(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green Read online

  'Bound to rain later,' said Albert morosely.

  Typical of Albert, thought Winnie, with some amusement. Nothing pleased the surly old scoundrel. He had been sexton of Thrush Green church and an occasional jobbing gardener to whomsoever would employ him, for as many years as Winnie could recall, but she had never seen him in a happy mood. He was lucky to have his buxom wife Nelly to look after him. She was the best cook in the district, and spent most of her time and energy in the kitchen of the Fuchsia Bush, a renowned restaurant in Lulling High Street, where her skills were much appreciated by her partner there, Mrs Peters.

  'Well,' said Winnie, 'I hope the rain holds off until I get home again. I'm just off to see Miss Harmer.'

  Albert's glum countenance lightened a little. He liked old Dotty! 'Ah!' said Albert, nodding.

  Winnie moved on, leaving Albert still standing equidistant between the church and the Two Pheasants.

  Which, wondered Winnie, taking the path through the fields, would Albert visit first?

  She found Dotty at her kitchen table, not making chutney, jam or bottling some fearsome fungi she had come across on her travels, but plying a pen.

  She rose to greet Winnie affectionately. 'Just in time,' she cried. 'How do you spell "benefited"? One "t" or two?'

  'You've got me there,' confessed Winnie. 'I know if I'm not asked, but the same awful doubt arises as when one is asked if it's the sixteenth or seventeenth of the month. I think it must be one "t".'

  'Good!' said Dotty. 'I'm just describing my father's gastroenteritis.'

  She held up an exercise book which had a shiny mottled cover. It brought back memories to Winnie of a science exercise book she had used as a schoolgirl. She could even recall the laboriously drawn illustration of a copper ball suspended over a tripod. Something to do with heat expansion, she remembered, through the mists of time.

  'But what are you doing, Dotty?' she asked.

  'I'm writing a biography of my father. So many people have memories of him, and I thought it would be so nice to have these recollections recorded. After all, he made a deep impression on his pupils.'

  Physical as well as mental, thought Winnie, but forbore to comment.

  'And I was just explaining how his gastroenteritis benefited from a draught of parsley and woundwort I used to make for him to drink last thing at night. As a matter of fact, I was wondering if I should include the recipe. Some readers might be grateful, don't you think?'

  'It would certainly fill up half a page,' agreed Winnie diplomatically. 'You're bound to need a lot of material for a full-scale biography.'

  'Oh, I don't envisage a really long book! Not Charles Dickens' length. Something more in the way of a vignette. A slim volume, you know. Which publisher, do you think, should have it? It might well be a bestseller. Several people have said they will buy a copy, and there are hundreds of libraries who will want copies, I'm sure.'

  She patted the mottled cover lovingly as if it were one of her many pets.

  'Of course, I could do a separate cookery book. I've dozens of recipes, and the interest in herbs and their beneficial properties has increased enormously lately.'

  'Quite an idea,' said Winnie.

  'And I could have something in hand for the publishers when they had got out the first book. I believe that most writers have another book waiting to follow on the first.' Dotty's eyes were bright with enthusiasm behind her spectacles.

  Winnie changed the subject. 'There is an interesting article about Gerard the herbalist in this magazine,' she said, putting it on the table, 'and some splendid photographs of Blenheim. I thought you'd be interested.'

  'Harold and Isobel took me there a month or two ago,' said Dotty. 'Fascinating place, though I found the architecture somewhat grandiose. But have you heard Harold's news about Nathaniel Patten?'

  'No. Tell me more.'

  'Betty Bell told me. I don't know what I'd do without Betty to keep me in touch.'

  Betty Bell was the exuberant woman who did her best to keep Dotty's domestic conditions in order. She also worked at the Shoosmiths' and was a source of much local information.

  'Someone has found some letters written by Nathaniel, and sent word about them to Charles, and he wants Harold to see them.'

  'How exciting!'

  'Harold can't wait to read them. Betty says he's like a cat on hot bricks. Such a cruel expression if you dwell on it. I wonder why some people are so vindictive towards cats? That dreadful phrase about more ways of killing them than by choking them with cream, for instance. So sadistic!'

  'Well, I'm delighted for Harold's sake,' said Winnie briskly.

  She lifted the pot of honey from her basket, and put it by the magazines and Dotty's manuscript.

  Dotty picked it up in her scrawny hands. She certainly could do with a little added flesh on those old bones, thought Winnie. Mentally, she had plenty of nourishment about her.

  'How kind! So sweet and pure! A true natural comfort,' cried Dotty.

  She put it down by the mottled exercise book, and patted the latter with proprietory affection again.

  'I wonder if my little work will occasion as much pleasure one day,' she mused.

  'I'm sure of it,' said Winnie. 'I shall leave you to carry on with your work.'

  She saw herself out, and as she passed the kitchen window she saw that Dotty had taken up her pen again, and was immersed in her memories.

  News of the existence of some letters written by Nathaniel Patten soon spread among the inhabitants of Thrush Green and Lulling.

  Charles had told his wife Dimity about them, as a matter of course, and she, as a good clergyman's wife, had been as discreet as ever about the news.

  Harold and Isobel knew, and were eagerly looking forward to meeting Robert Wilberforce and studying the letters he was about to bring to them.

  But now, it seemed, everyone knew about this exciting find. How did the news get around so quickly, wondered Winnie as she retraced her steps?

  It was like seed dispersal, she told herself, ancient memories of botany lessons stirred again by that glimpse of Dotty's exercise book so like her own Elementary Science notebook of years ago. Seeds were dispersed by wind, as in the case of thistledown, or by birds eating berries, or even by water. Winnie had some faint recollection of coconuts floating in Pacific seas and germinating on island shores.

  Yes, it must be wind dispersal in this case. The news seemed to be airborne. It was unlikely that Harold had discussed the matter with Betty Bell, yet she knew. No doubt Albert Piggott knew as well, thought Winnie, catching sight of him wielding a besom broom by the church porch. Obviously he had already called at the Two Pheasants, for the door of the inn stood open hospitably, and his movements were unusually brisk.

  She crossed the grass to her own house and found Jenny brushing down the stairs with considerably more vigour than Albert Piggott's efforts across the way.

  She stopped when she saw Winnie. 'Rector's been in and says can he count on you to do the crib with Miss Bembridge and his wife as usual this Christmas? And have we got any jumble for the scouts, and don't forget they're collecting for the Deanery Christmas Bazaar's produce stall.'

  'Good heavens,' cried Winnie. 'What a lot to remember!'

  Jenny put down her brush. 'And talking of remembering, we're too late to post surface mail to Australia. Christmas things will have to be air mail now to your cousins.'

  'It happens every year,' sighed Winnie.

  'Mind you,' said Jenny kindly, 'you're still all right for America, and Europe's not so bad.'

  'That's a change,' remarked Winnie tartly. 'Europe these days can be most awkward.'

  She made her way to the kitchen to make coffee.

  Over their steaming cups ten minutes later, Jenny spoke again. 'And there's more news. They've found some letters that Nathaniel Whatsit wrote years ago. Should be a thrill for Mr Shoosmith.'

  Definitely wind dispersal thought Winnie, draining her cup.

  Charles Henstock wrote
to the address of Dulcie Mulloy which Harold had obtained from the obliging Welsh postmistress, but the days passed, and he had no reply.

  Secretly, he rather hoped that the young lady would not be able to come. Harold's enthusiasm swept one along, he mused. It would really be more circumspect just to entertain Robert Wilberforce, for Dulcie Mulloy was an unknown quantity and might not fit in with Harold and their new acquaintance. Harold seemed to think that she was a successful business woman, and Charles felt apprehensive. Would she be bossy? Would she be completely dismissive of Nathaniel's memory, as her deplorable father had been? Would she and Robert Wilberforce, who sounded such a quiet fellow on the telephone, take a dislike to each other? Would she demand Nathaniel's letters for herself as one of the family?

  With such conjectures poor Charles tortured himself until Dimity, ever solicitous, asked him outright what was troubling him.

  After some hesitation Charles admitted that he had one or two qualms about the proposed dinner party.

  Dimity, always practical, tried to put his mind at ease. 'Well, it's all arranged now, whether she comes or not, and really one must consider Harold's feelings. He would love to meet Dulcie, if that turns out to be possible, and both she and Mr Wilberforce are bound to be civilized people and won't make trouble under our roof. Do stop worrying, Charles dear. I'm sure it will be a very cheerful little party.'

  'I do wish she would reply,' said Charles, only partially content.

  'She may have moved from that address,' said Dimity, 'or be ill, or looking after someone else.'

  'I realize that,' nodded Charles, 'but I just wish we had heard,' he added piteously.

  That same evening the telephone rang as he and Dimity were finishing a modest supper of cauliflower cheese.

  Charles went to the hall to answer it, and took a long time in doing so.

  Dimity stacked the dishes in the sink, set out two coffee cups, then settled herself at the kitchen table. She only hoped that the caller was not some troubled parishioner who was demanding Charles's immediate support and comfort. If so, she knew Charles would go at once to offer succour.

  He returned beaming, and Dimity felt relief. At least he had not been called upon to take himself out into the dismal November night. She began to make the coffee.

  'It was Dulcie Mulloy. Very apologetic for not getting in touch before, but she's been abroad on business. Hamburg or Frankfurt—one of those edible German towns—and she only got back today to find our letter.'

  'And can she come?'

  'She said she'd love to. She is going on to stay with friends in Wiltshire that night, but can come to dinner.'

  'That is good news,' said Dimity, noticing the pleased expression on her husband's face.

  'She sounds quite charming,' said Charles. 'Very soft voice. Very ladylike.'

  Dimity hid her amusement. How often, these days, did you hear of anyone being 'ladylike'?

  But then Charles was not of these days, she thought thankfully. 'So now you are happy?' she said, putting his coffee before him.

  'I'm always happy with you,' said Charles.

  3. A Memorable Evening

  THE CHRISTMAS street decorations began to go up in Lulling High Street at the start of December. Council men, perched on ladders, strung electric bulbs among the lime trees, and banners across the highway, causing even more traffic chaos than usual, and a number of distinctly unchristian comments from pedestrians stepping round bags of tools and coils of electric flex.

  The shops were decking their windows with seasonal themes. Reindeer romped improbably round the Lulling Gas offices among refrigerators and ovens. Father Christmas sat on his sleigh amidst satin underwear and flimsy nightgowns in the window of Lulling's most prestigious draper's shop, and at the new florist's a gigantic silver and white arrangement of honesty, silvered pine cones and white Christmas roses evoked much admiration from the passers by.

  At the Fuchsia Bush, Nelly Piggott and her staff had been busy preparing Christmas cakes and the results of their skill stood proudly in the window of that establishment. Fringed collars of scarlet and gold encircled the snowy wares, and red satin ribbon was draped tastefully across the windowpane to add even more attraction to the goods on display.

  The scene at Thrush Green was much less colourful, although Mr Jones, the landlord of the Two Pheasants, had a Christmas tree standing in a tub outside the door of his hostelry, and this was decked with miniature light bulbs which made a brave show after dark.

  But in all the houses around the green preparations were going on with increasing fervour as the December days were torn from the calendar.

  Winnie Bailey was debating whether to send tights or hankies to her Australian cousins, mindful of postage expense.

  Ella Bembridge was hand-blocking some material, which was destined to be made into ties for her unlucky male relations. The recipients, however, were quite used to these annual gifts, and passed them on, after a decent interval, to bazaars some distance from Thrush Green.

  Nelly Piggott had cleared away the supper dishes, and was settling down at the table to write Christmas cards. Albert was next door at the Two Pheasants, and Nelly had time to sort robins from snowy churches, cats in bobble-hats from reindeer, in readiness for posting to friends and relations.

  Joan and Edward Young, the local architect, who lived in the finest of all the Cotswold houses on the green, were planning a Christmas party for their schoolboy son, and Harold and Isobel Shoosmith were sorting out their bottles of wine and making a list for more.

  But it was at Thrush Green school that the most intense of Christmas preparations were in force.

  Alan Lester had decided to keep things as simple as possible. The decorating of the three classrooms would be left to the care of the teacher in charge, and Miss Robinson, across the playground in the infants' room, was already supervising the construction of yards of paperchains, a Christmas frieze to encircle the walls, and some individual cracker cases, destined for unsuspecting parents, and waiting to be filled with wrapped boiled sweets generously supplied by the enthusiastic Miss Robinson.

  The paperchains and frieze were roaring ahead with little difficulty, but the cracker cases were decidedly less simple than The Teachers' World diagram had shown, and infant tears had spotted many a piece of scarlet crêpe paper. In fact, Miss Robinson had almost decided to scrap that particular project and substitute nice plain squares of red paper which could be drawn up round the sweets and turned into a neat dolly bag with the aid of sensible and obliging wire tie closures.

  The young probationer in the room next to Alan's had also embarked on an ambitious frieze showing angels with detachable wings which, in theory, fluttered in any light breeze available. It was a pretty notion on paper, but when transposed to practical hand work was far from successful. The Cotswold winds in winter are rough and rude, and at every opening of the classroom door the wings fell to the floor like confetti.

  When Alan Lester discovered his assistant one playtime tearfully trying to stick back the recalcitrant wings, he suggested that these tiresome appendages should go into the wastepaper basket, and that wings could be added on each side of the figures quite effectively by drawing on the black background with white chalk.

  'Much better,' agreed the girl, cheering up.

  'You don't want to be too ambitious,' said Alan kindly.

  'I thought of making some paper bells but they look rather tricky,' she admitted.

  'What about paperchains?'

  'But they always have paperchains!' protested the innovator.

  'That's why they like them,' Alan assured her.

  His own classroom was adorned with cardboard models of Father Christmas in his sleigh with rather weak-kneed reindeer pulling it. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and the children were enchanted with their efforts. Here, too, paperchains stretched overhead, and when a link occasionally gave way and there was a cascade of bright chains upon the heads beneath, it all added to the festive spi
rit.

  The two older classes combined to practise carols, for it was in the school's tradition to take part in a carol service at St Andrew's on the green close by. The infants were exempt from this event, as excitement and nervousness had often brought tears, or worse, to the occasion, to the embarrassment of all present. They had a story read to them in the familiar comfort of their own classroom, while their elders fulfilled their public duties.

  Alan Lester's two daughters were among his pupils, and were some of the keenest workers at the Christmas decorations. At home they continued their labours enthusiastically, and Alan found the schoolhouse as lavishly festooned in paperchains as the school itself.

  'You know,' commented Alan to his wife Margaret when the little girls were safely in bed, 'I am a true lover of Christmas, but I do get a little tired of these ubiquitous paperchains.'

  'Never mind,' said his wife consolingly. 'You know what Eeyore said about birthdays? "Here today, and gone tomorrow." Well, Christmas is much the same!'

  'Ah!' replied Alan, 'but these things stay up until Twelfth Night. However, if the girls like them...'

  'They do,' said Margaret; and there the matter was left.

  Meanwhile, at the vicarage in Lulling, preparations for the dinner party were already going ahead.

  Dimity, whose confidence in her ability to cook had grown since her marriage, was quite enjoying making lists of possible menus for the great occasion. She consulted Charles earnestly about his opinion, but always received the same unhelpful response: 'I'm sure that would be very nice, Dimity. Very nice indeed.'

  Food meant little to Charles, and Dimity often wondered if he would patiently wade through a stewed boot or bread soaked in hot water if put before him. He would certainly not question such a meal, and probably compliment her when his plate was clean.

  She remembered his angelic forbearance with the appalling meals his housekeeper had dished up, when Charles was a lone widower at Thrush Green years earlier. She and Ella had often taken pity on him, and invited him to lunch. He had always been excessively grateful, Dimity recalled, but now, after years of marriage and supplying him with meals, she wondered if perhaps she and Ella had been more satisfied then with their entertaining than their polite guest.