by Read, Miss
'But I think he's quite serious about this one,' said Jane, rolling up a loose bandage and securing it neatly with a safety pin. 'He ought to be married, you know.'
Mrs Jenner got to her feet. She found all this very unsettling. Perhaps she should have kept a closer eye on Percy's philanderings.
'I can't see any woman with a ha'porth of sense taking on your Uncle Percy,' she said flatly.
She kissed her daughter's cheek. 'Thank you for helping out with Doreen. I'll tell her to get in touch. Now, I must get back. I've a nice little chicken to put in the oven, and dear knows when that'll get dished up, with all this to-ing and fro-ing.'
She waved cheerfully to several of the residents who were watching her departure, and made her way briskly along the road to Nidden. To passersby, she appeared her normal self—calm and capable. But Mrs Jenner's emotions were in turmoil. Surely Percy, stupid though he was, and always had been, could not seriously be thinking of making an alliance with a Cooke?
Tongues wagged, of course. They began to wag even more busily when Saturday was over and the girl had not returned. Mrs Jenner kept her worries to herself, and even felt a slight gleam of hope. Did this mean that Percy was out of the running altogether?
Percy, on the other hand, seemed to want to tell all and sundry about his blighted hopes. Albert Piggott, who had managed to evade him, was finally button-holed on Monday morning when he was defenceless in the churchyard sweeping up the shower of autumn leaves which rustled round and round the church paths and porch.
'You heard about my Emily?' queried Percy lugubriously.
'Yes,' said Albert, flicking his broom along the edge of a flowerbed with unwonted energy.
'It's a terrible thing,' sighed the rejected lover. 'She could be anywhere.'
'That's right,' agreed Albert.
'With anyone.'
'Right. She could.' He negotiated a tricky corner by one of the drains with a twist of the broom.
'Could be abroad even.'
'Probably is,' said Albert.
'Not that I think she is,' said Percy. 'Len Matthews said he saw her in Oxford.'
'Well then,' said Albert, activity arrested at this mention of an old acquaintance. 'What you fussin' about?'
He looked searchingly at his companion. He did look pretty rough, come to think of it. Even Albert's flinty heart was moved.
'Here, come and sit in the porch out of this pesky wind. Jones hasn't opened yet. We'll go over when he does.'
They sat together on one of the stone benches which lined the venerable porch. It was a chilly seat on a misty October morning, and Albert hoped that Percy's confidences would not take long, as gloomy thoughts of piles and other unpleasant afflictions went through his head.
'So what did Len say?' he urged, hoping to hurry along the proceedings.
Percy gave a gusty sigh. 'Not much. Just said he saw her in Cornmarket with this young chap. Laughin', she was.'
'Not one of them young chaps at college? She don't want to get mixed up with them. There's Deans and Masters and that, they gets proper shirty with any of their blokes as gets girls into trouble. Send 'em somewhere, they do, or sack 'em, or somethin'.'
'It wasn't one of that lot,' said Percy, dismissing all university men in one sentence. 'I heard it's some fellow up Morris's.'
'Oh well,' replied Albert, 'he ought to know better, workin' up Morris's.'
The conversation lapsed. Only the rustle of the leaves around their feet broke the silence. Albert began to find the cold more than he could bear. He rose from his chilly seat and surveyed his sorrowful companion.
'If you wants my opinion, Perce -' he began.
'I don't,' said the sufferer.
'Well, you're goin' to get it,' replied Albert with spirit. 'You wants to snap out of this 'ere mood you've got yourself in. No girl's worth it, and that Emily Cooke...'
He broke off as Percy leapt to his feet, red in the face with rage. 'You shut up about my Emily!' he shouted. 'Ain't I got enough to bear without you bein' insultin'?'
Albert picked up his broom defensively. 'All right, all right! Keep your hair on! No fool like an old one, they say, and that's true enough!'
He skipped dexterously out of the porch, and began to sweep again at a safe distance.
Muttering under his breath, Percy shuffled through the leaves to the church gate. At that moment, the welcome sound of the doors of The Two Pheasants being flung open could be heard. Without altering his pace, Percy made for the inn. Albert, judging discretion to be the better part of valour, decided to wait until a glass of beer had quenched Percy's ardour.
But it was really very annoying.
Autumn seemed to arrive particularly early that year. Albert Piggott was not alone in cursing the volume of dead leaves which created a major problem for all gardeners, as well as the Lulling Council leaf-sweeping vehicles that plied up and down Lulling High Street, doing their best to cope with the prodigal vegetation from the lime trees.
Against the golden stone of the Cotswold buildings, pyracantha berries glowed, and the palmate leaves of Virginia creeper clad many a house with vivid colour ranging from wine to cream. Variegated ivies and winter jasmine, as well as dying clematis and wisteria clothed the walls, and in the country hedges wild bryony threaded its necklaces of bright beads.
There were elderberries, late blackberries and sloes in plenty that year, and families were busy collecting this natural harvest. In Lulling Woods the bracken was turning crisp and auburn, providing shelter and bedding for the small animals which were already thinking of hibernation.
It was the season when redoubled activity in fund-raising reared its head, and Ella was just utilizing some of the remnants left over from the soft furnishings of Rectory Cottages' extension when her door bell rang.
Winnie Bailey stood on the step, a basket of apples at her feet. 'Are these coals to Newcastle, Ella?' she enquired.
'Far from it. Come in,' replied Ella, lifting the basket, and leading the way to the kitchen. 'I'll make some apple jelly. It always goes like hot cakes at produce stalls, and I'm getting stuff ready for the Mammoth Harvest Bazaar.'
'I wonder why everything is "Mammoth" in Thrush Green?' mused Winnie.
'Just a local habit,' said Ella. 'Coffee?'
Coffee being declined, the two ladies went into the sitting-room, and Ella picked up her smouldering cigarette and gave a grateful puff at it. The air was blue and acrid with the smoke, and Winnie hoped that her eyes would not water too noticeably.
As if reading her thoughts, Ella stubbed out the remains of the cigarette. 'Sorry about this filthy habit. I keep meaning to give it up. Tell myself about cancer of the lungs, and other people's revulsion, and how much I should save if I packed it in.'
'So you have tried?'
'Lord, yes! Time and time again. I can get through twenty-four hours, and then I crack.'
'It could be worse, I suppose.'
'How come? Drink, do you mean?'
Winnie was silent. Margaret Lester had come suddenly into her mind. She picked up some of the remnants of chintz which littered the sofa. 'And what are you going to make with these?' she asked.
'Well, I'm keeping some to make oven gloves, and Muriel is dead keen to make egg cosies and those rather sissy clothes' hangers. Does anyone want egg cosies anyway? My boiled egg doesn't have time to get cold, I can tell you, and all my coat hangers are those nice functional wire ones the cleaners give you free.'
'As a matter of fact,' said Winnie, 'I like a few padded hangers for special silk blouses and other delicate things. I'm sure Muriel's efforts will be snapped up.'
She was just congratulating herself on evading the dangerous topic of alcoholism when Ella spoke again.
'We thought it might be an idea to ask Margaret Lester to make things for the bazaar. I hear she's a good needlewoman. Tapestry rugs and all that. Besides, Muriel says she thinks she needs company. Gets depressed evidently.'
Winnie wondered how much Ella knew. Not
much escaped those shrewd eyes behind their usual veil of cigarette smoke.
'It's a kind thought,' said Winnie. 'She doesn't seem to have made many friends, but of course it's early days. I know the Youngs have invited them to play cards once or twice.'
'And I bet those useful migraine attacks have cropped up,' commented Ella. 'Tell me, Winnie, what's your opinion?'
'Well, I hardly know—' began Winnie, feeling cornered.
'I do,' said Ella. 'She's on the bottle, and most people in Thrush Green know it.'
At Barton-on-Sea, Agnes and Dorothy were busy clearing the garden ready for winter and going through all the decision-making which gardeners face at this time of the year.
'Shall we try and keep some of these geraniums?' asked Agnes. 'They could stand in the porch.'
'No room. Better put them on the compost heap.'
'But Dorothy, they cost a great deal of money.'
'And they'll cost us a great deal of inconvenience stuck in the porch all through the winter.'
Agnes, brought up much more thriftily than her friend, put the dying geraniums into the wheelbarrow with some reluctance.
'We'll split these penstemon,' said Dorothy, struggling with a small hand fork. 'They make a good show, and we could do with some more in the front garden.'
She heaved at the plant, becoming red in the face with effort.
'Please, Dorothy,' begged Agnes, 'please leave it for Peter to do.'
They were fortunate in having the help of a young man now and again who 'obliged' when he needed extra money.
'It's certainly tough!' puffed Dorothy, straightening up.
'You have to have two large forks back to back, and sort of ease them apart,' explained Agnes. 'It's really a man's job.'
'Well, Peter's welcome to this one. Now what about a new shrub to climb up by the shed? Now's the time, I believe, to plant one.'
'Certainly that clematis has been most unsatisfactory,' agreed Agnes. 'What shall we have instead?'
'I'll ask Teddy,' replied Dorothy, and Agnes's heart sank. Why must Teddy—charming fellow though he was—be brought into everything? Even a little autumn clearing up seemed to need his assistance.
'I promised some of our pink Michaelmas daisies to the flower ladies for Harvest Festival,' continued Dorothy, unaware of Agnes's feelings. 'Miss Jones asked particularly, and I said we could spare some.'
Agnes, pulling up handfuls of chickweed, did not reply.
'I really think they make too much of Harvest Festival here,' went on Dorothy. 'Apparently they are having an anthem. Something about the corn.'
'I hope it's "The valleys stand so thick with corn that they laugh and sing",' said Agnes.
'I believe it is. Rather far-fetched, I think. Have you ever seen a valley laughing and singing?'
'Poetic licence,' said Agnes.
'And Eileen is singing a solo.'
'Oh good! She has such a lovely voice.'
'I find it rather shrill,' replied Dorothy. 'And I'm not sure she is quite true on her top notes. I think she needs some of her solos transposing to a lower key. But then she wouldn't be able to boast about her high Cs.'
'Oh come, Dorothy! She doesn't boast!'
'She does to Teddy,' answered Dorothy.
Agnes threw a handful of chickweed into the wheelbarrow.
'Let's go indoors for a cup of coffee,' she said, with unusual firmness. 'I've had enough of this.'
And enough of Teddy too, was her private comment, as she went back into the house.
At Rectory Cottages, Doreen Lilly was proving surprisingly useful. Whether it was the fact that she was working for her former Brownies' leader and felt obliged to do her utmost to please Brown Owl, nobody could say, but she seemed to enjoy spending two mornings a week with Jane Cartwright, while young Bobby was at play-school, and the old people liked her.
Jane, who had really only given Doreen some work out of the kindness of her heart, was pleasantly surprised at the girl's competence. She had always thought that Mrs Lilly's brisk efficiency had meant that her daughter did little in the house and, like so many daughters of bustling mothers, was content to drift about keeping out of the whirlwind's way.
Evidently, when allowed to, Doreen could tackle a household chore as well as her mother, and Jane found her invaluable. She cleaned brass, copper and silver, she scoured baths and washbasins, polished and dusted, and even coped with such recalcitrant objects as faulty cisterns and clogged-up drains. She was in the early months of her pregnancy and Jane, knowing much about such things from her nursing experience, watched her carefully and made sure that she did not overdo things.
She told her own mother how pleased she was with Doreen's work one morning.
'Well,' said Mrs Jenner, 'don't sound so surprised. Gladys Lilly's renowned for hard work, and Doreen's dad worked at the baker's all his life. He used to go along there at four-thirty every morning. Could set your clock by him, people said. Doreen may have been a silly girl over that young man of hers, but she comes of good stock. Does she ever talk of Bobby's father?'
'Never a word, and I don't question her. But it's going to be hard for her when the baby arrives. There's mighty little room in her mother's house, and neither of them want to live together anyway.'
'They'll have to sort out that problem when the time comes,' said Mrs Jenner.
12. An Accident in Lulling
THE whereabouts of Emily Cooke, which was still the subject of much conjecture, was settled by the arrival of a letter to the girl's mother. Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty would have been appalled at the grammar, spelling and general grubbiness of their former pupil's literary effort had they been in a position to see it, but Mrs Cooke seemed surprisingly thrilled.
'She's bin and got married!' she shouted to Mrs Jenner, who was tidying her front garden.
Mrs Jenner went to the gate. A less diplomatic woman might have commented: 'And about time too!', but Mrs Jenner was more circumspect. 'You must be relieved,' she said kindly. As I am too, she thought, remembering the narrow escape she and Percy had had from an alliance with this deplorable family.
'Oh, I'm over the moon!' cried Mrs Cooke, beaming broadly. 'Just think of it! Our Emily married at last! I never thought to sec her with a wedding ring.'
'Where is she now?' enquired Mrs Jenner.
'Up Oxford. Headington way, she says, and I'm to go over next Sunday to tea.'
'And what about Nigel? Will he be going to Oxford to live?
'I expect so. Emily don't say anything much about that in her letter, but I'll take him with me on Sunday.'
Mrs Jenner wondered if Emily would want to be reunited with her young son; she had left him without a qualm. Would Mrs Cooke be left 'holding the baby' yet again? It would not be the first time she had been the unwilling minder of her grandchildren.
'Well, I'm sure it will all work out for the best,' she said. 'You must excuse me. I've left some washing out, and it looks like rain.'
She made her escape from Mrs Cooke, and went round the house into the back garden where a line of washing billowed in the autumn wind.
She was struggling with the sheets when she was hailed from the hedge which divided her property from her brother Percy's. With some vexation, she deposited her bundle on the garden seat, and went to their common boundary. Percy's face, pink and lugubrious, loomed above the clipped hawthorn hedge.
'Saw you with Mrs Cooke. She tell you about my Emily?'
'Percy, she's not "your Emily". Why do you make such a fool of yourself? Yes, she did tell me. Something you probably know already. Emily's married and living in Oxford.'
'No need to be snappy,' responded Percy. 'A bit of sympathy wouldn't come amiss at a time like this.'
'Well, you won't get it from me, Perce. All Lulling's laughing at you. Keep your grizzling to yourself, and stop feeling sorry for yourself too. A day's work is the best medicine.'
'You always was a hard 'un,' moaned Percy. 'Don't my broken heart mean nothin' to you?'<
br />
'Nothing at all,' said she briskly. 'And I reckon you've had a lucky escape. Don't get caught again now, Percy. Pull yourself together. What about a few days' steady gardening? Your thistle seeds have been blowing over here for weeks now.'
She bustled back to her washing line before Percy could think of a retort.
Later that morning, Percy told his sad story to Albert Piggott as they sat in The Two Pheasants. Albert's reaction was much the same as Percy's sister's, and it soon became apparent that sympathy was not going to be offered.
'Best thing that could've happened,' maintained Albert. 'She was always a bit of no good. That Oxford chap don't know what he's taken on. You forget her, Perce.'
Even Mr Jones, the soul of propriety, added his contribution. 'Albert's right, you know. You put her out of your mind, Percy. Plenty of good fish in the sea.'
'But they don't seem to swim my way,' said the disconsolate suitor, with a sigh.
'Here, have another half on me,' said Albert, with unwonted generosity. 'Nothin' like a drop of beer to put new heart in a man.'
'That's right,' agreed Mr Jones.
One bright October morning, soon after the news of Emily's wedding had rustled round Thrush Green, Winnie Bailey saw Margaret Lester emerge from her gate and set off towards Lulling. She carried a shopping bag, and Winnie guessed correctly that she would come back on the bus that left Lulling High Street at eleven-thirty with the shopping bag full.
She herself, and most of the Thrush Green shoppers, were grateful for that particular bus. It was a pleasure to trot down the hill with an empty bag in the cool of the morning, when one was fresh; it was quite another thing to struggle uphill from Lulling with a bag heavy with potatoes, celery, carrots, and groceries, an hour or so later.
Margaret had told her one day that Alan did not like her driving alone. He was afraid that she might be overcome by a sudden migraine attack, she said. Knowing a little more now, Winnie guessed that Alan dreaded a mishap when Margaret was at the wheel, and a breathalyser being produced. Poor fellow, thought Winnie, he must live under the most appalling strain.
