(6/13) Gossip from Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  Dotty was not the slightest bit abashed.

  'I don't think I have had the pleasure of meeting you before,' she said, transferring Flossie's lead to her left hand and entangling it dangerously with the milk can, whilst proffering her right.

  'My sister-in-law Kathleen. My brother Ray. My friend Miss Harmer,' intoned Dorothy.

  Ray bowed slightly, Kathleen gave a frosty smile, and Dorothy waved at the tea tray.

  Let me give you some tea, Dotty. Do sit down.'

  Outside, the barking changed to a high-pitched squealing, even more agitating than before. Ray began to make for the door.

  'Excuse me, I'd better bring Harrison in,' he said. He was through the door before anyone could stop him.

  So kind of you, Dorothy, but I'm on my way to Ella's and mustn't delay.'

  She began to make her way to the door. Flossie's lead was now hopelessly tangled around Dotty's wrinkled stockings.

  At that moment, Ray's labrador, slavering at the mouth, burst into the room, gave a demented yelp, and rushed at Flossie.

  The noise was indescribable. Flossie, the meekest of animals, screamed with alarm. Harrison charged into the table, knocking the sponge cake, chocolate biscuits, two tea cups, milk jug and a flurry of knives and teaspoons to the floor.

  Dotty, pulled off balance, fell across Agnes's chair, driving her mother's cameo brooch painfully into her throat. Dorothy, ever quick-witted, sat down abruptly before her own precarious balance added to the confusion, and Kathleen, cowering in her chair, gave way to hysterics.

  This scene of chaos confronted Ray when at last he regained the sitting room. With commendable promptitude he caught Harrison by the collar, and held him firmly, while Agnes and Dotty recovered their balance. The milk-can had rolled under Agnes's armchair and was dispersing a rivulet of goat's milk over the carpet.

  'I apologise for this mess,' said Dotty. 'You must let me pay for any cleaning you have to have done. Goat's milk can be so very pervasive. I'd better return home and fetch some more for Ella. Luckily, Dulcie is giving a splendidly heavy yield, at the moment.'

  Quite in command of herself, she smiled politely in the direction of the hysterical Kathleen, now throwing herself about alarmingly in her chair, waved to Ray, and took the shaken, but now well-behaved, Flossie into the hall. Agnes accompanied her, hoping that the blood on her throat from the brooch's wound would not stain her best silk blouse.

  'Are you sure you would not like to rest for a little?' enquired Agnes. 'The dining room has a most comfortable armchair, if you would like a few minutes' peace.'

  'Thank you, my dear, but I am quite all right. The air will refresh me.'

  Agnes watched her walk to the gate, as spry as a sparrow, and none the worse it seemed for her tumble. She returned, full of foreboding, to the scene of battle.

  'Who is that interfering old busybody?' Ray was asking, as she returned.

  'A dear friend of mine,' replied Dorothy, 'and a true animal lover. I absolutely agree with her that it was monstrous of you to leave that dog shut in the car.'

  Kathleen's hysterics were now slightly muted, but had turned to shattering hiccups.

  'If you remember,' she began, and gave a mighty hiccup, 'you yourself refused to have poor Harrison indoors.'

  'I should have thought that even you knew better than to leave the car hermetically sealed. Calling yourselves animal lovers,' said Dorothy, with withering scorn. 'And the poor thing so badly trained that it cannot be brought into a Christian household.'

  She bent down to retrieve the best china from the floor, whilst Ray picked up teaspoons with one hand and dabbed at the goat's milk with the other holding his handkerchief.

  'Please, Ray,' said Dorothy, 'leave the mess to Agnes and me. We don't want it made worse by the use of your handkerchief.'

  Agnes felt that, provoked though she might well be, such a slur on the cleanliness of her brother's personal linen, was carrying things rather far.

  'I will fetch some clean water and a cloth,' she said hastily, and made her escape.

  A wild wailing noise followed her. Obviously, Kathleen was off again!

  'I think,' Ray was saying, when she returned with her cleaning materials, 'that we had better be going.'

  'I whole-heartedly agree,' said Dorothy, standing facing him.

  'You have thoroughly upset poor Kathleen,' he went on, 'and you know how she suffers with migraine.'

  'When it suits her,' responded Dorothy.

  'Are you implying,' cried her incensed brother, 'that Kathleen pretends to have these dreadful attacks?'

  A terrible hiccup arrested Kathleen's wailing. She was now on her feet, eyes blazing.

  'How dare you say such things? You know I'm a martyr to migraine! Not that I've ever had the slightest sympathy from you. You are the wickedest, most callous, unfeeling—'

  Another hiccup rendered her temporarily speechless. Ray took the opportunity to put his arm about his wife, and to shepherd her and the panting Harrison to the door.

  'Come along, my dear. We'll go straight back to The Fleece, and you must lie down with one of your tablets.'

  'But poor Harrison hasn't had his tea,' wailed Kathleen. 'You know he likes it on the hearth rug!'

  'There is plenty for him,' observed Dorothy, 'wherever he looks on the carpet.'

  It was Agnes who saw them to the door, and then into their car.

  'I shall never come here again,' cried Kathleen, still hic-cuping violently.

  'We are deeply wounded,' said Ray. 'I don't think I shall want to see Dorothy—sister though she is - for a very long time!'

  They drove towards Lulling, Harrison still barking, and Agnes returned to break the dreadful news that Dorothy might never see the pair again.

  'What a relief!' said her headmistress, with infinite satisfaction. 'Now, we'll just get this place to rights, and have a quiet evening with our knitting, Agnes dear.'

  7. The Fire

  AFTER such a devastating experience it was hardly surprising that little Miss Fogerty slept badly. Usually, she read for half an hour, and then was more than ready to plump up her pillows, put out the bedside light, and welcome deep sleep within ten minutes.

  But on this occasion sleep evaded her. She went over, in her mind, all the terrible details of that catastrophic tea party. The noise of Kathleen's hysterical wailing still sounded in her ears. Ray's furious face, and Dorothy's tart retorts tormented her memory.

  St Andrew's clock struck midnight, and she tossed back the bedclothes and went to survey Thrush Green by moonlight.

  It was still and beautiful. No lights shone from the houses around the green, but the moonlight silvered the windows and dappled the young leaves of the chestnut avenue. Far away, along the lane to Nidden, an owl gave his wavering cry, and from the other direction came the distant sound of one of Lulling's rare goods trains chugging through the deserted station.

  The air was cool from the open window and scented with the pheasant-eye narcissi which grew against the wall. Agnes took deep breaths, relishing the silence and the peaceful scene. Below her, and to her right, the empty playground stretched. In twelve hours' time it would be astir and strident with children running and shouting.

  The thought made Agnes return to her bed. She must be fit to attend to her duties in the morning. At this rate she would have seven hours' sleep at the most. She must compose herself.

  She smoothed her sheets, straightened her winceyette nightgown, and put her head, with its wispy grey plait, down to the welcoming pillow.

  The party must be forgotten. She owed it to the children.

  Within ten minutes she was asleep.

  At about the same time, a little farther along the road, Albert Piggott sat up in bed and rubbed his rumbling stomach.

  Should he, or should he not, go downstairs, take one of his indigestion tablets and make a cup of tea? It was on occasions like this that he missed a wife. It would have been the simplest thing to have aroused Nelly with a sharp dig of t
he elbow and to recount to her the overwhelming pain which he was suffering—pain which could only be assuaged by recourse to medicine and a hot drink—and which was too severe to allow him to fetch those ameliorations himself.

  However, Nelly was not in his bed, but presumably in that of the oil man who had supplanted him in his fickle wife's affections. If he wanted medical attention he would have to supply it himself.

  Muttering to himself, he climbed out of bed, a thin unsavoury figure clad in pants and vest, for Albert scorned such effete practices as changing from dayclothes into night attire, and stumbled down the stairs. His little cat, as thin, but far cleaner, than his master, greeted him with a mew, and was pleasantly surprised to be given a saucer of milk when Albert took the bottle from the cupboard.

  The kettle seemed to take an unconscionable time to boil, and Albert gazed out of the kitchen window to the bulk of the church across the way.

  It was as bright as day now that the moon was high and nearly full. It shone upon the rows of tomb stones which now lined the stubby walls of the churchyard, and lit up the Gothic windows facing towards Lulling. Sharp black shadows fell across the dewy grass, and even Albert's meagre appreciation of natural beauty was stirred by the sight.

  He made the tea, poured out a mugful and took it back to bed with the bottle of tablets.

  Propped up against the greasy pillow he sipped noisily, relishing the comfort of the hot liquid flowing into his tormented stomach. Two tablets were washed down, as he surveyed the moonlit bedroom.

  He became conscious of the smell of smoke. It was very faint, and he dismissed it as coming from the last embers of the bonfire he had seen Harold Shoosmith making that morning. Nothing to do with him, anyway, thought Albert, depositing his empty mug on the linoleum.

  The pain was now lulled into submission. Albert belched comfortably, turned over, and fell asleep.

  Below, in the kitchen, the cat licked the last delicious drops of Albert's bounty, washed his face, and then set out, through the open kitchen window, upon the business of the night.

  An hour later, Harold Shoosmith smelt the smoke. Could his bonfire be responsible? Surely, it had been out by tea time when he had conscientiously stirred the remnants? Nevertheless, bonfires occasionally had the disconcerting habit of resuscitating themselves and, apart from the danger, it was a pity if the beauty of such a night was being fouled by smoke of his making.

  In the adjoining bed, his wife Isobel slept peacefully. He slipped quietly from his own, and made his way to the bathroom which overlooked the garden where the rogue bonfire had been lit.

  All was peaceful. He could see the empty incinerator quite clearly in the light of the moon. Not even a wisp of smoke curled from it, he noted with relief.

  But where then was the fire? Had Miss Watson or the landlord of The Two Pheasants been burning garden rubbish? As far as he could see, their gardens were as clear as his own, although some smoke began to drift across from some conflagration farther along the green towards the south, even as he watched.

  He ran, now seriously alarmed, into the spare bedroom whose side window looked across to the church and rectory.

  To his horror, he saw that the smoke was pouring from the roof of the Henscocks' house, and before he could close the window a cracking report rent the air, the ridge of the vicarage roof dipped suddenly, and a great flame leapt into the air illuminating billowing clouds of thick smoke.

  He ran downstairs, and Isobel woke to hear him crying:

  The fire brigade! And quickly! Thrush Green rectory is well ablaze!'

  She heard the receiver slammed down, and within two seconds Harold was dragging trousers over his pyjamas and fighting his way into a pullover.

  I'll come and help,' said Isobel, reaching for her clothes.

  Within five minutes a little knot of helpers was gathered at the blaze. The sight was awe-inspiring. The collapse of part of the roof had let in air which intensified the conflagration. Flames were now shooting skyward, and the upstairs windows showed a red glow. Smoke poured from the main bedroom window, and there were terrifying reports as the glass cracked in the heat.

  Mr Jones, the landlord of The Two Pheasants was organising a chain of water carriers from the tap in his bar, and Albert Piggott, stomach pains forgotten, had trundled out an archaic fire-fighting contraption which had been kept in the vestry since the second world war and had never been used since the time when a small incendiary bomb had set light to the tassels of the bell ropes, and an adjacent pile of copies of Stainer's 'Crucifixion', in 1942.

  This relic, when attached to a nearby hydrant well-hidden in nettles in the churchyard spouted water at a dozen spots along its perished length and saturated several onlookers.

  'Get the dam' thing out of the way!' yelled Harold Shoosmith. 'We'll have someone falling over it!'

  He and several other men, including Edward Young, the architect, and Ben Curdle, were busy removing furniture, books and papers, and anything they could grab downstairs, before the inevitable happened and the whole top floor collapsed. These were being piled, well away from danger, by willing hands. Ella Bembridge, for once without a cigarette in her mouth, worked as stoutly as the men, and would have forced her way into the building to collect some of Dimity's treasures, if she had not been forbidden to do so by Harold, who had taken charge with all the ready authority of one who had spent his life organising others.

  The welcome sound of the fire brigade's siren sent people scattering to allow its access across the grass to the blazing house. It was a joy to see the speed and economy of effort with which the hoses were turned on.

  This started some hours ago, by the look of things,' said the captain to Harold. I can't think how it went undetected for so long.'

  Harold explained that the house was empty, and at that moment a second fire engine arrived from Nidden, and started work at the side of the building where the flames seemed thickest.

  A terrible roaring sound began to emanate from the doomed building, and the bystanders were ordered to get well away. With a thunderous rumbling the top floor of the rectory now collapsed. Sparks, smoke and flames poured into the air, and the heat became intense. People began to cough in the acrid air, and to rub eyes reddened with smoke and tears.

  Now, it was quite obvious, nothing more could be rescued. The rector's modest possessions which were still inside the house must be consumed by the fire. It was a tragedy that few could bear to witness, and Winnie Bailey, in dressing gown and Wellingtons, led the redoubtable Ella away to her own house across the green. It was the only time she had seen her old friend in tears.

  At first light, the people of Thrush Green gazed appalled at the havoc left by the events of the past twelve hours. Blackened stones and the gaunt charred remains of beams smoked in the morning air. Dirty rivulets of water moved sluggishly towards the gutters at the roadside, and puddles surrounded the remains of the Henstocks' home.

  A tarpaulin had been thrown over the pathetic remnants which had been snatched from the blaze, and Harold had arranged for them to be stored in his garage and garden shed out of the weather's harm.

  'I think Ella has Charles's telephone number,' he told Edward as the two begrimed and exhausted men were returning to their homes. 'But what about Hilda and Edgar? Aren't they due today?'

  'Good Lord! I believe they are,' agreed Edward. 'I'll see if Joan knows anything about them. But first things first, old man. Bath and then coffee. Then a couple of hours' sleep for me—and you too, I recommend.'

  'You're right. No point in ringing Charles and Dimity until about eight or nine. It's a tragic business, and particularly wretched when they are having one of their few breaks. Shall I ring or will you?'

  'Do you mind tackling it? I'm supposed to be on the 9.30 train to London tomorrow—I mean, this morning—for a meeting.'

  'Of course, I'll do it. Poor old Charles, it will break his heart, I fear.'

  Four hours later, he sat in his study and rang the Yorkshire numb
er. As he listened to the bell ringing so far away he

  wondered how on earth one could break such appalling news to a friend.

  He was amazed to find how tired he was after the night's activities. Muscles he had never noticed before seemed to have sprung into painful evidence. His eyes were still sore, and the hairs on his arms were singed. As for his finger nails, despite energetic use of the nail brush, he had not seen them so grimy and broken since his schooldays.

  Luckily, it was Charles who answered the telephone, Harold had already rehearsed what he should do if Dimity had lifted the receiver. Charles would have to be summoned. This was the sort of thing the men must cope with, thought Harold, true to his Victorian principles.

  'Nice to hear you,' was the rector's opening remark. 'You're up early. Everything all right at your end?'

  'I'm afraid not. Charles, I have to tell you some bad news. Are you sitting down?'

  'Sitting down?' came the bewildered reply.

  'Because this is going to be a shock,' continued Harold doggedly. There was a bad accident here last night.'

  'No! Not anyone hurt! Not killed, Harold, don't say that!'

  'Nothing like that. Perhaps accident was the wrong word. The fact is, your house has been badly damaged by fire.'

  There was a brief silence.

  'Hello!' shouted Harold. You there, Charles?'

  'Yes, yes. But I can't have heard right. The house damaged by fire? How badly?'

  I hate to tell you—but it is completely gutted. I think it is quite beyond repair, Charles, as you will see.'

  'I can't take it in. I really can't,' said the poor rector. How could it have happened? We switched off everything, I'm sure, and we hadn't had a fire in the grate for days. Surely, no one would be so wicked as to set fire to the place?'

  'I'm sure it wasn't that,' said Harold. 'I just felt you should know that our spare room is waiting for you and Dimity when you return, and could you tell us where to get in touch with Hilda and Edgar?'