(8/13) At Home in Thrush Green (17 page)

Within five minutes one of Doctor Lovell's young partners arrived.

'Doctor Lovell's not on duty at the moment,' he explained, as he examined his patient, who was now able to talk to him and to the throng around her.

He made a makeshift splint and he and Bill carefully carried Jane to her own sofa.

'I'll get an ambulance straight away. She'll be taken to St Richard's, of course. As far as I can see, it's a straightforward break, but the X-rays will show up everything.'

He began to dial.

'Those dam' steps are a menace in this weather,' he remarked conversationally, as he waited for the hospital to reply.

'So it seems,' said Bill, holding his poor wife's hand.

***

Excitement was running high at the village school, so high indeed that Agnes Fogerty decided to put aside her idea of an autumn collage for the classroom wall that handwork session, and to substitute the theme of Bonfire Night with plenty of well-sharpened red and yellow crayons.

Her class worked industriously. There was rather more chattering than Agnes normally allowed, but occasionally, she told herself, one must give a little licence to young children. The thought of Christmas so soon to be upon them, with all its accompanying trappings of paper chains, calendars, blotters, Christmas cards and rather terrible ornaments made from pine cones, all manufactured in this very classroom, was one to be shelved, at least until this present excitement had gone.

She wandered around the tables admiring guys suspended, black and spider-like, among flaring fires. The red and yellow crayons were working overtime, and Agnes made a mental note to get a few in reserve from the stock cupboard. Red ones always ran out early when Father Christmas hove in sight. And, come to think of, black ones would be needed urgently, after all these guys, for Father Christmas's boots.

It might be as well, mused Agnes as she nodded encouragingly at the upheld masterpieces, to look out that well-tried bookmarker pattern from
The Teachers' World.
A tassel made of bright wool, hanging from the pointed end, would be a useful exercise for young fingers, and would use up the remains of some scarlet four-ply left over from knitting mittens for the church bazaar. Looking ahead has always been one of the attributes of a good teacher, and earnest little Miss Fogerty was one of the very best.

Across the playground, in the top class, peace reigned. Miss Watson, made of sterner stuff than her assistant, had quelled the chattering and the insatiable need, it seemed, to stand up to see if the unlit bonfire was still safely established on the green.

Here handwork on a more sophisticated scale was being done. Embroidery, knitting, single section book-making and paper models were keeping fingers busy, and the most competent reader – and the worst knitter – was sitting in front of the class regaling the rest with a passage from
Three Men In a Boat.

Dorothy Watson, between marking some deplorable mental arithmetic tests and watching over her charges, was also thinking about Christmas preparations, but in a negative way.

No nativity play, was her first definite decision. Far too much preparation, and really the costumes alone were a headache, despite the help of the parents. If Thrush Green school possessed a proper stage it would be a different kettle of fish, of course, but the heaving about of school furniture was a sore trial. No, a nativity play was definitely out.

And the usual boisterous Christmas tea party seemed rather daunting. Perhaps a simple celebration with carols and som readings would fit the bill? It might be combined with a cup of tea and a slice of Christmas cake for parents and the school's friends after the performance. Something really
simple,
she repeated to herself. She supposed that the cake should really have been made by now. She must ask Nelly Piggott if The Fuchsia Bush had any on sale. Perhaps it could be suitably iced for the school's festivities?

It began to grow murky in the classroom, and the school clock showed that it was nearly home time. She could hear the cries of the infants as they tumbled across the playground to the bliss of freedom.

'Pack up your work, children,' said Miss Watson. 'Thank you for reading to us, dear, but do remember that "Harris" begins with an aitch. All stand, eyes closed.
Closed,
Pat Carter!

'Keep us, O Lord, in Thy care, and safe from any dangers of the night.'

'Amen!' said the children with unnecessary vigour. Would school never end?

They streamed out to the lobby, collected coats and scarves, and rushed joyously homeward.

'I shall be glad when tomorrow's over,' said Dorothy to Agnes. 'Guy Fawkes has a lot to answer for.'

While Jane and Bill Cartwright waited for the ambulance to arrive, the elderly folk were persuaded to return to their homes. In this undertaking Carlotta and her husband showed signs of tactful leadership which Bill recognised with much admiration.

As soon as he could see that all were being safely shepherded, he made another telephone call. This time it was to Jane's mother, some half a mile or so away along the road to Nidden.

Listening to the bell ringing in Mrs Jenner's hall, Bill wondered if he would find her in. Probably she had finished lunch by now. He hoped that she had not gone to her bedroom for an afternoon snooze, as sometimes she did.

At length, he heard her voice.

'Mother,' said Billy urgently, 'don't get alarmed, but I've some rather bad news. Are you sitting down?'

'Good heavens, man! Of course I'm not sitting down! There's no room for a chair in this passage. In any case, I'd sooner stand up to bad news. Quickly, what is it?'

He told her briefly.

'Jane says you're not to worry. The ambulance is on its way. Come and see her in Dickie's, she says.'

'Oh, the poor girl!' cried Mrs jenner. 'That sounds like a long job to me. How will you manage?'

'I was wondering,' began Bill hesitantly, 'if you could see your way clear to coming down here for a day or two?'

'I'll be with you in twenty minutes,' said that noble woman, and hung up.

'Your mother,' said Bill huskily to Jane, 'is an angel. A proper angel!'

'You don't have to tell me that,' said her daughter, as the ambulance swished up to the door.

12 The Fifth of November

A clammy mist engulfed Thrush Green at daybreak on November the fifth.

The waiting bonfire glistened damply. The hedges were heavy with droplets, the trees' gold had slipped to their feet, and the leaves lay thick and sticky in the wet grass.

It was uncannily silent. Distant sounds were muted. Footsteps, and even the noise of car tyres, were muffled by the fallen leaves and muddy roads. It was a chastened assembly that met at the village school, but Miss Watson did her best to cheer them by saying that the weatherman had promised a finer afternoon.

'But do 'e
know?
' asked one infant anxiously.

And all that Miss Watson could say in reply was that presumably he knew better than most.

She hoped it was true.

Across the green, Doctor Lovell heard for the first time about the accident at the old people's homes, and was magnanimous enough not to make any comment about Edward Young's steps in front of his partners.

Nevertheless, he felt a certain satisfaction in hearing that his fears were not groundless, although he had every sympathy for poor Jane Cartwright's mishap.

'I hope all the old dears over there will hold tight to the hand rail,' was his only remark, when he was told the news, but he said more to Ruth when he went home at lunch time.

'Well, that's the first casualty at Edward's famous edifice. And won't be the last, as far as I can see!'

'What's happened?' asked Ruth, soup spoon suspended in mid-air.

'Jane Cartwright's broken a leg on those idiotic steps. Asking for trouble to put steps like that where there are old people. I told Edward so months ago.'

'But Jane isn't old,' protested Ruth.

'Oh, don't quibble!' snapped her husband. 'I know she's not! All I'm pointing out is that those steps are a hazard, and one which any sane architect would have omitted from his plan from the start.'

Ruth continued to sip her soup in silence. When John was so short-tempered it hardly seemed possible to conduct a civilised conversation.

However, by the time the apple tart stage had been reached, Ruth spoke.

'I'm taking Mary to watch the bonfire just after six. Paul's home and Jeremy Hurst's going to be there as well. Joan suggests we have a drink with them, before or after, just which suits you best.'

'I suppose Edward is attending this bean feast?'

'Naturally.'

'Well, I'll come along for a little while to the bonfire, but don't accept for me later. I'm on surgery duty tonight.'

'Fair enough. We won't be late back. Mary will be tired out with all the excitement.'

'You'll be a lot tireder, I surmise,' said John with a smile.

He pushed back his chair, kissed his wife, and went back to his duties.

Well, he seemed to have cheered up, thought Ruth, clearing the table. But if only he would try some of his own tonic!

***

The weatherman must have known something after all, for by midday a watery sun was trying to disperse the mist.

Winnie Bailey, taking a turn in her garden in the hope of finding a few flowers for the house, was cheered to see the sunshine. She dreaded the winter even more keenly now that Donald had gone. It was not so much the piercing cold of the Cotswold winters, as the short murky days which she found hardest to bear.

She realised, with a shock, that this was the first time she had been outdoors for three days. The rain and dismal weather had turned her attention to a multitude of little tasks indoors. She decided that she would get some exercise during the afternoon by taking some magazines to Dotty, and hearing the news from her old friend.

Meanwhile, she collected four somewhat battered late roses, a few sprigs of hardy fuchsias and two nerines which struggled for existence in the unwelcoming cold of this area, and realised that these were all the flowers to be gathered here in November. It was true that the pyracantha tree which she and Donald had planted years ago was ablaze with scarlet berries, but their prickly stems discouraged any picking, and in any case the berries would soon wither indoors. Better to admire them from the garden, thought Winnie, carrying her rag-taggle posy inside.

Later she set off across the green, admiring the bonfire as she did so. Nathaniel Patten on his plinth seemed to smile benignly on the peaceful scene. Before school ended, as Winnie knew from earlier years, the children would carry the guy across and put him on the top of the pyre, where carefully crossed twigs made a chair for him.

To her surprise, she found Dotty in the garden, throwing weeds over the top of the chicken run to an appreciative bevy of Rhode Island Red hens.

'Should you be out in this damp weather, Dotty?'

'Oh, yes, dear, it's perfectly all right, Connie and Kit are down in Lulling. Do come in.'

She began to wipe muddy hands down her skirt, eyes beaming behind her spectacles.

'Dear things,' she said affectionately to the scrabbling hens. 'You see, I know Connie is most conscientious in feeding them night and morning, but I feel that they miss fresh greenstuff. Now I have just given them dandelion leaves, groundsel, shepherds' purse and some dock leaves. A wonderfully healthy mixture of essential minerals. Have you ever read Gerard's
Herball?
'

'Well, no, Dotty. But I know that Donald had a copy and read it with much enjoyment. He often said that the old boy knew what he was talking about.'

'He was quite right. Dandelion and dock in particular he understood, and I'm sure he would approve of the hens having plenty of them.'

'I must say they seem to appreciate your largesse,' observed Winnie, 'but don't you think you should come in now? Your slippers are soaked.'

She ushered her hostess into the house, and was relieved to see her settled by the fire. Dotty took off her slippers, displaying a pink big toe emerging through a hole in her stocking, and Winnie put them in the hearth to dry. What a time Connie must have looking after this eccentric old aunt!

'Now you must tell me all the news from Thrush Green,' said Dotty, arranging her legs on the sofa. 'Has Mrs Bassett quite recovered? And have you heard about Richard's baby? And is Percy Hodge still courting your Jenny? And how are Agnes Fogerty and Dorothy? And are you going to the Guy Fawkes' party? I believe Ella is.'

For one supposed to be out of the swim of village affairs, thought Winnie, Dotty seemed remarkably up to date.

'Mrs Bassett's much better, but Joan and Ruth watch her like hawks, I believe. No, no news of Richard, and as far as I know Jenny is free from Percy's attentions. In fact, I gather he has transferred them to Albert Piggott's wife.'

'That won't please Albert, will it?' exclaimed Dotty with much pleasure. 'Go on, dear.'

'The village school is in a state of great excitement, Molly Curdle told me. George can't wait for tonight when they light the fire. And no, I don't think I shall go, even if Ella does. Jenny and I get an excellent view from the house and it gets rather too boisterous for me with all those fireworks. Donald used to love it.'

'I never did. The poor frightened animals, you know. Which reminds me, Kit and Connie are making plans to go to Venice.'

'What's the connection, Dotty dear?'

'Why, the animals! I went once as a girl and was quite shaken by the callousness of some of the inhabitants, to the cats, in particular. But I'm much relieved to hear that things are greatly improved. Still a lot to be done though, according to the Anglo-Italian Society for Animal Protection. Their report came yesterday. You must borrow it.'

'Thank you. And when are Kit and Connie off?'

'Oh, as soon as possible,' said Dotty somewhat vaguely. 'I tell them Venice gets foggy about now, but I don't think they mind about that. And I have warned them about being taken hostage on these aeroplanes, and advised them to pack a lemon or two to add to the drinking water if they are held up at some rather uncomfortable place like Beirut.'