FATHER RODNEY WAS ON HIS KNEES IN THE CHURCH, PRAYING for fine weather and a successful day. It was cool and quiet, and the powerful scent of flower arrangements set in place for the visitors filled his head and gave him a strange otherworldly sensation. Perhaps this was what heaven would be like? He pulled his thoughts back to the matter in hand. “Above all,” he prayed aloud, “keep us all safe on this important day. Amen.”
“Hear, hear, vicar,” said a voice from the back of the church. It was Mrs. T-J, and she walked briskly down the aisle towards him. “Just thought I’d pop in for a quick word with the Almighty,” she said.
“Not for help in the ladies race, I hope,” joked Father Rodney. “Fair play for all must be our watchword.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mrs. T-J. “I shall win without divine help No, my prayers would echo yours, more or less.” She knelt down in the front pew, and bowed her head. All was silent for a few minutes, and Father Rodney did not quite know what to do. Obviously Mrs. T-J had a hotline, and did not need his assistance. When she stood up, he smiled and said he would no doubt see her around the village. He wished her luck in her race, and she nodded confidently. “Make sure you’re watching,” she said. “It will be something to remember when Jam & Jerusalem crosses the line.”
ALTHOUGH THE DEW WAS STILL ON THE GRASS IN LOIS’S FRONT garden, there were plenty of people walking to and fro past her gate. Most of them waved cheerily and commented on the sunny morning. “Hope it lasts!” Lois shouted back a dozen times. She picked a bunch of flowers to put in a vase, which, as Gran said, would sweeten the ladies’ toilets at the back of the village hall.
Derek had been up at dawn, and Lois had not set eyes on him since. He had said he would see her this evening, if not before, but they could keep in touch on their mobiles. She had agreed with Gran that one of them would take a flask of coffee and a sandwich and force him to down them, wherever he was and however busy. “He’ll want to be in good shape for the dance this evening,” Gran said, as Lois stuffed the flowers in a glass vase. “And here, let me do that. I don’t know where I went wrong, Lois Meade, but you can’t knit or sew, nor arrange flowers. I don’t know what your grandmother would say.”
“Thank goodness she’s not here to say it, then,” Lois said. “And anyway, I got better things to do than learn how to turn the heel of a knitted sock that nobody would ever wear these days.”
In this mood of amiable disagreement, they set off down the High Street, first to put the flowers in the portaloo, and then splitting up, Lois to help Josie in the shop, and Gran to the village hall to join the team working on WI refreshments.
“Morning, Mum!” Josie said from the shop doorway. “Isn’t it exciting? There’s so much activity, and I’ve had more people in here by nine o’clock than would come shopping in the entire normal day. I can certainly do with another pair of hands. Come on in and get your pinny on!”
Lois was so busy for the next hour that she had no time to look at what was going on outside in the street. Then she heard the unmistakeable sound of the Tresham Silver Band approaching, and knew the soap box queen procession had started.
“Come on, Josie, let’s take a look!” she said, and they both stood at the shop doorway with the crowd that had gathered all along the street. The Silver Band led the way, and behind them came the queen, a ten-year-old ash-blonde beauty, smiling and waving her sceptre from her seat of honor in the gleaming carriage that had served generations of Tollervey-Joneses. This was drawn by Mrs. T-J’s trustworthy black mare, now old and safe. By the queen’s side sat Robert Tollervey-Jones, a mild-faced charmer, taking care of the queen with gentlemanly grace.
“The Tollervey-Jones Show, then,” said Josie.
“Of course,” Lois replied. “But he does look nice, and he’s making sure the queen gets all the attention.”
“Is he married?” Josie said speculatively.
“Yes, and happily,” Lois said. “And, by the way, is Matthew Vickers on duty here today?”
“Naturally,” Josie said. “And did Dad ever tell you subtlety is not your strong point?”
“He wouldn’t know subtlety if it jumped up and bit him on the nose,” Lois said. “Come on, we’d better get back and do some more selling.”
IN THE FIELD NEXT TO THE RAMP, AT THE TOP END OF THE VILLAGE, the stars of the grand prix were lined up for inspection. Silver Streak II, the allotment holders’ entry, stood next to the local estate agents’ vehicle, which was designed with great imagination in the shape of a cottage with roses round the door. Several soap boxes had been pared down to a skeletal essential of frame, wheels and brakes, and a finely honed steering mechanism. Others had been made to a heavy-as-possible design, based on the sound scientific principle that the heavier they are the quicker they go. And then there was the scarlet wonder, Jam & Jerusalem, sparkling and confident, with a neat little flag bearing the WI badge tucked behind the driver’s seat.
“I trust there will be a guard present to make sure there’s no attempt at nobbling,” Mrs. T-J had said to Derek. He had assured her that he himself would be at the starting point and with his team on duty there would be no chance of hanky-panky of any sort.
The soap boxes were being carefully inspected by the owner of the local garage, and his chief concerns were sound brakes and efficient steering. As he bent down to examine the Youth Club entry, challengingly labeled Rebellion, he scratched his head. “I suppose it’s okay,” he said. “That steering wheel has a bit more play than I’d have liked to see. Still, there’s certainly no danger there. You’d better get a message to John Thornbull to tighten it up a bit.”
The morning passed quickly, and as crowds flocked round the playing field, the bucking bronco and the tug-of-war events were by far the most popular. Derek stayed for the tug-of-war result, and cheered heartily when the oldies won. “Never thought I’d be on the oldie end of the rope!” John said.
“Experience before enthusiasm,” Derek said, as he and John walked back up to the ramp.
Jack Jr. stood on guard beside Rebellion, and said that he was sure all was fine. “Nothing to be done to this wonder” he said, patting the silver, rocket-shaped box.
“Right, back to work,” said John, and disappeared into the crowd.
JACK HICKSON SR. WAS, OF COURSE, ALREADY IN THE VILLAGE, today disguised as a woman, in a dowdy brown wig and somber grey coat. He clutched a tatty old bag he’d found in a charity shop for twenty pence, and concealed his hands in his pockets as much as possible. He felt sure nobody would recognize him, and moved freely through the crowds. At one o’clock, he joined the lines of people waiting noisily for the first race. The church clock struck, and with a fanfare from Tresham Silver Band, the soap boxes lined up on the ramp were off, gathering speed as they went down the slope of the High Street, urged on by a huge wave of excitement from their supporters.
In this first race, Lois with Josie at the top of the shop steps, watched with sympathetic shouts as the streamlined Silver Streak II coasted to a gentle halt a hundred yards from the start, much to the fury and embarrassment of its driver. Race marshals Gavin Adstone and Douglas Meade moved smoothly on to the track to clear away the offending soap box and attention turned to the winner, a delighted young man in suit, collar and tie, every inch the estate agent, driving the cottage with roses round the door.
“I’ll give you twenty pounds for it!” yelled a wag outside the pub.
Behind the cheering supporters stood Ross, pressed into a corner by the pub door, glass in hand and eyes constantly on the move, scanning the crowds as they passed in front of him.