Mind you, I suspect that the ground-floor flat is really the basement, but at least it's an improvement on that converted oast house with five bedrooms, and that attic flat in some terrible old castle, which they sent last time.'
Agnes Fogerty nodded, looking bewildered. She was perusing the Appointments pages of that week's Times Educational Supplement.
'Our advertisement's in,' she said. 'But no house.'
Dorothy put down her letter. 'Not a house, Agnes. Two bungalows and a flat.'
'I know, Dorothy, about the Barton properties. I'm talking about our house, this one.'
'What about it?'
'Well, last time our posts were advertised, it said something about a school house. It doesn't this time.'
Miss Watson held out an imperious hand. 'Here, let me look!'
Agnes handed over the paper meekly, noticing, with a wince, that one corner had been dragged across the marmalade on Dorothy's toast.
'Well, how extraordinary!' said that lady. 'What can it mean? Perhaps they just forgot to mention it.'
'Or perhaps the printers made a muddle of it,' suggested Agnes.
'I shall be ringing the office this morning,' replied her friend, 'and I'll see if I can find out about this. Not that I shall learn much if that fiddle-faddling secretary fellow answers.'
'What's wrong with him?'
'Terrified of his own shadow! Never gives a straightforward answer to any question,' said Dorothy trenchantly. 'I asked him only the other day about those desks which have been ordered for two years, and he gets flustered and waffles on about things being at the committee stage, whatever that means, and he has no power to tell me.'
Secretly, Agnes felt rather sorry for the man. Dorothy, at her most demanding, could instil great terror.
'Still, never fear, Agnes! I shall do my best to see what lies behind this omission.'
She handed back the paper, catching another corner on the marmalade in transit, and poured herself a second cup of tea.
The bitter east wind did not show any signs of abating, and the old people at Rectory Cottages were once more housebound, and particularly glad of Jane and Bill Cartwright's daily visits.
Tom Hardy seemed much more cheerful after the rector had called. Jane had not had an opportunity of finding out the reason for this improvement, but was glad when the old man volunteered the information.
'Mr Henstock says he'll have my old Polly in his garden.'
Jane was somewhat bewildered. 'Which day is this to be?'
'Why, for ever!'
'You mean that you are letting him have Polly? Can you bear to part with her, Tom?'
'No, no, no!' exclaimed the old man testily. 'Why should I want to give Poll away?'
Jane waited for enlightenment.
'When she's dead,' continued Tom. 'I've been fretting about what would happen to her when she's gone. No decent garden here to bury her, see? All my other dogs was buried proper. Dug their graves myself, and wrapped their poor bodies in their own dog blanket for comfort like.'
Jane was touched by the old man's concern. 'I'm sure we could have found a corner for her somewhere, Tom.'
'Well, now there's no need,' said Tom, with great dignity. 'She'll be comfortable in the vicarage garden, when the time comes.'
Jane looked from the frail old fellow to his equally aged pet lying at his feet.
As if reading her thoughts, Tom spoke again. 'And if I goes first, then Mr Henstock's having Poll,' he said. 'A good man is the rector, and a fine gentleman.'
And with that Jane heartily agreed.
At Winnie Bailey's, Jenny had just come in from the garden where she had been hanging out the tea towels.
'My goodness!' she gasped, crashing the kitchen door behind her. 'Don't you go out today, Mrs Bailey. Enough to catch your death in this wind. I shan't be surprised to find the tea towels in Mrs Hurst's garden when we go to fetch them.'
'I've nothing to go out for, I'm thankful to say,' said Winnie. 'Ella's coming along later, probably early afternoon.'
'Will she stay to tea?' asked Jenny hopefully. She loved an excuse to
Agnes Fogerty nodded, looking bewildered. She was perusing the Appointments pages of that week's Times Educational Supplement.
'Our advertisement's in,' she said. 'But no house.'
Dorothy put down her letter. 'Not a house, Agnes. Two bungalows and a flat.'
'I know, Dorothy, about the Barton properties. I'm talking about our house, this one.'
'What about it?'
'Well, last time our posts were advertised, it said something about a school house. It doesn't this time.'
Miss Watson held out an imperious hand. 'Here, let me look!'
Agnes handed over the paper meekly, noticing, with a wince, that one corner had been dragged across the marmalade on Dorothy's toast.
'Well, how extraordinary!' said that lady. 'What can it mean? Perhaps they just forgot to mention it.'
'Or perhaps the printers made a muddle of it,' suggested Agnes.
'I shall be ringing the office this morning,' replied her friend, 'and I'll see if I can find out about this. Not that I shall learn much if that fiddle-faddling secretary fellow answers.'
'What's wrong with him?'
'Terrified of his own shadow! Never gives a straightforward answer to any question,' said Dorothy trenchantly. 'I asked him only the other day about those desks which have been ordered for two years, and he gets flustered and waffles on about things being at the committee stage, whatever that means, and he has no power to tell me.'
Secretly, Agnes felt rather sorry for the man. Dorothy, at her most demanding, could instil great terror.
'Still, never fear, Agnes! I shall do my best to see what lies behind this omission.'
She handed back the paper, catching another corner on the marmalade in transit, and poured herself a second cup of tea.
The bitter east wind did not show any signs of abating, and the old people at Rectory Cottages were once more housebound, and particularly glad of Jane and Bill Cartwright's daily visits.
Tom Hardy seemed much more cheerful after the rector had called. Jane had not had an opportunity of finding out the reason for this improvement, but was glad when the old man volunteered the information.
'Mr Henstock says he'll have my old Polly in his garden.'
Jane was somewhat bewildered. 'Which day is this to be?'
'Why, for ever!'
'You mean that you are letting him have Polly? Can you bear to part with her, Tom?'
'No, no, no!' exclaimed the old man testily. 'Why should I want to give Poll away?'
Jane waited for enlightenment.
'When she's dead,' continued Tom. 'I've been fretting about what would happen to her when she's gone. No decent garden here to bury her, see? All my other dogs was buried proper. Dug their graves myself, and wrapped their poor bodies in their own dog blanket for comfort like.'
Jane was touched by the old man's concern. 'I'm sure we could have found a corner for her somewhere, Tom.'
'Well, now there's no need,' said Tom, with great dignity. 'She'll be comfortable in the vicarage garden, when the time comes.'
Jane looked from the frail old fellow to his equally aged pet lying at his feet.
As if reading her thoughts, Tom spoke again. 'And if I goes first, then Mr Henstock's having Poll,' he said. 'A good man is the rector, and a fine gentleman.'
And with that Jane heartily agreed.
At Winnie Bailey's, Jenny had just come in from the garden where she had been hanging out the tea towels.
'My goodness!' she gasped, crashing the kitchen door behind her. 'Don't you go out today, Mrs Bailey. Enough to catch your death in this wind. I shan't be surprised to find the tea towels in Mrs Hurst's garden when we go to fetch them.'
'I've nothing to go out for, I'm thankful to say,' said Winnie. 'Ella's coming along later, probably early afternoon.'
'Will she stay to tea?' asked Jenny hopefully. She loved an excuse to
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