(6/13) Gossip from Thrush Green Page 9

  'From four to four-thirty is teatime,' replied Justin firmly. 'I only see old friends then whom I like to invite to share my tea tray. Try the shortbread. Muriel makes it for me weekly.'

  The rector could not help thinking in what a civilised way Justin seemed to conduct his business. He had no doubt that just as much work got done in the leisurely framework of Justin's day as was accomplished by so many feverish young men rushing from one thing to another.

  'Of course, we have always stayed open until six o'clock,' said Justin, submerging his lemon slice gently with his teaspoon. 'So many of our clients appreciate being able to call here after their work is over. One needs a cup of tea to refresh one towards the end of the day.'

  'Very sensible,' agreed Charles, dusting shortbread crumbs as unobtrusively as possible from his clerical grey trousers.

  Over the tea tray Justin dealt with the rector's anxieties, and assured him that all would be satisfactorily arranged with the insurance people, the Church authorities, and all other interested parties in this sad affair.

  It was exactly twenty-eight minutes past four when he rose and shook his old friend's hand in farewell.

  'By the way,' he said, on his way to open the door, 'I am retiring at the end of this year.'

  'You can't be!' exclaimed Charles. 'Why, you know you are always referred to as "young Mr Venables"! Who will take over?'

  'Young Mr Venables will be seventy next birthday,' smiled Justin, 'and the boys here are in their forties and fifties. Plenty of good fellows to carry on at Twitter and Venables, believe me.'

  'I can't take it in,' confessed Charles. 'Of course, I shan't mention this until you give me permission to do so.'

  'You have it now, my dear fellow. There's no secret about it. Now, I mustn't keep you.'

  He opened the office door, and saw Charles out into the sunshine.

  The rector retraced his steps in thoughtful mood, pondering on Justin's decision to retire. Seventy next birthday, he had said. Well, perhaps he was right to leave the somewhat gloomy office and to feel free to enjoy his fishing and his golf when the sun shone. Certainly, Justin had served the little town well, as had his father before him. No doubt the middle-aged boys would carry on the good work, but it wouldn't please his old clients.

  A car drew alongside the kerb just as Charles was approaching the Misses Lovelocks' house. It was driven by the vicar of Lulling, the Reverend Anthony Bull, and his mellifluous voice floated across the warm air.

  'Get in, Charles, if you are making for home. I'm off to Nidden.'

  Charles was rather looking forward to walking home in the spring sunshine, but it would have been churlish to turn down this offer, and in any case, he always enjoyed Anthony Bull's company.

  He was a tall handsome man with a fine head and expressive hands. As a single man he had fluttered many maiden hearts, and even now, happily married as he was to a rich wife, a steady supply of embroidered slippers, hand-knitted socks, and useful memo pads decorated with last year's Christmas cards, flowed into the vicarage from adoring members of his congregation.

  'We only got back from a few days in Devon yesterday,' said the vicar, 'and were appalled to hear about your house. I gather you are at Harold's for the time being, but if you want to come to us, Charles, the vicarage has plenty of room, and we should both be delighted to put you up.'

  Charles thanked him sincerely. The vicarage was an elegant Queen Ann house, overlooking Lulling's extensive green. It was common knowledge that Mrs Bull's wealth had contributed to the comfort of their establishment. The beautiful old house had flourished under her cosseting, and Charles could not think of anywhere more lovely to shelter, if the need arose. He tried to say as much to the generous vicar.

  'You've heard the rumour, I expect,' said Anthony Bull, 'about the re-organisation of the parishes around here? It's a case of spreading us rather more thinly on the ground, I gather. Nothing definite yet, but I shouldn't be surprised to hear that we are all going to play General Post before long.'

  'Do you know,' said Charles, 'I haven't heard the game of General Post mentioned since I was a child! Nor Turn the Trencher, for that matter, nor Postman's Knock. Do you think people still play those party games?'

  'I should like to think so,' responded the vicar, drawing up outside Harold's house on Thrush Green, 'but I fear they play rather more sophisticated games these days, with perhaps rather less innocent enjoyment.'

  At that moment, Charles saw Dotty Harmer emerging from Ella's, milk can in one hand, and Flossie's lead in the other. He did not feel equal to coping with that lady, much as he admired and respected her.

  He hurriedly got out from the car.

  'Thank you again, Anthony, for the lift, and your very kind offer of help.'

  The vicar waved and drove off towards Nidden. What a beautiful glossy car it was, thought Charles, without a trace of envy. It was fitting that such a fine fellow as dear Anthony should travel in such style, and live in such a splendid house.

  He opened Harold's gate, and walked with a thankful heart into his own temporary abode.

  9. Trouble At Tullivers

  IT was soon apparent to the inhabitants of Thrush Green that young Jack Thomas departed from Tullivers each morning at eight o'clock. The shabby van took the road north towards Woodstock, and presumably from there he went to the estate office where he was employed.

  His wife Mary and the other two residents were not seen until much later in the morning. The more censorious of Thrush Green's housewives deplored the fact that only once had Mary been seen to shake the mats, and that was at eleven-thirty in the morning. As for the nameless pair with the motor bicycle, they seemed to be invisible most of the time, although Ella reported that she had seen them having coffee one morning in The Fuchsia Bush, and later had noticed their vehicle propped outside the Job Centre in Lulling High Street. Were they proposing to settle locally, people wondered?

  About a week after the fire, the peace of Thrush Green was shattered between eleven and twelve one starlit night, by the raucous sound of pop music and the throbbing of drums. Occasionally an ear-splitting shriek broke the rhythm, and above it all was the wailing of a nasal voice which might have been a woman's or a banshee's.

  The downstairs lights at Tullivers were still ablaze at that time, and the noise certainly came from that house. Ella Bern bridge, some hundred yards or more away, was wakened by the din, and so were Isobel and Harold Shoosmith, equally far away.

  'What the hell goes on?' muttered Harold, leaning out of his bedroom window. 'Thoughtless louts! They'll wake everyone at the Youngs' place, and I should think poor old Robert Bassett will be blown out of his bed at this rate.'

  Robert Bassett and his wife were the elderly parents of Joan Young. Their home, converted from stables in the Youngs' garden, was one of the nearest houses to Tullivers. He had been very ill, and it was natural that Harold should be concerned first with his old friend's position so close to this shocking noise.

  'I shall go and ring them,' said Harold firmly. Isobel heard him padding downstairs to the telephone.

  There was a long wait, and then he returned.

  'So much dam' racket going on they can't hear the bell,' he fumed. 'I've a good mind to ring the police.'

  'Wait a bit,' urged his wife. It will only make more to-do if the police come. It may stop soon.'

  'I doubt it,' said Harold grimly, but he shut the window, and got back into bed.

  He was not the only one to telephone to Tullivers. Edward Young, outraged on his father-in-law's behalf, also failed to get through, and as he was just out of a hot bath, he did not feel inclined to traipse across to Tullivers to remonstrate in person.

  Joan had been along to see her parents, and had found them quite cheerful and in bed. Philosophically, they had inserted the ear plugs which they always took with them when travelling, and they appeared less perturbed than their children.

  Winnie Bailey had contented herself with viewing Jeremy's sleeping form a
nd postponing complaints until morning. The cacophany ended about half past one. The lights went out at Tullivers. The residents at Thrush Green heaved sighs of relief, swore retribution at some more reasonable hour, and fell thankfully asleep.

  Only Winnie Bailey's Jenny remained wakeful, and she was seriously considering the geographical advantages of Percy Hodge's farm house, should she ever be invited to live there. There was now no doubt that Percy was seeking a second wife, and was being uncommonly attentive to her.

  Jenny, brought up in an orphanage and later a drudge - though a grateful one—to the two old people who had taken her in, could not help feeling touched by Percy's devotion. On the other hand, did she really want to marry at all?

  Life at Thrush Green with kind Winnie Bailey held all the happiness that she needed. Never had she enjoyed such luxury as her own small flat overlooking the green. Winnie's companionship was doubly precious because she had never known such warmth and generosity of spirit. And how good she had been to her in this last illness! And then she loved the house they shared. It was a joy to polish the lovely old furniture, to set the kitchen to rights, to shine the windows, the silver, the brass. The thought of leaving Winnie and the fine old home which they shared was insupportable.

  And yet—poor Percy! He certainly missed his Gertie, and he was a fine fellow still. She would be cared for if she threw in her lot with his, and did he not perhaps need her more desperately than Winnie did? Jenny's warm heart was smitten when she recalled the buttons missing from his jacket, and the worn shirt collar that needed turning. What a problem!

  St Andrew's church clock chimed four, and Jenny heaved a sigh. Best leave it all until later! She'd be fit for nothing if she didn't get a few hours' sleep, and tomorrow she had planned to turn out the larder.

  She pulled up the bedclothes, punched her feather pillow into shape, and was asleep in five minutes.

  Harold Shoosmith rang Tullivers at seven-thirty next morning to remonstrate with young Jack Thomas before he left for work. The young man was as profuse in his apologies as can be expected from someone at that hour, only partially dressed, and attempting to get his own breakfast. It wouldn't happen again. They would make sure that all the windows were shut, and the volume kept down, during future rehearsals.

  Before Harold had time to enquire further, the telephone went dead. Other residents rang later in the day but did not get quite as civil a response as Harold had received.

  Winnie Bailey decided to call in person during the evening when, she supposed, young Jack Thomas would be home and would have had a meal after his day's work.

  She found him sitting in the kitchen with Mary. As the motorcycle was not propped up near the front door, its usual resting-place, she imagined that the other couple were out.

  The Thomases looked very tired and young, and Winnie wondered if she were being unkind in complaining. But the thought of further troubled nights, the disturbance of her charge Jeremy, and all the other neighbours nearby, hardened her heart.

  They listened somewhat listlessly to her complaint. Even Jack's usual dazzling smile seemed dimmed, and he passed a hand over his hair as if bemused. As well he might be, thought Winnie tartly, after such a late night!

  'The fact is,' he said, when Winnie had finished speaking, Bill and Lottie are going through a bad patch, and we offered them shelter while we're here. I used to run this band, and Lottie was our vocalist. Bill's the drummer—well, tympanist altogether really. Cymbals, triangle, the lot. Quite handy.'

  'But can't he take it over? I mean, you seem to have a job of your own which must be quite demanding. I should have thought you needed your sleep as much as the rest of us.'

  'Well, the job doesn't bring in much bread, you know.'

  'Bread?'

  'Dough. Money,' translated Mary. 'If we can get an engagement now and again, it would help all four of us.'

  'I can quite see that,' said Winnie, 'and I am all in favour of earning extra money if you can. But not at the expense of your neighbours' well-being.'

  'Well, we have to practise,' said Mary. 'No one's going to take us on, unless we're competent.'

  'We honestly had no idea we were making so much noise,' protested Jack. 'I promise you we'll take more care in future. I can't say we'll stop entirely. We need the money, and Bill and Lottie are even more hard up than we are. At least, I've got a steady wage coming in. They're skint.'

  'They seem to have money for what they want,' commented Mary to her husband. She sounded very bitter, and Winnie suspected that she at least would be glad to see the back of her two fellow residents.

  'Well, I'll say no more,' said Winnie, rising. 'But for pity's sake spare Thrush Green any more nights like the last one. We're used to peace and quiet here after ten o'clock at night.'

  The four young people at Tullivers were definitely in their neighbours' bad books. Apart from those who had accosted them openly with their complaints, there were plenty who stopped to tell each other how severely they had been disturbed, and how reprehensible such thoughtless conduct was.

  'But there you are,' said Ella to Dotty as they shared a pot of coffee. 'Young things these days do exactly as they like. No respect for the older generation. No discipline, as we had.'

  'Well, I certainly got enough,' admitted Dotty. 'As you know, Father was a trifle strict with his family.'

  Ella privately considered this gentle censure as the understatement of the year. Tales of old Mr Harmer's punishments towards refractory pupils and his own children were enough to make even Ella blanch. The boys of his family had left home as soon as they could. Only Dotty had remained to look after her widower father in his old age, and a pretty thin time she had had, according to local gossip.

  'One thing, they won't be here much longer,' said Dotty comfortably.

  It was echoed, with some relief by Miss Watson to her assistant.

  'A temporary nuisance,' was her comment. I hear Mr Shoosmith and Mrs Bailey both complained the next morning, so I shall not bother to tell them how we feel about such behaviour. But if it happens again ' Here Dorothy stopped, with such a fierce headmistressy look, that even little Miss Fogerty trembled for anyone at Tullivers transgressing again.

  Mr Jones at The Two Pheasants gave his opinion that that lot at Tullivers must have been dragged up in the back streets of some modern Sodom or Gomorrha to behave so badly, and he didn't know what the Hursts would find - or wouldn't find - when they returned. Which, he added, couldn't be too soon for him, and his audience at the bar agreed heartily.

  Albert Piggott, nursing his half-pint of beer in the corner gave a highly-coloured account of how he was awakened by the din, and a further discourse, with repellent details, of what it had done to his stomach in the middle of the night.

  One listener, more squeamish than the rest, hastily changed the subject to the report of young Mr Venables' retirement, and this new topic engaged the attention of Mr Jones's clients until closing time.

  'Never be the same without him,' asserted Percy Hodge. 'Had a lovely way with him in court. Look how he got old Dotty off the hook when she run down that Cooke boy!'

  'Miss Harmer,' said the landlord reprovingly, never done it. That's why.'

  'That's as maybe,' replied Percy, undeterred by Mr Jones's rebuke. 'The point is a young chap like Mr Venables is going to be missed in Lulling. He spoke up for me something wonderful when the cows got out and some fool fellow came off his motorbike among 'em. Luckily they wasn't hurt.'

  'What about the fellow?' enquired a stranger from Nidden.

  'Oh, he broke a thigh and something in his back, I believe,' said Percy vaguely. 'Nothing much. They took him off to hospital, so he was all right. But my poor cows was upset for days.'

  The rector of Thrush Green had no hard feelings towards the young newcomers. Harold Shoosmith would have said, if asked, that Charles Henstock had no hard feelings against any one, which made him the unique and saintly creature that he was.

  As it happened, the affair
s of the noisy night had not disturbed him, or Dimity, at all. They had both been deep in the sleep of the thoroughly exhausted, having had few good nights since their own tragedy.

  So the rector's first pastoral visit to Tullivers was undertaken in happy mood. He felt rather ashamed, as he walked across the springy turf, that he had not called before, but so many pressing things in connection with the fire had engaged him, that he had found little time for his duties.

  As he crossed the grass, he admired the rooks, swirling and dipping around the tall trees towards Nod. Perhaps they were 'winding up the water' as the old country folk said, and there would be rain in the night after this calm and sunny evening.

  He purposely kept his eyes averted from the empty space where once his house had stood. He could not bear to look upon the gap. Would the church build him another house there? The ground belonged to it, of course. Or would that plot be sold, perhaps, and another home found for him?

  It was worrying not to know what might happen. Harold and Isobel were kindness itself, but he and Dimity could not stay indefinitely. As it happened, they were going tomorrow to see dear old Mrs Jenner along the Nidden road. He had heard that she had a flat to let. It would be conveniently placed for church and parish, and he felt sure that it would be approved as temporary accommodation.

  By now he was at Tullivers' front door, and even the unobservant rector could not help noticing that the late Admiral Trigg's massive brass knocker, in the shape of a dolphin, was tarnished as though it had been weeks since its last polishing.

  Jack Thomas opened the door and looked a little startled when he saw the parson's collar.

  'Oh, do come in,' he said, hastily remembering his manners. 'Mr Hendrick, isn't it?'

  'Henstock. Charles Henstock,' answered the rector. 'And I must apologise for being so tardy in making your acquaintance, but you know we've had a little trouble lately.'

  'We heard. Jolly tough luck. Did you lose much?'