(8/13) At Home in Thrush Green (22 page)

'I always had a doll,' said Agnes. 'Every Christmas my parents gave me one, and it was usually a dear little thing with a red stuffed body and china head and legs and arms. Usually, my mother had made its clothes. Once it had an evening cloak too.'

Little Miss Fogerty's eyes behind her thick spectacles sparkled at the remembrance.

'And of course, a tangerine like yours, and some sweets, and best of all a sheet of transfers which you stuck on the back of your hand and wetted, and then carefully peeled off the paper backing, and had a beautifully decorated hand – ships and bells and lovely animals! I was never allowed to have them during the year, but at Christmas my parents relented, and I really think those transfers gave me more pleasure than anything!'

'Yes, we were pleased with little things,' agreed Dorothy. 'What games we used to play with natural things, do you remember? The boys always had their conkers, of course, but I was thinking of our girls' games. Blowing dandelion clocks, for instance, and smiting the head off another child's plantain.'

'And holding a buttercup under your chin to see if you liked butter,' said Agnes, 'and making daisy chains, and dear little pipes from acorn cups. Weren't we lucky to live where such things grew?'

Dorothy sighed nostalgically.

'"Where are the something-or-other of yesteryear?"' she quoted. 'What a comfort poetry is, Agnes dear, even if you can't remember it!'

In the week before Christmas, Lulling High Street was chock-a-block with cars, vans delivering extra goods, children on holiday, frantic shoppers and a local brass band which played carols at irregular intervals and with less than perfect notation.

Nelly Piggott enjoyed it all immensely. This was life as she liked it – plenty of noise, colour and movement. Trade was brisk, the till bell tinkled incessantly, and exhausted shoppers queued for cups of refreshing coffee. The savoury rolls seemed to be snapped up earlier each morning by the local office workers and the van drivers, who had soon got to hear of this welcome service and had become regular customers on their way through the town.

Nelly thoroughly enjoyed being in charge, and her exuberance seemed to be infectious. Even Gloria and Rosa wilted less, and almost hurried about the cafe, and sometimes even managed to smile at the customers.

Mrs Peters was kept busy, running the splendid new van to local business premises where office parties were in full swing. The change in fortune of The Fuchsia Bush was so welcome, that she was too excited to feel tired during the day, but when at last she fell into bed, she realised how close she was to exhaustion.

At Thrush Green, Winnie Bailey and Ella shared their annual task of setting up the crib in St Andrew's church. To the delight of the ladies who decorated the place for Christmas, Tom Hardy and Johnny Enderby had offered to pick holly and ivy on their afternoon rambles, and had supplied them with generous armfuls.

Jane Cartwright, now making steady progress with only one stick for support, was glad to see this interest. If only more of her charges would follow suit, she thought! There seemed to be some slight lessening of discontent with the approach of Christmas, but would it last?

The members of the Lulling Rotary Club, and other good-hearted folk, were busy arranging shopping expeditions for the elderly and disabled, and Christmas parcels were delivered to each of the old people's homes at Thrush Green. These kindnesses were much appreciated, Jane noted, except for some slight bridling by Carlotta Jermyn who muttered something, in Jane's presence, about having no need for charity, and being perfectly well able to buy a Christmas pudding of her own.

Jane, whose hip was giving her some twinges at the time, said that part of the joy of Christmas was the giving and receiving of gifts, and that to be graciously grateful for presents so generously bestowed should be within everyone's power.

At this rebuke Carlotta's face turned pink, and she walked away.

'Perhaps it was wrong of me, 'Jane said to Bill later, 'but it really riled me.'

'A bit of plain speaking won't hurt that one,' Bill replied cheerfully.

On Christmas Day St Andrew's church was full, much to the rector's delight. Holly and Christmas roses stood in the two silver vases on the altar. Mrs Bates had surpassed herself, and everywhere the silver gleamed and glinted with the reflected light of candles and a ray or two of winter sunshine.

The flower ladies had dressed a stand by the chancel steps with red and white carnations and hanging trails of ivy, and the brass lectern was similarly festooned. Everyone agreed that the church looked absolutely splendid and as young Cooke, a little befuddled with pre-Christmas drinks, had taken it upon himself to put twice as much coke in the boiler as usual, a pleasant warmth suffused the old building.

Charles Henstock and Dimity had been invited to Christmas dinner at Winnie Bailey's, as the rector was due at the tiny church at Nidden at three-thirty for evensong.

'It's a great problem trying to arrange services for all four parishes,' remarked Charles, neatly cutting his goose into mouth-sized portions. 'I feel quite envious of my predecessors who had numerous curates and lay preachers to help them at such busy times.'

'But you know you enjoy it, Charles,' put in Dimity, passing some extra sage and onion stuffing to him.

The rector nodded slowly.

'Of course I do. I am greatly privileged to serve so many people, and they give me back far more than I can ever give them.'

Winnie, looking after her guests, did not agree with Charles's words, but said nothing. But she thought, as she had so many times, how lucky Lulling and Thrush Green were to have this humble but great-hearted man to look after them.

At three o'clock they listened to the Queen's speech, and then Charles hastened away to his duties, leaving Winnie and Dimity to doze by the log fire.

Dimity, replete with the Christmas feast, fell fast asleep, occasionally emitting a small lady-like snore, but Winnie simply lay back in the armchair, her knitting lying neglected in her lap, while her thoughts ranged over past Christmases shared with Donald.

Mrs Bates had said to her only that morning: 'Christmas is the time of remembering, isn't it?' At that moment, Winnie had construed this as something to do with the giving of cards and presents, but now, in the quiet of the firelit room, she realised that the old lady was probably thinking of Christmases shared with a husband long-dead, or with children now far away. There was an element of sadness in this type of remembering, without doubt, but in fact it was all part and parcel of the renewing of ties between family and friends, and should be considered as something specially dear as one recalled, with gratitude, the days gone by. Nothing, after all, would take those memories away, and they grew more dearly cherished as the years passed.

To say that she still missed Donald was understating things to the point of banality. She still felt that something vital had gone from her, as if an arm or leg had been amputated, and she would never be whole again. But he would have grieved to see her incapable of recovery, and certainly she had been lucky in her home, her friends and Thrush Green itself, to help her through the darkest of the days.

One of her New Year resolutions, she promised, was to give as much comfort to others as she had received. She had much to be thankful for, and self-pity was not going to be allowed to creep in. About that she was adamant.

Her knitting slipped unregarded to the floor. Her head fell forward, and she joined her old friend in a refreshing snooze.

Most of the younger generation at Thrush Green were taking advantage of the dry roads and had set off walking, hoping that the exercise would help their over-taxed digestions.

Edward Young, Joan, Paul and his friends took the path to Lulling Woods. The young ones raced ahead, shouting excitedly, their breath forming little clouds in the chilly air.

Joan was wrapped in her new sheepskin coat, Edward's Christmas present, and chattered cheerfully. As they approached the stile into the woods she took Edward's arm.

'Oh, don't!' he yelped. 'I'm horribly sore!'

Joan looked at him in surprise.

'Have you pulled a muscle or something?'

'No, no. Nothing like that. Must be fibrositis, I think. I've got a sort of itchy burning pain in my right shoulder and back.'

'Too much Christmas pud, I expect,' laughed Joan. 'Would you like to go back?'

'No, I'll be all right,' said Edward, but he certainly looked rather wretched, thought Joan, and she purposely slowed her pace. It was so unusual for any of the Young family to be under the weather that Edward's obvious discomfort was worrying.

The children by now were far ahead, and Joan and Edward stopped to lean over a farm gate and survey the wintry scene. It was very quiet, and in the middle distance they could see eight plump French partridges, standing immobile, their dappled breasts shading to the red feathers above their legs. They were obviously aware of the two scrutinising them, and had frozen into stillness, but as Edward moved along the gate they suddenly took flight, and whirred away across the field.

Already the valley was filling with ghostly white mist, and distant treetops floated as if on water.

'Getting chilly,' remarked Edward with a shiver.

'Yes. Weil be getting back,' agreed Joan, solicitous for his welfare. 'I'll yell for the children.'

There were answering cries from the distance, and soon all the party began to make their way homeward through the early dusk.

'It might be as well to pop over to see John when surgery starts again,' said Joan.

Edward shrugged impatiently.

'Oh, there's nothing really wrong. I'm not going to bother him over Christmas. Probably be gone by morning anyway.'

And with that Joan had to be content.

Mrs Jenner spent Christmas Day with Jane and Bill. There were very few of the old people in their homes. Most had been collected by relatives to spend the day with them, and it was very peaceful in the wardens' new home.

Jane could now get about with much more confidence, often without a stick for support, but to her mother's solicitous eye she still looked pale and drawn.

'Well, I don't get the fresh air and exercise I'm used to,' agreed Jane, 'but that will change when the spring comes, you'll see.'

'I had a visit from Kit Armitage the other morning,' said her mother. 'They've fixed up for a holiday in Venice, but they want someone to live in with their aunt.'

'It's a bit late isn't it, to find someone now? I heard that they were off in a fortnight.'

'They've been let down by the nurse they got through an agency. They asked if I could see my way clear to help out, but frankly I can't face it. She's an amazing old girl for her age, but to live with her for a fortnight is asking too much.'

Jane laughed.

'And you'd have to watch your diet down there, mum! So what did you say?' i said I would try and find somebody reliable, and I thought of Vi Bailey. She nursed with you at the Cottage Hospital, remember?'

'Just the one, if she'd come.'

'Have you got her address? I might sound her out. I believe she went to live in one of the London suburbs when she married, but I don't remember her married name.'

By this time, Jane had hobbled to her bureau and found the address book.

'Here we are! Violet Ellis, and she's on the phone. Ring her now.'

'No, no! Not on Christmas Day, but I will tomorrow, Jane, and I do hope she'll be free. I know the pay will be exceptionally generous. Kit and Connie know they are asking a lot of whoever takes on Dotty, but they really do need a break, and I'm so fond of them.'

Bill now appeared from going his rounds, and from sanding the treacherous steps and paths which had caused his wife's present condition.

'No cups of tea for the world's workers?' he cried. 'Stay there, you girls, and I'll put on the kettle.'

Darkness came early to Thrush Green on Christmas Day. The mist had thickened as night fell, and wreathed eerily about the statue of Nathaniel Patten and the bare branches of the horse chestnut avenue. It was dank and chilly, the birds had gone to roost before five o'clock, and most of the human animals were equally comatose, toasting their toes by the fire, with curtains drawn and lamps lit.

But about seven o'clock the bedroom lights went on at the schoolhouse, as Agnes and Dorothy went aloft to change their dresses ready for a visit next door.

Isobel and Harold had invited them, and their old friends Frank and Phyllida Hurst, to Christmas dinner that evening, and the two maiden ladies were looking forward to a rare evening out.

Little Miss Fogerty surveyed herself in the mirror. She had on her best deep blue woollen frock with a silver locket of her mother's at her neck. The frock was now three years old, but had not been worn more than a dozen times. Her shoes were new, and very daring Agnes felt as she put them on, for they were of grey suede with a splendid cut-steel buckle across the front. She had never owned such dashing shoes in her life, but Dorothy had been present when they were bought, and had egged on her old friend to make the purchase.