(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green (2 page)

'But that's not till July,' protested Harold.

'I know, I know! But the fact is that we are trying to plan a holiday while young Paul's home from school, and I don't want to be tied down this year with fête arrangements. Could you possibly have the administration side at your house?'

'No bother at all,' replied Harold. 'You go ahead and leave the fête to me this time.'

Edward clapped his friend rather painfully on his shoulder. 'That's a great relief. Terribly grateful, old boy. Must dash now. I've got some urgent posting to do, and I want to get back by the fire pretty soon.'

'Don't we all,' agreed Harold, turning home.

By midday a vicious little wind had sprung up. It threw a spattering of dead leaves against the window of the Youngs' house where Joan was watering a bowl of early hyacinths.

She looked across the garden, and saw the branches of a lime tree tossing in the wind, and its last few leaves being swept away.

She heard the slamming of the back door, and her husband's voice, and went to greet him in the kitchen.

He was standing with his back to the Aga, rubbing his cold hands together. Molly Curdle, once Molly Piggott, daughter of Albert, was rolling out pastry at the kitchen table. She and her husband Ben Curdle lived in a cottage which the Youngs had converted from their stables for Joan's parents, now both dead.

Molly had started working for Edward and Joan when their son Paul was a little boy. She had taken him for walks, played with him, bathed him and put him to bed. The bond between them had strengthened over the years, and although Paul was now away at boarding school, it was Molly he rushed to greet first on coming home.

'Wind's getting up,' commented Edward. 'And due north-east too.'

The sky grew darker. Black clouds gathered ominously, swept along by a bitter and relentless wind. Dead leaves, twigs and a couple of paper bags eddied across Thrush Green, now airborne, now dashed spasmodically along the ground.

There was a howling in the trees in the garden, and an even more intense roaring in the avenue of horse chestnut trees outside the Youngs' house.

By three o'clock the snow was whirling across the scene, blotting out the view of St Andrew's church and the wind-tossed trees surrounding it. It was a wild and fearsome landscape, suddenly devoid of human figures. Joan Young, watching from her windows, thought of arctic wastes, of the cruelty of nature and of man's sudden diminution in the face of weather extremes.

But, as she watched the fury of the blizzard sweeping across Thrush Green, she saw signs of humanity.

From the school on her right a few small figures emerged, as two cars drew up at the gate. The children were bundled up in coats with upturned collars and hats pulled down over their ears, and some had long scarves round their necks, tied crosswise round their swaddled bodies to form a bustle at the back. They clambered into the cars, and drove away through the whirling maelstrom, out of Joan's sight.

Soon, she knew, others would be collected, and for the few who lived along the lane to Nod and Nidden, no doubt, kind and conscientious Alan Lester would act as taxi-man in his own car. The numbers at Thrush Green school did not warrant a school bus.

Shivering in the draught from the window, Joan crossed the room to add logs to the fire. She reviewed the food situation as she went about her duties. Had she forgotten anything vital should the snow keep them penned indoors?

Bread, flour, potatoes, root vegetables and all those things which her old friend Donald Bailey had advised his neighbours to get in, once the wind had taken up its unwelcome quarter in the north-east, she thought she had remembered. But it was other vital things which invariably escaped the memory. Salt, sugar, the special Frank Cooper's marmalade which Edward so much relished - all these, in the past, had been casualties of the demands of emergencies, and no doubt would be again sometime.

The wind howled in the chimney, and every now and again there would be a sharp hiss from the logs on the fire as a snowflake descended to a fiery death. A particularly violent gust sent a puff of smoke into the room, and Joan went across to pull the curtains against the bitter world outside.

It was almost dark, and one or two lights were showing in the houses round the empty green. The children had gone, though the lights showed in the schoolroom. Normally, Betty Bell from Lulling Woods arrived to clean up at about this time, but Joan doubted if she would be able to make the journey in such conditions.

She drew the heavy velvet curtains together, grieving for any living thing that had to endure that world behind the windows, and thankful that she had warmth and shelter and, she hoped, adequate provisions under her own roof.

The violent wind continued to batter all in its path until the early hours of the morning.

Then it died down, but still the snow fell, thickly and silently, for the rest of the night. It was still coming down when the first grey light appeared.

Harold Shoosmith woke to see the strange light upon his bedroom ceiling, and knew at once what caused it. He slipped from his bed and went to look upon the white world of Thrush Green through the snow-spattered window. Behind him his wife Isobel still lay in sleep.

The view was awe-inspiring in its strange beauty. Snow had drifted in the fierce winds into fantastic shapes of varying depths. The statue of Nathaniel Patten close by wore a deep skirt of snow, covering the base and extending halfway up the plinth. Nathaniel's shoulders wore a cape of snow and his head a round white cap.

The railings of St Andrew's church were engulfed and the oak tubs, which stood each side of the doorway into the Two Pheasants hard by, were also hidden beneath a snowy blanket. Swirls and hillocks, gullies and valleys, banks and little cliffs stretched in every direction. It was an arctic landscape which Harold viewed with mixed wonder and fear. What damage, he mused, would the Cotswold world discover when the short hours of daylight finally arrived?

He looked down upon his own front garden, now a smooth white sheet of snow covering path, flower beds and lawn. Only the tops of the gateposts broke that surface, and brought home to the watcher the necessity of getting downstairs and finding a spade for a good deal of hard work.

At that moment, Isobel sat up and stretched her arms.

'Well, what's it like?'

'Siberia! But superb,' said her husband.

Later that morning there was plenty of activity on Thrush Green, as Harold and his neighbours set out to clear their paths to the road.

It was a Saturday, so the school was empty, but Alan Lester was hard at work, digging with the rest to clear the access to the schoolhouse which was next door to Harold's home.

Occasionally they stopped to rest on their spades, their breath blowing out in small clouds in the frosty air.

'I've asked the Cooke boys to give me a hand with the playground,' said Alan surveying the vast waste behind them. 'I only hope we don't get more tonight.'

'How did you get in touch? Are the phones still working?'

'Luckily, yes. But Albert Piggott says they're sagging dangerously across to Lulling Woods.'

'Well, you know Albert!' commented Harold, looking farther along the road to where the bent figure of the sexton of St Andrew's was plying a stiff broom.

'Always looking on the bright side,' agreed Alan, with a smile.

They returned to their labours.

Turning over this brief exchange as he made his arduous way towards the gateposts, Harold thought of his old friend Dotty Harmer who lived at Lulling Woods. Would she be engulfed? The house was in a lonely spot, and years before, he remembered, in just such weather, he had collected a rescue party to fetch the old lady on a sledge.

That, of course, was when she lived there alone. Things were better now, for her niece Connie and her husband lived with her, and would look after her.

Nevertheless, Harold promised himself that he would telephone Dotty as soon as he went back to the house.

'Coffee!' called his wife from the window.

And thankfully Harold set aside the spade.

At the Youngs' house there was equal activity. Ben Curdle and Edward Young had cleared a pathway between their houses, and Molly was already in the kitchen of the big house. With her, clutching a doll, was her youngest child Anne. George, her first-born, now eight years old, was busy with his father and Edward Young dealing with the snow.

'I had a Christmas card this morning,' said Molly, tying her apron round her.

'Rather late in the day,' commented Joan.

'It had a funny stamp on it,' contributed Anne, now settled comfortably at the kitchen table undressing the doll.

'It had been around a bit,' said Molly. 'In fact, it was sent down from the Drovers' Arms, and it's years since I worked there, as you know.'

'How strange!'

'Very. And from someone I don't really know. He says he's a vague relation, an American.'

'Can you place him? Did any of your relations go to America?'

'Not as far as I know. Old Grandma Curdle had only the one boy George, and he was killed in the war, leaving only one son, my Ben. It's a mystery.'

'Any address?'

'No. So I can't do much about it. Ah well! I'm not a great hand at writing anyway, so I shall just forget about it.'

'Except that George wants the stamp,' Anne reminded her mother, tugging a petticoat from the doll.

At midday Molly had finished her time at the Youngs' house, and returned with Anne to her own, on paths newly cleared.

Although she had told Joan that she was not going to think about the late Christmas card, she found herself speculating about the identity of the sender.

Molly had met her husband Ben when the annual fair arrived at Thrush Green on May Day. Old Mrs Curdle, head of her tribe, a real gypsy queen, of awe-inspiring dignity, ruled her business with an iron hand.

The travelling fair stayed only a few days at the most in each place, but Ben had fallen in love with Molly at first sight. He had to wait another year before he could seek her out again.

Albert Piggott had not approved. He did not want to part with a daughter who was also housekeeper, cook and occasionally, when he had drunk too much, nurse.

Mrs Curdle was more sympathetic. Ben, her only grandchild, son of George who had been killed in battle, had been brought up by the old lady, and was the apple of her eye. If Molly could make him happy, and was willing to throw in her lot with her travelling band, then she would be welcomed.

Thrush Green was Mrs Curdle's favourite stopping place on her travels. She had been befriended by the local doctor Donald Bailey, and never forgot the kindness he and his wife had shown her. Each year, at the beginning of May, she called at the Baileys' house bearing a large bouquet of artificial flowers which she had made from finely pared wood dyed in brilliant colours.

The Baileys greatly loved the old lady, but her bouquets, being indestructible, were a source of some embarrassment as the years passed and storage places grew fewer for Mrs Curdle's bounty.

When Mrs Curdle died she left instructions for her body to be put to rest in St Andrew's churchyard, where Molly and Ben faithfully tended the grave.

Ben had been left the fair by his grandmother, but parted with it a few years after her death. Their first child was expected, Molly's father was ailing, and it seemed best to settle at Thrush Green.

Before long, the Youngs invited them to take over the converted stable. Ben carried on his work as a motor mechanic in Lulling, and Molly was glad to help in the house she knew so well.

When the second child arrived, they called her Anne after her redoubtable great-grandmother, and everyone hoped that the child would grow up as fine a character as her forebear.

For two days the skies were clear, and the countryside was transformed into a white glistening wonderland.

It was freezing all day long so that the winter sunshine melted nothing, and the trees spread tracery like white lace against the clear blue of the sky.

The icicles fringing the roof of the Two Pheasants shone like glass fingers, and an icy shape reared from the upthrust lid of Mr Jones' water-butt where the water had frozen solid and pushed outward to find release.

All sound was muffled. Cars, inching their way through the piles of snow at each side of the road, made little noise. Those on foot walked as quietly as if they trod upon fleecy white blankets.

Shapes too were softened by the snow. Roof ridges were veiled by a snowy sheet. Gateposts, steps and porches wore cushions of white. In the forks of the chestnut trees were soft beds of snow.

The light was dazzling. As far as the eye could see the whiteness stretched away, across the fields towards Lulling Woods, a dark blue smudge on the skyline against the paler blue.

The snow ploughs came out, chugging along the main road from Lulling, and clearing a way for the sparse traffic. The side roads, such as the one which joined Thrush Green from Nidden and Nod further west, remained piled with snow. Only the tractor from Percy Hodge's farm had drawn dark lines across the snowy wastes from his gate as far as the Two Pheasants where custom took him daily.

There was general relief at the opening of the road to Lulling, for the Christmas bounty was running out, and householders were looking forward to replenishing stocks of fresh food and vegetables.

At the Fuchsia Bush the customers became more plentiful, not only those who were doing everyday shopping, but also the bargain-hunters who had braved the elements to attend the High Street sales, which were having an extended season because of the weather.

Mrs Peters, the proprietor of the Fuchsia Bush, came to the assistance of her young waitresses one morning at coffee-time. Delicious smells of baking scones drifted from the kitchen where Nelly Piggott was hard at work. The three aged Lovelock sisters had arrived and were unexpectedly treating themselves to morning coffee.