Christmas At Thrush Green Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE - Albert Piggott Makes a Decision

  CHAPTER TWO - The Fuchsia Bush Blooms

  CHAPTER THREE - A Wash Behind the Ears

  CHAPTER FOUR - A Lion and a Unicorn

  CHAPTER FIVE - New Clothes and Old

  CHAPTER SIX - In Search of a Donkey

  CHAPTER SEVEN - A Very Special Teapot

  CHAPTER EIGHT - A Rescue Plan is Hatched

  CHAPTER NINE - A Nativity Play with a Difference

  CHAPTER TEN - The Hursts Entertain

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - A Haven for Ella

  CHAPTER TWELVE - Albert Plans a Party

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Vandals About

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - A Very Happy Christmas!

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Ella Does a Runner

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - A Friend in Need

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - A Vandal is Apprehended

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - The Culprit Unmasked

  CHAPTER NINETEEN - Ella Makes Plans

  CHAPTER TWENTY - A Gathering of Friends

  Books by Miss Read

  NOVELS

  Village School * Village Diary * Storm in the Village

  Thrush Green * Fresh from the Country

  Winter in Thrush Green * Miss Clare Remembers

  Over the Gate * The Market Square * Village Christmas

  The Howards of Caxley * Fairacre Festival

  News from Thrush Green * Emily Davis * Tyler’s Row

  The Christmas Mouse * Farther Afield

  Battles at Thrush Green * No Holly for Miss Quinn

  Village Affairs * Return to Thrush Green * The White Robin

  Village Centenary * Gossip from Thrush Green

  Affairs at Thrush Green * Summer at Fairacre

  At Home in Thrush Green * The School at Thrush Green

  Mrs Pringle * Friends at Thrush Green * Changes at Fairacre

  Celebrations at Thrush Green * Farewell to Fairacre

  Tales from a Village School * The Year at Thrush Green

  A Peaceful Retirement * Christmas at Thrush Green

  ANTHOLOGIES

  Country Bunch * Miss Read’s Christmas Book

  OMNIBUSES

  Chronicles of Fairacre * Life at Thrush Green

  More Stories from Thrush Green

  Further Chronicles of Fairacre * Christmas at Fairacre

  A Country Christmas * Fairacre Roundabout

  Tales from Thrush Green * Fairacre Affairs

  Encounters at Thrush Green * The Caxley Chronicles

  Farewell, Thrush Green * The Last Chronicle of Fairacre

  NON-FICTION

  Miss Read’s Country Cooking * Tiggy

  The World of Thrush Green

  Early Days (comprising A Fortunate Grandchild &

  Time Remembered)

  First published in Great Britain in 2009

  by Orion Books

  an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin’s Lane,

  London, WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette UK company

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Miss Read 2009

  Illustrations © Ruth Palmer/illustrationweb 2009

  The moral right of Miss Read to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

  electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior

  permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library.

  eISBN : 978 1 4091 0564 0

  Typeset at the Spartan Press Ltd,

  Lymington, Hants

  Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  The Orion Publishing Group’s policy is to use papers that

  are natural, renewable and recyclable products and

  made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging

  and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to

  the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  To Jill

  with our love

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank my long-time editor, Jenny Dereham, for all the work she has done on this book. We discussed the initial idea, developed the unfolding story-line and then I left her to put that into words, based on my original Thrush Green characters. I am more than happy with the result and hope those people who enjoyed all the other Thrush Green books will enjoy this as much.

  Miss Read

  I would like to thank a wonderful author for teaching me so much over the past thirty years. This book has been a perfect partnership.

  I would also like to thank the following for their help: Mr Ben Cobb, Ophthalmologist; the Macular Degeneration Society; and the performers of the Nativity in St Laurence’s church, West Woodhay, for such brilliant inspiration.

  Jenny Dereham

  CHAPTER ONE

  Albert Piggott Makes a Decision

  ‘I know there’s a saying that “if March comes in like a I lion, it will go out like a lamb”,’ said Winnie Bailey, gazing out of the kitchen window, ‘but is there a saying about this dreadful December wind?’

  Jenny, her housekeeper and friend, paused from slicing the carrots she was preparing for lunch and looked through the window, too. The branches of the sturdy chestnut trees on the green - all their leaves gone by now, of course - were being vigorously blown about. Rooks made slow progress across the sky, using their big black wings to balance themselves against the sudden gusts.

  ‘My mother,’ Jenny said, resting her knife on the chopping board, ‘always used to say that there’s no such thing as bad weather. Whatever the weather, it is bound to suit someone.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure who’s going to benefit from this gale. Look, the litter bin on the green has blown over and the contents are scattering all over the place.’

  Winnie turned away from the window and watched as Jenny resumed her chopping. There was going to be a nice Irish stew for lunch, with crusty herb dumplings and carrots. She was devoted to Jenny, and the feeling was mutual. It was not that Winnie disliked cooking - in fact, she prided herself on her cherry cake, which invariably won a prize at the village’s summer fête - but Jenny had a passion for cooking and Winnie was more than happy to indulge her.

  Jenny had come to live with Winnie Bailey after Winnie’s husband, Donald, had died some years before. Winnie had found she was a little nervous of living alone in the house which, she had to admit, was really much too big for her. She had thought briefly - but very briefly - of moving somewhere smaller but she loved the house, which stood well back from the road in a pretty garden, and could not bear to leave it. She had lived here for over fifty years with Donald, and there were memories everywhere of him.

  There was the little mirror in the hall that they had bought in Swaffham when on holiday in Norfolk one year; they had collected most of the pictures together; and every time Winnie took a safety pin out of the little china bowl on her dressing-table, she remembered Donald buying it for her as a joke. The lettering round the inside of the bowl, ‘Greetings from Torquay’, was a little faded now, but the memories were still as sharp as if it had been yesterday.

  It was not long af
ter Donald’s death that Jenny had arrived at work one morning with the news that her elderly parents had at last got a place in an old people’s home. It was just in time, too, because their crumbling terrace cottage was scheduled to be pulled down: the whole row had been condemned. She lived there with her parents, looking after them, and Winnie was initially concerned about where Jenny would now live. Then the pieces of the jigsaw fell into place: Jenny needed somewhere to live, and Winnie needed companionship. And so it was that Jenny came to live in the rooms on the top floor of Winnie Bailey’s house, an arrangement that suited them both.

  ‘ “The north wind doth blow and we shall have snow,” ’ began Jenny, as she swept the chopped carrots into a saucepan.

  ‘ “And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?” ’ they both said together, and laughed. They were very content in each other’s company.

  ‘I wonder if it’ll snow this Christmas?’ mused Jenny, lifting the lid of the casserole that she had just taken from the oven. With the pointed end of a knife, she gently tested a piece of lamb to see if it was cooked.

  ‘It would certainly please the children if it does snow,’ replied Winnie, looking out of the window again, ‘but I have to admit I’d be perfectly happy if it didn’t. It makes such a mess of the church we shall no doubt have spent hours cleaning when everyone tramps in with snowy boots.’ She turned from the window and sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘My goodness, that does smell good, Jenny! What a treasure you are.’

  Jenny beamed. She had been a little worried about Winnie a few weeks ago when the old lady had had to spend several days in bed with a nasty bronchial chest, but that seemed to have gone now and it was comforting to see her in such good spirits.

  Winnie Bailey’s house was the tallest on the green, standing on the east side of the large expanse of grass which was the hub of the village. Next door lived Frank and Phyllida Hurst in a cottage called Tullivers. Phil Prior, as she had been then, had bought it for herself and her young son Jeremy. To ensure that she could give as much time as possible to the boy - she was estranged from her husband at the time - Phil was anxious to have a job she could do from home. She had always had a good ear for words and so tried her hand at writing short stories. She had been delighted when first one, and then more stories were accepted by a London magazine.

  She was a most attractive woman, and her solitary state caused not only a good deal of sympathy from the residents of Thrush Green, but also a few male hearts to flutter.

  Phil’s settled life was suddenly shattered when news came through that her absent husband had been killed in a car crash. Everyone in Thrush Green rallied round and Phil was always grateful to them for their kindness. But it was not a local man who won Phil’s heart, but Frank Hurst, the editor of the magazine that was publishing her stories. When they married, the whole village wished them the happiness they deserved.

  Frank and Phil were now in their sitting-room, each with a diary open on their knees. A fire burned in the little hearth and occasionally a gust of the strong wind outside would rattle down the chimney and make the flames dance.

  ‘The problem with giving a drinks party,’ said Phil, flicking through the pages of her diary, ‘is that one has to find a day when no one else is.’

  ‘At least,’ Frank replied, looking up at his pretty wife, ‘no one who is going to invite the same people as us.’

  Phil giggled. ‘Yes, I don’t expect we’ll clash with any parties that take place in the Woodstock Road.’

  ‘Now, now!’ reproved her husband, but he was smiling, too.

  The lane down the east side of Thrush Green, past Winnie Bailey’s house and Tullivers, ran into the Woodstock Road, in due course reaching that attractive little town and, further on, interesting places such as Stratfordupon-Avon. As with all Cotswold villages, planning regulations were very strict within the designated conservation areas. However, the authorities were less demanding further out and, as everyone grudgingly accepted, new homes had to be built. The houses in the Woodstock Road nearest the green were mostly ones built between the wars but further out, they were newer. An occasional turning would lead off the Woodstock Road into a modern close. Where once there had been fields with contented cows chewing the cud, wildflowers for children to pick, and butterflies to chase with nets, now there was just a spread of look-alike houses. It wasn’t that the people who lived here weren’t friendly; it’s just that they didn’t really involve themselves in Thrush Green activities.

  ‘We haven’t received any invitations yet,’ said Phil, looking at the mantelpiece. ‘At least, nothing that would clash with a drinks party. If we are going to go to that charity concert in Lulling, we should do something about the tickets now.’

  ‘You go if you want,’ said her husband, ‘but personally I’m not too good on string quartets. It’s the wrong time of year for that sort of music. I think good, rousing Christmas oratorios are the right kind of music for the festive season.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Phil, and she got to her feet, removed the invitation from the mantelpiece and put it on the fire. ‘There might be a performance of The Messiah on in Oxford. I’ll check the local paper on Friday. But let’s make a note of going to the carol service at Lulling. I see from the parish magazine that they are having that on the Sunday before Christmas.’

  ‘Agreed!’ and they both wrote in their diaries.

  ‘But we are no further forward about the date for our party,’ sighed Phil.

  There was silence for a minute or two, broken only by the gentle tick of the clock on the mantelpiece, and the occasional crackle from the fire. ‘Do you think,’ mused Phil, her pencil in her mouth, ‘that we might have it on the 20th, after the Nativity service?’

  ‘No, we’ll be whacked,’ said Frank, shaking his head.

  ‘Nonsense! Our contribution will be done and dusted by then,’ countered his wife.

  Frank and Phil had combined to write the text for the Nativity play that was going to be performed in St Andrew’s church the Saturday before Christmas.

  ‘Don’t you think everyone will want to get off home? And what about the people who come to the service who we wouldn’t ask to the party? Won’t they be offended?’

  ‘I don’t think they need know. And, anyway,’ continued Phil, ‘the people we’d be asking are those involved in the play, so we could call it a post-Nativity party for the workers.’

  ‘Ah, that would be all right. Also, it’s unlikely that anyone else is planning a party on the evening of the Nativity play. Yes, my dear, I think that’s an excellent day.’

  Once more pencils were applied to the diaries.

  Frank looked up at Phil. ‘That’s the easy part. We must now get down to the invitation list, and get them sent out as soon as possible before anyone else has the same bright idea.’

  ‘I need to pop down into Lulling this afternoon, so I’ll pick up some invitation cards at Smith’s.’ Phil looked at her watch. ‘And now I must get us some lunch. Will cold lamb and salad do you?’

  ‘Indeed it will, especially if I can have some of that delicious chutney to go with it.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Phil, and lightly kissed the top of her husband’s head as she made her way to the kitchen.

  Although Frank was much older than Phil - in fact, one of his grandchildren was about the same age as Jeremy - the marriage was a very happy one. The inhabitants of Thrush Green thoroughly approved of the Hursts, who played their part in village life to the full.

  Harold Shoosmith, a handsome man in his late sixties, was returning home after a morning spent in Lulling. The little market town was half a mile down a steep hill from Thrush Green, and what goes down must come up so Harold was puffing a bit. His wife Isobel had suggested he should take the car since it was blowing such a gale but Harold was determined to stick to his resolution to walk to Lulling and back whenever possible.

  This had been his New Year’s resolution the previous January. He hadn’t expected to keep going all y
ear, but well-meant teasing from some of his friends had made him all the more determined. He had taken great pleasure in reporting that Dr Lovell had told him at his medical check-up during the summer that he had the blood pressure of an eighteen-year-old.

  Today was rather different, he thought, stopping a moment on the green. The wind had been against him on the hill, and it had been hard work. He would take the car, of course, when he had a quantity of shopping to bring back, but today’s visit had just been to collect his new spectacles.

  As he set off for the last fifty yards across the green to his house, he saw the familiar hunched figure of Albert Piggott, the sexton of St Andrew’s, coming out through the churchyard gate. I bet he’s off to The Two Pheasants, Harold thought and then smiled as Albert predictably turned left to walk the few yards to the village pub. The day that Albert didn’t go to the pub would indicate something was very wrong with the old man. In fact, looking at Albert now as the man disappeared inside, he seemed to be more bent than ever, and limping.

  I wonder if the time has finally come for him to retire, Harold mused. Perhaps it’s something to bring up at the PCC meeting on Wednesday.

  The strong wind swirled dead leaves around the green, and Harold put out a hand to catch one as it flew past at head height - and laughed at himself when he missed. He righted the litter bin that had blown over, extracted a soggy plastic bag that had been caught underneath it and placed it inside.

  As he approached the end of the green, Harold paused in front of the statue that stood there. It was some years now since he had been involved in erecting the memorial to Thrush Green’s most famous son, and he felt very responsible for it. In fact, he noticed that there were some rather unseemly bird droppings down the side of the missionary’s face, and he made a mental note to bring his step-ladder over with a bucket and sponge.