Winter in Thrush Green Page 12

  'Terrible hot in here,' began Nelly, throwing off a small fur tippet but lately released from its moth-balls. 'I'd say that stove of yours draws too strong.'

  'Indeed, not always,' responded Miss Watson. 'The wind has a lot to do with it. It must have gone round to the north, I think, to pull the stove up like that. Unless the caretaker has put too much on, of course.'

  Mrs Tilling permitted herself a perturbed clucking noise.

  'Need a lot of knowing, those stoves,' she replied. 'Want several trips a day really to see they're all right!' This was a master stroke as Nelly knew quite well that the present caretaker lived at Nidden and could only attend to the stove once a day. She was delighted to see a pang of anxiety cross Miss Watson's face.

  'Can be real dangerous, you know,' she continued smugly, following up her attack. 'I knew a man once as was blown to smithereens by one of them things exploding. He was never the same again.'

  'I can imagine it,' said the headmistress.

  'And, of course, with children,' Nelly went on forcefully, 'you simply can't be too careful. Especially,' she added, as a happy touch, 'when they're not your own.' She spoke as though the sudden disintegration of one's own offspring could be borne comparatively lightly.

  'Oh, I really don't think that would ever happen—' began Miss Watson, a shade doubtfully.

  'How often does the caretaker get in?' asked Nelly, with assumed concern. 'I can see by the floors and the paint and that it can't be very often.'

  Miss Watson bridled slightly, and Nelly wondered if she had gone too far. Best tackle it slowly, she told herself, if she wanted this job in a month or two.

  'Mrs Cooke comes in for an hour or so every evening,' said Miss Watson with a touch of hauteur, 'and works very well.'

  'Mrs Cooke?" queried Nelly, with wonder. 'Would that be Ada Cooke I was at school with? She used to be in service at Lady Field's place. Always worked well, I heard. Leastways she did before she had that row of children. Must tie her-can't do what you used to with a gaggle of kids under your feet, of course.'

  Privately, Miss Watson wholeheartedly agreed with Mrs Tilling about Ada Cooke's decline in reliability, but wild horses would not have dragged agreement from her. She looked about her, hoping to catch sight of someone to whom she could retreat.

  Nelly Tilling's dark eyes saw all and she shot her last arrow before her quarry escaped.

  'It's a lovely job for her here, I must say. I fairly envy her and that's flat. Plenty of scrubbing and polishing is just what I can tackle to, as anyone'll tell you. I'd be proud to help you out, Miss Watson, should Ada ever be took bad.'

  Miss Watson smiled graciously, murmured her thanks and fled to the other side of the room. Nelly, watching her agitation, was well content.

  'Will you return to your tables, please?' shouted the rector, who was acting as Master of Ceremonies, above the clatter of cups.

  The second half was about to begin.

  The trouble started an hour later when the whist drive was over. The snow-white turkey had gone to a stranger who lived quite four miles away, Nelly Tilling, rejoicing, had collected the coveted pheasants and the rest of the prizes had been distributed, when the rector gave his customary little speech of thanks to all who had helped.

  'You will all want to know how much this evening has brought in,' he added. 'I'm delighted to say that five pounds ten shillings and ninepence will be added to the Nathaniel Patten Memorial Fund.'

  There were polite exclamations and a little clapping, but above this pleasant noise rose a belligerent voice. It belonged to Robert Potter, a pork butcher in Lulling, renowned not only for the excellence of his chipolata sausages but also for his fiery temper.

  He was a formidable sight as he shoved back his chair with one huge red hand and faced the rector, his red face flaming above the bull neck.

  'I'd like to know why the money's going to this Nathaniel Patten fund and not to the Children's Home as it always has done. Us folks in Lulling had no say in the matter.'

  He thrust his face forward and shouted even more loudly.

  'And what's more, I speak for plenty of others who don't hold with their money being grabbed by a lot of Thrush Green lay-abouts to spend. Nathaniel Patten's as much Lulling's property as Thrush Green's. We'd a right to be consulted at our end of the town.'

  The rector surveyed his critic soberly. Inwardly he was shaken by this attack. Outwardly, he appeared unruffled. Not even the few cries of agreement which arose, somewhat sheepishly, from various quarters of the packed room, seemed to perturb him. When he spoke it was with quiet authority.

  'I'm sorry to hear that there is this feeling about. The posters stated quite plainly that the proceeds would be devoted to the Memorial Fund. I can't help feeling that it would have been better to have spoken earlier about this disagreement.'

  The rector's reasonable tone went a little way to calming Robert Potter's choler, but he still spoke truculently, and obviously relished the support of those who had voiced their resentment.

  'Well, there it is! I don't hold with the money going to the Fund. Nathaniel Patten may have been a good man–I'm not saying he wasn't–but as a strong chapel-man I don't like to see a statue raised to a churchgoer when it's my money involved. Straight speaking never done no harm, thev say, and that's what I'm doing now.'

  There were cries of 'Hear, hear and 'Good old Robert!' from a few men desirous of showing-off before the women.

  The rector suddenly found himself wishing that Harold Shoosmith were there. In the midst of his mental turmoil he was surprised to find how much he was coming to rely on the good sense of this new friend. But he was used to facing trouble alone and braced himself in the thick of parochial battle.

  'I will report your objection to our committee, Mr Potter,' he answered courteously. 'Meanwhile, I suggest that we say our farewells in the spirit of goodwill which should be present at this time.'

  He smiled cheerfully at his flock as they collected coats and hats, scarves and gloves and made for the door. There they were, the good meek sheep, the silly ones, and the one or two black ones. His eye caught sight of Robert Potter's thick red neck and he wished that he had a shepherd's crook in his hand to catch away that infectious member of his flock from the rest.

  'I will have a word with you after the next committee meeting,' said the rector politely.

  'Hmph!' grunted Robert Potter, and departed stiffly.

  The next morning Mr Henstock looked in at the school again. A band of helpers was busy taking down the paper chains and the Chinese lanterns, and the village school was beginning to look more like itself again. In a day or two's time Mrs Cook from Nidden would set about her scrubbing, her younger children left in charge of those of riper years.

  The rector helped for a short while and then wandered into the playground. The blue smoke from a winter bonfire blew across from Harold Shoosmith's garden next door, and there, in the distance, he could see his friend vigorously forking garden rubbish on to the blaze.

  Without more ado the rector made his way there and told Thrush Green's latest resident what had occurred the night before. Despite his light tone Harold Shoosmith noticed that the rector seemed worried. His response was heartening.

  'Forget it until after Christmas. Ten to one it will all blow over. We can mention it at the next meeting in the New Year, but if my guess is correct there will be no more heard of Mr Potter's objection.'

  He bent down to collect a wet armful of dead leaves and branches, tossed them upon the bonfire, and sniffed happily.

  'Smells wonderful, doesn't it?' he said to the rector. 'I've been looking forward to a great smoky winter bonfire for thirty years.'

  'And I've been looking forward to a winter holiday somewhere abroad for about the same length of rime,' confessed the rector. 'I suppose the truth of the matter is that we're none of us ever completely satisfied.'

  A woman's voice, calling shrilly from the house, caused them to turn their heads.

  'That m
eans coffee,' said Harold Shoosmith, giving a last loving poke to the fire with his fork. 'Betty will have one ready for you too, I'm sure.'

  'It will be very welcome,' said the rector politely, following his host to the back door.

  13. Christmas Eve

  DUSK fell at tea-time on Christmas Eve at Thrush Green. There was an air of expectancy everywhere. The windows of St Andrew's church glowed with muted reds and blues against the black bulk of the ancient stones, for inside devoted ladies were putting last minute touches to the altar flowers and the holly wreath around the font.

  Paul Young and his friend Christopher lay on their stomachs before the crackling log fire in the Youngs' drawing-room. They were engaged in fitting together a jigsaw puzzle, a task which Paul's mother had vainly hoped might prove a sedative in the midst of mounting excitement. They were alone in the room and their conversation ran along the boastful lines usual to little boys of their age.

  'I never did believe in Father Christmas,' asserted Christopher, grabbing a fistful of jigsaw pieces which Paul had zealously collected.

  'Here!' protested Paid, outraged. 'They're all my straight-edged bits!'

  'Who's doing this?' demanded Christopher belligerently. 'I'm a visitor, aren't I? You should give me first pick.'

  There was a slight tussle. Christopher twisted Paul's arm in a business-like way unI'll he broke free. Panting, Paul returned to the subject of Father Christmas.

  'I bet you did believe in him! I just bet you did! I bet you went on believing in Father Christmas unI'll I told you. So there! Why, I knew when I was four!'

  'So what? I bet you still hang up your stocking!' bellowed Christopher triumphantly. Paul's crimson face told him that he had scored a hit.

  'So do you,' retorted the younger boy, not attempting to deny the charge. They fell again into a delicious bear-hug, rolling and scuffling upon the hearthrug, and finally wrecking the beginnings of the jigsaw puzzle which had been so painstakingly fitted together.

  The sound of carol singing made them both sit up. Dishevelled, breathless, tingling with exercise and the anticipation of Christmas joys, they rushed into the hall.

  The carol singers were a respectable crowd of adult inhabitants of Thrush Green, all known to the boys. So far this year the only carol singers had been one or two small children, piping like winter robins at the doors of the larger houses on Thrush Green for a few brief minutes, and then dissolving into giggles while the boldest of them hammered on the knocker.

  The boys watched entranced as the carol singers formed a tidy crescent round the doorstep. Some held torches, and the tall boy who had written on the blackboard at the meeting to decide about the memorial, supported a hurricane lamp at the end of a stout hazel pole. It swung gently as he moved and was far more decorative in the winter darkness, as it glowed with a soft amber light, than the more efficient torches of his neighbours.

  Joan Young opened the front door hospitably, the better to hear die singing, and the choir master tapped his tuning fork against the edge of the door, hummed the note resonantly to his attentive choir, and off they went robustly into the first few bars of'It came upon the midnight clear.'

  Their breath rolled from their tuneful mouths in great silver clouds, wreathing about their heads and the sheets of music clenched in their gloved hands. In the distance the bells of Lulling Church could be faintly heard, as the singers paused for breath.

  The smell of damp earth floated into the hall, and a dead leaf scurried about the doorstep adding its whispers to the joyful full-throated chorus above it. The bare winter trees in the garden lifted their arms to the stars above, straining, it seemed to young Paul, to reach as high as St Andrew's steeple.

  The boys gazed enraptured, differences forgotten, strangely moved by this manifestation of praise. It seemed to be shared by everything that had life.

  A mile away, Doctor Lovell's wife Ruth roamed their small sitting-room restlessly. Her husband was tinkering with the car in the nearby garage, and she wondered whether she should call him or not.

  She felt extraordinarily shaky and rather light-headed. The baby was not due for another week, but babies do not wait upon their coming, as Ruth as a doctor's wife well knew. She leant upon the mantelshelf and ran her mind over the preparations she had made.

  Everything awaited the baby upstairs. One of the Lulling doctors, an old friend called Tony Harding, was to attend her, and her daily help had promised to live in for a fortnight when the birth took place. Her sister Joan would be with her much of the time and keep an eye on the house-keeping.

  Luckily, she remembered, she had stuffed the turkey and had prepared a delectable trifle. The cupboard was crammed with food, the beds had been changed, the laundry awaited collection, the flowers were fresh and the house had been garnished especially well for the Christmas festival.

  Ruth heaved a sigh of relief. She could afford to forget her household cares and think of this momentous happening after so many weeks of weary waiting.

  A particularly vicious spasm gripped her, and when it passed the girl made her way to the window and opened it. The cool night air lifted the fair hair from her hot forehead. The faint sound of Christmas bells floated from afar on the refreshing breeze.

  'John!' called Ruth, 'I think you'd better fetch Tony Harding.'

  A small black car, rather shabby and sagging a little at the springs, was drawn up outside Albert Piggott's cottage. It had travelled a long way throughout the short winter day.

  Inside the house, Ben Curdle and his wife Molly, sat at table with Mr Piggott eating fried bacon and eggs cooked by Molly. Upstairs, in the room which had been her bedroom, her small son slept in a drawer pulled out from the chest, and stowed neatly on the floor at the foot of his parents' bed.

  Molly's eyes took in the shining stove, the clean walls, the scrubbed brick floor and the scoured sink. It was quite apparent to her that a woman had been at work, and one who knew her job well. Her father had been grudgingly welcoming an hour ago, but had made no mention of anyone helping him in the house. She looked across the tablecloth at him, munching as morosely as ever.

  'Place looks nice, dad,' she said.

  'Ah! I does what I can,' said Albert, never raising his eyes from his plate.

  'What about your cooking?' enquired his daughter.

  'I gets by,' said Albert flatly. Molly caught her husband's twinkling eye upon her, and winked mischievously.

  'I've brought a chicken ready for the oven,' said Molly, 'so you'll have a good meal tomorrow. How's the stove drawing these days? D'you ever sweep the flues?'

  'Now and again,' answered Albert, polishing his plate slowly with a piece of bread guided by a grubby forefinger. 'I got me own work, you know. That church don't get no smaller.'

  Ben shifted his long legs and spoke.

  'I went over to have a look at Gran's grave when we arrived. Looks a bit neglected. Don't no one ever see to it?'

  Albert Piggott grunted.

  'Can't get it all done by myself,' he muttered.

  'I'll tidy it up tomorrow,' said Ben steadily. 'That's not right to see the old lady under half a peck of hay. Not seemly, to my way of thinking. Who's responsible for the graves then?'

  'Those as want regular clipping, and the plants on 'em tended proper, pays me a bit extra,' said Albert. He put the piece of bread in his mouth and chewed it noisily. Ben watched him levelly.

  I'll see you're paid,' he said quietly.

  Molly seemed about to speak, but a rapping on the door checked her. As they looked up, startled by the noise, the door opened and Nelly Tilling's face, rosy and arch, peered round it.

  'Oh my law! You 'ere again?' said Albert Piggott, with a groan.

  Construing this ejaculation as a welcome, the stout widow came into the room, closed the door behind her, and dumped a laden basket on the table.

  'There!' she panted breathlessly. 'Your Christmas dinner, Albert dear!'

  Molly drew in a sharp breath. So this was the answer to h
er secret questioning! This was the mysterious scourer and scrubber, the cook and companion! And just how far had this gone, Molly asked herself with unreasoning fury? Before she could speak, Ben put a large brown hand over hers and pressed it warningly. Molly held her tongue, and waited, as quietly as Ben, to see how her father would respond.

  A dusky flush had crept over his unlovely features and his jaw dropped. To say that Nelly Tilling had taken the wind out of his sails was to put it lightly. He was staggered at her effrontery. He had made quite sure that she knew she would not be wanted while his daughter stayed in the house, and this was open defiance. But what could a chap do, he asked himself, when a woman set her cap at him so boldly and brought a square meal with her into the bargain? He took refuge in truculence.

  'We ain't that short of food, Mrs Tilling,' he answered gruffly. 'Don't know what brought you on this errand, I'm sure.'

  Nelly Tilling's dark eyes flashed dangerously.

  'Ho ho!' she said, bridling. 'Very hoity-toity, some of us, aren't we? And since when 'ave I been Mrs Tilling to you, Albert Piggott? It's been Nelly all right these last few weeks while I've been cleaning up this pigsty for you.'

  She hoisted the basket to her arm again belligerently.

  'Seeing as I've had this flung back in my face I may as well leave you for good,' she continued. 'Leave you to your swilling and swearing and the filthy ways you was used to before I put you straight!' She paused to get her breath, her ample bosom rising and falling violently beneath her tightly-buttoned coat.

  Suddenly Molly felt sorry for her. It must have taken her hours to prepare all the good things that she could glimpse under the snowy cloth which covered the basket. And she had trudged all the way from Lulling Woods carrying that weight, thought Molly, for what thanks! She found that all her old disgust at her father's mean ways was returning fast. First his behaviour in the matter of old Mrs Curdle's grave, and now this betrayal of Nelly Tilling's kindness, inflamed Molly's sense of fitness. She rose from the table and took the infuriated widow's arm.