(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green (23 page)

They toured the rooms again. It seemed an ideal house for a bachelor, to Connie's mind, compact, light and easy to run. One of the bedrooms was small, but Connie was old-fashioned enough to think that every house should have a boxroom, and this would make a splendid place for all those things like trunks, odd chairs, fire screens, boxes of spare curtains and such like which need a space to jostle in.

This would leave a large bedroom for Kit and an equally large one for his spare room. However, it was apparent that he had taken a dislike to the place, for some reason best known to himself, so Connie kept her thoughts to herself.

'Well, shall we push off? Let's have tea at The Fuchsia Bush. You aren't in a desperate hurry to get back?'

'No. I'd love that. Aunt Dotty's not expecting me till six, and Albert is milking Dulcie, so she'll have company too. The Fuchsia Bush has some splendid scones these days, thanks to our Nelly. I'm glad she came back to Thrush Green.'

'Sensible woman,' commented Kit. 'Can't beat Thrush Green. This place is too far from it for my liking.'

His spirits seemed to have recovered, and they drove back to Lulling gossiping cheerfully. Tea was as delicious as ever under Mrs Peters' indulgent eye, and the two returned to Dotty's in great heart.

'No luck?' queried Dotty.

'Too far away,' said Kit.

'Well, you both look all the better for your outing,' said Dotty, 'and I've had a most interesting talk with Albert. Do you know his mother gave him a fried mouse to eat when he had whooping cough as a child? And he used to clean his teeth with sage leaves.'

'No wonder they've dropped out,' was Kit's comment.

Tom Hardy made good progress in Lulling Cottage Hospital, and was always eager to hear about Polly when Charles visited him.

'I've got another favour to ask of you, sir,' he said one afternoon. 'It seems I can go out from here if there's someone to look after me.'

Charles began to rack his brain for some willing neighbour who was free to oblige. The sad thing was that it seemed that everyone was out at work. Where had all those nice single aunts gone? They had been the mainstay of family crises in the rector's own childhood.

'Well, I can't go home, that's flat,' continued the patient. 'But they can fix me up at a convalescent home down Cheltenham way till I'm up and about again. The thing is, of course, old Poll.'

'You needn't worry on her account,' the rector assured him. 'We both love her, and she is the best-behaved dog I've ever come across. We'll keep her with us until you are well enough to have her.'

The old man gave a gusty sigh of relief.

'That's a weight off my mind. I tell 'em here I'll be doing for myself again in a week or two's time.'

But as the good rector returned home, he began to wonder if old Tom would ever be able to look after himself again.

And then the thought of Edward's old people's homes came to him, and he decided to see what could be done about one for his old friend, if the need arose. The biggest snag, of course, would be Tom himself. He loved his simple quiet home, with only the joyous sound of the river splashing alongside for company. How would he feel about neighbours living so close to him, and the sound of traffic nearby? There was no doubt about it, one's home meant so much. He recalled talking to Isobel Shoosmith when she had been house-hunting, and more recently he recalled Kit Armitage's comments.

They had all agreed that each house had an aura about it, and one which was quickly recognized.

'Some really welcomed you,' Isobel had said. 'You felt that the people who had lived there before had loved the place and been happy there. I felt it at once in our present home.'

'I felt it too at Lulling Vicarage,' agreed the rector, 'although I believe there have been some pretty rum incumbents over the centuries.'

'I definitely loathed one cottage I looked at beyond Nidden,' chimed in Kit. 'Couldn't think why. Roses round the door, south facing, sheltered by a little hill, it seemed perfect, but there was something sinister about it. I'm the last chap to claim to be psychic, but I wasn't a bit surprised to hear from Mrs Jenner that a couple lived there at the turn of the century who neglected their six children so appallingly that two of them died. It was a pitiful tale. The squalor alone was enough to curdle you, let alone the cruelty. There's a lot that goes on in the country that is hidden by pretty thatch and leaded windows.'

'I'm afraid you are right,' agreed the rector.

In the evening of the day they visited the gallery Charles rang Mrs Thurgood's number. He had not been in touch with that formidable woman since the disastrous meeting in the church which had led to her departure from his congregation.

A lesser man might have shirked the job, and been content to write a note to Miss Thurgood herself. But Charles had never lacked courage in a tight place, and he was confident that it would be better to explain matters over the telephone to Janet and to be prepared to answer any questions.

Luckily, it was she who answered the call. On hearing who it was on the other end of the wire her voice became somewhat cool, but Charles was not deterred.

He explained about their visit, the advertisement on the door, and the real need of the young gallery-owner to have help.

She listened attentively and sounded thoughtful when she spoke.

'I should like to help him. Should I write, do you think?'

She sounded more friendly after hearing the news, and Charles was relieved.

'I must stress that John was most reluctant to worry you. He has a great regard for your work, and thought you might be too busy with your own painting to bother with other people's efforts. He is refreshingly modest, I may say, and did remark about it being an honour if you felt you could help at the exhibition.'

'Really? How very kind!' exclaimed Janet, sounding quite enthusiastic. 'I think I will ring him now and find out more about it.'

'An excellent idea,' agreed Charles. 'And I hope you don't think me impertinent for mentioning your name to him.'

'Far from it. It was excessively kind of you. Especially in the—er—circumstances.'

'Not at all.'

'Well, a thousand thanks, anyway. I'm really rather at a loose end, and it will be lovely to have something useful to do. I'll let you know what happens.'

'Thank you,' said Charles. 'I should be interested.'

He rang off, and bent to stroke Polly.

'And how is the wretched girl,' asked Dimity, with a smile.

'Not quite so wretched,' Charles told her.

The days of early autumn were warm and cloudless. The tractors were busy in the fields turning over the golden stubble in long chocolate-coloured furrows.

The sun was still pleasantly warm. The plums and apples were ripening, and prudent housewives were busy storing the last of the runner beans and late peas in readiness for the winter.

Agnes Fogerty, greatly rejuvenated by her few days at Torquay, was now back in the classroom, and Mrs Trent reverted to her half-day's remedial work with backward, or possibly less-able, children.

Edward Young was now at the interesting stage of deciding on the best colours for interior and exterior decoration of his masterpiece. There was still plenty to be done for, as is usual during building operations, it seemed that one operator was always waiting for another to do something before the former could begin. The plasterer waited for the plumber. The plumber waited for the electrician. The electrician waited for the electricity board to supply the correct poles and wires, and so the merry-go-round went on.

'Some time,' cried Edward to Harold Shoosmith, 'I suppose it will get done. In the meantime, I'm trying to visualize what yellow walls would look like in the kitchens.'

'Depends on your mood,' observed Harold. 'They might make you feel sunny or bilious. I suppose the homes have all been allotted by now?'

'I wouldn't know, but I think it's likely. The council copes with that, and I don't envy it the job. I've heard they could be filled five times over.'

'You'll be getting on with the next few then, I take it?'

'Oh well,' said Edward cheerfully, 'these will change hands quite quickly, what with the "natural wastage" as it's so prettily expressed.'

'Deaths, do you mean?'

'That's right. Let's face it, Harold, most of them are on their last legs when they get one of these. However, it's jolly good luck for those on the waiting list, isn't it?'

He smiled brightly at his friend and mounted a ladder nimbly to inspect some guttering.

'It's strange, isn't it,' said Harold to Isobel later, 'how differently people look at life? Or death, for that matter.'

That afternoon Dimity was sitting in her drawing room mending her own and Charles's underclothes.

It was a job which she did not enjoy, and one which she had put off for so long that the pile beside her on the sofa was now formidable.

Polly lay beside her on the floor, thumping her fringed tail whenever Dimity spoke to her. Dimity often wondered what thoughts lay behind those odd eyes and the satiny head. Did she think of Tom? Did she secretly pine for him? Or was she as contented as she seemed to be, staying at the vicarage?

Dimity was a great animal lover, and secretly thought the idea, held by some people, that animals' spirits did not survive death, was desperately wrong. If goodness were anything to go by, there were a dozen or more cats and dogs known to her who had far more noble qualities than their owners. She dare not tell Charles of her beliefs, although she suspected that he felt as she did.

She put down the petticoat she was mending and gazed about her. Everything came to its end at a different age. Look at that lampshade, for instance, made by dear Ella for her last birthday, and already unravelling at the seams. And yet the chest it stood on had been her grandmother's, and had been made between 1780 and 1800 according to an expert in such matters. That surely would survive for another hundred years or so.

Or take Polly. She stroked the smooth head, and the dog thumped her tail with pleasure. Her end must come within the next two or three years. The roses on the table would be over in two or three days. It was an interesting thought.

At that moment, the telephone rang and Dimity put aside the petticoat.

A girl's voice spoke.

'Is your husband at hand, Mrs Henstock? It's Janet here.'

'Janet?' queried Dimity. She found it difficult to recognize voices on the telephone, and she knew three Janets.

'Janet Thurgood,' said the girl.

'No, I'm afraid he's visiting,' said Dimity, trying to disguise the coldness in her tone. 'Can I take a message for him? He will be back for tea.'

'It's just that I have started work at the gallery, and simply love it. John Fairbrother is such a dear, and I haven't been so happy for months. And it's all thanks to your kind husband. Please tell him.'

Dimity thawed at once. Praise of Charles was the surest way to her heart.

'He'll be delighted to hear it,' she said warmly. 'And so am I.'

17. Future Plans

IT WAS by means of the competent bush telegraph of Thrush Green and Lulling that Nelly Piggott first heard of the probable return of Mrs Jefferson to her kitchen duties at The Fuchsia Bush.

Albert had heard the news in The Two Pheasants. His informant was his young assistant Cooke, and he had heard it from Betty Bell who had heard it from the postman, Willie Bond, who was her cousin. Regretfully, no one seemed to know who had told Willie.

How much the tale had been embellished or confirmed in its roundabout journey, Nelly could not say, but she did know that quite often a rumour ran about several weeks before the fact emerged. She was very upset, but did her best to disguise it.

'I'd have thought Mrs Peters would have said something if that's true,' she told Albert. 'Always been straight with me. I bet this is some barmy idea one of your friends next door has thought up when he was half-seas-over.'

'Well, you wait and see,' replied Albert, nettled at the response to his bit of news.

She did not have to wait long. Mrs Peters met her in the kitchen of The Fuchsia Bush a few days later. It was the first thing in the morning, and they were alone.

The owner came to the point at once. She had been giving a good deal of thought to this tricky problem, but was determined to try to keep Nelly if she could. The sales of home-made cakes, at which Nelly excelled, had risen sharply since her arrival in the kitchen.

'If you would be willing to take sole charge of the cake side,' said Mrs Peters, 'I'm sure Mrs Jefferson will be able to cope with the rest. She will be coming in at ten o'clock for a little while, just to see how things go. That would help over the lunch time, and once that was cleared away she would go home. The new kitchen maids seem capable girls.'

Nelly agreed to all these plans with fervour. It meant that she would have the kitchen to herself for the first hour or so of the day, and this she relished. It also seemed that she could fit the afternoon hours to please herself.

'Take two afternoons off,' said her employer. 'We may be able to work out something half-time for you and for Mrs Jefferson, but we'll have to see how things go for the time being.'

When Nelly told Albert about these temporary arrangements he was somewhat smug.

'What'd I tell you? Now the old girl's back, same as we was told. Two afternoons off a week's not bad going either. You thinking of taking another little job?'

'No, I'm not,' responded Nelly flatly, i might spend one evening at Bingo. Must have a bit of fun now and again, and Mrs Jenner mentioned it to me the other day. She goes regular. Sees a bit of life there, she says.'

Which made it plain that Nelly was beginning to find her usual form.

'Well, I only hopes you keep the housekeeping money separate from your own bit,' replied Albert, damping down any unnecessary revival of spirits.

It was about this time that Charles Henstock heard that Tom Hardy was back at home and asking to see him. He was quite fit enough to manage to cope with Polly, was the message, and would take it kindly if the reverend could bring her home one day.