(12/20) No Holly for Miss Quinn (4 page)

Henry Mawne and his wife she knew through her employer, and had been invited to their Queen Anne house at the end of the village on several occasions. The Hales at Tyler's Row, the Partridges at the vicarage, Mr. Willet, and Mrs. Pringle all were known to her, and she was on nodding terms with the majority of Fairacre's inhabitants.

But, on the whole, she preferred to ramble in the immediate vicinity of Holly Lodge. There she was unlikely to meet well-meaning folk who engaged her in conversation. She reveled in these solitary walks, noting the nuts and berries in the hedges, the flight of the downland birds, and the small fragrant flowers which flourished on the chalky soil.

She skirted the field of barley behind the house when she set off for the downs. Since her coming, the crop had turned from green to gold, fine and upstanding, with heavy ears. She watched it being harvested in August, and listened to the regular thumping of the baler as she ate her simple evening meal in the sitting room or carried her tray to some quiet corner of the garden.

Joan Benson had quickly realized that the girl preferred to be alone, and she sympathized with her feelings. After all, she told herself, Miriam arrived home tired, having dealt with people and their problems all day.

She had met Sir Barnabas Hatch at the Mawnes' and had summed him up astutely as the sort of man who, endowed with twice the average amount of energy and intelligence, expects other people to be equally dynamic. Miriam could well hold her own, and her cool disposition would enable her to cope with any outbursts from her employer. Nevertheless, he must be a demanding person with whom to deal, and it was no wonder that the girl needed the peace of her little home at the end of the day.

But although she respected Miriam's desire for privacy, she could not help feeling a little disappointed. She had hoped for company, and although the mere presence of someone next door was a great comfort, she sorely missed the conversation and company of her husband and mother. She found herself switching on the radio simply to hear another voice during the day, or making some excuse to walk to the village to enjoy a few words with anyone she met.

The days grew shorter. Joan tidied her garden, strung up her onions, planted bulbs, and had a massive autumn bonfire which wreathed blue smoke around Holly Lodge for two whole days. She was stirring the last of its embers one Saturday afternoon when Miriam waved to her from the other end of the garden.

"I'm off blackberrying," she called. "Shall I pick some for you?"

Joan dropped the hoe she had been using as an outsize poker, and hurried across.

"I'll join you, if I may," she said. "I've been meaning to go all the week. Wait half a minute while I fetch a basket."

Miriam rather welcomed company on this golden afternoon. She had finished the usual weekend chores of washing and shopping. The tradesmen had been paid their weekly dues, the house was clean. The mending awaited her, but otherwise her affairs were in as apple-pie order here as they were at the office. It would be good to hear Joan's news. She felt slightly guilty about seeing so little of her lately. This afternoon she would make amends.

The two women strode across the stubble of the field to a tall hedge. The sharp straw caught their legs, but it was wonderfully exhilarating to feel the crunch of it beneath their feet. At the farther edge of the field Miriam caught sight of something moving.

"Look!" she said, grasping Joan's arm. "A covey of partridges! There must be at least ten young ones running along there. I haven't seen that for a long time."

Joan was struck for the first time with the excitement in her companion's face.

"You really are a country girl!" she exclaimed. "Somehow I hadn't realized it."

Miriam smiled at her.

"It's why I love Holly Lodge so much," she told her.

The blackberries were thick and the two women picked steadily. Jet black, ruby red, and pale green, the berries cascaded down the hedge. United in their task, relaxed by the sunshine and sweet air, they talked of this and that, Miriam more forthcoming than ever before, and Joan relishing the chance to chatter again.

An onlooker might have learnt a great deal about the two women's natures, simply by watching their methods of picking. Miriam chose her bush with a shrewd eye to size and ripeness, and then picked swiftly and systematically, from the fat terminal berry, along the sides of the branch until all were gathered. Her movements were rapid but controlled, and not one berry was dropped.

Joan ambled happily between bushes, picking only the large ones. She lacked the concentration of the younger woman, but obviously enjoyed her haphazard forays and was quite content to have only half a basket of fruit, compared with Miriam's brimming one, when the time came to return home.

"I'm going to make tea," said Miriam. "Come and join me."

Joan was delighted to accept, and after depositing her basket in her own kitchen and washing her battle-scarred hands, she returned to the annex bearing some bronze chrysanthemums.

"I love them," said Joan, watching her neighbor arrange them, "but I always feel rather sad. They mean the summer's over. Still, they are very beautiful, and have such a marvelous scent. Rather like very expensive furniture polish, I always think."

Miriam let her chatter happily, wondering how to broach a subject which had been in her mind for some time.

"Would you mind if I redecorated these rooms, Joan?"

"Not at all," she said, looking a little surprised. "But they were done, you know, very recently."

"That's why I haven't liked to mention it. But, to tell you the truth, I'm not a lover of cream walls, and with this old mahogany I thought a very pale green would look well."

Joan nodded approvingly.

"It would indeed. Would you get somebody in to do it? I'm sure Mr. Willet could recommend someone reliable. Shall I ask him?"

"No, there's no need. I shall enjoy tackling it myself. I'm quite experienced."

"What a lot of talents you have! When would you want to start? Can I help at all?"

Miriam began to feel the familiar qualms of apprehension returning.

"I may take a few days off," she said guardedly. "I have some time owing to me, and Barnabas has to make a trip overseas soon. I may be able to arrange something then. If not, I could probably do some of it at Christmas time."

This chance remark sent Joan along a new path.

"I'm writing to my two children this week to see if they can join me here for Christmas. I thought if they had plenty of notice, I should have more chance of their company. It would be lovely to have the house full and you could meet them all. Barbara's babies are such fun."

Miriam's heart sank.

"You're very kind," she murmured. "More tea?"

"I simply adore Christmas," continued Joan, stirring her second cup. "And Fairacre is the perfect place to spend it. Lots of little parties, and carol singers coming to the door and having a drink and mince pies when they've finished; and always such lovely services at St. Patrick's with the church decked beautifully with holly and ivy and Christmas roses. Christmas really is
Christmas
at Fairacre!"

Miriam's polite smile masked her inner misgivings. Christmas at the vicarage had always meant a particularly busy day for her father, and a considerable number of elderly relatives who had been invited by her kindly mother because as she said: "They had nowhere else to go, poor things, and one can't think of them alone at Christmas."

Miriam had long ago given up feeling guilty about her dislike of Christmas festivities, and latterly had taken pains to keep her own Christmases as quiet as possible. This year she was determined to spend it alone in her new abode, with no turkey, no pudding, no mince pies and—definitely—no holly.

She might have a glass of the excellent punch that Barnabas usually gave her, with her customary light lunch, and she intended to read some Trollope, earmarked for the winter months. But too much food, too much noise and, above all, too much convivial company she would avoid.

But would she be able to?

She looked at dear kind Joan, rosy with fresh air and relaxed with warmth and company. How she blossomed, thought Miriam, with other people about!

No wonder she loved Christmas. Visiting, and being visited, was the breath of life to the good soul, and the joy of that festival would far outweigh any extra work which it entailed.

"I must be off," said Joan, struggling to her feet. "There's bramble jelly to be made next door, and I must leave you to tackle your own."

Miriam closed the door behind her, and returned to the sitting room deep in thought.

It looked as though evading action might well be needed as Christmas approached.

She looked out upon the golden evening. The trees were beginning to turn tawny with the first cool winds of autumn.

Ah well, she told herself, time enough yet to postpone such troubles!

***

But the autumn slipped by at incredible speed. It was dark now when Miriam left the office. She was glad to nose her car into the garage and hurry into the annex to light the fire, which she prudently set in readiness in the morning.

The force of the equinoctial gales surprised her. Now she began to realize how open to the elements was this high downland country, and to appreciate the sagacity of the past owner of Holly Lodge who had had the foresight to plant the thick hedge that gave the house not only its name, but considerable protection from the blasts of winter.

Her own little home gave her increasing satisfaction. She had painted the kitchen white. It took three weekends of hard work to do the job, but Miriam was a perfectionist, and she rubbed down the old paint until not one scrap remained before she began to apply the undercoat with a steady hand. She enjoyed the work, she exulted in the finished result, and, above all, she relished the perfect quiet as she got on with the job.

She was even more determined now to tackle the sitting room at Christmas. Barney, as she thought of him, was making a business trip to Boston and New York, leaving on December sixteenth and not returning until after New Year's Day. Miriam had already made the flight bookings for him and Adele, his wife. They were meeting their only daughter, who was married to an American, and proposed to spend Christmas at her home and to see their grandchildren. Miriam had been requested to find some toys suitable for children aged six and eight.

"The sort of thing they won't get over there, you know," said Barney vaguely. "Adele's got the main things, but I'd like to take something myself. I'll leave it to you. Not too weighty, of course, because of flying."

"I won't get an old English rocking horse," promised Miriam.

"Oh no! Nothing like that!" exclaimed Sir Barnabas, looking alarmed. Humor, even as obvious as this, did not touch him. "And no more than five pounds apiece," he added. He was not a business man for nothing.

Miriam promised to do her best.

***

As Christmas approached, the whirl of village activities quickened. Posters went up on barn doors, on the trunks of trees, and on the bus shelter near the church, drawing attention to the usual Mammoth Jumble Sale, the Fur and Feather Whist Drive, and the Social and Dance, all to be held—on different dates, of course—under the roof of the Village Hall.

As well as these advertized delights, there were more private junketings, such as the Women's Institute Christmas party, Fairacre School's concert, and a wine and cheese party for the Over-Sixties' Club.

An innovation was Mrs. Partridge's Open Day at the vicarage, which was her own idea, and to which the village gave considerable attention.

"You can just pop in there," said Mrs. Willet, in the Post Office, "anytime between ten o'clock and seven at night. You pays ten pence to go in, and you pays for your cup of coffee, or your dinner midday, or tea, say, at four o'clock."

"And what, pray," said Mrs. Pringle, who was buying stamps, "do you get for dinner? And how much will it be?"

"I think it's just soup and bread and cheese," said Mrs. Willet timidly.

Mrs. Pringle snorted, and two stamps fluttered to the ground.

"I don't call that DINNER," boomed the lady, preparing to bend to retrieve the stamps.

"Here, let me," said Mr. Lamb, the postmaster, hurrying to rescue Mrs. Pringle's property. More than likely to have a heart attack, trying to bend over in those corsets, was his ungallant private comment, as he proffered the stamps with a smile.

"Ta," said Mrs. Pringle perfunctorily. She turned again upon little Mrs. Willet.

"And
how much
for this 'ere rubbishy snack?'"

"I'm not sure," faltered Mrs. Willet. "It's for charity, you see. Half to the Church Fabric Fund and half to some mission in London that the vicar takes an interest in. Poor people, you know."

"Poor
people?
" thundered Mrs. Pringle. "In London? Why, we've got plenty of poor in Fairacre as could do with a bit of help at Christmas, without giving it away to foreigners up London. Look at them Coggses! They could do with a bit of extra. That youngest looks half-starved to me."