(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  In many ways she was superior to Agnes, better educated, stronger in health, more travelled and well read. It was no surprise that she had become a respected headmistress while little Miss Fogerty remained an assistant, and in the same school, for many years.

  She was a well-balanced and energetic woman, willing to play her part in local affairs and zealous in keeping up with modern ideas, particularly in education. She also had the ability to reject any trends which she shrewdly recognized as silly and short-sighted, and to support others which, although new and debatable, had a sound basis of practicality for teaching.

  In her younger days she had enjoyed many friendships with young men, and had been engaged to be married twice. One man had been killed in the last days of the war. The other, Dorothy soon discovered, was bombastic, a bully and mean with money. If he was like that in his twenties, Dorothy thought, what on earth would he be like in his sixties? She dismissed him, much to his surprise, and never regretted it.

  She had enjoyed her teaching career. She had found retirement a little disconcerting with so much time to organize. Perhaps it was this, combined with pity for Teddy's plight, which had sparked this attachment to him? Perhaps he took the place of all the children she had cared for over the years? Perhaps some latent and unsuspected maternal instinct had manifested itself? Who knew?

  Dorothy had been surprised by the strength of her feelings for Teddy, but gave them full rein. It had never occurred to her, until Agnes spoke, that there was an element of silliness and possible embarrassment in this relationship.

  Looking at it soberly Dorothy began to see that Agnes was right. She could be causing Eileen pain. She could be embarrassing Teddy. She could be a laughing-stock to their friends in Barton-on-Sea. It was something she had never considered before, and she lay awake, listening to Agnes's small genteel snores, and studied the position carefully.

  Agnes was so often right. Her life might have been more confined and narrow than her own, but those very limitations had made Agnes know the difference between right and wrong, with no blurring of lines which a more sophisticated mind might allow.

  She must mend her ways, she decided. She would say nothing to Agnes, for 'Least said, soonest mended' was a motto which she favoured. She would not be able to feel any less warmly towards dear Teddy, he meant too much to her, but she would cut down her visits, remember that he was Eileen's husband, and generally behave with more decorum, as befitted a retired headmistress of mature years.

  What really hurt, she was honest enough to admit, was the fact that she was making a fool of herself before her friends.

  Somewhere, years earlier, she remembered reading a great truth which had stayed with her. Was it written by that discerning literary man Bonamy Dobrée? It was to the effect that no one minded being thought wicked, but one hated to appear ridiculous.

  Perhaps she had been both, thought Dorothy? Well, there was always tomorrow and, thanks to dear Agnes, she would do her best to reform.

  Joan and Edward Young, with their son Paul, departed the next day for their holiday. Ben Curdle drove them to Heathrow in their car, and would drive it home, and lock it safely in the garage for a fortnight.

  Harold Shoosmith had been left with a sheaf of notes about the arrangements for the fête, for Edward was a conscientious man and felt slightly guilty at leaving his usual post on fête day.

  It was to take place on the Saturday after the school's Open Day, and everyone hoped that the weather would hold.

  The programme proudly displayed on the door of the Two Pheasants, on trees in Thrush Green and Lulling, and in various shop windows, announced such excitements as a Bouncy Castle for the very young, a visit from the morris dancers, pony rides, innumerable stalls and competitions and a fancy-dress display.

  The last, of course, was the one which particularly affected Dorothy Watson as judge. She had no fears about her competence to be discriminating and fair, but what to wear herself was her main concern.

  Luckily, the day dawned as fine and warm as those which had preceded it, and Agnes and Isobel were soon able to assure Dorothy that the pink frock, which she thought too youthful, was exactly right for the occasion, and most becoming to her.

  Dorothy allowed herself to be persuaded, and on remembering that Thrush Green had never seen it before, as it had been bought in Barton-on-Sea a year earlier, she donned her pink splendour immediately after the cold buffet lunch provided by her hostess.

  The fête was to be opened by Lady Penge, who lived near Lulling and was often called upon to perform such duties. She was noted for her good works in the area, sat on innumerable committees, and was patron to a host of charities and a local magistrate.

  But apart from all these qualifications, it was her distinguished appearance which gave the occasions she graced such style. She was six feet in height and as slim as a poplar tree. From her silver hair to her triple-A handmade shoes she oozed fine breeding. Some thought her supercilious, but others maintained that her highly arched eyebrows gave her this air, and it had nothing to do with her innate kindness.

  Her clothes were expensive and impeccable, her smile sweet if a trifle vague. She had no memory for faces, and frequently cut dead old friends, and even her own family, in Lulling High Street, but was readily forgiven.

  'Well, she's gentry,' one would say indulgently to his neighbour.

  'Too much inbreeding,' one farmer would comment to another.

  'But she do look a real lady,' the women would tell each other, admiring the picture hats, the silk dresses, or the furs and tweeds, according to the season.

  Lady Penge was due at ten minutes to two for the opening at two o'clock, and everyone rested assured that she would be on time. A welcoming committee headed by Harold Shoosmith were to assemble in his drawing-room before making their way to the dais.

  But before opening time, activity at Thrush Green was hectic. The firm engaged to install the electrical equipment which was needed for the relay of Lady Penge's speech, not to mention the announcements by Harold and his helpers during the afternoon, and the general racket of so-called music which would provide a background to the afternoon's amusements, was having difficulty with the cables which snaked everywhere about the green.

  Flustered women set out their wares on half-a-dozen stalls. Pudding basins, Oxo tins and handleless cups rattled with loose change. Bunches of garden flowers stood in buckets of water in the shade, and inside the tea tent the activity was frantic as wobbly card tables were draped in the very best cloths with edgings crocheted by long-dead hands. Urns were being inspected, teaspoons counted, sandwiches and homemade cakes shrouded in polythene against inquisitive wasps, and all was bustle.

  This excitement was echoed in the houses around Thrush Green, and nowhere was the fever more acute than in Molly Curdle's living-room where she and two other young mothers were getting their children ready for the fancy-dress parade which would be one of the first items on the programme.

  It was a full-time job. Lunch had been demoted from the usual sit-down meal to a hasty snatching of a sandwich or sausage roll from a large pile in the kitchen, which Molly had prepared beforehand.

  Young George Curdle had insisted on being an Egyptian mummy, adequately swaddled, as seen on television, and reclining in a sarcophagus. Molly and Ben had done their best to dissuade him from this project, and had suggested more practical roles such as a highwayman, a pirate or even a pierrot, as Joan Young had offered a costume from her own young days. But George was adamant. Highwaymen and pirates were old-fashioned, and the pierrot costume was just plain sissy. He was going to be an Egyptian mummy or nothing at all!

  His little sister Anne was quite content to wear a fairy costume, complete with wobbly wings, a silver crown made of oven foil, and a wand with a star at the top.

  The two other mothers, having turned their docile daughters into a gypsy and a teddy bear, were helping Molly in the difficult task of wrapping George's limbs, torso and finally head in yards and yar
ds of toilet paper stuck here and there with inches of Scotch tape. Already they were using the second roll, and no doubt, thought Molly agitatedly, a third would have to be found. George was an anxious victim.

  'You sure that box is like a real carsophagus?' he enquired, nodding towards an enormous dress box supplied by Winnie Bailey the day before.

  'Sarcophagus,' corrected Molly, 'and it's as big as you'll need. And ftand ftill,' she added, holding the end of the sticky tape between her teeth.

  The job was interminable. The toilet paper kept breaking. George complained that he was hot, that there were gaps in the wrappings and how would he go to the lavatory?

  'You don't,' said one of the helpers shortly. 'Egyptian mummies have to wait.'

  'I'd better have a sausage roll before you do my face,' he announced, and his sister fetched him a couple as his neck was being swathed.

  By a quarter to two the mammoth task was complete, and George was told to lodge himself carefully on a kitchen chair, and to hold his coffin in readiness.

  'And what are you?' enquired a neighbour, looking in to borrow tea towels.

  'I'm a mummy. And this is my carsophagus,' said George's muffled voice.

  'Well, well,' said the woman, mystified. 'Fancy that!'

  Everyone agreed that it was wonderful to have fine weather for the fête. It was bound to hold, and that dark cloud to the west was nothing to worry about.

  Lady Penge, accompanied by the welcoming dignitaries, emerged from Harold Shoosmith's house and they made their way to the dais set up near the lime trees by St Andrew's church.

  Promptly at two o'clock, Harold approached the microphone and introduced Lady Penge to the waiting crowd.

  'Does this thing go up and down?' were the first words heard by the attendant populace, as Lady Penge fingered the microphone.

  There were some ear-splitting crackles as the instrument was adjusted, and one of the electricians leapt forward to see to it.

  'A friend of my dad's was electrocuted with one of them,' remarked an elderly woman to her neighbour. 'The power was off for three hours. Couldn't boil the kettle.'

  'Shush! Shush!' said someone on the platform, as Lady Penge's dulcet tones began to reach her audience. Her speech was received with the usual deference and a hearty round of applause, and the youngest and cleanest of the Cooke grandchildren presented a bouquet of what the locals called 'boughten carnations', with a commendable curtsy, and everyone was free to visit the stalls and part with their money.

  The cake stall, as always, was the one which was first besieged. Nelly Piggott had supplied a generous amount of sponges, shortbread, gingerbread and the like, and would have loved to have been present. Duty at the Fuchsia Bush on a busy Saturday forbade this, but she had done her part nobly beforehand.

  Dorothy and Agnes were in their element, meeting old friends and pupils, and relishing the tit-bits of news which would furnish them with many happy memories when they returned to Barton.

  Many people complimented Dorothy on her pink dress, and Agnes, in her grey silk shirtwaister, now four years old, was glad to see how Dorothy glowed with pleasure. If only, she thought, with a sudden spasm of pain, they could stay at Thrush Green far from Teddy's insidious presence!

  The microphone came into use again. Above the alarming crackles and explosive noises, Harold announced the fancy-dress competition which was to be judged by 'their old friend Miss Watson'.

  'I don't care for "old",' said Dorothy, 'and surely there are others to help me judge?'

  Charles Henstock who was near by assured her that everyone would have complete confidence in her choice.

  But Dorothy was not to be persuaded. 'You must help,' she said firmly, grasping his arm. 'I might choose all from the same family. You know the dangers. Come to my aid!'

  'Of course, of course,' said Charles soothingly, and the two stood side by side as the children assembled.

  There was the usual hubbub.

  'Mind my wings!'

  'My shoe's come off!'

  'Where's Miss Muffet's spider?'

  And over all, the stentorian if somewhat muffled yells from George Curdle. 'Lay me in my carsophagus!'

  At last the three age groups were sorted out by Miss Watson, to whom this sort of chaos was nothing.

  'Under fives first!' she announced, and half-a-dozen small rabbits, fairies, a tramp and a crawling green object which represented a dinosaur lined up self-consciously.

  'Walk round in a circle,' commanded Dorothy. 'We want to see backs as well as fronts.'

  She turned to her fellow judge. 'Well?'

  'I think the fairy is the prettiest,' said Charles.

  'But we must consider other things,' pointed out Dorothy. 'Has ingenuity been used? Is the workmanship adequate? On the other hand, is the costume hired or something already made for another occasion?'

  'Well,' said Charles, somewhat deflated by all the apparent criteria needed for judging fancy-dress competitions, 'I think I must rely on your judgement.'

  By this time, the dinosaur's costume was falling to pieces. Wailing came from its wearer.

  'I do hope,' said Dorothy to Harold who had appeared, 'that every child will be given something for entering.'

  'Indeed,' Harold assured her, showing her a pile of tickets. 'This gives them a free ice-cream at the stall.'

  Satisfied, Dorothy returned to her task.

  'I rather like the tramp,' she said to Charles. 'That tin cup tied with string round his waist, and the beard. A lot of thought has gone into that.'

  'I agree,' said Charles, and the tramp was awarded first place, amidst general applause. Rabbits, fairies and dinosaurs seemed content to rush off to the ice-cream stall, and the next group, containing George Curdle and his dress-box, took the stage.

  'And what are you, George?' enquired Dorothy.

  'I'm an Egyptian mummy, and this is my carsophagus.'

  'Sarcophagus/' corrected Dorothy, ever the teacher. 'Well, you obviously can't walk round with the others if you're dead, so the rector will help you to lie down.'

  George was lowered gingerly into his coffin, and lay looking skyward as his companions circled round the two judges.

  A few minutes later they looked down upon his supine body, and retired a few paces.

  'Definitely!' said Dorothy.

  'Without question!' agreed Charles.

  The outcome was announced. George was helped to his feet, his bandages fast disentegrating, ice-cream tickets were handed out amidst general rejoicing, and Dorothy and Charles prepared to judge the last entries.

  The winner of the final group was a fourteen-year-old Cooke girl, dressed as a Bright Young Thing of the twenties, complete with a long cigarette holder and knee-length strings of pearls. As she also did an extremely competent Charleston as she paraded round the judges, everyone agreed that she was 'quite something', and Charles was obviously enchanted.

  After this, the morris dancers were the centre of attraction, clapping and thumping, twirling and frisking, reminding Alan Lester, who was selling raffle tickets, of his infants' recent efforts, and the unwelcome possibility of suffering, yet again, before the Christmas concert.

  By half past five the crowds were thinning, and the black cloud had moved over the sun. The stalls were almost cleared, and the ladies in the tea tent were stowing away plates and cutlery and folding the tablecloths, now far less pristine than when they were first spread.

  Lady Penge had departed after her duty round of the stalls, bearing her bouquet, some homegrown beetroots, four pots of jam and a knitted tea cosy. As she had also left a ten-pound note with Harold Shoosmith 'for the funds', everyone agreed that she had performed her duties with honour, as always.

  At six o'clock the first drops of rain pattered on to the chestnut trees and began to darken the trestle tables. There was a mad rush to get everything under cover. Mackintoshes were put on, head scarves tied, children exhorted 'to run home', and Thrush Green, scattered with pieces of paper, ice-cream w
rappers and all the debris of the day's activity, emptied rapidly.

  'We really ought to get this cleared up,' said Charles anxiously to Harold, as they sheltered under the lime trees by the church.

  At that moment, a flash of lightning tore the black cloud apart, thunder shook the earth and the heavens opened.

  'It'll keep till morning,' shouted Harold above the din. 'Let's make a run for it!'

  The two men, clutching the cash boxes which held the proceeds of the day's work inside their jackets, ran with their heads down to the sanctuary of Harold's house.

  Isobel threw open the front door. 'Quickly, quickly! I've put on the kettle for a cup of tea.'

  'Always welcome,' gasped Charles, mopping his wet face.

  August

  In working well, if travail you sustain,

  Into the wind shall lightly pass the pain.

  Nicholas Grimald

  Work was everywhere evident in Thrush Green in August. The winter barley had been harvested, and golden bales stood in the fields awaiting collection. Soon the great combines would be chugging round the wheat crops and the farmers were praying for a dry spell over the harvest period.

  In the gardens the strawberries had given way to raspberries, and red and white currants dangled from the bushes, much to the delight of the marauding birds. Apples and plums were filling out on the trees, and prudent housewives were tidying their freezers and looking out ancient kilner jars, ready for the winter stores.

  Gardeners were busy collecting seeds or taking cuttings. In most homes the gardening catalogues were in evidence, and bulbs were being ordered for the garden and for the adornment of the house during the dark days of winter.

  Everywhere, it seemed, crops of some sort were being collected and preparations made for the months ahead. What the poet called 'sustained travail' which was happening in Thrush Green and, for that matter, everywhere else, was going on busily and giving a great deal of satisfaction in the process.