there, at this moment.
She took the spectacles and folded them neatly, and removed the pen which was still lodged between the thin fingers. She automatically put the fast-cooling hands beneath the bedclothes, and smoothed the rumpled coverlet.
As she did so, she heard the sound of Jenny's bicycle being wheeled to the gate, and was glad to be left alone and in privacy.
She picked up the newspaper which had slipped to the floor. Still dry-eyed, as if in a trance, Winnie looked at the last entry, and remembered her husband reading out the clue. It was 'Bravery! Many lead the twentieth century', and Donald had filled it in, at the point of death. 'COURAGE' he had written, in faint capitals.
Winnie looked, with unseeing eyes, into the darkening garden.
He had possessed that all his life, and he had fostered it in others, inspiring and strengthening them when most in need.
And now, this one word, his last, might almost be considered as his final message to her.
She sat down by the bedside, and began her silent vigil, as night fell upon Thrush Green.
Part Two
Fighting Breaks Out
7 The Rector Is Inspired
O N the day after the funeral of the good doctor, Winnie Bailey accompanied her sister when she returned to Cornwall.
The inhabitants of Thrush Green voiced their approval. It was best to get right away for a time, they told each other. The house would be full of memories. Even more distressing, the mound of flowers above the doctor's last resting-place could be clearly seen from the upstairs windows. A very good thing that poor Mrs Bailey should be spared such pain.
The house looked blind and forlorn with all its windows shut. Only the surgery, built at the side, showed signs of life twice a day, when young Doctor Lovell, or his still younger assistant, opened the place from nine till ten-thirty and from six to seven-thirty in the evening.
What would happen to the house now, people wondered? It was a big place for one woman to live in. On the other hand, she had lived there almost all her married life, and she would not want to part with all the loved things around her which she and Donald had shared for so long. It was generally hoped that Winnie would return to Thrush Green, and that the sister would not be able to persuade her to stay in foreign parts.
The quiet weather, which had started on the night of Donald Bailey's death, continued to wrap the countryside in still greyness.
The sky remained overcast, the air humid. The hedges and trees were beaded with drops, and the turf of Thrush Green was spongy with moisture.
Gardeners, anxious to get their autumn digging done, found the heavy Cotswold soil too wet to turn. Lawns waited for their final cutting. Sodden roses, rusty with the damp, awaited pruning, and a general air of lethargy enveloped man and beast.
Tidying the churchyard still went on in a desultory way. The evenings now were too dark to allow much work to be done, but one Saturday afternoon found the rector, Harold Shoosmith and the oldest boy Cooke, from Nidden, busy with bill hooks and shears.
Albert Piggott hovered about ostensibly straightening the vases on various graves, but really watching the intruders on his preserves. That dopey Bobby Cooke, he told himself sourly, didn't know a hawk from a handsaw, let alone a dock from a privet bush. He guessed, correctly as it happened, that his mother had shooed him out of her way. How many was it she'd got? Seven, or eight? And she'd been a nice looking girl when they had been at the village school together years ago.
'How's yer mum?' asked Albert, suddenly affable.
'Eh?' said the boy. He wiped a wet nose on the back of his hand.
'How's yer ma?' repeated Albert.
'What?' said the boy. He began to look hunted.
'Lord love old Ireland!' snapped Albert, his brief store of affability vanishing. 'You wants to wash out yer ear-'oles! I asked how yer ma was, that's all.'
'Me ma?' echoed the boy, looking dazed. 'My mum, d'you mean?'
'Mum, ma, mummy,
She took the spectacles and folded them neatly, and removed the pen which was still lodged between the thin fingers. She automatically put the fast-cooling hands beneath the bedclothes, and smoothed the rumpled coverlet.
As she did so, she heard the sound of Jenny's bicycle being wheeled to the gate, and was glad to be left alone and in privacy.
She picked up the newspaper which had slipped to the floor. Still dry-eyed, as if in a trance, Winnie looked at the last entry, and remembered her husband reading out the clue. It was 'Bravery! Many lead the twentieth century', and Donald had filled it in, at the point of death. 'COURAGE' he had written, in faint capitals.
Winnie looked, with unseeing eyes, into the darkening garden.
He had possessed that all his life, and he had fostered it in others, inspiring and strengthening them when most in need.
And now, this one word, his last, might almost be considered as his final message to her.
She sat down by the bedside, and began her silent vigil, as night fell upon Thrush Green.
Part Two
Fighting Breaks Out
7 The Rector Is Inspired
O N the day after the funeral of the good doctor, Winnie Bailey accompanied her sister when she returned to Cornwall.
The inhabitants of Thrush Green voiced their approval. It was best to get right away for a time, they told each other. The house would be full of memories. Even more distressing, the mound of flowers above the doctor's last resting-place could be clearly seen from the upstairs windows. A very good thing that poor Mrs Bailey should be spared such pain.
The house looked blind and forlorn with all its windows shut. Only the surgery, built at the side, showed signs of life twice a day, when young Doctor Lovell, or his still younger assistant, opened the place from nine till ten-thirty and from six to seven-thirty in the evening.
What would happen to the house now, people wondered? It was a big place for one woman to live in. On the other hand, she had lived there almost all her married life, and she would not want to part with all the loved things around her which she and Donald had shared for so long. It was generally hoped that Winnie would return to Thrush Green, and that the sister would not be able to persuade her to stay in foreign parts.
The quiet weather, which had started on the night of Donald Bailey's death, continued to wrap the countryside in still greyness.
The sky remained overcast, the air humid. The hedges and trees were beaded with drops, and the turf of Thrush Green was spongy with moisture.
Gardeners, anxious to get their autumn digging done, found the heavy Cotswold soil too wet to turn. Lawns waited for their final cutting. Sodden roses, rusty with the damp, awaited pruning, and a general air of lethargy enveloped man and beast.
Tidying the churchyard still went on in a desultory way. The evenings now were too dark to allow much work to be done, but one Saturday afternoon found the rector, Harold Shoosmith and the oldest boy Cooke, from Nidden, busy with bill hooks and shears.
Albert Piggott hovered about ostensibly straightening the vases on various graves, but really watching the intruders on his preserves. That dopey Bobby Cooke, he told himself sourly, didn't know a hawk from a handsaw, let alone a dock from a privet bush. He guessed, correctly as it happened, that his mother had shooed him out of her way. How many was it she'd got? Seven, or eight? And she'd been a nice looking girl when they had been at the village school together years ago.
'How's yer mum?' asked Albert, suddenly affable.
'Eh?' said the boy. He wiped a wet nose on the back of his hand.
'How's yer ma?' repeated Albert.
'What?' said the boy. He began to look hunted.
'Lord love old Ireland!' snapped Albert, his brief store of affability vanishing. 'You wants to wash out yer ear-'oles! I asked how yer ma was, that's all.'
'Me ma?' echoed the boy, looking dazed. 'My mum, d'you mean?'
'Mum, ma, mummy,
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