Winter in Thrush Green (5 page)

'About time we did this,' commented Ella, watching Dimity's careful pen inscribing sherry in the left-hand corner. 'How long since we gave a blowout, Dim?'

'Quite two years,' said Dimity, selecting an envelope. 'I know it was in the summer, soon after Mrs Curdles fair came. The last time we saw her,' added Dimity, her eyes beginning to look misty.

Ella stirred herself to be bracing. Much too sympathetic, poor old Dim! Ought to have had a husband and six children to lavish all that affection on, thought Ella, not for the first time.

'Grand old girl,' agreed Ella heartily. 'Well, she had a good run for her money, you know, and the fair's still going strong under young Ben. I hear he's coming to Thrush Green for Christmas with Molly, to see old Piggott.'

As she had intended, this diverted Dimity's attention.

'That will be nice. I'd like to see Molly Piggott again–Curdle, I mean.' Dimity smiled at the thought and attacked the stack of cards again.

'Who have we done now?' she asked Ella, who was ticking the list.

'The Baileys, the Youngs, the rector, the Lovells, Dotty, and the three Lovelock sisters. Only four more to do. I can't see where we're going to put them anyway in this cottage.'

'People shrink at cocktail parties,' Dimity assured her. 'It's because they stand up and are packed together neatly. At tea parties their legs are spread all over the floor.'

'Awful lot of women,' mourned Ella surveying the list.

'I wouldn't say they're awful,' said Dimity, sounding shocked.

'No, no,' replied Ella testily. 'They're
not
awful. There's just too many of them.' Her face brightened.

'Dim, we've forgotten to put down the new man. Write one quickly."

'But we don't know him,' objected Dimity. 'We haven't called yet.'

'I have,' said Ella briefly. Dimity looked at her with her mouth open.

'You didn't tell me.'

'I forgot. I took the parish magazine in and he was in the front garden. Seems a nice man.'

Dimity looked a little affronted, but obediently inscribed a card and put it in an envelope. She looked up, pen hovering.

'What is he called?'

'Harold Shoosmith,' said Ella promptly. 'With an "o" instead of "e" in "Shoo." And an "o" for Harold, I'm glad to say, not "a." If there's one thing I can't abide it's a Harald with an "a." Like "Hark the Harald Angels Sing," ' added Ella facetiously.

Dimity's pen remained poised in mid-air. She ignored Ella's weak joke with unaccustomed severity.

'Is he retired army or navy?' she asked.

'Search me,' said Ella. 'Winnie Bailey says he's a Lieutenant-Commander, Joan Young says he's a Major, and Ruth Lovell heard he was a Squadron-Leader. As far as Thrush Green's concerned after a week's acquaintanceship I should say "Esq." would fit the case perfectly.'

She watched Dimity write the address and sighed happily as it was pushed over to her to stamp.

'I must say it's a real pleasure to have an unattached man at
one of our parties. Can't remember the last time we had one under our roof, can you, Dim?'

'The rector comes often enough,' pointed out Dimity, a little tartly.

'Well, you can't count the rector,' said Ella reasonably, 'poppet though he is. Besides, he's a widower.'

'So may Harold Shoosmith be,' said Dimity, writing rather fast. Her mouth was pursed, and Ella could see that she had not been completely forgiven for having met the newcomer before her friend. She watched the hurrying pen with mingled guilt and amusement.

Dimity completed the card and looked across at Ella meaningly.

'Or even married!' she said with emphasis.

And she might just as well have added 'So there!' thought Ella, stamping the envelope in silence, from the hint of triumph in her voice.

Ella's lively interest in Harold Shoosmith was shared by the rest of Thrush Green. It was said that he was retired from the army, the navy, the air force, the civil service and the B.B.C. He had been a tea-planter in Ceylon, a cocoa-adviser in Ghana, and a coffee-blender in Brazil. It also appeared that he had owned a sugar plantation in Jamaica, a rubber plantation in Malaya and a diamond mine–quite a small one, actually, but with exceptionally fine diamonds–in South Africa.

Thrush Green was sorry to hear that he had never been married, had been married unhappily and was now separated from his wife, had been happily married and lost his wife in childbirth and (disastrously), still married, with a wife who would be coming to live with him at the comer house within a few days.

The inhabitants of Thrush Green were able to gaze their fill
at the stranger on the first Sunday after his arrival, as he attended morning service in a dove-grey suit which was far better cut, everyone agreed, than those of the other males in the congregation. The rector and one or two other neighbours had called upon him already and pronounced him 'a very nice man' or 'a decent sort of fellow' according to sex.

To the rector's unfeigned delight the newcomer was among the very few communicants at the altar rail at the eight o'clock service on the following Sunday. About half a dozen faithful female Christians kept the rector company at early service usually, and these included Dimity Dean–but not Ella who went to church less frequently–and Dotty Harmer. It did the rector's heart good to see a man among his small flock, and he hoped that others might follow his example.

Betty Bell was the chief informant about Harold Shoosmith for she had been engaged for three mornings and three evenings a week. The morning engagements Thrush Green could readily understand, for a man living alone could not be expected to polish and clean, to cook and scrub, and to wash and iron for himself; though, as Ella pointed out, plenty of women lived alone and did all that with one hand tied behind them, and often went out to work as well into the bargain, and no one considered it remarkable.

The evening engagements were readily explained by Betty Bell herself. She went for an hour and a half to give him a hot cooked dinner, which she had prepared in the morning, and to wash-up afterwards.

'He's a very clever kind of man,' said Betty to her other employer, Dotty Harmer, one morning. 'He wants to learn to cook for himself. Being out in those hot countries, you know, he's never had a chance to learn. The kitchen's full of black people falling over themselves to do the work, and he's never been allowed to sec his own dinner cooking, so I hear.'

'I should have thought he could have managed a fried egg,' said Dotty cutting up quinces at the table. 'Ah, Betty,' she sighed sadly, peering up at the girl through her thick glasses, 'this means the real end of summer, you know. When I make quince jam I know it's the last of the season. It'll soon be November, Betty, and winter will be here.'

'That's what I told Mr Shoosmith,' agreed Betty, returning to her present consuming interest. ' "You want to know how to cook a meal for yourself, in case I can't get here one winter's day," I said to him. So I've shown him how to fry bacon and egg and sausage, and how to make a stew. He's real quick at picking things up, I must say.'

'Poor man,' said Dotty, 'he'll miss the sun, I dare say. Would you like to take him a pot of my jam when it's done?' Her face brightened at the thought. She had introduced herself to the newcomer after early morning service and had been glad to welcome such an attractive addition to the Thrush Green circle.

Betty accepted the offer guardedly and made a mental note to warn the unsuspecting recipient against earing it. Dotty, as a keen herbalist and dietician, could never refrain from adding a few sprigs of this, and a drop or two of that, to her dishes in order to give them added vitamin content, and the number of people who had been attacked with 'Dotty's Collywobbles," as a result of her cooking, was prodigious.

At that moment the postman appeared at the kitchen window and handed in an untidy parcel and one letter.

'This must be my dried coltsfoot and the other things for my winter ointments and cough cures," said Dotty excitedly, dropping the quinces and tearing at the parcel with sticky fingers. Some strongly-smelling dead foliage fell upon the kitchen table and the black cat who was sunning herself upon it near the jam-making operations. Outraged, she leapt down
and stalked towards the stove, tail quivering erect with indignation.

'There now,' said Betty, 'you've been and upset Mrs Curdle; and her expecting too.'

Dotty was now reading the card which she had extracted from the envelope. The scattered herbs lay unheeded where they had fallen.

'Oh, how lovely!' exclaimed Dotty, her wrinkled face alight with pleasure. 'Miss Bembridge and Miss Dean are giving a sherry party on October 31st. Now, isn't that nice?'

'All Hallows E'en,' commented Betty, bending to stroke Mrs Curdle's ruffled dignity. She had been named after the famous old lady because she had been born on the day that Curdle's Fair visited Thrush Green over two years before. The cat shared with her famous namesake some of her dark magnificence and queenly dominance. She now allowed Betty to smooth her fur, but turned her back upon her thoughtless mistress.

'So it is,' cried Dotty. 'A party on All Hallows E'en! Well, well, I must certainly go to that!'

She picked up some of the quinces, together with a few stray herbs from the parcel, and dropped them into a saucepan.

As she stirred she peered closely into the bubbling brew, and Mrs Curdle, suspecting that food might be forthcoming, deigned to return to her mistress's side.

'Proper witches' party it will be, and no mistake,' thought Betty Bell to herself, surveying the scene. 'And I'll take care not a morsel of that quince jam ever passes the innocent lips of poor dear Mr Shoosmith! My, that man just doesn't know what he's letting himself in for–coming to live at Thrush Green!'

Meanwhile, Miss Watson's assailant remained undetected.
The police had very little to go on. Miss Watson could tell them no more than she had at first, and there were no helpful footprints or finger-prints to help in the search. The weather had been brilliant and dry for over a month, and even if footprints had been left, the arrival of several dozen children at the school an hour or so later meant that a large number of them would be effaced. There seemed to be no doubt that the man had worn gloves, and indeed Miss Watson thought that she recalled that the cosh was gripped in an iron-grey woollen glove bound with leather.

She racked her aching brain for several days trying to pin down the faint sense of recognising those gloves and the man himself, but all was in vain. In the end she had given up worrying about it, and was content to take Miss Fogerty's good advice and 'let the matter rest.'

Miss Watson confessed that she could not have managed without Miss Fogerty's boundless help. Every morning the good little woman had arrived at eight o'clock to give her her breakfast in bed, until at the end of the week Miss Watson had insisted on returning to school again. There she had found everything in apple-pie order. The accounts had been kept, correspondence had been answered, fresh flowers decked the two classrooms and even the calendar had been torn off daily.

Miss Watson was much touched by her assistant's kindness and ability. Lying in bed for two or three days had given her, at last, rime to dwell on the sterling qualities hidden beneath Miss Fogerty's mouse-like exterior. For twelve years she had taken the older woman for granted, and on many occasions had felt impatient with her timidity and out-of-date methods. At the end of each day she had bade farewell to Miss Fogerty with something akin to relief. Now it could never be quite the same again. Miss Fogerty had proved herself a friend.

As the headmistress limped about her school in the next few weeks she became increasingly aware of Miss Fogerty's newly-found confidence which had flowered during her own absence. The nervous acquiescence which had so often irritated Miss Watson had now vanished, and they discussed school problems on equal terms.

Misfortune had united and strengthened them both, and the school at Thrush Green was all the better for it.

The burglary had created some unease in the neighbourhood. People who had never locked a door in their lives now looked out forgotten keys and turned them in the locks before departing to Lulling for a morning's shopping. Those who had been in the habit of hiding their keys under upturned flowerpots or their door-scrapers now decided that it would be prudent to change these well-known hiding-places for new ones.

'I'm leaving my key under the mat in the back porch,' Mrs Bailey told her closest friends. 'Everyone knows about the ledge over the door.'

'We're putting ours behind the paraffin can in the shed now,' said Dimity.

Mr Piggott, who had a door key of ecclesiastical design weighing a good three-quarters of a pound, fixed it to a stout belt round his waist, and put up with the inconvenience of its sundry blows as he bent about his business in the churchyard. The burglary had impressed him considerably, and he made no bones about expressing his disgust with the police.

'What we pays them for I don't know,' he grumbled over his glass at 'The Two Pheasants.' 'Folks on Thrush Green going in fear of their lives–and what's done about it, eh? I'll lay I could find the chap that done it, if I was given half a chance!'

'That's right,' said the landlord, winking secretly at his other customers. 'You turn Sherlock Holmes, see–and show the police where they get off.'

As the last days of October slipped by, die press of autumn life caused the robbery to slip into the background. There were borders to be dug, wallflower plants to be put in, and all the outside preparations for winter which the kindly weather encouraged. Before long, Thrush Green would be enveloped in the cold rains and fogs of a Cotswold winter. If the weather prophets proved correct there would be snow too. Wise householders made the most of this respite, and the excitement of the newcomer to their midst and the attack on Miss Watson soon shook down into place with other matters.

But for old Mr Piggott the robbery was of major importance. He had lived alone ever since the departure of his daughter Molly with young Ben Curdle, and he had plenty of rime to let his beer-befuddled imagination dwell on the mystery. As he pottered about his damp little cottage, or performed perfunctorily his simple duties as sexton of St Andrew's hard by, he dreamt wonderful day-dreams, envisaging himself as the sleuth of Thrush Green, the man who showed the police how to do their job, and the hero of his admiring and grateful neighbours.