ISN’T THAT Augustus?” Miss Slee whispered in Mr. Swift’s ear. Quite a loud whisper, the kind that makes people in surrounding seats turn and look at you with interest.
Mr. Swift’s features were impassive although he couldn’t quite suppress a slight shudder at the spectacle before him. Miss Slee leaned further forward in her seat to catch Mrs. Swift’s attention. “That is Augustus, isn’t it?” she persisted, in an even louder whisper. “Your son, ” she added. It didn’t really qualify any longer as a whisper. More of a shout. Mrs. Swift’s expression remained inscrutable. The rest of the audience were as transfixed as Augustus’s parents by the scene unfolding before them on the stage of the village hall.
“England Through the Ages” had reached the Armada, and Elizabeth I was giving her rousing speech to the troops at Tilbury. Gloriana had commandeered Boadicea’s chariot—a makeshift sort of affair—and was brandishing a trident that had been borrowed from Britannia. These two noble emblems of womanhood (played by Augustus’s sister, Phyllis, and Lady Lamington from the Hall) had not volunteered their possessions and were standing at either side of the stage glowering at Gloriana.
The rest of the pageant players were gamely carrying on, despite the fact that half the scenery had collapsed and several dogs were wandering aimlessly around on the stage.
The vicar, sitting on the other side of Mrs. Swift, said to her, “But I thought Mrs. Brewster had taken on the role of Queen Elizabeth. Who is that on stage?”
Gloriana’s red wig had slipped down to one side and, having no proper costume, she had wrapped herself in a Roman centurion’s cloak. Again, an item not voluntarily relinquished by said centurion. Her surprisingly grubby knees were visible beneath the cloak and there was what looked to all intents and purposes to be a catapult in her pocket.
“You’re doing jolly well, you lot,” this dishevelled Gloriana yelled in a rather unqueenly way. “Killin’ all these spaniels and stuff.” “Spaniards,” Mrs. Garrett could be heard hissing from the side of the stage. Gloriana brandished Britannia’s trident high and shouted, “Now let’s go and kill the rest of ’em!” A marauding horde of children poured on to the stage, roaring and shouting and in some cases squeaking. The dogs barked excitedly at the sight of them. Some—nay, many—of those children had previously been of good character but now seemed to have come under the hypnotic spell of Gloriana. As, apparently, had many members of the audience, who were viewing her with open-mouthed horror.
“Are the children supposed to be the Spaniards?” the vicar asked Mrs. Swift. “ ‘Invading hordes,’ ” he said, consulting the programme notes.
“I’m not sure I know who anyone is supposed to be any more,” Mrs. Swift said, distracted by the hideous sight of the red wig slipping further down her son’s face.
“Are they the same children,” the vicar puzzled, “who were also the Saxons and the Vikings and the Normans? It’s hard to tell now that they’re all covered in green paint. What do you suppose that represents? England’s green and pleasant land?”
“I doubt it,” Mrs. Swift said and gave a little cry of alarm as Boadicea’s chariot, not robust to begin with, suddenly collapsed and Gloriana toppled ingloriously to the stage, taking the remaining scenery with her. A small West Highland terrier ran on stage and with excellent timing snatched the red wig in its mouth and ran off with it, accompanied by some off-stage shrieking.
“That is Augustus,” Miss Slee said.
“I have never seen that boy in my life before,” Mr. Swift said resolutely.
“Neither have I,” Mrs. Swift said.
In retrospect, Mr. Swift said gloomily, you could see that it was bound to end in disaster.
“And it all started so well,” Mrs. Swift said.
“It always does,” Mr. Swift said.
The whole village had been in a state of great excitement. It had been discovered by Mr. Robinson, who ran the local history society, that the village was much older than anyone had thought, the proof coming from the remains of a Roman villa that had been unearthed in a field on the outskirts of the village. “Evidence of early occupation by our Roman conquerors,” Mr. Robinson said.
“A viller,” Augustus reported back to his little gang of pals. His cohorts—Norman, George and Roderick—had recently decided to give themselves a name. They had considered and rejected the Pirates, the Outlaws and the Robbers, and after much discussion (endless, some might have said) and one or two mild scuffles, they had finally settled on the Apaches as a name that conveyed their bold fearlessness. (Or bloodthirsty murderousness, Mr. Swift said.)