Rather to Roberta’s surprise, Mr. Cunningham didn’t say no outright. “Swimming involves disrobing, which wouldn’t be appropriate for ladies,” he noted.
“A boy never shows a girl his pizzle,” Teddy informed Roberta.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.
“But once you’re married, you can look at all of ’em that you wish.”
“I assume that is a philosophy learned at Papa’s knee?” Roberta enquired.
Damon stopped laughing to say that perhaps the field would be a good place for their picnic.
Mr. Cunningham agreeably began steering the boat in that direction and a moment later they were on the bank. Teddy let it be known that he would like a private visit to the trees, and he and Damon set off in that direction. Roberta busied herself with setting out the picnic basket under a tree while Mr. Cunningham fashioned a landing post out of a sapling.
By the time they came back, Roberta had discovered that a rug on top of bumpy ground is not a comfortable seat. They all seated themselves except Teddy, who danced around them like an impatient dragonfly.
Damon drained his glass of wine with a slightly desperate air. “Parenting is exhausting,” he said.
“That is because you have insufficient help. Weren’t you going to find a nursemaid?”
“The Registry Office is sending a new one tomorrow,” he said. “I only have to survive today.”
Roberta looked at him and couldn’t help a tiny smile. His hair was standing on end, and his arm was wet to the elbow from pulling Teddy’s hand out of the river. He was pouring himself another glass of wine as if it were the elixir of life. Mr. Cunningham had deserted his uncomfortable seat and was swinging Teddy in a circle until he shrieked.
“Perhaps Mr. Cunningham would be kind enough to go through the grove to the mud flat?” Roberta asked. “He can teach Teddy how to swim and we’ll sit in this vastly uncomfortable spot and wait for them to come back, sparing me the sight of a miniature pizzle.”
Damon blinked at her for a moment and then leapt to his feet. “Ransom!” he called.
Roberta finished her glass just as Mr. Cunningham and Teddy set off through the grove.
“He won’t drown, will he?” Damon said, sounding not terribly concerned.
“I think it’s unlikely. Where did Mr. Cunningham learn about children?”
“Likely he has siblings,” Damon said. He lay backwards and then sat up with a curse. “Damn it, where have you placed us, Roberta?”
“In a field of buttercups. Tables and chairs are unaccountably missing.”
“I’ve been in many a field,” Damon said, “and this is the most uncomfortable of my experience.” He brought Roberta to her feet. Then he picked up the rug and kicked at something underneath.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Cowpats,” he said. “You put the rug down on a lovely collection of them. In fact,” Damon said looking about, “this entire field is dotted with cowpats.”
“Do you suppose a bull will be coming along?”
“In a month or so when the grass is high enough. I’m going to have to sacrifice my gloves, which will give Martins palpitations, but what can I do? Back up, Roberta.”
Two minutes later, cowpats started sailing across the field.
“See if you can get one in the river,” Roberta suggested.
The river lay gurgling in the sunshine, about ten yards away. Damon pulled back his arm and then let the cowpat fly.
It struck the bank just before the river. Roberta very loudly said nothing.