(8/13) At Home in Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty were quite out of sorts at the end of the afternoon session, and thankful to return to the peace of the schoolhouse which they shared.

  'Well, I'm glad to be home,' said Dorothy Watson, kicking off her shoes and putting up her feet on the settee.

  'Me too,' agreed Agnes. 'I'll put on the kettle.'

  'No, no!' protested Dorothy, not stirring. 'I will get tea in a moment.'

  'You will stay there, and rest your poor hip,' responded Agnes firmly. She looked like a mouse trying to be ferocious.

  'You spoil me,' murmured her headmistress, and closed her eyes.

  The rattle of the tea things brought her back to consciousness. She lowered her legs to the floor, and sat up with a sigh.

  'Oh, Agnes, what should I do without you?'

  'Manage very well, I'm sure, just as you did when you were here on your own,' Agnes reassured her.

  'It has just occurred to me,' said Dorothy, accepting her cup of tea, 'that it is Ray and Kathleen's wedding anniversary the day after tomorrow. I always sent them a card, but since their last dreadful visit here I haven't done so. Their behaviour was so appalling, I really haven't felt inclined to get in touch, but now – well, I don't know –' Her voice trailed away into silence.

  Little Miss Fogerty broke it with unaccustomed energy.

  'I should send a card, Dorothy dear. After all, he is your only brother, and we are getting too old, all of us, to harbour hard feelings. I'm sure he and Kathleen would be very touched to have a generous gesture made to them.'

  Miss Watson still looked doubtful. The 'last dreadful visit' she spoke of had taken place in this very room, when Ray and Kathleen had been invited to tea, had been particularly trying, in Miss Watson's view, and had, moreover, brought in their large and obstreperous dog which capsized the tea table, wrecked the drawing room and frightened everyone.

  Tempers had risen, harsh words had been spoken, Ray and Kathleen had flounced off, vowing never to return, and Dorothy had told them flatly that the arrangement suited her perfectly.

  Agnes, whose heart was more tender, had grieved over the rift and was delighted to see that Dorothy too was beginning to be willing to offer the olive branch.

  Things had been strained between Ray and Dorothy for some time, and the open quarrel was only the culmination of two or three years' coolness. The headmistress had broken her hip in a fall in the playground, and after the operation had expected to recuperate with Ray, but no invitation had been forthcoming, much to her shocked amazement. Little Miss Fogerty, then living in lodgings, had offered to take up temporary abode at the schoolhouse, for a few weeks, until Dorothy was more mobile.

  The offer was gratefully accepted, and when Dorothy realised how well the two got on together, she suggested that Agnes settled in permanently. The arrangement worked perfectly, but it meant that there was now no spare bedroom at the schoolhouse. In the past, Ray had often dropped in, and expected to stay overnight. Now he was offered the sofa, or directed to Lulling's premier hostelry, The Fleece. Looking back, Agnes feared that she had unwittingly been the means of upsetting Ray.

  'Write a card now,' urged Agnes, 'and I will run across to catch the five-thirty collection. Even with the post as it is, it should get there on Friday.'

  'I suppose so.'

  'And I'm sure they would appreciate such a gracious act,' pursued Agnes. 'They must know they were in the wrong bringing that poor animal – Harrison, was it? – into this house uninvited. I'm sure they've often felt guilty about it.'

  Dorothy had her doubts about that, but the idea of appearing gracious and forgiving appealed to her. And, in any case, as dear Agnes pointed out, they were all getting too old to continue a silly quarrel.

  She rose to get her writing case, and scrabbled busily among its contents.

  'I know I have some National Trust cards here somewhere. '

  She withdrew a folder and spread out the contents on the sofa.

  'Now which do you think, Agnes? Bodiam Castle or Mottisfont Abbey? Perhaps Bodiam. All that water round it is so attractive.'

  She opened the card, and began to write. Agnes looked on with immense satisfaction, and sipped her tea. After five minutes the card was ready for the post, and Dorothy passed her cup for refilling.

  'Well, I hope I've done the right thing. I simply said: "Happy remembrances. Hope all goes well with you both. Agnes joins me in sending love".'

  'Perfect,' said her friend. 'I'll go over with it at once. Willie Marchant has been known to collect a few minutes early.' Willie Marchant was Thrush Green's thin postman. Willie Bond was the fat one.

  'Still pouring, Agnes dear. Put on your raincoat. And a thousand thanks. I'll clear away the tea things.'

  Agnes hurried off, and a minute later Dorothy saw her scurrying across the wet grass to the post box on the corner of Thrush Green.

  Had she been wise to write? Would she hear from Ray and Kathleen? Come to that, did she really want to?

  Of course she did, she told herself briskly, packing the tray carefully. They were her own flesh and blood after all.

  But the response to her gracious gesture was to be rather more overwhelming than Dorothy envisaged.

  As the wet day turned into an equally wet and dreary evening, Winnie Bailey across the green was talking to her nephew Richard on the telephone.

  Could he drop in for tea on Friday, he asked? He was only in the area for another week, and was hard pressed for time.

  'It will suit us perfectly, Richard,' replied Winnie. 'About four?'

  'Yes, yes. I'm sure I can get there by then. Don't worry if I'm a little late. And by the way, I have some exciting news for you.'

  'What is it?'

  'I'm married.'

  'Good heavens, Richard! You've taken my breath away! Do bring her with you on Friday!'

  'Can't be done. She's in London, but I'll tell you all about it when I see you. I've been run off my feet with these lectures, some in Birmingham, a couple at the University of Buckingham, and two more here in Oxford.'

  'You do work hard,' said Winnie.

  The pips went before she could say more.

  'Till Friday,' cried Richard, and rang off.

  Winnie returned to her sitting room still bemused. What staggering news! And how long had they been married? And why hadn't he told anybody?

  What an odd fellow he was! Donald had always said so, and added that he was the most self-centred young man he had ever come across. She was afraid that this was quite true.

  She fell to speculating about the new bride. Would she be a quiet submissive little thing, dazzled by Richard's undoubted eminence in his field, and willing to sacrifice her life to his? Or perhaps she had a job, equally important? The fact that she was remaining in London while Richard was on this lecture tour might mean that she too was busy with her own career. Richard would probably choose someone with plenty of brains as a partner.

  What amazingly clever children they might have, thought Winnie, her thoughts racing several years ahead. She recalled spending a short holiday, as a young woman, with a dear friend who lived in Sedley Taylor road in Cambridge. A good many of the houses were lived in then by newly-married university men, and the roads were busy with young children on tricycles and what were known then as fairy cycles. All seemed to be wiry, energetic infants, with spectacles and sandals, and their vocabularies appeared to Winnie to be much in advance of their tender years. Privately, she referred to any precocious children she met later as 'tiddly-widdly children'. Richard had always been one of them, to her, from the time he first sat up in his pram.

  When Jenny put her head round the door to say goodnight, Winnie told her that Richard would be coming to tea on Friday.

  'And Jenny, some terrific news! He's married.'

  Jenny looked suitably astonished.

  'Well, I never! I wonder what she's like, poor thing?'

  She vanished before Winnie could reply, but as she rolled up her knitting and switched off t
he lights, Winnie could not help feeling that Jenny probably shared Donald's opinion of the bridegroom.

  The upstairs lights went on one by one as Thrush Green prepared for bed.

  Winnie undressed, still excited by the news of Richard's marriage. Jenny was wondering if she had enough cheese in the larder for the cheese scones she planned to make.

  Edward Young tossed and turned, fuming at the weather which was holding up the steps, the ramp and the little paved terrace of the old people's abode.

  Nelly Piggott, dropping off to sleep in the back bedroom, and ignoring Albert's snores from the next room, congratulated herself on now having three hundred pounds tucked away in her Post Office savings book. With a chap like Albert as poor provider it was a comfort to have a secret nest egg, she told herself.

  At the schoolhouse, little Miss Fogerty put her bookmark in the novel she was reading, and closed it thoughtfully. Did she really want to go on with this story, and were the characters typical of young people today? In this book not one appeared to have a normal home, parents appeared to be non-existent, marital arrangements much to be deplored, and drug-taking the accepted thing. No one, it seemed, wanted to work either. It was all extremely depressing.

  She turned out the light, sighed heavily, and snuggled into her pillow for comfort.

  In the next room, Dorothy Watson began to drift into sleep, serene in her belief that she had been forgiving, generous and – what had Agnes said? Ah yes, of course! Gracious, was the word.

  She was asleep in five minutes.

  4 Family Demands

  THURSDAY was as wet as the day before. The summer flowers were flattened in the gardens, the chestnut avenue outside the Youngs' gate dripped steadily, and the puddles grew apace.

  But, on Friday, Thrush Green woke to blue skies and a freshly washed world. Spirits rose, and Betty Bell, always cheerful, was more exuberant than ever as she wheeled her bicycle from the school to Harold and Isobel Shoosmiths' house next door.

  She 'put the school to rights' each morning, and on two days a week she worked as well at the Shoosmiths' home. When Harold Shoosmith had arrived in Thrush Green as a single man some years earlier, Betty had looked after the cleaning and also did some cooking, but since he had married, Isobel undertook most of the household work, and Betty's duties were much reduced.

  She espied Willie Bond, the fat postman, ploughing his way towards her, and waited to see if he had any post for the Shoosmiths.

  'How's tricks then, Willie? Got any letters for us? I'll save you a few steps maybe.'

  Willie dismounted heavily, and fumbled in his canvas bag.

  'Two from abroad it seems, and one of them bingo nonsenses as says you're going to win half a million what you never do.'

  Betty accepted them.

  'And how's auntie?'

  Willie Bond and Betty Bell were first cousins.

  'Worriting, as usual. Reckons the price of things is enough to give her the dumps. She's wondering whether to apply for one of these 'ere houses, but I don't reckon she'd like it.'

  'Well, let's face it, Willie, she never liked anything much. Always a moaner, your mum.'

  Willie sighed.

  'True enough. Bet my girl. Well, I'd best be speeding off.'

  He clambered again on to his bicycle and weaved his way to deliver letters at the schoolhouse.

  'At least there are no bills this morning,' said Harold to Isobel, across the breakfast table. Upstairs the hum of the vacuum cleaner joined Betty Bell's voice uplifted in song.

  'All's right with the world then,' commented Isobel, looking out at the sunshine, as Harold read his letters.

  They had both found a perfect place for retirement, she thought yet again. It was good to be part of the small community of Thrush Green, and she was particularly fortunate to have made such a happy second marriage. She relished, too, the friendship and nearness of Agnes Fogerty, who was a staunch companion from college days.

  'Which reminds me,' she said to her husband. 'I've promised to look out some jumble for the school sale at the end of term. I must do it this weekend.'

  Harold passed over the two letters.

  'They sound happy enough in Africa, although there seems to be quite a lot of opening doors to find chaps waiting there with pangas at the ready. All in all, I'd sooner be at Thrush Green, wouldn't you?'

  'Without a doubt,' responded his wife.

  ***

  Next door, little Miss Fogerty and Miss Watson were preparing to go across the playground to their school duties.

  The breakfast things had been washed, beds made and dusting done, for both ladies were early risers, as schoolteachers need to be, and were quick with their daily routine. Now they were on their way.

  'I do so hope that Ray and Kathleen got their card this morning,' said Dorothy, still glowing with the thought of her forgiving gesture.

  'Bound to have done,' Agnes assured her. 'It caught the afternoon post and had a first-class stamp on it.'

  George Curdle, aged six, and one of her most promising pupils, now approached and presented her with a splendid posy of sweet peas.

  'Why, thank you, George! How lovely! Did your father grow them?'

  The child nodded, conscious of Miss Fogerty's sincere pleasure, and the gracious smiles of his headmistress.

  'Tell him I am very pleased indeed with them,' said Agnes, passing on.

  'Ben Curdle,' observed Dorothy, 'could always do anything. Took after his dear grandmother, no doubt. I still miss the May Day fair she used to bring here yearly.'

  'So do I,' agreed her assistant, 'but it is much more peaceful teaching without it.'

  'Well, we should have a peaceful enough day today, Agnes. The children will be able to play outside, and we shall get a little rest.'

  It was not to last long.

  Later that morning, across the green, the appetising smell of cheese scones scented Jenny's kitchen. They had turned out perfectly, nicely risen and gilded with egg yolk. Jenny admired them as they aired on the wire rack. Richard should enjoy those, she thought. A pity his wife could not sample them too.

  After lunch Winnie Bailey fell asleep in her chair, and woke to find it almost three o'clock. Perhaps a good thing to have had a nap, she told herself. Richard's company was always exhausting, no matter how pleased one was to welcome him.

  By half past four the trolley was ready in the kitchen, and the kettle was filled. Jenny hovered anxiously, one eye on the clock.

  'If he's not here by five,' said Winnie, 'we'll have ours.'

  But at ten to the hour, Richard arrived, tea was made, the trolley trundled into the sitting room, and Winnie awaited the details of his marriage.

  He certainly looked very fit. He still had a good head of fair hair when so many of his contemporaries were losing theirs. His blue eyes, behind the spectacles which he had worn since childhood, were as bright as ever. His appetite too was keen, and he demolished five of Jenny's scones before Winnie had started her first.

  Winnie had half-hoped that he would make some complimentary remark about the scones which she could have passed on to Jenny, to that lady's pleasure, but he appeared to demolish his tea simply to satisfy the inner man.

  'Do you still follow your friend Otto's diet?' asked Winnie, remembering earlier visits when the dining room table had bristled with Richard's bottles of pills.

  'No. I'm afraid he was exposed as something of a charlatan. His pills were mostly sugar with a mild opiate added. If he had been on any medical register he would have been struck off. A great pity about Otto. Quite gifted in some ways.'

  Winnie remembered some trenchant remarks of her husband's about Otto and his products, but forbore to tell them to Richard.

  'Now, please, I'm all agog. Tell me, when was the wedding?'

  'Three weeks ago, Aunt Win. Very quiet affair at our local registry office. We both wanted that.'

  'And her name?'

  'Fenella. We met about two years ago at a party. She runs an art gallery
with a distant cousin of hers. Quite lucrative.'

  He helped himself to a slice of fruit cake, and munched busily.

  'So will you live in London?'

  'Oh yes, when I'm there. There's a flat of sorts over the shop, so to speak. Not very big, but as I'm away such a lot it should do us quite well. Fenella's lived there ever since she started at the gallery.'

  'So that's why she couldn't come with you today, I suppose, with the gallery to see to?'

  'Well, partly. At the moment she's not too fit.'

  'Oh dear,' cried Winnie, envisaging some frail creature lying on a sofa with a severe headache, 'nothing serious, I hope?'

  'No, nothing serious,' replied Richard, dusting cake crumbs briskly from his knees to the carpet. 'But our baby's due next month, and she finds the stairs rather trying.'

  Winnie, who had been brought up in the days when one's baby did not appear for at least nine months from the wedding day, adjusted herself to this news whilst refilling Richard's cup.

  'Which is really why I wanted to come today,' continued Richard.

  'I rather hoped you might want to see me,' smiled Winnie.

  'Oh well, of course it is always nice to see you,' replied the young man, looking bewildered, 'but it was Fenella I was worrying about. You see, she will be having the baby at our local hospital, but no doubt will be sent out on the third day, if not earlier.'

  He paused to take a gulp of tea.

  Winnie's heart sank. If she were to be asked to travel to London to look after a nursing mother and new baby, for which she had no qualifications, she would have to refuse. And the stairs sounded daunting too, at her time of life.

  'My suggestion is that she comes straight down here, if you could put her up. It's so quiet and peaceful, and the air would do her good.'

  'But has she nowhere else to go?' asked Winnie.