(9/13)The School at Thrush Green Read online

  I write on behalf of my friend Miss Agnes Fogerty and myself. For some time now we have had our names on your books, and, to be frank, have had very poor service.

  Although all the particulars of our needs are with you, let me repeat them. We need a two-bedroomed bungalow, on a level site, with a small garden. It must be within walking distance, i.e. no further than half a mile from shops, post office and church (C of E).

  It must be in a good state of repair, as we hope to move in this summer, preferably in July.

  Please do not waste your time and ours by sending particulars of outrageously useless properties such as the converted windmill, the granary with outside staircase and the underground flat made from a wine cellar, which were enclosed in your last communication.

  I expect to hear from you by return.

  Yours sincerely.

  She turned to smile at Agnes. 'How's that? Can you think of anything else, Agnes dear?'

  Agnes looked hunted. Her hands were shaking with agitation as she put the baby's coat aside.

  'Well, I do think it was wise to repeat what we need, Dorothy, but I just wonder if that last paragraph isn't the tiniest bit - er - '

  'Strong? That's what I wanted! It's about time they were jerked up.'

  'Yes, I know, dear, but we don't want them to think us unreasonable.'

  'Unreasonable? They're the ones that are unreasonable! Fancy sending two middle-aged ladies those absurd properties! We told them about my hip and that we are retiring. We're not a couple of mountain goats to go skipping up an outside staircase in a howling gale, and with no handrail, as far as one could see from that inadequate photograph. Or to go burrowing down a flight of steps into the black hole of Calcutta like that idiotic wine cellar!'

  Dorothy's neck was becoming red, a sure sign of danger, and little Miss Fogerty knew from experience that it was time to prevaricate.

  'My cake!' she exclaimed, hurrying out.

  She busied herself for some minutes with her creation, allowing Dorothy to calm down before returning to the sitting-room. A delicious scent of almond cake followed her into the room.

  'Something smells good,' said Dorothy smiling. 'Well, Agnes dear, let's go through the last paragraph and perhaps temper it a little before I make a fair copy.'

  She picked up the letter and began to read. Agnes resumed her sewing, trying to hide her agitation.

  It was not until the next day that she realised that she had sewn in the sleeves inside out, and would have to face a good deal of tedious unpicking.

  But at least, she told herself, it was really a small price to pay in the face of making enemies of a reputable estate agent.

  The young man, whom Albert Piggott and various other observers had noticed calling on Winnie Bailey, was indeed her nephew Richard, and his visit occasioned her some alarm.

  She discussed this with Doctor Lovell the next day when he paid his customary morning visit after surgery next door.

  Winnie's husband Donald Bailey had been the much-loved doctor at Thrush Green for many years, and John Lovell had become his junior partner when the older man's health began to fail.

  It had been a happy relationship, and John deeply appreciated his partner's wife's kindness. When Donald died, he kept on the same surgery which the two men had shared and made sure that he did all he could for Donald's widow.

  He knew a good deal about Richard. He was a brilliant young scientist and mathematician, completely selfish and inclined to batten on Winnie whenever he was in difficulties. His marriage had collapsed a year or two previously, and his young child was with his wife Fenella and her current paramour Roger. John Lovell, who liked a tidy life himself, had little time for Richard's vagaries, but he knew that Winnie loved her nephew, despite his gross selfishness.

  'You see,' Winnie told him, 'he is absolutely set on buying a little house here or in Lulling. In some ways I can see that it would be a good thing. He really needs a base to keep his things and to prepare his lectures and so on. And of course, I should enjoy seeing him now and again, but - '

  'But?' prompted John.

  'Well, he wants to stay here until he finds something, and I simply can't have him here for any length of time. Jenny and I have all we can do to cope with our own little chores, and Richard would be in and out at all hours, needing meals and so on.'

  'Surely you told him that? He knows well enough how you are placed.'

  'Of course I told him, but you know Richard. He doesn't want to hear. I said I'd see if I could find lodgings somewhere handy, and would let him know.'

  'Give me his number,' said John, 'and I'll ring him myself today. He can hear your doctor's honest opinion that neither you nor Jenny is fit enough to cope with him.'

  Winnie looked perturbed. 'Oh, John! I don't know if I should let you. After all, he is my nephew, and it seems so awful to turn the poor boy away from my doorstep.'

  'He can easily find another doorstep,' replied John firmly. 'He's rolling in money. What's wrong with a hotel room? Leave this to me, Winnie. I promise to be quite civil to him, but you need some support over this little problem.'

  'It's at times like this,' confessed Winnie, 'that I miss Donald.'

  'You're not the only one,' the young doctor assured her, setting off on his rounds.

  3. News Travels Fast

  NELLY Piggott did not forget her promise to Bertha Lovelock, made in a weak moment and much regretted.

  It soon became apparent, however, that there would be no ugly rush for the proposed post of cook-general at the Lovelocks' establishment.

  'No fear!' said the first woman approached by Nelly.

  'Not Pygmalion likely!' said the second.

  Nelly put her problem to her friend Mrs Jenner, as they walked to bingo one evening. Mrs Jenner was the mother of Jane Cartwright, warden of the old people's homes, and a much respected character locally.

  Unlike Nelly, she had known Lulling, Nidden and Thrush Green all her life, and the doings of the Misses Lovelock were old history to her.

  'My dear,' she told Nelly, 'don't waste your time and energy. No one is going to take on a job like that these days. Those old things are still living in the past when they could get some poor little fourteen-year-old to skivvy for them for five shillings a week. You know yourself how mean they are, and the rest of Lulling knows too.'

  'That's true enough,' agreed Nelly.

  'They'll just have to face facts,' went on Mrs Jenner. 'After all, they're lucky enough to live next door to The Fuchsia Bush, and have enough money to eat there daily without breaking the bank. And if things get really tough for them they will have to apply for a home help.'

  'Well, I just felt I should make an attempt, as I'd promised,' said Nelly.

  'And so you have,' replied Mrs Jenner. 'Now let them do their own worrying. From what I know of those old dears they really don't deserve a great deal of sympathy.'

  The two friends entered the bingo hall in Lulling High Street, content to shelve the problem in the face of an evening's pleasure.

  Doctor Lovell too had been keeping a promise, and had rung Winnie Bailey's nephew.

  It had not been easy to get hold of Richard, but he tracked him down one evening.

  Richard sounded suspicious and uncommonly haughty.

  'I'm not sure why you are telling me this,' he exclaimed, when John began his tale. 'After all, she is my aunt, and I know how she's placed quite as well as you do. If I may say so, I find your interference somewhat offensive.'

  Doctor Lovell, no coward, was firm in his reply.

  'I don't think you do know as much as I do. Winnie is now in her seventies, and Jenny not much younger. They are neither of them in the best of health and they have quite enough to do coping with everyday living. A visit, no matter how short, would be too much for them.'

  There was a snort from the other end of the line. 'What rubbish! She said she would be delighted to have me there for a few days.'

  'Naturally, she would. She is fond of you
and would do all she could to fall in with your requests. My point is that you should not make any. She is my patient, and so is Jenny. I won't see their health put at risk.'

  There was another snort.

  'If you must stay in the area,' went on John remorselessly, 'I'm sure you could get a room at The Fleece. I can give you the telephone number.'

  'I know the telephone number, thank you very much,' replied Richard stuffily, and rang off.

  'Well, I hope that's choked him off,' said John, replacing the receiver. 'And if it hasn't, I'll have the greatest pleasure in knocking his block off.'

  News of Richard's visit and his intention to find somewhere to live locally was soon common knowledge at Thrush Green. How this came about was the usual mystery, for Winnie had only mentioned the matter to Jenny and her old friend and neighbour Ella Bembridge, and John Lovell had said nothing, not even to Ruth, his wife.

  Nevertheless, speculation was rife, and sympathy for Winnie Bailey's predicament was general.

  Betty Bell, who kept the school clean and rushed round the Shoosmiths' house next door twice a week, told Isobel all about it as she wound the vacuum cleaner cord into the tight figure-of-eight which Harold so detested.

  'Too soft by half Mrs Bailey is,' she pronounced. 'That nephew of hers gets away with murder over there.'

  'Oh come!' protested Isobel.

  'Well, near enough,' conceded Betty, crashing the vacuum cleaner into a cupboard and capsising two tins of polish, a basket full of clothes pegs and half a dozen bottling jars. 'Luckily, Doctor Lovell's given him a piece of his mind, so maybe he'll stop bothering his poor auntie.'

  She sat back on her haunches and began to repair the damage. 'And anyway,' she continued, 'what's he want coming to live here? He's all over the place, from what I hear. America, China, Bristol, Oxford, lecturing or something. Waste of money, I'd say, to have a home.'

  'He needs somewhere to keep his things,' Isobel pointed out.

  'But why here? It's all coming and going, isn't it? You heard as they're giving up next door?'

  Isobel felt shocked. 'Are you sure?'

  'Positive. Miss Watson said so. In the summer, she said.'

  Isobel could not help wondering if this were true. Surely, Agnes would have told her if this were so.

  'Awful lot of clobber you keep in here,' commented Betty, rising from her task. 'You really want it all?'

  'It has to go somewhere, Betty,' said her employer. 'Like Richard, you know.'

  The house was remarkably peaceful after Betty Bell had departed on her bicycle and Isobel, still a little perturbed by her news, went in search of Harold.

  She found him in his study with his old friend Charles Henstock, rector of Thrush Green and vicar of Lulling.

  'What a nice surprise! Is Dimity around?'

  'No, she's busy shopping in the town and calling at the Lovelocks.'

  'Not for lunch, I hope,' said Harold.

  Charles laughed. 'No, no. Nothing like that. I have to be home at twelve-thirty for lunch, Dimity told me.'

  Harold glanced at his watch. 'Well, far be it from me to speed a parting guest, particularly such a welcome one as you, Charles, but it's nearly ten to one now.'

  'Good heavens!' exclaimed the vicar, much flustered. 'I must run for it. Can I leave the upkeep account with you then?'

  'Of course you can, and don't worry about it. I'm sure there's some simple explanation about the discrepancy.'

  Charles was busy collecting his gloves, scarf, hat and a brown paper bag bulging dangerously with over-ripe bananas.

  'Well, thank you, thank you, my dear fellow. I don't know how I'd get on without you.'

  He hastened to the door, and made for his car. Isobel and Harold waved him off.

  'What's worrying the dear old boy?' asked Isobel.

  'He has just over fifty pounds in the tobacco tin he keeps the Thrush Green Church upkeep money in, and his accounts say he should have just over five hundred.'

  'That's worrying!'

  'Not with Charles's arithmetic. He never has been any good with noughts. I'll soon sort it out.'

  Over lunch, Isobel told him about Betty's disclosure.

  'It seems so odd. Not that I've seen a great deal of Agnes and Dorothy, but I did have a natter over the hedge recently and I'm sure Agnes would have told me.'

  'Probably forgot,' said Harold equably. 'You'll know soon enough.'

  It seemed that almost everyone knew about the ladies' retirement plans, other than Isobel.

  Not that Agnes had told anyone, for she still felt obliged to keep silent about things until Dorothy deemed otherwise.

  It was some shock to her, therefore, when three of her young charges, four mothers, Betty Bell, the milkman and Mr Jones the publican mentioned the subject all in the course of one day.

  She mentioned the matter to Dorothy that evening.

  'Oh yes!' said that lady carelessly. 'I did tell the office, of course, and I believe I mentioned it to Betty Bell a day or two ago. No harm done, is there?'

  'Well, no, I suppose not,' said Agnes doubtfully, 'but I have been particularly careful to say nothing. Not even to Isobel,' she added.

  It was plain that she was upset, and Dorothy was quick to apologise.

  'It was thoughtless of me, and I should have realised how the news goes through this place like a bush fire. I really am deeply sorry, Agnes dear. I had no idea that it was putting you into an awkward position. Anyway, it's now common knowledge that we are retiring in the summer, so we can be quite open about it.'

  Agnes smiled her forgiveness. 'I will have a word with Isobel when I see her,' she said. 'I shouldn't like her to hear our news from somebody else first.'

  'Why not telephone now?' suggested her friend. 'The sooner the better. After all, she may well be told by someone else very soon.'

  If not already, she said to herself, watching Agnes roll up her knitting before going to the telephone.

  Really, it was exasperating! Was anything private in a village? And would Barton-on-Sea be equally enthralled by its neighbours' affairs?

  Time alone would tell.

  Luckily for Charles Henstock, Dimity too had been delayed, so that he was not late for his meal.

  'And how are the Lovelock girls?' he enquired, using the usual Lulling euphemism for the three ancient sisters.

  'Worried about help in the house,' answered Dimity. 'Well, perhaps not so much the help as having to pay for it.'

  'Have they advertised?'

  'No, I don't think so. But they've asked Nelly Piggott and they are wondering if The Fuchsia Bush would put a postcard in the window.'

  Charles, who could not help thinking that both these aids would cost nothing, dismissed the thought as unworthy and uncharitable, and forbore to comment.

  'They told me, by the way,' went on his wife, 'that Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty are retiring at the end of the school year.'

  'Then we must start thinking about some little celebration to mark the occasion. I mean,' he added, feeling that this could have been better expressed, 'they have both been so much respected and admired all these years, that I'm sure Thrush Green will want to honour them in some way.'

  'A sort of bunfight and presentation of a clock?'

  'Well, something like that,' agreed Charles, feeling that perhaps dear Dimity had over-simplified the matter to the point of banality. 'We shall have to consult various people and come up with something suitable.'

  'I should ask them what they would like,' said Dimity, always practical. 'You know how difficult it is to find houseroom for some of those presents you've been given over the years. I mean, who wants a silver inkstand with cut-glass inkwells these days? And that black marble clock like the Parthenon has to be kept in the spare bedroom. And as for those silver-plated fish servers the Scouts gave you, well, I don't think they've been used more than twice in twenty years. No, Charles, I should see that Agnes and Dorothy get something they really need. Like money, say.'

  'I'll
bear it in mind,' the rector assured her.

  February, everyone agreed, was much more cheerful than January at Thrush Green. It was true that the first few days had been dark and foggy, but the relief from the battering winds of the first month of the year had made even the gloomy days quite welcome.

  But by St Valentine's day there were a few signs of spring. Clumps of brave snowdrops, first espied by Agnes across the Shoosmiths' hedge, were to be seen in many cottage gardens. Aconites, their golden faces circled with green ruffs, responded to the sunlight and good gardeners were already making plans to put in new potatoes, broad beans and peas as soon as the ground was warm enough.

  Winnie Bailey thought how hopeful everything seemed as she had one of her first walks of the year.

  She set off up the road to Nidden, noting the activity of the little birds, chaffinches, sparrows, starlings and an occasional robin, darting from hedge to hedge or pecking busily at the grit ¡on the edge of the road. Soon there would be nests and young birds, butterflies and bees to add to all the joys of early summer. Winnie felt a surge of happiness at the thought.

  It had been a long hard winter and the older she grew the more she dreaded the bitter cold of the Cotswolds in winter. She half-envied the two schoolteachers planning to move to the south coast, but she knew that she would never emulate them. Her whole married life had been spent at Thrush Green. The house held many memories and every mile around her home was crowded with remembered incidents. The cottages she passed were the homes of old friends. The shepherd, to whom she waved across the field on her right, had brought Donald from his bed one snowy night. It was a breech birth and Mrs Jenner, the midwife, had sent an urgent message for help. That waving figure, knee-deep in his flock, must now be forty years old.

  She turned along a bridle-path on her left. It was very quiet between the trees. The small leaves of the honeysuckle were a vivid green. The buds on the pewter-grey ash twigs were black as jet. A few celandines had opened on a sunny bank.