MRS. ARBUTHNOT MAKES A DONATION by Patricia Feinberg Stoner

MRS. ARBUTHNOT MAKES A DONATION by Patricia Feinberg Stoner

'I suppose it’s that time,' sighed Clarissa Mainwaring, spying through the kitchen window as the ungainly figure of the vicar trundled up her front path.

'Goodness me,' she went on, 'the Reverend Cedric is putting on weight. I suppose while Mrs Rev has been away looking after her poorly sister, the Rev has been eating far too many ready meals. We should have invited him over more often.'

Professor Mainwaring rattled his Guardian and pretended to look fierce. 

'Nonsense! Once a week was quite enough, dear. One can only take so much "For what we are about to receive." And now, as you say, it’s that time, and here he comes trotting up the drive to rope us into the annual Bring and Buy. And as usual, I suppose, you’ll do most of the work and he’ll take all of the credit.'

His wife sighed again. 'You know it’s for a good cause, dear. And this year, especially, with those poor refugees.'

'Refugees be blowed,' said the Professor rather uncharitably. And then, recollecting himself, he added hastily, 'Oh, I know, it’s different this year. It’s not as if it were hordes of perfectly fit and able young men trying to get into this country to blow us all up.'

Clarissa rolled her eyes but said nothing. She and her husband had had many a lively debate about refugees, but on the subject of the Ukrainians they were as one. The little village of Gorehampton had recently welcomed Alina, who had fled to the UK with her eight-year-old daughter Katya and baby Marko, tearfully leaving her husband Artem behind to fight the Russian invaders. Mrs Plumpton, the greengrocer’s widow, had taken them in a few weeks earlier.

'It’s company for me, now my lovely Eddie has gone,' she explained. 'And those poor mites are so bewildered and lost, it breaks my heart.'

The Reverend Cedric had a soft and charitable heart. Every year he pondered and prayed hard over the question of whom the church Bring and Buy sale should benefit. His own leaning was towards the homeless, mainly out of a vague feeling of guilt: he and his wife had a bijou hideaway in the Lake District, where they took their annual holiday. It was slightly unfair, he thought, that he and his wife should have two homes when others had none. He would have welcomed a Ukrainian family, but the small and inconvenient vicarage was already crammed to bursting with himself, his wife, his four children and two dogs.

There had been a parish meeting, but the outcome was never in doubt. This year the proceeds from the sale would be divided in two: half to go towards whatever help was needed in Ukraine, and half to support their own village refugee family.

In her cottage on the north side of the Green, Mrs Arbuthnot was contemplating her winter wardrobe. What could she bear to part with, she wondered, before packing it away for the summer. It wouldn’t be long before the cheeky Jason—self-styled ambassador from village to Arbuthnot—would beat a path to her door. He’d be after a donation, she knew, and this year she would be ready for him.

Sure enough, when he arrived, two carrier bags of slightly pilled sweaters, an elderly red handbag, a pair of scuffed brogues and some worn but serviceable unmentionables from Damart sat on the kitchen table ready for collection.

'And I shall want those carrier bags back, mind, Jason,' said Mrs Arbuthnot sternly. They’re ‘bags for life’ from Marks and Spencer and they cost me £1.20 each.'

'Right you are, Mrs A,' said Jason cheerfully. 'I don’t suppose you were thinking of putting the kettle on?'

Mrs Arbuthnot shot him a look, and he grinned.

'Didn’t think so,' he said, and picking up the carrier bags he left, unrefreshed.

Mrs Arbuthnot didn’t usually do village events. They were too full of pushy mothers and overexcited children with sticky fingers. But even her flinty heart had been touched by the horror in Ukraine, which she followed assiduously every evening on the 6 o’clock news, and she had even, when no-one was looking, had a friendly word for Alina and her family. Perhaps this year she should make an exception?

It had been a glorious summer so far, but the day of the Bring and Buy sale dawned cloudy and a little chilly. Mrs Arbuthnot, who had only recently packed her depleted winter wardrobe away in mothballs and lavender, decided to retrieve The Coat. This was a special favourite of hers, a soft navy-blue wool with white trimmings; it had been an absolute bargain at £7.50 in the Kitty Rescue shop in Hortlesham last year.

She set off for the parish hall resplendent in The Coat, but by the time she reached the Green she was beginning to regret her choice. Although still overcast, the weather had warmed up considerably, and it was a red-faced and breathless Mrs Arbuthnot who arrived at the Bring and Buy sale.

Every table was a-bustle with eager volunteers: the kiddies’ clothing, the tombola, the cake stall, the white elephant, the pre-loved apparel, the bargain books. The entire population of Gorehampton, and many from beyond, it seemed, swarmed through the hall on the lookout for bargains and tittle tattle.

Spotting an empty table at the very back of the room, Mrs Arbuthnot gratefully deposited her coat and dived into the fray. Scraps of conversation floated past her.

'Did you see, dear, Mrs Jenkins has finally got rid of that most unsuitable hat…'

'I swear that was the vase I gave her last Christmas…'

'Who on earth would donate, ahem, undies?'

'Oh dear, I see Mrs Jenings has brought those dreadful rock cakes…'

Once round the hall, Mrs Arbuthnot decided, and then a cup of tea with a scone which, she knew, would be vastly inferior to her own baking. But it was for charity after all. But just as she was bearing down on an unclaimed table near the refreshments counter, Mrs Arbuthnot stopped dead in her tracks. 

There was Alina, Katya in tow, baby Marko asleep in a sling on her back. And over her arm was The Coat. Enid Arbuthnot’s very own coat!

Mrs Arbuthnot glanced over to the empty table where she had left it, but the table was empty no more. Martha, the vicar’s wife, newly arrived back from her sisterly visit with an armful of donated clothing, had commandeered the table and the coat with it.

'Alina, that’s my coat!' cried the bereft Mrs Arbuthnot. Before Alina could reply, Martha appeared on the scene, also in search of tea.

'Oh, was that yours?' she said. 'Such a very generous donation, thank you.' 

'Yes, and such a bargain,' Alina chipped in. 'I only pay £5.'

For once in her life, Mrs Arbuthnot was speechless.

Patricia Feinberg Stoner is an award-winning British writer, a former journalist, copywriter and publicist. She is the author of three humorous books set in the Languedoc, in the south of France - At Home in the Pays d’Oc, Tales from the Pays d’Oc and Murder in the Pays d’Oc - and also three books of comic verse. Her latest book is a collection of stories about the redoubtable Mrs Arbuthnot, now available from Amazon. You can find her on Facebook on her author's page - Paw Prints in the Butter – and in the writers' group Arun Scribes.