Free Fete Fatale by Robert Barnard Page B

thinly. ‘Perhaps I’ll take two.’
    She was counting out 30p, mostly in small change, into my hand when I noticed that Mary Morse had arrived. In a dress the colour of fog over Birmingham she was standing at the end of our row, clutching a handbag, and surreptitiously letting her eyes dart everywhere. It soon became clear what she was looking for. Father Battersby was at the moment passing between my stall and Mrs Nielson’s stall, accompanied by Timothy and Fiona, who looked as if they were advertising some aid to personal freshness, and threeschoolboys, who didn’t. Whatever they were talking about, he was giving his all to the conversation, and as Mary approached along the aisle, her face set in a stony expression, her eyes staring straight ahead of her, as in a prison photograph, I wondered whether he was going to notice her at all. I think in fact he did, but did not remember her. Certainly he passed her, still listening to one of the grubby schoolboys, and showing no sign either of recognition or of registering a snub. Mary’s prim little mouth contracted, her eyes clouded over. Then she came up to my stall, noticed my amused eyes watching her, turned in my direction the coldest of cold shoulders, and greeted Lady Godetia—sketching, I swear it, a sort of suggestion of a curtsey, a half-bob. They bustled off together, all condescension and fawn, and soon were deep in conversation. Mary and Lady Godetia served on several committees together in the town, on which they did a great deal of quiet harm. Their energetic talk was probably about persuading the librarian only to buy ‘nice’ books for the library. Lady Godetia had a taste for innocuous pap, and Mary was the sort who still finds Thomas Hardy controversial.
    Watching them go, I raised my eyebrows sky-high. Mrs Nielson, observing everything from across the way, giggled. Franchita said, ‘Now, Helen—’ but she rather looked as if she’d like to give way to her braying laugh too. Then she bustled off energetically to organize something—anything.
    â€˜What time are you going for lunch?’ shouted Mrs Nielson, over the heads of some customers.
    â€˜Heaven knows if I’ll get any,’ I said.
    â€˜I certainly intend to have some.’
    â€˜Have you got a stand-in?’
    â€˜No. I’ll just put a sheet over this lot.’
    â€˜But people will pinch them.’
    â€˜Surely not. But good luck to them if they do. I signed up for voluntary work, not slave labour.’
    The idea of lunch was very attractive. I was beginning to drop on my feet. Voluntary work did have a habit of turning into slave labour.
    â€˜Franchita will be furious,’ I said dubiously.
    â€˜Let her. As soon as your man puts in another appearance, we’ll scoot off to the Chinese.’
    â€˜No—that I wouldn’t dare. But we could pick up some sandwiches from the stall and eat them outside.’
    Meanwhile Mr Horsforth was nowhere to be seen. The crush of people was at its height, but most of my good things had gone, so as people rummaged through Thyrza’s rubbish my attention could wander. By now Thyrza had also arrived, chugging bleakly around the place like an ancient tug destined shortly for the scrapyard. Passing my stall, she cast black looks at the amount of stuff still unsold, and picked up something that looked like (but I’m sure was not) some primitive piece of contraceptive equipment.
    â€˜Now I thought that would be sure to go,’ she said reproachfully, and then put it back and steamed heavily ahead.
    Her ill-humour was marvellously augmented by the scant success of her and Mary’s intention publicly to snub, pointedly to ignore, Father Battersby. So crowded was the tent, so surrounded by people was Father Battersby, that he was proving unsnubbable. Really, there was something a little inhuman about the man: after all, anyone else entering a living would feel it