(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green (14 page)

The garden was overgrown, but the shape of submerged flower beds could still be seen, and the minute spears upthrusting by the house wall showed where there remained a clump of snowdrops.

Behind the house, a rotting clothes line stretched, a forked hazel bough still holding it aloft. Bird droppings whitened a window sill, and from ■the bottom of the broken front door Winnie saw a mouse scurry for cover in the dead grass by the door step. Neglected, unloved, slowly disintegrating, the house still sheltered life, thought Winnie.

Although no children played, no parent called, no human being closed and shut the door, yet other creatures lived there. Spiders, beetles, mice and rats, many birds, and bats, no doubt, found refuge here from the cruelty of wind and weather.

It was, she supposed, simply a change of ownership.

She looked kindly upon the old quiet cottage. An old cottage! An old lady! She smiled at the remembrance.

Well, in many ways they were alike. They had once been cherished, had known warmth and love. Now they were lonely and lost. But the house was still of use, still gave comfort and shelter. There was a lesson to be learnt here.

She must look about her again, and try to be useful too. There were so many ways in which she could help, and by doing so she might mitigate the fears which crowded upon her when dusk fell.

It was growing colder. The wintry sun was sinking. The sky was silver-gilt, against which the black trees threw their lacy patterns.

She turned and made her way homeward, feeling much refreshed.

One December morning, Betty Bell set off for her duties at the village school and then at Harold Shoosmith's next door.

The weather had changed, much to everyone's relief. The gales had blown themselves out, and a clear sky had brought frost in the night. Underfoot the grass was crisp with rime, and the remaining puddles were frozen hard.

Betty Bell welcomed the improvement in the weather, and hummed cheerfully as she pedalled along the path to Thrush Green. In front of her, in the bicycle basket, was lodged a large pudding basin which she intended to return to Dotty Harmer as she passed.

Dotty was in the habit of buying enormous lumps of suet for the birds. The trees in her garden were festooned with it throughout the winter months, and a goodly amount was rendered down into fat. Some of this she mixed with stale bread, oatmeal, currants and chicken corn into a concoction which she called 'my bird-cake', and which was thrust into various receptacles nearer the house for the birds' attention.

Usually there was so much fat that Dotty poured it into a basin, and the resultant dripping went to Betty, who was very glad to have it. It was last week's dripping bowl which was now being returned, with a small jar of tomato chutney of Betty's making, as a little return for the dripping.

She was propping her bicycle against Dotty's hedge when Willie Bond arrived with the post.

'Wotcher, Will. How's auntie?' she enquired.

'All right, but for her back.'

'Shall I take that in for you?'

'Not this time, gal, thanks. It's recorded delivery, see. Got to get her signature.'

'Oh well, you'd best go in first,' said Betty, collecting her bowl, and following her cousin up the path. She went, as she always did, round the house to the back door, as Willie knocked at the front.

She heard them talking, and waited, looking at the chickens who clustered hopefully round her feet, their heads cocked, uttering little hoarse cries of expectation.

Willie's whistling faded away as he went back to his bicycle and Betty rapped on the back door. Dotty, looking even more bemused than ever, opened it.

'Come in. Is it your day, Betty? I must have forgotten.'

'No, it's not,' said Betty. 'I only called in to return the basin. Lovely dripping this time. Must have been beef suet.'

She stopped suddenly. Miss Harmer was looking decidedly queer.

'Here,' said Betty, suddenly solicitous. 'You come and sit down. You look poorly. Had bad news?'

Dotty allowed herself to be propelled towards a kitchen chair. A bad sign, indeed, thought Betty. The letter was still gripped in her hand.

'Had your breakfast yet?' asked Betty.

'No, no. I don't want any.'

'I'll make you a cup of coffee then,' said the girl, pushing the kettle on to the ring. 'I've got a minute or two to spare, and I'll wash up these odds and ends while I'm waiting. This 'ere frying pan can do with a clean. It's all cagged up with grease.'

She set about the job briskly, one eye on the older woman who continued to read the letter.

'Listen to this,' said Dotty, in a stunned manner. "Dorothy Amelia Russell Harmer drove a motor vehicle on a road called High Street, Lulling, without due care and attention, contrary to Section 3 of the Road Traffic Act 1972." What do you think of that?'

'Nothing!' said Betty stoutly. 'I shouldn't let that put me off my breakfast. You take that letter and all them forms straight up to your nice Mr Venables and he'll look after you.'

The kettle began to rattle its lid, and Betty spooned some instant coffee into the largest cup she could find. She then poured the top of the milk into the steaming brew, and brought it to the table.

'Betty,' said Dotty, 'you've given me the cream, and I always keep that for Mrs Curdle.'

'The cat can go without for once,' replied Betty, unrepentant. 'Your need's greater than hers this morning. Now, I must be off. Soon as you've drunk that, you go up and see Mr Venables at the office.'

Dotty sipped the coffee gratefully.

'It really is delicious with the cream in it,' she admitted.

'You want to take it more often,' advised Betty. 'That cat'll get fatty heart if she has it, and you're not likely to get that – with the little bit you eat.'

She hung up the clean frying pan, stacked the crockery, spread the tea towel to dry, and then made for the door.

'See you tomorrow,' she cried, 'and keep your pecker up.'

She left Dotty folding the grim missive and returning it to its envelope. Pedalling swiftly towards the school, she was seriously concerned about Miss Harmer. Say what you like, it was a shock getting a summons, although it must have been expected. And to think her own cousin Willie brought it to the door!

Poor old Dotty! What with this and Cyril Cooke still on the danger list, the outlook for her was certainly black. Let's hope, she thought, that Mr Venables could help, though, when you came to think of it, he was pretty well as doddery as Dotty. Two for a pair, you might say.

Pushing her bicycle across the playground, Betty gave a rare sigh of despair. Life could be a proper turn-up for the book at times.

12 The Summons

T
HROUGHOUT
Lulling and Thrush Green, preparations were in full swing for Christmas.

At Ella Bembridge's cottage, a stack of serviceable waste paper baskets was stacked, flanked by half a dozen stout shopping baskets. Ella was proud of her industry and there was no doubt that the recipients would be pleasantly surprised, being already resigned to appearing delighted with lumpy handwoven ties.

Dimity had washed the figures for the crib in St Andrew's church in preparation for their arrangement. Winnie Bailey was nurturing her Christmas roses ready for the great day, and in all the houses around the green, cakes were being iced, and parcels prepared.

The shops in Lulling High Street were decked with cotton wool, tinsel and bright baubles, and the window of 'The Fuchsia Bush' had a cardboard model of a church, with stained glass windows, illuminated by an electric light bulb in its interior. Flanked, a trifle incongruously, by a lardy cake on one side, and a chocolate Christmas log on the other, it still commanded widespread admiration.

The Misses Lovelock, practically next door to the cafe, were busy sorting out all the unwanted presents, which they had frugally stored away since last Christmas and during the year, for redistribution.

The operation was rather more fraught with anxiety than usual this year, as the list of donors which was scrupulously kept, lest the giver received her own gift back, had been mislaid, and the three ladies were obliged to rely on their failing memories. Acrimony prevailed, as Bertha tried to recall who had presented her with a crinoline-lady tea-cosy, Violet racked her memory in vain for the kind person who had supplied a bottle of 'Dusky Allure', and Ada complicated matters by appropriating anything under discussion for her own pile.

In the dining-room at Tullivers, young Jeremy and his friend Paul Young were busy making Christmas cards. The table was littered with coloured gummed squares destined to be hacked into rough representation of Christmas trees or angels, and a roll of white cartridge paper which put up a vicious fight every time the boys attempted to hold it flat for cutting.

Progress was slow, but their spirits were high and the noise considerable. Haifa dozen lop-sided cards, already completed, were propped up on the mantelpiece, destined for mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles.

'And I shall do one for Miss Fogerty,' said Jeremy, snatching up the scissors. 'She'd better have an angel.'

'I shan't waste paper on my teachers,' said Paul roundly.

'Well, I like Miss Fogerty, and she's been sad lately too.'

'Perhaps she's ill,' suggested Paul.

'Having a baby, d'you think?' enquired Jeremy, scissors poised.

Paul, with two years' superiority on the subject, pooh-poohed the idea.

'How can she? You have to be married.'

Jeremy pondered the point.

'Sawny Sam's sister wasn't,' he said, naming the local half-wit. 'She had twins, and she wasn't married.'

'Oh, well,' shrugged Paul, 'twins are different.' He changed the subject swiftly. 'You doing cards for Miss Watson and the new one?'

'No,' replied Jeremy. 'Just Miss Fogerty. I like her best. I hope I don't have to go up next year to Miss Watson's.'

'I heard my mum saying you might come to my school with me,' volunteered Paul, folding paper with a grubby forefinger.

'Your school?' Jeremy went pink with excitement. 'When? Next term?'

Paul began to wonder if he had let the cat out of the bag.

'Well, it wouldn't be next term, I shouldn't think. Prob'ly next September. That's when the school year starts. Didn't you know you might come?'

'Dad wants me to go away,' replied Jeremy. 'I don't want to, and I don't think mummy does either, but I suppose she has to do what he says. At least, sometimes.'

Paul nodded.

'It's not too bad,' he conceded at last. 'Better than being sent away. You can come home each night and play with your own things. I'd fight for staying here, if I were you.'

'Don't worry,' said his friend, licking a gummed angel and thumping it heavily on the waiting card. 'I'll fight all right, but I want to stay with Miss Fogerty as long as possible.'

He held up the latest card and gazed at it with immense satisfaction.

'Think she'll like it?'

'Smashing!'said Paul.

They continued their labours.

***

The same subject was being debated by the grown-ups in the next room.

'I can't see any harm,' Frank was saying, 'in going down to look at the place. It doesn't commit us, but if he's due to start next September we'll have to get him entered. Actually, I don't suppose they'll have him until the following year, but we ought to get moving.'

'But Frank, he's so young,' protested Phil. 'And you know how I feel about it. He's getting on perfectly well at the village school, and he has the fun of living at home. What's more, I can see that he is properly fed, and happy. And he is! That's the whole point! Why snatch him from here?'

Frank smiled and shook his head.

'That's partly why. I can see your point, my darling, but don't you see that the very fact that you and Jeremy are so close means that it may not be good for him to stay that way for too long? He's an only child – and likely to be so. You've had to be father and mother to him for most of his life, and he needs the rough and tumble of school to toughen him.'

'He gets the rough and tumble of the village school. He has friends, like Paul next door. Above all, he has a decent home. I can't see why he should be taken away from all that he enjoys, especially after the loss of his father.'

'That's just another reason for getting away to school – away from the unhappy memories he must have when you were left alone. He doesn't say much, but he understands a lot. I think a fresh start, away from Thrush Green, would be an excellent thing for the boy.'

'Well, I don't,' said Phil mutinously. 'And I don't see any point in going to visit your old prep school if I feel that the whole thing is wrong for Jeremy. I hate to say it, Frank, but he is
my
child – mine and John's – and I intend to do what I think is right for him.'

Frank shrugged his shoulders, and walked to the window in silence. Phil realised that she had hurt him deeply and was sorry. Nevertheless, she intended to stick to her guns. She did not mind making sacrifices herself for peace and quiet; but to sacrifice Jeremy's happiness was unthinkable.

'There's no sense in prolonging the argument,' said Frank at last. 'I can see you're adamant, at the moment, anyway. But there's just one last thing I want to tell you.

'If I thought there were any doubt about the school, I'd give way, but I truthfully was extraordinarily happy there, and so was Robert. The head was a splendid chap – a real inspiration, and he had a fine staff. I know there's been a new head for these last few years, but from all accounts he carries on the good work. Tom, at the office, has both his boys there and they seem to do well. Think about it, my dear. I've Jeremy's welfare as much at heart as you have, and perhaps in a more detached manner.'

At that moment, the telephone rang and he hurried from the room to answer it. It looked, thought Phil, as though he had had the last word on this vexed question, but she knew, only too well, that he had not.

Dotty Harmer had taken Betty's advice on that dark morning when the summons had arrived, and proceeded in her car down the hill to Lulling and up the High Street to the market square where Justin Venables had his office.