(9/13)The School at Thrush Green (11 page)

The cat licked the last delicious drops of milk from the saucer and made off quickly through the hedge. The doves whirred away, and the rabbit vanished.

Whose cat could it be, wondered Agnes? Although it was thin, it seemed to be domesticated and certainly knew how to cope with provender on saucers.

She went out to collect his crockery, and washed it up as Willie Bond dropped the letters through the front door.

Perhaps the children would know about the cat, she thought suddenly, bending to collect the post. She must remember to enquire, but not, perhaps, in dear Dorothy's hearing.

8. Cat Trouble

AS one might expect in March, the fine spell was of short duration. After about eight days of heart-lifting sunshine, the clouds returned, the temperature dropped, and the winter garments, so joyously discarded for a brief time, were once more resumed.

One chilly morning when Miss Fogerty's infants were struggling with various arithmetical problems, designated Number on the timetable, and involving a great many aids such as coloured counters, rods of varying length, and a good deal of juvenile theft between the children, Agnes was surprised to see the tabby cat sitting on the wooden bench inside the playground shed, sheltering from the drizzle.

She clapped her hands, and the children looked up.

'Can anyone tell me,' she said, 'who owns that nice little cat out there?'

There was a surge of infant bodies towards the window, which Agnes quelled with consummate experience.

'We don't want to frighten it! Just look quietly.'

It was Nigel Cooke, son of Miss Cooke of the PTA committee, who spoke first, hand upraised in quivering excitement.

'Please, miss, it lives next door to us, miss.'

Agnes felt her heart sink. So it had a home after all!

'Well, it used to, sort of,' said another child. 'Them Aliens left it behind when they done a moonlight flit.'

'They never paid the rent, see,' explained Nigel. 'They went one night. My dad saw 'em go, as he was on late shift.'

'Well, where does the cat live now?' enquired Miss Fogerty.

'He don't live nowhere like,' said one little girl. Agnes decided that this was not quite the time to point out the result of a double negative. She was too anxious to know the present position of the animal.

'He comes up ours sometimes,' said another Nidden child. 'My mum gives him bits, but he won't come in. My mum says the Aliens should be persecuted, and was going to give the cruelty to animals man a ring, but my dad said she was to let well alone, so she never.'

Really,
men!
Agnes felt furious and impatient. Anything for a quiet life, she supposed, was their motto! No thought for the poor starving cat!

She hid her feelings, and spoke calmly. 'Who knows where it sleeps?'

Nigel was again the first to answer.

'If it's fine he sleeps on the step up against his back door.'

Agnes's eyes pricked at this poignant picture. 'And if it rains?'

Nigel looked blank. 'Up the farm sheds at Perce Hodge's, I reckon.'

Agnes determined to find out a little more, by discreet enquiries of Percy himself and any other reliable adult living along the Nidden road.

Meanwhile, work must be resumed.

'Back to your tables now. I want to see who can be first solving these problems.'

Comparative peace enfolded the class and Miss Fogerty, watching the cat washing its paws, made plans for the future.

It was about this time that Charles Henstock had an interesting telephone call from his great friend Anthony Bull.

Anthony had been Charles's predecessor at St John's of Lulling. He was a tall handsome man with a splendid voice which he used to great effect in his rather dramatic sermons.

Despite a certain theatricality which a few of the males in his congregation deplored, Anthony Bull was deservedly popular, for he was a conscientious parish priest and a good friend to many.

The ladies adored him, and at Christmas a shower of presents descended upon the vicar, many hand-made, and creating a problem in their discreet disposal. Anthony's wife grew efficient in finding worthy homes for three-quarters of this bounty, all at some distance, so that the givers would not take umbrage. There had been one occasion, however, when one particularly devoted admirer of the vicar's had come across a piece of her handiwork at a cousin's bazaar in Devonshire. It had taken all Mrs Bull's ingenuity and church diplomacy to explain that unfortunate incident.

When Charles had first taken over the parish at Lulling and its environs, there had been some comparisons made by many of Anthony's more ardent followers. They found Charles's sermons far too simple and low key after Anthony's perorations from the pulpit. Charles, short and chubby, modest and unassuming, ran a poor second to his predecessor in looks and panache.

But gradually his congregation began to admire their new vicar's sincerity. They came to value his advice, to appreciate his unselfish efforts, to recognise the absolute goodness of the man.

The two men, so different in temperament, remained firm friends although they only met occasionally now that Anthony had a busy parish in Kensington.

The telephone call was greeted with joy by Charles, standing in his draughty hall and looking out into the windswept vicarage garden.

After the first greetings, Anthony came to the point. It appeared that he had been approached by a young woman who had been brought up in Lulling and was now in service in his London parish. She wanted to return to be near her mother. Did Charles know if it would be easy for her to get work?

'Domestic work do you mean?' asked Charles. 'Or something in a shop or office? Has she any particular qualifications? I know that Venables wants a typist, and there's a new supermarket opening soon, and there might be jobs there. I take it she will live with her mother?'

'Well, no! I think she wants cheap digs, or a living-in job. There's a snag. She has a little boy of three or thereabouts. No husband, of course, and I gather the fellow was a bad lot, but I've only heard one side of the affair, naturally. The mother, by the way, is Gladys Lilly. Chapel, I think.'

'I know her slightly. Yes, she does go to the chapel at the end of the town, I believe. A jolly sort of person.'

'Well, she wasn't too jolly about the baby, I gather, but she's willing to mind him while the daughter is at work, so that's a step in the right direction.'

'I'll have a word with Dimity,' promised Charles, 'and keep my ears open. As soon as I have any news I will ring. Now, when are you coming this way? The garden is looking very pretty despite the weather, and you know we'd love a visit.'

Anthony said he would do his best to get to Lulling again, and with mutual messages of affection the old friends rang off.

'Dimity!' called Charles, setting off towards the kitchen. 'We have a problem before us!'

The end of term was now in sight at Thrush Green school, and all three teachers were looking forward to the Easter holidays.

Agnes and Dorothy admitted to being even more tired than usual.

'I suppose it's because we've had such a wretchedly long winter,' said Dorothy, who was standing at the sitting-room window, surveying the grey drizzle outside.

'Partly,' agreed Agnes, busy with her knitting. 'And then we've been doing a good deal of clearing up at school. And your driving lessons must be a strain.'

'I enjoy them,' said Dorothy shortly.

'Then, of course, we have the house business hanging over us,' continued Agnes. 'It would be nice to get that settled.'

'Not much point in buying at the moment with a whole term to get through,' commented Dorothy, 'although I suppose we'd need time to get anything we bought put into order.'

She sounded a little snappy, Agnes thought. Dear Dorothy had been somewhat on edge lately, and to be honest, she had felt irritable herself. Perhaps the approaching break after so many years at the school was beginning to take its toll.

'There's that cat!' exclaimed Dorothy suddenly. 'Do you know, that's the second time I've seen him this week. I hope he's not coming regularly.'

Agnes made no answer. Dorothy turned round from the window.

'Agnes, are you
feeding
that cat?'

Little Miss Fogerty's hands trembled as she put down the knitting into her lap. She took a deep breath.

'Well, yes, Dorothy dear, I am!'

It was Dorothy's turn to breathe in deeply, and her neck began to flush. This was a bad sign, as Agnes knew very well, but now that the matter had arisen she was determined to stick to her guns.

'Well, really, Agnes,' protested her friend, with commendable restraint, 'you know I think it is wrong to encourage the animal. We can't possibly take on a cat now when we are off to Barton in a few months. And what will happen to it when we have gone?'

'I can't see the poor little thing go hungry,' answered Agnes. 'I've only put down milk, and a few scraps.'

'When, may I ask?'

'First thing in the morning, and as it gets dusk. I don't leave the saucers down in case mice or rats come to investigate.'

'I should hope not. In any case, the mere fact of putting food out in the first place is enough to encourage vermin.'

'It's a very
clean
little cat,' said Agnes, becoming agitated.

'I daresay. Most cats are. But I think you have been very silly, and short-sighted too, to have started this nonsense. It's cruel to encourage the poor animal to expect food when we know we shall not be here to provide for it before long.'

'It would be far more cruel to let it starve to death,' retorted Agnes with spirit.

Dorothy rarely saw her friend in such a militant mood, and resolved to deal gently with her.

'Of course it would, Agnes dear. I'm simply pointing out that we must look to the future. If it becomes dependent upon us it is going to be doubly hard on the animal when it finds we have gone.'

She noticed, with alarm, that Agnes was shaking.

'Perhaps we could find a home for it if it is really a stray,' she continued. 'So often cats go from one house to another for anything they can cadge, when they have a perfectly good home of their own.'

'This one hasn't,' snapped Agnes.

'And how do you know?'

Agnes explained about the Aliens' departure, and abandonment of the cat, and its present plight. By now her face was pink, her eyes filled with tears, and her whole body was quivering.

'Then we must certainly try and find a home for it,' said Dorothy. 'Perhaps the RSPCA could help.'

'I don't see why we shouldn't take it on ourselves,' protested Agnes. 'It is getting tamer every day, and
whatever
you say, Dorothy, I intend to go on feeding it. I am very fond of the little thing, and I think - I'm sure - it is fond of me.'

Dorothy gave one of her famous snorts. '
Cupboard love!
' she boomed.

At this the tears began to roll down little Miss Fogerty's papery old cheeks, and splashed upon her knitting.

Dorothy, curbing her impatience with heroic efforts, tried to speak gently. 'Well, carry on as you are, dear, if you think it right. You know my own feelings on the subject.'

Agnes blew her nose, and mopped her eyes. She was too overwrought to speak.

'I think,' said her headmistress, 'that we could both do with an early bed tonight.'

And early to bed both ladies went, much perturbed. Civil goodnights were exchanged on the landing as usual, but both were relieved to enter the peaceful surroundings of their respective bedrooms.

Little Miss Fogerty washed her face and hands, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair. Normally, she did a few exercises to help her arthritis, as directed by John Lovell, but tonight she was too exhausted to bother.

The night was bright. A full moon was hanging in the branches of the Shoosmiths' plum tree next door. Standing in her sensible night-gown, long-sleeved and high-necked, she noticed the cat's saucer behind the dustbin. She had forgotten to retrieve it in the worry of the evening.

In a strange way the sight calmed her. Well, now Dorothy knew. What was more, Dorothy had accepted the fact that the cat was going to be fed. There was now no need for subterfuge. It was quite a relief to have things out in the open. Tomorrow, she thought rebelliously, she would buy a few tins of cat food and discover the cat's preferences. The tins could be stored on the scullery shelf, and she would buy a new tin-opener to be kept specially for the cat's provender.

These modest plans gave her some comfort. She crept between the sheets and lay watching the shadows of the branches move across the ceiling in the moonlight.

She was truly sorry to have upset dear Dorothy, and she would apologise for that before breakfast. But she was not going to apologise for feeding the cat. It was the right thing to do - the
Christian
thing. The hungry should be fed, and she was determined to do it.

As the warmth of the bedclothes crept around her, Agnes's eyes closed. Yes, an apology first, then a saucer of milk for the cat, and perhaps a little of the minced lamb she had prepared for a shepherd's pie, and then...