Christmas At Thrush Green

Table of Contents

 

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

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

‘
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 after 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.’