His eye was bright at the thought, for Mr Roberts dearly loved a scrap, and it looked as though plenty of trouble were brewing somewhere.
His wife observed his relish with misgiving.
'Now don't go saying anything you'll regret,' she cautioned. 'You remember that business over collecting the pig-swill! You're too hasty by far!'
'I shall speak the truth and shame the devil!' declared Mr Roberts roundly. 'And 'tis the truth that old Miller should keep what's his own! And 'tis the truth, too, that that's some of the finest growing land in the county and should never be built on!'
'Well, speak quietly then,' implored his wife, as her husband's voice shook the bunches of herbs which hung from the kitchen ceding.
'I shall speak as mild as milk!' roared her husband, his hair bristling. 'I shall coo at em, like a turtle dove, but I'll coo the truth!'
He thrust his arms into his jacket, shrugged his massive shoulders into it, and made towards the door. His wife watched him go with a quizzical look. From across the yard she heard his voice raised in cheerful song. He was singing:
'Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war,' with all the zest in the world.
10. The Flower Show
T HE day of the Flower Show dawned with a brilliance which enchanted most of Fairacre, but which caused the weatherwise minority to shake its head.
'Don't like the look of it,' said Mr Willet, mallet in hand. He was putting the final touches to the stakes which supported the ropes of the bowling-for-the-pig site. Mr Roberts was busy budding a sturdy wall of straw bales near him.
'Keep your fingers crossed, Alf,' he answered. 'If the wind turns a bit by noon we may miss the squall.'
Mrs Partridge and a bevy of helpers were pinning bunting round the produce and sweet stalls, and Miss Jackson, Miss Clare and I were straining our thumbs by pinning notices at various vantage points to some of the hardest wood I had ever encountered.
'Come out of Sir Edmund's old stable roofs,' said Mr Willet, when I commented on our difficulties, 'and weathered to iron almost. When this lot's over, I'm having a few of these beauties to make a little old gate. I'm looking forward to working with a bit of good wood.'
And a fine job he would make of it, I knew, looking at those sinewy old hands that gripped the mallet. They were probably the most skilled and useful hands in the village, I thought, cursing my own inadequate pair which had just capsized the tin full of drawing pins into the long grass. I had seen Mr Willet's hands at work daily on wood, stone, iron, earth and tender plants. They were thick and knobbly, with stained and ribby nails edged with black, but I never ceased to marvel at their deftness and precision as they tackled the scores of different jobs, from lashing down a flailing tarpaulin in a howling gale to pricking out an inch-high seedling in fine soil.
The great marquee which dominated the vicar's garden was full of hustle and bustle, as people carried in their entries for the Flower Show, and walked round to admire—and sometimes to envy—the other exhibits.
Mrs Pringle had left the smaller tea tent, conveniently placed near the vicarage so that boiling water was available from the kitchen, and had come to look at her son John's entries. She gazed with pride upon the six great bronze balls of onions, each with its top neatly trimmed and laid to the side at exactly the same angle. His carrots, placed with military precision upon their tray, glowed with fresh-scrubbed beauty, and a plate of white currants gleamed like heaped pearls. Mrs Pringle's heart swelled with maternal pride, until her eye fell upon Mr Willet's entries winch lay beside her son's. There was little to choose between the size, quality, and colour of both displays, but Mr Willet had covered his tray with a piece of black velvet, a remnant from an old cloak of his mother's, and against this dramatic background his exhibits looked extremely handsome.
'Black velvet indeed!'
His wife observed his relish with misgiving.
'Now don't go saying anything you'll regret,' she cautioned. 'You remember that business over collecting the pig-swill! You're too hasty by far!'
'I shall speak the truth and shame the devil!' declared Mr Roberts roundly. 'And 'tis the truth that old Miller should keep what's his own! And 'tis the truth, too, that that's some of the finest growing land in the county and should never be built on!'
'Well, speak quietly then,' implored his wife, as her husband's voice shook the bunches of herbs which hung from the kitchen ceding.
'I shall speak as mild as milk!' roared her husband, his hair bristling. 'I shall coo at em, like a turtle dove, but I'll coo the truth!'
He thrust his arms into his jacket, shrugged his massive shoulders into it, and made towards the door. His wife watched him go with a quizzical look. From across the yard she heard his voice raised in cheerful song. He was singing:
'Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war,' with all the zest in the world.
10. The Flower Show
T HE day of the Flower Show dawned with a brilliance which enchanted most of Fairacre, but which caused the weatherwise minority to shake its head.
'Don't like the look of it,' said Mr Willet, mallet in hand. He was putting the final touches to the stakes which supported the ropes of the bowling-for-the-pig site. Mr Roberts was busy budding a sturdy wall of straw bales near him.
'Keep your fingers crossed, Alf,' he answered. 'If the wind turns a bit by noon we may miss the squall.'
Mrs Partridge and a bevy of helpers were pinning bunting round the produce and sweet stalls, and Miss Jackson, Miss Clare and I were straining our thumbs by pinning notices at various vantage points to some of the hardest wood I had ever encountered.
'Come out of Sir Edmund's old stable roofs,' said Mr Willet, when I commented on our difficulties, 'and weathered to iron almost. When this lot's over, I'm having a few of these beauties to make a little old gate. I'm looking forward to working with a bit of good wood.'
And a fine job he would make of it, I knew, looking at those sinewy old hands that gripped the mallet. They were probably the most skilled and useful hands in the village, I thought, cursing my own inadequate pair which had just capsized the tin full of drawing pins into the long grass. I had seen Mr Willet's hands at work daily on wood, stone, iron, earth and tender plants. They were thick and knobbly, with stained and ribby nails edged with black, but I never ceased to marvel at their deftness and precision as they tackled the scores of different jobs, from lashing down a flailing tarpaulin in a howling gale to pricking out an inch-high seedling in fine soil.
The great marquee which dominated the vicar's garden was full of hustle and bustle, as people carried in their entries for the Flower Show, and walked round to admire—and sometimes to envy—the other exhibits.
Mrs Pringle had left the smaller tea tent, conveniently placed near the vicarage so that boiling water was available from the kitchen, and had come to look at her son John's entries. She gazed with pride upon the six great bronze balls of onions, each with its top neatly trimmed and laid to the side at exactly the same angle. His carrots, placed with military precision upon their tray, glowed with fresh-scrubbed beauty, and a plate of white currants gleamed like heaped pearls. Mrs Pringle's heart swelled with maternal pride, until her eye fell upon Mr Willet's entries winch lay beside her son's. There was little to choose between the size, quality, and colour of both displays, but Mr Willet had covered his tray with a piece of black velvet, a remnant from an old cloak of his mother's, and against this dramatic background his exhibits looked extremely handsome.
'Black velvet indeed!'
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