Page 14 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
“Like a man with a big stick, do you?”
The conversation sort of degenerated even further after that, which is my excuse for rolling up at the Harvest Fayre a good hour or so after the official start time of twelve noon. Well, if dear old Amelia had needed me there earlier, she should have said so. Or, you know, said word bloody one to me. In touch with further details, my arse.
The fayre was being held on the St. Leonards playing fields, which had the advantage over the cathedral grounds of (a) being bigger, (b) having a lot more space to park cars, and (c) not being filled with gravestones, which could have put a bit of a damper on the general festive atmosphere. Or maybe not, who knows? Maybe some people would have liked to think Grandad and Great Auntie Mary had some part in the proceedings, even if it was only as a convenient spot to perch with your picnic.
Phil parked the Golf at the end of a long, wonky line of cars, as directed by a beaming volunteer in a straw hat and what I presumed was a olde-worlde farmer’s smock, although it looked an awful lot like the white robe things the cathedral choir had been wearing over their red frocks that one time Cherry had tricked me into coming to evensong. Then we strolled over to the fayre, which was in full swing. The air was full of the smell of barbecuing meat, mixed in with the spicier aroma coming from a brightly coloured bunny chow stall that seemed to be doing a roaring trade over by the ice cream van.
I was beginning to regret having had a proper fry-up for breakfast. Still, we’d be here for a good few hours; plenty of time to work up an appetite.
“Why d’you reckon they call it bunny chow, anyway?” I asked idly as we passed the South African stall. “It’s not like there’s any actual bunnies in it. I checked, that time they had the food fair in St. Albans.”
Phil shrugged. “It comes with rabbit food on the side? It’s served in a bun? What am I, Wiki-bloody-pedia? Anyway, hadn’t you better find this Fenchurch-Majors woman and find out what your duties are before you get stuck into lunch?”
“Killjoy.” I looked around. Besides the stalls and the bouncy slides and stuff for the kiddies, there was a large area in the middle of the field that’d been fenced off with bunting and hay bales, which were doubling as seats for spectators. Not that there were all that many of them for the current act. You had to feel sorry for the poor girl, although to be honest, if I’d been planning to put on a hula hoop display—or any other kind—I’d definitely have brushed up on my skills beforehand.
There was a small gazebo set up at one end, with audio equipment that was currently blaring out hula-girl’s music to the crowd. “She’s probably up there somewhere. Wanna come, or shall I catch you later?”
Phil huffed. “You’re on your own. I don’t fancy getting roped into anything.”
“Hey, it’s all for a good cause, you know. Food for the needy and all that bollocks. Anyone would think you wanted people to starve.”
He smirked. “Nice try, but I’ll be doing my bit by putting my hand in my pocket going round the stalls. See you later.” He disappeared off to the right, probably to grab a beer and put a quid or two on the ferret racing. Lucky bastard.
I sighed and followed the call of duty.
Course, I didn’t see any particular reason to hurry. Might as well have a look around first.
I soon spotted the Morris dancers. There was a team of ’em (or do I mean a troupe? What’s the word for a bunch of Morris dancers, anyhow? A jingling?) leaping around already over by the Dogs Trust stall. They had their own music to compete with the stuff blaring out over the speakers, courtesy of a bloke with an accordion. When you got close enough, it was actually pretty good at drowning out the piped stuff.
There were a couple of familiar figures among the onlookers, so I veered that way. Well, it was only polite to say hi, wasn’t it? The fact it would put off, for just that little bit longer, getting lumbered with whatever duties dear old Amelia saw fit to dump on me was just a fringe benefit.
“Gary,” I called out once I was in hailing distance of him and Julian. Which was closer than you’d think, given the racket that accordion was making. “What brings you out all this way?”
“Tommy, darling.” Gary greeted me with the usual hug/smooch combo—he’s been leaving off the playful little grope part ever since becoming, in his own words, a staid old married man. Although seeing as how him and Darren had hinted more than once they’d be up for a foursome with me and Phil if we fancied it (we really didn’t), I reckoned staid was a relative term. “Isn’t it obvious?” He waved at the blokes in bells currently capering on the grass in front of us.
I looked. Then I looked again, in a classic double take that had Gary chortling into his bunny chow. “Bloody hell, is that Darren?”
It was, too: all four foot nine of him, done up in whites and bells and those funny-coloured tassel things they wear, and with a straw hat on top. He was currently banging sticks with a bloke around twice his height.
“Doesn’t he just look so virile?” Gary gushed.
“That’s . . . one way of putting it.” To be fair, he was probably the best-looking one of the lot, most of whom had clearly been working on the middle-aged spread for a while now. You’d think all that jumping around would keep ’em a bit trimmer, but then again, from what I hear Morris tradition tends to include the odd pint or six after a show. “How long’s he been doing this, then?”
“Oh, he used to do it all the time, but he’s only recently taken up his staff once more. Fortunately the St. Leonards Stompers dance Cotswold style, like his old side. You can’t just learn those dances at the drop of a hat, you know. It takes intensive training.”
Especially for a bloke whose staff was as tall as he was, I wouldn’t mind betting. “He’s kept that quiet.”
“He does like to be a dark horse. Although not literally.”
“What? Oh.” Gary’s remark was explained as a bloke wearing a giant black papier-mâché horse’s head with a big cloak attached ran in with a whinny and started prancing around among the dancers. “Yeah, I wouldn’t fancy his job, either, not with all those staffs flying around.” I winced as one of ’em missed his pointy ears by a whisker.
“Staves, Tommy dearest, staves. Like in music.”
And there I’d been all proud of myself for not calling them sticks. The dance ended, and we clapped. Darren nodded to me, but stayed with his fellow dancers as a bloke in a waistcoat it looked like he’d made himself collected up the sticks—sorry, staves. Then it was hankies aweigh as the accordion player struck up the next dance.
From the suspiciously moist gleam of husbandly pride in Gary’s eye as he watched, the dancers had better watch out or he’d be stealing their hankies to have a good blow. “Got to go, mate,” I yelled in his ear.
“Going to prepare yourself for your big moment?” Gary nodded wisely. “Say no more. I’ll see you later. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
