Winter in Thrush Green (6 page)

'I'll show them,' muttered old Piggott, slashing viciously at a bed of nettles which threatened to engulf the headstone of Nathaniel Patten. 'I'll show them all–that I will!'

T
HE
day of the party dawned cold and blustery. Ella and Dimity sat at their breakfast table watching the bright leaves whirling to the grass. A spatter of rain rattled on the window-pane and Dimity shivered.

'Do you think we ought to light the paraffin stove in the sitting-room as well as the fire, dear?"

'Wouldn't be a bad idea to have it alight this morning, but we're not keeping that thing going all day. It'll smell the place out. Nothing like a strong reek for killing the party spirit.'

'But it doesn't smell!' protested Dimity.

'No woman thinks her own paraffin stove smells,' said Ella emphatically, dousing the stub of her cigarette in the dregs of her tea-cup. This detestable habit would have caused a less devoted companion to have left Ella long before, but Dimity daily shuddered and forbore to speak of her pain. 'It's a natural phenomenon,' continued Ella, blandly unaware of her friend's revulsion, 'like being unable to hear your own voice."

Ella settled back comfortably, crossing one massive leg over the other, and seemed prepared to expand this interesting theory. But Dimity, conscious of the work to be done in preparation for the party, rose hastily and began to pack up the breakfast dishes.

'I think I'll get out Mother's little silver bon-bon dishes and polish them. They'll do beautifully for the salted nuts,' she began busily.

'They'll get tarnished,' objected Ella. 'What's wrong with saucers.'

'Saucers?' cried Dimity in horror. 'At a party?'

'I meant the
best
ones,' said Ella, trying vainly to bring down Dimity's heightened temperature.

'Quite out of the question!' replied Dimity, with unusual
severity. 'We must use the silver dishes, and I am quite prepared to polish them after the party.'

She might have added that no one in the household besides herself ever did do any polishing, but Dimity was used to holding her tongue and did not give way to temptation on this occasion.

Ella lumbered to her feet, sighing.

'Just as you say, Dim. You know best. Let's go and have a look at the decorations by daylight, and we'll see if we need the stove lighted.'

The two friends crossed the small hall to their sitting-room which they had embellished the previous evening. The fact that they had arranged the party for All Hallows E'en dawned on the two ladies soon after thev had posted the invitations and Ella had put her ingenuity and skilled hands to work on the decorations.

A flight of witches, cut from stout black paper and dangling from threads, flew diagonally across the room, twisting and turning in the draughts in the most spirited manner. Their hair streamed behind them from their pointed hats, and Ella had stuck on green sequins for the eyes of her creations, which glittered balefully as they caught the light.

Two great copper jars filled with autumn leaves and Cape gooseberries glowed from the corners of the room, and on the mantelpiece stood a golden pumpkin. This had been presented by Dotty Harmer and Ella had hollowed it out, cut out two round eyes, a triangle for a nose and a crescent for a mouth, and put a right-light inside it. This, when lit, caused the hollow globe to glow and the whole effect was deliriously sinister.

Dimity looked at her friend's handiwork with genuine admiration.

'It's simply wonderful, Ella darling. I wonder if it would be a good idea to play a few Hallow E'en games–bobbing for
apples, you know, and that kind of thing!' Dimity's faded eyes shone at the very thought, but her friend damped her ardour abruptly.

'Be your age, Dim! People are coming for a civilised glass of sherry and to meet their friends. They won't thank you for cold water down their bodices, ducking for green apples–and double pneumonia by the end of the week, ten chances to one.'

Her tone changed as she noted her friend's crestfallen face.

'We're all getting too long in the tooth for those capers,' she said more kindly. She patted Dimity's arm with a massive hand. 'Let's get the stove going for an hour or so, and check up on the drinks. Got any lemons, by the way?'

'Three,' said Dimity. 'Sevenpence each.' Her voice was still subdued and Ella wished she had been less brutal about poor old Dim's suggestion for games.

'It should be quite a cheerful crowd,' said Ella, trying to make amends. 'I'm glad the new man's coming.'

She led the way back to the dining-room with Dimity fluttering behind, and still looking like a kitten that has been kicked.

'Don't forget to look in the mirror when you brush your hair tonight, Dim,' continued Ella, with heavy jocularity. 'They say you see your husband on All Hallows E'en!'

The unconscious association of ideas in Ella's remarks might have struck an astute observer, but both Ella herself and Dimity were unaware of anything remarkable. To the two friends only one thing was apparent–the olive branch was being offered by one and gratefully accepted by the other.

With their arms affectionately entwined they approached the drinks cupboard.

The rain and wind increased as the morning wore on. The
honey-coloured houses that clustered round Thrush Green grew a deeper gold as the rain lashed their glistening walls. Thousands of drops ran from one Cotswold stone rile to the next, down the steep roofs to the waiting gutters which gurgled and spluttered with their unaccustomed load. Rainwater butts, which had stood almost empty for the past few weeks, rumbled and bubbled in their stout wooden bellies; and the thirsty gardens drank up the bounty and gave forth blessed fragrance by way of grace.

Umbrellas bobbed down the hill to Lulling, and cars sent up flashing fountains from the long puddles by the side of the green. The horse-chestnut trees flailed their branches, sending down the last few leaves to join their fellows in the mud below.

The wind howled among the chimneys of Thrush Green, and the sign-board of'The Two Pheasants' leant away to the south at a steep angle. Two tea towels in the little yard had twisted round and round the line until they looked like two bright giant caterpillars clinging there.

Above St Andrew's steeple a flock of rooks swayed and dipped in the airy tides. They looked like fragments of burnt paper eddying in the current from a bonfire, and now and again, above the roaring of the wind about them, a faint harsh cry could be heard.

Far below them, beneath the windy steeple, beneath the humming belfry with its singing louvres, and beneath the draughty chancel, Mr Piggott, like some earthy mole, laboured in the stoke-hole.

Here was no sound of wind and storm, no icy splash of rain. The great boiler gave forth a pungent heat and whispered quietly as it digested its coke.

Nearby stood its guardian. Mr Piggott had two clothes pegs in his mouth and his spare shirt in his hands. A row of garments sagged from a small line and steamed gently in the heat.

Mr Piggott's wash-day took no account of the weather. The heat which he engendered to warm the worshippers might just as well dry his clothes, argued the sexton to himself, as he pegged the shirt on the line.

Standing back, he surveyed his clothes with pride. They might not be as white as those of his neighbours which he saw billowing on their lines, but here, among the coke, they looked all right to Mr Piggott.

He took out a large watch and squinted at it short-sightedly. Surely they must be open by now! He saw, with pleasure, that the hands stood at ten-thirty.

With remarkable agility Mr Piggott mounted the steep stone stairs from the stoke-hole, and prepared to face the weather.

The noise above ground surprised him. There was a menacing hum high in the lofty dimness above him, and a general confused roaring from the trees outside the church. Mr Piggott made his way up the long aisle, bending here and there to pick up a stray dead leaf or morsel of confetti which the wind had flung in from outside. While he was thus engaged he became conscious of other noises nearer at hand. He heard the metallic click of the porch door, the clanking which betokened heavy feet on the wire foot-scraper and the gasping of a breathless wayfarer.

'Treading in the dirt all over my flagstones,' muttered Mr Piggott, inhospitably, opening the heavy church door with a venomous tug. There was a squeal of surprise as the newcomer turned to face him, her hand on her capacious bosom.

'Lor, Albert, you give me a fright!' puffed the lady. 'Never 'ad no idea of you being in there. Came in out of the wet for half a minute. All right, is it?"

She darted a quick look at the sexton from small dark eyes well embedded in rosy flesh. Beneath her sodden head-scarf a few dark curls protruded, sparkling with raindrops. She seated herself on the stone bench and began to peel off her wet gloves.

Mr Piggott watched sourly. He had known Nelly Tilling most of his life, and they had shared the same desk at the village school for a term or two. Kept her looks, she had, observed Mr Piggott privately, if you liked them plump. Why, she must weigh nigh on twelve or thirteen stone, he ruminated, casting an eye experienced in assessing the weight of a pig, over his old school-fellow's bulk.

'Don't want to sit on that stone,' advised Mr Piggott, dourly. 'Strikes up.'

'Well, it does a bit,' confessed the lady, heaving herself to her feet. 'But I'm real whacked, walking against this wind.'

'Best come inside, I suppose,' said Mr Piggott, grudgingly, but he made no move to open the door. He found his visitor a nuisance. Should he invite her down to the stoke-hole to dry out, he wondered? Thoughts of his dangling underclothes dismayed him. He had no desire to be the butt of Nelly Tilling's derision. His own cottage was cold and he did not want his neighbours to see him taking the buxom widow into it, for Nelly Tilling was reputed to be looking for a second husband after burying her first the year before, and Mr Piggott disliked appearing ridiculous. If he invited her to 'The Two Pheasants' he would have to pay for her, and that, of course, was unthinkable.

On the other hand, Mr Piggott was surprised to feel a tiny glow within him as he watched Mrs Tilling shaking her gloves and brushing the drops from her enormous coat. After all, they had been to school together, it was a beast of a day, and the poor toad was likely to catch her death if she sat about in those clammy things without a sup in her. And, say what you liked, she was a fine-looking woman and Mr Piggott realised, with a shock, that
he had felt lonely for a long time. Somewhat to his horror, he heard himself saying:

'Come and join me in a drink. I was on my way to "The Two Pheasants." '

The lady's reaction to this innocent suggestion was alarming. Her rosy face became redder than ever, her dark eyes flashed fire, and indignation swelled her heaving breast to such an extent that her coat buttons strained from the cloth. She reminded Mr Piggott of a bridling turkey-cock.

'I joined the Band of Hope the same day as you did, if you can cast your mind back that far, Albert Piggott! And what's more, I ain't never broke the pledge yet–which is more than you can say from what I hear!'

She advanced upon the shrinking sexton to wag a massive finger in his face. Mr Piggott backed away nervously until his greasy cap knocked against a bland cherub who stared sightlessly from the porch wall. Nelly Tilling, in anger, was an awe-inspiring sight. She seemed akin to the natural elements which raged so furiously around her, and though taken aback at her onslaught, Mr Piggott found himself admiring her spirit.

'No need to act so spiteful then,' returned the sexton, with unusual mildness. He rubbed his knocked head while he reviewed the situation.

Nelly Tilling calmed down a little after her outburst and withdrew to study the weather from the doorway. Behind her sturdy shoulders Mr Piggott caught a glimpse of the inn's sign-board as it groaned and creaked in the gale. His thirst returned.

'Well, gal, if you don't want a drop, I do,' he said ungallantly. 'Make yourself at home here, while I slip over. Stoking's thirsty work, and I ain't never made no boast about taking the pledge!'

He made to edge past her, but the lady turned to face him, barring his way. Her red mouth was curved in a delicious smile. Albert Piggott found it both alarming and bewitching.

' 'Ere, let me—' he began weakly.

'Albert, I wouldn't say no to a nice cup of tea, if I was to be asked over to your house. How about it?'

Mr Piggott's fear of his neighbours' interest must have made itself apparent in his apprehensive face.

' 'Twould only be civil, a day like this,' pressed Nelly Tilling. 'I wouldn't stop more than a minute or two-just while the rain's so heavy.'

Mr Piggott's expression lightened a trifle, but his mouth still turned down at the corners.

'I can't stop long in any case," pursued Nelly, winningly. 'I've left a sheep's head boiling on the stove.'

Mr Piggott allowed a half-smile to soften his seventy.

'Sheep's head!' he whispered huskily. 'Why, I haven't had a bite of sheep's head since my Molly got wed!' His rheumy old eyes gazed unseeingly into the windy distance behind Nelly's head.

Mrs Tilling gave a violent shiver and a very creditable imitation of a sneeze.

'I'm in for a cold if I don't get a hot drink soon,' said she, pathetically. Her dark eyes gazed at her old school-fellow with all the wistful appeal of a beaten spaniel's.

Mr Piggott succumbed.

'Come on over then,' he said bravely, opening the porch door. A vicious burst of wind almost buffeted the breath from them and the rain danced like spinning silver coins on the old flagged path.

'Put your head down, Nell, and we'll run for it,' shouted the sexton.

***

Wind-blown and panting, Mrs Tilling thankfully accepted the armchair which Mr Piggott indicated.

'I'll just tidy these up,' said her host, stuffing a dozen or so unwashed socks behind the grubby cushion. Mrs Tilling viewed the proceedings with some misgivings, but sat herself down gingerly on the edge of the seat.