(3/13) News from Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  'Then why not go to him?'

  'I'll do that,' whispered Phil huskily. 'It's keeping up appearances before Jeremy which is so hard. I've cried all day. Thank God he didn't seem to notice much at dinner time.'

  'Let me walk across to the school when the children finish,' said Winnie, 'and take him back with me to tea.'

  'No, really—'

  'Please. I should love it, and it will give you a chance to get over the shock a little. I'll bring him back before half past six.'

  She stood up and kissed the girl's pale cheek gently.

  'Go and have a warm bath,' she advised. 'Hot water truly is the benison that Rupert Brooke said it was. And then give yourself a tot of something strong. You'll feel twice the girl.'

  'You are an angel,' cried Phil, accompanying her to the door. 'I've done nothing but moan; and I haven't given you a chance to tell me what brings you here.'

  Silently, Winnie held up the poppy tin.

  'Of course I'll do it,' said Phil warmly. 'I can't weep for ever.'

  Winnie's nephew Richard arrived the following week. He seemed genuinely grateful for his aunt's hospitality, and set himself out to be exceptionally charming to Doctor Bailey.

  To Winnie's eye he looked very fit and lively, having acquired a fine tan in America which set off his pale hair and blue eyes. But it was not long before symptoms of the hypochondria which had always been present showed themselves in strength.

  Two small bottles of pills stood by his plate at the first evening meal, and naturally excited the professional interest of his uncle.

  'I find them indispensable,' said Richard. 'Otto - Professor Otto Goldstein, you know, the dietician - prescribed them for me. The red ones take care of the cholesterol, and these yellow and black torpedoes check acidity and act as a mild purge. Constipation is a terrible enemy.'

  'You need a few prunes,' said the doctor, 'and a bit of roughage.'

  'Donald!' protested Winnie. 'Must you? At table?'

  'Sorry, my dear, sorry,' said her husband.

  'Too bad of me,' apologised Richard. 'Living alone such a lot makes one over-interested perhaps in one's natural functions.'

  Winnie felt that this could lead to somewhat alarming disclosures which might be regretted by all. She changed the subject abruptly.

  'You must meet our new neighbour,' she said brightly, passing her nephew Brussels sprouts. He held up a stern denying hand.

  'Not for me, Aunt Winnie. Not cooked greens, I fear. Quite forbidden by Otto because of the gases. You haven't two or three raw ones, by any chance?'

  'Not washed,' replied Winnie shortly, passing the rejected dish to her husband. She was keenly aware of the smile which hovered round the old doctor's lips.

  'A pity,' murmured Richard, tackling pork chops en casserole with faint distaste.

  'She plays bridge and whist, and is a very nice person to talk to. She writes.'

  'Really?' replied Richard vaguely. Clearly his mind was concerned with his digestive tract.

  'Will you have any spare evenings?' pursued Winnie.

  Richard gave a gusty sigh, the sigh of one who, overburdened with work, still enjoys his martyrdom.

  'I very much doubt it. I shall be writing the notes on my experiments, of course, and I intend to spend as much time as I can refuting Carslake's idiotic principles. An obstinate fellow, if ever there was one, and a very elusive one too. I must thrash things out with him during the next few months.'

  Winnie felt a wave of pity for the absent Professor Carslake. Richard, on the rampage, must be an appalling bore. She decided to put aside the idea of arranging Richard's social life at Thrush Green. Richard obviously did not want it, and was it really fair to her friends to inflict her nephew on them, she added reasonably to herself?

  She watched him swallow a red pill and then a yellow and black one. It was quite apparent that he enjoyed them far more than the excellent dinner which Winnie had spent hours in preparing.

  'Coffee?' she asked, rising from the table. 'Or does Professor Goldstein forbid that too?' There was an edge to her tone which did not escape her observant husband.

  'No, indeed,' replied Richard, opening the drawing-room door politely. 'He approves of coffee, provided that the berries are really ripe, well roasted and coarsely ground. He doesn't agrée with percolators, though. He always strains his through muslin. Do you?'

  'Not with Nescafé,' said his aunt, with a hint of triumph, leading the way.

  Richard was not the only one at Thrush Green suffering from indigestion. Doctor Lovell gave Albert Piggott a prescription, and then a few words of sound advice.

  'Your wife's a fine cook, I know. But have small helpings. Don't forget your stomach was on short commons for years. It can't cope suddenly with all this bounty.'

  Nelly tossed her head when Albert relayed this piece of advice.

  'Good food never hurt nobody. Who does he think he is - the old Tin-ribs? He could do with a bit of flesh if anyone could. I bet he never gets his teeth into a decent steak-and-kidney pudding with that dreamy wife of his to do for him! Take them dratted pills, if you must, Albert Piggott, but you eat what's put in front of you and be thankful!'

  She seemed to surpass herself in the days that followed. Cold fat bacon with pickled onions, fried cod cutlets with chips and peas, ox-tail soup, hot and glutinous, with swedes mashed with butter, all followed each other in succession, flaunting their richness and tempting Albert to fatal indulgences. His liverishness grew: his temper became more morose than ever. Nelly became aggrieved and nagged more and more bitterly.

  The oilman began to figure largely in her conversation.

  Albert, belching prettily after consuming a plate piled with pickled brawn, beetroot and bubble-and-squeak, spoke his mind.

  'Can't you shut up about that ruddy oilman? Any more of it, and I'll tell 'im to stop calling. Givin' 'im cupsertea! Giggling like some fool-girl! I seen you at it - eggin' 'im on!'

  'I'll thank you,' said Nelly haughtily, 'to mind your tongue. I only treat him civil. The poor chap's wife's left him.'

  'Best day's work she ever done, I shouldn't wonder. You'd best take a leaf outer her book, my gal.'

  'It's a pity if I can't have a friendly word with a gentleman without you getting filthy ideas into your head,' snapped Nelly, crashing cutlery about dangerously. 'The Lord alone knows I get little enough pleasure from your company. If you're not down thecoke-hole you're in "The Two Pheasants". Why I was ever fool enough to give in to your begging of me to marry you I cannot think!'

  This complete travesty of the facts of Albert's wooing rendered him speechless. But not for long.

  'I could say,' said Albert, with a hiccup which marred the heavy solemnity of his utterance, 'exactly the same words, my gal, and with a deal more truth.'

  Rumbling dangerously, he left his kitchen for something to settle his stomach next door.

  8 Gossip and Gardening

  THE rapid spread of news through a village is a natural phenomenon which is hard to explain. Phil Prior, after much inward wrestling, sought the advice of a London solicitor as a preliminary step to divorce from her husband.

  She said not a word to anyone. Winnie Bailey, true to her promise, breathed not a syllable, not even to her husband. And yet the possibility of a divorce was generally known in Thrush Green.

  How did such knowledge get around so swiftly? Winnie Bailey asked herself this, not for the first time. She supposed that someone originally made a shrewd guess, and passed on the surmise to a friend.

  The friend then might say: 'I hear that there's talk of a divorce between the Priors.' And the next step would be: 'Have you heard about the Priors' divorce?' After that it was, of course, an accepted fact, despite the usual riders: 'Mind you, it's only what I've heard,' or 'It may be only idle gossip,' or 'Don't repeat it unless you hear it confirmed.' And, sure enough, the snippet would be confirmed within an hour or so. Thus easily does bush-telegraph work in a small community.

  Fortunat
ely, Phil Prior, new to country ways, was not conscious of her matrimonial affairs being common gossip. Now that the first wretched step was taken, she felt calmer, and renewed her writing efforts.

  Harold Shoosmith proved a wise adviser in literary matters, and the girl frequently called on him to discuss possible markets. Frank, the editor friend, had received one of her stories with guarded enthusiasm, but after keeping it for some time, returned it with the excuse that it was not strong enough', but said he would consider it again if she felt she could amend it.

  'What does he mean exactly?' asked Phil of Harold Shoosmith. 'Not enough shooting and rape, do you think? I mean, I simply can't write about violence. The only person I ever saw shot, was a neighbour who was peppered in his garden by the boy next door with an air gun. To make matters worse, the wretched boy's feeble excuse was that he thought he was a squirrel! He weighed eighteen stone,' added Phil reminiscently.

  'Insult to injury,' agreed Harold. 'I hope the boy had a good hiding on the spot, and was not made the subject of psychiatric reports two months later, when everyone had forgotten all about it.'

  'Lord, yes!' cried Phil. 'This was years ago before such refinements were thought of. He was a good friend of mine, and he said he had one beating from his father and was then handed over to the victim of his attack. He didn't seem to bear any grudge about it. He was always a resilient child.'

  She turned again to her typescript.

  'But how on earth can I make it stronger? I wish editors would either reject a thing outright, or take it as it is. I do loathe messing about with a piece of writing which, after all, you have made as near perfect in the first place as you possibly can.'

  'I'd be inclined to send him another,' advised Harold, 'while the going's good, and mull over this one for a bit. Tell him you will let him have it later, when you've had a chance to revise it.'

  He watched the girl turning the pages, a worried frown creasing her brow. Damn Frank, he thought suddenly! And that wretched husband too! Why should such a nice woman have all this confounded work and worry? She should be enjoying life, not fighting for existence.

  'Come and see my last few roses,' he said, rising abruptly. Suddenly, he longed for fresh air and sunshine.

  Harold's garden was quite six times the size of Tullivers' but was in a state of exquisite neatness.

  'With no help at all?' queried the girl unbelievingly, gazing about her.

  'Piggott comes for an hour or so when he needs a little extra drinking money,' said Harold. 'But I find I can keep it fairly trim now that it's in order.'

  He snipped another rose to add to the bouquet he was making.

  'I wish you would let me help you with your garden,' he continued. 'It would be such a pleasure to me, and if it is straightened up this autumn it should be so much easier to manage next year. As you see, I'm well ahead here, and could easily spare the time, if you would allow me to trespass.'

  'You are very, very kind,' said Phil warmly, accepting the bouquet gratefully. 'And these are simply lovely. To be honest, I'd be terribly thankful for a hand with some bramble bushes which seem to have roots from here to Lulling.'

  'I'll be over tomorrow afternoon, if that suits you,' said Harold briskly.

  They walked together to the gate, and Harold watched her cross the green, the bunch of late roses making a splash of colour against her pale coat.

  Another figure was advancing, in the distance, from his right. It was Dotty Harmer, struggling with a large cat basket. Heavy though it appeared to be, Dotty was making good headway, so that Harold, who felt unequal to Dotty's conversation at the moment, retreated strategically to the peace of his study, chiding himself for cowardice and lack of chivalry the while.

  Dotty was bound for the Youngs' house, a bewildered ginger kitten mewing its protests as they made the uphill journey together.

  She was glad to rest the basket on the doorstep as she rang the bell. The kitten, relieved that the motion had stopped, now sat mute among its blankets, but watched warily.

  Paul opened the door, and fell upon his knees in front of the basket adoringly.

  'You nice little puss! Are you coming to live here, then? Dear little cat, nice little—'

  At this point, Dotty poked him sharply, bringing his ecstasies to an abrupt halt.

  'Where are your manners, boy? What about speaking to me before you fuss with the cat!'

  Scarlet with shame, Paul struggled to his feet and made apologies, just as his mother arrived.

  'Please come in; I'd no idea you were going to bring the kitten. We intended to come and fetch it to save you trouble.'

  'No bother,' said Dotty, about to lift the basket again.

  'Let Paul do it,' said Joan. 'It really is very sweet of you to have carried it all the way here. What a very pretty one!'

  They stood and admired the minute scrap, crouching among its bedding.

  'Now, if I were you,' said Dotty, taking charge, 'I should put the basket in an empty warm room, and put its earth box and a saucer of milk there too. Then make sure it cannot get out of the room, open the door of the basket, and let it explore for some hours.'

  'What about buttering its paws?' asked Paul, anxious to show his knowledge.

  'Fiddlesticks!' snapped Dotty. 'You do as I say, and he'll soon settle down.'

  'Do you think it is a he?' asked Joan, with some anxiety.

  'That I can't be sure of. Cats are very difficult to sort out. But the vet will cope at six months either way.'

  'But I should like it to have kittens!' protested Paul. He was on his knees again, one finger stroking the kitten's head through the wire door of the basket.

  'Precocious, that child!' said Dotty to his mother, in a dark aside. 'Who said anything about kittens, young man?' she added forthrightly. 'We know what we're about, and what's best for that cat. Just you go and do as I said.'

  'Take it up to the spare bedroom,' directed his mother, 'and I'll come up in a moment. Don't undo the door until I come.'

  Paul picked up the basket. Without being prompted, he smiled upon Dotty and spoke his thanks.

  'That's more like it,' said Dotty grudgingly. 'Remembered your manners after all! Now, take care of that mite. It's the tamest of the litter. It wants plenty of love, warmth and food, in that order. And if I hear you've tormented it in any way, I shall take it back!'

  'Yes, Miss Harmer,' said Paul meekly, and began to mount the stairs with his treasure.

  'Not a bad child,' conceded Dotty, watching his departing back.

  'We find him fairly satisfactory,' agreed Joan drily. The mild irony was lost upon her guest.

  'It's because you haven't kept many animals,' said Dotty. 'Now, they are completely satisfactory. Which reminds me, I must return to mine. I've left a saucepan offish simmering, and I don't want it to boil dry.'

  'Nothing worse,' said Joan, 'than the smell of boiling fish, I agree.'

  'It's not the smell I worry about,' cried Dotty, stepping out of the front door, 'but the dear cats won't touch fish if it's the slightest bit caught.'

  She set off at a fast trot towards the pathway to Lulling Woods and her animal family.

  ***

  True to his word, Harold Shoosmith made his way to Tullivers the next afternoon. The girl came to the door immediately, for she had seen him pass the window. Papers were spread upon the table, and her typewriter stood among the litter.

  'Don't let me stop you,' said Harold. 'I think I know where the brambles are.'

  He pointed to the wall which divided Tullivers' garden from the Baileys' orchard. A border lay at its foot, but was so overgrown with many weeds, including the brambles, that it was practically invisible.

  'There are some tools in the shed at the back of the house,' said Phil. 'I'll get them for you.'

  'No, no! I can find them,' said Harold. 'Don't let me interrupt the writing.'

  He made his way round the house as the girl returned to her typing.

  He found the shed easily enough,
but surveyed the tools with mingled dismay and pity. There were very few of them, and all looked hopelessly inadequate or outworn to Harold's sharp eye.

  The only fork available was a very large, heavy old veteran with wide flat tines, meant for digging up potatoes. The spade was equally heavy, and coated with dried Cotswold clay. The handle was badly cracked and had been bound, in an amateurish fashion, with string. Two trowels, a rake with a wobbly head, a birch broom, and a rusty bill-hook comprised the rest of the gardening equipment, except for a lawn-mower whose newness simply threw the age of the other tools into sharp relief.

  Very quietly, Harold went round the back of the house to the gate, so that he did not need to pass the worker's window, and went to collect his own shining equipment from across the green.

  Half an hour with a swinging mattock loosened the worst of the roots, and Harold enjoyed piling up the rubbish on the ashy remains of earlier bonfires. Brambles, elder shoots, and lofty nettles removed, it was possible to see the remains of the border. Among the shorter weeds which clothed the earth, Harold found clumps of irises, peonies and pinks still surviving suffocation. At one time the border had been well-stocked. It would be very rewarding, thought Harold, to see it trim and colourful again.

  With his light fork he loosened wild strawberry runners, groundsel, docks, chickweed and yards and yards of matted couch grass roots.

  The pile of rubbish grew higher and higher, and Harold was just contemplating the possibility of lighting a bonfire, as he straightened his back, when Phil came out from the house to admire his handiwork.

  'And I believe you've got some nerines among those clumps of bulbs,' said Harold enthusiastically. 'It's an ideal spot for them there. Don't disturb them. I'll put a marker by them next time I come.'

  'But you can't spend too much time among my weeds,' protested Phil. 'Your own will sneak up on you.'

  Harold, flushed with his exertions, looked contentedly at the first few yards of border revealed.