(6/13) Gossip from Thrush Green (20 page)

Balancing the tray with great care, Harold mounted the stairs, ignoring a crash of thunder which rattled all the window panes.

Isobel, as beautiful as ever, was sitting up in bed, serenely ignoring the violence which raged outside.

'A quarter past three,' she exclaimed, catching sight of the bedside clock. 'What a time to be drinking tea!'

'Anytime,' Harold told her, 'is time to be drinking tea.'

Some half mile to the west, out of sight of Thrush Green, Dotty Harmer was awakened by the din and lay worrying about her animal charges.

Would Dulcie, the goat, be alarmed by the storm? She was of a nervous disposition, and goats were generally acknowledged to be sensitive to climatic conditions. The chickens and ducks were much more phlegmatic by nature, and were no doubt quite unperturbed in their roosts. As for the many cats, they always took events very philosophically, and dear old Flossie, apart from flinching at any particularly ferocious roll of thunder, seemed quite calm at the end of Dotty's bed.

No, it was dear Dulcie that was her chief worry. Possessed of enormous strength and sleeping in a somewhat battered shed, even by Dotty's standards, she might well crash her way out and do extensive damage to her own and her neighbours' gardens.

There was no help for it, Dotty told herself, but to get up and investigate. The rain lashed against the cottage windows, the wind howled, and the lightning was alarming, but Dotty knew where her duty lay, and clambered out of bed.

She went as she was, barefoot and in her nightgown, down the stairs, followed by the faithful Flossie. In the kitchen she thrust her feet into Wellingtons and dragged on her old mackintosh.

As a token concession to the elements she also tied a scarf over her skimpy grey locks, took a torch, and set off to Dulcie's shed.

The onslaught of the rain quite took her breath away, but she battled down the path beneath the flailing branches of the old fruit trees, which scattered showers of water and leaves with every gust of wind.

She looked into the hens' house and, apart from some squawks from her disturbed charges, all seemed well. No sound came from the ducks' shelter, and Dotty decided to leave well alone.

She struggled on, and was suddenly aware of what hard work it was. Her legs seemed leaden. Her heart raced. Water ran down her face from the already sodden scarf, but she pressed on.

By the light of the torch she saw that Dulcie was sitting down. Her chain was slack and in good order, and she was licking a lump of rock salt with evident enjoyment.

'Dear thing,' said Dotty. 'Good Dulcie! Just ignore this dreadful noise, my dear. It will all be over by morning.'

Much relieved, she shut the door again. She trundled the glistening garden roller against it, for good measure, and decided that all would be safe until morning.

It was easier going back with the wind behind her, but Dotty was glad to get to the porch where Flossie, who had taken one look at the weather, had prudently waited for her mistress.

The kitchen was a haven, and Dotty was thankful to rest on the kitchen chair before taking off her wet clothes. Five cats looked at her from their various resting places, ranging from a stack of newspapers to a pile of Dotty's underclothes which were awaiting ironing.

When she could breathe again more easily, Dotty struggled out of her coat and boots. The hem of her nightgown was drenched, but she could not be bothered to change it.

She wondered if it would be worthwhile making a hot drink. She felt uncommonly exhausted. Perhaps she needed a tonic? Perhaps she should see Doctor Lovell? She had not felt her heart behaving in that odd jumpy way before.

She sat for a few more moments, savouring the warmth of the kitchen, the cats' presence, and pondering upon the possibility of visiting Doctor Lovell.

'Oh, drat doctors!' exclaimed Dotty at last, and wearily climbed the stairs.

***

Most of Thrush Green's inhabitants had been disturbed in the night, but the morning dawned still and grey.

A light mist veiled the distance, and the warm earth, thoroughly drenched by the night's heavy rain, caused a humidity which reminded Harold of his days in the tropics.

Betty Bell, arriving like a whirlwind from Lulling Woods, gave a vivid account of the devastation caused in that usually comatose hamlet.

'And my neighbour's nappies - well her
baby's
nappies, of course, but you know what I mean—was wrenched off of her line and went all which-ways. Why, one of'em blew into the pig sty! Think of that!'

Harold, who was trying to read his post in the study, made suitable noises. Despite the fact that his wife now ran their house, Betty still sought him out as soon as she arrived, to keep him up to date with local affairs. It could be rather trying.

'And they do say that one of them poplars up the rec was struck. Felled to the ground, Willie Marchant told me, and all frizzled round the edges. When you think - it might have been you or me!'

'I doubt if we should have been standing in the recreation ground at two in the morning,' commented Harold, slitting open an unpleasant looking envelope with OHMS on the corner.

'I was going to pop in to see if Miss Harner was O.K., but I was a bit behindhand after collecting some flowerpots and a bucket and that what had been blown into our hedge. Still, I'll look in on the way home.'

'That would be kind,' agreed Harold.

'Well, I'm glad nothing happened here,' said Betty. 'No tiles off, nor trees broken and that. I'd best get on. Anything particular you want done? Windows, say, or silver?'

'You'd better have a word with my wife,' said Harold.

'I'll do that,' replied Betty, and vanished.

Next door, Miss Fogerty found her charges unusually heavy-eyed. She had planned to teach them a charming little poem of Humbert Wolfe's, but gave up when she found them bemused from lack of sleep and a prey to sighs and yawns.

Always a realist, she faced the fact that such a delightful poem deserved full attention, and at the moment something less intellectually demanding was called for.

'Give out the modelling clay, George dear,' she told young Curdle. 'You can choose which you want to make. Either a basket full of different sorts of fruit, or a tea tray with cups and saucers, and something nice to eat on a big plate.'

'And sugar lumps in a bowl?' asked Anne Cooke.

'Of course. And don't forget the teaspoons.'

There was a marked improvement in interest as the boards and glistening wet balls of clay were distributed.

Miss Fogerty watched them attack their work, and smiled upon them.

Baskets of fruit and tea trays were always good for twenty minutes at least, thought Agnes with satisfaction.

Albert Piggott, not many yards from Thrush Green School, felt as lazy and out-of-sorts as the children. To his disgust, the storm had blown leaves and twigs into the church porch, ripped one or two notices to shreds, and soaked the heavy mat which was bad enough to shift when it was dry, let alone sodden with rain.

He set about his duties dourly, one eye on the door of The Two Pheasants.

His indigestion was even worse than usual this morning.

Perhaps fried food was not good for him, but what could a chap cook when his lawful wedded wife had took off with the oil man? He could not fiddle about with pastry and vegetables and mixing gravy and all the other nonsenses his Nelly had mucked about with.

He plied his broom lethargically. Waste of time, all this cleaning. Come tomorrow it would be as bad again.

There was a welcome rattle from the door of the public house. Jones was unlocking, and about time too! Maybe half a pint, and a slab of cold pork pie, would settle his stomach.

Albert propped his broom against a Zenana Mission poster which had escaped the full fury of the storm, and set off with more vigour than had been apparent all the morning.

'Well, Albert, what a night, eh?' the landlord greeted him. 'I feel a bit washed out this morning, and that's the truth.'

He spoke for all Thrush Green.

A few mornings later, Ella Bembridge was surprised to see Dotty Harmer approaching, carrying the milk can which she usually brought about tea time with Ella's regular order of goat's milk.

Her old friend looked wispier and greyer than ever, she thought, as she ushered her into the sitting room. Flossie followed like Dotty's shadow.

'You're early today,' she said, taking the milk can from Dotty's bony hand. 'My word, you're jolly cold. Dotty! Are you all right?'

'Perfectly,' replied Dotty, looking about her vaguely. 'I've just milked Dulcie, so I thought I would come straight up with your milk while it was fresh.'

'And very nice to see you,' replied Ella. 'But you usually give me the afternoon milk.'

Dotty did not answer. Ella thought that she looked more than usually dishevelled and extremely tired.

'Let me get you a drink,' she urged. 'Coffee? Tea? Orange squash?'

'Could I have a small whisky? Father calls it a sundowner.'

'Of course you can have a small whisky, but it's not exactly sundown, you know. It's hardly ten o'clock.'

'Such light evenings,' agreed Dotty. 'I shall shut up the hens when I get back. Which reminds me, I can't stay very long. Father had one of his little tantrums this morning, and didn't want me to come out.'

She sat nodding to herself, oblivious of Ella's shocked silence.

What on earth had hit poor Dotty? Her dreadful old father had been dead for twenty years! 'One of his little tantrums', as Dotty euphemistically described it, would have struck fear into the stoutest heart when he lived, but he was now resting with other Thrush Green worthies under Albert Piggott's sketchy care.

'Dotty,' began Ella, 'you are not well. It's only ten o'clock
in the morning,
and you know you haven't had a living parent for years! I'm giving you coffee. I'm not sure if whisky would be the right thing for you just now.'

'I certainly don't want
whisky,
' responded Dotty. 'If Father smelt strong liquor on my breath he would be most upset.'

She looked down at Flossie.

'What's this dog doing here?' she enquired, 'You didn't tell me you were getting one.'

By now, Ella was seriously alarmed. The poor soul's mind was wandering, and what on earth did you do with such a patient? John Lovell would be in his surgery now, but she could not leave her. She decided to get to the telephone in the hall where she would have a clear view of the front door if Dotty attempted to escape.

'I'm going to put on the kettle, Dotty, so lean back and have a rest. I must ring the butcher too, so don't worry if I'm a minute or two.'

'Pray take your time,' said Dotty graciously. 'It stays light until almost eleven o'clock, you know, so there's no hurry.'

She leant back obediently in the armchair, and closed her eyes.

Ella, much agitated, hurried to summon help.

John Lovell came himself before starting on his rounds.

He was greeted by Ella with almost incoherent gratitude, and by Dotty with considerable hauteur.

When Ella had taken in the coffee she had found Dotty fast asleep, and snoring in an eminently genteel fashion. Ella, much relieved, hoped that she would stay in this state until the doctor called. She awoke as Ella went to the front door.

'I'd like to examine her on a bed, Ella,' he said. 'All right?'

Of course,' she replied. 'Dotty dear, you don't mind if Doctor Lovell has a look at you?'

I mind very much,' cried Dotty, her papery old cheeks flushing pink, 'but as he has been called—
not
at my request, I hope he understands—I shall let him examine me, but I trust that you will be present.' She seemed to be more her old self since her nap.

Ella and John Lovell exchanged glances.

'Of course Ella can stay,' said the doctor. 'Let's go up.'

He was wonderfully gentle with their old friend, Ella noticed. She could not help noticing too, with considerable alarm, how pathetically frail Dotty was. Her legs and arms were like sticks. Her rib bones could be clearly seen as well as the bones of her neck and shoulders.

Ella turned to look out of the window as the examination went on. Dotty bore all in silence, but sighed with relief when he said that she could get dressed again.

They left her to do so and descended the stairs.

'What is it?' asked Ella.

'You can have it in one word. Malnutrition. She's in a pretty bad way, Ella, and I'm getting her into the Cottage Hospital right away. Can I use your phone?'

'Carry on. I'm shattered, but not surprised. She eats next to nothing, and works far too hard with that menagerie of hers.'

She stopped suddenly, hand to mouth.

'We'll have to get someone to look after them. I'll take on the cats and the poultry, and dear old Flossie can stay here - but that damn' goat is beyond me, I don't mind confessing.'

'Don't worry. We'll get something sorted out. But she must get some attention immediately.'

He went into the hall, and Ella slumped inelegantly on the sofa, feeling as if she had been sand-bagged.

Flossie lumbered across the room and put her heavy head on Ella's knee. Ella fondled her long golden ears.