Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  E. BENDER

  BOOT AND SHOE REPAIRS

  The inhabitants of Thrush Green were glad of Ernie Bender. He ministered to heels and soles, footballs, harness, handbags and suitcases. In fact, as he was quick to tell his customers, he would "have a go at anything made of leather—but it must be leather, mind! I won't waste my time on your plastic stuff!" Over the years he had stitched Dr. Bailey's black bag, Paul's pram hood, the net balls at the village school, and saddles and bridles for Joan and Ruth when they were small, and kept in trim the footwear that passed and repassed his window as the various owners went about their business on Thrush Green.

  He was a tiny gnomelike man who wore half-spectacles made of steel and peered over them at the view through his window as he sat on a high stool at his bench. Not much escaped those long-sighted eyes and he had been known to summon a running child to tell him that his sole was worn through and that his mother had better let him see to it right away.

  His passion was horse racing and he had an account with a bookmaker in Lulling. Many of his customers took their bets to Ernie Bender along with their boots, and found he was always ready to talk about racing memories or prospects for a coming race day, his eyes gleaming as brightly as the steel spectacles which rested on his diminutive nose.

  Sam knew him well. It was there that Sam had proposed to go, sauntering casually behind the screen of caravans and booths to dodge Bella's and the old lady's eye, to put ten shillings each way on both Rougemont and Don John.

  The bright sun mocked his despair and the peaceful scene before him only infuriated Sam still further. He cast around in his mind for any hope of a loan from one or other of the Curdle tribe, but it was hopeless, he knew.

  In the first place this was Friday afternoon when purses and pockets were almost empty at Curdle's fairground. Tonight was pay night, the brightest spot in the week. If only Rougemont and Don John had been entered on tomorrow's card! thought Sam.

  As if to emphasize the callousness of time, St. Andrew's clock let fall three silvery notes. Sam's fury flared anew. Another half-hour and Rougemont would be off!

  "And he'll go like an arrow, my boy," the Irishman had sworn solemnly. "Nothing can stop him. He can't fail!"

  The words echoed in Sam's ears infuriatingly. And he'd probably start at odds of eight to one, too, Sam told himself. And where was his money? Snug in Bella's bag. It was enough to make you take to wife-beating, that it was!

  He looked up at the implacable face of St. Andrew's clock and made a decision. He'd done it before and no one was any the wiser. He'd do it again. What if it did seem like stealing? If old Ma was too mean to pay him right, then she deserved to have a bit pinched now and again.

  No, not pinched, he told himself hastily, as a vision of the tribe leader's awe-inspiring face floated before him. Borrowing, let's say—just a little advance on what would be given him by right tonight. He could slip it back in the drawer sometime, just as easy as he could slip it out.

  His stomach was queasy at the thought of his mission, for Sam was the most chickenhearted of the Curdles. Only his passion for betting could render him brave enough to undertake the deed.

  Old Ma, he knew, would be inspecting the fair, to see that all was in order before the evening opening. She did the routine job thoroughly, tugging at guy ropes, surveying the prizes, straightening notices and going the rounds of each booth and stall minutely. The little menagerie was inspected with particular rigor, for Mrs. Curdle was fond, as well as proud, of the pets exhibited and their food and comfort dare not be neglected.

  Sam made his way as casually as he could across the grass. He did not walk directly toward Mrs. Curdle's caravan, but wove his way, with seeming indifference, between the caravans clustered near the church.

  Sitting on the steps of one of them he discovered Rosie, his young cousin. She was feeding her baby, patting its back gently and humming to herself as she rocked to and fro. She might have been the incarnation of spring itself, with her fair hair and pink and white skin, but Sam had no time to waste on esthetic matters.

  "Seen Ma?" he asked urgently.

  The girl looked up at him dreamily.

  "Saw her going in the animals," she answered vaguely. "Couldn't say when though. I been busy."

  She returned her gaze to the infant's face, smiling at it so blissfully that Sam knew he was forgotten at once.

  The clock said ten past three. Sam slipped like a shadow among the booths, taking care to avoid his fellows, and came warily toward his goal.

  Mrs. Curdle had indeed started on her round of inspection that afternoon, but she had not completed it.

  The burning pain, which now seemed to be her constant companion, had attacked her with spiteful severity soon after the silent meal with Ben.

  After he had gone she had rested a little, and then roused herself to wash up. She had been too engrossed with her own sufferings to give much heed to Ben, but as she flung the washing-up water into the sunlight she had caught sight of his slim figure striding across the shining grass, and all her old love for him had suddenly welled up.

  He was George all over again, as straight, as handsome—the apple of her eye! Her pain forgotten, she watched him as he spoke to a little boy.

  Time he had one of his own! she thought to herself and mused on the idea of her young George being a grandfather. She watched him turn toward the sun and set off purposefully toward the lane that led to Lulling Woods.

  She could see now that he was dressed in his best, and she could see, too, now that the sun shone full upon his face, that it was alight with excitement. Instantly, she knew the answer to those long silences and dark moods which had estranged them for the past months, and marveled that she had not guessed before.

  "So it's a girl," nodded old Mrs. Curdle to herself, returning to the caravan. "Just as simple as that—a girl!"

  She had pondered upon this, sitting heavily on the side of her bed and watching a finger of sunlight pick its way over the gleaming plates on the dresser.

  She felt both sadness and delight at this revelation—sadness because she knew that Ben could never be wholly hers again, as he had been for almost the whole of his twenty years, and delight because it meant happiness for the boy.

  Despite his youth she knew he would want to marry almost at once, as his father had done. She only prayed that he had chosen more wisely. If he had—if she were a girl with courage and gaiety—it would be the making of Ben.

  This'll change his ways, the old lady told herself. Nothing like love for brightening up a young man. He'll work twice as hard with a wife to keep.

  She saw, shrewdly enough, that Ben's well-being would react on the fortunes of the fair, and her heart was comforted by the thought that the business which she loved so well might yet flourish.

  She heaved herself upright, took her ebony stick in hand and set out upon her rounds.

  Inside the menagerie tent Mrs. Curdle found only one person attending to the animals' needs. Rachel was twelve years old, sister to Rosie, the young mother who nursed her baby in the sunshine near at hand.

  Their father was Mrs. Curdle's nephew, a blond giant of a man, for whom she had little respect. It was he who should have been here, for he was in charge of the menagerie; but more often than not these days, Rachel was left to attend to things.

  She was a willing child and Mrs. Curdle was fond of her. She spoke affectionately to her now, peering through the murk after the vivid light outside.

  "And how's my Rachel?"

  "Fine, Gran," answered the child. She held up a jug and Mrs. Curdle nodded approval. The girl was going methodically from cage to cage filling the water bowls. The faintly acrid smell of animals hung in the air.

  "Where's your dad?" asked Mrs. Curdle.

  "Don't know."

  "He been in yet?"

  "No. Over 'The Two Pheasants' I think."

  Mrs. Curdle snorted and bent to inspect the toy house in which a frenzy of white mice lived and loved.


  "Not enough sawdust," was her comment.

  "I can't find none, Gran," confessed the child earnestly. "I been looking all over. Dad said he'd get some this morning—

  "Your dad wants sorting out," broke in the old lady. "Leaving you to do his job!"

  Her voice had a steely ring and the child trembled.

  Mrs. Curdle took a deep breath as though to continue her tirade, when suddenly she crumpled and fell forward. The ebony stick dropped from her hand, and, to the child's horror, the old lady slumped into a massive heap on the trampled grass.

  The child fell on her knees beside her.

  "Gran, Gran!" she whispered in terror, staring at the closed eyes.

  Mrs. Curdle's lips moved. From very far away, it seemed to the girl, her voice could be heard.

  "I'm all right, my dear. Don't 'ee be frightened. I'll be better in a minute. Here, hold my hand."

  She gripped the child's hand in a grasp so fierce that the girl almost cried out.

  "I'll get Dad! I'll get Rose! Gran, let me go, and I'll get someone!"

  "You'll stop here," said the small voice, but there was an implacable note in it that told the girl that she must stay.

  A dreadful silence pervaded the stuffy tent. Only the small squeaks and twitters from the animals and the heavy labored breathing of the prostrate woman could be heard. Gradually strength returned to Mrs. Curdle. She opened her eyes and sat up, though her head drooped in an alarming manner.

  "Get us up, girl" whispered the old lady, releasing her at last.

  The child put her frail arms around the massive shoulders and gave an ineffectual heave.

  "Give me my stick," ordered Mrs. Curdle, "and both your hands!"

  With much grunting and moaning she at last struggled to her feet, and stood, swaying slightly, in the gloom.

  "Not a word about this to anyone, mind!" said Mrs. Curdle, shaking the stick at Rachel.

  "All right, Gran," she whispered.

  "Help me back home. Round behind the tents, my dear. Don't want no fuss. It's nothing serious."

  The two made their way into the sunshine. Mrs. Curdle leaned heavily upon her stick with one hand and rested the other upon Rachel's bony shoulder.

  When they reached the caravan Mrs. Curdle patted the child's cheek kindly.

  "You're a good girl," she told her. "Better than your dad, by far. And don't forget—not a word about this. 'Tis only wind round the heart—nothing to worry anyone about."

  She dismissed Rachel with a wave of the stick, hobbled ponderously up the three steps and sank gratefully upon the bed.

  Mrs. Curdle lay there very quietly. The sudden nausea which had overcome her had passed away and she was content to let thoughts of Ben, and the future of the fair, flutter through her quiescent mind.

  Three o'clock chimed distantly and the sun shone through the caravan door, slanting across the dresser and the money drawer, and throwing Mrs. Curdle's bed into deep shade.

  She became conscious of furtive footsteps approaching and a shadow fell athwart the money drawer. Mrs. Curdle lay very still. There was something menacing, something intensely suspicious, about that motionless shadow. It remained there for a full minute and Mrs. Curdle knew that someone waited there, alert and listening, for her movements.

  At last she could bear it no longer. Rolling from the bed, she advanced to the door, calling as she went:

  "Who's there? What d'you want?"

  Outside stood her nephew Sam. His air was unconcerned, but it did not deceive Mrs. Curdle. He collected his wits and tried to speak casually.

  "Bella says you got such a thing as a inch tape?" he asked glibly. "She's making somethin' for the kids."

  Mrs. Curdle looked steadily at him, and beneath that hawklike gaze Sam felt his legs turn to water.

  "Tell Bella," said Mrs. Curdle with terrible emphasis, "when she comes back, she's already borrowed my inch tape."

  "Must've forgot," muttered Sam, backing hastily. "Thanks, Ma," he added, and took to his heels.

  Mrs. Curdle watched him vanish behind the switch-back and then turned to the drawer.

  "So that's where it's been going," muttered the old lady to herself grimly. "And serve me right for leaving it there."

  She opened the drawer, scooped out a note or two and a handful of silver, and stood with it in her hand, gazing at the end of the bed where the Curdle Bank caused a substantial hump at the end of the mattress.

  "Can't lift that now," she told herself, shaking her head ruefully.

  She crossed to the mantelpiece, lifted down the pewter teapot and stuffed the money in with that already stored there. Then very carefully she replaced the teapot and took down the photograph of her smiling son which stood beside it.

  "I could do with you now, George, my boy," she said soberly.

  11. Mrs. Bailey Visits Neighbors

  RUTH BASSETT lay in a deck chair in the shade of the lime tree which her grandfather had loved.

  The afternoon post had brought a letter which lay opened upon her lap. Paul had scooped it joyously from the matT on his way up to his enforced rest. Ruth had tucked him in and carried the letter to the peaceful garden knowing she would not be interrupted.

  But the letter had contained disturbing news. It was from the head of the firm where Ruth worked, and it said:

  Dear Miss Bassett,

  It seems a long time since you were with us, and I can assure you that we all miss you at the office.

  There has to be a certain amount of reorganization in the next few months, and I am writing to know whether we may look forward to your return soon. I need hardly add that we should welcome it, but if you have other plans I should be glad if you would let me know your decision.

  We don't want to hurry you in any way, but naturally we should have to advertise for your successor in the unhappy event of your nonreturn here, and this should be done within the next fortnight if we are to get things settled before June 1st.

  We all send our best wishes and hope to see you back among us very soon.

  Well, there it was, thought Ruth, a fair offer that could not have come at a better time. Now she must make a decision, and her new-found strength would help her.

  She stretched her arms above her head and looked up into the young leaves above her. Somewhere, high aloft, two sparrows skirmished among the branches and Ruth wondered if they too had problems to face. Did the siting of a nest, the choice of building materials, grass, moss, twig and feather, perplex those grain-small brains as hers was now perplexed?

  Of one thing she was certain. She could not, under any circumstances, go back to the office. There would be many plans to make and they must be made carefully and soon, but the first step was quite clear. She could not go back.

  At this moment, Ruth heard the click of the garden gate at the side of the house and saw Mrs. Bailey approaching.

  She crossed the grass, letter in hand, to meet her.

  "You couldn't have come at a better moment," she cried. "Come and give me some advice."

  Mrs. Bailey looked at Ruth over the top of her reading glasses. The letter lay upon her lap. She had read it through twice, with no comment, and now fixed the girl with a speculative eye.

  "And are you going back?" she asked, after a pause.

  Ruth wriggled unhappily, making the deck chair creak with her movements. A ladybird crawled busily along her bare arm and she bent her worried gaze upon the scarlet speck.

  "I hardly know how to tell you," she said. "It seems cowardly, I suppose, but—well, somehow I can't."

  Mrs. Bailey nodded sympathetically.

  "Poor darling," she said gently. "Of course, I understand."

  "Oh, don't pity me, for heaven's sake!" burst out Ruth, flinging the ladybird violently from her. "Or you'll make me cry—and I haven't cried once today! It's really rather a record," she added, with a crooked smile.

  "I wasn't pitying you," responded Mrs. Bailey, with professional briskness. She had had a lifetime's experience
with agitated patients and Ruth's tremors did not perturb her unduly. "At least, not in the way you think. I was just feeling rather sorry that you had such a decision to make so quickly."

  Ruth made no answer for a little while, but picked a blade of grass at her feet and nibbled idly at it. A cuckoo called in the distance, and somewhere, far away, some lambs bleated in the fields beside the Upper Pleshy road.

  Their trembling young voices brought back with sharp clarity a picture of that lane, which was a favorite walk of Ruth's. Only a few days before she and Paul had wandered between its quickening hedges and trodden the springy grass of the roadside verges, so soon to be miller-white with a froth of cows' parsley and the powdering from myriads of overhanging hawthorn flowers.

  It was the thought of the beauty yet to come, the beauty that would flood the countryside in her absence, that tore Ruth's heart. She tried to explain it, in a small apologetic voice, to the doctor's wife.

  Mrs. Bailey, with her eyes closed against the sunshine, nodded sympathetically.

  "You see," finished Ruth, "it's not so much that I dislike going back to town as finding that I simply cannot bear to leave the country. Joan and I always loved it—but, somehow, since Stephen left me, it has meant much more. More than a lovely place, more than a way of living, and something more than just a comfort. All I know is—I can't do without it now."

  Mrs. Bailey did not reply for a minute. She was thinking that, at last, she had heard the girl speak of Stephen. It was the first time that she had said his name, and to hear her talk, calmly and dispassionately, of the absent lover gave the older woman much satisfaction. There was now no doubt about it. Ruth Bassett's wound had healed.

  "Is there any need for you to do without it?" asked Mrs. Bailey. "There must be work in Lulling that you could do. And I know Joan and Edward hope that you will stay here. They have told us so many a time."

  "They've been wonderful," replied Ruth warmly, "but I don't feel that I should stay here, in this house, any longer. But if I could get a tiny flat, or a cottage, somewhere nearby, I believe it would be the answer."