(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green (28 page)

'I'm sure he misses Flossie, but it seems to have made him more
responsible.
He seems to be looking after me as Flossie used to do in her heyday, the dear boy.'

'Well, he knows he's top dog now,' said Albert nastily, still smarting from Kit's impertinent hastening of Flossie's interment. 'If you don't need me to do anything I'll be getting back.'

Dotty, quite unconscious of his hurt feelings, wished him goodbye, and he retrieved his spade from outside the back door, and set off homeward.

He was not only offended, he was real hungry, he told himself. That chicken food smelt a treat.

He heard the church clock strike, and quickened his pace.

The Two Pheasants would be open now.

Betty Bell brought the news of Flossie's demise to the Shoosmiths.

Isobel was much distressed on Dotty's behalf. 'Poor darling! Dotty will miss her so much. Such a faithful little dog, and so gentle.'

'She's taken it on the chin,' Betty informed her, rummaging in a kitchen drawer for a duster. 'She's a tough old party, you know, and she's got young Bruce.'

'But he's so
boisterous
,' protested Isobel. 'I wonder if Dotty can manage him.'

'He'll calm down as he gets older,' Harold assured her. 'A lot of his exuberance was simply looking for attention. I think he was always a bit jealous of Flossie.'

'You're right there,' said Betty, flapping a duster round the toast rack. 'You finished your breakfasts? Want me to wash up before I do your study? Willie Marchant's on his way, so you might get a load of letters any minute.'

'I'll do the breakfast things,' said Isobel, pushing back her chair.

'D'you know,' said Harold, 'Willie told me the most remarkable thing about his cousin Sidney. He picked up a fountain pen on Narrow Hill and it turned out to be his brother's.'

'I know,' said Betty, 'Uncle Stan told me.'

'Uncle?' queried Harold.

'Well, Willie's my cousin and Sid's another, so his dad is my Uncle Stan.'

'I might have known,' said Harold, who had never really understood the vast network of relationships in Thrush Green.

'And another thing,' said Betty, 'this makes the third.'

'Third what?'

'Deaths.'

'I'm not with you Betty,' confessed Harold, passing a hand across his brow.

'You know what I told you months back? That nice Mr Andersen's mum passed on in America, and Mrs Peters at the Fuchsia Bush was taken, and I said at the time, "Who's going to be third?" and it's our poor old Flossie. See, it always goes in threes, death does. D'you remember me telling you?'

'Yes,' said Harold meekly. 'I remember it well now. You are always right, Betty.'

Much gratified, she whisked off to wreak havoc in Harold's study.

Carl Andersen kept his promise and rang Edward one evening from Scotland.

'Charles was as overwhelmed as I was at your offer,' he told Carl. 'But once he got over the shock he was all in favour of your marvellous idea.'

'Good! Well, I suppose the next move is to put it to the trustees.'

Edward told him about the advisability of putting his suggestion in writing so that the committee could study it, and Carl agreed.

'I shall have to get in touch with my lawyers in the States, but they know a little about these plans, as I got their advice before I came over this time.'

'Any chance of seeing you soon?'

'In about a week's time, I hope,' said Carl. 'I've a few things to sort out here, and I shall make a stop overnight in London, but I'll give you a ring before I set off.'

'So far,' said Edward rather diffidently, 'I have only told Charles about this business, but would you want me to sound out anyone else?'

There was a brief silence, and then Carl said, 'I should rather like Harold Shoosmith's reaction. He's a wise guy, and will keep his own counsel until I get back.'

Perceptive as ever, he had guessed that Edward, always a worrier, could do with a little support under the weight of the secret with which he had been entrusted.

'I'll do that,' said Edward. 'I quite realize that the fewer people who know about it, at this early stage, the better.'

'Well,' laughed Carl, 'I've soon got to realize that any news in Thrush Green gets around pretty smartly.'

'And of its own volition,' agreed Edward. 'It's an absolute mystery, but one has to face facts. Secrets don't stay secrets for long in a village.'

'I know you'll do your best,' Carl assured him. 'I'm sorry to put a burden on you.'

'No
burden,
but an
honour
,' Edward said with emphasis. 'Come back soon, Carl. We're all missing you.'

The gloom of November's early days had lifted a little, and a watery sun began to struggle through the clouds in late morning and survived for an hour or two in the early afternoon.

This raised everyone's spirits. Alan Lester was able to recommend that rehearsals of the ear-shattering country dances could be held in the fresh air, preferably at the farthest end of the playground, and so obtained a little relief from this trouble.

Preparations were already in hand for Christmas at the school. Alan's own class was busy rehearsing the Mad Hatter's tea party and trying to find a youthful actor who could remember his words and yet might be small enough to stuff into a cardboard teapot.

Handiwork lessons were devoted to the making of Christmas gifts. Older boys were trying their hand at simple woodwork, and teapot stands, pipe racks and dolls' house tables stood at crazy angles on the shelf behind Alan's chair, and were the object of many admiring glances from the manufacturers.

Christmas catalogues were being pushed through letterboxes, and the shops in Lulling High Street were already displaying 'Acceptable Gifts For Christmas' signs, which most people decided were much too early to heed.

Nelly Piggott at the Fuchsia Bush already had a great many delicacies made for Christmas, but they were stored out of sight, for she was one of those who deplored the too-early fever of Christmas.

'Time enough when December comes,' she told Rosa, who had suggested that it might be a good idea to start sticking blobs of cotton wool on the windows to simulate snow.

'We always done it for Mrs Peters,' she said resentfully.

'Not in November you didn't,' retorted Nelly. 'You go and give the tables a good rub up if you're short of a job, and let Christmas look after itself.'

Nelly now was in complete and happy command. Her early fears had vanished as she found that all ran smoothly under the new arrangements.

Business was brisk. There were more orders for Christmas provender than in previous years, and jars of her homemade mincemeat and Christmas puddings were carefully stored at the back. Orders for Nelly's superb mincepies were already being noted in the order book, and if the premises had been larger she could have provided for the Christmas office parties of several local firms.

But the time for such expansion was not yet ripe. One day, Nelly mused, if things went on as prosperously as they were doing, she might think of it.

Meanwhile, she knew that she was running the business competently and with ease. It was the personal touch which her customers valued, and she was wise enough to see that this was where her strength lay.

The gold chain which hung about her neck, always concealed by her clothes, was a constant reminder of her lost lover. Sometimes her thoughts were sad when she fingered it, but on the whole it was a source of strength.

Hadn't she overcome that grief? Hadn't she come to terms with betrayal, humiliation and loss? Wasn't she now a busy happy woman, doing the work she loved, and respected and appreciated by all Lulling?

Such thoughts often came to her as she bustled from kitchen to shop, from morning to night. Life for Nelly Piggott had never been so sweet.

Harold Shoosmith was as staggered by Edward's disclosure of Carl's plans as Charles Henstock had been. But, once over the shock, he was filled with appreciation for Carl's generosity and enthusiasm for the idea in general.

Edward explained about the letter which Carl was proposing to send to the chairman of the trustees, Charles Henstock, with a copy for each member of the committee at the meeting which was to take place very soon.

'Has Ben been told about this?' asked Harold. 'He is the closest relative.'

'Not yet,' said Edward. 'Carl particularly wants to tell him himself, once the meeting has taken place. After all, the offer may not be welcomed.'

'I can't see that happening,' commented Harold. 'Do you think it would work? Architecturally, I mean?'

'I can't see any real problem.'

'Could you do it?'

Edward looked unhappy. 'I don't want people to think I'm pushing for a job. I don't want the trustees to feel that just because I am one of them I should be handed the thing. The idea makes me cringe.'

'Naturally,' said Harold. 'Sorry I mentioned it.'

They sat in silence for a moment or two, then Harold spoke again: 'It does seem an outstandingly generous offer, and I wonder if Carl quite realizes how much this may cost.'

'He's in a far better position than we are to judge that,' Edward pointed out. 'He's doing this sort of thing all the time. His aim is to do what his mother asked him to do. It's really as simple as that.'

'Well,' said Harold standing up, 'it's a wonderful thought, and we'll have to see how the trustees react when they read Carl's letter next week.'

The night of the meeting was cold and bright. As the eight trustees assembled, blowing on their freezing fingers, they were glad to see the blazing fire in the Cartwrights' sitting-room, which the couple had handed over for this evening's business.

They themselves did not take part in these meetings, but were kept well-informed of any decisions taken, and their own views were much welcomed by the committee.

Charles, as chairman, had wondered if the letter from Carl should be sent to each member of the committee in advance of the meeting, but had decided against it. Far better to get the initial response round the table, he felt, and so it was arranged.

Having gone smoothly through the agenda, the all-important Any Other Business brought Charles to his feet as he bustled round the table putting a copy of Carl's letter before his friends.

'We'll have a few minutes to read this to ourselves,' he said, 'and then have comments.'

The trustees applied themselves to their task diligently, and silence fell upon the little company as they read the letter before them. It said:

To Those Whom It May Concern

My mother, who died recently in Michigan, was the godchild of Mrs Curdle, well-known in Thrush Green. Ben Curdle, who still lives there, as you know, is her grandson.

My mother loved and respected Mrs Curdle and always wanted to pay tribute to her by way of a memorial. She asked me to find out the most suitable remembrance, and this was the main reason for my visits to Thrush Green.

I have looked and listened, and it seems to me that the most suitable tribute would be the enlargement of the present sun room at Rectory Cottages, and perhaps, if agreed, to name it 'Mrs Curdle's Room'.

All expenses would be my concern, and I should be happy to provide this tribute to Mrs Curdle, as my mother wished.

'Well,' gasped Mrs Thurgood, 'what an amazing letter!'

'A most generous offer!' commented Justin Venables. 'We should have to look into the legal side, of course.'

There were other comments of amazement as the letters were lowered again to the table, and the trustees looked bemusedly about them.

'I should like your comments,' said Charles.

As expected, Mrs Thurgood was the first to burst into speech.

'Well, as you know, I have always maintained that the present annexe, or "sun room" as Mr Andersen calls it, was far too small.' She turned to Edward. 'If you remember, I said as much when we had our little discussion in the High Street.'

Edward felt that 'little discussion' hardly described his capture and incarceration by a strategically placed shopping trolley, but he remained silent. It would have been a waste of breath to try to quell Mrs Thurgood.

'So,' continued that lady, 'I heartily welcome this offer.'

'Hear, hear!' came from her fellows round the table.

'It seems to me,' said Charles, 'the most wonderful gesture. I only question the expense of the project. One wonders if perhaps Carl would allow us to contribute part of the funding.'

'My daughter,' began Mrs Thurgood eagerly, 'would be very pleased to have an exhibition—'

She was cut short by Charles who interrupted her with uncharacteristic firmness.

'Not now, Mrs Thurgood! What do you all feel about this?'

Edward spoke. 'Carl mentioned this matter to me in confidence, and I did question the very considerable sum that such an undertaking would need. He was quite adamant that he wanted to meet all expenses himself, and I think he would be hurt if we suggested that we muscled in — shall we say?—on his very personal offer. He is anxious to carry out his mother's wishes, and I think we should respect that.'

There was agreement over this, and after a little more discussion and general appreciation of Carl's offer, the motion of acceptance was put and carried.

It was then that Harold made the suggestion that the Cartwrights' opinion might be sought.

'After all, they will have to cope with the building and general upheaval, and the comfort of their charges.'

'You think I should write?' queried Charles, 'and perhaps send a copy of Carl's letter?'

'What's wrong with calling 'em in now,' said Edward. 'They're only in the kitchen washing up, and we've never stood on ceremony with Jane and Bill.'

And so the Cartwrights were summoned to their own sitting-room, provided with their own chairs, and offered one of their own biscuits which were ready on a side table to eat with the coffee which came when the meeting was over.

Charles explained about the incredibly generous offer, and how pleased the trustees were. Had they any comments? Were they happy with the idea? Nothing yet had been done about replying to Mr Andersen, but he would be writing immediately on behalf of the trustees.