lovely flowers, and we must see now—mustn’t we?—how many of them you can name. Now then, I’ll hold up each of these nice little flowers in turn, and I want you to call out its name. Mr Winge is going to keep the score—aren’t you, Mr Winge?—so that we shall know who gets the most right. Ready, everybody? Now here’s an easy one for a start.”
She held aloft a dandelion.
“That’s naught but a poor little piss-a-bed,” declared old Mrs Crunkinghorn promptly and with disdain.
Miss Pollock looked taken aback. “Well, actually, I would have thought...”
“That’s what that is,” Mrs Crunkinghorn affirmed. “A poor little piss-a...”
“Yes, the old country name, I expect. Ah, now what’s this next one, I wonder?”
In her hand was a straggle of stalk from which hung several diminutive white bells.
“Tickle-titty,” said Mrs Crunkinghorn, without hesitation. “That’s what that is, my old duck.”
Hastily, Miss Pollock put it down and selected what she was sure was a perfectly innocent wood anemone.
Again, Mrs Crunkinghorn’s was the sole responding voice.
“Poke-me-Gently. Very good for green-sickness, my mother always reckoned.”
On to the discard pile went the specimen of Poke-me-Gently. Raising another flower—a lank, brownish-yellow affair—Miss Pollock deliberately avoided the leading contestant’s eye and looked appealingly to the further part of her audience.
“Now, what about some of you other ladies? Wouldn’t you like to have a try?”
“Old Man’s Vomit,” snapped the omniscient Mrs Crunkinghorn. “You don’t want to hold that too near your dress, me dear.”
Miss Pollock looked at Alderman Winge, inwardly urging him to declare the competition won and over, but all he did was rub his hands and say to Mrs Crunkinghorn: “My, my! I can see that you have been a botanist in your time, dear lady!”
“I’ve had me ups and downs,” confirmed Mrs Crunkinghorn, with a leer.
By now thoroughly apprehensive, Miss Pollock displayed flower number five.
“Haahrr... Purple Lechery!” Mrs Crunkinghorn showed that when it came to hand rubbing she was the equal of any alderman.
“Now, dear,” Miss Pollock said to her, “I think you have had a very fair innings, don’t you? You really must be a good sport and let the others have a chance. It won’t be a proper competition if only one lady takes part, will it?”
Having made another selection, Miss Pollock held it up in such a way that her hand shielded it from Mrs Crunkinghorn’s view. The flower was tubular and of an unsavoury pink, mottled with green: it looked like a tiny bloodshot cucumber.
Nearly a minute went by.
“Come along,” said Miss Pollock. “Isn’t anyone going to have a guess?”
A stolid silence.
Miss Pollock’s arm grew tired. She transferred the flower to her other hand. For one instant, it was in unrestricted view.
A caw of gleeful recognition, and Mrs Crunkinghorn scored yet again.
“Squire Stinkfinger!” she cried, then hugged herself in a transport of chucklesome reminiscence.
“I-I don’t think th-that...” stammered Miss Pollock, her face much the same colour as the flower she had just tossed disgustedly to the ground. “Perhaps now we, we should...” Without thinking, she seized another piece of flora and began twisting it in her fingers. “Perhaps...”
“Maids in a Sweat!” Mrs Crunkinghorn’s final triumphant identification rang out like the game-stopping call of a Bingo victor.
She wagged a bony finger at Miss Pollock.
“Never you put none o’
To the rescue at last came Alderman Winge. He raised his arms in an all-embracing gesture and announced that what they needed more than anything else at that moment was a jolly good game to settle their meal. Hide- and-Seek, no less. The ladies would hide (as they always did, ha-ha) and the gentlemen would seek. He looked at his watch.
“Five minutes’ start for the fair sex, eh? Right, off you go, ladies!”
He beckoned Miss Pollock and lowered his voice.
“Some of the dear old souls are just a little slow to get into the swing of things. I think it’s rather up to us to give them a lead. If you, dear lady, would be good enough to go over into that little thicket yonder, I shall wait here a few minutes and then pretend to look for you. Would you do that? Capital!”
Miss Pollock nodded and set off. Alderman Winge ostentatiously covered his eyes with his hands and bayed encouragement to the stowly dispersing and reluctant Joans. Four remained where they were on the ground. They appeared to be asleep.
After five minutes, Mr Winge uncovered his eyes and signalled the old men to depart in pursuit. Grumpily they lumbered away towards the trees. Mr Winge, affecting uncertainty, began a zig-zag course that would take him to Miss Pollock’s hiding place.
