Winter in Thrush Green Page 4

  'I have,' said Ella briefly. Dimity looked at her with her mouth open.

  'You didn't tell me.'

  'I forgot. I took the parish magazine in and he was in the front garden. Seems a nice man.'

  Dimity looked a little affronted, but obediently inscribed a card and put it in an envelope. She looked up, pen hovering.

  'What is he called?'

  'Harold Shoosmith,' said Ella promptly. 'With an "o" instead of "e" in "Shoo." And an "o" for Harold, I'm glad to say, not "a." If there's one thing I can't abide it's a Harald with an "a." Like "Hark the Harald Angels Sing," ' added Ella facetiously.

  Dimity's pen remained poised in mid-air. She ignored Ella's weak joke with unaccustomed severity.

  'Is he retired army or navy?' she asked.

  'Search me,' said Ella. 'Winnie Bailey says he's a Lieutenant-Commander, Joan Young says he's a Major, and Ruth Lovell heard he was a Squadron-Leader. As far as Thrush Green's concerned after a week's acquaintanceship I should say "Esq." would fit the case perfectly.'

  She watched Dimity write the address and sighed happily as it was pushed over to her to stamp.

  'I must say it's a real pleasure to have an unattached man at one of our parties. Can't remember the last time we had one under our roof, can you, Dim?'

  'The rector comes often enough,' pointed out Dimity, a little tartly.

  'Well, you can't count the rector,' said Ella reasonably, 'poppet though he is. Besides, he's a widower.'

  'So may Harold Shoosmith be,' said Dimity, writing rather fast. Her mouth was pursed, and Ella could see that she had not been completely forgiven for having met the newcomer before her friend. She watched the hurrying pen with mingled guilt and amusement.

  Dimity completed the card and looked across at Ella meaningly.

  'Or even married!' she said with emphasis.

  And she might just as well have added 'So there!' thought Ella, stamping the envelope in silence, from the hint of triumph in her voice.

  Ella's lively interest in Harold Shoosmith was shared by the rest of Thrush Green. It was said that he was retired from the army, the navy, the air force, the civil service and the B.B.C. He had been a tea-planter in Ceylon, a cocoa-adviser in Ghana, and a coffee-blender in Brazil. It also appeared that he had owned a sugar plantation in Jamaica, a rubber plantation in Malaya and a diamond mine–quite a small one, actually, but with exceptionally fine diamonds–in South Africa.

  Thrush Green was sorry to hear that he had never been married, had been married unhappily and was now separated from his wife, had been happily married and lost his wife in childbirth and (disastrously), still married, with a wife who would be coming to live with him at the comer house within a few days.

  The inhabitants of Thrush Green were able to gaze their fill at the stranger on the first Sunday after his arrival, as he attended morning service in a dove-grey suit which was far better cut, everyone agreed, than those of the other males in the congregation. The rector and one or two other neighbours had called upon him already and pronounced him 'a very nice man' or 'a decent sort of fellow' according to sex.

  To the rector's unfeigned delight the newcomer was among the very few communicants at the altar rail at the eight o'clock service on the following Sunday. About half a dozen faithful female Christians kept the rector company at early service usually, and these included Dimity Dean–but not Ella who went to church less frequently–and Dotty Harmer. It did the rector's heart good to see a man among his small flock, and he hoped that others might follow his example.

  Betty Bell was the chief informant about Harold Shoosmith for she had been engaged for three mornings and three evenings a week. The morning engagements Thrush Green could readily understand, for a man living alone could not be expected to polish and clean, to cook and scrub, and to wash and iron for himself; though, as Ella pointed out, plenty of women lived alone and did all that with one hand tied behind them, and often went out to work as well into the bargain, and no one considered it remarkable.

  The evening engagements were readily explained by Betty Bell herself. She went for an hour and a half to give him a hot cooked dinner, which she had prepared in the morning, and to wash-up afterwards.

  'He's a very clever kind of man,' said Betty to her other employer, Dotty Harmer, one morning. 'He wants to learn to cook for himself. Being out in those hot countries, you know, he's never had a chance to learn. The kitchen's full of black people falling over themselves to do the work, and he's never been allowed to sec his own dinner cooking, so I hear.'

  'I should have thought he could have managed a fried egg,' said Dotty cutting up quinces at the table. 'Ah, Betty,' she sighed sadly, peering up at the girl through her thick glasses, 'this means the real end of summer, you know. When I make quince jam I know it's the last of the season. It'll soon be November, Betty, and winter will be here.'

  'That's what I told Mr Shoosmith,' agreed Betty, returning to her present consuming interest. ' "You want to know how to cook a meal for yourself, in case I can't get here one winter's day," I said to him. So I've shown him how to fry bacon and egg and sausage, and how to make a stew. He's real quick at picking things up, I must say.'

  'Poor man,' said Dotty, 'he'll miss the sun, I dare say. Would you like to take him a pot of my jam when it's done?' Her face brightened at the thought. She had introduced herself to the newcomer after early morning service and had been glad to welcome such an attractive addition to the Thrush Green circle.

  Betty accepted the offer guardedly and made a mental note to warn the unsuspecting recipient against earing it. Dotty, as a keen herbalist and dietician, could never refrain from adding a few sprigs of this, and a drop or two of that, to her dishes in order to give them added vitamin content, and the number of people who had been attacked with 'Dotty's Collywobbles," as a result of her cooking, was prodigious.

  At that moment the postman appeared at the kitchen window and handed in an untidy parcel and one letter.

  'This must be my dried coltsfoot and the other things for my winter ointments and cough cures," said Dotty excitedly, dropping the quinces and tearing at the parcel with sticky fingers. Some strongly-smelling dead foliage fell upon the kitchen table and the black cat who was sunning herself upon it near the jam-making operations. Outraged, she leapt down and stalked towards the stove, tail quivering erect with indignation.

  'There now,' said Betty, 'you've been and upset Mrs Curdle; and her expecting too.'

  Dotty was now reading the card which she had extracted from the envelope. The scattered herbs lay unheeded where they had fallen.

  'Oh, how lovely!' exclaimed Dotty, her wrinkled face alight with pleasure. 'Miss Bembridge and Miss Dean are giving a sherry party on October 31st. Now, isn't that nice?'

  'All Hallows E'en,' commented Betty, bending to stroke Mrs Curdle's ruffled dignity. She had been named after the famous old lady because she had been born on the day that Curdle's Fair visited Thrush Green over two years before. The cat shared with her famous namesake some of her dark magnificence and queenly dominance. She now allowed Betty to smooth her fur, but turned her back upon her thoughtless mistress.

  'So it is,' cried Dotty. 'A party on All Hallows E'en! Well, well, I must certainly go to that!'

  She picked up some of the quinces, together with a few stray herbs from the parcel, and dropped them into a saucepan.

  As she stirred she peered closely into the bubbling brew, and Mrs Curdle, suspecting that food might be forthcoming, deigned to return to her mistress's side.

  'Proper witches' party it will be, and no mistake,' thought Betty Bell to herself, surveying the scene. 'And I'll take care not a morsel of that quince jam ever passes the innocent lips of poor dear Mr Shoosmith! My, that man just doesn't know what he's letting himself in for–coming to live at Thrush Green!'

  Meanwhile, Miss Watson's assailant remained undetected. The police had very little to go on. Miss Watson could tell them no more than she had at first, and there were no helpful
footprints or finger-prints to help in the search. The weather had been brilliant and dry for over a month, and even if footprints had been left, the arrival of several dozen children at the school an hour or so later meant that a large number of them would be effaced. There seemed to be no doubt that the man had worn gloves, and indeed Miss Watson thought that she recalled that the cosh was gripped in an iron-grey woollen glove bound with leather.

  She racked her aching brain for several days trying to pin down the faint sense of recognising those gloves and the man himself, but all was in vain. In the end she had given up worrying about it, and was content to take Miss Fogerty's good advice and 'let the matter rest.'

  Miss Watson confessed that she could not have managed without Miss Fogerty's boundless help. Every morning the good little woman had arrived at eight o'clock to give her her breakfast in bed, until at the end of the week Miss Watson had insisted on returning to school again. There she had found everything in apple-pie order. The accounts had been kept, correspondence had been answered, fresh flowers decked the two classrooms and even the calendar had been torn off daily.

  Miss Watson was much touched by her assistant's kindness and ability. Lying in bed for two or three days had given her, at last, rime to dwell on the sterling qualities hidden beneath Miss Fogerty's mouse-like exterior. For twelve years she had taken the older woman for granted, and on many occasions had felt impatient with her timidity and out-of-date methods. At the end of each day she had bade farewell to Miss Fogerty with something akin to relief. Now it could never be quite the same again. Miss Fogerty had proved herself a friend.

  As the headmistress limped about her school in the next few weeks she became increasingly aware of Miss Fogerty's newly-found confidence which had flowered during her own absence. The nervous acquiescence which had so often irritated Miss Watson had now vanished, and they discussed school problems on equal terms.

  Misfortune had united and strengthened them both, and the school at Thrush Green was all the better for it.

  The burglary had created some unease in the neighbourhood. People who had never locked a door in their lives now looked out forgotten keys and turned them in the locks before departing to Lulling for a morning's shopping. Those who had been in the habit of hiding their keys under upturned flowerpots or their door-scrapers now decided that it would be prudent to change these well-known hiding-places for new ones.

  'I'm leaving my key under the mat in the back porch,' Mrs Bailey told her closest friends. 'Everyone knows about the ledge over the door.'

  'We're putting ours behind the paraffin can in the shed now,' said Dimity.

  Mr Piggott, who had a door key of ecclesiastical design weighing a good three-quarters of a pound, fixed it to a stout belt round his waist, and put up with the inconvenience of its sundry blows as he bent about his business in the churchyard. The burglary had impressed him considerably, and he made no bones about expressing his disgust with the police.

  'What we pays them for I don't know,' he grumbled over his glass at 'The Two Pheasants.' 'Folks on Thrush Green going in fear of their lives–and what's done about it, eh? I'll lay I could find the chap that done it, if I was given half a chance!'

  'That's right,' said the landlord, winking secretly at his other customers. 'You turn Sherlock Holmes, see–and show the police where they get off.'

  As the last days of October slipped by, die press of autumn life caused the robbery to slip into the background. There were borders to be dug, wallflower plants to be put in, and all the outside preparations for winter which the kindly weather encouraged. Before long, Thrush Green would be enveloped in the cold rains and fogs of a Cotswold winter. If the weather prophets proved correct there would be snow too. Wise householders made the most of this respite, and the excitement of the newcomer to their midst and the attack on Miss Watson soon shook down into place with other matters.

  But for old Mr Piggott the robbery was of major importance. He had lived alone ever since the departure of his daughter Molly with young Ben Curdle, and he had plenty of rime to let his beer-befuddled imagination dwell on the mystery. As he pottered about his damp little cottage, or performed perfunctorily his simple duties as sexton of St Andrew's hard by, he dreamt wonderful day-dreams, envisaging himself as the sleuth of Thrush Green, the man who showed the police how to do their job, and the hero of his admiring and grateful neighbours.

  'I'll show them,' muttered old Piggott, slashing viciously at a bed of nettles which threatened to engulf the headstone of Nathaniel Patten. 'I'll show them all–that I will!'

  5. Nelly Tilling

  THE day of the party dawned cold and blustery. Ella and Dimity sat at their breakfast table watching the bright leaves whirling to the grass. A spatter of rain rattled on the window-pane and Dimity shivered.

  'Do you think we ought to light the paraffin stove in the sitting-room as well as the fire, dear?"

  'Wouldn't be a bad idea to have it alight this morning, but we're not keeping that thing going all day. It'll smell the place out. Nothing like a strong reek for killing the party spirit.'

  'But it doesn't smell!' protested Dimity.

  'No woman thinks her own paraffin stove smells,' said Ella emphatically, dousing the stub of her cigarette in the dregs of her tea-cup. This detestable habit would have caused a less devoted companion to have left Ella long before, but Dimity daily shuddered and forbore to speak of her pain. 'It's a natural phenomenon,' continued Ella, blandly unaware of her friend's revulsion, 'like being unable to hear your own voice."

  Ella settled back comfortably, crossing one massive leg over the other, and seemed prepared to expand this interesting theory. But Dimity, conscious of the work to be done in preparation for the party, rose hastily and began to pack up the breakfast dishes.

  'I think I'll get out Mother's little silver bon-bon dishes and polish them. They'll do beautifully for the salted nuts,' she began busily.

  'They'll get tarnished,' objected Ella. 'What's wrong with saucers.'

  'Saucers?' cried Dimity in horror. 'At a party?'

  'I meant the best ones,' said Ella, trying vainly to bring down Dimity's heightened temperature.

  'Quite out of the question!' replied Dimity, with unusual severity. 'We must use the silver dishes, and I am quite prepared to polish them after the party.'

  She might have added that no one in the household besides herself ever did do any polishing, but Dimity was used to holding her tongue and did not give way to temptation on this occasion.

  Ella lumbered to her feet, sighing.

  'Just as you say, Dim. You know best. Let's go and have a look at the decorations by daylight, and we'll see if we need the stove lighted.'

  The two friends crossed the small hall to their sitting-room which they had embellished the previous evening. The fact that they had arranged the party for All Hallows E'en dawned on the two ladies soon after thev had posted the invitations and Ella had put her ingenuity and skilled hands to work on the decorations.

  A flight of witches, cut from stout black paper and dangling from threads, flew diagonally across the room, twisting and turning in the draughts in the most spirited manner. Their hair streamed behind them from their pointed hats, and Ella had stuck on green sequins for the eyes of her creations, which glittered balefully as they caught the light.

  Two great copper jars filled with autumn leaves and Cape gooseberries glowed from the corners of the room, and on the mantelpiece stood a golden pumpkin. This had been presented by Dotty Harmer and Ella had hollowed it out, cut out two round eyes, a triangle for a nose and a crescent for a mouth, and put a right-light inside it. This, when lit, caused the hollow globe to glow and the whole effect was deliriously sinister.

  Dimity looked at her friend's handiwork with genuine admiration.

  'It's simply wonderful, Ella darling. I wonder if it would be a good idea to play a few Hallow E'en games–bobbing for apples, you know, and that kind of thing!' Dimity's faded eyes shone at the very thought, but
her friend damped her ardour abruptly.

  'Be your age, Dim! People are coming for a civilised glass of sherry and to meet their friends. They won't thank you for cold water down their bodices, ducking for green apples–and double pneumonia by the end of the week, ten chances to one.'

  Her tone changed as she noted her friend's crestfallen face.

  'We're all getting too long in the tooth for those capers,' she said more kindly. She patted Dimity's arm with a massive hand. 'Let's get the stove going for an hour or so, and check up on the drinks. Got any lemons, by the way?'

  'Three,' said Dimity. 'Sevenpence each.' Her voice was still subdued and Ella wished she had been less brutal about poor old Dim's suggestion for games.

  'It should be quite a cheerful crowd,' said Ella, trying to make amends. 'I'm glad the new man's coming.'

  She led the way back to the dining-room with Dimity fluttering behind, and still looking like a kitten that has been kicked.

  'Don't forget to look in the mirror when you brush your hair tonight, Dim,' continued Ella, with heavy jocularity. 'They say you see your husband on All Hallows E'en!'

  The unconscious association of ideas in Ella's remarks might have struck an astute observer, but both Ella herself and Dimity were unaware of anything remarkable. To the two friends only one thing was apparent–the olive branch was being offered by one and gratefully accepted by the other.

  With their arms affectionately entwined they approached the drinks cupboard.

  The rain and wind increased as the morning wore on. The honey-coloured houses that clustered round Thrush Green grew a deeper gold as the rain lashed their glistening walls. Thousands of drops ran from one Cotswold stone rile to the next, down the steep roofs to the waiting gutters which gurgled and spluttered with their unaccustomed load. Rainwater butts, which had stood almost empty for the past few weeks, rumbled and bubbled in their stout wooden bellies; and the thirsty gardens drank up the bounty and gave forth blessed fragrance by way of grace.