the marquis's memory 13

Chapter 13

 

In the four Haddingtons,  the excitement of the village show and regatta was upon the settlement and its inhabitants.

To be fair, to refer to a ‘regatta’ was a trifle grand for a rowing-race, sailing race, largest crab contest, and best-dressed boat competition, but it was some colour to the fishing community side of the villages. Geoffrey had left some generous prizes for both show and regatta, and had given Noah-Nelson permission to race his lugger, renamed ‘Calypso,’ against the fishing smacks, and had induced the preventatives to join the race, in their little cutter, in the spirit of working with the community, not against it.

Gaffer Keeble drank a toast to his naivety, and arranged an incoming delivery right into the regatta, hidden in full view, but Geoffrey had had no idea about this, merely wishing to foster good will.

He had no idea that as the Calyso rounded the buoy set for the race, she would snag and bring inboard a net full of bottles, thoughtfully left there overnight as the preparations were made.

And Pip resented that Effie forbade her to take part in the ladies’ rowing race, which was mostly made up of fishermen’s wives and daughters, and Pip was certain she could do as well as any.

“As his lordship’s ward, it’s my duty to represent him,” she argued.

Effie opened her mouth, and shut it again.

“That… actually, that is noblesse oblige,” she said. “Very well.”

Pip brightened.

It was not a piece of casuistry she had expected to work, but she stored it away for the future.

 

In the more agricultural parts of the village, onions were being grown to outsize proportions, the soil not being conducive to huge marrows, so beloved of many a village show; there were also displays of string beans, and peas, the peas to be judged on taste. There was a mixed fruit show, as there were not a sufficiency of any one fruits to form classes. This class was generally won by Miss Gooding’s strawberries, which rambled down a rockery surrounded by enough sharp gravel to deter slugs and snails. Miss Gooding also grew tomatoes, which were hardened off in a greenhouse before joining the strawberries on the rockery.  Nobody else grew them, though, as there was a general suspicion that they were deadly poison, through the similarity of the flowers to those of deadly nightshade. Miss and Dr. Gooding had not yet died from their consumption of their tomatoes, however, so more than one person was considering asking her for seed, and would have been astonished to know that Miss Gooding had her tomatoes served in sallets, assuming that she would eat them, like strawberries, sliced with cream. Miss Gooding’s main rival in the village was Widow Spalding, who grew beans and peas, and kept the goats out of them by the expedient of growing them on the roof of her cottage, cascading down amongst the thatch. She did not encourage her goats to help themselves to the produce of others; but neither did she discourage it.  She was made, by public pressure, to keep her goats confined during the show itself. She would be entering Marigold and her triplets this year; Effie would be entering Sarey, and her oft-abandoned, yet still well-fed piglings, Gaffer Keeble having devised an inner wall that Sarey could get over, and her piglings could not, when she opened her sty.  Doubtless the piglings would have been safe enough following their mother about, but the stray wheel of a carriage could kill one, and, of course, they were valuable in their own right.

Pip and Alethea washed and dried all the piglings to look just so for the show, and loaded them into the donkey cart; and relied on Sarey following to see where her babies were going. In the show pen, a length of rope prevented her peregrinations.

“And I hope his lordship is back soon, he is supposed to be judging,” said Alethea, anxiously.

“He’ll be here,” said Pip, confidently. She scratched Sarey’s back, and regarded her main rival, Miss Pettitoes, sow of Miss Henshaw, Miliner in Little Haddington, and her eight fine piglings. Miss Pettitoes never did anything like go sea bathing, or break out of her sty, and Pip thought it showed in how lively and sleek Sarey was. Miss Pettitoes gained marks for being a saddleback, black but with pale markings across her shoulders and upper back, where Sarey was sufficiently crossbred as to be a creature of her own. Sarey’s productivity, however, was legendary. Miss Henshaw also entered beans, peas, onions, and flowers, entering both ‘best bouquet’ and ‘best single flower.’ Effie also entered flowers, and peas. She grew broad beans, not runners, as Alethea hated runner beans and Effie was of the opinion that forcing a child to eat something did nothing but make for resentment.

The several yeoman farmers entered with wheat, peas, beans, onions, and cabbages, and some with fruit, and Farmer Yarrow with a bouquet of flax and ferns, because it was decorative as well as useful.

Geoffrey turned up, with a coachman, after he had driven all night, having dozed whilst his coachman drove all the previous day, and was eager to be a part of the festivities, now he had slept off his megrims.

He wandered around the marquee, borrowed from the local militia for the occasion, admiring the fruit, flowers and vegetables.

Pip found him there, and slipped her arm into his.

“It’s all very exciting,” she said. “I never really took part before. Do you like our roses?”

“Yes, but I think the sweet-peas take the prize,” said Geoffrey.  “For the single flower, the peony. It must grow in the shade; if I recall correctly, they are mostly over by now.”

“Oh, that will please the Balls children, that’s the only flowers they have in their garden,” said Pip. “It just grew there. A monetary prize will make all the difference to them. Are you going to watch me win the ladies’ rowing? I told Effie I should represent you.”

“Indeed, then I shall have to watch.  I take it that it is the village children catching crabs?”

“Yes, and the fishermen catching lobsters and herrings,” said Effie, coming in. “It is fortunate that the show for farm produce is one day and the rest on the morrow.”

The weather was fortunately fine, and only one shower at around ten in the morning, lasting no more than ten minutes. The marquee got a little cramped, briefly, and Miss Pettitoes, normally a quite well-behaved lady hog, bellowed her disapprobation. This set off squeals from her piglings, moos from Farmer Albright’s prize heifer, Posy, who missed was missing her calf, being entered purely as a best kine, with her record of production of milk as a proof of her excellence.  Farmer Albright also had cheese on display in with the produce, and Geoffrey had already sampled the various cheeses, including Widow Suckling’s goat’s cheese. Geoffrey was ready for something for breakfast and induced his fellow judge, Dr. Gooding, there being a lack of parson still for a third judge, to join him in a little reprehensible pre-tasting of both cheese and bread. This necessitated following up with a taste of pickles and, finding one loaf untasted, a test of sundry jams, marmalades and preserves, as well as trying the strawberries, black currants, plums, greengages, and blackberries on offer.

In the event, this early tasting was fortuitous.

After the rainstorm, the hog roast paid for by Geoffrey had just been set up outside the Running Buck – it being considered tasteless and tactless to have it any closer to Sarey, Miss Pettitoes, and a couple of other sows on display – when someone shouted that Marigold was in the marquee with her progeny.

Various officials arrived as the sweet peas disappeared into Sweet-Pea, and when three goatlings and their dam had been wrangled out of the tent, what was left could be described best as a shambles. Three little girls were in tears over the wreck of their single bloom, and the jam they had entered, served in glass dishes with a spoon, and now decorating the inside of various goats.  Some of the spoons were also missing.

“They should pass through without trouble,” said Geoffrey, doubtfully. “SILENCE!” he bellowed, over the babbles of consternation. “All is not lost as the Doctor and I had already sampled the edible wares, and had looked over everything else.”

“We had?” muttered Gooding, sotto voce.

“We had, and all we have to do is to concentrate on what we saw, using what is left to remind us,” said Geoffrey.

He was cheered.

“We’ll start with the flowers,” said Geoffrey.  “I placed the posy of sweet-peas first, with the pink roses second, largely for teaming them with silvery grey foliage like sage, which is very pretty, and the blue flowers with fern at third.”

“Flax,” said Farmer Yarrow.

“You grow flax around here? Excellent,” said Geoffrey. “And very pretty, too.”

“They du look whooly noice next tu poppies, milord, but poppies do-an’t do well picked,” said Farmer Yarrow.

“Yes, I remember once picking some for my mother…” the memory went over his face as it went bleak, recalling her berating him for bringing home nasty weeds.

There was a murmur of sympathy. Everyone had heard of his mother.

“I should abstain, since the sweet peas were grown by my sister, but I certainly concur with the other two,” said Gooding.

“You’re a man of science; be objective,” said Geoffrey.

“Personally, I love the silvery-green with the pink,” said Gooding.

“Fine; two firsts and a third,” said Geoffrey, placing ribbons accordingly. “The roses, I believe, were Miss Congreve’s.”

“And what of the single flower?” asked Gooding.

“For my money, the beautiful peony,” said Geoffrey. Three little girls gave shrieks of delight.

“I concur; and the red rose second.”

“A Miss Henshaw, I believe,” said Geoffrey.  “Beautifully chosen for being just at the stage between bud and flower.  I was torn between the lily and the splendid onion flower. One forgets how decorative they are when they bolt.”

“Oh, the lily is my sister’s, so I shall weigh in for the onion. You’re right, it’s very austere, but has a presence of its own.”

“See?” whispered a small boy. “I can win a prize with my onions, so there!”

“I don’t mind judging the fruit, as there were three lots of strawberries and I don’t know which ones were my sister’s,” said Gooding.

“The ones at the east end of the table were the most flavoursome, and I count that better than being larger,” said Geoffrey.  “I like strawberries, and I judged the apricots the next best fruit.”

“Slightly ahead of the early plums, yes,” agreed Gooding. “The preserves were hard.”

“I’m with the haw and blackcurrant, myself,” said Geoffrey. “Though I’m impressed by how well the strawberry jam was holding together – any tips, or is it a secret?”

Little Miss Henshaw flushed.

“Strictly speaking, it’s strawberry and Japanese quince,” she said. “It’s not as good a fruit as true quince, but it does add a nice amount of pectin without adding too much flavour.”

“A great tip, thank you,” said Geoffrey.  “Now, the pickles and chutneys; I was much struck by a green one with onion in it, which did not quite taste of apple, but would go well, I would say, with pork; what was it?”

“Green tomato chutney,” said Miss Gooding. “I was having trouble getting them to ripen before they were attacked by insects, so I gathered the lot and made a green chutney.”

“I’ll buy some off you if you’ve a surplus,” said Geoffrey. “There are some creative chutneys here as well as some excellent pickled gherkins, and I’ve a mind to offer second to everything.”

Geoffrey and Gooding argued amicably over the cheeses and bread, and the vegetables, and came up with results which the villagers seemed to find fair.  Sarey retained her blue ribband, and there were joint second place awarded to Miss Pettitoes and Marigold, who might, said Geoffrey, have pipped the sow had not she been a poor mother in teaching larcenous skills to her offspring.

 

It was generally considered to be an excellent first day, and  the second day on the harvest of the sea was much anticipated.