(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  Whatever the reason, Charles felt better able to face his problems. It reaffirmed his belief in sticking to his principles, to do right by all his flock to the best of his ability, to foster patience and forbearance, and to ignore the pinpricks of petty malice.

  He remembered suddenly that someone—he rather thought that it was A. P. Herbert of blessed memory—said that he was sustained by four words:

  Fear nothing! Thank God!

  The first two words took care of the unknown future. The last two covered past mercies received.

  The rector turned the four words over in his mind, and was strengthened and comforted.

  In Justin's office Connie was about to make her departure. Dotty's business, concerning the deeds of the cottage at Lulling Woods, was over, the coffee drunk, and Justin was ushering her to the door.

  'Did you ever meet Christopher Armitage?' he asked her. 'Kit, he's called more generally. I know your aunt would remember him. He was at school when her father was headmaster.'

  'And he survived?' laughed Connie.

  'Yes, indeed. A resilient fellow, and excellent company. He's just retired and looking about for a house here.'

  'No, I haven't come across him, I'm afraid.'

  'Well, he's based with us for a little while, but at the moment he is looking up relatives and old friends before getting down to serious house-hunting. We expect him back in a week or two. No doubt he'll call to see your aunt before long.'

  'That will be nice,' said Connie.

  They had now reached the open front door. The wind had blown in a few dead leaves from the lime trees. They skittered about the tiled floor like small crabs.

  'Well, thank you again,' said Connie, holding out her hand. 'Come and see us when you can. We both enjoy visitors.'

  Justin watched her hasten down the street, a trim athletic figure. Dotty was lucky to have her, he thought.

  He bent to pick up the dead leaves and put them carefully in the waste paper basket when he returned to his office.

  He suddenly remembered the shortbread, and rang for Muriel.

  'Yes, Mr Venables?' she asked deferentially.

  'Muriel, I should have said this many years ago. The shortbread is always delicious. Miss Harmer told me to tell you how much she enjoyed it this morning, as I have too hundreds and hundreds of times. Much appreciated, Muriel, believe me.'

  'Oh sir!' faltered Muriel, turning pink. 'Thank you. I'm so glad—'

  She broke off and hurried from the room, and straight to the privacy of the staff lavatory where she mopped her tears.

  Why was it, she thought fiercely, that one could stand any amount of scolding and censure without a qualm,-and yet dissolve into tears at a few words of kindness?

  She tidied her hair, stuffed her damp handkerchief up her sleeve, and after a colossal sniff, returned to her duties with a gladsome mind.

  6. Spring Fevers

  THE MISSES Lovelock were delighted to hear that Kit Armitage had returned.

  'I thought I recognised that back,' said Violet triumphantly. 'So upright, still so straight and soldierly! He always had a most impressive carriage.'

  Miss Ada looked at her younger sister with faint dislike.

  'I can't recall Kit's back being anything very different from any of the other young men's.'

  'Oh, I always admired his stance when we played tennis,' said Violet. 'He always threw the ball a tremendous height in the air when he served. D'you remember, Bertha?'

  Bertha nodded. Pencil in hand she was engrossed in the crossword, but her cheeks were a little flushed. There was no doubt about it, the return of Christopher Armitage was causing a stir in this particular household.

  'He was always very athletic,' observed Ada. 'Wasn't he Victor Ludorum one year at the Grammar School? And once he turned twenty cartwheels at a tennis party here. Someone said he couldn't—Justin maybe—and I remember he put down his glass and took off his jacket, and went over and over all round the lawn.'

  'I suspected at the time that he had partaken of too much punch. If you remember we let that maid we had at the time mix up a second batch, and she was very free with the gin.'

  'Kit was never the worse for drink,' protested Miss Violet. 'Just high spirits, on that occasion, I feel sure.'

  'Well, I don't suppose he turns many cartwheels nowadays, ' said Bertha. 'Nor Dotty either. What a dreadful affair that was!'

  'She only turned two,' Ada pointed out, 'and it was Kit who dared her to. Besides, her bloomers were perfectly respectable and substantial, which was a blessing, I must say, in the circumstances.'

  'Well, we were all young then,' said Violet indulgently, 'and what a lot of fun we had in the old days! It will be good to see Kit again and revive happy memories.'

  'We must invite him to lunch when he returns,' agreed Ada. 'What a pity he lost his wife so long ago! She was a pretty girl, I remember.'

  'I always thought she was rather fast,' commented Miss Bertha. 'A typical Londoner, and she certainly came without her gloves to Sung Eucharist once.'

  'Perhaps she forgot them,' said Violet.

  'A lady,' replied Bertha severely, 'never forgets her gloves.'

  And thus rebuked, her sister fell silent.

  The winds of March, which Shakespeare's daffodils enjoyed, was not welcome to Albert Piggott at Thrush Green.

  For one thing, they blew an unconscionable number of leaves into the church porch of St Andrew's and needed to be swept out by Albert himself.

  When young Cooke had taken on most of the church duties of a heavier nature, digging graves, tending the coke furnace and so on, it had been arranged that Albert would be responsible for sweeping the church floor and the porch. When a really stiff breeze came along, no matter from which quarter of the globe, the leaves managed to eddy in drifts against the church door, under the stone benches which flanked the porch, and often into the church itself. Albert found it all very trying.

  March winds also made him cough. Albert's bronchial equipment had always been sub-standard, even Doctor Lovell admitted that, and Albert's habitual dolour exaggerated his condition. He was not given to suffering in silence, and intended to let the landlord of The Two Pheasants have a detailed account of his respiratory ailments as soon as he went in there for his midday meal of a pork pie, pickles and beer.

  But that was not all that he had to worry about on this particular morning. For once, Willie Marchant the postman, had brought him a letter. It was hand written, and Albert opened it with caution.

  The message was short. It was signed 'Charlie Wright' and Albert's face registered disgust, as well as its habitual gloom, as he read.

  Dear Albert,

  Nelly has had a bad turn and is in hospital here. Thought you ought to know as you are her next-of-kin.

  Charlie Wright

  '"Next of kin" indeed!' said Albert aloud. 'And a fat lot of good that is!' Didn't he take her on? Didn't this dratted oil man, this wife-stealer, have first claim on Nelly?

  He thrust the letter into his pocket and went across to deal with the dead leaves which were as troublesome as Nelly herself. He felt no stirrings of pity for his ailing wife. She'd chosen her bed, hadn't she? Well, she must lie in it. Let this Charlie do the coping. It was no business of his. He would ignore the letter.

  But he found that he could not ignore the matter completely. As he swept morosely, coughing occasionally, and taking a rest every now and again on one or other of the stone benches in the porch, he began to wonder about Charlie's message. Did the fact that he had informed him that he was next-of-kin mean that Nelly was likely to snuff it? In which case, did it mean that any property belonging to her would then come to him?

  It was one thing to let the oil man who had lured away his Nelly have the responsibility of looking after her 'in sickness and in health', as it said in the marriage service—not that Nelly and this Charlie had bothered with such niceties—but quite a different kettle of fish if the dratted fellow came into Nelly's bits and pieces, sim
ply because he didn't write back as, he supposed glumly, a husband should.

  Sitting, resting his head on the broom handle, Albert pondered this problem. True, Nelly had never had much in the way of possessions, but there had been a gold wrist watch and a brooch from Italy she was fond of, and come to think of it, there was a Post Office savings book that she kept mighty quiet about in her handbag.

  On the other hand, if it meant going all the way to Brighton to see her in hospital, he was inclined to forfeit her assets and let the pair of them sort out their troubles. Why should he bother about them? A fat lot they'd troubled about him, that was for sure!

  He brushed a spider from his knee and began to sweep it, with the leaves, into the corner of the porch. Although he told himself that he would take no action over the letter, he still suffered a small nagging doubt.

  Perhaps old Jones could give him some advice? Two heads were better than one, they said. Over his pub dinner he would mention it, in a casual way, to the landlord, and see what transpired. No need to rush his fences, and if he had to reply after all, then Molly could give him a hand with the writing.

  Somewhat comforted he fetched a shovel and bucket to collect the leaves, and even chirruped to a robin who had come to investigate the activity.

  On the Saturday morning following the arrival of Albert's letter, little Miss Fogerty lay prone on her bedroom floor at the school house, and conscientiously went through the exercises prescribed by Doctor Lovell.

  He had been sympathetic about her aching joints some months previously, and had forborn to tell her automatically to lose a stone in weight as he did to three-quarters of his patients suffering from anything from gout to gall-bladder troubles. Miss Fogerty, who could not weigh much over six and a half stone, was exempt from this ritual prescription, but was given some tablets to help alleviate the pain, and a sheet which set out some simple exercises for strengthening muscles.

  Agnes Fogerty did not like to tell her medical adviser that the tablets tended to make her head swim, and that she had cut down the dose privately to half. The exercises, she believed, were certainly strengthening her legs, although they seemed to strain something in her back at the same time.

  However, she was philosophical about this unwelcome side effect, and after adjusting her lisle stockings, she gazed at the ceiling, and began to raise and lower each leg in turn.

  It was extraordinary how similar that damp patch was to the map of Wales! A lovely country, and one she hoped to visit again when at last she and Dorothy retired. She counted to ten, and then resumed the exercise.

  Such a pity that retirement had needed to be postponed! Perhaps if she had been at Barton now the good sea air would have put paid to all these aches and pains.

  Time for bicycling, and very strenuous it was too. It was all very well for Doctor Lovell, half her age and athletic too, to loll back in his chair at the surgery and issue his instructions, but really it was no joke when one was in one's sixties and with kneecaps cracking like pistol shots!

  Puffing heavily, little Miss Fogerty lay still and surveyed the carpet under the bed. Betty Bell kept things beautifully-no dust at all, and only one hair grip which she had lost only two days ago. It was quite interesting seeing the world from a different angle, and rather pleasant lying on the carpet. How nice to be a cat!

  She pulled herself together hastily, and set herself to cycle another two minutes before tackling her standing routine.

  There, that was done! She scrambled to her feet with the help of the bedstead, and stood quite still until her head had stopped spinning. Then she went close to the wall and kept one steadying hand on it while she rose and fell on her toes. Doctor Lovell had said earnestly that he wanted to restore suppleness, as far as was possible, so that she could run again quite easily.

  Agnes had not liked to tell the dear man that she had not run anywhere for the last ten years, and had no intention of starting again now, but she was fond of her adviser and respected his faith in her possible prowess.

  She did her exercises zealously, studying a still life in water colours executed by one of Dorothy's college friends. It depicted a bowl of fruit with a few vegetables lying beside it, and Agnes was not wholly enamoured of it. Certainly, the grapes were superbly done, and the bananas were recognisable, of course, so yellow and curved, as they were, it would be hard to disguise them, but the carrots looked anaemic and those green things which must be artichoke heads were not the right green.

  Dipping briskly from left foot to right, Agnes recalled her own efforts at vegetable painting. Cabbages, she remembered, had responded wonderfully to a mixture of veridian green, a spot of crimson lake and a little Chinese white. The result had been a most successful soft colour, and her art teacher had congratulated her on the effect. Very gratifying it had been.

  Agnes felt that her legs had suffered quite enough, and began to rotate her arms gently. She wandered to the window, and surveyed the little world of Thrush Green as she worked away.

  A stranger was walking purposefully across the grass towards the Youngs' house. He was tall and soldierly. He had no hat and his hair was thick and silvery.

  That must be young Mr Venables' friend,' thought Agnes, now shrugging her shoulders up and down as Exercise Six required. 'What a nice-looking fellow! No arthritis there, I'm sure!'

  She finished her twentieth shrug conscientiously, folded the exercise list away in a drawer, tidied her hair and went downstairs to tell Dorothy about the Youngs' visitor.

  Kit Armitage was warmly welcomed by Joan and Edward Young and the sherry glasses were soon filled.

  After some exchange of news, Kit said how very sorry he had been to hear of the death of Robert Bassett.

  'Of course, he was a good deal older than I am, but I was quite often invited to play tennis here and he was always so excessively kind. No bad hand at lobs and volleys either, if I remember rightly.'

  'He loved all games, and was very quick on his feet,' agreed Edward. 'I used to dread being asked to partner him. He could beat me hollow at tennis, and although he was the most considerate of partners, I always felt mightily inferior. I was courting Joan at the time and very conscious of the poor figure I was cutting.'

  Joan laughed.

  'I was so sorry for you, and pity being akin to love I'm sure it helped your cause.'

  'And your mother?' asked Kit.

  'Pretty shaken, and can't make up her mind if it would be better to stay on in the little house, or move in with Ruth up the road. I tell her not to make any decisions yet. It's too soon after Father's death to make plans.'

  'Very wise. Now tell me about the other Thrush Green friends. I gather Dotty is still fighting fit.'

  'I don't know about that, but she's jolly well looked after by her niece Connie. Do call and see them. Dotty remembers you well.'

  'I'm looking forward to seeing her again.'

  He asked after Albert Piggott, the Misses Lovelock, and was told about the disastrous fire which had robbed Charles and Dimity of their home.

  'And what's going to be there instead?' he asked.

  'Eight homes for old people,' Edward told him. 'I've just put in my plan. We want something easy on the eye this time.'

  'I could do with an old people's home myself,' observed Kit. 'Let me know if you hear of a small place anywhere near Lulling or Thrush Green. I'm getting down in earnest now to some house-hunting.'

  They took him round the garden and showed him the attractive little house which Edward had designed and converted from the old stable. Mrs Bassett was out, and he promised to call on her another time.

  'And whose is this?' he enquired, eyeing the gipsy caravan which had once been the home of Mrs Curdle, Ben's grandmother.

  Joan told him about the old lady's death, the sad but necessary sale of the fair, and how glad they were to have Ben and Molly living in the flat at the top of the house.

  'Mrs Curdle!' exclaimed Kit. 'May the first! My goodness, that takes me back. What a day that was
every year! We used to look forward to that fair day for weeks.'

  'We all did,' said Joan. 'It's lovely to have the caravan here as a reminder. Sometimes Ben's children have a tea party in there with their friends. I don't think Mrs Curdle would have let them make as much noise as we allow them.'

  They walked to the gate, and Kit looked at his watch.

  'I'll call and see Dotty another time, but do you think Winnie Bailey would remember me?'

  'Try her and see,' advised Joan, and they watched him step out across the grass in the direction of the doctor's.

  'If your mother does decide to live with Ruth,' said Edward, as they returned to the house, 'I wonder if Kit would want the stable cottage? He'd be a considerate neighbour, that's certain.'

  'I've been thinking about it too,' said Joan, 'but I feel we should offer it to Ben and Molly before anyone else. The flat was ideal when they only had George to consider, but now there are two children they are pretty cramped up there. Besides, they need a garden of their own, and those stairs are quite tiring, although Molly never complains.'

  'You're right, of course. I hope your mother decides to stay on. She's near enough for us to keep an eye on her, but she can still feel independent with all her own things around her. Let's shelve the problem until further notice.'

  And so they left the matter.

  Kit found Winnie Bailey in the garden picking daffodils for Ella Bembridge who was with her.

  After introductions, Winnie tried to persuade him into the house, but he pleaded shortness of time and promised to call again.

  They accompanied him to the gate.

  'And we hear you hope to settle here,' said Winnie, it will be lovely to have you among us. Do you play bridge still?'

  'Yes, and just as badly, but I'll make up a four whenever you like. But not just yet. I'm busy looking for a little house. Two up and two down sort of thing—well, perhaps three up and three down, on second thoughts—but something I can cope with alone. Any ideas?'