I would not change for thine.’
He hummed along as he poured himself a large one, big enough to do the trick, and had closed the lid and just sat down again when he heard the front door open. No time to drink even a sip. He hid the glass behind his armchair and was reading his newspaper when Marjorie strode in, making the ornaments rattle. When they’d been serving abroad the native servants had always entered a room softly and glided about without a sound. He remembered things like that fondly.
‘How did you get on, dear?’
She sat down on the sofa, her feet planted apart. Marjorie’s legs, encased in brown stockings, always made him think of the gateposts leading in to Shangri-La, though without the scrape marks.
‘Very odd sort of set-up, I thought. Not the sort of thing we’re used to. Mr Dryden was on the telephone for a very long time and there was a teenage daughter who had no manners at all. In fact, she was extremely rude.’
‘What about the wife? Was she a model?’
‘I didn’t ask, but she certainly looked like she had been once.’
He lowered the newspaper further. ‘Oh?’
‘Don’t get your hopes up, Roger. She wouldn’t give you the time of day.’
‘Nothing further from my mind.’
In fact, the hope was always at the front of it. A fading hope as the years passed in Frog End, but still lingering. He was not exactly in his prime, but he was not that far past it. There was plenty of life left in him yet. A jolly old flame has lots of sparks. Many a good tune was played on an old fiddle.
He said, ‘Did you ask her about playing the part?’
‘First I told her about the Frog End Players – to set the scene, as it were. Then I asked her if she’d like to join.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She wasn’t remotely interested.’
‘I didn’t think she would be.’
‘So then I told her that I thought she’d make a marvellous Snow Queen and that it would be the starring part in the play.’
The Major still had his doubts. ‘What did she think about that?’
‘She turned it down. Can you imagine? The starring part handed to her on a plate.’
He could imagine the scene very easily. ‘Maybe she didn’t see it that way.’
‘Luckily, her husband was on my side. He told her how much her friends from London would love coming down to see her in a village play. I had the distinct impression that he thought it would be rather amusing for everyone. All jolly good fun. I’m not sure that he quite understood that The Snow Queen is a serious moral tale, not some frivolous pantomime.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘Well, I told her that she’d hardly have any lines to learn and that we would hire a very good costume for her as the star of the show and that there would only be three performances. In the end, she agreed. There’s no need to look so surprised, Roger. I can usually make people change their minds, you know.’
The old girl went off to make a cup of tea in the kitchen, which gave him the chance to retrieve the glass from behind the chair and swallow the contents in a few gulps. He could feel it doing his throat good as it went down, and the rest of him perking up.
The news that Mrs Dryden was to play the Snow Queen had given him a much-needed boost. He wouldn’t mind the scene-shifting nearly so much if she was going to be around.
FIVE
The Colonel had consulted an electrician about running a cable out to his shed. The man had come out from Dorchester and pronounced it a simple matter to arrange: ‘No problem there, guv.’ Within a few days the Colonel not only had lighting in the shed but also warmth from a heater. There was even an extra power point available should he need it.
He had decided that the time had definitely come to progress from plastic model kits to something more demanding – to some serious woodwork, if he was up to the challenge. Nails, screws, nuts and bolts he already had in abundance, ranged in jars on a shelf, as well as the basic carpentry hand tools kept in a partition at the end of the workbench. He had gone out to buy more tools – chisels, a plane, saws and a sanding block, as well as an electric drill and jigsaw. And he had bought an illustrated guide to Using Woodwork Tools and a very interesting book suggesting Heirloom Wooden Toy Projects. You will be creating an heirloom, the book had told him encouragingly. One that can be handed down from generation to generation and treasured long after you’ve gone, though he rather doubted that he could make anything of the kind. The book also said where to send for plans and step-by-step instructions. He had particularly liked the picture of a toddler’s rocking horse. It was a very simple shape with big holes for eyes, smaller ones for nostrils and a frayed rope tail. It might please his new granddaughter, Edith, and it should also please his daughter-in-law, being low and sturdy with safe grab handles on each side of the horse’s head. With luck, it might be ready in time for Christmas. Later, he would have to think of something suitable to make for Eric. Perhaps a chess set, also pictured in the book. Five wasn’t too young to learn and he would take pleasure in teaching him. After all, it was a game closely related to the one they had played with his old tin soldiers on the sitting-room carpet when Eric had come to stay on his own. Battle formations, tactics, manoeuvres, outflanking and encirclement. Surprise attack, counter-attack, advance, retreat, capture and, finally, surrender. Checkmate!
He sent for the plans which arrived within a few days, enclosing the promised instructions. A trip to a helpful local lumber yard provided him with suitable wood. He was ready to start.
He began by cutting out the paper patterns which he laid out on the wood, taping them in place and, as instructed, paying special attention to the section that would make the horse’s head. The aim was to find an interesting and flowing grain that would represent the speed of a running horse.
He started with the head, tracing carefully round the pattern edges on to the wood with a biro. He had just reached the tip of the horse’s ear and started down towards the nose and mouth when there was a loud knocking on the shed door. His first thought was that it was Naomi. Luckily, the sacking curtains were up at the windows and, if he stayed perfectly still, there was just a faint possibility that she would go away. More knocking – this time louder and urgent. Impossible to ignore. He went to unlock and open the door.
It wasn’t Naomi. Marjorie Cuthbertson stood there, gloved hand raised to rap yet again.
‘I thought you must be here, Colonel. When I tried the cottage, there was no answer.’
He wondered how he could ever have imagined himself safe from callers and interruptions when it was probable that the entire village knew about his shed at the bottom of the garden. There was no chance whatever of her going away and a woman of her size and shape would be hard to deflect once her mass started moving forwards. He stepped outside the shed, shutting and locking the door firmly behind him; a manoeuvre he often used with Naomi. Unfortunately it was starting to rain.
‘Perhaps we should go inside?’
He led the way into the cottage, through the kitchen and into the sitting room where Thursday was asleep in his place on the sofa. The log fire was unlit as yet, but fortunately the central heating had come on. Mrs Cuthbertson, he knew, always maintained that she had never been able to re-adapt properly to the English climate after so many years spent in the tropics.
‘Please sit down.’
Thursday had opened his eyes to glittering slits and the Colonel watched as Mrs Cuthbertson lowered herself on to the sofa beside him. As she went down, Thursday went up.
‘So, this is your stray cat. I’ve heard all about him. It looks as though he’s fallen on his feet.’
Mrs Cuthbertson stretched out a gloved hand towards the black-and-tan lump of fur and the Colonel held his breath. To his amazement, Thursday remained in situ and graciously allowed himself to be stroked, even to have the underside of his chin rubbed and his torn ear tickled.
Mrs Cuthbertson said, ‘We always had cats when I was a child. I p
refer them to dogs. Dogs are too slavish, in my opinion. Roger doesn’t agree, of course.’
Therein lay the reason for Thursday’s amenable behaviour. Mrs Cuthbertson was a cat person. She came straight to the point, as she usually did.
‘I’ve come to recruit you, Colonel. The Frog End Players need your help with our Christmas play.’
‘I’m afraid I’m no good at acting.’
‘We’ve got plenty of members who aren’t either. We’re not asking you to do any acting. What we always need are volunteers to help with scene-shifting. There’s a shortage of strong, able-bodied men in the village, as you may have noticed.’
Her eye was fixed upon him and he could see that she was ready to deal with any lame excuse, even if he could think one up.
‘I’d be glad to help.’
‘Jolly good! And I have another special favour to ask.’
He braced himself. ‘Oh?’
‘As you know, we’re doing The Snow Queen – rather a departure from our usual Christmas entertainment. Are you familiar with the story, Colonel?’
‘Only the general gist.’
‘It’s rather a complicated tale but we intend to simplify it – to strip it down to the essentials so that it’s easier for the children to understand. Good triumphing over evil – as in a pantomime, of course – but without any of the vulgarity, I’m glad to say. Fortunately, I was able to persuade Mrs Dryden, whom I gather you’ve met, to take the starring role of the Snow Queen.’
He wondered if Joan Dryden was aware that she would be playing Evil Incarnate.
‘I’m sure it will be a great success.’
‘Our productions usually are. The village appreciates our efforts. We make all our own costumes – except for the ones for the leading roles, which we hire. We also provide our own scenery and it’s all hands to the pumps when it comes to painting backdrops. Everyone mucks in to help. It’s all done on a shoestring. We rather pride ourselves on that. People are surprisingly good at contriving all kinds of props out of whatever bits and pieces they can find. Very resourceful. That’s rather where you come in, Colonel.’
He said cautiously, ‘How, exactly?’
‘The story begins in summer when the roses and other flowers are blooming but then winter comes with snow and ice heralding the arrival of the Snow Queen. It’s quite a challenge for our scenic skills.’
‘It must be, indeed.’
‘We can make the summer flowers out of paper and, for winter, we plan to have a large backdrop of snow-capped mountains with some real Christmas trees planted in buckets to give depth to the scene. Flora Bentley has had the inspired idea of spraying the trees with silver glitter on the one side and leaving the other green so that we can just turn them round to change summer to winter as the story progresses. Awfully clever, don’t you think?’
‘Very.’
‘We were wondering if you would make us a wooden sledge.’
‘A sledge?’
‘Yes, a sledge. You know, for going over snow.’
He thought of the heirloom rocking horse painstakingly traced past the ear and heading for the nose, and of his hope and intention of finishing it by Christmas. The pattern pieces would have to be cut out with a saw and sanded smooth, the horse’s legs trimmed at an exact angle, holes drilled, glue applied, wooden dowels fitted and hammered home, the rockers assembled very accurately, the tail made and so on. The design was very simple but the instructions were not. There was a long way to go.
‘I’m afraid I’m a complete beginner at carpentry, Mrs Cuthbertson. It would be rather beyond me.’
She wagged a playful finger. ‘Come now, Colonel, you’re being much too modest. I hear that you have a wonderful set of tools in your shed. It’s for the Snow Queen, you see. There’s a dramatic scene where she passes by on her sledge and steals the boy, Kai. We only need something simple that she and the boy can sit on and be pulled across the stage at the end of a rope. Nothing elaborate. A few planks nailed together, painted white. I’m sure you could manage that quite easily.’
Defeat was staring him in the face and he knew it. Edith’s rocking horse would have to be set aside to make way for the Snow Queen’s sledge.
‘I’ll do my best, Mrs Cuthbertson.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t let us down, Colonel. It would need concealed wheels underneath, of course, or we’d never be able to move it with Mrs Dryden and the boy on it when she carries him off to her ice palace at the North Pole.’
He was thankful that Mrs Cuthbertson wouldn’t be on the sledge as well. ‘I’ll work something out.’
‘Excellent! In the story, of course, it’s actually a horse-drawn sleigh and we’d thought of asking Phillipa Rankin to let us borrow her Shetland pony to pull it, but the stage is too small and you can never rely on live animals to behave in public, can you?’
He pictured the possible scene. ‘It could be unfortunate.’
‘Quite so. We’ve had to lower our sights and go for a pull-along sledge. We have our first read-through next Tuesday at the village hall, starting at seven thirty p.m. sharp. I think it would be helpful for you to come along so that you can get a general idea of things. Thereafter, we rehearse every Tuesday evening at the same time and on Sunday afternoons at two p.m. As a non-Player, you won’t be required to attend all of them, but I would appreciate the sledge being finished and ready in time to practise with it at the final rehearsals. Now, I really must toddle.’
She rose to her feet and gave Thursday another stroke, sweeping confidently from head to tail. He stretched out a claw-sheathed paw to indicate traitorous approval.
‘I did warn you about her, Hugh.’
‘Not enough.’
‘Well, it’s only a sledge. And you’ve got nothing else particular to work on at the moment, have you?’
He had no intention of mentioning the heirloom rocking horse. Naomi would certainly want to see it and finger the parts. She was not being in the least sympathetic about the sledge and he had a deep suspicion that she was responsible for the whole village, including Marjorie Cuthbertson, knowing the contents of his shed. The ignoble idea crossed his mind to pour her a smaller whisky than usual, but he resisted it. Thursday, after all, had been given full supper rations in spite of his blatant treachery.
She raised her glass to him. ‘Cheers, Hugh. Perhaps I can help? Hold things for you? Do something?’
It was out of the question for Naomi to be given free and unlimited access to the shed.
He said firmly, ‘No, thank you.’
‘I’ve got an old wooden pallet you could have. I had some bricks delivered on it years ago.’
‘Do you also have a fairy wand to turn it into a sledge?’
‘You won’t need one. The village boys always used to make sledges out of pallets when it snowed.’
‘Would you mind telling me how?’
‘With pleasure. It’s easy. First, you make the pallet narrower by sawing through the struts holding the top boards in place.’ Naomi made sawing movements in the air with her free hand. ‘That gives you your platform. Then you separate out three boards from the leftover chunk and cut a curve across their ends to use as runners. After that, you nail the runners, on edge, to the underside of the pallet with the curved bits sticking out at the front. All you need is a bit of rope and, Bob’s your uncle, you’ve got a sledge.’
‘Fit for a queen?’
‘Good enough. Improvisation is the name of the game with the Frog End Players. It’s amazing what can be done. You’ll paint it, of course?’
‘White – so I’ve been instructed. Mrs Cuthbertson also wants concealed wheels so that it can be pulled across the stage. How do you suggest I conjure up those?’
‘Ask Steph. He’ll think of something.’
‘You mean Steve, as was?’
‘He’s your man – or woman.’
Some time ago, the burly and tattoo-armed mechanic at the local garage had let it be known that in future he would like to be
known as Steph, short for Stephanie. The Colonel had been happy to oblige. Steve, or Steph, had done some first-class work on the Riley and what he wished to be called was immaterial. By any other name he was still a fantastic mechanic. Apart from taking to wearing bright-coloured jumpsuits instead of greasy grey overalls, a gold ring in one ear and his hair in a ponytail, there was otherwise no difference.
‘If you come round sometime, Hugh, I’ll show you the pallet. It doesn’t look much at the moment, but don’t let that worry you.’
‘I’ll try not to,’ he said.
Later, when Naomi had gone, he took out one of his old Gilbert and Sullivan records, set it on the player turntable and pressed the switch. The mere action of doing so was soothing and satisfying. Alison had tried, unsuccessfully, to convert him to compact discs, but he liked his vinyl records: they were faithful friends, collected over many years, and he knew every word of every song. As he listened, beating the time with his hand on the chair arm, his irritation ebbed away.
‘In enterprise of martial kind,
When there was any fighting,
He led his regiment from behind –
He found it less exciting.
But when away his regiment ran,
His place was at the fore, O –
That celebrated,
Cultivated,
Underrated
Nobleman,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro.’
Naomi’s pallet sledge just might work. It should certainly be strong – after all, pallets were designed to bear heavy weights – and what it lacked in looks could be made up for with several coats of white paint. Perhaps even a spray of some of Flora Bentley’s Christmas tree glitter? In any case, he doubted that the audience would take too much notice of the conveyance. All eyes would be on the Snow Queen.
SIX
Frog End village hall had been built in l863 when Queen Victoria sat firmly on the throne. It was a solid, red-brick building made to last for many years and well designed for its intended purpose – a place for use by the villagers. The Colonel had been there on numerous occasions – to jumble sales, coffee mornings and bridge evenings, to lectures and talks on all manner of subjects, including his own (reluctantly delivered) about his army days. Residents often gave talks about their holiday travels, usually accompanied by a large number of slides which tended to be projected upside down or in the wrong order. He had sailed up the Amazon and down the Nile, journeyed along the canals of England, visited the Great Wall of China, plumbed the depths of the Great Barrier Reef, admired the Taj Mahal, the Pyramids and the Northern Lights, and all without moving from a chair in the hall. The days when people spent their whole life in one village, rarely venturing beyond its boundaries, were long gone. The labourers, blacksmiths, bakers, woodmen, gamekeepers and domestic servants had vanished, together with the village carpenter who had made coffins, acted as undertaker, and had also, as an added service, written wills and letters in fine copperplate handwriting. Today, only a handful of elderly people had been born in Frog End and stayed. Residents had come from other places and still kept in touch with the outside world – as demonstrated by the far-ranging travel talks.
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