It silenced them, as he guessed it would. They stood open-mouthed, staring first at the soaring height of the roof and the wonderful ancient beams that supported it, the sun gloriously pouring in through the roof windows, the long, gleaming tables. Mercedes trailed appreciative fingers along the panelled walls. ‘Is this wall real? Not modern tarted up to look old?’
‘Tudor panelling taken from an old place in the City that was being pulled down to make way for a road. Criminal, really.’
Very tenderly Mercedes stroked the panelling to show her delight at its authenticity. ‘No! That is criminal. It’s so very beautiful.’
Ford was fascinated by the huge wrought-iron sconces placed strategically along the walls. ‘These candles are lit when you have a do?’ he asked.
‘Yes, we have no electric lights in this part. They’d have been intrusive.’
‘I don’t think we’d have enough friends to fill all these long tables, would we, Ford?’ said Mercedes nervously. ‘How many does it hold, seated and having a meal?’
‘One hundred and fifty at a pinch,’ Jimbo replied. ‘One hundred more comfortably, and certainly no more than that if you want a performance of some kind.’
Mercedes gasped. ‘A performance?’
‘Well, I thought about having some strolling players, wandering in to sing and dance and things, appearing to have arrived by chance, as they perhaps would do in the olden days . . . except organised, if you get my meaning. In costume, like they used to do, strolling from one town to another and giving performances to entertain the lord’s guests. And I did think of you being Queen Elizabeth, and you, Ford, as the Earl of Leicester, with all your guests in costume, too. Perhaps Mercedes could knight someone for bravery or something.’
Ford almost burst with pleasure. ‘Capital. Absolutely capital. What a brilliant idea. Amazing I hadn’t thought of that.’
Mercedes crumpled with disappointment. ‘But it’s no good, Ford: we couldn’t fill it, could we? Half-full would spoil the whole thing. Very depressing, half-full.’ Her shoulders slumped, her face lost its glow, and Jimbo could see she was on the verge of forgetting the whole thing. He couldn’t have that. Very craftily he shaped a remark in his head, tried it out on himself in silence and decided to go for it.
‘When we cater for big parties up at Turnham House, Craddock Fitch invites all the villagers as well as his own guests, gives them a good night. It pays dividends as far as relations with the village go. Of course, that would mean a very expensive evening all told, so it might be too much for you. These kinds of things don’t come cheap.’ He wandered away as though checking everything was as clean as could be, running a finger along the tables looking for dust, checking the sconces were standing straight and the candles firmly in place, head back to look at the roof windows . . .
‘Jimbo! A word.’
Jimbo swung round as though he was surprised they were still there. ‘Yes?’
‘Cost it out. The whole works - one hundred guests. Strolling players. The lot. Appropriate menu, drink, whatever. Let me know a.s.a.p.’
‘You won’t regret it.’
As Jimbo drove away, uppermost in his mind was where on earth he could get the strolling players from. Really talented ones weren’t round every corner waiting to perform just because he wanted some. He was such an idiot, promising the earth without the first idea of how to make it all happen. But he’d never fallen down on the job before and he didn’t intend to begin now. Because although Mercedes was without doubt common, the way she appreciated the panelling told him volumes about her. Underneath there was something rather beautiful about her inner being. God! He must be going crackers! He’d better not tell Harriet that, or else . . . then he had an idea. Morris dancers! Gilbert Johns. They could dance outside under floodlights as the guests were arriving. Of course! Gilbert might even know some singers, seeing as singing was his hobby - well, rather more than that with him being a highly successful choirmaster at the church.
And if it worked well there was still time for him to organise one for the general public right before Christmas. With everything already set up it would be a doddle to organise. Elizabethan banquets for the general public could become a nice little earner. The whole business of setting up the Old Barn had cost him far more than he had ever anticipated, mainly because he wanted it absolutely right, and it was time he got some of his investment back.
Gilbert might be a very busy county archaeologist but he did appear to have flexible working hours, because he arrived very promptly at four o’clock that same afternoon. He’d never been inside the Old Barn and he was enthralled by the beauty of it. ‘My word, Jimbo, you certainly know your stuff. This is spectacular. Doesn’t everybody say that? They must!’
He wandered about, peering up at the beams, admiring the sconces, stroking the panelling, just as Mercedes had done, absorbing the atmosphere, and finally looking up at the minstrels’ gallery.
‘Musicians up there?’
Jimbo nodded. ‘If you prefer, yes.’
‘Such an atmosphere. It would be a joy to perform here.’
‘In the first instance it’s for a wedding anniversary party for Ford and Mercedes Barclay.
‘And then?’
‘I have wondered about doing it for the general public to make some money, get my costs back.’
‘A regular event? Summer and winter?’
Jimbo nodded, but remained silent. He knew, just knew, that he had Gilbert in the palm of his hand.
‘Thrilling idea.’
‘Yes.’
‘But why couldn’t the Morris dancers perform inside? If you limit it to a hundred punters, there’d be enough room.’
‘I expect they could, at the start, but outside in the summer? ’
Gilbert nodded. ‘Right, you’re on. The singing . . . no good being all classical. You’ll need bawdy songs to get them going. Perhaps the odd sentimental love song to twang the heart-strings . . . Elizabethan musical instruments: flute, hurdy-gurdy, sackbut, recorder, lute, drums, virginals . . . Count me in.’
They shook hands on it. ‘I’ll try to get back to you in a week with something concrete,’ Gilbert added. ‘I have some chaps in mind who’d be delighted to earn a crust getting their music in the public eye. Can’t be mean with the wages, though. We must get the best of the best. Second-rate would be no good at all in this place, now would it?’
‘Know something?’
‘What?’
‘You’re in the wrong job, Gilbert.’
Gilbert laughed. ‘Oh no I’m not. The Barclays are the ones who’ve bought Glebe House from the Neals?’
Jimbo nodded.
‘What are they like?’
‘Plenty of money, no taste, but kindly people, determined to make their mark in the village. All your children OK?’
‘Fighting fit, thanks, and lovelier by the day. Be seeing you.’
Gilbert roared away in his dilapidated estate car, his head full of ideas for the banquets and longing to get down to the nitty-gritty of choosing the songs, finding the instrumentalists and becoming closely involved. Louise would love helping, because organization was her forte, as she’d proved with the upbringing of their five children. God! What an exciting bunch they were.
The table with the old wooden settle in the bar of the Royal Oak was fully occupied by the usual crowd that evening. Willie Biggs had got in the first round and was handing the drinks out to Dottie, Sylvia, Jimmy, Vera and Don, before taking the first sip that day of his favourite home-brew.
‘You know, I thought old Bryn’s home-brew was good but I do believe that Dicky’s is better. Bucks me up no end, it does.’
‘Well,’ said Don, ‘and how’s this magnificent mower that we’ve all heard about? Still driving you mad?’
Sylvia got in a reply before Willie had a chance to grumble about it. ‘Zack’s doing an almighty good job with it. The churchyard’s never looked better and we’ve to be grateful for it. Even Willie agrees he’s mak
ing good use of it, don’t you, Willie?’
He had to agree. ‘Yes, I have to admit that, and he doesn’t use it on and on like he did that first week. What’s more, the shed’s good. On the big side but at least Zack can get all his tools in there, as well as a chair and a little stove for making tea. Talk about all mod cons! I was in there yesterday having a cup of tea with him. In the winter it’ll be real cosy.’
‘You’ll be fancying your job back if you go on like this,’ Jimmy suggested, knowing full well that Willie wouldn’t.
‘No, thanks. I’m too busy to have a job.’ There was a mysterious air about Willie when he said that, and Vera couldn’t resist asking him what on earth he found to do all day to keep him too busy.
‘Surprised no one’s seen me at it.’
‘At it? At what?’
‘Got myself a hobby.’
They were agog to hear what hobby he’d found at his age.
‘Well, I went to the tip with some gardening stuff, clearing up for the winter, yer know, and in that re-sale bit along the end wall I found one of them metal detectors. All complete and singing like a bird when I tried it on that heap of scrap metal. So I bought it for a song and . . .’ He paused for effect.
‘Yes?’
‘Yesterday I found three pound coins in a plastic bag in our garden, about five inches down from the top. Nothing to do with Sylvia and me, and we don’t know how they came to be there.’
‘Ones you can’t use?’
‘No, new. Anyway, it’s helped to pay for your drinks tonight. Heard the latest news?’
His answer was a chorus of curious no’s and a coming together of heads all the better to hear.
Willie glanced round to see if anyone was eavesdropping. ‘He’s asked Jimbo for a quote for a party for his wedding anniversary, and he wants an Elizabethan banquet at the Old Barn. No expense spared. There’s going to be singers and that, like an entertainment. Mercedes’ idea.’
‘Oh well!’ said Sylvia in a sarcastic tone. ‘If Mercedes thought it up it’ll be OK by you, won’t it, Willie?’
The tone of Sylvia’s voice caught their attention, obviously there was something going on between Mercedes and Willie. But what for heaven’s sake?
Somewhat defiantly, Willie said, ‘Underneath all that make-up and fancy clothes she’s a lovely woman.’
‘Who told yer?’
‘About Mercedes?’ asked Willie, wishing that wouldn’t be what they wanted to know.
‘No! About the banquet?’
‘Oh, that. They were in the Old Barn discussing it with Jimbo while Pat Jones and her lot were getting ready for a lunch. Apparently they want serving wenches with their bosoms showing, just like it used to be.’
Sylvia said, ‘That is disgusting. I knew they were common the minute I clapped eyes on ’em.’
But Jimmy and Don asked, rather too eagerly, ‘Can anyone go?’
There was an outburst of loud protests from the ladies, except for Dottie, who thought it might be good fun.
‘It’s a party, and not for the public. By invitation, I expect.’
Jimmy and Don looked quite disappointed. Jimmy said, ‘I’ve heard of them banquets; they’re really good fun. Free mead and that’s potent, I understand. Three glasses and you’re under the table. Pity. It’ll cost a packet. He must have some money.’
‘Now we’ve got two benefactors in the village. Can’t be bad, can it?’ said Dottie. ‘I shall be helping Pat behind the scenes, but you two could always offer your services in the serving wench department for this ’ere party, Vera, and you, Sylvia, you’re both well . . . endowed.’
Briefly both Vera and Sylvia did wonder about volunteering and then both thought better of it.
Dottie nudged Vera. ‘Think of the money!’
‘Think of the embarrassment. I have heard,’ Vera bent a little closer to Dottie, ‘at those sort of parties the punters push five-pound notes down the front of the wenches’ . . .’ and she indicated her cleavage with a discreet finger.
Sylvia blushed and Dottie roared with laughter. ‘Better not, then. It wouldn’t be decent, would it?’
‘Don’t you volunteer, Sylvia, I won’t have it,’ Willie said.
‘Don’t be daft. It’s not women my age they’ll want, though I’m flattered you think I might qualify.’
Right then, in wafted Ford and Mercedes, and they headed straight for the table where they were being gossiped about. Sylvia shuffled along the settle to make room for them.
‘Good evening, everyone.’ Ford sorted out somewhere for Mercedes to sit and promptly volunteered to buy a round, an offer no one at the table refused.
They couldn’t resist asking Mercedes about the banquet, and Mercedes was thrilled they’d mentioned it. ‘My idea, actually,’ she said eagerly. ‘You’re all invited. Will you come?’
There was a momentary silence round the table, and then they all burst out with their thanks. Mercedes glowed with delight. ‘Oh! That’s wonderful. Nothing’s settled yet. I mean, we’re doing it but the finer details haven’t been organised. Jimbo’s come up with some marvellous ideas. We’re so looking forward to it.’
‘That’s how many years you’ve been married?’
‘Twenty years and it feels like only yesterday.’ She blushed rather naïvely. ‘You see, we’re still in love. My heart dances when I see him.’
Willie patted her hand, thinking there was that vulnerability he sensed about her.
Vera thought about her Don and decided no, her heart definitely didn’t dance when she saw him, and Sylvia decided that perhaps hers did dance a bit when she saw Willie but then they’d not been married as long as some.
Ford came back with the drinks and passed them round. Then he sat down at the table, took a long swig and decided to put forward an idea he had for the Turnham Malpas lunch club.
‘I’ve been thinking, this lunch club you have, once a month, do you ever go somewhere different from the village hall?’
They all shook their heads. ‘Why?’ asked Sylvia, who was involved in the organizing of it.
‘Just thought it might be fun to go somewhere else.’
Sylvia said, ‘Trouble is, most people can’t afford the price of the lunch and a trip out. But if you’re in a charitable frame of mind, Ford, it’s the youngsters round here who need money spending on them, not the old folks.’
There was a great deal of chuntering then along the lines of ‘Why not the old folks?’ All of them conveniently forgot that they were old folk themselves.
Ford asked, ‘In what way, Sylvia?’
‘Well, we have the youth club run by Kate Fitch and Venetia Mayer. They do have fundraising efforts but they never quite raise enough, and what they need is to be able to go somewhere exciting. They’re all worthwhile young people, not tearaways, and they deserve something going on in this village, and out of it. You’d be doing them a real service if you could come up with some funds. They deserve it more than the old people, believe me. They need it more. Country life for young people nowadays isn’t, well, isn’t exciting enough.’ Sylvia glared round the table, eyeball to eyeball, daring anyone to disagree.
Mercedes lit up at the prospect. ‘I see what you mean. Bless ’em.’ There sounded to be real feeling in her voice when she said that, and they all wondered why it was so heartfelt.
Ford said nothing.
He got a nudge from Mercedes but still he said nothing.
To fill the silence someone mentioned the date of the end-of-season cricket team dinner, and were they . . .
Ford burst into life. ‘Where do I find these people? This Kate and Venice whatever she’s called?’
Sylvia began singing inside. ‘Up at the Big House - Turnham House. It’s a training college for Mr Fitch’s staff, for his business. Venetia’s the sports person and Kate, of course, lives in the flat.’
‘Will they be in?’
‘Worth a try,’ said Sylvia, staggered by Ford’s decisiveness.
‘Rig
ht! I’m going up there. Coming, Merc?’
Chapter 4
They found Venetia supervising the swimming pool. She was languidly resting on a white plastic lounger, idly admiring the young men showing off their prowess.
She sprang to life when she spotted Mercedes and Ford stepping along the edge of the pool towards her.
‘Good evening. How may I help?’
‘Venetia Mayer? I’m Ford Barclay. This is my wife, Mercedes. We’ve come specially to see about the club for the young people you run on Friday nights.’
The Village Newcomers (Tales from Turnham Malpas) Page 5
