(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green (2 page)

Harold looked, with more attention, at Albert Piggott's territory. To be sure, he had some grounds for grumbling. Tall rank weeds grew inside the stub wall, nettles, the rusty spires of docks, cow-parsley with skeleton umbels turning papery as the summer waned, with convolvulus entwining all and thrusting its tentacles along the railings.

The tombstones stood among hillocks of grass which had grown beyond a mower's powers, as Albert had said. Here and there, a few grassy mounds, neatly shorn, paid tribute to the loving hands of relatives who did their best to honour the resting places of their dead. But these islands of tidiness only served to throw the neglected whole into sharp contrast.

Albert was right about the railings too, Harold observed. Several had splintered with rust and would be dangerous to handle.

Is there any need for the railings, I wonder?' said Harold, musing aloud.

'There's need all right,' responded Albert. 'That's why they was set 'ere. In the old days there used to be cows and that, grazing on the green, and they could get over this liddle ol' wall easy as kiss your 'and. And the kids too. You gotter keep people and animals out of a churchyard, stands to reason.'

'You won't keep people out for ever,' pointed out Harold, preparing to go on his way. 'We'll all be in there together before long.'

'Some sooner than others,' retorted Albert, with a morose sniff, as Harold departed.

The rectory, some hundred yards from St Andrew's, was a high Victorian monstrosity, facing north, and perched on a small mound the better to catch the chilly winds of the Cotswold country.

It was, thought Harold, as he waited on the doorstep, the most gloomy house in Thrush Green. Unlike its neighbours, which were built of local stone, the rectory had been encased in grey stucco early in its life. The ravages of time had caused pieces to break away here and there, so that newer patches of different grey made the whole affair appear shabbier than ever.

Large sash windows and a tall narrow front door were all in need of paint, but there was little money to spare, as Harold knew too well. In any case, Charles Henstock cared little for creature comforts, and had lived for several years alone, in appalling conditions of cold and discomfort, until his marriage to Dimity Dean a few years before had brought companionship and a slight mitigation of the hardship of his surroundings.

Dimity opened the door to him and greeted him with cries of welcome.

'What a day you've brought with you! I'm in the kitchen, and the sun is just streaming in.'

She led the way, still chattering, down the long dark corridor which acted as a wind tunnel, and kept the rectory in a state of refrigeration during the winter months. Harold's feet echoed on the shabby linoleum, and he thought guiltily of his own carpeted home across the green. It was shameful to think how appallingly some of the clergy were housed. Charles' stipend was barely enough to keep body and soul together, as Harold well knew. Not that he or Dimity ever complained. Their hearts were thankful their concern for others governed all their thoughts. They were two of the happiest people Harold had ever met. But he grieved for their poverty secretly, whilst marvelling at their shining goodness.

The kitchen was certainly the most cheerful place in the house. It was the only downstairs room which faced south, and the comfortable smell of cooking added to the warmth of its welcome after the bleakness of the rest of the house.

'Charles is writing letters in the study,' said Dimity. 'I'll let him know that you're here. Do find a seat.'

'Don't bother him,' said Harold, but she had gone already, fluttering up the dark passage, still uttering little cries of pleasure at his visit.

Harold sat down by the kitchen table, first removing a pile of parish magazines from the seat. He observed Dimity's cooking paraphernalia with interest.

A pudding basin stood close to him, and a piece of pastry was in the process of being rolled out. A floury rolling pin lay dangerously near the table's edge, and Harold moved it prudently to a more central position. Something was sizzling gently in a frying pan, and Harold hoped that Dimity would return before it needed attention. His own culinary skills were enough for self-preservation, but he did not feel equal to attending to other people's creations.

A large tabby cat was curled up on the sunny window sill. Harold had known it since it was a kitten. It was one of a litter born to Dotty Harmer's cat, and it was sheer luck that Harold did not own a cat himself from that household. The eccentric Miss Harmer, animal-lover and amateur herbalist, was a power to be reckoned with when she had a litter of kittens needing homes. The Henstocks' cat, Tabitha, seemed to have struck lucky, thought Harold, looking at the array of saucers set down for it by the sink.

Dimity and Charles entered.

'I'm sorry to have interrupted the letter writing,' said Harold.

Charles Henstock's plump face was creased with a smile.

'I can always set aside letter writing,' he assured his friend. 'It's a task I abhor, especially when there are a score of complaints to answer.'

'Such as?'

'Why is the church so cold? Why didn't I see the kneeler that mother gave in 1892, when I visited the church recently? Why is Uncle Thomas's grave so neglected?'

'Poor Charles!' murmured Dimity. 'It's really too bad of people to worry him so.'

She turned her attention to the piece of dough.

'Do you mind if I finish this? It's going to be a steak and kidney pudding, and it should have been on an hour ago.'

'I'm not going to stop,' said Harold, rising. 'But I thought you might like this.'

He handed over the paper bag.

'It couldn't have come at a better time,' cried Dimity. 'I shall put half in the pudding and keep the other half to fry with the breakfast bacon tomorrow morning.'

'Don't go yet,' said Charles. 'Come into the study, out of Dimity's way, and perhaps she would make us some coffee when the pudding's in.'

'Of course, of course,' she exclaimed, her eyes still on the massive mushroom. 'I'll call you the minute it's ready.'

Reluctantly, Harold followed his friend to the study. It was a lofty room, with dark green walls and an inadequate strip of thin carpeting lying in front of the great desk which dominated the room. A crucifix hung on the wall behind the rector's head, flanked by several fading photographs from college days.

From his chair, Harold could see, through the window, the thatched cottage across the way where Dimity had lived before her marriage. She had shared it with Ella Bembridge, another of Thrush Green's redoubtable spinsters, who still lived there, coming over to see her old friend at least once a day.

If anything, Harold was rather more afraid of the ruthless Ella than he was of scatter-brained Dotty Harmer. The latter he could dodge. Ella never gave up. How Dimity could have survived such a partnership for so many years, he just did not know. Another instance of her selflessness, he supposed, although he was ready to admit that Ella's gruffness no doubt hid a warm heart. At least, that's what people told him at Thrush Green, and he was only too willing to believe them.

Certainly, her cottage, glimpsed through the rectory window, looked as snug as a cat sunning itself. Its thatch gleamed. A row of hollyhocks swayed in the breeze, and Ella's open bedroom window flashed dazzling lights as it reflected the sunshine. Did Dimity ever regret leaving that haven, he wondered?

He looked at Charles, turning the papers on his desk. It had been no sacrifice for Dimity, Harold decided, when she gave up her home across the road. There was no finer man than the rector of Thrush Green.

'Do you get many letters of complaint?' he asked.

'A few each week. I try and keep one morning a week for answering them. I don't quite know what I am expected to do. Some are most unreasonable – this kneeler one, for instance. But of course people are distressed and I must do my best to explain things, and perhaps to comfort them.'

'We might do something about the churchyard between us,' said Harold diffidently. 'I saw Piggott as I came across, and of course he's past keeping the place as it should be.'

'I've done my utmost to get another man,' replied Charles, 'but no one seems to want the work.'

'We might organise a working party,' suggested Harold. 'We could take down the railings, for instance. They're getting downright dangerous.'

'They are in a bad way,' agreed the rector, 'but I think we should probably have to get a faculty to remove them. I must go into it.'

A cry from the kitchen told them that coffee was ready.

'Of course,' went on the rector, following his friend down the passage, 'Piggott never makes the best of anything. No one could accuse him of looking on the bright side of life. However, I will go and see what can be done during the week. Thrush Green must have a tidy churchyard.'

'Yes indeed,' echoed Dimity, passing steaming cups. 'Thrush Green must have a tidy churchyard.'

Had they known it, on that serene September morning, those simple words were to become a battle cry. The resting place of Thrush Green's dead was soon to become a field of conflict.

2 Miss Fogerty Is Upset

T
HRUSH GREEN,
which is roughly triangular, is bordered by two highways which converge at the southern end in Lulling. A fine avenue of chestnut trees lines the third side at the northern end, joining the two roads.

Harold Shoosmith's house stands on the smaller road which leads northward to the villages of Nod and Nidden. Next door stands the village school, one or two cottages, including Albert Piggott's, and "The Two Pheasants."

The other road is larger and busier, leading northward to other Cotswold towns, and finally to the Midlands. It is on this road, facing across the green to the village school and public house, that some of Thrush Green's most attractive houses stand, although the finest of all, everyone agrees, are the three magnificent dwellings whose frontages lie along the chestnut avenue.

Ella Bembridge's cottage, at the head of the steep hill which drops down to Lulling High Street, is one of the pretty houses on the main road and Dr and Mrs Bailey live in another, a solid Cotswold stone house weathered to a perfect blend of grey and gold.

Next door to the Baileys' stands a small square house, of the same age, called Tullivers, and to this house, some time ago, came a young woman and her little son Jeremy. Thrush Green, of course, was avidly interested in the newcomer and speculated about the non-appearance of her husband.

But speculation turned to sympathy when Thrush Green heard that he had been killed in a car crash in France, and sympathy turned to rejoicing when she married again later. Frank and Phyllida Hurst were popular members of the Thrush Green community, and young Jeremy one of the star pupils at the village school.

On this sparkling September morning, as the rector, his wife and their visitor sipped their coffee, Phil Hurst was cutting roses in the garden of Tullivers. This second flowering was infinitely better than the first, she decided, snipping busily. Just as second thoughts usually were – or second marriages, perhaps?

She straightened up and stood, silent, lost in her thoughts. Across the green the schoolchildren shouted in the playground. From a garden nearby came the sound of a lawn mower, and swallows, strung along the telegraph wire like beads on a thread, chattered together. But Phil heard nothing.

The old tag: 'Comparisons are odious' came into her mind. It was true in this case. This second marriage was wonderfully, strongly happy despite the difference in their ages. But no one could say that it was better than the first – simply different. Marriage with John had been a gay affair, exciting and exacting, two young people learning to live together – until the last unhappy months when he had left her for a French woman.

Marriage with Frank was happiness in a different way. It had a quieter, more companionable quality. It was Frank who gave comfort, whereas it was she who had comforted John. There was a solid strength about the older man which John had lacked, but which she had never realised until now.

And then he was so good with Jeremy! How heart-warming that was, to see the affection between them! It would have been understandable if a man of Frank's age had shown some irritation now and again in the presence of a vociferous little boy. After all, Robert, his only son by his first marriage, who was now a farmer in Wales, had four children of his own, and Frank's youngest grandchild was much the same age as Jeremy.

She moved thoughtfully towards the house where a Golden Shower rose flaunted its lemon flowers against the stone wall. At the moment there was one flaw in their otherwise perfect relationship. Frank dearly wanted Jeremy to go away to school, positive that it brought out the best in any child. Phil hated the idea, at least until he was considerably older. He loved his present school. He loved Tullivers and the simple life of Thrush Green. He had lost his father, and had had to adapt to another man taking his father's place. Phil felt sure that it was best to let him stay as he was for some time.

There was a good day school in Lulling which Paul Young attended, and he was going on from there to his father's public school. Phil thought that this was the ideal plan, and decided that she must speak to her friend Joan Young, who lived in one of the three splendid houses in the chestnut avenue, to elicit her help if a battle with Frank became unavoidable. It was the one thing, she told herself, snipping ferociously, for which she would fight. After all, Jeremy was her childhers and John's – and she was determined to do the right thing by him.

A woman's voice broke upon her militant thoughts, and she turned to see her neighbour Winnie Bailey at the gate.

'And how is the doctor this morning?' enquired Phil, going towards her.

'Not too good today. He's up and down, as you know, and had a trying night. He's asleep now, and I thought I would slip down to Lulling for some meat while he's resting.'

'Shall I look in?'

'No, no, many thanks. Jenny's there till twelve, and I shan't be long. Anything I can fetch for you?'