Winter in Thrush Green Read Online Free Page A

weight on a mossy old tombstone. The inscription was almost obliterated by the passage of years and the grey lichen which was creeping inexorably across the face.

    'Ah, we've got all sorts here,' commented Mr Piggott with lugubrious levity. 'They say this chap was shipped back from Africa in a barrel of rum.' He patted the tombstone kindly, and his face brightened at the thought.
    'I can't believe that,' expostulated Mrs Bailey, coming round the stone to peer at the inscription. 'Oh no, Piggott! This is Nathaniel Patten's grave. I'm sure he'd never have anything to do with rum. He was a strict teetotaller and a wonderful missionary, I believe.'
    'Maybe he was,' said old Piggott stoutly, 'but in them days bodies was brought home from foreign parts in spirits. That I do know. I'll lay a wager old Nathaniel here ended up in rum, even if he didn't hold with it during his lifetime.'
    'I must ask the doctor about it, if I can remember,' replied Mrs Bailey, picking up her basket and making her way towards the church. 'And I really must find out more about Nathaniel Patten one day.'
    As she entered the quiet church intent upon her duties, she little thought that Nathaniel Patten, born so long ago in Thrush Green and now lying so still beneath his grassy coverlet, would be the cause of so much consternation to his birthplace.

3. Miss Fogerty Rises to the Occasion
    O NE Monday morning in October Miss Fogerty arrived at the village school on Thrush Green at her usual time of twenty to nine.

    Her headmistress, Miss Watson, took prayers with the forty-odd pupils at nine o'clock sharp, and Miss Fogerty, who took the infants' class and was the only other teacher at the establishment, liked to have a few minutes to put out her register and inkstand, unlock the cupboards and her desk drawer, check that the caretaker had filled the coal scuttle and left a clean duster, and to be ready for any early arrivals with bunches of flowers which might need vases of water for their refreshment.
    She had enjoyed her ten-minute walk from lodgings on the main road. The air was crisp, the sun coming up strongly behind the trees on Thrush Green. Zealous housewives, who had prudently put their washing to soak on Sunday night, were already busy pegging it out and congratulating themselves upon the fine weather. Miss Fogerty, whose circumstances obliged her to do her own washing on Saturday morning each week, was glad to see their industry rewarded. Unless one was prepared to get one's washing out
really early
in October, she told herself, as she trotted along briskly, then one might as well dry it by the fire, for the days were so short that it virtually didn't dry at all after three or four in the afternoon. Unless, of course, a gale blew up, and that did more harm than good to clothes, winding them round the line and wrenching the material. Why, only on Saturday, her best pair of plated lisle stockings had been sorely twisted round the washing line and she greatly feared the fibres had been damaged.
    With such matters had earnest little Miss Fogerty busied herself as she hurried along. There were very few children about, and when she reached the school only half a dozen or
so were at large in the playground. Punctuality was not a strong point at Thrush Green, and Miss Watson's insistence on prayers at nine sharp was one of her methods of correction. Late-comers were not allowed in, and were obliged to wait in the draughty lobby. While their more time-conscious brethren received spiritual refreshment for the day, Miss Watson hoped that they would meditate upon their own shortcomings. In fact, the malefactors usually ate sweets, redistributed the hats and coats of the pious, for their future annoyance, among the coat-pegs, and played marbles. They were wise enough to choose a large rubber mat by the door for this purpose, for experience had shown them that the uneven brick floor made a noisy, as well as unpredictable, playing ground, and Miss Fogerty had