(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green (21 page)

'I sympathize,' said Winnie. 'It's nectarines I can't fathom. The reddest ones are often the least ripe. All very tricky.'

They entered the shop to pay for their purchases, and while they were waiting Joan told Winnie that they had heard from Carl Andersen.

'He's coming over in September, and hoping to be here for several weeks. He
telephoned
last night,' she added. 'Think of that! I hope he won't be ruined when his bill comes in.'

'I'm sure he can manage that,' said Winnie. 'I gather that he is a prosperous businessman. Where's he staying?'

'At the Bear again. They made him very comfortable, and although we wanted to put him up, I can understand that he likes to be free. I gather he's following up that business venture in Scotland that he's interested in. It will be lovely to see him again.'

'Indeed it will,' agreed Winnie. She also wondered, as she added a fine cucumber to her purchases, if the gifted interior designer would be pleased too. But of this she said nothing.

After lunch that day, Winnie took her rest in a deckchair in the shadiest part of the garden. Jenny had boarded the two o'clock bus to Oxford to do some shopping for clothes, and it was very peaceful under the trees.

The bees were busy among the lavender flowers, and forcing their way between the velvety lips of the snapdragons. Somewhere nearby a young bird was piping for attention, and high above the swallows swooped and soared. Soon they would be gathering together to chatter about their plans for migration. Then, thought Winnie sadly, it really would begin to feel like autumn.

In the distance, somewhere along the Nidden road, she could hear the throbbing of a combine, bringing ever closer the thought of cleared fields soon to be ploughed for next year's crop. Yes, autumn would soon be here.

She remembered inconsequently an English lesson at her school. The class had been asked to provide adjectives describing autumn, and she had proffered 'wistful' and 'mellow'. The English mistress had said rather brusquely that they had already put 'yellow' on the blackboard, and the young Winnie, somewhat piqued, had pointed out that
her
adjective was 'mellow' and not 'yellow'.

The mistress had looked at her with, fresh interest, and enquired if she had learnt any poems by John Keats, who had written 'To Autumn'.

Winnie had replied truthfully that she had never heard of John Keats, and 'mellow' was written below 'wistful', and justice had been done.

She leant back and closed her eyes. How extraordinary one's memory was! She had not thought of that school for years, and yet that memory was vivid. So, suddenly, was the vision of her first paintbox with the fascinating names printed neatly below each bright square of paint. Crimson Lake, Bice Green, Prussian Blue, Viridian Green, Chinese White, Gamboge and a dozen more which she would have in tubes as she grew older and more expert, but that first paintbox was the one she remembered most clearly.

She recalled her attempt to paint a cabbage in an early art class, when an arrangement of vegetables, carrots, young turnips and pea pods—some closed, and others open displaying a row of glistening peas — had been that day's still life subject.

She had found, with a thrill of discovery, that Viridian, Chinese White, and then a touch of Crimson Lake, had produced the most satisfactory soft green wash which had gained her a gold star on the finished picture. Such idle memories, mused Winnie, half asleep.

A yellow leaf fluttered from the plum tree and landed on her lap. Soon, thought Winnie, there would be mushrooms, those magical pearls thrusting up overnight through the dewy grass.

She held the dead leaf between her thumb and finger, enjoying its roughness, and closed her eyes again.

September

Read Boswell in the house in the morning,
and after dinner under the bright yellow
leaves of the orchard. The pear trees a
bright yellow. The apple trees green still.
A sweet lovely afternoon.

Dorothy Wordsworth

The trees of Thrush Green were also beginning to have a golden tinge. The lime trees round St Andrew's church were a paler sunnier green than at the time of the July fête.

The sturdy chestnut trees still boasted dark green foliage, but on the grass beneath there were a number of wrinkled palmate leaves which presaged the coming of autumn.

There was a definite chill in the morning and evening air. Thoughts turned to stocks of coal and logs, of bulbs to be planted for Christmas flowering, and the thud of catalogues about the festive season, still months away, was heard on many a doormat in the area. Sensible people refused to be hustled into panic buying, and preferred to enjoy the mellow sunshine and the last of the summer flowers which made September one of the loveliest months at Thrush Green.

The news of Nelly's inheritance was soon common knowledge, and occasioned much speculation.

Nelly, well versed in the reactions to news in small communities, decided to tell Albert the day after she had visited Justin Venables' office. She was quite prepared for his usual disgruntled response to her pieces of news, although she felt sure that the prospect of money might mitigate the gloom.

They had finished their evening meal, and were sitting at the kitchen table, stirring the cups of tea with which they liked to finish their repast.

'I had some good news today,' ventured Nelly.

'Oh ah!'

'I went to see young Mr Venables.'

Albert looked up in alarm. 'What you bin up to? You don't want to get muddled up with them legal blokes.'

'It was about Mrs Peters' will. She left me the Fuchsia Bush.'

Albert dropped his teaspoon with a clatter into the saucer.

'Left you the Fuchsia Bush?' he echoed with astonishment. 'What for?'

Nelly surveyed his unusually animated countenance. 'What for? For me to run, of course.'

There was silence while Albert tried to come to terms with this staggering piece of news. His voice was husky when he at last found words.

'You'd never be able to run the Fuchsia Bush, girl. You ain't got the brain.'

Although this was exactly Nelly's own private opinion, and had been so since that sad evening of Mrs Peters' death, to hear it put into such disparaging words, and by Albert of all people, brought out all Nelly's fighting spirit.

'You don't know nothing about it! Mrs Peters wouldn't have left it to me if she hadn't thought I'd be able to cope.'

'She was wandering, poor soul. Must've bin. Why, you gets in a muddle with the grocer's bill! You ain't no businesswoman.'

'I'll soon learn,' said Nelly shortly, taking the tea cups to the sink. 'And don't go blabbing about it in the Two Pheasants. Time enough when the news gets out later.'

'You'd best by far sell the place,' shouted Albert, above the noise of clashing crockery. 'Bring us in a tidy bit. We could move somewhere bigger.'

Nelly turned off the taps, left the sink, and resumed her place at the table. Albert surveyed her stern face with some trepidation.

'There's no "us" and "we" about this, Albert Piggott! Mrs Peters left it to
me alone,
and I'm the one as will say what happens to the Fuchsia Bush.'

'All right, all right,' muttered Albert. 'Keep your hair on. I was only suggesting -'

'Then you can keep your suggestions to yourself. I'm going to keep the Fuchsia Bush running as Mrs Peters wanted. It was her dying wish.'

'Maybe. But she'd never know if you sold it,' said Albert rallying. 'I wonder as Mr Venables didn't tell you to! Best all round, I'd say.'

'Say what you like,' retorted Nelly. 'I'm the one that has the last word, and the last word is that I'm not selling!'

'You could have one of them new houses up towards Nidden. Fitted kitchen, bathroom and all that. And never need to go out to work. Me neither!'

Nelly looked at him with utter contempt.
I am not selling!
And work is what I like. You'd be a happier man, Albert Piggott, if you took the same pride in your job.'

Silenced, Albert rose to make his way next door to the public house. He knew when he was beaten.

'And watch your tongue,' shouted Nelly after him. 'No need to broadcast the news to your good-for-nothing pals. It'll get round soon enough, if I know anything about gossip.'

Nelly was right, of course. The news flashed round Thrush Green and Lulling, and the general feeling was that Nelly was lucky to have dropped into a fortune.

'Of course, she'll sell it,' was the comment most frequently heard. 'I just hope whoever buys it will keep it going as it is. The Fuchsia Bush is an important place in Lulling High Street.'

People began to stop Nelly as she went to and fro to her work.

'Aren't you lucky?'

'What a windfall!'

'You've certainly hit the jackpot this time, Nelly.'

These remarks irritated Nelly beyond measure.

In the first place, she resented the envy which prompted these comments. She was the first to recognize her indebtedness to her late partner. She grieved for her daily, missing her companionship and steady good sense.

But she did not consider herself unadulteratedly
lucky.
The responsibility of owning the business quite overshadowed her feelings of pleasure and gratitude. It was a burden she could well do without, and only the fact that Mrs Peters had shown such faith in her gave Nelly some comfort.

She replied civilly to all who commented, telling them that she hoped to continue Mrs Peters' work to the best of her ability, and with advice from Mr Venables. And, she always added with some emphasis, she was definitely
not selling the property.

That, at least, was greeted everywhere with relief. Violet, Ada and Bertha Lovelock made a point of calling at the Fuchsia Bush for coffee one morning, and expressing their pleasure at the news. It was a changed attitude on the part of the old ladies, thought Nelly, from the days when she had been maid, cook and general dogsbody for a short time at the house next door.

There, she recalled, the doling out of minuscule amounts of the cheapest margarine, a handful of currants, a half teacupful of sugar with the request to make 'a good fruit cake for tea'. She remembered too the dab of metal polish, in an old saucer, which was deemed adequate for polishing the vast amounts of silver knick-knacks covering several tables in the drawing-room.

Then she was treated as 'a skivvy', thought Nelly, receiving her former employers graciously. Now she was being acknowledged as a property owner and a sound businesswoman in her own right.

It was such encounters which began to give Nelly the confidence to tackle the sacred trust which had been thrust so dauntingly upon her.

News of Carl Andersen's return was welcomed by everyone who had met him on his first visit. But it was Edward Young who was particularly pleased at the news.

He had been greatly impressed by Carl Andersen, and even more stirred by the fact that Carl was one of the directors of the world-famous company of Benn, Andersen and Webbly whose work was respected in both hemispheres.

The firm had been much in the news over its bold and inspired work on such projects as dam-building, bridge-making and the laying-out of airports in the vast areas of Africa and Asia. Edward had followed the fortunes of the company in a number of articles in his architectural journals, and marvelled at the massive concept needed to visualize these mighty schemes.

His own architectural skills were confined to domestic work. He had a flair for designing modern houses which would fit well into their settings, and an equally strong feeling for the modernization of the small stone cottages which were scattered within a few miles of his own home. He had built up a reputation for this type of work, and as he had some domestic talents himself he was alert to the difficulties of planning kitchens for families or bathrooms for the disabled.

He relished his work, and was at pains to get every detail correct as well as pleasing to the eye. It was this anxiety for perfection which sometimes made him short-tempered, and which Joan understood and readily forgave.