(20/20)A Peaceful Retirement

by Miss Read

  I think I grew closer to Amy in those few magical days than at any other time in our long friendship. It may have been because we were alone together, in a foreign place, for most of the day, without the sort of interruption that occurs in one's home. No callers, no telephone ringing, no cooking pot needing attention, no intrusive animals interrupting our conversation or our quiet meditation.

  We hardly spoke about home, although I did tell her one day, in the quiet shade of Vallombrosa, about Henry's unwelcome visit on the eve of our departure.

  I was surprised at her reaction. Normally, when she hears that any man has visited me or taken me out, Amy responds with much enthusiasm, imagining that at last romance has entered my bleak spinster's life.

  This time, however, she was unusually censorious of Henry's behaviour.

  'Henry Mawne,' she began severely, 'has made his bed and must lie on it.'

  'You sound like my mother,' I protested.

  'Your mother had plenty of sense,' replied Amy. 'Really, Henry should know better than try to engage your sympathy.'

  'He didn't.'

  'He's chosen two wives,' went on Amy, 'and doesn't seem to have made either very happy. I can't feel sorry for him, and I hope you aren't.'

  I reassured her on this point.

  'It'll all blow over,' I said, 'once Deidre comes back.'

  'But suppose she doesn't?'

  'I think she will,' I said slowly.

  'You don't sound very sure about it,' commented Amy. 'I should nip any advances of Henry's in the bud. I shouldn't like to see you with a broken heart.'

  'A flinty old heart like mine doesn't crack very easily,' I said, and at that moment James appeared, looking remarkably buoyant for one who had been engaged in high-powered discussions on international trade and finance.

  The time passed in a golden haze. Florence was still basking in the sunlight, like a contented cat, as we went by taxi to the airport.

  Our luggage had grown since our arrival, as Amy and I had succumbed to temptation and bought soft Italian leather handbags, wallets and purses and a pair of glamorous shoes apiece. The range of beautiful silk scarves, which we had also acquired, would be so useful for Christmas presents we told each other, but I had no doubt that we should see them being worn by ourselves in the future.

  It was raining when we alighted from the plane, and people were striding about in dripping raincoats. I was surprised to feel that somehow this was absolutely right. It was home-like, familiar and reassuring. Even the smell of wet tarmac and petrol fumes was welcoming.

  James dropped me at my door, propping my luggage in the porch and promising to ring during the evening. I tried to thank him, but he brushed aside my endeavours with a great hug and a kiss.

  Tibby, asleep on the stairs, opened a bleary eye, closed it again and went back to sleep.

  In the kitchen a piece of paper, anchored to the table by the flour-dredger, was covered in Mrs Pringle's handwriting. It said:

  Am out of Brasso. Washer gone on cold bath tap. Mouse come out from under the stairs. And went back.

  See you Wednesday. M.P.

  I was home all right.

  4. Home Again

  IT WAS good to be back.

  I relished the cool air, the green countryside, my own goods and chattels, and best of all my comfortable bed.

  In those first few days of my return, I realized how much my habitual surroundings meant to me. I looked anew upon morning dew on the lawn, on the yellowing poplar leaves fluttering and turning in the autumn sunshine, and the bright beads of bryony, red, orange and green, strung along the hedgerows. I had returned with fresh eyes.

  I had also returned much stronger in body. The sunshine, the lovely food and the warm companionship of dear Amy and James had relaxed earlier tensions, and I had thrived in these perfect conditions.

  But, even more important, was the nourishment of spirit which would sustain me for months, and probably years, to come. Constantly, as I went about my everyday duties, cleaning, cooking, gardening and the like, pictures came to mind; a glimpse of nuns folding washing, a sunlit alley, a barrowload of peaches under a striped awning, Donatello's David with his girlish hat and curls, or the plumes of water flashing from the fountains of Florence.

  These exhilarating memories and hundreds more would, I knew, 'flash upon the inward eye' for the rest of my life.

  Mrs Pringle, when she came on Wednesday, commented on my improved appearance.

  'Done you a power of good,' she informed me. 'I said to Alice Willet before you set off: "She's aged a lot since those funny turns. You could never had said she was good-looking, but she used to look healthy, but even that's gone."'

  Thanks,' I said.

  'Funny how people's looks change. Mr Mawne now, he looks a real wreck since his wife left him.'

  'Isn't she back yet?' I asked, feeling some alarm.

  'We all reckon she's gone for good,' replied Mrs Pringle, with much satisfaction. 'He's not an easy man to live with. Still got a bit of that military business about him. He used to criticize his wife something dreadful.'

  The bedroom windows could do with a clean,' I said pointedly.

  Mrs Pringle went to fetch appropriate cloths, and made her way upstairs. Her limp was unusually pronounced and her breathing unusually heavy, but I ignored these signs of umbrage and went out into the garden.

  I found Mrs Pringle's news irritating. Should I have to put up with Henry's unwelcome visits? Surely he would have the sense to realize that his marital affairs were no business of mine. I was genuinely sorry for him, but saw only too well what a nuisance he could be.

  And what about John Jenkins? I remembered, with misgiving, his offer to see off anyone who molested me. The thought of two middle-aged men coming to blows over a middle-aged spinster - not even good-looking - was too silly to contemplate, and I resolutely set to and attacked a riot of chickweed in the flower border.

  A few days after my return from Florence I peeled September from the various calendars around the cottage and faced October. About time I sent off those Christmas parcels to New Zealand and Australia, I thought, with my annual shock.

  Usually, I miss the last surface mail date, and have to cudgel my brains for something light enough to be sent by air mail. My overseas friends must be heartily sick of silk scarves and compact discs. This year I would be in time, I promised myself, and send boxes of soap, or books, or even delicacies such as Carlsbad plums.

  Thus full of good intentions and armed with a shopping list, I drove into Caxley one morning and parked behind the town's premier store.

  I visited the hosiery department first to stock up for the months ahead. There was so much choice it was formidable. Having made sure that I was looking at 'TIGHTS' and not 'STOCKINGS', the first hazard, I then had to find my way among the 'DENIERS.' After that, already wilting, I had to decide on 'COLOUR'. Why do hosiery manufacturers give their wares such extraordinary names? Who can tell what one can expect from 'Carribbean Sand' or 'Summer Haze'? A few leave a minute square of mica showing the contents, but short of taking the box to the door and using a magnifying glass whilst there, it is really impossible to judge.

  However, I plumped for three pairs of 'Spring Hare' and three of 'Autumn Night' and then went to inspect the boxes of soap for my distant friends.

  I must say, the display was magnificent and I selected six fragrant boxes for presents and for myself.

  Smug with my success I chattered away to the obliging assistant about catching the surface mail for Christmas. She looked up from her wrapping with dismay.

  'But they will weigh so much,' she protested. Why don't you buy something like handkerchiefs or scarves?'

  It was rather deflating, but I rallied well.

  'They've all had hankies and scarves,' I assured her. 'Besides, I shall feel really efficient catching the right post this year.'

  The weather now changed. It grew chilly in the evenings and Tibby and I enjoyed a log fire.

 
It was sad to see summer fading. The trees had turned to varying shades of gold, and the flowers in the border were looking jaded. Soon we should get frosts which would dull their bright colours, and start the fall of leaves.

  But there were compensations. My cottage was particularly snug under its thatch in cold weather. The walls were thick, the windows small by comparison with modern houses, but those men who had built it so long ago knew what downland weather could be in these exposed parts, and designed their habitations accordingly.

  One October afternoon Bob Willet decided to have a bonfire of all the dead weeds, hedge clippings and some rotten wood from an ailing plum tree which he had pruned, I thought, with an unnecessarily heavy hand.

  'Do that ol' tree a world of good,' he told me as I watched the smoke rising. He had a great pile of debris standing at the side of the incinerator, and forked loads into it with great vigour.

  What's the news?' I asked him. 'And where's Joe today?'

  Joseph Coggs, one of my erstwhile pupils, often accompanies Bob when he comes gardening. I had made a round of gingerbread that morning with Joe in mind, but I had no doubt that Bob Willet would make inroads into my confection with the same energy that he was showing with the tending of the bonfire.

  'Maud Pringle's leg's bad again on account of Miss Summers' telling her the stoves might have to be lit early.'

  'Oh, that's old hat!' I said. 'Nothing new to report?'

  He gave me a swift look.

  'Nothing about Mrs Mawne so far. Mr Mawne goes about lookin' a bit hang-dog, but Mr Lamb said he'd squared up the account at the shop, so he's relieved, I can tell you.'

  'She's bound to come back,' I said, with as much conviction as I could muster.

  Bob threw a fresh forkful on to the crackling blaze. There was a pungent smell of burning ivy leaves and dried grass.

  'It's a real whiff of autumn,' I said, trying to change the subject. But Bob was not to be deflected.

  'They say she's sweet on some chap in Ireland. A cousin or something. I must say, there seem to be a rare lot of cousins in Ireland. I wonder why that is?'

  'Well, the population's fairly small,' I said weakly, 'and they seem to have large families, so I suppose there would be a good many cousins.'

  I was more shocked than I wanted Bob Willet to know about the possibility of Deidre settling for good in Ireland. Surely Henry would have enough spunk to go and fetch his wife back?

  'And young Joe's been to a practice match in Caxley this afternoon. Some junior football league he was rabbiting on about. I can't see him being picked, but I give him the bus fare and wished him luck.'

  'Good for you,' I said, glad to get away from the Mawnes' troubles. 'You'll have to eat his share of the gingerbread.'

  'You bet I'll do that,' said Bob heartily, and threw on another forkload.

  As with all village rumours, once you have heard it from one source you can be sure of hearing it from a dozen more.

  It was Gerald Partridge, vicar of Fairacre, who was my next informant. He had called to give me the parish magazine and seemed content to sit and chat.

  'Henry is not himself, you know,' he said sadly. 'Seems to take no interest in the church accounts or anything else at the moment. There's some talk of Deidre having an attachment at her old home. I sincerely hope it is only rumour. It would break Henry's heart to lose a second wife.'

  'What's gone wrong do you think?'

  The vicar looked troubled.

  'Something the lawyers call "incompatability of temperament", I suspect. She's very vague in her outlook to everything, and it upsets Henry who is really a very downright sort of person.'

  Tibby chose this moment to leap upon the vicar's knees. Gerald Partridge began to stroke the animal in an absent-minded manner.

  'Primarily, I think it's money,' he went on. 'Henry is not a rich man, and I suspect that Deidre thought that he was when she married him.'

  'I must admit that I always thought that he was comfortably off.'

  'He has a pension, and he has that large house Miss Parr left him. He gets a certain amount from renting out part of it, as you know, but the place really needs refurbishing, and Henry showed me some estimates for repairing the roof and rewiring the whole place, and I must say that I was appalled. I forget how much it was - I have no head for figures - but there were a great many noughts. It was quite as frightening as some of the estimates we get in for work on the church.'

  'I shouldn't have thought Deidre was extravagant,' I said, remembering her somewhat dowdy clothes and the complete lack of entertaining which had been a source of complaint from other ladies in the parish.

  'She bets,' said the vicar. 'On horses.'

  'I'd no idea she went to the races.'

  'She doesn't. She sits by the telephone and watches the races on TV, or reads the racing news in the paper. I believe a lot of people do it.'

  'Well, I must say it sounds more comfortable,' I replied. The vicar looked unhappy, and rose to his feet, tipping the outraged cat on to the hearthrug.

  At the door he paused.

  'Poor Henry! Do be particularly nice to him, my dear, he is under great stress.'

  Mrs Pringle also told me about Henry Mawne's afflictions, but with less Christian forbearance.

  'They're man and wife and should keep them only unto each other like the Prayer Book says. I know she's no right to carry on in Ireland with this cousin of hers, but what's Mr Mawne been up to letting her go like that? He should be looking after her, for better or worse, like he vowed to do.'

  There was no point in arguing with Mrs Pringle when she was in this militant mood, and I cravenly retreated to the garden on this occasion.

  George and Isobel Annett both enquired about Henry's predicament and asked if it were true that his wife had left him.

  When John Jenkins rang up that evening I was quite prepared to cut short any discussion of Henry's affairs, of which I was heartily sick.

  To my surprise he made no mention of Henry, but simply told me that Uncle Sam had died suddenly, and the funeral was next week.

  It was a shock. Although he was obviously frail, and I remembered vividly helping john to support the old man against the downland wind, he had seemed so alert, so energetic, and game for years to come.

  'I am truly sorry, John. He was a dear, and I'm glad I met him. We had a lovely day together, didn't we?'

  'You made that day for him.'

  He hesitated and then said:

  'I don't know how you feel about funerals. This will be a very muted affair as he had no close relatives, but -'

  'I should like to come if you would like me to,' I broke in, and I heard him sigh.

  'I should like it very much.'

  "When is it?'

  'Next Thursday at eleven. I'll pick you up soon after nine, if you really mean it.'

  'Of course I do. I'll be ready.'

  I put the telephone down. How nice not to hear about Henry Mawne. But how sad to think that I should not see that indomitable old man again.

  As I undressed that night I thought of all the advice I had been given about my retirement.

  All my friends had pointed out that I was bound to be lonely. I should wonder what to do with the empty hours before me. I should miss the hubbub of school life, the children, the companionship and so on.

  In the diary, before coming upstairs, I had made a note of Uncle Sam's funeral and had observed that every day in that week, and the next, had some event to which I was committed.

  Fat chance of being lonely, I thought a trifle bitterly. I had imagined myself drowsing on my new garden seat, and studying the birds and flowers around me in a blissful solitude. So far, that had been a forlorn hope. Far from being lonely I seem to have had a procession of visitors beating a path to my door like someone or other (Thoreau, was it?), who had the same trouble, and for some reason I connected with a mousetrap. I reminded myself to look up mousetrap in the Oxford Book of Quotations in the morning.

  The
telephone too was a mixed blessing. While it was a pleasure to hear one's friends, it always seemed to ring when one was getting down to the crossword. I recalled Amy's concern about my loneliness when I retired.

  'Do join things,' she urged me. 'Go on nice outings with the National Trust. Caxley branch gets up some super trips, and you'd meet lots of like-minded people. And there are very good concerts and lectures at the Corn Exchange, and no end of coach parties going up to the Royal Academy exhibitions or the Barbican or the South Bank. There's no need to vegetate.'

  Amy, and all the other well-intentioned friends, took it for granted that I should long for a plethora of people and excitements. As I climbed into bed I was reminded of a remark of Toddy's in Helen's Babies.

  Does anyone these days read that remarkable book published at the turn of the century, decribing the traumas of a bachelor uncle left in charge of his two young nephews?

  The conversation has turned to presents. Budge, the elder boy, wants everything from a goat-carriage to a catapult. Toddy, aged three, says he only wants a chocolate cigar.

  'Nothing else?' asks his indulgent uncle. 'Why only a chocolate cigar?'

  'Can't be bothered with lots of things,' is the sagacious reply.

  I decide that I have a lot in common with Toddy, as I turn my face into the pillow.

  The weather was as sad as the occasion when we set out on Thursday morning for the funeral. Rain lashed the car, the roads were awash, and every vehicle seemed to throw up a few yards of heavy spray. We spoke little on the journey. John was concentrating on his driving, and I was feeling tired and sad.

  We drove straight to the church which was some half a mile from the nursing home. A verger in a black cassock showed us into a front pew. There were very few people in the other pews, but I noticed the matron of the nursing home and one or two elderly people with her, whom I guessed were friends and fellow-residents of Uncle Sam's.