(3/13) News from Thrush Green (12 page)

He trod on the accelerator, keen to confront Sam Curdle with the fruits of this chance encounter.

Suddenly, the thought of his farmyard, free of the Curdle tribe for ever, filled him with pleasurable relief.

Harold Shoosmith's flash of anger surprised the man himself quite as much as it surprised the observant farmer.

He returned thoughtfully to his quiet house and sank into an armchair. What exactly was happening to him? He didn't mind admitting that he was attracted to Phil Prior, but then he had been attracted to many girls in the past. He had always enjoyed the company of intelligent women, and if they were pretty, then so much the better. This protective feeling for Phil Prior, he told himself, was the result of her unfortunate circumstances. Anyone with a spark of humanity would want to help a poor girl left defenceless and hard up, especially when she had to cope with the rearing of a young child, single-handed.

Sam Curdle's was such a dirty trick! He grew warm again at the very thought. It was small wonder that he flared up in Hodge's company. Any decent man would.

Or would he? Harold rose from the chair and walked restlessly about the room. Was he really becoming fonder of this girl than he realised? Damn it all, this was absurd! He was a steadfast bachelor and intended to remain so. He was old enough to be Phil's father. Well, nearly—

He walked to the end of the room and studied his reflection in the handsome gilt-framed mirror which lay above the little Sheraton side-table.

He was tall and spare, his eyes bright, and his hair, although silver, still thick. As a young man he had been reckoned good-looking. He supposed now, trying to look at himself dispassionately, he still had a few good points - but he was old, old, old, he told himself sternly. No young woman would consider him now, and quite right too!

He returned to his chair, dismissing these foolish thoughts, and opened the paper. It was as inspiring and exhilarating as ever. Four young men were appearing on charges of peddling drugs, an old lady had had her hand chopped off whilst attempting to retain her purse, containing two and eightpence, and a motorway to end all motorways was proposed which would wipe out six particularly exquisite villages and several hundred miles of countryside.

Harold threw it to the floor, leant back and closed his eyes. How pleasantly quiet it was! The fire whispered. The clock ticked. Somewhere, across the green, a car changed gear as it moved towards Lulling, and hummed away into nothingness. This was what he had looked forward to throughout those long hard years of business life in Africa. He would be mad to try and change his way of life now.

And yet Charles Henstock had found a great deal of happiness in later life since his marriage to Dimity. Charles, Harold pointed out to himself, had nothing to lose when he married. Ruled by that dreadful old harridan Mrs Butler, that desiccated Scotswoman who half-starved the poor rector, enduring the chilly discomfort of that great barn of a rectory all alone -of course marriage was attractive! Besides, Charles was the sort of man who
should
be married: he was not. That was the crux of the matter.

He took up the poker and turned over a log carefully. Watching the flames shoot up the chimney, he told himself firmly that marriage was out of the question. Once that poor girl's divorce was through he hoped that some decent kind
young
man would appear to make her happy, and take some of her present burdens from her.

Meanwhile, he would do what he could to help her, and would frankly face the fact that her presence gave him enormous pleasure. But for her sake, he must guard his feelings, he reminded himself. Thrush Green was adept at putting two and two together and making five, and she had enough to contend with already, without being annoyed by foolish gossip.

'Avuncular kindness!' said Harold aloud, and was immediately revolted by the phrase. He hit the flaring log such a hefty thwack that it broke in two, dropped the poker, and went to pour himself a much-needed drink.

10 Harold is in Trouble

REGRETTABLY, but understandably, Thrush Green folk tended to avoid Dotty Harmer when they saw her approaching. Few had the time to stand and listen to her diatribes against juvenile delinquency, the present-day teaching of history, air pollution, the exploitation of animals or whatever subject happened to be to the fore of Dotty's raggle-taggle mind.

Now that Dotty had kittens to find homes for, the pursuit of her neighbours was doubly frightening to them. Even she, unobservant as she was, began to notice how people hurried away at her approach.

'Can't understand it,' she told Ella, one gloomy November afternoon. She was carrying the daily bottle of goat's milk to her friend's house.

'Anyone'd think I'd got the plague,' she complained, putting the damp bottle down upon the freshly-polished dining table. 'What's wrong?'

'Kittens,' said Ella briefly. 'How many left?'

'Three,' replied Dotty. She looked accusingly at Ella. 'I was relying on you to help me find homes. What about Dimity? Although I still think that house is too draughty for cats. They need warmth, you know.'

'Better a chilly rectory than a watery death,' said Ella downrightly. 'Sam Curdle would drown them for you, I expect, if you're really stuck.'

Dotty blew out her papery old cheeks with indignation.

'The very idea, Ella Bembridge! If that's your idea of a joke, I consider it in particularly poor taste!'

'Don't be stuffy,' said Ella, 'and sit down, for Pete's sake, mopping and mowing about, with the door open too. It's downright unnerving.'

She slammed the door shut, and watched Dotty perch herself primly on the edge of a chair, the epitome of one who has taken umbrage and is rather enjoying it.

'To tell you the truth, Dotty, I clean forgot to ask Dim about the cat. Anyway, I've an idea that Charles is allergic to them. He certainly never had one while Mrs Butler was with him.'

'
That
woman,' said Dotty, 'wouldn't have had
anything
in the house if she'd had her way! I certainly shouldn't have let any cat of mine go there with
her
in charge of the domestic arrangements. It would have been fed on cold potato and bread crusts, I have no doubt - with watered milk to drink. A quite dreadful person! She once had the temerity to offer me a helping of bread pudding to take home. She got short shrift from me, I can tell you. "Throw it to the birds, Mrs Butler," I told her. "If they're strong enough to lift it from the ground they are welcome to it." She wasn't very pleased, I remember.'

'She's got a post as cook in a boys' school, I hear,' said Ella conversationally.

'Dotheboys Hall, no doubt,' commented Dotty sharply, unwinding a long woolly scarf from her skinny neck.

'Have a cup of tea,' suggested Ella, glad to see that her old friend's wrath was subsiding.

'Thank you, dear. That would be most acceptable,' said Dotty graciously, unskewering her hat and placing two formidable hat-pins upright in the arm of her chair, where they quivered like antennae.

'Tell you what,' said Ella, using one of her favourite phrases, as she returned from the kitchen with the tray. 'Let's go over to Dimity's when we've had this. And what about that Mrs Prior? She might like a kitten. Have you tried her?'

'Now, that's quite a good idea,' replied Dotty, picking over the biscuits thoughtfully. 'No, dear, not Petit Beurre. I find them rather too rich. Ah, an Osborne! Just what I love, and a happy reminder of dear Victoria!'

She nibbled happily, and Ella thought, not for the first time, that there was something infinitely endearing about Dotty's innocent pleasure in simple things. Anyone who could wax enthusiastic about an Osborne biscuit commanded Ella's respect.

When their light repast was over, the two ladies crossed to the rectory to find the rector and his wife sitting by their fire, winding wool.

'A new waistcoat for Charles,' said Dimity. 'Do sit down.'

Ella, as usual, came to the point at once.

'Forgot to ask you before, but do you want one of Dotty's kittens?'

To her surprise, Dimity looked distressed and gazed at her husband.

'Well—,' she began timidly.

'I should simply love one,' said the rector. 'But Dimity—'

'But
I
should love one too,' cried his wife, 'but I always thought you disliked cats - that you had hay fever or something when they were in the house. Wasn't that why you never had one here?'

'Mrs Butler was the reason why I didn't have one,' said Charles robustly. 'Somehow, I've always thought
you
didn't really want one, and so I've never mentioned it.'

•For two grown people, you really are pretty stupid,' scolded Ella. 'All this sparing each other's feelings can only lead to misunderstandings, as you see. You should speak your mind.'

'Then I take it,' said Dotty, pulling out a crumpled notebook in a business-like manner, 'that you want one.'

'Yes, please,' said Charles and Dimity in unison, smiling at each other.

'Male or female?'

'Do you know which is which?'

'Well, frankly, no!' confessed Dotty, suddenly becoming less business-like.

'In that case,' said the rector, 'we'll be happy to leave it to the vet, when the time comes.'

'Now, I'm very glad to hear you say that,' said Dotty, lowering the indelible pencil which she had been sucking. Her blue-stained lips and tongue gave added piquancy to her appearance.

'I was so afraid you might have religious scruples, Charles, about interfering with nature. I'm glad to see you are more enlightened.'

'Better to give one doctored cat a home, than twenty kittens an untimely end,' said the rector philosophically.

'Quite, quite!' agreed Dotty, turning the pages of her notebook briskly. 'Well, which is it to be? Ginger with white paws, black with white paws, or plain tabby with exceptionally fine eyes?'

The rector and his wife exchanged amused glances.

'We'll come and see them tomorrow,' promised Dimity, 'and pick ours, shall we?'

'Very well,' said Dotty, stuffing the book untidily into her coat pocket. 'Come to tea - you too, Ella dear - and it will save me bringing up the goat's milk.'

'I think,' said the rector, making his way to the sideboard, 'that this transaction should be celebrated with a drink.'

And so it was.

Harold Shoosmith finished his labour of love on the flower border at Tullivers, just before the first sharp frosts of winter arrived. There was still plenty of work in the garden to warrant many more visits, but he was beginning to wonder if it would be wiser to pay calls less frequently.

His heart-searchings had left him somewhat ruefully amused. He was certainly becoming extremely fond of Phil, and Thrush Green must not know it. Nor, of course, must the girl, particularly with divorce proceedings in the offing. Life, thought Harold, cleaning the prongs of his gardening fork, was quite complicated enough without tangling it even more.

He was admiring the tidy border as Willie Bond, the postman, came with the afternoon letters. Phil came to the door to collect them, then crossed the grass to admire his handiwork.

'It really is splendid,' she said truthfully. 'So neat - and so lovely to find that it's got such a lot of good stuff in it already.'

She waved one of her letters.

'Do you mind if I open this now? It's from your friend Frank. Perhaps he's taken something after all.'

She ripped open the envelope and read the contents. Harold watched her growing pink with excitement. She thrust the letter towards him.

'There! Isn't that marvellous? Fifty guineas! I can't believe it'

'Congratulations,' said Harold warmly. 'Which story is this?'

'Oh, the one about the two friends and the curate,' said Phil. 'I've a copy on the table if you're interested. When do you think they'll publish it? Shall I get paid on acceptance, do you think?'

'I should tell Frank that's what you want,' replied Harold, shouldering his tools. 'And, yes, please, I'd love to read the story.'

'You must have brought it luck,' said the girl when she handed it over. 'You posted it for me. Remember?'

'So I did,' said Harold. 'I've a strong share in this success.'

He made his way back across the green, warmed with the thought of the girl's pleasure. When he had changed, and was sitting by his fire, he settled back to read the story.

He turned the typed pages with growing dismay. It was not the telling of the tale which worried him. Phil's style was as crisp and lucid as always, and the suspense was well-sustained. But the characters, in this present story, were far too realistically portrayed for Harold's peace of mind.

Here, for all the world to see, were Ella and Dimity, in the guise of Jean and Phoebe, and Charles Henstock - though far less attractive - under the name of Tobias Fuller, a hearty curate.

Even their appearances fitted. Jean was thickset, Phoebe skinny. Their determined pursuit of the innocent curate was told with a nice sense of the ridiculous which Harold would have appreciated in different circumstances.