too. This here, that there, we’ll be done in no time.”
“It looks very complicated. I can’t wait to see the result this evening.”
“Want me to explain it to you?”
“No, never mind, thanks. I don’t want to get too technical for my readers. Besides, I’m really more interested in the party and the guy, and all the history. I’m afraid the fireworks are somewhat of a sideline as far as the article is concerned. According to my editor, they rather go in for big fireworks displays in America, especially on their Independence Day in July.”
“July! Hmph, silly time to have fireworks, if you ask me. What about the children, eh?” He cast a fond glance at his grandsons, who
promptly stopped squabbling about which bottle to use for a particularly large rocket. “It doesn’t get dark till ten o’clock at night.”
“I expect they’re allowed to stay up late. It’s a holiday, unlike Guy Fawkes.”
“My great-grandfather tried to have the fifth of November proclaimed a holiday. I didn’t tell you this bit, did I?”
“No,” said Daisy, busy scribbling in her idiosyncratic version of Pitman’s shorthand. “What happened?”
“Sir John, that was. Jack’s named after him. He actually went up to Parliament and proposed a bill, or whatever it is they do. Not a very political family, I’m afraid, but that was before Reform, so he had no trouble getting elected. Getting his bill passed was another matter. No one else was interested. I suppose . . .” Sir Harold huffed and puffed a bit. “I suppose it just goes to show the Americans were happier to be rid of King George than the English were not to be rid of King James, what?” He chortled, very pleased with himself. “I say, Jack, Miller, listen to this!”
While he repeated his joke, Daisy wrote it down. It ought to appeal to her American readers, though Jack’s and Miller’s laughter was at best polite.
“You’re putting that in your article, eh, Mrs. Fletcher?” Sir Harold was delighted. “Respectable hobby for a lady, writing. You might have a go at talking my Barbara into trying her hand at it, instead of sticking her nose into men’s business.”
Daisy had no intention of sticking her nose into Babs’s business.
“I’d like to take a look at the bonfire,” she said, “and the guy.”
“The guy’s up at the house. We’ll set it out on the front porch for people to see as they arrive; then Biddle will bring it down to the fire. He’s in charge of setting off the fireworks. I’d like to do it myself, but can’t desert my guests, what? Here he comes now. Hi, where have you been?” he shouted to the grizzled man coming down the steps. “You’re late!”
“Sorry, sir,” Biddle said soothingly. “Her la’ship needed more greenery for her vases. Here I be now, sure enough.”
“So I see, you fool. Jack, give Mrs. Fletcher a hand down the steps.
She wants to see the bonfire.”
The lowest terrace was separated from the meadow by a ha-ha. Unlike the broad, shallow flights between terraces, the steps down the ha-ha wall were much narrower and quite steep, with the wall itself on one side and no railing on the other. The drop from the top was only ten or twelve feet. Normally, Daisy would have taken the steps in her stride, but unbalanced as she felt these days, she was glad to have Jack going down in front of her, half sideways, his hand steadying her.
“Thanks!”
“My pleasure. Any questions about the bonfire?”
“I’ll ask these chaps, thanks.”
“Right-oh. I’ll go back to playing with the Meccano, then.” He grinned. “When you’re ready to come up, call out and I’ll come down to push from behind.”
“You still are a horrible, cheeky schoolboy, I see,” she retorted with a smile.
The bonfire was a good fifteen feet tall by now. The farmhands were climbing ladders to add fuel to the top. Daisy spent twenty minutes talking to them, learning how they used a framework of timbers and netting to
“It looks very complicated. I can’t wait to see the result this evening.”
“Want me to explain it to you?”
“No, never mind, thanks. I don’t want to get too technical for my readers. Besides, I’m really more interested in the party and the guy, and all the history. I’m afraid the fireworks are somewhat of a sideline as far as the article is concerned. According to my editor, they rather go in for big fireworks displays in America, especially on their Independence Day in July.”
“July! Hmph, silly time to have fireworks, if you ask me. What about the children, eh?” He cast a fond glance at his grandsons, who
promptly stopped squabbling about which bottle to use for a particularly large rocket. “It doesn’t get dark till ten o’clock at night.”
“I expect they’re allowed to stay up late. It’s a holiday, unlike Guy Fawkes.”
“My great-grandfather tried to have the fifth of November proclaimed a holiday. I didn’t tell you this bit, did I?”
“No,” said Daisy, busy scribbling in her idiosyncratic version of Pitman’s shorthand. “What happened?”
“Sir John, that was. Jack’s named after him. He actually went up to Parliament and proposed a bill, or whatever it is they do. Not a very political family, I’m afraid, but that was before Reform, so he had no trouble getting elected. Getting his bill passed was another matter. No one else was interested. I suppose . . .” Sir Harold huffed and puffed a bit. “I suppose it just goes to show the Americans were happier to be rid of King George than the English were not to be rid of King James, what?” He chortled, very pleased with himself. “I say, Jack, Miller, listen to this!”
While he repeated his joke, Daisy wrote it down. It ought to appeal to her American readers, though Jack’s and Miller’s laughter was at best polite.
“You’re putting that in your article, eh, Mrs. Fletcher?” Sir Harold was delighted. “Respectable hobby for a lady, writing. You might have a go at talking my Barbara into trying her hand at it, instead of sticking her nose into men’s business.”
Daisy had no intention of sticking her nose into Babs’s business.
“I’d like to take a look at the bonfire,” she said, “and the guy.”
“The guy’s up at the house. We’ll set it out on the front porch for people to see as they arrive; then Biddle will bring it down to the fire. He’s in charge of setting off the fireworks. I’d like to do it myself, but can’t desert my guests, what? Here he comes now. Hi, where have you been?” he shouted to the grizzled man coming down the steps. “You’re late!”
“Sorry, sir,” Biddle said soothingly. “Her la’ship needed more greenery for her vases. Here I be now, sure enough.”
“So I see, you fool. Jack, give Mrs. Fletcher a hand down the steps.
She wants to see the bonfire.”
The lowest terrace was separated from the meadow by a ha-ha. Unlike the broad, shallow flights between terraces, the steps down the ha-ha wall were much narrower and quite steep, with the wall itself on one side and no railing on the other. The drop from the top was only ten or twelve feet. Normally, Daisy would have taken the steps in her stride, but unbalanced as she felt these days, she was glad to have Jack going down in front of her, half sideways, his hand steadying her.
“Thanks!”
“My pleasure. Any questions about the bonfire?”
“I’ll ask these chaps, thanks.”
“Right-oh. I’ll go back to playing with the Meccano, then.” He grinned. “When you’re ready to come up, call out and I’ll come down to push from behind.”
“You still are a horrible, cheeky schoolboy, I see,” she retorted with a smile.
The bonfire was a good fifteen feet tall by now. The farmhands were climbing ladders to add fuel to the top. Daisy spent twenty minutes talking to them, learning how they used a framework of timbers and netting to
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