Passing Strange Read Free Page B

Kershaw went in for flower arranging, Herbert Kershaw had gone in for sheep.
    â€œI’ve just been up to Scotland,” added the florid-faced farmer.
    â€œOh yes?” said Fred unencouragingly.
    â€œAnd bought myself a real winner.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œThe best ram at the market – a prize Border Leicester Cheviot.”
    â€œThat’ll help the flock along,” said Fred Pearson.
    â€œSo the Secretary might be with the Decorative Classes, then?” said Ken Walls with more pertinacity.
    â€œHe was there,” said Kershaw, beginning to move away. “He was looking for the District Nurse.”
    When the farmer had gone Pearson exploded. “I don’t know how he does it,” he said, with all the poor man’s contempt for the rich one. “I really don’t.”
    â€œCedric Milsom at Dorter End isn’t doing too badly either,” said Walls. “He’s driving a Range-Rover nowadays and he’s bought something new on four legs for his wife, too.”
    With Mrs Milsom it wasn’t Flower Arrangements. It was horses.
    Pearson was still talking about Herbert Kershaw. “Do you realize he didn’t even get an Honourable Mention for his ewes at the Berebury Show, let alone win anything at the County one at Calleford?”
    â€œPerhaps that’s why he needs a good ram,” said Ken Walls briefly. “Come on, Fred, this way. Mr Burton must be about somewhere.”
    He was.
    And he was rapidly coming to the sad conclusion that it was not his, Norman Burton’s, day. While he knew from past experience that everything in the Horticultural Society Secretary’s garden was not lovely and never likely to be, he had not bargained for quite so much trouble as he seemed to have on his hands at the moment.
    â€œWhat sort of a car did you say it was, Sam?” he was asking an older man just as Fred Pearson and Ken Walls hove into view.
    â€œA Mini,” said Sam Watkinson.
    â€œSurely,” said an exasperated Burton, “everyone in the village knows not to park a car there! Whose car is it?”
    â€œThat’s the whole trouble,” said the other man. “If I knew whose it was I’d ask them to move it.”
    â€œSorry, Sam. I know you would.” The Honorary Secretary was speaking quite genuinely. Sam Watkinson ran the Priory Home Farm, which lay immediately behind the old Priory, and was no trouble-maker. He was People’s Warden at the Church and a magistrate, too.
    â€œIf it wasn’t milking time,” he said reasonably, “it wouldn’t matter.”
    Burton shot a quick look at his watch. “It’s after four already.”
    â€œThat’s right,” said Watkinson amiably. “And it’s Saturday afternoon, which is why I’m doing the milking myself, agricultural wages being what they are.”
    â€œI didn’t realize it was as late as that,” said Burton.
    â€œAs it is,” said Watkinson in tacit agreement, “I can’t get the cows into the milking parlour.”
    Burton nodded. Time, tide and milking cows waited for no man. “I’ve always said we should have had a public address system for the Show …”
    â€œNoisy things,” said Watkinson. “Stop you thinking properly, let alone talking.” He was a calm man in late middle age, known for his fair judgement on the Bench. “I don’t like them myself and whoever’s coming to the Priory might not like them either.”
    â€œI’ve heard that it might be going to be someone young,” said Burton absently. “A Mellows, though.”
    â€œThe nephew’s daughter was what I’d heard,” said Sam Watkinson, “but no one seems to know for sure. Not even Edward Hebbinge. He says it’s all in the solicitors’ hands. They’ve been hunting her up.”
    â€œThat’ll be why it’s taking all this time, then,” said