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Mrs Biggles.
    ‘Isabel,’ he said urgently, ‘you haven’t even got enough money to pay for this month’s tractor hire –’
    ‘Phil,’ interrupted Mrs Green, quite rosy with irritation, ‘didn’t you hear me? Norman has solved that problem by agreeing to sell the piglets to Farmer Macreadie!’
    ‘Sell the piglets to Farmer Macreadie?’ said Phil, his eyes narrowing.
    ‘Yes! And that will tide us over to harvest time! Now, if you’ll just let me pass –’
    But as Mrs Green was about to run off, a voice interrupted. ‘Don’t panic!’ it cried. ‘Don’t panic! Stop all that panicking! Help is at hand!’
    Phil and Mrs Green turned to look as a little round man with round spectacles on a round nose in a round face came bowling up in a white helmet and a blue serge uniform that didn’t fit.
    ‘Good morning, Mr Spolding!’ said Mrs Green, delighted to have been rescued. ‘My, don’t you look smart?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Mr Spolding, puffing up his chest until he really was as round as a human could be without being a grapefruit.
    ‘As you can see I have received my official uniform and am now a fully fledgling professional – and look here – my official pamphlet –’ Mr Spolding held out a little buff pamphlet. He pronounced it ‘pamph lette ’, but Mrs Green didn’t have the heart to correct him and Phil was too preoccupied to notice.
    ‘That’s lovely, Mr Spolding. Now I really do have to get to work –’
    But Mr Spolding wasn’t having that.
    ‘No, now, no, no, Mrs Green, you really should listen to this short official warning now that I am a short official – I mean, an offishial,’ he said and, planting himself firmly in front of them both, he read from the pamphlet.
    ‘This here pamphlette authorryises me to round up suspishious persons and put them in a offishy custardy – I mean a fishy custard –’
    ‘I think that’s official custody, Mr Spolding,’ said Mrs Green, ducking around him. ‘Why don’t you tell Phil all about it – I’ve got to get into the shop!’
    And she was gone, leaving Phil with Mr Spolding, who had caught hold of his arm, determined at all costs to keep at least one member of his audience captive.
    The bell dinged as Mrs Green entered and sniffed the air. Docherty’s Household Supplies had the best smell of any place ever. It was a mixture of furniture polish, liquorice, tar and apples. All seemed quiet as Mrs Green called out, ‘It’s only me, Mrs Docherty!’ and pulled on her apron. The shop was very still and silent. Mrs Green was just beginning to think that Mrs Docherty was still in bed (her bedroom was above the shop so she got to smell the lovely smell all day and all night) when all of a sudden a spooky white thing popped up from behind the counter.
    Mrs Green gave a little shriek. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but when one appeared right there in front of her, she couldn’t help getting a fright.
    ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ said Mrs Docherty.
    Mrs Green heaved a sigh of relief, which was closely followed by a yelp of alarm.
    ‘What have you done, Mrs Docherty?’ she said. ‘You’re all white.’
    ‘I’ve just been putting the flour away,’ said Mrs Docherty, clapping her hands and sending up a huge cloud of white dust.

    Mrs Green groaned. That meant the monthly delivery had been made and that Mrs Docherty had started to unpack it by herself. No matter how many times Mrs Green begged her to wait, Mrs Docherty liked to get on and do it alone because it made her feel responsible and happy. The results, though, were often disastrous. Mrs Green zipped around behind the counter and found Mrs Docherty standing waist deep in a conical mound of flour. Swearing very quietly under her breath, Mrs Green got out the dustpan and brush.
    Back at the farm, everything had gone from bad to worse . . .
    Cyril had done something truly dreadful. He’d opened the pot of special jam the children had made for their father’s return. Seeing