by Miss Read
By now it was almost one o'clock, and Charles was beginning to get hungry. The almshouse men had shuffled away some half hour earlier, but the rest of the spectators were obviously waiting to hear this case completed.
Justin Venables gave a brief but well-expressed summing up on behalf of his client, pointing out that she had held a licence for almost half a century, and that she had no previous convictions. To his mind, the prosecution had failed to prove the charge and he suggested, with all due respect, that it should be dismissed.
'Bench will retire,' growled Mr Jardine, and Mrs Fothergill led out the three.
Charles remained standing to ease his aching back. Whoever designed the public seats at Lulling Court deserved to be sentenced to sitting in them for twenty-four hours non-stop, he decided.
The Misses Lovelock, aflutter with scarves and gloves, came up to speak to him.
'Didn't Dotty do splendidly?' quavered Miss Violet.
'Surely she will be found not guilty?' said Miss Bertha.
'I always knew she was a cautious driver,' said Miss Ada. 'I hope that horrid boy gets sent to a penal institution.'
Charles did not feel equal to explaining that the boy was not being charged, only Dotty, and was spared further conversation by the return of the justices.
Dotty remained standing by Justin Venables. Suddenly pale, she looked incredibly old and tired. Charles felt shaken with anxiety for her. What an ordeal! He would be glad to get her into his car and back to the haven of the rectory and Dimity's ministrations.
Mr Jardine cleared his throat with peremptory honkings.
'We find you not guilty of the offence with which you have been charged.'
Dotty looked with bewilderment towards Justin Venables, who was smiling and bowing.
'The case,' explained Mr Jardine, looking directly at Dotty, 'is dismissed.'
Dotty inclined her head graciously, and murmured thanks.
'The court will adjourn until two o'clock,' said Mr Jardine.
Everyone stood, as the bench retired. The door to the magistrates' room had scarcely closed when Dotty's clear voice was heard.
'Could you, by any chance, lend me a handkerchief, Mr Venables?'
Head up, back like a ramrod Dotty faced her solicitor. Tears were coursing down her papery old cheeks and splashing unchecked upon the fur coat.
But, through the tears, Dotty's expression was one of utter triumph.
20 Peace Returns
NEWS of the outcome of the court case soon swept Thrush Green and Lulling. Approval was general, although Albert Piggott, and one or two other curmudgeons, expressed the view that it was a pity Dotty would still be able to terrorise the neighbourhood with her driving.
Mrs Cooke, when told of the verdict, executed a complete volte-face and said she had told her Cyril, times without number, to give over riding his dad's old bike, and now look where it had led him. She prophesied a piece of his dad's tongue for getting in Miss Harmer's way, and causing everyone a mint of trouble.
Dotty herself, after her brief spell of emotion occasioned by relief, appeared to forget all about the incident, and returned to her many chores in the cottage and garden. It was noticed, however, that the car rarely came out of the garage in the weeks that followed.
The snow was a long time in clearing, but gradually the grass showed again on Thrush Green, and the first early crocuses began to spear the ground.
The rector rang Mrs Cleary, a day or two after Dotty's case, to see if he might call on her to talk about the graveyard. To his amazement, that lady seemed anxious to settle the matter there and then.
'I heard that Mr Hodge and Mr Jones have climbed down,' said the imperious voice at the rector's ear. 'In which case, I think it pointless to continue with my objections.'
The rector rallied from the shock.
'There are one or two points I should like to discuss, nevertheless,' he said. 'We have a sketch map showing our plans for that part of the churchyard where your own family are buried. I should like to show you that.'
'I take it none of my family would be disturbed?'
'None, Mrs Cleary. Simply, their surroundings would be much beautified.'
There was silence for a while.
'Very well. I'm content that you should go ahead, if the others have agreed. I'll vouch for Martin Brewer too.'
Really, thought the rector, anyone would think Lulling were ruled by despotism – one could only hope it was a benevolent one.
'I shall have a word with young Brewer myself,' said Charles firmly.
He broached his second point.
'Would you consider withdrawing your resignation from the parochial church council? I have persuaded Mr Hodge to serve again, now that this little difference has been sorted out, and we should all be glad if you would return to us.'
'I will think about it,' said the lady graciously. She sounded mollified, thought Charles thankfully, as he replaced the receiver.
During the next week he managed to buttonhole the two Howard brothers, as well as Martin Brewer, and was shaken to find how little they really cared about the matter of the churchyard.
'Mr Hodge is boss. We does as he says. We lives in his cottages, see,' explained one of the brothers, as though that made the whole thing completely understandable.
Martin Brewer's attitude was much the same, but tempered with gratitude for Mrs Cleary's generosity in providing a job while he was without a driving licence.
'They don't seem to have any minds of their own,' said Charles despairingly to Dimity.
'They do, dear. But they know which side their bread is buttered.'
The rector still looked pensive.
'Cheer up,' said his wife, 'now you can sit down and apply for the faculty with a clear conscience, and leave it all in the lap of the gods.'
'In the lap of the Chancellor,' amended Charles, smiling at last.
Cyril Cooke was not the only person to suffer from mumps that winter. At the village school the number of sufferers gradually grew from three in January to fourteen in the first week of February.
It meant that work was very much easier, with fewer children in the class, and Miss Fogerty was grateful. The first term of the New Year was always a trial, with bad weather, poor light, and innumerable complaints and epidemics. Added to this general depression was the continuing estrangement from Miss Watson, despite surface civilities.
But one afternoon, when she had seen her depleted class buttoned and shod properly against their homeward journeys through the melting snow, she was surprised to be invited to the school house for a cup of tea.
Miss Watson appeared much agitated as she busied herself with spoons and biscuits, and her hand trembled as she passed Miss Fogerty her cup.
'I hardly know how to begin,' she said. 'Miss Potter has just told me she is leaving at the end of term.'
Miss Fogerty's heart leapt with joy, but she managed to look suitably concerned.
'But why? She seems to have settled down quite well. And heaven knows,' said Miss Fogerty, unable to resist a slight dig, 'she has been given everything she has asked for.'
'I am sorry to say, there is a baby coming,' said Miss Watson. Her face was stern.
'A baby? But she's not married!' cried Miss Fogerty, dropping her spoon.
'It has been known to happen,' pointed out Miss Watson.
'Oh, I know, I know,' agreed Miss Fogerty wisely. 'But how on earth did the silly girl get so involved?'
'She told me, quite calmly, that she went away with that young man of hers last summer, and there we are. She was rather nonchalant about the whole thing, which made me cross. She's arranging to marry him in the Easter holidays.'
'What a good thing for the baby,' said Miss Fogerty sincerely.
'But not for us,' said Miss Watson with asperity. 'We shall have to be three-in-a-desk all next term, unless we get that dreadful Mrs Spears in as supply, and you know what that means!'
Miss Fogerty nodded. Mrs Spears was the only
supply teacher in Lulling, a vast noisy creature, reputed to carry a flask of gin among her school books, and much given to teaching the children mid-European folk dances involving a lot of clapping and stamping. The last time she had spent a fortnight at Thrush Green School, she had broken one easel, three tea cups and a child's finger. Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty had suffered from splitting headaches throughout her stay, and had watched her departure with relief.
'You'll put in an advertisement for the post, I suppose?' said Miss Fogerty.
'Oh, I shall see that it goes in immediately, but I don't suppose there's any hope until the girls come out of college in July.'
She replenished Miss Fogerty's cup and sighed.
'Oh, Agnes dear, what a comfort it is to have you to confide in! I can't tell you how I've missed our little chats since Christmas. Nor how dreadful I've felt about that bedjacket! To have upset you so grieved me terribly, as I'm sure you know, Agnes. I hope I'm forgiven. I wouldn't have had it happen for the world.'
Miss Fogerty felt suddenly warm. The vision of a little brook which had remained frozen for weeks near her house but, only this week, had thawed and started to run merrily again, flashed across her mind.
So too did she feel. The ice had melted, the bonds were broken, and joy flowed again.
'It is all forgotten and forgiven long ago,' said Miss Fogerty.
'Ah, Agnes,' sighed Miss Watson. 'Teachers may come and teachers may go, but you and I go on for ever it seems.'
Miss Fogerty decided it was time to change the subject.
'And what about a wedding present?'
'We might club together and buy a cradle,' rejoined Miss Watson, with rare tartness.
Across the green, at Tullivers, one of the mumps' victims sat up in bed.
Jeremy was a woebegone figure, his face and neck so grotesquely swollen that even his mother might have had difficulty in recognising him if she had met him away from home.
Charles Henstock had called in to see the patient, and to deliver a box of coloured pencils and a drawing book thoughtfully provided by Dimity.
Conversation was limited to expressions of sympathy on Charles' side and sad, inarticulate little cries on Jeremy's. Before long, Charles left the sickroom and accompanied Phil downstairs.
'At least he's in a comfortable bedroom,' said Charles, 'with a kind nurse to look after him. I had mumps at my prep school, and the san. was full, of course. A horrible place – bitterly cold, with lumpy flock mattresses to lie on. And nurse was run off her feet, naturally, and let us know it.'
'Poor Charles!' said Phil. 'I can imagine the misery.'
'The worst thing was being dished out with doorsteps of leathery toast when one could hardly open one's jaws. What is there about boarding schools?'
'I assume that that is a rhetorical question,' said Phil, with a laugh. 'We went to see Frank's the other day, and I was most depressed at the sight.'
'Does Frank still want Jeremy to go away?'
'Let's say he's thinking twice since seeing his old school, but in principle I think he likes the idea of boarding, if only we can find a good place. As you know, I want Jeremy to go with Paul Young in September to Lulling, until he's twelve or thirteen.'
'Well, I'm sure you'll both do the best thing for the boy, as you are at the moment.'
He rose and made for the door.
'Sorry to miss Frank. You know the application for the faculty has gone in? We can only wait and hope now.'
'How soon shall we know?'
'Whenever the Chancellor has time to attend to it. He's a busy man, but very meticulous about his correspondence I know. Maybe within a month.'
'How lovely! And when will the work begin?'
Charles laughed, and held up two crossed fingers.
'Don't go too fast, my dear,' he said.
He had been gone less than ten minutes when Frank arrived home from the office.
'How's Jeremy? Can I go up?'
'Yes, he's awake. Charles has just been to see him.'
She followed her husband up the stairs. Frank, startled at the boy's appearance, stood stock-still in the doorway.
'My goodness! You're twice the boy I left behind me this morning!'he cried.
Jeremy lowered his eyes.
'Not funny,' he muttered.
Frank was instantly contrite.
'You're quite right. It's not funny, and I'm sorry. Got all you want?'
'Yes, thanks,' said the child, looking more cheerful, 'except a drink.'
Phil refilled his glass and sat on the bed watching him take the liquid in painful sips.
Frank surveyed the scene thoughtfully.
'I should have a nap,' advised Phil, at last.
'I think I will,' said the invalid, sliding down the bed. 'My eyes won't stay open.'
Downstairs, Frank turned to Phil.
'He looks pretty snug up there. I had mumps at school. It was ghastly.'
'So did Charles,' said Phil. 'He told me the grisly details of a boarding school illness.'
'I've something extraordinary to tell you,' said Frank, helping himself to a drink. 'About Ribblesworth. Tom had the news this morning at the office.'
'Burnt down?' asked Phil hopefully.
Frank laughed.
'Worse, really. That headmaster's run off –'
'With the matron,' interrupted Phil.
Frank looked at her in astonishment.
'How did you know?'
'She was exactly the sort of person who would be run off with.'
'You must have second sight! That's exactly what's happened. I never took to that chap. And what a scandal for the school!'
'I daresay it's happened before.'
'Not to Ribblesworth,' said Frank loyally.
He put down his drink and began to pace the room.
'What with going to see it, and remembering mumps at school, and now this business,' said Frank, 'I'm coming round to your way of thinking. Let the boy have a few more years at home as a day boy. Agreed?'
'You know I've never wavered in my feeling on the subject,' said Phil, 'but I think it's downright noble of you to change your mind so generously.'
'Let's go and see the head at Lulling, and get him entered for next September if there's a place, shall we?'
'An excellent idea,' said Jeremy's mother.
Next door, at Doctor Bailey's house, a bridge session had just finished, and Winnie, Dotty, Ella and Dimity sat round the fire with the debris of the tea trolley pushed to one side.
The ladies had discussed their hopes for the faculty being granted.
'Charles thinks of nothing else at the moment,' said Dimity. 'He's like a child waiting for Christmas.'
'Is Albert Piggott going to be in charge when the churchyard is altered?' asked Ella.
'I suppose so,' said Dimity.
'It's a great pity,' announced Dotty, searching in her knicker leg for a handkerchief, 'that my goats weren't allowed to keep the place tidy while we were waiting.'
After further scrabbling she produced a crumpled piece of linen and blew her nose with a resounding trumpeting. Only Dotty, thought Winnie, would keep her handkerchief in the leg of her knickers, thus needing to expose wrinkled stockings and bony shanks whenever it was needed.
'Thrush Green's going to see some changes,' said Dimity.
'One is going to happen in this house,' said Winnie, who had managed to keep her domestic plans secret, but now felt that things were advanced far enough to tell her friends. They looked suitably eager.
'Come on, Winnie,' commanded Ella, beginning to roll an untidy cigarette. 'Tell all.'
Winnie explained about the two upstairs rooms, without going too deeply into her own fears at night.
'And Jenny told me yesterday that the old people move next week.'
'How marvellous! And she comes then?'
'No, not for a month or two. There are several things to be done. My nephew Richard is spending a week here soon, putting in cupboards and so on, and
the plumber has to fit a sink in the kitchen-to-be. She can stay in her present home for some months if she likes, I gather. Demolition doesn't start until the autumn, so she can take her time.'
'So you'll have someone in the house before long,' said Dotty, remembering that dark afternoon when she and Winnie had exchanged confidences. 'It will be company for you, especially welcome next winter.'
'Lucky Jenny!' exclaimed Dimity.
'Lucky me!' responded Winnie, rising. 'Come upstairs and see what I'm planning to do.'
When Dimity returned to the rectory, she was bubbling over with Winnie's good news and all the plans for Jenny's new flat.
The rector was standing with his back to the small sitting-room fire. In his hand was a letter.
Before she could tell him the news, Charles spoke.
'My dear, I have had a letter from the Bishop.'
'Oh Charles,' cried Dimity, remembering, with sudden fear, being summoned to her headmistress's study years before. 'What have you done?'
'Why, nothing –' began Charles, in bewilderment.
'Or is it about the faculty?'
'That is the Chancellor's affair, my dear. This is from the Bishop himself.'
Dimity sat down abruptly.
'Well, tell me quickly. Is there some trouble?'
'Just the opposite. He has been kind enough to make me a Rural Dean.'
Dimity gazed at him open-mouthed.
'A Rural Dean,' she echoed, and then the full glory of the promotion burst upon her, and she leapt to her feet to put her arms round him.
'My darling, how wonderful! And you deserve it too. I'm so glad the Bishop has recognised all your hard work.'
'Others work harder, I expect,' said Charles. 'But I am truly grateful. I must write to him this evening and try to express my appreciation of the honour.'
