(10/13) Friends at Thrush Green (8 page)

He beamed at her, his spectacles glinting in the sunlight. He put the bunch of weeded groundsel on the ground, dusted his hands, and put them on his plump knees.

'Now, what's the trouble?' he enquired.

His voice was so kind and gentle that Violet was afraid she might weep, but Lovelocks did not show emotion under pressure, and she forced herself to remain calm.

'It's about Bertha,' she began, and told him the whole sad tale.

He listened without interruption, noting Violet's fluttering hands, and her voice husky with emotion. Certainly this old friend of his had suffered much, and needed all the help he hoped that he might be able to give her.

'And I still don't know if I should have consulted John Lovell first, but really, Charles, he might have felt that she should be sent to some mental specialist, or one of those clinics dealing with kleptomaniacs. I know so little about these things, but I do know that Bertha would absolutely refuse to have medical advice in this case.'

She paused for a moment, her eyes downcast, and her fingers plucking at the silk of her skirt.

'So I came to you,' she added.

Charles leant across and put his pink (and rather dirty from the groundsel) hand upon her own agitated ones. It was like holding a bird, he thought; there was the same fragility, the panic, the brittle feel of small bones.

'My dear,' he said, 'you should not have to suffer like this. I'm glad you came to me first. We may have to consult Lovell at some time, but not yet.'

'But what can we do?' cried Violet. 'I mean, we simply can't watch her behaving like this! It's not only a case of "what-will-the-neighbours-say?" It is
fundamentally dishonest,
and I can't let Mrs Peters and heaven knows how many other tradesmen, be at the mercy of Bertha.'

'It is that which is the main problem,' agreed Charles.

Violet went on to tell him of Bertha's strange ways of moving objects of value from all over the house into her own bedroom.

'She's always been excessively possessive,' Violet told him. 'She would never lend Ada or me any of her things, not even a belt or a pair of gloves for some particular occasion.'

'And did she borrow yours?'

'Oh, frequently! We rather treated it as a joke when we were girls. "Go and look in Bertha's room", we used to say to each other, if we missed a brooch or some other trifle.'

Charles nodded. 'It sounds as though it has simply grown more obsessive as the years have passed,' he said. 'Do you think she has any inkling of what she is doing?'

'I can't say. Somehow I think she
does
know that she is at fault, but she is so clever at evading the issue that I simply can't tell. It is as if she shuts her mind to the consequences of her actions. And I'm quite sure this isn't just forgetfulness, as it would be in dear Ada's case. Bertha is a much more ruthless person, I'm afraid, as I know to my own cost after all these years.'

They sat in silence for a time. Bumblebees tumbled about in the border nearby. A thrush stood, still and statuesque, at the edge of the lawn, before running purposefully to a spot which he jabbed energetically with his beak. There was a distant cackle of laughter from the almshouses nearby, where two ancient neighbours, it seemed, were sharing a joke.

Charles sighed. 'Leave this to me, Violet. You have done all you can, and I can only suggest that you make sure that Bertha is accompanied wherever she goes, so that nothing is taken. Mrs Peters, I imagine, will see that nothing is said?'

'Mrs Peters is the soul of loyalty and discretion,' replied Violet. 'I trust her absolutely. If others have been robbed I only hope they will tell
me
, and not the police.'

'If you have heard nothing, then I should assume that nothing has happened.'

'But will you speak to her, Charles, or just wait to see if this is her only slip?'

Charles looked thoughtful. 'I rather think I shall have a word with her. It will follow up your own efforts, and also make her realize that her actions are being noted.'

'She'll certainly take more notice of you than she does of me,' said Violet, getting up from the seat.

They began to walk towards the gate. Violet stopped suddenly and faced the clergyman.

'Charles, I can't begin to thank you. You are a tower of strength, and I feel so very much better for talking to you.'

'I've done very little,' said Charles. 'You have done most of the work. Mine lies ahead.'

He watched her as she retraced her steps across the green. She looked old and frail, but the Lovelock back was as straight as ever, Charles noted with admiration.

***

It grew hotter and more humid as the month of July went on. The grass at Thrush Green became brittle and brown, and the gardens of the houses around it needed watering every evening. Hoses, sprinklers and watering cans went into action as soon as the sun began to sink behind Lulling Woods, but all householders awaited the grim warning from the council banning the use of the life-saving liquid for the crops and flowers.

'It's the same every year,' grumbled Percy Hodge to Albert in The Two Pheasants. 'We gets fair flooded out in February and March—water butts overflowing puddles up to your hocks, gumboots on day in and day out—and then comes three weeks dry, and we're told we've got a drought!'

'Gets in your chest, too,' said Albert, fingering an empty glass.

'What! The drought?'

'That's right. The dust like. Brings on me cough.' He essayed a short spell of somewhat unconvincing hacking.

'You best have another 'alf,' said Percy, not moving. His own glass was half full.

Seeing that there was no possibility of being treated to his drink, Albert shuffled to the bar to get a refill.

'Got two weddin's this Saturday,' he said on his return. 'What with the dust, and them old lime trees shedding their muck, not to mention rice and confetti, I'll be at it all Saturday evenin' clearin' up for Sunday.'

'Well, it's your job, ain't it? What you gets paid for? Weddin's is to be expected.'

'And when's yours to be expected?' asked Albert sharply. 'You havin' it here? White, and all that? I'll look forward to seein' you all dolled up in a mornin' suit and topper.'

Percy looked at him coldly. 'Ah! Very funny, Albert Piggott! I hope I knows how to behave at the right time.'

He pushed aside his glass and made for the door, slamming it behind him.

'You shouldn't have said that,' said Mr Jones, mopping down the counter. 'It's his own business, after all.'

Albert looked faintly embarrassed. 'Well, we all knows he's makin' a fool of himself if he takes up with that Cooke girl. Don't do any harm to twit him now and again.'

'There's such a thing as playing with fire,' the landlord told him, wringing out his cloth. 'How would you feel if some chap made nasty remarks about your Nelly?'

Albert stared stolidly at him across his empty glass. 'I'd join him,' he said.

6. Charles Henstock Does His Best

PERCY Hodge's courtship had been common gossip, in a somewhat desultory way, to all Thrush Green and Lulling. The death of his first wife some years earlier, followed by the departure of his second and their subsequent divorce, had left Percy lonely and on the lookout for a new wife.

At one time he had paid unwelcome attention to Winnie Bailey's maid, Jenny. He had been repulsed, and Jenny was one of those most relieved to hear that Percy's hopes of matrimony might come to fruition in the near future.

She and Mrs Bailey were discussing the matter as they washed up the breakfast things together, for Jenny lived in, in a comfortable first-floor flat in Doctor Bailey's old home. It was a happy arrangement. Winnie had found, to her shame, that she was nervous alone at night after her husband's death, despite the many friends around her. When Jenny's parents died, she was offered her present quarters, and the two women had settled together with the utmost satisfaction.

'I must say,' said Jenny, rinsing cups under the hot tap, 'that it'll be a relief to see Perce settled.'

'Nothing like the relief I felt when you turned him down,' replied Winnie. 'What should I have done without you?'

'There was never any chance of me taking on that fellow,' said Jenny briskly, 'and Emily Cooke's a fool if she does.'

'Well, she does have her little boy to consider,' replied Winnie tolerantly. 'I suppose she feels it is best for Nigel to have a father—or stepfather, I should say.'

'It won't be Nigel she'll be thinking about if she takes on Percy,' said Jenny. 'It's her own comforts that'll be on her mind.'

'Percy is certainly what my husband's people used to call "a warm man", with that big house and quite a bit of land.'

'It'd take more than that to persuade most women to saddle themselves with Percy Hodge,' said Jenny.

At that moment they heard a thud in the hall, and Winnie went to collect the post from the door-mat. Willie Marchant, the postman, was making his way back to the bicycle which was propped up by the gate.

Winnie took the letters back to the kitchen, and sat at the table.

'Two for you, Jenny, and one enormous packet for me. What can it be?'

It turned out to be a book, most carefully swathed in tissue paper and then stiff brown paper, with a label addressed in what Winnie suddenly realized was Agnes Fogerty's clear print.

There was a letter enclosed which Winnie read attentively.

'It's a book I lent Miss Fogerty when she was laid up at the Shoosmiths'. I wish she hadn't bothered to return it. The postage is so expensive, and they are bound to be coming up again.'

'How are they?' enquired Jenny, propping her two postcards on the dresser.

'They sound busy, and seem to have made quite a few friends. Dorothy is doing good works, including reading to a blind man called Teddy.'

'Poor chap!' said Jenny. 'I reckon being blind is the worst of the lot. My old people were both stone deaf towards the end, and that was bad enough.'

'Losing any of your five senses is dreadful,' agreed Winnie, stuffing Agnes's letter back into its envelope.

'Have you ever thought,' commented Jenny, busily swabbing the draining board, 'that if you can't see you're called
blind
, and if you can't hear you're called
deaf,
but if you can't smell anything, like Bill Cartwright, there's no word for it?'

'Oh, but there is,' Winnie informed her. 'My old uncle always said he was
snoof!'

A little later that morning, Winnie was pegging out some washing when she was hailed by her neighbour Phyllida Hurst who lived next door.

Winnie approached the useful gap in their common hedge, where one of the hawthorn bushes had expired and never been adequately replaced.

'I've promised to do the flowers for the church this week,' said the younger woman, 'and I wondered if you could spare some of your copper beech twigs.'

'Of course, Phil. Come round whenever you like. Is there anything else of use here?'

'Can I come and see? All I appear to have here are dwarf begonias and nasturtiums. Not quite the stuff for church decorations really.'

She squeezed through the gap, and the two women paced round the garden, assessing Winnie's floral produce.

It was perfectly true, Winnie thought, that the next door garden never did as well as her own. Something to do with the soil, no doubt, but also the several years of complete neglect before the Hursts had taken it over.

The former occupants of Tullivers had been an elderly couple, Admiral Josiah Trigg and his sister, Lucy. To be sure, Josiah had tended his flower border assiduously, and a jobbing gardener had cut the grass and hedges in his time, but when the admiral had died Lucy had done nothing to the garden.

Hedges became spinneys, lawns became meadows, and the seeds of thistle, dandelion, and willow herb floated into neighbouring gardens. Brambles and nettles invaded the place, and the inhabitants of Thrush Green grieved over Tullivers' sad condition.

Nothing had been done to the house either for that matter, Winnie remembered. She had been perturbed by the condition of her neighbour's house; the grimy windows, paths and steps, and the utter neglect of all that was inside.

It was not as if Lucy Trigg were senile, far from it. Winnie knew her as a formidable bridge player and solver of crossword puzzles, and she had trenchant views on current events. But her surroundings meant nothing to her, and her meals were as erratic as dear old Dotty Harmer's at Lulling Woods: an apple crunched as she read the newspaper, or a doorstep of brown bread spread with honey, as she filled in the crossword, sufficed Lucy.

It had been a relief to everyone when a young woman, then Phyllida Prior, had taken over the house and set about tidying up, with the help of her little boy and a succession of local amateur part-time gardeners. It was Harold Shoosmith who had really done most of the reclamation in the early days, and although the garden was much improved, it was not until Phil married again, an older man called Frank Hurst, that the place became trim, although it was never as fruitful as some of the other much-loved gardens at Thrush Green.

Winnie and Phil collected an armful of beech sprays, some roses, lupins and Canterbury bells.

'It seems a motley lot,' observed Winnie, surveying their harvest. 'I suppose you really want some trailing stuff for the pedestals. You can quite see why the Victorians liked smilax to drape everywhere.'

'This is splendid,' Phil assured her. 'I'm only in charge of the humbler efforts at the foot of the lectern and the font. The real high-fliers like Muriel Fuller are the only people let loose on things like pedestals.'

'That reminds me,' said Winnie, sitting on the garden seat and patting the space beside her. 'I heard from Dorothy and Agnes today. They do seem to have settled very happily at Barton.'

'They'd make friends wherever they went,' replied Phil. 'You get good training at Thrush Green in the art of sociability.'

'I think you are right. I only hope that Alan Lester's wife will think so too. As the headmaster's wife, she'll be scrutinized pretty thoroughly, I'm afraid. It's not easy, you know, living on top of the job like that.'