(8/13) At Home in Thrush Green Read online

  At Home in Thrush Green

  Thrush Green [8]

  Miss Read

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt (1985)

  Rating: ★★★★★

  Tags: Country Life, Country Life - England, Pastoral Fiction, Henstock; Charles (Fictitious Character)

  Country Lifettt Country Life - Englandttt Pastoral Fictionttt Henstock; Charles (Fictitious Character)ttt

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  Product Description

  It is spring in the village of Thrush Green. In neighboring Lulling, Charles Henstock admires the blooming garden of his new vicarage, glad that the squabbles with his parishoners in Affairs at Thrush Green are settled. And yet the good vicar wistfully recalls his former home - the ugly, old rectory of Thrush Green, which burned to the ground. Now, from the rectory's ruins, the villagers are building eight retirement homes for the older folks most in need. But how to choose who will live there? How will they get on together? And how will they accommodate the dogs, cats, and birds that must come along? The spring has brought a new crop of dilemmas, but Dr. Henstock and the villagers are determined to make the old people feel at home in Thrush Green.

  In the end, harmony is restored to this tiny fictional world. With wit and grace, Miss Read has charmed numerous critics and won the loyalty of readers who will happily find themselves once more At Home in Thrush Green.

  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.

  At Home In Thrush Green

  Miss Read

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  Illustrated by J. S. Goodall

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  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

  Boston New York

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  For

  Nina and Bill

  with love

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  First Houghton Mifflin paperback edition 2002

  Copyright © 1985 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.

  At home in Thrush Green.

  ISBN 0-395-41224-2

  ISBN 978-0-618-23858-3

  I. Title.

  PR6069.A42A8 1986

  823'.914—dc20 86-20864

  Printed in the United States of America

  DOH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4

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  Contents

  PART ONE

  Work in Progress

  1 June Afternoon 3

  2 Problems at Thrush Green 16

  3 Market Day at Lulling 29

  4 Family Demands 43

  5 The Longest Day 57

  6 The Fuchsia Bush to the Rescue 71

  7 Summer Visitors 83

  PART TWO

  Moving In

  8 New Neighbours 99

  9 Some Malefactors 111

  10 Settling Down 124

  11 Preparing for Bonfire Night 136

  12 The Fifth of November 148

  13 Old People's Fears 161

  14 Visitors 174

  PART THREE

  Getting Settled

  15 Christmas 187

  16 Winter Discomforts 200

  17 Nelly Piggott Meets the Past 214

  18 A Hint of Spring 229

  19 Various Surprises 241

  20 Richard's Affairs 252

  Part One

  Work In Progress

  1 June Afternoon

  'I must pay a visit to Thrush Green this afternoon,' said Dimity Henstock to her husband Charles.

  They were breakfasting in the kitchen of Lulling Vicarage. Charles buttered a slice of toast carefully.

  'I can drive you there before two, my dear, but I have this meeting in Oxford at three.'

  'Don't worry, I shall walk. Ella is clean out of light blue tapestry wool for her lovers' knots, and I have some here.'

  'Her lovers' knots?' echoed Charles, toast poised.

  'Round the edge of the chair seat,' explained Dimity.

  She rose and began to clear the table. Charles, still looking bewildered, chewed the last mouthful of toast.

  'I must get on, dear,' said Dimity. 'Mrs Allen comes today, and I like to get things cleared up.'

  'I always thought that we employed Mrs Allen for the express purpose of clearing up for us.'

  'Yes, one would think that in theory, but in practice, of course, it really makes more work to do.'

  'Then I will go and water the greenhouse,' said the vicar of Lulling, rector of Thrush Green, and general priest in charge of Lulling Woods and Nidden – otherwise Charles Henstock.

  He stepped out of the back door into the dewy freshness of a fine June morning, and made his way happily through the vicarage garden.

  ***

  As he tended his seedlings in the pleasantly humid atmosphere of the greenhouse, Charles pondered on the felicity of his life in Lulling.

  His present vicarage and its garden were both mellow and beautiful, owing much to the care given by his immediate predecessor, Anthony Bull, who now had a living in Kensington, where his good looks and slightly dramatic sermons were as much admired there as they had been at Lulling. Charles and he remained staunch friends.

  Charles had been twice married, and after the untimely death of his first wife life had been bleak. Soon after, he had been appointed to the living of Thrush Green, where he dwelt in the ugliest and coldest house there. Most of the dwellings round the large triangle of grass which gave the place its name, were built of Cotswold stone and tiled to match. Why a Victorian builder had ever been allowed to erect the gloomy pile which had been Charles's home for so many years, remained a mystery.

  The good rector, the humblest and most hard-working of men, seemed oblivious of the draughts, the murkiness, and the sheer discomfort of his home. When he married his second wife, Dimity, who had shared a cottage with her friend Ella Bembridge nearby, he was perplexed to hear her complaints about her new abode, and did his best to help her to render the rectory more comfortable.

  In fact, it was a losing battle. The house faced north-east, was shoddily built, and had a long corridor, leading from the front door to the back, which acted as an efficient wind tunnel and chilled the atmosphere whenever either door was opened.

  Two or three years before the present June morning, the whole place had been consumed by fire, and very few local people regretted its passing.

  Charles himself was devastated. He and Dimity had been away from home on the night of the fire, but he knew that he could never forget the sight of the smoking ruins which greeted him on his return.

  He shuddered now at the remembrance, standing upright, a minute seedling of Cos lettuce held between thumb and forefinger, and his gaze fixed, unseeing, upon the present splendour of his Lulling garden beyond the greenhouse glass. His mind's eye saw again the blackened heap, the drifting smoke, and the pathetic huddle of his salvaged possessions at some distance on the green.

  And then he remembered his neighbours, the comforting arm about his shoulder, the stricken looks of those who mourned with him, their blackened hands offeri
ng mugs of steaming tea, their eyes reddened with the acrid smoke. It was their sympathy and practical help which had supported him and Dimity through the weeks that followed. He would never forget.

  A sneeze shook him back into the present. With infinite care he lowered the threadlike roots of the seedling into its tiny home, and gently made it secure.

  Dimity set out for Thrush Green as soon as lunch was over, leaving her husband sorting out the papers he would need for the afternoon's meeting at Oxford.

  It was a time of day that Dimity always enjoyed, the slack period when most people were digesting their midday meal, the streets were quiet, and an air of torpor hung over the little town.

  Most of the Lulling shops still closed for an hour or more. Old customs die hard in this part of the Cotswolds, and some shopkeepers still lived above their businesses, or near enough to go home to a midday meal. Dimity approved of this sensible practice, and did not rail, as many of her friends did, about the difficulty of shopping in the middle of the day.

  The two modern supermarkets, made hideous with garish window stickers, seemed to be the only places open, as Dimity made her way along the High Street. Even they appeared remarkably quiet, she noticed. So far, Lulling folk seemed to keep to their usual ways, and would not be emerging from their rest until the older shops turned the CLOSED notice to OPEN, unlocked their doors, and pulled out the awnings to shade their wares should the sun have arrived.

  Dimity did not hurry. The sun was warm, and she was pleasantly conscious of its comfort on her back as she admired, yet again, the honey-coloured stone of the buildings, the fresh green of the lime trees, and the plumes of lilac, white and purple, which nodded from the front gardens, and scented the warm air.

  A tabby cat was stretched across the sunny doorstep of the draper's shop. Dimity bent to stroke it, and it acknowledged her attentions with a little chirruping sound and a luxurious flexing of its striped legs. Hard by, in the dusty gutter, a bevy of sparrows bathed noisily, but the cat was too lethargic to stir itself into action in the present warmth.

  Dimity made her way through the somnolent town, crossed the murmuring River Pleshey, pausing to watch its eddies and dimples for a few minutes, and then faced the steep hill which led to Thrush Green and her friend Ella Bembridge.

  Ella was one of those squarely-built, gruffladies of mannish appearance whose looks belie their gentleness.

  Her large hands, rough and brown from gardening, were equally at home with weaving, smocking, embroidery and tapestry work. Those hands had also tackled pottery, carpentry, painting and metalwork in their time, but now that Ella lived alone she preferred to enjoy the handiwork which she could do in her own home, without the complications of potter's wheels, lathes, soldering irons and the like.

  She and Dimity had spent several happy years together. Though different in looks and temperament the one had complemented the other. When Dimity had been carried off by Charles, first to the rectory across the way at Thrush Green, and later to the vicarage at Lulling, Ella had missed her old friend, but rejoiced in her good fortune.

  She was not one to pine, and her innumerable projects kept Ella busy and cheerful. It was lucky that Dimity lived so near, and that the two could see each other frequently.

  As Dimity was puffing her way uphill, Ella was kneeling in the front garden of their home planting out a row of pansies, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She looked up as the latch of the gate clicked.

  'What a nice surprise!' she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet, and wiping her hands energetically down her skirt.

  'I told you I'd bring the wool,' replied Dimity. 'On the phone.'

  'Well, I didn't cotton on that you'd come this afternoon. To be honest. Dim, I believe I'm getting deaf. Don't hear half people say on the blower.'

  'Probably only wax,' said Dimity, sitting down exhaustedly on a rustic seat under the eaves of the thatch. 'Get John Lovell to squish it out.'

  'He'd perforate my ear drums, more like,' commented Ella. Her opinion of medical practitioners was low. Good health had kept her largely from their clutches, and she was suspicious of their professional activities.

  'Want a cuppa?' she continued. 'You look whacked.'

  'No, no. It's only walking up the hill. Don't let me stop you working. Can I help?'

  'No, I've only a few more to bung in. You sit there and tell me all the news. How's Charles?'

  'He's off to Oxford for a meeting.'

  'Poor thing! Rather him than me. What on earth do clergymen do at these meetings? Do a bit of re-editing of Hymns Ancient and Modem? Make a list of their fellow priests who need censuring? Or defrocking?'

  'Oh, nothing like that, I'm sure,' replied Dimity, somewhat shocked. 'I think it's more to do with money. Upkeep of the church property, allocation of funds, that sort of thing. Though I must admit that Charles never talks about church matters to me, and I'm very glad he doesn't. One can so easily let out something innocently that is supposed to be private.'

  'Your Charles is a wise old bird. If you don't want a thing known, say nowt to anyone. I can't abide people who tell you some titbit and then add: "But don't say a word. You are the only person I've told!" You can bet your bottom dollar she's said the same to a dozen others before telling you.'

  She rammed home the last pansy plant, and came to sit beside Dimity in the sun. Out from her skirt pocket came the battered tin which Dimity knew so well, and Ella began to roll one of her pungent and untidy cigarettes.

  The two old friends sat in silence. They were both drowsy and pleasantly tired from their recent exercise. A chaffinch pottered busily in the garden bed, occasionally giving a satisfied chirrup, and a light breeze rustled the budding may bush by the gate.

  In the distance, they could hear the school children at play across the green, and the rumble of traffic from the main road at the foot of the hill. It was all very soporific and the ladies could easily have dropped off. But suddenly the rattling of machinery close at hand made them alert.

  'That dratted cement mixer,' said Ella. 'They're still mucking about with those new houses. Putting in steps, or a terrace, or some such, the foreman told me.'

  Dimity stood up to see what was happening across the road, on the very site of her demolished old home.

  Eight one-storey houses in the form of a south-facing L were being built for old people, designed by the local architect Edward Young, who lived close by in what was readily acknowledged as the handsomest house on Thrush Green.

  'What a time they're taking!' commented Dimity. 'They were started ages ago.'

  'Poor old Edward's having the deuce of a time with some of his suppliers, I gather. He's having handles fixed to the baths, and rails by the loos, and they had to be sent back because they weren't to his specification. Then he'd planned underfloor heating, and it was practically complete when another chap told him that some old people had complained of foot trouble after some time in a place in Northamptonshire. So off he went to investigate, and decided to rip it out and start again.'

  'When does he hope to have them ready?'

  'You tell me! One thing, there are plenty of people around with their names on the list. Is Charles mixed up with this?'

  'He's on the committee, I know.'

  'Well, he's got my sympathy when it comes to selecting eight deserving cases from the roll. The fur will fly for some time, is my guess. Why, even Percy Hodge has put his name down.'

  'Percy Hodge?' echoed Dimity. 'But he's already got a house! And a wife to look after him!'

  'Not now he hasn't. She's left him for good, has our Doris.'

  'But he can only be sixty at the outside,' expostulated Dimity. 'That's not old by today's standards.'

  'True enough, but he's not the only sixty-year-old to try it on. I hear Mrs Cooke at Nidden's applied too, and those mercenary old twins at Nod whose name I can never remember.'

  'But Mrs Cooke has heaps of children to look after her, and those Bellamy twins have pots of money, and a bungalow of
their own!'

  'We all know that. All I'm saying is, Charles will have his work cut out when he's one of the panel trying to make a choice.'

  Dimity looked troubled as she gazed across the hedge to the new buildings.

  'Well, at this rate he won't be making any decisions yet a while,' she said at last. 'Maybe things will be easier when the time comes.'

  To Ella's mind, this was a forlorn hope. But, for once, she forbore to say so.

  'You don't have to hurry back, do you, Dim? Stop and have a cup of tea.'

  'I'd love to. Charles won't be home before six, I imagine.'

  'Good, then we'll go down to Dotty's to collect the milk. It will save Connie a trip. Incidentally, Dotty sent me some biscuits she'd made. Shall we try them at tea time?'

  Dimity laughed.

  'You can, I shan't! I had a fine bout of Dotty's Collywobbles when I went there last.'

  Ella smiled behind her cigarette smoke.

  'Don't worry. I was only teasing. They went out to the birds within half an hour, and I can't say they were too keen either.'

  Later the two ladies crossed the green and entered the narrow lane that led across fields to Dotty Harmer's cottage, and then on to Lulling Woods.

  The cement mixer by the new buildings was now at rest, and the site deserted. The low terrace of houses was going to be very attractive once the builders' mess was removed, lawns and shrubs planted, and the final lick of paint applied.

  'Almost makes you think of putting your name on the list,' commented Ella as they walked on. 'Not that I'd stand a chance, and in any case I should hate to leave our little place.'

  At Dotty's there was evidence of building too. Their eccentric old friend had lived there for many years with numerous animals and a large garden erratically tended. She had been the only daughter of the headmaster of the local grammar school. He had had a fearsome reputation for stern discipline, and grown men in Lulling still quailed at the mention of his name.