(8/13) At Home in Thrush Green (9 page)

***

The two ladies went to bed early. Little Miss Fogerty had also found it a long and tiring day, but was relieved to have Dorothy back safe and sound, and to know that her brother was making steady progress. There was much to be thankful for, she thought, gazing out of her bedroom window across Thrush Green.

It was still light, although the little travelling clock on the bedroom mantelpiece said ten o'clock. The statue of Nathaniel Patten shone in the rosy light of a spectacular sunset, now beginning to fade into shades of pink and mauve.

The air was still. Far away, a distant train hooted at Lulling station, a pigeon clattered homeward, and a small black shadow crossed the road below Miss Fogerty's window. Albert Piggott's cat was about its night time business.

'Time for bed,' yawned little Miss Fogerty.

It really had been an exceptionally long day.

6 The Fuchsia Bush to the Rescue

THROUGHOUT July work went on steadily at the old people's homes. The weather was kind, and the outside painting went ahead without disruption. Edward Young was relieved to see such progress, and optimistic about its opening in the autumn.

He said as much to his wife Joan, one breakfast time.

'I only hope the weather will hold up for my lunch party,' she replied. 'I've made plans to hustle everything under cover if need be, but it would be splendid if people could picnic on the lawn.'

'Of course it will stay fine,' Edward said robustly. 'Looks settled for weeks. Mark my words, things will go without a hitch!'

But he was wrong. Later that morning she answered the telephone to find that it was her sister Ruth speaking, sounding much agitated.

'It's mother, Joan. I went in just now to see if she were needing help in dressing, and found her on the floor.'

'Oh no! Heart again?'

'There's no saying. I've got her into bed, but John's on his rounds, of course. I've left a message.'

'I'll come straightaway.'

Molly Curdle was in the kitchen, at her morning duties. She and her husband Ben now lived in the converted stable where Joan and Ruth's mother had lived until recently.

Joan explained briefly what had happened, and left Molly troubled in mind. She had known the Bassetts, Joan's parents, ever since she was a child, and the death of the old man had grieved her. Was his wife to follow him so soon? Ben, now busy at work in Lulling, would be as upset as she was.

Joan found her mother barely conscious, but the old lady managed to smile at the two anxious faces bending over her.

'John'sjust rung,' whispered Ruth. 'He's coming straight back from Lulling. Miss Pick caught him at the Venables', luckily.'

Mrs Bassett's eyes were now closed, but she seemed to be breathing normally.

Ruth smoothed the bedclothes, nodded to her sister, and the two tiptoed from the room.

Agnes Fogerty, with a straggling crocodile of small children behind her, recognised Joan Young's car outside her sister's. It was nice to see how devoted the two were, she thought fondly. So many sisters did not get on well. Families could be quite sorely divided. Look at Dorothy and Ray, for instance.

'John Todd,' called little Miss Fogerty, temporarily diverted from her musings on the variability of family relationships, 'throw that nettle away, and if I see you tormenting George Curdle again I
shall send you to Miss Watson.
'

This appalling threat succeeded in frightening John Todd, a hardened criminal of six years old, into temporary good behaviour, and the observation of the Thrush Green hedgerows continued.

There was plenty to be seen. On the grass verges the pink trumpets of mallow bloomed. Nearer the edge grew the shorter white yarrow, with its darker foliage and tough stems, and in the dust of the gutter, pink and white striped bindweed showed its trumpets against a mat of flat leaves, as pretty as marshmallows, thought Agnes.

Nearby was yellow silverweed with its feathery foliage, almost hidden by a mass of dog daisies, as the children called them. In the sunshine their pungent scent was almost overpowering, but three small brown and orange butterflies were giving the plants their attention, and the children were excited.

'My grandpa,' said John Todd, anxious to reinstate himself in Miss Fogerty's good books, 'has got six drawers in a cabinet, full of butterflies with pins through 'em.'

Some of the girls gave squeaks of disgust, and little Miss Fogerty herself inwardly recoiled from the picture this evoked.

'They're dead all right, 'John Todd said hastily. 'He done 'em in in a bottle. Years ago, it was.'

'Very interesting,' commented Agnes primly. One could not always believe John Todd's stories, and even if this one happened to be true, good manners forbade one to criticise the child's grandfather.

'Now we will stop under this tree for a moment,' said Agnes, diverting the children's attention, and remembering 'the ever-changing panorama of the heavens' phrase of long ago. 'You may sit on the grass as it is quite dry, and I want you to notice the lovely creamy flowers hanging down. This is a lime tree, and if you breathe in you can smell the beautiful fragrance of the flowers.'

Some unnecessarily squelchy indrawing of breath made Miss Fogerty clap her hands sharply.

'Perhaps we will have a little nose-blowing first,' she said firmly. 'Hold up your hankies!'

There were times, thought Agnes, trying to recapture the heady bliss of breathing in the perfume of flowering lime, when children were excessively tiresome.

It was a good thing that Miss Fogerty had taken her children on the nature walk when she did, for a rainy spell of weather set in, when mackintoshes were the rule, and many of the fragrant lime flowers fell wetly to the ground beneath the downpour.

The gardeners of Lulling and Thrush Green welcomed the rain. The broad beans plumped out, the raspberries flourished, red flowers burst out on the runner bean plants, and the thirsty flowers everywhere revived.

Joan Young viewed the wet garden with less enthusiasm. In a week's time the buffet lunch was to take place, and that morning before breakfast, she had made a decision. She must ask Mrs Peters of The Fuchsia Bush if she could cope with the waiting on her guests, and with the main bulk of the catering.

Her mother was still in a precarious state, needing to be in bed for most of the day, and Ruth, with two young children, was hard-pressed.

Joan and Edward's only child, Paul, was away at school, and Joan was sharing the nursing duties as often as she could, but the extra work of the lunch party was beginning to worry her enormously.

'If The Fuchsia Bush could take it off my shoulders,' she said to Edward, as they dressed, 'it would make it so much easier. You see, I had planned to collect plates and cutlery from no end of people, and napkins and serving bowls for the salads and trifles and whatnot.'

'What about glasses?' asked Edward, putting first things first.

'Oh, that's simple. The wine people are coping with that anyway. But with mother as she is, I want to feel I could slip away, if need be, without disrupting anything.'

'You bob down to Lulling, and see Mrs Peters,' advised Edward, fighting his way into his pullover. He tugged it down, and went to look at his latest project through the streaming windowpane.

'They really look splendid, don't they?' he said with satisfaction. 'A great improvement on Charles's ghastly abode.'

'Will this weather hold up the work?'

'Not greatly. There's plenty to finish off inside.'

He put his arm round his wife, and gave her a kiss.

She was glad his work was nearly over. Hers, it seemed, was about to begin.

When Nelly Piggott entered The Fuchsia Bush the next morning, she found Mrs Peters sitting at the vast table in the quiet kitchen. She was busy making a list, and looked up as Nelly entered.

'Such news, Nelly,' she cried. 'Come and sit down.'

Nelly took off her wet mackintosh, hung it in the passage, and flopped down thankfully on the chair opposite her employer.

'I had a visit from Mrs Young last night,' she began. 'She's in rather a state about this lunch party of hers.'

She went on to explain Joan's needs, and her own plans to help her in this emergency. Nelly listened enthralled. Here was a challenge indeed!

'But can we do it?' she asked at length. 'What about getting the food up there? And the plates and dishes? And who's going to look after this place? After all, Saturdays are always busy.'

'I rang Bunnings about transport and they'll ferry everything. The Wine Bar's coping with the drink and glasses. We can take most of our own crockery and silver, and I intend to ask Mrs Jefferson if she would take charge here until we are back.'

Mrs Jefferson had been at The Fuchsia Bush for many years, but ill health had meant that she now only came part time. But, as Nelly knew, she was quite capable of holding the fort for a day in an emergency. Really, thought Nelly, it was all very exciting!

'How many of us will you need?' she asked.

'Well, you'll be my chief assistant, Nelly, if you feel you can undertake it.'

Nelly beamed.

'I'll thoroughly enjoy myself,' she assured her employer. 'What's the plan of campaign?'

'We'll take up the plates and things on the Friday evening when we're closed. I'm sure I can get all we need in the car. Then the food can go up with Bunning on Saturday morning. People will help themselves. It's just a case of us slicing the meat and the pies and quiches. We'll get the various salads ready here.'

'Just the two of us?' asked Nelly enthusiastically.

'Well, no. I'll see if Gloria and Rosa will come too. We shall want a few more hands, and though they leave much to be desired, at least they can stack plates, and put the dirty cutlery in a bucket to bring back here.'

Nelly thought swiftly.

'So really we'll be busy from Friday night till Saturday night?'

Mrs Peters looked suddenly anxious and careworn, and Nelly's kind heart was stirred.

'Yes, that's about it, Nelly. How do you feel?'

'Dead keen!' that lady told her energetically, and meant it.

Albert Piggott was remarkably docile when Nelly told him the great news.

'As long as I gets my tea as usual, it's all the same to me,' he said, pushing aside the plate which had been filled with oxtail stew ten minutes earlier.

'It might have to be cold that day,' his wife warned him.

'Then make a decent bit of pie,' said Albert. 'That brawn you brought back from the shop hadn't got no staying power in it for a hardworking chap.'

Nelly forbore to comment, but set about clearing the table with her customary energy.

While she was thus engaged a knock came at the door, and Albert, heaving himself from the armchair with a sigh, went to answer it.

To his amazement, Percy Hodge stood on the doorstep holding a bunch of roses. Percy himself looked equally taken aback.

'What the hell do you want?' asked Albert of his drinking companion.

'I thought this was your evening over the churchyard,' spluttered Percy.

'Well, it ain't. Young Cooke's wasting his time there tonight.'

He peered at the roses with dislike. Nelly, secretly nettled at this unwanted attention, came forward, drying her hands on a teacloth.

'Good evening, Percy,' she said primly.

'I was wondering,' said Percy, who had been thinking as quickly as his slow brain would allow, 'if Mrs Peters down the shop would like these roses for the tea tables. Maybe you'd be kind enough to take 'em down in the morning.'

'I'm sure she'd be pleased,' said Nelly. 'Won't you come in?'

'Just going next door,' said Percy hastily, thrusting the bouquet into Nelly's arms, to her discomfort. 'You coming for a pint, Albert?'

'No, I ain't,' said Albert grimly, and slammed the door.

'Well,' said Nelly, much flustered, 'I'd better put these in a bucket overnight. '

'Best place for them,' responded Albert sourly, 'is the dustbin. And how long, may I ask, has all this been going on?'

At the village school, end of term was bringing its usual flurry of activity, and Miss Watson and her staff were looking forward to the final day with ever-increasing exhaustion.

'Sometimes I wonder if it is practicable to have Sports Day and the Annual Outing and the Parents' Fête and the Leavers' Service, all in the last month when we are so busy with reports and all these wretched returns to the office,' sighed Dorothy, as she walked homeward across the playground.

'But we couldn't really arrange things very well for the end of any of the other terms,' pointed out little Miss Fogerty. 'Christmas is hectic as it is, and anyway most of the activities are out of door ones. They must be held in the summer.'

'Yes, dear, I know. But it doesn't make things any easier.'

There was a letter on the door mat which Dorothy picked up.

'Kathleen's writing. Now I wonder what she wants?'

The two ladies made their way to the sitting room, and sat down with sighs of relief. Agnes closed her eyes, listening to the rustle of Kathleen's letter, as Dorothy read it with an occasional snort.