(2/20) Village Diary (20 page)

Mrs Partridge said that she was positive that tripods and hanging cooking-pots came much later, and that she thought that something baked, on its own as it were, in the embers, would be the thing.

'Potatoes?' suggested Mrs Pringle.

Mrs Partridge said surely potatoes hadn't been introduced as early as that?

Mrs Pringle, taking umbrage, said she hadn't had the schooling that some had had—mentioning no names—as she had been sent out to service to bring in an honest pennY to as hard-working a pair of parents as ever a girl had. She then added that her potatoes were excellent bakers and no one had ever sniffed at them before.

Mrs Partridge, who can cope with this sort of thing with one hand tied behind her, said she had no doubt that Mrs Pringle's potatoes were fine specimens, as everyone who attended Harvest Festival could testify, but that that was quite beside the point.

Rushing in where angels fear to tread, I said I thought that Raleigh had something to do with bringing potatoes back from America.

Mrs Partridge said: 'Of course, of course! And his servant thought he was on fire, when he was smoking. Or am I confusing that with Drake and singeing the King of Spain's beard?'

(Which only goes to show how competently Messrs. Sellar and Yeatman have summed up the common man's grasp of his country's island story.)

After much discussion, equally hazy and misinformed, it had been decided to settle for fish.

'
Small
fish!' said Mrs Partridge, as though someone had been pressing for whale steaks. I had offered to be in charge of the fish-buying, and only hoped that they would smell better cooked than they did now in their raw state.

It was nearly twelve o'clock when the coach drove through the gates of Branscombe Castle, and up the long avenue of limes which leads to the castle itself. The rain had stopped, and everyone was feeling much more cheerful.

We turned out of the coach, hampers, stuffed deer, and all, and made our way to a large barn at a little distance from the house, which had been prepared for use as a dressing-room.

Long trestle-tables were placed at intervals down its length and the place was already humming with activity. Large notices had been stencilled in green and white, and these showed which part of the barn we could claim as our particular niche. Fairacre W.I. was at one end, next door to a marquee which had been erected to give extra room. In here were two pier-glasses, hand-mirrors, and two wash-stands, for final adjustments to make-up and costume.

As is usual, in affairs run by Women's Institutes the world over, everything had been methodically and painstakingly organized. Six large dustbins, bearing the stencilled word litter, were ranged along the length of the barn. Hooks had been screwed to beams, and coat-hangers, in generous bunches, awaited the costumes. I wandered about, still clutching the sprats, admiring these detailed preparations.

In the marquee I was taken aback by a peremptory notice over the door which said: 'please leave this place.' But whilst I was still pondering this inhospitable request, a tad woman came in, bearing another long strip of cardboard, which she pinned securely below the first.

'
AS YOU WOULD WISH TO FIND IT
' it read triumphantly. My faith restored, I went back to the Fairacre contingent, who were now swarming round the two wicker hampers, and greeting their costumes of old sack and moulting fur with as much affection as they would have bestowed on new hats.

Enormous tiers of seats had been erected in a semi-circle in front of the castle itself, which was to form a most impressive setting for the pageant's scenes. By midday, people were beginning to fill up the rows, prudently spreading newspapers and mackintoshes along the wet benches, before settling themselves. The car park at the rear of the castle filled rapidly and it was apparent that despite the damp weather our county pageant would be presented to a full house.

The castle is now open to the public, but the present owner, Lady Emily Burnett, lives in its sunniest corner. Now in her seventies she still takes an active part in W.I. work, and bustled about among us in great good spirits—a little rosy bundle of a woman, with very bright eyes and short, curly, white hair. She was particularly interested in Fairacre's costumes, admiring the ingenuity which had turned rabbit skins, old muffs and even hearthrugs into passable garments.

She caught Joseph Coggs by the chin, turned his face up to hers and looked silently at his dark, amazed eyes.

'Pure Murillo!' said she decisively, releasing him gently; then bustled on to the next point of interest.

The members from Bent were further down the barn and took much longer to dress in all their finery than we did. Amy and I took chairs outside to have our lunch, for by this rime a watery sun had emerged, and, out of the wind, it was almost warm.

She looked magnificent in deep-blue satin and cream lace and I noticed that my pearl ring was being worn.

Amy's lunch was put up in a very dashing tartan case. Hei chicken sandwiches had the crusts trimmed off and were cut into neat triangles. There was a small blue plate and a mug to match. A tube of mustard and a small cut-glass salt-shaker were tucked into corners, and a snowy napkin lay folded over it all. Her flask was a magnificent affair of leather with a silver top, and I admired this well-appointed meal openly.

My own consisted of some Ryvita, two wrapped cheeses, a hard-boiled egg, a hearty-looking apple and a squashed piece of fruit cake, and my napkin had served to tie it all up and now acted as my plate. The salt was in a serviceable but homely screw of greaseproof paper—and I could not help feeling that the serving of my meal lacked Amy's polish.

'You might just as well have put a hunk of cheese and a raw onion in a red-spotted handkerchief,' said Amy severely. 'You're much too inclined to Let Yourself Go.' Meekly I agreed, and Amy, relenting, offered me some of her very good coffee, which I accepted with proper humility. Once I had safely downed it, I pointed out that she had a dab of mustard perilously near my pearl ring, and that Gone As I Had I still fed myself cleanly.

At this childish retort Amy and I both broke down into uncontrollable laughter, which took us back twenty years and made us feel very much better.

After lunch the fun began. As Fairacre's scene was the first on the programme, we crowded into the marquee to put on our make-up and collect our properties. The children milled about under our feet, patting the stuffed deer—now in an advanced state of moult—pulling each others' rabbit skins, jeering at each others' appearances and generally making nuisances of themselves.

Mrs Pringle, matriarchal in a piece of grey blanket and an inconsequent strip of fur which she wore as a tippet, was sitting on a chair in front of one of the mirrors, thus successfully blocking the way for anyone else who might wish to use it.

Mrs Partridge was energetically shaking talcum powder into Mrs Pringle's scanty hair, rather as a cook dredges dour over a joint.

'Just enough to give it a touch of grey,' shouted Mrs Partridge above the growing din. Mrs Pringle nodded grimly from her scented cloud.

'And have you ad taken off your shoes?' shouted Mrs Partridge to the Ancient Britons, who were now twittering around the marquee in a fine state of nerves. Mrs Moffat had dragooned her self-conscious Roman cohort into a column near the tent-flap. We stood wriggling our gold-painted dishcloths into more comfortable positions and easing our cardboard bootees from our sore ankle-bones. The Roman standard had taken a beating on the way, and the eagle was apt to collapse forwards, displaying the cereal carton of which it was made, with horrid clarity. Mrs Moffat had effected hasty repairs with tape and gummed paper, but we trembled to think of the effect of a strong wind on our proud emblem.

'Nobody gets these boots off my feet until I'm settled,' announced Mrs Pringle with awful deliberation. She rose from under Mrs Partridge's ministrations and stumped heavily towards her tribe. One of the twins darted across her path as she ploughed inexorably onward. There was a squeal of pain, the child hopped round in a frenzy, and Mrs Pringle, majestic in grey blanket and tousled locks—like some fore-shortened Lear,—checked in her advance.

'Should of looked where you was going,' she said sourly. 'Good thing I'd kept me boots on, or me corns would have been done in proper.'

***

By two-fifteen, when the pageant was due to open, the excitement was feverish. Ad the stands were packed and ground sheets had been spread in front to take the overflow. A number of schools had brought coach-loads of children. They chattered like starlings and were only silenced when, with a fine rolling of drums and a fanfare of trumpets, two heralds strode on to the stage to deliver the prologue.

Fairacre W.I. was now divided into two parties. The Ancient Britons were on one side awaiting their entry, complete with paraffin-drenched sticks for the camp-fire, a few noisome sprats, and the stuffed deer, which had now split across the neck and lost one glass eye.

Nerves already strained to breaking-point had almost snapped when Mrs Willet had said idly whilst they waited: 'Wonder where that eye's got to?' and was answered by Eileen Burton who said smugly that 'one of the kids had swallowed it!'

'
Which?
' screamed a dozen frenzied mothers, converging upon their informant menacingly.

'Don't remember,' confessed the child, and was spared further recriminations by the trumpets' brazen cry which announced that Fairacre's greatest hour was upon it.

We Romans, huddled behind a hurdle on the other side of the lawn, watched our fellow-members at their primitive tasks. Mrs Pringle was an awe-inspiring sight, as, boots removed, she settled her great bulk on the groaning pouffe. Regally she made signs to Mrs Willet, unrecognizable in a moth-eaten tiger-skin from the vicarage landing, to light the fire.

This Mrs Willet knelt to do, braving the dampness to her bare knees. She vigorously rubbed two sticks and then artfully dropped a lighted match into the paraffin-soaked twigs. A blazing yellow flame shot into the air, amidst great applause, and shouts of 'What-ho! The atom bomb!' from a hilarious party of preparatory school boys sitting on the ground-sheets.

The sprats were put to sizzle, Ancient Briton mothers tended their grinning children, the stuffed deer luckily hung together long enough to be borne in by Mrs Pratt and one of the members from Springbourne, and at last came the moment when tidings were brought of the Romans' approach.

Near-panic broke out behind our hurdle, as one of our number was suddenly stricken with stage-fright. Surprisingly enough, it was staid Mrs Fowler from Tyler's Row.

'I just can't go on,' she fluttered, my stomach's turned right over. I'm all ashake!'

We all did our best to encourage our weaker brother, though our own knees were knocking.

'You'd be all right as soon as you're on,' one insisted.

'Put your head between your knees,' said another.

'No don't,' advised a third, 'you'll have your helmet off!'

Mrs Moffat proved herself a born leader. Advancing with our wobbly eagle, she said fiercely: 'Mrs Andrews has been waving at the other Ancient Britons for a full two minutes. We must go on. Come on Mrs Fowler, follow me!'

And with standard upraised she marched valiantly from behind the hurdle, while, with hearts aflutter beneath our gilded cardboard armour, we stumbled in her wake.

We Romans got through the scene very wed once we had overcome our initial stage-fright, and we even jostled, in a lady-like way, for the best places near the camp-fire, which was roaring away merrily. The sprats were done to a turn by the time we arrived, and I wished I could secrete a few about my Roman garments, for Tibby's supper.

The children, who were supposed to flee with their parents at our coming, had become very interested in the schoolboys, and had to be poked sharply in the back to recall them to their actors' duties, but otherwise there was no hitch. Mrs Pringle, shuffling crab-wise and picking her barefoot way carefully over damp patches, was a sight I shad long remember.

Storms of applause greeted our bows, and we hastened off full of relief. Behind the hurdles waited a motley set of Saxons, hiding behind large cotton-wool beards and adjusting their cross-garters. They, poor dears, were as frightened as we had been ten minutes before.

'It's nothing!' we told them airily, as we swept by to the changing-room. We could afford to be blasée now.

During the interval Mrs Bond, who had organized the pageant, collected Mrs Moffat and Mrs Finch-Edwards and took them along to meet Andrew Beverley, a very famous film-producer indeed. He was a small, diffident individual, and from a distance looked far too fragile for the hurly-burly of the film world. It was only when one caught sight of his grey and glittering eyes, as compelling as those of the Ancient Mariner himself, that one realized the latent power that lay in his diminutive frame.

When he had returned to his seat the two friends, much awed, showed me the card that he had given them.

'And he's written the name of his wardrobe mistress on the back,' breathed Mrs Moffat.

'With his own pencil!' echoed Mrs Finch-Edwards, her eyes like stars. 'And we can call at his studios any time while he's shooting his new film, to see the costumes.'

'Isn't it wonderful!' whispered Mrs Moffat, sitting down heavily on the pouffe. Mrs Finch-Edwards sat beside her. Together they gazed before them at that rosy world which lay ahead. There was nothing more to say, and they sat there together in blissful silence.

I tiptoed quietly away, leaving them to their dreams.

The sun was setting behind St Patrick's spire when we arrived at Fairacre. We were all tired, but proud of our efforts. There, in the wicker hampers, lay the battered remains of our past splendour. The eagle had fallen long ago, and had been left behind in one of the litter bins at Branscombe Castle. The stuffed deer, much the worse for wear, had been used as a pillow by three children asleep on the back seat, throughout the journey.

Stiffly we clambered down from the coach, tired and dirty. Only the dabs of gilt about our persons gave any hint of the brief Roman glory that had been ours. We could scarcely believe that, at last, the pageant was behind us.