He reported back some time later with the information that, as the schools had all been granted a day’s holiday, the children would certainly turn up to take their places in the procession, and that the afternoon’s demonstrations and dances would certainly be possible if the weather became no worse.
“Oh, well,” said Kitty, resignedly, “I suppose that’s that, then. These awful, healthy, Welfare State brats! Nobody ever thinks they might catch pneumonia, or fall off the lorry, or something!”
“But you wouldn’t want them to, would you?” enquired Laura.
“Good heavens, Dog! Of course I wouldn’t!” cried Kitty, deeply shocked. “Poor little things! Whatever next!”
“I only wondered,” said Laura. As she made this observation, the telephone rang, and Twigg—Kitty had not been able to persuade him to add her patronymic to his own—went into the adjoining room to answer it. In a short time he came back, grinning.
“That was Colonel Batty-Faudrey,” he said. “The boys’ schools seem to have borrowed groundsheets from the Brayne Scout Troop to put under the trampoline for this afternoon, but have rung up the Colonel to ask permission to make sanded runways up to the portable apparatus, as the rain will have made the turf slippery. He’s told them they are to do nothing of the kind, adding that his lawns are not the blasted Sahara Desert. He wanted an undertaking from you that his orders will be obeyed. I told him that this afternoon’s displays were not your concern, and advised him to contact the two headmasters and hammer home his point.”
“Of course the schools won’t put sand down if he says they mustn’t,” said Laura. “I say, I don’t want to spoil your day, Kitty, love, but I really believe it’s stopped raining, so, doubtless, the show will go on as planned.”
They arrived in good time at the Butts, an extremely wide thoroughfare bordered by Georgian, Regency and Victorian houses. The floats and lorries were not only drawn up in it, but some were already manned by troops of wildly milling schoolchildren whose teachers stood about in the roadway trying to look as though they were not associated with what was going on.
Toc H had also turned up and were coyly wearing overcoats or rainproofs over their Crusader surcoats. They had stacked their swords and helmets out of sight on their lorry and were standing about in groups, obviously bashful at the thought of making a public appearance in fancy dress.
Suddenly there was the sound, as it were, of trumpets, and the town band came into view. There was wild cheering from the youngsters, which was renewed every time another group arrived and another lorry was loaded up. Kitty waited until the tally appeared to be complete, and then came the business of ensuring that each float was in its rightful place in the line. Kitty had been furnished by her nephew with a boldly printed list showing the chronological order of the historical events which were being demonstrated—a list of which both Twigg and Laura had copies, in case the pageant-master lost or mislaid her own.
The lorries were placarded, but the drivers seemed to think that so long as the right group got on to the right lorry, manoeuvring merely to get the chronological order correct was a work of supererogation and a waste of time, temper and petrol. However, at Kitty’s insistence, they gave in, but, just as everything appeared to be in order, Kitty remembered the pony club and, amid a certain amount of blasphemy, all the lorries behind that of Elizabeth I had to go into reverse to leave sufficient space for the riders.
At last the Mayoral car arrived, followed by the cars of the Councillors. Then came the Civil Defence contingent, with tin hats, gas masks, stirrup-pumps and other war-time equipment salvaged from some obscure and insanitary dump in the cellars of the Town Hall. Other floats contained Girl Guides, Boy Scouts, Rovers, Wolf Cubs, Brownies, Rangers, Girls’ Life Brigade, Church Lads, St John Ambulance (with water-bottles and stretchers) and Red Cross (with a Meals on Wheels van). In all their glory, the Fire-Fighting Services (using all three of the fire-engines allotted to the new borough) brought up the rear. There was no military band.
Kitty, her husband and Laura went along and re-checked the various items, the teachers unwillingly climbed on to lorries and settled themselves among their charges, the Boy Scouts set up a bugle concert in opposition to the town band (which immediately abandoned the contest) and Kitty was about to order the procession to move off as she, her husband and Laura prepared to enter Twigg’s car, which was to follow the procession, when Laura suddenly said,
“I say, didn’t you mention something about Queen Victoria and Prince Albert?”
“Oh, they’ve scratched. It’s all right,” said Kitty. “The vicar’s wife didn’t want to do it, so we’ve turned Prince Albert into one of the burghers of Calais. He’s a bit peeved about it, actually. Hullo!—oh, no, it seems to be all right. Henry VIII, Wolsey and the six wives are in position, thank goodness, and so are Elizabeth I and her courtiers. There’s been a bit of a hoo-ha about that—here, I’d better let the thing start, I suppose. Not much of an audience so far, is there?” She regarded the little knot of onlookers with aversion. “You’d think the townspeople would take a bit more interest.”
She blew three shrill blasts on a police whistle—a proceeding for which her husband had insisted she ask permission of the Brayne inspector—and then, as the band, this time ignoring the Scouts, burst once again into blossom, the procession began to move off.
“Go on,” said Laura to Kitty, when they were settled in their car. “Tell me more.”
“Go on with what?”
“The brouhaha about Elizabeth I.”
“Oh, that! Yes, well, you see, the drama club wanted to do Elizabeth I and her courtiers, and they wanted the art club to do Edward III and the burghers. Well, the art club said they were jolly well dashed if they were going to be fobbed off with just being in their shirts and all that, considering that the drama club had got Henry VIII and Wolsey and all six wives, and also this show of theirs in the Town Hall this evening. Well, I couldn’t help seeing the art club point of view, so I said to the drama club, “You can’t hog
“For Pyramus and Thisbe, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall,” Laura observed.
“Oh, dry up, Dog! You know perfectly well what I mean. Oh, thank goodness, we’re moving at last! I began to think there was a hold-up. You know, Dog, I suppose mathematics or dynamics or economics, or something, could explain it, but I’ve never been able to understand why a line of vehicles, given a yard or so between them, can’t make a synchronised start. I mean, why can’t A and B and C and D, and so on, all get going at the same time? If everybody compared watches so they could all let in the clutch at the same instant, I can’t see—Oh, Lord!
