Winter in Thrush Green (3 page)

With the coming of autumn the meetings had become less frequent. Not only was it too cold to sit crouched in the green gloom behind the daisies, but the frosts had thinned them sadly, so that small boys might be observed far too èasily. They decided that in future they must shift their headquarters to the spinney itself where there was more cover.

And Paul, rebelliously crunching his carrot, was determined to keep his trysts with Chris Mullins despite his mother's words and the uncomfortable stirrings of his own conscience.

After the removal of the signboard early in October, the inhabitants of Thrush Green renewed their energies and attacked the autumn jobs that pressed upon them. The air was exhilarating, the sun shone with that peculiar brilliance which is only seen in a clear October sky, and the autumn leaves added to the bright glory.

Apples were being picked, potatoes dug, and herbaceous borders tidied, and Sam Curdle's ancient lorry creaked and shuddered under the loads of wood which it bore down the lane from Nidden to prudent householders who were filling up their store sheds against the winter's cold.

Sam Curdle lived in a caravan a mile or two from Thrush Green and eked out a living from various types of piece-work for local farmers, by selling logs or acting as carrier in the district. For over two years now he had supported himself
and his wife Bella and their three children in this way, and he was now part of Thrush Green's life; but the good people of that place remembered his dismissal from the great Mrs Curdles Fair, on the last May Day that that amazing old lady had seen, and were careful not to trust Sam with anything of particular value. Mrs Curdle had found that he was a thief. Thrush Green, who had known Mrs Curdle for over fifty years, knew that she was usually right, and did not forget.

It was noticed, too, that Mrs Curdles grave which lay in St Andrew's churchyard, at her own request, was never visited by Sam or his family, and though this was understandable when one remembered the nature of their parting, yet it was not easily forgiven. As the landlord of 'The Two Pheasants' was heard to say:

' 'Taint right that the only relative living near should neglect the old lady like that–never mind what passed between them! If young Ben weren't away with the Fair he'd keep it fit for a queen, that I don't doubt. A proper mean-spirited fellow that Sam. I don't trust him no further than I can see him!' And that expressed, pretty correctly, the feelings of the rest of Thrush Green.

Nevertheless, he had to be lived with and he seemed willing to make a useful contribution to village life, so that people spoke civilly to Sam, gave him their custom and odd jobs to do, and kept their misgivings to themselves.

One bright October afternoon Winnie Bailey had engaged Sam to sweep up dead leaves and make a bonfire, which he did with much energy. The blue smoke spiralled skywards filling the air with that sad scent which is the essence of autumn.

Winnie Bailey hoed vigorously round the rose bushes in the front garden which looked upon Thrush Green. From Joan
Young's garden she could hear the sound of a lawn mower doing its final work before the grass grew too long and wet. In the playground of the village school Miss Fogerty was taking games with the youngest children, and their thin voices could be heard piping like winter robins' as they played the ancient singing games.

The doctor was having an afternoon nap and Mrs Bailey was intent on finishing the rose-beds before tea-time. Her hair had escaped from its pins, her face glowed with fresh air and exercise, and she was just congratulating herself upon her progress, when Ella's hearty voice boomed from the gate.

'Can you do with some sweet williams?'

Winnie Bailey propped the hoe against the wall and went to greet her.

'Come in, Ella.'

'Can't stop, my dear. I'm off to get Sam Curdle to leave us some wood.'

'He's here, this minute, in the garden,' said Winnie. 'So you'd better come in and save yourself a trip.'

Ella thrust an untidy bundle of plants wrapped in newspaper into Winnie Bailey's arms, and opened the gate.

'They're wonderful,' said Mrs Bailey with genuine enthusiasm. Til put them in as soon as I've finished hoeing. Sam's at the back, if you'd like a word with him.'

Ella stumped resolutely out of sight. Voices could be heard above the scratching of Winnie's renewed hoeing, but within five minutes Ella returned.

'That's done. Good thing I looked in. Ever had any wood from Sam? Does he give you a square deal? Always was such a blighted twister, it makes you wonder.'

Winnie Bailey thought, not for the first time, that it was amazing how well Ella's voice carried, and wished that if she could not moderate her tones she would at least refrain from
putting her opinions into such forceful language. She had no doubt that Sam had heard every syllable.

'As a matter of fact I had a load of logs from him last year, and they were very good indeed,' answered Mrs Bailey in a low voice, hoping in vain that Ella would take the hint. 'I didn't mention it to Donald, for he abominates the fellow, as you know, after the way he treated old Mrs Curdle, so say nothing if it ever crops up.'

'Trust me!' shouted Ella cheerfully.

She made her way to the gate, paused with one massive hand on the post, and nodded across to the corner house.

'Any more news?'

'None, as far as I know,' confessed Mrs Bailey.

'I did my best at Johnsons' cocktail party last week,' said Ella. 'Got young Pennefather in a corner and asked him outright, but you know what these estate agents are. Came over all pursed-lips and prissy about professional duties to his client!'

'Well—' began Winnie diffidently.

'Lot of tomfoolery!' said Ella belligerently, sweeping aside the interruption. 'Anyone'd think he'd had to take the hypocrite's oath or whatever that mumbo-jumbo is that doctors have to swear. I told him flat–"Look here, my boy, don't you come the dedicated professional over me. I remember you kicking in your pram, and you don't impress me any more now than you did then!" Stuffy young ass!'

Ella snorted with indignation, and Winnie Bailey was hard put to it to hide her laughter.

'Relax, Ella. We're bound to know before long, and I should hate to have to wake poor Donald up to attend to an apoplectic fit in the front garden.'

Ella's glare subsided somewhat and was replaced by a smile as she wrenched open the gate.

'Don't think it will come to that yet,' said she, and set off with martial strides to her own house.

Half an hour later Mrs Bailey made her way across the green to St Andrew's church with the last of the roses in her basket. It was her turn to arrange the flowers on the altar and she wanted to get them done before the daylight faded.

Mr Piggott was trimming the edges of the grass paths with a pair of shears. He knelt on a folded sack which he shifted along, bit by bit, as the slow work progressed.

Mrs Bailey went over to speak to him, and the sexton rose painfully to his feet, sighing heavily.

'Anything you want?' he asked with a martyred air.

'Nothing at all, Mr Piggott,' said Winnie cheerfully, 'except to ask how you are.'

'Too busy,' grunted the sexton. 'Too busy by half! All these 'ere edges to clip and more graves to keep tidy than I ought to be asked to do. Look at old lady Curdle's there! What's to stop Sam keeping the grass trimmed? My girl's husband Ben won't half be wild if he finds his old gran's grave neglected, but there's too much here for one pair of hands.'

Winnie Bailey stepped across to the turfed mound against the churchyard wall. A neat stone at its head said simply:

ANNIE CURDLE
1878–1959

The little stone flower vase at its foot was empty except for a little rainwater which had collected there. Mrs Bailey selected half a dozen roses from her basket and put them in one by one, thinking as she did so of the dozens of bunches of flowers she had received from the old lady during her lifetime.

Mr Piggott watched in morose silence, scraping the mud
from his boots on a convenient tussock of coarse grass. He steadied himself by resting his weight on a mossy old tombstone. The inscription was almost obliterated by the passage of years and the grey lichen which was creeping inexorably across the face.

'Ah, we've got all sorts here,' commented Mr Piggott with lugubrious levity. 'They say this chap was shipped back from Africa in a barrel of rum.' He patted the tombstone kindly, and his face brightened at the thought.

'I can't believe that,' expostulated Mrs Bailey, coming round the stone to peer at the inscription. 'Oh no, Piggott! This is Nathaniel Patten's grave. I'm sure he'd never have anything to do with rum. He was a strict teetotaller and a wonderful missionary, I believe.'

'Maybe he was,' said old Piggott stoutly, 'but in them days bodies was brought home from foreign parts in spirits. That I do know. I'll lay a wager old Nathaniel here ended up in rum, even if he didn't hold with it during his lifetime.'

'I must ask the doctor about it, if I can remember,' replied Mrs Bailey, picking up her basket and making her way towards the church. 'And I really must find out more about Nathaniel Patten one day.'

As she entered the quiet church intent upon her duties, she little thought that Nathaniel Patten, born so long ago in Thrush Green and now lying so still beneath his grassy coverlet, would be the cause of so much consternation to his birthplace.

O
NE
Monday morning in October Miss Fogerty arrived at the village school on Thrush Green at her usual time of twenty to nine.

Her headmistress, Miss Watson, took prayers with the forty-odd pupils at nine o'clock sharp, and Miss Fogerty, who took the infants' class and was the only other teacher at the establishment, liked to have a few minutes to put out her register and inkstand, unlock the cupboards and her desk drawer, check that the caretaker had filled the coal scuttle and left a clean duster, and to be ready for any early arrivals with bunches of flowers which might need vases of water for their refreshment.

She had enjoyed her ten-minute walk from lodgings on the main road. The air was crisp, the sun coming up strongly behind the trees on Thrush Green. Zealous housewives, who had prudently put their washing to soak on Sunday night, were already busy pegging it out and congratulating themselves upon the fine weather. Miss Fogerty, whose circumstances obliged her to do her own washing on Saturday morning each week, was glad to see their industry rewarded. Unless one was prepared to get one's washing out
really early
in October, she told herself, as she trotted along briskly, then one might as well dry it by the fire, for the days were so short that it virtually didn't dry at all after three or four in the afternoon. Unless, of course, a gale blew up, and that did more harm than good to clothes, winding them round the line and wrenching the material. Why, only on Saturday, her best pair of plated lisle stockings had been sorely twisted round the washing line and she greatly feared the fibres had been damaged.

With such matters had earnest little Miss Fogerty busied herself as she hurried along. There were very few children about, and when she reached the school only half a dozen or
so were at large in the playground. Punctuality was not a strong point at Thrush Green, and Miss Watson's insistence on prayers at nine sharp was one of her methods of correction. Late-comers were not allowed in, and were obliged to wait in the draughty lobby. While their more time-conscious brethren received spiritual refreshment for the day, Miss Watson hoped that they would meditate upon their own shortcomings. In fact, the malefactors usually ate sweets, redistributed the hats and coats of the pious, for their future annoyance, among the coat-pegs, and played marbles. They were wise enough to choose a large rubber mat by the door for this purpose, for experience had shown them that the uneven brick floor made a noisy, as well as unpredictable, playing ground, and Miss Fogerty had been known to slip out during the reading of the Bible passage to see what all the rumbling was about. Hardened late-comers were prudent enough to play marbles only while the piano tinkled out the morning hymn, for then Miss Fogerty, they knew, would be at the keyboard and Miss Watson leading the children's singing. After that it was as well to compose their faces into expressions of humility and regret, and to hope secretly that they would be let off with a caution, as the congregation returned to its studies.

The school was empty when Miss Fogerty clattered her way over the door-scraper to her room. That did not surprise her, for Miss Watson lived at the school house next door, and might be busy with her last-minute chores. She usually arrived about a quarter to nine, greeted her colleague, read her correspondence and was then prepared to face the assembled school.

Miss Fogerty hung up her tweed coat and her brown felt hat behind the classroom door, and set about unlocking the cupboards. There were little tatters of paper at the bottom of the one by the fireplace, where the raffia and other handwork materials were kept and Miss Fogerty looked at them with alarm and suspicion. She had thought for some time that a mouse lived there. She must remember to tell Mrs Cooke to set a trap. Mice were one of the few things that Miss Fogerty could not endure. It would be dreadful if one ran out while the children were present and she made an exhibition of herself by screaming! After surveying the jungle of cane, raffia and cardboard which rioted gloriously together, and which could well offer a dozen comfortable homes to abundant mice families, Miss Fogerty firmly shut the door and relocked it. The children should have crayons and drawing paper this afternoon from the cupboard on the far side of the room, she decided. Mrs Cooke must deal with this crisis before she approached the handwork cupboard again.

The clock stood at five to nine, and now the cries and shouts of two or three dozen children could be heard. Miss Fogerty made her way to the only other classroom, and stopped short on the threshold with surprise. It was empty.

Miss Fogerty noted the clean duster folded neatly in the very centre of Miss Watson's desk, the tidy rows of tables and chairs awaiting their occupants, and the large reproduction of Holman Hunt's 'The Light of the World' in whose dusky glass Miss Fogerty could see her own figure reflected.