When the question of the marquees came up, Jeremy’s advice was requested.
‘Well, I have the name and address of the chappie who did the marquee for the Bonfire Party we had. He was excellent, very helpful and really quite reasonably priced. I’ll see to that, if you like. How many and how big?’
Jimbo asked for one the same size as the one they’d used for the Bonfire Party. ‘I’m not very good at measurements, but the chap will have it in his records, won’t he? That should be big enough.’
‘For the competition tent, I’m afraid I shall need one much bigger than that.’ They all looked at Sheila.
‘Bigger than that?’
‘But it was enormous.’
‘Surely not!’
‘It’s not Chelsea Flower Show, yer know.’
Barry scoffed, ‘Come off it, Sheila, what the heck! You could have got three double-decker buses in that marquee Jimbo had. Half the size’ll be big enough. Next thing, Linda’ll be wanting one that size for her first-aid tent.’
Linda giggled and said, ‘Yes, if you like. You never know, there might be an outbreak of food-poisoning and I’ll need loads of space for beds!’
Jimbo protested sharply. ‘There won’t be any food-poisoning if I’m catering, believe you me!’
Linda blushed. ‘I was only joking, Mr Charter-Plackett. Me of all people should know how careful you are about food hygiene.’
‘So I should think.’
Sheila turned indignantly to Barry and scathingly commented, ’And what do you know about it, Barry Jones? Nothing. If I say I want a bigger marquee, a bigger marquee I want. So write that down, Louise.’ She pointed energetically at her daughter’s notepad.
‘Got the chairperson in your pocket, have yer, Sheila? Favouritism, that’s what it is. Favouritism. We’ll have a vote.’ Barry raised his arm and bellowed, ‘All in favour of Sheila having a marquee the same size as Mr Charter-Plackett’s.’
Sheepishly everyone’s hand went up, apart from Louise and Sheila.
Furious at losing, Sheila retaliated with, ‘Very well then, but don’t blame me if the tent is so crowded, visitors faint with the heat. Some people,’ glaring at Barry, ‘have no understanding of these things. The flowers will wilt and the vegetables will be dried to a crisp. I had such plans … But as we are democratic and it’s gone to the vote, then so be it.’
Caroline intercepted the look Sheila gave Barry as she spoke. She could tell the matter wasn’t really closed as far as Sheila was concerned.
‘The next item on the agenda is the stalls,’ Louise announced. ‘Barry, would you like a word about your plans? I understand Mr Fitch has spoken to you about them.’
Barry stood up, took a piece of folded paper from his trouser pocket, and after examining it closely he began to speak. ‘Yes, I’ve had a consultation with Mr Fitch and he says I’ve to go ahead with my own ideas and he’ll fall in with whatever I’ve planned, keeping in mind a certain amount of restraint regarding cost. Which really means I’ve to account to him for every penny before I spend it. The idea I’ve come up with is that all the stalls shall be the same size—’
Sheila interrupted him. ‘Oh no, that would look boring. They want to be all different.’
‘Just let me finish, please. As I was saying, the stalls will all be the same size and will all be done up as if it was a mediaeval Show. They’ll have small roofs over them and be decorated with crêpe paper all the same colours and quite close together. Not spread out all over the field. If yer spread ’em out, people won’t bother to walk to some of ’em and those ones won’t take much money, but if they’re together in, say, three sides of a square they’ll look more effective. We’ll have flags flying on top of the stalls and that. The estate will make them all and then store them somewhere for next time. I’m recruiting some boys from the village to help put them up during the week before, so there’s no need to worry about that.’ Barry sat down and waited for some response.
Sheila spoke first. ‘Well, I’m sorry but no. It won’t do. All the charity people running the stalls will want to do their own thing …’
Barry interrupted. ‘And a right mess they’ll be, too. The only thing I intend letting them do is providing a sign across the front to say who they are – and even that’ll have to be to my measurements. Believe me, they’ll be glad to be relieved of the job of decorating them.’
Jimbo came down on Barry’s side. ‘Frankly I’m in wholehearted agreement with Barry, and my marquee shall be just how you want. Tell me the colours you’re using for the stalls and I’ll do the same with a bit of variation here and there.’
‘Boring, boring, boring.’ Sheila tugged indignantly at her skirt, pulling herself more upright in her chair. ‘You must be mad, Barry.’
‘Yer only getting back at me because I balked you from having a bigger marquee than Jimbo here. You know it makes sense.’
Louise called the meeting to order and Michael Palmer in his most conciliatory voice said quietly, ‘I’ve been to lots of Shows of this kind over the years, and the standard of decoration on the stalls has been quite appalling. They’ve just no idea. If Mr Fitch is willing to pay for all this, then I suggest we tall in with Barry’s plans. It will look very stylish.’
Hastily Louise said, ‘All those in favour?’ It was passed unanimously with the exception of Sheila who folded her arms and looked everywhere but at the other members of the committee.
Bryn broke the silence by saying, ‘What about my beer-tent? Nobody’s mentioned that.’
Sheila indignantly came to life. ‘Beer-tent? Who said anything about a beer-tent? Common, that’s what that is. We need to keep some standards!’
Jeremy tut-tutted his impatience. ‘Mr Fitch wants a beer-tent, and if it’s a hot day it’ll be a necessity. That doesn’t trespass as far as you’re concerned, does it, Jimbo?’ Jimbo shook his head and Jeremy continued by saying, ‘Could you minute that, Madam Chair, please? A smaller marquee for Bryn for a beer-tent.’
In a quiet voice Linda said, ‘I’ve a friend in Culworth who runs a hot-dog stall by the station in the evenings. Would it be an idea if I asked him to come for the afternoon? He could park his van by the beer-tent and the two things would kind of work together, wouldn’t they?’
Startled by Linda’s thoughtless treachery, Jimbo protested loudly: ‘Linda! Kindly remember who employs you. I’m paying for the food concession. I do not want a hot-dog van taking my trade. If I have the food concession, then I have it and no one else. If the committee would allow it, I would provide a separate ice-cream outlet or even perhaps two if the weather’s hot. How about that?’
Sheila rushed to support him. ‘What a good idea, Jimbo. Much more tasteful than a hot-dog stand.’ Linda shrank back into herself and vowed not to say another word. For two pins she’d give up her job in the blasted post office – that would show Mr Charter-Plackett he couldn’t ride roughshod over her just because he employed her – but what with the wedding and things and jobs being so scarce she really couldn’t afford to resign. She’d just have to swallow her pride.
Louise took the lead again. ‘Right, I’ve noted all that and will let you have a copy of the minutes as soon as I’ve typed them up. What I should like is a list from Barry of how many stalls he’s proposing to construct …’
‘Twenty.’
‘… Oh right, and which charities he’s contacted …’
‘Don’t know about that, ’cos I’m better with my hands, I am. You’ll have to do all that asking people if they want a stall …’
‘Oh, right then, I will. I’ll ask the Scouts, Guides, Red Cross, et cetera – any charities I can think of. If you know any who might want to participate, please let me know. I also need to know things like classes for the competitions, food available, a list of the entertainments like the tug of war that we’re putting on in the arena, and the timings,’ she nodded to Bryn and he gave her the thumbs-up, ‘what displays the children from the school are doing,’ Michael raised h
is hand and acknowledged what she said, ‘and anything else we can mention in the publicity. I’m sure Peter will let me use the rectory computer for doing the advertising, it’s so much more powerful than mine,’ she looked at Caroline for confirmation and got it, ‘and all we have to do now is arrange the date of the next meeting, by which time we shall all have a lot more input.’
Jimbo raised his hand. ‘I say, just a minute, I’ve had an idea. Don’t you think we need more in the way of entertainments? Something to keep people really interested in staying at the Show and spending until they’ve no more money left.’
‘How about a firework display?’ Linda said, hoping to get back into his good books.
There was a chorus of, ‘What a good idea!’
Jimbo shook his head. ‘Sorry, but that would mean going on until dark and the whole project would take far too long. In any case, we might have reached saturation point with my fireworks; time I gave them a rest. My idea is – what about trips in a hot-air balloon? I have friends who are real enthusiasts. They’d come, I’m sure, when they know it’s for charity. What do you think?’
Everyone’s faces lit up with enthusiasm as they took the idea on board. Louise was highly delighted at his innovative idea. ‘Brilliant, but we should have to be specifically insured for it. Mr Fitch is taking out insurance obviously, but hot-air balloon trips are a whole new ball-game. I’ll have a word with him about it, and I’m certain his insurers will come up with something. It’s a wonderful idea though, Jimbo. They’ll be a really big attrac—’
The door opened abruptly. Peter was standing there looking at Caroline, his face as white as the snow outside. He didn’t need to speak; they could all tell by his demeanour that something had happened which none of them would want to hear. Caroline studied his face, the colour draining away from her cheeks even before he spoke. ‘Darling, I’m afraid you’ll have to come home. There’s … there’s been an accident. You must come.’
Chapter 2
Caroline went towards him walking stiffly, her muscles paralysed by fear. He held out his hands, clasped firmly hold of hers and led her outside into the snow. The ice-cold wind took away her breath and she gasped for air.
‘Peter, for God’s sake – what is it?’
Still holding her closely to him, he said quietly, ‘I’m afraid it’s your mother and father. They were driving—’
‘Are they all right? I mean, are they injured or … is it worse than that?’ She pulled away from his arms and put her head back so she could see his face. In it she read the message she dreaded to hear.
‘Oh God, please God, no?’
‘Not dead, darling, no. Badly … badly injured. I don’t know what to say. I really don’t. Come home, please, out of the cold.’
He helped her walk back to the rectory. When they got there, Sylvia was waiting with the brandy bottle and a glass on the table beside the sofa. Peter sat her down and poured her a glass. ‘Here, darling, drink this. It’ll help.’
‘No, I shan’t, not till I hear what you have to say. Tell me now. Right now!’ She shook his arm as she spoke, to emphasise her urgency to face the truth. ‘Go on, tell me. No matter how hard it is. Tell me.’
‘Well, it was Ginny who rang – she telephoned from a hospital in Newcastle. Apparently they were about twenty miles from home, and with the snow and the driving conditions being so bad, I’m afraid they came off the road and went smack into a tree, and rolled down an embankment. The car turned over several times, I understand. They’re both still unconscious.’
Caroline sat without speaking, quite still, quite silent, stupid silly little memories flooding into her head. Memories of seeing her mother standing by the river watching them swimming and desperately disguising how anxious she was about them all. Her mother on prize-giving days, trying hard not to look superior to everyone else when her girls won prizes. Her pride when she, Caroline, had qualified as a doctor. Her father, respected and loved by all his patients, his dark hair always tousled, his suit baggy, his tie askew. She wouldn’t cry. No, she wouldn’t. She absolutely wouldn’t cry. There were things to be done, like phoning the hospital, and arrangements to make so she could go up to see them. Yes, of course. She, more than any of the other three, would know the score.
‘Peter, I’ll have to go home, won’t I?’
‘Of course, my darling, of course. Drink your brandy. Please. That’s an order.’
Caroline sipped it slowly, her mind racing with chaotic thoughts. Someone appeared in the doorway and Caroline couldn’t think who on earth she was. Peter seemed to know her because he said, ‘That’s fine, Sylvia, thanks for your help. We’ll make some plans tomorrow first thing. Yes, fine. Thank you. OK. Good night.’
The person came right into the room, and taking her hand she said gently, ’Don’t you worry about a thing. The rector and Willie and I will see to everything here. We’ll make sure the children are well cared for, so don’t you fret. I’m so sorry.’
She realised it was Sylvia. ‘Thank you, thank you, I know I can rely on you. I’m so grateful to have you.’ When Sylvia had gone Caroline said quietly, ‘Peter, did Ginny say what injuries they had?’
‘No, they hadn’t told her when she rang. All she knows is that it’s serious, very serious.’
‘I’m ringing the hospital. Right now. Use my influence. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.’
Peter nodded. ‘Right.’
At three o’clock in the morning, she had told him she would drive herself home, but Peter had said no. ‘If I’m to stay here with the children, then you’re certainly not driving yourself and most definitely not in this weather.’
‘Peter, I can drive. I’ve not lost my senses.’
‘Not in this state you can’t. All that way to Northumberland? No, absolutely not. I cannot allow it.’
‘I’m not a fool.’
‘I know. But it would be a foolhardy thing to attempt. You’ve got to think of the children, darling. They need you. You must not take stupid risks, not now you have children.’
‘Oh yes, of course, Alex and Beth.’ She got up out of bed. ‘I’ll go and check they’re all right.’ She padded away into the nursery. Beth was sleeping on her back, her right thumb close to her mouth, the blankets pushed to one side, her nightgown round her waist. Caroline made her comfortable and tucked the blankets around her firmly. Alex was sleeping on his side, well tucked in. She really would have to see about him going into a bed. He was so much taller than Beth and the cot was definitely on the brink of being uncomfortable for him. She stroked his head, expressing with her hand all the love she had for him. As she did it, she half-remembered the touch of her own mother’s hand in the night, once when she had a temperature and her mother felt concerned for her. The caring bond was never broken, and now it was her turn to care. She returned to bed, snuggled into Peter’s protecting arms and fell into a troubled sleep.
It was Malcolm the milkman who spread the news round the village about where Caroline had gone. ‘Just leaving the milk when they came out of the rectory. Sylvia Biggs was holding on to them twins and the rector and her, that is Dr Harris, was getting into the car. He’s taking her to the station, yer see. Can’t drive all that way in that state. It’s ’er parents – them what went ’ome yesterday. Bad crash on their way back. Terrible it is.’
Pat Duckett, hurrying to get ready to go over to the school and open up, said: ‘I didn’t know – I’d no idea. How awful! She will be upset. They were so nice; I met them out with the twins when they were here. Such nice people. Just like her, no edge.’
‘Yer right, ’er mother is lovely. I cut mi hand last week on a broken bottle, and I’d wrapped it up with a bit of rag till I finished the round. But she came to the door with the weekly money, saw the rag and made me go in the rectory where she cleaned it up and put a proper dressing on it. And she was waiting for me next morning to ’ave another look, make sure it was going on all right. Really kind, just like Dr Harris.’
‘The
m poor little kids, they will miss their mum.’
‘She’ll miss ’em too – devoted to ’em, she is.’ Malcolm put down the crate he had in his hand and propped his shoulder against the doorframe, preparing for a long chat. ‘Sylvia Biggs was saying she won’t have no swearing, no talking about guns an’ killing an’ that. Right particler she is.’
‘Quite right, too. I’ll go round when I’ve done the school, see if they need a hand. Thanks, Malcolm.’
‘How yer liking it here then, Pat? Big move up for you, ain’t it? Four bedrooms and all mod cons. Bet your dad’s pleased to ’ave got a job like this. Gardener and a house thrown in. Liking it, are yer?’
‘Lovely. Just lovely. Never been as well off in my life.’
‘All yer need now is a man to keep yer warm at nights!’
‘You offering your services, are yer?’
Malcolm backed off the step. ‘No, no. Not me. I’m well fixed-up.’
‘Over the brush, I understand.’
‘None of your business.’
‘No, and my private life is none of yours.’
‘Saw Barry Jones with yer at the Bonfire Party. You could do worse.’
‘Marriage bureau your latest sideline, is it? The scams you get up to would fill a book.’
Malcolm chuckled and tapped the side of his nose. ‘No. No. I’ll be off then.’
‘Yes, get off.’ She punched his arm playfully. ‘Mind ’ow yer go, Malcolm, take care.’
Michelle and Dean eating their breakfast right behind her in the kitchen contemplated an aspect of their mother’s life they had never thought of before.
Michelle swallowed her mouthful of Corn Pops and said, ‘Mum, are you really thinking of marrying Barry?’
‘Of course not. Three drinks last November doesn’t mean wedding bells, does it?’
‘I like Barry.’
Dean pushed back his chair; he’d noticed the time and needed to be off. ‘I like him too. He’s a great bloke. If you married him he’d make us some nice cupboards and that. Yer keep saying you could do with some.’
The Village Show (Tales from Turnham Malpas) Page 2
