(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green (3 page)

T
HE FACT
that Thrush Green school would soon be a hundred years old had not escaped the notice of Dorothy Watson and Agnes Fogerty, although they were far away.

The two friends had retired from teaching at Thrush Green some years earlier, and now shared a bungalow at Barton-on-Sea. Here they enjoyed the sea air, the gentle countryside around, new friends, and above all, each other's company. Dorothy, who had been the headmistress, took most of the decisions, but Agnes, who had been in charge of the infants' department, although acquiescent nine times out of ten, occasionally overruled her friend.

The subject of Thrush Green's anniversary had cropped up as the result of a telephone conversation the night before.

Isobel Shoosmith rang frequently, for she missed her old neighbours and was particularly attached to little Agnes Fogerty, for they had attended the same teachers' training college many years before, and had always kept in touch.

It was Isobel who had said that Alan Lester was already thinking about a celebration at the school, and the two friends had naturally been much interested.

'No doubt we shall get an invitation,' announced Dorothy as they washed up the breakfast things. 'I must admit that I can't recall just when the school opened. Was it in the summer, do you think?'

'I have a feeling that it was earlier in the year,' said Agnes, twirling her teacloth inside a tumbler.

'I don't think you are right,' said Dorothy firmly.

'Maybe not,' agreed Agnes equably, 'but in any case it will be in the appropriate log book and Alan Lester can look it up.'

'Well, I only hope he does something suitable, and within the scope of the children and the school building. Some of these young men will try to be too ambitious. Do you remember that disastrous grammar school concert in Lulling where massed recorders waffled away at a piece by Haydn, and all at sixes and sevens?'

'I shall never forget it.'

Dorothy paused in her washing-up operations and gazed thoughtfully through the kitchen window above the sink. 'I wonder,' she mused, 'if it would be a good idea to have a word with Alan Lester. He might be glad of a little advice from an old hand.'

'It would be quite out of the question,' said Agnes. 'It is
his
school now, you know.'

Dorothy sighed. 'I suppose so. Nevertheless—'

Her voice trailed away, and Agnes, who knew her friend better than that lady knew herself, realized that the danger of Dorothy blundering into matters which were not her concern still hung over them.

As it happened, Alan Lester had temporarily shelved the matter of Thrush Green's celebrations.

The end of the winter term was looming, and Christmas with all its attendant distractions had to be faced before the anniversary year began.

He was a conscientious head teacher, and enjoyed the post he had taken up at Thrush Green some years earlier, although his first year had been fraught with anxiety about his wife Margaret, whose health had never been robust, and who had taken to secret drinking with alarming consequences. This addiction she had bravely overcome, and now all went well, but there was now no alcohol in the Lesters' home, and Alan was extra careful of his wife's frailty.

He had taken over a well-run school from Dorothy Watson, and was wise enough to follow much the same paths, only gently introducing some of his more modern methods as time passed.

He also inherited Miss Robinson, a cheerful young woman, who took over the infants' department from Agnes Fogerty. The third member of staff was also young, only just out from college, and still trailing the clouds of child psychology, pastoral care, and the perils of damaging infant sensibilities, but the day-to-day reality of the classroom would soon clear those in time, Alan Lester surmised correctly.

The three worked well together and the inhabitants of Thrush Green, whether parents of pupils or not, were proud of their school.

Alan Lester had no doubt that its hundredth birthday would be celebrated in fine style.

But meanwhile, there was Christmas ...

But Harold Shoosmith had more urgent things than Christmas to occupy him.

The rector's invitation to dinner in mid-December to meet Robert Wilberforce was enthusiastically accepted by Harold and Isobel, and it was only a few hours later that Harold had been struck by a stupendous idea.

'Why not get in touch with Nathaniel's grandson again, or perhaps his wife and daughter?' he enthused to Isobel.

'But surely,' she pointed out, 'that man — Mulloy, wasn't it — was completely non-cooperative last time?'

Somewhat dashed, Harold was forced to agree. 'But his wife was helpful. And Nathaniel's great-grand daughter must now be grown up. I wonder if they would consider it?'

It was quite clear to Isobel that her husband would cling to this idea as resolutely as a terrier with a rat. 'You should have a word with Charles,' she advised. 'I imagine you are thinking of getting these people an invitation to the dinner party. I think Dimity and Charles should be told about your scheme. If the Mulloys are coming from Wales, they would need to stay overnight.'

'You are quite right,' agreed Harold. 'I get carried away. I will see how Charles feels about it.'

Later that day he rang the rector, who said he would consult his wife.

'After all,' Charles said, 'it is Dimity who has to provide the meal, and I do just wonder if Wilberforce would be at all interested in meeting the Mulloys. In any case, I must say at the outset, Harold, that I utterly refuse to have that dissolute fellow we met in Wales at my table.'

'Fair enough,' said Harold. 'I didn't propose to approach him. But the little girl we met—'

'Dulcie,' said the rector.

'That's right! Named after Nathaniel's daughter, her grandmother. She might be available. Shall I try to find out? I'll report back, and you and Dimity can decide the next step.'

The rector agreed, unable to bring himself to discourage his enthusiastic friend, despite certain reservations about approaching the Mulloy ladies. Nathaniel Patten would have been a most welcome addition to a party at Lulling vicarage, but his descendants might not be such good company, thought Charles. He awaited developments.

Although it was some twenty years since the two men had been in touch with Nathaniel's descendants, Harold set about the task of tracing them again the next morning with his usual energy and common sense.

He remembered the name of the Welsh village, and found the number of the local post office. If anyone could tell him about the family, it would be the local postmaster or mistress.

A woman answered in a lilting Welsh voice. 'I have to tell you that Mrs Mulloy died two or three years ago, and we heard of her husband's death before that, but Miss Dulcie is in London. They moved up there about eight years since. Dulcie's doing well. She was always bright, you know.'

A vision of a diminutive child briskly cutting up cabbage with a fearsome kitchen knife returned to Harold over the years. Yes, he thought, she had looked a competent little thing even then.

'And you have her address?'

'That I have. Letters still come now and again. Reunions at the girls' grammar school and that. I send them on.'

'Could you let me have it? And her telephone number?'

There was the sound of rustling paper, then she spoke again. 'I've no telephone number for her, but this is her address.'

She read it carefully, repeating each line with much emphasis, to Harold's amusement.

The young lady lived in a flat in north London evidently.

'But she works in a big office in London. Insurance, I think, but I don't know that address. Is it urgent?'

'No, no indeed,' Harold assured her. 'A friend and I met her when she was a child, and it is simply a little family matter we thought she might like to know about.'

'Money, is it? Left to her, I mean?'

'No, nothing like that.'

'Pity. She could do with it, I don't doubt, in spite of this fine job she's got. But there, we could all do with some more, couldn't we?'

Harold agreed, thanked her warmly for her help, and went to tell Isobel.

At the time when Harold was intent on tracking down Dulcie Mulloy, great-grand daughter of his hero, Winnie Bailey had decided to call on her old friend Dotty Harmer who lived some half-mile away to the west.

She took with her some magazines and a pot of honey, food for mind and body. Not that Dotty's mind really needed stimulation, if anything it needed slowing down, thought Winnie, remembering the way Dotty flitted from subject to subject with the most extraordinary mental agility for one of her advanced years. Winnie had heard her hold forth on animal welfare (Dotty's chief concern), modern education, the deterioration in public speaking, the shortcomings of the Church of England, the proliferation of caterpillars in this year's cauliflowers, all within the space of five minutes.

Dotty's father had taught at Lulling Grammar School for many years, and the remembrance of his punishments still caused strong men of Lulling to blench.

His sons had left home as soon as they could, but Dotty, who had never married, kept house for him until he died. She admired his undoubted brilliance of mind, his high principles and his physical bravery. She had seen him tackle a runaway horse careering down the steep hill from Thrush Green to Lulling, when he was in his sixties, whilst younger men stood gaping and too shocked to stir themselves to action.

On his death she had moved to a small cottage set among fields, where she had spent her time happily alone, surrounded by all kinds of animals from bantams to stray dogs and cats, not to mention goats for which she had a particular fondness, and two tortoises who were probably older than Dotty and to whom she bore a strong facial resemblance.

She delighted in collecting the harvest of the hedgerows and meadows and made preserves which she pressed upon her many friends with dire effect. 'Dotty's Collywobbles' was a local internal complaint known to Lulling and Thrush Green residents, and newcomers were warned about accepting Dotty's largesse.

Her contented solitude had to end when she became infirm, and her niece Connie and her husband Kit came to live with her at the cottage which had been sympathetically enlarged some years before.

Winnie always enjoyed visiting Dotty. Her kitchen remained the same chaotic muddle she had always known. Connie, very wisely, had an adjoining kitchen, where the real business of cooking was done.

As Winnie crossed the green to take the path to Lulling Woods, she met Albert Piggott emerging from his cottage opposite the church.

'Nice day, Albert,' said Winnie, as he paused on his doorstep.

'Bound to rain later,' said Albert morosely.

Typical of Albert, thought Winnie, with some amusement. Nothing pleased the surly old scoundrel. He had been sexton of Thrush Green church and an occasional jobbing gardener to whomsoever would employ him, for as many years as Winnie could recall, but she had never seen him in a happy mood. He was lucky to have his buxom wife Nelly to look after him. She was the best cook in the district, and spent most of her time and energy in the kitchen of the Fuchsia Bush, a renowned restaurant in Lulling High Street, where her skills were much appreciated by her partner there, Mrs Peters.

'Well,' said Winnie, 'I hope the rain holds off until I get home again. I'm just off to see Miss Harmer.'

Albert's glum countenance lightened a little. He liked old Dotty! 'Ah!' said Albert, nodding.

Winnie moved on, leaving Albert still standing equidistant between the church and the Two Pheasants.

Which, wondered Winnie, taking the path through the fields, would Albert visit first?

She found Dotty at her kitchen table, not making chutney, jam or bottling some fearsome fungi she had come across on her travels, but plying a pen.

She rose to greet Winnie affectionately. 'Just in time,' she cried. 'How do you spell "benefited"? One "t" or two?'

'You've got me there,' confessed Winnie. 'I know if I'm not asked, but the same awful doubt arises as when one is asked if it's the sixteenth or seventeenth of the month. I think it must be one "t".'

'Good!' said Dotty. 'I'm just describing my father's gastroenteritis.'

She held up an exercise book which had a shiny mottled cover. It brought back memories to Winnie of a science exercise book she had used as a schoolgirl. She could even recall the laboriously drawn illustration of a copper ball suspended over a tripod. Something to do with heat expansion, she remembered, through the mists of time.

'But what are you doing, Dotty?' she asked.

'I'm writing a biography of my father. So many people have memories of him, and I thought it would be so nice to have these recollections recorded. After all, he made a deep impression on his pupils.'

Physical as well as mental, thought Winnie, but forbore to comment.

'And I was just explaining how his gastroenteritis
benefited
from a draught of parsley and woundwort I used to make for him to drink last thing at night. As a matter of fact, I was wondering if I should include the recipe. Some readers might be grateful, don't you think?'