(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  He looked down upon his own front garden, now a smooth white sheet of snow covering path, flower beds and lawn. Only the tops of the gateposts broke that surface, and brought home to the watcher the necessity of getting downstairs and finding a spade for a good deal of hard work.

  At that moment, Isobel sat up and stretched her arms.

  'Well, what's it like?'

  'Siberia! But superb,' said her husband.

  Later that morning there was plenty of activity on Thrush Green, as Harold and his neighbours set out to clear their paths to the road.

  It was a Saturday, so the school was empty, but Alan Lester was hard at work, digging with the rest to clear the access to the schoolhouse which was next door to Harold's home.

  Occasionally they stopped to rest on their spades, their breath blowing out in small clouds in the frosty air.

  'I've asked the Cooke boys to give me a hand with the playground,' said Alan surveying the vast waste behind them. 'I only hope we don't get more tonight.'

  'How did you get in touch? Are the phones still working?'

  'Luckily, yes. But Albert Piggott says they're sagging dangerously across to Lulling Woods.'

  'Well, you know Albert!' commented Harold, looking farther along the road to where the bent figure of the sexton of St Andrew's was plying a stiff broom.

  'Always looking on the bright side,' agreed Alan, with a smile.

  They returned to their labours.

  Turning over this brief exchange as he made his arduous way towards the gateposts, Harold thought of his old friend Dotty Harmer who lived at Lulling Woods. Would she be engulfed? The house was in a lonely spot, and years before, he remembered, in just such weather, he had collected a rescue party to fetch the old lady on a sledge.

  That, of course, was when she lived there alone. Things were better now, for her niece Connie and her husband lived with her, and would look after her.

  Nevertheless, Harold promised himself that he would telephone Dotty as soon as he went back to the house.

  'Coffee!' called his wife from the window.

  And thankfully Harold set aside the spade.

  At the Youngs' house there was equal activity. Ben Curdle and Edward Young had cleared a pathway between their houses, and Molly was already in the kitchen of the big house. With her, clutching a doll, was her youngest child Anne. George, her first-born, now eight years old, was busy with his father and Edward Young dealing with the snow.

  'I had a Christmas card this morning,' said Molly, tying her apron round her.

  'Rather late in the day,' commented Joan.

  'It had a funny stamp on it,' contributed Anne, now settled comfortably at the kitchen table undressing the doll.

  'It had been around a bit,' said Molly. 'In fact, it was sent down from the Drovers' Arms, and it's years since I worked there, as you know.'

  'How strange!'

  'Very. And from someone I don't really know. He says he's a vague relation, an American.'

  'Can you place him? Did any of your relations go to America?'

  'Not as far as I know. Old Grandma Curdle had only the one boy George, and he was killed in the war, leaving only one son, my Ben. It's a mystery.'

  'Any address?'

  'No. So I can't do much about it. Ah well! I'm not a great hand at writing anyway, so I shall just forget about it.'

  'Except that George wants the stamp,' Anne reminded her mother, tugging a petticoat from the doll.

  At midday Molly had finished her time at the Youngs' house, and returned with Anne to her own, on paths newly cleared.

  Although she had told Joan that she was not going to think about the late Christmas card, she found herself speculating about the identity of the sender.

  Molly had met her husband Ben when the annual fair arrived at Thrush Green on May Day. Old Mrs Curdle, head of her tribe, a real gypsy queen, of awe-inspiring dignity, ruled her business with an iron hand.

  The travelling fair stayed only a few days at the most in each place, but Ben had fallen in love with Molly at first sight. He had to wait another year before he could seek her out again.

  Albert Piggott had not approved. He did not want to part with a daughter who was also housekeeper, cook and occasionally, when he had drunk too much, nurse.

  Mrs Curdle was more sympathetic. Ben, her only grandchild, son of George who had been killed in battle, had been brought up by the old lady, and was the apple of her eye. If Molly could make him happy, and was willing to throw in her lot with her travelling band, then she would be welcomed.

  Thrush Green was Mrs Curdle's favourite stopping place on her travels. She had been befriended by the local doctor Donald Bailey, and never forgot the kindness he and his wife had shown her. Each year, at the beginning of May, she called at the Baileys' house bearing a large bouquet of artificial flowers which she had made from finely pared wood dyed in brilliant colours.

  The Baileys greatly loved the old lady, but her bouquets, being indestructible, were a source of some embarrassment as the years passed and storage places grew fewer for Mrs Curdle's bounty.

  When Mrs Curdle died she left instructions for her body to be put to rest in St Andrew's churchyard, where Molly and Ben faithfully tended the grave.

  Ben had been left the fair by his grandmother, but parted with it a few years after her death. Their first child was expected, Molly's father was ailing, and it seemed best to settle at Thrush Green.

  Before long, the Youngs invited them to take over the converted stable. Ben carried on his work as a motor mechanic in Lulling, and Molly was glad to help in the house she knew so well.

  When the second child arrived, they called her Anne after her redoubtable great-grandmother, and everyone hoped that the child would grow up as fine a character as her forebear.

  For two days the skies were clear, and the countryside was transformed into a white glistening wonderland.

  It was freezing all day long so that the winter sunshine melted nothing, and the trees spread tracery like white lace against the clear blue of the sky.

  The icicles fringing the roof of the Two Pheasants shone like glass fingers, and an icy shape reared from the upthrust lid of Mr Jones' water-butt where the water had frozen solid and pushed outward to find release.

  All sound was muffled. Cars, inching their way through the piles of snow at each side of the road, made little noise. Those on foot walked as quietly as if they trod upon fleecy white blankets.

  Shapes too were softened by the snow. Roof ridges were veiled by a snowy sheet. Gateposts, steps and porches wore cushions of white. In the forks of the chestnut trees were soft beds of snow.

  The light was dazzling. As far as the eye could see the whiteness stretched away, across the fields towards Lulling Woods, a dark blue smudge on the skyline against the paler blue.

  The snow ploughs came out, chugging along the main road from Lulling, and clearing a way for the sparse traffic. The side roads, such as the one which joined Thrush Green from Nidden and Nod further west, remained piled with snow. Only the tractor from Percy Hodge's farm had drawn dark lines across the snowy wastes from his gate as far as the Two Pheasants where custom took him daily.

  There was general relief at the opening of the road to Lulling, for the Christmas bounty was running out, and householders were looking forward to replenishing stocks of fresh food and vegetables.

  At the Fuchsia Bush the customers became more plentiful, not only those who were doing everyday shopping, but also the bargain-hunters who had braved the elements to attend the High Street sales, which were having an extended season because of the weather.

  Mrs Peters, the proprietor of the Fuchsia Bush, came to the assistance of her young waitresses one morning at coffee-time. Delicious smells of baking scones drifted from the kitchen where Nelly Piggott was hard at work. The three aged Lovelock sisters had arrived and were unexpectedly treating themselves to morning coffee.

  They had been born, and lived all their long lives, in the beaut
iful Georgian house next door to Mrs Peters' premises. As neighbours they had presented difficulties. They complained about cooking smells, the sight of tea towels blowing in the yard at the rear of the restaurant and, chiefly, about the charges for anything purchased there.

  The Misses Lovelock were renowned for their parsimony, and when Miss Bertha took to shoplifting, which included the occasional scone or shortbread finger from the Fuchsia Bush itself, no one was really surprised.

  Mrs Peters, who was a magnanimous woman and had borne with her trying neighbours with exemplary patience and forbearance, had felt compelled to point out the matter to Miss Violet, who was really the only one approaching normality.

  Violet had done her best to curb her sister's deplorable lapses, but Mrs Peters still kept a sharp eye on easily removed objects when Bertha was around.

  She greeted the old ladies warmly, and summoned Gloria to take the order, as she proffered the menu.

  Gloria, reluctant to be called away from the shop window which gave an absorbing view of Lulling High Street, ambled over to the table.

  'I don't think we really need the menu,' said Violet. 'Just coffee for the three of us, don't you agree?'

  She looked at her two sisters, who were busy uncoiling loops of scarves from their skinny necks and gloves from their claw-like hands. Mrs Peters could not help wishing that they would attend to their noses, all three of which sported a glistening drop of moisture.

  'Perhaps a biscuit,' murmured Bertha, 'or just half a scone.'

  'We'll have one each,' pronounced Ada with unusual firmness. 'We have been to the sale at the new draper's, and it really is quite exhausting in this cold weather.'

  Gloria licked her pencil and wrote laboriously before making slow progress to the kitchen.

  'Well,' said Mrs Peters brightly, 'and did you have any success with your shopping?'

  'I was somewhat surprised,' said Bertha, 'to find that hat elastic was not included in the "Everything half-price" notice.'

  'Hat elastic?' echoed Mrs Peters. She looked bewildered.

  Violet sent a sharp glance around the shop before lowering her voice to answer. 'Latterly, I believe, it was called "knicker elastic", but that is not the sort of thing we like to ask for in public.'

  'Quite,' agreed Mrs Peters, still wondering if it was possible to buy knickers which had elastic threaded at the waist. Surely such garments had vanished thirty or forty years ago?

  'Ada looked at a very nice dress which was much reduced in price,' said Violet, speaking in her normal voice now that knickers had been dismissed from the conversation. 'Unfortunately it had a white collar.'

  'We've given up things with touches of white at the neck,' explained Ada. 'In the old days our maid used to remove little collars, and cuffs too, of course, and wash them out and starch and iron them, and sew them back after use. We find that rather tiring, don't we?'

  The other two nodded in agreement, and Mrs Peters noted, yet again, the number of brooches which the three were wearing pinned to their headgear. At least two of Bertha's were embellished with diamonds, she guessed, which flashed fire as she moved.

  Ada had a splendid gold arrow among the half dozen which decorated her fur hat. Violet, more restrained in her decorations, simply sported a silver-mounted monkey's paw pinned across her velvet tam-o'-shanter.

  'A pity in some ways,' continued Ada. 'I always liked a touch of white, but one has to forgo these little pleasures when one has no staff.'

  At that moment, Gloria appeared with the tray, and Mrs Peters made her escape to take up a strategic position behind the counter, which offered a great many temptations to kleptomaniacs.

  She felt a pang of pity for the three venerable figures intent on their refreshment. How their world had changed! No hat elastic, not even knicker elastic, and no maid to remove, wash, starch, iron and replace those little touches of white last thing at night!

  She looked indulgently upon her neighbours. Poor dears, she thought.

  Mrs Peters was a thoroughly nice woman.

  While the Misses Lovelock were enjoying their coffee, Albert Piggott was making slow progress from his cottage along the snowy lane which led to Lulling Woods. He was bent upon calling to see Dotty Harmer.

  These two odd characters shared strong bonds. They both liked animals. They did not care a fig about other people's opinions of them. Sturdy independent individuals, they found a strange comfort in each other's company.

  He made his way to the end of the house where Dotty had her quarters. The larger part of the home was now occupied by Dotty's niece Connie and her husband Kit, but Dotty relished her independence and muddled along in what she refused to call 'her granny flat'. She was lucky in that Connie and Kit respected the old lady's feelings whilst still keeping a loving eye on their sprightly relative.

  Dotty welcomed Albert and invited him into her cluttered kitchen.

  'I'll take off me boots,' said Albert, hopping about in the porch, before sitting down at the kitchen table. It was strewn with a variety of objects ranging from an onion cut in half, a saucer of peanuts, various tins and a collection of papers at one end upon which Dotty appeared to be working.

  She pushed them to one side, almost capsizing a glass jar containing a cloudy liquid in which floated some yellow objects which Albert could not identify.

  'Fungi,' Dotty said, following his gaze. 'A very nutritious type of bracket fungus which grows on those wild plum trees at the southern end of Lulling Woods. Delicious with cold meat. I'll give you a jar.'

  'Thank you,' said Albert, realizing that this offering would join many others in the hedge as he went home. 'Dotty's Collywobbles' was a common local complaint, familiar to Dr Lovell and his partners, and the inhabitants of Thrush Green and Lulling had soon learned that it was wiser not to broach any of Dotty's sinister brews. No one had actually died, but many had hoped to, when suffering from sampling Dotty's offerings.

  'Kettle's on,' said Dotty briskly. 'I shan't offer you coffee. It's bad for that ulcer of yours, but I'll give you some of my hot blackcurrant.'

  Albert's heart sank, but obviously there was no obliging hedge to hand, and he resolved to take evasive action as best he could.

  The kettle gave an ear-splitting scream and Dotty switched it off whilst she bent to rummage in a low cupboard. Several sinister-looking bottles emerged, and from one of them Dotty poured an inky fluid into two mugs.

  'There,' said Dotty triumphantly, putting two steaming mugs on the table. 'Just try that! That'll tone up your innards, Albert.'

  He took an exploratory sip, repressed a shudder, and watched his hostess attack her own mug.

  'You been busy?' enquired Albert, eyeing the profusion of papers.

  'Trying to sort out my funeral arrangements,' said Dotty.

  'You don't want to start thinkin' about such things,' said Albert. 'It's morbid, that is.'

  'Rubbish!' replied Dotty. 'I think one should leave matters as tidy as possible. I'm not so much concerned with the actual funeral arrangements. Connie has very good taste in music and choice of hymns, although I have made sure that we don't have 'Ur-bide with me', which I detest.'

  'I like it meself,' said Albert.

  'It reminds me of the Titanic disaster,' reminisced Dotty. 'Those poor people singing that hymn - unless it was 'Nearer my God to thee', equally lugubrious - as they slid into that awful Atlantic. I find it terribly upsetting.'

  Albert was dismayed to see that his old friend's eyes were brimming with tears.

  Before he could decide how best to cope with this strange behaviour, Dotty had recovered herself and was rattling on again about her demise.

  'It's the disposal of the body which is the difficulty, as murderers always find. I should really like to be buried in the vegetable garden. All that good humus and those minerals being released slowly into the soil would do so much for the plant growth. However, there seems to be a great reluctance to let me have my way about this, and I suppose it must be cremation after all.'


  'They do it very nice,' said Albert comfortingly.

  'Well, I hope so,' said Dotty doubtfully. She picked up her mug and drank deeply.

  'I suppose the ashes would contribute a certain amount of nourishment,' she continued more cheerfully. 'I shall tell Connie to put most of it by the rhubarb.'

  Albert felt it was time to change the subject. 'I really come along to see if I could do any little job outside for you. How's the goats? And how's the hens?'

  'Most kind of you, Albert! Kit has cleared the snow from the pens, I know, but I should appreciate it if you would check that they all have plenty of dry bedding. And I've got some cabbage leaves here which they'll all enjoy.'

  She made her way into the larder, and Albert was about to nip to the sink with his unwanted drink when Dotty returned with a large basket.

  'I'll do it right away,' promised Albert, taking the basket and making for the door.

  Dotty watched him stumping towards the chicken run, and then turned back to the table.

  'There!' she exclaimed, seeing Albert's mug. 'He forgot his delicious blackcurrant!'

  For the rest of January the fields around Thrush Green lay white and unblemished, stretching their glistening purity as far as the eye could see.

  But at Thrush Green and Lulling the scene was different.

  Here the snow was pock-marked with drips from the trees, and stained by the traffic which had thrown slush upon it.

  Each day it shrank a little in the hour or two of comparative warmth at midday. The piles of besmirched snow at the roadsides dwindled slowly. The crisp crunchiness had vanished, and boots now squelched rather than squeaked as their wearers went their way.

  It was still bitterly cold at night when frost came with the darkness. The first excitement about the snow had long vanished, giving way to a feeling of endurance and a longing for spring.