(9/13)The School at Thrush Green (3 page)

'Very well. And you?'

'Fed up with being stuck indoors. Harold has battled out now and again, but I really couldn't face it. One thing though, I've caught up with no end of letters, so I suppose that's a bonus.'

Agnes wondered whether she should say anything about their proposed retirement but, cautious as ever, decided that dear Dorothy might not approve at this early stage of the project. She remained silent on this point, but joined her friend by the gap.

'Not snowdrops already?' she cried with pleasure. 'Now isn't that cheering!'

'And aconites too at the end of the garden,' Isobel told her. 'And my indoor hyacinths are at their best. Come round, Agnes, when you have a minute and see them.'

Agnes promised to do so, and the two ladies chatted for five minutes, glad to see each other again after their enforced incarceration.

'Well, I must go and see about lunch,' said Isobel at length.

'And I must finish my pegging out,' agreed Agnes, and the two women parted company.

What a warming thing friendship was, thought Agnes, fastening two pairs of respectable Vedonis knickers on the line. Even such a brief glimpse of dear Isobel enlivened the day. She would miss her sorely when the time came to move to Barton.

***

While little Miss Fogerty was busy with the washing, Nelly Piggott was in The Fuchsia Bush's kitchen in Lulling High Street.

Here she was engaged in supervising the decoration of two large slabs of sponge cake ready to be cut into neat squares for the afternoon teas for which The Fuchsia Bush was renowned.

The new recruit was a nervous sixteen-year-old whose hand shook as she spread coffee-flavoured water icing over the first of the sponges.

Lord love old Ireland, thought Nelly! Would the girl never learn? She had come with a glowing report from her school's domestic science teacher, and another, equally fulsome, from her last post. Glad to see the back of her no doubt, thought Nelly grimly.

'If you dip your knife into the warm water more often,' said Nelly, striving to be patient, 'it won't drag the icing.'

The girl flopped the palette knife into the jug and transferred a small rivulet of water on to her handiwork.

Unable to bear it any longer, Nelly took over and began to create order out of chaos. To give her her due she bit back the caustic remarks trembling on her tongue.

'You fetch the walnut halves,' she commanded, 'and I'll leave you to space them out when this has begun to set.'

The girl fled, and at that moment Nelly's employer and partner at The Fuchsia Bush entered the kitchen from the restaurant.

'Can you leave that a moment? Bertha Lovelock is in the shop and wants to know if we can send in lunch - an
inexpensive
lunch - for three today.'

Nelly gave a snort, drew one final steady blade across her masterpiece, and followed Mrs Peters.

The Misses Lovelock were three ancient spinsters who lived next door to The Fuchsia Bush in a splendid Georgian house in which all three had been born and which they had inhabited all their lives.

Although quite comfortably off, and the possessors of many valuable antiques, the sisters were renowned for their parsimony. No one knew this better than Nelly Piggott, who had 'helped out' for a time before finding permanent work next door.

Nelly still remembered, with a shudder, the appalling meals she had been expected to cook from inferior scraps which she would not have offered to a starving cat. The memory too of a tablespoonful of metal polish, intended for a score of brass and copper articles, still rankled, and the meagre dab of furniture polish with which the dining-room table and chairs were meant to be brought to mirror-like condition.

Nowadays, she rejoiced in catering and cooking amidst the plenty of The Fuchsia Bush. She had grown confident in the knowledge that her work was appreciated and that, as a partner, she was enjoying the fruits of her expertise.

She approached her former old employer secure in the knowledge that here she had the upper hand.

'Good morning, Miss Lovelock. Lunch for three, I gather? You'll take it here, I imagine, so I'll book a table, shall I?'

Nelly felt pretty sure that this was not what Miss Bertha really wanted. For a time, when the three old ladies had been quite seriously ill, the doctor had suggested that their midday meal might be sent in from next door.

It had not been easy to find someone free at exactly the right moment to take in a hot meal, but Nelly and Mrs Peters had felt sorry for the Lovelocks and had been obliging.

They were glad though when the arrangement ended. The Lovelock sisters, anxious to stop the expense, had cancelled the lunches as soon as possible, to the relief of all.

But now, it seemed, the Misses Lovelock were attempting to use the staff of The Fuchsia Bush as if it were their own, and Nelly was determined to nip this plan in the bud.

'No, Nelly, that is not quite what I meant. Miss Violet is in bed with her chest - '

Not that she would be in bed without it, thought Nelly reasonably.

'And neither Miss Ada nor I really feel up to coping with the cooking and shopping,' continued Miss Bertha. 'It would be a great help if you could send in a hot meal each day as you did before.'

Nelly assumed an expression of doubt and regret. 'It can't be done, Miss Lovelock,' she said. 'We haven't enough staff to make a regular arrangement like that. As you know, we're run off our feet here at lunch time.'

'But you did it before!'

'That was an emergency. We did it to oblige the doctor as well as you, but it couldn't be a permanent arrangement.'

'Well, that's very provoking,' said Miss Bertha, turning pink. The Lovelock sisters almost always got their own way.

'If I might suggest,' said Nelly, 'that you was to advertise for a cook-general in the paper, you might get suited quite quickly. Or the Labour might help.'

'The Labour?' echoed the old lady, looking mystified.

'Exchange,' added Nelly.

'Exchange?' echoed Miss Bertha.

'Job Centre like,' amplified Nelly. 'Up near the Corn Exchange.'

Miss Bertha picked up her gloves from the counter and began to put them on with extreme care, smoothing each finger. Her mouth was trembling and Nelly's kind heart was moved.

'Tell you what,' she said. 'You let me know if you'd like me to look out for someone when you've had a talk with Miss Ada and Miss Violet.'

'Thank you, Nelly,' said Miss Bertha. 'Most kind. We shouldn't want a great deal of cooking done. Just something light.'

'I know that,' said Nelly, with feeling, as she opened the door for her.

It was dark when Nelly toiled up the hill to Thrush Green, but it was a relief to find the air so still and the stars already twinkling from a clear sky.

Albert, still in his dressing gown and slippers, was sitting by the fire, but he had put on the kettle Nelly noted with approval.

'Well, and how have you been getting on today?' she enquired, sitting down heavily on a kitchen chair.

'Had a look at the paper. Took me medicine. Took a dekko out of the winder. This sunshine's brought 'em all out. Even old Tom Hardy, over at the Home, took out Polly for a walk on the green.'

'That dog must be on its last legs,' commented Nelly. 'Nearly as shaky as old Tom.'

The kettle set up a piercing whistle, and she rose to attend to it.

'I near enough went next door for a drink,' said Albert, 'but our Molly came in and put a stop to it.'

'So I should hope! What'll I say to the doctor if you catch your death?'

'Won't matter much what you say,' rejoined Albert morosely, 'if I'm a corpse, will it? Molly says he's coming on Monday, and may let me get out again, if I don't go too far.'

'Well, next door's about as far as you'll want to go anyway,' replied Nelly, stirring the teapot vigorously.

'There was a car stopped over by Mrs Bailey's,' observed Albert changing the subject. 'Some young chap got out.'

'Meter man, most like.'

'No. I knows him. Looked like that nephew of hers, Richard.'

'He'll be about as welcome as a sick headache,' pronounced Nelly. 'What's he come badgering his poor aunt for, I wonder?'

It would not be long before Nelly, Albert and the rest of Thrush Green knew the purpose of Richard's visit to Dr Bailey's widow. Meanwhile, there could only be the pleasurable conjecture of diverse opinions on the subject.

That weekend, there was considerable literary activity at the school house as Dorothy Watson took up her pen to write to the estate agents at Barton-on-Sea, who had the honour to be dealing with her affairs. She had chosen them from many in the area as she thought their name, Better and Better, sounded hopeful.

Agnes was busy sewing together the pieces of a baby's matinée jacket, in between bobbing in and out of the kitchen to keep an eye on a cake in the oven.

As she stitched she listened, in some alarm, to Dorothy's occasional snort as her pen hurried over the paper. She did so hope that the letter was
courteous.
After all, civility cost nothing, as her old father had so often said, and really one did not want to antagonise the estate agents at Barton on whom they were relying for their future comfort. Dear Dorothy could be so
downright
at times, and not everyone realised how kind her heart really was.

She was about to rise and go into the kitchen to stab the cake with a skewer, when Dorothy threw down her pen, leant back and said proudly, 'Now listen to this, Agnes.'

I write on behalf of my friend Miss Agnes Fogerty and myself. For some time now we have had our names on your books, and, to be frank, have had very poor service.

Although all the particulars of our needs are with you, let me repeat them. We need a two-bedroomed bungalow, on a level site, with a small garden. It must be within walking distance, i.e. no further than half a mile from shops, post office and church (C of E).

It must be in a good state of repair, as we hope to move in this summer, preferably in July.

Please do not waste your time and ours by sending particulars of outrageously useless properties such as the converted windmill, the granary with outside staircase and the underground flat made from a wine cellar, which were enclosed in your last communication.

I expect to hear from you by return.

Yours sincerely.

She turned to smile at Agnes. 'How's that? Can you think of anything else, Agnes dear?'

Agnes looked hunted. Her hands were shaking with agitation as she put the baby's coat aside.

'Well, I do think it was wise to repeat what we need, Dorothy, but I just wonder if that last paragraph isn't the tiniest bit - er - '

'Strong? That's what I wanted! It's about time they were jerked up.'

'Yes, I know, dear, but we don't want them to think us
unreasonable.
'

'Unreasonable? They're the ones that are unreasonable! Fancy sending two middle-aged ladies those absurd properties! We told them about my hip and that we are retiring. We're not a couple of mountain goats to go skipping up an outside staircase in a howling gale, and
with no handrail,
as far as one could see from that inadequate photograph. Or to go burrowing down a flight of steps into the black hole of Calcutta like that idiotic wine cellar!'

Dorothy's neck was becoming red, a sure sign of danger, and little Miss Fogerty knew from experience that it was time to prevaricate.

'My cake!' she exclaimed, hurrying out.

She busied herself for some minutes with her creation, allowing Dorothy to calm down before returning to the sitting-room. A delicious scent of almond cake followed her into the room.

'Something smells good,' said Dorothy smiling. 'Well, Agnes dear, let's go through the last paragraph and perhaps temper it a little before I make a fair copy.'

She picked up the letter and began to read. Agnes resumed her sewing, trying to hide her agitation.

It was not until the next day that she realised that she had sewn in the sleeves inside out, and would have to face a good deal of tedious unpicking.

But at least, she told herself, it was really a small price to pay in the face of making enemies of a reputable estate agent.

The young man, whom Albert Piggott and various other observers had noticed calling on Winnie Bailey, was indeed her nephew Richard, and his visit occasioned her some alarm.

She discussed this with Doctor Lovell the next day when he paid his customary morning visit after surgery next door.

Winnie's husband Donald Bailey had been the much-loved doctor at Thrush Green for many years, and John Lovell had become his junior partner when the older man's health began to fail.

It had been a happy relationship, and John deeply appreciated his partner's wife's kindness. When Donald died, he kept on the same surgery which the two men had shared and made sure that he did all he could for Donald's widow.

He knew a good deal about Richard. He was a brilliant young scientist and mathematician, completely selfish and inclined to batten on Winnie whenever he was in difficulties. His marriage had collapsed a year or two previously, and his young child was with his wife Fenella and her current paramour Roger. John Lovell, who liked a tidy life himself, had little time for Richard's vagaries, but he knew that Winnie loved her nephew, despite his gross selfishness.