by Read, Miss
Violet opened the door to him; her expression of joy and relief as she greeted him was more than compensation for the good rector's endeavours.
'Ada is shopping,' said Violet, 'and Bertha is in bed, not too well. I will lead the way.'
Charles followed Violet's bony legs upstairs and along a dark landing to a bedroom overlooking Lulling High Street.
'I've brought you a visitor, Bertha,' said Violet.
'Well, what a nice surprise,' replied Bertha, removing a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. 'How kind of you to call, Charles.'
She extended a fragile hand. It felt almost like a bird's claw as Charles held it in his own plump one.
'Would you like coffee?' enquired Violet.
'Not for me,' said Bertha.
'Not for me, many thanks,' smiled Charles.
He was aware of Violet's agitation by the unusual flush which now suffused her face and neck, but he could not help admiring the aplomb with which she was carrying out her duties as hostess.
'Then I shall leave you to talk,' she said. 'If you will excuse me, I will go back to my kitchen affairs.'
She closed the door, and Charles had a chance to look about the room as Bertha busily folded up the newspaper she had been perusing. It certainly was uncomfortably crowded, and Charles recognized one or two pieces of furniture which had once had their place in the drawing-room downstairs.
A glass-fronted china cabinet was squashed between the dressing-table and wardrobe. It appeared to be crammed with exquisite porcelain, and on top stood a heavy silver rose-bowl which Charles knew had once been presented to the sisters' father.
More silver pieces were lodged on top of the mahogany wardrobe: Charles could see mugs, salvers, wine coasters, jugs and at least three silver teapots. A little Sheraton sofa table, another exile from the drawing-room, stood by Bertha's bed, and this too carried a host of miniature silverware. Charles recognized a dolls' teaset, a miniature coach-and-four, and a windmill.
There was certainly something very odd happening in this house, and Charles felt a shiver of apprehension. Here, he knew, was madness—madness of a mild kind, no doubt, but something strange, sad and ominous.
'And how is dear Dimity?' enquired Bertha.
'Very well, thank you, and sends her love.'
Bertha inclined her head graciously. She seemed to be completely in charge of herself, but Charles noticed that the bony hands which smoothed her bed-covers were quivering.
He decided to broach his painful duty. 'I see you have had some things transferred from downstairs.'
'I like to have pretty things around me.'
'But don't your sisters miss them?'
Bertha looked at him sharply. 'They are not their property. And in any case, they can see them when they come up here.'
Charles decided on another approach.
'But don't you find they get in the way? It must be quite difficult to move around with so much in here.'
'I can manage,' she snapped.
Silence fell. A car hooted in the street below, a baby wailed, and a dog barked. The life of Lulling continued as usual outside in the fresh air, and Charles became aware of the stuffiness of this cluttered bedroom.
'I want the things here,' said Bertha at last. 'Ada and Violet don't appreciate them, and never have. I've taken them into my care, and I intend to see Justin Venables about changing my will.'
'Changing your will?' echoed Charles, much bewildered.
'Everything in this room is to go to St John's church in gratitude for Anthony Bull's ministrations.'
Charles was stunned. He felt as if he had been struck with a hard and heavy object, and was conscious of his head throbbing and his heart behaving in a most unusual fashion.
'Would you mind if I opened the window a little, Bertha?' he asked.
'Please do. Violet is inclined to keep the windows closed.'
Charles struggled from his chair, and heaved at the large sash window furthest from Bertha's bed. It was a relief to see the normality of Lulling outside, and the cool air revived him. He took several deep breaths and returned to his chair.
'My dear Bertha,' he began, 'it is a most generous gesture of yours, but before you do anything about the will, please consult your sisters and tell them what is in your mind.'
'I shall do nothing of the sort,' Bertha rapped out. She looked at him suspiciously. 'You are on their side! They've put you up to this!'
'I'm on nobody's side,' protested poor Charles, 'and no one has "put me up", as you say, to anything.'
'I shall tell Justin to call here,' replied Bertha. She was now very flushed and breathless. Charles knew that it was useless to try to reason with her. He had failed in his mission, and it was time to depart. It was obviously going to be impossible to go into the matter of taking things from The Fuchsia Bush at this stage.
He got up from the chair and approached the bed. He took Bertha's hand and patted it.
'I am sorry to have upset you, Bertha, and I'm going to leave you to rest now. But please think about my suggestion. I hope you will decide to talk to Ada and Violet.'
'I told you—I shall certainly not consult them.'
Charles released the hand. 'Then I beg of you,' he said earnestly, 'to consult your conscience instead.'
And with that he left.
Violet was fluttering about in the hall as he descended the stairs.
'Come into the drawing-room,' she whispered.
They sat down facing each other.
'Well?' queried Violet.
'Not well at all, I fear,' said Charles. 'I haven't really helped much.'
He told her, as gently as he could, about her sister's plan to alter her will, virtually laying claim to all that was in her bedroom. However, he purposely did not tell Violet about Bertha's idea of leaving all the treasures to St John's church. There was no point in burdening her with this extra problem, and he disliked the idea of this crazy plan of Bertha's being discussed in the parish.
'And she intends to see Justin?' gasped Violet. 'What shall we do?'
'I should do nothing while she is safely in bed,' replied Charles. 'I gather that the only telephone is in the hall down here, and any letters will pass through your hands. If she does propose getting in touch with him, then I think you must speak to him first and explain matters. If need be, I will have a word with him whenever you give me permission.'
'Charles! I hope it won't come to that.'
'So do I. In any case, I am sure that Justin will know exactly what to do in this sort of situation. I seem to recall something at the beginning of a will to the effect that: "I, being of sound body and mind etc." and I'm sure it is now sadly plain that Bertha is not of sound mind at the moment.'
'I fear not,' agreed Violet, much agitated.
'I must go,' said Charles. 'I'll come again in a day or two to see how things are going. Get in touch at once, if you are worried, but I'm sure we can only wait and hope that she will realize how foolish she is being.'
'Thank you, Charles, for everything. I shall take your advice.'
As Charles returned to the vicarage he felt a great sense of failure. He also turned over in his mind Bertha's strange intention to leave everything to the church. The fact that the gift was to be a tribute to his predecessor Anthony Bull, who now had a parish in London, did not perturb or surprise him. Anthony was an old friend, and Charles was the first to recognize and appreciate his dynamic qualities.
Anthony Bull's outstanding good looks, his charm of manner, and his almost theatrical delivery of his sermons, had won the hearts of all who met him. It was not surprising that Bertha Lovelock had felt such burning affection for him. She was only one of many in his congregation to whom he had brought colour and comfort.
It was also quite logical that she should wish to repay the inspiration he had given her, and to do it through the church she had always attended rather than as a direct bequest to the man himself, showed a certain delicacy of feeling, and a sense of propriety
quite consistent with the attitude of the Lovelocks.
But Charles hoped sincerely that nothing would come of Bertha's alarming plans. Rumours of her incipient kleptomania were already rife in Lulling, and Dimity knew that he had made today's errand in the hope of being able to help. He would have to tell her that he had failed in his mission, but that he hoped to try again.
The business of the will, he decided, should remain secret.
7. Preparing to Move
IT came as no surprise to anyone to find that the school house at Thrush Green had little to show in the way of additions when the school holidays began. To be sure, there was an area at the back of the house which had been marked out with pegs, and one morning in early August a lorry had backed in and deposited a load of sand.
Betty Bell remarked on it when she was at the Shoosmiths one morning, giving them what she termed 'a good turn out'.
'I'll bet my bottom dollar them poor Lesters won't be in that place before next Christmas. I thought the old people's place was taking its time, but this lot haven't even got started.'
'Well, I believe the Lesters are on holiday for a week or so,' said Isobel. 'I expect they'll chivvy things up when they return.'
'Gone to the seaside, have they?' asked Betty, turning a dining-room chair upside down and tackling the legs with a generous dab of polish.
'No. The Peak District, I think. They're touring, and Mr Lester hoped to go to the opera at Buxton.'
Betty's ministrations were arrested. 'I went to the opera once,' she said. The tone was of one recollecting a nasty session at the dentist's.
'Didn't you enjoy it, Betty?'
'No, I didn't! The noise! What with all that screeching, and the band on top of that, I had a splitting headache. I really prefer the telly—you can switch it off.'
She resumed her polishing with renewed vigour.
'So when's he hoping to move in?' she enquired somewhat breathlessly.
'I believe he hoped to move in during August,' said Harold, who was looking out of the window to the house next door.
'He'll be lucky,' commented Betty.
And Harold was inclined to agree.
But a week later, Alan Lester's car drew up outside the property and out tumbled two little girls followed, more decorously, by their parents.
Interested inhabitants of Thrush Green watched the schoolmaster unlock the front door to allow his family, some folding-chairs, several large baskets and assorted packages into the empty house.
'That looks more hopeful,' commented Harold to Isobel. He watched Alan Lester return to the car to retrieve an unwieldy bundle of brooms, a bucket, and a vacuum-cleaner.
'Don't be such a busybody,' said Isobel. 'You are as bad as the Lovelocks, peeking behind curtains.'
Harold laughed, and went into his study to write some letters. They could hear the children playing next door, exploring the playground and peering in the hedge for abandoned nests.
When it became time for mid-morning coffee, Isobel suggested that Harold might call next door to invite them over. The Lesters seemed delighted to down tools, and the four of them joined the Shoosmiths in the garden.
'I must say,' said Harold, 'that we didn't dare hope to see you quite so soon. You really have bought it, then?'
'It was a case of moving quickly,' said Alan. 'The fellow who bought my house had the ready money, and his son was anxious to move in quickly as his wife is expecting their first baby shortly. It suited us too.'
'It's good news for us,' Isobel said. 'We've hated seeing the place standing empty. Is there much to do?'
'Basically no. The extension will simply have to be done while we are in residence, but in some ways that will be a good thing. We can keep an eye on affairs.'
'What we would like,' said Alan's wife, 'is somebody to give the place a good scrub out. Can you suggest anyone?'
'Domestic help is pretty thin on the ground at Thrush Green,' replied Isobel. She told her about Betty Bell, but Margaret Lester was adamant that she would not employ someone who was already heavily engaged.
'It's the quickest way to make enemies,' she said smiling, 'but perhaps she might know of someone? We want to move in in about ten days' time, and it would only be this one occasion. I don't think I shall need regular help.'
Isobel promised to make enquiries, and the conversation turned to such matters as milk deliveries, reliable grocers and butchers, the rarity of jobbing gardeners and the everlasting boon of The Two Pheasants.
The two men, followed by the little girls, then went on a tour of the Shoosmiths' garden, while Isobel and Margaret sat talking.
'I do so hope it will all work out,' said the latter. 'It's all been done in such a hurry, but Alan was worried about me, I know.'
'Do you have health problems?'
Margaret sighed. 'I've really not been quite as fit since Kate was born. There's nothing that the doctors can do, so they say, but I get the most appalling headaches, and they leave me terribly low and depressed.'
Isobel made sympathetic noises. Privately, she wondered if Margaret Lester was something of a hypochondriac; she seemed almost pleased to be discussing her symptoms.
'In that case,' said Isobel, 'I'm sure Alan is doing the right thing by moving here where you can be together so much more. And you will find Thrush Green people are very friendly. As for the air here, it's absolutely a tonic in itself. I'm sure you will all feel the benefit.'
'Well, I certainly hope so,' said Margaret wanly. 'I really can't face feeling like this for the rest of my life!'
'You won't have to,' replied Isobel sturdily. 'Come round here if you need anything while you are working next door; the telephone is here, and a couch if you feel like a rest.'
'You are so kind. We are having lunch at The Two Pheasants and Mr Jones has said exactly the same. I think we arc going to settle in nicely.'
'I'm sure of it,' said Isobel, and watched the woman making her way towards the family, and then next door to resume her labours.
Later that day, Isobel voiced her fears about Margaret Lester's possible hypochondria, but Harold was dismissive of such conjectures.
'I thought she was a very nice little woman. And after all, they are obviously having quite a lot of worry at the moment, with all the upheaval of moving, and getting the little girls used to the idea of going to the same school as their father. It's not surprising that she seems a little low at the moment.'
Isobel said no more, but reserved her judgement.
True to her word, Isobel spoke to Betty Bell about the cleaning of the school house.
'Well, now,' said Betty, 'I'd dearly like to take it on myself, but I've got my old auntie coming for a bit, and I shall be tied up with her.'
'Don't worry, Betty. Mrs Lester didn't really expect you to do it, just to suggest someone, if possible.'
Betty Bell ruminated, picking automatically at what appeared to be congealed marmalade on the edge of the kitchen table.
'Tell you what,' she said at last, 'have a word with Nelly Piggott. She might do it, and if not she'd know of someone, I don't doubt.'
That evening Nelly Piggott was busy frying what she termed 'a nice bit of rump' when Isobel called to make her request.
'Come in, come in,' cried Nelly, shifting the sizzling pan to one side of the stove, but Isobel made her request from the doorstep, not wishing to disturb Nelly's labours.
'I'd do it myself if I'd the time,' Nelly told her. 'Nothing I like more than a bit of steady scrubbing, but we're a bit short-handed at the shop, what with holidays and that. I'll have a word with a friend of mine, Mrs Lilly. I know she might be glad to earn something.'
This was good news, and Isobel explained that Nelly's friend should get in touch with the Lesters, if she were interested, and gave Nelly their telephone number. She returned home feeling that she had done her duty.
The evening was hot and humid. Tiny black thunder-flies were everywhere, speckling the white paint and crawling over bare skin in the most i
rritating manner.
Isobel sank thankfully into a chair and brushed her tickly arms. 'Heavens, I'm tired!'
'What have you been up to?' queried Harold.
Isobel told him.
'Now for pity's sake don't go rushing about on the Lesters' behalf,' he said crossly. 'They are quite capable of coping with their own affairs, and there's no need to wear yourself out.'
'I haven't done much,' protested Isobel. 'Only tried to find someone to clean the house for them before they move in.'
'Well, don't let them impose on you,' said Harold, who could not bear to see Isobel worried in any way.
'You sound like my mother,' laughed Isobel, 'who used to say: "Start as you mean to go on!"'
'And quite right too,' agreed Harold. 'Now stay there, and I'll get you a drink.'
Meanwhile, replete with rump steak, fried potatoes, onions and baked beans, Nelly took herself down the hill to the road where Gladys Lilly lived.
It was one of the smaller, older terraced houses in the street, 'a two-up-two-down' cottage where Gladys had lived alone since the death of her husband.
A year or so earlier, in the last few months of Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty's reign at Thrush Green school, a daughter Doreen had kept her mother company. The girl had a young son, and had worked for a time at the Lovelocks, leaving the child with his grandmother. It was not a happy arrangement. Doreen had hated her job, and to give the girl her due it was hardly surprising, for the Lovelocks' house was large, over-furnished and difficult to keep clean. The three sisters were demanding and paid a poor wage. Gladys got used to listening to a string of complaints about life in Lulling when Doreen came home from work each day.
But it was a considerable shock to Gladys when the girl sneaked away with the child one day, leaving no message and no address. It was soon apparent that she had run away with the young man who was her little boy's father. Apart from a sparsely-worded postcard, on which the postmark was so blurred that it was indecipherable, Gladys had heard no more, and had resumed her solitary existence with both resentment and relief.
