(3/13) News from Thrush Green (13 page)

He read it through to the end, let the typescript drop to his knees, and gazed thoughtfully at the fire. This simply must not be printed. He must go and see Phil immediately, before she wrote to accept the offer of payment.

But what a kettle of fish! What could have possessed the girl to lift two characters from life so inartistically! He looked through the story again, and sighing, went to the telephone.

Phil answered immediately.

'Do you think I might come over for a few minutes? It's about the story.'

'Of course. Something wrong with it?'

'Frankly, yes.'

There was a short silence. Then Phil spoke briskly.

'Well, bring it over with you, and we'll go through it. I expect it can be altered easily enough.'

She showed him into the sitting-room where a log fire crackled welcomingly.

'No Jeremy?' asked Harold.

'Early bed tonight. He's running a slight temperature. But he's quite happy reading a Paddington Bear book.'

'I'll go and see him, if I may, before I go.'

'He'd love that. But do tell me - you can guess how anxious I am - what's the matter with the story?'

Harold found her bright gaze very difficult to face.

'If you want to continue to live at Thrush Green,' said Harold, 'I'm afraid you'll have to scrap it.'

'Scrap it?' cried Phil, in horror. 'But why?'

'Jean and Phoebe are Ella and Dimity to a T. The curate, though not so near the knuckle, might be Charles Henstock.'

The girl looked aghast.

'I never thought of that,' she whispered. 'Here's a how-d'you-do.'

She looked swiftly at Harold and put a hand upon his arm.

'You surely don't think I did this knowingly? I wrote that story three years ago - long before I knew anyone here. Don't you remember? You said it would be a good idea to send a story I had by me while I altered the new one. This is it.'

'I remember very well.'

'What on earth shall I do?'

'Tell Frank to send it back.'

Phil's face took on a mutinous look.

'I don't really see why I should. I've got a clear conscience. This is pure coincidence. Frank's accepted it, and I'm dam' glad to have earned fifty guineas. Besides, Frank won't be particularly anxious to take other things if I mess him about with this effort.'

Harold said nothing.

'Besides,' continued Phil, getting up and walking restlessly about the room, 'how many people in Thrush Green are likely to see this particular magazine? And what the hell does it matter if someone thinks I've written about Ella and Dimity? I wrote that story in good faith, and the money's honestly earned. And, believe me, it's needed. I've just had a further bill from the wretched builders for eighty-five pounds. This isn't the time to start being squeamish about possible hurt feelings.'

Harold let her argue herself to a standstill. Soon enough, he realised, she would be able to cope with this bitter disappointment, and he felt sure that she would decide, eventually, to withdraw the offending story.

'I really think you are fussing about nothing,' she went on, standing in front of his chair. 'Why must you be so maddeningly interfering? The implications would never have dawned on me - and I don't suppose, for one minute, that they ever will on any readers in Thrush Green - if there are any. Why did you have to meddle in this?'

'Because I don't want to see you leaving Tullivers,' said Harold drily.

Phil snorted.

'It would take more than a few wagging tongues to oust me from Thrush Green, I can assure you.'

She sat down abruptly in the armchair on the opposite side of the hearth. Harold could see that her fury was fast abating. Far more upsetting, to his tender heart, was the look of hurt bewilderment which began to creep across her countenance.

'What on earth shall I do?' she asked quietly. 'I could, I suppose, have it published under a pen name.'

She sounded near to tears, and Harold began to feel alarmed about his own ability to cope with an emotional situation. If only she weren't so confoundedly pretty, it would be easier, he told himself.

'I feel partly to blame,' he said. 'Shall I have a word with Frank and say that I've noticed this likeness?'

'No, thanks,' replied Phil shortly. 'I can handle it.'

Harold refused to feel rebuffed.

'Very well. But you do see that it would be far wiser to scrap the story?'

'No, I can't say I do. And I'm not making up my mind one way or the other until the morning.'

'I'm glad to hear it.'

'I think you meant well—'

'Thanks,' interjected Harold grimly.

'But I don't relish your interference, I must say. I've nothing to blame myself for, and I need the money. Naturally, I don't want to upset good neighbours, but I'm not keen on upsetting Frank either.'

She stood up, and Harold rose to make his departure.

'No hard feelings?' he said with a smile.

'Of course not.' Her tone was warm.

'And can I see the boy.?'

'Yes, indeed. Let's go up.'

But when they reached the bedroom the child was asleep with the open book lodged upon his chest.

Phil removed it quietly, put out the bedside light and they went downstairs.

'By the way,' said the girl. 'We're going to have a cat.'

'One of Dotty's?'

'That's right. Jeremy's thrilled.'

'And what about you?'

'Modified rapture. I love them, but I'm terrified of the traffic, and we're so horribly near the road.'

'Keep your fingers crossed,' said Harold, on the doorstep. He hesitated for a moment.

'Will you be kind enough to let me know how you decide to act?'he said diffidently. 'Perhaps I shouldn't interfere any more.'

'I shall let you know as soon as I've made up my mind,' said Phil stiffly. She watched him make his way to the gate, raised her hand in farewell, and closed the door, with what seemed to Harold, unnecessary firmness.

'Damn!' said Harold, plodding homeward. A much-quoted dictum of his old nurse's floated into his perplexed mind.

'What can't be cured must be endured!'

Cold comfort indeed, thought Harold, turning the key in his front door.

Harold Shoosmith was not the only person in the neighbourhood to suffer a disturbed night.

Sam Curdle was receiving the lashing of Bella's tongue, as they packed their few poor belongings in the stuffy caravan. They were off at first light, making for a village north of Southampton.

Bella had learned the bitter truth that they were to depart from the farmer's wife.

'I'm sorry to lose you, Bella,' Mrs Hodge said truthfully. 'You've been a good worker and we've got on well. But my husband won't be done, as you know, and Sam's a fool to try it on.'

Bella had pleaded for leniency, promising to keep an eye on her erring husband, although she knew, in her heart, that he was too slippery a customer even for her control. The poor woman was at her wits' end. i There were three children to bring up and she knew that Sam's chances of getting any kind of job in the Thrush Green area were slight indeed.

Mrs Hodge stood firm. It was as much as her life was worth, she said, to oppose Percy. Sam had known from the start that he was allowed in the yard on sufferance. He had flouted the master's demands, and there was an end to it.

A furious scene between Sam and Bella followed. The next day, Bella, slightly less heated, betook herself to the telephone booth at the corner of Thrush Green, a fine assortment of coins in hand.

Unknown to Sam, whom she had left sulking in bed, she put her pride in her pocket and decided to talk to her father who kept a country pub in a village in Hampshire. She had been his barmaid before marriage, and hoped that he and her step-mother would take pity on their plight now.

She disliked the idea of going there intensely, but there seemed to be no alternative. Her father had married some years after the death of Bella's mother, and her step-mother was a hard-working, but tight-fisted woman who had never taken particularly to her blowsy step-daughter. It wouldn't be a very comfortable situation for the Curdle family, Bella knew, remembering her step-mother's sharp tongue, but beggars couldn't be choosers, she told herself, as she dropped the coins in the box.

Her father was a tender-hearted man and responded kindly to her tearful call for help. Yes, they could all come, and the caravan could stand in the backyard. As it happened, his present barmaid was leaving to have a baby, though she would be back in a couple of months, Bella must understand.

And Maud herself, Bella's step-mother, was laid up with a sprained ankle, so Bella would be doubly welcome.

Sam, said her father, with rather less warmth, could find himself a job nearby and could earn a few bob helping him in the evenings with the crates.

'But you can tell him straight, Bella, he's to behave himself. You know what I mean. You and the kids are welcome for a bit, just to tide you over like, but Sam had better get down to a steady job and make a proper home for you all. Tell him I said so.'

Bella promised, with some relish, thanked her father sincerely and went back to the caravan to face Sam with the ultimatum.

'Well, we ain't going!' said Sam roundly, when faced with die news.

A dangerous glint appeared in Bella's eye, and Sam began to quail inwardly.

'You speak for yourself, Sam Curdle. Go where you like - it don't trouble me, and that's flat. But me and the kids set off tomorrow for home. I can drive well enough to get us down there, and I reckons I own this caravan more than you do. It's my wages as keeps us going, and we'll all be a dam' sight better off without you.'

'Now, Bella—' began Sam.

Scarlet in the face, Bella rounded upon him.

'Take it or leave it! We're off first thing tomorrow, come rain or shine, Come if you like, or clear off-one or the other!'

And so, next morning, the battered caravan clattered out of Percy Hodge's yard for ever. As it rattled by Harold Shoosmith's house, Willie Bond the postman watched it. At the wheel was a grim-faced Sam. Beside him, arms folded, sat an equally grim-faced Bella. The news that the Curdles were off had already flown around the neighbourhood, but Willie was the only witness to their departure.

'Good riddance to bad rubbish!' said Willie aloud, as the caravan slid out of sight down the steep hill to Lulling.

He echoed the general feelings of Thrush Green.

11 Albert has Suspicions

HAROLD Shoosmith's bathroom was at the back of the house overlooking the little valley that lay to the west of Thrush Green. In the distance were Lulling Woods, a deep blue smudge against the winter sky.

As he shaved the next morning he gazed beyond the shaving mirror on the window sill observing the bare trees and brindled hedges of winter. The elm trees, near Dotty Harmer's distant cottage, spread their fans of black lace, and a wisp of blue smoke, curling up towards them, showed that Dotty was already astir.

After his restless night, Harold felt out of sorts. He had gone over the irritating affair of Phil's story, time and time again, in the maddening way one does at night. He had almost decided, at one stage, to ignore Phil's request to cease meddling and to ring Frank and explain matters, swearing his old friend to secrecy.

But with morning light, things could be seen more coolly, and Harold made up his mind to let this business work itself out, without worrying himself unduly. He had made his point. It was Phil's decision, and she had plenty of sense.

He determined to put it at the back of his mind, and went downstairs to brew his coffee and make toast. Nevertheless, he intended to keep within earshot of the telephone. Luckily, Betty Bell came that day to go through the house, like a mighty rushing wind, and she would answer the telephone if Harold were called away unexpectedly.

For the first part of the morning he worked at his desk, the telephone within arm's reach. It rang once and he snatched it up, only to be told that the exchange was testing his line.

Betty Bell burst in, without knocking, at eleven o'clock, bearing half a cup and half a saucerful of far too milky coffee, and two soggy gingernuts.

'Heard the news?' she asked.

'What about?'

'Them Curdles.'

'I heard Percy Hodge had asked them to leave,' said Harold guardedly.

'Fair old rumpus they had, Bella and Sam,' said Betty sitting down on
The Times
which Harold had left in the armchair. 'Willie Bond said they looked as black as thunder going off in that old van. Got a tin bath and the pushchair lashed on top. He said it sounded like Alexander's rag-time band.'

Betty burst into merry laughter, rocking back and forth to the detriment of
The Times.

'Proper cough-drop old Willie is! You ever heard him sing "I Gotter Motter"?'

'No,' said Harold, pouring the coffee from the saucer into the cup. The biscuits he had wrapped in blotting paper and deposited in the waste-paper basket.

'You ought! You really ought! Brings the house down. Never fails. Always gets an encore, does Willie.'

She got up bouncily.