meant so much to her for so long.
If only Miss Potter had never come to Thrush Green! If only Miss Potter were not here! If only Miss Potter would go!
The clock's hands stood at twelve o'clock. Sighing, little Miss Fogerty stood for grace, and thanked God for blessings received, with a heavy heart.
On the way into the lobby, Johnny Dodd, arch-malefactor of the infants' class, whispered to his neighbour:
'We was quiet all that time and she never give us so much as a pear drop out of the sweet-tin!'
Injustice rankles at any age.
6 Doctor Bailey's Last Battle
B EFORE nightfall, the news that Doctor Bailey was sinking was common knowledge at Thrush Green.
There was general sadness. Even Albert Piggott had a good word to say for the dying man, as he drank his half-pint of bitter at "The Two Pheasants."
'Well, we shan't see his like again,' he commented morosely. 'He done us proud, the old gentleman. I s'pose now we has to put up with young Doctor Lovell dashing in and out again before you can tell him what ails you.'
'There's the new chap,' said the landlord. 'Seems a nice enough young fellow.'
'Him?' squeaked Albert. 'Nothing but a beardless boy! I wouldn't trust my peptic ulcer to him, that I wouldn't. No, I'll put me trust in strong peppermints while I can, and hope Doctor Lovell can spare a couple of minutes when I'm real hard-pressed. You mark my words, we're all going to miss the old doctor at Thrush Green.'
It was the older people who were the saddest. Doctor Bailey had brought their children into the world, and knew the family histories intimately. He had not been active in the partnership for some years now, so that the younger inhabitants were more familiar with Doctor Lovell, who had married a Thrush Green girl, and was accepted as a comparatively worthy successor to Doctor Bailey.
But it was the old friends and neighbours, the Youngs, the Henstocks, Ella Bembridge, Dotty Harmer, the Hursts next door and the comparative newcomer, Harold Shoosmith, who were going to miss Donald Bailey most keenly. Most of them had visited the invalid often, during the past few months, marvelling at his gallant spirit and his unfailing good temper.
Now, as the day waned, their thoughts turned to that quiet grey house across the green. The rector had called during the afternoon and found Winnie Bailey sitting by her husband's bedside.
He was asleep, his frail hands folded on the white sheet. A downstairs room, once his study, had been turned into a bedroom for the last few months, and his bed faced the french windows leading into the garden he loved so well. Propped up on his pillows, he had enjoyed a view of the flower beds and the comings and goings at the bird table all through the summer.
His particular joy was the fine copper beech tree which dominated the scene. He had watched it in early May, as the tiny breaking leaves spread a pinkish haze over the magnificent skeleton. He had rejoiced in its glossy purplish mid-summer beauty which had sheltered the gentle ring-doves that cooed among its branches. And now, in these last few days, he had watched its golden leaves fluttering down to form a glowing carpet at its foot, as the autumn winds tossed the great boughs this way and that.
For once, the boisterous wind was lulled. Wisps of high grey cloud scarcely moved behind the copper beech. The garden was very still, the bird-table empty, the room where the dying man lay as quiet and tranquil as the grave to which so soon he would be departing.
Charles Henstock sat beside his old friend for a short time, his lips moving in prayer. After a little he rose, and Winnie went with him into the sitting-room. She was calm and dry-eyed, and Charles admired her control.
'He's very much in our thoughts and prayers, as you know,' said Charles. 'I know that Ella and Dimity – everyone in fact – will want to know how he is and would like to call, but they don't wish to intrude at a time like this. Shall I tell them the latest news?
If only Miss Potter had never come to Thrush Green! If only Miss Potter were not here! If only Miss Potter would go!
The clock's hands stood at twelve o'clock. Sighing, little Miss Fogerty stood for grace, and thanked God for blessings received, with a heavy heart.
On the way into the lobby, Johnny Dodd, arch-malefactor of the infants' class, whispered to his neighbour:
'We was quiet all that time and she never give us so much as a pear drop out of the sweet-tin!'
Injustice rankles at any age.
6 Doctor Bailey's Last Battle
B EFORE nightfall, the news that Doctor Bailey was sinking was common knowledge at Thrush Green.
There was general sadness. Even Albert Piggott had a good word to say for the dying man, as he drank his half-pint of bitter at "The Two Pheasants."
'Well, we shan't see his like again,' he commented morosely. 'He done us proud, the old gentleman. I s'pose now we has to put up with young Doctor Lovell dashing in and out again before you can tell him what ails you.'
'There's the new chap,' said the landlord. 'Seems a nice enough young fellow.'
'Him?' squeaked Albert. 'Nothing but a beardless boy! I wouldn't trust my peptic ulcer to him, that I wouldn't. No, I'll put me trust in strong peppermints while I can, and hope Doctor Lovell can spare a couple of minutes when I'm real hard-pressed. You mark my words, we're all going to miss the old doctor at Thrush Green.'
It was the older people who were the saddest. Doctor Bailey had brought their children into the world, and knew the family histories intimately. He had not been active in the partnership for some years now, so that the younger inhabitants were more familiar with Doctor Lovell, who had married a Thrush Green girl, and was accepted as a comparatively worthy successor to Doctor Bailey.
But it was the old friends and neighbours, the Youngs, the Henstocks, Ella Bembridge, Dotty Harmer, the Hursts next door and the comparative newcomer, Harold Shoosmith, who were going to miss Donald Bailey most keenly. Most of them had visited the invalid often, during the past few months, marvelling at his gallant spirit and his unfailing good temper.
Now, as the day waned, their thoughts turned to that quiet grey house across the green. The rector had called during the afternoon and found Winnie Bailey sitting by her husband's bedside.
He was asleep, his frail hands folded on the white sheet. A downstairs room, once his study, had been turned into a bedroom for the last few months, and his bed faced the french windows leading into the garden he loved so well. Propped up on his pillows, he had enjoyed a view of the flower beds and the comings and goings at the bird table all through the summer.
His particular joy was the fine copper beech tree which dominated the scene. He had watched it in early May, as the tiny breaking leaves spread a pinkish haze over the magnificent skeleton. He had rejoiced in its glossy purplish mid-summer beauty which had sheltered the gentle ring-doves that cooed among its branches. And now, in these last few days, he had watched its golden leaves fluttering down to form a glowing carpet at its foot, as the autumn winds tossed the great boughs this way and that.
For once, the boisterous wind was lulled. Wisps of high grey cloud scarcely moved behind the copper beech. The garden was very still, the bird-table empty, the room where the dying man lay as quiet and tranquil as the grave to which so soon he would be departing.
Charles Henstock sat beside his old friend for a short time, his lips moving in prayer. After a little he rose, and Winnie went with him into the sitting-room. She was calm and dry-eyed, and Charles admired her control.
'He's very much in our thoughts and prayers, as you know,' said Charles. 'I know that Ella and Dimity – everyone in fact – will want to know how he is and would like to call, but they don't wish to intrude at a time like this. Shall I tell them the latest news?
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