(5/20)Over the Gate

Over the Gate

Miss Read

Illustrated by J.S. Goodall

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
Boston • New York

First Houghton Mifflin paperback edition 2007

Copyright © 1964 by Miss Read
Copyright © renewed 1992 by Dora Jessie Saint

All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce selections
torn this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,
215 Park Avenue South. New York, New York 10003.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Read, Miss.
Over the gate / Miss Read ; Illustrated by J.S. Goodall.—
1st Houghton Mifflin paperback ed.
p. cm.
ISBN
-13: 978-0-618-88417-9 (trade pbk.)
ISBN
-10:0-88417-3 (trade pbk.)
1. Fairacre (England : Imaginary place)—Fiction. 2. Country life
—England—Fiction. 3.Villages—England—Fiction. I.Tide.
PR
6069.
A
42094 2007
823'.914—dc22 2006103461

Printed in the United States of America

MP
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For
Kit and Ivor
with love

CONTENTS

1 
The Portrait 
9

2 
Strange, But True? 
25

3 
Jingle Bells 
48

4 
Mrs Next-Door 
58

5 
A Tale of Love 
74

6 
Black Week 
96

7 
The Fairacre Ghost 
112

8 
Mrs Pringle's Christmas Pudding 
131

9 
Outlook Unsettled 
154

10 
The Wayfarer 
175

11 
The Old Man Of the Sea 
196

12 
Harvest Festival 
216

1. The Portrait

I
F
you walk down the village street of Fairacre you will come before long to 'The Beetle and Wedge' on the left-hand side. It is a long, low public house, sturdily built of brick and flint, and so attractive to the eye that it is easy to miss the narrow lane which runs between its side and the three cottages, also of brick and flint, which stand next to it.

This lane leads to the downs which shelter our village from the north-east wind. It begins, fairly respectably, with a tarred and gravelled surface, but after a quarter of a mile such refinement ends; the road narrows suddenly, the tarmac finishes, and only a muddy track makes its way uphill to peter out eventually on the windy slopes high above the village.

Here, where the hard surface ends and the rutted lane begins, stands a pair of dour grey houses which bear no resemblance to the cheerful brick-and-thatch architecture of most of Fairacre. They are faced with grey cement which has fallen off, here and there, leaving several scabrous patches. Each has a steep gable terminating in a formidable spike, and the roofs are of cold grey slate. Even on a day of shimmering heat, when the small blue butterflies of the chalk downs hover in the still gardens before them, these two houses present a chilly visage to the passer-by.

They were built in the latter half of Queen Victoria's reign by a well-to-do retired ironmonger from Caxley. At the same time he had built a larger and more imposing residence in the village street for his own use. This was called Jasmine Villa and boasted a black and white tiled path, an ornate verandah of iron trellis-work, and was magnificently out of keeping with the modest dwellings nearby.

Laburnum Villas, as the two were called, had housed the ironmonger's aged mother and two spinster sisters in one, and a married couple with two sons, all of whom worked for the fondly, in the other.

When I first took up the headship of Fairacre village school, some years ago, the property belonged to a descendant of the ironmonger's, and was pathetically shabby. The owner lived in Caxley, but Jasmine Villa became familiar to me, inside and out, for the tenant, Mrs Pratt, played the church organ and sometimes invited me in to hear one of my pupils practising his solo part in an anthem. At one time too she let a room to one of the school staff so that I became well acquainted with the chill of the late ironmonger's drawing-room and the gloom of his stairway.

But Laburnum Villas remained a mystery. The windows of one were shrouded in dirty lace, and inside, I heard, dwelt an old lady of ninety, who supped innumerable cups of strong tea and dozed between whiles. The tea was made when she rose in the morning and the pot kept hot on the hob all day, the kettle steaming comfortably beside it, ready for refilling. Sometimes, when the children and I walked past on our way to the downs, I thought of that somnolent room murmurous with the humming of the kettle, the gentle snoring of the old lady and the purring of her great black cat which was sometimes to be seen sitting in the window sunning itself.

Next door seemed a little livelier. The windows were clean, the curtains fresh, and a trim lawn sloped down to the front gate. Occasionally we saw a middle-aged man and woman working in the garden, but we rarely met them in the village street, a bare two hundred yards away. They seemed to lead a retired life tucked away from the main street of Fairacre and, like all curious country people, I was interested to hear more about them from Mrs Pringle, the school caretaker.

'A very respectable pair,' was Mrs Pringle's dictum when I asked. This was high praise from my curmudgeonly school cleaner and she must have noticed my surprise.

'I always speaks fair of folks when I can,' continued Mrs Pringle self-righteously, putting down her dustpan and settling herself on the front desk for a good gossip. The desk groaned under her thirteen stone but knew better than to let the lady down. 'There's mighty few these days as can be spoke fair of in Fairacre—a proper lazy, shiftless, godless, money-grubbing lot as they be. As I said to Mr Pringle only last night: "If this is the age of flatulence," I says, "then there's something in being poor but honest!'"

'But tell me about Laburnum Villa,' I urged, steering Mrs Pringle back to the point. Once launched on a sea of invective she will saill on for hours, as well I know. The great clock on the wall, ticking ponderously, already said ten minutes to nine, and very soon the children would be called in from the playground.

'Well, these Hursts,' said Mrs Pringle dismissively, 'have only been here two or three years; but before that the Fletchers were there. As nice a family as ever come to Fairacre,' boomed Mrs Pringle, warming to her theme, 'despite their old grandad being a byword in Caxley for pinching things he never had no need of off of the market stalls. A real affliction he was to them—everlasting having his name in
The Caxley Chronicle
for all to see.'

'But the Hursts—' I persisted, one eye on the clock.

'Highly respectable,' replied Mrs Pringle, inclining her head graciously. 'Chapel goers, but none the worse for that, I daresay.' The parish church of St Patrick's has Mrs Pringle's support and the choir stalls there reverberate to her powerful contralto lowing, so that this was magnanimous indeed.

'Both been in good service,' continued the lady, 'and was with Sir Edmund over Springbourne way for donkey's years. When the old gentleman passed on they went to one of his relations, I seem to recall. Some long way away it was. Let me think.'

There was a pause while Mrs Pringle frowned with concentration. New Zealand, I thought, or the Argentine, perhaps. The sound of children's voices stirred my conscience and I rose from behind my desk.

'Leicester!' said she triumphantly. 'I knew I'd get it in the end! That's right, it was Leicester they went to—.'

At this point a small girl appeared dramatically between us.

'Please, miss, Ernie made me give him half of my toffee bar and now his tooth's come out in it,' she gabbled agitatedly, 'and what's more he says it's all my fault.'

'Rubbish!' I said, advancing to the door. 'It's nothing more or less than rough justice.'

'I was about to tell you,' boomed Mrs Pringle's voice behind me, heavy with outraged dignity.

'Sorry!' I called back above the rising din. 'It'll have to wait!'

Slowly, Mrs Pringle collected her paraphernalia together and limned heavily from the room, her back expressing outrage in every sturdy line. Mrs Pringle's bad leg 'flares up', as she puts it, whenever anything goes wrong. It looked as though I should have to wait some time before she would be in a fit state to tell me more about the mysterious Hursts.

But, before long, I had occasion to call at Laburnum Villas. The leg of a small brass trivet came off in Mrs Pringle's massive hand whilst she was polishing it. As she explained: 'When things are let get that filthy they needs a bit of purchase put on them.' It was apparent that the purchase this time had been too much for my elderly trivet. I looked at it sadly.

'I'd take it to Fred Hurst,' advised Mrs Pringle. 'I daresay Mr Willet would have a go if he had a soldering iron, but he hasn't, so there you are.'

'How do you know Mr Hurst has one?' I asked.

'Because he fixed the twiddly-bits up to the chapel pulpit real lovely,' replied Mrs Pringle proudly. 'Mr Lamb told me at the Post Office, and what's more he says he likes doing soldering jobs any time he's asked.'

I must have looked a little diffident for Mrs Pringle's normal bellow rose to a crescendo of hearty encouragement.

'You pop down after school and see him,' she advised. 'Better than taking it to Caxley. You won't see it again this side of Christmas if it gets in there.'

There was some truth in this remark. Urged by Mrs Pringle's exhortations and my own curiosity I decided to walk down the lane after tea carrying my trivet with me.

It was one of those bell-like May evenings described by Edmund Blunden. A sharp shower had left the village street glistening and the bushes and trees quivering with bright drops. Now, bathed in evening sunlight, the village sparkled. Scent rose from the wallflowers and polyanthuses in the cottage gardens, and blackbirds scolded from the plumed lilac bushes. Our village of Fairacre is no lovelier than many others. We have rats as well as roses in our back gardens, scoundrels as well as stalwarts ploughing our fields, and plenty of damp and dirt hidden behind the winsome exteriors of our older cottages. But at times it is not only home to us but heaven too; and this was just such an occasion.

As I waited in the porch, cradling the trivet, I wondered if there would be the usual delay in answering a country front door. A back door is usually open, or quickly answered, but I knew from experience that rusty bolts and heavy chains are often involved in front-door transactions in Fairacre. Only on formal occasions do we call at front doors, but this, I felt, was one of them.