(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green (7 page)

John Lovell was Edward's brother-in-law, the local doctor, and knew Edward could be the victim of his own worries.

Edward turned away muttering to himself. 'Well, if there's any truth in these rumours, I shall find out who is spreading them.'

He strode out of the kitchen, and the two women exchanged looks.

'Oh lor'!' whispered Molly. 'That's torn it. I shan't mention
that
again.'

Nelly Piggott, bustling about in her kitchen at the Fuchsia Bush, had also heard about the possibility of the annexe to Rectory Cottages, but had given the matter scant attention.

She was quite used to hearing stray bits of gossip from Albert which he had picked up at the Two Pheasants. Half the time nothing came of these rumours, and Nelly had quite enough to do without wasting time and energy on such conjectures.

At the moment she was concerned with a certain small poster which had been pasted on the door of the Fuchsia Bush ever since the discovery of the abandoned dog in St Andrew's church porch. On that exciting morning she and Mrs Peters had decided to assist in finding the owner, and had put up the notice in the hope of finding someone who might know more about the mystery.

But now, it seemed, the dog was happily settled with Dotty, the police were no nearer solving the problem, and the notice was looking decidedly shabby. To Nelly's discriminating eye, it was detracting from the spruce appearance of their establishment. Some naughty person had written a very rude word at the foot of the poster, and Nelly felt that the time had come to remove the whole thing.

She glanced at the clock. It said half past eight. Mrs Peters was probably in the office already, she thought, for they were always early at the premises, making a start before the staff arrived.

But the office was empty, and Nelly was about to return to her duties when the telephone rang.

It was Mrs Peters, sounding weak and distraught.

'Nelly, I don't know what's hit me, but I can't come in at the moment. I'll try and make it later this morning.'

'Something you've eaten?' queried Nelly, her first thoughts, as always, on cooking.

'I just don't know. I feel so sick. Anyway, there's nothing specially urgent today, is there?'

Nelly mentioned the poster on the door.

'Yes, yes! By all means take it down, Nelly. See you before long, I sincerely hope,' she apologized.

Nelly replaced the receiver. She was full of sympathy for her suffering colleague, but quite confident about running their business on her own for a short time, for this had happened before.

She went to the door and tore off the notice. Nothing had come of it, she thought sadly, but they had done their bit.

On returning to the kitchen Nelly was annoyed to see that the new young kitchenmaid Irena had not arrived. She was just out of school, not very bright, but was engaged to do the vegetables and wash up the cooking utensils.

'Drat the girl!' said Nelly crossly. 'Now I'll have to get Gloria to help me.' This would be extremely unpopular, for Gloria was employed as a waitress and considered herself much above helping in the kitchen.

Two minutes later the back door opened, and Irena appeared. Her right thumb was heavily bandaged, and Nelly's heart sank.

'And what, pray, have you been and done?'

The girl flushed. 'It was the bread knife. I was just testing the blade like, and my little brother 'it me on the back. It's bled awful.'

Nelly examined the clumsy bandage. It appeared to have started life as a piece of shirting, and was grubby and bloodstained.

'Well, I'm not having that in my kitchen,' said Nelly vigorously. 'Germs fair oozing out of it, and the customers flocking along to the hospital in droves by the end of the week.'

The girl drooped her head and began to fiddle with a wooden spoon on Nelly's well-scrubbed table.

'Don't you touch nothing now,' shouted Nelly. 'You'd best go straight home and tell your mum to take you to the doctor. You might need a shot of whatever-it-is to kill them germs. You can't handle food like that, my girl. We'd all end up in court, and that's the truth.'

The girl began to sniff and looked so forlorn that Nelly's heart was touched.

'There, don't take on! It'll be all right in a day or two, I don't doubt, but you stay home till it's healed.'

She rummaged in a dresser drawer, found a bar of chocolate and handed it to the tearful Irena.

'Off you go now, and let me know what the doctor says.'

She hustled the girl to the back door, and watched her cross the yard. In the outside store room stood a sack of potatoes, two dozen fresh cauliflowers and a great basket of carrots.

Gloria will have to see to that, thought Nelly, and there will be plenty of black looks flying about this morning.

What next, she wondered? It was not long before she found out.

While Nelly Piggott was busy in her kitchen, and the forlorn Irena and her mother were making their way to the surgery of one of Lulling's doctors, Dotty Harmer was busy preparing breakfast for Flossie and her new dog, which she had christened Bruce.

'Being Scotch, you know,' she told Connie. 'If it had been a bitch I should have called it Bonnie for 'Bonny Scotland', you see.'

She patted the white head of the Highland terrier, and was rewarded with a loud barking and much tail-wagging. Bruce was now thoroughly at home, and Dotty hoped that his former owners would never appear to claim him.

'It's so strange that no one has come forward,' commented Connie. 'It's obviously from a distance. I mean, anyone within six miles of Lulling and Thrush Green would recognize the dog from its description in the
Gazette.
And it was so well-cared for. I can't think why it was simply abandoned like that. After all, if some tragedy had happened surely the RSPCA would have taken care of it?'

'Maybe the owners didn't like the idea. Maybe they were religious people and thought that one of the saints would look after it if it were left on church premises. St Francis, for instance,' said Dotty brightly.

'But he's been dead for centuries,' pointed out Connie, 'and anyway he lived in Italy.'

Dotty surveyed her niece with severity. 'At times, Connie, you are far too apt to take things
literally.
I was trying to point out that some people would look upon the church as a
sanctuary,
and where anyone in need would find help. I can't help feeling that Bruce's owners might have had that in mind when they left him there. Of course, I don't think St Francis would have personal intervention in the matter.'

Connie could see that the old lady was quite prepared to launch into an interesting discussion on the intervention of saints into contemporary life at Thrush Green, with particular reference to St Francis of Assisi who, Connie had heard her say, 'must have been a charming man'.

But Connie had lunch to prepare, and four telephone calls to make, so she gave her aunt a quick kiss, and left her with her pets.

At the Fuchsia Bush things were not going easily for Nelly Piggott. Gloria was late arriving, and decidedly sulky about having to do Irena's vegetables' preparations.

'I'm not paid for this sort of work,' she told Nelly. 'It's Irena's job. She gets above herself, that one. It's having that stuck-up name. She's always getting out of doing things.'

'Irena's granny was from Russia or Prussia, I forget which, and she was named after her. And as for shirking her jobs, I see she doesn't do that!'

Gloria flounced to the sink, muttering darkly, and Nelly hurried into the shop when she heard Willie Marchant, the local postman, shouting to inform her that he'd propped the post by the basket of rolls.

He was banging the door behind him as Nelly took the letters to the kitchen. Almost all were for Mrs Peters, and these she put in the office, but one was addressed to Mrs Nelly Piggott, and this she took to the kitchen.

Gloria's back registered umbrage and Nelly had a pang of pity.

'I'll give you a hand in half a minute,' she promised, and sat down to read her letter. She rarely received a letter, and she took her time in studying the postmark on the envelope and then the address at the head of the flimsy lined paper inside. The letter came from someone in Leicester who signed herself as Mrs Jean Butler.

It read:

Dear Mrs Piggott,

Charlie asked me to write when he was took ill. I am sorry to say he died in hospital last week. He was a lodger here since last summer working on the roads.

We are burying him next Friday, and if you want to know more the lady I work for don't mind you phoning of a morning.

Yours truly,

Mrs Jean Butler

There was a telephone number at the foot of the page, but Nelly was too stunned by the news to notice it.

Charlie dead! Charlie so full of life and fun, cracking jokes, teasing everyone, the life and soul of every party! He couldn't be dead.

She dropped the letter on the kitchen table, staring ahead as tears began to fill her eyes.

She had loved that man. For him she had left Albert and Thrush Green and gone to share Charlie's life for over a year. For most of that time they had been riotously happy, laughing with friends at pubs, going to dances and bingo, enjoying their shared bed and board.

But towards the end Charlie had shown himself as a liar and a deceiver, sharing his affection with a woman whom Nelly had considered a friend.

There had been a violent row. Hard words had flown across the kitchen, and harder saucepans had accompanied them. Nelly had stormed out, and returned to Thrush Green, dreading Albert's wrath and possible rejection.

The wrath had certainly been in evidence, but Albert was so relieved to see her back to cook his meals and keep house that she was allowed to stay. Albert was glad to have this secret weapon of retaliation in his armoury when warfare broke out in the home, and Nelly, ebullient as ever, soon became her cheerful self, and forgot Charlie.

Only once had she seen him, and that was when he called into the Fuchsia Bush some two years before the arrival of the sad letter before her.

He had been a beaten shabby figure making his way to see an old friend in Birmingham with hopes of a job there.

Nelly had given him a meal and money, and sent him on his way saying that that was to be their last meeting.

And it was, thought Nelly.

'You going to give me a hand?' called Gloria, 'I can't do this lot alone.'

Nelly mopped her eyes and went to do her duty.

'What's up?' asked Gloria, suddenly solicitous on observing Nelly's ravaged face. 'Bad news?'

'An old friend. He's dead.'

Gloria put a wet hand on Nelly's ample back, and patted her kindly. This was as good as the telly really, and poor old Nelly wasn't such a bad old soul, although she was a bit of a slave driver.

'Local?' enquired Gloria.

'No. Though he did come here once.'

Light dawned. Gloria, and her fellow waitress Rosa, had been greatly intrigued by that traveller who had called one snowy morning and made Nelly's heart flutter.

'That nice chap,' said Gloria diplomatically, 'who was after a job?'

Nelly nodded and attacked a carrot. She was afraid to trust her voice, and the lump in her throat was painful. They worked together in silence, until Irena appeared at the back door holding up a neatly bandaged hand.

'Two stitches, and some tablets for something called Auntie Bi-something, and I can't come to work for a week.'

She sounded proud and happy, and quite oblivious of the air of tragedy hanging over the kitchen.

'See you next week then,' said Nelly dismissively, and Irena vanished.

Mrs Peters did not arrive, but luckily the Fuchsia Bush was not too busy that morning, and there were no outside commitments.

Since Nelly had been made a partner in the business, outside catering had increased and had proved rewarding. The Fuchsia Bush had built up a reliable reputation and catered for functions such as weddings, christenings and other family occasions.