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'Tuesday would suit me best,' said Nelly, thinking of washing day on Monday.

'And I hear that you are an excellent cook, Mrs Piggott.'

Nelly smiled in acknowledgement.

'Perhaps, very occasionally, you might prepare luncheon for us?'

'I'd be pleased to,' said Nelly. She waited to hear about payment.

'Have you brought any references?' enquired Ada.

'Well, no,' confessed Nelly. 'But Miss Watson would speak for me, and the Aliens at the Drover's Arms.

There was a whispered consultation between the three sisters, and much nodding of trembling heads.

'Very well,' said Ada. 'As this will only be a temporary arrangement we will waive the references. When can you start?'

Nelly decided that she must take a firm stand.

'I should like to know the wages, ma'am, before saying "Yes" or "No".'

'We pay fifty pence an hour, Mrs Piggott, and should like three hours each morning. You would receive three pounds a week.'

Fifty pence! thought Nelly. It was the least she had ever been offered, but it would be useful, and the job looked like being one after her own heart.

Ada, seeing the hesitation, added swiftly: 'You would be paid extra, of course, if you prepared a meal while you were here. Another fifty pence, Violet? Bertha?'

'Oh, yes, indeed,' they quavered obediendy.

Nelly rose.

'Then I'll come next Tuesday,' she said. 'Nine o'clock?'

'I think nine-thirty,' said Ada. 'We breakfast a little late, now that we are approaching middle age.'

She rose too, and the three sisters ushered Nelly out of the front door into Lulling High Street.

'Approaching middle age,' repeated Nelly to herself, as she set off for Thrush Green. 'That's a laugh! They must be over eighty, every one of them! Well, I shan't make a fortune there, but it'll be a nice change from cleaning Albert's place.'

It was on one of these cloudless June days that the Hursts flew to America.

Harold, as promised, drove them to Heathrow airport. The sun was hot through the glass and all were in high spirits. Neither Frank nor his wife were anxious travellers, Harold was glad to see. Much travelled himself, he had always felt slightly irritated by his fellow companions who were constantly leafing through their wallets to check that they had passports, licences, tickets and all the other paraphernalia of travelling, or turning to each other with agitated queries, such as: 'Did you turn off the electricity? The water? Did we leave a key with Florrie? Did you remember to tell the police we would be away? Do you think Rover will
like
those new kennels?'

Frank seemed to have everything in hand, and was looking forward to visiting the United States again, and to introducing Phil to his friends there. He loved the warmth and generosity of American hospitality, and the enthusiasm of his audiences. It made one feel young again. He hoped that Jeremy would pay many visits there as he grew older.

That young man was full of excited chatter. Harold let the boy's commentary on the passing scene flow in one ear and out at the other. He was remembering another trip he had taken to Heathrow, with Phil, some years before.

Then she had sat, white and silent, beside him, for the news had just come through of her first husband's death in a car crash in France, and Harold had driven her straight to the airport.

How bleak the outlook had seemed then! Harold's heart had been sore for her, so young and defenceless, with the added responsibility of bringing up a young child on her own. Thank God she had met Frank, and this second marriage had turned out so well.

His mind turned to Charles again and his happy marriage. And then, naturally enough, to the pleasant thought of Isobel coming to stay at Tullivers before long. Would the future hold marriage for him, he wondered?

He turned into the lane leading to the airport.

'Here we are! Here we are!' carolled Jeremy. 'And there are thousands of planes! Look, look! Don't you wish you were coming too, Uncle Harold?'

'In some ways,' replied Harold circumspectly, 'but I think I'd just as soon stay at Thrush Green for a while.'

16. Problems for the Piggotts

MISS WATSON came home from hospital on a Saturday, which meant that Agnes Fogerty could collect her in the taxi, as arranged, and see her settled at the schoolhouse.

Apart from looking pale and rather shaken, Dorothy Watson had come through her ordeal very well. She leant heavily on two sticks, but managed to get into the taxi without much trouble, and was in fine spirits.

'To be out again, Agnes dear,' she cried. 'To fee 1 fresh air on one's face, and to see children
running
! I can't tell you how lovely it is!'

Agnes had put some early roses in Dorothy's bedroom, and everything that could be done by loving hands awaited the invalid. The bed was turned down, a hot bottle was swathed in a fresh nightgown, and that day's newspaper and letters awaited reading on the bedside table.

Miss Watson, who had been looking forward to having lunch downstairs, saw that she must give way graciously to Agnes's ministrations. Nevertheless, she insisted on limping round downstairs, admiring the care which had been lavished on all her possessions.

'And Betty Bell has made you a sponge cake,' said Agnes. 'It's from Mr Shoosmith, with his love.'

'His love?' echoed Dorothy. 'How kind! He's such a reserved man, I should have been more than gratified with "kind regards". A sponge cake, and
love
as well, really touches me.'

'He's a very thoughtful person,' said Agnes. 'Yesterday he sent Piggott round to tidy the garden here instead of his own, and he has enquired many times about you.'

Miss Watson made her way slowly to the kitchen window at the rear of the house, and gazed with pleasure at the garden. Her roses were beginning to break, and the violas edging the beds were gay with blue, white and yellow blooms. A harassed blackbird, followed by four babies larger than itself, scurried to and fro across the newly-mown lawn, snatching up any morsel available and returning to thrust it down the clamorous throats.

She opened the window and leant across the sill. All the scents of summer drifted in upon the warm air, the mingled potpourri of the jasmine on the wall, the old-fashioned crimson peonies nearby, the freshly-cut grass, and the hay field beyond which stretched to the distant greenery of Lulling Woods.

There, in the distance, was Dotty Harmer's cottage, sitting as snugly as a golden cat in the fold of the meadow. Near at hand, glowing just as effulgently in the sunshine, was the bulk of kind Harold Shoosmith's home, and her own beloved little school.

She drew in her breath, overcome by the bliss of being at Thrush Green again, and suddenly realised how tired she was.

She turned to Agnes.

'Wonderful to be back, my dear. And now I'm going to that lovely bed, if you will help me with my shoes and stockings.'

She mounted the stairs slowly, attended anxiously by little Miss Fogerty, and as soon as she entered the bedroom went to gaze upon Thrush Green from the front windows.

There were the chestnut trees in pride of leaf. There were the homes of her friends and neighbours, sturdy, warm and welcoming. Nathaniel Patten gleamed upon his plinth, and gazed benevolently upon the children playing on the swings and see-saw nearby. A pale blue cloudless sky arched over all, and somewhere, close at hand, a blackbird trilled.

Miss Watson turned back into the room.

'What a perfect day, in all ways!' she commented. 'But, best of all, Agnes, to have you here with me. I am a very lucky woman!'

***

One sunny afternoon, soon after Miss Watson's return to her home, although not yet to her school duties, she noticed a familiar figure entering the gate of the Youngs' house.

'Now what can Molly Piggott—I mean Molly Curdle—be doing in Thrush Green?' she wondered. She had always been fond of the girl. She had been a rewarding pupil, keen to learn and polite in manner, despite her deplorable old father.

Miss Watson had watched her progress as mother's help at the Youngs', with the greatest interest and approval, and her marriage to young Ben Curdle had won everyone's blessing at Thrush Green.

Joan Young was as surprised to see Molly as Miss Watson had been, but welcomed her warmly.

She led her visitor into the garden and they sat in the shade of the ancient apple tree which Molly knew so well. Young Paul's swing had hung there, and she had spent many hours pushing her charge to and fro beneath spring blossom, summer leaf, and autumn fruit.

In the heat of the day the dappled shade was welcome, and Molly pushed her damp hair from her forehead.

'That hill gets steeper,' she smiled. 'Or I'm getting older.'

Her eyes roamed to the stable block. Preliminary clearing had begun, in the hope of planning permission being granted, and a stack of assorted and cumbersome objects, ranging from derelict deck-chairs to an equally decrepit cupboard, leant against the wall.

'That's a heavy job,' commented Molly. 'You planning to use the place as a garage?'

'Not a garage,' said Joan. 'Something more ambitious than that.'

She told the girl about her parents' retirement, and the conversions that they hoped to make. Molly nodded enthusiastically.

'I'm glad they're coming back at last to Thrush Green,' she said. 'It's only right that Mr Bassett should be here. Are they here now?'

'At the moment they are at the Henstocks having tea. Which reminds me, Molly, I've offered you nothing—which is shameful. What can I get you?'

'Nothing, thank you. Well, perhaps a glass of water?'

'I'll bring you some home-made lemonade. The same recipe you used to make up when you were here, remember?'

'Indeed I do. I'll come and help.'

They went back into the cool kitchen to fetch their drinks, and Joan wondered what had brought the girl to Thrush Green.

As if guessing her thoughts, Molly spoke.

'Friends of ours had a bit of business to do today over here, and offered me a lift. Ben's minding George, so I thought I'd look in and see Dad, and you, and anybody else as remembered me.'

'We all remember you,' cried Joan, leading the way with the tray, back to the garden seat.

They sipped their lemonade, the ice clinking against the glass. Above them a starling chattered, his dark plumage iridescent in the sunlight. A fat thrush ran about the lawn, stopping every now and again, head cocked sideways, to listen for a worm beneath the surface.

'I wondered,' said Molly, breaking the silence, 'if you'd heard of anything for Ben to do?'

Joan felt a pang of guilt. She had certainly made enquiries, and mentioned the matter to several friends, but the advent of her parents, and the anxiety over her father's health had limited her search.

'I haven't done as much as I had hoped to do,' she confessed. She outlined her efforts, and promised to make amends.

'The thing is,' said Molly, 'Dick Hasler has offered us a good sum for the fair, and Ben thinks he'll have to accept. There's no end of expense that we can't face. I left him patching up two swingboats. The timber alone cost a mint of money, and there's a limit to the time Ben can spare for repairs. We've faced it now. We'll have to give up, and although it grieves my Ben, we know the fair's day's done—at least, as we ran it. Dick's got plenty behind him, and if he loses on one thing he can make it up on another.'

'In fact, what he loses on the swings, he gains on the roundabouts?' smiled Joan.

'That's it exactly. And this is where we'd like to be for the future, as you know.'

'You're quite right. There's your father to consider too, although I expect you know that Nelly's back?'

'Yes, indeed. One look at that place showed me that. I can't say I take to Nelly,' she went on, in a burst of confidence. 'She's too bold for my liking, but she do keep a house clean.'

'And keeps Albert well fed.'

'But for how long? D'you think she'll stay? In some ways, I hope she will. It would be a relief to us to know Dad was being looked after. But they're not happy together, as you know. I can't see it lasting.'

'Frankly, neither can I,' agreed Joan.

St Andrew's church clock chimed four, and Molly put down her glass hastily.

'I'd best be getting down to the crossroads. I'm being picked up at a quarter past, and I must drop into Dad's again to say goodbye.'

'Now, I promise to do my best to find something for Ben,' said Joan, taking the girl's hands in hers. 'When would he be free to start?'

'Any time,' said Molly. 'We could stay with Dad until we found a place of our own. Anything to get back to Thrush Green, and to start afresh. It's been a sad time for us lately, particularly for Ben. The fair's always been his life, as you know.'

'Something will turn up, I'm positive,' Joan assured her. 'I will write to you very soon.'

She watched Molly cross the grass to go to Albert's cottage. The children were streaming out from school, and Joan thought how lovely it would be when Molly and Ben were back, and George himself would be coming home from Thrush Green School.