(5/13) Return to Thrush Green Page 9

  ***

  The golden May day ended in a blazing sunset. The rooks flew home to Lulling Woods, and children pleaded to stay up to play.

  The bronze statue of Nathaniel Patten on Thrush Green caught the last of the light, glinting like gold. Lilac, narcissi and early stocks breathed out a heady fragrance, and all was at peace.

  Two miles away, a tram drew out of Lulling Station. Only one passenger had alighted, and the ticket collector tried to hide his amazement as he took the ticket in his hand...

  No words were exchanged, but he watched the traveller out of sight with the greatest excitement.

  Purposefully, the large figure waddled towards the town. In one hand it carried a case. In the other, a handbag and a bag of groceries.

  For better or for worse, Nelly Piggott was returning to Thrush Green.

  10. Ella's Party

  FOR little Miss Fogerty, the arrival of her friend Isobel spelt happy excitement.

  Modest and retiring by nature, the very fact that she was immured in the classroom all day, and that her lodgings were a little way from the centre of Thrush Green, meant that she had made few friends in the neighbourhood.

  Be civil to all,

  But familiar with few,

  was a precept hung upon the shop wall of her father, the shoemaker. It certainly summed up his attitude to his customers and to his chapel acquaintances. There was little entertaining done. It was not only that money was short. It was an inherent timidity which restrained the shoemaker from giving cause for comment or ridicule. He was a great one for 'keeping himself to himself, and Agnes took after him.

  The inhabitants of Thrush Green were fond of her. Many of them remembered her from their schooldays, and always with affection and respect. But Agnes Fogerty was not the sort of person in whom one could confide-or, for that matter, in whom one could arouse laughter or rage. Always kind, always ladylike, shiningly honest and conscientious, these very attributes seemed to surround her with an invisible guard which no one had completely penetrated.

  Except Isobel. Perhaps it was because they had first met when they were both young and vulnerable, thrown together in the alien world of college, and grateful for the common memories of their Cotswold background. This friendship had survived the years, the changes of fortune and the many miles between them.

  To Isobel it was a source of comfort and quiet pleasure. To Agnes it was much more. She never ceased to wonder that Isobel, so much cleverer, so much more beautiful, so much more prosperous, could still enjoy her own, limited company. Their friendship was an inspiration to the quiet school teacher, and did much to mitigate the fact that she had so few friends at Thrush Green.

  Of course, she counted her headmistress, Miss Watson, as a friend, and was glad to hear her confidences and hopes. In times of stress, Agnes knew that she had been of real help, and the thought warmed her. But that inherent timidity, inculcated by her father, made her careful of overstepping the bounds of propriety.

  Miss Watson was The Head. She was An Assistant. Nothing could alter those two facts, and Agnes was careful to keep a certain distance between them, as was only right and proper. Although, sometimes, she had a pang of regret.

  It seemed so silly that two grown women, both single, both lonely at times, should not become closer in friendship. And yet, any overtures must, of course, come from Miss Watson. It would look pushing if she herself made the running.

  Miss Fogerty remembered how much she had enjoyed being of use to Miss Watson on one or two occasions when accident or ill-health had indisposed her headmistress. She was always so grateful for any little kindnesses done, thought Agnes, and for this generosity of spirit it was worth ignoring the minor pinpricks which daily companionship sometimes brought, such as the wounding words on the recent occasion of the leaking fish tank. Perhaps she was over-sensitive about these things? Or perhaps she was getting prickly in her old age?

  Well, whatever the cause, the fact that Isobel was in Thrush Green for a week, wiped out any unhappy feelings. For the next few days she intended to see her old friend as often as her duties would allow.

  The May sunshine which warmed Thrush Green only increased the inner glow of little Miss Fogerty's heart. An invitation to drinks from Ella was 'accepted with the greatest pleasure' and, in this case, with perfect truth.

  Robert Bassett's returning strength was noted with much relief at Thrush Green. Already he had spent an evening playing bridge at Winnie Bailey's in the company of his wife, the Hursts who lived next door at Tullivers, and Charles and Dimity Henstock.

  His daily walk grew a little longer, and he began to plan a walk downhill to Lulling in the near future.

  Joan and Ruth and his son-in-law Doctor Lovell were beginning to congratulate themselves upon the patient's well-being when something happened to jog them out of their complacency.

  Robert had gone out on his own along the quiet lane to Nod and Nidden. Milly was going to catch him up, but a phone call delayed her, and it was some ten minutes later that she left the house.

  To her horror, she discovered her husband flat on his face, his head upon the grass verge, and his legs in the road. His breathing was laboured, his lips blue, and his hands were cold.

  She whipped off her jacket and flung it over the prostrate form, and luckily, at that moment, Willie Bond the postman, came along on his bicycle.

  'Lor!' was his comment. 'Has he croaked?'

  'Of course not!' retorted Milly, with understandable asperity. 'Could you run to the Youngs' and get help, Willie?'

  'Ah! That I will,' responded Willie, throwing a fat leg over the saddle with maddening slowness.

  He pedalled off, and Milly felt in her husband's waistcoat pocket for the magic tablets which Doctor Lovell had prescribed. She could not find them, and had to content herself with chafing the cold hands, and putting a scarf under her husband's head.

  A minute later, Joan arrived, flushed with anxiety.

  'John's on his way with the car,' she said. 'Luckily, he was still in the surgery.'

  Robert's eyelids began to flicker, and he attempted to lift his head.

  'I'm all right,' he murmured. 'I'm all right. I'm all right. I'm all right.'

  But the two anxious women knew that he was not, and saw with relief that Doctor Lovell's car was approaching.

  Within twenty minutes Robert Bassett was back in bed, and the hopes of all had plummeted.

  ***

  The inhabitants of Thrush Green were united in their sadness when the news broke. But prognostications of what might happen differed, of course.

  Betty Bell told Harold Shoosmith that her uncle went just the same way. First time, recovered. Second, snuffed out!

  Albert Piggott was of the opinion that a new heart put in might be the answer. Why, that chap in South Africa—Christine Someone, wasn't it?-had put a whole hatful of hearts in dozens of poor souls like Mr Bassett. To his mind, it was worth trying. He only wished this Doctor Christine did lungs as well. Pity he lived such a long way off.

  Dotty Harmer told Dimity Henstock that she feared that Robert Bassett had eaten far too much animal fat during his life, and this was the consequence.

  'I tried, time and time again, to wean him on to a vegetable diet, but with no success,' sighed Dotty. 'Men are very obstinate.'

  Naturally, it was a subject of general interest at Ella's small party.

  Miss Fogerty had dressed with care. As chief visitor's friend she felt that she owed it to Isobel to appear in her best. She wore a brown silk frock with a small ivory-coloured lace modesty vest let into the front, and her mother's cornelian brooch. She had spent some time trying to decide if her seed pearls could be worn as well, but a horror of being overdressed decided her against them. The brooch was quite enough.

  As the weather was so dry and warm it was unnecessary to wear a coat, but Miss Fogerty folded an Indian shawl and put it prudently in her brown leather handbag. It might be chilly later.

  She set out from her lodging
s in innocent excitement. Outings were rare occasions, and to be the acknowledged close friend of dear Isobel, among her Thrush Green neighbours, meant a great deal to Agnes.

  The Henstocks, Winnie Bailey and the Hursts were already there when she knocked timidly at Ella's front door. Isobel came forward to kiss her, and the assembled company greeted her warmly.

  'Now, what's it to be?' enquired Ella. She was dispensing drinks with her usual forthright confidence. Some women would have delegated the job to one of the men, but not Ella.

  'Tio Pepe? Or a sweet sherry? Gin and lime? Gin and tonic? Dubonnet? Or I've tomato juice and pineapple juice if you like the soft stuff.'

  'The dry sherry, please,' said Miss Fogerty. Her dear father had approved of a little dry sherry, she remembered, and despised those who preferred a fruitier variety. Not that sherry had played much part in the shoemaker's house. At Christmas time there might be a bottle of sherry in the cupboard, but it was certainly looked upon as a luxury.

  'Can't think what's happened to Dotty,' said Ella. 'Anyone seen her?'

  'She was picking greenstuff for the rabbits,' said Winnie. 'I noticed her when I called to see if I could do anything for the Bassetts.'

  'Hope she hasn't forgotten,' said Ella. 'And how was poor old Robert?'

  'In bed, resting. I didn't go up. He seems to be sleeping quite a bit.'

  'It's too bad, after the marvellous progress he was making,' said Dimity. 'I do hope he won't try to get back to that business of his. Time he retired.'

  'I agree,' said Charles. 'I take it that the Youngs won't be coming here this evening?'

  'No, they cried off,' said Ella.

  'Coo-ee!' called a voice.

  'Dotty!' exclaimed Ella, hurrying to the door.

  They heard voices and footsteps, and in came Dotty, accompanied by Harold Shoosmith.

  'We thought you might have forgotten,' said Dimity.

  'Good heavens, no!' replied Dotty. 'Why, I went up to change a full hour ago.'

  'My fault entirely,' broke in Harold. 'I waylaid her, and took her to see my tulips. Just showing off really.'

  'Well, come and meet Isobel Fletcher,' said Ella, leading him across to the room.

  Harold found himself standing in front of an extremely pretty woman. There was a gentle serenity and poise about her which immediately appealed to him.

  'How do you do?' said Isobel holding out her hand, and as Harold held it, he was suddenly reminded of something which he had read recently. Ellen Terry, if he remembered aright, had talked of 'a holy palmer's kiss, a sympathy of the skin', when some hands met in a clasp. For the first time, he was conscious of it, and was strangely stirred.

  They talked of Thrush Green, and of her efforts to find a home nearby.

  'I used Williams and Frobisher,' Harold told her, 'when I was seeking a house here. I'd tried four or five other estate agents, but they would keep sending me details of derelict oast-houses and windmills, or manor houses with twenty-two bedrooms and no bath, until I was nearly driven insane. I must say Williams and Frobisher were much more practical.'

  'I'll try them tomorrow,' promised Isobel. 'And now I see Ella beckoning to me, so you must excuse me.'

  She made her way towards her hostess, and Charles Henstock took her place at Harold's side. If his old friend appeared slightly bemused, the good rector was not conscious of it.

  'An excellent party. Ella is so good at this sort of thing, and I always enjoy coming to this house. Something very snug about a low ceiling. The rectory could do with the ceilings lowered by a yard or so. But how would one begin?'

  'That's beyond me,' confessed Harold. 'Tell me, how long is Miss Fletcher staying?'

  'Mrs Fletcher, Harold.'

  'Oh, I'm afraid I didn't catch that when we were introduced.'

  'I never catch anyone's name,' admitted the rector. 'It is a great disability, particularly if one is a parson.'

  Harold was looking thoughtful.

  'Are you feeling all right?' asked the rector. 'Not finding the room too warm?'

  'No, no!' said Harold. 'I'm quite well. An excellent party, as you say. Is Mrs Fletcher's husband here somewhere?'

  The rector's chubby face grew sad.

  'I am sorry to say that he died last year. A great blow for dear Isobel. They were a devoted couple. It's one of the reasons for the move, I gather. Her present house is really too big now.'

  Despite the melancholy news of Isobel's husband's demise, Harold's spirits appeared to revive at once.

  'More sherry?' asked Ella, swimming into their ken.

  'Thank you, thank you,' said Harold heartily, proffering his glass.

  Across the green, as dusk fell, and the lights began to shine from cottage windows, Joan Young and her husband were looking ahead.

  Upstairs, Robert Bassett slept fitfully, with Milly sitting in an armchair beside him. Her hands were busy with knitting, her mind busy with plans for the future.

  John Lovell, her doctor son-in-law, knew her good sense and had answered her questions honestly. It would be best to face retirement now, to wind up the business, and to find an easily run place near the family at Thrush Green, he had said.

  'Would you want to come back to this house?' he asked. 'It's lovely, I know, and it's Robert's, but you'd need resident help, wouldn't you? Have you and Robert ever discussed it?'

  'Only very lightly,' admitted Milly. 'We've always had the idea of coming back here to end our days—'

  Her mouth quivered suddenly, and she looked down quickly.

  John patted her shoulder.

  'Don't upset yourself. He's got a good few years yet, you know, if he takes care. We'll work out something together.'

  Downstairs, Edward was putting forward a suggestion or two.

  'I've been thinking about this for some time. Ever since we had a good look at the stables the other day. They would convert into a beautiful little house of one or two floors, ideal for the parents.'

  'But this house is theirs!' protested Joan. 'We're the ones who should move out!'

  'I agree absolutely,' said Edward, 'but it would have to be altered. The ground floor would make a splendid flat for them, and we could move up to the first floor and open up the attics for bedrooms, if that would suit everyone better than the stable plan.'

  'Would it cost the earth?'

  'Well, the architect's fees won't need to be found,' said Edward, smiling, 'and I'm sure we could get a loan for this work. After all, we're thinking of providing homes for two families, aren't we?'

  Joan looked at him with affection.

  'You've been thinking about this for a long time, haven't you?'

  'For years,' confessed Edward. 'I've been longing to convert the stables for some time now, and this seems to be the moment to have a go.'

  'We can't do anything until Father's over this attack,' said Joan. 'But we'll have a word with Mother in a day or two, just to prepare the ground. I must say, I should be much happier if they were under our eye. They've been so good to us always.'

  'Well, it's their choice, of course. All this is theirs, and, if need be, we must go house-hunting ourselves.'

  'Somehow,' said Joan, 'I don't think it will come to that.'

  Agnes Fogerty had been invited to supper after the guests had gone, and very enjoyable she had found this meal.

  Afterwards, the three women washed up and between them achieved a degree of unusual tidiness in Ella's kitchen.

  That done, Isobel accompanied Miss Fogerty along the road to her home. The air was soft and balmy, auguring well for another beautiful spring day on the morrow.

  'No, I won't come in,' Isobel replied in answer to Agnes's invitation. 'I know you've things to get ready for school tomorrow, and I must get back to Ella's.'

  They parted affectionately at Agnes's gate, and Isobel retraced her steps.

  How snug it all looked at Thrush Green, she thought! The houses sat as comfortably as cats before a fire. If only she were lucky enough to find one before l
ong!

  Well, tomorrow she would go to see Williams and Frobisher, as recommended by that nice sensible man who lived across the green.

  She looked at his house now, a secure bulk dimly visible against the night sky. In a downstairs window, a reading lamp was alight. It looked as though he might be happily settled in there.

  She only hoped that she might be as lucky with Williams and Frobisher as he had been, Isobel thought, as she opened Ella's gate.

  11. Village Gossip

  AS Nelly Piggott (née Tilling) plodded along Lulling High Street from the station, she looked ahead, with some trepidation, to the kind of welcome she might expect from her husband, Albert.

  She had parted from him after a fierce quarrel, but this was only the culmination of weeks of disgust with Albert. He was mean, he was dirty, he was bad-tempered. He drank, he grumbled, he swore. Why she had ever married him, Nelly wondered, shifting her case to the other hand, heaven alone knew.

  Well, to be honest, she admitted to herself, she did know. She needed a home. Her own cottage had been sold by the owner, and she had turned down those on offer at the time. Ted and Bessie Allen at the Drovers' Arms at Lulling Woods, had put her up for a few weeks, and she had enjoyed scrubbing out the bar for them.

  But a woman needs a place of her own, and Lulling Woods was too quiet for Nelly's taste. Thrush Green seemed just the right setting for a woman of Nelly's sociable habits. The fact that the village school needed a cleaner, just at that time, was another advantage.

  And then there was Albert Piggott. Or rather, Albert Piggott's cottage. It was handy for the school, and the bus to Lulling, and looked out on the green where there was always something going on.

  Moreover, the cottage was filthy, and Nelly longed to get at it with plenty of hot water, soap and a stout scrubbingbrush. It was a challenge. Dirt was always a challenge to Nelly, and she responded to this one with energy and courage. Within a week the place was transformed, and looking back upon those early days Nelly realised she had been happy, not because of Albert, but because of the satisfaction of cleaning his house.