(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green Read online

  'You will be soon,' replied Ben, with maddening calm. 'And it won't be long before young Cooke is doing all the church caretaking—he does most of it now as far as I can see. Then he'll want a place. Yours would suit him fine one day.'

  Albert grew red with wrath, and began to bluster.

  'See here, Ben, I still pulls my weight. Why, only yesterday I had all the mats up and swilled over the aisle. Took me best part of two hours, that did.'

  'That's what I mean,' said Ben. it should only take half an hour at the most. You're gettin' past it, Dad, and you'll have to face it. If you could get one of these new homes, you'd be quids in. I bet there'd be a warden to look after you, and that'd save my Molly working her fingers to the bone for you.'

  He picked up his empty basket, nodded pleasantly to the landlord and departed.

  'Well I'm blowed!' puffed Albert in disgust. 'That's a fine way of goin' on, ain't it? Telling me I'm too old to work, and practically handin' over my house to that young lay-about Cooke. Me livin' in an old people's home indeed! I'd watch it.'

  Mr Jones let him rumble on crossly. He wiped the counter with a red-checked cloth and then lent across it conspiratorially.

  'See here, Albert. You're looking ahead a bit. No one's said anything about you losing your house, and while you're still working it remains yours.'

  Albert looked slightly mollified.

  'And what's more,' went on his companion, draping the damp cloth over the beer handles to dry, 'no one knows for sure if old people's homes are going up there. Someone once said it might be a clinic or some such.'

  'Or a brewery?' queried Albert. 'Now that would be a real good idea, wouldn't it?'

  He swilled down the remainder of his glass and hobbled quite briskly to the door.

  5. A Visit To Tom Hardy

  ONE BLUE and white day towards the end of March, the rector made his way towards a remote cottage near the River Pleshey.

  He walked by the path bordering the river, holding on his hat every now and again as the boisterous wind tried to tear it from his head.

  The gentle murmuring of the water was lost in the noise of the wind around him. The pollarded willows along the banks were bristling with young twigs, and the golden-green leaves were beginning to unfurl.

  Here and there an ancient willow, spared the woodcutter's attention, trailed branches in the river. As the wind whipped them the long twigs flailed the water creating little whirlpools and eddies.

  A moorhen fled squawking as the rector passed by, its feet making a sequinned track on the surface of the stream. A water vole crossed nearby leaving an arrow-shaped wake as it forged towards the safety of the bank.

  The rector had an observant eye for such details. They added to the joy of his walk which he had undertaken for just such refreshment. He had felt the need for a little solitude, for time to relish the lovely natural scenes about him, free from the intrusion of fellow humans.

  He noted the crinkled bark of the willow trunks, the criss-cross pattern softened by grey-green lichen. He smelt the pungency of water-mint growing in the muddy shallows at the brink of the Pleshey. He heard the plop of small animals making for watery cover as he approached, and he saw the great galleons of white clouds sailing superbly across the blue sky above the water meadows, and felt the wind on his face.

  He revelled in his senses which brought to him such richness, and thanked God that he still had health and strength to enjoy all five. This morning walk acted as balm to Charles's spirits, for despite his serene appearance and his gentle courtesy to everyone, he was a secret worrier, and at the moment there was plenty to perplex him.

  He had only been at Lulling for a few months and already he knew that he fell short in many ways of the expectations of his new parishioners. It grieved him.

  It grieved him, not because he was a vain man eager for the approbation of his fellows, but because he seemed to be causing anxiety to others. Mrs Thurgood's obvious disdain was comparatively easy to bear. Charles was perceptive enough to realize that her adoration of Anthony Bull made her consider any successor inadequate. But she was not alone in her criticism. It was this that perturbed him.

  He had known from the start that to follow someone as magnetically outstanding as Anthony Bull would not be easy. He had been a man who engendered strong feelings, particularly in women. Charles recognised that there would be robust loyalty for his predecessor, and he considered it a laudable thing among his flock. What was hard to bear was the simple fact that anyone who succeeded Anthony was bound to be different, and that that particular fact was being ignored by some of his followers.

  He had heard comments on his inadequacy, some obviously intended to wound. Several devout ladies had reproached him delicately about the simplicity of his services compared with the more extravagant ritual of Anthony's reign. He did his best to explain his beliefs. Comparisons might be odious, but he had to face them. For all the pin-pricks, the petty humiliations, the unnecessary injustices done to him, yet Charles never wavered in his own admiration of Anthony Bull nor in the forbearance with which he faced his critics.

  His chief unhappiness was caused by the fact that at least three families had now started to support a neighbouring vicar. This he found extremely upsetting. Only half an hour earlier, outside The Fuchsia Bush on his way to the river, he had run into one of his deserters, Albert Beverley.

  'I was hoping to see you,' the rector had said cheerfully. 'We haven't seen much of each other lately.'

  Albert Beverley looked about him unhappily.

  'Well, you know how it is. The weeks slip by, don't they?'

  'Time certainly flies,' agreed the rector. 'Perhaps I shall see you and the family—?'

  'Ah!' said Albert hastily, 'must get on. I've promised to meet the wife in here. Late now, I'm afraid. Nice to have seen you.'

  And he bolted into the haven of The Fuchsia Bush where, it was quite apparent, no wife was waiting.

  It was incidents like this which were so distressing. 'The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune' he could bear for himself, but it was the Church which mattered.

  Charles suddenly stood stock still and gazed across the river.

  'That's the real trouble,' he said aloud, much to the surprise of a thrush briskly tapping out a snail from its shell on a handy flint, it's the Church that matters! I am failing the Church!'

  He sighed deeply, clutched his hat, and continued on his errand.

  The thrush gobbled down its succulent breakfast, and also went about its daily business.

  On that same March morning Justin Venables sat in his usual seat in front of the well-worn desk at Twitter and Venables.

  Although he had had his seventieth birthday, Justin was still known in Lulling as 'Young Mr Venables' to distinguish him from his illustrious father, Harvey Venables, who had founded the firm with Basil Twitter when both young men had returned from World War One.

  The partnership had flourished, so much so that a third partner, called Adrian Treadgold, had been appointed. It was soon apparent that this latest addition was not of the same solid qualities as Basil Twitter and Harvey Venables, and when he blotted his copybook by running away with the wife of a well-to-do landowner, who was also a much respected client of the firm, then Adrian Treadgold's name was removed from the brass plate, and from all the office stationery.

  Young Justin had served with his father until the latter's death. When he attained the age of seventy he made it clear that he was retiring. The whole of Lulling regretted his departure, and the office itself begged him to keep in touch. He was persuaded to keep on a few very old and valued clients, and to this end he was available at the office on Tuesday of each week.

  'And don't expect me to do more,' he had told his staff severely. 'You boys are now in your forties and fifties and quite old enough to know your job. I want time for my fishing.'

  On this particular Tuesday morning he sat contemplating a cast-iron ash tray bearing the words 'Long Live Victoria 1837–1
897' and a colossal inkstand bearing a silver disc which told the world at large that it had been presented to Harvey Venables on the occasion of his silver wedding.

  Justin was so used to these historic pieces that he barely noticed them. What he was more interested in was the wall clock which said ten minutes to eleven. His client was already five minutes late, and Justin valued punctuality.

  Among the few favoured clients of advanced age whom Justin still attended was Dotty Harmer. Some years earlier he had defended her successfully on a charge of careless driving. He was fond of his eccentric old friend, and glad that he had helped to prove her innocence on that occasion. Nevertheless, wild horses would never have dragged him into any vehicle driven by Dotty. He was relieved when he had heard that she was now without a car, and that her niece Connie acted as chauffeur whenever she was needed.

  It was Connie that he awaited now. When she arrived, he would ask Muriel in the outer office, to bring them coffee. He was glad that he had allowed himself to be persuaded to spend this one day a week in his old chair. He did not mind admitting that he missed the office routine, and the company of his staff, and particularly the faithful Muriel who had been with the firm for almost as many years as he had, and knew exactly how he liked his tea and his coffee and kept him supplied with shortbread of her own making. Why, he thought suddenly, she must have made pounds of the stuff over the years! He had never thought of it before. He must make a point of mentioning it to her. She would value such civility, good faithful girl.

  It was also some relief, he secretly admitted, to get out of the house regularly and on legitimate business. Much as he appreciated his freedom nowadays, and his escape from the stern limits imposed by the clock and his desk diary, yet there was a certain aimlessness about mornings at home which had become something of a problem to a man accustomed to a rigid timetable.

  And then, it was quite apparent that he was something of a nuisance to his wife. She was used to having the house to herself from eight forty-five every morning. The newspaper used to be hers when it was pushed through the letter box at nine o'clock. Now he grabbed it, as his right, and she had pointed this out to him only that week.

  Then there were those little visits from neighbours, and the cups of coffee and gossip which he found irksome. Yes, there was no doubt about it, retirement forced one to make adjustments, and he readily admitted that his dear wife probably found difficulties quite as great as his own, in this new situation. Ah well, thank heaven for Tuesdays, he thought gratefully!

  The hands of the clock now stood at five to eleven, and Justin was about to check with Muriel about the time of Connie Harmer's appointment when the door opened, and Connie stood, pink and breathless, on the threshold, with Muriel.

  'Oh, Mr Venables, I'm so very sorry I'm late—' she began.

  'Think nothing of it,' replied justin. 'Come and sit down, my dear Miss Harmer. Coffee please, Muriel.'

  Two miles away, Charles Henstock waited on the doorstep of Tom Hardy's cottage, and admired the tidiness of his little garden.

  It had been a water-keeper's house once, but Tom had taken it over when the water board had decided to dispose of the property. Not many of the tenants had been satisfied with the amenities offered, and the board did not feel that the expense of adequate plumbing, new wiring and extensive structural repairs could be undertaken. The water-keeper who looked after the next stretch of the river owned a car, and with an increase in salary was glad to take on the extra work. Tom Hardy, a widower in his late fifties, had been pleased to buy the property for a fairly low sum.

  He had once run a haulage business, but had sold it when he came to live at Keeper's Cottage. He was a jack-of-all trades, remaining in touch with many of his business associates, and willing to turn his hand to driving a heavy vehicle, painting and decorating, doing odd-job gardening and even giving a hand with sheep-shearing in the early summer.

  He was held in high regard by the inhabitants of Lulling and Thrush Green who appreciated his old-fashioned virtues of patience, honesty and helpfulness. Among his various trades was the felling and chopping of trees, and it was in his role of a supplier of logs that Charles came to see him.

  He heard footsteps approaching round the side of the house, and Tom appeared holding a dead rabbit dangling by the legs.

  'Come round the back, sir,' said Tom. 'I thought there must be someone about. My old Polly growled, but she's past bothering about stirring herself these days.'

  'I can't think why I knocked at the front door,' replied the rector. 'I usually come to the back one, but I was thinking of something else.'

  'Sunday's sermon, maybe?' Tom smiled, his blue eyes looking sideways at his visitor.

  He led the way into the kitchen, and motioned Charles to a sturdy wooden armchair by the table.

  'Glass of my home-made beer?' asked Tom.

  'Thank you. A small one would be very welcome.'

  Tom vanished into a larder which ran the length of the room, and the rector looked about him.

  It was a man's room, no doubt about that. Over the mantelpiece, above the kitchen range, was a gun rack holding three guns. By the side of the fire-place some large coat pegs supported a belt of cartridges, a riding crop, pieces of leather harness and a fishing gaff, and propped in a corner were a shepherd's crook and a thumb stick cut from a fine hazel sapling.

  On the mantelpiece itself stood a tobacco jar, a large box of matches, a tin labelled TEA and another labelled SUGAR, and on the adjacent dresser, in front of the willow-pattern plates, stood an old-style circular knife cleaner, a wooden box labelled SALT and a basket of eggs.

  There was not a flower or a plant to be seen, not even a bunch of herbs hanging up to dry. The kitchen table was bare, though scrubbed very clean. A woman, thought the rector, would have had a cloth on it, and probably a plant standing atop, but there was something attractive about this sparsely accoutred mannish room. He decided that it must be because everything visible was strictly functional, plainly useful, unadorned. There was a workaday atmosphere here, as honest and unassuming as its owner.

  Charles thought of his own drawing room at Lulling vicarage. It was a charming room, beautifully proportioned and filled with all the objects which he and Dimity treasured. There were cushions, pelmets, ornaments of china, brass and silver. There were vases of flowers, pictures, a tapestry fire screen and innumerable rugs.

  It was a gracious room, a woman's room, and he loved it. But sitting here, among these stark surroundings, on his hard wooden chair, caressing its well-worn arms and noting that the only picture provided was a corn-chandler's almanack by the door, his own drawing room seemed frivolously cluttered, and these simple surroundings chimed better with his present mood.

  Tom returned with two tankards.

  'Like to come in the parlour?' he asked, as though suddenly aware of his surroundings.

  'No, thank you, Tom,' said the rector. 'I like this room very well.'

  'I live here most of the time,' said Tom. 'Mind you, I give the parlour a clean every now and again, and keep the window ajar. But it's full of fal-de-lals, Margaret's best china in a cabinet, and the bird cage she used to keep her budgies in, and the family bible—all that sort of Sunday stuff.'

  'Sunday stuff?'

  'Well, a few books, you know. The kind of thing you looked at after church on Sundays.'

  He laughed rather shame-facedly.

  'Not as I go now, as you well know, sir. I'm what I call lapsed C. of E. when I'm asked what religion I am. Still, I could say the Creed to you now, and the Twenty-third Psalm, and sing most of the usual hymns, if need be. It's just I don't feel the need for going to church. I used to go with Margaret. She enjoyed Mr Bull's services, but to tell you the truth, I found him a bit too high-falutin', if you know what I mean?'

  A warm pang of happiness made the rector's heart beat more quickly. As quickly, he chided himself for this involuntary response to comfort.

  'He's very much missed, I know,' said Char
les steadily. He put his tankard carefully on to the bare table top. 'I miss him myself, I don't mind admitting. But what I called for, Tom, was to order some logs and to ask you if you have any idea how many we should need. I believe you supplied Mr Bull in his time?'

  'Well, they always kept plenty of fires going, but they'd the two maids living in so that was one extra fire for them. And they liked the hall one going in really cold weather. I don't think you'd need as much as Mr Bull wanted. I'd say two good loads would see you through.'

  'I think you used to deliver two to the old rectory at Thrush Green, if I remember aright. The present house is considerably bigger, Tom.'

  'And a sight warmer, sir. That old place was pesky cold always, and caught all the winds God sent, specially the north-east. No, your present place is better built, and sheltered too. The church keeps a lot off you in the way of weather. Acts as a protection, you might say.'

  The same warm feeling of comfort engulfed Charles. He rose to go.

  'I'll take your advice, Tom. Two loads whenever you can manage it, and the old coach house is waiting for the logs. I swept it out myself yesterday.'

  'Right!' said Tom, accompanying his guest to the back door. 'And if need be, I'll top you up after Christmas.'

  A Welsh collie dog, grey round the muzzle and with one opaque eye, nuzzled the rector's ankles as he gained the path. The rector patted the silky flanks.

  'She's a good old girl,' said Tom fondly. 'Rare company! Don't look much, like me and my house, but she suits me.'

  'That's all that matters,' the rector assured him.

  The wind was behind him as he went homeward, thrusting him so forcefully that now and again he was nudged into a few running steps.

  He found himself exhilarated by the boisterous wind. His spirits, so low on the outward journey, had revived. Could it be the exercise and fresh air which had worked this small miracle? Or could the good fellowship of honest Tom, and the glimpse of his simple and uncomplicated way of living, have put his own worries into perspective?