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

'I was hoping to see you,' the rector had said cheerfully. 'We haven't seen much of each other lately.'

Albert Beverley looked about him unhappily.

'Well, you know how it is. The weeks slip by, don't they?'

'Time certainly flies,' agreed the rector. 'Perhaps I shall see you and the family—?'

'Ah!' said Albert hastily, 'must get on. I've promised to meet the wife in here. Late now, I'm afraid. Nice to have seen you.'

And he bolted into the haven of The Fuchsia Bush where, it was quite apparent, no wife was waiting.

It was incidents like this which were so distressing. 'The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune' he could bear for himself, but it was the Church which mattered.

Charles suddenly stood stock still and gazed across the river.

'That's the real trouble,' he said aloud, much to the surprise of a thrush briskly tapping out a snail from its shell on a handy flint, it's the Church that matters! I am failing the Church!'

He sighed deeply, clutched his hat, and continued on his errand.

The thrush gobbled down its succulent breakfast, and also went about its daily business.

On that same March morning Justin Venables sat in his usual seat in front of the well-worn desk at Twitter and Venables.

Although he had had his seventieth birthday, Justin was still known in Lulling as 'Young Mr Venables' to distinguish him from his illustrious father, Harvey Venables, who had founded the firm with Basil Twitter when both young men had returned from World War One.

The partnership had flourished, so much so that a third partner, called Adrian Treadgold, had been appointed. It was soon apparent that this latest addition was not of the same solid qualities as Basil Twitter and Harvey Venables, and when he blotted his copybook by running away with the wife of a well-to-do landowner, who was also a much respected client of the firm, then Adrian Treadgold's name was removed from the brass plate, and from all the office stationery.

Young Justin had served with his father until the latter's death. When he attained the age of seventy he made it clear that he was retiring. The whole of Lulling regretted his departure, and the office itself begged him to keep in touch. He was persuaded to keep on a few very old and valued clients, and to this end he was available at the office on Tuesday of each week.

'And don't expect me to do more,' he had told his staff severely. 'You boys are now in your forties and fifties and quite old enough to know your job. I want time for my fishing.'

On this particular Tuesday morning he sat contemplating a cast-iron ash tray bearing the words 'Long Live Victoria 1837–1897' and a colossal inkstand bearing a silver disc which told the world at large that it had been presented to Harvey Venables on the occasion of his silver wedding.

Justin was so used to these historic pieces that he barely noticed them. What he was more interested in was the wall clock which said ten minutes to eleven. His client was already five minutes late, and Justin valued punctuality.

Among the few favoured clients of advanced age whom Justin still attended was Dotty Harmer. Some years earlier he had defended her successfully on a charge of careless driving. He was fond of his eccentric old friend, and glad that he had helped to prove her innocence on that occasion. Nevertheless, wild horses would never have dragged him into any vehicle driven by Dotty. He was relieved when he had heard that she was now without a car, and that her niece Connie acted as chauffeur whenever she was needed.

It was Connie that he awaited now. When she arrived, he would ask Muriel in the outer office, to bring them coffee. He was glad that he had allowed himself to be persuaded to spend this one day a week in his old chair. He did not mind admitting that he missed the office routine, and the company of his staff, and particularly the faithful Muriel who had been with the firm for almost as many years as he had, and knew exactly how he liked his tea and his coffee and kept him supplied with shortbread of her own making. Why, he thought suddenly, she must have made pounds of the stuff over the years! He had never thought of it before. He must make a point of mentioning it to her. She would value such civility, good faithful girl.

It was also some relief, he secretly admitted, to get out of the house regularly and on legitimate business. Much as he appreciated his freedom nowadays, and his escape from the stern limits imposed by the clock and his desk diary, yet there was a certain aimlessness about mornings at home which had become something of a problem to a man accustomed to a rigid timetable.

And then, it was quite apparent that he was something of a nuisance to his wife. She was used to having the house to herself from eight forty-five every morning. The newspaper used to be hers when it was pushed through the letter box at nine o'clock. Now he grabbed it, as his right, and she had pointed this out to him only that week.

Then there were those little visits from neighbours, and the cups of coffee and gossip which he found irksome. Yes, there was no doubt about it, retirement forced one to make adjustments, and he readily admitted that his dear wife probably found difficulties quite as great as his own, in this new situation. Ah well, thank heaven for Tuesdays, he thought gratefully!

The hands of the clock now stood at five to eleven, and Justin was about to check with Muriel about the time of Connie Harmer's appointment when the door opened, and Connie stood, pink and breathless, on the threshold, with Muriel.

'Oh, Mr Venables, I'm so very sorry I'm late—' she began.

'Think nothing of it,' replied justin. 'Come and sit down, my dear Miss Harmer. Coffee please, Muriel.'

Two miles away, Charles Henstock waited on the doorstep of Tom Hardy's cottage, and admired the tidiness of his little garden.

It had been a water-keeper's house once, but Tom had taken it over when the water board had decided to dispose of the property. Not many of the tenants had been satisfied with the amenities offered, and the board did not feel that the expense of adequate plumbing, new wiring and extensive structural repairs could be undertaken. The water-keeper who looked after the next stretch of the river owned a car, and with an increase in salary was glad to take on the extra work. Tom Hardy, a widower in his late fifties, had been pleased to buy the property for a fairly low sum.

He had once run a haulage business, but had sold it when he came to live at Keeper's Cottage. He was a jack-of-all trades, remaining in touch with many of his business associates, and willing to turn his hand to driving a heavy vehicle, painting and decorating, doing odd-job gardening and even giving a hand with sheep-shearing in the early summer.

He was held in high regard by the inhabitants of Lulling and Thrush Green who appreciated his old-fashioned virtues of patience, honesty and helpfulness. Among his various trades was the felling and chopping of trees, and it was in his role of a supplier of logs that Charles came to see him.

He heard footsteps approaching round the side of the house, and Tom appeared holding a dead rabbit dangling by the legs.

'Come round the back, sir,' said Tom. 'I thought there must be someone about. My old Polly growled, but she's past bothering about stirring herself these days.'

'I can't think why I knocked at the front door,' replied the rector. 'I usually come to the back one, but I was thinking of something else.'

'Sunday's sermon, maybe?' Tom smiled, his blue eyes looking sideways at his visitor.

He led the way into the kitchen, and motioned Charles to a sturdy wooden armchair by the table.

'Glass of my home-made beer?' asked Tom.

'Thank you. A small one would be very welcome.'

Tom vanished into a larder which ran the length of the room, and the rector looked about him.

It was a man's room, no doubt about that. Over the mantelpiece, above the kitchen range, was a gun rack holding three guns. By the side of the fire-place some large coat pegs supported a belt of cartridges, a riding crop, pieces of leather harness and a fishing gaff, and propped in a corner were a shepherd's crook and a thumb stick cut from a fine hazel sapling.

On the mantelpiece itself stood a tobacco jar, a large box of matches, a tin labelled
TEA
and another labelled
SUGAR,
and on the adjacent dresser, in front of the willow-pattern plates, stood an old-style circular knife cleaner, a wooden box labelled
SALT
and a basket of eggs.

There was not a flower or a plant to be seen, not even a bunch of herbs hanging up to dry. The kitchen table was bare, though scrubbed very clean. A woman, thought the rector, would have had a cloth on it, and probably a plant standing atop, but there was something attractive about this sparsely accoutred mannish room. He decided that it must be because everything visible was strictly functional, plainly useful, unadorned. There was a workaday atmosphere here, as honest and unassuming as its owner.

Charles thought of his own drawing room at Lulling vicarage. It was a charming room, beautifully proportioned and filled with all the objects which he and Dimity treasured. There were cushions, pelmets, ornaments of china, brass and silver. There were vases of flowers, pictures, a tapestry fire screen and innumerable rugs.

It was a gracious room, a woman's room, and he loved it. But sitting here, among these stark surroundings, on his hard wooden chair, caressing its well-worn arms and noting that the only picture provided was a corn-chandler's almanack by the door, his own drawing room seemed frivolously cluttered, and these simple surroundings chimed better with his present mood.

Tom returned with two tankards.

'Like to come in the parlour?' he asked, as though suddenly aware of his surroundings.

'No, thank you, Tom,' said the rector. 'I like this room very well.'

'I live here most of the time,' said Tom. 'Mind you, I give the parlour a clean every now and again, and keep the window ajar. But it's full of fal-de-lals, Margaret's best china in a cabinet, and the bird cage she used to keep her budgies in, and the family bible—all that sort of Sunday stuff.'

'Sunday stuff?'

'Well, a few books, you know. The kind of thing you looked at after church on Sundays.'

He laughed rather shame-facedly.

'Not as I go now, as you well know, sir. I'm what I call lapsed C. of E. when I'm asked what religion I am. Still, I could say the Creed to you now, and the Twenty-third Psalm, and sing most of the usual hymns, if need be. It's just I don't feel the need for going to church. I used to go with Margaret. She enjoyed Mr Bull's services, but to tell you the truth, I found him a bit too high-falutin', if you know what I mean?'

A warm pang of happiness made the rector's heart beat more quickly. As quickly, he chided himself for this involuntary response to comfort.

'He's very much missed, I know,' said Charles steadily. He put his tankard carefully on to the bare table top. 'I miss him myself, I don't mind admitting. But what I called for, Tom, was to order some logs and to ask you if you have any idea how many we should need. I believe you supplied Mr Bull in his time?'

'Well, they always kept plenty of fires going, but they'd the two maids living in so that was one extra fire for them. And they liked the hall one going in really cold weather. I don't think you'd need as much as Mr Bull wanted. I'd say two good loads would see you through.'

'I think you used to deliver two to the old rectory at Thrush Green, if I remember aright. The present house is considerably bigger, Tom.'

'And a sight warmer, sir. That old place was pesky cold always, and caught all the winds God sent, specially the north-east. No, your present place is better built, and sheltered too. The church keeps a lot off you in the way of weather. Acts as a protection, you might say.'

The same warm feeling of comfort engulfed Charles. He rose to go.

'I'll take your advice, Tom. Two loads whenever you can manage it, and the old coach house is waiting for the logs. I swept it out myself yesterday.'

'Right!' said Tom, accompanying his guest to the back door. 'And if need be, I'll top you up after Christmas.'

A Welsh collie dog, grey round the muzzle and with one opaque eye, nuzzled the rector's ankles as he gained the path. The rector patted the silky flanks.

'She's a good old girl,' said Tom fondly. 'Rare company! Don't look much, like me and my house, but she suits me.'

'That's all that matters,' the rector assured him.

The wind was behind him as he went homeward, thrusting him so forcefully that now and again he was nudged into a few running steps.

He found himself exhilarated by the boisterous wind. His spirits, so low on the outward journey, had revived. Could it be the exercise and fresh air which had worked this small miracle? Or could the good fellowship of honest Tom, and the glimpse of his simple and uncomplicated way of living, have put his own worries into perspective?

Whatever the reason, Charles felt better able to face his problems. It reaffirmed his belief in sticking to his principles, to do right by all his flock to the best of his ability, to foster patience and forbearance, and to ignore the pinpricks of petty malice.

He remembered suddenly that someone—he rather thought that it was A. P. Herbert of blessed memory—said that he was sustained by four words:

Fear nothing! Thank God!

The first two words took care of the unknown future. The last two covered past mercies received.

The rector turned the four words over in his mind, and was strengthened and comforted.

In Justin's office Connie was about to make her departure. Dotty's business, concerning the deeds of the cottage at Lulling Woods, was over, the coffee drunk, and Justin was ushering her to the door.

'Did you ever meet Christopher Armitage?' he asked her. 'Kit, he's called more generally. I know your aunt would remember him. He was at school when her father was headmaster.'

'And he survived?' laughed Connie.

'Yes, indeed. A resilient fellow, and excellent company. He's just retired and looking about for a house here.'