(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green (13 page)

'She evades any mention of it,' said Dimity. 'Charles has tried, and she deliberately turned the conversation.'

'Justin Venables should do that anyway,' pointed out Ella. 'I'm not going to worry poor old Dotty. To my mind, she has some uncomfortable moments despite the good face she's putting on things. With any luck, the police will let the matter drop.'

The only person who truly gauged Dotty's anxiety was Betty Bell who was rather more perceptive than most of those who dealt with her. She expressed herself on the subject to Harold Shoosmith when she arrived one morning, windblown and weather-beaten, to 'have a good bash at the oven.'

Her entry into the kitchen set the hall door vibrating, an upstairs window crashing and a laundry bill, insecurely anchored to the kitchen table, floating floorward.

'Lor!' puffed Betty. 'Knocks all the stuffin' out of you, this wind. Any damage?'

'Only in the garden,' said Harold. 'What about you?'

'It tore my boy's shirt on the line, and I can't find a pair of socks. Blown into Lulling Woods, I shouldn't wonder, and the shed door's bust its top hinge and won't shut. Otherwise we're all right. But I had to give Miss Harmer a hand with the felt on the goats' shed. All flapping loose and them animals eating it as though it's licorice strips.'

'Won't it harm them?'

'Shouldn't think so. They managed an oven cloth and a hank of binder twine last week, and seemed to enjoy them. Funny things, goats.'

'And how is Miss Harmer?'

Betty stood stock still, kitchen knife in hand, and spoke more soberly.

'Worried. Poor old lady! She don't say much, but she's upset about that Cyril Cooke, but won't admit it. She's proud, see. Like she was about driving that car herself. Won't admit she's wrong, ever. I like her for it. Plenty of spunk, old Dot – Miss Harmer, I mean – always had. Stood up to her old father, I've been told, and the only one who could too. He was a Tartar.'

She flung open the oven door and sank to her knees, the better to examine the interior.

'What you been letting boil over then?'

'Stewed apple, I expect,' replied Harold. 'It seemed to spread itself.'

'I'll sort it out,' said Betty, flinging herself to the attack with the kitchen knife. 'And while I'm at it,' she yelled above the din, 'you'd better nip up and shut that banging window before it blows off and down to Lulling.'

Later that morning, leaving Harold's stove spotless and the kitchen in immaculate condition, Betty Bell set off on her bicycle against the strong head wind to return to her home at Lulling Woods.

Outside "The Two Pheasants" she saw Mrs Cooke waiting for the bus. Two toddlers stood to leeward of their mother, who was looking unusually tearful.

'How's Cyril?' called Betty, dismounting.

'They've sent word to say he's took worse,' said Mrs Cooke, her eyes filling. 'I'm just off to see him. Running a high temperature, so they say. They don't seem to know why.'

'They wouldn't tell you anyway,' said Betty. 'You'll know more when you get there, I expect. You'll feel better when you've seen him,' she added comfortingly. 'Ah! Here comes the bus. Give poor young Cyril my love.'

She watched the three scramble aboard, before turning down the narrow lane which led homeward.

'Poor young Cyril,' she echoed. 'And poor old Dotty too! She's the one I feel sorry for, and that's a fact!'

11 Winnie Bailey's Private Fears

A
S
the end of the Christmas term approached, Thrush Green village school became embroiled in its usual festive arrangements.

Miss Watson's earlier years of teaching had been spent in various large town schools where dramatic talent was fostered by those members of staff who had experience and natural aptitude for the job. Moreover, those schools were equipped with large halls and stages, so that Christmas plays and concerts could be given in comparative ease.

In such sophisticated circumstances had the young Miss Watson developed her enthusiasm for junior drama. It was an enthusiasm which grew with the years, and even led her to the adaptation of children's stories into simple plays, some successful, others decidedly not.

For what Miss Watson seemed incapable of understanding was the simple fact that a crowded classroom, with no raised dais for the actors, no wings in which to wait, no curtains, and certainly no adequate ventilation, is not the place to perform even the most elementary dramatic work.

Consequently, as soon as December appeared on the calendar, poor little Miss Fogerty awaited the spate of suggestions for our Christmas fun,' knowing full well that all Miss Watson's ideas would be quite impossible to put into operation in the limited confines of Thrush Green school, and quite beyond the comprehension of the unbookish and inarticulate children who formed the main bulk of the pupils.

'I thought a nativity play would make a nice change this year,' said Miss Watson one morning. 'I wrote a little thing when I was at Aberconway Avenue, and it went down amazingly well, I remember. And only six changes of scenery.'

'But we haven't
got
any scenery,' wailed Miss Fogerty.

'Oh, we can run up something,' murmured Miss Watson vaguely. There was a dreamy stage-struck look in her eyes which turned her assistant quite cold with foreboding.

'I believe the Lulling Operatic Society did "The Desert Song" last season,' went on Miss Watson. 'I should think we might borrow some of their clothes, the head-dresses, and so on, for the three wise kings. And palm trees, perhaps, for the desert scene.'

'There won't be room for the children, let alone palm trees,' said Miss Fogerty tartly, but she was ignored. Miss Watson, when caught in the fever of drama production, became temporarily deaf and blind, as Miss Fogerty was acutely aware.

'My new blue dressing gown will do splendidly for Mary,' said Miss Watson, 'and I thought I would ask the manager at the Co-op butcher's if we could borrow those two plaster lambs that stand in his windows. They would look very attractive by the manger.'

'There weren't any lambs in the stable,' pointed out Miss Fogerty. 'Only the beasts of the stall, if you remember. Any lambs would be outside, with the shepherds.'

If this crack-brained scheme were to go forward, she thought mutinously, at least let the circumstances be as accurate as possible.

'Then they could stand up-stage in the shepherds' scene,' replied Miss Watson, undaunted. 'I can visualise them, silhouetted against the back-cloth as the dawn slowly rises, turning from black to grey, and then through strengthening shades of pink and gold.'

'We should need to engage a trained lighting team for effects like that,' said Miss Fogerty. 'I doubt if the school fund, which now stands at one pound seventy five, – as I well know, as I did the accounts last weekend – could face the bill.'

At that moment Miss Potter appeared.

'I was just discussing the possibility of a nativity play this Christmas,' began her headmistress.

'But we haven't got a stage,' said the young teacher, coming with admirable economy, thought Miss Fogerty, to the nub of the matter.

'We've managed
many times
before,' said Miss Watson, with a touch of frost in her tone. 'And that was when we were less fortunate with space.'

'And where,' asked the girl, 'would this play take place?'

'In your terrapin, dear. The perfect spot!'

And before either teacher could reply, she had drifted back to her own room. Miss Watson had learnt to make an exit at the right moment, if nothing else.

While the rumblings of war were growing ominously in Thrush Green school, Winnie Bailey was engaged in a much more private skirmish in coming to terms with her changed circumstances.

She was lucky, she realised, that her financial situation remained much as it was in Donald's life-time. For many widows, the sudden drop in income was the greatest worry they had to face, and that she was spared, although steeply rising costs, in fuel and rates alone, meant that the old house would be expensive to run. Repairs, too, would be another hazard to face, but the structure was sturdily built and had always been well maintained. With any luck, it should not need much doing to it over the next few years.

The thing was, of course, that it was really too big for one woman. Winnie felt guilty, sometimes, when she read of people crowded into tenements, and thought of her own empty bedrooms.

On the other hand, she loved the house, and could not bear to leave it. Its sheltering walls had enclosed their happy life together. The furniture, the pictures, the loved knick-knacks, all told their story of a lifetime spent together in this small community where both had played useful parts.

No, the house was not the main problem. She intended to stay there, and was willing to retrench in other ways so that she could continue to live in Thrush Green among her friends, and also have room to entertain more distant friends who would be invited to stay.

The worry which most perturbed Winnie, was one of which she was deeply ashamed. She had found, since her return to the house, that she was horribly nervous of being alone in it at night.

She tried to reason with herself about this. After all, she argued, poor Donald could not have protected either of them if burglars had broken in. They never had been so unfortunate as to have intruders, and were unlikely to start now. What would there be, of any value, for a thief to find? There were far more profitable houses to burgle within a stone's throw of her own modest establishment.

But such sweet reasoning did not comfort her. As soon as nightfall arrived, she found herself locking doors, shutting windows, and finding strange solace in being barred and bolted.

She made up her mind never to open the doors after dark to people knocking. Stupid though it might appear, she went upstairs and spoke to them from an upper window. There were far too many accounts in the papers, of unsuspecting women who opened doors and were hideously attacked by those waiting. As far as lay in her power, Winnie took precautions against violence.

Nevertheless, her feelings worried her. She tried to analyse them as she took an afternoon walk along the road to Nidden one winter's day. The wind was fresh, and although there was no rain, there were puddles along the length of the chestnut avenue, and water lay in the furrows of the ploughed fields. A pair of partridges whirred across the road in front of her, and Winnie remembered that she had read somewhere that they mated for life. What happened, she wondered, to the survivor of such a devoted couple? Was she too as bereft as she now was?

Things were not too bad during the day. There were so many little jobs to do, and trips into Lulling for shopping when she met friends and had company.

And Jenny, of course, was a constant comfort. She grew to look forward to Jenny's mornings more and more. She was deft and quiet, with the rare gift of speaking only when something needed to be said, but her friendliness warmed the house for Winnie, and the knowledge that Jenny would do anything, at any time, to help her, was wonderfully comforting.

She supposed that she must face the fact that she was run down after the years of nursing and the final shock of Donald's death. She refused to look upon herself as an invalid, but it might be sensible to take a tonic, say, during the coming winter months, and to catch up with the loss of sleep she had so cheerfully endured. With returning strength these unnatural fears might vanish.

It was natural too, she told herself, to feel vulnerable now that Donald had gone. For years now, she had been the protector, taking decisions, fending off unwelcome visitors, sparing Donald all unnecessary cares. It was understandable that there should be some reaction.

She had reached the new housing estate by now, which stretched away to the left, and covered the fields she so well remembered that overlooked Lulling Woods.

The houses were neat and not unpleasing in design, though to Winnie's eyes they appeared to be built far too close together, and the low wire fences gave no privacy. Washing blew on most garden lines, and a number of toddlers played together in the road, jumping in a big puddle to the detriment of their clothes and their obvious delight.

Winnie smiled at them and walked on.

'Who's that old lady?' asked one of the neighbours, in a shrill treble that carried clearly through the winter air.

Old lady, thought Winnie, with sudden shock! Well, she supposed she was. But how surprising! An old lady, like that ancient crone who lived in the cottage she had just passed, who had a hairy mole on her chin and squinted hideously. Or like Jenny's mother, whose grey head trembled constantly, so that she reminded Winnie of a nodding Chinese doll she had owned as a child.

An old lady, an old lady! The houses were behind her now, and the lane stretched ahead bounded by high bare hedges. On her right stood an empty cottage, fast becoming derelict. She stopped to lean on the stone wall and rest.

The house stood forlorn and shabby, shadowed by a gnarled plum tree. Ivy was growing up its trunk and the recent gales had wrenched some of it from the bark. It waved in the wind, bristly as a centipede's legs.