by Miss Read
'There won't be room for the children, let alone palm trees,' said Miss Fogerty tartly, but she was ignored. Miss Watson, when caught in the fever of drama production, became temporarily deaf and blind, as Miss Fogerty was acutely aware.
'My new blue dressing gown will do splendidly for Mary,' said Miss Watson, 'and I thought I would ask the manager at the Co-op butcher's if we could borrow those two plaster lambs that stand in his windows. They would look very attractive by the manger.'
'There weren't any lambs in the stable,' pointed out Miss Fogerty. 'Only the beasts of the stall, if you remember. Any lambs would be outside, with the shepherds.'
If this crack-brained scheme were to go forward, she thought mutinously, at least let the circumstances be as accurate as possible.
'Then they could stand up-stage in the shepherds' scene,' replied Miss Watson, undaunted. 'I can visualise them, silhouetted against the back-cloth as the dawn slowly rises, turning from black to grey, and then through strengthening shades of pink and gold.'
'We should need to engage a trained lighting team for effects like that,' said Miss Fogerty. 'I doubt if the school fund, which now stands at one pound seventy five, – as I well know, as I did the accounts last weekend – could face the bill.'
At that moment Miss Potter appeared.
'I was just discussing the possibility of a nativity play this Christmas,' began her headmistress.
'But we haven't got a stage,' said the young teacher, coming with admirable economy, thought Miss Fogerty, to the nub of the matter.
'We've managed many times before,' said Miss Watson, with a touch of frost in her tone. 'And that was when we were less fortunate with space.'
'And where,' asked the girl, 'would this play take place?'
'In your terrapin, dear. The perfect spot!'
And before either teacher could reply, she had drifted back to her own room. Miss Watson had learnt to make an exit at the right moment, if nothing else.
While the rumblings of war were growing ominously in Thrush Green school, Winnie Bailey was engaged in a much more private skirmish in coming to terms with her changed circumstances.
She was lucky, she realised, that her financial situation remained much as it was in Donald's life-time. For many widows, the sudden drop in income was the greatest worry they had to face, and that she was spared, although steeply rising costs, in fuel and rates alone, meant that the old house would be expensive to run. Repairs, too, would be another hazard to face, but the structure was sturdily built and had always been well maintained. With any luck, it should not need much doing to it over the next few years.
The thing was, of course, that it was really too big for one woman. Winnie felt guilty, sometimes, when she read of people crowded into tenements, and thought of her own empty bedrooms.
On the other hand, she loved the house, and could not bear to leave it. Its sheltering walls had enclosed their happy life together. The furniture, the pictures, the loved knick-knacks, all told their story of a lifetime spent together in this small community where both had played useful parts.
No, the house was not the main problem. She intended to stay there, and was willing to retrench in other ways so that she could continue to live in Thrush Green among her friends, and also have room to entertain more distant friends who would be invited to stay.
The worry which most perturbed Winnie, was one of which she was deeply ashamed. She had found, since her return to the house, that she was horribly nervous of being alone in it at night.
She tried to reason with herself about this. After all, she argued, poor Donald could not have protected either of them if burglars had broken in. They never had been so unfortunate as to have intruders, and were unlikely to start now. What would there be, of any value, for a thief to find? There were far more profitable houses to burgle within a stone's throw of her own modest establishment.
But such sweet reasoning did not comfort her. As soon as nightfall arrived, she found herself locking doors, shutting windows, and finding strange solace in being barred and bolted.
She made up her mind never to open the doors after dark to people knocking. Stupid though it might appear, she went upstairs and spoke to them from an upper window. There were far too many accounts in the papers, of unsuspecting women who opened doors and were hideously attacked by those waiting. As far as lay in her power, Winnie took precautions against violence.
Nevertheless, her feelings worried her. She tried to analyse them as she took an afternoon walk along the road to Nidden one winter's day. The wind was fresh, and although there was no rain, there were puddles along the length of the chestnut avenue, and water lay in the furrows of the ploughed fields. A pair of partridges whirred across the road in front of her, and Winnie remembered that she had read somewhere that they mated for life. What happened, she wondered, to the survivor of such a devoted couple? Was she too as bereft as she now was?
Things were not too bad during the day. There were so many little jobs to do, and trips into Lulling for shopping when she met friends and had company.
And Jenny, of course, was a constant comfort. She grew to look forward to Jenny's mornings more and more. She was deft and quiet, with the rare gift of speaking only when something needed to be said, but her friendliness warmed the house for Winnie, and the knowledge that Jenny would do anything, at any time, to help her, was wonderfully comforting.
She supposed that she must face the fact that she was run down after the years of nursing and the final shock of Donald's death. She refused to look upon herself as an invalid, but it might be sensible to take a tonic, say, during the coming winter months, and to catch up with the loss of sleep she had so cheerfully endured. With returning strength these unnatural fears might vanish.
It was natural too, she told herself, to feel vulnerable now that Donald had gone. For years now, she had been the protector, taking decisions, fending off unwelcome visitors, sparing Donald all unnecessary cares. It was understandable that there should be some reaction.
She had reached the new housing estate by now, which stretched away to the left, and covered the fields she so well remembered that overlooked Lulling Woods.
The houses were neat and not unpleasing in design, though to Winnie's eyes they appeared to be built far too close together, and the low wire fences gave no privacy. Washing blew on most garden lines, and a number of toddlers played together in the road, jumping in a big puddle to the detriment of their clothes and their obvious delight.
Winnie smiled at them and walked on.
'Who's that old lady?' asked one of the neighbours, in a shrill treble that carried clearly through the winter air.
Old lady, thought Winnie, with sudden shock! Well, she supposed she was. But how surprising! An old lady, like that ancient crone who lived in the cottage she had just passed, who had a hairy mole on her chin and squinted hideously. Or like Jenny's mother, whose grey head trembled constantly, so that she reminded Winnie of a nodding Chinese doll she had owned as a child.
An old lady, an old lady! The houses were behind her now, and the lane stretched ahead bounded by high bare hedges. On her right stood an empty cottage, fast becoming derelict. She stopped to lean on the stone wall and rest.
The house stood forlorn and shabby, shadowed by a gnarled plum tree. Ivy was growing up its trunk and the recent gales had wrenched some of it from the bark. It waved in the wind, bristly as a centipede's legs.
The garden was overgrown, but the shape of submerged flower beds could still be seen, and the minute spears upthrusting by the house wall showed where there remained a clump of snowdrops.
Behind the house, a rotting clothes line stretched, a forked hazel bough still holding it aloft. Bird droppings whitened a window sill, and from ■the bottom of the broken front door Winnie saw a mouse scurry for cover in the dead grass by the door step. Neglected, unloved, slowly disintegrating, the house still sheltered life, thought Winnie.
Although no children played, no parent cal
led, no human being closed and shut the door, yet other creatures lived there. Spiders, beetles, mice and rats, many birds, and bats, no doubt, found refuge here from the cruelty of wind and weather.
It was, she supposed, simply a change of ownership.
She looked kindly upon the old quiet cottage. An old cottage! An old lady! She smiled at the remembrance.
Well, in many ways they were alike. They had once been cherished, had known warmth and love. Now they were lonely and lost. But the house was still of use, still gave comfort and shelter. There was a lesson to be learnt here.
She must look about her again, and try to be useful too. There were so many ways in which she could help, and by doing so she might mitigate the fears which crowded upon her when dusk fell.
It was growing colder. The wintry sun was sinking. The sky was silver-gilt, against which the black trees threw their lacy patterns.
She turned and made her way homeward, feeling much refreshed.
One December morning, Betty Bell set off for her duties at the village school and then at Harold Shoosmith's next door.
The weather had changed, much to everyone's relief. The gales had blown themselves out, and a clear sky had brought frost in the night. Underfoot the grass was crisp with rime, and the remaining puddles were frozen hard.
Betty Bell welcomed the improvement in the weather, and hummed cheerfully as she pedalled along the path to Thrush Green. In front of her, in the bicycle basket, was lodged a large pudding basin which she intended to return to Dotty Harmer as she passed.
Dotty was in the habit of buying enormous lumps of suet for the birds. The trees in her garden were festooned with it throughout the winter months, and a goodly amount was rendered down into fat. Some of this she mixed with stale bread, oatmeal, currants and chicken corn into a concoction which she called 'my bird-cake', and which was thrust into various receptacles nearer the house for the birds' attention.
Usually there was so much fat that Dotty poured it into a basin, and the resultant dripping went to Betty, who was very glad to have it. It was last week's dripping bowl which was now being returned, with a small jar of tomato chutney of Betty's making, as a little return for the dripping.
She was propping her bicycle against Dotty's hedge when Willie Bond arrived with the post.
'Wotcher, Will. How's auntie?' she enquired.
'All right, but for her back.'
'Shall I take that in for you?'
'Not this time, gal, thanks. It's recorded delivery, see. Got to get her signature.'
'Oh well, you'd best go in first,' said Betty, collecting her bowl, and following her cousin up the path. She went, as she always did, round the house to the back door, as Willie knocked at the front.
She heard them talking, and waited, looking at the chickens who clustered hopefully round her feet, their heads cocked, uttering little hoarse cries of expectation.
Willie's whistling faded away as he went back to his bicycle and Betty rapped on the back door. Dotty, looking even more bemused than ever, opened it.
'Come in. Is it your day, Betty? I must have forgotten.'
'No, it's not,' said Betty. 'I only called in to return the basin. Lovely dripping this time. Must have been beef suet.'
She stopped suddenly. Miss Harmer was looking decidedly queer.
'Here,' said Betty, suddenly solicitous. 'You come and sit down. You look poorly. Had bad news?'
Dotty allowed herself to be propelled towards a kitchen chair. A bad sign, indeed, thought Betty. The letter was still gripped in her hand.
'Had your breakfast yet?' asked Betty.
'No, no. I don't want any.'
'I'll make you a cup of coffee then,' said the girl, pushing the kettle on to the ring. 'I've got a minute or two to spare, and I'll wash up these odds and ends while I'm waiting. This 'ere frying pan can do with a clean. It's all cagged up with grease.'
She set about the job briskly, one eye on the older woman who continued to read the letter.
'Listen to this,' said Dotty, in a stunned manner. "Dorothy Amelia Russell Harmer drove a motor vehicle on a road called High Street, Lulling, without due care and attention, contrary to Section 3 of the Road Traffic Act 1972." What do you think of that?'
'Nothing!' said Betty stoutly. 'I shouldn't let that put me off my breakfast. You take that letter and all them forms straight up to your nice Mr Venables and he'll look after you.'
The kettle began to rattle its lid, and Betty spooned some instant coffee into the largest cup she could find. She then poured the top of the milk into the steaming brew, and brought it to the table.
'Betty,' said Dotty, 'you've given me the cream, and I always keep that for Mrs Curdle.'
'The cat can go without for once,' replied Betty, unrepentant. 'Your need's greater than hers this morning. Now, I must be off. Soon as you've drunk that, you go up and see Mr Venables at the office.'
Dotty sipped the coffee gratefully.
'It really is delicious with the cream in it,' she admitted.
'You want to take it more often,' advised Betty. 'That cat'll get fatty heart if she has it, and you're not likely to get that – with the little bit you eat.'
She hung up the clean frying pan, stacked the crockery, spread the tea towel to dry, and then made for the door.
'See you tomorrow,' she cried, 'and keep your pecker up.'
She left Dotty folding the grim missive and returning it to its envelope. Pedalling swiftly towards the school, she was seriously concerned about Miss Harmer. Say what you like, it was a shock getting a summons, although it must have been expected. And to think her own cousin Willie brought it to the door!
Poor old Dotty! What with this and Cyril Cooke still on the danger list, the outlook for her was certainly black. Let's hope, she thought, that Mr Venables could help, though, when you came to think of it, he was pretty well as doddery as Dotty. Two for a pair, you might say.
Pushing her bicycle across the playground, Betty gave a rare sigh of despair. Life could be a proper turn-up for the book at times.
12 The Summons
THROUGHOUT Lulling and Thrush Green, preparations were in full swing for Christmas.
At Ella Bembridge's cottage, a stack of serviceable waste paper baskets was stacked, flanked by half a dozen stout shopping baskets. Ella was proud of her industry and there was no doubt that the recipients would be pleasantly surprised, being already resigned to appearing delighted with lumpy handwoven ties.
Dimity had washed the figures for the crib in St Andrew's church in preparation for their arrangement. Winnie Bailey was nurturing her Christmas roses ready for the great day, and in all the houses around the green, cakes were being iced, and parcels prepared.
The shops in Lulling High Street were decked with cotton wool, tinsel and bright baubles, and the window of 'The Fuchsia Bush' had a cardboard model of a church, with stained glass windows, illuminated by an electric light bulb in its interior. Flanked, a trifle incongruously, by a lardy cake on one side, and a chocolate Christmas log on the other, it still commanded widespread admiration.
The Misses Lovelock, practically next door to the cafe, were busy sorting out all the unwanted presents, which they had frugally stored away since last Christmas and during the year, for redistribution.
The operation was rather more fraught with anxiety than usual this year, as the list of donors which was scrupulously kept, lest the giver received her own gift back, had been mislaid, and the three ladies were obliged to rely on their failing memories. Acrimony prevailed, as Bertha tried to recall who had presented her with a crinoline-lady tea-cosy, Violet racked her memory in vain for the kind person who had supplied a bottle of 'Dusky Allure', and Ada complicated matters by appropriating anything under discussion for her own pile.
In the dining-room at Tullivers, young Jeremy and his friend Paul Young were busy making Christmas cards. The table was littered with coloured gummed squares destined to be hacked into rough representation of Christmas trees o
r angels, and a roll of white cartridge paper which put up a vicious fight every time the boys attempted to hold it flat for cutting.
Progress was slow, but their spirits were high and the noise considerable. Haifa dozen lop-sided cards, already completed, were propped up on the mantelpiece, destined for mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles.
'And I shall do one for Miss Fogerty,' said Jeremy, snatching up the scissors. 'She'd better have an angel.'
'I shan't waste paper on my teachers,' said Paul roundly.
'Well, I like Miss Fogerty, and she's been sad lately too.'
'Perhaps she's ill,' suggested Paul.
'Having a baby, d'you think?' enquired Jeremy, scissors poised.
Paul, with two years' superiority on the subject, pooh-poohed the idea.
'How can she? You have to be married.'
Jeremy pondered the point.
'Sawny Sam's sister wasn't,' he said, naming the local half-wit. 'She had twins, and she wasn't married.'
'Oh, well,' shrugged Paul, 'twins are different.' He changed the subject swiftly. 'You doing cards for Miss Watson and the new one?'
'No,' replied Jeremy. 'Just Miss Fogerty. I like her best. I hope I don't have to go up next year to Miss Watson's.'
'I heard my mum saying you might come to my school with me,' volunteered Paul, folding paper with a grubby forefinger.
'Your school?' Jeremy went pink with excitement. 'When? Next term?'
Paul began to wonder if he had let the cat out of the bag.
'Well, it wouldn't be next term, I shouldn't think. Prob'ly next September. That's when the school year starts. Didn't you know you might come?'
'Dad wants me to go away,' replied Jeremy. 'I don't want to, and I don't think mummy does either, but I suppose she has to do what he says. At least, sometimes.'
Paul nodded.
'It's not too bad,' he conceded at last. 'Better than being sent away. You can come home each night and play with your own things. I'd fight for staying here, if I were you.'
