Matty - Part 7

Matty Part 7 – The Jubilee Fayre

By mid-day the church end of the field that ran between the church and the Vicarage was a hive of activity. Rev. John Tillman stopped for a moment and took a good look around before rearranging the tickets and cash-box on the small table just inside the entrance. It was a beautiful day. The early morning mist and low cloud had cleared and the temperature was rising. Jim Dorling had cut the grass the previous morning and spent the afternoon erecting a seesaw and swings, made from tubular steel sections and painted brightly in red, white and blue. Already four small children were making full use of them, supervised by a teenage girl with a toddler balanced on her hip.

Several stalls were now set out in two rows, each stall draped with white sheets or tablecloths and laden with a variety of different items to be judged, won, sold or eaten, or a combination of at least two of these. Some of the stalls had steel frameworks, with tall steel corner posts supporting cross-members, which in turn carried large tarpaulins, or plastic sheets, to offer protection from the always unpredictable Yorkshire Dales weather. Volunteers, male and female, young and old, were busily putting the finishing touches to the displays, tying bunting between the tallest of the stalls and putting up Union Jacks in honour of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee.

At right-angles to the two rows of stalls, and furthest away from the road that ran beside the church and the field, were two large trestle-type tables and several small tables and chairs. Two large kettles stood on one of the larger tables beside rows of cups and saucers, and paper plates and trays of food covered with tea towels. An elderly man was busy connecting a gas ring to a large gas cylinder, and three ladies, one young and two elderly, stood near by chatting to each other.

The far end of the field, next to the Vicarage garden, was reserved for parking, and already dozen or more cars were parked. As was a Range Rover attached to a small horsebox. This belonged to the local riding school, who had brought along two ponies, one of them a Shetland. A middle-aged lady wearing riding boots, brown corduroy trousers and a green body-warmer supervised the grooming of the ponies by two enthusiastic young girls dressed in jeans and colourful T-shirts. The track, along which the ponies would by led, carrying their charges, was fenced off with red and white plastic tape supported by rusty iron rods hammered into the ground.

‘Well I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be,’ said John Tillman to his nephew, Matthew, who had just returned from the Vicarage with his son Dylan.

‘Thanks for all the help with the stalls, Matty. We seem to have more to put up each year.’

‘I help too!’ said Dylan, swinging on his dad’s arm.

‘How much do you charge for entrance?’ Matthew asked.

‘What? Oh, nothing. These tickets are just for the tombola,’ replied Rev. Tilman. ‘I like to catch people as they come in. And the children’s swings are free. The pony rides are a pound though.

‘I want pony ride!’ exclaimed Dylan, trying to pull his father in the direction of the ponies.

‘I don’t think they’re ready to start yet,’ said Matthew. ‘Lets go and see how Auntie Lucy is getting on.’

The bring-and-buy stall was rapidly filing up as more people brought bric-a-brac, and unwanted gifts, and home made cakes and biscuits. Lucy Tillman, dressed in a flowery blue dress and bright orange apron, rearranged the display and wrote prices on post-it notes, sticking them to the items for sale.

‘Ah, there you are, you two,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day?’

Dylan ogled the Clingfilm wrapped biscuits, his mouth watering. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said.

‘How about a quick ride on the swings? ‘Then we’ll go over and see what those ladies at the end have got for us to eat,’ said Matthew, turning to his aunt. ‘I’ll come and give you a hand when it gets busy. Err, what time is the craft competition judging?’

‘Two o’clock,’ replied Mrs. Tillman. ‘See you in a bit. Oh, and thank you for those pieces of jewellery. I’ve priced them at five-pounds each as you said. Are you sure that’s enough.’

‘Yeah, they’re old designs,’ said Matthew, leading Dylan away towards the swings.

***

David Lord’s thirty-foot sailing yacht, Silver Cloud, reached the required depth of seawater and began to float free of its trailer. Almost immediately the boatyard tractor driver set off back up the beach. David shouted a thank-you but it was drowned by the sound of the tractor’s diesel engine. Sarah coughed and then held her breath until the diesel fumes were carried away by the wind, before going below to wind down the retractable keel. Both she and her father wore orange life jackets. David, standing in the cockpit, gunned the onboard diesel engine, and Silver Cloud, named after a sailing ship in a paperback novel that David had read many years ago, began move out to sea, slicing through small incoming waves as she made way.

David had bought his first small sailing yacht just before Sarah was born, keeping her on Lake Windermere in the Lake District, and using her as a weekend retreat. Then after a few years, and divorcing and remarrying, he had become more confident about his sailing abilities, and had traded her in for Silver Cloud, keeping her at Abersoch on the south coast of The Llyn Peninsular in North Wales. Unfortunately, at sea, Philippa had not proved to be a good sailor, suffering from seasickness whenever the sea was anything but calm. And after Silver Cloud was caught in a violent storm, Philippa had been unwilling to sail again.

Sarah, on the other hand, seemed to have been born to sailing, and worked together with her father, reefing the sails and taking the yacht out to sea. David cut the engine, then took a moment to look back towards the beach. The tide had turned and would soon be sweeping over the broad sands, making the job of the boatyard tractor drivers easier. To the right of the town he could see the sand dunes and the families on the beach, making the most of a warm cloudless day. Though to the east thick cloud hung over the mountains of Snowdonia.

‘Get the kettle on then,’ David shouted to Sarah, as he concentrated on steering his vessel out to sea, beating upwind.

‘Eye-eye Captain,’ she replied, as she headed down into the galley.

***

‘Are you going to eat that cake, or have you had enough?’ asked Matthew.

‘Had enough,’ replied Dylan, jumping up from the table. ‘Can I have go on horsey now?’

‘Soon. But let’s see if Auntie Lucy wants any help first,’ said Matthew. ‘Go and put your plate in that bin over there.’

Dylan picked up his paper plate and was about to go, but he stopped to look past Matthew at a lady who was walking towards them. Matthew turned in his seat wondering what had caught Dylan’s attention and found himself looking at Philippa Lord.

She was wearing a pale green summer dress and wedge-heeled sandals. Her legs and arms were bare but looked tanned, and her hair, which had grown a little since Matthew last saw her, was thicker and fashionably tousled. And she seemed to Matthew to be even more beautiful than he remembered.

‘Hello, Matthew. This must be Dylan,’ Philippa said, smiling down at them.

Dylan hid under the table.

‘Philippa,’ said Matthew, ‘it’s nice to see you again. Can I get you anything?’

‘No, thank you. I ate before I left. It’s a perfect day for the fair, isn’t it?’ said Philippa.

‘Yeah, perfect,’ replied Matthew, looking under the table. ‘Dylan, come out and say hello... I’m afraid he’s a bit shy sometimes.’

Philippa bent down and tilted her head to look at Dylan under the table. She pulled a face and Dylan giggled, offering her his paper plate with a half-eaten piece of sponge cake on it.

‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the plate and putting on the table.

Matthew picked up the plate and carried it over to the plastic dustbin, returning to find Dylan out from under the table and holding both of Philippa’s hands.

‘Wow, he’s taken to you quickly,’ said Matthew, impressed.

‘He’s been showing me his new trainers,’ said Philippa.

‘Have you looked at the crafts yet, Madam Judge?’ asked Matthew.

‘No, not yet,’ Philippa replied. ‘Shall we look together? An artist’s eye might come in useful.’

‘Okay,’ said Matthew, grabbing Dylan by the waist and lifting him up onto his shoulders. As they walked over to the craft competition stalls Philippa exchanged greetings with several people, including Samuel Rivers and his sister, Winifred.

‘Hello, how are you?’ said Philippa.

‘Oh, I’m doing fine!’ replied Winifred. ‘Thanks to Mr. Lord. Please thank him again for me.’

‘I will,’ said Philippa.

They were joined by Rev. Tillman, who reminded Philippa that the judging was at 2pm and that he and Stuart Fowler, the local Dales Warden, would be her fellow judges. Rev. Tillman introduced his nephew and great nephew to Samuel and Winifred and they chatted for a while, then Samuel and his sister walked on: Samuel swinging his walking stick and Winifred leaning slightly on hers.

The craft competition stall was divided into three. The first section for baking and cake decoration. The second for traditional crafts such as carving, pottery, tapestry and other needlework. And the third, and largest, for oil and watercolour paintings. All entries by children were marked with the child’s age.

Philippa and Matthew looked at the paintings first, some of which were framed. Most of them were of Yorkshire Dales scenes, three of them easily recognisable as parts of Whartondale. They moved on to the crafts and were both impressed by a wooden carving of a shepherd shearing a sheep. Then in the baking section they stopped to admire an elaborately iced cake, which seemed to be a perfectly scaled replica of the church.

By now Dylan was getting restless. ‘Can I go on horsey now, Daddy?’ he said, wriggling to get down from his father’s shoulders.

‘Soon. We need to see if Auntie Lucy needs any help first,’ replied Matthew.

‘Shall I take him for a ride on the ponies?’ Philippa asked. ‘It’ll give you a break. He’s quite a handful, isn’t he?’

‘Well, if you don’t mind,’ said Matthew, setting Dylan down on the ground. ‘Will you go with Philippa for a ride on the pony, Dylan?’

‘Yes!’ replied Dylan, taking Philippa’s hand and leading her away. ‘Come on Flipper.’

Philippa laughed, and allowed herself to be led off towards the ponies. And as they stood in the queue she picked Dylan up and rested him on her right arm.

‘Which pony would you like to ride on?’ she asked.

‘The big one!’ said Dylan.

‘You’ll have to hold on tight.’

‘You come with me, Flipper?’

‘Yes, I’ll walk with you,’ replied Philippa. ‘Do you like ponies?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Hello, Philippa,’ said the lady from the riding school, as Philippa and Dylan moved to the front of the queue. ‘Who’s this then?’

‘Hello, Maureen,’ said Philippa ‘This is Dylan. He’s John Tillman’s great nephew. I’m just looking after him for a while.’

‘I want a go that one,’ said Dylan, pointing.

‘Okay, me love,’ said Maureen, taking Dylan from Philippa and lifting him onto the larger pony.
Philippa gave Maureen a pound coin and followed after the pony as one of the young girls led him off along the track.

‘Come on, Flipper,’ shouted Dylan.

After the ride, Dylan insisted they join the queue again for another one. This time he chose the Shetland and tried to climb on all by himself. Then he took Philippa’s hand and said, ‘I need toilet.’

Philippa walked him back toward the stalls looking for Matthew, but Dylan pointed over to the birch tree in the churchyard. ‘Can go behind tree,’ he said, pulling her towards it.

As they reached the low dry-stone-wall, between the churchyard and the field, Philippa wondered about lifting Dylan over, but was unsure about leaving him to his own devices. Fortunately Matthew arrived to take charge.

‘Daddy, I need toilet. Can go behind tree again?’ said Dylan.

‘No, we’ll go back to the house,’ said Matthew.

At that moment a gust of wind swept along the field, flapping the tarpaulins and sheets on the nearby stalls. As it reached Philippa, she held her hands to the front of her dress to stop it lifting while, over the wall, the leaves of the birch tree seemed about to be blown off. As the wind died, its last few breaths passed through the gaps in the wall, sounding strangely like someone's tuneless whistle.

‘Spooky,’ said Matthew, following the path of the wind with his eyes as it crossed the fields beyond the churchyard, disturbing the trees and grass.

TO BE CONTINUED