Winter in Thrush Green (14 page)

She supposed that they would live at the corner house. Suddenly, Ella found the whole idea peculiarly painful, and tossed her cigarette irritably into a tuft of wet grass. Could it be jealousy, she asked herself? Any man would say so, many women would not. Ella tried to look at the matter soberly again.

Quite honestly, Ella decided, it was not jealousy that made her feelings so acute. She had no desire for marriage herself, though she knew that Dimity's more gentle nature would flower in the married state. Her own mental life was vigorous and creative and afforded her greater satisfaction with every year that passed. Marriage for Ella would be a distraction. She was too selfish not to resent any interruption in her own way of life. For Dimity's happiness she rejoiced. It was just, thought Ella with a wince of pain, that she would miss Dim so much–the shared jokes, the companionship in the little cottage, the modest expeditions and the fun of discussing things with her.

Life was going to be very different with Dim across the green. Could the cottage be endured without her company, Ella wondered? Or would it be best to uproot herself and go elsewhere? It might be fairest to both of them, she decided. Whatever the future held she must let Dimity have her way. She must not be selfish and tyrannical–for too long Dimity had suffered her own over-bearing ways. If this should prove to be Dim's chance of happiness, then, Ella decided, she should take it and she herself would do all in her power to promote it.

Ella took a deep breath of damp Cotswold air, and having cleared her mind, felt a great deal better.

She gave the stone wall a friendly clout with her massive hand, and turned her face towards Thrush Green again.

But still her heart was heavy.

T
HE
little town of Lulling was beginning to deck itself in its Christmas finery. In the market square a tall Christmas tree towered, its dark branches threaded with electric lights. At night it twinkled with red, blue, yellow and orange pinpoints of colour and gladdened the hearts of all the children.

The shop windows sported snow scenes, Christmas bells, paper chains and reindeer. The window of the local electricity showroom had a life-size tableau of a family at Christmas dinner, which was much admired. Wax figures, with somewhat yellow and jaundiced complexions, sat smiling glassily at a varnished papier mache turkey, their forks upraised in happy anticipation. Upon their straw-like hair were perched paper hats of puce and lime green, and paper napkins, ablaze with holly sprigs, were tucked into their collars. The fact that they were flanked closely by a washing machine, a spin dryer and a refrigerator did not appear to disturb them, nor did the clutter of hair dryers, torches, heaters, bedwarmers and toasters, beneath the dining-room table, labelled
ACCEPTABLE XMAS GIFTS.

The rival firms of Beecher and Thatcher which faced each other across Lulling' High Street had used countless yards of cotton wool for their snowy scenes. Some held that Beecher's
'Palace of the Ice Queen' outdid Thatcher's tableau from Dickens's
Christmas Carol,
but the more critical and carping among Lulling' inhabitants deemed the Ice Queen's diaphanous garments indecent and 'anyway not Christmassy.' Both firms had elected to have Father Christmas installed complete with a gigantic pile of parcels wrapped in pink or blue tissue paper for their young customers. A great deal of explanation went on about this strange dual personality of Father Christmas, and exasperated mothers told each other privately just what they thought of Beecher and Thatcher for being so pig-headed. The psychological impact upon their young did not appear to have dire consequences. Country children are fairly equable and the pleasure of having two presents far outweighed the shock of meeting Father Christmas twice on the same day–once in the newly-garnished broom cupboard under Thatcher's main staircase, and next in the upstairs corset-fitting room, suitably draped with red curtaining material, at Beecher's establishment.

With only a fortnight to go before Christmas Day Lulling people were beginning to bestir themselves about their shopping. London might start preparing for the festival at the end of October; Lulling refused to be hustled. October and November had jobs of their own in plenty. December, and the latter part at that, was the proper time to think of Christmas, and the idea of buying cards and presents before then was just plain silly.

'Who wants to think of Christmas when there's the autumn digging to do?' said one practically.

'Takes all the gilt off the gingerbread to have Christmas thrown down your throat before December,' agreed another.

But now all the good folk were ready for it, and the shops did a brisk trade. Baskets bulged, and harassed matrons struggled along the crowded main street bearing awkward
objects like tricycles and pairs of stilts, flimsily wrapped in flapping paper. Children kept up a shrill piping for the tawdry knick-knacks which caught their eye, and fathers gazed speculatively at train sets and wondered if their two-year-old sons and daughters would be a good excuse to buy one.

At the corner of the market square stood Puddocks', the stationers, and here, one windy afternoon, Ella Bembridge was engaged in choosing Christmas cards.

Normally, Ella designed her own Christmas card. It was usually a wood cut or a lino cut, executed with her habitual vigour and very much appreciated by her friends. But somehow, this year, Ella had not done one. So many things had pressed upon her time. There were far more visits these days, both from the rector and from his friend Harold Shoosmith, and the vague unhappiness which hung over her at the thought of change had affected Ella more than she realised. Today, in Puddocks', reduced to turning over their mounds of insipid cards, Ella felt even more depressed.

But, depressed as she was, she set about her appointed task with energy. She made directly towards the section marked 'Cards 6d., 9d., and 1s.' and began a swift process of elimination. Ballet dancers, ponies, dogs, anyone in a crinoline or a beaver hat, were out. So were contrived scenes of an open Bible before a stained-glass window flanked with a Christmas rose or a candle. It was amazing how little was left after this ruthless pruning. Ella, coming up for air, looked at the throng around her to see how others were faring.

She envied the stout woman at her elbow who picked up all the cards embellished with sparkling stuff and read the verses intently. She had plenty of choice. She admired the way in which a tall thin man selected black and white line drawings of Ely Cathedral, Tower Bridge and Bath Abbey
with extreme rapidity. She watched, with bitter respect, a large female who forced her way to the desk and demanded the ten dozen printed Christmas cards ordered on August 22nd, and promised faithfully for early December. Here was efficiency, thought Ella, returning to her rummaging.

At last, she collected a few less obnoxious specimens, paid for them and thrust her way through the mob to the comparative spaciousness of the pavement outside. The clock on the Town Hall pointed to ten past five and Ella decided to try her luck at The Fuchsia Bush, Lulling's most genteel tea-shop.

The Fuchsia Bush's contribution to Christmas consisted of a charming scene arranged on the sideboard just inside the door. Whitewashed branches, from which white and silver bells were suspended, spread above a bevy of white-clad angels. Unfortunately, the whole had been lavishly sprinkled with imitation frost which blew about the shop in clouds every time the door opened. Discriminating customers chose cakes which could easily be shaken free of the glitter and eschewed the iced sticky buns which were normally a fast-selling favourite at The Fuchsia Bush.

At a table near by Ella was delighted to see her old friend Dotty Harmer, her grey hair lightly spangled with blown frost. A cup of tea steamed before her and on a plate lay three digestive biscuits.

'Well, Dotty, expecting anyone?' boomed Ella, dragging back the only unoccupied chair in the tea-shop.

'No, no,' replied Dotty, removing a string bag, a cauliflower and a large paper bag labelled 'laymore' from the seat. 'Bertha Lovelock was here unI'll a minute ago. Do sit down. I'm just going through my list once more. I think I've got everything except whiting for Mrs Curdle. It's usually rock salmon, you know, but I think she's expecting again and whiting must he less heavily on the stomach, I feel sure.'

'Tea, please,' said Ella to the languid waitress who appeared at her side.

'Set-tea-toasted-tea-cakc-jam-or-honey-choicc-of-cake-to-follow-two-and-nine,' gabbled the girl, admiring her engagement ring the while.

'No thanks,' said Ella.'Just tea.'

'Indian or China?'

'Indian,' said Ella. 'And strong.'

The girl departed and Ella unwound the long woollen scarf from her thick neck, undid her coat and sighed with relief.

'Wonder why it's "Indian or China"?' she remarked idly to Dotty. 'Why not "Indian or Chinese"? Or "India or China"? Illogical, isn't it?'

'Indeed yes,' agreed Dotty, breaking a digestive biscuit carefully in half. 'But then people
are
illogical. Look at Father's man trap.'

Ella looked startled. Sometimes Dotty's conversation was more eccentric than usual. This seemed to be one of her bad days.

'What's your Father's man trap got to do with it?' demanded Ella.

'I just want it back,' said Dotty simply. She popped a fragment of biscuit into her mouth and crunched it primly with her front teeth. The back ones had been removed. She had the air of a polite bespectacled rabbit at her repast.

'Oh, come off it!' begged Ella roughly. 'Talk sense!' Dotty looked vaguely upset.

'You know Father gave his valuable man trap to the museum. It was quite a fine working model used in the eighteenth century by Sir Henry–a great-great-grandfather of the present Sir Henry. Father used to demonstrate it to the boys at the grammar school when he was teaching history there.' She
paused to sip her tea, and Ella, fuming at the delay, began to wonder if that were all Dotty would say.

Dotty replaced her cup carefully, patted her mouth with a small folded handkerchief, and continued.

'Well,' she said, 'now I could do with it."

Ella made a violent gesture of annoyance, nearly capsizing the tea tray which the languid girl had now brought.

'What on earth do you want a man trap for?' expostulated Ella. Dotty looked at her in surprise.

'Why, to catch a man!' explained Dotty. Ella made a sound remarkably like 'Tchah!' and began to pour milk violently into her cup.

'I suspect,' continued Dotty, unaware of Ella's heightened blood pressure, 'that someone is stealing my eggs. I could set the man trap at dusk and let the police interview him in the morning.'

'Now, look here, Dotty,' said Ella, in a hectoring tone, 'don't you realise you'd probably break the chap's leg in one of those ghastly contraptions—?'

'Naturally,' replied her friend coolly, 'a man trap works on that principle, and ours was in excellent condition. Father saw to that. He would be quite safe in it rill morning. I get up fairly early, as you know, so he wouldn't be in it more than a few hours.' She spoke as though she would be acting with the most humane consideration, and even Ella was nonplussed.

'But man traps are illegal,' she pointed out.

'Fiddlesticks!' said Dotty firmly. 'So are heaps of other traps, but they're used, mores the pity, on poor animals that are doing no wrong. This wretched man knows quite well he is doing wrong in taking my eggs. He deserves the consequences, and I shall point them out to him–from a safe distance, of course–as soon as I've trapped him.'

There was a slight pause.

'You know what?' said Ella interestedly. 'You're absolutely off your rocker, Dot.'

Dotty flushed with annoyance.

'I'm a lot saner than you are, Ella Bembridge,' she said snappily. 'And a lot saner than those chits of girls at the museum who won't let me have Father's property back. I very much doubt if they are legally in the right about refusing my request. After all, Father left all his property to me, and as I say, that man trap is exactly what I need at the moment.'

'You forget it,' advised Ella, rolling a ragged cigarette. 'Pop up to the police station instead and get Sergeant Stansted to keep his eyes skinned. And, what's more,' she added, for she was fond of her crazy friend, 'don't tell him you want the man trap back, or you're the one he'll be keeping his eye on.'

She drew a deep and refreshing inhalation of strong cigarette smoke. This was an occasion, she thought to herself, when a woman could do with a little comfort.

Meanwhile, at Thrush Green, Dimity and Winnie Bailey were busy in the cold and draughty church of St Andrews's.

They were getting the crib ready and had decided that the open-fronted stable, containing the cradle and the figures, really needed re-thatching.

They were hard at it, ankle-deep in straw, by the font, as the clock above them chimed half-past three.

Already the church was getting murky. Above their bent heads the tattered remains of regimental flags moved gently in the draughts, and round their cold feet the straw whispered along the tiled floor. The chancel, distant from them, looked ghostly and incredibly old, a place of shadows and mystery.

'I never knew it would be so difficult,' confessed Winnie Bailey, trying to fold refractory straw into a neat bundle. 'We ought to have asked a proper thatcher to do it for us.'

'Never mind,' said Dimity, standing back to survey their handiwork, 'it looks very spruce from a distance. Only this corner to do and then we've finished.'

She gazed ruefully at her small hands.

'I'm full of splinters,' she said. 'When we've finished the roof, let's clear up and have some tea. It's getting too dark to see properly anyway.'

'Lovely!' agreed Winnie with enthusiasm. 'And we'll wash the figures at home.'

In five minutes all was done and the two weary friends were collecting stray wisps of straw when the door opened and the rector came in.

'How goes the work?' he asked. Dimity and Winnie indicated the golden roof with modest pride.