(3/13) News from Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  He found himself noting things with newly-awakened observation and sensibility. Tiny spears of snowdrop leaves were pushing through. Already the honeysuckle showed minute leafy rosettes, and in the still morning air, a thousand droplets quivered on the spikes of the hawthorn hedge.

  Percy Hodge's black and white cows gazed at him over the gate, their long eyelashes rimed with mist, their sweet breath forming clouds in the quiet air. A thrush, head cocked sideways, listened intently to the moving of a mole just beneath the surface of the grass verge. In Lulling Woods the trees dripped gently, their trunks striped with moisture, while underfoot the damp leaves deadened every footfall.

  He returned from these lonely walks much refreshed in spirit, even if any sort of decision still evaded him. It was good to escape from people, now and again, and a positive relief to be away from Betty Bell's boisterous activities. The coming of Christmas seemed to rouse her to even greater energy, and carpets were beaten within an inch of their lives, pillows shaken until the feathers began to escape, paint was washed, windows polished and all to the accompaniment of joyful singing which Harold had not the heart to suppress.

  'Got all your presents tied up?' asked Betty, busily winding up the Hoover cord into an intricate figure-of-eight arrangement, which Harold detested. It was useless to tell her that this was a strain on the covering of the cord cable. Figures-of-eight Betty Bell had always done, and would continue to do until her hand grew too frail to push the Hoover. Harold averted his eyes from the operation.

  'Yes, Betty. I think everything's ready.'

  'Want a Christmas tree?'

  'No thanks.'

  'Holly? Ivy? Anythink o' that?'

  'Well, perhaps a little holly—'

  'Fine. I'll send the kids out. Don't want to waste good money in the market, do you?'

  'No,' agreed Harold. 'But only a sprig or two, Betty, please. I can't cope with a lot of stuff.'

  'I'll see you right,' Betty assured him, flickering his desk energetically, and knocking his fountain pen to the floor. Harold retrieved it patiently.

  'I suppose there's nothing 'eard from that Nelly Tilling? Piggott, I should say.'

  'Not as far as I know.'

  'Miss Watson's in a fine old taking,' said Betty conversationally. 'Talking of getting that Mrs Cooke back as lives up Nidden way. Must be hard up to want her to take over the school cleaning. Proper slummocky ha'porth, she is. Ever seen her?'

  'I don't think so.'

  'Once seen never forgotten.' Betty burst into a peal of laughter, as she picked up the Hoover, ready to depart to the kitchen. 'Ugly as sin, and could do with a good wash. You wouldn't fancy anything as she'd cooked, I can tell you. Ham omelette do you?'

  'Beautifully,' said Harold. She bore away the Hoover, and slammed the study door with such vigour that it set a silver vase ringing on the mantelpiece.

  Harold wandered to the window and looked out upon empty Thrush Green and the quiet countryside beyond. The lines of a hymn floated into his mind.

  'Where every prospect pleases

  And only man is vile'

  Perhaps not 'vile', Harold thought forgivingly, but distracting certainly.

  Two days before Albert Piggott's release from hospital, Molly Curdle arrived at her old home with her little son, George, an energetic toddler.

  Ben, who had brought her, was obliged to return to his work, but promised to spend Sunday with his family. It was the first time the couple had been parted since their marriage, and Molly felt forlorn as she watched him drive away.

  However, there was plenty to do at the neglected cottage, and she set to with her customary vigour. In the afternoon she was delighted to receive a visit from Joan Young, who was bearing a pretty little Christmas decoration of holly, Christmas roses and variegated ivy, set in a mossy base.

  The two young women greeted each other affectionately, and George was admired by Joan, as much as the posy was admired by Molly.

  'I can't tell you how lovely it is to have you back,' said Joan sincerely. 'How long can you stop?'

  'Well, Ben and I hope it won't be for longer than a fortnight, but it depends on Dad. You know what he's like. He'd sooner manage on his own, I know, but he can't do that just yet.'

  'No news of Nelly?'

  'None. But she won't show up again, I'm positive. And frankly, I don't blame her. We never thought it would last.'

  'Bring George to tea tomorrow,' said Joan. 'Paul's longing to see you and to show you off to his new friend Jeremy.'

  Molly agreed with pleasure. She had always loved the Youngs' house, and had been very happy working there. She had learnt a great deal about managing children from looking after Paul as a young child, and this experience was standing her in good stead in bringing up George.

  The tea party was much enjoyed. There was a rapturous reunion between Paul and Molly, and George enjoyed being the centre of attention. It was the last day of Molly's freedom, for the next morning her father arrived from the hospital and was put comfortably to bed.

  She had expected him to be a demanding patient, but was surprised by his docility. Hospital discipline seemed to have improved Albert's manners. At times he was almost grateful for Molly's attentions. It couldn't last for ever, Molly told herself philosophically, but while it did, she enjoyed this rare spell of good behaviour.

  His first short walk was across to St Andrew's church. It, was not being cared for in the way he thought proper, as he pointed out to the rector when he called, but nevertheless he admitted grudgingly that it could be a lot worse. This was high praise indeed, from Albert, and the rector was suitably impressed.

  'I really feel that affliction has mellowed Albert,' he told Dimity on his return to the rectory.

  'Don't speak too soon,' his wife replied sagely.

  Phil's plane was due to arrive at half-past five and Harold set off from Thrush Green soon after three o'clock.

  The same quiet grey weather continued, with a raw coldness in the air which the weather-wise said was a sure sign of snow to come.

  But despite the bleak outlook, Harold was in good heart. To be driving to meet Phil again was enough to raise anyone's spirits. How would she be, he wondered? He thought of the numbed silence of the drive to the airport, with the pale girl suffering beside him.

  He remembered the two ladies 'painted to the eyes' who had sat beside Phil as they drank their coffee. Out of the blue came the verse which Phil's parents must have had in mind when they chose their daughter's name.

  'The ladies of St James's

  They're painted to the eyes,

  Their white it stays for ever,

  Their red it never dies:

  But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

  Her colour comes and goes;

  It trembles to a lily,—

  It wavers to a rose.'

  Sentimental, maybe, thought Harold as he threaded his way through the traffic, but how light and elegant! He turned the lines over in his mind, relishing their old-fashioned charm. It didn't do, he told himself, to dwell too long on 'trembling to a lily' and 'wavering to a rose'. One might as well say, 'it wobbles to a wall-flower—'.

  Harold checked his straying thoughts. Whatever the merits of the poem, without doubt his favourite line was:

  'But Phyllida, my Phyllida.'

  The years fell from him as he said it silently to himself.

  The plane was punctual, and Phil smiled when her eyes lit upon him. She looked wan, and somehow smaller, than when she left, but her voice was steady when she greeted him.

  He tucked a rug round her protectively when they reached the car.

  'Heavens, how lovely! It's colder here than in France. My parents-in-law are flying back tomorrow and wanted me to stay on for another night, but now that all has been done - all the awful things -1 wanted to hurry back to Jeremy.'

  Harold told her that the boy had been wonderfully cheerful, but was longing to have her back.

  'Do you know,' said Phil, as they neared Thrush Gree
n, 'that when the constable told me the ghastly news, my first thought was: "I shan't have to tell Jeremy about the divorce. And then, Thank God, I shan't have to go through all that wretched court business." It's a shameful thing, I suppose, to admit, but I felt I must tell someone, and you are just about the most understanding person to confess to.'

  'It strikes me as a reasonable reaction,' replied Harold soberly. 'You've been dreading breaking the news for months now. It didn't mean that your grief was any the less. That, if I may say so, was quite evident.'

  There was a long pause before the girl spoke again.

  'It seems as though I've died twice. Once when he left me, and then when I heard of his death. Even now, after all this time apart, I can't imagine life without John. Whatever happens, you simply can't wipe away years of married life. The sense of loss is far, far greater than ever I imagined it would be. It's like losing an arm or a leg - some vital part. I suppose one grows numb with time, and other things happen to cover the scar, but I'm sure it will always be there.'

  'Thank God I've got Jeremy, and work to do!' she added. 'Without those two things I think I should sink.'

  'Never!' said Harold stoutly. 'You'll never sink. You're far too brave for that.'

  They climbed the steep hill to Thrush Green. It was dark, and the lighted windows looked welcoming to the tired girl. The lights were on at Tullivers, and she looked enquiringly at Harold.

  'Betty Bell and Winnie between them have made you and Jeremy a little supper, I believe. We all thought you'd prefer to be alone the first night, but if you would sooner have company, then do, please, spend the evening with me.'

  Phil shook her head, smiling.

  'You've thought of everything. I'll never be able to thank you properly. I couldn't have got through this week of nightmare without you, Harold dear.'

  He helped her in with her case. In the hall Jeremy and Winnie met her. After painful hugs from her son, Phil stood looking at the welcoming flowers, the fire, and the table set for two.

  'Something smells delicious,' she said, sniffing the air.

  'Chicken casserole,' said Winnie. 'Betty's left it all ready to serve.'

  'I didn't know, until this minute, how hungry I was,' confessed Phil. 'Stop and share it, both of you.'

  'No indeed,' said Winnie. 'I'm off to see to my two menfolk.'

  'I'll call in the morning,' said Harold. 'Sleep well!'

  Phil and Jeremy watched them depart down the path before returning to the firelit dining room.

  'It's so lovely to come home,' said Phil. 'I've missed you so much.'

  'Me too,' said Jeremy cheerfully, and began to tell her about the wonders of Paul Young's electric railway. The saga continued all through the meal, leaving Phil free to consider the terrible problem of when to break the news. She felt that she really could not face any more that day. It must wait until morning, she decided.

  She took the boy upstairs to the bathroom and left him in the bath while she unpacked her case.

  When she returned to give him a final inspection, she found him sitting very still, gazing into the distance.

  'He's dead, isn't he?' he said softly.

  There was no mistaking his meaning, and Phil made no pretence.

  'Yes, Jeremy,' she answered. There was silence, broken only by the plopping of water dripping from a tap.

  'Tell me, darling,' she said, very gently. 'How did you know?'

  He looked up at her, wide-eyed and tearless.

  'I saw it in your face.'

  17 Richard Contemplates Matrimony

  THE mild quiet weather continued over the Christmas season, and the inhabitants of Thrush Green were divided in their feelings towards the such unseasonably balmy weather.

  The pessimists pulled long faces.

  'A green Christmas means a full churchyard,' they pointed out. 'A nice sharp frost or two is what we want. Kills off the germs.'

  'Kills off the old 'uns too,' retorted the warmth-lovers. 'Give us a nice mild winter - germs and all!'

  The church had been lovingly decked by Winnie, Dimity, Ella and other Thrush Green ladies. Albert Piggott was still kept in bed for most of the day by Doctor Lovell, and his temper was fast deteriorating to its normal stage of moroseness. His condition was not improved by seeing fat Willie Bond, the postman, looking after St Andrew's, while he himself was laid up. There had never been any love lost between the two men since the time that Willie's vegetable marrow had beaten Albert's, by a bare inch in girth and length, at Lulling Flower Show two years earlier.

  Molly was beginning to wonder how long she would have to stay with her trying old father. Ben came every weekend, but it was obvious that he was becoming impatient at the delay, and resentful of the old man's carping attitude to his poor hard-working Molly.

  'It can't be helped,' Molly said, doing her best to pour oil on troubled waters. 'It won't be much longer, Ben. The minute the doctor says he can be left, I'm flying back to you and our caravan.'

  And with such limited consolation Ben had to be content.

  Christmas, for Phil Prior, was made less painful by the kindness of her neighbours. Jeremy's natural joy in the festivities found fulfilment at the Youngs' house, where a children's party and innumerable presents helped to put his father's tragedy into the background. The arrival of the long-awaited kitten added to his excitement. But inevitably, it was more difficult for his mother. Memories of past Christmases were inescapable.

  She saw again John lighting the red candles on the Christmas tree, with wide-eyed two-year-old Jeremy gazing with wonder at each new flame. John pulling crackers, and showing Jeremy the small fireworks inside - setting fire to the 'serpent's egg', waving a minute sparkler, making a flaming paper balloon rise to the ceiling, whilst Jeremy applauded excitedly. John wrapping her in a scarlet cashmere dressing gown, which she considered madly extravagant, but adorable of him. John had always been at his best at Christmas, gay, funny, sweet, considerate. It was more than Phil could bear to think that he would never again be there to make Christmas sparkle for her.

  It was strange, she thought, how the bitterness of the last year was so little remembered. The humiliation, the misery, the wretched effort of keeping things from Jeremy, were all submerged beneath the remembrances of earlier shared happiness. She marvelled at this phenomenon, but was humbly grateful that her mind worked in this way. When the subject of his father cropped up, which was not very often, Phil found that she could speak of him with true affection, keeping alive for the little boy his early memories of a loving father.

  She was relieved when the New Year arrived and things returned to normal. Jeremy started school during the first week in January, and she was glad to see him engrossed in his own school affairs and friendships again. Meanwhile, she set herself to work with renewed determination.

  It was plain that she must work doubly hard. John's affairs had been left tidily, with a will leaving his wife everything unconditionally. But when all had been settled, it seemed that Phil could expect a sum of only about six thousand pounds which included one or two insurances, and the sale of the furniture at the Chelsea flat. The flat itself was rented, and the firm for which he had worked had no pension schemes for dependants. There was no doubt about it - things were going to be tight if she decided to continue to live at Tullivers.

  But she was determined to stay there. She loved the little house and she loved Thrush Green. The friends she had made were the dependable, kindly sort of people whose company would give her pleasure and support in the years to come, as their affection towards her, in these last few terrible weeks, had shown so clearly. She had settled in Thrush Green as snugly as a bird in its nest, and so had Jeremy. Whatever the cost, Tullivers must remain their home.

  Winnie Bailey had grown particularly dear to Phil since John's death. Quiet and loving, unobtrusive, but always available, Phil found herself looking upon her as the mother she unconsciously missed. Winnie lived with anxieties herself. She knew, only too well, that her
husband could not live much longer. Only constant care and rest had kept him alive so long, and the doctor himself was well aware of the fact.

  'I'm living on "borrowed time", as dear old Mrs Curdle used to say,' he said matter-of-factly. 'And very lucky I am to have these few extra years.'

  His complete absence of self-pity made things more bearable for Winnie, but the secret sadness was always there, and made her doubly sympathetic towards the young widow next door.

  Richard, too, was unusually attentive, and made himself useful by mending a faulty lock, an electric kettle, and a pane of glass broken by Jeremy's football. He would like to have taken Phil to the theatre one evening in Oxford, but decided against it.

  'The pantomime is at the New until heaven knows when,' he told his aunt impatiently, 'and the Playhouse have three weeks of something translated from the Czech, by a Frenchman, which is set in near darkness with long sessions of complete silence. I don't think Phil would find it very cheering, at the moment.'

  'Take her out to lunch,' said Winnie. 'I think she'd prefer that. I know she likes to be at home when Jeremy gets back after school. He can come here for his lunch that day.'

  Richard brightened.

  'Kingham Mill, perhaps? "The Old Swan" at Minster Lovell? "The Shaven Crown" at Shipton-under-Wychwood?'

  'Ask Phil,' advised Winnie. And so he did.

  The day of their jaunt together was clear and cold. There had been a sharp frost, and the grass was still white in the shade when Phil went to the Baileys' for a drink before setting off. She found Winnie and the doctor alone, but sundry thumps overhead proclaimed that Richard was getting ready.

  'He's becoming quite a Beau Brummel,' said Winnie. 'You are a good influence, Phil.'

  'I don't know about that,' said her husband lightly. 'He's taking the day off for this spree.'