Thursday 19 July 1962
‘Eeeeeeeeeebbbieeeeeeeee.’
What does Margaret want? Can’t she see I’m busy?
‘Eeeeeeeeeebbbieeeeeeeee.’
I feel a tug on the back of my top.
‘The bat maraid zuboutta tart.’
What?
I can hardly hear a word she’s saying because my face and ears are submerged in a barrel of water. Dozens of apples are bobbing around my head. I’m thrashing around like a run of salmon but I just can’t get an apple to stay in my mouth.
Margaret and I are at our village fete. Every year I try the ‘apple bobbing’ stall and every year I fail to get an apple. This year will be different. This year I am a sophisticated young woman, like Maria in West Side Story. I will not be beaten by a piece of fruit.
I surface, gulp down some air and then set off again after the apples. My mouth is stretched wide open and I have a feeling I must look like one of those sea monsters you see on old maps. Chasing the apples round the barrel is like trying to herd cats. Just as I think I’ve got one cornered, it bobs up past my nose and floats off calmly to one side. I pull up again, snorting in some air while I scan the surface of the water for my next target. I spot an apple that looks a bit smaller than the others and swoop in, dragging the apple underwater with the killer moves of a Serengeti crocodile. I chase it downwards, submerging my head fully and splashing what feels like half a barrel of water down my back. Suddenly – bingo! – the apple bobs into place, docking into my mouth like an egg in an eggcup. I bite into its crisp, bitter flesh and heave it out of the water, triumphant. Water is dripping down my top and my hair is wringing wet but I don’t care because I beat the apple. That’s the only thing that matters.
‘You’re soaked,’ says Margaret, not looking at all impressed.
The boy on the stall, Geoffrey Brown, a bulldog-looking fourteen-year-old with spots, hands me a towel. ‘Here, wipe yer’self down,’ he says, staring at the apple in my mouth. As I start drying myself off, he points at the apple, still in my mouth, and says, ‘Not bad. For a girl.’
I look down at Geoffrey (he barely comes up to my shoulders). I am trying to give off the air of a sophisticated older woman, aloof and unobtainable, but it’s not easy when you have an apple stuck in your mouth.
‘How about a kiss?’ he says, puckering up his lips so that he looks even more bulldoggy.
‘Kiss this, Geoffrey Brown,’ shouts Margaret, clipping him round the ear. ‘Come on,’ she says, grabbing my hand and yanking me away so hard that the apple drops out of my mouth onto the floor. ‘The hat parade’s about to start. I was trying to tell you when you were messing around in that barrel,’ she adds, still not acknowledging my bobbing skills.
‘Hold on a sec,’ I say, nipping back to return the towel to Geoffrey. As I thank him, holding out the damp towel, he looks up and smiles. Quick as a flash, I dunk the towel in the barrel, drenching it thoroughly, and then cover his head with it, giving it and him a kiss, somewhere, I hope, in the vicinity of his forehead.
There. I feel better now.
Not bad for a girl, indeed. It’s 1962 for heaven’s sake.
*
Margaret has been watching me.
‘What did you do that for?’ she asks. ‘Why did you kiss him?
‘I don’t know,’ I answer. ‘I just felt like it. Everything doesn’t have to be planned, does it?’
‘What?’ says Margaret.
‘Nothing. Where’s the hat parade, then?’ I ask, trying to divert her from more questions. The hat parade, during which the women of the village march round the show ring in home-made hats and bonnets, is one of the traditions of our annual fete. It fulfils two purposes:
1. It’s a chance for the women to show off their millinery skills and generally untapped creative flair.
2. It gives all the men a break from parading round the ring with cows and sheep so that they can have a quiet half-hour in the beer tent.
‘It’s over here,’ says Margaret, pulling me through the crowd. ‘We’ll miss it if we don’t get a move on.’ (For someone so obsessed with facts, quadratic equations and the periodic table, Margaret, every year, is surprisingly keen to see the hat parade.) She leads the way, dodging past people and assorted animals. As we bob along, we pass stall after stall of fete activities. The flower-arranging competition. The lucky dip. Guess the weight of the sheep (for men). Guess the weight of the doll (for women). The raffle. The bric-a-brac stall. The stocks (complete with wet-sponge projectiles). And, largest by far, the Women’s Institute stall, a super-organised affair made up of leaflets, cakes and absolute authority.
As we pass all the cakes, I think of poor Mrs Scott-Pym. She would usually have been one of the stars of the cake stall (and a very strong contender for the fruitcake competition) but neither she nor her cakes are present this year. This is because she’s been in hospital ever since she fell down the stairs. Poor Mrs Scott-Pym is black and blue all over and has a something called a herniated disc (which sounds like something you’d find in a car engine), but essentially she’s okay. She’s in a small private hospital in York and has her own room, complete with carpet and a wireless. According to Vera, it’ll be costing an arm and a leg – perhaps not the best way to phrase it, given the circumstances. I went to see her yesterday, taking an assortment of books, chocolates, flowers and magazines with me. The doctors say she’s probably going to have to stay in hospital for a while, so I’ve been charged with looking after Sadie. Christine won’t let dogs in the farmhouse so Sadie’s still living round at Mrs Scott-Pym’s but I’ve been spending as much time there as possible, partly to keep her company and partly to keep out of the way of Christine and all the talk of weddings, housing estates and pink bathroom suites.
Just along from the W.I. stall is the show ground, a small piece of grass surrounded by assorted deckchairs, benches and upturned buckets. The hat parade has already started and the procession is in full swing. The days of displaying stylish little hats are long gone (if indeed they ever existed in our village) and for the past couple of years the hats have all looked like they’ve been borrowed from a particularly flamboyant pantomime dame.
Vera is a hat parade veteran. She takes the competition very seriously. She came second last year, wearing something that involved a stuffed budgerigar, and has her sights firmly set on the top spot today. We’ve had no clues about the theme of this year’s hat other than being told it’s something modern.
And then I see her. She looks Modern. Terrifyingly Modern. She looks like she’s just walked out of an episode of Quatermass. Vera is wearing a black leotard and thick black tights, all covered with glittery little stars, and on her head is balanced an enormous shiny globe, covered in tin foil, screws, buttons and bits of mirror. Three knitting needles, wrapped in foil, stick out of the top of the globe, looking like a DIY television aerial. Across her chest, she’s wearing a sash with TELSTAR written on it, which is just as well as otherwise people might think she’d come as a Belisha beacon. Rather than looking embarrassed, as most people would, she is walking round the parade ring with all the swagger of Napoleon surveying his troops.
‘Is that Christine’s mum?’ says Margaret, her voice curling upwards in shock. ‘What’s she wearing? Did you help her make it?’
‘No, of course I didn’t!’ I say, quickly disowning all knowledge of the tin-foil Telstar. Vera’s satellite hat is definitely more world’s worst than world’s first and I feel slightly peeved that Margaret could think I’d had anything to do with it. ‘She looks ridiculous.’
To be fair to Vera, though, she’s not the only person who looks ridiculous. Among the many hats featured in today’s parade are a basket of fruit, a mini loo (complete with chain), a huge knitted teapot, a suggestive-looking missile, a tartan-clad Dundee cake, a Spitfire, and a cloud (basically, industrial quantities of cellophane and some extra-strength hairspray).
Vera’s main competition, I think, comes from Mrs Gaythorne from Willow Farm. Her hat is a replica of the Statue of Liberty, but instead of a torch it’s holding up a white Yorkshire rose (obviously playing the patriotic card). To complement the hat, she’s wrapped a big Stars and Stripes flag around herself and the whole outfit is finished off with a pair of cowboy boots.
As I gawp, I pull out a pair of sunglasses from my pocket and rest them on top of my head, sliding them back slightly on my still-wet hair.
‘What are you doing?’ asks Margaret. ‘Why are you wearing your sunglasses like that? Why don’t you put them on properly?’
‘I like them like this,’ I tell her, using my hands to comb down my wet hair. ‘It’s hip.’ I stretch my arms up into the sky, taking in the heat, and smile, thinking of the photo of Caroline wearing her sunglasses pushed back on her head, the one where she’s surrounded by life and laughing under a summer sun.
‘Hip?’ echoes Margaret. ‘They’re meant to protect your eyes not your hair. I can’t see the point of it. You should get a nice Alice band.’
‘Sssssh,’ I say, sounding bossier than I meant. ‘Look. They’re going to announce who’s won.’
Mr Stephens, a big, bald cardboard box of a man who runs the village Post Office, picks up a megaphone and steps into the middle of the ring. He’s accompanied by our vicar, Reverend Wroot.
(There are two important things to know about Reverend Wroot:
1. He has the ruddiest face for miles [quite a feat when nearly all your neighbours are farmers]. This has led to him being known as Reverend BeetWroot.
2. He is what Mrs Scott-Pym calls low church, which apparently means he’s allowed to wear rainbow-trimmed vestments and the occasional set of wooden beads.)
As Mr Stephens starts speaking, someone (at last) turns down the South Pacific soundtrack LP that’s been playing all morning on an old wind-up gramophone. Mr Stephens makes a couple of announcements and then Reverend Wroot takes the megaphone, telling everyone that the quality of hats this year is the best it’s ever been and so this year is a particularly hard year to judge (he says the same thing every year).
I look over at Vera. She is standing very erect, possibly even on tip-toes. Her thin, twig-like body is dwarfed by the huge round Telstar sitting on her head. She looks like an oversized lollipop.
Reverend Wroot is now busy comparing the women in the hat parade to the hanging gardens of Babylon (I think). He goes on a bit and there’s a fair bit of eye-rolling from onlookers. The women in the parade have fixed smiles and are trying to look as relaxed as possible. It doesn’t fool me though. I’m glad I’m not the one who has to decide whose hat is best. Reverend Wroot is a brave man. The wrath of the devil is as nothing compared to a group of discontented Yorkshire women.
The results are announced in reverse order (like in Miss World). By now quite a crowd has gathered round, mainly women but also a few stray men, probably waiting for the cows and sheep to come back into the show ring again. I wave at Vera and flash her an encouraging wink but her gaze and rictus smile are locked on Reverend Wroot so she doesn’t notice me. You can feel the tension in the air. This is what it must feel like at the Oscars.
‘So, without any further ado,’ says Reverend Wroot, after rattling on for what seems like hours (the Almighty, bric-a-brac, Cary Grant), ‘I’m very happy to announce that third place in this year’s hat parade goes to Mrs Thorneycroft and her splendid WC.’
Everyone claps and Mrs Thorneycroft (petite, clairvoyant, gammy knee) shuffles over to the winner’s podium, a rickety homemade affair modelled on the one they have at the Olympics. She steps up into third-place position and beams, twirling the loo chain around like a flapper girl twirling her beads doing the Charleston.
‘Well done, Mrs Thorneycroft,’ says Reverend Wroot, smiling beatifically. ‘And, after much deliberation, I’m very pleased to announce that second place goes to Mrs Gaythorne for her wonderful evocation of the spirit of Yorkshire–American friendship.’ Cue more clapping as Mrs Gaythorne (bad perm, flower arranger, suspected nudist) takes her place in runner-up position on the podium. She is trying to look happy but you can tell that she’s more than a bit miffed. Vera on the other hand looks ecstatic and is clapping so hard I worry she may soon need the attention of one of the two St John’s Ambulance volunteers hovering by the beer tent.
‘And now,’ says Reverend Wroot, clearly enjoying the attention, ‘we come to the overall winner of our wonderful hat parade.’
Vera is looking manic. Her smile stretches upwards so much that her cheekbones look like ping pong balls.
‘We have a much-deserved winner,’ the reverend goes on. ‘A hat that encompasses both the skill and craft of the old world and the beauty and science of the new world.’
I think Vera will need oxygen soon if he doesn’t get a move on.
‘It gives me enormous pleasure, then, ladies and gentlemen, to announce that the winner of the 1962 hat parade is . . .’
Reverend Wroot pauses dramatically.
Time stands still.
The village holds its breath.
‘. . . Vera Bradshaw.’
Vera throws her hands up in the air and screams. Everyone applauds politely while Vera makes her way over to the podium. From the other side of the ring, I can see Christine pushing her way through the crowd.
‘Wooooo! Well done, Mum,’ shouts Christine, elbowing her way past a couple of young girls. ‘You did it. Wooohoooo!’
Vera, still waving and screaming, steps up to the winner’s place on the podium. Reverend Wroot shakes her hand and gives her the traditional prize: a large tray of meat from Jackson’s butchers. Christine is now over by Vera’s side, waving to the crowd and eyeing the tray of meat.
‘God. What’s she wearing?’ asks Margaret.
‘She’s Telstar, the satellite,’ I tell her, happy to be one up on Margaret’s encyclopaedic knowledge for a change.
‘No, I know that,’ says Margaret. ‘I meant Christine. What’s she wearing?’
Today is the day that Christine and Arthur will officially announce their engagement. Christine told us that she wanted to wear something special for the occasion and I think she’s managed it. She’s wearing a pink leopard-skin sticky-out skirt and a spangly pink boob tube with a big pink bow in her hair, an outfit that takes its inspiration not so much from the pages of Vogue as from a saucy seaside postcard.
The applause has now stopped and someone has cranked up the South Pacific soundtrack again. The winners leave the podium to the strains of ‘There is Nothin’ Like a Dame’, with Vera still waving with one hand and balancing her considerable tray of meat on the other. Everyone else is milling around chatting, having a good look at all the hats.
‘What do you fancy doing now?’ I ask Margaret.
She shrugs.
‘The flower-arranging competition?’
We look at each other for a second and then both screw up our faces.
‘What about here?’ I ask. ‘What’s on next?’
The millions of brain cells in Margaret’s head whizz around at high speed.
‘Er, cows, I think. It’s probably the Ayrshires.’
‘Great, that’s us,’ I say, picturing Arthur strutting his stuff with one of our better-looking cows. ‘Let’s stay.’
Margaret nods and pulls up an upturned bucket. I grab one too and we both sit under the dreamy sun, nattering about cows and life and Cliff Richard and hula hoops.
After a few minutes, Margaret points over to the far side of the show ring. I look up and see a procession of cows, each one led by a man. Arthur is second in the parade. As he walks into the show ring, a rush of pride comes over me. He’s wearing his smart cords, best tweed jacket, a maroon waistcoat, and shirt and tie. In a nod to the modern world, he’s decided to go capless, and his Brylcreemed hair gives him the appearance of a rural Elvis. He could do far better than Christine.
‘Oh, look at your dad,’ says Margaret. ‘He looks really dishy!’
‘Shut up,’ I say, part embarrassed and part exploding with pride. ‘You’re meant to be looking at the cows.’
‘I was just saying, that’s all,’ says Margaret, nudging me with her elbow. ‘The cow’s not bad either.’
The cows keep coming, each one led into the show ring by a man. Fat men. Thin men. Tall men. Small men. Old men. Young men. Handsome men (well, Arthur). All men. Why aren’t any women allowed to lead in the cows? It can’t be that hard. We just get lumbered with the Pantomime Dame hats and miss out on all the farming fun. I think I would make a good cow-leader. Miss McMinn, our lacrosse mistress, says I have an excellent gait.
The cows (and men) are nearly all in the ring now and I’m just telling Margaret about an article in Mrs Scott-Pym’s Listener magazine (‘As You Like It : Shakespearean Imagery in the Lyrics of Adam Faith’) when suddenly I see something that causes me to stop mid-sentence and stare.
It’s old Mr Hughes.
With a cow.
Smiling and licking his lips (Mr Hughes, not the cow).
As he walks into the ring, images of Mr Hughes in a field with a cow flicker across my brain like the champagne-fuelled dreamy bit in Dumbo (complete with disturbing ‘Jerusalem’ soundtrack).
‘What’s wrong?’ asks Margaret, peering into my face.
I can’t speak. Mr Hughes is busy stroking the cow and whispering something in her ear (sweet nothings?).
Margaret pulls at my arm.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Errr . . .’ Suddenly my brain feels very sluggish. I think I’m in shock.
‘Hello?’ She knocks gently on my head with her fist, as if she were knocking on a door. ‘Is anybody there?’
My eyes are fixed on Mr Hughes and the cow. Is it the same cow? The one that I saw him with when I had my accident in Arthur’s MG? Mr Hughes looks around, sees me, raises his cap and smiles. I’m sure he winked.
‘Loo,’ I say, getting up quickly. ‘It’s just come on. I’m desperate.’
‘What, just like that?’ asks Margaret, looking baffled by my sudden lack of bladder control.
‘Yes. I’ll be back soon. Hold the fort,’ I say before dashing off as quickly as possible. I can hear Margaret grumbling behind me but I don’t care. All I can think about is the memory of old Mr Hughes in a field, flat-capped and trousers down, thrusting rhythmically into the back of a cow.
*
I decide I need a drink. A good strong tea. And possibly some cake. So I make my way to the refreshment stall.
As I get closer to the stall, I see the gargantuan figure of Mrs Swithenbank looming over an equally gargantuan tin teapot. The teapot looks like it’s been around since the war (First not Second) and is a bit battered but still in fine fettle, all of which could equally be said of Mrs Swithenbank. She is standing watch over the refreshment stall with all the authority of a Grenadier Guard or the Queen Mother.
She beams a warm, welcoming smile in my direction.
‘Evie, love,’ she says, uncrossing her arms and tapping the tin teapot. ‘Have you come for a brew?’
‘Oooh, please, Mrs Swithenbank. I’ve been over at the hat parade. Vera won.’
‘Did she now,’ she replies, pouring my tea into a robust-looking cup. ‘Well, she always puts on a good show. And, by, she certainly puts in the effort. She’s been buggering around with that hat for months.’
She passes me the cup, resting it on a saucer as thick as a roof slate.
‘Between you and me, I can’t see the point of it, love. I’ve got better things to do than sticking buttons and old loo rolls or whatever on my head.’
She glances round at the next-door stall.
‘Hey, have you had a go on the tombola yet? There are some lovely prizes this year.’
I look over at the tombola stall. It’s full of exactly the same stuff you can buy in the village shop. Mint Imperials. A bottle of Compton’s gravy browning. Some Lily of the Valley talcum powder. A tin of marrowfat peas. Three bars of Lux soap sello-taped together.
‘I’ve got my eye on the washing powder,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘It’s family size. It’d keep me going all year.’
‘Lovely,’ I say, trying to muster as much enthusiasm as possible over a giant box of Oxydol.
‘And what about the cake stall, love?’ she carries on. ‘I know what you’re like with your sweet tooth. Although it won’t be the same this year without poor Rosamund. The things that woman can do with an egg and some flour.’ Mrs Swithenbank sucks on her lips. ‘How’s she doing by the way?’
I give her a full update of Mrs Scott-Pym’s health, dwelling on the herniated disc and a particularly nasty bruise that looks like Ireland.
‘Oh, poor Rosamund. I was in such a state when they told me. I didn’t know whether it was Pancake Tuesday or Sheffield Wednesday. You’re a good one going to see her,’ she says, resting her hand on top of the huge teapot. ‘I bet she loves having you around.’
‘I love having her around,’ I say. ‘I miss not having her next door. It seems strange without her.’
‘She’ll be home soon enough, love,’ says Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Don’t worry.’
Just then, our always chirpy village butcher, Mr Jackson, sidles up to the refreshment table with his wife (cat lover, thick set, serial abuser of the church flower rota). ‘All right, Doris, love?’ he says, winking at Mrs Swithenbank. ‘Two teas, please. Three sugars in each. Don’t be holding back, now.’
Mrs Swithenbank turns to greet Mr Jackson and his wife. Soon they’re all deep in conversation (weather, Scotch eggs, hovercrafts) and so I decide it’s time for cake and wander off.
The cake stalls look amazing (unlike the tombola). There’s the ‘buy a cake’ stall, populated by a variety of mouth-watering cakes and buns, and the ‘cake competition’ stall, basically lots of similar-looking fruit cakes topped with great swirls of almonds and glacé cherries. I know Christine has entered the fruitcake competition this year but I don’t know why. Her basic cooking is bad enough so I can’t see how she can hope to master the advanced technical skills needed to bake a fruitcake.
‘Would you like a cake, dear?’ says an old lady with a blue rinse. She must be part of the W.I. They have a monopoly on cakes at the fete. They’re like the Sicilian Mafia. The W.I. run all cake stalls here and woe betide anyone who comes near the fete with a cake if they’re not on W.I. business.
‘Yes, please,’ I say, eyeing a Battenberg cake (the Adam Faith of cakes). I ask for a slice and, while the old lady is cutting me a piece, I glance round at the non-cake W.I. stall next-door. It’s significantly less interesting than the cake W.I. stalls. There are a few books for sale, some bossy leaflets (Keep Britain Tidy, Eat Your Greens), but mainly the stall is loaded with lots of ‘how to’ booklets. How to Make Jam. How to Clean Lace Curtains. How to Protect Your Family from Atomic Attack. The W.I. seem to think they know everything, or at least know how to do everything. They are like an institutional version of Christine.
‘There you are, dear,’ says the old lady, handing me a slice of Battenberg cake. ‘That’ll be thruppence, please.’
I give her the money and head back to the show ring.
*
Back at the show ring, there’s a lot of excitement. The fruitcake competition winners are being announced. I can see that second and third place are already up on the podium: an unknown lady with big hair is standing in third place and Mrs Barton, primary school teacher and W.I. bigwig, is standing in second place. Reverend Wroot is making another long speech so I nudge my way through the crowd and join Margaret. Luckily she’s managed to save an upturned bucket for me.
‘Where have you been?’ whispers Margaret, looking cross. ‘I thought you were just nipping to the loo.’
‘I got waylaid,’ I tell her. ‘I was ambushed by a Battenberg cake.’
She gives me an unimpressed look.
Somebody shushes us and I hear Reverend Wroot say: ‘So I’m very pleased to announce that the winner of the 1962 fruitcake competition is . . .’
Cue overly dramatic pause.
‘. . . Christine Bradshaw.’
What?
Christine?
Everybody is clapping and some people are even cheering. Christine makes her way over to Reverend Wroot and the podium, smiling and waving to the crowd. Vera, giddy with excitement, is bouncing up and down, the huge Telstar rocking precariously on her head. Christine steps up onto the top of the podium, still waving, and shakes Reverend Wroot’s hand. Then she takes the prize, a bouquet of white roses and a large bottle of Cherry B wine, and curtseys to the crowd, as if she’d just been awarded an OBE or the Nobel Peace Prize.
‘I thought you said Christine can’t cook,’ says Margaret.
‘She can’t,’ I reply, shaking my head. ‘I don’t understand. She could even manage to burn a tin of soup. There’s no way could she manage a fruitcake.’
Christine has now put the wine down and grabbed the megaphone from Reverend Wroot. She’s still holding the bouquet in her other hand, swinging it down by her knees like a big wooden club.
Oh God. She’s going to make a speech.
‘Thank you, everyone,’ she starts, her voice booming through the megaphone. ‘Thank you. I just want to say a few words. I’m so glad that all the judges enjoyed my cake. I’m sure all the cakes were delicious but some just happen to be more delicious than others.’
What?
‘I want to thank all the lovely ladies of the W.I. for organising everything today. I think, given their age, they’ve all done a wonderful job.’
Polite applause from the crowd (with the exception of one or two W.I. ladies).
‘I also want to thank my wonderful mum, Vera, who taught me everything I know about cooking and baking.’
More polite applause. Everyone turns to look at Vera, who is busy waving and bowing, putting Telstar through some very demanding manoeuvres.
‘Today’s a special day for me. A very special day. And not just because I’ve won this wonderful competition.’
She waves the bouquet in the air.
‘Today’s a special day,’ she continues, the huge pink bow in her hair flapping against her eye in the breeze, ‘because as well as winning this, I’ve got a very special announcement to . . .’
She pauses, clearly searching for the right word.
‘. . . announce. Is Arthur there? Can someone get Arthur Epworth? Arthur!’
Christine shouts for Arthur, setting off a clamour of Arthur shouts that spread through the crowd. After a few seconds’ waiting, Christine looks bored (and annoyed – I know the signs).
‘Well, we were going to tell you together but I’ve started now, haven’t I? I might as well go on.’
She coughs, clearing her throat for dramatic effect.
‘A few days ago Arthur and me went to Bawden’s, York’s finest jeweller . . .’
Suddenly there’s a noise around the show ring. A hushed murmur. People have turned away from Christine and are looking at someone very tall who’s walking through the crowd. Christine, looking distracted and straining to see who it is, carries on.
‘The reason . . . we went to Bawden’s . . . was, er, to . . .’
The crowd opens to let the person through. It’s like the parting of the Red Sea, but with a lot more tweed.
Christine lifts the megaphone away from her mouth, using it to shield her eyes from the sun so that she can see who it is.
‘Arthur?’ she shouts. ‘Is that you?’
Is it Arthur? I hope it’s not Arthur. Please don’t let it be Arthur.
‘Who’s that?’ asks Margaret, squinting at the person walking out from the parted crowd.
I stare at the magnificent figure now standing bang smack in the middle of the show ring.
Everyone is staring.
‘It’s Caroline,’ I say, my eyes as big as dinner plates. ‘Caroline Scott-Pym.’
A flame-haired bullet of exotica fresh from London and the future.