(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green Page 4

  In the end Dimity had devised a main course which would survive in the oven should the guests be late in arriving. Chicken breasts in a creamy sauce in a casserole, accompanied by jacket potatoes, runner beans grown in the vicarage garden and taken from the freezer, and fresh carrots for a splash of colour should prove adequate. The problems of starters and puddings to augment the chicken kept Dimity engrossed happily for days beforehand.

  Charles would be in charge of the wine throughout the evening, and here he took more interest and was quite knowledgeable. Dimity was content to leave things to him.

  There would only be six at the table, but the plethora of dishes were to be tackled in the kitchen, while coffee was being taken in the vicarage's elegant drawing-room, by the stalwart daily help who usually came to give a hand with the housework on two mornings a week.

  The warmest of the three spare bedrooms was to house Mr Wilberforce overnight, and Dimity was already planning the best arrangement of his bedside lighting and reading matter. With such domestic matters Dimity was happily occupied, while Charles thought only of the pleasure of seeing and handling the letters written so long ago by Nathaniel, and the diary kept by the Reverend Octavius Fennel who had once walked the streets of Lulling and Thrush Green to meet his parishioners, just as Charles himself did today.

  At Thrush Green Harold Shoosmith looked forward to the evening with even greater excitement.

  They were invited to the vicarage at seven o'clock to meet the other guests, and fortunately the night was clear.

  Fog had shrouded the Cotswolds for two days, causing traffic to progress at a walking pace in the towns, and making it necessary to have lights on all day in offices, shops and homes.

  A breeze had sprung up in the late afternoon, swirling the mist away in long veils. By the time early dusk had fallen over Lulling, the Christmas lights were shining as brightly as ever, and there was general relief, as the Shoosmiths set out.

  The vicarage hall was also bright with extra polishing by Gladys, a splendid azalea on the hall table, and a Christmas tree standing in the corner.

  Dimity, flushed with her culinary efforts, greeted Isobel and Harold affectionately and ushered them into the drawing-room where Robert Wilberforce was standing.

  He was tall and dark, aged about forty, and looked remarkably healthy, as if he might well take a brisk walk daily over his native fells. He was not handsome, Isobel decided as they were introduced, but attractive in a rugged open-air way. His voice was low with a north-country burr about it, and Harold, who would have liked the biggest villain on earth as carrier of Nathaniel Patten's letters, took to this amiable stranger at once.

  The rector poured drinks and Robert's journey and the providential dispersal of the fog kept the conversation going. A briefcase stood by Robert's chair and Harold was longing to see it opened.

  A few minutes later the door bell rang and Charles hastened to answer it.

  'That will be Miss Mulloy,' cried Dimity. 'I do so hope she had an easy journey.'

  The latest guest came in shyly, warmly greeted by Dimity who led her to the fire and began introductions.

  She was a small woman with soft fair hair, and was clad in a coral-pink jersey suit. Harold thought how pretty she was, this great-grand daughter of Nathaniel's, and remembered the gross unkempt man who was her father. Certainly this fragile-looking girl, whose small cold hand he held, did not take after her paternal parent.

  Over their drinks she grew less shy and told them about her position in an insurance firm in the City, and how she went daily by tube from her flat. Robert knew some of the directors of the company, and the conversation flowed easily.

  Dimity hurried out to the kitchen to supervise the dishing-up operations, and while she was absent the rector said gently how sorry he was to learn that her mother had died, and how they remembered her kindness to them in Wales so long ago.

  The girl looked down at the glass in her hand, and Charles wondered if he had been wrong to mention the subject, but Dulcie spoke calmly.

  'We had two lovely years together in my flat,' she said, 'before she fell ill. I think they were the happiest years of both our lives.'

  'So you live alone now?'

  'At the moment. I suppose it would be sensible to get a friend to share with me, but I'm rather enjoying being on my own.'

  'A lot to be said for it,' agreed Robert Wilberforce, 'but who looks after you?'

  Dulcie looked bewildered. 'I look after myself.'

  'But when you get home,' insisted Robert, 'who cooks a meal and so on?'

  'Why, I do. It's no bother.'

  Robert laughed. 'I suppose I'm spoilt. My housekeeper, Mrs Tanner, cooks and washes and does everything in the house for me. She's a Yorkshire lass and everything's kept at a pretty high standard. I have to leave muddy shoes in the porch.'

  At this point, Dimity summoned them to the dining-room. Over the meal Charles enlarged on the excitement that had been engendered by Robert's gift of the letters to Thrush Green.

  'Well, I must confess I had never heard of him until I went through my aunt's papers.'

  'You're not the only one,' commented Harold. 'The name of Nathaniel Patten didn't seem to be known when I arrived here some years ago.'

  'Now, come!' protested Charles, 'we knew he was buried in the churchyard, but we had no idea he was such a great man.'

  'My Aunt Mary could have told you,' broke in Dulcie. 'She had a great many of his qualities, and she often quoted him to me as a good example. I'm afraid my father had no time for his memory.'

  She said this with an apologetic smile towards Charles and Harold, and they realized, with some relief, that she had become quite reconciled to the memory of a far from satisfactory father.

  Dimity's dinner was much enjoyed, although Harold was secretly so anxious to get hold of the contents of Robert's briefcase that he was scarcely aware of what was put before him.

  When they were back at last in the drawing-room with coffee at their sides the great moment arrived, and Robert unclicked his case.

  He handed a large envelope to Charles, and they all sat back to watch the rector open the treasure. A smaller envelope revealed a hardbacked diary, spotted with age, with a brittle silk ribbon marking a page.

  'There's not a lot in the diary part,' said Robert, bending forward, 'but he seems to have kept his accounts in the latter half, and they look particularly interesting.'

  'May I see?' burst from Harold, and Charles hastily handed the little volume to his anxious friend. A bundle of yellowing letters was next withdrawn from the envelope and Charles's chubby face grew pink with pleasure.

  'I really feel,' he said, turning to Dulcie, 'that you should see them first as a direct descendant.'

  But Dulcie would not hear of it, so Charles undid the string which held them, and looked at the first letter. The paper was brittle and so fragile that Dulcie thought of the paper burnt on a bonfire that turns to gossamer thinness before the wind shatters it.

  The rector peered closely at the faded writing. 'It's dated 1892,' he told them. 'I can't see if it is January or July. He just puts "Jy". Let me see if I can make out the text.'

  He adjusted the gold-rimmed spectacles on his snub nose, and cleared his throat.

  It is now almost eight months since I said farewell to you at Bristol, and I write to tell you of the safety of our journey, and the beginnings of my endeavours which, with Gods help and your prayers and inestimable support, I trust will be successful.

  I have not yet met Dr Maurice as he is ministering to sufferers at a settlement up-river, but kind messages were waiting here from him on my arrival.

  My faithful servant, already dedicated to Christ, awaits the conclusion of this letter, and will take it downstream some thirty miles to our nearest township where (Deo volente) it will go by the next ship to England.

  My prayers, my thanks, and my whole heart go with this letter to one whose faith and bounty have inspired my life.

  The re
ctor's voice was husky with emotion as he read the words, written so long ago in the cruel heat of Africa, to one long dead. Both writer and first reader had loved Thrush Green, thought Charles, as he and the local friends with him did now.

  There was a short silence, then Robert Wilberforce spoke. 'I find that very moving,' he said. 'And I think the date must be January. If you look in Octavius's diary you will see that he notes that a letter from Nathaniel arrived that summer. I imagine that fits.'

  The rest of the company were as moved as Robert was, and longed to hear more.

  'I shall spread them out,' decided Charles, 'on this side table, so that we can all see them easily. Somehow I don't think they'll stand much handling.'

  They all helped to clear a space, and soon the fragile pages lay open to their gaze.

  After some time, Dimity recalled them to the present by offering more coffee, and the company moved back to their chairs by the fire.

  'They are not all dated,' said Harold. 'I wonder if we can get them into chronological order.'

  'That's where the diary helps,' Robert told him. 'As far as I could make out, Octavius supplied the funds for this venture, and he seems to have put regular sums into an account at Coutts bank to support the mission.'

  'But I don't think Nathaniel was backed by the Church,' said Charles. 'I wonder why Octavius was so generous? I know from records that he was a bachelor and a rich man, but it seems odd that as a churchman he should give so much to Nathaniel.'

  'Reading between the lines,' replied Robert, 'I think he looked upon Nathaniel as a son. He mentions several times in the diary his sorrow that Nathaniel refused to take Holy Orders. Evidently the young man could not believe in all the tenets of the church, evangelical soul that he was, but had this burning missionary zeal with which Octavius had to be content.'

  'We must try to find out more about Octavius,' mused Charles. 'He sounds a remarkable man.'

  'There is possibly a full obituary in the back numbers of local papers,' said Harold. 'I'll look into it, shall I?'

  And so it was agreed. Later the papers were carefully packed into a large folder from the rector's study to save them from being folded again, and they were given into the welcoming hands of Harold Shoosmith.

  'This must be a particularly important occasion for you,' said Charles kindly to Dulcie. 'You had a wonderful forebear.'

  'I know,' replied the girl. 'I only wish my mother and my Aunt Mary were alive to rejoice with me. Aunt Mary spoke of him often, although of course she had never met him.' She looked at the clock. 'I'm afraid I ought to be on my way. My friends expect me soon after ten. It's been such a wonderful evening for me.'

  She said goodbye to the Shoosmiths, then to Robert Wilberforce.

  'I hope we shall meet again,' he said. 'Do you ever visit the Lake District?'

  'I may be going there next spring,' she told him, 'to see old friends.'

  'Then perhaps you would come and have lunch with me?'

  'I should very much like to.'

  She went out to the car, accompanied by Charles and Dimity.

  'It's a fine clear night,' said Charles, when they returned to warm their hands at the fire. 'What a charming girl she is.'

  'Has she far to go?' asked Robert.

  'Only half an hour's drive, she said.'

  'I never like the idea of women driving alone after dark,' said Robert. 'A friend of mine was foolish enough to give a wretched fellow a lift, and he knocked her about pretty badly.'

  'Oh, I don't think Dulcie Mulloy would be so silly,' said Isobel comfortingly. 'I thought she seemed a very sensible young woman, and obviously she was as thrilled as we all are with your wonderful discovery.'

  'It's been an amazing evening,' agreed Harold. 'A thousand thanks for everything,' he added, kissing Dimity's cheek.

  'And now we must think about bed,' said Dimity when Charles returned from seeing them off. 'I'm sure you must be tired after a day's business, and then all this excitement.'

  'I have enjoyed every minute,' Robert assured her.

  'What nice old-fashioned manners Robert Wilberforce has,' commented Isobel, as they drove down Lulling High Street towards home. 'I'm sure there aren't many men these days who worry about women driving alone after dark.'

  'I do about you,' Harold told her. 'You're quite softhearted enough to give some plausible bounder a lift.'

  Isobel seemed not to hear. She was immersed in her own thoughts. 'Perhaps he's slightly smitten,' she said dreamily.

  'Oh, rubbish!' said Harold, swinging round Thrush Green. 'There was absolutely no sign of any nonsense like that. You women are all alike, scenting romance where there's nothing.'

  'Maybe,' agreed Isobel equably.

  4. Harold Is On The Trail

  THE LAST day of the term at Thrush Green school had gone without a hitch. The older children, hair brushed and coats neatly buttoned against the cold of the Cotswold winds outside and the Victorian chill of St Andrew's interior, filed decorously into their pews at the front of the church, and took part in the carol service conducted by the Reverend Charles Henstock.

  The crib glowed at the side of the chancel steps, and piles of ivy and other evergreens waited in readiness for the ladies of the parish to put the final touches to the Christmas decorations in the next day or two.

  The paperchains and friezes had been taken down and put into bin liners to await recycling. In the denuded infants' classroom, the last hours of term were devoted to stories, singing and such age-old games as 'I spy' which needed no apparatus, while their elders were at the carol service.

  Alan Lester felt very proud of his little flock as they filed into the church, and ignored Albert Piggott who had stationed himself by the porch in order to cast a malevolent eye on those who omitted to use the doormat with suitable energy.

  Margaret Lester sat by her husband, and he thought how lucky he was to have a wife who was healthy again, and a job which gave him satisfaction. As he looked fondly at the glossy heads of Kate and Alison Lester, just in front of their parents, Alan counted himself a fortunate man indeed.

  Winnie Bailey had enjoyed setting up the crib at the chancel steps on the day before the carol service. She had performed this pleasant duty for more years than she could remember, usually in the company of Ella Bembridge and Dimity, but sometimes alone.

  To tell the truth, she really preferred to go about her task alone. There was something very soothing about working in the solitude of the church. It was not an old building, as churches go. It did not have the ancient splendour of St John's in Lulling, a wool church of dignity and beauty as great as those at Burford or Lechlade or Fairford not very far away. St Andrew's was Victorian with over-elaborate stained-glass windows, a fussy reredos and some deplorable encaustic tiles which succeeded in distracting the attention of communicants as they knelt at the altar rail.

  But its smallness gave it a homeliness which Thrush Green folk liked, and in much the same way that Winnie had become accustomed to - even fond of - the crack in her bedroom ceiling, and the wardrobe door which swung open at odd times, so she felt affection for the shortcomings of her church's fabric.

  On this particular occasion she was not alone for long. She had relished her solitary silence for a quarter of an hour, and felt refreshed in spirit, when Ella and Dimity joined her.

  There was not a great deal to do, for the ladies were used to setting up the crib, making sure that the dim electric bulb which lit it was safely away from straw and hangings, and that the doll-child was easily visible to those passing the crib.

  After ten minutes or so Ella returned from the vestry with dustpan and brush, and began to tidy up the wisps of straw and greenery.

  'Perishing cold out,' she remarked to her companions, in what Winnie felt was much too loud a voice for a sacred place. At least, she told herself charitably, Ella was not smoking — a laudable tribute to holiness.

  'I've put the kettle ready,' went on Ella, brushing lustily. 'Need a cuppa after this.
Bit dusty in here, isn't it? And that brass lectern could do with a rub.'

  'Mrs Bates is going to do the brights ready for the carol service,' explained Dimity, 'and yes, please, I'm sure we could both do with tea.'

  Half an hour later, the three friends sat by Ella's fire enjoying tea and anchovy toast, and the talk was of Harold Shoosmith's delight over the discovery of Nathaniel's letters.

  'He's going along to the newspaper people,' Dimity told them, 'to see if he can find out more about Nathaniel, and about Octavius Fennel, too. Everyone knew he was a good man, but it doesn't seem to be generally known how much he did for Nathaniel out in Africa.'

  'The Lovelock girls might know,' said Ella.

  'The Lovelocks?' queried Dimity. 'But even they wouldn't remember Octavius!'

  The Lovelock girls were now, all three of them, around eighty years old, and lived in a pretty Georgian house in Lulling High Street, next door to the Fuchsia Bush. They had lived there all their lives, and were renowned for their excessive gentility and parsimony. Friends invited to a meal there usually stoked up beforehand with a slice of cake or a sandwich, whilst getting ready. Such a prerequisite of lunch at the Lovelocks' might not fully compensate for the paucity of the provender supplied but at least it mitigated the noise of tummy-rumbles.

  'Oh, not the girls themselves,' said Ella, beginning to roll one of her untidy cigarettes, 'but I think their father knew Octavius Fennel. I'm sure I've heard them speak of him.'

  There was a gasp from Winnie, and she replaced her cup on its saucer with a great clatter. She fell back in the chair with her eyes closed.

  Dimity and Ella sprang to her side, Ella's cigarette-making equipment crashing into the hearth.

  'Winnie, Winnie! What is it?'