Her ladyship wrinkled her nose. “I hope I’m not one of those silly squeamish females, but I have to admit I don’t care too much for the smell of petrol. Besides, I thought our hedges were all billhooks, and saws, and things like that, bent over and woven.”
“Rather sharp and prickly,” suggested Nigel, “though undoubtedly good for training the muscles ... Cut and bend and weave first,” he hastily agreed, as his mother frowned at him for such frivolity. “Trim the line afterwards—it encourages thicker growth. Or you could drive an excavator, if you’d prefer.”
“No, thank you.” In response to her son’s gesturing fork, Lady Colveden passed the potato dish, and watched him cheerfully spear the largest. “Potatoes—that reminds me, George.” She raised her voice. British Beekeeping rustled again as her husband turned a page. “George? George!”
“Plenty, thanks,” came an absent voice from the head of the family. “Let Nigel finish them.” He coughed. “Growing lad, remember.”
“There,” said his wife, as his son spluttered, “I knew you were listening all the time. I wasn’t asking whether you wanted any more to eat, because there wouldn’t be much point. Nigel’s scoffed the lot. I was talking about next week’s bonfire.”
This blatant distortion of the truth made Nigel drop his knife. He bent at once to retrieve it, and was a long time coming up for air. British Beekeeping scrunched down on the table to reveal the glittering eyes and shaking shoulders of a pink-faced Sir George.
“There’s no need,” said her ladyship loftily, “for the pair of you to be so silly. You know very well that what I meant was that potatoes reminded me of Guy Fawkes.”
“Naturally,” said Nigel, “they would.” His shoulders, as he sat upright once more, were—like those of his father—shaking, and his face was red where Sir George had been pink: though this could have been due to his lengthy bending in search of the elusive cutlery.
Lady Colveden cut a thick slice of treacle sponge, and kept it defiantly for herself. Two smaller portions were passed to her grinning menfolk, and the custard was slow to follow. “Because,” said Lady Colveden, “of having them for supper afterwards. In their jackets. Honestly—you two! Roasting them,” as grins turned to outright laughter, “in the ashes, as I’m sure you knew as well as I did. Know, I mean. And do.”
“Sorry, m’dear.” Sir George’s toothbrush moustache quivered with apparent remorse.
His son’s remorse was less immediate. Nigel had been all too enchanted by a sudden vision of newly-dug potatoes, their eyes bright, dressed in dinner jackets and—a loud guffaw erupted, hands shook, inundating sponge with custard—frilled shirts, complete with cummerbunds, cufflinks, and black bow ties.
“I simply feel,” said Lady Colveden, on her dignity, “that it wouldn’t be such a terribly good idea for us—for the village—to build our bonfire too soon in advance. And that anybody who has ... well, any influence over them ought to say something before they do. Or ought to do something about it if they’ve done it already—not that I noticed anything when I drove past this afternoon,” as her husband and son stared at her in some bewilderment, “but you know how Murreystone are sure to try to spoil things if they can. After the Best Kept Village Competition, and the Conker Contest and everything—not,” came the voice of the temptress, “that I’m suggesting for one moment anyone should revive the Night Watch Men ...”
“Oh no,” said her son at once, in decisive tones. “No! Not just to keep watch over a heap of woodworm-riddled chairs”—his father stifled a groan—“and the odd tree-trunk worth about fourpence ha’penny the lot, including tax. You’d never dream of suggesting any such thing, would you, Mother darling?”
His darling mother hid a smile as his father, forgetting to groan, began to huff gently through his moustache. Young Mr. Colveden, however, paid no attention to either parent as he pressed on with his excuses.
“Oh, I’ll admit that in theory things are reasonably quiet at this time of year, but there’s always something to do on a farm—which is where pretty well everyone in the Village Watch works. And we like our beauty sleep,” he added, with great firmness. “Especially when the nights are so long—and so cold.” He shuddered, elaborately. “My vote goes for fluffy blankets and my eiderdown every time, when I have to be up at the crack of dawn next day, every blessed day of the week—and you can bet everyone else you ask is going to say the same.”
“Week?” echoed his mother, wide-eyed and innocent. “But Guy Fawkes Night’s only four days away, for goodness’ sake. And Murreystone,” she pointed out, “are five miles away at the most ...”
Nigel sighed. “I had no idea, Mother darling, that you had so great a thirst for violence.” Gently, he fingered the eye which had been blackened during the most recent inter-village fracas, on the occasion of the Conker Contest; then he found himself automatically clenching his fists at the memory, and frowned. “On the other hand ...”
Sir George cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t think they’d risk another punch-up quite so soon. Taught ’em a thing or two, I’d say. Need to get in training before they tackle us again.” His use of the first person plural was instinctive, even though his part in the proceedings had been limited to that of umpire, referee, and—on the stage of the village hall, with PC Potter and the admiral beside him—overseer. “Still, your mother could be right, m’boy. About some things, that is.”
Lady Colveden wasn’t going to argue one point when she seemed on the verge of winning another. “I do wish you didn’t sound quite so—so grudging about it, George. You know very well I’m right—and I’m not”—unable to resist the temptation—“talking about your armchair now, though you know I’m right about that, too. But Murreystone are always ... unreliable.”
Despite himself, Sir George emitted a bark of laughter. “Can think of better words, m’dear—but, well, after that business in the spring—the arson—putting ideas in their blasted heads ...”
“Please, Dad.” Nigel stopped laughing, and looked pained. “Vandalism is one thing—anyone half decent’d want to put a stop to people digging up cricket squares or pinching garden ornaments—but when it’s just a bonfire—”
“Burn it down,” said Sir George, as Nigel broke off in despair, “and there’d be nothing left, dammit.” The potential loss of his favourite armchair was as nothing to the idea of Murreystone victorious. “Can hardly waste decent coal to build another, or go using green wood—don’t want the place riddled with sparks when it’s alight, setting fire to people’s clothes. And as for the smoke ...”
“Got it!” Nigel’s eyes were bright. “Don’t let’s build the bonfire at all! Not yet, I mean,” as his parents looked startled. “I quite agree we shouldn’t let Murreystone get away with anything, whatever it might be, but I fail to see why my nights should be permanently disrupted just so somebody can keep an eye on the blighters when they’re in”—he grinned at his mother, winked at his father—“an unreliable mood. And they’re bound to be unreliable after the Conker business, of course. Give ’em half a chance, and they’ll be sneaking down here in the middle of the night to use up our entire stock of dry fuel in one fell swoop ... but they’ll only be able to sneak if they know where it is.”
“But how,” enquired his mother, “could they not know? The bonfire isn’t exactly small—at least, it hasn’t been in previous years, and I don’t see why this year should be any different. And then, if it is built small, on purpose, wouldn’t that be—be giving in to Murreystone?” Her ladyship shook her head. “That isn’t how we won the War, Nigel. I really can’t see that sort of—of spineless behaviour being very popular with anyone in the village, not even Constable Potter, just for the sake of peace and quiet.”
“The Colvedens,” protested her ladyship’s husband at once, “aren’t cowards, Meg.” Sir George seldom spoke of the events which had led to the winning of his Distinguished Service Order, but the citation had left no doubt as to the baronet’s courage in battle. “Boy has
a plan, if you ask me—right, Nigel?”
“Right.” Nigel nodded vigorously. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad. I’m wounded beyond belief that my own mother should think her son would propose anything so—so dashed cowardly. Cunning, not cowardice, is the strategy applied by the Colvedens in moments of crisis—I say, that was rather good, wasn’t it?”
“A cunning plan. Good show. Thought as much,” said his father, as his mother begged her son’s pardon, and pressed him for further details.
Nigel shrugged. “Easy, really. Each person stores his or her own hunks of wood or bits of rickety furniture”—he shot a sympathetic look in the direction of his father—“or tatty old tea-chests in their own garden shed—and we don’t bring them out until the afternoon of November the fourth. Then we go hell-for-leather building the bonfire, and set a round-the-clock guard until the Fifth, and all the fun. We can do without sleep for a few hours for one night, heaven knows, if we work the rota right. It’s just the—the constant patrolling I object to. I mean, Plummergen’s our own village, yet if you stop to think about it we’re practically under siege half the time from those Murreystone blighters across the marsh.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Sir George. “Well done, Nigel.” The old war-horse paid compliment. “Should have thought of it m’self—still, near enough. Keep it in the family. Fox those beggars thoroughly, I should think. Er—want me to give Jessyp a ring, or will you?”
Headmaster Martin Jessyp was renowned as Plummergen’s finest paper-shuffler. The school timetable, the cricket team batting order, and the Christmas pantomime rehearsal schedule were no mystery to his methodical mind, even if Sir George, with his army experience, could not be faulted on overall organisational ability.
“Me? Good Lord, no. The cricket reshuffle when poor old Bert was stung by that bee was bad enough, thanks very much.” Nigel turned pale at the memory, though the events to which he referred had taken place all of two months before, when postman Bert had tried, with unfortunate results, to deliver a parcel at the house of Admiral Leighton. Had the guilty admiral, a last-minute stand-in, not proved to be a master of the googly—the sneaky sideways-curving ball which caught batsmen on the hop—the result of the Murreystone needle match would have been very different ...
“Ring him m’self, if you like. Ahem! Later, though.” Sir George, like his son, had been put in mind of Admiral Bernard “Buzzard” Leighton, not only a brilliant bowler, but also Plummergen’s resident apiarist. Pushing away his empty pudding-plate with a contented sigh, the baronet returned to the irresistible pages of British Beekeeping’s most recent issue. He and the Buzzard, who had lent him this invaluable periodical, planned to go into partnership next spring; Sir George was dreaming now of dessert sponges sweetened, not with treacle, but with the finest honey ...
“And there’s the hedgehogs, too,” said her ladyship, as she and Nigel began to clear the table. “Only think how much better for them, poor things. I’m sure you didn’t mean it that way at the time, Nigel, but it was rather clever of you. Maybe we should do the same thing every year.”
With the gravy-boat in one hand, the jug of cold custard in the other, her son gazed in bewilderment at his innocent parent, piling plate upon plate to slide them through the hatch, beaming at him with approval. He shot a wary look in the direction of British Beekeeping, but could see only the top of his father’s head. Unable, with his hands full, to scratch his own pate in a parody of perplexity, he ambled across to the hatch, divested himself of his burden, mimed his confusion with an expressive shrug, and said:
“For the cricket? Alice in Wonderland played croquet, as I recall, with hedgehogs—but she used flamingoes, which are a bit thin on the ground around here. Would, um, herons be an admissible substitute? Hedgehog and Heron Cricket.” He grinned. “Unusual, I grant you. Perhaps a little uncomfortable for the animals involved, but—”
“Nigel, don’t be tiresome. Come and do the pans while I load the washer—you know perfectly well it was hibernation I was talking about. They creep,” said her ladyship, kneeling before the open, rubber-sealed door, “into corners, and cover themselves with leaves, and sleep right through until the spring ...”
“Sometimes wish I could, slaving away as hard as I do.” Nigel scraped absently at a burned patch. “You wouldn’t see me for six months—then, the first warm day and there I’d be, sitting in the sun doing nothing at all, just resting.”
His mother rose, slamming the dishwasher door. “You’d be bored in a minute, you know you would. Just as you know,” switching on, “that hedgehogs hibernate, and sleep so deeply they don’t notice they’ve crawled into the middle of a bonfire, and when it’s time to light it ... Such a horrid idea, and I think you’ve been very clever, Nigel. We should have thought of it ages ago. They’re so good for the garden—eating slugs and things, and you don’t have to give them bread-and-milk to encourage them. They’re rather fond of tinned catfood, apparently.”
“Apparently,” echoed Nigel, rinsing his final saucepan under the tap, “you’ve had a talk on hedgehogs at one of your meetings. What, as a matter of interest, did they say about fleas?”
“Not the same sort as dogs and cats,” returned his mother at once. “So Mrs. Ongar said, anyway—you know. Miss Seeton’s friend from the bird sanctuary in Rye—oh, yes. That reminds me, I didn’t want to say anything to them until I’d asked her, but ...”
“Wounded Wings,” murmured Nigel, giving the sanctuary its full title. “It only shows how you learn something new every day. I, er, never realised hedgehogs could fly.”
His mother ignored him. “I do hope she won’t be offended, although I’m sure they didn’t mean it that way—they’d never dare,” with a little giggle. “They’re much too—not scared, exactly—but wary, perhaps. You know how some of their parents are silly enough to say she’s a witch. That’s why they always behave themselves whenever she teaches them, of course. I would have said she had far too much common sense to take it as an insult, because they really have made rather a good job of it—one can’t say him, in the circumstances, though I suppose one should, logically, or at least historically. And I know I said they didn’t mean it that way, but it still feels a bit uncomfortable saying she, even if she did give them one of her old hats, or something that looks remarkably like one, anyway. And if she did, she must have known what it was for, or at least guessed—and Miss Seeton,” concluded her ladyship, “surely would have refused, if she thought it was meant as an insult. But I’d feel so much happier having heard her say so herself ...”
chapter
~ 8 ~
“PENNY FOR THE GUY, Miss?”
Miss Seeton, emerging from the draper’s, found her attention being addressed by a huddle of her sometime pupils outside the post office, diagonally opposite. With a nod and a smile, she responded to their waving hands and shrill cries; she raised her umbrella in acknowledgement of their further salute, then carefully, looking first to the right, then to the left, then to the right once more—one should never assume that children, even in so quiet a place as Plummergen, would remember their Kerb Drill on all occasions without a good example having been set by responsible adults—crossed from one side of The Street to the other.
In the light from Mr. Stillman’s window, the vociferous huddle was more plainly to be seen amid the gloom of a late autumn afternoon. Giggling, shuffling, nudging one another, the children moved aside to display their handiwork to best advantage.
Miss Seeton looked; smiled, politely; looked again; seemed, though she tried to hide it, disappointed. Offended? Possibly. On the paved footpath at her feet, gigantic arms and legs akimbo, sporting a shapeless smock, denim pantaloons, and a black felt hat with a once-proud feather cockscomb, sprawled a sacking form that was larger than life, or at least larger than any member of the enthusiastic bodyguard who now begged Miss Seeton again for the modest sum required by the tradition of almost four hundred years.
“Penny for the guy, Miss?”
Eager hands pointed to the straggle-lettered sign, to the sprinkling of coins in the cardboard box beneath.
One should, of course, encourage them; but ...
“The hat, naturally, I recognise.” Miss Seeton’s eyes twinkled. “And I must commend the effort which has gone into the body, and the limbs, though I do hope that none of your parents will prove to have been especially attached to any particular item of clothing ...”
As she hesitated—honesty was the best policy, yet one did not wish to discourage them—someone said:
“Funny face though, ain’t it, Miss?”
Miss Seeton’s sigh of relief drowned out the furious retorts of those who had struggled with the features of the straw-stuffed figure on the pavement. One did not, after all, have to prevaricate. “Well,” began Miss Seeton; then stopped. The tip of her umbrella touched in turn the blank button eyes, the smudged nose, the lipstick gash of mouth. “I’m sure you must have worked very hard,” said Miss Seeton, gently. “But ... the difficulties of working on such coarse material, of course ... perhaps a paper mask, when you are all children who can, as I know very well, produce such splendid work in class ...”
“Dunno what he looked like, Miss.”
The admission was echoed by the rest of the little band. Miss Seeton frowned.
“But surely—on the boxes of fireworks ...”
“Not allowed to buy ’em.”
Of course: only parents, or those organising displays. So very wise of Mr. Stillman and the rest, though it was now, she believed, also a matter of law that children below a certain age should not be permitted to buy fireworks. There were, regrettably, some who could not be trusted to behave in a sensible manner with squibs and jumping-jacks ... Yet this was no excuse.
“There are boxes in shop windows,” said Miss Seeton, “if you only take the trouble to look. And to see,” she added, sounding by turns stern and regretful. It was Miss Seeton’s firm opinion that everyone should learn—should be taught—to see as clearly as possible. Her evident lack of success in this respect ...
Miss Seeton Rules (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 18) Page 7
