(9/13)The School at Thrush Green (6 page)

'And the window looking over the street,' said Bertha. 'One must keep in touch with what's afoot.'

'Absolutely!' said Violet. 'But I think shutting the attics and the second spare bedroom is a good idea.'

'Well,' replied Ada doubtfully, 'we must bear it in mind. I'm sure Dimity's suggestions were made with the highest motives. But one doesn't want to
rush
things.'

'Perhaps,' said Violet, beginning to wonder if matters were not slipping back into general apathy, 'it would be a good idea to bob into The Fuchsia Bush now before Mrs Peters closes.'

'Very well,' said Ada. 'But make it quite clear that we shall need only a
light luncheon.
Our digestions won't stand a great deal.'

'Nor our purses,' added Bertha, as Violet made her way into the hall to fetch her coat, hat and gloves.

Tho Fuchsia Bush might only be next door, but a lady did not walk in the High Street at Lulling improperly dressed.

Albert Piggott's first venture outside after his illness did not involve a long journey. He simply took a few paces northward from his own front door to the shelter of The Two Pheasants.

Mr Jones, a kindly man, greeted him cheerfully. 'Well, this is more like it, Albert! How are you then? And what can I get you?'

'I'm pickin' up,' growled Albert. 'Slowly, mind you. I bin real bad this time.'

'Well, we're none of us getting any younger. Takes us longer to get back on an even keel. Half a pint?'

'Make it a pint. I needs buildin' up, Doctor says.'

'Well, your Nelly'll do that for you,' said the landlord heartily, setting a foaming glass mug before his visitor. 'I hear she's doing wonders down at Lulling.'

'That ain't here though, is it?' responded Albert nastily. He wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand, and then transferred it to the side of his trousers.

'You going to get back to work?' enquired Mr Jones, changing the subject diplomatically.

'Not yet. Still under the doctor, see. Young Cooke can pull his weight for a bit. Won't hurt him.'

At that moment Percy Hodge entered and Mr Jones was glad to have another customer to lighten the gloom.

'Wotcher, Albie! You better then?' said Percy.

'No,' said Albert.

'Don't look too bad, do he?' said Percy, appealing to the landlord.

'Ah!' said he non-committally. If he agreed it would only give Albert a chance to refute such an outrageous suggestion, and maybe lead to the disclosure of various symptoms of his illness, some downright revolting, and all distasteful.

On the other hand, if he appeared sympathetic to Albert claiming that he still looked peaky and should take great care during his convalescence, the results might still be the same, and Albert's descriptions of his ills were not the sort of thing one wished to hear about in a public place.

Mr Jones, used to this kind of situation, betook himself to the other end of the room, dusted a few high shelves and listened to his two clients.

Percy Hodge had a small farm along the road to Nidden. He was related to Mrs Jenner, but had nowhere near the resourcefulness and energy of that worthy lady.

His first wife Gertie had died some years earlier. For a time he had attempted to court Jenny, at Winnie Bailey's, but was repulsed. He then married again, but his second wife had left him. Since then, he had been paying attention to one of the Cooke family, sister to the young Cooke who looked after the church at Thrush Green and its churchyard.

'Still on your own?' asked Albert, dying to know how Percy's amorous affairs were progressing.

'That's right,' said Percy. 'And better off, I reckon. Women are kittle-cattle.'

From this, Albert surmised that the Cooke girl was not being co-operative.

'Here I am,' went on Percy morosely, 'sound in wind and limb. Got a nice house, and a good bit of land, and a tidy bit in Lulling Building Society. You'd think any girl'd jump at the chance.'

'Girls want more than that,' Albert told him.

'How d'you mean?'

'They want more fussing like. Take her some flowers.'

'I've took her some flowers.'

'Chocolates then.'

'I've took her chocolates.'

'Well, I don't know,' said Albert, sounding flummoxed. 'Something out of the garden, say.'

'I've took her onions, turnips, leeks and a ridge cucumber last summer. Didn't do a ha'p'orth of good.'

'Maybe you're not
loving
enough. Girls read about such stuff in books. Gives 'em silly ideas. Makes them want looking after. They wants attention. They wants - '

He broke off searching for the right word.

'Wooing!'
shouted Mr Jones, who could bear it no longer.

'Ah! That's right!
Wooing,
Perce.'

Percy looked scandalised. 'I'm not acting
soppy
for any girl and that's flat. If they turns down flowers and chocolates and all the rest, then I don't reckon they're worth bothering about. If they don't like me, they can leave me!'

'That's just what they are doing,' pointed out Albert. 'I take it you're still hanging around that Cooke piece as is no better'n she should be.'

Percy's face turned from scarlet to puce.

'You mind your own business!' he bellowed, slamming down his mug and making for the door.

'There was no call for that,' said Mr Jones reproachfully, when the glasses had stopped quivering from the slammed door.

'I likes to stir things up a bit, now and again,' said Albert smugly. 'I'll have a half to top up.'

The mild spell of weather which had brought out the first spring flowers and those people, like Albert, recovering from their winter ills, now changed to a bitter session of hard frosts and a wicked east wind.

The good folk of Thrush Green pointed out to each other that after all, it was still February, a long way to go before counting the winter over, and February and March were often the worst months of the winter.

It was cold comfort, and Jane Cartwright took extra care of the old people in her charge. The health of old Tom Hardy, in particular, caused her some concern.

She mentioned her worries to Charles Henstock one afternoon when he paid a visit to his old friends at the home.

'It isn't anything I can pin down,' she said. 'His chest is no worse. He eats very little, but then he always did. He goes for a walk every day with Polly, but something's worrying him. See if you can get it out of him. He'll tell you more than he will me.'

The rector promised to do his best, and made his way to Tom's little house, bending against the vicious wind which whipped his chubby cheeks.

He found the old man sitting by a cheerful fire, fondling the head of his much-loved dog.

To Charles's eye old Tom seemed much as usual as he greeted his visitor warmly.

'Come you in, sir, out of this wind. I took Poll out this morning, just across the green, but I reckon that's going to be enough for today.'

'Very wise, Tom. And how are you keeping?'

'Pretty fair, pretty fair. I never cease to be thankful as I'm here, and not down at the old cottage. Jane Cartwright looks after us all a treat.'

Polly came to the rector and put her head trustingly upon his knee. The rector stroked her gently. She was an old friend, and had stayed at Lulling vicarage when her master had a spell in hospital.

Charles wondered whether to mention Jane's concern, and decided that it could do no harm.

'She's a marvellous woman. I think she worries rather too much about you all. She certainly said just now that she hoped that everything was right for you.'

Tom did not reply.

'She said you seemed pretty healthy, which was good news, but she had the feeling that something was troubling you. Is it anything I can help with?'

Tom sighed. 'It's Polly. I frets about her.'

'But let's get the vet then.'

'It's not that. It's nought as the vet can do. She's got the same trouble as I have, sir. We be too old.'

'We're all getting old,' replied Charles, 'and have to face going some time. But what's wrong otherwise with Polly?'

He looked at the dog's bright eyes, and felt her tail tap against his legs as she responded to her name.

'It's what happens to her when she goes,' said Tom earnestly. 'All the dogs I've had has been buried by me in my garden. There's two graves now down at my old place by the river.'

'So what's the difficulty?'

'There's no place here to bury poor old Poll when her time comes. It grieves me.'

The old man's eyes were full of tears, much to Charles's distress.

'Then you can stop grieving straightaway,' he said robustly, leaning across Polly to pat his old friend's knee. 'If it makes you happier, let Polly be buried in the vicarage garden at Lulling. There are several pets buried there and Polly was well content when she stayed with us.'

Tom's face lit up. 'That's right good of you, sir. It'd be a weight off my mind.'

'And if you go ahead of her, Tom,' said the rector smiling, 'she can come to the vicarage anyway and be among friends. So now stop fretting.'

Tom drew in his breath gustily.

'I wish I could do something to repay you,' he said.

'You can, Tom. What about a cup of tea?'

He watched the old man go with a spring in his step to fill the kettle. He was humming to himself as he went about setting a tray.

If only all his parishioners' troubles could be settled so simply, thought Charles!

As Agnes Fogerty had guessed, Harold Shoosmith was proving most helpful on the subject of Dorothy's driving tuition and the buying of a small car.

The two ladies had been invited next door for a drink to discuss matters and Harold was waxing enthusiastic., It was strange, thought Agnes, how animated most men became when discussing machinery. Her dear father, she recalled, could read a book without any sort of reaction to its contents. It was the same with a play or a concert. He was quite unmoved by these products of the arts, but his joy in his old tricycle, upon which he rode when delivering the shoes he repaired, was immense.

Later, he had taken to driving a three-wheeled Morgan and the same fanatical light had gleamed in his eyes. To Agnes any form of locomotion was simply the means of getting from one place to another and she looked upon this male fever as just one more incomprehensible facet of man's nature.

'I've thought a good deal about driving lessons,' Harold was saying. 'I shouldn't get Reg Bull if I were you. I'd offer myself, but I don't know that friends make the best instructors. Worse still are spouses, of course, but you are spared those.'

'I certainly shouldn't have allowed you to teach me,' said Isobel. 'As it is, you gasp whenever I let in the clutch.'

'Do I? I never realised that!'

'Well, you do. And very trying it is,' said his wife briskly. 'But go on. Tell Dorothy your bright idea.'

'It occurred to us both, that perhaps Ben Curdle would be willing to give you lessons. He's a marvellous driver, very steady and calm. I'm sure he'd be first-class. If he's willing, of course, to let you learn on his Ford. It's a good gearbox. You could do worse than buy a little Ford when the time comes.'

'Ben Curdle would be just the man,' agreed Miss Watson. 'But would he do it? He doesn't seem to have much spare time.'

'If you like, I will have a word with him and let you know the result. One thing I do know - he would be glad to earn some money in his spare time.'

'That would be very kind of you. I have the greatest respect for Ben, so like his dear grandmother. If he will take me on, I shall be delighted.'

'And, of course,' added Harold, 'I can take you out occasionally for a run in my car, just to get the hang of things.'

'How lovely! I should appreciate that. And I hope you will advise me when it comes to buying a car.'

Harold's eyes sparkled at the prospect. 'What was the car you drove earlier?' he enquired.

Dorothy frowned with concentration. 'Now, what was it? I know it was a red one, with rather pretty upholstery, but I can't think what make it was.'

Harold looked flabbergasted.

'I'm sure the name will come back to you when you are not thinking about it,' said Isobel soothingly. 'Like throwing out the newspaper and knowing immediately what ten down was in the crossword. Harold, Agnes's glass is empty.'

Recalled to his duties as host, Harold crossed to the side-table, but he still appeared numb with shock at the abysmal ignorance of the female mind.

5. Personal Problems

'I'VE just had a letter,' said Miss Watson at breakfast one morning, 'from Better and Better.'

'From who?'

'From whom,' corrected Dorothy automatically. 'From Better and Better, dear. The estate agents. My sharp note to them seems to have done some good. They've sent particulars of two bungalows and a ground-floor flat. Mind you, I suspect that the ground-floor flat is really the
basement,
but at least it's an improvement on that converted oast house with five bedrooms, and that attic flat in some terrible old castle, which they sent last time.'

Agnes Fogerty nodded, looking bewildered. She was perusing the Appointments pages of that week's
Times Educational Supplement.