THE POONA PADRE COMES TO CALL
WE'RE preparing for tiffin when a car draws up outside and something very strange happens. Daddy looks out, he mutters something and says 'It's the bloody padre, I'm off to Jack's house' and disappears through the back door. Mummy says he's cross because he doesn't want to arrange another church parade.
Getting out of his car is a plump officer in a strange uniform, he doesn't wear a collar and tie but instead has a curious white collar like a dog, and I'm horrified to hear that he wants me to go to Sunday School. As if weekday school isn't enough, for the one cloud on my horizon is the RAF school, where I'm disgusted to find that there are no lessons on aeroplanes as I expected, just reading and writing, and there are lots of kids there. As the padre's syllabus includes neither aircraft nor motorcycles I decline politely but Mummy says yes of course, and the padre says he will return with some books for me.
A few days later I'm on the verandah studying the aircraft recognition cards which Daddy brought me when the car arrives again and the padre asks me to call Mummy, who is inside the house. Mummy, mummy, it's the bloody padre, I announce. Mummy's face goes bright red, and the padre is looking at me with a shocked expression. Grown-ups are hard to understand sometimes, I only did as I was asked.
Next instalment: Geriaviator (age 5) assists with the dhobi-wallah's indelible ink. What could possibly go wrong?