by Miss Read
'You'd have been burnt for a witch years ago, you hussy,' commented Ella, accompanying her to the door. 'And deserved it!'
2. Wild Surmise
ELLA and Dimity were not the only ones interested in the fate of 'Quetta,' the official name of the empty corner house. Built at the turn of the century for a retired colonel from the Indian army, the house had its name printed on a neat little board which was planted in one of the small lawns which flanked the gates. Apart from young children, who delighted in jumping over it, the name was ignored, and the residence had been known generally for sixty-odd years as 'the corner house.'
The Farmers had lived there for over twenty years and moved only when age and illness overtook them and they were persuaded by a daughter in Somerset to take a small house near her own. Their neighbours on the green missed them, but perhaps the person who mourned their disappearance most wholeheartedly was Paul Young, the eight-year-old son of a local architect who lived in a fine old house which stood beside the chestnut avenue within a stone's throw of the Farmers'.
Ever since he could walk Paul had been free to call at the corner house and, better still, free to roam in the large garden. Old Mr Farmer was a keen naturalist, and finding that the young child was particularly interested in birds and butterflies he encouraged him to watch their activities in his garden and the small copse which adjoined it. Beyond the copse the fields dropped away to a gentle fold of the hills where Dotty Harmer, an eccentric maiden lady much esteemed in Thrush Green and Lulling, had her solitary cottage and flourishing herb garden.
In the distance lay Lulling Woods from whose massed trees many a flight of starlings whirred, or jays called harshly. Paul loved to stand in the little spinney gazing at the fields below or the wooded slope beyond them. His own garden was large, a flat sunny place with trim lawns and bright flower-beds, with here and there a fine old tree which his grandfather had enjoyed. But there was no mystery there. It was all as familiar and everyday as his own pink hands, and although he loved it because it was his home, his growing imagination and delight in secret things made his neighbour's domain far more attractive.
He had said good-bye to the Farmers with much sadness, waving until their car had sunk below sight down the steep hill to Lulling. The sight of Betty Bell closing the gates and returning to the empty house gave him a sense of desolation which he could scarcely endure. He went home dejectedly.
'It's no good fretting, Paul,' his mother said gently, observing his pale face. 'We must hope that the next people will be as nice as the Farmers.'
'It isn't just that,' answered Paul. 'It's the garden, and the birds. There were eleven nests in their copse last spring, and there's red admirals galore on their buddleia. We never get red admirals in our garden.' He kicked morosely at the leg of the kitchen table.
His mother, who was peeling carrots, put one silently before him and watched her sorrowing son find some comfort in its bright crispness. She spoke briskly.
'Well, you know, Paul, you mustn't go into the Farmers' garden now. It's bad luck, but there it is. Perhaps the new owner will let you watch the nests next year, if he sees you don't do any harm. But you mustn't trespass while the house is empty, you understand?'
Paul nodded unhappily. He told himself afterwards that he had not given his word to his mother. He hadn't opened his mouth, he protested to his guilty conscience. Nodding didn't really count, he was to tell himself fiercely many times in the next few weeks.
But Paul was not at ease. For despite his mother's embargo, Paul intended to visit the garden as often as he could. There was more to the Farmers' garden than the red admirals and the birds. There was Chris Mullins.
Christopher Mullins had first burst into Paul's small world in the early summer. At Easter, Paul had left his adored Miss Fogerty who taught him at the village school, and in May began to attend a reliable preparatory school in Lulling.
The new school was much the same size as his earlier one, but to wear a uniform, to carry a satchel, to be taught by masters, and to know that the headmaster was a very great man indeed, impressed Paul considerably.
He knew many of his fellow pupils, for Lulling was a friendly little town and his mother's family and his father's had lived there for many years. In consequence he was not unduly awed, and addressed the bigger boys with less ceremony than some of the newcomers did. When one has shared garden swings, Christmas parties and chicken pox, in a small community, the ice is for ever broken.
But with Christopher Mullins it was different. He had only just arrived from Germany when term began and the attraction of foreign things hung about him. He was bigger, better-looking, older and altogether more interesting than the other boys in Paul's form, and he made it understood that he was only with them because he needed to accustom himself to English methods of education before rising rapidly to the form above–or even the form above that-where he would find his rightful sphere.
Most of the boys treated his superior airs with complete indifference or mild ribaldry, but Paul found them enchanting. He admired Chris's sleek dark hair, his unusually tidy clothes and his superb wrist-watch which had a large red second hand which swept impressively round its shining face. Paul was dazzled by this sophisticated stranger, and the older boy, lacking friendship, was secretly grateful for such homage. When, one day, Paul offered him half his ginger biscuits at morning break, the friendship was sealed and Paul's happiness soared.
Christopher's father was in the army and the family lived in part of an old house on the main road from Lulling to the west. Their garden ran down to the fields near Dotty Harmer's cottage, and it was easy for Christopher to approach Thrush Green from this direction. A path ran through the meadows from Lulling Woods which emerged on to Thrush Green by the side of Mr Piggott's cottage near 'The Two Pheasants.' Sometimes the boy came this way, but more often than not he climbed the grassy hill to the Farmers' copse and there met his jubilant friend.
They had kept their meetings secret, partly because Chris was trespassing, but largely because it made the whole affair deliciously exciting. Between the spinney and the herbaceous border was a thick growth of ox-eyed daisies which formed a background for the lower-growing plants. Here, in this hidden greenness, the two boys had made their headquarters. There was nothing to show that it was a place of any importance, only two small chalked letters on a tree trunk–a C and a P side by side–which would escape the Farmers' old eyes or the occasional glance of Mr Piggott when he 'obliged' two or three times a year.
Their activities were innocent enough. They exchanged news of nests, animals, friends or relatives, in that order of importance. Sometimes they sat amicably in the damp green hide-out and ate liquorice boot-laces or a fearsomely sticky hardbake which was sold in one of the back streets of Lulling and was much prized for its staying qualities. Once they smoked a cigarette which Paul had brought from home, but they did not repeat that experiment.
They met in all that summer about six times, and the place had grown very dear to young Paul. At school, before the other boys, they said nothing about their secret meetings. It was this delicious intimacy which Paul mourned on the departure of the Farmers.
With the coming of autumn the meetings had become less frequent. Not only was it too cold to sit crouched in the green gloom behind the daisies, but the frosts had thinned them sadly, so that small boys might be observed far too èasily. They decided that in future they must shift their headquarters to the spinney itself where there was more cover.
And Paul, rebelliously crunching his carrot, was determined to keep his trysts with Chris Mullins despite his mother's words and the uncomfortable stirrings of his own conscience.
After the removal of the signboard early in October, the inhabitants of Thrush Green renewed their energies and attacked the autumn jobs that pressed upon them. The air was exhilarating, the sun shone with that peculiar brilliance which is only seen in a clear October sky, and the autumn leaves added to the bright glory.
App
les were being picked, potatoes dug, and herbaceous borders tidied, and Sam Curdle's ancient lorry creaked and shuddered under the loads of wood which it bore down the lane from Nidden to prudent householders who were filling up their store sheds against the winter's cold.
Sam Curdle lived in a caravan a mile or two from Thrush Green and eked out a living from various types of piece-work for local farmers, by selling logs or acting as carrier in the district. For over two years now he had supported himself and his wife Bella and their three children in this way, and he was now part of Thrush Green's life; but the good people of that place remembered his dismissal from the great Mrs Curdles Fair, on the last May Day that that amazing old lady had seen, and were careful not to trust Sam with anything of particular value. Mrs Curdle had found that he was a thief. Thrush Green, who had known Mrs Curdle for over fifty years, knew that she was usually right, and did not forget.
It was noticed, too, that Mrs Curdles grave which lay in St Andrew's churchyard, at her own request, was never visited by Sam or his family, and though this was understandable when one remembered the nature of their parting, yet it was not easily forgiven. As the landlord of 'The Two Pheasants' was heard to say:
' 'Taint right that the only relative living near should neglect the old lady like that–never mind what passed between them! If young Ben weren't away with the Fair he'd keep it fit for a queen, that I don't doubt. A proper mean-spirited fellow that Sam. I don't trust him no further than I can see him!' And that expressed, pretty correctly, the feelings of the rest of Thrush Green.
Nevertheless, he had to be lived with and he seemed willing to make a useful contribution to village life, so that people spoke civilly to Sam, gave him their custom and odd jobs to do, and kept their misgivings to themselves.
One bright October afternoon Winnie Bailey had engaged Sam to sweep up dead leaves and make a bonfire, which he did with much energy. The blue smoke spiralled skywards filling the air with that sad scent which is the essence of autumn.
Winnie Bailey hoed vigorously round the rose bushes in the front garden which looked upon Thrush Green. From Joan Young's garden she could hear the sound of a lawn mower doing its final work before the grass grew too long and wet. In the playground of the village school Miss Fogerty was taking games with the youngest children, and their thin voices could be heard piping like winter robins' as they played the ancient singing games.
The doctor was having an afternoon nap and Mrs Bailey was intent on finishing the rose-beds before tea-time. Her hair had escaped from its pins, her face glowed with fresh air and exercise, and she was just congratulating herself upon her progress, when Ella's hearty voice boomed from the gate.
'Can you do with some sweet williams?'
Winnie Bailey propped the hoe against the wall and went to greet her.
'Come in, Ella.'
'Can't stop, my dear. I'm off to get Sam Curdle to leave us some wood.'
'He's here, this minute, in the garden,' said Winnie. 'So you'd better come in and save yourself a trip.'
Ella thrust an untidy bundle of plants wrapped in newspaper into Winnie Bailey's arms, and opened the gate.
'They're wonderful,' said Mrs Bailey with genuine enthusiasm. Til put them in as soon as I've finished hoeing. Sam's at the back, if you'd like a word with him.'
Ella stumped resolutely out of sight. Voices could be heard above the scratching of Winnie's renewed hoeing, but within five minutes Ella returned.
'That's done. Good thing I looked in. Ever had any wood from Sam? Does he give you a square deal? Always was such a blighted twister, it makes you wonder.'
Winnie Bailey thought, not for the first time, that it was amazing how well Ella's voice carried, and wished that if she could not moderate her tones she would at least refrain from putting her opinions into such forceful language. She had no doubt that Sam had heard every syllable.
'As a matter of fact I had a load of logs from him last year, and they were very good indeed,' answered Mrs Bailey in a low voice, hoping in vain that Ella would take the hint. 'I didn't mention it to Donald, for he abominates the fellow, as you know, after the way he treated old Mrs Curdle, so say nothing if it ever crops up.'
'Trust me!' shouted Ella cheerfully.
She made her way to the gate, paused with one massive hand on the post, and nodded across to the corner house.
'Any more news?'
'None, as far as I know,' confessed Mrs Bailey.
'I did my best at Johnsons' cocktail party last week,' said Ella. 'Got young Pennefather in a corner and asked him outright, but you know what these estate agents are. Came over all pursed-lips and prissy about professional duties to his client!'
'Well—' began Winnie diffidently.
'Lot of tomfoolery!' said Ella belligerently, sweeping aside the interruption. 'Anyone'd think he'd had to take the hypocrite's oath or whatever that mumbo-jumbo is that doctors have to swear. I told him flat–"Look here, my boy, don't you come the dedicated professional over me. I remember you kicking in your pram, and you don't impress me any more now than you did then!" Stuffy young ass!'
Ella snorted with indignation, and Winnie Bailey was hard put to it to hide her laughter.
'Relax, Ella. We're bound to know before long, and I should hate to have to wake poor Donald up to attend to an apoplectic fit in the front garden.'
Ella's glare subsided somewhat and was replaced by a smile as she wrenched open the gate.
'Don't think it will come to that yet,' said she, and set off with martial strides to her own house.
Half an hour later Mrs Bailey made her way across the green to St Andrew's church with the last of the roses in her basket. It was her turn to arrange the flowers on the altar and she wanted to get them done before the daylight faded.
Mr Piggott was trimming the edges of the grass paths with a pair of shears. He knelt on a folded sack which he shifted along, bit by bit, as the slow work progressed.
Mrs Bailey went over to speak to him, and the sexton rose painfully to his feet, sighing heavily.
'Anything you want?' he asked with a martyred air.
'Nothing at all, Mr Piggott,' said Winnie cheerfully, 'except to ask how you are.'
'Too busy,' grunted the sexton. 'Too busy by half! All these 'ere edges to clip and more graves to keep tidy than I ought to be asked to do. Look at old lady Curdle's there! What's to stop Sam keeping the grass trimmed? My girl's husband Ben won't half be wild if he finds his old gran's grave neglected, but there's too much here for one pair of hands.'
Winnie Bailey stepped across to the turfed mound against the churchyard wall. A neat stone at its head said simply:
ANNIE CURDLE
1878–1959
The little stone flower vase at its foot was empty except for a little rainwater which had collected there. Mrs Bailey selected half a dozen roses from her basket and put them in one by one, thinking as she did so of the dozens of bunches of flowers she had received from the old lady during her lifetime.
Mr Piggott watched in morose silence, scraping the mud from his boots on a convenient tussock of coarse grass. He steadied himself by resting his weight on a mossy old tombstone. The inscription was almost obliterated by the passage of years and the grey lichen which was creeping inexorably across the face.
'Ah, we've got all sorts here,' commented Mr Piggott with lugubrious levity. 'They say this chap was shipped back from Africa in a barrel of rum.' He patted the tombstone kindly, and his face brightened at the thought.
'I can't believe that,' expostulated Mrs Bailey, coming round the stone to peer at the inscription. 'Oh no, Piggott! This is Nathaniel Patten's grave. I'm sure he'd never have anything to do with rum. He was a strict teetotaller and a wonderful missionary, I believe.'
'Maybe he was,' said old Piggott stoutly, 'but in them days bodies was brought home from foreign parts in spirits. That I do know. I'll lay a wager old Nathaniel here ended up in rum, even if he didn't hold with it during his lifetime.'
; 'I must ask the doctor about it, if I can remember,' replied Mrs Bailey, picking up her basket and making her way towards the church. 'And I really must find out more about Nathaniel Patten one day.'
As she entered the quiet church intent upon her duties, she little thought that Nathaniel Patten, born so long ago in Thrush Green and now lying so still beneath his grassy coverlet, would be the cause of so much consternation to his birthplace.
3. Miss Fogerty Rises to the Occasion
ONE Monday morning in October Miss Fogerty arrived at the village school on Thrush Green at her usual time of twenty to nine.
Her headmistress, Miss Watson, took prayers with the forty-odd pupils at nine o'clock sharp, and Miss Fogerty, who took the infants' class and was the only other teacher at the establishment, liked to have a few minutes to put out her register and inkstand, unlock the cupboards and her desk drawer, check that the caretaker had filled the coal scuttle and left a clean duster, and to be ready for any early arrivals with bunches of flowers which might need vases of water for their refreshment.
She had enjoyed her ten-minute walk from lodgings on the main road. The air was crisp, the sun coming up strongly behind the trees on Thrush Green. Zealous housewives, who had prudently put their washing to soak on Sunday night, were already busy pegging it out and congratulating themselves upon the fine weather. Miss Fogerty, whose circumstances obliged her to do her own washing on Saturday morning each week, was glad to see their industry rewarded. Unless one was prepared to get one's washing out really early in October, she told herself, as she trotted along briskly, then one might as well dry it by the fire, for the days were so short that it virtually didn't dry at all after three or four in the afternoon. Unless, of course, a gale blew up, and that did more harm than good to clothes, winding them round the line and wrenching the material. Why, only on Saturday, her best pair of plated lisle stockings had been sorely twisted round the washing line and she greatly feared the fibres had been damaged.