The Drustone

Chapter Fourteen. Invasion.

Chapter Fourteen 

Invasion 

Henry awoke early to unaccustomed sights and sounds. Large charabancs were rumbling down the front street, grinding to a halt at the top of Springfields and disgorging hordes of the strangest looking people he had ever encountered.  

Where were they from, a nearby planet? How did the men cut their hair to make it so short and spiky? Since when did grown men wear short pants, and who would be seen dead wearing brightly coloured shirts covered with pictures of sun, sand and palm trees? 

After skipping breakfast and his morning ablutions, Henry joined the throng of curious villagers surrounding the emptying buses. 

"I'm sorry folks, but that's as far as the buses can take you. This is Swarthmoor, and the Hall is about a mile down the lane. It's too narrow for the buses, so I'm afraid you'll have to walk the rest of the way." 

"Will it be okay, driver, if we take some time to stroll around the village, grab a coffee and maybe some donuts?" asked one of the strangers in a curious nasal twang.  

"Sure, take your time. You can spend the whole morning here. We're expected back at the Sun for lunch at twelve thirty, so I would like you back at the bus by noon. Maybe you could get some of the local kids to show you around?" 

After the ensuing hubbub had subsided, Henry found himself in the company of two genial giants wearing white t-shirts with a picture of a huge bulldog emblazoned across the chest. Henry thought it better not to ask. 

"Hi, son. I'm Judd from Springfield Massachusetts, and this is my buddy George from Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. We're shore glad to have you show us around this quaint little town." 

"It's not a town, sir, only a village." 

"No need for the sir, sonny, just call us Judd and George."  

"And what might we call you, son?" butted in George. 

"Henry, sir. Henry Wilcox, sir." 

"Okay, Henry. Show us the way." 

"There's not much to show, sir, and I'm afraid nobody here sells coffee or what do you callems." 

"What do you callems...Oh you mean donuts," chuckled George. That comes as no surprise. We haven't had a decent cup of coffee or even seen a donut since we left the old U.S. of A." 

"You're Yanks, then?" 

"Hadn't you guessed?" 

"I thought you might be from your accents, but what are you doing here in Swarthmoor?" 

"Don't you know, son?" 

"Know what?" 

"Obviously you don't. We're shore gonna learn a lot from each other this morning. Lead on." 

The tour was short. After all, how long can it take to show two shops, two churches, and two pubs, the posh houses on the main road and Gran's house? Only twice did the party stop. Both times it was so the visitors could take pictures of each other standing beneath street signs. Why would anyone want a picture of himself standing against a brick wall with a sign showing Fox Street centred above his head? Henry just had to ask. 

"You really don't know, do you, Henry? Maybe I'd better explain why all these people, from all over the world, have come to Swarthmoor. Do you know anything at all about the history of the village?" asked Judd. 

"Just a bit." 

"Then fill us in." 

"Well my Uncle Steve told me that in the real olden days this was a Royal hunting reserve. It had lots of trees, plenty of deer, wild boar and such like. Only the King was allowed to hunt here. It so happened that there was a war and the King had to hire fighters from all over Europe for his army. One of these soldiers, a major, was called Schwartz. A Jerry, my Uncle says. He really helped the King and as a reward, he was given all the land around here, but by then, it was no longer forested. All the trees had been cut down to make ships for the navy and the land now looked like a moor. So it was called Schwartz' moor and this slowly changed to Swarthmoor."