(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  Along one wall were pinned the letters of the alphabet in capitals and small type, painstakingly executed by Miss Robinson over many an evening. This sight was greeted with much enthusiasm by the onlookers, which surprised the teacher, until she heard one mother remark to another:

  'My schooldays coincided with a complete ban on teaching the alphabet, and I have a terrible time finding anything in the telephone directory.'

  'I reckon the Victorians could teach us a thing or two about the three Rs,' agreed her friend.

  While the school children ate their bread and cheese, or bread and cold bacon at Thrush Green school (supplemented, luckily, by a real school dinner soon after), there was a much more festive occasion being enjoyed at Lulling vicarage.

  The same people who had been at the first meeting earlier, when Dulcie and Robert had been introduced to the Shoosmiths and Henstocks, had been invited to lunch after the service at St Andrew's. In addition, Dorothy and Agnes would be at this Sunday lunch.

  The sun had emerged but the air was chilly with a hint of autumn on the way.

  'But you must have a look at the garden,' Charles had said when drinks were over, and Dimity had departed to the kitchen to see about the dishing-up of lunch.

  Obediently, the guests followed Charles into the garden, and indeed the flower borders were in fine form with dahlias, Japanese anemones, late marigolds, hardy fuchsias and Michaelmas daisies making a riot of mixed colours and attracting plenty of butterflies into the bargain.

  'Now look, Agnes,' commanded Dorothy, stopping by a low rose bush, 'this is exactly what we need under the front windows.'

  The company stopped to admire the plant, and various suggestions were exchanged about its name.

  'Charles!' called Harold, but the vicar had hurried ahead with Dulcie and Robert to the greenhouse at the end of the garden. Speculation continued among the group left behind.

  'My geraniums have been quite outstanding this year,' said Charles to his guests, when they were in the welcome shelter of the greenhouse. 'I came across a wonderful pelargonium called Aztec, and I've taken lots of cuttings, and I have put aside half a dozen for you.'

  'How nice of you,' said Dulcie.

  'You will need to keep them under cover through the winter,' said Charles, busy with pots. 'I know the Lake District can be very cold.'

  'I have a small conservatory,' said Robert.

  'And have you?' asked Charles of Dulcie.

  'Well, no, but I shall cherish them on my windowsill.'

  'In fact,' said Robert firmly, 'Dulcie will keep them in my conservatory.'

  'Indeed?' said Charles, puzzled, as he looked from face to face, a flower pot in each hand.

  'We are getting married in December,' said Robert, taking Dulcie's hand.

  'Oh, my dears!' cried Charles, his chubby face growing pink. 'What news! What wonderful news!'

  His hands were trembling with excitement, and Dulcie removed the flower pots from him and replaced them on the slatted bench. It was the same competent manner in which he remembered her dealing with a cabbage she was cutting up, as a child long ago, in her mother's kitchen in Wales.

  'We became engaged last week,' Dulcie said, 'and first of all we thought of telephoning you, but it seemed so much nicer to tell you ourselves.'

  'We owe so much to you,' said Robert. 'We met here first, you remember.'

  'And we wondered,' went on Dulcie, 'if you would be willing to take part in the marriage service. It will be in my parish church, but our vicar is most enthusiastic about your taking part.'

  'I should count it a great honour,' Charles told them. 'In December, you say?'

  'I wish it could be next week,' Robert told him, 'but Dulcie has to go with her boss to a business conference in Boston, Massachusetts, at the end of November. Also she will be training her junior to take over her duties at the office, so I've simply got to be patient.'

  'How I wish I could marry you here at my church in Lulling,' cried Charles.

  'It would have been lovely,' agreed Dulcie, 'but you see Tom Evans, our vicar, has been so kind to me, and was marvellous with my mother all though her last illness and of course it is right that I should go to my own parish church—'

  'Of course, of course,' Charles hastened to agree. 'And I shall look forward very much to taking part in the ceremony.'

  At this point, his other guests arrived, agog with enquiries about the name of the rose which Dorothy admired. At the same time, there was the sound of a hand bell being energetically swung by Dimity who was awaiting her visitors.

  'May I tell them?' whispered Charles to Robert and Dulcie, as they all trooped back to the house.

  'Of course,' smiled Dulcie.

  Dimity had prepared a lunch which needed little last-minute attention. She had made a chicken and asparagus quiche for the main course, with a side dish of sliced home-cooked gammon and hard-boiled eggs, and a vast salad. Late raspberries and cream were to follow, and she had also made a plum crumble which had cooked alongside the quiche.

  The evening before, when the cold rain lashed Lulling and Thrush Green, Dimity had become concerned about her proposed meal. Wasn't it a little bleak?

  She departed to the kitchen, leaving Charles to watch a television programme about inter-planetary warfare which might have appealed to prep-school boys, Dimity supposed, but which she deplored. Charles seemed to be entirely engrossed, and she left him while she made enough chicken soup for a dozen, let alone the eight guests expected, and later went to bed content with the knowledge that tomorrow's first course could stand up to any Cotswold cold which the day might bring.

  It was while she was dispensing this nourishment that the vicar said:

  'Before you take up your spoons, I must tell you of another cause we have today for celebration.'

  The Shoosmiths and their guests looked at him hopefully. Dimity, too, looked expectant. Dulcie and Robert studied their steaming soup.

  'You've remembered the name of that rose,' guessed Dorothy.

  'You've had another wonderful donation for the mission school,' guessed Dimity.

  'Better than that,' smiled Charles. 'Our dear friends here are to be married.'

  A hubbub of congratulations broke out, and Dimity was beginning to wonder if the soup should be returned to the stove when Robert took charge and said:

  'Thank you on behalf of us both. You can guess how much it means to us to meet again here and to give you the news.'

  'Do you want to make a speech?' asked Dimity anxiously. 'I can easily reheat the soup.'

  'He can make one when we toast them in my best claret during the next course,' Charles told her. 'I suppose we should really have champagne, but we don't have such a thing here.'

  'I'm so glad,' said Agnes. 'The only time I had champagne it went straight to my forehead in an icy lump. I had to have a cup of tea to thaw it.'

  But Agnes's sole experience of champagne created little interest in the face of this stupendous news of the coming wedding, and the rest of the meal passed in happy conversation about the couple's future plans.

  Later, Charles took Robert aside to show him the letter which he had received from Frederick Fennel.

  'Oh, this is Miss Fothergill's good work,' he said, studying the immaculate typing.

  'Miss Fothergill? His secretary?' guessed Charles.

  'Secretary, house-keeper and nurse, all rolled into one,' Robert told him. 'She's looked after him for years. I think he has left her everything in his will, and quite right, too.'

  He gave a sudden start, and dropped the letter. His face was pink as he fumbled in his breast pocket and drew out an envelope which he handed to Charles.

  'I almost forgot among all our excitement. Frederick asked me to deliver this personally.'

  He bent to retrieve the dropped letter from the floor while the rector opened the envelope. There was silence while Charles studied the enclosure.

  He looked up at last, and spoke huskily. 'He has sent a donation. An overw
helmingly generous one. For five thousand pounds. I can scarcely believe it. It will be such a relief to Harold. I know he has been grieving about the small sum we have been able to collect here.'

  'Wonderful!' said Robert. 'But it doesn't really surprise me. He took such a great interest in hearing about the mission school and our celebrations. Miss Fothergill told me that he was so cheered by all that was happening.'

  The rector looked suddenly diffident. 'I hope this won't make any difference to Miss Fothergill's future?'

  Robert laughed. 'No difference at all. Frederick Fennel is an exceptionally rich man, and whatever he leaves Miss Fothergill will support her in the greatest comfort for the rest of her life.'

  'I am relieved to hear it. Sometimes old people do odd things with their possessions.'

  'Not Frederick,' Robert assured him. 'He has more sense in money matters than all the Bank of England directors rolled into one.'

  'I am greatly relieved. Miss Fothergill seems an admirable person.'

  'Miss Fothergill is worth her weight — and that's considerable, let me say — in gold. And when you come to visit us I will take you and Dimity to see Frederick and Miss Fothergill.'

  'We shall look forward to it,' the rector told him. 'I shall write at once to Mr Fennel to thank him for this wonderful gift. I notice you talk of Frederick, and not Mr Fennel, so what is Miss Fothergill's Christian name?'

  'I've no idea,' confessed Robert, 'and even if I knew, I should never dare to use it. Miss Fothergill is certainly a saint, but she's a dragon as well.'

  Laughing, the two men went to join the others.

  Later Charles drew Harold into his study and showed him the cheque. He had never seen his friend so moved. Harold's hands trembled as he held the cheque, and he spoke with emotion.

  'It's unbelievable! What a relief this is, Charles! I've worried so much about it in these last few weeks, and now this means that we can really send something worthwhile to the mission. God bless Frederick Fennel, and I mean that sincerely.'

  ***

  There was another shower of rain during the afternoon, and the people of Thrush Green began to look out mackintoshes and umbrellas for the evening's festivities.

  'How sensible of Alan Lester to have an indoor event,' remarked Winnie to Jenny, as they sipped their tea by the drawing-room fire.

  'And Mr Henstock too,' said Jenny. 'That's one good thing about religious affairs - they're under cover.'

  Winnie could not help feeling that this was a somewhat diminishing view of church festivals, but let it pass.

  As it grew dark, activity increased on the green. Percy Hodge arrived in his Land-Rover with the sack of potatoes. The scoutmaster appeared with his troop who were to cook and distribute Percy's largesse, and Albert Piggott was seen tottering across from his house carrying a paraffin can in case the bonfire was sulky because of the night's downpour.

  Luckily, the rain had stopped by the time the celebrations were due to begin, and although the wind was boisterous it was not as savage as it had been during the night.

  Charles Henstock drove his party up the hill from Lulling, and met Harold, Isobel, Dorothy and Agnes walking from their house.

  A great crowd was gathering, and even the three Miss Lovelocks appeared, having been transported by the local taxi.

  'Cor!' said Albert to Percy. 'That must have hurt them old ducks, paying out for Bert Nobbs' old banger!'

  'Shows how much they wanted to take part,' replied Percy with approval.

  It had been agreed that the youngest scout should have the honour of igniting the bonfire. A diminutive figure, brandishing a flaming torch made from a fire-lighter tied to a long dry stick, leapt to his task and, to everyone's relief, the bonfire began to crackle and blaze.

  By the light of the flames Nathaniel Patten's statue showed clearly. The children's garland encircled his neck adding a raffish touch to his Victorian garb. Alan Lester thought his pupils had made a very good job of this, their own idea, and felt a pang of pride.

  He was there with his wife Margaret and their two daughters, among many other parents now in charge of their own excited offspring.

  Suddenly the first rocket went up. It was Harold Shoosmith's suggestion that fireworks should add to the general rejoicing, and certainly there was something wonderfully exhilarating about the bangs and crackles, the whooshing and waving, the sparkle and whirling of innumerable lights against the blackness of the autumn sky.

  There was constant movement, too, among the company as friends met and mingled, the scouts scurried about their cooking duties and the excited children scampered about enjoying the last few hours of this never-to-be-forgotten celebration.

  It was ten o'clock before the fire began to die down, and the last Catherine wheel had slowed its whizzing to a stop. The potatoes had been eaten, the scouts congratulated, and the crowd began to straggle away as soon as the final 'Hip, hip, hooray!' had been raised by the rector.

  The Lovelock sisters departed early, taken back to their home by Harold. Robert Wilberforce and his betrothed also set off before the last cheers, and there was much speculation about the pair as they walked across the green to their car, Robert's arm protectively around his companion.

  Soon only the scoutmaster and his valiant troop remained. It was the scouts' duty to see that the fire was safe to leave, and very zealously they discharged their responsibilities. The fact that an occasional baked potato turned up was an added bonus.

  Now that the flames had gone and only a dim glow came from the hot ashes, it was possible to see the stars shining above Thrush Green. The wind had dropped to a light breeze, hardly enough to rustle the leaves of the chestnut trees, or to stir the trailing geraniums in Mr Jones's hanging baskets against the stone walls of the Two Pheasants.

  At midnight Harold Shoosmith was alone downstairs. His spirits were buoyant. How wonderfully well everything had turned out, after his worries! Isobel and their two guests had retired an hour earlier, tired by the excitements of the day. Tomorrow Agnes and Dorothy would return to Barton-on-Sea, and the household would be as usual again. Frankly, Harold would be glad of it.

  But as well as relief, Harold realized that there would be a sense of anti-climax after the activity of the last months. The excitement of the search was over. The outcome had been deeply satisfying, but what lay ahead?

  He opened the front door and walked down the path to the open stretch of grass where Nathaniel Patten stood beneath the night sky.

  The air was cool. How often, thought Harold, must Nathaniel have longed for this cool freshness, as he himself had done, under the burning African sky?

  These immediate surroundings had changed little since the time when Nathaniel had set out, as a young man, for Bristol, accompanied by his older friend, mentor and benefactor, the good rector of Thrush Green.

  How many lives those two had touched! His own, for one. He had chosen to come to Thrush Green on his retirement because he revered the memory of Nathaniel whose work he had admired in Africa.

  Here he had met Isobel and made her his wife. Here he had revived the memory of Nathaniel Patten and caused this statue to be raised. Pride in their most famous son had been rekindled in present-day Thrush Green, and the work of his mission in Africa honoured.

  It was through Nathaniel's letters that the true greatness of Octavius Fennel, one-time rector of this parish, had been discovered. It was those letters and the rector's own diary which had inspired so many people to carry on the good work begun so long ago.

  And Robert Wilberforce and Dulcie Mulloy would not have met but for Nathaniel Patten. It was a happy thought.

  What was more, Nathaniel's mission could continue, thanks to good friends and, in particular, the generous and unseen Frederick Fennel. Celebrations at Thrush Green had been justified.

  Harold looked with affection at his old friend. The garland around his bronze neck was fast withering, but his memory would stay fresh with all at Thrush Green.

  The words
which the congregation had sung that morning came back to Harold.

  And their work continueth,

  Broad and deep continueth

  Greater than their knowing.

  Far away and close at hand, thought Harold, that was true.

  He returned home, closed the door, and went, greatly content, to bed.