A Lone Star Church Fete

Marion had not expected that being the Ladies’ Guild hostess would be so stressful. She surveyed the table for the umpteenth time to make sure that the teacups, saucers and plates were set out just right and the cloth napkins folded neatly. Despite occasional muttering in the ranks, no one had yet dared tell Mrs. Thistlewaite how much easier it would be to use disposable cups and paper napkins. She was the widow of the late Major Horace Thistlewaite, last of the Thistlewaite family who had lived in the Manor for generations, and she was not about to let standards slip. Now well into her eighties, Mrs. Thistlewaite had been the President of the Ladies’ Guild for decades. Glancing out of the window of the hall, Marion saw the lady herself approaching and hurried to open the door for her. Mrs. Thistlewaite, her posture erect and her blue-tinged hair immaculately coiffed, graciously inclined her head in passing as she took her place at the head of the table.

The other ladies arrived in ones and twos, chatting amiably. They greeted Mrs. Thistlewaite politely as they took their places. The spectacle always reminded Marion of a Royal audience. She hurried around carefully pouring tea, while her friend Dora set out cake stands full of fairy cakes, scones, and other goodies. Once Mrs. Thistlewaite had taken her first sip of tea, the others eagerly tucked in. There was near silence, broken only by the clink of fine china. When Mrs. Thistlewaite daintily patted her lips with her napkin, the other ladies straightened in their chairs. She adjusted her glasses, cleared her throat and peered at her agenda.

“Welcome to this month’s meeting of the Ladies’ Guild. Our main item today is the planning of the church fete. Let us take the roll. Mrs. Smith…”

She read down the list until she came to the last name.

“Mrs. Peters?”

There was no response.

Mrs. Thistlewaite peered over her glasses, scanning the group.

“Does anyone know if Mrs. Peters is coming? It really is quite unlike her to be late. I hope nothing is wrong.”

Marion raised her hand diffidently.

“Her cousin from America is visiting, but she told me she would be here.”

Mrs. Thistlewaite raised her eyebrows slightly.

“Indeed. Let us proceed and hope she arrives soon. Mrs. Simpson, would you care to give us an update on the various stalls for the fete?”

Mrs. Simpson, a mousy little lady, blushed.

"Yes, of course. So far, we have the white elephant stall, a coconut shy, a bouncy castle and…”

Before she could go on, heads swiveled as the door opened. A plump lady with a mass of auburn curls, wearing a colorful jogging suit, entered and waved.

“Hi, everyone. It's an honor to meet y’all. This is such a darling little church.”

There was a stunned silence. Mrs. Thistlewaite drew herself up.

“I beg your pardon, but this is the meeting of the St. Peter’s Ladies' Church Guild. Are you sure you are in the right place?”

The red-headed lady chuckled.

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about you, Mrs. Thistlewaite. Lavinia said you’ve been the president for ever. It’s great that you’re still so active. I love feisty old people.”

Marion, not daring to meet Dora’s eye, hastily converted a laugh into a cough. The other ladies looked uneasy. Mrs. Thistlewaite glared.

“To whom do we have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Oh, sorry, I got ahead of myself. I’m Dusty, Lavinia’s cousin from Texas. I was so excited to hear that your little fete would be happening while I’m here. I’d sure be glad to help any way I can. Here’s Lavinia now. She was parking the car.”

A middle-aged lady in a tweed skirt and twin set hurried in, breathless. She nodded to the group.

“I'm sorry for being late, Mrs. Thistlewaite.”

“It was all my fault,” said Dusty. “I had to put my face on. My mama always told me that a lady never goes out without looking her best. I didn’t want y’all thinking I was some hick from the sticks.”

The ladies gazed at her perfect makeup and glossy red nails in fascination.

Marion stepped forward.

“Have a seat and I’ll get some more tea.”

Dusty smiled.

“Honey, that sounds wonderful.”

Mrs. Thistlewaite drummed her fingers on the table as the refreshments were served.

“Perhaps we may now resume?”

Dusty, her mouth full of cake, waved.

“Don’t mind me now. Y’all go on about your business.”

Mrs. Thistlewaite shuddered.

“As you were saying, Mrs. Simpson...”

“Where was I?” said Mrs. Simpson, peering at her notes. “Ah, yes, the bouncy castle and…”

“A turkey shoot! How about a turkey shoot?”

“Miss, er, Dusty, you are not in America now. England is a civilized country. We do not have guns at church fetes. May we continue?” said Mrs. Thistlewaite sternly.

Dusty bit her lip.

“Oops, sorry…I guess I spoke out of turn. Not a word more, I promise.”

Mrs. Peters slumped in her chair and covered her eyes.

Dusty sat silently through the rest of the agenda. Mrs. Peters sighed in relief as the meeting concluded, only to look up in alarm as Dusty raised her hand. 

“This fete does seem like a whole lot of work. What do you need the money for?”

“The church dates back to the 1500s,” said Marion. “Something always needs to be repaired and it’s never cheap. We’re a small congregation so we must raise funds however we can.”

“Wow. We think something’s old if it’s from last week in Texas. My granddaddy was here during the war and that’s where he met my grandma. She was a GI bride. She died when I was little, but I remember her stories about the village and the church. I think she was always homesick for it. She worked at the Manor when she was young.”

Mrs. Thistlewaite looked at her in surprise.

“What was your grandmother’s name?”

“Robinson was her maiden name. Mary Robinson,” said Dusty.

To everyone’s astonishment, Mrs. Thistlewaite smiled, gazing into the distance in a reverie.

“Dear Mary. I remember her very well. She was our kitchen maid during the war and a great help to me. I was a new bride with no idea how to run a house and my husband Horace was gone, fighting in North Africa. Some of the American soldiers in the area were billeted in the Manor. That is how your grandparents met.”

“Gee, you don’t say,” said Dusty, looking at the old lady. “That is amazing.”

“Mrs. Peters, you must bring, um, Dusty, to the Manor for a visit. I will telephone you with details,” said Mrs. Thistlewaite.

Mrs. Peters nodded, speechless.

“Thank you for the invitation,” said Dusty. “Now, before y’all go, I’d like to donate. How does ten thousand pounds sound?”

There was an audible gasp around the table. Even Mrs. Thistlewaite’s jaw dropped.

“Are...are you serious?” she finally said.

“Serious as a heart attack,” said Dusty. “My ex-husband was an oil man. Rich and handsome as all get out, but he was also a cheating, low-down snake. Why, you wouldn't believe what he…”

Mrs. Peters cleared her throat in warning as the other ladies stared, spellbound.

“You’re right, Lavinia. That’s a whole other story I won't go on about, specially not in a church. Anyway, I did real well out of our divorce and I just love spending his money on good causes. No pockets in a shroud, as my daddy used to say. You give me the bank details and I’ll take care of it. Now, Lavinia, didn’t you say we were going to go sightseeing this afternoon?”

Mrs. Simpson spoke up.

“We’d be happy to show you around, wouldn’t we, ladies?”

There was a chorus of assent from the others.

Dusty beamed.

“That would be wonderful. It is such a hoot riding in these little cars on the wrong side of the road. Let's go!"