(3/13) News from Thrush Green (9 page)

Full of hope, Winnie knocked with the late admiral's great brass dolphin on Tullivers' front door. It was opened by Phil herself, white of face and red of eye. Winnie Bailey, used as a doctor's wife to seeing men and women in misery, thought she had never seen quite such a tragic face.

'Phil, tell me!' she said impulsively, and then checked herself. 'No, my dear, let me creep away. You won't want to be bothered with callers just now.'

'Do
please
come in,' cried the girl. 'I need a friend badly.'

She led the way into the little sitting-room and motioned the older woman to take a seat. Winnie watched her as. she put two logs on the dying fire. Her hands were trembling and tears were running unheeded down her cheeks.

'What is it?' begged Winnie. 'Someone ill? Or worse?'

'Worse,' choked the girl. 'It's my husband.'

'Not dead!' Winnie whispered.

'Oh no, thank God!' She gave a high, cracked laugh, frightening to hear. 'Though why I should thank God, I don't know. He's left me.'

'You poor dear,' said Winnie, patting the arm that was near her. She felt the gnawing pity and the tragic impotence which captures those who are in the presence of grief which they are powerless to assuage.

The girl fumbled for a damp handkerchief, mopped her eyes, and took a deep shuddering breath.

'He left me almost six months ago. Another woman, of course. A French woman - a buyer for one of the Paris houses. I met her once.'

She stopped, and mopped her eyes again.

'Perhaps it's just an infatuation,' said Winnie. 'Is she very attractive?'

'Not a bit,' cried Phil. She smiled damply. 'Well, I know I'm biased, but I don't think anyone - except John - would find her attractive. She's one of those bony Frenchwomen with a long face like a disapproving horse. Marvellous figure, of course, and dresses superbly, but no glamour-girl, I assure you.

'When he wrote and said that they were in love, I laughed out loud. It seemed so ludicrous, I just couldn't believe it - like some awful unspeakable joke.'

She helped herself to a cigarette, and lit it shakily.

'But it was no joke, as you can imagine. He came back several times to the flat, and was more determined each time to break with me. I tried desperately to keep my head. I was sure he would get tired of her - that it was, as you said, an infatuation. But the day came when he told me flatly that he was going to bring her to live in our house, and I must get out.

'Then I really did grovel! I told him I loved him still. I pleaded for Jeremy's sake. I swore I'd never throw this affair in his face if he'd think again. All useless!'

She stood up and walked restlessly about the little room.

'When I saw it was hopeless, and that she'd won, we made a scratch agreement to part. He gives me a regular amount each month, and he let me take the things I wanted from the Chelsea flat. But I absolutely refuse to give him a divorce. I still hope that he will come to his senses - or she will. Meanwhile, I try to keep it all from Jeremy. He adores John. It turns the knife pretty keenly, as you can imagine, when he prattles on about Daddy.'

She rolled the damp handkerchief into a ball and thrust it into her cardigan pocket.

'But this morning I had another letter. It's so terrible - so terrible—' She shook her head desperately, and a tear flew into the fire and sizzled.

'It's brought it home to me. We simply can't go on like this. I think I must make up my mind to go forward with a divorce. I suppose I've been evading it really - hoping, just stupidly hoping. The very idea of solicitors and courts and settlements and all the other beastly details absolutely revolts me. But I see now I must face it. He's only too pleased to give me grounds,' she added bitterly.

She sat down beside Winnie on the couch and took her hand.

'What would you do? What would you do if you were wretched me?'

Winnie put a comforting arm round the girl's shoulders.

'I should wait until tomorrow before doing anything. You've been brave and patient for so long, keep it up for a little longer. By that time it won't hurt so much and you'll tackle things better.'

The girl nodded dumbly.

'Don't write,' cautioned Winnie, 'don't telephone, don't talk to anyone about it until you've slept on it. No one will learn anything from me, I promise you. Then why not talk it over with your parents?'

'They died some years ago. I was an only child:'

'Is there someone else? A cousin, say, or a family friend?'

'Not that I could discuss this with. I would sooner tell our old family solicitor. He's wise and kind ... a real friend.'

'Then why not go to him?'

'I'll do that,' whispered Phil huskily. 'It's keeping up appearances before Jeremy which is so hard. I've cried all day. Thank God he didn't seem to notice much at dinner time.'

'Let me walk across to the school when the children finish,' said Winnie, 'and take him back with me to tea.'

'No, really—'

'Please. I should love it, and it will give you a chance to get over the shock a little. I'll bring him back before half past six.'

She stood up and kissed the girl's pale cheek gently.

'Go and have a warm bath,' she advised. 'Hot water truly is the benison that Rupert Brooke said it was. And then give yourself a tot of something strong. You'll feel twice the girl.'

'You are an angel,' cried Phil, accompanying her to the door. 'I've done nothing but moan; and I haven't given you a chance to tell me what brings you here.'

Silently, Winnie held up the poppy tin.

'Of course I'll do it,' said Phil warmly. 'I can't weep for ever.'

Winnie's nephew Richard arrived the following week. He seemed genuinely grateful for his aunt's hospitality, and set himself out to be exceptionally charming to Doctor Bailey.

To Winnie's eye he looked very fit and lively, having acquired a fine tan in America which set off his pale hair and blue eyes. But it was not long before symptoms of the hypochondria which had always been present showed themselves in strength.

Two small bottles of pills stood by his plate at the first evening meal, and naturally excited the professional interest of his uncle.

'I find them indispensable,' said Richard. 'Otto - Professor Otto Goldstein, you know, the dietician - prescribed them for me. The red ones take care of the cholesterol, and these yellow and black torpedoes check acidity and act as a mild purge. Constipation is a terrible enemy.'

'You need a few prunes,' said the doctor, 'and a bit of roughage.'

'Donald!' protested Winnie. 'Must you? At table?'

'Sorry, my dear, sorry,' said her husband.

'Too bad of me,' apologised Richard. 'Living alone such a lot makes one over-interested perhaps in one's natural functions.'

Winnie felt that this could lead to somewhat alarming disclosures which might be regretted by all. She changed the subject abruptly.

'You must meet our new neighbour,' she said brightly, passing her nephew Brussels sprouts. He held up a stern denying hand.

'Not for me, Aunt Winnie. Not
cooked
greens, I fear. Quite forbidden by Otto because of the gases. You haven't two or three raw ones, by any chance?'

'Not washed,' replied Winnie shortly, passing the rejected dish to her husband. She was keenly aware of the smile which hovered round the old doctor's lips.

'A pity,' murmured Richard, tackling pork chops
en casserole
with faint distaste.

'She plays bridge and whist, and is a very nice person to talk to. She writes.'

'Really?' replied Richard vaguely. Clearly his mind was concerned with his digestive tract.

'Will you have any spare evenings?' pursued Winnie.

Richard gave a gusty sigh, the sigh of one who, overburdened with work, still enjoys his martyrdom.

'I very much doubt it. I shall be writing the notes on my experiments, of course, and I intend to spend as much time as I can refuting Carslake's idiotic principles. An obstinate fellow, if ever there was one, and a very elusive one too. I must thrash things out with him during the next few months.'

Winnie felt a wave of pity for the absent Professor Carslake. Richard, on the rampage, must be an appalling bore. She decided to put aside the idea of arranging Richard's social life at Thrush Green. Richard obviously did not want it, and was it really fair to her friends to inflict her nephew on them, she added reasonably to herself?

She watched him swallow a red pill and then a yellow and black one. It was quite apparent that he enjoyed them far more than the excellent dinner which Winnie had spent hours in preparing.

'Coffee?' she asked, rising from the table. 'Or does Professor Goldstein forbid that too?' There was an edge to her tone which did not escape her observant husband.

'No, indeed,' replied Richard, opening the drawing-room door politely. 'He approves of coffee, provided that the berries are really ripe, well roasted and coarsely ground. He doesn't agrée with percolators, though. He always strains his through muslin. Do you?'

'Not with Nescafé,' said his aunt, with a hint of triumph, leading the way.

Richard was not the only one at Thrush Green suffering from indigestion. Doctor Lovell gave Albert Piggott a prescription, and then a few words of sound advice.

'Your wife's a fine cook, I know. But have small helpings. Don't forget your stomach was on short commons for years. It can't cope suddenly with all this bounty.'

Nelly tossed her head when Albert relayed this piece of advice.

'Good food never hurt nobody. Who does he think he is - the old Tin-ribs? He could do with a bit of flesh if anyone could. I bet he never gets his teeth into a decent steak-and-kidney pudding with that dreamy wife of his to do for him! Take them dratted pills, if you must, Albert Piggott, but you eat what's put in front of you and be thankful!'

She seemed to surpass herself in the days that followed. Cold fat bacon with pickled onions, fried cod cutlets with chips and peas, ox-tail soup, hot and glutinous, with swedes mashed with butter, all followed each other in succession, flaunting their richness and tempting Albert to fatal indulgences. His liverishness grew: his temper became more morose than ever. Nelly became aggrieved and nagged more and more bitterly.

The oilman began to figure largely in her conversation.

Albert, belching prettily after consuming a plate piled with pickled brawn, beetroot and bubble-and-squeak, spoke his mind.

'Can't you shut up about that ruddy oilman? Any more of it, and I'll tell 'im to stop calling. Givin' 'im cupsertea! Giggling like some fool-girl! I seen you at it - eggin' 'im on!'

'I'll thank you,' said Nelly haughtily, 'to mind your tongue. I only treat him civil. The poor chap's wife's left him.'

'Best day's work she ever done, I shouldn't wonder. You'd best take a leaf outer her book, my gal.'

'It's a pity if I can't have a friendly word with a gentleman without you getting filthy ideas into your head,' snapped Nelly, crashing cutlery about dangerously. 'The Lord alone knows I get little enough pleasure from your company. If you're not down thecoke-hole you're in "The Two Pheasants". Why I was ever fool enough to give in to your begging of me to marry you I
cannot think
!'

This complete travesty of the facts of Albert's wooing rendered him speechless. But not for long.

'I
could say
,' said Albert, with a hiccup which marred the heavy solemnity of his utterance, 'exactly the same words, my gal, and with a deal more truth.'

Rumbling dangerously, he left his kitchen for something to settle his stomach next door.

8 Gossip and Gardening

THE rapid spread of news through a village is a natural phenomenon which is hard to explain. Phil Prior, after much inward wrestling, sought the advice of a London solicitor as a preliminary step to divorce from her husband.

She said not a word to anyone. Winnie Bailey, true to her promise, breathed not a syllable, not even to her husband. And yet the possibility of a divorce was generally known in Thrush Green.

How did such knowledge get around so swiftly? Winnie Bailey asked herself this, not for the first time. She supposed that someone originally made a shrewd guess, and passed on the surmise to a friend.

The friend then might say: 'I hear that there's talk of a divorce between the Priors.' And the next step would be: 'Have you heard about the Priors' divorce?' After that it was, of course, an accepted fact, despite the usual riders: 'Mind you, it's only what I've
heard
,' or 'It may be only idle gossip,' or 'Don't repeat it unless you hear it confirmed.' And, sure enough, the snippet
would
be confirmed within an hour or so. Thus easily does bush-telegraph work in a small community.

Fortunately, Phil Prior, new to country ways, was not conscious of her matrimonial affairs being common gossip. Now that the first wretched step was taken, she felt calmer, and renewed her writing efforts.

Harold Shoosmith proved a wise adviser in literary matters, and the girl frequently called on him to discuss possible markets. Frank, the editor friend, had received one of her stories with guarded enthusiasm, but after keeping it for some time, returned it with the excuse that it was not strong enough', but said he would consider it again if she felt she could amend it.

'What does he mean exactly?' asked Phil of Harold Shoosmith. 'Not enough shooting and rape, do you think? I mean, I simply can't write about violence. The only person I ever saw shot, was a neighbour who was peppered in his garden by the boy next door with an air gun. To make matters worse, the wretched boy's feeble excuse was that he thought he was a squirrel! He weighed eighteen stone,' added Phil reminiscently.

'Insult to injury,' agreed Harold. 'I hope the boy had a good hiding on the spot, and was not made the subject of psychiatric reports two months later, when everyone had forgotten all about it.'

'Lord, yes!' cried Phil. 'This was years ago before such refinements were thought of. He was a good friend of mine, and he said he had one beating from his father and was then handed over to the victim of his attack. He didn't seem to bear any grudge about it. He was always a resilient child.'