(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  'Really!' exclaimed one of the ladies. 'What are people coming to? It's a pity if we can't stop to say a civil word to our friends!'

  But she waited until the stranger was out of earshot, before making these protestations.

  Her companion was gazing after the upright figure making his way up the slight incline towards the market place.

  'I believe I've seen him before,' she mused. 'Years ago.'

  'Well, I shouldn't bother to resume the acquaintanceship,' replied her friend. 'A very thrusting sort of individual, I should think.'

  They settled back into their former positions and continued their interrupted discussion.

  Miss Violet Lovelock was in the market place comparing the price of leeks on each of the vegetable stalls.

  It was really outrageous how expensive even the lowliest vegetables were these days, she thought. Perhaps three of Dawson's thick leeks would make enough soup for two meals for the three of them. Plenty of the leek water, of course, and some salt and pepper should eke things out.

  She was just putting her parcel in her basket, and endeavouring to avert her eyes from page three of the newspaper in which the leeks were wrapped—what was the world coming to!—when she noticed the figure striding vigorously uphill across the road.

  Miss Violet gazed with concentration. She knew that walk. Who was he? If only her sight were keener, but she feared that her sisters were quite right in urging her to get her spectacles changed. Now a lorry was in the way. Now he had stopped to look in Barlow's window, and had his back to her. If only she could place him! There was something familiar about that straight back. Now who could it be?

  The figure moved on, and suddenly opened the door of the solicitors, Twitter and Venables. In a trice he had vanished into the murk of that establishment, leaving Miss Violet to ruminate on her way home.

  Perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps it was a complete stranger going into dear Justin Venables' office on business.

  Her sight really was getting worse, and it made it quite easy to make mistakes when people were at a distance. She would think no more about it.

  And yet—there was something! And that something had given her a thrill of pleasure, as though some long-forgotten happiness had been stirred into life again, on that quiet grey morning in the damp Lulling street.

  4. Rumours At Thrush Green

  MARCH ARRIVED, but there was nothing lion-like about its coming.

  The same grey stillness enveloped Lulling and Thrush Green. The same listlessness enveloped the inhabitants. Everyone longed for the clouds to lift, for a great wind to rush gustily through the trees, for the streets to be blown dry and for spirits to feel exhilaration again.

  At Lulling vicarage Charles was having a most uncomfortable interview with one of his keenest parishioners. Mrs Thurgood was the widow of a wealthy provision merchant who had supplied a great many first-class Cotswold grocers with such exotic articles as coffee beans, tea, spices, dried fruits and preserved fruits, jars of ginger, toothsome pâtés and a host of other elegant comestibles.

  His fleet of dark blue vans, chastely inscribed in gold lettering, were a common sight in the district, and Mrs Thurgood, carrying on the tradition of her husband, was a generous donor to all the church finances, and boasted that she never missed a service.

  Anthony Bull had been her idea of the perfect vicar. 'The sort of fellow,' she had been heard to say, 'that one can invite quite safely to the house, no matter who is staying.' She approved of his distinguished looks, his charm of manner and the content of his sermons. She liked the ritual, the robes, the genuflecting, the sonorous chanting, the plethora of descants and the use of the seven-fold Amen. He was, in her eyes, completely satisfactory, and she mourned his promotion to a Kensington living.

  She was also making it quite clear that she found Charles Henstock much inferior in every way to his predecessor.

  'I can't believe,' she was telling Charles, 'that dear Mr Bull didn't mention this business of new kneelers for the Lady Chapel.'

  'He had a great deal to think of, you know,' said Charles, 'before his move. It probably slipped his memory.'

  'I doubt it,' replied Mrs Thurgood. 'I spoke to him a few weeks before his departure pointing out the need for a complete new set. He said, I remember, that he would mention it to you, as obviously you would be in charge when the work was undertaken.'

  And who could blame Anthony Bull for shelving the problem, thought the rector? But now, it seemed, the birds had come home to roost, and it had become his problem.

  'Do we really need new kneelers?' began Charles. 'The present ones seem very attractive, and I fear that we must guard against undue expense.'

  'Of course we need them! And I made it quite clear to Mr Bull from the outset, that I would be happy to pay for all the materials. It's just a case of getting the Mothers' Union, and the Ladies' Guild, and the Church Flower Ladies to take on the work—one kneeler apiece should be all that is needed—and to get your permission to go ahead.'

  At the mention of all the potential kneeler-makers, many of whom Charles found profoundly intimidating, he found his mind turning to the hosts of Midian who prowled and prowled around.

  'And, of course,' went on his formidable visitor, 'it would be best to have one person leading the way.'

  Like a bull-dozer, thought Charles unhappily.

  'To co-ordinate the whole scheme,' said Mrs Thurgood. 'For one thing we must think about Design and Colour.'

  'But surely, each lady would choose her own pattern?'

  'Good gracious, no! Naturally the main colour must be blue. Soft furnishings in Lady Chapels are traditionally blue. And one must have the kneelers of uniform size. And frankly, I think that they should all be of the same design. Luckily, my daughter Janet, who is exceptionally gifted and has studied Design, Tapestry Work and Embroidery at Art School, has drawn up a charming pattern on squared paper, ready for the project.'

  Charles began to feel besieged. The preliminary skirmishes were over. Now the heavy guns were in action.

  He looked out at the misty garden, the beaded grass and the cedar tree, darker than ever with moisture. That glimpse of placid unchanging nature gave him the strength to counter-attack.

  'It's plain that you have given much thought to the matter,' said Charles kindly. 'And it is most generous of you to offer to face the expense. I shall talk to Dimity about it—she is always so practical—and have a word with my church-wardens. Perhaps I may ring you in a day or two?'

  Even the redoubtable Mrs Thurgood realized that she had advanced as far as was possible on the present occasion. Now was the moment to halt and remuster her strength for future assaults.

  'Very well,' she agreed, rising from the vicarage sofa. 'Everything is absolutely ready as soon as you give the word. I know,' she added meaningly, as she preceded the vicar of Lulling into the hall, 'that it was a matter very dear to Mr Bull's heart. How we miss him!'

  This parting thrust was successfully parried by the genuine sweetness of Charles's smile.

  'We do indeed, Mrs Thurgood,' he said. 'But Lulling's loss was Kensington's gain, and I hear he is exceptionally happy in his new parish.'

  He watched Mrs Thurgood's ramrod-straight back departing down the drive, and sighed.

  The Mothers' Union! The Ladies' Guild! The Church Flower Ladies!

  Could he ever hope to gain a victory against such a monstrous regiment of women?

  It was Ella Bembridge, Dotty's old friend, who first discovered the identity of the tall stranger in Lulling. Like so many ladies who live alone, Ella had the uncommon knack of assimilating local gossip and, what was even better, of remembering it. It was not that she actively ferreted out information as many of the Thrush Green and Lulling ladies were wont to do. Such obvious seekers after gossip were well-known in the community, and those who met them were on their guard and curbed their tongues.

  But Ella was invariably engaged in one of her many crafts, clacking her handloom, knitting or c
rocheting at incredible speed, or simply rolling one of her deplorable cigarettes, and so appeared to the retailer of local news to be attending principally to the matter in hand. Consequently, much was divulged, and Ella's keen mind retained it.

  'Did you know that the Venables have got a visitor?' she asked Charles and Dimity when she called in for the parish magazine one morning.

  'Anyone we know?' asked Dimity.

  'I shouldn't think so. He's been overseas most of his life, but he was born and brought up here, and went to the grammar school when Dotty's father was headmaster.'

  'Poor boy!' exclaimed Dimity. Mr Harmer's idea of corporal punishment would have brought him before any present day court on a charge of battery and assault, if not grievous bodily harm, and the tales of elderly old boys, even though understandably exaggerated, were enough to curdle the blood.

  'Kit Armitage. That's his name,' went on Ella, stuffing the parish magazine between a head of celery and her library book in the rather lop-sided basket of her own making, i expect Dotty will remember him, and the Lovelocks, of course, but before our time here.'

  'Is he staying long?'

  'I don't think so. He's looking for a small place of his own now that he's retired. Justin's always dealt with the family's legal affairs, and they've kept in touch over the years, and I gather he's just having a week or so with them until he gets settled.'

  'Of course, now that Justin has retired he must have plenty of spare time to entertain,' observed the rector. 'I sometimes wonder if he would consent to coming on the Parochial Church Council. He would be such an asset with his grasp of legal and financial affairs.'

  'Try him,' advised Ella. 'Besides he might back you up on such knotty problems as the new kneelers.'

  'And how on earth do you know about the new kneelers?' asked Charles, looking at Dimity in bewilderment.

  'Not from your wife,' responded Ella robustly. 'I've never met such a model of discretion. But Frances Thurgood button-holed me in the butcher's this week, and hoped I would "use my good offices", as she put it, to persuade you to agree.'

  'Really!' the rector expostulated.

  'Don't worry,' continued Ella. 'I wouldn't support Frances Thurgood on any of her projects, on principle. Of all the bossy, scheming, devious bullies I have met, she takes the biscuit.'

  'Ella, please!' protested Charles, holding up a plump hand, i don't like to hear you speak so ill of anyone.'

  'You wouldn't,' agreed Ella. 'You're far too tolerant. And if you really want me to speak ill, I can do a lot better than that.'

  'Not now,' broke in Dimity. 'Sit down, dear, and have a cigarette.'

  Ella allowed herself to be persuaded, took a chair, and then produced the battered tobacco tin which was her private cigarette-making factory.

  'Don't you give way to her, Charles,' she said, when she had at last got the cigarette going and was wreathed in blue smoke. 'Let her win this round and she'll have you licked for many to come. As for this dreadful plan of using Janet's ghastly design, well, nip it in the bud, is my advice. Have you ever seen any of that girl's work?'

  'No,' said Charles and Dimity together.

  'Well, you've been spared a very horrific experience. She had a show of her drawings and paintings in the Corn Exchange last autumn. Enough to put your teeth on edge, believe me. Half the time you wondered if they were the right way up, and the other half you were sorry if they were. And all with such pretentious titles! The Reckoning, Meditation, Aspirations, A Theme of Beauty, Transcendental Awakening—all that sort of twaddle. And nothing under eighty quid! As you might imagine, there were mighty few red sales stickers about.'

  'She did go to Art College, I understand,' said Dimity timidly.

  'I should take that as an excuse rather than a recommendation,' replied Ella. 'No, Charles. Just you watch it! Smite her hip and what-ever-it-is, before she does it to you. And if Justin Venables will come and support you, I should get all the help he can give you. Or perhaps this new chap, Christopher Armitage, will turn out to be a pillar of the Church if he settles here.'

  'I certainly miss Harold Shoosmith by my side,' admitted Charles. 'He's still such a help at Thrush Green, but so far I don't seem to have found anyone quite so supporting at Lulling.'

  'Keep hoping,' said Ella, stubbing out her untidy cigarette, and collecting her things. 'Must be off. I promised to sit in with Dotty this afternoon, as Connie's off to have her hair permed.'

  On the doorstep, she paused and looked skyward.

  'Smells different, Charles. Has the wind turned round?'

  They both gazed towards St John's weather-vane.

  'It has indeed,' cried the rector. 'Let's hope we get a change in this depressing weather. We need something to raise our spirits.'

  'Cheer up, Charles,' said Ella, smiting him quite painfully on the shoulder. 'You'll win through whatever the weather. But beware of Frances Thurgood!'

  She stumped off towards the High Street on her way to Thrush Green. Dear old Charles! She hoped he would stand firm about those dam' kneelers. And not for worlds would she ever let that saintly man know of the beastly, condescending, cruel remarks which that cat Frances had made about him in her hearing.

  Within twenty-four hours the grey clouds had lifted, the welcome sun shone again, and the March wind scoured the streets of Lulling.

  Dead leaves frisked about the gutters like kittens. Inn signs creaked, saplings swayed, and the housewives of Lulling and Thrush Green watched with relief the lines of flapping washing billowing in the gardens.

  At Thrush Green school the lethargy of the last few weeks had made way for the usual boisterous high spirits which wind invariably engendered. Grateful though little Miss Fogerty and her headmistress were for the change in the weather, nevertheless it brought its problems.

  The children were noisy and excited. Doors banged, papers flew from desks, windows burst open, and general disorder prevailed. At break the children rushed screaming around the playground, pushing and romping like so many crazy puppies, clothes flattened against bodies, and hair on end.

  Miss Fogerty was quite used to such behaviour. On duty in the playground, a mug of tea in hand, she watched the chaos about her with a benevolent eye, but alert to any particular recklessness which might lead to injury. John Todd, for instance, temporary aeroplane though he was, had no need to zoom quite so menacingly round the unsuspecting infants nearby. Arms outstretched, a mad gleam in his eye, and a terrible puttering noise emerging from his mouth, he constituted a considerable danger to his fellows, and Agnes Fogerty went at once to chide him.

  It was because of this, and her subsequent attention to other malefactors crazed with March euphoria, that she failed to notice the two men who were pacing round the empty plot left by the vanished Thrush Green rectory, where Charles and Dimity had been so happy.

  It was her companion, Dorothy Watson, who noted their activities and mentioned it when school had finished for the day and the two friends were restoring themselves with a cup of tea and shortbread fingers in the school house.

  Even in here the wind made itself felt, singing through the key hole and stirring the curtains. But compared with the upheaval at school, it was remarkably peaceful, and anyway very pleasant to see the branches tossing in the garden, and the grass silvering as the breeze combed it.

  'They were surveyors, I imagine,' said Dorothy. 'They had one of those great tape measures in a leather case. I think one works for the council. It's strange we haven't heard anything.'

  'We will,' Agnes promised her. 'You know Thrush Green. The news gets round in no time. And if you managed to see them, Dorothy, dear, I'm quite sure plenty of other people did too. More shortbread?'

  Miss Fogerty was quite right. Albert Piggott and his neighbour Mr Jones, landlord of The Two Pheasants, had also noticed the two men at work.

  'Council chaps,' said Mr Jones. 'I did hear from Perce Hodge that the council had bought the site.'

  'What for?' asked Albert, toying with his
half-pint of bitter. 'And how does Perce know? 'E never goes nowhere to find out. That missus of his keeps him knuckled down, I hear.'

  'You wants to watch your tongue about Percy's Doris,' warned the landlord. 'It don't do to come between husband and wife, and their private life's their own, I reckon.'

  'What's come over you, turning so righteous?' asked Albert. 'You was the first to blab about my Nelly when she left me for that dratted oilman. One thing, he'll have learnt his mistake by now, I don't doubt. And nothing's private in Thrush Green, as you knows, and I do too. So come on, tell us what Perce said about the council.'

  Mr Jones polished a tumbler carefully, huffed inside it, and polished it again before replying.

  'Going to build old people's homes, so he said. Heard it from his cousin who cleans the council offices.'

  Albert digested this news with a mouthful of beer to settle it.

  'Ah! I wonder! By rights it should have another rectory on it. It's church land, ain't it?'

  'Not now, boy. The church sold it to the council, and it's my bet they're looking over plans for these homes and going to choose the cheapest. I bet Mr Young's put in a plan. He fair hated that old place, and he always said he'd like to see something worth looking at on the site.'

  'Bet that'll be a fine old eye-sore, if his own new offices are anything to go by. I'd a done better myself. No roof hardly, and the windows hanging off of the guttering, and brick as black as your hat. Makes a proper mess of Lulling High Street, I reckons,' said Albert sourly.

  At that moment young Ben Curdle, his son-in-law, came in with a basket full of empty bottles.

  'Morning, Dad,' he nodded. 'What you having?'

  Albert brightened, and pushed his empty glass forward.

  'Been talking about these new homes the council's going to build over yonder,' he said. 'I was just wondering who's going to live in 'em.'

  'Well, you might be one,' said Ben.

  Albert bridled.

  'What would I need with a council place?' he asked indignantly. 'I got me own nice little cottage, paid for by the church. I'm not all that old anyway!'