(9/20) Tyler's Row (17 page)

14. Amy's Invitation

THE fact that Diana Hale had to go to hospital was soon general knowledge in Fairacre. To give Mr Willet his due, he mentioned this interesting item of news to his wife alone. Whether she inadvertently let the cat out of the bag, or whether Sergeant Burnaby or Mrs Fowler overheard the conversation in the garden, or whether, as is quite likely, that mysterious communication system, the village grapevine, which works with a life of its own, was to blame, no one can tell, but the village knew quite well that on Tuesday next Mrs Hale was going to hospital.

Why, and which one, were matters of debate. Some said the appointment was at Caxley-Cottage, others Up-the-County, and those who guessed aright plumped for Oxford. These last admitted that there were so many hospitals in Oxford that it was anyone's guess which it would be. By the law of elimination they cancelled out That Bone Place (Orthopaedic) and That Loony Place (Nervous Diseases), on the grounds of Diana's physical activity and her obvious mental composure. Further than that they were unable to go, to their infinite regret.

The reason for the visit engaged the villagers' interest pleasurably. Heart trouble and hernias, goitre and gall-stones, diabetes and deafness were all discussed with lively conjecture, and gruesome accounts of relatives' sufferings when similarly afflicted.

Even the school children discussed the subject, seriously and with sympathy. I overheard two of them, as they squatted on their haunches by a sunny wall, waiting to come into school.

'What's up, d'you reckon, with that new lady up Tyler's?'

'Nothin' much. Havin' a baby, I expect.'

'Get away! She's too old. She must be sixty or seventy. My mum says you can't have a baby after forty.'

'That's where she's wrong then. Our mum had our Linda when she was forty-three. So there!'

There was silence for a moment before Mrs Hale's case was resumed.

'Don't expect it's an operation. More like getting old. Bits of you wears out, like an old bike doos.'

'She ain't all that old. Not much more'n Miss Read.'

'Well,
she's
no chicken! I bet she's got bits of
her
wearin' out pretty fast.'

Too true, I thought, tottering into the playground to call them in. I felt decrepit for the rest of the day.

On Wednesday morning Mrs Pringle told me, with evident disappointment, that Mrs Hale had been seen busy weeding the borders on Tuesday evening.

'Can't be much amiss there,' grumbled the lady. Then her eye brightened.

'Unless the doctors have missed something,' she continued. 'Some of these young fellers-no more than bits of boys-simply give you a quick prod, here and there, and look at your tongue, and that's it. Easy enough to miss the Vital Symptom.'

'I feel very sorry indeed for Mrs Hale,' I began severely, about to embark on a short pithy lecture on the theme of prying into the affairs of others, but Mrs Pringle forstalled me as successfully as ever.

'Oh, so do I. So do I. There's not one in the village as doesn't feel the same. Mrs Fowler reckons it's liver. Sergeant Burnaby reckons it's a judgement, whatever that may mean, and John Lamb says he's never been one to talk about women's ills and then shut up like a clam!'

'Sensible man,' I said.

'I wonder what that poor soul's doing at this very minute,' pondered Mrs Pringle lugubriously.

'Minding her own business perhaps,' I retorted tartly.

And, for once, I had the last word.

More news came from Tyler's Row within the week. Mrs Willet was going to work for Mrs Hale!

'She's very lucky,' I said feelingly to Mrs Pringle when she told me.

'She is indeed. Five shillings an hour!'

I had meant that Mrs Hale was lucky, and said so.

'Well, yes,' Mrs Pringle conceded doubtfully. 'Alice Willet's a good worker and a very nice little carpet beater, considering her arms.'

Mrs Willet's arms, compared with Mrs Pringle's brawny ones, are certainly rather wispy, but I was not surprised to hear her praised as a carpet beater. As far as I could see, Mrs Willet would be competent at anything she undertook, and I said so.

Mrs Pringle seemed to resent my enthusiasm, and began to look mutinous. Before long, I knew from experience, spontaneous cumbustion would occur in her bad leg, and we should all suffer.

'Alice Willet,' said Mrs Pringle heavily, 'doesn't have what others have to put up with.'

This barbed remark might have referred to me, or to the children, or to us both, but prudence kept me silent. With only the slightest limp Mrs Pringle made her way to the lobby.

'Don't come walking all over my clean floor with your feet!' I heard her shout to the oncoming children.

'Just walk on your hands,' I said.

But I said it to myself.

During that week I had a surprise visit from Amy. Her car was waiting in the lane as the children left school, and I greeted her warmly.

'Come and have some tea.'

'Lovely. But nothing to eat. I'm getting off a stone and a half.'

'How do you know?'

'Because that is what I
intend
to do,' said Amy sternly, locking the car door—a wise precaution, even in comparatively honest Fairacre.

'Good luck to you,' I said, leading the way to the school house. 'I lose four pounds after three weeks of starvation, and then I stop.'

'Wrongly balanced diet,' began Amy, then stopped dead, listening.

A distant mooing noise came from the direction of the school.

'What on earth's that? One of the children crying?'

'Mrs Pringle singing. She usually practises the Sunday hymns as she sweeps up. That sounds like "Eternal Father, strong to save", unless it's Mr Annett's new descant.'

'It sounds to me like murder being done,' said Amy, picking her way carefully across the stony playground to my gate. Her cream suede shoes were extremely elegant, but really too beautiful for walking in.

'I'm starving,' I told her, as I put on the kettle, 'and intend to have a large slice of Dundee cake. Shall I eat it out here in the kitchen to save you misery?'

'No,'
said Amy, weakening, 'cut me a slice too!'

Later, demolishing the cake as hungrily as we used to at college, so many years ago, Amy came to the reason for her visit.

'I wanted to tell you the latest news of Vanessa, and also to invite you to a little party. I've got such a nice man coming.'

I began to feel some alarm. Every now and again, Amy tries to marry me off to someone she considers suitable for a middle-aged schoolteacher. It is rather wearing for all concerned.

'Who is he?' I asked suspiciously.

'A perfect dear, called Gerard Baker. He writes.'

'Oh lor!'

'Now, there's no need to take that attitude,' said Amy firmly, picking a fat crumb from her lap and eating it with relish. 'Just because you took a dislike to that poor journalist fellow at my cocktail party—'

'A dislike! I was terrified of him. He was a raving lunatic, trying to interview me on Modern Methods of Free Art over the canapés. What's more, his beard was filthy.'

'Well, Gerard is cleanshaven, and cheerful, and very good company. He's writing vignettes of minor Victorian poets.'

'How I hate that word "vignettes"!'

'And he's here for a few weeks,' went on Amy, carefully ignoring my pettish interjection, 'because he is finding out about Aloysius Someone who lived at Fairacre years ago and wrote poetry.'

'What! Our dear old Loyshus? Mr Baker must meet Mr Willet.'

'And what can he tell Gerard?'

'Everything. How his cottage smelt like "a civet's paradise", and how long his poetry readings were—oh, hundreds of things.'

'They don't sound quite the thing for vignettes,' said Amy pensively.

'He'll have to call them something different then. I've no doubt he'll work out some horribly whimsical title like "Baker's Dozen".'

'Now, now! Don't be so tart, dear. I know you'll get on very well, and for pity's sake don't wear that black rag. If you can't afford a new frock, I'll be pleased to buy you one.'

'Thank you,' I said frostily. 'But I haven't sunk to that.'

'Hoity-toity!' shrugged Amy, quite unconcerned. 'Friday week then? About six-thirty?'

'Lovely,' I said gloomily. 'Now tell me about Vanessa.'

Amy lit a cigarette luxuriously, put her beautiful shoes up on the sofa, and settled down for a good gossip.

'That wretched man was
married'

'I know. Four times. You told me.'

'Yes, but he'd tried to make Vanessa believe that he'd tidied all four away by death or divorce. Actually, he is still married to Number Four. Just think of it! If Vanessa had married him, he would have been a bigamist!'

'How did Vanessa find out?'

'Oh, Somebody knew Somebody, who knew Somebody whose children went to the same school as his and Number Four's. You know what London is-just a bigger Fairacre when it comes to it.'

'Is she very upset?"

'Dreadfully. She can't decide whether to go into a convent or to take up the guitar.'

'I should try the guitar first,' I said earnestly. 'It's not quite so final.'

'I really believe she's beginning to grow out of this awful infatuation at last. At least her mind is turned towards these other two subjects. When she was with me she thought solely of Roderick. There seems to be a ray of hope.'

'Is she coming to the party?'

'Now, that's an idea. I think it might be a very good thing. She would meet a few new people, and she liked you, strangely enough.'

'There was no need for the last two words.'

'I suppose there was a fellow feeling,' mused Amy, tapping ash into the fireplace absently. 'Two spinsters, you know.'

'I'm not crossed in love,' I pointed out.

'You might well be, after meeting Gerard,' said Amy smugly. 'We shall have to wait and see.'

Term was due to end within three weeks, and already I was beginning to quail at the thought of all the things that had to be done before the glad day arrived.

I had to find out about new entrants to the school in September, when the school year began. There were reports to write, cupboards to tidy, present stock to check, new stock to order, the school outing—a time-honoured trip to the sea with the choir and other church workers-and our own Sports Day, which involved giving refreshments to parents and friends of the school.

It was whilst I was contemplating this daunting prospect that Mrs Bonny dropped her bombshell. She has been a tower of strength ever since her arrival at the school, and in one as small as Fairacre's, with only two on the staff, it is vitally important that the teachers get on together. Mrs Bonny and I had never had a cross word, and I had hoped that she would continue to teach for many years, although I knew there was some doubt when she remarried at Christmas.

She came into the playground as I sheltered in a sunny recess made by one of the buttresses. My mug of tea was steaming nicely, and playground duty was quite pleasant on such a blue-and-white day, with rooks cawing overhead, and the ubiquitous sparrows hopping about round the children's feet, alert for biscuit crumbs.

'Georgeous day,' I remarked.

'Well—er—yes,' said Mrs Bonny vaguely. She twisted the wedding ring on her plump finger, and I wondered why she appeared so nervous.

'I've something to tell you.'

'Fire away,' I said, heading off one of the Coggs twins who was about to collide with me and capsize the tea.

'I've only just made up my mind,' said Mrs Bonny, looking singularly unhappy.

'What about?' I asked. Ernest and Patrick were fighting on the ground, rolling over and over in the dust, legs and arms flailing. I don't mind a certain amount of good-natured scrapping, but on this occasion their clothes were suffering, and Ernest's head was dangerously near a sharp post. I left Mrs Bonny to part them.

When I returned, she was twirling the wedding ring even more violently.

'I must go,' she blurted out.

'Where?' I said, bewildered.

'To Bournemouth.'

I stared at her. For one moment I thought she had gone off her head.

'To Bournemouth? Now?'

Mrs Bonny took a grip on herself.

'No, no. I'm explaining things badly. I mean, I shall have to leave the school. I must give in my notice. Theo thinks it's best. We've talked it over.'

This was dreadful news. I looked at my watch. It was rather early, but this must be discussed in the comparative peace of the classroom.

I blew the whistle, and we took the reluctant children into school.

'Now, tell me,' I begged, when we had settled the children to work, and she had come into my room, leaving the adjoining door open so that the infants could be under observation while we talked.

'It's my daughter, really,' explained Mrs Bonny. 'She's been pressing us for some time to go and live near them. She's got two young children, as you know, and another due at Christmas. I could help her a great deal, and I said that if she could find a suitable flat for us, we'd think about going.'

'Oh, Mrs Bonny,' I wailed. '
Must
you go?'