(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green (11 page)

She pressed the light switch and made her way to the kitchen. Everything was tidy. Jenny's hand was apparent everywhere – in the dusters drying above the stove, the saucepan with soup in it awaiting heat, the set tray carefully covered with a snowy tea cloth.

Dear Jenny, thought Winnie, warmed by the welcome! She carried her case upstairs, and began to unpack it. A late rose stood on her dressing table. The bed was turned down, and upon investigation, Winnie found a hot water bottle in its midst.

Well, it wasn't so bad coming home after all, thought Winnie, washing her hands. She had been longing to come back for several days, but had dreaded secretly the loss of Donald's presence in the home they had shared for so long. Jenny's ministrations had softened the blow wonderfully. She could never thank her fully, she realised.

She went downstairs and opened the sitting room door. Joy flooded through her as she saw the fire. This she had not expected, and the sight of the flames, and the logs stacked in the hearth, made her homecoming suddenly complete.

She paused by the fire sniffing the scent of woodsmoke, and another indefinable smell which she could not place for a moment, but which disturbed her strangely.

Suddenly, she realised what it was. It was the mingled smell of the eau-de-cologne which Donald always used after shaving, and the faint smell of tobacco. She looked across at the pipe rack where six much-loved stalwarts stood – the cherry wood, the one with the amber stem, the silver banded beauty, and all the others he had loved so well.

The room shimmered through the tears which welled in Winnie's eyes. She had been undone, in one swift moment, by the agonising poignancy of small familiar things.

She sat down by the fire and let the tears fall. Afterwards, she felt better, and went to the kitchen to prepare her simple meal.

From now on, she told herself as she rubbed her eyes with her damp handkerchief, she would have to put a brave front on things. She was glad to have been alone when grief had overtaken her so completely.

But she was determined that it should not happen again.

She carried her tray to the fireside, breathed in the mingled scents of home, and took up her spoon thankfully.

***

The sky was clear the next morning when Winnie awoke, much refreshed. To her surprise and relief, she had slept soundly from eleven until eight, and felt stronger for it.

By daylight, the house seemed its usual friendly self, and the dreadful loss of Donald's presence was more bearable. There were a number of things to attend to. She had a few clothes to wash, some shopping to see to, some telephone calls to make and letters to answer.

She intended to busy herself throughout the day, gradually accustoming herself to the quiet house, without a companion. But as soon as she had finished breakfast she went into the garden.

There were still a few late flowers. One or two roses, their outer petals rusted but still vivid, clung to the bare thorny branches. A few pinks and pansies still bloomed bravely, and the winter jasmine was already putting out its bright yellow stars.

In the shelter of the wall which divided her garden from Tullivers', the Christmas roses were in bud, and Winnie realised, with a shock, that she had made no preparations at all for that festival.

'Hello! Nice to have you back,' said a voice hard by. And there was Phil Hurst smiling at her from the next garden.

'Nice to be back,' responded Winnie. 'Nothing quite like your own home.'

'Are you busy today? Would you like to take your chance and have lunch here? Frank's home for the day.'

'I'd love to. I've got all sorts of things I'm supposed to be doing, but it would be lovely to leave them in the middle and see you both.'

'Right. Do you mind an early meal? Jeremy gets home soon after twelve. Say half past?'

'Perfect,' said Winnie, watching her neighbour speed back into the house where the telephone had started ringing.

She went about her morning tasks, warmed by the encounter, and presented herself at twelve-thirty promptly. A Golden Shower rose nodded above the Hursts' porch, its pale yellow blossoms enhanced by the blue sky beyond. The November sun was warm upon her back, and a sleek robin bobbed and whistled from the laburnum tree by the gate. Despite the gnawing sorrow which now seemed part of her, Winnie's spirits rose. It was good to be in Thrush Green, good to feel the comfort of sunshine, flowers and birds. Better still, it was good to realise that, no matter how dark the day, 'cheerfulness breaks in.'

She was smiling when the door opened, and Phil greeted her with a hug.

'Hullo! Hullo! Hullo! Hullo!' cried Jeremy, bouncing up the hall, and Frank appeared, bottle in hand, to add his welcome.

'I can't tell you how desolate we've felt with the house next door shut up,' said Frank as they lunched. 'Don't ever go away for so long again, Winnie.'

'Somehow,' she said slowly, 'I don't think I shall. You know, Peg was wonderful to me, and her cottage is lovely. We've always been close, right from babyhood, and she's the first person I turn to in trouble. But we couldn't live under the same roof for long. She invited me to, and meant it, but she has so many things to do there – all sorts of clubs and things she helps at, and so many friends – it would have taken years for me to settle there, and I'm sure I should have been in the way sometimes.'

'I doubt it,' said Frank, topping up her glass.

'It's true,' continued Winnie. 'And it's the same with me. My life is here, at Thrush Green. And besides, I couldn't possibly part with three-quarters of my home. Everything in it has some meaning for me – is part of Donald's and my life – it would be like pulling a snail out of its shell.'

'Then it would be a slug,' said Jeremy, passing his plate for more fish in parsley sauce.

'And I don't intend to be one,' replied Winnie, laughing. 'No, we shall visit each other more than we did, and probably spend a few holidays in each other's company, but we each keep our own home.'

'That's good news,' said Phil.

'And now tell me what's been happening while I've been away.'

'The most hair-raising event is Dotty's accident,' said Frank, and went on to tell her what was known.

'And there's also some talk of levelling the churchyard,' said Phil, when Dotty's affairs had been discussed. 'At least, so I gather from Harold.'

'That won't please everybody,' Winnie said. She watched Frank helping to clear the table, and thought what a perfect family scene was here. This was a marriage which had turned out well. The three of them had fallen neatly into place, it seemed with the minimum of adjustment.

When she remembered the girl's unhappy first marriage and the tragedy of her husband's death, she rejoiced that this second venture was turning out so well.

'Time to go back, Jeremy,' said Phil before long. 'Run upstairs and wash. We'll take our coffee into the sitting room.'

'I wish I could have coffee,' said Jeremy lingering at the door. 'It's handwork this afternoon and I hate my raffia mat.'

'You shall have a chocolate mint to give you strength/ promised Frank, 'but only when you've washed.'

And the child vanished.

A week or so later, a meeting of the parochial church council took place in the rector's dining-room.

The evening was so cold and windy that even Charles Henstock became conscious that the icy room was not very welcoming, and suggested to Dimity that they should light a fire.

The meeting was at seven-thirty (thus successfully interfering with most people's meal arrangements) and the fire was alight by six. Even so, the lofty room was barely warm, despite Dimity's efforts, for the fire had smoked when first lit, and the windows had had to be opened for a time.

Nevertheless, it looked quite cheerful to see a fire in the grate, and when the curtains were drawn and some chrysanthemums set centrally on the table, Dimity was pleased with the result.

If only they could afford some really thick curtains, she thought, fingering the dull green rep ones which she had found at the windows when she came as a bride. These were almost threadbare, badly faded, and completely uninspiring. The carpet too was equally shabby, but there was no possibility of replacing either curtains or carpet on Charles's modest stipend. Dimity thrust away self-pity, reminded herself of those in 'Worse plight, and went to open the door to the first of the visitors.

It was Percy Hodge from Nidden, who farmed a large acreage north of Thrush Green. His family had been staunch Wesleyans until the present generation, when Percy had fallen out with one of the ministers – for what reason no one could really tell – and had transferred his presence to St Andrew's. As he was very much the head of his household, he was accompanied by his dutiful wife and children, and the presence of the Hodge family at Mattins and Evensong helped to mitigate the sparseness of the congregation.

With him was Mrs Cleary, the widow of James Cleary whose family had run the corn merchant's business in Lulling from time immemorial. Hard on their heels came Harold Shoosmith and Miss Watson. She had emerged from the school house just as Harold set off, and they had walked across the Green together.

They all exclaimed with pleasure at the sight of the fire, and Harold thought how much more cheerful the room looked than it usually did. The whole house could do with a fire in every room was his personal opinion, and a sound central heating system as well, but one would need at least twice as much as Charles's salary to afford that, he surmised.

Charles hurried in to greet his friends, and busied himself in setting them round the dining room table. They left the fire, with some reluctance, as the rest of the council arrived.

'Well now,' began Charles, when they had worked through the usual preliminaries, 'we come to the next item on our agenda: "The Future of the Churchyard." I have a little proposition to put forward.'

He began to expound it with clarity and enthusiasm. The difficulties of its present maintenance and the sadness which the community felt at its dilapidated condition were put forward admirably, and there were murmurs of agreement as the rector made his points.

When he reached the proposal, however, the murmurs grew less noticeable, and Harold Shoosmith saw signs of restlessness among one or two members.

Oblivious of the drop in the temperature of the meeting, Charles described the visit to the churchyard in the west which had done so much to arouse his ambitions for their own.

'The place is an inspiration,' declared the rector. 'And I feel sure that Mr Shoosmith will bear me out.'

Harold nodded.

'It can be done here,' he went on, 'and I don't think there would be any difficulty in getting a faculty.'

He paused and looked hopefully at the faces round the table.

Percy Hodge was the first to speak.

'Mr Chairman, sir, I don't altogether like the idea. This tampering with graves will upset people. It does me, for that matter.'

'Me too,' said Mrs Cleary, with some indignation. 'My husband and I spent a lot on that cross and kerb for his mother, and now his name is engraved under hers, and I just don't want the stones shifted. Our nearest and dearest are there, in that spot – I may say, that
hallowed
spot – and to have the memorial stones put elsewhere is downright misleading, not to say sacrilegious!'

She was quite pink in the face after this outburst, and poor Charles gazed at her in dismay.

'But they would not be
disturbed,
my dear Mrs Cleary, simply removed to the perimeter of the churchyard. It would all be most reverently done, I assure you. The graves themselves would not be touched.'

'I still think it's wrong,' said Mrs Cleary forcefully, slapping her gloves on the table.

'I must say that I agree,' said Percy Hodge. 'All my family are there from 1796 onward, as near the yew tree as they can cluster, and I'm only sorry there's no room for me, except in the new part. I shall definitely oppose any move to shift the headstones, kerbs and any other memorials.'

Charles's chubby face began to pucker like a hurt child's, and Harold hastily intervened.

'Mr Chairman, I think this is a very natural reaction to the suggestion, and one with which we can sympathise. I'm sure that other parishes who have faced this problem have also had to overcome some misgivings. There is the other proposition, you remember, about the sheep.'

'Sheep?'
squeaked Miss Watson.

'I can remember sheep in the churchyard,' quavered her elderly neighbour, one of the churchwardens.

'Thank you, thank you,' said Charles. 'It was suggested by someone that if the churchyard stayed as it is now, then a few sheep might graze there and help to keep it tidy.'

'That's even worse!' exclaimed Mrs Cleary. 'Sheep indeed!'

'Wouldn't be practical with all the yew there is there now,' said Percy Hodge. 'Fencing alone would cost a small fortune.'

'What about Miss Harmer's goats?' suggested someone, half-jokingly.

Harold saw that Charles was beginning to get distressed as well as dismayed.

'Not goats,' said the rector. 'I don't think either sheep or goats are a good idea myself.'