The Village Show (Tales from Turnham Malpas)

by Shaw, Rebecca

  Sheila finished sorting the entries and decided that it was going to be a success after all. What’s more, her competitions would be the biggest attraction – yes, she’d bring the people in and no mistake. Mr Fitch would definitely be pleased with her. Fancy Louise having a boyfriend! She’d tell Ron when he got back from Newcastle; he’d be pleased too. Who on earth could it be? She’d find out soon enough. Perhaps he might be at the Show.

  Barry was putting the finishing touches to the last of the stalls. They’d have them all erected tomorrow. Hope to God it didn’t rain. Twenty stalls he’d made. The cost was astronomical but Mr Fitch had said if a job’s worth doing … so he’d done a good job. Up at six o’clock tomorrow. His mum had cut all the crêpe paper for the stalls, he’d bought all the drawing pins and sticky tape, and he couldn’t wait to see how good they looked. Barry took another mint imperial out of the bag in his pocket, propped his shoulder against the doorjamb of the estate workshop and stood looking out across the yard thinking about Saturday.

  There wasn’t going to be a lot for him to do on the actual day; he’d done his bit already. All he’d have to do was enjoy himself. Huh! Fat chance. He’d been round to see Simone and she’d laughed and said all right then, she’d deny it was his and leave everybody to guess. He knew she had no idea who the father really was. Well, for him those days were over. He wanted Pat. Pat Duckett and stability, and a family and a permanent relationship. No, that was the wrong word to use; it meant all kinds of things to all kinds of people nowadays. He wanted marriage. Marriage to Pat and a son and a daughter and even, he had to admit, a father-in-law.

  This Saturday would see a turn-round. He wasn’t going on like this any longer. She’d refused to see him, but this Saturday he’d sit in the refreshment tent from two o’clock till they closed up. He’d speak to her, if it was the last thing he did. He’d make her see sense. They were made for each other, and he couldn’t think why he hadn’t realised it years ago. But maybe the time wasn’t ripe and maybe they’d neither of them been ready before now.

  He was determined the kids shouldn’t miss out on a holiday. He’d get them on his side. Michelle liked him and so did Dean. He’d bumped into Michelle once or twice this last week or so, and she’d been really glad to see him – and Dean had been such a help with the stalls since he’d finished his exams. A nice bright chap he was. A son to be proud of. Having made his decision, Barry locked the workshop door, jumped into his old van, kicked the bits of stuff laid on the floor out of his way, and made for home, more light-hearted than he’d been for some weeks.

  Caroline was in the garden making her final decision about which flowers to use for her entry.

  ‘I must be mad entering this blessed Show, Peter. Totally crackers. My flowers won’t be a patch on Mrs Jones’s and all I’ll get will be understanding glances and I shall want to crawl away. Will you go in the marquee for me and see if I’ve won anything? I shan’t dare go. It’ll be so embarrassing if I get sympathetic looks.’

  ‘My darling girl, it’s only a village thing, not Chelsea.’

  ‘I know, but it feels terribly important, and it is to everyone in the village.’

  ‘Even more so to Mr Fitch!’

  ‘You’re right there. He’s all of a dither, apparently. He’s a funny man, so dynamic, so rich, with so much power over people’s lives and yet pathetically eager that this Show should be a success.’

  ‘He’s quite a decent chap underneath all that authority. I’m sorry he never sees his sons. That must be dreadful.’

  ‘What do you think to this one? It isn’t blemished in any way, is it?’

  ‘Can’t see anything wrong with it. You know I’m on the platform, don’t you?’

  ‘I do. I think I’ll chain the children to me, it’s the only way. They’re murder in a crowd.’

  Peter took hold of her shoulders and turned her around. He kissed her and said, ‘Love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘I hope this clinic business won’t be too much.’

  ‘It’s only for a few months. It’ll be all right, you’ll see. I promise you faithfully if the children show signs of objecting I shall stop immediately.’

  ‘I know you will.’

  ‘You would never ask me to stop, I know that, Peter, but if you really, really feel you’d rather I didn’t, I won’t. But I do want to do it. Pathology got rather tedious, you see, and I’d like to try general practice again. It’s such a golden opportunity to try my hand at it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I have to stage my exhibit some time between nine and eleven on Saturday morning. Will you make sure you’re free then? I shan’t be able to do it if the children are with me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m so looking forward to this Show. I wonder if he’ll hold it every year?’

  ‘Probably. Especially now with Louise working for him.’

  ‘Of course. So convenient. She’s done a brilliant job, you know. Nothing can go wrong, I’m sure.’

  ‘That’s her talent, isn’t it? Organisation.’

  Pat had made one batch of shortbread the night before the Show, then decided to get up really early and make another lot before breakfast and see which she thought was the best.

  She’d have to take her entry in by nine o’clock because she’d need to be in the refreshment marquee in good time. Her nerves were playing up something dreadful; she’d hardly slept. It was the first time she’d been truly in charge of an event and the responsibility was weighing heavily on her mind. Jimbo was lending her a mobile so she would be in constant touch with him, so that was a relief. Hopefully she’d only need to make contact if she began running out of supplies. She switched on the oven and got out her scales, and began. Last night’s was in a tin so before she started weighing the ingredients she peeped inside it to see how it had fared through the night. Oh, it looked good, very good. Yes, she was pleased with that.

  Butter, nothing less, caster sugar, plain flour – four ounces, two ounces, six ounces, pinch of salt. It was just going in the oven when Michelle came down to inspect, for the umpteenth time, the necklace she’d made of sweets. ‘Wasn’t it lovely of Grandad to find this jewellery box to display my necklace in? He says it had a necklace in he bought Grandma when they got married, so it’s very old. It looks real, doesn’t it, my necklace? Do you think I’ll win?’

  ‘You can only hope, but I reckon it should. It’s lovely. Grandad up?’

  ‘Yes, he must be, I can’t get in the bathroom. He’s sure to win something, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’d better, or Mr Fitch will want to know the reason why.’

  ‘He’s all right, is Mr Fitch. I like him.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t touch ’im with a barge-pole.’

  ‘Mum, if Barry’s there I’m going to talk to him.’

  ‘If yer want.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Might and then again I might not.’

  ‘I did want him for a dad.’

  Pat hugged her on the way to the fridge. ‘I know you did. I’m sorry. Start yer breakfast.’

  ‘I know what they say he did, but he didn’t.’

  Pat was appalled. Children nowadays! ‘Michelle!’

  ‘Well, he didn’t, honestly he didn’t. I asked him.’ She swallowed a spoonful of cereal and grinned.

  Pat was scandalised. ‘You asked him?’ Michelle shuffled her feet in her slippers and wouldn’t look up. ‘You’d no business discussing things like that.’

  ‘Someone’s got to talk to him about it. I mean, wouldn’t it be nice if he was coming down to breakfast now? Him and you and me and Grandad and our Dean if he ever gets up. The shortbread’s smelling.’

  ‘Oh Gawd!’ Pat swiftly opened the oven door. ‘I’ve put the oven too high, it’s already too brown on top and it’s not even cooked. Blast it. Oh well, I’ll have to use the one I made last night. Serves me right for trying to be too clever. I’ll be too busy today to see
to you, so stick with our Dean or Grandad. Isn’t it maddening ruining it like this? What a waste.’ She scraped the burnt shortbread into the pedal bin.

  ‘I shall stick with Barry.’

  Pat sighed. It really was aggravating that Michelle liked Barry so much. Dean too. And Dad. He came downstairs in his working clothes.

  ‘Hurry up, Pat. I’ve a lot to do to get my plants ready. Old Fitch thinks he’s going to laud it round the marquee showing his guests all the prizes he’s won, so I must put my best foot forward today. Barry’s done a grand job with the stalls. You’ll be surprised when you see ’em.’

  ‘Shan’t have any time for going round, I’ll be too busy. Still, I’m getting well paid. I’m just going to ring round and check none of my waitresses is crying off. Get yer breakfast.’

  Grandad raised his cup to Michelle and she raised hers to his and they clicked cups and winked and he said, ‘Here’s to us, the champions!’

  Chapter 24

  By half-past one, the crowds were already beginning to arrive. With the opening ceremony at two o’clock it looked promising. Louise had been working since half-past seven. Rushing here and rushing there, checking and organising. At half-past twelve she had gone home to shower and change and grab a bite to eat before returning to sit looking cool and calm on the platform to hear Mr Fitch give his opening speech. She rather felt she’d never feel cool and calm all the rest of the day. No way would she ever take on such a task again. What it would have been like if she wasn’t a well-organised person, she didn’t know. As it was, the chap listed for putting out the chairs round the arena hadn’t turned up and she’d press-ganged Rhett Wright, odd sort of a boy, along with some of his friends to do the job for her. The one good thing was that the sky was a brilliant blue and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. Culworth’s Summer Bonanza the previous Saturday had been a complete writeoff. It had rained both on the day and the day before, so the site was a quagmire and the crowds almost non-existent.

  Louise slipped on her dress and went to look at herself in the mirror. She’d lost almost a stone since she’d come to the village last November. She had a fine-boned jawline now, and when she turned sideways her bottom was no longer her dominant feature. Even her legs had slimmed down and her ankles were slender too. Altogether there’d been a vast improvement. Not only outside, but inside also. Gilbert had awakened a sensitivity in her, which was flowering wildly, and radically changing her outlook. There was no longer any true satisfaction, not deep-down satisfaction, in being an efficient administrator. It had felt good to be appreciated for it, but the real satisfaction came from the way her soul had been opened up by the first worthwhile illuminating relationship she had had with another human being.

  She really wasn’t going to wear the hat her mother had persuaded her to buy. She thrust the hat-box to the back of the wardrobe, put on her sandals, collected her handbag, picked up her file – couldn’t go without that – and shouting to her mother that she was leaving, slammed the front door behind her.

  The entire park and Home Farm field were looking magnificent. The stalls Barry had made were perfectly splendid. She’d doubted his idea about uniformity but he’d been right. Mr Fitch had organised a long series of flags of different countries lining the path to the square of stalls. They were blowing briskly atop their tall poles and drawing everyone’s attention. The grass in front of the platform had been filled by Greenwood Stubbs with huge pots of vivid flowers, and the bunting which Barry had put up jerked and jumped in the summer breeze. Such a satisfying sight. The car park was already filling up and Louise smiled at the sight of the Scouts with their official red armbands and caps, provided by Mr Fitch to give them prestige, directing the cars.

  She could see at the corner of the car park that some of the Morris Dancers from Penny Fawcett had already arrived, and faintly across the grass came the sound of their bell-pads jingling as they tied them to their legs. Thank God they’d arrived. That was one less problem. The marquees were sparkling white against the emerald green of the grass, and the pennants on their topmost points fluttered briskly. Louise could see the waitresses gathered in the open doorway of the refreshment marquee, watching the crowds arriving. Obviously Pat had got things in hand there. She just hoped the table for the VIPs’ tea was looking good. Maybe she ought … No, Jimbo knew what he was doing, it would be OK.

  She parked close to the Big House and went inside to meet Mr Fitch’s guests. He’d provided long cool drinks for everyone and Jeremy was busy, with Venetia’s help, handing round silver trays with tiny finger buffet delights on them. Louise shook her head; she thought she might just throw up if she ate anything now. Right in the middle of a conversation with a cousin of Mr Fitch, a dreadful cold feeling scrunched her stomach. Oh God, the loudspeaker system. She’d forgotten to …

  ‘Excuse me for a moment, would you?’ She sped out through the front door and across the lawns towards the platform. Mercifully there was Barry about to say ‘one two three’ into the microphone. ‘Barry! Everything OK, is it?’ He gave her the thumbs-up. ‘Thank heavens. I’d forgotten all about it. You’re an angel.’

  ‘No problem.’ He leaped down from the platform. ‘It’s all going to be fine. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I do hope so. I’m feeling so nervous.’

  ‘Don’t be. We all know what to do. If you need me I’ll be in the refreshment marquee all afternoon.’

  ‘Are you helping there then?’

  ‘No. Not exactly.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets, gazed at the sky for a moment and then said, ‘It’s Pat.’ Barry rattled the small change in his trouser pocket. ‘She won’t speak to me so I’m going to wear her down by sitting there all afternoon.’ He laughed ruefully at Louise.

  She looked thoughtful and said, ‘You do that, Barry. I’ve come to the conclusion that there comes a time when you’ve to take life by the scruff and make things happen. Good luck!’

  When Louise returned to the Big House her mother was chatting to Mr Fitch. Louise’s heart sank. She’d have to own up to the fact that she was her mother, but oh, help! Sheila was wearing a claret-coloured lace dress with long sleeves and a low, low neckline, which exposed her crinkled cleavage. On her head was a matching straw hat with a huge brim, decorated with claret-coloured lace and an enormous pink cabbage rose. Ron stood beside her twisting the stem of his glass in his fingers and trying to look as though he wasn’t really there. Would Sheila never learn? At least she hadn’t bought the matching parasol which she’d told Louise she was tempted to buy.

  At that moment Peter came in. He was wearing light-grey trousers with a short-sleeved grey shirt and his clerical collar. Both his height and his looks with his fair skin and his red-blond hair drew everyone’s attention. Louise took the bull by the horns and went to welcome him.

  ‘Good afternoon, Peter. Aren’t we lucky to have such a lovely day?’

  He shook her hand, looked deeply into her eyes with that penetrating stare of his, smiled his kindly loving smile, and said, ‘We are lucky indeed. It’s a privilege to be alive today, isn’t it? So many good friends having a great time. All thanks to you.’ Catching Mr Fitch’s eye he said, ‘Ah, Mr Fitch …’ The way he’d told her, ‘All thanks to you’ left Louise feeling completely forgiven for the trouble she’d caused him, and she knew she had his blessing.

  Mr Fitch looked at his watch, cleared his throat and announced, ‘The platform, ladies and gentlemen – shall we proceed? Will you lead the way, Louise? Lady Bissett?’ He crooked his arm and invited Sheila to accompany him to the platform. She hid her nervousness behind a beaming smile, desperate not to put a foot wrong.

  Mr Fitch suggested a tour of the competition marquee as soon as the opening ceremony was concluded. Sheila, flustered by the heat of the glaring sun and the tightness of her dress, nodded enthusiastically but with a sinking heart. All she really wanted was to sit down with a cup of tea, with plenty of sugar in it, and to kick off her blessed shoes. She’d been here at the Show since
half-past eight, organising this and that, answering questions, smoothing the ruffled feathers of the competitors as they put their entries on display. Much of the aggravation was caused by people taking more space than they’d been allocated, and others complaining their entry was in a corner and could they move it out, please? She’d had no idea how irritating people could be. She’d used a whole roll of sticky tape and a complete box of pins and her stapler had run out and … She vowed she’d never do this again. Behind her she could hear Mr Fitch telling his elderly aunt that he’d be running this every year from now on. Oh yes? thought Sheila cynically. He really means we will, Louise and me. We’ve done all the work.

  Mr Fitch’s elegant cousin had taken a liking to her and was glued to Sheila’s side as they toured the marquee. Sheila pointed out her own arrangement with its seaside theme. She forebore to mention that she’d won First Prize.

  ‘Lady Bissett – this is your arrangement? How wonderful! I love those muted oranges and yellows, and the sand. What a good idea! The shells are fabulous, surely not from an English beach?’

  ‘No, I got those when Sir Ronald and I were touring in the States.’

  ‘What does it say on the card?’ The cousin put her reading glasses on and read the judges’ card. ‘Oh, what a pity! They’ve said “Excellent try, but …” I think it’s by far and away the best.’

  ‘“Excellent try but …?’” Sheila shrieked. She recollected herself and said in restrained tones, ‘I think you’ve read it wrongly. I won First Prize.’ She fumbled in her bag for her own reading glasses and perched them on her nose. ‘Someone’s changed the cards round. This says “Mrs Carrie Evans”. Just a minute.’ She bustled further down the trestle table and found her own card in front of what she would have described as a pathetic attempt at throwing flowers into a vase and missing it. She swiftly changed the cards back again, swearing vengeance on Carrie Evans at the next flower arrangers’ meeting, oh yes! She’d have her drummed out, just see if she didn’t. Honour restored she smiled at Mr Fitch’s cousin and they progressed around the rest of the entries.