My sons raced through the lych-gate and ran toward us, dodging headstones and leaping over graves like a pair of exuberant lambs.
“Don’t run in the churchyard!” Bill hollered as he entered the sanctified grounds at a more seemly pace.
Will and Rob skidded to a side-by-side halt, spraying the blanket’s Bess-shaped indentation with a shower of dirt and dried leaves, then sprinted forward to rub their sister’s back vigorously and to give me two powerful hugs.
“Hi, Mummy. Hi, Bessy,” they chorused breathlessly. “Hello, Mrs. Bunting.”
“Good morning, boys,” said Lilian. She rose to greet Bill, then excused herself, saying, “I must remind Teddy that lunchtime is approaching. If I don’t, he’ll forget to eat.”
“Good to see you, Lilian, however briefly,” said Bill.
“And you, Bill,” she responded.
Lilian ruffled the twins’ windblown hair affectionately and headed for the vicarage. I passed Bess to Bill and repacked the diaper bag, then sat on the stone bench to take stock of our sons. Their boisterousness filled me with trepidation.
“How many slices of lemon poppy-seed cake have you had?” I asked them, giving Bill a dark, sidelong glance.
“One apiece,” Rob replied.
“And a glass of milk each,” Will added.
Bill confirmed the veracity of their statements as well as the unfairness of my unspoken accusation with a haughty nod.
“You must have eaten very slowly,” I said to the boys. “You’ve been at the tearoom for ages.”
“We weren’t eating the whole time,” Will said, tossing his head scornfully.
“Mr. Cook was teaching us to juggle,” Rob explained, his eyes shining.
Henry Cook, a former cruise ship entertainer, possessed a wealth of talents guaranteed to dazzle a pair of nine-year-old boys. Although I appreciated his willingness to introduce Will and Rob to the performing arts, I couldn’t help thinking that a tearoom was not an ideal venue for juggling lessons.
“What did you juggle?” I asked, picturing Sally Cook’s floor strewn with smashed cups and saucers.
“Bread rolls,” said Will.
“Without butter,” Rob amplified.
I heaved a sigh of relief.
“But we’re done with juggling,” said Will.
“We’re going to the Cotswold Farm Park!” Rob exclaimed.
“Are we?” I asked, looking at Bill.
“The vote was unanimous,” he informed me solemnly.
“Mrs. Cook packed us a picnic lunch,” said Will. “It’s huge.”
“It’s already in the Rover,” said Rob.
“Boys?” said Bill. “Please walk—do not run—to the car and wait for us there. Mummy, Bess, and I will be along in a moment.”
“Righty-ho, Daddy!” they chorused.
Watching Will and Rob trying to walk was like watching a pair of colts trying not to kick up their heels. Their self-control filled me with pride.
“Righty-ho?” I said wonderingly, when the boys were safely out of earshot. “Where did that come from?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Bill as he placed Bess in her carry cot. “They must have picked it up at the stables. Is the Cotswold Farm Park all right?”
“Children, animals, and a huge picnic lunch?” I said, grabbing the diaper bag. “Sounds like a winning formula to me.”
Bill took the diaper bag from me and slung it over his own shoulder, then picked up the carry cot.
“I’ve been collecting information,” he said mysteriously.
Bill wouldn’t demean himself by gossiping, but he saw nothing wrong with “collecting information.” If there was a difference between the two, I couldn’t see it.
“Have I got a story to tell you,” he added.
“Could you save it for later?” I asked. “I need some Mummy time with Will and Rob.”
“Righty-ho!” he said.
I laughed, and while he did the heavy lifting, I thrust Marigold Edwards and Arthur Hargreaves out of my thoughts to make room for my boys.
Nine
Despite a skinned knee, a broken shoelace, and a close encounter with an irate goose, our outing was a resounding success. Will and Rob introduced Bess to polka-dotted pigs, long-horned oxen, and stately shire horses; fed park-approved treats to the little white goats that had the run of the main enclosure; and went with Bill to watch the sheep-shearing demonstration while Bess and I took our afternoon naps in the Rover.