A Few Green Leaves (8 page)

‘What about a glass of sherry then?’ Tom turned to Terry, who was taking in the scene. ‘Or is it too early for you?’

‘Oh, I’ll make some coffee,’ said Daphne, coming forward, but it was too late – sherry had been offered and there was no going back.

Tom introduced Terry Skate to his sister and explained about the mausoleum.

‘Oh, how splendid – to have somebody who really cares about it, especially now, with the flower festival.’ Daphne was enthusiastic.

‘Flower festival – in your church? You don’t say!’

Tom wondered if Terry was being impertinent but decided that he was a guileless young man expressing himself in his natural way.

‘You’ll have to get rid of those dead flowers,’ Terry joked.

‘Yes – whose turn was it last week?’ Tom asked, trying to introduce a sterner note.

‘Was it the third Sunday?’ Daphne mused. ‘Yes it was, wasn’t it. It was Mrs Broome’s turn.’

‘But….’ Tom protested.

‘Yes – she’s in hospital – had a heart attack last week.’ Daphne let out a peal of unexpected laughter. ‘So no wonder the flowers look a bit off colour!’

‘I see – but I didn’t think Mrs Broome ever came to church.’

‘No, but she’s always done the flowers on the third Sunday – ever since we’ve been here.’

Tom let this pass without comment – obviously he had failed somewhere.

‘Your church would lend itself to something special in the way of flower arrangements,’ said Terry hopefully.

‘Oh, it will be just flowers from people’s gardens,’ said Tom quickly, fearing that Terry might expect to get an order for expensive florist’s blooms. ‘This time of year there ought to be plenty.’

‘I must pop over,’ Terry said, ‘when you have it. You could get a lovely effect on that crusader – pity about the dog’s head being broken off, though, but you might conceal it with a posy.’ He stood up. ‘Thanks for the sherry, rector. I must say, I like a sweet sherry in the morning.’

Tom said nothing. It had been a medium dry but not, of course, Spanish, and the bottle seemed sadly depleted since the last time he had drunk from it. Did Daphne sometimes indulge, to compensate for not having a dog? He found himself wondering if his morning had been wasted but was prepared to believe that it might not have been. God did still move in a mysterious way, even in this day and age or at this ‘moment in time’, as some of his parishioners might have said.

‘COFFEE MORNING AND BRING-AND-BUY SALE AT YEW TREE COTTAGE. TUESDAY.   10.30. ADMISSION 15p.’

Meditating on the note which had been pushed through her letter-box, Emma wondered whether a serious sociological study had ever been made of this important feature of village life. Miss Lee and Miss Grundy were holding a coffee morning at their cottage (and there
was
a yew tree at the side of the house). And the clergyman in the photograph on the piano, wearing an exceptionally high clerical collar, was” Canon Grundy, Miss Grundy’s father, sometime Anglican chaplain on the Riviera. This much Emma gathered when she entered the sitting-room, but from then on there was such a confusion of impressions that afterwards she found herself making notes under headings, almost as if she were indeed preparing a paper for a learned society.

In aid of what?
was her first note. This was not specified on the invitation and nobody mentioned any particular cause, it being assumed that everybody already knew. It might have been something in aid of Old People (Elderly or Aged, however you liked to put it), or children, or the Cats’ Protection League (unlikely), or a political party (Conservative or Liberal,
not
Labour), Shelter or Oxfam, or just the vague all-embracing ‘Church Funds’. (Or just not in aid of anything?)

Entrance
. The 15p. entrance fee (placed in a handmade pottery bowl on a small table in the doorway) included a cup of coffee and a biscuit, and a piece of homemade cake could be bought for 10p. Miss Lee and Miss Grundy served the coffee, assisted by a number of willing ladies (rather too many), mostly grey-haired and elderly. (Far more than might have been thought necessary for the serving of a cup of rather weak coffee.)

Participants
,
e.g.
others present not engaged in coffee-making. (a) Men. None, (b) Women. Daphne Dagnall; Avice Shrubsole and her mother Magdalen Raven; old Miss Lickerish (didn’t seem quite to fit into the social hierarchy – so was the coffee morning perhaps in aid of some animal charity?); Tamsin Barraclough (didn’t quite fit either, so perhaps she was also making a social survey?!); Christabel G. (made brief visit, more in nature of royal personage bestowing a favour). Various other women, unidentified, possibly from neighbouring villages.

Bring and Buy
. Everybody brought something, mostly jam, pickle, cake, biscuits or scones, all homemade. Impossible to discover who exactly had contributed what (expect that Miss Lickerish was seen to deposit a tin of baked beans on the table). The bringing and buying, consisting as it did of people bringing what they had made and buying what somebody else had made, achieved a kind of village exchange system, some coming off better than others. No doubt there was plenty of criticism of others’ efforts, even if not openly expressed – who, for example, was the bringer of the not-quite-right marmalade which had been boiled past the setting point and gone syrupy? Whoever it was could have saved face by buying it back herself and in the general bustle this ruse might not be spotted. Christabel G.’s contribution was a cut above the ordinary plum and rhubarb jams – a pot of quince jam (labelled ‘Quince Preserve’). Emma quickly bought this, having contributed only half a dozen scones herself – a bargain.

The raffle
. Apparently this was an essential feature of a bring-and-buy sale (‘We always have one’). Various objects were displayed on top of the piano round the photograph of Canon Grundy. These objects (or ‘prizes’) were: a large iced cake; a flowered toilet hold-all in shades of mauve and pink; a small tray decorated with an engraving of Lake Como (or Maggiore); a set of pottery mugs; a tea-towel patterned with Scottie dogs. Tickets (3 for 10p.) had been sold in advance.

All was ready for the draw, there was even an expectant hush in the room, for this was a kind of climax to the morning, when Adam Prince made a sudden and dramatic appearance bearing a bottle of wine.

Emma had been thinking that no man would dare to attend the sale but then she realised that, of course, there could be exceptions. A former Anglican priest might well have the sort of courage required for the occasion and Adam, so very much at ease with ladies, obviously came into this category.

‘Just something for the raffle,’ he murmured. ‘I do hope I’m not too late and that you’ll find this not too unacceptable.’

He was gone before he could be thanked, leaving Miss

Lee grasping, embracing almost, the very dark-looking bottle of wine.

‘Oh dear,’ was her first reaction.

‘
Red
wine,’ said Miss Grundy. ‘But how kind of him,’ she added.

‘Fancy him coming in his car,’ Daphne said. ‘You’d have thought he could have walked those few steps from his front door.’

‘I suppose we must put this in for the raffle,’ said Miss Lee, hovering uncertainly with the bottle still clasped to her bosom.

‘Of course,’ said Avice, moving some of the other objects on the piano aside to make room for the bottle. ‘And I think we ought to get going with the draw,’ she added bossily. ‘Some of us haven’t got all morning to spend in chat.’

Emma felt humbled, as if the reproach might have been directed at her own conversational efforts. Spending all the morning in chat could well apply to the anthropologist who gathered so much of his material in this way.

‘Yes, we must,’ said Miss Lee. ‘We’ll take it in turns to draw and the winning ticket has first choice of the prizes.’

Daphne’s ticket was the first to be drawn and she chose the iced cake; then came Avice’s mother, who chose the tray. Other prize-winners followed, each choosing something until, rather to Emma’s surprise, only the bottle of wine was left. The fortunate person with the last ticket was unknown to her – a thin, nervous-looking middle-aged woman in a pale blue Courtelle dress, who seemed to shrink away from the bottle, so dark and menacing, which was to be her prize.

‘Lucky you,’ said Emma feelingly.

‘Oh, I don’t drink, really,’ murmured the woman, ‘though I’ve no objection to other people….’

‘Why don’t we give Mrs Furse another prize,’ said Avice, ‘and put the bottle in again?’ She looked round the room in search of something that might make an acceptable substitute, her glance even seeming to light on the photograph of Canon Grundy in his high collar. ‘Perhaps, Miss Lee…?’

‘I know,’ said Miss Lee, going out of the room and reappearing with a tissue-paper wrapped parcel, ‘perhaps Mrs Furse would like this.’

It was a small mirror with a floral decoration round the edges.

‘Barbola work, isn’t it?’ said somebody.

The mirror was accepted, examined and admired and the raffle was drawn again. This time Avice Shrubsole won the bottle and bore it away in triumph – the bring-and-buy had been worthwhile. Her mother had also enjoyed the morning and there was a slight feeling of guilt mingled with her enjoyment, for she had mislaid her saccharine tablets and taken two lumps of sugar in her coffee as well as eating a slice of homemade sandwich cake with cream and jam filling.

Emma wished she had won the wine, but she had the quince preserve and a plastic bag containing six rock buns, so perhaps the morning had not been wasted. She had also gathered material for a note on an important village activity. Then she realised that Miss Lickerish was walking just behind her, so she turned back and tried to engage her in conversation, feeling that she might contribute some fragment of historical or sociological interest.

‘I see the young doctor’s wife took the bottle,’ Miss Lickerish said, initiating the conversation.

‘Yes, it was good of Mr Prince to give a prize,’ Emma said.

‘Well, he wouldn’t miss it, would he.’

‘No, perhaps not, but still….’

They walked on in silence for a while, then Emma, making some trite remark about the fine weather, found that she had started Miss Lickerish off on a confused rambling about summer-time, the long light evenings, a ruined cottage in the woods and the goings-on there at some unspecified time in the past. Obviously the bottle of wine combined with the idea of summer weather had started some train of thought in the old woman’s mind that Emma was unable to follow.

When they reached the door of Miss Lickerish’s cottage Emma looked in through the window and saw a cat on the kitchen table, eating something out of a dish that might or might not have been what the animal was intended to eat…. She said goodbye to the old woman and returned home in a state of some confusion.

Back at Yew Tree Cottage Miss Lee and Miss Grundy set about clearing up the aftermath of the coffee morning and bring-and-buy sale which had made a shambles of their drawing-room. They went about their task in silence, an efficient one on Miss Lee’s part – ‘Let’s get this mess tidied up, shall we?’ But Miss Grundy’s silence was a hurt one – Miss Lee had taken the barbola mirror without asking her permission and it had been a present to
both
of them. Another source of quiet resentment on her part.

People’s attitudes towards the flower festival were ‘ambivalent’, Emma thought, the jargon word coming into her mind. Everybody knew about it, of course, could hardly fail to, with notices plastered all over the village, but there had never been such a thing in the old days. Flower arrangement was a fashionable modern pastime for a certain type of woman – a hobby for the gentler sex, almost like the accomplishments of a Victorian young lady – and even though the art of arranging flowers may have originated in Japan, it was now an unmistakably English activity. The chaste positioning of a single bloom or spray in the Oriental manner would be seen as totally inadequate in the present setting; much more would be expected. Emma liked the idea of a single dark red rose or peony in a pottery jug against the grey stone of the church, but knew better than to suggest it. Her own garden could provide a few delphiniums and lupins and there was a pink climbing rose on the front of the cottage. She was just in the act of cutting down some branches of this when she saw Tom approaching with Adam Prince.

‘What a charming picture you make, with the roses,’ said Adam smoothly.

Emma tried to think of a gracious answer to this rather obvious compliment. Then, before she had been able to produce anything, Tom, suddenly and ridiculously, burst into poetry.

The two divinest things this world has got

A lovely woman in a rural spot,’

he recited.

There was a brief stunned silence, surely one of dismay, then Emma broke it by laughing. The two men must surely realise that she certainly wasn’t lovely, not even pretty.

‘Leigh Hunt,’ said Tom quickly, attempting to cover up his foolishness. ‘
Not
a good poem.’

He was hardly improving matters – there had been no need to make that kind of critical judgement. ‘I thought of taking a few flowers along to the church,’ Emma said. ‘Mrs G. does want things out of people’s gardens, doesn’t she?’

‘I like to watch ladies arranging flowers,’ Adam said. ‘It was one of the aspects of my calling that I most enjoyed.’

Tom thought this an unusual way of looking on the duties of a parish priest, but made no comment. After all, his own most enjoyable aspect was concerned with delving into parish registers, which seemed little better than watching ladies arranging flowers. ‘Did you ever have a flower festival in your church?’ he asked Adam.

‘Oh, I think so – but I was so often away in the summer.’

Tom expressed surprise.

‘Yes, I usually managed to avoid parish summer occasions – fêtes, and that kind of thing – couldn’t stand them,’ said Adam smugly.