by Miss Read
'To cut the grass, straighten some of these tombstones, and get rid of that dreadful mess of weeds which has been an eyesore for months. That would be a start, anyway.'
Albert's anger now became tinged with self-pity. There was a decided whine in his tone when he replied.
'Well, that's all very fine and large, but a bit of tem'pry help don't go far. Since my operation I'm a sick man, as well you knows. It ain't that I'm not willing, but the flesh is weak, hacked about as I was by that ol' butcher Pedder-Bennett down the hospital.'
'You were extremely lucky,' said the rector severely, 'to have such a distinguished surgeon to operate on you. You might not have been here at all, if the Lulling Hospital staff had not worked so swiftly and so well.'
Albert did not reply, but turned to spit neatly behind the angel erected in pious memory of one Hepzibah Armstrong by her sorrowing husband. The rector, with Christian fortitude, restrained his temper.
'But that is exactly the point, Piggott,' he continued. 'We must rely on volunteer help. What else is there to do?'
'They used to have a few sheep in here in my Dad's time, to crop the grass. Be less bother than a lot of amachoors stamping about breaking things when I wasn't looking.'
The rector sighed.
'Well, we must think of every possible method, but the aim is plain and clear. We simply cannot have God's acre neglected like this. It is a disgrace to Thrush Green and an affront to all decent men, dead and alive. In the meantime, you must do the best you can, Piggott, and accept any help that we can muster.'
He strode to the gate, leaving Albert to digest this unpalatable morsel of news.
Working parties! Interfering old busybodies! Best cut across to "The Two Pheasants" for half a pint, he decided, setting off in the direction of that hostelry with more energy than he had shown that morning.
***
The rector had just reached his front door, when a high-pitched hallooing caused him to turn.
There, at the gate, was Dotty Harmer, Thrush Green's most famous eccentric. She was scrabbling helplessly at the latch of the gate, pulling it, as always, when it needed to be pushed, and becoming more and more breathless with her exertions.
'Let me, Dotty,' called the rector, hurrying to her aid. Two magazines slipped from her grasp to the ground, and as she bent to retrieve them her hat fell off. To the rector's surprise, he saw that it had a piece of elastic attached to it, but he could not recall Dotty ever having such a thing under her chin, as his sisters used to have as children. A less polite man might have tried to satisfy his curiosity with a blunt question, but Charles refrained.
'Thank you, thank you, Charles dear,' babbled Dotty, preceding her host up the path. As usual, Dotty's stockings were in concertinas round her skinny legs. Although Charles was a married man, he was hazy about the mechanics of keeping stockings at the correct tension. Dimity, he believed, had some sort of thing called a suspender belt, but surely these days ladies wore thin pantaloons – 'tights' did they call them? – which must be much simpler than tethering one's leg coverings. Perhaps Dimity could have a word with Dotty about these delicate matters? It really must be most uncomfortable for Dotty to go about like this.
By now they had entered the hall, but almost immediately Dotty turned, voicing protests, and practically capsizing the rector.
'No, I didn't mean to come in! I won't come in!'
'But you are in,' pointed out Charles patiently. 'Come through to see Dimity.'
'Well, I musn't stay,' said Dotty, turning round again, and resuming her progress with much agitation. 'I've so much to do before I go away.'
'Go away?' echoed Dimity, appearing at the kitchen door. 'What's all this about?'
'Oh, I'm not going for a day or two. As soon as it suits Connie, I shall be off.'
'I don't think I know Connie,' began Dimity.
'Connie? My Connie? You must know her! That niece of mine with the red hair. Used to lisp as a child, but grew out of it, I'm thankful to say.'
'And you are going to stay with her?' enquired the rector. 'Do sit down, Dotty.'
Dotty's agitation doubled.
'No, no! I really must go,' she said, remaining rooted to the spot.
'But I should very much like to sit down,' replied Charles patiently, 'but I can't if you won't.'
'I don't see why not,' said Dotty, hitching up one of the cascading stockings. 'Your joints are all in order, I take it?'
'I was brought up to stand whilst ladies were standing,' smiled Charles, 'and somehow I still do so. So please sit down.'
Dotty thumped down into a kitchen chair, and the rector and his wife followed suit.
'Satisfied?' said Dotty.
'Thank you, yes,' said Charles, sighing with relief. 'I've been talking to Piggott, and I must say it is an exhausting activity.'
'That churchyard's a disgrace,' pronounced Dotty.
'I know. That's what I was discussing with Piggott. He tells me that a few sheep used to graze there years ago.'
Dimity looked alarmed.
'I shouldn't think the relatives of the dead there would care to have sheep roaming about.'
'Why on earth not?' demanded Dotty. 'Very sensible arrangement, I should say. But why sheep? Why not let my two goats have the run of the graveyard? They'd keep it down beautifully.'
It was now the rector's turn to look alarmed. Dotty in pursuit of an aim was a force to be reckoned with. As the daughter of a long-dead local schoolmaster, whose discipline was still spoken of with shuddering, Dotty's spirit was militant and tenacious.
'I could take them up each morning,' continued Dotty, waxing enthusiastic, 'and bring them back for afternoon milking time. Or even milk them there, of course. Ella could slip across for her daily pint much more conveniently.'
'But Dotty –' began Charles.
He was swept aside. Dotty in full spate had the same overwhelming force as the River Niger in that condition.
'Mind you, you'd have to remove those round metal grid things with everlasting flowers stuck in them. The dear girls would be bound to try and eat them, and even goats would find those indigestible. Marble chippings couldn't do much harm, I imagine. Simply provide roughage. But we'd better take away the plastic vases.'
'I could not countenance goats in the churchyard,' trumpeted Charles fortissimo.
Dotty looked flabbergasted.
'Then why countenance sheep?'
'I have not said that I would countenance sheep,' replied Charles, in his usual dulcet tones. 'All I said was that once – many years ago – sheep, so Piggott assured me, and he may well be wrong, knowing Piggott, were allowed to crop the grass.'
'It's nothing short of racial discrimination!' exclaimed Dotty. Her face was becoming very flushed.
Dimity hastily changed the subject.
'Tell me about Connie, dear. I think I remember her now.'
Dotty allowed herself to be side-tracked, but Charles had the uncomfortable feeling that she would return to the attack shortly.
'My brother's child. David, you remember? Died last Spring?'
'Indeed I do.'
'Well, at last the lawyers have sorted things out – though why they take so long remains a mystery. David left a perfectly straightforward will. One or two small bequests to relatives and friends and the rest to Connie. A child of seven could have settled it during an afternoon, but here we are – months later – only just about to take possession. I'm going down to fetch my car.'
'Your car?'
'Yes, yes,' Dotty said testily.
She rose from the chair, dropping the magazines which she had been clutching the while.
'Thought I'd hand these in before I forgot them. Such a lot to do before setting off.'
'But can you drive?' asked Charles.
'Of course I can drive! I had a licence on my seventeenth birthday and I've always kept it up. Luckily, I shan't need to take a test.'
'But, Dotty dear,' said Dimity, 'I've never seen you driving, and I've
known you for quite twenty years.'
'Maybe, but it's all in order, and the car is taxed and insured. I quite look forward to the drive back.'
Charles and Dimity exchanged looks of horror behind their departing guest's back.
Charles spoke with some authority.
'Dotty, do I understand that you propose to make the return journey alone?'
'Naturally. Go down by coach, back in the car. Simplicity itself.'
'Can't you get a garage to deliver it for you? Or Connie? You see, things have altered since your driving days. The traffic, for one thing. And then, cars are quite different now. You might not be able to control it.'
Dotty's face became quite puce with indignation.
'Not able to control it?' she echoed. 'If I could manage Father's Studebaker and my dear little bull-nosed Morris, which tended to be temperamental, I don't mind admitting, then I can certainly drive David's car. Don't forget, I often sat in it when I was staying there. It was very easy to drive. David always said so.'
'Nevertheless,' said Charles, 'I think you should have someone with you. If need be, I will accompany you myself.'
'Rubbish! Stuff and nonsense!' exclaimed Dotty, making for the door.'I never heard such a lot of fuss about nothing. I wish I hadn't told you about my little legacy.'
She began to storm along the corridor to the front door, Dimity following her.
'Don't be upset, Dotty dear, and do think over Charles's offer. And, by the way, what is Connie's address, just in case we want to get in touch while you're away?'
'The Limes; Friarscombe, will find me,' said Dotty, struggling with the front door.
'And perhaps we'd better have the telephone number,' continued Dimity, opening the door. 'Just in case the goats come to any harm, you know.'
Dotty, for a brief moment, remained motionless, as the full horror of this possibility burst upon her.
'Sensible, Dimity. Friarscombe Two One Three. I'll see you about, probably, before I go.'
She set off down the path without so much as one backward look. Her stockings, Charles noticed, were in a highly dangerous state of decline.
Dimity returned to the kitchen, looking determined.
'Charles, we must get in touch with Connie and see that Dotty is kept from driving that car alone.'
'I quite agree. She really wouldn't be safe.'
'And nor would anyone in her path,' added Dimity.
'Heard about Miss Harmer's car?' enquired Betty Bell of her employer the next morning.
'No,' said Harold, removing a glass ash tray, in the nick of time, from the path of Betty's onslaught with a duster.
'She told me yesterday while I was giving her kitchen a going over. And did it need it? She's got a great cardboard box standing on that dresser of hers – why, it's been there ever since I started doing for her, and that's how long?'
She stood transfixed, frowning with concentration. Harold took advantage of the lull to rescue The Times hoping to find a more peaceful spot in which to peruse it.
'Must be all of eight years,' announced Betty, coming to life again and attacking the mantelpiece.
'And this box is absolutely chocker with bits she's cut out of newspapers. One of 'em was over twenty years old! Think of that! I'm telling you!'
'I know you are,' said Harold patiently.
'Well, at last I got her to let me sort it out, only we didn't get far. Know why?'
'No.'
'There was a mouse's nest down the bottom.'
'Good heavens!' exclaimed Harold.
'Not a modern one,' said Betty comfortingly. 'A proper broken down old thing it was – no babies or that! But still, a nest, and all made of chewed up paper. Quite pretty really. Miss Harmer was all for taking it into the village school for the children to see but I said not. I could just see Miss Watson's face if Miss Harmer took that thing out and sprinkled mouse confetti all over the floor. Besides, it's me that has to clear it up.'
'What's this got to do with the car?'
'Only that she told me while we made a bonfire of all the kitchen muck. Her brother's left her his car and she's going to get it on Friday.'
'I didn't know she drove.'
'She don't. At least, she hasn't for donkey's years. We all used to rush up into the hedge when we was kids if old Dot – I mean Miss Harmer – was coming.'
'I expect someone will drive her back,' said Harold, anxious to get to grips with The Times crossword. A swift glance had shown him that 'dairy cats' could easily be turned into 'caryatids' at 6 across.
'Rather them than me!' replied his help. 'Not that there'll be any need. She's driving it herself.'
'Good Lord!' exclaimed Harold, suitably shaken, and made his escape.
By the time night fell upon Thrush Green, Dotty's news was common knowledge, and consternation was rife.
Doctor Lovell, Doctor Bailey's young assistant, told his wife Ruth about the projected trip by one of his more difficult patients.
'But she's a perfect menace !' cried Ruth. 'She once took Joan and me to a fête, and I wonder we ever got back alive. How father and mother ever came to give her permission, I can't think. We were about ten and eight, I suppose. I had nightmares for weeks afterwards.'
'She certainly hasn't driven since I came here,' said her husband. 'Do you think you could offer to drive the car back?'
'With Dotty in it? Panting to get her hands on the wheel? You don't know what you're asking,' cried Ruth with spirit. 'And the answer is a resounding "No!"'
Doctor Bailey shook his tired old head when Winnie told him about Dotty's car.
'The same angel that guards drunkards will guard Dotty,' he told her, smiling.
'It's other people I'm thinking of retorted Winnie.
At the rectory, Charles had telephoned to Connie at Friars-combe and put forward the fears of all at Thrush Green. The reply was not very satisfactory.
'I'll do my best,' said the distant voice, 'but you know Aunt Dot.'
Sadly, the rector agreed that he did indeed.
He put down the telephone and turned to his wife.
'One last hope – Ella,' he said. 'She drives, and she can sometimes persuade Dotty to do things when other people have failed.'
'I'll go over tomorrow morning,' promised Dimity.
She found her old friend in the garden. Ella was picking runner beans, and successfully trampling upon a row of carrots next in line.
'They'll survive,' was her answer to Dimity's protests. 'Want some beans? Enough here to feed an army. All or nothing with runners, isn't it?'
'I'd love some. I'll pick them.'
'No, you won't. There's ample in the basket.'
She led the way back to the path stepping from carrot fronds to shallots and then on to the onion row. Dimity, wincing, picked her way after her.
Ella sat down heavily on the wooden seat by the back door, and began to remove her muddy shoes. Dimity sat beside her. The sun was already warm and she thought, yet again, what a wonderfully pleasant place the old cottage garden was. There was no such sheltered spot across at the rectory. She chided herself for disloyalty, and turned to Ella.
Her friend had produced the battered tobacco tin so familiar from times past. Ella began to roll one of her disreputable cigarettes.
'Well, what brings you over?' she asked, licking the edge of the paper.
'Dotty,' said Dimity. 'She's been left a car –'
'I know,' replied Ella, fumbling for matches.
'And she really can't drive, you know, and we're all so worried. Charles and I wondered if you could have a word with her, and persuade her to let you go with her –'
A cloud of pungent smoke polluted the morning air before Ella replied.
'You're too late, Dim my girl,' she said, slapping Dimity's thin thigh painfully. 'I saw her going down to catch the nine-thirty coach, case in hand.'
'But she said Friday!' cried Dimity, appalled. 'And today's Thursday!'
'I expect she got wind of all the
fuss,' said Ella, 'and decided to get away while the going was good.'
She struggled to her feet and retrieved the basket.
'Can't say I blame her,' she puffed, her grizzled head now wreathed in blue smoke. 'Dotty knows her way around for all her scatter-brained ways.'
She began to lead the way to the kitchen.
'You mark my words,' said Ella, 'she'll arrive back at Thrush Green safe and sound. They say the devil looks after his own, don't they?'
Later, beans in hand, and Ella's dire words ringing in her head, Dimity returned to the rectory to break the news to Charles.
She refrained from quoting Ella exactly. At times, she felt, her old friend expressed herself rather too forcefully. The rector's comment was typical.
'We can only hope that Connie will be given strength to prevail. It will need great courage to oppose Dotty.'
'It will need more to drive with her!' retorted his wife with spirit.
4 Driving Trouble
THE matter of St Andrew's churchyard continued to perplex the rector and the parochial church council.
At an emergency meeting it was decided to put up one or two notices in public spots asking for volunteers to help to tidy the graveyard. The rector also drafted a paragraph for inclusion in the parish magazine.
Reaction was varied, and mainly negative.
'What's old Piggott get paid for then?' queried one belligerently.
'He's past it,' said another, more kindly disposed.
'Then he should pack it in, and let someone else get the money,' retorted the first speaker.
'I reckons the council ought to keep it tidy. What do we pay rates for?' demanded another, reading the notice which Harold Shoosmith had pinned up in the bar of "The Two Pheasants."
'Don't talk daft!' begged a stout-drinker. 'It's got nothing to do with the council!'
'Well, I've been a Wesleyan all my life. I don't see why I should clean up for the C. of Es.'
'You'll be put in there, won't you?' demanded another. 'Whatever you be, you'll end up there. Why your old ma and pa are up agin the wall already! Don't matter what church or chapel we goes to, that's the common burial ground. I reckons we all ought to lend a hand.'
