Passing Strange Read Free Page A

…”
    â€œYes?” said the Rector with interest.
    â€œI don’t need a tent and a shawl and a crystal ball to tell what’s going to become of her and neither does Nurse Cooper. That reminds me, Thomas, have you seen Joyce Cooper? She doesn’t seem to be anywhere and that’s not like her.”
    â€œIt isn’t,” he agreed heartily. “She usually seems to be everywhere.”
    â€œNow, Thomas …”
    â€œA good woman,” he said at once.
    â€œAnd that’s not a compliment, the way you said it, Thomas Jervis.”
    â€œPerhaps she’s gone home with a headache.”
    â€œShe’s never ill. Besides, someone’s been to check. There’s a note on her door which says ‘At Flower Show’.”
    â€œThen I expect she is,” said the Rector reasonably.
    â€œBut whereabouts?”
    It was a question that wasn’t answered until later.

2
    Stopped diapason
    Ken Walls and Fred Pearson weren’t looking for Joyce Cooper. They were hunting Norman Burton, the Show Secretary.
    â€œHe might not be able to do anything,” said Ken.
    â€œThe Rector said he should be told,” said Fred.
    â€œHe also said that there were Mrs Wellstone’s feelings to be considered as well,” pointed out Ken.
    â€œHe had to say that, didn’t he? He’s a Christian.”
    â€œWell, she’s going to think her tomatoes were best now, isn’t she? Bound to.”
    â€œBut they weren’t,” said Pearson flatly.
    â€œAt least,” noted Walls with approval, “she wasn’t standing beside them.”
    The practice of an entrant demanding the winner’s meed of praise by hovering within congratulatory distance of the winning entry was roundly condemned in Almstone, Calleshire. If there was a lower standard of behaviour at Chelsea, London, the village of Almstone neither knew nor cared.
    The pair caught sight of a man called Maurice Esdaile looking at them.
    â€œWhat’s he doing here?” demanded Fred.
    â€œSearch me,” said Walls.
    Pearson hailed someone else he knew. “’Afternoon, Mr Kershaw. You haven’t seen the Show Secretary anywhere by any chance, have you?”
    Herbert Kershaw was one of the leading farmers in Almstone. Abbot’s Hall Farm, which he ran with evident success, was one of the three large farms which made up the Priory estate. The others were Home Farm and Dorter End.
    â€œHe’s somewhere about, Fred. You could try the Decorative Classes tent.”
    â€œMrs Kershaw do well this year?” asked Pearson promptly. He could get the message as quickly as the next man.
    â€œTwo Firsts and a Third.”
    Pearson nodded. It was known that Mrs Kershaw liked to win.
    â€œPerhaps now,” said Herbert Kershaw with mock ruefulness, “I’ll be given a proper meal for a change. Haven’t had one for days. You couldn’t move in our house for flowers.”
    Fred Pearson acknowledged this politely. The rising prosperity of farmers had affected their wives too. Time was when the farmer’s wife had worked as hard as her husband, with the profit from the poultry and the hand-turned butter as her only prerogative. Fred Pearson, who knew most things about Almstone, was prepared to bet that the nearest Mrs Kershaw got to nature was searching in the hedges for likely teazles. She went in for flower-arranging in a big way.
    â€œDid the judging go well?” asked Ken Walls cunningly.
    â€œTwo Firsts and a Third,” repeated the farmer.
    â€œI meant were there any complaints about it.”
    â€œNone that I’ve heard,” said Kershaw, shrugging his shoulders, “and I wouldn’t know myself. I can’t tell a good flower arrangement from a bad one and I’m damned if I know how anyone else can either.” He threw his head back. “Now if it had been sheep …”
    Both the other men nodded dutifully. While Mrs