by Miss Read
'Well, to tell the truth, that ain't all beer and skittles by a long chalk. She's taken up Bingo twice a week, and I gets cold supper them nights. And what she's spending I dursen't think.'
Percy nodded sadly.
'Women is nothing but trouble,' he sighed. 'Well, Albert, best get back to work, I suppose.'
He linked his arm in Albert's, and the two set off rather unsteadily to the door.
Mr Jones watched their departure with infinite relief.
On one of the cold windy evenings, Charles Henstock made his way from the vicarage to St John's church.
He had arranged to meet the organist there to decide on the music for a recital to raise money for the Church Fabric Fund. Raising money had never come easily to the good rector, and now that he had four churches under his care he found the upkeep of them a formidable problem.
The loss of the fund's box had been a setback, although Charles realized, since he had made a point of emptying the new one daily, that contributions were very small indeed.
He did not blame people. He knew only too keenly how short of money so many families were these days. He too denied himself in many things, and was glad to do so, embarrassed at times by the multitude of expensive gimmicks he found in the homes of some of his parishioners.
He was beginning to realize too that Anthony Bull and his wealthy and generous wife gave readily to St John's, something which he could not do in his more humble circumstances.
The rector pondered on these things as he sat in his accustomed place in the chancel, awaiting the arrival of Bill Mitchell.
The church was cavernous and dark. Only the chancel light was on. It was also bone-chillingly cold, and Charles wished that he had put on a thicker coat.
It had been a sad day. The post had brought a letter from a friend of his schooldays to tell him of the death from leukemia of their only son. Charles had been the boy's godfather.
The sense of shock had remained with him throughout the day. The death of one's parents' generation one could accept, albeit with sadness.
When the time of life came, as it had to Charles, that his own contemporaries were common in the obituary columns, it was always a severe shock. But when, as today, one heard of the young, the children, the rising generation going untimely to the grave, it was enough to break one's heart.
He had gone about his duties all day with a shattering sense of loss. He normally enjoyed robust health. Today he suddenly realized how fragile and empty he felt, as vulnerable as a wounded bird, or a broken sapling. How rapidly, it seemed, one could change from a strong being to an invalid. It was a sharp lesson on the frailty of life.
The weather had done nothing to raise his spirits. Mist had risen from the river and engulfed the little town. People moved like ghosts, emerging from greyness to vanish again within yards. No wonder the Americans called this the fall of the year, ruminated Charles, sitting in his chilly church. It was not just the falling of the leaves, it was the decline of abounding life everywhere, the quiet slide from summer's joy towards winter's death.
He stirred himself and peered at his wrist watch. What could have happened to the organist? Bill Mitchell was always so punctual, and now he was ten minutes overdue.
He traversed the long aisle, and opened the south door. Dead leaves had gathered in the porch, and rustled as he walked through them. He made his way to the wrought iron gate. The bulk of his own vicarage loomed dimly through the mist.
Nearer at hand, beyond the graves, were six ancient almshouses. The lights shone mutedly in the mist. Waiting by the gate, his hand on the clammy metal, Charles saw one of the doors open. The clinking of bottles made him aware of the milk bottles being put out on the stone doorstep, ready for the morning.
The radio was on quite loudly, and a violin sobbed across the gloom. It had a haunting sound, 'a dying fall', which affected Charles with unaccustomed melancholy. He was glad when the door slammed, and he heard it no more.
The trees dripped dismally. There were puddles in the path. Really, thought Charles, all the approaches to the church needed fresh gravel. There was so much to do, and at times he felt that it was all beyond him. He mourned his loss of physical strength, his lost youth and vigour, his lost companions. Perhaps the succession of pinpricks, the criticisms, the petty comparisons with Anthony's ministrations, the departure of people like Mrs Thurgood from his flock, had contributed to his present low spirits. But the overwhelming feeling was this poignant one of loss.
Even dear old Polly had now gone, he remembered with a pang. And his old rectory was no more. He had been happy there, and had grieved far more keenly than his wife and friends over the charred remains. There were still precious objects which he missed. His old crucifix was one, a Bible given to him at his confirmation, a letter-opener he had made as a child, and innumerable dearly-loved books which could never be replaced.
Charles sighed. He was about to retrace his steps when a car skidded to a halt in the road, a door slammed, and Bill Mitchell ran towards him.
'I'm so very sorry,' he cried. 'Some poor chap had crashed his lorry and blocked the road. It was full of bottles of tomato ketchup, so the place looked like a battle field, besides bristling with glass.'
'No one hurt, I hope?'
'Only Constable Darwin who slipped up in the mess and sat down. But he's quite all right. Directed us all round the houses, which is why I'm so late.'
They entered by the south door, which the rector locked behind him. In the light of the chancel Bill Mitchell looked at the rector.
'Are you all right? You look as though you might have a chill.'
'No, no,' protested Charles, touched by this solicitude. 'I find this weather a little depressing, but that's all.'
'Good! Well, let's get down to the music. That will cheer us up. Music always does.'
'You are quite right, Bill,' agreed Charles, rubbing his cold hands briskly. 'Music always does!'
19. Marriage Plans
THE ENGAGEMENT of Kit and Connie afforded general satisfaction to their friends in Lulling and Thrush Green, but after the congratulations came two questions.
The first was: 'Where would they live?' The second was: 'Would Dotty live with them?'
Connie had been the first to pose them, and it was she who insisted that she would broach the subject with Dotty when they were alone.
'It's the best way,' she told Kit. if she's willing to move and come with us to a new place, then that settles it. But, if she won't, and I think that's more likely, we shall just have to think again.'
Kit agreed, and Connie awaited a suitable opportunity. It did not arise until two or three days after the engagement.
The two women were sitting by the fire, Dotty engrossed in brushing Flossie, and Connie trying to do the crossword. Kit was calling at half past three, and Connie decided that this was the moment to grasp the nettle.
'Where would I live?' queried Dotty, pausing momentarily from her work. 'The point is where are you deciding to live?'
'As you know, Aunt Dotty, Kit hasn't found anything yet. We must know if you would be willing to make a new home with us. One thing's certain. I shan't leave you, and Kit knows it, and approves.'
'That dratted dog!' exclaimed Dotty, as Flossie made her escape and went to ground under the sofa.
'Well, dear,' continued Dotty, putting down the brush. 'I've been giving a lot of thought to this matter ever since Kit appeared on the scene, and it was as plain as a pike staff to me that he had his eye on you.'
'You make me sound like a bargain!' protested Connie.
'And so you are. Now, I can't think why you keep fussing about looking at houses when you know this one is yours. I know it's not all that commodious, but you could always build on. Edward Young could probably run you up a nice little annexe. He's quite intelligent, and those homes of his are really very pleasant for people who don't want to go upstairs to bed.'
'But its your house, not mine!'
'It's left to you, as
you know, and I shall be in Thrush Green churchyard before long,' said Dotty cheerfully. 'And I only hope that Albert Piggott will have gone too by then. Such a muddler at his work. I still think they would have been better advised to let my goats crop the grass there. The mowing is deplorable.'
Connie sat pondering on this development. Dotty was quite right. There was plenty of space round the cottage on which to build. It would solve the problem too of Dotty's future.
The only thing was how would Kit feel about settling at such close quarters with this dear, but slightly mad, relative?
As if reading her thoughts, Dotty rambled on.
'You see, there are three bedrooms after all, which would make one apiece. Though, of course, when you are married it would be quite in order, dear, for you to share one room.'
'I had realized that,' said Connie.
'And it would be a very good thing to be on the premises when the builders were working. Some of these fellows can be very dilatory, and I know for a fact that the men who renovated Tullivers, for the Hursts, were not above sitting down and playing cards'
Dotty made it sound like one of the deadly sins.
'I said to them often: "This wouldn't do for my father, you know. You would have got short shrift had he been employing you!" They were quite impertinent, I remember.'
Dotty grew quite pink at the memory.
'Very naughty of them,' agreed Connie, wishing she had been on the scene at the time. 'Well, Aunt Dot, it's a marvellous offer, and I shall tell Kit about it. But could you bear to share your house?'
'It's your house! And there's nothing I should enjoy more than having you both under this roof. I could keep an eye on you, and make sure that Kit treated you properly.'
'I don't think he will turn out a wife-beater,' said Connie.
'You never can tell,'replied Dotty. 'Do bend down, dear, and fetch Flossie out. She badly needs kempting.'
'Kempting?' echoed Connie.
'Well, if she's unkempt, which she most certainly is, then she should be made the opposite. Now, where did I put that brush?'
Walking into Lulling with Kit that afternoon, Connie told him of Dotty's plans.
'There's a lot to be said for it,' he agreed, it settles Aunt Dotty's future, and I honestly think we could have a lovely house there if it were sensibly enlarged. The site is perfect and I shouldn't think there would be any planning difficulties. If you like the idea, I'll have a word with Edward, and see what he thinks about the possibilities.'
'I'm all for it,' said Connie, 'but are you truly happy about these arrangements? I can see some men refusing point blank, and I shouldn't blame them. Aunt Dotty's not everybody's idea of a close companion.'
'My dear girl, I know quite well I shall never get you to leave her, and I respect you for it. Therefore, if I want you—and God knows I do—then I'm more than happy to take on dear old Dotty as well. I think she's being uncommonly generous in making the offer. Let's jolly well enjoy it. We ought to have a lot of fun planning the new building.'
'It's an enormous weight off my mind,' confessed Connie. 'Let's have a cup of tea at The Fuchsia Bush to celebrate.'
Kit's landlady, Mrs Jenner, was delighted on her lodger's account to know of the forthcoming marriage, but told him frankly that she hardly dared to hope that she would ever get such a paragon again in her upstairs Bat.
'Nonsense!' Kit said. 'You wait and see. There'll be a queue from here to Nidden when the word goes round that there's a flat here to let. You'll be able to pick and choose, and state any rent you like.'
'I'm not sure I shall let at all,' said Mrs Jenner. 'Percy keeps badgering me to have him here for good. I've said to him, time and time again: "Look here, Perce! I don't want you, so stop asking!" But, you know, he won't take a hint.'
Some hint, thought Kit privately! It sounded a straightforward ultimatum from sister to brother to him. He hoped that Mrs Jenner would not weaken. It was time she had life a little easier, and Percy could look after himself quite well, if he would get over his self-pity.
'I tell him,' went on his landlady, 'that I want the place to myself now and again. Percy would expect a cooked dinner prompt at twelve o'clock, meat and two veg and a proper pudding. Well, I'm not starting. A boiled egg and a slice of toast does me, and I've had my fill of cooking over the years. Besides, I'm enjoying getting out of an evening now. I like my choral nights, and Bingo.'
'Have you won anything?' asked Kit.
'Well, I once won eighty pence, but you'll never believe this! Nelly Piggott won fifty pounds last week. Think of it! But don't breathe a word, will you?'
'Of course not. But surely there were dozens of people present who know all about it?'
'Maybe, but Nelly doesn't want Albert to hear of it. She's putting by as much as she can in case he ever throws her out again.'
This was news to Kit, who had always understood that it was Nelly who deserted Albert, not the other way about.
'She's a good sort,' went on Mrs Jenner, 'and a real hard worker. They say The Fuchsia Bush is coining money since she started cooking there. I've got quite fond of her over the last few months, and I reckon she's had a hard time.'
'Well, you can count on me,' Kit assured her. 'I shan't say anything about her winnings. But I hope their marriage won't break up again.'
'Well, marriage is a proper lottery, isn't it? And when's yours to be?'
'Soon after Christmas. There's quite a bit to be arranged. I must sort out some of my furniture still in store for one thing.'
'And it will take some time to get the plans passed for the new wing on Miss Harmer's place, won't it?' said Mrs Jenner conversationally.
As neither Kit himself nor Connie had breathed a word of their hopes to anyone, he realized that this was just another prize example of rural communication at work.
'That's quite right,' he agreed resignedly.
As Dimity had remarked to Ella on an earlier occasion, Christmas seemed to have sneaked up on Lulling and Thrush Green, and no doubt on the rest of the British Isles as well.
At Thrush Green School Miss Fogerty had set her children to making Christmas cards and calendars already. Miss Potter's slightly older children were promoted to bookmarks with tassels, knitted string dish cloths and covers for the Radio Times and T. V. Times, in crash embroidered with lazy daisy stitch.
Miss Watson's class, as befitted the most experienced and talented members of the school, were engaged on such heady projects as tea-cosies, handerkchief sachets, decorated boxes and tea pot stands.
As well as all this handicraft activity, Christmas carols were being practised and plans were afoot for a Christmas party. Anything more ambitious had been vetoed this year after much earnest discussion in the school house.
'I really don't think I can face another nativity play,' confessed Miss Watson. 'I know the mothers are marvellous in getting the costumes done and helping with the make-up, but there's always some crisis or other. Do you remember when the three wise men all wore dreadful robes which clashed terribly? And then John Todd's mother was so difficult about providing a beard for Joseph? And really the floorboards are far too splintery for all that kneeling, and I do detest taking my rug over for the front of the manger. In any case, I don't think Axminster looks reverent enough.'
'A nativity play certainly makes a lot of work,' agreed Agnes. 'And the one pantomime we tried years ago was a little amateurish, I felt.'
'To be honest,' said Dorothy, 'I suppose we are getting past all the effort. But after all, if things had been as we wanted we should be retired by now. I really don't think we need to feel too guilty, at our age, for making Christmas simpler.'
'In any case,' pointed out Agnes, 'we are having the carol service in the church this year, instead of at the school. It should be a very impressive afternoon, and I'm sure the parents will appreciate it.'
'Mrs Todd won't. She's staunch Plymouth Brethren, and is refusing to let John set foot in St Andrew's.'
'Sometimes one w
onders if church unity will ever be realized,' said Agnes, shaking her head.
'Well, I've a scheme which I think ought to be realized,' said Dorothy, changing the subject. 'As soon as term ends, I propose that we spend Christmas at Barton and have a thorough rest.'
'What a wonderful idea! But can we afford it?'
'We're going to,' said Dorothy firmly. 'You are not really fit yet, and my leg is still a nuisance. I think it would do us both a world of good to have a week by the sea, and to let other people wait on us. What's more, we might even hear of a little house for sale while we're down there.'
'But what about the parties we usually go to? And the Christmas Day service at St Andrew's?'
'They'll have to do without our presence for once. No, Agnes, my mind's made up. No bothering with Christmas catering, no standing about at cocktail parties drinking stuff you don't want while your headache gets worse, no last-minute presents to deliver. We're going to have a very quiet, lazy week indulging ourselves. And surely, Agnes, at our age, we deserve it?'
'Indeed we do,' agreed little Miss Fogerty.
Across the green, Christmas preparations were also going on. Jenny was surveying a splendidly rich fruit cake, and deciding on its future icing. Ella Bembridge was sorting out scarves and ties of her own weaving for the unfortunate recipients of her bounty. Joan and Edward Young were trying to fix a convenient date to have a mammoth Christmas shopping spree, and in every house where there were children notes were being sent up the chimney to Santa Claus, most of them asking for presents of such magnitude and expense that parents' hearts quailed.
At Lulling the pace was even faster. The shops were beginning their pre-Christmas fever, and the council men were threading the lime trees with coloured lights.
The Fuchsia Bush had a mouth-watering display of Christmas cakes, boxes of home-made sweets and shortbread, most of them made by Nelly Piggott and her helpers. Mrs Peters was looking forward to a bumper Christmas this year, and congratulated herself on being able to keep Nelly in her employ as well as Mrs Jefferson.