(9/13)The School at Thrush Green Read online

  'There you are then,' said Nelly encouragingly, 'and I hope you enjoy it.'

  The ladies inclined their heads.

  'Not got suited yet, I suppose?' went on Nelly.

  'I'm afraid not,' murmured Ada.

  'Marvellous, innit? All this unemployment they keep on about, and yet no one wants a day's work.'

  'Quite,' said Bertha.

  'Could we have some mustard?' asked Violet. 'English, please.'

  'Well, I won't forget to look out for someone,' said Nelly, as she departed in search of home-produced mustard. 'But it'll be an uphill job, I warn you.'

  Through the window of The Fuchsia Bush the life of Lulling High Street pursued its peaceful way. Young Mr Venables, retired solicitor of Lulling, and now in his seventies, was chatting to an equally venerable gentleman beneath the pollarded lime tree immediately outside the restaurant. Several dogs were trotting about on their daily affairs, and young mothers were gossiping over their prams.

  On the other side of the road, the greengrocer had put out some boxes of early annuals on the pavement below the rich display of apples, oranges, forced rhubarb and melons.

  Velvety pansies, glowing dwarf marigolds and multi-coloured polyanthus plants all tempted the passers-by, particularly those gardening optimists who were dying to get down to some positive work after the months of winter idleness.

  Among them was Ella Bembridge, close friend of Dimity, Charles Henstock's wife, and an old friend of the Lovelock sisters.

  She was stooping over the boxes, her tweed skirt immodestly high, and a plume of blue smoke from one of her untidy cigarettes wreathing above her head.

  Violet, who was facing the window, noticed her first, and wondered idly if their old friend would also be lunching at The Fuchsia Bush.

  She did not wonder for long. Ella straightened up and plunged across the road towards the restaurant. A startled motorist screeched to a halt, stuck his head out of the window, and presumably rebuked Ella.

  Violet saw Ella give him a dismissive flick of her hand, as she gained the kerb. Her expression was contemptuous. The motorist, muttering darkly, drove on.

  'Well, well! Hello, hello!' she shouted boisterously. 'Got room for one more at your board?'

  The two older Misses Lovelock looked up in surprise, and Ada choked delicately on a bone which had no business to be in a fillet of plaice. It was left to Violet to do the honours.

  'Of course, Ella dear. Just let me move the water jug and the ashtray. Oh no! You may need that, perhaps.'

  'Not for a bit, thanks. How nice to see you here.'

  She settled herself with a good deal of puffing and blowing, throwing off her jacket, tugging at her cardigan sleeves, dropping her gloves to the floor, and generally creating as much disturbance as a troop of cavalry.

  'Nearly got run down by some fool car driver who wasn't looking where he was going,' she announced. 'Proper menace some of these chaps. I hear Dorothy Watson's learning to drive. Think she'd have more sense.'

  Violet, handing the menu to the newcomer, considered this comment. Did Ella mean that she would imagine that Dorothy would have more sense than the male drivers who were menaces? Or did she think that Dorothy ought to have more sense than to have undertaken driving lessons and the probable future ownership of a car? Really, the English language was remarkably ambiguous.

  Ella studied the menu briefly and then slapped it down on the table. The salt and pepper pots jumped together.

  'What are you lot having?' she said, peering at their plates in turn.

  'Don't care for fish in white sauce myself, and that lasagne is no tastier than wet face flannel I always think.'

  She studied Violet's half-finished portion. 'Looks good that!'

  She caught sight of Nelly hovering by the kitchen door.

  'Ah, Nelly!' she roared cheerfully. 'Bring me a plate of Miss Violet's stuff, will you? There's a good girl!'

  She turned to her companions in the greatest good humour.

  'What luck catching you here! I was just about to call to see if you would like to contribute to the Save The Children fund. Dimity asked me to help.'

  Ada and Bertha exchanged looks of horror, speechless at the idea of parting with money.

  Violet rose to the occasion.

  'Of course, Ella dear. Such a good cause.'

  She ignored the glances of her two sisters. If she were to get a wigging anyway for choosing braised beef, then she might just as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

  No one relished this amazingly warm spell as keenly as little Miss Fogerty. Her bird-like frame suffered severely in the bitter Cotswold winters despite sturdy underclothes and several hand-knitted garments protecting her shoulders and chest.

  The sunshine woke her earlier now in the mornings, and it was a joy to come downstairs early to see that the breakfast table was in good order, and to greet whichever Willie was postman for the week.

  Willie Bond, large and lethargic, came one week. He was a cousin of Betty Bell's who cleaned the school and also attended to Harold and Isobel Shoosmith's domestic affairs, and to Dotty Harmer's at Lulling Woods.

  His counterpart was Willie Marchant, a lanky and morose individual. Nevertheless, he was always polite to Agnes Fogerty, remembering an occasion when she had personally escorted a nephew of his to his home, when the child had been smitten with a severe bilious attack.

  'Not many would've bothered,' he told people. 'She's a kind old party, even if she was behind the door when the looks was given out.'

  Agnes enjoyed these few precious minutes of tranquillity before the rigours of the day.

  There was another reason too for her pleasure in this early morning privacy, for more often than not these days the little tabby cat approached timidly, and sat by the dustbin waiting for his milk.

  Agnes did not fail him. She also added a few scraps which she had garnered during the day before, and had taken to purloining any specially acceptable tit-bits from the school left-overs.

  She put this largesse on the flagstones behind the dustbin. The cat always ran away, but she noticed with joy that he fled less far away as the days passed, and he returned to Agnes's bounty very quickly.

  She stayed at the window as he ate, hoping that Dorothy would not appear before he had finished his meal.

  It was not that she was ashamed of feeding the poor little thing, she told herself, but there was no reason to upset Dorothy who had seemed to be rather dismissive about their visitor when Agnes had mentioned it.

  While she waited she admired the dewy garden. Already the birds were astir, and a pair of collared doves were fluttering by the hedge. A young rabbit sat motionless nearby, and Agnes thought how perfectly the pearl-grey of feathers and fur matched.

  The cat licked the last delicious drops of milk from the saucer and made off quickly through the hedge. The doves whirred away, and the rabbit vanished.

  Whose cat could it be, wondered Agnes? Although it was thin, it seemed to be domesticated and certainly knew how to cope with provender on saucers.

  She went out to collect his crockery, and washed it up as Willie Bond dropped the letters through the front door.

  Perhaps the children would know about the cat, she thought suddenly, bending to collect the post. She must remember to enquire, but not, perhaps, in dear Dorothy's hearing.

  8. Cat Trouble

  AS one might expect in March, the fine spell was of short duration. After about eight days of heart-lifting sunshine, the clouds returned, the temperature dropped, and the winter garments, so joyously discarded for a brief time, were once more resumed.

  One chilly morning when Miss Fogerty's infants were struggling with various arithmetical problems, designated Number on the timetable, and involving a great many aids such as coloured counters, rods of varying length, and a good deal of juvenile theft between the children, Agnes was surprised to see the tabby cat sitting on the wooden bench inside the playground shed, sheltering from the drizzle.

  S
he clapped her hands, and the children looked up.

  'Can anyone tell me,' she said, 'who owns that nice little cat out there?'

  There was a surge of infant bodies towards the window, which Agnes quelled with consummate experience.

  'We don't want to frighten it! Just look quietly.'

  It was Nigel Cooke, son of Miss Cooke of the PTA committee, who spoke first, hand upraised in quivering excitement.

  'Please, miss, it lives next door to us, miss.'

  Agnes felt her heart sink. So it had a home after all!

  'Well, it used to, sort of,' said another child. 'Them Aliens left it behind when they done a moonlight flit.'

  'They never paid the rent, see,' explained Nigel. 'They went one night. My dad saw 'em go, as he was on late shift.'

  'Well, where does the cat live now?' enquired Miss Fogerty.

  'He don't live nowhere like,' said one little girl. Agnes decided that this was not quite the time to point out the result of a double negative. She was too anxious to know the present position of the animal.

  'He comes up ours sometimes,' said another Nidden child. 'My mum gives him bits, but he won't come in. My mum says the Aliens should be persecuted, and was going to give the cruelty to animals man a ring, but my dad said she was to let well alone, so she never.'

  Really, men! Agnes felt furious and impatient. Anything for a quiet life, she supposed, was their motto! No thought for the poor starving cat!

  She hid her feelings, and spoke calmly. 'Who knows where it sleeps?'

  Nigel was again the first to answer.

  'If it's fine he sleeps on the step up against his back door.'

  Agnes's eyes pricked at this poignant picture. 'And if it rains?'

  Nigel looked blank. 'Up the farm sheds at Perce Hodge's, I reckon.'

  Agnes determined to find out a little more, by discreet enquiries of Percy himself and any other reliable adult living along the Nidden road.

  Meanwhile, work must be resumed.

  'Back to your tables now. I want to see who can be first solving these problems.'

  Comparative peace enfolded the class and Miss Fogerty, watching the cat washing its paws, made plans for the future.

  It was about this time that Charles Henstock had an interesting telephone call from his great friend Anthony Bull.

  Anthony had been Charles's predecessor at St John's of Lulling. He was a tall handsome man with a splendid voice which he used to great effect in his rather dramatic sermons.

  Despite a certain theatricality which a few of the males in his congregation deplored, Anthony Bull was deservedly popular, for he was a conscientious parish priest and a good friend to many.

  The ladies adored him, and at Christmas a shower of presents descended upon the vicar, many hand-made, and creating a problem in their discreet disposal. Anthony's wife grew efficient in finding worthy homes for three-quarters of this bounty, all at some distance, so that the givers would not take umbrage. There had been one occasion, however, when one particularly devoted admirer of the vicar's had come across a piece of her handiwork at a cousin's bazaar in Devonshire. It had taken all Mrs Bull's ingenuity and church diplomacy to explain that unfortunate incident.

  When Charles had first taken over the parish at Lulling and its environs, there had been some comparisons made by many of Anthony's more ardent followers. They found Charles's sermons far too simple and low key after Anthony's perorations from the pulpit. Charles, short and chubby, modest and unassuming, ran a poor second to his predecessor in looks and panache.

  But gradually his congregation began to admire their new vicar's sincerity. They came to value his advice, to appreciate his unselfish efforts, to recognise the absolute goodness of the man.

  The two men, so different in temperament, remained firm friends although they only met occasionally now that Anthony had a busy parish in Kensington.

  The telephone call was greeted with joy by Charles, standing in his draughty hall and looking out into the windswept vicarage garden.

  After the first greetings, Anthony came to the point. It appeared that he had been approached by a young woman who had been brought up in Lulling and was now in service in his London parish. She wanted to return to be near her mother. Did Charles know if it would be easy for her to get work?

  'Domestic work do you mean?' asked Charles. 'Or something in a shop or office? Has she any particular qualifications? I know that Venables wants a typist, and there's a new supermarket opening soon, and there might be jobs there. I take it she will live with her mother?'

  'Well, no! I think she wants cheap digs, or a living-in job. There's a snag. She has a little boy of three or thereabouts. No husband, of course, and I gather the fellow was a bad lot, but I've only heard one side of the affair, naturally. The mother, by the way, is Gladys Lilly. Chapel, I think.'

  'I know her slightly. Yes, she does go to the chapel at the end of the town, I believe. A jolly sort of person.'

  'Well, she wasn't too jolly about the baby, I gather, but she's willing to mind him while the daughter is at work, so that's a step in the right direction.'

  'I'll have a word with Dimity,' promised Charles, 'and keep my ears open. As soon as I have any news I will ring. Now, when are you coming this way? The garden is looking very pretty despite the weather, and you know we'd love a visit.'

  Anthony said he would do his best to get to Lulling again, and with mutual messages of affection the old friends rang off.

  'Dimity!' called Charles, setting off towards the kitchen. 'We have a problem before us!'

  The end of term was now in sight at Thrush Green school, and all three teachers were looking forward to the Easter holidays.

  Agnes and Dorothy admitted to being even more tired than usual.

  'I suppose it's because we've had such a wretchedly long winter,' said Dorothy, who was standing at the sitting-room window, surveying the grey drizzle outside.

  'Partly,' agreed Agnes, busy with her knitting. 'And then we've been doing a good deal of clearing up at school. And your driving lessons must be a strain.'

  'I enjoy them,' said Dorothy shortly.

  'Then, of course, we have the house business hanging over us,' continued Agnes. 'It would be nice to get that settled.'

  'Not much point in buying at the moment with a whole term to get through,' commented Dorothy, 'although I suppose we'd need time to get anything we bought put into order.'

  She sounded a little snappy, Agnes thought. Dear Dorothy had been somewhat on edge lately, and to be honest, she had felt irritable herself. Perhaps the approaching break after so many years at the school was beginning to take its toll.

  'There's that cat!' exclaimed Dorothy suddenly. 'Do you know, that's the second time I've seen him this week. I hope he's not coming regularly.'

  Agnes made no answer. Dorothy turned round from the window.

  'Agnes, are you feeding that cat?'

  Little Miss Fogerty's hands trembled as she put down the knitting into her lap. She took a deep breath.

  'Well, yes, Dorothy dear, I am!'

  It was Dorothy's turn to breathe in deeply, and her neck began to flush. This was a bad sign, as Agnes knew very well, but now that the matter had arisen she was determined to stick to her guns.

  'Well, really, Agnes,' protested her friend, with commendable restraint, 'you know I think it is wrong to encourage the animal. We can't possibly take on a cat now when we are off to Barton in a few months. And what will happen to it when we have gone?'

  'I can't see the poor little thing go hungry,' answered Agnes. 'I've only put down milk, and a few scraps.'

  'When, may I ask?'

  'First thing in the morning, and as it gets dusk. I don't leave the saucers down in case mice or rats come to investigate.'

  'I should hope not. In any case, the mere fact of putting food out in the first place is enough to encourage vermin.'

  'It's a very clean little cat,' said Agnes, becoming agitated.

  'I daresa
y. Most cats are. But I think you have been very silly, and short-sighted too, to have started this nonsense. It's cruel to encourage the poor animal to expect food when we know we shall not be here to provide for it before long.'

  'It would be far more cruel to let it starve to death,' retorted Agnes with spirit.

  Dorothy rarely saw her friend in such a militant mood, and resolved to deal gently with her.

  'Of course it would, Agnes dear. I'm simply pointing out that we must look to the future. If it becomes dependent upon us it is going to be doubly hard on the animal when it finds we have gone.'

  She noticed, with alarm, that Agnes was shaking.

  'Perhaps we could find a home for it if it is really a stray,' she continued. 'So often cats go from one house to another for anything they can cadge, when they have a perfectly good home of their own.'

  'This one hasn't,' snapped Agnes.

  'And how do you know?'

  Agnes explained about the Aliens' departure, and abandonment of the cat, and its present plight. By now her face was pink, her eyes filled with tears, and her whole body was quivering.

  'Then we must certainly try and find a home for it,' said Dorothy. 'Perhaps the RSPCA could help.'

  'I don't see why we shouldn't take it on ourselves,' protested Agnes. 'It is getting tamer every day, and whatever you say, Dorothy, I intend to go on feeding it. I am very fond of the little thing, and I think - I'm sure - it is fond of me.'

  Dorothy gave one of her famous snorts. 'Cupboard love!' she boomed.

  At this the tears began to roll down little Miss Fogerty's papery old cheeks, and splashed upon her knitting.

  Dorothy, curbing her impatience with heroic efforts, tried to speak gently. 'Well, carry on as you are, dear, if you think it right. You know my own feelings on the subject.'

  Agnes blew her nose, and mopped her eyes. She was too overwrought to speak.