“I don’t quite get the drift of this,” Ernest ventured.
“Oh, don’t concern yourself with it, sir,” Hiram said. “Got a bit of a bee in ’is bonnet, Gaffer do.”
“He seems very upset,” Ernest persisted.
And indeed he was, even though someone had made haste to refill his mug. His voice rose to the pitch of a revival preacher, despite attempts to hush him, and at last there was nothing for it but to explain.
“The way of it, sir, you see,” Hiram sighed, “is this. Back before the War, come Ascensiontide, we had a local—ah—”
“Custom?” supplied a voice from the background.
“Custom, yes, a very good term. Thank you—” He glanced around and finished in a tone of surprise, “Mr. Ames! Used to make up sort of decorations, pictures out of flowers and leaves and alder-cones and such, and put them to the wells.”
“And the wall below the church,” someone inserted.
“Yes, in Old Well Road too. Three places.” Hiram ran a finger around his collar as though it were suddenly too tight. “Then we’d get vicar to come and speak a blessing on ’em.”
Gaffer’s attention was completely engaged now. Leaning forward, mug in both hands, he nodded vigorously. “Ah, an’ every seventh year—”
“Every seventh year, yes,” Hiram interrupted loudly, “we had a sort of feast, as well. We’d roast a sheep, or a pig, and share it out among everybody, making sure bits got taken to the old folk or those sick abed.”
“It sounds like a fascinating tradition,” Ernest said, staring. “Has it fallen into disuse?”
“Ha’n’t been kept up since the War.”
“But why?”
There was an awkward pause. Eventually Hiram found no one else was willing to answer, so it was up to him again.
“Vicar used to say it were truly a heathen custom made over. I wouldn’t know about that. But I daresay he’s not un’appy.”
“An’ what would ’er ladyship say?” called Jabez from behind the bar, forgetting himself for a moment.
His brother glowered at him, but by now the cider was having an effect on Ernest. Since falling ill he had seldom touched alcohol; besides, he had had almost no breakfast.
Draining his mug, he said, “You’re right, Tinkler. It is good, this stuff. Here, bring me another. And for Mr. Stoddard too, and Mr.—Oh, drinks all round, why not? Here!” He pulled banknotes from his wallet.
Somewhat reluctantly Tinkler complied. Meantime Ernest turned to Hiram and continued.
“Well, I don’t see what my aunt has to do with it, you know. How did Sir Roderick feel?”
“’E were in favour,” Hiram grunted.
“That’s the truth!” chimed in someone from the background. “Remember ‘ow, if there were visitors, ’e’d bring ‘em round along of us? Or come by later in the day with ’em, with their Kodaks and all?”
The older men uttered a chorus of confirmation.
Returning with the full mugs, Tinkler murmured, “Here you are, sir.”
Ernest gulped a mouthful and set his aside. By now his attention was fully engaged.
“Well, if your major problem is with the vicar, I can put in a word, at least. Miss Pollock has invited me to tea at the vicarage, and I can bring up the matter then. Would you mind?”
It was clear from their faces that they wouldn’t, and Hiram said, “That’s very generous, sir. Here!”—loudly—“I think we should drink Mr. Ernest’s health!”
“Hear hear!”
Absent-mindedly drinking along with them, Ernest wiped his lip and took up another point that particularly interested him.
“What kind of—of decorations, or pictures?”
“Always Bible stories,” Hiram said.
“To do with water? Walking on the waves, Jonah and the whale, that kind of thing?”
Headshakes. By now everyone in the bar was crowding around the table, so that Gaffer complained about not being able to see. They ignored him.
“No, just any that came to mind. ’Course …”
“Yes?”
“They was mostly the work of one that’s gone.”
“You mean one particular person used to work out the designs for you?”
“That’s right, sir. Mr. Faber it were. Taken off in the same way as your poor uncle, but the year before.”
“Bain’t no one left got ‘is skill an’ touch,” came a doleful voice.
Ernest hesitated. He glanced at Tinkler for advice, as had become his habit. Surprisingly, this time he wore a completely blank expression—indeed, was elaborately pretending not to notice. Abruptly annoyed, Ernest drank half of what was left in his mug and reached a decision.
“If you don’t think it’s out of place,” he said, “you may know … Tinkler!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Talked about me in here at all, have you?”
“Well, sir”—looking pained—“no more than is called for by ordinary politeness, I assure you.”
“Don’t worry, man! I only wanted to find out if they know that I do a bit of drawing and painting.”
“That, sir, of course.”
“Well, then …” Ernest took a deep breath. “Would you mind if I proposed a few ideas?”
Mingled doubt and excitement showed on all faces. Gaffer complained again about not knowing what was going on, and someone bent to explain. Before the murmured debate reached a conclusion he cut it short, rising effortfully to his feet.
“Don’t turn it down! Remember it’s the seventh year, and if we don’t do it right then she—”
A dozen voices drowned out the rest.
“That’s very handsome of you, sir,” Hiram declared, and it was settled.
Feeling a renewal of that particular excitement which had possessed him earlier, Ernest said, “Well, now! You mentioned people sometimes took photographs of the—do you say well-dressings?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“So if I could look at a few of those, get the general idea … Tinkler, is something wrong?”
“Sir, I’ve noticed people are starting to look at the clock. Perhaps we should ask if they’re expected home for dinner.”
There was a rustle of relief, and Ernest rose in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking about the time!”
“Not at all, sir, not at all,” Hiram countered. “But—well, there are some whose wives do be expecting ’em. As to the photographs, though … Jabez!”
The landlord looked round.
“Weren’t there an album some place, with pictures in?”
“Why, indeed there were. I’ll hunt around for un!”
“Excellent!” Ernest cried. “And I’ll talk to the vicar as I promised. Tinkler, where did I put my hat …? Ah, thanks. Well, good afternoon, gentlemen!”
There was a long pause after the door swung shut. At last Jabez voiced the feelings of them all.
“Proper gentleman, ‘e be. Calling us gentlemen! That’d’ve been Sir Roderick’s way.”
“But not,” said his brother, “’er ladyship’s!”
At which, amid cynical laughter, the company made to disperse, only to be checked by an exclamation from Mr. Ames: “Just a moment!”
All heads turned.
Lapels aside, thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, wearing an expression that bordered on defiance, he said, “If you’ll accept the support of Mr. Ernest, I dare to hope you’ll accept the like from me. I have a porker I’ve been fattening for Mankley show. After living in the district for so long, and knowing”—a glance at Gaffer—“what store you set by the well-dressing feast, I hope you’ll let me donate it for Ascensiontide instead.”
For a long moment there was a sense of uncertainty. Hiram resolved the matter. Advancing on Ames, he offered his hand.
“Spoken as handsomely as Mr. Ernest!” he exclaimed. “Jabez! Before we go, draw one more mug—for Henry!”