exclaimed Mrs Pringle scornfully to her neighbour. 'Funeral bake-meats, I suppose. About all them poor things are fit for!'
Huffily she made her way back to the tea tent, with her limp much in evidence.
By half past twelve all the preparations were completed. Mr Willet's mallet had tapped every stake and the stalls fluttered their bunting above sweets, jam, bottled fruit, raffia hats, wool-embroidered egg-cosies and all the other paraphernalia of village money-raising. In the marquee the air was languorous and heady with the perfume from sweet peas, roses and carnations, and in the tea tent rows and rows of cups and saucers awaited the crowd which would surely come.
The sun still shone, but fitfully now as the clouds passed lazily across it. Mr Willet surveyed the weathercock on the spire of St Patrick's church with a reproachful eye.
'Git on and turn you round a bit!' he admonished the distant bird, shaking his mallet at it, and making Miss Clare laugh at his mock ferocity.
She and Miss Jackson came back to lunch at the school house with me, and within ten minutes Miss Jackson was setting the table and Miss Clare grating cheese whilst I whipped up eggs for three omelettes.
'Though I says it as shouldn't,' I shouted above the din, 'I can cook a good omelette.'
'And I can't!' confessed Miss Clare sadly. 'I think I must get the pan too hot.' She watched my preparations intently, as I buttered the frying pan and finally swirled the mixture in.
'You're probably too gentle,' I told her. 'You must be bloody, bold and resolute when dealing with eggs. Master them, or they'll master you.' Luckily, my demonstration of egg-management was thrice successful and we sat down to a cheerful lunch party.
Our conversation turned, naturally enough, to the Flower Show. Miss Jackson was anxious that the infants' dancing display should go without mishap. Miss Clare, as so often before, was going to play the accompaniment to the rose song-and-dance, which I so heartily detested, on the vicarage piano. My two guests discussed the intricacies of timing and the best position for Miss Jackson to take up on the lawn so that both the children and their accompanist could see her.
'Who's turning the music for you?' I asked. 'Shall I ask Ernest to help you? He's a sensible boy.'
'Betty Franklyn is doing it,' answered Miss Clare. On hearing the name Miss Jackson dropped her fork with a clatter. It rebounded from the edge of her plate and fell to the floor. Muttering apologies, Miss Jackson dived headlong after it. Her face remained hidden from view as she grovelled. Miss Clare continued calmly.
'I met the child with her aunt in Caxley last market day. They said they were coming out to the Flower Show and I asked her then. She seemed a bit disappointed because she wouldn't be dancing with her old friends, of course, and I thought that turning the pages might be some comfort.'
By this time Hilary Jackson had emerged from under the table, with a very red face. Miss Clare, observing her discomfiture with one swift glance, turned the subject to the matter of the new housing estate.
'Of course those two men must have been surveyors, I suppose,' she said, 'and what a long time ago it seems since I saw them walking up and down poor old Miller's field! I hear that it's going to be a really big affair.'
'With a site for a school already planned,' I observed. I began to serve the raspberries which I had picked early in the morning, but I felt Miss Clare's wise gaze upon me.
'And Fairacre's plans?' she queried softly. There was the very faintest tremor in her voice, and I remembered with a sudden pang the forty odd years which Miss Clare had spent under that steep-pitched roof and of the scores of Fairacre men and women who had learnt their letters, their manners and their courage from this devoted schoolmistress.
'The vicar tells me that it won't close,' I assured her. Her sigh of relief was music to hear. 'But it may become "infants only".' I passed
Huffily she made her way back to the tea tent, with her limp much in evidence.
By half past twelve all the preparations were completed. Mr Willet's mallet had tapped every stake and the stalls fluttered their bunting above sweets, jam, bottled fruit, raffia hats, wool-embroidered egg-cosies and all the other paraphernalia of village money-raising. In the marquee the air was languorous and heady with the perfume from sweet peas, roses and carnations, and in the tea tent rows and rows of cups and saucers awaited the crowd which would surely come.
The sun still shone, but fitfully now as the clouds passed lazily across it. Mr Willet surveyed the weathercock on the spire of St Patrick's church with a reproachful eye.
'Git on and turn you round a bit!' he admonished the distant bird, shaking his mallet at it, and making Miss Clare laugh at his mock ferocity.
She and Miss Jackson came back to lunch at the school house with me, and within ten minutes Miss Jackson was setting the table and Miss Clare grating cheese whilst I whipped up eggs for three omelettes.
'Though I says it as shouldn't,' I shouted above the din, 'I can cook a good omelette.'
'And I can't!' confessed Miss Clare sadly. 'I think I must get the pan too hot.' She watched my preparations intently, as I buttered the frying pan and finally swirled the mixture in.
'You're probably too gentle,' I told her. 'You must be bloody, bold and resolute when dealing with eggs. Master them, or they'll master you.' Luckily, my demonstration of egg-management was thrice successful and we sat down to a cheerful lunch party.
Our conversation turned, naturally enough, to the Flower Show. Miss Jackson was anxious that the infants' dancing display should go without mishap. Miss Clare, as so often before, was going to play the accompaniment to the rose song-and-dance, which I so heartily detested, on the vicarage piano. My two guests discussed the intricacies of timing and the best position for Miss Jackson to take up on the lawn so that both the children and their accompanist could see her.
'Who's turning the music for you?' I asked. 'Shall I ask Ernest to help you? He's a sensible boy.'
'Betty Franklyn is doing it,' answered Miss Clare. On hearing the name Miss Jackson dropped her fork with a clatter. It rebounded from the edge of her plate and fell to the floor. Muttering apologies, Miss Jackson dived headlong after it. Her face remained hidden from view as she grovelled. Miss Clare continued calmly.
'I met the child with her aunt in Caxley last market day. They said they were coming out to the Flower Show and I asked her then. She seemed a bit disappointed because she wouldn't be dancing with her old friends, of course, and I thought that turning the pages might be some comfort.'
By this time Hilary Jackson had emerged from under the table, with a very red face. Miss Clare, observing her discomfiture with one swift glance, turned the subject to the matter of the new housing estate.
'Of course those two men must have been surveyors, I suppose,' she said, 'and what a long time ago it seems since I saw them walking up and down poor old Miller's field! I hear that it's going to be a really big affair.'
'With a site for a school already planned,' I observed. I began to serve the raspberries which I had picked early in the morning, but I felt Miss Clare's wise gaze upon me.
'And Fairacre's plans?' she queried softly. There was the very faintest tremor in her voice, and I remembered with a sudden pang the forty odd years which Miss Clare had spent under that steep-pitched roof and of the scores of Fairacre men and women who had learnt their letters, their manners and their courage from this devoted schoolmistress.
'The vicar tells me that it won't close,' I assured her. Her sigh of relief was music to hear. 'But it may become "infants only".' I passed
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