The Village Fete by Celia Woodruff

The Village Fete – a gentle observation of village life!

She thought she’d planned for every eventuality.’ Tabitha Mountjoy’s whole life revolved around her yearning to progress up the slippery pole of village society, the pinnacle being her name on the roll of honour in Bostruant village hall. The village fete was a must do, a summer winner which drew in locals and tourists in their droves. Her admirable efforts brought home to everyone just how good she was at doing the job nobody else wanted. She nurtured her connections carefully. She was ‘in’ with the locals, ‘in’ with the doctor, and always received an invite for Christmas drinks at the rectory with the Reverend Meanpinch and his wife Tilly. And, of course, she was on speaking terms with the last in a long line of Bastards up at Bostruant Hall, of Cornish tin mining fame. The lady of the manor held court there in rare but spectacular fashion at the village fete. It was Lady Rebecca’s annual opportunity to support her village and remind them of her blue-blooded importance to them all.

Tabitha’s ideas were novel. A worm charming competition sat alongside the more sophisticated art of wooing her ladyship, Rebecca, Duchess of Bostruant.  Tabitha trod a careful path of polite servility with her ladyship. That particular year, Tabitha had suggested the theme “A Celebration of our Forbears”. A series of tableaux retelling the life stories of various residents of Bostruant, past and present, would attract folks with an interest in family history and rural crafts and industries. Anticipating an enthusiastic response, Tabitha floated the idea at a planning meeting at The Hall. But instead of gracious engagement, the idea was met with a frosty rebuke. The meeting ended in some disarray. What could have so upset Tabitha’s aristocratic neighbour?

Troubled but undaunted, Mrs. Mountjoy soldiered on. At a second meeting at the Hall, her ladyship’s command of expletives was a shock. Being of a genteel frame of mind, Tabitha was somewhat taken aback. But this redoubtable middle aged matron had her own goal in sight. Steeled by the frosty rebuff in the springtime, she pressed on. Utterly ignorant of any possible faux pas, she asked the wrong question. Tabitha had of course blundered into the most sensitive secret of the current incumbent of the Hall. Rebecca wasn’t called Bastard for nothing!

That year the fete went ahead on the village green. No sign was there of the duchess. Worms, it seemed, had played a significant part in the rise and rise of her family. Worm charming there might be, but with the history of the Bastards of Bostruant taking centre stage the worm had certainly turned at the Hall.

Never again was the fete held at the Hall. Did Tabitha’s faux pas ruin everything?  She was hailed as the saviour of village life, the most successful fundraiser for decades and of course, her name went up in lights on that coveted roll of honour in the hall. Which was what she had hoped would happen in the first place!