"I notice, Ms Templeton," said the vicar gazing calmly over his teacup, "that you still have your companion staying here."

"There’s no need for you to keep on, Reverend. My ‘companion', as you so quaintly put it, will stay as long as suits us both."

"But, rumours are Ms Templeton that your companion stays over in this one bedroom cottage. The village folk are beginning to talk."

"The village talk, led I’ve no doubt by Letty Coles, Reverend, is pure jealousy." Beatie may have been short and dumpy, but was more than capable of holding her own.
"Here we are, doing no harm to anyone, me an honest widow and Freddie, well Freddie's Freddie. And he's single, and intends to stay that way; as he is so fond of telling me."
Where Beatie was short and stout, Freddie was tall and skinny. His red hair making him look like a Swan Vesta matchstick.

With that the pair had another pot of tea, accepted a truce, and went back to discussing the forthcoming village Spring fête.

"But, Beatie, why do I have to run the run the raffle?" whined Freddie as he struggled to unload Beatie's 1965 station wagon. "You know I’m not a people person. People frighten me."

"Look," hissed Beaty, pulling Freddie behind the car. "If I’m to be voted chair of the fête committee, this is one of the many things that we need to make a success of before Christmas. That Letty Coles has had her own way for far too long. The vicar has his doubts already about my suitability, so it’s up to you and me to change his mind, today. Is that clear?" Freddie nodded mutely as she pushed him away and she strode off in the direction of the committee tent. The downtrodden Freddie staggered, with his load, to setup the bottle stall for Beatie.

"Morning, Vicar. Looks like a nice warm day for it, don’t you think." Ignoring the other committee members gathered, Beatie set her course directly for the vicar. "I’ve got Freddie setting up the bottle stall, so no imbibing if that’s okay with you, Reverend," she joked waving her finger. The vicar tried a smile which ended as a grimace.

"Now," said Beaty dusting off her hands and turning to Letty. "Is there anything you need, Letty? Freddie’s all yours."

"That's very kind of you, Beatie," countered Letty, her chairpersons' badge glinting brightly on her enormous bosom. "But my Cyril has everything under control, thank you. He's only got to set up my tent. I have my accoutrements here in my bag."

"Ah, yes," said a Beatie with a grimace. "You're trying that fortune-telling malarkey again, aren’t you. Let's hope it goes a bit better this year.

Right, Vicar," she continued. "I've just popped-in to collect the raffle tickets and the float. My Freddie," she looked sarcastically at Letty as she said this, "has volunteered to do the raffle. I really don’t know where he gets the energy. Still he does love to help."

"Now Freddie," said Beatie. "Are you sure you know what to do?"

"Of course I do," said Freddie. "You’ve told me enough times."

"So, repeat it to me."

"Hmm. Well, while I’m selling the raffle tickets, I’m to pop into Madam Igor's fortune-telling tent to sell her a ticket or two," said Freddie in an entrepreneurial spirit. "And ask her to give me a reading. Yes?"

"Yes, yes. And, what do you ask her?"

"I'm to ask her what she thinks of me." Freddie smiled with satisfaction.

"I didn’t say that," snapped Beatie. You must tell her about your dream, you know the one, and ask her what she thinks about it, and what would she do."

"Well, I was kind of paraphrasing," replied Freddie. "Seems a long winded speech to me. And anyway," he asked. "What’s this all about?"

"It’s so that I can show her up as a fraud. She's always on about her Romany heritage. It's time the vicar saw her for who she really is."

"Seems a bit heartless to me," replied Freddie. "I think Letty's a lovely woman. She's always nice to me."

"Well, she would. You’re a man," countered Beatie pushing a visibly confused Freddie out towards the main arena. "Now get selling; and don’t forget: dreams. Now how can I help you, Vicar?" Beatie turned to address the approach of a flustered red-face vicar, who obviously wanted her attention.

"Ms Templeton," said the vicar in a pleading tone. "I'm afraid we have a couple of unwelcome visitors. Apparently their names are Sydney and Roland and they are looking for work. Now, I don’t want to be uncharitable but I fear that they are tramps. Could I ask you to deal with them, please? Unfortunately Mrs Coles is busy in her tent."

"Of course, Vicar. No problem at all. It's not like you to turn away the more needy members of our society."

"I know," said the vicar. "But in this case one of them is dreadfully smelly and the people are complaining. I would appreciate your assistance, please," he begged.

"Okay, Vicar. On my way …" all attention was suddenly drawn across the field by a blood curdling scream seeming to come from the fortune-telling hut.

"Get out! Get out, you disgusting creature. Get. Out!" The screams of Madam Igor echoed across the arena. "Get out. Now… Cyril."
Suddenly the public address system went silent as all attention was refocused across the now still arena.

"Looks like your gentlemen of the road have found a fan, Vicar," said Beatie with a grin. "Do you still want me to sort the problem out, or will you attend?"

"I think that you may want to in this instance" said the vicar. "Unless my eyes deceive me, it’s not our gentlemen of the road. It's the ever helpful Freddie."

This was one of those occasions when Beatie wished that the ground would open up and swallow her - there was nowhere to hide.
From across the field, the arena was silent now, as all could see Freddie running out, amid a confetti of raffle ticket stubs, his red hair flowing behind him like a super hero's cape. Behind him, crystal ball held high above her head, came Madam Igor in the shape of Letty Coles, her chairpersons badge glinting and bouncing on her overlarge bosom and her skirts gathered high above her knees; an action that afforded her the maximum pursuit speed.

"Freddie, you fool," said Beatie who, having extracted him from the murderous grip of Madam Igor, her skirts now lowered to a more lady-like position, demanded. "What did you do? What did you say?"

"He propositioned me. That's what he did," shrieked Letty. "I told you, Vicar, that man's an animal, an absolute animal." A crowd was beginning to grow as Letty's voice rapidly increased to a scream.

"Did you, Freddie? Did you proposition Mrs Coles? asked the vicar gently; seeking to calm the situation.

"No, your honour, I didn’t" returned a visibly shaking Freddie. "I just said what Beatie told me to: about my dream."

"Your dream, Freddie?"

"What exactly did you say, Freddie?" demanded Beatie. Freddie took a deep breath and began. "I told her that I kept having a dream about her and did she think about me. And I asked her what she would do about it. Or something like that!"

"Or something like that?
Freddie you fool," retorted Beatie. "I said, 'tell her about your dream and ask her what she thinks about it'. Oh Letty I’m so sorry," said Beatie turning to Letty. "Freddie’s been a bit confused lately, and he has this terrible habit of paraphrasing."

Letty was not to be mollified so easily. "Come, Cyril," she said to her long suffering husband. Let’s see what we can salvage from this ridiculous disaster. It's a good job," she turned a meaningful look to the vicar. "That I, at least, am supremely capable!"

When the afternoon's festivities were back on track, Beatie turned to a crestfallen Freddie. "Well, old chap. It seems we are to work a little harder at our next task if I am to get the chairpersons position, now."

"Not on my watch," breathed the vicar in a stage whisper as he passed them on his way back to the committee tent.

[THE END]

© scrapyardsummer 2020