Winter in Thrush Green Page 5

  Umbrellas bobbed down the hill to Lulling, and cars sent up flashing fountains from the long puddles by the side of the green. The horse-chestnut trees flailed their branches, sending down the last few leaves to join their fellows in the mud below.

  The wind howled among the chimneys of Thrush Green, and the sign-board of'The Two Pheasants' leant away to the south at a steep angle. Two tea towels in the little yard had twisted round and round the line until they looked like two bright giant caterpillars clinging there.

  Above St Andrew's steeple a flock of rooks swayed and dipped in the airy tides. They looked like fragments of burnt paper eddying in the current from a bonfire, and now and again, above the roaring of the wind about them, a faint harsh cry could be heard.

  Far below them, beneath the windy steeple, beneath the humming belfry with its singing louvres, and beneath the draughty chancel, Mr Piggott, like some earthy mole, laboured in the stoke-hole.

  Here was no sound of wind and storm, no icy splash of rain. The great boiler gave forth a pungent heat and whispered quietly as it digested its coke.

  Nearby stood its guardian. Mr Piggott had two clothes pegs in his mouth and his spare shirt in his hands. A row of garments sagged from a small line and steamed gently in the heat.

  Mr Piggott's wash-day took no account of the weather. The heat which he engendered to warm the worshippers might just as well dry his clothes, argued the sexton to himself, as he pegged the shirt on the line.

  Standing back, he surveyed his clothes with pride. They might not be as white as those of his neighbours which he saw billowing on their lines, but here, among the coke, they looked all right to Mr Piggott.

  He took out a large watch and squinted at it short-sightedly. Surely they must be open by now! He saw, with pleasure, that the hands stood at ten-thirty.

  With remarkable agility Mr Piggott mounted the steep stone stairs from the stoke-hole, and prepared to face the weather.

  The noise above ground surprised him. There was a menacing hum high in the lofty dimness above him, and a general confused roaring from the trees outside the church. Mr Piggott made his way up the long aisle, bending here and there to pick up a stray dead leaf or morsel of confetti which the wind had flung in from outside. While he was thus engaged he became conscious of other noises nearer at hand. He heard the metallic click of the porch door, the clanking which betokened heavy feet on the wire foot-scraper and the gasping of a breathless wayfarer.

  'Treading in the dirt all over my flagstones,' muttered Mr Piggott, inhospitably, opening the heavy church door with a venomous tug. There was a squeal of surprise as the newcomer turned to face him, her hand on her capacious bosom.

  'Lor, Albert, you give me a fright!' puffed the lady. 'Never 'ad no idea of you being in there. Came in out of the wet for half a minute. All right, is it?"

  She darted a quick look at the sexton from small dark eyes well embedded in rosy flesh. Beneath her sodden head-scarf a few dark curls protruded, sparkling with raindrops. She seated herself on the stone bench and began to peel off her wet gloves.

  Mr Piggott watched sourly. He had known Nelly Tilling most of his life, and they had shared the same desk at the village school for a term or two. Kept her looks, she had, observed Mr Piggott privately, if you liked them plump. Why, she must weigh nigh on twelve or thirteen stone, he ruminated, casting an eye experienced in assessing the weight of a pig, over his old school-fellow's bulk.

  'Don't want to sit on that stone,' advised Mr Piggott, dourly. 'Strikes up.'

  'Well, it does a bit,' confessed the lady, heaving herself to her feet. 'But I'm real whacked, walking against this wind.'

  'Best come inside, I suppose,' said Mr Piggott, grudgingly, but he made no move to open the door. He found his visitor a nuisance. Should he invite her down to the stoke-hole to dry out, he wondered? Thoughts of his dangling underclothes dismayed him. He had no desire to be the butt of Nelly Tilling's derision. His own cottage was cold and he did not want his neighbours to see him taking the buxom widow into it, for Nelly Tilling was reputed to be looking for a second husband after burying her first the year before, and Mr Piggott disliked appearing ridiculous. If he invited her to 'The Two Pheasants' he would have to pay for her, and that, of course, was unthinkable.

  On the other hand, Mr Piggott was surprised to feel a tiny glow within him as he watched Mrs Tilling shaking her gloves and brushing the drops from her enormous coat. After all, they had been to school together, it was a beast of a day, and the poor toad was likely to catch her death if she sat about in those clammy things without a sup in her. And, say what you liked, she was a fine-looking woman and Mr Piggott realised, with a shock, that he had felt lonely for a long time. Somewhat to his horror, he heard himself saying:

  'Come and join me in a drink. I was on my way to "The Two Pheasants." '

  The lady's reaction to this innocent suggestion was alarming. Her rosy face became redder than ever, her dark eyes flashed fire, and indignation swelled her heaving breast to such an extent that her coat buttons strained from the cloth. She reminded Mr Piggott of a bridling turkey-cock.

  'I joined the Band of Hope the same day as you did, if you can cast your mind back that far, Albert Piggott! And what's more, I ain't never broke the pledge yet–which is more than you can say from what I hear!'

  She advanced upon the shrinking sexton to wag a massive finger in his face. Mr Piggott backed away nervously until his greasy cap knocked against a bland cherub who stared sightlessly from the porch wall. Nelly Tilling, in anger, was an awe-inspiring sight. She seemed akin to the natural elements which raged so furiously around her, and though taken aback at her onslaught, Mr Piggott found himself admiring her spirit.

  'No need to act so spiteful then,' returned the sexton, with unusual mildness. He rubbed his knocked head while he reviewed the situation.

  Nelly Tilling calmed down a little after her outburst and withdrew to study the weather from the doorway. Behind her sturdy shoulders Mr Piggott caught a glimpse of the inn's sign-board as it groaned and creaked in the gale. His thirst returned.

  'Well, gal, if you don't want a drop, I do,' he said ungallantly. 'Make yourself at home here, while I slip over. Stoking's thirsty work, and I ain't never made no boast about taking the pledge!'

  He made to edge past her, but the lady turned to face him, barring his way. Her red mouth was curved in a delicious smile. Albert Piggott found it both alarming and bewitching.

  ' 'Ere, let me—' he began weakly.

  'Albert, I wouldn't say no to a nice cup of tea, if I was to be asked over to your house. How about it?'

  Mr Piggott's fear of his neighbours' interest must have made itself apparent in his apprehensive face.

  ' 'Twould only be civil, a day like this,' pressed Nelly Tilling. 'I wouldn't stop more than a minute or two-just while the rain's so heavy.'

  Mr Piggott's expression lightened a trifle, but his mouth still turned down at the corners.

  'I can't stop long in any case," pursued Nelly, winningly. 'I've left a sheep's head boiling on the stove.'

  Mr Piggott allowed a half-smile to soften his seventy.

  'Sheep's head!' he whispered huskily. 'Why, I haven't had a bite of sheep's head since my Molly got wed!' His rheumy old eyes gazed unseeingly into the windy distance behind Nelly's head.

  Mrs Tilling gave a violent shiver and a very creditable imitation of a sneeze.

  'I'm in for a cold if I don't get a hot drink soon,' said she, pathetically. Her dark eyes gazed at her old school-fellow with all the wistful appeal of a beaten spaniel's.

  Mr Piggott succumbed.

  'Come on over then,' he said bravely, opening the porch door. A vicious burst of wind almost buffeted the breath from them and the rain danced like spinning silver coins on the old flagged path.

  'Put your head down, Nell, and we'll run for it,' shouted the sexton.

  ***

  Wind-blown and panting, Mrs Tilling thankfully accepted the armchair which Mr Piggott i
ndicated.

  'I'll just tidy these up,' said her host, stuffing a dozen or so unwashed socks behind the grubby cushion. Mrs Tilling viewed the proceedings with some misgivings, but sat herself down gingerly on the edge of the seat.

  'Make yerself at 'ome,' said Mr Piggott, passing her an out-of-date copy of the parish magazine. 'I'll put on the kettle.'

  He moved into the little kitchen which led from the sitting-room and soon Nelly could hear the tap running. Her eyes wandered round the unsavoury room. If ever a house cried out for a woman's hand, thought the lady dramatically, this was it!

  She noted the greasy chenille tablecloth which was threadbare where the table edge cut into it–a sure sign, Nelly knew, that the cloth had been undisturbed for many months. Her eyes travelled to the dead fern in its arid pot, the ashes in the rusty grate, the festoons of cobwebs which hung from filthy pelmets to picture rails and the appalling thickness of the dust which covered the drab objects on the dresser.

  The only cheerful spot of colour in the room was afforded by St Andrew's church almanack which Mr Piggott had fixed on the wall above the rickety card table which supported an ancient wireless set.

  Mrs Tilling, who began to find the room oppressive and smelly, left her sock-laden armchair (from whence, she suspected, most of the aroma emanated), and decided to investigate the kitchen.

  Mr Piggott was standing morosely by the kettle waiting for it to boil. It was typical of a man, thought his guest with some impatience, that he had not utilised his time by putting out the cups and saucers, milk, sugar and so on, which would be needed. Just like poor old George, thought Nelly with a pang, remembering her late husband. 'One thing at a time,' he used to say pompously, as though there were some virtue in it. As his wife had pointed out tartly, on many occasions, she herself would never get through a quarter of her quota of work if she indulged herself in such idleness. While a kettle boiled she could set a table, light a fire, and watch over a cooking breakfast. Ah, men were poor tools, thought Mrs Tilling!

  The kitchen was even dirtier than its neighbour. A sour fustiness pervaded the dingy room. In a corner on the floor stood a saucer of milk which had long since turned to an unsavoury junket embellished with blue mould. Beside it lay two very dead herrings' heads. A mound of dirty crockery hid the draining-board, and the sight of Mr Piggott's frying pan hanging on the wall was enough to turn over Mrs Tilling's stout stomach. The residue of dozens of past meals could here be seen embedded in grey fat. Slivers of black burnt onion, petrified bacon rinds, lacy brown scraps of fried eggs and scores of other morsels from tomatoes, sausages, steaks, chops, liver, potatoes, bread and beans here lay cheek by jowl and would have afforded a rich reward to anyone interested in Mr Piggott's diet over the past year.

  'Where d'you keep the cups?' asked Nelly Tilling, when she had regained her breath. Her gaze turned apprehensively towards the pile on the draining-board. Mr Piggott seemed to sense her misgivings.

  'Got some in the other room, in the dresser cupboard,' he said. 'My old woman's best,' he explained. 'Molly used 'em sometimes.'

  'You get them while I make the tea,' said Mrs Tilling briskly. 'This the pot?' She peered into the murky depths of a battered tin object on the stove.

  'Ah! Tea's in,' said Mr Piggott, making his way to the dresser.

  The kettle boiled. With a brave shudder Nelly poured the water on the tea leaves, comforting herself with the thought that boiling water killed germs of all sorts.

  Five minutes later she put down her empty cup and smiled at her companion.

  'Lovely cup of tea,' she said truthfully. 'I feel all the better for that. Now I must go over to Doctor Lovell's for my pills.'

  'It's still pouring,' said Mr Piggott. 'Have another cup.'

  'I'll pour,' said Nelly. 'Pass your own.'

  'It's nice to have someone to pour out,' confessed Mr Piggott. He was beginning to feel unaccountably cheerful despite the disappointment of missing his customary pint of beer. 'This place needs a woman.'

  'I'll say it does!' agreed Nelly, warmly. 'It needs a few gallons of hot soapy water too! When did your Molly see this last?'

  'About a year ago, I suppose. She's coming again Christmastime–she and Ben and the baby. Maybe she'll give it a bit of a clean-up then.'

  'It wouldn't hurt you to do a bit,' said Nelly roundly. 'Chuck out that milk and fish, for one thing.'

  'The cat ain't had nothing to eat for days,' objected her host, stung by her criticism.

  'That don't surprise me,' retorted Nelly. 'No cat would stay in this hole.'

  'I got me church to see to,' began Mr Piggott, truculently. 'I ain't got time to—'

  'If Molly comes home to this mess at Christmas then I'm sorry for her,' asserted Mrs Tilling. 'And the baby too. Like as not it'll catch something and die on your very hearth-stone!'

  She paused to let the words sink in. Mr Piggott mumbled gloomily to himself. The gist of his mutterings was the unpleasantness of women, their officiousness, their fussiness and their inability to let well alone, but he took care to keep his remarks inaudible.

  'Tell you what,' said Mrs Tilling in a warmer tone. 'I'll come up here and give you a hand turning out before Christmas. What about it?'

  Mr Piggott's forebodings returned. What would the neighbours say? What was Nelly Tilling up to? What would happen to his own peaceful, slummocky bachelor existence if he allowed this woman to have her way?

  Nelly watched the thoughts chasing each other across his dour countenance. After a few minutes she noticed a certain cunning softness replacing the apprehension of his expression, and her heart began to beat a little faster.

  'No harm, I suppose,' said the old curmudgeon, grudgingly. 'Make things a bit more welcoming for Molly, wouldn't it?'

  'That's right,' agreed Mrs Tilling, rising from her chair and brushing a fine collection of sticky crumbs from her coat. 'One good turn deserves another, you know, and we've been friends long enough to act neighbourly, haven't we, Albert?'

  Mr Piggott found himself quite dazzled by the warmth of her smile as she made for the door, and was unable to speak.

  The wind roared in as she opened the front door, lifting the filthy curtains and blowing the parish magazine into a corner. Might freshen the place up a bit, thought Nelly, stepping out into the storm.

  'Thanks for the tea, Albert. I'll drop in again when I'm passing,' shouted the lady, as she retreated into the uproar.

  Mr Piggott nodded dumbly, shut the door with a crash, and breathed deeply. Mingled pleasure and fury shook his aged frame, but overriding all these agitations was the urgent need for a drink.

  'Women!' spat out Mr Piggott, resuming his damp raincoat. 'Never let a chap alone!'

  His mind turned the phrase over. There was something about it that made Mr Piggott feel younger–a beau, a masher, a man who was still pursued.

  'Never let a chap alone!' repeated Mr Piggott aloud. He pulled on his wet cap, adjusting it at an unusually rakish and dashing angle, and made his way, swaggering very slightly, to his comforts next door.

  'Do you know,' said Dimity Dean, looking up from polishing the silver baskets ready for the evening's festivities, 'do you know that Nelly Tilling has just come out of Piggott's house?'

  'Nelly Tilling?' repeated Ella, looking up from rolling an untidy cigarette. 'Which is she?'

  'You know,' said Dimity, with some impatience. 'The fat woman who's supposed to be looking for a second husband!'

  'Hm !' grunted Ella shortly. 'She's welcome to old Piggott"

  6. All Hallows E'en

  AT six-thirty Ella and Dimity awaited their guests. Both ladies were dressed in the frocks which had been recognised by Thrush Green and Lulling as their cocktail clothes for the last decade, and both exuded the aroma of their recent baths, lavender in Dimity's case and Wright's Coal Tar soap in Ella's.

  Dimity's grey crepe had a cowl neck-line which had been rather fashionable just after the war and a full skirt which a more sophisticated woman would have su
pported with a stiffened petticoat. Over Dimity's modest Vedonis straight petticoat, however, the fullness draped itself limply, ending in a hem so uneven that it was obviously the work of the cleaner's rather than the couturier's. A rose of squashed fawn silk at the waist-line strove unavailingly to add dash to this ensemble.

  Ella, in a plain black woollen frock decorated only with cigarette ash on the bodice, looked surprisingly elegant. Released for once from their brogues her feet were remarkably neat in a pair of black suède shoes, low-heeled but well-cut, which drew attention to the fact that despite Ella's bulk she still showed an attractive pair of ankles.

  The fire crackled and blazed hospitably giving forth a sweet smell of burning apple wood. The golden pumpkin glowed on the mantelpiece, its grotesque face beaming a welcome. Ella counted the bottles briskly and busied herself with bottle opener, lemons and glasses, while Dimity fluttered hither and thither putting little dishes of salted nuts and other savoury things first here, then there, surveying the effect with much anguish.

  'All I want,' said Ella, squinting at her companion over the cigarette smoke which curled into her eye, 'is a private dish of olives behind the azalea. I've seen that young Lovell at parties before, wolfing 'em down. By the time I've got the drinks circulating he'll have had the lot,' said his hostess forthrightly.

  'Oh, Ella dear,' protested Dimity, 'I'm quite sure he doesn't behave like that! He's a very well-brought-up young man.' But she obediently put one dish of olives behind the azalea plant near Ella, nevertheless. Ella took three, clapped them into her mouth, like a man taking pills, and crunched with relish.

  'I'll bet you sixpence in the Cats' Protection box that Dotty arrives first,' said Ella rather indistinctly.

  'Of course she'll be first,' said Dimity. 'It's not worth betting on. Besides,' she added, looking thoughtful, 'I don't know that we ought to bet like that. The rector was saying, only the other day, that betting is on the increase.'