GOSSIP FROM THRUSH GREEN returns readers to the delightful English village, neighbor to Fairacre, for a golden summer. But this sleepy, pristine setting conceals a flurry of activity amongst the villagers. Rumor has it that Mr. Venables is considering retirement just as the village's teacher is about to make an important decision. Molly Curdle prepares for a new baby. The kindly vicar, Charles Henstock, works on his sermon -- quite unaware of the disaster that will overtake him. However, there is never any doubt that all will end well in this very English village. 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.  Gossip from Thrush Green By Miss Read, John S. Goodall Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company Copyright © 1981 Miss Read All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-618-21913-1 Contents Title Page, Contents, Frontispiece, Copyright, Dedication, 1. Afternoon Tea, 2. Friends and Relations, 3. Jenny Falls Ill, 4. Dimity Gets Her Way, 5. The Henstocks Set Off, 6. A Turbulent Tea Party, 7. The Fire, 8. At Young Mr Venables', 9. Trouble at Tullivers, 10. A Golden May, 11. A Sea-Side Interlude, 12. Bessie's Advice, 13. Jenny Decides, 14. After the Storm, 15. Dotty Faces Facts, 16. Sunday Lunch at the Misses Lovelock's, 17. Housing Plans, 18. Help Needed, 19. Charles Meets His Bishop, 20. Looking Ahead, About the Author, CHAPTER 1 Afternoon Tea In far too many places in England today, the agreeable habit of taking afternoon tea has vanished. 'Such a shocking waste of time,' says one. 'Much too fattening a meal with all that dreadful starch,' says another. 'Quite unnecessary, if one has had lunch or proposes to eat in the evening,' says a third. All very true, no doubt, but what a lot of innocent pleasure these strong-minded people are missing! The very ritual of tea-making, warming the pot, making sure that the water is just boiling, inhaling the fragrant steam, arranging the tea-cosy to fit snugly around the precious container, all the preliminaries lead up to the exquisite pleasure of sipping the brew from thin porcelain, and helping oneself to hot buttered scones and strawberry jam, a slice of feather-light sponge cake or home-made shortbread. Taking tea is a highly civilised pastime, and fortunately is still in favour at Thrush Green, where it has been brought to a fine art. It is common practice in that pleasant village to invite friends to tea rather than lunch or dinner. As Winnie Bailey, the doctor's widow, pointed out one day to her old friend Ella Bembridge, people could set off from their homes in the light, and return before dark, except for the really miserable weeks of mid-winter when one would probably prefer to stay at home anyway. 'Besides,' said Ella, who was fond of her food, 'when else can you eat homemade gingerbread, all squishy with black treacle? Or dip into the pounds of jam on the larder shelves?' 'I suppose one could make a sponge pudding with jam at the bottom,' replied Winnie thoughtfully, 'but Jenny and I prefer fresh fruit.' 'Jenny looks as though a sponge pudding might do her good,' said Ella, naming Winnie's maid and friend. 'She seems to have lost a lot of weight recently. She's not dieting, I hope?' Winnie profferred the dish of shortbread, and Ella, who was certainly not dieting, took a piece. 'I've noticed it myself,' confessed Winnie. 'I do hope she's not doing too much in the house. As you know, we've offered to look after Tullivers when Frank and Phil are away, and Jeremy will stay with us. So I'm determined that Jenny shall not overwork then.' Tullivers was the attractive house next door to Winnie Bailey's. Built of the local Cotswold stone, it faced south, standing at right angles to her own home, and their gardens adjoined. Since the death of her doctor husband, Donald, she had been more thankful than ever for her good neighbours, the Hursts. Frank Hurst was an editor, and his wife Phyllida a free-lance writer. They had met when Phil was busy submitting work some years earlier. Her first husband had been killed in a motoring accident, and she had been left to bring up her young son Jeremy with very little money. This second marriage had turned out to be a very happy one, and the inhabitants of Thrush Green thoroughly approved of the Hursts, who played their part in village life, supplying prizes for raffles, jumble for the many rummage sales, and consenting, with apparent cheerfulness, to sit on at least half a dozen local committees. Jeremy was a happy child, now in Miss Watson's class as Thrush Green village school, an