(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green Page 4

  But not many agreed with the last speaker, and as he was a shepherd, bent and weatherbeaten, and now in his eighty-fifth year, he was not in a position to engage personally in the project.

  The rector, experienced in the ways of men, was not surprised at the lack of response, although he was disappointed.

  'It seems sad,' he said to Harold Shoosmith, 'that none of the younger men has offered. In fact, the only people willing to do anything are you, and Percy Hodge, the farmer, and myself.'

  'I really thought we might get some volunteers from the new housing estate at Nod,' replied Harold. 'Plenty of able-bodied chaps up there.'

  'They have their new gardens to see to,' said Charles charitably. 'And most of them do over-time, you know, to make ends meet. They are rather hard-pressed. It's quite understandable.'

  'You're a good deal more forgiving than I am,' said Harold. 'Young Doctor Lovell told me he could offer an evening a week, and if he can, then why can't others?'

  'Better one willing fighter than ten men press-ganged into the battle,' replied the rector philosophically.

  'I suppose you're right. We muster at the church gate next Wednesday then?'

  'At six, my dear fellow. What a blessing the evenings are still light! Piggott will be there to help.'

  And to make sure we know our place, thought Harold, watching his friend's receding figure.

  'Coffee up!' shouted Betty Bell, as he re-entered his house. 'Want it here or on your own?' Sometimes, when Betty gave him just such a comradely salute, he found himself thinking of the obsequious native boys who had waited upon him for so many years, with deference and respect. Or had they perhaps, simply acted a part? In any case, it was no good harking back. Times had changed.

  'I'll have it with you,' said Harold, entering the kitchen. Two cups steamed on a tray, and a plate held some dark sticky gingerbread.

  'Have a bit,' said Betty, pushing the plate towards him. 'It's a present for you.'

  'Very kind,' said Harold, looking at it doubtfully.

  Betty broke into a peal of laughter.

  'You're thinking Miss Harmer sent it! Well, she didn't. I made it myself.'

  'Then I should love a piece, Betty,' said Harold, smiling.

  'You don't think I'd let you eat anything she'd made, do you? No disrespect, mark you – Miss Harmer's a real lady, I always say, – but that kitchen of hers is a right old muddle, and you'd as likely get bird seed or Karswood powder in your cake as not.'

  'It's delicious,' nodded Harold.

  'Seen her car yet?'

  'No. She drove it back herself, after all, I suppose?'

  'Between you and me, that's what she wants Thrush Green to think, but actually that niece of hers drove most of the way. They came back that night, and her Connie got Reg Bull's taxi from Lulling to take her back, as soon as she'd had a bite.'

  'But why the secrecy? And why didn't the young lady stay the night?'

  'Miss Harmer's proud, see. Didn't like to let on that she'd never driven herself home, after all she'd said. And that Connie's like her auntie. She's got all manner of animals to look after, so she had to get back.'

  'I see.'

  'Besides,' went on Betty, beginning to stack the china swiftly, 'would you want to stay the night with Miss Harmer?'

  Harold assumed that this was a rhetorical question, and forbore to answer.

  'You'd never know what was in your bed,' said Betty. 'I've known the time the cat had kittens there, under the eiderdown, and Miss Harmer wouldn't hear of them being moved for days. Some people don't like that sort of thing, you know. We haven't all got Miss Harmer's funny ways.'

  Harold nodded agreement.

  'But what about the car? No one has seen her in it yet.'

  'She's been out in it all right. Got some petrol from Reg Bull's, 'cos my nephew served her, but she's only took it round the lanes, testing it a bit, I reckon.'

  'It sounds as though she is being very sensible,' said Harold, rising. 'She's bound to feel that she needs a little practice after such a long time without a car.'

  'It isn't practice she wants,' said Betty downrightly. 'It's a chauffeur.'

  She deposited the china in the washing-up bowl, and Harold escaped.

  It so happened that Harold was vouchsafed the vision of Dotty Harmer at the wheel, the very next afternoon. He was standing outside his front gate, contemplating some dwarf marigolds. Should he pull them up in readiness for planting the wallflowers, or should he enjoy their colour for another week or two?

  Since his return to England, some few years earlier, he found that such problems occurred regularly. Was it his imagination, or did the Spring in his boyhood start earlier, and finish, in a tidy fashion, in good time to put in the summer bedding plants? Now, it seemed, it remained cold in June, and everything was proportionately later. These dwarf marigolds, for instance, had only come into flower a few weeks ago, he told himself, and yet, if he wanted to get the beds dug over and the wallflowers established, then they really should be removed now.

  He had just decided to grant them a reprieve for a week or two, facing the fact that by that time continuous rain, no doubt, would frustrate any gardening whatsoever, when he became conscious of a cacophony of horn-blowing coming from the steep hill which led from Thrush Green to Lulling.

  Harold strode over to the green, and stood by the statue of his hero, Nathaniel Patten, the better to see the cause of the fuss. The main road, leading northward to the midlands, appeared to be free from traffic. Whatever the obstruction was, which was causing such irritation to so many drivers, was out of sight.

  Harold continued to wait. The children from the village school, just let out to play, crowded against the railings behind him like so many inquisitive monkeys.

  Albert Piggott appeared on his doorstep. Joan Young, girt in her gardening apron, came across the chestnut avenue, trowel in hand, to join Harold, and at least a dozen twitching curtains told of more sightseers.

  'Do you think there's been an accident?' asked Joan. 'Perhaps we should run over.'

  Even as she spoke, a small car, jerking spasmodically, came into view. It was impossible to see, at that distance, who held the wheel, but Harold guessed, correctly, who it might be.

  'Dotty!' cried Harold and Joan in unison, setting off across the grass at a brisk pace.

  The car had come to another stop, by the time they arrived, just outside Ella Bembridge's house. Behind it stretched a long queue, the end of it out of sight in the main street of Lulling. Immediately behind Dotty's small vehicle was a Land-Rover towing a horse-box.

  'Get the bloody thing off the road!' shouted the driver. His face was scarlet with wrath, as he leant out of the side window. 'Dam' women drivers! No business to have a licence!'

  Further protestations came from those behind, and the additional music of car horns rent the air.

  Dotty, peering agitatedly at the car pedals, was pink herself, and very cross indeed.

  'Here,' said Harold, wrenching open the door, 'hop out, Miss Harmer, and I'll park her in the side road.'

  'Why should I get out?' demanded Dotty. 'And what right have you to order me out of my own carriage, may I ask?'

  'Pull the old besom out,' begged the Land-Rover driver. He began to open his door, and Harold feared that battle would be joined.

  'Please,' he pleaded. 'You see, there is such a long queue, and this road is far too narrow here to overtake safely. I'm afraid that the police will be along to see what's happening.'

  'You may be afraid of the police,' said Dotty sharply, 'but I am not. Now kindly take your hand from the door.'

  'But –' began Harold, but could not continue, as, by some miracle of combustion the engine had started again into spasmodic life and Dotty moved slowly, in a succession of convulsive jerks, into the side road leading to the church. There was a mild explosion, a puff of smoke, the car stopped, and Dotty put forth her deplorably-stockinged legs and got out.

  'Stick to your bike, lady!' shouted
the Land-Rover man rudely, as he quickened his pace along the main road. A few imprecations, some shaken fists and vulgar gestures were directed towards Dotty, as other cars passed, but most of the drivers contented themselves with resigned glances as they glimpsed the scarecrow figure of the one who was responsible for their delay.

  The three waited until the last of the queue vanished northwards, before speaking.

  'Would you allow me to have a look at the car?' asked Harold.

  'Of course, of course,' said Dotty airily, as if washing her hands of the whole affair.

  At this moment, Ella appeared and crossed the road.

  'What on earth have you been up to, Dotty? Never heard such a racket since just before D-day when we had all those tanks rumbling through.'

  'I simply drove quietly from West Street up the hill here. Just because I do not care to scorch along, this queue formed behind me. I had some difficulty in changing gear at the bottom, I must admit, but there was no need for the vulgar demonstration of impatience which you have just witnessed. No manners anywhere these days! A pity some of these men weren't taught by my father. He wouldn't have spared the strap, I can tell you!'

  Harold climbed out of the car and came towards them.

  'It's quite a simple problem,' he said. 'The petrol's run out.'

  'The petrol?' echoed Dotty. 'But we only filled it when we brought the car from Connie's, not ten days ago!'

  'Nevertheless, it's empty now.'

  'But how can you tell?' demanded Dotty. 'You didn't put in your dip stick.'

  'There's a little gauge on the dashboard,' explained Harold patiently. 'Perhaps you would allow me to show you?'

  'Don't trouble,' said Dotty, setting off towards the car. 'I'll just push her round, if you'll give me a hand, and coast down the hill to Reg Bull's for some fuel.'

  'But it's not allowed!' cried Joan.

  'You'll stop halfway along the High Street, Dot.'

  Dotty looked coldly at her old friend.

  'I suppose there are still plenty of people capable of pushing me along to Reg Bull's,' she said witheringly. 'It's little enough to ask.'

  Harold took command. Years of administration in far-flung corners of the world stood him in good stead.

  'I have a spare gallon of petrol in my garage, and I shall put it into your tank, Miss Harmer. That should get you home safely, and then you can fill up next time you are out.'

  'And while Harold's doing that,' said Ella, 'you can come and see my parsley. You know you said you wanted a root to take you through the winter.'

  'Very well, very well,' muttered Dotty, allowing herself to be led away.

  Joan Young accompanied Harold back across the green. Her expression was troubled.

  'You know, she really shouldn't be allowed to drive that car.'

  'I absolutely agree,' said Harold, 'but what's to be done?'

  'I don't know, but I feel sure there's going to be some awful accident if Dotty is going to drive around these parts.'

  'That might be a blessing in disguise,' said Harold, opening his gate. 'If she had to go to court she might be taken off the road for a while.'

  'Let's hope it doesn't come to that,' exclaimed Joan.

  'There was a lot to be said,' remarked Harold reflectively, 'for a man with a red flag going ahead of a car in the early days of motoring.'

  'Dotty could do with one,' laughed Joan, 'but I wouldn't volunteer for the job if I were you.'

  'No fear!' said Harold, making for the garage.

  5 Skirmishes At The Village School

  THE serenity of September gave way to a blustery October, and Thrush Green was spattered with dead leaves.

  The chestnut avenue shed its massive leaves, brown and crisp as cornflakes, and the children of Thrush Green School spent every available minute scuffling about happily, looking for conkers brought down by the wind. It was as much as their life was worth to throw sticks up into the branches to bring down the coveted nuts, for Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty, not to mention the occupants of the three houses which faced the avenue, kept a sharp eye on offenders and delivered swift punishment. Legend had it that a long-dead gardener, by the name of Dobb, had once clouted a young malefactor caught in the act of stick-throwing, with such severity, that he had been taken to Lulling Hospital with mild concussion. In such a rough and ready way had the beauty of Thrush Green's avenue been maintained over the by those who loved it.

  One tempestuous morning, the three teachers of Thrush Green School were sipping their tea in the infants' room and watching the school at play in the windswept playground.

  It was young Miss Potter's turn for playground duty, but she continued to stand in Miss Fogerty's room, out of the weather, and enjoy, her tea in comparative peace.

  Miss Fogerty found this irritating for two reasons. In the first place, the girl's duty was to patrol the playground, no matter how inclement the weather, and to keep an eye on her charges.

  Secondly, this was one of the few occasions when she could have had Miss Watson's attention, without the unwelcome presence of this newcomer. There were one or two little matters, such as the disappearance of the emergency knickers from the lower shelf of the infants' cupboard, which she needed to discuss with her headmistress. Miss Fogerty did not care to embark on the subject of knickers – even infants' knickers – with Miss Potter present. There was a coarse streak in the girl, Miss Fogerty feared, which might lead to some ribaldry – a thing which Miss Fogerty detested.

  'Could I have some more coloured tissue paper from the stock cupboard?' asked Miss Potter.

  'Of course, my dear,' replied Miss Watson. 'If I give you the key, you can help yourself.'

  Miss Fogerty drew in her breath sharply. To be given a free hand in that holy of holies was something which she herself had never been granted, and which she would certainly never have expected.

  Miss Watson, rummaging in her large handbag, produced a bunch of keys, indicated one, and handed over the bunch.

  'Thanks,' said Miss Potter perfunctorily. 'I'll bob along now, I think.'

  At that moment a piercing wail from outside the window called attention to some infant misdemeanour.

  Miss Watson looked hastily at the wall clock, and remembered her responsibilities.

  'You should be in the playground,' she said. 'Get the paper afterwards.'

  'OK,' said Miss Potter, moving languidly towards the door. Miss Fogerty felt her cheeks flushing with anger. OK indeed! And to her own headmistress!

  'Really!' she exclaimed as Miss Potter vanished, 'I don't know what the world is coming to!'

  Miss Watson smiled indulgently.

  'Times change, Agnes dear, and you must remember that not all teachers had the advantage of your excellent upbringing.'

  Miss Fogerty, who had been looking, for all the world, like a little ruffled sparrow, allowed her feathers to be smoothed.

  Head teachers, if they are worth their salt, are past masters of such diplomacy.

  The wailing, it transpired, came from young Jeremy Prior, the son of Phil Hurst by her first marriage.

  Miss Potter led the child into the lobby, glad to be once again out of the bitter wind. Her charge, still weeping, bled profusely from his right knee, and studied two scratched palms through his tears.

  'It will soon be better,' said Miss Potter. 'We'll just wash you clean.'

  'I will do the washing,' said a stern voice. Miss Fogerty had entered the lobby, and now advanced upon the pair.

  'Your place,' she said firmly, 'is in the playground. I will look after Jeremy. After all, he is in my class. You'd better hurry outside again before there are any more accidents!'

  Miss Potter tossed her unkempt head and sniffed contemptuously. Interfering old busybody! Always got her knife into me! Her gestures communicated her feelings as plainly as if she had spoken, but little Miss Fogerty remained unmoved.

  She fetched the first-aid box, and sat down by the tearful boy on the shoe lockers. She had never seen Jeremy cry
ing before. He was a tough, cheerful child, who got on well with his classmates.

  'How did it happen?' she asked, dabbing gently at the grazed knee with wet cotton wool.

  'Johnny Dodd tripped me up,' said Jeremy, trying not to wince.

  'Then I shall have something to say to Johnny Dodd,' replied Miss Fogerty.

  The dabbing continued. A weak solution of antiseptic liquid was applied, and finally Miss Fogerty began to cut lint and unroll bandages.

  Jeremy, whose tears had now ceased, watched with some alarm.

  'Will it stick?' he asked tremulously.

  'Hardly at all,' said Miss Fogerty, combining comfort with honesty. She remembered, all too clearly, her own broken knees in childhood, and the horror of soaking off bandages made of old clean linen sheeting. She felt great sympathy for the little boy. He had endeared himself to her from the first, and she wondered now if it might not be a good thing to take him to his home across the green, for the rest of the morning.

  Permission, of course, must be obtained from Miss Watson.

  'Is mummy at home?' she enquired, rolling the bandage deftly round the quivering leg.

  'Yes. She waved to me when I was playing just now.'

  Miss Fogerty slit the end of the bandage and made a neat bow.

  'Go into the classroom and keep warm. I'll be back in a minute.'

  She found Miss Watson in her room, and told her what had occurred.

  Miss Watson's face began to assume a stern expression. Miss Fogerty knew, from long experience, that her headmistress was in one of her 'What-will-the-office-think?' moods.

  She moved swiftly to the attack.

  'I think it's one of those occasions when you can afford to be lenient,' said Miss Fogerty, with unwonted determination. 'After all, if you can stretch a point about fetching our own stock from the cupboard, I should think Jeremy could be sent home to get over the shock for a couple of hours. He will be back this afternoon, I have no doubt.'

  Miss Watson gazed sharply at her assistant. Her glance took in the militant gleam in Miss Fogerty's normally mild eye.

  She answered with due deference.