Christmas At Thrush Green Read online

  ‘Wretched pigeons,’ he muttered.

  Nathaniel Patten had been a Thrush Green boy, born when Queen Victoria was on the throne. As a young man, he had gone to Africa as a missionary and had set up a church, a mission hall, a school and the beginnings of a medical centre. Thrush Green still kept in close touch with the African village, and it was Harold who annually organized a fund-raising function of some kind, and ensured that the proceeds were sent to the current administrators of the little hospital.

  When he had worked in Africa, he had lived near the small community and admired their hard work and constant cheerfulness. On his return on England and looking for somewhere to retire, he thought where better than the village where Nathaniel Patten had been born? He was delighted that a house on the green, next to the school, had been for sale and quickly bought it. The house had been built at the turn of the nineteenth century for a retired colonel from the Indian Army, and Harold felt that the building would now feel at home with a retired businessman from Africa.

  The garden had been a jungle when he arrived and he set to with billhook and shears and soon discovered there was immense satisfaction in clearing the rampant undergrowth. He found childish pleasure in the subsequent bonfires and, ever since, looked forward to the autumn chores of cutting down the garden plants and raking up the leaves in order to have a deliciously pungent burn. The evenings would be drawing in, and he would often pull back the sitting-room curtains to see the soft glow of the day’s bonfire at the far end of the garden.

  ‘Hello, darling!’ he called now as he shut the front door behind him. ‘What’s for lunch? I’m starving!’

  His wife, Isobel, came out of the kitchen to greet him, and helped him off with his overcoat. ‘I thought you might have had something in Lulling when you were down there. You’re a bit later than you said you’d be.’

  ‘It’s so windy it took much longer than usual to get up the hill,’ Harold replied. ‘It was almost a case of two steps forward and one step back! Are you saying there’s no lunch?’

  ‘Of course not!’ replied Isobel. ‘I’ll rustle something up in a jiffy. You go and sit down and have ten minutes with the paper.’

  Harold went into the sitting-room, and sank gratefully into his favourite chair. He was indeed a most fortunate man to have found Isobel to be his wife so late in life. They had met when Isobel, recently widowed, had come to stay with an old college friend, Agnes Fogerty, who at the time was one of the teachers at Thrush Green School. When Harold learned that Isobel was planning to return to the Cotswolds where she had lived as a child, he offered to drive her round to look at the various houses for which the estate agents had sent particulars - most of them totally unsuitable, they both agreed. However, Isobel returned to Sussex without finding what she wanted.

  After she had gone, Harold realized how much he missed her and the weeks went by very slowly until Isobel returned the following summer to start house-hunting again. Harold was determined not to let the grass grow under his feet a second time and without delay he asked Isobel to marry him. Although her friend Agnes Fogerty had retired, moving to Barton-on-Sea where she shared a house with the school’s old head-mistress, Dorothy Watson, Isobel had made friends quickly with many of the Thrush Green residents.

  Harold was brought out of his reverie by his wife calling, ‘Lunch is ready!’ He put his newspaper aside - the crossword would have to wait - and went eagerly to the kitchen.

  Harold had been right about Albert Piggott. He was definitely feeling his age, and grunted loudly as he pulled himself up onto his regular bar stool.

  ‘What’s all that noise about, then?’ asked Mr Jones, the landlord of The Two Pheasants, reaching for the tankard that Albert particularly favoured.

  ‘It’s that dratted wind,’ grumbled Albert. ‘Gets right into me bones.’

  ‘As does the rain, you’re always tellin’ us,’ said Percy Hodge, the local farmer who was sitting further along the bar.

  ‘And you don’t much like it when it’s very hot, neither,’ added another regular, putting down his paper where he’d been studying the form for the afternoon’s racing.

  ‘In fact,’ said Mr Jones, pushing the tankard brimming with dark ale across the counter towards Albert, ‘you aren’t happy unless you’re grumbling about something.’

  Albert Piggott was an arch-moaner, and was the regular butt of well-meant cracks from his drinking cronies.

  ‘Is there anythin’,’ took up Percy Hodge, ‘that would make you happy, and put a smile on that grumpy ol’ face of yours?’

  Albert didn’t answer, but drank deeply from his tankard. Then he wiped a grubby sleeve across the froth that had lodged itself on his unattractive upper lip, and turned to face his companions.

  ‘There’s one easy answer to that! Retire! I’ve ’ad enough of diggin’ and cuttin’ and mowin’. And I’ve certainly ’ad quite enough of clearin’ up after folks what dumps their litter in the churchyard. You should’ve seen it this mornin’! Plastic bags, paper, heaven knows what else. And I only cleared it right through last Friday.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that the wind had something to do with it,’ said Mr Jones, looking out of the leaded windows of the pub. ‘I saw one of the bins had been knocked over, and there was litter flying all over the place. With the wind in this direction, it’s bound to end up in the churchyard. Stands to reason.’

  ‘Well, reason or not, I’ve ’ad enough,’ mumbled Albert, and took another huge gulp of beer.

  ‘Are you serious?’ asked Percy Hodge. Percy was a respected member of the Thrush Green community. He was a churchwarden and a member of the Parochial Church Council. ‘You moan so much, it’s hard to tell when you actually mean it.’

  ‘Well, this time I’m serious,’ replied Albert. ‘After all, I don’t need to work at all cos Nelly is doing awright - good girl,’ he added somewhat surprisingly. He didn’t often praise his wife.

  ‘When I passed the caff the other day,’ said the third person drinking at the bar, ‘it looked fit to burstin’. Must be doin’ well.’

  ‘Hey, less of the caff, Joe,’ said Albert rather crossly. ‘It’s The Fuchsia Bush to you, and it’s no caff. It’s a tea-shop!’

  ‘Sorry, I’m sure,’ replied Joe, turning away so Albert shouldn’t see his grin. It was very unusual to hear the old moaner being so supportive of his wife. ‘Want ’alf a pint in there, then?’

  Albert pushed the tankard across the counter. ‘Thanks, Joe, don’t mind if I do. Got young Cooke coming over this afternoon so I can take it easy while ’e does all the work.’ Albert laughed, which was a mistake since it set off a spasm of coughing. He’d always had a troublesome chest that, together with peptic ulcers, had put him into hospital more times than he cared to remember.

  ‘You needs to watch your bronichals,’ remarked Joe, leaning back to avoid any germs that might be heading in his direction.

  ‘They’ll be awright,’ replied Albert when he’d caught his breath. ‘They’ll be just fine when I retires.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Fuchsia Bush Blooms

  The person who Albert Piggott was expecting to provide for his old age after he retired, his long-suffering wife Nelly, had her hands covered with flour as she was in the process of making scones. At this time of year, these were always a great favourite, served warm with a thick spread of butter and a choice of jam that she bought from the Women’s Institute stall at Lulling’s Wednesday market. She knew she could get cheaper jam but good jam made all the difference and people appreciated that she supported the local WI branch.

  ‘Home-made Scones’ said the little printed notice propped up against the large plateful on the counter, ‘served with locally made jam’.

  During the summer, when it was sunny and hot, she would serve the scones with whipped cream (made by Percy Hodge who had a fine herd of dairy cows) with strawberry jam. The notice then read: ‘Home-made Scones, served with locally made cream and strawberry jam’.

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nbsp; As she rubbed the butter into the flour, she let her gaze wander across her pristine kitchen. Never let it be said that there was a speck of dirt in Nelly Piggott’s kitchen at The Fuchsia Bush. There was a large hatchway in the middle of the far wall, and through it she could see Gloria was hard at work. Goodness how things had changed over the last couple of years!

  Nelly had had a somewhat chequered life, but that was all in the past. Suffice to say she set her cap at Albert Piggott at a time when he seemed to be at a particularly low ebb. Despite his protestations, she scrubbed and polished his little cottage next to The Two Pheasants until it was gleaming, and cooked him the most mouth-watering dinners. When therefore she suggested she make her presence a permanent arrangement, he found himself agreeing and they were married in the church on the green. The marriage had had its up and downs for both of them but Albert had to admit that when she returned to him after a liaison away with Charlie the oilman, he was thankful to see the untidy and dirty cottage put to rights, and his nose wrinkled with pleasure at the smell of her steak and kidney pie coming out of the oven.

  After a few unsatisfactory jobs, Nelly was taken on as a cook at The Fuchsia Bush by Mrs Peters who had been the tea-shop’s proprietor for many years. Mrs Peters soon recognized that Nelly was a great asset and acted quickly to ensure that she was not prised away by any other establishment in the High Street. She made Nelly a non-financial partner, leaving her to produce all the food while she herself concentrated on the business side of things. ‘That suits me,’ Nelly said. ‘I might be able to cook but I be hopeless at sums.’

  It had come as a great shock when, just over two years earlier, Mrs Peters’s health had suddenly deteriorated and, after a distressing illness, she had died. For once, Nelly’s usual brash cheerfulness let her down: what would happen to the business now? The people who bought it would probably bring their own staff or, worse, they would close down the tea-shop and turn the premises into yet another hairdressing salon. The Fuchsia Bush was in a prime position in Lulling’s High Street.

  But Nelly underestimated the high opinion her employer had of her. Having no direct relatives of her own, Mrs Peters left the whole business, lock, stock and cake plates, to a completely stunned Nelly.

  Mr Venables, the more-or-less retired Lulling solicitor who had always looked after Mrs Peters’s affairs, told Nelly that she was not to worry at all about the business side of The Fuchsia Bush; perhaps Mrs Peters had told him about Nelly’s protestations that she ‘be no good at sums’. In due course, Mrs Border was appointed to look after the ordering and the accounts. This efficient woman in her early thirties wanted a part-time job so she could spend more time with her young children. Nelly and Clare Border got on well together, neither interfering with the other’s side of the business.

  During the heyday of Mrs Peters’s and Nelly’s partnership, they had expanded the business to handle some outside catering. To begin with, this was local catering - small wedding breakfasts and birthday celebrations - but that section of the business had grown fast as word got round that The Fuchsia Bush provided excellent food at reasonable prices. Not very long before Mrs Peters was taken ill, they had separated the catering business from The Fuchsia Bush and had brought in a highly competent manageress to run the catering side. When Nelly inherited her legacy from Mrs Peters, she was thankful that she didn’t have that to look after as well.

  Nelly had now finished gently kneading the dough for the scones and concentrated while she cut out 2½-inch rounds and placed them on a huge baking tray. She had some time to spare while they cooked so she made herself a mug of coffee and gave herself the luxury of taking her not inconsiderable weight off her feet. Sipping her coffee, she continued to think back to the events that took place after she had become sole owner of The Fuchsia Bush.

  It was the following July that Nelly heard that the lease of the ground floor of the premises on one side of the tea-shop was for sale. She was secretly pleased that the shop that had been selling what she considered to be less than useful or even pretty knick-knacks was closing down.

  ‘I can’t understand why they thought they could make a go of it in the first place,’ Nelly said to her friend, Mrs Jenner. They still managed to meet once a week for a game of Bingo in one of Lulling’s community halls. ‘Apart from anything, why would anyone even go into a shop with such a silly name as “Little Pressies”!’ She snorted, her bosom heaving in indignation.

  Mrs Jenner agreed that she would not. ‘Are you worried what might replace it, though?’ she asked. ‘The devil you know and all that.’

  The two women were walking back up the steep hill to Thrush Green, and Nelly used her friend’s question as an excuse to stop for a breather while she pondered the answer.

  ‘It seems to me,’ she said, ‘that most folk are like a flock of sheep. They just follow on aimlessly, not botherin’ to ask why the gift shop that was there before wasn’t a success. Little Pressies seems to have a sale most of the year, and even now is using the Christmas rush as an excuse to get rid of its stock.’

  Nelly set off up the hill again, the overhead lights throwing her large shadow onto the pavement.

  ‘You ought to buy it, and expand,’ said Mrs Jenner behind her.

  This stopped Nelly in her tracks again, and she turned so suddenly that Mrs Jenner bumped right into her.

  ‘You must be mad!’ Nelly said to her friend. ‘I’ve more than I can cope with as it is.’ And with that, she turned on her heel and marched on up the road.

  Nelly was reminded of this conversation the following day. Standing on the pavement opposite The Fuchsia Bush, waiting to cross the High Street, she looked at the two premises across the road with fresh eyes, and suddenly saw how well they looked next to each other. On the left of The Fuchsia Bush was a handsome Georgian house, its fine front door - albeit in need of a coat of paint - approached by three steps and two elegantly curved iron handrails. This is where the ancient Misses Lovelock lived. The house was one of the few remnants of old Lulling High Street. Many years ago, the houses on either side of the road had been converted into shops, modern windows and fascias being inserted into the fronts of the ground-floor premises, with only a vestige of the glories of the Georgian architecture remaining above. However, both The Fuchsia Bush and the three shops next to it in the row had retained the steps up, although none sported such fine handrails as the Lovelocks’ house.

  Yes, thought Nelly, if they were decorated in the same style as each other they would look pretty good. She knew that Little Pressies only occupied the ground floor - a good-sized room in the front, and a couple of smaller back rooms that held the shop’s stock.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ she said to herself. ‘I wonder . . .’

  At eleven o’clock that July morning, Clare Border arrived, and settled down in the little office to look after the order books.

  Nelly took her a cup of coffee but instead of just putting it down on the desk and returning to the kitchen as usual, she sat down somewhat heavily on the spare chair. ‘Do you have a moment, Clare? I’ve something I wants to ask you.’ And she proceeded to tell Clare of her half-formed plan for the premises next door.

  ‘I’ve been a bit concerned recently,’ she said, ‘that we don’t - that we can’t - give enough room to the sandwiches and rolls for the office workers’ lunches. What we prepare is gone in a flash. I’ve tried to make more but, to be honest, they get in the way when we’re serving lunches.’

  Although The Fuchsia Bush was officially a tea-shop and its busiest time was generally in the afternoon, it had always served light lunches as well.

  Nelly proceeded to tell Clare about the lease of Little Pressies being for sale and asked whether they could afford to buy it, and turn it into a sandwich bar. There was no doubt that sandwiches were a growing market. Office staff no longer made their own sandwiches to take to work, and few of the workers seemed to come in for a proper lunch. The Fuchsia Bush’s clientele was mostly shoppers and visitors to the little
town.

  It was agreed that Nelly would enquire from the commercial agent who was selling the lease what price was being asked, and then Clare would see whether, with a mortgage, Nelly could afford to buy it.

  In due course, Clare reported back to her employer. The long and the short of it was that Nelly couldn’t. The mortgage would put an impossible burden on the business.

  ‘Oh,’ said Nelly, feeling deflated when Clare told her, ‘that’s a real disappointment. I’d begun to think how I would plan it. I’d even started to think of names. Foolish of me, I know, to have pipe dreams.’

  ‘Well, there is one way you could afford it,’ Clare said.

  Nelly’s heart did a little jump. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You could sell the catering side, and expand into the sandwich business instead.’ Clare looked at some figures she had written on a piece of paper. ‘You should be able to sell the catering business as a going concern, staff and everything, and have enough to buy the lease of next door and what it would need to convert and decorate the place. And, if you did need a bit more, then you could get a small bank loan.’

  Nelly stared at her, and then her big face broke into a smile. ‘That sounds just the biscuit!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t have any great affection for the catering side. I’m so remote from it now. The kitchen here shares a wall with the back room of next door. Do you think we would get planning permission to knock the two together?’

  The two women’s faces shone with excitement.

  And so it came about that a new sandwich shop opened in Lulling High Street. Nelly had originally thought she would call it Peter’s Sandwich Parlour, with a nod to her benefactor’s memory, but no one seemed very keen on the name.

  Clare Border, who was never backward about coming forward, robustly disagreed with her employer. ‘I don’t think that’s a very good name. People will endlessly ask who Peter is. Unless, of course, you have a Peter in mind to run it for you?’