(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green Read online

  'If she ever does,' said Albert lugubriously. He liked to have the last word.

  News of Winnie had reached, via Isobel Shoosmith, the two retired schoolteachers at Barton-on-Sea.

  Loving messages had been despatched to St Richard's, and Interflora had been directed to send a flower arrangement to their old friend.

  'I told them to send a small one,' Dorothy told Agnes. 'The right size for a bedside locker but smelling particularly sweet. Freesias, say, or carnations. I must say that the girl who replied seemed to understand what was wanted.'

  'I'm sure she knows all about flowers for hospitals,' Agnes assured her.

  'Well, I don't know about that! When I did my leg I had great towering bouquets of irises and gladioli, I remember, and the nurses were quite cross. They would keep falling over. The vases, I mean, not the nurses.'

  Later that day Dorothy had a bright idea. 'Do you think Winnie would like a week or so here when she is convalescent? We could easily put her up, and the air here is so particularly good. It might be just the thing to pull her round.'

  Agnes was delighted with the idea, and the evening was spent in happy anticipation of entertaining an invalid in the good air of Barton-on-Sea whenever she felt ready to accept their invitation.

  But just as Agnes's euphoria was at its height, a chance remark of Dorothy's as they made their way to bed caused it to plummet.

  'By the way, I wrote a little note to Alan Lester yesterday, to see if I could be of any help in those centenary celebrations Isobel mentioned.'

  Agnes said nothing, but once in bed her fears flocked round her like a plague of bats.

  What might come of this? Why must dear Dorothy, for the best of reasons, of course, feel obliged to meddle!

  ***

  Ella Bembridge struggled against an icy wind to pay a brief visit to Dotty Harmer's cottage.

  The sky above Lulling Woods was ominous, the clouds low and a menacing grey. If that doesn't mean snow, Ella told herself, I'm a Dutchman.

  She found Dotty, as before, at her kitchen table surrounded by papers.

  'My word,' said Ella, 'you look as though you're halfway through that book of yours.'

  'I don't know about that,' replied Dotty, thrusting her pen through her scanty hair. 'I'm getting rather tired of literary work.'

  'Why? What's put you off?'

  'I showed my manuscript to Harold, and he said that it wouldn't make one chapter, let alone a whole book, and he couldn't see any publisher taking it on. I said to him: "What about all those reviews talking about 'this slim volume' and 'a charming monograph of a much-loved father' and all that sort of thing?" But he still says it's not long enough.'

  'So what will you do? Scrap it?'

  'Scrap it?' squeaked Dotty indignantly. 'After all my hard work? Of course I shan't scrap it!'

  'Well, it seems a bit pointless to carry on,' said Ella. 'Can't you pad it out somehow?'

  'I do not propose to lower my standards for the sake of length,' said Dotty loftily, 'but I have had another idea. I have asked a number of old boys of the grammar school to write down their memories of my father, and I intend to incorporate them.'

  'A splendid notion,' said Ella.

  Dotty shuffled the papers before her with a claw-like hand. She looked perplexed.

  'The only thing is that they all seem to dwell on Father's disciplinary side, and it makes him appear in rather a harsh light. I hoped they would discuss his fine mind, his interest as astronomy and photography. After all, he founded several scientific clubs at the school, and was most generous with gifts to the science side. I remember him handing over his own microscope and an auxanometer.'

  'And what's that?'

  'Well, dear, I rather forget, but I've an idea it measures the growth of plants. Father was a great botanist as well as everything else. I must say, I am rather disgusted with these old boys' narrow views.'

  'Then I shouldn't use them,' said Ella stoutly. 'Just finish your notes and publish them privately.'

  Dotty looked more cheerful at this gleam of hope for her cherished work. 'I am sure you are right, Ella. And now let me make you a drink. Some of my lime-flower tisane, or a cup of Nescafé?'

  'I think Nescafé,' said Ella, who had tried Dotty's concoctions too often for comfort.

  A quarter of an hour later she left Dotty sorting out her papers, and stepped out into the bleak world.

  A few flakes of snow were fluttering down, and by the time she emerged from the field path on to Thrush Green, a whirling mass of snowflakes gave promise of a white world before morning.

  From her hospital bed Winnie watched the snowstorm spreading a carpet of white and shaking the trees in the grounds.

  It made a strange contrast with the over-heated room, heavy with the mingled scent of flowers, floor polish and disinfectant.

  On her locker stood the bouquet from Dorothy and Agnes, and another from Jenny. More flowers lined the windowsills and a side table, and Winnie thought how lucky she was to have so many loving friends.

  Among other things on the locker top stood a glass screw-top jar containing a number of dark objects ranging in size from walnuts to peppercorns. Winnie had screened this from her own gaze by propping up a large 'get-well' card in front of it, for it was a gruesome reminder of Mr Philip Paterson's (St Thomas's) successful surgery a few days earlier, and Winnie felt she could not face its presence much longer.

  Winnie's first impulse had been to beg her nurse to throw the lot in the hospital dustbin, but when several colleagues burst in to look at the jar with awe and delight, she felt unequal to the effort. When the surgeon visited her that evening she hoped that he would remove the revolting jar, but he was even more delighted than the nurses at the result of his skills.

  'Do you think,' said Winnie faintly, 'that they could be thrown away now that I've seen them?'

  Mr Paterson clutched the jar to him, as a mother might clutch her baby. 'But surely you want to take them home?'

  The very thought sent a wave of nausea through poor Winnie, but as a doctor's wife she did her duty. 'I think you did a wonderful job,' she said, 'and I shall always be grateful. But I cannot have those ghastly things here any longer.'

  Mr Paterson appeared astounded. 'Well,' he said, looking deeply hurt, 'I'll leave them where they were on the locker, in case you change your mind, and you can have a look later. After supper, say. I believe you are having a little fish soup tonight.'

  He gave his usual comforting smile and departed.

  Really a charming fellow, thought Winnie, and so conscientious with his night and morning visits.

  Nevertheless, she resolved to get one of the nurses to dispose of the jar, and if she and the other girls complained of such ruthlessness it was just too bad.

  As for Philip Paterson, he would have to endure the loss of his handiwork with all the fortitude of a true St Thomas's man.

  The snowstorm raged for over twenty-four hours, leaving the Cots wolds in a white shroud.

  The dry-stone walls surrounding the fields had disappeared beneath drifts, leaving vast expanses of unbroken snow, reminiscent of the steppes of Russia or the awesome wastes of Antarctica. The steep roofs were covered, and all the stone house walls which faced north and east were plastered with frozen snow. When the sun appeared, low on the horizon for about three hours of the day, it did little to mitigate the intensity of the cold.

  In Lulling the main road was soon cleared, and those leading south to the coast and north to the Midlands had first attention. But Thrush Green and the lanes leading from it remained snow-covered for almost a week, and people were obliged to stay indoors until the thaw arrived.

  This was no hardship for Winnie Bailey, now in her own home and relishing the comfort of her own bed and the ministrations of Jenny and John Lovell. She was making a steady recovery from surgery, and could potter about the house and help Jenny with a little cooking and cleaning, but she was surprised, and secretly ashamed, at the weakness which engulfed her eve
ry now and again, and realized that even if the weather had been kindly she could not have gone very far outdoors.

  It was at times like these, she thought, that the telephone really came into its own. Friends rang to enquire about her progress; and among the enquiries was a welcome call from Dorothy Watson inviting her to stay at Barton when the weather allowed, and she felt strong enough to face the journey.

  Gazing at her snow-filled garden through the window, at the sagging branches of the bare plum tree and the ancient cypress which Donald had planted, she felt a wild longing to see and smell the sea again.

  'There is nothing I should enjoy more,' she told Dorothy. 'The very thought of it is wonderfully cheering. I shall look forward to it eagerly.'

  'Then I shall get in touch again,' promised Dorothy, 'as soon as it's possible to travel.'

  After a little more exchange of news Dorothy put down the telephone.

  'She would like to come,' she told Agnes, who had just emerged from the bathroom with her newly washed hair tied up in a towelling turban.

  'Perfect!' said Agnes.

  And when Jenny brought Winnie's supper to her that evening she stood and surveyed her with considerable satisfaction.

  'You look a lot stronger,' she told her. 'Turned the corner, as they say. What's done it, do you think?'

  'The thought of seeing the sea again,' replied Winnie. 'And, of course, good friends.'

  The number of children at Thrush Green school was almost halved during the worst of the snowy weather.

  For two days the school bus was closeted in its garage, and the pupils from outlying parts were joyful prisoners in their homes. There were quite a few children who lived closer to the green, but were equally imprisoned by high drifts between their homes and the school.

  Added to this was a spate of winter coughs and colds which kept children indoors, and John Lovell busy on his rounds. His usual car was sealed in the garage for three days before he and helpers could dig it out, but his brother-in-law, the architect Edward Young, lent him his Land-Rover during the worst of the weather, so that the patients who needed attention urgently could be visited.

  As soon as it was possible to get about again, Charles Henstock paid a visit to Harold Shoosmith.

  'It was about fixing a date for our celebration,' began Charles. 'Alan Lester tells me that his school was opened formally in August a hundred years ago.'

  'That's rather early for us to think of combining our festivities, if that's what you had in mind.'

  'I agree,' said the rector, 'but the official opening of the school, he has discovered, was on 20 September of that year, and that makes things seem easier.'

  'Is he agreeable to sharing festivities?'

  'Indeed he is! And so am I, but how do you feel? I know you want to give full honours to Nathaniel and Octavius. Would you mind if we combined?'

  'Not at all,' said Harold sturdily. 'In many ways it will make everything better. After all, we are all part of Thrush Green, young and old, alive and dead. I'm all in favour of one great day we can share.'

  'Well, I must admit that I am relieved,' confessed Charles. 'You've worked so hard at your researches into the history of our two friends that I didn't want your efforts to be overshadowed by the school's celebration.'

  'I'll have a word with Lester if you like,' said Harold. 'What would be best, do you think?'

  'Late September seems the obvious choice, doesn't it? The new term will have begun, and the weather should be fine for outdoor affairs.'

  And so it was left.

  The next day Isobel invited Alan and his wife to have a drink and discuss the matter, but their two little girls were among Thrush Green's juvenile patients, and the invitation was reversed, so that the invalids need not be left alone.

  Margaret Lester greeted them affectionately. The little girls had left their beds and, clad in nightgowns, called their greetings over the landing handrail.

  'Now get back quickly,' ordered their mother, 'or those coughs will start again, and you don't want any more of Dr Lovell's cough mixture, do you?'

  'Is it as bad as that?' queried Harold, as the two children vanished.

  'I believe so. Ruth Lovell told me that John never dreams of taking his own cough mixture. But to give him his due, the stuff does seem to work.'

  It was very snug in the schoolhouse sitting-room. The log fire crackled, the red-shaded lamps gave a warm glow, and the drinks gave an inner one.

  The matter of a date for a joint celebration was soon under discussion, both men being very careful to respect the other's wishes.

  'The only rough plan I've made so far,' said Alan, 'is to have the minimum of activities outside. I've had too many occasions washed out during my teaching days, and now I settle for something indoors.'

  'Very wise,' said Harold. 'I'm sure our own ideas will match that. In any case, I think a celebratory memorial service in the church is in the rector's mind, and I'm sure that will be the chief part. After all, both men were churchmen first and foremost.'

  'Miss Robinson had the bright idea of a day in the school as it might have been a hundred years ago. We've a pretty good idea of the timetable, and the children will enjoy dressing up. We could even have the cane in evidence!'

  'I wonder if it was used much,' mused Isobel.

  'According to the first log book,' Alan told her, 'it was kept pretty busy on one or two of the older boys who would far rather have been out in the fields.'

  'No doubt the farmers could do with them,' commented Harold. 'And a few extra coppers would be welcome in any farm labourer's home, from all I can gather. Octavius's diary gives a glimpse of rural hard times. Some of those fellows must literally have been worked to an early death, as one or two records show.'

  Alan began to turn over the leaves of a calendar. 'Now, I think you said that the mission station was opened on 1 October. That's a Thursday. It would fit in with school affairs very well.'

  Harold felt greatly pleased. He had secretly hoped that the exact date of Nathaniel's mission-opening would be kept, but having agreed to co-operate with the school's centenary he had been quite prepared to give way.

  'It would give me great pleasure,' he told Alan, and despite the formality of the words, it was apparent to all present that he felt enormously grateful.

  'We'll be present at the service, of course, as a school, I mean,' went on Alan, 'and I shall make a point of telling the children all I can about the lives of the two men. I just wonder, though, if we could have a real Thrush Green beano at that time, on the green itself.'

  'We'll think about it,' said Harold. 'As you say, the chief part of the celebrations will be under cover, but we ought to be able to risk at least an hour or two for a general jollification outside.'

  The date having been provisionally fixed, the talk grew more general.

  'I must say there seems to be a lot of interest in these affairs,' said Alan. 'Our Parent-Teacher Association wants to take part. They'll be very useful in the dressing-up side of my project.'

  'And someone said that they thought we ought to try to raise some money to buy something - a tree, perhaps,' said Margaret.

  'No doubt Charles will put a note about it in the parish magazine and get ideas from people,' said Isobel.

  'By the way,' said Alan, 'I had a letter from Dorothy Watson offering to help with any school festivities.'

  'Oh!' said Isobel and Harold at the same time, and with an identical tone of apprehension.

  'Very kind,' said Alan firmly, 'but I shall turn down the offer as politely as I can.'

  Relief was apparent on his guests' faces, but no further comment was made, and before long the party broke up.

  Some days later Dorothy Watson read out a letter to Agnes as they sat at breakfast in Barton-on-Sea.

  'Just listen to this. From Alan Lester!'

  Agnes felt a little shiver of fear. Was he cross? She put down her egg spoon and listened obediently.

  Dorothy cleared her throat, just as
she used to before addressing Thrush Green school at morning assembly.

  Dear Miss Watson,

  Your kind offer of help in connection with our proposed activities is very much appreciated.

  As you may imagine, at this early stage we are still weighing up various possibilities, but I am quite positive about keeping things as simple as we can.

  I look forward to letting you know our plans as soon as they art made, and of course you and Miss Fogerty will bt among our most honoured guests.

  Dorothy beamed across the table at her friend. Agnes felt relief flooding her.

  'A very nice letter,' she ventured.

  'And so sensible to keep things simple,' agreed Dorothy. 'I always felt that we had left the school in safe hands.'

  Agnes took up her egg spoon again. She could not help but recall the doubts her friend had expressed vigorously about the headmaster who had been appointed in her place. Was he competent? Was he understanding Was it wise of him to live at a distance, as he certainly did when he first took up the post? And above all, would he carry on the methods of his predecessor which had been so much valued by pupils, staff and parents alike?

  Agnes had done her best to counter her headmistress's fears during those last hectic weeks of their teaching days, and had endured many private sufferings.

  But now, sitting at the breakfast table, with Alan Lester's letter lying between them, was not the moment to remind her friend of those earlier misgivings.

  Dorothy had gradually come to accept the fact that her school was safe in Alan Lester's hands. What was more, she began to feel considerable respect for the way he was coping.

  And now he had written most kindly, appreciating her offer of advice and help, and promising to keep them informed. Better still was the thought of visiting Thrush Green school again, 'as honoured guests', and taking part in its festivities.

  'I always liked that man,' said Dorothy, reaching for the toast.

  'Me too,' echoed Agnes. 'He always struck me as wise.'