(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green (10 page)

'I do hope you're right. Connie was telling me a fearful tale about a friend of hers in Dorset who was absolutely surrounded by caravans and buses and tents for weeks. She couldn't get her car out of the garage.'

'She should have rung the police.'

'She did, but there's some stupid business about letting people stay for a certain length of time before action can be taken. At least, that's what Connie told me. Her friend was virtually a prisoner in her own home.'

The two women peered out of the window. The stranger was approaching the Two Pheasants, and Mr Jones emerged and engaged the man in conversation. There was a good deal of nodding and smiling, and Mr Jones pointed towards the Youngs' house.

'Well,' said Winnie after a few minutes, 'he seems to be going to see Edward and Joan.'

'Then he
must
be respectable,' said Jenny. 'Nothing to worry about.'

The two returned to their bed-making.

Edward Young opened the door.

'I'm looking for Mr and Mrs Curdle,' said the stranger. 'Have I come to the wrong house?'

'Actually, their house is over there,' replied Edward, pointing to the old stables, across the garden.

'I'm sorry to have troubled you,' said the stranger, retreating, but Edward called him back.

'There's no one there at the moment. Molly has gone across to see her father who lives over there near the pub, and Ben's at work in Lulling. Why don't you come in and wait for Molly? She'll only be a few minutes.'

'That's sure kind of you,' said the man, following Edward into the hall.

Edward was curious about his visitor. Obviously he was an American, but why did he want to see the Curdles? At least he sounded as though he had a genuine reason for being in Thrush Green. For one awful moment he had wondered, as Winnie and Jenny had, if the fellow were spying out the land for an invasion of unwanted self-styled
travellers.
The trouble with such people, Edward had thought, was that they seemed to be
settlers,
rather than
travellers,
and Thrush Green could do without them.

He saw now that his guest was well-scrubbed and his blonde hair recently washed. He was dressed in very good clothes of an informal type, a silk shirt and a cardigan which looked suspiciously like cashmere, and Edward looked at his shining shoes with envy.

At that moment, Joan came in and Edward turned to the stranger who had leapt politely to his feet.

'Oh, I didn't realize you had someone here,' said Joan.

'My wife, Joan, and I am Edward Young,' said Edward.

'And I am Carl Andersen,' said the stranger, 'with an E.'

'How do you do?' said Joan. 'With an E? Like Hans Andersen? Is he a relative, by any chance?'

'No such luck, ma'am, but my folk came from his country, Denmark, way back.'

'From "
Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen
"?' laughed Joan, quoting from the musical.

'Nearer Odense, I'm told, where Hans Andersen was born. I was brought up on his stories.'

'Me too,' said Joan, 'and now I'll get some coffee.'

'I've been admiring the houses here,' said Carl Andersen. 'Those new ones have fitted in real well.'

Edward smiled. 'I designed them,' he said with some pride.

'Is that so? I'm in the building line myself. I take it you are an architect?'

'That's right. And you?'

'More in the way of construction. Large stuff like bridges and dams.'

Edward looked at him with greater interest. 'You're not Benn, Andersen and Webbly, by any chance?'

'That's right. At least, it was my pa that was the first Andersen. I just fell into his shoes, as it were.'

'A most prestigious firm,' said Edward reverently. 'They've done outstanding work all over the world. I've followed all they undertake with the greatest interest.'

'Well, I'm sure proud to be with them,' replied Carl. 'I've just been up to Scotland to discuss a big project up there. All pretty exciting.'

Joan appeared with the coffee, and the conversation became more general, until Edward, full of curiosity, asked directly what brought their visitor to Thrush Green.

'It's something my mother asked me to do. She's an old lady now, and an invalid, but she was born and raised at Woodstock near here, and old Mrs Curdle was her godmother.'

'Well,' cried Joan, 'this is absolutely amazing! Ben is her grandson, you know. She brought him up, but I've never heard about her godchild.'

'I expect you know that Mrs Curdle's fair used to go on to Woodstock after it had performed here. Old Mrs Curdle and my mother's mother were old friends, and Mrs Curdle took a great interest in her god-daughter. My mother has never forgotten her. She wanted me to look up her relatives in these parts.'

'Well, Ben is her grandson, as we said. Whether he remembers your mother from so long ago, I just don't know.'

'But how did your mother go to America?' Edward wanted to know. Joan, not for the first time, deplored her husband's uninhibited questioning, but said nothing.

'My pa was stationed at RAF Upper Heyford near Woodstock, during the war, and he met my ma at a dance.'

'But this is really romantic,' cried Joan. 'So he took her back with him when the war ended?'

'Not quite. This is where Mrs Curdle comes into it. My ma wrote regularly to my pa when he returned to the States, but she got no mail from him for months, and began to think he'd dropped her. Maybe even had a wife over there all the time. You know how it is.'

'So what happened?'

'She was beginning to wonder if she'd think about getting tied up with a guy from Eynsham who was pretty persistent. She told her godmother all about it, and Mrs Curdle told her to be patient because she said my pa would surely be writing soon. She told my ma she had something called 'second sight', and all would turn out fine and dandy. And it did. My pa came over, whipped her up and took her back home.'

'But why hadn't the letters got through?'

'As soon as my pa got back he took up his old job with Benn and Webbly, as it was then. He was working full steam for them, and had rooms in Chicago near the firm. The daughter of the house was sweet on him, and kept any mail from Woodstock out of sight. Burned it, no doubt.

And for weeks my pa left his mail on the hall table to be sent off, and that young good-for-nothing burned them too, I guess. Anyway, they each thought the other had stopped feeling the way they did, until my pa came to his senses, guessed what was happening and sent a cable.'

'Amazing!' said Joan. 'So dear old Mrs Curdle was right.'

The visitor looked at his wrist-watch and stood up. 'I've taken up too much of your time,' he said. 'Thank you for the coffee. I'll go and see if Molly Curdle's in now.'

They said goodbye to him at the kitchen door, and watched him approach Molly who was pegging clothes on a line near by.

'Well, I must say,' said Edward, 'I enjoyed all that. Not many of our visitors are so entertaining. I hope he comes again.'

Later that morning the Youngs saw Carl Andersen driving towards Lulling, and a few minutes later Molly Curdle came into the kitchen where Joan was making a cake.

'Isn't it exciting?' said Molly, sitting down at the table.

'And isn't he handsome? Could be a film star. I've always liked fair men.'

'I'm surprised you picked Ben then,' commented Joan, sprinkling sugar into the mixture in the bowl. 'He's a real dark beauty.'

'Oh well,' said Molly indulgently, 'that's different. Ben was always special.'

'Where is Mr Andersen staying?'

'At the Bear in Woodstock. His mother used to work there when she was a girl. She was there when she met his dad. He wants to meet Ben, and he's gone down to the garage to fix a time for a chat. I hope he'll come to supper tonight.'

'I'm sure he'd enjoy that.'

Molly looked doubtful. 'I don't know about that. It wouldn't be half as grand as dinner at the Bear, but he seems keen to come.'

'Of course he does! And Ben will be able to tell him more about Mrs Curdle than anyone else I know.'

'Dad must remember some things,' said Molly thoughtfully. 'He always said a lot on Fair Day.'

'Complimentary?' asked Joan with a smile.

Molly laughed. 'It was usually a good old moan about the noise and the mess to be cleared up next day! I don't think I'll send this nice Mr Andersen to see my dad!'

The reason for nice Mr Andersen's presence at Thrush Green was soon known and widely discussed.

Mr Jones at the Two Pheasants regretted that the handsome stranger should think the Bear at Woodstock could offer better accommodation than his own.

'Ah, but his mum used to work there,' said Albert Piggott, who had learnt a lot from Molly.

'I wonder if she was that girl young Steve Smith was so keen on just after the war,' speculated Percy Hodge. 'He used to cycle over from Eynsham every evening. Good old pull that was, on a windy night.'

'Love'll drive you anywhere,' said another customer, in a maudlin tone. There was a heavy silence while the old men contemplated their distant romantic pasts.

'Before my time,' said Mr Jones briskly. 'I was in hospital getting over working for the Japs on the Burma railway.'

Across the green Winnie Bailey and Jenny enthused about the wonderful good looks of the stranger, and tried to remember if they had ever come across his mother in days gone by.

Rosa and Gloria at the Fuchsia Bush had been intrigued by Nelly's news of this blonde giant who had excited so much interest in Thrush Green. He had not yet visited their establishment, but they had seen him walk by, and agreed that he was almost as handsome as Paul Newman and Robert Redford, though Gloria admitted to preferring dark men, preferably with a moustache and a pigtail.

But Nelly soon cut into their romantic conjectures by telling them sharply to lay up for lunch and to give the front window a bit of elbow grease.

For Nelly had enough to think about. Mrs Peters was still in hospital, and the nurses were remarkably unforth-coming about her coming out in the near future.

And if she did, Nelly told herself, it would be a long time before the poor soul would be strong enough to take up her duties again.

What would the future hold for the Fuchsia Bush?

May

But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May.

Oliver Goldsmith

The last few days of April had been bright but cold, but on the morning of May Day the skies were dark and the wind boisterous.

It was as well, thought Joan Young, gazing from her bedroom window as she dressed, that Mrs Curdle's May fair was not obliged to perform in such inhospitable surroundings.

The horse chestnut trees, in bright young leaf, tossed their tormented branches, and the puddles below shivered in the wind. The spring flowers, jonquil, daffodil and tulip, were thrown this way and that by the wind. Some had succumbed altogether and were lying broken and besmirched on the ground.

How unlike the firsts of May that she remembered! Somehow Mrs Curdle's fair had always seemed to take place in sunny weather. Was this the result of old age, wondered Joan? Was she looking back through rose-coloured spectacles at those distant days when she and her sister Ruth had swung on the swing-boats and looked down upon the roofs of the Two Pheasants and Piggott's cottage and their own house, with such heady rapture?

Nearer in time she recalled the excitement of her young son Paul on May Day. It was the high spot of Thrush Green's year for him, just as it had been for herself and Ruth and countless other children.

She turned away from the streaming window and the lashing wind, and found comfort in times past.

Near by, Winnie Bailey was also remembering those days when Mrs Curdle's fair enlivened Thrush Green. It was many years now since that formidable figure, dressed in black, had advanced up the garden path with the enormous bunch of artificial flowers which she had made for her annual tribute to Dr Bailey and his wife.

These bouquets were received with due ceremony and greatly admired for their handiwork. Mrs Curdle carefully bound split wood with fine wire to make great mop-heads of an exotic type of chrysanthemum. The blooms were dyed in gorgeous colours, so vivid that nature had no chance here to emulate art.

Mrs Curdle herself was an honoured visitor, and sat upright and regal in the Baileys' drawing-room, graciously accepting a glass of sherry and exchanging the year's news.

No, thought Winnie, watching the rain beating down her forget-me-nots, the first of May was not what it was. How she missed dear old Mrs Curdle!

There were others who remembered her on that wild and wet morning. Dotty Harmer, turning the calendar page from April to May in her untidy kitchen, thought sadly of times past when she had hurried up the lane to see the excitement of Mrs Curdle's fair, with Flossie tugging at the lead.

Today she was worried about Flossie. The old dog wanted only to lie in her basket. Any movement seemed to pain her, and an occasional yelp and whine gave voice to Flossie's growing arthritis.

All Dotty's home-produced herbal cures seemed to be useless. Soon she must call in the vet for some professional advice, loath though she was to do so, but she was not going to let dear Flossie suffer unnecessarily.