(10/13) Friends at Thrush Green (3 page)

So successfully had she helped that she was soon working there permanently and Mrs Peters, seeing her value, later made her a partner. It was Nelly's salary which kept the Piggotts' establishment going, for Albert worked less and less, partly through natural idleness, but also because of failing health.

Their household arrangements suited Albert perfectly. Nelly left home soon after eight and was back some time between five and six. She had her lunch at the kitchen table at The Fuchsia Bush with the rest of the staff, and Albert was left with a meal for midday. Usually, he did not bother to eat the food provided, but went next door for a pint of beer, some bread and cheese with pickled eggs or onions, and a good gossip with his cronies.

On this particular May morning he found Percy Hodge already ensconced in the window seat with half a pint of bitter before him on the table. He went to join him, lowering his ancient limbs carefully.

'Ah, Perce! How's things?' he asked, when he had got his breath back.

'Rotten! I'm thinkin' of sellin' up the farm.'

'What again?'

'Two of me heifers gone lame this mornin'. The pony's kicked a gate flat, an' a fox bin and got half a dozen hens in the night.'

'You don't say!'

'What's more, Willie Marchant brought me up a 'alf 'undred of forms from the Min of Ag in today's post. Don't understand one word in ten, an' that's the truth.'

Mr Jones, the landlord, put Albert's usual before him without a word. The two customers sipped noisily, and with much smacking of lips.

'You needs somethin' to cheer you up,' said Albert lugubriously. He replaced his glass carefully exactly upon the wet ring which it had made on the table.

'Take that girl of yours out,' he continued.

Percy grunted. 'Thought you didn't take to the Cooke family.'

'Nor I don't, but if you're fool enough to take up with one of 'em you may as well enjoy it,' said Albert.

Silence fell. The distant sound of children playing at the school next door could be heard above the rumble of beer barrels being rolled down into Mr Jones's cellar from a lorry outside.

'I hear as that new headmaster is thinkin' of livin' at Miss Watson's,' said Percy, changing the subject from his unsatisfactory love-life. The school house was destined to remain 'Miss Watson's' for a long time to come: at Thrush Green, as in most country places, houses are not known by the names on their gates, but by the owners who live, or once lived, in them.

'I heard as he was all set to stay in his own place,' said Albert. 'He'd have bought Miss Watson's when he took over the school, surely. I bet the price has gone up since them young flibbertigibits bought it.'

The thought appeared to give both men some satisfaction.

'Well, now his wife's bad,' said Percy, 'so I was told.'

'Is she now?' Albert became quite animated. 'What's she got? Nothing serious, I hope, with two young children to leave.'

The afflictions of other people were almost as interesting as Albert's own, but never, of course, so severe.

'I dunno,' said Percy, losing interest. He picked up the two empty glasses, wiped his mouth on his coat cuff, and made for the bar.

Albert waited hopefully for a possible refill. He was unlucky.

Percy made for the door. 'Best be gettin' back. Plenty of trouble up the farm today.'

'Sooner you sells it the better,' rejoined Albert nastily, watching his companion vanishing through the door.

When Nelly came home that evening, Albert told her about Percy's disclosure.

'Funny you should say that,' commented Nelly, busily turning liver about in a sizzling frying-pan. 'Rosa at the shop said her auntie had heard the same. Wonder if it's true?'

'No smoke without fire,' quoted Albert. He was rather proud of his erudition, and repeated the adage rather louder. Nelly took no notice.

'I could do with a rasher with that,' he said, changing his tactics.

'A rasher you won't get,' responded Nelly, 'but I'll pop an egg in for you.'

Over their meal at the kitchen table Nelly reverted again to the news they had both heard.

'You can't believe all Perce Hodge says,' said Nelly, 'but Rosa's auntie now, she's a different kettle of fish. Strict Baptist, teetotal, and not given to tittle-tattle. I'll lay there's something in this rumour.'

'Be handy for you if they wanted a bit of charring done if his wife's poorly,' observed Albert. 'Practically next door, ain't it?'

Nelly surveyed him coldly.

'I've got more than enough down The Fuchsia Bush,' she pointed out, mopping up the liver gravy with a piece of bread, 'but there's no reason why you shouldn't take on a bit of gardening at Miss Watson's. Lord knows you've plenty of time to spare, and it might keep you out of The Two Pheasants now and again.'

She began to clear the table, bustling about the kitchen with renewed energy.

Albert sat himself morosely in the wooden arm chair, and picked up the newspaper.

'FIGHTING BREAKS OUT AGAIN
' said the headline.

It seemed fair comment.

On that same evening, across the green, Ella and her friend Dimity Henstock were busy packing pots of young geraniums into a cardboard box.

'I don't care what people say,' declared Ella, through a haze of blue smoke rising from the dishevelled cigarette in the corner of her mouth, 'but I like scarlet geraniums better than any.'

'Very cheerful,' agreed Dimity.

'I've only lost two cuttings this year,' went on Ella, 'and they were some wishy-washy pink things Muriel Fuller gave me. These are much hardier. How many can you do with, Dim?'

'Twelve would be fine. Fifteen if you can spare them.'

'More than welcome. Glad to get 'em off the window sills. We'll put the box in the porch then Charles can pick 'em up tomorrow. I've got to go to the dentist, but remind Charles where the spare key is. I still put it under the flint with the hole in it by the front step.'

'I should think all Thrush Green knows that hiding place,' commented Dimity as they settled themselves in the sitting-room.

'Never thought of that,' said Ella. 'Not that I mind Thrush Green knowing, just the bad lots from elsewhere. Perhaps I should move it?'

'I shouldn't bother. You'd probably forget yourself.'

'True enough. By the way, I saw the Lovelock girls this morning. They get odder than ever.'

She told Dimity the tale of those who were acceptable and unacceptable at the Lovelocks' establishment in the past.

'Of course, they still live a century ago,' commented Dimity. 'All those occasional tables and whatnots, laden with silver. Who would bother with so much work these days, let along facing the strong possibility of burglars? It has happened, after all.'

'Violet is about the only one now capable of sensible conversation,' commented Ella. 'It's my belief that Bertha and Ada are fast becoming gaga.'

Dimity looked sad. 'Charles is of the same opinion. It's Bertha's behaviour that's perturbing him. She's taken to storing some of those silver knick-knacks in her bedroom, and insisting on some of the most valuable pieces of furniture being taken up there too. The drawing-room is fast being denuded.'

'Good thing!' said Ella robustly. 'You couldn't move in there without knocking something to the ground. I should tell Charles not to worry on the Lovelocks' behalf. They've always been on the make, cadging bits and pieces from all and sundry. Come to think of it, I've not seen my Victorian sugar tongs since they came to tea in the winter. I bet they're somewhere in the Lovelocks' place.'

'If that clock's right,' said Dimity, 'it's time I went. I've promised to call at Dotty's, and there's no getting away quickly when dear old Dotty gets going.'

Dotty Harmer was an eccentric spinster who had lived alone in a cottage between Thrush Green and Lulling Woods for many years.

Poor health and advancing age had made it necessary for her to have someone living with her, and she was very fortunate to have her sensible niece Connie and her husband Kit as companions.

She still insisted on tending her garden and the innumerable animals she had acquired over the years, but Connie saw to it that she was clad in warm clothing and stout shoes when she ventured forth. In the old days, Dotty had been quite content to wander about at times in her dressing-gown and slippers, much to the dismay and censure of the local inhabitants and Betty Bell in particular who did her best to keep the place in order once or twice a week.

There was a chilly wind blowing through the narrow path which led from Thrush Green, beside the Piggotts' cottage, to the open fields beyond. The sun was beginning to sink behind the trees of Lulling Woods, dark against a pale sky.

Dimity found Dotty in her kitchen, busy chopping onions with an enormous knife.

'It's good to get into the warm,' she commented, seating herself at the clear end of the kitchen table, and watching Dotty at her dangerous task. 'It's more like February than May this evening.'

'Not surprising since it's the time of the Ice Saints,' explained Dotty, ceasing her labours for a moment. 'May eleven, twelve and thirteen belong to three saints, and it is often perishing cold then. You should never shear your sheep around that time, you know.'

'I don't,' Dimity assured her.

She watched Dotty scrape the chopped onions on to a plate, and then tip them into a large saucepan which was bubbling on the stove.

'That smells delicious,' she said.

'For the hens, dear. I always add some onions at this time of year. They contain so much iron, you know, so needed at the end of the winter. Purifies the blood. My father used to eat his raw. Wonderfully refreshing, and so good for the bowels and bladder.'

Dimity reflected, not for the first time, how naturally Dotty referred to the parts of the body and their functions with no coyness. There was something appealingly eighteenth-century about her old friend, her archaic turn of phrase, her knowledge and use of herbs, and her unshaken belief that all things English were naturally best. Dotty was refreshingly free from doubts; they seemed to have come in during Victoria's reign and had become more and more potent ever since, Dimity surmised.

'Heard about Dorothy Watson's old place? Betty Bell tells me that that new man at the school may live there after all.'

'I heard something about it too.'

'Wonder why? Perhaps Dorothy and Agnes will find out when they come to stay. Have some coffee. It's dandelion—excellent stuff, I drink pints of it—but Connie and Kit still stick to Nescafe.'

'I like that too.'

'Well, I
could
make you a cup I suppose,' said Dotty. She sounded disappointed.

'No, no! Don't bother, please. I only came to give you the parish magazine and to see how you were. Are Connie and Kit out?'

'Yes. At a parish meeting. Somebody wants to buy the field at the back here. Lots of silly plans for houses. Who wants a lot of
people
living in that field? Besides, I need it for the goats.'

'Well, people do need houses, of course,' said Dimity mildly.

'And my goats need grass,' said Dotty. She began to look very obstinate, and Dimity decided that it was time to depart. If the demands of people and animals were in debate, she knew on whose side Dotty would be.

What with the approaching visit of the two retired teachers, the speculation about the headmaster Alan Lester's plans, and now this disturbing news about Bertha Lovelock's oddness, the inhabitants of Lulling and Thrush Green had plenty to engage their interests. They could be seen chatting on every corner.

The cold spell passed, and May began to show itself in all its traditional warm beauty. The lilac bushes tossed their mauve and white plumes in cottage gardens, filling the air with heady scent. Stately tulips followed the dying daffodils, their satin cups in every shade known to man.

Lulling Woods were hazy blue and fragrant with carpets of bluebells, and the last of the wood anemones and primroses starred the leaf mould. Along the road to Nidden the ancient pond teemed with tadpoles. Young birds sat bemused on the grass verges, or hopped behind their busy parents clamouring for food, all fluttering wings and gaping beaks, oblivious of the dangers around them from traffic, callous boys, or the hovering shapes of sparrow hawks which cast their sinister shadows in the May sunlight.

The cuckoo's cry, at first so welcome at the beginning of the month, now annoyed its listeners with its monotonous persistence. The rooks chattered and squabbled in the tall trees overshadowing Percy Hodge's farm, and he was already making plans for a rook shoot with a few of his cronies. Percy was partial to rook pie.

Prudent housewives were spring-cleaning and hanging out quilts and blankets to air on their clothes-lines. Those who ran to winter curtains, as well as summer ones, were folding the former and storing them away, and admiring the crisp freshness of the summer alternatives at their windows.

Paint brushes were at work, inside and out, and wallpaper patterns, bed covers, curtain materials and floor coverings were being earnestly studied in many a home. It was not surprising that amid this hopeful bustle another topic arose to engage Thrush Green's attention.