(6/13) Gossip from Thrush Green Page 18

  'Ah!' agreed Harold, 'that certainly sounds as though he means business. I hope you all approve at Lulling Woods?'

  'Well, he could do a lot worse. She's a hefty lump, anu can turn her hand to helping on the farm, I'm sure. Clean too, and cooks quite nice. Not as good as Percy's Gertie, I don't suppose. She was famous for her pastry and sponges. But still, this Doris can do a plain roast, they tell me, and is a dab hand at jam making. She should do very nicely, we reckon.'

  'I'm glad she's approved,' said Harold gravely, 'and I hope that Percy will soon be made happy.'

  He nodded towards the cleaner.

  'Finished in here?'

  'I wondered if you'd like your windows done. They look pretty grimy from your tobacco smoke.'

  'Better leave them,' said Harold, deciding to ignore the side swipe at his pipe. 'No doubt Mrs Shoosmith will tell you the most urgent jobs.'

  'Come to think of it,' said Betty, trundling the cleaner towards the door, 'she's waiting for me to help turn the beds. It flew right out of my head with you chatting away to me.'

  She vanished before Harold could think of a suitable retort.

  That same afternoon, Ella Bembridge left her cottage to post a letter at the box on the wall at the corner of Thrush Green.

  It was warm and still, and she was just wondering if she would take a walk along the lane to Nidden to call on Dimity and Charles when she saw her old friend approaching along the avenue of chestnut trees.

  Dimity was on the same errand with a half a dozen letters in her hand.

  'Coming back with me?' enquired Ella, after their greetings.

  'I mustn't, Ella. I've a nice joint of bacon simmering away, so I can't be long. Charles has gone sick visiting at Nidden.'

  'Well, let's sit down for a minute or two here,' replied Ella, making her way to one of the public seats generously provided for exhausted wayfarers at Thrush Green. 'Heard any more about your housing plans?'

  Dotty looked perturbed.

  'Not really, but Charles had a letter this morning confirming these rumours about amalgamating the parishes.'

  'First I've heard of it,' announced Ella. 'What's it all about?'

  'Well, Anthony Bull's two parishes of Lulling and Lulling Woods are to be merged with Charles's Thrush Green and Nidden.'

  'Good heavens! Anthony will have a massive parish to work, won't he?'

  'It looks like it.'

  Ella suddenly became conscious of Dimity's agitation.

  'And what happens to Charles?'

  'Nobody knows. All the letter gave was the news that the four parishes would be merged.'

  'Do you think this is the reason for not hearing about rebuilding the rectory?'

  'It looks very much like it. I simply can't get Charles to do anything about it, although I've done my best to press him to make enquiries. We really ought to know where we stand. It is all most worrying. I'm so afraid he will now be moved. If it is too far from Lulling and Thrush Green, as it might well be, I shall be so lost without all our old friends.'

  Dimity sounded tearful, and Ella patted her thin hand comfortingly.

  'Cheer up, Dim! Worse troubles at sea! You'll probably hear in a day or two that building's beginning on the old spot over there, and you'll have a spanking new place to live in.'

  'Somehow I don't think so. I'm afraid any spanking new place we have to live in will be miles away.'

  She blew her nose forcefully, and jumped to her feet.

  'Well, it's been a comfort to talk to you, Ella, as always, but I must get back to the bacon. You shall be the first to know if we hear anything definite.'

  She hurried away across the green, and Ella returned more slowly and thoughtfully to her own house.

  As it happened, it was Edward Young, the architect, who heard more about the empty site at Thrush Green.

  The rumour reached him by way of an acquaintance who was on one of the planning committees.

  'About eighteenth hand,' Edward told Joan, 'so one takes it with a pinch of salt, but I think there's something brewing all right. Evidently, the Church is putting it on the market and the local council would like to buy it.'

  'But what for?'

  'Well, it's only a small area, but this chap seemed to think that a neat little one-storey unit of, say, four or six houses for old people might be put there. Actually, he said there were plenty of tottering old bods at Thrush Green that could do with them.'

  'He's not far wrong,' commented Joan.

  'Or perhaps a health clinic. I think that's a better idea myself. The one at Lulling's had its day, and it's a long way to walk there. Particularly if you are pregnant like our Molly.'

  'It would certainly be useful,' said Joan. 'Which do you think it will be?'

  'My dear good girl, don't ask me! You know what these rumours are. But I'm pretty sure he's right about the site being sold. And we'll keep a sharp eye on what gets put up on it, believe me. We've had our years of penance with that eyesore of a Victorian rectory. I hope our children will see something less horrific in its place one day.'

  The day of Dorothy and Agnes's departure to Barton dawned bright and clear. The taxi had been ordered for ten o'clock to take them to Lulling Station, and the pair were up early.

  Harold and Isobel called to collect the key and to get last minute directions as they had offered to keep an eye on their next-door neighbours' property.

  They had been told about the proposed house-hunting and were full of good advice. Both Isobel and Harold had gone through this exhausting experience within the last few years, and did not envy the two ladies. But they heartily endorsed Miss Watson's desire to retire at the age of sixty, although they wondered if her successor would be quite so good a neighbour. Time would tell.

  Meanwhile, they urged them to enjoy their break, promised to look after the premises, and waved them on their way.

  'I shall miss Agnes dreadfully,' said Isobel, as they returned to their garden. She means a lot to me.'

  'It only takes an hour or so to drive to Barton,' replied Harold. 'We'll make a point of visiting them as often as you like.'

  Naturally, the Shoosmiths said nothing about Miss Watson's future plans, but nevertheless it was soon common knowledge in Thrush Green that she was going to retire and planned to live elsewhere.

  'We shall miss them both,' Winnie Bailey said to Frank and Phil Hurst. Miss Watson's been a marvellous headmistress, and dear little Agnes is a real institution. It won't be easy to replace two such dedicated women.'

  'Well,' said Frank, 'they're doing the right thing to get away while they still have their health and strength.'

  'And sanity!' quipped Phil. 'At times Jeremy alone drives me mad. How they can cope with dozens of them round them all day beats me.'

  'They finish at four,' said Frank. 'And look at the holidays they get!'

  'They certainly do not finish at four,' said Winnie firmly. 'I've often seen the light on at the school and I know those two have been getting something prepared for next day. I wouldn't want their job for all the tea in China.'

  Comment at The Two Pheasants was less complimentary.

  'Time old Aggie packed it in,' said one. 'Why, she taught my mum as well as me! Must be nearly seventy.'

  'But Miss Watson don't look that age! Mind you, she's no beauty, but she've kept the colour of her hair, and still hobbles about quite brisk with that bad leg of hers.'

  'Living at Bournemouth, I hear.'

  'I heard it was Barton.'

  'Well, somewhere where all the old dears go. Bet that'll cost 'em something to find a house in those parts.'

  And this gloomy prognosis gave them a pleasurable topic for the rest of the evening.

  Meanwhile, the two holiday-makers were finding the property was indeed expensive, especially of the type they had in mind.

  The house agents who attended to them all pointed out, with depressing unanimity, the fact that most retiring people wanted just such a place as they were seeking, small, easily-run,
with a view, but not too much garden.

  'Of course, people come from all over England, and particularly from the north, to enjoy our milder climate,' said one exquisitely dressed young man. There are always plenty of clients—usually elderly - who are waiting for something suitable. It won't be easy to find you exactly what you want.'

  This was the fifth estate agent's they had visited that day. Dorothy's feet hurt, and her temper was getting short.

  'I imagine that these elderly clients of yours die fairly frequently,' she said tartly.

  The young man looked startled.

  'Well, of course, in the fullness of time they er—pass on.'

  'In which case there must be vacancies cropping up,' pointed out Miss Watson. 'You know what we are seeking. Please keep us informed.'

  She swept out before the young man could reply, followed by her equally exhausted friend.

  'No more today, Agnes,' she said. 'Let's go back to the hotel for a cup of tea, and I will write a few postcards when we've had a rest. Isobel and Harold were absolutely right. House-hunting needs a great deal of stamina.'

  After tea, the two sat on the veranda with their tired legs resting on footstools. Agnes was busy knitting a frock for Molly Curdle's expected baby and Dorothy busily filled in her postcards.

  'I shall send one to Ray and Kathleen,' she said, sorting through half a dozen on her lap. 'So much easier than writing them a letter which, in any case, they don't deserve. Still, I should like them to know our plans. What about this one of the sunset? Or do you think they would like this clump of pine trees?'

  Agnes, sucking the end of her knitting needle, gave both pictures her earnest attention.

  'I think the sunset,' she decided.

  Dorothy nodded, and set to work, as Agnes returned to counting her stitches. She wrote:

  Very much enjoying a few days here. Good weather and comfortable hotel.

  'Also looking for a house, as I am planning to retire next year. Agnes joins me in sending

  Love,

  Dorothy'

  'There,' said she, thumping on a stamp, 'that should give them something to think about. I've two more to do, and then perhaps we might walk along to the pillar box if you are not too tired.'

  'I should like to,' said Agnes, obliging as ever. I have only to finish my decreasing and I shall be ready.'

  The two ladies bent again to their tasks, while overhead the gulls wheeled and cried, and a refreshing breeze from the sea lifted their spirits.

  18. Help Needed

  DOTTY Harmer returned to her cottage after ten days with Winnie Bailey. To everyone's relief, Connie came to Lulling Woods each week, staying overnight and seeing that the larder was stocked, the laundry done and that Dotty was taking her pills.

  Albert Piggott, of his own volition, offered to continue to milk Dulcie. The two had become very fond of each other, and whether the free milk, enjoyed by Albert and his fast-fattening cat, had anything to do with the arrangement, no one could say, but everything worked out well for everybody.

  Betty Bell called in each morning on her way to work, and often on her return, and Ella and the Henstocks called frequently.

  It was not the ideal arrangement, for it was quite apparent that Dotty needed a constant companion, but it was the best that the community could devise for someone as independent and headstrong as Dotty. They were aware that Connie was keeping a sharp eye on things, and knew that she would come to the rescue if need be.

  Meanwhile, Dotty began to put into practice some of the good resolutions she had made in the hospital. Within a month of her return, the ducks had been dispatched and their remains rested in the deep freezer of the Lulling butcher. Jeremy was the doting owner of two rabbits: ('Of the same sex, please Phyllida had begged), and although Paul Young could not take on any more pets as he was now away at school during term time, he knew someone in Lulling who would give two more rabbits a kind home. Some of the more elderly chickens ended their lives humanely and became boiling fowls for Dotty's friends, and very soon the animal population at Dotty's home was halved.

  She was philosophical about these changes, and also did her best to feed herself more adequately. She had promised Doctor Lovell that she would sit down at midday to eat a meal.

  'Even if it is only a boiled egg and some milky coffee,' he told her. 'You'll be back in hospital if you neglect yourself. And after the meal, you are to lie down on the bed for a full hour. Understand?'

  The threat of hospital kept Dotty obedient to his demands, although she found it a terrible waste of time. But gone were the days, she realised, when she chewed an apple for lunch as she stood by the stove stirring the chicken's mash.

  Lying down on her bed seemed even worse—positively sinful to be so slothful. However, she found that she frequently fell asleep during her enforced rest, and so grudgingly admitted that young Doctor Lovell must be speaking the truth when he said that she would be bound to tire easily for some time.

  Still, she told herself, with every day that passed she must be getting stronger, and with Albert to manage Dulcie, and kind friends rallying to her support, she told herself that everything would be back to normal in no time.

  Albert Piggott's daughter, Molly Curdle, was particularly pleased to see the improvement in her father's health.

  'You know,' she said to Ben one evening, 'it's not just the milk that's setting him up. It's having a job that he likes.'

  'Well, it certainly seems to suit the old boy,' agreed Ben.

  'And I've a feeling he'd be better off helping out with animals round here somewhere, than trying to keep the church going.'

  'It'd be ideal. I know he don't really pull his weight as sexton, and never has, to tell the truth. But these days some of the work's too heavy for the old chap. I wondered if we might have a word about it with Mr Henstock. What d'you think?'

  Ben looked thoughtful.

  'Best have a talk to your Dad first in case he cuts up rough. Might think you're interfering. But if he don't mind, I'll speak to the rector. I reckon he might be pleased to get someone to take proper care of the church and graveyard. At the moment they're both a shocking sight. Coke crunching underfoot whenever you walk in church, and weeds up to your knees round the graves. It must vex the rector, and plenty'd complain, but you know Mr Henstock! Too good by half!'

  'I'll speak to Dad this week,' promised Molly.

  To her relief, Albert agreed with uncommon docility that the work was too much for him, and that he would welcome some help. He was not quite so keen to accede to Molly's suggestion that more work with animals might be found, if he liked the idea.

  'Depends what sort of animals,' he said. 'I ain't going to Percy Hodge's, for instance, to muck out his cow shed. That'd be jumpin' from the frying pan into the fire. But I don't mind helping out with pets like Miss Harmer's.'

  'Well, I'm sure Mr Henstock will have some ideas,' said Molly hastily. 'Ben might mention it when he sees him.'

  Charles Henstock was as pleased as Molly at the turn of events. For a long time he had realised that his curmudgeonly sexton and caretaker was not doing the job satisfactorily. He had hesitated to call him to account for two reasons. First, was there anyone else willing to take on the work, and second, would Albert be hurt to be thought incapable of carrying on?

  With Ben's disclosures it was plain that the second difficulty was overcome. If Albert were given the lighter duties, such as sweeping, dusting and cleaning the silver and brass-work, then the outside duties in the graveyard, and the heavy work of keeping the boiler filled with coke, could be offered to a younger and more energetic man.

  'The snag is,' said Ben, voicing the rector's fears, 'there don't seem to be many suitable chaps available. Of course, Bobby Cooke has given our Dad a hand now and again in the past—but them Cookes—' His voice trailed away.

  The rector replied cheerfully.

  'Well, I know that the Cookes as a family do tend to be a little feckless, but Bobby as the eldest child was al
ways more reliable. Poor Mrs Cooke had so many children, and so fast, you know, that I think the later arrivals were somewhat neglected.'

  No one, thought Ben, could have put the Cookes' case so kindly as the rector. On the whole, the tribe was dismissed as dirty, dishonest and a disgrace to Nidden and Thrush Green.

  'And I happen to know,' went on the good rector, 'that poor Bobby Cooke was made redundant - if that is the correct expression—last week, from the corn merchant's. He may be glad to take on some of Albert's duties. I could certainly find out.'

  'I'm sure you'll do what's right, sir,' said Ben. 'It would be a great weight off our shoulders if we could see the old man settled.'

  'I shall do my best,' said Charles. 'And how is Molly keeping? When is the baby due?'

  'Around Christmas,' Ben said.

  'Ah! Then I shall look forward to a christening in the New Year. Another little Curdle to greet! We still remember your wonderful grandmother here, Ben.'

  'I never forget her. Never for a day,' replied Ben soberly.

  And Charles Henstock knew that this serious young fellow was speaking the truth.

  After a remarkably dry summer, the latter part of August turned cold and wet.

  Luckily, the bulk of the corn crop was gathered in, and although strongly denied by the local farmers it had been a good year.

  Not, of course, that this made the farmers happy. A good harvest meant that prices would be low, and that ruin faced them. A poor harvest meant that they had little to sell and so, equally, ruin faced them. Farmers have always had hard lives.

  'No good trying to please 'em,' declared Albert in The Two Pheasants. 'If the weather's right for the turnips, it's all wrong for the wheat. And if the sun shines for hay-making, it's too dry for the kale to grow. Farmers is kittle-cattle, to my way of thinking. Always on the moan.'

  'He can talk,' observed one to his neighbour, but he said it behind his hand. 'Is that what Percy Hodge does?' he enquired more loudly. 'Moan, I mean?'