(3/13) News from Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  Dotty stood aghast. That cats, so fastidious as a rule, should fling themselves upon cooked peelings, meat scraps and bacon rinds, all bound together with bran, showed to what excess of hunger the poor things were driven.

  She watched them lick the pot clean, their eyes half-closed with bliss, and then sit down to wash themselves.

  'Well, that's the last of the chicken's mash,' said Dotty aloud, and philosophically reached for the bag of corn instead. Bearing this and the brimming dish of milk she went once more down the garden path. As before, the kittens vanished, but the mother cat stood her ground. Dotty fed the hens, put down the milk, and retreated to the house, there to work out the best way to cope with an embarrassment of cats.

  It was a problem which was to puzzle her, and the rest of Thrush Green, for weeks to come.

  One still, hot morning, in the week following Dotty's discovery, Albert Piggott was digging a grave. For this melancholy task Albert's glum expression seemed particularly suited; but although the occasion was a sad one, it was not the circumstances of his labours that troubled Albert that morning, but the worsening conditions of his own matrimonial affairs.

  He was the first to admit that he was cunningly hooked at the outset. There were a few aspects of married life which, in all fairness, he would agree were an improvement on the single state, for a man in his position. His house was warm and clean. His clothes were washed and mended. And his meals - ah, his meals! - were superb.

  But once you'd said that, Albert told himself, squinting along the side of the grave for any unsightly irregularities, you'd said the lot. Nagging, whining and money-grubbing, that's what Nell was, and lately he had detected a new unpleasant note in her diatribes. There was far too much about that oil-man who came with his clanking van every other Thursday, for Albert's liking. A smarmy fellow, if ever there was one, a proper sissy, a regular droopy-drawers! And Nell was taken in by his soft soap, the great fool, and talked about it being 'so nice to see a gentleman for a change, and what a pity it was she had married beneath her'.

  Albert set his spade to one side, pushed back his greasy cap and mopped his sweating brow. It was about time Sam Curdle arrived to give him a hand. He could do with it. Cotswold clay makes heavy digging in any weather. On a blazing August morning it was doubly intractable.

  Sam Curdle, grandson of Mrs Curdle who once ruled over the Fair, had been released from gaol early in the New Year. Most of Thrush Green thought, and said openly, that Sam Curdle had a nerve to return to the place where he had so misbehaved.

  'How he can face that poor Miss Watson he stole from, and battered into the bargain, I really don't know,' they told each other indignantly. 'It's a pity he doesn't take himself off, with that blowsy Bella of his, and find a living elsewhere.'

  But that is just what Sam was incapable of doing. Here, in Thrush Green, as well he knew, were a few soft-hearted souls who would give him a little work for the sake of the children - and a little work was all that Sam Curdle wanted. Bella had found a daily job at a farm at Nidden while he was doing time, and had developed into a passably good worker under the brisk direction of the farmer's wife. They still lived in the battered caravan, converted years ago from a bus, in a sheltered corner of the stackyard. Here the Curdles reckoned themselves well off, with water from an outside tap, free milk, and a dozen or so cracked eggs weekly.

  'You can stay there as long as you go straight,' the farmer had told Sam. 'But you try any of your gyppo tricks here, nicking eggs, knocking off the odd hen, and that sort of lark, and you get the boot, pronto!'

  And Sam had toed the line.

  The rector had found him odd jobs to do, both in his own garden and in the churchyard. Albert Piggott was glad to have an assistant when it came to such tasks as grave-digging and coke-sweeping. The fact that Sam Curdle was a wrongdoer and had been in prison troubled the sexton not at all.

  It was Albert himself, in fact, who had helped to bring him to justice. If anything, Albert felt now a certain proprietorial warmth towards the local malefactor. Just bad luck he'd been caught. He'd simply met a master mind, was Albert's opinion. Plenty of people were quite as bad as Sam, but got away with it.

  A shadow fell athwart the grave and Albert looked up to see Sam's face peering down at him.

  'And about time too,' grunted Albert. He indicated the second shovel with a jerk of his black thumb.

  Sam jumped down and began scraping some crumbs of earth together in a languid manner.

  'Don't strain yourself,' said Albert tartly.

  Sam stirred himself to attack the other end of the grave with rather more vigour. They shovelled together in silence.

  A robin hopped about the growing pile of soil looking for worms. The morning sounds of Thrush Green were muffled by the height of the earth walls about them, but in the distance they could hear the children playing on the two swings on the green. There was a rhythmic squeaking as the chains swung to and fro, and occasionally the thud of the see-saw and the cries of excited children.

  The two men worked steadily until St Andrew's clock struck twelve above them.

  'That's it then,' said Albert, clambering painfully out of the grave. Sam followed him.

  'Time for a quick 'un?' asked Sam.

  'Who pays?'

  'We goes Dutch.'

  'Humph!' snorted Albert, but he quickened his pace, nevertheless, as he shambled towards the open door of "The Two Pheasants".

  But his thirst was not to be slaked immediately, for, directly in his path, stood Dotty Harmer.

  'I shan't keep you,' said Dotty briskly, eyeing the pair. 'But I want you to let me know if you hear of anyone wanting a kitten.'

  'Well, now miss—' began Albert.

  'I know you have a cat,' cut in Dotty. Her tone implied, rightly, that she felt sorry for it. She looked at Sam Curdle with distaste.

  'And I know you haven't room for one in the caravan,' she told him dismissively. 'The thing is, I have five to dispose of.'

  Sam's face lit up.

  'I'd be pleased to drown 'em for you, miss. Any time.'

  Dotty looked at him sharply.

  'Out of the question. They are far too big to drown.'

  'You wouldn't catch 'em, anyway,' gloomed Albert. 'Them wild cats never gets caught. Where've you got 'em?'

  Dotty told him.

  'Never get 'em out o' there,' said Albert, with relish. 'Why, I recollect that there was a widder woman over Lulling Woods way who had two - just two, mark you - livin' in her logs, and within the year she'd got eighteen kittens!'

  'That's why I intend to tame them,' said Dotty firmly. 'I am going to get the mother cat spayed as soon as she has confidence in me.'

  'You'll be lucky!' growled Albert. 'Best by far have a cat shoot and get done with the lot.'

  'Disgraceful!' snapped Dotty.

  'You won't never tame 'em, miss,' Sam said, hoping for five shillings, if not by drowning, then by a little erratic marksmanship.

  'I should set a dog on 'em,' advised Albert. 'Rout 'em out, like, and then shoot 'em as they run away.'

  'Have you thought,' asked Dotty severely, 'that they might simply be maimed, and not killed outright?'

  'They'd die eventual,' said Albert casually.

  'I am not proposing to harm these kittens, in any way whatsoever,' said Dotty, now dangerously calm. 'I shall do my best to get them tame enough to be accepted into good homes. Good homes!' she repeated firmly.

  'I am on my way to Mrs Young to see if she will be able to have one,' she added, nodding to one of the five houses behind the chestnut avenue. 'All I wanted to ask you was to let me know if you hear of anyone needing a kitten.'

  'Right, miss,' said Albert with rare deference. His dirty finger rose of its own volition to his greasy cap. Plain potty-Miss Harmer was, and no doubt about it-but she was still gentry, and some innate, long-stifled instinct to acknowledge the fact had twitched Albert's hand to its unaccustomed position.

  'Yes, miss,' added Sam meekly. 'I'll b
ear it in mind, miss.'

  They entered "The Two Pheasants" for their long awaited drink, the kittens already forgotten.

  But Dotty, striding purposefully towards Joan Young's house, seethed with indignation.

  'Drowning! Shooting! Setting a dog on them! A pity those two have never heard of reverence for life. I should like to have introduced them to Albert Schweitzer.'

  She thought again.

  'Or better still, my dear father. He'd have given them the horse-whipping they deserve!'

  She reached the Youngs' gate.

  'How I do hate cruelty!' said Dotty aloud, making for the front door.

  Joan Young was the wife of a local architect. Her sister Ruth, who was lunching with her that day, was married to Doctor Lovell who, at that moment, was attending a cantankerous old bachelor of ninety-two to the south of Lulling.

  Lunch was set in the large sunny kitchen. Paul Young was already at the table, waiting impatiently with the voracious hunger of a young schoolboy for the chicken which had just been lifted from the oven.

  Opposite him, in his own old high chair, sat his baby cousin Mary banging lustily with her spoon.

  'What's that?' asked Paul, as the bell of the front door rang sharply.

  'Wozzat?' echoed his cousin, not caring particularly, but glad to try out a new expression.

  'Oh, damn!' said Joan, tugging the fork from the bird. 'You carry on, Ruth, while I see to this.'

  'You shouldn't swear,' reproved her son. 'Miss Fogerty made Chris wash his mouth out with soapy water once because he swore.'

  'Sorry, sorry!' cried his mother, struggling with her apron strings. 'It slipped out.'

  'Oh, damn!' echoed the baby thoughtfully. 'Oh, damn!.'

  The two sisters exchanged resigned looks, but had the wisdom not to comment. The bell split the air again, and Joan hurried to the door.

  'Oh, do come in, Miss Harmer,' she cried, doing her best to sound welcoming. Who else but Dotty, she wondered, would call at twenty past twelve, and be clad, on a boiling hot day, in a tweed coat with a fur collar, topped by a purple velour hat, thick with dust, and decorated with a fine diamond brooch which, as Joan knew, had been in the family for generations and, amazingly enough, had not yet been lost by its present scatter-brained owner.

  'Will you have a glass of sherry?' asked Joan, ushering her guest into the drawing-room.

  'No, thank you, dear. I shall have a glass of rhubarb and ginger wine with my lunch. I find I get so sleepy if I mix my drinks midday.'

  She looked sharply about the room.

  'No cat?' said Dotty.

  'No. Just Flo, the old spaniel, you know.'

  'Well,' began Dotty, undoing her coat and settling herself. 'I'll tell you why I've come.'

  Joan listened patiently to the saga of the kittens, half her mind on the fast-cooling lunch.

  'And so it is essential that I wean the kittens, first and foremost,' she heard her visitor saying. 'Mr Fortescue says he can't possibly operate until the mother cat is absolutely dry.' Dotty embarked on an involved obstetrical account about nursing felines, showing a remarkable grip on the subject for a spinster, thought Joan.

  Her attention wandered again, only to be riveted suddenly when she heard Dotty putting a straight question.

  'So how many kittens would you like?'

  'Heavens!' exclaimed Joan. 'I must think about this! I don't know that Flo would care about a kitten—'

  'Be a companion for her,' said Dotty firmly. 'What about Ruth? She'd like one, wouldn't she?'

  'I'll ask her,' promised Joan meekly. To her relief, Dotty rose, and began to make her way to the door.

  'Well, dear, I hope that's two kittens settled. It's quite a problem. I refuse to allow them to go to any but the nicest homes.'

  'Thank you,' said Joan faintly.

  'They won't be ready for a month or so,' continued Dotty, now on the doorstep. Joan rallied her failing senses.

  'I will ring you before the end of the week,' she promised, 'and let you know if Ruth and I can have one each.'

  'And tell your friends,' shouted Dotty from the gate. 'Those that are definite cat-lovers.'

  Joan nodded her agreement, and watched her eccentric neighbour trotting briskly homeward to her rhubarb and ginger wine.

  'What was all that about?' asked Ruth, when she returned to the kitchen.

  'I'll tell you later,' said Joan. 'Little pitchers, you know.'

  'Have big ears,' said her son. 'It was Miss Harmer, wasn't it? Did she tell you about her kittens? Chris told me. Isn't it smashing?'

  He paused, and his mother watched, with mingled amusement and dismay, the light which suddenly broke out upon his countenance.

  'Did she say we can have one, mummy? Did she? Oh, please let's! Oh, mummy, do let's have one! Please, please!'

  Albert Piggott, much refreshed, set out from "The Two Pheasants" to his nearby cottage. An aroma of boiling bacon wafted towards him as he approached.

  Mellowed already by a pint of bitter, Albert's spirits were cheered still further by the thought of pleasures to come. Maybe Nell wasn't such a bad sort, after all!

  At that moment, a clattering van appeared at the top of the steep hill from Lulling, and Albert's heart turned once more to stone.

  'Oilmen!' He spat viciously into the hedge.

  'Women!' He spat again.

  Albert Piggott was back to normal.

  5 A Problem for Winnie

  A RARE spell of superb harvest weather was broken early in September by a day of violent rainstorms. Naturally enough, it was the very day on which Mrs Prior and her son moved into Tullivers.

  Gusts of wind shook veils of rain across Thrush Green. Sheets of water spread across the ground which was baked hard by weeks of sunny weather. A small river gurgled down the hill to Lulling, and the avenue of chestnut trees dropped showers of raindrops and blown leaves.

  Those unfortunate enough to have to brave the weather, routed out long-unused mackintoshes, umbrellas and Wellington boots, and splashed their way dejectedly across the green, sparing a sympathetic glance for the removal men, staggering from their van into Tullivers with rain-spattered furniture.

  Within the little house Jeremy and his mother did their best to create order from chaos. It was no easy task, for as fast as they wheeled an armchair to its allotted place, a tea-chest would arrive to be dumped in its way.

  'Where d'you want this, ma'am?' was the cry continuously, as the men appeared, far too quickly for the poor woman's comfort, with yet another bulky object.

  She had thought, when packing up the belongings in Chelsea, that each tea-chest and large piece of furniture had been labelled. As in most moves, only half seemed to bear their place of destination, and soon the kitchen was beginning to become the resting place of all those boxes needing investigation.

  'It's like a shop,' said Jeremy happily, surveying the scene.

  'Or a lost property office,' said his mother despairingly.

  At that moment, Mrs Bailey appeared.

  'I'm not even going to offer to help,' she said. 'I should be quite useless. But do please both come to lunch. It's only cottage pie, but I'm sure you'll be ready for a break when the men have gone.'

  She put up her umbrella again in a flurry of raindrops, waved cheerfully, and set off through the downpour.

  By one o'clock the removal van had rumbled away, and Mrs Prior and Jeremy sat thankfully at the doctor's hospitable table.

  'I feel as if I'd been through a washing machine,' said the girl. 'Thoroughly soaked, then tumble-dried. I'll never move again!'

  'Goody-goody!' commented her son. 'I don't ever want to move away from here.'

  'I certainly hope you won't,' replied Mrs Bailey, handing vegetable dishes. 'Runner beans? They're from the garden.'

  'That's something I must do,' said the girl. 'I intend to grow as many vegetables as possible. There are some currant and gooseberry bushes in the garden at Tullivers, I see.'

  'You may have to replace t
hem,' said the doctor, toying with his tiny helping. 'They must be pretty ancient.'

  'Do fruit bushes cost much?'

  There was a note of anxiety in the girl's voice which did not escape the doctor's ear.

  'More than they used, no doubt. If I were you, I should clear away all those weeds and long grass around them, fork the ground and put in plenty of bone meal. Then see if they give you a decent crop next season. If they do, well and good. If not, out with 'em!'

  The girl nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging his advice. Mrs Bailey, watching her eat her cottage pie, noticed how exhausted she looked. It was understandable: the two had made an early start, and a moving day was always bone-wearying. But she seemed thinner, and there were shadows under the lovely eyes, as though she had slept poorly for many nights. Mrs Bailey's motherly heart went out to this quiet young woman in her trouble - for trouble she guessed, correctly, that she had in abundance. But this was no time to force any confidences. Perhaps, one day, the girl would feel ready to speak, and then would be the time for understanding.

  At the end of the meal, the girl and her son rose to go.

  'It has been simply lovely. You've really restored us both. But now we must go back and tackle the muddle.'

  'Thank you for having us,' said Jeremy politely. He stood soberly eyeing the doctor's wife for a few moments, then flung his arms round her waist and gave her a tremendous hug.

  'You are nice!' he cried. 'Like my granny!' His face was alight with happiness.

  Mrs Bailey ruffled the flaxen hair, more touched than she cared to admit.

  'Then I must be nice,' she agreed. 'Come and see me whenever you like. And put up your umbrella in the porch, or you'll be washed away before you reach home.'

  She watched them splash down the path, and then caught sight of Willie Marchant, the postman, tacking erratically back and forth uphill. His black oilskins ran with water, and drops fell from the peak of his cap on to the mackintosh which covered his parcels.

  He pulled in to the kerb, propped up his bicycle amidst a shower of drops, and extracted a letter from a bundle.