(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green (20 page)

'One to go!' murmured Mr Pearson, twirling the dial with a pencil.

Mrs Lucy answered the call. She was sorry but Edgar was out, should he ring when he came in?

Mr Pearson gave her the date of the hearing and said he would try Mrs Fothergill, and let the Lucys know the outcome.

'I must tell you,' said Mrs Lucy, 'we are in the most awful muddle at the moment. Edgar's father has been taken ill, and we are setting off to see him later today.'

His father was in Huddersfield, added Mrs Lucy, but, from what the doctor said, would be leaving for Higher Things before long. Edgar, as the only son would have everything to clear up.

Mr Pearson condoled, promised to ring again, and returned to Mrs Fothergill. The clock told him that he had spent an hour in his searchings, and a pile of papers awaited his attention.

Mrs Fothergill said she could come
easily.
Mr Pearson sighed with relief.

'And you don't know Miss Harmer?'

'I once helped to push her car into a side street, but I was one of about six others. She doesn't know me, and I've never met her otherwise.'

'Good,' said the clerk. 'That's three of you rounded up.'

'I've heard of her father, of course,' said Mrs Fothergill.

'Who hasn't?' agreed Mr Pearson. After mutual felicitations, they rang off.

'Just the Lucys once more,' said Mr Pearson, strong again.

Humming blithely, he dialled for the last time.

On the same morning as the clerk to the justices was engaged in telephoning, Charles Henstock set out from the rectory to pay his appointed call on Percy Hodge.

He approached his task with some trepidation. Rumour had it that Percy Hodge, when crossed, could be a formidable adversary. Charles did not doubt it. The removal of himself and his family from church, the wording of his resignation and the obstinate set of Percy's mouth all told of a stubborn character. He might prove impossible to move.

But the rector, despite his misgivings, went steadfastly upon his way. If Percy could be persuaded to fall in with these new suggestions, then he felt sure that the other objectors would follow suit.

He had debated with himself about the advisability of calling upon Percy first. Dimity had suggested that it would be politer to visit Mrs Cleary, on the 'ladies-first' principle.

Charles had wondered about the Jones'es. He had a feeling that, despite his blusterings, Jones might give way more readily, especially when he had seen the suggested plans, so neatly executed by Harold.

But, after much cogitation, the rector had decided to crack the toughest nut first. For one thing, Percy would resent being put after anyone else. If the others had agreed, it would make him doubly adamant about resisting. The rector, innocent in so many things, was wise in discerning the motives which stirred human passions.

He came to the farmhouse gate and, like all good countrymen, went to the back door of the house to knock for admission.

Percy himself answered the door.

'Come in,' he said. 'I've been expecting you!'

With pleasure or anger, wondered the rector? He stepped bravely into the lion's den.

17 The Rector In Action

'S
ORRY
I'm a bit late,' cried Betty Bell. 'Been trying to get that new floor to rights next door, and forgot the time.'

'Don't worry,' said Harold. 'I didn't realise you had to call in at the school during the holidays.'

'Lord love you,' responded Betty, 'that's my busiest time! I mean, term-time it gets a lick and a promise, as you might say, except for Friday nights. But I gives the whole place a thorough scrub through during the holidays.'

'I should have known.'

'I don't see why you should. Selling things was your line. Floors is mine. But you never saw such a pig's breakfast as that new floor. That young teacher lets 'em do as they like, from what I can see. There's glue and paint and plasticine and ground-up crayon, and enough bubble-gum to keep you going for a month.'

'Not me,' said Harold, shuddering.

'Well, you know what I mean. Now, Miss Fogerty's room is a real treat to do. Everything left tidy, chairs on desks ready for me to sweep, nice bit of paper lining the waste paper basket so there's no pencil shavings and that dropping through. She's even got a little brush to sweep up the coke bits! Takes me half the time to do her room.'

'Bully for Miss Fogerty!' said Harold, making for the refuge of his study. It was plain that Betty was in full spate today.

'Well, that's as it should be. Children wants training. I know my mum never let us leave things about. If we did, they was thrown in the pit, up the end of our garden. We never had no dustbins in those days. I can remember rescuing an old dolly of mine, in the pouring rain. She never looked the same after a night in the pit, but it learnt me a lesson, all the same.'

'I had a nurse,' replied Harold, halted in his tracks, 'who threw my things on the back of the fire. I can remember watching a lead soldier – a cavalry officer, too – melting away. It broke my heart.'

'That was downright cruel!' cried Betty indignantly. 'I hope she got the sack!'

'She did, as soon as my father realised she was sampling his brandy,' said Harold, and made his escape.

At much the same time, across the green, Jenny arrived at Winnie Bailey's. Jenny very rarely spoke unless she had something worthwhile to say, but this morning she looked unusually animated.

'Had good news, Jenny?' asked her mistress.

'Yes. Willie Bond brought a letter for the old folks. They've got a new house at last. One of those old people's homes the council built.'

Jenny's honest plain face glowed with pleasure.

'How wonderful! Just what they've always wanted. And when can they move in?'

'About a month's time. There's got to be an inspection or something, to make sure everything works. As soon as that's done they can go in.'

'And what about your present house, Jenny?'

'Well, that'll come down. All our row will, and a good thing too. It's been condemned for years now. We knew it would happen one day.'

'So what will you do?'

'I'll face that when the time comes,' said Jenny cheerfully. 'I'll find a room somewhere I expect. Might even go nursing – I did a bit once – and I could live in the hostel.'

'Would you want to do that?'

'Not really,' said Jenny. 'Besides, I'm a bit old. I don't know if they'd have me. But I shall find something all right. Just get the old folks settled, and I'll start thinking.'

She went humming upstairs to clean the bathroom, while Winnie turned over in her mind a plan which had been lurking there for some time.

It continued to engage her thoughts as she sat knitting that afternoon. Her dislike of being alone after dark had certainly diminished as the weeks went by, but she could not honestly say that she was completely carefree. She had wondered if it would be sensible to let two rooms upstairs. She would still have a spare bedroom, quite enough for the modest entertaining she proposed to do in her widowed state.

The two rooms adjoined. Both had wash-basins, one of which could be changed to a kitchen sink. There would be plenty of room for an electric stove and for cupboards, and it would convert easily into a comfortable kitchen.

The room next door was larger and would make an attractive bed-sitting room. Both rooms overlooked the green and were light and sunny.

The difficulty was, who would be acceptable? Winnie did not want a married couple, and such a minute flat would not be suitable for people with babies or pets. A single man might be useful for attacking the marauders that Winnie feared, but then he might expect his washing and ironing to be done, and his socks darned, and Winnie was beginning to feel rather too old for such mothering.

No, a pleasant single woman was die answer! One with a job during the day, who enjoyed looking after her small domain, and who did not demand too much attention from her landlady. The financial side was something of a problem to Winnie, who had not the faintest idea what should be charged. Nor did she know if there should be some legal document setting out the terms upon which landladies and lodgers agreed.

And then, supposing they did not get on? It was common knowledge that one really had to live with people before one knew them properly. Look at that terrible Brides-in-the-Bath man! No, thought Winnie, don't look at him, with dusk already beginning to fall!

She rose to draw the curtains and to switch on the lamp. Across the green, she saw the rector marching purposefully toward "The Two Pheasants." Unusual, thought Winnie. Perhaps he was calling on his sexton, Albert Piggott, or on Harold Shoosmith nearby.

But the rector was opening the wicket gate at the side of the public house, and vanished from sight.

Winnie resumed her seat and her knitting. Over the past few weeks she had come to the conclusion that the person she would most like to share her home was quiet, devoted Jenny. That is, of course, if she would come.

And now, with this morning's news, it looked as though there were a chance. She would await her opportunity, and put the proposition before Jenny. How lovely, thought Winnie, letting her knitting fall and looking at the leaping flames, if she agreed! The bogey of loneliness would be banished, and the tiresome business of trying to find out what would be a fair rent would also be solved, for Jenny would live there rent-free.

Winnie allowed herself to indulge in happy daydreams for some five minutes, and then pulled herself together sharply. It was no good getting too hopeful. Jenny might well have other plans, besides the vague ones she had mentioned, and, in any case, a shared home at Thrush Green might be abhorrent to her.

Well, time would show. Winnie picked up her knitting again, determined to remain cool-headed over the whole affair. But hope warmed her throughout the evening.

Charles Henstock, whom Winnie had glimpsed from her window, was making the second of his visits that day on the vexed question of the graveyard.

Percy Hodge had greeted him somewhat grimly, but had ushered him into the parlour, in deference, presumably, to his cloth.

Frankly, Charles would have preferred the kitchen, where the life of the farmhouse revolved. For one thing, it was warm and cheerful, a great room dominated by an immense scrubbed table, and an Aga cooker which dispensed heat and a delicious smell of baking bread.

The parlour was neither warm nor cheerful. Percy switched on the electric fire as he entered, but the rector might just as well have been in his own study for all the comfort it gave.

Two enormous pictures of stags standing in water, against a background of Highland mountains, dominated the walls, and a vast three-piece suite, upholstered in drab moquette, filled most of the floor space. The linoleum, meant to represent, not very convincingly, a traditional Turkish carpet in crimson and blue, gleamed icily.

'Take a seat,' said Percy. 'I take it you've come about me not coming to church.'

Percy was nothing if not direct, thought Charles.

'Not quite that, although we've all missed you and the family at our services. You are still opposed, no doubt, to the churchyard scheme?'

'Of course I am,' said Percy forcefully. 'It beats me why more people didn't sign. You hear enough about it in the village, but people are afraid to put their names down.'

'Are you sure? I shouldn't like to think that was so.'

'Well, maybe they talk that way when I'm there. I don't know. Folk will try to run with the hare and the hounds, and to my mind you can't do both. You know my feelings on the subject. I'm against the thing.'

'Tell me your strongest objection.'

'My strongest objection is having the resting place of my forefathers disturbed.'

'And if it were to remain undisturbed, would you then approve the project?'

'How d'you mean?'

Percy looked suspicious. Charles spread his hands towards the meagre heat from the electric stove, and began to outline the suggested proposals. He explained things gently and patiently, his brow furrowed with concern, and towards the end of the explanation, he took the sketch map from his pocket.

Percy's expression grew grimmer as he listened.

'Trying to buy me off, are you?' he said at last.

For the first time in Percy's life, he saw a flash of anger cross the rector's face.

'I should never have imagined that you would stoop to such a remark,' he said. 'It does you no credit, and is insulting to me. There is conflict in my parish which I am trying to stop. No one can ever know the grief which it is causing me.'

He rose as if to go.

'Sit down, sir, sit down,' urged Percy, looking uncomfortable. 'I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. I know you well enough to know you're dead straight. Sit down, and tell me more.'

The rector resumed his seat.

'When I was a schoolboy,' he said, more calmly, 'we had a prayer about being careful not to mistake bluntness for frankness, and obstinacy, I think it was, for constancy. You know, Percy, I have always respected your principles, but you must face the fact that we all have to make compromises in this life, if we are to live amicably together. All I am doing, is to show you how willing we are to settle things for the best. Even hares and hounds have to shake down in the same world.'

'Let's have a look at the plan,' said Percy, holding out his hand for Harold's rough sketch. He studied it in silence, while the rector observed him. A whirring noise from the wall clock behind him caused him to turn. A wooden cuckoo burst from its lair and shouted three times. In the distance the cows lowed. It would soon be milking time.

'What happens,' said Percy, returning the sketch, 'if we don't change our minds?'

The rector told him of delays, expense, the possibility of a consistory court, and the usual procedure in such a case.

Percy listened attentively.

'Well, I'm not going to say now one way or the other, but I'll think things over, and let you know. I'm not an unreasonable man, I hope, but I want to do what's right.'