(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green (14 page)

Perhaps country children had always had a slightly easier life than their town contemporaries. Alan remembered his father telling him about barefoot boys, fighting over half a loaf, whom he had seen in the dockyard area of the city where he had lived as a child. In those bleak streets there were no apples to scrump, no blackberries on hedges, no young turnips to pull secretly from a field's edge, and too many sharp eyes looking to catch a wrongdoer.

Looking across the green from his study window, he could see his two daughters playing with their school friends by the swings near the church. All the children were laughing, their hair streaming in the wind, their teeth and eyes gleaming, their limbs straight and strong. They might have been a different race altogether from the crop-headed few who gazed from the old photographs.

Indeed, thought Alan, there were many reasons for celebration.

***

Down at Barton-on-Sea Dorothy and Agnes were also looking forward to the Thrush Green celebrations.

They were busy with jam-making, for their two plum trees, thriving in the hot summer, had produced a bumper crop, and although Agnes was not over-fond of plum jam, Dorothy had insisted on making as much as they could.

'It's so
useful
for bazaars and things,' said Dorothy, bustling about with jam jars and little waxed discs which fluttered to the kitchen floor in profusion. 'You know how pleased the vicar was with that redcurrant jelly I made. "Ruby red", he called it. "Ruby red, and a real jewel." I thought it most apt.'

Agnes, standing over a hot stove, doing her best to fish out plum stones with a spoon, to be deposited on an old enamel plate steaming near by, thought it was a jolly sight easier making jelly than trying to catch elusive plum stones, the present task, which Dorothy had allotted her. She did her best to put this unworthy thought aside, and Dorothy's next words helped a little.

'I always start thinking of the new school year at about this time,' said Dorothy, rescuing some jam-pot covers from the floor.

'So do I,' agreed Agnes.

'And I must say, I really relish the thought of not having to go back,' added Dorothy.

'I'd rather like to,' confessed Agnes, pursuing a particularly slippery stone. 'The new babies were so sweet.'

'You were always so patient with the newcomers,' said Dorothy. 'I must admit that I really could not have coped with the reception class - all those tears and trips to the lavatories. No, I like them rather more
mental
and a little less
physical.
What on earth is that cat doing?'

The two ladies suspended their operations to gaze down at Tim, who was under the kitchen table. To their horror they saw that the cat had his paw firmly on a small and terrified mouse.

'Timmy,' said Dorothy, in her headmistress voice. 'Take that thing outside.'

The cat growled.

Dorothy snatched up the washing-up mop, and bent down. 'Timmy, be
reasonable
!' she adjured the animal. 'We simply can't have a mouse in here, it's unsanitary.'

'Insanitary
,' corrected Agnes automatically, 'and in any case Tim might get splashed with hot jam. And the mouse too, for that matter.'

Dorothy, red-faced, straightened up. 'This is no time for humanitarian nonsense,' she puffed. 'Let's just shoo both of them outside.'

She opened the door into the garden and Agnes, abandoning her jam, bent down to persuade Tim to relinquish his captive.

In true cat fashion, he strolled casually away to the open door, and the mouse fled to take refuge under the refrigerator.

'Really!'
said Dorothy, much exasperated. 'How typical! Now we shall have the impossible task of getting that mouse out.'

Agnes took charge. 'I'm turning the heat down, and making us coffee. Leave the door open, dear, and it's bound to run out eventually. It's time we had a rest in the sitting-room.'

There was a thump at the front door, and Dorothy went to collect the letters.

By the time they were ensconced in the peace of the sitting-room, with their coffee and post, the friends were calm again.

'Look,' said Dorothy, holding up a card. 'It's a proper invitation to the school on 1 October.'

'I've one, too,' said Agnes. 'How nice of Alan Lester to send separate ones!'

'Very extravagant,' said Dorothy, taking a biscuit, but she sounded pleased, and they began to discuss their plans for the journey, and the all-important problem of
what to wear.

Out in the kitchen a quaking mouse emerged from its hide-out and made a dash for the fresh air.

From his perch on the sunny rooftop of the garden shed, Tim ceased to wash his paws and watched the mouse with a languid eye.

Really rather a bore, this mousing, on a hot morning.

The new school term at Thrush Green began in the usual back-to-school weather of cloudless skies and warm sunshine, causing much irritation to those who had spent a great deal of money taking a holiday on the rainswept coasts of this island or, even worse, at the far more expensive and even more weatherbeaten resorts overseas.

The first priority was, of course, the final preparations for the great day.

Alan Lester, as an experienced head teacher, had no doubt that all would go well on the day. He also knew that there would be untold hazards to overcome before the dawn of 1 October.

Bill Hooper, true to his word, appeared a week or two before celebration day resplendent in his tweed Norfolk suit. His schoolfellows were duly impressed, and he strode round the classroom amidst awe and admiration.

There was no doubt about it: Bill's unseen grandfather still knew how to cut and sew, and Alan blessed him for smoothing his path on this occasion, for although no other boy could aspire to such sartorial perfection, at least they all looked forward to parading in garments which they would have scorned before Bill's and his grandfather's initiative.

The girls had been enthusiastic about their dressing-up from the first. Alan and Miss Robinson had planned the general look of the rooms, and had been almost overwhelmed by the amount of bric-à-brac sent in by parents and well-wishers.

But a hindrance to progress had been Mrs Gibbons.

From the first, Alan had realized that her position on the Parent-Teacher committee would give her every excuse for interfering, and he was prepared.

It was unfortunate that the lady took to entering the schoolroom unbidden to make her suggestions and criticisms. Alan Lester knew, as well as she did, that any confrontation before the children put her at an advantage, and he was quick to point out that it was not convenient to discuss plans during school hours.

'I simply wanted to have a look at the
setting,
' protested Mrs Gibbons, waving a hand. 'I had an idea which I think could improve the early part of the proceedings. It concerns the piano, and the children marching to their places.'

'That is already arranged,' Alan told her, with one eye on two giggling girls at the back of the class. 'Miss Robinson and I have been into it thoroughly.'

'But have you chosen the hymns? I have been looking through
Hymns Ancient and Modern
and
Songs of Praise—'

Here Alan led her firmly to the door.

'I really cannot discuss it now. I will telephone you after school and perhaps we can talk about things then.'

'We certainly will,' replied Mrs Gibbons emphatically, and went, seething, into the lobby.

There had been one or two other visitations, but on the whole she kept her attacks until after school hours. They ranged from strong disapproval of the sort of food the children would bring to school for their Victorian snack, to the fact that the whole school would go to the church service on the morning of 1 October.

'I feel quite sure,' she told Alan, 'that the chapel children would
never
have entered St Andrew's. It is quite wrong that they should go on this occasion.'

Alan explained, as patiently as he could, that this particular act of worship had nothing to do with the Victorian day celebrations, but was a contribution by the school — a Church of England school, he emphasized — to the general honouring of Nathaniel Patten and Octavius Fennel.

The lady, though still antagonistic, gave way grudgingly.

'It will be rather a relief,' said Alan to his wife, as he replaced the telephone, 'to get back to the humdrum of daily teaching when these celebrations are over.'

One morning towards the end of September Charles Henstock received a letter which gave him surprise and delight.

It was beautifully typed on crisp white writing paper and the address was embossed, something which the rector rarely saw these days.

It read:

Dear Mr Henstock,

I wish that I could accept your very kind invitation to the festivities at Thrush Green on / October, but ill-health prevents me from travelling.

My young friend Robert Wilberforce has kept me informed of the plans to honour Mr Nathaniel Patten and my kinsman the Reverend Octavius Fennel. I have followed the proposals with great interest, as you may imagine.

I understand that it is hoped to send a donation toward the building of an extra room at the African mission school, and should like to contribute. Robert Wilberforce is attending
your celebrations, be tells me, and I shall entrust him with my donation then.

I shall be with you in spirit on i October and feel sure that all your endeavours will be successful.

Yours sincerely,
Frederick Fennel

Half an hour later, Charles rang Harold to tell him about the proposed donation.

'That's most kind of him,' said Harold, 'and will be very welcome. I must admit, Charles, that contributions are not coming in as I had hoped, despite your note in the parish magazine.'

'I felt that might be the case,' said Charles. 'There are so many claims on people's purses, and charity begins at home, of course.'

'Naturally, and I believe that our school fund is receiving more support than Nathaniel's, which, I suppose, is only to be expected. I feel rather a fool, though, looking back at all the high hopes I had of raising a goodly sum for Nathaniel.'

'Don't worry,' Charles said. 'There's still time.' But was there?

'By the way,' added Harold, 'a warning! Mrs Gibbons has a new idea for adding to the glory of the great day, and may be coming to tell you about it.'

'Oh dear!'

'Oh dear, it certainly is. She thinks it might be nice to have large photographs of Nathaniel and Octavius propped up on their graves in Thrush Green churchyard during the celebrations. The Gauleiter would be glad to make the enlargements from the photographs we have.'

'The Gauleiter?'

'Sorry. I mean Mr Gibbons. Just my facetious name for him.'

'But I don't like the idea at all,' cried Charles pathetically.

'Neither would anyone else,' Harold assured him. 'I told her that she was trying to turn an English country churchyard into an Italian cemetery.'

'Oh dear,' repeated Charles. 'Was she offended?'

'Very!'
said Harold, with intense satisfaction.

'Well, thank you for warning me. Now I am going to write to Frederick Fennel.'

'It's wonderful news,' said Harold, 'and I wish he were well enough to join us.'

Towards the end of September the wind turned from the quarter which had given the sunny clear spell, to the south-west.

Grey clouds lowered over Thrush Green, and although the rain that fell from them was welcomed by everyone, and particularly by the gardeners, it did not bode well for the day of celebration to come.

It grew chilly, too, in the evenings and Winnie began to look ahead.

'I'm getting my overseas Christmas parcels ready in good time this year,' she told Jenny. 'And we ought to think about having our flu inoculations, and checking the state of the coal cellar.'

'Well, I've done that,' Jenny told her. 'Summer prices for the coal. I don't know as I'm all that keen on a flu jab this year.'