Christmas At Thrush Green Read online

  ‘Not give presents? What an awful suggestion!’ Ella was obviously scandalized at the thought, and it seemed to give her more resolve. ‘Well, if someone would take me down on Monday . . . then that would be very kind.’ She laid her good hand on John’s arm. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll find someone to take you shopping on Monday, I promise,’ said the doctor. ‘Now bring me up to date about your eyes.’

  While Ella’s wrist and lower arm were being plastered, John went to telephone Dimity. The telephone rang in an empty vicarage, so he rang Tullivers.

  Frank answered. ‘They left about fifteen minutes ago,’ he said. ‘But they were going via Ella’s cottage to pick up some nightclothes and other necessities. I think they’re going to offer to have her to stay over Christmas.’

  ‘How kind of them. She’ll kick and scream, of course, but it’s the right thing.’

  ‘Dimity is the one person who can make Ella see sense. How is she?’

  ‘Kicking and screaming!’ Both men laughed. ‘But, seriously, she’s very down but that’s to be expected. I’m sure she’ll be fine with Dimity’s TLC. Is the party still going strong? I was very sorry to have to leave it, especially since I had carefully arranged to be off-duty tonight.’

  ‘Most people have gone - including Ruth who said she has a busy day tomorrow. Relations or something coming to stay.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid my brother and his family have invited themselves for Christmas and Ruth’s going to try to do some cooking in advance,’ responded John.

  ‘The Shoosmiths and a couple of others are staying for some lasagne. Come and join us when you’ve delivered Ella to the Henstocks.’

  ‘How kind, but I won’t. I’d better get back home and help Ruth. Thanks for everything, Frank, it’s been a great evening.’

  ‘Just before you go, John,’ said Frank hurriedly, ‘do you have any suggestions for hangovers, junior hangovers?’

  ‘What do you mean, junior hangovers? Do you mean just a little bit of a hangover?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I mean hangovers in juniors.’

  John twigged and laughed. ‘Oh dear, did young Jeremy drink too much wine?’

  ‘Sort of, but it’s not quite how it sounds. He and Paul were initially very helpful and then I asked them to take the empty bottles out to the dustbin, get them out of the way. And from what I can gather from Paul when we woke him up to go home, they drained each bottle. And you know what it’s like, when one’s rushed and pouring out lots of glasses, sometimes the bottle isn’t finished. We’ve counted fifteen bottles out by the dustbins, so they could’ve had quite a lot. Certainly more than they’re used to.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ laughed John. ‘Well, they’ve got to learn some time.’

  ‘We found them in Jeremy’s room, sound asleep and, would you believe it, half a bottle with them. Phil’s put Jeremy to bed, and Edward managed to get Paul to walk home. I think he was rather cross!’

  ‘Yes, he would be,’ said John. ‘My brother-in-law doesn’t like anyone to be out of control. Anyway, my advice is to let Jeremy sleep on in the morning.’

  ‘That’s what we’re planning, and then he can get stuck into the washing-up. We are leaving it all for him to do. That’ll learn him!’

  When Ella woke the next morning, it took a moment to get her bearings, and then she remembered the beastly accident and her broken wrist. She didn’t know what time it was, but a little light was showing through a crack in the curtains. The radiators were popping so she guessed the central heating had just come on. She lay there, pondering how she would cope while she was so incommoded.

  She shortly heard movements in the rest of the house and it wasn’t long before the door opened a bit, and Dimity’s head peered round.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Ella, ‘I’m awake.’

  Dimity came in, and went to draw back the curtains. ‘How are you feeling, and did you get any sleep?’

  Ella cocked an eye at her old friend. ‘I hardly slept a wink, thanks.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. Well, stay in bed for as long as you want. You might doze.’

  ‘No, I’d rather get up. I hate lying in bed doing nothing.’

  Dimity sat on the side of Ella’s bed. ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea, and when you’ve had that, we’ll get you dressed.’

  She was about to get up off the bed when Ella stretched out her good hand to stay her. ‘Dim?’

  ‘Ella, yes?’

  ‘Dim, I’m frightened. I’ve lain awake all night, worrying. Not about this bally wrist. That’ll mend. No, about my eyes. I’ve been lying here, going through the events of yesterday evening. I tripped over that damn tile simply because I didn’t see it. I’ve never tripped over it before because I’ve always seen it and automatically stepped over it. But this time I didn’t see it.’ She paused and when she saw Dimity was about to say something, she continued quickly. ‘But at the Nativity, I realized I couldn’t see the faces properly. I heard people whispering all round me things like, “Oh, look at Annie,” or “Look at our Patrick,” but I didn’t know which child they were talking about. I couldn’t make out the detail on their faces. It was like looking at people in those magic mirrors - you know, the ones that distort images.’

  Ella now fell silent, the anxious fingers of her good hand plucking at the eiderdown.

  ‘Oh, Ella, I’m so sorry. What a worry it must be for you,’ Dimity said.

  ‘What frightens me most is how long I’ll be able to go on living in the cottage. Alone. I’m afraid John Lovell will pack me off to an old folk’s home, and I’d commit suicide rather than let that happen.’

  ‘Ella!’ Dimity said sharply. ‘You mustn’t speak like that. It is very unChristian for one thing and . . . and . . . and . . .’

  ‘And what? That old people’s homes can be quite nice?’ Ella said, her mouth puckering. ‘I couldn’t go into one, Dim, I really couldn’t.’ A tear escaped down her pale cheek.

  Dimity now got up from the bed. ‘We’ll think of something, Ella. And I promise you, it won’t be an old people’s home. Although I believe they can be quite nice.’

  This brought a smile to Ella’s lips, and she flapped at Dimity who moved nimbly out of reach.

  ‘That’s better. Now I’ll go and get that cup of tea. Charles is busy all morning with services, of course, so we can have the place to ourselves and have a really good talk.’

  ‘Thank you, Dim. I don’t know what I would do without you.’

  Later that morning, Isobel Shoosmith was preparing Sunday lunch. Both she and Harold had been to the 8 a.m. service in St Andrew’s and Harold was now helping Edward and Frank pack away the costumes used for the Nativity play. Isobel was, as they say, miles away when the telephone rang, startling her. She put down the sprouts she was preparing, dried her hands and hurried to answer the insistent ringing - there was nothing more annoying than reaching the telephone just as it stopped.

  ‘Isobel?’ came a familiar voice down the line. ‘It’s Agnes.’

  ‘How lovely to hear you!’ Isobel cried. ‘How are you, and Dorothy?’

  ‘We’re well, very well, thank you.’

  Isobel missed her friend after the two schoolmistresses had retired and moved to Barton-on-Sea. They kept in regular touch by telephone, of course, but it wasn’t the same as their living next door to each other. It was unusual for Agnes to ring Isobel, however, rather than the other way round, because Agnes was very conscious that her fairly meagre pension covered far less than a half share of the expense of running the house and she never wanted Dorothy to think she was being profligate.

  Isobel now said, ‘Is everything all right, Agnes?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Things are getting busy in the lead-up to Christmas, needless to say. We’re going to our church’s carol service this afternoon, which will be nice. Have you had the Nativity play yet?’

  Isobel regaled her with some of the previous evening’s happenings, and was pleased to hear Agnes laugh at the other end
of the line. There didn’t seem to be anything amiss.

  ‘Are you spending Christmas quietly at home, or is Dorothy splashing out and taking you both to the Ritz?’

  Agnes laughed. ‘Heavens, no - although that would be very nice! No, we’re spending it here, of course, but there’s quite a lot going on. Each year there seems to be more. I suppose it’s as we get to know more people and, you know, one thing leads to another. Snowballs.’

  ‘I do know. Sometimes I feel that Christmas just goes on too long. By the time we get to New Year, I’m exhausted. The Youngs are having a New Year’s Eve party, and I’ll probably fall asleep long before the witching hour,’ said Isobel. She glanced at the clock. It was lovely talking to Agnes but she had lunch to cook. ‘Frank and Phil Hurst had a lovely party yesterday evening, after the Nativity. Oh, and Ella had a fall and has broken her wrist.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about that,’ said Agnes, much to Isobel’s surprise.

  ‘Goodness, news travels fast! Who did you hear that from?’ she asked.

  ‘From Joan Young. I’ve just been speaking to her.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Isobel.

  ‘And she’s asked if Dorothy and I would like to come up for their party. And we would if, if . . .’

  ‘If you can stay,’ finished Isobel. ‘Of course you can. It will be lovely to see you both. Will you come on the day, or can you come earlier?’

  ‘No, we would like to come that afternoon, if we may, and we shall only stay a couple of nights because Dorothy wants to get back for the Lifeboat charity lunch on the second of January.’

  ‘It will be wonderful to see you both,’ said Isobel and, tucking the receiver under her chin, wrote it in the diary.

  At that moment, the front door bell rang.

  ‘Agnes, dear, I must go - that’s the front door. We’ll talk again before you come up. Have a lovely Christmas! Bye.’

  Somewhat thankfully, Isobel replaced the receiver and went to see who was calling on a Sunday morning.

  It was Charles Henstock.

  ‘Charles, come in, come in!’ she cried.

  ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ said the good rector. ‘Is Harold around?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. You’ll find him next door at the school, I think. They’re packing up the costumes from last night’s Nativity. But come in, I don’t think he will be that long. His nose starts twitching at about 12.30 on a Sunday. But would you mind coming through the kitchen. I must put in the beef or Harold won’t get his lunch until mid-afternoon, I’m so behind.’

  Charles sat himself at the kitchen table while Isobel told him of the forthcoming visit of Dorothy and Agnes.

  ‘What fun! Dimity will be so pleased. We’ve been invited to the Youngs, too - what a party it’s going to be.’

  At the mention of ‘party’, Isobel swung round from the sink. ‘Goodness, I’d quite forgotten. How’s Ella, poor Ella?’

  ‘She wasn’t up when I had to leave for the early service here in Thrush Green,’ said Charles. ‘She was understandably very shaken yesterday - more fearful about the future, I think, than actual pain. I believe it’s what is known as a Colles’ fracture, and she’ll be in plaster for about six weeks.’

  ‘Brittle bones,’ said Isobel, carefully placing the piece of beef among the potatoes and parsnips that were already browning in the pan of sizzling fat, and then spooning the spitting liquid over the meat and vegetables.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A Colles’ fracture is usually indicative of brittle bones, osteoporosis - that disease that every woman dreads,’ replied Isobel.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said the rector. ‘I believe that that is what one of my parishioners is suffering from. She’s fairly incapacitated.’

  Having put in the joint, Isobel wiped her hands on her apron, looked at the clock and said, ‘I’m sure Harold won’t be long. Let me get you a glass of sherry. Everything’s done in here for the moment. Come into the sitting-room where the fire’s lit.’

  A few minutes later, Harold returned, and came into the sitting-room rubbing his hands together. ‘Hello, Charles. Jolly cold out there, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but very beautiful. I love these winter mornings, when the sky’s so blue, like today. The road to Lulling Woods was pretty icy, but all the frost on the trees looked lovely in the sun. It’s beginning to melt now - that’ll certainly make it easier to get around, anyway!’

  Harold, having checked that Charles had got a glass of sherry, poured himself one and joined his old friend with his back to the fire.

  ‘You have a good life here, Harold,’ Charles said, a cheerful smile on his round face. ‘A welcoming fire, surrounded by all your books, music on the player and—’

  ‘And a beautiful wife to look after me!’ cut in Harold, smiling at his wife sitting in one of the fireside armchairs. ‘I know, I’m very lucky but you don’t do so badly yourself.’

  ‘And I know it, too,’ Charles replied.

  ‘What would men do without women!’ added Isobel mischievously.

  ‘Now, now,’ said her husband, ‘don’t let’s start on that subject. What’s most important is Ella. How is she this morning?’

  Charles once more said that he wasn’t sure since he’d had to leave the house before she was up. ‘I had a word with John Lovell when he brought Ella back last night. She was predictably very depressed about the fracture. Dim and I had a talk early this morning, and we are determined that Ella should stay with us now, and right over Christmas. She can’t go back alone to her cottage, and we’ve got so much room.’

  ‘What a sensible idea,’ said Isobel.

  ‘I don’t for a moment think she will agree,’ said Charles, and both Isobel and Harold nodded. They knew Ella of old. ‘But we’ll insist and that’s the end of the matter.’

  ‘And then what?’ asked Harold.

  ‘I don’t know, I really don’t know. I think we will have to take it day by day.’

  At that moment, the pretty little clock on the mantelpiece struck one o’clock.

  ‘I must go!’ cried Charles. ‘Lunch is usually at one-fifteen on Sunday, which gives me time to digest it before the next service. It’s the carol service at St John’s this afternoon.’ He put his empty glass down on a little table. ‘Thank you for the sherry.’

  Harold saw him to the door. ‘You will keep us in touch about Ella, won’t you? And let us know if there is anything we can do to help.’

  ‘Thank you, and yes, of course, both Dim and I will keep you posted.’ And with a cheery wave, the rector made his way down the garden path to his car.

  At Tullivers on the other side of the green, there was a clattering noise on the stairs, and Jeremy burst into the kitchen.

  ‘What’s for lunch?’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’

  His stepfather looked at him over the top of the newspaper he was reading. ‘Good afternoon, Jeremy. And how are we feeling?’

  ‘Fine! Great! Good party!’

  ‘Ah yes, good party,’ Frank repeated. ‘And after every good party, there’s the clearing up. So where’ve you been?’

  ‘Growing boys need plenty of sleep,’ Jeremy replied cheekily. ‘And I’m here now to help. But first I must have some food. What time’s lunch?’

  Phil came into the kitchen at that moment. ‘Morning, darling. We’ve decided not to have lunch today, but have a decent supper instead.’

  Jeremy’s face fell and he looked so disappointed that his mother immediately softened her resolve to be strict with him on ‘the morning after’.

  ‘Some people got up and had a proper breakfast. Have some cereal now, to keep the wolf from the door, then you can fill up with bread and pâté when we eat in about half an hour, and there’s plenty of cheese.’

  Jeremy grunted, at which Frank shook his head and returned to his newspaper.

  However, Phil wasn’t going to let Jeremy off so easily. ‘In between your breakfast and lunch, there’s some washing-up for you to do,’ and she indica
ted a pile of large platters standing on the draining-board.

  Jeremy had reached for the box of cereal and was pouring a huge heap into a bowl he had taken from the cupboard. ‘They can go into the dishwasher,’ he said, pleased that his chore had been so easy.

  ‘Not those plates, they can’t,’ replied his mother. ‘First, they’re too big for the dishwasher, and second they’re too good. They’re old plates and I don’t want them anywhere near the machine. All the stuff now on the draining-board has to be hand-washed, and you have been designated Chief Washer.’

  Jeremy wasn’t really listening. Having spooned three large teaspoonfuls of sugar onto his cereal, he now went to the fridge to get the milk. His eyes lit on a covered bowl of food.

  ‘What’s this? Can I have this?’

  ‘That’s the remains of last night’s lasagne. Yes, I suppose you can have that for lunch.’

  ‘Lasagne? I never had any lasagne,’ Jeremy said, slopping milk into his cereal bowl so fast that cereal bits went out over the back edge. The boy nonchalantly scooped them up with his fingers.

  ‘Well, no, you didn’t,’ Frank said, giving up on his newspaper and folding it up. ‘You and I need to have a chat, young man, but it can wait until later. Are you coming with us to the carol service at St John’s this afternoon?’

  Jeremy’s spoon paused halfway between bowl and mouth. ‘Paul and I had planned to go for a bike ride and,’ he said, looking out of the window, ‘it looks a super day for one. To be honest, I think I’ve had enough of church for a bit.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Frank replied. ‘You can go round to the Youngs when we go down to Lulling, so long as you’ve done your duties here.’

  His voice was firm and Jeremy knew his stepfather well enough to know when he meant what he was saying. ‘OK,’ he said, and then concentrated on devouring his bowl of cereal.

  Frank watched him for a minute. He was fairly used to teenagers. Robert, his son from his first marriage, had four children, and the youngest of those was about Jeremy’s age. Frank usually spent a week or so down in Wales each year with Robert and his family, and knew all about growing pains. He wasn’t worried about Jeremy. The boy had natural exuberance and the bike ride would do both him and Paul good - but only once the chores had been carried out.