Edmund Crispin - The Long Divorce: Gervase Fen, #8

On the afternoon of Friday 2 June 1950, a Mr. Datchery, having put his week-end bag on to a bus with the request that it be civilly ejected at an inn named The Marlborough Head, set out to walk the four miles which separate the market town of Twelford from the village of Cotten Abbas.

He was a tall and wiry man of between forty and fifty, with a lean, ruddy, clean shaven face. His brown hair, ineffectually plastered down with water, stood up in mutinous spikes at the crown of his head. His manner was eupeptic and affable. From the town hall at Twelford, where the bus had relieved him of his bag, he strode westwards along the main street, and by three oclock he was past the outlying estate of council houses and into open country.

The sun that Friday had risen in a blur of rain; but at breakfast time the clouds had cleared, and by mid-day all traces of the shower had been eliminated, and the earth was beginning to absorb and accumulate heat. To an obbligato of bird-song Mr. Datchery marched beneath a bright sky towards Cotten Abbas. And he carolled lustily, to the distress of all animate nature, as he walked.

I will make my kitchen, sang Mr. Datchery, and you shall keep your room, where white flows the river and bright blows the broom. And the cattle, lifting their heads as he passed, lowed a mournful burden to the tune.

The directions given him at Twelford had been explicit. But since he believed himself to possess an infallible bump of locality, he was soon tempted to modify them with a variety of short cuts, and after about three miles he discovered, much to his indignation, that he was lost. We first distinctly see him, then, standing oppressed by this realization at the junction of four lanes, like a pilgrim in an allegory. The land lies flat and featureless on every side; the ancient wooden fingerpost is indecipherable; and for the moment the only visible representative of organic life is a very small black kitten engaged in pouncing on something at the exact centre of a very large green field.

The kitten, however, suggested that humanity must be somewhere in the offingfor kittens, even when avid for field-mice, seldom stray immoderate distances from their homes. Mr. Datchery, selecting a lane at random, began to move energetically along it. And presently he was rewarded by coming within earshot of a combination of sounds which, though not readily explicable, were undoubtedly of human origin. Rounding a bend in the lane, Mr. Datchery came upon a surprising and improbable sight.

What he saw first was a football grounda football ground unaccountably isolated from mankind amidst fields of wheat and pasture. What he saw next was a diminutive, but evidently new, grandstand at its far side. And what he saw last was about a hundred schoolboys jumping up and down on the grandstand with a noise like houses falling.

This unlikely performance brought Mr. Datchery temporarily to a halt. Schoolboys were apt, no doubt, to jump up and down on grandstands whenever an exciting game was being playedbut in this instance there were no footballers on the field at all. Open-mouthed, Mr. Datchery looked on while the boys leaped and cavorted and giggled and roared. Then, the first shock of amazement wearing away, he became aware that he was not alone in his admiration.

Close to the more distant extremity of the stand a man and a girl stood shouting at one anothershouting not in wrath, but because the noise made communication impossible on any other terms. The man was elderly, and a member of what used to be called the artisan class; the girl was about sixteen. Beyond them, and to the left, a younger man could be seen wandering about aimlessly behind the goal-postsbut it was towards the group of two that Mr. Datchery made his way, for he knew from experience that a female, however young; can always be relied upon to give more sane and accurate directions for getting anywhere than a male.

OneTWOTHREE! shrieked a spotty boy. And at the final word, two hundred stoutly-shod feet descended with shattering force on the tiers of the stand, so that it quivered as if at the impact of a typhoon. Ah, the elderly man said smugly to the girl. Shell old. Yes, shell old all right. It was evidently he who had been responsible for the stands erection.

Mr. Datchery, joining them, was received incuriously. Theres a sweet job for you, sir, said the elderly man with inane satisfaction. Firm as a rock, that is. Them lads as got the afternoon off to try er out for safety, and if they cant knock er down, then no one can.

Where am I? Mr. Datchery bawled at him as the assault on the stand was renewed.

Ah, you may well say so, sir, the elderly man replied. Youll not find a better piece of work than that, not in the ole length and breadth of the land.

What I want to know, shouted Mr. Datchery irritably, is, where I am.

Costly, sir? said the elderly man. Not a bit of it. Why, if theyd ave ad Phelps and Co. from Twelford, theyd ave ad to pay double my price.

Mr. Datchery stared coldly at the girl, who had lapsed into convulsions of laughter.

You old fool, he yelled, for the last time, where am I?

A spark of enlightenment which now appeared in the elderly mans glazed eyes suggested that he had at last caught the drift of Mr. Datcherys questions, but he was distracted from the use of this discovery by a sudden ominous noise of splintering wood.

Ere, you damned boys, he bellowed, you watch what youre doing, cant you?

Firm as a rock, said Mr. Datchery malignantly. But the elderly man had already departed on a punitive expedition. Is there no one, said Mr. Datchery in despair, who can tell me where I am?

The girl was by now in such uncontrollable fits of laughter that she had to lie down on the ground. She was a thin, long-legged creature, Mr. Datchery saw, with straight brown hair, acid-stained fingers, and clothes which, though good, were sloppily worn and little cared for. But for all that, she was pretty in a coltish sort of way, and it seemed to Mr. Datchery not improbable that she was intelligent as well.

Youll make yourself sick in a minute, he said. For heavens sake pull yourself together and tell me how to get to Cotten Abbas.

Cotten Abbas? The girl sat upright and spoke breathlessly through a residual attack of giggles. Where have you come from?

Twelford.

I dont know how youve managed to land up here, then.What is this place?

The girl relapsed into mirth. Ah, she spluttered convulsively, sweet as a nut, that wood is. You wouldnt find a better, not if you was to search from Lands End to John o Groats.

For heavens sake, said Mr. Datchery.

The girl wiped her eyes with a rather grubby handkerchief.

Oh, gosh, she said in a choking voice. Laughing makes me so weak Help me up, will you? This is awful.

Mr. Datchery helped her up and stood, waiting grimly while she recovered her equanimity.

I say, Im awfully sorry, she said presently. But honestly, Ive never heard anything so funny in my life What was it you were asking? Oh, I remember Well, this isnt any place, really, except a football ground. Cottens the nearest place. With a supreme effort, she gulped the last of the giggles into extinction. I tell you what: Im walking back to Cotten myself in a minute, so you can come with me.

Is it far?

Only a couple of miles, she said, hitching her skirt to a more comfortable position and brushing grass and earth from it with the palm of her hand. But if youre in a terrific hurry you can walk from here to the Twelford road and pick up a bus.

Mr. Datcherys enthusiasm for physical effort had never been of a very enduring kind. When is the next bus? he inquired.

The girl considered. In about an hour, she said.

Then its just as well, said Mr. Datchery rather coldly, that Im not in a terrific hurry. Do you live at Cotten Abbas?