Winter in Thrush Green (24 page)

I'll come again, Dotty, but I must get back now. Take care of yourself, and don't get any more queer ideas in your head.'

She boomed her good-byes to Betty Bell and let herself out into the welcome fresh air.

Sometimes old Dotty made you feel as loopy as she was herself, she thought glumly, as she stumped back along the footpath. But the maddening thing was that the wretched creature was so often right!

With the departure of the snow and a sped of milder weather, preparations began on the site of Nathaniel's statue. A small area was roped off, and a tarpaulin shed housed three cheerful workmen who brewed tea, and sometimes worked, during the short winter day.

The concrete mixer drowned poor Miss Fogerty's voice in the infants' room and she became adept at miming her instructions to her admiring class. Games in the playground
received the children's divided attention, as their eyes were directed far more often to the activity on the green than to that on their own territory. Staunch devotee of Nathaniel Patten as Miss Fogerty was, at times she wished him further.

The progress of the work gave the inhabitants of Thrush Green a new interest. Now that something was ready happening even the lukewarm members of the community were stirred with anticipation. The butcher from Lulling and his followers, who had aired their protests at Christmas-time, made no further trouble, presumably washing their hands of the whole affair. But Harold and the rector were still worried about the person who should be invited to unveil the memorial. Time was getting short, and since the failure of their mission in Pembrokeshire they had racked their brains to think of someone suitable for the great occasion.

'You'll probably have to do it yourself,' said Harold to the rector.

'Indeed, no!' protested Charles Henstock. 'It would be most unsuitable. We really must try and think of someone-preferably someone connected with the mission station itself, I think.'

'But they'd all be at the jollifications there,' pointed out Harold. 'I told you they were getting ready for the most terrific celebrations before I left.'

The rector sighed gustily.

'I shall go for a long walk this evening,' he said, at last. 'Very often things are made plain to me on a solitary walk. I may perhaps think of something.'

'Let's hope it works tonight,' commented Harold. 'We're running things a bit fine, if you ask me.'

Whether the long solitary walk had anything to do with it, or whether the rector, in his parish visiting, had met
infection, no one could say; but before the week was out the good man was in bed at the rectory with a high temperature and the most fearsome headache.

Mrs Butler supplied a light diet of lemon water and dry biscuits, arriving at the bedside in a state of exhaustion after each trip upstairs, and with a martyred expression which caused the rector added misery, as indeed it was intended to do.

He had been ill for two days before Harold Shoosmith heard of it, and he went straight over to see his friend. What he saw appalled him. A small od stove was the only means of heating the lofty room, and this was not only quite inadequate but revoltingly smelly.

'Have you called the doctor?' asked Harold, troubled by the apparent weakness of his friend.

'Oh dear no!' exclaimed the rector. 'He is far too busy with people who are really ill, and Mrs Butler is looking after me very well.'

'I think you should see him,' said Harold. 'This room's far too cold, and I'm sure you should be having more nourishment than those biscuits.'

'I haven't much appetite,' the rector said weakly. 'And I don't feel like troubling Mrs Butler for dishes that might be difficult to cook.'

'A boiled egg and some warm milk shouldn't strain her resources,' commented Harold tardy. 'Could you manage that?'

'I ready believe I could now,' confessed the rector. 'I must be over the worst.'

Harold made his way downstairs and gave firm orders to Mrs Butler.

I'll take it up myself,' he said, with authority. 'He needs careful nursing, I can see. And I shall take it upon myself to give Doctor Lovell a ring.'

It said much for Harold's manner that Mrs Butler complied with his request swiftly and also with willingness.

'He's not too bad,' Doctor Lovell said to Harold, after he had inspected the patient. They were alone downstairs in the rector's chilly sitting-room.

'I think it's that she-dragon of a housekeeper that's at the bottom of this,' continued Doctor Lovell in a cheerful shout which must have been easily heard in the kitchen. 'I've told her to light a fire in his bedroom and to keep the whole house warm. It's a dismal hole, isn't it?'

'I agree,' said Harold. 'Something will have to be done about Mrs Butler. She simply takes advantage of Henstock's good nature.'

'She's pretty tied, at the moment,' said the young doctor thoughtfully. 'It might be a good idea to let her have the afternoons off, let's say, and she might do her stuff more willingly then while the rector's ill. She makes him worse by going into the room with a face like a thunder cloud.'

'That could be easily done,' said Harold. I'll come in myself, and I've no doubt other friends will take a turn.'

And so it fell out that for the next ten days, whilst the rector kept to his bedroom and marvelled at the sight of a real fire in that long^old grate, Harold or Dimity and Ella took it in turns to spend the afternoon at the rectory in order to relieve Mrs Butler.

Charles Henstock found it delightful to settle down to his afternoon sleep with the distant murmur of friends' voices and movements downstairs to keep him company. Somehow the house was alive again, as it had been in his dear wife's time. He had been lonely so long that he had almost forgotten the security and comfort of a shared home. When he awoke, after his brief nap, it warmed his heart to think of the tea
party which would take place in his room, and he looked forward to the tinkling of the tea tray advancing up the stairs bearing, more often than not, some particularly attractive morsel cooked by Ella or Dimity.

'I really feel so much better,' said the rector to Harold one afternoon. 'Loved says I may get up tomorrow. I asked him if I'd be fit to go to the Diocesan Conference next week, but he says he'd rather I didn't.'

He sighed sadly, and pushed a printed sheet towards Harold across the counterpane.

'Two or three excellent speakers, you see. I'd like to have heard this young bishop from West Africa particularly.'

'But I know him!' exclaimed Harold, putting down his tea-cup hastily. 'The mission station's in his diocese. How long's he staying in England, I wonder?'

'Why?' asked the rector, surprised at his friend's excitement.

'Don't you see? He's the very chap to unveil the memorial! What could be more fortunate?'

The rector's chubby face grew pink with pleasure.

'What an excellent idea! Now, how can we find out? Could you telephone to our own bishop, do you think, and find out more about it?'

'Certainly I will,' said Harold, bolting down a large mouthful of Dimity's sponge-cake. 'I'll do it at once.'

He paused at the door, doubts suddenly assailing him.

'He's a terrific admirer of Nathaniel's,' he added. 'I hope to goodness he's not made plans to celebrate the anniversary at his mission station.'

'I don't think he will have done, somehow,' answered the rector simply. 'I've a feeling this is a direct answer to prayer.'

It certainly looked like it, thought Harold ten minutes later, as he returned up the stairs. The young bishop, he had
been informed, was in England for a three months' study course at Oxford. He had been given his address and telephone number, and he waved the paper triumphantly as he entered the bedroom.

'We'll call an emergency meeting of Thrush Green Entertainments Committee,' he said joyfully, 'and see the reaction.'

'We couldn't do better,' answered his friend, with quiet conviction.

F
EBRUARY
lived up to its name of 'Fill-Dyke.' The month began with a succession of rainy days, and people began to fear that the end of the winter would be as uncomfortably wet as its early months had been.

Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty looked at the muddy brick floor of the cloakroom at the village school and shook their heads sadly. Their little brood had just rushed homewards through the rain, mad with joy at being released.

'One really can't blame them,' commented Miss Watson, listening to the diminishing screams and shouts as the cluldren tore away. 'They've missed their playtime ad this week. And doesn't the school look like it!'

'Mrs Cooke will put it straight,' comforted Miss Fogerty.

'That's just what she won't do!' responded Miss Watson energetically. 'At least, not for long. Look what the cluld brought this afternoon.'

She handed over a crumpled and grubby note, written apparently on the fly leaf torn from a cheap paper-back novel. It said:

Dear Miss

Shall be late up scool today as doctor wants to see me as baby cumin whitzun will tell you what he say tonite

Yours
Mrs Cooke

'Well!' said Miss Fogerty flabbergasted. 'Would you believe it?'

'Easily,' said Miss Watson flady. 'And this won't be the last. The problem is, what to do about a reliable caretaker.'

'There's that fat woman,' ventured Miss Fogerty. 'She seems very willing, and I believe she's a wonderful worker.'

'I've been thinking of her myself,' confessed Miss Watson, 'during recitation lesson. We could ask her to take over temporarily from Mrs Cooke and see how things work out.'

'Much the best thing,' agreed Miss Fogerty, in a businesslike way. It was still delightful, she found, to be consulted as an equal in school affairs. Sam Curdle, wicked though he was, had inadvertently brought happiness to Miss Fogerty on that wild distant night.

'Come and have tea with me, Agnes dear,' said her head-mistress, 'and you can help me compose a letter to Mrs Tilling.'

Much gratified, the little assistant followed her headmistress across the playground to the schoolhouse.

The result was that four days later, with the letter safely stowed in her bag, Nelly cast a triumphant eye over her new territory as she was shown round the school by Miss Watson in the evening. Her heart leapt as she saw the well-stocked cleaning cupboard with its new scrubbing brushes, tins of scouring powder, long bars of neatly stacked yellow soap, and brooms, brushes and dusters in dazzling variety. Her
spirits quickened at the sight of the muddy floors, the finger-marked paintwork, the dud brass handles on the scratched cupboards, and the windows so hoary with dirt that some bold, and unobserved, imp had drawn a figure upon one of them and labelled it '
TECHAR
' with a mischievous finger. Here indeed was scope for her powers, thought Nelly exultantly!

'The post would certainly be yours for some months,' explained Miss Watson, 'and I think it might wed prove permanent, as Mrs Cooke feels that with another baby to think of it might be better to find work nearer her home. It is quite a step here for her.'

'Poor thing,' sympathised Nelly, drawing a finger along a hot-water pipe and surveying the collected dust with much concern, 'she must have been finding it too much for some time.'

'I gather that she might be offered a job at the farm where her husband works,' continued Miss Watson, thinking it best to ignore Nelly's opening. Village schoolmistresses are adept at such strategies. 'She should know very soon, and then we could tell you more. You may find, of course,' continued Miss Watson, 'that you don't like the job here, or that the journey is too far. It's quite a long way from Lulling Woods, particularly in weather like this.'

She gazed through the school window at the drizzle veiling Thrush Green.

'I'll manage,' Nelly assured her robustly. If she played her cards right, she told herself privately, she wouldn't be tramping from Lulling Woods much longer. As for the work, her hands itched to get at it. I'll be here at half-past four next Monday,' promised Nelly, 'and make a start.'

She must break the news to Bessie and Ted Allen she told herself as she wished Miss Watson good-bye in the school
porch; but meanwhile there was a more important campaign at hand.

Hitching her bag over her arm, Nelly Tilling set out in search of Albert Piggott.

She found him in his kitchen, immersed in the newspaper spread out before him on the table. The odour of fried bacon surrounded him, and a dirty plate and cutlery, pushed to the corner of the table, showed that Albert had just finished his evening meal.

He grunted by way of greeting as the fat widow dumped herself down on the other chair, but did not raise his eyes from his reading.

'It says 'ere,' said Albert, 'that that fellow as robbed the bank yesterday got away with twenty thousand.' His voice held grudging admiration.

'I just been up the school,' answered Nelly, undoing her coat.

'Oh ah?' said Albert, without interest. 'This chap knocked three o' the bank fellows clean to the floor, it says. Alone! Knocked three down, alone!'

'I can 'ave that job if I want it,' said Nelly. 'I've said I'll start Monday. It's a good wage too.'