A fête worse than death

I'll be completely honest with you: the Radbury annual summer fête is a pompous, up-its-own-bottom, farce of a ritual that reduces the 400 or so inhabitants of this quiet, English country village from dignified, well-to-do folk, to a bunch of desperately neurotic toadies. And even though, every year, I swear I will take myself away to some far-flung, exotic place until the whole nonsensical hoo-ha is over …

‘There you are, Sarah!’

… here I still am.

‘I’ve been phoning you every half hour since seven this morning. Did you not get my messages? We’re a stall short. It’s a catastrophe.’

See what I mean? Marilyn Symes: the fête’s organiser-in-chief and she-who-must-be-obeyed in her usual pre-fête panic.

‘Which stall is it?’ I ask, though in my heart I fear I know the answer. It will most likely be Olive Williams’ knitted celebrity stall. As in every other year before, her renderings of famous Hollywood stars in 2-ply yarn have fallen short of the perfection to which she aspires, with the subsequent hand-wringing, heart-rending meltdown. Last year, it was George Clooney’s neat goatee beard that looked as if he had spilt oatmeal down his chin. The year before a crocheted Tom Cruise proved to be a Mission Impossible. This year …

‘Is it Olive’s stall?’

‘What? Olive? Good Lord, no. Her stall is up and spread with the entire cast of Willie Wonka. Not that Depp version. The 1970s one with Gene Wilder. No, it’s the farmer’s fresh meat stall. It was in the barn last night, but when he went to fetch it this morning … torched.’

‘Burned?’

‘To a cinder. I’d do a ring round to find a spare but I’m sorting the cake stall. I wonder, would you mind awfully …?’

***

It’s not yet 9.30am and I am on my seventh phone call but haven’t managed to source even a picnic table. My best bet is the landlord at the Bambury Inn who has more tables than anyone else in the village. He is also a perennial, but hitherto unsuccessful, entrant to the Giant Vegetable competition. When I catch up with him, he has only one thing on his mind.

‘Any inside info on the veg entries? I think I’m in with a good chance with my carrots this year, but I know a couple of them up the allotments have had a good result with their leeks. Watering them with urine works wonders, they reckon.’

I blanch.

‘Haven’t heard anything about the veg section, I’m afraid.’

In Radbury, it never pays to avoid gossiping.

‘Now that is a shame. That is a real shame. Well, I’d love to help but I’m going to need every table I’ve got for the post-fête booze fest. You could try her up the hill,’ he suggests, with a wink.

Her up the hill is a fairly new incomer to the village. By fairly new I mean she's been here for less than thirty years. Her reputation had preceded her: Maria Cumbernauld, renowned Californian opera singer with a string of abandoned lovers. She discovered our village while working on a London opera production a decade before, and the village fête soon became yet another of her conquests. Her cake bakes have won First Prize in the fête’s Food and Wine competition every year for the past seven years, which has done nothing to improve her popularity among some of the residents.

As I don’t have her phone number, I decide to swing by her house on the outskirts of the village in my battered old Land Rover, mud-spattered and bramble-scratched from the daily trips up and down the country lanes alive with yarrow and foxgloves. I pull up outside the grand porticoed entrance and park next to a Bentley that I know belongs to Garvin James, a local land agent and parish counsellor who, along with barrister Eleanor Smythe and the local family doctor, is one of the village fête’s three overly esteemed judges.

I jump out of my Land Rover and pull on the iron handle next to the front door. Somewhere, a way off, a bell rings, and after a minute or so, the door is opened by Grace Down, a Radbury born and bred near-neighbour of mine and housekeeper to the notorious soprano.

‘Set on fire?’

‘So, I was told.’

‘Hmm. The lady of the house has company at the minute. Not sure if she would have a table for a stall though. Have you tried the pub? They’ve got tables.’

‘Yes. But no, they haven’t. Not spare, anyway. And I’m running out of time.’

Grace's eyes narrow.

‘My Millie’s been a bit off colour. Keeps retching. Might be a bug. D’you think you could pop round later and take a look?’

‘I’ve a lot on at the minute, Grace.’

‘It’s just that, you bein’ the vet, an’ all, an' there still being a lot of hemlock around ...’

‘It’s probably just a hair ball, Grace, you know what Pekes are like for getting those.’

‘If you could just take a quick look. Later today, maybe, when you’re not so busy. And I might know where there could be a wallpapering table that would suit.’

Ten minutes later I am back in my Land Rover, replete with sturdy wallpapering table and pulling away up the drive. In my rear-view mirror I see Counsellor James leaving Maria Cumbernauld’s front door with a very self-satisfied expression on his face.

On the way back to the fête, I take a moment to pick some wildflowers.

***

‘You’re an angel sent from Heaven, that’s what you are,’ says Marilyn, when I return with the table. ‘I knew you’d turn up trumps. The farmer will be delighted. He’s got a new range of sausages he wants to display. But we’ll have to move his stall. It can’t go in its usual place.’

‘No?’ I queried.

‘No. We’ll have to do a bit of jiggling.' Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’s next to the pyrographer and he’s turned vegan.’

‘But the pyrographer works in leather,’ I whisper back.

‘Yes, I know, but it’s vegan leather.’

‘What’s vegan leather?’ I hiss.

‘I’ve no idea, but I don’t want to upset him. His wife buys my linen wear. Here, help me lift this table.’

We move the butcher’s table next to the cheese stall, after subtly checking that the produce being laid out on the crisp pink and white gingham tablecloth is, in fact, dairy. All is safe. Not a vegan cheese in sight, and I am thinking of making my escape when my eye alights on the home-made wine stall. It’s only quarter to eleven, but samples are being set out in tiny plastic tumblers. I figure it would be rude to leave without at least saying hello. I saunter over.

‘What’s your poison, then?’ asks Dave, an award-winning architect and amateur vintner.

‘What would you recommend?’ I smile.

‘I would recommend starting on the left and working your way along to the end on the right. The samples are all arranged alphabetically, starting with Rosehip, and ending with Elderflower.'

‘That isn’t alphabetical.’

‘It was before Counsellor High and Mighty Garvin James came over. He’s stuffing his face with everything he can get his hands on today. Here, try this one.’

I sip. Then I slurp. Then I swallow, smacking my lips in delight.

‘That’s divine.’

‘It’s a new one this year. Homemade organic chocolate wine. Think I’m in with a good chance of first prize in the Food and Wine category, don’t you?’

‘Fingers crossed.’ I say, then I wander over to the cake stall.

***

The weather stays fine right up until mid-afternoon, but then, as the buzz goes round in the lead up to the most anticipated event of the day – prize giving – the skies begin to darken, and everyone huddles in the main marquee just in case the heavens open.

The village fête’s prize giving always follows a strict order: an opening welcome by Marilyn who reminds everyone that at 79 she’s not getting any younger and that it is about time someone else takes on the role of chief cook and bottle washer. Everyone laughs politely knowing only the Grim Reaper will prise that role off her, and she’ll find something else for him to do before he has his wicked way with her.

The result of the raffle comes next, the rising hum of anticipation being swiftly followed by undulating groans of disappointment as the numbers are read aloud, along with the occasional charitable ‘Ooh, well done’, and one ‘What? Again? Fixed!’ as a lucky double winner attracts the suspicion of favouritism. Or worse.

The three most prestigious competition categories are left until last, and have an immutable pecking order: Best Flowers, Giant Vegetables, then the prize of all prizes - Food and Drink.

The prize for Best Flowers is taken by Samantha, the vicar’s daughter and local primary school teacher who nurtured some Gertrude Jekyll roses to perfection. One of the most popular residents in the village, no-one begrudges her the win. Next comes the Giant Vegetable category, won by a bunch of enormous onions grown by an eleven-year-old, much to the disgust of the landlord of the Bambury, who snatches his carrots and storms out of the marquee, knocking dozens of knitted Oompa Loompas flying. But as Olive flails her arms to try and catch her cast off cast, Counsellor Garvin James, with great ceremony, opens the envelope to reveal the winner of the much-anticipated Food and Drink category.

***

To no-one’s surprise, Maria Cumbernauld’s chocolate orange croquembouche stole the day. Counsellor Garvin James is last seen alive holding an exceptionally large slice of a losing chocolate gateaux entry in one hand and a glass of Dave the architect’s homemade chocolate wine in the other, before collapsing in an undignified heap on a strew of Oompa Loompas.

After the ambulance leaves, everyone heads down to the Bambury Inn for the remnants of the day, to enjoy some cheer and reflect on the winners and losers, the rights and the wrongs, the fairness, and the unfairness of the competitions. But mostly they speculate as to how Counsellor Garvin James met his untimely end.

Heart, say some. Stroke, say others. He was highly active in the local community, they agree. Maybe it all got too much for him. Awful for his wife and children.

‘Chocolate can be very poisonous,’ Dave chips in, somewhat bitterly.

‘Only to dogs and cats.' I say. ‘Which reminds me. I have a Pekingese to check on. Probably nothing, but better safe than sorry.’

‘You know, I really thought my chocolate wine would be a winner.’

‘It is,’ I say, waving the two bottles of the wonderful homemade organic nectar I’d bought from him. ‘And you may well have better luck next time.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Dave, looking in the direction of a tearful soprano. ‘I’m working on next year already.’