(11/13) Celebrations at Thrush Green (9 page)

'It would be a wicked waste,' agreed Bertha. 'Put it in the hall, Violet dear; it will save us switching on the electric light.'

The diary was probably of greater interest to Charles than to Harold, for the good rector was intrigued with the view of Thrush Green and Lulling seen through the eyes of a man doing the same work a century earlier in much the same surroundings.

He was as much impressed as Harold with the portrait of the man which emerged. He took a lively interest in his natural surroundings, his parishioners, and also in wider issues such as the conditions of the workers in industry, the might of the British Empire and the uneasy state of Europe.

Charles was interested to see his predecessor's comments on new scientific discoveries, but noted, too, how steadfastly he set his face against anything which, in his opinion, threatened the teachings of the Church. He spoke scathingly of spiritualism, and deplored the use of such toys as ouija boards, and the gatherings of people at seances, in attempts to get into touch with other worlds.

Across the years he spoke to Charles as a friendly, highly intelligent and thoughtful man. He possessed an intellect, Charles recognized humbly, far in advance of his own. But one thing they shared in common. They did indeed love their God.

It was Nathaniel's letters which gave Harold the most acute joy. Just to touch those frail pieces of paper, and to know that Nathaniel's hand had rested where his now lay, gave him a feeling of kinship and exquisite pleasure.

The diary had given only the briefest hint, now and again, of the strong bond between the two men: a father-and-son relationship as well as true friendship, for Octavius was some twenty years older than Nathaniel, and was also in a position to help the younger man, not only with his wisdom and advice, but also with regular and generous donations, as the accounts showed.

Occasionally, there had been a wistful and fatherly comment in the diary.

Only God can understand my grief at N.'s determination not to take Holy Orders. But N. is a fine young man, and God guides him as He does me. We are in His hands.

Nathaniel's letters threw more light on this vexed question. To Harold's disappointment, he soon discovered that a great many of the letters were missing. There were references to earlier matters, and it was clear, from the carefully dated relics, that only about a third of the letters were remaining.

From these, however, it was plain that Nathaniel grieved as sorely as his benefactor about his inability to enter the Anglican Church.

Your unfailing goodness to me
[he wrote in 1895]
is my constant support and inspiration. It makes my seeming opposition to your wishes, in the matter of taking Holy Orders, doubly painful to me, and I should be a happier man if my conscience would allow me to follow your dictates. As it is, I know that you understand my feelings, and will not allow this basic difference to injure the friendship we share under God's blessing.

There was no mention of Nathaniel's marriage, either, in the remaining letter nor, strangely enough, in Octavius's diary, but later letters mentioned his dead wife, and the little daughter whom he proposed to send to friends in England for her education.

As a murky January drew to its close, Harold and Charles realized that there would be very little more to be discovered about the long-dead friends.

All that remained now, they agreed, was to choose a fitting tribute to honour two fine men of Thrush Green.

6. Hard Weather

F
EBRUARY CAME
in with the same dismal clammy weather which had held sway throughout January. But after the first week, the weathervanes spun round to the north-east, and a vicious wind tossed the bare branches of the chestnut trees on Thrush Green.

It was during this bleak spell that Winnie Bailey was admitted to hospital, for the various tests had shown that it was, as suspected, gall bladder trouble, and surgery would, after all, be needed.

Speculation on the outcome of the operation was rife at the Two Pheasants.

Albert Piggott told Percy Hodge that, in his opinion, no one was ever the same again.

'My old uncle what was gamekeeper up Nidden was on slops for the rest of his life. Rice pudden, mashed potato, drop of broth - that was all he could take.'

Percy was unimpressed. 'My Gladys,' he replied, naming his present wife, 'says it don't make a mite of difference having your gall bladder out. Some bits of us are real useless. Look at my appendix, for instance.'

But nobody appeared to be interested in Percy's appendix, which perhaps was just as well because it had been removed years earlier.

Mr Jones, who rather fancied himself as a medical man, a sort of hedge-doctor, told the assembled company that you could blast gallstones into dust with a few shots of laser rays, but you had to be careful that they didn't damage the red corpuscles.

Blinded with such sophisticated knowledge the company dropped the subject of gall bladders and their treatment, but all agreed that Mrs Bailey 'would have to watch it' when she came out of hospital.

'If she ever does,' said Albert lugubriously. He liked to have the last word.

News of Winnie had reached, via Isobel Shoosmith, the two retired schoolteachers at Barton-on-Sea.

Loving messages had been despatched to St Richard's, and Interflora had been directed to send a flower arrangement to their old friend.

'I told them to send a
small
one,' Dorothy told Agnes. 'The right size for a bedside locker but smelling particularly sweet. Freesias, say, or carnations. I must say that the girl who replied seemed to understand what was wanted.'

'I'm sure she knows all about flowers for hospitals,' Agnes assured her.

'Well, I don't know about that! When I did my leg I had great towering bouquets of irises and gladioli, I remember, and the nurses were quite cross. They would keep falling over. The vases, I mean, not the nurses.'

Later that day Dorothy had a bright idea. 'Do you think Winnie would like a week or so here when she is convalescent? We could easily put her up, and the air here is so particularly good. It might be just the thing to pull her round.'

Agnes was delighted with the idea, and the evening was spent in happy anticipation of entertaining an invalid in the good air of Barton-on-Sea whenever she felt ready to accept their invitation.

But just as Agnes's euphoria was at its height, a chance remark of Dorothy's as they made their way to bed caused it to plummet.

'By the way, I wrote a little note to Alan Lester yesterday, to see if I could be of any help in those centenary celebrations Isobel mentioned.'

Agnes said nothing, but once in bed her fears flocked round her like a plague of bats.

What might come of this? Why must dear Dorothy, for the best of reasons, of course, feel obliged to
meddle
!

***

Ella Bembridge struggled against an icy wind to pay a brief visit to Dotty Harmer's cottage.

The sky above Lulling Woods was ominous, the clouds low and a menacing grey. If that doesn't mean snow, Ella told herself, I'm a Dutchman.

She found Dotty, as before, at her kitchen table surrounded by papers.

'My word,' said Ella, 'you look as though you're halfway through that book of yours.'

'I don't know about that,' replied Dotty, thrusting her pen through her scanty hair. 'I'm getting rather tired of literary work.'

'Why? What's put you off?'

'I showed my manuscript to Harold, and he said that it wouldn't make one chapter, let alone a whole book, and he couldn't see any publisher taking it on. I said to him: "What about all those reviews talking about 'this slim volume' and 'a charming monograph of a much-loved father' and all that sort of thing?" But he still says it's not long enough.'

'So what will you do? Scrap it?'

'Scrap it?'
squeaked Dotty indignantly. 'After all my hard work? Of course I shan't scrap it!'

'Well, it seems a bit pointless to carry on,' said Ella. 'Can't you pad it out somehow?'

'I do not propose to lower my standards for the sake of
length
,' said Dotty loftily, 'but I have had another idea. I have asked a number of old boys of the grammar school to write down their memories of my father, and I intend to incorporate them.'

'A splendid notion,' said Ella.

Dotty shuffled the papers before her with a claw-like hand. She looked perplexed.

'The only thing is that they all seem to dwell on Father's disciplinary side, and it makes him appear in rather a harsh light. I hoped they would discuss his fine mind, his interest as astronomy and photography. After all, he founded several scientific clubs at the school, and was most generous with gifts to the science side. I remember him handing over his own microscope and an auxanometer.'

'And what's that?'

'Well, dear, I rather forget, but I've an idea it measures the growth of plants. Father was a great botanist as well as everything else. I must say, I am rather disgusted with these old boys' narrow views.'

'Then I shouldn't use them,' said Ella stoutly. 'Just finish your notes and publish them privately.'

Dotty looked more cheerful at this gleam of hope for her cherished work. 'I am sure you are right, Ella. And now let me make you a drink. Some of my lime-flower tisane, or a cup of Nescafé?'

'I think Nescafé,' said Ella, who had tried Dotty's concoctions too often for comfort.

A quarter of an hour later she left Dotty sorting out her papers, and stepped out into the bleak world.

A few flakes of snow were fluttering down, and by the time she emerged from the field path on to Thrush Green, a whirling mass of snowflakes gave promise of a white world before morning.

From her hospital bed Winnie watched the snowstorm spreading a carpet of white and shaking the trees in the grounds.

It made a strange contrast with the over-heated room, heavy with the mingled scent of flowers, floor polish and disinfectant.

On her locker stood the bouquet from Dorothy and Agnes, and another from Jenny. More flowers lined the windowsills and a side table, and Winnie thought how lucky she was to have so many loving friends.

Among other things on the locker top stood a glass screw-top jar containing a number of dark objects ranging in size from walnuts to peppercorns. Winnie had screened this from her own gaze by propping up a large 'get-well' card in front of it, for it was a gruesome reminder of Mr Philip Paterson's (St Thomas's) successful surgery a few days earlier, and Winnie felt she could not face its presence much longer.

Winnie's first impulse had been to beg her nurse to throw the lot in the hospital dustbin, but when several colleagues burst in to look at the jar with awe and delight, she felt unequal to the effort. When the surgeon visited her that evening she hoped that he would remove the revolting jar, but he was even more delighted than the nurses at the result of his skills.

'Do you think,' said Winnie faintly, 'that they could be thrown away now that I've seen them?'

Mr Paterson clutched the jar to him, as a mother might clutch her baby. 'But surely you want to take them home?'

The very thought sent a wave of nausea through poor Winnie, but as a doctor's wife she did her duty. 'I think you did a wonderful job,' she said, 'and I shall always be grateful. But I cannot have those ghastly things here any longer.'

Mr Paterson appeared astounded. 'Well,' he said, looking deeply hurt, 'I'll leave them where they were on the locker, in case you change your mind, and you can have a look later. After supper, say. I believe you are having a little fish soup tonight.'

He gave his usual comforting smile and departed.

Really a charming fellow, thought Winnie, and so conscientious with his night and morning visits.

Nevertheless, she resolved to get one of the nurses to dispose of the jar, and if she and the other girls complained of such ruthlessness it was just too bad.

As for Philip Paterson, he would have to endure the loss of his handiwork with all the fortitude of a true St Thomas's man.