Title: The Village Show
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Rating: G
Length: 1,000
Summary: Dr Watson has been coerced into helping to judge some of the classes in the village show.

The village show was one of the local institutions that we had attended since we had arrived in the village.  In the first year I had agreed to act as temporary Honorary Medical Officer, a role which I had subsequently been unable to relinquish.  Not that it was an onerous one, since all that was required was to be present with my bag, which I left in the organisers’ tent, and attend to any injuries which were of greater severity than those obtained by small boys who ignored their betters’ advice.  The annual tug-of-war match usually produced a selection of sprains and strains, but, even then, most of those were more hurt pride due to being on the losing team.

I never entered anything into the produce show, and for two years had managed to avoid any connection with it, but the previous year I had been prevailed upon to help judge some of the classes for the school children.  And, such is the way of village affairs, once I had been involved on one occasion, it was assumed I would continue.  It was therefore with some trepidation that I joined my fellow judges in the produce tent to be allocated my classes. 

“Ah, Dr Watson, delighted you could make it,” the vicar’s wife said, by way of greeting.  “We’ve given you the junior children’s classes.”

“What, all of them!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, there’s only three,” she replied with greater cheerfulness than I felt was warranted.  “An animal carved in wood, an essay on ‘What I shall do when I am grown up’,” I started to feel more hopeful at this point, “and a dressed peg doll.”

“But I don’t know anything about dressing peg dolls,” I protested.

“Just choose the one which looks the most imaginative, is done the neatest and hasn’t had any assistance from the mother,” the vicar’s wife said firmly.  I was about to object that I wouldn’t know which mothers had helped, when she added, “and the same goes for the carving.  It must be all their own work.”

With that she departed to instruct her next victim on their role.

“And make sure you don’t award all three first prizes to members of the same family,” Mrs Old, the wife of the publican at the Red Lion, told me.

“How am I supposed to do that?” I demanded.  “None of them are named.”

“I tell you what.  I’m judging the infant classes, so why don’t you make a note of what you think and then show me, and I can advise you if necessary.”

“That would be very helpful of you,” I replied.  “Oh, but your two boys are in the juniors, aren’t they?”

“That’s true, but neither would touch a peg doll, and they don’t care for writing, so I don’t think that’ll be too much of a problem.”

I thanked her again and turned to my task.  I began with what I hoped would be the easiest section, the carved animal.  I disregarded those which could have been anything and considered the ones which at least resembled an animal.  One was eliminated because I could see a leg had been glued on, and then the head fell off another when I picked it up.  Mrs Old called out that there was some wood glue under the table for just such an eventuality.  This left me with four, of which one looked far more precise than the others.  I provisionally made it the winner, and then put the other three in order.

From there I turned to the essay.  From the beginning it was clear who the winner would be.  It was equally clear that it had been written by Florrie Hopkins, which concerned me slightly since it was known that I was friendly with the Hopkins, and Florrie had only been at the school for a term.  Again, I made it the provisional winner, and selected second and third without much difficulty.

Lastly, I looked at the peg dolls.  A number of them were beautifully dressed and I soon chose the ones I wanted as winners, although I was torn between two which I felt deserved third prize.  I decided to leave Mrs Old to check the stitching for adult assistance.

Once satisfied I had finished my judging, I indicated to Mrs Old that I would appreciate her help.  She came over, together with the vicar’s wife, who was taking note of the results.

I explained my thoughts as to the carved animal.  Mrs Old picked it up, showed the vicar’s wife, and they both shook their heads.  It was accordingly set to one side, and the other three moved up a place.  Mrs Old looked surprisingly pleased but made no comment.  I found out later that her son had won second prize, but there couldn’t be any complaints since the decision had been mine.

“Now the prize for the essay,” I said.  “This has to be the best, but I’m not sure whether there will be objections.”

Mrs Old looked at the neatly written work and smiled.  “I presume this is young Florrie Hopkins,” she said.  “No-one else could do such good work.  She’s off to the grammar school, isn’t she?  I don’t see how anyone can complain; hers ought to be the best.”

“That’s good,” I replied.  “I was hoping that would be the case.  And that just leaves the peg dolls.  I’ve put them in order, but you might like to check them.  And perhaps you could decide which one takes the third prize.”

Mrs Old looked at them, but it was the vicar’s wife who said, “Maybe I can make a suggestion.  One of those was dressed by Florrie, so maybe the other could have the third prize.”

“That’s an excellent suggestion,” I said.

“It never hurts to share the prizes around,” Mrs Old agreed.

With that I managed to make my escape from the produce tent and could look forward to the rest of the day being much less stressful.