by Miss Read
I wondered why I felt so remarkably buoyant. Was it just the weather? Was I feeling devil-may-care because I had skipped church that morning? Was it because I knew that my new suit was unusually becoming? Or was it, I wondered with some misgiving, that I was going to see John Jenkins?
I hoped it was not this last reason. Much as I enjoyed John's company I had no intention of accepting him as a suitor although he had offered marriage often enough, heaven alone knew. I had lost count of the times he had proposed and been kindly, I hoped, rejected by me. No, I decided, turning into John's drive, it was just a happy amalgamation of all those factors that contributed to my well-being. I should continue to enjoy that happy state.
The most delicious aroma was wafting from John's kitchen, the honey was warmly received, and within five minutes we were sipping sherry in John's sunlit sitting room.
He was looking remarkably fit, and confirmed that he had now completely recovered from what he described as 'the Portuguese Peril'.
'And what have you been up to, besides deserting me for Fairacre school?'
I told him about George Annett's church pamphlet, and he was all in favour of a new edition.
'Nothing more off-putting than a dreary photo and small print,' he agreed. 'An aunt of mine tried to get me interested in Lorna Doone when I was about ten, and gave me a horrible edition with those shiny sepia pictures which look as though they have been executed in weak cocoa. It put me off for life.'
'Like double columns down the page,' I added, 'beloved of Victorian editors.'
'I'd better prod the bird,' said John, making for the kitchen. 'Come and give me your advice.'
I followed him to the oven and watched him raise the casserole lid. Everything smelt wonderful, but we agreed that the lid should now be removed so that the bird could brown.
We returned to our sherry and the conversation turned to the subject of recording the memories of the older generation.
'And ourselves,' added John. 'We're knocking on, and I don't suppose there are many of us left who can remember the Schneider Trophy air race, or even the Abdication.'
'That was quite something,' I agreed. 'The children used to sing: "Hark the herald angels sing, Mrs Simpson's pinched our King".'
'I like that,' said John delighted. 'I was in Kenya then, and feelings ran high.'
He put down his glass.
'Which reminds me,' he went on, 'if you really want to go on with this recording business, I have a tape recorder I can lend you. I bought it when I came back from Kenya. Do borrow it.'
I expressed my thanks, but wondered if I should ever get down to embarking on this worthy project.
'Perhaps keeping a diary would help,' I pondered. 'But I suppose it would be best to start that next January.'
'It sounds to me,' said John firmly, 'as if you are procrastinating. My father's motto was: "Do it now", which I found a little daunting at the time, but I can see the point now.'
'I suppose I'm beginning to get a reaction from my week's teaching,' I said. 'I have a feeling that my life might get a bit aimless.'
'Make me your aim,' suggested John. 'Think how rich and full your life would be married to me.'
'Is that today's proposal?'
'Of course. Or would you prefer a more passionate one after the pheasant?'
'I reckon that pheasant will be done,' I replied. 'Shall we investigate?'
It was, and very soon we settled down to enjoy the tasty meat. The fluffy apple in which the bird had been resting was deliciously flavoured with its juices and with the red wine which had been added. John had also cooked pears in red wine, explaining that as he had opened a bottle of good claret to moisten the pheasant dish, he felt it should be used up.
I complimented him on such exemplary domestic economy. He certainly was a very capable man, I thought, watching him prepare coffee. Really, one could quite see his attractions as a husband. But not for me, of course.
It was while we were enjoying our coffee that the telephone rang. Whoever it was at the other end must have been in full spate, for John's answers were sparse.
'No bother at all,' he said at last. 'I'll be there at three, without fail. See you then.'
'Henry,' he said. 'Ringing up from Ireland. I'm picking him up on Wednesday at Bristol airport.'
'With Deidre?'
'He didn't say. He sounded rather flustered, and kept apologizing. I don't know why. I told him I'd meet him if he decided to come home at any time.'
'I do hope they've made it up. Poor old Henry is a bit lost on his own.'
'Well, don't take pity on him if he is. It's his own fault. There are far more deserving cases of lone men nearer home, you know. Would you like to hear more about one of them, or have a walk round the garden?'
'I think,' I said, putting down my empty coffee cup, 'I could do with a walk round the garden after that delicious meal.'
'Ah well!' said John, rising. 'There'll be another time, no doubt.'
'I was afraid of that,' I told him, laughing.
I drove home from John's feeling remarkably well in body, but disturbed in spirit. There was really no reason, I told myself, why I should concern myself about Henry Mawne. He and Deidre were quite old and experienced enough to know what they were doing, so why should I bother?
To be honest, I knew the answer. I just did not want the added complication of Henry's intrusion into my own life. Over the years he had caused me embarrassment and annoyance, and now with John to further complicate matters, I just prayed that Deidre would be accompanying her husband back to a settled life in Fairacre.
Another thought was niggling too. John's offer of his tape recorder had brought to the fore this nebulous idea of writing a book, or booklet, or perhaps a series of articles for the Caxley Chronicle based on the recordings I might be successful in wheedling from my older friends.
I had told John that I had felt somewhat restless after my week's work at Fairacre. This was true, but was it only transient? Did I really want to work again? I certainly did not intend to give up the delight of staying day-long in my own beloved cottage, and going out to some place of business.
Perhaps this little job of George Annett's would help me to settle things? It would be a feeler, keep me busy and interested, and it would not be too demanding mentally. After all, I had appeared several times in the columns of our local paper. I had a slight but happy relationship with the present editor, and felt sure that he would take any of the local memories I was envisaging for future subject matter. Of course, if I really got a lot of material I might make a whole book and post the typescripts to the Oxford University Press or any other respected publisher.
Yes, I told myself, as I swung into my drive, the little pamphlet's up-dating should give me some idea of what I really wanted to do in retirement. I felt rather more settled in my mind as I unlocked the door and made my way into the sitting-room.
Here chaos confronted me. A starling had fallen down the chimney, and now dashed itself dementedly against the window-pane. I let it out and surveyed the wreckage.
The hearth was thick with soot. The carpet had a good sprinkling too, and my newly laundered loose covers on the sofa and chairs bore black claw marks and a light film of soot.
I went upstairs to take off my finery donned for the lunch party, enveloped myself in an overall, and went to fetch the vacuum cleaner, dustpan and brush, and a bucket of hot water and scrubbing brush.
The problems of future authorship, and those pertaining to Henry Mawne's troubles, were shelved.
I had enough of my own.
8. Christmas
PREDICTABLY ENOUGH November slipped quietly into December, and I had my annual shock on visiting Caxley to find that the shop windows were bedizened with Christmas trappings, and that there were men on tall ladders and a sort of fork-lift affair getting ready to string Christmas decorations across the High Street.
This year in particular I seemed to be unprepared. The fact that I had sent my overseas gift
s off in good time had engendered a smugness which had insulated me against the stark truth that the bulk of my shopping had yet to be done.
An added factor was that for the first time I had had no Christmas preparations in school to keep me on my toes.
There was no time on that day to start Christmas shopping, and in any case I had not yet made a list of recipients and the right presents for them. I comforted myself with the thought that I had at least got all my cards in the cupboard upstairs, thanks to the RNLI and RSPB catalogues which had arrived on a scorching July day.
No doubt even that forethought would not be completely successful when the time came to write the cards. Usually, I had to scurry to Mr Lamb in Fairacre shop for a further dozen of rather less superior articles. Any of my friends with surnames beginning with W, Y or Z were doomed to have cards with lots of sparkle on them and unnecessary couplets of doggerel inside.
It was Mr Lamb who first told me the news about Henry Mawne. He had arrived home without his wife, and had said little about her.
'There's talk of him selling the house,' said Mr Lamb, adding two tins of Pussi-luv to the little heap of my purchases on the counter.
'Oh, I hope he won't,' I cried. 'It's been in his family for so long. I remember his aunt, Miss Parr, telling me about it.'
'Costs a mint of money to keep up, a place like that. They say he might get something smaller in Ireland. Mind you, it's not a good time to sell. No money about, and who wants a great barn of a place like that?'
'Quite. I'm thankful I've only got a small cottage.'
'And a very nice one.' He looked at me speculatively.
'Now if you ever felt like selling,' he went on, 'I reckon you'd soon find a buyer. I'd be interested myself, by the way, if you ever decided to go into one of these flats attached to a nursing home, for your last days as it were. I'm beginning to think of retiring myself sometime. The shop's a great tie, and the paperwork's something vicious.'
I was too stunned to reply, but paid my dues and left.
A short visit to Fairacre shop usually gave me food for thought. I had plenty to mull over this time.
Did I really look so decrepit that my only option was a nursing home? Had I ever been foolish enough to say that I might leave my cottage? I searched my mind, but had no recollection of such a thing. In fact, I had always maintained that nothing would induce me to leave Beech Green.
No, Mr Lamb, with his own retirement in mind, was simply putting out feelers, I told myself. But how aggravating it was, and what a cheek on his part!
My indignation continued for the time it took me to get home, and it was not until some time later that Henry Mawne's affairs crossed my mind.
Was there any truth in these rumours that his house might be for sale? Was he really contemplating going to Ireland? If so, did it mean that he was going to return to Deidre?
In any case, how did it affect me? To be honest, it would be a relief to have Henry Mawne out of my life. That was the over-riding fact, sad though I should be to see his fine old house in someone else's hands.
I began to feel a little sorry for him. Poor old man, he was getting on, and there seemed to be a lot of trouble ahead for him, one way or another.
Perhaps it would be simpler for him to give up his home and his wayward wife and just go into one of those nice flats attached to a nursing home, as recommended by Mr Lamb?
Who knows? I might meet him again there one day. It would be just like the gods to have the last laugh.
A day or two later, I found an invitation to a Christmas party at Fairacre school lying on the mat when I returned from a walk.
Jane Summers had probably dropped it through the letter-box on her way home to Caxley. I was sorry to have missed her, but was glad to see that she was prudently saving postage.
The invitation was written in a child's handwriting, and I put it in pride of place on the mantelpiece. That was one festivity I should look forward to attending.
Meanwhile I started to work on the church pamphlet. Basically, I decided, it provided useful facts about the building, but needed a few additions. For instance, a rather attractive stained-glass window in memory of twin sons killed in the First World War had no mention at all, which seemed a pity. The family was an ancient and honourable one whose seat had been at Beech Green for centuries. The last of the family had left in the fifties, and it was now a nursing home. (Perhaps it was this one Mr Lamb had in mind for me?)
There was also a fine Elizabethan tomb in the Lady Chapel, with rows of little kneeling children mourning their recumbent parents. This had been dismissed in the present leaflet with: 'The Motcombe tomb is to be found in the Lady Chapel.' I decided to give it more prominence in my version.
To this end I spent a happy morning in Caxley Library looking up the history of both families, and was surprised at how quickly the time passed whilst engaged on my simple researches.
Driving home I began to wonder if this sort of gentle activity was what I needed to fill my days in the future. I began to wax quite enthusiastic and wondered if a small book about local history would prove a worthwhile project. It could have maps in it, I thought delightedly. I like maps, and I imagined myself poring over old maps and new ones, and deciding how large an area I would cover, and what scale I should choose for reproducing them.
Caxley itself could provide a wealth of material for a volume of local history, but I decided that other people had done this before me, and in any case I had no intention of burdening myself with trips to the crowded streets of our market town to check facts and figures.
No, I shall concentrate on something simpler, Beech Green, say, or Fairacre. I remembered some of dear Miss Clare's memories of her thatcher father and his work, and of the way of life she had known as a child in the house which was now mine. If only I had written them down at the time!
Such pleasurable musings accompanied me as I went about my daily affairs. When at last I settled down one wet afternoon to write up my notes about the two families commemorated in my parish church, I began to have second thoughts.
This writing business was no joke. Both accounts were much too long. I did some serious cutting and editing, then began to wonder if my predecessor had discovered the same difficulty in describing the earlier tomb, which accounted for his terse advice to visit the Lady Chapel.
I put down my pen and went to make a pot of tea. I needed refreshment. Perhaps it would be better to devote my energies to recording people's memories, as I had first thought, and writing my own diary next year. I was beginning to realize that historical research and, worse still, writing up the results was uncommonly exhausting.
I had a chance to broach the subject of recording memories when Bob Willet arrived with Joe Coggs the next Saturday.
'We've come to split you up,' announced Bob.
I was not as alarmed as one might imagine. Translated it meant that he and Joe were about to divide some hefty clumps of perennials which had been worrying Bob for some time.
They went down the garden bearing forks and chatting cheerfully, while I went indoors to make some telephone calls.
I could hear them at their task. Bob was busy instructing his young assistant on the correct way to divide plants.
'You puts 'em back to back, boy. Back to back. Them forks. Pretty deep. Put your foot on 'em, so's they gets well down. That's it. Now give 'em a heave like.'
I could hear the clinking of metal as the operation got under way, then a yell.
'Well, get your ruddy foot out o' the way, boy! You wants to watch out with tools.'
I hoped I should not be called upon to rush someone to hospital, and was relieved to hear no more yells, just Bob's homely burr as he continued his lesson.
Some time later, their labours over, we all sat down at the kitchen table with mugs of tea before us, and a fruit cake bought from the WI stall in the middle.
My two visitors did justice to it and Bob congratulated me.
'You always was a good ha
nd at cake-making. My Alice said so.'
This was high praise indeed as Mrs Willet is a renowned cook. However, common honesty made me confess that I had not made this particular specimen.
I broached the subject of Bob's early memories, and drew some response.
'Well now, I don't really hold with raking up old times, but there's a lot I could tell you about Maud Pringle in her young days as'd make you sit up.'
The dangers of libel suddenly flashed before me. Perhaps old memories were not going to be as fragrant and rosy as I imagined.
'I wasn't thinking of people so much,' I began carefully, 'as different ways of farming, perhaps, or household methods which have changed.'
Bob looked happier.
'You can't do better than to talk to Alice. She remembers clear-starching and goffering irons and all that sort of laundry lark. She sometimes did a bit for old Miss Parr. She had white cambric knickers with hand-made crochet round the legs. They took a bit of laundering, I gather.'
I said I should love to hear Alice's reminiscences, and meant it.
'I could put you wise to old poaching methods,' said Bob meditatively. 'Josh Pringle, over at Springbourne, he was the real top-notcher at poaching. He'd be a help too, but I think he's in quod at the moment. He's as bad as our ...'
Here he broke off, having recalled that young Joe was the son of the malefactor he had been about to mention.
'As I was saying,' he amended with a cough, 'Josh is as bad as the rest of them, but he'd remember a lot about poaching times, and dodging the police.'
I began to wonder if I had better abandon my plans for enlightening future generations. Danger seemed to loom everywhere.
'Then there was that chap that worked for Mr Roberts' old dad,' went on Bob, now warming to the subject. 'Can't recall his name, but Alice'd know.'
'What about him?'
'He hung himself in the big barn.'
This did not seem to me to be a very fruitful subject for my project. Dramatic, no doubt, but too abrupt an ending.
