(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green (2 page)

Times were hard in the 1930s, and the Mulloys lived in poverty. The son, William, grew up to be a wild youth. The daughter, Mary, never married.

William married in the 1950s and his wife soon discovered that she had made a serious mistake. He was a drunkard, and violent when in his cups. She lived in daily fear of his attacks upon her and upon their young daughter Dulcie, named after Nathaniel's daughter.

Fortunately, his sister Mary, who lived near by, was a strong character who had no time for William, but gave support to his wife and child. It was she who had kept Nathaniel's letters to her mother, and who told Dulcie of the wonderful work he had done. Mary had died when Dulcie was a grown woman.

Harold and Charles had met William briefly in Wales where he farmed a few acres. He was a dissolute uncouth fellow who had no time for Nathaniel's memory. At the time of their meeting he had left his wife and daughter, Dulcie, and was living with a woman near by.

What had happened to William Mulloy, his poor wife and little Dulcie? the kind-hearted rector often wondered. Harold, of sterner stuff, did not waste his energies in thinking about them.

Harold continued to hold the letter, his face alight with enthusiasm. 'I can't believe it!'

'I thought I would reply to Mr Wilberforce today,' said Charles, 'and say how glad we would be to have these papers, and perhaps he would be kind enough to post them to us.'

'Post!'
cried Harold. 'Dear old Nathaniel's letters? I wouldn't trust those to the
post
!'

'Oh, come,' responded the rector. 'Do be fair. How often does the post go astray?'

'When the post
does
go astray,' replied his friend forcefully, 'I don't know about it, do I? No, I'm not risking this lot to the post. If it comes to that I'll go up myself and fetch them.'

'Then what do you suggest I write?'

'Don't write. Telephone. Let's do it now.'

'But it's scarcely nine thirty! He'll be at work.'

'Then we'll ring him at work.'

Charles felt helpless in the face of such ruthlessness. He watched Harold lift a hand telephone from its bracket and settle down at the kitchen table.

'I'll get through, then pass it over,' he told Charles. 'It's an Ambleside number.'

Charles watched him pressing buttons on this new contraption. At Lulling's vicarage no such modern equipment was in use. A venerable instrument stood on the chest in the hall, and when it rang one simply hurried to it from the bedroom, the kitchen or the garden and announced oneself with as much breath as was left.

'Can I speak to Mr Wilberforce?' said Harold, and handed the telephone to Charles.

A woman was speaking. 'At work,' said the voice, 'but if it is urgent I could give you his number at the office, or I can leave a message for him.'

'Get the number,' whispered Harold.

'If you would be kind enough to give us his office number,' said the rector diffidently, 'if you think he will be free, of course. I should not like to interrupt any business matters he may be engaged upon, but it really is rather urgent.'

Harold was drumming his fingers on the table, but stopped as Charles wrote the number at the head of the letter in front of him.

'Most kind, most kind, Mrs Wilberforce,' he said. Something was said at the other end, and Charles's chubby face grew pink.

'I apologize, Mrs Er — er —' he said. 'And many thanks again.'

'Who was it?'

'His housekeeper. I didn't catch her name. Shall we try the office?'

'Certainly. I'll get it, shall I?'

'Please do. I don't think I have quite mastered it.'

He watched Harold as he tapped briskly at the buttons, then took the telephone from his hand.

'Is Mr Wilberforce free?' he began. 'My name is Charles Henstock, and I am the rector of Thrush Green. He wrote to me about some documents of his aunt's.'

There was a pause.

'He's coming,' Charles whispered excitedly. He held up a hand as a voice spoke at the other end.

'I must apologize for troubling you at work,' began the rector, but then became silent and attentive. 'That would be most kind. Yes, the post
can
be a little unreliable. In that case, perhaps after your meeting? For dinner, say? We can easily put you up overnight. I can't tell you how much this means to us. I will give you my telephone number, and look forward to hearing from you this evening.'

When Charles had finished he was smiling. Harold was fidgeting with impatience.

'Sounds a very sensible chap,' said Charles. 'He has to come to Ealing some time on business, and will bring the papers with him. He promises to deliver them to me personally, as he can come via Thrush Green. He doesn't seem to rely on the post.'

Harold forbore to remark that most people, less trusting than the good rector, felt the same.

'I shall know when he's coming this evening,' continued Charles. 'He is making arrangements, so I'll be in touch with you as soon as I've heard from him.'

'Marvellous!' said Harold. 'I can't wait to get my hands on all this material. We shall have to find a very safe place to store it.'

'I've no doubt that this house would provide the best possible shelter,' said Charles, 'and the most loving care.'

'You can be assured of that,' agreed Harold.

***

When his wife Isobel returned from her visit to Sussex Harold told her the great news even before she had put the kettle on for a reviving cup of tea.

Weary though she was from her long drive, she did her best to match his enthusiasm. 'What will you do with the letters?' she enquired.

'Put them in our safe,' he replied.

'No, I meant permanently. Will you give them to the county archives?'

Harold looked dismayed. 'I can't say I'd got that far.' A note of doubt became evident in his speech. 'I suppose that would be the correct thing to do, but I'm jolly well going to keep them here at Thrush Green for as long as I can.'

'And why not?' agreed Isobel, pouring boiling water into the teapot. 'After all, without you Thrush Green would have remained completely ignorant of Nathaniel.'

Harold carried the tea tray into the sitting-room, followed by Isobel. Outside the rain still fell relentlessly, but it was snug by the fire, and soon they would draw the curtains against the unkind world outside.

It was beginning to grow dark but the bronze statue of Harold's hero was discernible through the window. Drops dripped from the Bible which Nathaniel held before him, and there was a steady trickle from his frock-coat tails. An impertinent sparrow was perched upon his shining head, but Nathaniel continued to smile benignly upon the rain-lashed scene of his birth.

'Will you meet this Mr Wilberforce?' asked Isobel.

'I intend to,' replied Harold. 'He sounds a very public-spirited sort of chap. After all, most people would have thrown the stuff away, and not bothered to get in touch with the rector.'

'How did he know about the rector?'

'Well, the letters were addressed to this fellow Octavius Fennel who was rector here when Nathaniel went away, so Wilberforce simply wrote to the present rector of Thrush Green, and our postman Willie Marchant took it up to Lulling, and that's that.'

'What excitement!'

'We shall have to have a celebration of some kind.'

Isobel refilled her husband's cup. 'Let's get the letters first,' she advised.

Winnie Bailey, on the other side of Thrush Green, did not see the rector hurry to his car through the driving rain to return to his vicarage a mile away in Lulling. Charles Henstock served several parishes, but he lived in a beautiful house close by the magnificent church of St John's in the little town, with his wife Dimity.

She had lived in Thrush Green for several years with her old friend Ella Bembridge, and the two spinsters had been very busy and happy. Dimity's marriage to the widowed rector left Ella alone at Thrush Green, but the two remained close friends and met often.

On this particular morning of portentous news, Ella had called at Winnie's to return a library book.

'Thought I'd better do it while I remembered,' she explained, when Winnie remonstrated with her about venturing forth in such weather. 'Don't want to let you in for a hefty fine.'

She followed Winnie into the kitchen and greeted Jenny who was chopping up onions.

'By the way, Jenny,' she added, 'did you go to Thrush Green school as a child?'

'I did indeed,' said Jenny.

'Then you know it's a hundred years old next year?'

'Never!' said Jenny.

'So there'll be some high jinks, I gather. I saw the headmaster at the newsagent's yesterday, and he told me.'

'I wonder what they'll do?' said Jenny, scraping the chopped onion into a neat pile with her knife.

'A party, I expect,' said Winnie. 'We'll probably have to make a cake.'

'I'm quite happy to make a cake,' replied Ella. 'Anything rather than sitting through a concert on those uncomfortable chairs.'

'Perhaps they'll have both,' said Jenny. 'A hundred years is quite something, isn't it? I wonder if Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty will come back for all the fun?'

'I'm sure they will,' said Ella. 'Mr Lester said as much yesterday. They taught here for so long.'

'I can see some excitement in our midst,' commented Winnie. 'Coffee, Ella?'

But she refused, saying that she had left a piece of gammon simmering, and by now it was probably splashing all over the stove.

She plunged homeward through the rain.

As the day ended, the rain began to die away, but little rivulets continued to trickle down the sides of the hill leading down to the town of Lulling, and on roads around Thrush Green vast puddles caught the light of the rising moon.

Winnie Bailey, early in bed, was glad to rest. Although she had not ventured out for her usual afternoon walk, she felt as though she had been buffeted by the wind which had rattled round the house all day.

Tomorrow, she told herself, she would do some gardening and take a walk. It was time she went to see her old friend Dotty Harmer who lived near Lulling Woods some half-mile distant.

Ella Bembridge, a hundred yards from Winnie Bailey, was still up and about. She leant across the window-sill and breathed in the fragrance of wet earth. Across the green she could see the shape of the school with the schoolhouse beside it. She liked Alan Lester, the new headmaster, and his wife, but missed Dorothy Watson, the former head teacher, and her friend and colleague Agnes Fogerty.

Well, she hoped they would come to all the jollifications that appeared to be looming for next year.

The moon appeared briefly between ragged clouds, and Ella shut the window against the chill of a November night.

At the schoolhouse Alan Lester was carrying a tray bearing two mugs of hot milk and some digestive biscuits into the sitting-room, where his wife Margaret was busy counting stitches on her knitting needle.

'A hundred and four last time, and a hundred and six this,' she told her husband. 'I wonder which is right?'

'What's it supposed to be?' he enquired, putting down the tray.

'A hundred and four.'

'Forget the second count,' said Alan.

'I think I shall. Has it stopped raining?'

'Yes, and the wind's dropped. At least the children will be able to go out and play tomorrow.'

They sipped their milk in companionable silence, and half an hour later were in bed.

Next door Harold Shoosmith and his wife were also abed. Isobel fell asleep quickly, tired after her journey, but Harold was too excited by the prospect of seeing his hero's letters to follow his wife'e example.

He crept out of bed and went to look at the sleeping world of Thrush Green. Clouds scudded across the moon's face, but it was light enough to see Nathaniel Patten's figure on the grass before him.

What news! What a day! He remained at the window, relishing his happiness, until the winter's cold brought goose-pimples to his arms, and his feet grew stone-cold.

Sighing happily, he sought the comfort of his bed.

A mile away at Lulling vicarage, Charles Henstock, too, was sleepless beside his slumbering wife.

The expected telephone call had not come until almost ten o'clock, and the good rector had decided to ring Harold in the morning rather than at that late hour.

It seemed that Mr Wilberforce came about once a quarter to Ealing on business, and could bring the documents in about a month's time. Yes, he had said, he usually stayed overnight, and sometimes two nights, when he was down, and would be delighted to accept the rector's kind invitation.

They agreed a date together, and Charles was already making plans for Harold and Isobel to meet him.

It was all very satisfactory, thought Charles, as St John's church clock struck twelve silvery chimes. There would be no more chimes until seven the next morning, for the clock had been subdued to silence, by common consent, during the small hours.

Tomorrow, Charles told himself, he would have the pleasure of telling Harold all about it.

He turned his head more comfortably into his pillow and fell asleep.

2. The Search Begins