(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  Mr Jones the landlord fidgeted uneasily with his beer mugs. 'Blowed if I know. I get all sorts in here in the summer stopping off for ploughman's lunch and that, before going on to Minster Lovell or Oxford. Can't say I've any particular memory of this pair. They hadn't got a dog or I might have remembered.'

  'Well, they wouldn't have,' pointed out Albert. 'That Bruce was only a pup when we found him. Bet they hadn't had him more'n a few weeks.'

  'What they doing in America then?'

  'Done a bunk. With a pile of money evidently. Been up to a bit of no good somewhere. Fiddling the books, they say.'

  'You can't fiddle books these days,' said some wiseacre. 'It's all on the computer.'

  'And that can go wrong,' pointed out Percy Hodge. 'You only need to get a power cut and—fizz—it's all up.'

  Heads were shaken in agreement, and the gossip about the felons, now allegedly in South America, changed to the unreliability of modern inventions and the superiority of earlier equipment.

  While her father was enjoying the company of his cronies at the Two Pheasants, Molly Curdle was writing a letter of thanks to Carl Andersen for the set of photographs.

  She also enclosed a separate letter for his mother and some more photographs which had turned up after Carl had departed. They were sepia in colour and rather faded, but a long-dead hand had clicked the camera and caught three or four splendid shots of Mrs Curdle near her caravan, with St Andrew's church in the background.

  Ben took the bulky letter into Lulling to post and was appalled when he found how expensive it was to post anything by air mail. However, he did not grudge the money, as his father-in-law certainly would have done, for he knew that Molly and Carl's mother would get enormous pleasure from the transaction.

  He had become very fond of Carl, his 'god-cousin', during the few weeks that he had been in Thrush Green, and he looked forward eagerly to seeing him again before long. There was an easy friendliness about the American, a warm freshness of outlook which touched Ben deeply. He had always been shy. The fact that his life had been always on the move with Mrs Curdle's fair had meant that his schooling was sketchy. It was Molly who had taught him to become proficient in reading and writing, and after acquiring those elementary skills he had become more confident.

  But the early experience of being a 'gypsy boy', and mocked by some of the crueller children he had met in his youth, had left Ben very vulnerable and still inclined to think of himself as less competent than most men.

  His mechanical skills were outstanding, and his honesty and his gentle nature were appreciated by all who knew him, but innate modesty made Ben deprecate his own qualities.

  In Carl he had found a warm-hearted companion with whom he was instantly at ease. He had been touched by the enthusiastic invitation to visit him in the States, but did not think that he and Molly would be able to accept it. It would be too expensive. The children's schooling might be disrupted. His employer would not relish parting with his labours for any length of time.

  No, all in all, it would be more sensible to wait for Carl's next visit. He hoped that it might be soon, and that he would not have to hurry away.

  Who knows? Perhaps next year, thought Ben, things might favour a visit to Carl's home. Somehow, he felt sure, the bond between the two families would grow stronger with the years.

  Thrush Green was at its best in early June. To be sure, the horse chestnuts' pyramids of flowers were almost over, and their pink and white confetti spattered the grass. In the garden too, the still-green daffodil leaves lolled, annoying tidy gardeners who were anxious to put out their bedding plants. The rapture with which the golden flowers had been greeted earlier had now changed to exasperation. All very well for the poet to say, 'Fair daffodils we weep to see thee haste away so soon,' thought Winnie Bailey, surveying her overcrowded border, but the trouble was that they did not haste away quickly enough. One was forced to wait until the leaves had sent down their nourishment to the bulbs below, and very frustrating it was.

  Nevertheless, there was comfort to be found in the shaggy scented pinks, the bobbing columbines and the great blowsy crimson peonies which came year after year with unfailing cheerfulness.

  The wisteria cascaded in mauve profusion down the front of the house, and by the gate two laburnums dangled their golden chains. Winnie loved all these faithful old friends which appeared regularly every year, and demanded little attention. She was no great gardener. New strains of plants did not excite her. She was not interested in such things as topiary, old-fashioned roses, water plants, or exotic lilies or orchids, as many of her friends were.

  But she relished her own modest patch which she and Donald had largely created when they first moved into the house they shared for many years.

  She looked across Thrush Green to the dusky beauty of the Youngs' copper beech tree, and thought of her promise to Ella about another shared walk. She must get in touch with her before this spell of sunny weather deserted the Cotswolds, she told herself.

  It so happened that Ella was at Dotty Harmer's while Winnie was enjoying her garden stroll.

  She found Dotty by the chicken run, flinging armfuls of fresh greenery to the hens.

  'So nutritious!' she shouted to Ella, as she hurled leaves of all descriptions to the squawking fowl. Ella bent to collect a mound of chicken salad to assist the operation.

  'Not too much cow parsley, dear,' puffed Dotty, 'but any amount of dandelions, shepherd's purse and chickweed. They all clear the blood, you know.'

  Ella obediently plucked at some fine clumps of dandelion leaves, and remembered ruefully that they stained hands pretty fiercely. Would it come off on the white cushion cover she was in the throes of embroidering? Too late to worry now, she told herself philosophically.

  After a few minutes Dotty called a halt and invited her friend into the kitchen. Bruce, who had been shut in there, went wild with excitement, leaping upon Ella's lap and licking her face rapturously.

  'He's a fine fellow,' said Ella. 'Does you credit, Dotty.'

  She was wondering if Dotty had heard the rumour about Bruce's former owners, and turning over in her mind the wisdom of broaching such a delicate subject.

  She need not have worried.

  'Betty Bell tells me that the wretches who abandoned him have been found. I only hope they are brought to justice,' said Dotty.

  'I gather that they left the country owing a great deal of money,' replied Ella. 'The police will want them for that.'

  'To my mind,' said Dotty sternly, 'the money is of secondary importance. Cruelly abandoning a young dog is far worse!'

  She began to fill the kettle.

  'Lime tea or peppermint?' she enquired. 'Both homemade.'

  Ella hesitated. Like the rest of Dotty's friends, anything homemade by Dotty could have a devastating effect on even the most robust alimentary canal.

  'Well,' began Ella.

  'You can have instant coffee, dear, if you prefer it. I have a private fear that it can give some people peptic ulcers, though Dr Lovell assures me that I am quite mistaken.'

  Ella clutched at this straw. 'Coffee then, please, Dotty. And I'm sure John Lovell would know about such things.'

  'He didn't know about the healing properties of woundwort,' Dotty replied. 'I lent him my Gerard's Herbal to put him right.'

  She brought two steaming mugs to the table, and returned to the subject of Bruce's owners.

  'One thing I'm sure of,' she announced. 'I shall refuse, absolutely refuse, to return Bruce to such callous people. They are not fit to have animals in their charge.'

  'Oh, come now, Dotty! He was obviously well cared for, and in a splendid basket, with food and drink. They were just desperate to get away, but they did leave him in a sheltered place - one might almost say a sanctuary - where he'd soon be found.'

  Dotty brushed this aside. 'How did they know he would be found? And they doped him to keep him quiet. Quite unforgivable! My father would have horsewhipped them on the spot! And quite rig
ht too!'

  Two red spots glowed on Dotty's wrinkled cheeks, and Ella hastened to calm her.

  'Well, no doubt they'll get their just deserts when they are picked up,' said Ella. 'And I'm sure no one will expect you to part with Bruce.'

  'I should hope not. Where are they, anyway?'

  'South America, I heard.'

  'America?' cried Dotty, spilling her peppermint drink as she thumped the mug on the table. 'And South America too? Why, that's even worse than North America, and you know how badly they behaved, rebelling in the naughtiest way, and wasting all that good tea in Boston Harbor! I doubt if we shall ever see those miscreants if they have hidden themselves in South America.'

  'We'll have to wait and see,' said Ella, rising. 'Many thanks for the coffee, Dotty, and can I have the goats' milk while I'm here?'

  'Of course, of course,' said Dotty, bustling to the larder, 'and I've put up a bottle of rhubarb and ginger cordial for you. It's wonderfully effective.'

  Ella thanked her civilly and put the bottle in her basket.

  Walking home she wondered whether it would be a good thing to pour it down the sink. Would it block the pipes, she wondered? On the other hand, it might clear out the drain effectively. It would make an interesting experiment.

  Edward Young was restless.

  Joan Young was used to these periodic upsets. They often coincided, as in the present case, with some hold-up in his work, and she did her best to calm him, although she knew, from experience, that only the resumption of the job in hand would cure his frustration.

  Work on a splendid Regency house in Cheltenham had kept him engaged for some time, but the builders had been held up by a shortage of vital material and work had stopped for almost a week.

  In his present state of impatience, Edward had turned again to the unresolved problem of Rectory Cottages' communal room. His doubts remained, and it was particularly unfortunate that it was at this time that he came across Mrs Thurgood in Lulling High Street.

  She seized him by the arm so violently that he spun in his tracks.

  'Just the man I wanted to see,' she trumpeted. Edward's heart sank at these ominous words. 'I should like a word in your ear about Rectory Cottages.'

  'I'm afraid I can't stop now,' began Edward, but was ignored, just as poor Charles Henstock's protests had been.

  'I shan't keep you a minute,' replied Mrs Thurgood, hemming him into a corner between the steps leading up to the Lovelock sisters' front door, and the Fuchsia Bush. She pushed her tartan-covered shopping trolley across Edward's line of escape, and started to hold forth to her captive.

  'It seems,' she began, 'that the sitting-room is proving rather small, and as you designed it I wondered if you felt it should be enlarged. I gather that is the general opinion.'

  Taken aback as he was, and literally hemmed in on all sides, Edward did his best to fight back.

  'I stand by my original work,' he began, but was interrupted by his persecutor, who had now raised her voice to a remarkable pitch to overcome the din of a large and slow vehicle which was sweeping the gutters at enormous expense to the Lulling rate-payers.

  'Times change!' she shouted. 'It may have seemed adequate at the time, but it now appears to be too small.'

  'No one else thinks so,' retorted Edward. 'As I understand it, the matter was discussed at a meeting of the trustees, which unfortunately I had to miss, and it was found perfectly adequate.'

  'That's not what I hear,' bawled Mrs Thurgood. The driver of the giant sweeper had now paused to greet a friend near by and their voices added to the bedlam.

  'In any case,' responded Edward fortissimo, 'there is no money!'

  Half a dozen people now appeared and began to push their way towards the Fuchsia Bush, chattering noisily. One person shoved Mrs Thurgood's trolley aside and Edward escaped.

  Mrs Thurgood, greatly disgruntled, continued on her way.

  Inside the Lovelocks' house, Miss Ada said to Miss Violet: 'I don't know what the High Street is coming to. There was a dreadful brawl going on right outside our front door.'

  'Oh, it was only Mrs Thurgood,' said Violet. 'She was talking to someone I couldn't see who was pinned against our wall.'

  'Humph!' snorted Ada, 'that Mrs Thurgood gets more vulgar every week. Short of deporting her, I cannot think what can be done about her.'

  'Just ignore her,' said Violet.

  'I do that already,' said Ada tartly.

  Edward Young was profoundly disturbed by this encounter. Reason told him that he should ignore the whole incident, that Mrs Thurgood was nothing but a troublemaker and that this wretched business of the communal room should be set aside.

  Reason, however, was being overwhelmed by agitation for poor Edward as he mounted the steep hill to Thrush Green in time for lunch.

  The schoolchildren were already at play. Their midday dinner had been demolished, and now, replete with shepherd's pie and rhubarb crumble, they were cowboys, aeroplanes, spacemen or, in the case of the infants, simply mothers and fathers in the quietest corner of the playground.

  Alan Lester was talking to his neighbour Harold Shoosmith just outside the school gate. Edward went to join them.

  'The sun has brought us all out,' said Alan, waving to the children. 'Hope it's like this on Open Day.'

  'When's that?'

  'Early July. That's if we're ready. I live in hope.'

  'It's often perfect then,' said Harold, 'but in any case you won't have everything outside, will you?'

  'In this climate?' replied Alan. 'Not likely! We've a couple of things planned for outdoors but only if the weather's fine.'

  'At least you have the school to shelter in if it pours,' observed Edward. 'When it has teemed down on fête days we've had to invite everyone into the house. This year we shall be away, so Harold here had better be warned. He's nobly taken over my duties, as you probably know.'

  'We'll keep our fingers crossed,' promised Alan.

  Betty Bell appeared wheeling her bicycle. She was making her way home after her morning's work.

  'There's a steak and kidney pie just being dished up,' she informed Harold. 'Smells a dream!'

  'Then I'd better go and see about it,' agreed Harold, and the three friends parted.

  It was in this week that Ella and Winnie took their promised walk. They were both early risers, and agreed that the country was at its best in the first hours of daylight.

  They set off, sticks in hand, soon after nine o'clock, two sturdy middle-aged ladies in coats and stout shoes, for although it was June the morning was fresh despite the sunshine.

  The lane to Nidden was as peaceful as ever. People who worked in Lulling or Woodstock or Oxford had already gone. The schoolchildren were safely at assembly, and Winnie and Ella had the quiet road to themselves.

  One of Percy Hodge's black-and-white Friesian cows put her head over the hedge and gazed speculatively at them. Her eyelashes were fringed with mist. She chewed the cud slowly, ropes of saliva dripping from the great pink tongue. She looked infinitely content.

  'It's funny how soothing cows are,' observed Ella. 'All that milk, I suppose, comes to mind.'

  'I think it's the smell of their breath,' said Winnie. 'So soporific. Very calming. And so completely the opposite of bulls which frighten the life out of me.'

  The mist of early morning had now cleared, and the view to Lulling Woods lay spread before them, a gentle rolling patchwork of varying greens, here and there enlivened by a vivid yellow field of rape. The two friends propped their arms on a convenient field gate, and gazed their fill in companionable silence.

  A blackbird flew past, its yellow bill stuffed with squirming insects. It vanished into the hawthorn hedge beside them, and the air was instantly aquiver with the cries of young birds greeting their meal.

  The brambles and goosegrass at the base of the hedge glistened with dew in the shadow, but already the shiny hawthorn leaves and may blossom in the sun were lightly steaming in the growing warmth.

 
; 'It's going to be a scorcher,' said Winnie, stirring at last.

  'And about time too,' said Ella. 'I like summer to be summer.'

  The cow parsley was now over. The froth of white flowers had turned to green seed heads, but among the luxuriant leaves the crane's-bill was appearing, its startling blue flowers giving colour to the verge. Pink campion, starry marguerites and the rusty spires of dock added their portion, and low on the ground, among the dusty edges of the road, spread the grey leaves of silverweed.

  They strode past the cottages where the Cootes lived. Even here, among the derelict cars, mowers and wheel-barrows and building materials, there were signs of summer. An elder tree leant from the hedge, showing its great creamy blossoms to the sun, and some exuberant crimson peonies had found their way through the detritus to flaunt their beauty.

  The two friends walked on, past the copse where the bluebells had so stirred them on their earlier walk, and on towards the scatter of cottages which comprised Nidden. A tabby cat sat on a stone gatepost, and responded to Ella's stroking by opening a pink triangle of mouth and giving little purrs of appreciation. A toddler stumbled down the path to the gate, and gazed, thumb in mouth, at the two strangers, but refused to speak.

  Ella looked at her watch. 'I'm supposed to be back for the laundry man,' she said. 'Do you mind turning back now?'

  'Not a bit. I'm mightily refreshed in body and spirit.'

  They waved goodbye to the unresponsive child and the friendly cat, and turned for home.

  At Thrush Green school preparations were well ahead for Open Day towards the end of term.

  Alan Lester had already sent out invitations to parents, governors and other friends of the school, including one to his predecessors Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty, now enjoying retirement at Barton-on-Sea.

  'Really,' commented Miss Watson at the breakfast table, 'it is most gratifying to be kept in touch with school affairs. But it seems a pity to me to see that the children have not written the invitations in their own handwriting. I suppose they have a copier now. It no doubt cost a fortune.'