The Day Off
by
On the occasion of the marriage of our junior partner to Ethel Mary, only surviving daughter of William Hubblestead, Esq., J.P., of Banlingbury, by the Canon of Blockminster, assisted by the Rev. Eugene Hubblestead, cousin of the bride–on this occasion the office was closed for the whole of one day, and the staff had a holiday without deduction of salary.
The staff had presented six silver (hallmarked) nutcrackers, and a handsomely bound volume of Cowper’s Poetical Works. The latter was my own suggestion; there was a sum of eight shillings over after the purchase of the nutcrackers, and I have always had a partiality for Cowper. The junior partner thanked us personally, and in very warm terms; at the same time he announced that the following Thursday was to be treated as a holiday.
* * * * *
The weather was glorious, and I have never had a more enjoyable day. The girl laid breakfast overnight, and we rose at half-past five. By half-past six Eliza had cut some mutton sandwiches and placed them in a basket with a bottle of milk–the milkman having obliged with a specially early call by appointment. A brief journey by train, and by a quarter-past seven we were at Danstow for our day off in the country.
Danstow is a picturesque little village, and looked beautiful in the hot sunlight. I was wearing a fairly new summer suit, with brown boots. As I remarked to Eliza, it would probably have created a feeling of surprise among the villagers if they had learned that, as a rule, my professional duties took me to the city in the morning.
Eliza said: “All right. What do we do here?”
“Why,” I said, “there’s the old church. We mustn’t miss that.”
We went and examined the old church. Then we went twice up and down the village street, and examined that.
“Well,” said Eliza, “what next?”
“Now,” I replied, “we just stroll about and amuse ourselves. I feel particularly light-hearted.”
“That’s breakfasting at six, that is,” said Eliza. “If you could find a quiet place, we might have a sandwich.”
We went a little way along the road, and I espied a field which seemed to me to look likely. I said to a passer-by: “I am a stranger here. Can you tell me whether there would be any objection to our sitting in that field?” He said, in rather an offensive and sarcastic way, that he believed the field was open for sitting in about that hour. I did not give him any reply, but just opened the gate for Eliza.
We sat down under the hedge, and finished our sandwiches and milk. The church clock struck nine.
“What train do we go back by?” asked Eliza.
“Not until half-past nine to-night. There’s a day for you!”
“Twelve hours and a half,” said Eliza. “And we’ve done the sandwiches, and done the milk, and done the church, and there’s nothing else to do.”
“Except amuse ourselves,” I added, as I took off my boots, which had pained me slightly. I then dozed off.
* * * * *
Eliza woke me to say that she had read all the newspaper the sandwiches were wrapped in, and picked some wild flowers, and the flowers had died, and she wanted to know what the time was. It was just past eleven.
She said: “Oh, lor!”
I soon dropped off again.
When I woke, at half-past twelve, Eliza was not there. She returned in a few minutes, and said that she had been doing the church over again.
“That was hardly necessary,” I observed.
“Oh, one must do something, and there’s nothing else to do.”
“On the contrary, there’s luncheon. We’ll have that at once, so as to give us a good long afternoon.”