(6/13) Gossip from Thrush Green (2 page)

'I don't think Dotty has thought about that side of it. She told me that now that she was getting on it might be a good idea to train someone to take over from her, and look after the animals and the house.'

'The mind boggles,' said Winnie, at the thought of dear Dotty training
anyone.
'

'Well, she said it seemed a shame that she had no one to leave things to when she died, and it really could provide a
very
nice life for someone.'

'I am shocked to the core,' confessed Winnie. 'But there, we all know Dotty. She's probably forgotten about it by now, and is full of some other hare-brained scheme. '

'Let's hope so,' said Ella beginning to collect her bag and gloves. 'And that reminds me that I must get back to collect my goat's milk from her. She promised to call in about five-thirty with it, and I want her to choose some wool for a scarf. I've dug out my old hand loom, and I warn you now, Winnie dear, that all my friends will be getting a handwoven scarf next Christmas.'

'You are so kind,' said Winnie faintly, trying to remember how many lumpy scratchy scarves, of Ella's making, still remained unworn upstairs. Sometimes she wondered if fragments of heather and thistle remained in the wool. It was impossible to pass them on to the local jumble sales for Ella would soon come across them again in such a small community, and Winnie was too kind-hearted to inflict them upon such distant organisations as Chest and Heart Societies. Their members had quite enough to put up with already, she felt.

'By the way,' said Ella, turning at the front door, are you going to Violet's coffee morning? It's in aid of Distressed Gentlefolk.'

'I should think those three Lovelock sisters would qualify for that themselves,' observed Winnie.

'Don't you believe it,' said Ella forthrightly. 'With that treasure house around them? One day they'll be burgled, and then they really will be
distressed
, though no doubt they're well insured. Justin Venables will have seen to that.'

She set off down the wet path, a square stumpy figure, planting her sensible brogues heavily, her handwoven scarf swinging over her ample chest.

Winnie watched her departing figure affectionately.

'Yes, I'll be there,' she called, and closed the door upon the bleak world outside.

The Misses Lovelock, Violet, Ada and Bertha lived in a fine old house in Lulling High Street, less than a mile downhill from Thrush Green.

Here the three maiden ladies had been born at the beginning of the century, and here, presumably, they would one day die, unless some particularly forceful doctor could persuade them to end their days in one of the local hospitals.

They had been left comfortably off by their father, which was as well, as the house was large and needed a great deal of heating and maintenance. Not that they spent much on these last two items, and prudent visitors went warmly clothed when invited to the house, and could not help noticing that walls and woodwork were much in need of fresh paint.

The amount spent on food was even more meagre. The sisters seemed able to survive on thin bread and butter, lettuce when in season, and the occasional egg. Guests were lucky indeed if meat appeared on the table, not that the Lovelocks were vegetarians, but simply because meat was expensive and needed fuel and time to cook it. Most of their friends consumed a substantial sandwich before dining with the Lovelocks, or faced an evening of stomach rumblings whilst sipping weak coffee.

The extraordinary thing was that the house was crammed with valuable furniture, and with glass cabinets stuffed with antique silver and priceless porcelain. All three sisters had an eye for such things, and were shrewd bargainers. They were also quite shameless in asking for any attractive object which caught their eye in other people's houses, and this effrontery had stood them in good stead as a number of exquisite pieces in their collection proved. There were several people in Thrush Green and Lulling who cursed their momentary weakness in giving way to a wheedling Miss Ada or Miss Violet as they fingered some treasure which had taken their fancy.

On this particular afternoon, while Winnie was tidying away the tea things and Ella was unlocking her front door, the three sisters were sorting out an assortment of articles already delivered for the bring and buy stall at the coming coffee morning.

'I wonder,' said Violet pensively, if we should buy this in, dear?'

'Buying things in' was another well-known way of acquiring some desirable object. It really meant having first pick, as it were, at the preview, and many a donor had looked in vain for some pretty knick-knack on the stall when one or more of the Misses Lovelock had had a hand in the preparations.

Violet now held up a small silver-plated butter dish in the form of a shell.

Ada scrutinised it shrewdly.

'I think Joan Young sent it. Better not. It's only plate anyway.'

Violet replaced it reluctantly.

'Would you say fifty pence for these dreadful tea-cosies?' asked Bertha.

'Mrs Venables crocheted those,' said Ada reprovingly, 'and you know how her poor hands are crippled with arthritis. At least seventy pence, Bertha, in the circumstances.'

Bertha wrote three tickets for that amount. Ada always knew best.

A circular biscuit tin bearing portraits of King George V and Queen Mary proved to be a treasure chest of buttons, buckles, beads and other trifles.

The three white heads met over the box. Six skinny claws rattled the contents. Six eyes grew bright with desire.

'And who sent this?' enquired Bertha, anxious not to offend again.

'Miss Watson from the school,' replied Violet. She withdrew a long piece of narrow black ribbon studded with jet. 'How pretty this would look as an edging to my black blouse!'

'It would look better as a trimming on my evening bag,' said Bertha. She took hold of the other end.

'Miss Watson,' said Ada dreamily, 'will not be able to come to the coffee morning. These things were left her among a lot of other trifles, she told me, by her aunt in Birmingham.'

'Well, then — ' said Violet.

'In that case — ' said Bertha. Both ladies were a little pink in the face.

'Put it on one side,' said Ada, 'and we'll think about buying it in later. I see there are some charming jet buttons here too. They may have come from the same garment. A pity to part them, don't you think?'

Scrabbling happily, the three sisters continued their search, while outside the lamps came on in the High Street of Lulling, throwing pools of light upon the wet pavements, and the damp figures of those homeward bound.

One of the figures, head bent, and moving slowly towards the hill which led to Thrush Green, was that of St Andrew's Sexton, Albert Piggott, who lived alone in a cottage facing the church and conveniently next door to The Two Pheasants, Thrush Green's only public house.

Albert was always morose, but this evening his gloom was deeper than ever. Cursed with habitual indigestion which his diet of alcohol, meat pie and pickles did nothing to help, he had just been to collect a packet of pills from Lulling's chemist.

Doctor Lovell of Thrush Green, who had married Joan Young's sister and had served as a junior partner to Donald Bailey, was now the senior partner in the practice, and Albert Piggott was one of his oldest and most persistent patients. It was vain to try to get the irritable old man to change his ways. All that he could do was to vary his prescription now and again in the hope that Albert's tormented digestive tract would respond, at least temporarily, to new treatment.

'Plain bicarb, again, I don't doubt,' muttered Albert, slouching homeward. 'What I really needs is good hot meals.'

He thought wistfully of Nelly's cooking. Nelly, his wife, had left him—twice, to make it worse - and both times to share life with the oilman whose flashy good looks and honeyed words had attracted her on his weekly rounds.

Nelly now lived with her new partner on the south coast, and it was he who now enjoyed her superb steak and kidney puddings, succulent roasts, and well-spiced casseroles. The very thought of that chap's luck brought on Albert's indigestion.

Not that Albert lacked attention. In many ways, he was better off.

Nelly's cooking had tended to be rich, even by normal standards. She excelled with cheese sauces, fried potatoes, and creamy puddings. Her cakes were dark and moist with fruit, her sponge cakes were filled with butter icing, and more icing decorated the top. Doctor Lovell's pleas to her to provide plainer fare for her husband fell on deaf ears. Nelly was an artist. Butter, sugar and the best quality meat and dairy foods were her materials. She cooked, and Albert ate. Doctor Lovell hadn't a chance.

But since Nelly's departure, presumably for good this time, his daughter Molly had done her best to look after the old man.

She was married to a fine young fellow called Ben Curdle, and the couple lived nearby with their little boy George in a flat at the top of the Youngs' house. Ben was employed in Lulling, and Molly helped Joan in the house. The arrangement worked well, for Molly had been known to the Youngs for all their lives. They had rejoiced when Molly had finally succeeded in escaping, through marriage, from the clutches of her selfish old father. Now that she was back in Thrush Green they only hoped that she would not be so kind-hearted as to fall into the trap again.

Molly, wiser than Nelly, cooked with prudence for her father, leaving him light dishes of fish or eggs as recommended by the doctor. More often than not these offerings were given to the cat by Albert, in Molly's absence. He dismissed them as 'pappy stuff' and either went next door for his pie and beer, or used the unwashed frying pan to cook himself another meal of bacon and eggs.

At times Molly despaired. Ben took a realistic attitude to the problem.

'Lord knows he's old enough to know what's good for him. Let him go his own way. Don't upset yourself on his account. He never put himself out for you, did he?'

There was truth in this. Molly had enough to do with looking after Ben and George, and the housework. She loved being back in Thrush Green. The only snag was her obstinate old father. At times she wished that Nelly would return to look after him. Although she disliked her blowsy stepmother, at least Albert's cottage had been kept clean and he had been looked after.

Albert trudged up the hill, the rain slanting into his face from the north. Lights glowed from the cottage windows. A car swished by, splashing the old man's legs.

The bulk of St Andrew's church stood massively against the night sky.

Best lock up while I'm on me feet,' thought Albert, changing course towards the building. The door was ajar, but no one was inside.

Albert stood in the dark aisle looking towards the three shadowy windows behind the altar. The familiar church smell compounded of damp and brass polish met his nostrils. Somewhere a scuffling and squeaking broke the silence.

'Dratted mice!' exclaimed Albert, kicking a pew end.

Silence fell again.

Albert withdrew, clanging the heavy door behind him. From beneath the door mat he extracted the enormous key. He locked the door, and stuffed the key into his pocket to take across to the house for the night.

Standing in the shelter of the porch he surveyed the view through the rain. His own cottage, directly opposite, was in darkness. The Two Pheasants was not yet open, although he could see the landlord moving about in the bar.

Beside the pub stood the village school, the playground now deserted and swept by gusts of rain. A light was on in the main schoolroom which meant that Betty Bell was busy clearing up the day's mess. There was a light too downstairs in the school house where Miss Watson, the head mistress, and Miss Fogerty, her assistant, were sitting snugly by the fire discussing school matters in the home they shared.

Almost hidden from Albert's view by the angle of the porch was the fine house which stood next door to the school. Here lived Harold Shoosmith, a bachelor until his sixties, but now newly married, and very content. There were lights upstairs and down, and the porch light too was on.

Albert grunted disapprovingly.

'Waste of electric,' he said aloud. 'Money to burn, no doubt.'

He hauled his large watch from his pocket and squinted at the illuminated dial. Still a quarter of an hour to go before old Jones opened up. Might as well go home and hang up the key, and take a couple of these dratted pills.

Clutching his coat around him, Albert set off through the downpour.

2. Friends and Relations

A
N
hour or two later, as Albert Piggott sipped his beer and warmed his legs by the fire at The Two Pheasants, his daughter Molly tucked up young George, and then went to the window to look out upon Thrush Green.

Rain spattered the glass. The sash window rattled in its frame against the onslaught of the wind. The lights of the pub were reflected in long puddles in the roadway, and the leafless trees scattered drops as their branches were tossed this way and that.

It was a beast of a night, thought Molly, but she loved Thrush Green, whatever the weather. For the first few years of her marriage she had accompanied Ben on his tour of towns and villages with the small travelling fair which had once been owned by his grandmother, the redoubtable Mrs. Curdle, who had also brought up the boy. She now lay in St Andrew's churchyard, her grave lovingly tended by her grandson.

It grieved Ben to part with the famous fair, but it was the only thing to do. Customs and fashions change. A small family fair could not compete with bingo halls and television, and in the end Ben had sold it, and had taken a job with a firm of agricultural engineers. Molly's happiness was a joy to see, and Ben was content.

Or was he? Molly pondered upon this question as she gazed upon the dark wet world. Never by word or sign had he shown any regret for the life he had given up, but Molly sometimes wondered if he missed the travelling, the change of scene, the renewing of friendships in the towns where the fair rested.