attic.
5. New Light On Old Times
T HE FIRST days of the New Year were mild and still.
The naked trees stood motionless against a grey sky, and the hedgerows were spangled with drops from morn until evening.
In the gardens a few hardy flowers showed a little colour. Tough marigolds, brave pansies and here and there a pink, all somewhat bedraggled, nevertheless were tattered reminders of the summer long past.
Bright berries of pyracantha and cotoneaster glowed against the Cotswold stone, providing cheer for passers by and the hungry birds.
Indoors bowls of hyacinths and tulips gave hope of spring to come, sharing the tables and windowsills with the azaleas and poinsettias of Christmas.
It was a time to relish one's home. In the dark of the year, when curtains were drawn between four and five, and the long evening stretched ahead, the people of Thrush Green turned to their fires, books, knitting, needlework and, sometimes, television to amuse themselves. Domestic comforts became doubly precious: a warm bed, a hot drink, the snugness of curtains shut against the night's chill, all brought comfort in the dismal days of January.
Even Charles Henstock, who thought little about creature comforts, enjoyed these simple pleasures at Lulling vicarage, and occasionally thought about his former house at Thrush Green which had been burnt down some years earlier. On that site there were now some homes for old people, one-storey pleasant places designed by Edward Young, the local architect.
Edward had always thought that Thrush Green rectory was an abomination, and had pitied Charles and Dimity, obliged to live in a tall bleak house entirely out of keeping with the Cotswold architecture around it. It faced north-east, and the front door opened on to a long passage which ran the length of the house forming a wicked wind-tunnel whenever one or the other door was opened. The ceilings were lofty, the windows badly fitting, there was no central heating and, even in summer, the interior was chilly.
When at last it vanished and the ashes and debris had gone, and Dimity and Charles had moved to Lulling vicarage, no one was more delighted than Edward; and to be asked to design the new buildings to take its place gave him enormous satisfaction.
Phoenix-like, the present homes had risen from the ashes, and everyone, even dear uncomplaining Charles who had grieved at the loss of his old home, agreed that Thrush Green had been much improved by Edward's endeavours.
It was at the old people's home, called Rectory Cottages in tribute to the former residence, that a coffee morning was held on one of the quiet cold days of January.
Thrush Green was particularly fond of coffee mornings to raise funds for whichever good cause was in need. Usually the posters proclaimed that those perennials, the church roof or the organ, were pleading for help. But sometimes the posters exhorted all folk of good will to save the children, or rain forests or whales.
On the whole these occasions were looked upon as a pleasant way of meeting friends and catching up with the local gossip, both laudable and necessary in a small community. The aim of raising money really took a lesser place of importance, although when the proceeds were counted, among the unwashed coffee cups and cake plates when the public had departed, it was usually found that the local good causes - Church Roof and/or Organ Fund - did rather better than Ethiopian Famine or Brazilian Earthquake.
'Which really,' said Winnie Bailey, seated in the warden's office at Rectory Cottages, 'is as it should be, I suppose. After all, charity should begin at home, and although we see all the dreadful things that are happening worldwide on telly, it's not quite the same as hearing the organ wheezing badly at Matins or watching a steady drip in the chancel.'
Jane Cartwright, the warden, agreed. 'I make it sixteen pounds forty-five,' she said, dropping piles of coins into plastic bags. 'That's all from the Bring
5. New Light On Old Times
T HE FIRST days of the New Year were mild and still.
The naked trees stood motionless against a grey sky, and the hedgerows were spangled with drops from morn until evening.
In the gardens a few hardy flowers showed a little colour. Tough marigolds, brave pansies and here and there a pink, all somewhat bedraggled, nevertheless were tattered reminders of the summer long past.
Bright berries of pyracantha and cotoneaster glowed against the Cotswold stone, providing cheer for passers by and the hungry birds.
Indoors bowls of hyacinths and tulips gave hope of spring to come, sharing the tables and windowsills with the azaleas and poinsettias of Christmas.
It was a time to relish one's home. In the dark of the year, when curtains were drawn between four and five, and the long evening stretched ahead, the people of Thrush Green turned to their fires, books, knitting, needlework and, sometimes, television to amuse themselves. Domestic comforts became doubly precious: a warm bed, a hot drink, the snugness of curtains shut against the night's chill, all brought comfort in the dismal days of January.
Even Charles Henstock, who thought little about creature comforts, enjoyed these simple pleasures at Lulling vicarage, and occasionally thought about his former house at Thrush Green which had been burnt down some years earlier. On that site there were now some homes for old people, one-storey pleasant places designed by Edward Young, the local architect.
Edward had always thought that Thrush Green rectory was an abomination, and had pitied Charles and Dimity, obliged to live in a tall bleak house entirely out of keeping with the Cotswold architecture around it. It faced north-east, and the front door opened on to a long passage which ran the length of the house forming a wicked wind-tunnel whenever one or the other door was opened. The ceilings were lofty, the windows badly fitting, there was no central heating and, even in summer, the interior was chilly.
When at last it vanished and the ashes and debris had gone, and Dimity and Charles had moved to Lulling vicarage, no one was more delighted than Edward; and to be asked to design the new buildings to take its place gave him enormous satisfaction.
Phoenix-like, the present homes had risen from the ashes, and everyone, even dear uncomplaining Charles who had grieved at the loss of his old home, agreed that Thrush Green had been much improved by Edward's endeavours.
It was at the old people's home, called Rectory Cottages in tribute to the former residence, that a coffee morning was held on one of the quiet cold days of January.
Thrush Green was particularly fond of coffee mornings to raise funds for whichever good cause was in need. Usually the posters proclaimed that those perennials, the church roof or the organ, were pleading for help. But sometimes the posters exhorted all folk of good will to save the children, or rain forests or whales.
On the whole these occasions were looked upon as a pleasant way of meeting friends and catching up with the local gossip, both laudable and necessary in a small community. The aim of raising money really took a lesser place of importance, although when the proceeds were counted, among the unwashed coffee cups and cake plates when the public had departed, it was usually found that the local good causes - Church Roof and/or Organ Fund - did rather better than Ethiopian Famine or Brazilian Earthquake.
'Which really,' said Winnie Bailey, seated in the warden's office at Rectory Cottages, 'is as it should be, I suppose. After all, charity should begin at home, and although we see all the dreadful things that are happening worldwide on telly, it's not quite the same as hearing the organ wheezing badly at Matins or watching a steady drip in the chancel.'
Jane Cartwright, the warden, agreed. 'I make it sixteen pounds forty-five,' she said, dropping piles of coins into plastic bags. 'That's all from the Bring
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