(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green (19 page)

'Give her something to do,' added Albert, 'and the money'll come in useful. Suits me to have a bit of time to meself.'

Certainly Albert's usual dour demeanour remained unchanged by Nelly's good fortune. The truth was that as long as his food was provided, and Nelly kept a civil tongue in her head, he was quite content to let things drift on as they had done since her return.

Dotty Harmer and Connie heard about it when they went to tea with Winnie Bailey one hot afternoon.

Connie took her aunt for a drive after her rest, and they trundled through nearby villages and enjoyed the leafy beauty of the country lanes. Honeysuckle scented the air, and a few late dog roses starred the hedges. The blackberry flowers, pale pinky-mauve, were prolific, and promised a bumper crop later on.

Dotty's spirits were high. She was enjoying her outing and looking forward to tea at Winnie's.

She rattled on in her usual inconsequent vein, and Connie, immersed in her own thoughts, hardly heard her, until she realized that her aunt was busily discussing the old people's homes being erected at Thrush Green.

'But, you see,' rambled Dotty, 'I don't think I should care to be on one floor. One really
should
go upstairs to bed, don't you agree? It's not only the
rightness
of mounting steps to one's bedroom, but the fact that
anyone
could look in as they passed on foot. Friends of my dear father's retired to a bungalow, and she had the most dreadful shock when she realized that the baker was looking in as she was standing in her stays. Very upsetting. She took to dressing in the bathroom, I remember, at least up to her petticoat, and as that was always Vedonis and lock-knit, it was
perfectly
respectable.'

'You're surely not considering applying for one of the houses?' queried Connie, slightly bewildered. A sudden through struck her. 'You haven't already applied for one?' Dotty was quite capable of doing such a thing, Connie was well aware.

'Oh, no, no, no!' tutted Dotty. 'I shouldn't dream of it. As I was saying, I like to go
upstairs
to sleep, and in any case I have no intention of leaving my own dear house.'

'Thank heaven for that!' said Connie. She turned the car in the direction of Thrush Green. They were in comfortable time for Winnie's tea party.

'I can't think why you thought I wanted to live in one of Edward Young's little places,' went on Dotty. 'Do you think I ought to apply? Are you finding me too much of a problem, Connie dear? I should hate to
exploit
you. Perhaps I do? Oh, dear, I should have realized I am very demanding. And of course the cottage is rather small. Only three bedrooms, and perhaps you find it
cramped
with us both in it? As you know, it will be yours one day, and if you feel like taking it over
now
instead of
later,
I should readily agree to any arrangements you might like to make—'

Dotty's voice had risen in her agitation, and she sounded slightly tearful. Connie drew in at a convenient field gate and switched off the engine. It was unthinkable to let poor old Dotty work herself into such a state. If she were not careful she would be arriving at Winnie's red-eyed and sniffing.

She turned to face the old lady and smiled at her.

'You've got it all wrong, Aunt Dot. The last thing I want is to turn you out of your home. You know that. You are
no bother at all
to me. Just the opposite. I love you dearly, and enjoy living with you. And I hope we'll have many years of life together. Now, is that better?'

Dotty took a long breath, and found a beautifully folded handkerchief in her pocket. She dabbed her eyes and returned it.

'That's all right then. As long as you are happy, dear, I am too. Did you notice the rather nice scent on my handkerchief? Winnie Bailey gave it to me last Christmas, and I thought it would be a gesture to use it today. And have you noticed, dear, in books and plays, that the heroine never seems to have a handkerchief
at all,
and is obliged to borrow one from the hero? I mean, who on earth ever goes out
without
a handkerchief? It's quite unthinkable. Although I once knew two sisters who
shared
one. At parties you heard them say to each other: "Have you got The Handkerchief?" So insanitary, we always thought. They were odd girls.'

Not the only ones, was Connie's private comment as they mounted the hill to Thrush Green. Dear old Dotty, she needed more attention daily, thought Connie indulgently, and she would make sure that she had it.

Winnie Bailey apologised for it being what she called 'a hen party' in her drawing room. Ella Bembridge and Dimity Henstock were there and Phyllida Hurst from Tullivers next door.

'You wouldn't have kept Frank away,' said the latter, 'if he had been at home. The poor dear's at a publishers' conference in Leamington.'

'And Charles,' added Dimity, as the only other married woman present, 'is at a diocesan conference. Do you think men like conferences, or do they just enjoy getting away on their own now and again?'

'I've never liked to enquire,' replied Phyllida. 'Have you heard about Nelly Piggott?'

An animated discussion followed, and the general feeling was that such employment might be the making of Albert's rather shaky marriage.

'Perhaps,' ventured Dimity, 'Doris Hodge would be happier with a nice little job.'

'The worst of it is,' said Ella, 'that nice little jobs are jolly hard to come by. I met that objectionable Frances Thurgood this week, and she was telling me that Janet is getting quite desperate searching for some employment.'

'Can she do anything?' asked Connie.

'Nothing as useful as Nelly Piggott, but she's got strings of art qualifications for what they're worth. What about Doris? Any hope as a barmaid again?'

'I gather not,' said Winnie, i agree that they are thrown too much together, and Percy is a difficult man, you know. His first wife thoroughly spoilt him, and Doris doesn't. It's as simple as that.'

Later that day, when all the ladies had departed and Winnie and Jenny were clearing up in the kitchen, the subject was raised again.

'How are things going at the Hodges'?' asked Winnie, cake tin in hand.

'Haven't you heard?' replied Jenny. 'He had a letter this week, so Mrs Jenner told me, to say Doris is not coming back.'

'Oh Jenny!' sighed Winnie, i am sorry.'

'Not as sorry as I am,' said Jenny grimly. 'I only hope he doesn't try his tricks here again.'

And Winnie was relieved to see that her brave Jenny was prepared to repulse any invaders of her territory.

14. Thundery Conditions

THE SUMMER weeks slipped by. The honeysuckle flowers had fallen and clusters of garnet berries took their place. Hard little knobs of green replaced the bramble blossom, and the wild late summer flowers, knapweed, agrimony and scabious, enlivened the verges.

Everything was beginning to look shabby. The grass was turning brown. A few leaves were already floating down from the trees. The combine harvesters were at work in the fields, and the lucky people with greenhouses were enjoying a bumper crop of tomatoes.

In the vicarage garden at Lulling Charles Henstock and Caleb were busy.

Caleb was pushing the lawn mower at a leisurely pace, and the smell of freshly cut grass floated pleasantly about the place. Charles was engaged in trimming the edges of the flower beds with his long-handled shears, given to him by Dimity on his last birthday. They were, he noted with infinite satisfaction, a great advance on the old pair of hand shears with which he used to tackle this job. What was even more pleasing was the fact that he didn't get the knees of his trousers stained crawling on the grass.

The air was warm and sultry, and there was no sunshine. Hordes of minute insects, called thunder flies by Lulling folk, filled the garden, tickling Caleb and Charles as they worked. Every now and again the sound of a slap and a vexed exclamation disturbed the peace, as the two men tried to displace their ubiquitous adversaries.

Despite these interruptions, Charles's flow of thought continued. He was in a philosophic mood, brought about, no doubt, by the rhythmic nature of his present labours and the soporific atmosphere of a warm August afternoon. He had put aside, as best he could, his earlier worries. Mrs Thurgood's absence from church could not be helped, sad though it was. It was true that several families had transferred their presence to other establishments, but on the other hand Charles had welcomed several newcomers.

The person who had rifled the poor box, or rather the box asking for help with the fabric of St John's church, had not been found. The police had strongly suspected a young man who lived in one of the riverside cottages by the Pleshey, but he was able to prove that he had been practising his bowling at the nets on the local sports' ground when the felony occurred, and the police were obliged to look fruitlessly elsewhere. Charles had long ago put the matter behind him. A stronger box had been put in its place, and the alms were collected nightly by the rector himself. One could do no more.

On the whole, as the months passed, he began to feel more at ease, although he was still deeply conscious of his own shortcomings when he compared himself with Anthony Bull. But there it was. Anthony was Anthony, charming, a trifle flamboyant, able to talk and laugh easily with all and sundry, an inspiring orator and as handsome as a matinée idol.

He could not hope, nor did he wish, to compete. He could only pray that his parishioners would recognise his own sincerity, his loving care of them and his desire to serve them well. He wanted to be accepted as himself, and not constantly compared to his predecessor. Only time, Charles sighed to himself, scratching his tormented neck, could put that right, he feared. Patience was all.

He straightened up, and saw Dimity approaching with the tea tray. He hurried to help her.

'I thought it would be nice to have it out here,' said Dimity.

'Perfect, my dear. Although there are no end of those horrible little thunder flies.'

'They're worse in the house,' Dimity told him, lifting the milk jug. 'Quite static in there, like veils of treacle.'

' "Veils of treacle," ' echoed Charles. 'Can you have veils—?'

'You know what I mean,' said Dimity. 'One has to
push
through them. Out here they do at least move about a bit. Call Caleb, would you? I'm sure he's as parched as we are.'

And still pondering on his wife's extraordinary description, Charles went across the newly-striped lawn to fetch Caleb to the feast.

Some half a mile away, in the kitchen of The Fuchsia Bush, Nelly Piggott found the thunder flies as irritating as the rest of Lulling.

She had just spread coffee-flavoured water icing carefully over a large square of spongecake, and was now placing halved walnuts at equal distances on the sticky surface. Her intention was to cut the whole into twenty squares, each suitable for a delectable portion to be eaten with coffee or tea by the lucky customers.

The thunder flies seemed bent on committing suicide upon Nelly's masterpiece. She moved it from the kitchen table into the larder, but there seemed to be no escape from the maddening little midges.

'Nothing for it but to pick 'em off with a knife point,' said Nelly to Mrs Peters when she came into the kitchen. 'I'd best open that extra tin of home-made biscuits, ma'am, for this afternoon.'

'Yes, that would be best,' agreed her employer, looking doubtfully at Nelly's icing. 'With any luck these wretched midges should clear away as soon as a storm comes, and I think that's on the way already.'

She vanished again into the shop and Nelly was left to her own devices.

She had not been so happy in years, thought Nelly, putting out biscuits. Albert, although no ray of sunshine, was comparatively good tempered, and certainly did not upbraid her about her absence with the oil man, which she fully expected from him. Perhaps he was mellowing with age? Perhaps he felt, as she did since her time in hospital, that peace at any price was the best guideline? No one could call Albert's cottage a love nest, but at least it was a port in a storm.

The main thing was that she was really blissfully happy whilst at work, and she was in The Fuchsia Bush's kitchen promptly at eight-thirty each morning and content to stay there for as long as Mrs Peters needed her. The café closed when afternoon teas were over, and the arrangement had been that Nelly could leave as soon as the cakes and sandwiches were ready, and the kettles on the stove, sometime before four o'clock. Two part-time kitchen helpers came from one o'clock until five-thirty, so that there was no need for Nelly to remain, but more often than not it was nearer five when she departed.

It seemed to suit Albert too. One of Nelly's perks in the new job was a certain amount of spare food which Mrs Peters allowed her to take home. Very often Nelly had no need to cook a meal for Albert on her return, and for this she was grateful, for a long stint in the kitchen, much as she enjoyed it, and the walk up the steep hill to crown the day, did seem to take its toll of Nelly's strength, and made her realize that she had still not fully recovered from the operation.