(10/13) Friends at Thrush Green (22 page)

The children subsided, and Isobel followed Harold into the hall where he was dialling the number by torchlight. She was careful to close the sitting-room door.

'How is she?'

'Flat out, but safe where she is. She's on the bed. I covered her up.'

'Should we get the doctor?'

'That's Alan's job. All I can do is tell him the position. Is that White Rose School? Is Alan Lester there? It's rather urgent.'

'He left about ten minutes ago,' said a deep voice, which Isobel could hear clearly. 'I'm just off myself. I'm the head here, and we've just finished the meeting. Lester should be home in about twenty minutes or so.'

'Have you had a power cut Over there? We're groping about in darkness.'

'No. We're still all right, I'm glad to say. Do you want me to get in touch with Lester?'

'No, no. We'll do that. We live next door to the school house. Many thanks, anyway.'

He put down the telephone, and looked at Isobel. 'I think the best thing to do is to put the little girls to bed in their own house, and we'll wait there until Alan gets back. Some home-coming for the poor chap, I'm afraid!'

A quarter of an hour later the children were in bed. The emergency lamp on the landing had been lit, and their bedroom door left ajar.

Isobel crept upstairs to look at them a few minutes later, and was relieved to see that they were asleep.

She opened the door of Margaret's room, heard regular snoring, and closed the door again quietly. If only Alan could get back quickly and take over! She went downstairs, and she and Harold sat in the chilly sitting-room which was lit only by the light of two candles which Harold had discovered in the kitchen cupboard.

How sad this little house seemed now, thought Isobel. In this room, so often, she had gossiped with dear old Agnes and Dorothy about the fun and foibles of Thrush Green parents and their children. Upstairs in Dorothy's old bedroom, which had always been restful and scented with lavender, there now lay poor unhappy Margaret in a room reeking of stale alcohol, while across the landing in Agnes's always-neat bedroom, two defenceless little girls lay in uneasy sleep.

Again Isobel's thoughts reverted to their pathetic efforts to find a light when darkness had suddenly enveloped them. She thought of matches being struck with the little girls' hair hanging dangerously over the flames. She thought of a heavy oil lamp being carried in a child's hands, of spilt paraffin, of leaping flames, of night-dresses on fire, of terror and panic. How easily there could have been a tragedy involving an unconscious mother and her young children! Something would have to be done about Margaret.

She shivered with horror and chill, and thought longingly of the bright fire they had left next door. At that moment a car drew up, the lights of the headlamps sweeping the room, and Harold went to the front door to greet Alan.

'Hello! What's happened? Where are the lights?' Isobel heard Alan say.

She could not hear Harold's reply, just the sound of his voice explaining things.

'My God! I must go upstairs to Margaret,' Alan said, in a shocked voice. 'I'll be down in a second.'

Harold returned, and they sat in silence, listening to the footsteps in the room above. Within minutes Alan returned, and dropped exhaustedly into a chair, his head in his hands.

'I think,' began Isobel tentatively, 'I should get you a drink, if you can tell me where things are.'

Alan gave a great shuddering sigh, and looked up. 'You are both so kind. I can't begin to thank you.' He stood up. 'I'll take a candle and go and light the Primus. We'll have some coffee.'

'And we'll help you,' said Harold. 'This damn power cut makes you realize how much we depend on switches, doesn't it?'

They all three went into the kitchen, and set about their preparations. It was only ten minutes later, when they had returned to the sitting-room with steaming mugs of instant coffee, that Alan asked for more details.

Harold told him, keeping nothing back. The sudden darkness, the frightened children, the matches, the attempt to light an oil lamp, all were related, while Alan listened with an expression of such horror on his face that Isobel's heart went out to him.

'If you hadn't been there,' he said at last, when the story ended, 'I could have come home to a burnt-out house, and no family! I blame myself. The meeting went on far longer than expected and—'

'It's a way meetings have,' interjected Harold.

'I'd seen that the girls were ready for bed. Margaret was not too bad, but said she would go to bed too as she was tired. As you see, we have no open fires here now, just the night storage heaters, for safety's sake. But of course I never envisaged a power cut, and all it entails.'

'You've got a problem,' said Harold.

'I know that well enough,' said Alan bitterly, 'and this evening has brought it to a head. Tomorrow I shall get Margaret to sec John Lovell. We're desperately in need of help, and we must tackle this immediately.'

'Yes, you
must
do that,' said Isobel, 'for everyone's sake.'

Alan sat, turning the empty mug round and round in his hands. At last he broke the silence.

'I'm sure that you both guessed poor Margaret's trouble long ago. After her mishap in Lulling High Street, I don't think anyone had any doubts about things here.'

'I'm afraid people have known for some time,' said Harold, 'but, believe me, the general feeling is of great sympathy. I haven't heard a word of criticism. After all, this is just as much an illness as, say, pneumonia.'

'Not so simply dealt with though,' replied Alan, with a sigh. 'It all began when Margaret had what the medicos call post-natal blues. She never really got over them, and that's when the drinking began.'

'Did you get help then?'

'To some extent. The doctor we had then was very understanding, and for a time she seemed better. Then I got this job, and she was alone all day, and it began again. It was the main reason for deciding to buy this place, where I felt I could keep an eye on her and she would not feel so lonely. But, as you see, it just hasn't worked out.'

'But why,' asked Isobel gently, 'didn't you get help from the doctor again?'

'Our old doctor has now retired, and frankly Margaret was so ashamed of herself she simply refused to see John Lovell.'

'Well, I'm sure he will be of enormous support to you,' said Harold rising. 'I suspect that he will be mightily relieved to be asked to help. And now we'll be getting back.'

At that moment, the lights came on again, bathing the room in unusually bright light after the mellow illumination from the oil lamp.

'Thank heaven!' cried Isobel. 'Now you will be all right.'

'Not quite "
all right",'
said Alan with a wry smile, 'but better able to cope.'

He put an arm around Harold's shoulders, and thanked him again. To Isobel's surprise he kissed her cheek. He was obviously deeply moved by all that had transpired.

'I shall never be able to thank you adequately,' he said, opening the door, 'but thank heaven for good friends at Thrush Green.'

Two days later Alan arrived at the Shoosmiths' house bearing a magnificent dark red azalea which he presented to Isobel.

'Come in,' cried Harold. 'How are things going?'

'Margaret's coming to see you herself later on. She's with John Lovell at the moment, at the surgery, picking up some tablets.'

'Can he help?'

'Indeed he can. He's been absolutely marvellous, and has fixed up an appointment at a clinic he knows well and thoroughly recommends. With any luck, Margaret will be able to go there within the week.'

'So she is really being co-operative?'

'Absolutely. I know it's early days, and she knows herself it's a long hard road to go, but she was so shattered about events the other night that she said at once we must get the doctor to help.'

'You must let us help too,' said Isobel. 'How long will she be away?'

'Difficult to say, but a few weeks probably.'

'And how will you manage?'

'I rang my mother, and she is coming down to stay for as long as she's needed.'

'She sounds a trump.'

'She certainly is! She's known about this from the start, and helped a lot when we were in the old house. She's lived alone since my father died, and she says she will shut up the house, and come as soon as I ring her.'

'Do the children know?'

'I've simply told them that their mother is ill and needs treatment, and have left it at that. Alison knows what it is, I'm quite sure, but she doesn't speak about it. Kate doesn't seem to have twigged, thank heaven. They both adore my mother, so they'll be happy with her.'

'Well,' said Harold, 'things certainly look more hopeful, and we are so relieved to know that Margaret is getting medical help.'

'It certainly takes some of the burden from my back,' confessed Alan. 'I fear poor Margaret is in for a tough time, but at the moment she is absolutely determined to be cured. She wants to come and thank you herself for all you did.'

'Oh please,' begged Isobel, 'don't let her worry about that. She may find it painful, and she's enough to think about as it is.'

Alan looked grave. 'She wants to do it,' he said soberly, 'and I think it will do her good to tell you about this trouble. Look upon it as one of the first steps towards rehabilitation. That's how I see it, and I think Margaret feels that way too.'

They watched him stride across the green to meet his wife at the surgery.

'I feel desperately sorry for that fellow,' said Harold, as they closed the front door.

'And I feel desperately sorry for the whole family,' replied Isobel. 'It makes you feel that you will never touch alcohol again, doesn't it?'

'Speak for yourself,' said Harold.

16. Christmas and After

DECEMBER had hardly begun before all the frenzy of Christmas began to break out.

At the village school the windows were dotted with blobs of cotton wool representing snow flakes; paper chains hung across the class rooms and frequently collapsed upon the children beneath, much to their delight.

Every time a door opened a powdering of imitation frost, Christmas cards in the making, and pieces of embryo calendars fluttered to the floor, followed by excited children attempting to retrieve their property. The usual pre-Christmas chaos prevailed.

The ladies of Lulling and Thrush Green were busy preparing to raid local hedges and gardens for holly and ivy to decorate St John's and St Andrew's churches, as well as making wreaths for front doors and the graves of those departed and at rest in the churchyards.

The Lulling shops were filled with anxious customers wondering if elderly aunts would appreciate tea-cosies fashioned as sitting hens, or whether it would be better to play safe with yet another bed-jacket.

Husbands were busy buying enormous flasks of fabulously expensive scent, with names such as 'Transport' or 'Vive', destined to end either down the bath drain or as a raffle prize at a future bazaar.

In the electricity showrooms the annual display of a snow-white cooker decked with tinsel stood in front of the window, and the somewhat battered plaster turkey stood on top of it. The inhabitants of Lulling looked with affection upon this old friend. It really would not be Christmas without its reappearance, although it was beginning to look uncommonly dark—almost burnt—with advancing age.

At The Fuchsia Bush the results of Nelly's art filled the window: iced cakes clad in gold and scarlet frills, Dundee beauties topped with almonds, and pyramids of mince-pies brought in admiring customers.

In the few days before Christmas, activity rose to fever pitch, and when the ladies of Lulling, having their pre-Christmas shampoo and set, were offered a glass of Cyprus sherry as they sweltered under the driers, it was quite apparent that the festive season, in all its fury, was upon them.

Christmas Day was its usual mild and green self. The children's hopes of heavy snow, tobogganing, making snowmen, and sliding on the ice, were dashed yet again, but their spirits were greatly restored by the plethora of presents, the rich food and the indulgence of their parents.

Out in the country the necessities of work went on unchanged: Percy Hodge attended to his cattle, fed the hens, and moved his small flock of sheep to an adjacent field. As the daylight began to fade he went indoors, followed by the faithful Gyp, fed the dog, made up the stove, and went to his bedroom to change into his best blue serge suit.

Mr Jones, looking out from the window of The Two Pheasants, caught a glimpse of Percy's Land Rover as the farmer drove towards Lulling.

'And I wonder what he's got as a present for Doreen,' he commented to Mrs Jones, who was resplendent in a new scarlet cardigan, her husband's Christmas present.

'Might be an engagement ring,' surmised Mrs Jones.

'That wouldn't surprise anyone,' said Mr Jones. 'It's the
wedding
ring that's going to be Percy's problem.'

There was general, but nicely-concealed relief, when January arrived.

'Good to get back to normal,' said one to the other. 'We had a lovely meal of lamb chops today, and the turkey carcase is simmering for stock.'

'Won't be long before the children are back to school,' the mothers comforted each other.

Dotty Harmer, with her unusual forthrightness, summed it up when talking to Betty Bell. 'I love Christmas, always will. But what a lot of fuss! I feel convalescent until mid-January.'

'That's only because you are getting on,' Betty told her, reaching up to unpin Christmas cards from the banisters. She stopped her endeavours to study one of them.

'This is pretty, but I can't make out the message.'

Dotty took it from her.

'It's Latin, dear. "Celebrating the birth of our Saviour", it says. Did you learn Latin at school?'

'What, down the Secondary? Not likely! Us girls was lucky to get a half-hour's Domestic Science as it was called then, and that was only about washing your hands before making pastry, which we all knew anyway from our mums.'

'You really didn't miss much,' observed Dotty. 'It's a tiresome language. How the Romans ever managed to converse I can't imagine. They had the verb at the end of the sentence, you see, Betty.'