(9/13)The School at Thrush Green Page 6

  Jenny cleared away and returned with a steaming dish of baked apples.

  'Shan't eat that,' said Timothy.

  'Then you may get down,' said Winnie, serving the three adults imperturbably.

  The child slid to the floor, and remained seated under the table.

  Winnie looked enquiringly at Richard.

  'What does he have at home?' she asked in a low voice.

  'Oh, he eats when he feels like it. Bananas or peanuts, anything he fancies really. He doesn't have meals with us. He fits in very well with Fenella's work, you see. She has to be in the gallery quite a bit. We don't stop for regular meals as you do.'

  When the meal was over, Jenny offered to take the child to play on the green, where there were some swings and a slide. Amazingly enough, the boy went with her, smiling.

  'Now Richard,' said Winnie, when they were settled with their coffee, 'I want to know how things are with you. Are you and Fenella making a fresh start? What's happened to Roger? And are you still determined to find a home down here?'

  Richard stirred his coffee thoughtfully. 'Well, first of all, Roger's gone back to his wife, but I can't see it lasting long. That's partly why I want to get Fenella away. We might make a go of it, without Roger looming over us all the time.'

  'Very sensible. So the divorce is off?'

  'Oh yes. So far, at any rate. I think we should consider the children.'

  Better and better, thought Winnie. Richard seemed to be growing up at last.

  'Mind you,' continued Richard, 'it's not going to be easy to pry Fenella from the gallery. It's her whole life really. Besides, she hates the country.'

  Not so good after all, thought Winnie.

  'And, of course,' went on her nephew, 'we do live rent free there. We should have to find a pretty hefty amount for a house round here. It needs thinking about.'

  'I should imagine it's worth it to save your marriage,' said Winnie. 'And surely, if Fenella sold the gallery it would fetch a substantial sum, in such a good part of London.'

  'I suppose so,' said Richard, but he sounded doubtful.

  'Well, you must work out your own salvation,' replied Winnie briskly. 'And now you will want to get along to Cirencester. We'll see you about five, I suppose? No doubt you will want to get Timothy home again for his bedtime.'

  'Oh, he doesn't have a set time for going to bed. He just has a nap when he feels like it.'

  He set off to his car, followed by Winnie. Across the green she could see Timothy on a swing, with the gallant Jenny pushing him lustily.

  At least he was happy at the moment, thought Winnie, waving goodbye to Richard, and noticing that Ella was emerging from her gate.

  As it happened, it was half-past eight when Richard returned, and by that time Timothy had eaten an apple, a banana sandwich, and had had two short naps on the hearth-rug.

  He was in excellent spirits when he drove off with Richard, and looked fit for several hours of activity.

  But Winnie and Jenny went to bed early, with an aspirin apiece.

  Harold Shoosmith kept his word and spoke to Ben Curdle about driving lessons for Miss Watson.

  That young man considered the suggestion for some minutes.

  'Don't make up your mind now,' Harold urged him. 'Just let me know when you've talked it over with Molly. You may not feel like letting a learner-driver loose on your Fiesta.'

  Ben smiled. 'I don't need to think it over,' he said at last. 'I think Miss Watson would be pretty steady, and she's driven before.'

  'But donkey's years ago!'

  'Never quite leaves you, you know. And I'd be glad to help.'

  'Shall I let her know, or will you?' 'You have a word with her. She can come over to see me and the car any evening. I take it she's got a licence?'

  'Yes, she was wise enough to keep it up. I'll tell her, Ben, and I'm sure she will be most grateful.'

  The two men parted, and Harold returned to his gardening pondering on the remarkable fortitude of Ben Curdle. He himself would rather face a mad bull than give a woman driving lessons.

  Still, he told himself, Dorothy Watson should prove less horrifying than Dotty Harmer at the wheel.

  'By the way,' said Dorothy to Agnes that evening, 'I found out a little more about that advertisement.'

  'Which one, dear?'

  'About the posts, of course,' said Dorothy.

  'The posts?'

  'In the Times Educational Supplement,' said Dorothy impatiently, 'with no house.'

  Agnes seemed to make sense of this garbled explanation and nodded.

  'I understand that the present policy is to get rid of the school house when a new appointment is made.'

  'But surely,' said Agnes, 'the new head teacher might want it.'

  'Not according to the office. Their attitude is that nine out of ten heads want to live well away from the school, and as almost all of them now have cars they can live where they like.'

  'Yes, I can see that,' agreed Agnes, 'but it was so nice to live close to the school. And after all, that was why the house was built - to go with the job.'

  'Those days have gone, my dear, and you must admit that this house wants a lot doing to it. The education authority can make a nice little sum in selling off these old school houses for others to renovate. It seems to make sense.'

  'So when will it be on the market? I don't like the idea of having to get out.'

  'I gather that nothing will happen until later in the year. There is no need for us to hurry our plans, they told me.'

  At that moment, Harold entered with the message from Ben.

  'Well, well!' said Dorothy, her face alight with excitement. 'What marvellous news!'

  She glanced at the clock.

  'I think I may slip over now, Agnes, to see Ben and make arrangements. So very kind of you, Harold. Won't you sit down and have a drink with Agnes?'

  Harold excused himself, and he and the would-be driver left Agnes alone, in a state of some agitation.

  Their home to be sold! Driving lessons! Really, thought poor little Miss Fogerty, life sometimes seemed to go too fast for comfort!

  6. What Shall We Give Them?

  THE news of Agnes and Dorothy's retirement created a great deal of activity among such bodies as the Parent-Teacher association, St Andrew's church where the two ladies worshipped, the local Women's Institute, as well as individual friends.

  Respect and affection for the two hard-working spinsters united all these bodies, and it was generally agreed that some appropriate tribute should be paid. Dimity's suggestion of 'a bunfight and a clock' rather summed up the general feeling but it was expressed more elegantly, and at much greater length, when the various committees gathered together to come to a decision.

  Charles Henstock, as chairman of the school managers - or governors, as he tried to remember they were now designated - consulted his old friend Harold Shoosmith before approaching his fellow managers.

  'Have you any ideas, Harold? Dimity suggests money - but somehow I feel that might not be acceptable. I rather favour a nice piece of silver. Perhaps a salver?'

  'Does anyone ever use a salver?'

  'I suppose not,' replied Charles doubtfully. 'And Dimity says silver would need cleaning.'

  'What about a piece of glass?' suggested Isobel who was sitting in the window-seat, doing the crossword.

  'Such as?'

  'Well, a nice Waterford fruit bowl, or a decanter. Dorothy has a little tipple now and again, and Agnes says she "sometimes indulges", so it would be used.'

  'I should see how much is contributed,' said Harold sensibly, 'and then decide. You might find that you get a hefty sum and then you could give a cheque as well. I take it that you are combining with the Parent-Teacher association in this?'

  'That was the idea.'

  'And the church members, I suppose, will give their own present?'

  'That's what we thought. After all, a great many of the parents attend chapel or, sadly, no place of worship at all, so the
church's offering will be separate. We thought that perhaps a book token, or something for their new garden, might be appropriate.'

  'But they haven't got a house yet,' pointed out Isobel, 'let alone a garden.'

  The rector sighed. 'It really is a problem. Of course we must fix our dates for the little parties and the presentations and that alone is fraught with difficulties in the summer months, what with bazaars, and garden parties, and fêtes. Every weekend in July and August seems to get booked up by February, if you follow me.'

  'We do indeed,' said Harold.

  'If need be,' went on Charles, looking distracted, 'we can have these occasions at Lulling Vicarage, but it's such a truly Thrush Green affair that I feel we should have things arranged here.'

  'If you want a garden you are very welcome to this one,' said Harold. 'Otherwise, what's wrong with the school itself?'

  'Thank you, my dear fellow. You have been a great help, and I feel that I can make a few suggestions to the managers - I mean, governors - when I meet them. We are having a private meeting next week at the vicarage to sort things out.'

  Harold accompanied him down the path.

  The rector looked at the village school next door. 'I wish they weren't going,' he lamented.

  'Don't we all,' responded Harold.

  A few days later, the committee of the Parent-Teacher association also met to pool ideas. This was held at a house belonging to the Gibbons along the road to Nod and Nidden.

  Mr and Mrs Gibbons were newcomers to village life and, as they were anxious to play their part in Thrush Green affairs, they were heartily welcomed, and very soon found that they were chairmen, secretaries, treasurers and general servants to an alarming number of local activities.

  Mrs Gibbons had been chief secretary to a firm of exporters in the City of London, and retained her drive, industry, and, to be frank, her formidable bossiness, in this her new place of abode. Half the residents of Thrush Green were afraid of her. The other half viewed her activities with amused tolerance, and wondered how soon she would tire of all the responsibilities so gladly heaped upon her by the lazier inhabitants of the village.

  Her husband's business seemed shrouded in mystery, much to the chagrin of his neighbours. It took him from home early in the day, and often obliged him to spend the best part of the week away from Thrush Green.

  Some said that he was one of the directors of that same firm of exporters for whom his wife had worked.

  Others maintained that he had a top job - very hush-hush - in the Civil Service, the Army, the Admiralty or MI5.

  A few knew, for a fact, that he was connected with Lloyd's, the Stock Exchange, the Treasury and the Ministry of Transport.

  Whatever he did, it was universally agreed that it was something of enormous importance giving him power over a great number of people, so that Harold Shoosmith had been heard to dub him irreverently 'Gauleiter Gibbons', but not, of course, to his face.

  The meeting of the PTA committee met in Mrs Gibbons' large upstairs room which she called her office. It was a strange apartment to find in Thrush Green, where local committee members usually found themselves sitting in chintz-covered armchairs in someone's sitting-room, balancing a cup of coffee and an unsullied notebook, whilst discussing the latest gossip.

  Mrs Gibbons' office was decidedly functional. There was a large desk made of grey metal and upon it stood two telephones, one red and one blue. There were two matching grey filing cabinets and a shelf along one wall which bore a number of mysterious gadgets, rather like miniature television sets, which had rows of keys, buttons and switches attached.

  On a side wall was a chart with red and green lines swooping spectacularly across it, reminding at least one committee member of her own fever chart when confined once to Lulling Cottage Hospital. On another wall was a map of Europe and beneath that, on a shelf of its own, was a splendid globe, lit from within, which rotated majestically and drew all eyes to its movements.

  Mrs Gibbons seated herself at the desk and surveyed her companions sitting before her in a semi-circle on rather wispy bedroom chairs. There were, she noted severely, far too few committee members.

  The PTA really had eight committee members, but this evening only four were present. Besides Mrs Gibbons there were Molly Curdle, whose son was at the school, unmarried Emily Cooke who also had a boy in the same class, and a quiet father who had three children at Thrush Green school. Mrs Gibbons herself had a boy and a girl there, both remarkably bright, as might be expected from such parentage, but also thoroughly modest and sociable.

  'Such a pity so many of the committee members are absent,' commented Mrs Gibbons. 'Never mind, we constitute a quorum so we can go ahead.'

  The three nodded resignedly.

  'It's just about Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty's presents, isn't it?' asked Miss Cooke. 'Won't take long, I mean? I've left my Nigel with Mum and she's got to go to Bingo later on.'

  'Oh dear me, no!' replied Mrs Gibbons briskly. She added a particularly sweet smile, for although she secretly felt it highly reprehensible of Emily Cooke to produce a child out of wedlock, she did not want to appear censorious or hidebound in any way, and after all it might have been a grievous mistake on a young girl's part years ago. But somehow she doubted it. One did not need to live in Thrush Green very long before becoming aware of the sad laxity of the Cooke family.

  'Well, let's get down to business,' said Mrs Gibbons. At that moment, the red telephone rang, and she picked up the receiver.

  'Indeed?' said Mrs Gibbons. 'You surprise me,' she added. 'Not at all,' she continued. 'I will ring you back.'

  She replaced the receiver, and smiled brightly at her companions, who had found the interruption decidedly disappointing, and had been looking forward to seeing their chairman with the receiver tucked between chin and shoulder, whilst taking down notes in efficient shorthand, just as people did on the telly.

  'Any ideas?' she enquired.

  As one would expect, there was a heavy silence. A blackbird scolded outside. A motor cycle roared past.

  'That'll be me brother,' volunteered Miss Cooke, and silence fell again.

  'Well,' said Mrs Gibbons at last, 'shall I start the ball rolling? I thought it would be a good idea to present the ladies with something really personal connected with Thrush Green.'

  'How d'you mean, personal?' asked Molly. 'Like something they could wear, say?'

  'No, no! Nothing like that. I was thinking of something on historical lines. Perhaps a short account of all that had happened in Thrush Green during their time here.'

  'A sort of book?' queried Miss Cooke, sounding shocked. If Mrs Gibbons had suggested a pair of corsets apiece for the ladies, the committee members could not have appeared more affronted.

  'I shouldn't think they'd want a book,' volunteered the quiet father, who was called Frank Biddle. 'Unless of course, you have come across a contemporary account of Thrush Green which we haven't yet seen.'

  'I envisaged compiling such a book,' said Mrs Gibbons. 'From people's memories and cuttings from the local paper. And photographs, of course.'

  Silence fell again, as all present considered the magnitude of the task and the inadequacy of anyone, Mrs Gibbons included, to undertake it.

  Frank Biddle rallied first. 'A nice idea if we had thought of it a year or two ago perhaps,' he began cautiously, 'but we'd never get it done in time.'

  Molly Curdle and Emily Cooke hastened to agree.

  'Right! Scrub out that one!' said Mrs Gibbons, wielding a large blue pencil and slashing across her notepad.

  'Then what about something for their new home to which we all contribute? I thought a large rug - perhaps a runner for their hall - with a few stitches put in by every person in the parish.'

  'It'd take a fair old time,' observed Molly.

  'And we'd have to cart it about from one house to the next,' pointed out Emily. 'Get it wet most likely, or find people out.'

  'Yes, rather a cumbersome project,' agreed Frank Biddle.


  Mrs Gibbons' blue pencil tapped impatiently on the desk top. 'Well, let's have your ideas,' she said shortly.

  Silence fell again, broken only by the tapping of the pencil, and a distant squawk from one of Percy Hodge's chickens.

  Molly Curdle was the first to pluck up her courage. 'What about some sort of thing? I mean, a nice vase, or set of glasses, or a wooden salad bowl, if you think breakables a bit silly.'

  'Not silly at all,' said Frank, relieved to have someone beside him with ideas to offer.

  Molly cast him a grateful look.

  'I was thinking rather on the same lines,' said Frank, not entirely truthfully, as he had toyed with suggesting a lawn mower or some window-boxes for the new residence.

  'Possible,' said Mrs Gibbons with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  Emily Cooke, anxious no doubt to return to Nigel, came out strongly in support of Molly. 'Far the best thing to go to a shop for something nice. See it all ready, I mean, and make a choice, like. A book or a rug, like what you said, Mrs Gibbons, would need no end of time and trouble, and there's plenty could make a muck of their bit and spoil it for the others.'

  'That's very true,' agreed Frank Biddle. 'I suggest that we make a list of suggestions ready to forward to the rector.'

  'Very well,' said Mrs Gibbons resignedly, 'if that is agreeable to you all.'

  There was a murmur of assent.

  'I must say,' went on their chairman, ripping off a clean sheet from the notepad, 'that I had envisaged something more personal, something more inspired, but there we are.'

  She spoke more in sorrow than anger, as though her best students had failed Common Entrance through no fault of her own. Her three companions appeared relieved rather than rebuked, and smiled warmly at each other.

  'Ideas again?' prompted Mrs Gibbons, pencil poised.

  'Piece of glass. Vase or similar,' repeated Molly.

  'Something for the garden,' said Frank, feeling that he should make some contribution as the only man present. 'Perhaps a garden seat?'

  'Garden seat,' muttered Mrs Gibbons, pencil flying.