the same time, a wad of paper tissues for the deplorable handkerchief. Eileen remained calm throughout, accustomed to the routine.
We left her there, and set about the test.
'Number down to twenty', I told them. Would we never get started?
There was a clanging noise as feet trampled over the iron scraper in the lobby. Ernest and Patrick entered, wind-blown ' and triumphant, Patrick holding aloft a very dirty pound note.
'We found it, miss!' they cried. 'Guess where?'
'In the hedge?'
'No.'
'In the duck pond?' shouted someone, putting down his pen.
'No.'
'In your pocket after all?'
'No.'
By now, pens were abandoned, and it was plain that the mental arithmetic test would be indefinitely postponed unless I took a firm hand.
'That's enough. Tell us where.'
'In a cow pat. So stuck up it was, it couldn't blow away. Weren't it
lucky?
They thrust the noisome object under my nose.
'Wipe it,' I said faintly, 'with a damp cloth in the lobby, then
bring it back.
Don't let go of it for one second. Understand?'
By now it was a quarter past ten and no work done.
'First question,' I said briskly. Pens were picked up, amidst sighing.
'If a man has twelve chickens,' I began, when the door opened.
'And about time too,' I said wrathfully, expecting Ernest and Patrick to appear. 'Get into your desks, and let's get some work done!'
The mild face of the Vicar appeared, and we all rose in some confusion.
2 News of Minnie Pringle
THE Reverend Gerald Partridge has been Vicar of this parish for many years. I have yet to hear anyone, even the most censorious chapel-goer, speak ill of him. He goes about his parish duties conscientiously, vague in his manner, but wonderfully alert to those who have need of his sympathy and wisdom.
In winter, he is a striking figure, tramping the lanes in an ancient cape of dramatic cut, and sporting a pair of leopard skin gloves, so old, that he is accompanied by little clouds of moulting fur whenever he uses his hands. It is commonly believed that they must have been a gift from some loving, and possibly beloved, churchgoer, in the living before he came to Fairacre. Why otherwise would he cling to such dilapidated articles?
Fairacre School is a Church of England School, standing close to St Patrick's and the vicarage. The Vicar is a frequent visitor, and although I have heard the ruder boys mimicking him behind his back, the children are extremely fond of him, and I have witnessed them attacking a stranger who once dared to criticize him.
'I'm sorry to interrupt,' he said, 'but I was just passing and thought I would have a word with you.'
'Of course.'
I turned to the class.
'Turn over your test papers and write out the twelve times table,' I directed. Long-suffering glances were exchanged. Trust her to want the twelve times! One of the nastiest that was! Their looks spoke volumes.
'What on earth is the matter with that child?' asked the Vicar, in a shocked tone, his horrified gaze upon the prone and bloodied figure of Eileen Burton.
'Just a nose-bleed,' I said soothingly. 'She often has them.'
'But you should have a key,' cried Mr Partridge, much agitated, 'a
large
key, to put at the nape of the neckâ'
'She's got the cutting out scissorsâ' I began, but he was now too worried to heed such interruptions.
'My mother always kept a large key hanging in the kitchen for this sort of thing. We had a parlour maid once, just so afflicted. What about the key of the school door? Or shall I run back to the vicarage for the vestry key? It must weigh quite two pounds, and would be ideal for the purpose.'
His face was puckered with concern, his voice sharp with anxiety.
At that moment, Eileen stood up, dropped the paper handkerchief in the waste paper basket, and smiled broadly.
'Over,' she announced, and put the scissors on my desk.
'Take care, dear child, take care!' cried the Vicar, but he sounded greatly relieved at this recovery.
He picked up the cutting out scissors.
'A worthy
We left her there, and set about the test.
'Number down to twenty', I told them. Would we never get started?
There was a clanging noise as feet trampled over the iron scraper in the lobby. Ernest and Patrick entered, wind-blown ' and triumphant, Patrick holding aloft a very dirty pound note.
'We found it, miss!' they cried. 'Guess where?'
'In the hedge?'
'No.'
'In the duck pond?' shouted someone, putting down his pen.
'No.'
'In your pocket after all?'
'No.'
By now, pens were abandoned, and it was plain that the mental arithmetic test would be indefinitely postponed unless I took a firm hand.
'That's enough. Tell us where.'
'In a cow pat. So stuck up it was, it couldn't blow away. Weren't it
lucky?
They thrust the noisome object under my nose.
'Wipe it,' I said faintly, 'with a damp cloth in the lobby, then
bring it back.
Don't let go of it for one second. Understand?'
By now it was a quarter past ten and no work done.
'First question,' I said briskly. Pens were picked up, amidst sighing.
'If a man has twelve chickens,' I began, when the door opened.
'And about time too,' I said wrathfully, expecting Ernest and Patrick to appear. 'Get into your desks, and let's get some work done!'
The mild face of the Vicar appeared, and we all rose in some confusion.
2 News of Minnie Pringle
THE Reverend Gerald Partridge has been Vicar of this parish for many years. I have yet to hear anyone, even the most censorious chapel-goer, speak ill of him. He goes about his parish duties conscientiously, vague in his manner, but wonderfully alert to those who have need of his sympathy and wisdom.
In winter, he is a striking figure, tramping the lanes in an ancient cape of dramatic cut, and sporting a pair of leopard skin gloves, so old, that he is accompanied by little clouds of moulting fur whenever he uses his hands. It is commonly believed that they must have been a gift from some loving, and possibly beloved, churchgoer, in the living before he came to Fairacre. Why otherwise would he cling to such dilapidated articles?
Fairacre School is a Church of England School, standing close to St Patrick's and the vicarage. The Vicar is a frequent visitor, and although I have heard the ruder boys mimicking him behind his back, the children are extremely fond of him, and I have witnessed them attacking a stranger who once dared to criticize him.
'I'm sorry to interrupt,' he said, 'but I was just passing and thought I would have a word with you.'
'Of course.'
I turned to the class.
'Turn over your test papers and write out the twelve times table,' I directed. Long-suffering glances were exchanged. Trust her to want the twelve times! One of the nastiest that was! Their looks spoke volumes.
'What on earth is the matter with that child?' asked the Vicar, in a shocked tone, his horrified gaze upon the prone and bloodied figure of Eileen Burton.
'Just a nose-bleed,' I said soothingly. 'She often has them.'
'But you should have a key,' cried Mr Partridge, much agitated, 'a
large
key, to put at the nape of the neckâ'
'She's got the cutting out scissorsâ' I began, but he was now too worried to heed such interruptions.
'My mother always kept a large key hanging in the kitchen for this sort of thing. We had a parlour maid once, just so afflicted. What about the key of the school door? Or shall I run back to the vicarage for the vestry key? It must weigh quite two pounds, and would be ideal for the purpose.'
His face was puckered with concern, his voice sharp with anxiety.
At that moment, Eileen stood up, dropped the paper handkerchief in the waste paper basket, and smiled broadly.
'Over,' she announced, and put the scissors on my desk.
'Take care, dear child, take care!' cried the Vicar, but he sounded greatly relieved at this recovery.
He picked up the cutting out scissors.
'A worthy
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