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  Isobel laughed. 'I promise you an answer before the end of the week, but I must get back and sort out some of this muddle. Oh, the misery of selling and buying houses!'

  'You know the way out now,' Harold pointed out.

  'You would never know,' replied Isobel, 'if I'd married you or the house.'

  'I'll take that risk,' Harold assured her.

  As always, the building activity at the Youngs' took considerably longer than had at first been imagined, despite Edward's daily exhortations.

  To be fair, the builders worked well, but there were interminable delays in getting materials from the suppliers which held up the proceedings.

  It was plain that the top flat was going to be ready before the stable block conversion, but even so it did not look as though the second bedroom would be ready in time for the Curdles' arrival in September.

  Joan wrote to let them know how things were, and was glad to hear that the negotiations for the sale of the fair to Dick Hasler were now almost completed. They would be selling their caravan home when they came to Thrush Green, wrote Molly, and the money would help them to furnish the flat.

  But, asked Molly, Ben could not bear to part with his grandmother's wooden gipsy caravan, and could they bring it with them? Would there be somewhere out of the way where it could stand? It might be quite a useful spare-room, and Ben would be very pleased if they would like to use it as such at any time in the future.

  Joan felt a surge of happiness when she read this. What could be better? Mrs Curdle's much-loved caravan had always been an important part of Thrush Green's life. May the first had been the highlight of the year, and it was only fitting that the caravan should return to its old haunt forever, and to stand close to the last resting place of its famous owner.

  'There's plenty of room in the orchard,' Edward said, when he heard about the proposal. He was as delighted as Joan to think of having the caravan at Thrush Green.

  So were their neighbours and friends. Winnie Bailey, in particular, welcomed the idea, remembering how old Mrs Curdle had visited her regularly every year.

  'It's so much part of Thrush Green history,' said the rector, summing up general opinion, 'that it's the only place for it. We shall all treasure it.'

  Nelly Piggott awaited an answer to her letter with some anxiety. For one thing, she wanted to take it from the postman as soon as it arrived. No one could accuse Albert of undue interest in the meagre correspondence which was slipped under the door, but he might well open a letter which was written by hand thinking it might be from Molly, who was about the only person who did write to him.

  Manilla envelopes, with typed addresses, were beneath his notice. They would either contain bills, or some other objectionable enclosures, which would be stowed, often unopened, behind the clock on the kitchen mantel shelf, for later perusal.

  Nelly was usually up first, and downstairs by the time Willie Bond delivered the post. If Willie Bond was on duty, he arrived whilst Nelly was on her own in the kitchen.

  But if the second postman, Willie Marchant, delivered the mail then he arrived a good half-hour later, and by then Albert was at large in the kitchen with her.

  A fortnight had passed and still there was no response from the oil man. Of course, Nelly told herself, he might be away. He might even have moved house, but in that case, surely he would have left an address at the Post Office, and his letters would have been forwarded.

  It was more likely, Nelly was bound to admit, that he did not consider a reply necessary, and did not intend to waste good money on a stamp for one who had upped and left him comparatively recently.

  'Can't blame him, I suppose,' said Nelly to Albert's cat, when Willie Bond had departed after leaving a seed catalogue addressed to Albert, the only item of mail.

  But it was worrying. It would be better to know the worst. It would be far better, Nelly told herself, to have a rude letter telling her what he thought of her, than this horrible silence.

  During this waiting period she had cleaned the house from top to bottom. Any object which could be assaulted with strong soda water, yellow soap and a stiff scrubbingbrush, had been so treated. Anything which could be polished, whether it were of metal, wood or glass, had been attacked mercilessly. Even the cat, once so thin, had been fattened with Nelly's good food, and was given a brisk brushing, and its ears cleaned out with oily cotton wool twisted into a serviceable radish shape.

  In between these frenzied spells of cleaning, Nelly took short walks. Sometimes, in order to get away from Albert, she took herself to Lulling and surveyed the shops, or called at the Job Centre, in case she would need to earn again. Sometimes, she strolled towards Lulling Woods, and once went as far as the Drovers' Arms and called on the Aliens, secretly hoping that there might be work for her there, if the oil man did not come up to scratch. But there was nothing there, as the Aliens made clear, softening the blow by giving her a cup of tea and Garibaldi biscuits, before she made the return journey.

  Albert was more melancholy than ever, and Nelly was beginning to wonder how much longer she could stand the suspense of waiting, and the tedium of her husband's nagging.

  When, one happy morning, Willie Marchant handed in the letter she had been waiting for, she was able to put it quickly into her overall pocket before Albert realised what was going on.

  When he had departed to his duties at St Andrew's, she opened the envelope. The letter was short and to the point:

  Dear Nelly,

  Come on back, you old faggot.

  Forgiven and forgotten.

  Love,

  Charlie

  Nelly could have wept with relief. There was a man for you! Big-hearted, took life as it came, willing to forget and forgive! She wouldn't leave him again in a hurry, that was sure! Why, he'd even put 'Love' at the end! No doubt about it, Charlie was one in a million!

  She sat down at the kitchen table and wrote back. Her letter was even more brief than Charlie's:

  Darling Charlie,

  Coming Wednesday,

  Best love,

  Your Nelly

  She had to walk down the hill to Lulling to buy a stamp, but she was too happy to mind. Normally, she found the return journey, up the steep hill, distinctly daunting, but on this occasion she sailed up it as blithely as a Lakeland fell climber.

  Life was about to start again for Nelly Piggott.

  At Barton-on-sea Agnes and Dorothy sat on the veranda of the small hotel, and admired the sea.

  It was still difficult for Dorothy to negotiate the steps nearest to the hotel, leading to the beach, and the weather was not as reliable as one could wish for a seaside holiday. The veranda gave them shelter from the wind, and all the sunshine that was available.

  'Besides, dear,' Miss Watson pointed out, 'here we are handy for our library books and knitting, or a cup of coffee, if we want it. And sand can be rather pervasive. Into everything, isn't it? But don't let me stop you, Agnes, if you want to have a walk along the beach. I'm quite happy here.'

  Agnes assured her that she was perfectly contented.

  'We'll have a little stroll along the cliff top later,' said Dorothy. 'Grass, is so much pleasanter to walk on than sand.'

  Miss Fogerty agreed automatically. It was wonderful to be here, taking in the fresh salt-laden air, feeling the warmth of the sun, and the comfort of Dorothy's presence. But her mind still fluttered round her problem, despite her determination to shelve it, as advised by dear Isobel and Charles Henstock. It was easier said than done.

  For two days now she had fought against the temptation to confide in her headmistress. Agnes had always found it difficult to keep anything from her. By nature she was not a secretive person, although she could be discreet with other people's confidences.

  She gazed out to the sparkling sea, watching the gulls swoop and scream, as they swerved for food being thrown to them by someone hidden from her sight below the cliff. Involuntarily, she sighed.

  Miss Watson was quick to notice.
/>   'Agnes dear, are you sure you want to sit here? Do say if you feel like doing anything else. I want this little holiday to be exactly as you want it. I shall feel most unhappy if I am holding you back.'

  'Indeed, Dorothy, I am doing just what I want,' cried Agnes.

  'But you don't seem quite yourself,' replied Dorothy solicitously. 'Are you quite well? Are you worried about anything? Surely you can tell an old friend any troubles?'

  Her kind face, peering so anxiously into that of her companion's, was Agnes Fogerty's undoing.

  The floodgates opened, and the whole pitiful story poured forth. Mr White's promotion, his pension, his savings, Mrs White's reluctance to tell her lodger, her tact in doing so, her past kindnesses, all flowed from Agnes in a stream of words, to which Dorothy listened with mingled pity and hope.

  'And so,' concluded Agnes, having recourse to one of her best Swiss handkerchiefs, 'I must look for something else. I didn't mean to tell you, you know. It isn't fair to unload my troubles on you when you are still convalescent.'

  Miss Watson took a deep breath of good sea air.

  'I don't consider myself convalescent any longer,' she said robustly. 'And you have taken a great weight off my mind.'

  'I have?' quavered Agnes.

  'You see, I dearly wanted to ask you if you would consider living permanently at the schoolhouse. There's nothing I should like more, but I feared you might feel I was in need and your unselfishness would prompt you to do something which perhaps you did not really want to do.'

  'Not really want to do?' echoed Agnes.

  'You must think it over,' went on Dorothy. 'I shall quite understand if you refuse. I know that your independence means a lot to you, and I respect that. I respect it very much.'

  Little Miss Fogerty returned her handkerchief to her pocket, and sat up very straight.

  'I don't need any time, Dorothy, to think it over. To live at the schoolhouse would please me more than anything in the world, if you're really sure.'

  'I've been really sure for months,' said Dorothy. 'And now I think we might celebrate in that cup of coffee, Agnes dear, if you can reach the bell.'

  At Thrush Green, Harold Shoosmith awaited Isobel's answer with anxious impatience. She had been gone for three days now, and he was sure that she would keep her promise and let him know within the week. But what a ghastly length of time that seemed!

  Neither Willie Bond, nor Willie Marchant, had ever seen him so swift to take in the letters. The telephone receiver was snatched from the cradle before it had time to ring twice, and Harold was remarkably short with those who rang up. After all, it might be the very moment that Isobel was trying to get through.

  Betty Bell noted his agitation with some sympathy and amusement.

  'I bet you miss Mrs Fletcher,' she remarked conversationally, over elevenses.

  Harold ignored the remark.

  'A real nice lady,' continued Betty, crunching a ginger biscuit. 'Miss Harmer was only saying yesterday as how it would be lovely to have her living here.'

  'Here?' interjected Harold. Was it so obvious?

  'In Thrush Green,' explained Betty. 'Or nearby. Everyone wants her back.'

  Not as much as I do, thought Harold, pushing back his chair.

  'Well, I must get on with my hedge-cutting,' said Harold, making his escape.

  It was Betty Bell who answered the telephone half an hour later.

  'Hang on,' she shouted cheerfully. 'I'll get him.'

  She hung out of the kitchen window.

  'Mrs Fletcher on the phone,' she yelled, and admired the speed with which her employer abandoned the shears and sprinted up the path.

  She would dearly have loved to listen to the conversation on the bedroom extension, but decided to retreat to the landing where, with any luck, she would be out of sight, and might hear at least one side of the proceedings.

  She had to wait some time, for there seemed to be a great deal said at the Sussex end, but at last her vigil was rewarded.

  'Oh, Isobel!' cried her employer. 'You darling! Yes, I'll be with you at twelve tomorrow, with a bottle of champagne.'

  There was another break, and then: 'I can't say all I want to, but I'll say it tomorrow. Yes, Betty's here, and listening too, I've no doubt. But who cares?'

  When a minute later he put down the telephone, Betty sauntered down the stairs with as convincing an air of innocence as she could muster.

  'Betty,' said Harold, his face radiant. 'I'm going to get married.'

  'Really, sir?'

  'To Mrs Fletcher,' said Harold.

  'We all said you would,' said Betty, picking up her duster.

  * * *

  Epilogue

  * * *

  Epilogue

  ONE golden October morning, Robert and Milly Bassett at last arrived at Thrush Green.

  The air was crisp and clear, and the sky that pellucid blue which only early autumn brings. The chestnut leaves were turning colour, and some had already fallen, spreading a glowing, crackling carpet beneath the trees.

  Over lunch, Joan had plenty to tell her parents. There were still several things to finish at their new home, and Joan insisted that they slept in the old house until she was satisfied that the new plaster had dried out.

  Otherwise, the stable block had become a charming one-storey house, sheltered by the Cotswold stone garden wall, and shaded by mature trees. Robert and Milly were delighted with it.

  'And how about Ben and Molly?' asked Milly. 'How's the new job going?'

  'Splendidly. He's so happy, and Tim Collet told Edward that he'll probably put him into a more responsible job when one of the older men leaves after Christmas.'

  'And Molly?'

  'As helpful as ever, and relieved to be near her father, of course, especially now that Nelly's left him.'

  'It's little George I want to see,' said Milly.

  'He's at school now, with Miss Fogerty. He was promoted to filling in the weather chart this week, so you can see he's happy enough!'

  The Hursts were back, Joan told them, and Frank had evidently made a great hit with his lecture tour, and had been invited to go again the following year.

  'But our most exciting news,' said Joan, when she poured the coffee, 'is of Harold Shoosmith. He's on his honeymoon at the moment, and you can guess the flutter his marriage made here.'

  'Better late than never,' pronounced Robert. 'And he couldn't have chosen more wisely.'

  Obedient to the directions of his wife and daughter, Robert went to lie down for an hour and, to his surprise, had a short nap. The journey must have tired him more than he realised.

  Much refreshed, he rose and made his way into the garden, and wandered among the falling leaves, admiring the Michaelmas daisies, the golden rod, and the velvet brilliance of the dahlias. It was a lovely time of year to come home, he thought, and sighed with pleasure.

  He turned into the orchard and caught his breath with delight. There, beneath a gnarled apple tree, stood dear Mrs Curdle's caravan. Joan had not mentioned this, and he went to investigate.

  It was in excellent trim. The paint was fresh, the brass polished, the minute windows sparkling.

  The top half of the door was open, and Robert could see that it looked just as he remembered it in Mrs Curdle's day. There was the shining stove, the framed text above it, and the gaudy counterpane smoothed over the bunk bed.

  It gave Robert enormous joy to see the little home again, and he was smiling as he retraced his steps.

  He went out of the open front gate and surveyed the scene.

  On his right was the village school. The younger children were already emerging from the new classroom at the back of the playground, George, no doubt, among them. In the distance, he could see little Agnes Fogerty, and waved to her.

  She waved back, and he thought what a splendid thing it was that she and Miss Watson had joined forces. Nothing like a little companionship as you grew older!

  Beside the school, Harold's house stood with its
windows closed, awaiting the return of its master and new mistress from the Greek islands.

  'And if Harold isn't showing his slides at a Women's Institute meeting next season, I'll eat my hat!' thought Robert, knowing his Thrush Green.

  His eyes wandered to the Two Pheasants where the hanging baskets still made a brave splash of colour. Across the expanse of grass, someone was moving among the stones in the graveyard at St Andrew's, where so many of Robert's old friends, including Mrs Curdle, rested forever.

  It looked like the rector, Robert thought, shading his eyes against the sinking sun, and he was about to walk across to greet him, when he heard the front door open behind him, and the sound of voices.

  Joan was accompanying Dotty Harmer to the gate, and he turned to greet his old friend, who looked, if anything, even more tattered than usual.

  She interrupted her flow of conversation just long enough to say how lovely it was to see him in his own surroundings, and then returned to her discourse.

  'Now, I can thoroughly recommend either of the two spaniels. Well, spaniel-types, I'd better say. Their tails leave much to be desired, but of course they may fill out as they grow. Both bitches, and a beautiful pale gold.

  'I wouldn't suggest the collie. He's going to be enormous, judging by his paws, and I'm trying Percy Hodge for him. I hear he wants another dog, and after all, it was his present collie that was the father. Or one of them,' added Dotty, strictly honest.

  'That leaves the black and tan terrier-type dog, and the shaggy little bitch. She's going to be most unusual, and highly intelligent too. So just think it over, Joan dear. I know whichever you choose will have a marvellous home.'

  'Can I bring Paul down to see them when he's home from school? It will really be his puppy. He misses his old dog terribly since she died last winter.'

  'Of course, of course.'

  She suddenly became conscious of Robert listening with quiet pleasure to the conversation.

  'Would you like a puppy, Robert? You'll have all the time in the world now, to train it.'