(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green (6 page)

And so it was agreed. Later the papers were carefully packed into a large folder from the rector's study to save them from being folded again, and they were given into the welcoming hands of Harold Shoosmith.

'This must be a particularly important occasion for you,' said Charles kindly to Dulcie. 'You had a wonderful forebear.'

'I know,' replied the girl. 'I only wish my mother and my Aunt Mary were alive to rejoice with me. Aunt Mary spoke of him often, although of course she had never met him.' She looked at the clock. 'I'm afraid I ought to be on my way. My friends expect me soon after ten. It's been such a wonderful evening for me.'

She said goodbye to the Shoosmiths, then to Robert Wilberforce.

'I hope we shall meet again,' he said. 'Do you ever visit the Lake District?'

'I may be going there next spring,' she told him, 'to see old friends.'

'Then perhaps you would come and have lunch with me?'

'I should very much like to.'

She went out to the car, accompanied by Charles and Dimity.

'It's a fine clear night,' said Charles, when they returned to warm their hands at the fire. 'What a charming girl she is.'

'Has she far to go?' asked Robert.

'Only half an hour's drive, she said.'

'I never like the idea of women driving alone after dark,' said Robert. 'A friend of mine was foolish enough to give a wretched fellow a lift, and he knocked her about pretty badly.'

'Oh, I don't think Dulcie Mulloy would be so silly,' said Isobel comfortingly. 'I thought she seemed a very sensible young woman, and obviously she was as thrilled as we all are with your wonderful discovery.'

'It's been an amazing evening,' agreed Harold. 'A thousand thanks for everything,' he added, kissing Dimity's cheek.

'And now we must think about bed,' said Dimity when Charles returned from seeing them off. 'I'm sure you must be tired after a day's business, and then all this excitement.'

'I have enjoyed every minute,' Robert assured her.

'What nice old-fashioned manners Robert Wilberforce has,' commented Isobel, as they drove down Lulling High Street towards home. 'I'm sure there aren't many men these days who worry about women driving alone after dark.'

'I do about you,' Harold told her. 'You're quite softhearted enough to give some plausible bounder a lift.'

Isobel seemed not to hear. She was immersed in her own thoughts. 'Perhaps he's slightly smitten,' she said dreamily.

'Oh, rubbish!' said Harold, swinging round Thrush Green. 'There was absolutely no sign of any nonsense like that. You women are all alike, scenting romance where there's nothing.'

'Maybe,' agreed Isobel equably.

4. Harold Is On The Trail

T
HE LAST
day of the term at Thrush Green school had gone without a hitch. The older children, hair brushed and coats neatly buttoned against the cold of the Cotswold winds outside and the Victorian chill of St Andrew's interior, filed decorously into their pews at the front of the church, and took part in the carol service conducted by the Reverend Charles Henstock.

The crib glowed at the side of the chancel steps, and piles of ivy and other evergreens waited in readiness for the ladies of the parish to put the final touches to the Christmas decorations in the next day or two.

The paperchains and friezes had been taken down and put into bin liners to await recycling. In the denuded infants' classroom, the last hours of term were devoted to stories, singing and such age-old games as 'I spy' which needed no apparatus, while their elders were at the carol service.

Alan Lester felt very proud of his little flock as they filed into the church, and ignored Albert Piggott who had stationed himself by the porch in order to cast a malevolent eye on those who omitted to use the doormat with suitable energy.

Margaret Lester sat by her husband, and he thought how lucky he was to have a wife who was healthy again, and a job which gave him satisfaction. As he looked fondly at the glossy heads of Kate and Alison Lester, just in front of their parents, Alan counted himself a fortunate man indeed.

Winnie Bailey had enjoyed setting up the crib at the chancel steps on the day before the carol service. She had performed this pleasant duty for more years than she could remember, usually in the company of Ella Bembridge and Dimity, but sometimes alone.

To tell the truth, she really preferred to go about her task alone. There was something very soothing about working in the solitude of the church. It was not an old building, as churches go. It did not have the ancient splendour of St John's in Lulling, a wool church of dignity and beauty as great as those at Burford or Lechlade or Fairford not very far away. St Andrew's was Victorian with over-elaborate stained-glass windows, a fussy reredos and some deplorable encaustic tiles which succeeded in distracting the attention of communicants as they knelt at the altar rail.

But its smallness gave it a homeliness which Thrush Green folk liked, and in much the same way that Winnie had become accustomed to - even fond of - the crack in her bedroom ceiling, and the wardrobe door which swung open at odd times, so she felt affection for the shortcomings of her church's fabric.

On this particular occasion she was not alone for long. She had relished her solitary silence for a quarter of an hour, and felt refreshed in spirit, when Ella and Dimity joined her.

There was not a great deal to do, for the ladies were used to setting up the crib, making sure that the dim electric bulb which lit it was safely away from straw and hangings, and that the doll-child was easily visible to those passing the crib.

After ten minutes or so Ella returned from the vestry with dustpan and brush, and began to tidy up the wisps of straw and greenery.

'Perishing cold out,' she remarked to her companions, in what Winnie felt was much too loud a voice for a sacred place. At least, she told herself charitably, Ella was not smoking — a laudable tribute to holiness.

'I've put the kettle ready,' went on Ella, brushing lustily. 'Need a cuppa after this. Bit dusty in here, isn't it? And that brass lectern could do with a rub.'

'Mrs Bates is going to do the brights ready for the carol service,' explained Dimity, 'and yes, please, I'm sure we could both do with tea.'

Half an hour later, the three friends sat by Ella's fire enjoying tea and anchovy toast, and the talk was of Harold Shoosmith's delight over the discovery of Nathaniel's letters.

'He's going along to the newspaper people,' Dimity told them, 'to see if he can find out more about Nathaniel, and about Octavius Fennel, too. Everyone knew he was a good man, but it doesn't seem to be generally known how much he did for Nathaniel out in Africa.'

'The Lovelock girls might know,' said Ella.

'The Lovelocks?' queried Dimity. 'But even they wouldn't remember Octavius!'

The Lovelock girls were now, all three of them, around eighty years old, and lived in a pretty Georgian house in Lulling High Street, next door to the Fuchsia Bush. They had lived there all their lives, and were renowned for their excessive gentility and parsimony. Friends invited to a meal there usually stoked up beforehand with a slice of cake or a sandwich, whilst getting ready. Such a prerequisite of lunch at the Lovelocks' might not fully compensate for the paucity of the provender supplied but at least it mitigated the noise of tummy-rumbles.

'Oh, not the girls themselves,' said Ella, beginning to roll one of her untidy cigarettes, 'but I think their father knew Octavius Fennel. I'm sure I've heard them speak of him.'

There was a gasp from Winnie, and she replaced her cup on its saucer with a great clatter. She fell back in the chair with her eyes closed.

Dimity and Ella sprang to her side, Ella's cigarette-making equipment crashing into the hearth.

'Winnie, Winnie! What is it?'

After a few deep breaths, Winnie opened her eyes. 'Sorry about that. Better now,' she whispered.

'But what's hurting you? Shall I get John Lovell?'

'Heavens, no!' said Winnie, struggling upright. 'I'm fine now. I just occasionally get this pain on my right side. It goes within a minute. Nothing to worry a doctor about.'

'I think it is,' said Dimity roundly. 'Suppose you were taken ill in the street? Crossing the road? Going down steps, say?'

Winnie laughed tremulously. 'Don't worry about it. If it does get worse I will have a word with John, but I really can't face going back and forth to the county hospital for tests and things. Particularly just before Christmas.'

'Well, let me give you more tea. That must be cold.'

Winnie accepted the fresh cup, and conversation was resumed, but the subject of the Lovelock girls' father and his friendship with Octavius was forgotten.

Ella insisted on accompanying Winnie on the few yards' walk to her own home, and when Winnie was safely back in her armchair, she spoke to Jenny before she left.

'I know,' said Jenny soberly. 'I'm watching things, don't you worry, and if she gets many more of these spasms I'm telling Dr Lovell myself, come what may!'

A little easier in her mind about her old friend, Ella returned home.

Meanwhile, Harold had been tireless in his researches.

The editor of the local paper let him go through the files for 1912 when Octavius Fennel had died, but after a short and rather flowery obituary, the account of the actual funeral was taken up largely by a list of local dignitaries attending the service.

The county paper was more helpful, mentioning the generosity of the deceased and in particular his interest in missionary work. To Harold's great joy Nathaniel Patten was mentioned, and the date 1892 given as the year when his African mission settlement was officially opened.

Hot on the trail, Harold ploughed his way zealously through the weekly issues for that year, but was beginning to despair of finding any notice of Nathaniel's mission. By the time he had turned over the yellowing and musty pages of the summer weeks of 1892 showing photographs of ladies in ankle-length skirts and unwieldy hats at garden parties, race meetings, fetes and the like, he was almost ready to give up.

However, he determined to struggle on, and noted the change of attire in the ladies' fashions as the shooting season began. Wild duck, partridge, grouse, snipe, teal, hares and geese, all it seemed should be wary of men with guns as autumn loomed, and the silk skirts changed to tweed and the pale kid boots to glossy leather.

On 1 October, Harold read, pheasants, too, would have to watch out, and the issue of 26 October gave not only a fearsome photograph of a score of tweed-clad gentlemen sitting behind rows of birds' corpses, but also a short paragraph saying that word had been received by the Reverend Octavius Fennel from Mr Nathaniel Patten that the latter's mission station and school had been officially declared open on 1 October.

Harold leafed through the rest of that year's copy, but there was nothing more to interest him.

He shut the great book, sneezed as the dust of ages began to settle, and sat back well content.

October the first 1892!

Excitement engulfed him. Why, next year it would be a hundred years since that great day! Here was a sound reason for rejoicing, he told himself.

He must get in touch with Charles at once.

This certainly called for a special celebration at Thrush Green.

The news that Winnie Bailey's health was not quite as it should be soon flashed around Thrush Green.

Naturally, Winnie's uncomfortable twinges at Ella's were translated into more dramatic form.

Albert Piggott told his old friend Percy Hodge that she had been 'took bad with the gastric', and he had seen her being helped back to her own home by Ella Bembridge.

Betty Bell told the Shoosmiths that Mrs Bailey had 'had a turn', much to their dismay.

Mr Jones of the Two Pheasants, usually the soul of discretion in his capacity as local landlord, rashly said that it was no wonder poor old Mrs Bailey had caught a chill working in that church which was as cold as the tomb. Albert Piggott, within earshot, took umbrage at this slight on his efficiency as church caretaker, and stalked out, but not before he had drained the last of his half-pint.

Winnie, of course, knew nothing of these rumours which were floating about, and as she appeared as healthy as ever to her friends, they began to think that their informants had been over-egging the pudding as usual, and indulging in the common practice of gross exaggeration.

But Isobel Shoosmith, on her way to the postbox on the corner of Thrush Green, did ask Ella, on the same errand, if Winnie was really in good health.

Ella looked troubled. 'She makes very light of it, but she had a nasty spasm after we'd been doing the crib. Mind you, it was devilish cold in there. May have been that, of course, but I was just telling her about Octavius Fennel when she keeled over.'

'Has she seen John Lovell?'

'She's dead against it, but I reckon Jenny will fetch him pretty swiftly, if she sees any symptoms. Winnie says the pain is only momentary, and nothing to worry about.'

'It worries
me,'
responded Isobel, dropping her bundle of envelopes into the box. 'I wonder if I ought to call?'