by Miss Read
Affairs at Thrush Green
Thrush Green 7] [1]
Miss Read
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt (1983)
Rating: ★★★★★
Tags: England, Country Life, Country Life - England, Pastoral Fiction
Englandttt Country Lifettt Country Life - Englandttt Pastoral Fictionttt
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Product Description
In Affairs at Thrush Green, Miss Read continues the fortunes of the Thrush Green families whom we last met in Gossip from Thrush Green. Here we follow the kindly vicar, Charles Henstock, to the neighboring Lulling, after his home was burned to the ground at the end of the earlier novel. Going to a new church is never easy, even in the best of times; indeed, poor Dr. Henstock encounters some very redoubtable females in Lulling. A full-scale power struggle erupts over the question of kneeling cushions for the Lady Chapel, and other difficulties revolve around the crotchety old sexton Albert Piggott.
Meanwhile, a mysterious stranger arrives at the Fuschia Bush cafe, and its rivalry with the Two Pheasants becomes more acute. One knows, however, that Miss Read will make all come right in the end.
About the Author
Miss Read is the pseudonym of Mrs. Dora Saint, a former schoolteacher beloved for her novels of English rural life, especially those set in the fictional villages of Thrush Green and Fairacre. The first of these, Village School, was published in 1955, and Miss Read continued to write until her retirement in 1996. In the 1998, she was awarded an MBE, or Member of the Order of the British Empire, for her services to literature. She lives in Berkshire.
Affairs at Thrush Green
Miss Read
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Illustrated by John S. Goodall
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HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
Boston New York
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To Jenny
with love
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First Houghton Mifflin paperback edition 2002
Copyright © 1983 by Miss Read
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce
selections from this book, write to Permissions,
Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue South,
New York, New York 10003.
Visit our Web site: www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Read, Miss.
Affairs at Thrush Green.
ISBN 0-395-36554-6
ISBN 0-618-23857-3 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-6182-3857-6
I. Title.
PR6069.A42A7 1984
823'.914 84-6702
Printed in the United States of America
DOH 10 9 8 7 6 5
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Contents
1 A Snowy Morning II
2 The Rector Goes About His Duties 24
3 Unknown At The Fuchsia Bush 35
4 Rumours At Thrush Green 48
5 A Visit To Tom Hardy 60
6 Spring Fevers 73
7 Albert Piggott Under Pressure 85
8 Albert Makes A Journey 99
9 Dotty Harmer Has Visitors 111
10 Mrs Thurgood Fights Again 123
11 Problems At Thrush Green 136
12 A Question Of Housing 148
13 A Job At The Fuchsia Bush 160
14 Thundery Conditions 173
15 Under Doctor's Orders 186
16 House-Hunting 199
17 Future Plans 211
18 Charles Is Melancholy 224
19 Marriage Plans 236
20 Three Christmas Visitors 247
1. A Snowy Morning
CHARLES HENSTOCK awoke with a start. He must have overslept, it was so light in the bedroom.
He turned his head and squinted sideways at the bedside clock. To his relief, the hands stood at twenty past seven.
Still bemused, he gazed above him, relishing the warmth of his bed and the elegant swags of plasterwork which decorated the vicarage ceiling. Those skilful workers some two hundred years ago certainly knew how to delight the eye, thought the present incumbent of the parish of Lulling.
Not that Lulling was the only parish in his care. A mile to the north lay his old parish of Thrush Green, and north and west of that delectable spot were those of Nidden and Lulling Woods. It was a large area to care for, with four splendid churches, and Charles Henstock constantly prayed that he might fulfil his responsibilities with diligence.
His wife Dimity lay curled beside him, still deep in sleep. They had started their married life together at Thrush Green, in the bleak Victorian rectory which had been burnt to the ground some two years earlier. The general opinion was that the fire was a blessing in disguise. The hideous building had stood out like a sore thumb among the beautiful stone-built Cotswold houses round the green.
But Charles still mourned his old home. He had known great happiness there, and even now could scarcely bear to look at the empty site where once his home had stood.
A pinkish glow was beginning to spread over the ceiling. The sun must be rising, but still that strange luminosity which had roused him hung about the room. More alert now, the good rector struggled upright, taking care not to disturb his sleeping partner.
The ancient cedar tree was now in sight, its outspread arms holding thick bands of snow. The telephone wire sagged beneath the weight it was bearing, and the window sill was heavily encrusted.
Very carefully the rector slipped out of bed and went to the window to survey the cold February scene. Since his early childhood he had delighted in snow. Now, looking at his transformed garden, his heart beat faster with the old familiar excitement.
The snow covered everything—the paths, the flowerbeds, the tiny snowdrops which had so recently braved the bitter winds and tossed their little bells under the hedges. It lay in gentle billows against the summerhouse door and the tall yew hedge.
Beyond the garden, St John's church roof glistened under its snowy canopy against a rose-pink cloud and, high above, the golden weathercock on the steeple caught the first rays of the winter sun.
The beauty of it all enraptured Charles. He caught his breath in wonderment, oblivious of the chilly bedroom and his congealing feet. What enchantment! What purity! An overnight miracle!
'Charles,' said Dimity, 'what has happened?'
'It's been snowing,' said her husband, smiling upon her. 'It's quite deep.'
'Oh dear,' said Dimity, getting out of bed. 'What a blessing I brought the spade indoors last night! No doubt we'll have to dig ourselves out.'
Dimity had always been the practical partner.
Charles Henstock's appointment to the living of Lulling and its combined parishes, had been welcomed by almost all who knew him.
He was much loved in the district for his modesty, his warm heart, and the willing care he gave to his parishioners. The fire at Thrush Green rectory had shocked the community, and Dimity and Charles received much sympathy. It seemed particularly appropriate that he should now live in the beautiful Queen Anne house and enjoy such pleasant surroundings.
Nevertheless, there were a few people in Lulling who viewed their new pastor with some reserve.
Charles had followed his old friend Anthony Bull who had held the living of Lulling for almost twenty years, and had made his mark in the parish.
Anthony had been the very opposite of Charles Henstock. In appearance he was tall and handsome, with a fine mane of hair which he tossed back from a noble brow with the ready expertise of an actor. Charles was short, tubby and bald, and lacked any sort of dramatic technique in the pulpit.
There were quite a few of Anthony's followers
who admitted unashamedly that they had attended St John's for the enjoyment of their vicar's eloquent sermons as much as for the High Church ritual for which the church was noted. Anthony Bull's magnificent vestments were the admiration of all, and particularly of the needlewomen in his flock. The fact that he was fortunate in having a wealthy wife who adored him, and was generous with her money, was one which did not go unnoticed in the parish. Never had Lulling Vicarage been so beautifully furnished, or its gardens kept so immaculately. Mrs Bull, it was common knowledge, was prepared to pay almost twice as much an hour for domestic help as was customary, and there were a number of infuriated housewives who were obliged to see their own charwomen vanish towards the vicarage, or else to pay wages which they could ill afford.
The vicarage was now more sparsely furnished with the few pieces of furniture salvaged from the disastrous Thrush Green fire and some modest articles newly acquired. The Bulls' magnificent Persian rugs had given way to some well worn runners in the hall. The priceless Chinese vase which had held exotic blooms all the year round on the Jacobean hall chest, was now replaced by a sturdy earthenware pitcher holding garden flowers or the silvery moons of locally grown honesty, throughout the winter months.
Nevertheless, Dimity, with help on only two mornings, kept the lovely old house shining, and nothing could detract from the beautifully proportioned rooms with their great windows looking out upon one of the most superb settings in Lulling.
No one expected the Henstocks to attempt the same standard of living as their predecessor. They were less concerned than he with material trappings, and even if they had wanted to keep the house as expensively furnished, their modest income would not allow it.
But everyone agreed, even those who lamented Anthony Bull's departed glory in the church itself, that the welcome to be found now at Lulling Vicarage was warmer than ever. It was good, they told each other, to have such a fine pair living at Lulling.
Some quarter of a mile away in the High Street of Lulling the three Miss Lovelocks were surveying the snow from their front bedroom windows.
The old ladies were still in their night attire. The collars of their warm flannel nightgowns were buttoned modestly around thin scrawny necks. Miss Bertha and Miss Ada were wrapped in ancient camel-coloured Jaeger dressing gowns, and Miss Violet in a voluminous light plaid garment purchased some twenty years earlier on a visit to the Shetland Isles. Bony feet were encased in sheepskin slippers, but even so the old ladies shivered as they surveyed the snowy High Street.
'So unexpected,' said Miss Bertha.
'Not a word about it on the weather forecast,' said Miss Ada severely.
'But it's very pretty,' said Miss Violet. 'Just see how lovely it looks caught in the railings!'
They gazed across at the railings outside the Methodist chapel. There certainly was something attractive about the white thick fur that blurred their usual starkness. In fact, the whole street was transformed in the early sunshine.
The roofs glistened like sugar icing. Doorsteps were hidden under gentle billows, and dark ribbons showed where traffic had trundled by in the road itself, highlighting the vivid whiteness of the rest. The pollarded lime trees along the pavement wore thick caps of snow, and the scarlet pillar box, outside The Fuchsia Bush café next door, was similarly topped.
A small black and white terrier rushed out from a house nearby, barking ecstatically and stirring up a flurry of snow dust in its excitement. Now and again it stopped, head up, pink tongue pulsing, legs quivering and stiff, before dashing off again in another frenzy of delight in this strange element.
'Well,' said Miss Bertha, 'this won't do. We must get dressed and see what's to be done.'
'I think porridge for breakfast would be a good idea,' said Miss Violet. 'We don't need much milk if 1 make it fairly runny.'
'And I really prefer a little salt on mine,' said Miss Bertha. 'So much cheaper than sugar.'
'And whoever is down first,' called Miss Ada to her departing sisters, 'switch on the electric fire in the dining room. One bar, of course, but I think it's cold enough to indulge ourselves this morning.'
The Misses Lovelock were renowned for quite unnecessary parsimony.
A mile away to the north, the inhabitants of Thrush Green greeted the snow with much the same surprise. The young welcomed it with the same rapture as Charles Henstock's. The old looked upon it with some dismay.
Miss Watson and Miss Fogerty, headmistress and assistant at the village school, discussed this unexpected quirk in the weather as they tackled their boiled eggs.
'I hope Betty remembers to put down newspaper in the lobbies,' said Miss Watson. 'It saves such a lot of mess.'
'I'm sure she will,' responded little Miss Fogerty. 'I only hope the children don't try and make slides in the playground before we go across. So dangerous.'
Miss Watson sighed.
'It's mornings like this that makes me regret staying on here,' she confessed. 'To think we might have been happily settled in dear old Barton. There's probably no snow there at all!'
Miss Fogerty tried to rally her old friend.
'It was not to be, Dorothy dear. I'm sure of that. And after all, we've always been very snug in this school house.'
'Maybe, maybe,' agreed her headmistress, 'but I still wish we could have retired when we had planned to do so. It has been such a disappointment.'
Even Miss Fogerty, devout believer in divine intervention in human affairs, could not help agreeing.
The two old friends had hoped to retire together to a small house at Barton-on-Sea. Property, of the type they wanted, was expensive and scarce. A great many people, it seemed, wanted to live in such a pleasant area. They too wanted a small, easily managed house with only a little land to maintain.
The two ladies had spent several weeks during their holidays in looking for a future home. On more than one occasion they thought they had found it, only to come up against snags. Sometimes the surveys had disclosed faulty drains, crumbling foundations, unaccountable subsidence, dry rot, wet rot, or plain shoddy building. In other cases the owners had backed out at the last minute, unable to buy the property they had hoped to purchase, or suddenly deciding to take their own off the market.
In the meantime Agnes Fogerty's arthritis had become worse and the Thrush Green doctor, John Lovell, had recommended a course of treatment which would spread over some months. Added to this was pressure from the local education office, upon Dorothy Watson, to postpone her retirement.
What with one thing and another the two hard-pressed ladies agreed to stay on in their present circumstances, and great was the relief felt by all their old friends at Thrush Green.
On the whole they had been relieved to have this respite after the frustrations of house-hunting. They both enjoyed their teaching, and had the satisfaction of knowing that their efforts were appreciated. The genuine delight of the parents and friends of the school when they had told them of their decision to stay on, was of great comfort to them, and did much to mitigate the disappointment of failing to find a house.
But this morning, with the snow blanketing all, and with memories of past snowy winters at Thrush Green school, the two friends knew that they must put all those wistful might-have-beens behind them, and face the realities of snow-crazed children, wet floor-boards, clothes drying on the fire-guards and, worst of all, no possible hope of playtime being taken outdoors. The dog-eared comics, the well-worn jigsaw puzzles, the ludo and snakes and ladders boards must emerge from the cupboard which held the wet-playtime equipment, and all one could do was to pray for a rapid thaw.
Dorothy Watson folded her napkin briskly.
'May as well make a start, dear,' she said, rising from her chair. 'And if it's not too slushy at playtime, I propose that we let the children make a snowman.'
'But only those with Wellingtons,' Miss Fogerty reminded her.
And with this proviso the two friends prepared to face the day.
Next door, in one of the finest h
ouses on Thrush Green, Harold Shoosmith and his wife Isobel, were also at breakfast.
Theirs was a more leisurely affair than that of the two schoolteachers, for Harold had been a retired man for several years, and relished the fact that he could dally over his breakfast coffee.
Isobel had first met him on one of her visits to Thrush Green. She had been at college with little Agnes Fogerty and they had kept up their friendship over the years. It was a great joy to both to find themselves neighbours in middle age.
The shouts of children took Harold to the window, still cradling his coffee cup.
'My word,' he exclaimed, 'they've made the most splendid slide the whole width of the playground!'
'Agnes and Dorothy won't approve,' commented his wife.
'They wouldn't be such spoil sports as to ruin it, surely,' said Harold. 'I wouldn't mind a go on it myself. They're keeping the pot boiling marvellously!'
Isobel joined him at the window which overlooked the playground. Sure enough, the sight was exhilarating. Some dozen or more children, scarves flying, hair on end, were chasing each other in a long line down the twenty-foot slide. Their breath steamed in the frosty air, their faces glowed like winter suns, and the din was appalling.
Rows of smaller, or more timid, children lined the route adding their cheers to the general racket. There was no doubt about it. The slide was a huge success.
Harold, still smiling, looked across the green. The statue of Nathaniel Patten, a zealous missionary of the last century, much admired by Harold who had been instrumental in honouring the old gentleman on his hundredth anniversary, was plentifully daubed with snowy patches. The white cap on his head, and the snowy shawl across his shoulders were deposited naturally from above, but the spattered frock coat showed clearly the results of well-aimed snowballs.
Certainly, the teachers at Thrush Green school were going to have unusually lively pupils on this winter morning, thought Isobel.
