by Miss Read
'Well, it was largely that which brought his wife back to him. She may not have wanted him herself, but she did not intend to part with him. I was quite relieved to see her go.'
She looked out to sea again. Henry seemed to have vanished.
'Poor Henry,' she sighed. 'He has had a sad life. I think it is time he was shown some affection and consideration, don't you?'
'We can all do with that,' I assured her.
She turned her eyes from the sea, and looked steadily at me. 'When you retire, will you be lonely?'
'Not for a moment,' I said, knowing full well what prompted this solicitude on my behalf.
'I'm so glad we had this little talk,' she said, rising and dusting sand from her skirt. 'It makes things much easier for me.'
'Good luck with your house-hunting, and all your other projects,' I said, as we set off for a companionable saunter along the famous sands.
Tea at Bunce's was the highlight of the afternoon, and at six thirty we were all aboard again, wind-blown and sunburnt, bound for Fairacre.
I was dropped off in Beech Green, only a few yards from my home, and waved farewell to my fellow passengers, as the bus moved off.
Deirdre gave me a broad smile and, I could have sworn, a wink at the same time.
Mightily content, I turned for home.
On Monday morning, Mrs Pringle limped heavily towards me and I feared the worst.
'I've got that dratted Basil all next week,' she greeted me, 'and I wondered if he could come up here. Next term he starts at Beech Green, and welcome they are to him, and no mistake.'
'Is Minnie ill?'
'She's got a little job up at Springbourne Manor. Just for next week.'
I was surprised to hear it. Minnie is well known for her complete lack of common sense, and has no idea how to tackle housework. I asked what she was being called upon to do at such a well-run establishment.
'They're cleaning out the stables. Some talk of them being turned into houses, and they've got two great skips up there to throw all the rubbish in. She's helping to fill 'em up.'
It seemed the sort of thing she might manage, but I wondered how many objects, later needed, would be the victims of Minnie's activity.
'But isn't the work rather heavy for Minnie?'
Mrs Pringle's countenance became even more gloomy than usual.
'The fact is they need the money. Them kids eats like oxen.'
I began to fear that all this was a preliminary to asking me to supply work for Minnie.
I was right.
'I don't suppose you could give her a couple of hours, now and again?'
'Mrs Pringle,' I began bravely, 'you know as well as I do that Minnie is absolutely hopeless in the house.'
The old curmudgeon had the grace to look abashed at this straight speaking.
'I was thinking about your brights. If she was to come, say, once a month, when I was there of a Wednesday, I could keep an eye on her and see she got out the Brasso and not the stuff to clean the oven. She couldn't do much harm cleaning brass and copper. Particularly your things.'
I did not care for this slur on my property, but overlooked it in the face of this larger menace.
'We could try it, I suppose,' I said weakly, 'but not just yet.'
'Mrs Partridge is having her to scrub out the back kitchen, and the old dairy and wash house, on a Wednesday morning. She's to have her dinner there too.'
Not for the first time, I saw Mrs Partridge as a true Christian, and a worthy wife for our vicar. In the face of such nobility of character, I began to review my own skimpy offering of help.
'She can start after the end of term,' I told Mrs Pringle.
And knew that I should regret it.
A week or two later, the school Sports' Day took place, and everyone prayed for the same sort of halcyon weather which had blessed our trip to Barrisford.
Mr Roberts, the local farmer, always lets us use the field next to our school for our Sports' Day. He removes his house cow, who normally grazes there, and supplies stakes and rope to fence off the course itself.
Mr Willet, a few of the bigger boys and I usually spend an hour or so, on the evening before, getting the field ready for competitors, parents and other visitors.
The main task is roping off the sports area, and stamping down the largest of the molehills. The grass is tussocky in places, and any professional runner would blench at the hazards of racing on such terrain, but we are made of sterner stuff in Fairacre and cope with these little difficulties without complaint.
Sadly, the weather was far from perfect. A boisterous wind blew hair and skirts, and even threatened to overturn the blackboard on which Mrs Richards recorded the results. Chairs and benches had been brought from the school and village hall by Mr Roberts' tractor and trailer, and hardy parents and friends of the school bravely sat by the dividing rope, with the collars of their coats turned up against the breeze.
But at least the rain held off, and the infants stole the show with their sack race, seconded only by the parents' race which was won by our newcomer to the village, Mrs Bennett, amidst great enthusiasm.
It was half-past four when all was over. The chairs were piled upon the waiting trailer, the blackboard and easel manhandled back to their rightful place, and Mr Willet remained surveying the stakes and rope with a mallet in his hand.
Clouds were piling up in the west as children and parents departed, and I urged Bob Willet to leave his duties until tomorrow.
'Mr Roberts said as much,' I informed him. 'There's nothing there to hinder anyone overnight.'
'Then I'll be getting home,' he said, and departed.
I went back to the empty schoolroom to collect a few more of the belongings which had accumulated there over the years and which I was gradually transferring to my home or, more often, to the school dustbin.
There was no one in the building. Mrs Pringle had finished her ministrations and gone. Mrs Richards was halfway to Caxley to prepare Wayne's evening meal. The only sound was the measured tick-tock of the great clock on the wall, and I sat at my desk relishing the silence.
How many head teachers had sat here before me during the long life of this little school? Had I wished, I could have reached down to the bottom drawer of the desk at which I now sat, and lifted out the three great log books which recorded all that had gone before.
The opening entry had been made in 1880 by the first headmistress. She had been helped by her sister who was in charge of the babies' class. Ever since its opening the school had been a two-teacher establishment, as it was today. Sometimes a headmaster ruled, sometimes a headmistress, and very soon yet another headmistress would follow in my footsteps and be, I sincerely hoped, as happy as I had been.
This modest and shabby little building must have seen remembered by thousands of country people over its long history. Soldiers in the Boer War, the Great War of 1914–18, and the war which overshadowed our own lifetime had come from this classroom, had heard the clock tick as I did now, and had memories, no doubt, in those far-off and perilous times of a small and peaceful place where the rooks wheeled about the church spire and the scent of honeysuckle wafted in from the vicarage garden hard by.
Many former pupils had died overseas, for there was a strong attraction from America and from New Zealand where several families had emigrated at the turn of the century. But many pupils lay close by their school, in the churchyard of St Patrick's, among their old friends. And on the walls of the nave and chancel were many lists, poignantly long for such a tiny village, of those who had perished in battle.
Very soon Jane Summers would be sitting here, heiress, as I had been, to this little kingdom which wielded unknown power to influence so many future lives.
It was a sobering, but strangely uplifting thought, to know that one was just a link in a long chain:
...a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
A nd then is heard no more.
St P
atrick's clock began to strike six. I gathered up my belongings and went outside towards the car.
As I was locking the school door I suddenly remembered an occasion when I had returned towards the end of summer holiday, and had found the gossamer threads of a spider across the closed door jamb. It was at a time when we had feared that Fairacre school would have to close because of falling numbers, and I had had the chill feeling that soon the signs of neglect and desertion would engulf the little place.
Cobwebs, dead leaves, the musty smell of an abandoned building would be its lot, and I had been shaken with sudden sadness.
Now I locked up with a braver heart. Thanks to the Trust's efforts and the two new families in our midst, that cloud had been lifted from us, and Jane Summers, and her successors, could look forward to continuing the tradition of our little school.
CHAPTER 15
Farewell to Fairacre School
The last day of any term is usually greeted with unalloyed joy and relief, by pupils and teachers alike.
This was no exception when I splashed happily in the bath tub, but as I sat at the breakfast table, looking out into a pearly quiet garden, a little shiver of apprehension cooled the glow of anticipation.
I was not worried about the larger issues of my retirement. Any doubts about the wisdom of my move had been sorted out and I had come to terms with my future plans.
What worried me now was the immediate programme of the day. There would be some emotional hurdles to overcome, and I felt some dread about my ability to cope with them.
For a start, the vicar had insisted on coming to take morning assembly, when no doubt he would make reference to my departure. Should I be mentioned in the prayers? I could certainly do with some support from church quarters, and any other for that matter, but would the vicar discourse too enthusiastically on my merits, if any, and his hopes for my future?
And then there was the presentation to face in the afternoon. The secret of what form it would take had been well kept, and I had no idea of what was going to be given to me.
I knew that I must make a speech of thanks, and had already planned that it would be short, sincere and simple. The most awful fear was that I might break down and weep. I shuddered at the thought.
Mrs Richards, I felt sure, would shed a few tears, as she was easily moved, confessing that a brass band or flags waving 'set her off'. I had already determined to see that she was placed well out of range of my vision, in case I wept in sympathy.
Oh dear, I thought, as I cleared away the breakfast things, how I hate publicity! My heart sank at the thought of all those people - no matter how well known and kindly disposed - and I remembered the fuss my poor mother had to face, years earlier, when I was forced to go to a party.
It was useless to point out that my friends would be there, that people would not have invited me if they did not want my company. The stark fact remained that I should have to be properly dressed, be particularly polite and, worst of all, act as though I were really enjoying myself.
Well, I told myself, searching for the car keys, I coped then, and I supposed that I could cope today.
Time alone would tell.
Mrs Richards was in school when I arrived and looked a little tearful already, much to my alarm. She was leafing through Hymns A ncient and Modern.
'I'm trying to find something suitable,' she said. 'You know, something really memorable.'
'Well, keep off "Abide With Me," and "Lead Kindly Light", I beg of you. What about "Praise my Soul"?'
'But that seems so heartless, as though we're glad to see you go, which we aren't.'
She began to look even more woebegone.
'I've got a soft spot for "Ye Holy Angels Bright" and I don't think it's too difficult to play.'
She began to turn the pages.
'If you really want that, then you should have the choice this morning,' she said, more cheerfully, and I left her to strum a few chords whilst I unlocked my desk.
Mrs Pringle, when she arrived, was almost smiling. No doubt with relief at seeing me on duty for the last time, was my uncharitable thought, but I was soon enlightened.
'I had a notice from the office. Wages are going up. Not much, mind you, but every little helps.'
I gave her my congratulations.
'It's no more than it should be by rights. That office can have no idea of what's wanted, trying to keep this place decent. Why, the stoves alone are one woman's work, and those everlasting boots all over the lobby floors, day in and day out—'
She was forced to take breath.
'You know it's been appreciated,' I said, feeling that I could afford to be magnanimous on my last morning.
'It's all right for some,' continued Mrs Pringle. 'Come tomorrow they'll be free of all this. Plenty of time to take it easy while the drudgery goes on and on for others.'
'Time for the bell,' I said briskly, and Mrs Pringle limped painfully out of sight.
Mrs Richards and I exchanged meaningful glances as Ernest burst into the room to ring the school bell.
The vicar, I was relieved to see, was much as usual, rather absent-minded and vague, and certainly entirely free from embarrassing emotion.
He always came on the last day of term, but had he forgotten that it was my very last day at Fairacre school? I need not have worried.
In the final prayer he mentioned 'servants who had served for many years with grace and unfailing cheerfulness', which I presumed referred to my endeavours, in the kindest possible way, and also to 'the hope that such servants, and in particular our own dear school teacher, should enjoy the bounty of a long and happy retirement', which I silently endorsed.
'I shall see you again at two o'clock,' he said, as he departed, and I chided myself for thinking that he would forget any of his duties. I should have known better after all these years.
There was a general air of excitement about the classroom that morning, and I knew that the secret they had so faithfully kept was contributing to it.
The atmosphere was not conducive to mental work, and in any case, most of the exercise books and text books were already neatly packed away ready for Jane Summers' over-seeing next term. We confined ourselves, in the usual end-of-term way, to paper games such as the old favourites, 'How many words can you make from CONSTANTINOPLE?', and 'How many boys' and girls' names can you think of beginning with'S?'
More worldly children need videos and computers, but in Fairacre we still enjoy pencils and paper, I am glad to say.
I noticed that the lobby was unusually fragrant when I saw the children out at playtime. A chair, draped with a tea towel, screened what I guessed was a mammoth bunch of flowers, and I could smell lilies, roses, pinks, honeysuckle, a mixture of delicious scents. I diverted my eyes from the screen as I saw the children through the door, and was equally virtuous when I returned for my morning coffee.
The dinner lady brought us shepherd's pie with young carrots and calabrese, with pink blancmange for our pudding. The latter is a great favourite with the children as it is decorated with blobs of white stuff which the children call cream, but which I find unidentifiable.
She also presented me with a box of chocolates, kissed me warmly and said she would miss me. I began to feel dangerously tearful, but responded with equal warmth.
How nice to think that I should be missed!
By two o'clock there was a throng in the school playground, and luckily the sun shone and the boisterous downland wind was not in evidence.
A few chairs had been put here and there for those in need, but I was relieved to see that most visitors would be expected to stand. At least it showed that the proceedings would be brief.
A large object, draped in one of Mr Roberts' tarpaulins, stood in a prominent position. It could be a refectory table or a chest of drawers, but I secretly hoped it might prove to be a garden seat, although I had been appalled at the price shown in a gardening catalogue I had looked at. This had been after I had given the list to the vicar,
and I had had a few bad moments about it.
It was a very large alien object in our playground, but I did my best to ignore it.
St Patrick's church clock struck two o'clock, and a few moments later the vicar clapped his hands for silence, and the ceremony began.
During the vicar's opening address, I had time to study the visitors. Among them Mr Willet stood to one side, and I was touched to see that he was in his best blue serge suit. Mrs Pringle too, was formally dressed and wearing a navy blue straw hat with a duck's wing spread along its ample brim, a real go-to-meetings hat, and its presence today I counted as a great honour.
The younger mothers, of course, were hatless and pretty in their summer frocks. Half a dozen toddlers roamed about, and I thought, with a pang, that I should not be teaching them when their time came. It was little sharp pin-pricks such as this that periodically jerked me into reality.
Someone from the county education office then said some more kind things, and Mrs Bennett, representing the parents and very shy about it, added her tribute.
The moment had arrived for the vicar, helped by Bob Willet, to throw off the tarpaulin covering the mysterious object, and this they did with a great flourish, displaying a magnificent garden seat to the admiration of us all.
It was overwhelmingly generous, and I began to wonder if I should be able to get through my carefully rehearsed speech without breaking down.
I stood up, took a deep breath and began my speech. To my horror I found that my voice was shaky, and that I had a painful lump in my throat. At the same moment I caught sight of Mrs Richards' face, streaming with tears. I began to wonder if I should soon be in the same state.
At this dreadful moment, a large Labrador puppy rushed across the playground, much to the indignation and dismay of my audience.
The vicar nobly attempted to grab the animal, but it romped towards the crowd, delighted to find so many playmates.
Voices rose.
'That's the pub's!'
