by Miss Read
'What fête?'
'Up the vicar's. You know, what we been practising for at school.'
Joseph suddenly remembered all he had been told about races, fancy-dress competitions, sweet-stalls, prizes and his own beautiful picture which had been pinned on to the board for the judges to see. Without a word he pounded up to the house, the sisters scampering, squeaking, behind him.
In the stuffy kitchen his mother was shaking the baby's bottle and looking at it with some impatience. The baby cried fitfully.
'Can us go to the fête?'
'Do let's, Mum; let's go! Say us can go, Mum!' they clamoured above the baby's crying.
'Oh, we'll see,' said their mother testily. 'You get off in the garden while I feeds baby. This bottle don't draw right.'
She sucked at it lustily and then turned it upside down, watching it critically.
'Oh, Mum, you might! Just for a bit. Please, Mum!' they pleaded.
The bottle was thrust into the baby's mouth and peace reigned.
'I'll see how I gets on,' said Mrs Coggs grudgingly. 'I don't know as I've got enough clean clothes for you all to go up to the vicar's, with aU the rain this week. You get on outside and play quiet for a bit. Perhaps we can.'
She joggled the baby on her arm. The children still waited.
'Oh, buzz off!' shouted Mrs Coggs with exasperation. 'I've said us might go, haven't I?'
And with this unsatisfactory answer ringing in their ears, the Coggs children returned reluctantly to the garden.
The vicar had prevailed upon a well-known novelist, Basil Bradley, who lived locally, to open the fête, and this he had done in a speech of charm and brevity.
Beside him, accommodated in the vicar's best armchair, sat his mother, an old lady in her ninety-third year, so wayward and so eccentric in her behaviour as to cause her celebrated son many moments of anxiety.
She was the widow of a brewer and was said to be very wealthy indeed.
It was common knowledge that her son had none of this money. He lived, comfortably enough however, upon his earnings, and was wont to smile patiently when his mother said, as she did frequently, 'Why the dickens should the boy have any of my money? He'll have it when I'm gone—do him good to wait for it!'
It was her habit, however, to give him expensive, and often useless, presents at odd times, which he did his best to receive gratefully, for he was devoted to this maddening despot. Only this morning he had accepted, with well-simulated gratification, a quite hideous paper-rack, made of black bog-wood, which his mother had purchased from an antique dealer who should have known better.
'Speak up, Basil,' she had commanded, in a shrill pipe, towards the end of his speech, 'Mumble-mumble-mumble! Use your teeth and your tongue, boy! Where are your consonants!'
She was now at Miss Clare's stall inquiring the price of sweets, and expressing her horror at such outrageous charges.
'As a gel,' she said to the imperturbable Miss Clare, 'I bought pure home-made fig toffee for a halfpenny a quarter. Good wholesome food, with a wonderful purging property. Not this sort of rubbish!' She waved an ebony stick disdainfully at Miss Clare's stall and turned away in disgust. Her son, smiling apologetically, bought humbugs and lollipops in such enormous quantities that Miss Clare wondered where on earth he would get rid of them.
Dr Martin, holding a large golliwog which he had won at hoop-la, was admiring the rose which climbed over the vicarage porch.
'That's a nice rose,' said the old lady, coming up behind him. 'A good old-fashioned rose. A nice flat face on it, you can get your nose into!'
The vicar basked in this sudden approval.
'A great favourite of mine, isn't it, doctor? I planted it the autumn that my son was born.'
'Can't beat a Gloire de Dijon,' agreed the doctor, 'splendid scent!' And he bent a spray for the old lady to sniff.
'Allow me to pick you some,' said the vicar, and vanished into the house for the scissors.
'Most sensible man I've seen for a long time,' commented Mrs Bradley. 'Knows a good rose and gives you some too. Don't often get a bunch of flowers these days. Old people get neglected,' she added, squeezing a tear of quite unnecessary self-pity into her eye. Doctor Martin and poor Basil Bradley exchanged understanding looks. Doctor Martin thought of the numerous well-kept hothouses in the Bradley grounds and forbore to make any comment; but taking the old lady's hand in his he patted it comfortingly.
The vicar bustled back and snipped energetically, taking great pains to cut off any thorns. He was very proud of his rose and delighted to find an admirer in this crusty old lady.
'And now,' she said, when the bouquet was tied with bass, 'I must give you something for your funds before my son takes me home. Go away, Basil,' she ordered the poor man, who had stepped forward to take her arm. 'Go away, boy, while I go into the vicarage to write a cheque. And don't fuss round me as though I were incapable!'
Her son meekly sat on the edge of the stone urn while the vicar, expostulating politely, led his visitor to the drawing-room. There, in a spiky handwriting, reminiscent of the French governess of her childhood, Mrs Bradley wrote a cheque and gave it to the vicar.
'But, my dear Mrs Bradley, I simply can't accept——' began that startled man.
'Stuff!' snapped Mrs Bradley, 'I haven't been given a bunch of roses like that for years. Stop fussing, man, and let me get home for my rest.'
She stepped out into the sunshine again and set off for the car.
Mr Partridge, much bewildered, held out the cheque for Basil Bradley's inspection.
'Your mother, so kind, but I feel perhaps … her great age, you know,' babbled the vicar incoherently. The son reassured him.
'I'm so glad that she has given generously to such a good cause. Believe me, you have made her very happy this afternoon.'
'Hurry up, boy,' came a shrill voice from the car, 'don't waste the vicar's time when he's busy!' And, waving a claw-like hand, she was driven off.
Over on the tennis court, bowling-for-the-pig was doing a roaring trade. Mr Willet was in charge, perched up on the top of the straw bales, and hopping down, every now and again, to roll the heavy balls back to John Burton's father, who was taking the sixpences and handing out the balls.
Away, in the corner of the walled kitchen garden, stood the pigsty, usually empty, but now housing a small black Berkshire pig, who was accepting such dainties as apple cores, and even an occasional toffee-paper, from the children who stood round admiring him.
Mrs Bryant, her trilby hat a landmark, sat on the grass at the side of the tennis court, with several of her sons and daughters around her. All her boys were noted marksmen, and very few pigs from the local fetes found other homes than with the Bryant tribe.
Malachi, a swarthy six-footer, in a maroon turtle-neck sweater, had just knocked seven of the nine skittles down with his three balls, and Ezekiel was now about to try his luck.
All Mrs Bryant's boys had Biblical names and as she had mastered the reading of capital letters, but had never gained the ability to read small ones, their names had been garnered from the headings of the books of the Bible. Her fifth son she had decided to call 'Acts' but was gently dissuaded from this by the vicar who had suggested that 'Amos' might be a happy substitute, and in this the old lady had concurred.
The tale got round, however, and Amos was nicknamed 'Acts' or rather, 'Axe,' from an early age. Now a man in his thirties, Axe Bryant ran a thriving fish and chip shop in Caxley, and was too busy this afternoon preparing his potatoes for the Saturday night rush to join his brothers at Fairacre in bowling for the pig.
After Ezekiel had had his turn, John Pringle arrived on the scene. He was popular, and everyone hoped he would give the Bryants a run for their money. With great cunning he bowled his three balls, and the last one, by some distortion of the pitch, knocked down three out of the remaining four standing.
'Eight!' went up the triumphant cry, 'Good old John! Eight!' And delighted glances were exchanged and much back-
slapping. Even Mrs Pringle managed a faint congratulatory smile at her son, basking in his reflected glory. But the Bryant tribe looked grim.
'Malachi!' ordered Mrs Bryant in a voice of thunder, with a jerk of the trilby hat towards the balls. With his black brows drawn together, Malachi advanced with another sixpence, and after spitting on his hands, he sent down his first ball in answer to the challenge.
Mrs Moffat was receiving congratulations from the vicar's wife on her daughter's dress. Linda had won first prize of five shillings which she was now ploughing back into the fete funds by treating several small friends to ice-cream.
Several of the mothers had spoken to her and had said how pretty Linda looked. Fairacre, Mrs Moffat suddenly thought, was a very pleasant place, and, with an uprush of spirits, she remembered how gloomy she had been a year ago as a newcomer to the village. No, she decided, things were not too bad. Money was easier with Miss Gray boarding with her, Linda was happy at school, the house and garden were settled and she had made a staunch friend in Mrs Finch-Edwards. She moved among the crowd on the lawn, now one of Fairacre's inhabitants, accepted and content.
The schoolchildren in my class performed their play. John Burton's opening line, 'I am the Spirit of Summer,' which I had practised with him until it rang in my head from dawn to dusk, was, as I had feared, delivered in the perfunctory, off-hand mutter, that I had sweated blood to change to an arresting declamation. Everyone applauded heartily, however, and the infants gambolled on to perform their singing games under Miss Gray's direction.
In the vicar's drawing-room, Miss Clare sat at the piano, which had been pulled close to the french windows, and there she played the old nursery tunes, 'Here we go round the Mulberry Bush' and 'Poor Jenny is a-weeping,' and 'There was a Jolly Miller,' as she had done so many times for their fathers and mothers.
The babies clapped and sang, very delighted with themselves, gazing cheerfully over their shoulders at their parents all the time. The circle occasionally set off in the wrong direction and had to be steered by Miss Gray now and again, but the whole show was an enormous success, and I felt that Fairacre School had covered itself with glory.
A cold little wind sprang up after tea, rustling the leaves of the rhododendrons and sending the people back to their cottages. The stall-holders began to sell their wares at half-price, and the people in charge of Aunt Sally, fishing with a magnet, and rolling pennies, began to collect their paraphernalia and the pudding basins, heavy with money.
'It seems incredible,' said the vicar later, as he sat with neat piles of coins before him, 'but we seem to have made a hundred and fifty pounds! Of course, I know that that includes Mrs Bradley's most generous contribution, but even so … it is quite wonderful!' His face was glowing with happiness. He adored his church and the parlous state of the roof had afforded him much sorrow for some time. Now, well before the winter gales began, a start could be made.
Through the french windows he could see the bigger children, under Mr Willet's supervision, clearing up the debris. Mrs Coggs, with her young family, had made her appearance very late, but was now busily stuffing lettuces, gooseberries and spring cabbage into a string bag.
'It will be a relief to get rid of it,' the vicar's wife was assuring her. 'We can't keep it here and it will come in useful for the children, I hope.' She caught sight of Joseph's monkey eyes fixed mournfully upon her. 'Here, my dear, run over to Miss Clare and see if she has anything left on the sweet stall' And to Joseph's speechless amazement he found himself on his way to Miss Clare with a sixpence warm in his hand.
John Pringle was trundling a wheelbarrow covered with a net out of the vicarage gate. Loud squealing accompanied him as he wheeled his pig home, and on each side of the barrow trotted admiring children.
Outside 'The Beetle and Wedge' lounged the Bryant menfolk. Mrs Bryant had stalked home in disgust some half-hour earlier, and the men were loth to face her acid tongue when they returned.
They watched the pig and its escort go by them, with hostile glances, but in stony silence. As the cavalcade turned the bend, Ezekiel spoke.
'Come and 'ave one, mates,' he muttered, and the brothers turned silently in at the pub door to gain consolation for past tribulations and strength to face those to come.
20. Perplexed Thoughts on Rural Education
'HEARD about Springbourne?' asked Mr Willet. He was sheltering in the school doorway from a sharp spattering of hail. Beside him was propped a besom with which he had been sweeping the coke back to the pile. An outbreak of Cowboys-and-Indians, involving ambushes behind the pile and wild sorties over it, had spread the crunching mess far and wide.
'What about it?' I said, peering out to see if I could make a dash for the kettle. The spasmodic spatterings suddenly turned to a heavy bombardment. Hailstones danced frenziedly on the asphalt, so thick and fast, that it seemed as though a mist were rising. I leant against the stone sink in the lobby, ready to gossip.
'They say the school's closing down,' said Mr Willet, 'You heard that?'
I said I had.
'Well, it ain't good enough by half. The people over Springbourne are proper wild about it. After all, it's been there pretty near as long as this one.'
'But it's so expensive to keep up. Only fifteen children, I believe, and the building in need of repair.'
'What about it? Got to go to school somewhere, ain't they? Can't walk this far, some of 'em only babies; now, can they? Besides every village wants its own school. Stands to reason you wants your own children to run round the corner to where you went yourself.'
He blew out his stained moustache with vexation.
'And another thing,' he said, nodding like a mandarin, 'the bus'll cost a pretty penny to cart 'em over here. And what about poor old Miss Davis? Been there donkey's years. She and Miss Clare was pupil teachers together as girls. Where's she to go? Pushed offto some ol' school in Caxley, I've heard tell, with great ol' classes that'll shout her down, I shouldn't wonder!' He paused for breath, glowering out across the veiled playground.
'Mark my words, Miss Read,' he continued, wagging a finger, 'this'll be the death of that poor soul. Give her life up, she has, to Springbourne—and the people there won't let her go without a tussle. Run the cubs, played the organ, done the savings—Oh! I reckons it's cruel!'
I agreed that it was.
'And where's the poor ol' gel to live? There's rumours going that she'll be turned out of the school-house, where she's lived all these years. Look at the garden she's made! A real picture—and took her all her life! And that's another thing!' Mr Willet moved closer to me to emphasize his point. The ragged moustache was thrust aggressively near.
'Suppose these school people up the office ever wants to open that school again? Who's coming there, if they've sold the house? Tell me that?' he demanded. 'You know, miss, we've seen it time and time again—no house, no schoolteacher! And in the end it's the kids and the village what suffers. No one living there to take an interest and know everybody. "Yank 'em off in a bus," says the high-ups!' Mr Willet's tone changed to one of mincing refinement.' "Push 'em all into one big school—it's economy we've got to think of!"'
I laughed, and was immediately sorry, for Mr Willet was so burning with righteous indignation that I could not explain that I was laughing at his impersonations and not at his sentiments.
'Economy!' Mr Willet spat out, with disgust. 'I don't call that economy! Economy's taking care of what you've got and making good use of it. And if shutting up the village schools for the sake of a bit of hard cash is what the high-ups call economy, they just wants to sit down quiet for a minute and think what real value means—not ol' money—that's the least of it—and then to think again and ask themselves "What are we throwing away?"'
The hail stopped with dramatic suddenness, and with Mr Willet's wisdom ringing in my ears I sped across to the kettle.
While Mrs Pringle was still flicking her duster the next morning, Miss Gray beckoned me into her empty room to show me a very
beautiful sapphire ring snug in its little satin-lined box.
'I can't tell you how pleased I am!' I said, kissing her heartily, 'you'll suit each other so well——' A thought struck me. 'It is Mr Annett, I suppose?'
Miss Gray laughed, although her eyes were wet and she was rather tremulous.
'Yes, indeed, who else would it be?'
'I'm so glad. He deserves to be happy at last.'
'Poor man!' agreed Miss Gray, with a sigh so fraught with sympathy and pity that I foresaw a very maudlin few minutes. 'He has suffered terribly,' she went on, looking at me with anguished grey eyes. I composed my features and prepared to listen to the harrowing account of Mr Annett's past love-life and the hopes, declared with becoming downcast modesty, for his future. But luck was with me. The door burst open, and a gaggle of small children entered.
'Miss,' said Jimmy Waites breathlessly, 'Eileen Burton's knicker elastic's busted, and she won't come out of the lavatory she says, until you brings a pin!' Miss Gray put the ring in her bag and hastened away, while I returned to my room to choose the morning hymn, observing, as I went, how seldom one can indulge in the inflation of any sort of emotion without life's little pin-pricks bursting the balloon.
'And a very good thing too,' I was moralizing to myself, 'emotions cannot be enjoyed without them becoming dangerous to one's sense of proportion,' and I was about to develop this lofty theme, when I caught sight of Ernest, and was obliged to break off to direct him to wipe his nose.
On Tuesday the Caxley Chronicle carried the announcement of the engagement and all the village was agog.
'Not that it wasn't plain to see for weeks,' was the general verdict. 'Let's hope they'll be happy.'
Mrs Pringle was at the top of her form when she heard the news.
'That poor girl!' she said, dragging her leg slightly, 'he's got through one wife and now he's setting about another!'
