Unsurprisingly, I had another restless night. In a series of peculiar dreams featuring Isabella, Julian and me, I constantly found myself on the wrong side of the river trying to get across. Sometime after daybreak I woke up all in a tangle and peered out through my doorway. I half-expected Julian’s tents to have moved into the Great Field. To my amazement, however, they’d vanished completely, and so had the shimmering white tent.
It took me a few seconds to adjust to this drastic change of scenery. The south-east suddenly appeared forsaken and empty without its prize exhibit overlooking the river, and the surrounding fields had a similar air of abandonment. Beneath a grey, overcast sky, an unseasonably brisk wind came gusting out of the east, doing little to enhance the gloomy prospect. With a mounting sense of disquiet I emerged from my tent and glanced all around. Thankfully, nobody else had gone: Isabella, Hartopp, Brigant and Hen were still in their usual places.
Actually, Hen was already up and about, and when he saw me he came sauntering over.
‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Quite a change from yesterday.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
‘The birds have flown.’
‘Did you see them go?’
‘Yes, very early,’ said Hen. ‘They all went off together.’
‘Really?’
‘Those other people helped Thomas with his tent, then the entire company headed southward.’
Hen’s disclosure was most intriguing, and for a while I pondered the information in silence.
Over at the far side of the field we could see Hollis slowly making his way along the river bank, pausing from time to time at the various viewpoints. Keeping a respectful distance, he skirted around Isabella’s crimson abode before continuing towards the south-east. When he reached the turn of the river he stopped and peered at the ground. I knew precisely what he was looking at: he was examining the octagonal impression left in the grass by Thomas’s tent. Over the past few weeks I’d noticed that Hollis approached most subjects in a forensic manner, a trait which I supposed he’d inherited from Hartopp. He seemed fascinated by everything scientific, mechanical, mathematical and, in this case, geometrical.
Hen, who was still standing beside me, said nothing. Was he tempted, I wondered, to go and see the impression for himself, just to confirm that Thomas had definitely gone?
Hollis, meanwhile, had resumed his journey along the river bank, and was now on the southern stretch. When he neared the crossing he halted for a moment as if contemplating his options, then without further delay he entered the water and waded to the other side. As Hen and I looked on, he went ashore and headed for the spot where the three conical tents had stood. Once again he inspected the ground, closely studying the impression left by Julian and his comrades.
‘Did you find out what they wanted?’ asked Hen, finally breaking the silence.
‘Not really, no,’ I replied. ‘It was all rather vague.’
‘Maybe Thomas found out.’
‘Yes, maybe,’ I said, ‘but we’ll probably never know.’
Eventually Hollis turned and retraced his steps back to the north-east. Whether he’d learnt anything from his investigations was unclear, but Hen and I were certainly no wiser than he was. A great unanswered question now hung over the field, a question that would dominate everyone’s thoughts and conversations during the succeeding days. Despite endless conjecture, nobody could explain the swift departure of both Thomas and Julian’s people.
There was also a secondary matter for consideration, raised largely at the behest of Isabella.
‘The field looks completely wrong now,’ she announced, one blustery afternoon. ‘It’s all gone out of balance.’
She was referring to the emptiness of the south-east, her implication being that the vacant space should be taken over by one of us.
‘Why don’t you move then?’ I suggested.
‘No, I’m perfectly happy where I am,’ she said. ‘I actually meant you.’
I could see the logic of her argument. In reality, I was the only candidate. Neither Hartopp nor Brigant showed the slightest inclination to head southward, and I knew that Hen was firmly embedded in the west. The trouble for me, as always, lay with the impression in the grass. Once again I was reluctant to transplant my tent until all traces of the previous occupant had faded away. Therefore, I decided to stay where I was for the present.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Isabella, ‘but you’re missing a golden opportunity.’
That night I lay listening to the wind as it gradually increased in strength. Without doubt we were in for a period of inclement weather. I was confident it would improve again sooner or later: there was no reason why it shouldn’t. Nevertheless, the halcyon days of summer now felt far removed, and it occurred to me that they’d passed without my even noticing.
Around dawn the clamour of the wind was augmented by another sound which at first I couldn’t identify. It was coming from the south, and as I slowly awakened I recognized the distant blast of a trumpet. I looked out through my doorway and saw a huge assembly of men on the other side of the river. They were all clad in buff-coloured tunics, and as I observed them a sort of dull realization crept over me: Julian and his minions were merely the advance party; now, at last, the main body had arrived.
There was nothing to be done, of course. We few settlers were powerless to prevent an influx of such magnitude. Quickly I alerted Hartopp and the others to the situation in the south, then we watched in silence as the newcomers got themselves organized. Within an hour they were swarming across the river, carrying all kinds of equipment, supplies and baggage. Their logistical proficiency was astonishing to behold: it was evident they’d selected their ground beforehand, and every move appeared part of a carefully planned operation. They deployed their tents in a perfect grid formation, with all the pitches marked out precisely. Each tent was identical in size, colour and shape; each faced in the same direction; and each had a white pennant flying from its peak. When the work was finished the new encampment commanded the whole of the south-east. Along its perimeter ran a low picket fence, and at every corner stood a flagpole.
Isabella, naturally, was outraged.
‘What a sight!’ she said. ‘It’s a monstrosity!’
‘Well, isn’t it just what you envisaged?’ I said. ‘A vast sea of tents billowing in the breeze, with flags flying and pennants fluttering aloft?’
‘Those tents don’t billow,’ she retorted. ‘They’re much too stiff.’
It was the evening of the same day, and we were all gathered beneath Hartopp’s awning. Despite his lavish hospitality, the meeting had the sombre undercurrent of a secret conclave. The chief subject of debate was the incursion in the south-east, but Isabella was now voicing wider concerns.
‘What the field needs is variety,’ she continued. ‘We don’t want row upon row of identical tents: we want marquees, douars, shāmiyānas, kibitkas, cabanas, tupiks and pandals; we want pavilions with crenellated decorations and swagged contours; and above all we want gorgeous colours: turquoise, vermilion, indigo, magenta and saffron.’
‘Sounds more like a fairground,’ remarked Brigant. ‘What’s wrong with green or brown?’
‘Far too bland,’ said Isabella.
‘You forgot to mention bell tents,’ I said. ‘They’re quite nice.’
Isabella was about to reply when she was interrupted by the strident blast of a trumpet.
‘That’s the third time today,’ said Hollis, after it had fallen silent. ‘They must be signalling dawn, noon and dusk.’
‘Confounded cheek!’ snapped Isabella. ‘What gives them the right to disturb the peace?’
‘Don’t know,’ I said, ‘but we might have to get used to it.’