High summer in Rutland: hamwee calls to hamwee, and wheway to wheway, across the broad valley of the Welland; Meadowcroft quite disappears amidst his foxgloves and hollyhocks, and I fancy I can hear the faint music of the elves of Rockingham Forest on the honeysuckle-scented breeze; Ruttie basks on the sandy shores of Rutland Water. I, however, can join her for only the briefest of sojourns, as I am busy supervising preparations for our summer fete. All our favourite stalls will be there – Pin the Tail on the Oldham PPC, Guess the Weight of the Elephant (Nancy insists it is the same every year, but one does wonder) – as well as the Fancy Dress Contest, of course. I have a fitting of my scarecrow costume this afternoon and decide to wear it around the village for a few days to make sure that it does not chafe anywhere.
I tear myself away from this hive of activity to attend the latest meeting of Liberals Against Choice. The topic this afternoon is education, and the speaker describes how children will choose their secondary schools under a Liberal Democrat Government: apparently their parents will receive a letter from the local School Selection Officer informing them of the school to which they have been assigned. When I ask if this will be popular I am assured that people will stop to shake the Officer’s hand in the street and that spontaneous choruses of “Thank you, Comrade School Selection Officer” will break out wherever he, or indeed she, goes. Really, it reminds me of my old trips to Eastern Europe: then the Secretary of the Party would announce that “In Vulgaria all schools are of the highest quality so there is no need for choice” and applause would break our for three hours. It took a snootful or two of the local cabbage vodka to get through that, I can tell you.
Strolling down to the Bonkers’ Arms, I am accosted by the occupants of an expensive motor that draws up beside me. “We’re looking for a ghastly little place called York. Do you know it?” drawls one voice. “Is one nearly there yet?” and “He must be the village idiot. How sweet!” add others. It transpires that these dreadful types are lost on their way to Royal Ascot, which the authorities have had the good sense to hold on the Knavesmire this year. Unfortunately, the geography of England north of the Chilterns proves a mystery to those educated at our more expensive private schools, and carloads of their kind turn up throughout the day in the most unlikely places: stranded in the duck pond, rammed into a haystack and endlessly circling the roundabout at the commencement of the Uppingham bypass. I have the chickens turned out of the Egyptian Dining Room at the Hall and put these people up for the night after first inviting them to make a modest contribution to the Well-Behaved Orphans’ Christmas Treat Fund.
My old friend Andrew “Plum” Duff has been down in the dumps since his cherished constitution was given the thumbs down by the people of France and the Netherlands, so I treat him to dinner at the Club this evening to cheer him up. Over the brandies he divests himself of the opinion that the French and Dutch are “an odd bunch of racists, xenophobes, nationalists, communists, disappointed centre-left and the generally pissed-off.” I counsel him gently that, although foreigners seem funny to us, many of them are decent chaps In Their Own Way and that if this European business upon which he is so keen is to be a going concern, he will have to learn to put up with them.
Thinking over yesterday’s dinner, I take to my Library to write an article on the Common Agricultural Policy. Did you know that each European cow is subsidised to the tune of $3 a day? As a Liberal I insist that this money is paid directly to the beasts themselves, and that has made a great difference to the rural economy in these parts with many cows now owning their owns sheds, running small businesses and enjoying holidays abroad. I also touch upon the topic of “set aside”: this year I am not growing barley, but in past years I have not grown more exotic crops such as linseeds and lupins. Indeed, people would drive for miles to look at the brightly coloured flowers not growing amid the green fields of Rutland.
The day of the fete dawns bright and the jolliest of times is had by all. The blacksmith and his sons defeat a scratch team of would-be Ascot racegoers to win the Tug of War. (Incidentally, the racegoers are also persuaded to fill the breach when the Formula One teams refuse to take part in the Rutland Grand Prix over some footling “safety” objection or other – I do hope none of them is too seriously injured, but the rapids do take some getting used to in a racing car.) The coconut shy, the cake stall and the dog show are all well received, and the remaining racegoers take an understandable interest in the Donkey Derby, even if the finer points of our Rutland betting law prove beyond them. And the Fancy Dress Contest? I do not like to mention it, but it happens that I win it myself – quite a number of the children whom I beat into runners up spots weep tears of joy at this outcome.
I drop into the Vicarage before Divine Service to have a quiet word with the Reverend Hughes. Admirable padre though he is, he can get carried away once he has the bit between his teeth – there are those who have still not forgiven him for burning those Social Democrats at the stake – and, what with the current legislative climate, I advise him to exercise caution in this morning’s sermon. Unfortunately, he will not be told and gives us both barrels of John 8:34 “Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaketh a lie, he speaketh of his own: for he is a liar, and the father of…” At this point the police burst in and arrest the Revd Hughes for inciting hatred of Satanists. Though I am on hand to fill the breach with a few observations on Free Trade, this does cast rather a damper over proceedings.
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10