`Sounds like a sensible precaution. You know, m'dear. Your conviction that Prescott is turning into some sort of dictator is beginning to get a tad boring.'
Harding finished his report. One of his assistants with a boom microphone moved into the crowd to take questions.
`Mr Harding. Will we starve if our population increases?'
`A population cannot outgrow its food supply,' the scientist replied. `The ghost of Malthus was laid to rest on that point many years ago. Where there is famine, it is usually due to failures in government or in management. We've calculated that Pentworth can, with the help of heavy horses for ploughing and harvesting, double its population, and possibly triple it. Horses are vital. Mankind would not have flourished without the cooperation, and the power and stamina of these good-natured beasts. But I must warn you that there will be shortages this year because what little seed we have must used to raise crops to provide the seed stock for next year.'
`What about this hot weather we're having?'
Harding smiled. `Yes -- we seem to moving towards a Mediterranean climate but with a higher humidity. Who's complaining? Seriously though, we've been watching the climate closely and it seems to be stable. Some traditional crops will flourish, others may not do so well. Crops that had to be grown under glass such as peppers, melons and aubergines are racing away in the open. Early indications are that we can expect bumper yields. The lettuces and tomatoes etcetera in the salad that you'll be enjoying soon are all two to three weeks early.
`If this weather pattern becomes the norm, it means that our heating problems next winter will be virtually non-existent and therefore our need for fires, which might lead to high levels of carbon in our precious dome of an atmosphere, will be greatly diminished. The magnificent weather is a bonus -- especially with so many pretty girls around. God knows, we need something.'
`Sexist old fool.' Ellen muttered.
`Spoil sport,' David countered.
The opening questioners encouraged spate of queries that Harding dealt with in detail and at length. The smell of cooking now pervaded the entire square and the crowd appeared to be getting restless with many frequent glances at the barbecue. The 13 spring virgins emerged from Pentworth Antiques dressed as Elizabethan serving wenches.
Prescott mounted the stage. It was the cue for Bob Harding to wind up the question and answer session, thank everyone for their attention, and hand the microphone to the chairman. The scientist seemed overwhelmed by the enthusiasm of the thunderous ovation he received.
`And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,' said Prescott, blasting his capped-tooth smile around Market Square when the applause had died away. `I have some good news, some very good news, and some extraordinarily good news! First the good news.' He held up a polythene bag containing a pinkish-white substance. `Salt, ladies and gentlemen. As some of you know, Ted Brewer's spring over on Macao Farm has always been slightly salty. Two weeks ago a small experimental salt pan to evaporate his spring water was set up and this residue is the result. Half a kilo of salt!'
Many faces in the crowd looked blank, particularly the younger ones. The only salt they were interested in was what they would soon be sprinkling on those delicious-smelling steaks just as soon as all this boring talk-talk was over.
`Salt is vital,' Prescott declared. `Therefore we're going to build a much larger salt pan. The Romans used to pay their soldiers in the stuff -- their salarium. That's where the word salary comes from -- a man being worth his salt. Oh well -- suit yourselves. The very good news is that we'll have the official opening of the telephone system on Tuesday. We have a small number of the very old-fashioned dial-less phones that work with the system therefore we'll be giving priority to essential services although there will be a number of telephone kiosks working. Calls will be free...'
Cheers.
`But only because we haven't worked out a payment system.'
Catcalls.
`Local calls only. You won't be able to make long-distance calls.'
Laughter.
`You have to admit that the man knows how to handle an audience,' said David.
`So did Hitler,' was Ellen's sour rejoinder.
`And now for the extraordinarily good news,' said Prescott. `We've come through a month of this curse. Thanks to all your efforts Pentworth is surviving and will go on to flourish.' He pulled a typewritten sheet of paper from his pocket and held it up. `This is the agenda for the council meeting we're about to hold on this stage.'
Groans.
Prescott beamed. `You've come here to enjoy yourselves. The last thing you want to endure is a council meeting, and that meat smells absolutely gorgeous.' He suddenly tore up the agenda and tossed the pieces into the air. `The council meeting is adjourned! We can hold it some other time. Let's start the feast! Let's start living, everyone!'
A storm of applause, wild cheering and whistles greeted the announcement. The Bee Gees' Stayin' Alive! burst from the speakers and there was a determined surge towards the barbecue.
`That,' said David slowly. `Was an extremely well-planned spontaneous decision.'
Ellen stood transfixed for some moments, unable to speak.
`Bastard?' David offered.
`BASTARD!' Ellen spat.
`How about "unprincipled scumbag"?'
`Unprin-- I can think up my own insults, you stupid nerd-brained streak of rancid toad smegma! How's that?'
`Not bad,' said David admiringly. `But just because he's screwed you and your schemes--'
`Screwed me!' Ellen echoed in fury. `Screwed me! Don't you realize what that snivelling little bucket of curdled camel vomit has done?' She waved her hand at the eager queues forming at the barbecue and salad stand. `He's not just screwed me! He's screwed all of us!’
Chapter 67.
ANNE FANNED HERSELF AND looked up at the few coloured lights that remained on, shining brightly against the humid night sky. The majority had been turned off at midnight to conserve fuel. Most of the light now was from flickering candles in glass goblets on each table, and a full moon edging above the rooftops.
`I'd forgotten what electric lights look like,' she remarked to Malone, and closed her eyes, enjoying the music. `It was about a fortnight ago that I realized that my hand was no longer going automatically to the light switch whenever I went into the kitchen.'
It was nearly one o'clock. Parents with young children, and most of the elderly, had left but the square was still fairly busy, most of the tables occupied by young adults determined to see the night out. Cathy Price was on the dance floor, seriously entwined with an admirer as they groin-wrestled to a slow waltz.
The general consensus was that the Radio Pentworth disc jockey was doing a good job, trying to please as many as possible some of the time. His evening's repertoire had been divided into thirty minute segments of nostalgia, heavy metal, hard rock, house and garage, with volume levels ranging from loud to deafening. St Mary's striking twelve had been the signal to wind back the sound, turn off light show apart from some coloured strobes over the dance floor, and play slower dance music to tempt exhausted couples back to the dance area.
A party of noisy late arrivals trooped into the square and picked over the remains of the barbecue. Tony Warren's worries had been unfounded; the food had lasted. Anne watched a horse-drawn bus -- a converted hay wain -- enter the square and pick up a few waiting passengers. She told herself that she ought to round up Vikki and Sarah and leave but she was in no hurry for the evening to end.
`You're a good dancer, Mr Malone,' she said. `It must be all that jogging.'
Malone smiled lazily. `I'm a lousy dancer, Mrs Taylor. I think it must be all that cider that's warped your judgement.' He regarded his partner appreciatively. After they'd eaten, Anne had taken herself off to the ladies toilets with the inevitable support group of other women and returned wearing a white slip dress that she had secreted in her handbag. It suited her golden suntan and long, straight-brushed hair.
`I hate
the stuff,' said Anne, opening her eyes. `But it didn't taste so bad after the first two glasses.' She glanced across at Vikki who was still taking orders for drinks. `My daughter must be dead on her feet but look at her. You must be pleased with yourself. Your theory worked. No one drunk. Kids mixing happily with parents. All age groups having a good time together.'
Malone nodded to the Crown. `It's nothing new. There used to be assemblies in the Crown in the 18th Century. Balls two or three nights a week. No age restrictions because babysitters and licensing laws hadn't been invented.'
Anne yawned and apologised. `I've got used to going to bed when it gets dark, and getting up at first light. Funny thing is that I still spend as much time up and about and I'm as busy as I always was. Busier, really. I've trebled the size of my vegetable patch and I'm having to hoe weeds for about an hour a day.' `Our tempo of life is changing,' said Malone. `We've been pitchforked back into 18th Century England, without the impractical costumes, but with solar cookers.'
Anne laughed. `And decent weather. And a wonderful radio service. Real local radio churning out news and information and swap shops, no ads, and just enough raunchy rock to keep me happy.'
`Not forgetting telephones.'
`Telephones.' Anne pulled a face.
`Don't worry,' said Malone, smiling easily. `Lines are being assigned to emergency and public services only.'
`Don't get me wrong,' said Anne. `The telephone is a marvellous tool. It's just that it's been prostituted into a device for blatant commercial exploitation and downloading mucky pictures. We'll have Pentworth Television next.'
`Very unlikely,' said Malone. `I asked Bob Harding the same question. He said that radio receivers need milliwatts of power. Even the transmitter uses only a few watts. But Pentworth would need a power station before it could have a television service.'
The music changed to a ballad. Cathy Price and her partner carried on dancing.
`Well, that's something, Mr Malone. Television is one thing I don't miss. Would you think me silly if I said that there are some things about this mess we're in that I'm actually enjoying?'
`I'd say that you're being pragmatic and practical.' He added, `But separation from loved ones is hard... So damned hard.'
`No motor traffic and clean air as a result,' said Anne. `I used to have the most god-awful migraines. I've tried all sorts of diet fixes but none of them worked. But I haven't had an attack since the crisis started. Dr Vaughan said that I wasn't the only one. We're lucky that Mr Prescott took such quick action. And look at the way he got the radio station working so quickly. Did you listen to the radio play the drama society did yesterday evening?'
`I was on duty,' said Malone. He enjoyed listening to Anne's small talk and guessed that she was alone a good deal.
`An R D Wingfield Inspector Frost whodunit. It was very good. Wonder how they'll pay his royalty?' She broke off. `I'm sorry, Mr Malone. I must be boring you senseless.'
`I promise you that you're not.'
Vikki approached their table, her order pad resting on the side of her left hand. `Anything to drink, madame? Sir?'
Anne smiled. `Not for me. I apologise for my cheeky daughter, Mr Malone.'
`I think she's just treating her customers even-handedly,' Malone observed. `No thanks, Vikki -- I'm fine.'
`Bad luck, mother dear. Doesn't look like you're going to get him drunk.'
`Vikki!'
Vikki fled.
`I'm sorry, Mr Malone. We shall have words later.'
Malone grinned as he watched Vikki returning to the serving table. `Nothing to apologise for. I admire her spirit. And, if you don't mind my saying, I also admire her ability with left hand.'
Malone's plan to lead the conversation along lines of his making was thwarted by the DJ mixing back to a waltz. Anne kicked off her shoes and jumped up. `I haven't danced a barefoot waltz since I was a kid. If you would do me the honour, Mr Malone.'
`I'd be delighted to, Mrs Taylor,' said Malone, matching her solemnity. `But I fear that our recent gyrations have left me somewhat sweaty and smelly -- a most objectionable partner.'
`I will tolerate it as best I can with my customary fortitude, Mr Malone.'
Vikki and Sarah took advantage of a lull in the demand for drinks to flop out in plastic chairs. They watched Malone and Anne dancing. Very respectably, very conventionally.
Sarah observed, `I worry about what the older generation's coming to these days. Last time I served them it was all "Mr Malone" this, and "Mrs Taylor" that.'
`It still is,' said Vikki, pumping her blouse. `I think their parents have got a lot to answer for. And it's long past my mother's bedtime. She'll be difficult and fretful in the morning. And so will I if I discover she's taken him home for breakfast. Hell -- am I bushed.'
`You've only been taking orders,' Sarah protested. `We've been doing all the humping. Fetching and carrying humping, that is. We're going to have to "out" that hand of yours soon, Viks.'
`Don't please, Sarah.'
`You can't go on putting it off and putting it off.'
The group of recent arrivals, now at a table on the far side of the dance floor, started yelling for service. Vikki groaned.
`I'll see to them,' said Sarah, jumping up. `You rest and relax, your ladyship.'
`Bitch,' said Vikki, laughing.
Sarah took a short cut across the dance floor, dodging the couples, and approached the table. `Well,' she said. `What have we here? Father Roscoe decided to let you bleeders out of your cage tonight?'
`Sarah!' said Nelson Faraday warmly. `How lovely to see you. This is Sarah, everyone. She was at the party on the night of the divine curse.'
The girl exchanged brief nods with the others, but she had eyes only for Faraday, devouring him hungrily with her eyes. He was dressed in his customary black cloak, cavalier boots, and broad-brimmed black leather hat.
`You've been hiding from me, Nelson.'
`We've been busy, my precious -- helping keep Pentworth supplied with milk, bread and butter.'
`We have some unfinished business from that party,' said Sarah reproachfully, making no attempt to disguise the fact that Faraday appeared to be bending the needle against the stop on her F scale. The women in the party were aware of Faraday's weakness for very young girls, and assailed the skinny, besotted interloper with stiletto dagger looks that encountered an armour of youthful indifference.
`We have indeed,' said Faraday, grinning broadly.
Sarah's answer was to throw her arms around his neck, push herself onto his lap and kiss him with uncontrolled passion, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, only coming up for air to chew on his earlobe and whisper gross indecencies into his ear while power-wriggling her buttocks into his groin with knowledgeable provocation. Faraday laughed and stood with Sarah still entwined around him like clinging ivy.
`Mustn't let this little one down,' he said, grinning broadly at his friends. `This won't take long.'
He hardly had a chance to finish the last sentence because Sarah was dragging him towards a side street. Two minutes later this demented little nympho had him pinioned in a doorway in Bartons Lane, her lips pressed against his, and her eager fingers tugging down the zip on his fly. Faraday liked to exercise control but he let this little bundle of sex-starved mischief have her way because his plan was to drive her crazy once she was dependent on his cooperation to achieve the fulfillment of her impassioned cravings. He even let her pull down his leather pants as best she could and roll down his underpants. He tried to guide her head for his own gratification but Sarah suddenly straightened up, her eyes large and luminous in the moonlight.
`Do you know what I'd like to do to you now, Nelson, darling?' she whispered dreamily, fondling him with both hands.
Faraday's eyes glinted, his expression now a sneer of buoyant anticipation at the grovelling humiliation he was going inflict on this stupid, randy little cock-teasing child-bitch.
`The same that I'd like you to do to me,' he replied
.
`Oh -- that's good,' said Sarah brightly. She tensed and drove her knee into Faraday's groin with all the power she could muster. Her knee glanced against his thigh and reduced its force, but it was enough.
The sudden glaze of shock in his eyes as Sarah felt his testicles absorb the crushing impact was most satisfying, but even better was his scream of agony as he doubled up and keeled over.
`That's from Vikki,' she said dispassionately. She was tempted to spend a few moments savouring her victim's writhing agony but his howls were certain to attract the attention of his friends so she took off fast, weaving around side streets to return to the square from a different direction.
Chapter 68.
IT WAS THE FIRST TIME Malone had visited Harvey Evans' home. He looked around the comfortable, book-lined, low-beamed living room with interest as he and the senior police officer sipped nettle tea. Outside the cottage's latticed windows bees buzzed around a row of hives that extended down the side the paddock. At the far end of the close-mown field was Evans' Durand `Aerocraft Ultralight'. The flimsy two-seater microlight biplane was parked under a sailcloth gazebo that served as a hanger. Two tethered goats did the job of a mower by keeping the grass short for his landings and takeoffs. He was provided with an allocation of fuel for fire-spotting flights and survey work.
`One of Ellen Duncan's concoctions,' said Evans. `Quite good. I think I'll stay with it even if we manage to grow ordinary tea.'
`Evasion,' said Malone.
`What?'
`You haven't answered my question, sir.'
Evans smiled. `I'm now out of the rat race and you decide to start calling me "sir".'
`That's because I've decided to appreciate you now that it seems you won't be around any more.'
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