Because she says so….
‘I thought it had something in it about lotus buds,’ complained Mrs. Paley.
‘Don’t let the children have any more hock.’
‘Robin! No more hock for the children.’
‘I’ll have to sign the pledge all over again. I don’t know what our Mum would say to me.’
‘This is a lovely picnic.’
‘This is a grand picnic.’
‘Where has my cricket gone? Who has taken my cricket?’
‘Uncle Arly has lost his cricket.’
‘I KNOW SHE LOVES ME …’
‘No, but Angie, I must tell you a funny story about Gerry when he was a baby. I’d left him in his pram and …’
‘I’ve got a wish bone. I’ve got a wish bone. Mrs. Paley … would you like a wish with my bone?’
‘No, Hebe. You wish your own wish.’
‘Well … I wish the Coves could be your children, and you wish it too, and we pull, and whichever gets the wish end …’
‘It’s no use wishing for something impossible …’
‘SHE’S THE LILEE OF LA … GU … NA …’
The Coves were too happy to sing, too happy to eat. Gravely they circled round the ring offering food and drink to their guests. Without seeming to do so they ruled the Feast and saw to it that everything should be done in a suitable manner. When the twins, who were dressed as Red Indians, evinced an inclination to tomahawk their neighbours, Blanche put an immediate stop to it by saying earnestly:
‘Oh, but we’re saving up the tomahawks till midnight. It’s Nancibel’s turn now. She’s going to sing about the wicked old dolphin.’
There was a sudden hush and Nancibel looked startled.
‘It’s ever such an old-fashioned song,’ she told them. ‘I don’t know how I had the face to say I’d sing it. My great-grannie used to sing it.’
‘It’s a lovely song,’ said Beatrix. ‘Nancibel sang it to us the day we were drowned.’
‘Go on, Nancibel!’
Nancibel lifted her chin and sang instinctively in the sweet, steady tone of an older tradition:
As I was a walking beside the salt sea,
A beautiful mermaid appeared unto me.
‘Oh, where’s the young man who will save me,’ she cried,
‘From the wicked old dolphin who wants me for his bride?’
‘It’s a folk song!’ whispered Duff in excitement. ‘It’s an uncollected folk song!’
I made her a bow and I took her white hand,
And I hugged and I tugged and I lugged her to land.
‘My mother will give you a shawl and a gown,
If you’ll walk to my house in St. Sody Church Town.’
‘Alas, I can’t walk for I haven’t no feet.
I’ve only a tail, as you see, sir, indeed.
You must carry me up, you must carry me down,
You must carry me home to St. Sody Church Town.’
‘A local folk song! And we’ve lived here all our lives without hearing it.’
I lifted her up on my shoulder so high,
And oh, for a mile we were merry and blythe.
But the cliffs they were steep and the road it was rough,
And the maid on my shoulder was heavy enough.
And first I must creep and next I must crawl
Till we came to the sign of the Hen and the Owl.
‘One and All,’ whispered Duff. ‘Onen hen oil … Cornish….’
Alas, my fair maiden, I must put you down,
For it’s still a long way to St. Sody Church Town.
Nancibel stopped abruptly.
‘Is that all?’ cried the audience.
‘No. That’s all I can remember. There’s a lot more.’
‘What happens? Do they get there?’
‘No. The wicked old dolphin comes after them and turns them into stone. It’s supposed to be true. The stones are in a field just behind our place, and they’re called The Man and The Mermaid.’
‘I know,’ said Robin. ‘They’re marked on the map.’
A buzz of interest and approval went round the ring, which rather puzzled Nancibel. She had wanted to sing A Sunbeam Don’ Cost Nothun, but she perceived that the Coves had been right as usual in their choice, and that The Wicked Old Dolphin had given pleasure.
And now, after a glance at the programme, Blanche Cove had risen to propose another health.
‘Could Bee and Maud and I have some wine?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘We haven’t had time yet, but we want to drink your healths and congratulate you all on being here.’
Glasses were handed to them, and she continued:
‘We want to thank you all for coming, and to say how glad we are to see you so happy. We know you did it to please us, but we can see you are really enjoying it. I expect it is the lovely hock.’
‘Hear! Hear!’
‘So that is a reward for coming, as you wouldn’t have got it if you hadn’t. We drink to you and we hope that you will all live happy for ever after, especially Gerry and Angie.’
‘Hear! Hear!’
‘Thank you, Blanche!’
‘A lovely speech!’
‘A lovely Feast!’
‘For …’
‘FOR THEY ARE JOLLY GOOD FELLOWS,
FOR THEY ARE JOLLY GOOD FELLOWS …’
Everybody sang. Everybody shouted. They made such a noise that, for a few seconds, they hardly noticed the other noise which was going on, until all sounds were swallowed up in one shattering, ear-splitting, jarring roar which threw them to the ground in darkness and terror. To some it seemed that the noise went on for a long time; while others maintained, afterwards, that it was all over very quickly. Nor could they be sure that they had not flung themselves down. But there they were lying, in a choking cloud of dust, while the noise subsided in a diminishing arpeggio of falling stones … skipping pebbles … the murmur of waves.
A faint clamour began to rise among the boulders—coughing, sobbing, cries and questions, as they groped about in the dusty haze. All were too much stunned to exclaim loudly until a child’s voice rose in a piercing shriek:
‘Oh! It’s the atom bomb! It’s the atom bomb!’
‘What is it?’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s the atom bomb!’
‘Angie! Where are you? Are you all right?’
‘Here, Gerry …’
‘Oh, Mrs. Paley …’
‘I’m here, Maud … holding you … where’s Blanche? Where’s Beatrix?’
‘The atom bomb …’
‘I’ve got the twins. Are you all right, ducks? It’s Nancibel … she’s got you …’
‘Where’s Caroline?’
‘Daddy …’
‘It’s dust …’
‘It’s the atom bomb …’
‘Gave me a turn, that did! I thought something must of happened …’
‘Stop yelling, Hebe! It wasn’t! There was no flash.’
‘Not any sort of bomb. No blast …’
‘An earthquake …’
‘Is everybody all right? Is everybody here?’
‘Be quiet, please. I’ll call over names….’
‘Be quiet, everybody. Sir Henry wants to call names….’
Sir Henry called their names, one by one, as the dust began to clear. All answered. All were safe.
But they could not understand it and still half believed that some kind of enemy had attacked them. For they were accustomed to associate such violent events with an act of man rather than of God. Stunned and terrified they huddled together in a thinning haze of dust until they saw a gleam of moonlight on the sea, and placid waves falling upon a beach; a familiar sight, which might have reassured them, had it been a beach that they had ever seen before.
Gerry and Sir Henry were the first to guess. But they said nothing. In silence they watched the pall of dust subside. As the truth leapt from mind to mind a moaning sigh went through the group. They dr
ew closer together, as if still clinging to that frail, that transient, unity which had so strangely assembled and preserved them. Nobody spoke until one of the Gifford twins, raising his head from the bosom of Nancibel, looked out upon the scene below and asked wonderingly:
‘Who did it?’
There was a shout from the hill behind. Little figures appeared on the skyline. People were running down from the village and from the farms. The group on the headland stirred and broke up. They whispered together, giving a name to what had happened. Already it was travelling into the past. Their thoughts turned towards the future.
‘We had better go up to the village,’ said Gerry. ‘To the Vicarage. Father Bott will take us in….’
And they moved off, in a straggling procession, taking up once more the burden of their sixteen separate lives.
Copyright
This ebook edition first published in 2011
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
All rights reserved
© The Estate of Margaret Kennedy, 1950
The right of Margaret Kennedy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–27901–2
The Feast Page 32