(5/13) Return to Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  Miss Fogerty found her unnerving, and her discipline nonexistent. It worried Agnes to see the children talking when they should have been working. She disliked the way Miss Enderby's charges wandered freely about the classroom, in theory collecting their next piece of work, in practice giving a sly clout to anyone in their path. Either Miss Enderby did not see what was going on, which was reprehensible, or she did see and condoned it, which was worse. Eventually, Agnes spoke of the matter and had great chunks of some dreadful report or other quoted to her. To Agnes, the report seemed quite irrelevant to the matter in hand, but Miss Enderby seemed to cling so fiercely to the findings of whatever-committee-it-was responsible for this half-inch thick treatise that Agnes decided to retire temporarily from the field of battle. No doubt there would be other occasions when a word of advice could be offered. There were. There were many occasions, and brave little Miss Fogerty did her best to put things politely but firmly. She found Miss Enderby's attitude quite mystifying. Throughout her teaching career, Miss Fogerty had worked on the principle that children did as they were told. One did not ask them to do anything impossible, of course, or wrong, or beyond their powers. But open defiance, or the complete ignoring of orders given, had never been countenanced in Agnes's classroom, and all had gone on swimmingly.

  What was the good, Agnes asked herself, in reading all those papers and reports with terrible titles like: 'The Disruptive Child and Its Place In Society' or 'Where Have Teachers Gone Wrong?' if at the end of it one still could not teach? It was quite apparent that the class now under Miss Enderby's care (one could not say 'control') had learned practically nothing since her advent. That it was dear Miss Watson's class made it even worse.

  Miss Enderby, it was clear, was a theorist, but one quite incapable of putting theories into practice. The children would not allow it. They were having a field day enjoying themselves without stricture. In a rare flash of insight, Agnes Fogerty saw that her unsatisfactory supply teacher clung to the theories which she so avidly imbibed, and quoted, because they were all that she had to get her through each day's teaching.

  Agnes prayed nightly for her headmistress's return to health and Thrush Green School. She was to come home from the hospital after a fortnight, and Agnes had offered, very diffidently, to stay at the schoolhouse if it would help.

  'It is more than kind of you, Agnes dear,' Dorothy had said, 'but I expect Ray will want me to convalesce with them. I shall see him one evening this week.'

  Agnes had murmured something non-committal, and repeated her willingness to help in any way, but Dorothy seemed to be quite sure that she would be looked after by her brother and his wife.

  'I wonder,' thought Agnes, hurrying through driving rain to the bus stop. 'Poor dear Dorothy! I wonder!'

  Robert Bassett made slow but steady progress after his second attack, but it was quite apparent that his confidence was shaken.

  'He's suddenly become an old man,' said Joan sadly. 'I hate to see it. He doesn't look ahead as he always did. All the spunk seems to have gone out of the poor old boy.'

  She was talking to her brother-in-law, John Lovell, after one of his visits to the patient.

  'It's nature's way of making him rest. You'll see, he'll pick up before long. Meanwhile, there's one good thing to emerge from this setback.'

  'And what's that?'

  'He's quite given up the idea of going back to the business, and that's as it should be. In a way, I think he's glad that this blow has settled things for him. He's now coming to terms with the idea.'

  'He said as much to mother, I know, but he hasn't said anything very definite to us. I believe he worries in case we feel that he wants his own house back!'

  'If I were you,' said John, 'I should broach the subject yourselves. Tell him Edward's plans for the conversion, and let him toy with the idea. I believe it will do him good to have something to look forward to and to occupy his mind.'

  After this conversation, Joan and Edward took John's advice, and spoke frankly about their plans to the parents. Milly had known what was afoot for some days, but to Robert it came as a complete surprise.

  To the Youngs' delight, he seemed excited and pleased at the ideas put forward, and studied Edward's rough sketches with enthusiasm.

  'Leave them with me, dear boy,' he said. 'Milly and I will have a proper look at them, and we may even make one or two suggestions. I can see that you two have been hatching up this little plot for some time, and I am really very touched.'

  He smiled a little tremulously, and Joan rose swiftly to put him at his ease.

  'I'm off to find us something to eat. Come and give me a hand, Edward,' she said, making for the door.

  'Bless his old heart,' said Edward, when they reached the kitchen. 'He's as pleased as Punch! How I like satisfied clients!'

  'Don't speak too soon,' warned Joan, busy at the stove. 'He may not be satisfied. Besides, he's every right to turn us out, you know.'

  'He won't,' said Edward, dropping a basket of bread rolls on the floor, and bending to retrieve them. 'He's the most unselfish soul alive.'

  He picked up the rolls, dusted each down the side of his trousers, and put them carefully in the basket again.

  Her husband, thought Joan, might be a talented architect, but his grasp of culinary hygiene was nil.

  In the Piggotts' household an uneasy truce was being carried on.

  Nelly was content to live from day to day, gradually cleaning the cottage until it satisfied her own high standards, and cooking succulent meals which Albert secretly enjoyed. Wild horses would not have dragged thanks from him, under the circumstances, and the frequent bouts of indigestion which attacked him kept him as morose as usual.

  There was no doubt about it, thought Nelly, as she attacked the filthy cooker one afternoon with plenty of hot soda water, Albert did not improve with age. As soon as she could get a job, she would be off again. But jobs, it seemed, were hard to find.

  She had called on her old friends at the Drovers' Arms, but they were already well-staffed, and in any case were not inclined to do anything to upset Albert. She had come back of her own accord, they felt, and it was up to her to do what she could to look after the old man, curmudgeonly though he might be. Work at the Drovers' Arms meant that Nelly would be away from home for a considerable part of the day.

  Undeterred by the news that Betty Bell now cleaned the school, Nelly called one evening at Miss Fogerty's lodgings.

  Mrs White, Miss Fogerty's landlady, opened the door, and was somewhat taken aback by the flamboyant figure on the doorstep. She knew quite well who the visitor was, but as she strongly disapproved of Nelly, and her morals, she feigned ignorance.

  'Someone to see you, Miss Fogerty,' she called up the stairs. 'If you would like to go up?' she said to Nelly, standing back against the flowery wallpaper.

  Miss Fogerty looked even more alarmed than her landlady had been at first sight of Nelly puffing up the stairs. She showed her into her bed-sitting room, and closed the door.

  Nelly, seating herself in the only comfortable armchair, looked about her. She noticed the faded carpet, the thin curtains, and the bedspread which was not quite large enough to cover the divan bed. But she noticed too, in that first swift glance, that everything was clean—beautifully clean.

  The furniture was well polished, the shabby paintwork and the mottled tiles of the hearth were spotless. Miss Fogerty's small array of toilet things stood in a tidy row on a glass shelf over the corner wash-basin. Her books stood neatly, row by row in the bedside bookcase. Only a pile of exercise books, in the process of being marked, gave any clue to the present activity in Miss Fogerty's modest abode.

  On the mantel shelf stood two shining brass candlesticks, one at each end. A china cat stood by one, and a china spaniel by the other. A small travelling clock stood dead centre, and on each side stood a photograph.

  One showed Miss Fogerty's shoemaker father looking stern. His right hand rested on the shoulder of his wife, sitting on an
ornately carved chair in front of him. Agnes's mother looked meek and submissive. Her hair was parted in the middle. Her eyes were downcast. Her hands were folded in the centre of her lap. A fine aspidistra at the side of the couple seemed to display far more vitality than the photographer's sitters.

  But it was the second photograph which engaged Nelly's attention. It was framed in silver, and showed the likeness of a fair young man in army uniform. He was smiling, showing excellent teeth, and he wore his hair en brosse. Could he be a sweetheart, Nelly wondered? Could colourless, shabby little Miss Fogerty ever have inspired love in someone so obviously lively? You never knew, of course. Still waters ran deep ... She looked from the photograph to her reluctant hostess, who was now seated in an uncomfortable chair which she had turned round from the dressing table.

  'I expect you are wondering why I've come,' began Nelly, removing her scarf.

  'Naturally,' replied Miss Fogerty with truth, and just a touch of hauteur. She disliked Nelly, and had never been happy about her appointment as cleaner at the school. She accepted the fact that Nelly was excellent at her job, but she thought her a vulgar creature and not a suitable person to be among young children. She had deplored the fact that it was Miss Watson who had taken on Nelly, and could only put it down to her headmistress's kind heart, and the paucity of applicants for the post at that time.

  'Well, I was hoping that my old job might be going still. Always enjoyed it, I did, and I know Miss Watson was satisfied. Pity she's away. Is she going on all right?'

  'Yes, thank you,' said Agnes shortly. She did not propose to discuss dear Dorothy's condition with this woman. 'And the post is already filled, Mrs Piggott. Betty Bell is with us now, so that I'm afraid I can't help you.'

  'She suit you all right? That Betty Bell?'

  'Perfectly,' said Agnes firmly. She rose to indicate that the meeting was ended, but Nelly remained firmly wedged in the armchair.

  'I hear she works at Mr Shoosmith's too,' she remarked. 'I wonder she finds time to do two jobs. Property, that is!'

  The implications of this snide observation were not lost upon Agnes. Really, the woman was insufferable, and there were all those essays waiting to be marked, and her hair to wash, and the hem of her skirt to be repaired where she had caught it as she had tidied the bottom of the handwork cupboard. What a nuisance Nelly Piggott was, to be sure!

  'She is a very hard-working girl,' said Miss Fogerty sharply, 'and manages her various jobs excellently. Not only does she go to Mr Shoosmith, I think you'll find she helps Miss Harmer as well, and we are all quite satisfied with her work.'

  Agnes remained standing, and Nelly, facing defeat, struggled from the armchair.

  'Wouldn't take much to satisfy Miss Harmer from what I hear,' said Nelly, 'but there it is. If there's nothing I can do at the school, I'll have to look elsewhere.'

  She began to arrange the scarf around her fourth chin.

  'Don't know of anyone, I suppose, as needs help?'

  'I'm afraid not,' replied Agnes, a trifle less frostily now that she saw her visitor departing. She opened the door to the landing and ushered Nelly through it.

  'Well, if you do hear of anything you know where I live,' said Nelly, descending the stairs heavily.

  'I will bear it in mind,' promised Agnes, now opening the front door.

  'Ta ever so, dearie,' said Nelly, sailing down the path.

  Shuddering, Miss Fogerty returned to her interrupted peace.

  14. Comings and Goings

  IT was Charles Henstock who first told Harold Shoosmith that Phil was accompanying Frank on his trip to the United States.

  'I knew Frank was off, and said I'd keep an eye on the garden for him, but I didn't realise that Phil could go too. Do them both good to have a change, and Jeremy will enjoy being off school.'

  'They come back early in September, so the boy won't miss much,' replied Charles. 'It will be strange to see Tullivers empty.'

  'Empty!' echoed Harold, a splendid idea bourgeoning. He decided to visit Frank and Phil Hurst that very evening, and found them in the garden when he did so.

  June had come in with what the Irish call 'soft weather'. Skies were overcast, but the air was mild and the wind gentle. Frank's roses were beginning to make a fine show, and both he and Phil were hoeing round the bushes.

  They put down their tools to greet Harold.

  'Don't let me stop you,' he said.

  'Thank God you've come, and given us an excuse to have a break,' replied Frank feelingly. 'I'll get drinks.'

  He vanished into the house, and Harold and Phil seated themselves on the grass. A robin, matchstick legs askew, watched them with his head on one side.

  'I suppose you realise that you are doing that poor chap out of his worm supper, now that you've stopped hoeing?'

  'He's had enough already,' said Phil. 'It's a wonder he doesn't pop.'

  Frank arrived with the drinks.

  'Heard that Phil and Jeremy are coming with me?' asked Frank, smiling.

  'I have indeed. Wonderful news. Charles told me.'

  'So we'll be even more glad than before to know you are keeping an eye on things,' said Frank. 'I don't like leaving the place empty, but there it is. Luckily, we've got good neighbours, like you and Winnie, to look out for any baddies around.'

  Harold put down his drink carefully.

  'It's that really which brings me over this evening.'

  'How do you mean? Are you going away too?'

  'No. I shall be here. I just wondered if you would consider Isobel Fletcher having the house for part of the time. She intends to come back towards the end of June, I gather, unless she's fixed up beforehand.'

  'Sounds splendid,' said Phil enthusiastically. 'But would she want to be bothered?'

  'Frankly, I've no idea,' confessed Harold. 'It v/as just a thought. I know she doesn't want to impose on Ella any further, and doesn't particularly relish staying at an hotel. Anyway, perhaps it's cheek of me to suggest it.'

  'Not at all,' said Frank heartily. 'I should feel much happier if someone were staying in the place, and I can't think of anyone more suitable. Shall we let you know definitely tomorrow? Then you can get in touch with Isobel, or we will, if you'd rather we did.'

  'That's fine,' agreed Harold. He picked up his glass with a satisfied sigh. 'Of course, she may have found something already, but I doubt it. It would be marvellous to have her here, right on the spot.'

  Phil looked at his blissful expression with sudden awareness.

  'So convenient for the house-hunting,' explained Harold hastily, 'and I'm sure she would be a most careful tenant while you are away.'

  'It was a very good idea of yours,' said Frank, 'and now come and have a look at the jasmine you gave us. It's nearly reached the roof.'

  Phil collected the glasses and carried them indoors.

  'So that's how the land lies,' she said to herself. 'Now who would have thought it?'

  Later that evening, when Jeremy was safely asleep upstairs, Phil told Frank about her suspicions. Predictably, he was scornful.

  'Old Harold? And Isobel? Rubbish, my dear, you're imagining things! Why, I've known Harold for donkey's years, and he's always been the happiest of confirmed bachelors. He's not likely to change now. Why should he?'

  'I don't suppose there's any particular reason why he should want to give up his bachelordom, but I'm sure I'm right about this. After all, you were getting on perfectly well on your own when we first met, but you embarked upon matrimony without a qualm.'

  'That's different. You are a most attractive woman.'

  'So is Isobel. I can quite understand Harold's change of heart.'

  'You're incurably romantic, my darling. It comes of writing for all those women's magazines, I expect. So you are all in favour of enticing Isobel here to further the course of true love?'

  'I am indeed. To be honest, that's only the secondary consideration. I'd like someone to be in the house basically.'

  'And you've no scruples
about leaving defenceless Isobel to Harold's amorous bombardment?'

  It was Phil's turn to snort.

  'I should think Harold's ardour has subsided to manageable levels in his sixties. And Isobel must have had plenty of experience in warding off unwanted suitors in her time.'

  'So you think Harold will be unwanted? Poor old Harold!'

  Phil reflected.

  'I can't speak for Isobel, of course. She may not want to marry again. She has no family to consider now, and she has lots of friends and a comfortable income. She may well turn down any offer from Harold. That's the pity. I'm afraid he would be very upset.'

  'I expect he's taken harder knocks than that in his time,' commented Frank.

  'Maybe,' agreed his wife, 'but you know what Jane Austen said? "It is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage".'

  Frank laughed.

  'I'll let you, or rather, Jane Austen, have the last word. One thing I've learnt in life is that a man is no match for a woman in affairs of this sort. So, we invite Isobel?'

  'We invite Isobel,' agreed Phil.

  The sun was slowly dispersing the clouds as Frank walked across to Harold's the next morning.

  The chestnut avenue was now in full leaf, and the white and pink candles were in flower. Outside the Two Pheasants Bob Jones's hanging baskets made a brave show, the geraniums quite untouched by those frosts which Albert Piggott had forecast earlier.

  A yellow Mermaid rose was in full bloom on the sunny side of Harold's house, and the borders on each side of his path glowed with violas, pinks and double daisies. It all looked remarkably spruce, thought Frank. Surely, Harold could want no more than this for happiness? He had made a perfect life for himself in the place of his choice. Was it likely that he would embark on the complications of married life?

  He had no need to knock at the door, for Betty Bell, with Brasso and duster in hand, burst out as he approached.