(7/20) Fairacre Festival (6 page)

Mr Mawne did his best to make his friend change his mind, but he remained obdurate.

'I refuse to discuss it,' said the vicar one evening, pink with rare impatience.

'But, my dear Gerald, you simply can't bury your head in the sand like an ostrich. At least find out the facts. Let's see if we can try for permission. Time's running out, you know. The bills are going to be pretty formidable, and can you honestly believe that the Festival will raise enough to pay them?'

'I have no doubt that the Lord will provide,' repeated the vicar stubbornly. His friend raised his eyebrows, looked helplessly at Mrs Partridge, but forbore to reply.

The chalice had last been used at Whitsun, and not one touching the ancient mellow silver and gazing into its gleaming depths failed to feel a pang. Would this be the last time that Fairacre's treasure, with its blessed contents, would be offered to them? The service was a paean of praise. Red and white roses nodded on the altar. Sunshine poured through the windows, gilding the arum lilies at the chancel steps. Country voices had made the glittering brass vibrate with Whitsun hymns and Mr Annett, at the organ, had pulled out all the stops and flooded the church with mighty Splendour. The thought of the possible loss of the chalice was the one touch of frost among the bursting glory of Whit Sunday.

As the Festival drew closer our fears for the chalice became sharper. Somehow we simply must make the Fairacre Festival a success, we told each other! We did not say, in so many words, that Queen Anne's chalice was at stake, but the unspoken thought was constantly with us.

It was Mrs Pringle, usually the harbinger of doom, who brought a rare touch of comfort to Mr Partridge, the vicar, at about this time. He had called at the school with the list of hymns which he hoped I would teach the children, when Mrs Pringle clattered in bearing a battered pail in one hand and a scrubbing brush in the other.

'Bit late leavin', ain't you?' she remarked sourly. 'Clock wrong then? I was going to give the lobby a scrub out, but no use doing it till the children have cleared off. Love's labour lost, that'd be!'

The vicar, who is used to this sort of thing, smiled benignly.

'You're going to have a churchful on the Tuesday then. You was lucky to get that Miss Cole to sing,' she continued conversationally, setting down the bucket with a clang. 'My sister's girl, what works at the coach station in Caxley, says there's three coach loads booked already to come over.'

The vicar's smile grew wider.

'What splendid news, Mrs Pringle!'

'And no end of Women's Institutes have rung up about it, and the Mothers' Union and some Young Farmers.'

'A really
wide
audience!' commented the vicar rapturously.

'It takes all sorts to make a world,' conceded Mrs Pringle graciously. 'But it do look hopeful, I must say.'

'It does indeed,' replied the vicar, gazing affectionately upon my school cleaner. 'It does indeed.'

She bent to pick up the bucket and then took up her customary militant stance.

'Well,' she demanded, with a return to her usual truculence, 'do them children go now or not? This 'ere water's getting cold.'

'I'll send them through the other way,' I said meekly. 'We won't hold up your scrubbing any longer.'

This was no time for petty warfare, I felt. Mrs Pringle, messenger of hope, should have her way.

Chapter 5

T
HE
posters were up everywhere in the countryside. They blazed from barn doors, from gateposts, from tree trunks and in the windows of many a village shop. One made a bright blue corner on the Appeals' board. Across the village street, between 'The Beetle and Wedge' and the Emerys' house, a banner fluttered, bearing the words:

FAIRACRE FESTIVAL
July 9–15

Bunting was draped across our house fronts, and those of us who owned a flag had it in readiness to hoist on the Sunday which was to be the first day of the Festival. The cross of St George, freshly laundered by Mrs Willet, would soon be flaunting itself above the church spire upon which the regilded weathercock perched again.

Inside the church the electricians were putting the final touches to the wiring and lighting. Jock Graham, the retired architect who had so nobly offered his services, became extremely agitated by the ladders lodged among the timbers of the hammer-beam roof. He was unduly sharp with Mr Mawne who had dropped in one morning to see how things were progressing.

'I'll not be responsible,' he rumbled, rolling his r's in Doric splendour, 'for any damage to that historic roof. A lot of torn foolery to rig up lights so near the timbers. Those men have no idea of the pricelessness of the work around them.'

'Oh, come now,' protested Mr Mawne. 'They are used to this sort of thing. I believe they were employed at Winchester Cathedral. Or was it Salisbury?'

'It wouldn't be allowed in Scotland,' Mr Graham assured him.

'That I can well imagine,' remarked his companion drily. The hint of sarcasm inflamed Jock Graham still further.

'A decent God-fearing kirk would be ashamed to turn itself into something no better than a theatre. I'd no idea, when I offered my sairvices, that this sort of thing would be countenanced.'

'I see nothing offensive about it,' retorted Mr Mawne. 'It is an act of praise.'

'It's commaircial!' boomed Mr Graham, his sandy eyebrows bristling. 'It wouldn't happen in Scotland, I tell ye!'

'I really can't think,' replied Mr Mawne, with maddening detachment, 'why so many of you Scotsmen bother to come south if you dislike it so much. Personally, I'm all for Scottish nationalism, and I'd rebuild Hadrian's Wall for good measure, once I'd got all you immigrants back on the right side of it.'

'Ye'd no get far without a stiffening of good Scots' blood among ye,' thundered Jock Graham. 'A weakly unprincipled set of shilly-shallyers, lacking pairpose and integrity!'

The workmen, high above, had ceased their labours and were watching this passage of arms with intense interest.

The two men faced each other. Mr Mawne's pale face wore a supercilious smile. Mr Graham's, suffused to an unbecoming shade of purple, was thrust close to his antagonist's. At this dramatic moment, Basil Bradley arrived on the scene.

'I can't tell you how relieved I am that I've already recorded the script,' he croaked huskily. 'My tonsils are absolutely aflame. I can't think why I've succumbed so easily at this time of year. I swear by orange juice for breakfast—nothing more—just fresh orange juice!'

'Ye'd do better on a braw fresh herring and a plate of salted porridge,' thundered Jock Graham. He brushed past the two men and marched, head erect, down the aisle to the west door.

'Whatever's got into him?' asked Basil Bradley, bewildered.

'Scotch blood,' said Mr Mawne cryptically. '"Scotland for ever!" I mean "Scotland for aye!"'

'Oh dear,' croaked Basil Bradley, extracting a small tin from his pocket. 'Ah well, it makes one quite glad to have been born in humble Bayswater, doesn't it? Have a black currant lozenge, Henry.'

Jock Graham was not the only Fairacre resident to be in a state of tension at this time. The vicar, facing the Bishop's visit, was anxious about the service, and also about the safety of the church fabric. What a terrible thing it would be if something should fall upon that stately figure! Despite reassurances, the vicar was not wholly at ease. Mrs Partridge, whose privilege it was to entertain the Bishop to lunch, and possibly to tea, was busy planning a meal which would do honour to their distinguished visitor and yet be simple enough to prepare and serve single-handed. Cold salmon and salad had seemed a good choice until she remembered that the Bishop was extremely short-sighted and far too handsome a man to relish wearing glasses at lunch time. And just suppose that a fish-bone appeared? It would, without fail, be on the guest's plate. Perhaps cold beef? Or leg of lamb left in a slow oven during the service and mint sauce made beforehand?

Mrs Partridge continued to cudgel her brains, and to long for the days when the vicarage had a resident cook and two kitchen maids.

Mr Annett, the choir master, was worrying about the new anthem. The choir of St Patrick's had left him in no doubt that he had bitten off more than they could chew.

'This 'ere modern stuff ain't got no tune to it,' protested Mr Willet. 'What's wrong with a bit of Bach or Handel?'

'It's a very good thing to make a change,' Mr Annett snapped back, secretly conscious that the new anthem was beyond their powers, but too proud to admit it. 'As Browning said:

"A man's reach should exceed his grasp".'

'Browning never 'ad to tackle this lot,' pointed out Mr Willet, peering closely at the sheet of music. 'If there's anything I 'ates it's five flats.'

They had struggled on with their unfamiliar burden, but no matter how often they practised, Mr Annett realised that the anthem would turn out to be a hesitant dirge rather than the outpouring of praise which the composer had intended. Too late to do anything now, he told himself, as the great Sunday approached. But the thought gave him little comfort.

Basil Bradley, afflicted with his feverish cold, was suffering agonies of self-consciousness about the script which he had written, and his recording of it. He had checked all his facts most carefully, but there was always the possibility of a mistake. How dreadful if he had made some blunder! There was that episode about the nun being given shelter in the vestry during the eighteenth century. Should he have omitted it, perhaps? There were some very dubious rumours about the incumbent at that date, and the Bishop might take exception to the publicity, guarded though Basil's account had been of the affair. Really, creative work was terribly exhausting thought poor Basil, as he gargled hopelessly before the final rehearsal.

A spell of unbroken sunshine preceded Festival week and we in Fairacre prayed that it might continue. It grew so hot that the children took many of their lessons outside, in the shade of the elm trees. Rehearsals of the infants' contributions also took place in the playground, which afforded some relief to our class, when it was working inside, and considerable interest to proud mothers who clustered at the gate to watch their offspring bounding around in the folk dance.

The Princess and the Swineherd
still had many faults. Ernest had overcome his shyness with such success—terrified of handing over the part to someone else—that he now played the Prince with a swashbuckling impudence which was, to my mind, quite as offensive as his former interpretation of the part. However, I was now resigned to the short comings of my production and simply concentrated on getting the cast word-perfect, which was no light matter.

Mr Willet, as sexton, was concerned about the tidiness of the church and the churchyard.

'Slummocky lot, them builders,' he told me. 'Drops their paper bags everywhere. Bread crusts and cheese rinds and old potato crisps scattered all over the churchyard. Them mice are getting as big as foxes.'

'It will look splendid on Sunday,' I assured him. 'Especially if this weather lasts.'

We looked across my garden to the meadows at the base of the downs. A heat haze veiled the distance, but nearer at hand a herd of black and white Friesian cows, the pride of Mr Roberts, stood knee-deep in tall grass. Not one moved. They might have been painted there, against the hot motionless beauty of hills and empty sky, so still they stood.

'Well, let's hope it does,' agreed Mr Willet. 'Don't want it to break yet awhile. It'll end in thunder, or my name's not Willet.'

He turned to look at St Patrick's. The scaffolding had been removed from the spire but still clad the square tower containing the belfry and part of the nave.

'Wish we could have rung in the Bishop with a fine peal,' he said regretfully. 'But there it is. All six o' they bells is up against the church wall waiting to go aloft again as soon as it's safe for 'em. I likes to go and look 'em over now and again. I've got a soft spot for them bells, particularly Old Bess. They say she was cast in the field behind "The Beetle and Wedge", sometime in the 1560s.'