(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green (17 page)

'We've always managed before,' Miss Watson told her frostily, 'but there's no harm, of course, in making the experiment. Let no one say that I set my face against progress! We'll try it without scenery. It will certainly simplify matters.'

Miss Potter's partial victory, however, did not seem to sweeten her attitude to the project. Her children were slow to learn their lines, their costumes were slipshod, their movements ungainly. Miss Watson's and Miss Fogerty's classes were well-trained and showed up the deficiencies of the younger juniors. Miss Watson found it all very vexing. In the old days she could have discussed the difficulties with Miss Fogerty, but that lady's distant manner did not encourage confidences.

It was a wretched time for all concerned, and when the great day came, Miss Watson was obliged to go into the terrapin herself to take down pictures, diagrams and wall charts which she had expressly asked Miss Potter to remove. One would have thought the girl would have realised that the Three Wise Men would not look right against a background of 'Wild Birds of Britain' and 'Have You Learnt Your Kerb Drill?' Or was she being deliberately obstructive?

Torrential rain persisted throughout the day, so that the cast
were obliged to wear Wellingtons
under their Eastern costumes, and the dark powder ran in rivulets down their faces as they splashed from the school to the terrapin. Matters were not improved by Miss Potter asking audibly what could you expect without a green room at the terrapin?

By the time the mothers and their young children arrived, the playground was awash, and still the rain fell. The lobbies were cluttered with dripping prams and umbrellas, and steam rose from the audience when at last they had paddled through the floods to their uncomfortable seats. Miss Potter and Miss Fogerty wore looks as black as the clouds above whilst trying to keep their flocks in order.

It says much for Miss Watson's self-control that she was able to welcome her packed audience with smiles, and to assure them of 'a lovely performance.'

Before the clapping had died down, one of the Flopsy Bunnies was led on by Joseph, horribly impeded by a blanket which had slipped from his shoulder, and followed by Mary in Miss Watson's blue dressing gown which, she was sorry to see, was trailing along the wet floor, much to its detriment.

There was a painful silence, broken only by the thumping of Joseph's walking stick on the boards and the impatient prompting by Miss Potter from her seat on the side radiator.

At last Joseph gave tongue and Thrush Green's ill-fated nativity play stumbled into life.

Apart from one disastrous incident in the shepherds' scene, when young Richard Wright found himself pinned to the floor by the heavy foot of a Flopsy Bunny, and was unable to rise after his obeisances, and consequently uttered a terrible word which should have been unknown to, let along uttered by, one of such tender years, all went well.

Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty turned pink. Miss Potter shrugged her shoulders. The mothers tried to suppress their giggles, and the play continued. But no one could pretend that it was a success, and when at last the children bowed, Miss Watson had the uneasy feeling that the applause was of relief rather than rapture.

When the last of the mothers and children had splashed homeward, Miss Watson surveyed the general chaos of chairs, muddy floor, and discarded costumes.

'Well,' she said, with forced brightness, 'it went better than I expected.'

Miss Fogerty preserved an ominous silence.

'I thought it was a disaster,' said Miss Potter shortly. She took her coat from the peg on the door, and set off for home, with never a backward look at her ruined classroom.

Winnie Bailey observed the exodus of mothers and children from her bedroom window. She had gone upstairs to put on her coat, ready to make a dash through the rain to St Andrew's church.

How dark it was! How wet and gloomy! But there, she told herself, it would be the shortest day very soon, so what could you expect? She had been kept in by the appalling weather, all that day, and felt that she must have a breath of air before settling by the fire for the evening.

She had promised to be responsible for the Christmas roses on the altar on Christmas day. Were there any pin holders in the vestry cupboard, she wondered? It was a good excuse for an airing. Tying a scarf over her head, Winnie set out.

Rain lashed her umbrella, and the onslaught took her breath away. She was glad to gain the shelter of the church porch. Across the road, she saw Albert Piggott's morose countenance pressed against the window pane. He was keeping a sharp eye on his property evidently, thought Winnie, shaking her umbrella free from drops.

She pushed open the door, and was met by that indefinable smell of damp stone, hymn books and brass polish which greets so many church-goers. She made her way to the vestry, which stood below the belfry, and began to rummage in the cupboard which held vases, crumpled chicken wire, balls of plasticine and other aids to flower arranging. At the very back of the bottom shelf she found four pin holders, heavy and prickly. Should she take them home for safety, or should she leave them here and trust that none of the other flower ladies appropriated them?

She had just decided to take two and to leave two, when she heard a faint noise. Tip-toeing to the door of the vestry she gazed down the length of the aisle. A small figure was kneeling in one of the front pews.

It was so dark by now that Winnie could not recognise the person, although she guessed it was a woman. She hoped that her movements had not disturbed whoever-it-was at her devotions.

She tip-toed back to the cupboard and replaced two of the pin holders. The remaining two she thrust into her handbag.

Very quietly she emerged from the vestry and began to tip-toe to the door. At that moment, a loud sniff shattered the silence. The little figure stumbled from the pew and hastened up the aisle towards Winnie, who saw, with astonishment, that it was Dotty Harmer, and that she had been weeping.

Winnie did not speak until they were both in the porch. She retrieved her umbrella.

'I'm going back, Dotty dear, to make myself some tea. Come and join me.'

Dotty nodded.

Winnie put up the umbrella, and linked Dotty's frail arm into her own. The lights were beginning to glow from the windows at Thrush Green.

'Not fit to be out,' shouted Winnie above the noise of the wind and rain. A faint pressure on her arm showed that Dotty had heard, but she said nothing. Winnie began to find this unusual silence unnerving, and was glad when they reached her home and she could busy herself with the latch key.

'Come by the fire, Dotty, while I put on the kettle. Here, let me take your mackintosh. It can drip in the kitchen.'

She drew a chair close to the blaze and settled the woebegone figure in it. There were no tears now, but Dotty looked white and exhausted. What could be the matter?

When she returned with the tea tray and a plate of homemade shortbread, she found Dotty leaning back with her eyes closed, but to her relief she sat up when Winnie began to pour the tea, and drank the liquid as though she had not had food for hours.

'That
was
good, Winnie dear,' she said thankfully, replacing her empty cup. 'I don't usually bother with tea.'

'Did you bother with lunch today?' asked Winnie, emboldened by the improvement in her guest's condition.

'Well, no. To tell the truth, I was a little upset yesterday, and didn't sleep last night.'

She stopped, took off her glasses and began to polish them with the hem of her petticoat. Without her spectacles, Winnie noticed, her face seemed very small and vulnerable. A short-sighted child might look like that, bewildered and questioning.

Winnie said nothing. She was determined not to pry into Dotty's troubles. She knew about the impending court case and suspected that this breakdown might have something to do with it. But somehow, it was not in keeping with Dotty's habitual chirpiness. She had given no sign, over the last few weeks, of caring deeply about the affair. It was odd that she should collapse now.

Dotty accepted her second cup of tea and stirred it slowly, her eyes on the dancing flames.

'I went to see Mrs Cooke yesterday,' she began. 'At Nidden, you know. The mother of the child who swerved in front of my car.'

'I know,' said Winnie.

Dotty put down her cup, and began to tell Winnie the whole appalling tale. The anxiety, the daily bulletins, the horror of the child's relapse, the possibility of the boy dying, of taking another's life – it all poured out, until the dreadful climax was reached of Mrs Cooke's blood-chilling cry of 'Murderess!' which had haunted poor Dotty ever since.

'And so you see why I was in church, Winnie. I simply had to tell someone. Someone I could trust. Living alone does tend to make one exaggerate one's fears and I wouldn't stay in the house a moment longer.'

'You did the right thing,' Winnie assured her. Dotty's fingers were pulling her handkerchief this way and that in her agitation.

'And now I've burdened you with it,' cried Dotty distractedly. 'You won't ever tell anyone, will you, Winnie dear? I couldn't bear Thrush Green to get wind of my shameful fears.'

'No one will learn anything from me,' Winnie promised. 'And you know, Dotty, we all have fears, and I'm beginning to realise that we must accept them and not feel ashamed of them.'

She went on to tell Dotty about her own nervousness at night-time in the house, and how difficult it seemed to overcome it. As she spoke, she noticed that the handkerchief was put away, that Dotty was nodding agreement, and drinking the second cup of tea, engrossed in someone else's troubles now.

'Perhaps I could come and sleep here,' said Dotty eventually, 'at least for a bit, until you feel better about things.'

'I shouldn't dream of allowing you to,' said Winnie. 'If you can cope alone, down at Lulling Woods, which is far more remote than this place, then I can too. I shall get used to it in time, but what I'm trying to say, Dotty, is that it does no good to torture oneself with guilt and shame simply because one has fears. We're
right
to have fears about some things; evil, for instance, and violence and lying, and I'm not going to add to my misery by feeling ashamed of my loneliness. I am lonely now, but it will pass. You are desolated now by what might occur, but that will pass too.'

Dotty sighed.

'What a comfort you are, Winnie.'

'I don't know about that, but you've certainly cheered me by giving me your company.'

Dotty stood up and began her usual disjointed quest for her belongings.

'Must you go so soon?'

'I really must. I feel so much better for the tea and sympathy. Where's my raincoat? And did I have a scarf?'

Winnie piloted her old friend into the hall, and helped her into her raincoat.

'Would you like me to walk back with you?'

'Not in this rain, Winnie dear. I promise you that I shall be quite all right now.'

'Then you must borrow the umbrella. No hurry for its return. It's an old one of Donald's that lives in the porch here for just such a downpour.'

Dotty, accepted the umbrella, but before putting it up, she gave Winnie a rare kiss.

With something of her usual jauntiness she set off down the path. Beneath the great umbrella her thin legs in their wrinkled stockings splashed purposefully through the puddles.

Winnie watched until she vanished from sight across the darkening green, and the closed the front door and began to bolt and bar ready for the long night.

Twenty miles away, in the children's ward of the county hospital, the doctor on duty sat on Cyril Cooke's bed.

The boy was sitting up. His flushed face was between the doctor's two cold hands. They strayed over the cheeks, behind the tousled hair, and massaged the glands behind the ears and down the neck.

The child winced.

'Ever had mumps?' enquired the doctor.

Cyril, never a garrulous boy, was even less articulate in his present pain. He shook his head.

'Positive?'

He nodded, and emitted a squeak of agony.

The doctor stood up.

'Well, son, you've got 'em now,' he said laconically. 'See to him, nurse.'

Part Three

The Outcome of Hostilities

15 The Sad Affair Of The Bedjacket

T
HE
cold dry weather continued. Most nights there was frost, blackening the few remaining dahlias and stripping the last of the leaves from the trees.

'Do you think we might get a white Christmas?' asked Charles Henstock of Harold.

'No good asking me, my dear chap. Most of my Christmases were spent with the air conditioner going full blast, and the sweat still running down my back.'

'It does seem extraordinary,' ruminated the rector, 'how mild the winters are these days. I haven't been skating for years.'

'Skating?' Harold looked at his friend with new respect. 'Can you really skate?'

'Good heavens, yes? Most of us older folk can, you know. I learnt on Grantchester Meadows. A splendid chap from Durham taught me. He was up at Cambridge with me. I often wonder what became of him. He took part in an arctic expedition – that I do know – because he used to practise paddling his kayak on the Cam, mostly upside down. He loved it.'