Winter in Thrush Green

Illustrated by J.S. Goodall

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
Boston • New York

To
Peg and Clare
with love

First Houghton Mifflin paperback edition 2008

Copyright © 1961 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.

www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Read, Miss
Winter in Thrush Green.
I.Title

PR
6069.
A
42
W
5 1987 823'.914 87-19456
ISBN
0-89733-264-4

ISBN
978-0-618-88439-1 (pbk.)

Printed in the United States of America

DOC
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

PART ONE

The Coming of Winter

1 The Newcomer 11

2 Wild Surmise 21

3 Miss Fogerty Rises to the Occasion 31

4 Plans for a Party 42

5 Nelly Tilling 51

6 All Hallows E'en 63

7 The Newcomer Settles In 73

8 Sam Curdle is Observed 81

PART TWO

Christmas at Thrush Green

9 The Memorial 99

10 Albert Piggott is Wooed 112

11 Christmas Preparations 120

12 The Fur and Feather Whist Drive 130

13 Christmas Eve 139

14 Christmas Day 150

PART THREE

The New Year

15 A Bitter Journey 161

I6 Snow at Thrush Green 176

17 Two Clues 189

l8 Spring Fever 201

19 Albert Piggott is Won 210

20 Coming Home 219

The Coming of Winter

AUTUMN
had come early to Thrush Green. The avenue of horse-chestnuts, which ran across its northerly end, blazed like a bonfire. Every afternoon, as soon as the children at the village school had finished their lessons, they streamed across the wet grass and began to bombard the trees with upthrown sticks as their fathers had done before them. The conkers, glossy as satin, bounced splendidly from their green and white cases and were pounced upon greedily by their young predators.

In the porch of 'The Two Pheasants,' next door to the village school, swung a hanging basket filled with dead geraniums and trails of withered lobelia. All summer through they had enlivened the entrance, but now their bright day was over, and the basket was due to be taken down and stored in the shed at the back of the little inn until summer came again to the Cotswolds.

Chrysanthemums of red and gold glowed on the graves in St Andrew's churchyard, while Mr Piggott the gloomy sexton swept the bright pennies of dead leaves from the paths and cursed fruitlessly as the wind bowled them back again into his newly-swept territory.

The creeper, which climbed over the walls at Doctor Bailey's house and the cottage occupied by two old friends, Ella Bembridge and Dimity Dean, had never flamed so brilliantly as it did this October. The sparkling autumn air, the unusually early frosts and the heavy crop of berries of all sorts made the' weather-wise on Thrush Green wag their heads sagely.

'We'll be getting a hard winter this time,' they said in tones of mingled gravity and satisfaction. 'Best get plenty of firing in. Mark my words, it'll be a real winter this one!'

Mr Piggott straightened his aching back, clasped his hands on top of the broom, and surveyed Thrush Green morosely. Behind him lay the bulk of the church, its spire's shadow throwing a neat triangle across the grass. To his right ran the main road from the Cotswold Hills down into the sleepy little market town of Lulling, which Thrush Green adjoined. To his left ran a modest lane which meandered northward to several small villages.

Within fifty yards of him, set along this lane, stood his cottage, next door to 'The Two Pheasants.' The village school, now quiet behind its white palings in the morning sunshine, was next in the row, and beside it was a well-built house of Cotswold stone which stood back from the green. Its front windows stared along the chestnut avenue which joined the two roads. The door was shut, and no smoke plumed skywards from its grey chimneys.

The garden was overgrown and deserted. Dead black roses drooped from the unkempt bushes growing over the face of the house, and the broad nagged path was almost hidden by unswept leaves.

Mr Piggott could see the vegetable garden from his vantage point in the churchyard. A row of bean poles had collapsed, sagging under the weight of the frost-blackened crop. Below the triumphant spires of dock which covered the beds, submerged cabbages, as large as footballs, could be discerned. Onions, left to go to seed, displayed magnificent fluffy heads, and a host of chirruping birds fluttered excitedly about the varied riches of the wilderness.

Mr Piggott clicked his false teeth in disapproval at such
wicked waste, and shook his head at the FOR SALE board which had been erected at the gate the week before.

'Time someone took that over,' he said aloud. 'What's the good weeding this ere if all that lot's coming over all the rime?' He cast a sour look at the leaves which still danced joyously in his path. Everlasting work! he thought gloomily.

The clock began to whirr above him before striking ten. Mr Piggott's face brightened. Someone came out of 'The Two Pheasants' and latched the door back to the wall hospitably. The faint clinking of glasses could be heard and a snatch of music from the bar's radio set.

Mr Piggott propped his broom against the church railings and set off, with unaccustomed jauntiness, to his haven.

Across the green Ella Bembridge was also looking at the empty house. She had just made her bed, and was busy
hanging up her capacious tweed suit in the cupboard, when the sight of a small van drawing up by the FOR SALE board, caught her eye. She folded her sturdy arms upon the window-sill and gazed with interest.

Two men emerged and Ella recognised them. They worked at the local estate agents and lived, she knew, at the village of Nidden a mile or two from Thrush Green. She watched them go inside the gate and start to wrench at the post supporting the board.

'Dim!' called Ella, in a hearty boom, to her companion downstairs. A faint twittering sound came from below.

'Dim!' continued Ella fortissimo, 'they're taking down the board from the corner house! Must be sold!'

Dimity Dean entered the bedroom and joined her friend at the window. A slight, bedraggled figure, clad in an assortment of grey and fawn garments, she was as frail as Ella was robust. She peered short-sightedly at the activity in the distance.

'Isn't that young Edwards? The boy who used to help in the garden?'

'Yes, that's Edwards,' agreed Ella watching the figure heaving at the post.

'Then he's no business to be doing such heavy work!' exclaimed Dimity, much distressed. 'That poor back of his! You know I always wheeled the barrow for him after he slipped that disc.'

'More fool you!' said Ella shortly. 'Bit of exercise will do him good, lazy lout.'

Dimity shook her head mournfully, her eyes filling with sympathetic tears. Of course dear Ella was probably quite right, but Edwards had been such a sweet boy, with an ethereal pale face which quite made one think of Byron. She was relieved to see the board suddenly lurch sideways and the two men carry it out to the van.

'Well,' breathed Dimity, 'I suppose we can look forward to new neighbours now. I do hope they'll fit in at Thrush Green. Quiet people, you know–like us.'

'People who hie whooping it up aren't likely to come to Thrush Green,' pointed out Ella, turning her back upon the sunshine. 'Tell you what, we'll see if Winnie Bailey's heard anything when she comes in this morning.'

Dimity clapped a skinny hand to her mouth to stifle a scream.

'Oh, Ella, what a blessing you mentioned her! I'd quite forgotten. I must rush down and get the coffee ready!'

She scuttled down the stairs like a startled hen leaving Ella to speculate upon the future owners of the empty house.

Winnie Bailey was the wife of Doctor Bailey who had been in practice in Lulling and Thrush Green for almost half a century. He still visited a few old patients and occasionally took surgery duty, but since he had retired through ill-health, his young partner Doctor Lovell did more than three-quarters of the work and throve on it.

Life was good to Winnie Bailey. Now that her husband was less busy she found more time for informal visiting, for reading and for the quiet cross-country walks which did so much to refresh her happy spirits.

Thrush Green had changed little since she came first to it as a young wife. True, there were new houses along the lane to Nidden and a large housing estate further west, and in Lulling itself there were twice as many inhabitants. But the triangular green, surrounded by the comfortable Cotswold stone buildings, had altered very little. Winnie Bailey had known those who lived in them, had watched them come and go, grow from children to men and women, and followed their fortunes with an interest which was both shrewd and warm-hearted.

As the wife of a professional man she knew the wisdom of
being discreet. Many came to Winnie Bailey for advice and comfort. They went away knowing full well that their confidences would go no further. In a small community discretion is greatly prized.

She too that morning noticed that the board had gone from the corner house and speculated upon its new owner, as she selected some apples to take to Ella and Dimity who owned no apple trees. She hoped it might be a chess player. Donald, her husband, had so few people to play with these days, and she was no match for him. She picked up a Cox's Orange Pippin and smelt it luxuriously. What a perfect thing it was! She admired its tawny streaks, ranging from palest yellow to glowing amber, which radiated from the satisfying dimple whence its stalk sprang.

She rubbed it lovingly with the white linen cloth, now so old and soft that it crumpled in her hand like tissue paper, and put it carefully in the shallow rush basket among its fellows. Ella would appreciate the picture she was creating, she knew, for beneath Ella's crusty and well-upholstered exterior was a fastidious appreciation of loveliness, which expressed itself in the bold, and sometimes beautiful, designs which she printed for curtains and covers. It was strange, thought Winnie Bailey, that those thick knobbly hands could execute such fine workmanship, while Dimity's frail fingers coped so much more successfully with lighting fires, baking cakes and cleaning the cottage.

The doctor's wife delighted in this incongruous pair. She had known them now for over twenty-five years, and despite their oddities and Ella's brusqueness, was grateful for their unfailing friendship.

She looked at the kitchen clock, which said a quarter to eleven. Donald Bailey was still in bed resting after an unusually busy day. His wife ran up to see him before she set forth with
her basket, reflecting as she mounted the stairs on the uncommon devotion of Ella and Dimity.