Lark Rise to Candleford (36 page)

Long tables were laid out of doors in the shade of a barn,
and soon after twelve o'clock the cottagers sat down to the good cheer, with
the farmer carving at the principal table, his wife with her tea urn at another,
the daughters of the house and their friends circling the tables with vegetable
dishes and beer jugs, and the grandchildren, in their stiff, white, embroidered
frocks, dashing hither and thither to see that everybody had what they
required. As a background there was the rickyard with its new yellow stacks
and, over all, the mellow sunshine of late summer.

Passers-by on the road stopped their gigs and high dog-carts
to wave greetings and shout congratulations on the weather. If a tramp looked wistfully
in, he was beckoned to a seat on the straw beneath a rick and a full plate was
placed on his knees. It was a picture of plenty and goodwill.

It did not do to look beneath the surface. Laura's father,
who did not come into the picture, being a 'tradesman' and so not invited, used
to say that the farmer paid his men starvation wages all the year and thought
he made it up to them by giving that one good meal. The farmer did not think
so, because he did not think at all, and the men did not think either on that
day; they were too busy enjoying the food and the fun.

After the dinner there were sports and games, then dancing in
the home paddock until twilight, and when, at the end of the day, the farmer, carving
indoors for the family supper, paused with knife poised to listen to the last
distant 'Hooray!' and exclaimed, 'A lot of good chaps! A lot of good chaps, God
bless 'em!' both he and the cheering men were sincere, however mistaken.

But these modest festivals which had figured every year in
everybody's life for generations were eclipsed in 1887 by Queen Victoria's
Golden Jubilee.

Up to the middle of the 'eighties the hamlet had taken little
interest in the Royal House. The Queen and the Prince and Princess of Wales
were sometimes mentioned, but with little respect and no affection. 'The old Queen',
as she was called, was supposed to have shut herself up in Balmoral Castle with
a favourite servant named John Brown and to have refused to open Parliament
when Mr. Gladstone begged her to. The Prince was said to be leading a gay life,
and the dear, beautiful Princess, afterwards Queen Alexandra, was celebrated
only for her supposed make-up.

By the middle of the decade a new spirit was abroad and had
percolated to the hamlet. The Queen, it appeared, had reigned fifty years. She
had been a good queen, a wonderful queen, she was soon to celebrate her jubilee,
and, still more exciting, they were going to celebrate it, too, for there was
going to be a big 'do' in which three villages would join for tea and sports
and dancing and fireworks in the park of a local magnate. Nothing like it had
ever been known before.

As the time drew nearer, the Queen and her jubilee became the
chief topic of conversation. The tradesmen gave lovely coloured portraits of her
in her crown and garter ribbon on their almanacks, most of which were framed at
home and hung up in the cottages. Jam could be bought in glass jugs adorned
with her profile in hobnails and inscribed '1837 to 1887. Victoria the Good',
and, underneath, the national catchword of the moment: 'Peace and Plenty.' The
newspapers were full of the great achievements of her reign: railway travel,
the telegraph, Free Trade, exports, progress, prosperity, Peace: all these
blessings, it appeared, were due to her inspiration.

Of most of these advantages the hamlet enjoyed but Esau's
share; but, as no one reflected upon this, it did not damp the general
enthusiasm. 'Fancy her reigning fifty years, the old dear, her!' they said, and
bought paper banners inscribed 'Fifty Years, Mother, Wife, and Queen' to put
inside their window panes. 'God Bless Her. Victoria the Good. The Mother of Her
People.'

Laura was lucky enough to be given a bound volume of
Good
Words
—or was it
Home Words
?—in which the Queen's own journal,
Leaves
From Her Majesty's Life in the Highlands
, ran as a serial. She galloped
through all the instalments immediately to pick out the places mentioned by her
dear Sir Walter Scott. Afterwards the journal was re-read many times, as everything
was re-read in that home of few books. Laura liked the journal, for although
the Queen kept to the level of meals and drives and seasickness and the
'civility' of her hosts and hostesses, and only mentioned the scenery (Scott's
scenery!) to repeat what 'Albert said' about it—and he always compared it to
some foreign scene—there was a forthright sincerity about the writing which
revealed a human being behind all the glitter and fuss.

By the end of May everybody was talking about the weather.
Would it be fine for the great drive through London; and, still more important,
would it be fine for the doings in Skeldon Park? Of course it would be fine,
said the more optimistic. Providence knew what He was about. It was going to be
a glorious June. Queen's weather, they called it. Hadn't the listener heard
that the sun always shone when the Queen drove out?

Then there were rumours of a subscription fund. The women of
England were going to give the Queen a jubilee present, and, wonder of wonders,
the amount given was not to exceed one penny. 'Of course we shall give,' they
said proudly. 'It'll be our duty an' our pleasure.' And when the time came for
the collection to be made they had all of them their pennies ready. Bright new
ones in most cases, for, although they knew the coins were to be converted into
a piece of plate before reaching Her Majesty, they felt that only new money was
worthy of the occasion.

The ever-faithful, ever-useful clergyman's daughter collected
the pence. Thinking, perhaps, that the day after pay-day would be most
convenient, she visited Lark Rise on a Saturday, and Laura, at home from
school, was clipping the garden hedge when she heard one neighbour say to
another: 'I want a bucket of water, but I can't run round to the well till Miss
Ellison's been for the penny.'

'Lordy, dear!' ejaculated the other. 'Why, she's been an'
gone this quarter of an hour. She's a-been to my place. Didn't she come to
yourn?'

The first speaker flushed to the roots of her hair. She was a
woman whose husband had recently had an accident afield and was still in hospital.
There were no Insurance benefits then, and it was known she was having a hard
struggle to keep her home going; but she had her penny ready and was hurt, terribly
hurt, by the suspicion that she had been purposely passed over.

'I s'pose, because I be down on me luck, she thinks I ain't
worth a penny,' she cried, and went in and banged the door.

'There's temper for you!' the other woman exclaimed to the
world at large and went about her own business. But Laura was distressed. She
had seen Mrs. Parker's expression and could imagine how her pride was hurt. She,
herself, hated to be pitied. But what could she do about it?

She went to the gate. Miss Ellison had finished collecting
and was crossing the allotments on her way home. Laura would just have time to run
the other way round and meet her at the stile. After a struggle with her own
inward shrinking which lasted about two minutes, but was ridiculously intense,
she ran off on her long, thin legs, and popped up, like a little
jack-in-the-box, on the other side of the stile which the lady was gathering up
her long frilly skirts to mount.

'Oh, please, Miss Ellison, you haven't been to Mrs. Parker's,
and she's got her penny all ready and she wants the Queen to have it so much.'

'But, Laura,' said the lady loftily, surprised at such
interference, 'I did not intend to call upon Mrs. Parker to-day. With her
husband in hospital, I know she has no penny to spare, poor soul.'

But, although somewhat quelled, Laura persisted: 'But she's
got it all polished up and wrapped in tissue paper, Miss Ellison, and 'twill
hurt her feelings most awful if you don't go for it, Miss Ellison.'

At that, Miss Ellison grasped the situation and retraced her
steps, keeping Laura by her side and talking to her as to another grown-up person.

'Our dear Queen,' she was saying as they passed Twister's
turnip patch, 'our dear, good Queen, Laura, is noted for her perfect tact.
Once, and I have this on good authority, some church workers were invited to
visit her at Osborne. Tea was served in a magnificent drawing-room, the Queen actually
partaking of a cup with them, and this, I am told, is very unusual—a great
honour, in fact; but no doubt she did it to put them at their ease. But in her
confusion, one poor lady, unaccustomed to taking tea with royalty, had the
misfortune to drop her slice of cake on the floor. Imagine that, Laura, a slice
of cake on the Queen's beautiful carpet; you can understand how the poor lady
must have felt, can't you dear? One of the ladies-in-waiting smiled at her
discomfiture, which made her still more nervous and trembling; but our dear
Queen—she has sharp eyes, God bless her!—saw at once how matters stood. She
asked for a slice of cake, then purposely dropped it, and commanded the lady
who had smiled to pick up both pieces at once. Which she did quickly, you may
be sure, Laura, and there were no more smiles. What a lesson! What a lesson,
Laura!'

Cynical little Laura wondered for whom the lesson was
intended; but she only said meekly: 'Yes, indeed, Miss Ellison,' and this
brought them to Mrs. Parker's door, where she had the satisfaction of hearing
Miss Ellison say: 'Oh, dear, Mrs. Parker, I nearly overlooked your house. I have
come for your contribution to the Queen's jubilee present.'

The great day dawned at last and most of the hamlet people
were up in time to see the sun burst in dazzling splendour from the pearly pink
east and mount into a sky unflecked by the smallest cloud. Queen's weather,
indeed! Arid as the day began it continued. It was very hot; but nobody minded
that, for the best hats could be worn without fear of showers, and those who
had sunshades put by for just such an occasion could bring them forth in all
their glory of deep lace or long, knotted, silk fringe.

By noon all the hamlet children had been scrubbed with soap
and water and arrayed in their best clothes. 'Every bit clean, right through to
the skin,' as their mothers proudly declared. Then, after a snack, calculated
to sustain the family during the walk to the park, but not to spoil the
appetite for tea, the mothers went upstairs to take out their own curl papers
and don their best clothes. A strong scent of camphor and lavender and closely
shut boxes pervaded the atmosphere around them for the rest of the day. The
colours and styles did not harmonize too well with the midsummer country scene,
and many might have preferred to see them in print frocks and sunbonnets; but
they dressed to please themselves, not to please the artistic taste of others,
and they were all the happier for it.

Before they started there was much running from house to
house and asking: 'Now,
should
you put on another bow just here!' or 'Do
you think that ostrich tip our young Em sent me'd improve my hat, or do you think
the red roses and black lace is enough?' or 'Now, tell me true, do you like my
hair done this way?'

The men and boys with shining faces and in Sunday suits had
gone on before to have dinner at the farm before meeting their families at the cross-roads.
They would be having cuts off great sirloins and Christmas pudding washed down
with beer, just as they did at the harvest home dinner.

The little party from the end house walked alone in the
straggling procession; the mother, still rather pale from her recent
confinement, pushing the baby carriage with little May and baby Elizabeth;
Laura and Edmund, on tiptoe with excitement, helping to shove the carriage over
the rough turf of the park. Their father had not come. He did not care for
'do's', and had gone to work at his bench at the shop alone while his workmates
held high holiday. There were as yet no trade union laws to forbid such
singularity.

There were more people in the park than the children had ever
seen together, and the roundabouts, swings, and coconut shies were doing a roaring
trade. Tea was partaken of in a huge marquee in relays, one parish at a time,
and the sound of the brass band, roundabout hurdy-gurdy, coconut thwacks, and
showmen's shouting surged round the frail, canvas walls like a roaring sea.

Within, the mingled scents of hot tea, dough cake, tobacco
smoke, and trampled grass lent a holiday savour to a simple menu. But if the provisions
were simple in quality, the quantity was prodigious. Clothes baskets of bread
and butter and jam cut in thick slices and watering cans of tea, already milked
and sugared, were handed round and disappeared in a twinkling. 'God bless my
soul,' one old clergyman exclaimed. 'Where on earth do they put it all!' They
put three-fourths of it in the same handy receptacle he himself used for his
four-course dinners; but the fourth part went into their pockets. That was
their little weakness—not to be satisfied with a bellyful, but to manage somehow
to secure a portion to take home for next day.

After tea there were sports, with races, high jumps, dipping
heads into tubs of water to retrieve sixpences with the teeth, grinning through
horse-collars, the prize going to the one making the most gtotesque face, and,
to crown all, climbing the greased pole for the prize leg of mutton. This was a
tough job, as the pole was as tall and slender as a telephone post and
extremely slippery. Prudent wives would not allow their husbands to attempt it
on account of spoiling their clothes, so the competition was left to the
ragamuffins and a few experts who had had the foresight to bring with them a
pair of old trousers. This competition must have run concurrently with the
other events, for all the afternoon there was a crowd around it, and first one,
then another, would 'have a go'. It was painful to watch the climbers, shinning
up a few inches, then slipping back again, and, as one retired, another taking
his place, until, late in the afternoon, the champion arrived, climbed slowly
but steadily to the top and threw down the joint, which, by the way, must have
been already roasted after four or five hours in the burning sun. It was
whispered around that he had carried a bag of ashes and sprinkled them on the
greasy surface as he ascended.