by Read, Miss
'I don't know about you,' remarked Harold, 'but I've had enough. It's so damn warm too. Let's call it a day. We'll tackle this lot when it's dried out.'
'It suits me,' agreed Isobel, who had already shed her coat which lay over the hedge.
'What we want is a good brisk wind,' said Harold. 'Or some frost. Preferably both.'
'Better still,' said Isobel, 'an early cup of tea.'
They went indoors to get it.
It had never been really light all day, but by five o'clock it was truly dark, and the inhabitants of Thrush Green and Lulling were thankful to draw their curtains against the miserable world outside, and turn to indoor pursuits.
Soon after six o'clock the first rumbles of thunder began, and Thrush Green was lit, every so often, by flickering lightning.
Harold, returning from the front porch, was cheerful. 'This should clear the air,' he said. 'No rain yet. I suppose it'll come. Alan Lester's just driven off, by the way.'
'Is Margaret with him?'
'I couldn't see. I just waved, and he hooted. Off to a meeting I expect, poor devil. Thank God, I'm retired and don't have to face meetings any more.'
'What rubbish!' cried Isobel. 'You are often out at committee meetings of the Parish Council and other Church matters, not to mention Scouts and Guides and British Legion and Uncle Tom Cobley and all.'
'I don't count those,' said Harold equably. 'They aren't Business!'
They settled down with their books, while the thunder rumbled. The electric lights flickered ominously, but it was an hour later when there was an almighty crash of thunder overhead and all the lights went out.
'Damn!' said Harold. 'And I've just dropped my glasses.'
'Then don't move your feet,' begged Isobel. 'Where do you think they are?'
'If I knew that,' replied Harold patiently, 'they wouldn't be lost. I'll just grope about. Can you find a torch?'
Isobel felt her way into the hall where a large torch stood permanently. On returning, she picked up the gleam of Harold's spectacles on the hearthrug, and restored them to their owner.
'Good girl! I'll go and light the oil lamp. Hope our neighbours have some auxiliary lighting.'
'Oh, it shouldn't take long,' said Isobel hopefully. 'Don't we get switched to another grid when this happens? Last time it was only a few minutes before the electricity came back.'
She followed Harold into the kitchen and directed the beam of the torch while he lit the ancient oil lamp and carefully replaced the glass and shade.
'It really is a lovely soft light,' commented Isobel when it was installed on the table between their chairs. The fire gave out some light, and a few small logs which Harold added soon leapt into flame.
'It's really quite snug,' went on Isobel. 'Not really bright enough to read; a wonderful excuse to lie back and do2e.'
But such hopes were not to be realized, for at that moment the front door bell rang shrilly, and there was a sound of frightened voices. Harold grabbed the torch and went into the dark hall, followed by Isobel.
A flash of lightning illuminated Thrush Green as he opened the door. Huddled together and crying were the two little Lester girls, their shoulders spattered with the rain which was now beginning to fall.
'Come in quickly!' cried Isobel, leading them to the fire. She was shocked to see that they were in their night-clothes—pyjamas under their dressing-gowns, and their feet were clad only in soft slippers.
'It's Mummy,' said Alison, 'we can't wake her, and I can't reach the candles in the cupboard.'
She was calmer than her younger sister Kate, who was still in tears, but both children were trembling, and not only with the cold, Isobel surmised.
'I found the matches,' went on Alison, 'but I was afraid to go upstairs to find the little paraffin lamp Daddy keeps on the landing. I didn't like the thunder, you see, and the matches kept going out.'
Harold and Isobel exchanged glances.
'I'll take the hurricane lamp and go over,' she said.
'I think I ought to come too,' replied Isobel, much troubled. What on earth would he find? Margaret unconscious? The house in flames?
Harold took command. 'I'll come back for you, if need be. But these two could do with a hot drink. Use the old saucepan. That fire should be good enough to heat some milk.'
Isobel fetched the milk and set it to heat at the front of the fire, and the two little girls, with a biscuit apiece, sat on the hearthrug and began to calm down.
Isobel heard the front door bang as Harold departed, and then began to do her best to comfort the children. The thought of matches, candles, and a paraffin lamp in the darkness next door, and the frightened young children's pathetic attempts to find a light amidst the terrors of the storm, made Isobel feel positively sick with horror.
'Do you know where Daddy is?' she asked, pouring out the milk into two mugs.
'At a meeting,' said Kate.
'Near Oxford,' added Alison. 'At a school with a funny name.'
'An animal,' volunteered Kate. 'A white animal, "White Lion", I think.'
'No, no, it's not,' said Alison firmly. 'It's "White Hart".'
'It's more than that,' maintained Kate defensively, 'like "White Hart Road School".'
At least, thought Isobel, they appeared to be getting back to a more normal sisterly exchange of communication, and there was a slight chance of being able to ring the school where the meeting was taking place.
She was relieved when Harold returned.
'Is Mummy all right?' asked Alison.
'She's fine. Just resting. I told her we'd look after you until your daddy came back.'
He exchanged glances with Isobel, shaking his head slightly.
'I'll try and phone Alan,' he said. 'Any idea of the place?'
'It's a school called "White Something",' said Alison.
'An animal,' added Kate.
Harold found the telephone directory, put it on the table in the light of the oil lamp, and settled his glasses.
'Schools!' he was muttering to himself as he leafed through the pages.
'Ah, here we are! The only "White Something" is "White Rose School".'
'That's it,' said Kate.
'But that's a flower,' protested Alison.
'It's a deer,' proclaimed Kate fiercely. 'A rose deer!'
'That's roe, stupid,' shouted Alison, pink with fury.
'Now, now,' said Isobel, 'that's enough! Just be quiet while Harold telephones.'
The children subsided, and Isobel followed Harold into the hall where he was dialling the number by torchlight. She was careful to close the sitting-room door.
'How is she?'
'Flat out, but safe where she is. She's on the bed. I covered her up.'
'Should we get the doctor?'
'That's Alan's job. All I can do is tell him the position. Is that White Rose School? Is Alan Lester there? It's rather urgent.'
'He left about ten minutes ago,' said a deep voice, which Isobel could hear clearly. 'I'm just off myself. I'm the head here, and we've just finished the meeting. Lester should be home in about twenty minutes or so.'
'Have you had a power cut Over there? We're groping about in darkness.'
'No. We're still all right, I'm glad to say. Do you want me to get in touch with Lester?'
'No, no. We'll do that. We live next door to the school house. Many thanks, anyway.'
He put down the telephone, and looked at Isobel. 'I think the best thing to do is to put the little girls to bed in their own house, and we'll wait there until Alan gets back. Some home-coming for the poor chap, I'm afraid!'
A quarter of an hour later the children were in bed. The emergency lamp on the landing had been lit, and their bedroom door left ajar.
Isobel crept upstairs to look at them a few minutes later, and was relieved to see that they were asleep.
She opened the door of Margaret's room, heard regular snoring, and closed the door again quietly. If only Alan could get back quickly and take over! She w
ent downstairs, and she and Harold sat in the chilly sitting-room which was lit only by the light of two candles which Harold had discovered in the kitchen cupboard.
How sad this little house seemed now, thought Isobel. In this room, so often, she had gossiped with dear old Agnes and Dorothy about the fun and foibles of Thrush Green parents and their children. Upstairs in Dorothy's old bedroom, which had always been restful and scented with lavender, there now lay poor unhappy Margaret in a room reeking of stale alcohol, while across the landing in Agnes's always-neat bedroom, two defenceless little girls lay in uneasy sleep.
Again Isobel's thoughts reverted to their pathetic efforts to find a light when darkness had suddenly enveloped them. She thought of matches being struck with the little girls' hair hanging dangerously over the flames. She thought of a heavy oil lamp being carried in a child's hands, of spilt paraffin, of leaping flames, of night-dresses on fire, of terror and panic. How easily there could have been a tragedy involving an unconscious mother and her young children! Something would have to be done about Margaret.
She shivered with horror and chill, and thought longingly of the bright fire they had left next door. At that moment a car drew up, the lights of the headlamps sweeping the room, and Harold went to the front door to greet Alan.
'Hello! What's happened? Where are the lights?' Isobel heard Alan say.
She could not hear Harold's reply, just the sound of his voice explaining things.
'My God! I must go upstairs to Margaret,' Alan said, in a shocked voice. 'I'll be down in a second.'
Harold returned, and they sat in silence, listening to the footsteps in the room above. Within minutes Alan returned, and dropped exhaustedly into a chair, his head in his hands.
'I think,' began Isobel tentatively, 'I should get you a drink, if you can tell me where things are.'
Alan gave a great shuddering sigh, and looked up. 'You are both so kind. I can't begin to thank you.' He stood up. 'I'll take a candle and go and light the Primus. We'll have some coffee.'
'And we'll help you,' said Harold. 'This damn power cut makes you realize how much we depend on switches, doesn't it?'
They all three went into the kitchen, and set about their preparations. It was only ten minutes later, when they had returned to the sitting-room with steaming mugs of instant coffee, that Alan asked for more details.
Harold told him, keeping nothing back. The sudden darkness, the frightened children, the matches, the attempt to light an oil lamp, all were related, while Alan listened with an expression of such horror on his face that Isobel's heart went out to him.
'If you hadn't been there,' he said at last, when the story ended, 'I could have come home to a burnt-out house, and no family! I blame myself. The meeting went on far longer than expected and—'
'It's a way meetings have,' interjected Harold.
'I'd seen that the girls were ready for bed. Margaret was not too bad, but said she would go to bed too as she was tired. As you see, we have no open fires here now, just the night storage heaters, for safety's sake. But of course I never envisaged a power cut, and all it entails.'
'You've got a problem,' said Harold.
'I know that well enough,' said Alan bitterly, 'and this evening has brought it to a head. Tomorrow I shall get Margaret to sec John Lovell. We're desperately in need of help, and we must tackle this immediately.'
'Yes, you must do that,' said Isobel, 'for everyone's sake.'
Alan sat, turning the empty mug round and round in his hands. At last he broke the silence.
'I'm sure that you both guessed poor Margaret's trouble long ago. After her mishap in Lulling High Street, I don't think anyone had any doubts about things here.'
'I'm afraid people have known for some time,' said Harold, 'but, believe me, the general feeling is of great sympathy. I haven't heard a word of criticism. After all, this is just as much an illness as, say, pneumonia.'
'Not so simply dealt with though,' replied Alan, with a sigh. 'It all began when Margaret had what the medicos call post-natal blues. She never really got over them, and that's when the drinking began.'
'Did you get help then?'
'To some extent. The doctor we had then was very understanding, and for a time she seemed better. Then I got this job, and she was alone all day, and it began again. It was the main reason for deciding to buy this place, where I felt I could keep an eye on her and she would not feel so lonely. But, as you see, it just hasn't worked out.'
'But why,' asked Isobel gently, 'didn't you get help from the doctor again?'
'Our old doctor has now retired, and frankly Margaret was so ashamed of herself she simply refused to see John Lovell.'
'Well, I'm sure he will be of enormous support to you,' said Harold rising. 'I suspect that he will be mightily relieved to be asked to help. And now we'll be getting back.'
At that moment, the lights came on again, bathing the room in unusually bright light after the mellow illumination from the oil lamp.
'Thank heaven!' cried Isobel. 'Now you will be all right.'
'Not quite "all right",' said Alan with a wry smile, 'but better able to cope.'
He put an arm around Harold's shoulders, and thanked him again. To Isobel's surprise he kissed her cheek. He was obviously deeply moved by all that had transpired.
'I shall never be able to thank you adequately,' he said, opening the door, 'but thank heaven for good friends at Thrush Green.'
Two days later Alan arrived at the Shoosmiths' house bearing a magnificent dark red azalea which he presented to Isobel.
'Come in,' cried Harold. 'How are things going?'
'Margaret's coming to see you herself later on. She's with John Lovell at the moment, at the surgery, picking up some tablets.'
'Can he help?'
'Indeed he can. He's been absolutely marvellous, and has fixed up an appointment at a clinic he knows well and thoroughly recommends. With any luck, Margaret will be able to go there within the week.'
'So she is really being co-operative?'
'Absolutely. I know it's early days, and she knows herself it's a long hard road to go, but she was so shattered about events the other night that she said at once we must get the doctor to help.'
'You must let us help too,' said Isobel. 'How long will she be away?'
'Difficult to say, but a few weeks probably.'
'And how will you manage?'
'I rang my mother, and she is coming down to stay for as long as she's needed.'
'She sounds a trump.'
'She certainly is! She's known about this from the start, and helped a lot when we were in the old house. She's lived alone since my father died, and she says she will shut up the house, and come as soon as I ring her.'
'Do the children know?'
'I've simply told them that their mother is ill and needs treatment, and have left it at that. Alison knows what it is, I'm quite sure, but she doesn't speak about it. Kate doesn't seem to have twigged, thank heaven. They both adore my mother, so they'll be happy with her.'
'Well,' said Harold, 'things certainly look more hopeful, and we are so relieved to know that Margaret is getting medical help.'
'It certainly takes some of the burden from my back,' confessed Alan. 'I fear poor Margaret is in for a tough time, but at the moment she is absolutely determined to be cured. She wants to come and thank you herself for all you did.'
'Oh please,' begged Isobel, 'don't let her worry about that. She may find it painful, and she's enough to think about as it is.'
Alan looked grave. 'She wants to do it,' he said soberly, 'and I think it will do her good to tell you about this trouble. Look upon it as one of the first steps towards rehabilitation. That's how I see it, and I think Margaret feels that way too.'
They watched him stride across the green to meet his wife at the surgery.
'I feel desperately sorry for that fellow,' said Harold, as they closed the front door.
'And I feel desperately sorry for the whole
family,' replied Isobel. 'It makes you feel that you will never touch alcohol again, doesn't it?'
'Speak for yourself,' said Harold.
16. Christmas and After
DECEMBER had hardly begun before all the frenzy of Christmas began to break out.
At the village school the windows were dotted with blobs of cotton wool representing snow flakes; paper chains hung across the class rooms and frequently collapsed upon the children beneath, much to their delight.
Every time a door opened a powdering of imitation frost, Christmas cards in the making, and pieces of embryo calendars fluttered to the floor, followed by excited children attempting to retrieve their property. The usual pre-Christmas chaos prevailed.
The ladies of Lulling and Thrush Green were busy preparing to raid local hedges and gardens for holly and ivy to decorate St John's and St Andrew's churches, as well as making wreaths for front doors and the graves of those departed and at rest in the churchyards.
The Lulling shops were filled with anxious customers wondering if elderly aunts would appreciate tea-cosies fashioned as sitting hens, or whether it would be better to play safe with yet another bed-jacket.
Husbands were busy buying enormous flasks of fabulously expensive scent, with names such as 'Transport' or 'Vive', destined to end either down the bath drain or as a raffle prize at a future bazaar.
In the electricity showrooms the annual display of a snow-white cooker decked with tinsel stood in front of the window, and the somewhat battered plaster turkey stood on top of it. The inhabitants of Lulling looked with affection upon this old friend. It really would not be Christmas without its reappearance, although it was beginning to look uncommonly dark—almost burnt—with advancing age.
At The Fuchsia Bush the results of Nelly's art filled the window: iced cakes clad in gold and scarlet frills, Dundee beauties topped with almonds, and pyramids of mince-pies brought in admiring customers.
In the few days before Christmas, activity rose to fever pitch, and when the ladies of Lulling, having their pre-Christmas shampoo and set, were offered a glass of Cyprus sherry as they sweltered under the driers, it was quite apparent that the festive season, in all its fury, was upon them.
