Mil came and collected me yesterday at exactly twenty minutes to eleven, wearing a sensible suit, pepper-and-salty, with a straight ‘square’ skirt and a square jacket with square shoulders It looked very war-time to me and probably was. I don’t think she has ever spent much money on clothes.
Oh dear, when am I going to tell August about my spending?
Not yet.
Mil was also wearing a sensible peaked hat and carried a brown leather handbag (definitely pre-war) which was big and cumbersome and I can’t imagine what she had in it. She held her prayer book in her other hand and had sensible brogues on her feet. Very like Auntie’s.
She didn’t say anything about my outfit – August had gone out before I got all dressed up, thank goodness, so didn’t see me. But Mil did look.
I was very conscious of more looks as I followed her down the aisle to the very front of the church (it reminded me of my wedding, only then I had been really dressed up in my glorious silk gown). Mil stood back for me to go in first – on the right, second pew from the front. The Blake’s family pew.
I was glad to kneel and look virtuous as the organ pealed out and Mil whispered across the aisle to Mrs Dawson. I stayed on my knees (quite painful actually, as I hadn’t done it for so long) until the congregation rose to its feet for the first hymn and Padre Dawson’s welcoming voice rang out.
Mine must have joined his quite loudly because I saw him glance across at me and give a nod. It was one of my favourites, ‘Praise to the Holiest in the Height’. I must try it on Old Stow. And on Sarah, if that revolting dairyman is elsewhere. It will make a change from my other songs and I do love it.
Padre Dawson preached a good sermon – not too long – and he certainly possesses a good singing voice. There weren’t many in the choir so his booming tones helped enormously.
At the end we all filtered out and he gave me a very good handshake – nice and firm – and his eyes were kind and friendly, just like I remembered.
Perhaps I will go more often.
‘Good of you to come, my dear,’ he said, ‘and may I say how very nice you look.’
Then he asked if I would consider joining the choir. He had heard my singing and he believed I would make a good addition to the choir stall!
I wasn’t sure how to answer so said I’d let him know. Part of me would love the dressing up and the theatrical entrance and the glorious singing (and I would look smashing in those robes if I did my face up and made sure my hair was all right) but, oh dear, what company.
There are only two females (as far as I know, unless some were away) both elderly and rather quivery trebles – no wonder he wants me! And the three men standing behind were also elderly and inclined to bellow.
The thought of choir practice – once, twice, a week? – is also daunting. I bet it’s in the evenings, too, which is when I like to wait for my husband and spend time with him.
I think I’ll have to say no – tactfully.
Then Mrs Dawson swooped, wearing a similar outfit to Mil’s – all squares and pepper-and-salt – and invited us round to the church hall for tea and biscuits.
Thankfully, Mil said she had to get me back to August.
‘Another time then,’ said Mrs Dawson, her pale eyes running all over my new suit and pretty hat with the flower, and my NYLON stockings; She obviously found the entire outfit just a teeny bit showgirl-ish.
Snake-Eyes came up and spoke very sweetly to Mil before turning to me and saying she loved my hat.
Good for her. It sounded genuine enough so maybe we can be friends.
I saw Mrs Batt in the background, more Mrs Tittlemouseish than ever and still in grey, but she looked very sheepish and avoided my wave. I was going to go up and thank her for helping me with my ensemble, but perhaps one should not fraternize with trades people even in church.
No sign of the Stows but I know he doesn’t have time for ‘them churchy places’ and I think she is Baptist.
Dear Betty emerged from the throng and came and gave me a hug.
‘You look stunning, Honey! Please come down and see me one day next week and give me some idea what to wear. We can go through my wardrobe and you can tell me what’s right and what’s not. I haven’t a clue.’
She was wearing a beige top and skirt and black shoes, and a beige hat (like Auntie’s). She looked like a sack of potatoes. No waist at all and very flat-chested. She’s so much better in jodhpurs and shirts, which is what she usually wears.
I said I’d go on Wednesday morning and that suits her. She told me Jim was looking after Jerry that morning but she had to rush back as he had to visit a sick cow before lunch.
On the way home I found the courage to ask Mil’s advice about August. I didn’t say how much my outfit had cost, but admitted it was rather expensive.
‘Learn to cook, dear,’ she said, sitting very upright behind the steering wheel. ‘You know the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and August does love his food.
‘Learn all you can from Mrs Stow. She’s not much of a cleaner but she can cook. Then surprise August with one of his favourite desserts. He’ll be delighted with your expertise so tell him then, dear.’
More excitement. We have kittens at last!
When I went to see Old Stow this morning after doing the hens, he said there was a surprise for me behind the potting shed.
‘Go and look,’ he said, ‘but go gently – don’t want to faze her.’
He pointed to the side of the shed where a narrow passage leads between the shed and the hedge. When I tiptoed round I saw a sort of cave under the shed with a bit of sacking sticking out, and when I bent down to look there were five kittens all curled up beside their mother.
Not Ming.
Not Beauty.
But Catty!
Ugly, unfriendly, scrawny old Catty. As two of the kittens are black I reckon Big Black Solomon is the father and Catty has beaten Beauty to it.
Of course, I haven’t seen them properly yet and don’t dare go too close – but in a week, or so, I hope Catty will trust me enough to admire her babies and then I must decide which one is for Mil, and for Henry, and for Auntie, and tomorrow I’ll ask Betty if she would like one for Jerry. The fifth can stay here with his mum and I’ll have fun deciding on a name. Yipee!
When August came in I had to tell him about the kittens, but he wasn’t really interested, not being a ‘cat’ person like Henry, or Old Stow.
So, to change the subject, I decided to mention my bugbear. Get it over with before I had to confess to my extravagant shopping.
‘Your dairyman doesn’t like me,’ I said. ‘Do you know why?’
August frowned, his eyebrows drawing together above his nose.
‘Nick? What are you on about? ’Course he likes you, Honey. You’re my wife and settling in really well on the farm.’
I shook my head.
‘He doesn’t. Perhaps he resents me taking Mil’s place. Did they get on well together? Mrs Stow thinks he’s wonderful and he obviously likes her.’
August grinned.
‘Mrs Stow is an old flirt and likes all good-looking young men. Don’t know about Mother. You’d better ask her.’
Then he told me something I didn’t know.
‘Has Mrs Stow mentioned her son to you?’
I stared at him. ‘No, she hasn’t. I didn’t know the Stows had any children.’
‘Only the one,’ said August. ‘Nice lad. He used to help a bit in the holidays. He was fixing some guttering on their house two or three autumns ago and fell off the ladder. Broke his neck.’
‘Oh no!’ I covered my mouth with my hand. ‘Oh, that’s awful. Poor Mr and Mrs Stow, I’m glad you told me – I might have said something about children to her.’
‘She can probably talk about it now,’ said August, ‘but she’s never forgiven Old Stow. He should have been holding the ladder but went off to chat to the neighbour when it happened.’
When August went out for his final round I felt really sad. Maybe that was the reason Old Stow was always so morose, and why Mrs Stow was fond of Dairyman Nick – because he reminded her of her son.
I’m going to be especially nice to the Stows tomorrow now that I have been told about that tragedy in their lives, and I’m also going to be nice to Nick.
We live so close it’ll be pleasant being neighbourly and I’m going to make the effort, even if he won’t….