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    Celebrations at Thrush Green: A Novel
    Celebrations at Thrush Green: A Novel
    Celebrations at Thrush Green: A Novel
    Ebook163 pages2 hours

    Celebrations at Thrush Green: A Novel

    By Miss Read and John S. Goodall

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Save the date for some English village fun: “You’ll relish a visit to Thrush Green” (Jan Karon, #1 New York Times–bestselling author).
     
    In the Cotswolds village of Thrush Green, celebrations are underway. A statue of Nathaniel Patten has graced the green for years, but little is known of the village’s most distinguished son until an unexpected letter arrives. When the correspondence shows that one hundred years have passed since the opening of Patten’s mission school in Africa, coinciding with the centenary of Thrush Green’s own village school, the townsfolk decide to combine festivities for a very special occasion. As with all village events, the plans for the celebration are beset with anxieties, but when the long-anticipated day arrives, the village finds reason to rejoice.
     
    “For the fans, another deep dream of peace—in the doings of that Cotswold English village of Thrush Green, endearingly chronicled as civil neighbors enjoy little pleasures and major satisfactions . . . A bedtime soother of remarkable potency.” —Kirkus Reviews
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateDec 9, 2008
    ISBN9780547525631
    Celebrations at Thrush Green: A Novel
    Author

    Miss Read

    Miss Read (1913-2012) was the pseudonym of Mrs. Dora Saint, a former schoolteacher beloved for her novels of English rural life, especially those set in the fictional villages of Thrush Green and Fairacre. The first of these, Village School, was published in 1955, and Miss Read continued to write until her retirement in 1996. In the 1998, she was awarded an MBE, or Member of the Order of the British Empire, for her services to literature. 

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    Reviews for Celebrations at Thrush Green

    3.5/5

    41 ratings2 reviews

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    • 3/5
      Celebrations At Thrush Green by Miss Read is the 11th book in her Thrush Green series and I guess it was bound to happen but this volume was rather a dud. Usually I sink into her tales of small village life with a sigh of enjoyment and continues on through to the end of the book. This time, although it was nice to catch up with some of my favourite characters, the story never drew me in. The village is preparing to celebrate the 100th anniversary of their school and it has also come to light that their is another centennial to celebrate, that it was also a hundred years since Thrush Green’s most distinguished son, Nathaniel Patten has opened his African mission. A number of years ago a statue of Nathaniel was erected in the village green to celebrate this man, but some felt that this would be a good opportunity to once again recognize this dedicated man.For me, the story centered too much on Nathaniel and his past deeds. I would rather have read more about the plans that the school master was making for the school’s celebrations. I also felt that the story was so concentrated on this one event that the author’s usual details about the seasons and nature were lacking. There is one more book left in the series for me to read, and I hope that the author reverts to her former style and gives Thrush Green the send off it deserves.
    • 3/5
      The village school in Thrush Green is approaching its centenary, and plans for a celebration are underway. Meanwhile, village resident Harold Shoosmith is thrilled to learn of newly discovered letters written by Nathaniel Patten, Thrush Green's most distinguished son, who had gone to Africa as a missionary in the Victorian era. Harold had lived near the African village where Nathaniel Patten had founded a church, a school, and a medical center, and where he was remembered as a hero. Harold retired to Thrush Green because of its connection with Nathaniel Patten, and he reintroduced its current residents to the dedicated missionary who had left there for Africa 100 years ago. School and church decided to combine forces and have a joint celebration of both centenaries. The book describes the year of planning culminating in the centenary celebration.This book is somewhat disappointing compared with other books by this author. It focuses too much on the planning and not enough on the reason for the celebration. There were some side stories, like Winnie Bailey's illness, that detracted from the focus on the event planning, which already suffered from being divided between the school and the Victorian missionary. The narrator of the audio version is good, but not good enough to distract most listeners from the dullness of the story.

    Book preview

    Celebrations at Thrush Green - Miss Read

    First Houghton Mifflin paperback edition 2008

    Copyright © 1992 by Miss Read

    All rights reserved

    For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

    The moral right of the author has been asserted.

    hmhco.com

    The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

    Read, Miss

    Celebrations at Thrush Green / Miss Read ;

    illustrations by John S. Goodall.—1st American ed.

    p. cm.

    ISBN 0-395-65030-5

    1. Thrush Green (Imaginary place)—Fiction 2. Country life—England—Fiction. I. Title.

    PR6069.A4.2C45 1993 93-22983

    823'.914—dc20 CIP

    ISBN 978-0-618-88443-8 (pbk.)

    eISBN

    v2.0418

    To Babs

    with love

    1

    One Wet Day

    ONE WET November morning, Winnie Bailey stood at her bedroom window and surveyed the rain-drenched view of Thrush Green.

    Usually at this time of the morning, a little past nine o’clock, things were stirring. One or two late arrivals at the school across the green would be running in breathlessly. Percy Hodge’s milk float would be making its slow way from house to house. A few housewives would be hurrying downhill to the shops in Lulling, baskets in hand.

    But today there was little movement. A wet umbrella passed below, its carrier hidden from Winnie’s view. A duster flapped from an upstairs window of the Two Pheasants across the green, hard by the school, and two excited dogs cavorted by the deserted and dripping children’s play area.

    Winnie Bailey had lived at Thrush Green for over fifty years, ever since she arrived as the bride of young Dr Bailey. He had died some years before, but Winnie stayed on in the house she loved, sharing it with Jenny, her friend, companion and maid.

    She could hear Jenny now, singing some unrecognizable tune as she washed up the breakfast things. And here she was, Winnie told herself briskly, supposed to be dusting bedrooms, and instead she was idling her time away gazing at the rain!

    She was about to turn to her duties when she saw a small black car moving decorously along the road opposite, skirting the Two Pheasants and the school and finally drawing up outside Harold Shoosmith’s house.

    Surely, it was the rector’s car, thought Winnie, peering again through the rain-spotted window, dusting forgotten.

    A small chubby man emerged from the driver’s seat and hurried through the downpour to the shelter of the Shoosmiths’ porch.

    The Reverend Charles Henstock, rector of Thrush Green and vicar of Lulling, was paying an early morning call on his old friend.

    Winnie took up her duster again, and speculated.

    ‘Come in! Come in!’ cried Harold. ‘Good grief, man, haven’t you got a raincoat?’

    ‘I didn’t think I’d need it,’ replied Charles.

    ‘Let’s have your jacket,’ said his host, stripping it from the rector’s back and shaking it energetically.

    ‘Isobel’s away for two nights, in Sussex. Come into the kitchen, it’s warmer.’

    The two men settled at the kitchen table. Outside the rain lashed at the window, and gurgled in the gutter. A pigeon sat hunched on the bird-table, presumably seeking shelter rather than food, raindrops dripping from the little roof above it.

    ‘Coffee?’ asked Harold.

    The rector shook his head. He had turned round to try to extricate an envelope from the inside pocket of his wet jacket.

    ‘Such a strange letter,’ he said, puffing slightly as he pulled it free. ‘It arrived yesterday but I didn’t have a chance to get in touch with you.’

    He handed it to Harold and sat back to watch his friend’s reaction as he read.

    Harold skipped the preliminaries and perused the second paragraph onward with growing concentration. He read:

    I have been clearing up my late aunt’s effects recently, and came across some letters and a diary among her papers. The letters are from one Nathaniel Patten and are addressed to the Reverend Octavius Fennel of Thrush Green. The diary, which also appears to he an account hook, is that of Mr Fennel.

    I have no idea how these papers came into my aunt’s possession, but she lived for a time near Thrush Green, and only moved here to the Lake District a few years ago to be near her daughter, as she was becoming infirm.

    It seems right to me that these papers should be returned to the church, and I shall be pleased to let you have them if you send word.

    Harold peered closely at the signature. ‘Can’t make out the chap’s name. Wellbeloved? Wobblefoot?’

    ‘Wilberforce,’ said the rector. ‘And isn’t it extraordinary?’

    ‘It is indeed,’ agreed Harold warmly. ‘We must get hold of these letters. To think that we shall see Nathaniel’s actual handwriting after all this time.’

    The rector smiled indulgently upon his friend. He knew how much Nathaniel Patten meant to him.

    Nathaniel had been a Thrush Green boy born and bred in Queen Victoria’s reign, and had travelled to Africa as a missionary. There Nathaniel had set up a church, a mission hall, a school and the beginnings of a medical centre.

    His project flourished, and Nathaniel Patten was greatly loved by the people he cared for.

    His reputation grew over the years. His devotion, wisdom and sound common sense were widely recognized for miles around his settlement, but those in Thrush Green had forgotten the young man who had left his home.

    He never in his lifetime returned. His duties and shortage of funds kept him at his post. But at his death his body was returned, at the express wish and expense of the Reverend Octavius Fennel, who himself conducted the funeral service.

    Elderly inhabitants of Thrush Green and Lulling had memories of their parents’ respect for the former rector. The Reverend Octavius Fennel had befriended the young Nathaniel, encouraging him in his missionary work and helping, it was believed, with financial support.

    It was known that Octavius dearly wished Nathaniel to take Holy Orders, but the strongly evangelical nature of the younger man would not allow him to accept all the tenets of the established Church of England, and he was never ordained.

    Over the years, Nathaniel was forgotten by Thrush Green. It was not until Harold Shoosmith had arrived some years before that Thrush Green folk became aware that it was the birthplace of their most distinguished son.

    In a strange way it was Nathaniel Patten who had brought Harold Shoosmith to Thrush Green. Harold had lived near the community in Africa where the Victorian missionary had worked, bringing spiritual comfort and practical help to hundreds of his flock. By the time Harold was there, Nathaniel was dead, but his work still thrived and the small stone cross which was his memorial was kept immaculate with lime-wash, and flowers always lay at its foot.

    The tales of the villagers about their hero moved Harold deeply, and when he had decided to retire he was excited to find that a house in Nathaniel’s birthplace was on the market.

    It suited him well, and he had become one of Thrush Green’s most active and well-liked residents.

    It was something of a shock to him to realize that Nathaniel meant nothing to his neighbours. His tombstone was overgrown, the inscription indecipherable. No one, it seemed, had heard of him. The parish register noted his birth and burial, and that seemed to be the only mention of the great man.

    Harold set about remedying this matter, and was instrumental in getting a statue put up on the green on the occasion of the hundredth anniversary of Nathaniel’s birth. It now stood, a matter of pride and affection, and Nathaniel had been restored to the hearts of those in Thrush Green.

    Harold and the rector had worked hard to trace any descendants of Nathaniel when the business of the memorial statue was afoot. Evidently he had married whilst abroad. His wife, debilitated by the rigours of the climate, had died giving birth to a daughter.

    When the child was old enough, she had been sent to friends in Yorkshire to be housed and educated. She had married a man called Michael Mulloy, borne a son and daughter, and the family had moved to Pembrokeshire to work on a farm.

    Times were hard in the 1930s, and the Mulloys lived in poverty. The son, William, grew up to be a wild youth. The daughter, Mary, never married.

    William married in the 1950s and his wife soon discovered that she had made a serious mistake. He was a drunkard, and violent when in his cups. She lived in daily fear of his attacks upon her and upon their young daughter Dulcie, named after Nathaniel’s daughter.

    Fortunately, his sister Mary, who lived near by, was a strong character who had no time for William, but gave support to his wife and child. It was she who had kept Nathaniel’s letters to her mother, and who told Dulcie of the wonderful work he had done. Mary had died when Dulcie was a grown woman.

    Harold and Charles had met William briefly in Wales where he farmed a few acres. He was a dissolute uncouth fellow who had no time for Nathaniel’s memory. At the time of their meeting he had left his wife and daughter, Dulcie, and was living with a woman near by.

    What had happened to William Mulloy, his poor wife and little Dulcie? the kind-hearted rector often wondered. Harold, of sterner stuff, did not waste his energies in thinking about them.

    Harold continued to hold the letter, his face alight with enthusiasm. ‘I can’t believe it!’

    ‘I thought I would reply to Mr Wilberforce today,’ said Charles, ‘and say how glad we would be to have these papers, and perhaps he would be kind enough to post them to us.’

    ‘Post!’ cried Harold. ‘Dear old Nathaniel’s letters? I wouldn’t trust those to the post!’

    ‘Oh, come,’ responded the rector. ‘Do be fair. How often does the post go astray?’

    ‘When the post does go astray,’ replied his friend forcefully, ‘I don’t know about it, do I? No, I’m not risking this lot to the post. If it comes to that I’ll go up myself and fetch them.’

    ‘Then what do you suggest I write?’

    ‘Don’t write. Telephone. Let’s do it now.’

    ‘But it’s scarcely nine thirty! He’ll be at work.’

    ‘Then we’ll ring him at work.’

    Charles felt helpless in the face of such ruthlessness. He watched Harold lift a hand telephone from its bracket and settle down at the kitchen table.

    ‘I’ll get through, then pass it over,’ he told Charles. ‘It’s an Ambleside number.’

    Charles watched him pressing buttons on this new contraption. At Lulling’s vicarage no such modern equipment was in use. A venerable instrument stood on the chest in the hall, and when it rang one simply hurried to it from the bedroom, the kitchen or the garden and announced oneself with as much breath as was left.

    ‘Can I speak to Mr Wilberforce?’ said Harold, and handed the telephone to Charles.

    A woman was speaking. ‘At work,’ said the voice, ‘but if it is urgent I could give you his number at the office, or I can leave a message for him.’

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