(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green (9 page)

That must be young Mr Venables' friend,' thought Agnes, now shrugging her shoulders up and down as Exercise Six required. 'What a nice-looking fellow! No arthritis there, I'm sure!'

She finished her twentieth shrug conscientiously, folded the exercise list away in a drawer, tidied her hair and went downstairs to tell Dorothy about the Youngs' visitor.

Kit Armitage was warmly welcomed by Joan and Edward Young and the sherry glasses were soon filled.

After some exchange of news, Kit said how very sorry he had been to hear of the death of Robert Bassett.

'Of course, he was a good deal older than I am, but I was quite often invited to play tennis here and he was always so excessively kind. No bad hand at lobs and volleys either, if I remember rightly.'

'He loved all games, and was very quick on his feet,' agreed Edward. 'I used to dread being asked to partner him. He could beat me hollow at tennis, and although he was the most considerate of partners, I always felt mightily inferior. I was courting Joan at the time and very conscious of the poor figure I was cutting.'

Joan laughed.

'I was so sorry for you, and pity being akin to love I'm sure it helped your cause.'

'And your mother?' asked Kit.

'Pretty shaken, and can't make up her mind if it would be better to stay on in the little house, or move in with Ruth up the road. I tell her not to make any decisions yet. It's too soon after Father's death to make plans.'

'Very wise. Now tell me about the other Thrush Green friends. I gather Dotty is still fighting fit.'

'I don't know about that, but she's jolly well looked after by her niece Connie. Do call and see them. Dotty remembers you well.'

'I'm looking forward to seeing her again.'

He asked after Albert Piggott, the Misses Lovelock, and was told about the disastrous fire which had robbed Charles and Dimity of their home.

'And what's going to be there instead?' he asked.

'Eight homes for old people,' Edward told him. 'I've just put in my plan. We want something easy on the eye this time.'

'I could do with an old people's home myself,' observed Kit. 'Let me know if you hear of a small place anywhere near Lulling or Thrush Green. I'm getting down in earnest now to some house-hunting.'

They took him round the garden and showed him the attractive little house which Edward had designed and converted from the old stable. Mrs Bassett was out, and he promised to call on her another time.

'And whose is this?' he enquired, eyeing the gipsy caravan which had once been the home of Mrs Curdle, Ben's grandmother.

Joan told him about the old lady's death, the sad but necessary sale of the fair, and how glad they were to have Ben and Molly living in the flat at the top of the house.

'Mrs Curdle!' exclaimed Kit. 'May the first! My goodness, that takes me back. What a day that was every year! We used to look forward to that fair day for weeks.'

'We all did,' said Joan. 'It's lovely to have the caravan here as a reminder. Sometimes Ben's children have a tea party in there with their friends. I don't think Mrs Curdle would have let them make as much noise as we allow them.'

They walked to the gate, and Kit looked at his watch.

'I'll call and see Dotty another time, but do you think Winnie Bailey would remember me?'

'Try her and see,' advised Joan, and they watched him step out across the grass in the direction of the doctor's.

'If your mother does decide to live with Ruth,' said Edward, as they returned to the house, 'I wonder if Kit would want the stable cottage? He'd be a considerate neighbour, that's certain.'

'I've been thinking about it too,' said Joan, 'but I feel we should offer it to Ben and Molly before anyone else. The flat was ideal when they only had George to consider, but now there are two children they are pretty cramped up there. Besides, they need a garden of their own, and those stairs are quite tiring, although Molly never complains.'

'You're right, of course. I hope your mother decides to stay on. She's near enough for us to keep an eye on her, but she can still feel independent with all her own things around her. Let's shelve the problem until further notice.'

And so they left the matter.

Kit found Winnie Bailey in the garden picking daffodils for Ella Bembridge who was with her.

After introductions, Winnie tried to persuade him into the house, but he pleaded shortness of time and promised to call again.

They accompanied him to the gate.

'And we hear you hope to settle here,' said Winnie, it will be lovely to have you among us. Do you play bridge still?'

'Yes, and just as badly, but I'll make up a four whenever you like. But not just yet. I'm busy looking for a little house. Two up and two down sort of thing—well, perhaps
three
up and three down, on second thoughts—but something I can cope with alone. Any ideas?'

'None at the moment,' said Winnie slowly. She turned to Ella.

'There's that place near the Cookes along the Nidden road,' said Ella. 'But I doubt if you'd want to be anywhere near that family. And someone told me that there's a flat going over The Fuchsia Bush in Lulling High Street.'

'Terribly noisy,' observed Winnie.

'I think I'd like a little garden,' said Kit, at the same moment.

Anyway, the ladies assured him, they would ask around and let him know if anything cropped up.

'I've got my name down with several agents, of course,' said Kit, 'but I wouldn't mind betting I get something through my friends eventually.'

They waved goodbye to him, and returned to the house to collect the daffodils from the shelter of the porch.

'Tell you what,' said Ella, uttering one of her favourite phrases, 'I'll mention it to Charles and Dimity. Between them they quarter four parishes, and if we can't find something suitable for that nice man, I'll eat my hat.'

Albert Piggott found little comfort in Mr Jones's advice about Nelly's illness.

Having read the letter, which emerged much crumpled from Albert's pocket, he reacted forthrightly.

'If Nelly's in hospital then you should go and see her,' was his edict. 'Oh, I know all about her leaving you, and the rows you had, but that's in the past, Albert, and she's still your wife, you know. You get down to this hospital and see her. It's your duty to stand by her.'

Albert was taken aback by such straight talking.

'I don't know about my duty,' he responded with some heat. 'What about her duty to her lawful wedded husband, eh? What I'm concerned about is this Charlie. I bet he's got his eye on Nelly's bits and pieces, and why should he have 'em?'

Mr Jones looked at him with disgust.

'And you've got your eye on them too, I take it? You makes me puke, Albert, that you do. There's this poor soul—your own flesh and blood—'

'And plenty there was of it too,' interjected Albert morosely, recalling his wife's vast bulk.

'Flesh and blood,' continued the landlord unperturbed, 'dying, from what this chap says, and you think of nothing but what you might get out of it. Finish your beer, Albert, and clear out, will you? I'm fed up with this business. You asked my advice and this is it. Ring up this chap, find out where Nelly is, and get down there pronto to see her.'

At that moment, two men entered the bar and he turned to serve them, still flushed with anger at Albert's behaviour.

Albert took advantage of the interruption to creep away to his house next door.

There was cold comfort there, but at least it was more congenial today than The Two Pheasants.

7. Albert Piggott Under Pressure

THE AFFAIR of the Lady Chapel kneelers still caused the good rector some unhappy twinges, but nothing more had been said directly to him by Mrs Thurgood.

Could she have decided against pursuing the matter? It seemed unlikely. There was a ruthless tenacity about the woman which Charles recognised only too well. He quailed before it, and chided himself for cowardice, but this self-flagellation did not mitigate his fears.

He had a horrid feeling that Mrs Thurgood was simply biding her time before returning to the attack. With Dimity beside him one afternoon, they had examined the present kneelers minutely, and had put aside any which appeared to be the worse for wear. Naturally, Mrs Thurgood's own kneeler was one of the shabbiest as she was such an outstandingly regular church-goer, and about six or eight others would benefit from some attention. But on the whole, Dimity and Charles agreed, the rest of the kneelers were perfectly capable of fulfilling their function for several years.

Comforted by this discovery, Charles felt that he could withstand any onslaught from the doughty Frances Thurgood. It was certainly rather unnerving to find that the weeks slid by without any further manifestations of the lady's pugnacity. What lay behind this silence? Had she decided to give up the fight? Had she simply forgotten about the kneelers? Had she, perhaps, suddenly regretted her offer to pay for the work?

Charles wondered if he would ever learn the answers to these questions. He had not long to wait.

One bright morning he collected the letters from the hall mat and carried them to the breakfast table where Dimity was already buttering her toast. There were half a dozen or so envelopes, but one was immediately noteworthy for its excellent quality and imposing seal at the back.

'From the bishop,' said Charles, opening it first.

Dimity, watching him closely, saw his expression turn from pleasure to dismay. Having read the bishop's letter, he then turned to another enclosed with it, and the dismay upon his chubby countenance was now tinged with indignation.

'Well,
really
!' protested Charles, handing over the letters. 'Now what do you make of that?'

Dimity read rapidly. The bishop's note was kindly and concise. It said that he had received the enclosed letter from Mrs Thurgood to which he had replied. He said that he had every confidence in Charles's decision and urged him not to worry unduly about a matter which was really very trivial. He sent his regards to Dimity and hoped to see them both very soon.

Frances Thurgood's letter was belligerent in comparison. She set forth her own generosity, her anxiety to see the Lady Chapel furnished 'in a God-like manner', and hinted at the regrettable attitude taken up by Anthony Bull's successor both in his services and his dealings with parishioners. She trusted that the bishop would see fit to remind the present incumbent of his duties.

'The
cat!'
fumed Dimity, throwing the letter across the table. 'To go behind your back like that! It is absolutely unforgivable, Charles! What will you do?'

'Nothing in a hurry,' said her husband equably. 'I may say something I should regret later, and I don't want the dear bishop to be badgered any further with complaints about me.'

'You are far too forgiving,' said Dimity.

'I don't know about that.' He picked up the bishop's letter, and read it again.

'You know, Dimity, it is really uncommonly nice of him to write so warmly. And in his own hand too!'

'He's hardly likely to write in anybody else's,' retorted Dimity, with unusual tartness. She still smarted from the effect of Mrs Thurgood's outrageous behaviour, and was irritated too by Charles's deference, one might almost say
awe,
in his handling of the bishop's letter. In her opinion, Charles was quite as worthy as the bishop himself—probably a better man altogether when you considered his modesty and selflessness—and Dimity felt herself glowing with mingled righteous indignation and wifely devotion.

'Well, I only hope I don't encounter Frances Thurgood in the next day or two,' she exclaimed. 'I don't think I could remain silent about such appalling behaviour.'

The rector looked alarmed.

'Oh, my dear, please don't fan the flames! The bishop is absolutely right to call this a trivial matter. I will speak to her privately before the week is out, but I beg you to say nothing, if you love me.'

He looked so pink and agitated that Dimity's wrath faded, and she bent across the table to kiss his cheek.

'I will do exactly as you say,' she promised him.

Meanwhile, Albert Piggott had problems of his own.

After his rebuff at the hands of Mr Jones, the landlord, he had almost decided to ignore Charlie's letter, and leave Nelly's future in the hands of the gods.

But he reckoned without the loquacity of The Two Pheasants. It so happened that Ben Curdle called in for a pint soon after his father-in-law had departed.

The landlord, still full of indignation at Albert's callousness, told Ben the story. Ben returned to his flat at the top of the Youngs' house to consult Molly on the matter, and that evening they went together to face the old man.

He was surlier than ever, and obstinate with it.

'She's been no wife to me,' he asserted. 'Why should I put myself out for her?'

'Don't talk so daft!' said his daughter. 'She looked after you all the time she was here, and kept the place lovely. And cooked a treat! And what thanks did she get?'

'She had me company. And me money,' growled Albert.