(5/13) Return to Thrush Green (16 page)

'After
breakfast,'
replied Ella.

'What a pity! I'd brought her a pot of my bramble jelly.

'Well, ten chances to one she'll be back again in a few weeks.'

'Staying here?'

'I'd like her to, but from one or two things she said, I think she'll put up at the Fleece. Seems to think it's
imposing
on me, or some such nonsense.'

'She's a very considerate person,' said Dimity. 'We're going to miss her.'

Betty Bell echoed these sentiments as she attacked Harold's kitchen sink.

'I see Mrs Fletcher's gone home. Miss Fogerty will miss her, though no doubt she's got enough to do with that school on her hands. Pretty woman, isn't she?'

'Who?' asked Harold, purposely obtuse.

'Why, Mrs Fletcher! Mind you, it's partly her clothes. Always dressed nice, she did. That's what money does, of course. It's nice for her to have a bit put by, even if she does marry again.'

Harold snorted, and made for the door. This everlasting tittle-tattling was too irritating to bear. As he gained the peace of his hall, he saw the rector at the door, and gladly invited him in.

'I've just come from Ella's,' said Charles, 'and she's given me Isobel's address. She thought you might want it.'

Harold was taken aback.

'Isobel's address?'

'In case you heard of a house, I think Ella said. I know she's got the estate agent working here, but really bush telegraph sometimes works so much more swiftly, and who knows? You
may
hear of something.'

'Of course, of course,' replied Harold, collecting himself. 'Ella will miss her, I expect.'

'A truly
womanly
woman,' commented the rector. 'Who was it said: "I like a manly man, and a womanly woman, but I can't bear a boily boy"?'

'No idea,' said Harold. 'Have a drink?'

'No, no, my dear fellow. I have a confirmation class this evening, and must go and prepare a few notes. And there's poor Jacob Bly's funeral at two, and Dimity wants me to help sort out the boots and shoes for the jumble sale.'

Harold was instantly reminded of another parson, James Woodforde, who had written in his diary, two hundred yean earlier, of just such an incongruous collection of activities in one day. The duties of a parson, it seemed, embraced many interests as well as the care of the living and the dead, no matter in which century he lived.

'Then I won't keep you,' said Harold. 'Thank you for the address, and if I hear of anything I shall get in touch with Isobel, of course, although I think that the chances are slight.'

Little did he realise that he would be invited to write to the address in his hand, within a few days.

Agnes Fogerty was indeed too busy to miss dear Isobel as sorely as she might have done.

She was now Acting Headmistress, a role which filled her with more misgiving than pride.

Apart from the day to day responsibilities, there was a profusion of forms from the office which had to be completed and returned, 'without delay' as the headings stated with severity. Agnes, conscious of her duties, spent many an evening struggling with them in her bed-sitting room.

Then there was the supply teacher sent by the office to help during Miss Watson's absence.

Miss Fogerty found her unnerving, and her discipline nonexistent. It worried Agnes to see the children talking when they should have been working. She disliked the way Miss Enderby's charges wandered freely about the classroom, in theory collecting their next piece of work, in practice giving a sly clout to anyone in their path. Either Miss Enderby did not see what was going on, which was reprehensible, or she
did
see and condoned it, which was worse. Eventually, Agnes spoke of the matter and had great chunks of some dreadful report or other quoted to her. To Agnes, the report seemed quite irrelevant to the matter in hand, but Miss Enderby seemed to cling so fiercely to the findings of whatever-committee-it-was responsible for this half-inch thick treatise that Agnes decided to retire temporarily from the field of battle. No doubt there would be other occasions when a word of advice could be offered. There were. There were many occasions, and brave little Miss Fogerty did her best to put things politely but firmly. She found Miss Enderby's attitude quite mystifying. Throughout her teaching career, Miss Fogerty had worked on the principle that children did as they were told. One did not ask them to do anything
impossible,
of course, or
wrong,
or
beyond their powers.
But open defiance, or the complete ignoring of orders given, had never been countenanced in Agnes's classroom, and all had gone on swimmingly.

What was the good, Agnes asked herself, in reading all those papers and reports with terrible titles like: 'The Disruptive Child and Its Place In Society' or 'Where Have Teachers Gone Wrong?' if at the end of it one still could not
teach
? It was quite apparent that the class now under Miss Enderby's care (one could not say 'control') had learned practically nothing since her advent. That it was dear Miss Watson's class made it even worse.

Miss Enderby, it was clear, was a theorist, but one quite incapable of putting theories into practice. The children would not allow it. They were having a field day enjoying themselves without stricture. In a rare flash of insight, Agnes Fogerty saw that her unsatisfactory supply teacher clung to the theories which she so avidly imbibed, and quoted, because they were all that she had to get her through each day's teaching.

Agnes prayed nightly for her headmistress's return to health and Thrush Green School. She was to come home from the hospital after a fortnight, and Agnes had offered, very diffidently, to stay at the schoolhouse if it would help.

'It is more than kind of you, Agnes dear,' Dorothy had said, 'but I expect Ray will want me to convalesce with them. I shall see him one evening this week.'

Agnes had murmured something non-committal, and repeated her willingness to help in any way, but Dorothy seemed to be quite sure that she would be looked after by her brother and his wife.

'I wonder,' thought Agnes, hurrying through driving rain to the bus stop. 'Poor dear Dorothy! I wonder!'

Robert Bassett made slow but steady progress after his second attack, but it was quite apparent that his confidence was shaken.

'He's suddenly become an old man,' said Joan sadly. 'I hate to see it. He doesn't look ahead as he always did. All the
spunk
seems to have gone out of the poor old boy.'

She was talking to her brother-in-law, John Lovell, after one of his visits to the patient.

'It's nature's way of making him rest. You'll see, he'll pick up before long. Meanwhile, there's one good thing to emerge from this setback.'

'And what's that?'

'He's quite given up the idea of going back to the business, and that's as it should be. In a way, I think he's glad that this blow has settled things for him. He's now coming to terms with the idea.'

'He said as much to mother, I know, but he hasn't said anything very definite to us. I believe he worries in case we feel that he wants his own house back!'

'If I were you,' said John, 'I should broach the subject yourselves. Tell him Edward's plans for the conversion, and let him toy with the idea. I believe it will do him good to have something to look forward to and to occupy his mind.'

After this conversation, Joan and Edward took John's advice, and spoke frankly about their plans to the parents. Milly had known what was afoot for some days, but to Robert it came as a complete surprise.

To the Youngs' delight, he seemed excited and pleased at the ideas put forward, and studied Edward's rough sketches with enthusiasm.

'Leave them with me, dear boy,' he said. 'Milly and I will have a proper look at them, and we may even make one or two suggestions. I can see that you two have been hatching up this little plot for some time, and I am really very touched.'

He smiled a little tremulously, and Joan rose swiftly to put him at his ease.

'I'm off to find us something to eat. Come and give me a hand, Edward,' she said, making for the door.

'Bless his old heart,' said Edward, when they reached the kitchen. 'He's as pleased as Punch! How I like satisfied clients!'

'Don't speak too soon,' warned Joan, busy at the stove. 'He may not be satisfied. Besides, he's every right to turn us out, you know.'

'He won't,' said Edward, dropping a basket of bread rolls on the floor, and bending to retrieve them. 'He's the most unselfish soul alive.'

He picked up the rolls, dusted each down the side of his trousers, and put them carefully in the basket again.

Her husband, thought Joan, might be a talented architect, but his grasp of culinary hygiene was nil.

In the Piggotts' household an uneasy truce was being carried on.

Nelly was content to live from day to day, gradually cleaning the cottage until it satisfied her own high standards, and cooking succulent meals which Albert secretly enjoyed. Wild horses would not have dragged thanks from him, under the circumstances, and the frequent bouts of indigestion which attacked him kept him as morose as usual.

There was no doubt about it, thought Nelly, as she attacked the filthy cooker one afternoon with plenty of hot soda water, Albert did not improve with age. As soon as she could get a job, she would be off again. But jobs, it seemed, were hard to find.

She had called on her old friends at the Drovers' Arms, but they were already well-staffed, and in any case were not inclined to do anything to upset Albert. She had come back of her own accord, they felt, and it was up to her to do what she could to look after the old man, curmudgeonly though he might be. Work at the Drovers' Arms meant that Nelly would be away from home for a considerable part of the day.

Undeterred by the news that Betty Bell now cleaned the school, Nelly called one evening at Miss Fogerty's lodgings.

Mrs White, Miss Fogerty's landlady, opened the door, and was somewhat taken aback by the flamboyant figure on the doorstep. She knew quite well who the visitor was, but as she strongly disapproved of Nelly, and her morals, she feigned ignorance.

'Someone to see you, Miss Fogerty,' she called up the stairs. 'If you would like to go up?' she said to Nelly, standing back against the flowery wallpaper.

Miss Fogerty looked even more alarmed than her landlady had been at first sight of Nelly puffing up the stairs. She showed her into her bed-sitting room, and closed the door.

Nelly, seating herself in the only comfortable armchair, looked about her. She noticed the faded carpet, the thin curtains, and the bedspread which was not quite large enough to cover the divan bed. But she noticed too, in that first swift glance, that everything was clean—beautifully clean.

The furniture was well polished, the shabby paintwork and the mottled tiles of the hearth were spotless. Miss Fogerty's small array of toilet things stood in a tidy row on a glass shelf over the corner wash-basin. Her books stood neatly, row by row in the bedside bookcase. Only a pile of exercise books, in the process of being marked, gave any clue to the present activity in Miss Fogerty's modest abode.

On the mantel shelf stood two shining brass candlesticks, one at each end. A china cat stood by one, and a china spaniel by the other. A small travelling clock stood dead centre, and on each side stood a photograph.

One showed Miss Fogerty's shoemaker father looking stern. His right hand rested on the shoulder of his wife, sitting on an ornately carved chair in front of him. Agnes's mother looked meek and submissive. Her hair was parted in the middle. Her eyes were downcast. Her hands were folded in the centre of her lap. A fine aspidistra at the side of the couple seemed to display far more vitality than the photographer's sitters.

But it was the second photograph which engaged Nelly's attention. It was framed in silver, and showed the likeness of a fair young man in army uniform. He was smiling, showing excellent teeth, and he wore his hair
en brosse.
Could he be a sweetheart, Nelly wondered? Could colourless, shabby little Miss Fogerty ever have inspired love in someone so obviously lively? You never knew, of course. Still waters ran deep ... She looked from the photograph to her reluctant hostess, who was now seated in an uncomfortable chair which she had turned round from the dressing table.

'I expect you are wondering why I've come,' began Nelly, removing her scarf.

'Naturally,' replied Miss Fogerty with truth, and just a touch of hauteur. She disliked Nelly, and had never been happy about her appointment as cleaner at the school. She accepted the fact that Nelly was excellent at her job, but she thought her a vulgar creature and not a suitable person to be among young children. She had deplored the fact that it was Miss Watson who had taken on Nelly, and could only put it down to her headmistress's kind heart, and the paucity of applicants for the post at that time.

'Well, I was hoping that my old job might be going still. Always enjoyed it, I did, and I know Miss Watson was satisfied. Pity she's away. Is she going on all right?'