Christmas At Thrush Green (26 page)

‘Poor Ella!’ cried Dimity, and leaned over to give her friend a big hug. ‘But if you can’t see, then why on earth come back to the cottage instead of letting us look after you at the vicarage?’

‘Because I need time to think,’ Ella replied, now very calm. ‘I need to sit here, in my kitchen, with my familiar things around me, and think about my future. Don’t you understand that?’

‘Yes, I think I do understand,’ said Dimity slowly.

‘What I would like to do is to spend the rest of the day here. See how I manage. I’m not totally blind. I can see shapes, just not details. Could you come and fetch me this evening?’

‘Yes, of course. What about food? You must eat.’

‘I think I ate enough yesterday to last me through today. But if I get peckish, I’ve got some spaghetti. Easy enough to cook that up, and throw on some ketchup and herbs. I won’t starve - and yes,’ she said, anticipating her friend’s next remark, ‘I will be careful with the pan of boiling water.’ She helped herself to another biscuit. ‘Now go, Dim, I’ll be all right. And I know where you are if I need you.’

Dimity understood her friend well enough not to argue, so she finished her cup of tea, kissed Ella’s cheek and left the cottage to return home, mindful of the fact that Charles would not only be anxious for news but would also be wanting his breakfast.

Paul Young came into the kitchen still wearing his pyjamas, and rubbing the sleepy-dust out of his eyes.

‘Good afternoon!’ said his mother, turning round from the sink where she was washing glasses.

‘It’s not that late,’ mumbled Paul. ‘And you said I could sleep in.’

‘I know. Only joking.’

They had had a very happy Christmas evening. Paul had been given a chess set by his father. The boy had learned to play at school the previous term, which had pleased Edward since he would now have someone to play with. He and Joan both played bridge occasionally, but Joan professed chess was beyond her.

After their Christmas dinner, Joan - who was wearing the pretty turquoise brooch that Edward had bought for her in Woodstock - was content to sit by the fire with a new book. Edward and Paul had settled down, the chessboard between them and a glass of port each at their elbows.

‘You’re old enough to appreciate a nice glass of port,’ Paul’s father had said. ‘Much better than draining off the dregs of wine bottles.’

Paul had reddened slightly at the memory of the Hursts’ drinks party before Christmas.

One game had led to another, and it was late when Edward finally put the fireguard in front of the dying embers, and they’d gone to bed.

Paul now reached into the cupboard for a packet of cereal.

‘Go and get dressed first,’ reprimanded his mother. ‘I’m not having you eating your breakfast in your pyjamas, not at this hour. If your father saw you, he’d have a fit.’

When Paul returned, duly dressed, Joan said, ‘Jeremy rang about half an hour ago. He asked if you could go round - wants to show you his Christmas present.’

‘Did he say what it was?’ Paul asked. ‘When I asked him yesterday in church what he’d got, he said he hadn’t had his main present yet. They were keeping it back until after church.’

‘Ah,’ said his mother enigmatically. ‘Well, have your breakfast and then go round. We’re only having a light lunch because we’ll eat properly this evening.’

A quarter of an hour later, Paul banged on the front door of Tullivers. It was opened by Jeremy and in his arms was a squirming, wriggling bundle of black and white silky hair.

‘What? What on earth’s that?’ burst out Paul.

‘Meet Alfie. I got him for Christmas,’ beamed Jeremy proudly.

‘Come in, Paul,’ called Phil from the hall. ‘Come in and shut out the cold. Jeremy, go into the kitchen. You know how he wees when he’s excited.’

In the kitchen, Jeremy gently placed his Christmas present on the floor. The animal shook himself and once his hair had fallen into place, Paul recognized the head and long ears of a spaniel.

‘He’s a blue roan cocker spaniel. Real pedigree and everything. Isn’t he super?’ said Jeremy.

Paul crouched on the floor by the little animal, and stroked his domed head and silky ears. The puppy rewarded him by rolling onto his back and immediately had his tummy tickled.

‘Gosh, you’re lucky, Jeremy,’ he said. ‘Dad doesn’t like dogs so I’ll never be able to have one.’ He stood up. ‘But what about term time? Won’t he get fat if he doesn’t get walked?’

‘That’s the whole point. Mum will walk him when I’m not here. To stop her getting fat, she says.’

‘I heard that, young man!’ said Phil, walking into the kitchen. But she was smiling. ‘Isn’t he lovely? Have you told Paul about how we kept the secret?’

Jeremy was dancing around in front of the puppy which was bouncing forward and mock-attacking his young owner’s feet. ‘He spent the night before Christmas next to you! The Curdles had him, and brought him over when we got back from church.’

‘We knew that Molly wouldn’t be going to church,’ explained Phil, ‘since she had the lunch to cook and they thought Billy had had enough church experience for one year. So Frank collected him on Christmas Eve and delivered him to Stable Cottage.’

‘They were afraid he’d bark, and you’d hear, and then you’d spill the beans,’ said Jeremy, his face aglow with happiness.

‘But your mother said she hadn’t heard a thing,’ added Phil.

‘You mean Mum knew all about it?’ asked Paul.

‘Yes, she was in on the secret.’

Paul tried not to show how envious he was, but made a bad job of it. ‘I wish I could’ve had a dog. Much nicer than a silly old chess set.’

Phil put her hand on Paul’s shoulder. ‘When he’s older, you and Jeremy can walk him together. Can’t he, Jeremy?’

‘Of course! We’ll share Alfie,’ Paul’s young friend said generously. ‘We can have loads of fun with him. Walks, bike rides, everything.’

‘Gosh, thanks,’ said Paul.

Phil looked out of the window. ‘It’s not raining at the moment so why don’t you two take your bikes out now? Something tells me it’s time for this young fellow’s mid-morning nap,’ and she picked up the puppy which had collapsed into a heap by Jeremy’s feet. ‘And I’ll ring your mother, Paul, to say you’re staying here for lunch. OK?’

‘Very OK. Thanks, Mrs Hurst.’

The two boys rushed out of the kitchen. Jeremy’s Christmas present appeared to have been a success.

W
hen Dimity returned to Lulling Vicarage, Charles was up and already having breakfast.

‘I’m sorry to have abandoned you, dear,’ she said, taking off her coat. ‘And I’d got a nice piece of smoked haddock for your breakfast, too.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Charles. ‘How’s Ella?’

And Dimity recounted the sorry, sodden tale and then Ella’s fears about going blind.

‘What happens now?’ Charles asked.

Dimity fetched herself a cup and poured some coffee out of Charles’s pot, then settled herself opposite him.

‘She wants to spend the day thinking, she said. I don’t think there’s any point in our trying to sort things out. You know Ella, she’s as stubborn as anything and will only do what she wants, when she wants.’

‘Maybe the time has come,’ said Charles, ‘when she’s going to have to learn that her own frailties and incapacities are going to mean she’ll have to rely on other people, even if she doesn’t like it.’

‘Which she won’t,’ said Dimity. ‘But I think she’ll listen to us if no one else.’

Neither spoke for a while. The kitchen clock ticked quietly to itself on the wall.

Then Charles said, ‘Could we have the smoked haddock for lunch - with a poached egg on top?’

Dimity laughed. ‘My darling husband! Always thinking of your stomach. I think it would be an excellent idea. Now, if you would re-set and light the fire in the drawing-room, I suggest you settle yourself down with one of your Christmas books, and I’ll clear up in here.’

When Charles protested, saying that he would help her with the washing-up that was still stacked neatly on the side, Dimity shooed him away.

‘No, this is your day of rest. Go and enjoy it.’

A short while later, with her hands deep in the frothy washing-up water, Dimity turned her thoughts once more to Ella. It was obvious that she wasn’t going to be able to continue living on her own, not even when the wrist was mended. It just wouldn’t be safe, not with all those steps up and down in the cottage, and other hazards just waiting to cause accidents. She decided she would talk to John Lovell over the weekend and ask his advice.

Charles, having cleaned out the grate and re-laid the fire, didn’t actually light it but went instead to his study. It was warm and snug in there, and he wanted to make some notes for the sermons he was due to give on the coming Sunday. He settled down at his desk, switched on the anglepoise lamp, and pulled a sheaf of papers towards him. Sunday would be 28 December, known as Holy Innocents’ Day, held in commemoration of the slaughter of the male infants in Bethlehem during Herod’s attempt to kill the infant Jesus. Since it was so soon after the Christmas festivities, the congregations would be small, and Charles didn’t see why he should inflict a sermon about that dreadful massacre some two thousand years ago on his faithful parishioners. He decided merely to add some prayers for those who were currently involved in working for peace in the many areas of world conflict.

He stretched out his hand, and took down The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations from the bookshelf, a favourite source of inspiration for his sermons.

He ran his finger down the index of entries for ‘Innocent’. ‘I am i. of the blood’ - no, that was too close to the Holy Innocents; ‘i. is the heart’s devotion’: Charles turned to the page referred to and found the quotation had come from Shelley’s poem ‘To—I Fear thy Kisses’. No, that didn’t seem a very good idea.

Charles checked a few more ‘Innocent’ entries but there was nothing suitable. He went higher up the index to the word ‘Innocence’: ‘companions, i., and health’: ah, that sounded promising. It turned out to be from Oliver Goldsmith’s poem ‘The Deserted Village’:

Charles hummed to himself - he found humming always helped him think. Was there some way he could use those words? They seemed apt for the post-festive period. But maybe a bit censorious. He returned to the index. ‘I. is closing up his eyes’.

Immediately, all thoughts of his sermon went from his head, and the vision of Ella sitting alone in her kitchen, struggling to come to terms with her future, flooded into his mind. What was going to happen to her? He agreed with Dimity that she wasn’t going to be able to continue to live alone in the cottage, well, not for long anyway. She might be able to cope there for a little while but the time would come when she would need to have fairly constant help. She could either stay there, with someone living in - and he knew how dreadfully expensive that was - or she could move into a residential home and be looked after.

Apart from Rectory Cottages in Thrush Green, Charles regularly visited two old people’s homes on the outskirts of Lulling and he knew the specific difficulties faced by two residents - one in each home - who were blind. While most of the residents were, he had to admit, rather senile and appeared content to sit in their chairs all day, either just nodding at nothing or gazing at whatever programme the television was tuned to, the two blind people were in total control of their wits, but just happened to be blind.

It was a terrible conundrum, but one to which he had given much thought. He was going to suggest to the administrators of the two homes that, when possible and with the relevant families’ approval, one should move to join the other; then at least they would have each other’s companionship.

But he just couldn’t visualize Ella going to live in such a home. She would absolutely loathe the necessary regimentation.

Charles continued to sit at his desk for some time, turning the problem over in his mind, his sermons quite forgotten.

 

Isobel was carving some slices off the Christmas turkey, ready for lunch, when Robert Wilberforce telephoned that Boxing Day morning.

‘Robert!’ she exclaimed. ‘How lovely to hear you. A very happy Christmas to you. Thank you for your card . . . Oh, good, you got ours, too! . . . And how’s Dulcie?’

Just at that moment, Harold came noisily through the front door, banging it behind him. Isobel clapped her hand to her ear. ‘What? Oh, that’s marvellous news. I must tell Harold, who’s just come in.’ She called through the door to where Harold was taking off his coat. ‘Dulcie’s going to have a baby. Isn’t that wonderful?’ Then she spoke again into the receiver, ‘When? Oh, you must tell me everything! Is she there? I’d love to speak to her.’

Much as Harold would have liked to have a word with Robert Wilberforce, he knew better than to interrupt women’s talk, especially about babies. Having given the sitting-room fire a poke, and added another log, he settled down in his armchair, ready to do battle again with the crossword in the newspaper.