(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green Page 16

  It was delightful too to be taken everywhere by car. Not that Miss Fogerty was lazy, nor that she underestimated the well-being which results from healthy exercise, but in the depths of winter the taking of a brisk walk so often meant cold fingers and toes. It was true too, as Isobel said, that she was not feeling as well as she normally did, and to lean back in a comfortable car seat and watch the wintry world roll by, without any effort, was exceedingly pleasant.

  When the time came to depart she felt all the better for her rest, and tried to tell her friend how much the break had meant to her.

  'I've loved having you,' Isobel said, gazing up at the carriage window which framed Miss Fogerty's small face topped by a neat beige felt hat. 'Now, do as I say, and take a tonic while the winter lasts.'

  The train began to move.

  'And wrap up warmly,' cried Isobel more loudly. 'We're going to get a cold snap.'

  The two friends waved until a curve in the line separated them. Miss Fogerty pulled up the window, and sank back into her seat. She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. Emotion was one cause of this operation, but a piercing east wind was a greater one.

  Two hours later, as she trudged from the station through Lulling High Street, she shivered in the icy blast which swept that thoroughfare. It seemed colder still at Thrush Green at the top of the hill.

  She looked across at the school house. A light shone from the sitting-room window. No doubt Miss Watson was reading, or perhaps enjoying her tea by the fire. On other occasions, Miss Fogerty might have been tempted to tap on the door, but not now.

  She put down her case and rammed on the sensible felt hat more firmly. Only another few yards and she would be home again!

  She picked up her case and set off once more. With any luck, Mrs White would have a tea tray ready for her in her room. She could have the kettle boiling on the ring in less than five minutes.

  With a pang, Miss Fogerty recalled the log fire, the plump cushions, and the silver tea pot which had graced the tea time hour at Isobel's.

  Ah well! It would not do to become too fond of soft living, she told herself firmly, and after all, this was her home and all her dear familiar things would be there to welcome her.

  The first fat white snowflake, drifting as easily as a windblown feather, fluttered to the ground as she opened the gate. By the time the kettle boiled, the sky was awhirl with flakes, spinning past the window, veiling the garden, tumbling dizzily, helter-skelter, as though some gigantic feather bed had burst in the dark leaden sky above.

  Isobel was right, thought Miss Fogerty, sipping her tea gratefully. Wintry weather indeed, and from the look of things, more to come!

  Thrush Green awoke to a white world. The Cotswold stone walls were covered in snow four or five inches deep. The gateposts wore white tam-o'-shanters, and Nathaniel Patten held out his snow-covered book and gazed upon his birth-place from under a crown of snow.

  The green itself was a vast unsullied expanse. The wind had blown a great drift against the railings of St Andrew's church, so that only the spikes were visible. Their black zig-zag, and the dark trunks of the chestnut avenue, served to accentuate the dazzling whiteness of the scene.

  It was still snowing when the rector arose and went downstairs to make tea. His breath billowed before him in the chill of the house, and he was glad to gain the comparative warmth of the kitchen.

  The cat stretched, mewed, and leapt upon the table asking to be let out of the window. The rector gazed up at the whirling flakes. They fluttered against his face like icy moths. One fell into his open mouth, and he remembered suddenly how he used to rush about in the snow, as a child, catching the snow flakes on his tongue, and then how he had seized a handful from a wall and had crammed it into his mouth, spluttering excitedly, and crying: 'You can eat it! You can eat it!'

  How beautiful it was! He closed the window, and watched two sparrows alight on the roof of Dimity's bird tray. Their tiny claws formed hieroglyphics in the snow, like foreign letters printed on the virgin page.

  Beautiful indeed, thought the rector, fetching the teapot, but how cold! Perhaps he needed a thicker dressing gown. His present one had been given to him long ago by his dear first wife. No doubt twenty years of wear had worn it rather threadbare. He looked at the garment with unusual attention. The cuffs were certainly quite frayed, and he seemed to remember that the whole surface had once been fluffy. Now it was smooth, and almost worn through at the elbows. Well, it would probably last another few years, thought Charles cheerfully, advancing upon the boiling kettle.

  He was about to pick up the tray when the cat returned to the window sill demanding entry. Its coat was flecked with snowflakes, its eyes wild at finding itself in this unaccustomed element.

  It shot in, and ran to the stove, shaking itself spasmodically, and uttering little cries of dismay. Outside, the snow hissed sibilantly against the window pane, and a great cushion of it fell with a flurry from an overloaded branch nearby.

  Hitching up his dilapidated dressing gown, the rector lifted his tray and made for the stairs.

  The snow was still thick on the ground when term began. Miss Fogerty wore her Wellington boots and some extra thick ribbed woollen stockings. She also wore her spencer underneath her sensible brown twin-set, for she knew, only too well, how draughty Thrush Green School could be when the wind was in the north east.

  She had hoped that Miss Watson might call, but no doubt she was busy with preparations for the term, she thought charitably. In any case, the weather had not been very tempting, and most people had been glad to stay by the fireside.

  Although the memory of the bedjacket still had power to cause Miss Fogerty some unhappiness, the balm of Isobel's hospitality had taken some of the sting from the wound. It was no good dwelling on the affair, she told herself, as she trotted through the snow to school that first morning. We have to work together. We are two grown women, and we must treat the incident as closed.

  Nevertheless, she could not quite overcome her uneasiness at meeting Miss Watson again. Their last meeting, after all, had been so dreadfully painful. She listened for her headmistress's footsteps as she hung up her coat, and removed her wet Wellingtons. Her little black house shoes hung in their cretonne bag, inside the map cupboard, where she had placed them on that last disastrous day.

  She was buttoning the straps when Miss Watson entered. The headmistress held out a parcel wrapped in Christmas paper.

  'Much too late, Agnes dear, I'm afraid,' she said, smiling. 'I did call to give it to you, but I just missed you, so Mrs White told me. Had a good holiday?'

  Miss Fogerty was relieved to see the smile, and to realise that they were back – or nearly so – to their normal friendly relationship. It was a mercy not to have an emotional scene, and yet Miss Fogerty could not help thinking that it might have been even better if Miss Watson had shown some remorse for that unfeeling remark which had caused her assistant such misery. It would have been nice if Miss Watson had begged for forgiveness, and had recognised her own culpability. Not that she wanted her headmistress to grovel, but after all, it would have been truly heroic if she could have brought herself to apologise or to explain.

  However, thought Miss Fogerty, undoing the parcel with little cries of gratitude, perhaps 'Least said, soonest mended' was Miss Watson's motto, and a very sensible one too.

  'My favourite perfume!' cried Miss Fogerty. 'You couldn't have given me anything more welcome.'

  'Well, it isn't anywhere near as splendid a present as yours to me, Agnes, but I'm glad you like it.'

  The bell clanged outside.

  'Miss Potter's on time for once,' commented Miss Watson, and the two teachers hurried to greet their pupils in the lobby.

  Nothing more was said about the bedjacket, and Miss Fogerty resolutely put aside any little feelings of rancour as being quite unworthy of a sensible middle-aged schoolteacher.

  It was during this wintry spell that Frank and Phil Hurst went to visit the prep school a
t which Frank had been so happy.

  Phil resolved to enjoy the outing and to try and bring an open mind to the question of Jeremy's boarding. The sun came through now and again, lighting the snow into unbelievable beauty and casting blue shadows under the trees.

  They lunched on the way and drove up the long road to the school about two o'clock. A group of little boys in very large boots rushed about frenziedly between two sets of rugby posts, urged on by a hefty young man girt about with striped scarves.

  The boys, to Phil's pitying gaze, looked blue with cold and grossly underclad and underfed. But she was prudent enough to make no comment as they drove to the front door.

  A homely touch, which cheered her, was the sight of a splendid snowman on the lawn, also wearing a striped scarf, a dilapidated mortar-board, and a clay pipe. Some wag had thrust a stick, where his arm might be, to represent a cane.

  A pasty-faced maid, very short of breath, answered the door, and led the way, puffing, through a maze of corridors to the head's study at the back of the building.

  'Used to lead off the front hall,' observed Frank to his wife. 'Can't think why they take us all round this way.'

  'The old study's a staff room now,' volunteered the maid wheezily.

  She stopped at a door and knocked.

  'Come in,' came a shout.

  'Mr and Mrs Never-Caught-Your-Name,' announced the maid.

  The head welcomed them boisterously.

  'Frank Hurst,' said Frank, 'and my wife. I'm an old boy. We rang some time ago, you remember.'

  'Indeed, yes. Indeed, yes. So delighted you could come. My wife, unfortunately, has had to go to a meeting. Now, let me see...

  He began to shuffle papers on a very untidy desk. Phil sat back and looked around her. The passages which they had traversed had been somewhat grubby, she had noticed. This study was not much cleaner, and the head himself, though handsome once, no doubt, now looked in need of tidying up, she thought.

  His tie was greasy, his coat spotted, and his suede shoes needed brushing. Not a very good example to the boys! The only feature which brightened his appearance was a gold tooth, which dominated the conversation to such an extent, that Phil found herself making a strong effort to direct her gaze well above it into the head's eyes.

  After a few reminiscences Frank turned to the subject of Jeremy, entrance examinations, further schooling and present attainments.

  'And you must come and see how we live and work,' said the head. 'Mothers always like to see the kitchens and dormitories.'

  They followed him back through the labyrinth of corridors until they came to a fine oak staircase. It was badly splintered on the treads, and the banister felt sticky. Phil thought how sad it was to see such a splendid stairway so unloved. Once, it must have been a family's pride, suitably furnished with a fine carpet, and cared for with brush and dustpan and polish by a generation or so of devoted housemaids.

  They were shown into several dormitories. Bare boarded, apart from a single strip of thin carpet between the two rows of beds, and curtainless, they appeared to Phil unbelievably bleak. Red blankets did little to mitigate the cheerlessness and the sight of battered teddy bears and other much-loved toys on the beds, only added to the poignancy of the scene.

  'And this is matron's abode,' said the head leading the way through an elementary surgery-cum-bathroom to an inner sitting-room. Here an auburn-haired young woman hastily rose, and stubbed out a cigarette before greeting them.

  'Marjorie,' said the head, 'Mr and Mrs Hurst. Their boy David may be coming here.'

  'Jeremy,' said Phil automatically.

  The head laughed heartily, the gold tooth glinting.

  'Jeremy! Jeremy, of course.'

  'He'll love it here,' volunteered matron. 'They are all ever so happy, aren't they, Peter?'

  'I think we can say so,' agreed the head, 'I think we can say so.'

  Did he say everything twice, wondered Phil? What a perfect person for rude little boys to mimic!

  'Might have a day or two feeling a bit homesick at first,' admitted matron, stroking her well-filled mauve jumper while the head eyed her approvingly, 'but we soon jolly them out of that'

  'That's true. That's very true,' agreed the head.

  They were led on their tour. The classrooms were large and shabby. The desks were well-carved, the easels splintered, the blackboards needed resurfacing and over all hung the indefinable smell of boy – a fatty, sweaty, chalky smell.

  They went out into the snowy wastes to look at the workshop, the gym, the swimming pool and the new half-built pavilion. The little boys had finished their games session and now ran past them, tumbling about together like puppies, sniffing with the cold, hitting each other playfully.

  'Sir!' they shouted, when they saw the head, as they passed. Their breath blew around their heads in silver clouds. One or two smiled at Phil, some so young that their front milk teeth had gone. Their gappy smiles made her think of Jeremy, with a sharp pang.

  They returned to the car.

  'You'll have some tea?' invited the head, but Phil said that they had such a long journey that she felt they had better not stay longer.

  'The playroom?' said Frank suddenly. 'What's happened to the playroom?'

  'We use it as a science lab now,' said the head. 'Needed the space, you know.'

  They made their farewells, the head's gold tooth flashing in the winter sunlight, and drove homeward.

  'Gone to seed a bit,' said Frank thoughtfully.

  Phil did not reply. She had found the whole visit thoroughly depressing. It only strengthened her conviction that Jeremy would be better off at home.

  They drove in silence for a mile or two.

  'Of course, we saw it at its worst,' continued Frank. 'Always looks grim – a school in winter.'

  They drove through a small town. The snow had been swept into two grubby mountain ranges, one each side of the main street.

  'Didn't take to the head particularly,' went on Frank. 'But there, no one would come up to our old man! Rough luck having to follow him, really, Mustn't make comparisons.'

  Dear Frank! Phil was suddenly amused at this display of mingled honesty, generosity and fair-mindedness.

  After all, wasn't it for just such qualities that she had married him? She began to feel more hopeful about Jeremy's future. Frank was obviously having second thoughts.

  19 Dotty In Court

  MR Jones, the landlord of "The Two Pheasants", was as good as his word. Soon after six one evening, within a week of Charles Henstock's visit, he rang the bell at the rectory.

  Charles opened the door himself and found himself facing not only the landlord, but also Percy Hodge.

  'Come in, gentlemen,' said Charles, leading the way to his study.

  'Take a seat, and let me get you some refreshment.'

  'Not for me, thanks,' said Mr Jones.

  'Nor me,' said Mr Hodge.

  The rector's heart sank a little. Had he further antagonised them by calling upon them earlier?

  'We've come about the graveyard business,' said Mr Jones, coming straight to the point. 'I promised to turn it over in my mind.'

  'Indeed, yes. And what is your decision?'

  'I thought I'd have a word with Perce here,' said the landlord, refusing to be hurried.

  'Very sensible.'

  'And Perce and I had a good sit-down talk about it, didn't we?'

  'That we did,' said Percy. 'We fairly thrashed it out.'

  'And in the end,' continued Mr Jones, 'we decided that the place is a proper eyesore as it is.'

  'Disrespectful too,' added Percy.

  They sat back with an air of finality, and the rector's heart sank still further.

  'It is indeed,' he agreed. 'That's why we felt something should be done.'

  'Yes. We saw that,' said Percy. 'I said to Bill here: "That's a fair eyesore, that graveyard, and something's got to be done about it." Didn't I?'

  'You did, Perce.'

  'Good,' sai
d the rector faintly. He was beginning to feel slightly dizzy.

  'So we came to the conclusion that provided our family graves were left alone we'd agree to the levelling and general tidying-up, like you said.'

  Charles Henstock gave a great sight of relief. To his surprise and shame, he felt tears pricking his eyes. He had not realised how deeply he felt about the matter until now.

  'My dear Mr Jones, I can't tell you how grateful I am!'

  He turned to Percy Hodge.

  'And to you too, Mr Hodge. This is a most generous and public-spirited gesture. I shall certainly see that the graves in that corner remain as they are.'

  'What about Mrs Cleary's?' asked Percy.

  'She is away at the moment,' said Charles, 'but I propose to call on her within the next day or two, as soon as she is back.'

  He remembered something suddenly.

  'And what about your two men?'

  'They're agreeable,' said Percy shortly. The rector decided not to press the matter now, but to have a word in private with Percy's employees later.

  Mr Jones stood up.

  'Well, sir, I'm glad you're pleased. We didn't want to be awkward, and now we know our people won't be disturbed, we're quite content. I must be off now. I've left the wife in charge of the bar, and we'll be getting busy soon.'

  The rector shook hands with his two parishioners, and took them to the door.

  The night was still and icy-cold. The wide-spread pall of snow reflected a little light.

  'I'll be at church next Sunday,' said Percy gruffly, ramming on his cap.

  'I am thankful,' said Charles sincerely, raising a hand in farewell.

  Later that evening, the rector crunched across the snow to tell Harold Shoosmith the good news. The moon was rising, a splendid golden full one, glinting on the snow and throwing the dark trees into sharp relief.