Ann Purser: Threats At Three

“Thank goodness she’s not here to say it, then,” Lois said. “And anyway, I got better things to do than learn how to turn the heel of a knitted sock that nobody would ever wear these days.”

In this mood of amiable disagreement, they set off down the High Street, first to put the flowers in the portaloo, and then splitting up, Lois to help Josie in the shop, and Gran to the village hall to join the team working on WI refreshments.

“Morning, Mum!” Josie said from the shop doorway. “Isn’t it exciting? There’s so much activity, and I’ve had more people in here by nine o’clock than would come shopping in the entire normal day. I can certainly do with another pair of hands. Come on in and get your pinny on!”

Lois was so busy for the next hour that she had no time to look at what was going on outside in the street. Then she heard the unmistakeable sound of the Tresham Silver Band approaching, and knew the soap box queen procession had started.

“Come on, Josie, let’s take a look!” she said, and they both stood at the shop doorway with the crowd that had gathered all along the street. The Silver Band led the way, and behind them came the queen, a ten-year-old ash-blonde beauty, smiling and waving her sceptre from her seat of honor in the gleaming carriage that had served generations of Tollervey-Joneses. This was drawn by Mrs. T-J’s trustworthy black mare, now old and safe. By the queen’s side sat Robert Tollervey-Jones, a mild-faced charmer, taking care of the queen with gentlemanly grace.

“The Tollervey-Jones Show, then,” said Josie.

“Of course,” Lois replied. “But he does look nice, and he’s making sure the queen gets all the attention.”

“Is he married?” Josie said speculatively.

“Yes, and happily,” Lois said. “And, by the way, is Matthew Vickers on duty here today?”

“Naturally,” Josie said. “And did Dad ever tell you subtlety is not your strong point?”

“He wouldn’t know subtlety if it jumped up and bit him on the nose,” Lois said. “Come on, we’d better get back and do some more selling.”

IN THE FIELD NEXT TO THE RAMP, AT THE TOP END OF THE VILLAGE, the stars of the grand prix were lined up for inspection. Silver Streak II , the allotment holders’ entry, stood next to the local estate agents’ vehicle, which was designed with great imagination in the shape of a cottage with roses round the door. Several soap boxes had been pared down to a skeletal essential of frame, wheels and brakes, and a finely honed steering mechanism. Others had been made to a heavy-as-possible design, based on the sound scientific principle that the heavier they are the quicker they go. And then there was the scarlet wonder, Jam & Jerusalem , sparkling and confident, with a neat little flag bearing the WI badge tucked behind the driver’s seat.

“I trust there will be a guard present to make sure there’s no attempt at nobbling,” Mrs. T-J had said to Derek. He had assured her that he himself would be at the starting point and with his team on duty there would be no chance of hanky-panky of any sort.

The soap boxes were being carefully inspected by the owner of the local garage, and his chief concerns were sound brakes and efficient steering. As he bent down to examine the Youth Club entry, challengingly labeled Rebellion , he scratched his head. “I suppose it’s okay,” he said. “That steering wheel has a bit more play than I’d have liked to see. Still, there’s certainly no danger there. You’d better get a message to John Thornbull to tighten it up a bit.”

The morning passed quickly, and as crowds flocked round the playing field, the bucking bronco and the tug-of-war events were by far the most popular. Derek stayed for the tug-of-war result, and cheered heartily when the oldies won. “Never thought I’d be on the oldie end of the rope!” John said.

“Experience before enthusiasm,” Derek said, as he and John walked back up to the ramp.

Jack Jr. stood on guard beside Rebellion , and said that he was sure all was fine. “Nothing to be done to this wonder” he said, patting the silver, rocket-shaped box.

“Right, back to work,” said John, and disappeared into the crowd.

JACK HICKSON SR. WAS, OF COURSE, ALREADY IN THE VILLAGE, today disguised as a woman, in a dowdy brown wig and somber grey coat. He clutched a tatty old bag he’d found in a charity shop for twenty pence, and concealed his hands in his pockets as much as possible. He felt sure nobody would recognize him, and moved freely through the crowds. At one o’clock, he joined the lines of people waiting noisily for the first race. The church clock struck, and with a fanfare from Tresham Silver Band, the soap boxes lined up on the ramp were off, gathering speed as they went down the slope of the High Street, urged on by a huge wave of excitement from their supporters.

In this first race, Lois with Josie at the top of the shop steps, watched with sympathetic shouts as the streamlined Silver Streak II coasted to a gentle halt a hundred yards from the start, much to the fury and embarrassment of its driver. Race marshals Gavin Adstone and Douglas Meade moved smoothly on to the track to clear away the offending soap box and attention turned to the winner, a delighted young man in suit, collar and tie, every inch the estate agent, driving the cottage with roses round the door.

“I’ll give you twenty pounds for it!” yelled a wag outside the pub.

Behind the cheering supporters stood Ross, pressed into a corner by the pub door, glass in hand and eyes constantly on the move, scanning the crowds as they passed in front of him.

THERE WERE ONLY TWO CONTESTANTS FOR THE LADIES CHALLENGE, the race that all were waiting eagerly to see. They were both sitting in their vehicles, prepared for the signal to be off. Only those clustered round the start had seen who they were, as they had emerged quickly from the bungalow behind the ramp and had quickly pulled down their helmet visors.

“This’ll be a good ’un,” said Irene to Kate Adstone. “I really don’t know who I’d put my money on.”

“I wish I’d entered now,” Kate said. “It’s difficult to tell which is which of those two. I reckon their soap boxes were made by the same team!”

The two vehicles were sensible plain wooden boxes with seats, set up on small wheels that looked as if they had seen better days. The steering was exactly as the kids had had in those years that Tony Dibson remembered, a wooden bar with a loop of rope, and there were brakes in accordance with the rules. Tony appeared, ruffled Cecilia’s curls, and asked Irene how she was enjoying the day.

“It’s great! But you watch this, Tony. This is going to be the best race of the day.”

Derek had disappeared, and Gavin Adstone had taken over the starting signal.

“They’re off!” said the commentator, and the two soap boxes rolled sluggishly down the ramp and began to gather speed as they hit the road.

Gavin left the ramp and came over to where Kate stood. “Seen anybody we’d rather not see?” he said. She shook her head. “I wish we could be down at the finish,” she said.

“If they get there,” Gavin said. “Why don’t you run down to the pub, Kate,” Gavin added, forgetting for a moment that he had planned to keep her under scrutiny all day. “Tony and I will look after Irene and Cecilia.”

“It’ll be finished by the time I get there,” Kate said.

“I doubt it,” Gavin said. “You’ll more than likely pass them halfway there.”