(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green (21 page)

'I'm sure of that.'

'And I'll tell my two men what you've told me,' went on Percy. 'They'll do as I do, of course.'

Charles felt a tremor of dismay.

'I shouldn't want them to go against their consciences. You know that, I feel sure. They must weigh things up, just as you are going to do.'

'I'll see to them,' said Percy, and with this somewhat ambiguous remark, he saw the rector to the door.

It was not much, thought Charles Henstock, as he walked home to Thrush Green, but at least he had not had the door slammed in his face. He bitterly regretted his own flash of anger, but Percy's remark had cut him cruelly. Perhaps, however, his own outburst had cleared the air. Certainly, Percy seemed more reasonable after it.

He went into the long corridor leading to the kitchen, expecting to find Dimity, but remembered that she had proposed to go shopping in Lulling. The kettle purred on the stove, and he wondered whether to make tea.

It was now half-past three. This would be a good time to call on the Jones'es. Lunch would be over, and the pub would be closed until six.

Heartened by the glimmer of hope given him by Percy, he decided to try his luck, and set off.

Mr Jones was alone and showed the rector into a sitting-room which was the very opposite of Percy Hodge's.

'The wife's gone shopping,' explained Mr Jones. 'We don't get much time for that sort of thing. Very tied with a pub, you know, but it suits me.'

He indicated an armchair and Charles sank down into depths so soft that he wondered if he would ever be able to rise again. There were flowers everywhere. The covers were ablaze with roses, the walls with wistaria hanging on trellis. On the mantelpiece, above the roaring fire, was an arrangement of plastic flowers and fern, where tulips, delphiniums, crocuses and chrysanthemums rioted together in defiance of the seasons.

Even the kettle-holder, hanging on a hook by the fireside, had a posy of forget-me-nots on it, and the spaniel which lay at their feet, Charles remembered, was called Blossom.

He began to feel guilty, a worm in the bud, a serpent in this bower of flowers.

'What can I get you, padre?' asked his host. 'Whisky? Drop of rum to keep out the cold?'

'No, nothing, thank you. I shall be having some tea very soon. How snug you are in here!'

'We need somewhere comfortable when we're on our own,' said the landlord. 'Our job means you've got to be among a crowd most of the time. And standing too. It's good to sink down in here when we can.'

'I've just come from Percy Hodge's,' said the rector, coming straight to the point.

Mr Jones began to look wary.

'About the churchyard? What's Perce say?'

The rector told him the gist of their conversation, and handed over the sketch map.

'Could look rather nice,' said the landlord slowly. Charles's spirits rose. He remembered that Mr Jones was a great gardener.

'If it did come about,' he said cautiously, 'we should need some advice about planting and so on. At the moment, Miss Watson and Mr Shoosmith are thinking about shrubs.'

Perhaps Charles had gone too far and too fast. The landlord's face tightened, and he handed back the piece of paper.

'What happens if we still object?' he said. Charles was reminded that Percy and this man were related.

He told him. Mr Jones nodded.

'You don't want to get mixed up with lawyers,' he said, at last. 'You'll have Thrush Green in debt for years if you take this matter to some court or other. I'm not saying yes or no, but I can see your point, and I reckon we ought to settle this business here in the village ourselves.'

'Exactly my feelings,' said the rector.

'What did Perce say?' he repeated.

'He said much the same as you are saying, that he wanted time to think about it.'

'And what, padre, do
you
think? As man to man, I mean?'

'I want the churchyard to look beautiful, a fitting place for the loved dead here. But I want harmony among the living. If we give and take – all of us – I think we can resolve our difficulties. That's why I'm approaching all the objectors.'

'Well, you've got some pluck, that I will say, and I promise to think it over. Mind you, I've shot my mouth off about it pretty strong in the bar here, but I'm not above changing my mind if it's the right thing to do.'

'It isn't a sign of weakness,' said the rector, attempting to struggle from the chair, 'rather the contrary.'

'Here,' said Mr Jones, proffering a hand, 'let's give you a haul up.'

The two men stood on the hearthrug smiling at each other. A smell of singeing made the rector move suddenly from such unaccustomed heat.

'Well, I'll be off, and leave you to your rest,' said Charles. He turned at the door.

'You'll let me know your decision, won't you?' he pleaded. T care very much about the outcome.'

'You shall know before the week's out,' promised the landlord.

At Tullivers, that evening, Frank Hurst broached again the thorny subject of Jeremy's schooling. Little had been said about it since their earlier difference of opinion, but Phyllida remained determined to keep the boy at home for a few more years, and Frank was equally desirous of the child going to his own old prep school, which he remembered happily.

'Tom's taking his youngest down to Ribbleworth next week,' he announced, when Phil returned from putting Jeremy to bed. 'He's sitting the entrance exam.'

'Is he?' said Phil guardedly.

'Do just come and have a look at the place,' persuaded Frank. 'I know how you feel at the moment, but indulge me, and pay a visit with me. You may change your mind. I could ring the head, and make an appointment.'

Phil hesitated. It seemed a complete waste of time to her. She was against the principle of wresting young boys from their homes, particularly in Jeremy's case where the child had had some tough knocks in his short life and was getting over them well in his present happy circumstances.

On the other hand, she could see Frank's point, and it would be unkind to ignore his wishes.

'Very well,' she agreed. 'But it will have to be a positive paradise to convince me. You know that well enough.'

Frank laughed.

'I'll take the risk. Here, sit down, and I'll bring you a glass of sherry.'

18 A Cold Spell

L
ITTLE
Miss Fogerty returned from her Christmas holiday two days before term began.

She had not intended staying so long with her friend Isobel, but had been persuaded to extend her visit. Isobel, recently widowed, said that she would be grateful for her company, and Miss Fogerty, touched and flattered that she should be needed, readily agreed to stay.

'Besides,' added Isobel, 'you don't look as fit as you usually do. I expect you have been over-working.'

'It has been a trying term,' admitted Miss Fogerty, but wild would not have dragged from her the true miseries shadows under horses would not have dragged from her the true which had caused the shadows under her eyes, and the wretchedly disturbed nights.

She certainly began to feel better after a week or so with dear Isobel. The house was large and warm. The spare room had a bed which was plump and soft, and a bathroom of its own which Miss Fogerty considered the height of luxury. The bath sheet alone gave Miss Fogerty an exquisite sense of being cossetted. It was pale blue, and so large and fluffy that it could wrap her small frame twice round, and then have a generous wrap-over. Mrs White's bath towels were less than half the size, and made of some harsher striped towelling which simply pushed the water from one part of one's body to another without doing its proper job of absorption.

It was delightful too to be taken everywhere by car. Not that Miss Fogerty was lazy, nor that she underestimated the well-being which results from healthy exercise, but in the depths of winter the taking of a brisk walk so often meant cold fingers and toes. It was true too, as Isobel said, that she was not feeling as well as she normally did, and to lean back in a comfortable car seat and watch the wintry world roll by, without any effort, was exceedingly pleasant.

When the time came to depart she felt all the better for her rest, and tried to tell her friend how much the break had meant to her.

'I've loved having you,' Isobel said, gazing up at the carriage window which framed Miss Fogerty's small face topped by a neat beige felt hat. 'Now, do as I say, and take a tonic while the winter lasts.'

The train began to move.

'And wrap up warmly,' cried Isobel more loudly. 'We're going to get a cold snap.'

The two friends waved until a curve in the line separated them. Miss Fogerty pulled up the window, and sank back into her seat. She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. Emotion was one cause of this operation, but a piercing east wind was a greater one.

Two hours later, as she trudged from the station through Lulling High Street, she shivered in the icy blast which swept that thoroughfare. It seemed colder still at Thrush Green at the top of the hill.

She looked across at the school house. A light shone from the sitting-room window. No doubt Miss Watson was reading, or perhaps enjoying her tea by the fire. On other occasions, Miss Fogerty might have been tempted to tap on the door, but not now.

She put down her case and rammed on the sensible felt hat more firmly. Only another few yards and she would be home again!

She picked up her case and set off once more. With any luck, Mrs White would have a tea tray ready for her in her room. She could have the kettle boiling on the ring in less than five minutes.

With a pang, Miss Fogerty recalled the log fire, the plump cushions, and the silver tea pot which had graced the tea time hour at Isobel's.

Ah well! It would not do to become too fond of soft living, she told herself firmly, and after all, this was her home and all her dear familiar things would be there to welcome her.

The first fat white snowflake, drifting as easily as a windblown feather, fluttered to the ground as she opened the gate. By the time the kettle boiled, the sky was awhirl with flakes, spinning past the window, veiling the garden, tumbling dizzily, helter-skelter, as though some gigantic feather bed had burst in the dark leaden sky above.

Isobel was right, thought Miss Fogerty, sipping her tea gratefully. Wintry weather indeed, and from the look of things, more to come!

Thrush Green awoke to a white world. The Cotswold stone walls were covered in snow four or five inches deep. The gateposts wore white tam-o'-shanters, and Nathaniel Patten held out his snow-covered book and gazed upon his birth-place from under a crown of snow.

The green itself was a vast unsullied expanse. The wind had blown a great drift against the railings of St Andrew's church, so that only the spikes were visible. Their black zig-zag, and the dark trunks of the chestnut avenue, served to accentuate the dazzling whiteness of the scene.

It was still snowing when the rector arose and went downstairs to make tea. His breath billowed before him in the chill of the house, and he was glad to gain the comparative warmth of the kitchen.

The cat stretched, mewed, and leapt upon the table asking to be let out of the window. The rector gazed up at the whirling flakes. They fluttered against his face like icy moths. One fell into his open mouth, and he remembered suddenly how he used to rush about in the snow, as a child, catching the snow flakes on his tongue, and then how he had seized a handful from a wall and had crammed it into his mouth, spluttering excitedly, and crying: 'You can
eat
it! You can
eat
it!'

How beautiful it was! He closed the window, and watched two sparrows alight on the roof of Dimity's bird tray. Their tiny claws formed hieroglyphics in the snow, like foreign letters printed on the virgin page.

Beautiful indeed, thought the rector, fetching the teapot, but how cold! Perhaps he needed a thicker dressing gown. His present one had been given to him long ago by his dear first wife. No doubt twenty years of wear had worn it rather threadbare. He looked at the garment with unusual attention. The cuffs were certainly quite frayed, and he seemed to remember that the whole surface had once been fluffy. Now it was smooth, and almost worn through at the elbows. Well, it would probably last another few years, thought Charles cheerfully, advancing upon the boiling kettle.

He was about to pick up the tray when the cat returned to the window sill demanding entry. Its coat was flecked with snowflakes, its eyes wild at finding itself in this unaccustomed element.

It shot in, and ran to the stove, shaking itself spasmodically, and uttering little cries of dismay. Outside, the snow hissed sibilantly against the window pane, and a great cushion of it fell with a flurry from an overloaded branch nearby.

Hitching up his dilapidated dressing gown, the rector lifted his tray and made for the stairs.

The snow was still thick on the ground when term began. Miss Fogerty wore her Wellington boots and some extra thick ribbed woollen stockings. She also wore her spencer underneath her sensible brown twin-set, for she knew, only too well, how draughty Thrush Green School could be when the wind was in the north east.