The day after that Sunday afternoon vicarage meeting at which
Mr Morgan had for the first time felt he was achieving some degree of
integration into village life over and beyond serenading the occasional births,
marriages, and deaths that occurred there, he waylaid his landlord, Mr Davies
the newsagent, to tell him about the forthcoming eisteddfod. They were not
friends and Mr Davies was a lousy landlord, but he had Welsh ancestry and that
was a good reason for sharing the good news.
Thanks to Mr Davies, the news of a public meeting to
inaugurate the eisteddfod spread like wildfire and a lot faster than the
freebie Gazette could publish it. On the Friday of the same week, the public
meeting that took place in the church hall was crammed with people, including some
who had never sung in a choir and people from the Lower Grumpsfield chapel
choir who were there purely out of curiosity.
Right now, everyone was making a lot more noise talking about
singing than they possibly could when they actually were singing. Laura Finch,
who had brought along the whole of her ladies chorus, The Finch Nightingales, eventually rose to her full height to make
herself conspicuous, but no one took much notice.
Dorothy, who usually played for the church choir rehearsals on an ancient piano while Mr Morgan
stood on a rostrum and conducted the singers using a conductor's real baton,
decided the disturbance had gone on for long enough, so she played a few very
loud, desperate chords on the piano. In their wake, Mr Morgan tapped his baton
vigorously against the music stand and silence was finally achieved.
Mr Morgan could see that they were not going to get anything
done with people standing cramped shoulder to shoulder in an overheated room,
so he decided that Mr Parsnip, who had been waiting eagerly for a chance to
bless everyone, ought to get the business over and then they could all go into
the church for a really good singsong.
The vicar, who had been hoping to hear some nice uplifting
hymns, blushed and cleared his throat. Somebody helped him onto a chair so that
everyone could see him and he began “We are gathered here today....” as he
always did, whatever the occasion.
Mr Parsnip took his time and consulted his copious notes
explaining the ins and outs of the music festival, but not until he had spent
ten minutes adlibbing about togetherness, forgiveness, and a few other ‘nesses’
which had just occurred to him. He was interrupted by a now very impatient Mr
Morgan.
“There's definitely going to be an eisteddfod,” the organist shouted
proudly, and everybody oohed and aahed and pretended to know exactly what that
meant. The vicar was surprised mainly because it wasn’t like Mr Morgan to
interrupt.
“Well, Mr Morgan, you might as well say it all, now you've
started,” snapped Mr Parsnip, who was secretly relieved that he didn't have to
say any Welsh words, but not quite sure if Mr Morgan was up to taking the reins
at a meeting.
He needn’t have worried. Mr Morgan was now in his element. His
shyness and secret vows not to take any responsibility for anything except his
organ-playing were pushed aside. He insisted on telling everyone the history of
music festivals from the year dot, emphasizing the need for frequent attendance
at rehearsals and pointing out that the church hall was conveniently close to
the village pub, should anybody's throat need lubrication. It might have been
the last part of his speech that earned him a round of applause, but on the
other hand, there was no denying the eagerness of all those present to be in on
the event.
That must have been the moment at which Mr Morgan realized
that it was quite easy to step out of the shadows when you really wanted to. If
only he could find the same courage when he came face to face with whatever
lady he fancied.
When it came to getting people to organize it all, Mr Morgan
did, however, become reticent in the hope that no one would put his name up for
any of the tedious chores.
He was in luck because there was nothing Dorothy liked better
than ordering everyone about. She was voted almost unanimously to the post of coordinator,
with Cleo to help her with the correspondence. Laura was the only abstention.
When it came to the vote for music-content organizer, Laura proposed the
position and then received the most votes for it. Dorothy abstained in the firm
belief that she would have to do everything anyway. Mr Morgan graciously
accepted the post of chief conductor and Mr Parsnip put himself up to open the
proceedings, a tradition he cultivated eagerly whatever the function.
From now until the big day the organizers would meet regularly
after the prize holiday. The Upper Grumpsfield parish church choir was to be
the host choir at the event, although compared with Welsh choirs they would be
woefully inadequate. That impediment was noted by Gareth Morgan.
Despite not having voted for one another, Dorothy and Laura
were seemingly in agreement about almost everything. After the meeting in the
church hall Dorothy took Laura aside and reported what Mr Duggy Marketing had
told her that morning.
“Oh, what does it matter?” said Laura to Dorothy's utter
astonishment. “We'll go next Monday and get it over with. Then we can get down
to the nitty-gritty of the music festival.”
Dorothy, who was usually the only one interested in the
nitty-gritty of anything, agreed wholeheartedly and the vicar, who had only
heard the last few words of the ladies’ conversation, again congratulated
himself on setting the world to rights by getting the two ladies to agree.
Next morning Dorothy went to her front door to answer some
urgent doorbell ringing was surprised to see Mr Smith the regular postman. He
did not have his arm in a sling and was smiling broadly.
“Good morning, Miss Price.”
“What a nice surprise, Mr Smith.”
“I just wanted to say that I'm back on regular deliveries from
next Monday. My arm is nearly better now.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr Smith. So Mr Wilkins won't be
coming anymore?”
“Well, I can't lift heavy things yet, so he's going to deliver
the parcels and look after the dry-cleaning while I just do the letters and
money.”
“I don't suppose you can play your trumpet yet, can you, Mr
Smith?”
“Not quite as well as usual. The valves are a bit of a
problem.”
“Have you heard about the music festival?”
“That's one of the things I've come rung the bell about, Miss
Price. I want to ask you to put in a good word for me with Mr Morgan, so that
he lets me sing in the choir, even though I don't go to church very often.”
“I'll see what I can do,” Dorothy promised, remembering
ruefully how unbelievably loud Mr Smith could sing and play. “I expect he could
use a few more basses.”
“Tell him I can sing any note he needs,” Mr Smith said
enthusiastically. “Even the very high notes. Especially the very high notes. Shall
I demonstrate?”
Mr Smith took a very deep breath reminiscent of those he took
before very long loud notes on the trumpet.
“No, need, Mr Smith,” said Dorothy hurriedly, thinking that
Jane and Jim Barker next door might still be asleep or wonder what was going on.
“I believe you. But if you like, you can sing in my choir.”
“‘You haven’t got a choir, Miss Price.”
“After not having a choir last time I think I should make a
special effort this time. I’ll ask all the parents of my piano pupils to join and
Cleo is sure to know a few nice people who don’t go to church but like to sing.
We must give Laura Finch a run for her money, Mr Smith.”
“I agree, I’ll get Mr Wilkins and his wife to come along, and his
daughter has loads of friends. They are always singing karaoke.”
Dorothy stifled the feeling of foreboding that overcame her on
hearing Dora’s name.
“Oh, and that reminds me. You'll be going on that little
outing very soon, won't you?”
“Outing? Do you mean my tour of the universe?”
“Yes, that's it.” Mr
Smith lowered his voice. “I heard that you and Mrs Finch would be going
together.”
“Well, now we've buried the hatchet that does seem to be on
the cards. I just hope we hit it off…”
“…for the whole day,”’ Mr Smith added.
“What did you say?”
“Hmmm...Maybe it'll just be for the day,” he said.
It was proving difficult to say what he felt that Dorothy
should know.
“Oh no, Mr Smith. It takes much longer than a day to get round
the universe.”
Mr Smith decided he had better just keep his mouth shut. After
all, you couldn't believe everything you heard and he was a bit of a coward
when it came to dealing with the fairer sex.
“‘Well, however long it takes, I'm sure you'll both enjoy it.”
Before Dorothy could reply, he turned tail and called “Better
be going” over his shoulder.
“You’d better keep my letters at the post office as from Monday
next week, Mr Smith. I'll be away, won’t I, touring the universe.”
“If you say so,” said Mr Smith, leaving a rather nonplussed Dorothy
behind.
“His broken arm has gone to his head,” she decided as she went
back into the cottage.
Five minutes later Dorothy's doorbell rang again. It was Mr
Smith come back because his conscience wouldn’t let him go home without
finishing what he had set out to do. Dorothy was not amused. If he talked in
riddles again she would pretend to have to go out. That was a good way of
getting rid of unwanted visitors.
“It's no good, Miss Price,” he began, sounding distraught. He wished he were back at home doing things
like feeding his hens or having his second breakfast. He did not really know
where to begin to tell Miss Price what he knew about Duggy’s.
“What's no good?”
“It's your tour of the universe.”
“Now that's a coincidence. I was just going to phone Duggy's
again about what to pack.”
“No need for that, Miss Price. My wife's niece is on the
switchboard at Duggy Enterprises.”
“Is her name Dora, by any chance?”
“That's her.”
Dorothy was tempted to say something rather tactless about
Dora, but Mr Smith fortunately didn't give her enough time.
“She just happened to overhear part of your conversation with
Mr Duggy Marketing,” he explained, and Dorothy thought Dora must be even more
awful than she thought. “She told me all about it when she came to supper last
night.”
“What did she tell you about what, Mr Smith?” asked Dorothy,
with more than a hint of dissatisfaction that Dora had been eavesdropping.. “Did
she tell you that I went to the chemist's for some travel pills?”
“Of course not. How could she know that?”
“Well, you never know who might be spying on you round here.”
“Dora was only trying to be helpful, but as you're obviously
not interested, I'll be on my way again. Sorry to have wasted your time.”
Mr Smith had ended up shouting. Dorothy was sorry. Perhaps she
had been a little hasty.
“Don't go, please. I'll make us a cup of tea and you can tell
me all about it, whatever it is.”
Mr Smith accepted Dorothy's apology and followed her into the
kitchen.
“Where's Minor?”
“Oh, he's gone to practise staying at the vicarage while I go
on my tour of the universe. The boys love having a dog to take for walks and
play with. Minor is enjoying the change, too.”
She did not add that Minor had already outstayed his welcome at
the vicarage because she didn't know. As soon as she had turned her back on him,
he had taken a bath in the ad hoc fishpond and followed it by a good shaking
down in the vicarage parlour. Mrs Parsnip had given up trying to feed him on
the dog-food Dorothy had thoughtfully provided. Instead he ate whatever
everybody else was eating and had decided that his favourite place for his
endless naps was on the vicar's swivelling chair in the office. For this reason
the coming Sunday sermon was being composed on the piano stool.
“Well, Miss Price, it's like this. Mr Duggy Marketing didn't
really want to give anyone a prize at all. That way nobody would have to go
anywhere, let alone on a tour of the universe. He just wanted to save himself
the trouble of thinking up an advertising slogan.”
“But that's terribly dishonest.”
“Not everyone is like us, Miss Price.”
“So he got everyone to write him slogans for nothing?”
“That's about the size of it.”
“‘You are telling me that he was only pretending on the
telephone. Was he telling me lies?”
“I'm afraid so. Somebody - it might have been Dora – might have
sent out those two letters declaring you and Laura to be the winners without the
Duggy managers knowing anything about it. I think Dora was fed up with all the
subterfuge. She has won all the first prizes up to now, but never actually got
one. They just gave her a few pounds for letting them use her name and keeping
quiet.”
“But that’s a fiddle!”
Mr Smith nodded in agreement.
“Anyway, the slogans were on his desk when Dora went in and
she gathered them up and composed winning letters to send.”
“But what about the Duggy signature?”
“No problem. In a company like Duggy’s you have to have skills
such as forging at your fingertips.”
“Well, I'm not putting up with it. I'm going on that tour as
sure as my name is Dorothy Price, even if it does start at the bus station
instead of the airport.”
With these words, she left Mr Smith sitting in the kitchen
drinking his tea and snatched up the phone in the hall to dial Duggy's. Her
blood was boiling. Mr Smith thought he’d better beat a hasty retreat through
the kitchen door. He did not think he wanted to eavesdrop on Miss Price’s
phone-call.
When Mr Smith got home, all he could say to his wife was “There’s
trouble brewing for Duggy Marketing if he doesn't have a brainwave fast. Dorothy
is on the warpath. I wouldn't like to be in his shoes.”
Mr Smith felt guilty about putting Dora on the line. He was struggling
with his betrayal of the loyalty to her as a family member, though he didn’t
like her much, but now the ball was rolling he couldn’t stop it. There was nothing
to do but wait and see what happened next.
Dorothy changed her mind about calling Duggy’s and rang the Gazette
instead, hinting broadly to the editor,
a man named Bernie Browne who was always looking for front page stories, that
something sensational was about to happen. The sport edition was usually out on
Mondays, but they could delay publication for a day if it was worth it. It
would be, Dorothy promised. Bernie and all the journalists he could muster
would turn out in force at the bus station.
Dorothy had no idea what was in store for her and Laura, but
she was going to be armed to the teeth for every eventuality. To make quite
sure that nobody spilt the beans, she decided to leave Laura in the dark.
Bernie Browne would not tell anyone about his forthcoming scoop.
By Sunday, the day before the trip, Laura Finch had bought
fifty tins of Glutton's luxury high protein cat-food for her three fat cats and
entrusted the greedy animals to her next-door neighbour.
The vicar dedicated his Sunday sermon to everyone going on a
long journey and said it all in such a lugubrious voice that Cleo Hartley, who had
squeezed herself into the fifth row solely for the pleasure of listening to Robert’s
singing in the church choir, was heard to sniff very loudly. Fleeting thoughts
went out to her mother in Chicago and the events that had brought her to Upper
Grumpsfield. Robert observed Cleo from the organ loft. He could see she was
distressed and had the urge comfort her.
Led by Robert’s stentorian bass-baritone, the otherwise reticent
choir sang gustily and even Dorothy shed a tear or two at the thought of how
many thousands of miles would separate her from all these nice people in a day
or so, though that was always supposing Mr Smith had got the wrong end of the
tale. Being a realist, Dorothy thought it unlikely.
On a very warm Monday morning, Laura drove to Dorothy’s in a
taxi hired by Duggy’s, who did not actually possess a firm limousine though
they had promised one. She arrived at Dorothy's cottage excited, overdressed,
dripping with pungent perfume and eager for their imminent departure. If the
taxi-driver was amused by Laura smelling like a perfume shop and dressed in a
shaggy fur coat, laden down by a hatbox, a beauty box, a hard-topped suitcase on
wheels and a capacious handbag on what promised to be the hottest day of the
year, he did not let on. He would air the perfume-infused taxi later.
“Mornin', Ma'am,” he greeted her at her house. “Off to the North
Pole, are we?”
“North, south, east and west,” replied Laura good-naturedly as
the taxi driver pushed the luggage into the car. It was built like a London
taxi and there would not have been any room for a second passenger.
“Rather you than me,” he commented dryly, pushing the reverse
gear in so hard that it creaked ominously. “Where to first, then? Antarctica?”
“Upper Grumpsfield to collect my friend Dorothy.. Drive past Saint
Peter’s church and up Monkton Way towards Monkton Priory,” instructed Laura.
The cottage is number 44 on the right.
“Right you are, Mrs,” he assured her as he set off down Laura’s
avenue.
A huge limousine was parked in front of Dorothy’s garden gate.
“Oh, I think that must be for me,” said Laura. “Put my luggage
on the pavement, will you? Then you can go.”
“Not without my fare,” said the taxi driver.
“Oh, very well,” said Laura, counting out the amount on the
clock and not a penny more.
“Expensive,” she commented.
“I have to get back as well,” said the taxi driver and drove
off thinking that the old cow could afford that stinking perfume and a fur coat,
but couldn’t stretch it to a tip.
The black Duggy limousine was being driven by a uniformed
chauffeur. Both had been hired for the day from a cooperative funeral parlour
in return for a year’s supply of frozen fish from Duggy’s human food
department.
Dorothy emerged from the cottage wearing a straw hat with
roses all around the brim and an elastic band under her chin to stop it blowing
off.
Mr and Mr Barker and other neighbours stood around applauding
as first Dorothy and then Laura got into the car, the latter already looking
very hot and sticky because her fur coat was designed for keeping the warm in and
the cold out, and the morning haze was already giving way to a baking hot day.
During the drive Laura regularly mopped her brow with a tiny lace-edged
handkerchief and was in quite a bad mood despite the thrill of going on
holiday.
The two voyagers did not talk much. Dorothy was trying to
decide what to say when she got to Middlethumpton bus station, which was the
starting point of the prize tour.. Between brow-mopping phases Laura was
fanning herself vigorously with the library book she had brought along to read.
If they were excited or anxious about their communal project, they were not
letting on. After all, the transition from war to peace cannot be accomplished
without a little tactical manoeuvring, and anyway, Dorothy knew better than
Laura that the whole event was a fraud, though she did not know all the
details.
The limousine drew up a few yards from all three Duggy brothers,
who were standing on a specially erected rostrum in a line waiting to greet the
ladies. Behind the brothers, a large luxury coach was parked. It was festooned
with balloons and garlands and its engine was draped with a large white sheet
on which were painted the words: ‘Duggy's Dog Biscuits Tour of the Universe’ in
large red letters.
Dorothy and Laura walked towards the trio of remarkably alike-looking
brothers who stepped down and welcomed them with an oldie worldie genuflection
and a click of heels. Laura was charmed. Dorothy speculated on which could be
Duggy Marketing. They all looked equally deceitful.
Having bowed to the two ladies, the three managers stepped
back onto their rostrum and one after another greeted them through a
microphone. A video camera was set in motion to record the ceremony. Their
speeches included frequent references to Duggy’s. There would be some editing
to do. People paid for advertising these days. Bernie Browne’s journalists were
there and ready for anything. Bernie thought he would throttle Dorothy if she
had misled him.
Laura panicked. “Surely I won't be on television in my fur
coat in such hot weather. Whatever will people think?”
Dorothy was more concerned about the welcoming event than her
appearance. The Duggy managers all looked alike and sounded alike. The one most
responsible would get a piece of her mind, Dorothy decided. Not that she knew
which piece to give him first. She was playing it by ear.
“Welcome to your prize tour of the universe,” announced one of
the three, leering unpleasantly into the camera he had himself ordered since
the film was going to be used as
advertising material on TV.
“Miss Price and Mrs Finch are going to be the ambassadors for
Duggy's Enterprises,” a different Mr Duggy continued with special emphasis on
the Duggy's Enterprises bit.
Not to be outdone, the third Mr Duggy insisted that it had
been the hardest fought competition ever. Laura was about to smile graciously
when the first one added “These good ladies will be spreading the good news
about Duggy's all the way.”
“All the way to where?” whispered Laura to Dorothy. She seemed
to have forgotten about the universe, or was she just too hot to think? It was
very warm under the arc lights that had been set up by Duggie’s and the TV
company that had been tipped off about the event.
Laura’s fur coat was hotter than a sauna. “They haven't
actually told us anything about our itinerary,” she whispered.
“I know,” said Dorothy. “But I expect they soon will, and then
…”
Laura looked closely at Dorothy. She was startled. Was there
something she should know and didn’t?
Dorothy was starting to dread what would come next. She knew that
all was not as it should be, but only as a warning. The atmosphere was starting
to become restive as the speakers continued in rotation.
“These two good ladies will visit a dog's home near Heathrow
airport and personally feed all the dogs on Duggy's dog biscuits.”
“Is that before we go on our tour of the universe, or after?”
Laura asked.
“Before, dear Ladies,” answered the Duggy trio in unison.
The three Duggy brothers were now standing very close together,
shielding one another like bodyguards at a political meeting. That did not
escape Dorothy's notice. She wondered if Mr Smith had been able to attend the
spectacle.
“The high spot of the day...”
“‘Day? Which day?” At last, Laura had realized that something
was fishy.
“TODAY!” replied all three.
“What do they mean?” Laura Finch asked no one in particular. Dorothy
moved a little nearer the rostrum. She was tired of being nudged in the ribs.
“As I was saying,” one Duggy continued, “ the high spot of the
day will be a visit to the great London Planetarium, where you will be able to
see the whole universe whizzing by.”
Dorothy could hardly believe her ears. Laura gasped and
someone rushed over with a bottle of water.
“But what about the real universe?” she called, pushing the
water away and facing the Duggy brothers in front of the cameras, which were
now whirring away at top speed.
“There and back without moving out of your armchairs, dear Ladies,”
replied Mr Duggy, presumably the marketing one, Dorothy decided. That Duggy was
cursing the day Duggy’s had introduced competitions into their marketing
concept. Old Francis Duggy, founder of the company and father of the obstreperous
triumvirate, would be turning in his grave.
“We explained all that part of it to you,” they said in one
voice. Those blasted TV cameras …
“‘Did you?” Laura shouted. “You did not explain it to me.”
Laura was now feeling
very much under the weather.
“No they didn't tell us,” shouted Dorothy. “They cheated!”
The Duggy brothers hissed “Ssssst!!!!” between their teeth.
So Mr Smith's dark hints had not been idle speculation. Dorothy's
worst fears were being confirmed. She and Laura were being used for a cheap
advertising stunt. Literally taken for a ride!
Then Dorothy remembered the gypsy’s parting words and could
have kicked herself. She looked at Laura, who was peering over her fur collar with
chalky white and red speckled shock written all over her face, and pulled her out
of earshot. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
Laura didn't know what to think. The TV cameraman turned his
camera on the two ladies and someone pointed the microphone in their direction.
If there's one thing better than a prize-giving, it's a scandal!
Dorothy pointed at the trio and shouted “I'm not going to spend
my time visiting a dog's home and throwing awful dog biscuits at those poor
dumb animals. The RSPCA would arrest me for poisoning them.”
There was laughter and cheers from the onlookers.
“Go one, Love. Tell ‘em off. It’s time someone cut ‘em down to
size,” someone said.
The Mr Duggy brothers froze simultaneously.
“Duggy’s got us here on false pretences,” Dorothy continued. ”If
it's not a proper holiday, I'm not going.”
“And neither am I,” said Laura, who had finally comprehended the
enormity of what was happening.
“We are not going to be made a laughing stock of,” Dorothy
told the cameras. Everyone except the Duggy brothers cheered and applauded even
more enthusiastically.
“‘We won a holiday, not a contract to advertise inferior dog
biscuits,” Dorothy continued. Laura waved her umbrella in agreement.
“Other people would give their eye teeth for a trip to the planetarium,”
one of the Duggy managers protested.
“Well,” scoffed Dorothy, “in that case, you'd better go
instead, hadn’t you?”
“Shame, shame!” shouted the crowd, closing in on the culprits
and chanting “Duggy dogs, dirty dogs, mean old bastards, Duggy hogs”.
“What a way to treat two nice ladies who think they have won a
holiday,” someone shouted above the general pandemonium.
“What are you going to do about it?” shouted a paparazzo. This
was spectacular stuff. Bernie Browne would claim copyright. The boulevard press
would lap it up. The headline would be: International Food Company Dupes
Widows. From our special correspondent. Bernie could see it now. His fortune
would be made.
“We'll give them a holiday,” the Duggy brothers countered. “Duggy's
Dog Biscuits always keep their promises.”
Laura shook her head and walked away, her fur coat now over
her arm revealing a mohair twinset, tweed skirt and three rows of pearls. Dorothy
followed her.
“Don't you want to go, Laura? Even if they send us somewhere
nice?”
“Not anymore. It's much too hot.”
“But that’s because you had your fur coat on.”
“I wouldn’t go anywhere at their expense. They’d be bound to
want to capitalize on it and make utter fools of us, Dorothy.”
“I expect you’re right. Let's go to my cottage and put the
kettle on then.”
Leaving their luggage and the discarded fur coat to be dealt
with by Duggy’s funeral parlour chauffeur, the two ladies made their way arm in
arm to the nearest baker’s shop. There they bought a whole box of consolatory cakes
and had the proprietress call them a taxi to take them to Upper Grumpsfield.
“Well, Dorothy,” said Laura as she prised her Sunday best
shoes off and slid her swollen feet under Dorothy's kitchen table. “Even if I
do feel just a teeny-weeny bit disappointed about our tour of the universe, not
going does have its consolations.”
Dorothy was still fuming, mostly at her own gullibility. She
had not yet reached the stage of being glad she did not have to go anywhere.
“I wish I could be as cheerful as you, Laura. I don't find
being the victim of a confidence trick very amusing, even if you do.”
“Oh, I don't think it’s funny, but have you forgotten the
music festival? We've only got a few weeks left and there's so much to do.”
“Nothing I could not take care of in a jiffy, Laura.”
Laura raised her eyebrows.
“Two lumps or three?” asked Dorothy, deliberately not adding
anything to her comment.
Laura Finch was not to be outdone.
“To tell you the truth, we have started practising for it at
Lower Grumpsfield, and I hear that the Middlethumpton town hall choir has had
an anthem specially composed for the occasion. That must be a record. They’ve
only known about the event since last week.”
“Would you like an Eccles cake, Laura, or will you start with
the cream cakes?”
Laura never minded being distracted from what she was doing or
saying if food was the immediate cause. Very soon the box of cakes had been
devoured to the last crumb and the teapot drained twice. It was as if Duggy’s
dog biscuits had never been heard of.
“Now if you had a little drop of something, that would help me
to feel completely better, Dorothy.”
“I’ve only got the cooking sherry, Laura,” Dorothy replied.
“That will do nicely,” said Laura, and, disapproving as she
was, Dorothy was obliged to pour out half a tumbler full of the sweet fortified
wine for Laura to knock back in one long swig.
Dorothy did not say a word to Laura about her own plans to
enter a choir and Laura did not admit to Laura that she was having an
arrangement of tunes from the musical “Hair” written for her Nightingales to
perform.
