“Such as?” asked young Mr Perse, innocently.
“Such as Alfred and the Cakes, and Rawley and the Puddle, and all them sort of things, and they didn’t take place around these parts, I don’t mind betting. So what can we put on to raise the public interest? That’s what this sub-committee wants to know.”
“I take your point,” said young Mr Perse. “Just half a minute.” He picked up the pencil which lay beside his official scribbling pad, frowned thoughtfully and then began to write. The others waited in respectful but slightly hostile silence. Mr Perse was a graduate of London University and it was suspected (with some justification) that he was inclined to look down on those less favoured than himself. “What about this?” he asked, putting down his pencil. “Suppose we kick off with the Ancient Britons? They lived all over the place, so, presumably, some of them lived here.”
“Too cold, these days,” objected the chairman. “You can’t ask people to ride all round the town with nothing on but a bit of fur round their middle.”
“You’ve got it wrong, Mr Chairman. I’m talking about people who lived in the Iron Age and understood all about pottery and commerce and the making and wearing of ornaments and clothes, and even a bit about money. I am not thinking of Palaeolithic or Neolithic Man.”
“Oh? Oh, well, we can discuss the details later,” said the chairman hastily. “Personally, I still think the Ancient Britons should be included out.”
“Very well. Let’s start with the Romans. They’re supposed to have crossed the Thames somewhere around here.”
“Ah, that’s better. Very pictureskew, them Romans. Helmets and shields and all that.”
“Women must be given a fair share of representation, so what about Boadicea?” suggested the woman Councillor.
“Boudicca,” said young Mr Perse, rather insufferably. “I don’t think we should include her. We were all Catuvellauni around here. Boudicca belonged to and led the tribe of the Iceni, of course.”
“I thought the early folks round here were all Saxons. I seem to have read that somewhere,” put in the Councillor who had suggested the civic dinner at The Hat With Feather.
“You forestall me, Councillor,” said young Mr Perse pleasantly. “The Saxons must come into it, of course, and we really ought to follow them with the Normans. Still, as we have no Norman castle or church in or near the borough…” he smirked as he used the new and magic word… “I don’t see why we shouldn’t jump straight to the Crusades. The First Crusade was preached and took place in Norman times and we have no evidence that our own lord of the manor did not take part.”
“Richard the Lion-Heart. Read a story about him once,” said the Councillor who had proposed open-air dancing in the park.
“Yes, yes, the Third Crusade,” said Mr Perse, brushing it aside. “I referred to the first one.”
“What happened to the second one, then?” demanded the protagonist for a competition among the owners of front gardens. Mr Perse declined to accept responsibility for describing what had happened to the abortive and disgraceful Second Crusade.
“Bearing in mind what the chairman has told us,” he said, “I think we could then jump to the reign of Edward III, and have Queen Philippa, on her knees, begging him to spare the lives of the six burghers of Calais. As this event took place in Calais, there may be objections to including it.”
“Ropes round their necks and them in their shirts?” said the Councillor who had been snubbed about the school-children’s sports. “Nearly as draughty as Councillor Topson’s Ancient Britons!” He chuckled hoarsely and broke into a wheezy coughing.
“Everybody knows about ’em, though, and as for feeling chilly, they can wear their long pants—or even their trousers—under their shirts,” said the chairman austerely. “Long as we put plenty of straw on the floor of the lorry, and top up the sides a bit, it’ll never be noticed.”
“They can’t kneel all the time,” said the woman Councillor, “nor can Queen Thingummy. You couldn’t expect it. Kneeling can be terribly tiring, especially for a woman, if the trunk has to be kept upright all the time.”
“They can cut their cloth according to the size of the crowds,” said the chairman, obscurely but comprehensibly. “They only got to use a bit of gump.”
“Then,” said Perse, “we could go on to Henry VIII, I should think. He was buried at Windsor, you know.”
“You got something there,” said the chairman. “Henry VIII and all his six wives, Anne Boleyn with her head tucked underneath her arm—raise a rare laugh, that would!”
Young Mr Perse looked shocked.
“I’d only thought of the funeral cortège, followed by a posse of Gentlemen-at-Arms. Rather more dignified, surely?” he asked coldly.
“No good at all, boy!” said the chairman, blithely. “After all, being made a borough is an occasion of rejoicing, and rejoicing, to my mind, includes a bit of a giggle. Old Harry the Lad, with a couple of cushions shoved up his doublet, and Anne Boleyn like what I said, that’s the stuff to give the troops, you take my word for it.”
“We ought to include Queen Elizabeth I, with a retinue, and then the pony club might like to take part as the Roundheads and Cavaliers,” said the woman Councillor, who wanted the part of the Virgin Queen for herself, and whose daughter was one of the pony club’s leading lights. “And that’s another thing,” she added. “Colonel Batty-Faudrey, up at the Hall, will expect something special for him and his wife and nephew.”
“What about Joan of Arc?” demanded the Councillor who had suggested the church parade.
“Joan of Arc wasn’t English,” objected the Councillor for the Old Folks’ Tea.
“Mrs Batty-Faudrey has the costume, though, and she’s also got her own horse,” said the woman Councillor. “And the Colonel could be Charles II. He was pictured in the local paper as that, the year before last, when they had that show for charity up at the Hall.”
“There’s an idea there, Councillor Mrs Skifforth,” said the chairman, approbation in his voice. “I been wondering, ever since these here festivities were mooted, how we were going to include-in the Colonel, him being, as you might say, our most prominent citizen until we get the Mayor. Handle him right, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t invite the pageant to end up in the grounds of the Hall and provide a bite to eat and some refreshment. So now, all them in favour of the Colonel being invited to take on Charles II and his good lady Joan of Arc, will signify in the usual manner. Thank you! Carried nearly unanimous.” He looked reproachfully at Mr Perse, who had not raised his hand. “Now that’s settled, what about a part for young Mr Faudrey, the Colonel’s nephew?”
“Dick Turpin, I should think,” said Perse viciously. “The man’s a mountebank.”
“We could end up with Queen Victoria and Prince Albert,” said Mrs Skifforth, eagerly. “Everybody will recognise them. I wonder whether we can get the loan of an open carriage?”
“The vicar’s lady could do Queen Victoria. Spit and image,” said the chairman. “And a barouche or a landau, or something of that, shouldn’t be beyond us. I’ll put Councillor Field on to it. He takes a great interest in things of that sort and is sure to be able to wangle something for us. Well, but, if the vicar’s lady can be persuaded, we’ve still got to find somebody for Prince Albert. Anybody any ideas?”
“What have we got a drama club for?” demanded young Mr Perse. “Surely one of their elegant gents can glue on some long hair and a bit of face-fungus?”
The chairman’s face cleared.
“Well, that seems to take care of that,” he observed. “That’s got the important folk settled. Now what about other parts? We ought to go back to the full Council with some concrete ideas, I reckon.”