Chapter 7: Chicks with Dixies
One of the problems with the fete was trying to keep track of Rory. I almost wished, like Stig, we could just shut him in the boot room with a bowl of biscuits for a few hours. He’d just disappeared for the third time that morning (under a tractor? On top of the shed? Into a giant tea urn?) and I was rushing around, mildly demented by this stage, when I was grabbed by Barbara from the Parish Council.
“You do know about poor Juliet?” she asked me, brandishing a scary looking breadknife.
“Who?” I asked impatiently, “Look, has anybody seen Rory, my little boy?” I lifted up a starched white cloth to check under the trestle table and was clucked at by the tea delegation.
“Monty’s widow,” Barbara explained.
“Um,no. Should I know about her? She’s not coming is she? I mean, I don’t think Vivian was expecting her after all that’s happened. Guy!” I called out as he passed the kitchen door, a posse of bearded, dapper gentlemen in tow.
“Have you seen Rory? He’s vanished again.”
“I think I spotted him playing with Jon in the orchard. Your Dad’s turned up,” he added, “Let me just sort the band out and I’ll go and round him up.”
“Who, Dad or Rory?”
“Both. Don’t worry about him, he’ll be fine. Er, looks like someone wants you,” he indicated a glowering Barbara, still holding her knife in a threatening manner.
“I may have to abandon the teas and take care of her,” she was saying.
“Who? OK, whatever,” I agreed, “I’ll hunt down a stand-in, maybe my friend Estelle can lend a hand.” I had just spotted her, a bright splash of colour in the orchard, laughing with Jon and Rory. She must have got a lift up with Dad after all.
“Stells!” I shouted, “And Rory, you little ratbag, stop running off.”
“Hi darlin’,” Estelle greeted me, “Lovely day for it, but I brought my wellies just in case. My bag’s in the car. We’ve only just got here and I found this gorgeous young man!” she added happily. I cast a quick, embarrassed glance at Jon, who was in his off-duty get up of green shirt and red cords, still managing to look handsome despite the dubious trousers. Estelle followed my gaze and blushed under her Bobbi Brown foundation.
“Not him, this one!” she hissed, holding up Rory’s hand.
“Auntie Lellie!” giggled my son, charmed as ever by his glamorous godmother.
“Boy, have I got some gossip for you,” she added sotto voce, as Jon made his excuses and ambled off to the beer tent.
“Already?” I marvelled.
“Nooo! Even I don’t work that fast. Hey, what was with those trousers anyway? Is that a country thing? Anyway,” she went on, grabbing my shoulder with a be-ringed hand and setting her bracelets jangling, “I had a call yesterday from Shireen.”
“How’s she doing? I haven’t heard from her for ages. What’s happening in the hothouse of Central Command? I can’t believe she went in with that lot.”
“Well she hasn’t really, she was seconded from the Information Office, she got promoted, that’s how she wound up being on Newchurch’s team, but she’s supposed to be neutral.”
“Huh,” I snorted, “Newchurch isn’t neutral, he was so far up Grant Statham’s arse that – “
“Little pitchers,” Estelle reminded me, indicating Rory, “Although he must hear enough language from your father. Honestly, the way he was going on all the way up here,” she sniffed in a way that reminded me of my mother at her most disapproving.
“He’s a bit of an aggressive driver,” I agreed, “Hang on, just let me sort a few things out and then I’ll get us some Pimm’s from the bar and you can dish the dirt. I’ll find Guy and get him to keep an eye on Rory.”
I headed off to the band’s marquee where the mellifluous toot of a clarinet tuning up lifted my mood from one of harassed preoccupation to a belated appreciation of the scene. Scattered around the lawn, under the gently bowing trees in a frankly welcome breeze, were a number of stalls and games: from bric-a-brac to shove ha’penny; cakes to croquet. Vivian was in magisterial control of the tea tent, ordering the arrangement of scones and advising on the preservation of cream in a coolbox. I spotted Dad having a crafty roll-up in the kitchen garden (Jon’s efforts, again, although I did tend and water it, feeling absurdly proud of myself as I did. This was what it was all about, self-sufficiency!). Guy was setting up a table for the Dixieland jazz gents with a jug and some glasses.
“Is the Rev Bev ready to open proceedings?” he asked.
“I’ll check with Vivian and then I’ll nip down to the field and see how many cars are there.” People had already started to arrive and Guy’s brother Tim had been deputed to be the parking marshall. His military background made him a shoo-in for the job and he took no nonsense from 4x4 drivers intent on riding up the bank.
“What shall we do with The Boy? I was going to grab him after this but I’ve got to fix the marquee, wind’s blown it slightly skew-whiff.”
“Only one man for the job, Pater,” I decided and doubled back to enlist him.
“Stells, find Dad to help with Rory and tell him to put his fag out,” I asked breathlessly, en route to the gate, “I’ll be back in a minute, Pimm’s coming up, I promise!”
“Hey, what about my gossip?”
I cantered down the stony drive, clip-clopping in unwise heels, resolving to change into flatties as soon as I could run back to the house, and caught the Reverend Beverly Barrett just as she arrived.
“Where’s my ribbon?” she asked cheerfully, “I’ve even provided my own shears, courtesy of the flower arranging committee.”
“Ribbon!” I neighed and, performing a u-turn, clip-clopped back to the house with Beverly trotting gamely behind. This chatelaine business was completely knackering.

Ribbon cut, rogue marquees tethered, children gathered up and a very-much needed Pimm’s later, with sandwiches and cakes on plates, we sat on a rug beneath an apple tree and listened to the jazz band fruitily filling the hot afternoon air with ‘Mack the Knife’. Dad was performing a silly dance with Rory, but pretended to collapse because of the heat and got him to fan him with a copy of the Racing Post instead. This caused much giggling.
“So,” I turned to Estelle, who was dreamily gazing at Jon knocking a croquet ball through hoops across the lawn, “what were you going to tell me?”
“He’s got lovely brown arms,” she murmured.
“Um, earth to Stells, come down please.”
“What? Well it was hot off the press but it’s cooled down a bit now,” she huffed.
“You saw Shireen?”
“I met her for lunch yesterday, she just walked out of a briefing and summonsed me, so I skived off for the rest of the afternoon myself. It’s a bit more relaxed in features, you know. Tuesday’s my big day for deadlines,” she explained, “Anyhow, Shireen was looking fabulous, as usual, if a bit plump,”
“Meow,” I said automatically, Estelle’s critical faculties were sharply honed, shall we say, especially on matters of figures and fashion.
“No, no, you misjudge me,” she held up an admonitory finger, “she was glowing,” she tapped the side of her nose, “Know what I’m saying?”
“She’s not -!” I sat up sharply.
“Pregnant!” crowed Estelle, “Told you it was good.”
Next to me, my father suddenly convulsed on the rug and rolled over, coughing.
“For God’s sake, Dad,” I tutted, “How many times have you been told to stop bloody smoking? Go and get a glass of water from the kitchen, I’m sure the WI ladies will oblige. I reckon one of them’s got her eye on you,” I added as he hauled himself up and stumbled off, sputtering.
“I can’t believe it, Shireen in the club,” I was amazed.
“Up the stick,” mused Guy.
“With a bun in the oven – whose bun is it, by the way?” I enquired.
“Well, that’s the thing,” Estelle leaned in to deliver this morsel, “she wouldn’t tell me!”
“Oh. Hasn’t she got a bloke at the moment? I thought she was seeing that Jamie character again? Useless tosser she used to go out with at university,” I told Guy.
“She’s a good looking girl, she could have anyone,” he replied, “We should set her up with Tim.”
“Bit late for that,” I elbowed him impatiently, “Tim’s in love with the army so he wouldn’t be much use to her, off to war zones every five minutes.”
“I think it’s her boss,” Estelle said.
“Why?”
“Because she hates him, of course. Stands to reason. Love, hate, two sides of the same coin. Apparently, he was knocked out at a press conference.”
“Literally?”
“Honestly, that’s why she managed to get away. Apparently, there was such a huge fuss she just sidled out the door and came to meet me instead of going back to the office.”
“While the alleged father of her child lay insensible on the floor? Come off it Estelle, this is a pretty tall tale, even for you.”
“No, I swear. Scott was hit by a flying object, he was out cold and some old woman was arrested for it!”
“OK, that’s gossip,” I conceded, “but who was the mystery assailant? I mean, I know a few people who’d like to hit Scott Newchurch. Wouldn’t mind taking a swing myself if I had the chance. Did you see him on Newsnight last week? What an arrogant – “
“This is where it gets interesting,” Estelle interrupted, “Because apparently, it was Juliet Durdin.”
“Bloody hell! What’s Newchurch got to do with Durdin’s wife?”
“I expect it’s more about what he had on old Monty. Apparently - and Shireen was a bit cagey on this – there were some pretty dodgy expenses