Long Summer Day (86 page)

II

B
y extending the area of the Jamboree beyond the Valley and inviting entries from districts north of Paxtonbury, east to the county border, and west to Gilroy’s estates, Paul had not intended to stress the competitive element but, as Horace Handcock warned him, an occasion like this would unleash local patriotism on a formidable scale and Horace must have known his west-country men for the Jamboree soon lost its national flavour and entered the arena of local partisanship, with substantial bets being laid on the top score of the various competing units. These units were basically geographical and the intense rivalry between them was not finally resolved until a match had been applied to the set-piece of the new King and Queen. That, however, was very late in the day and in the meantime competition was intense, for superimposed upon geographical backgrounds was the rivalry between the civilians and the Territorials and the Yeomanry, so that sometimes there was a conflict of loyalties. By afternoon the general scheme of the contest had sorted itself out and the amateur bookmakers were at last able to introduce some kind of pattern into their wagers.

The Valley gained a headstart when Rose Derwent, on her steeplechaser Tawnyboy, won the principal event of the Gymkhana. One of Gilroy’s stable-lads rode her to a close finish after a pile up at the water-jump and she streaked down the flat with little more than a nose to spare.

Then, to the Valley’s surprise and disgust, the famed Goliath of Bideford, a hot favourite for the Cornish wrestling championship, was vanquished in the final by a Horse Artilleryman from Paxtonbury. It seemed that clearing Potter land and digging Potter wells had not provided the right training for this kind of contest, despite the fact that Jem Pollock still looked a magnificent specimen of manhood in his leopard-skin. The men of the Valley, however, seeing him thrown three times in succession in the heats, were not deceived and dispersed wondering if any man, no matter how thick of thigh and broad of chest, could be expected to keep two Potter girls quiescent and still triumph in the wrestling ring. Anyway, he was badly beaten, and several less well-regulated fights threatened to break out between territorials and agriculturalists as a result of the verdict. Jem took his defeat well, declaring his opponent a master of the art but in the dressing tent Cissie and Violet Potter felt ashamed and blamed the issue on Meg’s insistence that Jem should enter the contest with a full belly. They had cause to complain. In the interests of the Valley they had denied themselves his comforting presence for almost a week and had looked on glumly that morning when Meg had sent him out fortified by five fried eggs, three pounds of fried potatoes and a dozen rashers of green bacon.

Lord Gilroy’s team won the hedging and ditching contest and a West Dorset silver band was judged the winner of the band contest but Sam Potter brought the Valley to the forefront again with his brilliant exhibition of rail-splitting. It was a joy to watch him straddling a great beech log, whirling his woodsman’s axe as though it had been a conductor’s baton. The sweat poured down his naked back as he worked his way towards the tapering end, occasionally exchanging his axe for wedges and a fourteen-pound sledge until, like a neatly divided apple, the lot split down the middle.

A curious thing happened in the final of the clay-pigeon contest where Smut Potter, to everyone’s amusement, came face to face with Dave Buller, the Heronslea keeper whose scars had cost Smut three years and eight months behind bars. Paul, when he saw the pair take up their stand, expressed anxiety but John Rudd laughed at him, declaring that Dave bore Smut no malice. And neither did he, it seemed, for when Smut won, he went up to him and wrung his hand saying, cheerfully, ‘Well, Smut, you baint lost your touch I zee!’ and everybody within earshot applauded the keeper’s sportsmanlike attitude.

Other highlights of the day were the tub race, won by the Yeomanry after all their competitors had capsized and the Ladies’ Pancake Tossing sprint, won in fine style by Elinor Codsall, mother of three but still as fleet of foot as when she was a slip of a girl. Ikey increased the Valley’s lead before tea by winning the mile, with half a lap in hand, but the tug-of-war proved almost as big a disappointment as the wrestling for despite Jem Pollock as anchor, the Territorials dragged the Sorrel men over the mark in a series of expert heaves and pulled into overall second place by going on to win the open relay.

By six o’clock, when points had been totted up after the ankle competition and fancy-dress events (events sporting men discounted and excluded from their wagers) the Valley was only one point ahead and the atmosphere was charged with excitement as competitors lined up for the most spectacular event of the day, a two-lap trap-race, with no pettifogging conditions imposed on it and here, it seemed, the Terriers were favourites and a win would give them a clear five-points lead.

The day had been intensely hot, with distant thunder rumbling beyond the Bluff and when the stewards cleared the course word came that Eveleigh’s eldest boy, Gilbert, who had been training the Codsall skewball Firefly for the event, had sprained his wrist getting ashore in the tub race and had been obliged to withdraw. In the few minutes left the Valley was canvassed for a substitute but none with any chance of holding off the strong challenge came forward, so that a howl of dismay rose from the ropes as Eveleigh, looking even more unsmiling than usual, began to lead Firefly out of the line-up. Paul, standing alongside the starter, said philosophically, ‘Well, that’s that, John! The Terriers have it in the bag,’ but John said suddenly, ‘Look here, they needn’t have! You can handle a trap smartly enough, get up there and show ’em,’ and to Paul’s surprise Claire, overhearing the challenge, said, ‘Do it, Paul! Even if you don’t really care who wins everyone else in the Valley does!’ So Paul peeled off his coat, donned a steeplechaser’s crash hat and climbed into the box to the accompaniment of the biggest cheer of the day but feeling far less confident of his ability to negotiate the bends than were his supporters.

There were five entries but only the Terrier looked dangerous and Paul was relieved to be drawn on the inside, a starting position that seemed likely to exploit Firefly’s reputation as a flying starter. He thought, as he picked up the reins, ‘Good God, this is ridiculous! I feel more nervous than I did out on the Veldt, or fishing those Germans ashore in the cove, and all over a footling chariot race in one of my own meadows!’

Then they were off, with Firefly gaining a clear yard in a couple of bounds and he held on to his inside place round the first bend as the ponies went into a stretched gallop on the slight downslope of the flat. The pace was terrifying. Never had he moved so fast behind a horse and he thought, as he dragged Firefly round the second bend and into the straight to complete the first lap, that he must have been an ass to let Henry Pitts and Will Codsall override him on the potential dangers of this event. On the third bend he heard a wild shout, and the splintering of wood behind him but it was not until he had started the final lap that he saw what had happened. Three of the traps had crashed in a wheel-lock on the second bend and were only dragged clear as he pounded straight down on the mêlée with the Terrier drawing level and half-standing in his box as he lashed his pony to overtake at the second bend.

The spectators now seemed to go mad in a body, for as the two traps flashed by neck-and-neck they poured from behind the ropes and capered into the centre of the course, and then, as the two survivors entered the straight again, Paul realised he had the race in hand for the Terrier dropped back and Firefly crossed the finishing line with a length in hand and Paul had to use all his strength to avoid ploughing on into the crowd now scattered all over the track. He said, as an exultant Henry Pitts jumped for the pony’s head and brought him to a halt, ‘The next time you insist on a chariot race you can damned well compete yourself, Henry!’ but Henry only banged him on the back and bellowed, ‘Us ’ave shown ’em, Squire! Us ’ave shown ’em!’ and every man, woman and child in the Valley agreed with him, even Claire, who had watched the race with her heart in her mouth feeling sick at the thought that, if Paul had been injured, she would have blamed herself for the rest of a guilty life.

Paul went over to inspect the damage to the others and found, to his great relief, that all three drivers had escaped with bruises, although their vehicles were shattered, two of them beyond repair. The Yeomanry competitor was undismayed for his entry had been official and the trap was on the inventory of the barracks, but Paul felt sorry for the Dorset man, a young farmer now dolefully inspecting the wreck of his gaily-painted rig. ‘What do you value it at?’ he asked, and the man said it was his father’s trap and the old man had paid four pounds ten shillings for it at Paxtonbury market only a month ago. ‘My agent, Mr Rudd, will give you the money out of funds,’ he said and feeling magnanimous as winner of such a contest, added, ‘and here’s an extra ten shillings for danger money!’

Over in the east thunder continued to mutter but the rain held off and it was decided to hold the dancing in the open air. Paul went into the refreshment hut for a badly needed drink and was served by a tall, thin, bespectacled young man, whom he did not recognise until Doctor Maureen, sipping a brandy close at hand, told him the volunteer barman was Keith Horsey, son of the rector, still known as New Parson, although he had now occupied Parson Bull’s pulpit for more than three years. He went across and talked to the youth, finding him very shy and afflicted by a slight stammer.

‘Does Ikey know you are here?’ he asked, ‘you were at school together, weren’t you?’ and Keith said that this was true but that he had returned home from Oxford only that day and had so far not spoken to Ikey although he had watched him win the mile. Paul said, ‘There’s dancing going on now and a chap your age would be better employed following his fancy. I’ll find someone to take on here!’ but the boy began to protest and his stammer increased, so that Paul would have left the matter there had not Ikey lounged into the tent at that moment, greeting Keith with genuine pleasure. Paul noticed that the parson’s son lost his stammer at once and the way he looked at Ikey, with myopic brown eyes, reminded him of Grace’s retriever anticipating an ear-rub in front of the library fire. He thought, smiling to himself, ‘He’s got a way with him has Ikey! There isn’t a soul here who doesn’t perk up when Ikey walks in and this poor little toad obviously worships him!’ and on the pretence of buying Maureen a drink he disposed of Keith for a moment and said, ‘Take that kid down to the dancing enclosure and make sure he gets a girl! He’ll do no good standing here serving drinks for the rest of the night!’

‘A girl! Beanpole Horsey with a girl?’ said Ikey, laughing, ‘I know you’ve just bankrupted the bookies by winning the chariot race, Gov’nor, but don’t ask for miracles! Beanpole wouldn’t know what to do with a girl if he was locked up with one.’

‘What sort of chap was he at school?’ Paul asked, and Ikey replied a first-class brain but that was about all. ‘He’s a trier all right,’ he added, ‘and he’s got guts but somehow they don’t show. I like him and always have. I’ll get working on him tomorrow, Gov.,’ but for some reason Paul persisted, saying, ‘No, Ikey, not tomorrow, now! All the girls will have gone tomorrow and some girls like self-effacing types! They don’t all fall for the cocky bounders like you!’

‘Well,’ Ikey said, ‘always willing to oblige, especially after your performance!’ and he ambled over to Keith and Paul watched them stand chatting for a few moments after which Keith took off his barman’s apron, folded it neatly and left the tent like a poacher’s lurcher trotting at its master’s heels. It was a trivial incident, perhaps the most trivial of the day, but he was to remember it long after the excitement of the chariot race had faded from his memory.

III

K
eith Horsey, now eighteen, would not have survived his first year at High Wood without the patronage of Ikey Palfrey. After fighting for him, and giving him an essential breathing space, Ikey had found it difficult to shed partial responsibility for the ungainly youth and although Horsey was regarded as a useless weed by almost everyone in the school Ikey soon realised that this was by no means the whole truth about the Beanpole. He possessed, for instance, a great deal of moral courage, and moral courage was in short supply at High Wood. As it was, buttressed in some measure by Ikey’s friendship, Beanpole not only survived but made some kind of impact by his stand against the code of Bloods, notably, that part of it condoning smut and cribbing. In the course of this lonely crusade he collected innumerable beatings, both official and unofficial, but he never yielded ground and no one succeeded in extracting from him so much as a yelp. As Hillman, the Captain of Fortescue, once put it, ‘It’s like walloping a deaf mute and a man can’t do it and then sit down to tea and buns with an easy mind.’ So, in the end, they left him to himself and to Ikey, and the Beanpole shot rapidly up the school to the Sixth where he won the coveted open scholarship to Oxford at the unprecedented age of seventeen and left to read economics and philosophy. Although Ikey had lost touch with him since entering Woolwich the previous year he had by no means forgotten him and was genuinely pleased to see him at the Jamboree. For an hour or more they talked, watching the dancers moving over the clipped turf to the blare of the Yeomanry band and it was not until Ikey saw Rachel Eveleigh partnerless on the far side of the square that he recollected his instructions. Bidding Keith wait for him he lounged across and greeted her.

Rachel was the second daughter of the Four Winds string of children and the most like her placid mother, Marian. She had red-gold hair, a good-natured, slightly freckled face and blue eyes that tonight had something of a snap in them.

‘I’m pairing up on Squire’s instructions, Rachel,’ Ikey told her, ‘do you know Keith Horsey, the parson’s son?’ and when Rachel admitted that she knew him by sight, ‘I wonder if you would do Squire a favour and bring him on a bit? He’s a nice chap but on the shy side so you’ll have to make the running,’ and to Ikey’s surprise Rachel replied in her soft Devon brogue, ‘I’d love to meet him, he’s always seemed a very polite boy and there aren’t so many around tonight!’ and without waiting to be introduced she walked across the enclosure and stood smiling in front of him while Ikey, temporarily losing the initiative, said, ‘Er … Keith old man, this is Rachel Eveleigh from Four Winds … Rachel … you’ve er … you’ve seen him in church, maybe?’ Keith said nothing but stood blinking at the girl who took him by the hand with a cheerful, ‘Come on, this is an easy one, the Military Two-Step. Follow me all the way round!’ and Ikey was left standing with his mouth open having always thought of Rachel Eveleigh as hardly less shy than Keith. He did not notice another solitary figure, a boy about his own age wearing spectacles nearly as thick-lensed as Keith’s, slightly apart from Rachel when he approached, and who remained to watch the couple merge into the long file of dancers circling the bandstand, but Rachel was very much aware of Sydney Codsall, standing by with an expression of baffled irritation on his face for her ready acceptance of Ikey’s appeal had been the direct result of a sharp exchange between them earlier that evening.