watched her militant face as she shepherded George upstairs for his rest. This was not the time, he thought sadly, to introduce the subject of their own troubles.
That would have to wait.
Harold Shoosmith was busy weeding among the wallflowers by his front gate.
He viewed the fair with mixed feelings. A peace-loving man who had retired to Thrush Green because of its tranquillity, he personally loathed the noise which Curdle's Fair generated, and for that reason would rejoice when the great trailers and caravans departed, leaving the green to recover from the scars.
On the other hand, he was amused and impressed by the ardour with which almost all the older inhabitants greeted May the first. The rites of spring had nothing on it, thought Harold, removing a worm which had become entangled in his shoe-lace. He dropped it nearby, and was roundly scolded by a robin who had been looking forward to snapping up this delectable morsel, but did not dare to come too close.
It was natural that the children should be excited, but surprising to find Joan Young and her sister Ruth Lovell so exhilarated at the thought of going on the swingboats and roundabouts as though they were still about ten years old. Even dear old Charles Henstock had rubbed his hands gleefully, and had said how good it was to see the fair again.
He straightened his creaking back and observed Phyllida Hurst coming out of her gate, across the green, letter in hand.
He waved to her and she waved back, and after putting the envelope in the pillar box at the corner of the green, she walked over to talk to him.
She grew prettier than ever, thought Harold. There had been a time when he had fancied himself in love with this attractive young widow, but she had married his good friend Frank and, on the whole, he was relieved to find himself still a bachelor. But now and again he had a twinge of regret. It must be very comforting to come home to find a pretty woman there, to have someone to talk to, to laugh with, and to share one's problems.
'That's exactly what I should be doing,' observed Phil, pointing a toe at the bucket of weeds, 'but I had a horrible story to alter this morning, and it's put me back in the day's programme.'
'How's the writing going?'
'Oh, slowly. I've about four or five magazines who take stuff regularly, but I'm thankful to say I don't have to worry so dreadfully about making money.'
'I'm very glad to hear it,' said Harold. 'You've quite enough to keep you happily occupied, and that's what matters.'
'Are you going to the fair?'
Harold noticed that the girl's eyes were sparkling as brightly as Joan's and Ruth's.
'Well, no! I'm a bit long in the tooth for all that whizzing round.'
'Rubbish!' said Phil. 'It does your liver a world of good! I'm taking Jeremy as soon as he comes out of school, and if Frank gets home in time, I hope I can persuade him to come too later on.'
'You'll manage that,' Harold told her with conviction.
She laughed, and moved away.
'Change your mind,' she called. 'Do come if you can. It's tremendous fun.'
He smiled, but made no reply. He had no intention of getting mixed up with a noisy, shouting throng of people, of being deafened with the brazen notes from those dreadful hurdy-gurdys, and of tripping over coils of cable on the wet grass of Thrush Green.
But how easy it would have been to say 'Yes' to that invitation.
Lucky Frank, thought Harold, turning again to his digging.
Promptly at four o'clock the strident music of Curdle's Fair rent the air. Outside the booths stood the showmen, shouting their wares. The swingboats began their delectable movement up and down, and the galloping horses moved steadily round and round and up and down, their barley-sugar brass supports gleaming like gold.
Most of the patrons were the children from the village school, with a few mothers. Jeremy, in company with some schoolfellows and his mother, Phil, was astride the horses and ostriches within five minutes of the fair's
That would have to wait.
Harold Shoosmith was busy weeding among the wallflowers by his front gate.
He viewed the fair with mixed feelings. A peace-loving man who had retired to Thrush Green because of its tranquillity, he personally loathed the noise which Curdle's Fair generated, and for that reason would rejoice when the great trailers and caravans departed, leaving the green to recover from the scars.
On the other hand, he was amused and impressed by the ardour with which almost all the older inhabitants greeted May the first. The rites of spring had nothing on it, thought Harold, removing a worm which had become entangled in his shoe-lace. He dropped it nearby, and was roundly scolded by a robin who had been looking forward to snapping up this delectable morsel, but did not dare to come too close.
It was natural that the children should be excited, but surprising to find Joan Young and her sister Ruth Lovell so exhilarated at the thought of going on the swingboats and roundabouts as though they were still about ten years old. Even dear old Charles Henstock had rubbed his hands gleefully, and had said how good it was to see the fair again.
He straightened his creaking back and observed Phyllida Hurst coming out of her gate, across the green, letter in hand.
He waved to her and she waved back, and after putting the envelope in the pillar box at the corner of the green, she walked over to talk to him.
She grew prettier than ever, thought Harold. There had been a time when he had fancied himself in love with this attractive young widow, but she had married his good friend Frank and, on the whole, he was relieved to find himself still a bachelor. But now and again he had a twinge of regret. It must be very comforting to come home to find a pretty woman there, to have someone to talk to, to laugh with, and to share one's problems.
'That's exactly what I should be doing,' observed Phil, pointing a toe at the bucket of weeds, 'but I had a horrible story to alter this morning, and it's put me back in the day's programme.'
'How's the writing going?'
'Oh, slowly. I've about four or five magazines who take stuff regularly, but I'm thankful to say I don't have to worry so dreadfully about making money.'
'I'm very glad to hear it,' said Harold. 'You've quite enough to keep you happily occupied, and that's what matters.'
'Are you going to the fair?'
Harold noticed that the girl's eyes were sparkling as brightly as Joan's and Ruth's.
'Well, no! I'm a bit long in the tooth for all that whizzing round.'
'Rubbish!' said Phil. 'It does your liver a world of good! I'm taking Jeremy as soon as he comes out of school, and if Frank gets home in time, I hope I can persuade him to come too later on.'
'You'll manage that,' Harold told her with conviction.
She laughed, and moved away.
'Change your mind,' she called. 'Do come if you can. It's tremendous fun.'
He smiled, but made no reply. He had no intention of getting mixed up with a noisy, shouting throng of people, of being deafened with the brazen notes from those dreadful hurdy-gurdys, and of tripping over coils of cable on the wet grass of Thrush Green.
But how easy it would have been to say 'Yes' to that invitation.
Lucky Frank, thought Harold, turning again to his digging.
Promptly at four o'clock the strident music of Curdle's Fair rent the air. Outside the booths stood the showmen, shouting their wares. The swingboats began their delectable movement up and down, and the galloping horses moved steadily round and round and up and down, their barley-sugar brass supports gleaming like gold.
Most of the patrons were the children from the village school, with a few mothers. Jeremy, in company with some schoolfellows and his mother, Phil, was astride the horses and ostriches within five minutes of the fair's
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