(6/13) Gossip from Thrush Green (10 page)

Should he, or should he not, go downstairs, take one of his indigestion tablets and make a cup of tea? It was on occasions like this that he missed a wife. It would have been the simplest thing to have aroused Nelly with a sharp dig of the elbow and to recount to her the overwhelming pain which he was suffering—pain which could only be assuaged by recourse to medicine and a hot drink—and which was too severe to allow him to fetch those ameliorations himself.

However, Nelly was not in his bed, but presumably in that of the oil man who had supplanted him in his fickle wife's affections. If he wanted medical attention he would have to supply it himself.

Muttering to himself, he climbed out of bed, a thin unsavoury figure clad in pants and vest, for Albert scorned such effete practices as changing from dayclothes into night attire, and stumbled down the stairs. His little cat, as thin, but far cleaner, than his master, greeted him with a mew, and was pleasantly surprised to be given a saucer of milk when Albert took the bottle from the cupboard.

The kettle seemed to take an unconscionable time to boil, and Albert gazed out of the kitchen window to the bulk of the church across the way.

It was as bright as day now that the moon was high and nearly full. It shone upon the rows of tomb stones which now lined the stubby walls of the churchyard, and lit up the Gothic windows facing towards Lulling. Sharp black shadows fell across the dewy grass, and even Albert's meagre appreciation of natural beauty was stirred by the sight.

He made the tea, poured out a mugful and took it back to bed with the bottle of tablets.

Propped up against the greasy pillow he sipped noisily, relishing the comfort of the hot liquid flowing into his tormented stomach. Two tablets were washed down, as he surveyed the moonlit bedroom.

He became conscious of the smell of smoke. It was very faint, and he dismissed it as coming from the last embers of the bonfire he had seen Harold Shoosmith making that morning. Nothing to do with him, anyway, thought Albert, depositing his empty mug on the linoleum.

The pain was now lulled into submission. Albert belched comfortably, turned over, and fell asleep.

Below, in the kitchen, the cat licked the last delicious drops of Albert's bounty, washed his face, and then set out, through the open kitchen window, upon the business of the night.

An hour later, Harold Shoosmith smelt the smoke. Could his bonfire be responsible? Surely, it had been out by tea time when he had conscientiously stirred the remnants? Nevertheless, bonfires occasionally had the disconcerting habit of resuscitating themselves and, apart from the danger, it was a pity if the beauty of such a night was being fouled by smoke of his making.

In the adjoining bed, his wife Isobel slept peacefully. He slipped quietly from his own, and made his way to the bathroom which overlooked the garden where the rogue bonfire had been lit.

All was peaceful. He could see the empty incinerator quite clearly in the light of the moon. Not even a wisp of smoke curled from it, he noted with relief.

But where then was the fire? Had Miss Watson or the landlord of The Two Pheasants been burning garden rubbish? As far as he could see, their gardens were as clear as his own, although some smoke began to drift across from some conflagration farther along the green towards the south, even as he watched.

He ran, now seriously alarmed, into the spare bedroom whose side window looked across to the church and rectory.

To his horror, he saw that the smoke was pouring from the roof of the Henscocks' house, and before he could close the window a cracking report rent the air, the ridge of the vicarage roof dipped suddenly, and a great flame leapt into the air illuminating billowing clouds of thick smoke.

He ran downstairs, and Isobel woke to hear him crying:

The fire brigade! And quickly! Thrush Green rectory is well ablaze!'

She heard the receiver slammed down, and within two seconds Harold was dragging trousers over his pyjamas and fighting his way into a pullover.

I'll come and help,' said Isobel, reaching for her clothes.

Within five minutes a little knot of helpers was gathered at the blaze. The sight was awe-inspiring. The collapse of part of the roof had let in air which intensified the conflagration. Flames were now shooting skyward, and the upstairs windows showed a red glow. Smoke poured from the main bedroom window, and there were terrifying reports as the glass cracked in the heat.

Mr Jones, the landlord of The Two Pheasants was organising a chain of water carriers from the tap in his bar, and Albert Piggott, stomach pains forgotten, had trundled out an archaic fire-fighting contraption which had been kept in the vestry since the second world war and had never been used since the time when a small incendiary bomb had set light to the tassels of the bell ropes, and an adjacent pile of copies of Stainer's 'Crucifixion', in 1942.

This relic, when attached to a nearby hydrant well-hidden in nettles in the churchyard spouted water at a dozen spots along its perished length and saturated several onlookers.

'Get the dam' thing out of the way!' yelled Harold Shoosmith. 'We'll have someone falling over it!'

He and several other men, including Edward Young, the architect, and Ben Curdle, were busy removing furniture, books and papers, and anything they could grab downstairs, before the inevitable happened and the whole top floor collapsed. These were being piled, well away from danger, by willing hands. Ella Bembridge, for once without a cigarette in her mouth, worked as stoutly as the men, and would have forced her way into the building to collect some of Dimity's treasures, if she had not been forbidden to do so by Harold, who had taken charge with all the ready authority of one who had spent his life organising others.

The welcome sound of the fire brigade's siren sent people scattering to allow its access across the grass to the blazing house. It was a joy to see the speed and economy of effort with which the hoses were turned on.

This started some hours ago, by the look of things,' said the captain to Harold. I can't think how it went undetected for so long.'

Harold explained that the house was empty, and at that moment a second fire engine arrived from Nidden, and started work at the side of the building where the flames seemed thickest.

A terrible roaring sound began to emanate from the doomed building, and the bystanders were ordered to get well away. With a thunderous rumbling the top floor of the rectory now collapsed. Sparks, smoke and flames poured into the air, and the heat became intense. People began to cough in the acrid air, and to rub eyes reddened with smoke and tears.

Now, it was quite obvious, nothing more could be rescued. The rector's modest possessions which were still inside the house must be consumed by the fire. It was a tragedy that few could bear to witness, and Winnie Bailey, in dressing gown and Wellingtons, led the redoubtable Ella away to her own house across the green. It was the only time she had seen her old friend in tears.

At first light, the people of Thrush Green gazed appalled at the havoc left by the events of the past twelve hours. Blackened stones and the gaunt charred remains of beams smoked in the morning air. Dirty rivulets of water moved sluggishly towards the gutters at the roadside, and puddles surrounded the remains of the Henstocks' home.

A tarpaulin had been thrown over the pathetic remnants which had been snatched from the blaze, and Harold had arranged for them to be stored in his garage and garden shed out of the weather's harm.

'I think Ella has Charles's telephone number,' he told Edward as the two begrimed and exhausted men were returning to their homes. 'But what about Hilda and Edgar? Aren't they due today?'

'Good Lord! I believe they are,' agreed Edward. 'I'll see if Joan knows anything about them. But first things first, old man. Bath and then coffee. Then a couple of hours' sleep for me—and you too, I recommend.'

'You're right. No point in ringing Charles and Dimity until about eight or nine. It's a tragic business, and particularly wretched when they are having one of their few breaks. Shall I ring or will you?'

'Do you mind tackling it? I'm supposed to be on the 9.30 train to London tomorrow—I mean, this morning—for a meeting.'

'Of course, I'll do it. Poor old Charles, it will break his heart, I fear.'

Four hours later, he sat in his study and rang the Yorkshire number. As he listened to the bell ringing so far away he

wondered how on earth one could break such appalling news to a friend.

He was amazed to find how tired he was after the night's activities. Muscles he had never noticed before seemed to have sprung into painful evidence. His eyes were still sore, and the hairs on his arms were singed. As for his finger nails, despite energetic use of the nail brush, he had not seen them so grimy and broken since his schooldays.

Luckily, it was Charles who answered the telephone, Harold had already rehearsed what he should do if Dimity had lifted the receiver. Charles would have to be summoned. This was the sort of thing the men must cope with, thought Harold, true to his Victorian principles.

'Nice to hear you,' was the rector's opening remark. 'You're up early. Everything all right at your end?'

'I'm afraid not. Charles, I have to tell you some bad news. Are you sitting down?'

'Sitting down?' came the bewildered reply.

'Because this is going to be a shock,' continued Harold doggedly. There was a bad accident here last night.'

'No! Not anyone hurt! Not
killed,
Harold, don't say that!'

'Nothing like that. Perhaps
accident
was the wrong word. The fact is, your house has been badly damaged by fire.'

There was a brief silence.

'Hello!' shouted Harold. You there, Charles?'

'Yes, yes. But I can't have heard right. The house damaged by fire? How badly?'

I hate to tell you—but it is completely gutted. I think it is quite beyond repair, Charles, as you will see.'

'I can't take it in. I really can't,' said the poor rector. How could it have happened? We switched off everything, I'm sure, and we hadn't had a fire in the grate for days. Surely, no one would be so wicked as to set fire to the place?'

'I'm sure it wasn't that,' said Harold. 'I just felt you should know that our spare room is waiting for you and Dimity when you return, and could you tell us where to get in touch with Hilda and Edgar?'

'Oh dear, oh dear,' wailed Charles. 'How perfectly dreadful! Of course, they were due to arrive today, and I've no idea how we can get in touch. They were breaking their journey down to have a day or two in the midlands. Wait now, they were going to visit a cousin in hospital. In Coventry, I think Edgar said. Beyond that, I know nothing, but we shall start for home—'

The rector's voice broke, and Harold distinctly heard a sniff before he resumed.

'We'll be back during the day, Harold, and our deepest thanks for offering us shelter tonight. What a terrible affair. I must go and break it to dear Dimity, and then we must clear up things here, and set off for Thrush Green without delay.'

'We shall look forward to seeing you,' said Harold.

'And Harold,' said Charles in a firmer tone, 'I very much appreciate your telling me the news so kindly. It couldn't have been easy. You have prepared us to face whatever awaits us there, quite wonderfully.'

He rang off, and Harold went to tell Isobel how well he had taken it, and to make another assault upon his finger nails.

Joan Young came over to the Shoosmiths' house as soon as Edward had departed from London.

I thought I'd offer to track down Hilda and Edgar,' she said. In any case, they can stop with us until things get sorted out. If only we knew how to get hold of them!'

'I thought of ringing hospitals in Coventry and asking if Mr and Mrs Maddox were expected,' said Harold.

'Well, yes,' agreed Joan doubtfully, 'but do hospitals usually ask the names of visitors? It's such a shot in the dark.'

'Perhaps they could relay a message to the wards asking if anyone was expecting a visit from them. Is that possible, do you think?'

'It sounds highly unlikely,' said Joan, 'but I'll go back and put out a few feelers.'