(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  After a few deep breaths, Winnie opened her eyes. 'Sorry about that. Better now,' she whispered.

  'But what's hurting you? Shall I get John Lovell?'

  'Heavens, no!' said Winnie, struggling upright. 'I'm fine now. I just occasionally get this pain on my right side. It goes within a minute. Nothing to worry a doctor about.'

  'I think it is,' said Dimity roundly. 'Suppose you were taken ill in the street? Crossing the road? Going down steps, say?'

  Winnie laughed tremulously. 'Don't worry about it. If it does get worse I will have a word with John, but I really can't face going back and forth to the county hospital for tests and things. Particularly just before Christmas.'

  'Well, let me give you more tea. That must be cold.'

  Winnie accepted the fresh cup, and conversation was resumed, but the subject of the Lovelock girls' father and his friendship with Octavius was forgotten.

  Ella insisted on accompanying Winnie on the few yards' walk to her own home, and when Winnie was safely back in her armchair, she spoke to Jenny before she left.

  'I know,' said Jenny soberly. 'I'm watching things, don't you worry, and if she gets many more of these spasms I'm telling Dr Lovell myself, come what may!'

  A little easier in her mind about her old friend, Ella returned home.

  Meanwhile, Harold had been tireless in his researches.

  The editor of the local paper let him go through the files for 1912 when Octavius Fennel had died, but after a short and rather flowery obituary, the account of the actual funeral was taken up largely by a list of local dignitaries attending the service.

  The county paper was more helpful, mentioning the generosity of the deceased and in particular his interest in missionary work. To Harold's great joy Nathaniel Patten was mentioned, and the date 1892 given as the year when his African mission settlement was officially opened.

  Hot on the trail, Harold ploughed his way zealously through the weekly issues for that year, but was beginning to despair of finding any notice of Nathaniel's mission. By the time he had turned over the yellowing and musty pages of the summer weeks of 1892 showing photographs of ladies in ankle-length skirts and unwieldy hats at garden parties, race meetings, fetes and the like, he was almost ready to give up.

  However, he determined to struggle on, and noted the change of attire in the ladies' fashions as the shooting season began. Wild duck, partridge, grouse, snipe, teal, hares and geese, all it seemed should be wary of men with guns as autumn loomed, and the silk skirts changed to tweed and the pale kid boots to glossy leather.

  On 1 October, Harold read, pheasants, too, would have to watch out, and the issue of 26 October gave not only a fearsome photograph of a score of tweed-clad gentlemen sitting behind rows of birds' corpses, but also a short paragraph saying that word had been received by the Reverend Octavius Fennel from Mr Nathaniel Patten that the latter's mission station and school had been officially declared open on 1 October.

  Harold leafed through the rest of that year's copy, but there was nothing more to interest him.

  He shut the great book, sneezed as the dust of ages began to settle, and sat back well content.

  October the first 1892!

  Excitement engulfed him. Why, next year it would be a hundred years since that great day! Here was a sound reason for rejoicing, he told himself.

  He must get in touch with Charles at once.

  This certainly called for a special celebration at Thrush Green.

  The news that Winnie Bailey's health was not quite as it should be soon flashed around Thrush Green.

  Naturally, Winnie's uncomfortable twinges at Ella's were translated into more dramatic form.

  Albert Piggott told his old friend Percy Hodge that she had been 'took bad with the gastric', and he had seen her being helped back to her own home by Ella Bembridge.

  Betty Bell told the Shoosmiths that Mrs Bailey had 'had a turn', much to their dismay.

  Mr Jones of the Two Pheasants, usually the soul of discretion in his capacity as local landlord, rashly said that it was no wonder poor old Mrs Bailey had caught a chill working in that church which was as cold as the tomb. Albert Piggott, within earshot, took umbrage at this slight on his efficiency as church caretaker, and stalked out, but not before he had drained the last of his half-pint.

  Winnie, of course, knew nothing of these rumours which were floating about, and as she appeared as healthy as ever to her friends, they began to think that their informants had been over-egging the pudding as usual, and indulging in the common practice of gross exaggeration.

  But Isobel Shoosmith, on her way to the postbox on the corner of Thrush Green, did ask Ella, on the same errand, if Winnie was really in good health.

  Ella looked troubled. 'She makes very light of it, but she had a nasty spasm after we'd been doing the crib. Mind you, it was devilish cold in there. May have been that, of course, but I was just telling her about Octavius Fennel when she keeled over.'

  'Has she seen John Lovell?'

  'She's dead against it, but I reckon Jenny will fetch him pretty swiftly, if she sees any symptoms. Winnie says the pain is only momentary, and nothing to worry about.'

  'It worries me,' responded Isobel, dropping her bundle of envelopes into the box. 'I wonder if I ought to call?'

  'I shouldn't,' advised Ella. 'Winnie's got plenty of sense, and if she gets any more pain she'll have a word with John.'

  The ladies parted, and Isobel crossed the green to her home. Concern for Winnie occupied the larger part of her mind, but a phrase of Ella's niggled in one corner: 'I was just telling her about Octavius Fennel.' That would interest Harold, she knew.

  She quickened her pace to tell her husband that Ella seemed to have something to add to his researches.

  As she guessed, Harold was greatly intrigued and was about to hasten across to Ella's house, but was restrained by his wife.

  'She was making for Nidden,' she told him. 'Do be patient. Give her a ring later.'

  And with that Harold had to be content.

  As for Winnie Bailey herself, all unsuspecting of the rumours flying around the neighbourhood, she was busy with her Christmas arrangements, in common with the rest of the community. She was honest enough to admit secretly to feeling tired and uneasy, but was determined to postpone any visits to the doctor until the festivities were over.

  Her nephew Richard, his wife and two young children were coming to lunch on Boxing Day, and she and Jenny had planned to spend Christmas Day quietly together.

  It was at times like this that Winnie realized how old she was getting. In the old days, a visit from Richard and his family would have been taken in her stride. Now she faced the fact that the extra work, the noise of two small children, the entertainment of her guests and the general disruption of her usual ordered routine all combined to dismay her.

  Two days before Christmas Richard telephoned to tell her that the older child was in bed with measles, and the younger one seemed to be sickening for it. They were all terribly sorry, but their visit would have to be postponed.

  Winnie was genuinely sad to hear the news, and said so, but was rather ashamed, as she put down the receiver, at the relief which flooded her.

  A stab of pain made her sit down for a few minutes before she went to apprise Jenny about the change of plan.

  'Well, I'm sorry for the poor mites,' said Jenny forthrightly, 'but to my mind it's a blessing in disguise for you just now.'

  Harold's call to Ella had resulted in his being told that it was the Lovelocks who might know more about the deceased rector of Thrush Green; she herself knew nothing.

  'You can't possibly go down to the Lovelocks', pen and pad in hand, on Christmas Eve,' Isobel told him. 'Do be sensible. All this has waited for a century; a few more days won't hurt.'

  With commendable self-control Harold put aside his researches and joined in the celebration of Christmas with the rest of his neighbours, but before the year was out he rang the Misses Lovelocks' house, and w
as lucky enough to get the youngest one, Violet, at the other end of the line. Violet, although almost eighty, was rather more practical than her sisters, and her memory was decidedly better.

  'I'm sure we have some papers of Papa's about Octavius Fennel, but I have a funny feeling that we got one of the young men from the choir to put a trunkful of that sort of thing in the loft. I will check with Ada and Bertha and ring you back.'

  For the next hour Harold paced about the house within earshot of the telephone, doing his best to be patient.

  Just as he and Isobel and Betty Bell, their daily help, were sitting down to their morning coffee in the kitchen, Violet Lovelock rang him.

  'Yes, indeed. Bertha clearly remembers the trunk going up into the loft. And I have recalled the article that Papa wrote. It was one of a series about local people who had contributed to Lulling and Thrush Green in one way or another. Quite short, you understand. I believe the series first appeared in the church magazine, and Papa had them put together in a little leaflet.'

  'Wonderful!' cried Harold. 'When may I fetch them?'

  'Well, today we are turning out the spare room, and tomorrow is bathroom-cleaning day, so what about Friday morning?'

  Harold agreed readily. Secretly he wondered why the attentions to the Lovelocks' spare bedroom and bathroom forbade his picking up a leaflet from the ladies, but Violet's further explanation threw some light on the matter.

  'I'm afraid we'll have to send you up into the loft to fetch the papers,' said Violet. 'We are now past coping with the little folding ladder.'

  'No bother at all,' Harold assured her. 'I will look forward to seeing you at about ten, if that is convenient?'

  'Perfectly,' said Violet, and rang off.

  Charles Henstock, of course, had been kept informed of every step taken by Harold in his quest for details about Nathaniel and Octavius.

  The discovery of a firm date for the official opening of Nathaniel's mission gave both men great satisfaction and they were in entire agreement that something must be done to note the occasion in October next.

  'I hope it won't clash with the school's centenary,' Charles said. 'I know that Alan Lester is keen to mark that. It's quite extraordinary how one's calendar fills up for months in advance, what with church festivals, and visiting clergy, and the dentist.'

  'I don't have to worry too much about your first two,' admitted Harold, 'but the dentist certainly seems to figure in my diary far too frequently.'

  'By the way,' continued Charles, 'we had a charming letter from Robert Wilberforce after his visit. He hopes that we will see him if ever we go his way. And he wanted Dulcie Mulloy's telephone number. I think he means to get in touch when he comes south next time.'

  'Good!' said Harold. Could Isobel be right about Wilberforce's interest in Nathaniel's descendant, he wondered? He dismissed the thought immediately. He was getting as bad as the rest of Thrush Green!

  Friday came at last and Harold set out for Lulling High Street on foot. He carried with him a small case, notepad and pen.

  'You look as though you are going for the weekend,' Isobel said.

  'Well, heaven knows how much stuff I may find in that loft. I'm going prepared.'

  He was greeted effusively by the three sisters who fluttered about him, pressing him to take coffee with them.

  Harold managed to excuse himself, and was taken up two flights of stairs by Violet to what must once have been the servants' quarters. On the landing he espied a trap door above him which gave access to the loft and, he hoped, the treasure he was seeking.

  Violet showed him how it opened and let down a metal ladder. It looked remarkably wobbly to Harold, who was a large and heavy man, but he hoped for the best. Violet pressed a light switch on the landing wall, and a dim glow filled the square above their heads.

  'Now, will you be all right?' asked Violet. 'There is a torch up there, I believe, though the battery may have gone. And I hope you don't mind mice. We hear them scampering about at night, dear little things. We none of us has the heart to trap them.'

  She scurried away and Harold mounted the steps gingerly. He was relieved to find that the entire loft floor was boarded, and stood for a few moments trying to get accustomed to the dim light.

  The sight that met his eyes was a revelation. The place was crammed with Victorian and Edwardian relics which would have delighted an antique dealer's heart.

  There were two enormous hip baths, three wooden towel rails, and a fireguard which had probably been in use some seventy or eighty years earlier in the girls' nursery. There were several dismantled iron bedsteads stacked against one wall, the legacy probably of servants long-dead, and a pile of circular hat boxes towering over a wicker chair with a dilapidated cushion showing signs of mouse occupancy.

  Tennis racquets of antique design, skating boots, skis and a wooden sledge were propped in one corner beside a box of toys. In it Harold saw a diabolo set, a Russian egg, several jigsaw puzzles, a clockwork train, and a dolls' teaset. Hard by stood a dusty dolls' house, a replica of the one in which he now stood, down to the three front doorsteps and the brass knocker.

  The Misses Lovelock must have been very fortunate little girls, thought Harold, stepping past these relics to half a dozen trunks which occupied the main part of the floor space.

  To his relief, he saw that each bore a label written in a fair copperplate style, but faded and grimy with years. The largest bore the inscription 'APPARATUS—PHOTOGRAPHY AND ASTRONOMY'. The next in size said 'MAMA'S, AND OTHER FAMILY PICTURES'.

  Harold turned his attention to the smallest case of the collection, a brown tin object bearing a label which seemed hopeful: 'PERSONAL PAPERS'.

  The little trunk was unlocked, but the lid was difficult to lift.

  When at last he had forced it open, Harold saw neatly packed bundles of letters, notebooks and some cardboard-covered pamphlets. He tackled these first, squatting on the dusty floor, peering closely in the dim light from the naked electric bulb above him. The torch, as Violet had indicated, was useless, and Harold intended to take it down with him when he descended.

  The bundle of leaflets was tied with fine string, and they appeared to be written either by the Lovelocks' father himself or by some of his friends.

  Harold turned them in his now filthy hands. They dealt with such subjects as 'Spirit Manifestations', 'Electrical Phenomena', 'Scientific Experiments' and 'Astronomical Data'. He was almost at the end of the collection when he came across one with the title 'Local Benefactors' and his heart leapt. Could this be the series which first appeared in the local parish magazine?

  He stood up to get nearer to the light, and studied the index. Yes, here was something! 'The Reverend Octavius Fennel 1842–1912.'

  The print was small and Harold had difficulty in reading it. He put it aside with the torch, and delved again into the papers.

  After an hour's search, he decided that this was really all that was relevant to his present endeavours, and he closed the lid, looked once more upon the dusty quietness of long ago, and retraced his steps.

  'I am so very grateful,' he told Violet, as he washed the grime of ages from his hands at the kitchen sink. 'I will let you have this back as soon as I have copied out the important pieces, and I will also put a new battery in the torch, as a very small thank-you.'

  He was in buoyant mood as he climbed the hill to Thrush Green. To be sure, the case he carried had only one small leaflet, and an ancient torch to keep it company, but Harold foresaw many happy hours ahead with this treasure from the Lovelocks' attic.

  5. New Light On Old Times

  THE FIRST days of the New Year were mild and still.

  The naked trees stood motionless against a grey sky, and the hedgerows were spangled with drops from morn until evening.

  In the gardens a few hardy flowers showed a little colour. Tough marigolds, brave pansies and here and there a pink, all somewhat bedraggled, nevertheless were tattered reminders of the summer long past.

 
Bright berries of pyracantha and cotoneaster glowed against the Cotswold stone, providing cheer for passers by and the hungry birds.

  Indoors bowls of hyacinths and tulips gave hope of spring to come, sharing the tables and windowsills with the azaleas and poinsettias of Christmas.

  It was a time to relish one's home. In the dark of the year, when curtains were drawn between four and five, and the long evening stretched ahead, the people of Thrush Green turned to their fires, books, knitting, needlework and, sometimes, television to amuse themselves. Domestic comforts became doubly precious: a warm bed, a hot drink, the snugness of curtains shut against the night's chill, all brought comfort in the dismal days of January.

  Even Charles Henstock, who thought little about creature comforts, enjoyed these simple pleasures at Lulling vicarage, and occasionally thought about his former house at Thrush Green which had been burnt down some years earlier. On that site there were now some homes for old people, one-storey pleasant places designed by Edward Young, the local architect.

  Edward had always thought that Thrush Green rectory was an abomination, and had pitied Charles and Dimity, obliged to live in a tall bleak house entirely out of keeping with the Cotswold architecture around it. It faced north-east, and the front door opened on to a long passage which ran the length of the house forming a wicked wind-tunnel whenever one or the other door was opened. The ceilings were lofty, the windows badly fitting, there was no central heating and, even in summer, the interior was chilly.

  When at last it vanished and the ashes and debris had gone, and Dimity and Charles had moved to Lulling vicarage, no one was more delighted than Edward; and to be asked to design the new buildings to take its place gave him enormous satisfaction.

  Phoenix-like, the present homes had risen from the ashes, and everyone, even dear uncomplaining Charles who had grieved at the loss of his old home, agreed that Thrush Green had been much improved by Edward's endeavours.