Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  "And now," said Dr. Bailey briskly, "I'm going to have a look at you."

  Later, Mrs. Curdle, with a light heart, crossed the road again. She had made her parting from the Baileys in the hall, but now with her feet on the grass of Thrush Green she turned to look once more at the house where she had received such comfort of body and mind.

  Silhouetted against the light of the open doorway stood the doctor and his wife, their hands still upraised in farewell. Mrs. Curdle waved in return and turned toward her home.

  In her cardigan pocket lay some pills and a simple diet sheet, but it was not of these that Mrs. Curdle thought. She was thinking of Dr. Bailey, whose good advice had never failed her throughout her long life. Her way now was clear.

  With a tread as light as a young girl's, Mrs. Curdle, her fears behind her, hurried to find Ben.

  He should hear, without any more waste of time, of his good fortune and the future of the fair.

  Meanwhile, the doctor and his wife had returned to the sitting room. Mrs. Bailey had carried in a tray with soup, fruit and a milky drink, for, with their visitors, supper had been delayed and the hands of the silver clock on the mantelpiece stood at a quarter to ten.

  They supped in silence for a while. Then Mrs. Bailey, putting her bowl down, said:

  "And does the fair go on?"

  "Yes," said the doctor. "I'm thankful to say it does."

  The music surged suddenly against the window with renewed vigor, and they smiled at each other.

  As Mrs. Bailey stacked the tray she noticed that the doctor's eyes strayed many times to the gaudy bouquet which flamed and flared like some gay bonfire.

  "I'll take those flowers to the larder shelf," said Mrs. Bailey, advancing upon them.

  "No," said her husband, and something in his voice made her turn and look at him. He sat very still and his face was grave. "I'd like them left out."

  Mrs. Bailey could say nothing.

  "We shan't see the old lady again," said Dr. Bailey. "I doubt if she has three months to live."

  18. The Day Ends

  AT HALF PAST TEN the lights of Mrs. Curdle's fair went out and the music died away. The last few customers straggled homeward, tired and content with their excitement, and by the time St. Andrew's clock struck eleven Thrush Green had resumed its usual quietness.

  A few lights, mainly upstairs ones, still shone from some of the houses around the green, but most of the inhabitants had already retired, and dark windows and empty milk bottles standing on the doorsteps showed that their owners were unconscious of the happenings around them.

  The church, "The Two Pheasants," and the village school were three dark masses, but a small light twinkled between the latter two. It shone from Molly Piggott's bedroom where the girl was undressing.

  The blue cornflower brooch lay on the mantelshelf and beside it a small ring.

  "You shall have a proper one, some day," Ben had promised, "not just a cheap ol' bit of trash from the fair." But to Molly it was already precious—a souvenir of the most wonderful day in her life.

  She had parted from Ben only a few minutes before, when he had told her of his new status in the business, and she had promised to be up early in the morning to see him again before the caravans set off on their journey northward.

  She clambered into the little bed, which lay under the steep angle of the sloping roof, keeping her head low for fear of knocking it on the beam above.

  Carefully she set her battered alarm clock to five o'clock, wound it up and put it on the chair close beside her. Then, punching a hollow in her pillow, she thrust her dizzy dark head into it and was asleep in two minutes.

  In the next bedroom Mr. Piggott, asleep in his unlovely underclothes, as was his custom, stirred at the thumpings made by his daughter's bed and became muzzily aware of her presence in the house.

  Vague memories of a young man, a bottle of whisky and Molly's future swam through his mind. No one to cook for him, eh? No one to clear up the house?

  "Daughters!" thought Mr. Piggott in disgust. "Great gallivanting lumps, with no idea of doing their duty by their poor old parents!"

  He relapsed into befuddled slumber.

  Ruth Bassett's light still shone above the bed. She sat propped against the pillows, a book before her, but her attention was elsewhere.

  Dr. Lovell had left an hour or so before and the memory of their pleasant time together warmed her unaccountably. She had scrambled eggs in the kitchen while he had supervised the toast, and together they had sat at the kitchen table enjoying the result, brewing coffee and talking incessantly.

  She had never felt so at ease in anyone's company, and the thought that he had sought her out to tell her his wonderful news touched her deeply. Plainly, he was as devoted to Thrush Green as she was. And who can blame him? thought Ruth, as a distant cry from one of the Curdle tribe reached her ears.

  It had cured her of her misery and given her new hope. It had, as it had always done, provided her with comfort and contentment. Her decision to make her home there filled her with exhilaration. Tomorrow, when Joan and her husband returned, they would make rosy plans.

  For a moment her mind flitted back to the cause of this decision. The figure of Stephen, tall and fair-haired, flickered in her mind's eye, but, try as she would, she could not recall his face. It seemed a shocking thing that one who had meant so much could so swiftly become insubstantial. The ghost of Stephen had vanished as completely as the man himself and, Ruth observed with wonder, her only feeling was of relief.

  She put her book to one side, switched off the light and settled to sleep, secure in the knowledge that the dawn would bring no torturing memories, but only the wholesome shining face of Thrush Green with all it had to offer.

  Young Dr. Lovell was writing a letter to his father, telling him of Dr. Bailey's offer, asking his advice about the financial side, and explaining the future possibilities of the practice.

  He wrote swiftly in his neat precise handwriting and covered two pages before he paused. Then he lit a cigarette and stared thoughtfully at his landlady's formidable ornaments on the mantelpiece.

  It is not in the nature of young men to open their hearts to their fathers and to tell them of their private hopes and feelings, particularly when a young woman is involved, and Dr. Lovell was no exception. But he was fond of his father—his mother had been dead for ten years—and he wanted him to know that this offer meant more to him than just a livelihood.

  His thoughts turned again to Ruth. He knew now, without any doubt, that she would always be the dearest person in the world to him. As soon as she had recovered sufficiently from her tragedy to face decisions again he would ask her to marry him.

  Life at Thrush Green with Ruth! thought young Dr. Lovell, his spirits surging. What could anyone want better than that?

  Smiling he picked up his pen and added the last line to his letter:

  "I know I shall always be very happy here."

  He sealed it, propped it on the mantelpiece against a china boot, and went whistling to bed.

  In her cottage nearby lay Miss Fogerty from the village school. She was fast asleep. Her small pink mouth was slightly ajar, and her pointed nose twitched gently over the edge of the counterpane, for all the world like some small exhausted mouse.

  It had been a tiring day. The children were always so excited on fair-day, and Friday afternoon meant that she had to battle with her register amidst the confusion of twenty or so young children playing noisily with toys brought from home—a special Friday-afternoon treat.

  Her last thought had been a happy one. Tomorrow it was Saturday. If it were lovely and sunny as today had been her weekly wash day would be most successful, she told herself.

  Her Clark's sandals were prudently put out underneath the chair which supported her neat pile of small clothes. Miss Fogerty was a methodical woman.

  "No need to set the alarm," she had said happily to herself as she folded back the eider-down. "Saturday tomorrow!"


  And with that joyous thought she had fallen instantly asleep.

  Ella Bembridge and Dimity Dean had taken the advice of Dr. Bailey and settled to sleep early.

  Dimity had fallen into a restless slumber disturbed by confused dreams. She seemed to be standing knee-deep in a warm crimson pond, stirring an enormous saucepan full of parsley sauce, while Mrs. Curdle and Ella stood by her, wagging admonitory fingers, and saying, in a horrible sing-song chant: "Never touch the stuff—it's poison! Never touch the stuff—it's poison!"

  Ella found sleeping impossible. Her legs hurt, her rash itched, and the shooting pains in her stomach, though somewhat eased by Dr. Lovell's white pills, still caused her discomfort.

  Morosely, she catalogued the day's tribulations, as others, less gloomily disposed, might count their blessings.

  "Visit to the doctor—a fine start to a day. Blasted parsley sauce. Rubber gloves. That boiling dam' dye. Dotty's Collywobbles. Two more visits from doctors, to top the lot—and Mrs. Curdle's hurdy-gurdy for background music! What a day!"

  She glowered malevolently at Mrs. Bailey's daffodils, a pale luminous patch in the darkness. One ray of hope lit her gloom.

  "At least May the second shouldn't be quite as bad as May the first has been!"

  Somewhat comforted, Ella moved her bulk gingerly in the bed, for fear of capsizing the leg guard, and waited grimly for what the morrow might bring forth.

  Away in the fields below Lulling Woods the creator of poor Ella's latest malady lay in her bed.

  Dotty Harmer's room was in darkness, lit only by the faint light of the starlit May sky beyond the grubby latticed panes.

  Dimly discernible by Dotty's bed was a basket containing the mother cat and one black kitten. Much travail during the golden afternoon had only brought forth one pathetic little stillborn tabby, sadly misshapen, and ten minutes later this fine large sister kitten. Dotty had buried the poor dead morsel in the warm earth, shaking her grizzled head and letting a tear or two roll unashamedly down her weather-beaten cheeks.

  The survivor was going to be a rare beauty. Dotty could hear the comfortable sound of a rasping tongue caressing the baby between maternal purrs, and cudgeled her brains for a suitable name.

  Blackie, Jet, Night, Sooty—too ordinary! decided Dotty, tossing in her bed.

  She thought of the glorious day that had just passed and remembered the spring scents of her garden as she had awaited the birth.

  Should be something to do with May, pondered Dotty. May itself would have done if it had been a pale kitten, but somehow—a dark little thing like that.... She resumed her meditations and the memory of Molly and her dark young man came floating back to her.

  Gypsy! thought Dotty, groping toward the perfect name. She felt herself getting nearer. Something that was dark, magnificent and connected with May the first, she told herself. It came in a flash of inspiration.

  "Mrs. Curdle!" cried Dotty in triumph.

  And with the rare sigh of a satisfied artist, she fell asleep.

  Gradually the lights dimmed in the old stone houses around Thrush Green, but still one shone in Dr. Bailey's house.

  The good doctor himself was asleep. He had had the busiest day of his convalescence and had retired more exhausted than he would admit to his wife.

  The last sad interview with Mrs. Curdle had been a great strain—greater because his grief had to be kept hidden behind his kindly professional mask in front of the old lady. Her case, he knew, was hopeless, and when her fair came to rest for the winter that year he had no doubt that she who had ruled its kingdom for so many years would be at rest too.

  It gave the old doctor some consolation to know that he had helped her to assure the future of her little world, and that when next May Day came the full-blooded music of Mrs. Girdle's fair would still shake the young leaves on Thrush Green and all its innocent pleasures would be there again in the capable young hands of Ben Curdle.

  The thought that his own affairs too were as squarely arranged as Mrs. Curdle's own gave him a deep inner peace. He had awakened that morning with a battle to fight, and now that battle was over. Whether he had won or lost, the doctor was not sure, but now that the heat of it was over he could retire from the field with his duty well done.

  The good old man slept easily.

  But his wife could not sleep.

  Her mind turned over the happenings of that sunlit day and refused to rest. She remembered the glory of her dewy garden, the coffee party with those dear odd creatures, the wonderful change in poor little Ruth, Ella's mishap, which had been a real blessing, for it had forced her husband to make his decision, and—last of all, to her the most poignant happening of that long crowded day—her husband's disclosure of Mrs. Curdle's doom.

  She heard St. Andrew's clock chime the quarter after eleven o'clock. Would she never sleep? Carefully, she crept from the great double bed and made her way to the kitchen to warm herself some milk. Sometimes this calmed her active mind and she hoped that the old-fashioned remedy would work now.

  She carried her steaming mug to the sitting room, switched on the small reading lamp and sipped slowly.

  The three or four street lamps around Thrush Green had gone out at eleven o'clock, for country dwellers are early abed. Through the window she could see the dark shapes of the caravans against the starlit sky. One or two still showed lights, for the Curdles had been busy since closing time collecting their weekly wages and putting their personal belongings together ready for an early start on the morrow.

  Mrs. Bailey looked with affection, and with infinite sorrow, at the ancient caravan which housed her good friend. Its old beautiful lines showed plainly against the clear night sky and its small window glowed from the lamp within. The light quivered and blurred before Mrs. Bailey's tear-filled eyes, and she turned hastily away.

  There was nothing to weep about, she told herself with as much firmness as she could muster. Mrs. Curdle's long life neared its end, but her work would thrive and her family too. She would never be forgotten while they endured.

  The peace of the sitting room and the comforting warmth of the milk began to soothe Mrs. Bailey. She looked at the loved things around her and suddenly realized what riches were gathered there together in one lovely drop of time.

  There on the side table stood the blue and white bowl, a wedding present from a long-dead friend, filled with narcissuses which had forced their fragile beauty so recently from the dark prison house of earth to delight her. An orange, which had traveled the far seas, touched its reflection in the black polished beauty of the Chinese chest on which it stood. The chest had been brought back in a tea clipper by a sailor-great-uncle of Mrs. Bailey's, and its perfection had always stirred her. The mug from which she sipped had been a christening present to her son. That son, she remembered, who was much the same age as Mrs. Curdle's dear George would have been.

  She took a deep breath and looked with new eyes at her familiar treasures. All these lovely things had come from all over the face of the earth to offer her their particular solace. Some had intrinsic beauty of their own. Some had the beauty of association and long use, but all offered comfort to her troubled heart.

  Mrs. Curdle would pass, as she and her dear husband must pass before long; but the world would go on, as bright and enchanting, and as full of quiet beauty for those who used their eyes to see it, as it had always been.

  Mrs. Bailey turned off the light, went quietly back to bed and composed herself to sleep.

  The houses around Thrush Green now lay in darkness, crouched comfortably against the Cotswold clay like great sleeping cats, their chimneys like pricked ears. Only from two or three of the caravans that huddled together in the center of the green shone a few small lights from some humble oil lamp or candle flickering there.

  Sam and Bella Curdle were thinking of their future. At one end of the caravan lay their three children in heavy slumber, and their parents spoke in low tones.

  Sam's last earnings at Curdle's fair stood i
n a pile on the chair beside their bunk bed. Bella, already in bed, dressed in a shiny pink nightgown of gargantuan proportions, surveyed the money grimly. She had been doing her best to prize from her morose husband his plans for their future livelihood, but without success.

  She watched him now, tugging his shirt moodily over his head. His face emerged, battered from the afternoon's fight which had caused his downfall, and sullen with his wife's questionings. She attacked the goaded man again in a shrill whisper.

  "Well, tell us, then. What are you going to do when that little lot's gone? See us all starve?"

  Sam finished undressing before he spoke. Then he answered her slowly.

  "There's a farmer chap up the Nidden road wants his sugar-beet hoeing. I done it afore. We could take the caravan up that way and settle there for a bit."

  "How long will that take?" asked Bella stiffly. Her pride quivered at the thought of her husband undertaking such low work. Worse was to follow.

  "Three or four weeks. And you could do some too!"

  Bella gasped at the shock.

  "And what about the kids?" she protested.

  "Won't hurt them either," said her brute of a husband. He turned out the oil lamp and clambered into bed beside her.

  "And you'd get some of your fat off," said Sam savagely, hauling at the bedclothes, and adding insult to injury.

  Much affronted, his wife turned her face to the wall. The fumes from the oil lamp crept uncomfortably about the darkness and Bella's misery grew. Two tears of self-pity rolled down to the pillow.

  Bella had never liked work.

  Ben Curdle heard St. Andrew's chimes ring out the half-hour as he was propping a snapshot of Molly above his bed.

  He ought to be asleep, he told himself. There was plenty to do in the morning, clearing up the show and setting off on the road again, besides seeing his girl.