playtime.
I went as far as the bend in the lane from which I could see Fairacre school, but went no further. It was very quiet. The children were probably listening to a story.
I did not propose to call. Once one has left a post, I think it wiser to stay away. Too often I have heard friends telling horrific stories of former heads dropping in, far too frequently, to give advice or simply to see what is going on in their former domain. Nothing can be more annoying, and I intended to wait until invited to return to Fairacre school.
I liked Jane Summers. She had been to tea with me at Beech Green, and I had been invited to her house in Caxley. I suspected that I would be invited to Fairacre school's Christmas party with all the other friends of the school, and that would be an enormous pleasure.
Meanwhile, I stood and looked at the quiet little building which had been the hub of my life. As I watched, a little girl came out of the infants' room outer door, and dashed across the playground to the stone wall. Here she paused, unaware of my watching eyes, snatched a garment from the top and returned to the classroom, skipping cheerfully as she went.
I could imagine the preliminaries to this trip. Mrs Richards, probably reading a story, would see the upraised hand.
'What is it?'
'I bin and left my cardigan out the back.'
'Then go and fetch it. And be quick.'
And so the delighted escape into the playground, the retrieving of the garment, and the obedient return to the rest of the story, after the refreshing break.
It was a heartening glimpse. Obviously, things continued much as usual at Fairacre school.
Mrs Pringle told me more about the ongoing saga of Henry Mawne and his troubles.
'Do you know, he flew to Ireland? Costs a mint of money to fly there. Most people go on a boat, Ireland being an island. That's why it's called Ireland, I suppose.'
She paused, looking at me for confirmation. I felt unequal to making any explanation, and she continued her narrative.
'Alice Willet was up there when Mrs Mawne rang up. She was on that telephone for the best part of twenty minutes, and this at midday\ No waiting for cheap-rate time. No wonder they're short of money.'
'I believe it's raining,' I said, looking out of the window.
Mrs Pringle brushed aside this pathetic attempt to change the subject, and she continued remorselessly.
'Give him his due he did pay Alice at the end of the morning, and told her not to bother to call until he sent word. He went off that afternoon to Bristol, I think it was.'
She picked up a saucepan from the draining board and scrutinized it closely.
'What's been in here?'
'Only milk.'
'I'd best give it a proper do. Have you had a go at it?'
'Yes. Just before you came. What's wrong with it?'
'It's dirty. Give you germane poisoning, as like as not.'
Mrs Pringle's use of 'germane' instead of, I imagine, 'ptomaine', so intrigued me that my annoyance vanished. So often she gets a word half right, which makes it all the more potent. For instance, I have heard her refer to the slight stroke I suffered as 'Miss Read's inability', instead of 'her disability'.
However, with her opinion of my capabilities, perhaps 'inability' is nearer the mark.
As I drove her home after her ministrations, she told me a little more about Mrs Coggs' new duties at the supermarket.
'She has to be there from four till seven, so Joe gets the meal.'
'Can't that wretched Arthur get the children's meal? Don't tell me he's in work.'
'No. He's inside again. Shoplifting this time. Fairacre's quite peaceful without him.'
'Do you mean that Joe actually cooks a meal, or does his mother leave things ready?'
I had visions of overturned boiling saucepans, frying-pans on fire, and the Coggs children being rushed to Caxley hospital.
'You know how they live,' said Mrs Pringle sourly. 'She leaves a loaf of bread out and the jam pot, and that's it. Though I did hear as Joe heated up a tin of soup for 'em one cold day. He forgot to
I went as far as the bend in the lane from which I could see Fairacre school, but went no further. It was very quiet. The children were probably listening to a story.
I did not propose to call. Once one has left a post, I think it wiser to stay away. Too often I have heard friends telling horrific stories of former heads dropping in, far too frequently, to give advice or simply to see what is going on in their former domain. Nothing can be more annoying, and I intended to wait until invited to return to Fairacre school.
I liked Jane Summers. She had been to tea with me at Beech Green, and I had been invited to her house in Caxley. I suspected that I would be invited to Fairacre school's Christmas party with all the other friends of the school, and that would be an enormous pleasure.
Meanwhile, I stood and looked at the quiet little building which had been the hub of my life. As I watched, a little girl came out of the infants' room outer door, and dashed across the playground to the stone wall. Here she paused, unaware of my watching eyes, snatched a garment from the top and returned to the classroom, skipping cheerfully as she went.
I could imagine the preliminaries to this trip. Mrs Richards, probably reading a story, would see the upraised hand.
'What is it?'
'I bin and left my cardigan out the back.'
'Then go and fetch it. And be quick.'
And so the delighted escape into the playground, the retrieving of the garment, and the obedient return to the rest of the story, after the refreshing break.
It was a heartening glimpse. Obviously, things continued much as usual at Fairacre school.
Mrs Pringle told me more about the ongoing saga of Henry Mawne and his troubles.
'Do you know, he flew to Ireland? Costs a mint of money to fly there. Most people go on a boat, Ireland being an island. That's why it's called Ireland, I suppose.'
She paused, looking at me for confirmation. I felt unequal to making any explanation, and she continued her narrative.
'Alice Willet was up there when Mrs Mawne rang up. She was on that telephone for the best part of twenty minutes, and this at midday\ No waiting for cheap-rate time. No wonder they're short of money.'
'I believe it's raining,' I said, looking out of the window.
Mrs Pringle brushed aside this pathetic attempt to change the subject, and she continued remorselessly.
'Give him his due he did pay Alice at the end of the morning, and told her not to bother to call until he sent word. He went off that afternoon to Bristol, I think it was.'
She picked up a saucepan from the draining board and scrutinized it closely.
'What's been in here?'
'Only milk.'
'I'd best give it a proper do. Have you had a go at it?'
'Yes. Just before you came. What's wrong with it?'
'It's dirty. Give you germane poisoning, as like as not.'
Mrs Pringle's use of 'germane' instead of, I imagine, 'ptomaine', so intrigued me that my annoyance vanished. So often she gets a word half right, which makes it all the more potent. For instance, I have heard her refer to the slight stroke I suffered as 'Miss Read's inability', instead of 'her disability'.
However, with her opinion of my capabilities, perhaps 'inability' is nearer the mark.
As I drove her home after her ministrations, she told me a little more about Mrs Coggs' new duties at the supermarket.
'She has to be there from four till seven, so Joe gets the meal.'
'Can't that wretched Arthur get the children's meal? Don't tell me he's in work.'
'No. He's inside again. Shoplifting this time. Fairacre's quite peaceful without him.'
'Do you mean that Joe actually cooks a meal, or does his mother leave things ready?'
I had visions of overturned boiling saucepans, frying-pans on fire, and the Coggs children being rushed to Caxley hospital.
'You know how they live,' said Mrs Pringle sourly. 'She leaves a loaf of bread out and the jam pot, and that's it. Though I did hear as Joe heated up a tin of soup for 'em one cold day. He forgot to
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