(6/13) Gossip from Thrush Green (26 page)

And that, both sexes would agree, was a quality singularly lacking in Albert Piggott.

'Well,' said one at last, putting his tankard down, 'I'd best get back to work.'

He opened the door, and a squall of wind and rain blew in.

'Looks like summer's gone,' he commented, as he went out into the wet.

Rain streamed down the windows of the local school house as Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty unpacked after their holiday.

They had returned much refreshed, although little progress had been made with their plans for buying a house. However, they had met several house agents who promised to keep them informed about suitable properties as they became available, and from what the two ladies had seen they were even more sure that Barton and its immediate neighbourhood would suit them both very well. Their efforts had not been wasted.

'How lucky we were to have such a fine spell,' remarked Agnes, gazing out at the driving rain veiling the houses on the farther side of Thrush Green. 'Somehow I don't mind a bit if we get rain now. It's quite restful, isn't it?'

'It is while we're still on holiday, Agnes dear. But quite a different kettle of fish if it continues into the beginning of term next week. You know how fractious infants get if they are cooped up indoors.'

'I do indeed,' said little Miss Fogerty, with feeling. 'By the way, I've sorted out the post, and your letters are on the dresser. Not much for me, I'm thankful to say, but a pretty card from Isobel's daughter on holiday in Ceylon. Always so thoughtful.'

'You mean Sri Lanka,' corrected Dorothy, turning her attention to the pile of letters.

'I shall always think of it as Ceylon,' said Agnes, with gentle dignity. 'Fancy asking one's friends if they would like China or Sri Lanka tea!'

It was an hour or so later, when the two ladies were enjoying a cup of the latter, that Dorothy opened the letter from her brother Ray.

'Well!' she exclaimed, putting down her cup with a crash. 'Of all the effrontery! Really, Agnes, Ray and Kathleen would try the patience of a saint! Do you know what Ray is asking?'

She tapped the letter with her teaspoon.

'Listen to this: "If you are getting rid of any of your furniture when you move, would you please let us have first refusal of the following." And then, my dear, he gives a list of about
twenty
of my best pieces of furniture! What a cheek! What a nerve! I've a good mind to ring him—after six, of course—and tell him what I think of his grasping ways.'

Agnes, recognising the flushed cheeks and heaving cardigan as danger signals, assumed her most soothing air.

'Don't upset yourself over such a thing. I should ignore the letter, and if he writes again, or telephones, you can answer him then.'

'I expect you are right,' conceded Miss Watson, stuffing the objectionable message into the envelope. 'And in any case, now that the telephone charges have gone up again, it would be a most expensive call.'

'Have another cup of tea,' said Miss Fogerty diplomatically, and refilled the cup.

Across the green, Phyllida Hurst was also drinking tea, with Winnie Bailey. She had called to deliver the parish magazine, and had been divested of her dripping mackintosh and persuaded to stop for a while.

'Have you heard this rumour about Albert getting some help with the church?' asked Phil.

'Dimity said it's pretty certain that Bobby Cooke is going to do the heavy stuff. Albert seems to be past digging graves and humping coke about.'

'Wasn't he always?'

Winnie laughed.

'Well, he hasn't exactly strained himself over any of his duties, all the time I've known him, but I think he really does need some help now. The Cooke boy is as strong as an ox.'

'And about as bright, I'm told.'

'At least he's honest,' responded Winnie, 'and you can't say that about the rest of the family.'

'And speaking of church matters, is there anything in this tale about Anthony Bull leaving St John's?'

'I've heard nothing except from Bertha Lovelock, and it's my belief she's got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Not that one would be surprised to hear of his advancement. He's much too decorative and ambitious to stay long here, I fear. He always reminds me of dear Owen Nares.'

'I never came across him,' confessed Phil.

Winnie sighed.

'It's at times like this that I realise how old I'm getting,' she said. 'But what's your news? Any more lecture tours?'

'Yes indeed. They want us to go again next year. I'm not sure if I shall accompany Frank though. In any case, we don't intend to let the house again. That was rather a disaster I feel.'

'No harm done,' Winnie assured her. 'And don't forget, I will caretake very willingly. And Jenny will help too. It's a great relief to me that she is still with me.'

'And likely to remain here, I imagine,' said Phil, getting up. 'I must be on my way, rain or no rain. We see Percy sometimes ploughing along with a nice bunch of roses for Jenny's successor. Does she mind, do you think?'

'Frankly, I believe she's relieved. It was an embarrassment to her to have the poor fellow calling here so often, and she's quite sincere, I'm sure, in saying that she's happier as she is.'

'It's all worked out well then,' replied Phil. 'Better to be single than unhappily married,' she added as she went into the porch.

Winnie watched her splash down the path.

'Poor Phil,' she thought. 'She knows all about an unhappy marriage. Thank goodness this second one has turned out so satisfactorily.'

The rain grew heavier as darkness fell, and by ten o'clock a strong wind added to the unpleasantness of the night.

It tore the leaves from the horsechestnut trees on Thrush Green, and buffeted Nathaniel Patten as he stood on his plinth, gazing with sightless eyes upon his windswept birthplace. It howled round the grave-stones in St Andrew's churchyard and screamed down the alleyway by Albert Piggott's cottage.

The signboard at The Two Pheasants creaked as it swung, and very few inhabitants of Thrush Green dared to open a window more than a slit in the face of such violence.

Charles Henstock, lying awake at Nidden, listened to the tapping of the plum tree's branches against the window pane. The old house creaked now and again, and occasionally gave a shudder as the full force of the gale caught it, but it stood as sturdily four-square as it had done for centuries, and it was a comfort to be in such a solidly constructed building.

There was no doubt about it, Charles told himself, he had grown uncommonly fond of this ancient farmhouse and would miss its mellow beauty when they had to leave. Of course, a new house would have advantages, but there was something about an old loved house, where generations had lived, which gave one a comforting sense of continuity.

He realised now that his old rectory had never provided such a consolation to the spirit. It was not only the bleakness of its position and its poorly planned interior. This earlier house, where now he awaited sleep beside his slumbering wife, had an indefinable feeling of happiness. Perhaps builders in Georgian times enjoyed their work more than their Victorian successors? Perhaps the families who had lived here were contented with their lot, and their happiness had left its mark? Whatever the cause, Charles thanked God for giving him this pleasant place in which to recover from the shock of that disastrous fire.

He hoped for, but was too modest to pray for, as pleasant a home in the future, but was confident that by putting his fate in God's hands all would be for the best. He was sorry that Dimity worried about the delay. He knew that most men in his position would press for information about any proposed plans, and would make demands about their rights.

Charles knew, as Dimity knew, that he was incapable of behaving in such a way. Before long, he would hear something. God would never desert him.

He remembered the story of the falling sparrow, turned his face into the pillow and, ignoring the storm raging outside, was comforted.

The next morning, the garden was littered with wet leaves and twigs.

Willie Marchant splashed up Mrs Jenner's path, and put a letter through the box.

The rector opened it carefully at the breakfast table. It was a beautiful thick cream-coloured envelope and bore a crest on the back.

The letter was short, and Dimity, watching its effect on her husband, felt some alarm.

'My dear,' said Charles, 'the Bishop wants to see me next Thursday afternoon. He doesn't say much, but I expect it is to do with the rearrangement of the parishes.'

'What time?' asked Dimity.

'Two-thirty, he says.'

'Well, I'll come too and you can drop me in the market square. I've so much shopping to do it will keep me busy while you are gallivanting with the Bishop.'

'I don't suppose we'll by
gallivanting,
' said Charles, smiling. 'But I've no doubt you will be able to get in two hours' shopping quite comfortably.'

And so the matter was left.

19. Charles Meets His Bishop

T
HE
start of the new school year fell on the following Tuesday and, as the two friends feared, the wet weather still shrouded Thrush Green with veils of windswept rain.

Miss Fogerty's new arrivals were unusually tearful, and there were one or two trying mothers who wanted to stay with their offspring until they had cheered up. Little Miss Fogerty, who had been coping with the reception class for more years than she cared to remember, had great difficulty in shooing them away. She knew perfectly well that once their mothers had vanished the howlers would desist from their lamenting and would resign themselves, after vigorous nose-blowing organised by Miss Fogerty, to threading beads, making plasticine crumpets, or having a ride on the rocking horse.

But within an hour, peace reigned in the infants' room and Miss Fogerty had pinned up the weather chart, found two clean Virol jars to receive the bunches of asters and marigolds brought by the children, and decided to appoint George Curdle as blackboard monitor.

Dear George, for whom Miss Fogerty had a very soft spot, was becoming rather boastful about the new sister he was hoping for at the end of term, and a little energetic board cleaning might channel his energies usefully, thought his teacher. Besides, he would have the inestimable privilege of going outside with the board rubber now and again to free it of excessive chalk dust by banging it briskly against the school wall. To be appointed board monitor was recognised as an honour. George Curdle, she felt sure, would perform his duties with proper zeal.

Next door, Miss Watson's older children were busy writing their names on the covers of their new exercise books, exhorted by their teacher to be neat and clear in their calligraphy.

While they were thus seriously engaged, Miss Watson surveyed the rain-drenched view through the window and wondered if she would write or telephone to the office when informing them of her decision to retire. Of course, the formal resignation would be written, well in advance of the specified three months' notice required, but as her mind was now made up it would be helpful, no doubt, to the office to know her plans well ahead.

She turned to look at the bent hands, the carefully guided pens and the odd tongue protruding with the effort involved. Her last class! After all these years, her very last class!

Well, they looked a nice little lot, and she would do her level best by them. But a warm glow suffused her when she thought that this time next year she would probably be looking through the window of some charming little place at Barton, and admiring the sea in the distance.

Thrush Green had been a happy place to work in, and had brought her the ineffable good fortune of meeting dear Agnes, but she would not be sorry to go. A complete change of scene would do them both good, and Thrush Green, after all, would still be waiting for them whenever they wished to pay a visit to their old friends.

'I can see some
beautiful
writing,' said Miss Watson, limping down the aisle towards her desk. 'I think we are going to do some good work in here this year.'

***

Molly Curdle, dusting her flat at the top of the Youngs' lovely house, wondered if the rain would stop in time for George and the other children to have their break in the playground.

He had run off on his own to school this morning, looking forward to seeing his friends and Miss Fogerty again. No doubt, he'd be blabbing to all and sundry about the new baby, thought Molly resignedly. Not that she worried unduly. Most people knew now, anyway, that a second child was coming. She only hoped that it would be as amenable and happy as George.

Strange to think that in five years' time another little Curdle would be running to Thrush Green School! Who would be there to teach them then? Not Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty from all she had heard.

But of one thing she felt certain. She and Ben would still be at Thrush Green whatever occurred. In all his years of wandering with his grandmother's fair, this place was the nearest he had had as a settled home. Now old Mrs Curdle lay in the churchyard, and her grandson and great-grandson lived close by. Molly prayed that they might never have to move again.