by Miss Read
'Good heavens! How dashing of them!'
'Robert Wilberforce has invited them. Evidently he's down in London for a day or two on business.'
'I hope Charles isn't thinking of driving. Parking's bad enough in Lulling, let alone London.'
'No. They're going up by train, he said, and Robert is meeting them at Paddington. I'm so glad for them. They get away so seldom. They seem really excited.'
'Well,' said Isobel, yawning. 'I think it's bedtime. It's been a long day, and I've a lot to do tomorrow.'
'Don't forget to ring the Lovelocks,' Harold reminded her.
'I'm not likely to forget that,' Isobel told him tartly.
8. Plans Go Ahead
AS THE summer term progressed, preparations for Thrush Green school's centenary celebrations started to take shape.
Few preparations were necessary for the school's part in the church service, or in the general joint celebrations, in which it would participate with even greater fervour, one suspected, but the Victorian day at the school needed more particular care.
Alan Lester called upon the Parent-Teacher Association to co-ordinate the plans. It was as well, he thought, to get the formidable Mrs Gibbons on his side without more ado, and in any case it was only right and proper that they should take an active part.
Many of the parents were old pupils. Some grandparents were, too, and although of course, there was no one alive who could remember the school as it was in 1892, there were a number who had heard their own parents and grandparents talking of their schooldays. This sense of continuity in a small community touched Alan Lester deeply.
He was delighted at the general enthusiasm for the idea of a Victorian schoolday when he spoke to the assembled company one evening.
Mrs Gibbons, in the chair, occasionally raised a query, but he felt it was more as a way of reminding them all that she was in charge, rather than from a genuine desire to alter the arrangements.
'The daily timetable for that period,' Alan told the gathering, 'is clearly set out in the first log book, and I have left it open on the desk, in front of Mrs Gibbons, so that you can have a look at it later.'
Mrs Gibbons tapped the stout volume in a proprietorial manner. 'Only three at a time,' she said. 'Otherwise it will be difficult to study it. And after these proceedings, of course.'
'Of course,' agreed Alan, giving her the smile which disarmed even such dragons as the present chairman.
'The biggest problem,' he went on, 'is finding the right furniture of the time. There were long desks for six pupils then, and of course most of them vanished long ago. I have discovered a couple at Nidden school which closed some time ago, and I think we can borrow them.'
'There's one in my dad's garage,' said one mother. 'He bought it off of the chap as was at the sale years ago.'
'And the chapel's got a couple in the back kitchen,' called another. 'They keeps the tea urns and china and that on 'em.'
'They did have one up the cricket pavilion,' said a third, 'but some kids got in and scandalized it one night. Daubed paint on it. Might be all right if you could get the paint off of it.'
'This is marvellous news,' exclaimed Alan, turning the smile on Mrs Gibbons, who had begun to tap her pencil vigorously on his desk to draw attention to the fact that questions were not being addressed to the chair.
One would have imagined, thought Alan, still smiling, that any chairman in Thrush Green, or any other village community for that matter, would be quite resigned to the general conversation which took over proceedings every now and again.
'I must say, through the chair' he said, 'how grateful I am for these suggestions. I shall follow them up, and if anyone has any news of other contemporary school fittings I should be delighted to hear about them. If not, we might get some made.'
Mrs Gibbons smiled graciously and the pencil stopped tapping. 'Now, about clothes,' she said briskly. 'Mr Lester has pictures of the sort of thing the children would have worn then. The Misses Lovelock have kindly lent some old family photos. They are on the wall there. You might like to study them when you come, three at a time, to see the log book.'
'The urn's bubbling,' said someone. 'Shall I make the coffee?'
A look of exasperation passed over the chairman's face, but she spoke patiently. 'Very well. Better perhaps to have our refreshments now, and we can clear everything away before looking at the display material.'
Within five minutes there was a cheerful racket of gossip and coffee cups, and Mrs Gibbons turned to Alan Lester, who was now sharing the desk with her.
'All going very well, I think,' she commented.
'Very well indeed,' Alan agreed sincerely.
Although the Henstocks' trip to London had been generally noted and approved by the residents of Lulling and Thrush Green, it was some time before Harold and Isobel heard the details of that memorable evening.
They were sitting in the Shoosmiths' garden one balmy evening of early summer enjoying the scent of pinks in the border and the sharp fragrance from the Albertine rose on the wall.
'Beautiful music,' enthused Charles. 'Real music, you know, Haydn and Vivaldi, or one of those thumpy bits from Handel that you ought to know and never do.'
'It was Bach, dear,' said Dimity. 'And Robert took us to a very good Italian restaurant just off the Strand. So welcoming the owners were. A family concern, with Papa and Mama, and I should think Grandpapa in that basket chair, wouldn't you, Charles?'
'Definitely,' agreed Charles, 'and such delicious food. It really was a great treat for us.'
'And so nice to see Dulcie Mulloy again,' added Dimity.
'So she was there,' commented Isobel, refilling glasses.
'Yes, she works in the City and met us at the restaurant.'
'By the way, Robert had more news of the Fennel family. You know that our Octavius's money came from the Lancashire cotton trade originally?'
'Yes, I remember. We wondered if he might feel guilty about it.'
'He was looking up a name in his local directory in the Fs, and came across some Fennels. He was talking to his doctor a day or so later and he told him that quite a few wealthy Fennels retired to the Lake District. One of the survivors was one of his patients, who lived in a hideous Victorian mock-castle built by one of his rich forebears near Windermere.'
'How extraordinary!' exclaimed Harold. 'And are they related to our Octavius? It's an unusual name.'
'Robert went to see him. Yes, he is vaguely related, I gather. He's in his nineties, a bachelor, very frail, and living in part of the old house. He was most interested in all Robert had to tell him.'
'Had he ever met Octavius?'
'No. But his father had visited Octavius several times and thought a great deal of him.'
'And what about the other Lake District Fennels?'
'Distantly connected evidently, but no contact. Different generations, and not in touch with the old man Robert met. He wants to be kept informed about our celebrations. I wonder if we should invite him?'
'Would he come? He sounds rather past travelling,' said Harold.
Charles nodded thoughtfully. 'Nevertheless, I think I will send him an invitation when I get round to sending them out. Incidentally, I have sent a copy of the parish magazine to Nathaniel's African mission station, to show them that we are celebrating their opening.'
'Good!' said Harold. 'It all sounds very exciting, and your evening was a fruitful one. What was the journey like?'
'Very simple, thanks to Robert. He met us at Paddington and took us back there after the concert. I fear we must have taken him out of his way.'
'You see,' explained Dimity, 'he insisted on taking Dulcie home to her flat in north London, after dropping us off. She said she could easily go back on the Tube, as she does every day, but Robert didn't like the idea. He was quite firm, wasn't he, Charles?'
'Indeed he was! He said he thought that women should be escorted home safely, particularly after dark. He was rather anxious about Dulcie on our fir
st meeting at the vicarage, you may recall, because she had to set off rather late.'
'I well remember,' replied Isobel.
It wss agreed that the invitations should go out early.
'It's amazing,' said Charles, 'how quickly one's diary gets filled, and after all i October will soon come round.'
There were not many personal invitations, for everyone in Thrush Green and Lulling had been apprised of the date and of the welcome awaiting them at the celebrations.
But Robert Wilberforce, as the person who had discovered the letters and the diary, headed the list, and Dulcie Mulloy, as a direct descendant, came next, and the aged and unseen Mr Fennel in the Lake District was also invited, and a few others.
Harold himself wrote to the head of the mission station and hoped that he or anyone else interested might be able to make the journey to join them, and offered hospitality in his own home. But somehow he doubted if anyone from so far away would undertake the trip.
The question of raising money for a modest memorial to the two men had been discussed. Charles, from the first, had felt that the offerings on the Sunday nearest i October should be used for such a scheme, and it had been decided to plant two trees, one for Nathaniel and the other for Octavius, as part of the celebrations.
It was a chance remark of Alan Lester's, some time after the Parent-Teacher meeting, which made Charles and Harold wonder if more could not be done, and when letters arrived from the African mission station, the three men met at the Shoosmiths' to make some plans.
'I suppose I set the ball rolling,' confessed Alan. 'I let the children send a card to the children at the mission school, telling them briefly about our festivities here. I had a long letter back from the head there, and he asked us to write regularly.'
He put a packet of leaflets about the project and the letter on the coffee table in front of them.
'I've had these, too,' said Charles, handling the leaflets, 'but my letter came later separately.'
Harold had also received a letter from the mission's head. 'They don't feel that they can send anyone on the day in question, as they will be holding their own celebration, of course, but when the head gets leave later he will come and see us, he says.'
'What's quite apparent,' said Alan, 'is their own centenary project of adding a room to the present school so that they can admit younger children. Can we afford to send them something towards that?'
'It's a nice idèa,' commented Harold. 'Let's have a really rousing fundraising effort.' He looked at Charles.
'It is indeed,' said the rector thoughtfully, 'but I felt from the start that we shouldn't look upon this affair as a money-making project. That's why I sincerely hope that the church offerings on that Sunday will cover the cost of the two trees, and in any case we can supplement the sum from the Free-Will offering fund, if need be.'
'I think everyone appreciates that,' agreed Harold, 'but nevertheless I have had one or two people offering a contribution if we are collecting funds. Robert Wilberforce for one. He says that he has had such pleasure in being involved with this fresh slant on the lives of Nathaniel and Octavius. There will be others.'
'Mrs Gibbons,' added Alan, 'I suppose I should say the Parent-Teacher Association, wants to give something to the school to celebrate the centenary, and we proposed to have a bird bath in the playground. But there might possibly be some money over.'
'I think the best thing to do,' said Charles slowly, 'would be to leave it to individuals to do as they please. No pressurizing. Perhaps a note in the parish magazine, and a box in the church and elsewhere for any donations? Let's see what sort of response we get, and we can decide then about any help towards the new schoolroom.'
'I think that's wise,' agreed Harold. 'But there's just one thing. I feel that any cash given to our own school should remain for the school's needs. If parents like to give to the boxes or at the church service, well and good, but we must not lose sight of our own centenary.'
And on this note the informal meeting broke up.
Thrush Green looked at its best in the summer, thought Winnie, looking from her front garden across the expanse of green to the Two Pheasants.
Mr Jones had six hanging baskets full of geraniums, lobelias and fuchsias adorning the front of the public house. In the great tub by the front door a blaze of petunias showed up against the background of creamy Cotswold stone. Winnie recalled the Christmas tree with its twinkling lights which had stood there in December, and remembered, too, how wretched she had felt with her internal troubles.
Now she felt as bonny as Mr Jones's flowers, she told herself. The sun was warm on her back as she leant over the gate. To her right the Youngs' house glowed in the dazzling light. Sunshine brought out the warm glow of the local stone; winter weather seemed to turn the buildings to a duller shade, and skies were overcast for far too much of the year for Winnie's comfort. Sometimes she looked back to the fresh charms of the holiday at Barton, and wondered if she would like to settle by the sea one day. But she knew, in her heart, that she would never leave Thrush Green.
A scarecrow figure came into view across the green, preceded by a King Charles's spaniel on a long lead. Obviously, Flossie and her mistress, Dotty Harmer, were taking a little exercise.
Winnie walked across to meet them.
A toddler was sitting on the grass beside a young girl. Winnie recognized them as part of the large Cooke family, noted in the district for fecundity and a distaste for orthodox matrimony.
But the pair were charming, Winnie thought, greeting them. They were busy making a long daisy chain. The little boy stumbled towards the blossoms starring the grass, collapsing unsteadily beside his protector (sister, mother?) while she threaded them industriously together.
They were both fair-headed, chubby-cheeked and exuded robust health. Donald had always admired the toughness of the Cooke tribe, Winnie remembered, giving as its reason 'a fine mixture of blood'.
They smiled at Winnie as she spoke to them, displaying splendid teeth which Winnie envied.
Flossie now bounded forward, at the extreme end of her long leash, and began to lick the child's face.
'Ah! Dear pussy!' cooed the boy. 'Nice pussy!'
He attempted to feed the excited dog with a fistful of daisies.
'It's a dog, dear,' said Dotty approaching. 'Not a cat.'
The child smiled disarmingly. 'Pussy!' he repeated.
'No, dear,' persisted Dotty, who disliked inaccuracy. 'You can tell by the coat. A cat has fur! This dog has hair."
'He don't know no different,' explained his sister (mother?). 'He calls all of 'em "Pussy", even our tortoise, and Perce Hodge's cows.'
'Ah well!' said Dotty indulgently, 'he is young yet.'
The two old friends entered Winnie's garden and sat down to enjoy a rest and the scent of summer flowers. Bumble bees fumbled at the velvet lips of the snapdragons, and a blackbird foraged busily for fodder in the border.
'Tell me,' said Winnie, 'how is the book getting on?'
Dotty sighed. 'I am finding it very heavy going. Ever since Harold Shoosmith said that it was too short I have felt rather low about it, and as I told you, the accounts about my father from former pupils at the grammar school are really rather disappointing. At times I found them scurrilous. I mean, we all know that he saw no harm in correcting a boy, but I am quite sure that some of the writers exaggerated the physical discipline he imposed. I really cannot include some of their accounts, and I fear there may be jealousy if I use some and not others.'
Winnie doubted this, but simply offered sympathy with Dotty's problems. 'I should give up the idea of getting a publisher to take it,' she advised her. 'Much better to write the whole thing yourself, no matter how short it seems, then get it printed privately. Better still, turn it into a decent-length article for a local paper. It would reach the readers who knew him and would be interested.'
Dotty nodded. 'I must confess,' she admitted, 'that I was so looking forward to a bound copy of my work, but
I suppose I must give up the idea. Life is full of disappointments I find, particularly as I get older.'
'Cheer up,' said Winnie. 'Come and choose a lettuce. We've so many that half of them have bolted.'
'Could I have them for my hens?' cried Dotty, literary disappointments forgotten. 'The dear girls love lettuce, and I could easily have a few of the good leaves for my lunch, and not rob you of a perfectly good lettuce. I was brought up to be frugal, you know.'
'You are to have the very best lettuce I can find for your lunch,' said Winnie firmly, leading the way to the vegetable garden. 'Let the hens practise frugality with the bolted ones.'
The fine weather continued, and one hot day succeeded another.
On one of these sunny evenings Harold Shoosmith had a telephone call from Robert Wilberforce. He sounded excited.
'I called on my friend Frederick Fennel today,' he said. 'He is delighted to be invited to the festivities, but is afraid he is not up to the journey. He has written to Charles, I gather. But that's not all.'
'How d'you mean?'
'He was a boy when Octavius died in 1912, but his father was evidently in Thrush Green, staying with Octavius a year or two before that, and he attended the interment of Nathaniel. Octavius took the service. This must have been in 1910 or 1911.'
'I'm amazed. Was it Octavius who had the body shipped back from Africa?'
'It was indeed, according to Frederick's memories of his father's account. Octavius got in touch with the Dr Maurice at the mission station, and the body was treated with aromatic drugs and spices — embalmed evidently, and with great skill by the Africans — then shipped home to Bristol. It was winter when it arrived, and Frederick's father stayed longer than he expected at Thrush Green rectory, because there was heavy snow. In fact, there was snow still on the ground when Octavius took the funeral.'
'I find this very touching,' said Harold, looking across the sunlit green to the churchyard, and envisaging the black and white winter scene so many years ago.
