(6/13) Gossip from Thrush Green (19 page)

The evening was warm and windless, and the guests wandered about in the garden congratulating Harold and Isobel on their superbly mown lawns and weedless garden beds.

'All Harold's doing,' Isobel told them. 'I'm just the dead-header of roses and pansies—a very lowly assistant gardener.'

'Any news about your new home?' enquired Anthony Bull of Charles, as they stood together under a copper beech tree.

'I gather there is some debate about building a smaller place on the old site, or finding a readymade establishment and selling the existing plot. I suppose that the land might command a good price, although I know very little about these things.'

'It is not very big,' observed Anthony. 'I wonder if it would fetch a good price. Doubtful, I should think. But tell me, are you comfortable at Mrs Jenner's?'

Charles's chubby face was lit with a smile.

'Incredibly comfortable! Dimity and I had no idea one could be so warm and happy. The windows face south, you know, and the light is wonderful. I never need to put on my desk light when I am writing. I can't get over the joy of it.'

'It's a house I've always admired,' said Anthony. 'Much the same age as our vicarage. Those eighteenth century builders knew what they were doing, didn't they?'

'Without a doubt,' agreed Charles. 'Without a doubt. Although I grieve for our poor departed home, I'm just beginning to realise that it was badly designed, and dear Dimity must have put up with most uncomfortable surroundings, without a word of complaint.'

'Ah! You married an angel, Charles, and I did too. We are fortunate fellows.'

Phyllida Hurst came up to them.

'Good news! The Thomases' baby arrived yesterday. A boy, and Jack sounded so pleased on the telephone. Wasn't it sweet of him to ring?'

'A charming young man, I thought,' said Charles. 'And of course he would let you know. After all, they were greatly obliged to you for letting them have Tullivers.'

Anthony Bull had walked away to have a word with Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty. Phil spoke rapidly.

'I've only just discovered that the other young couple must have been a sore disappointment to you all.'

'Really?' replied Charles, his face puckered with bewilderment. 'I hardly saw them, I must confess.'

'They were on drugs, you know.'

'The sort you smoke?'

'I gather so.'

'That must have been the peculiar smell I noticed when I called. I thought it was something cooking—herbs, I imagined, of some sort.'

'Well, that's one way of looking at it!'

'How did you find out? Did Jack Thomas tell you?'

'No. Jeremy did.'

Jeremy!
' exclaimed the rector, 'but how on earth—?'

'One of the boys at school has an older sister who has been on the stuff. She knew that the Thomases' friends bought it, and told her brother who told Jeremy evidently. I gather she's given it up now, thank God. Foolish girl to start, of course.'

'Well, you have surprised me,' said Charles. 'I can only hope that the other two will follow her example. And I am delighted to hear about the baby. Do congratulate the Thomases for us, if you are in touch.'

His eye alighted on the three Lovelock sisters who were admiring two small silver dishes containing nuts.

'Ah, do excuse me, Phyllida. I must have a word with the Lovelock girls. I haven't seen them since the burglary.'

He hastened away. Phil noted the predatory gleam in Miss Violet's eye as she put back the little dish on the table.

Was she already replacing their lost collection wondered Phil? She hastily quashed the unworthy thought, and went to talk to Joan Young.

Later that evening Dorothy Watson and Agnes Fogerty rested in their sitting room and discussed the excitement of the party.

'I thought that Joan Young looked very well in that bottle green frock. A very pretty neckline.'

Dorothy had a great eye for dress, as Agnes knew, and took enormous interest in the clothes of others. Agnes herself was content to be clean and respectable, but ever enthralled to hear her friend's comments on others' appearance.

'And did you notice,' continued Dorothy, 'that Ada Lovelock's evening bag was freshly adorned with some jet edging which looked to me remarkably like the stuff I sent to be sold at her recent coffee morning? I have never known such greed as those Lovelock sisters show when it comes to gewgaws.'

'You can't call all their lovely things
gewgaws
,' protested Agnes. 'And in any case, you can't be sure that the trimming was the material you sent.'

'Agnes dear, I am quite sure,' said Dorothy firmly. 'I am the first to admire your fair-mindedness, but you must not deceive yourself. That trimming was undoubtedly
appropriated
, one might say
purloined
, by the Lovelocks, well before the coffee morning.'

That's as maybe,' agreed Agnes, 'but the poor souls have suffered terribly from the loss of all their beautiful things, and I do think that they might be forgiven for buying in that jet edging. They might easily be in a state of shock.'

They've been in that particular state of shock ever since I've known them,' said Dorothy. 'However, they're much too old to change their ways now, so we won't waste time in censuring them. Agnes dear, after all that sherry I'm uncommonly thirsty. Do you think a glass of fresh orange juice would be a good idea for us?'

'Of course it would,' said Agnes, getting up at once. 'Keep your legs up, my dear, you have been standing quite long enough, while I get us both a drink.'

One day, thought Dorothy, watching her friend bustling towards the kitchen, I hope I shall be able to repay the kindness of that completely selfless soul. But will it ever be possible?

A few mornings later, Charles Henstock sat at his desk and gazed out at the sunlit garden. He was attempting to write next Sunday's sermon, always a difficult task, and not made any easier on this gorgeous June day by all the happy distractions outside the window.

A blue tit, with a mimosa yellow breast, clung to the coconut half which swung from a branch of the old plum tree. His antics were as delightful as they were graceful. A bullyboy of a blackbird bustled below, chasing all the other groundlings away from the crumbs which fell from the tit's energetic assault on the coconut.

Above, a tiny silver aeroplane ruled a fast-fading line across the blue sky, and over in Percy Hodge's field a red and white cow sat chewing the cud with the same vague bliss in its surroundings which now enveloped the good rector. And curled up in the chair beside him was their cat, which had settled down at Mrs Jenner's as happily as they had themselves.

Dimity had gone to Lulling to shop and Charles found his new abode very quiet. Dimity's parting words had been to the effect that he would have peace in which to compose his sermon.

He certainly had that, he thought, putting down his pen and propping his head on his hand. How pretty the young leaves looked on the plum tree! How beautifully fashioned was the wing of the fluttering tit! How vivid the beak of the blackbird!

This was a very pleasant place to live, and he thanked God humbly for leading him to such a haven after the tragedy of the fire. Where, eventually, would his home be, he wondered yet again? It was surely time that he heard something from the Church. Anthony Bull, who always seemed to be so much better informed about things, had said that the new rearrangements of the parishes may have held up Charles's particular problem, but it was all rather unsettling. One would like to know one's future.

The good rector sighed, and picked up his pen again. He must make a start at least before Dimity returned. A great black rook now alighted on the grass and began to sidle timidly towards a crust thrown out by Mrs Jenner. The small birds took no notice of this formidable figure in their midst.

The rector decided suddenly to turn his observant idling to good account. His sermon should be about the joy of living in the present, and of looking at the wonders around. Did not Our Lord Himself tell his followers not to worry about the morrow, what they should eat, what they should put on?

Now inspired, Charles began to settle down to his writing and to sharing his own happiness with his beloved parishioners.

While he was busy scribbling, Molly Curdle was being driven in the local taxi to the County Hospital for an ante-natal examination. Doctor Lovell felt certain that all was well, but decided that a check on his own findings would be a sensible precaution at the splendid new maternity wing.

Joan Young would have taken her but had promised to go to a Women's Institute meeting in the neighbouring county. This involved lunching with the as-yet-unknown president, delivering her talk, judging the monthly competition—almost as hazardous and thankless a task as judging a baby show—and then driving back some twenty-five miles. Arthur Tranter was taking her place.

He was a cheerful man, some years older than Molly, but they had both attended Thrush Green School, and knew each other fairly well.

She sat beside him in the taxi, and they chatted amicably of this and that. Molly was careful not to mention her condition and congratulated herself on her still trim figure. However, she need not have troubled to hide anything from the percipient Mr Tranter.

'Havin' the baby up the County then?' he remarked conversationally.

'Possibly,' said Molly.

'I'll take you up if you want me to,' offered he.

'I gets no end of young mums to take there from Lulling. Bit far though, I always think. Too far sometimes for some of 'em. I've brought three into this world in my time, so you don't need to worry.'

Molly remained silent.

'I always say they can name 'em after the old taxi. Maurice, say, or Austin—both good names. I had a Cadillac once, bought off of an American chap up the air base, but none of the mums would name their kids after that. Might be called Cad for short, see?'

He roared with laughter at his own joke, unaffected by Molly's disapproval. She was glad when they began to run through the suburbs of the county town. It was quite bad enough having to face a strange doctor without Arthur's coarse remarks.

'You'll want the ante-natal, love, won't you? I'll be waiting. I've got a flask of coffee and today's paper so don't worry if you're held up. You never can tell with hospitals, can you?'

'No, indeed,' agreed Molly tremulously. Now that they had actually stopped outside the door, fear gripped her, and distasteful as she found Arthur Tranter at least he was an old acquaintance and a link with all that was familiar at distant Thrush Green.

As if he guessed her thoughts, he leant out and patted her arm.

'Cheer up, duck. All be over in next to no time, and we'll step on it and get you home before you have time to turn round.'

She gave him a grateful smile, and went in to face the trial ahead.

14. After The Storm

T
HE
beautiful spell of June weather broke with a violent thunderstorm one torrid night. Lightning flickered eerily for several hours before the thunder asserted itself, and the rain began to rattle on the parched earth. Gutters gurgled, rivulets rippled down the hill to Lulling, and water butts, which had stood empty for weeks, filled rapidly.

So violent was the storm about three o'clock that Harold and Isobel decided that a cup of tea would be a very good thing, and Harold went down to make it. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he surveyed the wet world of Thrush Green through the window.

Other people were awake too, it seemed. There was a dim light at Tullivers, and Harold guessed correctly that it had been put on to allay young Jeremy's fears. There was another light at Ella Bembridge's. No doubt, thought Harold, she is brewing tea, as I am.

No lights showed otherwise. Presumably the Youngs, the Bassetts, Winnie Bailey, Jenny and all the other good folk of Thrush Green, were either deep in slumber or riding out the storm in the darkness of their bedrooms.

Harold thought, not for the first time, how fortunate he had been to settle at Thrush Green. Thousands of miles away when he was in business, he had first heard of this tiny English village, the birthplace of Nathaniel Patten, a zealous missionary, whose work Harold admired deeply. It was Harold who had been instrumental in raising funds to buy the fine statue of Thrush Green's most distinguished son. He could see it now, glinting as the lightning lit the view. It was good to think that such a good fellow was properly honoured, and Harold was proud of his part in the affair.

He had not bargained though for the generous welcome he had received from the inhabitants of his chosen village. That was a bonus. He had found several people, much of his own age and interests, in this little community who had now become firm friends. He thought with affection and gratitude of the Henstocks, the Baileys, the Hursts, and many others who had made his path here so pleasant. He was lucky to have such good neighbours and Betty Bell to minister to his domestic comfort.

But luckiest of all, he told himself, as he attended to the boiling kettle, was the stroke of good fortune which had come unwittingly through little Agnes Fogerty next door. Her friendship with Isobel, her old college connection, had given him his wife, and a happiness he had never dared to hope for at his age.