by Miss Read
From his chair, Harold could see, through the window, the thatched cottage across the way where Dimity had lived before her marriage. She had shared it with Ella Bembridge, another of Thrush Green's redoubtable spinsters, who still lived there, coming over to see her old friend at least once a day.
If anything, Harold was rather more afraid of the ruthless Ella than he was of scatter-brained Dotty Harmer. The latter he could dodge. Ella never gave up. How Dimity could have survived such a partnership for so many years, he just did not know. Another instance of her selflessness, he supposed, although he was ready to admit that Ella's gruffness no doubt hid a warm heart. At least, that's what people told him at Thrush Green, and he was only too willing to believe them.
Certainly, her cottage, glimpsed through the rectory window, looked as snug as a cat sunning itself. Its thatch gleamed. A row of hollyhocks swayed in the breeze, and Ella's open bedroom window flashed dazzling lights as it reflected the sunshine. Did Dimity ever regret leaving that haven, he wondered?
He looked at Charles, turning the papers on his desk. It had been no sacrifice for Dimity, Harold decided, when she gave up her home across the road. There was no finer man than the rector of Thrush Green.
'Do you get many letters of complaint?' he asked.
'A few each week. I try and keep one morning a week for answering them. I don't quite know what I am expected to do. Some are most unreasonable – this kneeler one, for instance. But of course people are distressed and I must do my best to explain things, and perhaps to comfort them.'
'We might do something about the churchyard between us,' said Harold diffidently. 'I saw Piggott as I came across, and of course he's past keeping the place as it should be.'
'I've done my utmost to get another man,' replied Charles, 'but no one seems to want the work.'
'We might organise a working party,' suggested Harold. 'We could take down the railings, for instance. They're getting downright dangerous.'
'They are in a bad way,' agreed the rector, 'but I think we should probably have to get a faculty to remove them. I must go into it.'
A cry from the kitchen told them that coffee was ready.
'Of course,' went on the rector, following his friend down the passage, 'Piggott never makes the best of anything. No one could accuse him of looking on the bright side of life. However, I will go and see what can be done during the week. Thrush Green must have a tidy churchyard.'
'Yes indeed,' echoed Dimity, passing steaming cups. 'Thrush Green must have a tidy churchyard.'
Had they known it, on that serene September morning, those simple words were to become a battle cry. The resting place of Thrush Green's dead was soon to become a field of conflict.
2 Miss Fogerty Is Upset
THRUSH GREEN, which is roughly triangular, is bordered by two highways which converge at the southern end in Lulling. A fine avenue of chestnut trees lines the third side at the northern end, joining the two roads.
Harold Shoosmith's house stands on the smaller road which leads northward to the villages of Nod and Nidden. Next door stands the village school, one or two cottages, including Albert Piggott's, and "The Two Pheasants."
The other road is larger and busier, leading northward to other Cotswold towns, and finally to the Midlands. It is on this road, facing across the green to the village school and public house, that some of Thrush Green's most attractive houses stand, although the finest of all, everyone agrees, are the three magnificent dwellings whose frontages lie along the chestnut avenue.
Ella Bembridge's cottage, at the head of the steep hill which drops down to Lulling High Street, is one of the pretty houses on the main road and Dr and Mrs Bailey live in another, a solid Cotswold stone house weathered to a perfect blend of grey and gold.
Next door to the Baileys' stands a small square house, of the same age, called Tullivers, and to this house, some time ago, came a young woman and her little son Jeremy. Thrush Green, of course, was avidly interested in the newcomer and speculated about the non-appearance of her husband.
But speculation turned to sympathy when Thrush Green heard that he had been killed in a car crash in France, and sympathy turned to rejoicing when she married again later. Frank and Phyllida Hurst were popular members of the Thrush Green community, and young Jeremy one of the star pupils at the village school.
On this sparkling September morning, as the rector, his wife and their visitor sipped their coffee, Phil Hurst was cutting roses in the garden of Tullivers. This second flowering was infinitely better than the first, she decided, snipping busily. Just as second thoughts usually were – or second marriages, perhaps?
She straightened up and stood, silent, lost in her thoughts. Across the green the schoolchildren shouted in the playground. From a garden nearby came the sound of a lawn mower, and swallows, strung along the telegraph wire like beads on a thread, chattered together. But Phil heard nothing.
The old tag: 'Comparisons are odious' came into her mind. It was true in this case. This second marriage was wonderfully, strongly happy despite the difference in their ages. But no one could say that it was better than the first – simply different. Marriage with John had been a gay affair, exciting and exacting, two young people learning to live together – until the last unhappy months when he had left her for a French woman.
Marriage with Frank was happiness in a different way. It had a quieter, more companionable quality. It was Frank who gave comfort, whereas it was she who had comforted John. There was a solid strength about the older man which John had lacked, but which she had never realised until now.
And then he was so good with Jeremy! How heart-warming that was, to see the affection between them! It would have been understandable if a man of Frank's age had shown some irritation now and again in the presence of a vociferous little boy. After all, Robert, his only son by his first marriage, who was now a farmer in Wales, had four children of his own, and Frank's youngest grandchild was much the same age as Jeremy.
She moved thoughtfully towards the house where a Golden Shower rose flaunted its lemon flowers against the stone wall. At the moment there was one flaw in their otherwise perfect relationship. Frank dearly wanted Jeremy to go away to school, positive that it brought out the best in any child. Phil hated the idea, at least until he was considerably older. He loved his present school. He loved Tullivers and the simple life of Thrush Green. He had lost his father, and had had to adapt to another man taking his father's place. Phil felt sure that it was best to let him stay as he was for some time.
There was a good day school in Lulling which Paul Young attended, and he was going on from there to his father's public school. Phil thought that this was the ideal plan, and decided that she must speak to her friend Joan Young, who lived in one of the three splendid houses in the chestnut avenue, to elicit her help if a battle with Frank became unavoidable. It was the one thing, she told herself, snipping ferociously, for which she would fight. After all, Jeremy was her childhers and John's – and she was determined to do the right thing by him.
A woman's voice broke upon her militant thoughts, and she turned to see her neighbour Winnie Bailey at the gate.
'And how is the doctor this morning?' enquired Phil, going towards her.
'Not too good today. He's up and down, as you know, and had a trying night. He's asleep now, and I thought I would slip down to Lulling for some meat while he's resting.'
'Shall I look in?'
'No, no, many thanks. Jenny's there till twelve, and I shan't be long. Anything I can fetch for you?'
'Nothing, thank you. Frank's at the office today and won't be back until tomorrow. He's dining with an American editor and hoping to do a deal.'
'Good luck to him! So I suppose you and Jeremy are having boiled eggs?'
'Absolutely right! I'll start cooking again tomorrow.'
'Well, I must be off,' said Winnie, casting an anxious look at the doctor's bedroom window. 'He likes me to be there when he first wakes.'
&n
bsp; She hurried away, and for the first time Phil thought how old and frail she looked. What a burden of anxiety she carried constantly! It put her own trivial worries into perspective, she thought.
And what a daily battle was being fought by the gallant doctor next door! It was a long and valiant campaign waged against the grimmest of all adversaries.
Sadly, as Phil and all Thrush Green knew, victory would have to be conceded to the enemy before long.
Playtime was over, and in the infants' room at the village school little Miss Fogerty sat at her desk with a small group of children gathered about her.
The rest of the class was engaged in various activities. Some of the children were copying sentences from the blackboard, others were reading at their tables, and the usual hard core of juvenile delinquents was making itself objectionable to the more law-abiding of its neighbours.
The group clustered by Miss Fogerty consisted of those who found reading difficult. In her young days, they would have been known as 'backward'. Halfway through her career, the term was changed to 'less able'. Now that she was nearing retirement, she believed such a group was called 'remedial'. The name might change, thought Miss Fogerty – the children did not. They provided her with the hardest session of her teaching day.
By dint of using every reading method known, she battled on day after day. Some, she knew, would never read, and would rely on television, radio, and the age-old practical methods of personal demonstration to acquire knowledge.
Others would gain enough mechanical skill to make out the headlines or to puzzle out where to sign a form. A very few would catch up with the rest of the class, and on these Miss Fogerty relied for any encouragement.
Grubby forefingers were descending the long cards made by Miss Fogerty years before.
'Per – in' they chanted, gazing at the picture beside the first word.
'Ter – in' they went on.
'Fer – in.' Really, thought Miss Fogerty, with pride, that fish was very well executed!
'Grer – in.' And that smile too! The cards had worn extremely well.
She stood up suddenly, and looked over the heads of her pupils to the back row of the classroom.
'Any more of that pinching, Johnny Dodd, and you will stay in after school.'
She sat down abruptly. The drone continued without interruption.
'Cher – in.'
She allowed her thoughts to wander. Miss Fogerty disliked change. She and Miss Watson, her headmistress, had held sway at Thrush Green School for many years, and were firm friends. But now, after all this time, a third teacher had been appointed, and although the term was yet young, Miss Fogerty could see signs that disturbed her.
For one thing, the girl was only just in her twenties, and though Miss Fogerty was fair-minded enough to see that this could not be helped – after all, the time of one's birth was beyond one's control – she realised that Miss Potter's view of teaching was quite different from her own and Miss Watson's.
And then she dressed in such a peculiar way, pondered Miss Fogerty, automatically replacing a wavering forefinger upon the reading card. If she were headmistress she would never allow a teacher in her school to wear a trouser suit. Most unbecoming. Most unladylike.
'But very practical, dear,' Miss Watson had said, in answer to Miss Fogerty's expressed doubts. 'And will keep the girl warm in that rather draughty new building.'
The new building, called colloquially 'the terrapin' was a purely functional classroom which had been erected at the farther end of the playground to house the young juniors. It was termed a temporary building, but Miss Fogerty and Miss Watson, with years of experience behind them, faced the fact that the terrapin would still be there long after they had retired.
The new housing estate, built along the road to Nod and Nidden, supplied most of the extra pupils at Thrush Green School. For generations the village school had accommodated about fifty or sixty children in its two rooms, but now that the number on roll had risen to over eighty, the third classroom had been deemed a positive necessity.
Miss Fogerty would dearly have loved to have the terrapin as her classroom. As soon as the building began, she put forward excellent reasons why the room should be put at the infants' disposal.
'You know how much noise they make,' she pointed out to Miss Watson. 'We shouldn't disturb anyone over there. And the cloakrooms and lavatories are all built in – so convenient for small children. You know how they bang the lobby door every time they need to go across the yard.'
'The room is far more suited to the needs of the juniors,' said her headmistress firmly.
'And then it's so sunny,' pleaded Miss Fogerty, 'and will bring on the mustard and cress and bean seeds and bulbs so beautifully. As well as being healthier for the babies.'
'All that applies to the junior class too,' pointed out Miss Watson obdurately. She used her trump card.
'Besides, Agnes,' she said, more gently, 'I should miss you. I like to think of you at my right hand.'
There was no answer to this, and Miss Fogerty gave way with her usual docility.
But the decision rankled. She would have liked a change. Hadn't she spent the best years of her life in the infants' room which faced north east and was decidedly shabby and dark? The fact that its main window overlooked Thrush Green, and thus afforded an interesting view of the comings and goings of its inhabitants, was a point in the classroom's favour, but even that could pall. It would have been lovely to have a new view looking across the little valley to Lulling Woods, and to have the sun streaming through that beautiful low window, so infinitely preferable to the high Gothic one which the Victorian architect had considered right and proper for the original building.
And although it was uncommonly nice of dear Miss Watson to say that she would miss her, pondered Miss Fogerty, would it not have been even nicer if she had taken her old friend's wishes into consideration? After all, she had loyally served Miss Watson and Thrush Green School through thick and thin, and had rarely asked for a favour. It would have been gratifying to think that those long years had been recognised and rewarded with a willingness to meet her request.
It would be easier to bear, Miss Fogerty considered, if Miss Potter had appreciated the new classroom, but there had been a great many grumbles, from the newcomer, about draughts, and glaring sunlight, and doors which stuck, and even about noisy lavatory cisterns, which Miss Fogerty thought privately it was indelicate to mention.
No, Miss Potter was not an asset to the staff, that was plain. Certainly, it was early days to judge, and maybe she would improve on acquaintance, and mellow a little in the company of two older and wiser women.
Nevertheless, that old tag about two being company and three none, had some horse sense. Things could never be quite the same between dear Miss Watson and herself with a third member of staff to consider.
A thought struck her. Of course if Miss Potter continued to be disgruntled about the terrapin, then she might prefer to take over her own room. And if that didn't suit, then the girl might apply for a post elsewhere. Heaven alone knew, a good teacher would be snapped up anywhere.
Miss Fogerty's spirits rose at the thought. She smiled upon her labouring readers.
Very good,' she told them warmly. 'You've all tried hard this morning. Rose, collect the cards, and then take round the sweet tin. I am very pleased with you.'
3 Dotty Harmer's Legacy
TRUE to his word, the Reverend Charles Henstock made a point of examining the churchyard of St Andrew's, with particular care, within the week.
He was not a man who responded to his surroundings with any great degree of sensitivity. On the whole, he was unobservant, and perhaps this was a blessing when one surveyed the gloomy setting of the rectory, and the cold and undistinguished interior of his church. Someone, a century earlier, had removed, with a heavy Victorian hand, any little prettinesses, which St Andrew's once enjoyed, and put in a truly appalling reredos at much the same time as the iron railings had been
erected upon the low Cotswold stone wall which Thrush Green had once thought adequate as a boundary.
There was no doubt about it, thought the rector, pacing the uneven paths between tilting tombstones, the place was neglected. He looked over the railings across the green, noticing for once, how spruce it looked, how fine was the chestnut avenue, in the morning sunlight, as the leaves began to turn from green to gold. The hedges and gardens were tidy. The hanging baskets, outside "The Two Pheasants," were still ablaze with geraniums and lobelia plants. Only here, in this corner of Thrush Green, was there something shabby. The most hallowed spot of all, thought the rector, turning to survey it again, was the most shameful. Something would have to be done
But what? He was debating the advisability of calling at Albert Piggott's cottage, when the sexton emerged from the vestry door. No doubt he had been checking the boiler fuel. Very soon it would be needed, and what an expense! Charles Henstock sighed as he approached Albert.
'Another lovely day, Albert.'
'Need some rain.'
'Surely not.'
'Runner beans is drying out.'
Albert passed on the information with morose relish. Albert hated optimists.
'I've been thinking about this churchyard, Albert. Do you happen to have heard of anyone to give you a hand?'
'Not a living soul. What about that bit you put in the paper? Any takers?'
'I fear not. It seems that no one wants this sort of work.'
'Can't blame 'em,' said Albert laconically. 'They gets more standing by some bit of machinery doin' dam' all.'
The rector decided to let the oath pass.
'Well, we must do something ourselves, I suppose. Mr Shoosmith suggested a working party to help you.'
Albert flushed an ugly red. If there was anything he hated more than optimists, it was newcomers putting their oar in where they wasn't needed. Cheek, coming into his churchyard!
'And what does this 'ere working party intend to do, may I ask?' he enquired, with heavy sarcasm.
The rector, who was no coward, spoke out.