Summer at the Haven (10 page)

“Indeed, yes! said Leila. “I always feel that the spirit of the Bard haunts our Warwickshire in a very special way, don’t you?”

Mrs Thornton gave an inward shudder. It is terrible
when false tongues speak truth, or what one would like to think is true.

In the kitchen Old Misery was passing up her plate for second helps with relish. “Always partial to a bit o’ fat, myself,” she said, eyeing Gisela’s plate, the rim of which was decorated with discarded bacon rind. “Waste not, want not, we was brought up on, not as ‘ow, that’s always true neither. My mum, she never wasted a mite, but there was plenty o’ want about all the same. It ain’t ’alf ’ot now, reckon we’ll ’ave a storm afore the day’s out.”

The musicians, having arrived early enough to rehearse Tom, were picnicking in the copse. They had found a sizeable oak to give them shade.

“He does love his drum,” said Nell. “I thought he would. I wish he could keep it. It’s a pity about his clothes.”

Tom after all had not fitted at all well into the shirt and jeans she had brought along for him. He was shorter than Nell and a good deal broader, so the jeans had been far too long and tight and he couldn’t squeeze himself into the T-shirt at all.

“Whatever made you think he was my size, Jake?”

“Oh,” said Elizabeth, “all men are utterly hopeless about people’s appearances, especially their clothes. If you ask them they say vaguely, ‘Oh, he’s not all that big,’ or: ‘Well, she was wearing a sort of blue thing.’”

“You’re absolutely right,” said Nell, “it was silly of me to trust to Jake. Tom’s own clothes are pretty shabby, but it can’t be helped now,
he
doesn’t mind. Doesn’t he hum beautifully? And he is so happy.”

“I think we might borrow a begging-bowl from Gran and collect contributions for The Haven; every little helps, we’ll just have it in front of us so people won’t feel they’ve got to give,” said Austen.

“This wood must be pretty old,” said Jake, “look at that ancient thorn.”

“Gran says there was an old farmhouse here, possibly
Tudor, before The Haven was built. Tom’s great-great-grandmother used to work there,” said Nell.

“I expect the wood is older than that – reaching back to mediaeval times or further, some ancient boundary, perhaps.”

“I wonder if Tom’s ancestors planted any of it,” said Nell. “I love the ancientness of it, it makes me feel bigger than I am, somehow.”

“I should have thought it would have made you feel smaller,” said Elizabeth. “I haven’t much use for the past myself. We can’t really progress unless we cut clear of tradition.”

“Can’t be done,” said Austen, “and what d’you mean by progress, anyway? Cutting down this oak and the rest of the wood and building council flats here, I suppose?”

“Yes, if needed.”

“Look,” said Nell hastily, “there’s Gisela and Tom going across the lawn to the marquee – their meal must be over – we’d better pack up and go and see if we can lend a hand.”

She was right, the old ladies were all back in their own rooms getting ready for the afternoon. Dorothy Brown was trying to compress Leila into her best summer dress. Until recently the weather had been so unseasonable that she had had no occasion to wear it; it had been tight for her last summer and now was impossibly so.

“It’s no use, Leila,” said Dorothy, “it simply can’t be done.”

“You’re not trying,” Leila shouted, “it was perfectly all right when I last wore it.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Dorothy, “don’t you remember, I had to let it out and now there’s no more that I can let out.”

“But what can I do?” wailed Leila. “I haven’t anything else thin enough that’s fit to be seen.”

“We must use safety pins,” said Dorothy. She disappeared into her own room and came back with two large
safety pins which she fastened firmly where it was most necessary, and a skilful arrangement of a silk scarf hid the gaps through which Leila bulged.

“It isn’t as if you’ll be moving around,” said Dorothy. “We’ll go down early enough to get you a seat in the shade and there’s absolutely no wind.”

Leila continued to moan but Dorothy paid no attention. She found her increasing deafness actually an asset now in dealing with Leila – she need not hear what it was unnecessary to hear.

At 2.30 p.m. punctually. Lady Merivale declared the fête open, the young musicians struck up the “Toreador’s Song” and people began to move round the stalls. Everywhere throughout the country can be found a band of splendid women whose unfailing contributions of homemade jams and marmalade, chutneys and sweets, cakes and flans appear at all the innumerable charity coffee morning, sales and fêtes. These faithful willing workers are taken for granted, but they provide an indispensable service to the community. Their goods disappear quickly, too, for they are always excellent value. Indeed, it is not unknown for the donors to buy back their own gifts themselves, at the fixed price, of course, rightly judging them to be of excellent quality. For instance, Mrs Martin, knowing exactly how many eggs and lemons had gone into her lemon curd, secured it for her married daughter, and there was always competition for Mrs Brewer’s delicious fudge and Miss Anderson’s coffee cake. Thus the produce stall had little or no difficulty in disposing of its wares. Friends and relatives saw to it that the old ladies’ work also sold well. Mrs Thornton’s patchwork was snapped up at once and so were Mrs Perry’s plants. Lady Merivale, dutifully doing her rounds, bought Leila’s coverlet, thinking it would do nicely for one of her “Help the Aged” parcels. She often managed to kill two birds with one stone in this fashion. She left the coverlet to be delivered to her later.

“Lady Merivale has such good taste,” said Leila, as she moved the SOLD ticket to a more prominent position. “Of course, she saw it would ruin the appearance of the whole stall if she took away my coverlet now – so thoughtful.”

The White Elephant Stall was not doing so well. Miss Hughes sat between Mrs Bradshaw’s great vases beaming with benevolence and handing out the wrong change to the few buyers who came her way. The vicar’s wife, who was selling tea tickets nearby, looked with envy at Miss Hughes’s beautiful outfit. She herself had not had a new summer dress for some time, in fact, now that her little girls were growing so fast and seemed to need new shoes at such short intervals, she got most of her clothes at the Oxfam shop in Darnley. She looked round now for Becky and Sue and saw them flitting about among the crowd, with their little trays of posies which they were very busy selling. The flowers were wilting already in the heat but everyone was buying them. “They can’t resist the darlings,” she thought fondly, “they look like flowers themselves; how pretty their frocks are – I’m so glad I chose those patterns and managed to finish them in time,” and all envy of Miss Hughes melted away.

The musicians were hard at work and their begging bowl was filling up nicely. Down by the coconut shies, though, matters were not going too well. Bert Warren, the greengrocer’s son, was too good a shot and was amassing coconuts with disconcerting speed. His father, still angry at Mr Jackson withdrawing his order, had forbidden Bert to go to the fête, but Bert did not mean to have his afternoon’s sport spoiled; he could sell his coconuts at a profit at school the next day. But Jackson, seeing his stock disappearing too fast and all to the same customer, and that customer Bert, felt that this would cause trouble, and declared that from henceforth no one was to have more than three turns of three shots each. Bert, who was enjoying his sixth turn and had the ball in his hand, was annoyed by this and
hurled it hard and recklessly in consequence. It flew through one of those neglected holes in the net straight at Lenny, Old Misery’s youngest, for “old” was figurative rather than accurate and Lenny had only just turned six. He had drawn nearer and nearer the shies, fascinated by Bert’s skill, and now loud shrieks rent the air, drowning the sweet strains of “Summer Dreams”.

Lenny was borne off to the house – “All over bloo ’e is,” said his sister Doreen with relish to the somewhat abashed Bert.

“It’s knocked out two of his front teeth,” said Mrs Mills later to an anxiously enquiring Mr Jackson at the kitchen door, “but the bleedin’s mostly from his nose. Fred’s putting a key down his back at this moment. The teeth were loose anyways, milk teeth they was, but it’ll make his mother’s day.”

When most people had finished their tea, the draw for the raffle prizes took place. Sue, the vicar’s younger little girl, tremendously solemn, picked the tickets from the brass bowl which usually stood in the hall, and handed them to Col. Bradshaw, who shouted numbers out through a megaphone. It had always been understood that should any of the committee or the donors of prizes draw a number they should hand back their ticket, but Miss Hughes had not grasped this, so when she was drawn she went up to choose her prize. By that time there were only the architect’s drawing and her own clock left. She was pleased to get the clock back again – it had been inconveient to let it go as she had intended it in the first place for her housekeeper’s Christmas present. It was at this point that Col. Bradshaw finally gave her up.

And now it became noticeable that clouds were darkening the hitherto bright sky and that they looked remarkably like thunder clouds. It was extraordinary how rapidly they blotted out the blue; without further warning lightening flashed, a great clap of thunder sounded almost overhead,
and a few large drops of rain splashed down. Immediately people began feverishly to pack up what remained on the stalls and to hurry into the marquee, the rain then poured down in earnest and there was general confusion and dismay. Jim Bailey, the village postman who was a wit, seized the megaphone and shouted through it: “The rain is free, but we charge extra for the thunder.” This made everyone laugh and feel better. The unsold goods were collected carefully in a corner and it was suggested that they should be auctioned. Mr Jackson, who had plenty of experience of auctions, was put in charge. There were not a great many articles, most were from Miss Hughes’s stall, but of Tom’s contributions only the knife-cleaner was left; the china and the volumes of
Sunday
at
Home
had gone quickly, Austen had bought the dressmaker’s dummy, he said clothed or unclothed it would add distinction to his room, and Nell had got the lampshade for 10p. “The frame is sound and I shall cover it with parchment and some pressed leaves.” What had happened to the umbrella was not known. Tom felt sorry for his knife machine. He went up to it and patted it.

“Don’t often see one of them about nowadays,” said Mr Martin to Austen, who was standing nearby. Mr Martin had arrived late from a meeting of the Darnley Preservation Society, and had not had time to go the rounds of the stalls before the storm.

“I suppose not,” said Austen.

“Might catch the eye of an American,” went on Mr Martin. “Edwardian relic, you know, quite the thing now. I’m a bit of a collector myself, not showpieces, can’t afford them, just odd bits here and there, rubbish the wife calls them, but I find them quite an investment, you’d be surprised.” Austen smiled at him and wandered away to find Jake.

The turn of the knife machine was not long in coming. “Now,” shouted Jackson, “who’ll be in luck and acquire this
valuable piece of equipment, still in full working order – what shall I start it at – say 50p.?”

Mr Martin put up his hand; he did not expect any competition but Jake, who was standing at the opening of the marquee watching the storm, turned and waved.

“That gentleman there,” said Jackson. “Yes, sir?”

“One pound,” said Jake.

“And fifty,” said Mr Martin.

“Two pounds,” said Jake.

“Three,” said Mr Martin, whose desire for the knife machine was growing with competition. Everyone became interested, the bids steadily mounted, but at twelve pounds, Jake thought it wise to withdraw. The knife machine gave place to a stuffed owl that had lost half his feathers, but it had made by far the top price.

The storm had moved off, though it was still raining. Austen, Elizabeth, Jake and Nell slipped away as soon as the auction was over and set their faces towards Stratford. They had decided beforehand to make a night of it, and Jake had booked seats for the evening performance. They bundled into his car. which was larger than Austen’s, and had an open top.

“Where are you going to put that thing?” said Elizabeth to Austen, who was clasping his dummy to his breast. “It won’t go in the boot. Whatever possessed you to buy it?”

“Answer number one: I shall carry her on my lap. Answer number two: to please Tom.”

“He did well, I must say,” said Elizabeth. “What a pity he isn’t at a special school, I’m sure they could teach him to read and write. Perhaps I could get him a place in one.”

“That’s right, shut him up in an institution. Will reading and writing make him any better off than he is already? He’s free and useful and happy and himself as he is.”

“All the same, I think people like him do need specialized care.”

“What do you mean by ‘people like him’? I don’t see that
Tom’s any different from us except that he’s got perfect pitch, which none of us have.”

“Jake thinks he’s different, don’t you, Jake?” said Nell, teasing, but he did not answer. He was driving them through the lanes, avoiding the motorway, a habit of his that distressed Austen, who liked to get to places as quickly as possible. The rain had almost stopped and the air was deliciously fresh and cool.

“I feel just in the mood for Shakespeare,” said Nell, “only not tragedy.”

“It’s all right, I think it’s
Twelfth
Night
or
Much
Ado
tonight. I can’t remember which,” said Elizabeth.

“Neither,” said Jake, “it’s
The
Tempest.
”

“That’s better still,” said Austen, “that’s got everything, men and gods.”

“Gods?” queried Nell.

“Juno and Co.,” said Austen.

“Every kind of magic,” said Jake.

“And music,” said Elizabeth. “Remember ‘sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not’?”

“Like we’ve been making,” said Nell, “it’s really got all today in it, old age and us.”