Enter Pale Death(101)
“Children can be so cruel,” she commented.
The village boasted an ex–army trumpeter and a drummer of some skill. Between them they managed to alert and silence the crowd and give a military flavour to the occasion. The horses played their part admirably, aware that they were the centre of attention. These were no longer plough horses with bent heads and straining limbs; they stepped forward proudly onto the lawn, two by two, flanks gleaming in the midday sun, manes and tails bright with ribbons, bells tinkling. Did they know that—for this moment—they were the finest animals in creation? Sentimentally, Joe thought so and he was quite certain it had occurred to them. The crowd let out claps and cheers and gasps of admiration. Even Cecily dabbed quickly at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
A bad moment for a cortège of cars to appear in the distance. The Rolls and the Bentley from London came purring on up the drive. Ancient and modern vying for attention. Cecily launched a hunting-field oath and seemed uncharacteristically perplexed.
“Leave the horses to Flowerdew,” Joe advised, “and the motors to me.”
He exchanged a signal with the head horseman, who continued with his choreography. The horses lined up, heads to the crowd, scarcely needing the guidance of their young grooms. The mothers, dressed in their Sunday best frocks, lined up also, babies in shawls held in their arms or up on their shoulders. Waiting.
Joe moved forward to greet the newcomers, telling the other guests with a gesture to remain where they were and enjoy the ceremony. He brought both cars to a halt under the porte-cochère and said briskly, “Sir James. Welcome. You’re just in time. We’re about to start the presentation.”
The man’s aplomb was astonishing, Joe thought. If he was surprised to find Joe in charge, he showed no sign of it. After a discreet nod, he herded his party out of the cars and formed them up into a group.
“Carry on, Sandilands. Sorry we’re late. We stopped and took a break some miles away. Spent too long at the Angel in Bury but at least none of us needs to dash off indoors. Introductions later. Horses come first.” His eye ranged, proud and proprietorial, along the line of Suffolks. “A fine display this year. Four of these are new but you’d never guess it.”
The trumpet and drums, the children and the babies all fell silent and the procession began. One by one, the mothers walked the line of the horses, led by Mr. Styles, who seemed to be performing a stately introduction.
“This is Mrs. Reynolds and her son, Samuel,” Joe heard him say.
“And this is his namesake horse, Sammy also,” Flowerdew responded, indicating the first horse in the line-up. There was utter silence from the crowd but a series of squeaks and murmurs fluttered up from the newly arrived guests behind Joe as the baby was held with a confident smile by its mother right up to the muzzle of the great horse. The baby was tiny, the horse had a head with all the rounded bulk of a butter-churn. Even Joe tensed and swallowed nervously.
“Sammy, meet Sammy,” the mother said with a giggle. She held her baby steadily while the saucer-sized inquisitive nostrils descended on the child. The horse snorted gently and with its grey-velvet lower lip nibbled delicately at the hand the baby was holding out to it. “Good old ’oss!” the mother commented and she scratched his nose and passed on with her gurgling child down the line.
Mrs. Bedford’s William met William and so on until the corresponding names gave out. Then Baby Frank met Joker and Baby Poppy met Blossom, or was it the other way around? No baby cried. No horse showed its yellow teeth. As the last child was carried to safety, a female sigh of relief escaped from someone in Truelove’s party. Not from the dark-haired beauty in the yellow dress, Joe thought. A sideways glance had shown Dorcas Joliffe, enraptured, standing next to Truelove and smiling at the spectacle. She of all people would have understood that the babies were in no danger from these gentle beasts. Joe looked away quickly.
The completion of the ceremony, which Joe guessed had deep roots going back to the tribes of horse-rearing Celts, was the signal for a party to break out. The horses were led off into the freshly mown meadow to offer a little bareback riding by the older boys. Some bold ones, apprentice grooms, Joe guessed, performed circus tricks, standing and pirouetting on the horses’ broad backs. Three donkeys and a pair of elderly ponies made an appearance to entertain the younger children. Joe was surprised, this being the Sabbath, to hear the sudden blare of an old-fashioned wind-up gramophone. But then, this was non-conformist Suffolk, their vicar was not only present but turning the handle, and this was Midsummer, when a little madness was expected. A dozen children formed themselves into an impromptu chorus line and galloped about to the sound of ‘Light Cavalry.’