(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green

by Miss Read

  Percy started as if stung by a wasp.

  'Divorce? But that costs money!'

  'Ah!' agreed Albert morosely. 'But anything worthwhile does, don't it?'

  They turned over this sad fact in unhappy silence.

  'What about half a pint?' said the sorrowing widower at last.

  And together they entered The Two Pheasants.

  Even as far away as Lulling, Percy Hodge's troubles were causing ripples. Charles Henstock, who had been relieved to find that Nelly had returned to the marital home and had understood that Doris's absence was simply a visit to her sister, was now dismayed to find that pressure was being exerted, yet again, for his ministrations.

  'I'm really most reluctant to interfere in any little upset between husband and wife,' he told Ella when she brought up the matter. 'Ten chances to one it will all blow over, and I shall simply appear as a meddler.'

  'Well, I can't see it would do any harm,' said Ella forthrightly, 'if you told Percy to fetch her back. And another thing, you could let him know he's a fool to keep throwing Gertie in Doris's face. What second wife is going to stand for that? I ask you!'

  'It would only add fuel to the fire,' exclaimed Dimity, rushing to her husband's support. 'You must see that it can only put Charles in a most difficult position. If Percy comes to him for advice, that's quite a different proposition, but I'm sure it's a case of "Least said, soonest mended" here.'

  'Well, I don't know,' protested Ella. 'If you've joined them together in holy matrimony I should have thought a bit of adhesive is needed if they come unstuck. Still, no doubt the bishop gives you guidance on this sort of thing.'

  Charles laughed.

  'He will if it ever gets to that stage, I'm sure. But at the moment I think we'll simply hope for the best.'

  'The best being Doris's return, I suppose? I'll tell you what. Poor Jenny will be jolly relieved if she does deign to come back.'

  As it happened, poor Jenny was destined to confront Percy within a day or two of this conversation.

  She had walked across to the post box at the corner of Thrush Green, and then decided to take a short walk along the Nidden road.

  The recent thunderstorm had cleared the air, and there was a freshness in the breeze that held a hint of early autumn. There were dahlias out in the gardens, great shaggy ones like floor mops, spiky ones of every hue from pale lemon to dark crimson, and dozens of the gay little pompom variety which Jenny loved best.

  She was admiring them in a cottage garden when she became conscious of Percy emerging from a field gate.

  It was too late to flee. Jenny stood her ground, as Percy approached.

  'Nice day, Percy,' she said civilly.

  'Would be if things was a bit different,' was his melancholy reply.

  Jenny scented danger and took evasive action.

  'Well, we'd all like some things different, I daresay,' she began briskly. 'Can't stop, Percy. I've got my ironing to do before tea.'

  She turned and set off at a smart pace towards her home. To her dismay she found Percy at her elbow, pouring forth a stream of self-pity.

  The well-worn phrases of 'never-understood-me', 'I-was-too-hasty-in-marrying-again' and 'I-always-tried-to-please-her' flowed like water off a duck's back as Jenny hastened along.

  But when Percy was rash enough to puff explosively, for their pace was punishing: 'It was always you I wanted, as you well knows, Jenny,' she stopped, so suddenly that Percy nearly tripped over her.

  Jenny faced him furiously.

  'Stop that, Percy Hodge!' she cried. 'You're a married man and I won't hear no more. Any more of this nonsense and I'll set the police on you, and that's flat.'

  Percy's mouth dropped open. The movement seemed to rouse Jenny to still greater heights of fury.

  'And take that to be going on with!' she added, giving a resounding slap to her suitor's cheek. It was delivered with such wholesale venom that Percy stumbled into the verge, and while he was recovering his balance, Jenny marched away in triumph.

  15. Under Doctor's Orders

  THE NEW school year was a few weeks old when little Miss Fogerty was taken ill.

  For the last two or three months she had diligently done her exercises, and tried to keep to Doctor Lovell's arduous diet.

  'I really think that my muscles have toned up very well,' she told Dorothy Watson, it's just that I seem to get so tired these days, and I have lost so much weight that my skirts are slipping down.'

  'You know what I think,' responded her friend. 'You are half-starved, my dear, and it's time John Lovell noticed it.'

  'But I see him regularly every six weeks,' protested Agnes, 'and he is delighted with my arthritis. He says my blood is very much purer than it was, and I'm making excellent progress.'

  'Towards the grave, at this rate,' commented Dorothy tartly. 'I really think you should go and see him. You're right down to skin and bone, Agnes, and far too pale.'

  'Well, I'm due to see him again in a fortnight's time. Weil see what he thinks then.'

  But it was in the same week, a golden one of mellow September sunshine, that little Miss Fogerty gave a small cry, rather like a kitten's, and slid to the floor from the breakfast table.

  Dorothy Watson was much alarmed. She knelt beside her unconscious friend and tried to remember all the right things to do to resuscitate the fainting.

  She had a fleeting memory of a railway poster seen in childhood of how to cope with those electrocuted. It showed a railwayman, complete with splendid moustaches, lying comatose, whilst another in gold braid—presumably the station master—was loosening the patient's collar as shown in Figure One.

  Agnes's collar did not need loosening, and Dorothy was just about to put a cushion under her head when Miss Fogerty opened her eyes and said quite lucidly:

  'It must be time for school.'

  'That can wait,' replied Miss Watson. 'You lie there, my dear, while I fetch a rug.'

  'Thank you,' agreed Agnes, with such docility that Dorothy's alarm grew.

  She hurried upstairs for a travelling rug and took the opportunity of looking from the bedroom window across to John Lovell's surgery. It was with relief that she saw his car was already there, but Miss Pick's, his secretary's, was not.

  Miss Pick, although an excellent secretary, was overanxious to spare her employer, so she frequently kept patients from talking to him on the telephone. It did not endear her to those in emergencies such as the one now confronting Dorothy.

  Agnes appeared to be dozing when she returned. She tucked the rug round her, closed the door carefully, and made her way to the telephone in the hall. She did not want Agnes to hear the conversation.

  John Lovell answered himself.

  'I'll bob over now,' he said, 'before surgery. I'll leave a note for Miss Pick, but no doubt I'll be back before she arrives. Just keep her warm and lying down.'

  He was heartily reassuring after examining the patient, and accompanied her upstairs to her bedroom.

  'Bed for the rest of the day,' he told her, 'and I'll be over this evening.'

  Dorothy followed him downstairs. She was fond of this conscientious doctor, and grateful for his prompt arrival, but this was not going to deter her from speaking her mind.

  'I can't help thinking, you know, that this results from that diet you prescribed. She seems to have been taken off all really nourishing food. She's lost far more than a woman of her size can stand, and her job is most demanding. I put this collapse down to weakness and anaemia.'

  John Lovell smiled indulgently.

  'Well, we'll see later. She seems to have been making pretty good progress so far under my treatment.'

  Miss Watson curbed any further comment. It could wait until Agnes was seen again this evening.

  She mounted the stairs again to see that her old friend had all that was needed for the next hour or so. The school bell was now ringing, and Agnes would be anxious.

  Miss Watson explained what had happened to the only other member of
staff at Thrush Green School.

  She was a fresh-faced young woman in her probationary year, and listened to her headmistress with some concern.

  She was genuinely fond of little Miss Fogerty and sad to hear of her sudden illness, but she felt even more anxious about her own ability to cope with the infants' class in her absence.

  'I shall take your class and mine together,' Miss Watson told her, 'until 1 can get the office to send me a supply. I know that Mrs Billing is free at the moment, and perhaps we can persuade Mrs Trent, who is due here for the half-day tomorrow, to stay on.'

  She went with her young assistant to see her settled in at the new classroom across the playground where Agnes usually held sway.

  The children seemed awed by the news of Miss Fogerty's indisposition, but considerably elated at having a new teacher.

  They began to converge upon her desk, full of news about their own illnesses, but Miss Watson soon put a stop to that.

  'You must stay in your desks until Miss Potter tells you to come out,' she commanded. 'I shall want to hear what good children you have been at the end of the day.'

  'I was sick last night,' announced a smug six-year-old in the front row. 'All over the clean counterpane. My mum said a swear word.'

  Miss Watson leant towards Miss Potter.

  'Keep them busy, dear,' she whispered. 'That's the secret.'

  She departed towards her own quarters, checked that her double class was obediently reading in semi-silence, and went to the school telephone in her own tiny office.

  She rang Isobel Shoosmith, her good next door neighbour, and told her what had happened to her old college friend.

  'To be frank, I'm not surprised,' said Isobel. 'She's been looking pretty groggy for weeks. At least this will make her rest. Don't worry. I'll go and see her now, and I can stay with her until you get over at playtime. Betty Bell's here, and Harold is about too, so don't worry if you are held up.'

  Much relieved, Dorothy Watson put down the receiver, and went to resume her duties.

  True to his word, Doctor Lovell came again before evening surgery and spent a quarter of an hour with his patient. At Agnes's request, Dorothy waited below until he had finished.

  'Well, how is she?' she asked anxiously, when he appeared in the sitting room.

  'Nothing that a rest and good food won't cure,' he told her. 'She's very run down, and needs fattening up. I think perhap's she's been more than usually conscientious about her diet.'

  'Agnes is always conscientious,' said Dorothy. She could have added a great deal more, but was wise enough to refrain.

  'And I want her to take some iron tablets. Here's the prescription. And of course, no going to work for a week at least.'

  'What about the diet? Should she try and keep to it?'

  'Well, no. I'd see she has plenty of milk, and a good light diet—eggs, fish, that sort of thing. I'll keep in touch.'

  Miss Watson, with commendable restraint, made no comment on this complete reversal of Agnes's treatment, and saw him to the door with sincere thanks for his help.

  'As I thought,' she said aloud, as she straightened the sitting room curtains, 'half-starved and anaemic! Poor little Agnes!'

  The warm September sunshine continued, and Agnes was soon able to sit out in the garden and enjoy her much-needed rest.

  It was during this fine week that Charles Henstock found himself the bewildered owner of a dog.

  It all began with the arrival of the milkman bearing a pint of gold top Jersey milk and an urgent message from Tom Hardy of the water-keeper's cottage.

  'He's ill abed, sir,' said the milkman, 'and says could you come? He said something about hospital tomorrow, but I couldn't hear it all, him speaking so low and that river fair rushing by. I said I'd tell you. He don't write all that well, and of course there's no telephone.'

  'Don't worry,' said the rector. 'I've a short service to take in half an hour and I'll go down there immediately after.'

  The milkman departed, and Charles told Dimity about it.

  'Probably wants a lift to the hospital tomorrow,' said Dimity. 'Are you free?'

  'I'm sure I can manage it,' answered the rector. 'I shall be glad to help old Tom in any way.'

  He was at the cottage by eleven o'clock. It meant leaving the car a little distance away, and walking across the spongy turf to Tom's door.

  This time he did not bother to knock, but entered by the back door, and began to mount the stairs.

  'You there, Tom? I'm coming up.'

  A grey muzzle pushed its way through the banister railings. Polly made no noise, but her plumed tail wagged in greeting.

  'In here, sir,' called Tom.

  He was propped up on pillows and looked unusually sallow.

  'And what have you been up to?' enquired Charles, drawing a chair to the bedside and sitting down. The Welsh collie put her head on his knee, and he stroked her silky neck automatically as he studied the dog's master.

  'Doctor wants me to have some tests in hospital. Something in my stomach, he says. Probably have to have it out, I shouldn't wonder.'

  'And you want a lift? I'm quite free to take you.'

  'No, no. That's all arranged for me. It's Polly.'

  'Polly?'

  The dog looked up with her one bright eye and one opaque, and wagged her tail on hearing her name.

  'My neighbour, Mrs Johnson, she's been seeing to me, and she was going to have Poll, but her bitch had six pups yesterday, and she'd go for Poll and anyone else she thought'd upset the pups, so the only person I could think of was you, rector. Polly's always taken to you, and she's a good obedient animal. I dare not leave her here, she'd fret so, even if she was fed regular, and I don't hold with kennels. She'd pine away there, that I do know.'

  Charles saw, with great pity, that tears were rolling down poor Tom's furrowed cheeks. He was obviously very weak and the anxiety about the dog was more than he could bear.

  Charles patted Tom's hand.

  'Of course I'll have her,' he said heartily, 'and for as long as you like. Dimity loves dogs as much as I do, and we'll take the greatest care of her. I take it as an honour to have been asked.'

  Tom gave a great sigh of relief.

  'Well, I don't mind now what they do to me. As long as old Polly's in safe hands, I'm content. You know, sir, you truly are a man of God.'

  'I should like to think I was,' said the rector humbly. 'Now, Tom, I'm going to get us both a cup of tea. I can find my way round your kitchen. I know everything's clearly labelled. Then you can tell me what I should know about Polly's diet and her routine before I take her off.'

  'You stay here, Poll,' said Tom. He was calmer now. The tears still glistened on his face, and he made no attempt to dry them.

  Charles went downstairs and waited for the kettle to boil. He admired again the simple, purely functional, furnishings. The tea pot stood by the kettle. The canisters on the mantelpiece were clearly labelled. A few plates, a mug or two and a cup and saucer were lodged on the rack over the sink. The drawer of the scrubbed kitchen table held a few knives, forks and spoons. Life could not be simpler, thought Charles, and found the place deeply tranquil.

  The milk was still on the step, and Charles poured it into the two mugs straight from the bottle.

  'Sugar?' he called up the stairs.

  'Not for me,' came the reply.

  He mounted carefully, a mug in each hand.

  They sipped in silence. Outside the River Pleshey splashed and gurgled. A blackbird chattered, and in the distance could be heard a pheasant's sharp croak.

  'My, that does you a power of good,' said Tom, putting his mug carefully on the stool by the bed. 'And now I'll tell you what Poll likes. Best of all she likes company, and that's why I couldn't leave her alone, for all Mrs Johnson promised to feed her. She eats anything you've got, scraps and that, and there's a sack of biscuits and some tins in the cupboard downstairs. I'd be obliged if you'd take 'em, sir. I'd feel better if you did.'

 
'I'll do that willingly,' said Charles. 'What about exercise?'

  'She don't need much these days, like me,' replied Tom. if she can potter about after you in the garden, she won't hurt. And you'd best take her lead. It's hanging on the kitchen door.'

  He fondled the dog's ears.

  'I do hope she won't be a bother. If I tell her you're her master for a bit she'll understand.'

  'I'll go and get the lead and take the mugs down,' said Charles, deeming it best to leave the two old friends together for a few minutes. 'Anything else I can get you?'

  'No, thank you all the same, sir. Mrs Johnson will be down in an hour, and she's coming with me to the hospital tomorrow.'

  'I'll come and see you as soon as they'll let me,' promised Charles, setting off with the mugs.

  He rinsed them at the sink, and replaced them on the rack. There was no sign of food anywhere for Tom, and he presumed that Mrs Johnson would be bringing him a light meal.

  He found the dog food and the lead and took the latter upstairs.

  Tom fastened it to Polly's collar.

  'Now you do as I told you,' he said earnestly. 'You're Mr Henstock's dog till I come back.'

  Much to Charles's relief Tom seemed quite calm, and Polly came with him without any fuss.

  'Good luck, Tom. I'll ring the hospital tomorrow and tell you how Polly's settled in.'

  'She'll be safe enough with you. I know that, and bless you I do, sir, with all my heart.'

  Polly led the way downstairs, across the grass and waited by the car door while Charles opened it.

  Without any demur, she jumped in and lay down on the back seat.

  Charles drove off gently. What would Dimity say, he wondered, when she saw their new visitor?

  He need not have worried. Dimity was overjoyed to have the quiet old creature, and the cat, after a preliminary hiss, decided to ignore the interloper.

  Charles was astonished and greatly touched by Polly's docility and ready obedience. As Tom had said, she liked company, and the only time she seemed at all disturbed was when a door opened. Then she looked up eagerly, as if expecting her old master, and when she found that he had not come back, she sighed, and drooped her head once more in resignation.