He went upstairs, changed into older clothes, collected an axe and a large sack from the shed he had recently constructed next to the privy at the end of the garden, crossed Wood Lane and took the narrow path to the wood a quarter of a mile away. There had been a lot of tree damage during the violent storm in February and he had already piled a good store of logs into the new shed. He took a smaller track, probably caused by a deer, and was soon at the fallen tree. As his considerable strength swung the axe, his mind turned towards the evening. The only sounds apart from the axe blows were the occasional sound of a friendly robin and the petulant squawk of a blackbird annoyed at the disturbance. Having chopped all the logs he would be able to carry in the sack, he set off back home. His thoughts now turned to getting ready for meeting up with his mates in The George and then the party up at Spinney Farm. He wondered which of the girls would be there, especially Doris Groves about whom he had heard several promising things.
ELEVEN
Evening, Wednesday, 3 April
At half past six Willy, Jack, Boney, Racer and Fred were nestled down in The George. ‘Well, we are a smart looking lot,’ laughed Willy as they gathered close to the fire for a little light and warmth. ‘It should be an enjoyable evening.’ As he was saying this, he noticed that Racer’s normally cheerful face was wearing a troubled look. Ever quick to pick up nuances, he asked, ‘How are things with you, Racer?’
Eyes turned to their friend whose fair hair and handsome looks had little changed since they had all been at school together, although his physique was now strongly muscled and bronzed. ‘Well, I’m not sure where to start, but I’ve got something to tell you all. It’s quite difficult really, but when I told Jack he persuaded me to tell you. He said it would remain a secret between us.’
The others nodded agreement, their interest immediate. A faint blush had come to Racer’s face and he looked at Jack whose broad, friendly face signified support and encouragement. Thinking they were going to hear about Racer’s plans for his season’s running, their faces took on worried looks as he went on to tell them about the threat that had been made to him.
‘You mean,’ Boney said slowly and deliberately, ‘that this man actually threatened you if you dared to win. Who is this wretch?’
‘I’ve only heard him called Froggy, but I’ve seen him at several race meetings.’
‘A strange name,’ chipped in Willy. ‘I’d call him something much stronger. So what does he look like?’
Racer screwed up his eyes as he thought for a moment. ‘I would say he’s about forty, medium height and slim. His face is pockmarked and he’s balding.’
Together they talked this through, agreeing that Willy would put the absent Jammy Carey in the picture. Suddenly, realising the time had come for them to set out on the twenty-minute walk to Spinney Farm, Willy announced: ‘All right then, we’ve agreed. I’m sure we can sort things out for Racer. Look, I’ve got to pick up Ruby, so I’ll run ahead, collect her and catch you up.’
He was as good as his word and accompanied by the excited Ruby, soon caught them up. Racer had already thanked the others for their support and now, outside of Ruby’s hearing, added his appreciation to Willy. It was a mild evening, the starlit sky promising a fine night. As the group turned the pond corner, Racer said: ‘Some good news, lads. The vicar was talking to my father after last Sunday’s service saying that someone, he wouldn’t say who, has donated a set of cricket stumps, three bats and some other gear. You remember Mr Mansfield said we could use his lower meadow for playing, so it looks good. We’ll all play, won’t we?’ he added, turning to the others.
‘Of course,’ replied Boney. ‘It’s time we had a Rusfield Cricket Club. So when do you think we can have a match?’
‘Well, how about trying to get one against Wensfield over the August Bank Holiday? I’m sure we could get a good team together. You would be our star batsman, Boney,’ he suggested. ‘I remember you whacking the ball and breaking a school window!’ The others laughed and talk was light-hearted as they strolled along Wood Lane, before turning into the broad track leading to the farm.
Other villagers were in front of them as they approached the well-lit barn, with more following. There was much chatting and laughter as they went in. ‘It looks lovely,’ announced a very happy Ruby. ‘Look at all the bunting and decorations: and what a lot of people here.’
The barn certainly looked splendid for this joyfully anticipated occasion with Mr and Mrs Mansfield greeting all comers; everyone agreeing that it was delightful to be joined by friends from the manor and Jackson’s farms. All had made great efforts to dress well. The small band was already playing; as the new arrivals came in it was, “The Boy I Love is Up in the Gallery”. Sammy Hatfield on accordion and Bernie Thomas with fiddle had been joined by young Peter Jackson on his flute. The trio was gaily dressed for the occasion with brightly-coloured hats, each sporting a large feather. Jack Mansfield was telling his wife: ‘I don’t think anything like this has taken place in here before, old though the barn may be.’
Willy suddenly felt a sharp tug on his sleeve. ‘Ruby love, what’s the matter?’ he asked his sister. ‘What is it?’
‘Willy, he’s here. I was told he wasn’t coming. I want to go home.’
‘Who, Ruby? Who do you mean?’
‘Master Lionel,’ looking in the direction of the de Maine family group, at the same time trying to hide behind her brother.
‘Well, what does it matter, Ruby?’ He remembered how she had asked a few days previously when Lionel de Maine would be home from Cambridge. He realised that Ruby’s feeling towards Lionel must be stronger than he had thought then and she obviously could not cope with the occasion. ‘But Ruby, you can stay with us. You can’t go home now and anyway we’ll have a lot of fun here. I’ll look after you. I promise.’ He gently kissed the top of her head, but felt the grasp on his arm tighten. ‘Look, there’s Doris and Grace over there. Let’s go over and see how they are.’ He sensed that Ruby relaxed a little as they walked across the crowded floor to the two girls serving cakes and sandwiches. They all exchanged pleasantries with news of family and friends; this was just one of many conversations taking place where virtually all knew everyone else.
After time for everyone to have a drink, Jack Mansfield stepped on to the stage, smiled broadly and clapped his hands. A few guests clearly did not hear the first clapping of hands, but a large number of quietening hushes brought everyone to order, Willy noticing that Lionel was into at least his third ale.
‘Good friends, my wife and I are greatly pleased to see you all. Thank you for joining in this celebration. I am particularly pleased to welcome Mrs and Major de Maine and Mrs and Mr Jackson. Our three farming estates have come together this evening so we can thank everyone for all the hard work you do.’
There were immediate and clearly sincere nods from the other two landowners, with a ‘hear, hear’ from Fred Jackson.
‘We want it to be a really good evening with everybody enjoying themselves. We’re very fortunate to have lots of entertainment planned and opportunities for joining in some singing and dancing. Do go over to the bar at any time: but let’s now get on with the fun. Our compère this evening is,’ turning to his farming friend in the front row, ‘Mr Jackson. Over to you.’ All joined in hearty applause as the tubby, ebullient farmer stepped on to the stage; he was to surprise the audience with his new role.
‘My dear friends,’ started the smiling Fred Jackson, dressed in a heavily-striped suit with a yellow waistcoat attempting to keep his paunch in place, ‘we are very fortunate that Miss Small is kindly playing for us, just as we thank our extremely well-dressed trio of musicians, Sammy Hatfield, Bernie Thomas and my own son Peter on his flute. Let me thank the four strong men who somehow managed to bring the piano down from Mrs Mansfield’s drawing room. She assures me that it’s not her best one – or at least, isn’t now! We are going to start with some songs for everyone; you know the songs; our musicians will play them and
so let’s sing.’
Rita Small, now sitting at the piano smiled, nodded at Sammy Hatfield the leader of the trio, and struck up the introduction. By the fourth note, all knew the tune and were ready as Fred Jackson, with raised arm, brought in everyone to “Daisy, Daisy”. The singing was hearty and many started to sway in time to the song. Some of the verses were not so well known, but the chorus was joyfully repeated several times. “Any Old Iron”, “Boiled Beef and Carrots” and “Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow-wow” all followed in like vein. Fred Jackson’s conducting became increasingly frenzied as he both led and caught the spirit of the gathering. All joined in the applause, repeated when the conductor gave his thanks to the four musicians. They all beamed, the trio doffing their colourful hats.
‘I would particularly thank the leading singers whose excellent voices just led us so well. We will be hearing two of them later on. But let’s turn to the first of three solo acts: individual performances of brilliance. First, let me introduce someone you all know who has kindly carried his musical saw all the way from Sandy Lane to play for us. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Robert Berry.’
It was an exaggeration to say that all knew this lightly-bearded and balding man who was only occasionally seen outside his garden which he tended with loving care. His crop of vegetables was always something to behold, but Jack Atkins who lived nearby had often thought that he looked a sad man, an appearance promoted by his downward-curving, straggly moustache. One idiosyncrasy that most villagers knew of Robert Berry was that he always had a Union Jack, now rather faded, flying in his garden. Village gossip was that he had once been in the army, but being over forty when he moved to the village no one was sure. He was not a man who talked about himself, indeed about much at all.
He came on to the platform, on which a stool had been placed, carrying the longest saw that even local woodcutter, Dan Reynolds, had ever seen. He gave a rueful smile, sat down and tightly gripped the saw between his knees with the serrated edge facing the now curious audience. In his right hand he held a long bow and with his extended left hand the saw handle, curving the blade into an s-bend. In an unexpectedly confident voice he announced that he was going to play part of Handel’s Largo; the result was as unexpected as it was magical. By altering the bend in the saw he expertly changed the pitch and, to Rita Small’s knowledgeable ear, he added vibrato by causing the hand holding the saw end to tremble. A great burst of applause rang out as he played the final note and in answer to robust shouts of ‘more’, he shuffled his position a little and, without announcing the title, played “Abide With Me”. This time there was a standing ovation and Robert Berry smiled, left the stage, probably not to be seen again outside his garden for a long time.
‘The next item,’ announced by compère Fred Jackson, ‘will astound all by its brilliance.’ Young Tommy Bruce came on to some ribald cheers from his contemporaries and from a bucket he took three balls and started juggling. Very cleverly he kept the balls aloft whilst reaching into the bucket for a fourth. This was successful, but trying to gather a fifth all seemed to go awry and ended with a scattering of coloured balls. However, the audience was in a mood that whether success or failure came about, a round of applause followed. This encouraged Tommy to give a much more successful demonstration using a bowler hat, a walking stick and three lightweight hammers.
‘Not sure whether I most liked the one that went wrong or the last one,’ whispered Isabella de Maine with a smile to her husband. All wondered what was to follow.
‘I have great pleasure in introducing our next performer who will give us a rendition of one of Rudyard Kipling’s great poems. Ladies and gentlemen, Major de Maine.’
Many were surprised that it was the manor owner who now came on stage, a man considered by most to be aloof through rank and, as he was perceived by his behaviour, his birthright. Now he took centre stage, bowed, announcing: ‘The poem “If ”, by Rudyard Kipling.’ As he opened with the words, “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs”, Abraham, Jack, Willy, Fred and Albert all found themselves silently reciting it along with the major. No whisper, no cough, nothing interrupted the major’s recitation as he delivered Kipling’s words with great composure; at the end there were calls for more. This sixty-year-old with his strong military bearing stood, slightly embarrassed, and announced: ‘Another great poet of our times is John Masefield who wrote Sea Fever.’ Whilst it was unknown by the audience, they were enthralled by both the words of the sea’s magic spell and by the major’s tone. The applause rang out.
As he unassumingly bowed and stepped off the stage, Fred Jackson took his place, held up his hand and added his thanks to the three entertainers. He announced that there would be two more communal songs before a break to have glasses filled and food eaten. ‘So, my friends,’ he smilingly announced, ‘Miss Small and our fabulous trio will now lead us in singing two songs: you all know “Where Did You Get That Hat?”; the second one is probably new to you, but I heard that Hezekiah Freeman has a good voice and I have persuaded him to join with me in leading the singing. We will lead the way. If you don’t know, it’s called “I’m Henery the Eighth I Am”.’ To further cheers and accompanying wonderment, Hezekiah stepped carefully on to the stage and joined Fred Jackson.
After the first song Miss Small gave the trio a nod and they played the chorus of the next through once. On a repeat, the duet sang together, well in tune it was agreed. ‘Now, everyone join in after listening to the tune once more!’ To increasingly raucous cheers, the four players struck up again and led by the two stage performers all joined in. After well-timed bows by Hezekiah and Fred Jackson, all were invited to a twenty-minute break.
At this announcement there was considerable movement with many moving towards the bar and food counter. There was much chatter about the evening’s entertainment and expressions of surprise at the previously unrecognised talents of the quiet, older men: Robert Berry, Hezekiah Freeman and Major de Maine. All agreed that it was a wonderful evening with a lot more to look forward to in the second part.
TWELVE
Evening, Wednesday, 3 April
As the interval was announced, it was to Grace Reynolds that Abraham walked, appearing to stroll in a nonchalant way, but in truth in more determined vein. ‘Hello Grace, how are you?’ smiling in his delightful way at this most attractive girl with golden tresses falling gracefully to her shoulder and a smile to match his own.
‘I’m very well, thank you Abraham. What a splendid evening with everyone enjoying themselves and how splendidly people are dressed.’
Whilst nicknamed Racer by most in the village, Grace had always liked the name Abraham and through all the years they had shared the same classes, she refused to use the nickname adopted by most when his athletic qualities had become so obvious.
‘Indeed, they are,’ agreed Racer. ‘And Grace, I would just say what a lovely frock it is that you are wearing.’
‘Thank you. That’s very sweet of you. I’m glad you like it.’ The slight blush lighting up her pretty face was of pleasure, not embarrassment. She had always thought of him as a dear friend vying to be top of the class at school, but taking as much pleasure in the other’s success as their own.
‘Grace, can I get you a drink?’
‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’ Most had already obtained their drinks or were in the queue for beer, so he was back within minutes, carrying two matching drinks. ‘I know we see each other quite often Grace, but we’re both so busy working for Mr and Mrs Mansfield that we don’t seem to have time to talk with each other. How are you getting on?’
‘Very well thank you, although I wish I had time to give mother more help with all of the children, but that’s how it is with such a large family. Abraham, we’ve known each other almost all our lives and I know you can keep a secret.’ He smiled reassurance, looking with fresh eyes at what a beautiful girl Grace had become. She was the oldest of ten children and the thought went through Racer’s mind that it was a
wonder she could always look so smart from such a crowded household.
Abraham led her to a quieter part of the barn where both could sit. ‘Do tell me,’ he said. ‘You know I will keep everything to myself. I’m flattered that you should want to tell me.’
‘You will be surprised,’ she continued haltingly, ‘that Mrs Mansfield has suggested I might like to become a teacher. Imagine that!’ she added with a smile.
‘It sounds a great idea,’ Abraham replied. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Well, she knows I did well at school and has seen me teaching the children in the Sunday school and was kind enough to say that I have a way with children.’ She was thrilled to see that her old school friend was giving her his full attention. Some might laugh and accuse her of having ideas above her station, but she knew that Abraham would not be like that. ‘She says that there is a college in Canchester where I could go and even indicated that she had made enquiries and that I could probably get a grant. If not, that I could carry on doing some work at the farmhouse and she and Mr Mansfield would pay my fees. Isn’t that amazingly kind of them?’
Doris and Albert had come to sit on the straw-covered barn floor just a few feet away, but their conversation seemed as earnest as the one he and Grace were having. Nevertheless, Abraham kept his voice down when he said, ‘I’m sure you’d make a great teacher.’ He briefly and gently laid his hand on Grace’s arm and was thrilled that she didn’t move it away.
‘That’s sweet of you to say so, Abraham, and what about you? I know you are doing amazing things in running, but what about your work?’ she asked, looking him steadfastly in the eye. ‘I hear good reports,’ she added with a smile.
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