July 27, 1891

Edmund Bliss took three reluctant steps back from the stall Mrs. Simpson had asked him to erect. (This was no small commission⁠—Mrs. Simpson sat on the fête committee the way stone lions sit on pediments.) The canvas was pink and yellow, and looked very smart against the grass, with the gleam of the vicar’s conservatory behind it, but there could be no question that the structure slouched on one side, like a man leaning against a bar, if that man were devastated by drink. Edmund went forward and pulled at the poles a bit. Then he retreated and looked about him with an amiable helplessness. The day was already hot and glaring. Everywhere stalls were assembled, canvases taut and angles correct. Edmund put his hands in his pockets and laughed. Through one pocket he scratched the upper part of his thigh. He was twenty-two, incidentally handsome depending on his mood and the light, with a short strip of mustache and hair that was receding at the temples, where he pulled down his hat. He lived with his parents in a house built three miles from the village for the view, meaning he’d had to wake horribly early in order to assist with the setting-up. He had come in his best summer suit, since it was too far to go back to change. His jacket was hanging on a chair in the tea tent and he was in his shirtsleeves.  

Mrs. Simpson swept past, irritation crisp in her voice. “Oh, Mr. Bliss. Whyever did you volunteer? And you took off your jacket. I’ll ask one of Colville’s men. You needn’t wait.”

“I’ll wait,” Edmund said. He scratched his thigh and wondered what Violet would be wearing.  

“You see how it is,” Mrs. Simpson said behind him. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Nothing to mind. Morning, sir.” A man approached the stall and began taking it apart. 

Mrs. Simpson, whose twelfth year it was on the committee, went on her way. It was always the same: decorative young men cluttering up the place with their muddled purposes. She wondered how it could be discouraged. 

Edmund stood watching as the man fixed the stall. The sun, hidden behind a glare of white sky, was a pressure like a hand on his neck. He debated whether he could in good conscience say to Violet that he’d helped set up. “Can I do anything?” he asked, when the worst seemed over. 

The man tied a complicated knot and trod a peg into the ground. “Nearly there now,” he said, not turning. His hair stiffened into a ridge where it met the line of his cap, as if the cap were too small. 

“Just say,” Edmund said. He noticed Albert Waterson strolling through the gate and moved toward him, before halting. “Am I all right to leave you?”

“Let’s see if you’re happy, sir.” The man fussed with the canvas, smoothing and tucking it like a tablecloth, and then came and stood next to Edmund. 

“It looks very nice,” Edmund said politely. Beyond, he could see two maids inching a table from the house into the conservatory. 

“Good,” the man said. He had an open, outdoors face, shining from the heat but blotted by black hair and eyebrows. He and Edmund were about the same age.

Fête days encourage a sense of fellowship. “Thanks for rescuing things,” Edmund said, and put out his hand. The man took it and his warm sweat rubbed onto Edmund’s palm and between his fingers. Edmund put his hand into his pocket as he went off to find Albert. 

Albert was in the tea tent, where cups were being served to the workmen and volunteers. He was being firmly told that no cake could be eaten yet. It was slightly cooler under the canvas and smelled definitely of grass. Edmund located his jacket and carefully put it back on. When Albert turned around, triumphant with cup and saucer in one hand and cake in the other, Edmund waved at him from a table. “Hello,” Albert said beamingly as he set down his things, tea splashing over. “Where’s Violet?”

“Can I have some of that cake?”

“Not too much.”

“She isn’t here yet,” Edmund said, swallowing a mouthful. 

“I wonder what she’ll be wearing,” Albert said. He was a trim, dapper young man, who affected a monocle. 

“Awfully hot, isn’t it?” Edmund said.

“If she wears anything like last year I’ll simply fall at her feet.”

They looked at each other with displeasure. 

“You’re as besotted as I am,” Albert said. 

Edmund broke off more cake. 

Albert drank his tea, squeezing his eye around his monocle. “Probably won’t be either of us. Almost certainly. Except women do such odd things. That’s all that gives me hope.”

There was a lot of noise from outside the tent, outside the greeny, grass-smelling universe they had established themselves in: active voices, and mallets hitting pegs, and crockery furiously coupling in drawers being chucked about. The two young men sat, hardly speaking. They had been to the same school, then Oxford, so they were used to being trapped in each other’s company, in both moderately unpleasant and moderately pleasant situations, and to waiting for things to be done for them. They had never considered whether they liked each other. 

“Shall we have a look around?” Edmund said. “Violet might be here now.” He was rather afraid of being on his own again. 

“I hope she isn’t,” Albert said, though getting up and shaking off crumbs. “I’ve realized I must change my clothes.”

Edmund looked down at his own, much plainer suit. 

“Oh you’re all right,” Albert said. 

Outside, the sky was hard to look at, as though something sharp were poking out of it. The vicar’s garden was large and crowded with stalls, humming with pioneer energy. Only the marquee for dancing was still being put up. 

“No sign of her,” Albert said. “I’ll go and change. If she arrives, please don’t talk to her or amuse her in any way.”

Edmund watched idly as Colville’s men labored on the marquee. The man who’d helped him earlier was playing a leading part. He had taken off his cap and tucked the peak into the back of his trousers so that it wagged cheerfully as he strode about. His black hair was hanging lankly on his forehead, joined into thick strands by sweat. Edmund caught his eye and smiled. The man nodded in a preoccupied friendly way. Perhaps I should buy him a drink later on, Edmund thought.