(10/13) Friends at Thrush Green (19 page)

He shut the door sharply and returned to his own food. Gyp sighed contentedly, and stretched himself in front of the stove.

It was very quiet in the kitchen. Only the ticking of the great wall clock and the humming of the kettle broke the silence as Percy mopped his plate with a piece of bread. It was at times like this that sadness pervaded him. Breakfast time with Gertie had been a busy occasion when they discussed the day's plans and then washed up together, for Percy had always been more domesticated than most farmers, and his sister, Mrs Jenner, had made sure that he did his fair share of the chores when they were young together in this very same kitchen.

He thought about the fellow outside. Had he ever had a home, he wondered? A poor life for a man, everlasting roaming the country. Worse than his own. At least he had a roof over his head, a fire and victuals in plenty. It was just company that he missed.

He was about to take his plate to the sink when he heard the knocking at the back door, and found the tramp proffering the empty plate and mug.

'Thanks, mate. That went down good,' he said.

Percy put the plate and mug on the battered scullery table, and surveyed his visitor. He was certainly a sorry sight. It was the pink flesh showing through the gaping boots that struck Percy as the most pathetic part of the general air of destitution.

'You goin' far?' he asked.

'Makin' to Banbury way. Got a mate there. Do a bit of beatin' for the toffs' shoots.'

'You won't get far in those boots,' commented Percy, eyeing a pair of his old gardening boots standing hardby. They looked, though Percy would not have known it, very like the famous lace-up pair belonging to Gertrude Jekyll, well-worn but serviceable.

'Take them,' he said, 'and chuck those wrecks in the dustbin.'

He left the man on the floor coping with his new acquisitions, and went back to the kitchen. An ancient pullover, knitted years before by his sister, lay on one of the chairs awaiting washing. Well, it would save him doing that chore, thought Percy, taking it to the scullery.

The man was busy lacing up one boot. Percy suddenly remembered Gertie on just such an occasion, asking one long-past traveller anxiously what size he took. He had teased her when the man had gone. Didn't she know he could stuff newspaper round the gaps, or cut a slit if they pinched?

But Gertie, child of a Lulling shopkeeper, had not had much first-hand knowledge of tramps and her ignorance had amused Percy enormously.

The sudden remembrance softened Percy now. He handed him the pullover. 'Keep out the cold,' he said gruffly. 'Want a hunk of bread to take with you?'

The man stood up, stamping in his new boots.

'They're great, mate, and you're a real gent.'

'Well, don't tell your friends,' warned Percy. 'I ain't usually so generous.'

He went back to the kitchen. He had no intention of inviting the man farther into his domain for he would be as verminous, he had no doubt, as a stray dog.

He rolled up the end of the loaf in a page from the
Radio Times,
adding a lump of cheese from the nearby cheese-dish on the dresser.

His visitor stood, still admiring his boots.

'Right! There you are, and now be off with you,' said Percy, opening the back door.

'God bless you, guv,' said the tramp fervently, and Percy watched him striding away, in his old boots, into the frosty morning.

'Sometimes, I think,' remarked Percy to Gyp, as he poured another cup of tea, 'I reckon I'm too soft.'

An hour later the scoutmaster called for the sack of potatoes, and Percy helped him load it into the boot of his car. He was on his way to work at the bank in Lulling High Street, and Percy thought how nice it must be to have a job which started halfway through the morning, as it seemed to him.

He himself had already seen to the cattle, mended a fence, rung the corn chandler, prepared a mash for the chickens, filled in a form for some ministry or other which meant nothing to him, looked out another pair of boots, demoted now from everyday to gardening, and left his dishes and the tramp's in the sink to soak.

Just before ten he decided to take the shabby Land Rover down to Lulling to get the tyres looked at, praying that he need not go to the expense of a new one on the off-side which was definitely suspect. Then he would seek refreshment and a little company at The Two Pheasants. Tuesday today, he thought, as he trundled down the hill; might be a lardy cake at The Fuchsia Bush, and that was just the thing on a frosty day.

He trod on the accelerator. You never knew—that Lulling lot might have cleared out all the lardy cakes if he didn't look lively.

At Rectory Cottages Doreen Lilly was busy at work. She had left Bobby safely corralled in the nursery school with a pair of blunt-nosed scissors and some coloured paper.

Today she had been asked by Jane to tidy the store cupboard and clean the shelves. It was a pleasantly straightforward job, stacking packets and tins in a small room with deep shelves on three sides, which was lit by a large window at the end.

All went well, until Doreen noticed how dirty the hopper of the window had become. It was a small slanting pane, always ajar to air the place, and was liable to catch any dust and debris which the main part of the window missed.

She went to fetch the short pair of steps, which only stood hip-high and had a useful padded top which could be used as a stool. Doreen was fond of these steps: Jane had warned her about too much stretching at the present stage of her pregnancy, and they were a great help to her.

She opened them now and made her way up them, a damp cloth in her hand. The shelf was wide, and stacked with innumerable tins. Doreen found it difficult to reach across them to her target.

'Drat it all,' she muttered, and stepped on to the padded top to give her better access to the window.

It was at this point that the steps skidded away. They fell with a hideous clatter, and Doreen ended up lying awkwardly across them still clutching the cloth in her hand. Half a dozen tins, dislodged in the upset, dropped painfully upon her, and she cried out.

Jane came running, took in the situation at a glance, and soon had the girl sitting in the kitchen. She had the sense not to scold her. It was apparent from the girl's ashen face that she was upset enough already. She was bent double, and holding her stomach.

'Got an awful griping,' she gasped, and Jane's heart sank.

'You'd better come and lie down,' she said, helping the girl to her feet.

As soon as she had the girl flat on the bed she rang the surgery to explain the situation. John Lovell answered the telephone himself, and having faith in Jane Cartwright's nursing knowledge, said he would be over immediately.

'I've just finished surgery,' he said. 'In fact I was on my way to the car. I'll be with you in a couple of minutes.'

By the time the doctor arrived, Doreen was tearful and in great pain. John Lovell gave a brief examination, and straightened up.

'I want her in hospital,' he said quietly to Jane. 'May I use your telephone?'

Some ten minutes later the inhabitants of Thrush Green were greatly intrigued to see an ambulance drawing up outside Rectory Cottages, and a stretcher being carried in.

One of the poor old dears, thought Ella, surveying the scene from her landing window.

'Someone's been took ill,' Jenny told Winnie Bailey, as they made the bed together.

'I hope that's not poor Muriel Fuller,' said Isobel to Harold, catching sight of the ambulance as she put out the milk bottles. 'She was very shaky in church last week.'

Not one of the interested viewers guessed that the youngest person in the place was the victim

Albert Piggott and Percy Hodge had just emerged from The Two Pheasants, Albert to continue his desultory tidying-up, and Percy to drive the Land Rover back to the farm.

'Wonder who that is?' said Percy, watching the laden stretcher being returned to the ambulance, accompanied by his niece Jane Cartwright and Doctor Lovell.

'One of them old 'uns, no doubt,' responded Albert. 'You has to expect it at their age.'

His tone was dismissive, and he was already turning away towards the church. But Percy, whose sight was clearer than his companion's, still watched attentively.

'That's the Lilly girl!' he exclaimed. 'Doreen, or somethin'.'

The ambulance doors clanged shut. Doctor Lovell raised his hand to Jane as he departed, and she, to Percy's surprise, came hurrying towards him.

'Uncle Percy, do me a favour.' She seemed unusually agitated.

'What's that?'

'Young Doreen Lilly's had a fall. She might have a miscarriage. What's worrying her is that her little boy's at play-school and she usually fetches him at twelve. Could you take a message to her mother? She'll be able to collect him, I'm sure. Do you know the house?'

'Lord, yes! Where the baker lived. I'll drive down now.'

'Thanks very much. I dare not leave my old folk. And tell her to ring the hospital direct. Visiting hours are six to seven-thirty. The hospital will tell her if the girl's up to seeing her.'

Percy clambered back into the Land Rover, and turned to run down the hill. He was somewhat perturbed at the delicate task before him, and sorry for the young woman whom he had always considered unusually pretty. Percy, particularly now that he was alone, was susceptible to female attractions.

He found Gladys Lilly busy with a mound of ironing; there was a pleasant scent of clean linen, and a clothes' horse bearing innumerable small garments, presumably belonging to her grandson.

'Oh my!' cried Gladys, on hearing the news. 'What a thing to happen! It was all going so well too. What a blessing it was that your Jane was there to look after her.'

Percy added the message about telephoning the hospital and the visiting hours.

'I'll pop in next door and ring from there as soon as I've fetched Bobby,' promised Gladys. 'If you'll excuse me a moment, I'll go and get a coat.'

Percy was left alone in the kitchen. It was warm and tidy. A pile of newly-ironed pillow cases and sheets stood nearby, and something delicious sizzled in the oven. On the hob stood a freshly cooked rice pudding, with a nice brown crinkled top smelling of cinnamon. It reminded Percy sharply of the dinners his mother had cooked for them years ago, in that same kitchen along the Nidden road where his breakfast dishes still awaited attention in a scummy sink. It was a good thing, he thought, that his mother could not see it now.

Mrs Lilly, somewhat calmer, reappeared, and Percy offered to give her a lift to the school, but she refused.

'It's no distance, thanks all the same. You've done enough, Mr Hodge.'

Percy was touched by the rather formal address.

'Well, let me take you up to the hospital this evenin',' he said. 'It's a good step, and they've promised us rain after dark. Shall I pop down, say at half past six, and see how things are?'

'That's uncommon kind of you,' said Gladys. 'I'd really be glad of a lift.'

They left the house together, Gladys hurrying along to the school, and Percy making his way back to his midday bread and cheese. That rice pudding, he thought wistfully, would have gone down a treat.

At half past six he reappeared at Gladys Lilly's door. He had exchanged his working jacket for a somewhat cleaner one, wore a tie and had brushed his hair.

Mrs Lilly, who was already in her outdoor coat, climbed into the Land Rover. She looked tearful, and Percy was at a loss to know what to say.

'All right to visit then?' he said at last.

'Yes. Hospital folk said it was OK. Sad though. She's lost it.'

'Lost what?'

'The baby. Didn't you know? She was having her second.'

Percy did know now that he came to think of it, but his apparent ignorance was easier in the circumstances.

'Is she all right?'

'Will be, they say, but she's got to stay in a day or two.'

'She's a nice lookin' girl,' ventured Percy, driving circumspectly up Lulling High Street.

'Takes after her dad,' said Gladys. 'I was never no beauty.'

She sounded quite matter-of-fact, and was certainly not angling for compliments, which Percy approved.

'Yes, he was a handsome chap,' he agreed. 'You must miss him.'

'Thirty-three years we was married, and him in the same job up at Carters in Grain Street all that time. He was a baker, you know.'

'I did know,' said Percy, turning into the hospital gates. 'Used to make first-class lardy cakes. I had one from The Fuchsia Bush today, but it's not a patch on Carters!'

He stopped the Land Rover, and watched his passenger clamber down.

'You coming in? There's a kiosk where they sell coffee and tea.'

'No. I'll wait here for you. Don't hurry yourself,' replied Percy.

He had parked at the side of the hospital, and sat looking at the row of lighted windows before him. The glass was frosted, and he could only discern human shapes passing to and fro about their business.

A little nocturnal animal scrabbled under the laurel bushes in front of him, and somewhere a child was wailing inconsolably, probably missing his mother and the warm security of his own bed.

Poor little devil, thought Percy. He knew how he felt, lost and alone, and away from all the comforts of home. It was getting unpleasantly cold with the engine turned off, and Percy decided to take a brisk walk around the car park.

There were very few cars there, but a steady stream passed on the road outside, lighting up the leafless trees in the grounds, and turning the window panes of the hospital into silver squares.

A man came hurrying out, and Percy recognized him as a neighbour from Nidden.

'What you doin' here?' he called.

'Why, Perce, it's you, is it? My boy's broke a leg. Nothin' serious. Blasted motorbike of his. Who you waitin' for?'

Percy told him.

'Young Doreen, eh? Pretty girl, but no better'n she should be so I hear.'

'You don't want to believe all you hear,' said Percy snappily.

'No, that's right,' agreed the other, sounding somewhat startled. 'Well, I'd best be off. Gettin' chilly again, isn't it?'