(6/13) Gossip from Thrush Green Read online

  'A charming young man, I thought,' said Charles. 'And of course he would let you know. After all, they were greatly obliged to you for letting them have Tullivers.'

  Anthony Bull had walked away to have a word with Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty. Phil spoke rapidly.

  'I've only just discovered that the other young couple must have been a sore disappointment to you all.'

  'Really?' replied Charles, his face puckered with bewilderment. 'I hardly saw them, I must confess.'

  'They were on drugs, you know.'

  'The sort you smoke?'

  'I gather so.'

  'That must have been the peculiar smell I noticed when I called. I thought it was something cooking—herbs, I imagined, of some sort.'

  'Well, that's one way of looking at it!'

  'How did you find out? Did Jack Thomas tell you?'

  'No. Jeremy did.'

  Jeremy!' exclaimed the rector, 'but how on earth—?'

  'One of the boys at school has an older sister who has been on the stuff. She knew that the Thomases' friends bought it, and told her brother who told Jeremy evidently. I gather she's given it up now, thank God. Foolish girl to start, of course.'

  'Well, you have surprised me,' said Charles. 'I can only hope that the other two will follow her example. And I am delighted to hear about the baby. Do congratulate the Thomases for us, if you are in touch.'

  His eye alighted on the three Lovelock sisters who were admiring two small silver dishes containing nuts.

  'Ah, do excuse me, Phyllida. I must have a word with the Lovelock girls. I haven't seen them since the burglary.'

  He hastened away. Phil noted the predatory gleam in Miss Violet's eye as she put back the little dish on the table.

  Was she already replacing their lost collection wondered Phil? She hastily quashed the unworthy thought, and went to talk to Joan Young.

  Later that evening Dorothy Watson and Agnes Fogerty rested in their sitting room and discussed the excitement of the party.

  'I thought that Joan Young looked very well in that bottle green frock. A very pretty neckline.'

  Dorothy had a great eye for dress, as Agnes knew, and took enormous interest in the clothes of others. Agnes herself was content to be clean and respectable, but ever enthralled to hear her friend's comments on others' appearance.

  'And did you notice,' continued Dorothy, 'that Ada Lovelock's evening bag was freshly adorned with some jet edging which looked to me remarkably like the stuff I sent to be sold at her recent coffee morning? I have never known such greed as those Lovelock sisters show when it comes to gewgaws.'

  'You can't call all their lovely things gewgaws,' protested Agnes. 'And in any case, you can't be sure that the trimming was the material you sent.'

  'Agnes dear, I am quite sure,' said Dorothy firmly. 'I am the first to admire your fair-mindedness, but you must not deceive yourself. That trimming was undoubtedly appropriated, one might say purloined, by the Lovelocks, well before the coffee morning.'

  That's as maybe,' agreed Agnes, 'but the poor souls have suffered terribly from the loss of all their beautiful things, and I do think that they might be forgiven for buying in that jet edging. They might easily be in a state of shock.'

  They've been in that particular state of shock ever since I've known them,' said Dorothy. 'However, they're much too old to change their ways now, so we won't waste time in censuring them. Agnes dear, after all that sherry I'm uncommonly thirsty. Do you think a glass of fresh orange juice would be a good idea for us?'

  'Of course it would,' said Agnes, getting up at once. 'Keep your legs up, my dear, you have been standing quite long enough, while I get us both a drink.'

  One day, thought Dorothy, watching her friend bustling towards the kitchen, I hope I shall be able to repay the kindness of that completely selfless soul. But will it ever be possible?

  A few mornings later, Charles Henstock sat at his desk and gazed out at the sunlit garden. He was attempting to write next Sunday's sermon, always a difficult task, and not made any easier on this gorgeous June day by all the happy distractions outside the window.

  A blue tit, with a mimosa yellow breast, clung to the coconut half which swung from a branch of the old plum tree. His antics were as delightful as they were graceful. A bullyboy of a blackbird bustled below, chasing all the other groundlings away from the crumbs which fell from the tit's energetic assault on the coconut.

  Above, a tiny silver aeroplane ruled a fast-fading line across the blue sky, and over in Percy Hodge's field a red and white cow sat chewing the cud with the same vague bliss in its surroundings which now enveloped the good rector. And curled up in the chair beside him was their cat, which had settled down at Mrs Jenner's as happily as they had themselves.

  Dimity had gone to Lulling to shop and Charles found his new abode very quiet. Dimity's parting words had been to the effect that he would have peace in which to compose his sermon.

  He certainly had that, he thought, putting down his pen and propping his head on his hand. How pretty the young leaves looked on the plum tree! How beautifully fashioned was the wing of the fluttering tit! How vivid the beak of the blackbird!

  This was a very pleasant place to live, and he thanked God humbly for leading him to such a haven after the tragedy of the fire. Where, eventually, would his home be, he wondered yet again? It was surely time that he heard something from the Church. Anthony Bull, who always seemed to be so much better informed about things, had said that the new rearrangements of the parishes may have held up Charles's particular problem, but it was all rather unsettling. One would like to know one's future.

  The good rector sighed, and picked up his pen again. He must make a start at least before Dimity returned. A great black rook now alighted on the grass and began to sidle timidly towards a crust thrown out by Mrs Jenner. The small birds took no notice of this formidable figure in their midst.

  The rector decided suddenly to turn his observant idling to good account. His sermon should be about the joy of living in the present, and of looking at the wonders around. Did not Our Lord Himself tell his followers not to worry about the morrow, what they should eat, what they should put on?

  Now inspired, Charles began to settle down to his writing and to sharing his own happiness with his beloved parishioners.

  While he was busy scribbling, Molly Curdle was being driven in the local taxi to the County Hospital for an ante-natal examination. Doctor Lovell felt certain that all was well, but decided that a check on his own findings would be a sensible precaution at the splendid new maternity wing.

  Joan Young would have taken her but had promised to go to a Women's Institute meeting in the neighbouring county. This involved lunching with the as-yet-unknown president, delivering her talk, judging the monthly competition—almost as hazardous and thankless a task as judging a baby show—and then driving back some twenty-five miles. Arthur Tranter was taking her place.

  He was a cheerful man, some years older than Molly, but they had both attended Thrush Green School, and knew each other fairly well.

  She sat beside him in the taxi, and they chatted amicably of this and that. Molly was careful not to mention her condition and congratulated herself on her still trim figure. However, she need not have troubled to hide anything from the percipient Mr Tranter.

  'Havin' the baby up the County then?' he remarked conversationally.

  'Possibly,' said Molly.

  'I'll take you up if you want me to,' offered he.

  'I gets no end of young mums to take there from Lulling. Bit far though, I always think. Too far sometimes for some of 'em. I've brought three into this world in my time, so you don't need to worry.'

  Molly remained silent.

  'I always say they can name 'em after the old taxi. Maurice, say, or Austin—both good names. I had a Cadillac once, bought off of an American chap up the air base, but none of the mums would name their kids after that. Might be called Cad for short, see?'

  He roared
with laughter at his own joke, unaffected by Molly's disapproval. She was glad when they began to run through the suburbs of the county town. It was quite bad enough having to face a strange doctor without Arthur's coarse remarks.

  'You'll want the ante-natal, love, won't you? I'll be waiting. I've got a flask of coffee and today's paper so don't worry if you're held up. You never can tell with hospitals, can you?'

  'No, indeed,' agreed Molly tremulously. Now that they had actually stopped outside the door, fear gripped her, and distasteful as she found Arthur Tranter at least he was an old acquaintance and a link with all that was familiar at distant Thrush Green.

  As if he guessed her thoughts, he leant out and patted her arm.

  'Cheer up, duck. All be over in next to no time, and we'll step on it and get you home before you have time to turn round.'

  She gave him a grateful smile, and went in to face the trial ahead.

  14. After The Storm

  THE beautiful spell of June weather broke with a violent thunderstorm one torrid night. Lightning flickered eerily for several hours before the thunder asserted itself, and the rain began to rattle on the parched earth. Gutters gurgled, rivulets rippled down the hill to Lulling, and water butts, which had stood empty for weeks, filled rapidly.

  So violent was the storm about three o'clock that Harold and Isobel decided that a cup of tea would be a very good thing, and Harold went down to make it. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he surveyed the wet world of Thrush Green through the window.

  Other people were awake too, it seemed. There was a dim light at Tullivers, and Harold guessed correctly that it had been put on to allay young Jeremy's fears. There was another light at Ella Bembridge's. No doubt, thought Harold, she is brewing tea, as I am.

  No lights showed otherwise. Presumably the Youngs, the Bassetts, Winnie Bailey, Jenny and all the other good folk of Thrush Green, were either deep in slumber or riding out the storm in the darkness of their bedrooms.

  Harold thought, not for the first time, how fortunate he had been to settle at Thrush Green. Thousands of miles away when he was in business, he had first heard of this tiny English village, the birthplace of Nathaniel Patten, a zealous missionary, whose work Harold admired deeply. It was Harold who had been instrumental in raising funds to buy the fine statue of Thrush Green's most distinguished son. He could see it now, glinting as the lightning lit the view. It was good to think that such a good fellow was properly honoured, and Harold was proud of his part in the affair.

  He had not bargained though for the generous welcome he had received from the inhabitants of his chosen village. That was a bonus. He had found several people, much of his own age and interests, in this little community who had now become firm friends. He thought with affection and gratitude of the Henstocks, the Baileys, the Hursts, and many others who had made his path here so pleasant. He was lucky to have such good neighbours and Betty Bell to minister to his domestic comfort.

  But luckiest of all, he told himself, as he attended to the boiling kettle, was the stroke of good fortune which had come unwittingly through little Agnes Fogerty next door. Her friendship with Isobel, her old college connection, had given him his wife, and a happiness he had never dared to hope for at his age.

  Balancing the tray with great care, Harold mounted the stairs, ignoring a crash of thunder which rattled all the window panes.

  Isobel, as beautiful as ever, was sitting up in bed, serenely ignoring the violence which raged outside.

  'A quarter past three,' she exclaimed, catching sight of the bedside clock. 'What a time to be drinking tea!'

  'Anytime,' Harold told her, 'is time to be drinking tea.'

  Some half mile to the west, out of sight of Thrush Green, Dotty Harmer was awakened by the din and lay worrying about her animal charges.

  Would Dulcie, the goat, be alarmed by the storm? She was of a nervous disposition, and goats were generally acknowledged to be sensitive to climatic conditions. The chickens and ducks were much more phlegmatic by nature, and were no doubt quite unperturbed in their roosts. As for the many cats, they always took events very philosophically, and dear old Flossie, apart from flinching at any particularly ferocious roll of thunder, seemed quite calm at the end of Dotty's bed.

  No, it was dear Dulcie that was her chief worry. Possessed of enormous strength and sleeping in a somewhat battered shed, even by Dotty's standards, she might well crash her way out and do extensive damage to her own and her neighbours' gardens.

  There was no help for it, Dotty told herself, but to get up and investigate. The rain lashed against the cottage windows, the wind howled, and the lightning was alarming, but Dotty knew where her duty lay, and clambered out of bed.

  She went as she was, barefoot and in her nightgown, down the stairs, followed by the faithful Flossie. In the kitchen she thrust her feet into Wellingtons and dragged on her old mackintosh.

  As a token concession to the elements she also tied a scarf over her skimpy grey locks, took a torch, and set off to Dulcie's shed.

  The onslaught of the rain quite took her breath away, but she battled down the path beneath the flailing branches of the old fruit trees, which scattered showers of water and leaves with every gust of wind.

  She looked into the hens' house and, apart from some squawks from her disturbed charges, all seemed well. No sound came from the ducks' shelter, and Dotty decided to leave well alone.

  She struggled on, and was suddenly aware of what hard work it was. Her legs seemed leaden. Her heart raced. Water ran down her face from the already sodden scarf, but she pressed on.

  By the light of the torch she saw that Dulcie was sitting down. Her chain was slack and in good order, and she was licking a lump of rock salt with evident enjoyment.

  'Dear thing,' said Dotty. 'Good Dulcie! Just ignore this dreadful noise, my dear. It will all be over by morning.'

  Much relieved, she shut the door again. She trundled the glistening garden roller against it, for good measure, and decided that all would be safe until morning.

  It was easier going back with the wind behind her, but Dotty was glad to get to the porch where Flossie, who had taken one look at the weather, had prudently waited for her mistress.

  The kitchen was a haven, and Dotty was thankful to rest on the kitchen chair before taking off her wet clothes. Five cats looked at her from their various resting places, ranging from a stack of newspapers to a pile of Dotty's underclothes which were awaiting ironing.

  When she could breathe again more easily, Dotty struggled out of her coat and boots. The hem of her nightgown was drenched, but she could not be bothered to change it.

  She wondered if it would be worthwhile making a hot drink. She felt uncommonly exhausted. Perhaps she needed a tonic? Perhaps she should see Doctor Lovell? She had not felt her heart behaving in that odd jumpy way before.

  She sat for a few more moments, savouring the warmth of the kitchen, the cats' presence, and pondering upon the possibility of visiting Doctor Lovell.

  'Oh, drat doctors!' exclaimed Dotty at last, and wearily climbed the stairs.

  ***

  Most of Thrush Green's inhabitants had been disturbed in the night, but the morning dawned still and grey.

  A light mist veiled the distance, and the warm earth, thoroughly drenched by the night's heavy rain, caused a humidity which reminded Harold of his days in the tropics.

  Betty Bell, arriving like a whirlwind from Lulling Woods, gave a vivid account of the devastation caused in that usually comatose hamlet.

  'And my neighbour's nappies - well her baby's nappies, of course, but you know what I mean—was wrenched off of her line and went all which-ways. Why, one of'em blew into the pig sty! Think of that!'

  Harold, who was trying to read his post in the study, made suitable noises. Despite the fact that his wife now ran their house, Betty still sought him out as soon as she arrived, to keep him up to date with local affairs. It could be rather trying.

  'And they do say that o
ne of them poplars up the rec was struck. Felled to the ground, Willie Marchant told me, and all frizzled round the edges. When you think - it might have been you or me!'

  'I doubt if we should have been standing in the recreation ground at two in the morning,' commented Harold, slitting open an unpleasant looking envelope with OHMS on the corner.

  'I was going to pop in to see if Miss Harner was O.K., but I was a bit behindhand after collecting some flowerpots and a bucket and that what had been blown into our hedge. Still, I'll look in on the way home.'

  'That would be kind,' agreed Harold.

  'Well, I'm glad nothing happened here,' said Betty. 'No tiles off, nor trees broken and that. I'd best get on. Anything particular you want done? Windows, say, or silver?'

  'You'd better have a word with my wife,' said Harold.

  'I'll do that,' replied Betty, and vanished.

  Next door, Miss Fogerty found her charges unusually heavy-eyed. She had planned to teach them a charming little poem of Humbert Wolfe's, but gave up when she found them bemused from lack of sleep and a prey to sighs and yawns.

  Always a realist, she faced the fact that such a delightful poem deserved full attention, and at the moment something less intellectually demanding was called for.

  'Give out the modelling clay, George dear,' she told young Curdle. 'You can choose which you want to make. Either a basket full of different sorts of fruit, or a tea tray with cups and saucers, and something nice to eat on a big plate.'

  'And sugar lumps in a bowl?' asked Anne Cooke.

  'Of course. And don't forget the teaspoons.'

  There was a marked improvement in interest as the boards and glistening wet balls of clay were distributed.

  Miss Fogerty watched them attack their work, and smiled upon them.

  Baskets of fruit and tea trays were always good for twenty minutes at least, thought Agnes with satisfaction.