Christmas At Thrush Green (20 page)

However, few of the shoppers now had time to appreciate the decorations; they were all intent on ticking names off their Christmas lists.

‘That’s Auntie done,’ puffed one stout woman as she came out of the chemist’s shop. ‘Now, what would Dad like?’ she asked no one in particular. And no one answered.

Sounds of Christmas music floated in the air sporadically as the doors of W.H. Smith opened and shut behind shoppers. A huge poster in its window proclaimed ‘3 shopping days left’.

As she was coming out of the shop, Isobel Shoosmith bumped straight into Joan Young who was with Paul.

‘It’s a scrum in there,’ laughed Isobel. ‘Are you sure you need to go in?’

‘I think it’s the best place,’ replied Joan, standing to one side to let other shoppers go in. ‘We’ve only popped into Lulling since Paul needs to buy a present for his father, and we thought a book token would be just the thing.’

‘Have you time for some coffee?’ Isobel asked. ‘I’m almost done but I’ve half an hour before meeting Harold. He’s gone down the other end of the High Street to buy some wine.’

Joan looked at her watch. ‘Yes, why not. The Fuchsia Bush?’ She turned to Paul who was looking at the display of books in the window. ‘Paul, what do you want to do? Come and have some coffee with us - and perhaps some of Mrs Piggott’s chocolate cake - or meet us somewhere at twelve?’

Paul looked undecided. The lure of chocolate cake was certainly compelling, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be seen sitting with his mother and Mrs Shoosmith.

‘I think I’ll go in here,’ he said, indicating the shop Isobel had just come out of. ‘There’s some music I might get.’

Joan arranged to meet him at the till nearest the door at noon, and she and Isobel crossed the road and walked up the steps of The Fuchsia Bush. The tea-shop wasn’t very full - the lunchtime trade hadn’t started and most people were intent on their Christmas shopping.

‘Harold might well run into Edward,’ Joan said, settling herself into a chair. ‘He thought he’d better buy the wine for the New Year’s Eve party now, in case they run out.’

‘That’s hardly likely, is it?’ asked Isobel.

‘No, of course not, but you know Edward. Always wants to get everything just right, and if he found they were out of his favourite quaffing wine, he’d say the party wouldn’t be the same. Now, what are you having? Coffee and some cake?’

Rosa, the waitress, was hovering nearby, her pen and pad at the ready.

‘I’ll just have coffee, thanks. Harold and I are going to have a snack lunch with Dimity, and then I’m bringing Ella shopping afterwards.’

‘Of course,’ said Isobel. ‘Dimity told me when I rang this morning to find out how poor Ella is. Apparently she’s very worried about her Christmas presents. I offered to take her round the shops but heard you’d got in first.’

‘I don’t think she’s got much to buy,’ Joan said. ‘Most of the presents have been made - or knitted - for some time,’ and both women laughed. Ella’s hand-made presents were awaited with trepidation each Christmas, and often found their way to distant cousins the following year. ‘Dimity said she’s very down, which isn’t really surprising. I wonder what the future holds for her.’

‘Well, she’s definitely staying with Charles and Dimity over Christmas, and then Dimity told me they’d have another think. See how she gets on with her plastered arm and wrist.’

The waitress, Rosa, standing beside the table, shifted from one leg to another, and Joan was sure she heard a sigh.

‘We must get our order in. Two cups of coffee, please, and a slice of chocolate cake.’

The girl scribbled on her pad, and then left to fill the order.

‘Always so chatty, that one,’ Isobel remarked. She swivelled in her chair, and pointed to the pine dresser near the till. ‘See that teapot? That’s the big award that Nelly Piggott got the other day.’

Joan nodded. ‘Yes, I read about it in the local paper. Now, how’s your shopping coming along? I expect you’ve done it all!’

‘Well, we don’t have that many people between us,’ Isobel replied, ‘and Harold is very good at helping. What about you?’

‘Oh, I finished mine weeks ago but I’ve still got Paul and Edward’s lists to finish off. Men are so hopeless about shopping. I’ve done most of it but I’ve still got to get Edward’s present to me.’

Isobel looked shocked. ‘Don’t tell me that he leaves you to buy your own present?’

‘It’s better than getting something I don’t want,’ replied Joan. ‘So difficult pretending that it’s just what one wanted. I know someone’s husband who said to his wife that his present to her was hanging on the tree. She found a Christmas tag tied to the end of one of the branches which read “IOU £20”.’

‘How awful!’ exclaimed Isobel. ‘What a cheek!’

‘It was the beginning of the end, really. The marriage finished soon afterwards.’

 

In St Andrew’s church on Thrush Green, Albert Piggott was showing Bobby Cooke how the heating worked.

‘When I’m finished ’ere at the end of the month,’ he said, ‘don’t you think you can come runnin’ to me, askin’ me this, askin’ me that. When I retires, I retires - final. So listen, look sharp, boy!’

The sulky lad sniffed noisily and then unprettily wiped his nose on the sleeve of his less than clean jacket.

‘An’ you can’t do that when you’ve got yer best suit on, neither,’ Albert reprimanded.

‘Yeah, well, I ain’t got the suit yet, ’ave I? ’Ow long are we goin’ to be, Granddad?’ the boy asked. ‘I’m meetin’ our Cyril at twelve.’

‘What’s the time now, then?’ asked Albert, suddenly alert. ‘An’ don’t you go callin’ me granddad, neither,’ and he made to cuff the boy’s ears.

‘Nearly twelve o’clock, pub’s open,’ the boy said, neatly dodging out of the way of Albert’s flailing hand.

‘You finish off in ’ere,’ ordered Albert, indicating the small pile of dust that had been swept together and was waiting to be collected and taken out, ‘an’ we’ll go through the ’eatin’ again this af’ernoon. I’ve got some business to attend to,’ he said, somewhat pompously, ‘an’ I’ll see you back ’ere at two.’

Just at that moment the church door flew open, crashing back against the table that stood just inside and Cyril Cooke came sauntering up the aisle. He was younger than his brother, but stockier and just as ugly.

‘Come on then, Bobby,’ the boy said, totally ignoring Albert. ‘I’ve got somethin’ to show yer up the Woodstock Road.’

Bobby turned on his heel and walked away with his brother.

‘Hey, come back ’ere and finish off,’ called Albert, but they didn’t even bother looking back.

Albert sighed. Why should he care? He only had another week to go, and then the dust, and the leaves in the churchyard, the heating and the graves would all be someone else’s problem. His mouth felt dry. There was only one way to alleviate that, and he left the church not far behind the Cooke boys.

As he walked the few yards up the road to cross over to The Two Pheasants, he heard a clattering noise behind him on the green. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Bobby Cooke had upended the litter bin and the pair of them were kicking it across the grass, paper flying out in all directions.

‘Proper tearaways,’ he grumbled, but then didn’t give them a further thought as he entered the hallowed interior of his favourite hostelry.

Young Cooke might have bet even money that he knew Albert’s business had meant ‘the business of drinking’ but he would have been wrong. All right, Albert did mutter ‘Same as usual,’ as he dragged out a bar stool and arthritically pulled himself up onto it, but he did in fact need to talk to the landlord about a matter he had been turning over in his mind for some days.

It wasn’t every day that a chap retired and he thought he would have a little celebration. Nothing big, of course, just a get-together with a few of his cronies. He hoped that if he put money behind the bar for the first round - or possibly the first two rounds - then the others would pick up the tab for the rest.

‘ ’Nother ’alf, Albert?’ asked Percy Hodge, pushing his own glass forward across the bar a short time later.

‘No thanks, Perce, not for me today. I needs to ’ave a word with you, Bob,’ he said to the publican who was drawing half of bitter for the farmer.

‘Yes, go ahead,’ replied Mr Jones, easing the pump forward gently to add a little bit more to the glass.

‘No, private, like.’

Mr Jones looked at Albert with some surprise. ‘What do you want that can’t be said in front of Percy here?’

‘Never you mind. I just wants a private word with you,’ replied Albert rather crossly. He tapped his fingers on the bar while another customer was served then, when Mr Jones jerked his head towards the saloon bar where no one was sitting, he stiffly got down from the stool and shuffled through to the adjoining room.

Mr Jones merely moved down to the far end of the counter which served both the public and saloon bars, and addressed Albert when he appeared. ‘So what can I do for you? Must be something pretty big that you can’t talk about it in front of your mates.’

‘Well, you knows I’m retiring?’ Albert began.

Mr Jones gave a bark of a laugh. ‘Know you’re retiring? You’ve talked of nothin’ else for weeks.’

Albert wasn’t going to be put off. ‘Well, I wants to have a party - in here.’

‘What do you mean, in here? In this room?’

‘Yes, I don’t see why not,’ responded Albert. ‘This room don’t get much used in the evenin’s winter-time. Always crowded other times, though.’

Bob Jones knew this was true enough. ‘When were you thinkin’ of, then? And what time?’ he asked.

Albert turned slightly, and looked at a calendar hanging beside the bar. ‘I finishes at the end of December, so why not that evening, the thirty-first?’

Mr Jones gave another of his short laughs. ‘Come on, Albert, be sensible! That’s New Year’s Eve and the place’ll be packed.’

Albert Piggott was never one to care about the change from one year to the next and was invariably tucked up in bed long before champagne corks started popping.

‘Ah, forgot that. Well,’ he said, looking at the calendar again, ‘what about the night before? I don’t want dinnertime, cos not all folks can make it then.’

‘Sorry, can’t do that neither,’ said Mr Jones.

‘What? Why not?’ demanded Albert peevishly.

‘Because there’s another party that night, that’s why.’

Albert looked again at the calendar. ‘Well, I suppose it’ll ’ave to be the Monday night then. Seems wrong, some’ow, havin’ it so long before I finishes.’

Mr Jones reached a hand to the back of his bar, and found a dog-eared diary. He flicked through the pages.

‘Sorry, no can do. I’ve got another private party that night.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Albert, aghast that his Grand Plan was fast disappearing. ‘What do yer mean, another party? No one never ’as parties in ’ere. Why’s it so popular all of a sudden?’

Bob Jones smoothed his sandy hair back over his head. ‘Ah, popular, that’s my middle name. People wants the good service, good food that I can provide, see. You should ’ave got in earlier.’

Albert was stumped. ‘I’ll ’ave me other ’alf in here, while I thinks.’

He hauled himself up onto a bar stool, took the calendar off the wall and laid it on the bar in front of him. Mr Jones pushed the beer across the bar, which Albert swapped for some of his hard-earned cash.

‘S’pose it’ll ’ave to be the evenin’ of New Year’s Day then,’ he grumbled. ‘Or are you goin’ to tell me that’s booked an’ all?’

Mr Jones looked at his diary again. ‘That’s clear, Albert. I’ll put you down now. What time? And do you want food doin’?’

All this decision-making was too much for Albert. He pushed his greasy cap back on his head and scratched at his thinning hair.

‘Make it seven o’clock, when folks ’ave ’ad their bite of supper. Then I won’t have to feed ’em.’

Crafty parsimonious old fellow, thought Mr Jones, writing in the diary.

‘I’ll call it me Freedom Night,’ Albert declared. ‘I’ll pay for the first round. Then they can pay for themselves - and me, I hopes.’ And with that, he drained the last dregs of beer from his tankard, got down off the bar stool and ambled out of the pub without so much as a ‘See you then’ to the landlord.

 

Later that afternoon, Edward Young drove northwards out of Thrush Green to Woodstock. He knew that Joan would have bought her own Christmas present from him - they had discussed it - but he wanted to get a little something extra, to surprise her. There was a gift shop in the main street where he hoped he might find an attractive knick-knack for her.

As he drove past Blenheim Lodge, he slowed down. He suspected the Burwells would have some dreadful over-the-top Christmas decoration on their front door but his eye was drawn immediately to the lion and unicorn statues on the gate pillars. Round their necks hung large, evergreen Christmas wreaths. Edward swore out loud, and pressed his foot on the accelerator. Where would their vulgarity end?

He spent longer in Woodstock than he had intended. For a start, he couldn’t find anything he thought Joan might like in the gift shop, and he’d had to go into one or two others and they were all busy. He was about to give up when he saw just the thing in the window of one of the little town’s antique shops. Set on a small velvet cushion among a number of items of jewellery was a pretty brooch - a gold pin with a petal-shape of little turquoises. Joan loved turquoise and he was sure she would like this.

Coming out of the shop a few minutes later, feeling pretty pleased with himself, he ran into a friend, a fellow architect who worked in Woodstock.

‘Edward! Just the man I wanted to see. I was going to ring you. Have you a moment to come into the office as there’s something I want to discuss with you? With any luck, Julie will make us a cup of tea.’

Shopping, especially Christmas shopping, was thirsty work and Edward agreed at once.