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

  It was a great surprise, therefore, when the invalid returned to Dotty's kitchen, amidst general rejoicing. Whether the vet's new pills had done the trick, or the temporary respite from Bruce's boisterous attentions, or whether just a change of scene had brought about Flossie's recovery, no one could say, but everyone was delighted to hear about the reunion. Congratulations poured in and the vet's stock, always high in Thrush Green and Lulling, grew higher still.

  Albert Piggott, who had secretly been surveying Dotty's garden for the best plot in which to inter her spaniel, now set aside his spade, comforting himself with the thought that his labours had been only postponed. The preparation of final resting places had always given Albert gloomy satisfaction.

  Meanwhile, the invalid enjoyed her cosseting and the loving attention of Dotty and Bruce.

  On sunny days, her basket was put in a sheltered spot and she dozed or simply gazed about her old haunts, at the apple blossom above her, and the daisies starring the grass by her bed.

  Sometimes she took a gentle walk down the path, and pottered about in the meadow beyond, sniffing the old familiar scents and returning, splendidly gilded, from the yellow buttercups which had engulfed her.

  Flossie had returned to life, and found it sweet.

  By the middle of May, 'that loveliest month' was living up to its name. The cold winds and heavy rain which had marred its advent had given way to sunshine and all the heady promise of early summer in the Cotswolds.

  The gardens of Thrush Green were bright with tulips, forget-me-nots and wallflowers. The roses were showing plump buds, and the wisteria on the southern walls drooped massive tassels against the Cotswold stone. The hawthorn hedges along the road to Nidden were spattered with white flowers, and here and there a briar rose added its pink frailty.

  Winnie Bailey had decided to take a morning walk along her favourite lane, cow parsley frothing each side as far as the eye could see, and was delighted to come across Ella Bembridge, her friend and neighbour, resting her elbows on a farm gate and gazing across the little valley to Lulling Woods.

  'Well met!' called Winnie. 'Are you playing truant like me?'

  'I'm testing my vision,' replied Ella.

  'Testing your vision?' echoed Winnie, joining her at the gate. 'Do you think you need glasses?'

  'I have them already for close work, but it's my long sight I'm worried about. I saw the eye chap at Oxford yesterday.'

  'And what did he say?'

  'I've got something which goes under the pretty name of Senile Macular Degeneration.'

  'My word! That sounds rather depressing. Does it hurt?'

  'Not a bit, but the retina is not doing its stuff. The worst bit for me is that I can't see colours as keenly as I did. Maddening with my embroidery work.'

  'It must be,' agreed Winnie sympathetically. 'So what can be done?'

  'Not much. Extra bright light, large-print books, that sort of thing.'

  They resumed their walk together, passing Percy Hodge's farm, and patting his collie dog which bounded out to greet them.

  'The worst of getting old,' said Winnie, 'is the time one has to spend in patching oneself up. I have to go to the chiropodist tomorrow and the dentist on Thursday.'

  'I notice you say "kyropodist",' said Ella. 'I do too, but so many people say "shiropodist". I don't know which is right.'

  'I say "kyro" because I imagine it comes from the Greek, but I'm open to correction.'

  'I've been meaning to look it up,' said Ella, 'but as soon as I go to find the dictionary, the telephone rings or something boils over on the stove.'

  Winnie nodded her agreement at this cussed aspect of life, and the two paced along together enjoying the May morning and each other's company.

  They paused by a small copse of beech and hazel on the left of the lane. A mist of bluebells covered its floor, giving off an unforgettable scent, the very essence, thought Winnie, of a sunny May morning.

  Above the bluebells arched long tentacles of bramble, just putting out young leaves and stretching prickly arms to catch at the hazel boughs above. The two women gazed in silence at this timeless scene until, with sighs of content, they turned to make their way back to their duties.

  They stopped at Winnie's gate to admire the splendid copper beech tree in the Youngs' garden. The young leaves were now auburn, and thick enough to hide the noble frame of the tree which had been displayed throughout its naked winter form.

  'You know it was quite pink a fortnight ago,' said Ella. 'Just a pink haze with all the branches and the trunk showing through. A marvellous sight.'

  'I'm glad your sight was up to it,' said Winnie. 'And don't forget, if you want needles threaded or wool or silk matched bring the things to me and I'll help.'

  'Thanks a lot, Win,' said Ella gruffly. 'Always does me good to see you. Let's have another potter together before long.'

  'Willingly,' agreed Winnie.

  Mrs Peters was now at home in her house near Church Green at the farther end of Lulling from Thrush Green. She was glad to be back, and the return to her own surroundings seemed to give her renewed strength and will to live.

  A widowed cousin had offered to come and help. She was no nurse, she explained from the outset, but she could run a house, and shop and cook, and be alert for any needs that her patient might require.

  The local nurse came in daily, and many friends called for short visits so that the day passed as pleasantly as was possible for one so ill.

  Despite her weakness, she was avid for news of her beloved Fuchsia Bush and Nelly was a regular visitor. She was glad to be able to report that all was running smoothly, as indeed it was, despite the absence of the senior partner.

  One evening in May, when Nelly was at the patient's bedside, she was surprised to be asked to get in touch with Mrs Peters' solicitor.

  'I particularly want to see him about my will,' she said. 'Ask him to come here one morning, whenever he can manage it. And with my will, please.'

  'But can't you ring him?'

  'I could, but there always seems to be someone about, and if you make the appointment from the office I'd feel happier. He can ring me to confirm his time for calling. Young Mr Venables is always so obliging.'

  'Young Mr Venables', as opposed to 'Old Mr Venables', who had been dead for fifty years, was himself in his seventies and officially had retired from the family business some years before.

  However, Justin Venables was a man of habit and life did not seem quite right without regular attendances at his Victorian furnished office in Lulling High Street, so twice a week he called in to do a little business with carefully selected and honoured clients. This, incidentally, was a great relief to Mrs Justin Venables who found his presence in the house, after eight-thirty in the morning, the time at which he had departed for years to his office, a great encumbrance to her own domestic timetable.

  Nelly walked back to Thrush Green that evening much perturbed. She did not like this talk of wills. To her it sounded ominous. Had poor Mrs Peters been told something by the doctor? Was she in a weaker state than she appeared to be? Did she know, as a fact, that recovery was impossible?

  It was all very upsetting, and Nelly was too worried to notice the lilacs and syringas which scented the evening air, or to hear the rooks clattering about the trees by St Andrew's church as they fed their clamorous young.

  The house was empty, and Nelly was thankful to sit in its silence recovering from the walk up the steep hill from the town, and trying to come to terms with her worries.

  At least one thing was plain. She had promised to ring young Mr Venables, and that she would do as soon as she went into the Fuchsia Bush next morning.

  The visit of Carl Andersen which had occasioned so much interest in Thrush Green was soon forgotten by most of the residents. Other excitements had arisen. There was talk of an invasion by the nomadic 'travellers' planned for the last weekend of May. There was an Open Day, later that term, at Thrush Green school, and Miss Watson and Miss Fogert
y, who had taught there for many years, were going to attend, leaving their retirement home at Barton-on-Sea for an extended visit.

  Two new babies were expected in the Cooke family at Nidden. One was supposed to be Mrs Cooke's, but as she was in her mid-forties there was some argument about this. Most of the Thrush Green gossips thought it unlikely. The more cynical pointed out that the fecundity of the Cooke females was exceptional, and that Mrs Cooke might well be capable of producing healthy infants for years to come.

  Neverthless, the Youngs and the Curdles often spoke of their American friend, and when Willie Marchant, the postman, delivered a fat packet of photographs covered in exciting stamps, they gathered round the kitchen table to pore over them.

  They were all splendid specimens. Carl Andersen was obviously an expert photographer, and the usual sloping landscapes, tilting churches and the like, so common among a batch of amateur snaps, were nowhere to be seen.

  His portraits of the Youngs and the Curdles were particularly attractive, and even Edward, who was usually highly critical of any work of art, agreed that they were a splendid record of Carl's visit.

  Edward had troubles of his own at this time. He was a compulsive worrier. The doubt put into his mind about the size of the existing common room at Rectory Cottages still niggled him. Reason told him that it was perfectly adequate as it was. Reason also pointed out that there was no money available anyway for an enlargement of the premises. Reason also told him that he had the assurance of a great many sensible people, such as Jane Cartwright and Charles Henstock, that his original plan together with the glass annexe added later suited everyone perfectly.

  But reason did not entirely comfort Edward Young. Just as a nervous woman will fidget with her necklace, or a fretful child will pick relentlessly at a scab on its hand, so Edward worried about the possibility of having made a mistake in his designs.

  The subject had been brought painfully to his mind a week or two earlier, when he had attended the funeral of one of the elderly residents, and had returned with other mourners for a cup of tea in the communal sitting room at the home.

  The man whose funeral he had attended had helped Edward in the garden for many years. It was Edward who had helped to find him a place at Rectory Cottages when his wife had died and it was apparent that he was unable to cope alone.

  Edward would miss him. He took his tea cup to the window and gazed across at the churchyard where one of the Cooke boys, helped occasionally by Albert Piggott, was patting turves into place, and arranging the funeral flowers upon them.

  Nearer at hand, immediately beyond the window at which he stood, his architect's eye noted the level expanse of flag stones on which one or two seats were arranged with some tubs of late hyacinths. There would certainly be room for an extension of the conservatory should it ever be needed.

  He turned back to the room, and felt slight panic. It was overcrowded. It was stuffy. It was short of seating.

  Jane Cartwright came up to him, offering tomato sandwiches.

  'No, thank you, Jane. Rather a crush in here.'

  Jane intuitively knew what was worrying him. 'Well, there are nearly thirty people here today. Usually there are a dozen or so at the most.'

  She spoke comfortingly, but Edward was not comforted.

  'Maybe I should have allowed more space when I drew up the plans. It is so difficult to envisage numbers in a space.'

  Jane laughed.

  'Numbers vary, as you know. One can only plan for the average number of bodies, and they vary in size too, as you can see if you look around you.'

  'You're right, of course,' agreed Edward. But he was not happy, and he took his doubts with him when he crossed the green later to his own home. He should have made that annexe larger, he told himself.

  On the day when Carl Andersen's photographs and letter arrived at the Youngs, and Edward was still tormenting himself about Rectory Cottages, Charles Henstock was listening most unwillingly to Mrs Thurgood on the telephone.

  His heart had sunk as soon as she had announced herself in the booming voice which so many had learnt to dread.

  His dismay grew as he listened to the matter she was explaining, and he sat down on the hall chair in preparation for a long monologue on her side, and a fighting response on his own.

  'I have been thinking about that extension at Rectory Cottages,' she began.

  'That was settled at the meeting,' replied Charles.

  'And it seems to me,' went on Mrs Thurgood, ignoring the interruption, 'that something must be done at some time, and why not now?'

  'We can't afford it,' said Charles firmly.

  'And what really brought it to my mind again was a lucky meeting with an old friend of ours, a charming fellow who was at school with my late husband. He was having lunch at the Randolph when I was there last week. I always lunch there after visiting the dentist in Beaumont Street. As it happens, he is the director of a well-known firm which specializes in garden-room-conservatories. He could easily extend for us.'

  'We abandoned the idea,' broke in Charles.

  'I mentioned our little problem,' she continued remorselessly, 'and he said he was sure that they could give us very favourable terms, under the circumstances. He was kind enough to say how much he appreciated our friendship of so many years, and he would be delighted to help when the time came.'

  A providential huskiness came into the lady's delivery, and Charles took advantage of it.

  'The time will not be coming,' said Charles loudly. 'As you are aware, the trustees voted to put the matter aside. There is no money available, and the room is considered quite adequate for its needs.

  There was the sound of indrawn breath at the other end of the line, but whether it meant that the lady was recovering her full vocal powers or simply preparing for another onslaught, no one could say.

  'You are turning down this wonderful offer?'

  'Yes, I am.'

  'You realize that you may be giving offence to a valued friend of my family?'

  'I am sorry.'

  'My daughter's offer to exhibit her pictures at the Town Hall to raise funds is also open. No one has had the courtesy to let her know about the arrangements.'

  A lesser man than Charles could have been forgiven if he had broken into frustrated screams and banged his head on the vicarage hall wall, but Charles, despite his gentle demeanour, had an inner steel when it was required, and it was certainly needed now.

  'Mrs Thurgood,' he said flatly, 'you know as well as I do that it was agreed to let the matter rest. If you have led your daughter and your old friend into thinking that we have plans for a further extension, then it is up to you to disabuse them of the idea which you yourself have encouraged. I refuse to discuss it further.'

  'Well,' began an outraged voice.

  But Charles put down the receiver, just as the front door opened and Harold Shoosmith arrived.

  'Hallo, Charles! You look a bit tired.'

  'I've just had Mrs Thurgood on the phone. She's still pressing me about the extension.'

  'Leave her to me,' said Harold ominously.

  June

  Busy in making alterations in my Kitchen

  Garden cutting down an Old Hedge by my

  Fir Plantation.

  James Woodforde

  The gardeners of Thrush Green were equally busy. The hedges and grass were under daily onslaught from clippers and mowers, as the sun grew stronger and the days longer.

  Harold Shoosmith, attacking his privet hedge, was glad to break off his labours when Betty Bell summoned him indoors for mid-morning coffee.

  'It's a pity we didn't grub out all the privet when we came here, and plant yew instead.'

  'Gloomy old stuff, yew,' commented Betty. 'Churchyards and that. Gives you the creeps.'

  'Why yew?' queried Isobel.

  'Only needs one clip a year,' said the labourer. 'This dam' privet wants three to keep it tidy.'

  'Heard about Dotty's -1 mean Miss Harmer's - Bruce?'<
br />
  'Don't say he's ill,' exclaimed Isobel in alarm.

  'No, no. I called in on my way here and he's full of beans. He'd just broken a jar full of rhubarb juice Dotty'd put on the floor to cool. All over everywhere.'

  'On the floor?' echoed Harold. 'What was it doing on the floor?'

  'No room on the table. She was going to make some medicine. She stirs it up with ginger, and then bottles it.'

  'It sounds pretty grim.'

  'It is. Very opening.'

  Isobel hastened to change the subject. 'Well, tell us about Bruce.'

  'They've found his owners.'

  'Good heavens! Where?'

  'South America. They done a moonlight flit when they left Bruce in the church porch.'

  Harold and Isobel exchanged glances.

  'Are you sure about this?'

  'Young Darwin the policeman was telling them down the pub yesterday.'

  'Young Darwin,' said Harold sternly, 'has no business to be chattering about police matters at the pub.'

  'Well, you asked me, so I told you,' retorted Betty. 'They're all that chuffed at the police station. Been working at it for months now. It's going to be in the paper this week.'

  She put her empty mug aside, and rose to continue her duties.

  'This won't buy the baby a new frock,' she announced. 'I'll go and give that bath a good doing over.'

  'I wonder if there's anything in this story,' said Harold to Isobel.

  'We shall have to wait and see what the local paper tells us,' replied Isobel. 'I must say it sounds rather sensational.'

  'And it still doesn't explain why the dog was dumped here,' agreed Harold. 'Ah well! Back to the privet.'

  Of course, Betty Bell was not the only one to have heard the news. Tongues wagged freely at the Two Pheasants, and the mystery of the dog being left in St Andrew's porch was the chief aspect of local conjecture.

  'I heard,' said Percy Hodge the farmer, 'as this couple was fond of making trips up this way. Didn't they come in here for a pub lunch now and then?'