(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green Read online

  'Ah, but his mum used to work there,' said Albert Piggott, who had learnt a lot from Molly.

  'I wonder if she was that girl young Steve Smith was so keen on just after the war,' speculated Percy Hodge. 'He used to cycle over from Eynsham every evening. Good old pull that was, on a windy night.'

  'Love'll drive you anywhere,' said another customer, in a maudlin tone. There was a heavy silence while the old men contemplated their distant romantic pasts.

  'Before my time,' said Mr Jones briskly. 'I was in hospital getting over working for the Japs on the Burma railway.'

  Across the green Winnie Bailey and Jenny enthused about the wonderful good looks of the stranger, and tried to remember if they had ever come across his mother in days gone by.

  Rosa and Gloria at the Fuchsia Bush had been intrigued by Nelly's news of this blonde giant who had excited so much interest in Thrush Green. He had not yet visited their establishment, but they had seen him walk by, and agreed that he was almost as handsome as Paul Newman and Robert Redford, though Gloria admitted to preferring dark men, preferably with a moustache and a pigtail.

  But Nelly soon cut into their romantic conjectures by telling them sharply to lay up for lunch and to give the front window a bit of elbow grease.

  For Nelly had enough to think about. Mrs Peters was still in hospital, and the nurses were remarkably unforth-coming about her coming out in the near future.

  And if she did, Nelly told herself, it would be a long time before the poor soul would be strong enough to take up her duties again.

  What would the future hold for the Fuchsia Bush?

  May

  But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May.

  Oliver Goldsmith

  The last few days of April had been bright but cold, but on the morning of May Day the skies were dark and the wind boisterous.

  It was as well, thought Joan Young, gazing from her bedroom window as she dressed, that Mrs Curdle's May fair was not obliged to perform in such inhospitable surroundings.

  The horse chestnut trees, in bright young leaf, tossed their tormented branches, and the puddles below shivered in the wind. The spring flowers, jonquil, daffodil and tulip, were thrown this way and that by the wind. Some had succumbed altogether and were lying broken and besmirched on the ground.

  How unlike the firsts of May that she remembered! Somehow Mrs Curdle's fair had always seemed to take place in sunny weather. Was this the result of old age, wondered Joan? Was she looking back through rose-coloured spectacles at those distant days when she and her sister Ruth had swung on the swing-boats and looked down upon the roofs of the Two Pheasants and Piggott's cottage and their own house, with such heady rapture?

  Nearer in time she recalled the excitement of her young son Paul on May Day. It was the high spot of Thrush Green's year for him, just as it had been for herself and Ruth and countless other children.

  She turned away from the streaming window and the lashing wind, and found comfort in times past.

  Near by, Winnie Bailey was also remembering those days when Mrs Curdle's fair enlivened Thrush Green. It was many years now since that formidable figure, dressed in black, had advanced up the garden path with the enormous bunch of artificial flowers which she had made for her annual tribute to Dr Bailey and his wife.

  These bouquets were received with due ceremony and greatly admired for their handiwork. Mrs Curdle carefully bound split wood with fine wire to make great mop-heads of an exotic type of chrysanthemum. The blooms were dyed in gorgeous colours, so vivid that nature had no chance here to emulate art.

  Mrs Curdle herself was an honoured visitor, and sat upright and regal in the Baileys' drawing-room, graciously accepting a glass of sherry and exchanging the year's news.

  No, thought Winnie, watching the rain beating down her forget-me-nots, the first of May was not what it was. How she missed dear old Mrs Curdle!

  There were others who remembered her on that wild and wet morning. Dotty Harmer, turning the calendar page from April to May in her untidy kitchen, thought sadly of times past when she had hurried up the lane to see the excitement of Mrs Curdle's fair, with Flossie tugging at the lead.

  Today she was worried about Flossie. The old dog wanted only to lie in her basket. Any movement seemed to pain her, and an occasional yelp and whine gave voice to Flossie's growing arthritis.

  All Dotty's home-produced herbal cures seemed to be useless. Soon she must call in the vet for some professional advice, loath though she was to do so, but she was not going to let dear Flossie suffer unnecessarily.

  Meanwhile, she diverted young Bruce with a ball rolled along the floor, to keep him from annoying the invalid. He was a dear little dog, thought Dotty indulgently, but like all young things, over-active. She would like to have let him run free in the garden, but the lashing rain deterred her, and he was still at the adventurous stage when he would rush off and get lost if he were on his own.

  Perhaps the only Thrush Green resident who did not hark back to the days of Mrs Curdle was Nelly Piggott, who had braved the elements to arrive early at the Fuchsia Bush.

  To be sure, Albert had made some comment about May Day in a gloomy way, but Nelly had been too busy washing up the breakfast things, and flying about the place with a duster, to take much notice. She had hardly known Mrs Curdle, and was too preoccupied with affairs at the restaurant to take much notice of Albert's meanderings.

  For things at the Fuchsia Bush were worrying. Mrs Peters was still in hospital, and although the day-to-day running of the business did not daunt Nelly, and the catering was as efficient as ever, the financial side posed a serious problem.

  It was Mrs Peters who kept the books in apple-pie order; she who dealt with wholesalers and discounts, with invoices and deliveries, auditors and accountants. Nelly was completely out of her depth with the office work, and she and Mrs Peters had agreed that someone must be responsible for this side of the business until the invalid was judged fit enough to return.

  To Nelly's relief, one of the women from the accountant's office had been charged with the task of taking over Mrs Peters' duties. She was an elderly spinster who had been with the firm ever since leaving school. She was soon to retire, was polite, efficient and wholly respectable.

  Nelly loathed her. She thought her stuck-up, bossy and condescending. Nevertheless, she realized that Miss Spooner was doing a good job which she was quite unable to tackle herself, and with her usual good sense she came to terms with this unwanted stranger in their midst. In any case, Miss Spooner only came in twice a week, which caused Nelly some relief.

  She was fierce if she heard the girls criticizing the newcomer, and was careful to hide her true feelings. To staff and customers Nelly displayed complete loyalty to Miss Spooner, declaring that she 'was doing a wonderful job at the Fuchsia Bush'.

  But how she prayed for Mrs Peters' early return!

  ***

  Farther afield in Woodstock, Carl Andersen watched the rain through the windows of the Bear. It drummed on the flagstones of the courtyard at the rear of the hotel, and the raindrops spun like silver coins as they hit the hard surface.

  It was ten thirty in the morning. In three days' time he would be flying back home. It had been a rewarding trip, he told himself, both from the firm's point of view, and his own personal search for Mrs Curdle's descendants.

  Ben had been extremely helpful, supplying memories of his redoubtable grandmother and some photographs which Carl had had copied to take back with him to give to his mother.

  He decided that he would like a last look at the church records, and wondered if Charles Henstock would be at home.

  On impulse he rang the number at St John's vicarage and Charles answered. He invited Carl to come as soon as he liked.

  'We have coffee about eleven,' he said hospitably, and Carl said he would set off at once.

  He found Lulling High Street awash, and very few pedestrians about. One or two brave folk were struggling along, heads bent against the ons
laught, clutching umbrellas which threatened to blow inside out at any moment.

  It was good to gain the peaceful atmosphere of the vicarage sitting-room. He apologized for troubling Charles again, for he had called to see him soon after Easter and in the rector's absence he had studied the church records which Charles had left out for him.

  A slip of paper with Charles' neat writing on it lay on the table by Carl's coffee cup. It was simply a confirmation of the note which Carl himself had made earlier. It gave Mrs Curdle's name and dates, and the date of her interment in Thrush Green churchyard and the name of the officiating clergyman.

  'You see there is so little more to tell you,' said Charles apologetically. 'She had no permanent address. She was a true itinerant, and the caravan was her home. I am so glad to know that you met Ben, and have been in touch with people who remember your mother in Woodstock.'

  Carl agreed that he had found a great deal which would interest and comfort his mother.

  'I fear she's not long for this world, sir,' he told Charles. 'And she'd always planned to come back and see Mrs Curdle and thank her for all she did for her when things looked black. She used to tell me that I wouldn't be here at all but for Mrs Curdle, and would never have been a true American with the finest pa in all the world, if it hadn't been for Mrs Curdle.'

  'She spoke the truth.'

  'I might well have been an Oxfordshire boy,' went on Carl, 'perhaps living in Eynsham.'

  'Well, you could have done a lot worse,' Charles told him, with a smile. 'You would probably be just as proud of your background, though if I may say so, perhaps not as handsome.'

  Carl had the grace to flush. 'I'm sure you're right. As for looks, I simply take after my old man who was a real good-looker, streets ahead of me.'

  'Then I can quite understand why your mother was content to wait for him,' replied Charles.

  'I spent quite a time with the old folks at Rectory Cottages,' said Carl. 'Jane Cartwright gave me a lot of help, and an old lady who used to live near here, I believe, remembered Mrs Curdle, and so did Jane's mother Mrs Jenner. I've got a real bundle of notes to take back home.'

  'And you've made a lot of friends too,' Charles told him, as Carl made for the door.

  'I guess I have,' agreed the other. 'I'll be coming back to see them sometime.'

  'We shall all look forward to it,' Charles assured him.

  By nightfall the rain had ceased and the wind had dropped, much to everyone's relief.

  Nelly Piggott, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee in front of her, relished the peace of the house, for Albert was next door at the Two Pheasants and all was quiet.

  It had been a tiring day and a visit to Lulling Cottage Hospital to see Mrs Peters had been particularly upsetting. She had been moved from the large hospital in the county town, and as soon as she was strong enough to be discharged, she would move to her home.

  Meanwhile, arrangements were being made for help in the house, home nursing and all the other matters which were necessary for the return home of the invalid.

  'You let me know what I can do,' said Nelly, privately shocked by the pale face and evident weakness of her old friend.

  'You're doing more than enough now,' Mrs Peters told her. 'If it weren't for you the Fuchsia Bush would have packed up long ago.'

  'Rubbish!' said Nelly stoutly. 'Anyway, you'll soon be back.'

  Mrs Peters remained silent, but her thin hands began to pleat the edge of the sheet. To Nelly's horror she saw a tear fall upon her work.

  'I'm sorry,' sniffed the invalid.

  'There, there! Don't take on. It's only weakness, my love. You'll soon pick up.'

  She pulled her chair closer to the bedside, and patted one of the frail hands. The invalid raised her head and looked through her tears at Nelly.

  'I don't think so, Nelly. They won't tell me anything, but I don't believe I'll ever get over this one. I'm done, Nelly. This time I'm done.'

  For once, Nelly could say nothing, and after a few minutes she left the hospital and made her way home.

  With infinite sadness, she perceived that her friend had spoken the truth.

  It was Ben Curdle who drove Carl Andersen to Heathrow in the hired car which Ben would return to the Lulling garage.

  The two men spoke little on the journey, but there was a companionable feeling between them as Ben coped with the heavy traffic and Carl considered the results of his visit.

  'You're coming back soon, I hope,' said Ben as they swung into the approach to the airport.

  'Sure. Later this year. And Ben, think about that trip to see us over there. You and Molly and the kids, of course.'

  'We'll think about it. Of course we will.'

  'It would make my old ma so happy. Don't leave it too late now.'

  They drew up, and Carl got out. He seemed to have a mountain of luggage, but refused to let Ben help.

  The two shook hands warmly.

  'I'll write,' promised Carl. 'It's been great to find some of the family.'

  'Family?' queried Ben.

  'Well, I suppose we're sort of cousins in a way. What you might call god-cousins!'

  Ben laughed. 'If you're sure you can manage I'll get back then,' he said, gazing at the string of cars which had formed behind him. 'Seems that folk here prefer my room to my company.'

  And he turned the car in the direction of Lulling.

  ***

  While Ben was driving homeward on the motorway, Dotty Harmer was watching the vet carrying out routine tests on poor Flossie.

  The spaniel was submitting to all these attentions with very little reaction. She had wagged her plumy tail feebly when the vet had arrived, but been to weak to emerge from her basket.

  Dotty had greeted him warmly and indicated a large bundle of pink rhubarb, swathed in two of its own great leaves, which lay on the kitchen table among various jars and bottles.

  'I hope you like rhubarb.'

  'Very much. Most kind,' said the vet, kneeling by the basket.

  'So many people dislike it. My old father called it "a noxious weed", but he ate it all the same.'

  The vet rolled back one of Flossie's eyelids and studied his handiwork.

  'Healthy?' queried Dotty.

  He grunted noncommittally, and pressed Flossie's chest. Dotty fell silent, and watched.

  After some minutes he rose to his feet. 'She's pretty groggy.'

  'You don't have to tell me that,' said Dotty tartly. 'That's why you're here.'

  'I'd like to have her at the surgery for a day or two. Under observation, you know. I've some new tablets that I'd like to try. They've been very successful in cases like this.'

  Dotty looked at him steadily. Her eyes were very bright behind her spectacles. 'Can't I give her the tablets here?'

  He shifted uncomfortably under that sharp gaze. 'It would be quieter for her, and I could give her more attention,' he countered. 'I really should feel happier if I had her with me.'

  There was silence as the two looked down upon the invalid.

  'Very well,' said Dotty at last. 'I will give you an extra rug that she particularly likes.'

  She rummaged in an untidy cupboard, and emerged with a piece of blue blanket. The vet had picked up the basket, with the unprotesting Flossie, and Dotty tucked the blanket over her.

  She accompanied the vet and his load to the car, and saw the invalid comfortably settled.

  The vet strapped himself in, and gave a reassuring smile. 'Don't worry. I'll take great care of her at the surgery.'

  'I know you will. And I shall want the body back here for burial,' said Dotty with frightening gravity.

  The car drove off. There was no pulling the wool over those sharp eyes, thought the driver, feeling unusually shaken. His father, he suddenly remembered, had been taught by Dotty's martinet of a father at the local grammar school.

  It seemed that his daughter was made of the same stern stuff.

  Of course, news of Flossie's removal to the vet's care w
as soon common knowledge at Thrush Green. The general feeling was that poor old Dotty had seen the last of Flossie, and that the vet had been humane enough to see to the spaniel's last hours away from her doting mistress.

  It was Betty Bell who brought the news to Harold and Isobel Shoosmith when she blew in to set about her domestic chores. Betty also spent one morning a week at Dotty's though, as she said, it was 'love's labour lost', as the muddle which she cleared up reappeared as soon as her back was turned.

  Nevertheless, she was fond of the old lady, and grieved with her over Flossie's expected demise.

  'Ever such a sweet nature that dog had,' said Betty to Harold, as she bustled about his study, snatching up books, ornaments and any bric-à-brac that stood in the way of her flying duster.

  'Well, luckily she has the new puppy to comfort her,' said Harold watching his pipe-rack swinging on the wall after one of Betty's onslaughts.

  'Not the same,' said she, taking a swipe at a distant curtain rail. 'He'll be all right when he's calmed down a bit, but to my mind he's too boisterous for an old lady like Dotty to manage.'

  'If she can cope with those devilish goats of hers,' said Harold, who had twice been knocked to the ground by Dulcie and her progeny, 'she can manage a puppy. But maybe Flossie will get over this. While there's life, you know.'

  Betty stopped whirling for a moment, and shook her head sadly. 'No, I don't think that's possible. The vet's a good chap, but I reckon he took poor Flossie off to do her in compassionate-like, to save Dotty's feelings.'

  'Maybe,' said Harold, eyeing the clock. 'Have you finished in here, Betty? I've got a mound of letters to write.'

  'Just done,' cried Betty, having a final flick at Harold's desk. 'Got you straight, and now I'll tackle the stairs.'

  She went singing from the room, and Harold straightened his papers and tried to straighten his wits. Betty, he felt, was like a strong wind. It cleared all in its path but was dreadfully exhausting.

  It seemed impossible, everyone agreed, that Flossie could return, and the general feeling was that the vet had acted in the kindest possible manner, and that Bruce, the new puppy, would be some comfort to Dotty in her sad loss.