by Bates, H. E.
‘Good morning to you all,’ the Rev. Candy said. His voice was low though not appreciably nervous. He was determined to keep an iron hand on himself, come what might. ‘Well, I think we might commence if everyone is here.’
‘Just waiting for Mr Larkin and Primrose and Mademoiselle Dupont,’ said Ma, who was jogging little Oscar gently up and down. ‘I thought I heard the buggy draw up just now.’
This unexpected delay in the programme caused Mr Candy to draw a hard breath and go cold and flaky again. He shifted his book of service from hand to hand and tugged nervously at his vestments.
A moment or two later the three late-comers entered the church. Instantly a kind of disquieting radiance fell on the scene. Primrose might have been a flame burning her way down the nave and Mr Candy, as she gave him the most direct of smiles, felt himself quail as he had never quailed before.
For some inexplicable reason he took refuge in humour. A solemn joke sprang from his lips before he could stop it.
‘Has everyone his or her little book giving the form of service? And is everyone now familiar with the batting order?’
Conscious as they all were of being in church, nobody laughed, and in the succeeding hush Mr Candy felt abysmally ashamed.
‘Little Blenheim’s first,’ Ma said.
‘Who is to be the god-parent of this child?’
Angela Snow said she was and succeeded, as she stepped forward a pace, in looking ravishingly demure.
‘Oscar Larkin is next, I believe. Who is the god-parent of this child?’
‘I. Mademoiselle Dupont.’
‘Step this way, please.’
Angela Snow, Mademoiselle Dupont and the Rev. Candy retired some distance from the font and went for some moments into solemn conclave. In the resulting hush the only sounds that could be heard were the shrillings of swallows and sparrows above the roof outside and an occasional cough from the Brigadier, who had discreetly taken up a strategic guard position some distance down the nave.
The service presently began. Little Blenheim, being not only very tiny but also fast asleep, presented no difficulty and lay sweetly swaddled and oblivious in Mr Candy’s arms while Mr Candy poured unnecessarily large quantities of water over the back of his minute bald head, so that Ma was quite disgusted and said under her breath:
‘Here, don’t drown the child in the drink, for goodness’ sake.’
Mercifully Mr Candy didn’t drown little Blenheim in the drink but have him back to Mariette and then turned his attention to little Oscar. Little Oscar, not by any means all that little now, was a great weight in his arms. Mr Candy could hardly hold him. Oscar was also very restless and with his red cherubic face looked not at all unlike a slightly inebriated piglet struggling about.
‘I baptize this child Oscar Columbus Septimus Dupont,’ Mr Candy said, hoping to heaven that he had the names right and at the same time slopping more unnecessarily large quantities of water over Oscar’s head.
Almost immediately afterwards Oscar, who had insisted on bringing Ma’s wooden spoon to church with him – and why not? Ma said, if it would keep the child pacified – struck Mr Candy a severe blow on the top of the head with it. Mr Candy recoiled in pain.
The twins instantly giggled and even Mademoiselle Dupont could hardly suppress a laugh. Little Oscar actually laughed too, in the form of a delighted crow, and Ma whispered under her breath:
‘Oscar! Remember where you are.’
In reply Oscar, having greatly enjoyed the experience of striking Mr Candy once, now proceeded to strike him a second time, but rather more severely. Mr Candy instinctively ducked and the sound of the wooden spoon cracking down on his skull was distinctly hollow.
‘Nice an warm in ‘ere!’ Oscar said.
‘Here, give him back to me,’ Ma said and Mr Candy promptly did so, with undisguised relief and a faint smile that seemed to indicate that he was quite used to this sort of thing.
Instantly Oscar, rudely deprived of the pleasure of using Mr Candy’s head as a drum, burst loudly into tears, with the result that Ma had hastily to take him out of church, where she promptly pacified him with a large Bath bun she had thoughtfully popped into her handbag in case of such an emergency. Little Oscar dried up at once. There was nothing like a bit of grub, Ma thought, for stopping that sort of nonsense.
Confused by the unexpected attack on him, Mr Candy now discovered that he had forgotten the batting order and began searching in his trousers’ pocket for the little book in which he’d written it down, only to discover that the book was sliding slowly down his trousers’ leg. The hole in his pocket was one he had been meaning to mend for a month or more.
The result of this was that he called Montgomery next and Montgomery, being covered in adolescent masculine shyness as opposed to the serene aplomb of the girls, hastily stepped forward, only too glad to get the ordeal over. He was shortly followed by Mariette, who treated the occasion with such grace and dignity, together with a complete detachment, that Mr Charlton felt a great lump of pride rise in his throat.
Pop, on the other hand, thought Mr Candy was holding Mariette’s head far too near the candles. He didn’t want to see any of his kids go up in smoke and him having to act as fireman or anythink of that lark, and he was almost constrained to tell Mr Candy as much when to his relief he saw Mariette walking back to Mr Charlton. At one point in the service he couldn’t help thinking there was a dickens of a lot of water slopping about but perhaps it was just as well after all.
During all this Primrose kept her eyes firmly fixed on Mr Candy, who was deeply and hopelessly conscious of it all the time. The beautiful dark stare had him in a celestial vice. There was no escaping it and even when he stooped down to pick up the little book containing the batting order he could feel its silent penetration at the back of his head.
Some knowledge of the batting order was now essential because of the twins. That simply had to be right and Mr Candy hastily refreshed his memory about their names and ribbon colours. Zinnia would be wearing the red ribbon and Petunia the purple.
The twins now stepped meekly forward and, white and innocent as milk, stood by the font. You couldn’t tell them apart. They might have been two identical cherubs cut in stone.
‘Let us see,’ Mr Candy said to Petunia, ‘you are Petunia, with the purple ribbon.’
‘No,’ Petunia said. ‘I’m Zinnia.’
‘But you’re wearing the purple ribbon.’
‘I know. But we changed.’
‘Zinnia is supposed to be wearing scarlet. Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes,’ Zinnia said, ‘but Petunia hates purple.’
‘So Zinnia is now wearing purple and Petunia scarlet?’
‘That’s right,’ they said almost together, ‘would you like us to change back agáin?’
Suddenly, to his horror, Mr Candy found himself in what Ma would have called a terrible two-and-eight. He simply didn’t know where he was. Desperately he recalled Ma’s words about the mischief-loving nature of the twins and just as desperately looked round for some help and succour from Ma. But Ma was still outside, feeding Bath bun to little Oscar, and Mr Candy could only turn his extreme desperation on the twins.
‘Now you are quite sure about this? You wouldn’t want me to give you the wrong names, would you?’
‘Would it matter?’
‘Of course it would matter.’
‘Well, I think we changed ribbons three times, but I’m not sure,’ Petunia said. ‘We had a bit of a tiff. Because I don’t like purple.’
‘You don’t like purple – Oh! my Heaven, this is awfully awkward,’ Mr Candy said and with fresh desperation turned to Pop. ‘Mr Larkin, can you tell me which girl is which? I must be sure.’
‘Search me, old man,’ Pop said, ‘they’re more alike some days than others. Ma’s the one what knows. You’ll have to get Ma.’
‘I’ll fetch her,’ Mariette said.
Still fixing Mr Candy with that dark, celestial stare of hers, Pr
imrose said in a slow soft voice:
‘Zinnia has a mole. You’d know if you found that.’
Mr Candy’s already carroty hair seemed suddenly to turn several deeper shades of ginger. Nervously he jerked his vestments about, so that the candle flames waved.
‘What’s all this?’ Ma said.
‘We’ve run into some difficulty, Mrs Larkin,’ Mr Candy said. ‘Can you please tell me which twin is which?’
‘That’s Petunia,’ Ma said promptly, pointing to Zinnia, ‘and that’s Zinnia,’ she said, pointing to Petunia. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
The twins, who hitherto had been straight-faced, now merely smirked.
‘Are you two wearing the right ribbons?’ Ma said.
‘They say they changed,’ Mr Candy started to say, only to be promptly interrupted by Ma, who now had doubts of her own and said she’d be blowed if she was certain after all.
‘Nothing for it but to have a look,’ she said, seizing the twin she thought was Zinnia by the head and hastily taking her behind the red vestry curtains.
While this was going on Primrose gave Mr Candy a slow smile of sheer honey, which he involuntarily half-returned and which she repeated, infinitely more slowly, when Ma came back and said:
‘Sorry, Mr Candy. This is Petunia. I’ll warm their bottoms when I get them home.’
The twins, once again indivisible in heavenly, milky innocence, didn’t turn a hair and merely waited for the blessing of baptism in patient silence, as if wondering what all the fuss was about.
After these nervous difficulties the task of christening Victoria Adelaide Anne Cleopatra would have been an infinitely simple one if it hadn’t been for the flame that was Primrose. Somehow Mr Candy knew he was going to burn his fingers there. Feeling very flaky and very cold all over again, he could only pray silently for a quick and merciful delivery.
Then when Primrose at last came forward to the font, her green-gloved hands lightly clasped in front of her, he discovered to his immense surprise that she did so with a modesty almost touching. The smile had gone from her face. Her large dark eyes were solemn. He suddenly felt that the two of them were alone in the church and that her beauty might have been that of a bride.
Finally as she raised and then lowered her head over the font, he touched her for the first time and as the holy water dropped on her forehead he said:
‘I baptize you Primrose, Violet, Anemone, Iris, Magnolia, Narcissus.’
‘Narcissa.’ she whispered, ‘you silly.’
He was too confused to grasp whether the words were of reproval or affection, but when he had finally corrected himself and she had lifted her head again she gave him the benefit of the most forgiving and disarming of smiles. And this, accompanied as it was by the embarrassingly distinct sound of low sobbing from Mademoiselle Dupont, unnerved him so much that he actually knocked one of the candles over and only just saved it from dropping into holy water.
*
Twenty minutes later he was standing in the marquee with Pop, who was clapping him on the back with extreme jollity and saying:
‘Very well done, old man. Very enjoyable. You umpired well. Very good umpire. Calls for a drink, eh?’
Mr Candy could only think it called for several drinks.
‘What’ll it be, old man, eh? Whisky, gin, rum, brandy, champagne?’
Mr Candy said if it was all the same to Pop he’d prefer a small whisky.
Pop turned smartly away and came back a fraction of a minute later with two and a half inches of whisky in a tumbler and a glass of champagne for himself. The marquee was now filling rapidly with people; dresses and beauty floated everywhere. There was a smell of food and bruised grass and with pride Pop urged Mr Candy to cast his peepers on a vast board laden with cold turkey, duck, chicken, ham, tongue, salmon, green seas of water-cress and salad, scores of bottles and many red-and-snowy dishes of strawberries and cream.
‘Very proud day, this,’ Pop said, raising his glass, ‘for me and Ma. Thanks, old man.’
Mr Candy raised his glass too and drank and then found himself some few moments later alone in the world for the second time that morning with Primrose, who greeted him with words that fell on him like a sweet and final benediction.
‘Thank you,’ she said, holding him with that slow dark smile of hers, ‘you did it so beautifully.’
‘Thank you, Narcissa,’ he said, also with a smile, and knew that for the first time in several weeks he was happy.
11
By mid afternoon the sun was shining brilliantly from a sky broken by occasional high white sails of cloud. A clear candescent light lay everywhere and Ma, her easel set up in the shade of the walnut tree, was busy sketching in the gay scene of marquee, flags, roundabout, swings and all, determined to preserve it for what she sometimes called prosperity.
Miss Pilchester, with the twins, was strenuously hurling balls at coconuts; Mademoiselle Dupont had retired to her room ostensibly to sleep but in reality to shed a few quiet, happy tears. Montgomery was working the roundabout for a dozen children or more, among them little Oscar who, inseparable from his wooden spoon, was banging the head of the cockerel he was riding even more fiercely than he had banged that of Mr Candy. Pop and Mr Candy, in shirt sleeves, were in the kitchen with Angela Snow, Primrose and Jasmine Brown, all washing up, Pop now and then pausing to pay caressive attention to Angela and Jasmine and occasionally warmly urging Mr Candy to follow suit. Mr Candy, however, was firm in refusal. He had, he thought, had quite enough emotional exercise for one day.
As Pop was drying the last of the dishes he suddenly put to Mr Candy, in his quick swallow-like way, one of-those inconsequential questions of his:
‘Anybody poor in the village nowadays, Mr Candy? I mean real poor. Poor and hungry.’
Mr Candy, caught unawares, pondered briefly before answering, and then said no, he honestly didn’t think so. Times had changed.
‘Telling me,’ Pop said. He recalled the days when the village shop had little to offer but candles, tea, paraffin, lard and cuts of rough old bacon. Now every Tom, Dick and Harry rolled up for scampi, smoked salmon and fancy larks of that sort.
‘Why do you ask?’ Mr Candy said.
‘Plenty of cold turkey left,’ Pop said, recalling that Ma had cooked four big ones, ‘and I was just wondering if you could think of anybody who’d like a chunk or two.’
Mr Candy, who couldn’t help thinking that he wouldn’t mind a chunk or two himself, said:
‘There’s old Mrs Francis. She lives alone. I fancy she doesn’t often see such luxuries.’
‘Good egg.’ Pop said. There were the little Miss Barnwells too, Effie and Edna; he often fancied that they lived, as Ma said, on bread-and-scrat. Perhaps Mr Candy wouldn’t mind taking them some too?
‘Gladly. Gladly.’
‘Then let’s go over and do a bit of disjointing. Don’t go away, girls. Be back in no time.’
‘We’re going to put our swimsuits on,’ Jasmine said.
‘Why bother?’ Pop said blandly, at the same time running a strategic hand over the fuller, rounder parts of the girl, certain that she had little if anything on underneath her thin silk dress. ‘Anybody want unzipping?’
On this flippant note he and Mr Candy walked across to the marquee, merely pausing for a silent second or two on the way to admire Miss Pilchester, who was winding and unwinding with an almost masculine ferocity as she hurled frequent balls at coconuts. It was all very gay, all very perfick, Pop thought. He loved especially the laughter of kids from the roundabout and the way the organ tunes – the old Gold and Silver waltz, Ma’s favourite, was the one playing at the moment – fairly danced on the air. You couldn’t hardly find anythink more perfick, or more peaceful, nowhere.
In the marquee Pop started to disjoint, with his fingers, the three quarter remains of a twelve-pound turkey, frequently popping morsels of stuffing into his mouth and also genially suggesting that Mr Candy should help himself at the beer keg if he had
a mind.
Mr Candy, though grateful, said no, he’d rather not. A few glasses of champagne had made him very thirsty. What he’d honestly really like was a glass of water.
‘Good God,’ Pop said. ‘Water?’ It didn’t seem possible. Was Mr Candy feeling dicky?
‘No. Merely thirsty. It’s the champagne.’
‘That’s what Ma always says. Just a good excuse for drinking more, I always say.’
There was, as it turned out, no water but Mr Candy found a jug of lemonade and poured himself a glass of that.
With this in his hands he stood watching Pop doing deft work with the turkey when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of two figures standing at the door of the tent, each in black sweater, stove-pipe trousers and winkle-pickers, the taller of the two also wearing a red shoe-string necktie.
‘I think you have visitors, Mr Larkin,’ he said.
Pop turned sharply, paused in the act of halving a turkey leg and merely said:
‘Ah! the big brave boys.’
Mr Candy slowly set his glass of lemonade on the table.
‘Look who’s here, Jed. Palsy-walsy Larkin and parson’s nose. Lemonade boy.’
‘What do you two want?’ Pop said. ‘Buzz. I’m busy.’
‘Nobody don’t mean nothing unfriendly, do they Jed? We just ‘eard you ‘ad a party.’
No, Jed said, nobody didn’t mean nothing unfriendly. How could they, with parson’s nose here?
‘No, not with clergy-wergy about. Wouldn’t be nice. Not with clergy-wergy pudden an’ pie.’
Mr Candy didn’t move at all as the two men advanced across the tent and Pop merely picked up another leg of turkey.
‘Nothing a bit unfriendly. Only wanted to make a little social call. By the way, palsy-walsy where’s the old trout?’
‘Yeh, where’s the old trout? The old coconut trout, we mean. Got to ‘ave a word with ‘er, see? Got to trim ‘er nails a bit, see?’
‘Ah! get lost,’ Pop said. The sudden mention of Edith Pilchester made him fearful and he crooked an angry elbow. ‘Go and drown yourself. Quick.’