(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green (12 page)

Violet was easily the prettiest of the sisters in their youth. She may not have had the same deadly back-hand of her sister Ada, or the smashing volley of her sister Bertha, but her eyelashes were definitely longer, her hair curlier and her legs more shapely than her sisters!

It was she who nurtured a secret passion for Kit Armitage, then unattached and at his most handsome. The two elder sisters were inclined to be derogatory about her affection.

'Don't throw yourself at him so blatantly,' said Ada primly. 'No man wants to be pursued. You only make yourself cheap.'

'He won't thank you for making him look silly in front of the others,' added Bertha. 'If he wants to be more friendly then he will make the running.'

Violet said little, but privately thought that Ada and Bertha were prompted by feelings of jealousy rather than sisterly concern. Kit Armitage was easily the most glamorous of their circle, and long after he had left England and then found a wife abroad, Violet kept a warm place for him in her heart.

His reappearance had stirred her affections into life again. True, they were both old people now, but was it not possible, thought Violet, that they might find a great deal in common? Kit was now a widower. Might he not be in need of an understanding companion, much his age?

She was careful to conceal these slender hopes from her two sisters, but with memories of Violet's earlier infatuation the older two ladies were on their guard.

However, all agreed that such an old friend should be welcomed again to Lulling, and much thought went into the best way to entertain him.

'A tea-party seems rather
feminine,
' announced Ada, 'and I don't think we are up to a formal dinner party, what with cleaning all the silver, and getting Mrs Fox in for the evening to wait at table.'

'Besides the expense,' pointed out Bertha.

'Besides the expense,' agreed Ada.

Violet held her tongue.

'So it boils down to lunch,' said Ada. 'I suggest we ask Justin and his wife, now he has retired, and Winnie Bailey.'

'It makes rather a monstrous regiment of women,' protested Bertha, 'with the three of us.'

Ada considered the problem.

'Well, I really can't think of any unattached men whom we could invite. Men are so thoughtless in the way they die before their poor wives. For every widower or bachelor in Thrush Green and Lulling there must be half a dozen lone women. It really is trying!'

Violet now ventured to speak.

'He won't expect us to have even numbers. After all, he knows our circumstances. If justin and Lily are here to keep us all company, I think it will make a very nice little party. And you know that six fit very comfortably round our dining room table.'

Her sisters looked at her with approbation.

'You are quite right, dear. Let's leave it at six, and I'll send out invitations today. We might think of an easy meal to serve too. Cold, do you think?'

'Definitely cold,' said Bertha. 'And people can help themselves. Salad, of course, though lettuces are a terrible price at the moment.'

'We have our home-made green tomato chutney,' replied Ada brightening, 'and those spiced pears are perfectly good if we lift off the mildew at the top.'

'We should have baked potatoes then,' said Violet, asserting herself. 'And soup first. It looks more welcoming, and our dining room can be very cold, as you know.'

'As you wish, dear,' said Ada with some hauteur. 'Frankly, I see no need for a
feast,
but if you like to make yourself responsible for the soup course and give an eye to the baked potatoes in the second, I see no reason to object. Gentlemen do seem to need more than we do.'

'Then I think we should have a fruit tart for pudding,' went on Violet, encouraged by her success. 'A hot apple tart is always popular.'

'I thought of doing one of my cold shapes,' put in Bertha. 'Made with some of our bottled gooseberries it could be quite acceptable.'

'We'll have that as well,' said Violet firmly. 'We shall need a choice.'

Her two sisters exchanged glances. Was Violet going to be silly all over again? And at her age?

Flinging caution to the winds, Violet entered the fray again.

'And we must order some cream,' she added. Ada and Bertha drew in their breath sharply. The expense!

'Double
cream!' added their renegade sister, pink and reckless.

What was the world coming to?

9. Dotty Harmer Has Visitors

THE INHABITANTS of Thrush Green awoke on May the first to a morning of such pearly beauty that they remembered, with a lift of the heart, that the loveliest of months had begun.

But there were some among them whose exhilaration was tempered with a certain sadness. These were the people who remembered, with poignant clarity, that May the first, for many years, meant the excitement of old Mrs Curdle's famous fair.

Ben Curdle, her grandson, had particular cause to recall it as he cycled by the green to work on that glistening morning.

It was he who had been forced to sell the business a few years earlier and to leave the nomadic life, which he had always known, for a settled existence at Thrush Green with Molly and the two children.

He did not regret the change. It was a decision which had to be made. The fair was running down after Mrs Curdle's death, beaten by more sophisticated pleasures such as television and bingo.

Ben knew that he was fortunate to sell when he did. The price had been a good one. Molly was glad to be near her father, miserable old curmudgeon that he was, thought Ben privately, and young George Curdle had settled well at Thrush Green village school. The Youngs were the kindest of landlords, and Ben enjoyed the work he had found as a mechanic in the local firm of agricultural engineers.

Nevertheless, as he mounted his bicycle that May morning he felt a pang of nostalgia. He remembered the clopping of hoofs as the old horse-drawn caravan had threaded its way through the deep lanes of southern England. He recalled the thrill of finding satin-skinned mushrooms in the dewy grass, and the smell of them cooking with bacon on Gran's minute stove. He could hear now the small intimate sounds of early morning, the birdsong, the snuffle of the horse at its nosebag, the rattle of the frying pan. Later, the noises would turn to the clamour of the fair; men shouting, swingboats creaking, the raucous music from the roundabouts and the shrill cries of excited children.

And through it all, running like a linking theme through this orchestration, was the low and sometimes harsh voice of his beloved grandmother. She had been a despot, a benevolent one to Ben, but not to any of her employees who shirked hard work.

She was on duty every hour, and expected the same unswerving loyalty from all who travelled with her. It was one of the qualities which had given Curdle's Fair its name for complete reliability. If the Fair was due to arrive on a certain date, then without fail it would be there. Ben could remember floods, breakdowns to the waggons, sudden illnesses and once, between High Wycombe and Marlow, a wicked storm which had sent a jagged fork of lightning upon one man, Jem Murphy, who was leading his frightened horse, and who had to be taken to hospital suffering from shock and burns.

Even so, the Fair had arrived punctually at its next destination, Ben remembered with pride.

Ah! It had been a good life, and a good training for a boy! Old Gran had taught him right from wrong and had set him standards of behaviour which were now standing him in good stead. He could only hope that he could pass on those standards to his own children.

He took a deep breath of fresh morning air, and pedalled energetically towards his work.

No good looking back, he told himself. Times changed, and perhaps for the better. He would buy Molly a box of chocolates on his way home to celebrate the first of May. She would understand.

An hour or two later Winnie Bailey and Jenny, her friend and maid, were recalling Mrs Curdle and the Fair.

To tell you the truth, Jenny,' said Winnie, busily rolling out pastry at the kitchen table, 'I was about to throw out those bunches of artificial flowers that have been gathering dust on the top shelf of the landing cupboard, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.'

'I should hope not,' replied Jenny. 'Why, Mrs Curdle made them with her own hands! And I bet if you put them in the dustbin George Fry'd pick 'em out and return them to you. He'd know, as a dustman, just where everything came from. You wouldn't get rid of Mrs Curdle's flowers as easy as that!'

'I think I should have burned them,' confessed Winnie. 'They're made of fine wood-shavings, you know. But it wasn't that which held me back. It was just that I remembered how dear old Mrs Curdle looked when she handed over a new bunch every first of May. They'll just have to stay there, I'm afraid. But I wonder what the person will think when he or she comes to clear up this house when I'm gone!'

'No sense in talking like that,' said Jenny sturdily. She mopped the draining board briskly. 'You've years ahead of you yet.'

'I hope so. Especially when it's a morning like this. Weil get our little jobs done quickly today, Jenny, and make sure we get out in the sunshine. I'm going to take some magazines to Miss Harmer this afternoon.'

'Well, I wouldn't stop to tea,' advised Jenny. 'I hear she's taken to making her own bread.'

'Thank you for warning me,' said Winnie.

Winnie Bailey was not the only one making for Dotty Harmer's house near Lulling Woods.

Stepping briskly up the hill to Thrush Green was Kit Armitage, a carrier bag swinging in his hand. He was some ten minutes behind Dr Bailey's widow, and admired, as she so recently had done, the gauzy green of the young leaves in the avenue on Thrush Green, and the pyramids of tight lilac buds to be seen in the gardens.

A robin accompanied him along the path leading from the green to the fields where Dotty's cottage lay snugly embedded. The bird bobbed ahead of him on the dry stone wall, bowing and chirruping. Was he trying to distract his attention from some nearby nest, Kit wondered?

It was good to have this little companion. Kit admired the smooth plumage, the flaming breast, the bead-bright eyes. He, or perhaps she, thought Kit, as somewhere he remembered reading that male and female looked alike, was a fine specimen, and he fell to wondering if a clutch of small pink-spotted eggs was hidden nearby, and hoped that all would turn into splendid replicas of the bird before him.

Dotty's cottage came in sight. He appreciated the way that the grey thatched roof faded into the folds of land around it. Dotty's garden was extensive, and it was adjoined by a paddock of almost two acres. No wonder Dotty in her time had been able to give her love of animals full scope. Ponies, donkeys, goats, pigs and sheep had at one time or another had the paddock as their home, and a small pond at the end of the garden had been a playground for endless generations of ducks and geese.

Nowadays the pond was used by only ten or so ducks. Dulcie, the goat, lived in solitary splendour in the paddock, and had the sturdy goat-house for her sole use. Not that she often deigned to sleep inside. Dulcie preferred the roof of the shed even in snowy weather. She was just as contrary as any other of her species.

A small pebble had found its way into Kit's shoe, and he was obliged to lean against the stone wall and unlace his shoe. Standing there, on one leg, he surveyed Dotty's little estate with an admiring eye.

There was no doubt about it, the house and its acre or two made a very pretty picture. It was what estate agents would call 'a desirable property'. It was remarkably quiet tucked away from Thrush Green, and yet had an entrance on to a side road which led into Lulling and villages further west.

There was a small orchard near the house, just beginning to come into leaf. Soon, Kit surmised, there would be a pink and white froth of blossom to add to the general enchantment.

As he watched, a figure emerged from the door, carrying a bright orange plastic bowl. Although Kit could not see them, he heard the frenzied squawking of hens hurrying towards their meal.

He recognised the figure as his newfound friend Connie, and obviously she was giving the hens an early supper. Perhaps she was going out later, he thought, bending down to lace his shoe. Surely hens were fed about dusk? Not that he was an expert on such matters, he was the first to admit.