(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green (5 page)

Alan Lester's two daughters were among his pupils, and were some of the keenest workers at the Christmas decorations. At home they continued their labours enthusiastically, and Alan found the schoolhouse as lavishly festooned in paperchains as the school itself.

'You know,' commented Alan to his wife Margaret when the little girls were safely in bed, 'I am a true lover of Christmas, but I do get a little tired of these ubiquitous paperchains.'

'Never mind,' said his wife consolingly. 'You know what Eeyore said about birthdays? "Here today, and gone tomorrow." Well, Christmas is much the same!'

'Ah!' replied Alan, 'but these things stay up until Twelfth Night. However, if the girls like them...'

'They do,' said Margaret; and there the matter was left.

Meanwhile, at the vicarage in Lulling, preparations for the dinner party were already going ahead.

Dimity, whose confidence in her ability to cook had grown since her marriage, was quite enjoying making lists of possible menus for the great occasion. She consulted Charles earnestly about his opinion, but always received the same unhelpful response: 'I'm sure that would be very nice, Dimity. Very nice indeed.'

Food meant little to Charles, and Dimity often wondered if he would patiently wade through a stewed boot or bread soaked in hot water if put before him. He would certainly not question such a meal, and probably compliment her when his plate was clean.

She remembered his angelic forbearance with the appalling meals his housekeeper had dished up, when Charles was a lone widower at Thrush Green years earlier. She and Ella had often taken pity on him, and invited him to lunch. He had always been excessively grateful, Dimity recalled, but now, after years of marriage and supplying him with meals, she wondered if perhaps she and Ella had been more satisfied then with their entertaining than their polite guest.

In the end Dimity had devised a main course which would survive in the oven should the guests be late in arriving. Chicken breasts in a creamy sauce in a casserole, accompanied by jacket potatoes, runner beans grown in the vicarage garden and taken from the freezer, and fresh carrots for a splash of colour should prove adequate. The problems of starters and puddings to augment the chicken kept Dimity engrossed happily for days beforehand.

Charles would be in charge of the wine throughout the evening, and here he took more interest and was quite knowledgeable. Dimity was content to leave things to him.

There would only be six at the table, but the plethora of dishes were to be tackled in the kitchen, while coffee was being taken in the vicarage's elegant drawing-room, by the stalwart daily help who usually came to give a hand with the housework on two mornings a week.

The warmest of the three spare bedrooms was to house Mr Wilberforce overnight, and Dimity was already planning the best arrangement of his bedside lighting and reading matter. With such domestic matters Dimity was happily occupied, while Charles thought only of the pleasure of seeing and handling the letters written so long ago by Nathaniel, and the diary kept by the Reverend Octavius Fennel who had once walked the streets of Lulling and Thrush Green to meet his parishioners, just as Charles himself did today.

At Thrush Green Harold Shoosmith looked forward to the evening with even greater excitement.

They were invited to the vicarage at seven o'clock to meet the other guests, and fortunately the night was clear.

Fog had shrouded the Cotswolds for two days, causing traffic to progress at a walking pace in the towns, and making it necessary to have lights on all day in offices, shops and homes.

A breeze had sprung up in the late afternoon, swirling the mist away in long veils. By the time early dusk had fallen over Lulling, the Christmas lights were shining as brightly as ever, and there was general relief, as the Shoosmiths set out.

The vicarage hall was also bright with extra polishing by Gladys, a splendid azalea on the hall table, and a Christmas tree standing in the corner.

Dimity, flushed with her culinary efforts, greeted Isobel and Harold affectionately and ushered them into the drawing-room where Robert Wilberforce was standing.

He was tall and dark, aged about forty, and looked remarkably healthy, as if he might well take a brisk walk daily over his native fells. He was not handsome, Isobel decided as they were introduced, but attractive in a rugged open-air way. His voice was low with a north-country burr about it, and Harold, who would have liked the biggest villain on earth as carrier of Nathaniel Patten's letters, took to this amiable stranger at once.

The rector poured drinks and Robert's journey and the providential dispersal of the fog kept the conversation going. A briefcase stood by Robert's chair and Harold was longing to see it opened.

A few minutes later the door bell rang and Charles hastened to answer it.

'That will be Miss Mulloy,' cried Dimity. 'I do so hope she had an easy journey.'

The latest guest came in shyly, warmly greeted by Dimity who led her to the fire and began introductions.

She was a small woman with soft fair hair, and was clad in a coral-pink jersey suit. Harold thought how pretty she was, this great-grand daughter of Nathaniel's, and remembered the gross unkempt man who was her father. Certainly this fragile-looking girl, whose small cold hand he held, did not take after her paternal parent.

Over their drinks she grew less shy and told them about her position in an insurance firm in the City, and how she went daily by tube from her flat. Robert knew some of the directors of the company, and the conversation flowed easily.

Dimity hurried out to the kitchen to supervise the dishing-up operations, and while she was absent the rector said gently how sorry he was to learn that her mother had died, and how they remembered her kindness to them in Wales so long ago.

The girl looked down at the glass in her hand, and Charles wondered if he had been wrong to mention the subject, but Dulcie spoke calmly.

'We had two lovely years together in my flat,' she said, 'before she fell ill. I think they were the happiest years of both our lives.'

'So you live alone now?'

'At the moment. I suppose it would be sensible to get a friend to share with me, but I'm rather enjoying being on my own.'

'A lot to be said for it,' agreed Robert Wilberforce, 'but who looks after you?'

Dulcie looked bewildered. 'I look after myself.'

'But when you get home,' insisted Robert, 'who cooks a meal and so on?'

'Why, I do. It's no bother.'

Robert laughed. 'I suppose I'm spoilt. My housekeeper, Mrs Tanner, cooks and washes and does everything in the house for me. She's a Yorkshire lass and everything's kept at a pretty high standard. I have to leave muddy shoes in the porch.'

At this point, Dimity summoned them to the dining-room. Over the meal Charles enlarged on the excitement that had been engendered by Robert's gift of the letters to Thrush Green.

'Well, I must confess I had never heard of him until I went through my aunt's papers.'

'You're not the only one,' commented Harold. 'The name of Nathaniel Patten didn't seem to be known when I arrived here some years ago.'

'Now, come!' protested Charles, 'we knew he was buried in the churchyard, but we had no idea he was such a great man.'

'My Aunt Mary could have told you,' broke in Dulcie. 'She had a great many of his qualities, and she often quoted him to me as a good example. I'm afraid my father had no time for his memory.'

She said this with an apologetic smile towards Charles and Harold, and they realized, with some relief, that she had become quite reconciled to the memory of a far from satisfactory father.

Dimity's dinner was much enjoyed, although Harold was secretly so anxious to get hold of the contents of Robert's briefcase that he was scarcely aware of what was put before him.

When they were back at last in the drawing-room with coffee at their sides the great moment arrived, and Robert unclicked his case.

He handed a large envelope to Charles, and they all sat back to watch the rector open the treasure. A smaller envelope revealed a hardbacked diary, spotted with age, with a brittle silk ribbon marking a page.

'There's not a lot in the diary part,' said Robert, bending forward, 'but he seems to have kept his accounts in the latter half, and they look particularly interesting.'

'May I see?' burst from Harold, and Charles hastily handed the little volume to his anxious friend. A bundle of yellowing letters was next withdrawn from the envelope and Charles's chubby face grew pink with pleasure.

'I really feel,' he said, turning to Dulcie, 'that you should see them first as a direct descendant.'

But Dulcie would not hear of it, so Charles undid the string which held them, and looked at the first letter. The paper was brittle and so fragile that Dulcie thought of the paper burnt on a bonfire that turns to gossamer thinness before the wind shatters it.

The rector peered closely at the faded writing. 'It's dated 1892,' he told them. 'I can't see if it is January or July. He just puts "Jy". Let me see if I can make out the text.'

He adjusted the gold-rimmed spectacles on his snub nose, and cleared his throat.

It is now almost eight months since I said farewell to you at Bristol, and I write to tell you of the safety of our journey, and the beginnings of my endeavours which, with Gods help and your prayers and inestimable support, I trust will be successful.

I have not yet met Dr Maurice as he is ministering to sufferers at a settlement up-river, but kind messages were waiting here from him on my arrival.

My faithful servant, already dedicated to Christ, awaits the conclusion of this letter, and will take it downstream some thirty miles to our nearest township where
(Deo volente)
it will go by the next ship to England.

My prayers, my thanks, and my whole heart go with this letter to one whose faith and bounty have inspired my life.

The rector's voice was husky with emotion as he read the words, written so long ago in the cruel heat of Africa, to one long dead. Both writer and first reader had loved Thrush Green, thought Charles, as he and the local friends with him did now.

There was a short silence, then Robert Wilberforce spoke. 'I find that very moving,' he said. 'And I think the date must be January. If you look in Octavius's diary you will see that he notes that a letter from Nathaniel arrived that summer. I imagine that fits.'

The rest of the company were as moved as Robert was, and longed to hear more.

'I shall spread them out,' decided Charles, 'on this side table, so that we can all see them easily. Somehow I don't think they'll stand much handling.'

They all helped to clear a space, and soon the fragile pages lay open to their gaze.

After some time, Dimity recalled them to the present by offering more coffee, and the company moved back to their chairs by the fire.

'They are not all dated,' said Harold. 'I wonder if we can get them into chronological order.'

'That's where the diary helps,' Robert told him. 'As far as I could make out, Octavius supplied the funds for this venture, and he seems to have put regular sums into an account at Coutts bank to support the mission.'

'But I don't think Nathaniel was backed by the Church,' said Charles. 'I wonder why Octavius was so generous? I know from records that he was a bachelor and a rich man, but it seems odd that as a churchman he should give so much to Nathaniel.'

'Reading between the lines,' replied Robert, 'I think he looked upon Nathaniel as a son. He mentions several times in the diary his sorrow that Nathaniel refused to take Holy Orders. Evidently the young man could not believe in all the tenets of the church, evangelical soul that he was, but had this burning missionary zeal with which Octavius had to be content.'

'We must try to find out more about Octavius,' mused Charles. 'He sounds a remarkable man.'

'There is possibly a full obituary in the back numbers of local papers,' said Harold. 'I'll look into it, shall I?'