The fight moved across the fields, men falling as they tripped over unseen obstacles and being trodden on by those who followed. Some of the women had grabbed boxes of food and were on their way home with their spoils but the men snatched the food, which made excellent weapons, when they reached the top of the council estate, and soon the missiles were flying between one group and another.
Down through the village the fight continued, more slowly now as exhaustion overcame them all and sense began to seep back and make them wonder why they were fighting. Milly Toogood opened her window to demand silence and forgot about the geraniums on the sill. The pot fell and knocked Bert on the side of his head. It seemed to have little effect but he walked home on rubbery legs with Brenda accusing him of carelessness in getting in the way of the flying flowers.
Rain began to fall, softly and steadily, and this cooled heads and added to the gradual ending of the battle. Food, abandoned by the laughing merry crowd continued to be thrown whenever a target offered itself, wrappings and boxes were left where they lay and soggy paper bags slid across the road and the pavements like forlorn flags.
Doreen and Freddy went to find Nelly and George after the sandwich and fruitcake warriors had trailed off towards the village and the rain had persuaded the last of the crowd it was time to leave. They helped them home, propped them both up on the couch and covered them with blankets.
‘I’ll come and see them tomorrow, shall I? Make sure they’re all right?’ Freddy said.
Doreen smiled her generous smile. ‘That would be nice.’
* * *
It was four o’clock before the last light was extinguished in the village. That was in Bert Roberts’ house, where an angry Brenda was roughly bathing Bert’s bruises and telling him he was responsible for all the trouble. No one woke early the following morning, which was unfortunate.
The village and the council estate were a mess, with rain-soaked food and patterns of cast-aside paper spread across the roads and gardens, wrapped around gate posts by an impish wind, trailing like ribbons from fences and trees. Pots of geraniums, upended by the wilder participants of the previous night’s battle, lay on the pavements abandoned and forlorn.
At ten o’clock a car drove around the silent streets. Several local dignitaries sat looking out at the chaos. The mayor, one of the judges in the Best Kept Village Competition looked at Mrs Norwood Bennet-Hughes and frowned.
‘Are you sure this village has entered? It looks as if no one has made any effort at all.’
‘I don’t understand it, they’ve all worked so hard.’
The car sailed serenely on.
* * *
It was several days later that the vicar called in to Amy’s shop to put a notice on her window saying that the judging had taken place. The shop was full: George had called in after going up to see Farmer Leighton about working part-time, Netta was waiting for the bread to arrive. Most had really come to see the new assistant.
Amy was training a new helper since Mavis announced she would no longer work for her. The boy, young Merfyn, Gerry Williams’ young brother was slow but willing and he took all Amy’s impatient instructions without complaint.
‘We didn’t win, then,’ Milly Toogood said. ‘Not surprising really. This village hasn’t got the right attitude for things like that.’
‘Who cares, eh, George?’ Nelly said. ‘We ’ad the fun of preparin’.’
‘And the fun of losing!’ Merfyn piped up. ‘Duw! What a night that was.’ His voice hadn’t broken and he sounded like a girl, to his amusement and every one else’s.
‘Don’t have so much to say for yourself, young Merfyn, or I’ll tell your mother how cheeky you are,’ Milly Toogood said sharply. ‘Fun of losing indeed. What an attitude.’
‘’E’s right though,’ Nelly chuckled. ‘We ain’t had so much fun in ages, ’ave we, George?’
‘Everything is fun where you are, Nelly,’ George chuckled. ‘Coming home, my dear?’
The dogs had been tied outside as the shop was full and they jumped up to greet them and knocked a bag of onions all over the pavement. Nelly looked around and decided that someone with younger knees could cope. She knocked on the window and waved to young Merfyn, gesturing for him to come out and see to them.
Chuckling she took George’s arm as they crossed over the road.
‘D’you think Amy an’ Victor’ll be ’appy, George?’ she asked as they turned up the lane where Farmer Leighton’s retired horses watched them over the hedge.
‘If they can be as happy as we are, Nelly, what more could anyone ask?’
‘You’re right, George, and that’s a fact.’
Compared with many, Nelly had nothing, but as she expected little from life, every small joy was a bonus. They released the dogs from their leads and walked on to the cottage where a casserole was simmering in the fire oven and a freshly baked loaf stood cooling on the windowsill.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1993 by Severn House Publishers Ltd
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © 1993 by Grace Thompson
The moral right of Grace Thompson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781911420194
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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