A Fête Worse Than Death
Part 2
of our summer story
BY P. Tate
The confrontation occurred when Allison had invited me to dinner to meet her daughter, around Easter time, when she had visited from university.The dinner had gone well, though a bit tense and formal, until Allison had departed to make some coffee. During the dinner Julia had been sniping at anything I’d said and I’d thought that this was just a bit of jealousy because of the raport between Allison and me.
“Tom, you’ll never replace my father you know, my Mum loved him and will never love another man. You’re just taking advantage of her grief and loneliness,” she’d suddenly said regarding me with an intense look. I was a bit surprised at such an outburst but finally replied,
“Julia, I can understand that you are concerned about your mother, but please understand that I have a deep affection for her and would never do anything to hurt her. We enjoy each other’s company and I don’t know what will happen, but surely if your mother wants our relationship to develop, that is her decision. Maybe you should feel happy that we have found each other?”
Julia hadn’t replied as Allison had returned with the coffee, the tension between Julia and me was like the static in the air before a thunderstorm. Allison had poured the coffee and had sensed that something was wrong. Since that night our relationship had been more reserved than previously and was due to Julia’s influence. I knew that we had to break this chill if we were to dance a Tango in front of an audience. I strolled along enjoying the sunshine and in deep contemplation of this matter.
As I passed the cricket green my thoughts were interrupted by the ‘ phut, phut - bang!’ of the old ride-on lawn mower that was being used to cut the grass. The thing was ancient and a bit of a village icon. Its twin cylinders whirred and the grass flew in a green cascade into the rear collector. The smell of new mown grass made the scene idyllic but I wondered what things would be like in another week at this Summer Fete venue. A helmeted figure appeared at my side as I waved to Samantha Cartwright who was chugging up and down on the mower. It was John Cartwright, her husband, and the local village Bobby. He was different from the body-armoured, equipment belt festooned police constable that you usually saw - or should I say if you saw. He’d decided to return to a more public-friendly dress that consisted of; black trousers and white shirt - both neatly pressed, Doc Martin shoes - shined, and a proper helmet not a flat cap or bare headed. His belt carried a solitary clip-down handcuff pouch. Though I mentioned he was the village Bobby, his beat also covered another smaller village about a half mile away. He patrolled this beat by bicycle and knew many of the residents by their first names. We all wondered how he would be replaced when he retired in a few years.
“Sam loves puttering around on that thing …” he began as he waved to his wife, “… saw that Nadia finally got you, Tom.”
“Hah! …she did, nobody gets away from Nadia for long,” I replied.
“That’s true, she got me last week …she’s arranged some sort of dunking machine …Drop the Cop I think she’s calling it, that’s me - full uniform - hit the target and splash, into the water I go.”
“I´m dancing a Tango, with Allison.”
“Hmm …that should be interesting, but if you don’t mind me saying so Tom - you don’t look very Latin to me.”
“Well …I guess I could always use spray-on tan, dye my hair, slick it back and change my name to Hernando.” We shared a laugh at our mutual predicament before continuing our separate ways.
The next couple of weeks passed quickly, Allison and I practised the Tango but our dancing was still a bit lifeless, without zest because of our strained relationship. Nadia performed miracles; she obtained outdoor staging and lighting from the BBC, coerced a local band that had made it big to play for free - on two days, and also obtained some costumes for Allison and me.
I’d not seen Allison’s dress because she said it needed some alteration and when I complained to Nadia about the tightness of my trousers revealing my fear that they’d split at a crucial moment, she laughed it off saying, “Don’t worry Tom, they’re elasticised!” I must admit my confidence was dropping like a lead fishing weight as the day drew closer.
(What will happen next? Will Tom get cold feet or will their Tango be sizzling? Read next week’s The News to find out.)
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