Thrush Green (14 page)

"Come out now," he urged. "You look fine in that red frock."

"But it's all wet," faltered Molly, displaying the splashes.

"Sun'll dry it," said Ben firmly, spreading the tea towel over a chair back. He turned, and arms akimbo, surveyed the girl as she stood thoughtfully by the sink, looking down at her damp dress.

"Change your frock when you come back to the fair with me," suggested Ben. Molly looked up, and catching sight of his dark eyes smiling at her, regained her usual sparkle.

"I didn't say I was coming to the fair, did I?" said Molly, turning wide eyes upon him. "Not with you anyways. There's plenty of other young men have asked me lately, and I haven't said yes or no to any of 'em."

Ben was not to be foiled by these womanly wiles. After the months of doubting fears, culminating in the anguish of mind as he had walked through Lulling Woods in the heat of the day, it was as though he were now inoculated against all further torments. He knew, with a deep sense of wonder and inner comfort that was to remain with him all his life, that the girl before him was his forever, to be as essential to him, and as much part of him, as his hand or eye.

It was this knowledge that gave him a new-found strength and gentleness. Nothing now could go wrong, he told himself, anywhere—ever—in the whole world!

He took the girl's hand and led her, laughing, to the door.

"Other men!" he scoffed exultantly. "To hell with them! You're coming with me!"

And together they made their way out into the sunshine.

The common, which surrounded "The Drovers' Arms," rose at one point to a cluster of beech trees which served as a landmark for miles around.

It was toward the trees that the two climbed through the dry fine grass, and when they reached the first welcome shade thrown by the outspread branches they sat down to talk.

From the little hill they had a clear view of the four roads that met at "The Drovers' Arms," for Molly, despite her excitement, was still conscious of her mistress's injunction about the laundry and about "keeping an eye" on the place. By settling here she salved her conscience enough to be able to give young Ben the major part of her attention.

The heat waves quivered across the view spread before them. Myriads of winged insects hummed in the warm air, and far away, so high above that it was lost in blue air, a distant airplane droned drowsily.

Ben rested his arms on his knees, a grass between his teeth, and observed the mighty hulk of a steam-roller, drawn up in a clearing at the side of the road directly below them. A froth of Queen Anne's lace had grown up around the rusty wheels, and the sun glinted on the brass horse which ornamented the front. Soon its winter rest would come to an end, for with the May sunshine would come the time for tarring, and the sleeping monster would be tugged from the clinging greenery which softened its primitive and grotesque lines and be roused into life by fire kindled in its belly. With the rumbling of the giant about their quaking lanes, the people of Lulling would know that high summer had really come.

Tired with their climb, and with all that had happened to them, Ben and Molly spoke little at first, content to be in each other's company and enjoy the quiet loveliness that echoed their own bliss. But gradually their tongues loosened and they began to exchange news of the long year behind them.

Ben listened with pity and anger to Molly's account of life at the cottage on Thrush Green, and admired secretly the sturdy common sense with which she had faced her difficulties, devoid of any self-pity for her conditions. But his heart smote him even more poignantly when she put a hand upon his sunburned arms and said:

"And then you never came! And, worse still, you never wrote! I did think you'd send a letter, p'raps."

Ben took a deep breath. The shameful secret would have to be told, and better now than later on.

"I can't write, Moll, and that's the truth," he said, looking away from her. A yard away the blue broken shell of a bird's egg had become speared upon a tall grass, and swayed gently, like some exotic harebell.

"Can't write?" echoed Molly in amazement. He turned to her swiftly, and Molly's heart was shaken at the pain in his face.

"Well, I never had much schooling. Being with the fair, see. We was always on the move. I can read a bit, but all the schools I went to seemed to do different writing and somehow I never sort of mastered it."

His fingers plucked nervously at the grass and Molly covered them with her own.

"You don't want to worry about a little thing like that," she said stoutly. "I knows dozens as can't write. And anyway I can easy teach you. 'Twouldn't take you more than a week or two to get the hang of it."

"I'd like that," nodded young Ben earnestly. "And Gran'd be pleased."

He went on to tell her about the old lady and the hopes he had of being taken into partnership. He told her about the work of the fair, the earnings he had, and the improvements he would make if he had any say in the future running of the business.

Molly listened intently. The life of the fair had always attracted her, and the account of the hard work which lay behind the glitter held no fears for her. If that was to be her life, she would relish it. She was used to tough conditions, she welcomed change and movement with the natural excitement of youth, and she knew too that wherever the young man before her chose to go she would want to go too.

But she was, nevertheless, a little taken aback to hear him describe the alterations he would make in his caravan for their future comfort.

"But, Ben," she protested, "you're taking a lot for granted."

He looked at her bewildered face and, for a moment, all his old doubts assailed him again.

"Maybe I'm asking too much," he said soberly. "Girls like you, with a steady job and a home and that, would find our everlasting traipsin' the roads a comedown. 'Tisn't fair perhaps to ask you to take on a rough chap from a fair, and never have no comfort."

He was lying full length upon the grass, his chin propped on his fists, and now he looked up, with such utter misery, at Molly that she caught her breath.

"But, Moll," he pleaded, "what'll I do if you won't come?"

There was a little silence, stirred only by the summer murmurings about them, while poor Ben waited for his answer.

"I'll come," promised Molly, at last.

10. Sam Curdle Is Tempted

W
HILE
B
EN
C
URDLE
lay, lapped in bliss, upon the grassy heath above Lulling Woods, his cousin Sam was facing a domestic squall at Thrush Green.

His wife Bella was in a fine fury. She confronted him now, her eyes flashing. Her massive bosom heaved under the tight red dress, as she railed. As usual it was money that she demanded.

"I tell you, Bella," protested Sam, "I'm broke. I give you your whack last week. What you done with that lot?" His face was as red as his wife's.

"You had plenty yesterday morning," screamed Bella. "You hand some over. It's for your kids' clothes—that's all I'm asking for! D'you want to see 'em barefoot?"

Sam swore softly under his breath, but put a grimy hand in his pocket.

"That's the lot!" he growled, flinging two filthy pound notes onto the table. Bella swooped upon them and rammed them into her shiny black handbag.

"About time," was her comment. "We gets paid tonight anyway—no need for you to be mean all of a sudden."

She put her head out of the doorway and yelled to her three children, who were playing with a skewbald pony in the shade of the lime trees.

"Give over! We're going down Lulling. Come and get your faces wiped!"

She turned to have a parting shot at her husband. He was kicking moodily at the table leg and his face was black as thunder.

"If you're short of money, why don't you ask the old girl for more? You earns it, don't you? You're all the same, you Curdles! Afraid to say a word for yourselves against her. Under her thumb, the lot of you, under her thumb!"

And still heaving with indignation Bella descended the steps of the caravan to find her brood.

Sam lay back upon the garish cretonne cushions which Bella had made for the long wall seat of the caravan, and cursed his luck. He cursed Bella and her tongue, the children and their everlasting wants and his own feebleness in parting with the two pound notes.

These had been earmarked for the afternoon's betting, and now the outlook seemed hopeless. Sam gazed blackly at the ceiling above him where two flies walked erratically around Bella's pink-fringed lamp shade. Give her her due, Sam admitted, as his temper cooled and the peace of the afternoon crept upon him, she kept the place nice, nag though she did.

His eyes wandered to the flowery curtains that matched the cushions below his head, to the pink rug that she had made, and the new plastic tablecloth with its scarlet and black design. When you thought that it had once been an old bus, Sam mused, it hadn't turned out a bad little home. Bit cramped of course now, with the three kids, but if the horses did their stuff maybe they'd be able to get a bigger caravan to live in—a real flash job, with plenty of chrome and a bay window with latticed panes.

The thought of the horses reminded Sam painfully of his predicament. He sat up and pulled the newspaper toward him morosely. As he ran a black-edged fingernail down the racing column his gloom returned.

Yes, there they were, all right! Both the beauties that young chap had tipped him, Rougemont and Don John. One in the three-thirty and the other in the four-thirty, and here he was with ninepence halfpenny in his pocket! Sam swore anew.

The fair had stopped for two days, earlier in the week, at Soth Fenny, a village in Oxfordshire famous for its racing stables. In the pub Sam had been in conversation with one of the stable lads, an Irishman whose eloquence had impressed Sam deeply.

"Can't go wrong, my boy," he had said earnestly to the traveler. "They've both been readied for the Newbury meeting, and I know for a fact the stables are backing 'em. Remember the names now. Rougemont and Don John!"

"Don John!" Sam had said derisively, anxious to appear as knowledgeable as his adviser. "Why, he ran like a cow at Lingfield!"

The Irishman brushed this aside with a testy wave of his hand.

"But I'm telling you, they were saving him for Newbury, getting him down in the handicap. Put all you can find on 'em, and you'll never regret it. Don't forget now—Rougemont and Don John. They're worth a fortune to you!"

Sam had bought him a drink for luck and had written the two names down on the edge of a newspaper. And now, here they were, both of them, running on the same afternoon, and he had nothing to put on them.

He rose to his feet and went outside into the quivering sunshine. Across Thrush Green he could see the small stone house where Ernie Bender lived and worked, and where he laid bets for the lucky ones who had the money to take it to him.

Ernie Bender's house stood next door to that belonging to Ella Bembridge and Dimity Dean. It stood well back in a garden shady with plum and apple trees, and in the front window a notice said:

E. BENDER
B
OOT AND
S
HOE
R
EPAIRS

The inhabitants of Thrush Green were glad of Ernie Bender. He ministered to heels and soles, footballs, harness, handbags and suitcases. In fact, as he was quick to tell his customers, he would "have a go at anything made of leather—but it must be leather, mind! I won't waste my time on your plastic stuff!" Over the years he had stitched Dr. Bailey's black bag, Paul's pram hood, the net balls at the village school, and saddles and bridles for Joan and Ruth when they were small, and kept in trim the footwear that passed and repassed his window as the various owners went about their business on Thrush Green.

He was a tiny gnomelike man who wore half-spectacles made of steel and peered over them at the view through his window as he sat on a high stool at his bench. Not much escaped those long-sighted eyes and he had been known to summon a running child to tell him that his sole was worn through and that his mother had better let him see to it right away.

His passion was horse racing and he had an account with a bookmaker in Lulling. Many of his customers took their bets to Ernie Bender along with their boots, and found he was always ready to talk about racing memories or prospects for a coming race day, his eyes gleaming as brightly as the steel spectacles which rested on his diminutive nose.

Sam knew him well. It was there that Sam had proposed to go, sauntering casually behind the screen of caravans and booths to dodge Bella's and the old lady's eye, to put ten shillings each way on both Rougemont and Don John.

The bright sun mocked his despair and the peaceful scene before him only infuriated Sam still further. He cast around in his mind for any hope of a loan from one or other of the Curdle tribe, but it was hopeless, he knew.

In the first place this was Friday afternoon when purses and pockets were almost empty at Curdle's fairground. Tonight was pay night, the brightest spot in the week. If only Rougemont and Don John had been entered on tomorrow's card! thought Sam.

As if to emphasize the callousness of time, St. Andrew's clock let fall three silvery notes. Sam's fury flared anew. Another half-hour and Rougemont would be off!

"And he'll go like an arrow, my boy," the Irishman had sworn solemnly. "Nothing can stop him. He can't fail!"

The words echoed in Sam's ears infuriatingly. And he'd probably start at odds of eight to one, too, Sam told himself. And where was his money? Snug in Bella's bag. It was enough to make you take to wife-beating, that it was!

He looked up at the implacable face of St. Andrew's clock and made a decision. He'd done it before and no one was any the wiser. He'd do it again. What if it did seem like stealing? If old Ma was too mean to pay him right, then she deserved to have a bit pinched now and again.

No, not pinched, he told himself hastily, as a vision of the tribe leader's awe-inspiring face floated before him. Borrowing, let's say—just a little advance on what would be given him by right tonight. He could slip it back in the drawer sometime, just as easy as he could slip it out.