as I knew the way, and I arrived just after two, my stomach in knots. The gates were festooned with bunches of balloons, like aerial bouquets, and there was a poster saying Summer Fete! There was no sign of Jimmy’s Jaguar—I guessed that he wanted to avoid seeing me. As I parked under a tree I could see frantic activity in the garden, where a number of trestle tables were being set up. Herman and I strolled across the lawn in the sunshine towards the book stalls, home-made-cake stalls and bric-a-brac stalls. There were stalls selling local crafts and toys, a striped marquee marked ‘Refreshments’, and nearby a brass band was tuning up. There was face-painting, skittles and a tombola, and someone was setting up a slow bicycle race. Strung between the trees were necklaces of bunting—it all looked very festive and gay. Suddenly I saw Caroline coming out of the house followed by Trigger and the two Westies.
‘Hi, Miranda, great to see you,’ she smiled. ‘What a sweet dachshund,’ she added admiringly. ‘No, Trigger! Don’t do that to him you rude boy!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m going to have the brute firmly on the lead today.’
‘Any improvement yet?’ I asked her, as Trigger leaped about by the flowerbeds, snapping at bees.
‘Well, we’re working on it. But I don’t want to tempt fate. Tempt fete!’ she giggled. ‘I hope people will be tempted. James is going to be late,’ she added. ‘He’s driving down from Billington after his weekly surgery—he’s a politician.’
‘Is he?’ I said.
‘He should be here in about twenty minutes—I do hope he turns up on time. Anyway, that’s where the dog show will be,’ she indicated a makeshift arena near the tennis court. ‘That part will start just after three. Go and get some tea,’ she suggested amiably, ‘while I man the gates. At least the weather’s held,’ she said as she looked at the sky. ‘It’s bliss, isn’t it?’ she added happily, as she walked away.
‘Mm,’ I said. ‘It is.’
By now people were arriving, many trailing children and dogs. The brass band was playing ‘Daisy, Daisy…’ and I was just looking at the paperbacks on the book stall when I suddenly heard Jimmy’s voice.
‘Welcome to the Little Gateley Fete, everyone!’ I turned, and saw him standing on a hay bale, in chinos and a blue polo shirt, clutching a megaphone. ‘My wife Caroline and I hope that you’ll all have a really wonderful time. It’s all in a very good cause—the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals. So do please spend as much as you can!’ The crowd looked dutifully appreciative and attentive. What a benign figure he cut, I thought. I’d seen him with a megaphone before, of course. He’d looked rather different then as he shouted ‘Shame!’ at a startled-looking girl on a black pony, the planes of his face twisted with rage. And now, here he was, circulating in friendly fashion, meeting and greeting, patting children and pressing the flesh. He took part in the slow bicycle race and sportingly submitted to having wet sponges thrown at him in the Aunt Sally.
‘Come on, folks!’ he shouted. ‘How often do you get the chance to do this to a politician?!’ He was in his element—the good-egg country squire, entertaining the locals. And he never once looked over at me. I knew what he was doing, of course. He was letting me know that whatever had happened between us in the past, my presence didn’t affect him. I decided not to seek him out yet—I would wait. As the band played the opening chords of ‘Scarborough Fair’ I heard the church clock chime a quarter past three.
‘And now,’ Caroline announced with the megaphone, ‘we’re going to start the highlight of the afternoon—the dog show—in the small arena there at the end of the lawn. I’d like to tell you that we’re very lucky in having Miranda Sweet, the animal behaviourist from Animal Crackers, adjudicating for us today. So, for anyone who’d like to watch it, the “Waggiest Tail” category will be starting in five minutes.’
‘Thanks for the nice intro,’ I said, as we walked towards the ring with Herman.
‘No,’ she said, ‘thank you. Now, we’ll both have cordless mikes so that everyone can hear us.’
There were about ten dogs taking part in this category, their owners all holding up numbered cards. The audience sat on folding chairs or perched on hay bales as the competing dogs were walked round. In the background we could hear the band playing ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’. Caroline tapped on both mikes, and then spoke.
‘Now, it’s the quality of the wag that matters, isn’t it, Miranda?’ she said with mock-seriousness, as a butterfly fluttered past her.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is. That English setter has a lovely sweeping wag, for example—you could polish the floor with it. The retriever’s got a nice strong wag too.’
‘It has—I can feel the breeze from here!’
‘Interestingly, we have two dogs that don’t actually have tails—the boxer and the corgi—both waggling their behinds there; but it would be unfair to discriminate against the docked breeds.’
‘It would. The St Bernard has quite a slow, deliberate wag, doesn’t he?’ Caroline added. ‘I must say that the pug doesn’t look as though he’s doing much wagging at all.’
‘Well, their tails don’t actually wag very well, because of the way they curl over their backs. But he certainly looks as though he’s trying his best.’
‘He does. There’s some very enthusiastic wagging there from the Norfolk terrier and a slightly twitchy wag there from the collie cross. Maybe he’s a little nervous,’ she suggested with a smile. I saw the owner laugh.
‘Okay, everyone,’ I announced. ‘Please would you walk round the ring just once more?’
‘Have you made your decision?’ Caroline asked a minute later.
I scribbled in my notebook, then held up my mike. ‘I have. In reverse order, the winners of this category are: in third place—number five, the boxer; in second place—the English setter, who’s number six. And in first place is number nine, the Norfolk terrier, whose tail really does wag the dog.’
Everyone clapped as I handed the owners their respective rosettes. And now, from out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jimmy, his arms folded, just standing there, watching.
‘Now for the next category,’ Caroline announced. ‘This is always a popular one—the dog most like its owner. So would all the contestants for this class please enter the ring.’
Some of them resembled their canine partners to an astonishing degree. There was a jowly looking man with a bloodhound, a tall, aristocratic-looking woman with a borzoi, and a poodle accompanied by a white-haired woman with a very tight curly perm. Others had resorted to artifice—like the young boy who’d had his face painted white with a black patch over one eye to make him look like his Jack Russell, and the little girl and her yorkie with matching coiffures. Some had clearly entered with a fine sense of irony. There was a bald man with an Afghan, an overweight woman with a whippet, a thin little man with a massive bulldog, and a woman my size with a Great Dane. As they paraded round the arena I found myself thinking that if the competition were about finding a similarity between the human and canine temperaments then Jimmy and Trigger would win hands down. By now, Jimmy was standing on the opposite side of the ring. I could sense that he was looking at me. Suddenly I caught his eye, and he looked away and immediately began chatting to the man on his left. He was determined to ignore me. I wouldn’t let him. I announced the winners—the first prize went to the aristocratic-looking woman with the borzoi—then it was the Fancy
