(7/20) Fairacre Festival (7 page)

'The children don't want the bells to go back again. They've been over to see them—under my eagle eye, let me say-lots of times, and they've copied the inscriptions.'

'"Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus",' gabbled Mr Willet, swatting a gnat on his freckled forearm. '"In piam memoriam Caroli Fowler. Requiescat in pace". Fowler, notice? Still a good few Fowlers in Fairacre. Wonder if any of them cast Old Bess?'

He bent to pull up a dandelion from my border, and straightened up with a sigh.

'I do truly hope this Festival puts the old church on its feet. There's a lot at stake, Miss Read. A lot at stake!'

Sunday dawned bright and beautiful. I took my breakfast tray into the garden among the dewy pinks and roses. A robin perched hopefully on the lilac bush nearby, a beady eye cocked for crumbs.

The Union Jack hung motionless from the school flag pole. High above it, on St Patrick's church the cross of St George waited for a breeze to spread it out in its full red and white magnificence.

It was already blissfully hot although the clock said only nine. By ten to eleven, when I made my way to church, the heat was almost oppressive. We were all in our best summer finery and I felt quite sorry for the Bishop, magnificently accoutred in a splendid gold and white cope which must have been uncomfortably warm.

We sang the most exultant hymns, beginning with 'Praise my soul the King of Heaven' as the choir processed from the west door up to the chancel. Several of my pupils had undergone their weekly metamorphoses from scruffy urchins to well-scrubbed cherubs, and with hair plastered down with a wet brush and their eyes modestly downcast upon the polished boots peeping demurely from beneath their cassocks, they gave an impression of youthful sanctity which did not deceive those of us who knew them during the rest of the week.

The new anthem was tackled with dogged effort and Mr Annett gave noble support not only with his hands and feet at the organ, but with a resonant voice which led his struggling choir valiantly. When it was over, I noticed Mr Willet mopping his brow and moustache with obvious relief.

The Bishop gave the sermon and spoke of the part the church played in parish life, the disaster which had befallen it, and praised the efforts of our small community to repair the damage.

'God will bless your work,' he promised us. 'This is a Festival in every sense. It is an expression of praise for past mercies and a re-dedication of ourselves to service.'

He made a brave and unforgettable figure in our ancient pulpit, and his words were as inspiring as his presence. When the benediction had been said, and Mr Annett broke into a triumphant voluntary, we all felt that Fairacre was embarked upon a venture which was bound to succeed.

We emerged into the hot sunshine, blinking like owls in the dazzling light. Around us the rose bushes gave out a voluptuous fragrance. Above us an aeroplane left a white trail in the cloudless sky. Bumble bees lumbered from clover-head to clover-head on the grassy mounds of our Fairacre forefathers. It was indeed high summer.

'And real Festival weather!' said Miss Margaret Waters, gazing happily about her, beneath the brim of her old-fashioned straw hat.

'After all this looking forward,' said her sister, 'it's hard to believe that it's actually started.'

It was a thought we all shared as we made our various ways homeward to Sunday dinner.

At last, the Festival had begun!

Chapter 6

A
MY
, my old college friend, drove over from Bent to the first performance of the
Son et Lumière.

It was to be a very grand affair. Several local landowners were bringing parties of guests and we humbler folk were busy looking out our best evening attire. It was not easy to find something splendid enough for the occasion, decorous enough for church-going and warm enough to counteract the chill of an evening in St Patrick's draughty pews. I had plumped for safety in my plain black frock, and had looked out my one fur piece, a useful stole, for despite the heat of the last few days, which had degenerated into an ominously still stuffiness, the age-long coolness of the church's interior would take some combating.

Amy,
soignée
in a most beautiful frock of blue silk, looked me over critically.

'You really
shouldn't
wear black, my dear, with your skin. It kills any sort of glow you have. Why not wear a deep red dress, or a brown?'

'Because I haven't got one,' I said flatly.

Her eye travelled, without relish, down my full length and lingered sadly at my feet.

'Those heels are definitely
out,'
she pronounced.

'Not in Fairacre,' I replied with spirit. 'In fact, they've only just
come in!
I paid a great deal of money for these shoes, my girl, and I intend to get plenty of wear out of them.'

Amy shuddered delicately, and fingered her one splendid adornment, a glittering diamond brooch on her shoulder. It was, I knew, a present from James, her husband, and marked his return from a particularly protracted business trip to the Bahamas. There are many such absences from home, about which I have my private suspicions, as no doubt Amy has too, but they certainly result in the most beautiful presents for his wife, and she has enough sense not to cross-question James too closely.

We sat down to my carefully prepared meal of cold chicken and salad. I was secretly rather proud of the salad for I had remembered to cut the radishes into water-lily shapes in the dinner hour and had left them soaking all the afternoon. The tomatoes and cucumber had come from Mr Willet's greenhouse, and the lettuce from my own garden. The hard-boiled eggs, winking goldenly from among the greenery, had come from Mrs Pringle's hens and the fine chicken was lately one of the members of her flock.

Amy ate heartily, I was glad to see.

'All so deliciously fresh,' she commented, and I preened myself at this unaccustomed compliment—prematurely, as I might have known.

'But I really think the latest way of dishing up a salad is better. Just a bowl of green stuff tossed in the very best olive oil and vinegar, and tomatoes freshly sliced in a separate dish—salted and peppered and with a
soupçon
of chopped chives or parsley, of course—for those who like
coloured
salad mixed with green. I find that most people these days consider radishes rather too coarse a flavour, and there's so much medical argument about hard-boiled eggs that I don't serve them, I must admit.'

'You'd better bring your own nose-bag next time you come,' I told her. I've known Amy too long to worry about her criticisms, and can well recall the hearty relish with which she attacked college bread and margarine spread with thick-cut Scottish marmalade, not to mention a truly repellent dish of minced meat in a suet crust which, with juvenile flippancy, we christened 'Boiled Baby'.

However, she approved graciously of my coffee, and as soon as we had finished we set off to the church.

'Looks like thunder,' commented Amy, eyeing the darkening sky. There was a sullen coppery look about the piled clouds, and not a leaf stirred in the airless heat.

'Let's hope it waits until we're safely home again,' I answered, as we joined the queue at the south door.

It was good to see St Patrick's so full. Seldom had the ancient hammer-beam roof looked down upon such a glittering assembly. We had all done our best to make this a splendid occasion. I studied the attire and coiffures around me. There were several new hats, worn by those who felt unable to attend church unless so crowned, and among them was one upon Mrs Pringle's locks. It was entirely new to me. Where was the faithful old number adorned with dangling cherries? Where was the navyblue, decorated with white feathers, which had first seen the light at her niece Minnie's wedding? No doubt safely lodged on top of the wardrobe at home. I hoped so. I missed those two old friends, but studied the new creation with interest. It was of green straw, formidably brimmed, and garlanded with plastic anemones which looked suspiciously like those given away recently with packets of soap powder. It was exceedingly handsome, I thought, and proof of Mrs Pringle's support of the Festival.

In the front pews sat our local gentry, elegant in-silks and velvets, their hair blue-rinsed, silver-streaked, or discreetly tinted. Occasionally, wafts of delicious perfume floated back to us, as a stole was rearranged or a handbag was opened.

The nave was shadowy, but a shaft of golden light illuminated the chancel and altar. Mr Annett, at the organ, played some gentle melody, vaguely familiar, which I guessed must be by Haydn or Mozart.

St Patrick's clock struck nine. The music stopped and the vicar appeared at the chancel steps.

'You are about to hear the story of Fairacre,' he told us, 'and in particular the story of this lovely old church. But before it begins let us pray that we may see it restored to its former beauty, so that those who come after us may cherish it as we have done.'

We slipped to our knees and listened to the simple prayer. Then, with a susurration of silks and satins, we resumed our seats, eager for what might come.

The golden light, which suffused the chancel, changed to a dim blue. The cross glimmered upon the altar amidst the ghostly shadows. We shivered in awe. It was very quiet. Only, far away, a faint rumbling could be heard. It could have been distant thunder, or a farm vehicle out late upon its lawful business.

There was a faint crackling sound and then Basil Bradley's voice echoed strongly through the church.

'Long, long ago, so learned men tell us, the Romans may have passed this way. They did not settle here as far as we know. Among our downs water is scarce, and there are few natural defences against the elements or the enemy. The Romans left no signs of occupation here.

But centuries later, when the next invaders came to Britain, they left their mark upon this place. Upon this spot, where now we are gathered, the Normans built a small, strong church of which parts still remain.'

At this point the chancel arch was thrown into prominence, a mellow golden light illuminating the angular stone carving. Few of Fairacre's parishioners had realised until this dramatic moment what unsuspected richness had lain in the shadowy chancel arch so high above them.

'The work was begun probably about the middle of the twelfth century—' A crackling noise interrupted the mellifluous voice, and was immediately followed by a burst of thunder which broke around us like machine-gun fire. We ducked involuntarily at the report' then, remembering ourselves, sat up and looked polite and attentive.

The church was plunged in darkness and the voice had ceased. A little agitated whispering rustled round the congregation.

'Lord Almighty!' boomed Mr Roberts whose voice is as large as his generous heart. 'We've been and got struck!'

At this, commotion broke out on all sides. There was nothing panic-stricken about us. We are all used to storms, which can occur with horrifying ferocity, but they are soon over in Fairacre. What really worried us was the breakdown of the performance and the bitter disappointment of all those who had spent so long in preparing it.

The vicar, rising from his seat to direct and comfort his flock, suddenly saw, with amazing clarity, in his mind's eye Queen Anne's chalice. It seemed to float in mid-air, brilliantly clear at first, but gradually fading, as if it were passing away from him to distances unknown. The vicar's heart beat uncomfortably loudly, his throat grew constricted, but he put his fears from him and addressed his flock.

'Please remain seated, dear people. Candles will be lit at once, and would Mr Roberts be so kind as to step across to the vicarage and telephone the Electricity Board to see what can be done?'

'I'm on my way, sir,' called Mr Roberts, and the crash of strong footsteps confirmed this.

'Mark my words,' said Amy beside me.
'The Caxley Chronicle
will tell us that this power cut was caused by a swan flying into the cable.'

'Perhaps it was,' I replied.

'Fiddlesticks!' snapped Amy. 'It was the storm!'