The Village Show (Tales from Turnham Malpas) (30 page)

‘There’s flings and flings. I’ll be off then.’

‘They say your Dean’s very clever, that the school says he’ll be doing ten GCSEs, and two of ’em a year early.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Nice that, having a clever boy. None of mine were interested. Couldn’t wait to leave and get a job.’

‘Your Barry’s done all right.’

‘Oh yes, but the other two are a waste of time.’

‘I’m off then. I’ve a lot to do.’

‘Think about him will yer, Pat? He hardly ever goes out now. Stuck in mooning about. Miserable, he is.’

‘Can’t help that.’

Pat felt a certain degree of satisfaction that Barry was taking her rejection of him so hard. Serves him right. But at the same time, deep in her heart, she regretted the lost opportunity. She could have easily been persuaded to marry him, very easily, but there was no way she was marrying someone who could beetle off and be getting his rations with someone else when he was supposed to be
courting her. Then she remembered his beautiful teeth and that kind of antiseptic smell they always had. His thick dark hair and his laughing eyes. His strong legs and his powerful workmanlike hands. Hands that could be so gentle and inviting. She’d better stop this before she began seriously to regret her decision.

Michelle had not forgiven her yet, nor Dean. Pesky state of affairs when your children wanted you to marry someone that you didn’t. Still, she’d sorted the holiday. Nice cottage by the sea. Bit off the beaten track, but never mind. They’d have a good time without him. Then she remembered he’d promised to take Dean fishing, and she recollected the comfort of his arm around her shoulders and she weakened. Maybe she
had
been too hard … Next time she saw him she might, just might, speak to him. After all he
and
his mother had said that Simone was telling lies. Maybe she was.

It was the Thursday before the Show, and Louise sat checking and rechecking her lists, determined that nothing and she meant
nothing
, could possibly have been overlooked. The telephone at the Big House had been in use nonstop almost all day. Mr Fitch had kept coming out of his office with yet another thought he’d had, and she’d had to check it all over again.

It was taking care of all the silly little things, like who was responsible for putting out the chairs on the platform and around the arena, which made for success. Had the Morris Dancers got the time right? Had Jeremy remembered he was in charge of collecting the money and putting it in the safe at regular intervals? Couldn’t leave it till the end of the Show, that was asking for trouble leaving money lying about. Where would they put the bouquets for presenting to Mr Fitch’s guests? Had they allocated sufficient parking space? With all the advertising Mr Fitch had insisted on, they’d probably have the entire county there. Small matters in themselves but so important on the day.

She let her mind drift off to eight o’clock that night. Her mother had already said she was an idiot to be going round
with the soup and rolls so close to the Show. ‘You’ll need all the sleep you can get, you’ll be so busy on the day.’ But Louise had pooh-poohed the idea. She needed Gilbert just as much as Gilbert apparently needed her. She sucked the end of her pen and gazed out over the garden. Through her open window she could see her father watering the roses, and hear her mother supervising and criticising; an angry gesture here, hands-on-hips despair there. She wondered what made her father stay with her. What feeling they had left for each other … or didn’t it matter when you got older? Was it all habit? Or when love mellowed, maybe you each couldn’t live your life without the other. Or was it because there was nowhere else to go? Maybe that was it. You stayed simply because there was no choice.

And she and Gilbert? What had they got between them? Passion? Lust? Love? She decided yes to the first two questions, but no to the third. It wasn’t love like Jimbo and Harriet had. Their love was tough – a firm anchorage, a belt and braces love affair. It wasn’t love like Caroline and Peter’s; that was all-adoring, all-giving, all-enduring. Not one of them could leave each other and walk away for ever, they’d no choice but to stay. She still had choice. Choice to stay, choice to go and be glad. Muriel Templeton had said … what was it she’d said? ‘Find out who you truly are.’ Perhaps that was what she had to do, despite her hunger for Gilbert. And it was a hunger and no mistake. She craved him. Poor Muriel – her face when she’d confessed to her about Gilbert. They’d met outside the church one midweek morning. There’d been only herself and Muriel around and they’d sat side by side on a gravestone and talked.

Muriel had been appalled at first, then she’d wiped her
face clean of shock and become sympathetic. ‘I have to tell you I can see the need. Before I married, I couldn’t have done. I would have thought you sinful, but somehow marriage and … and … love have adjusted my thinking. But it really isn’t right for it to be just… well, just wanting a man. It ought really to be for love. That’s the best.’

‘I know it is.’

‘Gilbert’s a lovely man. He deserves more than just wanting.’

‘Yes, he does. You see, the trouble is I don’t know what I am any more. This business with … Peter completely threw me. I thought I knew where I was going, but now I’m aware that I didn’t. One half of me is eager to organise things, pleased to be praised for my success at it, but somehow there’s another person emerging and I don’t know really what she is.’

Muriel stood up to go. ‘Then you need to sort her out, this new person you talk of, my dear. Think about finding who you truly are.’

Muriel was right. Perhaps she’d take her advice. She seemed so unworldly did Muriel, but somehow she’d hit the nail on the head. Louise felt quite exhilarated with the thought of finding out who she really was. The Show would be her one last brilliant administrative success, her swansong. She’d be relieved when it was over. Lists and highlighting pens and coloured stickers didn’t hold quite the fascination for her as before; Gilbert had changed all that. Now when she looked at the sky it was bluer than she’d ever realised, the flowers bloomed brighter, the crystal-clear water of the beck sparkled more enticingly, the houses round the Green looked more beautiful than she could have believed possible. She was even tempted to buy
a pair of the dreaded green wellingtons and walk over the fields …

Louise rested her elbows on the windowsill and breathed in the country air. She recalled the thick smell of the air in the city when she’d worked at the bank. You didn’t open windows there, the fumes would have constituted a serious health hazard, but here in Turnham Malpas, opening a window was sheer joy.

A ladybird crawled busily along the sill. Before Gilbert she would have angrily flicked it off and to hell with it, but now, with her finger she eased it towards a stem of the climbing rose framing her window, and watched it meandering up till it went out of sight. This philosophising wouldn’t do. She’d check her lists one last time and then she’d get ready to go to Gilbert. Already in her nostrils she could smell his strange earthy scent; her insides churned with longing.

Sheila had begun to get cold feet. Decorating a church for a flower festival or organising a flower-arranging competition, she’d done that before, but this was scary. She’d begun to lose sleep over it. What she dreaded most was everything going wrong and having to face Mr Fitch and explain. She knew he was intimidating, in fact he must be because there were times when even Louise had been wary of him; she needed no more proof than that. The biggest worry was, did she have enough space for everyone who had entered? She’d just got home with the last of the entries when she heard Louise using the shower ready for going on the round with the soup and rolls. She found her reading glasses and sat down to try to make sense of it all. Why had she refused help from Caroline? She’d offered to help sort it all out, but Sheila had been too proud, and
what’s more too embarrassed because of Louise’s behaviour, to accept.

She spread the entry forms out on the table and began to look through them. There were far more than she had anticipated. Mr Fitch’s advertising campaign might well backfire if they got more people than they’d catered for. She had finally got everything into piles and was beginning to count the number of entries in the Victoria sponge section, when Louise came in to say she was off.

‘I must say I wouldn’t be wearing that if I was going out to help the homeless. It’s so flimsy.’

Louise looked down at her dress and realised she’d made a bloomer. ‘Well, we have to cheer them up, you know. It’s no good wearing old things. It looks insulting, as if they’re not worth bothering for.’

Sheila put down her pen. ‘Look here, Louise, I’m not stupid. You’re not going to see the homeless. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were going out with a man.’ She laughed at her little joke. Louise blushed bright red and glanced away from her mother’s scrutiny. ‘You’re not? You are! I can tell by your face, you are!’

‘What if I am? Don’t sound so surprised, it’s not very flattering.’

‘I’m sorry. Who is it – anyone I know?’

Louise debated what to do. Tell her and the entire village would know by Saturday night. Not tell her and she’d be hurt, especially if she found out from someone else. She would be hurt anyway, not to say appalled, if she, Louise, told her exactly what it was she was really doing.

‘Look, it’s very delicate. You know how these things are, at the beginning. Do you mind very much if I don’t tell you? Just till I’m more sure.’

‘So you haven’t been helping the homeless. You’ve been going out with someone.’

‘You could say that.’

Sheila stood up and went across to Louise. Their physical displays of affection were very limited but tonight Sheila put her arm round Louise and gave her a kiss. ‘I’m really pleased for you. Really pleased.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be off then.’

Sheila went to the door to watch her leave. She waved and smiled as Louise’s little car disappeared in the direction of Penny Fawcett … Now, who could it be? Who lived in Penny Fawcett …? In fact, Louise was going the long way round to Little Derehams. There was, after all, no point in telling her mother too much. She might be dim, but not
that
dim. And Mother must be pleased at her news; she didn’t often earn a kiss and a hug.

Sheila finished sorting the entries and decided that it was going to be a success after all. What’s more, her competitions would be the biggest attraction – yes, she’d bring the people in and no mistake. Mr Fitch would definitely be pleased with her. Fancy Louise having a boyfriend! She’d tell Ron when he got back from Newcastle; he’d be pleased too. Who on earth could it be? She’d find out soon enough. Perhaps he might be at the Show.

Barry was putting the finishing touches to the last of the stalls. They’d have them all erected tomorrow. Hope to God it didn’t rain. Twenty stalls he’d made. The cost was astronomical but Mr Fitch had said if a job’s worth doing … so he’d done a good job. Up at six o’clock tomorrow. His mum had cut all the crêpe paper for the stalls, he’d bought all the drawing pins and sticky tape, and he couldn’t wait to see how good they looked. Barry took
another mint imperial out of the bag in his pocket, propped his shoulder against the doorjamb of the estate workshop and stood looking out across the yard thinking about Saturday.

There wasn’t going to be a lot for him to do on the actual day; he’d done his bit already. All he’d have to do was enjoy himself. Huh! Fat chance. He’d been round to see Simone and she’d laughed and said all right then, she’d deny it was his and leave everybody to guess. He knew she had no idea who the father really was. Well, for him those days were over. He wanted Pat. Pat Duckett and stability, and a family and a permanent relationship. No, that was the wrong word to use; it meant all kinds of things to all kinds of people nowadays. He wanted marriage. Marriage to Pat and a son and a daughter and even, he had to admit, a father-in-law.

This Saturday would see a turn-round. He wasn’t going on like this any longer. She’d refused to see him, but this Saturday he’d sit in the refreshment tent from two o’clock till they closed up. He’d speak to her, if it was the last thing he did. He’d make her see sense. They were made for each other, and he couldn’t think why he hadn’t realised it years ago. But maybe the time wasn’t ripe and maybe they’d neither of them been ready before now.

He was determined the kids shouldn’t miss out on a holiday. He’d get them on his side. Michelle liked him and so did Dean. He’d bumped into Michelle once or twice this last week or so, and she’d been really glad to see him – and Dean had been such a help with the stalls since he’d finished his exams. A nice bright chap he was. A son to be proud of. Having made his decision, Barry locked the workshop door, jumped into his old van, kicked the bits of stuff laid on the floor out of his way, and made for home, more
light-hearted than he’d been for some weeks.

Caroline was in the garden making her final decision about which flowers to use for her entry.

‘I must be mad entering this blessed Show, Peter. Totally crackers. My flowers won’t be a patch on Mrs Jones’s and all I’ll get will be understanding glances and I shall want to crawl away. Will you go in the marquee for me and see if I’ve won anything? I shan’t dare go. It’ll be so embarrassing if I get sympathetic looks.’

‘My darling girl, it’s only a village thing, not Chelsea.’

‘I know, but it feels terribly important, and it is to everyone in the village.’