(12/20) No Holly for Miss Quinn Read online

  But although she respected Miriam's desire for privacy, she could not help feeling a little disappointed. She had hoped for company, and although the mere presence of someone next door was a great comfort, she sorely missed the conversation and company of her husband and mother. She found herself switching on the radio simply to hear another voice during the day, or making some excuse to walk to the village to enjoy a few words with anyone she met.

  The days grew shorter. Joan tidied her garden, strung up her onions, planted bulbs, and had a massive autumn bonfire which wreathed blue smoke around Holly Lodge for two whole days. She was stirring the last of its embers one Saturday afternoon when Miriam waved to her from the other end of the garden.

  "I'm off blackberrying," she called. "Shall I pick some for you?"

  Joan dropped the hoe she had been using as an outsize poker, and hurried across.

  "I'll join you, if I may," she said. "I've been meaning to go all the week. Wait half a minute while I fetch a basket."

  Miriam rather welcomed company on this golden afternoon. She had finished the usual weekend chores of washing and shopping. The tradesmen had been paid their weekly dues, the house was clean. The mending awaited her, but otherwise her affairs were in as apple-pie order here as they were at the office. It would be good to hear Joan's news. She felt slightly guilty about seeing so little of her lately. This afternoon she would make amends.

  The two women strode across the stubble of the field to a tall hedge. The sharp straw caught their legs, but it was wonderfully exhilarating to feel the crunch of it beneath their feet. At the farther edge of the field Miriam caught sight of something moving.

  "Look!" she said, grasping Joan's arm. "A covey of partridges! There must be at least ten young ones running along there. I haven't seen that for a long time."

  Joan was struck for the first time with the excitement in her companion's face.

  "You really are a country girl!" she exclaimed. "Somehow I hadn't realized it."

  Miriam smiled at her.

  "It's why I love Holly Lodge so much," she told her.

  The blackberries were thick and the two women picked steadily. Jet black, ruby red, and pale green, the berries cascaded down the hedge. United in their task, relaxed by the sunshine and sweet air, they talked of this and that, Miriam more forthcoming than ever before, and Joan relishing the chance to chatter again.

  An onlooker might have learnt a great deal about the two women's natures, simply by watching their methods of picking. Miriam chose her bush with a shrewd eye to size and ripeness, and then picked swiftly and systematically, from the fat terminal berry, along the sides of the branch until all were gathered. Her movements were rapid but controlled, and not one berry was dropped.

  Joan ambled happily between bushes, picking only the large ones. She lacked the concentration of the younger woman, but obviously enjoyed her haphazard forays and was quite content to have only half a basket of fruit, compared with Miriam's brimming one, when the time came to return home.

  "I'm going to make tea," said Miriam. "Come and join me."

  Joan was delighted to accept, and after depositing her basket in her own kitchen and washing her battle-scarred hands, she returned to the annex bearing some bronze chrysanthemums.

  "I love them," said Joan, watching her neighbor arrange them, "but I always feel rather sad. They mean the summer's over. Still, they are very beautiful, and have such a marvelous scent. Rather like very expensive furniture polish, I always think."

  Miriam let her chatter happily, wondering how to broach a subject which had been in her mind for some time.

  "Would you mind if I redecorated these rooms, Joan?"

  "Not at all," she said, looking a little surprised. "But they were done, you know, very recently."

  "That's why I haven't liked to mention it. But, to tell you the truth, I'm not a lover of cream walls, and with this old mahogany I thought a very pale green would look well."

  Joan nodded approvingly.

  "It would indeed. Would you get somebody in to do it? I'm sure Mr. Willet could recommend someone reliable. Shall I ask him?"

  "No, there's no need. I shall enjoy tackling it myself. I'm quite experienced."

  "What a lot of talents you have! When would you want to start? Can I help at all?"

  Miriam began to feel the familiar qualms of apprehension returning.

  "I may take a few days off," she said guardedly. "I have some time owing to me, and Barnabas has to make a trip overseas soon. I may be able to arrange something then. If not, I could probably do some of it at Christmas time."

  This chance remark sent Joan along a new path.

  "I'm writing to my two children this week to see if they can join me here for Christmas. I thought if they had plenty of notice, I should have more chance of their company. It would be lovely to have the house full and you could meet them all. Barbara's babies are such fun."

  Miriam's heart sank.

  "You're very kind," she murmured. "More tea?"

  "I simply adore Christmas," continued Joan, stirring her second cup. "And Fairacre is the perfect place to spend it. Lots of little parties, and carol singers coming to the door and having a drink and mince pies when they've finished; and always such lovely services at St. Patrick's with the church decked beautifully with holly and ivy and Christmas roses. Christmas really is Christmas at Fairacre!"

  Miriam's polite smile masked her inner misgivings. Christmas at the vicarage had always meant a particularly busy day for her father, and a considerable number of elderly relatives who had been invited by her kindly mother because as she said: "They had nowhere else to go, poor things, and one can't think of them alone at Christmas."

  Miriam had long ago given up feeling guilty about her dislike of Christmas festivities, and latterly had taken pains to keep her own Christmases as quiet as possible. This year she was determined to spend it alone in her new abode, with no turkey, no pudding, no mince pies and—definitely—no holly.

  She might have a glass of the excellent punch that Barnabas usually gave her, with her customary light lunch, and she intended to read some Trollope, earmarked for the winter months. But too much food, too much noise and, above all, too much convivial company she would avoid.

  But would she be able to?

  She looked at dear kind Joan, rosy with fresh air and relaxed with warmth and company. How she blossomed, thought Miriam, with other people about!

  No wonder she loved Christmas. Visiting, and being visited, was the breath of life to the good soul, and the joy of that festival would far outweigh any extra work which it entailed.

  "I must be off," said Joan, struggling to her feet. "There's bramble jelly to be made next door, and I must leave you to tackle your own."

  Miriam closed the door behind her, and returned to the sitting room deep in thought.

  It looked as though evading action might well be needed as Christmas approached.

  She looked out upon the golden evening. The trees were beginning to turn tawny with the first cool winds of autumn.

  Ah well, she told herself, time enough yet to postpone such troubles!

  ***

  But the autumn slipped by at incredible speed. It was dark now when Miriam left the office. She was glad to nose her car into the garage and hurry into the annex to light the fire, which she prudently set in readiness in the morning.

  The force of the equinoctial gales surprised her. Now she began to realize how open to the elements was this high downland country, and to appreciate the sagacity of the past owner of Holly Lodge who had had the foresight to plant the thick hedge that gave the house not only its name, but considerable protection from the blasts of winter.

  Her own little home gave her increasing satisfaction. She had painted the kitchen white. It took three weekends of hard work to do the job, but Miriam was a perfectionist, and she rubbed down the old paint until not one scrap remained before she began to apply the undercoat with a steady hand. She enjoyed th
e work, she exulted in the finished result, and, above all, she relished the perfect quiet as she got on with the job.

  She was even more determined now to tackle the sitting room at Christmas. Barney, as she thought of him, was making a business trip to Boston and New York, leaving on December sixteenth and not returning until after New Year's Day. Miriam had already made the flight bookings for him and Adele, his wife. They were meeting their only daughter, who was married to an American, and proposed to spend Christmas at her home and to see their grandchildren. Miriam had been requested to find some toys suitable for children aged six and eight.

  "The sort of thing they won't get over there, you know," said Barney vaguely. "Adele's got the main things, but I'd like to take something myself. I'll leave it to you. Not too weighty, of course, because of flying."

  "I won't get an old English rocking horse," promised Miriam.

  "Oh no! Nothing like that!" exclaimed Sir Barnabas, looking alarmed. Humor, even as obvious as this, did not touch him. "And no more than five pounds apiece," he added. He was not a business man for nothing.

  Miriam promised to do her best.

  ***

  As Christmas approached, the whirl of village activities quickened. Posters went up on barn doors, on the trunks of trees, and on the bus shelter near the church, drawing attention to the usual Mammoth Jumble Sale, the Fur and Feather Whist Drive, and the Social and Dance, all to be held—on different dates, of course—under the roof of the Village Hall.

  As well as these advertized delights, there were more private junketings, such as the Women's Institute Christmas party, Fairacre School's concert, and a wine and cheese party for the Over-Sixties' Club.

  An innovation was Mrs. Partridge's Open Day at the vicarage, which was her own idea, and to which the village gave considerable attention.

  "You can just pop in there," said Mrs. Willet, in the Post Office, "anytime between ten o'clock and seven at night. You pays ten pence to go in, and you pays for your cup of coffee, or your dinner midday, or tea, say, at four o'clock."

  "And what, pray," said Mrs. Pringle, who was buying stamps, "do you get for dinner? And how much will it be?"

  "I think it's just soup and bread and cheese," said Mrs. Willet timidly.

  Mrs. Pringle snorted, and two stamps fluttered to the ground.

  "I don't call that DINNER," boomed the lady, preparing to bend to retrieve the stamps.

  "Here, let me," said Mr. Lamb, the postmaster, hurrying to rescue Mrs. Pringle's property. More than likely to have a heart attack, trying to bend over in those corsets, was his ungallant private comment, as he proffered the stamps with a smile.

  "Ta," said Mrs. Pringle perfunctorily. She turned again upon little Mrs. Willet.

  "And how much for this 'ere rubbishy snack?'"

  "I'm not sure," faltered Mrs. Willet. "It's for charity, you see. Half to the Church Fabric Fund and half to some mission in London that the vicar takes an interest in. Poor people, you know."

  "Poor people?" thundered Mrs. Pringle. "In London? Why, we've got plenty of poor in Fairacre as could do with a bit of help at Christmas, without giving it away to foreigners up London. Look at them Coggses! They could do with a bit of extra. That youngest looks half-starved to me."

  "Well, whose fault's that?" asked Mr. Lamb, entering the fray. "We all know Arthur drinks his pay packet—always has done, and always will. If he was given more, he'd drink that too."

  "Who said give Arthur the money?" demanded

  Mrs. Pringle, her four chins wobbling with indignation. "Give it to that poor wife of his, I say, to get a decent meal for the kids."

  "They do get something from the Great Coal Charity," said Mrs. Willet diffidently. Mrs. Pringle brushed this aside.

  "And in my mother's time she didn't rely on no Great Coal Charity," she boomed on. "She paid her way, poor though she was."

  "She didn't have anything from the Great Coal Charity," responded Mr. Lamb, "because there wasn't one then."

  "I'll have you know," said Mrs. Pringle with devastating dignity, "that that there Charity was started in seventeen-fifty because the vicar told us himself at a talk he gave the W.I."

  "Maybe," replied Mr. Lamb, "but it was started as a Greatcoat Charity, and six deserving old men and six deserving old women got a woolen greatcoat apiece to keep out the winter cold."

  Mrs. Pringle looked disbelieving, her mouth downturned like a disgruntled turtle's.

  "And what happened," said Mr. Lamb, warming to his theme, "was this. Someone left the crossing off the 't' in 'coat' when they were writing up the minutes about George the Fourth's time, and so it went on being called the Great Coal Charity, and instead of a coat you get coal."

  "Well, I never," exclaimed Mrs. Willet. "I never heard that before!"

  "Nor did I," said Mrs. Pringle, with heavy sarcasm. She picked up her stamps and made for the door.

  "Which doesn't alter my feelings about bread and cheese dinners. What's dinner without a bit of meat on your plate?"

  She banged the door behind her. Mrs. Willet sighed.

  "That woman," said Mr. Lamb, "makes me come over prostrate with dismal when she shows that face of hers in here. Now, love, what was it you wanted?"

  Chapter 4

  TROUBLE AHEAD

  MISS QUINN was wise enough to realize that she could not opt out of Christmas activities completely. Nor did she wish to. She willingly provided boxes of chocolates for raffle prizes at various Fairacre functions, accompanied Joan to a carol service at St. Patrick's, and drank a glass of punch at the vicarage Open Day.

  There was no doubt about it, this new venture was extremely popular with Fairacre folk. Mrs. Partridge and her helpers had decked the downstairs rooms with scarlet and silver ribbons, and all the traditional trappings of Christmas. Holly and ivy, mistletoe and glittering baubles added their beauty, and an enormous Christmas tree dominated the entrance hall.

  In each room was a table bearing goods suitable for Christmas presents, and a brisk trade ensured that the Church Fabric Fund and Mr. Partridge's pet mission would profit. Miriam recognized the planning which must have gone into this enterprise, and admired the efficiency with which it was run. It was an idea she intended to pass on to Lovell, when she saw him, for future use in his own parish.

  These little jaunts she thoroughly enjoyed, and she was grateful for the genuine welcome she was given by her village neighbors. Joan's growing excitement, as the festival approached, was a source of mingled pleasure and apprehension, however.

  "Isn't it wonderful?" Joan had said, on the morning of the Open Day. "Roger is coming for Christmas, after all, and then going with a party of other young people to Switzerland for the winter sports."

  "Marvelous," agreed Miriam. Barbara, the daughter, her husband, and the three children had already accepted Joan's invitation and would be in the house for a week. Miriam had listened patiently to Joan's ecstatic arrangements for sleeping, feeding, and entertaining the family party for the last week or two. The plans were remarkably fluid, and Miriam had long since given up trying to keep track of who slept where, or when would be best to eat the turkey.

  It was quite apparent that she must meet Joan's family at some time, and she had accepted an invitation to have a drink on Christmas Eve. So far, she had managed to evade the pressing invitations to every meal which her kindhearted landlady issued daily. That sitting room would be painted, come hail or high water, she told herself grimly.

  She had arranged with Barney to take some time off during his absence in America. This would give her a few days before Christmas to get on with her decorating, having left the office in apple-pie order after his departure. Tins of paint and three new brushes waited on the top shelf in the kitchen, and she felt a little surge of happiness every time she saw them. She could see the sitting room in her mind's eye, a bower of green and white all ready for the New Year, and the new curtains and cushions she had promised herself.

  Almost all her Christmas presents wer
e wrapped and ready to post. Christmas cards began to arrive thick and fast. Usually, she had some plan of display—a whitewashed branch to hold them, or scarlet ribbons placed across the walls. But this year she read each with interest and then slipped it into a folder brought from the office, so that all were stacked away, leaving the sitting room ready for her ministrations.

  She was glad when the time came to leave the office for her extended Christmas break. Four days after Barney's departure, with everything left tidy, she distributed her presents to the office staff, and thankfully set off for Fairacre and the decorating.

  Lights were strung across the streets of Caxley, and entwined the lamp standards. Christmas trees jostled pyramids of oranges in the greengrocers' shops. Turkeys hung in rows in the butchers', presenting their pink plump breasts for inspection. Children flattened their noses against the windows of the toy shops, while exhausted mothers struggled with laden shopping baskets and wondered what they had forgotten.

  Queues formed at the Post Office: people buying stamps for stacks of Christmas cards, weighing parcels bedizened with Christmas stickers, or simply enquiring, with some agitation, the last date for posting to New Zealand and getting the answer they had feared. Yet again, Aunt Flo in Wellington would receive a New Year's card sent by air mail.

  The surging crowds, the garish lights, the sheer unappetizing commercialism of the festival disgusted Miriam as she threaded her way slowly along the busy streets. It was good to gain the country road to Fairacre, climbing steadily towards the downs, to smell the frosty air and to know that peace lay ahead, behind the holly hedge.

  She spent most of the evening by the fire, relishing her solitude and making plans for the attack on the painting. She reviewed the situation and found it highly satisfactory. Her posting was done. A box containing Christmas presents, to be given by hand to Joan and other local friends, was on a shelf in the kitchen cupboard. The milkman was going to deliver a small chicken in two days' time, ready for her modest Christmas dinner. Christmas boxes for the tradesmen waited on the hall window sill for distribution as they called.