(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green (22 page)

She had hoped that Miss Watson might call, but no doubt she was busy with preparations for the term, she thought charitably. In any case, the weather had not been very tempting, and most people had been glad to stay by the fireside.

Although the memory of the bedjacket still had power to cause Miss Fogerty some unhappiness, the balm of Isobel's hospitality had taken some of the sting from the wound. It was no good dwelling on the affair, she told herself, as she trotted through the snow to school that first morning. We have to work together. We are two grown women, and we must treat the incident as closed.

Nevertheless, she could not quite overcome her uneasiness at meeting Miss Watson again. Their last meeting, after all, had been so dreadfully painful. She listened for her headmistress's footsteps as she hung up her coat, and removed her wet Wellingtons. Her little black house shoes hung in their cretonne bag, inside the map cupboard, where she had placed them on that last disastrous day.

She was buttoning the straps when Miss Watson entered. The headmistress held out a parcel wrapped in Christmas paper.

'Much too late, Agnes dear, I'm afraid,' she said, smiling. 'I did call to give it to you, but I just missed you, so Mrs White told me. Had a good holiday?'

Miss Fogerty was relieved to see the smile, and to realise that they were back – or nearly so – to their normal friendly relationship. It was a mercy not to have an emotional scene, and yet Miss Fogerty could not help thinking that it might have been even better if Miss Watson had shown some remorse for that unfeeling remark which had caused her assistant such misery. It would have been nice if Miss Watson had begged for forgiveness, and had recognised her own culpability. Not that she wanted her headmistress to
grovel,
but after all, it would have been truly heroic if she could have brought herself to apologise or to explain.

However, thought Miss Fogerty, undoing the parcel with little cries of gratitude, perhaps 'Least said, soonest mended' was Miss Watson's motto, and a very sensible one too.

'My favourite perfume!' cried Miss Fogerty. 'You couldn't have given me anything more welcome.'

'Well, it isn't anywhere near as splendid a present as yours to me, Agnes, but I'm glad you like it.'

The bell clanged outside.

'Miss Potter's on time for once,' commented Miss Watson, and the two teachers hurried to greet their pupils in the lobby.

Nothing more was said about the bedjacket, and Miss Fogerty resolutely put aside any little feelings of rancour as being quite unworthy of a sensible middle-aged schoolteacher.

It was during this wintry spell that Frank and Phil Hurst went to visit the prep school at which Frank had been so happy.

Phil resolved to enjoy the outing and to try and bring an open mind to the question of Jeremy's boarding. The sun came through now and again, lighting the snow into unbelievable beauty and casting blue shadows under the trees.

They lunched on the way and drove up the long road to the school about two o'clock. A group of little boys in very large boots rushed about frenziedly between two sets of rugby posts, urged on by a hefty young man girt about with striped scarves.

The boys, to Phil's pitying gaze, looked blue with cold and grossly underclad and underfed. But she was prudent enough to make no comment as they drove to the front door.

A homely touch, which cheered her, was the sight of a splendid snowman on the lawn, also wearing a striped scarf, a dilapidated mortar-board, and a clay pipe. Some wag had thrust a stick, where his arm might be, to represent a cane.

A pasty-faced maid, very short of breath, answered the door, and led the way, puffing, through a maze of corridors to the head's study at the back of the building.

'Used to lead off the front hall,' observed Frank to his wife. 'Can't think why they take us all round this way.'

'The old study's a staff room now,' volunteered the maid wheezily.

She stopped at a door and knocked.

'Come in,' came a shout.

'Mr and Mrs Never-Caught-Your-Name,' announced the maid.

The head welcomed them boisterously.

'Frank Hurst,' said Frank, 'and my wife. I'm an old boy. We rang some time ago, you remember.'

'Indeed, yes. Indeed, yes. So delighted you could come. My wife, unfortunately, has had to go to a meeting. Now, let me see...

He began to shuffle papers on a very untidy desk. Phil sat back and looked around her. The passages which they had traversed had been somewhat grubby, she had noticed. This study was not much cleaner, and the head himself, though handsome once, no doubt, now looked in need of tidying up, she thought.

His tie was greasy, his coat spotted, and his suede shoes needed brushing. Not a very good example to the boys! The only feature which brightened his appearance was a gold tooth, which dominated the conversation to such an extent, that Phil found herself making a strong effort to direct her gaze well above it into the head's eyes.

After a few reminiscences Frank turned to the subject of Jeremy, entrance examinations, further schooling and present attainments.

'And you must come and see how we live and work,' said the head. 'Mothers always like to see the kitchens and dormitories.'

They followed him back through the labyrinth of corridors until they came to a fine oak staircase. It was badly splintered on the treads, and the banister felt sticky. Phil thought how sad it was to see such a splendid stairway so unloved. Once, it must have been a family's pride, suitably furnished with a fine carpet, and cared for with brush and dustpan and polish by a generation or so of devoted housemaids.

They were shown into several dormitories. Bare boarded, apart from a single strip of thin carpet between the two rows of beds, and curtainless, they appeared to Phil unbelievably bleak. Red blankets did little to mitigate the cheerlessness and the sight of battered teddy bears and other much-loved toys on the beds, only added to the poignancy of the scene.

'And this is matron's abode,' said the head leading the way through an elementary surgery-cum-bathroom to an inner sitting-room. Here an auburn-haired young woman hastily rose, and stubbed out a cigarette before greeting them.

'Marjorie,' said the head, 'Mr and Mrs Hurst. Their boy David may be coming here.'

'Jeremy,' said Phil automatically.

The head laughed heartily, the gold tooth glinting.

'Jeremy! Jeremy, of course.'

'He'll love it here,' volunteered matron. 'They are all ever so happy, aren't they, Peter?'

'I think we can say so,' agreed the head, 'I think we can say so.'

Did he say everything twice, wondered Phil? What a perfect person for rude little boys to mimic!

'Might have a day or two feeling a bit homesick at first,' admitted matron, stroking her well-filled mauve jumper while the head eyed her approvingly, 'but we soon jolly them out of that'

'That's true. That's very true,' agreed the head.

They were led on their tour. The classrooms were large and shabby. The desks were well-carved, the easels splintered, the blackboards needed resurfacing and over all hung the indefinable smell of boy – a fatty, sweaty, chalky smell.

They went out into the snowy wastes to look at the workshop, the gym, the swimming pool and the new half-built pavilion. The little boys had finished their games session and now ran past them, tumbling about together like puppies, sniffing with the cold, hitting each other playfully.

'Sir!' they shouted, when they saw the head, as they passed. Their breath blew around their heads in silver clouds. One or two smiled at Phil, some so young that their front milk teeth had gone. Their gappy smiles made her think of Jeremy, with a sharp pang.

They returned to the car.

'You'll have some tea?' invited the head, but Phil said that they had such a long journey that she felt they had better not stay longer.

'The playroom?' said Frank suddenly. 'What's happened to the playroom?'

'We use it as a science lab now,' said the head. 'Needed the space, you know.'

They made their farewells, the head's gold tooth flashing in the winter sunlight, and drove homeward.

'Gone to seed a bit,' said Frank thoughtfully.

Phil did not reply. She had found the whole visit thoroughly depressing. It only strengthened her conviction that Jeremy would be better off at home.

They drove in silence for a mile or two.

'Of course, we saw it at its worst,' continued Frank. 'Always looks grim – a school in winter.'

They drove through a small town. The snow had been swept into two grubby mountain ranges, one each side of the main street.

'Didn't take to the head particularly,' went on Frank. 'But there, no one would come up to our old man! Rough luck having to follow him, really, Mustn't make comparisons.'

Dear Frank! Phil was suddenly amused at this display of mingled honesty, generosity and fair-mindedness.

After all, wasn't it for just such qualities that she had married him? She began to feel more hopeful about Jeremy's future. Frank was obviously having second thoughts.

19 Dotty In Court

M
R
Jones, the landlord of "The Two Pheasants", was as good as his word. Soon after six one evening, within a week of Charles Henstock's visit, he rang the bell at the rectory.

Charles opened the door himself and found himself facing not only the landlord, but also Percy Hodge.

'Come in, gentlemen,' said Charles, leading the way to his study.

'Take a seat, and let me get you some refreshment.'

'Not for me, thanks,' said Mr Jones.

'Nor me,' said Mr Hodge.

The rector's heart sank a little. Had he further antagonised them by calling upon them earlier?

'We've come about the graveyard business,' said Mr Jones, coming straight to the point. 'I promised to turn it over in my mind.'

'Indeed, yes. And what is your decision?'

'I thought I'd have a word with Perce here,' said the landlord, refusing to be hurried.

'Very sensible.'

'And Perce and I had a good sit-down talk about it, didn't we?'

'That we did,' said Percy. 'We fairly thrashed it out.'

'And in the end,' continued Mr Jones, 'we decided that the place is a proper eyesore as it is.'

'Disrespectful too,' added Percy.

They sat back with an air of finality, and the rector's heart sank still further.

'It is indeed,' he agreed. 'That's why we felt something should be done.'

'Yes. We saw that,' said Percy. 'I said to Bill here: "That's a fair eyesore, that graveyard, and something's got to be done about it." Didn't I?'

'You did, Perce.'

'Good,' said the rector faintly. He was beginning to feel slightly dizzy.

'So we came to the conclusion that
provided
our family graves were left alone we'd agree to the levelling and general tidying-up, like you said.'

Charles Henstock gave a great sight of relief. To his surprise and shame, he felt tears pricking his eyes. He had not realised how deeply he felt about the matter until now.

'My dear Mr Jones, I can't tell you how grateful I am!'

He turned to Percy Hodge.

'And to you too, Mr Hodge. This is a most generous and public-spirited gesture. I shall certainly see that the graves in that corner remain as they are.'

'What about Mrs Cleary's?' asked Percy.

'She is away at the moment,' said Charles, 'but I propose to call on her within the next day or two, as soon as she is back.'

He remembered something suddenly.

'And what about your two men?'

'They're agreeable,' said Percy shortly. The rector decided not to press the matter now, but to have a word in private with Percy's employees later.

Mr Jones stood up.

'Well, sir, I'm glad you're pleased. We didn't want to be awkward, and now we know our people won't be disturbed, we're quite content. I must be off now. I've left the wife in charge of the bar, and we'll be getting busy soon.'

The rector shook hands with his two parishioners, and took them to the door.

The night was still and icy-cold. The wide-spread pall of snow reflected a little light.

'I'll be at church next Sunday,' said Percy gruffly, ramming on his cap.

'I am thankful,' said Charles sincerely, raising a hand in farewell.

Later that evening, the rector crunched across the snow to tell Harold Shoosmith the good news. The moon was rising, a splendid golden full one, glinting on the snow and throwing the dark trees into sharp relief.

'It's a beautiful night,' said Harold in greeting.

'In more ways than one,' agreed Charles, settling by the fire. He told Harold the good news.

'And now I have only Mrs Cleary to see and Martin Brewer who works for her,' went on the rector. 'And I really should have a private word with the Howard brothers. I'm not too sure if they really agree with Percy Hodge. It would be a bad thing if they have been coerced.'

'I don't think there will be much opposition from them, or from Mrs Cleary and young Martin Brewer. I must say, Charles, you have handled the thing very diplomatically.'