(3/13) News from Thrush Green (2 page)

It wasn't as if Lucy Trigg were senile. Her mind, in some ways, was as clear as ever. She played a good game of bridge with her neighbours. She attacked, and overcame, the challenge of
The Daily Telegraph
crossword puzzle each morning, and played her dusty piano with fingers still nimble despite arthritis. It was simply that the squalor of her house did not affect her. Her world had shrunk to the few things which still had interest for her. The rest was ignored.

It was fortunate that Tullivers was a small house with a small garden. Doctor Bailey, as a young man, had been offered the major part of the next door garden by the Admiral's predecessor. He had bought it for thirty pounds, enclosed it with a honey-coloured Cotswold stone wall, and planted a small but fine orchard, now at the height of its production. Thus the Bailey's garden was L-shaped, and the remaining portion of Tullivers' land, a mere quarter of an acre, allowed room for only a lawn, a few mature lilac and may trees and the flower border which had been tie Admiral's particular pride.

An Albertine rose grew splendidly over one end of the house, and winter jasmine starred the front porch in the cold of the year. Inside were two fairly small square rooms, one each side of the front door, with a roomy kitchen built on at the back.

Above stairs were two modest bedrooms and a bathroom with Victorian fittings and a geyser which made threatening rumbles, wheezes and minor explosions when in use.

Tullivers, in its heyday, was always known as 'a snug house' by Thrush Green people. It stood at right angles to the road, and rather nearer it than most of the larger houses which stood back in their well-kept gardens.

It faced south, across the Bailey's front garden, towards the roofs of Lulling in the valley below, a mile distant. It crouched there, as snug as a contented cat, catching the sunshine full on its face.

To see Tullivers so neglected had grieved Thrush Green. Its decay over the past two years had been a constant topic of conversation. It had been left to a nephew of Lucy Trigg's, also a naval man, who put it in the hands of a London estate agent to sell for him whilst he was abroad.

'Pity he didn't let the local chaps have it,' was the general opinion. 'Keep a sharper eye on it. Should have gone within the month.'

There had been one or two prospective buyers, pushing their way through the tall weeds, with papers describing the property's charms in their hands, but the general neglect seemed to dishearten them. Heavy snow in January and February kept other possible buyers away, and by the time the crocuses and daffodils, were decking the rest of the Thrush Green gardens, Tullivers was looking at its worst.

Birds nested in the porch and in the guttering, and a bold jackdaw started to build in the cold unused chimney. Mice had found shelter in the kitchen, and spiders spun their webs unmolested.

The children at the village school eyed the blank windows speculatively, and the bigger boys fingered the catapults hidden in their pockets, longing to pick up pebbles and let fly at this beautiful sitting target. What could be more exhilarating than the crack of a glass pane, the dramatic starring, the satisfying hole? Two of the most daring had been observed in the garden by Miss Watson, the headmistress, who lived across the green at the school house, and she had delivered dire warnings during assembly the next morning. The two malefactors had been displayed to the assembled school as 'Trespassers Loitering With Criminal Intent,' and were suitably abashed. Thrush Green parents, fortunately, were still unspoilt by modern educational theories and heartily approved of Miss Watson's strong line. Miss Fogerty, who was in charge of the infants' class, added her own warnings when she regained the classroom, and the infants approached their morning's labours in a suitably sober mood. It says much for the two ladies, and the parents of Thrush Green, that the little house remained safe from children's assaults, despite temptation.

One bright April day, a red Mini stopped outside Tullivers and a tall woman, paper fluttering from a gloved hand, made her way into the house.

Miss Fogerty was on playground duty that morning. Standing on the sheltered side of the school, teacup in hand, she watched with mounting excitement. Around her squealed and shouted the sixty or so pupils of Thrush Green Church of England Primary School. During those delirious fifteen minutes of morning play-time, they were variously space-men, horses, footballers, boxers, cowboys or - among the youthful minority - simply mothers and fathers. The noise was ear-splitting. The bracing Cotswold air produces fine healthy lungs, and the rumpus made at play-time could be clearly heard by fond parents who were safely half a mile away.

Agnes Fogerty, quiet and still as a mouse, and not unlike that timid animal in her much-pressed grey flannel skirt and twin-set to match, stood oblivious of the chaos around her. Somehow, she sensed that the stranger would take on Tullivers one day. There was something purposeful about that stride towards the front door, and the deft slipping of the key into the lock - almost as though the house were hers already, thought little Miss Fogerty.

And quite alone! Perhaps she was a single woman? Or perhaps her husband was working and she had decided to look at the place herself before they came down together? Or, of course, she might be a widow? The war had left so many attractive women without husbands. Miss Fogerty gave a small sigh for all that might have been, and then remembered, sharply, that the stranger was much younger than she was herself, and could not have been much more than a baby during the last war.

Not that widowhood could be dismissed quite so neatly, Miss Fogerty comforted herself. After all, the number of young men who succumbed to coronary thrombosis alone, not to mention the annual toll of influenza and road casualties, was quite formidable. On the whole, Miss Fogerty liked the idea of a sensible widow occupying Tullivers. Who knows? She might even become friendly with another well-read woman living nearby, and companionable little tea-parties and visits to each other's houses might blossom. Miss Fogerty, it will be observed, was lonely at times.

Meanwhile, time was getting on. Miss Fogerty consulted her watch, which she hauled up on a chain from beneath her grey jumper, and then clapped her hands for attention. It says much for her discipline that within one minute the playground was quiet enough for her small precise voice to be heard.

'Lead in, children,' she said, 'and
no pushing
!'

She followed the last child towards the arch of the Gothic doorway, pausing there for a last look across the green to Tullivers. The stranger had vanished from view inside the house. The dashing red mini-car waited by the kerb.

Here was something to tell dear Miss Watson! Warm with excitement, Agnes Fogerty entered her accustomed realm, the infants' room. As soon as school dinner was finished, and she and her headmistress were enjoying their cup of instant coffee, she would impart this latest snippet of news to her colleague.

Needless to say, many other people observed the stranger's entry to Tullivers. Thrush Green, to the uninitiated, might have seemed remarkably quiet that morning. The schoolchildren apart, not more than two or three people were to be seen. There were, of course, almost a dozen unseen - hidden behind curtains, screened by garden shrubs, or cocking a curious eye from such vantage points as porches and wood sheds.

Albert Piggott, languidly grubbing up the dead winter grass at the foot of the churchyard railings, kept the stranger comfortably in view. He approved of the red Mini. Must have a bit of money to drive a car, and that great leather handbag had cost something, he shouldn't wonder. He knew a decent bit of leather when he saw it. Plastic never deceived Albert Piggott yet. A handsome gal too, with a nice pair of long legs.

Not like his old woman, he thought sourly. He straightened up slowly, eyes still fixed upon the unsuspecting stranger. What on earth had made him marry that great lump Nelly Tilling? He should have known it would never work. Women were all the same. Wheedled their way into your life, cunning as cats, and once they'd hooked you, the trouble started.

'You ain't washed, Albert! Time you took a bath, Albert! Give over sniffing, Albert! You've got plenty of hankies what want using. I wants more money than this for house-keeping. And you can keep out of the pub, Albert! That's where the money goes!'

His wife's shrill voice echoed in his head. He hadn't had a day's peace since they were wed, and that was God's truth, said the sexton piously to himself.

Marriage never did anyone any good. He'd take a bet that that young woman at Tullivers' front door was single. She could afford to buy a house, to run a car, to keep herself looking nice. Probably one of these career women who'd had the sense to keep out of matrimony.

Albert leant moodily on the railings, a fistful of dead grass against his shirt front, and pondered on the inequality of the bounty supplied by Providence. By now, the stranger had unlocked the door and entered the house.

For the first time that morning Albert became conscious of the warmth of the sun and the song of a bold robin perched upon the tombstone of Lavinia, Wife of Robert Entwistle, Gent., who had left sunshine and birdsong behind her for ever on February 3rd, 1792.

Nelly might be no beauty. She was certainly a nagger. But he had just remembered that she was preparing a steak and kidney pie when he had left her an hour ago, and Nelly's hand with pastry was unsurpassed.

Cheered by this thought, and by the hopeful signs of spring about him, Albert bent again to his task. Another warming idea occurred to him. Single women often needed a hand with wood-chopping, hedge-trimming and the like. It would be a good thing to have a little extra money coming in. With any luck, he could keep it from Nelly, and spend it as he used to, in his carefree pre-marital days, at "The Two Pheasants"!

Albert Piggott broke into a rare and rusty whistling.

But it was Ella Bembridge who had the closest look at the newcomer that morning.

She was about to cross from her cottage to the rectory on the green opposite to consult her friend Dimity Henstock about the advisability of having the boiler chimney swept.

Such mundane affairs had always been left to Dimity when the two women shared the cottage where Ella now lived alone. The rector's wife, as well as running her own ungainly house, found herself continuing to keep an eye on her old establishment, for Ella was the most impractical creature alive.

It was Dimity who defrosted Ella's refrigerator before the icy stalactites grew too near the top shelf. It was Dimity who surreptitiously threw away the fortnight-old stew which had grown a fine crop of pale blue fur upon its surface, or some shapeless mess which had started out as a fruit mousse and had collapsed into something reminiscent of frogs' spawn. She did not chide her old friend about her slap-dash ways. She loved her too well to hurt her, and recognised that Ella's warm heart and her artistic leanings more than made up for her complete lack of housewifery.

The little red car had just drawn up as Ella was slamming her gate. Ella had no scruples about staring, and she stood now, a sturdy figure, watching unashamedly as the stranger emerged.

The younger woman gave Ella no greeting, as country people are wont to do. In fact, she appeared not to notice the watching figure. She locked the car door (a precaution which most Thrush Green folk forgot to take) and consulted the paper in her hand before walking swiftly towards Tullivers.

Ella waited until the front door closed behind her with a groaning of rusty hinges, and then crossed the road to the rectory where she found Dimity in the kitchen beating up eggs whilst her husband made the mid-morning coffee.

Over their steaming cups Ella gave her account of the newcomer.

'About thirty, I reckon. Looks bright enough-might be useful in the W.I. Nice dog-tooth check suit in brown and white, and stockings with no seams. Come to think of it - they were probably tights. I didn't see any tops when she clambered out of the mini.'

'Ella dear,' protested Charles Henstock mildly. 'Spare my feelings.'

'Nice pair of square-toed shoes, Russell and Bromley probably, and an Italian handbag.'

'How on earth do you know?' expostulated Dimity.

'I can smell Italian leather a mile off,' said Ella, fishing a battered tin from her pocket and beginning to roll a cigarette from the crumpled papers and loose tobacco therein.

'And I'd take a bet her ear-rings were Italian too,' she added, blowing out an acrid cloud of smoke. Dimity quietly moved the egg-custard out of range.

'Ears pierced?' asked the rector, with rare sarcasm.

'Couldn't see,' replied Ella in a matter-of-fact tone. 'But wears good gloves.'

Something sizzled in the oven and Dimity crossed the kitchen to attend to it.

'Not that I really noticed her,' continued Ella. 'Just got a passing glimpse, you know.'

The rector forbore to comment.

'But she's welcome to Tullivers,' went on Ella. 'There's a jackdaw's nest the size of a squirrel's drey in the kitchen chimney. Which reminds me - shall I get the boiler chimney done, Dim?'

Dimity sat back on her heels by the open oven door and looked thoughtful.

'September, October, November, December, January, February, March, April - yes, Ella. Get it swept now.'

'Good,' replied her old friend, rising briskly and dropping her cigarette stub into the sink basket where it smouldered, unpleasantly close to the shredded cabbage soaking in a bowl.

'I got my old hand loom out again last night,' said Ella conversationally. 'Thought I'd run up a few ties ready for the next Bring and Buy Sale and Christmas time.'

She looked speculatively at Charles, who was doing his best to repress a shudder. He already had four ties of Ella's making, each much too short, the colour of over-cooked porridge, and far too thick to knot properly. Fortunately, he wore his clerical collar more often than not, and could safely leave the monstrosities in the drawer without hurting Ella's feelings.

'Lovely, dear,' said Dimity automatically, putting the egg-custard into the oven carefully.