Mrs. Tim Flies Home by D.E. Stevenson

Author:D.E. Stevenson
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2018-11-07T06:00:00+00:00

Tuesday, 24th July

At last a suitable day has been found for the long-promised expedition to Wandlebury. Tony calls for me after lunch and off we go at breath-taking speed.

I enquire why Tony is driving so much faster than usual.

“But I’m not,” he replies in surprise. “I always drive fast when I want to get anywhere—you ought to know that.”

Wandlebury is a small country town; there is a large square with a fountain in the middle and all round this square there are buildings of various degrees of antiquity. On one side there is a very ancient coaching inn called the Apollo and Boot with all the usual stables and outhouses attached; on another side stand the County Buildings and on the other two sides there are shops.

Tony parks Belshazzar in the square and announces cheerfully that he is perfectly free this afternoon and will accompany me on my shopping expedition and carry my basket. It is very kind of him. I have a feeling that I should get on much better alone, but nothing can be done about it.

The first item on my list is a pair of thick brown walking-shoes. I explain this to my companion and he replies that he knows the very place where these can be obtained and leads me across the square.

The shop is long and narrow and rather dark; there are no other customers in it but at the far end there are two girls, knitting jumpers and talking to one another earnestly the while. They pay no attention to us and, after waiting for a few moments, Tony takes the matter into his own hands.

“Sit down, Madame,” he says gravely. “It was walking-shoes you wanted? I think we have just what you require.”

The shelves are stacked with white boxes from floor to ceiling and Tony prowls around, taking them down and reading the labels aloud. “Glacé pumps . . . red and white strollers. Would you like to stroll, Hester? Beach sandals . . . satin slippers . . . green mules. I should hate to see a green mule so we won’t open that box. Hullo, this is more like it! Brown laced shoes! Do you take size three?”

“Four and a half,” I reply.

“How annoying of you!” exclaims Tony, throwing the box onto the floor, where already there is a pile of opened boxes and shoes of all sorts and sizes which he has discarded in his search. “How very annoying—but never mind, we’ll keep on trying. You wouldn’t like a navy and white court shoe, I suppose?” asks Tony, holding it up elegantly between his fingers and thumb.

“Could you recommend it for walking in a muddy country lane?”

“Well—frankly—no,” says Tony sadly. “And, as a matter of fact, it’s size six so it might be a little too big. Of course you could always wear a couple of pairs of thick socks for padding, couldn’t you?”

At this moment one of the girls approaches. She is fat and wears a bright green jumper—obviously knitted by herself—and she looks extremely cross.

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