(7/13) Affairs at Thrush Green (26 page)

There was a sudden silence. Percy stood up slowly and menacingly. Albert realized that he had gone too far.

'Sorry, Perce, sorry! Forget it.'

'I don't know as I want to,' said Percy dangerously.

Mr Jones bustled round from the other side of the bar.

'Now, now, gentlemen! We don't want no silly talk in here. You sit down again, Percy, and have the other half. It's on the house.'

'Oh, it is, is it?' said Albert nastily.

'And I hope you'll have a half pint too,' said Mr Jones, with hasty diplomacy. 'Come on, boys! Sit down again.'

The two men obeyed with some reluctance. The beer was put before them, and they acknowledged the gift with nods.

The mugs were half empty before Percy spoke, after wiping his frothy mouth with the back of his hand.

'She ain't ever coming back, you know,' he said at last to Albert. 'All that advice you give me about being dignified and that, and then she'd come back! Well, it don't work, Albert. I wrote to her a week ago, and I had a letter this morning. She's got a job at Marks and Sparks. Likes it too, and her sister's putting her up. I reckon I made a fool of meself there, Albert.'

The beer was beginning to make him maudlin.

Albert did his best to be a comforter.

'I reckon you're better off without her, Perce. She don't know when she's well off. A good chap like you—she must be off her rocker to throw you over. Forget her, is my advice.'

'It's all right for you,' grumbled the abandoned husband. 'You've got your Nelly back safe and sound.'

'Well, to tell the truth, that ain't all beer and skittles by a long chalk. She's taken up Bingo twice a week, and I gets cold supper them nights. And what she's spending I dursen't think.'

Percy nodded sadly.

'Women is nothing but trouble,' he sighed. 'Well, Albert, best get back to work, I suppose.'

He linked his arm in Albert's, and the two set off rather unsteadily to the door.

Mr Jones watched their departure with infinite relief.

On one of the cold windy evenings, Charles Henstock made his way from the vicarage to St John's church.

He had arranged to meet the organist there to decide on the music for a recital to raise money for the Church Fabric Fund. Raising money had never come easily to the good rector, and now that he had four churches under his care he found the upkeep of them a formidable problem.

The loss of the fund's box had been a setback, although Charles realized, since he had made a point of emptying the new one daily, that contributions were very small indeed.

He did not blame people. He knew only too keenly how short of money so many families were these days. He too denied himself in many things, and was glad to do so, embarrassed at times by the multitude of expensive gimmicks he found in the homes of some of his parishioners.

He was beginning to realize too that Anthony Bull and his wealthy and generous wife gave readily to St John's, something which he could not do in his more humble circumstances.

The rector pondered on these things as he sat in his accustomed place in the chancel, awaiting the arrival of Bill Mitchell.

The church was cavernous and dark. Only the chancel light was on. It was also bone-chillingly cold, and Charles wished that he had put on a thicker coat.

It had been a sad day. The post had brought a letter from a friend of his schooldays to tell him of the death from leukemia of their only son. Charles had been the boy's godfather.

The sense of shock had remained with him throughout the day. The death of one's parents' generation one could accept, albeit with sadness.

When the time of life came, as it had to Charles, that his own contemporaries were common in the obituary columns, it was always a severe shock. But when, as today, one heard of the young, the children, the rising generation going untimely to the grave, it was enough to break one's heart.

He had gone about his duties all day with a shattering sense of loss. He normally enjoyed robust health. Today he suddenly realized how fragile and empty he felt, as vulnerable as a wounded bird, or a broken sapling. How rapidly, it seemed, one could change from a strong being to an invalid. It was a sharp lesson on the frailty of life.

The weather had done nothing to raise his spirits. Mist had risen from the river and engulfed the little town. People moved like ghosts, emerging from greyness to vanish again within yards. No wonder the Americans called this the fall of the year, ruminated Charles, sitting in his chilly church. It was not just the falling of the leaves, it was the decline of abounding life everywhere, the quiet slide from summer's joy towards winter's death.

He stirred himself and peered at his wrist watch. What could have happened to the organist? Bill Mitchell was always so punctual, and now he was ten minutes overdue.

He traversed the long aisle, and opened the south door. Dead leaves had gathered in the porch, and rustled as he walked through them. He made his way to the wrought iron gate. The bulk of his own vicarage loomed dimly through the mist.

Nearer at hand, beyond the graves, were six ancient almshouses. The lights shone mutedly in the mist. Waiting by the gate, his hand on the clammy metal, Charles saw one of the doors open. The clinking of bottles made him aware of the milk bottles being put out on the stone doorstep, ready for the morning.

The radio was on quite loudly, and a violin sobbed across the gloom. It had a haunting sound, 'a dying fall', which affected Charles with unaccustomed melancholy. He was glad when the door slammed, and he heard it no more.

The trees dripped dismally. There were puddles in the path. Really, thought Charles, all the approaches to the church needed fresh gravel. There was so much to do, and at times he felt that it was all beyond him. He mourned his loss of physical strength, his lost youth and vigour, his lost companions. Perhaps the succession of pinpricks, the criticisms, the petty comparisons with Anthony's ministrations, the departure of people like Mrs Thurgood from his flock, had contributed to his present low spirits. But the overwhelming feeling was this poignant one of loss.

Even dear old Polly had now gone, he remembered with a pang. And his old rectory was no more. He had been happy there, and had grieved far more keenly than his wife and friends over the charred remains. There were still precious objects which he missed. His old crucifix was one, a Bible given to him at his confirmation, a letter-opener he had made as a child, and innumerable dearly-loved books which could never be replaced.

Charles sighed. He was about to retrace his steps when a car skidded to a halt in the road, a door slammed, and Bill Mitchell ran towards him.

'I'm so
very
sorry,' he cried. 'Some poor chap had crashed his lorry and blocked the road. It was full of bottles of tomato ketchup, so the place looked like a battle field, besides bristling with glass.'

'No one hurt, I hope?'

'Only Constable Darwin who slipped up in the mess and sat down. But he's quite all right. Directed us all round the houses, which is why I'm so late.'

They entered by the south door, which the rector locked behind him. In the light of the chancel Bill Mitchell looked at the rector.

'Are you all right? You look as though you might have a chill.'

'No, no,' protested Charles, touched by this solicitude. 'I find this weather a little depressing, but that's all.'

'Good! Well, let's get down to the music. That will cheer us up. Music always does.'

'You are quite right, Bill,' agreed Charles, rubbing his cold hands briskly. 'Music always does!'

19. Marriage Plans

THE ENGAGEMENT of Kit and Connie afforded general satisfaction to their friends in Lulling and Thrush Green, but after the congratulations came two questions.

The first was: 'Where would they live?' The second was: 'Would Dotty live with them?'

Connie had been the first to pose them, and it was she who insisted that she would broach the subject with Dotty when they were alone.

'It's the best way,' she told Kit. if she's willing to move and come with us to a new place, then that settles it. But, if she won't, and I think that's more likely, we shall just have to think again.'

Kit agreed, and Connie awaited a suitable opportunity. It did not arise until two or three days after the engagement.

The two women were sitting by the fire, Dotty engrossed in brushing Flossie, and Connie trying to do the crossword. Kit was calling at half past three, and Connie decided that this was the moment to grasp the nettle.

'Where would I live?' queried Dotty, pausing momentarily from her work. 'The point is where are you deciding to live?'

'As you know, Aunt Dotty, Kit hasn't found anything yet. We must know if you would be willing to make a new home with us. One thing's certain. I shan't leave you, and Kit knows it, and approves.'

'That dratted dog!' exclaimed Dotty, as Flossie made her escape and went to ground under the sofa.

'Well, dear,' continued Dotty, putting down the brush. 'I've been giving a lot of thought to this matter ever since Kit appeared on the scene, and it was as plain as a pike staff to me that he had his eye on you.'

'You make me sound like a bargain!' protested Connie.

'And so you are. Now, I can't think why you keep fussing about looking at houses when you know this one is yours. I know it's not all that commodious, but you could always build on. Edward Young could probably run you up a nice little annexe. He's quite intelligent, and those homes of his are really very pleasant for people who don't want to go upstairs to bed.'

'But its
your
house, not mine!'

'It's left to you, as you know, and I shall be in Thrush Green churchyard before long,' said Dotty cheerfully. 'And I only hope that Albert Piggott will have gone too by then. Such a muddler at his work. I still think they would have been better advised to let my goats crop the grass there. The mowing is deplorable.'

Connie sat pondering on this development. Dotty was quite right. There was plenty of space round the cottage on which to build. It would solve the problem too of Dotty's future.

The only thing was how would Kit feel about settling at such close quarters with this dear, but slightly mad, relative?

As if reading her thoughts, Dotty rambled on.

'You see, there are
three
bedrooms after all, which would make one apiece. Though, of course, when you are married it would be quite in order, dear, for you to share one room.'

'I had realized that,' said Connie.

'And it would be a very good thing to be on the premises when the builders were working. Some of these fellows can be very dilatory, and I know for a fact that the men who renovated Tullivers, for the Hursts, were not above sitting down and
playing cards'

Dotty made it sound like one of the deadly sins.

'I said to them often: "This wouldn't do for my father, you know. You would have got short shrift had he been employing you!" They were quite impertinent, I remember.'

Dotty grew quite pink at the memory.

'Very naughty of them,' agreed Connie, wishing she had been on the scene at the time. 'Well, Aunt Dot, it's a marvellous offer, and I shall tell Kit about it. But could you bear to share your house?'

'It's
your
house! And there's nothing I should enjoy more than having you both under this roof. I could keep an eye on you, and make sure that Kit treated you properly.'

'I don't think he will turn out a wife-beater,' said Connie.

'You never can tell,'replied Dotty. 'Do bend down, dear, and fetch Flossie out. She badly needs kempting.'

'Kempting?' echoed Connie.

'Well, if she's
unkempt,
which she most certainly is, then she should be made the opposite. Now, where did I put that brush?'

Walking into Lulling with Kit that afternoon, Connie told him of Dotty's plans.

'There's a lot to be said for it,' he agreed, it settles Aunt Dotty's future, and I honestly think we could have a lovely house there if it were sensibly enlarged. The site is perfect and I shouldn't think there would be any planning difficulties. If you like the idea, I'll have a word with Edward, and see what he thinks about the possibilities.'

'I'm all for it,' said Connie, 'but are you truly happy about these arrangements? I can see some men refusing point blank, and I shouldn't blame them. Aunt Dotty's not everybody's idea of a close companion.'

'My dear girl, I know quite well I shall never get you to leave her, and I respect you for it. Therefore, if I want you—and God knows I do—then I'm more than happy to take on dear old Dotty as well. I think she's being uncommonly generous in making the offer. Let's jolly well enjoy it. We ought to have a lot of fun planning the new building.'

'It's an enormous weight off my mind,' confessed Connie. 'Let's have a cup of tea at The Fuchsia Bush to celebrate.'

Kit's landlady, Mrs Jenner, was delighted on her lodger's account to know of the forthcoming marriage, but told him frankly that she hardly dared to hope that she would ever get such a paragon again in her upstairs Bat.