2 - Events

The Annual Garden Fete

The jamboree on the vicarage lawn is one of the vicar of St Peter’s favourite events, not least because it awards prizes for the best cake, the prettiest baby, the largest tomato, the nicest neighbour and other astutely chosen challenges, some of which he is allowed to adjudicate..

Weeks beforehand, he calls a meeting of all the important ladies in the village, now including Dorothy, Cleopatra Hartley and anyone else thought likely to be able to contribute something useful The list also includes Laura Finch who, to Dorothy’s dismay, has taken up residence in the family home, a cluttered-up old house in Lower Grumpsfield.

Everyone has heartily agreed that getting the event up and running is of major importance, not least to show the mayor that church events can be just as entertaining as hired cabaret groups juggling and jumping, or spurious theatre troupes performing Shakespeare in shortened versions.

These days, the entertainment committee even welcomes volunteers from beyond the parish boundaries who, for lack of opportunity nearer home, take an interest in Upper Grumpsfield events. That is how Dorothy came to discover that Miss Laura Finch, now calling herself Mrs Laura Finch, had given up singing on cruises and now resided in the sister village of Lower Grumpsfield.

In truth, Dorothy is anything but enamoured by Laura’s proximity. She is sure Mr Finch must have had a hard time of it. Mr Finch is a topic Laura does not like to dwell on and she was unable to produce a photo of what Dorothy thinks must have been a very long-suffering person.

Dorothy always takes her little dog Minor along to committee meetings. Minor was a stray she found injured in Monkton Wood. Mr Parsnip quite likes dogs, so he tells Minor he is a ‘good doggie’, although or perhaps because Minor growls at Priscilla, the vicarage cat, and yaps at Edith Parsnip, Mr Parsnip’s ‘better half’, as he rather cynically describes his wife, before Minor goes into hiding under the dining table. Laura Finch does not like attending meetings in Upper Grumpsfield, but she has no choice since Lower Grumpsfield is entirely devoid of any cultural activities except her budding Ladies Choir, which is not yet up to performing publicly. Laura dislikes village amateurism, preferring events where she can be guaranteed to be the centre of attention thanks to her operatic tones, which, however, she has not even heard herself for decades. Not that Laura confines herself to making an exhibition of herself by singing wobbly tones. In fact, she brings out her stage manners at the drop of a hat and is convinced that she can upstage anyone given the right ambience. The committee meeting does at least provide some sort of podium.

With the village fete looming up, it is not surprising that the meeting to organize it would be attended by all. The rivalry between Laura and Dorothy was not easy to deal with. Laura refused to do anything practical that would be unworthy of the status she had given herself.  However, she was not anxious to do anything practical or be involved in anything tedious herself, although it gave her tremendous satisfaction to prevent Dorothy from being entrusted with the plum jobs. Could it be that Dorothy took her dog along to annoy Laura? Laura did not like the animal and had been known to give it clandestine kicks under the vicarage dining table when the committee sat for the meeting.

The problem was that Minor got bored with annoying the cat and took to examining everyone’s feet. Laura happened to be breaking in a new pair of tight shoes and was forced to slip in and out of them to avoid her feet dropping off. That was like a rag to a bull. Dorothy commented that Minor’s saliva would help to soften the shoes And anyway, why did Laura have to buy shoes that were far too small for her overweight feet?

The vicar realized that he would have to start the meeting to avoid a calamity.

“Now, dear ladies,” he said, opening the meeting from the end of the table with a formality more appropriate to a Women’s Institute Annual General Meeting. “Do you remember what we did last year?’

Mr Parsnip did not like to admit it, but all he could remember from last year was the cake competition, which he himself had judged after eating a large piece of every cake there. The rest was just a jumbled-up haze in his mind. Whether it was all the cakes or the liqueurs accompanying them that had fogged his senses is a matter for speculation.

The committee members told him all about last year's fete and he enjoyed himself all over again and said he hoped someone would make another cherry cake. Dorothy did not say anything about last year's fete because she thought it was a waste of time when there was so much to do to get this year's going. She produced her long list of to-does and exhorted the gathering to get down to the nitty-gritty, banging on the table to reinforce her point.

Minor growled, causing Laura to jump up from her seat and demand the instant removal of the beast.

Mr Parsnip thought it quite naughty of Laura to refer to Dorothy’s dear little dog like that, though he sympathised with the lady he found rather beguiling, if the truth be known. The vicar was not a womanizer, but Laura fascinated him. Not that he would ever have admitted it.

“Either it goes or I do,” Laura would pout.

“Don’t be silly, Laura,” Dorothy would retort. “Minor would like you better if you liked him and kept your shoes on. Let’s just get on with the meeting, shall we?”

Everyone looked under the table. Laura’s toe-nails were painted cerise and Minor was growling at them. One of Laura’s shoes was still under the table, but the other one had been apported and would have to be found before Laura could leave.

Dorothy stood up.

“Never mind the shoe. I've got a really good idea.”

“‘Ah!” said the vicar. “I know what you are thinking of. We’ll have a bring-and-buy stall.”

Edith Parsnip, who up to now had not said a word, was sure she would like that. Frederick Parsnip thought it would be better than a jumble sale.

“I'll bring Mrs Parsnip’s winter coat and my old umbrella,” he proposed.

Edith was too gobsmacked to protest. She dashed to the kitchen with Minor trailing along behind her hoping for some titbit or other rather than protest the generous offer of an article of her clothing, which in this case had been bought at the Charity Shop in Middlethumpton three years earlier. Vicars don’t earn much, so a vicar’s wife has to be resourceful, but that also included hiding the winter coat so that it could not be sold. She would put it flat under her mattress. No one would find it there.

“Isn’t your umbrella unusable, Frederick?” Dorothy knew that nearly everything in the vicarage was either dilapidated or beyond repair. “Because if it is you can’t sell it.”

The vicar fetched the umbrella from its stand in the vestibule.

“Well, as you can see, some of the spokes are poking out and there’s a tiny hole in the silk, but it belonged to my father and it's still a very nice umbrella.”

Miss Plimsoll, the physical education teacher at Middlethumpton Comprehensive School, who already had seventeen umbrellas, looked at it critically. She was a very useful member of the committee, not least because she was willing to take charge of any sporting activities. She was also sentimental and appreciated the vicar’s generous offer.

Miss Plimsoll took off the straw hat she often wore to keep the sun off her long nose and put it on the table in front of her.

Dorothy eyed the hat enviously. Miss Plimsoll still had her eye on the old umbrella.

“Are you donating the hat, Miss Plimsoll?” Dorothy asked.

“No, Dorothy, but there’s no sun in here so I don’t need to wear it,” she said. “I can organize the games again, if you like.”

There was general consent in the open vote that followed.

“We’ll start with the egg-and-spoon race and finish with the three-legged parents,” she proposed.

As far as the vicar knew, there wasn’t any such thing as a three-legged parent, but he thought he’d probably missed the point, so he fortunately kept quiet. Dorothy volunteered to take charge of the stall. She was heartily glad to have an excuse for not taking part in Miss Plimsoll's silly games. Cleo hoped she would not be roped in to any of the games. She was constantly thwarted in her attempt to lose weight and preferred a more sedentary life. Sport was senseless in her view.

To be honest, Cleo Hartley hadn’t said much at all because this was her first committee meeting and she was astonished at the way it was being conducted.. She had spent most of her life in the United States, where such village fetes were figments of the imagination or at least organized by contractors who knew their jobs, or failing that, persons who gave off an air of authority. The only person with any authority at all was Dorothy, and she was having a hard time.

To be quite sure she would not have to run or jump, Cleo felt obliged to ask Miss Plimsoll nervously if participation in the sports was compulsory.

“Not compulsory, dear Cleo, but it would you a power of good.”

Miss Plimsoll’s pointed reply and scathing look made Cleo feel elephantine.

“Well, that’s a relief!”’ she drawled defiantly and everyone except Miss Plimsoll laughed. “I’m sure Dorothy would like me to help her with the stall.”

Edith had been hoping for that job, but had not been quick enough. However, she made a mental note of Cleo’s Chicago drawl, which she found charming.

Dorothy nodded enthusiastically in Cleo’s direction. She was glad Edith would not be helping out. Last year she had looked longingly at some of the donated fashion items on sale and Dorothy could hardly take money from a poor vicar’s wife for wanting to look nice.

Laura Finch went home satisfied. She had done her duty by attending the meeting without actually having been roped in to contribute anything except a few of her cast-offs, which would not be candidates for Edith’s wardrobe since she was half the size of Laura.

Laura’s missing shoe had been found half-way up the stairs. It still did not fit comfortably, but the saliva left by the little dog on one side really did help to make the leather so supple that Laura decided a judicious soaking would soften the leather of both shoes and make them easier to walk in. She could not make them longer, but she could make them wider.

On the day of the summer fete, Dorothy Price, noted for her habit of wearing a hat when hardly anyone else did except the royal family and Miss Plimsoll, chose the one with cherries adorning the brim and set off for the vicarage lawn with her shopping trolley full of objects needing a new home. Minor trotted along besides her, barking at anyone who so much as glanced at the old crockery and trinkets Dorothy had decided to donate.

Dorothy put all her treasures on the bring-and-buy wallpapering table Cleo had organised, praised her effusively for her judicious arrangement of all the other donations that had appeared in the vestry thanks to appeals from the pulpit, and noted that the vicar had actually remembered to bring his old umbrella. There was no sign of Edith’s winter coat.

Dorothy hoped that the sale would bring the church organ a step nearer to getting its new pipes, though Mr Parsnip would have preferred new drainpipes, since he was not a fan of the organ getting repairs while the vicarage was falling apart. Cleo hoped she could stay behind the pile of donations and not be spotted by the vigorous Miss Plimsoll and obliged to run about.

From one o’clock villagers poured into the vicarage garden. At half past two, Mr Parsnip adlibbed a speech that was not just a vague repetition of his previous Sunday sermon. He had searched in vain for the village fete speech that had served him so well for a decade. His opening words contained references to Adam and Eve, the Garden of Eden, Ramadan and the Harvest Festival. The speech was accessible to all known religious and flagrant unbelievers as well, though it was interrupted by someone calling

“Where are the apples? I can’t see the apples.”

After his seriously long-winded speech, the vicar heard himself shout ‘I declare this fete well and truly open’ and the crowd dispersed in all directions, but mostly in the direction of the tea tent. After that, they watched or tool part in the prettiest baby competition, admired the handicrafts, applauded the juggler and participated with more or less accomplishment in Miss Plimsoll’s more or less challenging sports activities.

Nobody seemed interested in all the odds and ends piled up in front of Dorothy and Cleo. When Robert Jones the butcher turned up belatedly with his own contribution, a well-used axe that Robert insisted was unsharpenable, Dorothy would have turned it down on grounds of unsuitability had not Cleo smiled becomingly at Robert and thanked him profusely for taking the trouble.

‘This tie would suit you,” she gushed at him, holding up a rather bold silk creation. Robert Jones took off his own tie and Cleo helped him to knot the new one. Dorothy thought they made a nice couple.

“I’ll buy it if you let me invite you to tea, Miss Hartley.”

“I’m Cleo and I’d like that,” she said coyly.

Dorothy Price thought a bit of romance would not harm either of them, so she was encouraging.

“Off you go then, you two. There’s nothing to do here,” she said.

Then Mr Smith, postman, hobby trumpet player and father of one of Dorothy’s best pupils, came along clutching his trumpet case.

“You're a bit late in the day, Mr Smith,” said Dorothy. “We can’t sell the stuff we’ve already got. Surely you aren’t thinking of selling your trumpet.”

“Goodness me, no. Just take a look at this, Dorothy. I'd like to swap it for something a bit quieter.”

It was a cuckoo clock.

“Did you say noisy, Mr Smith?” The last thing Dorothy associated with Mr Smith was a dislike of loud noises.

“This clock is driving me mad. Every time it's nice and quiet, the silly bird comes out on a long spring and squawks ‘cuckoo’. I can't stand it any longer!”

“I'll see what I can do. It is a very nice clock.”

Mr Smith picked up Mr Parsnip's umbrella.

“This'll do, thanks very much,” he said, walking away with it.

“Come back!” shouted Dorothy. “You can't leave me the clock and take the umbrella.”

“But the clock is worth more than the umbrella,” argued Mr Smith.

“‘I know that. But you still have to pay for the umbrella, Mr Smith. This is not a ‘Bring and Swap’ stall.”

“I don't understand. I'm giving you the clock. The least you can do is to give me the umbrella instead.”

“It doesn't work like that! It's all in a good cause. You bring me your clock, and I sell it and give the money to the good cause. All the proceeds of the bring-and-buy sale are going to the organ repair fund.”

They were still discussing these technicalities when Miss Plimsoll joined them, wearing her best straw hat. She was a little flushed from all her sporting activities, but she smiled at Mr Smith, who looked sad.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

“I want to swap my cuckoo-clock for this umbrella, but Miss Price won't let me.”

“‘Mr Smith doesn't seem to understand that I have to sell everything, not give it away,” said Dorothy.

“I don't see why. At our last school fete, we had an exchange mart and it was great fun. I even swapped shoes with someone.”

“You should have suggested it at the meeting. It's too late now,” said Dorothy.

“I thought I had.”

“Well, the idea wasn’t taken on board, Miss Plimsoll.”

Dorothy was sure that Miss Plimsoll was fibbing.

Miss Plimsoll was not giving in that easily.

“It's never too late, though. For instance, if we were having an exchange mart we could exchange hats. I've always wanted one with cherries on it.”

Dorothy looked at Miss Plimsoll in astonishment.

Mr Smith looked at the two ladies in astonishment.

“What a pity it's too late,” regretted Miss Plimsoll, turning away so that no one could see her smile.

“‘Wait a minute! Do you really want my hat?” said Dorothy.

“Would you like mine?”

The two ladies then solemnly removed one another's hats and put them on their own heads.

Mr Smith couldn't believe his eyes.

Just then, Mr Parsnip arrived. He was feeling quite ill after judging the cakes. He was not too ill to notice the cuckoo clock, however.

“What a lovely clock, Dorothy. How much do you want for it?”

Dorothy looked sternly at Mr Smith. Mr Smith looked sternly at Dorothy and held up Mr Parsnip's old umbrella.

“Well actually we've decided to allow exchanges, too,” said Dorothy reluctantly.

“That's right, vicar. I'm having this old umbrella. I'm going to use it as a parasol for my pumpkins.”

“That used to be Mr Parsnip's father's umbrella,” said Dorothy. “Don't you want to buy it, Miss Plimsoll?”

“Better not,” Miss Plimsoll said, remembering her seventeen umbrellas at home. You had to call it a day when the bric-a-brac started to take over. Miss Plimsoll had never thrown anything away, which was probably why she had not donated anything to the bring-and-buy stall.

“If you're happy with the swap, then I'm happy, too,” said the vicar to Mr Smith, thinking all the time what a bargain he was getting. Then, remembering his manners, he assured the ladies that they both looked charming.

It is indeed unfortunate that guzzling large quantities of cake affects the digestion. The vicar had to chew indigestion pills for the rest of the day after he had overdone it on the cakes and caused a row by giving the prize to a cherry cake yet again, the problem being that since everyone knew that the vicar liked cherry cake most, they had all baked one, so Mr Parsnip had to choose between 12 cherry cakes. Entirely by accident, he had chosen the one made by the same housewife as last year and the year before that.

“It’s a fix,” said one of the women. “It’s a fix,” they all shouted.

The vicar was lucky to escape before they all threw their cakes at him, so heated was the atmosphere and ebullient the mood of the competitors.

The Dog Show

Dorothy’s once small dog Minor, declared to be a mongrel by her next-door neighbour had, true to his mixed breeding, almost doubled in size from the frightened little creature she had found wounded in Monkton Wood to a healthy, thankful friend, not least thanks to regular meals and an endless supply of juicy bones from Robert Jones, everyone’s favourite family butcher and Cleo’s escort that afternoon.

Minor had engendered Mr Barker’s wrath digging holes in next door’s garden. Mr Barker, a retired town clerk and passionate gardener, did not understand Minor’s preference for his vegetable plot whenever there was a bone to bury. Minor buried all his bones among the onions and carrots. Mr Barker told him to bury them among the chrysanthemums, but the dog was adamant.

Though he had his suspicions, for quite a long time Mr Barker had not been quite sure who was digging all the holes until one day he happened to look out of the window just as Minor was tossing mountains of soil into the air with his back legs. Mr Barker was absolutely furious, especially as he had just raked all over the bits between the onions, which seemed to be Minor’s major target that day. He banged on the windowpane and shouted a few well-chosen expletives. Minor took no notice.

Mr Parker’s next ploy was to open the window and hurl the first available pot of geraniums at Minor. The geranium pot flew in a high arc across the back lawn. Just at that moment, Mrs Barker came around the corner from the wash house Mr Barker had built for her. She intended to hang out the washing. The flying plant pot hit her squarely on the head, knocking her out. She fell to the ground in an ungraceful heap and Minor, who had been distracted by the loud clatter of falling plant pot and collapsing Mrs Barker, rushed over to administer first aid.

Unaware of his wife’s predicament because he was rushing to the back door instead of looking where the geranium had landed, Mr Barker picked up another potted plant and threw it straight at Minor, who had just about finished licking Mrs Barker's face and was now making for the gap in the hedge through which he came and went.

At that very moment, as Dorothy came out into her back garden, a third plant pot flew past her, only missing her by inches and crashing against the wall of her garden shed. Mr Barker was hell bent on hitting Minor and prepared to throw all Mrs Barker’s geranium pots if required. The second one had landed unsuccessfully. Even though he could no longer even see Minor, he was going to throw pots in the general direction.

“‘Take that, you horrible monster!” he shouted.

Dorothy was appalled.

“I hope you didn’t mean me, Mr Barker.”

“No. You can’t help it.”

“Help what?”

“Thant blasted dog.”

“Now now! No expletives, please,” said Dorothy.

She picked up the bits of smashed flower pot and the now bedraggled geranium. She was astonished that Mr Barker could do such a dangerous thing as throw a missile at someone. She peered over the hedge separating the gardens.

“That stupid animal of yours.”

That was quite the wrong thing to say. Dorothy would not have a word said against Minor. She had quite liked Mr Barker up to now. That just went to show how easy it was to misjudge character.

“How dare you talk about Minor like that, and what is your wife doing stretched out on the flagstones, Mr Barker?”

By now Mrs Barker, who had been lying unattended since Minor had finished his efforts at resuscitation, was feeling well enough see the world from her prostrate position and get up all by herself, since Mr Barker did not seem aware of his wife’s plight.

The first thing Mrs Barker saw was Dorothy with bits of plant pot in one hand and a battered geranium in the other.

Mrs Barker rubbed the part of her head that had been hit.

“What are you doing with my geranium?”

Mr Barker, who had forgotten all about the injured party, looked startled and asked her if she was all right.

Mrs Barker groaned.

“I've got a terrible headache. Someone has just knocked me out with an unidentified flying object.”

“I suppose you mean something like this, don’t you?” said Dorothy, holding up the objects for inspection.

Mr Barker pointed at the bits of smashed plant pot near the onion bed.

“Not that one, the other one. And it wasn’t Dorothy, it was me trying to stop Minor digging any more holes in my vegetable patch.”

Dorothy thought that was a rather lame excuse for flinging flowerpots.

“Why don’t you put some barbed wire round your onions, Mr Barker? And we could all wear safety helmets when we go outside, couldn’t we, Jane?”

Dorothy felt the need to side with Mrs Barker, who still didn’t quite understand why she was getting a lump the size of an egg on her forehead. Siding with Mrs Barker meant using first names. Mr Barker knew that. Those women were in it together.

“That’s a very good idea, Dorothy.”

Mr Barker thought barbed wire might not do the trick, but something else would. I’ll do anything to get rid of that blasted dog, he said to himself.

“I’ll tame that blasted mongrel of yours,” he said to Dorothy..

“Don't talk about Minor like that! He could win a prize if he wanted to.”

“Yes, he could,” agreed Jane Barker.

“Don't make me laugh. That dog's a scruff,” said Mr Barker.

He was irritated by the way the two women seemed to be ganging up against him.

“He's almost a spaniel,” said Dorothy in defence.

“Only from the front! The back of him is like a bulldozer. Just look at my garden!”

Dorothy looked over the hedge at the holes in Mr Barker's garden. Minor had made a terrible mess.

“You could plant some shrubs in the holes, Mr Barker.”

“And you could try keeping that monster under control, Dorothy. Come on, Jane. I'll put a poultice on that lump of yours.”

“I shall enter him at the dog show next Saturday, Mr Barker,” Dorothy called out to the retreating figures. “Then we shall see who the monster is here.”

“‘They don’t have a competition for Hound of the Baskervilles lookalikes,” Mr Parker shouted over his shoulder, but Dorothy was already on quite a different planet, where nice dogs won prizes and neighbours were full of praise rather than contempt.

To be truthful, Dorothy felt quite bad about losing her temper. The Barkers were nice as neighbours go, and if Minor had not been her dog, she would probably not have been on the defensive. Burial holes in a vegetable patch are indeed hard to bear for a dedicated gardener.

Although Dorothy was far from sure that Minor could win a prize, she could hardly go back on her word, so she rang the dog-show sponsors, Duggy’s dog biscuit factory, and entered Minor in the next competition, even paying the extra pound because she had left it so late. The competition was being held the following weekend.

By the evening before the event she was very nervous indeed, wondering what had possessed her to brag about Minor to Mr Barker, but it was too late to back out, so preparations had to be made. This involved giving Minor a much-needed bath. The dog show might be considered a light-hearted affair by onlookers, but it was a serious challenge for Dorothy Price.

She bathed the protesting animal in her best pink bath salts, scrubbing him from head to paw, which meant that she was as wet as the dog at the end of the procedure. At the earliest opportunity, Minor escaped from the warm, scented bathwater and fluffy towel to the parlour and shook himself vigorously to disperse the excess moisture. By the time he was dry the parlour was wet. Dorothy forgave him and brushed his fur with her second-best hairbrush until it almost shone. Before the day was over he had to endure the indignity of being taken for his late night walkies on a lead to avoid any chance of him digging anywhere and getting dirty. This was a routine that had to be repeated next morning and the dog-flap that was almost too small for Minor had to be blocked. It was a pretty rotten start to Saturday for both protagonists. Minor’s body language – tail tucked firmly between his back legs – was unmistakably that of a victim rather than an ongoing champion.

After a final grooming and a spray with Lavender oil to make his fur shine, he was dragged protesting onto the bus to Middlethumpton and off it again for the short walk to the town hall. He seemed to know what was in store for him and was anxious to avoid it, so his gait was more sideways than forwards. On arrival, Dorothy was not surprised to discover that there were already dozens of beautiful dogs waiting for the judging to start. 

At eleven o'clock precisely Mr Cobblethwaite, a close friend of Mr Duggy senior of dog biscuit notoriety, who supported any political or social event likely to benefit himself and would be sure to plump for Mr Cobblethwaite continuing as mayor at the next elections, arrived close behind his panting pug, who looked remarkably like him.

After quite a lot of puffing and blowing and problems getting his thanks to everyone who made this possible in the right order, Mr Cobblethwaite gratefully handed over the proceedings to Mr Bontemps, the grocer’s assistant from Upper Grumpsfield’s emporium, who claimed to be French, spoke English with a sort of French accent, and had offered to commentate the judging, because the mayor was showing his own dog, which was over-nourished on Duggy’s dog biscuits and had the same lack of charm as its owner. Mr Duggy Senior watched the events from a safe distance, at the coffee bar, where stronger beverages were also available to insiders.

All the dogs had to walk around in a circle with their owners. All the other owners seemed to know how to do that with dignity and elegance. Dorothy Price did not. The other dogs knew what to do. Minor did not. The other dogs were all walking around slowly, heads high. Their owners were smiling and saying things like ‘Good doggie’ and ‘There's a darling’. Minor had his nose close to the ground, tracking something spurious, while Dorothy tried valiantly to get him to go in the right direction. Soon she was exhorting him in rather more threatening undertones than was usual at these events. Minor wasn't walking. He was tugging at his lead, trying to escape from whatever it was that his mistress had got him into.

“Stop pulling, drat you!” shouted Dorothy, who had almost forgotten her good upbringing. Mr Bontemps was saying quite nasty things about Minor through the speaker system, causing riotous laughter, especially from Mr and Mrs Barker, who would not have missed the spectacle for the world, and were now falling about, tears of merriment rolling down their cheeks. It was sweet revenge after the plant-pot throwing incident, though Jane felt a sneaking sympathy for poor Dorothy. Fortunately, Dorothy was too busy trying to regain control over Minor to see what was going on anywhere else.

Suddenly the loudspeakers starting playing classical music instead of the noisy rock band that had made the floor vibrate. Minor immediately stopped in his tracks. As luck would have it, it was the first movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata that accosted the ears of all the dogs except Minor, who was used to hearing Dorothy play it.

All the other dogs started to bark and howl because they didn't like Beethoven's music, but Minor started to sway to the strains, just as Dorothy did when she was playing. The judges at the dog show were amazed. They had never seen anything like it before. The other dog owners were either indignant or impressed, depending on their attitude to mongrels and their owners who had the cheek to parade them at such an important competition.

Dorothy almost purred with satisfaction that she now not only had Minor back under control, but was also showing the pedigree dog owners that their charges were just as neurotic as they themselves.

The parade of dogs finally drew to a close and the candidates were lined up for the final judging. The winners were announced by Mr Cobblethwaite, whose customary incoherent ramblings were now additionally hampered by over-indulgence on clandestine whisky. He was hoping that he would win a prize with his pug Penelope in the look-like-your-owner competition and wondering if he should shake hands with himself.

After extolling in exorbitant terms the virtues of eating Duggy’s dog biscuits, not chasing sheep, eating more Duggy’s dog biscuits, not trying to teach old dogs new tricks, eating still more Duggy’s, and please don’t forget the prize of a month’s supply of Duggy dog biscuits for the prize winners, all of which he read from a script typed in large letters and handed to him by Mr Duggy Senior, Mr Cobblethwaite awarded prizes to the biggest dog, the smallest dog, the oldest dog, the youngest dog, the most beautiful dog, the fattest dog (he had to give himself that trophy, much to everyone’s amusement), the look-like-owner-dog competition, which he also won, and the ugliest dog, the latter given with a touch of revulsion (since the mayor was expected to pat each winning dog) to a half-blood poodle that had been shaved until it sported only an irokesian-style waxed bushel on otherwise bald, semi-transparent, speckled skin.

Minor did not win any of those prizes, except for an honourable mention in the ugly dog competition, which made Mr Barker laugh until he cried and obliged Mrs Barker to dig him in the ribs. Dorothy wished she had never been born, but the mayor still hadn't finished.

“And now here is a special announcement,” he said, winking at Mr Duggy Senior, who had prized himself away from the whisky and now stood next to him, rather flushed and swaying ominously.

“I am happy to announce the winner of our very first musical dog competition.”

“Ooooh!” said the onlookers..

“We have decided to award a prize to the most musical dog,” he announced gratuitously. “Mr Duggy himself, who plays the piano and supplied us with the beautiful Beethoven recording that we played, will tell us who it is.”

Mr Cobblethwaite gestured to his drinking crony, who bowed shakily. He then gestured towards Minor and wished he had drunk one or two fewer triples on the rocks.

“‘The winner of the musical dog competition is...Errrr... Major!”

In an instant Dorothy was standing at his side.

“Minor!”

“Ooops. Sorry, my good lady! The winner of the musical dog competition is of course Minor, hick, the most musical dog we have ever met, hick.”

Mr Cobblethwaite nodded and smiled at Dorothy while Mr Duggy shook her by the hand vigorously, holding on to her for balance. The mayor announced that everyone else could also collect their prizes from Mr Duggy personally, all the time wondering if his inebriated friend could be persuaded to sit down before he fell down. It was the pot calling the kettle black, but Mr Cobblethwaite was undeniably better at holding his drink. The prize-winners left their dogs to their own devices and scrambled to be first in line.

Due to unforeseen circumstances, there weren’t quite enough prizes for the dog owners, not least because the supply of whisky at the event had dwindled alarmingly, so Dorothy had to make do with a voucher for her prize bottle of whisky, but that didn’t bother Minor, as his own prize was a juicy bone and Robert had been far more generous with his donation of bones than was strictly necessary. Minor could not wait to get it home to do some urgent burying.

To Dorothy’s further gratification, Mr Barker magnanimously offered her and Minor sincere congratulations and a lift home in his car, but the bone had to go in the boot. At home, Minor made do with Dorothy’s potato patch as burial ground as a way of demonstrating to Mr Barker that there were no hard feelings.

The Xmas Show

Every year there is Christmas entertainment of one sort or another in any village worthy of the description. As usual in Upper Grumpsfield, there was an urgent call for volunteers a few weeks before the big day.

Dorothy expected to be given the task of putting the music together. She was not to know that Mr Smith’s participation was going to make it the evening she would be most likely to remember and the one she would most like to forget.

Despite Dorothy’s protests, the majority on the village Christmas entertainment committee, which was similar to every other committee in Upper Grumpsfield, decided that a pantomime would make a nice change from the usual variety show. It was to be a performance of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

Dorothy had to agree that it was probably a good idea to branch out into serious dramatic productions after years and years of song and dance routines, comedians, jugglers and amateur instrumentalists. A script was produced almost out of a hat and parishioners clever with a sewing machine or a hammer were roped in to make costumes and scenery. Dorothy was still wracking her brains for suitable music, mainly to circumvent Laura finch’s offer of her choir in Mother Xmas outfits, when Sally Smith asked her during her piano lesson about the next rehearsal because her daddy wanted to be there.

“On Monday, Sally,” Dorothy told her. “But your father can't have a part in it, dear. He's too big to be a dwarf, and too old to be the prince. We’ve done all the casting.”

“He doesn't want to act. He wants to play the trumpet.”

“Well, that’s very kind of him, but I'm sure his kind of music wouldn’t be suitable.”

“My Daddy can play anything. Anyway, you promised!”

“Did I?” Dorothy didn’t remember making any promises.

“Oh yes you did. It was on that day when I couldn’t come to my lesson and you played music with my daddy.”

Dorothy remembered that afternoon now, but she found herself in rather a predicament, seeing as the concert wasn’t going to be concert at all, but a real live theatre production.

“I'll see what I can do,” she said. That was what she usually said when faced with a dilemma she could not solve immediately.

The following Monday Sally's father turned up at the rehearsal carrying his trumpet in its case.

“‘Nice to see you, Miss Price! What are we going to play together at the concert?”

Dorothy was rather astonished to see Mr Smith. She had not indicated to Sally that her father would take part, and yet here he was, raring to go.

“It isn’t a proper concert, Mr Smith, but a pantomime – Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. There is no trumpet in that nursery story-”

“In the film there is. There’s lots of jolly marching music.”

“But we aren’t doing a Walt Disney film, Mr Smith,” argued Dorothy.

“Aren’t you? But you will want some music whatever you are putting on, won’t you?’

Dorothy thought very hard. She would not have been Dorothy if she had just sent Mr Smith away with a flea in his ear. As she explained patiently that this year they were having a pantomime instead of a concert, she became even more conscious of the fact that she did not like the idea. Why had she agreed?

Mr Smith wasn’t waiting for Dorothy to make up her mind, however. He was getting his trumpet ready. When he had finished oiling it and putting it together, he moistened his lips and blew a short fanfare. He had gone home early from work to practise and he wasn’t going to leave without showing Dorothy how good he was. Listening to him play, she suddenly had a bright idea.

“I think it would be nice if you played a fanfare for the Seven Dwarfs. You can stand behind the scenery and play one for them to go on and off.”

“Like this, do you mean?” said Mr Smith, blowing some bold, symphonic fanfares he had heard on the radio.

Mr Smith may not have been entirely happy with the suggestion that he should play only a minor role in the music, but he was going to make the best of it.

“Very nice, I’m sure,” said Dorothy.

“So I’ll do it, shall I, Dorothy?’

He moistened his lips again, and blew another very loud note. Then another, and another, until he had Dorothy’s ears ringing and attracted anyone anywhere near to the church hall.

Everyone gathered around Mr Smith. They were oohing and aahing at the sound, even if some of them were holding their fingers in their ears.

The seven dwarfs gasped when they heard the how loud the trumpet was that was going to accompany them. They let out painful ‘Aaaauuuuuuh’s when they could still hear it with their fingers in their ears.

Blissfully unaware of the mixed reception his trumpet playing was getting, Mr Smith climbed onto the stage and blew more loud fanfares. Dorothy wished she had sent him packing. Mr Smith played on regardless of Dorothy’s hand-waving for him to stop, until he had to stop to mop his brow and drain the trumpet-bell of condensation. Taking advantage of this little break, Dorothy made a determined effort to end the disruption.

“That was very nice, Mr Smith,” she said.

Everyone applauded, thankful for the reinstated peace and quiet.

“Let’s get on with the rehearsal now, shall we? Go outside to practise, Mr Smith.”

“But we haven’t decided where I should stand.”

Mr Smith took it for granted that his participation was being welcomed with open arms.

“How about here?” he said, taking centre stage to blow another fanfare. The Seven Dwarfs complained of buzzing in their ears, so Dorothy made him stand behind a curtain at the side of the stage, but Snow White said she would forget all her lines if he was that close to her. So Mr Smith stood behind the stage. That was much better for everyone except Mr Smith. He was decidedly unhappy with that arrangement.

“If the audience can't see me, they won't know who I am,” he argued.

“If you stand where the audience can see you, you are much too loud,” retorted Dorothy.

“I'll stuff something into the bell to make it quieter,” Mr Smith proposed.

Dorothy braced herself to tell Mr Smith he could not possibly take part after all, but he had already gone into the dressing room to borrow woolly socks. Then he demonstrated the difference and Dorothy was forced to admit that it was a great improvement.

“All right, but you'd better stand behind a bit of scenery, just in case.”

Mr Smith did not want to diminish his prospects of taking part in the performance, so he agreed to stand behind the church hall Christmas tree, which was doubling up as part of the woods behind the palace.

On the day of the performance, Dorothy decided Christmas would not be the same if she didn’t play some Christmas carols at the end. The pantomime didn’t have anything to do with her idea of the festive season and she didn’t want people preferring it to a carol service, but they would wind up the way they always wound up the show.

Dorothy did not tell anybody about the carols, because she wanted it to be her surprise. Mr Smith had decided to dress up as a clown for the pantomime. He did not tell anybody, either.

When Mr Smith arrived at the village hall, deliberately not arriving until just before the pantomime started, he was dressed up in a voluminous padded clown costume, complete with long pointed shoes with bobbles, a spinning bow tie, a red nose and a hat with a bobbing flower on a long flexible stem.

Dorothy was horrified. Mr Smith looked totally out of place, but it was too late to do anything about it, because the audience was already sitting impatiently waiting for the entertainment to begin. She would have to make the best of it.

So Mr Smith stood in his clown’s outfit behind the Christmas tree, feeling rather more nervous than he was prepared to admit. He pushed the woolly socks into the bell of his trumpet, and when the lights had dimmed in the auditorium and the coughing and unwrapping of sweets had died down, he started to play the first dwarf entrance.

The socks did not make much difference to the noise Mr Smith made, because he blew much louder than he had at the rehearsals to make up for the impediment. Not only did he play a very loud, familiar tune straight out of that Walt Disney film for the Seven Dwarfs to march on and off, but he also looked around the tree after doing so, which made everyone laugh. The response to this action encouraged him to repeat it after every musical interlude.

‘Isn't he funny?’ cried Delilah Brown, Cleo Hartley’s best friend, from the front row. She was making a better door than a window seated in front of one of Mr Parsnip’s sons, Bertram, a cheeky boy who spent the evening getting his revenge by kicking the underside of her seat with the tips of his boots, which would have normally made her very annoyed indeed, had she not been preoccupied with Mr Smith’s antics.

‘What a clever idea, having a clown in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs! It's the best pantomime I've ever seen,” said Cleo Hartley. That was not mentioned at the committee meeting and I don’t think Dorothy Price is looking very happy about it.

Cleo was sitting right in front of the man from the press, who had made no attempt to stop Bertram’s kicking. Rick was the epitome of a roving reporter. He was short and thin, and always on the lookout for good characters for a book he was writing about village life. He reckoned the two ladies would fill a chapter or two, even if the darker-skinned one was probably a visitor, so he wasn’t too bothered about having to crane his neck to get a glimpse of what he was meant to be writing about for the next edition of the Middlethumpton Chronicle.

Dorothy hated every minute of the pantomime. Disregarding the storyline, which commanded the dwarfs to be fast asleep, she banged out a very loud, cross tune in a totally unrelated key to accompany the fanfares, striking the yellow keys of the old upright piano with a good deal of venom. This startled even the Seven Dwarfs.

One of them hissed “Be quiet, I'm sleeping!” which provoked a round of applause, interrupted only by Mr Smith playing another fanfare because he thought it was his turn again. As usual, he looked around the tree when he'd finished.

Everybody laughed and cheered.

“Play it again, Mr Clown!” Delilah Browne exhorted, and soon the audience was participating boisterously in the proceedings.

Dorothy tried to intervene, but it was useless. The audience laughed and cheered every time Mr Smith played and bowed and played again. They loved him, he loved them, and the pantomime was a great success. There were so many curtain calls that Dorothy thought they were going to go on all night.

Eventually, Mr Parsnip took the stage and held his arms high in a gesture of blessing. The vicar never said less than he had to and had no compunction about repeating himself.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you for the lovely evening. I shall remember it for a very, very, very long time. Thank you, thank you, dear friends.”

Dorothy thought it was probably the worst day of her life. Tears rolled down her cheeks. It was a long time since she had cried and even Mr Parsnip did not fail to notice.

“Why, Dorothy, What's the matter? What's the matter?” he asked, words of comfort failing him since he did not know why she was crying. The vicar thought he might have said something he shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t imagine what.

“It all went wrong!” said Dorothy. Her fury had given way to self-pity. “It was supposed to be a pantomime, not a circus.”

“Well, I think you are all very, very clever, having both at the same time, so I hope you will do it again next year.”

Dorothy thought this was the last time she would ever show her face in the village, let alone organise such a dreadful evening.

Mr Smith thought it was time he put in a word or two. Taking off his clown’s hat and red nose, he turned to Dorothy and said: “I'm sorry, Dorothy. I was only trying to help. I thought it would liven things up a bit!’

“And it did. It certainly did,” said the vicar enthusiastically.

Dorothy thought about what Mr Smith had just said. She wasn’t really a stick-in-the-mud and to be truthful, she had quite enjoyed herself some of the time, though she would never confess that to anyone.

“You're right, of course. I'm just a silly old woman.”

Then she turned to the audience and called “Three cheers for the clown....Hip, hip, hurray! Hip, hip, hurray! Hip, hip, hurray!”

“And three cheers for Miss Price,” said Mr Smith, waving his trumpet around and removing the socks before rendering “For she’s a jolly good fellow”.

“And so say all of us!” agreed the vicar, exhorting the audience to sing along.

Dorothy was so surprised that she didn't know where to put herself. Mr Parsnip, who felt as tall as houses now he perceived himself to be in charge of events, gesticulated to Dorothy to sit down. He intended to thank everyone all over again, but Dorothy must have misunderstood, because she started playing ‘We wish you a Merry Christmas’. Everyone joined in, including Mr Smith, who put his trumpet down and sang along very loudly instead.