Nancy Atherton by Aunt Dimity [14] Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon Read Free Book Online Page B

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    heart, does Cal, but he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer. His head was
    always somewhere else.”
    “Did he like school?” I asked.
    36 Nancy Atherton
    “He liked the school play,” Mr. Malvern answered. “He wasn’t
    much of a scholar, but he took to playacting like a duck to water.
    Joined a theater group in Oxford as soon as he finished school,
    which is why you never got to know him. He moved to Oxford
    about six months before you moved into the cottage.”
    “You must have missed him,” I said.
    “I did,” said Mr. Malvern, “but I was pleased that he’d found a
    way of life that suited him better than farming. He worked backstage, mostly, rigging lights and painting scenery. He seemed to like
    it well enough, but he quit the troupe when he turned twenty-one.”
    “Had he outgrown playacting?” Bill inquired.
    “You wouldn’t ask such a question if you’d been at the May
    meeting,” said Mr. Malvern with a wry smile. “No, Cal quit the
    theater group because he came into his inheritance. My brother left
    him a tidy sum, you see, and the minute Cal got his hands on it, he
    upped stakes and lit out for America.”
    “Good heavens,” I said, surprised. “Why did he go to America?”
    “He wanted to perform in a Renais sance festival,” Mr. Malvern
    replied. “Seems he’d discovered Renais sance festivals online. They’re
    called Ren fests in the States and they seem to go on all year
    long—up north in the summer and down south in the winter. A lot
    of them have Web sites with pictures of people wearing crowns and
    making speeches and sword fi ghting and such. Cal took one look at
    those pictures and decided that Ren fests were for him.”
    “Well,” Bill temporized, “at least he had a clear goal in mind
    when he went to America.”
    “The missus and I thought he’d lost his mind,” Mr. Malvern
    stated firmly. “We expected him to come running home with his
    tail between his legs as soon as my brother’s money ran out.” The
    farmer chuckled softly and shook his head. “But he proved us wrong,
    did Cal. He did all right for himself. He spent the first year traveling
    from one Ren fest to another, learning the ropes and making contacts. Sent us postcards from all over America.” Mr. Malvern smiled
    reminiscently. “He spent the next five summers with a Ren fest in
    Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon
    37
    Wisconsin. He started at the bottom, roasting turkey legs in a food
    stall, but he worked his way up to a starring role as the town crier.”
    “Did he go down south in the winter?” I asked.
    “He did,” Mr. Malvern replied. “We had postcards from Texas,
    California, Florida, Arizona—all of the warm states. He made a go
    of it wherever he went, apparently. All I know is, by the end of his
    six years in America, Cal had tucked away enough money to finance
    his big idea. And his big idea was to bring a Ren fest to England.”
    “En gland is stuffed to the gills with historical festivals,” I pointed
    out. “Why did he feel the need to import one from America?”
    “The missus and I asked Cal the same thing,” said Mr. Malvern.
    “He told us that the English are . . .” He screwed up his face, as if he
    were trying to recall his nephew’s exact words. “The English are
    obsessed with reenactments—the accurate recreation of historic
    moments or periods. Cal doesn’t give a flying cowpat—if you’ll
    pardon the expression—about getting every detail precisely right.
    He doesn’t mind if people show up dressed as wood sprites or Viking raiders, as long as they enjoy themselves. As he said at the
    meeting, his fair is about fun, not authenticity. That’s what sets it
    apart from most English festivals.”
    “I think it’s a brilliant idea.” I glanced surreptitiously at Bill before asking, “Will you wear a costume to the fair, Mr. Malvern?”
    “I’m going to be a burgher, whatever that is.” Mr. Malvern
    shrugged philosophically. “Cal had the costume made