‘And, of course, with children,’ Nelly went on forcefully, ‘you simply can’t be too careful. Especially,’ she added, as a happy touch, ‘when they’re not your own.’ She spoke as though the sudden disintegration of one’s own offspring could be borne comparatively lightly.
“Winter in Thrush Green” is my second visit to that delightfully cozy Cotswold village. Two years have gone by since my first visit, and we’re now living in 1960.
‘Good manners frequently drive one to dishonesty,’ agreed the rector. ‘It’s a nice point to consider—whether one should offend one’s host or one’s conscience.’
I love the domestic details, the gentle humor, and the charmingly imperfect characters.
He watched his wife bustle from the room to the telephone and lay back, contentedly enough, in the deep armchair. He was more tired than he would admit to her. The thought of sunshine filled him with longings, but the effort of getting to it he knew was beyond his strength. Better to lie quietly at Thrush Green, letting the rainy days slip by, until the spring brought the benison of English sunlight and daffodils again. The room was very quiet. The old man closed his eyes and listened to the small domestic noises around him. The fire whispered in the hearth, a log hissed softly as its moss-covered bark dried in the flames, and the doctor’s ancient cat purred rustily in its throat. Somewhere outside, there was the distant sound of metal on stone as a workman repaired a gatepost. A child called, its voice high and tremulous like the bleating of a lamb, and a man answered it. Doctor Bailey felt a great peace enfolding him, and remembered a snatch of poetry from ‘The Task,’ which he had learnt as a small boy almost seventy years ago. ‘Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence.’