Read Online (3/13) News from Thrush Green by Miss Read - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Miss Read
Tags: Historical
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reminds me, Charles, I haven't been able to type the minutes of the Entertainments Committee. My typewriter has collapsed.'
'What's the matter with it?' asked Mrs Prior with genuine interest.
'Asthma, I should imagine, from the rhythmic squeaks it gives out. It's gone in for an overhaul. Poor old thing, it's well over thirty years old and spent most of its life in the tropics, so it's not done too badly.'
'I could type the minutes, if you'd like me to,' offered the girl.
'Do you type too?' asked the rector, in open admiration. 'How clever of you! Without looking at the keys?'
'Of course,' she said, laughing. 'I should have been thrown out of my typing class pretty smartly if I'd dared to look at the keyboard.'
'Well, I've never been able to master a typewriter,' confessed the rector. 'I once tried to type "How doth the little crocodile" on Harold's machine, and it made an awful lot of 8s and halfpennies, I remember. Do you use yours much?'
'I do a column for a girls' weekly,' said Mrs Prior. 'About five hundred words. And a few book reviews.'
This modest disclosure brought forth a buzz of excited comment. Thrush Green had no writers among its inhabitants, and to meet someone who not only wrote, but who actually had those writings published was indeed thrilling.
'I've always thought I could write,' observed Edward Young, adding predictably, 'if I only had the time.'
'I couldn't,' said his brother-in-law honestly. 'It's quite bad enough writing prescriptions. Anything imaginative would floor me completely.'
'When you say "a column",' said Dimity, 'do you mean a short story?'
'A brief article,' answered the girl, 'on some topical matter which would interest girls. Sometimes I make one of the books the subject of the column - that's cheating, I feel, but the editor approves.'
'You must enjoy it.'
'Not always - but it's well paid, and the editor is a sweetie.'
'Mary has just learnt to hold a crayon properly,' said Ruth Lovell proudly, 'and has scribbled on every page of the laundry book.' The company agreed that this might, conceivably, show literary promise.
The orange mousse and the apple pie were eaten to the exchange of news about children, and no more was said about the writing until the company were enjoying Dimity's excellent coffee by the drawing-room fire.
Harold Shoosmith, who settled himself next to the girl, asked if she would find it a nuisance to type the minutes.
'Or I could do them myself, if I might borrow the typewriter for half an hour,' he said. 'Whichever is simpler for you. They only take up a page of quarto-size.'
'Bring them in tomorrow,' said the girl. 'I shall be in all day.'
And so the matter was left, and the evening passed very pleasantly in general conversation, except for ten minutes of television news which Edward Young asked if he might see as he had heard that a house he had restored for a wealthy pop singer had just been burned out and it might be shown on the screen.
The company obligingly sat through a student demonstration, plentifully sprinkled with bleeding noses and blasphemies, a multiple car crash on a motorway from which a stretcher, ominously blanketed, was removed, an interview with a distracted mother whose child had been abducted, and the arrival at London airport of a half-naked film star whose long unkempt hair was something of a blessing in view of her neck-line. But Edward Young's burned-out masterpiece was not included among the attractions, and everyone was thankful when the set was switched off.
'I don't call that news, do you?' said Charles Henstock. 'Not by Thrush Green standards anyway. What I mean by news is hearing about Dotty Harmer's kittens, or Albert Piggott's prize onions or meeting a charming newcomer to the village,' he said, bowing slightly to his guest of honour.
'And why should one be subjected to all these, horrors on one's own hearth rug?' agreed Doctor Lovell. 'To think we pay for it too! It's galling.'
'Too bad about your house,' said
'What's the matter with it?' asked Mrs Prior with genuine interest.
'Asthma, I should imagine, from the rhythmic squeaks it gives out. It's gone in for an overhaul. Poor old thing, it's well over thirty years old and spent most of its life in the tropics, so it's not done too badly.'
'I could type the minutes, if you'd like me to,' offered the girl.
'Do you type too?' asked the rector, in open admiration. 'How clever of you! Without looking at the keys?'
'Of course,' she said, laughing. 'I should have been thrown out of my typing class pretty smartly if I'd dared to look at the keyboard.'
'Well, I've never been able to master a typewriter,' confessed the rector. 'I once tried to type "How doth the little crocodile" on Harold's machine, and it made an awful lot of 8s and halfpennies, I remember. Do you use yours much?'
'I do a column for a girls' weekly,' said Mrs Prior. 'About five hundred words. And a few book reviews.'
This modest disclosure brought forth a buzz of excited comment. Thrush Green had no writers among its inhabitants, and to meet someone who not only wrote, but who actually had those writings published was indeed thrilling.
'I've always thought I could write,' observed Edward Young, adding predictably, 'if I only had the time.'
'I couldn't,' said his brother-in-law honestly. 'It's quite bad enough writing prescriptions. Anything imaginative would floor me completely.'
'When you say "a column",' said Dimity, 'do you mean a short story?'
'A brief article,' answered the girl, 'on some topical matter which would interest girls. Sometimes I make one of the books the subject of the column - that's cheating, I feel, but the editor approves.'
'You must enjoy it.'
'Not always - but it's well paid, and the editor is a sweetie.'
'Mary has just learnt to hold a crayon properly,' said Ruth Lovell proudly, 'and has scribbled on every page of the laundry book.' The company agreed that this might, conceivably, show literary promise.
The orange mousse and the apple pie were eaten to the exchange of news about children, and no more was said about the writing until the company were enjoying Dimity's excellent coffee by the drawing-room fire.
Harold Shoosmith, who settled himself next to the girl, asked if she would find it a nuisance to type the minutes.
'Or I could do them myself, if I might borrow the typewriter for half an hour,' he said. 'Whichever is simpler for you. They only take up a page of quarto-size.'
'Bring them in tomorrow,' said the girl. 'I shall be in all day.'
And so the matter was left, and the evening passed very pleasantly in general conversation, except for ten minutes of television news which Edward Young asked if he might see as he had heard that a house he had restored for a wealthy pop singer had just been burned out and it might be shown on the screen.
The company obligingly sat through a student demonstration, plentifully sprinkled with bleeding noses and blasphemies, a multiple car crash on a motorway from which a stretcher, ominously blanketed, was removed, an interview with a distracted mother whose child had been abducted, and the arrival at London airport of a half-naked film star whose long unkempt hair was something of a blessing in view of her neck-line. But Edward Young's burned-out masterpiece was not included among the attractions, and everyone was thankful when the set was switched off.
'I don't call that news, do you?' said Charles Henstock. 'Not by Thrush Green standards anyway. What I mean by news is hearing about Dotty Harmer's kittens, or Albert Piggott's prize onions or meeting a charming newcomer to the village,' he said, bowing slightly to his guest of honour.
'And why should one be subjected to all these, horrors on one's own hearth rug?' agreed Doctor Lovell. 'To think we pay for it too! It's galling.'
'Too bad about your house,' said
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