The Village Show (Tales from Turnham Malpas)

by Shaw, Rebecca

  Sheila called out, ‘You’ve done well, Mr Fitch. That’s the second First-Prize card I’ve seen with your name on.’

  His cousin claimed he’d always had green fingers. This was said in the hearing of Greenwood Stubbs, Head Gardener at Turnham House, who winked at Sheila; she had the gravest difficulty in resisting winking back. How could Mr Fitch stand there and take all the credit? At that moment he went down in Sheila’s estimation.

  But then he came and took her arm and said, ‘A cup of Charter-Plackett’s excellent tea, I think, for this charming lady who’s worked so hard to make this whole thing,’ he waved his arm in a great swoop, encompassing the entire marquee, ‘such a blinding success. If it wasn’t for your competitions we wouldn’t have nearly so many people here, would we, Sheila, my dear?’ He squeezed her arm and bending down to reach under the brim of her hat, he planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘It’s ladies like you, Sheila, who make village life so rich and so rewarding.’

  His cousin and his elderly aunt clapped their hands in appreciation and a few of those around also joined in. Sheila blushed and her cabbage rose bobbed as she acknowledged the clapping. ‘Really, Mr Fitch, you’re too kind. I shall be ready and willing next year, should the need arise.’ She laughed graciously and followed Mr Fitch out of the marquee into the blazing sun. At last she’d finally arrived. She’d been recognised, in public, as an essential part of village life.

  As Jimmy was pushing through the crowds at the entrance to the competition marquee, he bumped into Willie and Sylvia. He raised his tweed cap to Sylvia and then asked, ‘’As my eggs won, Willie?’

  ‘By Jove they ’ave, and no mistake. Certificate of Merit as well!’

  ‘Never! Well, I don’t know. Certificate of Merit. Well, I never. I’ve got to see this. Certificate of Merit! ’Ave you won anything?’

  ‘I ’ave so. First with me raspberries, me beans, and the vegetable selection. And to top it off I’ve won the Largest Potato! My Sylvia reckons I must be in line for the Templeton Cup. I’m that delighted I’m like a dog with two tails.’

  ‘Who’s won His Nib’s cup for the flowers?’

  ‘Looks as if it might be Sadie Beauchamp. She’s swept the board with her roses. Beautiful they are. Mine’s not in the same street. And she’s won a sweet-peas class as well. Reckon it’ll be ’er and no questions asked.’

  ‘Wonderful! What a day, what a day. See yer tonight in the bar. We’ll have a celebratory drink. You as well, Sylvia.’ Jimmy pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared in the direction of the produce displays.

  Willie Biggs, flushed with delight at his success in the competitions, pointed out to Sylvia that the hot-air balloon was just returning to earth.

  ‘What do yer think, my Sylvia?’

  ‘It looks lovely. They make the balloon bit so colourful, don’t they?’

  ‘My prize money easily covers the cost, and we’ll have some over for a slap-up cream tea after.’

  ‘Cost of what?’

  ‘A ride.’

  ‘A ride! Oh Willie, I don’t know about that. A ride up there?’

  ‘Go on, let’s live dangerously.’

  ‘Commit suicide, you mean.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Yer’ll be all right, yer with me. How about it, eh?’ He squeezed her hand to encourage her. ‘Go on, Sylvia love.’

  ‘Oh Willie, I don’t know. I like terra firma. Floating about up there …’ She pressed an anxious hand to her diaphragm.

  ‘You’ve been in a plane.’

  ‘I know, but that was different. It had an engine and I’d taken my travel-sickness tablets.’ Sylvia looked into his face. He had the eager, longing look of a small boy. He reminded her of Alex when he was trying to persuade her to let him do something she didn’t want him to. Bless him. She couldn’t deny him his pleasure. ‘All right then. I’ll give it a whirl. Come on.’

  It was the powerful tugging motion as the balloon took off that she didn’t like, but once they were up there floating, floating, floating, she couldn’t believe how wonderful the world looked, how strong the colours, how blue the sky. Willie held her hand tightly and she loved him for it. His face! She wished she had a camera to capture his delight. He looked like he’d done on their wedding day when he turned to take her hand as she arrived at the altar. Filled to the brim with joy, no room for anything else.

  Sylvia peered over the edge at the Show down below. Hundreds of people! And all the cars … like myriads of multicoloured ladybirds from where she was. The arena was a clear emerald-green square, and there right in the middle, the tug-of-war teams were busy straining. She knew The Royal Oak team were wearing red T-shirts, and The Jug and Bottle had chosen bright blue; it was the bright blues who were flat on their backs, legs waving. One up to The Royal Oak then. She cheered – ‘Hurrah!’ Willie put his arm around her shoulders and laughed. It wasn’t possible to be any happier than he was at that moment.

  In the refreshment marquee the customers had been coming in even before the opening ceremony. Pat had gained confidence after a pep-talk from Jimbo and was actually beginning to enjoy being in charge. Nothing had been left to chance and she couldn’t think why on earth she’d been so worried. The only fly in the ointment was Barry. He’d come in just as the opening ceremony had finished. Now he was sitting at the table nearest to the cash desk with a cup of tea and a cake, neither of which he’d touched for the last ten minutes. All he did was look at her. At first she was indignant, after half an hour she was furious but too busy to deal with him. There was a healthy sound to the consistent ping! of the till and she was feeling thrilled with her success.

  ‘Tables to clear, Moira, if you please. Trace, more clean cups please, we’re nearly out.’

  Barry liked the sound of authority in her voice. This was his Pat finding her niche, and he loved it. Who’d have thought she’d be so good? Next she’d be giving up the school and just doing this for Jimbo. He got rather a kick out of the outfit she wore too. That frilly bow just above her backside added a certain something. He grinned at her, but she ignored him.

  A crowd of women came in, and damn and blast, there was Simone with all the kids. Despite her long, loosely flowing dress it was obvious she was pregnant. He kept his head down, not wanting her to come across. He ate a piece of his cake and sipped his tea to make his presence more authentic. When next he looked up, Pat was talking to Simone at her table. The kids were all deep into cream cakes and making a thorough mess which didn’t bother Simone one jot. He knew it wouldn’t, she was like that. Pat was looking annoyed and then she smiled and then she looked serious. He watched her glance momentarily at him and then she shook her head and walked off. Blast it! What was it Simone had said? He wasn’t leaving, he wasn’t giving in. No way! He was staying to the bitter end.

  His mother came in. She looked round, spotted him at his table near the cash desk and came across.

  ‘We’ve got to celebrate, my lad. I’ve won the Victoria sponge! There were ten entries and I’ve come top.’

  ‘Oh great, Mum, that’s great.’

  ‘Get us a cup of tea then, eh?’

  ‘I’m really pleased. What about the cut flowers?’

  ‘Second. Dr Harris won First Prize and though I say it myself, she deserved it. Lovely they are. Have you been in the Show tent?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Been here all the time, have yer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hoping she’ll speak to yer?’ Barry nodded. ‘Leave it to me, I’ll have a word with that Pat.’ She half-rose to go but Barry pulled her back down again.

  ‘No, don’t. Please don’t. Anybody says anything it’s me. I’ll get that tea. Cake as well?’

  ‘Yes, if you like.’

  Pat saw them talking but she was too busy to bother. He could sit there all day if he wanted, she wasn’t giving in. Sending Simone to plead his case. Huh!

  ‘One in the eye for Sadie Beauchamp for all her special seed from that grower. She only won one sweet-pea
class; Mr Charter-Plackett won the other. Just goes to show.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That it’s the technique that counts. You’ll never guess who’s won the raspberries. Willie! And he’s won the beans too. I reckon he might win the cup.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No you’re not, you can’t take yer eyes off Pat. Time you got her out of your system.’

  Barry looked at her. ‘Honest I can’t. It’s her or no one.’

  ‘Hmmm. I see Mademoiselle Simone’s here. How she’s got the barefaced cheek I don’t know. Oh look! There’s Michelle. Over ’ere, Michelle love.’ She shouted and waved her arms, so Michelle, glad to see Barry, came across. ‘Sit next to Barry and tell him what yer want, he’ll get it for yer.’

  Michelle, her face alight with triumph, said: ‘Barry, yer’ll never guess, I’ve won the necklace competition. And a Certificate of Merit!’

  ‘Well, that calls for a celebration and not half. Does yer mum know?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll have an orange juice and a slice of cream cake please, Barry.’

  ‘Your wish is my command.’ He bowed from the waist, winked and went to join the queue. When his turn came it was Pat serving.

  ‘Tea and a slice of cream cake for Mum and an orange juice and a slice of the cream cake, please, for Michelle. Hasn’t she done well?’

  Pat looked at him and said, ‘Yes, she has. I’m really pleased for her. That’ll be one pound eighty-five, please.’

  ‘Thanks Pat, keep the change.’

  ‘I don’t need your tips, thank you very much. Here, fifteen pence change.’

  ‘Pat, please.’

  ‘It’s neither the time nor the place.’ And she turned to serve the next person in the queue.

  Barry took the tray back to the table and found his mother and Michelle deep in conversation.

  ‘And yer Mum’s won the shortcake, I am pleased.’

  ‘She is as well. And Mr Fitch has won some prizes too. Well, it’s Mr Fitch on the card but it’s my Grandad really, you know. I’m going to be a gardener when I grow up. I’m going to plan gardens with lots of lovely trees, and big gorgeous flowers in brilliant colours that make people think they’re in Africa, but really it’s good old England.’

  ‘Are you now. You’re a bit young at eleven for thinking about your career.’

  ‘I know, but I am. I’ve got green fingers Grandad says, and he should know. Barry, is Mum talking to you yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do about her. She’s that pig-headed …’

  It was when Louise saw Gilbert disappearing in front of her at a great rate of knots, wearing Morris Dancing clothes and carrying a melodion, that she realised something might have gone awfully wrong. He was scarcely recognisable. She knew him more by his gait than anything. He was wearing an old jacket, to which, for some reason she couldn’t quite comprehend, he’d fastened gaily-coloured strips of material, almost obliterating the black cloth of the jacket. On his head was a bowler hat covered with brightly coloured feathers and badges.

  ‘Gilbert?’

  He heard her shout and turned round. ‘Hello, there.’

  ‘I can’t believe it’s you! Your face is black! Why have you done that to your face?’

  ‘All part of my costume. Tradition, you see. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Sorting out the Portaloos, for my sins. I didn’t know you actually danced?’

  Behind the Portaloos there was no one about and he greeted her with a long sensuous mouth-massaging kiss which made her feel as though her toenails were curling up. His hat got in the way, and his melodion dug into her ribs.

  ‘Not in broad daylight in full public view, Gilbert! My face will be all black. Is it?’ He gently wiped her mouth clean, making a lover’s gesture of it.

  ‘Thanks. Back to business.’ She fanned her face with her file.

  ‘Made your heart flutter, did I?’

  ‘More than my heart. So-o-o-o, you’ve never said you were a Morris Dancer.’

  ‘I don’t tell my lover everything, got to keep some mystery. I am and have been for years. I love it. Mediaeval and pagan and all that.’

  ‘So you’re with the Penny Fawcett side?’

  ‘Certainly not. They’re mixed; we’re the Culworth Sceptre side and we’re traditional. Men only.’

  A panic-stricken voice boomed out, ‘GILBERT!’ and he rushed off before Louise could clear her thoughts. If he was not in the Penny Fawcett side then who … Oh good Lord, the ones she’d seen in the distance in the car park were wearing red waistcoats and yes, there’d been two women there too, and they hadn’t black faces. When her thumping heart had calmed, she thought, Oh well, it’ll make for a better display. The two sides can dance together – even better.

  Her watch said it was almost four o’clock. In that case the dancing would be about to start. She hurried out from the back of the Portaloos and headed straight for the arena. She found a space amongst the crowd and watched as the two sides came into the arena from different ends. Whether it was the burning sun, or the dazzle of the colourful clothes the dancers were wearing, or the noise of their bells jingling, or something ominous in the shouts of the crowd … Louise had a sudden dreadful premonition that things would not work out as she had hoped.

  Gilbert headed straight for the other team. There was a heated discussion, made worse by the fact that they were all carrying sticks in preparation for their first dances. The crowd shouted encouragement as they watched the confrontation. She’d never seen Gilbert so angry.

  ‘Excuse me, please.’ She squeezed through the crowd and lifted the rope and stepped into the arena. There was a loud cheer as she walked towards the Morris Dancers.

  ‘Please … there’s been a dreadful mistake, I don’t know how it happened, but—’

  ‘There’s no way we are dancing with a mixed side.’

  ‘But couldn’t you dance here and the other side over there and do the same dances?’

  ‘Same dances? We’re Border tradition, love – they’re Cotswold. How could we do the same dances? In any case, we’re all male, and they’re mixed.’

  ‘Well, obviously I can see that, but is it important?’

  A woman from the Penny Fawcett side said, ‘Look, we don’t mind, let’s take turns. Give us a chance for a rest in this heat at the very least.’

  ‘Well, now,’ said Louise. ‘They can’t say fairer than that can they?’

  She turned to Gilbert’s team and waited for an answer. They stood there, sticks at the ready, belligerent and almost begging for trouble, the black on their English faces seeming to emphasise their anger. The men all shook their heads. The tallest one with the recorder in his hand said, ‘Sorry, we don’t recognise them.’

  ‘Oh, I know them all – I’ll introduce them if you like,’ Louise offered. ‘They’re lovely people.’

  Gilbert sighed. ‘He means we don’t recognise them as real Morris Dancers.’

  ‘How can they be anything else? They’re all dressed up and ready to go.’

  The crowd began to boo. Mr Fitch came marching across the arena. ‘What exactly is the holdup?’

  Louise explained. Mr Fitch rapidly came to the boil. ‘I have never heard such arrogant nonsense in all my life. You’re all Morris Dancers, so bloody well get on with it and sort something out. The crowd is getting restless.’

  ‘We’re getting more than restless. We’ve been booked for months. It really is only right that we should dance.’ This was the Penny Fawcett side.

  Gilbert said, ‘And so have we, Mr Fitch.’

  ‘LOUISE! How did this come about?’

  ‘I only booked the Penny Fawcett side. I don’t know why Gilbert thought I’d booked them … him … er, them. Look, please, just dance and we’ll sort it out later.’

  One of Gilbert’s dancers stepped forward, stick in hand, and repeated: ‘I’m sorry, not wi
th them.’

  Before Louise knew where she was, she and Mr Fitch were in the midst of an angry crowd of would-be dancers. All of them, sticks raised, were shouting. The crowd began to cheer. Bells were a-jingling, voices were raised, feet stamped and Mr Fitch, swearing loudly, came within an ace of being struck by a stick.

  Suddenly Gilbert raised his voice. ‘This won’t do. Most uncivilised. My side will retire and leave the field clear for the Penny Fawcett team. There’s obviously been a serious misunderstanding. I’ll see you later, Louise.’ He gathered them all together and marched his side off the field to the cheers and boos of the crowd. Louise and Mr Fitch followed in their wake, after they’d reassured themselves that the Penny Fawcett side would dance. The crowd clapped and cheered and the dancing began.

  ‘My office, if you please.’

  Louise, with broken heart, followed in Mr Fitch’s footsteps all the way from the arena to the Big House.

  When they got inside his office, he burst out laughing; peal after peal of hysterical laughter. Louise, who’d been expecting a dressing down, was stunned. All her planning, all her notes, everything in ruins and all he could do was laugh. Between his bursts of mirth he gasped, ‘Never shall I forget this!! Never!! Oh God!!’ He sat down in his chair, holding his side. ‘I don’t know when I’ve laughed so much! Oh Louise, I really thought we would have a fight. What on earth are they talking about – won’t dance with each other? And I was so looking forward to it. I thought it a really interesting, colourful, heart-of-the-village touch. Brilliant idea of yours. Oh yes. Go and look outside – see if it’s all right now. I’ll pour us a drink.’

  Louise went to look at the arena from the front door. The crowd had settled down and the dancers were dancing, and the music was playing, and it looked all English and mediaeval with the stalls and the crowds, and the flags; oh my word, the setting was absolutely right. Her heart repaired itself and she began to smile. How could they have made love all those times, and never mentioned Morris Dancing? Such a blasted stupid mistake. She’d have to apologise.