Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre by Miss Read Page A

thing,' I agreed, still envisaging a meat skewer being twisted in the child's ear.
    'So here I am, ten minutes late, and
hampered,
as you see.'
    She cast a malevolent glance at the silent child who was now engrossed in scribbling energetically with his crayons. As far as I could see, he was drawing a tangle of multi-coloured wool, but it kept him quiet.
    'I told Minnie I'd keep him till she got back, but there isn't another Fairacre till midday, unless she gets the Beech Green and walks the rest.'
    She gave a sigh which rustled the pictures still on the wall. 'Children!' she groaned. 'D'you want them wash basins done too?'
    'Yes please,' I said.
    She pushed herself up from the desk where she had seated herself during the recital of her woes, and limped towards the lobby.
    We continued our labours in silence.

    It was good to go to Amy's. Dearly as I love my own home and the village of Fairacre, it is exciting to have a change of scenery and company.
    Tibby, my spoilt cat, was in the care of Mr Willet who had promised to come up night and morning to see that all was well.
    'Strikes me,' he had said, on being shown the pile of tins left for Tibby's sustenance, 'that that cat of yours eats a damn sight better than we do.'
    'Well, it is
Christmas
,' I said weakly.
    'I'll bring him up a slice of turkey,' replied Mr Willet, 'or ain't that good enough?'
    I was not sure if he were being heavily sarcastic, or meant what he said, so I contented myself with sincere thanks, handing over a jar of stem ginger at the same time. I had once heard Mrs Willet say that they were 'both very partial' to ginger.
    As always, it was bliss to stay at Amy's. Her house is quiet and beautiful, and looks out upon a southern-sloping garden and the Hampshire hills in the distance. My bedroom had the same aspect, and a bowl of early pale pink hyacinths scented the room.
    'How clever of you to get them in bloom by Christmas!' I said. 'Mine are only an inch high, and they were planted at the beginning of term.'
    'Choose Anne-Marie,' advised Amy, 'and leave them in the dark for at least two months. Then they roar ahead once you get them into the light.'
    They obviously did for Amy, I thought, but would they for me?
    Bent church, where Amy and James were regular attendants, was splendidly decorated on Christmas Day with arum lilies as well as Christmas roses and the usual evergreens. There was an air of opulence about the building which our modest St Patrick's lacked at Fairacre. A rich carpet covered the chancel, and the vicar's vestments were embroidered in gold thread, so much more ornate than the simple white cassock, laundered by Mrs Willet, which clothed Gerald Partridge.
    But Bent church itself had a cathedral-like splendour, with side chapels and a roof of fan-vaulting. The choir was twice the size of our own, and obviously more musically proficient. The processional hymn had a beautiful and
intricate descant which soared to the equally beautiful and intricate roof above, and raised all our spirits with it. Altogether, the service was gloriously inspiring, and I said so to Amy as we walked back.
    'Our vicar,' said James, 'always excels himself at the major church festivals, and puts on a good show.'
    It was said quite seriously, but I was rather taken aback by the last few words. Was there something theatrical about the service? Was there a display of pomp and ceremony which would not have been in order at St Patrick's?
    And what if there were? The whole service had been to the glory of God and surely, I thought, it was only right and proper for the finest music and the most splendid flowers and vestments to be used to heighten the impact of the best-loved of all church festivals.

    We needed a rest after our Christmas dinner, but as soon as we could move again Amy suggested that we all went for a walk before it grew dark.
    James was always at his gayest in the open air. As a young man he had been a great sportsman, and even now had the litheness and