(3/13) News from Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  His wife's shrill voice echoed in his head. He hadn't had a day's peace since they were wed, and that was God's truth, said the sexton piously to himself.

  Marriage never did anyone any good. He'd take a bet that that young woman at Tullivers' front door was single. She could afford to buy a house, to run a car, to keep herself looking nice. Probably one of these career women who'd had the sense to keep out of matrimony.

  Albert leant moodily on the railings, a fistful of dead grass against his shirt front, and pondered on the inequality of the bounty supplied by Providence. By now, the stranger had unlocked the door and entered the house.

  For the first time that morning Albert became conscious of the warmth of the sun and the song of a bold robin perched upon the tombstone of Lavinia, Wife of Robert Entwistle, Gent., who had left sunshine and birdsong behind her for ever on February 3rd, 1792.

  Nelly might be no beauty. She was certainly a nagger. But he had just remembered that she was preparing a steak and kidney pie when he had left her an hour ago, and Nelly's hand with pastry was unsurpassed.

  Cheered by this thought, and by the hopeful signs of spring about him, Albert bent again to his task. Another warming idea occurred to him. Single women often needed a hand with wood-chopping, hedge-trimming and the like. It would be a good thing to have a little extra money coming in. With any luck, he could keep it from Nelly, and spend it as he used to, in his carefree pre-marital days, at "The Two Pheasants"!

  Albert Piggott broke into a rare and rusty whistling.

  But it was Ella Bembridge who had the closest look at the newcomer that morning.

  She was about to cross from her cottage to the rectory on the green opposite to consult her friend Dimity Henstock about the advisability of having the boiler chimney swept.

  Such mundane affairs had always been left to Dimity when the two women shared the cottage where Ella now lived alone. The rector's wife, as well as running her own ungainly house, found herself continuing to keep an eye on her old establishment, for Ella was the most impractical creature alive.

  It was Dimity who defrosted Ella's refrigerator before the icy stalactites grew too near the top shelf. It was Dimity who surreptitiously threw away the fortnight-old stew which had grown a fine crop of pale blue fur upon its surface, or some shapeless mess which had started out as a fruit mousse and had collapsed into something reminiscent of frogs' spawn. She did not chide her old friend about her slap-dash ways. She loved her too well to hurt her, and recognised that Ella's warm heart and her artistic leanings more than made up for her complete lack of housewifery.

  The little red car had just drawn up as Ella was slamming her gate. Ella had no scruples about staring, and she stood now, a sturdy figure, watching unashamedly as the stranger emerged.

  The younger woman gave Ella no greeting, as country people are wont to do. In fact, she appeared not to notice the watching figure. She locked the car door (a precaution which most Thrush Green folk forgot to take) and consulted the paper in her hand before walking swiftly towards Tullivers.

  Ella waited until the front door closed behind her with a groaning of rusty hinges, and then crossed the road to the rectory where she found Dimity in the kitchen beating up eggs whilst her husband made the mid-morning coffee.

  Over their steaming cups Ella gave her account of the newcomer.

  'About thirty, I reckon. Looks bright enough-might be useful in the W.I. Nice dog-tooth check suit in brown and white, and stockings with no seams. Come to think of it - they were probably tights. I didn't see any tops when she clambered out of the mini.'

  'Ella dear,' protested Charles Henstock mildly. 'Spare my feelings.'

  'Nice pair of square-toed shoes, Russell and Bromley probably, and an Italian handbag.'

  'How on earth do you know?' expostulated Dimity.

  'I can smell Italian leather a mile off,' said Ella, fishing a battered tin from her pocket and beginning to roll a cigarette from the crumpled papers and loose tobacco therein.

  'And I'd take a bet her ear-rings were Italian too,' she added, blowing out an acrid cloud of smoke. Dimity quietly moved the egg-custard out of range.

  'Ears pierced?' asked the rector, with rare sarcasm.

  'Couldn't see,' replied Ella in a matter-of-fact tone. 'But wears good gloves.'

  Something sizzled in the oven and Dimity crossed the kitchen to attend to it.

  'Not that I really noticed her,' continued Ella. 'Just got a passing glimpse, you know.'

  The rector forbore to comment.

  'But she's welcome to Tullivers,' went on Ella. 'There's a jackdaw's nest the size of a squirrel's drey in the kitchen chimney. Which reminds me - shall I get the boiler chimney done, Dim?'

  Dimity sat back on her heels by the open oven door and looked thoughtful.

  'September, October, November, December, January, February, March, April - yes, Ella. Get it swept now.'

  'Good,' replied her old friend, rising briskly and dropping her cigarette stub into the sink basket where it smouldered, unpleasantly close to the shredded cabbage soaking in a bowl.

  'I got my old hand loom out again last night,' said Ella conversationally. 'Thought I'd run up a few ties ready for the next Bring and Buy Sale and Christmas time.'

  She looked speculatively at Charles, who was doing his best to repress a shudder. He already had four ties of Ella's making, each much too short, the colour of over-cooked porridge, and far too thick to knot properly. Fortunately, he wore his clerical collar more often than not, and could safely leave the monstrosities in the drawer without hurting Ella's feelings.

  'Lovely, dear,' said Dimity automatically, putting the egg-custard into the oven carefully.

  'I'll see you out,' said the rector, following Ella along the cold dark passage to the front door.

  Outside, Thrush Green sparkled in the bright April sunshine. It was like emerging from a dark cave in the cliffs on to a sunlit beach, thought Ella. She was thankful that she did not have to live in the rectory. Could anything ever make that north-facing pile of Victorian architecture comfortable?

  She looked towards Tullivers, and the rector's gaze followed hers. The shabby little house basked in the sunshine like some small, battered, stray cat grateful for warmth.

  There was no sign of the stranger, and the red car had gone.

  'Oh,' cried the rector, genuinely disappointed, 'I'd hoped to catch sight of her, I must admit.'

  'You will,' prophesied Ella, setting off purposefully for her own cottage. 'Mark my words, Charles Henstock, you will!'

  2 Who is She?

  TWO or three weeks later the red car reappeared. This time the young woman had a companion, as sharp eyes on Thrush Green were quick to observe.

  A small boy, of about six years of age, clambered out of the car and jumped excitedly up and down on the pavement. He was a well-built child, flaxen-haired and fair-skinned, and seemed delighted with his first glimpse of Thrush Green. He pointed to Tullivers, obviously asking questions. He pointed to the fine statue of Nathaniel Patten, erected a year or two earlier by Thrush Green residents to honour one of their famous men, and he was clearly impressed by the church and the village school across the green.

  The woman looked up and down the road, as though waiting for somebody. Her answers to the child appeared perfunctory.

  After a few minutes, she led the way to the front door, followed by the boy. Just as it closed behind them, the local builder's battered van screeched to a halt behind the red car, and out tumbled Joe Bush.

  'Late as usual!' was the general comment of the hidden onlookers of Thrush Green as they watched him scurry up the path.

  By standing on tip-toe, little Miss Fogerty could just see what was going on across the green. The Gothic window was uncomfortably high, installed by its Victorian builders for just that purpose - to make sure that children could not look out easily and so be distracted from their pot-hooks and hangers by the giddy world outside.

  The sand-tray was also rath
er awkwardly placed beneath the window. Miss Fogerty made up her mind to shift it at playtime. This week the sand-tray carried a tiny replica of Thrush Green with plasticine houses, duly labelled with their owners' names, the church, the school, and even a passable representation of Nathaniel Patten's statue. Some of the infants had proudly brought contributions to the scene. Toy lorries, cars, and even an Army tank, had found a place on the roads across the green, and though grossly over-sized for their surroundings they made an imposing addition to the sand-tray. It was unfortunate that the fine avenue of chestnut trees which flanked the north side of the green, had also been constructed of plasticine. The heat from the hot-water pipe nearby had caused them to bow to the ground with flaccid exhaustion. Loving fingers restored them to the upright position a dozen times a day, but Miss Fogerty decided that twigs set in a plasticine base must replace the present avenue without delay.

  Miss Fogerty shifted a Virol jar full of paint brushes further along the window-sill, the better to follow the stranger's activities. The little boy aroused her keenest interest. He looked just the right age for her class, and very likely he could read already. What a blessing! And could probably manage his own buttons and shoe-laces too which was more than half her class could accomplish. It was truly disgraceful that Gloria Curdle, at the great age of six, was still unable to tie a bow!

  'Which reminds me,'said Miss Fogerty to herself. 'Tears or no tears, that child's tin camel must be removed from the Thrush Green model. Looming over the church spire is bad enough, in all conscience, but having an Asiatic creature like that among the Cotswold scenery just Will Not Do!'

  Firmly she plucked the offending beast from its alien pastures and put it safely into her sagging cardigan pocket.

  Across the green the little boy was jumping rhythmically. Good co-ordination, noted Miss Fogerty approvingly, and plenty of spring.

  'I wonder if there are any more children?' speculated Miss Fogerty. A tugging at her skirt nearly precipitated her into the sand-tray.

  'Child,' cried Miss Fogerty, with unusual sharpness. 'Don't pull people about in that rude fashion.'

  'I can't wait,' said the child, with simple candour.

  'Be quick then,' responded Miss Fogerty automatically, returning reluctantly to her duties, with a last glance at Joe Bush's retreating back.

  'She's back again,' announced Betty Bell to her employer Harold Shoosmith.

  Harold Shoosmith was a comparative newcomer himself to Thrush Green, having come to live there on his retirement from business in Africa two or three years earlier. Tall, spare and handsome ... and, best of all, a bachelor ... he was welcomed warmly by the community.

  It had been his idea to honour one of Thrush Green's famous sons, the missionary Nathaniel Patten, and the splendid statue of their nineteenth century hero now graced the green.

  The fact that Harold was happy to take part in village affairs, and had the leisure to do so, meant that he was on a dozen or more local committees. At this moment he was immersed in the Thrush Green Entertainments Club's accounts. He looked up from his desk. He had long since given up remonstrating with his slap-dash help about bursting into occupied rooms. If Betty Bell held a duster in her hand, she looked upon it as a passport to free passage anywhere in the house, the bathroom included. Early in their acquaintance she had bounced in to encounter her employer stark naked, except for an inadequate face flannel, but had not been a whit abashed. It was Harold Shoosmith who suffered from shock. After that, he prudently locked the door when at his ablutions.

  'Who's back?' he asked apprehensively. Ella Bembridge, whom he found most trying, had just left him after delivering the parish magazine, and he feared her return.

  'That new party,' responded Betty, flicking an African carving, knocking it from its shelf and catching it adroitly, all in a second. Harold, wincing, could not help admiring her deftness. Practice, he supposed, resignedly.

  'Her that's coming to Tullivers,' continued Betty, attacking a small enamelled clock mercilessly. 'Got a young man with her this time,' she added archly.

  'Husband, I expect,' said Harold, returning to his accounts.

  'What! That age?' cried Betty, giggling at the success of her subtlety. 'He ain't no more'n six, I'll lay.'

  She fell energetically upon a window sill. A dozing fly burst into a frenzy of buzzing as it tried to escape from her onslaught.

  'If you was to go out the front and down to the gate you'd get a good look at her,' advised Betty. 'She's hanging about for someone. Joe Bush, I expect. That place'll need a proper going-over before it's fit to live in.'

  'I shouldn't dream of staring at the lady,' said Harold sternly. 'And, in any case, I think you are taking a lot for granted. No one knows if she proposes to buy Tullivers. If she does, then we shall call in the usual way.'

  Betty Bell was not affected by the touch of frost in Harold's manner. Hoity-toity was her only silent comment, as she gave a final drubbing to the window sill.

  'Wantcher desk done?' she asked cheerfully.

  'No thanks,' replied Harold shortly. 'I want to work on it.'

  'Okay, okay!' replied his daily help. 'I'll go and put the curry on. Suit you?'

  'Very well, Betty, thank you,' said Harold, his good humour restored at the thought of her temporary absence.

  The door crashed behind her, and soon the sound of clashing saucepans proclaimed that his lunch was being prepared. Distracting though the noise was, Harold Shoosmith thanked heaven that it was at a distance.

  He turned again to his accounts.

  Across the green, young Doctor Lovell was having trouble too. The last patient at his morning surgery was Dotty Harmer.

  He had to admit, in all fairness, that she did not worry him unduly with her ailments. She preferred to deal with them herself with a variety of herbal remedies ranging from harmlessly wholesome to downright dangerous, in the doctor's opinion.

  His senior partner, Doctor Bailey, who was now too frail to take much part in the practice, had warned him about Dotty.

  'Eccentric always - plain crazy sometimes,' he summed up succinctly. 'Father was a proper martinet, and taught at the local grammar school. His wife died young, and Potty kept house for the old Tartar until he died. As you'll see, the place is filthy, full of animals, and the garden is a jungle of herbs from which Dotty brews the most diabolical concoctions. I beg of you, young man, never to eat or drink anything which Dotty has prepared. We have a special complaint at Thrush Green known as "Dotty's Collywobbles." Be warned!'

  Since then, the young partner had frequently met those suffering from this disorder. Doctor Bailey, he realised early in their friendship, knew his patients pretty thoroughly.

  This morning he examined a long angry gash in Dotty's forearm, caused by the horn of a young goat who was the latest addition to Dotty's motley family.

  'Such a sweet disposition really,' said Dotty earnestly. 'It wasn't meant, you know. Just playfulness.'

  'When was it done?' asked the doctor.

  'One day last week, I think,' said Dotty vaguely. 'Or the week before, perhaps. The weeks pass so quickly, don't they? Monday morning it's Saturday afternoon, if you know what I mean. I treated it at once, of course.'

  'What with?'

  'Now let me see. I think it was one of dear Gerard's. From his Herball, you know. Yes, I remember now, it was All-Heale.'

  'All-Heale?' asked Doctor Lovell, whose knowledge of sixteenth-century remedies was shaky.

  'As a practising physician,' said Dotty sharply, 'you surely know Clownes Wound-Wort! You simply pound the leaves with a little pure lard and apply the ointment to any open wound. Gerard gives several examples of his success with the cure. I should have thought that all medical men would be conversant with the "poore man of Kent who in mowing of Peason did cut his leg with a sithe". He had the sense to apply All-Heale, and was cured within days.'

  'I'll give you a shot of antibiotics,' said Doctor Lovell firmly. He scribbled a prescription, turning a deaf e
ar to his patient's protestations.

  'The lotion should be used twice a day,' he continued, handing her the form, 'and keep the wound covered. Take the tablets night and morning. You'll be fine in a day or two, but come back if it gives any further trouble.'

  Dotty took it in her claw-like grasp and surveyed the hieroglyphics with distaste and doubt.

  Doctor Lovell relented, and patted her bony shoulder.

  'Most of these things are based on the tried herbal recipes, you know,' he said mendaciously.

  Dotty looked relieved.

  'I hope you're right, young man,' she said, opening the surgery door. Her eye lit upon the red car and Joe Bush's van.

  'Have you met your new neighbour?' enquired Dotty.

  'First I've heard of one,' said Doctor Lovell.

  'You're the only person on Thrush Green who hasn't,' replied Dotty tartly.

  Setting off for her cottage half a mile away, Dotty shook her untidy grey head over modern physicians. They seemed to know nothing about their really great forebears, and very little of the immediate world about them. It didn't give a patient much confidence, to be sure.

  She fingered the prescription in her coat pocket. For two pins, she'd tear it up and forget it. But just suppose that her arm refused to heal and she was obliged to return to that silly fellow?

  It might be prudent to give his nostrums a brief trial. Medical men were so touchy if one ignored their advice.

  Nevertheless, as soon as she had traversed the alley by Albert Piggott's house which led to the path to Lulling Woods, and knew that she was out of sight of Thrush Green, Dotty stopped to extract a string bag from her pocket, and advanced purposefully upon a fine collection of weeds growing in the ditch.

  'Best to be on the safe side,' said Dotty to herself, thrusting the pungent leaves into the bag.