by Miss Read
It was at the old people's home, called Rectory Cottages in tribute to the former residence, that a coffee morning was held on one of the quiet cold days of January.
Thrush Green was particularly fond of coffee mornings to raise funds for whichever good cause was in need. Usually the posters proclaimed that those perennials, the church roof or the organ, were pleading for help. But sometimes the posters exhorted all folk of good will to save the children, or rain forests or whales.
On the whole these occasions were looked upon as a pleasant way of meeting friends and catching up with the local gossip, both laudable and necessary in a small community. The aim of raising money really took a lesser place of importance, although when the proceeds were counted, among the unwashed coffee cups and cake plates when the public had departed, it was usually found that the local good causes - Church Roof and/or Organ Fund - did rather better than Ethiopian Famine or Brazilian Earthquake.
'Which really,' said Winnie Bailey, seated in the warden's office at Rectory Cottages, 'is as it should be, I suppose. After all, charity should begin at home, and although we see all the dreadful things that are happening worldwide on telly, it's not quite the same as hearing the organ wheezing badly at Matins or watching a steady drip in the chancel.'
Jane Cartwright, the warden, agreed. 'I make it sixteen pounds forty-five,' she said, dropping piles of coins into plastic bags. 'That's all from the Bring and Buy stall. Nelly Piggott's seed cakes accounted for half that.'
'I can't understand this revival of popularity for seed cake,' mused Winnie. 'Frankly, I find it abhorrent.'
'All my old dears love it,' Jane told her. 'Takes them back to their childhood.' She turned again to her accounts, brow furrowed. 'So this can be added to the raffle money. That brought in five pounds and four pence, though how we managed to get four pence when the tickets were ten pence each, I can't imagine.'
'Poor sight,' said Winnie kindly. 'Mistaking a two-pence piece for a ten-pence one.'
'I thought it was uncommonly generous of the Lovelocks to give that rather nice cushion as a prize. I mean, it's usually impossible to get them to part with anything.'
'They probably disliked it,' replied Winnie. 'As a matter of fact, I gave it to them last Christmas.'
'Oh dear,' cried Jane, 'I hope you don't mind?'
'Not in the least. I'm all in favour of recycling. Actually, the tray I put in was one they had given me years ago, so I suppose we are quits.'
The two ladies put the proceeds into a cash box ready for the bank, and Jane helped Winnie into her coat.
Winnie suddenly gave a little cry, rocked unsteadily, then sat down on the chair she had just vacated. Her face was white, her eyes screwed up in pain.
Jane, who had been a nurse, loosened the fastening of the coat she had just put on, and took hold of Winnie's hand.
'I'll ring the doctor,' she said.
'No,' gasped Winnie. 'Don't bother him now. In any case, he's probably on his rounds.'
'What is it? Has this happened before?'
'Too often for my liking,' confessed Winnie. 'That's the second time within twelve hours.'
'You simply must see John Lovell,' urged Jane.
'I shall go this evening,' Winnie promised her. 'I've been putting it off for weeks. They say that doctors' relations are always the most procrastinating, but I really will go tonight.'
'I hope it isn't anything you've eaten here,' said Jane, much perturbed.
'I assure you it wasn't seed cake,' replied Winnie. 'And now I'm quite all right again, and will go home.'
But Jane insisted on taking her the short distance to her gate, before returning, very worried, to her warden's duties.
Later that day Winnie submitted to John Lovell's probings and pressings and innumerable questions.
'I'm going to send you on to Dickie's,' he told her, naming St Richard's, the large county hospital. 'You'll need X-rays and some pretty painless tests, and then you'll probably be forwarded quite quickly to the consultant, Carter. I know him well.'
'Is he good?' asked Winnie nervously.
'Good? Of course, he's good,' responded John Lovell. 'He's a St Thomas's man!'
As John Lovell was himself a St Thomas's man, Winnie said no more.
'It sounds like the gall bladder,' said the doctor. 'Much easier to cope with these days. Very often no surgery is needed at all. I'll give you a prescription, and just cut out fat in your diet. I'll see that you get looked at quite quickly.'
'And you think I may not need surgery? I must admit that I have a horror of the knife.'
'Now don't worry. The chances are that if there are any stones there they can be dispersed, and if it comes to surgery Philip Paterson is the real expert at Dickie's, and he's a St Thomas's man, too. You'll be in safe hands.'
'Well,' said Jenny when Winnie returned, 'what did Dr Lovell say?'
Winnie told her.
'Are there any other doctors at Dickie's? I mean, who haven't trained at St Thomas's?'
'Not worth mentioning, according to John Lovell,' Winnie said.
Now that term was well on the way, Alan Lester set about looking for more details about the opening of Thrush Green school in 1892.
Unlike his neighbour, Harold Shoosmith, he did not have to search through contemporary local newspapers for his researches. Three stout log books, with mottled leather-edged covers, were carefully stored in the bottom drawer of his school desk, and in the oldest of these Alan found all that he needed.
The first entry was for 15 August, inscribed in a firm copperplate hand. The ink had turned brown with age but the entry was clear:
Harvest now safely garnered, so that pupils could be admitted.
Sixty-two enrolled. Some twenty still hop-picking in Hampshire, and returning before the month's end.
Miss Mackintosh in charge of Infants. Miss Brown in charge of Juniors. Headmaster in charge of top standards.
School assembled in the playground as weather fine, and then marched into Prayers.
Text today: 'Be obedient to those set over you.'
And a very timely text too, thought Alan Lester, for the first day of a new school!
He turned the pages, and soon found a lengthy account of the official opening, which took place on 20 September in the presence of a goodly gathering. As well as dignitaries from the County Education Committee and a fair sprinkling of local worthies, the rector of Thrush Green, the Reverend Octavius Fennel, was much in evidence. He opened the proceedings with a prayer, and also gave a short address, his text being: 'Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the Kingdom of God.'
A somewhat kindlier text, thought Alan, than the headmaster's original one.
Those present at this occasion were carefully listed, and one or two familiar names appeared, such as Lovelock and Harmer. Having found what he needed, Alan Lester returned the weighty volume to its resting place, and pondered on the most suitable festivities to promote on 20 September, 1992.
Meanwhile, Harold Shoosmith and Charles Henstock had been similarly engaged upon their researches, and were beginning to wonder about the best way to celebrate that other official opening, so far away under sunnier skies, at much the same time in 1892.
Both men had found Octavius's diary fascinating. The entries were brief, and one of the earliest was for 7 December, 1892. It read:
Received with joy letter from N. All well.
The diary was not kept daily, but very few weeks went by without some entry. Charles read it with particular sympathy. As he turned the pages, it became clear that his predecessor had been a man of outstanding kindliness and with a wide range of interests.
He obviously shared with so many Victorians the fascination of scientific discoveries. He mentioned meetings of the Lulling Scientific Society ('Lantern slides by courtesy of Oliver Lovelock, Esq.'). The Astronomer Royal had honoured them with a visit on his way to Somerset. He himself had felt obliged to speak out against some of th
e theories of Charles Darwin.
What came through most strongly was his steadfast belief in God and the teachings of the Anglican Church. Those theories of Charles Darwin's, about which he disapproved, were evidently contrary to his own religious beliefs and, no doubt, he looked upon them as heresy.
But the diary gave evidence not only of an upright man of God, but also of an endearing fellow who loved his neighbours, was compassionate and generous to the poor and sick, and was passionately fond of flowers, animals and the natural world about him.
Picked a dozen pyramid orchids by Lulling Woods. Took them with butter and eggs to poor old Biddy Bolton at Drovers' Arms. Lower limbs much afflicted with dropsy.
Entries mentioning Nathaniel came two or three times a year, each ending with 'see accounts'. It was plain that Octavius had financed this venture of Nathaniel's entirely from his own pocket.
By piecing together the material relating to Nathaniel in the diary, it was quite apparent to Charles and Harold that they now had a very good idea of the story.
Oliver Lovelock's useful article in 'Local Benefactors' on the subject of the Reverend Octavius Fennel was also very enlightening. Oliver obviously had great affection and respect for his clergyman friend, and also threw light on the relationship between Octavius and his protégé Nathaniel.
It appeared that the young missionary had been in his twenties when he embarked on his great adventure. There had been some preliminary correspondence with the Dr Maurice, already in Africa, mentioned in Nathaniel's first letter, and who was obviously about to welcome the young man on his arrival.
Oliver Lovelock's account gave something of Octavius's background. His wealth came from the Lancashire cotton industry. The fact that earlier generations in his family had thrived at the expense of slave labour in the cotton fields of America seemed to weigh heavily upon the clergyman's conscience. Was this one of the reasons, wondered Charles and Harold, which prompted his compassion and generosity to his contemporaries?
As a young man he had travelled extensively, mainly in Europe, visiting various capitals rather in the manner of earlier travellers undertaking the Grand Tour. Russia in the days of the Tsar had much impressed the young man, and he evidently gave a lecture on the subject later in Lulling, according to Oliver Lovelock's biography.
After being ordained he spent some time in the poorer parts of London, taking great interest in the children, and in his early thirties he was given the living of Thrush Green, where he was to spend the rest of his life.
Charles Henstock's comment was typical. As a home-loving man himself, he told Harold that Octavius must have felt as if he had found a safe haven after so many trips abroad.
But Harold wondered if such a lively mind as Octavius's ever looked back upon his adventures with nostalgia. Would he ever have secret regrets for the life he had given up? On the other hand, Harold reminded himself, he, too, had travelled widely but had not regretted, for one instant, his decision to settle in the little world of Thrush Green.
No doubt Charles was right and Octavius was content with his lot. Certainly his diary gave proof of that.
There was a photocopying machine at the stationer's in Lulling High Street, and Harold used it to make copies of the relevant pages of 'Local Benefactors'.
On his way back, he called at the Lovelocks' house to return the leaflet and the torch to the ladies.
He was invited into the drawing-room, and sat among the clutter of occasional tables, armchairs, china cabinets, book cases and even a what-not, and told the three sisters how much he had appreciated their father's account of Octavius and his good works.
'My father had a great regard for him,' said Bertha. 'Of course, we hardly knew him, as we were in the nursery then. In fact, I doubt if Violet was born. If I remember rightly, Octavius died just before the 1914–18 war.'
'Quite right,' said Harold.
'He brought Father a charming little paperknife from St Petersburg. It is still on the desk in his study.'
'And he gave us a Russian egg,' recalled Ada. 'I wonder what happened to it?'
'I think I saw it in the loft,' Harold told them, 'with other toys.'
'One day,' said Bertha, 'we must get someone to clear out that loft for us, and dispose of the contents.'
She gazed speculatively at Harold. He saw again, in his mind's eye, the stack of iron bedsteads, the heavy trunks crammed with the detritus of years, the decrepit chairs, the hip baths, the towel rails and the floor sprinkled with mouse droppings.
'I really must be off,' he said rising. 'Thank you again for your help. Your father's notes have been invaluable.'
Violet escorted him to the front door.
'What a nice man!' she remarked to her sisters when she returned. 'And he has put a new battery in the torch, too.'
'We may as well keep it downstairs,' said Ada. 'There's no point in having a new battery in a torch which is going to be kept in the loft.'
'It would be a wicked waste,' agreed Bertha. 'Put it in the hall, Violet dear; it will save us switching on the electric light.'
The diary was probably of greater interest to Charles than to Harold, for the good rector was intrigued with the view of Thrush Green and Lulling seen through the eyes of a man doing the same work a century earlier in much the same surroundings.
He was as much impressed as Harold with the portrait of the man which emerged. He took a lively interest in his natural surroundings, his parishioners, and also in wider issues such as the conditions of the workers in industry, the might of the British Empire and the uneasy state of Europe.
Charles was interested to see his predecessor's comments on new scientific discoveries, but noted, too, how steadfastly he set his face against anything which, in his opinion, threatened the teachings of the Church. He spoke scathingly of spiritualism, and deplored the use of such toys as ouija boards, and the gatherings of people at seances, in attempts to get into touch with other worlds.
Across the years he spoke to Charles as a friendly, highly intelligent and thoughtful man. He possessed an intellect, Charles recognized humbly, far in advance of his own. But one thing they shared in common. They did indeed love their God.
It was Nathaniel's letters which gave Harold the most acute joy. Just to touch those frail pieces of paper, and to know that Nathaniel's hand had rested where his now lay, gave him a feeling of kinship and exquisite pleasure.
The diary had given only the briefest hint, now and again, of the strong bond between the two men: a father-and-son relationship as well as true friendship, for Octavius was some twenty years older than Nathaniel, and was also in a position to help the younger man, not only with his wisdom and advice, but also with regular and generous donations, as the accounts showed.
Occasionally, there had been a wistful and fatherly comment in the diary.
Only God can understand my grief at N.'s determination not to take Holy Orders. But N. is a fine young man, and God guides him as He does me. We are in His hands.
Nathaniel's letters threw more light on this vexed question. To Harold's disappointment, he soon discovered that a great many of the letters were missing. There were references to earlier matters, and it was clear, from the carefully dated relics, that only about a third of the letters were remaining.
From these, however, it was plain that Nathaniel grieved as sorely as his benefactor about his inability to enter the Anglican Church.
Your unfailing goodness to me [he wrote in 1895] is my constant support and inspiration. It makes my seeming opposition to your wishes, in the matter of taking Holy Orders, doubly painful to me, and I should be a happier man if my conscience would allow me to follow your dictates. As it is, I know that you understand my feelings, and will not allow this basic difference to injure the friendship we share under God's blessing.
There was no mention of Nathaniel's marriage, either, in the remaining letter nor, strangely enough, in Octavius's diary, but later letters mentioned his dead wife, and the little daught
er whom he proposed to send to friends in England for her education.
As a murky January drew to its close, Harold and Charles realized that there would be very little more to be discovered about the long-dead friends.
All that remained now, they agreed, was to choose a fitting tribute to honour two fine men of Thrush Green.
6. Hard Weather
FEBRUARY CAME in with the same dismal clammy weather which had held sway throughout January. But after the first week, the weathervanes spun round to the north-east, and a vicious wind tossed the bare branches of the chestnut trees on Thrush Green.
It was during this bleak spell that Winnie Bailey was admitted to hospital, for the various tests had shown that it was, as suspected, gall bladder trouble, and surgery would, after all, be needed.
Speculation on the outcome of the operation was rife at the Two Pheasants.
Albert Piggott told Percy Hodge that, in his opinion, no one was ever the same again.
'My old uncle what was gamekeeper up Nidden was on slops for the rest of his life. Rice pudden, mashed potato, drop of broth - that was all he could take.'
Percy was unimpressed. 'My Gladys,' he replied, naming his present wife, 'says it don't make a mite of difference having your gall bladder out. Some bits of us are real useless. Look at my appendix, for instance.'
But nobody appeared to be interested in Percy's appendix, which perhaps was just as well because it had been removed years earlier.
Mr Jones, who rather fancied himself as a medical man, a sort of hedge-doctor, told the assembled company that you could blast gallstones into dust with a few shots of laser rays, but you had to be careful that they didn't damage the red corpuscles.
Blinded with such sophisticated knowledge the company dropped the subject of gall bladders and their treatment, but all agreed that Mrs Bailey 'would have to watch it' when she came out of hospital.