(10/13) Friends at Thrush Green (21 page)

She could stand guard over the array, or post one of the girls to stand on duty. She could, at a pinch, telephone Violet Lovelock and tell her that Bertha was at large on her own, and did she know?

All these unpleasant possibilities flashed through Nelly's head, until she came across a more acceptable solution.

She approached Bertha with a smile. 'Good morning, Miss Lovelock. Chilly today, isn't it?'

Bertha inclined her head graciously.

'Can I bring you some coffee?' asked Nelly.

'Yes, please. Nothing to eat.'

Nelly looked around with affected solicitude. 'I think you are going to be in a draught here, Miss Lovelock,' she said anxiously. 'Every time the door opens, you know. Wind's easterly this morning. Let me put you over here. You'll be more comfortable.'

Bertha seemed remarkably obliging, and began to gather gloves, purse, two letters awaiting posting, and an ancient fur stole which she had hung on the back of the chair.

At that moment, however, there was a crash from the kitchen, and Nelly went to see what was the matter, and to order Bertha's coffee.

Her back was turned for approximately twenty seconds, and Bertha was still collecting her belongings when Nelly reached her side. Before long, the old lady was settled by the wall, out of harm's way, and Gloria was approaching with a steaming cup of coffee.

Nelly carried the basket of scones into the kitchen to count them. As she feared, one was missing. One really could not help but admire Bertha's sleight-of-hand manoeuvres, embarrassing though they were, thought Nelly.

Gloria had been left on duty, having been primed beforehand about the action to take should Bertha ever appear alone, and Nelly made a quick decision.

She would do nothing on this occasion; poor old Violet had enough to cope with. But she intended to see that Bertha paid her bill for the coffee, and she would watch to see that she went straight home. Both these things happened, and Nelly was left to wonder if she should mention the matter to Mrs Peters and the girls. Or was it right to turn a blind eye, as she had decided to do?

Being a partner in the firm certainly complicated life, thought Nelly, returning to her domain in the kitchen after she had seen Bertha disappear through her own front door. If Nelly had been a mere assistant, like Rosa or Gloria, she would have reported the matter to Mrs Peters and left it at that. But now she had more important obligations. 'Rank imposes responsibilities' someone had once told her, and Nelly, somewhat ruefully, realized that she must face that fact.

This time no action, she told herself, shaking flour on to a pastry board, but if it happened again she would harden her heart and send for Miss Violet to cope with her sister.

Winnie Bailey was also having private worries. As a doctor's wife for many years, in a small community, she had frequently known of the complaints and conditions of many of her husband's patients. Obviously she had been discreet, and had not interfered in her husband's affairs, but the fact remained that she was often privy to confidences disclosed by Donald's patients almost before she could direct them to his surgery.

The case of Margaret Lester and her family worried her considerably. Her kind heart went out to the man who was doing his best to carry on the sound tradition of good schooling which his predecessors had maintained, whilst instigating some more modern methods of his own.

She was even more concerned about the two little girls. She came across them occasionally, and was impressed by their good manners and friendliness. The children played frequently with John Lovell's two children who were much the same age, and one morning Winnie ventured to broach the painful subject of Margaret's addiction to alcohol with the doctor.

He listened with his usual sympathy. He was devoted to Winnie, recognizing her sterling virtues and unfailing common sense. But on this occasion, he was obliged to be firm.

'There is nothing I can do, Winnie, as you know, until I am approached either by the patient herself or by someone directly responsible for her, like Alan. I am as upset as you are by the problem, and I can only hope that Alan can persuade her to seek help.'

'Have you ever been called to the house?'

'Not for Margaret. I have had occasion to visit the children once or twice, but the migraine attacks about which we hear so much are dealt with by Alan and Margaret herself.'

'But those poor little girls!' cried Winnie. 'What can we do about them?'

'Mighty little, I fear, until we are asked to help. We can only stand by in readiness, and rush to the rescue if necessary.'

'I just dread the possibility of something unpleasant happening in that house,' said Winnie sadly. 'It could so easily.' How prophetic her words were!

15. Friends at Thrush Green

NOVEMBER grew gloomier as the days passed. It was not cold, but dark and oppressive. Mist hung in the valleys and the sun was nowhere to be seen. The trees dripped, the hedges were spangled with droplets, and the roads and grass were permanently wet.

Lights were on in the houses, shops and offices from morning until dusk. It was a depressing period for all. Everyone was lethargic, from the young school children to the venerable inhabitants of Rectory Cottages.

Even Betty Bell's exuberance seemed diminished as she went about her duties, first at the school and then at the Shoosmiths' house.

'Fair gets on your wick,' she said, collecting her tin of polish from under the stairs. 'I mean, what's the good of polishing in this weather? "Love's labour's lost", as my mum used to say.'

'Well, perhaps you'd better leave it,' said Isobel. 'The windows could do with a wash instead.'

'No, no. It's polishing today, and that I'll do,' said Betty firmly. 'Can't let the weather have the best of it. By the way, old Dotty—Miss Harmer, I should say—is in bed with a chill. At least, she should be, but she keeps getting out and she's driving Miss Connie up the wall.'

'Oh dear! I'm sorry, I'll ring Connie this morning.'

'It's this weather,' went on Betty, taking up the tin of polish. 'No end of the kids are away from school, and Mrs Lester's taken to her bed again.'

'Dear, dear!'

'And not only to her
bed
,' said Betty ominously, and made her way upstairs, leaving Isobel much disturbed.

Later that day she and Harold roused themselves enough to tackle the task of sweeping up leaves. It was heavy-going, for the ground was sticky and the leaves sodden.

They wheeled a few barrow loads to the compost heap, and surveyed the hundreds which still adhered obstinately to the lawn.

'I don't know about you,' remarked Harold, 'but I've had enough. It's so damn warm too. Let's call it a day. We'll tackle this lot when it's dried out.'

'It suits me,' agreed Isobel, who had already shed her coat which lay over the hedge.

'What we want is a good brisk wind,' said Harold. 'Or some frost. Preferably both.'

'Better still,' said Isobel, 'an early cup of tea.'

They went indoors to get it.

It had never been really light all day, but by five o'clock it was truly dark, and the inhabitants of Thrush Green and Lulling were thankful to draw their curtains against the miserable world outside, and turn to indoor pursuits.

Soon after six o'clock the first rumbles of thunder began, and Thrush Green was lit, every so often, by flickering lightning.

Harold, returning from the front porch, was cheerful. 'This should clear the air,' he said. 'No rain yet. I suppose it'll come. Alan Lester's just driven off, by the way.'

'Is Margaret with him?'

'I couldn't see. I just waved, and he hooted. Off to a meeting I expect, poor devil. Thank God, I'm retired and don't have to face meetings any more.'

'What rubbish!' cried Isobel. 'You are often out at committee meetings of the Parish Council and other Church matters, not to mention Scouts and Guides and British Legion and Uncle Tom Cobley and all.'

'I don't count those,' said Harold equably. 'They aren't Business!'

They settled down with their books, while the thunder rumbled. The electric lights flickered ominously, but it was an hour later when there was an almighty crash of thunder overhead and all the lights went out.

'Damn!' said Harold. 'And I've just dropped my glasses.'

'Then don't move your feet,' begged Isobel. 'Where do you think they are?'

'If I knew that,' replied Harold patiently, 'they wouldn't be lost. I'll just grope about. Can you find a torch?'

Isobel felt her way into the hall where a large torch stood permanently. On returning, she picked up the gleam of Harold's spectacles on the hearthrug, and restored them to their owner.

'Good girl! I'll go and light the oil lamp. Hope our neighbours have some auxiliary lighting.'

'Oh, it shouldn't take long,' said Isobel hopefully. 'Don't we get switched to another grid when this happens? Last time it was only a few minutes before the electricity came back.'

She followed Harold into the kitchen and directed the beam of the torch while he lit the ancient oil lamp and carefully replaced the glass and shade.

'It really is a lovely soft light,' commented Isobel when it was installed on the table between their chairs. The fire gave out some light, and a few small logs which Harold added soon leapt into flame.

'It's really quite snug,' went on Isobel. 'Not really bright enough to read; a wonderful excuse to lie back and do2e.'

But such hopes were not to be realized, for at that moment the front door bell rang shrilly, and there was a sound of frightened voices. Harold grabbed the torch and went into the dark hall, followed by Isobel.

A flash of lightning illuminated Thrush Green as he opened the door. Huddled together and crying were the two little Lester girls, their shoulders spattered with the rain which was now beginning to fall.

'Come in quickly!' cried Isobel, leading them to the fire. She was shocked to see that they were in their night-clothes—pyjamas under their dressing-gowns, and their feet were clad only in soft slippers.

'It's Mummy,' said Alison, 'we can't wake her, and I can't reach the candles in the cupboard.'

She was calmer than her younger sister Kate, who was still in tears, but both children were trembling, and not only with the cold, Isobel surmised.

'I found the matches,' went on Alison, 'but I was afraid to go upstairs to find the little paraffin lamp Daddy keeps on the landing. I didn't like the thunder, you see, and the matches kept going out.'

Harold and Isobel exchanged glances.

'I'll take the hurricane lamp and go over,' she said.

'I think I ought to come too,' replied Isobel, much troubled. What on earth would he find? Margaret unconscious? The house in flames?

Harold took command. 'I'll come back for you, if need be. But these two could do with a hot drink. Use the old saucepan. That fire should be good enough to heat some milk.'

Isobel fetched the milk and set it to heat at the front of the fire, and the two little girls, with a biscuit apiece, sat on the hearthrug and began to calm down.

Isobel heard the front door bang as Harold departed, and then began to do her best to comfort the children. The thought of matches, candles, and a paraffin lamp in the darkness next door, and the frightened young children's pathetic attempts to find a light amidst the terrors of the storm, made Isobel feel positively sick with horror.

'Do you know where Daddy is?' she asked, pouring out the milk into two mugs.

'At a meeting,' said Kate.

'Near Oxford,' added Alison. 'At a school with a funny name.'

'An animal,' volunteered Kate. 'A white animal, "White Lion", I think.'

'No, no, it's not,' said Alison firmly. 'It's "White Hart".'

'It's more than that,' maintained Kate defensively, 'like "White Hart Road School".'

At least, thought Isobel, they appeared to be getting back to a more normal sisterly exchange of communication, and there was a slight chance of being able to ring the school where the meeting was taking place.

She was relieved when Harold returned.

'Is Mummy all right?' asked Alison.

'She's fine. Just resting. I told her we'd look after you until your daddy came back.'

He exchanged glances with Isobel, shaking his head slightly.

'I'll try and phone Alan,' he said. 'Any idea of the place?'

'It's a school called "White Something",' said Alison.

'An animal,' added Kate.

Harold found the telephone directory, put it on the table in the light of the oil lamp, and settled his glasses.

'Schools!' he was muttering to himself as he leafed through the pages.

'Ah, here we are! The only "White Something" is "White Rose School".'

'That's it,' said Kate.

'But that's a
flower
,' protested Alison.

'It's a
deer,'
proclaimed Kate fiercely. 'A
rose
deer!'

'That's
roe
, stupid,' shouted Alison, pink with fury.

'Now, now,' said Isobel, 'that's enough! Just be quiet while Harold telephones.'