Reading...

One bright April day, a red mini stopped outside Tullivers and a tall woman, paper fluttering from a gloved hand, made her way into the house.

Miss Fogerty was on playground duty that morning.  Standing on the sheltered side of the school, teacup in hand, she watched with mounting excitement.  Around her squealed and shouted the sixty or so pupils of Thrush Green Church of England Primary School.  During those delirious fifteen minuted of morning play-time, they were variously space-men, horses, footballers, boxers, cowboys or- among the youthful minority - simply mothers and fathers.  The noise was earsplitting.  The bracing Cotswold air produces fine healthy lungs, and the rumpus made at play-time could be clearly heard by fond parents who were safely half a mile away.

Agnes Fogerty, quiet and still as a mouse, and not unlike that timid animal in her much-pressed grey flannel skirt and twin-set to match, stood oblivious of the chaos around her.  Somehow, she sensed that the stranger would take on Tullivers one day.  There was something purposeful about that stride towards the front door, and the delft slipping of the key into the lock - almost as though the house were hers already, thought little Miss Fogerty. 

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Miss Read