(20/20)A Peaceful Retirement

by Miss Read

  'Would you like a rest now?' I enquired, but Alice then embarked on the preparations needed in the kitchen before preparing a meal for 'upstairs'. This involved so many technical terms connected with the coal-fired stove, such as 'dampers', that I feared I should have to get expert advice before translating Alice's account for modern readers, and we decided to end our session.

  I played it back when I got home, and congratulated myself - and Alice, of course - on having such a wonderful start.

  I was still in a state of excitement when Amy called on her way home from Oxford.

  'A very good thing that you've found an interest,' she said approvingly, 'but rather a solitary occupation, this writing business. I should feel much happier if you joined things'

  'But I do,' I protested. 'I belong to Fairacre and Beech Green WIs, and am always buzzing about going to concerts and lectures. And things,' I added rather lamely.

  'But it seems so aimless,' said my old friend. 'I feel you need to use your mind more. What about politics?'

  What about it?'

  Wouldn't you like to take an active part in helping your local candidate?'

  'Frankly, no. And I've had quite enough of meetings and committees and all the rest of 'em while I was teaching. Now I'm enjoying retirement, don't forget, and even so, I get called upon to do jobs I really don't want to do.'

  'You did a very good one on updating the pamphlet about the church here,' said Amy generously. 'Isobel Annett told me at the last Choral Society practice.'

  'It's with the printers now, I believe,' I said, rather mollified. 'I quite enjoyed that little exercise.'

  'Well, you were always good at English at college, so perhaps this little dabbling in old memories will be fulfilling for you.'

  'You sound like my doctor,' I observed. 'He doesn't think I'm fulfilled because I haven't had children.'

  'You don't want to take any notice of doctors,' said Amy sturdily. They get such silly ideas of their importance always being kowtowed to by adoring nurses. It gives them ideas above their station.'

  She rose to go.

  'By the way, I've promised to raise funds for the Dogs for the Blind some time. I thought a cheese and wine evening perhaps. Makes a change from a coffee morning, and one gets more men if it's a cheese and wine do.'

  'I'll come to that with much pleasure. Better still, I'll come over and help you get things ready.'

  'Better still,' repeated Amy, 'bring that nice John Jenkins or Henry Mawne. Or both.'

  'Not together,' I told her.

  Mrs Pringle had heard all about my recording session with Alice Willet, but was pleased to see that the instrument was lying on the kitchen table to be put to use during a prolonged tea interval.

  I noticed her smoothing her hair and adjusting her blouse, as I switched on, as if she were facing television cameras.

  'Shall I tell you about how my old grandma met her end?' she enquired. 'She had a funny turn coming down the steps at Caxley station, and her legs was -'

  'Perhaps something more general,' I broke in. 'About your schooldays in Caxley?'

  'Well, they wasn't all that different to things today,' began Mrs Pringle, thwarted of the gruesome account of her grandmother's end. 'Still, I could tell you what I wore when I went to school.'

  'Splendid,' I said encouragingly, and she was well away.

  'Well, in winter I wore a good woollen vest next to the skin, then a starched cotton chemise, then a petticoat, blouse, woolly cardigan and a pinafore over the lot.'

  'Knickers?' I suggested politely.

  'Of course,' said Mrs Pringle, bridling. 'Fleecy lined with elastic at waist and legs. In summer I had cotton knickers as fastened on to my Liberty bodice.'

  It was surprising how much useful material was obtained at this session. When I came to play it back that evening, I found not only Mrs Pringle's memories of her youthful garments, but some fascinating recollections of old country remedies.

  'If we had a stye on the eye, my mum used to rub it with her wedding ring. Had to be pure gold, you see, or it never worked.'

  Parson Woodforde, I recalled, writing on the same subject in 1791, had been advised to stroke his stye with the tail of a cat. It had to be a black cat, but fortunately he had one handy, and proceeded to stroke the stye with its tail. He found some immediate relief but four days later, he notes 'Eye much inflamed again, and painful,' so presumably the cat's tail was not wholly proficient.

  I went to bed that night full of hope for my future project. The next move, I thought, would be to jot down as much as I could remember of dear Dolly Clare's reminiscences. That should give me another few pages, I thought happily, as I settled down to sleep.

  My other literary project, the keeping of my personal diary, was not faring so well.

  The last entry, for instance, read: 'Washed my new cardigan. It had gone out of shape and the sleeves are now far too long, dammit.' Not, I felt, the sort of thing to match the work of Pepys or Evelyn. It was all rather dispiriting, and the murky January days did not help.

  We had a spell of dismal weather, so dark that the lights had to be on all day, and one realized how near the arctic circle our storm-girt island lay. I longed for spring, for sunlight, warmth and flowers.

  On just such a gloomy afternoon I was glad to have a visit from John Jenkins, who had called to return a book.

  He had also brought me a bowl of early hyacinths, just coming into flower. Nothing could have been more welcome, as I told him.

  He enquired after my literary efforts and I brought him up to date, remarking upon my uninspired diary entries.

  'Cheer up,' he said kindly, 'at least you're keeping your hand in, and it's your life you are noting, not Pepys' or Evelyn's.'

  We sat eating toasted crumpets and sipping tea, and were enjoying each other's company when the telephone rang.

  To my surprise, it was Henry. Could he come and see me soon? He'd like to talk things over with me. My heart sank. 'Come to tea tomorrow,' I said, as warmly as I could. 'What's it about?'

  There followed a lengthy monologue about his present troubles, Deidre's absence, the possibility of leaving Fairacre, and a touch of sciatica, to add to things.

  'But do you think I can help?' I asked doubtfully.

  He said that he knew he had been a confounded nuisance in the past, but he would dearly like a sensible woman's views on his present plight. He sounded sad, but genuinely troubled, and I said I should look forward to seeing him the next day.

  'That was Henry,' I told John.

  'That man's a menace,' he said, jumping up impatiently, and beginning to pace up and down the room. 'Shall I see him off for you?'

  'Why?' I said, suddenly extremely angry.

  He turned to look at me, and his face changed.

  'I'm sorry,' he said contritely, 'I shouldn't have said that. It's no business of mine.'

  'Quite!' I said, still seething.

  'It's just that I didn't realize you were so fond of old Henry.'

  'I am not so fond of old Henry,' I almost shouted, in my exasperation. 'Henry has annoyed me on many occasions, and I think I know his faults as well as you do. However, he's in real trouble and wants my advice, for what it's worth. He's an old friend. He's always been generous to me and the school children. I shall do what I can for him.'

  'You put me to shame,' said John. 'I'm sorry I've upset you. Perhaps I'd better go.'

  'Oh, don't be a chump,' I said wearily. 'Sit down and have another cup of tea. We're not going to have a row about Henry.'

  He resumed his seat. For the first time he looked thoroughly discomfited, and I liked him all the better for it.

  'I should know better than to interfere in your private affairs,' he said. 'It's just that I'm so fond of you I hate to see you being bothered by anybody.'

  'Point taken,' I replied lightly, and let him have the last crumpet.

  10. Henry's Troubles

  OF COURSE, I spent that night, the next morning and early afternoon
pondering on the coming interview with Henry Mawne.

  All that I had said to John during my outburst was quite true. Henry had been the source of much embarrassment to me over the years, but he was a decent man, I liked him, and I was very sorry for him at the moment.

  On the other hand, all my mother's warnings about interfering in married couples' affairs, came back to me and, in any case, I certainly did not want to encourage Henry to come and pour out his heart whenever he felt inclined.

  I thought he had aged a lot when he arrived, and soon supplied him with that panacea for all ills mental and physical, a cup of tea. It crossed my mind, as I handed it to him, that Amy would be delighted to know that I had company. My own unworthy thought was, should I ever have my house to myself?

  He seemed unable to broach the subject of his unhappiness, and in the end I took the bull by the horns and said:

  Well, fire away, Henry. I am truly sorry about your present affairs. Can I help?'

  'It really all depends on Deidre,' he began, crumbling a piece of shortbread in a rather messy fashion, so that a goodly proportion was strewn on the hearth rug.

  'She's still in Ireland, I suppose?'

  'Yes, and likely to stay there. I don't blame her. She never really settled in Fairacre. But she is really being most difficult.'

  I began to wonder if poor Deidre was going to be blamed for Henry's misfortunes in her absence. It rather complicated the issue for me as adviser.

  'So what's the position?'

  'She's determined to stay in Ireland, and I shall have to go there to live if I want to save the marriage.'

  'And do you?'

  Henry looked starded.

  'Do I want to save my marriage?' he queried, sounding amazed at such a question. 'Of course I do! Deidre may be rather a handful at the moment, but I love her very much. Besides, we made a contract to keep to each other for better or worse, so long as we both should live. Can't go back on a promise like that!'

  'Plenty do.'

  'Maybe,' said Henry. 'I don't.'

  At least one point was clear and I was not going to be called upon to come between husband and wife.

  Will you mind living in Ireland?'

  'Not a bit. Lovely country, know quite a few people there, and the gardens do well.'

  'So what's the problem between you both?'

  'I suppose I tried too hard to get her to come back here. I really have put down roots in Fairacre, and I love the old house and garden. But she was so obstinate about it I lost my temper pretty often, and then she'd flit off to stay with friends and leave me "to stew in my own juice", as she used to say.'

  'Have you been in touch since you've been back? Does she know you are willing to go back to Ireland?'

  Henry looked doubtful.

  "Well, I've written several times, but she doesn't read letters, and often doesn't answer the phone. I think I shall simply go back and tell her.'

  'Have you got somewhere there to live?'

  That's the snag. She still owns - or rather rents - a tumble-down Irish cabin in County Mayo. We couldn't live there permanently, but I haven't enough cash to buy a suitable place until I've sold my own here. You know, I expect, that it's on the market?'

  I said that I had heard. I did not like to say that I had been acquainted of this news long before the advertisement had appeared in the Caxley Chronicle, and from several informants, but Henry knew village ways as well as I did, so I kept quiet.

  'What do you think I should do?' enquired Henry, looking helpless.

  'You must tell Deidre what you have just told me, that you want a happy marriage and you are content to live in Ireland. Write and telephone as well, and if you don't hear from her you will have to get a go-between.'

  'A go-between?' echoed Henry. 'One of those marriage guidance blokes, or counsellors, or whatever they call themselves? Not likely!'

  He had turned quite pink with indignation, and I hastened to explain.

  'No, no! I meant an old friend of you both whose judgement you valued. Or your solicitor. Someone like that who would explain things to Deidre if you hadn't been able to hear from her.'

  Henry seemed relieved.

  'Oh, our solicitor is just the chap over there. He was at kindergarten with Deidre, and we go fishing together. Can't think why I never thought of him before.'

  'But do try Deidre first,' I said hastily. 'And tell her you've put the house up for sale. It will show her you are really serious.'

  'It's not going to be easy to sell. Wants a lot doing to it. Still, it's a nice place, and I'd like to see it go as a family house. Gerald Partridge seemed to think that some institution like Distressed Gentlefolk or Delinquent Boys might be interested.'

  'Not to share, I trust. The Gentlefolk would soon be even more Distressed with Delinquent Boys under the same roof.'

  Henry ignored my flippancy. He was looking at me with great solemnity.

  'You wouldn't feel like going over to explain things to Deidre yourself, would you?'

  'Definitely not!' I said firmly. 'Now, you write to Deidre this evening, and try to get her on the telephone, and if you haven't heard anything by early next week, then ring your solicitor and tell him to get on to Deidre urgently.'

  'I suppose you're right,' agreed Henry, glancing at the clock. 'Well, I'd best get back. If I write tonight it should get the first post.'

  He rose, and made for the door. There he turned.

  'You are a dear girl,' he said. 'Helped me a lot.'

  'Not really,' I said. 'You'd already worked it out.'

  I opened the front door.

  'See much of John Jenkins?' he said suddenly.

  'Quite a bit.'

  'Good! He's a thoroughly nice chap. He'd take good care of you. Always liked him.'

  He strode off briskly to his car, and I returned to the fireside, pondering his comments on John.

  Comparisons are odious, we all know, but in this instance Henry appeared in a more favourable light than his old school friend who had spoken so disparagingly of him at our last encounter.

  I carried the tea things to the kitchen, and returned with a dustpan and brush to clear up the remains of Henry's meal from the hearth rug.

  I woke next morning with the comforting thought that there was absolutely nothing in the diary to upset my day, and also that it was the first of February, and surely Spring must come soon?

  I promised myself a solitary walk in the woods nearby, and a leisurely potter in the garden sometime during the day. With any luck I might find that 'Peace came dripping slow', as W. B. Yeats put it. It was high time it did, I thought.

  It was wonderfully quiet in the little copse some hundred yards from my home. Only the rustle of dead leaves under my feet and the throbbing of a wood pigeon's monotonous song above disturbed the silence.

  I sat on a handy log and surveyed the scene. It was still a winter one, with bare trees and little foliage apart from two sturdy fir trees which must have provided welcome shelter to the birds during the storms.

  But there were small signs of spring. The shafts of sunlight sloping through the trees provided some warmth, and near at hand the wild honeysuckle, which twined about the trunk of a young beech tree, was already showing a few tiny leaves, 'no bigger than a mouse's ear', as I had read somewhere.

  On moving the dead leaves with my muddy boot, I unearthed the small shiny upsproutings of some bluebells which, in a few months' time, would be transforming the scene into a mist of blue and filling the wood with heady fragrance.

  I picked a sprig of the honeysuckle to take home as a forerunner of spring, and half an hour later I put it in a glass specimen vase to stand beside John Jenkins' pink hyacinths, now at their best.

  Much refreshed in spirit, I set about a pile of ironing which had been awaiting attention for far too long, and then resumed my outdoor wanderings around the garden.

  It was showing hopeful signs of spring too. Already the early miniature irises, yellow and blue, were showing co
lour, and a viburnum had broken into leaf.

  There was a good deal of bird activity in the hedges, and I guessed that nest-building had already begun. Altogether I had a delightfully refreshing day of solitude, and it was seven o'clock before the telephone rang. Luckily, it was Amy.

  'Do you know,' I told her, 'you are the first person I have spoken to today.'

  'Good heavens,' cried Amy, sounding shocked, 'how dreadful for you! If only I'd known, I should have asked you here.'

  I tried to explain that I had thoroughly enjoyed my day after rather a lot of visitors, but Amy could not understand it.

  'I assure you, it's been like Paddington Station here the last few days,' I said, and told her about Henry's troubles.

  'I think you've been very patient with him,' she said at last. 'He must be a rather silly man.'

  'He's unhappy.'

  "Well, I expect it's six of one and half a dozen of the other,' said Amy philosophically. 'They must sort it out together. You've done your bit admirably, I'd say.'

  I felt quite flattered. Amy seldom praises me.

  'It's about my proposed wine and cheese party,' she went on. 'The "Dogs for the Blind" do, I spoke about.'

  'The children of Fairacre always called it "Blind Dogs",' I told her. 'They used to bring masses of silver paper for blind dogs. I can't think what they imagined the poor animals would do with it.'

  'Didn't you explain?'

  'Of course I did, but it went in one ear and out the other, I expect.'

  'I know, I know,' said Amy sympathetically. 'Well, the point is that I must postpone the idea. James has a conference in Cyprus soon, and he wants me to go with him. I must say the thought of some sunshine attracts me, and as the dates I had thought of have already been snaffled by the local National Trust and the League of Pity, I'm bowing out until later in the year.'

  'Fair enough. Count on me for help when the time comes.'

  'Thank you, darling. And how's John Jenkins?'

  'Very well,' I said guardedly.

  'I gather he may be giving up his house in France,' said Amy. 'Friends of ours use the same agent over there. They know John slightly.'