This evening our neighbour who lives in the cottage at the entrance to the big house's drive came by in her little car to take my mother to the W.I. meeting. The chairwoman's nephew- a policeman- is giving a talk. Mary is single, bustling and acerbic. I imagine no sparrow falls within a radius of a couple of miles without her knowing who pushed it.
Both these ladies are pillars of the local church.
Earlier this evening, the Moleman- a cheery cove- appeared unannounced at the living room's picture windows and said he was going to be laying his traps. He referred to my mother as "a game old bird".
I've just finished reading The Murder at the Vicarage. It may be over 80 years old but- apart from the disappearance of domestic servants and the fact that the vicar is now a woman- Agatha Christie's picture of village life in the Home Counties still rings true.
