The Unburied Past Read Online Free Page A

a grin.
    â€˜In your dreams!’ she replied.
    As soon as they left their gate they were engulfed in a stream of people making their way to the fête – families for the most part, parents with excited children dancing at their side, but young couples too, hand-in-hand and giggling, and the occasional grey head. Both sides of the road were solid with parked cars, and as they neared the green the volume of music increased to the point where speech became virtually impossible.
    The green itself was a seething mass of humanity. Dotted round the perimeter were coconut shies, a tombola and stalls selling bric-à-brac, home-made jams, cakes, potted plants and garden ornaments. There was a face-painting tent where a queue of children had formed, and in a roped-off area three-legged races were being organized.
    Their progress was necessarily slow, stopping as they did at stall after stall to buy toffee apples for the children, a ceramic pig for Lynne’s collection and a Le Carré paperback Mark hadn’t read. There was a penned-off area containing baby animals, where children were admitted in twos and threes, but Adam, though mesmerized by the lambs and chickens, shook his head when offered the chance to go in, and it was Kirsty who struggled to free herself from the pushchair and play with them.
    The day passed in a whirl of noise and colour. After a while Adam wilted and demanded the buggy while his parents took turns in carrying Kirsty, but he quickly revived when Mark, trying his luck at hoopla, snared a Donald Duck toy, and vacated the buggy to claim it.
    As requested, Mark recorded each event – Adam on the merry-go-round, which he’d refused to brave without Emma; Kirsty stroking a baby rabbit, and another of her with an ice cream in one hand, dragging her teddy by its ear.
    â€˜That ear’s hanging by a thread,’ Mark warned, closing his camera.
    â€˜I know; as soon as I can prise it out of her grasp, I’ll sew it back on.’
    They were passing the dais when an official stepped on to it with a microphone and announced that ‘Mr Barry Ferris’, who now joined him, was about to present the prizes.
    â€˜So will the winners of the egg and spoon races please come up, and we’ll start with the under sixes.’
    The crowd surged forward for a better view, pinning them against the steps leading to the dais. On a low table immediately in front of them a selection of prizes was arrayed – jars of sweets, books, a doll, a gaily-coloured beach ball. And as Mark attempted to move back to allow access, Adam freed his hand and, clambering up the steps, reached for the ball.
    There was a burst of laughter from the crowd as Mark, red-faced, hurried to retrieve him, and Adam’s roar of protest was cut off by the swift presentation of a lollipop. Placated, he allowed himself to be carried down.
    The prize-giving lasted about ten minutes as children of varying ages, flushed with triumph, came up to receive their trophies. When the last of them had been reclaimed by their parents, a round of applause was requested for the presenter, after which the brass band struck up again, its amplified music once more drowning out conversation.
    â€˜I think we’ve all had enough,’ Emma shouted in Mark’s ear. ‘Shall we make tracks for home?’
    â€˜Agreed,’ Mark replied fervently. ‘After all this, a cup of tea in the peace of the garden would go down a treat.’
    After the uninterrupted sunshine of the previous day, Sunday dawned cool and cloudy. Mark surveyed the grey day from the kitchen window.
    â€˜There’s a cool breeze today; it won’t be much fun wandering around.’
    â€˜Let’s go back to Hawkston,’ Emma suggested. ‘There’ll be more to do there – something for the children, perhaps. It’s on the tourist map – they’re bound to provide options for rainy days. Which,’ she added, joining him