(3/13) News from Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  'Damn!' said Harold, plodding homeward. A much-quoted dictum of his old nurse's floated into his perplexed mind.

  'What can't be cured must be endured!'

  Cold comfort indeed, thought Harold, turning the key in his front door.

  Harold Shoosmith was not the only person in the neighbourhood to suffer a disturbed night.

  Sam Curdle was receiving the lashing of Bella's tongue, as they packed their few poor belongings in the stuffy caravan. They were off at first light, making for a village north of Southampton.

  Bella had learned the bitter truth that they were to depart from the farmer's wife.

  'I'm sorry to lose you, Bella,' Mrs Hodge said truthfully. 'You've been a good worker and we've got on well. But my husband won't be done, as you know, and Sam's a fool to try it on.'

  Bella had pleaded for leniency, promising to keep an eye on her erring husband, although she knew, in her heart, that he was too slippery a customer even for her control. The poor woman was at her wits' end. i There were three children to bring up and she knew that Sam's chances of getting any kind of job in the Thrush Green area were slight indeed.

  Mrs Hodge stood firm. It was as much as her life was worth, she said, to oppose Percy. Sam had known from the start that he was allowed in the yard on sufferance. He had flouted the master's demands, and there was an end to it.

  A furious scene between Sam and Bella followed. The next day, Bella, slightly less heated, betook herself to the telephone booth at the corner of Thrush Green, a fine assortment of coins in hand.

  Unknown to Sam, whom she had left sulking in bed, she put her pride in her pocket and decided to talk to her father who kept a country pub in a village in Hampshire. She had been his barmaid before marriage, and hoped that he and her step-mother would take pity on their plight now.

  She disliked the idea of going there intensely, but there seemed to be no alternative. Her father had married some years after the death of Bella's mother, and her step-mother was a hard-working, but tight-fisted woman who had never taken particularly to her blowsy step-daughter. It wouldn't be a very comfortable situation for the Curdle family, Bella knew, remembering her step-mother's sharp tongue, but beggars couldn't be choosers, she told herself, as she dropped the coins in the box.

  Her father was a tender-hearted man and responded kindly to her tearful call for help. Yes, they could all come, and the caravan could stand in the backyard. As it happened, his present barmaid was leaving to have a baby, though she would be back in a couple of months, Bella must understand.

  And Maud herself, Bella's step-mother, was laid up with a sprained ankle, so Bella would be doubly welcome.

  Sam, said her father, with rather less warmth, could find himself a job nearby and could earn a few bob helping him in the evenings with the crates.

  'But you can tell him straight, Bella, he's to behave himself. You know what I mean. You and the kids are welcome for a bit, just to tide you over like, but Sam had better get down to a steady job and make a proper home for you all. Tell him I said so.'

  Bella promised, with some relish, thanked her father sincerely and went back to the caravan to face Sam with the ultimatum.

  'Well, we ain't going!' said Sam roundly, when faced with die news.

  A dangerous glint appeared in Bella's eye, and Sam began to quail inwardly.

  'You speak for yourself, Sam Curdle. Go where you like - it don't trouble me, and that's flat. But me and the kids set off tomorrow for home. I can drive well enough to get us down there, and I reckons I own this caravan more than you do. It's my wages as keeps us going, and we'll all be a dam' sight better off without you.'

  'Now, Bella—' began Sam.

  Scarlet in the face, Bella rounded upon him.

  'Take it or leave it! We're off first thing tomorrow, come rain or shine, Come if you like, or clear off-one or the other!'

  And so, next morning, the battered caravan clattered out of Percy Hodge's yard for ever. As it rattled by Harold Shoosmith's house, Willie Bond the postman watched it. At the wheel was a grim-faced Sam. Beside him, arms folded, sat an equally grim-faced Bella. The news that the Curdles were off had already flown around the neighbourhood, but Willie was the only witness to their departure.

  'Good riddance to bad rubbish!' said Willie aloud, as the caravan slid out of sight down the steep hill to Lulling.

  He echoed the general feelings of Thrush Green.

  11 Albert has Suspicions

  HAROLD Shoosmith's bathroom was at the back of the house overlooking the little valley that lay to the west of Thrush Green. In the distance were Lulling Woods, a deep blue smudge against the winter sky.

  As he shaved the next morning he gazed beyond the shaving mirror on the window sill observing the bare trees and brindled hedges of winter. The elm trees, near Dotty Harmer's distant cottage, spread their fans of black lace, and a wisp of blue smoke, curling up towards them, showed that Dotty was already astir.

  After his restless night, Harold felt out of sorts. He had gone over the irritating affair of Phil's story, time and time again, in the maddening way one does at night. He had almost decided, at one stage, to ignore Phil's request to cease meddling and to ring Frank and explain matters, swearing his old friend to secrecy.

  But with morning light, things could be seen more coolly, and Harold made up his mind to let this business work itself out, without worrying himself unduly. He had made his point. It was Phil's decision, and she had plenty of sense.

  He determined to put it at the back of his mind, and went downstairs to brew his coffee and make toast. Nevertheless, he intended to keep within earshot of the telephone. Luckily, Betty Bell came that day to go through the house, like a mighty rushing wind, and she would answer the telephone if Harold were called away unexpectedly.

  For the first part of the morning he worked at his desk, the telephone within arm's reach. It rang once and he snatched it up, only to be told that the exchange was testing his line.

  Betty Bell burst in, without knocking, at eleven o'clock, bearing half a cup and half a saucerful of far too milky coffee, and two soggy gingernuts.

  'Heard the news?' she asked.

  'What about?'

  'Them Curdles.'

  'I heard Percy Hodge had asked them to leave,' said Harold guardedly.

  'Fair old rumpus they had, Bella and Sam,' said Betty sitting down on The Times which Harold had left in the armchair. 'Willie Bond said they looked as black as thunder going off in that old van. Got a tin bath and the pushchair lashed on top. He said it sounded like Alexander's rag-time band.'

  Betty burst into merry laughter, rocking back and forth to the detriment of The Times.

  'Proper cough-drop old Willie is! You ever heard him sing "I Gotter Motter"?'

  'No,' said Harold, pouring the coffee from the saucer into the cup. The biscuits he had wrapped in blotting paper and deposited in the waste-paper basket.

  'You ought! You really ought! Brings the house down. Never fails. Always gets an encore, does Willie.'

  She got up bouncily.

  'Well, this won't buy the baby a new frock, will it? I'm doing you liver and bacon for your dinner. All right?'

  Harold nodded. Betty Bell, in full spate, after a poor night, was more than usually exhausting.

  She whirled out, crashing the door behind her. Harold sipped his tepid coffee and looked across the green to Tullivers. What was going on there?

  A pale wintry sun lit the scene. He decided that he would do some gardening. No point in moping about. Fresh air and exercise would do him good.

  'Give an ear to the phone, Betty,' he said casually, as he dragged on his Wellingtons. 'I'm expecting a call.'

  But it did not come. The morning passed. The liver and bacon were cooked and eaten. Betty Bell departed, leaving her master hoeing the beds beneath the study window where the telephone bell could be heard should it happen to ring.

  But it remained silent for the rest of the day, and when evening came Harold
shrugged aside the whole stupid incident and bent his energies to solving a much-crumpled crossword puzzle in The Times.

  The departure of Sam and Bella Curdle had repercussions in the community. John Donne's dictum about no man being an island is truer in a village, perhaps, than in any larger community.

  In the first place, Winnie Bailey was expecting him to come to the house to sweep the kitchen chimney. An odd quirk in this structure, necessitated by a by-gone architect's devious design, meant that it needed a sweep's ministrations twice a year. Dr Bailey owned some stout brushes, which were frequently loaned to neighbours, for this purpose, and Sam was always ready to do the job for five shillings.

  Albert Piggott was the second person to miss Sam. They had been instructed by the rector to take out some rusty and damaged iron palings from the churchyard fence.

  'Children or animals could be injured so easily,' said the rector anxiously. His sexton had snorted, but made no spoken comment. Children and animals, his expression implied, got what they deserved if they meddled.

  'It's too bad,' said Mrs Bailey, when she heard that Sam had gone. 'That wretched boiler will start smoking as soon as the wind changes, mark my words. I shall have to get someone up from Lulling, I suppose.'

  'No need,' said Richard, sprinkling wheat germ on his plate of Otto-recommended breakfast cereal. 'I'll do it this evening.'

  Winnie surveyed her neat nephew with new respect.

  'Do you know what to do?'

  'Of course. I rather like sweeping chimneys. And cleaning drains. So worthwhile. Instant rewards, you know.'

  He poured himself some coffee.

  'Think no more of it. I'll be ready for the job after dinner tonight, if that suits you.'

  'Wonderful!' cried Winnie. 'I'm most grateful, Richard dear. I'll let the boiler out this afternoon.'

  True to his word, Richard tackled the job that evening. He was clad in ex-R.A.F. overalls, once white, but now mottled with the stains of many a year and many a job, from creosoting fences to cleaning out wells.

  'They go everywhere with me,' said Richard, stroking his filthy overalls fondly. 'Such a useful rig-out.'

  This practical side of Richard's nature was new to his aunt, and she found her respect for the young man growing considerably as she watched him tackling the flue. He was quick and clean. He had had the forethought to spread newspapers at strategic points, and he wasted no time in idle conversation as Sam Curdle did.

  While the flue brush was rattling away inside the chimney, Phil Prior called.

  'My goodness,' she said, with admiration. 'You're making a splendid job of that.'

  'A minor accomplishment,' replied Richard, with a rare smile. 'It's more useful than painting water-colours these days.'

  'It certainly is,' agreed the girl. She turned to Mrs Bailey.

  'I hate to bother you, but would you come and have a look at Jeremy? He's looking so flushed. He went to sleep as usual, but he's woken up again so crotchety. I don't like to bother Doctor Lovell, but if you think—'

  'Let me slip on my coat,' said Mrs Bailey, making for the stairs.

  'Ah!' said Richard, with enormous satisfaction. A sizeable piece of hardened soot rattled down the chimney and splintered on the waiting newspaper.

  'I think Aunt Winnie wants a different sort of fuel for this contraption.'

  He picked up the soot in a blackened hand and studied it with close attention. Phil watched, amused. At last, this young man had come to life! Until then, she had found him cold and a trifle supercilious.

  'Do you often sweep chimneys?' she asked lightly.

  'If I'm asked I do,' replied Richard. 'I like mucky jobs. It makes a change from my finicky figure work.'

  He looked at her swiftly.

  'Do you want anything done?'

  'Not chimneys, alas. They were done when we moved in, but—.' She hesitated.

  'No, nothing really,' she finished lamely.

  'It's a waste-pipe,' said Richard shrewdly.

  Phil laughed.

  'You're clairvoyant! As a matter of fact, it is.'

  'Well, I love a good stuffed-up waste-pipe,' said Richard, with relish. 'I'll be over tomorrow evening, if that suits you.'

  'There's no hurry - it's the spare room waste-pipe, but I'd be eternally grateful, if you really mean to do it.'

  'Mean to do it? Of course, I mean to do it,' said Richard indignantly. 'If not tomorrow, then one evening soon. I'll ring first to see if it's convenient.'

  'You are kind,' said Phil gratefully.

  Mrs Bailey reappeared and the two women hurried next door. After inspecting Jeremy, Winnie suggested a little milk of magnesia.

  'And if he still seems feverish in the morning, send for Doctor Lovell. He'll pop in before morning surgery, no doubt.'

  'You've relieved my mind,' said the girl. 'I seem to worry unnecessarily.'

  'How are things going?' Winnie ventured.

  'Worse,' said Phil. 'By that I mean that the wheels are grinding along. What I cannot bear is the thought of Christmas for Jeremy without his father. I must screw myself to telling him before long. I can't tell you how I dread it.'

  'Do you hear from him?'

  'Sometimes he writes a short note when he sends my cheque. He's in France, at the moment. With her, I imagine.'

  The girl sounded dog-tired and hopeless. Winnie felt powerless to help.

  'And the writing?' she asked, hoping to find a more cheerful topic.

  Phil laughed mirthlessly.

  'All in a muddle. I've had an acceptance, but I'm not sure if I want it to be published now. There are plenty of stories, by me, waiting to be read by editors. Something may turn up.'

  'I'm sure it will,' said Winnie robustly. 'Now have an early night, and by morning both you and Jeremy will be fighting fit again.'

  She kissed her gently, and returned home, shaking her head.

  'Poor young thing!' she murmured, opening the kitchen door.

  Richard was taking up the newspapers. The stove was back to rights and freshly-washed.

  'That's a nice young woman,' observed Richard thoughtfully. 'Is her divorce through yet?'

  My goodness, thought Winnie, in some alarm, Richard's touch may be sure enough with chimneys and waste-pipes, but it was surely rather too heavy and direct in his dealings with women!

  Albert Piggott did not find help as easily as Winnie Bailey.

  He surveyed the cold November day through his cottage window. It was going to be proper bleak tugging up them old railings. Been stuck there, in Cotswold clay, for a hundred years. They'd take some shifting - and no Sam to give him a hand.

  He said as much to Nelly, who was whirling about behind him with a tin of polish and a duster. He got short shrift from her.

  'A good day's work won't hurt you, Albert. Make a nice change,' she puffed, rubbing energetically at the top of the table. 'Do that liver of yours a power of good.'

  Fat lot of sympathy she ever gives me, thought Albert morosely, lifting his greasy cap from the peg behind the door. He dressed slowly, watching his buxom wife attacking the furniture with zest.

  All right for some, Albert grumbled to himself, crossing to the windy churchyard. She'd never had a day's illness in her life - strong as a horse, she was - and still game to make eyes at that oilman.

  The pain which gnawed intermittently at Albert's inside seemed worse today. Doctor Lovell's pills helped a little, but Nelly's food was too rich, no doubt about it, and he was that starved with hunger when it came to meal times, he ate whatever she provided, dreading too the lash of her tongue if he refused to eat.

  He set about the broken railings and found the job as difficult as he had feared. As he tugged he contemplated his marriage. What a fool he'd been! A clean house and good cooking was no exchange for peace and quiet, and that was what he missed. The only times he had the house to himself were Tuesdays and Fridays when Nelly took herself to Bingo at Lulling.

  Or did she? A sudden suspicion made Albert straigh
ten his back and look across Thrush Green. Come to think of it, Bingo was on Saturday night. It dawned, with horrible clarity, on Albert's dull mind, that Nelly must be meeting the oilman on Tuesdays and Fridays.

  That was it! Tuesday was the oilman's half-day, he remembered, and Friday was his pay-day. It all fitted together.

  He bent to his task again, half relishing the scene when he confronted Nelly with his discovery. The pain in his stomach seemed worse, and there was a tight feeling across his chest which he had not suffered before, but he continued tugging with the vigour born of righteous indignation.

  He saw Nelly whisk out of the cottage, a basket on her arm, bound for the butcher's down the hill. He gave her no greeting, but watched sourly as her ample back vanished in the distance.

  'You wait, my gal,' said Albert grimly. 'You just wait!'

  Young Jeremy Prior was no better the next morning and Doctor Lovell called at Tullivers when morning surgery, next door, was over.

  'There's measles about,' he told Phil when they were downstairs again, 'but it doesn't look like it at the moment. No rash yet, of course. But keep him in bed, and I'll look in tomorrow.'

  He eyed the girl sympathetically. She looked wretchedly tired.

  'Did you sleep last night?'

  'Not much.'

  'Would you like a few tablets?'

  'Not really, many thanks. I've a horror of pills, and I know I'll have a good night tonight. It works out that way, I find.'

  'Good,' said the young doctor briskly. 'But if I can help, do just say. And don't worry about that young man upstairs. I think we'll find his temperature's down tomorrow.'

  Throughout the day the child was unusually demanding and fractious. He wanted his mother with him most of the time, and she was content to shelve her writing and sit beside him reading stories or helping with a gignatic ancient jig-saw puzzle of the Wembley Exhibition, bequeathed to him by Winnie Bailey.