Page 43 of A Change of Location
“At least he didn’t utter the words ‘undesirable element.’ Otherwise, I’d have said something rude.”
“Isn’t rudeness one of the aristocratic privileges?”
“Not nowadays. Do you suppose my short sermon on regenerative agriculture was effective? I could’ve gone on much longer.”
“I know.” She grinned up at him. “I’m familiar with your verbal dissertations on that subject.”
“How was your cake competition?”
Her arm swept outward in an all-inclusive gesture. “These Milver Vale ladies and gentlemen can bake! I won’t need another meal for days. Where are we going?”
“To the enclosure at the edge of the field. I’m judging the fancy-dress dog parade.”
“Will it be as entertaining as the sponge toss?”
“More so.”
“I entered the river race.” She held up her duck.
“I filled a bag with them but somehow mislaid it in the tea tent. If my birds are found and re-sold, it’ll be extra dosh for the club. What else did you splurge on?”
“Cropped trousers, at Agnes’s secondhand clothing stall. Your mother says you’re competing this afternoon. Egg-and-spoon?”
“Just the three-legged race. Poppy and I have high hopes.”
“I’ll cheer you on,” she promised.
“We’ve never won, though we had our best finish last year. Came in third.”
The canine costume parade lived up to advance billing. Martin’s idiosyncratic method of judging ensured a prize for every entrant—if not a ribbon, a dog biscuit for an improvised category achievement: Floppiest Ears on a Mixed Breed Wearing a Jacket, Best Kilt (one, worn by a Highland Terrier), the Youngest Dog in Pink, and so on.
The majority of Rubber Duck Race participants were children, accompanied by supportive parents and grandparents. They gathered on the arched bridge over the river and waited for the starting signal. After the air gun exploded, Martin emptied his bag of ducklings, causing a mini-riot and good-natured protests. After reviewing the rules, the Youth Club president declared no limit on the number of entries by a single person. His lordship could not, therefore, be disqualified.
Competitors raced along the riverbank path to the finish line, a length of twine stretched over the water. The first duck to float beneath it belonged to a five-year-old girl. Martin awarded her prize, a free family pass to a year’s worth of films, donated by the cinema in Newbridge.
“He’s never outgrown his ability to make a spectacle of himself,” Isobel commented as she and Hannah made their way to the parish church, where the flower arrangements awaited their ratings. “I suppose when he does it round here, it’s relationship-building.”
“I wouldn’t call him an attention-seeker,” Hannah replied. “I’ve met plenty of those in the film industry.”
“Several villagers complained to me about your movie. As though I could do something to stop it.”
“The prospect of having their satellite dishes and co-ax cables removed tends to make people antagonistic.”
“That was mentioned.”
“When shooting starts, the objections usually fade. And afterwards, everything gets put back just as it was.”
Not once had Martin referred to Forsaken Fortune, and she was grateful for his consideration for her feelings. He’d become a true friend, generous and thoughtful, and apparently didn’t mind that her presence at Stanwell probably prevented him for carrying out responsibilities as landlord and entrepreneur.
Though lacking her mother’s expertise in floriculture, Hannah felt comfortable expressing her opinion of each specimen and arrangement displayed in the church sanctuary.
Isobel stopped in front of a peculiar collection of beer bottles filled with tall leafy spikes. “Oh, he didn’t,” she moaned.
“Those look like stinging nettles.”
“My son’s handiwork. Should we expose his naughtiness by giving a prize to this aberration?” She removed a pink rosette from her carrier bag. With a wicked smile, she placed it in front of the weeds.
“What should I write on the card?” Hannah asked.
