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

A providential huskiness came into the lady's delivery, and Charles took advantage of it.

'The time will
not
be coming,' said Charles loudly. 'As you are aware, the trustees voted to put the matter aside. There is
no money
available, and the room is considered quite adequate for its needs.

There was the sound of indrawn breath at the other end of the line, but whether it meant that the lady was recovering her full vocal powers or simply preparing for another onslaught, no one could say.

'You are turning down this wonderful offer?'

'Yes, I am.'

'You realize that you may be giving offence to a valued friend of my family?'

'I am sorry.'

'My daughter's offer to exhibit her pictures at the Town Hall to raise funds is also open. No one has had the courtesy to let her know about the arrangements.'

A lesser man than Charles could have been forgiven if he had broken into frustrated screams and banged his head on the vicarage hall wall, but Charles, despite his gentle demeanour, had an inner steel when it was required, and it was certainly needed now.

'Mrs Thurgood,' he said flatly, 'you know as well as I do that it was agreed to let the matter rest. If you have led your daughter and your old friend into thinking that we have plans for a further extension, then it is up to you to disabuse them of the idea which you yourself have encouraged. I refuse to discuss it further.'

'Well,' began an outraged voice.

But Charles put down the receiver, just as the front door opened and Harold Shoosmith arrived.

'Hallo, Charles! You look a bit tired.'

'I've just had Mrs Thurgood on the phone. She's still pressing me about the extension.'

'Leave her to me,' said Harold ominously.

June

Busy in making alterations in my Kitchen
Garden cutting down an Old Hedge by my
Fir Plantation.

James Woodforde

The gardeners of Thrush Green were equally busy. The hedges and grass were under daily onslaught from clippers and mowers, as the sun grew stronger and the days longer.

Harold Shoosmith, attacking his privet hedge, was glad to break off his labours when Betty Bell summoned him indoors for mid-morning coffee.

'It's a pity we didn't grub out all the privet when we came here, and plant yew instead.'

'Gloomy old stuff, yew,' commented Betty. 'Churchyards and that. Gives you the creeps.'

'Why yew?' queried Isobel.

'Only needs one clip a year,' said the labourer. 'This dam' privet wants three to keep it tidy.'

'Heard about Dotty's -1 mean Miss Harmer's - Bruce?'

'Don't say he's ill,' exclaimed Isobel in alarm.

'No, no. I called in on my way here and he's full of beans. He'd just broken a jar full of rhubarb juice Dotty'd put on the floor to cool. All over everywhere.'

'On the floor?' echoed Harold. 'What was it doing on the floor?'

'No room on the table. She was going to make some medicine. She stirs it up with ginger, and then bottles it.'

'It sounds pretty grim.'

'It is. Very
opening.'

Isobel hastened to change the subject. 'Well, tell us about Bruce.'

'They've found his owners.'

'Good heavens! Where?'

'South America. They done a moonlight flit when they left Bruce in the church porch.'

Harold and Isobel exchanged glances.

'Are you sure about this?'

'Young Darwin the policeman was telling them down the pub yesterday.'

'Young Darwin,' said Harold sternly, 'has no business to be chattering about police matters at the pub.'

'Well, you asked me, so I told you,' retorted Betty. 'They're all that chuffed at the police station. Been working at it for months now. It's going to be in the paper this week.'

She put her empty mug aside, and rose to continue her duties.

'This won't buy the baby a new frock,' she announced. 'I'll go and give that bath a good doing over.'

'I wonder if there's anything in this story,' said Harold to Isobel.

'We shall have to wait and see what the local paper tells us,' replied Isobel. 'I must say it sounds rather sensational.'

'And it still doesn't explain why the dog was dumped here,' agreed Harold. 'Ah well! Back to the privet.'

Of course, Betty Bell was not the only one to have heard the news. Tongues wagged freely at the Two Pheasants, and the mystery of the dog being left in St Andrew's porch was the chief aspect of local conjecture.

'I heard,' said Percy Hodge the farmer, 'as this couple was fond of making trips up this way. Didn't they come in here for a pub lunch now and then?'

Mr Jones the landlord fidgeted uneasily with his beer mugs. 'Blowed if I know. I get all sorts in here in the summer stopping off for ploughman's lunch and that, before going on to Minster Lovell or Oxford. Can't say I've any particular memory of this pair. They hadn't got a dog or I might have remembered.'

'Well, they wouldn't have,' pointed out Albert. 'That Bruce was only a pup when we found him. Bet they hadn't had him more'n a few weeks.'

'What they doing in America then?'

'Done a bunk. With a pile of money evidently. Been up to a bit of no good somewhere. Fiddling the books, they say.'

'You can't fiddle books these days,' said some wiseacre. 'It's all on the computer.'

'And that can go wrong,' pointed out Percy Hodge. 'You only need to get a power cut and—fizz—it's all up.'

Heads were shaken in agreement, and the gossip about the felons, now allegedly in South America, changed to the unreliability of modern inventions and the superiority of earlier equipment.

While her father was enjoying the company of his cronies at the Two Pheasants, Molly Curdle was writing a letter of thanks to Carl Andersen for the set of photographs.

She also enclosed a separate letter for his mother and some more photographs which had turned up after Carl had departed. They were sepia in colour and rather faded, but a long-dead hand had clicked the camera and caught three or four splendid shots of Mrs Curdle near her caravan, with St Andrew's church in the background.

Ben took the bulky letter into Lulling to post and was appalled when he found how expensive it was to post anything by air mail. However, he did not grudge the money, as his father-in-law certainly would have done, for he knew that Molly and Carl's mother would get enormous pleasure from the transaction.

He had become very fond of Carl, his 'god-cousin', during the few weeks that he had been in Thrush Green, and he looked forward eagerly to seeing him again before long. There was an easy friendliness about the American, a warm freshness of outlook which touched Ben deeply. He had always been shy. The fact that his life had been always on the move with Mrs Curdle's fair had meant that his schooling was sketchy. It was Molly who had taught him to become proficient in reading and writing, and after acquiring those elementary skills he had become more confident.

But the early experience of being a 'gypsy boy', and mocked by some of the crueller children he had met in his youth, had left Ben very vulnerable and still inclined to think of himself as less competent than most men.

His mechanical skills were outstanding, and his honesty and his gentle nature were appreciated by all who knew him, but innate modesty made Ben deprecate his own qualities.

In Carl he had found a warm-hearted companion with whom he was instantly at ease. He had been touched by the enthusiastic invitation to visit him in the States, but did not think that he and Molly would be able to accept it. It would be too expensive. The children's schooling might be disrupted. His employer would not relish parting with his labours for any length of time.

No, all in all, it would be more sensible to wait for Carl's next visit. He hoped that it might be soon, and that he would not have to hurry away.

Who knows? Perhaps next year, thought Ben, things might favour a visit to Carl's home. Somehow, he felt sure, the bond between the two families would grow stronger with the years.

Thrush Green was at its best in early June. To be sure, the horse chestnuts' pyramids of flowers were almost over, and their pink and white confetti spattered the grass. In the garden too, the still-green daffodil leaves lolled, annoying tidy gardeners who were anxious to put out their bedding plants. The rapture with which the golden flowers had been greeted earlier had now changed to exasperation. All very well for the poet to say, '
Fair daffodils we weep to see thee haste away so soon,'
thought Winnie Bailey, surveying her overcrowded border, but the trouble was that they did not haste away quickly enough. One was forced to wait until the leaves had sent down their nourishment to the bulbs below, and very frustrating it was.

Nevertheless, there was comfort to be found in the shaggy scented pinks, the bobbing columbines and the great blowsy crimson peonies which came year after year with unfailing cheerfulness.

The wisteria cascaded in mauve profusion down the front of the house, and by the gate two laburnums dangled their golden chains. Winnie loved all these faithful old friends which appeared regularly every year, and demanded little attention. She was no great gardener. New strains of plants did not excite her. She was not interested in such things as topiary, old-fashioned roses, water plants, or exotic lilies or orchids, as many of her friends were.

But she relished her own modest patch which she and Donald had largely created when they first moved into the house they shared for many years.

She looked across Thrush Green to the dusky beauty of the Youngs' copper beech tree, and thought of her promise to Ella about another shared walk. She must get in touch with her before this spell of sunny weather deserted the Cotswolds, she told herself.

It so happened that Ella was at Dotty Harmer's while Winnie was enjoying her garden stroll.

She found Dotty by the chicken run, flinging armfuls of fresh greenery to the hens.

'So nutritious!' she shouted to Ella, as she hurled leaves of all descriptions to the squawking fowl. Ella bent to collect a mound of chicken salad to assist the operation.

'Not
too
much cow parsley, dear,' puffed Dotty, 'but any amount of dandelions, shepherd's purse and chickweed. They all clear the blood, you know.'

Ella obediently plucked at some fine clumps of dandelion leaves, and remembered ruefully that they stained hands pretty fiercely. Would it come off on the white cushion cover she was in the throes of embroidering? Too late to worry now, she told herself philosophically.

After a few minutes Dotty called a halt and invited her friend into the kitchen. Bruce, who had been shut in there, went wild with excitement, leaping upon Ella's lap and licking her face rapturously.

'He's a fine fellow,' said Ella. 'Does you credit, Dotty.'

She was wondering if Dotty had heard the rumour about Bruce's former owners, and turning over in her mind the wisdom of broaching such a delicate subject.

She need not have worried.

'Betty Bell tells me that the wretches who abandoned him have been found. I only hope they are brought to justice,' said Dotty.

'I gather that they left the country owing a great deal of money,' replied Ella. 'The police will want them for that.'

'To my mind,' said Dotty sternly, 'the money is of secondary importance. Cruelly abandoning a young dog is
far worse
!'

She began to fill the kettle.

'Lime tea or peppermint?' she enquired. 'Both homemade.'

Ella hesitated. Like the rest of Dotty's friends, anything homemade by Dotty could have a devastating effect on even the most robust alimentary canal.

'Well,' began Ella.

'You can have instant coffee, dear, if you prefer it. I have a private fear that it can give some people peptic ulcers, though Dr Lovell assures me that I am quite mistaken.'

Ella clutched at this straw. 'Coffee then, please, Dotty. And I'm sure John Lovell would know about such things.'

'He didn't know about the healing properties of woundwort,' Dotty replied. 'I lent him my
Gerard's Herbal
to put him right.'

She brought two steaming mugs to the table, and returned to the subject of Bruce's owners.

'One thing I'm sure of,' she announced. 'I shall
refuse,
absolutely
refuse,
to return Bruce to such callous people. They are not fit to have animals in their charge.'

'Oh, come now, Dotty! He was obviously well cared for, and in a splendid basket, with food and drink. They were just desperate to get away, but they did leave him in a sheltered place - one might almost say a sanctuary - where he'd soon be found.'

Dotty brushed this aside. 'How did they know he would be found? And they doped him to keep him quiet. Quite unforgivable! My father would have horsewhipped them on the spot! And quite right too!'

Two red spots glowed on Dotty's wrinkled cheeks, and Ella hastened to calm her.

'Well, no doubt they'll get their just deserts when they are picked up,' said Ella. 'And I'm sure no one will expect you to part with Bruce.'

'I should hope not. Where are they, anyway?'

'South America, I heard.'

'America?' cried Dotty, spilling her peppermint drink as she thumped the mug on the table. 'And
South
America too? Why, that's even worse than
North
America, and you know how badly
they
behaved, rebelling in the naughtiest way, and wasting all that good tea in Boston Harbor! I doubt if we shall ever see those miscreants if they have hidden themselves in
South America.'

'We'll have to wait and see,' said Ella, rising. 'Many thanks for the coffee, Dotty, and can I have the goats' milk while I'm here?'

'Of course, of course,' said Dotty, bustling to the larder, 'and I've put up a bottle of rhubarb and ginger cordial for you. It's wonderfully effective.'

Ella thanked her civilly and put the bottle in her basket.

Walking home she wondered whether it would be a good thing to pour it down the sink. Would it block the pipes, she wondered? On the other hand, it might clear out the drain effectively. It would make an interesting experiment.