Winter in Thrush Green Read online

  'And a very good thing for us that he did,' said her friend briskly, collecting the debris of their simple meal. 'He's a great asset to the place.'

  Together they repaired to the kitchen sink to wash-up before Miss Fogerty made her way home to her lodgings.

  To little Paul Young and his crony Christopher Mullins, Harold Shoosmith appeared in a different light. He was a man to be avoided, outwitted and feared. Needless to say, he had no idea of this.

  The two boys had shifted their headquarters from the thinning greenery of the ox-eyed daisies to a tree on the side of Harold Shoosmith's spinney furthest from his house. This decrepit elm had been cut off some twelve feet above the ground in the early days of the Farmers' residence at the corner house. Half-hearted attempts had been made to remove the hollow stump, but it had defied its molesters and still stood firmly, overlooking the small grassy valley where Dotty Harmer lived.

  Bushy young growth sprouted from its battered crown and concealed the boys from sight. They had cut rough footholds in the mouldering interior of the split trunk and could climb up easily enough to this exciting new hide-out. It was unlikely that the new tenant would discover them, and unlikely that he would seriously object even if he did so, but the two boys found it more thrilling to pretend that poor Harold Shoosmith was a monster, and persuaded themselves easily enough that he would shout, brandish a stack, report them to their parents, the police and their headmaster, with dire consequences, should he ever stumble upon their whereabouts on his premises. This, naturally, gave their meetings a delicious fillip.

  One misty Saturday afternoon in November the two friends sat aloft in their eyrie, unknown, of course, to their parents.

  'Chris Mullins has asked me to play,' Paul had said to his mother, and she, in her innocence, had imagined that he would be playing in the Mullins' garden.

  'Paul Young's asked me to play with him,' Christopher had said to his mother, who had fondly thought that her son would be safely on the Youngs' premises.

  By such simple strategy have boys, throughout the centuries, accomplished their nefarious ends.

  Paul had arrived first and watched his friend emerge from the green garden door in the wall across the valley. He watched him run up the grassy hill and warbled an owl's cry as he approached. This was their secret sign, and the fact that an owl warbling in daylight might arouse suspicions, had not occurred to the boys.

  Chris arrived quite breathless at the tree and Paul tugged him up the rough stairway joyously.

  'I've brought a Mars bar and some transfers,' he announced proudly when his friend had found a precarious seat.

  'I've only got two apples,' confessed Chris. 'It's all we seem to have in our house,' he continued bitterly. 'Apples, apples, apples!'

  Paul sympathised. There is a limit to the number of apples even a small boy can eat. This year's crop was proving an embarrassment.

  'My mum,' went on Christopher, 'says that they clean your teeth, and chocolate ruins them. Been reading something in the papers, I expect.' He spoke with disgust. Paul found such contempt of parents wholly wonderful, and broke the Mars bar carefully in half. A few delicious damp crumbs fell upon the leg of his corduroy trousers and he licked them up thoughtfully, running his finger-nail down the grooves afterwards to collect any stray morsels which might have become embedded there. They munched in amicable silence. From their perch they commanded an extensive view. Far to the west Paul could see a white ground mist veiling the lower part of a distant hollow. Only the tips of the bushy scrub protruded from the drowned field-like rabbits' ears, thought Paul idly–and he watched a distant hedge becoming more and more ghostly as the mist wreathed and swirled through it. As yet their own little valley had but a slight mistiness, but it was obvious that fog would engulf all by nightfall.

  'Let's see your transfers,' said Christopher, wiping his sticky hands down his trousers perfunctorily. Paul fished in his pocket and handed over a crumpled booklet. He watched his friend anxiously. Would he think they were babyish? Some of the transfers were of toys–a ball, a kite and a doll. He could not bear to be ridiculed by his idol.

  To his relief Chris seemed pleased with what he saw. He tore out a Union Jack, placed it carefully face downward on the back of his hand and licked it heavily with a tongue still dusky with chocolate. Paul chose a picture of a football boot it seemed a manly choice–and licked as heartily.

  'Seen old Shoelace?' asked Chris as they waited for the transfers to work. This nickname was considered by both boys to be the height of humour.

  'Not a sign,' said Paul. 'Must be out, I think.' Even as he spoke there was a cracking of twigs on the other side of the spinney.

  'Get down!' whispered Chris urgently. The two boys cowered low among the scanty brushwood. Paul could hear his heart beating under the green jersey Aunt Ruth had knitted him. His nose was so close to the transfer on his hand that he could smell the oily pungency from it. The silence became unendurable. Suddenly a blackbird chattered loudly and flew from the little wood. Silence fell again, and after a few more breathless minutes the boys straightened up.

  'Gosh!' breathed Chris, 'I thought we'd been found that time.' They sat listening intently for a few more minutes, and then Paul sighed with relief.

  'No one there, Chris. Let's peel off our transfers. You first.'

  'No, you first,' said Christopher, punching his friend affectionately on the arm. 'Mine'll take longer to do with all the lines on the flag.'

  'What about all the twiddly bits on my boot?' objected Paul. 'All right, all right,' he added hastily, as his friend's fist was raised again. 'I'll do mine first."

  Carefully he raised the corner of his damp transfer. His tongue protruded with the effort as he began to peel it gently away from his pink hand. Half-way across the picture began to disintegrate.

  'Press it back again quick,' urged Christopher. 'And huff on the back. You ought always to huff on transfers. The wet in your breath keeps it the right temperature.' He watched anxiously as Paul obeyed.

  They rested their hands on their knees and breathed energetically upon the back of the transfers. Paul tried again, gingerly peeling the damp paper away. He was rewarded by an almost perfect picture of the football boot.

  'Only one of the laces a bit wonky," he said proudly. 'Not bad, is it?" He held up his hand for Chris to admire, but his friend was much too busy revealing his own masterpiece. The result was disappointing. Only half the Union Jack adhered to Christopher's hand.

  Paul tried not to look too smug. Christopher he knew, liked to excel at everything, and could be violent when things went wrong.

  'D'you know why mine didn't take?' demanded Chris belligerently. 'I'll tell you,' he continued, without giving his apprehensive friend time to answer. 'It's because I'm so much stronger than you are! That's why!' He thrust an aggressive face towards Paul's.

  'Stronger?' faltered the smaller boy.

  'Yes,' said Christopher. 'See the back of my hand? Smothered in hairs, isn't it?' He held up his grubby paw, and against the light, one or two faint hairs were discernible. 'That shows I'm strong. Like Samson, remember? Well, transfers won't take on a hairy hand, naturally. You have to have sissy smooth hands like yours for transfers to work. It's a kid's game, anyway.' He tossed the book back to Paul who put it silently back in his pocket. The afternoon was not going as it should, and Paul began to wonder how he could put matters right.

  It was at this uncomfortable moment that they saw the man.

  He came into their line of vision as he swung down the hill towards Dotty Harmer's garden. He had evidently come from the lane that led to Nod and Nidden from Thrush Green, and he was about two hundred yards from the tree where the boys watched him.

  He reached the low gate in Dotty's hedge, leant upon it and looked around him. Apart from Dotty's cottage no other house looked out upon this little valley. Harold Shoosmith's view was obscured by the projecting curve of the spinney, and, as far as the man could see, he was unobserved. He opened the
gate, walked to the hen-house and disappeared inside.

  There was no movement from the house as the cackling of hens made itself heard. In fact, Dotty was busy shopping in Lulling at that moment, and the house was deserted except for Mrs Curdle, Dotty's black cat.

  Within a few minutes the man emerged carrying a brown-paper carrier bag. He latched the hen-house door, and departed up the hill again with swift easy strides. The boys could see his face quite clearly as he vanished over the brow of the hill towards the lane.

  'That was Sam Curdle,' said Paul. 'Do you reckon he was taking things? Eggs, say, or even a chicken?' He looked rather shocked and alarmed. Christopher, who did not know the history of the Curdle family as well as his friend did, was less impressed.

  'He didn't look as though he was doing anything wrong. P'raps someone asked him to feed the chickens for them.'

  'Might have,' admitted Paul doubtfully. 'But he's an awful thief, Chris. Everybody says so. D'you reckon we ought to tell somebody?'

  'If we do,' pointed out Chris, 'they'll ask us what we were doing here, and that's the end of the camp for us.'

  'I hadn't thought of that,' confessed Paul unhappily. They sat in silence for some time turning the problem over in their minds. Paul felt sure that Sam had been up to no good; but Chris was right in saying that they could not afford to disclose what they had seen. Of course, Paul told himself, Dotty might have asked Sam to look at her chickens, as Chris had said. It might all have been above-board. He hoped it was–more for the sake of keeping their hiding place secret than from anxiety on Dotty's behalf.

  But he was far from happy about the matter. He watched the white mist thickening in the distant hollow and saw that it was beginning to seep along towards their own valley. Suddenly the afternoon seemed chilly and wretched. Everything had been horrid. The transfers had failed, Chris had hit him far harder than was necessary for real friendship, he felt slightly sick with too much chocolate, and sicker still at the thought of keeping all he had seen a guilty secret from his mother.

  All at once he wanted to be at home with her–to be warm and dry, to see the fire dancing and to hear his parents talking. A great distaste for the camp, for old Shoelace, and for the wet mustiness of the decaying tree suddenly suffused the boy.

  'I'm going home,' he said abruptly, and slithered rapidly to the ground.

  Chris, astonished and silent, followed him.

  'See you Monday,' said Paul shortly, setting off for home on the west side of the copse. Without answering, Christopher plunged down the hill in the opposite direction through the thickening mist. As he ran he became conscious of a stickiness on the back of his hand. Exasperatedly he clawed the remains of the unsuccessful transfer from it with his finger-nail.

  Altogether, he thought bitterly, it had been a beast of an afternoon.

  As the melancholy month of November wore on Dimity and Ella found themselves getting to know the newcomer quite well. As well as meeting him at the occasional bridge party, and coming across him on their walks abroad, the rector, who had always been a frequent visitor to their cottage, now often came accompanied by his new friend.

  Both ladies were delighted. As Ella said, there were far too few unattached men about Thrush Green and their company was quite refreshing after all their single women friends.

  Harold Shoosmith went at first with some reluctance to the cottage, but had been pressed to do so when returning with the rector from a country walk on one or two occasions. He was welcomed so warmly that his shyness deserted him. He found too that the two women held an attraction for him. He was sorry for Dimity, considering her outrageously treated by her domineering friend. It needed the rector's wise words to point out that Dimity's life of service was also her crown of glory, and that she was completely happy.

  Harold Shoosmith's feelings towards Ella were mixed. Her outspokenness half-shocked and half-amused him. Her physical clumsiness revolted him. Her generosity and warm-heartedness compelled his admiration. But overriding all these feelings was one of fascinated horror at her artistic creations. He was a man who liked recognisable patterns. His shirts were striped or checked. His ties were plain, striped or of a traditional paisley design. His curtains carried fleurs-de-lis and his chair-covers matched them.

  Ella's strong blobs of colour, irregularly placed on a background of nobbly black broken checks, appalled his sense of order. The very idea of letting her loose on the memorial to Nathaniel made him quake.

  It was this preoccupation with the possibility that led Harold Shoosmith to visit the cottage so often. So far he had heard no more about Ella's part in the project. A meeting had been held in the school to see what Thrush Green felt about the plan. Wholeheartedly the inhabitants had agreed to mark the occasion of Nathaniel's centenary with a suitable memorial. They had, furthermore, voted that the proceeds of that year's Fur and Feather Whist Drive be devoted to the fund. The rector had then exhorted them to go home to put their minds to work on the best type of memorial to their greatest son, and to put their suggestions in the box provided in the church porch. Another meeting to vote on the results was to be held early in December.

  Harold Shoosmith found the suspense almost unbearable. The two ladies never spoke about it, and he found that he could not bring himself to broach so painful a subject. He comforted himself with the thought that Ella must surely have mentioned the matter if she had been approached. It was too much to expect that such a forthright person would be so delicately reticent.

  Meanwhile he made a point of being particularly kind to timid little Dimity. His attentions were much appreciated by that modest lady and did not go unnoticed by Ella Bembridge–nor, for that matter, by the good rector.

  Even sour old Mr Piggott felt a certain warmth towards Thrush Green's latest resident, for he was the means by which the sexton resumed his role of detective.

  On the last day of the month he went to the corner house to cut back the laurel hedge that grew just inside the communicating wall between the school-house garden and Harold Shoosmith's.

  He slashed lustily with a small bill-hook, for the laurels were grossly overgrown. The glossy green leaves fluttered to the ground around him. After one particularly vicious onslaught a small object, which had lodged in a crook of a bough, fell at his feet. Bending painfully, old Piggott retrieved it and held it up in the waning light.

  Joy coursed its unaccustomed way through his hardening veins. It was a wallet–and without a doubt it was the one which Miss Watson had lost on the night of the burglary. It was empty, but that was only to be expected.

  'The first clue!' chortled old Piggott, pocketing it carefully. I'll get 'im yet!'

  And, much encouraged, he bent to his task again.

  PART TWO

  Christmas at Thrush Green

  9. The Memorial

  THE meeting to decide upon Nathaniel Patten's memorial was well attended. The infants' room at the village school was almost uncomfortably full. Small thin people squeezed into the desks at one side of the room, and the more portly sat sedately on the desks themselves or on the few low tables upon which the babies usually pursued their activities. A pile of minute bentwood armchairs remained stacked in the corner, for not even Dimity could have folded her small stature into such a confined space.

  The rector sat at Miss Fogerty's desk as he was chairman. Harold Shoosmith found himself sharing a desk top with Ella and wondered, somewhat unchivalrously if it would bear their combined weight.

  As the latecomers drifted in, to prop themselves against the partition or the ancient piano, Harold gazed idly at the notices pinned to the wall. They were written in large black letters and were obviously the work of Miss Fogerty. 'MY BIRTHDAY,' said one, 'IS TODAY.' Below this dramatic announcement two names, Anne and John, had been inserted into a slot provided for the purpose.

  'MONITORS THIS WEEK,' said another, 'John, Elizabeth, Anne.'

  'WE FORGOT OUR HANDKERCHIEFS,' the third confessed frankly. Only John appeared to be culpab
le.

  'That chap John seems to lead an active life,' observed Harold to Ella. 'And Anne for that matter,' he added.

  'They're all called Anne or John,' explained Ella kindly. 'Unless they're Amanda or Roxana or Jacqueline or Marilyn or Somesuch.'

  'I see,' said Harold, light dawning. 'Seems a pity the old names aren't used,' he mused. 'My sisters had friends with good old names like Bertha and Gertrude.' He paused, and appeared to rack his brain for more, but failed to add to the list. 'What's wrong with Bertha and Gertrude?' he added rhetorically of his neighbour.

  'Plenty,' said Ella simply.

  At this point the rector banged the desk with Miss Fogerty's safety inkwell and the meeting began.

  'I must thank you for the excellent suggestions which have been put into the box,' began the rector. 'We have had five put forward–well, four, really, I suppose. I'll just read them out and if there are any more ideas wc can then add them to the list.'

  He adjusted a pair of half-glasses upon his snub nose and peered at the back of The Quarterly Letter to Incumbents upon which he had written his notes. The glasses gave his chubby face an oddly Pickwickian look. His hearers watched him with affection.

  'What about putting up the suggestions on the blackboard?' suggested a bright youth perched on the nature table beside the winter berries.

  'An excellent notion,' agreed the rector. Miss Fogerty hurried forward from the side of the piano.

  'Oh, do let me put it up for you,' she fluttered, beginning to tug the easel from its nightly resting place against a map of the Holy Land.

  Harold Shoosmith and the bright youth politely disengaged Miss Fogerty from the unequal struggle and she returned, pink with pleasure, to her place by the piano to watch the men's efforts with the board pegs.