by Miss Read
Swinging it jauntily, she skipped homeward, well satisfied.
3 The Priors Meet Their Neighbours
IN the months that followed, Joe Bush's van spent most of its time standing outside Tullivers. Not that the house was a hive of activity - Joe Bush's methods, and those of his two assistants, were both leisurely and erratic. There were frequent trips down the steep hill to Lulling High Street, where lay the builder's yard, for forgotten items. There were a prodigious number of 'brew-ups' during the day, so that work proceeded slowly.
Luckily, perhaps, only the basic repairs seemed to be tackled. Loose roof tiles were replaced, the jackdaw's nest removed from the kitchen chimney, and two faulty windows were rehung. Inside, a few rotting floor-boards were made good and a particularly hideous fireplace removed. Otherwise, it seemed, the house would be put into shape by its owner.
'Cor!' exclaimed Joe Bush, to the landlord of "The Two Pheasants". 'She've got plenty to do there, I'll tell you. I shan't get fat on what she's spending, and that's the truth.'
'Maybe she ain't got it to spend,' replied the landlord reasonably. 'She being a widow, I take it.'
'And what makes you think that?' asked Joe, heavily sarcastic. 'She's got a husband all right.'
'Don't show up much,' commented the landlord.
'He's overseas,' replied Joe, putting down his empty glass and making for the door. 'I shouldn't wonder,' he added vaguely.
'Either he is or he isn't,' pointed out the landlord, understandably nettled.
'Well, that's what she told the kid last week when they was down. But you knows women. Crafty as a wagon-load of monkeys. Maybe he's doin' time and she don't want the kid to know.'
'Don't talk out the back of your neck,' begged the landlord. He flapped at the counter with a teacloth in a dismissive fashion. Joe took the hint and vanished.
The absence of a man in the stranger's life certainly intrigued Thrush Green. It was established that the handsome lady was a Mrs Prior, that her son was called Jeremy, and that they lived, at the present time, in a flat in Chelsea.
These interesting facts had been gleaned from the child, rather than from his mother, by Joe Bush's junior assistant, known as Sawny Sam locally, for obvious reasons, although his baptismal name was Samuel Ellerman John Plumb. It was Sawny Sam who held ladders, carried hods, mixed cement, wheeled barrows, fetched forgotten items from the yard, and brewed the tea six times a day.
He had a gentle, kindly disposition, and at seventeen years of age his intelligence was on a par with young Jeremy's. They got on famously, sharing a love of football, animals and stamp-collecting.
On several occasions during the summer, Mrs Prior and Jeremy came down at weekends to decorate the interior of Tullivers. While his mother slapped vigorously at the walls with white emulsion paint, the child occupied himself happily in the garden. On Saturday mornings, the builders were at work, and it was then that the friendship grew between Jeremy and Sawny Sam.
'I'm going to that school,' said Jeremy, nodding across to the other side of the green.
'It's ever so nice,' said Sam heavily. 'My cousin Dave went there. He was a monitor.'
'Why didn't you go?'
'I lives up the street. I 'ad to go to St Margaret's School. We 'ad a beast of a 'ead.'
'What did he do?'
''It yer!'
'What for?'
'Anythink. Nothink.'
'He sounds cruel.'
''E were.'
'Is he still?'
'No. He's stopped now.'
'Why?'
'Dead,' said Sam perfunctorily.
He filled the kettle, and Jeremy set out the enamel mugs for the second tea-break of the day. He looked thoughtful.
'Are they cruel over there?'
'Nah!' drawled Sam derisively. 'There's only two old ducks - Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty. Like Aunties, they are. Gives you sweets and that. Friday afternoons you can take any gear you likes to play with.'
'Like stamp albums?' asked Jeremy eagerly.
'Dinky cars, if you want to. Anythink - absolutely anythink, Dave said. Except guns and catapults and that. Them two don't 'old with guns. Nothink dangerous.'
They sat companionably, side by side, on a low pile of bricks, and looked across at Jeremy's new school, while the kettle hummed.
'I shall like it,' announced Jeremy, with decision. 'Shall I learn things?'
Sawny Sam's mouth and eyes became three O's in astonishment.
'Learn? 'Course you'll learn. Them two'll learn you all right. Poitry, tables—.'
'Tables?' exclaimed Jeremy. 'What tables? You can't learn tables. You eat off 'em.'
'You must go to a pretty soppy school if you ain't 'eard of tables. Multiplication tables! Twice two are four, three twos are six, four twos are eight, five twos are ten. I knows 'em all - well, nearly. Never quite mastered seven times and twelve times,' admitted Sam frankly.
'We work things out like that with milk bottles at my school,' said Jeremy.
'Must take a lotter time,' said Sam.
'And a lot of milk bottles,' responded Jeremy. They relapsed into silence, brooding vaguely upon elementary arithmetic. The kettle lid began to rattle cheerfully and Sam rose to attend to it.
'Tell you one thing,' he said. 'You'll do all right with Miss Fogerty. She learns kids a treat. Been at it a hundred years, I shouldn't wonder. My dad said so.'
It was a comforting thought.
It was that night that Winnie Bailey, next door to Tullivers, wokeat two o'clock. In the other bed her husband tossed restlessly.
'Are you all right, Donald?' she asked softly.
'Sorry, my dear, to have woken you,' wheezed the old man. 'Just can't sleep, that's all.'
'I'll go and warm some milk. It will do us both good,' said Winnie, groping for her slippers. She shrugged herself into her comfortable ancient red dressing gown, and made her way downstairs. In the kitchen, as the milk warmed on the stove, she looked out upon the dark garden. In the distance, an owl screeched from Lulling Woods. A frond of jasmine tapped at the window, and turning to the noise, Winnie Bailey had a severe shock. A light was showing in Tullivers.
Could it be that someone had broken in? Could that attractive young woman have left the light switched on? Should she go and investigate? Or ring the police?
An ominous hissing from the milk saucepan interrupted her agitated thoughts. She filled two mugs, put them on a small tray, and then went to look cautiously from the front door across to her new neighbours.
To her surprise, she saw the little red car parked in the short drive to Tullivers. The light, she now perceived, was a very low one. She realised suddenly that it was a night-light, and recalled with a pang, her own children's early years, when a night-light burned comfortingly in a saucer of water to keep away those bogeys which come at night to scare the young.
But what an extraordinary thing, thought Winnie, mounting the stairs carefully. What could those two be sleeping on? And how cheerless it must be in that cold, empty house!
She had spoken once or twice to the young woman who had introduced herself as Phil Prior, but Winnie had felt that the stranger did not welcome overtures too warmly, and so she had decided to 'make haste slowly', as Donald often said. No doubt, the girl had plenty to do in the short time at her disposal on each visit, and any interruptions were frustrating.
But really, thought Winnie, she must see that those two were all right in the morning. Why on earth didn't they put up at 'The Fleece' overnight?
By the time she regained the bedroom, her husband had fallen asleep. She knew better than to disturb him. Sleep was of more value to the frail man than hot milk.
She sipped her own milk thoughtfully, turning over in her mind the conditions of the pair next door. There was something rather sad about them, she felt. Perhaps 'sad' was too strong a word to use about two young and obviously healthy people. On second thoughts, 'forlorn' filled them better. As though they were faintly neglected - as though they ha
d lost something desperately necessary.
Could it be, thought Winnie, a husband and a father?
She must certainly risk a snub, and speak to Mrs Prior in the morning. Putting her mug gently upon the bedside table, she slipped, within minutes, into troubled slumber.
Winnie Bailey was one of the very few residents of Thrush Green who attended the communion service at eight o'clock at St Andrew's.
No one was stirring at Tullivers as she returned to prepare breakfast, and it was almost ten o'clock before she heard the child's voice from the garden next door. The August sun was already hot, and Thrush Green was going to have a day of shimmering heat. Doctor Bailey was lying in the old wicker chaise-longue, a rug across his legs, and a battered panama hat tilted over his eyes.
He wished, for the thousandth time, that he was not such a useless crock. Doctor Lovell and Winnie had to work far too hard for his liking. There was no doubt about it, the time was fast arriving when young Lovell would need another partner, and a pretty active one too.
A new estate was growing rapidly along the lane leading to Nod and Nidden. Two or three dozen families had moved in already, mainly young couples with one or two babies, and obviously more would come. The practice had almost doubled in size since he arrived there with Winnie in their young days.
How happy they had been, he thought! His mind dwelt on early patients, many now dead, and the welcome they had given him. He remembered, with affection, the matriarchal figure of Mrs Curdle, the gipsy woman who ran the annual one-day fair on Thrush Green every first of May. He hoped that young Ben, her grandson, who was now in charge, would call again next May.
His eye fell upon his pale wasted hands, and he wondered, without self-pity if he could live long enough to see the fair again. He doubted it. As a medical man, he could gauge his future fairly accurately. Already, he told himself, he was living on borrowed time. And how good it was! Despite weakness and pain, life was still precious, and the companionship of Winnie the mainspring of his days.
He saw her now crossing the garden to the hedge, and heard the little boy from Tullivers answering her questions. Very soon a third voice was added to the conversation, but he could not distinguish the words.
Winnie came up to him and tucked the rug neatly round his legs.
'I've asked our new neighbours to come and have coffee,' she told him. 'It won't tire you?'
'Attractive women never tire me,' said her husband gallantly. An hour later they arrived.
'Please forgive my piebald appearance,' said the young woman, gazing down at her black jeans and sleeveless black blouse. Both were liberally speckled and streaked with white paint. 'It seems to run down my arm and trickle off my elbow.'
'Try a roller,' advised the doctor.
'I simply can't manage one,' confessed the girl, and the comparative merits of brushes and rollers occupied them happily whilst Mrs Bailey went to fetch the tray, accompanied by a chattering Jeremy.
'And when do you hope to move in?'
'In two or three weeks, with luck. The men should have finished by then, they say.'
'Yes - well,' said the doctor, rubbing his bony nose doubtfully. 'That may be so, but if I were you I should move in even if they haven't departed. Joe Bush takes his time.'
'It hadn't escaped me,' replied the young woman, smiling.
Mrs Bailey returned with the tray.
'We've got two sorts of biscuits,' announced Jeremy excitedly.
'It's not very polite to comment on other people's food,' his mother told him gently.
'It sounded favourable comment to me,' said Winnie. 'We like that here.'
'We had rather a scratch breakfast,' said Mrs Prior. 'We stayed overnight for the first time.'
Winnie was glad that she had mentioned die burning subject first.
'Were you both comfortable?' she asked.
'Hardly. Our camp beds are the sort that Victorian explorers humped about!'
'Or probably their native bearers humped about,' suggested Doctor Bailey.
'Are they hard?' asked Winnie anxiously. 'We have two spare feather beds. Or better still, come and sleep here. You would be quite free to come and go when you pleased.'
'You're very kind,' said the girl. She flushed in a way that made her look suddenly young and defenceless.
'Or "The Fleece" is very comfortable, I know,' went on Winnie, intent upon her visitors' well-being.
'Too expensive,' said the girl.
'Hotel prices are ruinous these days,' agreed the doctor. 'Sugar, Mrs Prior?'
'No, thank you. And as we're to be neighbours, do you think you could call me Phil?'
'That would be very nice. Short for Phyllis, I take it? One of my favourite names,' said Doctor Bailey.
'I wish it were.'
'Philippa?' asked Winnie.
'Worse still. My proper name is Phyllida. My parents were hopelessly romantic.'
'Henry Austin Dobson,' said the doctor. 'Born 1840, died 1921.'
'How on earth did you know?'
'My mind is full of completely useless bits and pieces, such as that,' he replied. 'But the things I want to remember - where I left my pipe, or if I gave my partner a certain urgent message, for instance - completely escape me.'
'Well, you're dead right about Austin Dobson. My parents were great readers of poetry and had a weakness for the light fantastic.'
'A pleasant change from the heavy dismal we suffer from everywhere today,' commented Winnie. 'No one seems to laugh any more.'
'I do,' said Jeremy. 'I laugh a lot.'
'Keep it up,' advised the doctor. 'Keep it up.'
'My daddy makes me laugh.' He turned to his mother. 'Doesn't he make me laugh?' he persisted.
'He certainly does,' agreed his mother.
'When's he coming to see the new house?' asked the boy, through a mouthful of ginger biscuit.
'Sometime,' said his mother evasively. She produced a crumpled handkerchief from her jeans' pocket and gave a deft dab at her son's mouth.
'My husband has to be abroad a great deal,' she explained. 'He's in a textile firm. I'm afraid Jeremy hasn't seen much of him this last week or two.'
'More like a month,' began Jeremy.
'It always seems longer than it is,' his mother said swiftly. She looked at a massive wrist-watch.
'Time we went back to our paint pots, young man,' she told him, rising. 'Thank you so much for the coffee. We shall work twice as fast after that.'
Winnie accompanied her to the gate.
'Now, don't forget. If you want to stay overnight, do let us help. We look forward to having you as neighbours.'
'We look forward to coming,' replied the girl. 'A London flat is no place to bring up a growing boy. I was country-bred myself. I know what Jeremy's missing.'
'You'll be happy at Thrush Green,' Winnie assured her. The girl's mouth quivered.
'I'm sure we shall,' she said. 'We'll be here in good time for Jeremy to start school there in September.'
The two women looked across the green. The dew was drying rapidly, and from St Andrew's came the sound of country voices raised in praise. A pigeon clattered out from the avenue of chestnut trees, and landed nearby, strutting aimlessly this way and that, thrusting out its bright coral feet.
The girl sighed.
'It's all very comforting,' she said softly, as though speaking to herself. 'And now we must go home. Thank you again.'
They parted with smiles, and Winnie watched the pair run to Tullivers. It was good to see the little house in use again.
She returned to her own garden thoughtfully. Why did the girl use the word 'comforting' about Thrush Green? From what pain did she seek relief? From what torment was she flying? Who could tell?
4 A Shock for Dotty
HALF a mile away, Dotty Harmer was in trouble. She had gone down the garden to feed her hens, when she saw something move behind the garden shed.
An open-ended extension had been built on to house Dotty's winter store of lo
gs. An energetic nephew, staying for a week of his vacation, had obligingly set some flag-stones at the entrance, so that his aunt could step from the path to the logs without getting her feet wet.
'Very nice, dear,' she had commented. 'And I can chop up the logs there. And marrow bones. So useful to have what my dear father used to call "an area of hard standing". It will be most useful, dear boy.'
Its use at the moment, when Dotty stood transfixed, henfood in hand, was unorthodox. For, lying in the sun, was a mother cat suckling five well-grown babies.
Charming though the sight was, Dotty's jaw dropped. How on earth could she cope with six cats - nay, six more cats! Already she owned two, a mother and daughter which she had prudently had spayed. What would they have to say about this brazen intruder and her progeny?
Dotty peered through her steel-rimmed spectacles at the family. They were a motley crew, to be sure, but how engagingly pretty! The mother was black with white paws, and one of the kittens had the same colouring. There was a fine little tabby, and three tortoiseshell kittens.
Dotty's heart sank again. Ten to one the tortoiseshells would be female. How long before their first litters arrived? Something must be done before the place was over-run with wild cats.
She took a resolute step forward, and the kittens shot into the stack of logs and vanished. One young quivering triangular tail showed for an instant in a gap, and then was gone. The mother cat crouched defensively, facing Dotty, strategically placed between this enemy and her babies. She was pathetically thin and dusty, and Dotty's tender heart went out to this gallant battered small fighter.
'Good puss! Nice little puss!' said Dotty, advancing gently.
The cat retreated slightly, and spat defiance.
Dotty put down the hen food and returned to the house for a dish of milk. Through the kitchen window she witnessed a remarkable sight. The mother cat gave a curious chirruping sound, and the five babies tumbled from the logs, towards the steaming hen food. Within seconds six heads were in the pot, as the cats ate ravenously.