(4/13) Battles at Thrush Green (3 page)

'Nothing, thank you. Frank's at the office today and won't be back until tomorrow. He's dining with an American editor and hoping to do a deal.'

'Good luck to him! So I suppose you and Jeremy are having boiled eggs?'

'Absolutely right! I'll start cooking again tomorrow.'

'Well, I must be off,' said Winnie, casting an anxious look at the doctor's bedroom window. 'He likes me to be there when he first wakes.'

She hurried away, and for the first time Phil thought how old and frail she looked. What a burden of anxiety she carried constantly! It put her own trivial worries into perspective, she thought.

And what a daily battle was being fought by the gallant doctor next door! It was a long and valiant campaign waged against the grimmest of all adversaries.

Sadly, as Phil and all Thrush Green knew, victory would have to be conceded to the enemy before long.

Playtime was over, and in the infants' room at the village school little Miss Fogerty sat at her desk with a small group of children gathered about her.

The rest of the class was engaged in various activities. Some of the children were copying sentences from the blackboard, others were reading at their tables, and the usual hard core of juvenile delinquents was making itself objectionable to the more law-abiding of its neighbours.

The group clustered by Miss Fogerty consisted of those who found reading difficult. In her young days, they would have been known as 'backward'. Halfway through her career, the term was changed to 'less able'. Now that she was nearing retirement, she believed such a group was called 'remedial'. The name might change, thought Miss Fogerty – the children did not. They provided her with the hardest session of her teaching day.

By dint of using every reading method known, she battled on day after day. Some, she knew, would never read, and would rely on television, radio, and the age-old practical methods of personal demonstration to acquire knowledge.

Others would gain enough mechanical skill to make out the headlines or to puzzle out where to sign a form. A very few would catch up with the rest of the class, and on these Miss Fogerty relied for any encouragement.

Grubby forefingers were descending the long cards made by Miss Fogerty years before.

'Per – in' they chanted, gazing at the picture beside the first word.

'Ter – in' they went on.

'Fer – in.' Really, thought Miss Fogerty, with pride, that fish was very well executed!

'Grer – in.' And that smile too! The cards had worn extremely well.

She stood up suddenly, and looked over the heads of her pupils to the back row of the classroom.

'Any more of that pinching, Johnny Dodd, and you will stay in after school.'

She sat down abruptly. The drone continued without interruption.

'Cher – in.'

She allowed her thoughts to wander. Miss Fogerty disliked change. She and Miss Watson, her headmistress, had held sway at Thrush Green School for many years, and were firm friends. But now, after all this time, a third teacher had been appointed, and although the term was yet young, Miss Fogerty could see signs that disturbed her.

For one thing, the girl was only just in her twenties, and though Miss Fogerty was fair-minded enough to see that this could not be helped – after all, the time of one's birth was beyond one's control – she realised that Miss Potter's view of teaching was quite different from her own and Miss Watson's.

And then she dressed in such a peculiar way, pondered Miss Fogerty, automatically replacing a wavering forefinger upon the reading card. If she were headmistress she would never allow a teacher in her school to wear a trouser suit. Most unbecoming. Most unladylike.

'But very practical, dear,' Miss Watson had said, in answer to Miss Fogerty's expressed doubts. 'And will keep the girl warm in that rather draughty new building.'

The new building, called colloquially 'the terrapin' was a purely functional classroom which had been erected at the farther end of the playground to house the young juniors. It was termed a temporary building, but Miss Fogerty and Miss Watson, with years of experience behind them, faced the fact that the terrapin would still be there long after they had retired.

The new housing estate, built along the road to Nod and Nidden, supplied most of the extra pupils at Thrush Green School. For generations the village school had accommodated about fifty or sixty children in its two rooms, but now that the number on roll had risen to over eighty, the third classroom had been deemed a positive necessity.

Miss Fogerty would dearly have loved to have the terrapin as her classroom. As soon as the building began, she put forward excellent reasons why the room should be put at the infants' disposal.

'You know how much noise they make,' she pointed out to Miss Watson. 'We shouldn't disturb anyone over there. And the cloakrooms and lavatories are all built in – so convenient for small children. You know how they bang the lobby door every time they need to go across the yard.'

'The room is far more suited to the needs of the juniors,' said her headmistress firmly.

'And then it's so sunny,' pleaded Miss Fogerty, 'and will bring on the mustard and cress and bean seeds and bulbs so beautifully. As well as being healthier for the babies.'

'All that applies to the junior class too,' pointed out Miss Watson obdurately. She used her trump card.

'Besides, Agnes,' she said, more gently, 'I should miss you. I like to think of you at my right hand.'

There was no answer to this, and Miss Fogerty gave way with her usual docility.

But the decision rankled. She would have liked a change. Hadn't she spent the best years of her life in the infants' room which faced north east and was decidedly shabby and dark? The fact that its main window overlooked Thrush Green, and thus afforded an interesting view of the comings and goings of its inhabitants, was a point in the classroom's favour, but even that could pall. It would have been lovely to have a new view looking across the little valley to Lulling Woods, and to have the sun streaming through that beautiful low window, so infinitely preferable to the high Gothic one which the Victorian architect had considered right and proper for the original building.

And although it was uncommonly nice of dear Miss Watson to say that she would miss her, pondered Miss Fogerty, would it not have been even nicer if she had taken her old friend's wishes into consideration? After all, she had loyally served Miss Watson and Thrush Green School through thick and thin, and had rarely asked for a favour. It would have been gratifying to think that those long years had been recognised and rewarded with a willingness to meet her request.

It would be easier to bear, Miss Fogerty considered, if Miss Potter had appreciated the new classroom, but there had been a great many grumbles, from the newcomer, about draughts, and glaring sunlight, and doors which stuck, and even about noisy lavatory cisterns, which Miss Fogerty thought privately it was indelicate to mention.

No, Miss Potter was not an asset to the staff, that was plain. Certainly, it was early days to judge, and maybe she would improve on acquaintance, and mellow a little in the company of two older and wiser women.

Nevertheless, that old tag about two being company and three none, had some horse sense. Things could never be quite the same between dear Miss Watson and herself with a third member of staff to consider.

A thought struck her. Of course if Miss Potter continued to be disgruntled about the terrapin, then she might prefer to take over her own room. And if that didn't suit, then the girl might apply for a post elsewhere. Heaven alone knew, a good teacher would be snapped up anywhere.

Miss Fogerty's spirits rose at the thought. She smiled upon her labouring readers.

Very good,' she told them warmly. 'You've all tried hard this morning. Rose, collect the cards, and then take round the sweet tin. I am very pleased with you.'

3 Dotty Harmer's Legacy

T
RUE
to his word, the Reverend Charles Henstock made a point of examining the churchyard of St Andrew's, with particular care, within the week.

He was not a man who responded to his surroundings with any great degree of sensitivity. On the whole, he was unobservant, and perhaps this was a blessing when one surveyed the gloomy setting of the rectory, and the cold and undistinguished interior of his church. Someone, a century earlier, had removed, with a heavy Victorian hand, any little prettinesses, which St Andrew's once enjoyed, and put in a truly appalling reredos at much the same time as the iron railings had been erected upon the low Cotswold stone wall which Thrush Green had once thought adequate as a boundary.

There was no doubt about it, thought the rector, pacing the uneven paths between tilting tombstones, the place
was
neglected. He looked over the railings across the green, noticing for once, how spruce it looked, how fine was the chestnut avenue, in the morning sunlight, as the leaves began to turn from green to gold. The hedges and gardens were tidy. The hanging baskets, outside "The Two Pheasants," were still ablaze with geraniums and lobelia plants. Only here, in this corner of Thrush Green, was there something shabby. The most hallowed spot of all, thought the rector, turning to survey it again, was the most shameful. Something would have to be done

But what? He was debating the advisability of calling at Albert Piggott's cottage, when the sexton emerged from the vestry door. No doubt he had been checking the boiler fuel. Very soon it would be needed, and what an expense! Charles Henstock sighed as he approached Albert.

'Another lovely day, Albert.'

'Need some rain.'

'Surely not.'

'Runner beans is drying out.'

Albert passed on the information with morose relish. Albert hated optimists.

'I've been thinking about this churchyard, Albert. Do you happen to have heard of anyone to give you a hand?'

'Not a living soul. What about that bit you put in the paper? Any takers?'

'I fear not. It seems that no one wants this sort of work.'

'Can't blame 'em,' said Albert laconically. 'They gets more standing by some bit of machinery doin' dam' all.'

The rector decided to let the oath pass.

'Well, we must do something ourselves, I suppose. Mr Shoosmith suggested a working party to help you.'

Albert flushed an ugly red. If there was anything he hated more than optimists, it was newcomers putting their oar in where they wasn't needed. Cheek, coming into his churchyard!

'And what does this 'ere
working party
intend to do, may I ask?' he enquired, with heavy sarcasm.

The rector, who was no coward, spoke out.

'To cut the grass, straighten some of these tombstones, and get rid of that dreadful mess of weeds which has been an eyesore for months. That would be a start, anyway.'

Albert's anger now became tinged with self-pity. There was a decided whine in his tone when he replied.

'Well, that's all very fine and large, but a bit of tem'pry help don't go far. Since my operation I'm a sick man, as well you knows. It ain't that I'm not willing, but the flesh is weak, hacked about as I was by that ol' butcher Pedder-Bennett down the hospital.'

'You were extremely lucky,' said the rector severely, 'to have such a distinguished surgeon to operate on you. You might not have been here at all, if the Lulling Hospital staff had not worked so swiftly and so well.'

Albert did not reply, but turned to spit neatly behind the angel erected in pious memory of one Hepzibah Armstrong by her sorrowing husband. The rector, with Christian fortitude, restrained his temper.

'But that is exactly the point, Piggott,' he continued. 'We must rely on volunteer help. What else is there to do?'

'They used to have a few sheep in here in my Dad's time, to crop the grass. Be less bother than a lot of amachoors stamping about breaking things when I wasn't looking.'

The rector sighed.

'Well, we must think of every possible method, but the aim is plain and clear. We simply cannot have God's acre neglected like this. It is a disgrace to Thrush Green and an affront to all decent men, dead and alive. In the meantime, you must do the best you can, Piggott, and accept any help that we can muster.'

He strode to the gate, leaving Albert to digest this unpalatable morsel of news.

Working parties! Interfering old busybodies! Best cut across to "The Two Pheasants" for half a pint, he decided, setting off in the direction of that hostelry with more energy than he had shown that morning.

***

The rector had just reached his front door, when a high-pitched hallooing caused him to turn.

There, at the gate, was Dotty Harmer, Thrush Green's most famous eccentric. She was scrabbling helplessly at the latch of the gate, pulling it, as always, when it needed to be pushed, and becoming more and more breathless with her exertions.

'Let me, Dotty,' called the rector, hurrying to her aid. Two magazines slipped from her grasp to the ground, and as she bent to retrieve them her hat fell off. To the rector's surprise, he saw that it had a piece of elastic attached to it, but he could not recall Dotty ever having such a thing under her chin, as his sisters used to have as children. A less polite man might have tried to satisfy his curiosity with a blunt question, but Charles refrained.