(3/13) News from Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  'We'd better let her know anyway,' said the doctor. 'Know her address?'

  'No,' said Albert shortly. 'Nor want to.' He closed his eyes.

  An hour later he was asleep between the sheets at Lulling Cottage Hospital, and Harold and Charles were telling Dimity what had happened.

  'She's bound to come back,' she said. 'She wouldn't leave him just like that - not in hospital, not when she hears that he's ill!'

  'I agree that most women would bury the hatchet when they heard that their husbands had been taken ill, but somehow,' said Harold, admiring his whisky against the light, 'I don't think Nelly will return in a hurry.'

  'But what will he do?' asked the rector, looking distressed. 'He must have someone to look after him when he comes out of hospital!'

  'I know,' said Dimity suddenly. 'I'll write to Molly, his daughter. She married Ben Curdle, the man who owns the fair,' she told Harold. 'She left here just before you came to live here. A dear girl - we all liked her so much. She should know anyway, and perhaps she will come and look after him.'

  'He wasn't very nice to her when she did live with him,' ventured the rector doubtfully. 'And now. she has Ben and the baby to look after, I really can't see—'

  'Never mind,' said Dimity firmly. 'I shall let her know what has happened, and it is up to her to decide. I must ring Joan Young for her address. I know she keeps in touch. They were such friends when Molly used to be nursemaid to Paul.'

  She made her way briskly to the study, and the two men heard her talking to Joan.

  The rector gave a loud yawn and checked himself hastily.

  'I'm so sorry. I'm unconscionably tired. It's the upset, I suppose. Poor Albert! I feel very distressed for him.'

  'You'd feel distressed for Satan himself,' replied Harold affectionately. 'Poor Albert, indeed! I bet he asked for it. I don't blame Nelly for leaving that old devil.'

  'I married them myself,' said the rector sadly, gazing at the fire. 'I must admit, I had doubts at the time.'

  Dimity returned, a piece of paper fluttering in her hand.

  'I've got the address. If I write now, then Willie can take it in the morning.'

  'Well, I must be off,' said Harold rising. 'Many thanks for the drink.'

  'I've just thought,' cried Dimity, standing transfixed. 'Did you see Albert's cat? I'd better go across and feed it.'

  'You leave it till the morning,' advised Harold, patting her thin shoulder. 'It won't hurt tonight. There's plenty of Christmas pudding lying about the kitchen to keep it going.'

  13 Christmas Preparations

  SIGNS of Christmas were beginning to appear in Lulling and Thrush Green.

  The squat Butter Market cross, beloved by residents and antiquarians from further afield, was being wreathed in coils of wire ready for its garland of coloured lights later on.

  In the shops, gifts were on display. Puddocks, the stationers, decked one of their windows with Christmas cards and the other with a fearsome array of table mats arranged round a scarlet typewriter. Ella found the juxtaposition of these articles extremely annoying, and said so to the manager.

  'If you're going to show table mats put something like a large dish, or a vase with Christmas decorations in it,' Ella told him, in a voice audible to all his customers.

  'Or if you want the ruddy typewriter on show - though who on earth you imagine is going to pay over thirty quid for one Christmas present these days, I'm blessed if I know - then put office stuff round it. Blotters, say, or calendars, or pens and pencils. But to mix up the two just isn't good enough!'

  The manager made perfunctory apologies. As a young man he had dreaded Ella's comments. Now that he was grey and tubby he was hardened to this awkward customer's remarks. Ella Bembridge was a byword in the town. No one was going to worry about her little foibles, he told himself.

  He directed her attention to the other window.

  'I've done my own,' said Ella, scrutinizing the crinolined ladies, the churches in the snow, and the kittens in paper hats, with obvious disgust.

  'Appalling, aren't they?' she said cheerfully, and departed before the manager could think of a cutting reply.

  The window of the electricity showroom was much admired by the young if not by their elders. It showed an all-electric kitchen with the oven prominently displayed. The oven door stood open, the better to show a dark-brown shiny turkey and some misshapen roast potatoes. At the kitchen table, a smiling woman stirred something which seemed to be Christmas pudding mixture, while a dish of mince pies stood on the top of the refrigerator beside her.

  Quite rightly, the good wives of Lulling found this scene as exasperating as Ella found Puddocks' window.

  'Bit late mixin' the pudden,' one said sourly to another.

  'And that bird won't get done with the door open,' agreed her friend tartly. 'I shouldn't care to try them spuds either.'

  'Nor them mince-pies,' observed another. 'Plaster-a-Paris as plain as a pike staff. Bet some fool of a man arranged that window. I've a good mind to go in and tell 'em.'

  'The Fuchsia Bush' had excelled itself with rows and rows of silver bells, made from tinfoil, which were strung across the ceiling and rustled metallically every time the door opened.

  'Come in handy for keeping the birds off the peas later,' observed one practical customer, speaking fortissimo above the din of the dancing bells.

  The bow-shaped windows were studded with dabs of cotton-wool to represent snowflakes, and two imposing flower arrangements of dried grasses, seed-pods and fern, all sprayed with silver by the ladies of the Lulling Floral Society, took pride of place in each window.

  Thrush Green's preparations were less spectacular, but Dimity took out the figures for the Christmas crib and washed them carefully in luke-warm water well-laced with Lux.

  Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty were in the throes of rehearsals for the annual Christmas concert. Miss Fogerty, who was the more realistic of the two and knew the limits of her infants' powers, had wisely plumped for simple carols, sung in unison by the whole class, with 'growlers' tucked strategically at the back of the stage and warned to 'sing very quietly'. A few percussion instruments in the hands of the most competent few, who included young Jeremy Prior, were going to accompany the infant choir.

  In fact, Miss Fogerty's main concern was to get the children to pronounce their vowel sounds correctly. Constant repetition of:

  'Awy in er-er mynger'

  was causing her acute distress.

  Miss Watson, who was more ambitious, had decided rashly to stage a nativity play. The ten-year-olds who were the most senior of her pupils and who, it might be supposed, would be competent to play the leading roles, were at the self-conscious stage, and tended to giggle and look sheepish, which Miss Watson found both irritating and irreligious.

  She found herself speaking with unusual sharpness.

  'Don't mumble into your beard, Joseph. The parents want to hear you, remember. And if you three wise men keep tripping over the rector's spare room curtains I shall be returning them in shreds. Pick your feet up, do! As for you beasts in the stall, for pity's sake stop nodding your masks in that inane way. You'll have them off, and I'm not made of cardboard!'

  With such travail was Christmas being welcomed at the school.

  'I suppose it will be all right on the day,' said Miss Watson resignedly to Miss Fogerty.

  'Of course it will,' Miss Fogerty replied stoutly, watching her children paste paper chains with frenzied brushes, and more chatter than was usually allowed. She dived upon one five-year-old who was twirling his paste-brush energetically in his neighbour's ear, removed the brush, slapped the offender's hand, and lifted the malefactor to the corner where he was obliged to study the weather chart for December, with his back to the class. Throughout the whole incident, Miss Fogerty's face remained calm and kindly.

  Miss Watson sighed. Dear Agnes's methods were hopelessly old-fashioned, and she knew quite well that corporal punishment was frowned upon by all enlightened educat
ionalists.

  Nevertheless, thought Miss Watson, returning to her own boisterous class, a sharp slap seemed to work wonders now and again, and at times, like this, one surely could be forgiven.

  In the houses round the green, more preparations were going on. Ella had looked out half a dozen lumpy ties, ear-marked for male friends such as Charles Henstock. The Christmas cards, a stack of bold woodcuts with a certain rough attraction, waited on the dresser for despatch later.

  Her present to Dimity remained to be finished. She was sewing a rug, in a stitch called 'tiedbrick stitch', in gay stripes of scarlet, grey and white. It gave her enormous satisfaction to do, but its bulk was difficult to hide in a hurry, on the occasions when Dimity called unexpectedly to see her.

  Harold Shoosmith, efficient as ever, had bought book tokens for all his friends, and had a neat pile waiting in his desk to be written in, and posted on the correct day. Betty Bell had made him a Christmas pudding large enough for a family of ten, and was upset when her employer told her firmly that he refused to countenance her proposal to make him a dozen mince-pies, two trifles and a couple of jellies 'to keep him going'.

  'My dear Betty,' he said kindly, 'I'm going to Christmas dinner with the rector and his wife. I have invited them here for Boxing Day evening, as you know, and that delicious Christmas pudding will be ample.'

  'You'd best have a trifle as well,' said Betty mutinously. 'Miss Dimity likes trifle.'

  'Very well,' sighed Harold capitulating. 'One trifle! And thank you.'

  Across the green, Phil Prior wrapped a few presents for Jeremy and hid them among her clothes, but her heart was not in the coming festivities. The prospect for her was bleak, and any day now she must steel herself to break the news to Jeremy that his father would not be there at Christmas time. The boy would have to know the truth before long. If only she could get it over!

  Meanwhile, she worked hard at her writing, and prepared a batch of stories, articles and ideas, which might interest Frank when she met him for the first time on the Wednesday.

  The day dawned clear and bright. Phil watched Jeremy eat his breakfast egg, and felt surprisingly excited by the prospect of a day in London.

  'And I go straight to Aunt Joan's, don't I?' he said, for the third time. 'She's having sausages because I told her I liked them. Paul said so.'

  'Then you're very lucky,' said his mother. 'Don't forget to thank her when you go back to school.'

  'And you'll be back to put me to bed?'

  'Of course. Probably by tea time, but it just depends how long I have to spend with the editor, and how the trains run.'

  'Can't you come back with Richard?'

  'No. He's staying in London.'

  'D'you like him?' Jeremy's gaze was fixed upon her intently.

  'Of course.' Jeremy drained his cup of milky coffee, and wiped away his wet moustache.

  'I don't.'

  'Why not? He's very kind. He cleared our drain for us, you know.'

  'He did that for you,' said Jeremy shrewdly. 'Not for me. He doesn't notice me.'

  Children! thought Phil, clearing the table swiftly. Too quick by half!

  'Why should you mind that?' she answered reasonably. 'Grown-up people have a lot to think about. They don't always take notice of children.'

  Jeremy made no reply, but bent to tie his shoelaces. This was a new accomplishment, and gave him great satisfaction.

  'Miss Fogerty gave me two sweets the first time I tied my laces,' he said, surveying his shoes proudly.

  'Two? Why two?' asked Phil, glad to have the subject changed.

  'Dolly mixture,' replied her son briefly.

  She helped him on with his coat, and gave him a hug. His soft face smelt sweetly of Morny pink lilac soap, as he kissed her.

  'Have a lovely time,' he said cheerfully.

  'You too,' said Phil, opening the front door. 'Have a lovely time,' she echoed, when he reached the gate.

  She watched him run across the grass and turned back to make her preparations, turning over in her mind the child's comments on their neighbour.

  She enjoyed the drive with Richard. He was quick and competent in traffic, and quite unruffled by the antics of bad drivers around him.

  They talked of Thrush Green, of books, and of music.

  'There's a concert at Oxford just before Christmas,' said Richard. 'Will you come?'

  'Thank you,' said Phil. 'If I can get someone to mind Jeremy, I should love to.'

  'Aunt Winnie would sit-in, I'm sure,' said Richard. 'I'll ask her.'

  'No, please don't. She's been so kind—'

  'She's always kind. Looks after me too well,' said Richard, and began to tell her about his dietary difficulties.

  For the first time, Phil began to see why Winnie Bailey found her nephew something of a trial. It seemed incredible that an intelligent grown man should be quite so worried about himself.

  'But who is this Otto?' asked Phil, when the great man's name cropped up yet again.

  'The wisest dietician of our time,' pronounced Richard solemnly, swerving to evade a cyclist bent on suicide. He went on to explain Otto's theories, his methods and his astounding successes. Phil did her best not to yawn.

  'Where can I drop you?' asked Richard as they drove along Piccadilly. 'I have to go up Regent Street, if that's any help.'

  'Yes, please. Somewhere near Hamley's if it's possible. I want to buy a gadget for Jeremy's train set.'

  'Good luck with the editor,' called Richard, when she left the car. He gave her one of his disarming smiles, and Phil momentarily forgot the boredom of his digestive troubles as she thanked him and said goodbye.

  The sausages were splendid - crisp and very dark brown-exactly as Jeremy and Paul liked them. As an added attraction, Joan had tucked them into an oblong of mashed potato with only the ends showing.

  'Sausages-in-bed,' she told them. Jeremy was entranced with this gastronomic refinement, and determined to tell his mother how much better sausages tasted when so served.

  The Youngs' ginger kitten greeted the boys affectionately.

  'We're having one too,' Jeremy told Paul, proudly. 'It's coming at the weekend and I'm making a bed for it out of a cardboard box. I've got a piece of a rug to put at the bottom. A car rug my Daddy bought.'

  'What's he giving you for Christmas?' asked Paul, a direct child.

  'My daddy? I'm not sure.'

  'He'll probably bring you a surprise,' said Paul.

  'Yes,' agreed Jeremy. There was a slight doubtfulness in his tone which did not escape Joan, who knew the sad circumstances. 'If he comes,' he added thoughtfully.

  'Of course he'll come,' scoffed Paul robustly. 'Bound to at Christmas.'

  The school bell began to ring, and Joan held up a finger.

  'A quick wash, Jeremy, and then off you go. We'll see you after school, my dear.'

  Truly saved by the bell, she thought!

  She spent the afternoon engaged in her own Christmas preparations. Her sister Ruth Lovell and her husband and baby were coming for Christmas Day. Her parents were arriving on Christmas Eve and would spend several days at Thrush Green. Mr Bassett, father of Joan and Ruth, had now retired, and was always threatening - in the kindest possible way - to turn out the Youngs from their Thrush Green house. It had been left to him on the death of his parents, and one day, he promised himself, he would go there to live.

  She busied herself in preparing their room and sorting out bed-linen and blankets. The time passed so quickly that she was surprised to hear the shouts of the school children as they emerged at half past three.

  She hurried downstairs to meet young Jeremy who was rushing up the garden path, unbelievably grubby after two hours in school.

  'Let me wash your face,' she said, 'and then we'll go down to Lulling to pick up Paul. And shall we buy some crumpets for tea ?'

  Sitting beside his hostess in the car Jeremy spoke decidedly.

  'Next to my house,' he told her 'I like yours best. If I hadn't got a home, c
ould I live with you?'

  'Anytime,' said Joan sincerely. 'Anytime, Jeremy.'

  Travelling back alone, in the train, Phil closed her eyes and pondered on the day's happenings, well content.

  She had liked Frank the moment she saw him. He was tall, heavily-built, with a beautiful deep voice and very bright eyes of that true brown which is so rare.

  She found him remarkably easy to talk to, and found herself telling him far more about her circumstances than she intended, over a splendid lunch.

  The work he had in mind, he told her, was similar to that which she already did for young girls. Would she be interested in writing a half page for a monthly for slightly younger children of both sexes? He told her the payment he had in mind, which was extremely generous.

  'And more stories, please,' he said,'for the women. I like your touch. Tell me more about the one you want me to suppress.'

  She told him the details.

  'Harold is far nicer than I am', she admitted. 'I would have gone ahead, but it would have upset him, I'm sure.'

  'He's a very fine chap,' said Frank. 'And most meticulous. But I can see no real reason why you should stand to lose your proper reward.'

  He went on to tell her that his company owned two Scottish evening papers which printed a short story daily.

  'No possible chance of Thrush Green eyes seeing them,' he told her. 'And we'll use a pseudonym. Think one up, and let me have it. I, liked that tale. You handled the two old ladies beautifully.'

  After lunch, they returned to the office where he gave her a number of back copies of the young people's magazine to study at home. They discussed things very thoroughly, and Phil was surprised to find how quickly the time flew past.

  'It's so good to be doing something again,' she said. 'You shall have the copy very quickly.'