(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green Page 12

  'Well, there it is,' said Ben, rising to prepare for work. 'We must just hope things are simpler to clear up than he seems to think.'

  'He won't be at the fête, though, will he?' said Molly sadly. 'He would have liked that.'

  Ben patted her shoulder.

  'Well, anyway, she enjoyed your letter and the snaps. Good thing you wrote when you did.'

  He left Molly looking slightly comforted.

  Although Carl was scarcely known in the neighbourhood, and his mother had left Woodstock some fifty years earlier, nevertheless the news of her death was soon common knowledge in the little world of Thrush Green and Lulling.

  Much sympathy was felt for Carl, and those who knew him comparatively well, such as the Youngs and Charles Henstock, wrote immediately to their new friend.

  Charles Henstock even wondered if there were relatives still in Woodstock who should be informed, and mentioned this to Dimity, as she sat topping and tailing gooseberries in the kitchen.

  She, knowing Charles's soft heart and his selfless concern for those in trouble, could see that he was quite capable of scouring the streets of Woodstock, whatever the weather, if he felt that he could be of any use to any of Carl's mother's bereaved relations.

  'It is really a matter for Woodstock's vicar,' she pointed out. 'He would know if there are any relations who should

  be told. But I doubt if anyone would really be interested in the death of someone who left the parish so long ago.'

  Charles's brow cleared. 'You are quite right, of course. I'm glad you mentioned it. I should have been sorry to meddle in a matter which is a neighbouring vicar's concern. As it is, I don't think Carl had any close relations here in Lulling, so we must let the matter rest.'

  He stood for a moment or two watching Dimity's scissors snipping busily at the gooseberries.

  'That seems a very tedious job,' he observed. 'Is it necessary to take the ends off?'

  'Quite necessary, dear. And I quite enjoy it. I think of how much you will relish a gooseberry pie when I cook these in the winter. It's a labour of love.'

  'I am a very lucky man,' replied Charles, and went back to his study in a happy mood.

  Down at Barton-on-Sea Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty were busy with their preparations for their visit to Thrush Green.

  As always, Dorothy Watson's first worry was about her wardrobe. She was fond of her clothes and critical of her appearance. Agnes, who had always put decency and economy before sartorial grandeur, could do little to calm her friend's agitation. Shortage of money had always limited Agnes's scope, and as the years passed she found it rather restful to have so few clothes to choose from.

  Dorothy called from her bedroom one morning, just as Agnes was wondering about that day's pudding. Should it be the raspberries left from yesterday? (Hardly enough to cover the bottom of a fruit dish.) Or open a tin of apricots? (Surely rather extravagant with fresh fruit in abundance in July.)

  She hastened to obey Dorothy's summons, and found her surveying a pile of clothes spread out on the bed.

  'It's so difficult to decide,' cried Dorothy. 'If it were winter I should definitely take my black for evenings, but one likes to look more festive in summer. On the other hand, the evenings may be chilly and I really don't want to drag any old cardigan over my summer dresses.'

  Agnes, who relied heavily on 'any old cardigan' to supply extra warmth whatever the occasion, pointed out that a silk dress with long sleeves might be the best answer to the problem.

  'This green always looks well,' she ventured, lifting up the garment in question.

  'Thrush Green must be sick and tired of that old thing,' responded Dorothy. 'I bought it for a party at Ella and Dimity's years ago.'

  'Well, what about the blue?'

  'Waist's too high. Right under the bust. Most uncomfortable.'

  'I always liked you in this pink one.'

  'Too youthful. Mutton dressed as lamb, and no shoes to go with it.'

  A less patient woman than Agnes might have suggested that it had been a mistake to buy these things in the first place, and that a jumble sale was the best place to dispose of such problems, but Agnes held her peace.

  'I still think the green would be best,' she said diplomatically. 'You can wear black or brown shoes with that, and different silk scarves if the weather is chilly. It has a most becoming neckline.'

  Dorothy's agitation was subsiding, she saw with relief.

  'You are such a help,' said Dorothy. 'I might pack that light stole I bought in Prouts' sale one year. It goes with everything, and dear Anthony Bull once said I looked distinguished in it.'

  With the blessing of the Reverend Anthony Bull, Charles Henstock's predecessor at Lulling, it was quite apparent to Agnes that most of Dorothy's worries were over.

  She returned thankfully to eking out the raspberries with some chopped banana.

  Barton-on-Sea, with the rest of southern England, was enjoying a long hot spell of summer weather.

  Holidaymakers rejoiced. Weddings, carnivals, cricket matches and meals out of doors all thrived in the glorious sunshine. Even the farmers were comparatively happy, for the winter barley had ripened early, and harvesting could begin. Of course, they complained that the lack of rain meant that the ears of corn were not as heavy as they should be, and that the pests which attacked their crops were particularly virulent in hot dry weather, but no one took much notice of their grumbles. The majority basked and felt thankful.

  The roses were at their best, and the delphiniums, penstemons and lilies made a glory in the cottage gardens. The scent of pinks and honeysuckle sweetened every breeze, and in the warm dusk of evening the tobacco plants sent out waves of heady fragrance.

  The lime trees round St Andrew's church at Thrush Green and the avenue of limes leading to the splendour of St John's at Lulling were massed with pale scented flowers, above the clover-spattered grass. Wherever one looked there were flowers, below, above and all around. Summer had come in true splendour this year, after the dark months of winter and spring.

  In the cottage gardens, black, red and white currants were ripe under their protective coverings of old lace curtains or, in more sophisticated places, secure in large fruit cages.

  Cherries were being eyed appreciatively by the birds, and the apple trees displayed green marbles of embryo fruit.

  Amidst the glory of summer these signs of autumn were manifest, and none was so obvious as the waving rosebay willowherb which rioted in the verges of the lanes, tossing pink heads in the breeze above the dried grass below.

  But the prolonged spell of sunshine had its darker side. Good gardeners were having to water night and morning to keep their flowers and vegetables alive. Lawns were scorched, bird baths were dry, and many trees were beginning to shed their leaves far too early.

  But these were minor worries. On the whole, life was sweet in such a summer, and Alan Foster looked forward with growing confidence to fine weather when the school had its Open Day, and Joan and Edward Young, getting ready for their holiday, told each other that Harold Shoosmith looked like having fair weather for the fête for which he had nobly undertaken Edward's responsibilities.

  'Fingers crossed,' said Joan. 'There's plenty of time for it to change.'

  'Well, if it does decide to rain on the great day,' responded Edward, 'to quote the Duke of Norfolk about the Coronation, "We get wet", and that's happened before. But somehow, this year, I think we're going to be lucky.'

  And Joan, thankful to see him in a cheerful mood, hoped that he was right.

  Near by, Harold and Isobel Shoosmith were getting ready to welcome Dorothy Watson and Agnes Fogerty. Dorothy would be driving, for she had become an intrepid driver since her retirement.

  Ben Curdle had been her instructor when she had bought her first car in her last few years at Thrush Green, and she could not have had a more competent and reassuring tutor.

  As usual, it was Agnes who was ready first. Always an early riser, and with only half the amoun
t of packing to do, compared with her friend's luggage, Agnes was ready to go by nine o'clock, but Dorothy was still fussing with last-minute affairs.

  At twenty past nine Dorothy staggered to the car with two suitcases which she put into the boot.

  'Don't shut it, dear,' she called to Agnes who was sitting patiently on the hall chair, handbag on lap. 'I've one or two little odds and ends to put in, and I'm just popping down to see Teddy and Eileen. I promised them some magazines.'

  'Can't they wait until we come back?' protested Agnes.

  'No, no! It won't take me a jiffy,' shouted Dorothy, vanishing through the back door.

  Agnes put down her handbag and paced up and down the hall with growing irritation. Teddy again! That everlasting Teddy!

  Some years earlier, when the two ladies had settled at Barton, they found that one of their neighbours had recently lost his wife. As the poor man was also blind, good friends did what they could to help, and Dorothy practically took charge and caused Agnes acute embarrassment.

  To be frank, Dorothy had fallen in love with the man. He was charming, intelligent and bore his afflictions bravely, Agnes was the first to concede, but Dorothy's ruthless pursuit of their neighbour was not only absurd, in Agnes's opinion, but also dangerously disruptive to the life which she had set out to share with her friend and former headmistress.

  She had confided her fears to Isobel Shoosmith, who found the news equally dismaying. However, she cautioned patience and hoped that time would bring Dorothy to her senses.

  It was a great relief to Agnes and Isobel when another friend of Teddy's, named Eileen, had married the man, and all seemed set for a trouble-free future. Even Dorothy had accepted the situation cheerfully at the time, but lately, it seemed to Agnes, her attentions to Teddy were growing again.

  It was all so frustrating and pointless, thought Agnes, looking at the hall clock, which said twenty five to ten. And Eileen must notice, and probably feel very hurt.

  'Never come between husband and wife,' Agnes's mother had often said to her, and although little Miss Fogerty, with her mouse-like looks and timid ways, was not likely to become a femme fatale she had remembered her mother's words, together with such dicta as: 'Let your underclothes be as neat and clean as those that are seen,' and 'Look after the pence and the pounds will look after themselves.'

  The situation was quite dangerous, thought Agnes with some agitation. Dorothy should have more sense than to meddle in this way.

  At a quarter to ten Dorothy bustled back, looking very happy, and apologized to Agnes for keeping her waiting.

  'You get in, dear, while I lock up. I'll bring my raincoat and walking shoes, and then everything's done.'

  Five minutes later they were leaving Barton-on-Sea and heading through Hampshire to Thrush Green.

  'Isn't this lovely?' cried Dorothy. 'It will do us good to get away for a bit.'

  Agnes fervently agreed. Pehaps Teddy would be forgotten, she thought, surveying the countryside as it flashed past.

  But her hopes were dashed a few minutes later when Dorothy spoke.

  'You'll hardly credit this, Agnes, but Eileen is going away for a few days.'

  'So are we.'

  'But leaving Teddy! In his condition! Alone in the house!'

  'He lived alone long before he married Eileen,' Agnes pointed out.

  'He could stumble over something, and hurt himself dreadfully,' went on Dorothy, ignoring the interruption.

  'So could anybody.'

  'I think it is quite heartless of Eileen. She, of all people, must know how helpless he is.'

  Agnes felt that the time had come for a little plain speaking.

  'Teddy is well able to look after himself. He managed perfectly when he lived alone, and I'm sure he realizes that Eileen needs a change now and again.'

  'I daresay. Teddy is always thinking of others. I only know that I couldn't leave him, if I were in Eileen's shoes.'

  'I think,' said Agnes slowly, 'that you sometimes let your kind heart overrule your head. It is not really your place to worry about Teddy. He probably finds it embarrassing, and Eileen must see how things are.'

  Dorothy swerved to avoid a child who was see-sawing along the side of the road on a bicycle much too big for him.

  'How do you mean?' demanded Dorothy, 'when you say that Eileen must see how things are?'

  'You show your feelings too readily.'

  Agnes noticed that her friend's neck and face were becoming red, a sure sign of danger ahead. Nevertheless, she stuck to her guns.

  'Of course I do,' replied Dorothy shortly. 'I'm fond of Teddy.'

  'So am I,' said Agnes. 'And so are all his friends. But he is a married man, and one has to be careful not to upset his wife, and through her, to hurt him.'

  She was also wondering if she could quote her mother's warning verbatim about 'coming between husband and wife', but held her tongue. Already she felt she might have gone too far.

  Silence fell for a few minutes, and then Agnes saw a welcome sign.

  'Oh look, Dorothy! We're just coming to a Little Chef cafe and it's coffee-time. How fortunate! And their toasted tea cakes are so good. Shall we call in? My treat this time.'

  'What a good idea,' said Dorothy cheerfully.

  Agnes was relieved to see that Dorothy's flush was fading.

  Two days after their arrival at Thrush Green, the long-awaited Open Day dawned.

  To everyone's relief it was calm and sunny. The children were unnaturally spruce and tidy, Alan Lester was in his new summer suit, and Miss Robinson in an ankle-length cotton frock of drab colouring which was fashionable at the time, and which made her look like a refugee. As this was exactly what she wanted, she was blissfully happy.

  The school too was unnaturally spruce, and the walls were adorned with children's paintings, maps and charts and samples of needlework and handiwork. On every desk was displayed the work in progress, the exercise books lying open at the neatest page.

  The children welcomed their parents and friends with a summer song, chosen and accompanied by Miss Robinson.

  Summer is icumen in

  Lhude sing cuccu!

  Groweth sed, and bloweth med,

  And springth the wude nu—

  Sing cuccu!

  Although the words were largely incomprehensible to the listeners, the applause was hearty, for the children looked so angelic, and coped with the thirteenth-century vocabulary so well, that the audience was enchanted.

  Then Alan Lester gave a short address of welcome, taking care to mention the two distinguished guests Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty in the front row, and to thank everyone who had contributed to the occasion in one way or another.

  The programme went ahead smoothly. The infants clapped and stamped — almost together — through their much-rehearsed folk dance, and Alan Lester led the applause, privately thinking that this would be the last time he would have to endure such noise.

  Work was inspected and much admired in the school itself, and tea was set out under the lime trees in the playground which gave parents, friends and staff a chance to mingle over the tea cups.

  Margaret Lester, Alan's wife, was in charge here, looking prettier than ever, and Dorothy Watson observed quietly to Agnes, 'When you think, dear,' and needed to say no more, for nearly all those present remembered that Margaret Lester had arrived at Thrush Green with a serious drink problem that had threatened their family happiness. She had overcome it bravely, and Thrush Green had rejoiced.

  Alan Lester was buttonholed by an earnest parent who told him all about her child's dyslexia, with which he was already acquainted, and how the doctor had told her that it was often the sign of a particularly brilliant mind. With commendable courtesy, Alan nodded agreement but kept his thoughts to himself.

  Miss Robinson was less lucky. Mrs Cooke, mother and grandmother to many of her pupils over the years, sat firmly beside her and described, in appalling detail, the facts of her sister's hysterectomy.

  Poor M
iss Robinson found herself now violently opposed to the state of matrimony, and quite unequal to eating the jam tart in her hand. She hastily shrouded its red stickiness in a paper napkin, excused herself by saying her class needed her, and fled.

  It was almost six o'clock by the time the school and playground had emptied. Parents and children had trickled away. Margaret Lester and her helpers were busy with the last of the washing up, and Alan said goodbye to young Miss Robinson.

  'It went splendidly,' he said. 'I thought your class danced very well indeed.'

  Her face lit up. 'Miss Watson said the same. She thought it would be a good idea to repeat it at the Christmas concert.'

  'That's quite a thought,' said Alan Lester.

  ***

  Nothing had been said about Teddy, between the two ladies, since the conversation on their journey to Thrush Green.

  Agnes secretly wondered if she should have spoken at all, and hoped that she had not hurt Dorothy. Although she had not been affected by love in her sheltered and limited life, she realized how important a part it played in the affairs of most people.

  The fact that Dorothy was now in her sixties, and might have been considered able to withstand Cupid's darts, had nothing to do with the case, Agnes realized. She had known several mature people, of both sexes, who had formed attachments, some disastrously, with as much passion as those half their age. It was an unaccountable phenomenon which Agnes could not understand, but it undoubtedly existed.

  She felt extremely sorry for Dorothy, and decided to say no more on the subject. She would do her best to make Dorothy's stay at Thrush Green as pleasant as she could.

  With this laudable aim in mind, little Miss Fogerty had no difficulty in enjoying her day and sleeping peacefully at night in the dear familiar surroundings of Thrush Green.

  But for Dorothy in an adjoining bed in Isobel's spare bedroom, matters were not as easily dismissed. Agnes had given her much to ponder.