3. Far away from grief and care.
Blue skies above, soft grass below and a warm sun beating down on
them, while a gentle breeze took the edge off the heat. It was a
perfect day for a picnic. So Ruth was not surprised when things turned
out ot be less than perfect.
"How did you forget the drinks?" Ruth asked, as Patrick produced a
stack of plastic cups from his bag but not the fruit juice he was
supposed to be carrying. He shrugged.
"I've got the water, anyway," Tom said. "And the sweets from last
night...oh, wait, no, I must have left them back at the campsite."
"Well, I've got the sandwiches," Ruth said. "Adam, have you got the fruit?"
"Err..."Adam rummaged in his bag. "Yes," he said, producing a large
melon. Ruth knew the answer to the next question before she asked it.
"Has anyone got anything to cut it with?" Awkward silence. She
sighed. "I've got my penknife, that might do but it'll be tricky..."
She felt in her rucksack. "Oh. I took it out this morning to cut some
string at the tent and it looks like I didn't put it back in."
"We can manage without fruit," Agnes said. "I've got the cake." It
was more like crumbs than cake, having been crushed in transit. "It
still tasts ok," Agnes said apologetically.
Ruth laughed. "I think we've spent too much time on Thespis," she
said. "This is ending up like the wedding' picnic! ‘The best of a
pic-nic is that everybody contributes what he pleases, and nobody
knows what anybody else has brought till the last moment.’ It’s so true!”
They ate and drank their less-than-perfect picnic near the folly
known as Solomon's Temple, on a hill on the outskirts of Buxton. It was
something of a tradition to visit there when they came to the Festival,
and indeed the view from the folly over the surrounding area made it
worthwhile. The top of the hill was broken up by little dells where
there had once been lime pits, and tiny purple harebells peeped through
the grass that now covered the industrial waste of previous generations.
Among other things they discussed their production of Ruddigore,
which had taken place two days before. It had turned out quite well,
and the audience had seemed to enjoy it. But several members of the
cast had been annoyed by the comments made afterwards by the festival
adjudicator, who judged all the amateur performances and gave criticism.
They felt she had missed the point on several parts of their show.
"I mean, it doesn't surprise me," Tom said. "We've always said the
same about her, she has very different ideas from us of what makes a
good show."
"Like that time she complained that a performance of Pirates was too funny," Agnes said. "Remember?"
"Ernest wasn't too pleased, was he?" Tom said.
"Nor was Eliza," Ruth added. "She thinks she's the bees' knees and then gets told she ought to tone down! She's not happy."
"Can't say I disagree though," Adam said. "She wasn’t my idea of a Margaret.”
"Wasn't she- the adjudicator I mean- talking to you last night in the
Festival club?" Ruth asked Patrick. The Festival club took place
after the main show of the evening, usually with some communal singing
and performances by members of the cast of that evening's show. Many of
the society had done solos or duets, including Patrick.
“Er...yes,” he replied hesitantly.
What about?" Agnes asked.
"Nothing much." He shifted uncomfortably on the grass. Ruth looked
at him, wondering if there was something he wasn't telling them. Maybe
she had complimented him on his performance, or more likely given him
'constructive criticism' that he did not want to talk about. He had
been quiet since then and had wandered off somewhere on his own
yesterday, not turning up until it was time to go to the theatre to
watch the evening’s performance- a Gondoliers which,
they had agreed, wasn’t anywhere near as good as the one their group
had done the previous year, whatever the adjudicator might think about
them.
He went quiet again now, as the rest of them chattered. Ruth looked
up from packing up the remnants of the picnic and saw him wandering up
towards the folly. She wondered what was bothering him.
They soon followed him, planning to take the obligatory group photos
at the top. But when they got there they found Patrick waiting for
them.
“Look,” he said, pointing. Spiral stairs led up to the viewing
gallery of the folly, as they always had done. But now they also led
down. A winding stone stairway, lit at intervals with bare electric
bulbs disappeared down into the hill beneath Solomon’s Temple.
“Oh! That wasn’t there last year,” said Tom.
“Have they just made it? It looks old,” said Agnes.
“‘Buxton’s Lost Caves,’” Ruth read, from a sign next to the steps.
“‘Visit this stunning cavern, lost since Victorian times and recently
rediscovered. Entry free. Please mind your step on the stairs.’”
“Shall we go down?” Patrick said, already on the first step.
“We might as well,” Tom said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
Ruth was staring down into the dimly-lit darkness. Somehow she
didn’t like the look of it. “I’m...well, I’m not great with spiral
staircases,” she said reluctantly.
“It’s fine,” Patrick said, already disappearing underground. She was momentarily angry with him for ignoring her fear.
“It looks like the steps are ok,” Tom said. “But if you want to wait here we shouldn’t be long.”
“No, I’ll come,” Ruth said. “It might bring you out somewhere
different and I’d have to find you. But let me go last so I don’t feel
I’m slowing you down. I don’t want to have to hurry.”
The story continues...
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