The curtains waltzed in the warm breeze blowing through the
open window. Bottles rattled in crates on the milkman's float. In the distance
a baying dog accompanied a crowing cock. It was Saturday. The day when the
entire community would gather for the village fete.
Restively, she rolled over to her other side and repeated
aloud her determination not to go, but as she drew the quilt over her ears she
remembered that Brian would also be there, which meant she would miss the
chance of soliciting his advice about going ex-directory or investing in a
phone she could unplug or switch off. If she needed to, that is. There would be
no necessity if things stayed as last night, an equitable pealing phone and no
voice, and even that was subject to her having enough moral fibre not to
answer.
For ages she contested the benefits of attending the fete and
in the end it was the attraction of wearing new clothes that decided her to go.
'You will go to the ball,' she cried, leaping out of bed and wrenching open the
wardrobe door. She thought of Brian
again as she touched the blue garment, all shades of blue being his firm
favourites and at one time the only colour he would ever buy.
It took no time at all to shower, swallow apple juice and
bolt down wholemeal toast, and even less to ring the Vicarage to confirm she
would set up the raffle, the late decision hailed by Michael
as one which had literally saved his life. Then she flew upstairs to change,
steadfastly resolving to make the most of the day.
She stepped into the new skirt and pulled the embroidered top
over her head, truly delighted with the casual way the fabric swathed her
breasts, then adjusted the neckline a fraction higher so as not to bare too
much. Finally, she slid her feet into the pumps and perfected a pirouette in
front of the cheval-glass, ready and reasonably prepared to face the world.
*******
Scrunching the chiffon skirt in her hand, she weaved through
diverse tombstones to get to the final resting place of Buckhams. She had been
assailed at the lych gate by a dash of conscience and felt strangely compelled
to visit the grave. It was in a frightful mess. The grey marble headstone was
grimy and covered with lichen and the sculptured book, which once had been so
gloriously white, was now a mottled-grey and thick with wildlife droppings. She
was saturated with guilt as she stooped to uproot chickweed and groundsel from
the base of the empty urn. Here she was, in her finery, while her parents lay
below the deplorable neglect. Silently, as she ferreted in her shoulder-bag for
tissues, she promised her mother that she would cure her lax attitude and tidy
the grave more often. Coming across a forgotten packet of moist-wipes amongst a
conglomeration of cosmetics and letters and other paraphernalia, she quickly
tore it open, withdrew one, and scoured her hands and nails until they were
spotless. Only then did she continue the short journey to the church grounds.
Multicoloured banners fluttered over the gate, abutting a
vividly printed poster inviting the public to Enter Here. Audrey 's
attention was drawn to a spot beyond where fuming villagers were laying siege
to Michael Spencer , for some reason calling for
organised patrols and threatening to set up vigilante groups. It occurred to
her that if she hadn't stopped to mess about with weeds she would know exactly
what they were ranting about.
The vision of Michael
swinging his arms like a traffic cop in a bid to calm the wayward assembly was
to her mind greatly entertaining. She was beset by giggles when his clumsy
gestures caused his cassock (which she maintained was nothing but a long frock)
to spin out and reveal limbs encased in well-washed jeans. It was utterly alien
to her perception of a dignified vicar. In all the years since Michael Spencer
came to Fieldmoor, she had only seen him in church garb. The concept of his
scrawny middle-aged body cavorting in jeans brought a fresh batch of giggles
and she was forced, lest he saw her, to employ facial contortions to overpower
them.
The ballyhoo increased, a hubbub of a different kind, a
shuffling, collective rearrangement. Audrey
stood on tiptoe for it was impossible to see what was happening from the
borderline of giants but, even as she lowered her heels, the throng separated
and Gladys Stanhope 's mercurial form materialised.
Gypsy red skirts flying, she dashed to the forefront of the mob, yanking bodies
aside and bellowing, 'Get back, get back.' But the crowd tarried and the noise
persisted. Eventually Gladys dragged
one of the stacking chairs from behind the trestles and clambered onto it.
'Ladies and Gentlemen, please listen.' Getting no response, she hollered, 'Hey,
you lot.' That did it; the clamour abated. Gladys
waited for total silence before continuing. 'There's no call to rant at the
Vicar because of what befell that poor girl.'
The motive for the melee now clear, Audrey
recalled the report in the local rag concerning the attack on the Dunkley girl.
Breathlessly, she climbed down.
'Some lecture!' Audrey
remarked to the woman next to her.
Someone in the crowd applauded and others quickly joined in,
and a voice bawled, 'Atta girl,' which made Gladys
blush. Nevertheless, she smiled and flourished her arm to encourage the
multitude to follow her to the marquee.
*******
At the entrance, Diane Pearce
manoeuvred her makeshift desk under a sycamore for maximum protection from the
sun, assisted by Vera who had been
roped in to help for the first hour.
'How much are they?' asked Diane
as she strewed her bits and pieces into place.
'Ten pence each or you can have a strip for fifty.'
'I'll have a strip then.'
The query, though well-intentioned, was somewhat ill-suited
when Audrey was trying so hard to
maintain a happy-go-lucky mood. It called forth the unfortunate day when Carol had sent her home, a day she much preferred to
forget. To avoid discussing her wellbeing, Audrey
handed the ticket over with a broad smile, airily assuring Vera that she was in splendid health. That said, she
swept swiftly away.
Further along a gravelled walkway, near an ice cream van,
Doris Pinches was arranging a sizable fruit cake on a chrome base, setting it
dead centre on linen-covered planks which served as a counter. Small cotton
wool clouds puffed across the azure sky and in the thicket a robin chirped. 'I
reckon he's singing for crumbs,' she remarked, bending to retrieve her
Gladstone bag. 'I'll have a quid's worth, Audrey ,
before you sell out.'
'There's no danger I'll do that. I've got enough here to last
a month.'
After extracting a couple of strips from the book and
dropping the pound coin in a drawstring pouch, Audrey walked to where Eileen
Finnigan was sorting jars of preserves, neatly labelled and sealed with cloth
lids tied with ribbons. She was studying the effect of her labours.
'What do you think?'
'Marvellous.'
'It's my first attempt at jam making.'
'Then you deserve a medal.' It did Audrey 's
heart good to see Eileen 's pride.
Impulsively she tore out ten tickets. 'Here,' she said, as she presented them
to her. 'I'll treat you and if you win remember who to thank!' She laughed at Eileen 's stunned expression and scuttled away.
*******
The plant stand, superintended by Fred Smith
and Carrie , was next in the avenue of
stalls. Pensive (Fred ) and forbidding
(Carrie ), they stood like stone
statues amongst the foliage and flowers. Fred 's
lips, smeared with ice cream, lengthened into a sickly grin as Audrey approached. His eyes strayed over her blouse.
Feeling exposed, she pressed a hand to her throat. Carrie
scowled at her husband then guided an accusing glance at Audrey
as if she alone was responsible for his lecherous nature. She wanted to scream
in her own defence that Fred belonged
to Carrie and she was welcome to him.
Instead she rushed off, steadfastly intent on putting space between her and the
insufferable Smiths.
Halting at a far-reaching oak, she hunched over and rested
her arms on its ridged bark, ingesting deep inhalations in order to flatten her
rising temper, instructing herself not to allow the incident to mar the day. It
took a minute or two, but she accomplished it. Glad that for once she had come
out on top, she straightened, stuck her chin in the air and carried on until
she arrived at the tent bearing a notice proclaiming that here sat Gipsy Rose
and her Famous Crystal Ball. She paused to recapture her former composed state
and, directly her chest stopped its heaving, she darted under the canvas flap.
*******
'You should wear colours more often,' advised Audrey , but didn't press it when she saw her friend's
frown, always manifest when her morbid attire was criticised. Absently running
her fingers over the opaque globe, she said, 'Michael
won't be able to thank you enough for what you did earlier.'
'Why did you do it then?'
'Sam thinks you're a rum 'un.'
'It was nothing.' Using an orange duster, Gladys carefully erased the fingermarks from her
precious orb. 'Mind you, I can appreciate how they feel. The attack is
worrying.'
'I daresay it was a one-off. I don't think it warranted the
fracas we saw this morning.'
'I hope you're right. Now, I must get on. I want things right
for my first customer.'
'Do you think Sam
approved?'
'Course he did. The man's smitten. You can't do anything
wrong in his eyes. You could rob the Bank of England and he'd think you were
wonderful.' Audrey waved the books
again and blew her friend a kiss. 'See you later, you siren you.'
*******
At the centre of the field Paddy Finnigan was stacking hoops
for the Hoopla and Bill Mountford was assembling coconuts on the shy - one
handed, since the other had custody of a partially-eaten cornet. A gentle
skirt-blowing wind promised to maintain the day's heat at a bearable level. Audrey figured it would suit Ron Pearce
who was already a hardy pink with the strenuous effort of organising a mountain
of wellies.
She hung around while he slung more boots on the heap, hoping
that when he had fulfilled his task she could explore the whereabouts of Brian . But Ron
didn't appear to be in a receptive mood and in the end she hurried off without
even saying good-day. She would return when the fete got under way; Brian would undoubtedly be there then.
At the white elephant stand, arrayed as usual with worthless
jumble, Liz Tomlin was rummaging through a variety of Tiffany shades as if survival depended on unearthing
one in near-perfect condition. At her side, Gerald
sucked in his cheeks in exasperation. Giving him an ill-natured glance, Liz turned her attention to a grouping of wall
plaques, wine glasses, boxed teaspoons, and a decorative clog. The teaspoons
took her eye and she picked up the box for a closer look. Gerald
waited impatiently, the whole time fussing about the heat and constantly
mopping perspiration from his neck. He maintained non-stop that ice cream was
essential to lower his temperature until Liz
capitulated and suggested he fetch one, resuming her examination of the spoons
the instant he jogged away.
It's like giving permission to a schoolboy, thought Audrey , as Gerald
trotted by. 'I trust he's got plenty of capital,' she said to Liz . 'The ices here are exorbitant. You need an
additional mortgage to pay for one.'
'Oh, I don't think he actually wanted one,' replied Liz . 'All he wanted was to get away from me.' She put
the lid on the box of spoons and produced the requisite cost. 'I expect he's
frightened I'll spend his beer allowance.' She added a shallow laugh and combed
her fingers through her hair, and looked significantly relieved now that her
husband had gone.
*******
She followed the chattering horde into the main arena in time
to witness the procession of dignitaries nearing the platform. The sight of Norman Dingle-Jones
stumbling up the steps produced a few laughs from those at the front. His
composure remained intact, his happiness visible, his immense pride as he
bustled his daughter to her flower-decked throne almost infectious. The sun
captured the spangles in Clarissa 's
hair and an appreciative purr swirled through the spectators when she crossed
her legs to unveil an expanse of thigh.
At length, his address over, Michael
invited Clarissa to open the fete.
Amid impassioned cheering she glided to the brink of the podium and peered at
her fans, manipulating the microphone as if fondling a living thing. Her
worshippers loved it when she massaged the shiny rest with crimson-tipped
fingers and, when she announced in a melting voice that the fete was open,
their vocal ovation soared.
*******
Bored with the monotony of it, Audrey
sat creasing tickets at her designated table. An obese woman, almost touching
her left elbow, slid her tongue on a wafer of strawberry ice cream and followed
the procedure as if it was an operation of unusual skill. By shaking her head,
the woman declined Audrey 's proposal
that she buy one. Audrey endeavoured
to divert the stringent inspection to the dog handlers leading their Alsatians
to the showground. The woman took no heed. Deciding that she was either stupid
or dumb, Audrey repositioned her
posterior on the rigid seat and settled to watch the dogs. A moment later, the
woman shifted to one side to see past another large individual who was blocking
the view. The intense scrutiny was over.
As the tail-end of the canine column passed into the
enclosure, a commotion erupted by Doris 's
improvised counter. Audrey 's curiosity
was aroused. She thankfully crammed the scraps of paper in a wooden box and
went to investigate.
Doris Pinches was beside herself with frustration. Her
mother, in russet straw hat and mesh gloves, sat on a picnic stool flush with
the front of the cake, an unfortunate location considering the purpose of its
exhibition. Doris
took Audrey to one side. 'I've tried
inducing her to inspect the other stalls, but she won't budge.'
'Maybe she thinks she's helping.'
'All I know is that I want her out of my way.'
It was the box in her hand that furnished Audrey with the idea of enlisting the old lady's aid.
Squatting on the grass, level with Mrs
Pinches and in full view, she
commenced ripping out counterfoils and folding them in quarters.
'Roll up, roll up. Get your lovely raffle tickets.'
'Didn't I do well,' mouthed Audrey .
'You did!' said Doris .
'You certainly did!'
As Audrey scooted
away, Doris
called out, 'You can move in with us, whenever you want.'
*******
Bess and Vera dallied in the foreground of the mobile hot dog
stall waiting for Steven Smith to devour a burger in a bun. Thin streaks of
tomato ketchup oozed from the corners of his mouth and dripped onto his school
shirt, giving him the look of a Chinese mandarin. The girls clapped when he
rammed the ultimate portion of burger in his mouth. Vera
implored him to hurry before everything finished for the day. Steven screwed the paper bag in a ball and aimed it
at a nearby litter bin.
Having had to nip smartly out of the way to avoid being hit, Audrey commented on the accuracy of his shot.
'I do even better with a tennis bat,' he said.
Bess groaned. 'Don't set him off, Miss B.
We'll never get on if he starts on about his tennis.
'Two minutes won't hurt, Bess,' Audrey
said, and went on to enquire if Steve
had seen anything special.
'Well, his teeth might've gone right through,' Bess grumbled.
And Audrey ,
believing she would see Brian , tagged
along.
Ron provided Steven with wellies, then drifted over. 'This
must be what slave labour's like.'
Grasping the opening, Audrey
asked why Brian wasn't helping.
With a crafty wink, Ron
told her he'd gone for coffee to assuage a raging thirst. 'Too many ice
creams,' he said. 'Packs it in like it's going out of fashion.'
'Sling it, Stevie,' yelled Bess, miming the action with her
cardigan.
The boy heaved the boot over his head. 'I am,' he gasped as
the welly left his hand and thudded to the ground by his feet.
Bess chuckled at his confounded expression while Vera twirled on her toes and sang, 'Hopeless,
hopeless, hopeless,' as she restrained her ballooning skirt.
Bess glowered. 'Shut it, Vee. He did his best. It's not easy,
is it, Mr Pearce?'
Abruptly terminating her jigging, Vera
looked towards the barrier where Colin Mountford ,
the unwashed son of Bill and Ellen , worked his jaws on chewing gum. His eyes were
out of service and his head bounced to the rousing music emanating from the
marquee, swishing his rat-tailed hair over his shoulders, nodding like the toy
dogs seen in car windows. Vera sighed
dreamily when he engaged two grimy digits to drag a rope of tacky substance
from his mouth.
Bess elbowed Vera .
'Come on, we're going to the fair.'
'Not yet. Colin 's
here.' Coyly peeping at Colin , she
patted her hair.
Bess tugged Vera 's
sleeveless cardigan. 'We can see him later. Come on, Steve 's
waiting.
'I'll catch you up.'
Bess eyed Colin ,
then Vera , 'You keen on him?' When Vera didn't reply, she whooped, 'You are! Hey Steve …'
'Don't you dare!'
Bess tittered. 'Why didn't you tell me?'
'Why should I?'
'I'm your best mate. You're meant to tell best mates
everything.'
'Why?'
'Because!'
With that final utterance, Bess ran after Steve . Vera
followed, but her progress was slow.
'Was I ever like that?' mused Ron, shaking his head.
'I was more unruly if anything. But I grew out of it.' Audrey presumed Vera
would, too, with the right influence.
*******
There was a legion of diabolical smells in the refreshments
tent: stewed tea, greasy doughnuts, and sweat. Every year Audrey
vowed she would bring sandwiches, but never did. She would have returned to the
fresh air, but quenching a momentous thirst took priority. She joined the queue
and prepared for a tedious wait.
Among the tent ropes, lying like snakes in the roughly hewn
grass, families juggled with polystyrene cups and paper plates. Rowdy children,
skipping in and out of the flaps and dangling on the poles, were perpetually
threatened by parents and minders to act properly.
There was no sign of Brian .
By the time Audrey
got served to a cup of tea and salad rolls, two seats were vacant by Carrie and Diane .
Pushing aside the desire to cold-shoulder Carrie ,
she went to join them.
'Oh, my God!' said Diane ,
sheltering her eyes. 'It looks worse on than it did in the box.'
Chewing on a morsel of celery, Audrey
thought that to say Kim 's outfit was
gaudy would be charitable; truthfully the wild purple, pink and orange bands
orbiting her body could only be described as atrocious and, judging by Diane 's black look, the monstrous costume had added
another contretemps to the Pearce stockpile.
'And to think we parted with Ronnie's hard earned wages for
that,' Diane said as she whisked sugar into her tea, tossing her head and
gazing at other diners as if defying them to comment.
'She's doing all right for chaps, whatever it is she's
wearing.' Carrie said, taking a fifty
pence piece from her purse. 'Here, Aud, I'll have five winners off you.'
The rare demonstration of friendliness took Audrey by surprise. Even so, as she tore the tickets
from the book, she itched to charge her double.
Her shrill voice had enticed others to gape at the doctor and
his lady friend, some even lifting backsides from seats for a sighting, though
why Diane should think it was such a
big deal was a mystery. Kate
Dingle-Jones had been with Len all
day. And why not, Audrey concluded.
Being seasoned adults and of like intellect, it was a natural pairing.
'Looks thick with her,' Carrie
said.
It was a Carrie-style declaration, yet even she was shocked.
'Lord, Di , that's a mite strong.'
'Serves you right,' hissed Carrie .
*******
'Who on earth's that?' he asked, screening his ears.
'It's Mrs
Pinches . She's supervising my
raffle. Doing a grand job too. Doris
was desperate to get rid of her.'
'She wouldn't shift for me.'
'It was a case of finding something useful for her to do.'
'D'you think she's safe?'
'Perfectly,' Audrey
said as they trailed past the bandstand.
Uniformed musicians, beginning the second half of their
repertoire with the Floral Dance, brought boys and girls sprinting to the area.
Sam 's arms swung to the beat, his nose
wrinkling at the whiff of alcohol flowing from the beer tent. Audrey strode out with surprising buoyancy as they
hiked to the entrance. Sam had been
assigned to collect the bank-notes from Diane
and Audrey aspired to peddle more
raffle tickets to latecomers.
'Where is she?' Sam
queried as they reached the reception area. The desk, askew on its trestle
support, was devoid of the tackle which goes with guarding the admissions. No
admittance cards or their container, no cash box, and no Diane .
'I was damn well knocked on the head.'
He righted the chair and she fell onto it. 'Bloody kid tried
to snatch the cash box,' she said. 'But he didn't get the money.' Plucking the
box from the overgrown grass, she elevated it. 'Not a penny!' She glanced
surreptitiously at Audrey and quietly asserted that it was punishment for being
nasty to you know who.
*******
'Did you give him hints?'
'You're a dreadful woman!'
A hoarse cry trundled through the canvas flap. 'Roll up, roll
up'.
'Whatever's that?'
'This I've got to see.' Sweeping the rest of the profits into
the bag, Gladys hoisted her abundant
skirt to her armpits and secured it in a leather belt sitting snugly on top of
her black knickers, then, letting the skirt fall, she whizzed out of the tent.
'By heck, she's rejuvenated,' said Gladys ,
grinning. 'Come on, Aud. While we're here, let's gauge the weight of this
cake.'
'One'll do,' said Gladys ,
offering a pound coin.
Slipping her a stony look, Gladys
deflected to Doris .
'Did you get to see the opening?'
'Ooh, yes. Vicar's speech was an improvement on last year, he
didn't use such long words. And I couldn't cart me beady eyes off young
Clarry.'
'Baggage!' roared Doris 's
mother from her station across the way.
Appalled by such fierceness, Audrey retorted, 'That's cruel,
Mrs Pinches. She's very nice.'
'That's as may be, but she's an actress, isn't she?'
'Oh mother, what's that got to do with it?'
'Actresses are not principled.'
And she would not be persuaded otherwise.
*******
With Ronnie gone to
check on Diane , Brian
was swamped by clamouring lads. The fete seemed rowdier this year and he
couldn't kindle any enthusiasm for dealing with barrages of boys who screeched
at each other for no discernible reason.
Nearby shouts made him peer over the temporary fence where a
troupe of white-faced clowns performed acrobatic routines, exuberant infants
scampering behind like rats in Hamelin. The scene prompted him to think of
David, who scoffed at his brother for being scared of clowns at the circus; of
Malcolm, who whimpered for a week and declined to go to bed … though declining
to say why; and of Maggie, who overheard David threaten Malcolm that the clowns
would get him when he slept. He pondered on the pain within his heart that
night as he belted his eldest son.
'Penny for them!'
Wagging a finger, Gladys
warned, 'If you mention my guts and fortitude, I'll shriek!'
*******
In the deserted tea tent Audrey
nursed a cup and observed Brian . How
well she knew his countenance, every curve, line and freckle. She was mustering
the nerve to go over, wishing she could stalk right up to him and say, Hey, Brian ,
I need to talk. The scenario as she saw it was for her to adopt a
nonchalant pose and invite him to fork out for the raffle. A quite legitimate,
though insubstantial overture.
He doesn't honestly care, Audrey
thought, her insides trembling as she forced herself to respond. 'I'm fine,'
she said, in an over-bright voice. Was this what she had spent all day
planning, even short-sightedly dreaming he would afford her at least an ounce of
comfort? She had not anticipated this aloofness and she could definitely do
without his arrogance. She turned to leave while she still possessed some
dignity.
She hesitated before withdrawing her hand, sensing a switch
from his resolute manner to one of tenderness. With an unsteady heartbeat,
feeling extremely confused, she walked away.
*******
At the conclusion of the fete, People swarmed home clutching
prizes and souvenirs. New alliances had been formed and affairs begun as
tradition decreed. Audrey 's passage
home was spent reflecting on the day's adventures: the exploits of old Mrs Pinches ,
Gladys 's persuasive performance. On
the whole the occasion had been pleasant, except for that brief and baffling
encounter with Brian . Thanks to her
peculiar detachment she deserved his negativity, though she had not envisaged
it.
*******
The sky dimmed to an ominous grey as she arrived home She
scanned the heavens, thinking it was well-timed, until a creepy and ominous
thought came to her that henceforth those same clouds would permanently darken
her doorstep.
Letting herself in the house, she allowed the door to bang to
and sank on the hall chair to discard her dusty shoes. She let her shoulder-bag
fall to the rug, clenching her hand to eradicate the tingling consequence of Brian 's touch, a solitary tear moistening her lashes
as she struggled to make sense of it all.
And then the phone rang. It both irritated and pleased her, feelings
she later put down to the light-heartedness of the day. Whatever it was, she no
longer feared to answer.
'I saw you today.'
The blood drained from her face.
'Your thigh felt like a cushion.'
Oh, God!
'Were you cross about the ice cream on your fancy frock?'
Her mind raced, trying futilely to pinpoint the moment of
contact. A useless exercise allowing that the site had teemed with humanity.
'Where were you?'
'The ice cream drove me mad. I thought if I daubed it on your
tits ....'
She squeezed her eyes tight. The sensible section of her
brain wanted to slam the receiver down,; an irrational offshoot pleaded with
him to go on.
'It'd be as tasty as sucking sap through chocolate.'
Her hand crept down to the gluey discharge between her legs.
'Ain't y'gonna speak to me?'
Oh, God!
(to be continued)
dang...this is good...i love events like this...esp in story as it allows you to get everyone in the petri dish at once and see how they play together....in the diabolical legion of smells...ha...love that...and dang she is slipping, the attention getting to her...interesting bit val....interesting indeed...smiles.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Brian. I'm so pleased you found it interesting. One of my favourite parts was the old lady and the raffle tickets.
ReplyDeleteExcellent chapter, Valerie!
ReplyDeleteAnd as I read your comment to Brian I was going to say the same thing...my favorite parts was the old lady and the raffle tickets!!!!
Oh...and also the ending!
'I saw you today.'
Gave me CHILLS! I kept thinking, "Who was it? Who was it?"
Looking forward to chapter 13!
X
Great minds think alike, Ron.... smiles.
ReplyDelete"though it was difficult to get cash from her pocket and hold a three-in-one cornet at the same time."
ReplyDeleteHeh....well done, but I must admit to having stopped right at that point. Darn kid is running around like crazy tonight. Will pick it up later this evening after we set him down to bed and I can relax with a beer.
I'm really loving your descriptors, and some of your characters as well, even if they exhibit behavior I could never see myself doing.
Three thumbs up!
When will you tell us who it is? Curiosity killed the cat . . . . .
ReplyDeleteInteresting chapter as always! Never a dull moment :)
ReplyDelete