(12/20) No Holly for Miss Quinn (5 page)

"Well, whose fault's that?" asked Mr. Lamb, entering the fray. "We all know Arthur drinks his pay packet—always has done, and always will. If he was given more, he'd drink that too."

"Who said give Arthur the money?" demanded

Mrs. Pringle, her four chins wobbling with indignation. "Give it to that poor wife of his, I say, to get a decent meal for the kids."

"They do get something from the Great Coal Charity," said Mrs. Willet diffidently. Mrs. Pringle brushed this aside.

"And in my mother's time she didn't rely on no Great Coal Charity," she boomed on. "She paid her way, poor though she was."

"She didn't have anything from the Great Coal Charity," responded Mr. Lamb, "because there wasn't one then."

"I'll have you know," said Mrs. Pringle with devastating dignity, "that that there Charity was started in seventeen-fifty because the vicar told us himself at a talk he gave the W.I."

"Maybe," replied Mr. Lamb, "but it was started as a
Greatcoat Charity,
and six deserving old men and six deserving old women got a woolen greatcoat apiece to keep out the winter cold."

Mrs. Pringle looked disbelieving, her mouth downturned like a disgruntled turtle's.

"And what happened," said Mr. Lamb, warming to his theme, "was this. Someone left the crossing off the 't' in 'coat' when they were writing up the minutes about George the Fourth's time, and so it went on being called the Great Coal Charity, and instead of a coat you get coal."

"Well, I never," exclaimed Mrs. Willet. "I never heard that before!"

"Nor did I," said Mrs. Pringle, with heavy sarcasm. She picked up her stamps and made for the door.

"Which doesn't alter my feelings about bread and cheese dinners. What's dinner without a bit of meat on your plate?"

She banged the door behind her. Mrs. Willet sighed.

"That woman," said Mr. Lamb, "makes me come over prostrate with dismal when she shows that face of hers in here. Now, love, what was it you wanted?"

Chapter 4

TROUBLE AHEAD

M
ISS
Q
UINN
was wise enough to realize that she could not opt out of Christmas activities completely. Nor did she wish to. She willingly provided boxes of chocolates for raffle prizes at various Fairacre functions, accompanied Joan to a carol service at St. Patrick's, and drank a glass of punch at the vicarage Open Day.

There was no doubt about it, this new venture was extremely popular with Fairacre folk. Mrs. Partridge and her helpers had decked the downstairs rooms with scarlet and silver ribbons, and all the traditional trappings of Christmas. Holly and ivy, mistletoe and glittering baubles added their beauty, and an enormous Christmas tree dominated the entrance hall.

In each room was a table bearing goods suitable for Christmas presents, and a brisk trade ensured that the Church Fabric Fund and Mr. Partridge's pet mission would profit. Miriam recognized the planning which must have gone into this enterprise, and admired the efficiency with which it was run. It was an idea she intended to pass on to Lovell, when she saw him, for future use in his own parish.

These little jaunts she thoroughly enjoyed, and she was grateful for the genuine welcome she was given by her village neighbors. Joan's growing excitement, as the festival approached, was a source of mingled pleasure and apprehension, however.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Joan had said, on the morning of the Open Day. "Roger is coming for Christmas, after all, and then going with a party of other young people to Switzerland for the winter sports."

"Marvelous," agreed Miriam. Barbara, the daughter, her husband, and the three children had already accepted Joan's invitation and would be in the house for a week. Miriam had listened patiently to Joan's ecstatic arrangements for sleeping, feeding, and entertaining the family party for the last week or two. The plans were remarkably fluid, and Miriam had long since given up trying to keep track of who slept where, or when would be best to eat the turkey.

It was quite apparent that she must meet Joan's family at some time, and she had accepted an invitation to have a drink on Christmas Eve. So far, she had managed to evade the pressing invitations to every meal which her kindhearted landlady issued daily. That sitting room would be painted, come hail or high water, she told herself grimly.

She had arranged with Barney to take some time off during his absence in America. This would give her a few days before Christmas to get on with her decorating, having left the office in apple-pie order after his departure. Tins of paint and three new brushes waited on the top shelf in the kitchen, and she felt a little surge of happiness every time she saw them. She could see the sitting room in her mind's eye, a bower of green and white all ready for the New Year, and the new curtains and cushions she had promised herself.

Almost all her Christmas presents were wrapped and ready to post. Christmas cards began to arrive thick and fast. Usually, she had some plan of display—a whitewashed branch to hold them, or scarlet ribbons placed across the walls. But this year she read each with interest and then slipped it into a folder brought from the office, so that all were stacked away, leaving the sitting room ready for her ministrations.

She was glad when the time came to leave the office for her extended Christmas break. Four days after Barney's departure, with everything left tidy, she distributed her presents to the office staff, and thankfully set off for Fairacre and the decorating.

Lights were strung across the streets of Caxley, and entwined the lamp standards. Christmas trees jostled pyramids of oranges in the greengrocers' shops. Turkeys hung in rows in the butchers', presenting their pink plump breasts for inspection. Children flattened their noses against the windows of the toy shops, while exhausted mothers struggled with laden shopping baskets and wondered what they had forgotten.

Queues formed at the Post Office: people buying stamps for stacks of Christmas cards, weighing parcels bedizened with Christmas stickers, or simply enquiring, with some agitation, the last date for posting to New Zealand and getting the answer they had feared. Yet again, Aunt Flo in Wellington would receive a New Year's card sent by air mail.

The surging crowds, the garish lights, the sheer unappetizing commercialism of the festival disgusted Miriam as she threaded her way slowly along the busy streets. It was good to gain the country road to Fairacre, climbing steadily towards the downs, to smell the frosty air and to know that peace lay ahead, behind the holly hedge.

She spent most of the evening by the fire, relishing her solitude and making plans for the attack on the painting. She reviewed the situation and found it highly satisfactory. Her posting was done. A box containing Christmas presents, to be given by hand to Joan and other local friends, was on a shelf in the kitchen cupboard. The milkman was going to deliver a small chicken in two days' time, ready for her modest Christmas dinner. Christmas boxes for the tradesmen waited on the hall window sill for distribution as they called.

Nothing—but
nothing
—she told herself with satisfaction, could keep her from her decorating now!

Fired by the thought, she began to gather together the ornaments about the room, stacking them in a large cardboard box. It would save time in the morning, when she would roll up the carpet, take down the curtains and push the large pieces of furniture into the center of the room. Already she had found two dust sheets to cover the mound, and had planned the best method of building the assorted shapes of sofa, chairs and table into a compact pile. Her methodical mind reveled in such practical arrangements. The job was going to be as efficiently tackled as any at the office, and would give her far more satisfaction.

She prepared the room next morning, and by midday was down to the exacting job of washing down the old paint, and rubbing down any uneven patches on the surface. Joan came in once or twice to see if there was anything she could do to help. Miriam greeted her with a smile, but was obviously so content to work alone that Joan retired after expressing admiration for Miriam's zeal.

"It's going to look marvelous," she cried. "Will you have lunch with me? It will save you cooking."

"I've made a sandwich," replied Miriam, "and shall have it with some coffee to save time, if you don't mind."

Joan was secretly rather relieved. Her whole attention now was on the arrival of Barbara and family in two days' time. After the loneliness of the past months, it was pure joy for her to be preparing food and decking the house, in readiness for the company which would bring Holly Lodge to life again.

Christmas Day fell on a Thursday. Miriam had high hopes of finishing the painting by then, although she faced the fact that the windows—always a tricky and tedious job—might have to be left for later. As Barney would not be back from America until January third, she had planned to take another few days after Christmas if all were well at the office. There should be ample time to get the sitting room into perfect order.

By Monday evening the first coat of emulsion paint was on the walls. She stood back, brush in hand, to admire its delicate shade. Yes, it was perfect!

Tomorrow she would put on the second and final coat, she told herself happily, going to the sink to rinse the paint brush. She could hear Joan talking to someone on the telephone. No doubt Barbara was ringing about the traveling plans.

But a moment later, Joan called to her.

"Your brother, Miriam, from Norfolk."

"Right!" called the girl, drying her hands.

Lovell sounded agitated.

"I've trouble here," said the deep voice. "Eileen's just gone to hospital."

"An accident?"

"No, nothing like that. But most acute stomach pains. Awful sickness. Probably something to do with the gall bladder. She's had this sort of thing off and on for some time, but this morning she had this really terrible attack."

"Poor Eileen! Where is she? Far away?"

"No. In the local hospital. The thing is, can you possibly come and hold the fort for the next few days? I know it's asking a lot, but over Christmas I shall be extra busy in the parish, and I don't know which way to look for help with the children."

"I can come," said Miriam promptly. It was good to know that Lovell turned at once to her when he needed help. The old strong bond between them was reestablished in those few words uttered so many miles apart.

"You're a trump, Miriam," cried Lovell. The relief in his voice warmed her heart. "I can't tell you how glad I am. And so will the children be, and Eileen, when I tell them."

"I'll set off first thing," said Miriam, "and be with you tomorrow afternoon. Have you got provisions in, or shall I bring something?"

"Oh, I expect everything's here," said Lovell, but he sounded somewhat vague.

There was a sound of infant screaming in the background.

"Don't worry," called Miriam hastily. "I'll see to things when I arrive."

"Marvelous!" sighed her brother.

The screaming became louder. Miss Quinn replaced the receiver and went sadly back to the half-painted sitting room.

"Well," she said glumly. "That's that!"

Joan heard the news with distress. Anything to do with illness touched her sympathetic heart, and reawakened memories of her own two recent bereavements. On this occasion there were further causes for dismay.

"And at Christmas too! And with children in the home! Dear, oh dear, it couldn't be more unfortunate, especially with the extra services your brother will have to take. If only I could help!"

"I know you would if you could, but you will have enough to do at Holly Lodge. I will telephone as soon as I get there tomorrow."

There was nothing more to do to the painting until the first coat was thoroughly dry. It should certainly be just that by the time she returned, she thought grimly. Understandable irritation began to flood her as she packed away the brushes and tins. How like Eileen to manage to mess up so many people's affairs!

Immediately, she chided herself, but the resentment remained to rankle as she found her case and began to pack. And yet, in a distorted way, she almost felt grateful to Lovell's wife for giving her the chance to have his company for a few days of uninterrupted pleasure. It was years since they had been able talk without the presence of her flibbertigibbet sister-in-law.