Mrs. Denvel was given to good works, not so much to that giving which concerns the cheque-book as rather to that giving which concerns service, and not so much to that service which is seen more than heard as rather to that service which takes chairs and presides. During the war she had presided at all of the war societies formed in the neighbourhood. She had shaken hands with Royalty, while hard-working V.A.D.’s cheered in the background. She had had her hands smothered in the kisses of grateful Belgians, while those who housed them looked on in surprise. She had given tea to immense parties who made splints, and later received a medal for it. In fact, there was no end to her war activities; so peace arriving when it did made things feel a little flat. Finding that now the war was over everyone save herself was tired of committees, she decided to organise an enormous fête in aid of babies and the blind, and other suitable charities with obvious appeal, to stimulate interest. She formed a committee to discuss plans, and said at once, as she took the chair:
“Now none of you people have got to worry; I’ve a clever little secretary coming who’ll see to everything.” And later: “Of course, we must have a flower show; I’ll put my little secretary on to it right away; such a dear child, granddaughter of old Lord Bristone’s. Lost her twin brother in the war—really too sad.”
Susanna arrived at teatime. Mrs. Cary came with her and stayed the night. Susanna was barely allowed to remove her things before she was told about the fête.
“It’s in June, dear, and there’s to be a flower show, and a play, and dancing on the lawn, and fireworks; we shall be terribly busy.”
Susanna had not been in the house a day before she realised that the “we” was a mistake. She was going to be terribly busy, but not Mrs. Denvel. As Mrs. Denvel’s secretary, she attended one of the fête committees, and was horrified to hear all that lady had undertaken to do.
“Don’t you think,” she suggested cautiously, when the committee had gone, “that you might let them do a bit more? You see, you’re lending your garden, getting up the play, arranging the food, managing the car parking and tickets, hiring the bands, and fixing the dancing and fireworks. You’ve said you’ll do it all, in fact.”
“Oh no, they are seeing to the stalls and sideshows. When you get to my age you will have learned that if you want a thing done well you must do it yourself.”
“I see. What play are you going to do?”
“I don’t know; something jolly with plenty of music and dancing, I think, don’t you?”
“Yes, but what?”
“Oh, you must think of that.” Mrs. Denvel shook her finger at her. “Aren’t you here to save my poor old brain?”
“Yes, of course I am.” Susanna looked worried. “But I don’t know an awful lot of plays, and when I’ve found it, who’s going to act in it and rehearse it?”
“Oh, there’s no need to worry about that yet; you find the play first. After all, it’s only January.”
“That’s true,” agreed Susanna thankfully. “Now, about fireworks?”
“Well, I hear there is a man called Brock does those.”
“Can one send off fireworks just anywhere without asking anybody?”
“Certainly; just buy plenty, and give them to one of the gardeners.”
“Oh, I see. How does one get a band?”
“Dear child, you are an impatient person; one would think it was May, not January.”
By March Susanna was getting anxious; everything seemed very behindhand. True, the play was in rehearsal, scenes from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. But so few of the actors turned up to rehearsals, it was very difficult to say how it was going. A curate from a nearby church was producer.
“Such a nice young man,” Mrs. Denvel had said, “and they say quite clever and very well connected. I’m so glad to have him; it ensures a nice clean tone.”
She showed her approval of him by watching every rehearsal, and calling out each time she caught his eye:
“Charming, Mr. Browne, charming.”
Susanna, clasping a notebook, haunted Mr. Browne, hoping to get an accurate list of his requirements. But he was vague.
“Oh, one doesn’t want much out of doors, just the things used in the clown’s play. Let me see, a dog and a lantern, isn’t it? And, of course, a bank; we must have a mossy bank for Titania, and if it should be wet and we act in the flower show tent, I think fallen leaves would look jolly; but we can consider all that on the day.”
“Are there fallen leaves in June?” asked Susanna doubtfully.
Mr. Browne laughed.
“That shows I’m no botanist. But I tell you what: we could cut them out of something, couldn’t we?”
“Yes, I suppose we could if the rain begins early enough.”
Mrs. Cary was disappointed in Susanna when she saw her.
“I can’t say I see much improvement,” she confessed to Catherine. “She has a lot to do, and she never has a minute to herself, which is what she likes, but she feels just as detached as she did at Christmas: life is just so much time passed—nothing matters to her.”
“We miss her terribly here; is it worthwhile?”
“We’ve got her away, that’s something; don’t let’s go back on that. As soon as my aunt’s fête is over I’d like to take her to town; she can live in my flat, and I’ll try and find something amusing for her to do. I wish she had a definite bent.”
By May her life had become so hectic that Susanna was almost happy. She never had a second to herself from the moment she was called till she rolled into bed some time after midnight. The various people assisting in the fête arrangements soon realised that she was the one person who knew what was happening. Mrs. Denvel trailed about, and told them it was “all going to be such fun,” but it was Susanna who knew where their stalls were to stand and who arranged about the gardeners to put them up. The fireworks, much to her relief, had been cancelled. The moment they had been advertised the police appeared, and said, though they were sorry to upset anybody, they really couldn’t allow fireworks in a neighbourhood so full of ricks and thatched roofs.
“Tiresome fellows,” Mrs. Denvel grumbled. “I shall write to our Member about it, delightful man.”
But she never had, and Susanna had been careful not to remind her. Teas were one of her major trials. In the early days of the fête committees Mrs. Denvel had said, “Leave the teas to me; I’ve a wonderful cook; she shall make everything.” And there the matter had been left. As the fête grew nearer, Susanna began asking if all was in order about the teas.
“I’ve not told Mrs. Bird yet,” said Mrs. Denvel; “but I will one day soon. I always think cooks are such tiresome creatures.”
A week later Susanna asked again, and since nothing had been done, she continued to ask two or three times a week, till in May she grew desperate.
“May I talk to Mrs. Bird about it?”
“Yes, dear, do. With everything on my shoulders I really haven’t time.”
Susanna went down to the kitchen.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bird.”
“Good mornin’, miss.”
“I came to talk with you about the teas at the fête.”
“What about ’em, miss?”
“Well, did you know we were supposed to be doing them here?”
“‘Oo do them?”
“Well—I think the idea was, you.”
“Was it? Well, they’ve got another think comin’. I’ve only one pair of ’ands, and a kitchenmaid more’n ’alf wantin’, and what’s more, I won’t do it, and that’s flat. I’ll leave first.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” said Susanna, horrified at the prospect of a cookless house. “I’ll get a caterer.”
“That’s more like it; that’s sense, that is.”
“I’m afraid Mrs. Bird can’t do all those teas,” Susanna told Mrs. Denvel. “We’ll have to get a caterer.”
“She can’t! Oh, but she must; people hate those nasty bought cakes, and I’m sure Mrs. Bird has nothing to do all day.”
“Well, she says she won’t do them.”
“Tiresome creature. Oh well, you must do as you think best, dear. When one is in control of everything, one hasn’t time for small details.”
The day before the fête was wet.
“Can we turn the flowers and vegetables out of the flower show tent? We want to hold our rehearsal there,” said Mr. Browne. “I explained this to the man, and he was quite unpleasant.”
Susanna, having seen the carefully arranged exhibits waiting to be judged, sympathized with the man. “No, I’m afraid you can’t have it there.”
“Well, where then?”
The actors gathered round, a strange party, with Grecian dress hanging oddly on very British forms, and fairies in motley-hued fragments of crêpe de Chine.
“Yes, where then?” they asked.
Susanna felt as Alice must have felt in Wonderland, when the animals out of the pool asked, “But who is to give the prizes?” and the Dodo answered, “Why, she, of course.”
“How about the hall?” she suggested. “It’s quite large, and the choir and orchestra could sit in the drawing-room door.” And even as she spoke, she said to herself, “I wonder what you’d all say if I told you I didn’t care if there never was a rehearsal or a fête.”
The actors were charmed with the hall, little caring where they went provided they were allowed to perform. Susanna and Mrs. Denvel sat on the stairs and watched them. It was the oddest performance, Susanna thought, even allowing for the fact that the hall was quite a different shape from the slope on which they expected to appear. To begin with, very few of them knew their words. Oberon even held his book. Most of them, as they stammered through, remarked to Mrs. Denvel, “I’ll know it all right tomorrow,” and for those who didn’t, Mr. Browne apologised, saying, “Nerves! Knew it perfectly yesterday.” Then, for the choir and orchestra, it was a first rehearsal, and they made the most ghastly hash of the Mendelssohn music, and held quite different ideas about time, both to the dancers and to the local branch of the Women’s Institute, who were singing, “I know a Bank.” The only undisturbed people were the fairies, the incredibly small pupils of a dancing school, who stood quietly beside their teacher and her assistant, came on and off at the right moments, and danced charmingly, in spite of the fact that their music frequently failed, and the gaps had to be filled in by their teacher loudly humming. The precision of the children, together with the fact that Puck knew her last speech, brought the curious performance to a slick finish, which overcame the actors with delight, and they burst into applause, and patted the beaming Mr. Browne on the back. “Well done, old fellow.” “A beautiful show.” Susanna had her eye on the dancing instructress, who, having sent her children off with the assistant, stood crimson with rage waiting to be heard.
“Mr. Browne,” she said bitterly. “Mr. Browne.”
“Yes?” he exclaimed, swinging round to her, eager for more compliments.
“What is being done about my music?”
“Done!” He looked hurt. “Nothing, why?”
“Charming, charming,” Mrs. Denvel murmured.
“Why?” The dancing mistress’s eyes blazed. “Why? Because unless I am satisfied that it is right before I leave this house my children do not dance tomorrow.”
Not dance! The actors huddled together like so many pricked balloons. Susanna looked at them. “How much they care,” she thought, “and what’s it matter, anyway?” But she went to the orchestra, who were busily wrapping up their instruments, and had fortunately not heard the argument.
“Would you mind waiting a minute? Miss Edwards wants to go through her children’s fairy music with you.”
The orchestra protested; they had trains to catch, and buses.
“That’s all right,” said Susanna. “The car must make several journeys and take you all home.”
She went back into the hall, to find Miss Edwards saying:
“I’m sorry, but I have my reputation to consider; my children cannot do themselves justice with such an accompaniment.”
“The orchestra are waiting to rehearse with you now,” Susanna broke in.
“Now isn’t that charming?” Mrs. Denvel beamed on them. “And you’ll all stay to dinner, won’t you?”
Susanna gazed in horror round the crowded hall.
“Oh, we needn’t bother the cast, they’re finished with.”
“But of course they must all stay,” Mrs. Denvel insisted. “Such fun.”
As Susanna counted heads, and ran down to the kitchen with the alarming total, she was conscious Mrs. Bird would think it anything but fun.
The weather the next day was kind; never once did it look like rain. From nine till midnight Susanna ran. She put up stalls, and helped to decorate them; she overlooked the seating for tea, and the play, and as she ran agreed at least forty times: “Yes, aren’t we lucky in our day?” She met the local bigwig on the doorstep, who had come to open the fête, and saw the bouquet for the bigwig safely into the arms of the small child who was to present it; she gave out programmes to the girls who were to sell them, and watched the play safely through to Puck asking the audience to “Give me your hands, if we be friends,” and to Mr. Browne bowing and beaming his thanks, first to the audience and then to his cast. She saw beer carried out at suitable intervals to the orchestra, and said goodnight as the last of them, carrying his bassoon, staggered through the gates. Then she looked for Mrs. Cary, and found her in the drawing-room with her aunt.
“There you are, dear,” Mrs. Denvel beamed. “What a success! But really you can have no idea how exhausted I am, so I’m off to my bed.”
As the door closed on her, Mrs. Cary winked at Susanna, and they both laughed till the tears rolled down their cheeks.
“Now, is that an improvement or hysteria?” Mrs. Cary wondered.
The next morning Susanna awoke in a worse state of depression than she had been in for weeks. She hadn’t realised how completely the fête was filling her mind and time until it was over. The day stretched before her, a long blank, and she felt she had nothing to do with it. Mrs. Cary, studying her after breakfast, sensed how she felt.
“What are you going to do today?”
“Oh, the fête accounts. There is still a little money to come in, and then I’ll come to the station and see you off, and then—oh, something will want doing, I suppose.”
Mrs. Cary went up to her aunt’s room.
“Can I take Susanna away tonight? You don’t need her any more, do you?”
“Well—” There was a long pause, for secretly Mrs. Denvel was tired of Susanna, and was charmed to get rid of her so easily. People had been far too apt to say to her during the last few weeks, “Isn’t Miss Churston wonderful?” And even sometimes, “I don’t know what we should have done without her.” Irritating, aggravating remarks. “I might manage,” she said at last, “though it would, of course, inconvenience me. As far as the fête was concerned, I could have managed without her. I couldn’t trust her to do much, but she has saved my old legs by running messages and so on.”
“Quite. But I think she looks tired; I’d like to take her back to town with me.”
“Tired! Is she? Really, these modern girls have no stamina.”
“Her brother’s death was a great shock; she gets easily depressed.”
“She’s not very lively, I must say; I like a girl to be full of fun.”
“Susanna was once.”
“Was she?” Mrs. Denvel yawned. “Really too sad.”