(10/13) Friends at Thrush Green

by Read, Miss

  Other eyes had also noted Margaret passing.

  Replenishing the stocks, thought Ella Bembridge.

  Wonder what she's off to buy? thought Albert Piggott, unlocking the church door.

  She's looking better this morning, thought Jane Cartwright. But all three had bottles in mind.

  Nelly Piggott, putting a basket of croissants in the window of The Fuchsia Bush, watched her neighbour going purposefully into one of Lulling's three supermarkets. The thought of bottles crossed her mind too, but the appearance of Bertha Lovelock, with Violet in close attendance, put all conjecture about Margaret Lester from her mind.

  She opened the door for the two ladies, and noted with approval that Violet steered her sister to a table farthest from the display of cakes, scones and other delightfully tempting titbits on the counter.

  'Now what can I get you?' she asked. 'Coffee as usual, I suppose? And I'm just bringing through some Eccles cakes. Would you like to try 'em?'

  Violet agreed to all these suggestions, and Nelly hurried away.

  She and Mrs Peters had been relieved to see the Lovelocks again. They had wondered if the unfortunate affair of Bertha's pilfering would mean the end of their visits, but Violet had been as good as her word, and Bertha was now never seen unaccompanied on their shopping expeditions.

  The Fuchsia Bush was exceptionally busy that morning. A number of people who intended to catch the popular eleven-thirty bus which made its way north, passing through Thrush Green as it went, had called in for refreshment, their heavy bags and baskets littering the floor.

  As the time grew near, half a dozen or so paid their bills and departed to join the little knot of waiting travellers at the bus stop immediately outside the cafe.

  Nelly Piggott, replenishing the basket of croissants in the window, saw the bus pull up, and the queue mounting the step.

  At that moment she saw Margaret Lester, with a laden bag in each hand, hastening awkwardly across the road. The bus began to pull away when she was half way across Lulling High Street, but it stopped abruptly as presumably someone had pointed out Margaret's plight to the conductor.

  Obviously quite breathless and flustered, she hurried forward—and tripped over the kerb, her bags flying forward on to the pavement.

  The conductor leapt down to the sprawled figure, two passersby set about rescuing the shopping, and Nelly Piggott hurried out to help.

  'I'm all right,' gasped Margaret. 'Quite all right.'

  But it was immediately apparent that she was not. Blood was beginning to ooze from a badly grazed knee, and her hands were covered in dirt.

  'You come into the shop,' said Nelly, taking command. 'You can't get on the bus like that. You come and rest for a bit.'

  'You going to be all right?' asked the conductor solicitously. A row of concerned faces in the bus window watched anxiously.

  'I'll see to her,' said Nelly, collecting the bags. 'You get on. You've got your bus to look after.'

  'I'm a bit late now,' confessed the conductor. 'Righto, missus. Hope you'll soon be all right.'

  One of the bags seemed to be intact, but it was plain that the other had a broken bottle in it, as a trickle of liquid was running freely across the pavement. Nelly investigated, and found one bottle of gin with its neck shattered. Ruthlessly she poured the remaining liquid into the gutter, tested what appeared to be a second bottle in the bag, and found that intact.

  Margaret was leaning against the bus stop post, shaking visibly and near to tears. A little knot of spectators were offering sympathy and advice, but all, Nelly noticed, were quite aware of the broken bottle and its contents. The smell of spirit alone was enough to give it away.

  One of the men carried the bags into The Fuchsia Bush, and Nelly supported Margaret through the cafe and into a chair in the privacy of the office. Rosa was dispatched for a bowl of warm water and the first-aid kit, and Nelly set to work on her patient.

  Margaret was in a state of great agitation. 'I must get in touch with Alan,' she cried. 'I must ring him. He'll be so worried if I'm not home.'

  'As soon as I've done this,' said Nelly, 'I'll ring him, and tell him to fetch you home in the car.'

  But at that moment Mrs Peters appeared, offered sympathy, and said she would do the telephoning.

  Meanwhile, Rosa and Gloria had gone through the shopping bags. One held a few groceries, some toiletries from Boots, and one bottle of gin wrapped in a carrier bag from one of the supermarkets. Nothing appeared to be damaged.

  The second bag held the remains of the broken gin bottle, which had been wrapped in another carrier bag from a second supermarket. The third bottle, luckily undamaged, was wrapped in a bag from yet another of Lulling's supermarkets.

  The girls said little, but exchanged meaningful glances as they settled the undamaged bottle in the grocery bag. The dripping carrier with its shattered glass was put into the cafe's dustbin.

  'Well, if that's sorted out,' said Mrs Peters, bustling in and out, 'for pity's sake get back to the tables. I can see to things here.'

  Alan Lester had sounded remarkably agitated on the telephone, she thought. She had done her best to minimize his wife's injuries, but he sounded quite distracted.

  'I'll be down immediately,' he told her. 'I wouldn't have had this happen for the world.'

  He had the car outside within ten minutes and Margaret, now calmer, and sporting a neat bandage on her knee, was helped into it by Nelly.

  Alan was full of gratitude towards the two good Samaritans when he went back to the café for the bag of shopping. Rosa handed it over, obviously full of excitement at this unexpected fillip to the day.

  'One bottle was broke,' she said brightly, 'but me and Gloria put the good one in with the other.'

  Alan Lester looked startled, but simply thanked her before making his way to the car.

  Mrs Peters surveyed her assistant coldly. 'There was no need to say anything about the breakages,' she pointed out. 'Mrs Lester is quite capable of explaining things to her husband, even if she has got a cut knee.'

  'Well, I just thought he ought to know,' replied Rosa sulkily.

  'It's not your place to tell him,' said Mrs Peters. And in any case, she thought to herself, no doubt the poor fellow knows well enough, without anyone telling him.

  The news of the accident was soon the subject of local interest. The fact that it had occurred in Lulling High Street, amidst so many spectators, meant that there were varied accounts of the incident, and plenty of confirmation about the contents of the publicly shattered gin bottle.

  To be fair to the inhabitants of Thrush Green and Lulling, it was concern for Margaret and her family rather than censure which was paramount. There was widespread sympathy for the headmaster in his domestic difficulties, and there was great care in keeping the matter as quiet as possible.

  Even Betty Bell, who had summed up the situation early on, checked her ebullient tongue, although Dotty Harmer was less restrained when they met.

  'I hear that Mrs Lester is a drunkard,' she remarked brightly to Betty one morning. 'Fell down in the High Street, they tell me.'

  'She tripped,' began Betty.

  'Such a nuisance when drink gets the better of anyone,' continued Dotty. 'The best thing is to have a drink constantly at hand.'

  'But that's just what—' protested Betty, but was cut short again.

  'An innocuous one, of course. A really strong herb tea, cold preferably. I used to make up a bottle for our old cook when I was a girl; she couldn't resist the cooking sherry, I remember. We soon weaned her on to my nettle beer, and later to a light apple juice.'

  'I expect Mr Lester knows how to deal with things,' said Betty.

  'I wonder if he does. I might get Connie to run me up there with a bottle or two of my own medicinal brew, and explain how to use it. He must be a very worried man.'

  Betty privately thought he would be far more worried if Dotty appeared, jangling bottles and advising on the methods of tackling alcoholism. At any time Do
tty was alarming; in the role of witch doctor she would frighten the life out of anyone.

  And yet, thought Betty, one could not help admiring the direct and outspoken way that Dotty encountered trouble. It was a change from the muted remarks being passed around when the Lesters were mentioned. Here was Dotty, talking frankly of drunkenness, and offering practical help with honest sympathy.

  'We had quite a bit of drink trouble in our family,' she went on with the utmost cheerfulness. 'One of my uncles was so bad when in his cups—violent and most abusive—that he couldn't keep a job. In the end, my grandfather was obliged to ship him to Australia.'

  'But would anyone want him there?' asked Betty, feeling that it was hardly fair to the Australians to have to put up with such a reprobate.

  'Oh, he went out to a job there,' said Dotty airily. 'Rounding up sheep, I think. Or kangaroos perhaps.'

  'And how did he get on?'

  'I've no idea. When one went to Australia in those days, one hardly ever came back.'

  'My cousin,' said Betty, trying to guide the conversation away from alcohol, 'had a holiday there last year. He took a month off. Said it was lovely, when he got back. His photos took us all evening to get through.'

  'That's what I mean,' said Dotty. 'In my uncle's time, when people were sent off to Australia you could be quite sure that you wouldn't see them again. Now it seems they hop up and down over the Equator like so many yo-yos. Very disconcerting.'

  'Well, isn't that a good thing?' asked Betty.

  'My grandfather wouldn't have thought so,' said Dotty firmly.

  The new extension to Rectory Cottages was officially opened one wet and windy day at the end of October.

  The local member of Parliament had been invited to declare it open, but at the last minute was unable to come as he had been obliged to attend to government business overseas.

  Charles Henstock feared that yet again he would have to deputize for a guest of honour at short notice. It was Dimity who suggested that he should ring Anthony Bull to see if he could come.

  'When? Wednesday? Fine, I should thoroughly enjoy a trip to see you all,' said Anthony.

  He promised to arrive in time for lunch, and everyone, particularly the rector, looked forward to seeing him again.

  As many friends as possible had been crammed into the premises. As well as the new room, all the residents had thrown open their own accommodation, and there was a general air of festivity. Flowers were everywhere, windows shone, furniture gleamed and on the table in the forefront of the extension stood a magnificent iced cake, and some bottles of champagne.

  The only disappointment was the fact that Prouts had failed to deliver the large curtains in time. Agitated messages had been sent throughout the week prior to the party, and Prouts had surpassed themselves with excuses ranging from shortage of staff to a change in the dye of the lining material.

  Ella and Muriel were in rare unity over the affair. Their own smaller side curtains hung proudly in place, and their strictures on the firm of Prout were severe.

  Edward Young who, as architect, was among those present, would have liked to have said how much more satisfactory it would have been if his suggestion of blinds at the windows had been adopted. However he was magnanimous enough, and mellowed by the champagne, to keep these thoughts to himself.

  Anthony Bull, of course, was welcomed rapturously, and seemed genuinely delighted to be among his former parishioners.

  Through the windows overlooking the green, the bonfire could be seen awaiting November the fifth. It was a noble pile already, and everyone knew that the schoolchildren would be hard at work making the guy that would rest on the top.

  Anthony looked at it with pleasure. 'And does Percy Hodge still supply potatoes to bake in the ashes?' he asked Jane Cartwright.

  'Indeed he does! My uncle Percy gets as much fun out of Guy Fawkes' night as the children do.'

  'Delicious cake,' mumbled Anthony, through a mouthful. He spotted Doreen Lilly across the room. She had been invited to lend a hand, not only with preparing for the party, but to help with the waiting.

  'I must go and speak to Doreen,' he said, wiping his fingers on a snow-white handkerchief. 'Does she work here regularly?'

  Jane explained the position, and added how well she had fitted in. 'And she's so good with the old people,' she added.

  'She certainly looks a lot happier than when I saw her last,' commented Anthony.

  'It's good for her to be back in Thrush Green,' said Jane. 'She's a country girl at heart, and I hope she decides to stay here.'

  'She couldn't do better,' agreed Anthony.

  It was dark when the party ended. The wind was almost at gale force, and as Anthony Bull and his friend Charles drove through Lulling to the vicarage, the rain lashed across the windscreen, giving the wipers a hard task to keep pace with it.

  Leaves from the lime trees whipped across the High Street. Lights from The Fuchsia Bush gleamed across the dark wet pavements, and the street lamps were reflected in murky puddles which were ruffled by the wind.

  'You're going to have a rough ride back to town, I'm afraid,' said Charles. 'Are you sure you won't change your mind, and stay the night?'

  'I wish I could, but I've two meetings tomorrow morning. Don't worry, Charles. I've been much refreshed by my visit. It's so good to see old friends.'

  He went on to comment on the improvement he had seen in Doreen Lilly.

  'She certainly seems to have found her feet,' agreed Charles. 'Who knows? She may marry again. I think that is what her mother would like above all things.'

  'Maybe,' agreed Anthony, turning into the vicarage drive, but he sounded doubtful. 'She may not relish matrimony after all that has happened to her,' he went on.

  'Well, we must live in hope,' said the rector, trying to open the door against the howling gale. 'One thing, she looks remarkably bonny. Let's hope fortune continues to smile upon her.'

  13. Percy Hodge's Busy Day

  FOR the past several years Percy Hodge, now middle-aged, had lived alone, but he did not enjoy his solitary state. Now that Emily Cooke had finally deserted him for another, his loneliness was even more acute.

  He woke, on this particular November morning, to the usual sad contemplation of his single life. It was still dark, for the luminous bedside clock showed ten to six, and the bedroom was chilly.

  'Been a frost, I don't doubt,' said Percy aloud, swinging his legs out of bed. He made his way across the landing to the bathroom to perform his brief ablutions. Ten minutes later he went downstairs to the kitchen which was warm and welcoming. The Aga stove made this the most comfortable room in the house, and Percy spent most of his time there.

  His dog Gyp leapt from his basket near the stove to greet his master. It was this animal that had collided with Dorothy Watson's car some time ago, causing that lady considerable anguish. Luckily, the dog's injuries had been slight and he bore no scars.

  Percy had kept a dog, and sometimes two or three, throughout his life. Normally they had slept in one of the barns or outhouses on the farm, but Gyp had been more privileged since Percy allowed him to sleep indoors. The truth was that Percy enjoyed his company since the death of Gertie, his first wife, and then the disappearance of his second, whom he had later divorced. He chatted to Gyp as he would have done to a human companion and the dog, a particularly affectionate animal, responded in the most satisfactory manner.

  This morning he gambolled about his master's legs as the Aga was filled with a scuttle of solid fuel, and only desisted when Percy put down a dish full of dog biscuit and meat scraps.

  Percy set about getting his own breakfast: he lifted down a large, heavy frying-pan from a hook on the wall, and placed it on the hob. He put in four large rashers and two sausages, for Percy believed in a substantial meal at the beginning of the day. He cut two thick slices of bread ready to put in when the bacon and sausages were done, and set the basket of eggs handy for the last addition to his meal.

  Meanwhile,
the kettle had been moved to the hottest part of the stove and was singing cheerfully. The large enamel teapot, which he and Gertie had bought in the early days of their happy marriage, was warming nearby.

  Percy did not bother with such niceties as a tablecloth, but set out his knife and fork on the bare wooden table, and stood the milk bottle nearby. By now the bacon was sizzling, and Gyp had finished his breakfast, clattering the dish about the floor as he licked the last crumbs.

  'Now out you go, old man,' said Percy fondly, opening the back door into the yard, and the dog ran out.

  Percy adjusted the old wooden calendar which stood on the mantelpiece above the appetizing smells wreathing from the stove. As he turned the small knob showing the date, November the fourth, he remembered that the scoutmaster had promised to pick up the sack of potatoes ready for the morrow's celebration of Guy Fawkes' night. Percy had already sorted out some large beauties, and they awaited collection in the back scullery.

  He was just shifting the rashers in the frying pan when Gyp's furious barking disturbed him. Dropping the fork, he hurried to the back door. It was beginning to get light and, with a countryman's eye, he automatically noticed the heavy frost on the nearby cabbages and the ice on a shallow puddle.

  Gyp was growling and sniffing at the crack of the door of Percy's shed which stood close to the back door. Here were kept such useful things as the paraffin can, garden tools, a hand mower, two bins of chicken food and a pile of useful sacks.

  On opening the door and bidding Gyp to 'Sit!', it was on this pile that Percy discovered a startled man. He was fully dressed, if dressed you could call it, in a long dirty overcoat tied at the waist with binder twine, with a tattered scarf round his neck, and a pair of broken boots inadequately covering bare feet. Blue rheumy eyes gazed at Percy from a stubble-decorated face.

  'What you doin' here?' growled Percy. He was not unduly alarmed, or even surprised at this encounter. Over the years he must have come across a dozen or more travellers who had used his buildings for a free night's accommodation. He had been lucky, he knew, that not one of them had done damage, though he suspected that a few turnips and stored apples and carrots had been carried away in the usual capacious pockets. Some of his farmer friends had suffered arson at the hands of these gentlemen of the road, and Percy was thankful it had never happened to him.