We can't go now, to the Wolds, says Mayor Cox. I have a meeting. It will have to be tomorrow. Meet me here at ten in the morning, Rosamunda. I'll bring a nice Yorkshire picnic.
What about Arthur? says Rosie.
Mayor Cox glares at Arthur, who is cleaning his knife on his shorts.
He may come, says Mayor Cox, since he has expressed a liking for Wolds. But he must not bring the knife.
He? says Arthur. I know him. He won't abandon his knife.
Mayor Cox looks daggers at Arthur. Trouble-maker. And a French one to boot!
She hobbles off to the Pocklington Town Council meeting grappling with her conscience. Should she put a pound in the Skate Park Funds Box, or just let it go?
Rosie grins at Arthur. A free picnic tomorrow! That's good.
She loves you, says Arthur. She hates me. But I'm the one who fixed her pavement.
He starts picking at the cobblestone again. Lifts it out. Wedges a dirty bandage under it. Replaces the cobblestone loosely. Trip on that next time, Ann Cox.
It's awesome when you're a natural historian, says Rosie. Everyone respects you and wants you to write notes about stuff.
Great, says Arthur. But they don't offer you a bed for the night.
Come on Arthur, you've got money, says Rosie.
They go off to find a hotel.
......
Next morning finds them tramping over the gently rolling Yorkshire Wolds with Ann Cox.
How do you like them? says Ann. Are they not very fine? The poet Winifred Holtby described them this way, " fold upon fold of encircling hills, piled rich and golden".
Beautiful, says Rosie. So I gather that Wolds are just hills.
Ann Cox looks at her in a peculiar manner.
Arthur's a poet, says Rosie, moving on hurriedly.
Is he indeed? says Ann Cox. Well that is something. What does he think of the Wolds?
He thinks, says Arthur, that they are boring as hell, and he's wondering what's in your basket.
A rude poet, says Ann Cox. Just as I would have expected. You may tell him, Rosamunda, that in the basket is an indulgent picnic of freshly baked rolls, Yorkshire ham, cheesy scones, Puckett's Pickles, home grown salads, shortbread and individual fruit tarts, plus a bottle of delicious Yorkshire apple juice to wash it down.
When is lunch time? says Arthur.
Soon, says Ann Cox, but first I'm sure Rosamunda would like to do some bird spotting and our impatient poet might like to scratch in the dirt with his knife. Roman coins have been found in the Wolds. Of course if he finds one, he must give it to me.
It looks like a long time till lunch.
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