(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green (17 page)

'What a good idea,' said Dorothy cheerfully.

Agnes was relieved to see that Dorothy's flush was fading.

Two days after their arrival at Thrush Green, the long-awaited Open Day dawned.

To everyone's relief it was calm and sunny. The children were unnaturally spruce and tidy, Alan Lester was in his new summer suit, and Miss Robinson in an ankle-length cotton frock of drab colouring which was fashionable at the time, and which made her look like a refugee. As this was exactly what she wanted, she was blissfully happy.

The school too was unnaturally spruce, and the walls were adorned with children's paintings, maps and charts and samples of needlework and handiwork. On every desk was displayed the work in progress, the exercise books lying open at the neatest page.

The children welcomed their parents and friends with a summer song, chosen and accompanied by Miss Robinson.

Summer is icumen in

Lhude sing cuccu!

Groweth sed, and bloweth med,

And springth the wude nu—

Sing cuccu!

Although the words were largely incomprehensible to the listeners, the applause was hearty, for the children looked so angelic, and coped with the thirteenth-century vocabulary so well, that the audience was enchanted.

Then Alan Lester gave a short address of welcome, taking care to mention the two distinguished guests Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty in the front row, and to thank everyone who had contributed to the occasion in one way or another.

The programme went ahead smoothly. The infants clapped and stamped — almost together — through their much-rehearsed folk dance, and Alan Lester led the applause, privately thinking that this would be the last time he would have to endure such noise.

Work was inspected and much admired in the school itself, and tea was set out under the lime trees in the playground which gave parents, friends and staff a chance to mingle over the tea cups.

Margaret Lester, Alan's wife, was in charge here, looking prettier than ever, and Dorothy Watson observed quietly to Agnes, 'When you
think,
dear,' and needed to say no more, for nearly all those present remembered that Margaret Lester had arrived at Thrush Green with a serious drink problem that had threatened their family happiness. She had overcome it bravely, and Thrush Green had rejoiced.

Alan Lester was buttonholed by an earnest parent who told him all about her child's dyslexia, with which he was already acquainted, and how the doctor had told her that it was often the sign of a particularly brilliant mind. With commendable courtesy, Alan nodded agreement but kept his thoughts to himself.

Miss Robinson was less lucky. Mrs Cooke, mother and grandmother to many of her pupils over the years, sat firmly beside her and described, in appalling detail, the facts of her sister's hysterectomy.

Poor Miss Robinson found herself now violently opposed to the state of matrimony, and quite unequal to eating the jam tart in her hand. She hastily shrouded its red stickiness in a paper napkin, excused herself by saying her class needed her, and fled.

It was almost six o'clock by the time the school and playground had emptied. Parents and children had trickled away. Margaret Lester and her helpers were busy with the last of the washing up, and Alan said goodbye to young Miss Robinson.

'It went splendidly,' he said. 'I thought your class danced very well indeed.'

Her face lit up. 'Miss Watson said the same. She thought it would be a good idea to repeat it at the Christmas concert.'

'That's quite a thought,' said Alan Lester.

***

Nothing had been said about Teddy, between the two ladies, since the conversation on their journey to Thrush Green.

Agnes secretly wondered if she should have spoken at all, and hoped that she had not hurt Dorothy. Although she had not been affected by love in her sheltered and limited life, she realized how important a part it played in the affairs of most people.

The fact that Dorothy was now in her sixties, and might have been considered able to withstand Cupid's darts, had nothing to do with the case, Agnes realized. She had known several mature people, of both sexes, who had formed attachments, some disastrously, with as much passion as those half their age. It was an unaccountable phenomenon which Agnes could not understand, but it undoubtedly existed.

She felt extremely sorry for Dorothy, and decided to say no more on the subject. She would do her best to make Dorothy's stay at Thrush Green as pleasant as she could.

With this laudable aim in mind, little Miss Fogerty had no difficulty in enjoying her day and sleeping peacefully at night in the dear familiar surroundings of Thrush Green.

But for Dorothy in an adjoining bed in Isobel's spare bedroom, matters were not as easily dismissed. Agnes had given her much to ponder.

In many ways she was superior to Agnes, better educated, stronger in health, more travelled and well read. It was no surprise that she had become a respected headmistress while little Miss Fogerty remained an assistant, and in the same school, for many years.

She was a well-balanced and energetic woman, willing to play her part in local affairs and zealous in keeping up with modern ideas, particularly in education. She also had the ability to reject any trends which she shrewdly recognized as silly and short-sighted, and to support others which, although new and debatable, had a sound basis of practicality for teaching.

In her younger days she had enjoyed many friendships with young men, and had been engaged to be married twice. One man had been killed in the last days of the war. The other, Dorothy soon discovered, was bombastic, a bully and mean with money. If he was like that in his twenties, Dorothy thought, what on earth would he be like in his sixties? She dismissed him, much to his surprise, and never regretted it.

She had enjoyed her teaching career. She had found retirement a little disconcerting with so much time to organize. Perhaps it was this, combined with pity for Teddy's plight, which had sparked this attachment to him? Perhaps he took the place of all the children she had cared for over the years? Perhaps some latent and unsuspected maternal instinct had manifested itself? Who knew?

Dorothy had been surprised by the strength of her feelings for Teddy, but gave them full rein. It had never occurred to her, until Agnes spoke, that there was an element of silliness and possible embarrassment in this relationship.

Looking at it soberly Dorothy began to see that Agnes was right. She could be causing Eileen pain. She could be embarrassing Teddy. She could be a laughing-stock to their friends in Barton-on-Sea. It was something she had never considered before, and she lay awake, listening to Agnes's small genteel snores, and studied the position carefully.

Agnes was so often right. Her life might have been more confined and narrow than her own, but those very limitations had made Agnes know the difference between right and wrong, with no blurring of lines which a more sophisticated mind might allow.

She must mend her ways, she decided. She would say nothing to Agnes, for 'Least said, soonest mended' was a motto which she favoured. She would not be able to feel any less warmly towards dear Teddy, he meant too much to her, but she would cut down her visits, remember that he was Eileen's husband, and generally behave with more decorum, as befitted a retired headmistress of mature years.

What really hurt, she was honest enough to admit, was the fact that she was making a fool of herself before her friends.

Somewhere, years earlier, she remembered reading a great truth which had stayed with her. Was it written by that discerning literary man Bonamy Dobrée? It was to the effect that no one minded being thought
wicked
, but one hated to appear
ridiculous.

Perhaps she had been both, thought Dorothy? Well, there was always tomorrow and, thanks to dear Agnes, she would do her best to reform.

Joan and Edward Young, with their son Paul, departed the next day for their holiday. Ben Curdle drove them to Heathrow in their car, and would drive it home, and lock it safely in the garage for a fortnight.

Harold Shoosmith had been left with a sheaf of notes about the arrangements for the fête, for Edward was a conscientious man and felt slightly guilty at leaving his usual post on fête day.

It was to take place on the Saturday after the school's Open Day, and everyone hoped that the weather would hold.

The programme proudly displayed on the door of the Two Pheasants, on trees in Thrush Green and Lulling, and in various shop windows, announced such excitements as a Bouncy Castle for the very young, a visit from the morris dancers, pony rides, innumerable stalls and competitions and a fancy-dress display.

The last, of course, was the one which particularly affected Dorothy Watson as judge. She had no fears about her competence to be discriminating and fair, but
what to wear herself
was her main concern.

Luckily, the day dawned as fine and warm as those which had preceded it, and Agnes and Isobel were soon able to assure Dorothy that the pink frock, which she thought too youthful, was exactly right for the occasion, and most becoming to her.

Dorothy allowed herself to be persuaded, and on remembering that Thrush Green had never seen it before, as it had been bought in Barton-on-Sea a year earlier, she donned her pink splendour immediately after the cold buffet lunch provided by her hostess.

The fête was to be opened by Lady Penge, who lived near Lulling and was often called upon to perform such duties. She was noted for her good works in the area, sat on innumerable committees, and was patron to a host of charities and a local magistrate.

But apart from all these qualifications, it was her distinguished appearance which gave the occasions she graced such style. She was six feet in height and as slim as a poplar tree. From her silver hair to her triple-A handmade shoes she oozed fine breeding. Some thought her supercilious, but others maintained that her highly arched eyebrows gave her this air, and it had nothing to do with her innate kindness.

Her clothes were expensive and impeccable, her smile sweet if a trifle vague. She had no memory for faces, and frequently cut dead old friends, and even her own family, in Lulling High Street, but was readily forgiven.

'Well, she's
gentry
,' one would say indulgently to his neighbour.

'Too much inbreeding,' one farmer would comment to another.

'But she do look a real lady,' the women would tell each other, admiring the picture hats, the silk dresses, or the furs and tweeds, according to the season.

Lady Penge was due at ten minutes to two for the opening at two o'clock, and everyone rested assured that she would be on time. A welcoming committee headed by Harold Shoosmith were to assemble in his drawing-room before making their way to the dais.

But before opening time, activity at Thrush Green was hectic. The firm engaged to install the electrical equipment which was needed for the relay of Lady Penge's speech, not to mention the announcements by Harold and his helpers during the afternoon, and the general racket of so-called music which would provide a background to the afternoon's amusements, was having difficulty with the cables which snaked everywhere about the green.

Flustered women set out their wares on half-a-dozen stalls. Pudding basins, Oxo tins and handleless cups rattled with loose change. Bunches of garden flowers stood in buckets of water in the shade, and inside the tea tent the activity was frantic as wobbly card tables were draped in the very best cloths with edgings crocheted by long-dead hands. Urns were being inspected, teaspoons counted, sandwiches and homemade cakes shrouded in polythene against inquisitive wasps, and all was bustle.

This excitement was echoed in the houses around Thrush Green, and nowhere was the fever more acute than in Molly Curdle's living-room where she and two other young mothers were getting their children ready for the fancy-dress parade which would be one of the first items on the programme.

It was a full-time job. Lunch had been demoted from the usual sit-down meal to a hasty snatching of a sandwich or sausage roll from a large pile in the kitchen, which Molly had prepared beforehand.

Young George Curdle had insisted on being an Egyptian mummy, adequately swaddled, as seen on television, and reclining in a sarcophagus. Molly and Ben had done their best to dissuade him from this project, and had suggested more practical roles such as a highwayman, a pirate or even a pierrot, as Joan Young had offered a costume from her own young days. But George was adamant. Highwaymen and pirates were old-fashioned, and the pierrot costume was just plain sissy. He was going to be an Egyptian mummy or nothing at all!

His little sister Anne was quite content to wear a fairy costume, complete with wobbly wings, a silver crown made of oven foil, and a wand with a star at the top.

The two other mothers, having turned their docile daughters into a gypsy and a teddy bear, were helping Molly in the difficult task of wrapping George's limbs, torso and finally head in yards and yards of toilet paper stuck here and there with inches of Scotch tape. Already they were using the second roll, and no doubt, thought Molly agitatedly, a third would have to be found. George was an anxious victim.

'You sure that box is like a real carsophagus?' he enquired, nodding towards an enormous dress box supplied by Winnie Bailey the day before.

'Sarcophagus,'
corrected Molly, 'and it's as big as you'll need. And
ftand ftill,'
she added, holding the end of the sticky tape between her teeth.

The job was interminable. The toilet paper kept breaking. George complained that he was hot, that there were gaps in the wrappings and how would he go to the lavatory?

'You don't,' said one of the helpers shortly. 'Egyptian mummies have to wait.'

'I'd better have a sausage roll before you do my face,' he announced, and his sister fetched him a couple as his neck was being swathed.