Fete Fatale by Robert Barnard Page A

before the pubs closed down for the afternoon. Down by the river there was a group of five or six soldiers, noisier than the ones inside, who had been jolly and good-natured. These had clearly been getting their drinks in since the pubs opened. We took ourselves as far away from them as possible, and sat on the cool grass in a far corner of the meadows, eating the regulation ham sandwiches. Gwen Nielson fed Gustave with cooked meat she had brought in a bag—his yaps for the next bit, meticulously timed, being the only disturbances to our peace.
    â€˜Well,’ I said, ‘it seems to be going well this year.’
    â€˜Is this what you call going well? Financially I suppose—even my stall: I had ninety-seven jars to start with, and about eighteen are left. Say eighty jars at forty pence—I make that thirty-two quid. And even then Franchita will say I should have charged more. But I can’t say it’s my favourite sort of occasion: I’m standing there thinking I’ll make sure and take my holidays in early June next year. Too many people, too much bustle.’
    â€˜Well, better busy than dismal,’ I remarked, with uncharacteristic optimism. ‘We’ve had some pretty dire occasions in the past, as you can probably imagine: if it wasn’t because of the weather, it was because of the people.’
    â€˜At least Miss Morse and Mrs Primp don’t seem to be succeeding in damping anyone’s spirits.’
    â€˜Aren’t they incredibly childish? And all simply to make trouble—simply to get a bit of excitement into their lives.’
    â€˜Certainly I can’t see one priest being replaced by another making that much difference to Hexton life,’ agreed Mrs Nielson, lighting up a cigarette. ‘Of course, Mary says she owes it to her dead mother . . . ’
    â€˜Ha! No doubt Queen Victoria said she owed it to her poor dead Albert when she was intent on doing something particularly selfish and disagreeable . . . Oh God, let’s forget Hexton and its doings. When are you going on holiday this year?’
    â€˜I don’t know that I’ll have one. Too soon after the move here, which was really rather expensive. And I’m not sure of the best place to go, now that I have to decide for myself.’
    â€˜Was your husband the type who did everything for you?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Not consciously, perhaps, but he was a doctor, and in fact his word was mostly law. Oh, Gustave—be quiet!’
    But Gustave, having finished up all his meal, was determined on a walk. He had a splendid confidence about getting his way, and no doubt he felt it his due, after having been tied for so long to the leg of the stall. Gwen Nielson stubbed out her cigarette and took him off, he barking rapturously at having made his point. I lay back in the sun and closed my eyes. Now, if I was sensible, I’d take twenty minutes off and enjoy a little snooze. It was really quite pleasant here, almost peaceful, apart from the distant shouts and songs of the drunken soldiery. And, really, Mr Horsforth had not pulled his weight so far, not by a long chalk. I really ought to leave him to get on with it . . .
    But of course I didn’t. What is operating in such cases I don’t know—my conscience, Marcus’s conscience, or what—but my pleasure rarely gets the upper hand over my duty, and my duty assumes ridiculous forms. I dragged myself back towards the tent. People were showing the exhaustion that overcomes Englishmen after quite a small amount of sun. Father Battersby, though, was still spry, enjoying a picnic with the Blatchleys down by the river. At the Test Your Strength machine Colonel Weston had apparently taken over from Marcus, and his ‘lady wife’ (as he often called her, and to which term, incredibly, she made no objections) was apparently intending to stand fluffily by him and offer admiring remarks