells you. Still, it was pretty nasty while it lasted.'
'Did it do any damage to your garden?'
'Blew a bit of felting off my shed roof, but I got that back next day. And I heard as our Maud Pringle got hit on the head by a bit of guttering as blew off of her house, but no doubt you'll hear plenty about that when she turns up.'
'Coming in for a drink?'
'No thanks. I promised the vicar I'd have a look at his garage roof. He thinks a tile or two's come off, and he's like a new-born babe when it comes to anything like that. Still, he do give a good sermon, and I suppose we all has different talents.'
I watched him stump off down the path, and felt grateful, as I so often do, for Bob Willet's particular and practical talents.
One Saturday morning, soon after my holiday, I bumped into Miriam Baker in Caxley High Street.
I had just emerged from Marks and Spencer's with a bagful of goodies from the food counter, and was on my way back to the car.
'Hello, and what are you up to?'
'Wondering if I have the strength to seek out another cotton frock. Gerard's away with the cameraman for a television programme, looking at a possible site, and I thought it might be a good opportunity.'
'Good hunting then.'
'Oh, I've given up the idea already. My shopping threshold, if that's the term, is pretty low.'
'Then come back to Fairacre with me, and have a Marks and Spencer's lunch.'
'No, really,' she protested, but not very convincingly, and I had no difficulty in steering her towards the car park.
'We haven't seen each other for ages,' I said, stowing parcels in the boot. 'Not since our lunch with the Winters.'
We set off for home, and as we passed through Beech Green I pointed out Dolly's house.
'I heard about that,' said Miriam, 'and we were both so glad it's to be yours.'
'When I'm really settled there you and Gerard m
ust come and see me.'
'Lovely! And when are you moving from the school house?'
'I may go towards the end of the school holidays, if the builders have finished, and it is ready for me.'
'Will you miss it? The school house, I mean?'
I pondered the questions. They had been rattling about in my own mind for some time now.
'Yes,' I told her soberly. 'I shall miss it very much. Some of my happiest years have been spent under that roof, but I should have to face leaving it sometime, and thanks to dear Dolly I have somewhere of my own now to end my days.'
'But what will happen to it?'
'It will be sold, I expect. The church owns the property, and if the school has to close, which seems horribly likely at the moment, I expect my house would be sold too.'
Miriam shuddered. 'I don't like to think of changes at Fairacre.'
'Neither do I,' I replied, swinging into my drive, 'but I'm afraid I've got to face them.'
We both agreed that the grilled plaice stuffed with shrimp sauce, with salad from the garden, was just what we had needed, and coffee cups in hand we sat on the garden seat to enjoy the summer sunshine.
'And now tell me your news,' I said. 'Still regretting leaving Sir Barnabas?'
'Not really, but I've other plans afoot.'
'Tell me.'
'Well, I don't know if I'm an oddity, but I find that being married is all very nice, but not quite enough for me.'
'You get bored on your own?'
'No. I just miss the job. I suppose I've always been geared to work, and marrying late it's harder to give up the routine. All the youngsters who take the plunge at nineteen or twenty seem delighted to settle down to homemaking and babies and such -'
'I thought they had to go on working to pay for the mortgage,' I broke in. 'Bob Willet calls them "tinkers".'
'I didn't find that so when I was at the office. We were always looking out for new girls to replace those who had left. Which brings me to my plan.'
