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She thought of his attractions, his glossy black hair, the music hall ditties he was so fond of singing, and the good times they had enjoyed together at local pubs. True to her principles, Nelly had stuck to bitter lemon or orange juice while Charlie swigged his whisky, but she had enjoyed meeting his rowdy friends and joining in the songs around the bar piano.

She paused in her scrubbing and gazed out of the steamy window towards Thrush Green. Not much life here, that was for sure! And what would it be like in the winter, when the curtains were drawn at four o'clock, and Albert had left her for the Two Pheasants next door? A living death, decided Nelly, just a living death!

She would have done better to have looked for a place where she was. There was far more scope for her talents in Brighton than ever there would be at Thrush Green. She pondered the matter for a full hour, by which time the cooker had been reassembled, and the frying-pan filled with bacon, liver and sausages for the midday meal.

'Fatty stuff again, I see,' grunted Albert, when his plate was put before him later. 'You knows what Doctor Lovell said. You trying to kill me?'

'Chance'd be a fine thing,' retorted Nelly. 'The devil looks after his own, as far as I can see.'

Albert snorted.

'You'd be a far sight fitter,' went on Nelly, 'if you laid off the beer. All that acid fair eats away the lining of your stum-mick. I was reading about it in my women's paper.'

'You wants to change the record,' snarled Albert, with heavy sarcasm. 'And if you looked for a job instead of wastin' your time with women's papers you'd be a bit better off.'

Nelly rose from the table with as much dignity as a sixteen stone woman could manage, and went to the dresser drawer. From it she abstracted a cheap packet of stationery and a ballpoint pen, and made her way upstairs.

Sitting on the side of the spare bed she composed a letter to Charlie. It was not an easy letter to write, and how it would be received was anybody's guess. It took Nelly nearly an hour to get her thoughts on paper, and when at last she had sealed the envelope and stuck on the stamp, she descended the stairs.

Albert was fast asleep in the armchair. His mouth was open, and he snored loudly, making a maddening little whining sound as he did so. The dirty dishes still littered the table, and the newly-cleaned stove bore fresh splashes of fat.

Nelly opened the door, and marched straight across the grass to the post-box on the corner of Thrush Green. She was oblivious of the fresh beauty about her, and the bright new world which the rain had created.

She dropped the letter in the box, and heard its satisfying plop as it reached the bottom.

Well, she'd done it! She'd burnt her boats, thought Nelly, and now she must face the future!

20. A Proposal

MISS FOGERTY travelled by coach from Thrush Green to Bournemouth where she was being met. She determined to take Isobel's advice and postpone all thoughts of finding new accommodation until she returned, but she had called on Charles Henstock, before she left for her week's holiday, and told him of her predicament.

'My dear Miss Fogerty,' said that kind man, his chubby face creased with concern, 'I shall do my very best to find somewhere for you. Try not to let it worry you when you are away. You need a break after all the troubles of last term. Something will turn up, I feel convinced.'

He had told his wife about the encounter, and Dimity at once thought of Ella.

'The only thing is she has said so little about taking a lodger recently, that I'm beginning to wonder if she really wants one.'

'We can only ask,' said Charles. 'Perhaps you could broach the subject?'

Dimity did, that very afternoon, and as she had surmised, Ella did not appear at all keen.

'The point is, Dim, I've been thinking it over, and I've got quite used to being alone here, and I'm not all that hard up. I mean, look at my clothes!'

Dimity looked, and was secretly appalled.

'I've had these trousers five years, and this shirt much the same length of time, and I can't see myself bothering to buy much in that line. And then I don't go out as much as I used to, nor do the same amount of entertaining as we did when you were here. One way and another, I think I'd sooner scratch along on my own.'

'But you thoroughly enjoyed having Isobel,' Dimity pointed out.

'Isobel's one in a thousand and in any case it was only for a week. I just don't want anyone permanently.'

'In a way,' said Dimity, 'I'm relieved to hear it.'

'Not that I'd see little Agnes homeless,' continued Ella. 'If she hasn't found anywhere before term starts, I'm very willing to put her up for a bit while she's looking round. I'm fond of that funny little soul.'

'We all are,' replied Dimity.

It was soon after this, that Harold walked across to Tullivers to tell Isobel that he had ordered an Alfa Romeo very like her own, and was now bracing himself to part with the ancient Daimler which had played an important part in his life.

The day was cool and cloudy. In fact, the violent thunder storm had brought the hot summer weather to an end, and there were to be very few sunny days until the autumn.

He found Isobel busy writing letters. She gave him her usual warm smile which affected his heart in such a delightful way, but he thought that she appeared somewhat worried.

'Anything wrong?' he asked, seating himself at the table where her writing things were littered.

Isobel put her hands flat on the table with a gesture of despair.

'A lot, I'm afraid. I was coming to tell you. I shall have to drive home again. There's a muddle about the sale of the house.'

'Can't the estate agent cope with that? Must you go today?'

'Either today, or tomorrow morning. The sale's fallen through again.'

She sighed, and looked so desperately unhappy, that Harold could not bear it. He had never seen her cast down. In all their fruitless searchings for a house she had always managed to maintain a certain buoyancy of spirit which was one of the reasons why he loved her.

He put a hand over one of hers, and spoke urgently.

'Isobel, let me help with this. I can't bear to see you so unhappy, and it's all so unnecessary.'

'Unnecessary?' queried Isobel.

'I've wanted to say something for weeks now, but it has never seemed the right moment. I don't know if this is—but hear me out, Isobel, I beg of you.'

He tightened his grip on her hand, and began his plea. Isobel sat very still, her eyes downcast upon their linked hands, and heard him out as he had asked.

'And will you?' he ended. 'Could'you, Isobel?'

She smiled at him, and at last regained her hand.

'Thank you, Harold dear. You must let me think for a day or so. My mind is so confused with all that's happened, I shall need time. But I do thank you, from the bottom of my heart. It is the loveliest thing that has happened to me for a long, long time.'

'You dear girl!' exclaimed Harold. 'And please don't keep me waiting too long! I warn you, I've been in a state of near-dementia for the past months.'

Isobel laughed. 'I promise you an answer before the end of the week, but I must get back and sort out some of this muddle. Oh, the misery of selling and buying houses!'

'You know the way out now,' Harold pointed out.

'You would never know,' replied Isobel, 'if I'd married you or the house.'

'I'll take that risk,' Harold assured her.

As always, the building activity at the Youngs' took considerably longer than had at first been imagined, despite Edward's daily exhortations.

To be fair, the builders worked well, but there were interminable delays in getting materials from the suppliers which held up the proceedings.

It was plain that the top flat was going to be ready before the stable block conversion, but even so it did not look as though the second bedroom would be ready in time for the Curdles' arrival in September.

Joan wrote to let them know how things were, and was glad to hear that the negotiations for the sale of the fair to Dick Hasler were now almost completed. They would be selling their caravan home when they came to Thrush Green, wrote Molly, and the money would help them to furnish the flat.

But, asked Molly, Ben could not bear to part with his grandmother's wooden gipsy caravan, and could they bring it with them? Would there be somewhere out of the way where it could stand? It might be quite a useful spare-room, and Ben would be very pleased if they would like to use it as such at any time in the future.

Joan felt a surge of happiness when she read this. What could be better? Mrs Curdle's much-loved caravan had always been an important part of Thrush Green's life. May the first had been the highlight of the year, and it was only fitting that the caravan should return to its old haunt forever, and to stand close to the last resting place of its famous owner.

'There's plenty of room in the orchard,' Edward said, when he heard about the proposal. He was as delighted as Joan to think of having the caravan at Thrush Green.

So were their neighbours and friends. Winnie Bailey, in particular, welcomed the idea, remembering how old Mrs Curdle had visited her regularly every year.

'It's so much part of Thrush Green history,' said the rector, summing up general opinion, 'that it's the
only
place for it. We shall all treasure it.'

Nelly Piggott awaited an answer to her letter with some anxiety. For one thing, she wanted to take it from the postman as soon as it arrived. No one could accuse Albert of undue interest in the meagre correspondence which was slipped under the door, but he might well open a letter which was written by hand thinking it might be from Molly, who was about the only person who did write to him.

Manilla envelopes, with typed addresses, were beneath his notice. They would either contain bills, or some other objectionable enclosures, which would be stowed, often unopened, behind the clock on the kitchen mantel shelf, for later perusal.

Nelly was usually up first, and downstairs by the time Willie Bond delivered the post. If Willie Bond was on duty, he arrived whilst Nelly was on her own in the kitchen.

But if the second postman, Willie Marchant, delivered the mail then he arrived a good half-hour later, and by then Albert was at large in the kitchen with her.

A fortnight had passed and still there was no response from the oil man. Of course, Nelly told herself, he might be away. He might even have moved house, but in that case, surely he would have left an address at the Post Office, and his letters would have been forwarded.

It was more likely, Nelly was bound to admit, that he did not consider a reply necessary, and did not intend to waste good money on a stamp for one who had upped and left him comparatively recently.

'Can't blame him, I suppose,' said Nelly to Albert's cat, when Willie Bond had departed after leaving a seed catalogue addressed to Albert, the only item of mail.

But it was worrying. It would be better to know the worst. It would be
far
better, Nelly told herself, to have a rude letter telling her what he thought of her, than this horrible silence.

During this waiting period she had cleaned the house from top to bottom. Any object which could be assaulted with strong soda water, yellow soap and a stiff scrubbingbrush, had been so treated. Anything which could be polished, whether it were of metal, wood or glass, had been attacked mercilessly. Even the cat, once so thin, had been fattened with Nelly's good food, and was given a brisk brushing, and its ears cleaned out with oily cotton wool twisted into a serviceable radish shape.

In between these frenzied spells of cleaning, Nelly took short walks. Sometimes, in order to get away from Albert, she took herself to Lulling and surveyed the shops, or called at the Job Centre, in case she would need to earn again. Sometimes, she strolled towards Lulling Woods, and once went as far as the Drovers' Arms and called on the Aliens, secretly hoping that there might be work for her there, if the oil man did not come up to scratch. But there was nothing there, as the Aliens made clear, softening the blow by giving her a cup of tea and Garibaldi biscuits, before she made the return journey.

Albert was more melancholy than ever, and Nelly was beginning to wonder how much longer she could stand the suspense of waiting, and the tedium of her husband's nagging.

When, one happy morning, Willie Marchant handed in the letter she had been waiting for, she was able to put it quickly into her overall pocket before Albert realised what was going on.

When he had departed to his duties at St Andrew's, she opened the envelope. The letter was short and to the point:

Dear Nelly,

Come on back, you old faggot.

Forgiven and forgotten.

Love,
Charlie

Nelly could have wept with relief. There was a man for you! Big-hearted, took life as it came, willing to forget and forgive! She wouldn't leave him again in a hurry, that was sure! Why, he'd even put 'Love' at the end! No doubt about it, Charlie was one in a million!