Open Writing

Brockley Feast was the last such celebration of the year. The three day event began on the first Sunday after September 19, but no one really knew why. It attracted an immense concourse of people, particularly on the first day, with the new railway station beseiged by visitors coming and leaving.

Folk came from far and wide and residents of other villages put their rivalries to one side for the occasion. At least, that was the theory, but as the day progressed and as ale was consumed, rivalries would out and the fights would start.

Crowds of Methodists, who had attended the Salem Love Feast in the morning at Berry Royd two miles down the valley, would make their way to Brockley, and the Temperance Societies with their coffee wagons would arrive with their memberships mustered, but even they did not have a totally calming influence.

How could they, when there was the excitement of a circus, a menagerie, strolling players, waxworks, sideshows and charlatans, games and sports and races, a band and an official competition for eating scalding-hot porridge, although many would be more interested in the unofficial challenge of some ruffian who would, at some stage, undoubtedly produce a sack and invite men from other villages to a live-rat eating contest.

Thousands filled the hillside village and its cobbled streets on a day that was warm and sunny. More than 70 stalls had been erected to sell toys, gingerbread, nuts and sweetmeats, roast beef and red cabbage, and the public houses were packed.

On the field were shows, flying boxes, roundabouts and fortune tellers, and amongst the throng moved members of the light fingered fraternity. A football match had been arranged between Brockley and Beltham. This was a game which would be contested by at least 50 a side, and possibly more, in which the ball was likely to be of secondary importance.

Robert and Beth chatted to Jonathon Goodwell, a self-made man who would be a near neighbour when Robert moved into the house he had bought that overlooked his mill in the village of Thonglea. Goodwell was in his 50s and had started life trading wool by pack horse. He had, by hard work, become a wealthy manufacturer and owned three mills.

He had buried two wives in the Wesleyan Chapel graveyard at Helston but had been blessed with two delightful daughters, nine-year-old Sarah Jane and four-year-old Emily. They waited hand in hand nearby, while the grown-ups talked, and watched a juggler with rapt fascination.

Goodwell confided, "Brockley may be worth a wager in the football. They have a natural advantage, for it is well known that the working classes of this village are more than ordinarily debauched." He made his observation with a smile and touched his hat to Beth, who was as pretty as the day, with her face framed beneath a parasol. "Begging your pardon, Miss Pallister."

"Debauchery, indeed?" said Beth. "And such a pretty village."

"Pretty it is, but there is an element that tends to drunken and disorderly behaviour." He tapped his nose confidentially, still smiling. "Believe me, young lady, vice and immorality prevail here to a great degree."

"Oh, my," said Beth, managing a blush. "Are we safe?"

"You are in the company of gentlemen, my dear." Goodwell beamed. "Of course you are safe."

Robert waved to the Pallisters, who were entering the field, and they excused themselves and went to meet them.

Beth murmoured, "Sounds like my kind of village."

"Don't be vulgar," said Robert. "You left Jenny at The Shed, remember?"

"And you, a gentleman, Robert Dyce? Whatever next?"

Arnold wore his Sunday best and a big grin and had his wife on one arm and his daughter on the other. His health looked much improved. Bessie had a smile of contentment and Gertie had blossomed and twirled a parasol with confidence.

Robert and Arnold shook hands and everyone else kissed and Robert was happy to be part of a family. Even his permanent frustration at the circumstances that prevailed at Musgrave Hall were eased by the occasion. Festivity was rampant, strange animals made stranger noises, the throng was rich with entertainers and the smell of a pig roast reminded him of America.

Cosmo Pinkerton, resplendent in bright blue jacket and tight black trousers, approached from one of the food stalls, licking his lips and wiping his fingers on a handkerchief.

"Allow me to introduce my friend from the United States," said Robert.

Another round of hand shaking with the Pallisters ensued, with Cosmo beaming broadly and casting a flirtatious eye at Gertie, who giggled behind her hand at his temerity.

Mrs Pallister said, "Have you known Robert long, Mr Pinkerton?"

"Long enough to recognise his qualities, ma'm" said Cosmo. "In fact, I sometimes think I know Robert better than he cares to remember."

They all laughed and Arnold Pallister said, "And what about the Feast, Mr Pinkerton? Do you have such days in America?"

"We do indeed, Mr Pallister. And many and varied they are for we are a nation of many and varied people and all of them, it seems, took their traditions with them from Europe. But this really is rather special in the multitude of its entertainments."

Robert said, "It is likely to become even more entertaining later. I have heard the men from Skelmanthorpe have arrived."

Cosmo looked blank. "Skelmanthorpe?"

Gertie laughed, and said, "It is a village in which it is said that a whole man does not exist, having lost fingers, ears or noses, owing to their love of personal warfare."

"They sound like Apache Indians."

"Worse," said Robert. "Apaches don't wear clogs."

"Clogs?" said Cosmo, knowing he was the butt of the conversation but happy to be so.

Gertie continued to be part of the act by explaining further.

"They specialise in ear biting and shin kicking," she said.

"Be sure to steer me well away from these gentlemen from Skelmanthorpe."

Robert said, "Don't worry. At the moment they’re still drinking. Later they’ll be looking for old adversaries. They may even start their own football match."

Cosmo nodded, but pretended not to be totally reassured.

"They don't take scalps, do they?"

“No," Robert said, and the Pallisters laughed. "But don’t suggest it. They might start."

**

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