(5/13) Return to Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  'How tiresome,' said Miss Watson, 'and it would be dreadfully wasteful to have to throw away so much good material! I think you had better spread out the sheets separately, Agnes dear, and dry them as best you can. We simply can't waste things.'

  And easier said than done, thought Agnes rebelliously, as she crossed the playground. There were mighty few places to spread hundreds of sheets of wet paper in her classroom, and every time the door opened they would blow to the floor, and the children would rush to collect them, as well Miss Watson knew. There had been a chiding note too in her headmistress's voice, which annoyed her usually submissive assistant. Did she think that she had purposely damaged the fish tank? Good heavens, surely she wasn't being accused of wilful damage, or even of neglect? It was simply an act of God, well, perhaps not of God, thought Agnes hurriedly. He cared for all creatures after all, and must grieve for those poor fish who had been almost literally at their last gasp. No, it was a Complete Accident, she told herself firmly, and the only thing to db was to borrow another tank immediately for the poor things, and to endeavour to get her excited children into a calmer state of mind, ready for a good morning's work.

  Consequently, it was not until cold mutton with jacket potatoes, followed by pink blancmange, had been dispatched that Miss Fogerty was at liberty to take out Isobel's letter in the peace of her empty classroom and read the news.

  It gave her much food for thought, and distracted her attention for a while from her damp surroundings.

  She was contemplating a move, Isobel wrote. Now that she was alone it seemed silly to keep up such a large house. The fuel bills alone were horrifying. The garden was far too big, and dear old Bates, who had come twice a week for more years than she cared to remember, had just told her that he must give up.

  She would like to return to the Cotswolds, and proposed to look out for a small house, preferably in the Thrush Green area. Not that she was going to rush things. If possible, could kind Mrs White put her up for, say, a week while she got in touch with local estate agents? She would much prefer to stay there, in Agnes's company, than put up at the Fleece in Lulling. Hotel life was rather noisy at night, and the Fleece had no really quiet lounge during the day. Also it was a good distance from Agnes's house, and it was she that Isobel wanted to see, of course. But perhaps Agnes could find out if Mrs White would be agreeable?

  Little Miss Fogerty shook her head sadly when she read that paragraph. Mrs White, she knew, would not be able to accommodate her old friend, for an ailing aunt now occupied the spare bedroom and looked like remaining there for some time to come.

  The main news, of course, was wonderfully exciting. To think that Isobel might one day be her neighbour! It would be lovely to have her so close. She knew several people in Thrush Green and Lulling, and it was not very far from the Stow area where some of her relations still lived. How she hoped that Isobel would soon find somewhere suitable! She would help her with the move, of course. Perhaps next summer holidays?

  Agnes's mind ran ahead happily, anticipating the joys to come. The only snag was this visit in the near future.

  Where could she lodge? Mentally, Agnes reviewed the accommodation available near at hand. The Two Pheasants would never do. If Isobel thought the Fleece noisy, she would find the Two Pheasants insupportable, and there had been occasions when men had emerged drunk at closing time. Miss Watson, who lived so close to it, had told her so, and said how disagreeable it was.

  She toyed with the idea of asking Miss Watson if she could put up her friend for a week. The two ladies had met, and enjoyed each other's company. But Agnes was not at all sure that Miss Watson deserved to have the honour of having Isobel as a paying guest, after her heartless handling of this morning's mishap.

  Besides, Miss Watson had a brother who occasionally called unexpectedly, and the room might be needed for him.

  And then little Miss Fogerty had a brainwave. She would call on the dear rector and see if he knew of likely lodgings. He and Dimity knew Isobel quite well, and had invited her to tea and bridge on several occasions. They would know the sort of place which would suit her. Somewhere in the parish there must be someone who would like to let a room to a charming, considerate lady like dear Isobel.

  Out in the playground a whistle shrilled, and the children's roaring, whilst not actually stilled, was certainly diminished in volume.

  Miss Fogerty put away her letter and her private problems, and went out to meet her class.

  By mid-week, Albert Piggott was considerably worse, and was confined to his bed.

  Doctor Lovell said that it would be wise for him to stay indoors for the rest of the week. His breathing was giving him pain, and he was seriously under weight, the legacy of a year or so's catering, or rather non-catering, for himself.

  The wind had veered to the north-east, and Albert himself had forecast that it would stay in that quarter until Whitsun.

  'You mark my words, gal,' he wheezed. 'We shan't have no more rain for a bit, but just this pesky dryin' wind to keep the buds from openin'. Won't get no bees venturing out in this cold weather.'

  'Nor you, Dad,' said Molly, tucking in the bed clothes. 'You stay there, and I'll do my best to feed you up, like Doctor Lovell said.'

  'It's no good,' she told Ben later. 'I'll have to stop here at least until the end of the week. You'll have to go on to Banbury alone. He's not fit to be left yet.'

  Ben was philosophical about it. This had happened before, and was likely to happen again. It brought home to both of them the necessity to find a house and a job somewhere near the old man.

  'One thing, our George isn't at school yet. Won't hurt him to stay here a few days. He's better off with you in the warm, than following me around in this wind.'

  Albert Piggott was not a good patient. He never ceased to remind poor Molly that it was the unnecessary bathing which had reduced him to his present plight.

  He toyed with the food which Molly so carefully prepared, pouring contumely upon such dainties as steamed fish and egg custard which he dismissed as 'dam' slops'. Molly had to stand over him to make sure that he took his medicine every four hours. He took to throwing off the bedclothes, complaining of heat, and occasionally hung out of the window in his flimsy pyjamas 'to get a breath of air'.

  Molly was sometimes in despair. Only the threat of calling in the district nurse or, worse still, getting the old man into Lulling Cottage Hospital, kept her irascible patient in some sort of submission.

  The fair was due to go on the Thursday. She spent the time washing and ironing Ben's clothes and packing the caravan with groceries and homemade pies and cakes.

  'Lord!' commented Ben. 'How long am I supposed to be alone? I'll be back for you and George next Monday, I reckon. I'll never get through that lot in a month of Sundays.'

  'You never know,' said Molly. 'You give me a ring Monday morning at the Two Pheasants. I've fixed it with Bob. Then we can see how things are.'

  That afternoon she remembered, with shame, that she had not called to see the Youngs where she had worked so happily. She left her father asleep, took George by the hand, and walked across the green to the lovely old house.

  The buds of May were being violently assaulted by the rough wind. Dry leaves of last autumn were flying pell-mell across the grass, and a great roaring came from the branches of the chestnut trees. Little eddies of dust whirled like miniature sand storms in the road, and the smoke from a bonfire in Harold Shoosmith's garden blew in a rapidly moving cloud towards the distant Lulling Woods.

  It was a thoroughly unpleasant afternoon, and Molly was glad to gain the shelter of the walled garden. She made her way to the back door, and rang the bell. Joan opened it and enveloped her in a warm hug.

  'Wonderful to see you. I meant to call, but heard Albert wasn't well, and thought you might be rather busy. Tell me the news.'

  The two sat at the kitchen table where Joan had been ironing and gossiped happily. Molly looked with affection at her old place of work. Nothing much h
ad changed, and she commented on it with pleasure.

  Joan told her about her parents' visit. Molly, in turn, told her about their hopes to find a settled job one day.

  'I'll keep my ears open,' Joan promised her. 'I know how clever Ben is with his hands. It shouldn't be difficult to find a job. The house business will be more difficult, I suspect, but I won't forget, and if I hear of anything I shall get in touch.'

  Molly left a forwarding address before she went, and promised to look in before Ben claimed her again.

  'No, I best not stay for a cup of tea, thank you,' she said, in answer to Joan's invitation. 'Dad's medicine's got to be got down him within half an hour, and that'll take some doing.'

  She made her farewells, and set off again to face the biting wind. The children were streaming out of school, followed by Miss Fogerty.

  To Molly's surprise, the little figure did not take a homeward path through the avenue, but struck across Thrush Green towards the rectory. Going to collect the parish magazine? Offering to help Miss Dimity with a bazaar or some such? Taking a message from Miss Watson about the hymns? Such surmises are part of the pleasures of country living.

  But this time Molly had guessed wrongly, for Miss Fogerty's errand concerned dear Isobel, a lady whom Molly had never met.

  Still wondering, she opened the door of Albert's cottage and went to collect the medicine.

  8. More News of Lodgers

  DOTTY HARMER's new lodger, Flossie, had settled in very well, and the fact that nothing had been heard from her last owner was a great relief to Dotty, who had grown much attached to the young spaniel.

  The dog followed her everywhere, as if, having been abandoned once, she feared that it might happen again. Dotty was moved by this affection, and returned it tenfold. The two grew very close and the sight of Dotty, shadowed by the faithful golden cocker, became a familiar sight in Lulling and Thrush Green.

  One windy afternoon the two descended the hill to Lulling High Street. Dotty carried a basket in each hand, with Flossie's lead intricately entangled with one of them. They made steady progress against the biting east wind, which reddened Dotty's nose and sent Flossie's ears streaming behind her.

  Their destination was the Misses Lovelocks' house. Dotty was bearing a collection of contributions for the bazaar, and was glowing with the comfortable feeling of doing good.

  'Why, Dotty dear, how kind!' cried Bertha, on opening the door. 'Do bring them in. We'll put them straight on the table. Everything's in the dining-room.'

  That gloomy apartment was certainly transfigured. The mahogany table had been covered by an enormous white damask cloth, a relic of some Victorian linen cupboard, and upon it there jostled an odd collection of objects.

  Dominating all were Ella's colourful contributions. Dimity had supplied a dozen or so dried flower-and-grass arrangements, which the Misses Lovelock wondered if they could sell, as everyone in the district was addicted to making such things, and the market might well be saturated. However, they had been accepted with cries of delight, and one could only wait and see.

  More normal contributions, such as soap, handkerchiefs, pots of jam and other preserves were among the rest, and would obviously be snapped up, and Dotty began to put her contributions among them.

  'Four pots of preserved boletus, the edible kind, naturally,' gabbled Dotty, placing four sinister looking jars on the table. Through the murky fluid, could be seen some toadstools of venomous appearance. Ada's jaw dropped, but she remained silent, with commendable control.

  'And six pots of hedgerow jelly,' continued Dotty, diving into her basket. 'It's a mixture, you know, of sloes, blackberries, rosehips, elderberries and any other nourishing berries I could find. I thought "Hedgerow Jelly" on the label, would cover it nicely.'

  'Yes, indeed,' said Ada faintly, noting the sediment at the bottom of the jars, and the hint of mildew on the top.

  'Not much room to write all the ingredients on the label, you see,' said Dotty, standing back to admire the imposing array. 'But I'm sure people will understand.'

  'I'm sure they will,' agreed Violet bravely. But whether they would actually buy a jar of something which looked certain to give the consumer 'Dotty's Collywobbles'—a disease known to all Dotty's friends—was another matter.

  'You are so generous, Dotty dear,' quavered Bertha, averting her gaze from the jars. 'And now you must stay and have some tea. Ada has made some delicious scones with whole-meal flour which we ground ourselves in father's old pestle and mortar.'

  'Exactly the sort of thing I love,' said Dotty. 'And Flossie too, if she may have a crumb or two?'

  The old ladies made their way to the drawing-room for this modest repast and a great deal of genteel gossip in which a number of Lulling residents' characters would be shredded finely, in the most ladylike fashion.

  That same afternoon, Dimity had crossed the road to her old home to broach a subject which she and Charles had discussed thoroughly since Miss Fogerty's visit.

  Charles had been wholly in favour of suggesting that Isobel Fletcher should spend the proposed week's visit with Ella.

  'They both get on very well,' he said. 'Much the same age. And then Thrush Green is so central for the little trips she may wish to make for viewing places. I'm sure she would be perfectly happy.'

  Dimity had some private doubts.

  Everyone liked Isobel. She was kind, charming, and elegant. Ella had always spoken warmly of her, and admired her quick brain.

  But Isobel was used to comfort. Her husband had been a prosperous man, and his wife was provided with a beautiful home and everything she could possibly desire. Could she stand the rough-and-ready hospitality which Ella would provide? And what about that all-pervading tobacco smoke? And the lack of punctuality in producing meals?

  The meals themselves gave Dimity no fears. Ella had a surprisingly good way with food, and was meticulous about its preparation. The house might be a little dusty and untidy, but Ella's cooking arrangements could not be faulted. The snag was that she might well decide to make a chicken terrine at eleven in the morning, and hope to have it cold, with salad, at one oclock. Ella never seemed to have mastered the time factor in all her activities.

  However, she was now on her way to put the proposition to her old friend. She found her sitting by the window doing the crossword puzzle.

  'Funny minds these chaps must have,' said Ella, putting aside the paper. 'This clue "Makes waterproof" is "Caulks", and the next one is "Sea travel" which is "Cruise", so that makes "Corkscrews", d'you see?'

  'No, I don't, dear, but I've something to tell you, and I must get back to take the cat's supper out of the oven, so I musn't linger.'

  'And what is that spoilt animal having this evening?'

  'Just a little rabbit. Nothing very special.'

  'Lucky old cat! Well, come on, what's bothering you?'

  Dimity launched into the account of Isobel Fletcher's need of lodgings for a week while she consulted agents about the possibility of buying a house in the neighbourhood. She explained Miss Fogerty's dilemma. Mrs White would not be able to put her up, as she had done. She could, of course, stay at the Fleece, but if Ella were willing...? The question hung in mid-air among the blue smoke from Ella's cigarette.

  'Of course I'm willing,' replied Ella. 'I'm very fond of Isobel, and should be delighted to have her here. The only thing is, would she be comfortable?'

  Trust dear Ella to come directly to the point, thought Dimity, with some relief.

  'I'm sure she will be,' said Dimity bravely. 'If you like, I'll come over and help you make up the spare bed, and empty the cupboards, and so on.'

  And give an expert eye to Isobel's comfort, she thought privately.

  'When will it be? Any idea?'

  'None, I'm afraid, but fairly soon, I imagine. Shall I let Agnes Fogerty know, or will you? I know she wants to write very soon.'

  'I'll catch her after school,' said Ella. 'One thing though, I'm not letting Isobel pay me. It'll be a plea
sure to have her here.'

  'Well, you must sort that out between you,' said Dimity rising to go. 'It will be so nice to see her again, and I do so hope she finds somewhere to live nearby.'

  'Unless she gets snapped up by somebody in Sussex before that,' said Ella shrewdly. 'She's eminently marriageable, from all viewpoints.'

  'Oh, I don't think that will happen,' replied Dimity, slightly shocked. 'She's still grieving for her husband, you know. They were quite devoted.'

  She opened the door to see a few children straggling across the green from the village school.

  'Out already?' cried Ella. 'Here, I'll cut across now and see Agnes. No time like the present, and she can catch the afternoon post, if she looks slippy!'

  Ben Curdle had departed on his way to Banbury, and Molly was left to cope with George and Albert as best she could.

  The old man's temper did not improve. The doctor forbade his going outside in the bitter wind, which still prevailed, and Albert worried about the church and the way in which it was being looked after.

  The rector had asked one of the Cooke boys to take on Albert's duties temporarily. The Cooke family was numerous and rather slap-dash, but there was no one else free to lend a hand and Jimmy Cooke had agreed to 'keep an eye on things'.

  'And that's about all he will do,' growled Albert. 'And I won't be surprised to find me tools missing. Light-fingered lot them Cookes. Always on the look-out for somethin' to pinch.'

  Molly tried to turn a deaf ear to the old man's constant complaining. How right Ben was to insist that they did not live with her father! Whatever the future held, that was certain. Look after him she would, as best she could, but to see dear Ben and young George suffering the gloomy and insulting behaviour of the miserable old fellow, was more than she could bear.

  'If that's what old age brings you to,' thought Molly, attacking some ironing, 'I hopes as I dies young!'

  Not that all old people were as trying as her father, she had to admit. Dear old Dr Bailey, for instance, had always been a happy man, even in his last long illness, and Mr Bassett, who would be arriving for his holiday that very afternoon, always had a cheerful word for everyone.