Winter in Thrush Green (7 page)

'Make yerself at 'ome,' said Mr Piggott, passing her an out-of-date copy of the parish magazine. 'I'll put on the kettle.'

He moved into the little kitchen which led from the sitting-room and soon Nelly could hear the tap running. Her eyes wandered round the unsavoury room. If ever a house cried out for a woman's hand, thought the lady dramatically, this was it!

She noted the greasy chenille tablecloth which was threadbare where the table edge cut into it–a sure sign, Nelly knew, that the cloth had been undisturbed for many months. Her eyes travelled to the dead fern in its arid pot, the ashes in the rusty grate, the festoons of cobwebs which hung from filthy pelmets to picture rails and the appalling thickness of the dust which covered the drab objects on the dresser.

The only cheerful spot of colour in the room was afforded by St Andrew's church almanack which Mr Piggott had fixed on the wall above the rickety card table which supported an ancient wireless set.

Mrs Tilling, who began to find the room oppressive and smelly, left her sock-laden armchair (from whence, she suspected, most of the aroma emanated), and decided to investigate the kitchen.

Mr Piggott was standing morosely by the kettle waiting for it to boil. It was typical of a man, thought his guest with some impatience, that he had not utilised his time by putting out the cups and saucers, milk, sugar and so on, which would be needed. Just like poor old George, thought Nelly with a pang, remembering her late husband. 'One thing at a time,' he used
to say pompously, as though there were some virtue in it. As his wife had pointed out tartly, on many occasions, she herself would never get through a quarter of her quota of work if she indulged herself in such idleness. While a kettle boiled she could set a table, light a fire, and watch over a cooking breakfast. Ah, men were poor tools, thought Mrs Tilling!

The kitchen was even dirtier than its neighbour. A sour fustiness pervaded the dingy room. In a corner on the floor stood a saucer of milk which had long since turned to an unsavoury junket embellished with blue mould. Beside it lay two very dead herrings' heads. A mound of dirty crockery hid the draining-board, and the sight of Mr Piggott's frying pan hanging on the wall was enough to turn over Mrs Tilling's stout stomach. The residue of dozens of past meals could here be seen embedded in grey fat. Slivers of black burnt onion, petrified bacon rinds, lacy brown scraps of fried eggs and scores of other morsels from tomatoes, sausages, steaks, chops, liver, potatoes, bread and beans here lay cheek by jowl and would have afforded a rich reward to anyone interested in Mr Piggott's diet over the past year.

'Where d'you keep the cups?' asked Nelly Tilling, when she had regained her breath. Her gaze turned apprehensively towards the pile on the draining-board. Mr Piggott seemed to sense her misgivings.

'Got some in the other room, in the dresser cupboard,' he said. 'My old woman's best,' he explained. 'Molly used 'em sometimes.'

'You get them while I make the tea,' said Mrs Tilling briskly. 'This the pot?' She peered into the murky depths of a battered tin object on the stove.

'Ah! Tea's in,' said Mr Piggott, making his way to the dresser.

The kettle boiled. With a brave shudder Nelly poured the
water on the tea leaves, comforting herself with the thought that boiling water killed germs of all sorts.

Five minutes later she put down her empty cup and smiled at her companion.

'Lovely cup of tea,' she said truthfully. 'I feel all the better for that. Now I must go over to Doctor Lovell's for my pills.'

'It's still pouring,' said Mr Piggott. 'Have another cup.'

'I'll pour,' said Nelly. 'Pass your own.'

'It's nice to have someone to pour out,' confessed Mr Piggott. He was beginning to feel unaccountably cheerful despite the disappointment of missing his customary pint of beer. 'This place needs a woman.'

'I'll say it does!' agreed Nelly, warmly. 'It needs a few gallons of hot soapy water too! When did your Molly see this last?'

'About a year ago, I suppose. She's coming again Christmastime–she and Ben and the baby. Maybe she'll give it a bit of a clean-up then.'

'It wouldn't hurt you to do a bit,' said Nelly roundly. 'Chuck out that milk and fish, for one thing.'

'The cat ain't had nothing to eat for days,' objected her host, stung by her criticism.

'That don't surprise me,' retorted Nelly. 'No cat would stay in this hole.'

'I got me church to see to,' began Mr Piggott, truculently. 'I ain't got time to—'

'If Molly comes home to this mess at Christmas then I'm sorry for her,' asserted Mrs Tilling. 'And the baby too. Like as not it'll catch something and die on your very hearth-stone!'

She paused to let the words sink in. Mr Piggott mumbled gloomily to himself. The gist of his mutterings was the unpleasantness of women, their officiousness, their fussiness and
their inability to let well alone, but he took care to keep his remarks inaudible.

'Tell you what,' said Mrs Tilling in a warmer tone. 'I'll come up here and give you a hand turning out before Christmas. What about it?'

Mr Piggott's forebodings returned. What would the neighbours say? What was Nelly Tilling up to? What would happen to his own peaceful, slummocky bachelor existence if he allowed this woman to have her way?

Nelly watched the thoughts chasing each other across his dour countenance. After a few minutes she noticed a certain cunning softness replacing the apprehension of his expression, and her heart began to beat a little faster.

'No harm, I suppose,' said the old curmudgeon, grudgingly. 'Make things a bit more welcoming for Molly, wouldn't it?'

'That's right,' agreed Mrs Tilling, rising from her chair and brushing a fine collection of sticky crumbs from her coat. 'One good turn deserves another, you know, and we've been friends long enough to act neighbourly, haven't we, Albert?'

Mr Piggott found himself quite dazzled by the warmth of her smile as she made for the door, and was unable to speak.

The wind roared in as she opened the front door, lifting the filthy curtains and blowing the parish magazine into a corner. Might freshen the place up a bit, thought Nelly, stepping out into the storm.

'Thanks for the tea, Albert. I'll drop in again when I'm passing,' shouted the lady, as she retreated into the uproar.

Mr Piggott nodded dumbly, shut the door with a crash, and breathed deeply. Mingled pleasure and fury shook his aged frame, but overriding all these agitations was the urgent need for a drink.

'Women!' spat out Mr Piggott, resuming his damp raincoat. 'Never let a chap alone!'

His mind turned the phrase over. There was something about it that made Mr Piggott feel younger–a beau, a masher, a man who was still pursued.

'Never let a chap alone!' repeated Mr Piggott aloud. He pulled on his wet cap, adjusting it at an unusually rakish and dashing angle, and made his way, swaggering very slightly, to his comforts next door.

'Do you know,' said Dimity Dean, looking up from polishing the silver baskets ready for the evening's festivities, 'do you know that Nelly Tilling has just come out of Piggott's house?'

'Nelly Tilling?' repeated Ella, looking up from rolling an untidy cigarette. 'Which is she?'

'You know,' said Dimity, with some impatience. 'The fat woman who's supposed to be looking for a second husband!'

'Hm !' grunted Ella shortly. 'She's welcome to old Piggott"

A
T
six-thirty Ella and Dimity awaited their guests. Both ladies were dressed in the frocks which had been recognised by Thrush Green and Lulling as their cocktail clothes for the last decade, and both exuded the aroma of their recent baths, lavender in Dimity's case and Wright's Coal Tar soap in Ella's.

Dimity's grey crepe had a cowl neck-line which had been rather fashionable just after the war and a full skirt which a more sophisticated woman would have supported with a stiffened petticoat. Over Dimity's modest Vedonis straight petticoat, however, the fullness draped itself limply, ending in a hem so uneven that it was obviously the work of the cleaner's
rather than the couturier's. A rose of squashed fawn silk at the waist-line strove unavailingly to add dash to this ensemble.

Ella, in a plain black woollen frock decorated only with cigarette ash on the bodice, looked surprisingly elegant. Released for once from their brogues her feet were remarkably neat in a pair of black suède shoes, low-heeled but well-cut, which drew attention to the fact that despite Ella's bulk she still showed an attractive pair of ankles.

The fire crackled and blazed hospitably giving forth a sweet smell of burning apple wood. The golden pumpkin glowed on the mantelpiece, its grotesque face beaming a welcome. Ella counted the bottles briskly and busied herself with bottle opener, lemons and glasses, while Dimity fluttered hither and thither putting little dishes of salted nuts and other savoury things first here, then there, surveying the effect with much anguish.

'All I want,' said Ella, squinting at her companion over the cigarette smoke which curled into her eye, 'is a private dish of olives behind the azalea. I've seen that young Lovell at parties before, wolfing 'em down. By the time I've got the drinks circulating he'll have had the lot,' said his hostess forthrightly.

'Oh, Ella dear,' protested Dimity, 'I'm quite sure he doesn't behave like that! He's a very well-brought-up young man.' But she obediently put one dish of olives behind the azalea plant near Ella, nevertheless. Ella took three, clapped them into her mouth, like a man taking pills, and crunched with relish.

'I'll bet you sixpence in the Cats' Protection box that Dotty arrives first,' said Ella rather indistinctly.

'Of course she'll be first,' said Dimity. 'It's not worth betting on. Besides,' she added, looking thoughtful, 'I don't know that we ought to bet like that. The rector was saying, only the other day, that betting is on the increase.'

'Bless his innocent old heart,' cried Ella, wiping her olive-wet
palm smartly down the side of her skirt, 'what on earth is he doing then when he holds a raffle for the organ fund?'

'It's not quite the same—' began Dimity primly, when the bell rang and both ladies hurried to meet their first guest. It was, as they had surmised, their old friend Dotty Harmer, clad in her familiar seal-skin jacket. This archaic garment had been her mother's, and had an old-world charm with its nipped-in waist and a hint of leg-of-mutton about the upper part of the sleeves.

'Come in, come in,' shouted Ella hospitably, throwing open the door with such violence that the house shook.

I'll just take off my boots on the step,' said Dotty, bending over. 'It's absolutely filthy along my field path after all the rain. What a day–what a day!'

'You come in,' said Ella, in a slightly hectoring manner. 'It's perishing in this wind, stripped out as we arc. Besides, we'll have the fire smoking.'

Thus adjured, Dotty pressed into the little hall and the front door was shut against the roaring night.

'They're my
new
boots,' explained Dotty proudly. 'I put them on
over
my shoes, you see, and then I can just step out easily and I don't dirty people's carpets.' Her wrinkled old face was flushed with excitement. She might have been six years old in her unaffected delight.

'How awfully sensible,' said Dimity kindly, watching her friend tugging ineffectually at one boot while she balanced precariously on the other. 'Can I help?'

I'll just sit on the stairs,' said Dotty. 'They're a bit stiff.'

'Come inside,' implored Ella, rubbing her hands for warmth. It was apparent to her that Dotty would be stuck on the stairs in everybody's way, puffing and blowing over her infernal boots, for some time to come. 'Or upstairs to the bedroom.'

'But that
entirely
defeats the purpose of my boots.' protested Dotty. 'I shan't be a moment.'

She bent down again, her face becoming purple with her efforts.

'Let me—' began Dimity, but Dotty waved her aside.

'No, no, no! It's just their being new,' puffed Dotty, resting one thin leg across the other knee and displaying an alarming amount of undergarments to the glass front door. Really, thought Ella irritably, she carries eccentricity too far. In two shakes we shall have the others arriving–the new man among them–and it's enough to frighten a stranger out of his wits to see old Dotty mopping and mowing in her seal-skin coat with one boot in her ear. Her irritation, coupled with the draughts in the tiny hall, gave Ella inspiration.

'Take the whole thing off, Dotty, shoe and all. Then you can pull your shoe out afterwards.'

The other two ladies gazed at her with respect. Dotty obeyed, the shoes were retrieved, her jacket taken from her, and Dotty stood revealed in the brick-coloured dress and coral necklace whose fine divergence of shade had delighted the neighbourhood for so long.

'Oh, my jacket!' wailed Dotty, as she was being ushered into the sitting-room. 'I've brought you some of my quince jam, dears. It's in the pocket.'

'How kind,' said Dimity. I'll put it in the kitchen at once.' She fluttered off on her errand, leaving Dotty to exclaim over the metamorphosis of her pumpkin.

Guests now began to arrive thick and fast and the little sitting-room was soon filled with chatter and laughter. All those present had known each other for years and more than half of them had met before during the day as they went about their daily rounds. Harold Shoosmith had not yet arrived and Ella wondered if he could have forgotten, as she bore her tray of drinks round the room.

The small clock on the mantelpiece was striking seven when
the door-bell shrilled and Ella and Dimity hurried to answer it.