(8/13) At Home in Thrush Green Read online

  It also frightened several of Miss Fogerty's infants who had been sent with messages to Miss Watson, and one particularly timid child had suffered night terrors as a result.

  'It really makes one rather cross,' commented Miss Watson, handing over the letter from the child's irate mother to Agnes, 'when one sees the sort of horrors they watch on the telly. Why, our guy looks positively benign!'

  Privately, it was not how little Miss Fogerty would have described it. In her opinion, there was something decidedly gruesome in the figure suspended from its hook. Visions of desperate offenders taking their lives in prison cells hovered before her, and she had every sympathy with the young child who had been so affected by the sinister guy.

  'Well, it won't be long before we burn it,' she replied diplomatically. 'Frankly, I dread the fireworks far more than the bonfire. At least Thrush Green people seem to have the sense to keep their poor animals indoors.'

  'Albert Piggott didn't keep his cat indoors last year,' responded Dorothy Watson somewhat tartly, i saw it myself.'

  'Oh dear!' cried Agnes. 'The poor thing! Where was it?'

  'Sitting by the bonfire washing its face,' replied Dorothy. 'Quite unaffected by the noise.'

  'Isn't that just like a cat!' commented Agnes, much relieved.

  The celebration of Guy Fawkes's attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament in 1605 was always a communal affair at Thrush Green.

  The schoolchildren helped to build the bonfire and to supply the guy. Fireworks were given by various people who still enjoyed such things, and Harold Shoosmith and his friend Frank Hurst were among the most generous donors.

  Percy Hodge always gave a sack of large potatoes which the Boy Scouts baked in the ashes of the bonfire for everybody, and Mr Jones of The Two Pheasants brought out glasses of beer and mugs of cocoa for the assembled throng.

  The day before Bonfire Night turned out dank and drizzly, much to the dismay of the children. Would the bonfire light? Would it be too damp? Should they rush over to it and shroud it in a tarpaulin? Percy Hodge'd have one for sure. Could they buy a can of paraffin to make sure it would go? From school funds, say? Or what about firelighters?

  Miss Watson dealt with all these anxious enquiries until she saw that a whole hour of arithmetic and geography teaching had somehow vanished, when she became extremely stern and threatened the entire class with Mental-Arithmetic-All-Through-Playtime, which somewhat sobered her pupils.

  Over at Rectory Cottages Jane Cartwright decided to put on her raincoat and remind her charges that they were invited to the party on the green at six-thirty on the morrow.

  The new steps and paths were slippery in this moist weather, and wet leaves lay like bright pennies wherever one looked.

  She completed her tour successfully, and was touched to see how pleased everyone was at the invitation.

  'Second childhood, it seems,' thought Jane indulgently, hurrying back to put on the sprouts for lunch.

  But they were never to be cooked. Jane's feet went from under her on the top step, and she landed with a sickening crunch.

  Lying dazed, Jane's nursing knowledge still functioned.

  'The femur,' murmured poor Jane, closing her eyes.

  While Jane was still engaged on her rounds that fateful morning, Joan Young and her sister Ruth were enjoying a cup of coffee together, and discussing the odd behaviour of their respective husbands.

  'They really are a couple of sillies,' said Joan. 'What grandmother used to term "mardy babies". What on earth is the matter with them?'

  'I'm always anxious about John,' admitted Ruth. 'He works far too hard, and I think this police business is worrying him.'

  'What police business?'

  Ruth explained about the robberies and John's involvement with Leys Farm.

  'Funnily enough,' said Joan, 'Betty Bell said something about it, but I had no idea John was mixed up in it.'

  'Well, he's not exactly "mixed up in it" as you say, but the young man whom John treated has been sighted evidently, and if the police can pick him up it means that John will probably have to identify him. I'm sure that's one of his worries at the moment.'

  'Poor old boy! Luckily, Edward hasn't anything like that hanging over him, but he's remarkably short-tempered lately. I blame it on a job he's just undertaken near Cirencester. It's an old vicarage which they want Edward to convert into eight flats, and according to him it will only make six. There's a pretty ferocious battle going on at the moment, I know.'

  'Never mind. It makes no difference to us,' replied Ruth comfortingly. 'They'll get over it no doubt, and we'll be able to have our card parties again.'

  'Maybe they'll be more amenable at the firework party tomorrow,' agreed Joan, it's good that it coincides with Paul's half-term this year. He's bringing home a school friend, and Jeremy Hurst has his half term at the same time, so the house will be cheerful.'

  'Will Edward be able to stand it?'

  'He'll have to,' replied Joan lightly. 'Anyway, I notice that he has an enormous box of fireworks in his study, so that augurs well for all concerned.'

  'That's good. Well, I must get back. It's John's half day, and there's lunch to get ready. He comes in straight from his morning round.'

  'Not too busy, I hope, with this mild autumn?'

  'No, touch wood! It's after Christmas that the trouble begins.'

  The sisters kissed affectionately and parted.

  Down at The Fuchsia Bush in Lulling High Street Nelly Piggott had been summoned to Mrs Peters' little office.

  It was a quarter to twelve. Morning coffee was practically over, and the midday lunch was well ahead, being supervised by Nelly's two competent kitchen maids.

  What could this be about, she wondered, taking off her overall? It wasn't like Mrs Peters to interrupt kitchen activities at such a time, unless something urgent had cropped up.

  'Sit down, Nelly,' said her employer. 'I won't keep you many minutes, but I thought you ought to know Mrs Jefferson called last night, and she's definitely giving up. The doctor insists, so that's that. You can guess how sorry I am. We've soldiered on here together for many years, and I'm going to miss her.'

  'So am I,' said Nelly, with feeling. 'She's one in a thousand. What will you do?'

  'That's the question. I shall have to advertise for someone experienced, but the two girls are doing well under you, and can take a certain amount of responsibility.'

  She began to fidget with papers on her desk, and Nelly began to wonder what the future would hold for herself.

  'If you want me to do more,' she offered, 'I think I could arrange things. Albert's no bother, and you know I enjoy working here.'

  Mrs Peters nodded abstractedly.

  'Yes, thank you, Nelly. You've been an enormous help, and it's due to you that we're building up this home catering side so successfully. It's plain to me, Nelly, that that's where our living's going to be in the future. That christening party of Mrs Thurgood's has sparked off six, and probably, eight more functions. I'm thinking of investing in a van of our own.'

  'Well now, isn't that good news!' exclaimed Nelly. Things must be going better than she had thought. A year ago Mrs Peters had been worrying about the state of the business. Now, it seemed, the outlook was brighter.

  As if reading her thoughts, Mrs Peters began to explain.

  'We're not suddenly rich, Nelly, or anything like that, but business is certainly looking up and I was left a house last Christmas by an old aunt of mine. It's way up north, at a little town called Alnwick, and as I shall never use it I put it on the market and have a little over twenty thousand from the sale.'

  'That must be a great relief to you,' said Nelly warmly.

  'It certainly is. But what I wanted to tell you is something I've had in mind for some time. Poor Mrs Jefferson's retirement has brought it to a head.'

  She resumed her fidgeting, and Nelly began to wonder if the apple crumble was getting overdone.

  'If I get a van and do more of this catering on
the spot, I shall need someone who can take complete charge at this end. Would you consider becoming a partner in the firm, and doing that?'

  Nelly, for once, was flummoxed.

  'Heavens alive! Partner? But I could take charge here as I am, couldn't I? I mean, to be a partner –'

  Words failed her.

  'Nelly, I want someone who has the interests of this place at heart. And you have shown that you are proud of The Fuchsia Bush, and willing to turn your hand to anything. All the girls respect you. If you feel you can take this on, I shall be very much relieved. Naturally, your income would be greater.'

  She named a sum which to Nelly sounded colossal, and she was about to remonstrate.

  'Say nothing,' urged Mrs Peters. 'Think it over. Talk to Albert about it, and let me know before the end of the week.'

  She rose and patted Nelly's massive shoulder.

  'I'm fair bowled over,' said that lady. 'But it's a wonderful offer, and I'm proud.'

  'Off you go then,' said Mrs Peters. 'Something smells good in the kitchen.'

  'Well-done apple crumble, I shouldn't wonder,' replied Nelly, making towards her own domain.

  The first person to reach Jane Cartwright lying prone on the damp steps was Carlotta Jermyn. She had just emerged from her home and was bound for the Crosses on one of her morning calls.

  She was surprisingly calm and competent in this emergency, and knelt down beside Jane, murmuring reassuring words and ignoring the dampness which stained her knees.

  'Don't move, my dear,' she said. 'I'll get someone to you immediately.'

  But Bill had already arrived and taken charge.

  Heads emerged from doorways. Faces were stricken, and lamentation loud.

  'If you could go to Doctor Lovell's,' said Bill, supporting his wife's head, 'it would be a great help.'

  Carlotta hurried across the green, leaving Bill to comfort his wife, and organise a rug and cushions to ease her position. He was not short of helpers. Everyone, it seemed, was anxious to render first aid.

  Within five minutes one of Doctor Lovell's young partners arrived.

  'Doctor Lovell's not on duty at the moment,' he explained, as he examined his patient, who was now able to talk to him and to the throng around her.

  He made a makeshift splint and he and Bill carefully carried Jane to her own sofa.

  'I'll get an ambulance straight away. She'll be taken to St Richard's, of course. As far as I can see, it's a straightforward break, but the X-rays will show up everything.'

  He began to dial.

  'Those dam' steps are a menace in this weather,' he remarked conversationally, as he waited for the hospital to reply.

  'So it seems,' said Bill, holding his poor wife's hand.

  ***

  Excitement was running high at the village school, so high indeed that Agnes Fogerty decided to put aside her idea of an autumn collage for the classroom wall that handwork session, and to substitute the theme of Bonfire Night with plenty of well-sharpened red and yellow crayons.

  Her class worked industriously. There was rather more chattering than Agnes normally allowed, but occasionally, she told herself, one must give a little licence to young children. The thought of Christmas so soon to be upon them, with all its accompanying trappings of paper chains, calendars, blotters, Christmas cards and rather terrible ornaments made from pine cones, all manufactured in this very classroom, was one to be shelved, at least until this present excitement had gone.

  She wandered around the tables admiring guys suspended, black and spider-like, among flaring fires. The red and yellow crayons were working overtime, and Agnes made a mental note to get a few in reserve from the stock cupboard. Red ones always ran out early when Father Christmas hove in sight. And, come to think of, black ones would be needed urgently, after all these guys, for Father Christmas's boots.

  It might be as well, mused Agnes as she nodded encouragingly at the upheld masterpieces, to look out that well-tried bookmarker pattern from The Teachers' World. A tassel made of bright wool, hanging from the pointed end, would be a useful exercise for young fingers, and would use up the remains of some scarlet four-ply left over from knitting mittens for the church bazaar. Looking ahead has always been one of the attributes of a good teacher, and earnest little Miss Fogerty was one of the very best.

  Across the playground, in the top class, peace reigned. Miss Watson, made of sterner stuff than her assistant, had quelled the chattering and the insatiable need, it seemed, to stand up to see if the unlit bonfire was still safely established on the green.

  Here handwork on a more sophisticated scale was being done. Embroidery, knitting, single section book-making and paper models were keeping fingers busy, and the most competent reader – and the worst knitter – was sitting in front of the class regaling the rest with a passage from Three Men In a Boat.

  Dorothy Watson, between marking some deplorable mental arithmetic tests and watching over her charges, was also thinking about Christmas preparations, but in a negative way.

  No nativity play, was her first definite decision. Far too much preparation, and really the costumes alone were a headache, despite the help of the parents. If Thrush Green school possessed a proper stage it would be a different kettle of fish, of course, but the heaving about of school furniture was a sore trial. No, a nativity play was definitely out.

  And the usual boisterous Christmas tea party seemed rather daunting. Perhaps a simple celebration with carols and som readings would fit the bill? It might be combined with a cup of tea and a slice of Christmas cake for parents and the school's friends after the performance. Something really simple, she repeated to herself. She supposed that the cake should really have been made by now. She must ask Nelly Piggott if The Fuchsia Bush had any on sale. Perhaps it could be suitably iced for the school's festivities?

  It began to grow murky in the classroom, and the school clock showed that it was nearly home time. She could hear the cries of the infants as they tumbled across the playground to the bliss of freedom.

  'Pack up your work, children,' said Miss Watson. 'Thank you for reading to us, dear, but do remember that "Harris" begins with an aitch. All stand, eyes closed. Closed, Pat Carter!

  'Keep us, O Lord, in Thy care, and safe from any dangers of the night.'

  'Amen!' said the children with unnecessary vigour. Would school never end?

  They streamed out to the lobby, collected coats and scarves, and rushed joyously homeward.

  'I shall be glad when tomorrow's over,' said Dorothy to Agnes. 'Guy Fawkes has a lot to answer for.'

  While Jane and Bill Cartwright waited for the ambulance to arrive, the elderly folk were persuaded to return to their homes. In this undertaking Carlotta and her husband showed signs of tactful leadership which Bill recognised with much admiration.

  As soon as he could see that all were being safely shepherded, he made another telephone call. This time it was to Jane's mother, some half a mile or so away along the road to Nidden.

  Listening to the bell ringing in Mrs Jenner's hall, Bill wondered if he would find her in. Probably she had finished lunch by now. He hoped that she had not gone to her bedroom for an afternoon snooze, as sometimes she did.

  At length, he heard her voice.

  'Mother,' said Billy urgently, 'don't get alarmed, but I've some rather bad news. Are you sitting down?'

  'Good heavens, man! Of course I'm not sitting down! There's no room for a chair in this passage. In any case, I'd sooner stand up to bad news. Quickly, what is it?'

  He told her briefly.

  'Jane says you're not to worry. The ambulance is on its way. Come and see her in Dickie's, she says.'

  'Oh, the poor girl!' cried Mrs jenner. 'That sounds like a long job to me. How will you manage?'

  'I was wondering,' began Bill hesitantly, 'if you could see your way clear to coming down here for a day or two?'

  'I'll be with you in twenty minutes,' said that noble woman, and hung up.

  'Your m
other,' said Bill huskily to Jane, 'is an angel. A proper angel!'

  'You don't have to tell me that,' said her daughter, as the ambulance swished up to the door.

  12 The Fifth of November

  A clammy mist engulfed Thrush Green at daybreak on November the fifth.

  The waiting bonfire glistened damply. The hedges were heavy with droplets, the trees' gold had slipped to their feet, and the leaves lay thick and sticky in the wet grass.

  It was uncannily silent. Distant sounds were muted. Footsteps, and even the noise of car tyres, were muffled by the fallen leaves and muddy roads. It was a chastened assembly that met at the village school, but Miss Watson did her best to cheer them by saying that the weatherman had promised a finer afternoon.

  'But do 'e know?' asked one infant anxiously.

  And all that Miss Watson could say in reply was that presumably he knew better than most.

  She hoped it was true.

  Across the green, Doctor Lovell heard for the first time about the accident at the old people's homes, and was magnanimous enough not to make any comment about Edward Young's steps in front of his partners.

  Nevertheless, he felt a certain satisfaction in hearing that his fears were not groundless, although he had every sympathy for poor Jane Cartwright's mishap.

  'I hope all the old dears over there will hold tight to the hand rail,' was his only remark, when he was told the news, but he said more to Ruth when he went home at lunch time.

  'Well, that's the first casualty at Edward's famous edifice. And won't be the last, as far as I can see!'

  'What's happened?' asked Ruth, soup spoon suspended in mid-air.

  'Jane Cartwright's broken a leg on those idiotic steps. Asking for trouble to put steps like that where there are old people. I told Edward so months ago.'

  'But Jane isn't old,' protested Ruth.

  'Oh, don't quibble!' snapped her husband. 'I know she's not! All I'm pointing out is that those steps are a hazard, and one which any sane architect would have omitted from his plan from the start.'