Village Centenary (7 page)

'There's a lot to be said for a service during the hours of daylight,' I replied diplomatically.

And we left it at that.

'By the way,' 1 said, as 1 accompanied him to the door. 'Do you happen to know Major Gunning's address?'

I told him about Amy's hope of inviting Jean Cole to dinner. He looked doubtful.

'She's so much in demand,' he said.

'I know.'

'But I can give you the major's address. He's at a private hotel in Caxley. It's either Ash Tree Hotel, or Elm Court or possibly Hawthorn House. Something arboreal, I know. I will look it up and let you have it, Miss Read.'

He gave a sigh.

'This Caxley Festival is, no doubt, an excellent project, but it does seem to make an inordinate amount of
planning.
'

I agreed, and returning to my class, thought that centenary celebrations shared the same problems.

Amy's party took place on the second day of the month.

After a boisterous morning which toppled the crocuses and blew the rooks off course, the sun came out, and by the time I set off all was tranquil. The western sky was dappled with little pink clouds as the sun went down, and the air was so clear and still that I could see a range of hills some twenty miles away to the south.

Obedient to Amy's request, I had donned a long black skirt bought at Caxley's most favoured outfitters, and identical to quite half a dozen I had observed on various local friends during the past winter. The blouse that topped it was of black and white silk which I thought looked rather fetching, but as it had a back zip I was resigned to undertaking violent contortions to do it up every time I wore it, and was beginning to wonder how long it would be before such exercises were beyond me.

As usual, I was the first to arrive. Amy greeted me with unusual affection.

'You look splendid! Truly elegant! Come and see the table. I'm rather proud of the flowers.'

She led the way into the dining room, and it certainly was a vision of delight. Daffodils and narcissi scented the room, and in the centre of the table was a magnificent arrangement of freesias and miniature daffodils in shades of cream and gold.

Amy stood surveying it, a look of supreme satisfaction on her face.

'It's perfect,' I told her.

'And that damask tablecloth was my grandmother's. It's a devil to launder, and so it doesn't get used very often, but those Victorians had some good ideas about dressing a table.'

'Do you remember Mrs Beeton's illustration for a simple supper party? Three epergnes of red roses down the centre, and smilax trailing everywhere?'

'Our old edition had a picture of a tray for an invalid,' recalled Amy. 'There were two silver trumpet-shaped flower vases with carnations, as well as two or three dishes complete with silver covers, a coffee pot, milk jug and sugar bowl. I don't think you could lift the thing, let alone stagger upstairs with it. But I must say it looked superb.'

'I pity anyone being taken ill in my house. A plate of toast and a mug of tea would be about my limit.'

'James has occasionally brought me my breakfast in bed when I've been too ill with flu, or something equally horrid, to get up. He can manage very thick bread and butter, with the crusts rather touchingly cut off, and the marmalade pot, and a cup of tea with most of it in the saucer by the time he's negotiated the stairs. But I certainly don't get carnations, and to be honest, I don't think I should appreciate them in the state I'm in when I have to stay in bed.'

'Now tell me who's coming,' I said when we returned to the sitting room.

'The two poets I told you about, and Betty Mason the pianist. Jean Cole is on tour in Belgium. 1 managed to get in touch with Major Gunning, thanks to you, and he says she'll be back next week and he'll find out her plans.'

'He won't forget,' I assured her. 'He was the mainstay of dozens of our village committees.'

'I invited him tonight, but he says he's become rather too old for parties. A shame really, he sounds a dear.'

'And James?'

'No James, I'm afraid. At a company dinner in South Shields. But I've invited Horace Umbleditch to make up the six. He's giving an organ recital in the church as part of the Caxley Festival, so he'll enjoy meeting some of the others, I hope. And anyway, he's devoted to you.'

'He's nothing of the sort!' I protested. 'I hardly know the fellow!'

'Well, I know better. And he's moved into such a charming house in the school grounds now, and could well do with a wife.'

'Amy, you are incorrigible! You know I have no wish to marry, nor presumably has Horace Umbleditch, and if he had, I'm sure he could find someone younger and keener than I am. Do leave us happy old spinsters and bachelors in peace!'

'Hoity-toity!' cried Amy, as the front-door bell rang. I watched her as she hurried to answer it, admiring the back view of her elegant cream silk caftan. Had she chosen it for tonight's occasion as the perfect complement to her flower arrangements? Knowing Amy, I guessed that she had.

She returned with Betty Mason in tow, a short rather dumpy person wearing black with a sparkling necklace. She had beautifully waved silver hair and a soft, powdery pink and white complexion which reminded me of marshmallows. During the evening I was to discover that she was as sweet and gentle as her looks.

We had scarcely greeted each other when Amy was called to the door again, and Horace Umbleditch arrived. There was no need for introductions as Betty and Horace knew each other, and were soon deep in discussion about the best choice of music for a country festival.

Then, turning to me, Horace asked if 1 had heard the good news about his sister Irene.

'Henry Mawne told me,' I said, and then wondered if the good news he spoke of was about the proposed marriage to David Mawne after all. Perhaps it was something quite different - a new post, maybe, or a fantastic win on the pools, always supposing that Irene went in for such things.

However, I did not have to endure suspense for long, as Horace said that the wedding was to be in early June, at a registry office, and no doubt I should see them before then as they proposed to stay for a few days with Henry during the Caxley Festival.

'It is marvellous news,' I agreed, glad to be right for once. 'And where will they live?'

'For the moment in David's flat, but I expect they will move further out sometime. It's not much fun there for Simon in the holidays, and I'm sure Irene will look forward to making a home elsewhere.'

Away from the haunting horrors which that flat must hold for David, I thought privately, and for young Simon who had seen his mother at her most terrifying in those surroundings.

Amy came in and glanced at the clock, which said a quarter to eight. 'I do hope the others haven't lost their way. They are coming together.'

'Tim Ferdinand's usually pretty punctual,' said Horace.

'Oh, you know him! I hadn't realised that.'

'Very slightly. He came to the school one evening to read poetry to the boys. They were remarkably well-behaved.'

No one knew quite how to react to the last remark, and Amy said she must go and check that the crab was all right, conjuring up visions of a sickly crustacean with a bottle of medicine alongside.

'Something smells delicious,' commented Betty kindly.

'I just hope it won't be overdone,' said Amy, setting off for the kitchen. 'It's in a light cheese sauce, and you know how easily that can dry up.'

'Amy is the best cook I know,' said Horace with enthusiasm. 'After school meals, all cabbage and custard, the food here is sheer ambrosia.'

'It's so nice,' said Betty, 'to find people interested in food. I can't bear those who profess to have a mind above it, particularly when you have spent all day and a great deal of money in preparing something you think they will enjoy.'

The bell rang again, and we heard voices in the hall.

'I can't
think,
' we heard a despairing voice say, 'where I went wrong, but we took a short cut and ended up on the downs. It really is too bad the way some of these roads simply peter out into sheep tracks. A hundred apologies, Amy dear.'

'All is forgiven,' said Amy, 'and you really aren't late at all. Come and meet the others.'

She ushered in a short tubby man with a florid complexion set off by a neat white moustache. He could have been taken for a retired colonel or a particularly kindly bank manager. Perhaps he was, I thought, and simply wrote poems in his spare time on the back of Queen's Regulations or the bank's blotting-paper.

'John Chandler,' said Amy. 'He has just published his third book of poems.'

We all gave cries of admiration and welcomed our fellow guest.

'And Timothy Ferdinand. You know Horace, I believe, and this is Betty Mason the pianist, and Miss Read.'

We made more polite noises and I thought how much more like a poet he looked. For one thing, he was painfully thin and pale, as Amy had told me, with a wobbly Adam's apple which showed to advantage as he wore an open-necked shirt above blue jeans carefully fringed at the ankle. I was glad to see he had socks on under the inevitable sandals, and his hands were clean.

He looked a pleasant, if vague, young man, and still seemed to be brooding about the way he became lost on his journey.

'It happens to us all,' I assured him. 'It's those crossroads at Springbourne. Someone said once that it seems to be moved overnight. As a matter of fact, some young people did turn the signpost round one night, and confusion was worse confounded.'

He looked a little happier.

'You're quite right. It was at the crossroads we went wrong. But why not say "No thoroughfare", or "Downs only"?'

'I suppose the reasoning
is
that there is a road for about a mile before-it dwindles into a track.'

'Possibly,' said Timothy doubtfully. He took out a rather grubby red and white spotted handkerchief and polished his sherry glass in a preoccupied way. I was glad that Amy was out of the room at the time.

Before long she returned, and we talked about the Caxley Festival while the most delicious smells wreathed around us.

The attitude of the two poets towards this event varied considerably, although both agreed, somewhat vehemently, that Caxley needed 'to be awakened'. John Chandler looked upon it as a useful way of becoming known to a larger number of readers than before.

'Good publicity,' he said briskly. 'Might even sell a dozen or so extra books. Though one can't help feeling that at these affairs one is preaching to the converted. Still, it all helps.'

Timothy Ferdinand's attitude was less commercial.

'Oh surely,' he cried, 'it is the artist and his work that really matters! He needs an audience to stimulate him, and I think that the festival will do that very well.'

'Let's carry on this discussion while we eat,' said Amy.

We followed our hostess into the pretty dining room and confronted our sizzling ramekins.

'If you don't like crab,' said Amy, 'there is melon ready on the sideboard.'

Only Betty asked if she might change. 'I adore crab, but can't digest it,' she said apologetically, and John rose swiftly to make the replacement.

I thought how sensible Amy was to offer an alternative to one's first course. So often the hostess has gone to no end of trouble to produce something rather exotic, often with shell fish or avocado pear which many people cannot take. I myself have several times been faced with taramasalata which, with the best will in the world, I cannot get down. If only I had been offered a slice of melon or a nice little tot of orange or tomato juice waiting on the sideboard, how much happier I should have been!

Horace Umbleditch sat beside me and John Chandler opposite. They were both exuberant talkers and Amy and I had little to do in the way of keeping the conversation going. Timothy Ferdinand still seemed slightly distraught, at the foot of the table, facing Amy, but gulped down his crab as though he had not seen food for weeks, and nodded abstractedly at Betty's gentle remarks.

Cold turkey and ham with a handsome salad followed the crab, and a dish of mammoth baked potatoes with butter melting in their floury tops. As Amy served us, I was amused to notice that Timothy was engrossed in cleaning between the prongs of his perfectly spotless fork by inserting them busily in the edge of Amy's beautiful damask tablecloth. He seemed quite unaware of anything amiss. His periodic nods at Betty's gallant monologue continued as before, as with eyes on his work he polished assiduously.

Whether Amy saw him or not, I could not say, but she continued serving with her usual charm, whilst commenting on the possibility of getting Jean Cole to attend the poetry reading during the festival week.

Fortunately, the arrival of his main course saw the cessation of Timothy's cleansing operations, and he fell to with a will and did not seem to feel the need to polish anything else during the sweet and cheese courses.

At last he leant back and gave a sigh of contentment. 'What a perfect dinner! I hardly ever sit down to a meal when I'm alone, and certainly never to one as splendid as this.'