(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green (25 page)

'Well, don't worry about that now. Let's ask her before you upset yourself. She may jump at the chance to move. You never know.'

'I don't think she will. You see, she's so old and quite groggy. I simply must stay with her. I'd marry you tomorrow, but do you really want to have us
both
on your hands?'

'Try me and see,' said Kit.

***

Betty Bell, vigorously scouring the school wash basins, turned over Mrs Cooke's disclosure with much pleasure.

It certainly would be nice for Miss Connie to be married, and that Mr Armitage seemed a good sort of fellow. Bit long in the tooth, perhaps, and set in his ways, but
very dean,
and had been quite handsome years ago, so she'd heard. And come to think of it, he had plenty of money, and that was always half the battle in marriage. Mrs Jenner had said that he always paid in advance, and gave her extra for doing his smalls, though she'd never expected it. Yes, one way or another, Miss Connie should be all right.

She paused from her scouring to fish up some extraneous matter from the plug hole. It felt like bubble gum, and when she held it to the light she saw that that was exactly what it was. Children! A good thing Miss Connie was past having any, decided Betty, depositing the revolting pellet in her bucket.

At that moment, another thought struck her. What about Dotty? Surely Miss Connie wouldn't abandon her?

Perhaps they would all move to one of these places Mr Armitage had been viewing. But would Dotty go?

Just then Miss Watson appeared, and broached the subject of the stove. What did Betty think?

'You're right, miss. I'll put a match to it first thing tomorrow. This place is getting proper clammy.'

Miss Watson agreed.

Betty wrung out her cloth and spread it to dry on the edge of the sink.

'I've just heard a piece of good news,' said Betty. 'Seems as Romance has come to Miss Harmer and Mr Armitage.'

'Miss
Dotty
Harmer?' queried Dorothy, in stupefaction.

'No, no, no!
Young
Miss Harmer!'

'Well, how very nice! I'm delighted to hear of it. Who told you?'

'Mrs Cooke.'

Dorothy Watson's face dropped. Mrs Cooke had been a thorn in her side, both as mother of many of her pupils and one-time temporary—and most unsatisfactory—school cleaner.

'Oh indeed!' she said frostily. 'I should advise you, Betty, not to repeat the news to
anyone.
We both know how unreliable that lady can be. I shall keep the news to myself—much as I hope that it is true—until I have it confirmed.'

Betty Bell, bursting to confide in all and sundry, nevertheless saw the wisdom of Miss Watson's remarks, and sighed.

'I reckon you're right, miss. But isn't it
romantic
if it's true?'

And Dorothy Watson conceded graciously that it certainly was.

18. Charles Is Melancholy

WHEN KIT and Connie returned they found Dotty cutting bread and butter. The loaf was of her own making, slightly burnt on top, craggy, and remarkably resistant to the knife.

The slices, when Dotty had managed to hack them from their source, were of the doorstep variety. Kit wondered if he should ever be able to work his way through one.

'You must be starved,' said Dotty, busy with the butter. 'I thought we'd have some of my bramble jelly with this. Full of all the vitamins you need to face the winter.'

Connie made the tea, and it was not until they were settled by the fire that she felt she could tell Dotty their news. But Dotty got in first.

'I had the most peculiar dream,' said Dotty, trying to spread runny jelly. 'I thought I was swimming with dear Papa, and he somehow got out of his depth and was about to drown. And do you know, I was
hesitating,
about rescuing him!'

Very Freudian, was Kit's private thought. From all he remembered of Dotty's formidable parent, drowning seemed a relatively painless demise for one so sadistic.

'I can't remember now if I did or not,' went on Dotty, sucking a sticky finger, 'but the odd thing was the water was warm. How extraordinary things are. And how was the house?'

'Not very suitable,' said Kit, putting down his slice of bread and determined not to pick it up again. 'As a matter of fact, we've wonderful news for you.'

'You've found a better place?'

'No, not that. But Connie has been persuaded to marry me.'

If the happy pair had been expecting any excitement from Dotty at this stupendous news, they were disappointed. Dotty replied in a very matter-of-fact tone of voice.

'Well, I'm so glad to hear it. You've both looked so sheep's-eyed for weeks, I wondered when it would happen. I'm never wrong over these things. I've seen it hundreds of times, you know, with Dulcie and Flossie, not to mention the poultry, though with all those feathers one doesn't get quite the same clarity of facial expression, if you follow me.'

'But you're pleased, Aunt Dotty?' said Connie, with some anxiety. It was not exactly flattering that she had looked like a love-sick female goat, dog, or hen, for some time, but knowing her aunt's little ways she could ignore any such pin pricks.

'Well, of course I'm pleased,' cried Dotty. 'And when's the marriage?'

'We haven't got that far,' said Kit. 'Being engaged is quite enough for today. Could I have some more tea? I find that all this excitement makes me terribly thirsty.'

'Very natural,' said Dotty approvingly.

'It's something to do with the hormones, I believe. I must look it up in my veterinary encyclopedia.'

Dotty poured his tea, and under cover of her preoccupation with the tea pot, Kit smuggled the revolting remains of his bread to the attentive Flossie, who took it, and with commendable intelligence, hid it under the sofa.

Local reaction to the news was predictable and congratulatory. Harold Shoosmith, who had also made a late marriage, was particularly delighted.

'I wonder you didn't tell us, Betty,' he said to her when she was trundling the vacuum cleaner along the hall. 'Miss Harmer rang herself to tell us, but I wouldn't mind betting you knew about it long ago.'

Betty Bell looked smug.

'To tell the truth I heard a couple of days ago, but as it was from that Mrs Cooke, I never said nothing to nobody. I'm not a one for idle gossip, as you know.'

Harold, if asked, would have said quite the opposite. Most of their local intelligence came from Betty. However, it was plain that she was enjoying the fruits of unaccustomed prudence on this occasion, and Harold was quick to commend her for her virtue.

'I wonder if Miss Connie will have a white wedding? Look lovely, wouldn't she? I mean, even if you are past your best there's something dignified about a long white frock.'

Most of the ladies at Thrush Green were also interested in Connie's wedding attire, but the general vote seemed to go to a suit or a frock and jacket.

'Much more sensible,' said Jenny to Winnie Bailey. 'Be able to wear it afterwards. After all, when can you get the wear out of a wedding dress? Most of'em end up cut down for a christening robe, and I shouldn't think Miss Connie would need to do that.'

Winnie managed to evade comment, but was amused to find that Connie's age was a cause for discussion among her friends.

'Won't be bothered with the patter of tiny feet, anyway,' was Ella Bembridge's comment.

Phyllida Hurst confessed herself rather sad at the thought of no children.

'Although there was that woman in the Old Testament who had a child when she was about eighty. But of course, they reckoned their ages differently. In cubits or something,' she added vaguely.

Isobel Shoosmith, happily married for the second time, gave whole-hearted support to the proposed union and declared that age had nothing to do with the case, while at Lulling Charles and Dimity rejoiced, and Justin Venables in his office wrote a most beautiful epistle in his best copperplate, and sent Muriel out specially to catch the next post.

The three Misses Lovelock heard the news by telephone from Dotty herself. Miss Ada had answered the telephone in the hall, and Bertha and Violet hovered nearby anxious to be told the message.

'Good gracious!' said Ada. 'Well of course, I am delighted. So will my sisters be. We shall write at once. How nice of you to ring, Dotty. Do give Connie our love and congratulations.'

She replaced the receiver carefully.

'How is Dotty?' asked Bertha.

'Like a cat with two tails. Connie's engaged. You can guess who to.'

Violet was white, and seemed unable to speak.

'Kit?' queried Bertha.

'Yes, Kit Armitage. She's a lucky girl. I'm sure they will be admirably suited.'

'I think I will see if I have closed my bedroom window,' said Violet faintly, making for the stairs.

Bertha and Ada exchanged looks. Bertha began to follow Violet, but Ada shook her head violently.

Violet mounted alone.

Once in the sanctuary of her bedroom, she sank down upon the stool before the dressing table, and gazed at her reflection with unseeing eyes.

So that was that! It was only to be expected, of course, but it made the blow no less painful. She had always known that she could never hope to become Kit's wife, but she had enjoyed such pleasure in these last few months of dallying with the idea of love.

When she had caught a glimpse of Kit striding up the High Street, or he had waved to her from his car, her heart had quickened as if she were still a young girl. His many kindnesses had warmed her. She recalled the little compliments, the appreciation of her plum tart, his gratitude on being told about Mrs Bassett's house, and she felt both loved and loving. Now all the daydreams must end.

For they were only daydreams, she knew full well. It was not so much that she had lost Kit, for in her heart she knew she had never been able to call him her own. It was the inescapable fact that this was the end of all hope of love, and that she must resign herself to being one of the three old Lovelock sisters until the day she died.

She became conscious of her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was still thick and wavy, but wholly silver in colour. Her neck was scrawny, her mouth had little lines radiating from it, and two tears shone on her papery cheeks. The hand she lifted to wipe them away, was bent and bony, old and claw-like. There she was, an ancient crone becoming more fragile and forgetful every year. This was the sad truth which she must face. Those last youthful flutterings were now stilled for ever, and had vanished with the once-golden hair, the round pink cheeks and the smiling red mouth.

She rose from the seat and went to look out of the window. The life of Lulling flowed by unheedingly. The dustman was humping a dustbin from The Fuchsia Bush. The greengrocer across the road was holding out a cauliflower for young Mrs Hurst's inspection. The black and white dog, who had so enjoyed the snow earlier in the year, was now sniffing along the railings by his house, and in the distance the church clock struck ten from St Mary's tower.

'Well,' said Violet, stuffing her damp handkerchief into her pocket, 'that's all behind me! Now to work!'

She made for the door, but stopped abruptly by a fine mahogany chest of drawers. On it stood a faded snapshot in a silver frame.

It showed half a dozen young people in the tennis clothes of the late twenties. Among them, taller and handsomer than any, smiled Kit.

Violet swallowed hard. She put the photograph into the top drawer and went resolutely downstairs to face her sisters.

'I think,' she said, to forestall any comments, 'that I have a cold coming.'

'You must take things gently then, my dear,' said Bertha kindly.

'Why not lie down for an hour or two?' suggested Ada. 'We can bring you up some soup at lunch time. It's no bother, Violet dear.'

'You don't want to start a cold so early. Time enough for that after Christmas. Would an aspirin help?' asked Bertha solicitously.

'The thing that would help most,' said Violet steadily, 'is to carry on as usual. It's my day to make the pudding, I believe. Would you both like trifle?'

'Delicious, Violet,' said Ada.

'Nothing better,' agreed Bertha.

Sisters, although often maddening, can be of great comfort at times, thought Violet, on her way to the kitchen.

The blustery weather continued, and it became much colder.

'Very unseasonable weather,' commented one of the customers in The Two Pheasants.

'Means a hard winter,' prophesied Percy Hodge morosely. His wife was still absent from home, and any hope of her returning grew dimmer as the weeks passed. Percy was much cast down.

'Well, that's healthier than weather that's too muggy,' Albert told him. 'Doctor Lovell told me once he'd sooner see some good sharp frosts than a mild winter. Unhealthy, see? Frost kills the germs. He told me that when I went about my last operation. Did I tell you, Perce?'

'Time and time again,' growled Percy, putting his beer mug on the counter. 'I know more about your inside than me own, and that's a fact.'

'All right, all right!' cried Albert. 'You wants to keep a check on your temper. I don't wonder your Doris left home.'