(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green (13 page)

Now she felt as bonny as Mr Jones's flowers, she told herself. The sun was warm on her back as she leant over the gate. To her right the Youngs' house glowed in the dazzling light. Sunshine brought out the warm glow of the local stone; winter weather seemed to turn the buildings to a duller shade, and skies were overcast for far too much of the year for Winnie's comfort. Sometimes she looked back to the fresh charms of the holiday at Barton, and wondered if she would like to settle by the sea one day. But she knew, in her heart, that she would never leave Thrush Green.

A scarecrow figure came into view across the green, preceded by a King Charles's spaniel on a long lead. Obviously, Flossie and her mistress, Dotty Harmer, were taking a little exercise.

Winnie walked across to meet them.

A toddler was sitting on the grass beside a young girl. Winnie recognized them as part of the large Cooke family, noted in the district for fecundity and a distaste for orthodox matrimony.

But the pair were charming, Winnie thought, greeting them. They were busy making a long daisy chain. The little boy stumbled towards the blossoms starring the grass, collapsing unsteadily beside his protector (sister, mother?) while she threaded them industriously together.

They were both fair-headed, chubby-cheeked and exuded robust health. Donald had always admired the toughness of the Cooke tribe, Winnie remembered, giving as its reason 'a fine mixture of blood'.

They smiled at Winnie as she spoke to them, displaying splendid teeth which Winnie envied.

Flossie now bounded forward, at the extreme end of her long leash, and began to lick the child's face.

'Ah! Dear pussy!' cooed the boy. 'Nice pussy!'

He attempted to feed the excited dog with a fistful of daisies.

'It's a
dog,
dear,' said Dotty approaching. 'Not a
cat
.'

The child smiled disarmingly. 'Pussy!' he repeated.

'No, dear,' persisted Dotty, who disliked inaccuracy. 'You can tell by the coat. A cat has
fur!
This dog has
hair.
"

'He don't know no different,' explained his sister (mother?). 'He calls all of 'em "Pussy", even our tortoise, and Perce Hodge's cows.'

'Ah well!' said Dotty indulgently, 'he is young yet.'

The two old friends entered Winnie's garden and sat down to enjoy a rest and the scent of summer flowers. Bumble bees fumbled at the velvet lips of the snapdragons, and a blackbird foraged busily for fodder in the border.

'Tell me,' said Winnie, 'how is the book getting on?'

Dotty sighed. 'I am finding it very heavy going. Ever since Harold Shoosmith said that it was too short I have felt rather low about it, and as I told you, the accounts about my father from former pupils at the grammar school are really rather disappointing. At times I found them
scurrilous.
I mean, we all know that he saw no harm in correcting a boy, but I am quite sure that some of the writers
exaggerated
the physical discipline he imposed. I really
cannot
include some of their accounts, and I fear there may be jealousy if I use some and not others.'

Winnie doubted this, but simply offered sympathy with Dotty's problems. 'I should give up the idea of getting a publisher to take it,' she advised her. 'Much better to write the whole thing yourself, no matter how short it seems, then get it printed privately. Better still, turn it into a decent-length article for a local paper. It would reach the readers who knew him and would be interested.'

Dotty nodded. 'I must confess,' she admitted, 'that I was so looking forward to a bound copy of my work, but I suppose I must give up the idea. Life is full of disappointments I find, particularly as I get older.'

'Cheer up,' said Winnie. 'Come and choose a lettuce. We've so many that half of them have bolted.'

'Could I have them for my hens?' cried Dotty, literary disappointments forgotten. 'The dear girls love lettuce, and I could easily have a few of the good leaves for my lunch, and not rob you of a perfectly good lettuce. I was brought up to be
frugal
, you know.'

'You are to have the very best lettuce I can find for your lunch,' said Winnie firmly, leading the way to the vegetable garden. 'Let the hens practise frugality with the bolted ones.'

The fine weather continued, and one hot day succeeded another.

On one of these sunny evenings Harold Shoosmith had a telephone call from Robert Wilberforce. He sounded excited.

'I called on my friend Frederick Fennel today,' he said. 'He is delighted to be invited to the festivities, but is afraid he is not up to the journey. He has written to Charles, I gather. But that's not all.'

'How d'you mean?'

'He was a boy when Octavius died in 1912, but his father was evidently in Thrush Green, staying with Octavius a year or two before that, and he attended the interment of Nathaniel. Octavius took the service. This must have been in 1910 or 1911.'

'I'm amazed. Was it Octavius who had the body shipped back from Africa?'

'It was indeed, according to Frederick's memories of his father's account. Octavius got in touch with the Dr Maurice at the mission station, and the body was treated with aromatic drugs and spices — embalmed evidently, and with great skill by the Africans — then shipped home to Bristol. It was winter when it arrived, and Frederick's father stayed longer than he expected at Thrush Green rectory, because there was heavy snow. In fact, there was snow still on the ground when Octavius took the funeral.'

'I find this very touching,' said Harold, looking across the sunlit green to the churchyard, and envisaging the black and white winter scene so many years ago.

'I thought you would be interested,' said Robert. 'It has been wonderful to talk to the old boy, and the celebrations have really given him as great an interest as they have us. I wish he could make the journey, but frankly it is out of the question. Still, as you can see, his mind is as clear as ever, even if he is frail of body.'

They talked a little longer, then Harold returned to Isobel in the garden, and told her all about this further evidence of Octavius's affection for his younger friend.

'It's a sad story,' said Isobel. 'Poor Octavius, standing in the snow by the grave of a friend.'

'It reminded me of the burial of Mozart in a snowstorm,' replied Harold. 'All the mourners turned back, they say.'

'Well, Nathaniel had some mourners,' comforted Isobel, 'and a private grave, not the common pit that Mozart was thrown into. When you think about it - the shipment home, the decent burial, the sincere grief and the respect that came to both men - it makes a heartening story, not a tragic one.'

And Harold, seeing the wisdom of this, agreed.

At Thrush Green school preparations for the Victorian day were going ahead with all the excitement and set-backs that usually accompany a school project.

Some of the ancient desks had been tracked down and were to be delivered to the school in good time for the first of October. Only the chapel people were slightly less obliging as Bright Hour took place on the Tuesday preceding the great day, and the desks would be needed to support the chapel china and tea urn as usual. However, Mrs Jones, wife of the landlord of the Two Pheasants, said that she would see that the two desks were brought up after Bright Hour, and woe betide any person who stood in her way.

Alan Lester had no doubt that Mrs Jones would be a reliable assistant in his endeavours, and concentrated on the many other aspects of the celebration.

As might be expected, the question of costume was the biggest headache. The girls were quite excited and cooperative about their attire, bringing various garments for approval and comparing notes on length of skirts, the necessity for aprons, shawls and so on. It was the boys who were awkward and self-conscious.

'We shan't half look clowns,' Alan heard one say.

'Soppy idea,' agreed his companion. 'I reckon I'll stay home that day.'

It was Bill Hooper who saved the day. The biggest boy in the school, and acknowledged king of the playground, he had also been included in a local junior football team when a player had fallen ill at the last minute. Consequently, Bill was something of a hero, and due deference was paid to him by his companions.

When the question of the boys' costumes cropped up, he casually mentioned that his grandfather, a tailor in Lulling, was making him a Norfolk suit for the occasion.

An unusual hush fell upon the classroom, much to Alan Lester's amusement.

'It's a bit of tweed I chose myself,' went on Bill, amidst stunned silence. 'The gamekeepers over Nidden way used to have suits of it in the old days. That was before the place was sold. My grandpa always helped to make their suits.'

'I should like to see it,' said Alan. 'It should look very well on you.'

'If you like,' went on Bill, flattered by the attention, 'I'll wear it to school one day, before October, I mean.'

'Splendid!' said Alan. 'And that's enough about our costumes. Take out your atlases.'

From then on there was little complaint from the male members of the school. In fact, there seemed to be mild enthusiasm as spotted neckerchieves and Eton collars were discussed, and the chance of getting someone's hobnail boots was debated.

All in all, Alan thought, the school was getting truly involved with this portrayal of school life as experienced by their grandparents and great-grandparents in this selfsame building, and when Miss Robinson and the young probationer were heard to say that they proposed to wear stockings
with garters
instead of their usual tights, he felt assured of the complete success of the great day ahead.

9. Getting Ready

S
UMMER THAT
year was long and very hot, interspersed with violent thunderstorms which flattened much of the corn. Nevertheless, the farmers had an early harvest in a dry spell, and were hard put to find anything much to grumble about.

As she dressed one August morning, Winnie Bailey looked across the green to the distant fields towards Lulling Woods. In some the golden stubble still gleamed, but already the ploughs had been at work in neighbouring fields, although the corn had only been collected, it seemed, a day or two earlier.

There were plenty of young pheasants about but, looking at the distant stubble fields, Winnie remembered how plentiful the native partridge had been when she had come as a young bride to live in this same house. Now that the fields had been cleared, sometimes fired, and so quickly ploughed or drilled ready for the next crop, the number of partridge had dwindled. Such a pity, thought Winnie, who had always had a soft spot for these squat plump little birds. She had been told that they mated for life, and that they were exemplary parents. Winnie approved of both constancy and family commitment, and regretted the demise of such charming birds.

She leant from her window to survey the green. It was the time of day which she most enjoyed, particularly at this stage of the year, when dew was heavy and spangled spiders' webs shimmered on the hedges. Soon there would be mushrooms and blackberries about, and the sharp blue-bloomed sloes which Donald had enjoyed picking for the sloe gin he made every autumn. Soon, too, the conkers would be falling from the horse chestnut trees near by, and already a pale carpet made of the lime flowers and bracts lay under the trees by the church. Albert would not approve, thought Winnie.

As if on cue, the old man emerged from his cottage door, and stood in his shirt sleeves looking up at the sky, as if daring it to rain. Even at this stage of the day he wore his old greasy cap on the back of his head. Winnie wondered if he wore it at the breakfast table. Even in bed, perhaps?

She heard Jenny moving about in the kitchen and, idle conjectures shelved, went downstairs to join her.

With the school holidays in full swing, there was little that Alan Lester could do in the way of preparing for the school's part in the celebrations.

The timetable for the Victorian day had been devised and rehearsed for timing and effect. A number of relics had been collected, including several of the original desks and some splendid old photographs of classes of the 1890s which people had lent, and which Alan proposed to hang round the walls. It was interesting to see how many of the boys, and the girls, too, had close-cropped heads. Fashion, wondered Alan? Or, more practically, prevention of head lice? Possibly the aftermath of ringworm?

The girls all appeared to have worn white pinafores, black stockings and laced or buttoned boots. The boys' costumes were more varied: Norfolk jackets, jerseys with collars, coats and trousers obviously handed down from larger brothers, and here and there an Eton collar gleaming among the subfusc ensemble.

There were one or two ragged children to be seen, but on the whole, Alan thought, studying those long-dead faces through a magnifying glass, they appeared to have been a sturdy lot, toughened by plenty of exercise tramping to school and field work for the bigger boys whenever the local farmer was in need of extra hands.