When they knocked at number three they were met by Mary Brown holding a handkerchief up to her running nose. ‘’Bout time,’ she spluttered. ‘These bleedin’ ’ovels are killin’ us. I’m off sick, me ole dad’s in bed wiv the flu, me kids ’ave both got snotty noses, an’ there’s Mrs Cosgrove along the street. ’Er an’’er ole man are both in bed wiv the flu. It’s bloody disgustin’.’
The men nodded their heads sympathetically and wrote on their clipboards. ‘Can we look around please? We won’t be long.’
Mary stood back and allowed the surveyors into her home. She watched while they tapped the walls and prodded the rotten plaster, then she followed them up the stairs and into George Baker’s bedroom. The old boy was sitting up in bed, a blanket drawn around his frail shoulders.
‘Who the bloody ’ell are you?’ he croaked.
‘It’s all right, Dad. It’s the men from the lan’lords.’
George eyed the visitors suspiciously. ‘Well it’s about time yer come an’ ’ad a look. I’ve lived ’ere fer nigh on firty years. Me an’ my missus – Gawd rest ’er soul – brought our family up ’ere. We ain’t never missed payin’ the rent in all that time, an’ what ’ave we ’ad done in the way of repairs? I tell yer what. Sweet bugger all, that’s what. An’ I tell yer somefink else. If nufink’s done bloody quick we’re all gonna get tergevver an’ make this ’ere street out o’ bounds ter your bleedin’ rent collector. Now give that bit o’ news ter Vine Estates.’
Mary patted her father’s back as he went into a fit of coughing and the surveyors beat a hasty retreat.
The Kelstowe autumn fête got off to a very good start, with Miss Harcourt reaching a top ‘C’ and the piano player Christina Jones hardly striking a wrong note as she struggled with Puccini’s ‘The Prince’. Old James came next and, although he dropped the spoons on two occasions, his attempts to rattle out ‘Colonel Bogey’ received enthusiastic applause. The church hall then became silent as Claudette stood up and issued a passionate plea for everyone to give generously to the restoration fund. She took the applause with her usual aplomb and then flitted theatrically amongst the gathering to milk the plaudits for her efforts in organising the fête.
Outside in the garden things were beginning to hot up. Visitors strolled into the marquee and sampled the ale. The Waverley sisters stood behind a table selling their egg muffs and long woollen bedsocks and, unseen by anyone, two young lads slipped into the marquee and one of them dipped his grubby finger in a jam exhibit. Major Marchant had also been sampling, and he became more loud-voiced with each glass of ale. Mabel Marchant chose to ignore her husband’s behaviour and strolled around the tables with her daughter Eunice holding on to her arm.
Eunice was tall and inclined to stoop. Her eyes blinked owlishly behind her spectacles, and her dark hair was tied back with a pink ribbon which exposed her rather large ears. Her one redeeming feature was her smile. When she parted her lips she exposed perfect teeth and her face lit up. As she walked beside her mother Eunice was not disposed to smile, however. Her father was rapidly becoming drunk and already attracting disapproving glances from the Waverley sisters.
Inside the church hall Claudette was getting anxious. Peter had not yet arrived, nor had Robert. The jam tasting is due in ten minutes, she groaned to herself, studying her watch. Peter knows very well it’s his job to accompany the Waverley sisters and to take notes. It won’t do. He knows how I insist on keeping to a schedule. Then there’s Eunice. She’ll be looking for Robert to escort her throughout the day. The girl obviously thinks highly of him. Why, oh why doesn’t Robert realise she’s set her sights on him? He could do a lot worse than marrying into the Marchant family. All right, maybe the girl isn’t a raving beauty, but she has class and breeding and she would make a perfect partner for Robert. It’s about time he settled down instead of gadding around with those loutish college friends of his. Maybe he doesn’t like girls? Maybe he – no, the idea’s preposterous. Why ever should I think a thing like that? she asked herself.
When Peter strolled into the hall Claudette immediately grabbed him by the arm. ‘Really, Peter. You do cut things a bit fine. Come on, let’s get the jam tasting started. By the way, where’s Robert?’
Peter shrugged his shoulders. ‘I left him in the Pheasants. He said he’ll follow on later.’
Claudette puffed out her cheeks in exasperation. ‘I don’t know what Eunice is going to think. I’ve already told her Robert will be pleased to be her escort.’
Peter looked at his wife and shook his head slowly. ‘You shouldn’t have told her that, Claudette. You’ve no right to act as matchmaker. Robert will do his own choosing when he’s good and ready. If you ask me I’d say he hasn’t the slightest intention of settling down just yet. You must leave him alone, dear. He’ll do things in his own time.’ But Claudette was already walking away from him.
The home-made jam contest soon got under way. Peter stood aside as the Waverleys spread dobs of jam on to wafer biscuits and nibbled away before whispering their findings to him. The sisters were walking slowly along the line of jam pots when suddenly they stopped and exchanged shocked glances. The eldest Waverley turned to Peter with a disgusted look on her face. ‘We can’t sample that one!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s been tampered with!’
Peter saw the distinct imprint of a small finger and he suppressed a smile. ‘Of course you can’t, Miss Waverley,’ he said sucking his cheek.
The onlookers exchanged sly grins and suddenly a loud voice rang out. ‘Whassa matter there?’
Peter turned to find himself confronted by the inebriated Major. He leaned away from the man’s beery breath and pointed to the jam. The Major swayed unsteadily on his feet and looked down at the fingerprint.
‘Good Lord!’ he said, blinking at the Waverleys. ‘Someone’s sco-scotched the contest! No one leaves the tent!’ he bawled.
Eunice shrank back into a corner and wished the ground would open up and swallow her. Mabel walked over and took her husband’s arm. ‘Come away, dear. Let the ladies get on with it.’
Clarence leered and swayed backward. ‘Sabotage! That’s what it is. Damn sabotage!’ he spluttered.
More people began to converge on the jam table to offer advice and, during the confusion, Robert walked into the marquee. He was immediately approached by Claudette. ‘The Major’s had too much to drink, Robert. I think it’s upsetting Eunice. Go and see if she’s all right, will you, dear?’
Robert groaned to himself and walked over to where the Marchants’ daughter was sitting. ‘Hello, Eunice,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Oh, Robert. Father’s getting awfully drunk. I feel so ashamed, I wish I could die.’
He looked down at the forlorn figure and tried to look concerned. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Eunice. Your father’s just a little tipsy, that’s all. He’s not hurting anyone.’
‘He’s hurting me,’ Eunice blurted out, and she dabbed at her eyes with a lace square.
At that moment there was a loud crash and Robert looked over to see the Major lying across the jam table. The jam pots were strewn about and, as Clarence was helped to his feet, his blood-red face contorted in a lop-sided grin. ‘Damned bloody sabotage,’ he said with deliberation. ‘This is a case for Sexton Blake.’
The Waverley sisters were protesting vehemently. ‘That’s it. The contest is over. Come, Gwen. I think it’s time we left.’
Claudette was fluttering around in a panic. ‘All my hard work has been in vain,’ she cried to anyone within earshot. ‘What could have possessed the Major? It’s so unlike him to get that drunk.’
Outside the marquee the village postman sat on an upturned box and tried to focus his bleary eyes on the departing Waverley sisters. His head was swimming and he was having difficulty in rolling a cigarette. His pal George Simpson had only sampled two glasses of ale and he had gone home in a worse state than he did after a skinful at the Pheasants on a Saturday night. Mabel Marchant was worried. She had got used to her husband’s drunken antics, but on this occasion he had only consumed a few glasses. His behaviour had upset Eunice and Claudette Armitage was furious, she could tell. She must apologise for Clarence. Whatever would the Reverend Jones think?
Unknown to Mabel, the venerable cleric was having difficulty in making himself understood. He had popped into the fête earlier that day and sampled the ale, intending to go back to the function after he had supervised the cleaning up operation. The problem was, he was feeling just like he did on that occasion long ago when he had over-indulged at the endof-term party at theological college. His eyes were rolling around and words came out jumbled. Mrs Brown and two of her friends had volunteered to clean the church thoroughly and make sure it was tidy, and when their vicar staggered up and asked them in garbled English to ‘sweep the pews out of the church and dust the aisle’ they thought he must be ill. Mrs Brown’s friend Alice had other views. ‘He’s sozzled,’ she said. ‘Probably been at the communion wine.’
Back at the fête Claudette was trying to salvage something from the day. Miss Harcourt agreed to do an encore and James the postman was being sought for another rendition on the spoons. Robert had agreed to escort Eunice home and they had managed to get the Major out into the fresh air. Peter was trying to look serious as his distraught wife dabbed at her forehead. ‘The shame and humiliation of it all,’ she groaned. ‘I’ll never do another fête, Peter. I swear I won’t.’
Her name was called and, as she turned, Claudette saw one of the committee ladies hurrying towards her. ‘We’ve located James,’ the woman said breathlessly.
‘Oh splendid. Get him to . . .’
‘It’s no use, Claudette,’ the woman cut in. ‘He’s asleep in the middle of the flower bed.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Claudette wailed. ‘What’s happening to everyone? Have they all become alcoholics overnight?’
Worse news was to follow. Mrs Ackroyd looked in to say that it was unlikely they would see the vicar any more that day. According to her friend Alice, he had cracked up and drunk all the communion wine and was now snoring his head off in the front pew.
The unintentional perpetrator of the disaster was leaning across the counter of the Three Pheasants, engaged in a conversation with Doctor Spanswick. ‘Personally, Doc, I never have the time to go to the fête now. It’s not my cup of tea anyway. It drives me crackers listening to all that gossip and tittle-tattle all day long. None of it’s interesting. Hardly any of’em use the pub anyway.’
The old doctor shifted his position on the bar stool and chuckled. ‘Oh come on, Cyril, it’s not that bad. Their motives are good. Think of all the money they raise.’
‘It’s not the principle I object to,’ Cyril went on. ‘It’s the way they go about it. They’d be better off having a get-together in my pub with a few collecting boxes. And we’d all be able to have a proper drink instead of a few sips of that watery sherry the Waverleys get from God knows where. Mind you, the fête committee talked me out of a barrel of best ale for the infernal event, though I dare say the old Major’s been enjoying most of that. Well, at any rate my soul will rest easy, Doc.’
The barrel of ale donated by Cyril Thomas had already been placed out of bounds by the fête committee, and Claudette vowed that the landlord of the Three Pheasants would have some pertinent questions to answer. ‘This ale is positively lethal,’ she told the shocked ladies.
Harris and Beamish brewers would have had to agree. They had distributed thirty barrels of it before the mistake was discovered. The ale was in fact a rogue batch that had fermented and frothed until one pint of the stuff was enough to knock the most experienced drinker bandy. Twenty-nine barrels had been recovered by the brewers and one was given up as lost. The dishonest drayman, who had appropriated the remaining barrel and sold it to the less-than-honest Cyril Thomas, would soon have to prepare himself for the publican’s wrath.
Robert Armitage walked back slowly to his home on the edge of Kelstowe. The day had been one he would sooner like to forget. The fête had been livened up by the lethal ale, it was true, but he had not enjoyed being forced to chaperone and nursemaid the designing Eunice Marchant. When he walked her home she had asked him in and when he declined, saying that he had to get back, she had played the innocent aggrieved. Her head snuggled against his chest, she told him how dependable and strong he was. Robert did his part by consoling her but the situation threatened to get out of hand when, with great expectations, the Marchants’ daughter had removed her glasses. Robert had managed to escape by saying his throat felt sore and he must be going down with something. He felt a little guilty for the deception as he strolled along with his hands tucked into his trouser pockets but he felt there was nothing else he could do. He had no desire to entangle himself with Eunice, no matter what his mother wanted. His immediate plans concerned someone else, and his thoughts turned again to Connie. She had been in and out of his thoughts all week. She had charmed him with her rough accent and naive honesty, and her shy, innocent personality had intrigued him. She was a rough diamond, he thought. A glittering jewel in drab and lustreless surroundings, claimed yet not owned. He desired her, wanted to win her, to be with her more than anything. He realised it was the first time he had felt this way about a girl. Connie may come from the other side of the street, but it made no difference to him. It was something that had just happened, something he couldn’t explain to himself, let alone to his family. They obviously expected him to find a girl from within their own social circle, or at least a girl with an impeccable background who would be considered acceptable. Well life wasn’t like that. He had found someone he cared for and wanted to be with, and his parents were going to have to get used to the idea.
Chapter Fifteen
Rain beat against the window pane and in the distance thunder rolled. The clock beside the bed said nine o’clock and Connie turned over. It was Saturday morning and her seventeenth birthday. The warmth of the bed claimed her and the cards that had come through the door stayed unopened on the rough mat in the passage. She had heard the letter box sound earlier and guessed that Helen had put the cards through the door on her way to work. As she snuggled down, Connie heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and along the landing and the letter box rattled again. The room felt cold as she climbed out of bed and gathered up the envelopes from the mat. Back in bed she opened the two unstamped ones first. One was from Helen and Matthew, and the other from Molly. One of the stamped envelopes bore her mother’s spidery handwriting.