Christmas At Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  Dimity was smiling, and Charles knew she was joking. ‘I’m sure, too. All I ask is that my study remains my sanctuary.’

  The next morning, Dimity took up a tray of tea and toast and marmalade. ‘Ella, I’ll leave this tray with breakfast outside. Do have something. It’s not good for you not to eat.’

  There was silence and, worried that Ella might have done something extremely silly, Dimity persisted. ‘Ella, are you all right? Just answer and then I’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ came Ella’s voice and, much relieved, Dimity left the tray and returned downstairs. She was very worried about her old friend, but felt it was better that she should sort out her mind in her own way.

  Ella emerged from her room at about twelve-thirty. She appeared in the kitchen just as Dimity was wondering whether to make lunch for one or two; Charles was out and about in the parish and said he’d be back around teatime.

  ‘Hello, it’s me,’ said Ella from the doorway, making Dimity jump. ‘Any chance of some lunch?’

  Dimity crossed the kitchen and gave Ella a great big hug. ‘Of course, my dear. You must be starving. Would some of Sunday’s lamb be all right, with salad? I put in two baked potatoes and they’ll be ready in five minutes.’

  ‘That sounds just what the doctor ordered,’ said Ella, and then laughed. ‘Or, anyway, Mr Cobbold.’

  Ella seemed ready to talk once the two women were sitting companionably at the kitchen table, Dimity having cut up the lamb on Ella’s plate into small pieces.

  ‘Much as I hate the idea,’ Ella said, ‘Mr Cobbold advised me that it would be sensible for me to leave the cottage sooner rather than later.’ She paused, then took a deep breath and continued: ‘And in that case I’ve decided it may as well be now. I know that if I go back, once my wrist is mended, I’d find it impossible to leave. Also, I’ll still be able to see enough to choose what to take with me - wherever that might be.’

  ‘You must do what you think best,’ Dimity said. ‘Go where your heart leads you.’

  Ella gave her bark of a laugh. ‘Heart doesn’t come into it, I’m afraid. It’s got to be my head, my brains.’ She paused while she speared another piece of meat then continued: ‘Mr Cobbold is going to put me in touch with a help group, but that won’t be until the New Year.’

  ‘And in the long term?’ Dimity ventured gently.

  ‘Ah, the long term. Well, I suppose it will be a home of some sort. Mr Cobbold said there are places that aren’t just full of senile people, dozing and dribbling their days away. He’ll let me have a list.’

  Ella’s voice trailed away, and Dimity knew just how much effort she was making to be positive. She almost, then and there, asked Ella if she would move into the vicarage with them, but stopped herself in time. She and Charles had agreed to speak to her together.

  Instead she said, ‘If you like, when you get the list, we could go and look at the places together.’

  ‘Thanks, Dim, I’d like that. Now, is there any of that delicious Stilton left?’

  That evening, Tuesday, 30 December, was no different from any other for Albert Piggott. Nelly had returned from The Fuchsia Bush at the usual time, and had given her surly husband a plate of cottage pie and carrots.

  ‘What, no puddin’?’ he’d grumbled.

  ‘You know it’s me Bingo night,’ replied Nelly, peering at her face in the little mirror propped on the dresser shelf. ‘There’s some Cheddar in the fridge you can fill up on. Or have some crisps with your beer when you goes over to the pub.’

  ‘I’m not minded to go over tonight,’ Albert said, rummaging in the fridge. ‘It’s me last day tomorrer and I think I’d best ’ave an early night.’

  ‘You must be ill, Albert Piggott!’ Nelly exclaimed. ‘Not goin’ to the pub indeed!’

  ‘Well, perhaps a swift ’alf then, when I’ve finished me supper.’

  ‘I’ll be off,’ Nelly said. ‘I’ll be back about ten, so don’t lock me out.’

  Albert didn’t answer. He was carving himself a great chunk of cheese as Nelly left. But instead of crossing the green to walk down the hill to Lulling, Nelly turned in the opposite direction and headed for The Two Pheasants.

  Twenty minutes later, Albert pushed open the door of his home-from-home and, as his ancient arthriticky body came into the bar, there were cries of ‘Happy Retirement’. He stood there, swaying gently, looking at the scene in front of him.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ said Molly, and came forward to give his bristly cheek a peck of a kiss.

  ‘What you doin’ ’ere, gal?’ Albert gazed round. There was Nelly, not at Bingo but perched on a bar stool with what looked like a large gin and tonic in her hand. There were the Hodges, Percy grinning inanely. His other drinking cronies were all gathering round - Joe, George Bell with his wife, Betty, and half a dozen others.

  ‘Blimey, what a surprise!’ he said, pushing back his cap and scratching at his thinning grey hair. ‘Is this for me?’

  ‘Yes, all for you!’ they chorused back.

  ‘But what about the party I arranged for Thursday evenin’? You, Bob,’ he said, shaking a fist at the landlord, ‘you said the room were already taken tonight.’

  ‘That was no lie,’ said Bob Jones. ‘It had already been booked by Mr Shoosmith for this party.’

  ‘Well I never!’ said Albert, shaking his head.

  Then Harold, who had been standing to one side, came forward and shook Albert’s hand. ‘We couldn’t let you retire without giving you a party. Now, what are you having?’

  ‘Ah well, now you’re talkin’,’ said Albert, moving towards the bar. ‘A pint of me usual, Bob - and make it a big pint!’ He turned to Cyril Cooke perched on a bar stool next to Nelly. ‘Off with you, that’s my seat!’ and the lad slid off without a word.

  Bob Jones pushed a pint of frothing ale across the counter. They all watched as Albert picked it up, toasted the air, ‘To me retirement!’ and then drank long and deep. When he banged the tankard down on the counter, half the pint had been consumed and Albert was left with a frothy moustache across his upper lip. This he wiped with the back of his hand that he then wiped down the side of his trousers.

  ‘Albert!’ chided Nelly. ‘Manners!’

  ‘A drink for everyone, please, Mr Jones,’ called Harold, ‘I’m paying for this round.’

  There was a flurry as those with already full glasses quickly downed the contents. From somewhere behind Percy Hodge came a rather loud hiccup. It was Mrs Gibbons, one of the members of the PCC, who had turned out to wish Albert a happy retirement. ‘Dear me, dear me,’ she spluttered genteelly into a lace handkerchief, but then put her empty glass on the bar with the rest.

  When everyone had a full glass, Harold made a short speech and presented Albert with a little carriage clock. ‘From the PCC, for everything you’ve done for St Andrew’s over the past heaven only knows how many years.’

  Albert was totally overcome, so much so that he told the landlord to stand by since the next round would be on him.

  ‘Wonders will never cease,’ remarked Percy Hodge to Betty Bell. ‘That’ll be the first time the ol’ booger ’as ever dipped ’is ’and in ’is pocket for so many people.’

  ‘I ’eard that, Percy ’Odge. Enjoy it while you can cos it’ll be the last time an’ all.’

  Charles Henstock had telephoned Harold during the afternoon, and briefly told him about Ella and what the specialist had said. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his and Dimity’s plan, but he excused himself from Albert’s party, saying that things were a bit difficult at home, and he thought he should stay to support Dimity.

  ‘I quite understand, old chap. We’ll manage without you. Give my love to Dimity.’

  After supper that evening, Charles stoked the fire so it blazed in the grate, and then got some port glasses from the dining-room, along with the bottle of port Ella had given him for Christmas.

  ‘This really is a most excellent bottle, Ella. I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying
it. Can I give you a glass?’

  ‘Thanks, Charles, I most certainly will.’

  Charles poured out three glasses, and put one by Dimity’s chair, and handed one to Ella. Then he sat himself in his armchair on one side of the fire but didn’t pick up his book to read as he usually did.

  Dimity came in with a tray of coffee cups, and handed them round.

  ‘Where’s that box of chocolate-covered ginger?’ asked Ella. ‘The one that Harold and Isobel gave me.’

  Dimity found it and handed it round before she, too, sat down on the other side of the fire.

  Ella gave a long, contented sigh. ‘If it weren’t for this wretched wrist, this would be nearly perfect.’ She stretched out her large legs towards the fire.

  ‘Nearly perfect?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Perfection would be a ciggy, of course! Do you know, it’s thirty-six hours since I had my last one. And so far, touch wood, I haven’t really missed them. That damn specialist gave me such a rollicking about smoking that it really does seem that I mustn’t smoke again.’

  ‘Poor Ella,’ said Dimity with feeling. She had lived with Ella long enough to know how much those pungent cigarettes had meant to her.

  ‘I’ll have to find something else to do to compensate,’ said Ella, scrabbling in the box for another chocolate and then leaning forward to pass them to Charles. ‘Singing, perhaps.’

  ‘Singing?’ Dimity said, horrified. ‘But you can’t sing a note. Totally out of tune.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I should learn.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re a bit too old to have singing lessons, my dear?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Well, if not singing, then something else. What do blind people do all day in those old folk’s homes?’

  Neither Charles nor Dimity answered that, and there was silence for a few moments. Then Charles cleared his throat.

  ‘Ella, my dear . . .’

  Ella slanted her head towards him, presumably so she could see him with her peripheral vision.

  ‘Charles.’

  ‘Ella, my dear,’ Charles repeated, ‘Dim and I have been talking.’

  ‘Well done!’ Ella quipped.

  ‘Shush, listen,’ said Dimity. ‘Listen to Charles for a moment.’

  ‘Dim and I would very much like you to come and live with us here at the vicarage. Full-time, not just for now. We’ve plenty of space here. It will just mean changing the rooms round a bit. You can have all the independence you want, but we suggest you eat with us.’

  ‘And it would be so easy for you here, almost in the middle of Lulling. Quiet, yet just five minutes from the High Street,’ added Dimity.

  ‘What?’ spluttered Ella, unable to take this in. ‘Here? Permanently? Not go into a home?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dimity and Charles both said together, then Dimity added, ‘We’d love to have you here with us.’

  For a moment, no one spoke. The clock ticking on the mantelpiece was the only sound.

  Then into the silence, Ella said one word. ‘Yes.’

  Dimity leaned forward. ‘Yes? Yes, you’ll come?’

  ‘Yes, if you’re both sure.’

  Dimity immediately went across to her friend and gave her a big hug. ‘Oh, my dear, I am so pleased.’

  ‘What you mean,’ Ella said, ‘is relieved that you won’t have to trail round all those bins with me.’

  ‘No,’ said Charles, ‘but I think all those homes will be thankful that Miss Bembridge isn’t going to be one of their residents. I think this calls for another glass of port, don’t you?’

  And both women held out their glasses to be filled up. It was agreed to leave further discussion about the Grand Plan until the next morning. Charles picked up his book, Dimity her knitting and the two women talked quietly together, mostly about the old days at Ella’s cottage.

  ‘It’s come full circle, Dim,’ Ella said when she rose to go to bed some time later. ‘My coming to live with you here. I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘It’s going to be fun for us all. Now sleep well, and we’ll talk in the morning.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Ella Makes Plans

  Ella woke early the next morning; it was only six-thirty and much too soon to be thinking of getting up. She switched on the bedside light and took her book from the table beside the bed. A folded sheet of paper marked her place but instead of continuing to read from where she had last reached, she unfolded the bit of paper and read out loud the words she had written on it in bold capital letters.

  ‘ “Lord, thou knowest, better than I know myself, that I am growing older and will some day be old. Keep me from being talkative and particularly from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and every occasion.” ’ Ella paused. ‘Hmm . . .’ she said, ‘no one could accuse me of being talkative - unless you count talking to myself.’ She continued to read the words she knew so well. ‘ “Release me from craving to try to straighten out everybody’s affairs.” ’ Ella snorted. ‘It would be nice if everyone else stopped trying to sort out my affairs,’ she said, and then immediately felt guilty. Dimity and Charles were being so kind.

  Ella resumed reading from the prayer that had been written by a seventeenth-century nun. ‘ “Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally it is possible that I may be mistaken.” Very very occasionally,’ she added, and then laughed at herself. ‘ “Keep me reasonably sweet.” ’

  Ella put down the sheet of paper, and gazed round the room. Dimity had done so much to make her comfortable. There was a vase of sweet-smelling freesias on the dressing-table, and on the bedside table beside her was a little round tray that held a glass, a carafe of water and a tin that she knew contained digestive biscuits. ‘Dear Lord,’ she said, ‘give me strength to be sweet. I must show my appreciation of all they are doing for me.’

  Then, satisfied, Ella found her place in the large-print book and settled down to read until it was time to get up. She had brought some loose-fitting garments with her from the cottage, which she could manage to put on herself, and she presented herself, brushed and dressed downstairs for breakfast.

  ‘Good morning, good morning,’ she said, coming into the kitchen.

  After exchanging the usual pleasantries about sleeping well, Dimity sat Ella at the kitchen table and passed her the cereal.

  ‘I’ve got morning prayers in St John’s at ten,’ Charles said, ‘but I’m free after that. I suggest we sit down together then and talk. What time are Robert and Dulcie arriving, Dimity?’

  ‘They said they would leave London soon after lunch. So about mid-afternoon here. The traffic shouldn’t be bad coming this way. Most people will be heading back into London after the long Christmas break.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Charles, beaming behind his round spectacles. ‘That’ll give us plenty of time.’

  While Charles was out, Dimity and Ella made preparations for the Wilberforces’ arrival. When Isobel had asked if there would be room for them at the vicarage, Dimity had agreed eagerly. She and Charles were very fond of the young couple and she had been thrilled to hear that a baby was on the way.

  Dimity had already made up the beds in the second guest room but Ella now flicked a duster round and put a carafe of fresh water on the tray with two glasses that sat on the chest of drawers.

  They were asked for eight o’clock at the Youngs’ party so Dimity made some drop scones and flapjacks for tea. ‘We’d better line our stomachs well before the evening’s celebrations,’ she said.

  When Charles returned to the vicarage shortly after eleven, he found an empty kitchen and a cooling tray of drop scones. It was no surprise to Dimity to find one missing when she walked in a moment later.

  ‘Just testing they’re up to scratch,’ said Charles, looking a little guilty.

  ‘I thought you might, which is why I made one extra,’ Dimity replied. ‘I’ll make some coffee, then I suggest we sit down and talk. Will you call Ella? I think she went up to her room.’

&
nbsp; So the three friends settled down at the kitchen table, with mugs of coffee at their elbows and a plate of biscuits between them. Dimity and Charles had decided that Dimity would outline their proposal since she was the practical one of the pair, and knew Ella backwards.

  ‘What we suggest is that we make you a sort of apartment upstairs. We would like to retain our two spare-rooms for ourselves, but it seems to us that the rooms in the Victorian extension - those that are above us now - would be ideal for you. They would give you all the privacy that you wanted - although, of course,’ Dimity hastily added, ‘we’re not expecting you to stay a prisoner up there. The whole house will be your home, and you must spend as much time with us as you want.’

  ‘Is that where the back stairs lead to?’ Ella asked, pointing to a door set in one of the kitchen walls.

  ‘Indeed, it is,’ said Charles, ‘but they are rather steep and we think it would be much better, safer, for you to use the main staircase. The main part of the vicarage is a classical Queen Anne house,’ he explained, ‘then around the mid-nineteenth century they built an extra chunk onto the back. I suppose it was to house the huge families that the Victorian clergy were so fond of.’

  ‘Poor wives,’ muttered Ella.

  ‘Indeed. But at some point between the two world wars, the Victorian wing was demolished. Not all of it, but most of it. Thus we are left with the original house plus a much smaller extension and that is where we are now. This big kitchen, and the larder, boot-room and so on. The rooms above have never really been used while we’ve been here.’

  ‘We’ve used them just a couple of times,’ said Dimity. ‘Once when that choir from Sweden came to perform in St John’s, and we had to put up seven or eight of them, and . . .’ she paused, frowning to remember.

  ‘We had that family from France when that ecumenical conference was held in Oxford,’ added Charles.

  ‘Could we go upstairs and have a look?’ Ella asked.

  ‘Of course.’