by Miss Read
As Nelly made her way along Lulling High Street that blustery October morning, she felt well content with the general affairs at her place of business. But one difficulty confronted her, and that she was determined to tackle that very morning.
When some years earlier Mrs Peters and other shopkeepers had approached Miss Violet with complaints about her older sister, it was all very embarrassing. The Lovelocks had been respected for all their long lives in Lulling, and no one wished them harm. Violet had tackled her duties with sense and courage, and Bertha's kleptomania had seemed to be controlled. But to Nelly's dismay she had noticed that the basket of tiny jamjars, bright as jewels, and the sort of thing which would catch the eye of any magpie or jackdaw, bird or human, was suddenly half empty after a visit from the three sisters.
Nelly had questioned Rosa.
'Oh, I expect it was that Miss Bertha,' replied Rosa nonchalantly, 'I think she nicks one now and again.'
'This isn't one!' retorted Nelly. 'It's a good half-dozen, and we can't let it go on.'
She decided to ring the house next door at about ten o'clock. The old ladies were not early risers, and took considerable time dressing, as she well remembered from the days when she worked there.
Soon after that hour, she closeted herself in the privacy of the office and rang. Luckily, Miss Violet answered, much to Nelly's relief. Apart from the fact that she was the only one of the three who was not deaf, she was also the only sister who had some sense.
With what tact she could muster Nelly explained the problem.
'Oh dear, oh dear!' sighed Violet. 'Not again, Mrs Piggott!'
'I'm afraid so,' responded Nelly, noting that she was now 'Mrs Piggott' and not 'Nelly' to her former employers. 'Rosa had noticed it before this, I gather, but didn't like to say anything.'
'I shall look into it straightaway,' promised Violet, 'and come and see you later this morning.'
The telephone was put down. Nelly returned to her kitchen, and Violet went to her sister's bedroom.
Bertha was in her petticoat. She was sitting in front of the mirror rubbing face cream across her wrinkled cheeks.
'I want to look through your coat pockets,' said Violet, with commendable courage. 'Mrs Piggott next door has been missing things.'
'Really?' said Bertha, sounding bored. 'What sort of things?'
'Little things that could be picked up easily and put in pockets,' retorted Violet, swinging open the heavy wardrobe door.
There were several coats hanging there, all with capacious pockets. Violet plunged her hand into the deep patch pockets of the tweed coat which Bertha frequently wore. There was a chinking of glass against glass, and Violet pulled out four small jamjars from one pocket, and three from the other.
She put them in front of her sister on the dressing-table. 'Well, Bertha?' she demanded.
'They're not mine,' said Bertha, still busy massaging her face.
'I'm well aware of that! They come from the Fuchsia Bush.'
'Then you'd better take them back,' responded Bertha.
Her off-hand manner and the assumption that Violet could clear up any difficulties, no matter whose fault they were, infuriated Violet who normally faced life with great equanimity.
'You are taking those back yourself this time,' she told her. 'You stole them, Bertha! You are no better than a common thief, and if Nelly Piggott wants the police brought into this affair I shall back her to the hilt.'
A red flush suffused her face, and Bertha too began to look agitated.
'Someone must have put them in my pocket,' she quavered. 'I don't remember anything about it.'
'Then you will have to try and remember,' said Violet. 'The police will ask lots of questions.'
Bertha put down the jar of face-cream among the tiny jamjars and bowed her head. A tear splashed among the pots.
'You wouldn't really call the police, would you, Violet? Not to your own family?'
Violet, almost in tears herself, did her best to sound firm. 'If you don't return Nelly's property, and apologize to her, I shall certainly think about the police,' she replied.
Leaving her sister to her sniffling, Violet returned to her bedroom to find a handkerchief for her own tears. How would this end, she wondered?
Just before twelve o'clock, Bertha descended the stairs, dressed in the incriminating tweed coat, and holding a small carrier bag, which chinked as she moved, and presented herself to Violet.
'Are you coming with me?' she asked in a low voice.
'Do you want me to, Bertha?'
'I think I should like a little support,' said Bertha.
Without a word, Violet fetched her own coat from the hall stand, and the two sisters made their way next door.
Nelly welcomed them as politely as ever, and ushered them into the privacy of her office, and firmly closed the door against any prying eyes.
'She's got the stuff in that bag,' observed Rosa to Gloria. 'I heard the jars rattling.'
'Would have done the old girl good to have it all thrashed out in public,' said Gloria, rather miffed at being denied a first-class row.
'Nelly's too soft by half,' agreed Rosa, and then noticed Irena peeping through the kitchen door to see what was going on.
The pair advanced upon her menacingly.
'And what do you think you're doing?' demanded Gloria.
'I saw them Lovelocks coming in,' faltered Irena who, like the rest of Lulling, knew of Bertha's little weakness.
'And what, pray, is that to do with you?' asked Rosa loftily. 'You get back to your sink, my girl, and don't poke your nose into other people's business.'
Irena retreated, and the door was closed.
'I just can't abide people prying,' said Gloria to Rosa, as they returned to their own territory.
'Quite right, dear,' agreed Rosa.
The sudden cold spell brought more customers than usual into the Fuchsia Bush, seeking the comfort of coffee or something more substantial. Nelly had said nothing about what had gone on behind that firmly closed door on the day of the Lovelocks' visit, much to the chagrin of her staff. However, they realized that the matter was closed, even if only temporarily.
The cold weather was to Connie's liking, for she could make sure that Dotty stayed in the warm as Dr Lovell had directed, and as there were masses of crab-apples awaiting attention, the two ladies set about the task away from the bitter wind that raked Thrush Green.
Flossie slept tranquilly in her basket by the stove, and even Bruce seemed content to stay inside out of the unkind breezes that disturbed his usual haunts.
Connie was rinsing the fruit at the sink, and Dotty busied herself cutting the small apples in half and hurling them into a gigantic preserving saucepan ready to be simmered into a fragrant pulp. Overnight, the jelly bags would drip, and the serious business of apple jelly would be on its way.
'That letter you brought me this morning,' Dotty said, 'was from poor Audrey.'
'Why "poor Audrey"? Is she ill?'
'No, no. She's worried about Lucy, her daughter. She's just got engaged.'
'And she doesn't approve?'
'Audrey seems doubtful. He's Irish, you see.'
'You and I know plenty of nice Irishmen,' Connie pointed out, lifting the last of the washed fruit from the sink. 'Look at the O'Briens! They're dears.'
'I know all that,' said Dotty testily. 'But the O'Briens have lived here for years! This man is only just over here, and has had no time to lose that Celtic roguish charm which Audrey finds so suspicious.'
'Does she think that Lucy has fallen for the roguish charm?'
'Definitely! She is most upset.'
'Well, there's not much she can do about it,' said Connie philosophically. 'Daughters usually do what they like, in the end, and I expect Audrey will come round, and fall for that roguish charm just as Lucy has.'
Carl Andersen was due to fly to Scotland at the end of the week, and invited Ben and Molly, Joan and Edward to dinner at the Bear before he departed.
He had collected quite a number of photographs and other memorabilia about Mrs Curdle, and showed some of it to his guests as they enjoyed their coffee.
'The Millers gave me these,' he said, handing over some ancient group photographs. 'I'm getting them copied. By the way, I had a look at that common room again. What worries you?'
'It isn't exactly a worry,' replied Edward untruthfully. 'It's just that having extended that annexe I resent the recent criticism about the need for more space.'
Joan broke in. 'Edward can't help it,' she said with a laugh. 'He's a born worrier, especially if his work is criticized.'
'I know how he feels,' said Carl. 'I'm the same.'
'It could easily be made bigger,' went on Edward thoughtfully. 'I roughed out a plan some time ago when this business cropped up.'
'You must show me sometime,' said Carl. 'I must say, I thought it looked perfectly adequate for the needs of the old folk at the moment, but I suppose a larger space would give them more seating accommodation, and there could be more room for plants and so on.'
'I can't see it coming off,' said Molly. 'Mr Henstock was talking about it the other day. He seemed a bit worried. I believe Mrs Thurgood had been at him.'
'Mrs Thurgood,' snorted Edward, 'is a public menace! She caught me outside the Fuchsia Bush not long ago, and harangued me about the matter. It was a good thing I could tell her categorically that we had no money for the project.'
Conversation turned to Carl's work in Scotland, and he and Edward became deeply engaged in technical details about stresses and strains, and the problems of frost, wind, rain and all the other weather hazards which would have to be considered when dealing with the costing of this enormous undertaking.
Ben and the women were more parochially inclined, and the affairs of Thrush Green and Lulling engaged their attention until the time came for them to part.
As they walked to the car Edward and Carl fell behind a little.
'Are you on the board of Rectory Cottages?' asked Carl.
'I'm a trustee, yes.'
They walked through the chilly darkness, and Carl spoke as they drew near to the car.
'If the money were available, would a bigger room be a good idea, do you think?'
The two men stopped, while Edward considered the question.
'Yes, I really believe it would. Looking to the future, I think it would be desirable. There's already talk of adding more residential accommodation some time, but that's way in the future.'
'I'll see you when I get back,' said Carl. 'I've enjoyed this evening so much.'
'A splendid dinner,' cried Joan, 'and a thousand thanks.'
'See you on your return,' called Ben.
The men shook hands. Carl kissed the women, and they drove off.
Later, as they prepared for bed, Molly said dreamily, 'Carl does kiss lovely!'
Ben looked startled, as he peeled off his socks. 'Better than me?'
Molly, hanging her petticoat neatly over a chair back, paused for a minute to look abstractedly across Thrush Green in darkness.
'Different, Ben. Just sort of different.'
November
Ho shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruit, no flowers, no leaves, no birds —
November!
Thomas Hood
It was the custom of Thrush Green to celebrate Guy Fawkes night with a roaring bonfire and a plentiful supply of fireworks.
Carl Andersen, who knew little of such things, privately thought it amazing that such a law-abiding community — or nation, for that matter — should see fit to remember one who had been about to blow up the Houses of Parliament. However, he was wise enough to hold his tongue, and simply hand over his pence to the few children who petitioned him in Lulling High Street as they pushed their guy around in an ancient pram.
Preparations had been going ahead for two or three weeks, and a splendid pile of flammable material, such as pieces of wood, small branches, cardboard boxes and the like, stood towards one end of the green, well away from Rectory Cottages and other habitations.
To be sure, it was rather unsightly, and at one time the local council had threatened to ban the bonfire altogether. At this there was such an outcry from the residents of Thrush Green, even those who had condemned the pile as an eyesore earlier, that the council withdrew its objections, and celebrations were allowed to take place.
The arrangements, by ancient custom, were in the hands of the scoutmaster and his zealous troop. Also, by ancient custom, potatoes for baking in the hot ashes were provided by the Hodge family, and the morning before Guy Fawkes Day found Percy Hodge sorting out some great beauties ready for the festivities.
His sister, Mrs Jenner from next door, had called in on her way down to the town and came upon her brother in his shed, counting potatoes as they lay in long rows on the bench.
'They look good, Perce,' she commented approvingly. 'What might they be?'
'Willjar,' said Percy.
'How do you spell it?'
'W-I-L-J-A,' said Percy, after some thought.
'I think,' said his sister, 'that you pronounce it "Veelya".'
Mrs Jenner had come across a number of foreigners during her wartime nursing, and had a smattering of various European tongues.
Percy poured brotherly scorn on such fiddle-faddle. 'If W-I-L-J-A don't spell Willjar,' he maintained, 'I'm a Dutchman.'
'Well, whatever you call 'em,' said Mrs Jenner in a conciliatory tone, 'they look as though they'll eat a treat, Perce.'
And with that she went on her way.
November had come in with grey skies and a depressing stillness. Trees dripped, and a light mist gathered overnight in the little valley by Lulling Woods and was slow to clear.
The clocks had been put back at the end of October, and now the darkness descended at about five o'clock, adding to the general murkiness of people's spirits.
The old folk at Rectory Cottages became querulous as they were obliged to spend more time indoors than they wanted. The roads were slippery with dead leaves and general dampness. Despite good lighting in the rooms, everywhere seemed gloomy, and reading was difficult.
Jane Cartwright did her best to cheer her charges, arranging a birthday party for one old lady in the communal room, and persuading a local pianist to entertain the residents one evening. But attendance was poor on both occasions, and Jane just hoped that the dreary weather would lift, and the spirits of the little community would follow suit.
The prospect of Bonfire Night gave some cheer. There was usually a party of the old folk from the Cottages standing by the blaze, and enjoying the excitement of the fireworks.
'I hope to goodness it doesn't rain,' said Jane to her mother. 'That would be the last straw. The poor dears are so low that I'm praying for a dry starry night to cheer them up. Has Uncle Percy looked out the potatoes?'
Mrs Jenner assured her that all was well in hand, and said that, in her opinion, they would have a fine night for the celebrations.
It was usual for the more active of Jane's charges to help in providing some of the sausage rolls or sandwiches which supplemented the potatoes to enjoy round the bonfire. This had been a considerable help in raising the spirits of her little flock during the doldrums at Rectory Cottages, and Jane encouraged all their efforts.
The schoolchildren were in charge of the guy for the great night, and the question of its identity was hotly discussed. Alan Lester could remember a guy of his childhood representing Adolf Hitler which had swung from a nearby tree before hurtling to his funeral pyre amidst patriotic cheers from the war-weary onlookers.
Various names had been put forward. They included an unpopular local councillor, a school inspector who had been on a recent visit and Alan Lester himself. It seemed best, he decided as he listened to their suggestions, that a strictly impersonal guy would be a more diplomatic choice, and his decision was respected.
Two afternoons were spent happily stuffing a sack with some of Perc
y Hodge's straw for the torso and head, and four long stockings for arms and legs. It was the clothing of their puppet which caused the greatest anxiety.
All agreed that the pointed hat so recently worn by one of the girls, who had been to a Hallowe'en party as a witch, was perfectly in order for Guy Fawkes' headgear. Alan Lester had looked out an illustration showing costume of the time, and considerable ingenuity was used to make Thrush Green's guy look as much like the original as possible.
The snag was the extraordinary difficulty in thrusting the straw-filled arms and legs through sleeves and trouser legs, and buttoning garments round the bulging torso. After a great deal of frustration, it was decided that he should wear a cloak which would disguise any blemishes.
The dressing-up box was ransacked and a grubby and moth-eaten cape found which had clothed Red Riding Hood in a school play some twenty years earlier.
It was agreed that it was time that this unhygienic garment was consigned to the flames, and the school guy was finally dressed to everyone's satisfaction.
It slumped on a chair at the front of the class, and far more attention was given to it, during its two-day wait for incineration, than any lesson that Alan Lester could produce.
The gloomy weather continued unabated, but to everyone's relief November the fifth was no worse than the preceding days. In fact, for a brief period in the afternoon a watery sun was visible, and raised the spirits of young and old.
The festivities began at six-thirty, which meant that most of the people would have had a meal after work, and could enjoy the celebrations and the extra pleasures of the snacks and Percy Hodge's potatoes should they still have any pangs of hunger.
The children, of course, were always ready to eat. The Rectory Cottages contingent reckoned that the refreshments provided would be quite adequate for their elderly digestions, and thankfully reckoned to do without their usual supper on Bonfire Night.
The bonfire roared away. Bright sparks flew up towards the damp trees. Children capered round the crackling blaze, waving sparklers, and the guy was lowered, amidst cheers, to his fiery end.