(6/13) Gossip from Thrush Green Read online

  He thought wistfully of Nelly's cooking. Nelly, his wife, had left him—twice, to make it worse - and both times to share life with the oilman whose flashy good looks and honeyed words had attracted her on his weekly rounds.

  Nelly now lived with her new partner on the south coast, and it was he who now enjoyed her superb steak and kidney puddings, succulent roasts, and well-spiced casseroles. The very thought of that chap's luck brought on Albert's indigestion.

  Not that Albert lacked attention. In many ways, he was better off.

  Nelly's cooking had tended to be rich, even by normal standards. She excelled with cheese sauces, fried potatoes, and creamy puddings. Her cakes were dark and moist with fruit, her sponge cakes were filled with butter icing, and more icing decorated the top. Doctor Lovell's pleas to her to provide plainer fare for her husband fell on deaf ears. Nelly was an artist. Butter, sugar and the best quality meat and dairy foods were her materials. She cooked, and Albert ate. Doctor Lovell hadn't a chance.

  But since Nelly's departure, presumably for good this time, his daughter Molly had done her best to look after the old man.

  She was married to a fine young fellow called Ben Curdle, and the couple lived nearby with their little boy George in a flat at the top of the Youngs' house. Ben was employed in Lulling, and Molly helped Joan in the house. The arrangement worked well, for Molly had been known to the Youngs for all their lives. They had rejoiced when Molly had finally succeeded in escaping, through marriage, from the clutches of her selfish old father. Now that she was back in Thrush Green they only hoped that she would not be so kind-hearted as to fall into the trap again.

  Molly, wiser than Nelly, cooked with prudence for her father, leaving him light dishes of fish or eggs as recommended by the doctor. More often than not these offerings were given to the cat by Albert, in Molly's absence. He dismissed them as 'pappy stuff' and either went next door for his pie and beer, or used the unwashed frying pan to cook himself another meal of bacon and eggs.

  At times Molly despaired. Ben took a realistic attitude to the problem.

  'Lord knows he's old enough to know what's good for him. Let him go his own way. Don't upset yourself on his account. He never put himself out for you, did he?'

  There was truth in this. Molly had enough to do with looking after Ben and George, and the housework. She loved being back in Thrush Green. The only snag was her obstinate old father. At times she wished that Nelly would return to look after him. Although she disliked her blowsy stepmother, at least Albert's cottage had been kept clean and he had been looked after.

  Albert trudged up the hill, the rain slanting into his face from the north. Lights glowed from the cottage windows. A car swished by, splashing the old man's legs.

  The bulk of St Andrew's church stood massively against the night sky.

  Best lock up while I'm on me feet,' thought Albert, changing course towards the building. The door was ajar, but no one was inside.

  Albert stood in the dark aisle looking towards the three shadowy windows behind the altar. The familiar church smell compounded of damp and brass polish met his nostrils. Somewhere a scuffling and squeaking broke the silence.

  'Dratted mice!' exclaimed Albert, kicking a pew end.

  Silence fell again.

  Albert withdrew, clanging the heavy door behind him. From beneath the door mat he extracted the enormous key. He locked the door, and stuffed the key into his pocket to take across to the house for the night.

  Standing in the shelter of the porch he surveyed the view through the rain. His own cottage, directly opposite, was in darkness. The Two Pheasants was not yet open, although he could see the landlord moving about in the bar.

  Beside the pub stood the village school, the playground now deserted and swept by gusts of rain. A light was on in the main schoolroom which meant that Betty Bell was busy clearing up the day's mess. There was a light too downstairs in the school house where Miss Watson, the head mistress, and Miss Fogerty, her assistant, were sitting snugly by the fire discussing school matters in the home they shared.

  Almost hidden from Albert's view by the angle of the porch was the fine house which stood next door to the school. Here lived Harold Shoosmith, a bachelor until his sixties, but now newly married, and very content. There were lights upstairs and down, and the porch light too was on.

  Albert grunted disapprovingly.

  'Waste of electric,' he said aloud. 'Money to burn, no doubt.'

  He hauled his large watch from his pocket and squinted at the illuminated dial. Still a quarter of an hour to go before old Jones opened up. Might as well go home and hang up the key, and take a couple of these dratted pills.

  Clutching his coat around him, Albert set off through the downpour.

  2. Friends and Relations

  AN hour or two later, as Albert Piggott sipped his beer and warmed his legs by the fire at The Two Pheasants, his daughter Molly tucked up young George, and then went to the window to look out upon Thrush Green.

  Rain spattered the glass. The sash window rattled in its frame against the onslaught of the wind. The lights of the pub were reflected in long puddles in the roadway, and the leafless trees scattered drops as their branches were tossed this way and that.

  It was a beast of a night, thought Molly, but she loved Thrush Green, whatever the weather. For the first few years of her marriage she had accompanied Ben on his tour of towns and villages with the small travelling fair which had once been owned by his grandmother, the redoubtable Mrs. Curdle, who had also brought up the boy. She now lay in St Andrew's churchyard, her grave lovingly tended by her grandson.

  It grieved Ben to part with the famous fair, but it was the only thing to do. Customs and fashions change. A small family fair could not compete with bingo halls and television, and in the end Ben had sold it, and had taken a job with a firm of agricultural engineers. Molly's happiness was a joy to see, and Ben was content.

  Or was he? Molly pondered upon this question as she gazed upon the dark wet world. Never by word or sign had he shown any regret for the life he had given up, but Molly sometimes wondered if he missed the travelling, the change of scene, the renewing of friendships in the towns where the fair rested.

  After all, he had known nothing else. His home, as a child, had been the small horse-drawn caravan which now stood, a permanent reminder of Mrs Curdle and that way of life, in the orchard of their present home. He had played his part in the running of the fair, willing to do whatever was necessary at any time of the day or night.

  Surely, thought Molly, he must sometimes find his new mode of living irksome. To leave home at the same time, to learn to watch the clock, to put down his tools when a whistle blew and to return to Thrush Green at a regular hour. Did he find it dull? Did he ever hanker for the freedom he once had? Did he feel tied by so much routine? Was he truly happy?

  A particularly vicious squall flung a sharp shower against the glass by her face, making the girl recoil.

  Well, no point in worrying about it, she told herself. She was lucky to have such a good-tempered husband, and maybe he was just as happy as she was.

  She left the window, looked at her sleeping son, and went to cook Ben's supper.

  Over the way, at Tullivers, Frank and Phil Hurst also had a problem on that stormy night.

  Robert, Frank's son by his first marriage, was farming in Wales. He rarely rang up, and still more rarely wrote a letter, although father and son were fond of each other, and Frank was proud of the way in which the youngster had tackled life in Wales, a tough hill farm and four boisterous children.

  'I've got a proposition for you, Dad,' said the cheerful voice on the telephone. 'When do you set off on the lecture trip?'

  Frank told him.

  'And you'll be away all through May?'

  That's right. Back the first week in June, if all goes well.'

  'It's like this. A friend of mine, just married, is coming up to his new job in an estate agent's, somewhere in your area, near
Oxford. He's got to be out of his house in April, and I just wondered if you'd feel like letting him have Tullivers for a few weeks.'

  'Hasn't he got anywhere to go this end?'

  Their place isn't ready, and won't be until the summer. I wouldn't ask, Dad, if it weren't for the fact he's been good to me in the past, and there's a baby on the way as well. He's a nice chap. Very musical. You'd like him.'

  'I can't say yes or no until I've talked it over with Phil. In any case, I'd need some sort of references. And I really don't know if I'd like a stranger in the house - or have any idea what to charge him.'

  'Well, he hasn't much cash, that I do know, but he'd want to pay his whack obviously.'

  There was silence for a moment, broken at last by Frank.

  'I'll have a word with Phil, and ring you tomorrow.'

  Oh good! It would help him enormously if he knew there was somewhere to go when he leaves here. Give him time to look around, and chivvy the workmen your end.'

  There was a crackling sound and Frank replaced the receiver.

  Phil looked at him enquiringly.

  'What's the problem?'

  Frank told her.

  I'm not keen on the idea,' she said eventually. 'We don't know him from Adam, and I don't want to have someone here who might turn out to be a nuisance to the neighbours.'

  'I should turn it down flat,' agreed Frank 'if it weren't for Robert. He speaks well of him, says he's musical, known him for some time evidently, and he's been a good friend to him in the past. I must say it is all rather complicated.'

  'Well, say we must know more and would like to meet him and his wife,' suggested Phil. 'And if we have any doubts, we harden our hearts.'

  And on this sensible note the problem was shelved for twenty-four hours.

  The storm blew itself out during the night, and Thrush Green woke to a morning so sweet and pearly that spirits rose at once.

  Even Willie Marchant, the gloomy postman, noticed the sunshine as he tacked purposefully on his bicycle back and forth across the hill from Lulling.

  'Lovely morning, Willie,' said Ella, meeting him at her gate.

  'Ah!' agreed the postman. As usual, a cigarette end was clamped to his lower lip. Was it pulling the skin, or did he essay a rare smile? Ella could not be certain.

  The Reverend Charles Henstock met Willie as he returned from early service, and collected his post from him.

  'This makes one think of Spring,' commented the rector, sniffing the air appreciatively.

  'Long way to go yet,' said Willie, as he pedalled away on his rounds. He was never one to rouse false hopes, and whatever his secret pleasure in the change in the weather, he intended to show his usual dour countenance to those he met.

  General optimism greeted him.

  Joan Young pointed out the bulbs poking through in her shrubbery. Little Miss Fogerty, who took in the letters at the school house, said that a blackbird had begun to build in the hedge. Harold Shoosmith next door could be heard singing in a fine resonant baritone voice, and his new wife gave Willie such a ravishing smile when she opened the door that he almost forgot himself and smiled back.

  The Thrush Green post delivered, Willie set off in a leisurely way along the narrow lane which led westward to Lulling Woods. Once out of sight of Thrush Green eyes, Willie propped his bicycle against a stone wall, put his canvas mail bag on the grass to keep out any dampness, and sat himself upon it, leaning back comfortably in the lee of the wall. Here the sun was warm, a lark soared above him, greeting the morning with the same rapture as his clients, and Willie took out a fresh cigarette.

  It was a good spot, Willie admitted, looking at the distant smudge of Lulling Woods against the sky line. Definitely a smell of new grass growing, and that was a fresh mole hill over there, he noted. Tiny buds like beads studded the hawthorn twigs nearby, and an early bemused bumble bee staggered drunkenly at the edge of the track.

  Willie blew a cloud of smoke, and stretched luxuriously. Not a bad life, he told himself, especially with the summer ahead. Could do a lot worse than be a postman on a fine morning.

  The barking of a dog reminded him of his duties. Dotty Harmer's cottage, a quarter of a mile distant, was his next call. Obviously, she was up and about, as the barking dog proved. No doubt the old girl was feeding the hens and goats and all the rest of the menagerie she kept in that ramshackle place. Nutty as a fruit cake, thought Willie, rising stiffly from the crushed mail bag, but got some guts. You couldn't help liking the old trout, and when you think of what she put up with when her wicked old Dad was alive - well, you had to hand it to her.

  Willie himself had been a pupil for a short time under the redoubtable Mr George Harmer, headmaster of Lulling Grammar School. The memory of that martinet, his rigid rules, and ferocious punishment if they were broken, was still fresh in the minds of those who had suffered at his hands, although the old man had lain in the churchyard for many years now, leaving his daughter to enjoy the company of all those animals which had been forbidden whilst he lived.

  Good luck to her, thought Willie, clambering on to his bicycle again. She deserved a bit of pleasure in her old age.

  As he had guessed, Dotty was in the chicken run. She was trying to throw a rope over a stout bough of the plum tree which leant over the run. For one moment of alarm, Willie wondered if she were contemplating suicide, but Dotty would be the last person to take an easy way out of anything.

  'Ah, Willie! How you startled me! I'm having such a job with these Brussels sprouts.'

  She pointed to five or six leggy plants which were attached to one end of the rope. All became plain.

  'You want 'em hauled up? Give it here,' said Willie. With one deft throw he cast the other end over the plum branch and pulled. Up went the plants.

  'How high?' asked Willie, his head level with the dangling sprouts.

  Dotty surveyed them, frowning with concentration.

  'Not quite as high as that, I think, Willie. You see, I want the hens to get some exercise in leaping up to reach the greenstuff. They lead rather a sedentary life, and I'm sure their circulation and general good health would be improved by a little more exercise.'

  'Ah,' agreed Willie, lowering the plants a trifle.

  'On the Other hand,' went on Dotty, 'I don't want them too low—'

  Willie gave a slight hitch. The plants rose three inches.

  'Or, of course, that defeats the object. But I don't want them so high that they lose heart and don't try to jump. Or, of course, too high for them to jump in safety. I don't want any injuries. Hens have funny little ways.'

  Not the only ones, thought Willie, patiently lowering and raising the sprouts before Dotty's penetrating gaze.

  'Right!' shouted Dotty suddenly, hand raised as if about to stop traffic. 'I think that will do spendidly. What do you think?'

  That's about it, I reckon,' said Willie, tying a knot.

  Dotty beamed upon him.

  'Most kind of you, Willie dear. Now if you'll just come in the kitchen I'll let you have two letters I wrote last night.'

  He followed her towards the back door, stepping over three kittens who jumped out at him from the currant bushes and dodging a goat which was tethered to a clothes post on the way.

  The kitchen was in its usual state of chaos. Willie was quite familiar with its muddle of bowls, saucepans, boxes, string bags, piles of newspapers and a hundred assorted objects overflowing from the table, shelves and chairs. A vast fish kettle, black with age, simmered on the stove, and from it, to Willie's surprise, came quite a pleasant odour of food cooking.

  'Now where did I put them?' enquired Dotty, standing stock still among the muddle. 'Somewhere safe, I know.'

  She shifted a pile of newspapers hopefully. Willie's eyes raked the dresser.

  'They'd be on top, most like,' he suggested, seeing as you only wrote them last night.'

  'Very astute of you,' said Dotty. She lifted the lid of a vegetable dish on the table, and there were the letters.
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  'Safe and sound,' said Dotty happily, pressing them into Willie's hand. 'And now I musn't keep you from the Queen's business. A thousand thanks for your help with the hens. I'm sure they will be much invigorated after a few jumping sessions.'

  She picked up a slice of cake which was lying on the table beside a small brown puddle of unidentified liquid. Coffee perhaps, thought Willie, or tea? Or worse?

  'What about a little snack?' suggested Dotty. 'You could eat it on your way.'

  'I'd best not, much as I'd like to,' replied Willie gallantly. 'It'd take the edge off my appetite for breakfast, you see. Thank you all the same.'

  'Quite, quite!' said Dotty, dropping it down again. This time it was right in the puddle, Willie noticed.

  He escaped before Dotty could offer him anything else, and moved briskly down the path towards his bicycle.

  The hens, as far as he could see, were ignoring the sprouts completely. You'd have thought they would have done the decent thing and had a look at them anyway, thought Willie resentfully, after all the trouble they had gone to.

  He went on his way, in the golden sunshine, suitably depressed.

  Little Miss Fogerty and her headmistress, Miss Watson, were breakfasting in the sunny kitchen of the school house. Each had a boiled egg, one slice of toast, and another of Ryvita and marmalade.

  It was their standard breakfast on schooldays, light but nourishing, and leaving no greasy frying pan to be washed. On Saturdays and Sundays, when time was less limited, they occasionally cooked bacon and egg or bacon and tomato, and now and again a kipper apiece.

  Dorothy Watson loved her food but had to be careful of gaining too much weight. Agnes Fogerty, who had lived in lodgings nearby for many years, had discovered an equal interest in cooking since coming to live with her friend, and enjoyed watching her eat the dishes which she made. Agnes's weight never varied, whatever she ate, and had remained about eight stone for years.