by Miss Read
However, all agreed that such an old friend should be welcomed again to Lulling, and much thought went into the best way to entertain him.
'A tea-party seems rather feminine,' announced Ada, 'and I don't think we are up to a formal dinner party, what with cleaning all the silver, and getting Mrs Fox in for the evening to wait at table.'
'Besides the expense,' pointed out Bertha.
'Besides the expense,' agreed Ada.
Violet held her tongue.
'So it boils down to lunch,' said Ada. 'I suggest we ask Justin and his wife, now he has retired, and Winnie Bailey.'
'It makes rather a monstrous regiment of women,' protested Bertha, 'with the three of us.'
Ada considered the problem.
'Well, I really can't think of any unattached men whom we could invite. Men are so thoughtless in the way they die before their poor wives. For every widower or bachelor in Thrush Green and Lulling there must be half a dozen lone women. It really is trying!'
Violet now ventured to speak.
'He won't expect us to have even numbers. After all, he knows our circumstances. If justin and Lily are here to keep us all company, I think it will make a very nice little party. And you know that six fit very comfortably round our dining room table.'
Her sisters looked at her with approbation.
'You are quite right, dear. Let's leave it at six, and I'll send out invitations today. We might think of an easy meal to serve too. Cold, do you think?'
'Definitely cold,' said Bertha. 'And people can help themselves. Salad, of course, though lettuces are a terrible price at the moment.'
'We have our home-made green tomato chutney,' replied Ada brightening, 'and those spiced pears are perfectly good if we lift off the mildew at the top.'
'We should have baked potatoes then,' said Violet, asserting herself. 'And soup first. It looks more welcoming, and our dining room can be very cold, as you know.'
'As you wish, dear,' said Ada with some hauteur. 'Frankly, I see no need for a feast, but if you like to make yourself responsible for the soup course and give an eye to the baked potatoes in the second, I see no reason to object. Gentlemen do seem to need more than we do.'
'Then I think we should have a fruit tart for pudding,' went on Violet, encouraged by her success. 'A hot apple tart is always popular.'
'I thought of doing one of my cold shapes,' put in Bertha. 'Made with some of our bottled gooseberries it could be quite acceptable.'
'We'll have that as well,' said Violet firmly. 'We shall need a choice.'
Her two sisters exchanged glances. Was Violet going to be silly all over again? And at her age?
Flinging caution to the winds, Violet entered the fray again.
'And we must order some cream,' she added. Ada and Bertha drew in their breath sharply. The expense!
'Double cream!' added their renegade sister, pink and reckless.
What was the world coming to?
9. Dotty Harmer Has Visitors
THE INHABITANTS of Thrush Green awoke on May the first to a morning of such pearly beauty that they remembered, with a lift of the heart, that the loveliest of months had begun.
But there were some among them whose exhilaration was tempered with a certain sadness. These were the people who remembered, with poignant clarity, that May the first, for many years, meant the excitement of old Mrs Curdle's famous fair.
Ben Curdle, her grandson, had particular cause to recall it as he cycled by the green to work on that glistening morning.
It was he who had been forced to sell the business a few years earlier and to leave the nomadic life, which he had always known, for a settled existence at Thrush Green with Molly and the two children.
He did not regret the change. It was a decision which had to be made. The fair was running down after Mrs Curdle's death, beaten by more sophisticated pleasures such as television and bingo.
Ben knew that he was fortunate to sell when he did. The price had been a good one. Molly was glad to be near her father, miserable old curmudgeon that he was, thought Ben privately, and young George Curdle had settled well at Thrush Green village school. The Youngs were the kindest of landlords, and Ben enjoyed the work he had found as a mechanic in the local firm of agricultural engineers.
Nevertheless, as he mounted his bicycle that May morning he felt a pang of nostalgia. He remembered the clopping of hoofs as the old horse-drawn caravan had threaded its way through the deep lanes of southern England. He recalled the thrill of finding satin-skinned mushrooms in the dewy grass, and the smell of them cooking with bacon on Gran's minute stove. He could hear now the small intimate sounds of early morning, the birdsong, the snuffle of the horse at its nosebag, the rattle of the frying pan. Later, the noises would turn to the clamour of the fair; men shouting, swingboats creaking, the raucous music from the roundabouts and the shrill cries of excited children.
And through it all, running like a linking theme through this orchestration, was the low and sometimes harsh voice of his beloved grandmother. She had been a despot, a benevolent one to Ben, but not to any of her employees who shirked hard work.
She was on duty every hour, and expected the same unswerving loyalty from all who travelled with her. It was one of the qualities which had given Curdle's Fair its name for complete reliability. If the Fair was due to arrive on a certain date, then without fail it would be there. Ben could remember floods, breakdowns to the waggons, sudden illnesses and once, between High Wycombe and Marlow, a wicked storm which had sent a jagged fork of lightning upon one man, Jem Murphy, who was leading his frightened horse, and who had to be taken to hospital suffering from shock and burns.
Even so, the Fair had arrived punctually at its next destination, Ben remembered with pride.
Ah! It had been a good life, and a good training for a boy! Old Gran had taught him right from wrong and had set him standards of behaviour which were now standing him in good stead. He could only hope that he could pass on those standards to his own children.
He took a deep breath of fresh morning air, and pedalled energetically towards his work.
No good looking back, he told himself. Times changed, and perhaps for the better. He would buy Molly a box of chocolates on his way home to celebrate the first of May. She would understand.
An hour or two later Winnie Bailey and Jenny, her friend and maid, were recalling Mrs Curdle and the Fair.
To tell you the truth, Jenny,' said Winnie, busily rolling out pastry at the kitchen table, 'I was about to throw out those bunches of artificial flowers that have been gathering dust on the top shelf of the landing cupboard, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.'
'I should hope not,' replied Jenny. 'Why, Mrs Curdle made them with her own hands! And I bet if you put them in the dustbin George Fry'd pick 'em out and return them to you. He'd know, as a dustman, just where everything came from. You wouldn't get rid of Mrs Curdle's flowers as easy as that!'
'I think I should have burned them,' confessed Winnie. 'They're made of fine wood-shavings, you know. But it wasn't that which held me back. It was just that I remembered how dear old Mrs Curdle looked when she handed over a new bunch every first of May. They'll just have to stay there, I'm afraid. But I wonder what the person will think when he or she comes to clear up this house when I'm gone!'
'No sense in talking like that,' said Jenny sturdily. She mopped the draining board briskly. 'You've years ahead of you yet.'
'I hope so. Especially when it's a morning like this. Weil get our little jobs done quickly today, Jenny, and make sure we get out in the sunshine. I'm going to take some magazines to Miss Harmer this afternoon.'
'Well, I wouldn't stop to tea,' advised Jenny. 'I hear she's taken to making her own bread.'
'Thank you for warning me,' said Winnie.
Winnie Bailey was not the only one making for Dotty Harmer's house near Lulling Woods.
Stepping briskly up the hill to Thrush Green was Kit Armitage, a carrier bag swinging in his hand. He
was some ten minutes behind Dr Bailey's widow, and admired, as she so recently had done, the gauzy green of the young leaves in the avenue on Thrush Green, and the pyramids of tight lilac buds to be seen in the gardens.
A robin accompanied him along the path leading from the green to the fields where Dotty's cottage lay snugly embedded. The bird bobbed ahead of him on the dry stone wall, bowing and chirruping. Was he trying to distract his attention from some nearby nest, Kit wondered?
It was good to have this little companion. Kit admired the smooth plumage, the flaming breast, the bead-bright eyes. He, or perhaps she, thought Kit, as somewhere he remembered reading that male and female looked alike, was a fine specimen, and he fell to wondering if a clutch of small pink-spotted eggs was hidden nearby, and hoped that all would turn into splendid replicas of the bird before him.
Dotty's cottage came in sight. He appreciated the way that the grey thatched roof faded into the folds of land around it. Dotty's garden was extensive, and it was adjoined by a paddock of almost two acres. No wonder Dotty in her time had been able to give her love of animals full scope. Ponies, donkeys, goats, pigs and sheep had at one time or another had the paddock as their home, and a small pond at the end of the garden had been a playground for endless generations of ducks and geese.
Nowadays the pond was used by only ten or so ducks. Dulcie, the goat, lived in solitary splendour in the paddock, and had the sturdy goat-house for her sole use. Not that she often deigned to sleep inside. Dulcie preferred the roof of the shed even in snowy weather. She was just as contrary as any other of her species.
A small pebble had found its way into Kit's shoe, and he was obliged to lean against the stone wall and unlace his shoe. Standing there, on one leg, he surveyed Dotty's little estate with an admiring eye.
There was no doubt about it, the house and its acre or two made a very pretty picture. It was what estate agents would call 'a desirable property'. It was remarkably quiet tucked away from Thrush Green, and yet had an entrance on to a side road which led into Lulling and villages further west.
There was a small orchard near the house, just beginning to come into leaf. Soon, Kit surmised, there would be a pink and white froth of blossom to add to the general enchantment.
As he watched, a figure emerged from the door, carrying a bright orange plastic bowl. Although Kit could not see them, he heard the frenzied squawking of hens hurrying towards their meal.
He recognised the figure as his newfound friend Connie, and obviously she was giving the hens an early supper. Perhaps she was going out later, he thought, bending down to lace his shoe. Surely hens were fed about dusk? Not that he was an expert on such matters, he was the first to admit.
But he hoped suddenly that Connie was expecting to go out. Much as he admired dear crazy old Dotty, he was sorry for this gallant niece who seemed to have very little fun, but who never complained of the lack of it. From the few times he had met her, Connie appeared to him to be completely selfless, and yet at the same time refreshingly free from the solemnity which so often accompanied that saint-like quality.
He liked her laughter, her strong sense of the ridiculous. He liked her gentleness with her odd charge. He liked the way she appreciated the books and records he lent her, and he was sure that those in the carrier bag, now resting on a fine clump of coltsfoot by the wall, would be enthusiastically welcomed.
Altogether, he thought, stamping his foot to make sure the shoe was as it should be, he just liked Connie.
He strode along the path, happy to think that he would be in her company for the next hour or so.
Albert Piggott, upstairs in his bedroom, had noted the passing of Winnie Bailey and then Kit Armitage along the lane that ran beside his cottage.
He was in the act of trying to fit a piece of cardboard into one of the window-panes. A sudden gust of wind had wrenched the window from its shaky fastening one night, and one pane had shattered.
Albert was getting tired of the moaning noise and the fearful draught when he was abed, and at last had decided to do something about it. By rights, he should inform the rector who would see that a proper glazier did the job, and the church would pay the bill, for Albert's cottage was church property.
'But by the time I've been all through that rigmarole,' grumbled Albert to his cronies at The Two Pheasants, 'I'd be down with the pneumonia, and in me grave, dug with me own hands, I don't doubt.'
'Won't hurt you to patch it up,' said the landlord heartlessly. 'See you all right for a bit until the rector can find a proper man for the job.'
'You saying I'm not a proper man?' queried Albert nastily. 'I can keep my place up together as well as the next.'
'Well, it don't look like it did when your Nelly was there,' asserted Mr Jones, unrepentant.
Albert had choked into his beer mug at the mention of his wife's name, and had departed very soon afterwards.
'Proper touchy, old Albert,' said one man to another. 'Don't dare mention his Nelly, that's for sure.'
It was immediately following this conversation that Albert had started his repair work. Now, cardboard still in hand, he crossed the small landing to the back bedroom, now unused, to follow the progress of the travellers towards Lulling Woods.
'Ah!' said Albert to the cat which had followed him upstairs. 'Off to see old Dotty, I'll be bound. I wish 'em joy of her tea table if they stay that long.'
He stood for a few moments watching the scene, and then returned to his own bedroom which looked out upon St Andrew's church. It was there that he and Nelly had wed, worse luck!
A tremor shook him as he thought of the awful possibility of his wife returning. What was the position, he wondered? If she'd left him of her own free will then surely he would not be obliged to have her back? He supposed that, in the eyes of the law, he was still married to the wicked old besom, for that's what she was, he told himself, edging the cardboard gingerly over the damaged glass.
If only it did not cost good money he would go to one of those solicitor fellows like Justin Venables and ask for advice. But then he might suggest a divorce, and though it would be nice to be free again, there'd be the hell of a lot of gossip about it at The Two Pheasants, and the rector might give him a talking-to and tell him to forgive and forget and all that stuff.
Women were kittle-kattle, thought Albert morosely, giving a sharp tap to an awkward corner. A man was better off without them. He wanted no more truck with Nelly, and if she was so bold as to come to Thrush Green again he'd run her out of town, that he would!
Emboldened by this sudden blaze of spirit he gave the cardboard a last shove. There was a sickening crack, and a moment later, the distant tinkle of shattered glass hitting the pavement. At the same time, the cardboard buckled and fell inward upon the grimy bedroom floor.
A stiff breeze blew into the room stirring the net curtains.
'Lord love us!' shouted Albert. 'It's enough to drive a man barmy!'
He stumbled towards the stairs, the cat fleeing from his wrath before him.
He wrenched open the front door, and nearly fell over a diminutive figure about to post a note about the school jumble sale through the letter box. One of Miss Fogerty's more trustworthy pupils gazed at Albert with round blue eyes.
'Mr Piggott, sir! Your top window's bin and fell out,' he announced importantly.
Albert's reply was terse and to the point. When the small boy repeated it to his mother, later that day, he was sent into the scullery to wash out his mouth at the sink, poor child.
At Dotty's cottage the two visitors were prevailed upon to stay to tea.
Kit had accepted the invitation with alacrity. Winnie had begun to demur, Jenny's warnings still in mind.
As if she read her thoughts, Connie said: 'It's all very simple. Just some scones I've just taken out of the oven, and a pot of honey that Dimity gave me.'
'I can't resist hot scones and honey,' said Winnie, settling back in her chair.
She turned to Dotty.
'And
are you eating well now? I expect Connie plies you with all sorts of goodies.'
'I've a better appetite now that I can get into the garden,' said Dotty. 'There are some beautiful young nettles in the paddock that I should cook if I could get there, but Connie says the spinach from the freezer has more vitamins, so we had that today.' is that the stuff Popeye the Sailor-man used to eat in our youth?' asked Kit. 'He was welcome, from the look of it.'
Connie laughed.
'Very strengthening, you know. But tell me all the news from your end of Lulling. How are Charles and Dimity?'
'Working too hard as usual, and Charles is still worrying about those confounded kneelers. Some battle-axe—' he stopped suddenly. 'Not a friend of yours, I hope? I'm still putting my foot in it, forgetting how everyone is related in these parts.'
'If you mean Frances Thurgood,' replied Connie with spirit, 'I don't think she has many friends. Not in this house anyway. Aunt Dotty can't bear her ever since she caught her putting poison down by her garage. She said she had rats, but Aunt Dotty ticked her off about other animals picking up the stuff, and there was a right royal battle.'
'How did Dotty come across this scene?'
'She'd been invited to lunch, I gather, but after telling Frances what she thought of her, she stumped off. There's a lot of her father in Dotty, you know.'
'A very strong character,' agreed Kit, looking across the room at the two women engaged in animated chatter. 'You don't find her too demanding?' he asked diffidently.
'I can't deny that she can be very self-willed,' replied Connie, in a low voice, 'but she is very dear to me, and I'd never leave her. We get on well, and I think she realises that she must have someone at hand, and she would rather have me than anyone else. It's a very pleasant place to live in.'
'I just wondered if you would ever be free to come out with me one evening? I know Charles and Dimity want to ask you too, but to be frank, they asked me to see how you were placed with Dotty-sitters.'
