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poochie’s purposes.”
    Our hostess turned and plucked two old-fashioned keys with wooden tags from their hooks on the wall, then handed them to Mother.
    â€œThe dining area,” Celia said, “will be serving the evening meal at five o’clock, and breakfast is available from seven until eleven—lunch you’ll need to catch on your own.” She paused for a breath. “If there’s anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant, please don’t hesitate to contact me. We’re Celia and Seabert, the Falwells.”
    Close, I thought.
    I asked, “Could you point us to the New Vic Theater? I didn’t spot it when we drove around the village green.” I knew Mother would be wanting to go there next.
    â€œIt’s just off the green, one block west,” she replied. “Stratford-on-Avon Street.”
    Naturally.
    â€œAnything else?” Celia smiled.
    â€œAnd your lift?” Mother asked.
    â€œPardon? Did you need a lift somewhere?”
    â€œShe means elevator,” I said.
    Mother looked miffed that the faux Mrs. Fawlty didn’t understand the English vernacular.
    â€œSadly we haven’t one,” she replied, then sighed deeply. “Seabert and I wanted to install an elevator, but the other trustees wouldn’t sanction it.”
    I asked, “Other trustees?”
    â€œYes. I’m on the board, but there’s a fuddy-duddy contingent who are against any progress.”
    Mother winked. “But you still managed to slip a satellite dish past ’em.”
    â€œAh, you overheard. That proved easier to hide than an elevator. It wasn’t until the sixties that lodging with television was even allowed—we’re supposed to have indoor antennas. Can’t have a thatched roof with an aerial, after all—wouldn’t do!” She paused, buried her bitterness beneath a smile. “But we were able to finally install individual bathrooms in the rooms.”
    Startled, I asked, “When was that?”
    â€œLast year. Can I get Seabert to help with the luggage?”
    â€œNo, I can manage,” I replied, preferring to carry the cases up rather than bother Basil. That is, Seabert.
    The stairs were next to the dining room, and I followed Mother and Sushi up, grateful our accommodations were on the second floor, not the third.
    Mother took the room with a view of the village green, while I was content to have the one facing the back parking lot, which should be quieter.
    Otherwise, our rooms were identical—cramped (due to the added bathroom, only slightly larger than one in a third-class cruise ship compartment), bed with wrought-iron frame, small armoire, and a desk with chair. But the carpet looked recent, the floral wallpaper wasn’t overly busy, and crisp white lace curtains hung on the single (apparently mullioned) window.
    We took five minutes to settle in and unpack a few things, Sushi trotting back and forth between our two quarters, most likely trying to make up her mind where she wanted to sleep (she was immune to Mother’s snoring—dogs can sleep through anything except the rustle of a potato chip bag).
    Then we were off to the New Vic, taking the car rather than walking as Mother wanted to unload her/our prop hats for the show, which she’d been told was scheduled for Saturday night.
    The New Vic might have been better called the New Old Vic, because it was yet another ancient building, looking decidedly oversized among its quaint residential neighbors.
    We parked in a side lot, leaving Mother’s gear in the trunk for the moment, then walked around to the front. I had been to the Old Vic in London early in my marriage to Roger (we’d seen Kevin Spacey perform in Richard II— wow!), and this old-looking New Vic was a smaller version of that theater. The building was brick Georgian architecture (like our Colonial) with a wide front overhang supported by columns, and a top