by Read, Miss
She blew her nose, tucked the handkerchief in her apron pocket, and surveyed her handiwork. She seemed to have scraped seventeen potatoes altogether, and only six were needed.
'Well, they will just have to do for the next two days as well,' she told Tim briskly.
And putting her fears from her, she set about cleaning the sink.
The day after the unfortunate affair at The Fuchsia Bush, Miss Violet Lovelock, gloved and hatted, called next door at the shop. She was ushered in by Miss Peters, who led the way to her office at the rear of the premises.
'Do sit down,' said Mrs Peters, pushing forward the only comfortable chair in the room.
'Thank you,' said Violet sitting bolt upright, and removing her gloves.
Through the window behind the desk at which Mrs Peters was sitting, she could see the brick wall, rosy with age, which divided this garden from the Lovelocks'. At one time, a retired admiral had lived here, and this office had probably been his study, she surmised. Her father had taken a dislike to this neighbour, and threats of writs, solicitors' letters and the like had been tossed verbally across this self-same wall when she and her sisters were toddlers. It was a strange feeling to be sitting here now, awaiting Mrs Peters' pleasure.
Mrs Peters approached the matter with great tact and sympathy. She suspected that the culprit's sister, now busily folding her gloves together, had some idea of what was afoot, and in this she was right.
When at last she ceased to speak, Violet sighed heavily. 'My dear Mrs Peters, I can only apologize and hope that you will allow me to reimburse you.'
'That won't be necessary, I assure you.'
'The fact is,' said Violet, 'my sister is getting very old. Well, I suppose we all are—but dear Bertha is becoming rather eccentric with it. I suppose that one could say that this is a mild form of kleptomania, and I should tell you that she has taken to removing quite a number of objects to hoard in her bedroom. It is all most distressing, but a common symptom of senility, I believe.'
'So I have heard,' said Mrs Peters. 'The thing is, what can we do? Sooner or later, one of our customers will notice, and probably tell the police. This is why I felt it best to have a word with you.'
'You are quite right,' replied Violet. She sat very upright and dry-eyed, but Mrs Peters watched the thin hands, dappled with age-spots quivering, as she played with her gloves.
'We had absolutely no idea that this was going on,' went on the old lady. 'I mean, the scones or buns, or whatever she purloined, must have been eaten in secret. It seems such an odd thing to do. I shall have to speak to her about this at once.'
'Thank you,' said Mrs Peters, glad to see the end of this painful interview in sight. 'I wondered if you might think of consulting your doctor? He might be able to help.'
'I shall have a word with her first myself and, believe me, we shall not let her come in here again on her own.'
She rose to go, back as straight as a ramrod and hand extended in farewell, but her papery wrinkled cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.
Mrs Peters' heart was touched. What a bully one felt, but it had to be done.
'You can be quite sure that this will go no further, Miss Lovelock,' she said. 'We are all much too fond of you and your sisters to wish to see you troubled in any way.'
The old lady inclined her head graciously.
'I very much appreciate the kind way in which you have dealt with this unhappy incident,' she replied. 'I shall do my best to put things right.'
She preceded Mrs Peters through the café, bowing slightly to an acquaintance in the corner. Mrs Peters opened the door for her and watched her depart next door.
The old lady mounted the three steps to the Georgian front door, steadying herself by the iron handrail. To Mrs Peters' anxious eyes, she seemed to cling rather more heavily than usual to this support, suddenly looking particularly frail.
Feeling sad, Mrs Peters returned to the office. She found that she was trembling.
'Rosa,' she called. 'Bring me a cup of coffee. Black today, please.'
Violet went straight up to her bedroom and sat down in an old sagging wicker chair by the window. Outside, in the garden which ran alongside that of The Fuchsia Bush, a blackbird piped merrily. The scent of pinks floated through the window, and some yellow Mermaid roses nodded from the wall which divided the two properties.
The scene was tranquil, but the watcher was not. Violet's heart was thumping in a most alarming manner, and she was quite unable to control the tremors which shook her frame.
The thought of confronting her sister Bertha was devastating. As the youngest of the three, Violet had always felt slightly subservient to her older sisters' demands, although recently she had come to realize that they relied upon her more and more as their own strength receded.
But this was a different matter. This was a question of being dishonoured, of inviting ridicule, of personal shame.
Violet rose from the chair, which gave out protesting squeaks, and rested her hot forehead against the cold window pane.
What should she do? How best to approach this dreadful problem? What would be Bertha's reaction? Would she deny the charge? Would she break down, and confess to even further guilty secrets?
Violet decided that it would be best to tackle Bertha after they had all had their morning coffee. She herself should be calmer by that time, and more able to face her unpleasant task.
She went downstairs to the kitchen and began to set the tray with three large cups of exquisite Limoges china and three silver teaspoons. In the Lovelock household, such plebeian objects as mugs were not used, even for morning coffee.
Going about this simple task made her feel more settled. If only they had had a brother, she thought wistfully. This was the sort of thing a man could cope with so much better.
As she waited for the kettle to boil, she toyed with Mrs Peters' suggestion that it might be a good idea to speak to Bertha's doctor, but she rejected it at once. Doctor Lovell was much too young, and there might be disagreeable consequences, such as further consultations with psychiatrists and other horrors.
And then she thought of Charles Henstock, and a warm glow suffused her. Dear Charles! The complete answer! If Bertha should prove even the tiniest scrap difficult, then Violet would seek help from their old and wise friend.
The kettle boiled. Water poured on to the coffee grounds and Violet stood savouring the rich aroma, now mistress of herself.
5. Trouble at the Lovelocks'
JULY arrived, and gardeners were picking broad beans and raspberries and admiring their swelling onions. They were also, of course, spraying their roses for black-spot and mildew, and trying to cope with ground elder, couch grass, chickweed and groundsel, all of which rioted in their flower borders.
'But,' as Muriel Fuller observed to Ella Bembridge, 'there is no pleasure without pain.'
She was inclined to trot out these little sayings as though she had just thought of them, which Ella found distinctly trying.
The two ladies were meeting rather more often these days, as they were sharing the responsibility of coping with the soft furnishings for the extension to the sitting-room at Rectory Cottages.
The footings were already dug and, like all footings everywhere, looked ludicrously small, as though the room would be hard put to it to accommodate two chairs, let alone the dozen or so envisaged.
The question of curtains awaited further discussion for Edward Young, the architect, was strongly in favour of pull-down blinds being fitted to the windows inside for easy adjustment, and for an awning which could be pulled down on the outside of the glass building facing south.
The two ladies were quite content to shelve the matter of the curtains until such things as expense and necessity, should blinds be considered adequate, were settled; but they decided to go ahead with cushions and other small objects, and had prudently chosen a William Morris pattern which they were assured 'was always in stock'.
'Though that's not to say that the m
anufacturers may not discontinue some colour or other,' said Ella morosely to her companion. 'Still, we can't do more, and as far as I can see this pattern should tone in pretty well with most colours. The Cart-wrights are having a plain hair-cord carpet, so that's a help.'
Those ignorant of the art of cushion-making might have thought that it was a simple process of stuffing soft material into an attractive bag; but Ella and Muriel were artists, and the problems were formidable. Should they be square or oblong? Should they sport a frill, or be left plain? Should they be piped, and if so, inside or out? What about silk edgings, fringes, tassels?
The discussions went on, each lady clinging tenaciously to her own ideas, but in the meantime quite a lot of local gossip was exchanged in Ella's sitting-room.
'You are lucky to be farther from the school than I am,' said Muriel. 'The noise at playtimes is quite horrendous, and I don't think the teachers are on playground duty as promptly as they were in Miss Watson's time.'
This, Ella realized, was a side-swipe at the new headmaster, whom Muriel had never forgiven for spurning her services as a part-time remedial reading teacher.
'All children get excited at playtime,' she commented diplomatically.
'But that's when accidents happen. I well remember at Nidden once...'
Ella let her ramble on about her old village school which was now closed, where Muriel had spent the greater part of her working life in comparative obscurity.
Her attention returned, however, on hearing Muriel say that she was quite sure that Alan Lester would be coming to live in the school house.
'I doubt it,' responded Ella robustly. 'After all, he had the chance when he took over the job. Prices have gone up since then, for one thing.'
'Maybe,' said Muriel, stooping to pick up a thread from the floor, 'but Betty Bell heard it from his own lips. He was measuring the windows, and saying that he doubted if any of their existing curtains would fit.'
'That's a law of nature,' said Ella. 'Nothing ever fits the next house. That's partly why I don't contemplate moving, and I'm surprised he is.'
'They say,' went on Muriel, 'that it's because of his wife—ailing, in some way. I suppose he worries about her while he's at work.'
'Well, he'll be away at his duties in school anyway,' replied Ella, 'and if she's ailing, I should think the noise of the children would upset her even more. What's the trouble?'
'Betty Bell didn't say.' She held up an embryo cushion cover, surveying it critically. 'I wonder if a frilled ruche of toning satin ribbon would look well round the edge?'
Ella winced.
'No, it wouldn't,' she told her.
It was Harold Shoosmith who next heard more, and it was Alan Lester who enlightened him.
The children were making their way home, loitering in the dusty summer lanes, playing idly on the swings at the corner of Thrush Green, too indolent in the heat to make much noise.
Harold was clipping the privet hedge for the second time that season and thinking how remarkably unpleasant the smell of the little white conical flower-heads was, when he became conscious of the headmaster pacing at the rear of the school house.
He was accompanied by a man whom Harold felt he ought to know. Was he one of the Lulling shopkeepers? A plumber? An electrician? Someone he had met at a party?
Harold contented himself with a wave to both men and continued clipping. A pity the chap who put in this hedge had not settled for yew, thought Harold; it would only need cutting once a year. But then, he supposed, when this privet was planted it was clipped by the full-time gardener who had been kept at 'Quetta', as his house was once called, along with a resident cook and housemaid.
Intent on his work, he was scarcely conscious of the departure of the two men next door, until he heard a car drive away. He straightened his aching back, and saw Alan Lester emerging from the school house gate, presumably on his way to fetch his own car from the corner of the playground, where it had stood all day in the shade of an elder bush which was so rampant that it could almost be called a tree.
Seeing Harold he came over to speak to him. Harold lowered his shears with relief.
'That's a job that's waiting for me at home,' he observed to Harold. 'I keep putting it off. I'm not all that fond of privet, it grows too fast.'
'My view entirely,' agreed Harold. 'Here, come in and have a drink before you go home. I'm stopping for a bit anyway.'
'Thank you,' said Alan, following his host to the open front door. 'It's hellishly hot today. The children have been drooping all over the place, and I don't blame them.'
Isobel was out, so the two men sat alone in the cool sitting-room. They both settled for Isobel's homemade lemonade, and the ice chinked comfortingly in the misted glasses.
'That was a friend of mine who was with me,' announced Alan. 'He's a local builder, Johnson by name. I came across him at Rotary, and he's having a look to see if we can enlarge one of the rooms without too much hassle and expense.'
So that's why I felt I knew him, Harold thought.
'So you really are going ahead—with buying the place next door?'
'Definitely. I should like to have everything signed and sealed before next term. I had great hopes of getting things done during the summer holidays, but I can see that's out of the question.'
'It's no good getting impatient in these affairs,' agreed Harold. 'Simply asking for a heart attack. I've yet to meet anyone who has got into his house at the date first given.'
They sipped their cool drinks in companionable silence. Outside, a blackbird scolded furiously. A child called to another. Someone was mowing a lawn across the green, and the curtains stirred in the light summer breeze.
'It's a very good place to live,' said Harold, at last. 'I'm sure you won't regret the move. The natives are friendly—I know from experience!'
'I've discovered that myself.'
'Will your wife mind uprooting herself? I always think the women have to do so much more in adapting to a different house.'
'I think a change is just what she needs at the moment. She's not been too well, and I shall be able to keep an eye on her more easily.'
'Nothing serious, I hope?'
'No, no. Nothing like that. But both children are at school all day, and I'm away from soon after eight until getting on for six some days. She gets rather lonely, I feel, and she's never been one to make a lot of friends'.
His voice trailed away. He turned his empty glass round and round, his eyes upon it. He looked very tired.
'Let me get you another,' said Harold rising.
Alan Lester came to with a start. 'No, many thanks. I must get back to my own privet hedge. I've held you up long enough.' He put his glass on the tray. 'And thank you again for that life-saver.'
Harold went to the gate with him. The scent from the lime trees filled the warm air. The statue of Nathaniel Patten hard by was throwing a sharp shadow across the grass. Some sparrows were busy in a dust bath at the edge of the road.
'Well, I'm sure you will find Thrush Green very welcoming,' he assured the headmaster. 'And it will be good to see the school house occupied again. We all miss Dorothy and Agnes. You and your wife should be very happy here.'
'I sincerely hope so,' replied Alan.
He was smiling as he said this, but Harold had the feeling that, despite the brave words and the bright smile, some small doubt was lingering.
What was it, Harold wondered, picking up his shears, that was worrying the poor chap?
***
At the Lovelocks' house, Violet had made little headway with her problem. She had expected either fierce denials and a frightening display of temper from her sister Bertha, or a complete collapse and confession accompanied by a storm of tears.
Either would be quite dreadful, but had to be faced, and she had confronted the culprit when Ada was safely out of the way. It was a shock to find that Bertha neither denied nor confessed. Instead, she gazed at Violet with a look of utter stupefaction on her face.
'What on earth are you trying to tell me, Violet?' she said coldly. 'You seem very distressed about something.'
Violet explained all over again, only to be met with shrugs and shakes of the head.
'I don't think you are quite yourself,' said Bertha. 'I refuse to listen to any more of these silly remarks. You are giving me a headache. I shall take two aspirins and lie down, and I advise you to do the same.'
Thus dismissed, Violet was thrown into even greater confusion. Should she tell Ada? She doubted if she would get any further help from that source. Ada had always hated trouble, and would probably be as scathing as Bertha in dealing with the problem.
She went to the telephone and rang the Henstocks' number.
'Come whenever you like,' said Charles's reassuring voice. 'I shall be here all day, and shall look forward to seeing you.'
At half past two, Violet emerged from the front door of her home and made her way up the High Street towards the vicarage.
The lime trees cast pools of welcome shade on the hot pavements. Bees murmured among the lime-flowers, and Violet thought how much pleasanter it would be sitting in a deck-chair in the garden at home than embarking on this worrying project. She had left her two sisters dozing there, as she crept away feeling like a conspirator.
She crossed the large green at the southern end of Lulling; the great parish church of St John's dominated the scene, its benevolent presence comforting the distraught woman.
She found Charles in the vicarage garden, his hands full of groundsel, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He waved her towards a rustic seat beneath the cedar tree, and sat on another opposite her.
'We shall be quite undisturbed here,' he told her. 'Dimity has gone shopping with Ella. Something to do with cushions. Lots of talk about ruching and piping on the telephone. It had rather a Highland Games' flavour, I thought.'
He beamed at her, his spectacles glinting in the sunlight. He put the bunch of weeded groundsel on the ground, dusted his hands, and put them on his plump knees.
