(9/20) Tyler's Row (14 page)

'The vicar will take the chair,' Mrs Johnson told me, 'and you and I will be the female pair of the quartet. Basil Bradley and Henry Mawne are willing to come too, so I think we shall be a well-balanced team.'

Basil Bradley is our local celebrity, a writer who produces an historical novel yearly. The plot is much the same each season: a Regency heroine, all ringlets and dampened muslin, having an uphill time of it with various love affairs and disapproving parents and guardians, and a few dashing bucks in well-fitting breeches and high stocks, rushing about the countryside at breakneck speed on barely-schooled horses, trying to win her hand, or to stop someone else from winning it.

He sells thousands of copies, is much beloved by many women—and his publisher—and we are very proud of him indeed. He is a gentle, unassuming soul, given to pink shirts and ties with roses on them. The men tend to be rather scornful about Basil, but he is a great deal more astute than his somewhat effeminate appearance leads one to believe.

'We're very lucky to get him,' I said to Mrs Johnson.

'I caught him at the end of a chapter,' she said. 'He was feeling rather relaxed.' She sounded smug, as well she might. Basil Bradley is adept at eluding such invitations.

On the great night, I put on my usual black, with Aunt Clara's seed pearls, and was glad that Amy was not there to protest at my dowdy appearance. With her words in mind, I took a second look at myself in the bedroom mirror. She was right. I did look dreary.

I routed out a shocking pink silk scarf, brought back from Italy by a friend, and tied it gipsy-fashion round my neck, putting Aunt Clara's seed pearls back in their shabby leather case. Greatly daring, I put on some pink shoes bought in a Caxley sale, and took another look at myself. A pity Amy wasn't coming, I thought.

Feeling like the Scarlet Woman of Fairacre, and rather enjoying it, I picked my way carefully across the playground to the school where the quiz was to be held. All the village had been invited, and the place was full.

Mrs Pringle was just inside the door. Her disapproving gasp, on viewing my unaccustomed finery, raised my spirits still higher. Mr Willet, arranging chairs on the temporary platform, gazed at me with open admiration.

'Well, Miss Read,' he said, puffing out his moustache, 'you certainly are a livin' doll tonight.'

I began to have slight qualms. As someone once said: 'No one minds being thought wicked, but no one likes to appear ridiculous.' But I had no time for doubts. The other members of the team arrived, and we took our places meekly.

Basil Bradley, who sat beside me, easily outshone me sartorially. His suit was dove-grey, his shirt pale-blue, and his colossal satin tie matched it perfectly. His opposite number, Henry Mawne, was in his church suit of dark worsted, and Mrs Johnson had on a green clinging jersey frock which could have done with a firm corset under it. The Vicar, in the chair, looked as benevolent as ever in one of his shapeless tweed suits well known to all in the parish.

Having introduced us, 'just in case there is anyone here who has not had the pleasure of meeting our distinguished panel', the vicar called for the first question. Mrs Johnson had sternly told us that she was not letting us know the questions beforehand, which I thought rather mean of her, so we were all extremely apprehensive about the questions which, no doubt, would be hurled at us like so many brick-bats.

We need not have worried. As with most village affairs, any invitation to speak in public, 'making an exhibition of meself', as Fairacre folk say, was greeted with utter silence and a certain amount of embarrassed coughing and foot-shuffling.

At last, when the vicar could bear it no longer, he pointed to one of the young mothers in the front row, who was clutching a shred of paper which looked suspiciously like a page torn from the laundry book.

'Mrs Baker, I believe you have a question?'

The young woman turned scarlet, stood up, and read haltingly from the laundry book's page.

'How much pocket money do the team think children should get?'

We were all rather relieved at such a nice straightforward question to open the proceedings. Knowing Mrs Johnson, I strongly suspected her of planting a few questions about the hall on such knotty subjects as Britain's role in the Common Market, the rights of parents concerning their children's education, or the part played by the established church in village life.

Henry Mawne was invited to speak first by the vicar. He was admirably succinct.

'Not too much. Give 'em some idea of the value of money. I had a penny a week till I was ten. Then tuppence. Bought a fair amount of hardbake toffee or tiger nuts, tuppence did.'

The mention of tiger nuts brought some nostalgic comments from the older members of the audience, and the vicar was obliged to rap the table for order.

I was next and said that I felt sure it was right to grade pocket money according to age, and that as children grew older it might be a good idea to give them a quite generous fixed amount, and let them buy some of their clothes.

Mrs Johnson felt that there should be a common purse for all the children in the family, each taking from it what was needed, thus training them in Unselfishness and General Co-operation.

This was greeted in stunned silence, broken at last by the vicar who observed mildly that surely a greedy child might take it all in one fell swoop, which would be a bad thing?

'In that case,' answered Mrs Johnson, 'the other siblings' disgust and displeasure would bring home to the offender the seriousness of his mistake.'

'Wouldn't 'ave worked in our house,' said a robust voice from the hall, and the vicar turned hastily to Basil Bradley, who contributed the liveliest theory that children appreciate material things so keenly that it was vitally necessary for them to have enough to enjoy life. His passionate descriptions of the joys of eating dairy-flake chocolate stuffed into a newly-baked bun and eaten hot brought the house down.

We were then asked if we approved of corporal punishment in schools. The men said 'Yes' and gave gruesome accounts, much embellished, I suspect, about beatings given them at school, both ending on the note: 'And I'm sure I was all the better for it!'

Mrs Johnson abhorred the whole idea, and thought infliction of bodily pain barbaric. It simply encouraged sadism in those in authority and, she implied darkly, there was quite enough of that already.

I said that I thought most people found that there were a few hardened sinners for whom the cane was the only thing they feared. Thus I should like to see the cane kept in the cupboard. The mere fact that it was there was a great deterrent to mischief-makers. I added that in all my years at Fairacre I had never had to use it, but that I thought the total abolition of corporal punishment was a mistake.

There was so much interest in this question that it was thrown open to discussion, much to the pleasure of the four of us on the platform, who were then relaxed enough to blow our noses, look at our wrist watches and, in my case, loosen the shocking pink scarf which, though dashing, was deucedly hot.

Mr Willet held the floor for a good five minutes describing his old headmaster's methods at Fairacre school.

'Mr Hope give us a good lamming with the cane whenever he thought it was needed,' he ended, 'and it never done us a 'aporth of 'arm. Boys needs the strap to teach 'em right from wrong. Look at Nature,' he exhorted us.

'Look at a bitch with pups, or an old stag with a young 'un playing up. They gives a cuff or a prod where it hurts, and the young 'uns soon learns.'

There was considerable support for Mr Willet, and it would appear that, in our neck of the woods at least, most of us favour a little corporal punishment in moderation.

We then romped through such questions as: 'Does the team approve of mini-skirts?' Answer: 'Yes, if the legs are all right.'

'Are we doing enough about pollution?' Answer: 'No'—this very emphatically from Henry Mawne, who expatiated on the state of the duck-pond near his house, and the objects he had picked up in the copse at the foot of the downs, for so long that the vicar had to pass to the next question rather quickly.

Reading methods, the debatable worth of psychiatric reports on difficult children, nursery schooling, pesticides, subsidies to farmers, the team's pet hates and where they would spend a holiday if money were no object, were all dealt with, before a halt was called, and we were allowed to totter down from the platform to be refreshed with coffee and a very fine collation of tit-bits prepared by the ladies of the committee.

Mr Johnson offered me a plate, and a paper napkin with Santa Claus and some reindeer on it. Obviously, someone had over-estimated the number needed last Christmas. I was glad to see that they were not being wasted.

'I was very glad to hear your remarks about corporal punishment,' he said, in a low voice.

I stared at him, too astonished to reply. My impression had been that he was, if anything, more bigoted than his wife about such things.

'My wife feels very strongly about correction, or rather, non-correction, but there are times when I wonder if a quick slap on the arm or leg isn't a better way of dealing with disobedience or insolence than a rather lengthy discussion. Children aren't always
reasonable,
I find. Now and again, I must admit, I have doubts.'

'They do you credit, Mr Johnson,' I assured him. 'They do indeed.'

I raised my coffee-cup and looked across at him with new respect.

Perhaps, after all, a Parent-Teacher Association had its good points.

12. A Fateful Day

ON the last day of June, Diana drove to Oxford by herself. There she had an appointment with a specialist at two-thirty, for although her own doctor had been most reassuring, he was taking no risks.

Peter, much alarmed by Diana's disclosure, had wanted to come with her to the appointment, but she had dissuaded him. She always preferred to face such crises alone. It was less exhausting than trying to put on a brave front in the presence of someone else. Frightened though she was, she wanted to tackle this in her own way, without the effort of calming another's fears as well as her own.

She decided to go in the morning, do a little shopping, have a quiet solitary lunch and have plenty of time to drive to north Oxford where the specialist had his surgery.

Two days of heavy rain had left the countryside fresh and shining. The sun was out as Diana drove away from Fairacre, turning the wet road to black satin, and sparking a thousand miniature rainbows from the raindrops on the hedges. Steam rose from the backs of the sheep as they grazed on the downs, and little birds splashed in the roadside puddles. There was a clean sweetness in the morning air, as the sun gained in strength, and Diana turned down the window of the car, revelling in the freshness. How could one be despondent on such an exhilarating day? How could anything go wrong?

Her mind, suddenly anxious, turned back to the household details. Had she locked both doors? Had she switched off the cooker, the kettle and the electric fire? Had she left water as well as milk and fish for Tom? Had she remembered to put out the bread bin with a note to the baker? Was the shed unlocked so that the laundryman and the butcher could leave their deliveries? Had she put her cheque-book in her handbag, and the shopping list and the card giving particulars of her appointment? Really, going out for the day demanded a great deal of physical and mental activity before it even began, thought Diana! Perhaps she was getting old. As a young thing, she could not remember making such heavy weather over such simple preparations.

This brought her mind back to the nagging worry which had been her constant companion for the last week or two. Could life really be so cruel? Would there be months of pain to face? Death, even? Just as retirement was in sight, and all the simple pleasures that that promised? How truly dreadful suspense was! If only she knew—even the worst could not be more torturing than this gnawing anxiety and apprehension. Well, today might supply the answer. She put her foot on the accelerator and sped forward to her fate.

Oxford's parking problem was as formidable as ever. Diana did the usual round stoically. The car park opposite Nuffield College showed its
FULL
sign smugly. So did Gloucester Green's. A slow perambulation of Beaumont Street and St Giles showed a solid phalanx of cars, with not one space to be seen. Broad Street appeared equally packed, but to Diana's relief a large bearded man entered an estate car, grinned cheerfully at her to show he was about to go, and drove away, leaving her to take his place gratefully.

The sun had dried the pavements, but the battered heads of the Roman emperors outside the Sheldonian still had one wet cheek where the sun had not yet reached it, and roofs in the shade still glistened with moisture. The city had a freshly-washed air, and a glimpse through the gates of Trinity at the cool beauty of the grass made Diana decide to collect a picnic lunch later on and take it into the hospitable grounds of St John's.

She bought some knitting wool in Elliston and Cavell's, a pair of white sandals in Cornmarket and wandered round the market, enchanted as ever with the bustle and variety. While she was busy in these small affairs her fears were forgotten, but when she stopped for a cup of coffee at Fullers, they came crowding back again, as sinister as a cloud of black bats. If only she knew, if only she knew!

She made herself walk briskly back to the car to deposit her shopping, doing her best to conquer her fears. She would make her way to the Ashmolean. There, among the treasures of centuries, she knew she would find peace. To be in their presence, in the tranquillity of the lovely building, put things in perspective.

On her way she bought a ham sandwich and a banana for lunch. Not exactly a well-balanced meal, she thought with amusement, but easy to handle on a garden seat.

Inside the museum she turned left and made her way to the room she loved most, crammed with a wonderful collection of Worcester china. As usual, it was empty, and Diana sat down on the bench and gazed about her enraptured. There was the set of yellow china she loved particularly, as sunny as primroses, as pretty as Spring itself. There were the handsome tureens and plates, the jugs and sauce-boats, which always gave her pleasure. And there was her particular pet—the little white china partridge that she greeted every time she visited the room.