Oliver. But he hates Oliver more than he hates running, and is entering the race in order to hack Oliver on the ankle as they fight for inside places on the bend.”
I couldn’t help laughing, but we had to get on with the business in hand.
“I am going to enjoy this fete,” I said. “What do you think I ought to wear for the fortune-telling?”
“I’ve renovated my old gipsy costume,” said Daphne. “We’ll go and try it on you.”
“I shall sport a small beard, I think,” I said. “The Bearded Woman. We ought to charge threepence a time. I suppose my customers will be mostly the village girls, and they haven’t much money.”
“I’d thought of sixpence,” said Daphne, “so as to dodge threepenny bits. Besides, you don’t want to be absolutely overrun. I vote we make it sixpence, with an extra sixpence for advice about their love affairs. You ought to coin money. We won’t tell uncle and the Adjutant about it though. They might not like the idea of the curate doing a stunt like that.”
“No, don’t disclose my identity to anybody,” I said, grinning lovingly at her. “It will be more fun if I am supposed to be a stranger.”
Daphne sighed enviously.
“I expect you will have a screamingly funny time,” she said. “I should love to be hidden in the tent so that I could listen to you. And now sit quite still while I read to you the list in my diary. There’s always something crops up at the last minute. Listen. Deck-chairs, bell-tent, marquees, refreshments, roundabouts, swings, houp-la, cocoanut shy, eggs and spoons, hurdles, potatoes, marking flags, tennis court marker, measuring tape, bunting, orchestra, fairy lamps, starter, judge, referee, whistle, handbell, megaphone, officials’ badges, gate stewards, prizes, urns, helpers, course stewards—I can’t think of anything else, but I know there must be heaps. Oh, yes! Winning post tape! Why on earth didn’t I keep last year’s list!”
She drew her legs up on to her hard, springless armchair, and turned over the pages of her diary, reading to herself the record of the holiday from which she had returned some weeks before. Then she came to the entries for the past week, and at once the little pencil began tapping against her small teeth and a worried frown gathered upon her brow. I was sitting on the arm of her chair, of course, and she allowed me to read what she had written.
Saturday, July 25th: The weather fine for a change. What a summer! Taken into Fellonbridge by Sir William in his car. Nice of him. So glad uncle and he do not quarrel, as some rectors and squires do. He was ever so nice; asked about holiday and date of going to College. Arrived home at five-ten in time for tea. Poor old Bill looked glad to see me. Has marked out quoits pitch. Challenged me to a game before I got my hat and coat off.
Sunday, July 26th: Uncle preached rather red-hot sermon on text, “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” The Adjutant very fed up with him, as the sermon obviously aimed at the critics of Meg T. whose baby was born last Friday week. As the Adjutant is quite the leader of the anti-Meg movement, uncle’s sermon rather a slap in the eye. Several of the congregation waited in the porch to shake his hand. Even the Lowrys attended Morning Prayer. The two of them seem to have been the Good Samaritans, which again puts the Adj. in a false position, as that, of course, is her role in the village. I suppose it is pretty awful to hate your aunt and disagree violently with nearly everything she does, says and thinks. But I do hate her. And yet I believe she’s much more upright than uncle. Of course, she isn’t my real aunt, only my aunt by marriage. What a comfort!
Monday, July 27th: This beastly fete! Nothing else talked about! I’m sick of the sight of the village, I’ve been into it so many times today! Borrowed ten deck-chairs, two camp stools, a wicker invalid carriage and a bath-chair to seat the Specials. Hope they enjoy themselves, rotten, snobbish old cats! Called at the public house (side door!) to see Meg Tosstick. They wouldn’t allow me to see her or the baby. Nobody has seen it they say, except Meg herself and Mrs. Lowry. Mrs. Lowry was a midwife before she helped at the inn, so Meg did not have a doctor. I expect the poor baby is deformed and that is why they are not letting people see it. I didn’t like to suggest that to Mrs. Lowry because it isn’t my business, anyhow, so I just said I hoped Meg would soon be better. She smiled at that, and said she had offered her a place as maidservant as soon as she was strong enough to take it. I did not tell the Adj. that I had visited the inn. I am supposed to be a high-minded, innocent girl, which is the Adj.’s description for what I should call a priggish, ignorant fool. I told Noel. He went rather red and changed the subject. I suppose he’s had to promise not to talk to me about it. Absurd! I’m eighteen.
Tuesday, July 28th: My darling Margaret came over this morning, with a woman called Bradley, a most fearful and wonderful creature, just like a lizard or something quite scaly and prehistoric, with a way of screeching with laughter which makes you jump. Margaret seems to dote on her quite lavishly, which made me fearfully sick, as the woman really is most frightful in every way. However, she took the Adjutant down a peg by informing her that her “animosity against the young woman Tosstick was really a sign of subconscious jealousy.” The Adj. went purple round the gills and said haughtily that she “could conceive of no cause whatever for jealousy in connection with improper young persons of the Tosstick type.” Then the Bradley, ignoring the Adj.’s denial, grinned like a man-eating Ganges mugger, and supposed that the Adj. “had passed the age for child- bearing.” The Adj. nearly threw a fit, and the Bradley continued to grin widely. The meeting broke up in disorder after that, and while Noel, who was purple with embarrassment, carted off the terrible Mrs. Borgia, Margaret and I foregathered somewhat hysterically in my bedroom and smothered our yelps of joy in the pillows. Margaret tells me that Sir William has had one of his old fits because one of the servants cheeked him, or something. She seems fearfully worried about it. I suppose the ever-present thought that uncle or the Adj. might at any moment kill somebody in a fit of rage would be a bit sobering even to Bill and me. Comforted her by telling her I was certain Sir William would never go to any real lengths, although I’m quite, quite certain in my own mind that he will. But I have adored Margaret ever since she was our Head Girl and I was a frightened rabbit in the Lower Second, and I would tell any lie to buck her up. Mrs. Gatty has told everybody, except Constable Brown, that her husband has been murdered, but Constable Brown got to hear of it, and came round to ask uncle how to spell “felonious” and to give it as his opinion that the poor old lady has bats in the belfry, as Noel says, because, whenever she sees Brown, she will keep telling him that he reminds her of a patient ox, and that he needn’t mind being compared to one because, besides being mentioned in the Bible, oxen have large, sad, beautiful eyes and lovely natures. Poor Brown snorted a bit to uncle and uncle comforted him and told him he was to open the bowling at the Pavilion end against Much Hartley on August Bank Holiday. Uncle is easily the most tactful man I know. I’m sure tact comes before godliness, and as for cleanliness coming after it—well, poor William will never qualify at all, and yet the Adj. would qualify easily, and that can’t be right.
Wednesday, July 29th: Bill and the Borgia have found Gatty. He was in the church crypt, and it seems that Mr. Burt, the author, put him down there to please Mrs. Gatty. I can’t make it out. We all got rather worried because it was past nine o’clock and Bill had not come home. I never worry about him, but the Adj. was getting a bit hectic, as he is supposed to be indoors by a quarter to nine and she says she will not be disobeyed. Noel answered the telephone, and went out. He and Bill came home together.
Thursday, July 30th: This entry ought to be in yesterday’s piece. We think somebody intends mischief either to Bill or Noel. It is horrible. I believe it is all a put-up job on the part of those horrible people at the Bungalow, and just for once I agree with the Adj. in forbidding Bill to visit them. I have a very good mind to
