and had a bucket beside him in which he occasionally deposited a handful of grass, chickweed or groundsel. The more virulent intruders such as young brambles, stinging nettles and the like, Albert ignored. Young Cooke could get on with those—what was he paid for?
Albert noted a nice plain green carpet going in, followed by a set of book cases and two upholstered arm chairs. Getting the sitting-room done first, thought Albert with approval. They'd need a good rest this evening. A number of tea chests were carried in next; they clanked rather noisily, and Albert surmised that they held kitchen equipment.
He moved round inside the churchyard wall to get a better view, just in time to see a single divan bed being hoisted from the pantechnicon. Now would that be for one of the children or for the master or his wife? Albert watched closely from behind a tombstone erected to 'Ezekiel West 1798–1860, Beloved By All' (an assertion which Albert had always considered unduly optimistic) and was rewarded by seeing three more single divans following the first.
Albert considered this to be a very sensible arrangement. He and Nelly had separate beds, in fact they had separate rooms, and Albert appreciated it. Nelly snored, although she hotly denied it.
Having satisfied himself about the sleeping arrangements, Albert left Ezekiel West's resting place, and shifted to 'Patience Wellworth, Devoted Wife and Mother' whose dates of birth and death were obscured by some tendrils of ivy which Albert had no intention of removing. Resting his arms on the top of Patience's granite cross, he observed with pleasure that the landlord of The Two Pheasants was opening his doors.
At the same moment, he became conscious of a large object being manhandled through the school house's front door, to the accompaniment of warning shouts. It was a large double bed, and Albert's conjectures were now thrown into confusion.
He put down his half empty bucket and sought solace in the pub.
Betty Bell, returning from her labours at the Shoosmiths' that morning, called to see Dotty Harmer on her way home. As well as her regular visits to that house, Betty often 'popped in', as she said, to keep an eye on the old lady, although this was not so vital now that Kit and Connie were there to look after their eccentric relation.
Dotty was busy trying to rake dead leaves from the surface of her little pond. She was not being very successful, and the half-dozen displaced ducks were squatting moodily nearby, occasionally giving a protesting quack.
She abandoned her task and motioned Betty to the garden seat, taking her place beside her. Betty was not surprised to see that Dotty's shoes and stockings were soaking wet, and that she had a streak of mud on one cheek.
'I'd let Mr Kit do that job,' said Betty. 'It's too much for you. And you ought to get your shoes off. Catch your death, you will.'
'Don't fuss, Betty,' responded Dotty, 'you're as bad as Connie. A little dampness never hurt anyone. After all, we are three parts water I believe, and originally evolved from water creatures.'
'Some time ago,' Betty pointed out reasonably. 'You on your own?'
'Kit and Connie are getting back for lunch,' said Dotty. 'Which reminds me, I'm supposed to turn on the oven.'
'Well, let's go and see to it,' said Betty, used to Dotty's vague ways, 'and I'm going to see you take off them wet shoes, and give you a cup of coffee. I don't suppose you've had any?'
'Well, no,' admitted Dotty, 'I've been rather busy.'
Betty shepherded the old lady into the kitchen, peered into the oven, turned it on, and then filled the kettle. Within ten minutes, Dotty's stockings and shoes were removed and replaced with dry ones, and the coffee was made.
'Is this the milk?' queried Betty, sniffing at a small jug. 'Smells a bit off to me.'
'Oh, that will do, dear. I really don't mind it slightly cheesy. After all, the Tibetans always use rancid milk in their tea— and jab's milk at that.'
'I think I'll
Albert noted a nice plain green carpet going in, followed by a set of book cases and two upholstered arm chairs. Getting the sitting-room done first, thought Albert with approval. They'd need a good rest this evening. A number of tea chests were carried in next; they clanked rather noisily, and Albert surmised that they held kitchen equipment.
He moved round inside the churchyard wall to get a better view, just in time to see a single divan bed being hoisted from the pantechnicon. Now would that be for one of the children or for the master or his wife? Albert watched closely from behind a tombstone erected to 'Ezekiel West 1798–1860, Beloved By All' (an assertion which Albert had always considered unduly optimistic) and was rewarded by seeing three more single divans following the first.
Albert considered this to be a very sensible arrangement. He and Nelly had separate beds, in fact they had separate rooms, and Albert appreciated it. Nelly snored, although she hotly denied it.
Having satisfied himself about the sleeping arrangements, Albert left Ezekiel West's resting place, and shifted to 'Patience Wellworth, Devoted Wife and Mother' whose dates of birth and death were obscured by some tendrils of ivy which Albert had no intention of removing. Resting his arms on the top of Patience's granite cross, he observed with pleasure that the landlord of The Two Pheasants was opening his doors.
At the same moment, he became conscious of a large object being manhandled through the school house's front door, to the accompaniment of warning shouts. It was a large double bed, and Albert's conjectures were now thrown into confusion.
He put down his half empty bucket and sought solace in the pub.
Betty Bell, returning from her labours at the Shoosmiths' that morning, called to see Dotty Harmer on her way home. As well as her regular visits to that house, Betty often 'popped in', as she said, to keep an eye on the old lady, although this was not so vital now that Kit and Connie were there to look after their eccentric relation.
Dotty was busy trying to rake dead leaves from the surface of her little pond. She was not being very successful, and the half-dozen displaced ducks were squatting moodily nearby, occasionally giving a protesting quack.
She abandoned her task and motioned Betty to the garden seat, taking her place beside her. Betty was not surprised to see that Dotty's shoes and stockings were soaking wet, and that she had a streak of mud on one cheek.
'I'd let Mr Kit do that job,' said Betty. 'It's too much for you. And you ought to get your shoes off. Catch your death, you will.'
'Don't fuss, Betty,' responded Dotty, 'you're as bad as Connie. A little dampness never hurt anyone. After all, we are three parts water I believe, and originally evolved from water creatures.'
'Some time ago,' Betty pointed out reasonably. 'You on your own?'
'Kit and Connie are getting back for lunch,' said Dotty. 'Which reminds me, I'm supposed to turn on the oven.'
'Well, let's go and see to it,' said Betty, used to Dotty's vague ways, 'and I'm going to see you take off them wet shoes, and give you a cup of coffee. I don't suppose you've had any?'
'Well, no,' admitted Dotty, 'I've been rather busy.'
Betty shepherded the old lady into the kitchen, peered into the oven, turned it on, and then filled the kettle. Within ten minutes, Dotty's stockings and shoes were removed and replaced with dry ones, and the coffee was made.
'Is this the milk?' queried Betty, sniffing at a small jug. 'Smells a bit off to me.'
'Oh, that will do, dear. I really don't mind it slightly cheesy. After all, the Tibetans always use rancid milk in their tea— and jab's milk at that.'
'I think I'll
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