(3/13) News from Thrush Green (22 page)

The lunch was excellent, and Phil was content to let Richard do the major part of the talking. She found him interesting and remarkably astute when talking about his work, but incredibly naïve in his attitude to people.

'He's just not interested in them,' thought Phil to herself, watching him demolish caramel custard with a few swift movements. In fact, the only person he ever seemed to mention with any sort of feeling was the redoubtable Doctor Otto Goldstein. And on this subject, Richard was, without any doubt, the most crashing bore, Phil decided.

They had coffee alone by the whispering log fire, which shed a few white flakes of ash every now and again, as if to prove that the natural laws of gravity still held good even in this spell-bound lotus-land. Afterwards, they strolled up the somnolent village street towards the ruined priory. The cocker spaniel, exhausted by his morning exercise, lay sprawled on his side in the shelter of a sunny wall. He did not stir as they passed.

Walking across the shorn grass and ancient stone paths of the ruins, a wonderful sense of peace crept over Phil. Richard stopped to study a map of the site, and she walked alone into the roofless hall and gazed at the tracery of the empty windows framing the pale-blue skies of winter. A lone blackbird was perched upon one of the stone vaultings, and piped a few melancholy notes, as clear as the river water that ran nearby, and as round as the washed pebbles beneath it.

What had these venerable walls witnessed in their time, Phil wondered? Passions in plenty, bloodshed without doubt: but also piety, perseverance and simple happiness. How many people had stood here, as she did now, puzzled, unhappy, numb with pain and perplexity? And how many had found comfort in the knowledge of the continuity of life, of being but one link in a long chain of human experience, in this old, old setting?

Somehow, thought Phil, feeling the grey roughness of the ancient stones with her bare cold hand, one's own sufferings were put into perspective in the face of this survivor of the centuries. For the first time, since John had left her, a tiny tremor of hope ran through her - the faint stirring of life renewed.

They drove back slowly. Although it was barely three o'clock, the sun was low on the horizon, and the shadows of the trees lay long and straight across the bare winter fields.

'I've enjoyed it so much,' said Phil. 'It was kind of you to give me such a treat. I feel better for it.'

'I hope we can do this again,' replied Richard. 'But, of course, I shan't be at Thrush Green much longer.'

'Why, is the work nearly finished?'

'Practically. I shall have to go back to London within two or three months.'

There was a pause, while he negotiated a sharp double bend expertly, and then he spoke again.

'Would you think of coming to live in town?'

Instantly, Phil was on her guard. From his tone it was clear that the two words 'with me' might well have been added. The happy daze engendered by Minster Lovell and the sunshine fled instantly, and Phil was suddenly alert. This was a possibility of which she had not really been aware.

'I want to settle in Thrush Green,' she replied carefully. 'Both Jeremy and I are very happy there.'

'I should think you might get bored. Not many people of our age there. Besides, if you were in town you'd be on the spot for meeting your editors, wouldn't you?'

'I go up about once in three weeks to discuss things with Frank,' said Phil. 'It seems quite often enough to plan the work ahead. I'm sure I shouldn't want to call into the office more frequently, even if I were nearer.'

Richard did not reply, and Phil sensed that he was a little put out. The car's speed increased considerably, and a muscle twitched in his cheek.

Really, thought Phil, emotions of any kind were very tiresome. What was more, they were horribly exhausting. She hoped that she was wrong in imagining that Richard was interested in her - or rather, in matrimony.

She pondered on the subject as they neared Thrush Green. No doubt Richard had reached the stage when domesticity had its appeal. She suspected that anyone reasonably attractive and companionable would be eligible to Richard just now, and did not delude herself by thinking that her own personal charms had fired the young man. To be honest, would
anything
fire him?

She recalled Doctor Bailey's words. 'Richard's a cold fish,' he had said to her once. 'I'm afraid the only person Richard considers is-Richard!'

They drove up the hill from Lulling to Thrush Green. The sun had vanished behind Lulling Woods and a sharp little wind reminded the world that it was still January.

Phil sighed. It had been a lovely day, despite this small cloud between them. And whatever happened, she had Richard to thank for taking her to the tranquil ruins at Minster Lovell, and that sudden miraculous glimpse of life again after the long months following John's desertion. For that, she would always be grateful to him.

She thanked him sincerely at her gate, and he did his best to smile in return.

But there was something tight-lipped about the smile, which made it plain that Richard had been crossed, and did not like it.

Albert Piggott was one of those who saw the return of the couple. He was standing at his cottage window gazing gloomily across the green.

Willie Bond had just entered St Andrew's with a slightly pompous air of ownership which Albert found intensely irritating. What was that fat lump going to muck up now, he wondered?

He looked beyond the church to the car from which Phil emerged, his mouth curving downwards with distaste.

'Fine goings-on,' grunted Albert to Molly, who was trying to dress her fidgety son for his afternoon's outing.

'Hold still, do!' said Molly sharply. 'What goings-on, dad?'

'That young widder-woman. Setting her cap at Mrs Bailey's young fellow. Not that he's much catch, Lord alone knows, but it ain't hardly decent to go running after the men with her own poor chap scarce cold in 'is grave.'

'Maybe he's just given her a lift up from the shops,' said Molly reasonably, controlling her temper.

Albert gave a disbelieving snort.

'That's a likely tale!'

Molly buttoned George's coat with unnecessary violence.

'The trouble with you, dad, is you always thinks the worst of folks. You can't wonder you haven't got any friends.'

Albert bridled.

'Whatcher mean, no friends? What about them next door?'

'They sell beer,' said Molly roundly. 'You're a good customer. They're kind-hearted, I know, but you look around - there's not one true friend to your name!'

'That's right!' said Albert, adopting a quavering tone. 'You pitch into your poor ol' dad, just when he's too weak to stand up for hisself. I don't know what the world's comin' to when children turn on their parents. I does my best - ill though I be - to give no trouble, but you've got no proper feelings in you, you wicked hussy!'

Molly bit back the flow of words which she would willingly have poured forth, dumped George from the table to the floor, and tugged him smartly outdoors into the blessed calm of Thrush Green.

This couldn't go on, she fumed to herself, watching George stagger across to the steps which supported the statue of Nathaniel Patten, Thrush Green's famous missionary son. Jumping from the steps was the little boy's favourite activity, and Molly was glad to see him engaged so happily while she studied her problem.

When Ben had come the weekend before, Albert appeared to be rather worse, but whether this was wholly physical, or simply a way of drawing attention to himself, it was difficult to say. In any case, Molly had discussed with Ben the possibility of making their home at the cottage, in order to look after the old man.

Ben's face had clouded.

'Can't be done,' he said slowly. 'I know how you feel, but it's not right for you or George - or me, for that matter.'

He had looked across at the churchyard where his redoubtable old grandmother lay at rest.

'And gran,' he added, 'wouldn't have let me give up her fair. And quite right too.'

'Perhaps just for the winters?' pleaded Molly, torn both ways. 'When the fair's laid up?'

'Well, I'll think about it, my love, but I don't like the idea and that's flat. You'll be nothing but a skivvy, and I'm not having that.'

Now, watching George clambering up the steps on all fours, she knew that Ben was right. She could stand it no longer. Plans would have to be made to see that the old man was provided for, and she would have a good talk with Doctor Lovell to make sure that he was not being left too soon. But go, eventually, she must.

And so, unwittingly, Phil and Richard's jaunt had brought matters to a head, in the cottage across the green, nudging into motion Albert Piggott's particular wheel of fortune.

18 Harold Entertains an Old Friend

ONE morning in February, Willie Marchant tacked up the hill to Thrush Green and delivered a letter to Harold Shoosmith.

Later that day Harold walked across to see Phil.

'Frank's coming down for the weekend,' he told her. 'I'm so pleased. Now I shall have a chance to repay the dozens of times I stayed at Frank's house when his wife was alive. They were so good to me when I came home on leave.'

'Bring him over for a drink,' invited Phil.

'Thank you. I know he'd love to see the cottage. But I really came to ask you and Jeremy to lunch one day, while he's here. I must get Betty Bell to whip up something rather special. He's thoroughly spoiled by Violet who housekeeps for him.'

'So Richard tells me,' said Phil.

'Richard?' exclaimed Harold. 'How does he know?'

'They belong to the same club, I gather,' said Phil, picking the kitten out of a box of new typing paper in which it was settling for a nap.

'I didn't realise they knew each other,' said Harold, looking a little put out. 'Well, well! Shall we say about twelve o'clock on Saturday?'

'That would be lovely,' agreed Phil. 'And what's more I'll give him my week's work to take back with him, and save postage.'

'That's admirably thrifty,' commented Harold with approval.

'Needs must,' laughed Phil. 'By nature I'm rather like the Flopsy Bunnies, "very improvident and cheerful," but I have to discipline myself these days.'

'How are things going, seriously?' asked Harold, emboldened by her own introduction of ways and means.

'Not too badly. I've had an introduction, through Frank, to an editor who's in charge of a number of local papers in the Midlands, and I'm starting a series of articles for him. Pretty good pay, too.'

'That's cheering news,' said Harold, rising to go. 'But don't work too hard. You ought to be having some fun now and again. What about a day out soon? Jeremy too, of course, if you'd like to bring him.'

'There's nothing I'd enjoy more,' said Phil, and meant it.

Jeremy had found a new interest since the arrival of the kitten. He had called on Dotty Harmer to report the cat's progress, and discovered the wholly delightful mode of life at the old lady's cottage.

There was no nonsense about wiping feet before entry, or having clean hands, or respectable clothing. If you arrived in the middle of one of Dotty's sketchy meals, it didn't seem to matter. As likely as not, she would be consuming a light repast as she stood at her stove or walked about the house on other affairs. As far as Jeremy could see, the meal usually consisted of a piece of brown bread, liberally spread with butter, a rough lump of cheese, and some unidentifiable leaves, by way of a salad. This seemed to be eaten at any time, followed by the crunching of a home-grown apple. Jeremy was always offered one too, and found this largesse much to his liking.

But better by far than the informality of Dotty's welcome, and the present of the apple, was the large number of animals which made up Dotty's family. The goats in particular, fascinated the boy and he even drank the milk whilst it was still warm from the animal, with uncommon relish, which Dotty heartily approved.

One spring Saturday morning he bounded down the path by Albert Piggott's cottage and gained the path leading to Dotty's and finally to Lulling Woods. The air was balmy, his spirits high, and he carried a large bunch of grass and greenery from the hedges as a present for Daisy, the milker, and Dulcie, the younger goat.

Charles Henstock privately thought that Dulcie was poorly named - neither sweet nor gentle, and very quick to use her horns on unsuspecting visitors, as he had found to his cost one wet day. His clerical grey trousers had never completely recovered from their immersion in the puddle in which Dulcie's sly butting had landed him. Jeremy, however, was rather more alert to Dulcie's wiles, and his passion for her was unclouded.

On this particular morning he found Dotty in a somewhat agitated mood. She was having difficulty in fixing a chain to Dulcie's collar. Daisy, taking advantage of the disturbance, was adding gleefully to the chaos by bleating continuously, and rushing round and round in circles so that her tethering chain was soon shortened to a couple of feet. This gave her the opportunity to bleat even more madly, puffing noisily between bleats to prove how sorely she was being tried.