Winter in Thrush Green (8 page)

Harold Shoosmith entered in a gust of wind and a shower of apologies. The telephone had rung as he was about to leave -a long-distance call–an old friend in trouble–on her way north and had shattered her windscreen–might call at his house later. The words gushed out as Ella took his coat and scarf so that it was some minutes before she could introduce him to Dimity who stood looking pink and expectant at the sight of such a handsome–and unattached–man actually under her own roof.

Harold Shoosmith gave Dimity a smile that turned her heart over, murmured some polite words and followed his hostesses into the sitting-room, smoothing his white hair, which the wind had ruffled, as he went. His dark suit was impeccably cut, his linen snowy, his tie discreetly striped, and denoted, both ladies felt sure, a school, college or regiment of the finest quality. They felt very proud of their distinguished
guest as they led him to their friends and Dimity felt, for the first time, that it was a pity that Thrush Green men did not take the same pains with their dressing. Why, young Doctor Lovell, she noticed now, was actually wearing a dog-tooth checked jacket with leather patches on the sleeves! But, of course, she chided herself hastily, he may have come straight from a patient's sick bed. One must be charitable.

The newcomer was soon happily settled with a gin and tonic and Doctor Bailey and the rector to talk to. Very soon Doctor Lovell and his brother-in-law Edward Young, who was a local architect, drifted towards the group and Ella saw, with some resignation, that the sexes had divided into two camps as usual.

She made her way to the ladies' end to replenish Violet Lovelock's glass. The three Miss Lovelocks had seated themselves on the window-seat, their silvery heads nodding and trembling, and their glasses, as Ella expected, quite empty.

These three ladies, now in their seventies, lived in a Georgian doll's house in Lulling's High Street. There they had been born, their wicker bassinette had been bumped down the shallow flight of steps to the pavement by their torn nursemaid, young men had called, but not one of the three tall sisters had emerged from the house as a bride. They lived together peaceably enough, busying themselves with good works and their neighbours' affairs, and collecting
objets d"art
for their overcrowded gem of a house with a ruthless zeal which was a byword for miles around.

Many a hostess had found herself bereft of a lustre jug or a particularly charming paper-weight when the Misses Lovelock rose to leave, for they had brought the art of persuasive begging to perfection. Continuously crying poverty, they lived nevertheless very comfortably, and the inhabitants of Lulling and Thrush Green were wary of these genteel old harpies. Tales were exchanged of the Lovelocks' exploits.

One told of their kind offer to look after her garden while she was away and how she came back to find it stripped of all the ripe fruit and the choicest vegetables. 'Such a pity, dear, to see it going to waste. We knew you would like us to help ourselves, and it does keep the crop growing, of course. We must let you have a bottle of the raspberries–so delicious.'

Neighbours who were unwary enough to let the Misses Lovelock look after the chickens in their absence rarely found any eggs awaiting them on their return, and in some cases a plump chicken had died. 'Terribly upsetting, my dear! It was just lying on its poor back with its legs stuck up and a dreadfully resigned look on its dear face! We buried it in our garden as we didn't want to upset you.'

The ladies now smiled gently upon Ella as she retrieved their glasses. All three were drinking whisky, barely moistened with soda water, with a rapidity that had ceased to startle their friends. Ella noticed, with some alarm, that their eyes were fixed upon the silver basket which Dimity was proffering.

'Do you like salted nuts, Bertha?' asked Dimity anxiously of the youngest Miss Lovelock. Bertha, Ada and Violet took two or three daintily in their claw-like hands. Their eyes remained appraisingly upon the gleaming little dish.

'What a charming little basket!' murmured Violet.

'We have its brother at home,' said Ada, very sweetly. 'I believe this should be one of a pair.'

'I can see we shall have to ask Dimity to take pity on our poor lonely little dish at home!' tinkled Bertha, laughing gently.

Ella broke in with bluff good humour.

'Better bring your lonely one up here! We've got a couple to keep it company, haven't we, Dim?'

The three sisters tittered politely and took refreshing gulps of whisky, while Dimity cast a grateful look at her protector
and made her escape to young Mrs Lovell, clutching her mother's silver basket to the fawn silk rose.

Ruth Lovell was a great favourite of hers. Dimity had known her since she was a little girl and had shared Thrush Green's delight at her marriage with Doctor Lovell a year ago.

Ruth looked young and glowing with health. Dimity remembered her wan sad demeanour some years before when the poor girl had been cruelly jilted and she had come to recuperate with her sister Joan Young, and, soon after, had found consolation with Doctor Bailey's new junior partner.

'What a long time since we've met, Ruth,' said Dimity, sitting down beside the girl. 'And how pretty you look in that pink blouse! I like the way you young things wear your blouses loose over your skirts or trousers. It's really most becoming. And I really believe you are putting on a little weight, my dear, which suits you so well.' She patted Ruth's knee encouragingly.

'It's only to be expected, Dimity,' replied Ruth, smiling. 'You know we're looking forward to a baby at Christmas-rime. That's why I'm in this enormous smock. Nothing else fits!'

Dimity's eyes grew round and she grew pink with pleasure and embarrassment.

'How perfectly lovely, my dear! Do you know, I hadn't heard a word of it. Now isn't that extraordinary? But I do so hope the men didn't hear me making such thoughtless remarks to you/ She looked anxiously towards the other end of the room where the men stood in a cloud of blue tobacco smoke making an immense amount of noise.

'Don't worry,' said Ruth. 'They're far too engrossed. Now, you must promise to be one of the very first to see the baby. I shall look forward to seeing you particularly.'

Dimity nodded delightedly and, looking conspiratorial, went to see how the men were faring.

***

'It was one of the reasons why I chose Thrush Green to live in,' Harold Shoosmith was saying. 'I've the greatest admiration for Nathaniel Patten, and to find a house for sale in his birthplace seemed too good a chance to miss.'

'A wonderful person,' agreed the rector. The round blue eyes in his chubby face gazed up at his new parishioner's great height. The rector of Thrush Green bore a striking resemblance to the cherubs which decorated his church and his disposition was as child-like and innocent as theirs. He was a man blessed with true humility and warm with charity. From the top of his shining bald head to the tips of his small black shoes he radiated a happiness that disarmed all comers. Thrush Green was rightly proud of the Reverend Charles Henstock, and watched his tubby little figure traversing his parish, with much affection.

'You know, of course,' said Harold Shoosmith, to the group at large, 'that it's the hundredth anniversary of Nathaniel's birth next March.'

'I didn't know,' said Edward Young honestly.

'Nor me,' said Doctor Lovell. 'Tell me, who was the old boy?'

'Now that's quite shocking,' chided old Doctor Bailey laughingly. 'Nathaniel Patten is a public figure. He was a most zealous missionary. Am I right?' he appealed to Harold Shoosmith.

'Indeed you are,' said he. 'He founded a wonderful mission station in the town where I worked overseas. They were making great plans for all kinds of festivities in March. They hope to add a wing to their hospital on the occasion.'

'We really should do something ourselves,' said the rector, wrinkling his brow. 'I must confess I hadn't given it the thought I should, though I certainly intended to put a brief note in the parish magazine for that month.'

'He was an amazingly fine person,' said Harold Shoosmith.
'It seems a pity if his anniversary goes by unnoticed in his birthplace. It won't elsewhere, I can assure you.'

'We might consider putting up a small plaque,' suggested Edward Young. 'In the church perhaps, or on his house.' He looked suddenly thoughtful. 'If anyone knows which house he was born in,' he added doubtfully.

'I think you'll find it is one of the cottages by "The Two Pheasants," ' said Harold Shoosmith. 'Doesn't the sexton live in one there somewhere?'

'Indeed he does,' agreed the rector. 'I must find out more about Nathaniel Patten. It is shameful to know so little about Thrush Green's most distinguished son.'

'I've collected a few notes about him,' said the newcomer. 'Call in any time and I'll let you have them. I do feel that it would be an excellent thing to remind Thrush Green of Nathaniel's place in the world. I should be very glad to do anything to help in the way of celebrating his anniversary.'

The rector thanked him and promised to call. Edward Young wondered if Piggott's cottage would stand up to a ladder against it, if a plaque were to be affixed on its ancient face. Doctor Lovel made a mental note to ask his wife if she had ever heard of this old missionary fellow who had made so deep an impression on Harold Shoosmith. Doctor Bailey turned his mind back to his early days at Thrush Green, and tried to remember, unavailingly, if Nathaniel Patten's daughter had once been among his patients, and if so, what her married name was. He must ask Winnie, he told himself, when they were home again.

Meanwhile, Dimity, who had hovered on the edge of the group listening to the conversation, now found a chance to collect the men's glasses.

'This is a delightful room,' said Harold Shoosmith, as he took the tray from her grasp and carried it towards Ella. 'And
this is the happiest evening I've had since coming to Thrush Green.'

Suddenly, for Dimity, the fire crackled more gaily, the pumpkin beamed more brightly, and the glasses tinkled and sparkled with twice as much gaiety. It was a perfect party, she told herself, with an upsurging of spirits. Let the wind scream outside, let the rain lash the window panes! Here within, was warmth and colour, the comfort of old friends, and the excitement of new ones.

H
AROLD
S
HOOSMITH
soon found, as all newcomers to a village find, that there was plenty to do. During his busy working days abroad, he had occasionally dwelt upon the peaceful bliss of his retirement in England. He imagined himself pottering about an English garden, discussing with an enthusiastic hardworking gardener the planting of new rose beds or an embryo orchard, or the best way to train an espalier pear on the south wall. He dallied with the idea of collecting china–possibly the attractive little houses used for burning pastilles, for which he had always felt a great affection–and had seen himself, in fancy, picking his entranced way among the well-dusted shelves in the drawing-room which housed his purchases.

He looked forward to entertaining in a modest way, a simple supper for his friends, or perhaps a tea-party for those with children. He realised that domestic help might be difficult to find, but in all these rosy dreams there lurked somewhere in the background a competent but self-effacing servant.

His decision to settle in Thrush Green was prompted, as he
told the vicar, by his admiration for Nathaniel Patten and the fortuitous advertisement about the corner house which was published at a rime when he was beginning to feel anxious about finding a suitable resting place. The matter was arranged quickly, and his dreams seemed to be very near at last.

Reality came as a shock. The garden, which was in an appalling state of neglect by the time he arrived, looked like staying that way for all the help Harold Shoosmith was likely to find. He was not averse to digging, weeding, hoeing and pruning, but he knew that the job was much too large for him to tackle alone, and also he needed the advice of some local person about soil, drainage, and reliable sources of plants, shrubs and garden needs such as manure, leaf-mould and so on. An advertisement in the local paper brought two replies. One was from a middle-aged lady in riding breeches, with metallic yellow hair sporting a wide dark parting, whose appearance so startled Mr Shoosmith that he felt quite unequal to considering her application. He told her suavely, and untruthfully, that the place was already taken, and had many uncomfortable meetings with her later at various cocktail parties. The second applicant was so old, so shaky, and had so rheumy and red an eye that he had difficulty in supporting himself in Mr Shoosmith's presence, let alone a gardening tool, even of the lightest construction.

Diligent enquiries among his neighbours at Thrush Green and Lulling brought forth nothing, and in the end Harold Shoosmith realised that he must consider himself lucky if that old rogue Piggott deigned to call in for an hour or two to make a little extra beer money.

As for help in the house, that too, he found, was practically non-existent. The deft and devoted cook and housemaid whom he had been prepared to engage–provided that their references were first-class, of course–were replaced by Betty Bell, and he
knew that he was fortunate to have her somewhat slap-dash ministrations. He was a sensible man, who soon realised that he had been living in a fool's paradise, and he accepted his present mode of living very cheerfully, becoming very fond of chatty Betty Bell and quite resigned to the fact that any collection he might make would be comfortably covered with dust unless he set to and dusted it himself.

Picking up pastille houses on his travels for a shilling or two, was yet another dream that was abruptly shattered. The price of any worthwhile small piece was beyond Harold Shoosmith's straitened means, he discovered. As for entertaining, his plans for simple supper parties of two or three well-cooked courses soon evaporated, and he was content to offer a drink and a cigarette to his neighbours, in the usual Thrush Green manner.