“One of my favourite spots,
don’t you know,” said the slight military man, who was wearing a camel-hair
overcoat. “Used to come here
for a sandwich. Before this lot spoilt the view,” he said, waving at the
anti-aircraft gun emplacements and the steel hawsers securing a barrage
balloon that floated above their heads.
“And look at this
desecration,” he said, pointing to a rise to one side of St James’s
Lake, now scarred by two parallel trenches. “The
most beautiful spread of snowdrops and croci would herald the first signs of
spring to be followed by blazes of daffs and jonquils. Never found out who ordered
them dug. If Jerry gets this far, it will be white flags not fighting in the
trenches.”
Sowerbutt, who wore a
long leather coat to keep out the cold, smiled; he had never seen this
nature-loving side of the military man before.
His companion patted the
park-bench. “At least, we saved this. The vandals at Westminster Council were going to take it
away for scrap - war effort. Rang the Town Clerk’s office from No 10 and shared with them that this
seat was a favourite of the King’s late father as a young man and that the
Palace would view its removal with displeasure.”
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