(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green (2 page)

A small black and white terrier rushed out from a house nearby, barking ecstatically and stirring up a flurry of snow dust in its excitement. Now and again it stopped, head up, pink tongue pulsing, legs quivering and stiff, before dashing off again in another frenzy of delight in this strange element.

'Well,' said Miss Bertha, 'this won't do. We must get dressed and see what's to be done.'

'I think
porridge
for breakfast would be a good idea,' said Miss Violet. 'We don't need much milk if 1 make it fairly runny.'

'And I really prefer a little salt on mine,' said Miss Bertha. 'So much
cheaper
than sugar.'

'And whoever is down first,' called Miss Ada to her departing sisters, 'switch on the electric fire in the dining room.
One
bar, of course, but I think it's cold enough to indulge ourselves this morning.'

The Misses Lovelock were renowned for quite unnecessary parsimony.

A mile away to the north, the inhabitants of Thrush Green greeted the snow with much the same surprise. The young welcomed it with the same rapture as Charles Henstock's. The old looked upon it with some dismay.

Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty, headmistress and assistant at the village school, discussed this unexpected quirk in the weather as they tackled their boiled eggs.

'I hope Betty remembers to put down newspaper in the lobbies,' said Miss Watson. 'It saves such a lot of mess.'

'I'm sure she will,' responded little Miss Fogerty. 'I only hope the children don't try and make slides in the playground before we go across. So dangerous.'

Miss Watson sighed.

'It's mornings like this that makes me regret staying on here,' she confessed. 'To think we might have been happily settled in dear old Barton. There's probably no snow there at all!'

Miss Fogerty tried to rally her old friend.

'It was not to be, Dorothy dear. I'm sure of that. And after all, we've always been very snug in this school house.'

'Maybe, maybe,' agreed her headmistress, 'but I still wish we could have retired when we had planned to do so. It has been such a disappointment.'

Even Miss Fogerty, devout believer in divine intervention in human affairs, could not help agreeing.

The two old friends had hoped to retire together to a small house at Barton-on-Sea. Property, of the type they wanted, was expensive and scarce. A great many people, it seemed, wanted to live in such a pleasant area. They too wanted a small, easily managed house with only a little land to maintain.

The two ladies had spent several weeks during their holidays in looking for a future home. On more than one occasion they thought they had found it, only to come up against snags. Sometimes the surveys had disclosed faulty drains, crumbling foundations, unaccountable subsidence, dry rot, wet rot, or plain shoddy building. In other cases the owners had backed out at the last minute, unable to buy the property they had hoped to purchase, or suddenly deciding to take their own off the market.

In the meantime Agnes Fogerty's arthritis had become worse and the Thrush Green doctor, John Lovell, had recommended a course of treatment which would spread over some months. Added to this was pressure from the local education office, upon Dorothy Watson, to postpone her retirement.

What with one thing and another the two hard-pressed ladies agreed to stay on in their present circumstances, and great was the relief felt by all their old friends at Thrush Green.

On the whole they had been relieved to have this respite after the frustrations of house-hunting. They both enjoyed their teaching, and had the satisfaction of knowing that their efforts were appreciated. The genuine delight of the parents and friends of the school when they had told them of their decision to stay on, was of great comfort to them, and did much to mitigate the disappointment of failing to find a house.

But this morning, with the snow blanketing all, and with memories of past snowy winters at Thrush Green school, the two friends knew that they must put all those wistful might-have-beens behind them, and face the realities of snow-crazed children, wet floor-boards, clothes drying on the fire-guards and, worst of all, no possible hope of playtime being taken outdoors. The dog-eared comics, the well-worn jigsaw puzzles, the ludo and snakes and ladders boards must emerge from the cupboard which held the wet-playtime equipment, and all one could do was to pray for a rapid thaw.

Dorothy Watson folded her napkin briskly.

'May as well make a start, dear,' she said, rising from her chair. 'And if it's not too slushy at playtime, I propose that we let the children make a snowman.'

'But only those with Wellingtons,' Miss Fogerty reminded her.

And with this proviso the two friends prepared to face the day.

Next door, in one of the finest houses on Thrush Green, Harold Shoosmith and his wife Isobel, were also at breakfast.

Theirs was a more leisurely affair than that of the two schoolteachers, for Harold had been a retired man for several years, and relished the fact that he could dally over his breakfast coffee.

Isobel had first met him on one of her visits to Thrush Green. She had been at college with little Agnes Fogerty and they had kept up their friendship over the years. It was a great joy to both to find themselves neighbours in middle age.

The shouts of children took Harold to the window, still cradling his coffee cup.

'My word,' he exclaimed, 'they've made the most splendid slide the whole width of the playground!'

'Agnes and Dorothy won't approve,' commented his wife.

'They wouldn't be such spoil sports as to ruin it, surely,' said Harold. 'I wouldn't mind a go on it myself. They're keeping the pot boiling marvellously!'

Isobel joined him at the window which overlooked the playground. Sure enough, the sight was exhilarating. Some dozen or more children, scarves flying, hair on end, were chasing each other in a long line down the twenty-foot slide. Their breath steamed in the frosty air, their faces glowed like winter suns, and the din was appalling.

Rows of smaller, or more timid, children lined the route adding their cheers to the general racket. There was no doubt about it. The slide was a huge success.

Harold, still smiling, looked across the green. The statue of Nathaniel Patten, a zealous missionary of the last century, much admired by Harold who had been instrumental in honouring the old gentleman on his hundredth anniversary, was plentifully daubed with snowy patches. The white cap on his head, and the snowy shawl across his shoulders were deposited naturally from above, but the spattered frock coat showed clearly the results of well-aimed snowballs.

Certainly, the teachers at Thrush Green school were going to have unusually lively pupils on this winter morning, thought Isobel.

At that moment, Betty Bell appeared, pushing her bicycle up the path with some difficulty. She had finished her ministrations at the school next door, remembering to carpet the lobby with newspapers as Agnes knew she would. For good measure she had surrounded the fire guard round the tortoise stove with more newspaper, to catch stray drips from wet clothing and, her duties there done, now approached the Shoosmiths' abode.

'Lord!' she puffed, blowing into the kitchen on a gale of cold air. 'What some weather, eh? Your front path wants doing, and that's a fact.'

'I'm just off to tackle it,' Harold assured her, putting down his cup, and going in search of his largest shovel.

There were others already at work when Harold emerged from his house. At The Two Pheasants, hard by the village school, Mr Jones the landlord was busy shovelling the snow away from the door.

His neighbour, Albert Piggott, watched him morosely, leaning heavily the while upon an upturned broom.

'Time you cleared your own patch,' pointed out Mr Jones, becoming annoyed at Albert's scrutiny.

'I shan't be doin' much,' growled Albert. 'Jest my bit round the door. That lazy Cooke article can dig over to the church. His arms is younger'n mine.'

'Strikes me, young Bob Cooke's doing the lot these days,' replied the landlord, straightening his aching back for a moment. 'Can't see you earn your wage, Albert.'

Albert forbore to answer, but shuffled a few paces nearer his grubby front door, and thrust the broom languidly this way and that in front of him.

Mr Jones muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, seized his spade again, and set to with a will. It was a sore trial having Albert Piggott as next door neighbour, and he was already regretting his action in getting the miserable old sexton of St Andrew's to help with the beer crates in the evenings. Half the time he didn't turn up, and the other half he was too muzzy to do the job properly.

Ah well! His mother used to say: 'These little things are sent to try us.'

One thing was certain, Albert Piggott was the most unpopular man in Thrush Green.

Mr Jones scooped up the last shovelful, dumped it neatly on the pile at the corner, waved to Harold and went indoors, ready for opening time.

Across the green the distant sounds of other inhabitants at work carried clearly to Harold. Ella Bembridge was digging a way to her gate from her thatched cottage. She and Dimity Henstock had lived there for years until Charles had whisked Dimity across to the rectory and now to the lovely vicarage at Lulling. A cigarette was clamped to her lower lip, and its blue smoke mingled with the clouds of breath around her.

Somewhere nearer, in the grounds of the most splendid of all the Thrush Green houses, Harold could hear the cheerful cries of children. It was probably Paul Young's half-term holiday, and it sounded as though he had a companion with him. A good deal of spade-clanging was going on, and even more laughter. Clearing the Youngs' drive was going to take some time, Harold surmised, but it was certainly being enjoyed.

He straightened his aching back and looked with pleasure at the clear blue sky. It made a breathtakingly lovely backdrop to the snowy landscape and the grey-golden buildings around the open space. A good spot to live, Harold told himself, for the umpteenth time. He never grew tired of the place.

It was lovely in all the seasons, possibly at its best in autumn, when the avenue of horsechestnut trees glowed with tawny foliage, and drifts of golden leaves crackled underfoot and whispered as the wind played with them.

But nevertheless, this morning's view of Thrush Green took some beating. Even the rough patch of ground left by the cruel removal of Charles's rectory was smoothly beautiful, and the stark shapes of the tombstones in St Andrew's graveyard were softened by snowy drapery.

Three more yards, thought Harold, eyeing his progress, and he would go in for a well-earned cup of coffee.

2. The Rector Goes About His Duties

LATER THAT day, in the sunny afternoon, the newly appointed vicar of Lulling and the more familiar rector of Thrush Green, Lulling Woods and Nidden, set out for Thrush Green.

All these important persons, as Pooh-Bah might say, were rolled into the one chubby frame of Charles Henstock. He drove his shabby car very carefully along the High Street, waving, as he made his royal progress, to a number of his parishioners. Occasionally a passing car would hoot, or flash its lights, but Charles Henstock contented himself with a wave of the hand.

'You see,' he explained to Dimity sitting beside him, 'I'm never quite sure what flashing lights mean. There was an excellent letter on the subject in one of the newspapers some time ago.'

'There's Bertha Lovelock!' exclaimed Dimity. Charles waved dutifully, and continued his story.

'The writer said—he was also a man of the cloth, by the way—that he couldn't make out if the driver was telling him his lights were on, or warning him that there was a police trap or an accident or flooding or some other disaster—'

'A police trap isn't a disaster,' objected Dimity. 'Mind that pigeon!'

'Or whether,' continued her husband unperturbed, 'the driver was simply saying: "Good morning, vicar."'

'There's another pigeon,' said Dimity. 'Sometimes I think they're more foolhardy than pheasants about crossing the road.'

The rector changed gear to negotiate the short steep hill which led to Thrush Green. At the summit he pulled into the side of the road for Dimity to get out. She was going to see her old friend Ella Bembridge while Charles set about some sick visiting of his more northerly parishioners.

Dimity picked her way carefully across the snowy road and Charles watched her enter her old home, before driving on.

To his left St Andrew's loomed above its white churchyard. The door of The Two Pheasants was now closed, and Charles guessed that the landlord was having a well-earned snooze in his snug sitting room behind the bar. Smoke curled from most of the chimneys, and he could imagine the cheerful log fires of his friends. It would have been pleasant to call on Harold and Isobel, or Frank and Phyllida Hurst but he had duties to the sick, and his first call must be at the most beautiful house on Thrush Green, where the Youngs lived. Here he must make enquiries about Joan Young's father who lived with his wife in the converted stables. Charles feared that the old man was close to his end, and it would be best to find out first from his daughter if he was up to receiving visitors.