THE EVENING WAS MILD, WITH A GENTLE BREEZE STIRRING the leaves on the giant chestnut that spread its branches above the small Reading Room, which had been donated to the village in l898 by a benevolent squire at the hall. It had recently been restored, and Derek unlocked the door with a feeling of pleasure at the success of a campaign that had saved the little building from being bulldozed, with the ironstone to be used for repairing a wall around the new vicarage.
He arranged a table and chairs ready for the meeting, and sorted through some details about soap box racing that Lois had downloaded for him from her computer. He had been considerably alarmed at the technical stuff about constructing the soap boxes, and about safety regulations that would have to be considered. He would ask Tony Dibson what they had done in the old days. No doubt Adstone would use it as an excuse to try turning the committee against soap boxes in any guise.
“Evenin’, Derek,” said Tony, as he came through the door, looking smart and neatly dressed for the meeting. Derek marvelled again at how the old boy managed with a disabled wife and all the household chores to do.
“Nice to see you, Tony, and on time as always! Reckon we could show these youngsters a thing or two.” The rest came in ones and twos, and Derek was just beginning to wonder if Hazel Thornbull had forgotten, when she and husband John hurried through the door, apologising for having had to stay with a sick cow.
“Not that blue tongue, I ’ope,” said Tony, and Gavin made a disgusted face.
“Do you think we could start, Chairman,” he said. “I have some business work to catch up on.” He hadn’t, but he liked to create an image.
“Right, let’s get to it,” said Derek briskly. “All here?” He looked around, and saw that Father Rodney was missing. Saying a prayer for the soul of the sick cow? Derek asked if anyone had heard anything from him.
“I saw him in the churchyard as I was comin’ down,” Tony said. “Gazing upwards, he was.”
“Lost in wonder, love and praise, probably,” said Hazel, who had a passion for hymns and knew all the words.
“No point in waiting for him,” said Gavin Adstone. “I can’t think he’ll have much to contribute, anyway. Away with the fairies most of the time.”
“Hardly,” said Derek dryly, and added that the vicar was a good and useful man, and he was sure he would not mind if they started without him.
Good old Derek, thought Hazel, as she opened the minutes book ready to read her notes on the last meeting. “That’s put smartass Gavin in his place,” she muttered under her breath.
The vicar turned up, and after the minutes had been read they got swiftly down to the main item. “The soap box grand prix,” said Derek. “First of all, we need to fix a date. Any suggestions as to the best time?”
Various dates were considered, several of them clashing with other village events. The church fete, the WI outing, a couple of weddings arranged needing the church and a free run through the village for the happy couple and their guests. Eventually a date was agreed, and Derek shuffled his papers.
“Lois has found out quite a bit about how the races an’ that are organised these days,” he said, “and I must say I hadn’t reckoned on something so complicated.” He saw Gavin draw a breath to speak, and so continued quickly. “Not that we would want to put on such a formal event,” he added. “Most of us were thinking of a few likely lads having a go at making some larky soap boxes and putting on a race or two to entertain the crowds.”
“What crowds!?” burst out Gavin. “Think big, man, think big! If we do the thing properly, we could get hundreds of spectators, and with the right extra attractions organised by me, we could make a packet.”
Derek raised his eyebrows, and passed Lois’s papers to Tony Dibson, who was sitting at the end of the row of chairs. “Have a look at these, everybody,” Derek said. “Then we shall know what we’re talking about. And while we’re doing that, perhaps Father Rodney will tell us about his plans for a flower festival in the church on the same day.”
By the time Hazel had given her preliminary report on what other groups in the village might contribute, including an art and crafts marquee on the playing fields, the papers had reached John Thornbull, the last to read them, and he handed them back to Derek.
“Thank you, Hazel,” Derek said. “Sounds very promising. Now, you’ve all had a chance to look through those details, so back to the soap box grand prix.”
Recognising that his festival was once more receding into the distance, Gavin jumped in with an offer to take the soap box project outside into a wider world, resulting in a bigger potential crowd on the day. “I could take the details on how to make the soap boxes to the local tech college. They have an engineering department, and might be pleased to make it their big practical learning project for the summer term. As far as safety goes, we just have to liaise with our friendly cops and make sure we comply with the necessary regulations.”
Talks like a politician, thought Tony Dibson. He whispered into Floss’s young and pretty ear that he bet her a shillin’ that Adstone would be MP for Tresham before long. Derek frowned at him, and politely thanked Gavin for his suggestion. Then he asked Floss what she thought would appeal to the young folk in the village.
“It’s got to be fun,” she said straightaway. “We got to get them putting their own ideas into designing the soap boxes, and have as few rules as we can. I don’t see why we have to involve anybody outside the village. For Farnden, by Farnden. That’s what I reckon, anyway.”
There was a small round of applause, with Gavin noticeably failing to join in.
“For Farnden, by Farnden!” echoed Tony Dibson. “That’s it, gel. You got it!”