by Miss Read
What a wealth of skills lay buried here, thought Dimity. She feared that her own accomplishments were small in comparison. She was really no hand at flower-arranging, for instance, when she thought of the expertise of the local Guild of Flower Ladies.
Reminded of her duties, she pulled out the trug and made her way towards the cool shadows of the church. Perhaps, though, she comforted herself, she might be remembered, if not as a loving mother of nine children, then surely as a devoted wife?
Taking heart, she set off to collect suitable vases for her modest arrangements.
On the next Sunday Charles Henstock celebrated Holy Communion at eight o'clock at his old church in Thrush Green.
The attendance was small, but this was usual. Most people came to matins at ten-thirty, and only a few of the faithful came to the eight o'clock service. Isobel and Harold were among them, and Charles went back with them to the corner house for a cup of coffee.
'I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear that Albert and his wife seem to have settled down again together. I very much dislike having to interfere in domestic matters, as you know.'
'Early days yet,' commented Harold, 'but we're all keeping our fingers crossed. I don't think Percy Hodge is faring so well though.'
'Oh dear,' said Charles, setting down his cup. 'I'm sorry to hear that. I haven't called, partly because I rather shirked it, and also because that old saying "Least said, soonest mended" is often quite right.'
'We heard yesterday that Doris has gone to stay with a sister. Of course, it may be just a genuine visit, but the old boys at The Two Pheasants reckon she's gone for good.'
'You shouldn't listen to gossip,' declared Isobel. 'And you know how things get exaggerated, especially after a pint or two.'
'It might be a good thing,' said Charles thoughtfully, 'if' Doris has this little break. She may come back in a happier state of mind.'
'You were always an optimist, Charles,' smiled Harold. 'Have some more coffee while it's hot.'
13. A Job At The Fuchsia Bush
ON WEDNESDAYS Lulling was at its busiest. It was market day, and people from the surrounding villages joined the local residents in their hunt for bargains.
For many people it was the only day of the week when a local bus ran. There were threats too of even that meagre service being abandoned, and for those without cars it was a bleak outlook.
Lulling market is set up early each Wednesday morning hard by the ancient Butter Cross where a miniature square gives room for a number of stalls. As the market has grown over the centuries, a few stalls have been allowed to straggle up the road towards St John's church, and the pens where sheep used to be kept have been moved to a quieter place near the Corn Exchange, making more space for stall holders.
Traffic congestion on market day is quite a problem, and the prudent driver leaves his car in one of the many public house car parks or in the new car park situated behind The Fuchsia Bush in the High Street. Woe betide those foolish enough to park near the market square! Joe Higgins, the local traffic warden, has an eye like a hawk, and enjoys nothing more than slapping a ticket on a windscreen in the course of his duties.
Local people had always found it worth their while to visit the weekly market. The produce was always fresh, and there were all sorts of choice things to be found, particularly on the Women's Institute stall where home-made cakes, jams and honey, stood beside trays of fresh brown eggs and baskets of apples and plums. Such rare treasures as yellow quinces, field mushrooms or a greenhouse melon can be found at the appropriate season, cheek by jowl with more homely fare such as crisp cabbages and great marrows striped like tigers.
Some of the stalls sported gay canvas awnings, yellow, green and red, greatly adding to the colourful scene. Sometimes an old lady, with dozens of balloons for sale, sat on a chair at the corner nearest to the Butter Cross. The fat balloons of every possible shape and colour, bobbed above her grey head, tugging at their strings as the wind caught them and squeaking as they rubbed against each other. Naturally, she was the magnet for hordes of children, and it was an exhilarating sight on 'Balloon Lady's Day' to see single balloons bobbing along the High Street, clutched in young hands, or tied to the handles of prams or bicycles.
The public houses did brisk business on market days. As well as extra beer and spirits there were many more dishes to choose from on a Wednesday menu, and trade flourished. Here old friends met to exchange news or to do business, and most people returned home from the market at Lulling with heavy baskets and, even more satisfying, a store of news and gossip to keep them happy until the next week.
Ever since Charles and Dimity had gone to live at Lulling, Ella and her old friend met on a Wednesday at The Fuchsia Bush to enjoy a cup of coffee after their marketing. Sometimes they encountered each other at the Women's Institute stall, for Dimity had a standing order for a dozen brown eggs, and Ella always made a bee-line there to buy any particular item that took her fancy before the stall was sold out.
On this particular Wednesday Ella was at The Fuchsia Bush first and managed to find a corner table near the doors to the kitchen.
It was not her favourite spot. She much preferred to be near the window where one could see the life of Lulling passing by. However, on a Wednesday the place was crowded, and she was lucky to get a table at all, as well she knew.
She had just unearthed her cigarette-making equipment when Dimity appeared, much encumbered by a large basket and an armful of single summer chrysanthemums.
'What a crush!' she said, depositing her burdens on the floor, i couldn't resist these chrysanths. Such a delicate pink.'
'Very pretty,' agreed Ella, putting away the battered tobacco tin, 'but I don't like to see them as early as this. Makes me think of autumn, and that comes soon enough these days.'
'Have you ordered?'
'Well, no. No one's been along yet. The service gets worse in this dump. I reckon we'd do better at The Fleece.'
'Oh, Ella,' cried Dimity, rather agitated, 'I really don't think Charles would like me to be seen frequenting The Fleece.'
'Why on earth not? It's a perfectly respectable hotel, and in any case we should only order coffee, shouldn't we?'
'Yes, I Know all about that, but I'm old-fashioned enough to mind about women going to pubs alone.'
'You wouldn't be,' pointed out her friend, 'I'd be there.'
Dimity tut-tutted with exasperation.
'You know what I mean. Without a man to escort her.'
'Probably be strong drink then,' commented Ella. 'Ah! Here's Mrs Peters.'
The owner of The Fuchsia Bush, looking somewhat harassed, came to the table.
'I'm so sorry to keep you waiting. We've trouble in the kitchen, and we're short-handed.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Dimity. 'Someone ill?'
'Just coffee, please, and some of your shortbread,' said Ella.
'No shortbread I'm sorry to say. Mrs Jefferson isn't here to make it.'
'Is she the one who is ill?'
'She fell down a flight of steps at a neighbour's house, and has broken a leg and two ribs.'
'The poor dear,' cried Dimity, genuinely distressed.
'Well, she would go and take some tea into this next door friend who was in bed with a new baby, and she couldn't see where she was going because of the tray, and down she tumbled.'
Mrs Peters spoke as though this was only what could be expected if one were so foolhardy as to minister to neighbours. There was definitely a note of censure in her remarks.
'So we're run off our feet, and I shall have to advertise for another cook while she's laid up. Meanwhile, we're struggling as best we can. Will digestive suit you?'
Taking this to mean that digestive biscuits were being offered instead of the usual delectable home-made shortbread, the ladies assented, and Mrs Peters bustled back to the kitchen.
'A broken leg,' mused Dimity.
'And two ribs,' added Ella. 'Not funny. A long job, I should think.'
> 'Weeks,' agreed Dimity. 'I must let Charles know. He will want to visit her.'
Ella took out a cigarette paper and began to fill it with tobacco. She rolled it thoughtfully, licked the edge and stuck it together. Dimity watched resignedly.
Ella lit up and then gave vent to her favourite phrase.
'Tell you what, Dim. What price that Nelly Piggott in the kitchen here? She's bored to tears I hear, and a first-rate cook. Shall I have a word with Mrs Peters now?'
Dimity smiled across the cloud of blue smoke.
'Why not?' she said.
That same evening, as soon as The Fuchsia Bush closed, weary Mrs Peters climbed into her little car and turned its nose towards Thrush Green.
She had spent the day trying to deputise for the absent Mrs Jefferson, and at the same time attempting to galvanise her lethargic staff to greater efforts.
Really, thought Mrs Peters, it was much simpler to do the job oneself rather than urge such lumps as Rosa and Gloria to give a hand. Mrs Jefferson had been one of the old school, punctual, hard-working and taking a pride in all her kitchen creations.
The two women had much in common and had grown to admire and respect each other. Both were widows, and both had been obliged to work to bring up their children single-handed. They were equally energetic, willing to put in many hours of work, and both deplored the slackness of the younger generation.
Mrs Peters drove up the steep hill to Thrush Green, mourning the temporary loss of her old colleague. She did not know Nelly Piggott, as far as she could recall, but it was worth seeing her from what Miss Bembridge and Mrs Henstock had said, although she was not particularly hopeful.
She drew up outside Albert's cottage, much to the interest of the clients in The Two Pheasants who gazed unashamedly as she waited on the doorstep next door.
The step, she noticed, was freshly whitened, and the windows gleamed. It boded well, though Mrs Peters.
The door opened and Nelly stood before her looking a little puzzled. As soon as she saw her Mrs Peters realized that this was the fat lady who at one time had attended the Misses Lovelock as a char, and whom she had seen passing The Fuchsia Bush. She remembered now that she cleaned, but did she cook? She only had the two ladies' word for it.
'I'm from The Fuchsia Bush,' began its owner. 'I wondered if you could help me. Miss Bembridge mentioned you to me this morning.'
'Come in,' said Nelly.
The kitchen shone as cleanly as the doorstep, noticed Mrs Peters with pleasure. She took the chair offered her, and put her gloves and handbag on the checked tablecloth. A bunch of pinks, in an old-fashioned earthenware honey pot, scented the air. Mrs Peters had not seen such a honey pot since she was a child, and felt a warm glow of nostalgia for such a homely vessel.
Albert was out at his church duties with his young assistant, and Nelly had obviously been knitting a jumper so vast it could only have been for herself. A delicious smell of cooking mingled with the scent from the pinks.
'You said something about help,' said Nelly, tidying away the knitting.
Mrs Peters told the sad tale of Mrs Jefferson, and Nelly listened attentively. Her spirits rose with the unfolding of the story, but she tried to hide her excitement. It all sounded too good to be true.
'Well, I've never done cooking for numbers, if you follow me,' she said, 'and I always believe in having the very best ingredients. No substitutes or made-up stuff, I mean.'
'We only use the best at The Fuchsia Bush,' her prospective employer told her, with a touch of hauteur. 'I have my reputation to consider.'
'Oh, I only mentioned it,' replied Nelly hastily, 'because I occasionally cooked a meal for them Lovelocks, and the food wasn't what I've been used to at all.'
Mrs Peters unbent at once. The Misses Lovelocks' cuisine was a by-word in Lulling. Her heart warmed towards Nelly.
'I'm sure you would soon get the hang of coping with numbers,' she assured her, 'and of course I should be there to help you. It's mainly small cakes and biscuits, and at midday we offer a cold buffet or one hot dish, something simple like curried lamb and rice, or cottage pie. And there's always soup. We keep a very good stock pot.'
At the thought of a very good stock pot Nelly was quite won over. It would be lovely to play in a really properly equipped kitchen, instead of this poky little place of Albert's. And she would be free of him for best part of the day, and what's more earning some money of her own.
'What wages were you offering?' she asked.
Mrs Peters mentioned a sum which seemed extremely large and generous.
'Well, if you think I can do it,' said Nelly diffidently, 'I'm willing to try my hand with you.'
Something sizzled in the oven, and Nelly excused herself as she bent to open the oven door. A gust of delicious cooking odours blew into the room, reminding Mrs Peters how famished she was.
Nelly bore a magnificent pie to the end of the table where a wooden mat was waiting. The crust was golden brown and neatly indented round the edge. Four beautiful leaves splayed across the top, glossy with egg-yolk gilding. From the centre where the pie-funnel stood, came a little plume of fragrant steam. It was a vision of beauty. It was quite enough to convince that connoisseur of pies, Mrs Peters, that here was a mistress of her craft.
'Steak and kidney,' said Nelly. 'I like a bit of puff for that. Lighter than shortcrust, I always think, and my husband suffers with his stomach, so I have to be careful what I put in front of him. Personally, I enjoy making a nice raised pork pie, but it's too rich for him these days.'
'A raised pork pie,' echoed Mrs Peters, quite faint now with hunger. 'Perhaps you would like to make a really large one for the cold table when you come?'
'Nothing I'd enjoy more,' Nelly assured her. 'And when would you like me to start, ma'am?'
Now that she was engaged, Nelly started as she meant to go on, with due respect. Who knows? She might be taken on permanently if she proved satisfactory.
'You couldn't manage tomorrow, I suppose?' ventured Mrs Peters, her eyes still on the masterpiece before her.
'I'd just love to,' said Nelly sincerely, and stood up as her visitor rose.
'I'm so grateful,' said Mrs Peters. 'Tomorrow then at nine, or eight-thirty if you can manage it.'
'Eight-thirty, ma'am,' promised Nelly.
And with a last look of longing at Nelly's pie, Mrs Peters went to her car, her stomach rumbling protestingly at being denied its rights.
Within a few days the news of Nelly's new job had flashed round Thrush Green.
Nelly had told no one but Albert, who seemed to be little interested. When asked outright by the landlord of The Two Pheasants he admitted grudgingly that the news was correct.
'Give her something to do,' added Albert, 'and the money'll come in useful. Suits me to have a bit of time to meself.'
Certainly Albert's usual dour demeanour remained unchanged by Nelly's good fortune. The truth was that as long as his food was provided, and Nelly kept a civil tongue in her head, he was quite content to let things drift on as they had done since her return.
Dotty Harmer and Connie heard about it when they went to tea with Winnie Bailey one hot afternoon.
Connie took her aunt for a drive after her rest, and they trundled through nearby villages and enjoyed the leafy beauty of the country lanes. Honeysuckle scented the air, and a few late dog roses starred the hedges. The blackberry flowers, pale pinky-mauve, were prolific, and promised a bumper crop later on.
Dotty's spirits were high. She was enjoying her outing and looking forward to tea at Winnie's.
She rattled on in her usual inconsequent vein, and Connie, immersed in her own thoughts, hardly heard her, until she realized that her aunt was busily discussing the old people's homes being erected at Thrush Green.
'But, you see,' rambled Dotty, 'I don't think I should care to be on one floor. One really should go upstairs to bed, don't you agree? It's not only the rightness of mounting steps to one's bedroom, but the fact that anyone could look i
n as they passed on foot. Friends of my dear father's retired to a bungalow, and she had the most dreadful shock when she realized that the baker was looking in as she was standing in her stays. Very upsetting. She took to dressing in the bathroom, I remember, at least up to her petticoat, and as that was always Vedonis and lock-knit, it was perfectly respectable.'
'You're surely not considering applying for one of the houses?' queried Connie, slightly bewildered. A sudden through struck her. 'You haven't already applied for one?' Dotty was quite capable of doing such a thing, Connie was well aware.
'Oh, no, no, no!' tutted Dotty. 'I shouldn't dream of it. As I was saying, I like to go upstairs to sleep, and in any case I have no intention of leaving my own dear house.'
'Thank heaven for that!' said Connie. She turned the car in the direction of Thrush Green. They were in comfortable time for Winnie's tea party.
'I can't think why you thought I wanted to live in one of Edward Young's little places,' went on Dotty. 'Do you think I ought to apply? Are you finding me too much of a problem, Connie dear? I should hate to exploit you. Perhaps I do? Oh, dear, I should have realized I am very demanding. And of course the cottage is rather small. Only three bedrooms, and perhaps you find it cramped with us both in it? As you know, it will be yours one day, and if you feel like taking it over now instead of later, I should readily agree to any arrangements you might like to make—'
Dotty's voice had risen in her agitation, and she sounded slightly tearful. Connie drew in at a convenient field gate and switched off the engine. It was unthinkable to let poor old Dotty work herself into such a state. If she were not careful she would be arriving at Winnie's red-eyed and sniffing.
She turned to face the old lady and smiled at her.
'You've got it all wrong, Aunt Dot. The last thing I want is to turn you out of your home. You know that. You are no bother at all to me. Just the opposite. I love you dearly, and enjoy living with you. And I hope we'll have many years of life together. Now, is that better?'
Dotty took a long breath, and found a beautifully folded handkerchief in her pocket. She dabbed her eyes and returned it.