(5/13) Return to Thrush Green Read online

  Albert heard her thumping about above. The fragrant smells of frying onion and chops wreathed about the kitchen, and Albert settled back in his chair with a happy sigh.

  As Harold Shoosmith had foreseen, a number of interested spectators focused their attention on the Alfa Romeo at his gate on the afternoon in question. He felt more amusement than embarrassment as Isobel emerged elegantly from the driver's seat, and let him take her place.

  They drove slowly along the chestnut avenue in front of the Youngs' house and then turned right to descend the hill. The sun was warm and the flowering cherries were beginning to break into a froth of pink in the gardens which faced south.

  They headed westward through the outskirts of the town and were soon on the windy heights. On their right lay the valley of the Windrush, its irjeandering course marked by willow trees already showing tender leaves of greenish gold.

  'Heavenly afternoon,' commented Isobel. Harold agreed. It was not only the balmy spring weather which made it heavenly for him. Isobel's presence was the main source of his contentment, but he had to admit that the smooth performance of the little car also contributed to his pleasure.

  'Can we spare time to drop down to Minster Lovell?' he asked. 'If the Swan still does teas we could call on our way back, if you'd like that?'

  'Very much, thank you. But I think we'll be lucky to find anywhere that provides teas these days. Isn't it sad? Tea's such a nice meal.'

  'My favourite. After breakfast,' smiled Harold.

  They took a turning to the right, and ran down the hill to Minster Lovell. Harold stopped the car outside the beautiful old pub, and got out to speak to a woman who was cleaning the windows.

  'No, dear,' she said. 'No call for teas much. And it's getting staff as is difficult. Besides, people don't want tea these days.'

  'We do,' said Harold.

  'Ah well, dear, "Want must be your master", as my old gran used to say. You going near Burford? You'd get some there, no doubt. You see, there's coaches and that, pulling up there, and there's more call for teas then.'

  Harold thanked her, and returned to the car.

  'I think,' said Isobel dreamily, 'that is one of the loveliest villages in England. How I long to get back here! Sussex is beautiful, but it's here I belong.'

  'Then we'd better push on to see this house,' said Harold practically, letting in the clutch.

  It was not easy to find. The little blue car nosed its way through narrow lanes, between steep banks starred with late primroses and early stitchwort. They passed sign posts to Burford, to Astall Leigh, to Swinbrook, to Witney, and were beginning to wonder if the house really existed when they saw the 'For Sale' sign.

  The house was built on the side of a hill, and a steep path went from the lane to the front door. It was a substantial dwelling of honey-gold Cotswold stone, and a scarlet japonica covered the side wall.

  'Would you like to come in?' asked Isobel.

  'I won't, many thanks,' said Harold. 'It's easier for you to ask questions, and take in what the owners tell you, if you are on your own. I'll wait a little farther down the road, where it is wider.'

  'Fine,' said Isobel, collecting her bag and papers. Obviously she was expected, for at that moment the front door opened, and a woman peered out.

  Harold watched the two meet, and then drove to the arranged parking place. Here he got out, leant upon a conveniently sited five-barred gate, and surveyed the pleasant scene spread out below him.

  He could well understand Isobel's longing to return. His own affection for the area grew with every year that passed. He had never regretted, for one instant, his decision to settle at Thrush Green. He had made many new friends, not an easy thing to accomplish when one was a middle-aged newcomer to a small community, and the countryside was a constant delight.

  His own domestic arrangements were also satisfying, although of late he had begun to wonder if the years ahead would prove lonely. He had never regretted his bachelor state. After all, it was of his own choosing, and very contented he had been with it. But observing the happiness of the rector, Charles Henstock, in his second marriage, had given Harold cause for thought.

  Not that one should contemplate matrimony solely for the betterment of one's lot. Such selfishness would be a sure way to disaster. A true marriage, to Harold's mind, should be a joyous partnership, and if it were not to be so then it were better to remain single.

  He had a healthy distrust of strong emotions, and viewed his own present disturbance with mingled amusement, pleasure and caution. But he recognised a deeper feeling towards Isobel which he felt that time would confirm. He hoped that she would soon be living nearby, and that time would prove him right as he grew to know her.

  He walked down the lane between the hawthorn hedges shining with new leaf. The sun was warm, some lambs gambolled in the water meadow below, and a thrush sang as it bounced on a flowering spray of blackthorn above him.

  When he returned, Isobel was waiting in the car.

  'Any luck?' he asked, as he climbed into the driver's seat.

  Isobel shook her head.

  'Too much needs to be done. It would cost a fortune. And it's dark, and faces north-east. A pity, because the rooms were nice, and my stuff would have looked well there.'

  Harold patted her hand.

  'Never mind, there'll be others.'

  'But I haven't much time. Only two more days. I think I must try and come again later on, when I've sorted things out at home.'

  'Must you go this week?'

  'I'm afraid so. There are various bits of business to attend to in the next two or three weeks, and I certainly hope to have a few offers for my house to consider.'

  Harold nodded. At least it was some comfort to know that she planned to return in the near future.

  'Will you stay with Ella again?'

  'No, I think not. It's not really fair to her. There's the Fleece, though I'm not keen on staying at hotels. The evenings drag so. But don't let's bother about all that now. Who knows what the next two days may bring? And anyway, what about that cup of tea?'

  'Burford may be crowded. What about having tea with me? I can offer you Earl Grey, or Lapsang Souchong, or plain Indian.'

  'The last will suit me beautifully,' replied Isobel, with a smile which turned Harold's heart somersaulting.

  'Thrush Green it is then,' he replied, letting in the clutch. And the conversation on their homeward way consisted exclusively of the merits, or otherwise, of the Alfa Romeo.

  Dotty Harmer, with Flossie in tow, had just delivered the goat's milk to Ella, when they both noticed Isobel's car outside Harold's gate.

  'They must be back,' said Ella, stating the obvious. 'I wonder if she's had any luck today?'

  'But why is she at Harold's?'

  'Search me,' said Ella carelessly. 'Popped in to borrow a map or a book, I daresay. She may be staying with me for a week, Dotty dear, but that doesn't mean she's not free to visit whenever and whoever she pleases.'

  Dotty ruminated, her hand stroking Flossie's satin head.

  'But why Harold?'

  'He was trying out her car, that's why. And now, Dotty, to business. I've been paying you five peas for years now. I'm sure the milk should be more. That hogwash from the dairy—so-called—has gone up about six times since we fixed things. What about eight peas?'

  'Is that more than a shilling?'

  'Lord, yes! More like one and six.'

  'Then I refuse to take it. One shilling is ample, Ella. I really wish this pea business had never started. There are so many things I find that muddle me today. Metres and litres and grammes. So bewildering. And what's all this voluntary aided tax I keep finding on my bills?'

  'Taxes,' replied Ella severely, 'are neither voluntary nor aided, as you should well know! VAT stands for value added tax'

  Dotty considered the information, her eyes fixed unseeingly on the distant Alfa Romeo.

  'If anything,' she remarked at last, 'it sounds sillier.'

 
Ella rummaged in her purse and handed Dotty a silver fivepenny piece.

  'It's not enough, Dotty, but if that's how you want it—'

  'It is indeed. I put all the goat's milk money in a special tobacco tin, and it's surprising how it mounts up. I bought a large bag of dog biscuits with it last time, for dear old Floss.'

  'Well, she looks pretty fit on it,' agreed Ella, opening the gate for her departing friend.

  Dotty hurried away across the green, her stockings in wrinkles as usual and the hem of her petticoat showing a good two inches below her skirt.

  Ella watched her go with affection, and turned to carry in the milk. Her eye was caught by Isobel's car again.

  'Quite old enough to know what she's doing,' thought Ella, 'and anyway, none of my business.'

  Not all the Thrush Green residents were as tolerant.

  Bob Jones, landlord of the Two Pheasants noticed that the dashing blue car was over an hour outside Harold's house, and to his mind, 'it looked bad'. What if Mr Shoosmith and Mrs Fletcher were both middle-aged? Also, they were both unattached, and it was indiscreet, to say the least, to lay themselves open to comment.

  Winnie Bailey's faithful maid Jenny also noticed the car and, although she said nothing, she pursed her mouth primly as she set about some ironing in her top flat. Winnie herself was incapable of distinguishing Isobel's car from the milkman's delivery van, and so remained unperturbed by the private tea party.

  Albert Piggott was probably the most censorious, but since Nelly's return he was in such a state of turmoil, and his indigestion seemed so much worse, now that he was tempted by Nelly's rich food, that it was not surprising.

  'No better than she should be,' he told Nelly. 'I could see she be a proper flighty one as soon as I set eyes on that flashy car of hers.'

  'Well, I don't know the lady,' said Nelly roundly, 'but I knows Thrush Green and the tongues as wags round it. I'll bet my bottom dollar she's as innocent as I am.'

  'As you are!' echoed Albert derisively. 'Some innocent! And talking of that, when are you gettin' back to that Charlie you're so fond of?'

  Nelly folded a tea towel with care.

  'See here, Albert. Let's jog on a bit longer, shall we? I've said I'm sorry for that last little upset and you know you needs a woman in this place. What about me stoppin' on and gettin' my old job back? I thought I might call on Miss Watson this evening.'

  Albert snorted.

  'Then you'll have a long way to go, my gal. She's in Dickie's with a broken leg or summat. It'll be Miss Fogerty in charge now, and for all I knows Betty Bell's doin' the cleanin', and makin' a good job of it too.'

  Nelly did her best to look unconcerned at this unwelcome piece of news.

  'No harm in asking anyway,' she said, tossing her head. 'Maybe Miss Fogerty'd preter me to Betty Bell. I always done my best at the school before, and Miss Watson told me so. "Never seen it so clean," was her very words.'

  'Go your own way,' growled Albert. 'You will anyway, but don't come grizzling to me when you find there ain't no job there for you, my gal.'

  He hobbled to the door, took down his greasy cap from the peg, and began his journey across to the church.

  The Alfa Romeo gleamed in the afternoon sunshine, and Albert saw Isobel emerge from Harold's front door closely followed by her host. They both looked extremely happy.

  'The baggage!' muttered Albert.

  He picked up a clod of earth from the church porch.

  'Women!' he added viciously.

  He threw the clod spitefully towards an adjacent tomb stone, and was mollified to see that it bespattered one 'Alice, Dutiful Wife and Mother, An Example of Pious Womanhood'.

  'Women!' repeated Albert, opening the Church door.'All the same! Dead or living. All the same!'

  13. Miss Fogerty Carries On

  MISS FOGERTY rang the hospital in the early evening expecting to hear that her headmistress was either 'comfortable', which no one could be in Miss Watson's condition, or 'as well as could be expected', which was one of those ominous expressions guaranteed to set one choosing hymns for the funeral.

  But to her surprise a remarkably kind sister answered the telephone and assured Miss Fogerty that the patient had stood the operation well, and that, although she had not yet come round, she would be certain to enjoy a visit the next evening.

  'Can you tell me,' asked Miss Fogerty diffidently, 'I mean, are you allowed to tell me, exactly what was wrong?'

  One did not wish such a nice woman to break the oath of Hippocrates, if, of course, she had ever had to take one, but one really must know more.

  'A dislocated hip joint, with some damage,' said the sister. 'These days it's quite simple to pop it back.'

  She made it sound as easy as returning a cork to a bottle top, but Miss Fogerty shuddered sympathetically in the telephone box.

  'Thank you for telling me,' she said sincerely. 'Please give her my love. Just say "Agnes rang". And I will call tomorrow evening.'

  While she was there, she telephoned to Miss Watson's brother and left a message with his wife. She seemed an emotional woman, and her voice came wailing down the line.

  'Oh dear, what a catastrophe! What will Ray say? I'll tell him the minute he gets in. He's so devoted to Dorothy. I expect he'll want her to come here as soon as she's out of hospital, and I really can't see—'

  The wailing died away.

  'That's looking rather far ahead,' said little Miss Fogerty. 'But let me give you the hospital's number, and then you can keep in touch.'

  That done, she rang off, and went across to the schoolhouse to make sure that all was locked up safely.

  It did not look as though poor Dorothy would have her convalescence with her brother.

  'And probably all for the best,' thought Miss Fogerty. 'She'll be better off in her own home.'

  Ella Bembridge said goodbye to Isobel after breakfast one sunny morning.

  She watched the little blue car descend the hill, gave one last wave, and turned back to the empty house.

  'I'm going to miss her,' thought Ella, fumbling for the tobacco tin which housed the materials for making cigarettes.

  She sat on the window seat and surveyed the view across Thrush Green, as she rolled herself a cigarette.

  The house was very quiet. A frond of young honeysuckle tapped against the window, moved rhythmically by the light breeze. Ella drew in a satisfying lungful of tobacco smoke, and exhaled luxuriously.

  'Quiet, but nice,' she said aloud. 'After all, it's what I'm used to. Nothing like a bit of solitude now and again.'

  The sound of a door shutting made her swivel round. Dimity was coming across from the rectory, and Ella stumped to the front door to welcome her.

  'Don't say she's gone!' exclaimed Dimity, surveying the empty drive. 'I thought Isobel said "after lunch".'

  'After breakfast,' replied Ella.

  'What a pity! I'd brought her a pot of my bramble jelly.

  'Well, ten chances to one she'll be back again in a few weeks.'

  'Staying here?'

  'I'd like her to, but from one or two things she said, I think she'll put up at the Fleece. Seems to think it's imposing on me, or some such nonsense.'

  'She's a very considerate person,' said Dimity. 'We're going to miss her.'

  Betty Bell echoed these sentiments as she attacked Harold's kitchen sink.

  'I see Mrs Fletcher's gone home. Miss Fogerty will miss her, though no doubt she's got enough to do with that school on her hands. Pretty woman, isn't she?'

  'Who?' asked Harold, purposely obtuse.

  'Why, Mrs Fletcher! Mind you, it's partly her clothes. Always dressed nice, she did. That's what money does, of course. It's nice for her to have a bit put by, even if she does marry again.'

  Harold snorted, and made for the door. This everlasting tittle-tattling was too irritating to bear. As he gained the peace of his hall, he saw the rector at the door, and gladly invited him in.

  'I've just come from Ella's,' said Charles, 'an
d she's given me Isobel's address. She thought you might want it.'

  Harold was taken aback.

  'Isobel's address?'

  'In case you heard of a house, I think Ella said. I know she's got the estate agent working here, but really bush telegraph sometimes works so much more swiftly, and who knows? You may hear of something.'

  'Of course, of course,' replied Harold, collecting himself. 'Ella will miss her, I expect.'

  'A truly womanly woman,' commented the rector. 'Who was it said: "I like a manly man, and a womanly woman, but I can't bear a boily boy"?'

  'No idea,' said Harold. 'Have a drink?'

  'No, no, my dear fellow. I have a confirmation class this evening, and must go and prepare a few notes. And there's poor Jacob Bly's funeral at two, and Dimity wants me to help sort out the boots and shoes for the jumble sale.'

  Harold was instantly reminded of another parson, James Woodforde, who had written in his diary, two hundred yean earlier, of just such an incongruous collection of activities in one day. The duties of a parson, it seemed, embraced many interests as well as the care of the living and the dead, no matter in which century he lived.

  'Then I won't keep you,' said Harold. 'Thank you for the address, and if I hear of anything I shall get in touch with Isobel, of course, although I think that the chances are slight.'

  Little did he realise that he would be invited to write to the address in his hand, within a few days.

  Agnes Fogerty was indeed too busy to miss dear Isobel as sorely as she might have done.

  She was now Acting Headmistress, a role which filled her with more misgiving than pride.

  Apart from the day to day responsibilities, there was a profusion of forms from the office which had to be completed and returned, 'without delay' as the headings stated with severity. Agnes, conscious of her duties, spent many an evening struggling with them in her bed-sitting room.

  Then there was the supply teacher sent by the office to help during Miss Watson's absence.