(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green (18 page)

By a quarter to two the mammoth task was complete, and George was told to lodge himself carefully on a kitchen chair, and to hold his coffin in readiness.

'And what are you?' enquired a neighbour, looking in to borrow tea towels.

'I'm a mummy. And this is my carsophagus,' said George's muffled voice.

'Well, well,' said the woman, mystified. 'Fancy that!'

Everyone agreed that it was wonderful to have fine weather for the fête. It was bound to hold, and that dark cloud to the west was nothing to worry about.

Lady Penge, accompanied by the welcoming dignitaries, emerged from Harold Shoosmith's house and they made their way to the dais set up near the lime trees by St Andrew's church.

Promptly at two o'clock, Harold approached the microphone and introduced Lady Penge to the waiting crowd.

'Does this thing go up and down?' were the first words heard by the attendant populace, as Lady Penge fingered the microphone.

There were some ear-splitting crackles as the instrument was adjusted, and one of the electricians leapt forward to see to it.

'A friend of my dad's was electrocuted with one of them,' remarked an elderly woman to her neighbour. 'The power was off for three hours. Couldn't boil the kettle.'

'Shush! Shush!' said someone on the platform, as Lady Penge's dulcet tones began to reach her audience. Her speech was received with the usual deference and a hearty round of applause, and the youngest and cleanest of the Cooke grandchildren presented a bouquet of what the locals called 'boughten carnations', with a commendable curtsy, and everyone was free to visit the stalls and part with their money.

The cake stall, as always, was the one which was first besieged. Nelly Piggott had supplied a generous amount of sponges, shortbread, gingerbread and the like, and would have loved to have been present. Duty at the Fuchsia Bush on a busy Saturday forbade this, but she had done her part nobly beforehand.

Dorothy and Agnes were in their element, meeting old friends and pupils, and relishing the tit-bits of news which would furnish them with many happy memories when they returned to Barton.

Many people complimented Dorothy on her pink dress, and Agnes, in her grey silk shirtwaister, now four years old, was glad to see how Dorothy glowed with pleasure. If only, she thought, with a sudden spasm of pain, they could stay at Thrush Green far from Teddy's insidious presence!

The microphone came into use again. Above the alarming crackles and explosive noises, Harold announced the fancy-dress competition which was to be judged by 'their old friend Miss Watson'.

'I don't care for "old",' said Dorothy, 'and surely there are others to help me judge?'

Charles Henstock who was near by assured her that everyone would have complete confidence in her choice.

But Dorothy was not to be persuaded. 'You must help,' she said firmly, grasping his arm. 'I might choose all from the same family. You know the dangers. Come to my aid!'

'Of course, of course,' said Charles soothingly, and the two stood side by side as the children assembled.

There was the usual hubbub.

'Mind my wings!'

'My shoe's come off!'

'Where's Miss Muffet's spider?'

And over all, the stentorian if somewhat muffled yells from George Curdle. 'Lay me in my carsophagus!'

At last the three age groups were sorted out by Miss Watson, to whom this sort of chaos was nothing.

'Under fives first!' she announced, and half-a-dozen small rabbits, fairies, a tramp and a crawling green object which represented a dinosaur lined up self-consciously.

'Walk round in a circle,' commanded Dorothy. 'We want to see backs as well as fronts.'

She turned to her fellow judge. 'Well?'

'I think the fairy is the prettiest,' said Charles.

'But we must consider other things,' pointed out Dorothy. 'Has
ingenuity
been used? Is the
workmanship
adequate? On the other hand, is the costume
hired
or something already made for another occasion?'

'Well,' said Charles, somewhat deflated by all the apparent criteria needed for judging fancy-dress competitions, 'I think I must rely on your judgement.'

By this time, the dinosaur's costume was falling to pieces. Wailing came from its wearer.

'I do hope,' said Dorothy to Harold who had appeared, 'that
every
child will be given something for entering.'

'Indeed,' Harold assured her, showing her a pile of tickets. 'This gives them a free ice-cream at the stall.'

Satisfied, Dorothy returned to her task.

'I rather like the tramp,' she said to Charles. 'That tin cup tied with string round his waist, and the beard. A lot of thought has gone into that.'

'I agree,' said Charles, and the tramp was awarded first place, amidst general applause. Rabbits, fairies and dinosaurs seemed content to rush off to the ice-cream stall, and the next group, containing George Curdle and his dress-box, took the stage.

'And what are you, George?' enquired Dorothy.

'I'm an Egyptian mummy, and this is my carsophagus.'

'Sarcophagus
/' corrected Dorothy, ever the teacher. 'Well, you obviously can't walk round with the others if you're dead, so the rector will help you to lie down.'

George was lowered gingerly into his coffin, and lay looking skyward as his companions circled round the two judges.

A few minutes later they looked down upon his supine body, and retired a few paces.

'Definitely!' said Dorothy.

'Without question!' agreed Charles.

The outcome was announced. George was helped to his feet, his bandages fast disentegrating, ice-cream tickets were handed out amidst general rejoicing, and Dorothy and Charles prepared to judge the last entries.

The winner of the final group was a fourteen-year-old Cooke girl, dressed as a Bright Young Thing of the twenties, complete with a long cigarette holder and knee-length strings of pearls. As she also did an extremely competent Charleston as she paraded round the judges, everyone agreed that she was 'quite something', and Charles was obviously enchanted.

After this, the morris dancers were the centre of attraction, clapping and thumping, twirling and frisking, reminding Alan Lester, who was selling raffle tickets, of his infants' recent efforts, and the unwelcome possibility of suffering, yet again, before the Christmas concert.

By half past five the crowds were thinning, and the black cloud had moved over the sun. The stalls were almost cleared, and the ladies in the tea tent were stowing away plates and cutlery and folding the tablecloths, now far less pristine than when they were first spread.

Lady Penge had departed after her duty round of the stalls, bearing her bouquet, some homegrown beetroots, four pots of jam and a knitted tea cosy. As she had also left a ten-pound note with Harold Shoosmith 'for the funds', everyone agreed that she had performed her duties with honour, as always.

At six o'clock the first drops of rain pattered on to the chestnut trees and began to darken the trestle tables. There was a mad rush to get everything under cover. Mackintoshes were put on, head scarves tied, children exhorted 'to run home', and Thrush Green, scattered with pieces of paper, ice-cream wrappers and all the debris of the day's activity, emptied rapidly.

'We really ought to get this cleared up,' said Charles anxiously to Harold, as they sheltered under the lime trees by the church.

At that moment, a flash of lightning tore the black cloud apart, thunder shook the earth and the heavens opened.

'It'll keep till morning,' shouted Harold above the din. 'Let's make a run for it!'

The two men, clutching the cash boxes which held the proceeds of the day's work inside their jackets, ran with their heads down to the sanctuary of Harold's house.

Isobel threw open the front door. 'Quickly, quickly! I've put on the kettle for a cup of tea.'

'Always welcome,' gasped Charles, mopping his wet face.

August

In working well, if travail you sustain,
Into the wind shall lightly pass the pain.

Nicholas Grimald

Work was everywhere evident in Thrush Green in August. The winter barley had been harvested, and golden bales stood in the fields awaiting collection. Soon the great combines would be chugging round the wheat crops and the farmers were praying for a dry spell over the harvest period.

In the gardens the strawberries had given way to raspberries, and red and white currants dangled from the bushes, much to the delight of the marauding birds. Apples and plums were filling out on the trees, and prudent housewives were tidying their freezers and looking out ancient kilner jars, ready for the winter stores.

Gardeners were busy collecting seeds or taking cuttings. In most homes the gardening catalogues were in evidence, and bulbs were being ordered for the garden and for the adornment of the house during the dark days of winter.

Everywhere, it seemed, crops of some sort were being collected and preparations made for the months ahead. What the poet called 'sustained travail' which was happening in Thrush Green and, for that matter, everywhere else, was going on busily and giving a great deal of satisfaction in the process.

It certainly provided some of Thrush Green's inhabitants with some comfort amidst their troubles. Nelly Piggott was one who was glad to busy herself with preparations for winter, and particularly for Christmas, as she went about her duties at the Fuchsia Bush.

They kept her from dwelling too painfully upon her partner's rapid decline. Mrs Peters seemed to be more wraith-like at every visit paid by Nelly to her bedside. She greeted Nelly with the same warm smile and little cries of welcome, but day by day her face grew paler and her arms more stick-like. When Nelly put her own fat arms round her friend, she felt as if she were embracing a child, so small and fragile was the little figure.

But the mind within that gaunt head was as clear as ever, and Mrs Peters continued to question Nelly about the state of affairs at her much-loved business. It was, thought Nelly privately, about the only thing which kept that small bright flame fluttering in its frail container.

Edward Young too was glad to have such jobs as mowing, hedge-trimming and fruit-picking to take his mind from other matters. The question of the extension to the communal room at Rectory Cottages still worried him. During the holiday abroad he had been able to dismiss his secret unease. 'Out of sight was out of mind,' to a certain extent, and he had thrown himself into the joys of a strange land and the company of Joan and Paul, and put his cares aside.

But now that he was back in his home, with Rectory Cottages within constant view, his old doubts had come back to torment him. Joan had discovered him standing by his work table, pencil in hand, studying a diagram before him which was plainly a plan of enlargement of the present premises.

Joan had said nothing, but worried secretly. It was one thing to be married to a gifted and conscientious architect, but being married to a dedicated perfectionist who was capable of worrying himself into another attack of shingles or, even worse, a nervous breakdown, was something which Joan found most alarming.

It was she who made sure that he did his share of harvesting and tidying-up in the garden, trusting that, as the poet said so long ago: '
The wind shall lightly pass the pain.'

At Barton-on-Sea Dorothy and Agnes were equally busy.

They had returned much refreshed from Thrush Green, with a great many pieces of news which would keep them happy for weeks to come.

Agnes wondered if the return to their own surroundings would rekindle the fire for Teddy which, it seemed, had quite died away in the alien air of Thrush Green.

She sat in the little garden shelling peas. Dorothy had gone shopping, and it was very quiet in the sunshine. Agnes let her hands rest for a moment and lay back in the wicker garden chair.

Every now and then some thistledown floated across her line of vision. She thought how pretty it looked, silvery miniature umbrellas drifting in the warm air. Her neighbours, and Dorothy too if she were present, would be adversely critical of these airy seeds, for a neglected garden near by produced a fine crop of weeds, including thistles, and the good gardeners of the neighbourhood were highly censorious. Secretly, Agnes found great pleasure in a rampant white convolvulus which had draped itself along the wire fence, but she was alone in her admiration.