(7/20) Fairacre Festival (9 page)

As soon as school dinner was demolished we set about arranging the seating. The partition was pushed back, the desks removed either to the playground or to one end to form the basis of the stage. Mr Willet, Mr Roberts the farmer, and Jim Farrow his shepherd, arranged the long planks across the desks, tried the curtains we had rigged up, and pronounced the stage ready.

Meanwhile, the children were putting the chairs in rows for the audience. These were new stackable beauties from the village hall, and we had been threatened with all sorts of penalties if any damage were done.

The din was appalling. The metal frames of the chairs clanged like an iron foundry. The men's voices, raised above the racket, were thunderous. The thud of their mallets as they knocked the planks into place reverberated among the pitch-pine rafters above. When at last the work was done, and the men had departed, Mrs Bonny and I took an aspirin and a cup of tea apiece in the hope of curing our headaches.

At two-thirty the schoolroom was packed tight. In the front seats were the vicar and the managers and a number of illustrious friends of the school. Parents, aunts and uncles, little brothers and sisters and numerous distant relations, whom I had never seen before, kept up a cheerful hum of conversation while panic grew steadily behind the stage curtain.

The first item was a collection of folk-songs sung by the whole school. It was a tight squash to get all sixty-odd children on to the stage, and one scaremonger among the infants told everyone else that 'them planks ain't safe', thus causing widespread terror.

'Anyone who wants to get off the stage can do so,' I said fiercely. 'But don't forget your mothers have come to see you.'

This quelled the riot a trifle, but Mrs Bonny and I had the usual fears to calm.

'S'pose us forgets the words?'

'S'pose there's a fire. Which door does we go for?'

'I feels a bit sick.'

'I forgets how the tune goes.'

'John Todd shoved me!'

'I never then!'

'Miss, there ain't enough room for us up this end. The wall's all coming off on my sleeve, miss. My
best
sleeve.'

At this moment, Mrs Bonny was obliged to take three of her youngest to the lavatory—an inevitable hold-up at any school function—whilst I applied my eye to the crack of the curtain to watch the audience. It really was a wonderful house, kindly and enthusiastic, and I only hoped we should not disappoint all those present.

At last all was ready. Mrs Bonny took her seat at the piano. United in the face of their common ordeal, the children grew suddenly silent. I hauled on the curtain rope, and we were off to a flying start.

The deafening applause which greeted every item was most gratifying. The infants, naturally, won the palm, and every time the curtain rose upon them there were loving cries of: 'Oh, aren't they sweet?' 'Look at our Billy!' 'The pretty dears!' 'Don't they sing lovely?' and the like. They certainly went through their paces magnificently, after initial bashfulness, and the folk-dance nearly brought the roof—and the stage—down with energetic clapping and stamping.

This number ended the first half and we could hear the infants hard at it as my class prepared for
The Princess and the Swineherd
in the lobby. Ernest, usually so stolid, had become hilariously excited and was clowning about in his finery, reducing the girls to a state of helpless giggling.

The princess's skirt had been trodden on, and. given way drastically at the gathers, so that I was obliged to do last-minute repairs with safety pins, with my hand inside her waist-band.

'Oh, miss, you tickles!' giggled Elizabeth, wriggling about like an eel. 'Oh, miss, your hands is cold!' Then a squeal.

'Oh, miss, you've bin and
pricked
me!'

'Stand still then,' I begged, snapping the last pin home. 'There, now you'll do!'

'It's pinned to my vest, miss.'

'And that's how it will have to stay,' I assured her flatly. 'We're on in five minutes.'

These words had a dual effect. Some children were, mercifully, struck dumb. Others became panic-stricken and fussed even more vociferously. Luckily, applause and cheers broke out from the schoolroom at this stage, the infants came trooping back, flushed with success, and we were obliged to collect our senses ready for our big moment after the brief interval.

'The magic saucepan's bin and gone!' exclaimed Patrick dramatically. This was the highly necessary property round which the Princess and her ladies gathered to discover the meals being cooked all over the town. There was a frenzied scattering of costumes, searching under chairs and general confusion until one of the infants, flown with success, was discovered with it on his head from whence it was wrenched by one of his enraged elders.

'You might have had his ears off,' observed an onlooker dispassionately, but relief was so general, that no one took much notice of this true statement.

After all the excitement I was prepared to find the cast both agitated and wordless, but all went well. Ernest's courtly bows were marvels of grace, and the only slight slip was the addition of 's' now and again, in true Fairacre fashion.

'We knows who's going to have sweet soup and pancakes! We knows who's going to have porridge and chops!' chanted the ladies exultantly. At least, I told myself philosophically, they did not say: 'Us knows', as they might so easily have done.

The applause at the end of the performance was deafening, and augured well for the repeat programme in the evening.

By the time the children and their parents had gone home, Mrs Bonny and I were dog tired. We tottered across to my house, and revived our strength with tea, tomato sandwiches and shortbread.

'Mr Willet says we've taken over seven pounds this afternoon, and it should be as much again this evening,' said Mrs Bonny, surveying her stockinged feet at the other end of the sofa. 'It should help the funds quite a lot.'

'It should,' I agreed. We lapsed into exhausted silence, and I guessed that her thoughts were running on the same lines as mine. Should we ever, in this small village, even with the herculean efforts we were making, ever come anywhere near the target we had so hopefully and bravely set ourselves?

Three hours later, much refreshed, we crossed the playground for our second house. Against a ravishing blue sky, the newly-gilded weathercock flamed triumphantly on the pinnacle of St Patrick's spire. It was a heartening sight.

Resolutely we thrust our doubts from us, pushed open the heavy school door, and were engulfed once again by our teeming mob.

Chapter 8

O
UR
School Concert, which finally netted sixteen pounds for the funds, was one of the more modest efforts in Festival Week. It was on a par with the Mammoth Whist Drive, the Giant Draw and the Fabulous Flower Show. The
Son et Lumière,
with the added attraction of Jean Cole, was the backbone of the week, of course, and was so successful that it was decided to carry on for the next week as well, much to everyone's joy.

It was fortunate that it had done so well, for calamity hit Fairacre the day before the fête. Peter Martin, whose advent we had all awaited so eagerly, was involved in a car crash on Thursday evening, and was taken to hospital with two broken ribs and concussion.

We heard the news on radio and television that evening and were plunged into gloom. The vicar, good Christian that he is, forbore to express what was in most of our minds, simply saying :

'Poor young fellow! It is a mercy that his injuries are no worse!'

Jock Graham was more outspoken.

'This'll make a difference to the takings,' he observed dourly, reading the headlines in Friday's
Guardian.

'He won't die, will he, miss?' asked a bevy of little girls round my desk. Peter Martin's injuries, and the cruelty of Fate in thus snatching him from us were the playground topics of the day, and in fact, of the whole neighbourhood.

Lady Sawston, who lives locally, nobly agreed to step into the breach and to open the fête, but it was quite apparent that fewer people would attend now that our star attraction had gone.

It was a sore blow indeed to our efforts.

But the final item in the Festival's programme was the Gala Dance which was held in the Village Hall on Saturday evening and at which Peter Martin was to have sung. It was the culmination of our efforts, and the ladies of the Floral Society excelled themselves with shower arrangements on every wall bracket and a bank of massed flowers, contributed from Fairacre cottage gardens, across the width of the stage.

Homemade refreshments had been billed as one of the chief attractions, my own modest contribution consisting of two dozen sausage rolls and a rather handsome set of small savouries in aspic jelly, so ravishingly pretty—at least, in my own eyes—that I hoped that Amy might drop in unexpectedly and be impressed. Needless to say, she did not, and the only comment which I heard on their appearance came from Mrs Mawne, who remarked disparagingly to one of her helpers : 'Probably sent by the vicar's wife. She dabbles in aspic.'
Dabbles in aspic
indeed, I thought, smarting in silence. It is hardly surprising that Mrs Mawne is so generally detested.

I looked in during the last hour of the event. Faces were flushed, skirts whirling, you could have cut the air with a knife, and 'The Dizzy Beat' from Caxley lived up to its name, with enough tympani to drown the other three instruments.

It was a huge success, and I joined with zest the great circle for 'Auld Lang Syne', and wrenched other people's arms from their sockets with enthusiasm matching my neighbours. After 'God Save The Queen', the company drifted away to the sound of car engines, roaring motor bikes and farewell cries, and I helped to wash up the debris.

Mrs Willet accompanied me home. It was lovely to be out in the cool night air. Someone had night-scented stocks growing in his front garden, and the fragrance was delicious. A half-moon lay on its back, cradled in the tree-tops, and an owl hooted from the vicarage cedar tree.

'A beautiful night,' said Mrs Willet. 'And a successful one. Do you think the vicar will know the result of the Festival Week tomorrow? Everyone's praying we'll have made enough to save the chalice, though they don't say much.'

'We'll live in hope,' I replied, opening my gate. 'We couldn't have done more anyway. That's one comfort.'

The vicar did not make an announcement the next day, but the hand on the Appeal's board shot round to one thousand and seven hundred pounds.

'Getting along now!' said the parishioners excitedly, as they made their way past the board. 'It's coming on, isn't it?'

'But not fast enough,' was Mr Mawne's comment to the vicar, after the service.

'I agree with you there,' said Jock Graham soberly. 'I've kept a tight eye on the money all the way along the line, and give Christies their due, they've done a fine job at a reasonable price.'

'What is still outstanding?' enquired the vicar, leading the two to the vicarage for a glass of sherry.

'My estimate, a generous one, was two thousand. Christies have had two lots of four hundred so far, the rest to be paid when the job is finished. That's twelve hundred to find. With luck we'll find the total is something under two thousand, and the rest can go into the Fabric Fund. We must have something behind us in case of further disaster.'

'God forbid!' exclaimed the vicar, his mouth working piteously. He poured a sherry with a shaking hand, and they sipped in silence. Mr Mawne broke it at last.

'It's no good, Gerald. You must go into this business of the sale of the chalice. It's all very well to be sentimental—'

'Sentimental!'
cried the vicar, but his friend swept on.

'But the fact is that the chalice could be our salvation. Not only now, but as a hedge against future crises. After all, we could always have a replica made.'

'A replica?'
echoed the vicar in anguish. 'But it wouldn't be the same!'

'Of course not,' agreed Mr Mawne soothingly, as if addressing a fractious child, 'but it would do as well.'

The vicar, too stunned to explain, shook his grey head sadly. Jock Graham, unusually perceptive, spoke gently.

'It's a sore blow, I know, vicar, but it would be prudent to find out the possibilities. With any luck, it may never be needed, but it's only fair that the parish should know the position. We need another five or six hundred pounds to pay for this damage and to put the Fabric Fund on a sound footing. The Festival may bring in another sixty to seventy. There are the sums from the guarantors and the covenantors which will bring in another hundred or so, over a period of time. But it just isn't enough.'

The vicar put down his sherry glass carefully and looked from one to the other.

'Let me sleep on it,' he said. 'I'll give you an answer, one way or the other, early next week. It's a step I can hardly bear to contemplate.'

'Good man!' said Mr Mawne encouragingly, slapping his old friend painfully on the back, and the two men left the vicar to his own troubled thoughts.