“Well, how was I to know that a man with a mind like yours would grasp
it so quickly?” she protested. “All right, then. Market Snodsbury
Grammar School is, as you have guessed, the grammar school at Market
Snodsbury. I’m one of the governors.”
“You mean one of the governesses.”
“I don’t mean one of the governesses. Listen, ass. There was a board
of governors at Eton, wasn’t there? Very well. So there is at Market
Snodsbury Grammar School, and I’m a member of it. And they left the
arrangements for the summer prize-giving to me. This prize-giving takes
place on the last--or thirty-first--day of this month. Have you got
that clear?”
I took another oz. of the life-saving and inclined my head. Even after
a Pongo Twistleton birthday party, I was capable of grasping simple
facts like these.
“I follow you, yes. I see the point you are trying to make, certainly.
Market ... Snodsbury ... Grammar School ... Board of governors ...
Prize-giving.... Quite. But what’s it got to do with me?”
“You’re going to give away the prizes.”
I goggled. Her words did not appear to make sense. They seemed the
mere aimless vapouring of an aunt who has been sitting out in the sun
without a hat.
“Me?”
“You.”