(9/13)The School at Thrush Green Read online

  Percy's face turned from scarlet to puce.

  'You mind your own business!' he bellowed, slamming down his mug and making for the door.

  'There was no call for that,' said Mr Jones reproachfully, when the glasses had stopped quivering from the slammed door.

  'I likes to stir things up a bit, now and again,' said Albert smugly. 'I'll have a half to top up.'

  The mild spell of weather which had brought out the first spring flowers and those people, like Albert, recovering from their winter ills, now changed to a bitter session of hard frosts and a wicked east wind.

  The good folk of Thrush Green pointed out to each other that after all, it was still February, a long way to go before counting the winter over, and February and March were often the worst months of the winter.

  It was cold comfort, and Jane Cartwright took extra care of the old people in her charge. The health of old Tom Hardy, in particular, caused her some concern.

  She mentioned her worries to Charles Henstock one afternoon when he paid a visit to his old friends at the home.

  'It isn't anything I can pin down,' she said. 'His chest is no worse. He eats very little, but then he always did. He goes for a walk every day with Polly, but something's worrying him. See if you can get it out of him. He'll tell you more than he will me.'

  The rector promised to do his best, and made his way to Tom's little house, bending against the vicious wind which whipped his chubby cheeks.

  He found the old man sitting by a cheerful fire, fondling the head of his much-loved dog.

  To Charles's eye old Tom seemed much as usual as he greeted his visitor warmly.

  'Come you in, sir, out of this wind. I took Poll out this morning, just across the green, but I reckon that's going to be enough for today.'

  'Very wise, Tom. And how are you keeping?'

  'Pretty fair, pretty fair. I never cease to be thankful as I'm here, and not down at the old cottage. Jane Cartwright looks after us all a treat.'

  Polly came to the rector and put her head trustingly upon his knee. The rector stroked her gently. She was an old friend, and had stayed at Lulling vicarage when her master had a spell in hospital.

  Charles wondered whether to mention Jane's concern, and decided that it could do no harm.

  'She's a marvellous woman. I think she worries rather too much about you all. She certainly said just now that she hoped that everything was right for you.'

  Tom did not reply.

  'She said you seemed pretty healthy, which was good news, but she had the feeling that something was troubling you. Is it anything I can help with?'

  Tom sighed. 'It's Polly. I frets about her.'

  'But let's get the vet then.'

  'It's not that. It's nought as the vet can do. She's got the same trouble as I have, sir. We be too old.'

  'We're all getting old,' replied Charles, 'and have to face going some time. But what's wrong otherwise with Polly?'

  He looked at the dog's bright eyes, and felt her tail tap against his legs as she responded to her name.

  'It's what happens to her when she goes,' said Tom earnestly. 'All the dogs I've had has been buried by me in my garden. There's two graves now down at my old place by the river.'

  'So what's the difficulty?'

  'There's no place here to bury poor old Poll when her time comes. It grieves me.'

  The old man's eyes were full of tears, much to Charles's distress.

  'Then you can stop grieving straightaway,' he said robustly, leaning across Polly to pat his old friend's knee. 'If it makes you happier, let Polly be buried in the vicarage garden at Lulling. There are several pets buried there and Polly was well content when she stayed with us.'

  Tom's face lit up. 'That's right good of you, sir. It'd be a weight off my mind.'

  'And if you go ahead of her, Tom,' said the rector smiling, 'she can come to the vicarage anyway and be among friends. So now stop fretting.'

  Tom drew in his breath gustily.

  'I wish I could do something to repay you,' he said.

  'You can, Tom. What about a cup of tea?'

  He watched the old man go with a spring in his step to fill the kettle. He was humming to himself as he went about setting a tray.

  If only all his parishioners' troubles could be settled so simply, thought Charles!

  As Agnes Fogerty had guessed, Harold Shoosmith was proving most helpful on the subject of Dorothy's driving tuition and the buying of a small car.

  The two ladies had been invited next door for a drink to discuss matters and Harold was waxing enthusiastic., It was strange, thought Agnes, how animated most men became when discussing machinery. Her dear father, she recalled, could read a book without any sort of reaction to its contents. It was the same with a play or a concert. He was quite unmoved by these products of the arts, but his joy in his old tricycle, upon which he rode when delivering the shoes he repaired, was immense.

  Later, he had taken to driving a three-wheeled Morgan and the same fanatical light had gleamed in his eyes. To Agnes any form of locomotion was simply the means of getting from one place to another and she looked upon this male fever as just one more incomprehensible facet of man's nature.

  'I've thought a good deal about driving lessons,' Harold was saying. 'I shouldn't get Reg Bull if I were you. I'd offer myself, but I don't know that friends make the best instructors. Worse still are spouses, of course, but you are spared those.'

  'I certainly shouldn't have allowed you to teach me,' said Isobel. 'As it is, you gasp whenever I let in the clutch.'

  'Do I? I never realised that!'

  'Well, you do. And very trying it is,' said his wife briskly. 'But go on. Tell Dorothy your bright idea.'

  'It occurred to us both, that perhaps Ben Curdle would be willing to give you lessons. He's a marvellous driver, very steady and calm. I'm sure he'd be first-class. If he's willing, of course, to let you learn on his Ford. It's a good gearbox. You could do worse than buy a little Ford when the time comes.'

  'Ben Curdle would be just the man,' agreed Miss Watson. 'But would he do it? He doesn't seem to have much spare time.'

  'If you like, I will have a word with him and let you know the result. One thing I do know - he would be glad to earn some money in his spare time.'

  'That would be very kind of you. I have the greatest respect for Ben, so like his dear grandmother. If he will take me on, I shall be delighted.'

  'And, of course,' added Harold, 'I can take you out occasionally for a run in my car, just to get the hang of things.'

  'How lovely! I should appreciate that. And I hope you will advise me when it comes to buying a car.'

  Harold's eyes sparkled at the prospect. 'What was the car you drove earlier?' he enquired.

  Dorothy frowned with concentration. 'Now, what was it? I know it was a red one, with rather pretty upholstery, but I can't think what make it was.'

  Harold looked flabbergasted.

  'I'm sure the name will come back to you when you are not thinking about it,' said Isobel soothingly. 'Like throwing out the newspaper and knowing immediately what ten down was in the crossword. Harold, Agnes's glass is empty.'

  Recalled to his duties as host, Harold crossed to the side-table, but he still appeared numb with shock at the abysmal ignorance of the female mind.

  5. Personal Problems

  'I'VE just had a letter,' said Miss Watson at breakfast one morning, 'from Better and Better.'

  'From who?'

  'From whom,' corrected Dorothy automatically. 'From Better and Better, dear. The estate agents. My sharp note to them seems to have done some good. They've sent particulars of two bungalows and a ground-floor flat. Mind you, I suspect that the ground-floor flat is really the basement, but at least it's an improvement on that converted oast house with five bedrooms, and that attic flat in some terrible old castle, which they sent last time.'

  Agnes Fogerty nodded, looking bewildered. She was perusing the Appointments pages of that week's Time
s Educational Supplement.

  'Our advertisement's in,' she said. 'But no house.'

  Dorothy put down her letter. 'Not a house, Agnes. Two bungalows and a flat.'

  'I know, Dorothy, about the Barton properties. I'm talking about our house, this one.'

  'What about it?'

  'Well, last time our posts were advertised, it said something about a school house. It doesn't this time.'

  Miss Watson held out an imperious hand. 'Here, let me look!'

  Agnes handed over the paper meekly, noticing, with a wince, that one corner had been dragged across the marmalade on Dorothy's toast.

  'Well, how extraordinary!' said that lady. 'What can it mean? Perhaps they just forgot to mention it.'

  'Or perhaps the printers made a muddle of it,' suggested Agnes.

  'I shall be ringing the office this morning,' replied her friend, 'and I'll see if I can find out about this. Not that I shall learn much if that fiddle-faddling secretary fellow answers.'

  'What's wrong with him?'

  'Terrified of his own shadow! Never gives a straightforward answer to any question,' said Dorothy trenchantly. 'I asked him only the other day about those desks which have been ordered for two years, and he gets flustered and waffles on about things being at the committee stage, whatever that means, and he has no power to tell me.'

  Secretly, Agnes felt rather sorry for the man. Dorothy, at her most demanding, could instil great terror.

  'Still, never fear, Agnes! I shall do my best to see what lies behind this omission.'

  She handed back the paper, catching another corner on the marmalade in transit, and poured herself a second cup of tea.

  The bitter east wind did not show any signs of abating, and the old people at Rectory Cottages were once more housebound, and particularly glad of Jane and Bill Cartwright's daily visits.

  Tom Hardy seemed much more cheerful after the rector had called. Jane had not had an opportunity of finding out the reason for this improvement, but was glad when the old man volunteered the information.

  'Mr Henstock says he'll have my old Polly in his garden.'

  Jane was somewhat bewildered. 'Which day is this to be?'

  'Why, for ever!'

  'You mean that you are letting him have Polly? Can you bear to part with her, Tom?'

  'No, no, no!' exclaimed the old man testily. 'Why should I want to give Poll away?'

  Jane waited for enlightenment.

  'When she's dead,' continued Tom. 'I've been fretting about what would happen to her when she's gone. No decent garden here to bury her, see? All my other dogs was buried proper. Dug their graves myself, and wrapped their poor bodies in their own dog blanket for comfort like.'

  Jane was touched by the old man's concern. 'I'm sure we could have found a corner for her somewhere, Tom.'

  'Well, now there's no need,' said Tom, with great dignity. 'She'll be comfortable in the vicarage garden, when the time comes.'

  Jane looked from the frail old fellow to his equally aged pet lying at his feet.

  As if reading her thoughts, Tom spoke again. 'And if I goes first, then Mr Henstock's having Poll,' he said. 'A good man is the rector, and a fine gentleman.'

  And with that Jane heartily agreed.

  At Winnie Bailey's, Jenny had just come in from the garden where she had been hanging out the tea towels.

  'My goodness!' she gasped, crashing the kitchen door behind her. 'Don't you go out today, Mrs Bailey. Enough to catch your death in this wind. I shan't be surprised to find the tea towels in Mrs Hurst's garden when we go to fetch them.'

  'I've nothing to go out for, I'm thankful to say,' said Winnie. 'Ella's coming along later, probably early afternoon.'

  'Will she stay to tea?' asked Jenny hopefully. She loved an excuse to make scones or hot buttered toast.

  'No, Jenny. She's only dropping in the magazines. She won't stop.'

  At that moment the telephone rang. It was her nephew Richard.

  'Aunt Win, can I pop in?'

  'Of course. When?'

  'About twelve?'

  'Fine. We'll put another two sausages in the oven.'

  'Splendid! And another thing!'

  'Yes?'

  'I'll have Timothy with me. In fact, I wondered if you could have him for an hour or two, while I go along to Cirencester to pick up some books waiting there.'

  'Of course. I haven't met Timothy yet. I shall look forward to it.'

  'Good!' said Richard, sounding much relieved. 'See you soon then.'

  Winnie conveyed the news to Jenny.

  'How old is this Timothy?' she enquired.

  'Four, I think.'

  'Well, if he doesn't like sausages he can have an egg,' replied Jenny decisively. 'And don't let him wear you out. Didn't we hear he was a bit of a handful?'

  'Good heavens! We surely can cope with a four-year-old for an hour or so!'

  'Let's hope so,' said Jenny, 'but children today aren't what they were in our young days.'

  'They never were,' responded Winnie.

  The arrival of Richard's car was first noted by Albert Piggott who was standing at his kitchen window.

  He had just returned from a visit to The Two Pheasants, and was watching the dead leaves eddying round and round in the church porch opposite his cottage.

  The wind seemed more formidable than ever. The branches of the chestnut trees outside the Youngs' house were tossing vigorously. The grass on the green flattened in its path, and no one seemed to be stirring at Rectory Cottages.

  The advent of a car outside Winnie Bailey's was a welcome diversion in the waste of Thrush Green. Albert recognised Richard and was intrigued to see a small boy being helped from the car. The child appeared to be reluctant to get out, but at last the two figures set off for the front door.

  Albert watched avidly. Jenny opened the door, and Richard and the boy vanished inside.

  'Now, whose can that be?' pondered Albert. 'One of Richard's by-blows maybe?'

  But he did Winnie's nephew a disservice. Timothy, had he known it, was the child of an earlier marriage of Fenella, his wife, so that Richard was the boy's stepfather.

  To all appearances, he seemed to be taking his responsibilities seriously.

  'Must ask Nelly about this,' said Albert to his cat. 'Women always knows about such things.'

  The cat, who was engrossed in washing his face, ignored his master's remarks.

  'So this is Timothy,' smiled Winnie, surveying the newcomer.

  The child was dark-haired and skinny. He looked sulky, and tugged at Richard's hand.

  'Say "How do you do",' prompted his stepfather.

  'No,' said the child. 'Let's go home.'

  The two grown-ups sensibly ignored this, and Winnie poured two glasses of sherry. Timothy sidled to the chair where Richard sat and hoisted himself on the arm.

  Winnie noticed that his knees were dirty, and his jersey stained with food droppings of some antiquity. Why, she wondered, was Richard taking charge of the child? The last she had heard about the marriage was that there was talk of a divorce. Obviously, Richard had a responsibility towards his own child of the marriage, but Timothy really had little claim on him.

  As if reading her thoughts, Richard spoke. 'Fenella suddenly remembered, when she woke this morning, that she had to take Imogen to the clinic for an injection. Timmy always screams the place down, so I said I'd keep him out of the way.'

  Winnie noticed that the child gave a satisfied smirk at hearing of his behaviour at the clinic, and wished that Richard would have more sense than to mention such things before the boy.

  'And what time will Fenella be home again?'

  'Well, you know what these places are,' Richard replied, shifting in his chair so that Timothy could squash down beside him. 'Every one there wants to be done first, and there seems to be a lot of muddle one way and another. I don't suppose she'll be back until the afternoon.'

  'I want my mummy,' whined Timothy.

  Luckily, Jenny put h
er head round the door and summoned them to lunch.

  'You'd better wash his hands in the kitchen,' said Winnie.

  'I never have my hands washed,' announced Timothy.

  'You do here,' said Winnie, leading the way.

  A lordly dish of sausages, bacon, eggs and tomatoes graced the kitchen table, and Timothy surveyed it as Richard tried to wash the child's hands.

  'I don't like sausages,' he said.

  'What a pity,' said Winnie, settling herself at the table.

  'And I don't like eggs.'

  'Oh dear!'

  'Nor bacon, nor none of what's for dinner.'

  'You will be hungry,' said Winnie matter-of-factly.

  She began to serve out. Richard took his seat, and Timothy was hoisted by Jenny on to a cushion in the chair beside him.

  Winnie served the three adults and then looked enquiringly at Timothy.

  'Are you going to try any of this?'

  'No.'

  'Very well, we won't worry you.'

  Conversation flowed while Richard enquired about his old friends at Thrush Green, and Winnie tried to find out discreetly about Richard's domestic plans. Was the marriage still on or not? What had happened about the proposed divorce? Was Fenella's paramour, Roger Something, still living at the art gallery which was her home? If so, where did Richard fit in? It was all rather bewildering, thought Winnie, who was used to a tidy life.

  Timothy, who disliked being ignored, now began to kick the table leg and was restrained by Jenny.

  'Would you like to get down?' said Winnie.

  'No. I want something to eat.'

  Winnie lifted the servers.

  'Not that old stuff!'

  Winnie replaced the servers.

  'So tell me about Imogen,' she said politely to Richard. 'Any teeth yet?'

  Timothy began to tug furiously at Richard's arm, and a piece of sausage fell to the floor.

  'I hardly know,' said Richard. 'Should she have teeth by now? I don't see much of her.'

  By the time the first course had been demolished, Timothy had sunk down in his chair and was sucking a thumb disconsolately.