Christmas At Thrush Green (30 page)

‘Derek, remind me,’ said Edward, ‘do you have children?’

‘No,’ Derek said shortly. ‘My wife and I married late in life.’

When no one else would have them, thought Edward, and then hurriedly continued: ‘It is difficult for anyone without children to understand them properly. When they get to Paul’s age, their bodies are changing. They seem to grow faster than their brains. They have energy that needs to be released. In the summer, they can use up that energy by being outdoors, walking, cycling, playing cricket. But in the winter, in the sort of bad weather we’ve been having, it’s much more difficult. They sort of boil over.’

‘Well, I don’t want anyone boiling over at my expense,’ Derek retorted. ‘The boy’s got to be taught a smart lesson.’

‘I don’t deny that,’ said Edward. ‘But I believe I can deal with him more competently than the police. I know the boy. I know what punishment will hurt most. That is much better than involving the police - and, I have to be honest with you, Derek, it would do the boy no good at all to have his details placed on police record. Had you had children, I’m sure you would feel the same.’

‘Yes, well, maybe.’ Derek looked round the book-lined room, and Edward sensed the tide was just beginning to turn. ‘What punishment would you give him then?’ he asked.

Edward had to think quickly. ‘Again, it is difficult to impose much punishment at this time of year. In the summer I could have stopped him going to watch cricket - he loves cricket, and often goes into Oxford to watch the games at The Parks.’ Then he had an idea. ‘What about at Blenheim Lodge? Is there any work he could do there for you, in the garden perhaps?’

Derek Burwell thought for a moment then said, ‘I have to admit that would be a good idea. My gardener chappie has gone to Canada to see his son and family for a month, and there are things young Paul could do.’

‘And perhaps clean the car, the windows?’ Edward said. ‘In other words, be at your beck and call for the last fortnight of the holidays.’ When he sensed Derek Burwell was hesitating, he added, ‘If that would persuade you not to make this a police matter, my wife and I would be so grateful.’

Derek was disappointed at the fading image of marching the boy into Lulling police station but it would keep his own name from the police records, too, and he did like the idea of having all sorts of odd jobs done at Blenheim Lodge.

‘Very well, then. I agree. Exuberant youth is difficult to cope with, I can see that. Shall we say ten o’clock tomorrow morning?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I will see he’s with you on time. Perhaps two hours a day until the end of the holidays?’

‘Yes, I agree to that.’

Both men stood up, and Edward showed his visitor to the front door.

‘Thank you, Derek,’ he said, offering his hand, ‘thank you for understanding.’

Derek gave another of his harrumphs, but took Edward’s hand and shook it before strutting off down the garden path.

Edward heaved a huge sigh of relief, and shut the door behind his unwelcome guest. He stood in the hall and bellowed up the stairs, ‘Paul! Down here! Now!’

The kitchen door opened, and Joan stood there. ‘Be gentle with him, dear,’ she said.

Paul came down the stairs slowly. He reminded Edward of a puppy crawling on its tummy to its owner, knowing that it had done something wrong. Edward stood and waited.

When he was on the bottom step, Paul stopped. ‘I’m really sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble. But I did it for you. I knew how much you hated those awful lights.’

Edward knew this was the truth. But he also knew he couldn’t let the boy go without a serious ticking off, and he pointed to the study door. As the door shut behind father and son, Joan sighed deeply and returned to the kitchen.

 

The following morning, at ten to ten, Paul was ready to leave for Blenheim Lodge. He was going to have to walk because, of course, his bicycle was still against the wall. He just hoped that no one had stolen it overnight.

In his jacket pocket were two envelopes. In one were three ten-pound notes to repay Derek Burwell for the cost of the replacement lights. Paul had produced twenty pounds himself - money he had received at Christmas from Granny Young and his godfather; the new bike he was saving for seemed to be much further away now. The other ten pounds had come from his mother’s purse - strictly a loan.

The other envelope, marked ‘Jean and Derek Burwell’, held an invitation.

 

After Ella’s outburst of frustration in the car, having seen the specialist, she and Dimity had driven back to Lulling in silence. Dimity had made a couple of efforts to talk but when Ella said, ‘Leave me, Dim, I’ve got to sort this out for myself,’ Dimity stayed silent.

Once back at the vicarage, Ella asked Dimity to make her two large turkey sandwiches and then went to her room. Dimity didn’t disturb her. Once, passing outside the spare-room, she heard the cassette machine playing one of the tapes.

Before supper, Charles went upstairs and knocked on Ella’s door. ‘Supper’s ready.’

‘I don’t want any supper.’

‘Come on, Ella, you’ve got to eat,’ Charles called gently.

‘Just let me be, will you? I’m thinking.’

So they left her, but downstairs they talked through the plan once more.

‘You must be sure, my dear,’ Charles had said, ‘that you’re not just doing this because you feel sorry for Ella. If that were the case, it would be bound to show after a time, and make Ella very unhappy. And probably you, too.’

‘I’m absolutely certain it’s the right thing to do. After all, Ella and I shared her cottage for many years. We know we get on with each other. But what about you? Can you cope with two women nagging you?’

Dimity was smiling, and Charles knew she was joking. ‘I’m sure, too. All I ask is that my study remains my sanctuary.’

The next morning, Dimity took up a tray of tea and toast and marmalade. ‘Ella, I’ll leave this tray with breakfast outside. Do have something. It’s not good for you not to eat.’

There was silence and, worried that Ella might have done something extremely silly, Dimity persisted. ‘Ella, are you all right? Just answer and then I’ll leave you alone.’

‘I’m fine,’ came Ella’s voice and, much relieved, Dimity left the tray and returned downstairs. She was very worried about her old friend, but felt it was better that she should sort out her mind in her own way.

Ella emerged from her room at about twelve-thirty. She appeared in the kitchen just as Dimity was wondering whether to make lunch for one or two; Charles was out and about in the parish and said he’d be back around teatime.

‘Hello, it’s me,’ said Ella from the doorway, making Dimity jump. ‘Any chance of some lunch?’

Dimity crossed the kitchen and gave Ella a great big hug. ‘Of course, my dear. You must be starving. Would some of Sunday’s lamb be all right, with salad? I put in two baked potatoes and they’ll be ready in five minutes.’

‘That sounds just what the doctor ordered,’ said Ella, and then laughed. ‘Or, anyway, Mr Cobbold.’

Ella seemed ready to talk once the two women were sitting companionably at the kitchen table, Dimity having cut up the lamb on Ella’s plate into small pieces.

‘Much as I hate the idea,’ Ella said, ‘Mr Cobbold advised me that it would be sensible for me to leave the cottage sooner rather than later.’ She paused, then took a deep breath and continued: ‘And in that case I’ve decided it may as well be now. I know that if I go back, once my wrist is mended, I’d find it impossible to leave. Also, I’ll still be able to see enough to choose what to take with me - wherever that might be.’

‘You must do what you think best,’ Dimity said. ‘Go where your heart leads you.’

Ella gave her bark of a laugh. ‘Heart doesn’t come into it, I’m afraid. It’s got to be my head, my brains.’ She paused while she speared another piece of meat then continued: ‘Mr Cobbold is going to put me in touch with a help group, but that won’t be until the New Year.’

‘And in the long term?’ Dimity ventured gently.

‘Ah, the long term. Well, I suppose it will be a home of some sort. Mr Cobbold said there are places that aren’t just full of senile people, dozing and dribbling their days away. He’ll let me have a list.’

Ella’s voice trailed away, and Dimity knew just how much effort she was making to be positive. She almost, then and there, asked Ella if she would move into the vicarage with them, but stopped herself in time. She and Charles had agreed to speak to her together.

Instead she said, ‘If you like, when you get the list, we could go and look at the places together.’

‘Thanks, Dim, I’d like that. Now, is there any of that delicious Stilton left?’

 

That evening, Tuesday, 30 December, was no different from any other for Albert Piggott. Nelly had returned from The Fuchsia Bush at the usual time, and had given her surly husband a plate of cottage pie and carrots.

‘What, no puddin’?’ he’d grumbled.

‘You know it’s me Bingo night,’ replied Nelly, peering at her face in the little mirror propped on the dresser shelf. ‘There’s some Cheddar in the fridge you can fill up on. Or have some crisps with your beer when you goes over to the pub.’

‘I’m not minded to go over tonight,’ Albert said, rummaging in the fridge. ‘It’s me last day tomorrer and I think I’d best ’ave an early night.’

‘You must be ill, Albert Piggott!’ Nelly exclaimed. ‘Not goin’ to the pub indeed!’

‘Well, perhaps a swift ’alf then, when I’ve finished me supper.’

‘I’ll be off,’ Nelly said. ‘I’ll be back about ten, so don’t lock me out.’

Albert didn’t answer. He was carving himself a great chunk of cheese as Nelly left. But instead of crossing the green to walk down the hill to Lulling, Nelly turned in the opposite direction and headed for The Two Pheasants.

Twenty minutes later, Albert pushed open the door of his home-from-home and, as his ancient arthriticky body came into the bar, there were cries of ‘Happy Retirement’. He stood there, swaying gently, looking at the scene in front of him.

‘Hello, Dad,’ said Molly, and came forward to give his bristly cheek a peck of a kiss.

‘What you doin’ ’ere, gal?’ Albert gazed round. There was Nelly, not at Bingo but perched on a bar stool with what looked like a large gin and tonic in her hand. There were the Hodges, Percy grinning inanely. His other drinking cronies were all gathering round - Joe, George Bell with his wife, Betty, and half a dozen others.

‘Blimey, what a surprise!’ he said, pushing back his cap and scratching at his thinning grey hair. ‘Is this for me?’

‘Yes, all for you!’ they chorused back.

‘But what about the party I arranged for Thursday evenin’? You, Bob,’ he said, shaking a fist at the landlord, ‘you said the room were already taken tonight.’

‘That was no lie,’ said Bob Jones. ‘It had already been booked by Mr Shoosmith for this party.’

‘Well I never!’ said Albert, shaking his head.

Then Harold, who had been standing to one side, came forward and shook Albert’s hand. ‘We couldn’t let you retire without giving you a party. Now, what are you having?’

‘Ah well, now you’re talkin’,’ said Albert, moving towards the bar. ‘A pint of me usual, Bob - and make it a big pint!’ He turned to Cyril Cooke perched on a bar stool next to Nelly. ‘Off with you, that’s my seat!’ and the lad slid off without a word.

Bob Jones pushed a pint of frothing ale across the counter. They all watched as Albert picked it up, toasted the air, ‘To me retirement!’ and then drank long and deep. When he banged the tankard down on the counter, half the pint had been consumed and Albert was left with a frothy moustache across his upper lip. This he wiped with the back of his hand that he then wiped down the side of his trousers.

‘Albert!’ chided Nelly. ‘Manners!’

‘A drink for everyone, please, Mr Jones,’ called Harold, ‘I’m paying for this round.’

There was a flurry as those with already full glasses quickly downed the contents. From somewhere behind Percy Hodge came a rather loud hiccup. It was Mrs Gibbons, one of the members of the PCC, who had turned out to wish Albert a happy retirement. ‘Dear me, dear me,’ she spluttered genteelly into a lace handkerchief, but then put her empty glass on the bar with the rest.

When everyone had a full glass, Harold made a short speech and presented Albert with a little carriage clock. ‘From the PCC, for everything you’ve done for St Andrew’s over the past heaven only knows how many years.’

Albert was totally overcome, so much so that he told the landlord to stand by since the next round would be on him.

‘Wonders will never cease,’ remarked Percy Hodge to Betty Bell. ‘That’ll be the first time the ol’ booger ’as ever dipped ’is ’and in ’is pocket for so many people.’

‘I ’eard that, Percy ’Odge. Enjoy it while you can cos it’ll be the last time an’ all.’

 

Charles Henstock had telephoned Harold during the afternoon, and briefly told him about Ella and what the specialist had said. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his and Dimity’s plan, but he excused himself from Albert’s party, saying that things were a bit difficult at home, and he thought he should stay to support Dimity.