Free A Few Green Leaves by Barbara Pym

the village?’
    Tom was dismayed, for of course there was nothing of the kind and it was too early for the pub. It would have to be the rectory after all. He apologised for the lack and extended his invitation.
    ‘Oh, that is kind – I was hoping you’d say that. I almost prayed there wouldn’t be a café in the village and that I’d have a chance to see inside your beautiful old rectory.’
    ‘There’s not much to see,’ said Tom, again apologetic, ‘though of course it is an old house.’
    ‘Monks lived there, perhaps?’ Terry suggested.
    ‘Well, no – I don’t think there is any evidence of that….’
    ‘But it’s what I’d like to think. There’s a definitely monastic feeling here,’ said Terry, glancing critically round the hall and taking in its shabbiness.
    The hall was sparsely furnished, certainly, but the appearance of Daphne and Mrs Dyer struck an unmonastic note.
    ‘What about some coffee?’ Tom asked.
    ‘We’ve had ours,’ said Mrs Dyer firmly. ‘We’re turning out the dining-room today.’
    ‘What about a glass of sherry then?’ Tom turned to Terry, who was taking in the scene. ‘Or is it too early for you?’
    ‘Oh, I’ll make some coffee,’ said Daphne, coming forward, but it was too late – sherry had been offered and there was no going back.
    Tom introduced Terry Skate to his sister and explained about the mausoleum.
    ‘Oh, how splendid – to have somebody who really cares about it, especially now, with the flower festival.’ Daphne was enthusiastic.
    ‘Flower festival – in your church? You don’t say!’
    Tom wondered if Terry was being impertinent but decided that he was a guileless young man expressing himself in his natural way.
    ‘You’ll have to get rid of those dead flowers,’ Terry joked.
    ‘Yes – whose turn was it last week?’ Tom asked, trying to introduce a sterner note.
    ‘Was it the third Sunday?’ Daphne mused. ‘Yes it was, wasn’t it. It was Mrs Broome’s turn.’
    ‘But….’ Tom protested.
    ‘Yes – she’s in hospital – had a heart attack last week.’ Daphne let out a peal of unexpected laughter. ‘So no wonder the flowers look a bit off colour!’
    ‘I see – but I didn’t think Mrs Broome ever came to church.’
    ‘No, but she’s always done the flowers on the third Sunday – ever since we’ve been here.’
    Tom let this pass without comment – obviously he had failed somewhere.
    ‘Your church would lend itself to something special in the way of flower arrangements,’ said Terry hopefully.
    ‘Oh, it will be just flowers from people’s gardens,’ said Tom quickly, fearing that Terry might expect to get an order for expensive florist’s blooms. ‘This time of year there ought to be plenty.’
    ‘I must pop over,’ Terry said, ‘when you have it. You could get a lovely effect on that crusader – pity about the dog’s head being broken off, though, but you might conceal it with a posy.’ He stood up. ‘Thanks for the sherry, rector. I must say, I like a sweet sherry in the morning.’
    Tom said nothing. It had been a medium dry but not, of course, Spanish, and the bottle seemed sadly depleted since the last time he had drunk from it. Did Daphne sometimes indulge, to compensate for not having a dog? He found himself wondering if his morning had been wasted but was prepared to believe that it might not have been. God did still move in a mysterious way, even in this day and age or at this ‘moment in time’, as some of his parishioners might have said.

10

    ‘COFFEE MORNING AND BRING-AND-BUY SALE AT YEW TREE COTTAGE. TUESDAY.   10.30. ADMISSION 15p.’
    Meditating on the note which had been pushed through her letter-box, Emma wondered whether a serious sociological study had ever been made of this important feature of village life. Miss Lee and Miss Grundy were holding a coffee morning at their cottage (and there was a yew tree at the side of the house). And the clergyman in the photograph on the piano,