(7/20) Fairacre Festival Read online

  'With crayons?'

  'Yes, with crayons.'

  'Won't be much good. 'Twas all dark. Shan't want no colours.'

  'Then you can simply use your lead pencil,' I retorted loftily. Disgruntled muttering from the malcontent's desk I ignored pointedly.

  An unusual quietness fell upon the room, broken only by laboured breathing as the pangs of composition gripped them, and the stutter of crayons depicting rain. I wandered to the window and gazed out. A drift of dead leaves rustled against the foot of the school wall, and a mat of ivy flapped loosely above it, wrenched from its anchorage by the gale.

  The vicarage garden seemed bare of leaves, and through the gaps in the denuded shrubbery I could see several of the helpers making their way home. This, I told myself, certainly brings people together—nothing like a common foe to unite a community.

  At that moment, young Tom in the front row, raised his hand. His parents are fiercely evangelical, and he is uncomfortably well-behaved and a trifle smug.

  'How d'you spell "Wrath-of-God"?' he enquired earnestly.

  'How do you intend to use the phrase?' I asked guardedly.

  He turned his attention to the paper before him and read slowly.

  '"Our chapel was not hit in the night, but the church was. My mum said it was—"' He paused and looked up hopefully.

  I spelt out the desired phrase. My sympathy went out to those working for Christian unity, and I made a mental note to have a lesson on 'loving thy neighbour as thyself,' before the end of the week.

  It looked as though Fairacre might profit from it.

  Chapter 2

  BEFORE Monday came round again, much had happened in the village.

  In the first place, Fairacre had put itself to rights as best it could. Broken branches were sawn up into neat logs and stacked inside wood-sheds. Shrubs and standard roses were lashed to new stakes. Slates and tiles were hung again, thatch patched and hen-house roofs replaced and weighted with sizeable flint stones, in case of future gales.

  Nelly Potter's cat returned, none the worse for a night out. Mr Roberts, the farmer, retrieved some of his scattered hay, and Mrs Pringle, discovering a child's apron blowing on the hedge, recognised it as one of little Vanessa Emery's and returned it graciously to the child's scatter-brained mother.

  'Nearly tore to shreds it was by the time the wind had done with it,' said Mrs Pringle to me, before school one morning, 'but I don't suppose it'll ever see needle and thread in that house. Proper muddler that woman is! Half past nine when I called in, and she still in her dressing-gown!'

  Mrs Pringle drew an outraged breath at the very thought, and picked up a cinder which was marring the glossy jet of the stove's surround.

  'Still, I will say,' she conceded, as she straightened up with an ominous creaking of whalebone stays, 'that she give me a very nice smile and thanked me for my trouble.'

  'Good,' I said absently, rummaging in my drawer for a paper clip.

  'which,' boomed Mrs Pringle pointedly, 'is a lot more than some people do!'

  And with a pronounced limp she made her way to the lobby.

  Mr Willet had cleared up the mess in the school playground, and had continued the good work, in his capacity of church sexton, in the graveyard next door. Luckily, the ancient headstones had escaped injury, for the tree which caused most of the trouble had lodged against the roof of the church, and had been lifted clear by the crane without much difficulty.

  The damage to the fabric of the church was Fairacre's most serious problem. Providentially, it was less than had been feared at first. The stout ancient roof beams had stood the blow well, and only three or four would need to be replaced. But much retiling needed to be done to the spire and the nave, and the belfry wanted a stonemason's attention.

  'And can you give us any idea of the expense?' asked the vicar anxiously as he, Mr Mawne and Jock Graham accompanied the diocesan architect and his young assistant on the tour of inspection.

  The architect peered over his half-glasses and looked solemn.

  'Mr Graham will go into figures of course, but I should say, at a rough estimate—'

  'A very rough estimate,' chimed in the assistant, speaking as one who has often been caught out and hoped to miss the unpleasant experience this time.

  'As a very rough estimate,' agreed the architect, looking coldly at his colleague, 'somewhere in the region—'

  'Only in the region,' interjected the assistant sternly.

  'Of about one thousand eight hundred pounds to two thousand.'

  'About, of course, just about,' echoed his companion. 'One can never be sure what one will find once the work is in hand, as I am sure Mr Graham will agree. One doesn't want to be too hasty in suggesting a figure.'

  'So I noticed,' observed Mr Mawne drily.

  His face wore a small satisfied smile. This was the sum he had suggested in the first place to his friend, the vicar, and it was some comfort in this bleak hour to know that he was not far out in his estimation.

  The vicar's rosy face, however, showed no sign of pleasure, simply stupefaction and distress. He was quite beyond speech.

  'We'll go back and report our findings,' said the architect kindly, tucking his half-glasses into a splendid gold-tooled case. 'And, if Mr Graham wishes, I'll send you the names of some reputable contractors who specialise in church repairs who will, of course, give you a detailed estimate when they have had a look at your little bit of trouble here.'

  The vicar opened his mouth as though stung into speech, thought better of it, and said nothing. They crossed the churchyard to the black Humber at the gate.

  'I shouldn't worry too much, my dear sir,' said the architect with misplaced heartiness. 'Could have been much worse, you know. Think of Coventry Cathedral. Now there was some damage!'

  The car drove off, watched by Mr Mawne, Mr Graham and their stricken friend. As it rounded the bend to the village street, the vicar found his voice.

  'I don't like to seem uncharitable, but I hope that I may never see that man again! "Our little bit of trouble" indeed!'

  'Take no heed of his havering,' rumbled Jock Graham.

  The vicar's lips quivered suddenly.

  'But what are we to do? What are we to do?'

  Henry Mawne rose to the occasion.

  'We will call an emergency meeting of the Parochial Church Council and put on our thinking caps,' he replied firmly. Together they shepherded Gerald Partridge to the haven of his vicarage, and a muchneeded cup of coffee.

  The Parochial Church Council, all twelve of us, turned up in full force on Friday evening. We met in the vicarage dining-room which was still faintly redolent of the curried lamb and baked apples on which Mr and Mrs Partridge had recently dined.

  There were present the vicar, in the chair, Mr Mawne and his wife, Mr Roberts, the other churchwarden and our local farmer, Mr Graham as honorary architect, Mr Willet and myself, all from the village. Mr Basil Bradley and Major Gunning represented Spring-bourne, which is also in the living of Fairacre's vicar, and three rather prosperous younger men, who commute daily to the City, thus making up our full complement.

  Basil Bradley produces a novel each year and is much thought of in the district. He is called upon to open bazaars and fêtes, and is much in demand as a speaker at various functions, twice rising to the dizzy heights of chief speaker at local Women's Institute group meetings. Since the death of his formidable mother, who guarded his goings-out and comings-in zealously, he has lived alone in a pretty cottage enjoying his freedom. He is a remarkably handsome man, with the ashen fair hair which slips imperceptibly over the years into silver, and the gentle manners born of many years of willing servitude to his tyrant. Men dislike him. Women dote on him, and do their best to get him married. Somehow, I do not think that they will ever be successful.

  Major Gunning is as martial as his name, and has a garden full of well-disciplined plants as upright as himself. His paths are straight. His standard roses line them like a guard of honour. A
row of poplars stands sentinel upon his skyline. No daisies spangle Major Gunning's lawns, no groundsel mars the beds. And should any pink or poppy droop its pretty head out of its appointed place, then summary execution must be expected.

  It was he who spoke first after the vicar had explained the dilemma.

  'Open an Appeal Fund. Stick up a good bold board outside the church, and send notices to every man-jack in the parish.'

  'Humph!' snorted Mrs Mawne beside him. 'That won't bring in much!'

  'And have you any suggestions?' asked Major Gunning, bristling.

  'Plenty,' snapped Mrs Mawne, slapping her gloves down on the table challengingly. 'First of all—'

  'Address the chair,' put in Mr Mawne.

  His wife twitched round exasperatedly and faced the vicar.

  'Mr Chairman, I think determined and regular money-raising efforts should be started at once. A weekly whist-drive, a weekly dance, a weekly raffle, a weekly coffee morning—'

  'But, my dear Mrs Mawne,' pleaded the vicar, 'where is the money to come from?'

  'I'm telling you. From all these activities!'

  Basil Bradley took upon himself the thankless task of explanation.

  'But where, I think our Chairman means, will the people get the money? Their wages will remain at the same level. They can't afford to go to so many weekly functions.'

  'Thank you,' said the vicar simply. 'That is the position exactly. We must try to think of attracting outside help. The parish itself has no riches.'

  A gloomy silence fell while we all pondered this sad fact.

  'D'you mean that there is no help at all from some body or other?' demanded Mr Roberts at length. 'You know—Ecclesiastical Commissioners or the Diocese, or Friends of Friendless Churches? Something o' that?'

  'St Patrick's isn't a friendless church,' said the vicar defensively. 'It's a very much-loved church.'

  'Yes, indeed. Yes, indeed,' agreed Mr Willet warmly.

  'But I'm afraid we have only ourselves to rely on,' went on the vicar. 'The Bishop was deeply sympathetic, but made it quite plain that the parish is solely responsible for these repairs.'

  'I think Mrs Mawne's suggestions are on the right lines,' I volunteered. 'If all the village organisations make a particular effort it means that we shall raise quite a decent part of the whole by our own exertions.'

  'We could map out a programme,' said Mr Roberts. 'What about a traction engine rally in my big meadow?'

  'And a folk-dancing display by the village school?' said Mrs Mawne. I could have made a tart retort, but forbore.

  'And a bumper Fur and Feather Whist Drive this autumn?' said Mr Willet.

  'I should be very pleased to open my garden next summer,' offered Basil Bradley. 'And provide tea. I've just mastered Chelsea buns.'

  'How very clever!' cried Mrs Mawne turning towards him. 'Now they are things which I simply cannot manage. Cream horns, almond slices, Victoria sandwiches, gingerbread—I flatter myself I can cope with anything like that, but yeast cookery is my Waterloo. How much sugar do you put in with your yeast?'

  The chairman, seeing his meeting dissolve, as is so often the case in village affairs, banged loudly on the table.

  'Please, please, ladies and gentlemen! Miss Read and Mrs Mawne have both made the suggestion that we see how much can be raised by superhuman efforts in the village by traditional methods. Can anyone add to this idea?'

  A rumbling noise from under Mr Willet's tobacco-stained moustache gave warning of wise words to follow. Little did we think, as we waited, that we were witnessing the birth of a momentous brain-child.

  'What's wrong with having all these things—or most of 'em, say—in one week next summer? A Festival, like. We hears a lot about the Edinburgh Festival and all their goings-on up there. And there's that chap, Britten, at the Aldwych—'

  'Aldeburgh,' put in Basil Bradley.

  'Same thing,' said Mr Willet airily. 'He has a Festival by the seaside. Mr Annett's been. He said 'twas a real slap-up affair. Well, what I'm getting at is this. Why can't we have a Fairacre Festival?'

  We all gazed at Mr Willet with respect.

  'It's a wonderful idea, Willet,' said the vicar. 'Quite wonderful! But do you think people would come?'

  'Why not?' demanded Mrs Mawne. 'If they go to Edinburgh, to that perishing cold climate, not to mention the reeking smoke which they admit themselves, then why on earth shouldn't they come here?'

  'Perhaps not quite in the same numbers,' said Basil Bradley. 'After all, Edinburgh has wonderful concerts and ballets and what-have-you—but I'm sure we could have a Fairacre Festival which would be successful on a more modest scale.'

  'Dam' good idea,' announced Mr Roberts. 'One great glorious burst of fête, jumble-sale, concert, whist-drive, bingo, dancing and everything else. If we advertise it well, the money will come rolling in.'

  'We might have Son et Lumière,' said Major Gunning, 'with St Patrick's as the background. Tell the parish story, you know.'

  'Not all of it,' said Mr Willet cautiously. 'There's some things best kept quiet. Take that affair of Ted Grimble's grand-dad now—'

  'Yes, well—' the vicar broke in hastily. 'Perhaps we are getting away from the point. Could we have a show of hands for Mr Willet's excellent proposal?'

  We were all agreed. It was decided to meet again to plan not only the Fairacre Festival for next summer, but also to arrange other money-making efforts, starting immediately.

  It was while we were congratulating ourselves, and Mr Willet in particular, on our cleverness, that Henry Mawne spoke up.

  'Before we go, I think we should be realistic about these ideas. They will raise a few hundred, I feel sure, and we might raise a few more by donations. But I don't think we can hope to raise even half by these methods.'

  'But what else can we do?' pleaded the vicar.

  Mr Mawne screwed his propelling pencil slowly, making the lead emerge further and further. He studied it intently as he spoke.

  'You said earlier that the parish had no riches. It's not quite true. I hardly like to suggest this but I'm going to. We have, as you all know, locked in the bank and used only at the great church festivals, a valuable old chalice of solid silver and impeccable workmanship. One recently fetched over two thousand pounds. It was not as fine as ours.'

  We gazed at Henry Mawne in silence. We were all, I think, a little shocked by his suggestion. To tell the truth, I had not realised the value of the chalice, and had certainly forgotten its existence whilst we had been debating ways and means. The vicar looked horrified and Mrs Mawne surveyed her husband with as much disgust as she would have displayed had he suggested slaughtering her dachshund for lunch.

  'Impossible!' she exclaimed.

  'Unthinkable!' cried Major Gunning.

  'That's not ours to give away,' observed Mr Willet austerely. "Twas given to the church to celebrate Queen Anne's reign. Some relation of old Miss Parr's, so they told us at school, gave it over two hundred and fifty years ago. It belongs to the parish.'

  The vicar found his voice.

  'Willet is quite right, Henry. The chalice is beyond price, and is in any case only ours on trust. It belongs to St Patrick's.'

  'So did its roof,' said Henry Mawne. 'I know the idea is distasteful, but there you are. Is it right to keep such a valuable object locked away, while rain comes through the roof and the church deteriorates? St Patrick's also belongs to the parish. Which is of more use?'

  Surprisingly, it was Basil Bradley who came to Henry Mawne's support.

  'It has been done before. My uncle's church in Cumberland sold a most beautiful silver paten some years ago. It went to a new church somewhere in Massachusetts where it is very much prized, I can assure you.'

  'I daresay,' replied the vicar, a shade frostily. 'But I cannot entertain the thought of selling our own silver.'

  'I'm only suggesting,' said Basil Bradley steadily, 'that it may be some comfort to know that if the appeal and the Festival do not raise the money then a
t least we have the chalice behind us, as it were.'

  'Quite wrong!' said Mrs Mawne forcefully, jamming on her gloves. 'The chalice must remain here for future generations.'

  'Absolutely!' growled Major Gunning.

  'Let's hope it won't come to that,' said Mr Roberts. 'We'll do our best to get the cash in every other way possible.'

  And on that note, the meeting ended.

  Later that night, the vicar lay sleepless, watching the moonlight wavering upon the ceiling above his head. Somewhere, far away, a stoat yelped shrilly. The leaves of the Virginia creeper rustled by the open window, and near at hand his big silver watch ticked companionably from the bedside table.

  All was as usual in the peaceful room, but still sleep evaded him.

  His thoughts turned again and again to Henry's appalling suggestion. How could he have conceived such an idea? It amounted almost to betrayal. The whole idea was monstrous. He simply could not think what Henry meant by putting forward such an outrageous scheme. It was bad enough to have had such thoughts. To put them into words made the matter even worse! The poor vicar tossed restlessly, and remembered the beauty of the ancient chalice with piercing clarity.

  How heavy and smooth it was to handle! How comforting was the sturdy stem, the beautiful moulded base! How warm and glowing the red wine looked in its polished depths! To the vicar, and to his flock, Queen Anne's chalice, as it was known, was a precious part of the Christmas and Easter communion service. And had been, the vicar reminded himself, for generation upon generation of Fairacre folk. Lips, dusty-dead two hundred years and more, had sipped the wine from this cup. Squire and servant, man and maid, the virtuous and the villainous had knelt beside each other awaiting pardon and peace from the chalice.

  And they would do so still, the vicar told himself resolutely. They would do so still!

  He turned over his pillow, thumped it soundly as though he trounced the Devil himself, and was asleep in three minutes.

  Chapter 3

  THE Autumn was wet, windy and unseasonably warm. The children squelched into school from muddy lanes and the puddle-filled playground, incurring the wrath of Mrs Pringle daily.