mother!' shouted Albert in exasperation. 'Her what bore you – more's the pity! I simply asked – civil – how she was.'
'Oh!' said the boy, and turned back to the hedge again.
Albert, near to gibbering, wrenched at the boy's shoulder.
'Well, answer me then, you dope,' screamed Albert. 'How's yer ma?'
'All right,' said the boy, looking faintly surprised. He stood there open-mouthed, watching Albert hobble away to a distant vase, muttering the while.
'Loopy!' said the boy aloud, taking a leisurely swing at a lilac bush.
At the further end of the graveyard, Harold and Charles sat on the stub wall and puffed in unison. Their knees were wet and muddied, for they had been crawling along the perimeter path trimming the tussocks of grass which no mower could hope to cut.
'Good of Bobby Cooke to turn up,' commented the rector, putting a hand to his aching back.
'Is it Bobby? I thought that one was Cyril.'
'To be honest,' said the rector, 'I muddle them myself. There are so many Cookes. She used to clean the village school you know, before Nelly Tilling – I mean, Mrs Piggott – did it.'
'Any chance of Mrs P. returning?'
'None, I should say, and in any case I doubt if Miss Watson would want her back at the cleaning – excellent though I believe she was! Your Betty Bell is so satisfactory, I gather.'
'She's a good girl,' agreed Harold.
He caught sight of the eldest Cooke boy slashing at the lilac bush, and hurried to the rescue. The rector rose painfully from his resting place before resuming his task. Certainly the path looked neater, but for how long? And would it be possible to restore the graveyard to its earlier neatness, without at least two men working full-time?
'Sometimes,' he said sadly to his friend, when Harold returned, 'I think we'll have to have those sheep back. Something drastic must be done. We're only nibbling at it, you know. What we want is a clean sweep.'
Harold nodded.
'Are you free on Monday? I'm running down to Stroud to pick up some rush mats for the kitchen, and I'd like you to come with me, if you can spare the time. There's a graveyard on the way which might give us some ideas.'
'I should like that immensely,' said the rector.
' Right,' said Harold, 'and now back to work. Only another thirty yards to go!'
'Thank God!' said the rector from his heart, sinking to his knees.
Monday was another still grey day, but the mists had lifted, and the distant views showed the autumn fields a patchwork of green, brown and gold.
It was a treat for Charles Henstock to have a day out. His parish duties occupied his time, and as a neighbouring parson was on the sick list, he had been particularly busy helping with his services for the past month.
Harold's car was large and comfortable. What was more, it had an efficient heater which the rector's did not have.
'You should get Reg Bull to look at it,' said Harold, when Charles told him.
'But he has. He services it regularly, you know, and I always mention the heater. I suppose it's beyond human aid.'
'Rubbish!' said Harold robustly. 'Tell Bull you won't pay the bill until the heater's put right. That'll make him move.'
'I really don't think I'm equal to that,' replied the good rector unhappily.
'Then you'll have a cold car. And what's more, so will poor Dimity.'
This was a shrewd thrust, and Charles moved restlessly in his agitation.
'Yes, of course. You are quite right. I must think of Dimity. She's not strong, you know, and with the winter coming on, I suppose I must put some pressure on Reg Bull.'
'Good! You make sure you do. He won't trouble, if you don't.'
Harold navigated a bend in a village street, and drew up by a grass verge. To their left stood a square-towered church of golden stone, set in a large graveyard.
The two men got out and went to the wall which bordered the verge. It was a little more than waist-high, and sprinkled with dots of green moss and orange and grey lichens.
The two rested their arms on the top and gazed
'Oh!' said the boy, and turned back to the hedge again.
Albert, near to gibbering, wrenched at the boy's shoulder.
'Well, answer me then, you dope,' screamed Albert. 'How's yer ma?'
'All right,' said the boy, looking faintly surprised. He stood there open-mouthed, watching Albert hobble away to a distant vase, muttering the while.
'Loopy!' said the boy aloud, taking a leisurely swing at a lilac bush.
At the further end of the graveyard, Harold and Charles sat on the stub wall and puffed in unison. Their knees were wet and muddied, for they had been crawling along the perimeter path trimming the tussocks of grass which no mower could hope to cut.
'Good of Bobby Cooke to turn up,' commented the rector, putting a hand to his aching back.
'Is it Bobby? I thought that one was Cyril.'
'To be honest,' said the rector, 'I muddle them myself. There are so many Cookes. She used to clean the village school you know, before Nelly Tilling – I mean, Mrs Piggott – did it.'
'Any chance of Mrs P. returning?'
'None, I should say, and in any case I doubt if Miss Watson would want her back at the cleaning – excellent though I believe she was! Your Betty Bell is so satisfactory, I gather.'
'She's a good girl,' agreed Harold.
He caught sight of the eldest Cooke boy slashing at the lilac bush, and hurried to the rescue. The rector rose painfully from his resting place before resuming his task. Certainly the path looked neater, but for how long? And would it be possible to restore the graveyard to its earlier neatness, without at least two men working full-time?
'Sometimes,' he said sadly to his friend, when Harold returned, 'I think we'll have to have those sheep back. Something drastic must be done. We're only nibbling at it, you know. What we want is a clean sweep.'
Harold nodded.
'Are you free on Monday? I'm running down to Stroud to pick up some rush mats for the kitchen, and I'd like you to come with me, if you can spare the time. There's a graveyard on the way which might give us some ideas.'
'I should like that immensely,' said the rector.
' Right,' said Harold, 'and now back to work. Only another thirty yards to go!'
'Thank God!' said the rector from his heart, sinking to his knees.
Monday was another still grey day, but the mists had lifted, and the distant views showed the autumn fields a patchwork of green, brown and gold.
It was a treat for Charles Henstock to have a day out. His parish duties occupied his time, and as a neighbouring parson was on the sick list, he had been particularly busy helping with his services for the past month.
Harold's car was large and comfortable. What was more, it had an efficient heater which the rector's did not have.
'You should get Reg Bull to look at it,' said Harold, when Charles told him.
'But he has. He services it regularly, you know, and I always mention the heater. I suppose it's beyond human aid.'
'Rubbish!' said Harold robustly. 'Tell Bull you won't pay the bill until the heater's put right. That'll make him move.'
'I really don't think I'm equal to that,' replied the good rector unhappily.
'Then you'll have a cold car. And what's more, so will poor Dimity.'
This was a shrewd thrust, and Charles moved restlessly in his agitation.
'Yes, of course. You are quite right. I must think of Dimity. She's not strong, you know, and with the winter coming on, I suppose I must put some pressure on Reg Bull.'
'Good! You make sure you do. He won't trouble, if you don't.'
Harold navigated a bend in a village street, and drew up by a grass verge. To their left stood a square-towered church of golden stone, set in a large graveyard.
The two men got out and went to the wall which bordered the verge. It was a little more than waist-high, and sprinkled with dots of green moss and orange and grey lichens.
The two rested their arms on the top and gazed
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