Free Rule Britannia by Daphne du Maurier Page B

be willing to make large contributions to the party. She was duly elected, but she did not succeed in bringing Mad to the polls.
    “Two more calls,” said Chairman Mao to her followers. “The post office and the Sailor’s Rest.”
    The queue at the post office was almost as long as the one at the supermarket, but Mad never minded queues. She said it gave her a feeling of solidarity. Also she adored getting her pension. “It makes me feel rich,” she told Emma, and kept it inside a money box shaped as a pig, then doled it out to the boys as pocket money on Saturdays.
    Feelings about the state of alert over the weekend were mixed inside the post office. Some of the queuers, like the ham-slicing salesman in the supermarket, thought it a very good thing, others shook doubtful heads. The district nurse, who was sister-in-law to Mr. Trembath at the farm adjoining Mad’s domain, was one of the doubtful ones. More than this, she was angry.
    “They cut my phone,” she said to Mad, “and Mrs. Ellis’s baby was due, and when I tried to get across the valley Saturday night they wouldn’t let me through. Apologies, of course, this morning. Issued with a pass. Luckily the baby didn’t arrive, but if it had…”
    “It might have been born with two heads,” said Colin, who had a habit of butting in on adult conversations.
    “Have you been in touch with your brother-in-law?” asked Mad, ignoring the interruption.
    The district nurse nodded. “Spoke to him just now,” she said, then lowered her voice. “They’re very upset about poor Spry.”
    “I know,” said Mad, “so are we.”
    She left the post office with her wealth, and they proceeded by car to the Sailor’s Rest. Originally erected as a public house for seamen, dockers, clay-workers and locals about a century ago, it had transformed itself into a trendy pub for the two-car, colored-television types, who would drive over of an evening and swap wives. Mr. Libby, the landlord, had made a good thing out of it since the licensing laws had been relaxed, and positioned as the pub was, near to the sands, it would be interesting, Mad observed to Emma as they parked outside before picking up their crate of cider, to discover Mr. Libby’s sentiments. The pub was already filled with American marines and they turned as one man and stared at Emma, who felt relieved that her grandmother had remained in the car. The landlord, from behind his bar, seemed in high spirits.
    “Come for your cider, love?” he called. “I’m a bit pressed right now. Send Joe down for it later.”
    “We want it now,” said Emma firmly, and turned on her heel. She could hardly believe her own voice. She might have been Mad herself. One of the marines whistled as she made her exit. In a few moments Mr. Libby emerged carrying the crate of cider. Mad put her head out of the car window.
    “Busy?” she asked.
    He winked. “I’ll say,” he answered. “With these chaps at my door I’ll do a roaring trade, better than I ever do with the tourists. I hope they stay forever.”
    He lifted the crate into the boot and waved his hand.
    “H’m,” said Mad as she turned the car towards the hill. “I can only count two for certain who are on our side, and that’s dear old Tom Bate and the district nurse.”
    “What do you mean, on our side?” asked Emma.
    “Well, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” replied her grandmother. “The situation is rapidly becoming one of Them and Us.”

5
    The town hall was packed. The notice on the outside said that householders only would be admitted, and this foresight on the part of the organizers had eliminated many of the possibly rowdier elements, and certainly the younger age group, who were being turned away disconsolate. Mad, sizing up the scene instantly, held on to Emma’s arm and began to limp.
    “I’m seventy-nine,” she explained to the attendant at the door, who failed to recognize her—he must have been one of the Member’s minions from