(10/13) Friends at Thrush Green

by Read, Miss

  She was delighted now to see Nelly, and the kettle was put on at once for a cup of coffee. While it boiled, Nelly broached the purpose of her visit, and handed over the slip of paper bearing the Lesters' telephone number.

  'What are they like?' asked Gladys.

  'To tell the truth, I've never clapped eyes on her,' replied Nelly. 'But he's a nice enough chap. Good with the kids. I haven't heard anyone criticizing him yet, and that's saying something after all those years Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty were there.'

  Gladys nodded ruminatively. 'Well, I'm game,' she said at last. 'I keep the chapel clean these days, but I don't do much else. The money would come in handy too. I'll give them a ring later on.'

  The two ladies then turned their attention to other matters.

  'What's all this I hear about the Lovelocks pinching things?' enquired Gladys.

  Nelly, for all her love of a good gossip, had no intention of discussing this matter which so intimately concerned The Fuchsia Bush.

  'Don't know much about that,' she asserted, 'but is there any news of Doreen?'

  Thus diverted, Gladys imparted exciting news. Doreen, it seemed, had rung the next door neighbour and left a message.

  'And what was it?' asked Nelly, equally agog.

  'Just to say she was all right. Might be coming down sometime.'

  'But where is she? And who with? And is the little boy all right? Is she still with that fellow of hers?'

  Gladys responded to this spate of questions, with a sad shaking of the head.

  'She never said no more. Makes me wish I'd got the telephone myself. I could have found out more. The money run out evidently, and she just rang off.'

  'Well, that was bad luck,' said Nelly, with genuine sympathy. 'Still, you do know she's all right. Be nice to see her again, won't it?'

  'A mixed blessing, I expect,' replied Gladys. 'She's not turned out as I'd have hoped, brought up chapel too, and kept respectable. Makes you think, don't it?'

  The ladies sighed in unison.

  'Must be off,' said Nelly, getting up.

  'I'll come as far as the phone box with you,' said Gladys, picking up the slip of paper.

  'Can't you ring from next door?'

  'I could,' replied Gladys, 'but I don't want everyone knowing my business.'

  Nelly nodded her approval, and the two friends walked to the foot of the hill to Thrush Green and parted there by the telephone box.

  'Well,' murmured Nelly, as she puffed homeward, 'I suppose I've done my good deed for the day. And now for the washing-up.'

  It so happened that Charles Henstock saw the two women in the distance as he returned from a stroll by the river Pleshey. It was one of his favourite walks, and one which he always found himself undertaking when particularly perplexed in mind.

  There was something about running water which healed the spirit as surely as sleep did. For Charles Henstock, the company of the river was indeed: 'Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,' and he usually returned from it calmed and comforted.

  He sat by its side on a grassy bank, watching the secret life of the water creatures: a dragonfly alternately darted and hovered above the surface; while a water vole emerged from a hole on the opposite bank, fearless of the still figure so close, and paddled across, its hairy muzzle and bright eyes just clear of the water, leaving a wake behind it as neat as an arrow.

  Flies studded the glistening mud at the edge of the bank, and a trio of butterflies played among a patch of nettles. An ancient willow tree stretched a gnarled arm over the water, and a flycatcher sat, still and erect in between its rapid darts, to secure an unwary insect.

  Purple loosestrife and wild mint stirred in the light breeze, setting free the river smell, 'unforgettable, unforgotten' which brought back to the watcher on the bank a hundred memories of other loved rivers. Charles sat there for almost half an hour, letting the magic work its spell, and then he rose to return home.

  The sun was beginning to sink behind Lulling Woods, and midges hovered in gauzy clouds over the river. In an hour or so the owls would be out, and the bats and moths, all busy above the glimmering water in their search for food. The river creatures of day and night might be different, thought Charles, setting off for home, but the river was unchanged in its steady progress eastward and the music of its voice.

  Charles strode along the footpath until it emerged into the most westerly road of Lulling within a mile or two of the vicarage. He was calmer and more refreshed than when he had set out, but his mind was not entirely at ease.

  It was the plight of Violet Lovelock which worried him. He had kept his word and returned to see Bertha again, hoping that she might have faced the fact that she had been at fault, and determined to overcome her weakness.

  But his visit had been in vain, as he suspected it would be. Bertha was as evasive as ever, admitted nothing, was even more autocratic than was usual, and now that she was up and about appeared to be determined to go out as soon as possible.

  Violet had been unable to get Charles alone on that occasion, but cast him appealing looks which rent poor Charles's kind heart. Later, he had spoken to her on the telephone, urging her to call at the vicarage whenever she felt the need. She had sounded resigned and exhausted, which Charles found even harder to bear than her earlier agitation and tears, but there seemed little more that he could do.

  As he walked up the High Street of Lulling in the failing light, he came to the Lovelocks' house and paused. There were lights in the drawing-room. They were not very bright lights, to be sure, probably just one or two table lamps containing low-watt bulbs, just enough to give adequate light to the sisters' knitting or crossword puzzle.

  On impulse, Charles mounted the steps and knocked. Footsteps approached, and there was a rattle as the chain on the door was removed. Bolts were shot back, the door opened, and Violet stood silhouetted against the dim light of the hall.

  'Oh Charles!' she cried. 'How lovely to see you. Do come in.'

  Her two sisters fluttered to their feet as Charles came into the drawing-room, expressing delight and offering sherry or coffee.

  Charles declined and apologized for disturbing them.

  'The fact is,' he explained, 'I simply saw your lights on and couldn't resist calling to see you.'

  'How very kind,' said Ada.

  'Very kind,' echoed Bertha.

  The room seemed stuffy and chilly at the same time, but Charles told himself that it was probably his own walk in the fresh air that made this present situation so enervating in contrast.

  The usual polite enquiries were exchanged about health, gardens and the like, until Bertha announced with some pride:

  'Tomorrow I am taking Ada and Violet to lunch at The Fuchsia Bush.'

  There was a gasp from Violet, and a puzzled look from Ada; it was quite apparent that this was the first they had heard of it.

  'Are you sure, dear?' enquired Ada.

  'I had prepared a little chicken in a casserole,' said Violet.

  'No, no!' said Bertha, with some vehemence. 'I particularly want to go next door tomorrow.'

  There was a pause.

  'Very well,' said Violet at last. 'I'm sure we should all enjoy it.'

  'I must be off,' said Charles. 'Dimity will wonder where I am. So good to see you looking so well.'

  Violet accompanied him to the front door. 'One moment,' she whispered. 'I will walk part of the way with you.'

  She returned to the drawing-room briefly, and then joined Charles. He was surprised to see that she did not put on a hat or gloves, as was her wont, but simply drew on a jacket which was hanging in the hall. Charles helped to arrange it round her skinny shoulders, and they descended the steps into the deserted street.

  'I felt I must have a word with you,' began Violet, as they set off towards the vicarage. 'You have been such a support through this awful time, and 1 just wanted you to know that I am feeling so much better about the whole affair.'

  'Is she over it? Faced thing
s? Or has John Lovell seen her?'

  'No, no, nothing like that. She still refuses to admit anything, but I have made up my mind that we can only do so much and no more. It's I who have faced things, Charles.'

  She slowed to a stop. It was now almost dark. Moths fluttered around one of the street lamps which were beginning to come into light along the High Street. A black-and-white cat trotted purposefully under the shadow of the shop fronts, intent on its nightly business. In a nearby front garden, the night-scented stocks sent out a heady perfume.

  'I shall keep a sharp eye on Bertha, and accompany her whenever she goes out. Luckily, I don't think she is able to slip away unnoticed. And if she transfers any more things to her bedroom, I shall simply ignore it.'

  'Has she said any more about the will?'

  'Not a thing. But I am quite prepared to have a private word with Justin if she broaches the subject again.'

  'I don't think you can do more at this stage,' agreed Charles, 'and I must say I am so relieved to hear that you feel that you can cope with her.'

  'What else can we do? She is my sister, and I am devoted to her, infuriating though she is at the moment. I know I can ask you for help, and if need be I can speak to Justin and John Lovell. Meanwhile, I live in hope that she will come to her senses.'

  She gave a sudden shiver.

  'You are getting cold,' said Charles anxiously. 'The wind is quite chilly. I think you should go back, and I will come with you to the door.'

  'No, no, indeed! It is only a few steps, and I shall hurry back. But I wanted to tell you how things are. No better really for Bertha, but much more settled for me.'

  'Call on me if ever you are worried,' replied Charles, and watched her scurry back to her home.

  Later that evening he told Dimity about his visit to the Lovelocks' establishment.

  'You are not still worrying about Bertha's little weakness?' said his wife. 'It is general knowledge, you know, and most people are very understanding about it.'

  'I hadn't quite realized,' replied Charles, somewhat taken aback, 'that the Lovelocks' affairs were generally known.'

  'Good heavens, Charles,' cried Dimity, 'you've lived in Lulling long enough to know how news gets about! All that I bother about is seeing you so worried. I suppose poor Violet has been unburdening herself to you!'

  'I'm truly sorry I've been a worry to you,' said Charles. 'I should have realized that you are ever-watchful. But I really think that things will be easier now in that unhappy household.'

  He told her a little of Violet's attitude, and of her reaction to Bertha's strange ways.

  'It certainly sounds more hopeful,' said Dimity, folding up her sewing in preparation for bed time. 'Now I shall get a hot drink. You look tired and cold, as well you might with the Lovelocks' burdens upon you.'

  She kissed the top of his shiny bald head as she passed his chair on the way to the vicarage kitchen, and wondered if his parishioners really knew how completely he lived for them.

  8. Term Begins

  GLADYS Lilly had performed her cleaning task at the school house with exceptional zeal and speed, and Thrush Green was pleased to see a large removal van draw up at the Lesters' gate one morning.

  'They've got a lovely sofa,' Jenny told Winnie Bailey as they made the beds together. She was standing at the window, plumping up a pillow as she gazed across the green. 'Like my old folks had, only their springs had gone. And I wonder what's in them crates?'

  'Jenny, do come on! I've left the gammon boiling, and it will be all over the stove.'

  Jenny wrenched her attention from the Lesters' affairs, and returned to the bed-making reluctantly.

  'I wonder what they'll find missing at the end of the day,' she remarked, as she tucked in sheets in an efficient hospital corners' way. 'It's usually something small like the tea strainer, or the washing-up brush.'

  'Bound to be something vital,' agreed Winnie.

  Of course the rest of Thrush Green was equally enthralled by the Lesters' arrival. Joan Young and her husband Edward reminded each other of the upheaval they had experienced when settling Joan's parents into their new abode.

  Muriel Fuller, sorting out material with Ella Bembridge, told her of the horrors she had endured when it came to packing up her old school's property, and her own personal belongings as well.

  'It's not so much what you want to keep,' she said, 'as what you simply have to throw away. I nearly had a nervous breakdown. Doctor Lovell was so understanding. He said I'd been living with my nerves for years.'

  'You wouldn't be much use without them,' said Ella bluntly, and Muriel withdrew into affronted silence.

  Isobel Shoosmith, the soul of hospitality, would have liked to ask the Lesters for morning coffee, but in view of Harold's earlier remarks about doing too much for their new neighbours decided to leave any invitations until later in the day. It was possible, she thought, that Harold himself might make overtures over the hedge.

  But the most concentrated attention came from Albert Piggott who had taken up a strategic position in the churchyard. Ostensibly, he was weeding round the edges of the plot, and had a bucket beside him in which he occasionally deposited a handful of grass, chickweed or groundsel. The more virulent intruders such as young brambles, stinging nettles and the like, Albert ignored. Young Cooke could get on with those—what was he paid for?

  Albert noted a nice plain green carpet going in, followed by a set of book cases and two upholstered arm chairs. Getting the sitting-room done first, thought Albert with approval. They'd need a good rest this evening. A number of tea chests were carried in next; they clanked rather noisily, and Albert surmised that they held kitchen equipment.

  He moved round inside the churchyard wall to get a better view, just in time to see a single divan bed being hoisted from the pantechnicon. Now would that be for one of the children or for the master or his wife? Albert watched closely from behind a tombstone erected to 'Ezekiel West 1798–1860, Beloved By All' (an assertion which Albert had always considered unduly optimistic) and was rewarded by seeing three more single divans following the first.

  Albert considered this to be a very sensible arrangement. He and Nelly had separate beds, in fact they had separate rooms, and Albert appreciated it. Nelly snored, although she hotly denied it.

  Having satisfied himself about the sleeping arrangements, Albert left Ezekiel West's resting place, and shifted to 'Patience Wellworth, Devoted Wife and Mother' whose dates of birth and death were obscured by some tendrils of ivy which Albert had no intention of removing. Resting his arms on the top of Patience's granite cross, he observed with pleasure that the landlord of The Two Pheasants was opening his doors.

  At the same moment, he became conscious of a large object being manhandled through the school house's front door, to the accompaniment of warning shouts. It was a large double bed, and Albert's conjectures were now thrown into confusion.

  He put down his half empty bucket and sought solace in the pub.

  Betty Bell, returning from her labours at the Shoosmiths' that morning, called to see Dotty Harmer on her way home. As well as her regular visits to that house, Betty often 'popped in', as she said, to keep an eye on the old lady, although this was not so vital now that Kit and Connie were there to look after their eccentric relation.

  Dotty was busy trying to rake dead leaves from the surface of her little pond. She was not being very successful, and the half-dozen displaced ducks were squatting moodily nearby, occasionally giving a protesting quack.

  She abandoned her task and motioned Betty to the garden seat, taking her place beside her. Betty was not surprised to see that Dotty's shoes and stockings were soaking wet, and that she had a streak of mud on one cheek.

  'I'd let Mr Kit do that job,' said Betty. 'It's too much for you. And you ought to get your shoes off. Catch your death, you will.'

  'Don't fuss, Betty,' responded Dotty, 'you're as bad as Connie. A little dampness never hurt anyone. After all, we are three parts water I beli
eve, and originally evolved from water creatures.'

  'Some time ago,' Betty pointed out reasonably. 'You on your own?'

  'Kit and Connie are getting back for lunch,' said Dotty. 'Which reminds me, I'm supposed to turn on the oven.'

  'Well, let's go and see to it,' said Betty, used to Dotty's vague ways, 'and I'm going to see you take off them wet shoes, and give you a cup of coffee. I don't suppose you've had any?'

  'Well, no,' admitted Dotty, 'I've been rather busy.'

  Betty shepherded the old lady into the kitchen, peered into the oven, turned it on, and then filled the kettle. Within ten minutes, Dotty's stockings and shoes were removed and replaced with dry ones, and the coffee was made.

  'Is this the milk?' queried Betty, sniffing at a small jug. 'Smells a bit off to me.'

  'Oh, that will do, dear. I really don't mind it slightly cheesy. After all, the Tibetans always use rancid milk in their tea—and jab's milk at that.'

  'I think I'll have mine black,' said Betty, and the two settled happily at the kitchen table for ten minutes' gossip about the newcomers to Thrush Green.

  It so happened that Isobel saw nothing of her neighbours for several days as she and Harold had an unexpected invitation to have a few days with friends in Wales.

  On their return, Isobel rang the Lesters to enquire how things were going. Alan answered the telephone.

  'We're settling in nicely,' he said cheerfully. 'We shall be pretty straight indoors before term starts next week.'

  'That's good,' replied Isobel, 'and how's the building getting on?'

  'Far too slowly, but I'm not sorry really as poor Margaret is under the weather again.'