(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green Page 19

  'Do you know,' said Dimity, sitting down again, 'I feel quite faint. It must be the excitement. The room is swinging about.'

  Charles looked alarmed.

  'Stay there! I'll find a little brandy.'

  'No, no,' protested Dimity, 'I shall soon be all right. I really musn't start getting a taste for brandy. It's so expensive.'

  'Are you sure? Some water then?'

  'No, really,' said Dimity, sitting up straight. 'It has passed now. It was simply pure joy! It's heady stuff, isn't it?'

  The rector was looking at his letter again.

  'It is indeed. Now, Dimity, help me to compose a meet and proper answer to His Lordship for honours joyfully received.'

  Later that evening, Charles was in his study, writing a fair copy of his letter to the Bishop, when the telephone rang.

  Dimity, by the fire in the sitting room, wondered at the length of the conversation. Someone in sore trouble again, she supposed. But when Charles entered the room he was smiling.

  'That was Bruce Fairfax from the prep school. He has asked me to take Religious Instruction twice a week and I have agreed. He is glad of help and we shall be glad of some extra money.'

  Involuntarily, Dimity glanced towards the tall, draughty windows.

  'Yes, my dear,' said Charles. 'I think you can safely order some new curtains.'

  One blue and white March morning Willie Marchant, one of the postmen at Thrush Green, tacked purposefully up the hill from Lulling, causing alarm to various drivers going about their lawful occasions on the right side of the road.

  Willie ignored their shouted protestations, as usual, and dismounted at the rectory. A stub of cigarette exuded pungent fumes, killing temporarily the fragrance wafting from a clump of early narcissi.

  He opened the door of the rectory and collected half a dozen letters left there, and put the one he was carrying in their place.

  'Only one this morning,' called Dimity, when she went to collect the post. Charles was coming down the stairs.

  'But it is the one we've been waiting for,' said the new Rural Dean.

  He opened it hastily, and his pink face creased into a beam.

  'It's granted!' he said, with a gusty sigh of relief. 'The precious faculty itself ... to be deposited in the Church Chest. Now, at last after all our battles, we can go ahead!'

  On the last day of term, Miss Potter was presented with a set of silver coffee spoons (not a cradle) by Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty, and was given every felicitation for her future happiness.

  They were to live in Scarborough, said Miss Potter, and she hoped that they would call if they were ever in that neighbourhood. As the ladies were positive that they would never go so far afield, they were in a position to thank her effusively for the invitation, and Miss Potter departed in a cloud of cordial farewells.

  'Well,' said Miss Watson, turning into her classroom, 'I must spend half an hour tidying up here. I suppose you will be going over to your new domain, Agnes?'

  'I thought I would take the bulk of my things across,' agreed Miss Fogerty.

  'Come back when you've done,' said Miss Watson, 'and have tea with me. I've made a chocolate sponge to celebrate the end of term.'

  Miss Fogerty thanked her, and went into her old classroom to collect a large case of infant handwork which was to be transferred to the terrapin across the playground.

  The sun was hot on her head as she made her triumphal progress to the promised land. She dumped the case, and stood by the beautiful low window which would do so much to bring on the mustard and cress, the bean seeds and the bulbs, in the happy days ahead.

  The little valley leading to Lulling Woods shimmered in the spring sunshine. Somewhere a lark was singing, and in some distant field lambs bleated.

  Miss Fogerty sighed with happiness. Here she was – where she had longed to be. After all the struggles of the winter, peace had come with the spring.

  Miss Watson was tapping the school barometer when Miss Fogerty returned. It was a handsome mahogany piece left her by an aged uncle, and as it was too large for the school house it had taken up its abode in her classroom.

  'I must say,' said Miss Watson, peering at the instrument, 'it's pleasant to see the needle at 'Fair' after 'Stormy' and ' Rain' and 'Change' and all the other unsettled conditions we've had lately. Do you think Thrush Green will remain at 'Set Fair' for a time, Agnes?'

  'I have no doubt about it,' said little Miss Fogerty.