(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  It almost broke Charles's heart.

  The fine spell came to an end with a week of high winds and rain.

  Work was at a standstill on Edward Young's new project. The children at the village school could not get rid of their high spirits in the playground, and Miss Watson was greatly relieved to have a supply teacher allotted to her by a sympathetic education office. Mrs Trent, who came occasionally each week, to help with what Miss Watson in her young days called "backward children", now came full time while Miss Fogerty was recovering.

  'They were always called "less able children" in my time,' she told Miss Watson. 'What is the latest term?'

  'I've an idea it's "disadvantaged",' replied Dorothy, somewhat impatiently, 'but don't ask me why. I only know the present-day inspectors talk about "remedial classes" when I used to know them as "backward classes'. It's all very silly, to my mind.'

  Mrs Trent agreed, and asked if Miss Fogerty would soon be back.

  'I very much hope so, but I'm insisting on her getting really fit again. It will take her some time to get over the doctor's treatment.'

  It was Isobel Shoosmith who put forward a plan with which Dorothy readily agreed.

  'Let me take Agnes to the sea for a few days. I've talked it over with Harold who entirely agrees.'

  'To Barton-on-Sea?' enquired Dorothy. Barton was her idea of Paradise.

  'Well, no. Harold suggested the east coast. So bracing, you know. But I pointed out that it is so wickedly cold at times, and what Agnes needed was lots of warm sea air. Winnie Bailey and Jenny went to a very nice quiet hotel at Torquay, and it sounds ideal.'

  Agnes, as was to be expected, was unhappy about postponing her return to school, but was soon over-powered by the determination of Isobel and Dorothy, backed by Doctor Lovell's blessing.

  'Very well,' she said at last, looking at the driving rain lashing across Thrush Green, if you all think a holiday will do me good.'

  'Of course it will,' they chorused. 'And the weather will be quite different in Torquay!'

  A particularly vicious squall had removed Justin Venables' hat in Lulling High Street, and sent it bowling along the pavement outside the Georgian front of the Lovelocks' fine house.

  Justin dodged between lowered umbrellas and Wellingtons to try and retrieve it. It seemed as if the gods were intent on teasing him, for as fast as he pursued it the faster it went, ricocheting off wet lime trees and railings, being run over by the odd pram, and generally behaving as if it had a life of its own, and a very mischievous one at that.

  Luckily, the fishmonger fielded it for him, and Justin, breathless with the chase, thanked him sincerely.

  'Not that it's going to be much improved after that,' observed Justin, turning the wet object in his hands. 'I can see I shall have to fork out for another one.'

  He retraced his steps, facing the gale again, and heard a peremptory rapping at the Misses Lovelocks' window. Miss Ada was beckoning him in, and Justin knew better than to ignore this command.

  'We saw you in trouble,' said Ada at the front door. 'Now you must come in and get dry. What brought you out in such a storm?'

  'Business,' replied Justin, handing over his wet coat and hat. 'But it can wait a minute.'

  Violet and Bertha now appeared.

  'Let us get you some coffee,' said Bertha.

  Justin refused politely. He knew the Lovelocks' coffee of old. It took at least half an hour to prepare and was atrociously weak after that.

  He was ushered into the chilly drawing room, and the four old friends settled down for a gossip.

  'I'm sure I'm keeping you from your affairs,' protested Justin.

  'Not at all. Luncheon is cold today,' said Ada.

  'Corned beef and a hard-boiled egg,' added Bertha.

  'And some very good lettuce,' finished Violet.

  'It sounds delicious,' lied Justin bravely.

  'And do you ever patronise The Fuchsia Bush? It's so handy, and I hear the new cook is a great asset,' asked Ada.

  Amazingly, Justin had not heard about Nelly Piggott's new post, and the ladies were happy to enlighten him.

  'We found her a little extravagant when she cooked once or twice for us,' commented Bertha, inclined to put butter in the mashed potato, and once went so far as to beat in an egg as well! Of course, we soon put a stop to that!'

  'Naturally,' said Justin solemnly.

  'But I must say she has got an excellent reputation with Mrs Peters. Of course, with a business one can afford to be rather more lavish than in a private establishment.'

  Bertha then told him about Isobel and Agnes's proposed holiday, Ella Bembridge's nasty cold, Percy Hodge's truanting wife and Kit Armitage's fruitless house-hunting.

  'Something will turn up, I'm sure,' said Justin, i wish he would get married again. I must admit that I had hopes of his recent meeting with Diana Oliver, but there you are. One can never plan for others.'

  To his surprise Miss Violet had turned very pink, and her sisters were exchanging meaning glances.

  'Well, I must get on,' he said rising. 'The rain seems to have eased a little. It was so kind of you to take pity on me.'

  The three ladies helped him on with his coat, and lent him an umbrella. The battered hat was rammed into his pocket.

  'That, I fear, is done for,' he said ruefully.

  'When it is dry, Justin, do please put it aside for our next Jumble Sale,' begged Ada.

  'I won't forget,' promised Justin, and went off with plenty of thoughts in his bare head.

  16. House-Hunting

  ELLA BEMBRIDGE's cold persisted. She was as slack as Dotty Harmer in looking after herself, and Dimity was much alarmed.

  'I'm sound as a bell,' Ella said, her gruff voice belying the statement. 'Just a bit thick in the clear. Nothing to worry about.'

  'Well, I hope you are not going out in this rough weather. You know I can do any shopping that's needed.'

  'There's just one thing,' said Ella, blowing her nose with the sound of the last trump. 'I promised to take my weaving and canework over to John's gallery for the exhibition. It's all ready in a couple of boxes. Do you think Charles would mind taking it over?'

  'Of course not. Let me have it now.'

  'Too much for you, Dim. Tell you what, ask Charles if he'd pick it up next time he's by. The stuffs supposed to be over there next week, but I don't suppose it matters if it's a day or so late. That young John Fairbrother, who's taken over, is such a worry-pants he always wants everything far too early to my mind.'

  Dimity secretly had every sympathy with the nervous young gallery-owner who had to deal with a number of dilatory artists and craftsmen like Ella.

  'Don't worry. We'll take it willingly. I always enjoy browsing round his things. I might even find a few Christmas presents.'

  'Good grief, Dim! Don't start thinking of that yet. We're hardly into autumn.'

  'It tends to sneak up,' Dimity pointed out, as she made her farewells.

  The rain had ceased when Charles and Dimity set out in the car to collect Ella's handiwork.

  Lulling High Street was busy, and Dimity waved to a dozen or more friends. By The Fuchsia Bush she noticed Janet Thurgood, an unattractive figure in a long bedraggled skirt and a number of shabby garments overlapping each other on her upper half. She wore a rather grubby scarf tied round her hair, and a pair of broken-down sandals on her bare feet. Altogether she looked the Complete Artist. Dimity did not wave to her, but snorted her disgust.

  'Sorry?' queried Charles.

  'Just saw that dreadful Thurgood girl. She could do with a bath.'

  'I'm rather sorry for her,' said Charles, stopping suddenly to allow a dignified Labrador to cross the road. 'With that mother, I mean, and no job to do, or so I hear. Life must be rather wretched for her.'

  'Well, they both make life wretched enough for other people,' replied Dimity trenchantly, 'and so they must expect a taste of their own medicine now and again.'

  Charles said nothing, and Dimity knew that
he was sad to hear her make such a remark. What a difficult thing it was to live with a saint! In many ways, life with Ella had been much simpler.

  The boxes were packed into the back seat and off they went. The gallery was some five or six miles south of Lulling in a converted barn. A small cottage adjoining it was the home of John Fairbrother, a clever but timid young man, who worked extremely hard at running the gallery.

  He was busy setting out pottery on some low shelves when they arrived, and was delighted to have Ella's work.

  'I was beginning to wonder if I should ring her to remind her about it. It's so easy to put off a job, and I'm afraid several of the contributors had quite forgotten about the exhibition.'

  He waved towards the pottery.

  'Isn't this delightful? Three young men have just set up together and I think we shall get plenty of customers for their work.'

  Dimity privately was doubtful. It was thick and of a dreary porridge colour. One of the tankards must have been uncomfortably heavy to lift when empty. When full of beer or cider it must have needed the strength of ten to lift it from the table, thought Dimity.

  Charles had drifted to the wall and was surveying some pretty miniatures of wild flowers. He suddenly turned to the owner.

  'Do you know Janet Thurgood?' he asked.

  The effect of this question was remarkable. A look of awe transfixed the young man's face.

  'You mean the abstract artist?'

  'Well, yes. I suppose she is best known for that sort of work. Does she ever exhibit here?'

  'No, I'm afraid not. And I should never dare to ask her. She would ask far more than my clients could afford. She is very well thought of in artistic circles.'

  'You don't want any help in arranging the exhibition, I suppose, or manning it while it's in progress? I happen to know she is free at the moment. I just wondered if you would like me to speak to her.'

  The young man turned quite pale at the thought.

  'I certainly do want someone, and there's a notice on the door advertising for temporary help, but I doubt if such an eminent artist as Janet Thurgood would even consider such a post. The pay is very small for one thing.'

  'Would you like me to approach her? I've a feeling she would love to help, if you are willing.'

  'I'd be more than grateful. In fact, I'd be downright honoured,' admitted young Mr Fairbrother, and there the matter was left.

  Dimity managed to escape from the pottery, but salved her conscience by buying some tiny straw figures which would look attractive on the Christmas tree when the time came.

  'Are you really going to bother with that wretched girl?' she asked as they drove home to get Polly's tea-time biscuits and Tabitha's saucer of milk.

  'I am,' said Charles firmly. 'You call her a wretched girl, Dimity, and I fear, from the glimpse I had of her this afternoon, that is exactly what she is. Simply wretched!'

  It so happened, that while Charles and Dimity had been engaged in the gallery, Kit Armitage and Connie had been less than a mile away looking at one of the houses on Kit's list.

  It had been built in the thirties, so that the garden was mature if rather small. It had three bedrooms looking out to the rolling countryside, and faced south.

  Connie liked it. Her only private sorrow was that it was some way from Thrush Green, and it meant that she would see less of Kit. She admitted to herself how fond she was of him, and the pangs of jealousy she felt when considering the distant Diana Oliver were so completely foreign to her nature that she was obliged to face the fact that she was fast falling in love with the man. It was all delightful, but rather disconcerting, she found, for a sensible woman in her forties.

  'Not much ground,' was Kit's comment. 'What do you think?'

  'Do you need a lot? The garden's very pretty, and private too. I should have thought it would be big enough to keep you busy.'

  'But not big enough for animals,' objected Kit.

  This was a new idea altogether, and Connie felt puzzled.

  'I didn't know you proposed to keep any animals,' she replied.

  'Oh, just a few hens and things,' he said vaguely, and went to investigate a small greenhouse built at the side of the house.

  They toured the rooms again. It seemed an ideal house for a bachelor, to Connie's mind, compact, light and easy to run. One of the bedrooms was small, but Connie was old-fashioned enough to think that every house should have a boxroom, and this would make a splendid place for all those things like trunks, odd chairs, fire screens, boxes of spare curtains and such like which need a space to jostle in.

  This would leave a large bedroom for Kit and an equally large one for his spare room. However, it was apparent that he had taken a dislike to the place, for some reason best known to himself, so Connie kept her thoughts to herself.

  'Well, shall we push off? Let's have tea at The Fuchsia Bush. You aren't in a desperate hurry to get back?'

  'No. I'd love that. Aunt Dotty's not expecting me till six, and Albert is milking Dulcie, so she'll have company too. The Fuchsia Bush has some splendid scones these days, thanks to our Nelly. I'm glad she came back to Thrush Green.'

  'Sensible woman,' commented Kit. 'Can't beat Thrush Green. This place is too far from it for my liking.'

  His spirits seemed to have recovered, and they drove back to Lulling gossiping cheerfully. Tea was as delicious as ever under Mrs Peters' indulgent eye, and the two returned to Dotty's in great heart.

  'No luck?' queried Dotty.

  'Too far away,' said Kit.

  'Well, you both look all the better for your outing,' said Dotty, 'and I've had a most interesting talk with Albert. Do you know his mother gave him a fried mouse to eat when he had whooping cough as a child? And he used to clean his teeth with sage leaves.'

  'No wonder they've dropped out,' was Kit's comment.

  Tom Hardy made good progress in Lulling Cottage Hospital, and was always eager to hear about Polly when Charles visited him.

  'I've got another favour to ask of you, sir,' he said one afternoon. 'It seems I can go out from here if there's someone to look after me.'

  Charles began to rack his brain for some willing neighbour who was free to oblige. The sad thing was that it seemed that everyone was out at work. Where had all those nice single aunts gone? They had been the mainstay of family crises in the rector's own childhood.

  'Well, I can't go home, that's flat,' continued the patient. 'But they can fix me up at a convalescent home down Cheltenham way till I'm up and about again. The thing is, of course, old Poll.'

  'You needn't worry on her account,' the rector assured him. 'We both love her, and she is the best-behaved dog I've ever come across. We'll keep her with us until you are well enough to have her.'

  The old man gave a gusty sigh of relief.

  'That's a weight off my mind. I tell 'em here I'll be doing for myself again in a week or two's time.'

  But as the good rector returned home, he began to wonder if old Tom would ever be able to look after himself again.

  And then the thought of Edward's old people's homes came to him, and he decided to see what could be done about one for his old friend, if the need arose. The biggest snag, of course, would be Tom himself. He loved his simple quiet home, with only the joyous sound of the river splashing alongside for company. How would he feel about neighbours living so close to him, and the sound of traffic nearby? There was no doubt about it, one's home meant so much. He recalled talking to Isobel Shoosmith when she had been house-hunting, and more recently he recalled Kit Armitage's comments.

  They had all agreed that each house had an aura about it, and one which was quickly recognized.

  'Some really welcomed you,' Isobel had said. 'You felt that the people who had lived there before had loved the place and been happy there. I felt it at once in our present home.'

  'I felt it too at Lulling Vicarage,' agreed the rector, 'although I believe there have been some pretty rum incumbents over the centuries.'

  'I defi
nitely loathed one cottage I looked at beyond Nidden,' chimed in Kit. 'Couldn't think why. Roses round the door, south facing, sheltered by a little hill, it seemed perfect, but there was something sinister about it. I'm the last chap to claim to be psychic, but I wasn't a bit surprised to hear from Mrs Jenner that a couple lived there at the turn of the century who neglected their six children so appallingly that two of them died. It was a pitiful tale. The squalor alone was enough to curdle you, let alone the cruelty. There's a lot that goes on in the country that is hidden by pretty thatch and leaded windows.'

  'I'm afraid you are right,' agreed the rector.

  In the evening of the day they visited the gallery Charles rang Mrs Thurgood's number. He had not been in touch with that formidable woman since the disastrous meeting in the church which had led to her departure from his congregation.

  A lesser man might have shirked the job, and been content to write a note to Miss Thurgood herself. But Charles had never lacked courage in a tight place, and he was confident that it would be better to explain matters over the telephone to Janet and to be prepared to answer any questions.

  Luckily, it was she who answered the call. On hearing who it was on the other end of the wire her voice became somewhat cool, but Charles was not deterred.

  He explained about their visit, the advertisement on the door, and the real need of the young gallery-owner to have help.

  She listened attentively and sounded thoughtful when she spoke.

  'I should like to help him. Should I write, do you think?'

  She sounded more friendly after hearing the news, and Charles was relieved.

  'I must stress that John was most reluctant to worry you. He has a great regard for your work, and thought you might be too busy with your own painting to bother with other people's efforts. He is refreshingly modest, I may say, and did remark about it being an honour if you felt you could help at the exhibition.'