Fete

Into the lane come wind, impetuous rain. Trees are now a threat, gesturing wildly, angry, promising to snap, eager to pounce, to crush in an embrace of leaf and crusty bark. The village fête, though, is like the show: it must go on, it must go on. It’s fixed in time, it’s preordained. Brave souls staff the stalls and serve, to raise the funds to fix the roof. Spattered souls – pulling their cardigans closed, tugging their knitted hats further down their heads – bravely measure out the day in collected coinage dropped into biscuit tins: the target must be reached. Cricket’s off – rain stopped play; back to the crease another day. But the ladies of the Guild fête the thinning punters with bric-a-brac and homemades, with orange juice and lemonade. It’s a parallel world – the other one’s not here today. This is all there is. For this day only, this is our fête.