(9/13)The School at Thrush Green (2 page)

He could hear the familiar sounds of pub activity going on beyond the window. The clattering of crates, Bob Jones's hearty voice and the occasional crash of the bar door made themselves heard above the roaring of the wind in the trees surrounding the churchyard opposite his cottage.

If only he were that much fitter he would damn well get out of this damn bed, and have a pint with the rest of them! But what was the use? Any minute now Molly would be in to fuss over him, and that dratted doctor had said he'd call. Trust him to come if he ever tried to go next door! He'd read the riot act if he even found his patient out of bed, let alone abroad!

Albert remembered his old mother had always maintained that doctors waited around the corner until a hot meal was dished up, and then they knocked at the door to create the maximum confusion within.

It was a hard life, sighed Albert. Here he was, for at least another week, living on slops, and not the right sort either. And then, he supposed gloomily, he would not be fit for cleaning the church or tidying the churchyard for weeks after that.

It was a good thing Nelly brought home a decent pay packet at the end of each week. His own earnings had halved over the last year, and if he felt as wobbly as he did now, what hopes of work in the future?

He pondered on his wife. True, she was no oil-painting, and had a temper like old Nick himself at times, but she still cooked a good meal, and brought in the money.

And heaven alone knew how important that was these days, with the price of a pint going up so alarmingly.

Doctor Lovell finished his surgery stint, and battled his way to his car, case in hand.

January was always a beast of a month, he mused, setting the windscreen wipers going, but this year it seemed more detestable than ever.

He decided to visit a family at Nidden before coping with the Thrush Green round. Chicken-pox was rife, and he was concerned about the year-old baby of the house who had seemed unusually listless when he had called the day before.

He planned to get back about midday to see Albert Piggott and one of his patients in the recently built old people's home, known as Rectory Cottages, on Thrush Green. With any luck he should be in time to have lunch at home with Ruth his wife.

The lane to Nidden was awash. Sheets of water flowed across its surface, and the ditches each side of the road were full. Heaven help us if it freezes, thought John Lovell.

The gale had brought down scores of small branches, and one large one which lay more than half-way across the road. It could cause an accident, and the good doctor drew into the side of the road, and emerged into the howling wind.

The branch was sodden and heavy. His gloves were soon soaked and covered with slime, and it was hard work lugging the awkward object to a safer place on the grass verge. By the time it had been dragged out of everyone's path, John was thoroughly out of breath, and glad to return to the shelter of his car.

'Too much flab,' he said aloud, fastening his seat belt across the offending flesh. He would have to cut down on the helpings of delectable puddings Ruth made so well.

The hamlet of Nidden seemed to have suffered even more severely than Thrush Green. A chicken house lay on its side in one of the gardens. A bird-table was askew in another, and a plastic bucket rolled about in the road. Somebody's tea towel was fluttering in a hedge, and the wind screamed alarmingly in the trees above.

He wondered if the mother of his patients would hear his knocking above the bedlam around him, but she must have seen him arrive for the door soon opened, admitting a swirl of dead leaves into the hall.

'Come in, doctor. I'll be glad to see the back of January, I can tell you!'

'Won't we all,' responded John Lovell.

It was later than he had hoped when at last he returned to look in on Albert Piggott.

Molly had just taken up a tray with a bowl of soup, a slice of bread, and some stewed apple for her father when they heard the doctor's tread on the stairs.

'Just like my old ma always said,' grumbled Albert, putting the tray to one side. 'Waits till the grub's ready, then the blighters come.'

'And how's the patient today?' asked John entering.

'None the better for seeing you,' replied Albert. 'I was just goin' to have me bit of dinner.'

'Well, I shan't keep you two minutes,' said the doctor. 'Just want to listen to those wheezy tubes again.'

'I'll go and keep the soup hot,' said Molly, vanishing with the bowl.

Albert bared his chest reluctantly.

'You're a lucky chap to have two good women looking after you,' said John, adjusting his stethoscope.

'No more'n they should do,' growled Albert. 'I've done enough for them in me time.'

The doctor applied his instrument to Albert's skinny chest.

'Cor! That's perishing cold!' gasped his patient. 'Enough to give a chap the pneumonics.'

The doctor smiled, as he went about his business. How long now, he wondered, since he first encountered this most irascible of his patients? A fair number of years, before he had married Ruth and settled so happily at Thrush Green.

'You'll do,' he said at length, buttoning the old man's pyjama jacket. 'You could do with a shawl or cardigan round your shoulders. There's a fine old draught from that window when the wind's in that quarter.'

'Can I get up then?'

'Not for a day or two. Tell me where to find you a woolly.'

He made his way towards a chest of drawers.

'I'll tell Molly to look one out. Don't want you scrabbling through my stuff.'

The doctor laughed. 'I'll tell her myself on the way down. Now you can stay there, take your medicine, drink plenty of warm liquid -
and not any alcohol
- and don't make a damn nuisance of yourself, or I'll put you in hospital.'

He was pleased to see that this awful threat seemed to subdue his recalcitrant patient and he made his way downstairs.

Molly was standing by the stove watching the soup. He mentioned the shawl, and then added, 'You and Nelly do a fine job between you, and I know you get little thanks for it. He's coming along all right. We'll let him out when the weather changes.'

'If it ever does,' responded Molly, letting him out into the elements.

Some of the newest inhabitants of Thrush Green were the oldest, for recently a block of old people's homes, designed by the doctor's architect brother-in-law Edward Young, had been built on the site of a former rectory.

Here, seven little houses and their inhabitants were looked after by Jane and Bill Cartwright, the wardens, who lived in the last house of the eight.

Jane had been brought up in Thrush Green, had been a nurse at Lulling Cottage Hospital and then a sister at a Yorkshire hospital where she had met and married Bill. They were both pleased to be appointed to the post at Thrush Green and were doing a fine job among their charges.

While Doctor Lovell was speeding home to a late lunch, Jane Cartwright was sitting with one of the old people. Miss Muriel Fuller had been a headmistress at the little school at Nidden for many years, and was now thoroughly enjoying her retirement in this small house.

Unfortunately, a septic throat was causing her acute pain and loss of voice, which is why Jane, although a trained nurse, had thought it wise to get the doctor's opinion.

'I was sure I saw his car outside the Piggotts' house,' whispered Miss Fuller. 'I can't think why he didn't come over here. Perhaps he's forgotten.' She looked alarmed.

'I'm sure he hasn't,' said Jane sturdily. 'Perhaps he had an urgent call. An accident, you know. Something that couldn't wait.'

How all these professional people hang together, thought Miss Fuller wearily! 'The point is,' she whispered, 'I'm due to take my remedial class tomorrow morning at the school, and I ought to let Miss Watson know.'

'Now don't you worry about that,' replied Jane, patting the patient's hand. 'As soon as the doctor's been I shall telephone Miss Watson. In any case, they won't be home until four at the earliest, and I'm sure he will have called long before that.'

Miss Fuller nodded, and reached for a very nasty throat lozenge. The more unpleasant the taste, the more good it does, she remembered her grandmother saying. But then her grandmother had always been one of the fire-and-brimstone school, and thoroughly enjoyed being miserable.

Jane rose to go. 'I'm just going to see the others, and I'll come along as soon as Doctor Lovell arrives.'

Miss Fuller nodded. What with her throat and the lozenge, speech was quite impossible.

'Now who can that be!' exclaimed Dorothy Watson when the telephone rang.

She heaved herself from the armchair and made her way to the hall. A freezing draught blew in as she opened the sitting-room door, and sparks flew up the chimney from a burning log.

Agnes closed the door quietly and hoped that the call would not be a lengthy one. She would have liked to spare dear Dorothy the bother of answering the call, but as headmistress and the true householder it was only right that she should take precedence.

Within a few minutes her friend returned, and held out her hands to the blaze.

'That hall is like an ice-well,' she shuddered. 'Of course, the wind is full on the front porch, and fairly whistling under the door. I fear that this house is getting too old for comfort.'

'Anything important?' queried Agnes. It was so like Dorothy to omit to tell one the main message.

'Only Jane Cartwright. Muriel Fuller has laryngitis and won't be able to come along tomorrow.'

'Poor Miss Fuller!' cried Agnes. 'It can be so painful! Has the doctor been?'

'So I gather. Anyway, it need not make much difference to the timetable. After all, Muriel's visits are very much a fringe benefit.' She picked up her knitting and began to count the stitches.

Agnes considered this last remark. It seemed rather callous, she thought. Her own soft heart was much perturbed at the thought of Miss Fuller's suffering, but Dorothy, of course, had to think of the school's affairs first, and it was only natural that she saw things from the practical point of view.

'Eighty-four!' pronounced Miss Watson, and gazed into the fire. 'You know, Agnes,' she said at length, 'I really think it is time we retired.'

'To bed, do you mean? It's surely much too early!'

'No, no, Agnes!' tutted Dorothy. 'I mean retired properly. We've been talking of it for years now, and the office knows full well that we have only stayed on to oblige the folk there.'

'But we've nowhere to go,' exclaimed Agnes. 'It was one of the reasons we gave for staying on.'

'Yes, yes, I know we couldn't get what we wanted at Barton-on-Sea, but I think we should redouble our efforts. I really don't think I could stand another winter at Thrush Green. Sitting in the hall just now brought it home to me.'

'So what should we do?'

'First of all, I shall write to those estate agents, Better and Better, at Barton, and chivvy them up. They know perfectly well that we want a two-bedroomed bungalow with a small garden, handy for the church and post office and shops. Why they keep sending particulars of top floor flats and converted lighthouses heaven alone knows, but they will have to pull their socks up.'

'Yes, I'm sure that's the first step,' agreed Agnes. 'I will write if it's any help.'

'You'd be much too kind,' said her headmistress. 'I think I could manage something sharper.'

'You may be right,' murmured Agnes. 'But when should we give in our notice?'

'The sooner the better,' said Dorothy firmly. 'We'll arrange to go at the end of the summer term. That gives everyone plenty of time to make new appointments.'

'We shall miss Thrush Green,' said Agnes.

'We shall miss it even more if we succumb to pneumonia in this house,' replied Dorothy tartly. 'We can always visit here from Barton. We shall have all the time in the world, and there is an excellent coach service in the summer.'

She caught sight of her friend's woebegone face. 'Cheer up, Agnes! It will be something to look forward to while we endure this winter weather. What about a warming drink?'

'I'll go and heat some milk,' said Agnes. 'Or would you like coffee?'

'I think a glass of sherry apiece would do the trick,' replied Dorothy, 'and then we shan't have to leave the fire.'

She rose herself and went to fetch their comfort from a corner cupboard.

2. Dorothy Watson Takes Steps

THE rumbustious January weather continued for the rest of the week, and the inhabitants of Lulling and Thrush Green were as tired of its buffeting as the rest of the Cotswold villages were.

But on Saturday morning the wind had dropped, and a wintry sun occasionally cast a gleam upon a thankful world.

Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty agreed that the weekly wash would benefit from a spell in the fresh air, and Agnes was busy pegging out petticoats, night-gowns and other garments, when she was hailed by a well-known voice on the other side of the hedge. It was her old friend Isobel, wife of Harold Shoosmith, who lived next door.

When Agnes had heard that her old college friend of many years was going to be her neighbour, her joy was unbounded. The two students had soon discovered that they both hailed from the Cotswolds, and this drew them together.

Isobel's father was a bank manager at Stow-on-the-Wold, and Agnes's a shoemaker in Lulling. It meant that they could visit each other during the holidays, and the friendship grew stronger over the years.

Marriage took Isobel to Sussex so that family affairs prevented her from visiting Thrush Green as often as she would have liked. But on the death of her husband she had renewed her close association with Agnes and her other Cotswold friends and, now that her children were out in the world, she had decided to find a small house in the neighbourhood.

But marriage to Harold Shoosmith, who had retired to Thrush Green some years earlier, had provided a home and a great deal of mutual contentment, and everyone agreed that the Shoosmiths were an asset to any community.

'Isn't it wonderful to have no wretched wind?' called Isobel, advancing to a gap in the hedge, the better to see her neighbour. 'How are you both?'