Guy, like his father the bishop, always whisked hither and thither at church occasions, big hand on bare elbows, telling willing helpers how splendid they were being. Now he was manning the loud speaker, his strong voice ringing round Paradise: ‘Pray silence for our vicar.’
Everyone milled around patting Dinsdale, who was thoughtfully licking coffee cake off his whiskers. Percival Hillary then went into an orgy of platitudes about Georgie needing absolutely no introduction and how she and her husband Guy had been a most acceptable addition to our little community and how grateful they were to Georgie for taking time out from her busy schedule.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ began Georgie.
The microphone let out an eldritch screech.
‘Speak up,’ yelled old Miss Cricklade who’d been home-made wine champion for ten years running.
‘Thank you for making us so welcome.’ Georgie sounded as though she was coming from outer space. ‘It all looks absolutely lovely, but I know events of this kind do not spring up over-night like mushrooms. They take months of hard work and organization and I’d specially like to thank—’
She was interrupted by the doodle-bug chug of Larry’s helicopter which landed in the next-door field blowing chaff over everyone. Miss Cricklade, who had been a fire watcher during the war, took refuge under a trestle table.
‘As our opener was saying,’ prompted Percival.
But Georgie had lost her place and couldn’t remember whom she’d thanked. She could see that Mother Courage, her wisteria-mauve hair piled on top, her over-made-up face flushed from the I pub, was holding Dinsdale and egging her on.
‘I’d like to thank the Reverend and Mrs Hillary for lending us their lovely garden,’ stammered Georgie, and was about to urge everyone to dig deeply into their pockets and spend, spend, spend and tell a little joke at the end when she realized she’d lost her audience. Looking down, she saw that Lysander’s Jack had rolled up and was vigorously fornicating with Dinsdale’s back leg.
‘Don’t, Debenham, that’s rude,’ squawked Mother Courage as her white plastic boot sent Jack for six.
‘And I declare this fete open,’ mumbled Georgie to very muted applause.
‘I am going to murder Jack and Lysander,’ vowed Georgie furiously. ‘And Larry,’ she added as she saw him scuttling into the flower-tent to get his chocolate cake in on time.
But there was no time for brooding.
Hissing, ‘If only you’d allowed Percy and I to rehearse you,’ Guy whisked her off to judge the fancy dress.
‘She never thanked Produce, Nearly New or Coconuts,’ Miss Cricklade was grumbling to Marigold.
‘Well done. You’ll need a bullet-proof vest,’ murmured Bob as he ushered Georgie into a ring full of shepherdesses, gypsies, clowns and pop stars.
Georgie liked children and ear-marked Marigold’s boys dressed as Margaret and Dennis Thatcher and Archangel Mike’s two daughters sweating inside a white pantomime horse as Desert Orchid, as the likely winners, when a diversion was caused by Hermione, looking wonderfully cool in a cream Chanel suit and a big straw hat.
‘I do hope we’re not too late,’ she was saying in her deep thrilling voice as she posted an angelic little boy in a sailor suit with a sailor hat on his dark curls into the ring. This must be Cosmo, Hermione and Bob’s ‘treasure’.
‘Hallo, darling, you only made it just in time. Let’s have a look at you.’ Crouching down beside him, Georgie nearly dropped the clipboard with her markings on. For, looking out of a tiny version of Hermione’s face, were the shiny black, deadly nightshade eyes of Rannaldini.
Next moment she gave a shriek as Cosmo kicked her sharply on the shin and then laid about Denis Thatcher with his telescope. This speedily concentrated Georgie’s mind. She put Marigold’s boys first, Desert Orchid a close second, Miss Muffet’s spider third, Cosmo nowhere.
‘Little Cosmo is very sensitive. He won’t like that decision,’ said Hermione ominously as she retrieved her bawling child.
‘You’re going to need that bullet-proof vest more than ever,’ whispered Bob.
‘Can we have all animals in the ring for the Best Pet shown by a child?’ shouted Guy.
‘Pity Rannaldini’s in Geneva or we could have entered him,’ said Meredith.
‘Judged by our very own Hermione Harefield,’ added Guy to loud cheers which temporarily assuaged Hermione’s ire.
‘I must have tubes of Smarties for everyone,’ she was now insisting. ‘I will not have any little one disappointed.’
‘Hermione’s so caring,’ said Joy Hillary.
Seeing Ferdie give Tiny a great kick, Miss Cricklade reported him to the RSPCA who had a tent by the exit. Numbly Georgie signed autographs, still dazed by the fact that little Cosmo was Rannaldini’s son. How did Bob and Kitty put up with such a constant public reminder? Finally, over the loud speaker, Guy announced that judging had finished in the flower-show tent and the public would be admitted shortly to see who’d won. Where the hell’s Lysander? thought Ferdie and Georgie in murderous unison.
The hero of Paradise after last Sunday’s cricket match had, in fact, fallen among thieves in The Pearly Gates. Everyone wanted to buy him drinks and, being Lysander, he promptly bought them back. Then Crooked Mouse, his hot tip for the 1.30, came in first and as he had told everyone to back her it was more drinks all round to celebrate, then at his suggestion they backed Georgie’s Day for obvious reasons in the 2.15 and it came last so they had loads more drinks to cheer themselves up. By two-thirty Lysander was out of his skull. Hazily remembering he had to meet Georgie somewhere he staggered out wearing his fox fur and eventually found himself behind the vicarage. Hearing noise, he shinned over the wall, landing in a guelder rose bush at the back of a large tent. Wriggling through a side flap, he stumbled upon the home-made wine section on a nearby table with all the bottles open after the judging.
The winner had once again been Miss Cricklade. Last year after a couple of glasses of her elderflower wine the Archangel Michael, who normally drank for England, had driven straight through The Apple Tree’s shop window after leaving her house.
Having finished the remaining half of this year’s winning bottle, Lysander, who hadn’t eaten since the previous evening and then only uncooked cake mixture, suddenly decided he was hungry and polished off an excellent spinach quiche and a plate of sausage rolls before starting on Miss Cricklade’s prizewinning elderberry red.
By now people were flooding into the tent, shaking him by the hand and congratulating him. Really, thought Lysander, this is the nicest wedding reception I’ve ever been to. He must have another drink.
Outside, the RSPCA inspector, who had rolled up to prosecute Ferdie, having been bitten sharply by Tiny, was tempted to prosecute the pony instead.
The shadow of the spire fell over the vicar’s garden as the sun started its descent. Disconsolate exhibitors were pouring out of the flower-tent. Rannaldini and Mr Brimscombe seemed to have won everything.
Having thrust cups of tea on willing stall holders and remembering that Hermione liked hers camomile and flavoured with honey, Guy led Marigold, who’d been up since six, off to the beer tent for something stronger. Now Georgie could see them laughing together. Traitor, thought Georgie, wishing someone would hurl a coconut at Guy.
Guy was less amused, as were Larry, the vicar and Meredith when they discovered that the still-absent Lysander had won first prize for his chocolate cake.
‘It had a lovely damp texture and a delicious flavour we can’t pin-point,’ was the judge’s comment.
It was time for Larry to run the auction and regain the ascendancy after not winning a single prize. He’d show who could drive a hard bargain and kicked off by getting eighty pounds for a signed copy of
Guy then impressed everyone by bidding an unheard of forty pounds for Hermione’s posy of wildflowers. Consisting of marjoram, thyme, scabious and light and dark purple bell-flowers, they had been picked and arranged by little Cosmo’s Nanny, Gretel. Hermione was in heaven.
‘Guy Seymour is the most generous man in Rutshire,’ she told everyone after kissing Guy several times full on the mouth.
