(8/13) At Home in Thrush Green (21 page)

His first call was at Ruth Lovell's house where he found Mrs Bassett sitting up in bed, looking very frail but pretty in a shell-pink bedjacket. She was obviously delighted to see him, and Ruth left them alone together.

Later, he came through to the kitchen where she was ironing and commented on the improvement in her mother.

'Marvellous, isn't it? John's so pleased too. As a matter of fact, it's John I'm worrying about at the moment. He's terribly touchy, and he and Edward are being so silly about some tiff they had about the old people's steps.'

Charles said it was the first he'd heard of it.

'I shouldn't think about it,' he advised her. 'It'll blow over. They're too fond of each other to let a little bit of nonsense like that rankle.'

'Well, I hope so. There's such a lot of illness about, particularly this wretched chickenpox which I'm sure Mary will get just in time for Christmas, and John's run off his feet.'

Charles patted her shoulder comfortingly.

'Well, give him my love, or regards perhaps? Anyway, wish him well from me. Now I'm off to see Dotty.'

'Don't eat anything!' warned Ruth with a laugh.

Dotty too was in bed, but not looking as elegant as Mrs Bassett. She had dragged a dilapidated dark grey cardigan over her sensible thick nightgown. There was a hole in one elbow, and the cuffs were fraying.

She must have seen Charles looking at the cardigan's condition for she said cheerfully: 'Connie puts a shawl round me, you know, but it falls off when I'm busy, so I sneak out and get this favourite woolly from the drawer when she's not looking. Violet Lovelock knitted it for me years ago. Such good wool! Sheep seemed to have better fleece in those days. I suppose the grass was purer – none ofthese horrid pesticides and fertilisers to poison everything.'

'You look very well,' commented Charles. 'Now tell me all the news.'

'Well, the chickens are laying quite nicely for the time of year, and Mrs Jenner has promised me a sitting of duck eggs for one of my broodies later on. Dulcie seems a bit off colour, but goats often do in the winter, I find, and I think Connie forgets to put out the rock salt. Flossie, of course, is in splendid fettle, and is out with Connie and Kit at the moment.'

Charles noted, with amusement, that it was the animals' welfare, rather than her relatives', which concerned his old friend.

'As a matter of fact,' continued Dotty, fishing in the holey sleeve for a ragged handkerchief, 'I think Connie has too much to do with the house and the garden and the animals. The workmen should be gone before Christmas, or
so they say,
but there'll be a terrible mess to clear up. And then, you see, Kit's no gardener, except for manly things like cutting off branches and burning rubbish and chopping down trees – all
destructive,
if you know what I mean. You never see him
tending
anything, putting in stakes for wobbly plants, or pricking out seedlings. That sort of
positive
gardening.'

Charles remembered Albert Piggott's unaccountable passion for Dulcie the goat.

'Do you think Albert would come regularly to take the animals over?' he suggested. 'Would Connie like that? You know how marvellously he looked after Dulcie whenever you were away, and I hear he's handy with chickens too.'

'A good idea, Charles! I shall mention it to Connie when she gets back. Would that fat wife of his let him come?'

Charles explained about Nelly's new commitments, much to Dotty's interest, and went farther.

'What's more, I think she'd be glad of anything which kept him out of the pub, even if only for an hour or so.'

'Well, I can always supply him with a glass or two of my home-made wine. So much better for him than that gassy stuff from The Two Pheasants.'

Charles, knowing the catastrophic results of imbibing Dotty's potions, thought that Albert should be warned, if he decided to pay regular visits, but that, he felt sure, could be left in Connie's capable hands.

'Now, I must be off, Dotty. But before I go can I bring you anything? Shall I make you a cup of tea and bring it up?'

'No, no, dear boy! Connie and Kit will be back soon, but do make a cup for yourself. Or better still, help yourself to a glass of my cowslip wine. The bottle's on the kitchen dresser. And please take half a dozen eggs for dear Dimity. They're in a wicker basket Ella gave me last Christmas. The one that's coming unravelled.'

Charles thanked her sincerely and went below, helping himself, as invited, to six splendid brown eggs for his wife, but prudently abstaining from helping himself from the bottle hard by.

He set off across the meadow behind Dotty's house to Lulling Woods, and on his way met first Flossie, Dotty's spaniel, who greeted him rapturously, followed by Kit and Connie looking pink with fresh air and exercise.

'Come back with us,' they begged. But Charles explained that he was bound for an ailing couple who lived in a cottage by The Drovers' Arms.

'And I must get back to pick up Dimity. It gets dark so early.'

'And what did you think of Dotty?'

'Looking very well,' replied Charles. He wondered if he should mention their conversation about Albert, and decided to be bold.

Connie considered the suggestion thoughtfully.

'You know, it might work out very well. Dotty and Albert have always got on like a house on fire. I'll talk to her about it. Thank you, Charles.'

They parted company, and the rector went on to his duties.

It was dark when he emerged from the cottage. There was a nip in the air already, which presaged a frost before morning. Charles turned up his coat collar, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets for warmth.

The path through Lulling Woods was fairly wide and carpeted with dead leaves and pine needles, so that his progress was quiet. There was no need to brush against outstretched branches or clinging brambles, and his footsteps were muffled in the thick covering below.

Although the woods were as familiar to Charles as Thrush Green itself, yet in this sudden darkness he found himself apprehensive. One could quite understand primitive man's fear of forests, and the legends which grew up about the gods and spirits who frequented woodland. There certainly seemed to be a presence here, and not altogether a benign one, thought Charles, quickening his pace.

The trees seemed to press nearer the path than he remembered, like a hostile crowd approaching an unwary traveller. Occasionally, a twig snapped with a report like a gun going off, probably triggered by some small nocturnal animal setting off to look for supper. When a screech owl shattered the stillness with its harsh cry, Charles almost broke into a run.

He was glad to emerge into the open meadow. The lights of Dotty's cottage glowed reassuringly on his right, and in a few minutes he had traversed the alleyway by Albert Piggott's cottage, crossed the road by St Andrew's church, and stood for a moment to take breath.

There were all the familiar shapes he knew and loved. There were lights in the windows of friends' houses, the Youngs', Winnie Bailey's, the Hursts', Harold and Isobel's. There were even lights shining in the village school where, no doubt, Betty Bell was busy sweeping up. The Two Pheasants was as yet in darkness, but a light was on at Albert's next door, and in the gloaming Charles could see the little black cat on the doorstep waiting for its mistress to arrive with bounty from The Fuchsia Bush kitchen.

Calmer now, Charles turned to walk across to Ella's. For a moment, some trick of the light gave him the impression that he was looking at the outline of his old vanished rectory hard by. He thought that he could see the steep roof, the front door, the tall narrow windows that faced the bitter north-east winds.

A great wave of grief for things past swept over the rector. He remembered his study, its high ceiling, its bare look which had secretly pleased him. He saw again the beautiful silver and ivory crucifix which hung on the wall until it had been reduced to a small misshapen lump by the devastating fire. That little pathetic lump was still treasured in his desk drawer at Lulling Vicarage.

And in his heart, thought Charles blinking away a tear, there was still treasured a knot of dear memories of a house much beloved long ago.

The vision faded, and he found himself gazing at the low outline of the new homes, and farther still the lights of Ella's house shone, beckoning him back to the present where Dimity and everyday comfort awaited him.

PART THREE

Getting Settled

15 Christmas

END of term was now in sight, and Agnes and Dorothy were in the throes of rehearsing the children for a concert, in rooms bedizened with paper chains, bells, friezes showing Santa Claus, reindeer, and lots of artificial snow made from pellets of cotton wool which fell from windows, as well as the mural frieze, and was squashed everywhere underfoot.

Miss Watson's children were attempting two carols played by the few who had recorders. The noise produced was excruciating, and Dorothy sometimes had difficulty in distinguishing 'Hark, The Herald Angels Sing' from 'O Come All Ye Faithful'. At times, she despaired. Perhaps straightforward singing would be more rewarding? On the other hand it was only right that the young musicians should be encouraged, and the parents would be gratified to see the expensive recorders being used.

The lower juniors, in charge of a young probationer on the other side of the partition, were being rehearsed endlessly, it seemed to Miss Watson, in some hearty mid-European dances which involved a lot of stamping and clapping. As the stamping and clapping never seemed completely co-ordinated, the resultant racket was hard to bear, but the young teacher, to give her her due, was persistent, and it was to be hoped that all would be well before the great day.

Little Miss Fogerty, with years of experience behind her, opted for two simple songs with actions which she had first tried out with success at several Christmas concerts in the past, blessing the ancient copy of
Child Education,
held together with Scotch tape, which supplied the subject matter.

As always, the children were over-excited and belligerent. Agnes sometimes wondered if the expression 'the season of goodwill' was wholly correct. There was some acrimony between infants fighting over the brightest colours when making paper chains, harsh and wounding criticisms were made about desk-fellows' portrayal of Christmas trees, Christmas fairies, carol-singers and other seasonal matters. Two ferocious little girls, having a tug of war with a strip of tinsel, had to have their wounds dressed before being sent home, and poor Miss Fogerty's head ached with the unusual clamour in her classroom.

On the other hand, as Agnes reminded herself, quite a few children were absent as the chickenpox epidemic took its toll. George Curdle was among the invalids, a dear little boy who gave no trouble, thought Agnes. Now, John Todd, a sore trial and possessed of a voice like a fog-horn, flourished like a green bay tree, and a great nuisance he was. Still, it was an ill wind that blew nobody any good, she quoted to herself, surveying the six or seven empty desks, and certainly there was more room to move about in the bustle of Christmas preparations.

The two teachers were thankful to get back to the peace of the school house at the end of the day.

'I'm amazed at the presents the children are hoping to get,' said Dorothy, removing her shoes, and putting up her aching legs on the sofa. 'I let them make lists this afternoon – a little spelling practice really – and I find they are asking for things like cassette players and adding machines and some computer games of which I'd never heard. They cost pounds, I gather. How parents with more than one child can cope, I cannot think.'

'I don't suppose they'll get all they ask for,' pointed out Agnes.

'I hope not. More fool their parents if they do,' said Dorothy trenchantly. 'At home, we used to be delighted with simple things like jigsaw puzzles, and furniture for the dolls' house, and sweets and a tangerine in the toe of our stocking, and lots of books. Mind you, I did get a pinafore every Christmas from one particular aunt, and that rather rankled, I remember, and Ray used to get a pair of woollen gloves which he detested, saying they were slippery and put his teeth on edge, but on the whole we were well content.'