Christmas At Thrush Green (5 page)

Then Molly burst out laughing. ‘I was only joking! You should have seen your face.’ She ducked the cushion that Ben playfully threw at her.

‘Seriously, though, I would like a name from my side of the family. After all, you’ve had both George and Anne from your side.’

‘You’ve got an Aunt Anne, too,’ Ben pointed out.

‘That’s as maybe, but we all know that our Annie was named after your beloved grandma.’

‘All right, then. What names are there on your side?’ Ben asked.

Molly wrinkled up her nose, and concentrated. ‘Well, Dad has his sister Anne and a brother - that was Uncle Percy.’

‘No thanks!’ said Ben, then added, ‘Without wishing to hurt Farmer Hodge’s feelings, of course.’

‘Grandpa on my mum’s side was called Herbert, and I can’t remember what Dad’s father was called. I’ll ask him when I go over tomorrow.’

‘Cedric, probably,’ said Ben. ‘The problem with all these family names is that they are so old-fashioned. We want something more modern.’

In the end, they settled on William - which was what Albert’s father turned out to have been called - but they soon began calling their new son Billy, and Billy he remained.

 

On the other side of the green, the Shoosmiths were delighted to receive the Hursts’ invitation to drinks.

‘What fun!’ exclaimed Isobel. ‘I love Christmas and all the parties. I’ll ring Phil this morning to say that we’d love to go.’

‘I’ll be seeing Frank at the PCC meeting this evening,’ her husband replied. ‘I’ll tell him then.’

‘Good idea. I’d forgotten it was the meeting tonight. Is it going to be a long one, or shall I have supper ready at the usual time?’

‘I can’t think of anything that will delay us,’ her husband replied. ‘We’ll be finalizing arrangements for the Christmas services, but that shouldn’t take long.’ Harold got up from the kitchen table where they’d had breakfast. ‘Now, if you don’t need me this morning, I’m going to attend to poor old Nathaniel - some wretched pigeon has been sitting on his head again with inevitable consequences. If I do it this morning, I’ll be out of Betty’s way.’

Betty Bell was their cleaner, and although she was undoubtedly a good source of gossip, she drove Harold mad with her chattering.

‘Take care when you climb up,’ Isobel called after her husband’s retreating back.

Harold whistled to himself as he collected the step-ladder from the garage and filled a bucket with water, but he stopped when a thrush began to sing its exquisite melody from a nearby roof-top. The thrush’s winter song, he thought, was always so beautiful because it stood out. In the spring and early summer, it was often drowned by the cacophony of the other garden birds.

As he walked across the green to the statue of Nathanial Patten, Harold looked up at the sky. The clouds were scudding across, still being pushed by the wind. He’d listened to the weather forecast before the eight o’clock news and was glad they were reckoning it would blow through by midday.

Harold set the step-ladder down on the side of the statue where the offending white splodge of pigeon dropping was scarring the missionary’s face. He tested the ladder’s balance. Not quite right. He saw there was a small twig under one of the ladder’s feet, and bent down to remove it. ‘That’s better,’ he said out loud, wiggling the ladder again.

Carrying the bucket in one hand, he carefully climbed up a few rungs, then, sensing it was holding steady, he climbed up another three steps so his own head was just above the statue’s. He carefully balanced the bucket on the statue’s plinth. Now he was up here, he could see that Nathaniel’s head and upper torso were a bit muckier than could be seen from the ground. He got rid of the pigeon droppings first of all, and then gave Nathaniel’s face a good wash.

As Harold carefully cleaned all round the statue’s head, he chatted to the missionary. He and Nathaniel Patten had never met, of course, but Harold felt he knew the man well enough to administer such personal ablutions. ‘Now for the back of your neck,’ he said, ‘and I mustn’t miss out on your ears!’

‘You’ve missed a bit round ’ere,’ said a voice behind him from the ground.

Harold started violently, and the step-ladder rocked a bit but held firm.

He looked round, and saw Albert Piggott standing there. ‘Goodness, man, you gave me a fright! You almost made me fall off.’

‘ ’Ave you got a moment, then?’ said Albert. ‘I needs to talk to you, an’ it’s important like.’

Harold made his way down to the ground. ‘Yes, I can stop because I need some clean water anyway,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you, Albert?’

Albert took his old cap off his head, and stood looking somewhat uneasy. ‘Well, see, I thinks it’s time I was retired. I’ve done me best for the place but the wind gets in me ol’ bones an’, as you knows, me chest ain’t good. No, not good at all.’ And, as if to press home his point, Albert went off into one of his gut-wrenching spasms of coughing.

Harold took the opportunity to consider quickly what his response should be. He wasn’t surprised, of course, because Albert’s health had had its ups and downs - rather more downs than was comfortable for anyone - but if Albert retired, who on earth would they get to take over his duties?

He clapped Albert on the back, which seemed to help and Albert’s coughing stuttered to a halt.

‘Also,’ he said, shoving his cap back on his head, as though the important business had been said, ‘I bin drawin’ my pension for over five year now, an’ it’s time I put me feet up and took things easy.’

Put his feet up on the bar stool of The Two Pheasants, more like, thought Harold.

‘It’s the PCC meeting tonight.’

Albert nodded. ‘Yes, I knows. That’s why I thought I’d say summat now.’

‘Yes, sensible. Er, did you have any thoughts of when you might want to go?’ Harold asked, thinking of all the Christmas services that would soon be upon them.

‘The end of the year seems as good a time as any,’ Albert replied. ‘Once them Christmas festivities is over, it’s usually a quiet time. Unless, of course,’ he added, ‘folks start dyin’ and then there’s all that diggin’ what needs doin’.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Harold picked up the bucket, and shot the remains of its dirty water across the grass. ‘Any thoughts of who might take over? I know Bobby Cooke’s been giving you a hand with the heavy work. Would he have enough time to take over?’

‘Ah! Well, now, I did ’ave a word with him earlier this week. ’E’s doin’ a bit o’ this an’ a bit o’ that. Bin doin’ some hedgin’ and ditchin’ for Perce Hodge. An’ ’e does some time in the Lovells’ garden but that’s more of summer work.’

‘Did he say he would be interested in your job?’ Harold asked.

‘ ’E said ’e’d be willin’ to give it a try.’

‘Well, thank you, Albert. We’ll discuss it at this evening’s meeting.’

Albert set off across the green towards St Andrew’s, and as Harold made his way back to get some clean water, he saw that the old man’s gait was very unsteady, and reckoned his feet were giving him as much trouble as the famed ‘bronichals’.

 

That evening at the Parochial Church Council meeting, when the main business was concluded, with all details for the Christmas services agreed, Harold, who was chairman of the PCC, asked round the table if anyone had Any Other Business.

‘Yes, please, Mr Chairman,’ said a weaselly-looking chap, staring at Harold over his rimless spectacles.

Harold sighed inwardly. This was Derek Burwell and when he got going it was difficult to stop him. The Burwells were relative newcomers to the area, but they had managed to inveigle their way onto a number of committees. It had to be admitted that they were good church-goers, attending St Andrew’s regularly. When Mr Gibbons - who Harold had rather naughtily dubbed ‘Gauleiter Gibbons’ owing to his bossiness during meetings - had died of a sudden heart attack the year before, and no one else had rushed forward to fill his place on the council, it was difficult to refuse Derek Burwell’s application.

His wife, Jean, had pushed her way onto the church flower arranging rota, and Harold felt it wouldn’t be long before she targeted the WI Committee. Since they weren’t real country people, having moved here when Derek had retired from being some sort of civil servant in London, Isobel Shoosmith was determined not to let Jean Burwell come onto the WI Committee yet. She had to earn her colours.

The Burwells had bought one of the houses that had been built between the wars on the Woodstock Road leading north out of Thrush Green. They had spent the first year ‘doing it up’, they called it, but ‘doing it down’ according to the ever critical Edward Young.

‘That house is of the period,’ he said to Joan. ‘Do it up, modernize it inside, if you must, but leave the outside as it was meant to be.’ He snorted. ‘For heaven’s sake, why put on that neo-Georgian front porch! It’s terrible, it shouldn’t have been allowed.’

‘That’s what happens outside the conservation area,’ pointed out his wife soothingly.

But Edward found fault with everything. He criticized the modern windows that were put in and loathed the strident yellow paint on the front door. He took to driving past the house with his eyes shut.

‘Edward,’ cautioned his wife, ‘that is taking things too far! You’ll have an accident.’

Edward had to agree and resorted to closing just one eye.

When the Burwells started on the garden, Edward’s good taste was tested even further. A little pool was dug in the centre of the lawn - ‘makes it so difficult to mow’ Edward had muttered - and although they didn’t go as far as putting a gnome with a fishing rod on the little wall surrounding the pond, they produced a large and rather ugly plastic heron that stood uncomfortably on one leg in the water.

Even Joan agreed that the borders down the edge of the short tarmac drive were a disaster. ‘Those colours just don’t go together. It’s what the worst of municipal plantings look like,’ she said.

Harold now looked at his watch. ‘I hope you can be fairly speedy, Derek,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some Other Business of my own, which is going to take about ten minutes, and none of us wants to be late tonight.’

‘Thank you, Mr Chairman,’ Derek said, and then proceeded to ask whether it would be possible to change the night of the PCC meetings in future since Wednesdays clashed with his bridge evening in Lulling.

Harold stood firm. ‘No, I’m sorry, Derek, that is not possible. We’ve always had the PCC meetings on a Wednesday, and on Wednesday they shall remain. I’m afraid you’ll have to miss your bridge evenings four times a year. Now,’ he said briskly, ‘to my own Other Business. It’s about Albert Piggott.’

There was a general groan. Albert Piggott usually cropped up at some point during the meetings and had, indeed, been the subject of some comment already when the decoration of the church for Christmas had been discussed. He was always asked to provide the holly and ivy.

‘Albert is going to retire, and definitely this time,’ Harold announced, and proceeded to tell the meeting about his conversation with Albert that morning.

There was a flurry of exclamation from round the table, and Percy Hodge said, ‘I thought as much. Albert said summat about it in the pub the other morning. He’s not been that well.’

‘I’m not at all surprised,’ said John Lovell, Thrush Green’s doctor. ‘How his tubes have lasted this long, I don’t know. He should really have retired years ago.’

‘I think he continued for so long in order to fund his beer money,’ said Harold.

‘Yes, well,’ cut in Percy quickly, ‘he reckons his Nelly will provide that now. The caff is doing that well, I hear.’

‘It’s time the old curmudgeon retired,’ said Frank Hurst.

‘I agree,’ said Derek. ‘He’s no good at his job anyway.’

Percy came to his drinking colleague’s defence. ‘He does all right, does Albert. Considering his infirmities.’

‘Exactly!’ retorted Derek.

Harold went on quickly. ‘Albert thinks young Bobby Cooke might be willing to take over—’

‘Oh lor’!’ cut in Percy, who once had had a dalliance with young Cooke’s flighty sister. ‘Is that a good idea? Them Cookes is no good.’

‘It may be a question of beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Harold, folding up his spectacles and putting them in their case, which was his way of indicating the meeting was at a close. ‘He doesn’t live as close to St Andrew’s as Albert, but the Cooke family aren’t that far up the Nidden Road. I shall see young Bobby over the weekend, and report back. Albert wants to go at the end of the month.’

‘What?’ Derek exclaimed. ‘That’s less than a month’s notice. He should give at least three months.’

Harold sighed. ‘Here in Thrush Green,’ he said quietly, ‘we don’t always do things like the civil service. If Bobby Cooke can take over, then we can let Albert go when he wants. If Bobby won’t or can’t, then we may have to think again, but I’m sure Albert wouldn’t leave us in the lurch.’

Harold looked round at the assembled meeting. Derek Burwell had pursed his mouth together but his face still registered disapproval.