(8/13) At Home in Thrush Green Read online

'She remembers you, sir,' said Tom, straightening his back slowly. 'This is a nice surprise, I must say. Come into the kitchen.'

  A bench stood against the wall, hard by the back door.

  'Let's sit here,' said the rector. 'Too good to go inside.'

  The old man sat down heavily with a sigh.

  'Who'd have thought choppin' a few sticks would wind you? It does though.'

  'Do you need them in this weather?'

  'Well, no. I don't light my kitchen stove much come the summer, but I suppose it's going most of the year, and I likes to have plenty of firing put by.'

  'It must make quite a bit of work, Tom. Clearing out the ashes and so on.'

  'Ah! But it's company. And the kettle's always on, and the oven stays nice and hot. I puts in a chop, or some sausages in a little old tin, and a rice pudden for afters. That cooks lovely that old stove, and in the evening I opens the little door, and Poll and me enjoys the firelight and the warmth on us.'

  Charles Henstock recalled the massive black hod which held the fuel for Tom's stove, and wondered how he could lift it nowadays. He had never completely regained his strength after his sojourn in the local hospital, when Polly had been a welcome guest at Lulling Vicarage in her master's absence.

  'Do you get anybody to help you in the house?' asked Charles.

  'Well, my good neighbour comes now and again, but she's a busy soul. But that reminds me, sir, she brought a form for me to write on to see if I could have a home help once or twice a week.'

  'That's a splendid idea.'

  'Yes, I's'pose so. But I'm no hand at forms. Would you be so good as to help me with it? It's upstairs.'

  'Willingly, Tom. Let's fetch it.'

  Tom led the way through the kitchen which Charles always admired for its practicality and bare, but beautiful, simplicity. It was as tidy as ever, the table top scrubbed white, the now cold stove black and shining.

  The staircase opened from this room, and Charles watched Tom mount the steep flight with shaky steps. The rope banister against the wall was the only support, and Charles watched his old friend's progress with mounting anxiety.

  'Shall I come up, Tom?'

  'No, sir,' wheezed Tom, 'I'll bring it down.'

  Charles waited at the foot of the staircase, listening to the old man opening drawers and shifting furniture. A print of a moonlight steeplechase hung on the wall, foxed with age and damp, but the intrepid riders in their white night shirts could still be descried, if one peered closely. It seemed to be the only picture in the house, and hanging in such a murky place, it obviously did not gain much attention.

  Tom reappeared, letter in hand, and descended carefully.

  'Let's spread it out on the kitchen table,' said Charles, and was relieved when the two of them were sitting on sturdy wooden chairs with their task before them.

  The rector filled in the data as Tom answered his questions, and in ten minutes the form was ready and signed in Tom's quavering hand.

  'I'll post it for you with my letters,' said Charles. 'I have to go to the Post Office this afternoon.'

  'Then I'll give you the stamp money,' said the old man, pulling out the drawer of the table and taking out an old tobacco tin.

  'No need for that, Tom.'

  The old man looked stubborn.

  'I won't be beholden,' he said.

  'Very well,' replied the rector amiably. 'If you insist. Second class will do, I'm sure.'

  Tom handed over the coins, and gave a great smile.

  'That's a weight off my chest. How about some tea?'

  'I'd better not, Tom. I've got to eat a meal when I get back. But let's have a few minutes outside in the sun.'

  He stayed for half an hour, relishing the old man's company, and the affection displayed by Polly to them both. She and Tom were a devoted pair, and enjoyed each other's tranquil companionship.

  On his way back, the rector thought seriously about Tom's future. Here, surely, was an absolutely suitable person for one of Thrush Green's new homes. He would not have to negotiate those dangerous stairs, or chop sticks, or handle that hefty coal hod. He could have a meal brought to him, if need be, and although the rice pudding might not be as good as those he cooked himself, the rector felt sure that Tom would appreciate it in time.

  But even if a place were allotted to Tom, would he want to move? He loved his cottage hard by the river, his little garden, filled with old-fashioned flowers, pansies, a musk rose and mignonette.

  And most of all he loved his independence. He could be obstinate. Charles recalled the tight lips and stern eyes when he had attempted to wave aside the stamp money. No, it would not be easy to move Tom should the need arise.

  And Polly? What about Polly? He would never leave her, that was certain. They were as close as mother and child, or husband and wife.

  Charles stood stock still for a moment, taken aback by this problem. A moorhen, scared at the intrusion, fluttered squawking from the reeds, and crossed the stream with trailing legs that scattered diamond-bright drops.

  'We must cross that bridge when we come to it,' Charles told the bird, and continued on his way to attack tomorrow's sermon once more.

  Little Miss Fogerty spent the morning doing the usual Saturday chores, the personal washing, including Dorothy's cardigan which received particular care, a thorough dusting and carpet-sweeping which was done sketchily on workdays, and sorting out the bedlinen ready for the laundryman on Tuesday.

  The evening meal was to be cold chicken and salad, and Agnes went down the garden to pull a fine lettuce and some radishes to wash.

  Her college friend Isobel was in her garden next door.

  'Agnes dear, could I bring the jumble stuff round this afternoon?'

  'Any time, Isobel. I am on my own all day.'

  She explained about Dorothy's absence, and knew that her headmistress would not mind Isobel hearing about Ray's accident. Normally, at Thrush Green, one needed to filter one's thoughts before speaking and getting a name for being a gossip, but the two neighbours relied on each other's discretion, and knew that they could discuss matters unguardedly.

  'Why don't you come to lunch with Harold and me? Come and take pot luck. We'd love it.'

  'I won't, dear, many thanks. I'm having a clearing-up day. But I'll look forward to seeing you with the jumble.'

  Agnes partook of a lightly-boiled egg for lunch, and a cup of coffee, had a brief snooze with her feet up on the string stool Dorothy had made at last winter's evening class in Lulling, and was alert when Isobel arrived, and ready for the exchange of news.

  As always, Isobel looked pretty in a blue linen frock and white sandals. Agnes secretly admired her unblemished brown bare legs, and thought ruefully of her own heavily veined ones. Ah well! Isobel had not had to stand so many hours before a class, thought Agnes without envy, and it was a pleasure to see how young and healthy she looked, despite being almost exactly her own age.

  In the evening, Agnes set the table and then made her way down the hill to meet Dorothy at the London coach stop in the High Street.

  It was a golden evening. A glimpse of a cornfield in the distance showed the crop already looking a pale gold in the low rays of the sinking sun. A nearby row of trees had their trunks turned to bronze on their north-west side. It was going to be a spectacular sunset, thought Agnes, and was reminded of a reverberating phrase in her ancient copy of A Handbook for Teachers, which exhorted all those who had to teach in dismal towns to 'direct the pupils' attention to the ever-changing panorama of the heavens', if there were nothing else of natural beauty to be seen.

  Agnes thought how fortunate she was to have her lot cast at Thrush Green which had such splendid walks suitable for the young. She made a mental note to take her class to see the beauties of the June hedgerows on the road to Nidden. The elder flowers were magnificent at the moment, and the wild roses at their best.

  With any luck, they might see a nest, but really it might be wiser not to disclose such treasures. The girls w
ould relish the secret, no doubt, but one really could not trust all the boys to be quite so gentle. That youngest Cooke boy, for instance, had a truly barbaric streak in him, sad to say.

  By this time, Agnes had reached the coach stop. The High Street was pleasantly quiet, and the lime trees already showing pale flowers. The coach was late, and Agnes found a low wall near The Fuchsia Bush for a comfortable seat. She was observed there by the three Miss Lovelock sisters who peered from time to time from their drawing room window to make sure that nothing of note escaped them.

  Agnes was unaware of their scrutiny, but was turning over in her mind certain plans for her winter wardrobe. Her camel coat should do another season. Such a useful garment, and equally wearable with black or brown. On the other hand, she rather favoured a green hat for formal wear, and wondered if it would go well with her new black suit and the camel colour? Of course, there were always scarves, Agnes mused, and at that moment the coach arrived, and Dorothy descended the stairs carefully.

  'Agnes, how nice of you to come! No, no, I can quite well manage the parcels. They are very light, just a few little things for the winter, though why we should be dwelling on that on this gorgeous summer's day, I really don't know.'

  'And how did you find Ray?'

  'Very little amiss. But I'll tell you all when we are home. This hill takes all one's breath, doesn't it?'

  And Agnes could not help but agree, despite her eagerness to hear Dorothy's news.

  After the chicken and salad had been enjoyed, Dorothy kicked off her shoes and settled back on the sofa with a sigh.

  'Delicious, Agnes! I feel quite restored. How people can think of a day in London as a treat beats me! I find it an endurance test, I must say, although as a girl I really enjoyed pottering round Liberty's or dear old Heal's, and then going to a matinée or an exhibition after that. What resilience we used to have!'

  'But Ray?' pressed Agnes. 'How was he?'

  'In bed, of course, and he had a bandage round his head which made him look rather worse than he was. His forehead evidently had a nasty gash from the windscreen. It was quite shattered. '

  'His forehead?' exclaimed Agnes aghast.

  'No, no, dear. The windscreen. I heard the whole story in bits and pieces between the two of them.'

  'So you met Kathleen there?'

  'Yes, as I told you, at two-thirty.'

  Agnes forbore to point out that Dorothy had told her nothing of the sort, but awaited enlightenment.

  'As a matter of fact, I very much doubt if Ray would have told me much at all – certainly not about the dog – if Kathleen hadn't blurted it out.'

  'The dog? What was its name now?'

  'Harrison, of all the stupid names. Called after their butcher or some such whimsical nonsense. I do dislike animals referred to as Miss Poppet or Mr Thompson. One is misled into thinking they are lodgers at first hearing. What's wrong with Rover or Pip or Towser? Though, come to think of it, I haven't come across a Towser for years. My Uncle Tom had a Towser, a most intelligent mongrel.'

  'But Ray's accident,' prodded Agnes, who felt that Dorothy's digressions from the main subject were more infuriating than usual.

  Miss Watson sat up, and began to look more attentive.

  'Well, I met Kathleen as arranged, although, of course, she was ten minutes overdue, as one would expect. She referred again to my anniversary card, and they both gave me a warm welcome which was gratifying.'

  'Yes, indeed. Bygones must be bygones.'

  'She had brought a great sheaf of irises for Ray, and the nurse looked a bit taken aback, as well she might, for the ward was not very well furnished for bouquets which would have been more suitable in a cathedral. I took three bunches of violets, incidentally.'

  'Ray would like those, I'm sure.'

  'The first thing he did was to enquire after the dog, which I thought rather absurd, until Kathleen replied that he was recovering well and had eaten some minced beef and four beaten eggs in milk.'

  'How expensive!' commented frugal little Miss Fogerty.

  'Exactly. I asked if the dog were seriously ill, and do you know what Kathleen said?'

  'How could I know?' answered Agnes reasonably, but with a touch of impatience. Would the story never end? It reminded her of Tristram Shandy, read long ago at college.

  '"Not seriously ill, but still a little upset by the accident." I ask you!'

  'So the dog was in the car too?'

  'It was indeed, and it transpires that it was the cause of the accident. Evidently, Ray was driving alone, with the animal sitting in the back, when it saw a cat on the pavement, went berserk, leapt into the front seat and created pandemonium. Just as it did at our tea party, you remember.'

  'I do indeed. What a dreadful thing! And so Ray swerved, I suppose?'

  'Right into one of those islands, and at some speed. The windscreen shattered, and the side of the car was pushed in. It's a wonder poor Ray wasn't killed. They had to cut part of the car away to get him out.'

  'Is he badly cut about?'

  'Only his forehead, and he has two cracked ribs and a broken arm. Nothing to worry about,' said Dorothy with sisterly casualness. 'The concussion seems to have been very slight. He should be out in a day or two.'

  'Well, it was right to go and see him,' said Agnes. 'And it is a blessing he is not worse, poor fellow. And I'm glad the dog is well. They are so devoted to it.'

  'Much too devoted, if you ask me,' said Dorothy, with asperity. 'I very nearly told them what I thought of their foolish indulgence of that disgustingly behaved animal, but it didn't seem quite the time and place for a bit of plain speaking. It might have started Kathleen off on one of her hysterical fits, and I didn't think the other patients in the ward should be subjected to that. After all, they all had enough to put up with, Ray included.'

  'That was thoughtful of you,' agreed Agnes, who knew how easily her friend was stirred to outspokenness, sometimes with disastrous and embarrassing results.

  'Do you know, Agnes, I should really enjoy a cup of coffee. It's been a long day.'

  'The longest of the year,' said Agnes, pointing to the calendar. 'Stay there, my dear, and I'll go and make the coffee.'

  ***

  The two ladies went to bed early. Little Miss Fogerty had also found it a long and tiring day, but was relieved to have Dorothy back safe and sound, and to know that her brother was making steady progress. There was much to be thankful for, she thought, gazing out of her bedroom window across Thrush Green.

  It was still light, although the little travelling clock on the bedroom mantelpiece said ten o'clock. The statue of Nathaniel Patten shone in the rosy light of a spectacular sunset, now beginning to fade into shades of pink and mauve.

  The air was still. Far away, a distant train hooted at Lulling station, a pigeon clattered homeward, and a small black shadow crossed the road below Miss Fogerty's window. Albert Piggott's cat was about its night time business.

  'Time for bed,' yawned little Miss Fogerty.

  It really had been an exceptionally long day.

  6 The Fuchsia Bush to the Rescue

  THROUGHOUT July work went on steadily at the old people's homes. The weather was kind, and the outside painting went ahead without disruption. Edward Young was relieved to see such progress, and optimistic about its opening in the autumn.

  He said as much to his wife Joan, one breakfast time.

  'I only hope the weather will hold up for my lunch party,' she replied. 'I've made plans to hustle everything under cover if need be, but it would be splendid if people could picnic on the lawn.'

  'Of course it will stay fine,' Edward said robustly. 'Looks settled for weeks. Mark my words, things will go without a hitch!'

  But he was wrong. Later that morning she answered the telephone to find that it was her sister Ruth speaking, sounding much agitated.

  'It's mother, Joan. I went in just now to see if she were needing help in dressing, and found her on the floor.'

  'Oh no! Hear
t again?'

  'There's no saying. I've got her into bed, but John's on his rounds, of course. I've left a message.'

  'I'll come straightaway.'

  Molly Curdle was in the kitchen, at her morning duties. She and her husband Ben now lived in the converted stable where Joan and Ruth's mother had lived until recently.

  Joan explained briefly what had happened, and left Molly troubled in mind. She had known the Bassetts, Joan's parents, ever since she was a child, and the death of the old man had grieved her. Was his wife to follow him so soon? Ben, now busy at work in Lulling, would be as upset as she was.

  Joan found her mother barely conscious, but the old lady managed to smile at the two anxious faces bending over her.

  'John'sjust rung,' whispered Ruth. 'He's coming straight back from Lulling. Miss Pick caught him at the Venables', luckily.'

  Mrs Bassett's eyes were now closed, but she seemed to be breathing normally.

  Ruth smoothed the bedclothes, nodded to her sister, and the two tiptoed from the room.

  Agnes Fogerty, with a straggling crocodile of small children behind her, recognised Joan Young's car outside her sister's. It was nice to see how devoted the two were, she thought fondly. So many sisters did not get on well. Families could be quite sorely divided. Look at Dorothy and Ray, for instance.

  'John Todd,' called little Miss Fogerty, temporarily diverted from her musings on the variability of family relationships, 'throw that nettle away, and if I see you tormenting George Curdle again I shall send you to Miss Watson.'

  This appalling threat succeeded in frightening John Todd, a hardened criminal of six years old, into temporary good behaviour, and the observation of the Thrush Green hedgerows continued.

  There was plenty to be seen. On the grass verges the pink trumpets of mallow bloomed. Nearer the edge grew the shorter white yarrow, with its darker foliage and tough stems, and in the dust of the gutter, pink and white striped bindweed showed its trumpets against a mat of flat leaves, as pretty as marshmallows, thought Agnes.

  Nearby was yellow silverweed with its feathery foliage, almost hidden by a mass of dog daisies, as the children called them. In the sunshine their pungent scent was almost overpowering, but three small brown and orange butterflies were giving the plants their attention, and the children were excited.