(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  'As you think best, Agnes dear. You know I have every confidence in your judgement.'

  She watched the little figure wheel about and march towards her own classroom.

  Miss Watson sighed, and turned to face her reflection in the dusky glass of 'The Light of The World', behind her desk, which served as a somewhat unsatisfactory mirror.

  She patted her hair into place in readiness for the return of her class.

  'I must walk warily with dear Agnes,' she told herself. 'Even worms will turn!'

  Mrs Hurst, thought Miss Fogerty, behaved perfectly when she presented her with her wounded son a few minutes later.

  'Hello, then,' she said, in some surprise. 'You've been in the wars, I see.'

  She bent to give him a swift kiss and led him and his teacher indoors out of the wind.

  'How very kind of you to bring him,' she said to Miss Fogerty. 'Do sit down.'

  'I really musn't stop,' said Miss Fogerty, glancing around her at the chintz covers, the table littered with papers and the typewriter open and in use. A log fire burnt in the grate, and a cat was stretched before it warming its stomach blissfully. How snug it all looked!

  She explained about the accident and how it had seemed best to let Jeremy come home at once.

  'He was very brave,' she said.

  Jeremy's answering smile touched her heart.

  I cried a bit,' he told his mother.

  'Hardly at all,' said Miss Fogerty stoutly. 'A very brave boy.'

  She turned towards the door.

  'And now I must hurry back. My class has some work to do, but I don't want Miss Watson to have to keep an eye on the children for too long. She has enough to do with her own class.'

  Phil accompanied her to the door, repeating her thanks.

  'He'll be quite fit to come this afternoon, I feel sure,' she said.

  'I must go,' said Jeremy. 'It's my day to fill in the weather-chart.'

  'Then that settles it,' agreed his mother, exchanging glances with his teacher.

  'Then I'll see you at two o'clock,' said Miss Fogerty, as Phil opened the front door.

  They both started back. For there, about to ring the bell, was Winifred Bailey, the doctor's wife from next door, and there were tears on her cheeks.

  Miss Fogerty was the first to collect herself. She acknowledged the doctor's wife, made swift farewells and set off briskly across the green.

  'Not Donald?' queried Phil.

  'I'm afraid so, and my telephone's out of order. I must get young Lovell immediately. He's in a very poor way.'

  'Shall I go into him while you ring?'

  'No, no, my dear. Jenny's there, and I'll go straight back.'

  Phil left her by the telephone, and took the child into the kitchen, so that Winifred might have a little privacy.

  'What's the matter with the doctor?' asked Jeremy, in far too loud a voice for his mother's liking.

  'We don't know. That's why Doctor Lovell's coming.'

  'But if he's a doctor,' began Jeremy.

  'Hush, hush, for pity's sake,' pleaded his mother. 'Come and change your shoes, and help me to make an omelette for lunch.'

  She was beating eggs when Winifred came into the kitchen. The older woman looked less strained.

  'Thank you, Phil. He's coming immediately. I'll let you know how he gets on.'

  Phil followed her to the door.

  'Please,' she begged, 'let me do anything to help. I could take a turn at watching him or –'

  Winifred put her hand on the girl's arm.

  'You would be the first person I should turn to,' she assured her, before hurrying down the path.

  Little Miss Fogerty, returning briskly to her duties across the wet grass of Thrush Green, was both excited and saddened by the scene which she had just witnessed.

  It is always exhilarating to be the first to know of something of note, particularly in a small community, and Miss Fogerty's quiet life held little excitement.

  On the other hand her grief for Doctor Bailey's condition was overwhelming. He had attended her for many years, and she remembered, with gratitude, his concern for her annual bouts of laryngitis which were, fortunately, about the only troubles for which she had to consult him.

  His most valuable quality, Miss Fogerty, considered, was his way of making one feel that there was always plenty of time, and that he truly wished to hear about his patient's fears and perplexities. It was this quality, above all others, which had so endeared the good doctor to Thrush Green and its environs. He had always been prepared to give – of his time, of his knowledge, and of his humour. His reward had been outstanding loyalty and affection.

  Miss Fogerty pushed open the school door to be confronted by Miss Potter. Her arms were full of sheets of tissue paper in various colours, and her expression was unbearably smug, to Miss Fogerty's eyes.

  She held the door open for the girl to pass. Miss Potter, without a word of thanks, allowed the older woman to shut it behind her, and made her way across the playground to the terrapin.

  Miss Fogerty seethed with a mixture of emotions, but remained outwardly calm as she returned to her classroom.

  The children were virtuously quiet. The door between the two rooms was propped open with a waste paper basket, and Miss Fogerty put her head into the neighbouring room to express her thanks and to report back on duty.

  Miss Watson gave her a friendly smile and said that the children had been no trouble at all.

  Miss Fogerty, bursting with the news she had so recently acquired, would have liked to tell Miss Watson all. In the old days, there would have been no hesitation. Out it would have come with a rush, and Miss Watson would have nodded gravely, as became a headmistress, and advised secrecy until the tidings were confirmed elsewhere, and both ladies would have felt pleasantly important, and with a strong bond of self-imposed propriety uniting them.

  But the memory of Miss Potter, laden with goodies from the stock cupboard, checked Miss Fogerty's natural loquacity. She did not feel inclined to share this delicious tit-bit with her headmistress. She still smarted from the favours shown to that detestable Miss Potter. Let Miss Watson find out for herself, and then, when she told her assistant the news, Miss Fogerty would have the exquisite pleasure of saying, in as off-hand a manner as she could produce, that she had known for some time.

  She sat down at her own desk and surveyed the orderly rows of tables with unseeing eyes.

  Her heart was troubled. How could she, Agnes Fogerty, respected teacher at Thrush Green School for over thirty years, behave in such a despicable way! What would dear Mr Henstock say if he could read her mind at the moment? And were her thoughts worthy of the high ideals which had always directed the conduct of poor Doctor Bailey, now so near his end?

  It was a terrible thing to find that one could become so mean and so petty. And so unhappy too, thought poor Miss Fogerty.

  But, unhappy as she was, and torn with remorse and self-disgust, she knew that it was impossible to feel for Miss Watson that warm respect and friendliness which had meant so much to her for so long.

  If only Miss Potter had never come to Thrush Green! If only Miss Potter were not here! If only Miss Potter would go!

  The clock's hands stood at twelve o'clock. Sighing, little Miss Fogerty stood for grace, and thanked God for blessings received, with a heavy heart.

  On the way into the lobby, Johnny Dodd, arch-malefactor of the infants' class, whispered to his neighbour:

  'We was quiet all that time and she never give us so much as a pear drop out of the sweet-tin!'

  Injustice rankles at any age.

  6 Doctor Bailey's Last Battle

  BEFORE nightfall, the news that Doctor Bailey was sinking was common knowledge at Thrush Green.

  There was general sadness. Even Albert Piggott had a good word to say for the dying man, as he drank his half-pint of bitter at "The Two Pheasants."

  'Well, we shan't see his like again,' he commented morosely. 'He done us proud, the old gentl
eman. I s'pose now we has to put up with young Doctor Lovell dashing in and out again before you can tell him what ails you.'

  'There's the new chap,' said the landlord. 'Seems a nice enough young fellow.'

  'Him?' squeaked Albert. 'Nothing but a beardless boy! I wouldn't trust my peptic ulcer to him, that I wouldn't. No, I'll put me trust in strong peppermints while I can, and hope Doctor Lovell can spare a couple of minutes when I'm real hard-pressed. You mark my words, we're all going to miss the old doctor at Thrush Green.'

  It was the older people who were the saddest. Doctor Bailey had brought their children into the world, and knew the family histories intimately. He had not been active in the partnership for some years now, so that the younger inhabitants were more familiar with Doctor Lovell, who had married a Thrush Green girl, and was accepted as a comparatively worthy successor to Doctor Bailey.

  But it was the old friends and neighbours, the Youngs, the Henstocks, Ella Bembridge, Dotty Harmer, the Hursts next door and the comparative newcomer, Harold Shoosmith, who were going to miss Donald Bailey most keenly. Most of them had visited the invalid often, during the past few months, marvelling at his gallant spirit and his unfailing good temper.

  Now, as the day waned, their thoughts turned to that quiet grey house across the green. The rector had called during the afternoon and found Winnie Bailey sitting by her husband's bedside.

  He was asleep, his frail hands folded on the white sheet. A downstairs room, once his study, had been turned into a bedroom for the last few months, and his bed faced the french windows leading into the garden he loved so well. Propped up on his pillows, he had enjoyed a view of the flower beds and the comings and goings at the bird table all through the summer.

  His particular joy was the fine copper beech tree which dominated the scene. He had watched it in early May, as the tiny breaking leaves spread a pinkish haze over the magnificent skeleton. He had rejoiced in its glossy purplish mid-summer beauty which had sheltered the gentle ring-doves that cooed among its branches. And now, in these last few days, he had watched its golden leaves fluttering down to form a glowing carpet at its foot, as the autumn winds tossed the great boughs this way and that.

  For once, the boisterous wind was lulled. Wisps of high grey cloud scarcely moved behind the copper beech. The garden was very still, the bird-table empty, the room where the dying man lay as quiet and tranquil as the grave to which so soon he would be departing.

  Charles Henstock sat beside his old friend for a short time, his lips moving in prayer. After a little he rose, and Winnie went with him into the sitting-room. She was calm and dry-eyed, and Charles admired her control.

  'He's very much in our thoughts and prayers, as you know,' said Charles. 'I know that Ella and Dimity – everyone in fact – will want to know how he is and would like to call, but they don't wish to intrude at a time like this. Shall I tell them the latest news? Or would you like one of us to sit with you?'

  Winnie smiled.

  'You tell them, please. Doctor Lovell says it is only a matter of hours now. I shall stay by him. He has a few lucid moments every now and again. Why, he's even doing the crossword, bit by bit, but I think visitors would tire him too much. I know that they will understand.'

  Charles nodded.

  'Jenny is with me,' continued Winnie. 'She insisted on staying today, and I'm grateful to have someone here to answer the door. I will keep in touch, Charles dear, and I'll tell Donald you called.'

  The sun was setting as the rector set off homeward. Long shadows stretched across the grass from the chestnut avenue and the houses round the green. Above "The Two Pheasants" a curl of blue smoke hung in the still air. The bar fire had been lit ready for the customers.

  Willie Bond, the postman, was pushing his bicycle along the road to Nidden, at the end of his last delivery, and in the distance the rector could see Ella vanishing down the alley that led to Lulling Woods and Dotty Harmer's house. No doubt, she was off to collect her daily pint of goat's milk.

  Sad though he felt, there was a touch of comfort in these manifestations of life going on as usual. Donald Bailey, he knew, would agree with him. He remembered his philosophy so clearly. We are born, we live our little lives, we die. Our lives are cut to the same pattern, touching here, overlapping there, and thus forming rich convolutions of colour and shape. But at the end, we are alone, and only in the lives and memories of our children, our friends and our work can we hope to be remembered.

  Charles Henstock, whose belief in an after-life was absolute, had never been able to persuade his old friend to share his convictions, and he had once told Donald, after an amicable exchange of views on the subject, that he considered the doctor to be the finest unbeliever he had been privileged to meet.

  In some ways, thought the rector, observing the cock on St Andrew's spire gilded with the setting sun, one could have no better epitaph.

  A few minutes later, Harold Shoosmith walked through the chestnut avenue to post his letters at the box on the corner.

  At the same time, Frank Hurst's car came up the hill and turned into the drive of Tullivers, next door to Doctor Bailey's.

  He got out of the car and hailed his old friend. Harold thrust his letters in the box, and turned to meet Frank who was hobbling towards him.

  'Rheumatism, Frank?'

  'No, just stiff with driving. The traffic gets worse. I've been over two hours getting home.'

  'You want to retire.'

  'I will as soon as I can. Come in and have a drink. Phil would love to see you.'

  They walked up the path, Harold glancing at the next house, but there was no movement there, except for the thread of smoke which hung above the chimney.

  'Phil!' called Frank. 'I've brought Harold in for a drink.'

  His wife came hurrying from the kitchen. Harold thought that she looked prettier than ever, and envied Frank the welcoming kiss. Once, for a short time, he himself had wondered if he might ask Phil to marry him, but it had come to naught, and looking at their happiness now, he felt glad for them, and relieved for himself that he still had his bachelor independence.

  'What news of the doctor?' asked Frank. 'Any improvement since yesterday?'

  Phil told him of Winnie's visit.

  'I'm afraid he's on his way out,' said Harold. 'Thrush Green won't be the same without him.'

  'I only hope that Winnie decides to stay,' said Phil. 'She has a sister somewhere in Cornwall who wants her to join forces with her, I know. They get on quite well, but...'

  Her voice trailed away.

  'As you say,' agreed Harold, holding up his sherry to admire its glow in the dying rays of the sun. 'People will make decisions when they are still in a state of shock. Not that I think Winnie will do anything so foolish. She's the most level-headed female I've ever met.'

  At this moment Jeremy entered bearing a saucer.

  'Hello, young man. Are you bringing us nuts or crisps?' asked Frank.

  'Can't find them, so I've brought you some of my jelly babies,' said Jeremy, offering them to Harold.

  'That's extremely generous of you,' said Harold politely. 'May I have a red one?'

  'Not for me, thanks,' said his stepfather hastily.

  'Not even a head? I'll eat the rest.'

  'Not just now, my boy.'

  His eye fell upon the bandage round the child's knee.

  'Hello, what's this? A hospital job?'

  'I fell over in the playground,' explained Jeremy. He deemed it wiser not to mention the infidelity of Johnny Dodd. He had been ticked off once before for telling tales.

  'And Miss Fogerty brought me home,' continued the child, 'and I missed the last lesson at school this morning.'

  Frank gave a quick enquiring look at his wife, Harold observed.

  'Oh, nothing serious – just a graze. I think Miss Fogerty was glad to have him looked after for that half-hour. It bled quite a bit, you know.'

  'You're a lucky chap,' said Frank. 'You won't be spoiled like this when you go
off to boarding school.'

  'Well, we won't talk about that just now,' said Phil hastily, and Harold thought that she had become rather pink. This was obviously a sore point at the moment.

  He drained his glass, and heaved himself out of the armchair.

  'Well, I must be getting back. Many thanks for the restorative. By the way, Charles is going to let us know how things go next door, so he told me. Shall I ring you?'

  'Please do,' said Phil. 'I think he left there a few minutes ago.'

  Harold made his farewells, and returned across the darkening green.

  'I wonder who will win that particular skirmish?' he thought, remembering the faces of Frank and his wife, whilst Jeremy looked from one to the other.

  At the gate, he turned and looked once more at the Baileys' house. A soft light in the doctor's downstairs bedroom made a golden square in the dusky stone of the house.

  There was, alas, no doubt who would win the battle there.

  The same subject was the topic of conversation between Ella Bembridge and Dotty Harmer, in the latter's cluttered kitchen near Lulling woods.

  'Jolly sad,' boomed Ella, 'snuffing it like that. The end of everything, I suppose.'

  Dotty, scrabbling for change in ajar which, long ago, had held Gentlemen's Relish, gave a snort.

  'If you were a true Christian, Ella, you would look upon it as a new beginning.'

  'But who's to know?' Ella's voice was almost a wail.

  Dotty looked at her friend sharply.

  'Well, I, for one, know! If my dear father believed in the hereafter, and all the good and intelligent clergymen we have met in our lives do so too, then I am quite confident.'

  'But what do you think happens, Dotty?'

  'We are simply translated,' said Dotty briskly. She looked at the coins in her hand.

  'Are you giving me five pence or five Ps for the milk? I quite forget.'

  'It started at sixpence, if you remember, but now things have got so out of hand I thought you ought to have five Ps.'

  'But isn't that a shilling? That's far too much.'

  'The milkman charges more than that for his homogenized muck, so take the bob, Dotty dear, and we'll all be content.'