(3/13) News from Thrush Green (25 page)

Richard, now recovered, felt that he must return to the subject of his departure. He put down his glass carefully.

'You asked if I should miss Thrush Green, and I certainly shall. Uncle Donald and Aunt Winnie have been very patient, and so good to me.'

'They're absolute darlings,' agreed Phil warmly. 'Don't you agree?'

Richard refused to be side-tracked.

'But the person I shall miss most of all,' said Richard firmly, 'will be you.'

'Me?' cried Phil, with mingled surprise and dismay. 'But we've had very little to do with each other, after all.'

'I should like to think,' said Richard, warming to his theme, 'that we could be a great deal together in the future.'

'How do you mean?' asked Phil, her heart sinking. She rose and poured herself another glass of sherry. If this were to be a proposal of marriage, she could do with a little support, she told herself.

Richard launched into a long explanation of the Carslakes' offer of their house for a year, and before he was halfway through the saga, Phil could foresee the outcome.

'And there is no one in the world,' declared Richard, with more warmth in his voice than Phil had ever heard before, 'I should like to share it with, more than you yourself. It may seem a roundabout way of asking you to consider marrying me, but if you could—?'

His voice faltered to a halt, and his blue eyes were full of pleading. At that moment, Phil found him more alive, more attractive, more lovable than she would ever have thought possible. It was a pity that his Uncle Donald could not see the 'cold fish' now. For this one fleeting moment, Richard was a warm human being. Rare emotion had shaken him into life at long last.

'Could you?' he asked earnestly.

'Oh, Richard!' exclaimed Phil, genuinely moved. 'I hate to upset you - I really do. But it would never work, you know. We're not in the least - what's the word I want -
compatible.
'

'We could try,' said Richard.

Phil shook her head.

'No, we couldn't,' she said gently. Already, the mutinous little-boy-crossed look had come into Richard's face. 'In some ways, I'm so much older than you are. I'm a lot further along the road of experience, for one thing, with a marriage behind me and a boy to bring up. And then, in so many ways, you are much cleverer than I am. I'm afraid you would soon be impatient of my shortcomings. I know nothing of your work. You know nothing of mine. There's so little to hold us together, Richard.'

Richard's gaze was downcast. The hissing coal fell from the fire and smouldered, unheeded, on the hearth. Somewhere, on the other side of Thrush Green, a child called to another, and a man went by Tullivers, tapping rhythmically with his walking stick.

These little outside noises seemed to break the spell of silence.

'Well, that's that, I suppose,' said Richard mournfully. 'I'm disappointed, but I'm not surprised. I suppose I'm not what Aunt Winnie would call "much catch". I've never had anyone to consider but myself. It makes a man selfish, but if you had felt you could marry me, I think it would have been the making of me.'

And what about me? was Phil's silent rejoinder. She surveyed the young man for a few moments, wondering if she should speak her mind or not.

She made her decision. She had nothing to lose. Richard, and perhaps another girl one day in the future, had much to gain.

'Richard, of course I'm grateful for being asked to think of marrying you, but do you realise that not once have you said you want me to marry you because you love me? I'm not a romantic woman, heaven knows, but you'll meet a great many who are, and
any
woman will want to be assured that she is loved before she enters marriage. Who on earth is going to get married without it?'

'But you must know that I shouldn't have asked you if I didn't love you!' protested Richard.

'Then say so,' said Phil, with some asperity. 'I think you will marry eventually - probably very soon, but you'll have to put your under-worked heart, as well as your over-worked head, into persuading any normal girl to take you on.'

She paused, and Richard rose to depart. Had she gone too far?

'I'm sorry to hurt you,' she said impulsively, 'but someone must tell you. No hard feelings?'

'Of course not,' said Richard. 'I'll think over what you've said.'

He held out a hand.

'I probably shan't see you again. I'll move into Carslake's place as soon as I can.'

Phil ignored the hand, and kissed him gently on the cheek.

'Dear Richard! Don't take it too badly, and look out for someone who really will make you a good wife one day. Thank you for being so kind, always, to me and Jeremy.

Richard's blue eyes blinked rapidly as he turned away.

Phil accompanied him to the front door. The green was dark now, and the light at the corner by the pillar box silhouetted the writhing branches of the chestnut trees.

At the gate he turned, and raised his hand to his fair hair in the semblance of a salute.

It was to be a very long time before Phil Prior ever saw Richard again.

20 An Engagement

IT was May before Molly managed to rejoin Ben. The fair had come as usual to Thrush Green on the first day of that month, but as the doctor said to Winnie, it wasn't the same without Mrs Curdle to run it.

'And I still expect a bouquet of artificial flowers,' confessed Winnie. 'Embarrassingly large though it was, and really quite hideous, I loved her for bringing it.'

All the children of Thrush Green had spent a hilarious few hours on the simple swings and roundabouts, the coconut shies and side-stalls of Ben Curdle's little fair. Jeremy and Paul had tried everything, and Jeremy had presented his mother with a hard-won vase of shocking pink with heavy gilding, and a very small goldfish in a jam jar. These treasures she had accepted with praiseworthy, if mendacious, expressions of delight.

When the fair closed down that night, after its one-day stand, Ben and Molly sat in Albert's kitchen and talked of their plans. Upstairs, Albert snored noisily. In the next bedroom young George, thumb in mouth, slept just as soundly.

'Doctor Lovell says he can manage pretty well on his own, and I've made arrangements for him to have a hot dinner at "The Two Pheasants" next door every day,' said Molly. 'At least for a bit.'

'And who pays for that?' asked Ben.

Molly looked confused.

'Couldn't we do that, Ben? You know how he's placed and—'

Ben cut her short with a hug.

'Anything to get you back,' he told her cheerfully. 'I'll go round and settle things with them. But knowing your dad, I reckon it would be best to do this a month at a time. See how things go with him. If he gets hitched up again, he won't need it!'

'I can't see anyone being fool enough to take him on,' admitted Molly. 'He's nigh on killed me this last few months.'

And so it was arranged. A week later Molly was ready to go. The cottage was spruce, the larder well stocked, with a fruit cake in the cake tin, and a steak and kidney pie in the larder. Her father's linen was washed, ironed and mended, and Molly said goodbye to him thankfully. She set out with little George on her lap and with Ben at the wheel, to go back to her own life.

They drove slowly across the green, Molly waving to the bent figure of Albert standing pathetically in the cottage doorway. Thrush Green had its newly-washed, innocent, early morning look - the wide grassy spaces bare of figures, the rooks circling lazily above the church.

Molly felt a pang at leaving it all. There was nowhere as dear as Thrush Green, and despite her father's niggardly ways, she felt a certain sympathy with the old man.

Ben, knowing her gentle heart, put a comforting hand on her knee as the car slid down the hill to Lulling.

'He'll do,' said Ben, and added wickedly, 'the devil looks after his own.'

Later that day, the rector found Albert Piggott walking briskly around the churchyard. He carried no walking stick, and although he was thinner and paler than usual, he seemed remarkably spry. He was inspecting old Mrs Curdle's grave. Ben had decked it with tulips and daffodils. At every visit he had thus honoured the memory of his much-loved grandmother, and even Albert's flinty heart was touched.

'Why, Albert,' cried the rector, with genuine joy, 'how well you look! I'd no idea you were getting on so famously!'

Albert acknowledged the kindness with a perfunctory nod.

'Got to do for meself now, sir, so I'd best get used to it. I was thinking I might manage the church again if you're so minded.'

'But, of course!' exclaimed the rector, delighted. 'If you are sure you feel up to it.'

Albert's face took on its usual woebegone and cautious look.

'I don't say as I could do the graves. I'm past that sort of work ~ but the boiler, now, and any little inside jobs as I used to do, well -1 reckons I can struggle along with they.'

'I'm sure we can come to some arrangement with Willie about the heavy work,' Charles Henstock assured him. 'Now look after yourself, Albert, and don't stay out too long in this treacherous wind.'

He returned to the rectory in high spirits.

'Dimity, my dear,' he declared to his wife, 'Albert Piggott's made a truly remarkable return to health. He was actually walking without a stick! Think of that!'

'I am,' said Dimity drily. 'Now that Molly's gone he can finish with his acting.'

The rector made his way thoughtfully to his study. As a student of human nature, he gave his keen-eyed wife full marks. But who would have thought it?

Sometime later that month, Ella Bembridge strode across the green to collect her goat's milk from Dotty.

At last the weather had relented. May, the loveliest of months, was warm and sunny, and as if to make up for lost time, the leaves and flowers burst out of their sheaths and filled the air with glory.

Butterflies and tortoises emerged from their long hibernation. Bees hummed among the wallflowers, and the cats of Thrush Green sunned themselves on the warm stone walls.

Ella found Dotty watching the antics of Dulcie's new twin kids. They were a skewbald pair, white and brown, and already as nimble and wicked as their proud mother. They skittered away, prancing sideways, their eyes upon Ella as she approached.

'A handsome pair,' commented Ella, wisely keeping her distance from Dulcie. She knew, from painful experience, that Dulcie had a way of running rapidly round a person's legs, trapping them in her chain, and bringing them heavily to the ground. It was a pastime which never palled for Dulcie. The unwilling victims failed to see the joke.

'Got homes for them?' asked Ella.

'I shall keep one,' said Dotty, 'and that Prior child wants one; but whether his mother does, I don't know.'

'Not much room at Tullivers,' observed Ella.

'Well, I suppose she may well be at Harold Shoosmith's before the year's out,' said Dotty reasonably. 'Now Winnie's Richard has left the coast clear, I can't think why Harold doesn't move in for the kill.'

Ella, forthright as she was, could not help feeling that Dotty's expressions were rather stronger than necessary.

'Maybe he doesn't want to get married. And anyway, they may prefer to live at Tullivers, if they do make a match of it.'

'Doubtful,' said Dotty, taking out a man's red and white spotted handkerchief from her skirt pocket, and blowing her nose with a resounding trumpeting. 'Too pokey for Harold. All those cups and things he's got. And he's used to large rooms, living out in Africa, with all those natives fanning him.'

'Got any goat's milk?' asked Ella abruptly. The conversation seemed to be getting out of hand, and Dotty, once started, was deucedly difficult to stop.

'Well, for the kid's sake, I hope they make up their minds quickly,' continued Dotty, leading the way through a rabble of hopeful hens to the house, 'and plump for Harold's place. Plenty of good grass there, and a nice hazel hedge. I shall rely on you, Ella, to do your best to further this affair.'

'Who do you think I am?' cried Ella. 'Dan Cupid? If you ask me, Harold Shoosmith's quite capable of doing his own work. He knows his own mind, mark my words!'

But, if the truth were known, Harold was only now coming to know his own mind.

He had been at Frank's when Richard departed, and learnt from the Baileys about the young man's haste to go, after his visit to Tullivers.

'Sent him away with a flea in his ear,' said the old doctor, with some relish. 'Can't blame her, can you?'

'I think you're misjudging her,' said Winnie. 'She's too kind to deal over-ruthlessly with Richard. But you know how he is - hates to be crossed. He's been hopelessly spoilt ever since he was a child. He was bound to take this badly.'

'How is she?' asked Harold.

'As cheerful as ever. Very busy writing for your friend, as you know. She's said nothing to me about Richard's proposal. Probably thinks I don't know, but he burst in here that night, looking as black as thunder, and simply said: "She won't have me. I'm off next week!" And that was it.'

It certainly brought matters to a head for Harold, and as the days slipped by he studied his feelings as dispassionately as he could. There was no doubt about it. The girl was very dear to him, but the longer he postponed his decision to speak, the more certain he became that marriage was not for him.

All the arguments that he and Frank had discussed, when his friend visited Thrush Green, were gone over again. When Harold had stayed with Frank, only a week or so before, little had been said on the matter, except that Harold had intimated that he felt that he could not expect an attractive young woman like Phil to take him on, and that his own feelings were, perhaps, as Frank had once suggested, a compound of pity and protectiveness.

The more he thought about it, the stronger grew his conviction that he would never be accepted, even if he were brave enough to ask her. Time, his old ally, seemed to be slow in coming to his aid, and he was still troubled in his mind when he called at Tullivers, one fine morning at the end of May, to help Phil in her kitchen garden.