(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  'Well, thank you for warning me. Now I am going to write to Frederick Fennel.'

  'It's wonderful news,' said Harold, 'and I wish he were well enough to join us.'

  Towards the end of September the wind turned from the quarter which had given the sunny clear spell, to the south-west.

  Grey clouds lowered over Thrush Green, and although the rain that fell from them was welcomed by everyone, and particularly by the gardeners, it did not bode well for the day of celebration to come.

  It grew chilly, too, in the evenings and Winnie began to look ahead.

  'I'm getting my overseas Christmas parcels ready in good time this year,' she told Jenny. 'And we ought to think about having our flu inoculations, and checking the state of the coal cellar.'

  'Well, I've done that,' Jenny told her. 'Summer prices for the coal. I don't know as I'm all that keen on a flu jab this year.'

  'Now, Jenny,' began Winnie, in her doctor's-wife voice, 'I'm sure these jabs really help.'

  'Nothing mote than faith healing, I reckon.'

  Winnie pondered on the comment. 'Faith healing or not,' she pronounced. 'I've never had flu really badly since I started them.'

  It so happened that the next morning she saw John Lovell arrive, in driving rain, and hurry into the surgery. She slipped on a coat and hurried across the drive to catch him before his patients arrived.

  It always gave her a feeling of comfort to enter Donald's old place of work. She approved of the familiar central table with magazines neatly set out in rows, the vase of garden flowers on the mantelpiece, and on the wall the photograph of Donald himself which John had placed there.

  'Am I a nuisance?' said Winnie when John opened the door from the waiting-room to his surgery. 'It's just about making a date for a flu jab.'

  'Never a nuisance,' John told her, turning over the leaves of a diary on his desk. 'What about a Wednesday towards the end of October?'

  'I'd better let Jenny make her own arrangements,' said Winnie, watching him fill in an appointment for herself. 'She's a bit anti-jab at the moment, but I think she'll come round to the idea.'

  'And how are you feeling? No after-affects of Paterson's work?'

  'I had a twinge or two soon after the operation,' Winnie confessed, 'but they have been few and far between, and the last one was weeks ago.'

  'It's probably just the internal scar healing,' said John, 'but would you like me to have a look? Better still, I could send you back to Philip Paterson if you're worried.'

  'I honestly don't think it's necessary, but if I get any pain at all I promise to tell you.'

  There were sounds of footsteps and voices, and Winnie moved towards the door.

  'I mustn't keep you any longer.' She looked at Donald's photograph. 'I always liked that photo of Donald. He looks thoroughly pleased with life, doesn't he?'

  'I think he was,' replied John seriously. 'He had a worthwhile job, lots of friends and a splendid wife.'

  Winnie smiled at the compliment.

  'It's good to have him there,' went on John. 'The old people like to remember him. As I do, too. He was always an example to me of what a good doctor should be.'

  The outer door opened and a blast of damp air blew in.

  'Dratted rain!' said a country voice, and Winnie hurried past the first of John's patients to regain her home.

  Dorothy and Agnes set off for Thrush Green on the last day of September. They had been invited to stay at the Shoosmiths for a week, but Dorothy had decided that they should go back on the day after the celebrations.

  'We both thought we should have time on our hands when we retired,' she explained to Isobel on the telephone. 'But as it is we seem to be always busy. We are giving a coffee morning in aid of the RSPCA on the Saturday, and I'm on the flower rota at church for that weekend, and Agnes has an appointment with the chiropodist, and that's how it goes!'

  Isobel was sympathetic, and Harold, when he heard the news, was secretly relieved. Much as he respected their old neighbours, he found Dorothy's setting of the world to rights somewhat tiring, but he kept these thoughts to himself.

  In truth, he had other worries. The rector's note about donations in the parish magazine had had little response. The amount for the annexe to Nathaniel's school was less than a hundred pounds, and although Harold proposed to add his own contribution, there was no doubt in his mind that the final sum would be insignificant.

  He understood the position. Thrush Green school had prior claim, and Alan Lester would certainly have more than enough for the bird bath envisaged.

  He realized now that he had been absurdly optimistic. In his enthusiasm for anything connected with Nathaniel, he had been over-ambitious. As a proud man he was now suffering secret humiliation, and it hurt.

  However, he comforted himself, Charles was right. Charity begins at home, and that was as it should be.

  The rain fell relentlessly, and Dorothy drove with the windscreen wipers working full time. In places there were floods across the road, and the rivers of Hampshire, Berkshire and Oxfordshire, which had dwindled dramatically throughout the long summer, were now being rapidly replenished and flowing with their usual speed and volume.

  They stopped on the outskirts of Lulling, and Dorothy braved the rain to enter a florist's near the Fuchsia Bush in order to buy a magnificent hibiscus plant for Isobel.

  Agnes held it carefully on her knees as they passed the familiar sights then climbed the steep hill to their old home.

  'Stop the car for a minute,' cried Agnes. 'I must just have a look at dear old Thrush Green.'

  Dorothy obliged, and turned off the engine. In the sudden silence of the car they became conscious of the outside noises.

  Rain pattered on the roof above them. Drops dripped from Mr Jones's brave flower baskets, and little rivulets gurgled their way towards the hill which dipped to the town. The grass of the green looked soggy and the chestnut trees drooped with the weight of wet leaves.

  'Dear, oh dear!' said Dorothy at last, breaking the silence. 'It's a sad sight. What will it be like tomorrow?'

  'It will be absolutely splendid,' Agnes told her, undaunted. 'Rain or shine, we shall celebrate, and I don't care if it snows, Dorothy, as long as we're at Thrush Green.'

  Smiling at such enthusiasm Dorothy started the car again and they splashed the few yards to their destination.

  10. Celebration

  LITTLE AGNES FOGERTY awoke during the night. By the clock in the Shoosmiths' spare bedroom she saw that it said ten to three and, as always at that time, thought of Rupert Brooke and honey, before making her way to the window.

  Thrush Green glittered under a full moon which was hidden every now and again by ragged clouds which rushed across from the west. Puddles gleamed in the fitful light, and the trees tossed their branches, sending raindrops sparkling to the sodden grass. The windowpane was spangled with silver drops, but the rain itself had stopped.

  Perhaps, thought Agnes, returning to her bed, this wind will dry things. In any case the bonfire should burn splendidly.

  And with this comforting thought, she fell asleep again.

  She was not the only person in Thrush Green to take particular note of the weather during the hours of darkness, and by morning there were very few who were not peering through windows, or standing in their gardens, assessing the chances of a dry day for the celebrations.

  To be sure, things did not look very hopeful. The wind still roared in the trees, the puddles shivered under its onslaught, and Willie Marchant, the postman, was tacking back and forth uphill from Lulling against a powerful cross-wind.

  But in the east the sky seemed lighter, and by nine o'clock a watery sun occasionally cast a gleam between the scudding clouds.

  At the school the children were in a state of great excitement. Any departure from routine, as all teachers know, is welcomed by pupils and staff alike, and although the dress rehearsal had taken place on the Tuesday, amidst much general ribaldry about appearances of costume and demean
our, the actual day brought even more noise and disruption to the metamorphosed classrooms.

  Alan Lester's command of his troops, however, ensured suitable decorum from all as they prepared to walk in twos across to the church at ten o'clock.

  Charles and Dimity drove down together in good time, but Dimity's attention was divided between the ceremony to come and the lunch preparations she had left behind.

  Dulcie Mulloy and Robert Wilberforce were driving down together from London for the service, and had been invited to lunch at the vicarage.

  Harold and Isobel had also been invited, and as soon as Dimity heard that Dorothy Watson and Agnes Fogerty would be staying, they too were included in the invitation.

  Had she forgotten to put sugar in the plum crumble? wondered Dimity, agreeing with Ella Bembridge that the wind had dropped a little. Should she have done a dish of potatoes? Men ate rather a lot, and Robert Wilberforce looked as though he ate heartily.

  She took her place halfway down the church, and there was the sound of children being marshalled on the gravel outside the west door.

  While they awaited the entry of the school children, Dimity cast an appraising eye round the congregation. St Andrew's was rarely as full as this. There was Winnie across the aisle, sharing a pew with Dotty Harmer and her niece Connie, and Connie's husband Kit.

  Percy Hodge and his wife Gladys sat behind, and Dimity appreciated the fact that such a staunch chapel-goer as Gladys had come to this church to give thanks for the lives of Nathaniel and Octavius. What's more, thought Dimity, she has persuaded Percy to come, too, although she suspected correctly that Percy would be quite agreeable to go to any religious establishment if Gladys told him to, for Percy really had no religious convictions of any kind, as she well knew. Nevertheless, it was good to see him and many others of the same sort, coming to do honour to the long-dead, and on a Thursday morning, too.

  In the front left-hand pew she saw Robert Wilberforce and Dulcie Mulloy. They had been ushered into this prominent position by Albert Piggott (now hovering by the west door to make sure that the children wiped their shoes), on the command of the rector of Thrush Green who had pointed out to Albert the importance of these two visitors to the celebrations.

  At this point the school entered, looking both uncommonly devout and demure in its Victorian garb. There was a rustle of movement as people turned to watch them file to the pews at the right-hand front of the church, and Alan Lester, bringing up the rear, felt a glow of pride at his pupils' appearance and behaviour.

  They had hardly settled when the organ crashed into a joyous noise, and the choir and vicar processed from the west door down the aisle, leading the congregation in the hearty singing of 'Christ whose glory fills the skies'.

  How right, thought Dimity, to choose a hymn whose words were by Charles Wesley! It was well known that John Wesley had preached on the green outside this church, and commonly believed that Charles, too, had occasionally accompanied his more famous brother here.

  The service continued, and Charles Henstock gave a moving address about the occasion. He spoke of the mission school so far away, and yet so close to their hearts. He reminded them of Christ's words quoted by Octavius Fennel: 'Suffer the little children to come unto me', and also the exhortation from Ecclesiasticus: 'Let us now praise famous men', which they were obeying today.

  He also said how grateful they all were to Robert Wilberforce, whose public-spirited action in bringing Nathaniel's letters and Octavius's diary to light had made these celebrations possible, and had moreover, been instrumental in bringing Nathaniel's great-granddaughter to Thrush Green to join in their rejoicing.

  After the address all rose to sing:

  Let us all praise famous men

  They of little showing

  For their work continueth

  And their work continueth,

  Broad and deep continueth

  Greater than their knowing.

  As they sang, the sun sent a few half-hearted rays through the windows on the south side of St Andrew's, and cheered all the congregation.

  After the final blessing, the school children walked out first and took their places in the churchyard as rehearsed. The adults followed them, then came Dulcie Mulloy and Robert Wilberforce, each bearing a magnificent wreath which had been standing in the porch.

  The gathering moved to one end of the churchyard where stood the graves of the two friends.

  Some years earlier, the bulk of the tombstones had been moved to the sides of the graveyard, allowing easier use of the mower by young Cooke, and easier maintenance, such as it was, by Albert Piggott. But at one end of the churchyard grew several lime trees which drooped their branches over the line of graves by that wall, and it had been decided to leave those tombs undisturbed. Among them were those of Nathaniel and Octavius, and after a short prayer, Dulcie, as direct descendant, advanced to put her wreath on Nathaniel's grave.

  Robert Wilberforce performed the same honour for Octavius Fennel, and the service ended.

  The children were ushered back to school by the three teachers, ready for the next part of their anniversary celebrations, and their elders lingered by the church gate to discuss the service, the improving weather and, of course, the immediate news of Thrush Green.

  Dotty Harmer, wearing a hat which could only have come from a jumble sale or charity shop, and might have been new in the 1930s, put a restraining hand on Winnie's arm.

  'What a celebration! And I have a private one of my own.'

  Winnie had a twinge of apprehension. What now? Had Dotty discovered yet another allegedly edible autumn fungus which she was turning into some fearsome comestible ready for distribution to her friends? She was already concocting a white lie about the delicate state of her digestion since the gall bladder operation, when she was relieved to hear that Dotty was talking about the biography she was writing about the formidable Mr Harmer, late of Lulling Grammar School.

  'It's going to be published, my dear,' cried Dotty. 'Isn't that wonderful?'

  'Wonderful!' echoed Winnie. 'Who has taken it?'

  'The county magazine. You know, that thing that comes out monthly. It was Harold who suggested it. They are running a series called "Local Men of Influence", and the editor rang me himself.'

  'But isn't it rather long for an article in a magazine?' queried Winnie.

  'Yes, it is,' admitted Dotty, 'but he is going to suggest some cuts, and there will be a photograph of Father, and one of me at the top. The photographer came last week and spent hours snapping away at me in the garden. So exciting!' Dotty beamed like a child at the pantomime.

  'Well, I'm absolutely delighted, Dotty. You've worked so hard, it deserves to be printed.'

  'Such a nice young man, the photographer,' continued Dotty as they walked away from the church. 'No tie, of course, but he had one gold earring. I suppose he had lost the other, but when I expressed concern he only laughed. I gave him a pot of my strawberry preserve.'

  'Oh, that couldn't hurt him,' said Winnie, and then thought that that involuntary cry of relief might seem a little tactless in the circumstances. However, she decided, as she walked alone towards her home, Dotty's present state of euphoria would protect her from taking umbrage.

  At the school everything was ready for the influx of parents and friends. It was an Open Day from now on, and a number of local people came straight over from St Andrew's to enjoy the spectacle of a Victorian school.

  The staff and children had achieved a wonderful transformation, largely by removing the colourful friezes and the other bright objects of modern education.

  A blackboard propped on an easel bore the precepts, written in Alan Lester's best copperplate hand-writing:

  Cleanliness is next to godliness.

  Do the work which is to hand.

  Obedience is a child's first duty.

  God watcheth over all.

  The bigger children were copying this work into lined exercise books using wooden pen holders with steel
nibs. The younger ones were squeaking slate pencils on slate boards, or using sticks of chalk on individual blackboards about a foot square. These relics of the past had been lent by local museums and interested elderly friends who had dug them out of attics or dusty toy boxes, but one slate board, it was claimed by its owner, was still in regular use, propped in her porch, as a means of communicating with the tradesmen when she was not at home.

  At twelve o'clock work stopped and the children took out the lunches they had brought from home. These they ate in the playground to save crumbs in the classroom, for only in very severe weather were the Victorian pupils allowed into the lobby during dinner hour. A pail of drinking water and an enamel mug by it stood on the lobby floor to supply drinks, for there was no piped water at Thrush Green at that time.

  During the afternoon, friends of the school watched the infants creating a long chain of bright chrysanthemum flowers intended to hang around the neck of Nathaniel Patten's bronze statue outside on the green.

  This was being created amidst great excitement (and some frustration by those rebelling against their constricting Victorian clothes), like a giant daisy-chain, and was the children's own idea of paying tribute to the man who had loved children both in Thrush Green and Africa. Many a local garden had been raided for this garland, and the effect was stunning.

  On a side table were displayed some of the toys which Harold Shoosmith had seen in the Lovelocks' loft. Some were Edwardian, such as the Russian egg brought back by Octavius, but there were two beautiful Victorian dolls which the sisters had inherited, a clockwork mouse and a child's wooden wheelbarrow. The Lovelocks' own dolls' house had also been sent up, for although it was not Victorian, it was in the fine tradition of 'baby houses' and a joy for the children and their parents to behold.

  It was Harold who had mentioned the many trunks in the loft to Alan Lester. Would they hold untold treasures of Victorian clothes? A young and nimble friend of the sisters had been sent up to investigate for the school children, but there was nothing among the mouldering remains fit to wear, except a black straw bonnet, trimmed with jet, which none of the Thrush Green school girls could be persuaded to wear.