(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green

The Year at Thrush Green

Miss Read

Illustrated by John S. Goodall

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

Boston • New York

First Houghton Mifflin paperback edition 2008

Copyright © 1996 by Miss Read

Illustrations by John'S. Goodall

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.

www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Read, Miss
The year at Thrush Green / Miss Read ;
illustrations by John'S. Goodall.—
I
st American ed.
p. cm.
ISBN
0-395-79570-2
1.Thrush Green (Imaginary place)—Fiction. 2. Country life
—England—Fiction. 3.Villages—England—Fictions. I.Title.
PR
6069.
A
42
Y
43 1996
823'.914—dc20 96-38248
CIP

ISBN
978-0-618-88444-5 (pbk.)

Printed in the United States of America

DOC
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Beryl and Ray
With love

January

Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow.

Christina Rossetti

The snow came on Twelfth Night.

Dusk was thickening over Thrush Green, and the lights in the nearby High Street at Lulling were already flickering into action.

The first flakes fluttered down so sparsely that Winnie Bailey, the doctor's widow, thought that the last pale leaf was floating by from the wisteria by the front door, as she drew the curtains against the bitter cold which had gripped Thrush Green for days.

Near by, at the most beautiful house in this Cotswold hamlet, Winnie's neighbour, Joan Young, hurrying in from the garden, caught sight of a pale fragment descending slowly. A feather, she wondered, or a particle of ash from a recent bonfire? Somehow she, in common with other Thrush Green residents, gave no thought to snow at that time.

Only Albert Piggott, the gloomy sexton at St Andrew's church on the green, realized what was falling, as he shuffled back to his cottage close by.

'It's begun,' he told his cat, as he unwound the muffler from his skinny neck. 'There'll be a foot of the dratted stuff before long.'

***

Albert Piggott had been expecting snow for weeks. So, for that matter, had the rest of the community, but they had waited so long for its arrival that when at last it came, on that bleak January evening, it was barely noticed.

The gripping cold had taken hold early in December, and the general talk had been about a white Christmas. The children everywhere were full of hope. Old sledges had been dug out from lofts, garden sheds and garages, dusted and oiled and put by to await a white world which failed to materialize during the whole of the Christmas holidays.

The school at Thrush Green had opened for the spring term the day before those first tentative flakes had floated down.

Alan Lester, the headmaster, heard the children's bitter comments with mixed feelings of sympathy and amusement.

'It's not
fair!
' cried one six-year-old. 'I was going to make a snowman.'

'So was I. My dad give me an old pipe for it. And a cap.'

'I'd got my sledge oiled up lovely, to go down the slope to Lulling Woods,' grumbled a third.

'Well,' said Alan reasonably, 'you can play with all those things after school. Or on Saturday, for that matter.'

'It's not the
same
!' wailed another child. 'You need
all day
to play in the snow!'

Clearly, there was going to be no comforting of the younger generation in the face of such injustice.

Alan Lester ushered them from the playground back to the warmth of the classroom.

His charges did not appear grateful.

It had snowed intermittently throughout Twelfth Night, but only an inch covered the iron-cold earth by morning.

But the sky was covered with dark grey clouds, and there was an ominous stillness everywhere as though the world awaited something menacing.

Joan Young, well muffled against the cold from woolly hat to Wellington boots, crossed the corner of the green to take some magazines to Winnie Bailey, who welcomed her.

'No,' said Joan, 'I won't come in, but I'm going down to Lulling and I thought I'd bring back anything you needed. Don't go out, Winnie, it's so slippery.'

'Well, you are kind! I remember Donald always said that if the wind came from Oxford or Woodstock it was time to get in the potatoes and an extra bag of flour.'

'The wind's certainly going to be there soon,' agreed Joan. 'Shall I get those potatoes and the flour?'

Winnie laughed. 'It might be as well. Then we can withstand the siege if need be.'

She watched her neighbour returning to her house, leaving black footprints in the new snow. Shivering, she returned to the warm kitchen, where Jenny, her maid and friend, was chopping onions.

'Onions keep the cold out,' said Jenny.

'We shall need a good supply then,' Winnie forecast.

Equally prudent residents of Thrush Green and Lulling were also stocking their larders.

Across the green, opposite Winnie Bailey's house, Harold Shoosmith and his wife Isobel were making a shopping list while coffee cups steamed near by.

The Shoosmiths were relative newcomers to Thrush Green. Harold had arrived first, some years earlier, a single middle-aged man of handsome appearance, recently retired from a post abroad.

He was a lifelong admirer of a former Thrush Green resident, one Nathaniel Patten, a missionary in Africa who had formed a school there and been greatly loved by all who met him. Nathaniel had long been dead when Harold came across his good works, but his influence still flourished in the African settlement, and when Harold discovered that a house in Nathaniel's birthplace was on the market, when he was house-hunting, he quickly put in his bid, and soon found himself living happily at Thrush Green.

Next door to his house was the village school, and the headmistress at that time was a competent woman, Dorothy Watson, who lived in the schoolhouse with her friend and fellow-teacher Agnes Fogerty.

All three were good friends and neighbours, and it was through Agnes that Harold eventually met his wife Isobel. She had been at college with Agnes, and the two had kept in touch throughout the years.

When she came to stay at Thrush Green with her old friend, Isobel was recently widowed. The friendship which sprang up between Harold and Isobel flourished, grew warmer, and led to an exceedingly happy marriage, to the delight of their friends at Thrush Green.

It was Harold who had instigated the setting-up of a fine statue of Nathaniel Patten on the green. He had been shocked to find that so little was known about the Victorian missionary who had done so much good overseas, and he set about educating his neighbours.

Harold's enthusiasm had been infectious, and now the memory of one of Thrush Green's most famous sons was a source of pride in the community, and his statue and memory greatly revered.

This morning a sprinkling of snow spattered Nathaniel's head and shoulders, and a noisy family of starlings squabbled on the white ground around him. Near by, the children's voices, as noisy as the starlings', had suddenly ceased.

'Alan's getting the children in,' commented Harold, looking at the kitchen clock. 'I'll get down to Lulling before things get too busy.'

He went to wrap up well before crunching his way to the garage through the bitter cold.

An hour later, his shopping done, Harold pushed open the door of the Fuchsia Bush, Lulling's most notable restaurant in the High Street.

Harold was not a frequent visitor to this establishment, but he was so cold that he felt that a cup of coffee would thaw him before he visited the bank and the local building society, the last duties to perform before driving home.

The Fuchsia Bush was warm and welcoming. Coffee was provided promptly, and soon the ample form of Nelly Piggott appeared from the kitchen bearing a tray of scones hot from the oven.

She greeted Harold with affection. 'Nice to see you, Mr Shoosmith. Parky today, isn't it?'

'That's putting it mildly,' said Harold. 'May I have one of those delicious scones? I can't resist your cooking.'

Nelly beamed at the compliment, and Harold wondered, yet again, how such an attractive woman as this buxom one before him could ever have taken miserable Albert Piggott for a husband.

It had always been a mystery to Thrush Green, this marriage of two such opposites. Even Charles Henstock, the much-loved rector of Thrush Green, had doubted if the marriage would last.

In fact, it was the Fuchsia Bush which had rescued that marriage from the rocks some years earlier. Nelly had always been a first-class cook, and had very little chance to use her skill when catering for Albert. He suffered from peptic ulcers, and Nelly's use of cream, butter, plenty of sugar, honey and golden syrup did nothing to help his digestion. It was a happy day for her when the owner of the Fuchsia Bush appeared on Nelly's doorstep to ask if she could help at the restaurant while the cook was ill.

This had led eventually to a thriving partnership between Nelly and Mrs Peters and to the Fuchsia Bush gaining a name in the neighbourhood for delicious food.

To Nelly it was her whole life. She set off for work every day in the highest of spirits. The kitchen at the Fuchsia Bush was her kingdom, the compliments from customers balm to her spirit. Nelly was probably the happiest worker in Lulling, and even Albert's gloomy company could not quell her new-found ebullience.

'And how's Mrs Shoosmith?' asked Nelly, putting a plate before him. 'Had her flu jabs, I hope. They say this new flu's a real killer.'

'Months ago,' Harold assured her, spreading butter.

'Good,' said Nelly. 'Well, I must get back to the oven. I've got some brandy snaps in at the moment, and you know how quickly they catch.'

Harold did not, but watched her bustle away to her duties.

As he put the car away in the garage, he saw his friend and neighbour Edward Young emerging from his house.

'I was just coming to see you,' called Edward.

'Come indoors,' said Harold, but Edward, who always seemed to be in a hurry, refused the invitation.

'It's about the fête,' said Edward, banging his gloved hands together to keep warm.