(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  He thrust his way between his cronies and went out of the door, slamming it behind him.

  'What's bitten old Albert?' said Percy to Mr Jones, the landlord.

  'Well,' he replied, 'I don't think Nelly tells him much, and that rankles. And besides that, I think he's wondering if Nelly will be out of a job.'

  'Then he'll just have to do a bit more himself,' said one of the men with malicious satisfaction. 'Won't hurt him!'

  His hearers agreed with him.

  Mrs Peters' funeral took place on a Friday morning, and St John's church was almost full, for she had been a popular figure in the little town and its environs.

  Towards the front of the church sat the three Lovelock sisters, much to the surprise of most of those present, who had only heard about some of the complaints made about the Fuchsia Bush in early days.

  Now, they realized, the frail and querulous old ladies knew that they had lost a friend, ever ready to provide practical support, and to forgive any little upsets. Their mourning was sincere for their departed neighbour.

  Charles Henstock took the service, and the sincerity and simple grace of his short address summed up the feelings of the congregation.

  The Fuchsia Bush was closed for the day, and Nelly and the staff were among the chief mourners.

  Nelly was outwardly calm now, but still inwardly in turmoil. In her handbag was a letter from Justin Venables, asking her to call at his office on Tuesday morning next 'in connection with her late employer's Last Will and Testament'.

  Somehow, those capital letters had increased her fears. She would be glad to get the interview over, to have some guidance, to be given some support in this alarming situation.

  Since Mrs Peters' death Nelly had kept her own counsel. It was useless to confide in Albert, she realized. Most women, she thought, with some bitterness, have a husband, or a son, or a brother to rely on, at such times.

  Fingering Charlie's gold chain she thought sadly that her only support came from a fickle lover long dead. What lay before her must be tackled singlehanded. It was going to be a lone furrow to plough, and an uphill one.

  Speculation about the future of the Fuchsia Bush was rife. The general opinion was that the property would be sold, perhaps as a going concern, and if so the new owner would surely have the sense to keep Nelly in charge of the kitchen.

  Some thought that such a prime site in Lulling High Street might attract one of the supermarket giants, but as there was not much space for loading and unloading it seemed doubtful.

  However, this issue made a pleasant source of interest, and with the death of Carl's mother, as well as the possibility of catching the criminals who had absconded with thousands of pounds, and worse still, abandoned Dotty's dog, kept tongues happily wagging during the month of August.

  Charles Henstock had his own worries, for Mrs Thurgood had renewed her attack about the 'gross inadequacy, as she put it, of the common room at Rectory Cottages, and to add to his discomfort he had met Edward Young, whilst walking in the High Street, and was surprised to find him reviewing the possibility of an enlargement to the existing annexe.

  'But, Edward,' Charles had protested, 'you were quite satisfied with it before. You know we took a vote on it.'

  'I wasn't there,' Edward reminded him. 'Since then I've been in there once or twice, and I must admit it does seem a bit cramped.'

  'Well, cramped or not,' said Charles, raising his hat politely to a passing parishioner, 'you know we have no money to take on such work. We must cut our coats according to the cloth. I keep telling Mrs Thurgood so.'

  Edward looked alarmed. 'Is she still being a nuisance? I find her absolutely appalling.'

  'So do I,' agreed Charles ruefully. It was so unusual to hear Charles uttering anything that was detrimental about his flock that Edward realized that he had suffered much.

  'Far be it from me to join forces with that awful woman,' he told Charles, 'but I do just wonder...'

  He paused to let a perambulator pass him.

  'We ought to get Harold to tackle her,' he continued. 'He'll settle her hash!'

  'He does,' sighed Charles. 'Frequently. But she bounces back!'

  On the following Tuesday Nelly awoke feeling that something unpleasant was about to happen, and remembered that she had to pay the dreaded visit to young Mr Venables' office that morning.

  She lay in bed, watching the sunshine wavering across the ceiling, and wondering what would be the appropriate wear for a visit to a solicitor. Something, she decided, between funeral garments and the sort of formal dress one would put on for a business lunch.

  Mentally she surveyed her wardrobe and settled on a lightweight grey suit, rather tight to be sure, and a white silk blouse. The ensemble, she hoped, would be suitably ladylike, and yet not too smart to invite speculation from Rosa and Gloria. In any case, a voluminous overall could hide her unusual morning splendour before she left for her appointment.

  That settled, Nelly rose, washed and dressed, and went downstairs, where Albert was shaving at the kitchen sink.

  He caught sight of her in the mirror. 'You're all dolled up,' he grunted, razor poised. 'Where are you off?'

  'I've had this years,' said Nelly truthfully. 'And I'm off to work, where you should be. The weeds round that churchyard of yours would keep a couple of Percy Hodge's cows going for a month.'

  Silenced, Albert continued to scrape his face, while Nelly dashed about her duties in her usual early-morning fashion.

  By eight thirty she was at the Fuchsia Bush, and at a quarter to eleven she told the staff, and Miss Spooner, the visiting accountant's assistant, that she would be back in about an hour. She had some of Mrs Peters' business to discuss with young Mr Venables, she explained. It was as well, she knew from experience, to give people some little nugget of information, preferably truthful, to chew on, rather than leave them to speculate.

  Justin Venables' office was little changed from the time when he had first entered it. To be sure, the black gauze which had shadowed the lower half of the sash window looking out into the High Street had been replaced with a white net curtain, so the room was much lighter, but still screened from public gaze.

  Justin did not smoke, and did not encourage his clients to indulge by offering them cigarettes, but a hideous cast-iron ashtray had stood on the desk for almost a century, and still remained there for those who were addicted to tobacco. It bore the legend, 'Long Live Victoria 1837—97' and would no doubt be snapped up, at great expense, by any collector of Victoriana, if given half a chance.

  Nelly sat nervously opposite Justin at his enormous desk.

  'Would you care for some coffee?' asked Justin.

  'Thank you,' said Nelly, and Justin struck a bell sharply on his desk, and Miss Giles, much the same age, it seemed, as her master, appeared at the door.

  'Just two cups,' nodded Justin, and in silence Miss Giles vanished, only to return two minutes later with a tray containing two steaming cups, sugar and a plate of digestive biscuits.

  She must have had the kettle at the boil, thought Nelly, and felt somehow comforted by this little domestic interlude.

  'I wonder if you have any inkling of how Mrs Peters left her affairs?' queried Justin spreading out a document before him.

  Nelly put down her cup. The coffee was rather nasty, and she hoped that Justin was not paying the full price for good quality instant coffee when obviously he was getting the cheapest.

  She wrenched her mind from this to reply to Justin's question. It seemed right to answer him truthfully.

  'Just before she died,' she answered, 'Mrs Peters told me she was leaving the business to me, but I don't know if that's correct.'

  'Quite correct. I hope it pleases you. It shows how much she thought of your ability.'

  Nelly shook her head. 'I was knocked sideways. I still am. It's too big a job for me to do, Mr Venables. I've no head for the money side.'

  Justin nodded understandingly. 'I know exactly how you feel, Mrs Piggott. Now,
I propose to read this Last Will and Testament, and then I will explain anything which puzzles you, and try to advise you about steps to take for the future running of the business.'

  He cleared his throat and began, while Nelly did her best to follow the incomprehensible legal vocabulary, and failed after five minutes.

  Justin still had a musical voice, and while the sonorous phrases droned round the room Nelly let her attention wander to the rows of envelopes bound with pink tape that stood along the shelves, and the black tin boxes stacked higher still bearing white-painted names. The wooden cupboards could have done with a good polish, mused Nelly, and the windows had not been cleaned for weeks. It was a pity too that the Turkish carpet was so dusty. Nelly would have liked half a day in the room to put it to rights.

  After a time, Justin put down the will, and bent towards his client.

  'Now, to business! I believe Miss Spooner still calls twice a week to attend to the office side.'

  Nelly agreed.

  'She is excellent, of course, but I should see if you could get someone younger, perhaps trained by her, and able to cope with modern office equipment and make things more manageable for you. Let me suggest one or two other things.'

  The large clock on the wall ticked the hour away, while Justin talked and made a few notes for Nelly to consider later.

  It was chiming the half hour after midday when Nelly made her farewells, still bemused but much comforted, as she returned to the bustle of the Fuchsia Bush.

  The latter part of August was unusually hot. The verges along the lanes were dusty and crowned with dry grass and dead flowers.

  The grass on Thrush Green was crisp and brown, the earth like iron, and all the gardeners were tired of daily watering and asking each other how soon hosepipes would be banned.

  Winnie Bailey and Jenny took their mugs of coffee into the garden, and sat under the shade of an ancient plum tree.

  'It's as hot as Africa,' commented Jenny. 'Or America, according to the telly. People are dropping down dead with the heat.'

  'Really? I missed that.'

  'I wonder if that nice Mr Andersen's all right?' continued Jenny. 'Is he coming back soon?'

  'He wants to. I believe Molly has heard from him.'

  'I expect he'll stay in Woodstock again, if he gets over. My cousin's a chambermaid at the Bear. She seems to think he'll be coming back there.'

  'Did he say so?'

  'I'm not sure, but he got very friendly with a nice woman who was there for a few months.'

  Winnie digested this interesting morsel of gossip. 'What does this woman do? Is she on holiday?'

  'No, she works in the big houses. Tells people what curtains to buy and how to change their wallpaper and that. She goes up to London getting great samples of material and wallpaper books. Sometimes she's got three or four houses in the neighbourhood, and then she takes one of the biggest bedrooms at the Bear with a great desk in it, and works there.'

  'It must be rather expensive,' commented Winnie.

  'I expect the people who employ her pay for that,' said Jenny, 'and maybe the Bear gives her a special rate as she stays quite a time. Shall I ask my cousin?'

  'Good heavens, no!' replied Winnie. 'Her affairs are her own business. Is she nice? She sounds very busy. An interior designer, I suppose we would call her.'

  'They all like her there. She tips very generously, and don't give any trouble. She and Mr Andersen sometimes shared a table in the evenings. Both a bit lonely I expect.'

  Winnie was intrigued by this news, but forbore to ask further. Could romance be in the air? If so, Winnie knew from experience that the good news would reach Thrush Green before very long. Jenny's cousin, or one of her friends, would see to that.

  It was later in the week that she came across Joan Young. They were both shopping in Lulling High Street, and met at the greengrocer's.

  'Are you good at melons?' queried Joan. 'I believe you're supposed to smell them to see if they're ripe.'

  'I press the top,' replied Winnie, trying her luck on a nicely mottled one. 'I should think this is about right.'

  'Edward can't bear them when they're still hard. He says he'd just as soon eat raw marrow.'

  'I sympathize,' said Winnie. 'It's nectarines I can't fathom. The reddest ones are often the least ripe. All very tricky.'

  They entered the shop to pay for their purchases, and while they were waiting Joan told Winnie that they had heard from Carl Andersen.

  'He's coming over in September, and hoping to be here for several weeks. He telephoned last night,' she added. 'Think of that! I hope he won't be ruined when his bill comes in.'

  'I'm sure he can manage that,' said Winnie. 'I gather that he is a prosperous businessman. Where's he staying?'

  'At the Bear again. They made him very comfortable, and although we wanted to put him up, I can understand that he likes to be free. I gather he's following up that business venture in Scotland that he's interested in. It will be lovely to see him again.'

  'Indeed it will,' agreed Winnie. She also wondered, as she added a fine cucumber to her purchases, if the gifted interior designer would be pleased too. But of this she said nothing.

  After lunch that day, Winnie took her rest in a deckchair in the shadiest part of the garden. Jenny had boarded the two o'clock bus to Oxford to do some shopping for clothes, and it was very peaceful under the trees.

  The bees were busy among the lavender flowers, and forcing their way between the velvety lips of the snapdragons. Somewhere nearby a young bird was piping for attention, and high above the swallows swooped and soared. Soon they would be gathering together to chatter about their plans for migration. Then, thought Winnie sadly, it really would begin to feel like autumn.

  In the distance, somewhere along the Nidden road, she could hear the throbbing of a combine, bringing ever closer the thought of cleared fields soon to be ploughed for next year's crop. Yes, autumn would soon be here.

  She remembered inconsequently an English lesson at her school. The class had been asked to provide adjectives describing autumn, and she had proffered 'wistful' and 'mellow'. The English mistress had said rather brusquely that they had already put 'yellow' on the blackboard, and the young Winnie, somewhat piqued, had pointed out that her adjective was 'mellow' and not 'yellow'.

  The mistress had looked at her with, fresh interest, and enquired if she had learnt any poems by John Keats, who had written 'To Autumn'.

  Winnie had replied truthfully that she had never heard of John Keats, and 'mellow' was written below 'wistful', and justice had been done.

  She leant back and closed her eyes. How extraordinary one's memory was! She had not thought of that school for years, and yet that memory was vivid. So, suddenly, was the vision of her first paintbox with the fascinating names printed neatly below each bright square of paint. Crimson Lake, Bice Green, Prussian Blue, Viridian Green, Chinese White, Gamboge and a dozen more which she would have in tubes as she grew older and more expert, but that first paintbox was the one she remembered most clearly.

  She recalled her attempt to paint a cabbage in an early art class, when an arrangement of vegetables, carrots, young turnips and pea pods—some closed, and others open displaying a row of glistening peas — had been that day's still life subject.

  She had found, with a thrill of discovery, that Viridian, Chinese White, and then a touch of Crimson Lake, had produced the most satisfactory soft green wash which had gained her a gold star on the finished picture. Such idle memories, mused Winnie, half asleep.

  A yellow leaf fluttered from the plum tree and landed on her lap. Soon, thought Winnie, there would be mushrooms, those magical pearls thrusting up overnight through the dewy grass.

  She held the dead leaf between her thumb and finger, enjoying its roughness, and closed her eyes again.

  September

  Read Boswell in the house in the morning,

  and after dinner under the bright yellow

  leaves of the orchard. The pear
trees a

  bright yellow. The apple trees green still.

  A sweet lovely afternoon.

  Dorothy Wordsworth

  The trees of Thrush Green were also beginning to have a golden tinge. The lime trees round St Andrew's church were a paler sunnier green than at the time of the July fête.

  The sturdy chestnut trees still boasted dark green foliage, but on the grass beneath there were a number of wrinkled palmate leaves which presaged the coming of autumn.

  There was a definite chill in the morning and evening air. Thoughts turned to stocks of coal and logs, of bulbs to be planted for Christmas flowering, and the thud of catalogues about the festive season, still months away, was heard on many a doormat in the area. Sensible people refused to be hustled into panic buying, and preferred to enjoy the mellow sunshine and the last of the summer flowers which made September one of the loveliest months at Thrush Green.

  The news of Nelly's inheritance was soon common knowledge, and occasioned much speculation.

  Nelly, well versed in the reactions to news in small communities, decided to tell Albert the day after she had visited Justin Venables' office. She was quite prepared for his usual disgruntled response to her pieces of news, although she felt sure that the prospect of money might mitigate the gloom.

  They had finished their evening meal, and were sitting at the kitchen table, stirring the cups of tea with which they liked to finish their repast.

  'I had some good news today,' ventured Nelly.

  'Oh ah!'

  'I went to see young Mr Venables.'

  Albert looked up in alarm. 'What you bin up to? You don't want to get muddled up with them legal blokes.'

  'It was about Mrs Peters' will. She left me the Fuchsia Bush.'

  Albert dropped his teaspoon with a clatter into the saucer.

  'Left you the Fuchsia Bush?' he echoed with astonishment. 'What for?'

  Nelly surveyed his unusually animated countenance. 'What for? For me to run, of course.'