by Miss Read
7. Comings and Goings
AS SO OFTEN happens when a perfectly simple project is planned, complications and difficulties arose.
The rector had put a short message in the parish magazine announcing the proposed date and the fact that it seemed appropriate for the two celebrations to combine.
The poor man at once received a number of notes and telephone calls pointing out that they - the writers and ringers - would be:
a) away from home
b) attending a much more important function in London or the county town
c) were expecting confinements, visits from bedridden relatives, or were proposing to enter hospital at the time stated.
Harold Shoosmith told him to 'let them get on with it'. But he, too, had his critics, and none more vociferous than Mrs Gibbons who lived far too near him for comfort.
The Gibbons were newcomers to Thrush Green and had embraced village life with a fervour unknown to the local population. They were soon enrolled as chairmen, secretaries, treasurers, and so on, of almost all the village activities, much to the relief and amusement of their lazier neighbours.
As Mr Gibbons was still working in some unspecified but highly important business in London, it was Mrs Gibbons who was more in evidence, although she was always keen to stress the support she had from her husband who, she hinted darkly, wielded power over a great many influential people in government circles.
Harold Shoosmith had secretly dubbed him 'Gauleiter Gibbons'; certainly when he did take charge of any village meeting he was as dictatorial as his spouse, and Harold always had the feeling that a banner should be waving behind him, and that the assembled company should rise, chanting, to its feet when the leader appeared.
Harold was unfortunate enough to encounter Mrs Gibbons one morning, as he was coming back from the postbox.
'Ah! Just the man I wanted to see!' she carolled.
Harold's heart sank.
'I believe you started this ballyhoo about the great Nathaniel,' she continued, with dreadful facetiousness.
Harold's heart ascended again. No one, and certainly not Mrs Gibbons, was going to denigrate Nathaniel in his presence.
'Of course, any jollifications should be put in charge of the Thrush Green entertainments committee, of which I am chairman.'
'I know,' said Harold.
'And as for the school's celebration, that of course should be a matter for discussion between the headmaster and the Parent—Teacher Association, of which again, I am the chairman.'
'I know,' repeated Harold.
'I've a mind to call on Alan Lester now, while I'm here,' said the lady sharply.
'He's just gone off to Cornwall,' Harold told her, with considerable satisfaction. 'School ended last week.'
'I'm quite aware of that,' snapped Mrs Gibbons.
'In any case,' Harold pointed out, 'things have hardly begun to move yet. All that has happened is plainly laid out in this month's parish magazine. So far, we've simply planned a date convenient to everyone—'
'How do you know it's convenient to everyone?' cried Mrs Gibbons, flushing pink.
'And announced the Sunday chosen for the combined service,' continued Harold equably. 'Now if you will excuse me, I must hurry home. I am expecting a telephone call.'
No doubt the Gauleiter would hear all about this encounter when he arrived home from running the nation, thought Harold. Poor devil!
The ladies of Thrush Green had decked St Andrew's church for Easter, and its Victorian plainness was adorned with daffodils and narcissi on every windowsill, little bunches of violets and primroses arranged by the children at the foot of the font, and some magnificent hot-house lilies on the altar.
The Reverend Charles Henstock and the choir made their entry by the west door that morning, and proceeded down the aisle to the cheerful strains of 'Christ is Risen', sung with great gusto by all present.
Winnie Bailey, standing in her usual place, thought what a joyful celebration Easter was. There were some lovely hymns, the spring flowers were doubly beautiful after the darkness of winter, and the time of the year was full of hope.
The sun, streaming through the east and south windows, threw shafts of coloured light upon the altar and the chancel floor. No one could truthfully say that the stained glass of St Andrew's had much to commend it, but in the general rejoicing of Easter it added to the church's ambience.
Charles would be busy today, thought Winnie, settling back to listen to the first lesson. This morning's service had been arranged for ten o'clock, enabling Charles to hurry back to St John's for Matins at eleven fifteen, in Lulling. Cold lunch for most of us today, she thought, rising for the next hymn.
The movement brought a wave of dizziness, and she was obliged to hold on to the pew until it passed. Please don't let me fall down in front of everyone, she prayed fervently! A twinge of the old pain made her grit her teeth, but within a minute or two she felt better again.
She started to sing with the rest of the congregation. Words by'S. Baring-Gould, she noticed. Donald had had a great regard for the Reverend S. Baring-Gould.
On the Resurrection morning
Soul and body meet again;
No more sorrow, no more weeping,
No more pain.
Perhaps that's a good omen, Winnie told herself. I must cross my fingers!
But wasn't that rather inappropriate - pagan, even; omens and crossed fingers in the middle of a Church of England festival?
Amused at her thoughts, the pain gone, Winnie raised her voice in praise.
Not long after this, when Thrush Green school was open again, a meeting for all interested was held to go through the suggestions put forward for the two celebrations.
The rector took the chair, and there were more people present than he had expected. Mrs Gibbons was in the front row, seated on one of the children's chairs, for the meeting was being held in the school.
One good thing about the venue, Harold Shoosmith thought to himself, was the fact that the school chairs were so ill-suited to the adult form that the business under discussion got done pretty smartly.
He himself had taken up a strategic and more comfortable position on one of the desk tops, which gave him more room for his long legs. Alan Lester, he noticed, had done the same, having relinquished his headmaster's wooden armchair to the rector on this occasion.
The first proposal to be put was that of combining the two celebrations - the centenary of the school in which they sat, and the centenary of the opening of Nathaniel's mission.
There was surprisingly little discussion on this point. Even Mrs Gibbons, who usually argued at public meetings as a matter of course, seemed to think that a joint celebration had much to commend it.
'Although,' she remarked in her ringing voice, 'with all due respect to our chairman, one wonders if these celebrations may not turn out to be rather too Anglican. We must keep in mind that there are a great many people who belong to other denominations. We don't want them to feel excluded.'
'I can assure you,' replied Charles Henstock patiently, 'that all will be invited. Certainly, I myself have approached the other church ministers in the area, and they are enthusiastic in coming to the church service here at St Andrew's, as well as the general celebrations.'
'Anyway,' boomed Ella Bembridge from the back of the room, 'it's a Church of England school, and dear old Nathaniel was an out-and-out Church of England chap, even if he didn't actually take Holy Orders, so what's wrong with bearing that in mind?'
There were general noises of agreement. The proposal to combine was put and carried overwhelmingly.
The rector gave plans and date for the church celebration, and Alan Lester outlined his idea for a Victorian day at the school. There was great enthusiasm for the latter, and several people offered articles of apparel, books and bric-à-brac which had belonged to Victorian forebears.
Alan Lester was plainly delighted at this response and, striking while the iron was hot, said that he would be looking for volun
teers nearer the time to help with the dressing of the children and general assistance.
There was a buzz of offers and conversation became general. The rector, quite accustomed to this sort of thing at village meetings, waited indulgently for the gossip to die down before coming to the chief problem.
'Now we are all agreed on the general form of our festivities,' he began, 'which as I'm sure you have noticed will take place under cover. But it has been suggested that we might risk just one outside event.'
'In October?' said one.
'Best be a Saturday then,' said another.
'That's right. It'll be dark around six.'
'Weather's tricky then.'
Thus spoke the more pessimistic of those present, but there were several more optimistic voices raised.
'What about a tea party? Trestle tables and all that, like after the war?'
'Might be warm enough. Have to wear a coat, though, in October.'
'I reckon a tug-of-war would fit the bill.'
'They had a dance up Nidden one year, out in the open, with fairy lights and that in the trees.'
'But the wind got up, remember? Couldn't hear the band. That was one autumn, as I recollect.'
The rector, who had been noting down suggestions, waited, pen poised, for the tumult to subside.
When at last it did, there was a scuffling at the back and Gladys Hodge, the wife of Percy the local farmer, spoke up. She was much respected in the community, and the general opinion was that Percy, who had lost two wives and been turned down by various other ladies, suitable and unsuitable, had done very well for himself in this recent marriage.
Gladys had raised one hand to command the chairman's attention, and was nudging a pink-faced Percy with the other.
'My husband,' said Gladys, 'has a suggestion.'
Percy, much flustered, was pushed to his feet.
'Well,' he began, 'I know all about it being October and maybe cold or windy or too dark too soon, and all that caper, but what about 5 November?'
'What about it?' said one.
'That's Guy Fawkes, soppy,' said another.
'We're talking about 1 October, Perce.'
'I know, I know!' cried Percy doggedly, 'but what I'm saying is, we know everyone comes to Bonfire Night and we all has a rattling good time, even if it is dark, and the fire keeps us warm if it's cold, and the kids love it as much as us old 'uns, and I'll be pleased to give the potatoes to bake in the ashes, for this occasion, just like I always do for Guy Fawkes.'
At this he sat down abruptly on to his uncomfortable chair, and there was a murmur of general approval.
Mrs Gibbons was heard to say that two Bonfire Nights were surely too much.
'Can't have too much of a good thing,' said Ella loudly, 'and I think it's a grand idea.'
It certainly seemed to please those present, and the rector put Percy's proposal to the meeting. All hands, it seemed, were raised, and the rector thanked Percy for his inspired suggestion, and for the generous offer of baked potatoes which, as was customary, would be cooked by the boy scouts, if that would be all right with the scoutmaster.
He, unfortunately, was not present to clinch the matter.
'Gone to his auntie's funeral.'
'Fell off a ladder and bust his collarbone.'
'Goes to Morris dancing every Wednesday.'
These were a few of the explanations given for the scoutmaster's absence. As a matter of fact, he had completely forgotten about the meeting, and was lime-washing his henhouse ready for the summer.
The rector promised to get in touch with him, thanked everyone present, and the meeting drew to a close.
'Come and have a drink,' said Harold to Charles as the gathering broke up.
'I should like that,' said Charles. 'I find meetings rather tiring, I must say.'
'You're a first-class chairman,' Harold told him as they walked next door to the Shoosmiths' house.
'Oh, no, indeed!' protested Charles. 'I fear I let people talk too much.'
'That's why I say you are a first-class chairman,' repeated Harold. 'And just right for Thrush Green. Everyone goes home happy. In your place I should have got through the business in half the time, and made a host of enemies.'
He pushed open the front door, and Isobel was there to welcome them.
In the same week it was Isobel who drove Winnie Bailey down to Barton-on-Sea to spend a few days with her old friends Dorothy and Agnes.
Dorothy had offered to fetch Winnie in her Metro, but Isobel pointed out that it would be simpler if she could bring their visitor, as she, too, would like to have a few breaths of sea air.
Privately, she felt that Winnie would have a more comfortable and peaceful journey in her Audi, for she herself seldom spoke when she was at the wheel, and she knew that Dorothy kept up a loud monologue, accompanied by waving hands, which could tire and alarm a nervous passenger.
Agnes had prepared a delicious lunch of chicken and ham with pineapple, in a creamy sauce, which was followed by sherry trifle. Replete, the ladies sat in the sunny sitting-room with their coffee, and exchanged news.
Tim, the cat, sat purring on Winnie's knee, and Isobel remembered the trouble his advent had caused between the two old friends. Dorothy had set her face against Agnes's adoption of the stray at first, but Agnes had been so seriously upset that the animal had been accepted into the household, and now, as is the way with cats, quite obviously ruled the roost.
Observing the two friends, looking so relaxed and happy, Isobel recalled another crisis in their lives when Dorothy had become greatly attached to a Barton neighbour. Agnes had confided in Isobel that she was afraid that Dorothy was pursuing this attractive widower with the hope of matrimony. It had been an unhappy time for poor Agnes, envisaging her own search for a new abode should her friend's hopes materialize and the bungalow they shared become a love-nest for the mature pair.
Fortunately, Teddy had fallen for the charms of another local lady, and it was apparent, from the cheerful way Dorothy spoke about them, that her romantic notions had vanished. Dear me, thought Isobel, what a nuisance love can be!
The news from Thrush Green was eagerly welcomed, and the plans for the school's Victorian day much praised.
'As a matter of fact,' asserted Dorothy, 'I had much the same idea in mind when I offered any help I could give to Alan Lester. We had a charming letter from him,' she added.
'Well, I hope you will stay with us for the celebrations,' said Isobel. 'And we'll make sure that you see all your old friends. It's going to be a great event.'
They all took a turn by the sea in the afternoon, relishing the blue skies and blue sea, and the promise of summer ahead.
Isobel set off after tea so that she could make her journey back in the light.
The three friends waved her off, and Isobel felt sure that Winnie was in safe hands.
It was a beautiful drive back: first through the New Forest, hazy with the new green leaves of spring, then through the rolling Hampshire countryside as she went north.
The crops were beginning to spring, clothing the fields with tender green. Celandines starred the banks in the sunshine of late afternoon, and small birds darted across the road, trailing dried grass or the odd feather, as they busied themselves with their nests. The hawthorn hedges were showing their first red shoots, and soon the copses on either side of the road would be misty with bluebells.
April, thought Isobel, had its charms, and also its hazards. The clear sky above her might well presage a frost tonight. Her favourite month was May when blackthorn blossom made snowy drifts in the hedgerows, and wild cherry blossom lit the woods.
She looked forward to the garden blossom too: the white cherry hanging its snowy fringe along the branches, the plum trees scattering their pale confetti, and later the rosy knots of apple buds on the trees planted in their garden by some long-dead owner.
As she drove, the look of the countryside changed gradually. The flint and brick cottages with their thatche
d c. roofs began to give way to the stone-built buildings of the Cotswolds, their steep gables silhouetted against the now-darkening sky.
The lights were beginning to glow from windows at Thrush Green when Isobel ended her journey.
She shivered as she stepped from the car. The Cotswold air was sharper than that at Barton-on-Sea, and frost might well touch them here tonight. She noticed a plume of smoke rising from the chimney of her home, and felt a surge of pleasure at the thought of an evening by the fire.
Perhaps, after all, April was a perfect month. It combined the outdoor joys of spring and the equally enjoyable pleasure of the domestic fireside. Her favourite month was still May, she told herself, but meanwhile she would be very content to take all that April offered.
Later that evening, stretched out by the welcome fire, their feet on footstools, Harold and Isobel exchanged the news of the day.
'And to see the sea again was a bonus,' added Isobel when she had described the old friends' welcome, and Winnie's pleasure at seeing them again. 'I wish we were neater. Nothing can beat a walk on the sands, or on a cliff top.'
'My walk,' said Harold, 'was much less exciting. Just along Lulling High Street to get some half-inch screws. Still, I did bump into the Lovelock sisters.'
'And what were they doing?'
'Going into the Fuchsia Bush for their lunch, I gather. We had quite a gossip. They were very good about lending me that pamphlet of their father's.'
He began to look rather uneasy, and cleared his throat before speaking again.
'I thought — er — I wondered if it might be nice to invite them up for tea one day.'
'Nice for whom?'
'Oh, come on, darling! Don't be awkward. I just felt we should do something about them as they helped me with that essay abut Octavius.'
Isobel smiled forgivingly. 'They can come, but you know how I feel about those dreadful old harpies. We shall have to hide all the bits of silver from their beady eyes.'
'Oh, and I saw Charles. He and Dimity are going to a concert at the Barbican.'