(3/13) News from Thrush Green (20 page)

'Yes, we had heard,' said Winnie. There was an ominous hissing sound from the kitchen.

'Blast! The milk!' cried Ella, stumping off.

'I'm having mine black just now,' Dotty informed her when she returned.

Ella, speechless for once, exchanged a meaning glance with Winnie.

'And had you heard that Molly may be coming back?' asked Dotty. 'I do so hope that she and that nice Curdle boy settle here. Did you know that she taught him to read and write after they were married? He didn't have much schooling, shifting about with the fair. I thought it was so clever of her to do that.'

'And brave of him to try,' agreed Winnie. 'Some men would have been too self-conscious to admit their ignorance.'

The ladies sipped their coffee and Winnie was about to let Dotty know Phil Prior's news when Dotty herself mentioned the girl.

'I'm taking the last of the kittens to Tullivers this weekend. I must say I shall miss them sorely. They've all turned out remarkably well-behaved and intelligent. How's Tabitha doing?'

Dimity and Charles had chosen the tabby with exceptionally fine eyes. Dotty kept a vigilant eye and ear open for news of the various kittens.

'Scoffing down ox liver at four-and-six a pound,' said Ella, 'last time I saw her.'

'Oh, I do so hope dear Dimity isn't over-doing the protein,' cried Dotty. 'A little raw liver is
excellent,
of course, but too much can be rather heating. I must have a word with her.'

She rose to make her departure. Winnie got up too. This seemed the time to break the news.

'I should leave the kitten for a little longer,' said Winnie. 'Phil Prior is away for a few days. In France, in fact.'

'At this time of year?' protested Dotty. 'If anything, the weather's worse than in England.'

'It's no pleasure trip,' Winnie said gravely. 'Her husband had an accident there. I'm sorry to say he has died. She's gone over to see about things.'

Dotty stood transfixed for a moment at the enormity of the news.

When she spoke, it was with her usual breathtaking directness.

'Sad, of course,' said Dotty, picking up the disreputable scarf, 'but it simplifies things a lot. Harold Shoosmith will be able to go ahead now, won't he?'

She preceded a stunned Winnie Bailey to the door, thanked Ella for the coffee, and bustled away down the path, her skinny legs, in their thick speckled stockings, twinkling energetically.

'Sometimes,' said Winnie faintly, 'I wonder if Dotty is clairvoyant.'

'She's an old witch,' responded Ella roundly.

16 Harold Thinks Things Out

PHIL Prior was away for four days. She rang Harold and Joan on alternate evenings and was mightily relieved to hear how little Jeremy appeared to miss her.

Everyone was being incredibly kind and helpful, she told them. Formalities had been hurried through, and she would return immediately after the funeral. John's parents had met her out there, and they were doing their best to comfort each other. Her plane was due to arrive at five-thirty, and she was longing to get back to the haven of Thrush Green and all her friends.

During her absence, Harold had plenty of time for thought. This tragedy had quickened his affection and admiration for the girl, and his determination to do all in his power to help her. Whether, in the distant future when she had recovered from the blow, she could ever contemplate marriage again, he had no idea. Whether he himself really wanted to give up his serene bachelorhood, he was not sure. But one thing he did know - if he ever should marry, then the only person he wanted was Phil.

He took several long solitary walks in the few days of Phil's absence, trying to come to terms with this new surprising feeling which so strangely moved him. The weather was mild and quiet, overcast and vaguely depressing, as though the world were in waiting for some momentous happening. Away from the domestic bustle of Christmas, the countryside was infinitely soothing, Harold found.

He found himself noting things with newly-awakened observation and sensibility. Tiny spears of snowdrop leaves were pushing through. Already the honeysuckle showed minute leafy rosettes, and in the still morning air, a thousand droplets quivered on the spikes of the hawthorn hedge.

Percy Hodge's black and white cows gazed at him over the gate, their long eyelashes rimed with mist, their sweet breath forming clouds in the quiet air. A thrush, head cocked sideways, listened intently to the moving of a mole just beneath the surface of the grass verge. In Lulling Woods the trees dripped gently, their trunks striped with moisture, while underfoot the damp leaves deadened every footfall.

He returned from these lonely walks much refreshed in spirit, even if any sort of decision still evaded him. It was good to escape from people, now and again, and a positive relief to be away from Betty Bell's boisterous activities. The coming of Christmas seemed to rouse her to even greater energy, and carpets were beaten within an inch of their lives, pillows shaken until the feathers began to escape, paint was washed, windows polished and all to the accompaniment of joyful singing which Harold had not the heart to suppress.

'Got all your presents tied up?' asked Betty, busily winding up the Hoover cord into an intricate figure-of-eight arrangement, which Harold detested. It was useless to tell her that this was a strain on the covering of the cord cable. Figures-of-eight Betty Bell had always done, and would continue to do until her hand grew too frail to push the Hoover. Harold averted his eyes from the operation.

'Yes, Betty. I think everything's ready.'

'Want a Christmas tree?'

'No thanks.'

'Holly? Ivy? Anythink o' that?'

'Well, perhaps a little holly—'

'Fine. I'll send the kids out. Don't want to waste good money in the market, do you?'

'No,' agreed Harold. 'But only a sprig or two, Betty, please. I can't cope with a lot of stuff.'

'I'll see you right,' Betty assured him, flickering his desk energetically, and knocking his fountain pen to the floor. Harold retrieved it patiently.

'I suppose there's nothing 'eard from that Nelly Tilling? Piggott, I should say.'

'Not as far as I know.'

'Miss Watson's in a fine old taking,' said Betty conversationally. 'Talking of getting that Mrs Cooke back as lives up Nidden way. Must be hard up to want her to take over the school cleaning. Proper slummocky ha'porth, she is. Ever seen her?'

'I don't think so.'

'Once seen never forgotten.' Betty burst into a peal of laughter, as she picked up the Hoover, ready to depart to the kitchen. 'Ugly as sin, and could do with a good wash. You wouldn't fancy anything as she'd cooked, I can tell you. Ham omelette do you?'

'Beautifully,' said Harold. She bore away the Hoover, and slammed the study door with such vigour that it set a silver vase ringing on the mantelpiece.

Harold wandered to the window and looked out upon empty Thrush Green and the quiet countryside beyond. The lines of a hymn floated into his mind.

'Where every prospect pleases
And only man is vile'

Perhaps not 'vile', Harold thought forgivingly, but distracting certainly.

Two days before Albert Piggott's release from hospital, Molly Curdle arrived at her old home with her little son, George, an energetic toddler.

Ben, who had brought her, was obliged to return to his work, but promised to spend Sunday with his family. It was the first time the couple had been parted since their marriage, and Molly felt forlorn as she watched him drive away.

However, there was plenty to do at the neglected cottage, and she set to with her customary vigour. In the afternoon she was delighted to receive a visit from Joan Young, who was bearing a pretty little Christmas decoration of holly, Christmas roses and variegated ivy, set in a mossy base.

The two young women greeted each other affectionately, and George was admired by Joan, as much as the posy was admired by Molly.

'I can't tell you how lovely it is to have you back,' said Joan sincerely. 'How long can you stop?'

'Well, Ben and I hope it won't be for longer than a fortnight, but it depends on Dad. You know what he's like. He'd sooner manage on his own, I know, but he can't do that just yet.'

'No news of Nelly?'

'None. But she won't show up again, I'm positive. And frankly, I don't blame her. We never thought it would last.'

'Bring George to tea tomorrow,' said Joan. 'Paul's longing to see you and to show you off to his new friend Jeremy.'

Molly agreed with pleasure. She had always loved the Youngs' house, and had been very happy working there. She had learnt a great deal about managing children from looking after Paul as a young child, and this experience was standing her in good stead in bringing up George.

The tea party was much enjoyed. There was a rapturous reunion between Paul and Molly, and George enjoyed being the centre of attention. It was the last day of Molly's freedom, for the next morning her father arrived from the hospital and was put comfortably to bed.

She had expected him to be a demanding patient, but was surprised by his docility. Hospital discipline seemed to have improved Albert's manners. At times he was almost grateful for Molly's attentions. It couldn't last for ever, Molly told herself philosophically, but while it did, she enjoyed this rare spell of good behaviour.

His first short walk was across to St Andrew's church. It, was not being cared for in the way he thought proper, as he pointed out to the rector when he called, but nevertheless he admitted grudgingly that it could be a lot worse. This was high praise indeed, from Albert, and the rector was suitably impressed.

'I really feel that affliction has mellowed Albert,' he told Dimity on his return to the rectory.

'Don't speak too soon,' his wife replied sagely.

Phil's plane was due to arrive at half-past five and Harold set off from Thrush Green soon after three o'clock.

The same quiet grey weather continued, with a raw coldness in the air which the weather-wise said was a sure sign of snow to come.

But despite the bleak outlook, Harold was in good heart. To be driving to meet Phil again was enough to raise anyone's spirits. How would she be, he wondered? He thought of the numbed silence of the drive to the airport, with the pale girl suffering beside him.

He remembered the two ladies 'painted to the eyes' who had sat beside Phil as they drank their coffee. Out of the blue came the verse which Phil's parents must have had in mind when they chose their daughter's name.

'The ladies of St James's
They're painted to the eyes,
Their white it stays for ever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her colour comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,—
It wavers to a rose.'

Sentimental, maybe, thought Harold as he threaded his way through the traffic, but how light and elegant! He turned the lines over in his mind, relishing their old-fashioned charm. It didn't do, he told himself, to dwell too long on 'trembling to a lily' and 'wavering to a rose'. One might as well say, 'it wobbles to a wall-flower—'.

Harold checked his straying thoughts. Whatever the merits of the poem, without doubt his favourite line was:

'But Phyllida, my Phyllida.'

The years fell from him as he said it silently to himself.

The plane was punctual, and Phil smiled when her eyes lit upon him. She looked wan, and somehow smaller, than when she left, but her voice was steady when she greeted him.

He tucked a rug round her protectively when they reached the car.

'Heavens, how lovely! It's colder here than in France. My parents-in-law are flying back tomorrow and wanted me to stay on for another night, but now that all has been done - all the
awful
things -1 wanted to hurry back to Jeremy.'

Harold told her that the boy had been wonderfully cheerful, but was longing to have her back.

'Do you know,' said Phil, as they neared Thrush Green, 'that when the constable told me the ghastly news, my first thought was: "I shan't have to tell Jeremy about the divorce. And then, Thank God, I shan't have to go through all that wretched court business." It's a shameful thing, I suppose, to admit, but I felt I must tell someone, and you are just about the most understanding person to confess to.'

'It strikes me as a reasonable reaction,' replied Harold soberly. 'You've been dreading breaking the news for months now. It didn't mean that your grief was any the less. That, if I may say so, was quite evident.'

There was a long pause before the girl spoke again.

'It seems as though I've died twice. Once when he left me, and then when I heard of his death. Even now, after all this time apart, I can't imagine life without John. Whatever happens, you simply can't wipe away years of married life. The sense of loss is far, far greater than ever I imagined it would be. It's like losing an arm or a leg - some vital part. I suppose one grows numb with time, and other things happen to cover the scar, but I'm sure it will always be there.'

'Thank God I've got Jeremy, and work to do!' she added. 'Without those two things I think I should sink.'