Only Frank Mason remained, fetching and carrying for Maud, and complaining at intervals. “I brought it by mistake, you see. I must get it back. It was with the jumble.”
“My dear Frank,” said Maud unfeelingly, “by the time today is over, you’ll be lucky if you haven’t had your gold watch sold for sixpence and your pants raffled. Stop making a fuss about your silly book, and help me get these pitchers of lemonade out to the marquee.”
Edwin wandered into the kitchen, crossword puzzle in hand, and said, “Violet sent me with a message.”
“Oh yes? What was it, Uncle Edwin?”
“I really can’t remember,” said Edwin. “Something about the Mother’s Union booth. I can’t believe it was important.” He poured himself a glass of lemonade. Maud snatched it out of his hand.
“Oh no, you don’t! That’s for this afternoon!” She poured the lemonade back into the pitcher. Edwin regarded his empty hand with some surprise.
Julian put his head around the door. “The band’s here,” he said with a sort of desperation.
“Good,” said Maud. “Take them up to the old nursery to change into their uniforms.”
“Half of them haven’t got their uniforms,” said Julian. “Some of them haven’t got their instruments either, and two of them are drunk already.”
“They always are,” said Maud. “Don’t worry.”
Julian withdrew.
Edwin said, “Who are always what?”
“Drunk, Uncle Edwin.”
“Drunk? The Mother’s Union? How very surprising. I thought that stuff was only lemonade.”
“Oh, really,” said Maud. There were times when it was trying, being a Manciple. She hustled Frank and the lemonade out into the garden.
Edwin picked up a plate of small jam tarts, which bore a label saying, “Mrs. Berridge. First Prize, Pastries and Flans.” Munching absentmindedly, he wandered down to the shooting range. Here, paradoxically, quiet reigned. Serenely, out of the swing of the sea, George and Claud Manciple prepared the targets, ammunition, and guns for the afternoon’s sport. Edwin sat down on the garden bench, from which spectators could watch the shooting, and offered the plate of tarts to his brothers. They accepted gratefully. For a while, they all munched in silence. Then Edwin said, “Maud has just told me the most extraordinary thing.”
“Really?” remarked George, his mouth full of jam tart.
“Yes. She says that the Mother’s Union members in Cregwell are habitually intoxicated.”
“Really?” Claud was intrigued.
“It’s a very up-to-date branch, of course,” George remarked. “Vi was saying so only the other day. Go ahead. Perhaps that’s what she meant.”
“Our Mothers in Bugolaland were very seldom drunk,” said the Bishop. “I can only remember one or two isolated cases. They were black, of course. Better behaved on the whole.”
“That may explain it,” said George.
“Mass intoxication,” remarked Claud, “is a psychological phenomenon springing from basic insecurity, the desire at once to identify with a group and yet to submerge the personality. Curious that it should appear among the mothers of Cregwell.”
The three brothers considered the matter seriously as they quietly demolished Mrs. Berridge’s plate of prize-winning tartlets. The shrill yelps, the shouts, the confusion and the babble of the preparations for the Fête reached them muted and subdued by the thick privet hedges.
***
Twelve o’clock. The quiet man said, “Nothing definite yet, I’m afraid, Tibbett. These laddies are sticky, as I told you, and you’re asking to go back a long way, old son. Let’s face it, one hell of a long way. We’ve chased it up from this end, of course, but there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. You’ll just have to wait.”
***
One o’clock. The mass of exhausted helpers had dispersed, making their way home in order to feed their husbands — or such of them as could be persuaded to leave The Viking — and change into their best clothes, for the Fête was to be opened by Lady Fenshire at half-past two.
At Cregwell Grange the Manciple family were having what Violet called a “stand-up lunch” in the kitchen. This simply meant that everyone raided the larder and the refrigerator, took what they could find, and ate it in an upright position without benefit of knife, fork, or plate. Violet had pressed Emmy to stay and join the family in this unorthodox meal; and Emmy, finding that Isobel had departed in her car some time ago, had accepted gratefully. The only other outsider was Frank Mason. Nobody had actually invited him; he had elected to stay for several reasons of his own, and everybody concluded that somebody else must have issued the invitation.
It was during the course of this unusual lunch — of which Emmy’s share was the tail of a cold salmon, a stewed peach, a spoonful of cold mashed potato, and a sausage, in that order — that Emmy found an opportunity of asking Frank Mason about the book he had mislaid.
He looked embarrassed. “Oh, it’s nothing, just a book of my father’s. I had it with me when I brought up the jumble from the Lodge, and I must have left it in the study with the other things. I’m sure it’s with the jumble, but Lady Manciple simply wouldn’t let me take a good look.”
“I’ve been dealing with some of the jumble,” said Emmy. “What’s the book called?”
Frank hesitated palpably. Then he said, “It’s not called anything. I mean, it’s in a plain brown paper cover, sort of wrapped in brown paper.”
Emmy laughed. “When I was young,” she said, “that would have meant Ulysses or Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I had them both in brown paper covers. Now you can buy them in paperback.”
“You can’t buy this one,” said Frank Mason. He stood up from the edge of the kitchen table where he had perched to eat an apple. “I think I’ll just go and…”
He left the sentence very deliberately unfinished as he strolled out into the hall, but Emmy saw him go into the study.
At two o’clock Lord and Lady Fenshire arrived with Sir John Adamson. They had all lunched together at Cregwell Manor, and seemed in high good humor in spite of the fact that their arrival coincided with the first drops of rain. These, however, appeared to come from a transitory patch of dark cloud and nobody was very depressed. The sun was still making a brave effort to shine, and, as was remarked some hundreds of times, it was a far better day than last year.
At a quarter past two Maud and Julian went down to open the gates. Already, quite a crowd had collected outside. Some of them carried umbrellas, and one or two had even put them up; but, on the whole, summer dresses were the order of the day, and Cregwell seemed determined to regard the weather as fine, despite appearances to the contrary. Within a few minutes all the helpers were installed in their appointed places. Mrs. Richards presided beatifically over the jams and jellies, while Mrs. Berridge scowled bad-temperedly behind the pickles and preserves booth. The respective frames of mind of these two ladies were simply explained. Upon the discovery of the empty plate and discarded prize card at the shooting range, a new card had hastily been written out giving First Prize to Mrs. Richards’ apple flan. Violet would have been very angry indeed with her husband and brothers-in-law, if she had had the time.
Ramona, equipped with a dog-eared pack of Tarot cards and a crystal ball improvised from an up-ended goldfish bowl, was ensconced in her uncertainly-based tent, preparing to foretell the future for a shilling a time. She wore earrings made from large brass curtain rings, and a scarlet silk headscarf, “to be in character,” as she put it. In fact, she need not have bothered. She looked perfectly in character without any such aids. Isobel Thompson, assisted by Violet, presided over the jumble booth, which was in many ways the heart of the Fête. Sir Claud Manciple, by tradition, was in charge of the Lucky Dip. Emmy wondered wryly whether this might not be a very suitable piece of casting for an atomic scientist. George and Edwin were already at the shooting range. Maud, assisted by Julian, hurried back from the gate to take charge of the refreshment tent. The Vicar’s wife supervised the Hoop-la, while the harassed schoolteachers from the Village school had a domain of their own in the children’s sports section. Emmy sat at her table, notebook and cash box at the ready, prepared to take bets on the Vicar’s weight. Frank Mason roamed disconsolately, looking for his lost book. Everything was ready.