(6/13) Gossip from Thrush Green (4 page)

'Ray and Kathleen are proposing to have a week or ten days touring the Cotswolds next month,' she told Agnes, as she stuffed his letter back into the envelope.

'How nice,' said Agnes. 'Are they likely to call here?'

'A call I should like,' said Dorothy, with some emphasis, 'but Ray seems to be inviting himself and Kathleen to stay here for a night or two.'

'Oh!' said Agnes, somewhat taken aback. The school house had only two bedrooms. The one which had once been the spare room she now occupied permanently. Before then, she knew, Ray had sometimes spent the night there on his travels as a commercial salesman. Since Dorothy's accident however things had been a little strained. She had confidently expected to convalesce with her brother and his wife, but they had made no offer, indeed nothing but excuses. If it had not been for Agnes's willingness to help, poor Miss Watson would have been unaided in her weaxness. It was quite plain to Miss Fogerty that she had not forgiven or forgotten.

'I could easily make up a bed in the sitting room,' offered Agnes, 'if you would like to have mine. Then they could have the twin beds in your room.'

'It won't be necessary, Agnes dear,' said Dorothy, in the firm tones of a headmistress. 'We are not going to put ourselves out for them. They have quite enough money to afford a hotel. They can try The Fleece if they must come and stay here. Frankly, it won't break my heart if we don't see them at all.'

Oh Dorothy!' begged gentle little Miss Fogerty, don't talk like that! He is your own flesh and blood—your own brother!'

'No fault of mine,' said Dorothy, briskly, rolling up her napkin. 'I didn't choose him, you know, but I do choose my
friends!
'

She glanced at the clock.

'Better clear up, I suppose, or we shall be late for school. I really ought to look out some pictures for my history lesson this morning.'

'Then you go over to school, dear,' said Miss Fogerty, and I'll see to the breakfast things.'

'You spoil me,' said Miss Watson, limping towards the door.

And how pleasant it was to have someone to spoil, thought Agnes, running the tap. More often than not she did stay behind to do this little chore, but never did she resent it. Looking after others, children or adults, was little Miss Fogerty's chief source of pleasure.

Miss Watson, making her way carefully across the playground, thought fondly of her assistant. She was the soul of unselfishness, as her ready offer to vacate her bedroom had shown yet again But Miss Watson was determined that Agnes should now come first. She had been a loyal colleague for many years, respected by parents and children alike, and since the accident had proved a trusted friend and companion.

All that stuff about blood being thicker than water, thought Miss Watson robustly, was a lot of eyewash! She had had more help and affection from dear old Agnes than ever Ray and Kathleen had shown her. It had to be faced, they were a selfish pair, and she had no intention of upsetting Agnes's comfort, or her own, to save them a few pennies.

'You can come and help me to carry some pictures, George dear,' she said to young Curdle who was skipping about the playground. It was by way of being a royal command.

She swept ahead to enter her domain, followed by one of her willing subjects.

3. Jenny Falls Ill

T
HAT
halcyon spell of weather lasted exactly two days, and then bitter winds lashed the area and continued into March.

During this bleak period the problem of letting Tullivers to Robert's friend was resolved. Frank discovered that he knew the young man's father. He and Dick Thomas had worked together on a west country newspaper for some time. He had an idea he had even met this son, Jack, when he was a babe in arms.

Robert had got the local vicar to send a letter to his father vouching for the young man, which Frank found rather touching. Obviously, Robert wanted everything to go smoothly. Frank was impressed too by a letter from Jack Thomas, and by the fact that he had managed to get his landlord to extend his stay until the end of April, which would mean just one month at Tullivers if Frank were willing to let.

The young couple came to lunch at Tullivers one boisterous March day and seemed enchanted by all that they saw. They discussed dates and terms, and Frank promised an agreement in writing. He was obviously much taken with them.

Phil was more cautious.

'They seem a sensible pair,' was Frank's comment as the Thomases drove away.

'I hope so,' said Phil. 'She didn't seem to know much about cooking, I thought.'

'Never mind! She'll soon learn,' replied Frank indulgently.

'That's what I'm afraid of! With my kitchen equipment!' retorted Phil. 'Anyway, they both looked clean, and were polite. We forgot to ask him about his music, by the way. Does he play an instrument?'

'A guitar,' said Frank.

'Well, that sounds reasonably quiet,' conceded Phil. 'I shouldn't like dear Winnie and Jenny disturbed with drums and cymbals.'

'Oh, I'm sure they wouldn't be so thoughtless as to upset the neighbours,' said Frank reassuringly, 'but I will mention that when I write.'

'It might be as well,' agreed Phil. 'After all we don't really know them, and they may not realise that most of us go to bed around ten at Thrush Green.'

And so the matter was left.

Across the green, at the rectory, Ella was visiting Charles and Dimity Henstock. The question of the rector's holiday was being discussed, and Dimity, always anxious for the health and happiness of her husband, was doing her best to get him to make a decision.

Ella, forthright as ever, was giving vociferous support.

'Don't be such an ass, Charles. Of course, you need a holiday. Everyone does. You'll come back full of beans, and with some new ideas for sermons.'

Charles looked wounded.

'My dear Ella, you speak as though you hear the same sermon time and time again. I assure you - '

'Oh yes, yes!' said Ella testily, fishing out a battered tobacco tin and beginning to roll herself a cigarette. 'I know it sounded like that, but I didn't mean anything so rude. You manage very well,' she continued kindly.

She licked the cigarette paper noisily.

'And I can truthfully say,' she continued, 'that I have only heard that one about the Good Samaritan three times, and the one about arrogance twice. Mind you, as you well know, I don't go
every
Sunday, but still, it's not a bad record on your part, Charles dear.'

The rector's chubby face was creased with distress, but he remained silent. Dimity flew to his support.

Those sermons, Ella, were
quite different.
Charles approached the subject from a fresh way each time, and in any case, those themes are universal, and can stand being repeated. But you have a point, dear, about returning refreshed from holiday, and I wish Charles would see it.'

'If it's money you need,' said Ella bluntly, 'I can let you have some.'

'We're quite accustomed to being short of money,' said Charles, with a smile. 'But thank you, Ella, for a kind offer. The difficulty is to find the time.'

'Well, what's wrong with nipping away for a week or so between Easter and Whitsun? I can quite see that you've got to fix a holiday in a slack period. Like farmers.'

'Like farmers?' echoed Charles, bemused.

'They have to go away after hay-making or after harvest, you surely know that? And they usually get married in October when the harvest's in, and they have some corn money for a honeymoon.'

'What a grasp you have of agricultural economy,' commented Charles, 'but now I come to think of it, I do seem to marry young farmers in the autumn.'

'I think Ella's suggestion of a May break is very good,' said Dimity, bringing the subject to heel again. 'Why not write to Edgar? Better still, ring him up one evening. Yorkshire would be lovely then, if he could spare the house.'

Charles looked from one determined woman to the other. He knew when he was beaten.

'I'll do something this week,' he promised. In any case, I have neglected Edgar sadly for the last few months. That living of his in Yorkshire keeps him very busy, and I really should be the one who writes. But where do the weeks go, Ella? Do you know?'

'They turn into months far too quickly,' said Ella, 'and that's because we're all getting old and can't pack as much into a month as we used to. I'm sure Edgar will understand. What do you propose to do? To have a straight swap of livings for a week or two?'

'Probably. I must say, we both love the dales, and Edgar and Hilda seem to enjoy the Cotswolds. It's just a case of arranging dates.'

'Which is where I came in,' said Ella, heaving herself to her feet. She ground out her cigarette end in the earth surrounding Dimity's choicest geranium plant on the window sill. Dimity caught her breath in dismay, but, as a true Christian, forbore to comment.

'And of course I'll feed the cat,' continued Ella, making for the door. 'Does she still live on pig's liver?'

'I'm afraid so,' replied Dimity. 'Such dreadful stuff to chop up.'

'No worse than tripe,' said Ella, and vanished.

It was towards the end of March that Winnie Bailey crossed from her house into the surgery which had been her husband's, and was now occupied by John Lovell, the senior partner in the practice, since Donald's death.

He was a quiet conscientious young man who had learnt a great deal from Winnie's husband, and was liked by his Thrush Green patients.

He glanced up from his papers as Winnie entered, and went to fetch a chair.

'I saw that the waiting room was empty,' said Winnie. 'Are you just off on the rounds?'

'In a few minutes, but no great hurry. Any trouble, Winnie?'

'It's Jenny. She's been off her food for a week or so, and had a horrible cough. But you know Jenny. She won't give up, and says it's nothing. Do come and have a look at her, John dear.'

'I'll come now,' said the young man, picking up his stethoscope. 'There's a particularly vicious flu bug about. It may be that.'

Together they returned to the hall, and thence to the kitchen, where Jenny stood at the sink peeling potatoes. She was unusually pale, John Lovell noticed, but her eyes were inflamed, and her forehead, when he felt it with the palm of his hand, was very hot.

'Sit down,' he directed. Jenny obeyed, but cast an accusing look at Winnie.

'Mrs Bailey,' she croaked. 'There wasn't no need to bother the doctor.'

'Unbutton your blouse,' he directed, arranging his stethoscope, 'and open your mouth.'

Gagged with a thermometer, and immobilised with the stethoscope dabbed here and there on her chest, poor Jenny submitted to a thorough examination.

When it was over John Lovell pronounced sentence.

'Bed for you, and lots to drink. You've a fine old temperature and your lungs are congested.'

'But I'm doing the potatoes!' protested Jenny.

'I can finish those,' said Winnie. 'You must do as Doctor Lovell tells you. Up you go, and I'll bring you a hot water bottle and some lemon barley water.'

'I'll go back to the surgery,'John told Winnie, 'and let you have some inhalant and pills.'

Jenny departed reluctantly, and Winnie looked at John.

'I don't think it's much more than an infection of the lungs, but it could be the first stage of something catching. I suppose she's had all the childish ailments?'

'I'm not sure. She was brought up in an orphanage, you know, until she came to her foster-parents here. She was about ten or twelve, I think. No doubt she had all the catching things at the orphanage, but I'll find out from her.'

John went to fetch the medicine, and Winnie put on the kettle for Jenny's bottle.

Later, with two pills inside her, a hot bottle at her feet, and the jug of inhalant steaming on the bedside table Jenny tried to remember if and when she had had whooping cough, scarlet fever, measles, chicken pox, and all the other horrid excitements of childhood.

'I can't honestly recall all of them,' she confessed. There was always something going the rounds at the orphanage with so many of us. I know I didn't get ringworm,' she added, with some pride.

'Anyway, don't worry,' said Winnie. 'Let me drape this towel over your head, and you get busy with the Friar's Balsam.'

'Is that what it is?' said Jenny, from beneath her tent. 'I thought it was some new mixture of Doctor Lovell's.'

'It's probably got a long and different name,' agreed Winnie, 'but I wouldn't mind betting it's basically dear old Friar's Balsam.'

'Well,
that
can't harm me,' agreed Jenny with relief, and bent to her task.

***

The next day was one of those windy blue and white March beauties when great clouds scudded eastward, and the sunshine lifted everyone's spirits at Thrush Green.

Everyone, except Albert Piggott.

He was wandering morosely round the churchyard, billhook in hand. If challenged, he would have said that he was busy cutting away the long grass which grew near the tombstones and the surrounding low wall. In fact, he was killing time until ten o'clock when the pub opened.

A small van drew up near him on the other side of the wall, and Percy Hodge, a local farmer, clambered out.

'Ah, Albert!' he began. 'D'you want a little job in the garden?' Occasionally, Albert obliged' locally with odd jobs, but latterly he had preferred his leisure to this extra drinking money. Still, Percy was an old friend...

'What sort of job?' he enquired cautiously. 'I don't mind telling you, Perce, I ain't the man I was since my operation.'

Nothing too heavy,' Percy assured him. 'But I've been given a sack of seed potatoes, and I ought to get 'em in. My dear Gertie always put the spuds in. I miss her, that I do.'

Albert was embarrassed to see tears in the eyes of the widower. Mind you, he could sympathise. By and large, wives were kittle-kattle, more trouble than they were worth, but when it came to cooking or gardening they had their uses.

'I suppose I could give you a hand,' said Albert grudgingly. 'But I don't reckon I'm up to digging trenches for a hundredweight of spuds.'