(18/20) Changes at Fairacre

by Miss Read

  'And what's that?'

  'I'm starting an agency, mainly for supplying office staff. As a matter of fact, the only one in Caxley is about to be sold. The proprietor is retiring, and to be truthful it never operated very efficiently, as Barney and I discovered on many occasions when we were desperate for staff. I should thoroughly enjoy it and, though I don't want to boast, I really can sum up people's ability pretty quickly, and also what the employer wants. For instance, nothing would annoy a man like Barney more than one of those motherly types for ever bringing in cups of tea when he was telephoning. On the other hand, you get bosses who just love that sort of attention.'

  'You'll be marvellous at it,' I told her. 'What does Gerard think?'

  'He's all for it. He has to be away such a lot, and I think he soon realized I was getting fed up with kicking my heels. He's pretty astute.'

  'So when do you start?'

  'With luck, in the autumn. It means married women with children at school will have more chance to take on part-time jobs. There's been an enormous increase in part-time work as firms have come to see that this is the sensible way of organizing offices. Matching bosses to applicants will be just what I like, and honestly Caxley is in real need of a service like that.'

  'Well, the best of luck,' I said. 'I'm sure it will be a wild success, and your name will be blessed by all the Caxley folk.'

  'We'll see,' she said, looking at her watch.

  'You don't have to hurry back, do you? Is Gerard due back soon?'

  'Not till the evening. He's doing a series of documentaries about inland waterways, and is giving the Kennet and Avon canal a thorough scrutiny further west.'

  'It sounds pleasant enough.'

  'So I imagined, but Gerard says there are an awful lot of snags, like fishermen, and people tramping along the tow path, not to mention mosquitoes and the occasional hostile swan.'

  'But surely all those creatures have a right to the canal?'

  'Not according to Gerard and his cameraman,' said Miriam.

  10 Flower Show and Fête

  THE month of July every year in Fairacre is dominated by the village Flower Show. It is held in the village hall, and the funds raised go to two good causes - the Fairacre Horticultural Society and to repairing whichever portion of the church is in most urgent need of attention.

  At one time there was also a village fête, held in the vicarage garden, but latterly the two functions have combined and a few stalls outside the village hall, and sports events in the field around it, now take the place of the earlier fête whilst the gardeners hold sway inside the hall itself.

  Naturally, this sensible combination took years to accomplish. It had been the vicar's idea, and of course some people thought it was because he did not like to see his lawns spiked with high heels nor his borders damaged by wooden balls bowled erratically in 'Bowling For The Pig'. Those more kindly disposed thought that it was far better to use the village field for the fête side of the occasion.

  'Stands to reason,' said Bob Willet, 'folks feel freer on their own patch, and who wants two summer dos? There ain't the money about for it, for one thing, with cornets the price they is.'

  Personally, I thought it was a much more practical arrangement.

  I have spent several fête afternoons sheltering with dozens of others in the vicarage summer-house or barn, with the rain lashing across the stalls, watching the crêpe paper dripping coloured rivulets on to the sodden grass, while tea trays were being rushed into the house for protection.

  Under the present scheme we could at least bundle into the hall, even if it did mean enduring the disgruntled comments of the gardening community jealous for the welfare of their produce and lush displays set out on black velvet.

  The entrants for the many classes for fruit, flowers and vegetables, had obviously worked for months beforehand to produce their bounty. But the rest of us were busy, too.

  As always, there was a cake stall, and a produce stall, and to these I had promised to contribute. Why is it, I wondered, surveying my lop-sided Victoria sponge sandwich, that the cakes one dashes off for home consumption rise splendidly, stay risen, and supply most satisfactory eating? And why, when one hopes to achieve something memorable for public display, does the wretched thing burn, or sink in the middle, or refuse to rise at all?

  My first attempt went into my own cake tin, and I turned to a tried and true recipe for almond cake for my contribution to the cake stall. Two pots of gooseberry jelly were to go to the produce stall, with half a dozen Tom Thumb lettuces. More I could not do.

  A notice had been put in The Caxley Chronicle, and various posters decorated the village and its environs. All that remained to ensure success was a fine afternoon.

  It has always been a source of wonder to me that so many English occasions are planned as outdoor events, with not even a tent in sight for shelter from the rain which is liable to appear at any time. It says much for the hope and confidence of organizers. I only know that if I plan some public display at Fairacre school, and the playground is the main venue, I am glad to be able to make a rush for the ancient building with my flock and the visitors when the heavens open. The fact that we shall have to face the wrath of Mrs Pringle is of secondary importance compared with a heavy summer storm.

  The combined fête and show was to take place on a Saturday, and the weather forecast was delightfully vague. A band of rain affecting the north west might reach our area by midday, followed by brighter fresher weather with increasing winds. The forecaster prudently promised unsettled weather, with a likelihood of showers, but possibly some fine spells. As you were, in fact.

  Summer clothes, then, I decided, accompanied by stout shoes for the (possibly) wet grass, and a cardigan and an all-enveloping mackintosh.

  In an unguarded moment, I had offered to help Mrs Partridge on the cake stall. This, as everyone connected with fêtes knows, is a veritable magnet for keen shoppers or, if not actual buyers, then astute spectators happy to assess the cooking abilities, or better still, the frailties of those whose products are publicly displayed.

  As a vicar's wife, Mrs Partridge takes a firm stand about not opening her stall until after the local celebrity has formally declared the fête open. Of this I entirely approve. When I have assisted at jumble sales, I have often been appalled by the number of articles 'put aside' or 'bought in' in advance by the persons preparing for the event. If not checked, this can result in anything attractive being extracted beforehand, leaving the poor stuff to be sold when the doors open to admit the customers.

  I arrived at my station by Mrs Partridge's side some ten minutes before Basil Bradley, our local novelist, was due to open the fête.

  'No, no!' Mrs Partridge was saying firmly to a questioning buyer. 'I can't serve anything until we are officially open. But do wait here, and we shall start selling as soon as Mr Bradley has made his speech.'

  It was somewhat of a surprise to me when I bent down to tie my shoe lace, to see half a dozen cakes in polythene bags resting on a tea towel in the grass beneath our stall. Clean sheets had been spread over our stall, and hung down to the ground concealing the booty from public gaze, and my faith in Mrs Partridge's integrity was severely shaken.

  The vicar rang the school handbell lent by me for the afternoon, and most of the conversation ceased.

  He introduced Basil Bradley as 'our old friend, the famous author', and led the clapping as Basil advanced to the microphone. After some alarming cracklings and whistlings, the machine calmed down, and Basil gave his usual charming speech saying how delighted he was to be present, and exhorting us to spend freely in supporting this good cause. I had a strong suspicion that he had no idea where the funds were going. Church roof? Organ fund? New hassocks? Upkeep of village hall? Never mind, he carried out his duties with great charm and elegance, and did not forget to conclude with the magic words:

  'I declare this show and fête OPEN!'

  This was the sign for a rush to the stalls, and pudding ba
sins, plastic boxes and ancient Oxo tins began to fill with coins and notes.

  Activity on our cake stall was frenzied. It was easy enough to pass over a sturdy fruit cake wrapped in its plastic bag with the price displayed on top. It was quite another matter to manipulate inexpertly a large plastic pair of tongs, in the interest of hygiene, and to insert three, or five, or six, according to demand, small sticky cakes into a paper bag.

  Alice Willet's jam sponge sandwiches, and her large batch of fruit scones soon vanished, bought by knowledgeable customers, but an ornate chocolate cake decorated with chocolate icing and beautiful curlicues of chocolate on top of that, remained unbought.

  'Too rich, dear,' pronounced the vicar's wife, when I inquired why. 'And it was sent by the owner of that cake place in Caxley. I think people are suspicious of it, and it is really rather expensive.'

  At that moment, Basil Bradley arrived on his dutiful tour of the stalls. He was clutching a golliwog, a lettuce, two pots of chutney and a plastic vase which he had just won at the hoop-la stall, and he was followed by Joseph Coggs.

  'If that gorgeous cake is not already bespoke, can I buy it?' he asked, after his affectionate greetings to us both.

  'You can certainly have it,' said Mrs Partridge, 'and I shall give you a large cardboard box for all your purchases.'

  Hard behind, the lurking Joseph was given the task of carrying Basil's box of goodies to the car, which he did with a beaming smile. It was not hard to guess that Basil would reward him handsomely when the time came.

  Our stall gradually cleared, leaving only some shortbread fingers and a lumpy-looking bran loaf. I broached the subject of the hidden treasures under our stall.

  Our vicar's wife was not discomfited in the least.

  'Yes, dear, I know it looks bad, but there are exceptions to every rule. Two of those cakes were put by for Miss Young and Mrs Ellis, both great supporters of the fete, but unable to be here as they are poorly.'

  I nodded.

  'Miss Young,' continued Mrs Partridge, 'makes those delightful soft toys for the handiwork stall, and Mrs Ellis always makes a most generous donation. The other cakes were set aside for those helpers who couldn't leave their own stalls during the initial crush.'

  I said that seemed fair.

  'I noticed you looking highly disapproving,' she went on. 'Quite rightly so, of course, but there are times when one must be flexible!'

  I felt suitably chastened, but not entirely satisfied. However, there was nothing to be said.

  'Now we are so slack,' said Mrs Partridge, 'why don't you run along and have a look round? Perhaps have a cup of tea? I'll go when you come back.'

  And so I set off to see what the fête and flower show offered, first making my way into the hall to see all the exhibits.

  The din was appalling. Somehow one expected a reverent hush among all this beautifully arranged provender, but one might have been standing in Paddington Station, except that it smelt more pleasantly rural. There were wonderful whiffs from the vases of sweet peas and roses, so I went to look at the flower exhibits first. I was not surprised to see that Bob Willet had first prize for six magnificent cream sweet peas. Josh Pringle, the black sheep of the Pringle family, was surprisingly second. I guessed that his wife had done most of the nurturing of his six mauve beauties.

  Several of my children had red or blue tickets against their flower arrangements in the Under-Twelves class, including Joseph Coggs. Each would receive a modest monetary reward, and I only hoped that Joe would conceal his from his father, otherwise The Beetle and Wedge would swallow up Joe's prize.

  But it was the vegetable tables which really were stunning. Mr Lamb from the Post Office had carried off quite a few of the first tickets. I stood to admire six splendid carrots, almost a foot in length and a good three or four inches round the top, lying straight and true as swords on their black velvet background.

  'Grows 'em in one of them oil drums,' I heard one man say glumly to his neighbour. 'Seen 'em there. Plenty of sandy soil and enough slurry from the pigs to feed a field of taters. It ain't natural.'

  'Well, he don't do that with his onions,' replied his friend fairly. 'Look at 'em! As big as footballs, nearly!'

  'Terrible coarse eating,' sniffed his companion. 'If my missus dished 'em up, I'd throw 'em on the floor, that I would.'

  Passions are easily aroused at these exhibitions, as I knew from experience. There would be little rejoicing over Mr Lamb's success, and the tongues would wag tonight in the pub, and not with much goodwill.

  I decided to take Mrs Partridge's advice and find a cup of tea. The tea tent was as noisy as the hall, and it was difficult to find a chair which would stand squarely on the tussocky grass floor.

  I had just collected my cup of tea and a rock cake when I was hailed by the Winters who were at a table nearby.

  'Come and sit with us,' called Jane. 'We're getting our strength up for the men's tug-of-war.'

  'Have you had any luck with your flower entries?' I asked, as I knew she was going to put a vase of annuals in the show.

  'No luck at all, I'm afraid. And as for my cheese and asparagus quiche which I entered in the cookery section, it was dismissed out of hand as it was baked in a fluted dish.'

  'What nonsense!' I said.

  'Exactly. But the judge was some terrible old battle-axe from the cookery department of the Caxley Tech so there was no gainsaying her dictum. Anyway, it all helped to swell the number of entries,' she added tolerantly.

  'I think this must be the first time we've had a quiche class in the show,' I said. 'How Fairacre is changing! I'm sure we never had anything more dashing than a class for scones and fruit cake in my early days here.'

  'It's the same with the vegetables,' agreed Jane. 'All those courgettes and dark red lettuces would have been giant marrows and cos at my mother's horticultural show, if you follow me.'

  An ear-splitting crackling shook the tent, and a voice boomed out unintelligible messages.

  'The tug-of-war,' cried Jane to her husband, and they struggled to their feet. 'Come along and see what the head of the Winters can do.'

  It was half past six by the time Mrs Partridge and I had cleared our stall and packed up all the paraphernalia. We had also done some general tidying, carrying chairs from the tea tent into their usual place in the hall, and retrieving teacups and teaspoons from the grass. These activities, of course, were interspersed with lengthy conversations with other workers, but despite these breaks in our labours, I was dead-beat when at last I arrived home.

  It was good to lie on my sofa with only the gentle purring of Tibby in the room. I decided it was the noise rather than the press of people and the physical activity which I found most tiring.

  I must have fallen asleep for it was almost eight-thirty when I looked at the clock, and the sun was reddish-gold in the west. It seemed a good idea to make myself a cup of coffee and I went into the kitchen which was still bathed in warm sunlight.

  Through the window, beyond my garden, I could see a figure walking round the edge of the field which was already thick with corn. As the man came closer, I saw that it was our vicar, with Honey, his yellow Labrador bitch, following behind him.

  I went out to speak to him over the hedge. He often exercised Honey in this field, safe from traffic and other more belligerent dogs, for Honey was somewhat timid as well as being almost soppily affectionate.

  'Wonderful day,' he called as he approached, 'and Henry Mawne has already counted five hundred pounds, and more to come!'

  I expressed my gratification.

  'I'm just making coffee,' I added. 'Come and join me.'

  I have a useful gap in the hedge, for which Mr Willet is constantly offering me 'some nice stout thorns' or 'a few real tough old holly bushes'. He cannot understand how I can put up with the gap, but I tell him it saves me walking all round the house to get into the field, and he simply puffs out his moustache with disgust, and says no more.

  The vicar entered through th
e shameful gap, and we were soon sipping our coffee, with Honey lying at our feet. Tibby had left home in high dudgeon but would doubtless be back in time for a bedtime snack.

  'I intended to call on you next week,' said Mr Partridge.

  'About end of term?'

  'Well, no, not exactly.'

  He looked a little uncomfortable and I began to wonder if I had failed in my duties in some way. Perhaps he simply wanted me to play the organ while George Annett was on holiday? Or was I going to be asked to organize some school event for next term?

  'Are you happy here?' he asked surprisingly.

  'Very, why?'

  'In this house, I mean. You haven't thought of moving?'

  I felt on firmer ground. 'As you know, I think, I hope to move to Miss Clare's cottage before long.'

  'Yes, yes. You had apprised me of that very kindly.'

  He leant down and began to fondle Honey's ears. He was rather pink in the face, but whether from his stooping, or my coffee, or simple embarrassment it was difficult to say.

  'You see,' he went on, straightening up, 'I met that nice fellow from the education office when I was at a committee meeting in Caxley. Salisbury or Winchester, I can never remember his name. And he rather delicately, I thought, wondered if you would be needing this house much longer. He seemed to have heard about your good fortune with the house at Beech Green.'

  'Who hasn't?' I said.

  'It's very difficult for me to talk about this,' he said sighing, 'but as the school is now so small, I really think we shall have to accept closure before long, unless something extraordinarily felicitous turns up. What is in the committee's mind, I think, is the sale of your school house, and if it comes to it, the sale of the school building itself if the children are transferred to Beech Green. Of course, both are church property, and it is the church which would benefit from the sale.'

  'I had realized that,' I told him, 'but is there any urgency? I had begun to make plans to move before the end of the summer holidays, but nothing's really settled.'