by Miss Read
'Really? How very kind!' exclaimed Janet, sounding quite enthusiastic. 'I think I will ring him now and find out more about it.'
'An excellent idea,' agreed Charles. 'And I hope you don't think me impertinent for mentioning your name to him.'
'Far from it. It was excessively kind of you. Especially in the—er—circumstances.'
'Not at all.'
'Well, a thousand thanks, anyway. I'm really rather at a loose end, and it will be lovely to have something useful to do. I'll let you know what happens.'
'Thank you,' said Charles. 'I should be interested.'
He rang off, and bent to stroke Polly.
'And how is the wretched girl,' asked Dimity, with a smile.
'Not quite so wretched,' Charles told her.
The days of early autumn were warm and cloudless. The tractors were busy in the fields turning over the golden stubble in long chocolate-coloured furrows.
The sun was still pleasantly warm. The plums and apples were ripening, and prudent housewives were busy storing the last of the runner beans and late peas in readiness for the winter.
Agnes Fogerty, greatly rejuvenated by her few days at Torquay, was now back in the classroom, and Mrs Trent reverted to her half-day's remedial work with backward, or possibly less-able, children.
Edward Young was now at the interesting stage of deciding on the best colours for interior and exterior decoration of his masterpiece. There was still plenty to be done for, as is usual during building operations, it seemed that one operator was always waiting for another to do something before the former could begin. The plasterer waited for the plumber. The plumber waited for the electrician. The electrician waited for the electricity board to supply the correct poles and wires, and so the merry-go-round went on.
'Some time,' cried Edward to Harold Shoosmith, 'I suppose it will get done. In the meantime, I'm trying to visualize what yellow walls would look like in the kitchens.'
'Depends on your mood,' observed Harold. 'They might make you feel sunny or bilious. I suppose the homes have all been allotted by now?'
'I wouldn't know, but I think it's likely. The council copes with that, and I don't envy it the job. I've heard they could be filled five times over.'
'You'll be getting on with the next few then, I take it?'
'Oh well,' said Edward cheerfully, 'these will change hands quite quickly, what with the "natural wastage" as it's so prettily expressed.'
'Deaths, do you mean?'
'That's right. Let's face it, Harold, most of them are on their last legs when they get one of these. However, it's jolly good luck for those on the waiting list, isn't it?'
He smiled brightly at his friend and mounted a ladder nimbly to inspect some guttering.
'It's strange, isn't it,' said Harold to Isobel later, 'how differently people look at life? Or death, for that matter.'
That afternoon Dimity was sitting in her drawing room mending her own and Charles's underclothes.
It was a job which she did not enjoy, and one which she had put off for so long that the pile beside her on the sofa was now formidable.
Polly lay beside her on the floor, thumping her fringed tail whenever Dimity spoke to her. Dimity often wondered what thoughts lay behind those odd eyes and the satiny head. Did she think of Tom? Did she secretly pine for him? Or was she as contented as she seemed to be, staying at the vicarage?
Dimity was a great animal lover, and secretly thought the idea, held by some people, that animals' spirits did not survive death, was desperately wrong. If goodness were anything to go by, there were a dozen or more cats and dogs known to her who had far more noble qualities than their owners. She dare not tell Charles of her beliefs, although she suspected that he felt as she did.
She put down the petticoat she was mending and gazed about her. Everything came to its end at a different age. Look at that lampshade, for instance, made by dear Ella for her last birthday, and already unravelling at the seams. And yet the chest it stood on had been her grandmother's, and had been made between 1780 and 1800 according to an expert in such matters. That surely would survive for another hundred years or so.
Or take Polly. She stroked the smooth head, and the dog thumped her tail with pleasure. Her end must come within the next two or three years. The roses on the table would be over in two or three days. It was an interesting thought.
At that moment, the telephone rang and Dimity put aside the petticoat.
A girl's voice spoke.
'Is your husband at hand, Mrs Henstock? It's Janet here.'
'Janet?' queried Dimity. She found it difficult to recognize voices on the telephone, and she knew three Janets.
'Janet Thurgood,' said the girl.
'No, I'm afraid he's visiting,' said Dimity, trying to disguise the coldness in her tone. 'Can I take a message for him? He will be back for tea.'
'It's just that I have started work at the gallery, and simply love it. John Fairbrother is such a dear, and I haven't been so happy for months. And it's all thanks to your kind husband. Please tell him.'
Dimity thawed at once. Praise of Charles was the surest way to her heart.
'He'll be delighted to hear it,' she said warmly. 'And so am I.'
17. Future Plans
IT WAS by means of the competent bush telegraph of Thrush Green and Lulling that Nelly Piggott first heard of the probable return of Mrs Jefferson to her kitchen duties at The Fuchsia Bush.
Albert had heard the news in The Two Pheasants. His informant was his young assistant Cooke, and he had heard it from Betty Bell who had heard it from the postman, Willie Bond, who was her cousin. Regretfully, no one seemed to know who had told Willie.
How much the tale had been embellished or confirmed in its roundabout journey, Nelly could not say, but she did know that quite often a rumour ran about several weeks before the fact emerged. She was very upset, but did her best to disguise it.
'I'd have thought Mrs Peters would have said something if that's true,' she told Albert. 'Always been straight with me. I bet this is some barmy idea one of your friends next door has thought up when he was half-seas-over.'
'Well, you wait and see,' replied Albert, nettled at the response to his bit of news.
She did not have to wait long. Mrs Peters met her in the kitchen of The Fuchsia Bush a few days later. It was the first thing in the morning, and they were alone.
The owner came to the point at once. She had been giving a good deal of thought to this tricky problem, but was determined to try to keep Nelly if she could. The sales of home-made cakes, at which Nelly excelled, had risen sharply since her arrival in the kitchen.
'If you would be willing to take sole charge of the cake side,' said Mrs Peters, 'I'm sure Mrs Jefferson will be able to cope with the rest. She will be coming in at ten o'clock for a little while, just to see how things go. That would help over the lunch time, and once that was cleared away she would go home. The new kitchen maids seem capable girls.'
Nelly agreed to all these plans with fervour. It meant that she would have the kitchen to herself for the first hour or so of the day, and this she relished. It also seemed that she could fit the afternoon hours to please herself.
'Take two afternoons off,' said her employer. 'We may be able to work out something half-time for you and for Mrs Jefferson, but we'll have to see how things go for the time being.'
When Nelly told Albert about these temporary arrangements he was somewhat smug.
'What'd I tell you? Now the old girl's back, same as we was told. Two afternoons off a week's not bad going either. You thinking of taking another little job?'
'No, I'm not,' responded Nelly flatly, i might spend one evening at Bingo. Must have a bit of fun now and again, and Mrs Jenner mentioned it to me the other day. She goes regular. Sees a bit of life there, she says.'
Which made it plain that Nelly was beginning to find her usual form.
'Well, I only hopes you keep the housekeeping money separate from your own bit,' r
eplied Albert, damping down any unnecessary revival of spirits.
It was about this time that Charles Henstock heard that Tom Hardy was back at home and asking to see him. He was quite fit enough to manage to cope with Polly, was the message, and would take it kindly if the reverend could bring her home one day.
Dimity said farewell to her charge with real regret. She patted the docile old lady as she sat meekly on the back seat of the car.
'Take these too, dear,' said Dimity handing over a basket. 'They will save Tom bothering with catering for a day or two.'
Charles drove circumspectly towards the river. The willow trees were pale gold in the autumn sunshine. Soon they would be stripped bare by the first winds of winter. Already there were drifts of crisp leaves beneath the beech and horse chestnut trees, and chrysanthemums and dahlias outnumbered the roses in Lulling's front gardens.
There was already a chill in the air at dawn and dusk. Dimity had lit the fire in the drawing room on several recent evenings. Far too soon the curtains would be drawn at tea time, and the long dark nights would be upon them.
Not that Charles was wholly sad at the prospect. There was something remarkably satisfying about the domestic side of winter. He enjoyed splitting the logs that Tom had supplied earlier in the year, before his illness had struck him down. He liked piling them in the hearth, ready for the evening's comfort. He relished the long hours of reading or listening to his beloved Mozart on their ancient record player.
Secretly too, he was relieved to see the garden at rest for a few months. He knew quite well that such a vast expanse would benefit from the attention of a full-time gardener, if not two, but Charles's salary would not rise to it. He was lucky to have Caleb's help and advice, but it was evident that the garden was not kept in the pristine state it had been during Anthony Bull's incumbency.
In the winter, with the curtains safely drawn across, the garden was hidden from Charles's eyes, and his self-reproach was lessened.
But although he relished the snugness of his new house and rejoiced to see Dimity so happy in it, the winter brought hardship outside. Despite the blessings of a welfare state, which Charles was the first to acknowledge, there were still families among his parishioners who were short of the basic needs of shelter, food and fuel. There were animals too who suffered, and this grieved the good rector sorely.
The wild birds who flocked around his bird table, the stray cat who came nightly from a neighbouring barn, were given his bounty and his blessing. But there were one or two dogs, chained to kennels, and a few poor farms where the sheep and cattle never seemed adequately fed and housed which touched Charles's tender heart. He spoke his mind to the owners of these unhappy creatures, for when his duty was clear Charles shirked nothing. Sometimes matters improved, sometimes not, and for all his flock, both human and animal, Charles knew that winter could be a cruel season.
As he approached Tom's cottage, basking in the thin sunshine, Polly began to show signs of excitement. She stood up on the seat, her nose pressed to the side window, and began to make curious little growling sounds which were new to Charles.
'Nearly home, Poll,' he told her. 'Soon see your master. Soon see old Tom, Poll.'
He drew into the grass verge, and fastened Polly's lead. The dog was now quivering with excitement and leapt from the car with more energy than Charles had ever seen.
She tugged so strongly that the rector was almost pulled of This feet. She began to bark, high frantic yelps of rapture, and at that moment the door opened and Tom stood there his arms wide in welcome.
Charles let go of the lead, and Polly raced across the gap between them, still yelping hysterically.
'Poll! Poll!'called Tom.
The old dog leapt upon him, almost knocking him down. Tom stooped to caress her, and she licked his face with her large pink tongue, making ecstatic little cries, and dancing on her back legs. Charles was much moved by this reunion.
'Well, Tom old boy, she knows who is her true master, doesn't she?'
'Ah! I knew she wouldn't forget. How's she behaved? Any trouble?'
'None at all,' Charles assured him, 'and we're both sorry to lose her.'
He paused on the threshold. The cottage was as spruce as ever, and Tom seemed quite strong, if somewhat thinner.
'I forgot the basket,' confessed Charles. 'You go in out of the wind, while I fetch it.'
By the time he returned, the old man was sitting in his wooden armchair with his feet propped up on a stool. Polly lay across his lap, almost covering him, with her head resting on his shoulder.
'You'll have to stay there for the rest of the day,' said Charles. 'It's quite apparent she's not going to let you get away again.'
'And I'm not going, sir, that's a fact. I'm managing well, and my good neighbour keeps things up together for me, and does a bit of shopping. I'll be all right now.'
Charles wondered if he should broach the subject of one of the new homes on Thrush Green, but felt that the matter could wait. He turned his attention to unpacking the basket instead.
Dimity had sent a home-made cake, some eggs and rashers and some kedgeree in a screw-top jar. There was also a packet of dog biscuits and the bone which Charles recognised as the residue from yesterday's leg of lamb.
'It seems you've both been provided for,' he said, setting out the provender. 'Now what can I do for you while I'm here? Do you want coal brought in, or anything fetched?'
'No indeed, sir. But if you like to put on the kettle, I'd be pleased to make you a cup of tea when I can get out from under this great silly of a dog.'
And the rector gladly obeyed.
The equinoctial gales came with unusual force, and the leaves came tumbling down. Housewives began looking out extra blankets and warmer underclothes, and those who had forgotten to order coal and logs during the summer, made hasty arrangements for quick deliveries.
'I don't like to sec it getting parky so early,' observed Mr Jones of The Two Pheasants. 'Makes you think of frosts, and my hanging baskets are still ablaze with colour. I don't relish bringing them in so soon.'
Next door at the school house Miss Watson and her assistant also deplored the sudden cold weather.
'We shall have to get the stove going if the weather stays like this,' said Dorothy. 'I must mention it to Betty.'
'But what about the office? You know they really frown upon the stoves being lit too early.'
'The office can lump it,' said Dorothy tartly. 'Good heavens, it's October this week, and I'm not having the children suffering. Nor you, Agnes, for that matter. You must be kept warm. We don't want you laid up again.'
'Oh, I shall be all right. My arthritis is really so much better since I've been doing my exercises.'
'Since you've been eating properly,' her friend corrected her. 'Which reminds me. I must leave those beef bones to simmer for stock before we go across to school. This weather makes one think of soup.'
Some half mile away, at Dotty Harmer's, Connie too was dealing with stock and was busy dicing vegetables to put in with a chicken carcase in Dotty's largest saucepan.
Kit had asked her to go with him to see yet another house, this time quite close at Nidden. He had arranged to pick her up at half past two. Dotty had declined the invitation, and said she preferred to take a nap but would see them at tea time.
As Connie chopped carrots and onions her spirits were high. She cherished this friendship with Kit, and knew it was something more than that on her part. As for Kit, who could say? He was cheerful, kindly, attentive and perceptive. She suspected, and hoped, that he too felt as she did. Farther than that she would not go in her thoughts, as things were at present.
One thing bothered her considerably. Why were the houses that he went to see so much too large for a bachelor? And why did he consider that so much garden was essential? Even if he proposed to marry again—and here Connie resolutely put aside the memory of the delectable Diana—there would be no children presumably. And he was not an avid gardener, nor a
man who would consider keeping animals. Connie did not like to broach the subject, but it did perplex her.
Squalls of rain were veiling Lulling Woods when Kit arrived, and Dotty, snuggled under the eiderdown, was glad that she was not facing the elements.
'Something smells good,' commented Kit.
'Only stock,' Connie told him. i often think it smells better than a whole dinner cooking.'
'Mrs Jenner cooks a great saucepan of odds and ends for her chickens,' Kit remarked. 'The most delicious scent floats up to my flat. Makes me quite hungry. She mixes in some sort of stuff called "Karswood". I tell her she ought to dish it up for us, it must be good enough.'
He held her mackintosh while she put it on, and they set out to the car through the blustery weather.
Mr Jones's hanging baskets were swinging in the wind outside the pub. A window was banging at Albert Piggott's, and the playground of Thrush Green school was awash with puddles.
'What a beast of a day! I was hoping to show you this latest house in brilliant sunshine.'
'Is it a large house?'
'Four bedrooms. Two bathrooms, and just over an acre of ground. The paddock next to it is up for sale too.'
Connie could keep silence no longer.
'Do you really need anything so big?'
There was silence for a few moments, and Connie wondered if he were offended. His face was serious.
'No,' he said. 'I don't need anything as big. Not for myself.'
A most unwelcome vision of Diana Oliver floated momentarily before Connie's inward eye, blotting out the flicking windscreen wipers and the view beyond.
The road widened here, and a fine beech tree towered on the left hand side. Russet leaves eddied beneath it in the whirling rain.
Kit drew up beneath it and turned to face Connie.
