her from Matins although not from Evensong. It was Blackie who, rising first, took early morning tea to her cousin and made their nightly Ovaltine or cocoa at half past ten. They holidayed together, for the last two weeksin July, usually abroad, because neither of them had anyone with a stronger claim. They looked forward each June to the Wimbledon tennis championship and enjoyed the occasional weekend visit to a concert, theatre or art gallery. They told themselves, but did not say aloud, that they were lucky.
Weaver’s Cottage stood on the northern outskirts of the village. Originally two substantial cottages, it had in the 1950s been converted into one dwelling by a family with definite ideas about what constituted rural domestic charm. The tiled roof had been replaced with reed thatch from which three dormer windows stared out like protruding eyes; the plain windows were now mullioned and a porch had been added, covered in summer by climbing roses and clematis. Mrs. Willoughby loved the cottage and if the mullioned windows made the sitting room rather darker than she would ideally have liked, and some of the oak beams were less authentic than others, these defects were never openly acknowledged. The cottage with its immaculate thatch and its garden had appeared on too many calendars, had been photographed by visitors too often for her to worry about small details of architectural integrity. The main part of the garden was in the front, and here Mrs. Willoughby spent most of her spare hours, tending, planting and watering what was generally admitted to be West Marling’s most impressive front garden, designed as much for the pleasure of passers-by as for the occupants of the cottage.
“I aim for something of interest throughout the year,” she would explain to people who paused to admire, and in this she certainly succeeded. But she was a true and imaginative gardener. Plants thrived under her care and she had an instinctive eye for the placing of colour and mass. The cottage might be less than authentic but the garden was unmistakably English.There was a small lawn with a mulberry tree which in spring was surrounded by crocuses, snowdrops and later the bright trumpets of daffodils and narcissi. In the summer the heavily planted beds leading to the porch were an intoxication of colour and scent, while the beech hedge, trimmed low so as not to obscure the view of the glories beyond, was a living symbol of the passing seasons from the first tight, tentative buds to the crisp gold and reds of its autumn glory.
She always returned from the monthly PCC meeting bright-eyed and invigorated. Some people, Blackie reflected, would have found the fortnightly skirmishes with the vicar about his partiality for the new liturgy over the old and his other minor delinquencies dispiriting; Joan seemed to thrive on them. She settled herself, plump thighs parted stretching the tweed of her skirt, feet firmly planted, before the pie-edged table and poured the two glasses of amontillado. A dry biscuit cracked between the strong white teeth, the cut glass, one of a set, with its delicate stem looked as if it would snap in her hand.
“It’s inclusive language now, if you please. He wants ‘Through the Night of Doubt and Sorrow’ at next Sunday’s Evensong, but we’re supposed to sing ‘Person Takes the Hand of Person, Marching Fearless through the Night.’ I soon put a stop to that, supported by Mr. Higginson, thankfully. I can forgive that man the price of his bacon and the way he lets that mangy old cat of his sit in the window on the cornflakes when he acts with sense at the PCC which, to do him justice, he usually does. Miss Matlock suggested ‘Sister Takes the Hand of Sister.’ ”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except it’s not what the author wrote. Had a good day?”
“No. It hasn’t been a good day.”
But Mrs. Willoughby’s mind was still with the PCC. “I’m not particularly fond of that hymn.
Weaver’s Cottage stood on the northern outskirts of the village. Originally two substantial cottages, it had in the 1950s been converted into one dwelling by a family with definite ideas about what constituted rural domestic charm. The tiled roof had been replaced with reed thatch from which three dormer windows stared out like protruding eyes; the plain windows were now mullioned and a porch had been added, covered in summer by climbing roses and clematis. Mrs. Willoughby loved the cottage and if the mullioned windows made the sitting room rather darker than she would ideally have liked, and some of the oak beams were less authentic than others, these defects were never openly acknowledged. The cottage with its immaculate thatch and its garden had appeared on too many calendars, had been photographed by visitors too often for her to worry about small details of architectural integrity. The main part of the garden was in the front, and here Mrs. Willoughby spent most of her spare hours, tending, planting and watering what was generally admitted to be West Marling’s most impressive front garden, designed as much for the pleasure of passers-by as for the occupants of the cottage.
“I aim for something of interest throughout the year,” she would explain to people who paused to admire, and in this she certainly succeeded. But she was a true and imaginative gardener. Plants thrived under her care and she had an instinctive eye for the placing of colour and mass. The cottage might be less than authentic but the garden was unmistakably English.There was a small lawn with a mulberry tree which in spring was surrounded by crocuses, snowdrops and later the bright trumpets of daffodils and narcissi. In the summer the heavily planted beds leading to the porch were an intoxication of colour and scent, while the beech hedge, trimmed low so as not to obscure the view of the glories beyond, was a living symbol of the passing seasons from the first tight, tentative buds to the crisp gold and reds of its autumn glory.
She always returned from the monthly PCC meeting bright-eyed and invigorated. Some people, Blackie reflected, would have found the fortnightly skirmishes with the vicar about his partiality for the new liturgy over the old and his other minor delinquencies dispiriting; Joan seemed to thrive on them. She settled herself, plump thighs parted stretching the tweed of her skirt, feet firmly planted, before the pie-edged table and poured the two glasses of amontillado. A dry biscuit cracked between the strong white teeth, the cut glass, one of a set, with its delicate stem looked as if it would snap in her hand.
“It’s inclusive language now, if you please. He wants ‘Through the Night of Doubt and Sorrow’ at next Sunday’s Evensong, but we’re supposed to sing ‘Person Takes the Hand of Person, Marching Fearless through the Night.’ I soon put a stop to that, supported by Mr. Higginson, thankfully. I can forgive that man the price of his bacon and the way he lets that mangy old cat of his sit in the window on the cornflakes when he acts with sense at the PCC which, to do him justice, he usually does. Miss Matlock suggested ‘Sister Takes the Hand of Sister.’ ”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except it’s not what the author wrote. Had a good day?”
“No. It hasn’t been a good day.”
But Mrs. Willoughby’s mind was still with the PCC. “I’m not particularly fond of that hymn.
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