Thrush Green (17 page)

Ella, her spirits as much restored by her own loquacity as by the flowers and the company, beamed her farewells. She had stuck the narcissus behind one ear, like a Pacific Island maiden. Its fragility contrasted strongly with the weather-beaten cheek against which it fell, and gave an added rakishness to her raffish appearance.

A large tabby cat, which was the adored pet of the house, crept in as Mrs. Bailey opened the bedroom door. It glided to the bedside, gathered itself together and leaped heavily upon its mistress's lap. Mrs. Bailey, who had been powerless to forestall it, waited for screams and imprecations to rend the air. None came.

"Dear old puss," cooed Ella lovingly, enveloping the creature in an embrace of red dressing gown. "Come to see your poor old mum, have you?"

Mrs. Bailey closed the door quietly upon their reunion, and crept downstairs. At least, she told herself with amusement, she could let her husband know that one patient was well on the way to recovery.

12. A Family Fight

C
URDLE'S
F
AIR
was now in readiness for its grand opening, soon after six, in about two hours' time.

It was not a large fair, it is true, but to its owner and its admirers in Thrush Green and dozens of other villages scattered across half a dozen counties, it had everything that was essential for an evening of delicious noise and heady vertigo.

The roundabout was the center piece. Its brass winked in the sunshine, and the dappled horses, legs stretched and nostrils aflare, galloped in eternal fury. A switch-back, a trifle shabby about its red plush seats, but capable of dizzying speed, stood nearby; while eight swing boats, painted red and blue, provided more sensation, and hung now, idly swaying beneath the striped furry sallies of their ropes. Later, as darkness fell, the youths of Lulling would tug with sweating palms at those hairy grips, vying with each other for speed and height and causing their terrified passengers to scream with mingled fear and ecstasy. What could be more exhilarating than the music of those faint screams, tribute to one's manly strength, added to the wild rush of night air as the boat swept up and back in a breath-taking arc, with the glare of the fair's lights swirling below and the pale stars glimmering above? The swing boats were rarely idle once the fair began, but now, in the heat of the afternoon, they seemed to drowse, like boats at anchor in some serene harbor, swaying gently, in that lovelier element than water, above the rippling green grass.

The marquee that housed the menagerie was now in readiness. Rachel, shaken but obediently silent, had finished her ministrations there and now sat plaiting her hair on the steps of her home.

The coconuts stood poised upon the red and white striped posts that Ben had rammed home that morning. Five or six stalls—rolling pennies into a square, toy ducks to be caught with a magnet, the wheel of fortune, and the like awaited their customers. Above each stall, festooned against a glitter of mirrors, hung teddy bears, dolls, teapots, cushions, kettles, crockery, watches, knives and a host of prizes to dazzle covetous eyes.

A shooting range, with playing cards pricked with a thousand pin marks, displayed similar prizes and some of a humbler type, pottery figures of dogs, gnomes and unsteady baskets, doomed to break, chip and peel in less than no time and to find a merciful end in a cottage dustbin.

A few small booths completed the fair. Some sold sweets, great humbugs as big as a child's fist, vast flat tins of treacle toffee that cracked beneath the stall-holder's metal hammer like brown enchanted glass, and billowing clouds of pink and white candy floss. Hanging at the side of one stall from a great hook was a wonderful silky skein of sweet sugar floss which was pulled and twisted, looped and tossed, by dusky hands which were a seven-day wonder to the open-mouthed children and a shocking affront to their elders.

Two of the smaller booths flashed like Aladdin's cave with a galaxy of cheap jewelry. It was from one of these that Molly's much-loved cornflower brooch had come. Bracelets, necklaces, earrings, powder cases, and jeweled pins for scarf and hair sparkled with rubies, sapphires, diamonds, emeralds, pearls and topazes, no less dazzling because they were of glass. They twinkled in the brilliant sunshine, reflecting its light from a thousand facets. Later they would flash even more brightly beneath the harsh lights set against the mirrored roof above them.

They expressed the very essence of the fair, garish but gay, seductive but innocent, phony but fascinating.

And in many a cottage home next day, one of those sparkling trinkets would be treasured as the souvenir of an enchanted evening, when hearts were as young and light as the newly broken leaves that whispered on Thrush Green's trees.

The infants had already straggled out of school. They had sung their grace, led by Miss Fogerty's quavering soprano:

"Thank you for the world so sweet.
Thank you for the food we eat.
Thank you for the birds that sing,
Thank you, God, for everything."

Some were sharp, some flat, some growled tunelessly, but all took it along at a spanking pace, determined to get out into the exciting canvas world of the fair, which had sprung up so miraculously since morning.

Shouting, running, trailing coats too hot to wear on this golden afternoon they had vanished from Miss Fogerty's sight.

Sighing with exhaustion the teacher bent down and loosened her shoelaces. There was nothing more tiring to the feet than a sudden burst of warm weather, she told herself. Tomorrow, if it lasted, she decided, as she locked her desk and swept the snippets of colored paper which littered it into the wastepaper basket, she really must look out her Clark's sandals and be comfortable.

At the same time Molly and Ben were descending the steep path through Lulling Woods on their way to Thrush Green.

The laundry van had called early, and Ben had persuaded Molly that the main reason for lingering at "The Drovers' Arms" had now vanished.

"Give us the chicken food," he had directed, "and I'll chuck it over while you tidies up."

"But what about my missus?" Molly had said, pretending to be anxious.

"Leave her a note. You can write, can't you?" he said, with a wry smile. Molly gave him a sudden hug, delighted that he could now joke about something that had worried him so recently. The hug was returned warmly, and would have been prolonged indefinitely had not Molly broken away, thrust the chicken's bucket into her lover's hand and run upstairs to put on the yellow spotted frock and hair ribbon.

Within half an hour they had emerged from the cool greenery of the woods into the golden meadows below. They walked slowly, arms around each other's waist, stopping every few paces to kiss or gaze with wonder at each other. After a year of doubt, loneliness and despair the sudden revelation of their true feelings overwhelmed them. They were in the grip of the age-old spell of first love, and moved like beings entranced.

Ben had never felt so buoyant, so confident and so invulnerable before. All the world was his, and there was nothing that he could not attempt now that he knew Molly was his.

But Molly, despite her happiness, felt apprehensive about the meeting with old Mrs. Curdle. She had been a figure of awe-inspiring majesty to the girl all her life, and the thought of those black eyes scrutinizing and criticizing her was indeed a fearsome one.

"I could give you a cup of tea at our house," she said shyly. "The key's under the mat, and you'll have to meet my dad sometime."

"I daresay," answered Ben, stopping again and holding his girl at arm's length. He knew all that was passing in her mind and laughed aloud to think that she should fear to meet old Gran.

"But I'm taking you straight to Gran's, and she'll give you more than a cup of tea. She'll give you the biggest welcome you've ever had. You'll see, she'll be that pleased!" promised young Ben earnestly, and Molly took what comfort she could from his assurances.

It was at this moment that they became conscious of a distant voice calling to them. Dotty Harmer, at the end of her garden, one hand clamping the enormous sun hat to her head and the other holding up a basket, was trying to attract their attention. They left the dusty path and waded through the sea of buttercups to her hedge, Molly hastily detaching herself from her companion's grasp.

"You wait here," she urged. "I won't be a minute."

She approached the low hedge.

"Good afternoon, Miss Harmer," she said demurely.

"Molly, be a good girl and take these few things into Miss Bembridge. Have you heard about her accident?"

"No indeed!" exclaimed Molly, and listened to the tale. She took the basket and lifted it over the hedge. Inside were various bottles and jars huddled under a disheveled bunch of wilting primroses.

"I can't get up to Thrush Green myself," went on Dotty, speaking of the place as though it were in another hemisphere, "as the cat's kittening and she does like a little support at these times."

She cast an inquisitive glance at the distant Ben.

"And who is the young man?" she inquired.

Curious old cat, thought Molly rebelliously, why should I tell her? But Miss Harmer, despite her scarecrow appearance, still occasioned a vestige of respect and a certain amount of pity too, so that the girl answered civilly.

"He's Ben Curdle, from the fair."

The sound of anguished mewing floated from the shed nearby and Dotty turned away hastily.

"Many thanks," she called as she went. "Just drop it in, Molly."

She vanished from sight and Molly rejoined Ben.

"She potty?" inquired the young man, nodding toward the cottage.

"Not really," replied Molly tolerantly. "Just had too much book learning."

Together they resumed their interrupted progress to Thrush Green.

Meanwhile, Sam bit his nails and sat, glowering, on the steps of his caravan. The heat of the day and his own black temper caused him to sweat profusely. He untied his gaudy neckerchief and threw it behind him onto the floor of the caravan.

Well, that put paid to the horses for the afternoon, he told himself morosely. The old girl was back in the caravan and not likely to budge again. He remembered the cold, glittering look which she had cast him and Sam's craven soul shuddered at the remembrance.

The church clock chimed the first quarter, the silvery sound floating down through the sunny air as lightly as the summer insects that made the air murmurous about him. In fifteen minutes, thought Sam savagely, Rougemont would be setting off to win—and not a penny would he have on him.

He leaped to his feet, unable to sit still any longer under such provocation, and prowled behind the canvas enclosure of Ben's coconut shies. It was very quiet.

Not a soul was in sight, although he could hear the voices of women in a neighboring caravan and the cries of the schoolchildren making their way home across Thrush Green.

At that moment he saw Mrs. Curdle. She descended the steps of her caravan and made her way steadily in the direction of the menagerie tent. The old lady was about to continue her disturbed inspection. Sam noticed how heavily she leaned upon her ebony stick, but it was not pity which moved his heart. A searing flash of hope caused it to throb. Talk of luck! he told himself. There still might be a chance!

His fears forgotten in the excitement of a flutter and a race against time, Sam moved swiftly toward the caravan. Its doorway faced away from the center of the fair and he entered unobserved.

He wasted no time by investigating the drawer or the teapot, but crept to the end of Mrs. Curdle's bed and heaved frantically at the mattress which enveloped the Curdle Bank.

Ben and Molly approached Mrs. Curdle's caravan from the rear.

Molly had delivered Dotty's basket into Dimity's hands, had received her profuse thanks and had inquired with real sympathy after poor Miss Bembridge. Molly had received many kindnesses from both ladies and felt for them affection mingled with some pity for their maiden state.

Her errand done, she returned to Ben with a fluttering heart, for now the time had come to face his formidable grandparent.

"Oh Ben," she said, suddenly faltering on the verge of Thrush Green, and turning beseeching eyes upon him.

Ben gave her that crinkly smile that turned her heart over, squeezed her hand, and said nothing. Together they threaded their way behind the booths and stalls, occasionally passing one of the Curdle tribe who glanced interestedly at Ben's companion but said nothing. Only a fair girl, feeding her baby, and humming blissfully to herself in the drowsy sunshine, nodded to Molly and smiled at Ben. He paused for a moment to chirrup to the sleeping child and to flick his cousin's light hair, but they did not speak.

As they neared the caravan they could hear the sound of movement inside. Ben stopped, arrested by a sudden thought.

"I best make sure Gran's all right," he said to Molly. "She has a lay-down sometimes of an afternoon. Wait half a minute for me."

Molly nodded so eagerly and thankfully at this brief reprieve that Ben, now that no eyes were upon them, gave her a swift fierce hug and kiss that left her breathless.