(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green Page 2

  At that moment, Betty Bell appeared, pushing her bicycle up the path with some difficulty. She had finished her ministrations at the school next door, remembering to carpet the lobby with newspapers as Agnes knew she would. For good measure she had surrounded the fire guard round the tortoise stove with more newspaper, to catch stray drips from wet clothing and, her duties there done, now approached the Shoosmiths' abode.

  'Lord!' she puffed, blowing into the kitchen on a gale of cold air. 'What some weather, eh? Your front path wants doing, and that's a fact.'

  'I'm just off to tackle it,' Harold assured her, putting down his cup, and going in search of his largest shovel.

  There were others already at work when Harold emerged from his house. At The Two Pheasants, hard by the village school, Mr Jones the landlord was busy shovelling the snow away from the door.

  His neighbour, Albert Piggott, watched him morosely, leaning heavily the while upon an upturned broom.

  'Time you cleared your own patch,' pointed out Mr Jones, becoming annoyed at Albert's scrutiny.

  'I shan't be doin' much,' growled Albert. 'Jest my bit round the door. That lazy Cooke article can dig over to the church. His arms is younger'n mine.'

  'Strikes me, young Bob Cooke's doing the lot these days,' replied the landlord, straightening his aching back for a moment. 'Can't see you earn your wage, Albert.'

  Albert forbore to answer, but shuffled a few paces nearer his grubby front door, and thrust the broom languidly this way and that in front of him.

  Mr Jones muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, seized his spade again, and set to with a will. It was a sore trial having Albert Piggott as next door neighbour, and he was already regretting his action in getting the miserable old sexton of St Andrew's to help with the beer crates in the evenings. Half the time he didn't turn up, and the other half he was too muzzy to do the job properly.

  Ah well! His mother used to say: 'These little things are sent to try us.'

  One thing was certain, Albert Piggott was the most unpopular man in Thrush Green.

  Mr Jones scooped up the last shovelful, dumped it neatly on the pile at the corner, waved to Harold and went indoors, ready for opening time.

  Across the green the distant sounds of other inhabitants at work carried clearly to Harold. Ella Bembridge was digging a way to her gate from her thatched cottage. She and Dimity Henstock had lived there for years until Charles had whisked Dimity across to the rectory and now to the lovely vicarage at Lulling. A cigarette was clamped to her lower lip, and its blue smoke mingled with the clouds of breath around her.

  Somewhere nearer, in the grounds of the most splendid of all the Thrush Green houses, Harold could hear the cheerful cries of children. It was probably Paul Young's half-term holiday, and it sounded as though he had a companion with him. A good deal of spade-clanging was going on, and even more laughter. Clearing the Youngs' drive was going to take some time, Harold surmised, but it was certainly being enjoyed.

  He straightened his aching back and looked with pleasure at the clear blue sky. It made a breathtakingly lovely backdrop to the snowy landscape and the grey-golden buildings around the open space. A good spot to live, Harold told himself, for the umpteenth time. He never grew tired of the place.

  It was lovely in all the seasons, possibly at its best in autumn, when the avenue of horsechestnut trees glowed with tawny foliage, and drifts of golden leaves crackled underfoot and whispered as the wind played with them.

  But nevertheless, this morning's view of Thrush Green took some beating. Even the rough patch of ground left by the cruel removal of Charles's rectory was smoothly beautiful, and the stark shapes of the tombstones in St Andrew's graveyard were softened by snowy drapery.

  Three more yards, thought Harold, eyeing his progress, and he would go in for a well-earned cup of coffee.

  2. The Rector Goes About His Duties

  LATER THAT day, in the sunny afternoon, the newly appointed vicar of Lulling and the more familiar rector of Thrush Green, Lulling Woods and Nidden, set out for Thrush Green.

  All these important persons, as Pooh-Bah might say, were rolled into the one chubby frame of Charles Henstock. He drove his shabby car very carefully along the High Street, waving, as he made his royal progress, to a number of his parishioners. Occasionally a passing car would hoot, or flash its lights, but Charles Henstock contented himself with a wave of the hand.

  'You see,' he explained to Dimity sitting beside him, 'I'm never quite sure what flashing lights mean. There was an excellent letter on the subject in one of the newspapers some time ago.'

  'There's Bertha Lovelock!' exclaimed Dimity. Charles waved dutifully, and continued his story.

  'The writer said—he was also a man of the cloth, by the way—that he couldn't make out if the driver was telling him his lights were on, or warning him that there was a police trap or an accident or flooding or some other disaster—'

  'A police trap isn't a disaster,' objected Dimity. 'Mind that pigeon!'

  'Or whether,' continued her husband unperturbed, 'the driver was simply saying: "Good morning, vicar."'

  'There's another pigeon,' said Dimity. 'Sometimes I think they're more foolhardy than pheasants about crossing the road.'

  The rector changed gear to negotiate the short steep hill which led to Thrush Green. At the summit he pulled into the side of the road for Dimity to get out. She was going to see her old friend Ella Bembridge while Charles set about some sick visiting of his more northerly parishioners.

  Dimity picked her way carefully across the snowy road and Charles watched her enter her old home, before driving on.

  To his left St Andrew's loomed above its white churchyard. The door of The Two Pheasants was now closed, and Charles guessed that the landlord was having a well-earned snooze in his snug sitting room behind the bar. Smoke curled from most of the chimneys, and he could imagine the cheerful log fires of his friends. It would have been pleasant to call on Harold and Isobel, or Frank and Phyllida Hurst but he had duties to the sick, and his first call must be at the most beautiful house on Thrush Green, where the Youngs lived. Here he must make enquiries about Joan Young's father who lived with his wife in the converted stables. Charles feared that the old man was close to his end, and it would be best to find out first from his daughter if he was up to receiving visitors.

  Charles sighed as he turned into the Youngs' gateway. As a staunch Christian he had no doubt of his old friend's future happiness in a life beyond this. But how he would be missed by those he left behind!

  Meanwhile, Dimity sat by Ella's fireside and heard the latest news of Thrush Green. Robert Bassett's failing health was the saddest item, and already known to Dimity.

  'And it looks as though Percy Hodge's new wife isn't at all happy,' said Ella, puffing at one of her untidy cigarettes which she rolled herself in a slap-happy manner.

  'Tell me more,' urged Dimity. It was extremely agreeable to hear all the latest gossip. She considered Charles a perfect husband, but he refused to impart those little snippets of information about his parishioners which his wife would have welcomed. Ella had always been one of the first to hear about her neighbours' affairs, and always enjoyed passing on her knowledge. Dimity realized how much she missed her confidences.

  'Percy's fault, I gather. He will keep harking back to his first wife's virtues—particularly her cooking.'

  'How very unfair!' cried Dimity. 'I mean, we all know that Gertie was a wonderful cook, but it's so stupid of Percy to expect Doris to be the same.'

  'So John Lovell told him, I gather, when Percy called at the surgery to have his ears syringed. "Comparisons are odious", he quoted to him, but I don't suppose Percy took it in. If he's not careful, his Doris will up and leave him, like Albert Piggott's Nelly did.'

  'Oh, I do hope not,' said Dimity earnestly.

  'Thank God I'm a spinster,' replied Ella. 'I really couldn't be doing with considering a man's feelings day in and day out. Let alone cooking and cle
aning for him! As it is, I can make a real meal of a boiled egg and a slice of toast, and am spared spending the best part of the morning scraping vegetables and mucking about with meat.'

  'Well, I quite enjoy cooking,' answered Dimity, 'as you know, and it's really a pleasure to cook for Charles, he's so appreciative.'

  'As well he might be,' agreed Ella, 'after the terrible stuff that Scots housekeeper of his dished up. I shall never forget seeing an appalling dish of grey tripe with grey dried peas round it, and all swimming in thin grey gravy. She was carrying it in for poor Charles's lunch. My heart bled for him.'

  'She married, you know, when she left Charles.'

  'I pity her husband,' said Ella. 'Now he would have something to complain about, and that's a fact. By the way, I picked up a cookery book at our last jumble sale.'

  'Anything useful in it?'

  'Not much that we haven't tried, and a very irritating way of explaining things—far too devil-may-care for my taste. You know the sort of thing: "Toss in a handful of chopped walnuts", "Add a dash of tabasco, Worcester sauce, curry or any other personal favourite". I like to know how much of everything. All this airy-fairy stuff annoys me.'

  'Quite,' agreed Dimity. 'After all, a handful would vary considerably from person to person, and what's a dash anyway? A teaspoonful or three drops?'

  'What's more it gives all the recipes in those vile grammes—and I'm horrified to see that those nice tubs of margarine which one could count on being half a Christian pound are now marked as two hundred and fifty grammes.'

  'I expect that's why the cookery book had been sent to the jumble sale,' said Dimity sagaciously. 'Frankly, I just use my old recipes, all full of lovely ozes.'

  'We're too old a pair of dogs to learn new tricks,' agreed Ella. 'I must say I'm proud to use our old blue and white jug marked British Imperial Pint. I feel I know where I am.'

  At that moment there was a knock on the door, and before Ella could answer it, a voice called:

  'Can I come in? I'm taking off my Wellingtons.'

  'Connie, with the goats' milk,' exclaimed Ella, making her way into the hall. 'Come in by the fire. I didn't expect you to plough up here through this snow.'

  Connie entered and greeted Dimity with a kiss.

  'Heavens, it's good to see a fire,' she cried, holding out her hands to the blaze. 'I thought I'd come up in good time. It might snow again according to the weather man.'

  'Don't suppose he knows any more than we do,' said Ella flatly, 'for all those satellite pictures they dote on, and the rest of the gimmicks. I reckon Albert Piggott does rather better as a weather prophet. His chest and joints are wonderful predictors of climatic conditions.'

  'How's Dotty?' enquired Dimity.

  'Very well, I'm glad to say. As long as she doesn't do anything silly such as wandering out in the snow to see if Dulcie's all right, and that kind of thing, she's in good trim. But you know dear old Aunt Dot—she likes her own way and I have to watch her.'

  'Well, you do it very well, Connie,' said Ella. 'She's lucky to have you there.'

  Ella went on to tell Connie about the latest news at Thrush Green, and how the inhabitants were coping with their particular snow problems. Dimity sat back in the old familiar armchair and studied Dotty Harmer's niece.

  No one, she decided, could call Connie handsome, but she had fine eyes and her thick auburn hair showed very little grey. She must be in her forties now, strongly built, and with a determined look about her square chin. She needed strength of character to cope with her indomitable aunt, thought Dimity. It said much for her sweet disposition that she was obviously devoted to the trying old lady, and had given up her own home to come to her aid. It was to be hoped that Dotty appreciated Connie's attentions, but really poor Dotty grew more vague and eccentric as the years passed and Dimity sometimes wondered if her old friend really grasped what was happening around her.

  'And how has your house stood up to the snow?' she asked.

  'Oh, we're pretty snug,' answered Connie. 'There's nothing like a good thatched roof and thick walls for insulation. Thank goodness Aunt Dotty always kept the outside in good repair. The interior, of course, was another matter, but I'm gradually getting it straight. You'll be glad to know I've had a marvellous spring-clean of the pantry.'

  'And about time too,' said Ella forthrightly. 'Why Dotty didn't succumb to food poisoning years ago beats me. Those witches' brews of home-made wine and preserves made from dubious plants were positively grisly. Dim and I knew better than to eat any of Dotty's concoctions, but the doctors around here know jolly well that there is a local indigestion known as "Dotty's Collywobbles" which the unwary suffer from if they sample your aunt's potions.'

  Connie laughed, and Dimity thought how attractive she was when animated. It made one realize how young she was after all.

  'The first things to go were half a dozen fearful jars of fungi swimming in cloudy liquid,' she told them. 'Heaven alone knows what they were, but I took them down into Lulling Woods and tipped the contents into a deep hole, when Aunt Dot was having a nap. I didn't dare bury the stuff in the garden in case the hens scratched it up.'

  'Yes, she gave me ajar,' said Ella, it went straight in the dustbin, but I believe she sent several pots to Lulling Church Bazaar. Luckily Mrs Bull knew about them, and no doubt disposed of them safely.'

  'One certainly gets some extraordinary things sent in for the church fund raisers,' commented Dimity. 'Lady Mary sent six pairs of pink corsets, all rather grubby too which made it worse, and so vast, of course, that it was difficult to know what to do with them.'

  Connie rose to go, and Ella accompanied her to the door.

  'Talking of unwanted gifts,' said Ella, when she returned, 'would that spoilt cat of yours eat hare?'

  'There's nothing Tabitha likes more,' Dimity replied. 'She used to get some when we lived here, but somehow nobody leaves a nice hare hanging on the door knob at Lulling vicarage as they did at Thrush Green.'

  'Percy Hodge left it in even better shape,' said Ella, 'all skinned and jointed in a plastic bag. Enough for a large family, so come and take your pick, Dim.'

  'I'm sorry Percy's not happy,' said Dimity, as Ella wrapped a generous portion of the farmer's largesse for her friend.

  'Maybe they'll shake down together. Will you and Charles eat any of this?'

  'Indeed we will! It will be a great treat.'

  'Good. I should never get through a third of all this. Now shall we have a cup of tea, or wait for Charles?'

  'Charles will have had at least six cups by now,' Dimity assured her old friend. 'So let's put on the kettle.'

  At that moment Charles was sitting beside his old friend Robert Bassett, having refused all refreshment pressed upon him by hospitable Milly Bassett.

  Robert was in his dressing gown sitting near the window with a rug over his knees. Outside, a bird table had been fixed to the window sill, and blue tits and greenfinches squabbled over a net of peanut kernels suspended there, while a bright-eyed robin, ignoring the commotion, pecked busily at some kitchen scraps.

  'They must be grateful for all that sustenance,' observed Charles.

  'Not half as grateful as I am to them,' responded Robert. 'They are a constant joy. I find I can't read for long, and the television tires my eyes after a time, but I can watch these little beauties for hours on end. Tell me, Charles, how are you enjoying the new living?'

  The rector recognized this query as a deliberate attempt to divert attention from his own problems, and told the invalid how much he and Dimity enjoyed their new house and explained their modest plans for the garden.

  Milly excused herself and hurried back to the kitchen where she was cooking a splendid Dundee cake. Charles guessed rightly that she was relieved to see her husband happily engaged in conversation, thus relieving her for a short while from her anxious surveillance.

  For there was no doubt about it, as Charles knew well as he rambled on gently about his own affairs, that Robert had little tim
e left to him. He had lost a great deal of weight. His complexion had the waxen pallor of the desperately ill, and the bones of his thin fingers showed clearly as he plucked feebly at the rug. But his smile was as sweet as ever, and he listened as courteously as he had always done to Charles's remarks.

  At last Charles rose, looking at his watch.

  'I must be off, Robert, I've one or two other friends to visit, and it gets dark so confoundedly early still. I'll call in again if I may.'

  'Before you go, I've something for you,' said Robert, pointing to a large envelope on his desk.

  Charles brought it to him, and his old friend withdrew a beautiful leather-bound book of poems which he gave to the rector.

  'James Elroy Flecker,' said Robert. 'A poet I've always loved, and as fond of this country as you and I have been. I should like you to have it.'

  Charles was deeply moved.

  'I shall always treasure it,' he assured the sick man. 'As a boy I learnt "The Old Ships" at school, and can still quote from it. I share your admiration, Robert, and you couldn't have given me anything more precious.'

  He held the thin hand in his for a moment. It felt as frail as a bird's frame.

  'I must see Milly before I go,' he said, turning towards the door. 'I'll come again, Robert.'

  'You must come soon then,' called Robert after him, as the rector made his way towards the kitchen, blinking tears away before facing brave Milly.

  It was past six o'clock before the rector turned his car towards Ella's cottage where Dimity awaited him.

  He was, as she had surmised, awash with many cups of tea and had vague indigestion. Beside him lay the beautiful parting present from Robert in company with a large bag full of cooking apples which had been pressed upon him at his final visit in Nidden.

  In some ways it had been a sad afternoon, thought the good rector, slowing down to let a pheasant stalk majestically across the lane, and yet there had been beauty too. He remembered Robert's loving look as he had presented him with the book, and the kindly welcome he had received at all the homes he had visited.