(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green Read online

  'It's more than generous. And I shan't have to bother with change, shall I?'

  'No. And now, how do you mean translated? Drift off into other new babies, d'you mean, or daffodils, or wireworms? Some other form of life, as it were?'

  Dotty grew scarlet with impatience.

  'Of course not. I've no time for all that wishy-washy muddled thinking! When you die you simply leave your worn-out body behind, and your spirit takes off. Don't you ever pay attention to the teachings of the Church?'

  'But takes off to where, Dotty?'

  'To heaven, of course,' said Dotty tartly, seizing an enormous wooden spoon and advancing upon an iron saucepan which had been rumbling and grumbling to itself throughout the conversation.

  'And don't fuss any more about such things,' said Dotty. 'I really haven't time to explain it all when the chickens are waiting to be fed.'

  'Quite,' agreed Ella, taking up the goat's milk. 'It makes me sad, though, to think that we shan't see Donald Bailey again.'

  'Speak for yourself,' replied Dotty, stirring furiously.'I have every expectation of seeing the dear man again, in a better world.'

  'That must be a comfort,' rejoined Ella, as she shut the kitchen door behind her.

  'But not for me,' she added sadly to herself, setting off homeward through the twilight.

  Donald Bailey stirred, and opened his eyes.

  'Hello, my dear,' he said to Winnie. 'What's the time?'

  'Six o'clock.'

  'Good heavens! I must have slept most of the afternoon.'

  He began to struggle to sit up, and Winnie helped him into a more upright position against the pillows.

  'I feel all the better for the doze,' he said. 'Let's have another look at the crossword. It's almost done.'

  She put the paper on his knees, and the pen in his hand.

  'Only my specs,' he said, smiling. 'I'm worse than a baby Poor Winnie! What a lot of work I make for you!'

  'Rubbish,' said his wife. 'Would you like a drink?'

  'Nothing, thanks. But have you eaten?'

  'I haven't felt hungry.'

  'But you must, my dear. I prescribe a light repast for you immediately, and eaten here where I can watch you.'

  Winnie laughed.

  'Well, I might make some coffee. Will you be all right for a minute or two?'

  'Of course,' said the doctor, with a contented sigh. 'Just look at the top of the beech tree! Absolutely on fire in the setting sun. What a perfect sight!'

  She left him marvelling at it.

  As she hurried to the kitchen, it was Jenny's welfare that was engaging her attention at the moment. Had she helped herself to food? She doubted it.

  Jenny had worked for the Baileys for several years. She came two or three mornings a week, from the other end of Lulling, on a decrepit bicycle. Her home was in a maze of alleyways in one of the most ancient and dilapidated quarters of the town. She looked after her aged foster-parents, Becky and Bill Fuller, who had taken her in as a little girl of ten.

  They had been strict, honest and hard-working. The child had been pitied by neighbours for having 'a lean time of it'. But Jenny never complained. She was grateful to the couple for a home, and now that they were old she was glad to repay their goodness.

  They had put their names down on the council's list for a small home for old people, and Jenny hoped that they would get it, although what would happen to her then, she was not sure. In any case, she told herself, as long as she could work she would be all right. And Jenny was prepared to die in harness.

  'No,' she confessed, in response to Winnie's enquiry.

  'But, Jenny dear, just because I didn't need anything –'

  'I didn't either,' said Jenny, 'but I'll make us both some coffee. How is he?'

  'Sitting up and looking better. Did I hear the telephone ring about half an hour ago?'

  'Only the exchange people, testing. There was a fault. It's all right again now.'

  'That's a blessing,' said Winnie. 'Now as soon as you've had this, Jenny, you must go home.'

  'I'll willingly stay. Ma and Pa know how things are here.'

  Winnie shook her head.

  'You've done more than enough. I don't know how I should have managed without you.'

  'Let me know if you want me, Mrs Bailey. I can come back any time.'

  'We'll be all right, Jenny, and I'll see you in the morning, anyway.'

  She took her cup, and made her way to the door.

  'I'll say goodbye now, Jenny. Don't bother to call in before you go.'

  'I won't. It might disturb the doctor,' said Jenny.

  But when Winnie re-entered the room, she saw that nothing would disturb the doctor again.

  He lay back on the pillows, his eyes closed, and his spectacles awry.

  The room was very still. Winnie put down the coffee cup noiselessly upon the mantelpiece, and went to look at her husband.

  She was surprised to find how calm she felt – as calm as the figure before her. The fear, the panic, the overwhelming sense of loss, which she had so often envisaged, were simply not there, at this moment.

  She took the spectacles and folded them neatly, and removed the pen which was still lodged between the thin fingers. She automatically put the fast-cooling hands beneath the bedclothes, and smoothed the rumpled coverlet.

  As she did so, she heard the sound of Jenny's bicycle being wheeled to the gate, and was glad to be left alone and in privacy.

  She picked up the newspaper which had slipped to the floor. Still dry-eyed, as if in a trance, Winnie looked at the last entry, and remembered her husband reading out the clue. It was 'Bravery! Many lead the twentieth century', and Donald had filled it in, at the point of death. 'COURAGE' he had written, in faint capitals.

  Winnie looked, with unseeing eyes, into the darkening garden.

  He had possessed that all his life, and he had fostered it in others, inspiring and strengthening them when most in need.

  And now, this one word, his last, might almost be considered as his final message to her.

  She sat down by the bedside, and began her silent vigil, as night fell upon Thrush Green.

  Part Two

  Fighting Breaks Out

  7 The Rector Is Inspired

  ON the day after the funeral of the good doctor, Winnie Bailey accompanied her sister when she returned to Cornwall.

  The inhabitants of Thrush Green voiced their approval. It was best to get right away for a time, they told each other. The house would be full of memories. Even more distressing, the mound of flowers above the doctor's last resting-place could be clearly seen from the upstairs windows. A very good thing that poor Mrs Bailey should be spared such pain.

  The house looked blind and forlorn with all its windows shut. Only the surgery, built at the side, showed signs of life twice a day, when young Doctor Lovell, or his still younger assistant, opened the place from nine till ten-thirty and from six to seven-thirty in the evening.

  What would happen to the house now, people wondered? It was a big place for one woman to live in. On the other hand, she had lived there almost all her married life, and she would not want to part with all the loved things around her which she and Donald had shared for so long. It was generally hoped that Winnie would return to Thrush Green, and that the sister would not be able to persuade her to stay in foreign parts.

  The quiet weather, which had started on the night of Donald Bailey's death, continued to wrap the countryside in still greyness.

  The sky remained overcast, the air humid. The hedges and trees were beaded with drops, and the turf of Thrush Green was spongy with moisture.

  Gardeners, anxious to get their autumn digging done, found the heavy Cotswold soil too wet to turn. Lawns waited for their final cutting. Sodden roses, rusty with the damp, awaited pruning, and a general air of lethargy enveloped man and beast.

  Tidying the churchyard still went on in a desultory way. The evenings now were too dark to allow much work to be done, but one Sa
turday afternoon found the rector, Harold Shoosmith and the oldest boy Cooke, from Nidden, busy with bill hooks and shears.

  Albert Piggott hovered about ostensibly straightening the vases on various graves, but really watching the intruders on his preserves. That dopey Bobby Cooke, he told himself sourly, didn't know a hawk from a handsaw, let alone a dock from a privet bush. He guessed, correctly as it happened, that his mother had shooed him out of her way. How many was it she'd got? Seven, or eight? And she'd been a nice looking girl when they had been at the village school together years ago.

  'How's yer mum?' asked Albert, suddenly affable.

  'Eh?' said the boy. He wiped a wet nose on the back of his hand.

  'How's yer ma?' repeated Albert.

  'What?' said the boy. He began to look hunted.

  'Lord love old Ireland!' snapped Albert, his brief store of affability vanishing. 'You wants to wash out yer ear-'oles! I asked how yer ma was, that's all.'

  'Me ma?' echoed the boy, looking dazed. 'My mum, d'you mean?'

  'Mum, ma, mummy, mother!' shouted Albert in exasperation. 'Her what bore you – more's the pity! I simply asked – civil – how she was.'

  'Oh!' said the boy, and turned back to the hedge again.

  Albert, near to gibbering, wrenched at the boy's shoulder.

  'Well, answer me then, you dope,' screamed Albert. 'How's yer ma?'

  'All right,' said the boy, looking faintly surprised. He stood there open-mouthed, watching Albert hobble away to a distant vase, muttering the while.

  'Loopy!' said the boy aloud, taking a leisurely swing at a lilac bush.

  At the further end of the graveyard, Harold and Charles sat on the stub wall and puffed in unison. Their knees were wet and muddied, for they had been crawling along the perimeter path trimming the tussocks of grass which no mower could hope to cut.

  'Good of Bobby Cooke to turn up,' commented the rector, putting a hand to his aching back.

  'Is it Bobby? I thought that one was Cyril.'

  'To be honest,' said the rector, 'I muddle them myself. There are so many Cookes. She used to clean the village school you know, before Nelly Tilling – I mean, Mrs Piggott – did it.'

  'Any chance of Mrs P. returning?'

  'None, I should say, and in any case I doubt if Miss Watson would want her back at the cleaning – excellent though I believe she was! Your Betty Bell is so satisfactory, I gather.'

  'She's a good girl,' agreed Harold.

  He caught sight of the eldest Cooke boy slashing at the lilac bush, and hurried to the rescue. The rector rose painfully from his resting place before resuming his task. Certainly the path looked neater, but for how long? And would it be possible to restore the graveyard to its earlier neatness, without at least two men working full-time?

  'Sometimes,' he said sadly to his friend, when Harold returned, 'I think we'll have to have those sheep back. Something drastic must be done. We're only nibbling at it, you know. What we want is a clean sweep.'

  Harold nodded.

  'Are you free on Monday? I'm running down to Stroud to pick up some rush mats for the kitchen, and I'd like you to come with me, if you can spare the time. There's a graveyard on the way which might give us some ideas.'

  'I should like that immensely,' said the rector.

  ' Right,' said Harold, 'and now back to work. Only another thirty yards to go!'

  'Thank God!' said the rector from his heart, sinking to his knees.

  Monday was another still grey day, but the mists had lifted, and the distant views showed the autumn fields a patchwork of green, brown and gold.

  It was a treat for Charles Henstock to have a day out. His parish duties occupied his time, and as a neighbouring parson was on the sick list, he had been particularly busy helping with his services for the past month.

  Harold's car was large and comfortable. What was more, it had an efficient heater which the rector's did not have.

  'You should get Reg Bull to look at it,' said Harold, when Charles told him.

  'But he has. He services it regularly, you know, and I always mention the heater. I suppose it's beyond human aid.'

  'Rubbish!' said Harold robustly. 'Tell Bull you won't pay the bill until the heater's put right. That'll make him move.'

  'I really don't think I'm equal to that,' replied the good rector unhappily.

  'Then you'll have a cold car. And what's more, so will poor Dimity.'

  This was a shrewd thrust, and Charles moved restlessly in his agitation.

  'Yes, of course. You are quite right. I must think of Dimity. She's not strong, you know, and with the winter coming on, I suppose I must put some pressure on Reg Bull.'

  'Good! You make sure you do. He won't trouble, if you don't.'

  Harold navigated a bend in a village street, and drew up by a grass verge. To their left stood a square-towered church of golden stone, set in a large graveyard.

  The two men got out and went to the wall which bordered the verge. It was a little more than waist-high, and sprinkled with dots of green moss and orange and grey lichens.

  The two rested their arms on the top and gazed before them. Around the other three sides stood tombstones, placed upright just inside the wall. Some were of weathered local stone, some of marble, some of slate or granite, with here and there an iron cross of the late Victorian era.

  They made a dignified array, in their muted colours and varied shapes, set so lovingly around the noble church which sheltered them.

  The churchyard was a completely flat close-cut lawn. The stripes of a fresh cutting showed how easily a mower could keep the large expanse in order. Only one or two cypress trees, and a cedar of great age, broke the level of the grass, and the whole effect was of space and tranquillity.

  'Beautiful!' whispered the rector. 'Simple, peaceful, reverent-'

  'And dead easy to keep tidy,' broke in Harold practically. 'We could do the same at Thrush Green.'

  'I wonder,' pondered Charles. 'You notice, Harold, that there are no modern graves here. I take it that there is a new burial ground somewhere else in the village?'

  'I suppose there is. But I don't see that that should pose a problem. After all, the new addition to Thrush Green's churchyard, is quite separate. When was that piece purchased?'

  'Just before the war, I believe. They intended to plant a hedge between the old and new graveyards, but war interfered with the work, and in any case, the feeling was that it should all be thrown into one.'

  'Would it matter?'

  The rector stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  'We should have to get a faculty, of course, and I've a feeling that it would be simpler if we only had the old graveyard to deal with as, obviously, they have had here. But I must go into it. I shall find out all I can as soon as we return.'

  'So you like the idea?'

  'Like it?' cried Charles, his face pink with enthusiasm. 'Like it? Why, I can't wait to get started!'

  He threw his arms wide, as though he would embrace the whole beautiful scene before him.

  'It's an inspiration, Harold. It's exactly what I needed to give me hope. If it can be done here, then it can be done at Thrush Green. I shall start things moving as soon as I can.'

  Harold began to feel some qualms in the face of this precipitate zeal.

  'We can't rush things, Charles. We must have some consultations with the village as a whole.'

  'Naturally, naturally,' agreed Charles. 'But surely there can be no opposition to such a scheme?'

  'I think there's every possibility of opposition.'

  The rector's mouth dropped open.

  'But if that is so, then I think we must bring the doubters to see this wonderful place. We could hire a coach, couldn't we? It might make a most inspiring outing –'

  Harold broke in upon the rector's outpourings.

  'Don't go so fast, Charles. We must sound out the parochial church council first. I must confess that I didn't think you would wax quite so enthusiastic, when I suggested
this trip.'

  'But why not? It's the obvious answer to our troubles. Even Piggott could keep the grass cut once the graves were levelled. A boy could! Why, even young Cooke could manage that! And we could get rid of those appalling railings at the same time as we put the stones against the wall. It's really all so simple.'

  'It may seem so to you, Charles, but I think you may find quite a few battles ahead before you attain a churchyard as peaceful as this.'

  Charles turned his back reluctantly upon the scene, and the two men returned to the car.

  'You really must have more faith,' scolded the rector gently. 'I can't think of anyone who could have a sound reason for opposing the change.'

  'Dotty Harmer might,' said Harold, letting in the clutch. 'And her hungry goats.'

  'Oh, Dotty!' exclaimed Charles dismissively. 'Why bring her up?'

  'Why indeed?' agreed Harold. 'Keep a look out for a decent pub.'

  At that very moment, Dotty Harmer was driving into Lulling High Street.

  She was marshalling her thoughts – no easy job at the best of times – but doubly difficult whilst driving. She had a parcel to post and stamps to buy. The corn merchant must be called upon to request that seven pounds of oats and the same of bran be delivered within the next week. And it might be as well to call at the ladies' outfitters to see if their plated lisle stockings had arrived.

  After that, she was free to keep her luncheon engagement with the Misses Lovelock, three silver-haired old sisters whose lavender-and-old-lace exteriors hid unplumbed depths of venom and avarice. Their Georgian house fronted the main street, which gave them an excellent vantage point for noting die activities of the Lulling inhabitants. Any one of the Lovelock sisters could inform you, without hesitation, of any peccadilloes extant in the neighbourhood. Dotty looked forward to her visit.

  Halfway along the High Street Dotty stopped, as she had so often done, outside the draper's, and prepared to alight. A short procession of vehicles, which had accumulated behind her slower-moving one, swerved out to pass her, the drivers muttering blasphemies under their breath. Dotty was blissfully unconscious of her unpopularity, and was about to open the door into the pathway of an unwary lorry driver, when a young policeman appeared.