(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  Harold looked dismayed. 'I can't say I'd got that far.' A note of doubt became evident in his speech. 'I suppose that would be the correct thing to do, but I'm jolly well going to keep them here at Thrush Green for as long as I can.'

  'And why not?' agreed Isobel, pouring boiling water into the teapot. 'After all, without you Thrush Green would have remained completely ignorant of Nathaniel.'

  Harold carried the tea tray into the sitting-room, followed by Isobel. Outside the rain still fell relentlessly, but it was snug by the fire, and soon they would draw the curtains against the unkind world outside.

  It was beginning to grow dark but the bronze statue of Harold's hero was discernible through the window. Drops dripped from the Bible which Nathaniel held before him, and there was a steady trickle from his frock-coat tails. An impertinent sparrow was perched upon his shining head, but Nathaniel continued to smile benignly upon the rain-lashed scene of his birth.

  'Will you meet this Mr Wilberforce?' asked Isobel.

  'I intend to,' replied Harold. 'He sounds a very public-spirited sort of chap. After all, most people would have thrown the stuff away, and not bothered to get in touch with the rector.'

  'How did he know about the rector?'

  'Well, the letters were addressed to this fellow Octavius Fennel who was rector here when Nathaniel went away, so Wilberforce simply wrote to the present rector of Thrush Green, and our postman Willie Marchant took it up to Lulling, and that's that.'

  'What excitement!'

  'We shall have to have a celebration of some kind.'

  Isobel refilled her husband's cup. 'Let's get the letters first,' she advised.

  Winnie Bailey, on the other side of Thrush Green, did not see the rector hurry to his car through the driving rain to return to his vicarage a mile away in Lulling. Charles Henstock served several parishes, but he lived in a beautiful house close by the magnificent church of St John's in the little town, with his wife Dimity.

  She had lived in Thrush Green for several years with her old friend Ella Bembridge, and the two spinsters had been very busy and happy. Dimity's marriage to the widowed rector left Ella alone at Thrush Green, but the two remained close friends and met often.

  On this particular morning of portentous news, Ella had called at Winnie's to return a library book.

  'Thought I'd better do it while I remembered,' she explained, when Winnie remonstrated with her about venturing forth in such weather. 'Don't want to let you in for a hefty fine.'

  She followed Winnie into the kitchen and greeted Jenny who was chopping up onions.

  'By the way, Jenny,' she added, 'did you go to Thrush Green school as a child?'

  'I did indeed,' said Jenny.

  'Then you know it's a hundred years old next year?'

  'Never!' said Jenny.

  'So there'll be some high jinks, I gather. I saw the headmaster at the newsagent's yesterday, and he told me.'

  'I wonder what they'll do?' said Jenny, scraping the chopped onion into a neat pile with her knife.

  'A party, I expect,' said Winnie. 'We'll probably have to make a cake.'

  'I'm quite happy to make a cake,' replied Ella. 'Anything rather than sitting through a concert on those uncomfortable chairs.'

  'Perhaps they'll have both,' said Jenny. 'A hundred years is quite something, isn't it? I wonder if Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty will come back for all the fun?'

  'I'm sure they will,' said Ella. 'Mr Lester said as much yesterday. They taught here for so long.'

  'I can see some excitement in our midst,' commented Winnie. 'Coffee, Ella?'

  But she refused, saying that she had left a piece of gammon simmering, and by now it was probably splashing all over the stove.

  She plunged homeward through the rain.

  As the day ended, the rain began to die away, but little rivulets continued to trickle down the sides of the hill leading down to the town of Lulling, and on roads around Thrush Green vast puddles caught the light of the rising moon.

  Winnie Bailey, early in bed, was glad to rest. Although she had not ventured out for her usual afternoon walk, she felt as though she had been buffeted by the wind which had rattled round the house all day.

  Tomorrow, she told herself, she would do some gardening and take a walk. It was time she went to see her old friend Dotty Harmer who lived near Lulling Woods some half-mile distant.

  Ella Bembridge, a hundred yards from Winnie Bailey, was still up and about. She leant across the window-sill and breathed in the fragrance of wet earth. Across the green she could see the shape of the school with the schoolhouse beside it. She liked Alan Lester, the new headmaster, and his wife, but missed Dorothy Watson, the former head teacher, and her friend and colleague Agnes Fogerty.

  Well, she hoped they would come to all the jollifications that appeared to be looming for next year.

  The moon appeared briefly between ragged clouds, and Ella shut the window against the chill of a November night.

  At the schoolhouse Alan Lester was carrying a tray bearing two mugs of hot milk and some digestive biscuits into the sitting-room, where his wife Margaret was busy counting stitches on her knitting needle.

  'A hundred and four last time, and a hundred and six this,' she told her husband. 'I wonder which is right?'

  'What's it supposed to be?' he enquired, putting down the tray.

  'A hundred and four.'

  'Forget the second count,' said Alan.

  'I think I shall. Has it stopped raining?'

  'Yes, and the wind's dropped. At least the children will be able to go out and play tomorrow.'

  They sipped their milk in companionable silence, and half an hour later were in bed.

  Next door Harold Shoosmith and his wife were also abed. Isobel fell asleep quickly, tired after her journey, but Harold was too excited by the prospect of seeing his hero's letters to follow his wife'e example.

  He crept out of bed and went to look at the sleeping world of Thrush Green. Clouds scudded across the moon's face, but it was light enough to see Nathaniel Patten's figure on the grass before him.

  What news! What a day! He remained at the window, relishing his happiness, until the winter's cold brought goose-pimples to his arms, and his feet grew stone-cold.

  Sighing happily, he sought the comfort of his bed.

  A mile away at Lulling vicarage, Charles Henstock, too, was sleepless beside his slumbering wife.

  The expected telephone call had not come until almost ten o'clock, and the good rector had decided to ring Harold in the morning rather than at that late hour.

  It seemed that Mr Wilberforce came about once a quarter to Ealing on business, and could bring the documents in about a month's time. Yes, he had said, he usually stayed overnight, and sometimes two nights, when he was down, and would be delighted to accept the rector's kind invitation.

  They agreed a date together, and Charles was already making plans for Harold and Isobel to meet him.

  It was all very satisfactory, thought Charles, as St John's church clock struck twelve silvery chimes. There would be no more chimes until seven the next morning, for the clock had been subdued to silence, by common consent, during the small hours.

  Tomorrow, Charles told himself, he would have the pleasure of telling Harold all about it.

  He turned his head more comfortably into his pillow and fell asleep.

  2. The Search Begins

  THE FACT that Thrush Green school would soon be a hundred years old had not escaped the notice of Dorothy Watson and Agnes Fogerty, although they were far away.

  The two friends had retired from teaching at Thrush Green some years earlier, and now shared a bungalow at Barton-on-Sea. Here they enjoyed the sea air, the gentle countryside around, new friends, and above all, each other's company. Dorothy, who had been the headmistress, took most of the decisions, but Agnes, who had been in charge of the infants' department, although acquiescent nine times out of ten, occasionally overruled her friend.

  The
subject of Thrush Green's anniversary had cropped up as the result of a telephone conversation the night before.

  Isobel Shoosmith rang frequently, for she missed her old neighbours and was particularly attached to little Agnes Fogerty, for they had attended the same teachers' training college many years before, and had always kept in touch.

  It was Isobel who had said that Alan Lester was already thinking about a celebration at the school, and the two friends had naturally been much interested.

  'No doubt we shall get an invitation,' announced Dorothy as they washed up the breakfast things. 'I must admit that I can't recall just when the school opened. Was it in the summer, do you think?'

  'I have a feeling that it was earlier in the year,' said Agnes, twirling her teacloth inside a tumbler.

  'I don't think you are right,' said Dorothy firmly.

  'Maybe not,' agreed Agnes equably, 'but in any case it will be in the appropriate log book and Alan Lester can look it up.'

  'Well, I only hope he does something suitable, and within the scope of the children and the school building. Some of these young men will try to be too ambitious. Do you remember that disastrous grammar school concert in Lulling where massed recorders waffled away at a piece by Haydn, and all at sixes and sevens?'

  'I shall never forget it.'

  Dorothy paused in her washing-up operations and gazed thoughtfully through the kitchen window above the sink. 'I wonder,' she mused, 'if it would be a good idea to have a word with Alan Lester. He might be glad of a little advice from an old hand.'

  'It would be quite out of the question,' said Agnes. 'It is his school now, you know.'

  Dorothy sighed. 'I suppose so. Nevertheless—'

  Her voice trailed away, and Agnes, who knew her friend better than that lady knew herself, realized that the danger of Dorothy blundering into matters which were not her concern still hung over them.

  As it happened, Alan Lester had temporarily shelved the matter of Thrush Green's celebrations.

  The end of the winter term was looming, and Christmas with all its attendant distractions had to be faced before the anniversary year began.

  He was a conscientious head teacher, and enjoyed the post he had taken up at Thrush Green some years earlier, although his first year had been fraught with anxiety about his wife Margaret, whose health had never been robust, and who had taken to secret drinking with alarming consequences. This addiction she had bravely overcome, and now all went well, but there was now no alcohol in the Lesters' home, and Alan was extra careful of his wife's frailty.

  He had taken over a well-run school from Dorothy Watson, and was wise enough to follow much the same paths, only gently introducing some of his more modern methods as time passed.

  He also inherited Miss Robinson, a cheerful young woman, who took over the infants' department from Agnes Fogerty. The third member of staff was also young, only just out from college, and still trailing the clouds of child psychology, pastoral care, and the perils of damaging infant sensibilities, but the day-to-day reality of the classroom would soon clear those in time, Alan Lester surmised correctly.

  The three worked well together and the inhabitants of Thrush Green, whether parents of pupils or not, were proud of their school.

  Alan Lester had no doubt that its hundredth birthday would be celebrated in fine style.

  But meanwhile, there was Christmas ...

  But Harold Shoosmith had more urgent things than Christmas to occupy him.

  The rector's invitation to dinner in mid-December to meet Robert Wilberforce was enthusiastically accepted by Harold and Isobel, and it was only a few hours later that Harold had been struck by a stupendous idea.

  'Why not get in touch with Nathaniel's grandson again, or perhaps his wife and daughter?' he enthused to Isobel.

  'But surely,' she pointed out, 'that man — Mulloy, wasn't it — was completely non-cooperative last time?'

  Somewhat dashed, Harold was forced to agree. 'But his wife was helpful. And Nathaniel's great-grand daughter must now be grown up. I wonder if they would consider it?'

  It was quite clear to Isobel that her husband would cling to this idea as resolutely as a terrier with a rat. 'You should have a word with Charles,' she advised. 'I imagine you are thinking of getting these people an invitation to the dinner party. I think Dimity and Charles should be told about your scheme. If the Mulloys are coming from Wales, they would need to stay overnight.'

  'You are quite right,' agreed Harold. 'I get carried away. I will see how Charles feels about it.'

  Later that day he rang the rector, who said he would consult his wife.

  'After all,' Charles said, 'it is Dimity who has to provide the meal, and I do just wonder if Wilberforce would be at all interested in meeting the Mulloys. In any case, I must say at the outset, Harold, that I utterly refuse to have that dissolute fellow we met in Wales at my table.'

  'Fair enough,' said Harold. 'I didn't propose to approach him. But the little girl we met—'

  'Dulcie,' said the rector.

  'That's right! Named after Nathaniel's daughter, her grandmother. She might be available. Shall I try to find out? I'll report back, and you and Dimity can decide the next step.'

  The rector agreed, unable to bring himself to discourage his enthusiastic friend, despite certain reservations about approaching the Mulloy ladies. Nathaniel Patten would have been a most welcome addition to a party at Lulling vicarage, but his descendants might not be such good company, thought Charles. He awaited developments.

  Although it was some twenty years since the two men had been in touch with Nathaniel's descendants, Harold set about the task of tracing them again the next morning with his usual energy and common sense.

  He remembered the name of the Welsh village, and found the number of the local post office. If anyone could tell him about the family, it would be the local postmaster or mistress.

  A woman answered in a lilting Welsh voice. 'I have to tell you that Mrs Mulloy died two or three years ago, and we heard of her husband's death before that, but Miss Dulcie is in London. They moved up there about eight years since. Dulcie's doing well. She was always bright, you know.'

  A vision of a diminutive child briskly cutting up cabbage with a fearsome kitchen knife returned to Harold over the years. Yes, he thought, she had looked a competent little thing even then.

  'And you have her address?'

  'That I have. Letters still come now and again. Reunions at the girls' grammar school and that. I send them on.'

  'Could you let me have it? And her telephone number?'

  There was the sound of rustling paper, then she spoke again. 'I've no telephone number for her, but this is her address.'

  She read it carefully, repeating each line with much emphasis, to Harold's amusement.

  The young lady lived in a flat in north London evidently.

  'But she works in a big office in London. Insurance, I think, but I don't know that address. Is it urgent?'

  'No, no indeed,' Harold assured her. 'A friend and I met her when she was a child, and it is simply a little family matter we thought she might like to know about.'

  'Money, is it? Left to her, I mean?'

  'No, nothing like that.'

  'Pity. She could do with it, I don't doubt, in spite of this fine job she's got. But there, we could all do with some more, couldn't we?'

  Harold agreed, thanked her warmly for her help, and went to tell Isobel.

  At the time when Harold was intent on tracking down Dulcie Mulloy, great-grand daughter of his hero, Winnie Bailey had decided to call on her old friend Dotty Harmer who lived some half-mile away to the west.

  She took with her some magazines and a pot of honey, food for mind and body. Not that Dotty's mind really needed stimulation, if anything it needed slowing down, thought Winnie, remembering the way Dotty flitted from subject to subject with the most extraordinary mental agility for one of her advanced years. Winnie had heard her hold forth on animal welfare (Do
tty's chief concern), modern education, the deterioration in public speaking, the shortcomings of the Church of England, the proliferation of caterpillars in this year's cauliflowers, all within the space of five minutes.

  Dotty's father had taught at Lulling Grammar School for many years, and the remembrance of his punishments still caused strong men of Lulling to blench.

  His sons had left home as soon as they could, but Dotty, who had never married, kept house for him until he died. She admired his undoubted brilliance of mind, his high principles and his physical bravery. She had seen him tackle a runaway horse careering down the steep hill from Thrush Green to Lulling, when he was in his sixties, whilst younger men stood gaping and too shocked to stir themselves to action.

  On his death she had moved to a small cottage set among fields, where she had spent her time happily alone, surrounded by all kinds of animals from bantams to stray dogs and cats, not to mention goats for which she had a particular fondness, and two tortoises who were probably older than Dotty and to whom she bore a strong facial resemblance.

  She delighted in collecting the harvest of the hedgerows and meadows and made preserves which she pressed upon her many friends with dire effect. 'Dotty's Collywobbles' was a local internal complaint known to Lulling and Thrush Green residents, and newcomers were warned about accepting Dotty's largesse.

  Her contented solitude had to end when she became infirm, and her niece Connie and her husband Kit came to live with her at the cottage which had been sympathetically enlarged some years before.

  Winnie always enjoyed visiting Dotty. Her kitchen remained the same chaotic muddle she had always known. Connie, very wisely, had an adjoining kitchen, where the real business of cooking was done.

  As Winnie crossed the green to take the path to Lulling Woods, she met Albert Piggott emerging from his cottage opposite the church.

  'Nice day, Albert,' said Winnie, as he paused on his doorstep.