Christmas At Thrush Green (28 page)

‘I don’t care a hoot if it is Boxing Day or Easter Day, I’m going to ring him now!’

But the telephone rang and rang in the Shoosmith household; the chairman of the Parochial Church Council was not at home.

O
n the Saturday morning, Harold Shoosmith took his second cup of coffee through to the sitting-room. He knew he would have to help Isobel shortly but decided there was time to have a quick look at the crossword. It was one of the jumbo crosswords that newspapers tend to publish at this time of year, and he licked his lips in anticipation. He settled himself in his armchair, adjusted the cushion behind him, smoothed the newspaper out on his knee, and took a pen from his inside jacket pocket.

‘ “Fall of gentleman in Burgundian town”?’ Harold murmured to himself. ‘Hum . . . “fall” could be “autumn”. That fits but why “Burgundian town”?’

However, any further thought was rudely interrupted by the front door knocker crashing down three or four times. Harold put the paper aside reluctantly and went to see who had knocked so imperiously. His heart sank when he opened the door and saw Derek Burwell standing there.

‘Derek, good morning. What can I do for you?’

‘My lights have been vandalized again, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it?’ the weaselly man demanded.

‘Come in,’ said Harold wearily. He didn’t want a public spat on his doorstep.

‘Jean and I moved to Thrush Green because we thought it was a nice place, a decent neighbourhood but this . . . this wanton vandalism is outrageous.’ At his favourite phrase ‘wanton vandalism’, Derek flung his arms out wide, almost hitting Harold who had to step back quickly.

‘Calm down, man, for heaven’s sake,’ he said.

Derek was breathing heavily. ‘I want to know what you’re going to do about it.’

‘I don’t think there’s a lot I can do. Have you talked to the police?’

‘What’s the point involving the police when we all know who’s done it?’ Derek said nastily.

‘But do you?’ replied Harold, careful to distance himself from accusing anyone.

‘Course, we do! It’s those Cooke kids. I saw them in the road before Christmas, whizzing about on their bikes, doing those dangerous turns in the middle of the road.’

‘I think they’re called “wheelies”,’ said Harold.

‘Wheelies, whatever, they’ve wrecked my Christmas decorations and my uplighters. As chairman of the Parochial Church Council, what are you going to do about it?’

‘I don’t think I’m going to do anything,’ responded Harold quietly. ‘I don’t believe it’s part of my remit as chairman to ensure that law and order is upheld within the parish.’ Harold realized he was sounding rather pompous, but what else could he do with this terrible little man? ‘I suggest you take it up with the police. They are very helpful in Lulling.’

‘What? And go and get my name on the police records? Once they’ve got your details on their records, goodness knows what they might do with them.’

‘Well, it’s entirely up to you, of course. But I’m not in a position to accuse anyone without actual proof. Why don’t you go and see the Cookes if you are sure it’s them?’

‘Pah!’ Derek spat out. ‘Waste of time.’

Harold moved round him and opened the front door. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you more,’ he said politely, and waited until his unwelcome guest spun on his heel and left his house.

The chairman of the PCC stood for a moment. He needed to see Bobby Cooke some time over the weekend, so he thought he would mention the lights. While he didn’t care a fig for the Burwells, vandalism should be frowned on.

At that moment Isobel came down the stairs. ‘When I heard who was at the door, I’m afraid I decided to stay well out of the way. But I think you are quite right not to get involved. Now, I suggest you light the fire so the sitting-room will be nice and warm. Then can you lay the table - dining-room not kitchen today. The Henstocks and Ella will be here at twelve-thirty.’

 

It was Albert Piggott who saw Bobby Cooke first. He was taking the run-down to his retirement surprisingly seriously.

‘Goin’ up to see young Cooke,’ he announced to Nelly after they’d finished their Saturday midday meal.

Nelly never went into The Fuchsia Bush on Saturdays. They didn’t do lunches that day and Rosa enjoyed being in charge. Nelly had made a warming casserole using the meat from the legs of the turkey they’d had on Christmas Day. She had added onion and celery and made a thick gravy in which the meat and vegetables had bubbled gently, giving off aromas that were enough to keep Albert from The Two Pheasants.

‘Goin’ to the pub, more like,’ said Nelly, stacking the pudding plates together.

‘Well, an’ that, too. But I’ve got to see the boy today. I needs to ’ave him in church tomorrer, since it’s me last Sunday an’ I wants to give ’im one last run-through.’

‘I can’t get used to you retirin’,’ said Nelly. ‘But it’s come at a good time. This place needs decoratin’ and you can start at the top.’

Albert didn’t bother to answer. He wasn’t going to spend his well-earned retirement doing any decorating. If his missus wanted the place sprucing up, then she could well afford to get someone in. He took his grimy cap from the peg behind the back door and left, heading purposefully for the neighbouring pub.

Here Albert was able to kill two birds with one stone since Bobby Cooke and his brother were in the public bar, making a racket at the far end where there were a couple of fruit machines. Albert ordered his pint from Bob Jones, and then walked over to them.

‘Now then, Bobby,’ the old man said.

‘Hey up, it’s granddad,’ said Cyril cheekily.

Albert glared at him, and turned his attention to Bobby who, to give him his due, muttered, ‘Shurrup, Cyril.’

‘I wants you down at the church ten o’clock sharp tomorrer,’ said Albert. ‘Service is at ten-thirty. Don’t be late. I’ll go across an’ turn the heatin’ on early. From next week, remember, it’ll be you what’s in charge.’

‘OK, I’ll be there,’ said Bobby and, satisfied, Albert went to claim his pint.

 

 

Bobby was as good as his word. Just before ten o’clock the following morning, he propped his bicycle inside the church wall, and made his way into St Andrew’s.

Albert was wearing his suit. He’d decided to put it on since it was going to be his last service in charge as sexton. He looked the Cooke boy up and down. ‘If you’re not goin’ to wear a tie, which you oughter, then at least straighten your collar.’

Bobby did as he was told, then asked, ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘You stand there, an’ open the door when you sees the ’andle turnin’. An’ make sure the door is kept shut - quiet, mind - to keep the warm in. I didn’t get out of me bed this mornin’ before it were light just to see all the ’eat disappear.’

‘Do I ’ave to do this for every service?’ the boy asked.

‘No, you don’t ’ave to be ’ere, so long as ’eatin’s bin turned on. ’Cept for big services, of course, like Christmas an’ Easter an’ the like. ’Ave you got yer suit yet?’

‘Nah,’ Bobby replied, scratching an ear.

‘I’ll ’ave a word with Mr Shoosmith. Ah, that’s ’im comin’ in now.’

In answer to Albert’s question, Harold said, ‘My wife has found a suit that should fit you. It’s at the cleaners and I believe she’s collecting it this week. We’ll let you know when you can come and pick it up. Now, I want a private word with you, Bobby. Can you do the door for a moment, Albert?’

Albert obviously would have liked to hear what Mr Shoosmith had to say to the boy, but Harold manoeuvred Bobby away into the side aisle, and the old curmudgeon went grumbling back to man the church door.

‘Now then, Bobby, have you been up to mischief?’ Harold asked him.

‘Mischief, mister, what sort of mischief?’

It was a fair question because the Cooke boys got up to all kinds of mischief.

‘Well, apart from kicking the litter bin halfway across the green the other day’ - and Bobby had the grace to look at his feet - ‘what have you been getting up to along the Woodstock Road?’

Bobby looked up at that. ‘Woodstock Road? What about it?’

‘You’ve been seen up there causing a disturbance.’

‘What?’

‘Well, apart from anything, doing wheelies in the middle of the road.’

‘Yeah, well, there’s no law against that,’ Bobby said grouchily.

‘No, you’re right, there’s not - at least, not until you cause an accident.’

‘Was that it, then?’ Bobby asked, beginning to shuffle away.

‘What else did you do up there?’ countered Harold.

‘Nothin’. You can’t be goin’ accusin’ me of doin’ nothin’ when you ain’t got nothin’ particular on me.’

Harold flinched at the dropped ‘g’s. ‘So you know nothing about damaged lights at Blenheim Lodge - that’s on the right-hand side as you go towards Woodstock?’

‘Blenheim Lodge? That the place with the lion and thingy on the columns?’

‘Yes, the lion and the unicorn,’ said Harold patiently.

‘Yup, I know the ones. An’ no, I didn’t damage no lights. I think they’re good.’

‘And Cyril? What about your brother?’ Harold asked.

‘Ah, can’t speak for Cyril, now can I?’ Bobby jiggled from one foot to another. ‘Shouldn’t I be gettin’ back to me duties, mister? Ol’ Albert will be giving me what-for otherwise.’

Harold stood aside and let the boy go. He was glad that the culprit was not, apparently, Bobby. He followed him towards the back of the church and was relieved to see that the Burwells had come in while he’d been talking to Bobby.

He crossed quickly to where they were standing in the nave. ‘A word, if I may, Derek,’ he said. When he’d told them that it didn’t appear to be Bobby who was damaging their lights, he added, ‘And please do not discuss it with Bobby. He’s said he wasn’t to blame, and that’s where it should end. If you want to take it further, then talk to PC Darwin.’

‘I’ve spent another fortune on replacing the uplighters,’ Derek said sourly. ‘We decided not to buy replacement lights for the wreaths since it’s past Christmas.’

‘Such a shame,’ burbled Jean Burwell. ‘They were so pretty. Quite the prettiest in the road, we thought.’

‘Can I suggest you go and sit down,’ said Harold, tired of the subject. ‘The rector has arrived and the service will start in a minute.’ He sincerely hoped that would be the last he heard about the matter.

 

On Sunday afternoon, Dimity telephoned John Lovell. ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ she asked.

‘I’m delighted to be disturbed,’ John replied. ‘I’m beginning to suffer from Excess of Family. What can I do for you? How’s Ella?’

And Dimity told him about how Ella had walked out on Boxing Day. ‘But it’s not her wrist that’s troubling her,’ she said, ‘it’s her eyes.’

‘Ah, yes,’ the doctor replied. ‘Ella told me all about that when we were at Dickie’s, waiting for her wrist to be plastered. Macular degeneration.’

‘Do you know much about it?’ Dimity asked.

‘Only a little, I’m afraid. It’s a very tricky complaint and I tend to refer anyone who comes to me with symptoms to a good optician, and they generally pass them on to a specialist. As you probably know, while it isn’t life-threatening, there isn’t a cure. Ella will need to learn to adapt to it which, knowing Ella, isn’t going to be easy.’

Dimity then told him of the plan she and Charles had hatched the day before.

‘Well, I think you are both saints,’ John Lovell said. ‘It would be wonderful if Ella could live with friends who can keep an eye on her. As she gets used to her sight deteriorating, she’ll adapt, of course, and you’ll find she’ll be able to do plenty for herself, especially when the wrist has mended. And I will help all I can.’

Dimity thanked him, and asked him not to mention anything to Ella. ‘We need to choose our moment, and certainly after she’s seen Mr Cobbold tomorrow.’

 

 

The following morning, Dimity drove Ella into Oxford for her appointment with the ophthalmologist.

‘Would you like me to come in with you?’ she asked when they arrived at the hospital.

‘Why?’ said Ella, scrabbling in the foot-well for her vast handbag.

‘Well, I sometimes think that a second person listening to what the specialist is saying is helpful,’ Dimity replied.

‘Dimity,’ said Ella firmly, ‘I’m going blind, not deaf!’ And with that she heaved herself out of the car, slammed the door shut and marched through the hospital’s big front entrance.

Instead of driving into the middle of Oxford in order to get exhausted going round the sales, Dimity decided to park the car and then go and wait for Ella in the hospital. After circling the large car park several times, she got a space at last as someone left. She got directions to Mr Cobbold’s consulting-room, and sat for nearly half an hour in a nearby reception area, idly turning the pages of magazines.

‘Mr Cobbold is running a little late,’ she’d been told when she arrived, ‘but Miss Bembridge is being seen now.’

Dimity didn’t like hospitals. But then who did? She admired Charles so much when he dutifully made hospital visits to his parishioners. The consulting-rooms were in a quiet part of the hospital, away from trolleys and nurses, and clanging bells. But most people who came and went from the sitting area seemed to have worried faces, or worse, scared faces.

‘Ella, I’m here!’ Dimity cried, when Ella at last appeared through a set of swing doors.

Ella turned towards her, and immediately bumped into the back of a chair. She stood still and let Dimity come up to her.

‘Come on, my dear, let’s get you home,’ she said kindly, and took Ella’s arm. ‘You can tell me all about it in the car.’

‘Nothing much to tell,’ said Ella, allowing herself to be propelled out of the reception area.