(9/13)The School at Thrush Green (17 page)

Albert, as a reluctant scholar, had always counted himself lucky to be in the dunces' class at his much more kindly elementary establishment at the other end of Lulling.

'I'll leave all that to you, miss,' he said, shuffling off towards Thrush Green.

Harold Shoosmith took Dorothy and Agnes to view the three cars which they had selected from the brochures, but it was quite apparent to Harold that Dorothy was already determined to have the Metro.

Luckily, there was a demonstration model waiting at the garage, and the manager took out his prospective customer with Harold sitting in the back. Agnes excused herself, saying that she had some Vedonis underwear to collect from the draper's, and four currant-buns from The Fuchsia Bush. She would meet them again at the garage.

Dorothy managed the car very well, and Harold felt very proud of his minor part in her tuition. Ben Curdle had done a good job, and if she had needed to pass a driving test, thought Harold, she would have been perfectly competent.

She coped with the traffic in Lulling's busy High Street, and then drove a few miles out into the Cotswold countryside. Harold was relaxed enough to notice the signs of spring, the lambs in the fields, the warm breeze blowing through the window, and the freshness of young leaves. It was a good time to buy one's first car, he thought, and how much the two friends would enjoy it!

They had certainly earned their leisure after so many years of devoted teaching. He hoped that they had many years of health and retirement before them at Barton.

When they turned into the forecourt of the garage, Agnes was already waiting for them. She looked at Dorothy's face, pink with pleasurable excitement. There was no doubt about it. This was the car she wanted. Left to herself, she would have signed, there and then, any papers put before her by the delighted manager, but Harold felt a few minutes to calm down might be a wise thing.

'I suggest that we have a cup of coffee,' he said, 'and we will let you know after that.'

'Good idea,' said the manager. 'I have one or two telephone calls to make, so I shall be on hand if you need me.'

Harold ushered the two ladies into the café, and ordered a pot of coffee from the languid Rosa who seemed reluctant to leave the job of painting her nails.

'Definitely the right car,' announced Dorothy when Rosa had ambled away. 'What do you think?'

'It will suit you very well,' said Harold. 'The Metro's got a good name, and it is a British car which is what you want. You handled her beautifully, my dear.'

Dorothy flushed with pleasure at such praise.

'But the colour?' faltered Agnes.

'I was coming to that,' said Dorothy. 'You still like the idea of a white one?'

'Well,' said Agnes, 'it's just that I think a
white
car shows up so much better than a dark one. Coming out of turnings, or driving under trees, you know, one always seems to
take notice
of a light-coloured car. But, of course, Dorothy, if you prefer
another
colour, you know that – '

'White it shall be,' said Dorothy firmly. 'Now, Harold, tell me about any particular points that you think we should consider before we return.'

Over coffee the two discussed such matters as petrol consumption, maintenance, the advisability of having mud flaps fixed, a wiper for the rear window and a host of financial queries, so that Agnes let her mind drift happily on the peculiar names given to car colours. Quite as odd, she thought, as the names on the stockings she had inspected when going to collect her underwear at Lulling's foremost draper's. Who would know what colours to expect from 'Wild Mink', 'Desert Rose', or 'Spring Smoke', if they were ordering by post?

Dorothy and Harold had finished their coffee long before Agnes had got half-way through hers, and as Dorothy had now reverted to her usual sensible self, after her bout of euphoria, she and Harold departed to the garage, leaving Agnes to finish her coffee in peace.

It was while she was savouring the last few drops, that the door of The Fuchsia Bush was pushed open by a young man who was a stranger to little Miss Fogerty.

He was exceptionally tall, with close-cropped auburn hair, and wore one gold ear-ring. He was clad in the usual blue denim trousers and a leather jacket, much decorated with studs and fringe.

Rosa, whose nails were now finished to her satisfaction, sauntered over to this visitor, and exchanged a few words, which Agnes was unable to hear.

Rosa accompanied him to the door, and appeared to be directing him along Lulling High Street towards the church. He vanished from sight for some minutes, and then appeared on the other side of the road, where he stood, partly concealed by one of the High Street's lime trees. He was taking a great interest in one or more of the buildings close to The Fuchsia Bush, and Agnes wondered if he were, perhaps, an architectural student of some sort. Certainly, there were several fine examples of Georgian buildings close by, which many people came to admire.

He was still there when Agnes emerged to make her way to the garage. He was now making a sketch, it seemed, of the front of one of the houses.

Without doubt, a student, thought Agnes kindly, with great plans and ambitions.

If she had known the plans already fermenting in the young man's mind, little Miss Fogerty would have been severely shocked.

The end of the Easter holidays was now approaching and, much to Dorothy's disappointment, the eagerly awaited new car had not arrived.

A
white
Metro, she was told, would have to be ordered. If she would be content to have a blue, a red, a black or a green one then, of course, it could be supplied immediately.

'It really is ridiculous,' fumed Dorothy. 'I'm sure there must be dozens of people asking for a
white
car. So frustrating! I was so looking forward to a trip to Barton during the holidays.'

Agnes was much agitated. 'Oh dear! I feel that it is all my fault, Dorothy, for suggesting that we settled for a white model. Are you sure you wouldn't like to change your mind? You know that I shall be perfectly happy with any colour you choose.'

'I shouldn't dream of it,' said Dorothy firmly. 'White it shall be, even if we wait until the cows come home.'

They spent the rest of the morning tidying the school house garden. The daffodils were now dying, and Agnes felt how sad it was that this would be the last time that she snapped off the dead heads in this much-loved garden.

She said as much to Dorothy who was attacking the garden bed beneath the kitchen window with a small hand fork.

'And the last time, I hope, although I very much doubt it, when I shall be digging out this fiddling bindweed. These wretched roots travel miles underground, and keep snapping off just when I think I've conquered them.'

She sat back on her heels and pushed the wisps of hair from her perspiring forehead. Agnes was standing, holding the bucket brimming with the golden heads of daffodils. She was gazing intently at the hedge between their garden and the school playground, and very soon Dorothy saw what had caught her attention.

The tabby cat was emerging into the spring sunlight. It paused for a moment, as if to assess any perils in the offing, and then came steadily forward to greet Agnes with little chirruping sounds, half-mew half-purr.

Agnes put down the bucket very gently, and held out her hand. Her face was suffused with pleasure, Dorothy noticed. Without any hesitation the cat came to rub round Agnes's legs and to respond to the rubbing of its striped head.

Dorothy, sitting very quietly, watched this display of mutual affection with mixed feelings. It was touching to see the joy with which Agnes greeted her friend, and certainly the cat was a fine creature, far more handsome now than some months earlier when she had caught sight of the bedraggled animal in the garden. Agnes's succour had certainly been rewarded.

On the other hand, how difficult it was going to be to part these two friends when the time came to leave Thrush Green. Dorothy gave a gusty sigh, and the cat suddenly became aware of her presence.

It darted away to the shelter of the hedge again, and Agnes, still bemused with joy, picked up her bucket.

'Isn't that wonderful?' she cried. 'It's the first time he has come up to me of his own accord! And I haven't even got his saucer with me! It shows how confident he is getting, doesn't it?'

Dorothy scrambled inelegantly to her feet, and sat down on the nearby garden seat with relief. For once, she was speechless.

Much troubled, she watched her friend as she carried her load to the distant compost heap. Agnes was singing quietly to herself. Her step was light. She was a girl again.

Oh dear, oh dear, thought Dorothy! How would it all end?

13. Bingo Gossip

ONE bright morning, Betty Bell burst into Harold Shoosmith's study bearing two dusters and a tin of polish in one hand, and lugging the vacuum cleaner behind her with the other.

'All right to do you now?' she cried.

'Well -' began Harold, folding the newspaper resignedly.

'Good. I always like to get you settled first,' said Betty, dropping the polish, and untangling the flex of the cleaner.

'As a matter of fact – ' said Harold. The whirring of the cleaner drowned his words.

'Where's Mrs Shoosmith then?' shouted Betty, above the racket.

'Shopping.'

'What say? Can't hear a word with this contraption going.'

She switched it off.

'I said that she was shopping.'

'Ah!' Betty bent again as if to switch on, thought better of it, and stood up, hands on hips.

'You seen Dotty's – Miss Harmer's pond?'

'Not yet.'

'It's a real treat. She called me in to see it as I was passing Monday. No – I tell a lie! It must have been Tuesday, because it was Bright Hour, Monday. Or was it Tuesday now?'

'Does it matter?'

'What, Bright Hour?' cried Betty indignantly. 'Of course it matters! Why, we have lovely talks about what to do after being in prison or hospital –
after-care
it's called – and how to keep your husband off the booze, and that!'

'I'm sorry,' said Harold humbly. 'I meant, does it matter if you saw the pond on Monday or Tuesday?'

Betty looked baffled. 'Well, I never saw it
both
days. Now I come to think of it, it was definitely Tuesday because my book come.'

The book, as Harold knew, was her weekly magazine. Occasionally she had pressed a copy upon him, recommending one of the stories whose illustrations had been enough to quell any desire to read the text. However, he had kept it for a day or two, out of politeness, before returning it.

'So, go on,' he said.

'What about?'

By now Betty was on her knees retrieving the tin of polish which had rolled under a chair.

'The pond.'

She sat back on her haunches.

'It looks a bit of all right. Percy Hodge took the stones there, out of one of his old buildings what fell down. I bet he charged poor old Dot – Miss Harmer – more'n he should. He's that sharp, is Perce, must have been born in the knife drawer.'

She stood up, puffing heavily.

'And Albert Piggott and Mr Kit laid 'em round. Mind you, Miss Harmer stood by and told 'em how she wanted it, but between them all it looks lovely.'

Harold could well envisage the operation, and particularly the part of overseer played by the redoubtable Dotty.

'Well, can't stop here all day chatting to you,' said Betty cheerfully. 'Best get on.'

She switched on the cleaner again, and Harold made good his escape into the peace of the garden.

Here all was cool and calm. The schoolchildren were safely in their classrooms. The playground lay empty in the sunlight, and Betty's activities were muted by distance to a low humming noise.

Harold seated himself on the garden bench, and looked about him with approval.

The tulips were making a brave show, stretching up to meet the budding lilac. The gnarled old red hawthorn was breaking into rosy bloom, and the irises were in bud close by. There was no doubt about it, Thrush Green was the right place to live!

He thought of the years he had spent abroad, of the dust, the heat, the appalling smells of tropical lands where he had been obliged to spend his working life, and he sighed with pleasure at his present surroundings. He still came across old friends who had shared his life abroad, who bemoaned the fact that they had so litde help with their domestic duties, who bewailed the fact that it was they who now had to shop and cook, to clean and mend, where once the ubiquitous 'boys' obliged.

Harold had no time for such self-pity. Left alone, he had managed pretty well and enjoyed the change of occupation. His happy marriage had added to his well-being, and the advent of the boisterous Betty into the household had certainly helped with the everyday chores. He was a lucky man!

He could hear her now, voice uplifted in song.

'
See what the boys
In the back room will have,
And tell them
I'm having the same!
'

carolled Betty. Her fresh country voice was in complete contrast to the husky tones of Marlene Dietrich's rendering which Harold recalled from years ago.

'I bet she didn't learn that at the Bright Hour,' observed Harold to a gaggle of chaffinches nearby, and went in to find his newspaper.

Dotty's pond was now a topic of discussion generally at Thrush Green. Albert Piggott was flattered to find several people congratulating him on his efforts. In such a beneficent atmosphere he almost smiled, and certainly Nelly found him a relatively cheerful companion when she returned from her labours at The Fuchsia Bush.

'It's the exercise,' she told him, as she sizzled liver and bacon for their supper. 'That's what you need. You're always on about your diet, but good food never hurt no one, and I don't care what Doctor Lovell says. A good bustle about in the fresh air is all you need.'

'In moderation! In moderation!' growled Albert who did not want to abandon his role as a martyred invalid too readily. It came in useful when unwelcome jobs such as tidying the church cropped up. 'That's what my old dad always said,' he continued. 'So don't think you can go on everlasting with that frying pan, just because me ulcer's a bit better.'