Deadly Clementine

Clementine edged closer. It was then that her gaze was captured by movement on the lane bordering the edge of the field. She lifted her hand and waved at Mr Aldwych, who waved back.

“Who is it?” Elaine asked, the butterfly seemingly temporarily forgotten.

“It’s Mr Aldwych.”

“Oh, him.”

Clementine turned to lift her brows at her friend. “Do you not like him?”

“He is all right, I suppose,” Elaine edged. She eyed Clementine with a frown. “I didn’t realise you knew him well enough to be on friendly terms.”

“Well, he is one of the committee members,” Clementine reminded her.

“I know that,” Elaine snorted. “I do go, you know.”

“Do you not wave to the villagers you know?”

“Sometimes.”

Clementine sighed. “I always wave to people I pass. It helps that I know almost everyone in the village.”

“Mr Aldwych is rude.”

“He is blunt, I will accept, but he is a nice man.”

“Really.”

“He is,” Clementine insisted.

Elaine lifted her brows. “When was the last time you spoke to him outside of the committee? He only goes for the cakes the ladies bake. Without them, I doubt you would even get him through the door.”

“He is helping with the fair,” Clementine replied somewhat defensively, although why she should feel defensive of Mr Aldwych was beyond her. There was something about Elaine’s dismissive tone that was irritating.

“Really. Doing what?”

Clementine squinted and mentally ran through the last committee notes. “He has agreed to help with the dunking stall.”

“No, Mr Ruperts is doing the dunking stall. Mr Aldwych is going to stand and order him about as usual, and Mr Ruperts is going to get cross at the interference, then the men are going to argue, and then Mr Aldwych is going to be sent to the cake stand to sample the cakes and sulk and Mr Ruperts is going to spend the day out of sorts with everyone. It always happens,” Elaine informed her with a shrug, as if Clementine didn’t already know.

“It is part of village life.”

“It is ridiculous, that’s what it is. Mr Aldwych is rude.” Elaine threw him one last dour look before she returned to her perusal of the field.

“It’s not going to be the same this year.” Clementine contemplated the field a little sadly.

“What is?”

“The fair?”

“Yes, it will. It is always the same. The people are the same. The stalls are the same. The arguments are the same. The silly competitions are the same. It is always the same.”

“You don’t like it?” Clementine asked with a frown.

“It is a lot of work just to do the same thing every year,” Elaine argued.

“Why did you agree to be Chair of the committee then?”

“Because it gets me off the farm during harvesting. You know how surly father gets. Having to go to the committee meetings gives me an excuse to stay away. Father knows that if he stops me going then he will be drawing the censure of the village. He has to allow me to do it.”