(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green (4 page)

Nevertheless, as time passed, Molly began to realize that Nelly's sterling qualities had been a blessing to all. For one thing, she had released Molly from bondage. She had, within limits, done much to improve Albert's lot. His home was clean and warm, his meals superb, even if too rich and abundant for Albert's ailing digestion, and her income was the only money which really contributed to the household funds.

There was no doubt about it, reflected Molly, noting the shining pans on the hob, the thriving cyclamen on the window sill—her own Christmas present to Nelly—and the spotless walls and floor, Nelly was a first-class manager and deserved the wages and appreciation which her work at the Fuchsia Bush gave her.

She rose to cross the road to the church to find Albert, but at that moment the door opened, and her father appeared.

His welcome was typical. 'Ain't you got the kettle on? I'm fair shrammed with the cold.'

Molly shifted the kettle to the centre of the stove. It began to hum immediately, and she went to the wall cupboard.

'Tea or coffee, Dad?'

'Coffee.'

He sat down with a sigh, and began to blow his nose into a red-and-white spotted handkerchief.

Molly made the coffee and put his mug on the table.

'And what brings you over?' asked Albert. 'Want something, I suppose?'

Molly ignored the churlishness, as she had done so often, and put a Christmas card in front of him.

'I've been meaning to ask you for weeks about this man,' said Molly, 'and kept forgetting.'

Albert studied the card, turning it back and forth.

'What's so special about it?'

'I just wondered if you knew anything about this fellow. He's an American. Anyway, it had an American stamp.'

'Don't mean nothin' to me,' announced Albert, pushing the card across the table. 'What does Ben say? I take it that this was addressed to you two Curdles.'

'That's right.'

'Well, I've done me best to keep away from gypos,' said Albert nastily. 'One of the blighters stole my daughter. In marriage, in case you've forgot!'

Silently, Molly put the card back in her bag, and drank her coffee. It was clear that her father was in one of his more spiteful and truculent moods.

Once again, she decided that the small mystery of the Christmas card should be ignored.

As soon as she had finished her coffee, she made her departure, wishing Albert goodbye at the door.

By this time he was immersed in the local newspaper, and made no reply. Molly relieved her feelings by slamming the door shut as noisily as she could, and set off again across the slippery green.

For once, sympathy for her stepmother was her dominant feeling, but Albert's remark about 'gypos' still rankled.

He had never forgiven her for marrying into the Curdle family. It was plain he never would.

Well, thought Molly robustly, he'd just have to lump it! If it ever came to a choice between her father and her husband, it would be Albert who would go to the wall.

As the flood water subsided and the ground began to dry out, the people of Thrush Green and Lulling started to venture forth from their homes and to meet their friends again.

The news, naturally, was of the weather and all its attendant horrors. Tales of leaking roofs, ruined carpets, power cuts, and the prevalent wave of coughs and colds resulting from such conditions, were exchanged with the greatest animation and exaggeration.

Shopkeepers rejoiced in the return of customers, farmers went out into their fields again, and the Reverend Charles Henstock, vicar of Lulling and rector of Thrush Green, set out with joy to visit those who had been kept from his care by snow and water.

He decided to walk the mile from his home at St John's vicarage through Lulling High Street to Thrush Green. He did not hurry. Everyone stopped to speak to him. He was hailed by the shopkeepers, the dustmen, the window cleaner and his friends at the garage near the river's bridge.

Charles Henstock had no enemies. There was an innocence, a modesty, and a genuine love of his fellow men which protected him from malice of any sort.

He had lived at Thrush Green for many years in a hideous Victorian house which had caused his neighbours, and particularly Edward Young, the architect, considerable pain and loathing.

Charles was not upset by the ugliness nor the discomfort of his home. He had met his second wife, Dimity, at Thrush Green, and they had lived in their uncomfortable quarters in the greatest harmony, until the house burnt down, to the relief of Edward Young, and Charles was given the living of Lulling, Thrush Green and two other adjoining parishes.

Some of his closest friends lived at Thrush Green. Harold Shoosmith was a tower of strength when financial affairs had to be tackled. Dr Lovell and Winnie Bailey were two more, and Ella Bembridge was yet another.

His wife Dimity had lived with Ella for several years, and they were near neighbours and friends during Charles's widowerhood. All three remained close friends.

On this particular morning, he called at Ella's first. She opened her door, inviting him in, but Charles was a little dismayed to see that she was dressed ready to go out.

'No, no!' he protested. 'You are just off somewhere, I can see.'

'Come in for half a minute,' said Ella, in her gruff voice. 'I've got a letter for Dim. From Australia. Came just after Christmas, and I keep forgetting to send it on.'

She made her way to the kitchen, and Charles followed her. Whilst she rummaged through a dresser drawer which appeared to hold dusters, string, jam-pot covers and a collapsible lacy affair which Charles could not place, he looked happily about him.

In this very room he had proposed marriage to his dear Dimity. For him it would always be a hallowed place.

'There we are!' cried Ella triumphantly. She began to shovel the clutter back into the drawer.

Charles put the letter in his pocket.

'And what is that?' he asked, as Ella was about to thrust the white lacy bundle into the drawer.

Ella snapped it open. 'It's a cover to keep off the flies,' she explained. 'Very useful when we have tea in the garden, or leave meat out for second helpings.'

'Most intriguing,' murmered Charles, his eyes wide with wonder behind his spectacles.

Ella laughed indulgently at Charle's naivety. Who else would be so impressed by such a simple contrivance?

They went together through the front door. Ella turned left to Lulling, leaving Charles gazing happily about him, wondering whom to visit next.

Before him stood the attractive collection of old people's homes, built on the site of his own burnt-out house. Here were several of his friends and parishioners, under the care of Jane and Bill Cartwright who were joint wardens.

Should he call now, or leave that visit to the afternoon? He consulted his watch, and was dismayed to find that it was almost noon.

That decided it. He would call on the Shoosmiths first.

He set off across the green, passed his church where Albert appeared to be in a state of meditation as he leant on a broom by the porch, and made his way in high spirits.

It was good to be home again.

From her bedroom window Joan Young had seen Charles Henstock making his brisk way to the Shoosmiths.

She and Molly were sorting out garments for the next jumble sale. It had seemed, at the outset, to be a simple straightforward task, but it was proving to be uncommonly difficult.

Joan had been the more ruthless of the parr, holding up jumpers and cardigans and ready to put them on a mounting pile on the bed. But Molly, brought up to be more prudent, acted as a brake upon such hasty progress.

'That's too good to give away. You always looked nice in that pink. I'd keep it for a bit.'

Reluctantly, Joan removed it from what she thought of as 'the slush pile' and put it on a chair.

A heap of Paul's outgrown clothes had to be tackled, and here Joan was firmer in her approach. The better items of school uniform were destined for the school's secondhand shop, but such things as shabby pants, vests and holiday wear were being sorted quickly.

'My George could use those,' said Molly as some things were being held up.

'Then do take them,' said Joan. 'In fact, anything you can make use of, Molly, just put on one side. Most of these are going to end up as dusters.'

It was at this stage that she caught sight of the rector crossing the green, and left her labours to gaze upon the scene she loved.

Thrush Green had changed little since she came to live there as a married woman. She and her sister Ruth had known the place from childhood and she hoped that she would never have to leave it.

The old rectory had gone of course, but few had mourned that architectural monstrosity. Now Rectory Cottages, the homes designed by her husband, stood in its place, and Joan looked upon the buildings with affection. Edward had done a good job, and Jane and Bill Cartwright were equally successful in their care of the old people who lived there.

She had known Jane as a child and followed her career as a nurse with admiration. She was indeed 'a chip off the old block', for her mother Mrs Jennings had been the local nurse and midwife for many years. Old Dr Bailey had relied on her skills hundreds of times, and his successor John Lovell also knew her worth. It had been a great satisfaction to Dr Lovell, as a trustee of Rectory Cottages, when Jane Cartwright and her Yorkshire-born husband had been appointed as wardens.

'Mr Henstock's around,' said Joan.

'Going to see the old folk?'

'Not at the moment. I think he's calling on Harold Shoosmith.'

'Well, he'll be welcome wherever he goes,' said Molly, joining Joan at the window.

'Could my Ben have this cotton T-shirt for cleaning the car windows? Nothing like a bit of real cotton, Ben always says.'

'It's his,' said Joan, turning back to her task, refreshed as always by a glimpse of Thrush Green.

Charles Henstock found Isobel Shoosmith setting the table for lunch, and began his apologies.

'Join us,' said Isobel. 'It's not quite time yet, but do stay.'

'Well –' began Charles diffidently.

'Or is Dimity expecting you back?'

'Well—' said Charles again.

'What's wrong?'

'I don't like to intrude.'

'Charles! Really!'

'But the truth is,' said honest Charles Henstock, 'Dimity's gone shopping in Oxford, and she's having lunch there with an old schoolfriend.'

'Then you can stop,' said Isobel firmly. 'That's settled.'

'She left me something cold,' went on the rector, looking worried.

'Have it this evening,' said Isobel briskly. 'Now, if you want Harold, he's in the garden.'

He found his friend tending a bonfire which seemed reluctant to burn. His sleeves were rolled up, his grey hair on end, and his face decorated with a few black streaks, but he seemed very content.

'Nice to see you. I'm not making much headway with this - everything's so wet after the snow. But what brings you here?'

'The pleasure of seeing Thrush Green again,' said Charles, 'and one or two little parish matters.'

'Come in and have a drink,' said Harold, abandoning his work and leading the way to the house.

'It's about this summer's fete,' said Charles, when they were settled with their glasses.

'You're the second person to mention the fete,' commented Harold. 'Heavens, man, it's not till July! Edward Young wants me to do his usual job, by the way, as he's hoping to go away during Paul's summer holidays.'

'Well, we shall have to bring it up at the committee meeting,' said Charles, 'but I just wondered if you had any strong feelings about where the proceeds should go this year.'

'I hadn't thought about it. It's usually the church roof or the organ that's in need. What's in your mind?'

'Rectory Cottages.'

'But surely they are in good nick? We're both trustees. There's no doubt there, is there?'

'Well, no. But Jane Cartwright has been wondering if the communal room is really big enough. You see, it's not just the residents of the seven cottages that use it, but their visitors sometimes. And, of course, if they have a party of any sort, it does get rather crowded.'