Page 42 of A Change of Location
“The Battenburg cake is beautiful,” she enthused as soon as she and Isobel stepped out of the marquee to confer.
“Not as light in texture as it might have been. I ranked it fourth. The Victoria sponge was perfection.”
“I gave it top marks.”
“A pity about the sunken pavlova. What’s second on your list?”
“Fig pie. That crust dissolved in my mouth. And the pastry fig leaves were a nice touch.”
“We concur.” Isobel pointed to her scores. “And we’re unanimous about the winner.”
Choosing third place and Honorable Mention proved more difficult. Although Hannah had been taught by a baker of British origin, she deferred to Isobel’s judgment in particulars. After they handed out the awards, contestants carried their entries to the tea tent to be sliced and sold. Ron, operating his borrowed espresso maker, was mobbed.
Hannah contemplated a visit to the secondhand clothing booth squeezed in between the face-painting stand and the Women’s Institute book stall. Shrieks and laughter drew her attention to a long line of children and adults standing near a wooden board painted with a clown figure. Martin’s face filled the circle cutout.
“Step up, step up,” cried the barker, a dripping sponge in each hand. “Aggrieved about a delay in rubbish collection? Outraged over his lordship’s speedy driving? Did that hellhound of his worry your livestock? Have at ’im!”
Martin bared his teeth. “Be warned! I’ll impose a higher rent on any tenant who hits me. As for you farmers—if your sponge makes contact, I’ll let Ariel loose in your sheep-fold to do her worst. Mark my words, vengeance will be—crikey!”
A yellow sponge struck his nose and dropped into the full barrel.
The barker pulled it from the water. Without squeezing, he handed it to the next person in line, a boy in a scouting uniform.
“Trying for a sponge-tossing badge, are you, young Tom?” Martin mock-sneered, drawing laughter.
If it existed, the kid would’ve earned one. His sponge hit the nobleman’s brow with a moist slapping noise.
An elderly lady standing beside her chuckled. “Martin will raise a packet. If we’d got him to do this five years ago, we could’ve paid for that church roof in half the time.”
The sheer efficiency of the proceedings proved this community’s ability to cope with the hassles and mayhem that would arrive when filming began. And yet, despite a few common elements, an annual disruption wasn’t comparable to a multi-week location shoot.
Hannah checked her cell phone. Within the hour she had to join Isobel for the flower judging. According to her schedule, the gymkhana had begun, so she made her way to the riding ring, past the bric-a-brac tables and craft booths staffed by local charity members and shopkeepers. The stall featuring products from Milver Vale Dairy was a reminder of her introduction to Wincott & Sons and its friendly blue-blooded cheesemonger.
She spied him sauntering along the midway-like alley formed by parallel rows of booths, toweling face and neck. Occasionally he addressed the scowling middle-aged man at his side, who vigorously shook his head at every remark.
“You’ll regret creating housing stock for a lower socio-economic population,” she heard the stranger say to him. “Introducing an incompatible group to this region is certain to reduce property values overall. And increase the crime rate.”
Martin halted. “An opinion I’ve heard before,” he replied placidly. “Discussion forums and survey results from the joint village councils’ task force indicate that yours is a minority view. Our housing initiative can alleviate rising prices and enable lower-wage workers to purchase or rent quality homes. Beneficiaries include teachers and public service employees and young couples striving to hop onto the property ladder. That’s not to say we’re opposed to migration from elsewhere, which fosters community vibrancy.”
“The right sort of migrants. Right?”
Hannah and Martin exchanged glances.
Irritation was evident when he replied, “I encourage you, as a newcomer, to stop at the Youth Club booth for raffle tickets. The group’s membership is broadly representative of the community. If your children aren’t involved, they’re missing out on something wonderful.”
“My boys attend Cranborough. As boarders. Don’t dash off —I’ve another concern. The fellow whose farmland abuts my back garden doesn’t maintain his fields properly. Whatever crop he planted is messy and shaggy and doesn’t grow in straight lines like it should. And he lets his livestock roam there.”
“Phillip is committed to regenerative farming, dependent on mixed vegetation and plant rotation for biodiversity. Animal manure increases soil fertility. He doesn’t use herbicides and pesticides, which leach into the water table or run off into the streams and the river. Caitlyn,” Martin called out to a female steward.
A toy duckling perched on top of her bright floppy hat and her basket was half-filled with them. “You’ve already bought more’n your share of duckies,” she told him.
“This gentleman hasn’t got one yet. And he’d like to hear about your daughter’s experience in the Youth Club. Enjoy the festival, sir.” Grasping Hannah by the elbow, he led her away.
“You handled him well.”
“Pompous git. I should’ve told him Cranborough’s for boys who couldn’t get listed for Eton or Harrow or Winchester.”
“Now who’s the snob?”
