the possibility of escapes had not been ruled out.
The Darbys and Joans stared impassively through the windows at streets in which most of them had spent their entire lives. Occasionally, one or another of the women would raise her fingers and wave shyly at an old acquaintance glimpsed among the shoppers. The men did not do this. Only when buildings gave way to fields and the sole spectators of the coach’s passing were mournful-eyed cows, did they relax their posture of dignified suffering and peer with interest at the countryside.
“Isn’t that lovely?” loudly inquired Miss Pollock of the company at large. For some reason or other, she had moved to a vacant seat on the other side of the gangway. A few of the women obediently murmured assent. Old Mrs Crunkinghorn got out her handkerchief in preparation for a bout of her congestion.
Through Pennick village the coach rolled, and on towards Hambourne. Heat shimmered in patches on the straight stretch of road ahead like sheets of water that evaporated before one reached them. Inside the coach, speculation concerning the gift of the brewery was renewed. Most were inclined to accept its non-appearance as proof of the folly of believing in miracles, but this did not prevent other theories being offered. The wildest, and therefore the most attractive, attributed the party’s loss to the secret thirst of Alderman Winge himself.
Unaware of this calumny, the alderman swung round in his seat, beamed at his detractors, and called: “Now then, ladies and gentlemen, what about a sing-song?”
“What about our beer?” retorted somebody at the back.
The alderman’s smile remained undimmed.
“Daisy, Daisy—how about that one, eh? Right, then.
“
Thus, in a curdling contralto that somehow was as unlikely as the sentiment it expressed, did Miss Pollock give loyal support. No one else did.
“Ah, well,” said Alderman Winge, “perhaps it’s a little early for us all to be in voice, eh? Never mind. What about a round or two of I Spy? Now wait a moment... I spy with my little eye...something beginning with...” He glanced inquisitively around the coach.
“With B for beer,” came again the voice of the hidden malcontent.
“No, no...wait a minute... Something that begins with C,” announced the alderman, serenely.
The passengers cast dubious looks at where they thought Alderman Winge had detected his object. They saw nothing significant. Only old Mrs Crunkinghorn made any response.
“Cow?” she suggested, staring straight at Miss Pollock.
Ten minutes later, the coach passed through North Gosby and descended into the greenery of Gosby Vale.
The old reservoir was at the end of a narrow lane, about half a mile from the main road. It was a natural lake, bordered on three sides by woods. The fourth side was a grass-covered embankment, steeply shelved to the water but declining much more gradually to the meadowland it protected and with which it now seemed merged.
It was in this meadow that the party was intended to receive the benefits of sunshine, fresh air and rural peace.
The coach drew up on a patch of concrete where once a pumping station had stood. Alderman Winge, Miss Pollock and the helpers climbed out to be ready with support for the less agile members of the party.
Slowly, the coach emptied. A case of food and a crate of lemonade were disinterred and carried to a shady spot at the edge of the meadow. The ale was left where it was.
Alderman Winge ran a benevolent eye over the assembly, most of whom seemed at a loss to know what they were expected to enjoy first. He set example by thrusting his head back and ecstatically sucking in a chestful of air, which, after four or five seconds, he discharged as if it had been an entire chapter of Ecclesiastes.
Miss Pollock took a more modest helping. She pronounced it to be “like wine!” (“How would
A few experimental sniffs having failed to convince anybody that breathing alone was going to make the day memorable, the Darbys and Joans began to wander off in small groups.
“That’s right!” Miss Pollock called after them. “Go and pick some nice flowers, all of you. We’ll have the naming competition straight after lunch.”
Some flowers were, in fact, picked—mainly by those who had conceived the notion that participation in the meal would be made conditional upon fulfilment of Miss Pollock’s command.
The others occupied themselves in a variety of ways. Some sought refuge in the nearby woods for a quiet smoke. Most of the women got as far as they could from the platoon of helpers milling round the picnic basket and sat in the long grass to knit and gossip. The anglers in the party instinctively drew together to climb the bank and gaze for two silent hours into the deep, weed-streaked water of the reservoir. One man, who still remembered a country upbringing, spent the morning stalking a pheasant which he managed eventually to grab, execute, and stow away under his coat.
All were rallied shortly after mid-day by the admonitory hoots of Miss Pollock. Food, or, as Alderman Winge preferred to express it, ‘our little feast’, was ready.
The sun was high now and by the time the meal was over a pleasant apathy had settled upon almost all the company. One or two removed their overcoats. Sleep seemed a very good idea.
But not to Miss Pollock.
Clapping her hands to jerk the somnolent back to the business of being made happy, she announced that the flower naming competition would be held forthwith.
“Some of you” (there was the tiniest reproving emphasis on the ‘some’) “have collected lots of absolutely
