Fire in the Thatch by Edith Caroline Rivett

It was on New Year’s Day that Nicholas Vaughan took possession of Little Thatch. Just before midday he drove through the narrow Devonshire lanes in his old car, piloting a disreputable lorry which followed him round awkward corners and blind bends. The lorry belonged to the nearest coal merchant, and in it was half a ton of coal in addition to a camp-bed, some chairs and tables, a number of packing cases, garden tools, and miscellaneous cooking pots. Vaughan chuckled to himself over his home-coming—never had a less impressive moving-in ceremony been performed. Transport was at a premium, so he had taken the simplest way of moving those of his belongings he wanted immediately—loaded them into the coal-lorry along with the coal. When he opened the kitchen door and went inside a surprise awaited him. There was a good fire burning in the range, the floor was scrubbed and clean, and on the wide window sill stood a big loaf of bread, a can of milk, and a big pasty. As he stood staring, footsteps sounded on the cobbles and a woman’s figure appeared at the door.

“Good-morning, Mr. Vaughan. I’m Anne St Cyres. I haven’t come to bother you—just to say that if you want anything or if you’re in a fix we’re only a few hundred yards away, so please come and ask. Good luck to you in your new house.”