Summer at the Haven (8 page)

“You’re prejudiced against him, just because of his politics,” Austen was saying. “Genius has nothing to do with politics.”

“It jolly well had with Wagner,” said Elizabeth, “and you’re not fair either; it isn’t just his politics, I hate the way he forces me to respond to his beastly genius, for I can’t help responding. It makes me feel I’m being raped.”

“I understand what Liz means,” said Jake, “Wagner always wants total control, that’s the great difference between him and Bach, his opposite. Bach is content to accept divine control.”

Elizabeth looked at him with gratitude, and Nell said, “We’ve got a new cassette of Tortelier playing Bach’s cello suite. Let’s get down to business and then we’ll play it to you. Now what shall we choose out of our repertoire for the fête?”

“The old will want something nostalgic, I should think,” said Elizabeth.

“Don’t talk about ‘the old’ like that,” said Austen, “as though they were all alike and some sort of different species. They’re as different from one another as can be, as we are, for instance – we’re not just ‘the young’. Generalizations are always stupid.”

“You’ve just made one,” said Elizabeth, “and a stupid one, too. Of course I know they can be wrong, even dangerous sometimes, but one can’t do without them all the same.”

“Why not?” said Austen.

“Oh, stop it, you two,” said Nell, “and let’s get on. It isn’t only old ladies we’ve got to please, Liz, this fête tries to attract everyone it can.”

She was sorting through a pile of music she had taken from a drawer and arranging it in neat piles. Their group had gone busking last summer vacation and besides had performed at weekends in pubs and sometimes at parties during the winter, and Jake had orchestrated a fair amount of material for them. The piles represented Old Time, pop and classical. After a good deal of discussion, they decided on Highlights from Gilbert & Sullivan, and Selections from Strauss Waltzes. “That’s for Gran,” said Austen. Then Gershwin’s “Summertime”, the Beatles. “Eight Days a Week”, and “Yesterday”.

“We’re not allowed pop, I know,” said Nell, “but the Beatles don’t count as pop, do they?”

“That’s for ‘the young’, I suppose,” said Liz.

“Selections from
Fledermaus
–
that ought to be for everyone,” said Nell.

“We must have something from the classical heap,” said Jake. “What about Mozart’s ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmuzik’, or Handel’s ‘Water Music’?”

“We do the Mozart best,” said Austen, “and we ought to have a rousing number to start off with.”

They decided on the “Toreador’s Song” from
Carmen.

“That ought to do all right,” said Nell, “but I wish we had a singer. Sarah’s gone off to her beloved Austria; what’s happened to Andrew?”

“He’s taken a job as a dustman,” said Austen. “He says it’s horribly exhausting, but very good money. I vote for some Bach now, it’s too late to start practising tonight. We’ll get down to it tomorrow morning.”

They relaxed comfortably while Tortelier did his best for them and then, full of content, they sought their beds.

Austen found Mike, the sweeper, already snoring but considerately squeezed into as narrow a space as possible
on the far side of the mattress. He slipped in beside him and Mike was up and away before he woke the next day. The morning was spent in hard but pleasurable playing. Besides Elizabeth’s fiddle, there was Jake’s double bass, Nell provided the wind with her clarinet, and Austin performed quite creditably on the guitar, but there was no doubt that a vocal accompaniment to some of the numbers would have been an improvement.

“Can’t be helped, unless we can pick up someone between now and the day – we must just do the best we can without,” said Nell.

Mrs Perry proudly told everyone that her grandchilden had undertaken to provide music for the fête instead of the Boy’s Brigade Band, and that Austen was paying her a visit soon to discuss it all. Austen was popular at The Haven. He possessed the art, or rather the gift (for it came naturally) of talking to children, his parents’ contemporaries, and the old, as if they were all the same age as himself. Then, because he was interested in people, he remembered the old ladies’ names, and often, too, bits of information about them that Mrs Perry had told him. He arrived at The Haven one Sunday with a miniature rose-tree in a pot for his grandmother, and a box of chocolates with a picture of a ginger cat on it, for Miss Blackett. She was more pleased with this than even Mrs Perry with her plant, though no one would have guessed it, for she had never learned to accept gifts graciously. She liked chocolates, but never bought them for herself, and she liked the picture of the cat, even though it was not handsome enough for Lord Jim, but best of all she liked the attention and the box was kept long after its contents had been consumed.

Austen had arrived in time for the midday meal and afterwards he tried to persuade his grandmother to take her usual nap.

“I can go for a walk, or talk to Miss Blackett.”

“What, snooze away an hour of your company, I should
think not indeed! We’ll sit outside in the garden and you can admire my border while you tell me all your news. Oh, and I want to hear what nice tunes you have all decided on, though I don’t suppose I’ll know any of them.”

“You will two of them, anyway, for we’ve put them in specially for you, Gran. Here’s the list.”

Mrs Perry put on her spectacles.

“Hurrah! Gilbert and Sullivan, and the Vienna Waltzes – good boy, and I like the names of the songs, ‘Summertime’ and ‘Yesterday’, they sound like those that were sung when I was young.”

“I’m afraid they’re not much like that really, and they won’t be sung, you know, only played, because we’ve lost both our singers, and haven’t been able to find any replacement. I say, Gran, your pinks and stocks are fine this year, but what’s happened to your famous tiger lilies?’

“Tom’s happened to them,” said Mrs Perry ruefully, “he borrowed every single one of them for a party dear old Mrs Langley thought she was giving and it has left rather a gap.”

“Tom, Tom, the piper’s son, stole your flowers and away did run,” sang Austen. “Only he’s not a piper’s son, but a bullock boy, according to your letter. Tell me more about him – he sounds quite a one.”

“He’s really a very nice boy,” said Mrs Perry, “and clever at a lot of things, though he’s never been able to read or write. Mrs Thornton says he’s exceptionally musical.”

“Oh, ho!” said Austen, “does he sing, I wonder?”

“Not sing, exactly,” said Mrs Perry, “but he hums quite loudly and Mrs Thornton says he always keeps in time and in tune. Oh, do you think he might be of any use to you. Austen? I wondered if possibly he might, he would love it so.”

“I’d better see Mrs Thornton about him,” said Austen, “a champion hummer might be a novel draw.”

“I do approve of you, Austen dear,” said his grandmother
affectionately, “you’re always ready to try anything, and I love you so much better now you have your hair nice and short and tidy again. I couldn’t bear it hanging down your back like a Cavalier, which is funny really, as I always liked Cavaliers better than Roundheads, but then you didn’t wear a lace collar and a beautiful coat underneath, and perhaps that made the difference.”

“Oh, Gran, you never said you hated it,” said Austen.

“Well, that wouldn’t have been any use, would it dear?”

“The parents thought it would, they were always on about it.”

“Yes, and I believe you grew it an inch longer whenever the poor dears mentioned it. I told them they only had to wait a little and the fashion would pass, they always do, though sometimes they come back again.”

Mrs Thornton guaranteed that Tom could pick up tunes wonderfully well, but that he might wander away in the middle if he felt like it.

“Of course we’d have to get him to practise with us first,” said Austen, “is he shy?”

“Oh no, not in the least,” said Mrs Thornton.

“We could get here early in the day and the fête’s an afternoon affair, isn’t it? We could practise him in the morning.”

“But the warden will need him then, I’m afraid,” said Mrs Thornton, “there will be plenty of jobs for him to do.”

“I’ll ask her anyway,” said Austen, “where is he now? I’d like to see him.”

“He always goes home on a Sunday and doesn’t come back till Monday morning.”

“Oh, well, I’ll take your word for his musical powers, Mrs Thornton, and I bet I get Miss Blackett’s permission to rehearse him, you’ll see.”

He sought out the warden then and there, and perhaps it was the effect of the chocolate box, but, to Mrs Thornton’s surprise, permission was given by Miss Blackett for Tom to
give up at least part of the morning to practise with the group if they really wanted him, though she couldn’t believe that he would be of any real use, but then she didn’t pretend to understand anything about music and never had.

“That’s marvellous of you, Miss Blackett,” said Austen. “If he’s as good as Mrs Thornton says he is, he’ll be just what we need in some of the numbers, and I promise you we’ll help all we can when we’re not actually playing to make up for robbing you of Tom.”

When they next met together the group approved of including Tom, but cautious Nell said it would be advisable if Jake, who had the most time to spare at present, could run over to The Haven on his bike as soon as possible to try him out.

Jake came back a bit worried. “Isn’t he any good after all?” asked Nell.

“He’s fine,” said Jake.

“What’s the problem, then?”

“Too keen,” said Jake, “we can’t have him humming every number, not the Mozart, for instance, and he will if he gets the chance.”

“I see,” said Nell, thoughtfully. “Well, can’t we give him an instrument, cymbals or something, to keep him happy and unhumming?”

“It’s more than likely he’d be too keen on those, too,” said Jake. “Can you imagine trying to compete with clanging cymbals coming in with every beat?”

“What about a drum?” said Nell, “That wouldn’t really matter if it went on rather a lot. I can borrow a little drum from Earl Street Primary School.”

“Just the thing; he’d love it,” said Jake with relief, “and I think we could make it clear to him when to hum and when to drum.”

“What shall we wear?” mused Nell. “I think something pretty eye-catching. I saw some cheap red and white denim
the other day in the town. I could run up dungarees for Liz and myself to wear with white blouses, and you’ve got your red shirt, and I think Austen’s got one too, at least I know he’s got a check one, and you can wear white flannels with them.”

“What about Tom?” asked Jake.

“Oh, I can run him up something, too, or we could buy him something. How big is he?”

“About your size, I should think,” said Jake, “but best lend him some of your things – don’t you know it’s dangerous to give new clothes to elemental creatures such as Tom.”

Nell laughed. “Is he a changeling then, d’you think, or a sort of Brownie, or Lob?”

“I don’t know,” said Jake, suddenly becoming half serious, “all I know is that I felt he was different, as if he knew things I didn’t know and saw things I couldn’t see, and was timeless somehow.”

Nell smiled at him affectionately. She loved Jake when he talked nonsense.

Other matters connected with the fête were not going quite so well. There were the coconut shies, for instance. Mr Jackson always took charge of these. The site had to be far enough away from the house and the stalls to avoid damage, but this meant that balls were often mislaid in the rough patch between the lawn and the copse, or even in the copse itself, unless the nets were sound. This year, it was found that, though the stands stored in the old barn were all right, the nets had been used by Fred for some purpose of his own and had several holes in them. This led to a few words between him and the farmer, their relationship never being very warm on account of the bullocks. Then the coconuts, provided by the local greengrocer, had proved unsatisfactory the previous summer – almost a quarter were bad and there had been loud complaints, so this year Jackson had gone elsewhere for his coconuts. This gave
offence and the greengrocer, who last year had sold the strawberries for the fête at a discount, quitely increased his price without notification.

There was always some bickering and jealousy between the old ladies’ stall and a similar fancy goods stall run by the Women’s Institute, who donated a part of their takings to The Haven in return for the privilege of selling their articles at the fête, and the competition for the best sites was not too amiable either sometimes. This summer the sudden spell of hot weather made the shady places in the garden especially sought after.

The sub-committee resigned themselves to the inevitable annoyances and frets and trusted that, as usual, everything would work out pretty well in the end. The stallholders were traditional and seldom changed from year to year. However, this time Col. Bradshaw, still mindful of Miss Hughes’s financial assets, suggested that it might be as well to involve her yet further in The Haven’s affairs by allotting to her the privilege and pleasure of one of the stalls. The other members of the sub-committee looked doubtful. How could this be done without causing trouble?

Someone suggested an extra stall. “What about a White Elephant Stall? We’ve never had one before.”

Someone else said there would be enough white elephants already on the other stalls and that Miss Hughes was proving a bit of a one herself. It was a long, hot meeting and in order to bring it to an end, objections faded out and it was decided to adopt the idea of a White Elephant Stall to be presided over by Miss Hughes.

As the day approached, all the talk at The Haven was about the fête and, among other matters, the White Elephant Stall was discussed.

“I can’t rightly see as there’ll be room for them on our lawn,” said Tom to Gisela, anxiously. ‘I’ve seed elephants once in a picture Teacher showed us at school and they do be bigger nor any other animal, and they be grey and not white.”

“It must be that you heard wrong about the Stall, Tom, certainly there will be no room and the elephants, they
are
grey and not white at all, but the English are strange about colour, I find,” said Gisela.