(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green Read online

  It certainly provided some of Thrush Green's inhabitants with some comfort amidst their troubles. Nelly Piggott was one who was glad to busy herself with preparations for winter, and particularly for Christmas, as she went about her duties at the Fuchsia Bush.

  They kept her from dwelling too painfully upon her partner's rapid decline. Mrs Peters seemed to be more wraith-like at every visit paid by Nelly to her bedside. She greeted Nelly with the same warm smile and little cries of welcome, but day by day her face grew paler and her arms more stick-like. When Nelly put her own fat arms round her friend, she felt as if she were embracing a child, so small and fragile was the little figure.

  But the mind within that gaunt head was as clear as ever, and Mrs Peters continued to question Nelly about the state of affairs at her much-loved business. It was, thought Nelly privately, about the only thing which kept that small bright flame fluttering in its frail container.

  Edward Young too was glad to have such jobs as mowing, hedge-trimming and fruit-picking to take his mind from other matters. The question of the extension to the communal room at Rectory Cottages still worried him. During the holiday abroad he had been able to dismiss his secret unease. 'Out of sight was out of mind,' to a certain extent, and he had thrown himself into the joys of a strange land and the company of Joan and Paul, and put his cares aside.

  But now that he was back in his home, with Rectory Cottages within constant view, his old doubts had come back to torment him. Joan had discovered him standing by his work table, pencil in hand, studying a diagram before him which was plainly a plan of enlargement of the present premises.

  Joan had said nothing, but worried secretly. It was one thing to be married to a gifted and conscientious architect, but being married to a dedicated perfectionist who was capable of worrying himself into another attack of shingles or, even worse, a nervous breakdown, was something which Joan found most alarming.

  It was she who made sure that he did his share of harvesting and tidying-up in the garden, trusting that, as the poet said so long ago: ' The wind shall lightly pass the pain.'

  At Barton-on-Sea Dorothy and Agnes were equally busy.

  They had returned much refreshed from Thrush Green, with a great many pieces of news which would keep them happy for weeks to come.

  Agnes wondered if the return to their own surroundings would rekindle the fire for Teddy which, it seemed, had quite died away in the alien air of Thrush Green.

  She sat in the little garden shelling peas. Dorothy had gone shopping, and it was very quiet in the sunshine. Agnes let her hands rest for a moment and lay back in the wicker garden chair.

  Every now and then some thistledown floated across her line of vision. She thought how pretty it looked, silvery miniature umbrellas drifting in the warm air. Her neighbours, and Dorothy too if she were present, would be adversely critical of these airy seeds, for a neglected garden near by produced a fine crop of weeds, including thistles, and the good gardeners of the neighbourhood were highly censorious. Secretly, Agnes found great pleasure in a rampant white convolvulus which had draped itself along the wire fence, but she was alone in her admiration.

  The old lady who had lived there had died some months earlier. Her children lived overseas, and although it was said that the agent had been told to keep the garden tidy, nothing had been done.

  Only Eileen, it seemed, had struck a happy note among all the disapproval for she claimed that she had seen goldfinches feeding on the thistledown.

  'A charm of goldfinches,' murmered Agnes aloud, returning to her task. What a pretty group name, she thought! So much nicer than a school of porpoises or a flock of sheep.

  As the fat green peas rolled into her basin, Agnes wondered about Eileen. Had she noticed that Dorothy was calling less frequently? Was she aware of Dorothy's unfortunate infatuation for Teddy?

  Agnes remembered how shocked she had been when she realized that Dorothy used to make a point of visiting Teddy on the afternoons when Eileen was pushing the book trolley round the local hospital. Certainly the book service happened only once a fortnight, but surely Eileen must have noticed?

  Or perhaps Teddy did not tell his wife? Was he embarrassed? Or was he just flattered? It seemed to Agnes that males, even those of six years old, with whom she had been familiar for many years, found it necessary to have attention, preferably from doting mothers or older sisters, and later, of course, from their wives.

  It was hardly surprising, thought Agnes, removing a piece of thistledown from the shelled peas, that widowers were so much more helpless than widows.

  Women were used to coping with a variety of activities — shopping, cooking, cleaning, caring for children and writing letters. When their husbands died, they buckled to and did their best to cope with the jobs which formerly had been their husbands' department. They learnt to mend a fuse, to change a bulb, to understand the bank statements, and if they could not manage one of their husbands' jobs they soon found someone who would do it for them, if suitably reimbursed.

  Men seemed to go to pieces without a partner. Teddy, she had to admit, was an exception. He had managed admirably as a widower, but then his innate courage in coping with his lack of sight had no doubt given him extra strength in adversity. But Agnes recalled other bereaved men who had had no idea how to cook the simplest meal, or how to wash and iron clothes. Sad souls indeed, thought Agnes, and no wonder so many married again!

  She popped open the last pea pod. What a blessing it was to be single, she mused happily. She was free and as footloose as the thistledown which floated by her in the sunshine.

  Very content Agnes carried the peas into the kitchen.

  In the kitchen at Lulling Woods Dotty was as busy as her neighbours. She was stringing runner beans at the kitchen table. The door into the garden was open, and outside in the sunshine young Bruce was happily worrying a bone.

  'He looks fighting fit,' said Ella, who had called to see her old friend and to collect her goat's milk.

  'He's a very healthy little dog,' agreed Dotty, knife poised.

  'No news of his owners, I suppose?'

  'I am his owner!' said Dotty forcefully. 'They have forfeited all right to him.'

  She looked quite fierce with the knife in her grip. Ella hastily changed the subject.

  'And Flossie?'

  The old dog lay in her basket near by, and wagged her tail when she heard her name.

  'Rather pianissimo,' said Dotty. 'I don't think it is worth getting the vet in, but she is rather up and down these days. Still, she eats quite well, and seems happy enough. Like us, Ella, she's getting old.'

  Ella nodded her agreement. 'I hear Mrs Peters is in a bad way,' she said. 'I imagine the Fuchsia Bush will be on the market before long. It's sad, I think. She spent years building it up.'

  'Piggott tells me that Prouts may buy the premises. Some talk of specializing in expensive blouses and jewellery and stuff, and calling it a boutique.' Dotty's tone was scornful.

  'Nelly will miss the work. She's an absolute wizard at cooking. She'll soon get a job elsewhere, probably in one of the hotels.'

  'She won't stay at home,' agreed Dotty, putting the last shredded bean into the colander. 'Now, what about a nice cup of mint tea before I get your milk?'

  'No, no, Dotty,' said Ella hastily. 'I'm off to the dentist very soon, and I'm afraid I can't spare the time.'

  'Ah well! I shall look forward to seeing you very soon, and meanwhile you must take a pot of my beetroot preserve. I've put in some rather special herbs for flavouring. You must tell me what you think of it.'

  Ella thanked her, making a mental note to concoct a comment which combined truth with civility for a future occasion.

  She knew, from experience, that it would not be easy.

  Before long the dry spell of weather broke with a spectacular thunderstorm one hot August night.

  In their beds, gardeners listened happily to the patter of rain on thirsty soil, and farmers listened less happily, wondering if
the downpour would flatten the wheat.

  Lightning flickered over Thrush Green, thunder roared and rumbled, babies woke and screamed, dogs barked and Nelly Piggott, who had been unable to sleep, rose from her bed and covered the mirror, as her mother had advised years before, and returned to her tousled sheets to go over, yet again, the amazing and upsetting scene in Mrs Peters' bedroom earlier that evening.

  She had found her old employer lying listlessly against the pillows. She smiled weakly at Nelly.

  'I can't sit up,' she apologized. 'My neck has no strength in it.'

  Nelly drew a chair close to the bedside and held the thin hand lying on the counterpane.

  'It's about the Fuchsia Bush,' whispered the invalid. 'Young Mr Venables knows about it.' She began to cough.

  'Don't worry then,' said Nelly, alarmed. 'I'll find out what you want done from him.'

  The coughing eased.

  'It's done,' she breathed. 'I'm leaving it to you, Nelly.'

  Nelly was stunned. She was also deeply unhappy. She recognized the outstanding generosity of the frail woman before her, but the thought of taking over the responsibility of the business filled her with horror.

  'But I'm not up to it! You know I love the place, and I've been pleased to keep it ticking over while you've been laid up. But to own it!'

  Mrs Peters smiled. 'Nelly, it's like this. I've no one close to me to leave it to. It's been my whole life. I put into the Fuchsia Bush all my money and youth and energy. I want it to go on. And you're the one who knows how to do it.'

  The thin hand gripped Nelly's plump one desperately.

  Nelly took a deep breath. 'It's a wonderful thing to hear,' she said shakily, 'and don't think I'm not grateful for what you've arranged, but I've no head for business. I'm just a good cook, no more than that.'

  'The business side can be looked after, just as it has been for the last few months, and Justin Venables will advise you about that. I wasn't going to tell you, but lying here I suddenly thought that it wasn't really fair to spring it on you when I'd gone.'

  A tear rolled down the pale cheek, and Nelly too found that she was crying, and did not attempt to mop her tears away.

  'You see, Nelly, everyone loves you, and the customers and staff will rally round, you'll see. The thought of leaving the Fuchsia Bush is the only thing that I regret. I shan't be sorry to leave this pain and all the other problems. But if I know my life's work is going on under your care, I'll be happy.'

  Nelly was unable to speak. Pity for her employer, the overwhelming news and the knowledge that there was no choice for her, but only one course to take, as well as the choking pain in her throat, kept Nelly silent.

  'Say you will,' pleaded the invalid. 'Nelly, say you will!'

  Nelly swallowed the lump in her throat. 'I'll do my best. That's a promise. I'll keep your Fuchsia Bush going as you'd like it to be, to the best of my ability. And I'll never cease to be thankful for such a wonderful present. You know that!'

  She bent forward to kiss the invalid, and realized how exhausted she looked. This interview had been too much for her. It was obvious that she had summoned up all that remained of her strength to tell Nelly her plans.

  Nelly herself felt exhausted, and stirred herself to go.

  'You must rest now,' she said. 'Is nurse coming in this evening?'

  'She's due any minute.'

  'Then I'm going to leave you, my dear. Sleep well, and I'll see you tomorrow.'

  Mrs Peters nodded, closed her eyes, and Nelly tiptoed away.

  It was beginning to get dark when Nelly emerged at last on to Church Green. The noble bulk of St John's church was casting a long shadow, and Nelly sat down on a seat against a drystone Cotswold wall, and did her best to come to terms with the astounding news she had just heard.

  There was nothing to be done about the offer. It was the wish of a dying woman, a plea from one she loved, and it was her duty to accept the situation. It was an honour to be asked to carry on the Fuchsia Bush, and the most generous gift that anyone could bestow.

  Nevertheless, the outlook struck despair into Nelly's heart. She could rule her kitchen. She could rule the front of the house, the customers, the counter trade and the organization of the mobile van which trundled round Lulling with delectable fare for the office staffs. She was beginning to understand the ordering from wholesalers, the timing of deliveries, those she could trust absolutely and those who needed watching.

  But the overall business arrangements were beyond her. The maintenance of the premises, the insurance of the staff and the property, the tax returns, the round of incomprehensible forms, all these things confused her, and she knew that she would never be able to understand them. If any unscrupulous persons wanted to steal from the firm by 'fiddling the books', Nelly knew she would be powerless to thwart them.

  She sat there in the gathering twilight, deeply unhappy and oblivious to the growing chill in the air. Across the green, she saw the rotund figure of the rector making his way to the distant post box. She felt an overpowering desire to hurry after him, to pour out her worries and to be comforted.

  She knew that such comfort would be freely given. No one appealed to Charles Henstock in vain, but Nelly remained seated, the tears returning.

  This was something she must face alone. Not even Charles Henstock could provide complete satisfaction. Certainly, Albert could not even begin to understand how she felt.

  Her fingers strayed to the gold chain which hung round her neck and was hidden under her clothes. If only Charlie were here! He would provide comfort and cheering advice. His first reaction would be a disbelieving whistle at such a stroke of fortune, but that done he would bring a shrewd streetwise mind to the practical difficulties and give Nelly generous support and sympathy. He was a scamp, Nelly was the first to admit. He had hurt her badly, but in a matter like this he would have been able to offer good advice.

  She fingered the chain lovingly, remembering the giver, and became conscious of inner comfort. Something would turn up. People would help her. She would go to see young Mr Venables, if need be, and the rector, two good men who would give sound advice.

  She began to feel chilly and rose from the seat. As she bent down to retrieve her shopping bag, she heard a man's voice.

  'Want a lift home?'

  It was Percy Hodge, who farmed along the Nidden road, the husband of her bingo companion.

  'Thank you,' said Nelly. 'I'd be glad of a lift.'

  He held out his hand for the shopping bag, and peered at her face. 'You all right? You look upset.'

  Nelly decided that the plain truth was needed. 'I've just come from Mrs Peters. She's not long for this world, Percy.'

  'I'm sorry. No wonder you're upset.'

  He led the way to his ancient Land-Rover across the road.

  'I had to come down to the police station,' he explained, 'about my gun licence.'

  He opened the door, and Nelly heaved herself up to sit beside him.

  They drove slowly down Lulling High Street. There were very few people about in the dusk. The street lights were beginning to flicker into life, and some of the shops had lighted windows.

  The Fuchsia Bush was shut, and there were no lights there. Nelly could hardly bear to look at it.

  'That's real sad about Mrs Peters,' said Percy, slowing down as they met the Oxford road. 'She was a real nice woman. A good worker too.'

  Nelly nodded, not trusting her voice.

  Percy changed gears and the Land-Rover began to grind noisily up the steep hill to Thrush Green.

  'I wonder what'll become of the Fuchsia Bush?' queried Percy when they reached the top.

  'I've been wondering about that too,' said Nelly tremulously.

  The nurse had called in while Nelly was sitting unhappily on Church Green. She knew at once that her patient was dead, and rang the doctor.

  By morning, it seemed, all Lulling knew the sad news. At Thrush Green it was Betty Bell who told the Shoosmiths as they were clearing the br
eakfast table.

  'Mind you,' said Betty, after sincere tributes had been paid to the late owner of the Fuchsia Bush, 'it was a happy release really. Poor thing had no hope of getting better. I wonder who'll be the third?'

  She looked speculatively at her employers.

  'Third what?' asked Harold.

  'Death.'

  'Does there have to be a third?'

  'Oh yes! Haven't you heard that? Why, deaths always go in threes.'

  'But Mrs Peters' death is the first I've heard.'

  'There was that nice Mr Andersen's mother,' Betty pointed out. She went to the dresser drawer for a clean duster to start her morning's work.

  Harold addressed her back. 'But she was in America, for heaven's sake. She wasn't local.'

  'Don't have to be local? responded Betty, inspecting the duster. 'It's deaths what you hear about. Well, we've heard about Mrs Andersen, and now Mrs Peters, and soon we'll hear about a third.'

  'Really, Betty,' broke in Isobel. 'You are positively ghoulish!'

  'If that means bilious you're right. I had some of Dotty's — I mean Miss Harmer's — marmalade for breakfast.Don't worry though. I'll work it off.'

  She vanished upstairs, and soon they heard her singing.

  Later that morning, the news was being spread at the Two Pheasants.

  Percy Hodge was in a position of some importance as he had had first-hand news from Nelly the previous evening.

  'Your Nelly was proper upset,' he told Albert. 'I could see she'd been crying.'

  'Ah!' agreed Albert. 'My Nelly's real soft-hearted. She's been working overtime to keep things up together at the café for Mrs Peters.'

  'I suppose it'll be up for sale,' ventured someone.

  'It's got a good position in the High Street,' commented another.

  'Will Nelly be looking for another job?' queried a third to Albert.

  'I don't know nothing about it,' said Albert crossly, slamming his empty beer mug on the counter. 'I don't much like all this talk when that poor woman ain't been dead for less than a day.'