had expected the Brits to be frosty and polite, but she was just like his grandmother back in Brooklyn.
‘Thanks for the advice, ma’am,’ he said politely.
‘Now, what are you looking for?’ she asked with a twinkle in her eye. ‘I’m on the committee. We can’t buy things – people would say we earmarked all the best goods. But there’s nothing to stop me helping you find something nice.’
Harry told her he was hoping to find some mementos for his mother and father. They fell into easy conversation, and Harry began to relax. His new friend introduced herself as Mrs Gooding and offered to show him around the fête. ‘Everyone is so glad you boys are here with us,’ she told him, patting him on the arm. ‘The world was a frightening place when we were facing Hitler alone.’
They walked outside into a large field where trestle tables had been set up beneath the shade of several large oaks. One table contained a display of cakes and biscuits together with the names and addresses of those who had baked them. ‘Look out,’ said Mrs Gooding. ‘Here comes trouble.’
A bird-like woman, of similar age to her, approached the table with a small entourage of other elderly ladies. ‘She’s the cake judge. Shows no mercy. The others in the WI are terrified of her.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am – WI?’ asked Harry with a tilt of his head.
‘Women’s Institute. It’s an organisation for ladies who don’t have anything better to do,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘I’m the local chairwoman.’
Harry and Mrs Gooding watched the judge from afar. Assisted by her entourage, she took minute slices from the offerings, tasted them and wiped her mouth with a little lace handkerchief. Then she wrote a small comment on each of the name tags attached to the cakes.
Harry was enjoying this immensely. It was just like observing a newly discovered tribe and their arcane rituals. His brother David, a lanky, bookish kid, had wanted to study anthropology at Columbia University and he had often told Harry about the rites and ceremonies of obscure South American or Micronesian tribes.
‘We’ll come back in a moment,’ announced Mrs Gooding, and steered Harry over to the bring-and-buy stall. ‘You might find something here,’ she told him, gesturing to a table of ornaments – vases, glass animals and little statuettes. ‘I must go and circulate.’
It was the perfect place and Harry quickly found a brass horse’s head for his father and a little china tableau of a basket full of flowers for his mother. He was sure they’d love them.
‘Let’s see,’ said the elderly gentleman on the stall, ‘seeing as you’re having the pair, let’s say one and six.’
Harry got out his wallet and pulled out two pound notes, hoping the man would be honest with his change. He was aware that this was a fortune for two small ornaments, but he was sure they were valuable. Besides, there was little else to spend his money on.
The man was looking astonished. ‘Blimey, I can’t change that. Haven’t you got any coins on you?’
‘What seems to be the problem, Mr Reece?’ It was Mrs Gooding, come to rescue Harry. ‘One and six,’ she explained ‘One shilling and sixpence. Put all that money away, if you don’t mind.’ She reached into her pocket and paid the stallholder.
‘You can pay me back later,’ she said to Harry. ‘Now I’d like to buy one of those cakes.’ She directed him over to the cake stall.
On the way there John Hill called over. ‘Hey, Harry, who’s your lady friend?’
‘You’re an impertinent young man,’ said Mrs Gooding with a twinkle in her eye. Harry could tell she wasn’t really offended.
‘We’re off to buy a cake. You coming to join us?’ said Harry, quickly introducing his friend to Mrs Gooding.
She looked him up and down and smiled. ‘Come and observe the British art of cake judging. It’s not for the faint-hearted.’
The judging had finished and the table was surroundedwith a
‘Thanks for the advice, ma’am,’ he said politely.
‘Now, what are you looking for?’ she asked with a twinkle in her eye. ‘I’m on the committee. We can’t buy things – people would say we earmarked all the best goods. But there’s nothing to stop me helping you find something nice.’
Harry told her he was hoping to find some mementos for his mother and father. They fell into easy conversation, and Harry began to relax. His new friend introduced herself as Mrs Gooding and offered to show him around the fête. ‘Everyone is so glad you boys are here with us,’ she told him, patting him on the arm. ‘The world was a frightening place when we were facing Hitler alone.’
They walked outside into a large field where trestle tables had been set up beneath the shade of several large oaks. One table contained a display of cakes and biscuits together with the names and addresses of those who had baked them. ‘Look out,’ said Mrs Gooding. ‘Here comes trouble.’
A bird-like woman, of similar age to her, approached the table with a small entourage of other elderly ladies. ‘She’s the cake judge. Shows no mercy. The others in the WI are terrified of her.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am – WI?’ asked Harry with a tilt of his head.
‘Women’s Institute. It’s an organisation for ladies who don’t have anything better to do,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘I’m the local chairwoman.’
Harry and Mrs Gooding watched the judge from afar. Assisted by her entourage, she took minute slices from the offerings, tasted them and wiped her mouth with a little lace handkerchief. Then she wrote a small comment on each of the name tags attached to the cakes.
Harry was enjoying this immensely. It was just like observing a newly discovered tribe and their arcane rituals. His brother David, a lanky, bookish kid, had wanted to study anthropology at Columbia University and he had often told Harry about the rites and ceremonies of obscure South American or Micronesian tribes.
‘We’ll come back in a moment,’ announced Mrs Gooding, and steered Harry over to the bring-and-buy stall. ‘You might find something here,’ she told him, gesturing to a table of ornaments – vases, glass animals and little statuettes. ‘I must go and circulate.’
It was the perfect place and Harry quickly found a brass horse’s head for his father and a little china tableau of a basket full of flowers for his mother. He was sure they’d love them.
‘Let’s see,’ said the elderly gentleman on the stall, ‘seeing as you’re having the pair, let’s say one and six.’
Harry got out his wallet and pulled out two pound notes, hoping the man would be honest with his change. He was aware that this was a fortune for two small ornaments, but he was sure they were valuable. Besides, there was little else to spend his money on.
The man was looking astonished. ‘Blimey, I can’t change that. Haven’t you got any coins on you?’
‘What seems to be the problem, Mr Reece?’ It was Mrs Gooding, come to rescue Harry. ‘One and six,’ she explained ‘One shilling and sixpence. Put all that money away, if you don’t mind.’ She reached into her pocket and paid the stallholder.
‘You can pay me back later,’ she said to Harry. ‘Now I’d like to buy one of those cakes.’ She directed him over to the cake stall.
On the way there John Hill called over. ‘Hey, Harry, who’s your lady friend?’
‘You’re an impertinent young man,’ said Mrs Gooding with a twinkle in her eye. Harry could tell she wasn’t really offended.
‘We’re off to buy a cake. You coming to join us?’ said Harry, quickly introducing his friend to Mrs Gooding.
She looked him up and down and smiled. ‘Come and observe the British art of cake judging. It’s not for the faint-hearted.’
The judging had finished and the table was surroundedwith a
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