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The brass band, on its small platform, was on its third rendition of “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do.” The trombone was flat, but all in all Agatha Kent was extremely happy with the parade so far. The day was brilliant with sun but refreshed by a breeze strong enough to ensure the proper fluttering of pennants, the stir of petticoats, and the occasional hand grabbing for a hat brim on the street corners. The parade, squeezed between the narrow houses and the thick clumps of people pressing into the street from the pavement, seemed to foam like a slow waterfall out into the wider street in front of the reviewing stand, a glorious succession of floats, decorated cars, and processions of local clubs and institutions. In her large notebook, Agatha ticked off participants as they passed. Mr. Tillingham rode by in an open car, accompanied by a girl dressed as Literature, holding a large parchment and a golden quill. Miss Buttles and Miss Finch received much applause and laughter as Queen Elizabeth I and Sir Walter Raleigh, with Sir Walter driving her new Triumph motorcycle and the Faerie Queen stuffed, ruff and all, into the sidecar like a prize chicken. The Mayor in his regalia waved from high up on a large horse-drawn omnibus, surrounded by representations of all of Rye’s trades, including a fisherman who dangled a large dead cod on a short pole. The baying, snapping hounds of the Working Dog Association paraded in doggie coats featuring the St. George’s Cross and the county coat of arms, except for a border terrier that appeared to have ripped off his coat and was carrying its crumpled remains in his jaws. And all along the parade, girls in pretty summer dresses and red, white, and blue sashes squeezed through the crowds with trays of small paper lapel flags and decorated buckets, flirting and cajoling the audience to buy a flag for the cause.
The reviewing stands were full, and Colonel Wheaton and Lady Emily, whose car had led the parade, had been hard-pressed to clamber up into their center chairs. Colonel Wheaton, in a dress uniform of his own design with several loops of braid to the right shoulder and an antique Indian sword dangling from an ornately decorated leather belt, was saluting now as his newly official troops marched by, his son, Harry, in the first rank and sporting the pips of a lieutenant’s rank. The men straggled somewhat, some limping in boots that looked hastily gathered. They carried wooden models of rifles, as official ones had yet to arrive.
“Don’t Daddy’s men look marvelous?” asked Eleanor Wheaton. “Quite the real soldiers.”
“The khaki is not as striking as a dress uniform,” said Agatha.
“But it’s harder to get shot at on the battlefield,” said her husband, John, dressed in a blazer and flannels. For a moment, Agatha experienced a pang. He would have looked so handsome in uniform, she thought, and he was not a year older than Colonel Wheaton, who seemed intent on being allowed into combat. “Best leave the braid and colors to the ladies,” added John, nodding at Eleanor. She was wearing a navy blue jacket of military design, much frogged across the bodice and pinched at the waist with a belt of scarlet wool.
“Between Father and me, we have rather cornered the market in braid,” she said, not seeming at all offended. “After the incident with the dogs, I may have been trying too hard to demonstrate my patriotism.” John raised an eyebrow in inquiry and Agatha found herself in the awkward position of having neglected to communicate a story that was of great consequence to one party and of little importance to the other. In such a situation, John’s feelings would have to be sacrificed.
“You remember, dear,” she said. “I told you how some boys threw stones at Lady Emily’s dachshunds while Eleanor was walking them and made the most appalling comments to both her and the poor doggies about being German.”
“Of course you did,” said John, demonstrating his diplomatic skills with only the slightest raising of an eyebrow. “Appalling! No one of intelligence would ever doubt the patriotism of such an English rose.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kent,” said Eleanor. “But I think Mother is more concerned about the accusations against the dogs.”
“How anyone could doubt the patriotism of my dachshunds is just shocking,” said Lady Emily. “It’s an outrage.”
“The Breeders Association is changing the breed name from dachshund to Freedom Hound,” said Eleanor. “They will be running newspaper advertisements and hopefully that will help.”
“Such vulgar pandering to the masses,” said Lady Emily. “But if it saves even a single little dog’s life, it must be endured, I suppose.”
“Speaking of saving lives, here comes Hugh’s ambulance,” said Agatha. “Doesn’t he look handsome?” Hugh walked ahead of his ambulance, his face stern. The ambulance, polished to a fault, had its back doors open, and two of Hugh’s men waved their caps at the crowd from their perches inside. They were followed by another who proudly carried a box labeled PORTABLE X-RAY. The box was a fraud, a portable X-ray being much too large and too valuable to send out to a country parade, but the Medical Corps was proud enough of its newest medical advance to have allowed Hugh to construct a crude model for the occasion.
Behind Hugh came Daniel’s group of eight officers, marching two abreast, all in new khaki and caps, with the officer’s Sam Browne leather belt and a pistol holster on the left hip. Boots were polished, and the lack of limping suggested to Agatha that the boots and the officers who wore them were properly broken in.
“So thrilling Daniel’s outfit came to join in,” said Eleanor. “But I had hoped the Artists Rifles might be wearing linen shirts and daggers in their belts.”
“They are not pirates,” said Agatha. “It’s an Officer Training Corps, and they take it very seriously, as you can tell by their demeanor.”
“I can’t wait to tour the model trench,” said Eleanor. “Beatrice Nash tells me they have bookshelves and willow furniture, and that they read poetry every night before taps.”
“The parade seems to be progressing with complete efficiency,” said John. “You ladies are generals in your own right.”
“Let us not count our chickens,” said Agatha. She had noticed one or two of the bucket girls seemed a little forward in their soliciting of men in the crowd, and she had also spotted that Snout, in Roman toga and sandals, seemed to have ditched his classmates and was also wielding a collection bucket. One of the fire-station horses had gone lame, and some of the schoolchildren seemed congenitally unable to walk in a straight line; their marching formation resembled a flock of worried sheep and the teachers had spent the parade herding rather than waving. The parade was going well, but it could not be assumed to be a success until the last float, containing the Britannia tableau, had stopped at the reviewing stand for the playing of the national anthems of Belgium and Great Britain and then moved on to the parade grounds to a rousing rendition of “Land of Hope and Glory.” It was hoped the entire crowd would be singing and would be motivated to spend their money on the afternoon’s attractions. Then and only then, thought Agatha, would she breathe freely.