frequently goes home to see them. There are far too many busy-bodies in tins village!' I ended roundly, thrusting the last drawer back. Heaven alone knew where that form had vanished!
Mrs Pringle drew in a long, outraged breath. Hitching up her burdens, she continued her journey into the infants' room. Her leg, I noticed, was dragging badly.
Soon after this brush with Mrs Pringle, I was invited to tea at the vicarage.
The tea was set out on the verandah, sheltered from the wind and bathed in warm sunshine. Mrs Partridge had spread a very dashing cloth of red and white checks over the spindly iron table. Tins round table was painted white, and its legs were most intricately embellished with scrolls, fleur-de-lys and flourishes, with here and there a spot of red rust, for the table stood outside in all weathers.
A motley collection of chairs helped to furnish the verandah. Mrs Partridge, presiding over the tea-pot, sat in a creaking wicker chair which had once been cream in colour, but had weathered to grey. The vicar lay back in a chaise-longue, with his stomach skywards, until he was passed Ins cup of tea, when he straightened up, planted a leg on each side of his perch, and sat well forward, nearly split in half.
Mr and Mrs Mawne, who were also of the party, were more comfortably placed in canvas armchairs of a more upright nature. They sat very straight, to avoid knocking their cups off the narrow wooden arms, and looked remarkably careful and prim.
I think I was the worst off, for my seat was a basket chair, very close to the floor so that my legs could either be stretched straight ahead or pulled in with my knees just under my chin. No compromise seemed possible, and I feared that my best nylon stockings were taking a severe tousling from the wicker-work which caught them maliciously from time to time.
Despite our discomforts, however, the tea was excellent, the sun shone and we chattered away cheerfully enough. Mr Mawne told the vicar about a whitethroat's nest he had discovered, built in a most extraordinary position; Mrs Mawne told me how the Women's Institute should be run, and Mrs Partridge, who is President of Fairacre W.I., listened unperturbed and poured tea for her critic, in the kindest manner.
It was Mr Mawne who first mentioned the proposed housing site.
'A scandal if that land is taken for building!' he said, chopping up a piece of chocolate cake viciously. 'More larks there to the square yard than anywhere else in England!'
'Have you heard any more?' asked Mrs Mawne, deflected momentary from her account of the lost splendours of former W.I.s run by herself.
'I was on the telephone this morning,' said the vicar, 'to Miller—about an address I needed—and evidently things are moving.'
'Which way?' asked Mrs Mawne.
'As far as I could gather—and I must say he was so very—er— cross about the whole affair, that it was difficult to hear him clearly—it seems that he has had a letter pointing out that the land can be purchased compulsorily, if need be, and that the proposals are now in the hands of the County Council.'
'But we just cant have a great, ugly, housing estate on our doorsteps!' exclaimed Mrs Partridge, voicing the feelings of us all.
'Think what an enormous parish you'd have!' said Mr Mawne to the vicar, who had gently tipped back to his prone position, with his legs up.
'Think of the visiting!' said Mrs Partridge. There was a touch of horror in her tone.
'They might,' said the vicar, in a small voice, addressing die roof of the verandah, 'I say it is just possible that they might have a small church of their own.'
There was a shocked silence. It was broken by Mr Mawne, who shifted his canvas chair nearer to the vicar, with a horrible scraping noise on the tiles, and looked down upon him.
'You mean, it's going to be that big? ' he enquired.
The vicar heaved himself upright again and straddled his leg-rest as though he were riding a horse.
'No one knows, but there's no doubt
Mrs Pringle drew in a long, outraged breath. Hitching up her burdens, she continued her journey into the infants' room. Her leg, I noticed, was dragging badly.
Soon after this brush with Mrs Pringle, I was invited to tea at the vicarage.
The tea was set out on the verandah, sheltered from the wind and bathed in warm sunshine. Mrs Partridge had spread a very dashing cloth of red and white checks over the spindly iron table. Tins round table was painted white, and its legs were most intricately embellished with scrolls, fleur-de-lys and flourishes, with here and there a spot of red rust, for the table stood outside in all weathers.
A motley collection of chairs helped to furnish the verandah. Mrs Partridge, presiding over the tea-pot, sat in a creaking wicker chair which had once been cream in colour, but had weathered to grey. The vicar lay back in a chaise-longue, with his stomach skywards, until he was passed Ins cup of tea, when he straightened up, planted a leg on each side of his perch, and sat well forward, nearly split in half.
Mr and Mrs Mawne, who were also of the party, were more comfortably placed in canvas armchairs of a more upright nature. They sat very straight, to avoid knocking their cups off the narrow wooden arms, and looked remarkably careful and prim.
I think I was the worst off, for my seat was a basket chair, very close to the floor so that my legs could either be stretched straight ahead or pulled in with my knees just under my chin. No compromise seemed possible, and I feared that my best nylon stockings were taking a severe tousling from the wicker-work which caught them maliciously from time to time.
Despite our discomforts, however, the tea was excellent, the sun shone and we chattered away cheerfully enough. Mr Mawne told the vicar about a whitethroat's nest he had discovered, built in a most extraordinary position; Mrs Mawne told me how the Women's Institute should be run, and Mrs Partridge, who is President of Fairacre W.I., listened unperturbed and poured tea for her critic, in the kindest manner.
It was Mr Mawne who first mentioned the proposed housing site.
'A scandal if that land is taken for building!' he said, chopping up a piece of chocolate cake viciously. 'More larks there to the square yard than anywhere else in England!'
'Have you heard any more?' asked Mrs Mawne, deflected momentary from her account of the lost splendours of former W.I.s run by herself.
'I was on the telephone this morning,' said the vicar, 'to Miller—about an address I needed—and evidently things are moving.'
'Which way?' asked Mrs Mawne.
'As far as I could gather—and I must say he was so very—er— cross about the whole affair, that it was difficult to hear him clearly—it seems that he has had a letter pointing out that the land can be purchased compulsorily, if need be, and that the proposals are now in the hands of the County Council.'
'But we just cant have a great, ugly, housing estate on our doorsteps!' exclaimed Mrs Partridge, voicing the feelings of us all.
'Think what an enormous parish you'd have!' said Mr Mawne to the vicar, who had gently tipped back to his prone position, with his legs up.
'Think of the visiting!' said Mrs Partridge. There was a touch of horror in her tone.
'They might,' said the vicar, in a small voice, addressing die roof of the verandah, 'I say it is just possible that they might have a small church of their own.'
There was a shocked silence. It was broken by Mr Mawne, who shifted his canvas chair nearer to the vicar, with a horrible scraping noise on the tiles, and looked down upon him.
'You mean, it's going to be that big? ' he enquired.
The vicar heaved himself upright again and straddled his leg-rest as though he were riding a horse.
'No one knows, but there's no doubt
Similar Books
