(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  'None at the moment,' said Winnie slowly. She turned to Ella.

  'There's that place near the Cookes along the Nidden road,' said Ella. 'But I doubt if you'd want to be anywhere near that family. And someone told me that there's a flat going over The Fuchsia Bush in Lulling High Street.'

  'Terribly noisy,' observed Winnie.

  'I think I'd like a little garden,' said Kit, at the same moment.

  Anyway, the ladies assured him, they would ask around and let him know if anything cropped up.

  'I've got my name down with several agents, of course,' said Kit, 'but I wouldn't mind betting I get something through my friends eventually.'

  They waved goodbye to him, and returned to the house to collect the daffodils from the shelter of the porch.

  'Tell you what,' said Ella, uttering one of her favourite phrases, 'I'll mention it to Charles and Dimity. Between them they quarter four parishes, and if we can't find something suitable for that nice man, I'll eat my hat.'

  Albert Piggott found little comfort in Mr Jones's advice about Nelly's illness.

  Having read the letter, which emerged much crumpled from Albert's pocket, he reacted forthrightly.

  'If Nelly's in hospital then you should go and see her,' was his edict. 'Oh, I know all about her leaving you, and the rows you had, but that's in the past, Albert, and she's still your wife, you know. You get down to this hospital and see her. It's your duty to stand by her.'

  Albert was taken aback by such straight talking.

  'I don't know about my duty,' he responded with some heat. 'What about her duty to her lawful wedded husband, eh? What I'm concerned about is this Charlie. I bet he's got his eye on Nelly's bits and pieces, and why should he have 'em?'

  Mr Jones looked at him with disgust.

  'And you've got your eye on them too, I take it? You makes me puke, Albert, that you do. There's this poor soul—your own flesh and blood—'

  'And plenty there was of it too,' interjected Albert morosely, recalling his wife's vast bulk.

  'Flesh and blood,' continued the landlord unperturbed, 'dying, from what this chap says, and you think of nothing but what you might get out of it. Finish your beer, Albert, and clear out, will you? I'm fed up with this business. You asked my advice and this is it. Ring up this chap, find out where Nelly is, and get down there pronto to see her.'

  At that moment, two men entered the bar and he turned to serve them, still flushed with anger at Albert's behaviour.

  Albert took advantage of the interruption to creep away to his house next door.

  There was cold comfort there, but at least it was more congenial today than The Two Pheasants.

  7. Albert Piggott Under Pressure

  THE AFFAIR of the Lady Chapel kneelers still caused the good rector some unhappy twinges, but nothing more had been said directly to him by Mrs Thurgood.

  Could she have decided against pursuing the matter? It seemed unlikely. There was a ruthless tenacity about the woman which Charles recognised only too well. He quailed before it, and chided himself for cowardice, but this self-flagellation did not mitigate his fears.

  He had a horrid feeling that Mrs Thurgood was simply biding her time before returning to the attack. With Dimity beside him one afternoon, they had examined the present kneelers minutely, and had put aside any which appeared to be the worse for wear. Naturally, Mrs Thurgood's own kneeler was one of the shabbiest as she was such an outstandingly regular church-goer, and about six or eight others would benefit from some attention. But on the whole, Dimity and Charles agreed, the rest of the kneelers were perfectly capable of fulfilling their function for several years.

  Comforted by this discovery, Charles felt that he could withstand any onslaught from the doughty Frances Thurgood. It was certainly rather unnerving to find that the weeks slid by without any further manifestations of the lady's pugnacity. What lay behind this silence? Had she decided to give up the fight? Had she simply forgotten about the kneelers? Had she, perhaps, suddenly regretted her offer to pay for the work?

  Charles wondered if he would ever learn the answers to these questions. He had not long to wait.

  One bright morning he collected the letters from the hall mat and carried them to the breakfast table where Dimity was already buttering her toast. There were half a dozen or so envelopes, but one was immediately noteworthy for its excellent quality and imposing seal at the back.

  'From the bishop,' said Charles, opening it first.

  Dimity, watching him closely, saw his expression turn from pleasure to dismay. Having read the bishop's letter, he then turned to another enclosed with it, and the dismay upon his chubby countenance was now tinged with indignation.

  'Well, really!' protested Charles, handing over the letters. 'Now what do you make of that?'

  Dimity read rapidly. The bishop's note was kindly and concise. It said that he had received the enclosed letter from Mrs Thurgood to which he had replied. He said that he had every confidence in Charles's decision and urged him not to worry unduly about a matter which was really very trivial. He sent his regards to Dimity and hoped to see them both very soon.

  Frances Thurgood's letter was belligerent in comparison. She set forth her own generosity, her anxiety to see the Lady Chapel furnished 'in a God-like manner', and hinted at the regrettable attitude taken up by Anthony Bull's successor both in his services and his dealings with parishioners. She trusted that the bishop would see fit to remind the present incumbent of his duties.

  'The cat!' fumed Dimity, throwing the letter across the table. 'To go behind your back like that! It is absolutely unforgivable, Charles! What will you do?'

  'Nothing in a hurry,' said her husband equably. 'I may say something I should regret later, and I don't want the dear bishop to be badgered any further with complaints about me.'

  'You are far too forgiving,' said Dimity.

  'I don't know about that.' He picked up the bishop's letter, and read it again.

  'You know, Dimity, it is really uncommonly nice of him to write so warmly. And in his own hand too!'

  'He's hardly likely to write in anybody else's,' retorted Dimity, with unusual tartness. She still smarted from the effect of Mrs Thurgood's outrageous behaviour, and was irritated too by Charles's deference, one might almost say awe, in his handling of the bishop's letter. In her opinion, Charles was quite as worthy as the bishop himself—probably a better man altogether when you considered his modesty and selflessness—and Dimity felt herself glowing with mingled righteous indignation and wifely devotion.

  'Well, I only hope I don't encounter Frances Thurgood in the next day or two,' she exclaimed. 'I don't think I could remain silent about such appalling behaviour.'

  The rector looked alarmed.

  'Oh, my dear, please don't fan the flames! The bishop is absolutely right to call this a trivial matter. I will speak to her privately before the week is out, but I beg you to say nothing, if you love me.'

  He looked so pink and agitated that Dimity's wrath faded, and she bent across the table to kiss his cheek.

  'I will do exactly as you say,' she promised him.

  Meanwhile, Albert Piggott had problems of his own.

  After his rebuff at the hands of Mr Jones, the landlord, he had almost decided to ignore Charlie's letter, and leave Nelly's future in the hands of the gods.

  But he reckoned without the loquacity of The Two Pheasants. It so happened that Ben Curdle called in for a pint soon after his father-in-law had departed.

  The landlord, still full of indignation at Albert's callousness, told Ben the story. Ben returned to his flat at the top of the Youngs' house to consult Molly on the matter, and that evening they went together to face the old man.

  He was surlier than ever, and obstinate with it.

  'She's been no wife to me,' he asserted. 'Why should I put myself out for her?'

  'Don't talk so daft!' said his daughter. 'She looked after you all the time she was here, and kept the place lovely. And cooked a t
reat! And what thanks did she get?'

  'She had me company. And me money,' growled Albert.

  'You listen to me, dad,' said Ben quietly, if anything happens to her you're going to regret it. And what's more, all Thrush Green is going to chuck it in your face. She's your wife, whatever she's done. You'd best get down there as fast as you can.'

  'And how am I going to get to Brighton, may I ask? And who pays the fare?'

  'We've been looking up ways and means. I can put you and your case on the morning coach at Lulling. It goes right up to Victoria Coach Station, and there's plenty of coaches direct from there to Brighton. You'd be with Nelly in a matter of hours.'

  Albert began to look cornered.

  'And Ben and I will pay the fare,' Molly promised him. 'We've talked it over, haven't we, Ben?'

  Her husband nodded loyally, and Albert looked more hopeful.

  'Well, I don't say as it might not be the right thing to do,' he admitted cautiously, 'but she's a fair old trollop, as well you know, and I don't reckon she deserves to see me again.'

  Molly privately thought that her father's remark could be construed in two ways, but prudently remained silent.

  'That's settled then,' said Ben, standing up. 'I'll pick you up in the van at a quarter past eight tomorrow morning, on my way to work. The coach sets off at eight-thirty, $0 you'll be all right.'

  'And I'll come over tonight and pack one or two things for you,' added Molly swiftly. 'You may want to stay for a while.'

  'That'll be the day,' commented Albert bitterly.

  But he knew when he was beaten.

  In common with most small communities, news in Thrush Green and Lulling has always spread with the rapidity of a forest fire.

  Sharp eyes that morning had seen Albert waiting at the coach stop. He was actually wearing a tie as well as his best dark blue suit, the one in which he had married Nelly at St Andrew's. At his feet stood a small case.

  Obviously, he was off on his travels, and where would that be? News of Nelly's illness had already gone the rounds, and it did not need much guesswork on the part of his observers to settle his destination.

  The coach stop was immediately outside The Fuchsia Bush, and Mrs Peters, the owner of this establishment, noticed Albert as she drove up to open the café. Ten minutes later Gloria Williams arrived on foot, and soon after that her co-worker Rosa entered their place of work.

  The coach was late, and Albert was shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.

  'No doubt Nelly's took a turn for the worse,' surmised Rosa. 'I did hear she was in the intensive.'

  'What's that when it's at home?' queried Gloria, licking her fingers and arranging a curl over one eyebrow. it's where they put you when it's touch and go,' Rosa explained. 'You're all wired up to a television thing for the nurses to watch.'

  'And Nelly's that bad?'

  'I expect so,' said Rosa with evident satisfaction. 'Can't see old Smiley there bothering to go and see her if she was just in an ordinary ward.'

  'My mum said no one wasn't allowed to see people when they was wired up like you say.'

  Rosa was somewhat put out by this sudden display of medical knowledge from a junior.

  'Oh! Know it all, do you?' she enquired, with heavy sarcasm. 'Perhaps you can tell me—'

  But at this moment, Mrs Peters came hurrying through from her swift inspection of the kitchen, and the two girls broke off their discussion to collect their overalls and to appear moderately active.

  'Come along, girls,' cried their bustling employer. 'No time for gossip! The tables need dusting, and one of you must hurry along to Abbot's. We're nearly out of butter.'

  Gloria cast a resigned look at her colleague behind Mrs Peter's back, and at that moment the London coach drew up with a dreadful squealing of brakes.

  The door opened automatically. Albert picked up his case and mounted the steps. Within a minute he was on his way, all his movements having been watched by the three ladies behind the window of The Fuchsia Bush.

  Betty Bell was full of the drama when she blew into the Shoosmiths' house at Thrush Green 'to put them to rights'.

  'Fancy our Albert making such a trip! I bet he wouldn't have gone if he'd been left to himself though. They say Mr Jones gave him the rough side of his tongue, and Ben and Molly put the pressure on too. I'd dearly like to be a fly on the ceiling when he sees his Nelly in hospital. What's the betting he takes her some flowers? Or a bunch of grapes? I don't think! The mean old devil! Want your study done over?'

  Harold looked helplessly at his wife. She came swiftly to the rescue, as always.

  'Bedrooms today, Betty. I did the study yesterday.'

  'Righty-o! I'll lug the vacuum up.'

  She made for the kitchen, but lingered in the doorway.

  'They say she's pretty bad, you know. Trouble with her breathing. Well, with all that fat and her being so short in the neck it's not surprising. My auntie was the same. Never had a cold but what it was bronchitis. Doctor Lovell took her off butter but it never did any good. Now it's all this fibre nonsense. Everyone comes out of that surgery being told to eat bran these days. Last year it was no animals fats, and the year before that no sugar. I s'pose we'll all be on hay or silage this time next year. Funny folk, doctors, I reckon.'

  'Who told you that Mrs Piggott was seriously ill?' said Isobel, trying to stem the tirade against the medical profession.

  'Why, Percy Hodge! He was just coming out of The Two Pheasants as I was leaving the school yesterday. Been in to get his courage up to face that Doris of his, I don't doubt. Now, there's a fine how-do-you-do. She's real sharp with poor old Perce. He has to take his shoes off outside the back door, and then she hands him a clothes brush to have a clean-up in case he's got any bits of straw and that on him. You'd hardly credit it, would you? And she once a barmaid. '

  'But Nelly—' broke in Isobel.

  'Ah yes! Well, Perce said Mr Jones had told him he'd read a letter of Albert's that said she was at her last gasp.'

  'Oh dear!'

  'One thing, I bet she ain't calling for Albert, ill though she is. And I wonder what she'll say when the old misery turns up at her bedside? Enough to give her a prolapse.'

  'I think it's "relapse",' said Harold.

  'That as well, I shouldn't wonder,' conceded Betty. 'I'll get that vacuum cleaner. Standing here listening to you running on won't buy the baby a new frock, will it?'

  She vanished through the door, and the Shoosmiths exchanged conspiratorial glances.

  'I think I could do with a second cup of coffee,' said Harold handing over his cup.

  'I'll join you,' said his wife.

  April was at its loveliest that year, the first spring that Charles and Dimity had enjoyed in their new home at Lulling.

  Charles woke early one April morning and lay quietly watching the changing sky. The first apricot warmth faded slowly to pink and then to a clear shade of lemon yellow.

  Charles watched the young leaves fluttering in silhouette against their changing background. A dove cooed. A blackbird poured forth a liquid stream of bird music, and the metallic call of a nearby wren added to the dawn chorus.

  As the day brightened into silvery light the birds became more active, swooping from trees to earth, from hedge to further hedge, in their search for food and nesting material. The air seemed full of their activity, and the flutter of wings and the varied cries brought the morning to life.

  Charles lay beside his sleeping wife savouring this joyousness of spring. Truly, his lot had been cast in pleasant places, he thought, as he watched the sun burnishing the eastern side of the ancient cedar tree.

  It was good to have a quiet contemplative time now and again. He recalled one of Wordsworth's sonnets learnt long ago at school:

  The world is too much with us: late and soon,

  Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

  Little we see in Nature that is ours;

  We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
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  His own day, Charles knew only too well, was a succession of activities which kept him busy mentally and bodily. Somehow one was always looking ahead, planning the next move, trying to cut down time. And in all this bustle the present was lost. The daisy opened, closed and died. The chaffinch threaded the last shred of moss into its nest before sitting. The sun reached the point in the heavens when the weathercock turned to gold. And all these wonders passed unremarked, because the clock on the mantelpiece gave stern reminder of the service at three-thirty, the visit to a sick parishioner at five o'clock, and the meeting of the Parochial Church Council at eight sharp.

  Charles Henstock was the first to honour his duties towards God and his neighbours. But what a bonus it was, he told himself as he stretched his toes luxuriously in the warmth of the bed, to have these precious moments of just being, of becoming aware of all the other lives impinging on one's own, and of having time to give thanks for such revelation.

  He sat up, being careful not to disturb his wife, and gazed out of the window. There was a heavy dew. It looked more like September than April. The grass shimmered and glittered in the low rays of the rising sun. Each little spear, it seemed to Charles, bore a shining droplet. How many thousands would there be, he wondered, clustered beneath the trees, spreading far and wide, almost to the church itself?

  Surrounded by leaves! All sorts of shapes and sizes, large and small, green and gold, smooth and rough, some aromatic, some not, but all breathing entities, as far as the eye could see!

  He found the thought strangely moving and comforting. It put his own life into perspective. It made him more sharply aware of his modest place amidst such a wealth of living things. The trees he looked upon now would still be there when he himself had gone. And that little jewelled chaffinch, rose-breasted and blue-capped, which fluttered at the window, would have become a lacework of small ivory bones long before he himself took the same way home.