My Barsetshire Diary (The Barsetshire Diaries Book 1)

by Lord David Prosser

  Lady Julia was seething on a low heat as I got back to the car. "Horrible woman", she pronounced. "Ideas above her station".

  To change the subject rapidly I suggested we stop at the chemist shop in town to fill my prescription and then go to Cass E. Dees, the cafe we had attended last Saturday where my wife had accidentally kicked my shin. I wanted to check they'd forgiven me for the unfortunate furore I'd caused. Getting only a minor glare in response to my question I further suggested we could have 'brunch'. I understand this is a corruption of early lunch and late tea or some such nonsense. Julia concurred, and so it came to be.

  The chemist was quite speedy dispensing my cream and I was hard put to stop him when I heard him say, "So sorry you're suffering from..." in front of his other ears- pricked customers. "Er, I'll take this as well please, Mr Boots", said I, thrusting a tube of toothpaste in his direction to distract him.

  I paid and left to join my wife who was waiting patiently outside the shop. We walked together down the High Street to the cafe where Sherryl, a waitress known for her big… heart and the mischievous twinkle in her one and only eye, was happy to serve us. We both had a bucket of coffee.

  There, dear readers, I must explain that though Cass E. Dees is a typical British tea room with hovering waitresses, checked tablecloths and tomato sauce stains everywhere, I don't often have tea there. By the time they've asked which tea you prefer and then listed all the choices, your tongue feels like it's just returned from a two week holiday in the Gobi desert. However I digress yet again.

  We ordered scrambled eggs on toasted muffins for my wife, and for me, a very diet conscious bacon, eggs and two rounds of toast.

  Before I sat down though, I nipped to the loo to apply my 'blood pressure cream’; the relief as I sat down to eat was immediate.

  As usual, my wallet was invited to pay and we started to leave.

  "I can smell peppermints", said Lady Julia.

  "So can I, Your Ladyship", said Sherryl, "most peculiar as we've not served a peppermint tea all day".

  We drove home carefully and I noticed Lady Julia was lowering her window bit by bit the whole way.

  "I don't understand it", she said, "that peppermint smell is still here and seems to be getting worse".

  At home again Lady J unpacked the chemist bag and passed me my cream.

  "Please be more careful, David", she told me. "Someone used this toothpaste before you bought it. I wish you'd be more observant".

  Noticing that my 'blood pressure' cream appeared untouched, I said nothing.

  The afternoon started well and I was bowled over when my wife announced we were going out to collect a gift she'd ordered for me. My delight at this spontaneous act of kindness must have shown on my face. It wasn't my birthday or any other special occasion and for a moment I panicked in case I'd forgotten an anniversary, but no, that's not until November.

  Intrigued I headed for the car. I must point out that we no longer employ a chauffeur. Julia likes to drive and as I never saw the need to learn I leave her to it. She uses it more than I anyway.

  On short runs she's very good. She's determined and assured. On longer journeys she employs my services as navigator. Often I don't do the job well as, if I tell her to turn right, I never specify if I mean her right or my right which confuses her and makes her turn left. I have learned not to argue.

  Today we were on a longer run but she knows the way. We headed for an out of town retail park built by a dyslexic astrologer with a sense of humour. It's called Crapicorn Retail Park and each area is sectioned by a star sign. So we had the Pisces area which included the Pisces Paint Shop, we had the Cancer Cinema and the Gemini Jewellery Centre. I'm sure you get the idea. Lady Julia pulled up outside the Scorpio Superfit Shoppe and I wondered if there was to be a sting in this particular tale.

  Despite the fact that we parked on double yellow lines, Lady J and I descended from the car and entered the Shoppe. We were approached by a salesman so large that for a moment I experienced an eclipse. "Good afternoon, Your Ladyship. Have you come for your parcel?" asked a voice that came from a deep coal mine. Lady Julia said she had, and Mr Grossman, for indeed that was who his name badge declared him to be, asked us to wait for a moment.

  He returned a minute later clutching a rather large box which he carried directly to the car. I opened the hatch and he placed the box inside with ease. Bowing slightly he returned to the shop to the sound of our thanks.

  The journey home seemed longer and more sluggish but maybe it was my imagination and my reluctance to arrive. The box may have been plain and innocuous but I still felt an air of threat surrounding it. As always we arrived home. Lady Julia went off to open the front door. I swear as she disembarked I saw the front of the car lift from the ground. I swear that the tyres at the back looked flat as I went to open the boot. The box winked malevolently at me as I took a grip expecting it to come out as smoothly as it went in. I pulled… a muscle and my back seized up. A minute passed and I was in agony. Then Mellors arrived on the scene.

  Our gardener had come to us from another large house where there seemed to be some scandal. Mellors is about five feet at the most, has one leg shorter than the other and eyes that wander so much they need their own passport.

  "Hold on, Maister", he said to me while his eyes were each looking in different directions neither of which was mine. We both took a grip on the ton weight of the box and prepared to lift. It completely left my hands. Mellors just said, "Oh, no weight to this, Maister, I'll put it indoors for you".

  "Just inside the dining room please", said my wife.

  Half bent, I followed Mellors inside to where he had placed the box. Declining his offer of further help, I sent him back to his greenhouse.

  So, there we stood my wife and I. In front of the looming box.

  "Are you sure this is for me, my dear", I asked in the hope of some late mistake having been discovered.

  "Do stop dithering, David, and open it. Of course it's yours".

  With a last sigh I started removing the large staples that held the box together. I swear they fought back but bravely I persisted and won. I opened the last seam. Before me stood a behemoth. The machine had arms, feet and numerous dials in profusion. I smiled at my wife and thanked her not knowing just what I thanked her for.

  "It's a stepping and skiing machine, dear. You're getting quite a tummy and I thought it might help".

  Personally, the only way it would help, I thought, was if it performed surgery and liposuction. It was pointless arguing that some of my tablets caused weight gain despite me sticking so faithfully to my diet, ahem.

  So now I write my daily entry from my bed having pulled a muscle in my back and strained my wrist starting the machine to get healthy. Isn't life strange sometimes?

  Saturday, July 24, 2010

  A Fête Worse Than Death

  My great hope that the injuries sustained yesterday in preparing to get fit would be enough to confine me to bed were confounded at 8.00 am today.

  “Make me a coffee please, dear", said Lady Julia, “I’ve given Grizelda the day off".

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered that Grizelda was to be the fête's very own Mystic Mistress Mo. Sees all, knows all. Taro readings given. I had mentioned at the time that tarot had a 'T' at the end and she'd replied that she knew and had put it there, at the first end.

  Now I was up and making drinks I knew that I would be going to the fête today, an onset of sudden death being the only excuse my wife would accept not to. I savoured the notion for a moment.

  Lady J elected to do a little shopping after breakfast and left me to my own devices. I decided to catch up on answering any personal mail. There was an invitation to join the Save the Krill Society by those who felt the whale was a major threat to its survival. I had an invitation to try a vibrating water bed at home for two weeks at no cost, but if I did wish to return it I had to arrange the return transport at a cost of £200. There was a reminder that I shou
ld remember to take out life insurance to leave my family something to bury me with. 'Reminder to myself buy a new spade'. Finally there was a message saying I needed to join a new singles club as there were 6 women who wanted to go out with me. The site forbore to tell me who these women were or show me pictures of them, presumably so I wouldn't get carried away. I'm afraid I declined all offers with the utmost regret, or so I told them.

  After my mail was dealt with I decided to sit and ponder whether now would be a good time to write my memoirs. It's all well and good me saving my memories in this diary for posterity but people have no knowledge of my previous life and career amongst the natives.

  My mind must have drifted a bit as lunch time arrived and with it Lady Julia. As Grizelda was off she'd bought us some sausage rolls to be followed by some nice egg custard tarts. Mr Todd is an excellent baker, so eating them was no hardship.

  At 1.30 pm the time had come to depart. The sun was out but it was cool. I was glad to have my coat with me. Perhaps a little brash but the gold frock-coat is a favourite of mine. It certainly seemed to cause a stir with the 'meeters and greeters' as we arrived at the fête. I'm sure two people put on sunglasses. Lady J drew the usual gasps at her fitted Edwardian gown.

  First in line to welcome us was our mayor, Edgar Arbuthnott, accompanied by, and decked out in her chain of office, the mayoress, his wife – the ‘dreaded’ Edna. His greeting was cordial as he's a pleasant chap, while as usual a little individual black cloud of discontent hung over Edna, who muttered her welcomes through gritted teeth.

  Next in line was Johan Zvigler our local vicar. He peered over his half moon glasses and offered an effusive welcome consisting of bone wrenching handshakes.

  Finally came Miss Childerstone who runs the local school as though the infants are all her own. She said her very shy hello while simultaneously half bowing and half curtseying like a demented jack-in-the-box.

  We entered the field whose use had been donated every year by the Farmer Giles Thrupp. He is reputed to have been a recluse ever since he found his prize bull had refused to service a single cow three years ago, but had made eyes at some of the other bulls. I haven't seen him for about that time and wondered if the rumours might be true.

  I ascended the stage created for this occasion and grasped the microphone only to receive a shock which made my carefully combed hair stand on end. Bravely I soldiered on, offering my thanks to the committee and the volunteers. I urged the crowd to give generously and declared the fête officially open. I descended the stage to make way for the Rev Zveigler who announced, for our listening pleasure, The Bosnian Girls Rabbinical Chorus singing that timeless classic Oi vay Maria.

  I was aware that Lady J had gone to the main arena to watch the junior gymkhana. I myself, not sharing her taste for watching Thelwell type ponies carrying dressed dumplings around a ring and dumping them at every jump, started off for the refreshment tent for a small libation. As I passed the coc’nut shy and the shooting gallery I heard a shout.

  "Got just the thing for you, My Lord. Only two bob". Turning my head I saw Tom Thatcher at the white elephant stall holding out a brush and comb set that must have been old when Noah was a lad. I swear the inscriptions in the silver were written in Aramaic. Still, for two bob I couldn't resist and into my pocket they went. Tom took my money and said, "Don't worry too much about the hair on the brush, My Lord, my old dad only used to groom the dogs with it". I walked away just grateful I hadn't bought back something my wife had donated for me again.

  I like Tom enormously and feel some sympathy for him. He had followed in the family tradition of being a shepherd and sheepdog trainer, but to his everlasting regret he couldn't whistle. This meant he could train his dogs to verbal commands like 'Come by lad', but couldn't get them to change direction with his own whistled commands. Instead he permanently wore a selection of bought whistles around his neck. Each had a different tone and were used one for left, one for right, forward, back and 'bring the beggars in'. Despite all this Tom is a naturally happy man willing to help anyone.

  Having left him I went to have my cup of tea. There was quite a melee of people and I chose to sit at a little table near the tent door to enjoy it.

  "Har you h'enjoyin your cuppa, MiLord", asked a voice, "Mind iffen I join you?" I recognised the voice of 'Limping' Bert Bowler the leader (Akela) of the local scout group. The name came from a lesson he gave his troop on the correct way to throw a javelin and one lad whose aim was not too good pinned his foot to the floor.

  "Not at all, Bert", I replied.

  "Hai was in 'Ereford last week", he informed me. "H'and hai saw your brother h'and 'is young wife".

  "Yes Bert", I replied. "He told me they were going to buy a new ram he needs".

  "H'ah", said Bert. "H'ai think 'e brought h'it to the show today".

  Coincidentally I saw at that moment my younger brother Col. Wyn and his wife Blodwyn leading a large ram over to the now vacated showjumping ring.

  At that moment I heard the call for my wife to go to judge the jam competition. As though hypnotised I made my way in the same direction though I wasn't needed for a while.

  There were about ten jars of jam lined up on the table. Before each one lay a teaspoon to lift a sample to test texture, smell and, of course, taste. I noticed the other judges rearranging the name plates of the entrants as some who thought they stood no chance had tried to improve their chance somewhat by moving their name to a better looking product.

  That sorted I saw Lady Julia open the first jar which was a greengage jam prepared by Widow Sprig the Postmistress. "Hmmm", I heard my wife mutter, and then write something on her clipboard.

  Number 2 was a raspberry conserve made by Eileen Dover, the village mystery woman who'd bought a cottage on the estate six months ago and settled down seemingly alone. The village gossips were being driven mad trying to find out about her past. Third was another green one that proved to be gooseberry.

  My wife continued along the row. The eighth one was a bright red strawberry jam submitted by none other than Edna Arbuthnott. I saw a gleam of triumph in her eyes as Julia raised a sample towards her mouth. The spoon hovered and was then replaced on the table untouched. Edna's face crumpled.

  Number 9 was a quince jam and had the competitor’s name as Smellor. I thought it a poor attempt by Mellors to disguise the fact he'd entered the competition. Last of all was a raspberry and apple jam by Miss Childerstone. My wife seemed to stay a little longer with this one and then retired to tot up the points awarded.

  Finally the moment arrived.

  "In third place", my wife announced, "Miss Smellor". Polite applause ensued as a young lady, to my surprise, got up and collected her rosette.

  "Second place goes to Eileen Dover for her lovely raspberry conserve". Again a polite round of applause.

  "And first place this year goes to…Edna Arbuthnott, who will now explain how she made her jam and will taste it for you. Well done everyone who entered, a really hard fought competition".

  I could hear the back bites of all the losers gossiping about all those who had actually bought their entry from a shop. They knew because their cousin Norman had seen it happen etc..

  I was absolutely astounded, not just because I knew she didn't like the 'upstart' but because I knew she hadn't tasted the jam.

  To a scattering of applause Edna came to collect her rosette and with a scowl fighting to remove the fake smile she took a spoonful of jam. She very quickly rattled through the method of making the jam and then literally ran from the tent.

  "Why", I whispered to Julia, "why of all people her, and without a taste test?"

  "Yes", she said, "as I smelled the jam I could detect a strong odour of paraffin. Either someone got to her jam, in which case they cheated, or she meant that for me, in which case she won't move too far from the toilets for the afternoon".

  I laughed, put my arm through hers and we strolled through the field. Julia even won a coconut at the shy much to the dis
gust of the young man holding the tin of glue. We bought a piece of cake each from a stall and chose some where we didn't know the maker. The village women milled around to see whose we had bought as had it been theirs they would have had bragging rights for a year.

  At the 'soak the vicar' stall, some bright spark had brought along a bottle of red ink to soak their sponge. The vicar looked flushed and I have no doubt that Sunday School tomorrow will be interesting as the culprit is sought.

  Grizelda's stall had quite a queue and I guessed her 'Taro' readings were proving quite popular.

  We were considering a cup of tea when we both heard an almighty commotion from the main ring. When we got there, all the animals there for the 'Best of breed' competition had gone berserk. Giles' bull was attempting to cross breed with another bull who looked quite startled, then in turn he tried two horses and my brother’s ram which looked neither pleased nor flattered at the attention. The bull turned to try and find an amenable friend when the ram launched itself off the floor at the speed of light and hit the bull's hind quarters. The bull's eyes rolled and it took off as though hit by lightning and the last we saw it was running towards the safety of the farmhouse, having knocked over the fences on the way. Owners rushed to calm the mayhem in the ring and settle the animals down.

  At that moment, "Lord David to judge the marrows please. Lord David to main tent". Reluctantly I made my way downfield again, Lady J staying to help with the animals.

  My job was to measure the girth and length of the marrow and thus determine the biggest one there. I picked up my tape and started. The first one was nearer a cucumber than a marrow and the owner put it down to the weather. Number two looked an outright winner until I noticed a little mark running round it that looked to have been coloured in green felt tip. A quick tap revealed that it was actually two marrows joined together. The guilty owner slunk away. Some competitors had brought marrows deep frozen from the previous year’s competitions, or marrows where the owners had tried to pump oxygen into them in the hope they would swell, only to find that as I walked along all that could be heard was the hissing of escaping air. I'm sure next year will bring its own novelties. For now I presented the awards and rosettes, relieved it was over.