Winter in Thrush Green (9 page)

His time was much taken up with small domestic chores for which he found he had some natural aptitude. He chopped firewood, carried coal, swept the paths, painted the gates and fences, and found himself extremely busy. By the time evening came he was often quite tired and prepared to go up to bed by ten o'clock. If life in England did not have the leisurely nineteenth-century flavour which he had so fondly imagined might still exist in its rural backwaters, yet it was very pleasant, nevertheless, and Harold Shoosmith faced his years of retirement contentedly enough.

The number of local activities brought to Harold Shoosmith's notice, in the first few weeks of his residence at the corner house, as in need of his support, staggered him. In Thrush Green and Lulling were to be found Guides, Scouts, Brownies, Cubs, a Church Guild, a Chapel Youth Centre, a Mothers' Union, a Women's Institute, and no end of functions instigated by various sporting clubs.

He found himself giving clothing to three minute Brownies
with a hand-cart for their jumble sale, lending his ladder to the Scouts for the repair of their Den roof and giving half-crowns to various worthy people who called with a collecting tin. On one occasion he even agreed, under pressure, to parting with a newly-baked chocolate sponge which Betty Bell informed him he had promised as his contribution to the Sunday School party.

This was not all. He was urged by the rector. Doctor Lovell, and many other residents to join the committees of at least a dozen local bodies. Their pleas were so ardent that Harold Shoosmith wondered how on earth they had managed to get along at all without his help for so many years. The most pressing need, it seemed, was that of Thrush Green's Entertainment Committee which, the rector said solemnly, 'was in need of new blood.'

He had called upon Mr Shoosmith one wet November evening, splashing through the puddles of the newly-gravelled drive in the early darkness.

The bright blaze of October had changed to a succession of dreary days in November, each bringing hours of heavy rain which soon turned the green into a quagmire and sent rivers gurgling continuously along the gutters. Wellingtons and mackintoshes were the daily wear, the men working in the fields were soaked daily, and at the village school a row of wet gloves steamed on the fireguard every morning. Gardeners stood at their windows fuming at their neglected gardens. The heavy clay soil of the Cotswolds became impossible to turn in its glutinous condition. The last of the flowers lay battered on the sodden ground and the cows in the fields stood patiently, backs to the wind and rain, with water trickling steadily from their glistening coats. The water ran so continuously from the thatched roofs of one or two of Thrush Green's cottages that the stones beneath were scoured as clean as if they were in the
bed of a trout stream. Tempers grew frayed as wet day followed wet day and washing had to be dried by the fire. The women were at their wits' end to keep up with the demand for dry clothing, and the windows were opaque with steam both by day and night.

'Appalling weather,' said Harold Shoosmith, settling his friend by the fire. His eye was caught by the rector's sodden shoes which squelched as he moved. The soles, he observed, were in sore need of mending. The fellow wants looking after, thought Harold Shoosmith.

'Would you like to borrow some slippers? We could dry your shoes while you're here.'

The rector's cherubic face became pinker and he looked concerned.

'I do so hope I haven't made a mess on your carpets. I quite forgot how dirty it was outside.'

His companion reassured him on this point but was unable to persuade him to part with his disgraceful foot-gear which steamed gently in the glow from the fire. The rector settled back in his leather armchair and looked with pleasure about the room.

'You've made it all uncommonly cosy,' he remarked. Betty Bell's ministrations were apparent in the gleaming copper kettle on the hearth and the array of silver cups which reflected the firelight on the sideboard opposite the hearth. Harold Shoosmith had been something of an athlete in his younger days, and this was another bond that the two men had, for Mr Henstock had once coxed his college eight in the years when he had weighed seven and a half stone.

He found Harold Shoosmith's comfortable house and his friendly welcome particularly cheering. The Reverend Charles Henstock, although he did not realise it, was much lonelier than he imagined. The death of his wife, some years before, had
been borne with great courage. His religion was of the greatest comfort to him, for he was sustained by the knowledge that he would meet his wife again as soon as he left this world for the next. The affection and kindness of his parishioners never ceased to amaze him. The thought that his own shining honesty, modesty and goodwill might be the cause of his neighbours' esteem never entered his head. He was welcomed in all the houses in his parish, but felt some hesitation in staying too long. Fathers were coming home from work, children from school, wives from shopping. He, who had no wife and no child in his home, found the company of the newcomer to Thrush Green much to his liking. They were roughly the same age, enjoyed the same pleasures and had plenty of time on their own. It was natural that the rector began to call more and more frequently at the corner house. For his part, Harold Shoosmith liked his pastor more each time they met.

'I've been thinking about the memorial to Nathaniel Patten,' said the rector, warming his hands at the fire. 'The subject came up at the last meeting of the Entertainments Committee.'

'How did that come about?' asked Harold, much amused.

'We were discussing the arrangements for the Fur and Feather—' began the rector earnestly.

'The Fur and Feather?' ejaculated his friend, looking up from poking the fire. 'What on earth's that? A pub?'

'No, no! "The Fur and Feather
Whist Drive,
" I should have said,' the rector explained. 'We have one every Christmas in the village school.'

'But why "Fur and Feather"?' persisted the wanderer in other lands. 'What's the significance of calling it that?'

The rector began to explain patiently that the prizes for this particular type of whist drive were of poultry or game. His friend's brow cleared.

'I see. Thank you. But how does this tie up with Nathaniel?'

'Well, you know what village meetings are–everything is discussed except the points on the agenda. I find it very helpful in my parish work. I always get to hear who is ill or in trouble of any sort. It's most necessary for a parish priest to be on committees. I really don't know how I'd manage without them.'

'Is the idea acceptable, then?'

'Indeed it is. General feeling seems to be in favour of a really worthwhile memorial. I suggested a seat on the green, but most people seem to think that a statue is the thing.'

'Pretty expensive, I imagine. And it might turn out to be hideous.'

'We might get someone in the neighbourhood to do it,' said the rector vaguely. 'Miss Bembridge is very artistic."

'Good God!' said Harold, startled into strong language. 'D'you mean she'd do it?'

'She hasn't been approached, of course,' replied Mr Henstock. 'But I believe it has been suggested.'

A heavy silence fell upon the room. The rector was trying to remember just what it was that he meant to ask his new friend to do for him. Harold Shoosmith, glumly surveying the crack which he had just widened so successfully in a large lump of coal, was blind to the delights of the hissing gaseous flames which fluttered like yellow crocuses in the crevices. A memorial to his beloved Nathaniel Patten was one thing–a ghastly monstrosity created by the intimidating Ella was another. He shuddered to think where his first innocent suggestions might lead.

A particularly vicious spattering of rain against the window-pane roused the rector from his chair.

'I must be getting back,' he said, sighing. 'There was just one thing tha~t I wanted to ask you–but I seem to have forgotten it.' He looked about the snug room, so different
from his own bleak drawing-room which no amount of firing seemed to make habitable.

'Anything to do with committee work?' asked Harold Shoosmith resignedly. He was already a member of the Cricket Club, Football Club, British Legion, Parochial Church Council and the local branch of the R.S.P.C.A., after a residence of less than two months.

The rector's wrinkled brow became smooth again.

'How clever of you!' he cried. 'Yes, it was. The Thrush Green Entertainments Committee asked me to invite you to join them. We make most of the arrangements for our local activities. This business of the memorial will probably be dealt with by the T.G.E.C

Harold Shoosmith thought quickly. He felt as though the shade of Nathaniel Patten hovered anxiously at his elbow, pleading for justice and for mercy. If he accepted the committee's invitation, at least he would hold a watching brief for his long-dead friend and could do his best to see that his memorial would be a worthy one.

'I'd be very glad to join the committee,' said Harold honestly, as he opened the front door, and let out the rector into the inhospitable night.

'Very good of you indeed,' said the rector warmly. 'You will be more than welcome. The Entertainments Committee needs new blood. It docs indeed!'

Beaming his farewells, the rector splashed bravely, in his wet shoes, towards the gate.

R
AIN
continued to sweep the Cotswolds throughout November and the wooded hills were shrouded in undulating grey veils. The fields of stubble, which had lain, bleached and glinting, under the kind October sun, were being slowly and patiently ploughed by panting tractors which traversed their length and turned over rib after rib of earth glistening like wet chocolate.

Young Doctor Lovell found his hands full. Coughs, colds, wheezy chests, ear-ache, rheumatic pains, stomachic chills and general depression kept his car splashing along the flooded lanes of Thrush Green and Lulling. In this, his first practice, he was a happy man. Thrush Green had brought him not only work, but also a wife, to love. The thought of their child, so soon to be born, gave him deep satisfaction. It was no wonder that Doctor Lovell whistled as blithely as a winter robin as he went about among his ailing patients. Some viewed his cheerfulness sourly.

'Proper heartless young fellow,' they grumbled, revelling in their own miseries.

But most of them were glad to greet a little brightness among the November gloom.

His senior partner in the practice, Doctor Bailey, did very little these days and found the weather particularly trying. Like most of Thrush Green's inhabitants he kept the fire company while the rain poured down.

Winnie, his wife, viewed his condition with secret alarm. He seemed to have difficulty with his breathing, and she did her best to persuade him to take a holiday abroad where they would find some sunshine.

'Can't be done, my dear,' wheezed the aged doctor. 'Costs
too much, for one thing, and young Lovell's got too much to do anyway. At least I can take surgery for him now and again. He'll need to feel free to go and see Ruth when the baby comes.'

He caught sight of the anxiety in his wife's face, and spoke cheerfully.

'Don't worry so. I've been fitter this year than I have for ages. It's just this dampness. It'll pass, I promise you.'

'You must take care, Donald. Keep in the warm and read -or better still, shall I see if Harold Shoosmith is free for a game of bridge this afternoon?'

The doctor's eye brightened. The newcomer to Thrush Green had many attributes which his neighbours approved. That of a fair-to-average bridge player made him particularly welcome in the Baileys' household.

'Good idea,' agreed Doctor Bailey, sounding more robust at once. 'And maybe Dimity and Ella will come as well.'

He watched his wife bustle from the room to the telephone and lay back, contentedly enough, in the deep armchair. He was more tired than he would admit to her. The thought of sunshine filled him with longings, but the effort of getting to it he knew was beyond his strength. Better to lie quietly at Thrush Green, letting the rainy days slap by, unI'll the spring brought the benison of English sunlight and daffodils again.

The room was very quiet. The old man closed his eyes and listened to the small domestic noises around him. The fire whispered in the hearth, a log hissed softly as its moss-covered bark dried in the flames, and the doctor's ancient cat purred rustily in its throat. Somewhere outside, there was the distant sound of metal on stone as a workman repaired a gatepost. A child called, its voice high and tremulous like the bleating of a lamb, and a man answered it. Doctor Bailey felt a great peace enfolding him, and remembered a snatch of poetry from 'The
Task,' which he had learnt as a small boy almost seventy years ago.

'Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
Charms more than silence.'

He was blessed, he told himself, in having a retentive memory which tossed him such pleasures as this to enhance his daily round.

He was blessed, too, with a wonderful wife and a host of good friends. Half-dozing now, he saw their faces float before him, friends of his boyhood, friends of his student days, friends among his patients. Most clearly of all he saw the face of the great Mrs Curdle whose burial he had attended at St Andrew's two years before. The flashing dark eyes, the imperiously jutting nose and the black plaited hair delighted his mind's eye as keenly as ever. He fancied himself again inside her caravan home, sipping the bitter brew of strong tea with which she always welcomed him. He saw again the dazzling stove which was her great pride, the swinging oil lamp, and the photograph of George, her much-loved son, whose birth might well have caused the death of his mother had young Doctor Bailey not acted promptly so many years ago. Bouquets of gaudy artificial flowers floated before the old man's closed eyes–each a tribute to his skill, a debt paid yearly by the magnificent gipsy woman he was proud to call his friend. Dear Mrs Curdle, whose annual fair had welcomed in each May at Thrush Green–there would never be another like her!