CHAPTER ELEVEN

DIANA AND HER friend arrived at Grindle Hall on a Friday evening in early August. The fête was to take place on the following Monday, a bank holiday, and they intended to stay for that.

George Stellion went in his big shiny car to fetch his daughter and her friend from Clitheroe station. Gina was just as excited as Edith about their visit, though of course for different reasons. They talked about Edith’s plans for the weekend while they waited, though they kept getting up to peer out of the window to see if the car was returning. To Gina, Mrs Stellion looked younger, livelier, and her eyes were shining at the prospect of seeing her daughter for the first time in months.

Gina looked forward to having new people in the house, people who knew life beyond Little Grindle, even beyond Lancashire.

At last they heard the car crunching along the gravel drive. It drew up in front of the house.

Diana leaped from the front passenger seat and George was out and opening one of the rear doors for her friend in a moment, as if he were a chauffeur.

‘Come on, Piggy. Come and meet Mum,’ said Diana, all slender legs and high-heeled shoes below her generously pleated skirt.

Piggy?

The figure that had emerged from the car couldn’t possibly be anyone’s idea of a pig. What a ridiculous name, thought Gina, seeing a slim young woman of about twenty-two or -three, wearing a neat little hat perched on pretty dark hair and a very smart costume – a matching jacket and dress. They weren’t the kind of clothes people round here wore. Even Edith’s fine jumper and well-cut skirt lacked the flair of Diana and Piggy’s outfits.

Coco rushed out to be introduced, wagging his tail and exercising his winning ways, and Diana and Piggy bent to fuss and admire him.

Edith was laughing and embracing Diana, and then was introduced to Piggy, who turned out to be called Penelope Turner.

By this time Gina was helping to carry the women’s cases from the car to the house, and when Edith introduced her gushingly as ‘Georgina Arnold, housekeeper and general all-round helper, and an absolute godsend’, Gina had to put down the two little weekend cases to shake hands.

‘Oh, lovely. Mum mentioned you in her letter. Georgina, would you mind just popping those in our rooms? Thank you. Mum, I’m gasping for a cup of tea, if Mrs Bassett can provide?’

‘Mrs Bassett has stayed to see you, Diana, though she doesn’t usually work this late.’

‘I’ll go down now, then, and say hello to my favourite cook. Any sign of James?’

‘He’s turning up at some point “if he can manage it”,’ said George heavily. ‘I don’t expect he’ll arrive this evening now.’

Diana pursed her lips and said something to her mother that Gina didn’t catch. Then she said, ‘Come and meet Mrs Bassett, Piggy,’ and led Penelope Turner away.

Mrs Stellion couldn’t stop smiling as she closed the front door and gathered Coco into her arms for a hug, while Mr Stellion took the car round the back.

‘Oh, Gina, it’s so nice to have her home. If only James would hurry up and get here, everything would be quite perfect.’

It was Sunday before James showed up. He arrived just before lunchtime. The family were about to sit down to a feast of roast beef, which Mrs Bassett had taken all morning to perfect, when there was the roar of a car engine and the crunch of tyres on gravel. Gina, who had brought up a jug of water for the table, was able to observe the arrival from the dining-room window. A very sporty-looking car pulled up in front of the house and a tall, fair, well-built young man got out, took a small case and some bags from the back seat and strode up to the door just as Edith opened it and rushed out to greet him.

‘James, my darling!’

‘Hello, Mum … Dad.’

‘James. We’ve been expecting you for a while now. We’re just about to start lunch,’ said George.

‘Good-oh. I’m starving.’

‘Come on in – leave your things there; Gina will take them up – and you can meet Diana’s friend Piggy over lunch. They’ve been here since Friday,’ George added pointedly.

‘Well, you’re here now,’ beamed Edith, to offset her husband’s tone. ‘But for goodness’ sake, go and wash your hands and comb your hair.’

James laughed and ruffled his already dishevelled fair hair. ‘That’s the car, I’m afraid, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to put the top down …’ Gina was by now standing silently to one side in the hall, and he winked at her as he passed as if she was in on some kind of subtext to his words, though they hadn’t even been introduced. Then he mooched off to the downstairs cloakroom with his hands in his pockets.

Edith and George went back to the dining room, where Diana and Penelope remained, and Gina hurried down to the kitchen to tell Mrs Bassett that there would be one more for lunch, then came back up to set another place at the table. There would be no seat at the table for her, she realised. Instantly, she had assumed her old role of ‘staff’: the housekeeper, the dog walker. Diana had treated her like a servant from the outset, and presumably James didn’t even know who she was. Well, she’d see if she could change that over the next few days.

Gina was helping Mrs Bassett with the food while there were guests. She’d learned a lot about cooking over the months she’d been at the Hall, where there was a wider range of dishes to prepare than were ever eaten at home. She had the foresight to realise that these new cooking skills could be useful in life, although she had no intention of ending up working as a cook herself. They might, however, help her on her way to better things.

‘So James has arrived at last,’ said Mrs Bassett, her tone hinting at disapproval.

‘In a tiny little sports car,’ said Gina, round-eyed. ‘I’ve never seen owt like it before.’

‘Aye, there’s not many sports cars in Little Grindle,’ said Mrs Bassett. ‘Not the weather for sports cars up here. I’ll give them a minute and then take up the joint. You can follow with the taters in that tureen, please, love. It’s hot, mind.’

‘You don’t sound like you care for sports cars – or James,’ ventured Gina.

‘Neither’s owt to do with me. Would you pour that gravy into the jug, please, Gina?’

‘Looks grand, Mrs B. Do you think James will stay long?’

‘I couldn’t say. He’ll do as he wants.’

‘I think Mrs Stellion would like it if he did. She was that pleased to see him.’

‘Then let’s hope she’s not disappointed,’ said Mrs Bassett. ‘Right, I think we’ll go up now …’

After lunch, which Gina ate with Mrs Bassett after she had taken upstairs the cook’s magnificent trifle, Gina went out to help with the final fête preparations. There were little marquees set up on the lawn and a big one along one end for the vegetable show. The table-top stalls were to be put in place the next morning in case of overnight rain. The forecast was, as ever that summer, for cool and changeable weather.

The fête committee had brought in several helpers, who were noisy and relaxed, having met up in the Lamb and Flag beforehand. The Stellions and Penelope were all outside helping, which seemed mostly to take the form of encouragement and cheerleading, though George took a practical role, measuring distances and lending a hand with tent ropes. He addressed everyone by name and did a lot of back-slapping. When Gina went out, the girls were laughing loudly at something Tom had said; he was standing on a ladder, hammering a pole into the edge of the lawn.

‘We can hang the bunting, if you like, Mr Arnold?’ said Diana.

‘Thanks, Miss Stellion. That’d be a help,’ said Tom. ‘Just secure it to the nail at the top of the pole and it’ll do nicely.’

‘Gina, you can give us a hand, too, if you like? There’s miles of it,’ said Penelope.

Penelope Turner was very friendly, and she and Diana had asked her opinion on various aspects of the fête. Both a few years older than Gina, they rather took her under their wing, expressed admiration of her housekeeping role at such a young age, and thanked her very nicely whenever she did anything for them. Gina knew they were merely being kind although they were also quick to dismiss her when she’d done as they’d asked, especially Diana. Gina still didn’t understand why a pretty young woman like Penelope would put up with being called Piggy, though.

‘How many poles are there, Mr Arnold?’ called Diana.

‘Fifteen all told,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve three more to put up.’

‘So, let’s see. If I measure the bunting and we divide it by fifteen, then we’ll know how loosely to hang it.’

‘But if there are fifteen poles, there are fourteen gaps,’ Gina pointed out. ‘We need to anchor it to the first pole, then the first stretch goes to the second pole.’

‘Good grief. You are clever,’ said Diana, raising an eyebrow. ‘I shall bear that in mind.’

‘I think you should be in charge and we’ll just do as we’re told,’ said Penelope, smiling at Gina with genuine admiration. ‘I don’t think I’m clever enough to be able to divide by fourteen.’

‘Neither am I,’ said Gina. ‘Never mind, we can always adjust it when we’ve got it up. As long as the end reaches the last pole, I reckon no one’ll be measuring.’

‘Mm, I can see why Mum says you’re a godsend,’ said Diana drily. ‘Oh, no, can you stop Coco? He’s got the end of it and it will be all over the garden in a minute.’

‘Coco! Coco, come here, lad. Bad boy. Sit!’

The excitable young dog was brought under control and disaster averted. Gina went inside to get his lead and then took him over to Mrs Stellion, out of mischief and harm’s way. When she returned to the bunting, however, she saw Diana and Penelope were disappearing off to look at the rose garden and she was left alone. Everyone seemed very busy with other tasks so there was nothing for it but to make a start by herself.

She was halfway round, balancing on a set of kitchen steps, when she smelled cigarette smoke. She looked down to see James standing with one hand in his pocket and a cigarette at the corner of his mouth, gazing up at her.

‘That’s a pretty sight,’ he said.

‘It’ll look good when it’s finished,’ said Gina, though she half thought he wasn’t referring to the bunting. She secured the flags to the nail and was descending the steps when she felt a hand on her arm, another arm round her waist.

‘Here, let me help you. Can’t have the indispensable Gina falling and hurting herself, can we?’

‘Thank you, I can manage,’ said Gina, stepping away from him, not keen on his tone. Was he being sarcastic? If so, why?

‘We’d have to cancel the festivities, wouldn’t we? Everyone would be so disappointed.’

Gina looked at him hard. What was his game? She decided he needed keeping in order. There had been boys like him at school; if she gave as good as she got, they soon left her alone.

‘There’s plenty to do over there, if you want to help,’ she suggested, pointing to where James’s father and Tom were putting up the last of the little tents with a couple of men from the pub, Reggie Travers instructing them from a diagram on a sheet of paper.

‘Oh, I think the old boys can manage without me. But I do love work,’ said James. ‘I could watch it all day.’

Gina laughed.

‘Not an original line, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But I rather think I’ve a talent more for bunting than tents, and you look like you need some help.’

‘Oh, go on with you,’ said Gina. ‘If you really want to help you can stop being clever and grab the end of this length.’

‘Jawohl, mein Führer.’

Gina gasped. People didn’t make light-hearted references to the war in Little Grindle. It was – even now, over ten years after the end of the conflict – too uncomfortable a subject, and jesting about it was thought to be in poor taste.

‘Just a joke. No need to look so shocked.’

‘Not a funny joke,’ said Gina. ‘If you’re not going to help, just go away and let me get on, please.’

‘How about I hold the steps?’

‘How about you get lost?’

‘All right, all right, no need to snap. I’ll go up the steps, you pass me the bunting and show me what to do.’

Gina looked at him for a very long moment. Then: ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But for goodness’ sake keep the flags away from that cigarette. We don’t want them catching fire.’

By the time the bunting was all in place, James had stopped trying to be clever and Gina had decided he wasn’t too dislikeable after all.

‘Looks lovely,’ she said, standing back to admire the pretty flags fluttering along two sides of the lawn.

‘Does indeed,’ said James, looking straight at her. ‘I’m just wondering, what is there for a girl like you to do in the evenings at Grindle Hall?’

‘You mean after I’ve cleared the tea … er, the dinner things? Well, when your dad’s out, as he sometimes is on business, I play cards with your mum, or we do a jigsaw or the puzzles in a magazine, or listen to the wireless. And I’m teaching your mum to knit. It seems she never learned but she’s coming on nicely.’

‘Sounds fascinating,’ James said flatly.

Though Gina privately agreed that the evenings could be long and boring, she had grown fond of Edith, despite her peevishness, and she knew better than to express even a hint of discontent, especially to anyone in Edith’s own family.

‘I think your mother is pleased to have you home,’ she said, trying to change the subject. ‘How long do you plan to stay?’

‘Oh, I’m not a great one for making plans, Gina. I prefer to see how things work out. That way I can just go whenever I want and not feel I’m letting anyone down. Anyway, we were talking about you. You were telling me all about your entertaining evenings with my mother.’

‘Was I?’

‘You were just about to say that now the girls are here you are, regretfully, completely at a loose end. Then I was going to take pity on you – all alone with no jigsaws to do and the knitting lessons suspended for the duration – and offer to take you for a drive in my car, if you would like.’

‘I was? Were you?’

‘Certainly I was. So what do you think? Are you free for a little spin about the countryside in the beautiful Lancashire twilight, or is there a play on the Home Service you simply have to catch this evening?’

‘I reckon there is,’ said Gina. ‘You see, James, I don’t care for folk “taking pity” on me, especially when I’m just doing my job. Now, I see Mrs Bassett there with a tray of tea, so I’m off to give her a hand. Thanks for your help with that bit of bunting.’

She walked away without looking back, though the temptation to do so was almost overwhelming. What an annoying man, she thought, smiling to herself. Good looking, though.

‘But, Dad, we’re all going to the fête. We always go. It’s just that it’s at the Hall this time, like it used to be years ago. Please go with us,’ said Ellen.

She wasn’t especially bothered whether Philip was there or not, but she knew if he stayed away he’d only be making a martyr of himself, and probably be in one of his sulks by the time she and Dora got home, spoiling their day.

‘You can help Mr Hardcastle with the Splat the Rat. There’re always little lads trying to get a free go. You’d keep them in line, like.’

‘You’d get to see what our Nellie’s been up to in the gardens. It’s really lovely,’ encouraged Dora. ‘I’m that proud of her, and you would be too if you just took a look.’

‘And there’s a tea tent, Dad. If nowt else you’d get summat nice to eat. Mrs Fowler’s been baking for days. I hear there’s chocolate cake,’ Ellen added.

‘All right, all right, stop going on at me. I’m not a child, to be bribed with a bit of cake,’ grumbled Philip.

‘Well, please yourself,’ said Dora. ‘But I’m not putting up with any bad moods when we get back. It’s supposed to be a nice afternoon for everyone to join in, so if you’re not joining in then that’s your choice. But I wish you’d come with us, I really do.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Philip mumbled. ‘Now shut up about the blessed fête and give a man a bit of peace.’ He flapped open an old copy of Farmers Weekly and held it up in front of his face, cutting off the sight of them.

Edward and Nancy came to call for Ellen and Dora on their way past, and the four set off to the Hall without Philip, who said he might go later, though his wife and daughter didn’t expect to see him. Dora was carrying a tin of flapjacks and Nancy had a Victoria sponge. Cake was a big feature of the event.

Edward had a huge cucumber in a string bag, which was his entry in the vegetable show. This was traditionally, with one exception, an all-male competition, and heavily contested by the gardeners and allotment holders of Little Grindle. Tom Arnold entered the vegetables he had grown at the Hall under the name ‘Mrs Stellion’, but although they were often plainly the biggest and best, they never won, and Mrs Stellion herself would graciously present the little silver cup for ‘Best in Show’ to one of her rivals.

Ellen and Ed walked ahead, joking about the giant vegetables of past years and speculating on Ed’s chances of winning in his class.

‘First prize is a three-shilling postal order, so it’s worth having,’ he said.

Dora and Nancy shared their cake-baking secrets as they went. Mrs Fowler was the acknowledged queen of cakes, but the rivalry for her crown was fierce in a friendly sort of way.

‘And Betty’s doing her fortune-telling again,’ said Dora. ‘She’s looked out that spangled frock she got last year and a shawl to pull over her head. We all know it’s Betty, though.’

‘Are you going to have your fortune told?’ asked Nancy. ‘I never know whether to believe it – like reading your horoscope in the magazines: you want the good bits to be true, but then after a day or two you forget about it anyway. I expect Betty makes up summat and folk come away pleased.’

‘Oh, I don’t know as it’s made up,’ said Dora, Betty’s best friend. ‘She’s got a crystal ball and everything.’

Nancy considered this seriously. ‘Well, she’s certainly a wise woman and knows all sorts, so I suppose there’s no reason why fortune-telling shouldn’t be another string to her bow. Mebbe I’ll have my fortune told, after all. Perhaps I’ll meet a tall dark stranger.’

‘If there’s a stranger round here you can be sure we’ll all know about him within a day, and most of us will have met him within two days,’ Dora laughed.

‘Which reminds me, have you seen James Stellion’s back home? Arrived yesterday, apparently. Mrs Fowler saw him zooming past in a flash little car, disturbing the peace of a Sunday dinnertime.’

‘Mrs S will be pleased. She thinks the sun shines out of that one. ’Course, I’d prepared his room for Friday, same as for Diana and the friend she’s brought with her, but I didn’t know he’d got here. Gina will tell me all the news if I can catch her. She’s been that busy this week …’

The fête was not yet quite under way when the four of them arrived. Ed went to place his cucumber to best advantage in the vegetable show, and Ellen had a quick look round before she took up her position at the gate to the rose garden. She’d got a chair there and a little table with a toffee tin to hold the money, and Tom had agreed with Mrs Stellion that visitors were to be charged tuppence to enter, the fee to go to the war veterans’ charity that the fête supported every year. He also warned her to keep an eye out for visitors with secateurs.

‘One year – oh, it was a long while back now, when the fête was held here every time – we had a couple of women coming away with bouquets of blooms they’d helped themselves to. There’s no end to folk’s cheek, you know.’

At half past two Mr Stellion declared the Little Grindle Village Fête 1956 open, and the crowd – which had gathered to hear him exhorting them to spend generously – quickly dispersed to do so.

‘And what are your duties today, Gina?’ James asked, appearing at her side.

‘Oh, I shall be that busy …’

‘Doing …?’

‘Enjoying myself, mostly.’

‘May I ask, would you care to enjoy yourself with me?’

‘Thank you, but I know everyone here and I don’t need to be escorted round.’

‘But I do, Gina. I can’t remember the names of half these people, though I’m sure I ought to know them. Please, take pity on me and whisper their names in my ear so I don’t look a complete ass.’

‘I doubt I can save you from making an ass of yourself,’ she replied.

‘Oh, Gina, don’t be hard on me. Help me out here. Who’s that, for instance?’ He pointed.

‘Mrs Beveridge from Highview Farm.’

‘And that?’

‘Reggie Travers.’

‘And that?’

She giggled and slapped his hand down. ‘It’s your mother, of course.’

‘I thought I recognised the little dog she’s holding. See, I’m hopeless without you.’

‘Come on, then,’ said Gina, sighing dramatically. ‘I fancy having a go at the coconut shy.’

They went off to the far side of the lawn where a queue of people was forming to hurl wooden balls at coconuts on stands.

James managed to throw and smoke at the same time. He had a cricketer’s speedy action and felled one of the coconuts at the second attempt.

‘Here you are,’ he said, presenting it to Gina.

‘What am I supposed to do with this?’

‘I’ve no idea. Is it edible?’

‘It might be if I ever got into it. Mrs Bassett will know what to do with it, I expect.’

Gina carried it around for a bit and then left it behind on purpose at the white elephant stall.

‘Oh, fortune-telling. Now this I’ve got to try,’ said James, when they reached a little tent with a flap over the entrance and a lot of red and black bunting festooning the outside.

‘Madame Bettina Predicts Your Future’ read the sign.

‘Shall I come in with you?’

‘No, better not. I think the readings are meant to be private. Maybe I’ll tell you when I come out – depends, though, what I learn.’ He waggled his eyebrows theatrically.

James went inside and Gina decided not to wait for him to reappear. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t tell her later what had happened. And did she care anyway?

She decided to go to look at the vegetable show, which had just been judged. The tent was crowded as people waited to hear who had won ‘Best in Show’.

‘Dad, what are you doing here? I thought this wasn’t the kind of thing you like.’ This was not a good start, Gina reflected. Still, at least if he was here he wasn’t at home getting worked up about other folk enjoying themselves. There had been other occasions she’d rather not remember …

‘I can come if I want, can’t I?’

‘It’s just … Well, never mind. Here you are. Have you entered owt in the competition?’

‘Nah, it’s daft, isn’t it, growing those great monsters of veg? Who’d want to eat those?’

‘Shush, Reggie Travers is reading out the names of the winners.’

‘… And the winner of “Best in Show” goes to Fred Hardcastle for his display of onions.’

Fred came forward, blushing and holding his cap, to receive the little cup from Edith.

‘Gina, hello again,’ said Penelope as she and Diana appeared. ‘This is fun. I’ve never been to a village fête before.’

‘I’m introducing Piggy to all our neighbours,’ said Diana. ‘It’s a great turn-out.’

‘Yes, so difficult to remember who’s who with so many people,’ beamed Penelope. ‘Though, of course, I do remember meeting your father yesterday, Gina. I saw him just now taking over from your sister in the rose garden.’

Puzzled, Gina half turned to Philip, but Penelope was gushing on.

‘Now you’ve got your hair up I can see you’ve got the same little mark as he has on his arm, and there’s definitely a family resemblance— Ow, Di, that was my foot.’

Gina turned to introduce Philip and put right the mistake, but he was already barging his way through the crowd to the marquee entrance.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Penelope, seeing Gina and Diana’s faces.

‘Sorry, Gina,’ said Diana. ‘Piggy didn’t mean to upset your father.’

Penelope looked confused. ‘Your father? Oh dear, I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?’

‘No … no, it’s all right,’ said Gina, vaguely. The birthmark was old news in the family so why was Dad making such a fuss about it now? Really, he was impossible to fathom sometimes.

‘Come on, Piggy, let’s go and get a cup of tea,’ said Diana, taking her friend’s arm and leading her away. ‘See you later, Gina …’

The crowd in the vegetable marquee was slowly dispersing now the results had been announced. For a moment Gina stood and wondered if she should go to find Philip, but she knew he’d be in a bad temper and she couldn’t face that today. Besides, she’d had enough to do helping to prepare for the fête; let Mum and Nell deal with him.

‘Gina? You all right?’

It was Ellen, holding on to Edward Beveridge’s arm as if they were Siamese twins.

‘Oh, it’s just Dad. He was here and Diana’s friend said summat about me looking like Uncle Tom, except she thought Uncle Tom was our dad, and Dad stormed off.’

‘Oh Lord, he’s always been queer about the birthmarks – it was the birthmarks, wasn’t it? – and now he’ll be all the wrong side out for days.’

‘Can I do anything?’ asked Ed.

‘Er, I don’t know. I don’t want our day spoiled, but neither do I want Mum to get it in the neck when we get home.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, this is exactly the kind of thing I didn’t want to happen today.’

‘Let’s go and see if he’s still here and mebbe we can talk him round with a cup of tea,’ said Ed.

‘It’ll take more than a cup of tea, I reckon,’ said Ellen. ‘But thank you, Ed.’

They followed the crowd out of the marquee and Gina put her hands over her face for a moment to gather herself. When she looked up, the first thing she noticed was an enormous cucumber with a red rosette next to it and Ed’s name on a card. She’d always thought Edward Beveridge was a bit dim, but now she acknowledged that he was, more than anything, considerate. He hadn’t even mentioned his first prize and had immediately volunteered to take on the job of talking Phil out of his mood.

Lucky old Nellie! They were so obviously in love and maybe she’d got herself a fine man there, after all. Nell’s future was pretty much mapped out: she’d marry Edward and eventually he’d inherit the farm and Nell would be a farmer’s wife with a farm of their very own. Nell had spoken about wanting to be a gardener, but she’d probably forget all about that if she married Ed Beveridge. They’d take their place in the generations of Beveridges at Highview Farm, in Little Grindle, and be quite happy about it.

And where would she, Gina, be? What was there for her?

Maybe she’d better visit ‘Madame Bettina’ and try to find out. It was time to have some more fun. Maybe then she and James could compare the futures that Betty Travers and her crystal ball had invented for them.