(3/13) News from Thrush Green (14 page)

'Well, this won't buy the baby a new frock, will it? I'm doing you liver and bacon for your dinner. All right?'

Harold nodded. Betty Bell, in full spate, after a poor night, was more than usually exhausting.

She whirled out, crashing the door behind her. Harold sipped his tepid coffee and looked across the green to Tullivers. What was going on there?

A pale wintry sun lit the scene. He decided that he would do some gardening. No point in moping about. Fresh air and exercise would do him good.

'Give an ear to the phone, Betty,' he said casually, as he dragged on his Wellingtons. 'I'm expecting a call.'

But it did not come. The morning passed. The liver and bacon were cooked and eaten. Betty Bell departed, leaving her master hoeing the beds beneath the study window where the telephone bell could be heard should it happen to ring.

But it remained silent for the rest of the day, and when evening came Harold shrugged aside the whole stupid incident and bent his energies to solving a much-crumpled crossword puzzle in
The Times.

The departure of Sam and Bella Curdle had repercussions in the community. John Donne's dictum about no man being an island is truer in a village, perhaps, than in any larger community.

In the first place, Winnie Bailey was expecting him to come to the house to sweep the kitchen chimney. An odd quirk in this structure, necessitated by a by-gone architect's devious design, meant that it needed a sweep's ministrations twice a year. Dr Bailey owned some stout brushes, which were frequently loaned to neighbours, for this purpose, and Sam was always ready to do the job for five shillings.

Albert Piggott was the second person to miss Sam. They had been instructed by the rector to take out some rusty and damaged iron palings from the churchyard fence.

'Children or animals could be injured so easily,' said the rector anxiously. His sexton had snorted, but made no spoken comment. Children and animals, his expression implied, got what they deserved if they meddled.

'It's too bad,' said Mrs Bailey, when she heard that Sam had gone. 'That wretched boiler will start smoking as soon as the wind changes, mark my words. I shall have to get someone up from Lulling, I suppose.'

'No need,' said Richard, sprinkling wheat germ on his plate of Otto-recommended breakfast cereal. 'I'll do it this evening.'

Winnie surveyed her neat nephew with new respect.

'Do you know what to do?'

'Of course. I rather like sweeping chimneys. And cleaning drains. So worthwhile. Instant rewards, you know.'

He poured himself some coffee.

'Think no more of it. I'll be ready for the job after dinner tonight, if that suits you.'

'Wonderful!' cried Winnie. 'I'm most grateful, Richard dear. I'll let the boiler out this afternoon.'

True to his word, Richard tackled the job that evening. He was clad in ex-R.A.F. overalls, once white, but now mottled with the stains of many a year and many a job, from creosoting fences to cleaning out wells.

'They go everywhere with me,' said Richard, stroking his filthy overalls fondly. 'Such a useful rig-out.'

This practical side of Richard's nature was new to his aunt, and she found her respect for the young man growing considerably as she watched him tackling the flue. He was quick and clean. He had had the forethought to spread newspapers at strategic points, and he wasted no time in idle conversation as Sam Curdle did.

While the flue brush was rattling away inside the chimney, Phil Prior called.

'My goodness,' she said, with admiration. 'You're making a splendid job of that.'

'A minor accomplishment,' replied Richard, with a rare smile. 'It's more useful than painting water-colours these days.'

'It certainly is,' agreed the girl. She turned to Mrs Bailey.

'I hate to bother you, but would you come and have a look at Jeremy? He's looking so flushed. He went to sleep as usual, but he's woken up again so crotchety. I don't like to bother Doctor Lovell, but if you think—'

'Let me slip on my coat,' said Mrs Bailey, making for the stairs.

'Ah!' said Richard, with enormous satisfaction. A sizeable piece of hardened soot rattled down the chimney and splintered on the waiting newspaper.

'I think Aunt Winnie wants a different sort of fuel for this contraption.'

He picked up the soot in a blackened hand and studied it with close attention. Phil watched, amused. At last, this young man had come to life! Until then, she had found him cold and a trifle supercilious.

'Do you often sweep chimneys?' she asked lightly.

'If I'm asked I do,' replied Richard. 'I like mucky jobs. It makes a change from my finicky figure work.'

He looked at her swiftly.

'Do you want anything done?'

'Not chimneys, alas. They were done when we moved in, but—.' She hesitated.

'No, nothing really,' she finished lamely.

'It's a waste-pipe,' said Richard shrewdly.

Phil laughed.

'You're clairvoyant! As a matter of fact, it is.'

'Well, I love a good stuffed-up waste-pipe,' said Richard, with relish. 'I'll be over tomorrow evening, if that suits you.'

'There's no hurry - it's the spare room waste-pipe, but I'd be eternally grateful, if you really mean to do it.'

'Mean to do it? Of course, I mean to do it,' said Richard indignantly. 'If not tomorrow, then one evening soon. I'll ring first to see if it's convenient.'

'You are kind,' said Phil gratefully.

Mrs Bailey reappeared and the two women hurried next door. After inspecting Jeremy, Winnie suggested a little milk of magnesia.

'And if he still seems feverish in the morning, send for Doctor Lovell. He'll pop in before morning surgery, no doubt.'

'You've relieved my mind,' said the girl. 'I seem to worry unnecessarily.'

'How are things going?' Winnie ventured.

'Worse,' said Phil. 'By that I mean that the wheels are grinding along. What I
cannot bear
is the thought of Christmas for Jeremy without his father. I must screw myself to telling him before long. I can't tell you how I dread it.'

'Do you hear from him?'

'Sometimes he writes a short note when he sends my cheque. He's in France, at the moment. With her, I imagine.'

The girl sounded dog-tired and hopeless. Winnie felt powerless to help.

'And the writing?' she asked, hoping to find a more cheerful topic.

Phil laughed mirthlessly.

'All in a muddle. I've had an acceptance, but I'm not sure if I want it to be published now. There are plenty of stories, by me, waiting to be read by editors. Something may turn up.'

'I'm sure it will,' said Winnie robustly. 'Now have an early night, and by morning both you and Jeremy will be fighting fit again.'

She kissed her gently, and returned home, shaking her head.

'Poor young thing!' she murmured, opening the kitchen door.

Richard was taking up the newspapers. The stove was back to rights and freshly-washed.

'That's a nice young woman,' observed Richard thoughtfully. 'Is her divorce through yet?'

My goodness, thought Winnie, in some alarm, Richard's touch may be sure enough with chimneys and waste-pipes, but it was surely rather too heavy and direct in his dealings with women!

Albert Piggott did not find help as easily as Winnie Bailey.

He surveyed the cold November day through his cottage window. It was going to be proper bleak tugging up them old railings. Been stuck there, in Cotswold clay, for a hundred years. They'd take some shifting - and no Sam to give him a hand.

He said as much to Nelly, who was whirling about behind him with a tin of polish and a duster. He got short shrift from her.

'A good day's work won't hurt you, Albert. Make a nice change,' she puffed, rubbing energetically at the top of the table. 'Do that liver of yours a power of good.'

Fat lot of sympathy she ever gives me, thought Albert morosely, lifting his greasy cap from the peg behind the door. He dressed slowly, watching his buxom wife attacking the furniture with zest.

All right for some, Albert grumbled to himself, crossing to the windy churchyard. She'd never had a day's illness in her life - strong as a horse, she was - and still game to make eyes at that oilman.

The pain which gnawed intermittently at Albert's inside seemed worse today. Doctor Lovell's pills helped a little, but Nelly's food was too rich, no doubt about it, and he was that starved with hunger when it came to meal times, he ate whatever she provided, dreading too the lash of her tongue if he refused to eat.

He set about the broken railings and found the job as difficult as he had feared. As he tugged he contemplated his marriage. What a fool he'd been! A clean house and good cooking was no exchange for peace and quiet, and that was what he missed. The only times he had the house to himself were Tuesdays and Fridays when Nelly took herself to Bingo at Lulling.

Or did she? A sudden suspicion made Albert straighten his back and look across Thrush Green. Come to think of it, Bingo was on Saturday night. It dawned, with horrible clarity, on Albert's dull mind, that Nelly must be meeting the oilman on Tuesdays and Fridays.

That was it! Tuesday was the oilman's half-day, he remembered, and Friday was his pay-day. It all fitted together.

He bent to his task again, half relishing the scene when he confronted Nelly with his discovery. The pain in his stomach seemed worse, and there was a tight feeling across his chest which he had not suffered before, but he continued tugging with the vigour born of righteous indignation.

He saw Nelly whisk out of the cottage, a basket on her arm, bound for the butcher's down the hill. He gave her no greeting, but watched sourly as her ample back vanished in the distance.

'You wait, my gal,' said Albert grimly. 'You just wait!'

Young Jeremy Prior was no better the next morning and Doctor Lovell called at Tullivers when morning surgery, next door, was over.

'There's measles about,' he told Phil when they were downstairs again, 'but it doesn't look like it at the moment. No rash yet, of course. But keep him in bed, and I'll look in tomorrow.'

He eyed the girl sympathetically. She looked wretchedly tired.

'Did you sleep last night?'

'Not much.'

'Would you like a few tablets?'

'Not really, many thanks. I've a horror of pills, and I know I'll have a good night tonight. It works out that way, I find.'

'Good,' said the young doctor briskly. 'But if I can help, do just say. And don't worry about that young man upstairs. I think we'll find his temperature's down tomorrow.'

Throughout the day the child was unusually demanding and fractious. He wanted his mother with him most of the time, and she was content to shelve her writing and sit beside him reading stories or helping with a gignatic ancient jig-saw puzzle of the Wembley Exhibition, bequeathed to him by Winnie Bailey.

The affair of the story niggled at the back of her mind, but she had little time to give it attention that day. Harold Shoosmith's attitude she still found high-handed, and was annoyed that she cared so much. The fact that he might expect to hear about her decision that day, never entered her head. She had told him that she would let him know what she would do, and this she intended to do in time.

Meanwhile, she kept Jeremy company and watched the activities of her neighbours through the bedroom window. She saw Albert Piggott attacking the church railings, and his fat wife waddling down the road. She saw Charles Henstock walking across the green, bent against the wind, to speak to Albert. Her friend, Joan Young, emerged from the fine house nearby, and battled her way towards Lulling, and across the green she watched the children pour into the playground at mid-morning, shouting and leaping, whilst little Miss Fogerty stood sipping her tea among the tumult.

It reminded Phil that she must let Miss Watson know why Jeremy was away. She would telephone during the dinner hour. She did not want to be out of earshot if Jeremy called.

But in the afternoon, when he fell into a peaceful sleep, she ventured into the garden to get a breath of the cold blustery air. A rose or two still starred the bushes and she picked them to enjoy indoors. The winter jasmine was in bud and already one or two bulbs were poking their green shoots through the earth.

Elsewhere winter held sway. The chestnut trees were bare now, in the avenue, and the dead leaves of the Baileys' beech hedge rustled dryly in the wind. The skeletons of dead plants rattled together like castanets, and the matted ivy on the old wall flapped up and down like a loose curtain.

The Cotswold stone was as grey as the November sky above it. In the distance, the girl could see the dun-coloured meadows of winter and the faraway smudge of Lulling Woods. The grey coldness seemed to echo her own life just now. Would she ever know light and warmth, colour and excitement again? Would this desolation last for ever?

She was tired of the struggling, tired of keeping up a bright front for Jeremy, for the neighbours and for herself. If only something, however insignificant, would happen to give her hope.

12 Albert is Struck Down