one to death with accounts of their important acquaintances. Never was a conversation so sprinkled with lords, ladies, admirals, generals, and what not, until I thought I should be driven to deriving a game about them all, in order to keep my sanity. It could be done with points, I told myself, my glazed eyes on my visitor and a fixed smile on my lips. Two points, say, for peers of the realm and their ladies, and for top-ranking people in the services. One point for friends mentioned, who were working in:
(a) The Foreign Office
(b) Embassies
(c) B.B.C. and
(d) 'Little' shops in Bond Street;
and none, I decided, as I dropped sugar into my guest's cup, for nephews who had just written:
(a) an enchanting collection of obscure verse—published privately,
(b) a powerful novel or
(c) a script for Midland Region.
However, she made a great fuss of dear Tibby, and didn't flinch when he ran cruel claws into her beautiful sheer nylons, so that I forgave her for her harmless delusions of grandeur, and made her a present of a pot of my grapefruit marmalade when she left. How far this generosity was prompted by my guilty conscience I should not like to say.
It has been a real spring day. The wind has turned due west and is as warm and soft as can be. I have a few crocuses out among the clumps of snowdrops, and there are fat buds on the japonica by the wall, which is all most heartening.
Mrs Pringle, to whom I made a blithe comment about the fine weather, did her best to turn the world sour for me.
'See the moon last night? Lying on its back?'
I said that I had. I had noticed it from my landing-window as I went to bed—an upturned silver slice, supporting the shadowy completion of its circle.
'Know what that means?' enquired Mrs Pringle, arms akimbo, and her voice heavy with foreboding.
Mr Willet, who was screwing up the catch on the woodshed door, and had been listening to our conversation, now shouted across:
'Well, you tell us then. Seems you want to!'
'The moon on its back,' said Mrs Pringle, with much emphasis, 'is a sure sign of rain. "Moon on her back, with water in her lap." Ever heard that? You see—we'll have a tempest before night—a proper downpour!'
She looked across to my garden where two pairs of stockings and two tea-towels danced in the breeze.
'You've chose the wrong day for washing,' she added, and returned into the lobby to scour the sink.
Mr Willet puffed out his moustache with disgust.
'Never heard such nonsense,' he said to me, in a carrying whisper, 'real old wives' tale that, about water in its lap. The ignorance! The stuff some of these folk believes, in the twentieth century! Lives in the dark ages some of 'em.'
He screwed another turn or two, grunting with effort. At length he ceased, and wiped his brow with the back of his huge hand. He still looked disgruntled.
'"Moon on her back. Water in her lap,"' he quoted disgustedly. 'A downpour! Lot of nonsense! Why, any fool knows it means a high wind!'
Mrs Partridge called after tea to tell me about great goings-on in the W.I. world. Although I am a member of the Fairacre W.I., I can rarely attend the meetings, as they are held in the afternoon; but Mrs Partridge, who is President, keeps me au fait with the news.
Evidently the county as a whole is to stage a pageant. Each Institute, or group of Institutes, will have an historical scene to act, and the whole will tell the story of the people who have lived in this county, through the ages.
'When do we start?' I asked.
'As soon as we've had another meeting,' answered Mrs Partridge.
'No, I mean, at what stage of history do we begin? The Norman Conquest, or the Ice Age, or what?'
'For the life of me,' said Mrs Partridge, much perplexed, 'I don't know, but the County Office will send further particulars, I don't doubt.'
Neither did I, having seen some of the lengthy documents that flutter from that quarter every month.
'Do we choose which scene we like?' I asked. I was mentally casting Mrs
(a) The Foreign Office
(b) Embassies
(c) B.B.C. and
(d) 'Little' shops in Bond Street;
and none, I decided, as I dropped sugar into my guest's cup, for nephews who had just written:
(a) an enchanting collection of obscure verse—published privately,
(b) a powerful novel or
(c) a script for Midland Region.
However, she made a great fuss of dear Tibby, and didn't flinch when he ran cruel claws into her beautiful sheer nylons, so that I forgave her for her harmless delusions of grandeur, and made her a present of a pot of my grapefruit marmalade when she left. How far this generosity was prompted by my guilty conscience I should not like to say.
It has been a real spring day. The wind has turned due west and is as warm and soft as can be. I have a few crocuses out among the clumps of snowdrops, and there are fat buds on the japonica by the wall, which is all most heartening.
Mrs Pringle, to whom I made a blithe comment about the fine weather, did her best to turn the world sour for me.
'See the moon last night? Lying on its back?'
I said that I had. I had noticed it from my landing-window as I went to bed—an upturned silver slice, supporting the shadowy completion of its circle.
'Know what that means?' enquired Mrs Pringle, arms akimbo, and her voice heavy with foreboding.
Mr Willet, who was screwing up the catch on the woodshed door, and had been listening to our conversation, now shouted across:
'Well, you tell us then. Seems you want to!'
'The moon on its back,' said Mrs Pringle, with much emphasis, 'is a sure sign of rain. "Moon on her back, with water in her lap." Ever heard that? You see—we'll have a tempest before night—a proper downpour!'
She looked across to my garden where two pairs of stockings and two tea-towels danced in the breeze.
'You've chose the wrong day for washing,' she added, and returned into the lobby to scour the sink.
Mr Willet puffed out his moustache with disgust.
'Never heard such nonsense,' he said to me, in a carrying whisper, 'real old wives' tale that, about water in its lap. The ignorance! The stuff some of these folk believes, in the twentieth century! Lives in the dark ages some of 'em.'
He screwed another turn or two, grunting with effort. At length he ceased, and wiped his brow with the back of his huge hand. He still looked disgruntled.
'"Moon on her back. Water in her lap,"' he quoted disgustedly. 'A downpour! Lot of nonsense! Why, any fool knows it means a high wind!'
Mrs Partridge called after tea to tell me about great goings-on in the W.I. world. Although I am a member of the Fairacre W.I., I can rarely attend the meetings, as they are held in the afternoon; but Mrs Partridge, who is President, keeps me au fait with the news.
Evidently the county as a whole is to stage a pageant. Each Institute, or group of Institutes, will have an historical scene to act, and the whole will tell the story of the people who have lived in this county, through the ages.
'When do we start?' I asked.
'As soon as we've had another meeting,' answered Mrs Partridge.
'No, I mean, at what stage of history do we begin? The Norman Conquest, or the Ice Age, or what?'
'For the life of me,' said Mrs Partridge, much perplexed, 'I don't know, but the County Office will send further particulars, I don't doubt.'
Neither did I, having seen some of the lengthy documents that flutter from that quarter every month.
'Do we choose which scene we like?' I asked. I was mentally casting Mrs