(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green Page 7

  'Can't stop here, ma'am,' he said politely.

  'Why not?' demanded Dotty. 'I have before. Besides, I have to call at the draper's.'

  'Sorry, ma'am. Double yellow lines.'

  'And what, pray, do they signify?'

  The young policeman drew in his breath sharply, but otherwise remained unmoved. He had had a spell of duty in the city of Oxford, and dealt daily there with eccentric academics of both sexes. He recognised Dotty as one of the same ilk.

  'No parking allowed.'

  'Well, it's a great nuisance. I have a luncheon engagement at that house over there.'

  'Sorry, ma'am. No waiting here at all. Try the car park behind the Corn Exchange. You can leave it there safely for two or three hours.'

  'Very well, very well! I suppose I must do as you say, officer. What's your name?'

  'John Darwin. Four-two-four-six-nine-police-constable-stationed-at-Lulling, ma'am.'

  'Darwin? Interesting. Any relation to the great Charles?'

  'Not so far as I know, ma'am. No Charles'es in our lot.'

  He beckoned on a line of traffic, and then bent to address Dotty once more.

  'This is just a caution, ma'am. Don't park by yellow lines. Take the car straight to the car park. You'll find it's simpler for everyone.'

  'Thank you, Mr Darwin. As a law-abiding citizen I shall obey you without any further delay.'

  She let in the clutch, bounded forward, and vanished in a series of jerks and minor explosions round the bend to the car park.

  'One born every minute,' said P.C. Darwin to himself.

  The luncheon party was a great success. Bertha, Ada and Violet owned many beautiful things, some inherited, some acquired by years of genteel begging from those not well-acquainted with the predatory ladies of Lulling, and a few – a very few – bought over the years.

  The meal was served on a fine drum table. The four chairs drawn up to it were of Hepplewhite design with shield backs. The silver gleamed, the linen and lace cloth was like some gigantic snowflake. Nothing could be faulted, except the food. What little there was, was passable. The sad fact was that the parsimonious Misses Lovelock never supplied enough.

  Four wafer-thin slices of ham were flanked by four small sausage rolls. The sprig of parsley decorating this dish was delightfully fresh. The salad, which accompanied the meat dish, consisted of a few wisps of mustard and cress, one tomato cut into four, and half a hard-boiled egg chopped small.

  For the gluttonous, there was provided another small dish, of exquisite Meissen, which bore four slices of cold beetroot and four pickled onions.

  The paucity of the food did not dismay Dotty in the least. Used as she was to standing in her kitchen with an apple in her hand at lunchtime, the present spread seemed positively lavish.

  Ada helped her guest to one slice of ham, one sausage roll and the sprig of parsley, and invited her to help herself from the remaining bounty. Bertha proffered the salad, and Dotty, chatting brightly, helped herself liberally to mustard and cress and two pieces of tomato. Meaning glances flashed between the three sisters, but Dotty was blissfully unaware of any contretemps.

  'No, no beetroot or onion, thank you,' she said, waving away the Meissen dish. There was an audible sigh of relief from Bertha.

  The ladies, who only boasted five molars between them, ate daintily with their front teeth like four well-bred rabbits, and exchanged snippets of news, mainly of a scurrilous nature.

  'I saw the dear vicar and Mr Shoosmith pass along the street this morning. And where were they bound, I wonder? And what was dear Dimity doing?'

  'The washing, I should think,' said Dotty, eminently practical. 'And I can't tell you what the men were up to. Parish work, no doubt.'

  'Let's hope so,' said Violet in a tone which belied her words. 'But I thought I saw a picnic basket on the back seat, with a bottle in it.'

  'Of course, it's racing today at Cheltenham,' said Ada pensively.

  The conversation drifted to the death of Donald Bailey, and even the Misses Lovelock were hard put to it to find any criticism of that dear man. But Winnie's future, of course, occasioned a great deal of pleasurable conjecture, ranging from her leaving Thrush Green to making a second marriage. 'Given the chance!' added Violet.

  The second course consisted of what Bertha termed 'a cold shape', made with cornflour, watered milk and not enough sugar. As it had no vestige of colour or flavour, 'a cold shape' seemed a fairly accurate description. Some cold bottled gooseberries, inadequately topped and tailed, accompanied this inspiring dish, of which Dotty ate heartily.

  'Never bother with a pudding myself,' she prattled happily, wiping her mouth on a snowy scrap of ancient linen. 'Enjoy it all the more when I'm given it,' she added.

  The Misses Lovelock murmured their gratification, and they moved to the drawing-room where the Cona coffee apparatus was beginning to bubble.

  What with one thing and another, it was almost a quarter to four before Dotty became conscious of the time.

  She leapt to her feet like a startled hare, grabbing her handbag, spectacle case, scarf and gloves which she had strewn about her en route from one room to another.

  'I must get home before dark. The chickens, you know, and Ella will be calling for her milk, and Dulcie gets entangled so easily in her chain.'

  The ladies made soothing noises as she babbled on, and inserted her skinny arms into the deplorable jacket which Lulling had known for so many years.

  Hasty kisses were planted on papery old cheeks, thanks cascaded from Dotty as she struggled with the front door, and descended the four steps to Lulling's pavement.

  The three frail figures, waving and smiling, clustered in their doorway watching the figure of their old friend hurrying towards the car park.

  'What sweet old things!' commented a woman passing in her car. 'Like something out of Cranford.'

  Needless to say, she was a stranger to Lulling.

  The overcast sky was beginning to darken as Dotty backed cautiously out of the car park and set the nose of the car towards Thrush Green.

  The High Street was busier than usual. Housewives were rushing about doing their last-minute shopping. Mothers were meeting young children from school, and older children, yelling with delight at being let out of the classroom, tore up and down the pavements.

  Some of them poured from the school gateway as Dotty chugged along. Several were on bicycles. They swerved in and out, turning perilously to shout ribaldries to their friends similarly mounted.

  Dotty, still agitated at the thought of so much to do before nightfall, was only partly conscious of the dangers around her. She kept to her usual thirty miles an hour, and held her course steadily.

  Unfortunately, one of the young cyclists did not. Heady with freedom, he tacked along on a bicycle too big for him, weaving an erratic course a few yards ahead of Dotty's car.

  The inevitable happened. Dotty's nearside wing caught the boy's back wheel. He crashed to the ground, striking the back of his head on the edge of the kerb whilst Dotty drove inexorably over the bicycle.

  She stopped more rapidly than she had ever done in her life, and hurried back to the scene. A small crowd had collected in those few seconds, expressing dismay and exchanging advice on the best way to deal with the injured child.

  'You take 'is legs. I'll 'old 'is 'ead!' shouted one.

  'You'll bust 'is spine,' warned another. 'Leave 'im be.'

  'Anyone sent for the ambulance?'

  'Where's the police?'

  Amidst the hubbub stood the rock-like figure of a stout American boy, known vaguely to Dotty. His face was impassive. His jaws worked rhythmically upon his chewing gum.

  He was the first to address Dotty as she arrived, breathless and appalled.

  'He's dead, ma!' he said laconically, and then stood back to allow P.C. John Darwin 42469, stationed unfortunately – for him – at Lulling, to take charge.

  8 Dotty Causes Concern

  ELLA Bembridge was in her kitchen, he
r arms immersed in the sink.

  She was soaking cane. It had occurred to her, during the week, that she had a large bundle of this material in her shed, and with Christmas not far off she had decided to set to and make a few sturdy articles as a change from the usual ties she manufactured for presents.

  This sudden decision had been made whilst examining some flimsy containers in the local craft shop in Lulling High Street. Ella picked up waste-paper baskets, roll baskets, gimcrack bottle holders and the like and was more and more appalled at the standard of work as she took her far from silent perambulation about the display.

  'Some are made in Hong Kong,' explained the arty lady in charge, in answer to Ella's protestations.

  'So what? As far as I can see, the things from there compare very favourably with this other rubbish.'

  The arty lady fingered her long necklace and looked pained.

  'There's nothing here that would stand up to a week's use,' proclaimed Ella forthrightly. 'Look at this object! What is it, anyway?'

  'It's a hair tidy,' quavered the arty lady.

  'A hair-tidy?' boomed Ella, much as Lady Bracknell declaimed: 'A handbag?'

  'Who the hell ever uses a hair tidy?' demanded Ella. But her victim had fluttered away to attend a less difficult customer choosing joss-sticks, and Ella made her way home determined to look out the cane and fashion something really worthwhile.

  The light was fading fast as Ella struggled to immerse the cane completely. She was about to leave it to its own acrobatic writhings and fill the kettle for a cup of tea, when Dimity burst through the back door, wild-eyed.

  'Oh, thank goodness you're here!'

  'Well, where d'you expect me to be? What's up, Dim?'

  'It's Dotty. She's at the police station.'

  'That doesn't surprise me. That confounded car, I suppose?'

  'Yes, but ... Oh, Ella, it's really serious this time. She's knocked down a boy and he's had to be taken to hospital.'

  'That's done it! How badly hurt is he?'

  'Someone said he was dying.'

  Dimity's eyes filled with tears. Ella, used to her old friend's ways, spoke robustly.

  'You know people. Some of 'em love a bit of drama. Bet he's only had a bump on the head. Probably been sent home again by now.'

  'I hope so. Anyway, Dotty rang up, really to speak to Charles, I think, but he's still out with Harold. She's worried about the animals. They seem to be asking her rather a lot of questions at the police station.'

  'Then I hope to goodness she's got her solicitor with her,' said Ella.

  'I didn't ask. The thing is, Ella, I'm expecting the men back for tea any minute, and I wondered if you could see to Dotty's chickens and things, before it gets dark?'

  'Of course, of course. I'll go straightaway.'

  She began to tug at a disreputable anorak hanging on the kitchen door.

  'I'll get my milk at the same time. I suppose Dotty'll be back in time to milk Dulcie? That's one job I won't tackle.'

  The two friends left the cottage and crossed the road to the green. As they parted, Harold Shoosmith's car drew up, and Ella heard his cheerful greeting as she hurried off through the dusk to Dotty's hungry family.

  The grapevines of Lulling and Thrush Green were at work within minutes of Dotty's accident. She had been born in the little town, and was known to almost everyone in the neighbourhood. The victim too was soon named. He happened to be the third son of Mrs Cooke's large family at Nidden, and he was named Cyril. He was in his first year at Lulling School, having left Miss Watson's care – much to her secret relief – that summer.

  Within the hour it was variously known, in Lulling and its environs, that Cyril Cooke was dead, dying, on the danger list, suffering from a fractured skull, concussion, two broken legs, one broken leg, one broken arm, multiple fractures of the pelvis and internal injuries. A few, however, were of the opinion that Cyril Cooke was shamming, and only had slight bruising.

  Conjectures about Dotty were equally confused. Some said she would be charged with dangerous driving, careless driving or simply with having no lights. Others said she would face a charge of manslaughter, if Cyril Cooke succumbed to his injuries. There was a certain amount of sympathy for Dotty, but undoubtedly there was also a feeling of 'it-was-only-to-be-expected', laced with considerable excitement at this dramatic turn of events.

  It was at Thrush Green that consternation was at its most acute. The good rector was much agitated, torn with anxiety for Dotty and sympathy for Mrs Cooke, whom he proposed to visit at once.

  'Who is Dotty's solicitor?' enquired Harold Shoosmith.

  'Justin Venables,' answered Dimity. 'Her family has always dealt with that firm. There was a case once against Dotty's father after he had caned a boy. I've an idea Justin handled that case as a young man. Mr Harmer got off, I remember.'

  Harold Shoosmith forbore to comment, but was secretly dismayed. He had only met Mr Venables once or twice at social gatherings, and found him a charming old man, silver-haired and gentle. He was also, in Harold's opinion, a good twenty years too old to be practising with efficiency.

  'I do so hope that she's had the sense to send for him,' said Charles. 'He's such a wise fellow, and so experienced. This could be a very nasty case, and I wouldn't put it past Dotty to insist on making her own defence. It could be disastrous.'

  Harold nodded.

  'I take it that one of the junior partners might take it on?'

  Charles looked surprised.

  'I suppose they might be asked, but I doubt if Justin would let such an old client down. Besides, they're mere boys, mere boys.'

  Harold was aware that 'the mere boys' were all around the age of forty, but managed to keep silent. It seemed quite obvious that Dotty would be supported by the aged Mr Venables unless she decided to defend herself. Either course, thought Harold, seemed fraught with danger.

  He made his farewells to the Henstocks and set off across the green. It was a pity that such a fruitful day had had to end so disastrously. They had both enjoyed their trip, and certainly Charles now had plenty to think about when planning improvements to Thrush Green's churchyard. Perhaps it was as well, thought Harold philosophically, that he had something else to think of at the moment. His enormous enthusiasm for levelling the graves had quite startled Harold who disliked undertaking anything too precipitately, particularly a project which must certainly face some opposition. By morning, dear old Charles should be seeing matters in perspective, he hoped.

  He was shutting his gate, when Joan Young, who was exercising her dog, called across to him.

  'You've heard about Dotty's accident, I suppose?'

  Harold said that he had.

  'Any news of the boy?' he asked.

  'Yes. As luck would have it, Ruth's husband was at the hospital, so he examined him. Too early to say yet, the doctor said, but it's mainly head injuries. He's in the intensive care unit.'

  'That sounds bad.'

  'I feel sorry for that poor Mrs Cooke. She's at the hospital now, I believe.'

  'Charles was going to call on her.'

  'I'll give him a ring. He can telephone the hospital, and see if she's there. It's poor old Dotty who will need help.'

  'I agree.'

  'She should never have had that wretched car. We should have seen that she didn't drive it.'

  Harold laughed.

  'Can you see anything we said being considered by Dotty? She's a strong-willed woman – not to say positively pigheaded.'

  'True enough,' conceded Joan, and broke into a run as her dog caught sight of Albert Piggott's cat and gave chase.

  The morning dawned with a beauty rare in autumn. Fluffy pink clouds reflected the rising sun, and Thrush Green was bathed in rosy light.

  After the spell of grey weather it was wonderfully cheering to see the sun again, and prudent housewives made sudden decisions to wash woollies, and gardeners determined to get on with the digging.

  At the village school Miss Watson chose: '
The roseate hues of early dawn have waked me from my sleep,' for the morning hymn, thus confusing several infants, still unable to read, who misheard the opening line and later argued fiercely with Miss Fogerty about 'the rose ate shoes' which needed a lengthy explanation just when Miss Fogerty was trying to fathom the problem of the still-missing emergency knickers. However, infants' teachers are used to coping with such difficulties, and Miss Fogerty was no exception.

  The fine weather meant that the children could play outside in comfort, and Miss Watson had time to remark on the sad affair of Miss Harmer's accident.

  'I'm afraid I foresaw this sort of thing happening,' she confided to her assistant. There was an element of self-satisfaction in her tone that nettled little Miss Fogerty.

  'No one can help an accident,' she responded. 'And you know what boys are on bicycles.'

  'My boyfriend,' announced Miss Potter, who should have been on playground duty, but was loitering as usual, 'says that everyone should take a test, no matter how long they've had a licence.'

  'Has he taken one?' enquired Miss Fogerty, unusually tart.

  'Yes, five times,' replied Miss Potter, drifting towards the door.

  'That may account for his dictum,' said Miss Fogerty, to the girl's retreating back.

  'Have a biscuit, Agnes dear,' said her headmistress hastily. Really, Agnes was getting quite waspish!

  'Thank you,' said Miss Fogerty, accepting an Osborne biscuit. 'It ill behoves any of us,' she pronounced in a milder tone, 'to lay blame at anyone's door in a matter like this. I'm sure Miss Harmer and Cyril Cooke both deserve sympathy – not censure.'

  'Yes, indeed, Agnes,' agreed Miss Watson, with unaccustomed meekness.

  'Bad luck about Miss Harmer, isn't it?' cried Betty Bell when she reported for her morning duties at Harold's. 'I called in to see her on my way up. She don't say much, but she looks a bit shook up.'