Winter in Thrush Green by Miss Read

The water ran so continuously from the thatched roofs of one or two of Thrush Green's cottages that the stones beneath were scoured as clean as if they were in the
bed of a trout stream. Tempers grew frayed as wet day followed wet day and washing had to be dried by the fire. The women were at their wits' end to keep up with the demand for dry clothing, and the windows were opaque with steam both by day and night.

    'Appalling weather,' said Harold Shoosmith, settling his friend by the fire. His eye was caught by the rector's sodden shoes which squelched as he moved. The soles, he observed, were in sore need of mending. The fellow wants looking after, thought Harold Shoosmith.
    'Would you like to borrow some slippers? We could dry your shoes while you're here.'
    The rector's cherubic face became pinker and he looked concerned.
    'I do so hope I haven't made a mess on your carpets. I quite forgot how dirty it was outside.'
    His companion reassured him on this point but was unable to persuade him to part with his disgraceful foot-gear which steamed gently in the glow from the fire. The rector settled back in his leather armchair and looked with pleasure about the room.
    'You've made it all uncommonly cosy,' he remarked. Betty Bell's ministrations were apparent in the gleaming copper kettle on the hearth and the array of silver cups which reflected the firelight on the sideboard opposite the hearth. Harold Shoosmith had been something of an athlete in his younger days, and this was another bond that the two men had, for Mr Henstock had once coxed his college eight in the years when he had weighed seven and a half stone.
    He found Harold Shoosmith's comfortable house and his friendly welcome particularly cheering. The Reverend Charles Henstock, although he did not realise it, was much lonelier than he imagined. The death of his wife, some years before, had
been borne with great courage. His religion was of the greatest comfort to him, for he was sustained by the knowledge that he would meet his wife again as soon as he left this world for the next. The affection and kindness of his parishioners never ceased to amaze him. The thought that his own shining honesty, modesty and goodwill might be the cause of his neighbours' esteem never entered his head. He was welcomed in all the houses in his parish, but felt some hesitation in staying too long. Fathers were coming home from work, children from school, wives from shopping. He, who had no wife and no child in his home, found the company of the newcomer to Thrush Green much to his liking. They were roughly the same age, enjoyed the same pleasures and had plenty of time on their own. It was natural that the rector began to call more and more frequently at the corner house. For his part, Harold Shoosmith liked his pastor more each time they met.

    'I've been thinking about the memorial to Nathaniel Patten,' said the rector, warming his hands at the fire. 'The subject came up at the last meeting of the Entertainments Committee.'
    'How did that come about?' asked Harold, much amused.
    'We were discussing the arrangements for the Fur and Feather—' began the rector earnestly.
    'The Fur and Feather?' ejaculated his friend, looking up from poking the fire. 'What on earth's that? A pub?'
    'No, no! "The Fur and Feather
Whist Drive,
" I should have said,' the rector explained. 'We have one every Christmas in the village school.'
    'But why "Fur and Feather"?' persisted the wanderer in other lands. 'What's the significance of calling it that?'
    The rector began to explain patiently that the prizes for this particular type of whist drive were of poultry or game. His friend's brow cleared.
    'I see. Thank you. But how does this tie up with Nathaniel?'
    'Well, you know what village meetings are–everything is discussed except the points on the agenda. I find it very helpful in my parish work. I always get to hear who is ill or in trouble of any sort. It's most necessary for a parish priest to