Since his retirement last year the letters had increased to the point where not even the Tadfield Advertiser was able to print all of them. In­deed, the letter R. P. Tyler had completed before setting out on his evening walk had begun:

Sirs,

I note with distress that the newspapers of today no longer feel obligated to their public, we, the people who pay your wages . . .

He surveyed the fallen branches that littered the narrow country road. I don't suppose, he pondered, they think of the cleaning up bill when they send us these storms. Parish Council has to foot the bill to clean it all up. And we, the taxpayers, pay their wages . . .

The they in this thought were the weather forecasters on Radio Four, whom R. P. Tyler blamed for the weather.[50]

Shutzi stopped by a roadside beech tree to cock its leg.

R. P. Tyler looked away, embarrassed. It might be that the sole purpose of his evening constitutional was to allow the dog to relieve itself, but he was dashed if he'd admit that to himself. He stared up at the storm clouds. They were banked up high, in towering piles of smudged gray and black. It wasn't just the flickering tongues of lightning that forked through them like the opening sequence of a Frankenstein movie; it was the way they stopped when they reached the borders of Lower Tadfield. And in their center was a circular patch of daylight; but the light had a stretched, yellow quality to it, like a forced smile.

It was so quiet.

There was a low roaring.

Down the narrow lane came four motorbikes. They shot past him, and turned the corner, disturbing a cock pheasant who whirred across the lane in a nervous arc of russet and green.

"Vandals!" called R. P. Tyler after them.

The countryside wasn't made for people like them. It was made for people like him.

He jerked Shutzi's lead, and they marched along the road.

Five minutes later he turned the corner, to find three of the motor­cyclists standing around a fallen signpost, a victim of the storm. The fourth, a tall man with a mirrored visor, remained on his bike.

R. P. Tyler observed the situation, and leaped effortlessly to a con­clusion. These vandals‑he had, of course been right‑had come to the countryside in order to desecrate the War Memorial and to overturn sign­posts.

He was about to advance on them sternly, when it came to him that he was outnumbered, four to one, and that they were taller than he was, and that they were undoubtedly violent psychopaths. No one but a violent psychopath rode motorbikes in R. P. Tyler's world.

So he raised his chin and began to strut past them, without appar­ently noticing they were there,[51] all the while composing in his head a letter (Sirs, this evening I noted with distress a large number of hooligans on motorbicycles infesting Our Fair Village. Why, oh Why, does the govern­ment do nothing about this plague of . . .)

"Hi," said one of the motorcyclists, raising his visor to reveal a thin face and a trim black beard. "We're kinda lost."

"Ah," said R. P. Taylor disapprovingly.

"The signpost musta blew down," said the motorcyclist.

"Yes, I suppose it must," agreed R. P. Taylor. He noticed with surprise that he was getting hungry.

"Yeah. Well, we're heading for Lower Tadfield."

An officious eyebrow raised. "You're Americans. With the air force base, I suppose." (Sirs, when I did national service I was a credit to my country. I notice with horror and dismay that airmen from the Tadfield Air Base are driving around our noble countryside dressed no better than common thugs. While I appreciate their importance in defending the free­dom of the western world . . .).

Then his love of giving instructions took over. "You go back down that road for half a mile, then first left, it's in a deplorable state of disrepair I'm afraid, I've written numerous letters to the council about it, are you civil servants or civil master. that's what I asked them, after all, who pays your wages? then second right, only it's not exactly right, it's on the left but you'll find it bends round toward the right eventually, it's signposted Porrit's Lane, but of course it isn't Pornt's Lane, you look at the ordinance survey map, you'll see, it's simply the eastern end of Forest Hill Lane, you'll come out in the village, now you go past the Bull and Fiddle‑that's a public house‑then when you get to the church (I have pointed out to the people who compile the ordinance survey map that it's a church with a spire, not a church with a tower, indeed I have written to the Tadfield Advertiser, suggesting they mount a local campaign to get the map cor­rected, and I have every hope that once these people realize with whom they are dealing you'll see a hasty U‑turn from them) then you'll get to a crossroads, now, you go straight across that crossroads and you'll immedi­ately come to a second crossroads, now, you can take either the left‑hand fork or go straight on, either way you'll arrive at the air base (although the left‑hand fork is almost a tenth of a mile shorter) and you can't miss it."

Famine stared at him blankly. "I, uh, I'm not sure I got that . . ." he began.

I DID. LET US GO.

Shutzi gave a little yelp and darted behind R. P. Tyler, where it remained, shivering.

The strangers climbed back onto their bikes. The one in white (a hippie, by the look of him, thought R. P. Tyler) dropped an empty crisp packet onto the grass shoulder.

"Excuse me, " barked Tyler. "Is that your crisp packet?"

"Oh, it's not just mine," said the boy. "It's everybody's."

R. P. Tyler drew himself up to his full height.[52] "Young man," he said, "how would you feel if I came over to your house and dropped litter everywhere?"

Pollution smiled, wistfully. "Very, very pleased," he breathed. "Oh, that would be wonderful."

Beneath his bike an oil slick puddled a rainbow on the wet road.

Engines revved.

"I missed something," said War. "Now, why are we meant to make a U‑turn by the church?"

JUST FOLLOW ME, said the tall one in front, and the four rode off together.

R. P. Tyler stared after them, until his attention was distracted by the sound of something going clackclackclack He turned. Four figures on bicycles shot past him, closely followed by the scampering figure of a small dog.

"You! Stop!" shouted R. P. Tyler.

The Them braked to a halt and looked at him.

"I knew it was you, Adam Young, and your little, hmph, cabal. What, might I enquire, are you children doing out at this time of night? Do your fathers know you're out?"

The leader of the cyclist turned. "I can't see how you can say it's late, " he said, "seems to me, seems to me, that if the sun's still out then it's not late."

"It's past your bedtime, anyway," R. P. Tyler informed them, "and don't stick out your tongue at me, young lady," this was to Pepper, "or I will be writing a letter to your mother informing her of the lamentable and unladylike state of her offspring's manners."