(10/13) Friends at Thrush Green (6 page)

'Just check them,' commanded Nelly.

Rosa obeyed.

'Nine,' she said, stopped, and stared at Nelly.

'Surely, she never...' she began, awe-struck.

'Never you mind,' said Nelly. 'It's me and Mrs Peters' problem. You just hold your tongue.'

The girl nodded, looking shocked, and Nelly bustled back into the kitchen.

Mrs Peters was in the storeroom alone, and Nelly told her the news.

'And it's not the first time,' continued Nelly. 'That's to my knowledge, so Lord knows how long it's been going on.'

Mrs Peters sat down heavily on the step-stool.

'Gosh! What a pickle! I'm not getting the police in for this one. I think one of us had better have a word with Miss Violet. She's the only one with a ha'porth of sense.'

She looked at Nelly, who shook her head.

'Don't ask me, love. I know we're partners now, but you're better able to do it than I am. I've got the courage to face them old dears, but you'd do it more tactful, and that's the truth.'

'I don't mind doing it, if you think that's the right step.'

'Dead right. But how are you going to get Miss Violet on her own?'

'I'll ask her to call here about a private matter, and see her in the office. Meanwhile, not a word to anyone.'

'Our Rosa knows.'

'I'll deal with Rosa,' said Mrs Peters grimly. 'One squeak out of her, and she goes.'

She got up from the step-stool and patted Nelly's fat arm.

'Don't worry, Nelly. We've faced worse than this before.'

And, somewhat comforted, Nelly went back to making her gingerbread.

While his wife was coping with the affair of Bertha Lovelock, Albert was plying a broom in the churchyard.

There had been a wedding at the weekend. There had also been a high wind, which had not only played havoc with the bride's veil and the ornate coiffures of the bridesmaids, not to mention the wedding guests' hats, but had sent confetti in every direction.

Albert pottered about morosely, jabbing under shrubs, along the edges of the paths, and attempting to free the grass of its scattered finery.

It was while he was thus engaged, and counting the minutes to opening time at The Two Pheasants, that Percy Hodge appeared.

He rested his arms upon the gate top and watched the lab-ourer.

'You busy then?'

'Whatjer think?' replied Albert, nastily. 'It's time the rector stopped all this confetti lark. Look at the mess.'

He paused and leant upon his broom.

'Ah well!' replied Percy indulgently. 'You can't blame young folks wantin' a pretty weddin'.'

'These wasn't young folks,' said Albert. 'That old fool Digby this was. Got spliced to that gel as works at Boots. A case of have to, they say.'

'Not so much of "that old fool Digby",' said Percy. 'We was at school together. Besides...'

He halted and began to look sheepish.

'What's up?' asked Albert, coming nearer.

'Well, the fact is, I'm thinkin' of gettin' married again myself.'

'You ain't!' cried Albert, dropping his broom. 'You silly juggins! What on earth do you want to clutter yourself up with a woman for?'

'There's reasons,' said Percy primly.

'Not the same as old Digby's?'

'Not the same at all, Albert. And I don't like your nasty way of thinkin'. I just want a bit of company, and the house cleaned up, and a decent dinner to come home to, same as any other man.'

'If it's that flighty Emily Cooke you've got in mind,' said Albert, bending to retrieve his broom, 'you ain't likely to get any home comforts. She's nothin' but a slattern, and got that boy Nigel as a by-blow too. You'll be takin' on two of them. Not to mention her 'orrible old mother. You must be out of yer mind, Perce.'

The farmer's face was scarlet. 'You mind your own business! I knows what I'm doin' and when I needs your advice—which is never—I'll ask for it. That poor girl has learnt her lesson, and she'll make a good wife, you'll see. Anyway I'm fond of young Nigel.'

'More than anyone else is,' responded Albert. 'Well, they say there's no fool like an old one, and it looks as though that's right. You'll regret it, Perce. You'll regret it.'

At that moment Mr Jones opened the doors of The Two Pheasants, and Albert propped his broom against the church porch.

'Comin' over?' he queried.

'Not with you I ain't,' replied Percy coldly, and made his way towards Lulling.

Far away at Barton-on-Sea, thoughts of matrimony for the elderly were also tormenting poor little Agnes Fogerty.

She was scraping new potatoes at the sink, and wondering whether it would not be better to throw in the sponge and take to the potato peeler, so refractory were the vegetables.

Dorothy had gone to see Teddy, taking with her a cutting from the
Daily Telegraph
about pesticides which she thought might interest him.

Any excuse is better than none, thought Agnes with unusual tartness, but remained silent.

Really, she mused, as she struggled with the potatoes, there is far too much of this marrying, and giving in marriage, about. One could get on perfectly well without it, and she and Dorothy were good examples.

Nothing had been said between the two friends, but Dorothy had seemed to make a point of visiting their nearly-blind neighbour every day since she had been back.

It was not only the
unsuitability
of the relationship which worried Agnes; there were also serious and practical aspects to consider.

In the first place, would Dorothy really be happy as Teddy's wife? Or anyone else's, for that matter? Dorothy was used to having her own way. She was also singularly undomesticated, able to ignore dust, spots on the carpet and windows which needed cleaning. She disliked cooking, although she was quite capable of roasting a joint and preparing a straightforward meal, but she got no pleasure from doing it. Those regular household chores such as spring-cleaning, ordering the fuel, having the chimney swept and so on, had been arranged by Agnes.

It was not that Dorothy was inefficient, Agnes told herself loyally. The household accounts, the business letters, the interminable forms for taxes, registration of this, that and the like, were all competently managed. But no doubt Teddy, or any other man, would already be coping with such things, and Dorothy's skills in this direction would not be needed. Would she find this frustrating? Would she be critical? Dorothy's patience was easily exhausted, and she would not hesitate to state her feelings. Men, so Agnes believed, very much disliked interference in their methods and habits, particularly as they grew older.

And there was an even more pressing problem for Agnes. Where could she go? The thought of a
ménage à trois
was out of the question, and of course this meant that she would have to find other accommodation.

Her savings were far too inadequate to contemplate buying a small house, no matter how modest. She would have to look about for a bed-sitter like the one she had had years ago at Thrush Green before she shared the school house with Dorothy. It was a bleak prospect.

Or perhaps she ought to start collecting brochures from those excellent societies who care for indigent gentlewomen. She believed that there were several connected with the church, as well as those advertising themselves as 'Homes From Homes', with photographs of stately houses and with white-haired old ladies in the foreground, looking bemused in wheelchairs under an ancient cedar tree.

But even more distressing than the thought of Dorothy regretting such a step and her own financial difficulties, was the overriding misery of having to leave Dorothy and their new little home to which she was now deeply attached. She had never been so content.

How would it all end?

She gazed out of the window over the sink, the view somewhat blurred by incipient tears. The cat came and rubbed round her legs, and she bent to fondle it with a wet hand.

'Timmy, we are in a pickle! What is to become of us both?'

Would cats be allowed in these homes for gentlefolk? Come to think of it, she hadn't seen hair nor hide of an animal in those photographs. Whatever happened, Tim should stay with her.

She blew her nose, tucked the handkerchief in her apron pocket, and surveyed her handiwork. She seemed to have scraped seventeen potatoes altogether, and only six were needed.

'Well, they will just have to do for the next two days as well,' she told Tim briskly.

And putting her fears from her, she set about cleaning the sink.

The day after the unfortunate affair at The Fuchsia Bush, Miss Violet Lovelock, gloved and hatted, called next door at the shop. She was ushered in by Miss Peters, who led the way to her office at the rear of the premises.

'Do sit down,' said Mrs Peters, pushing forward the only comfortable chair in the room.

'Thank you,' said Violet sitting bolt upright, and removing her gloves.

Through the window behind the desk at which Mrs Peters was sitting, she could see the brick wall, rosy with age, which divided this garden from the Lovelocks'. At one time, a retired admiral had lived here, and this office had probably been his study, she surmised. Her father had taken a dislike to this neighbour, and threats of writs, solicitors' letters and the like had been tossed verbally across this self-same wall when she and her sisters were toddlers. It was a strange feeling to be sitting here now, awaiting Mrs Peters' pleasure.

Mrs Peters approached the matter with great tact and sympathy. She suspected that the culprit's sister, now busily folding her gloves together, had some idea of what was afoot, and in this she was right.

When at last she ceased to speak, Violet sighed heavily. 'My dear Mrs Peters, I can only apologize and hope that you will allow me to reimburse you.'

'That won't be necessary, I assure you.'

'The fact is,' said Violet, 'my sister is getting very old. Well, I suppose we all are—but dear Bertha is becoming rather eccentric with it. I suppose that one could say that this is a mild form of kleptomania, and I should tell you that she has taken to removing quite a number of objects to hoard in her bedroom. It is all most distressing, but a common symptom of senility, I believe.'

'So I have heard,' said Mrs Peters. 'The thing is, what can we do? Sooner or later, one of our customers will notice, and probably tell the police. This is why I felt it best to have a word with you.'

'You are quite right,' replied Violet. She sat very upright and dry-eyed, but Mrs Peters watched the thin hands, dappled with age-spots quivering, as she played with her gloves.

'We had absolutely no idea that this was going on,' went on the old lady. 'I mean, the scones or buns, or whatever she purloined, must have been eaten in secret. It seems such an odd thing to do. I shall have to speak to her about this at once.'

'Thank you,' said Mrs Peters, glad to see the end of this painful interview in sight. 'I wondered if you might think of consulting your doctor? He might be able to help.'

'I shall have a word with her first myself and, believe me, we shall not let her come in here again on her own.'

She rose to go, back as straight as a ramrod and hand extended in farewell, but her papery wrinkled cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

Mrs Peters' heart was touched. What a bully one felt, but it had to be done.

'You can be quite sure that this will go no further, Miss Lovelock,' she said. 'We are all much too fond of you and your sisters to wish to see you troubled in any way.'

The old lady inclined her head graciously.

'I very much appreciate the kind way in which you have dealt with this unhappy incident,' she replied. 'I shall do my best to put things right.'

She preceded Mrs Peters through the café, bowing slightly to an acquaintance in the corner. Mrs Peters opened the door for her and watched her depart next door.

The old lady mounted the three steps to the Georgian front door, steadying herself by the iron handrail. To Mrs Peters' anxious eyes, she seemed to cling rather more heavily than usual to this support, suddenly looking particularly frail.

Feeling sad, Mrs Peters returned to the office. She found that she was trembling.

'Rosa,' she called. 'Bring me a cup of coffee. Black today, please.'

Violet went straight up to her bedroom and sat down in an old sagging wicker chair by the window. Outside, in the garden which ran alongside that of The Fuchsia Bush, a blackbird piped merrily. The scent of pinks floated through the window, and some yellow Mermaid roses nodded from the wall which divided the two properties.

The scene was tranquil, but the watcher was not. Violet's heart was thumping in a most alarming manner, and she was quite unable to control the tremors which shook her frame.

The thought of confronting her sister Bertha was devastating. As the youngest of the three, Violet had always felt slightly subservient to her older sisters' demands, although recently she had come to realize that they relied upon her more and more as their own strength receded.

But this was a different matter. This was a question of being dishonoured, of inviting ridicule, of personal shame.