Winter in Thrush Green (10 page)

The door opened and his wife stood before him.

'They'll all come,' she said, smiling.

'Thank God for good friends,' said the doctor simply, turning from those in the shades to the living again.

If Harold Shoosmith was welcomed as a bridge player at the Baileys' he was just as warmly welcomed as a next-door
neighbour by Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty at the village school.

It is essential for anyone in charge of children to have tolerant neighbours. The number of balls that fly over fences and have to be retrieved is prodigious. There are those who answer the timid knocking, rather low down, at the front door with an exasperated mien which strikes terror into the heart of the importuners. The newcomer was not one of these. Nor did he toss the balls back into the playground so that they rolled hither and thither to be picked up by any joyous passing hound.

If the children were at play he would hand their property to them with a smile. He went further. If he came across the bright balls in the grass or among his plants when school was over, he took the trouble to go round to Miss Watson's house and present them to her with the small old-fashioned bow and charming smile which caused so many female hearts to flutter at Thrush Green.

Miss Fogerty spent many evenings in Miss Watson's company these days, and it was natural that the two ladies should discuss the good fortune of having such a pleasant neighbour.

Miss Watson's sprained ankle still gave her pain although the stick had been discarded. On the few November evenings when the rain stopped, Miss Fogerty helped her friend to dig the flower border which ran along the communicating stone wall between the school garden and Harold Shoosmith's. After their labours thev would retire into the school-house living-room and have a light meal of sandwiches and fruit.

Miss Fogerty relished these companionable hours. She had lived for years in her prim and somewhat dismal lodgings, with very few friends of her own. Miss Watson's invitations gave her great happiness, and the thought that her headmistress too might have felt the pangs of loneliness did not enter the modest
little woman's head. She was glad to have been of use in a crisis and rejoiced now in the pleasure of Miss Watson's friendship.

Over the cheese sandwiches one evening Miss Watson spoke of yet another of their neighbour's kindnesses. It was a vear when the apple crop had been a bumper one, and Harold Shoosmith, appalled at the thought of eating apples in some guise or the other for the rest of the year, had presented the schoolchildren with a sackful which stood at Miss Watson's back door.

'We are lucky to have him next door,' agreed Miss Fogerty.

'He must be missed by his firm,' continued Miss Watson, pouring coffee.

'With a firm?' echoed Miss Fogerty. 'I heard he had been in the Army.'

'And the Navy and Air Force,' said Miss Watson, a little tartly. 'People spread these rumours about in the most terrible way!' From her manner one might have thought that there was something shameful about all the Services.

'He very kindly gave me a lift up from Lulling the other day and talked about his work in Africa quite openly. I've no idea why people think he makes a mystery of his past, I'm sure.'

'He may have felt that he could confide in you,' suggested Miss Fogerty, her moist devoted eyes fixed upon her new friend. Miss Watson looked gratified.

'Well, I don't know about that—' she began in the sort of deprecating tone people use when they secretly agree with a statement made. 'But he certainly told me quite a bit about himself. He was with Sleepwell's for over thirty years, evidently. He was manager for all Africa–a most responsible position, I should think.'

'Sleepwell?' echoed Miss Fogerty in bewilderment. 'You mean the stuff you mix with hot milk?'

'Of course," said Miss Watson. 'People need to sleep in Africa, I imagine, as well as in England."

'But hot milk," protested her friend. 'In Africa! It seems so wrong. Surely they would prefer fruit squash or something cooling.'

'I believe the nights are quite chilly," said Miss Watson, with as much conviction as she could muster. She was a little shaky about the climatic conditions in the darkest continent and felt it would be as well to steer the conversation to surer ground.

'Anyway, Sleepwell seems to be a very popular drink there,' she continued, otherwise Mr Shoosmith wouldn't have stayed there for all that time.'

'Whereabouts in Africa was his business?' enquired Miss Fogerty. 'My cousin's family came from Nairobi. He may have met them.' She spoke as though Africa and Thrush Green were of approximately the same size.

'Somewhere on the west coast, I gather.' Miss Watson furrowed her brow. 'At a place with a name like Winnie Khaki. It's where Nathaniel Patten started his settlement, you know. He began with a little mission school for the native children, and now, Mr Shoosmith says, there's a village with a church, and school and a magnificent hospital.'

'It's strange to think,' said Miss Fogerty musingly, 'that Thrush Green sent Nathaniel Patten to Africa, and Nathaniel Patten has indirectly sent Mr Shoosmith back to Thrush Green.'

'And a very good thing for us that he did,' said her friend briskly, collecting the debris of their simple meal. 'He's a great asset to the place.'

Together they repaired to the kitchen sink to wash-up before Miss Fogerty made her way home to her lodgings.

To little Paul Young and his crony Christopher Mullins, Harold Shoosmith appeared in a different light. He was a man
to be avoided, outwitted and feared. Needless to say, he had no idea of this.

The two boys had shifted their headquarters from the thinning greenery of the ox-eyed daisies to a tree on the side of Harold Shoosmith's spinney furthest from his house. This decrepit elm had been cut off some twelve feet above the ground in the early days of the Farmers' residence at the corner house. Half-hearted attempts had been made to remove the hollow stump, but it had defied its molesters and still stood firmly, overlooking the small grassy valley where Dotty Harmer lived.

Bushy young growth sprouted from its battered crown and concealed the boys from sight. They had cut rough footholds in the mouldering interior of the split trunk and could climb up easily enough to this exciting new hide-out. It was unlikely that the new tenant would discover them, and unlikely that he would seriously object even if he did so, but the two boys found it more thrilling to pretend that poor Harold Shoosmith was a monster, and persuaded themselves easily enough that he would shout, brandish a stack, report them to their parents, the police and their headmaster, with dire consequences, should he ever stumble upon their whereabouts on his premises. This, naturally, gave their meetings a delicious fillip.

One misty Saturday afternoon in November the two friends sat aloft in their eyrie, unknown, of course, to their parents.

'Chris Mullins has asked me to play,' Paul had said to his mother, and she, in her innocence, had imagined that he would be playing in the Mullins' garden.

'Paul Young's asked me to play with him,' Christopher had said to his mother, who had fondly thought that her son would be safely on the Youngs' premises.

By such simple strategy have boys, throughout the centuries, accomplished their nefarious ends.

Paul had arrived first and watched his friend emerge from the green garden door in the wall across the valley. He watched him run up the grassy hill and warbled an owl's cry as he approached. This was their secret sign, and the fact that an owl warbling in daylight might arouse suspicions, had not occurred to the boys.

Chris arrived quite breathless at the tree and Paul tugged him up the rough stairway joyously.

'I've brought a Mars bar and some transfers,' he announced proudly when his friend had found a precarious seat.

'I've only got two apples,' confessed Chris. 'It's all we seem to have in our house,' he continued bitterly. 'Apples, apples, apples!'

Paul sympathised. There is a limit to the number of apples even a small boy can eat. This year's crop was proving an embarrassment.

'My mum,' went on Christopher, 'says that they clean your teeth, and chocolate ruins them. Been reading something in the papers, I expect.' He spoke with disgust. Paul found such contempt of parents wholly wonderful, and broke the Mars bar carefully in half. A few delicious damp crumbs fell upon the leg of his corduroy trousers and he licked them up thoughtfully, running his finger-nail down the grooves afterwards to collect any stray morsels which might have become embedded there. They munched in amicable silence. From their perch they commanded an extensive view. Far to the west Paul could see a white ground mist veiling the lower part of a distant hollow. Only the tips of the bushy scrub protruded from the drowned field-like rabbits' ears, thought Paul idly–and he watched a distant hedge becoming more and more ghostly as the mist wreathed and swirled through it. As yet their own little valley had but a slight mistiness, but it was obvious that fog would engulf all by nightfall.

'Let's see your transfers,' said Christopher, wiping his sticky hands down his trousers perfunctorily. Paul fished in his pocket and handed over a crumpled booklet. He watched his friend anxiously. Would he think they were babyish? Some of the transfers were of toys–a ball, a kite and a doll. He could not bear to be ridiculed by his idol.

To his relief Chris seemed pleased with what he saw. He tore out a Union Jack, placed it carefully face downward on the back of his hand and licked it heavily with a tongue still dusky with chocolate. Paul chose a picture of a football boot it seemed a manly choice–and licked as heartily.

'Seen old Shoelace?' asked Chris as they waited for the transfers to work. This nickname was considered by both boys to be the height of humour.

'Not a sign,' said Paul. 'Must be out, I think.' Even as he spoke there was a cracking of twigs on the other side of the spinney.

'Get down!' whispered Chris urgently. The two boys cowered low among the scanty brushwood. Paul could hear his heart beating under the green jersey Aunt Ruth had knitted him. His nose was so close to the transfer on his hand that he could smell the oily pungency from it. The silence became unendurable. Suddenly a blackbird chattered loudly and flew from the little wood. Silence fell again, and after a few more breathless minutes the boys straightened up.

'Gosh!' breathed Chris, 'I thought we'd been found that time.' They sat listening intently for a few more minutes, and then Paul sighed with relief.

'No one there, Chris. Let's peel off our transfers. You first.'

'No, you first,' said Christopher, punching his friend affectionately on the arm. 'Mine'll take longer to do with all the lines on the flag.'

'What about all the twiddly bits on my boot?' objected
Paul. 'All right, all right,' he added hastily, as his friend's fist was raised again. 'I'll do mine first."

Carefully he raised the corner of his damp transfer. His tongue protruded with the effort as he began to peel it gently away from his pink hand. Half-way across the picture began to disintegrate.

'Press it back again quick,' urged Christopher. 'And huff on the back. You ought always to huff on transfers. The wet in your breath keeps it the right temperature.' He watched anxiously as Paul obeyed.

They rested their hands on their knees and breathed energetically upon the back of the transfers. Paul tried again, gingerly peeling the damp paper away. He was rewarded by an almost perfect picture of the football boot.

'Only one of the laces a bit wonky," he said proudly. 'Not bad, is it?" He held up his hand for Chris to admire, but his friend was much too busy revealing his own masterpiece. The result was disappointing. Only half the Union Jack adhered to Christopher's hand.

Paul tried not to look too smug. Christopher he knew, liked to excel at everything, and could be violent when things went wrong.

'D'you know why mine didn't take?' demanded Chris belligerently. 'I'll tell you,' he continued, without giving his apprehensive friend time to answer. 'It's because I'm so much
stronger
than you are! That's why!' He thrust an aggressive face towards Paul's.

'Stronger?' faltered the smaller boy.

'Yes,' said Christopher. 'See the back of my hand? Smothered in hairs, isn't it?' He held up his grubby paw, and against the light, one or two faint hairs were discernible. 'That shows I'm strong. Like Samson, remember? Well, transfers won't take on a hairy hand, naturally. You have to have sissy smooth hands
like yours for transfers to work. It's a kid's game, anyway.' He tossed the book back to Paul who put it silently back in his pocket. The afternoon was not going as it should, and Paul began to wonder how he could put matters right.

It was at this uncomfortable moment that they saw the man.

He came into their line of vision as he swung down the hill towards Dotty Harmer's garden. He had evidently come from the lane that led to Nod and Nidden from Thrush Green, and he was about two hundred yards from the tree where the boys watched him.

He reached the low gate in Dotty's hedge, leant upon it and looked around him. Apart from Dotty's cottage no other house looked out upon this little valley. Harold Shoosmith's view was obscured by the projecting curve of the spinney, and, as far as the man could see, he was unobserved. He opened the gate, walked to the hen-house and disappeared inside.