by Miss Read
'You going to give me a hand?' called Gloria, 'I can't do this lot alone.'
Nelly mopped her eyes and went to do her duty.
'What's up?' asked Gloria, suddenly solicitous on observing Nelly's ravaged face. 'Bad news?'
'An old friend. He's dead.'
Gloria put a wet hand on Nelly's ample back, and patted her kindly. This was as good as the telly really, and poor old Nelly wasn't such a bad old soul, although she was a bit of a slave driver.
'Local?' enquired Gloria.
'No. Though he did come here once.'
Light dawned. Gloria, and her fellow waitress Rosa, had been greatly intrigued by that traveller who had called one snowy morning and made Nelly's heart flutter.
'That nice chap,' said Gloria diplomatically, 'who was after a job?'
Nelly nodded and attacked a carrot. She was afraid to trust her voice, and the lump in her throat was painful. They worked together in silence, until Irena appeared at the back door holding up a neatly bandaged hand.
'Two stitches, and some tablets for something called Auntie Bi-something, and I can't come to work for a week.'
She sounded proud and happy, and quite oblivious of the air of tragedy hanging over the kitchen.
'See you next week then,' said Nelly dismissively, and Irena vanished.
Mrs Peters did not arrive, but luckily the Fuchsia Bush was not too busy that morning, and there were no outside commitments.
Since Nelly had been made a partner in the business, outside catering had increased and had proved rewarding. The Fuchsia Bush had built up a reliable reputation and catered for functions such as weddings, christenings and other family occasions.
It was Nelly too who had instigated the making of a daily batch of rolls filled with ham, tongue, cheese or other delights for the local office staffs to purchase for their lunches. This venture had proved very successful and greatly added to the profits.
Her heart was heavy as she supervised the depleted staff, but the fact that she needed to be extra busy kept her from brooding over the death of dear Charlie. Later, she told herself, she would ring that Leicester number and find out more, but she had no intention of attending the funeral. Should she send flowers? She thought not. It would be best to keep all this from Albert. He had had quite enough of Charlie in the past.
During the afternoon when Nelly was helping to set the tables for tea, the telephone rang again. A neighbour of Mrs Peters told Nelly that the doctor had sent her to hospital as her stomach pains were so severe.
Mrs Peters had asked Nelly to carry on. Perhaps Mrs Jefferson could lend a hand, or knew of someone? Mrs Jefferson had worked for many year at the Fuchsia Bush and was now enjoying retirement. Mrs Peters would be in touch as soon as possible.
Nelly put down the receiver, and went to tell Gloria and Rosa.
'Never rains but it pours,' said Rosa.
'What do we do now?' asked Gloria.
'We carry on,' said Nelly, rolling up her sleeves.
A little further south in Lulling the rector was also answering the telephone.
Mrs Thurgood, a parishioner and fellow trustee of Rectory Cottages, was enquiring - one might say demanding— if Charles Henstock had done anything about enlarging the premises.
Trust Mrs Thurgood to push matters along with unnecessary velocity, thought poor Charles, holding the receiver some distance from his ear. Mrs Thurgood had a powerful voice.
'I have had a word with Jane Cartwright who seems to think that the present room is quite adequate for general purposes.'
'That's not how I heard things were.'
'And I've spoken to Harold Shoosmith—'
There was a snort at the other end. Mrs Thurgood did not approve of Harold. Too often he had been the victor in their clashes. Charles, she thought, was made of tenderer stuff, and it was he whom she approached first when beginning a campaign.
'And he feels as I do,' continued Charles undaunted, 'that there is no real necessity to consider the matter further.'
'Oh really?' said Mrs Thurgood, heavily sarcastic. 'And what about the old people's needs? I have their welfare very much at heart. They should be considered.'
Charles decided that he must be firm. 'It is the first thing we all think of, as I'm sure you know. But there is the matter of finance to consider as well. We have raised a great deal of money recently for Nathaniel Patten's African settlement, and helped Thrush Green school at its centenary, and there are a great many repairs due to be done on the churches of the parish. I think the enlargement of the room can wait.'
'I shall bring the matter up at the next meeting of the trustees,' said Mrs Thurgood.
'Please do,' said Charles in his gentlest voice, and put down the receiver.
Sometimes, he thought sadly, it was very hard to love one's neighbour as oneself. He escaped into the garden which always lifted his heart.
A blackbird piped from the lilac tree, and at the further end of the lawn a thrush was poised, head on one side, listening for the sound of a worm underground.
The daffodils were in bud. Some early narcissi were already flowering, filling the air around them with heady scent. The polyanthus plants turned their velvety faces to the morning sunshine, bright yellow, orange, red and a deep mauvish-blue which Charles particularly admired.
The almond tree was beginning to scatter the pink blooms which had cheered the February days, but the nearby cherry tree was in bud and soon would be in flower.
Charles remembered the words of A.E. Housman, who wrote of the wild cherry tree in Shropshire:
Stands about the rural ride
Wearing white for Easter-tide.
Easter-tide, thought the rector with mingled joy and alarm! Very soon now, and much to prepare for that lovely festival. Perhaps he should return to his desk?
He looked up at the blue and white sky above the nearby spire of St John's. 'From whence,' thought Charles, 'cometh my help.'
And went, serenity re-established, to face his tasks.
Nelly Piggott did not ring the Leicester number that morning. She did not trust her voice, for one thing, and added to that was the more pressing situation at the Fuchsia Bush.
As soon as the bustle of lunch was over, Nelly sat down in Mrs Peters' office and rang Mrs Jefferson. Could she help?
The answer was enthusiastic. Obviously the old lady was thrilled to be asked, and keen to come, but there were certain reservations. She was still under doctor's orders, and she had better ring him about the invitation. She would do so at once, she promised Nelly, and ring back.
Nelly then telephoned the hospital and was informed by a crisp voice that Mrs Peters was at that moment being examined by Mr Pedder—Bennett himself.
If she had said that the archangel Gabriel was at Mrs Peters' bedside she could not have sounded more reverential, thought Nelly crossly.
'If,' said the voice, 'you ring this evening, we shall know more.'
Within half an hour Mrs Jefferon rang again to say that Dr Lovell said that as long as she only did four hours a day, that was fine by him. Could she come from ten until two? Thankfully, Nelly agreed. Mrs Jefferson, well-versed in the ways of the Fuchsia Bush, knew just when help would be most welcome.
Nelly sat for a moment in the quiet office. She was unutterably tired, and for two pins would have put her heavy head on the desk and gone to sleep.
But there was much to be done, and she roused herself. Later she would ring the hospital at the callbox on Thrush Green. That was essential. Another telephone call must be made, for tonight was bingo night, and she could not face that at the moment. She would ring Mrs Jenner who lived along the lane from Thrush Green to Nidden, and explain matters, telling her not to bother to call on her way, as was her usual custom.
And then tomorrow morning she would ring the writer of the letter which lay crumpled in her apron pocket. She would make the call here in the privacy of the office, away from Albert and with time to compose herself before facing the world again.
Nelly had resolutely put all thoughts of Charlie from her mind since their last meeting, but the news of his death had made her realize, with sharp poignancy, just how much that damned dear deceiver had meant to her.
April
It is very well to hear the cuckoo for the
first time on Easter Sunday morning. I loitered
up the lane again gathering primroses.
Francis Kilvert
No one at Thrush Green heard the cuckoo on Easter Sunday, for the festival came early in the month. The Cotswolds too can be colder in spring than the Welsh valleys which the Reverend Francis Kilvert so loved over a hundred years ago.
But the primroses were out, and bunches of them decorated the font at St Andrew's, and in the churchyard the daffodils swayed in the wind.
The little church of St Andrew's had been lovingly dressed with spring flowers and leaves by the local ladies, and very fine it looked. The larger and more venerable church at Lulling would no doubt be more lavishly decorated, thought Winnie Bailey, as she rose with the rest of the congregation when Charles Henstock and the choir processed down the aisle from the west door.
St John's at Lulling, standing dignified and serene behind its large expanse of Church Green spread before it, had a devoted band of worshippers, many of them with far more money than those at Thrush Green, and they made sure that their noble church was splendidly decked at all times, and particularly at the great festivals of the Church.
Hothouse flowers from nearby glasshouses were willingly given. Arum lilies, fuchsias, geraniums, and even orchids delighted the eyes of St John's congregation at such times, but nevertheless, thought Winnie surveying their more modest efforts, St Andrew's could hold its own on a bright Easter Sunday.
The church was fuller than usual, even though the service had been put forward by one hour to allow Charles to fit in as many attendances as possible in his four parishes.
Winnie was among many friends. She supposed she knew everyone there, she thought, sitting down to listen to Harold Shoosmith reading the first lesson behind the shining eagle which spread out its wings obligingly as a lectern.
She glanced across the aisle, recognizing with pleasure Mrs Jenner's summer straw hat which proved that winter was really over. This year it was refurbished with a navy-blue ribbon with short streamers at the back. Last year it had been encircled with imitation wild roses. Winnie felt that the ribbon this year was more dignified.
With a slight shock she realized that someone unknown to her was sitting immediately in front of Mrs Jenner.
A man with very thick blonde hair was listening attentively to the lesson. He was wearing a grey suit with a chalk stripe, and it reminded Winnie of the suits, termed 'demob suits' which had been issued to returning warriors after the Second World War. But this one was better cut and seemed to be made of very good cloth. She wished she could see his tie and shirt, for Winnie had an eye for clothes and had always taken an interest in Donald's wardrobe.
Unfortunately, she could see only the stranger's broad shoulders, but when Percy Hodge came round with the collection bag the man turned to put in his contribution and Winnie was pleased to see that his shirt was a blue-and-white striped one, and his tie was dark blue. He was certainly a very handsome fellow, and Winnie was not the only one in the congregation to speculate about the stranger in their midst that Easter morning.
After the service Charles Henstock waited in the church porch to greet his parishioners, as was his wont. The tall stranger was among the throng as they came out, but seemed to be anxious not to obtrude upon the vicar and his friends. Many eyes were turned upon him, but nothing was said.
When the last of the church members had straggled away, the rector was about to hurry to his car for the service at St John's when the man approached him.
'Could I have a word, sir?'
The accent was American, the manner almost timid, contrasting strangely with the size of the man.
Charles gave him the warm smile which had melted so many female hearts, and held out his hand. 'Of course. How can I help?'
'I'm over from the States to look up some relatives. Name of Curdle.'
'Ah! We are very proud of the Curdles in these parts,' Charles told him. 'In fact, the most famous one is buried only a few yards away.'
'I found her grave yesterday,' replied the man. 'She's the one I wanted to visit first. Now I want to find some living Curdles. Can you tell me where to go?'
'I can indeed.' The rector looked at his watch.
'I could take you over to meet them myself, but there are two things against it. I am due at my next service in a few minutes, and I know that the Curdles are away this weekend. But let me show you where they live.'
He took the stranger by the arm in a companionable way, and they stepped round the church path to the north side where Charles stopped and pointed out the fine old house belonging to the Youngs.
'My!' said the man. 'They've gone up in the world if that's their place!'
Charles explained that Ben and Molly had a more modest abode in the garden.
'But come and see me at the vicarage,' urged Charles. 'How long are you staying?'
'I want to look up friends in Edinburgh, and I have some business which may detain me there. I reckon I'll have to go there on Tuesday, or whenever it fits in with their schedule. My name by the way is Andersen, with an E, and my forename is Carl.'
'How do you do?' said Charles, shaking hands again. 'And I am Charles Henstock. Do come to the vicarage at Lulling if you can spare the time. Anyone will direct you. I am so sorry that I have to hurry away now. Perhaps I can give you a lift?'
'Thank you, sir, but I'll look around for a bit. Perhaps when I get back from Scotland?'
'That would be ideal. I shall look forward to it, Mr Andersen,' said Charles, turning back to the church.
'Mr Andersen with an E, and "skedule" not "schedule",' said Charles to himself, as he drove back to St John's. 'And what a nice fellow! I hope he comes again, and I can be of help.'
Across the road from St Andrew's church, Nelly Piggott noticed the stranger wandering about the churchyard. He stopped every now and again, and seemed to be copying the inscriptions on some of the tombstones into a little notebook.
Nelly, who had always had an eye for male beauty, was impressed by the blonde good looks of this ambling giant, but had other matters on her mind which took precedence that morning.
For one thing, she was cooking a small turkey with all its accompaniments. For another, she had a great deal to think about the job at the Fuchsia Bush. And lastly, but by no means least, she thought about the pathetic news of Charlie's departure from this life.
She had said nothing to Albert about this matter, but had rung the Leicester number and spoken to Jean Butler. As far as Nelly could make out, that good woman had virtually looked after Charlie for the best part of a year, and though she talked of him as 'a lodger', she had evidently received no payment from him.
It was typical, thought Nelly, as the tale unfolded, that Charlie should land on his feet. Obviously, the old charm was still there. Jean Butler had been in tears, and spoke of her late lodger with true affection.
Nelly told her that it would be impossible for her to leave her job to attend the funeral, and expressed her sympathy. She almost added that they were in the same boat, but managed to resist the temptation. She was also careful not to give her address or to express the hope that they might meet one day. She rang off, glad that she had ended the affair with such discretion, but shocked by the description of Charlie's sufferings.
He had, Jean Butler told her, 'just wasted away'. He had cut his foot which had turned septic. Gangrene had set in. It had not responded to treatment, and his foot had been amputated. All through this time Jean Butler had seen him daily. According to her, he had remained brave and cheerful to the last, and had promised to take her to a dance as soon as his new foot was fitted.
It was this last flash of Charlie's sp
irit which particularly upset Nelly, and the poignancy of it haunted her thoughts.
It was perhaps as well that the day-to-day running of the Fuchsia Bush was now entirely in her hands, for Mrs Peters remained in hospital. Mrs Jefferson, Rosa, Gloria and the now-healed Irena backed up the establishment and two temporary girls had been taken on to help with the running of the place. There was little time for tears, and for this Nelly was grateful.
She had also found some comfort in confiding in Mrs Jenner, one of her weekly bingo companions. Mrs Jenner was much respected in the neighbourhood. For years she had been the local midwife, and was the mother of Jane Cartwright who ran Rectory Cottages with her husband Bill.
Mrs Jenner had lived all her life in the old farmhouse along the road to Nidden. Percy Hodge, her brother, still farmed there, but lived next door with his new wife Gladys. When Charles and Dimity Henstock had become homeless overnight following the fire at Thrush Green rectory, it was Mrs Jenner who had come to the rescue, and given them lodgings at the farmhouse.
As soon as Nelly had rung on that sad evening, to say that she would not be at bingo, Mrs Jenner guessed that something serious had happened.
'Come up here one evening soon,' she said to Nelly. 'Just you and me for a nice chat.'
'I'd like that,' said Nelly. 'Can we make it on Friday?'
Albert was ensconced in the Two Pheasants when Nelly walked through the dusk of evening to visit her friend.
As the tale unfolded, Mrs Jenner listened with growing sympathy. Like most Thrush Green residents, her first impressions of Nelly had been censorious. It was generally agreed that she was noisy, pushing and 'a bit common', that damming phrase which had blighted so many villagers' characters.
Her affair with Charlie, the oilman, whose van visited the area once a week, was soon being discussed with much headshaking.
Not that Albert, as the injured husband, merited much sympathy, and when Nelly scandalized the community by going to live with Charlie, some people said openly who could blame her with that old misery Albert for a husband?