The Mitford Bedside Companion Read online

  “This is him!” crowed Winnie, looking radiant.

  “Him?”

  “You know, the one I always dreamed about standin’ beside me in th’ kitchen. Father Kavanagh, this is Thomas Kendall from Topeka, Kansas.”

  “What…where…?”

  “I met him on th’ ship!”

  “In the kitchen, actually,” said Thomas, extending a large hand and grinning from ear to ear. “I’m a pastry chef, Father.”

  “You stole the ship’s pastry chef? Winnie!”

  They all laughed. “No,” said Winnie, “it was his last week on the job, he was going back to Kansas and decided he’d come home with me first. He’s stayin’ with Velma and Percy.”

  No doubt about it, he was dumbfounded. First Andrew, now Winnie…

  “He likes my cream horns,” she said, suddenly shy.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  Thomas put his arm around Winnie and looked down at her, obviously proud. “I’m mighty glad to be in Mitford,” he said simply.

  “By jing, we’re mighty glad to have you,” replied the rector, meaning it.

  Out to Canaan, Ch. 19

  Collar Button

  PROPRIETOR KNOWN ONLY AS “THE COLLAR BUTTON MAN”

  HE HAD A hurried lunch of Percy’s soup of the day, with a salad, and went home to say a word to Barnabas. This took him past the new men’s store, which he had failed to stop and inspect since it opened with some fanfare before Easter. The Collar Button, it was called.

  It had been a long time, indeed, since he’d gone into a clothing store. In the first place, he didn’t like to shop. In the second place, the prices for clothes these days were absolutely—yes, he thought he could honestly say it—sinful. And in the third place, what was the going fashion for a rector who didn’t wish to appear conspicuously well-dressed?

  He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, and felt his mended gloves, which he still needed from time to time on cold mornings. He must not get carried away in this place, he thought. He would say he was just looking.

  The Collar Button was new, but it seemed old. The walls were dark, burnished panels of mahogany, a low fire burned in a grate, and a large golden retriever, lying by the hearth, opened one eye as he came in.

  “Good heavens!” he said with earnest appreciation. This was like walking into a study in some far reach of Cambridge, where he had once gone to research a paper on the life and works of C. S. Lewis.

  “Father Tim, I believe!” boomed a deep voice, and from behind a wall of brocade curtains stepped the new proprietor, extending his hand to the rector.

  “That’s right. How did you know?”

  “Oh, I’ve seen you pass now and again, and I thought to myself, there goes a proper candidate for the Collar Button style!”

  “And what, ah, style is that, exactly?”

  “English gentleman, country squire, village rector, the man of thoughtful reflection and quiet taste.”

  “Aha.”

  “What can I show you? Oh, and would you care for a dash of sherry?”

  His head was fairly swimming with the unexpected dazzle of the modern shopping experience.

  At Home in Mitford, Ch. 3

  Oxford Antiques

  ANDREW GREGORY, PROPRIETOR

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, he visited the Oxford Antique Shop, carrying an apple pie in a basket.

  “Little Red Riding Hood!” said Andrew Gregory, coming from the back of the store to greet him.

  The rector held out the basket. “Homemade apple pie,” he said, with some pride.

  “‘The best of all physicians is apple pie and cheese’!” exclaimed Andrew, quoting a nineteenth-century poet. “What an excellent treat, my friend. Thank you and come in.” He took the basket, delighted as a child. “Why don’t we just polish off the whole thing right now and you can carry your basket back?”

  The two men laughed.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to take my basket back in any case, as there’s five more to be delivered in it.”

  “I don’t know how you find time to feed your sheep physically as well as spiritually.”

  “Andrew, Providence has blessed me with the finest house help a man could ever have. Puny Bradshaw is her name, and she not only baked a dozen pies yesterday, she canned fourteen quarts of tomatoes last week.”

  “Extraordinary!”

  They sat down on the matched love seats at the shop door.

  “Here’s something even more extraordinary. I’ve discovered that Uncle Billy Watson is a splendid artist. Uneducated, grew up in the valley, never had training of any kind. ‘Rough as a cob,’ as he says. Yet, he draws like a Georgian gentleman.”

  “You always seem to have a Vermeer of one kind or another on your hands.”

  “The drawings are in my office, and I’d like your opinion. Perhaps you’ll stop over on Monday morning. After all, I’ve been drinking your coffee for years, now come and have a go at mine.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” said Andrew. “And please don’t leave yet. I have something to show you.”

  Andrew went to the back room and returned with two books.

  “Just look at this!” he said. “A first edition of the first volume of Churchill’s History of the English-Speaking Peoples. Something I’ve wanted for a very long time.” He turned to the opening page and read aloud: “‘Our story centres in an island, not widely sundered from the Continent, and so tilted that its mountains lie all to the west and north, while south and east is a gently undulating landscape of wooded valley, open downs, and slow rivers. It is very accessible to the invader, whether he comes in peace or war, as pirate or merchant, conqueror or missionary.’

  “Ah,” said Andrew, unashamedly beaming. “A prize! I shall read all the volumes over again. Now, for you,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “a prize of your own.” He handed the rector an early leather-bound volume of Wordsworth.

  The rector was touched by the feeling of the softly worn covers against his palm. It was as if the book had belonged to him all along and had at last come home.

  Smiling, he turned the linen-weave pages until he found a favorite passage. “Andrew, if you’ll permit me, I also would covet a moment to read aloud.”

  It was Saturday morning in Mitford. The village was up and stirring, yet a slow, sweet peace reigned, a certain harmony of mood and feeling. In the open door of the shop the two men sat, one reading, one listening, and both, for the passing moment, were content.

  At Home in Mitford, Ch. 7

  Dora Pugh’s Hardware

  DORA PUGH, PROPRIETOR

  AT THE OFFICE one morning, it occurred to him that, instead of bathing Barnabas in the guest room shower stall, he would stop by the hardware store and buy a large tin tub. That way, he could begin the practice of bathing him in the garden and avoid the cleanup in the bathroom.

  After a quick lunch with Harry Nelson, who reported that the origin of the painting still hadn’t been verified, he went to the hardware.

  One of his favorite smells was that of an old hardware store. In fact, it was right up there with the smell of wood smoke, leather-bound books, and leaf mold after a rain. More than that, it unfailingly brought back a rush of memories from his Mississippi boyhood.

  As a 4-H rabbit grower for two years, he had often traded at the local hardware for hutch materials and feed. He could even remember the time he picked out six yellow goslings from a box kept warm by a lightbulb.

  He decided on a tin tub for $22.95, and took it to Dora Pugh at the cash register.

  “You want to drive around for this, Father?”

  “No, Dora, this is cash and carry.”

  “I see you walk by here every day and I still forget you don’t drive a car. How in the nation do you make out?”

  “Not too bad, actually. Nearly everything I could want, and somethings I don’t, are all right here in these two town blocks.”

  “I guess you’re goin’ to tote this tub on your head like in Afri
ca?”

  He gave her cash to the penny. “I don’t know exactly how I’m going to do it till I get started.”

  He tried to hold the tub under his arm, but that didn’t seem to work, so he took it by one of the handles and was disappointed to note that the rim of it banged against his ankle as he walked to the door.

  Turning to say good-bye, he saw that Dora had ducked down behind the pocketknife display case, shaking with laughter.

  “Dora, I see you back there laughing! You better quit that and show some respect to the clergy!”

  He waved cheerfully and stepped out on the sidewalk, pleased with both his idea and his purchase. He just hoped that people did not think him eccentric. He would far rather be thought ingenious or practical.

  By the time he turned the corner at the bank and headed home, he was willing to admit that a car provided something more valuable than convenience. It provided privacy. Otherwise, he reasoned, everyone passing by could stare into your business, which one and all seemed to be doing.

  He hurried the last half block to the rectory, set the tub down in a clearing amid some laurel, and unwound the garden hose to make certain it would reach. “Perfect!” he exclaimed, warming to his task on Friday.

  At Home in Mitford, Ch. 4

  Irish Woolen Shop

  MINNIE LOMAX, MANAGER

  WHILE EVERYONE ELSE offered lamentations exceeding those of the prophet Jeremiah, the rector felt smugly indifferent to complaints that spring would never come. He had to admit, however, that last Sunday was one of the few times he’d conducted an Easter service in long johns and ski socks.

  Turning up his collar, he leaned into a driving wind and headed toward the office.

  Hadn’t winter dumped ice, snow, sleet, hail, and rainstorms on the village since late October? Hadn’t they been blanketed by fog so thick you could cut it with a dull knife, time and time again?

  With all that moisture seeping into the ground for so many long months, didn’t this foretell the most glorious springtime in years? And wasn’t that, after all, worth the endless assault?

  “Absolutely!” he proclaimed aloud, trucking past the Irish Woolen Shop. “No doubt about it!”

  “See there?” said Hessie Mayhew, peering out the store window. “It’s got Father Tim talking to himself, it’s that bad.” She sighed. “They say if sunlight doesn’t get to your pineal glands for months on end, your sex drive quits.”

  Minnie Lomax, who was writing sale tags for boiled wool sweaters, looked up and blinked. “What do you know about pineal glands?” She was afraid to ask what Hessie might know about sex drive.

  “What does anybody know about pineal glands?” asked Hessie, looking gloomy.

  Out to Canaan, Ch. 1

  Chelsea Tea Shop

  MRS. HAVNER, PROPRIETOR

  “SO WHAT DO you think?” he asked Mule Skinner over breakfast at the Grill.

  “Beats me,” said Mule. “I’m sure not drivin’ to Wesley for some overpriced lunch deal.”

  “I saw him on the street yesterday. He suggested we meet him down at the tea shop.”

  “J.C.’s hangin’ out at th’ tea shop?” Mule’s eyebrows shot skyward.

  “Actually, he hasn’t had the guts to go there yet—he’s been packing a sandwich—but he said he’d do it if we’d go with him.”

  “Percy won’t like us goin’ down th’ street.”

  “Right. True.” The owner of the Grill thought he also owned his regulars. One underhanded meal at another eatery was grimly tolerated, but two was treason, with scant forgiveness forthcoming.

  “I double dare you,” said Mule.

  Father Tim dipped his toast into a poached egg and considered this. Buying the crèche had made him feel slightly reckless.

  “I will if you will,” he said, grinning.

  Shepherds Abiding, Ch. 2

  “I LEFT MY glasses back at th’ office,” said J.C. “Somebody read me what’s on this pink menu deal.”

  “Let’s see.” Mule adjusted his glasses. “Chicken salad with grapes and nuts. That comes with toast points.”

  “Toast points? I’m not eatin’ toast points, much less anything with grapes and nuts.”

  “Here’s a crepe,” said Father Tim, pronouncing it in the French way. “It’s their house specialty.”

  “What’s a krep?” asked Mule.

  “A thin pancake rolled around a filling.”

  “A filling of what?” J.C. wiped his forehead with a paper napkin.

  “Shredded chicken, in this case.”

  “A pancake rolled around shredded chicken? Why shred chicken? If God wanted chicken to be shredded…”

  “I could gnaw a table leg,” said Mule. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “I can’t eat this stuff. It’s against my religion.”

  “Whoa! Here you go,” said Father Tim. “They’ve got flounder!”

  “Flounder!” J.C. brightened.

  “Fresh fillet of flounder rolled around a filling of Maine cranberries and baked. This is quite a menu.”

  “I don’t trust this place. Everything’s rolled around somethin’ else. No way.”

  “Look,” said Father Tim. “Aspic! With celery and onions. Hit that with a little mayo, it’d be mighty tasty.”

  J.C. rolled his eyes.

  “I was always fond of aspic,” said Father Tim.

  “You would be,” snapped J.C. “Let’s cut to the chase. Is there a burger on there anywhere?”

  “Nope. No burger…. Wait a minute…organic turkey burger! There you go, buddyroe.” Mule looked eminently pleased.

  “I’m out of here,” said J.C., grabbing his briefcase.

  “Wait a dadblame minute!” said Mule. “You’re th’ one said meet you here. It was your big idea.”

  “I can’t eat this stuff.”

  “Sure you can. Just order somethin’ an’ we’ll have th’ kitchen pour a bowl of grease over it.”

  “This kitchen never saw a bowl of grease, but all right—just this once. I’m definitely not doin’ this again.”

  “Fine!” said Mule. “Great! Tomorrow, we’ll go back to th’ Grill, and everybody’ll be happy. I personally don’t take kindly to change. This is upsettin’ my stomach.”

  “I’m not goin’ back and let that witch on a broom order me around.”

  “Hey, y’all.”

  They turned to see a young woman in an apron, holding an order pad. Father Tim thought her smile dazzling.

  “Hey, yourself,” said Father Tim.

  “I’m Lucy, and I’ll be your server today.”

  “All right!” said Mule.

  “What will you have, sir?” she asked J.C.

  “I guess th’ flounder,” grunted the editor. “But only if you’ll scrape out th’ cranberries.”

  “Yessir, be glad to. That comes with a nice salad and a roll. And since we’re taking out the cranberries, would you like a few buttered potatoes with that?”

  Father Tim thought J.C. might burst into tears.

  “I would!” exclaimed the Muse editor. “And could I have a little butter with th’ roll?”

  “Oh, yessir, it comes with butter.”

  “Hallelujah!” exclaimed Mule. “An’ I’ll have th’ same, but no butter with th’ roll.”

  “Ditto,” said Father Tim. “With a side of aspic.”

  “No, wait,” said Mule. “Maybe I’ll try it with th’ cranberries. But only if they’re sweet, like at Thanksgiving….”

  “Don’t go there,” said J.C. “Bring ’im th’ same thing I ordered.”

  Father Tim didn’t mention to his lunch partners that Hessie Mayhew and Esther Bolick were sitting on the other side of the room, staring at them with mouths agape.

  Shepherds Abiding, Ch. 2

  Making Mitford Real

  Igrew up in Mitford.

  Actually, it was a small town named Lenoir, near our farm in the foothills of North Carolina.

  Lenoir had a town clock, a town square,
a monument, a popular café, a drugstore soda fountain, and plenty of people who were kind, colorful, outrageous, and memorable.

  In lots of important ways, Lenoir had all the hallmarks of Mitford:

  One felt safe there.

  Everybody knew everybody.

  And people lingered to pass the time of day, share a joke, and keep the word-of-mouth news network, so vital to the personality of a small town, up and running.

  When I went to Lenoir with my grandfather on Saturdays, I visited his barbershop (four chairs, and all the baseball and politics you could talk), then set off with a dime clutched in my fist. I could go to the movies and see Song of the South, starring Bobby Driscoll, or buy a cherry Coke and cheese crackers at McNairy’s soda fountain.

  One Saturday, I asked for special permission to cross Main Street, alone, and visit the public library at the top of the hill.

  “That’s a mighty big place!” said my grandfather.

  And it was.

  My first view of a public library simply boggled my mind. As a ten-year-old girl in a rural school, I was an omnivorous reader who’d never seen so many books at once!

  I tiptoed. I gaped. I pondered. I had no earthly idea how to select a book from such endless treasures, until a kind librarian recommended Girl of the Limberlost and Lorna Doone. It seemed particularly impressive that she whispered, and so I whispered back.

  I dashed across the side street, heart pounding, and sat on the broad steps of First Methodist, our family church, and opened the pages of Lorna Doone.

  If anybody cares to read a simple tale told simply, I, John Ridd, of the parish of Oare, in the county of Somerset, yeoman and church-warden, have seen and had a share in some of the doings of this neighbourhood, which I will try to set down in order….

  I shall never forget that precious moment of happiness, it was one of the flagstones on my path to becoming an author.

  Yet there came a time when I left this safe and secure place. In truth, I could scarcely wait to see the world. Living variously in New York, San Francisco, and other large cities, my career in advertising flourished, and my bright-spirited daughter grew up and prospered.