(5/13) Return to Thrush Green (9 page)

Ben nodded understandingly.

'I've been thinking too. I reckon we've got to face staying put, and if you want that place to be Thrush Green, then that suits me. But not in this house, love, and not until we can get a place of our own.'

'But when will that be?' cried Molly, in despair. 'All we've got is the fair, and would you ever want to give it up?'

'It looks as though I might have to,' said Ben slowly, and began to tell her the problems and plans which had been plaguing him for the last few months.

She listened in silence, and then put her hand on his.

'You did right to tell me. You shouldn't have kept all this to yourself, Ben. We'll put our heads together and work out what's best to be done, and find out more from Dick Hasler too. You see, something'll turn up.'

A heavy thumping came from the bedroom above them.

'That's Dad,' said Molly. 'I promised him a cup of tea, and clean forgot it.'

She crossed to the sink.

'You go and earn some honest pennies over the fair there,' she smiled at Ben. 'We're going to need 'em in the future.'

Some sixty miles away, Robert and Milly Bassett were rejoicing in the doctor's verdict that a journey to Thrush Green could be undertaken at any time.

'But watch it!' he warned. 'Keep those tablets in your pocket, and don't ignore any warning signs. I have been in touch with your son-in-law, Doctor Lovell, and I know you will be well looked after.'

'And I intend to do the driving,' said Milly. 'Not on the motorway though. We'll take the old road, and stop at our old haunts on the way.'

'Good idea. But he's quite fit to drive, you know, as long as he stops if he feels the least bit tired.'

'I shall ring Joan tonight,' said Milly, when the doctor had gone. 'Won't it be lovely to see Thrush Green again?'

'I can't get there fast enough,' confessed Robert. 'Now that I know the business is safe in Frank's hands I have just given up worrying about it completely. It's wonderful to look forward to something. That's been half the trouble, I realize now, thinking about what one has done, or ought to have done, instead of looking ahead with hope. Thrush Green is going to set me up, and I'm not going to be such a fool as to jeopardise my health again. Life's too good to waste.'

'Come on Friday,' Joan said, when her mother telephoned. 'Everything's waiting, and everyone here wants to see you. Don't be surprised if all the flags are out!'

As it happened, Isobel's letter was not opened until after dinner time, for when Miss Fogerty entered her classroom she found that the fish tank had sprung a leak, and that the three goldfish (named Freeman, Hardy and Willis by the adoring class), were gasping in a bare inch of water.

Miss Fogerty rushed for a bucket of water, and the net to catch the luckless fish, and spent a busy ten minutes on this errand of mercy and mopping up the floor and cupboard.

The children were entranced at the mess and added to the confusion by trying to help with their handkerchiefs, hastily-removed socks, and any other unsuitable piece of material which they could press into service. The amount of water which had come from one small tank was prodigious, and seemed to spread right across the room as well as flooding the cupboard below it. Naturally, it was the cupboard holding piles of new exercise books, the term's supply of coloured gummed squares, now living up to their name, tissue-paper, drawing paper, and thick paper used for painting. It was all most vexatious, and Miss Watson would not be pleased when she had to beg for more supplies, thought poor Agnes, wringing out the floorcloth.

She took her class across the playground, to the main building for morning prayers, and was obliged to postpone her account of the disaster until after assembly. Usually, she and Miss Watson had a minute or two together before Miss Fogerty seated herself at the ancient upright piano. Neither Miss Watson, nor any other member of the staff over the past ten years, seemed to have learned to play the piano, so that Miss Fogerty was obliged to face the music every morning.

Today Miss Watson was called to the telephone, and arrived a few minutes late. However, she faced the children with her usual calm smile, and prayers began.

Miss Fogerty noted that the hymn was not one of her favourites.

Raindrops are our diamonds
And the morning dew,
While for shining sapphires
We've the speedwell blue.

What was more, the thing was in four flats, a key which Miss Fogerty detested. However, she did her best, noticing yet again how sharp the older children's voices became towards the end of the hymn.

As the children were led away to their classrooms, Agnes told her headmistress of her misfortune.

'How tiresome,' said Miss Watson, 'and it would be dreadfully wasteful to have to throw away so much good material! I think you had better spread out the sheets separately, Agnes dear, and dry them as best you can. We simply can't waste things.'

And easier said than done, thought Agnes rebelliously, as she crossed the playground. There were mighty few places to spread hundreds of sheets of wet paper in her classroom, and every time the door opened they would blow to the floor, and the children would rush to collect them, as well Miss Watson knew. There had been a chiding note too in her headmistress's voice, which annoyed her usually submissive assistant. Did she think that she had purposely damaged the fish tank? Good heavens, surely she wasn't being accused of wilful damage, or even of neglect? It was simply an act of God, well, perhaps not of God, thought Agnes hurriedly. He cared for all creatures after all, and must grieve for those poor fish who had been almost literally at their last gasp. No, it was a Complete Accident, she told herself firmly, and the only thing to db was to borrow another tank immediately for the poor things, and to endeavour to get her excited children into a calmer state of mind, ready for a good morning's work.

Consequently, it was not until cold mutton with jacket potatoes, followed by pink blancmange, had been dispatched that Miss Fogerty was at liberty to take out Isobel's letter in the peace of her empty classroom and read the news.

It gave her much food for thought, and distracted her attention for a while from her damp surroundings.

She was contemplating a move, Isobel wrote. Now that she was alone it seemed silly to keep up such a large house. The fuel bills alone were horrifying. The garden was far too big, and dear old Bates, who had come twice a week for more years than she cared to remember, had just told her that he must give up.

She would like to return to the Cotswolds, and proposed to look out for a small house, preferably in the Thrush Green area. Not that she was going to
rush
things. If possible, could kind Mrs White put her up for, say, a week while she got in touch with local estate agents? She would much prefer to stay there, in Agnes's company, than put up at the Fleece in Lulling. Hotel life was rather noisy at night, and the Fleece had no really quiet lounge during the day. Also it was a good distance from Agnes's house, and it was she that Isobel wanted to see, of course. But perhaps Agnes could find out if Mrs White would be agreeable?

Little Miss Fogerty shook her head sadly when she read that paragraph. Mrs White, she knew, would not be able to accommodate her old friend, for an ailing aunt now occupied the spare bedroom and looked like remaining there for some time to come.

The main news, of course, was wonderfully exciting. To think that Isobel might one day be her neighbour! It would be lovely to have her so close. She knew several people in Thrush Green and Lulling, and it was not very far from the Stow area where some of her relations still lived. How she hoped that Isobel would soon find somewhere suitable! She would help her with the move, of course. Perhaps next summer holidays?

Agnes's mind ran ahead happily, anticipating the joys to come. The only snag was this visit in the near future.

Where could she lodge? Mentally, Agnes reviewed the accommodation available near at hand. The Two Pheasants would never do. If Isobel thought the Fleece noisy, she would find the Two Pheasants insupportable, and there had been occasions when men had emerged
drunk
at closing time. Miss Watson, who lived so close to it, had told her so, and said how disagreeable it was.

She toyed with the idea of asking Miss Watson if she could put up her friend for a week. The two ladies had met, and enjoyed each other's company. But Agnes was not at all sure that Miss Watson deserved to have the honour of having Isobel as a paying guest, after her heartless handling of this morning's mishap.

Besides, Miss Watson had a brother who occasionally called unexpectedly, and the room might be needed for him.

And then little Miss Fogerty had a brainwave. She would call on the dear rector and see if he knew of likely lodgings. He and Dimity knew Isobel quite well, and had invited her to tea and bridge on several occasions. They would know the sort of place which would suit her. Somewhere in the parish there must be someone who would like to let a room to a charming, considerate lady like dear Isobel.

Out in the playground a whistle shrilled, and the children's roaring, whilst not actually stilled, was certainly diminished in volume.

Miss Fogerty put away her letter and her private problems, and went out to meet her class.

By mid-week, Albert Piggott was considerably worse, and was confined to his bed.

Doctor Lovell said that it would be wise for him to stay indoors for the rest of the week. His breathing was giving him pain, and he was seriously under weight, the legacy of a year or so's catering, or rather non-catering, for himself.

The wind had veered to the north-east, and Albert himself had forecast that it would stay in that quarter until Whitsun.

'You mark my words, gal,' he wheezed. 'We shan't have no more rain for a bit, but just this pesky dryin' wind to keep the buds from openin'. Won't get no bees venturing out in this cold weather.'

'Nor you, Dad,' said Molly, tucking in the bed clothes. 'You stay there, and I'll do my best to feed you up, like Doctor Lovell said.'

'It's no good,' she told Ben later. 'I'll have to stop here at least until the end of the week. You'll have to go on to Banbury alone. He's not fit to be left yet.'

Ben was philosophical about it. This had happened before, and was likely to happen again. It brought home to both of them the necessity to find a house and a job somewhere near the old man.

'One thing, our George isn't at school yet. Won't hurt him to stay here a few days. He's better off with you in the warm, than following me around in this wind.'

Albert Piggott was not a good patient. He never ceased to remind poor Molly that it was the unnecessary bathing which had reduced him to his present plight.

He toyed with the food which Molly so carefully prepared, pouring contumely upon such dainties as steamed fish and egg custard which he dismissed as 'dam' slops'. Molly had to stand over him to make sure that he took his medicine every four hours. He took to throwing off the bedclothes, complaining of heat, and occasionally hung out of the window in his flimsy pyjamas 'to get a breath of air'.

Molly was sometimes in despair. Only the threat of calling in the district nurse or, worse still, getting the old man into Lulling Cottage Hospital, kept her irascible patient in some sort of submission.

The fair was due to go on the Thursday. She spent the time washing and ironing Ben's clothes and packing the caravan with groceries and homemade pies and cakes.

'Lord!' commented Ben. 'How long am I supposed to be alone? I'll be back for you and George next Monday, I reckon. I'll never get through that lot in a month of Sundays.'

'You never know,' said Molly. 'You give me a ring Monday morning at the Two Pheasants. I've fixed it with Bob. Then we can see how things are.'

That afternoon she remembered, with shame, that she had not called to see the Youngs where she had worked so happily. She left her father asleep, took George by the hand, and walked across the green to the lovely old house.

The buds of May were being violently assaulted by the rough wind. Dry leaves of last autumn were flying pell-mell across the grass, and a great roaring came from the branches of the chestnut trees. Little eddies of dust whirled like miniature sand storms in the road, and the smoke from a bonfire in Harold Shoosmith's garden blew in a rapidly moving cloud towards the distant Lulling Woods.

It was a thoroughly unpleasant afternoon, and Molly was glad to gain the shelter of the walled garden. She made her way to the back door, and rang the bell. Joan opened it and enveloped her in a warm hug.

'Wonderful to see you. I meant to call, but heard Albert wasn't well, and thought you might be rather busy. Tell me the news.'

The two sat at the kitchen table where Joan had been ironing and gossiped happily. Molly looked with affection at her old place of work. Nothing much had changed, and she commented on it with pleasure.

Joan told her about her parents' visit. Molly, in turn, told her about their hopes to find a settled job one day.

'I'll keep my ears open,' Joan promised her. 'I know how clever Ben is with his hands. It shouldn't be difficult to find a job. The house business will be more difficult, I suspect, but I won't forget, and if I hear of anything I shall get in touch.'