though they were pitching bricks into a well, and panting with their exertions, the infants gasped out their last two lines:
'See us sca'er pe'als swee'
Like confe'i a' your fee'.'
We all clapped heartily at this performance, whilst I made a mental note to speak to Miss Jackson about curing the glottal stops which our children much prefer to the sound 't'.
'Absolutely splendid!' said Mrs Partridge enthusiastically. The children preened themselves and exchanged smug smiles.
'It's only just over a week to the Flower Show,' she continued, 'and I'm sure everyone will enjoy the dancing.'
Miss Jackson smiled graciously at this kind remark, but had a gleam in her eye which dismayed me.
'It is for the children's benefit primarily,' she began. 'It is a wonderful release from the rigid type of exercise which they were accustomed to, and gives them freedom for true imaginative expression.' She had just drawn a deep breath, preparatory to embarking—as I knew from bitter experience—on a tedious rehash of Miss Crabbe's half-baked psychology notes, when St Patrick's clock saved us by striking twelve.
The children broke into cries of pleasure, Mrs Partridge remembered that she had cutlets to egg-and-bread-crumb, the 'Dinner Lady' approached the schoolroom door, and Miss Jackson's monologue mercifully remained unsaid.
The vicar had returned much relieved in his mind, and sitting on the verandah with a comforting pipe in his mouth, he had confessed the main purpose of his trip to his wife.
'A most pleasant fellow,' commented Mr Partridge on the Director of Education, 'an uncommonly pleasant fellow—sympathetic, intelligent-and gave me a very good cup of coffee too!' In the vicar's gentle eulogy there sounded a faint note of bewilderment as though he had expected Directors of Education to have small horns and cloven hooves and a whiff of sulphurous fumes emanating from them.
'He has heard indirectly of the housing scheme and says he feels sure that our Parish Council will know more about it before long.'
'But what about the school?' asked his wife anxiously. 'Is it likely to close ?'
The vicar leant across and patted her knee comfortingly.
'Evidently not, my dear. But if a new school were to be built on the site it's quite likely that Fairacre School would take infants only, and the juniors would go by bus to the new budding.
Mrs Partridge put down a hideous straw hat she was embroidering with fearsome raffia flowers for the fancy stall of the Flower Show, and gazed thoughtfully across the garden. 'It's a relief of course,' she said slowly, 'to know that much. But the village won't like the idea. Anything touching the children rouses the village at once. I wish we knew more about this wretched business!'
***
The villagers of Fairacre and Beech Green had not long to wait before more was known about 'the wretched business.'
Caxley Rural District Council having been notified of the proposed scheme decided that here was a matter which might well prove contentious.
'Best let the Fairacre and Beech Green Parish Council know of this,' said burly Tom Coates, the retired estate agent. 'Let's hear what the feeling is out there before we send word back to the planning committee.'
It was agreed, and within two days Mr Roberts the farmer, one of the Parish Councillors, was propping up on his kitchen mantelpiece the notice of the meeting to be held in the near future in Fairacre School.
'And that should set 'em all talking!' he observed to his wife. 'If the fur don't fly from Mrs Bradley I'll eat my hat!'
His gigantic laugh rustled the paper spills on the shelf before him. The formidable and ancient Mrs Bradley was a fellow councillor. They together represented their Parish Council on the Caxley Rural District Coundl, and if parley were to be made Mr Roberts could ask for no better ally than Mrs Bradley beside him.
'Bless mv soul!' he continued, slapping his breeches with a hand like a ham, 'that'll be a meeting worth going to!'
'See us sca'er pe'als swee'
Like confe'i a' your fee'.'
We all clapped heartily at this performance, whilst I made a mental note to speak to Miss Jackson about curing the glottal stops which our children much prefer to the sound 't'.
'Absolutely splendid!' said Mrs Partridge enthusiastically. The children preened themselves and exchanged smug smiles.
'It's only just over a week to the Flower Show,' she continued, 'and I'm sure everyone will enjoy the dancing.'
Miss Jackson smiled graciously at this kind remark, but had a gleam in her eye which dismayed me.
'It is for the children's benefit primarily,' she began. 'It is a wonderful release from the rigid type of exercise which they were accustomed to, and gives them freedom for true imaginative expression.' She had just drawn a deep breath, preparatory to embarking—as I knew from bitter experience—on a tedious rehash of Miss Crabbe's half-baked psychology notes, when St Patrick's clock saved us by striking twelve.
The children broke into cries of pleasure, Mrs Partridge remembered that she had cutlets to egg-and-bread-crumb, the 'Dinner Lady' approached the schoolroom door, and Miss Jackson's monologue mercifully remained unsaid.
The vicar had returned much relieved in his mind, and sitting on the verandah with a comforting pipe in his mouth, he had confessed the main purpose of his trip to his wife.
'A most pleasant fellow,' commented Mr Partridge on the Director of Education, 'an uncommonly pleasant fellow—sympathetic, intelligent-and gave me a very good cup of coffee too!' In the vicar's gentle eulogy there sounded a faint note of bewilderment as though he had expected Directors of Education to have small horns and cloven hooves and a whiff of sulphurous fumes emanating from them.
'He has heard indirectly of the housing scheme and says he feels sure that our Parish Council will know more about it before long.'
'But what about the school?' asked his wife anxiously. 'Is it likely to close ?'
The vicar leant across and patted her knee comfortingly.
'Evidently not, my dear. But if a new school were to be built on the site it's quite likely that Fairacre School would take infants only, and the juniors would go by bus to the new budding.
Mrs Partridge put down a hideous straw hat she was embroidering with fearsome raffia flowers for the fancy stall of the Flower Show, and gazed thoughtfully across the garden. 'It's a relief of course,' she said slowly, 'to know that much. But the village won't like the idea. Anything touching the children rouses the village at once. I wish we knew more about this wretched business!'
***
The villagers of Fairacre and Beech Green had not long to wait before more was known about 'the wretched business.'
Caxley Rural District Council having been notified of the proposed scheme decided that here was a matter which might well prove contentious.
'Best let the Fairacre and Beech Green Parish Council know of this,' said burly Tom Coates, the retired estate agent. 'Let's hear what the feeling is out there before we send word back to the planning committee.'
It was agreed, and within two days Mr Roberts the farmer, one of the Parish Councillors, was propping up on his kitchen mantelpiece the notice of the meeting to be held in the near future in Fairacre School.
'And that should set 'em all talking!' he observed to his wife. 'If the fur don't fly from Mrs Bradley I'll eat my hat!'
His gigantic laugh rustled the paper spills on the shelf before him. The formidable and ancient Mrs Bradley was a fellow councillor. They together represented their Parish Council on the Caxley Rural District Coundl, and if parley were to be made Mr Roberts could ask for no better ally than Mrs Bradley beside him.
'Bless mv soul!' he continued, slapping his breeches with a hand like a ham, 'that'll be a meeting worth going to!'
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