Free (9/13)The School at Thrush Green by Miss Read

roared past.
    'That'll be me brother,' volunteered Miss Cooke, and silence fell again.
    'Well,' said Mrs Gibbons at last, 'shall I start the ball rolling? I thought it would be a good idea to present the ladies with something really personal connected with Thrush Green.'
    'How d'you mean, personal?' asked Molly. 'Like something they could wear, say?'
    'No, no! Nothing like that. I was thinking of something on historical lines. Perhaps a short account of all that had happened in Thrush Green during their time here.'
    'A sort of book? ' queried Miss Cooke, sounding shocked. If Mrs Gibbons had suggested a pair of corsets apiece for the ladies, the committee members could not have appeared more affronted.
    'I shouldn't think they'd want a book, ' volunteered the quiet father, who was called Frank Biddle. 'Unless of course, you have come across a contemporary account of Thrush Green which we haven't yet seen.'
    'I envisaged compiling such a book,' said Mrs Gibbons. 'From people's memories and cuttings from the local paper. And photographs, of course.'
    Silence fell again, as all present considered the magnitude of the task and the inadequacy of anyone, Mrs Gibbons included, to undertake it.
    Frank Biddle rallied first. 'A nice idea if we had thought of it a year or two ago perhaps,' he began cautiously, 'but we'd never get it done in time.'
    Molly Curdle and Emily Cooke hastened to agree.
    'Right! Scrub out that one!' said Mrs Gibbons, wielding a large blue pencil and slashing across her notepad.
    'Then what about something for their new home to which we all contribute? I thought a large rug - perhaps a runner for their hall - with a few stitches put in by every person in the parish.'
    'It'd take a fair old time,' observed Molly.
    'And we'd have to cart it about from one house to the next,' pointed out Emily. 'Get it wet most likely, or find people out.'
    'Yes, rather a cumbersome project,' agreed Frank Biddle.
    Mrs Gibbons' blue pencil tapped impatiently on the desk top. 'Well, let's have your ideas,' she said shortly.
    Silence fell again, broken only by the tapping of the pencil, and a distant squawk from one of Percy Hodge's chickens.
    Molly Curdle was the first to pluck up her courage. 'What about some sort of thing? I mean, a nice vase, or set of glasses, or a wooden salad bowl, if you think breakables a bit silly.'
    'Not silly at all,' said Frank, relieved to have someone beside him with ideas to offer.
    Molly cast him a grateful look.
    'I was thinking rather on the same lines,' said Frank, not entirely truthfully, as he had toyed with suggesting a lawn mower or some window-boxes for the new residence.
    'Possible,' said Mrs Gibbons with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
    Emily Cooke, anxious no doubt to return to Nigel, came out strongly in support of Molly. 'Far the best thing to go to a shop for something nice. See it all ready, I mean, and make a choice, like. A book or a rug, like what you said, Mrs Gibbons, would need no end of time and trouble, and there's plenty could make a muck of their bit and spoil it for the others.'
    'That's very true,' agreed Frank Biddle. 'I suggest that we make a list of suggestions ready to forward to the rector.'
    'Very well,' said Mrs Gibbons resignedly, 'if that is agreeable to you all.'
    There was a murmur of assent.
    'I must say,' went on their chairman, ripping off a clean sheet from the notepad, 'that I had envisaged something more personal , something more inspired, but there we are.'
    She spoke more in sorrow than anger, as though her best students had failed Common Entrance through no fault of her own. Her three companions appeared relieved rather than rebuked, and smiled warmly at each other.
    'Ideas again?' prompted Mrs Gibbons, pencil poised.
    'Piece of glass. Vase or similar,' repeated Molly.
    'Something for the garden,' said Frank, feeling that he should make some contribution as the only man present. 'Perhaps a garden seat?'
    'Garden seat,' muttered Mrs Gibbons, pencil