(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  'Know it well,' said Mrs Cleary. 'Looks like a children's playground.'

  'I really think,' piped the very old churchwarden tremulously, 'that Miss Watson's point, about the churchyard's untidiness being a bad example for her pupils, is one of the most telling. I should like to see this other place. To my mind, the idea is sound.'

  There was general discussion, some against, but more for, the proposal, and the hideous black marble clock on the black marble mantelpiece struck nine before the rector could restore order.

  'It seems to me that we should take a vote on this project,' he said at last. 'Those for?'

  Eight hands were raised.

  'And against?'

  Three hands went up.

  The rector sighed.

  'Later on there will be a notice on the church door. Any objections, I believe, must be sent to the Diocese. Meanwhile, I will find out more about applying for a faculty.

  'Thank you, my dear people, a most interesting meeting.'

  Mr Hodge and Mrs Cleary were two of the last to leave. Their faces were stern as they shook the rector's proffered hand at the front door.

  'You'll see my name among the objectors, sir, I'm afraid,' said Percy.

  'And mine most certainly; said Mrs Cleary, sweeping out. Harold and Charles watched them depart beneath the starry sky.

  'Dear, oh dear!' cried the rector. 'Would you have thought it?'

  'Yes,' said Harold simply, and began to laugh.

  10 Problems At Thrush Green

  NEWS of the St Andrew's project soon ousted Dotty's accident as the prime subject of debate at Thrush Green.

  As is so often the case, those most vociferous were the people who had the least to do with the church. Several stalwart chapel-goers, whose parents and friends lay peacefully beneath the tussocky grass of the graveyard, were among the first to put their names on the list of objectors to the scheme. Percy Hodge's name, of course, was there, in company with Mrs Cleary's.

  'I've been tending the graves of my old grandpa and grandma since I was big enough to hold shears,' Percy said fiercely to Joan Young who had been unfortunate enough to meet him on Thrush Green.

  'And then my dad's and mum's. Four graves I've seen to every other week, and four nice green vases I've paid for and put up respectful.'

  'It isn't such people as you,' said Joan, in a placatory manner, 'that the changes are being made for. It's dozens of graves that are neglected that make the place such an eyesore.'

  'Maybe, maybe! Nevertheless, there's some as adds to the ugliness simply by tending the graves without real taste. Take that one next door to old Mrs Curdle now. I'm not mentioning names –'

  Joan Young knew it was a relation of the Cooke family whose grave was under discussion, but let the old man continue.

  ' – but that woman has put five jam jars along her husband. Five jam jars, mark you, and everyone full of dead asters for month after month, not to mention stinking water. Now, there is an eyesore! With what she spends in cigarettes she could well afford a nice green vase like mine.'

  At "The Two Pheasants" the debate went on night after night. Albert Piggott, with proprietorial rights, as it were, over the plot in question, found his opinion sought in the most flattering way, and very often a half-pint of beer put into his welcoming hand as well. He had not been so happy since his wife Nelly left him to share life with the oil man.

  He adopted a heavily impartial attitude to the subject. He found he did better in the way of pourboires by seeing both sides of the question. He saw himself as a mixture of the-Man-on-the-Spot, Guardian-of-Sacred-Ground and One-Still-Longing-to-Work but regretfully laid low by Mr Pedder-Bennet's surgical knife.

  'No one who ain't done it,' he maintained, 'can guess how back-breaking that ol' churchyard can be! If I 'ad my strength, I'd be out there now, digging, hoeing, mowing, pruning.'

  'Ah! That you would, Piggy-boy,' said one old crone, and the others made appreciative noises of agreement, although every man-jack of them knew that Albert Piggott had skrim-shanked all his life, and that the churchyard had never been kept in such a slovenly fashion until it fell into his hands.

  'Well, I call it desecration,' said the landlord, twirling a cloth inside a glass. 'Plain desecration! What, flatten all them mounds containing the bones of our forefathers? It's desecration, that's my opinion. Desecration!'

  'I'm with you,' said a small man with a big tankard. 'And not only bones! Take a newish grave now, say, old Bob Bright's, for instance. Why, he hasn't even got to the bones stage! He must-'

  Someone broke in.

  'Them mounds don't have bones or anything else in 'em!'

  'What are they then?'

  'Earth, of course. What the coffins displaced. The body has to be a proper depth. That's right, ain't it, Albert?'

  Albert drained his glass quickly and put it in a noticeable position on the counter.

  'That's right. So many feet, it's all laid down proper, or there'd be trouble. And hard work it is too. Specially in this 'ere clay. But that's what them mounds are, as Tom 'ere says. Simply earth.'

  'Another half, Albie?' queried Tom, gratified at being supported by authority.

  'I could manage a pint,' said Albert swiftly.

  'Right. A pint,'agreed Tom.

  'I don't agree about the desecration,' said a large young man with a red and white bobble-hat. 'It's more of a desecration to see it full of weeds and beer cans, to my mind. I'm all for straightening it up. It's the living we've got to think of, not the dead.'

  'That's sense!' said the small man who had feared more than bones in the mounds.

  'Ah!' agreed Albert. 'It's the living what has to keep it tidy, and the living what passes by and has to look at it.'

  He took a long swig at the freshly-drawn pint.

  'I'm backing the rector,' said bobble-hat. 'He wouldn't do anything what wasn't right, and I reckon his idea's the best one.'

  'A good man, Mr Henstock,' said Albert, wagging his head solemnly. 'Wants to do right by the dead and the living.'

  'Well, he's not flattening my Auntie May without a struggle,' announced the landlord, still twirling the glass cloth madly.

  'We all respect your feelings,' said bobble-hat, 'but they're misplaced, mate.'

  Albert put his empty glass on the counter. It rang hollowly.

  'You gotter a thoughtful mind,' he said to bobble-hat, with a slight hiccup. 'A thoughtful mind what thinks. I can see that. I'm a thinking man myself, and I recognise a man as thinks. A man as has thoughts, I mean. You understand me?'

  'Yes,' said the thoughtful one. 'Want another?'

  'Thanks,' said Albert simply.

  The lack of harmony among his parishioners affected Charles Henstock deeply. His own enthusiasm for transforming the churchyard had made him unusually blind to the possible reactions of the community.

  The fact that there was dissension grieved him sorely. He was essentially a man of peace. Charles had never been called upon to be a militant Christian. Anxious not to hurt people's feelings, uncommonly sweet-tempered and unselfish, it was not surprising that he was generally beloved and, to a large extent, protected from trouble by his well-wishers.

  He was quite sure, in his own mind, that it was right to apply for a faculty to alter the lay-out of the churchyard. It was the strife which this decision had aroused which shocked him.

  There were other, more practical, worries. The fee for the faculty, if all went smoothly, would be modest enough – a few pounds evidently. But if there were serious opposition, and if legal advice had to be sought, heaven alone knew how much money would be needed! If matters became really desperate, then the whole affair might have to go before a Consistory Court to be fought out. No wonder poor Charles Henstock began to feel that he had put his foot into a hornets' nest. After his initial enthusiasm for the scheme, this fierce opposition from some of his parishioners, was doubly shocking.

  Dimity watched his unhappiness with much concern. For the first time in their mar
ried life he seemed unable to discuss a problem freely with her. It showed, in some measure, how grievously he was hurt by the situation. But to be powerless to help him caused Dimity untold misery.

  Thrush Green's rectory, bleak enough at the best of times, seemed more cheerless than ever as the storm winds blew around it.

  Storm winds blew in plenty, as it happened, for November gave way to a particularly boisterous December.

  Thrush Green, perched on its little hill, caught the full force of the gales which roared across the Cotswolds. A large branch was wrenched from an ancient plum tree in Winnie Bailey's garden. A stone tile was flung from the roof of the Youngs' house into their greenhouse, and at the village school the lobby door kept up a deafening banging as the infants took their many trips across the playground, and forgot to secure the door as they came and went. If only her class had been housed in the new terrapin, thought Miss Fogerty! If the whole school were disturbed by this endless coming-and-going, well – she was sorry, of course, but it must be expected.

  As usual, boisterous weather was matched by boisterous spirits, and the children were restless. Windows rattled, vases blew over, papers were whirled to the floor. Miss Fogerty had difficulty in making herself heard above the din, and the tortoise stove took to belching forth smoke. It was small wonder that the three members of staff were unusually short with each other when they met. The final straw came when Miss Potter, after three days of noisy nose-blowing and sneezing, took to her bed with laryngitis, and her class had to be divided between the remaining two staff. It was at times like these that poor Miss Fogerty counted the years to her retirement, and sometimes doubted if she would ever achieve that longed-for state.

  Among the trees at Lulling Woods the wind roared and raged. The last few of the leaves were snatched away, branch clashed against branch, and trunks groaned as they were wrenched this way and that by the elements. And, hard by, at Dotty Harmer's, that indomitable spinster battened down the roof of her hen house, tried in vain to persuade the goats to take shelter, and kept all the animals, wild and domestic, protected from the weather as far as lay in her power.

  She was glad to have some extra physical work to do. It saved her from dwelling unduly on the possible outcome of that wretched car accident.

  Several weeks had passed since the incident, and still neither Dotty nor Justin Venables yet knew if the police were going to prosecute. Not that Dotty cared unduly if the case did go to court. She had never feared authority – except, perhaps, that exerted by her formidable father – and was quite prepared to face prosecutors, the public of Lulling and the local press, with her usual outspokenness.

  No, it was not the publicity which disturbed Dotty. It was the warring factions in her own mind.

  On the one hand, she was genuinely distressed to have injured the boy, and his continuing presence in hospital was a constant worry to her. She rang the hospital daily for news of the child, careful not to give her name, for she had a feeling that Justin Venables might not approve of her actions.

  On the other hand, she was quite sure that the accident was entirely due to the boy swerving in front of her. Her speed was no more than the thirty miles an hour allowed in Lulling High Street. She had maintained a steady course, and felt entirely innocent of blame.

  But would she be believed? Dotty was fully aware that her eccentricities amused Lulling. Not that she cared a fig what people thought, in the normal way, but when it came to finding witnesses one needed reliable people to back one. Where were they? Among the throng who had gathered round Cyril Cooke and his mangled bicycle that wretched afternoon who, if any, would speak for her?

  It was at times like this, thought Dotty, that one could do with a husband, or a really close friend, with whom one could discuss one's fears and doubts. To Ella and Dimity, Winnie Bailey and all the other good friends at Thrush Green, Dotty displayed a calm exterior which belied her inner agitation. Her apparent insouciance worried her friends.

  'If that Cooke boy croaks,' said Ella darkly to Dimity, 'I suppose our Dotty could face a charge of manslaughter.'

  'Surely not!' cried Dimity, horrified. 'Anyway, wouldn't it be a charge of causing death by dangerous driving?'

  'Cooke boys don't croak,' said Winnie Bailey. 'They recover from all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. At least, so Donald said.'

  'He should know,' agreed Ella. 'He brought most of them into the world.'

  'Do you think it would be a good thing to talk to Dotty about it?'

  'She evades any mention of it,' said Dimity. 'Charles has tried, and she deliberately turned the conversation.'

  'Justin Venables should do that anyway,' pointed out Ella. 'I'm not going to worry poor old Dotty. To my mind, she has some uncomfortable moments despite the good face she's putting on things. With any luck, the police will let the matter drop.'

  The only person who truly gauged Dotty's anxiety was Betty Bell who was rather more perceptive than most of those who dealt with her. She expressed herself on the subject to Harold Shoosmith when she arrived one morning, windblown and weather-beaten, to 'have a good bash at the oven.'

  Her entry into the kitchen set the hall door vibrating, an upstairs window crashing and a laundry bill, insecurely anchored to the kitchen table, floating floorward.

  'Lor!' puffed Betty. 'Knocks all the stuffin' out of you, this wind. Any damage?'

  'Only in the garden,' said Harold. 'What about you?'

  'It tore my boy's shirt on the line, and I can't find a pair of socks. Blown into Lulling Woods, I shouldn't wonder, and the shed door's bust its top hinge and won't shut. Otherwise we're all right. But I had to give Miss Harmer a hand with the felt on the goats' shed. All flapping loose and them animals eating it as though it's licorice strips.'

  'Won't it harm them?'

  'Shouldn't think so. They managed an oven cloth and a hank of binder twine last week, and seemed to enjoy them. Funny things, goats.'

  'And how is Miss Harmer?'

  Betty stood stock still, kitchen knife in hand, and spoke more soberly.

  'Worried. Poor old lady! She don't say much, but she's upset about that Cyril Cooke, but won't admit it. She's proud, see. Like she was about driving that car herself. Won't admit she's wrong, ever. I like her for it. Plenty of spunk, old Dot – Miss Harmer, I mean – always had. Stood up to her old father, I've been told, and the only one who could too. He was a Tartar.'

  She flung open the oven door and sank to her knees, the better to examine the interior.

  'What you been letting boil over then?'

  'Stewed apple, I expect,' replied Harold. 'It seemed to spread itself.'

  'I'll sort it out,' said Betty, flinging herself to the attack with the kitchen knife. 'And while I'm at it,' she yelled above the din, 'you'd better nip up and shut that banging window before it blows off and down to Lulling.'

  Later that morning, leaving Harold's stove spotless and the kitchen in immaculate condition, Betty Bell set off on her bicycle against the strong head wind to return to her home at Lulling Woods.

  Outside "The Two Pheasants" she saw Mrs Cooke waiting for the bus. Two toddlers stood to leeward of their mother, who was looking unusually tearful.

  'How's Cyril?' called Betty, dismounting.

  'They've sent word to say he's took worse,' said Mrs Cooke, her eyes filling. 'I'm just off to see him. Running a high temperature, so they say. They don't seem to know why.'

  'They wouldn't tell you anyway,' said Betty. 'You'll know more when you get there, I expect. You'll feel better when you've seen him,' she added comfortingly. 'Ah! Here comes the bus. Give poor young Cyril my love.'

  She watched the three scramble aboard, before turning down the narrow lane which led homeward.

  'Poor young Cyril,' she echoed. 'And poor old Dotty too! She's the one I feel sorry for, and that's a fact!'

  11 Winnie Bailey's Private Fears

  AS the end of the Christmas term approached, Thrush Green village school became embroiled i
n its usual festive arrangements.

  Miss Watson's earlier years of teaching had been spent in various large town schools where dramatic talent was fostered by those members of staff who had experience and natural aptitude for the job. Moreover, those schools were equipped with large halls and stages, so that Christmas plays and concerts could be given in comparative ease.

  In such sophisticated circumstances had the young Miss Watson developed her enthusiasm for junior drama. It was an enthusiasm which grew with the years, and even led her to the adaptation of children's stories into simple plays, some successful, others decidedly not.

  For what Miss Watson seemed incapable of understanding was the simple fact that a crowded classroom, with no raised dais for the actors, no wings in which to wait, no curtains, and certainly no adequate ventilation, is not the place to perform even the most elementary dramatic work.

  Consequently, as soon as December appeared on the calendar, poor little Miss Fogerty awaited the spate of suggestions for our Christmas fun,' knowing full well that all Miss Watson's ideas would be quite impossible to put into operation in the limited confines of Thrush Green school, and quite beyond the comprehension of the unbookish and inarticulate children who formed the main bulk of the pupils.

  'I thought a nativity play would make a nice change this year,' said Miss Watson one morning. 'I wrote a little thing when I was at Aberconway Avenue, and it went down amazingly well, I remember. And only six changes of scenery.'

  'But we haven't got any scenery,' wailed Miss Fogerty.

  'Oh, we can run up something,' murmured Miss Watson vaguely. There was a dreamy stage-struck look in her eyes which turned her assistant quite cold with foreboding.

  'I believe the Lulling Operatic Society did "The Desert Song" last season,' went on Miss Watson. 'I should think we might borrow some of their clothes, the head-dresses, and so on, for the three wise kings. And palm trees, perhaps, for the desert scene.'