‘Definitely not,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘One should never beat a horse.’
Maude and I exchanged smirks and the rest of the journey passed quickly and with only one near-miss with a milkman’s cart to induce shrieks and earnest entreaties for caution from Lady Farley-Stroud in the back (and barely suppressed giggles from Lady Hardcastle) we were soon drawing up at the top of Chipping Bevington High Street.
I should point out that I learned this only recently and had no idea at the time, but Chipping Bevington had been an important market town since the fourteenth century. History on our very doorstep. Its High Street hosted the weekly Thursday market, and the road broadened at the top to accommodate a small number of stalls.
There was no way through the High Street on market day and so Bert let us out beside one of the town’s six pubs and reversed the car carefully back up the road in search of a parking place. The rain hadn’t abated and the wind was too fierce for the umbrellas that Maude had taken from the car as we got out. And so, with one last check that our hats were pinned firmly in place, we began to battle our way down the street.
Lady Farley-Stroud was well known in the town and apparently well liked. Stallholders and shoppers alike greeted her with a cheerfully informal warmth that I hadn’t expected at all. She always seemed a bit of a cold fish when I’d seen her at The Grange, but here she was in her element as the Lady of the Manor. There was deference and respect, but a good deal of affection and I began to reassess my opinion of her.
The rain was cold, the wind was harsh, and I was keen to have everything over and done with so that we could get indoors out of the weather, even though that would mean being in uncomfortably close proximity to a large collection of beef on the hoof. Nevertheless we hurried on.
We ducked down a small side street which led us to the livestock market. In times gone by this had been held at the bottom end of the High Street around the market cross, but there was now a purpose-build yard, with covered pens and a large auction hall.
We finally made it under cover and Lady Farley-Stroud looked around.
‘Can’t see McGuire,’ she said, absently. ‘Estate manager. Supposed to be here. Denton, go and see if you can track him down, would you.’
With a bob and a ‘Yes, my lady,’ Maude was off into the growing throng.
‘I say, Gertie,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘this is fun. It’s like the markets in Shanghai or Calcutta.’
‘Much colder, though, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I remember when Hector and I were in Madras in the ’70s. Oh my word, the heat. There was one day–’
Maude had returned with a middle-aged man in farmer’s tweeds.
‘Found him, my lady,’ said Maude.
‘Mornin’, m’lady,’ said the man.
‘Ah, Mr McGuire,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘There you are. How goes it?’
‘Not bad, m’lady. We got just ten head in today from the dairy herd. Tryin’ to sell ’em as one lot. Second up. Shouldn’t take long. Got a few folk sniffin’ round. Carmichael from up Top Farm looks interested. Alford from over Woodworthy was lookin’, too. Should be some biddin’.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Let’s hope we make a few bob, eh?’
‘Hopin’ so, m’lady. Would you ’scuse me, m’lady? Got a few more things to sort.’
‘Of course, Mr McGuire. Thank you for all your efforts.’
McGuire knuckled his forehead and disappeared into the still-growing crowd.
I should like to report the details of the auction which I’m sure were thrilling beyond measure for those in the know, but for me things were a little less clear. Some sheep were led in. A man in a flat cap jabbered incomprehensibly – I could make out numbers here and there – as other men nodded and signalled. Within less than a minute, the sheep were led back out again and a deal had, apparently, been struck.
Before the last of the sheep had left the sawdust-strewn arena, McGuire came in, leading the first of the ten cattle he was selling. The rest obediently followed and after a few words of barely intelligible introduction, the flat-capped man began his sing-song, ‘Her-ba-da-dip-dah-dip-dah-her-ba-da-HEY-ba-da-dip-dah-dip-dah…’ Once again, before I had fully worked out what was going on, he let out a loud, ‘Sold!’ and a man in a battered bowler hat began making his way towards the cashier’s table.
‘Oh, I say, how splendid,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘It absolutely couldn’t have gone better.’
‘It couldn’t?’ said Lady Hardcastle with a frown. ‘How could you tell?’
‘What do you mean? Oh, I see. I suppose it is all a little arcane. Just as McGuire predicted there was a bidding war between the two local rivals, Carmichael and Alford, and Carmichael won. And their rivalry pushed the price way beyond what we were expecting to achieve. I couldn’t be more delighted.’
‘Well that is good news, darling. I’m very pleased for you,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Thank you, m’dear. Luncheon, I should say, is on me.’
‘That’s extremely generous. But what shall we do until then? Are there any more lots you’d like to see?’
‘No, m’dear,’ said the older lady. ‘It’s only really fun when it’s your own stock that’s on the block. Unless you want to find out what happens to this next collection of malnourished cows I rather think we’re done.’
‘At least the rain is abating, my lady,’ said Maude.
‘Somewhat, Denton, somewhat,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘You’ve never been to Chipping Bevington before, have you, Emily?’
‘No, I never seemed to get round to it what with one thing and another. We usually go into Bristol for shopping.’
‘Well, we ain’t got anything like they’ve got in Bristol, m’dear, but I’m sure we could while away an entertaining hour or more on the High Street. There’s a charming dress shop I’d love you to see. Oh, and quite the most splendid bric-a-brac shop. Do you care for antiques?’
‘I’m sure it will be delightful,’ said Lady Hardcastle and we pushed our way through the crowd and back down the side street to the High Street.
The rain had, indeed, abated and was now more of a shower than a torrent and we all four stepped carefully through the puddles on the glistening pavement.
I could see why Lady Farley-Stroud favoured the dress shop which seemed to cater for more robustly-built country ladies of a certain age but which had little to offer Lady Hardcastle. There was a silk scarf she quite admired, but despite many “oooh”s and “ahh”s, and even one, “Oh, Emily, you’d look absolutely smashing in this,” from her new friend, she remained largely unmoved.