(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green Read online

  The firework organizers included such stalwarts as Harold Shoosmith, Edward Young, Percy Hodge and Alan Lester, all capable of handling the pyrotechnics with safety, and rockets, Catherine wheels and squibs blazed into the darkness until the fire began to die down, St Andrew's clock struck nine and it was deemed fit to close the proceedings.

  The old people straggled away first, becoming tired of standing on the damp grass. Parents rounded up their offspring. The scoutmaster rallied his troop for the final effort of damping down the remains of the bonfire and clearing up the litter around it.

  There were many black hands and scorched faces that night, and clothes worn then would reek of wood smoke for days to come, but everyone went home that night with raised spirits.

  'Better than ever,' said Alan to Harold as they helped to clear up.

  'Thank God it didn't rain,' commented Edward, rubbing his hot face with a black hand. 'And your potatoes were better than ever, Percy.'

  'Ah! Willjars, they were,' said Percy much gratified. 'We'll have them next year. I'll see to that!'

  It was striking midnight when Harold drew back his bedroom curtains and looked out into the darkness. The night was still and damp. He remembered the rosy glow of the bonfire and smelt a whiff of wood smoke in the air.

  There was something very exhilarating, thought Harold, about this mixture of the elements, fire, air and water. It had done them all good.

  Greatly content, he climbed into bed.

  Carl Andersen had not been present at the Guy Fawkes jollifications for he was immersed in the main purpose of his business in Scotland.

  But before his departure, he had had an interesting conversation with Edward Young. He had asked Edward if he could have a private talk, and Edward had invited him to his home one evening when Joan was engaged at a reunion at her old school.

  It was the cold dark night of the first of November, and the two men enjoyed the log fire at their feet, and the drinks in their hands.

  Edward had wondered about this request for privacy which Carl had mentioned. Before, he had always blown in, cheerful and informal, glad to see both Joan and Edward, and any other Thrush Green people who were present.

  Perhaps, thought Edward, he wanted to discuss some point connected with the Scottish project, and felt that people generally would be bored by technical details? Perhaps there was a personal problem of health, finances, accommodation or of dealing with local or national officialdom?

  The truth of the matter, when it was revealed, was a complete surprise.

  Carl began by talking about his mother and Mrs Curdle.

  'As you know,' he began, 'my ma felt she owed a lot to the old lady. She talked about her often, and particularly during the last months of her life. It was the reason for my coming here in the first place, and the fact that I managed to take back so many mementoes of Mrs Curdle gave my ma enormous pleasure.'

  'She always had a great name here,' agreed Edward, 'and it's good to know her influence spread so far afield.'

  'The thing is this,' went on Carl. 'My ma wanted me to do something practical to honour her godmother. I know you did something for Nathaniel Patten, your local missionary, some years ago, but I don't think a statue of Mrs Curdle would be quite the thing.'

  'Perhaps something for the church?' suggested Edward. 'A plaque or an urn, or something of the kind, for her grave?'

  Carl looked doubtful. 'I gather from Charles Henstock that the old lady was not much of a church supporter. I talked it over with Ma not long before she died, and she wanted something practical done for people living in Thrush Green.'

  'A trust fund? Something like that, for people in need?'

  Carl shook his head. 'As a matter of fact, you gave me the idea yourself.'

  'I did?' Edward was startled.

  'Yes, when you told me your worries about the annexe at Rectory Cottages. Why not make a really handsome addition to that and call it after Mrs Curdle?'

  Edward was still flummoxed. 'It's a fine idea,' he said at last, 'but it would cost several thousand pounds. It's a pretty big project.'

  Carl sighed. 'Look, I don't want to seem boastful, but the money doesn't matter. My old dad left a heap of dollars, and my ma had more than she ever needed when he went. Mind you, he deserved every cent he made. He worked like a Trojan for the firm and it rewarded him handsomely. My job, as I see it, is to do what my ma asked me to do, and to do it properly.'

  'It does you credit,' said Edward, still bemused.

  'I thought I'd broach it with you first,' continued Carl, accepting a refill to his glass, 'because we talked about the possible enlargement of that place, and because I could sound you out about how my idea might be received. What d'you think?'

  'I can't think of anything more suitable as a tribute to both your generous mother and dear old Mrs Curdle,' said Edward warmly. 'What do you want me to do?'

  Carl rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  'I know you are one of the trustees, but I wondered if it might be best to sound out one or two privately before a meeting. I'd like to have a word with Charles Henstock, for instance, but I'm off to Scotland tomorrow night.'

  'I'd do that willingly,' offered Edward, 'if you are sure. It's a big undertaking.'

  'If you do that,' said Carl rising, 'we'll take it from there when I get back.'

  'We have a trustees' meeting some time at the end of the month,' said Edward. 'When do you expect to be back?'

  'It all depends on the state of progress,' replied Carl. 'I must have a day or two in London as well. There's someone there I must see urgently, but I'll ring you while I'm away.'

  Edward watched him stride away to his car, and then returned to his fireside. He turned over a log very carefully with the poker.

  'What a shock!' he said to the dancing flames. 'But what a wonderful one!'

  Ever since Dotty's escapade in Lulling Woods she had been a little more amenable about taking an afternoon rest.

  This was a source of great relief to Connie and Kit, and also much appreciated by Flossie, who soon realized how comfortable it was lying on Dotty's eiderdown with her old stiff back propped against the warmth of her mistress's legs.

  The two dozed for an hour or so each afternoon, much to the relief of Dr Lovell, as well as Dotty's friends and relatives, who knew what a refractory patient she had always been.

  Dotty herself came to enjoy this tranquil hour of the day. Her active mind, a rag-bag of assorted thoughts from 'ships and shoes and sealing-wax' to 'cabbages and Kings', seemed to move more slowly these days, and sleep often overcame her when she sat down to rest. It was not long before she realized that her ancient bones appreciated the benison of her afternoon rest.

  One grey afternoon the two old ladies composed themselves on the bed, one under the eiderdown, and the other stretched out on top. Peace reigned and neither snored, nor stirred. Only a bird chirped now and again in the still garden. At the other end of the house, Connie sat alone doing the crossword puzzle, while Kit had gone to the dentist.

  It was half past two when Dotty came to her senses. Still drowsy, she lay relishing the warmth of her bed and the familiar weight of Flossie's body against her legs.

  After a time, she put out a hand to feel the familiar silky head. Flossie enjoyed having her ears caressed.

  But something was wrong. Something was different. In alarm, Dotty struggled up to investigate.

  Flossie's weight was heavier than usual. She seemed just as peaceful, eyes closed, limbs comfortably stretched along the eiderdown, but Dotty knew at once that she had died. Gently, quietly, without stirring, Flossie's heart had stopped, and she had gone for ever.

  Silently Dotty stroked Flossie's head and fondled those long silky ears which could feel nothing now. A tear or two rolled down Dotty's wrinkled cheeks and splashed upon the much-loved head.

  Friends must part, thought Dotty, searching for her handkerchief.

  A day or two after Carl's departure to Scotland, Edward called at St John
's vicarage to see his old friend.

  Charles Henstock was in his greenhouse, busy picking a few dead leaves from his geranium cuttings.

  Edward joined him in the peaceful dampness and told him that he had a message from Carl.

  'Dear fellow,' commented Charles, putting a few dead leaves to join others in a flower pot. 'I had an idea he was off about this Scottish building job.'

  'He went a couple of days ago,' said Edward, 'but asked me to sound you out.'

  'Sound me out?' echoed Charles. 'What about?'

  Edward told him about Carl's idea of a tribute to Mrs Curdle, and his mother's wishes. Charles drew out an ancient stool from under the bench, and sat down upon it suddenly.

  'But we can't possibly accept it!' he said at last. 'It would cost a fortune!'

  Edward tried to explain. 'He's a very wealthy man, Charles, although he is so modest and unassuming. I feel just as you do, but he says he's determined to do what his mother would have wanted, and money is no object.'

  'I really don't know what to think,' said Charles, wiping a muddy hand across his brow, and leaving a dirty mark upon its pinkness. 'Would it be feasible to enlarge that room further? As an architect, what's your opinion?'

  'Nothing simpler.'

  'We should have to confer with the other trustees, of course, about this marvellous offer.'

  'Naturally, but I don't think anything should be done until Carl returns. And then he should put this idea into writing, if he still feels the same way.'

  'No one else knows?'

  'No one. I just said that I would speak privately to you on his behalf.'

  'Then we must keep silent until he is in touch again. I really am quite flabbergasted, Edward. If it goes ahead I hope you will feel able to take on the job.'

  'That's for the trustees to decide,' said Edward. 'I hope they won't think I'm pushing myself forward. Not everyone seems delighted with my last effort.'

  He sounded bitter, and Charles put a grubby hand on his friend's sleeve.

  'You did a splendid job, and we all appreciate it. Any man in the public eye has to face the fact that he is sometimes an Aunt Sally, and I regret to say that there are unkind critics even in Thrush Green.'

  'Don't I know it!'

  Charles put down the flower pot, and pushed the stool back under the shelving.

  'Time for coffee, Edward, and I believe Dimity has been making Welsh cakes to go with it.'

  'Lead me to the kitchen,' commanded Edward, greatly cheered.

  The dismal weather continued, and the people of Thrush Green and Lulling, in company with most residents in the British Isles, were heartily sick of having the lights on all day to counteract the gloom, and of having to curtail their outdoor activities because of heavy showers.

  At the village school the children were as frustrated as the old people at Rectory Cottages.

  The fact that preparations for Christmas were already in progress at the school did a little to mitigate the general depression, and calendars, bookmarks and Christmas cards were being manufactured with some zest.

  Of course, there were drawbacks to these preparations, and for Alan Lester the most grievous was the revival of those noisy dances which Miss Robinson so enjoyed. The weather was too unreliable to banish the infants to the playground for their rehearsals, and Alan Lester was obliged to conduct his lessons with a background of clapping and stamping from next door which made the partition between the two rooms shudder.

  The Remembrance Sunday service, with its sad splendour, took place in pouring rain, and like many thousands of villages in the land, the poppy wreath seemed to be the only glowing spot of colour against the grey wet stone of the memorial cross. It was a sorrowful time, with the glory of autumn wasted away and Christmas too far ahead to give any real cheer.

  The first of the winter colds were beginning to afflict young and old alike. The talk was all about cough cures, injections against influenza, and seasonal ills.

  News of Flossie's death, of course, had flown round Thrush Green very quickly, and had added to the general gloom.

  As soon as Albert Piggott heard it the next morning, he was rapidly on his way, spade on shoulder, to dig the grave he had been waiting to prepare for some months. He had already chosen the site. It was towards the end of a long bed beside an old hedge where several other of Dotty's former pets had their last resting places.

  He found Dotty in her kitchen stirring a large saucepan containing food for the hens. It smelt rather good, thought Albert, although he knew that the contents were only scraps from earlier meals. By the time Dotty had added bran and some poultry spice it would be fit for anyone, flesh or fowl, to eat.

  He had the delicacy of feeling to prop his spade outside the back door before he entered, and Dotty welcomed him warmly, waving to a kitchen chair with an enormous wet wooden spoon.

  'I've sad news for you, Albert,' said Dotty.

  'Ah! I heard. Poor old Flossie! Still, she had a good life and went very peaceful, I understand.'

  'That's quite right,' said Dotty with a slight sniff. She rubbed an eye with the back of her hand, and a dollop of chicken food fell to the floor, which Dotty ignored, but which was hastily consumed by Bruce who emerged from under the kitchen table.

  'I brought me spade along,' said Albert, 'just in case you was needing it. I know just the place to put her if you'd like me to make a start.'

  Dotty left the saucepan and came to sit down at the table. She looked earnestly at her visitor.

  'Albert! You are so kind, but dear Kit insisted on burying her at once. He didn't want me to be upset. Not that I should have been. Death comes to us all.'

  Albert was seriously affronted to hear of Kit's officiousness in taking over a rightful gravedigger's job, but did his best to hide his feelings.

  'I daresay you was upset at the time,' said Albert, determined not to be completely thwarted of funereal misery.

  'Well,' conceded Dotty honestly, 'of course I had a little weep when I realized she'd gone, but dear Bruce is being such a comfort.'

  Hearing his name the little terrier wagged his stumpy white tail. His mistress bent to pat him.

  'I'm sure he misses Flossie, but it seems to have made him more responsible. He seems to be looking after me as Flossie used to do in her heyday, the dear boy.'

  'Well, he knows he's top dog now,' said Albert nastily, still smarting from Kit's impertinent hastening of Flossie's interment. 'If you don't need me to do anything I'll be getting back.'

  Dotty, quite unconscious of his hurt feelings, wished him goodbye, and he retrieved his spade from outside the back door, and set off homeward.

  He was not only offended, he was real hungry, he told himself. That chicken food smelt a treat.

  He heard the church clock strike, and quickened his pace.

  The Two Pheasants would be open now.

  Betty Bell brought the news of Flossie's demise to the Shoosmiths.

  Isobel was much distressed on Dotty's behalf. 'Poor darling! Dotty will miss her so much. Such a faithful little dog, and so gentle.'

  'She's taken it on the chin,' Betty informed her, rummaging in a kitchen drawer for a duster. 'She's a tough old party, you know, and she's got young Bruce.'

  'But he's so boisterous,' protested Isobel. 'I wonder if Dotty can manage him.'

  'He'll calm down as he gets older,' Harold assured her. 'A lot of his exuberance was simply looking for attention. I think he was always a bit jealous of Flossie.'

  'You're right there,' said Betty, flapping a duster round the toast rack. 'You finished your breakfasts? Want me to wash up before I do your study? Willie Marchant's on his way, so you might get a load of letters any minute.'

  'I'll do the breakfast things,' said Isobel, pushing back her chair.

  'D'you know,' said Harold, 'Willie told me the most remarkable thing about his cousin Sidney. He picked up a fountain pen on Narrow Hill and it turned out to be his brother's.'

  'I know,' said Betty, 'Uncle St
an told me.'

  'Uncle?' queried Harold.

  'Well, Willie's my cousin and Sid's another, so his dad is my Uncle Stan.'

  'I might have known,' said Harold, who had never really understood the vast network of relationships in Thrush Green.

  'And another thing,' said Betty, 'this makes the third.'

  'Third what?'

  'Deaths.'

  'I'm not with you Betty,' confessed Harold, passing a hand across his brow.

  'You know what I told you months back? That nice Mr Andersen's mum passed on in America, and Mrs Peters at the Fuchsia Bush was taken, and I said at the time, "Who's going to be third?" and it's our poor old Flossie. See, it always goes in threes, death does. D'you remember me telling you?'

  'Yes,' said Harold meekly. 'I remember it well now. You are always right, Betty.'

  Much gratified, she whisked off to wreak havoc in Harold's study.

  Carl Andersen kept his promise and rang Edward one evening from Scotland.

  'Charles was as overwhelmed as I was at your offer,' he told Carl. 'But once he got over the shock he was all in favour of your marvellous idea.'

  'Good! Well, I suppose the next move is to put it to the trustees.'

  Edward told him about the advisability of putting his suggestion in writing so that the committee could study it, and Carl agreed.

  'I shall have to get in touch with my lawyers in the States, but they know a little about these plans, as I got their advice before I came over this time.'

  'Any chance of seeing you soon?'

  'In about a week's time, I hope,' said Carl. 'I've a few things to sort out here, and I shall make a stop overnight in London, but I'll give you a ring before I set off.'

  'So far,' said Edward rather diffidently, 'I have only told Charles about this business, but would you want me to sound out anyone else?'

  There was a brief silence, and then Carl said, 'I should rather like Harold Shoosmith's reaction. He's a wise guy, and will keep his own counsel until I get back.'