Celebrations in Burracombe

Book 9: Burracombe Village

by Lilian Harry

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

It's the late 1950s and change is in the air. For the Napier family, up at the big house, the old ways are shifting. Hilary must discover if reaching out for a chance of happiness must mean breaking away from the life expected of her, while Patsy, their young housekeeper's help, is facing motherhood without her own family around her. Down the hill from the Napiers, villagers young and old are setting out on adventures – Stella and Felix begin married life, change comes to the village school and the Tozer family continue to find surprises in their midst.

Release date: August 14, 2014

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

 

 

 

Burracombe, June 1954

 

Sybil has died …

Hilary put down the phone and stood, shaking, beside the hall table. David had said more than that, much more, but those were the words that stayed in her mind, overshadowing all others. Sybil has died …

Slowly, stiffly, she turned and made her way into the drawing room. She closed the door behind her and crossed to the window to stand gazing out across the gardens of Burracombe Barton, her home for all her life, and past the fields and woods to the rising moor beyond, green and gold with the colours of June, dimming to purple in the distance.

It was all utterly familiar. And it was as if she stared at an alien landscape.

Sybil has died …

Hilary had never met David’s wife, yet Sybil’s influence over her life had been immense. Without her, the unexpected reunion between Hilary and David, the man she had loved in Egypt during the war, yet had been forced to part from because both were already engaged, would have been very different. Their relationship could have been innocent and joyous, without the need for secret meetings and the fear of discovery; without the anguish of knowing that they might never be able to be truly together.

Faithless, spiteful and possessive as Sybil had been, David could not contemplate leaving her – or, rather, Hilary could not allow him to. Sybil herself had demanded a divorce, so that she could marry her latest lover, but to be cited as the guilty partner would have ruined David’s career as a doctor. And the scandal would have devastated Hilary’s ailing father, Gilbert Napier, and the village of Burracombe, where he was squire. With apparently no way out of their dilemma, they had finally agreed to part, not realising just how impossible that would be.

‘I have to know I can hear your voice,’ David had said despairingly in one of his phone calls. ‘I have to be able to see you sometimes, even if that’s all there can ever be.’

It had, indeed, seemed that that was all there ever could be – until Sybil had suffered her stroke.

Helpless from the start, with her own lover abandoning her, she now relied utterly on her husband, and David had had no choice but to stay with her, to care for her for as long as need be. Which might, Hilary knew, be for years.

Their love had seemed more hopeless than ever. But now …

Sybil had died.

Did we wish this on her? Hilary wondered as she gazed out across the land that her father owned, that would be hers and her brother Stephen’s one day – the land for which she had taken responsibility since Gilbert’s two heart attacks. Did I wish her dead? I tried not to, but it was hard not to imagine what might happen if she had another stroke. And now she has … Was it our fault, mine and David’s?

No. Neither of them had ever wished her dead, even though it had seemed certain that she would never recover, that her life was in truth a living death. People did sometimes recover, David had said, especially young people like Sybil, only in her early thirties. The body could be surprisingly resilient.

And if she had, he would still have had to stay with her, for her recovery could never have been complete. But I didn’t wish her dead, Hilary told herself fiercely. I didn’t …

In any case, it was no good wondering. Sybil had died, in what many people would have considered a ‘happy release’, and the world had shifted a little on its axis. And who could tell now what the future would be?

Already it seemed that the happy wedding she had just attended was in a different world. It was hard to imagine that the reception was still going on at the Bedford Hotel in Tavistock, where Felix Copley’s large family of clergymen had settled in with their whiskies to hold their own family reunion, and that half the village would be at the Bell Inn, where Bernie and Rose Nethercott were offering a spread of Dottie Friend’s sausage rolls, cheese straws and other savouries. Here at the Barton, all was quiet. Hilary felt flat and restless, unable to settle. Exhausted after all the preparations and now wrenched back to her own problems by David’s phone call, she wanted nothing more than to rest, but when she forced herself to sink on to the big sofa it was no more than a few moments before she was on her feet again, staring out of the window and wondering whether to go round to the stables and saddle up Beau for an evening gallop.

But that would mean changing all my clothes, she thought, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, still wearing the silk dress and jacket that she had bought for Stella’s wedding. And by the time I’ve done that, I probably won’t want to go any more.

Still, she ought to take off the wedding outfit. Perhaps a bath would help her to relax. She climbed the stairs and went to the bathroom, leaving the water running as she went into her bedroom to undress.

‘Coo-ee!’ called a voice from downstairs. ‘Hilary – are you there? It’s us.’

Hilary, just stepping out of her dress, paused in surprise and went to the door. ‘Maddy? Is that you?’

‘Yes, where are you?’ Maddy was at the foot of the stairs, peering up. ‘Oh, look at you, half undressed. Never a moment’s peace, is there! Sorry – were you going to bed?’

‘No, I was just changing. Don’t worry, I’ll be down in a minute.’ She returned to her room, then remembered the running tap and dashed across the landing to find the bath half full of hot water. Bother, she thought, I was looking forward to that bath! With a sigh, she left it, then went back and pulled on the first skirt and blouse that came to hand.

Maddy and Stephen were in the drawing room. Stephen was holding a bottle of champagne, while Maddy ferreted in the cabinet for glasses. She emerged triumphant and laughing, holding up three flutes. Hilary recognised them as antique engraved glasses belonging to her mother, that she had never known used. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. What did it matter? It was what they had been made for, after all.

‘What’s all this?’ she asked instead. ‘I thought we’d been cele­brating all day.’

‘It’s not over yet,’ her brother told her. ‘We knew you’d brought Dad home early and we didn’t see why you should be here on your own when everyone else was having fun. So we decided to bring some fun to you. Hold out the glasses, darling.’

‘No, let’s take it out on the terrace,’ Maddy suggested, going over to the long French windows. ‘It’s much too nice to be indoors.’

Hilary followed them out, feeling as if she’d wandered into a dream. How was it, she wondered, that one person could be so bemused, and nobody else notice? She took the chair that Stephen offered her and watched as Maddy set out the three glasses and held one out for the first explosion of champagne.

‘There!’ the younger girl said, handing Hilary a fizzing glass. ‘Here’s to more happy times – and more weddings! Lots more weddings!’ Her laughing blue eyes met Hilary’s before Hilary looked swiftly away. ‘I love them. Especially mine. And now you’ve got to have one, Hilary. Honestly, they’re the best thing in the world.’

There was a sudden silence. Stephen glanced quickly at his sister, then back at his wife. ‘I think perhaps you’ve had enough champagne, darling.’

‘Why? What have I said?’ Maddy looked at Hilary again and added, uncertainly, ‘I haven’t upset you, have I? I only meant—’

‘No, it’s all right,’ Hilary reassured her, but her voice cracked on the words and to her horror she felt tears in her eyes. They spilled over before she could stop them and she brushed hastily at her cheeks with her wrist. ‘I’m sorry, I … Look, I don’t think I’ll have any champagne, if you don’t mind. It’s a lovely idea, but … Actually, I was just going to have a bath … I think I’ll do that anyway if the water’s still hot, and just go to bed. It’s been a long day …’

With a quick, brittle smile, she got up and almost ran into the house. She heard Maddy’s little cry of dismay and the scrape of her chair, as if she were just about to follow, but ignored it. In the safety of the bathroom, she turned on the hot tap again, stripped off her clothes and sank with a sigh of relief into the water, where she lay back, closed her eyes and felt the hot flow of tears seep from beneath her lids and down her cheeks.

Everybody wants me to get married, she thought. Father, with all his talk of taking whatever chances life offers me, and now Maddy, and probably Stephen too, if I’d given him half a chance. And if only they knew about David. If only they knew the truth …

But only two other people knew that. Her friend Val Tozer, who had been with her in Egypt, and Charles Latimer, the family doctor here in Burracombe. And neither of them could help her now.

 

Down on the terrace, twirling her glass between her fingers, Maddy bit her upper lip and looked ruefully at her husband.

‘I really didn’t mean to upset her. I just meant it would be lovely to see her married and happy. Like us.’

Stephen sat down beside her and took her hand. ‘I know, darling. But poor old Hil, I think she’s a bit sensitive about the subject. She’s turned thirty, after all – she must think it will never happen. I think she found it rather hard today, watching Stella and Felix getting married and looking so happy.’

‘But she surely couldn’t begrudge them their happiness, after they’ve been through so much – that awful accident, and Stella thinking she’d never be able to walk again and that she shouldn’t marry Felix after all.’

‘No, of course she wouldn’t begrudge it. But she still might not be able to help feeling rather lonely, especially when she had to come home early with Dad and make sure he was OK. She worries a lot about his health, you know.’

Maddy looked remorseful. ‘Of course. There I go again – putting my big foot in it, never thinking how other people might be feeling. Should I go up and apologise?’

Stephen shook his head. ‘Hilary’s best left to cope in her own way. But I’ll try to have a word with her before we leave. I’ve thought for some time there’s a bit more to what’s been troubling her. I’d like to get to the bottom of it before we go to Cyprus.’

‘Cyprus!’ Maddy said dreamily, and leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘Oh Stephen, I can hardly wait to be there with you. It’s going to be so wonderful – all that warm sunshine and those lovely beaches, and all our friends …’

‘Steady on!’ he laughed. ‘We’re not going on holiday, you know. I’m a serving RAF officer – I’ll have work to do.’

‘I know.’ Her face sobered. ‘And it could be dangerous, I realise that. But we’ll be together most of the time. That’s the important thing. And maybe I’ll be able to grow up at last, and learn not to trample on other people’s feelings.’

Stephen smiled. ‘You’re quite grown up enough for me, my darling. Now, shall we finish this champagne and then go to bed? We’ve got a busy couple of days in front of us before we go back to the air station. There are a lot of people to say goodbye to – it’ll be a long time before we’re back in Burracombe again.’

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the Bell Inn, the party was in full swing. Leaving the Bedford Hotel in Tavistock to Felix’s family, many of the guests and most of the villagers had arrived by eight o’clock and were now enjoying Dottie’s sausage rolls and some local ale. Felix had insisted on paying for the party, and some of those present were intent on taking full advantage of his generosity.

‘I reckon you’ve had enough now, Josiah Hannaford,’ Bernie told an elderly stockman who was holding out his pewter tankard for a refill. ‘Vicar’s not made of money, and I don’t suppose he’ve seen you in church much above three times since he first came to Burracombe.’

‘That don’t mean I don’t wish him well,’ the old man said righteously. ‘Always had a good word to say to me if us ever met round the village. And that young Miss Simmons he’ve wed today have been real good to my little great-niece, Janice, having her as bridesmaid, so I reckon I got as much right to be here as anyone. More than some I might mention,’ he added, letting his eyes rove around the bar parlour and come to rest on Arthur Culliford’s face.

Arthur coloured up immediately. ‘If you’m making insinuations—’ he began dangerously, but Bernie intervened.

‘That’s enough, Arthur. This ain’t the time for argufying, so I’ll be grateful if you don’t take umbrage. ’Tis meant to be a happy occasion.’

‘And I’ll be all the happier if you fill up my tankard,’ Josiah said, and Bernie sighed.

‘Once more, and that’s all. And if you needs to be carried home, don’t ask me to do it.’

‘Have another of my sausage rolls, Josiah,’ Dottie suggested. ‘That’ll stick your feet to the ground.’

‘Weigh ’em down, more like,’ Ivy Sweet commented. Her face was nearly as red as her hair and her voice was louder than usual. ‘Don’t know what you think, Dottie, but seems to me your pastry’s a bit on the heavy side since you came back from America.’

Dottie flushed. ‘I won’t lower meself to answer that, Ivy, not while I’m Bernie’s side of the bar. But if your husband’s got any complaints about my baking, I hope he’ll tell me himself.’

‘Of course I don’t have no complaints,’ cut in George Sweet, the village baker, for whom Dottie often produced extra cakes and scones for sale in the shop. ‘It’s as good as ever, as Ivy well knows. You’m not too proud to serve me one of Dottie’s pies for my dinner,’ he told his wife sharply, ‘so keep your remarks to yourself. And you’d better take your time finishing that port and lemon, because it’ll be just lemonade next time.’

‘Might be a good idea to keep her on lemonade all the time,’ Jacob Prout suggested. ‘I never did know a ginger-haired woman that could hold her drink. That’s when it’s proper ginger, of course,’ he added, not quite under his breath.

Ivy tossed her head and there was a brief, awkward silence. Every­body knew that Ivy’s hair had been more brown than red until the last year of the war; she had started to dye it not long before her Barry was born. It was common knowledge too that the Sweet marriage was an uneasy one, although the couple rarely disputed in public. Bernie glanced at Dottie, then rapped on the bar and called out, ‘Last orders for the Vicar’s round! After this one, you all pay for yourselves. And some of you have had enough anyway. I’m looking at you too, Bob Pettifer. You’ve had three pints of cider to my certain knowledge.’

‘He’s hoping it’ll make him look pretty,’ said Bob’s friend Reg, and everyone laughed while Bob pulled one of his gargoyle faces. ‘Take more’n a drop of cider to do that!’

‘Let’s have a bit of music,’ Norman Tozer suggested. ‘Can’t let the party end without a sing-song. Alf Coker’s brought his fiddle along – I saw it behind the door.’

The blacksmith fetched his instrument and began to play, starting off with a few jigs and then going on to songs they could all join in. ‘Widecombe Fair’ had them going at once, with its list of names and special emphasis on ‘’Arry ’Awke’. They sang all the verses, right down to the ghoulish-voiced ‘skirlings and moans’ of Tom Pearce’s old mare, ‘a-rattlin’ ’er bones’. Then Norman and the other bell-ringers held court with ‘The Bell-Ringers’ Song’ – ‘But the bells of Northlew rang so steady and true, there never was better in Devon, I hold’, with Ted Tozer cutting in as usual with, ‘Only because Burracombe couldn’t be there that day, us was too busy with harvest.’ After that, the singing became a free-for-all, with one old tune following another – ‘Tavern in the Town’, ‘Henery the Eighth’, ‘Waiting at the Church’ (hardly appropriate on the day of the Vicar’s wedding, Dottie commented) and ‘Clementine’. Tom Tozer, who had a pleasant tenor voice, sang ‘The Ash Grove’, and Alf Coker laid down his fiddle and gave a rendition of ‘Ol’ Man River’ that they all agreed was as good as Paul Robeson any day. That led naturally on to ‘Old Father Thames’, and they finished with a full-throated chorus of ‘Rule Britannia’, after which Bernie struck the bell that hung above the bar and called time.

‘It’s been a good party,’ Ted Tozer announced, holding up his hand for silence, ‘and I’m sure all of us wishes the Vicar and his new wife well, even though they’m now Little Burracombers. Well, none of us is perfect, after all …’ He paused for the laughter that followed this remark. ‘I reckon both he and young Stella will be sorely missed in the village, but he says they’ll be pleased to see any of us any time us cares to cross the Burra Brook to look ’em up. And I for one means to do so. Three cheers for young Vicar and Mrs Copley! Hip-hip …’

The cheers almost raised the thatched roof of the Bell Inn, and then the revellers dispersed and made their way, some more rowdily than others, to their homes in the village. Josiah did not, after all, have to be carried, but he leaned heavily on Bob Pettifer and Reg until they deposited him at his cottage door to be hauled in by his diminutive wife, and after that the two young men leaned on each other.

‘How’s your Terry liking married life, then, Bob?’ Reg enquired as they staggered towards the Pettifer cottage. ‘I noticed he weren’t in the pub.’

‘He’s not old enough, is he.’ Bob said. ‘Old enough to get a girl in the family way, old enough to marry her, but not old enough to drink a pint or two in the village inn. Anyway, he can’t afford it. Him and Patsy are saving up for cots and things.’

‘Cots at his age!’ Reg exclaimed. ‘My stars, that’s a warning to us, isn’t it! I don’t mean to be saving up for baby gear for a good few years yet. Nor do you, if you got any sense. We’m not twenty-five yet – got a few wild oats to sow first.’

‘And that’s what starts it all,’ Bob said. ‘Sow wild oats and you get a harvest at home. Best not to take the chance, Reg.’

‘As if we even get much chance anyway,’ Reg said gloomily. ‘Tell you what, though, there’s a hop over Meavy way next Saturday night. Square-dancing and that. I thought we might go along.’

‘Square-dancing? That’s country dancing, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, only more American. The music’s sort of hillbilly. Roy Nethercott’s been talking about getting up a band to play something like that. I reckon us could be in it.’ They arrived at Bob’s gate and let go of each other. ‘You all right to get up the path?’

‘I’m all right. You all right to get on to your place?’

‘I’m all right.’ Reg stepped carefully away and Bob watched him weave along the village street. Then he opened the gate and went round to the back of the cottage where he lived with his parents, his brother Terry and now Terry’s young wife Patsy.

It had been a good evening, he thought, and the best wedding of the three that had taken place so far this year. First, that of Stephen Napier and Maddy Simmons, whom Bob had known as a child; then, under a bit of a shadow, his brother and Patsy, who had embarked on a pregnancy solely so that her father would allow them to marry; and now the schoolteacher Stella Simmons and Felix Copley, who had been curate in Burracombe until the previous vicar of Little Burracombe had died.

Three weddings, and only halfway through the year. Three cele­brations in Burracombe. What would come next?

 

Stella and Felix, the latest of the newly-weds, were on their way to Tenby, in South Wales. Felix had booked a hotel in Bristol for their first night and they arrived in time for dinner.

‘I don’t really want a big meal,’ Stella said as they put their suitcases down in their room. ‘We had that nice lunch at the Bedford, and then tea on the train. And Dottie insisted on giving me a huge cooked breakfast. I seem to have been eating all day.’

‘Well, you did fit in a wedding as well,’ Felix said, taking her in his arms. ‘And quite honestly, I’m starving. I find getting married very hunger-making.’

‘You find everything hunger-making,’ Stella told him. ‘All right, I suppose we’d better go down. I’m surprised Dottie didn’t pack us a few sandwiches and some cake to keep us going on the journey.’ She caught his look and exclaimed, ‘She didn’t, did she? Oh, Felix!’

‘Only a few of her home-made biscuits and a slice or two of fruit cake,’ he said defensively. ‘You never know, the train could have been held up. I’m sure we’ll be glad of them at some point.’

Stella laughed and punched him on the arm. Then she looked up into his face and her expression grew serious. ‘Felix, I do love you.’

‘And I love you,’ he said, bending his head to kiss her. ‘And if you really don’t want to go down to dinner, I’m sure I can manage on a few biscuits and some fruit cake …’

Stella smiled. ‘I’m not. You need regular feeding, and Dottie will be very cross with me if she thinks you’ve lost weight when we get home. Let’s go down now.’

‘All right.’ He kissed her again. ‘But I don’t want to tire you out. You’re still not as strong as you were, and it’s been a long day.’ He hesitated. ‘Darling, I know this is our wedding night, but if you are too tired, you only have to say. If you just want to go to sleep … I shan’t mind. We’ve got all the time in the world now, to love each other.’

‘I know.’ She leaned her head on his shoulder and he rubbed his face against her dark curls. ‘All our lives ahead of us. I’m so very happy, Felix.’

He wrapped his arms about her and held her close, rocking gently. They stood together for a few moments, then slowly, reluctantly, drew apart. Stella knew that they had both been thinking how nearly this moment had never come about, how close she had been to throwing away this love that had always been so precious to them both. But there was no need to say so. It was in the past now, and could safely be left there. The future lay before them, and she felt sure it was going to be a happy one.

‘Let’s go down to dinner,’ she said quietly, and hand in hand they left the room.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘Everyone wishes dear Stella well, of course, and no one more than I,’ Miss Kemp said when the school governors met a day or two after the wedding. ‘But it does leave us still needing a new assistant teacher.’

‘It’s not really Stella’s wedding that’s done that,’ Constance Bellamy pointed out in her gruff, well-bred voice. ‘Nor even her accident – she was leaving us at Christmas anyway. It’s our bad luck in appointing that dreadful Miss Watkins to take her place. Who could have thought she’d turn out to be a liar and a thief?’

‘We’ll certainly have to be careful whom we appoint now,’ Basil Harvey agreed. ‘The children must have been very unsettled by it all, especially the little ones in her class. As for poor little Billy Culliford …’

‘Yes, he’s been much maligned,’ Miss Kemp said. ‘I cannot comprehend how a woman who is supposed to care for and teach little children can make a scapegoat out of an innocent child – and one who’s only four years old! It’s wicked.’

‘She’ll never get another chance,’ Colonel Napier said grimly. ‘Now that the education authority has decided to prosecute her, she’ll have a prison record and never be able to work in a school again. Now then, Basil, tell us about the new applicants.’

‘There are only two,’ the vicar said, ferreting about amongst a pile of papers. His white hair stood out around his head like a halo. ‘One is a Scottish lady who sounded very nice on the telephone, but her accent is dreadfully strong – I’m not sure the children would understand her, or she they. And the other is – well, he’s a man.’ He looked at them almost apologetically. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bad time of year to be looking for a new teacher.’

‘A man,’ Constance said thoughtfully. ‘Well, it’s not unheard of in primary schools – male teachers are quite common for the older classes. But for the infants …’ She lifted her eyebrows at the headmistress. ‘What do you think, Miss Kemp?’

‘I’ve no objection in principle. I’ve known some very good male teachers. But as you say, for the babies … I suppose there’s no real reason why not. It depends very much on what he’s like, of course. Is he a young man, Basil?’

‘He’s in his fifties. He worked in London – a stockbroker, I ­believe – before the war, and enlisted as soon as hostilities broke out. He only went into teaching afterwards and has been working in a private prep school, but the post is rather strenuous and he’s looking for something quieter. He was wounded in the war, ap­parently. In fact, he lost a leg.’

‘A leg?’ Miss Bellamy exclaimed, as if that were the last thing anyone could be expected to lose. ‘But doesn’t that put him at rather a disadvantage?’

‘I imagine it does,’ Basil said mildly. ‘But if he’s been teaching successfully for the past six or seven years, it seems he’s managed to overcome it quite well.’

Constance looked a little abashed. ‘I didn’t mean to imply …’

‘Of course you didn’t. And he does say quite specifically that he’s looking for a quieter post than his present one. He probably con­siders that teaching in a village school like ours, where the children all go home in the afternoon, is somewhat less onerous than a boys’ prep school, with boarders having to be looked after.’

‘Which service was he in?’ Gilbert Napier asked abruptly, and Basil turned to him with some relief.

‘The army. He was a major when he was discharged.’

‘Sounds a decent sort of fellow,’ Gilbert said. ‘I think we should have him in, see what he’s got to say for himself.’

‘But an army major …’ Miss Kemp said doubtfully. ‘He sounds so different from Stella. She was so gentle with the little ones.’

‘I don’t suppose he’ll have ’em marching up and down the playground and presenting arms,’ Gilbert said testily. ‘The feller should be given a chance. He’s served his country, after all – shouldn’t be thrown on the scrapheap.’

‘I never suggested—’

‘The Colonel’s right,’ Basil intervened quickly. ‘It will do no harm to see the man. But shouldn’t we see Miss MacAllister as well?’

‘Miss …? Oh, the Scotswoman,’ Gilbert said dismissively. ‘Well, I suppose so, but didn’t you say her accent was difficult? And what’s she doing applying for a post down here in south Devon? Doesn’t she want to be in Scotland?’

‘I don’t think that’s for us to say,’ Miss Kemp countered. ‘Presumably she has her own reasons. She may have lived in the south for years. Is she a younger person?’ she asked Basil.

‘In her forties. We’d probably have to wait until September to get a younger teacher. If you’d rather have one fresh out of college and be able to train her to your own ways, we could look at a locum instead. Or even ask Mrs Warren to help out, as she did before.’

‘What about your wife?’ Gilbert asked. ‘She and Mrs Warren did a very good job between them before Christmas, when Stella had her accident.’

Basil shook his head. ‘That was only for a short time. I don’t think she’d be able to take it on from now until the end of term. Summer is so busy. And Mrs Warren would probably say the same. It really was an emergency – neither of them had taught for years and the county might not approve of our using them now.’

They all sighed. Then Miss Kemp said, with obvious reluctance, ‘I suppose we’d better see them both since they’re our only applicants, although I have to say, neither sounds entirely suitable to me. How soon could they come for interview, Basil?’

‘Almost at once,’ he said, consulting his papers again. ‘Major Raynor has actually left his post at the prep school and can come at any time – he lives in Somerset – and Miss MacAllister is in London but is prepared to make the journey whenever it suits us.’

‘Ask them to come at their earliest convenience, then,’ Colonel Napier said. ‘The sooner we have a new teacher in place, the better. Miss Kemp has soldiered on alone for quite long enough.’

‘I’ll telephone them both this evening,’ Basil replied. ‘Is there any day this week or next when we can’t meet?’

‘Why not telephone them now?’ Constance Bellamy suggested. ‘If they’re in, we can arrange an interview straight away.’

Basil nodded, and picked up the phone. Within a few minutes he had organised an interview with Miss MacAllister on Thursday afternoon and one with the Major on Friday. He put the phone down again and they looked at each other.

‘Well, there it is,’ Miss Kemp said. ‘Neither of them in the least like Stella – or, thank heavens, the dreadful Miss Watkins. Things are going to be very different in Burracombe school, whichever we appoint.’

‘And we might not appoint either,’ Constance Bellamy said, ­rising to her feet and stumping across to the door. ‘We’re not so desperate we’ll take just anyone