(3/20) Storm in the Village (3 page)

Anyway, thought Miss Jackson, that's far better than making them go, step by step, drawing round tobacco tins and paste jars to make horrid little yellow-chicks-in-a-row, for an Easter frieze! For she had found just such a one-made by her predecessor Mrs Annett—and had looked scornfully upon its charming regularity. The children, needless to say, had loved it, but Miss Jackson favoured all those things which were written in capital letters in her own teaching notes—such as Free Art, Individual Expression, Untrammelled Creative Urge, and so on, and anything as formal and limited as poor Mrs Annett's despised chicks were anathema to her.

And so the children snipped and hacked and tore at a fine profusion of gummed papers. Mrs Annett's and Miss Clare's frugal eyes would have expressed concern at the large pieces which fell to waste on the floor. But Miss Jackson, seeing in her mind's eye the riotous glory which was to flower around her walls so soon, and with a fine disregard for the ratepayers' money, smiled upon her babies' efforts with approval.

In the churchyard, next door to the school playground, Mr Willet was having a bonfire. He had made himself a fine incinerator by knocking holes in a tin tar barrel. This was set up on three bricks, so that the draught fairly whistled under it, and inside Mr Willet was burning the dead flowers from the graves, stray pieces of paper, twigs, leaves and all the other rubbish which accumulates in a public place.

He had had some difficulty in getting the fire to start, for the debris was damp. But, having watched Mrs Pringle returning to her home after washing up the school's dinner plates, he had made a bold sortie to the school woodshed, and there found a paraffin-oil can, which Mrs Pringle fondly imagined was known to her alone.

He sprinkled his languishing bonfire lavishly, and stood back to admire the resulting blaze.

'Ah! that's more like!' he said with satisfaction. He bent to retrieve the oil-can and stumped back to the woodshed.

'And if the old Tartar finds out, 'tis all one to me!' he added sturdily, tucking it behind the sack which shrouded it.

Meanwhile, the vicar was polishing his car, and doing it very badly. It wasn't that he was lazy about it. In fact, he was taking the greatest pains, and had an expensive tin of car polish, half-a-dozen clean rags of various types, ranging from a soft mutton-cloth to a dashing blue-checked duster which he had found hanging on the banister.

Mrs Willet, who was helping with the spring-cleaning at the time, was much perplexed about this duster. It had vanished while she had fetched the feather mop for the top of the spare room wardrobe, and was never seen by her again.

But despite his armoury and his zeal, the vicar's handiwork was a failure.

'I must admit,' said the vicar aloud, standing back on his gravel path to survey the car better, 'that there are far too many smears.'

'Gerald!' called his wife, from the window. 'You did remember to ask the Mawnes to call in for a drink this evening?'

'Well, no!' answered the vicar unhappily. 'To be truthful, it slipped my mind, but I have to take a cheque to Mawne for the Church Maintenance Fund. I'll ask them then.'

'Good!' said his wife, preparing to close the window. The vicar forestalled her.

'My dear!' he called. The window opened again. 'What do you think of the car?'

'Smeary!' said his wife, closing the window firmly.

'She's right, you know,' sighed the vicar sadly to the cat which came up to rub against his clerical-grey legs. 'It definitely
is
smeary!'

With some relief he turned his back on the car, and went into the house to fetch his biretta. He would visit the Mawnes straight away. An afternoon call would be much more satisfying than cleaning the car.

The smoke from Mr Willet's most successful bonfire began to blow into my classroom during history lesson, and I went to the window to close it.

I could see Mr Willet, his shirt-sleeves rolled up, forking dead vegetation into the smoking mouth of the incinerator. He turned, as he heard the window shut, and raised his hands in apology and concern.

I shook my head and smiled, waving my own hands, hoping that he would accept my grimaces and gestures as the verbal equivalent of Don't worry! It doesn't matter!'

It appeared that he did, for after a minute or two of further dumb show, he saluted and returned to his fork; while I gave a final wave and returned to my class.

The slip-shod spelling in the older children's history essays had roused me to an unaccustomed warmth and I had been in the midst of haranguing them when I had broken off to close the window. I returned to the fray with renewed vigour.

'Listen to this Patrick, "There were four Go-urges. Go-urge the Frist, Go-urge the Scond, Go-urge the Thrid, and Go-urge the Froth." And to make matters worse, I had put "George" on the blackboard for you, and spent ten minutes explaining that it came from a Greek word "Geo" meaning earth.'

Patrick smiled sheepishly, fluttering alluring dark lashes. I refused to be softened.

'Who remembers some of the words we put on the blackboard, beginning with "Geo"?'

There was a stunned silence. The clock ticked ponderously and outside we could hear the crackling of Mr Willet's bonfire. Someone yawned.

'Well?' I said, with menace.

'Geography,' said one inspired child.

'Geology,' said another.

Silence fell again. I made another attempt to rouse them.

'Oh, come now! There were several more words!'

Joseph Coggs, lately arrived in my room, broke the silence.

'Je-oshaphat!' he said smugly.

I drew in a large breath, but before I could explode, his neighbour turned to him.

'That's Scripture, Joe!' he explained kindly.

I let out my breath gently and changed the subject. No point in bursting a blood-vessel, I told myself.

Mrs. Annett had asked me to tea that afternoon.

'And stay the evening, please!' she had implored on the telephone. 'George will be going into Caxley for orchestra practice, and I shall be alone. You can help me bath Malcolm,' she added, as a further inducement.

The thought of bathing my godson, now at the crawling stage, could not be resisted, so I had promised to be at Beech Green schoolhouse as soon after four as my own duties would allow.

It began to rain heavily later in the afternoon. I saw Mr Wilier, his bonfire now dying slowly, scurry for shelter into the church. By the time the clock stood at a quarter to four, the rain was drumming mercilessly against the windows, and swishing, in silver shivers, across the stony playground.

We buttoned up the children's coats, turned up their collars, tied scarves over heads, sorted Wellington boots on to the right feet, and gloves on to the right fingers, before sending them out to face the weather. One little family of four, somewhat inadequately clad, had the privilege of borrowing the old golfing umbrella from the map cupboard. So massive is this shabby monster that all four scuttled along together, quite comfortably, in its shelter.

'I'll give you a lift,' I said to Miss Jackson. 'I'm going to Beech Green for tea, and you'll get soaked if you cycle.'

I sped across to the school house to put things to rights before leaving my establishment. Tibby, my black and white cat, turned a sour look upon me, as I shovelled small coal on to the fire, and put up the guard.

'And is this meagre warmth,' his look said, 'supposed to suffice? Where, pray, are the blazing logs and flaring coals best suited to the proper warming of a cat's stomach?'

I escaped from his disapproving eye and got out the car.

The downs were shrouded in rain clouds, and little rivers gurgled down each side of the lane as we drove along to Beech Green.

'Betty Franklyn told me that she was going to live with an aunt in Caxley,' Miss Jackson said, speaking of a six-year-old in her class. 'I wonder if that's right? Have you heard?'

'No,' I answered, 'but it would be the best thing, I should think. She'll be looked after properly, if it's the aunt I'm thinking of.'

Betty's mother had died early in the year, and the father was struggling along alone. I felt very sorry for him, but he was a man I had never taken to, sandy-haired, touchy and quick-tempered.

He was a gamekeeper, and lived in a lonely cottage, in a small copse, on the Beech Green side of Fairacre. He brought the child to school each morning on the cross-bar of his bicycle, and sometimes met her, when his work allowed, after school in the afternoon.

It must have been a cheerless home during the last two or three months, and the child had looked pathetically forlorn. I hoped that this rumour would prove to be true. The aunt had always seemed devoted to her little niece, and, in Caxley, the child would have more playmates. I felt certain that the aunt had offered to have the child as soon as her mother had died; but the father, I suspected, was proud and possessive, and would look to his little daughter for company. He was certainly very fond of her, and probably he had realised that she would be far happier in Caxley, and so given in to persuasion.

I said as much to Miss Jackson, as we edged by a Land-rover which was drawn up on the grass verge by Hundred Acre Field. Despite the sweeping rain, old Mr Miller, a small, indomitable figure in a trench coat and glistening felt hat, was standing among his young wheat surveying his field. He appeared oblivious of the weather, and deeply preoccupied.

'It will be a good thing for Betty,' I said, 'I shouldn't think her father's much company.'

To my surprise, Miss Jackson replied quite sharply.

'I should imagine he's very good company. He's always very nice when he brings Betty in the mornings. I've found him most interesting, and very well read.'

I negotiated the bend near Miss Clare's house in silence.

'And what he doesn't know about trees and birds and woodland animals!' continued Miss Jackson warmly. 'He's suggested that I take my class to the wood for a nature walk one day, and he'll meet us there.'

'Will he, indeed?' I said, somewhat taken aback.

'And when you think of the lonely life he leads, since his poor wife's death,' went on my assistant, her face quite pink with emotion, 'it really is quite shattering. How he must have suffered! And he's a sensitive man.'

I drew up outside Miss Clare's cottage. She waved through the window from behind a pink geranium, and beckoned me in.

'I'm going to tea with Isobel,' I bellowed in an unladylike way, 'so I mustn't stop!' She nodded and smiled, and watched her lodger, who was alighting, still pink and defensive.

'Goodbye, and thanks!' said Miss Jackson, somewhat shortly, pushing open the wet gate.

I drove off slowly and thoughtfully.

'It looks to me,' I said aloud, 'as if Miss Crabbe will soon be supplanted in Miss Jackson's heart. But not, heaven forbid, by that Franklyn fellow! I know a scamp when I see one!'

3. Mrs Annett Has Doubts

'H
ELLO
, hello!' called Mr Annett, bursting out from his school door as he heard my car forge its way slowly into the playground.

'Put it under cover! Up in the shed,' he shouted, through the pouring rain. I edged carefully under the corrugated iron roof of the playground shelter. The drumming of the downpour was thunderous under here.

Two small boys, ostensibly tidying up some gymnastic apparatus, watched my manoeuvres with interest.

'Best leave 'er in gear, miss,' advised one. 'Nasty slope back if the 'and brake give up the ghost!'

'I'll stick a brick by your back wheel,' said the other. 'Don't do no harm, if it don't do no good! And don't forget your ignition keys, miss!'

By this time Mr Annett had joined us, and overheard my mentors.

'Those two,' he told me, when we were out of earshot, 'are supposed to be educationally sub-normal.'

'They may not know how many beans make five,' I returned, 'but they know a good deal more about my car than I do. You see, they'll find a niche, soon enough, when they leave school!'

We made our way across the streaming playground, to a little gate let in the side fence of Mr Annett's garden. As he closed it behind us I looked at his trim beds and lawn and compared it sadly with my own.

A fine clump of white crocuses, sheltered from the rain by a glossy rhododendron bush, were a joy to see; their pure white cups lit from within by their dazzling gold stamens. Nearby, a speckled thrush was diligently hammering a snail on a large knobbly flint, that glistened in the rain. He was far too engrossed with his task to bother about us, although we passed close to him as we made our way to the backdoor.

A warm odour of freshly-baked scones met us from the kitchen. Isobel, flushed and cheerful, was busy buttering them, while Malcolm, strapped securely in his high chair, out of temptation's way, was shaking a bean in a screw-topped jar, and singing tunelessly as an accompaniment.

'The tympani chap in a jazz band,' said his father, nodding towards him. 'That's what he's going to be!'

'And very nice too,' I said. 'I've always wanted to have a go at that myself.'

Tea was set in the dining-room, which looked out on to the back garden. Beyond the lawn lay Mr Annett's kitchen garden, and I could see that his broad beans were already standing in sturdy rows. In the distance, I had a glimpse through the budding hawthorn hedge, of the school pig sties and chicken houses in the field beyond; for Mr Annett was a firm believer in rural pursuits for his older boys, and his practical methods had become much admired, and emulated, by other local teachers.

Tea was a hilarious meal, much enlivened by young Malcolm, who preferred to eat his neat strips of bread and butter by squeezing them well in his plump hands. When the food emerged, as a revolting squish, between his fingers, he devoured it with the greatest relish, covering his face and his duck-decorated bib with rather more than half. His father watched with disgust.

'Loathsome child!' he said sternly.

'Take no notice!' said his wiser mother. 'He wants us to make a fuss about it.' She passed the scones to me, her face carefully averted from her offspring, and I tried to wrench my own gaze away from my god-child's unpleasant handiwork.