Free The Flowering Thorn by Margery Sharp Page A

the former, without at least some show of civility, was obviously impossible: but the ice once broken, what might not result? Invitations to tea, quite possibly, followed by questions and advice and conversation about Girl Guides.… The Post Office, on the other hand, was a Government Department, impersonal and aloof: so after getting her own breakfast for the eighth time in succession Lesley put on her hat, confined Patrick to the orchard, and walked down Pig Lane to Rose Cottage. There was a notice-board in the porch with a good deal of varied information about wireless licences, foot-and-mouth disease, how to join the Army; over the door itself, in clear official lettering, the words ‘High Westover Post Office’ stood boldly forth. Her mind now almost completely at ease, Lesley pushed open the door and walked in.
    It was not nearly so impersonal as she had wished.
    Of the two little girls presumably in charge, one was nursing a baby, the other peeling potatoes. They did not stop to parley, however, and at the sudden (and apparently unexpected) sight of a customer at once jumped up and disappeared through an inner door. Thus abandoned—though presumably not for long, for she could hear their cry of “Father” all down the garden—Lesley turned her attention to the Post Office itself. There was a counter, a yard or two of grill—all the paraphernalia, in fact, that the public demands; but there was also a red plush overmantel, a down-at-heel rocking-chair, and half the stock of a small general store: from a brief inspection of whose leading lines Lesley gathered that the village in general wore strong cotton underwear and suffered from constipation. Before there was time to go further, however, the inner door opened again, and she had a confused impression of several newcomers all trying to see through at the same time. But only the Postmaster came in.
    â€œGood morning, Ma’am,” said the Postmaster, so huskily that Lesley wondered how on earth he managed the telephone.
    â€œGood morning,” said Lesley: “I’m Miss Frewen, from the White Cottage. Do you know of any reliable woman who could come and work for me?”
    â€œMrs. Sprigg,” replied the Postmaster, without the least hesitation. “She’d suit you nicely.” He masticated.
    A trifle taken aback by such readiness, Lesley elaborated.
    â€œI want someone who can manage all the rough work of the cottage, and possibly cook a little. If you think Mrs. Sprigg can do it, you’d better tell her to come up and see me.”
    The Postmaster nodded: and suddenly, as though he had at last succeeded in disposing of some impediment, his voice rang like trumpets.
    â€œAgnes! Agnes, when could Mrs. Sprigg go up’n see Miss Frewen?”
    With the extreme promptness that apparently characterised the whole establishment, the door flew open and Agnes joined them.
    â€œEleven o’clock before dinner or one-thirty after, whichever Miss Frewen says.”
    â€œEleven o’clock, then,” snapped Lesley, not to be outdone: and returning to the cottage sat down to await the interview. The unwarranted repose was extremely grateful to her; and though feeling determined to sift, with the extreme of domestic perspicuity, all Mrs. Sprigg’s qualifications, it is nevertheless worthy of notice that she made no attempt to wash up.
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    At eleven o’clock precisely (and thus earning a good mark for punctuality) Mrs. Sprigg arrived. She was considerably older than Lesley had expected, with brown, bright eyes, very thin wrists and ankles, very large hands and feet: and in short resembled nothing so much on earth as an aged but still active shrew-mouse.
    When they had done looking at each other, Lesley repeated her incantation.
    â€œI want someone who can do all the rough work, Mrs. Sprigg, and if possible cook a little. Do you think you could manage it?”
    â€œ Plain cooking I can,”