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that it had come to making a firm and public decision, the Lewcock brothers exchanged worried glances. ‘Well, we don’t want no trouble, do we, Tone?’ Jim Lewcock tried to keep a light, bantering note in his voice.
    â€˜No, we bleeding well don’t!’ agreed his brother. He nodded at the Hon. Con. ‘We’re on your side, love!’
    Norman Beamish stuck his hand up and, after a moment’s hesitation, his wife followed suit. ‘Oh, all right!’ she said ungraciously. ‘But only because we simply can’t afford to be detained out here after the fifteenth. We must be back for Daddy’s birthday, mustn’t we, Norman?’ She smiled proudly. ‘He’ll be seventy-five, you know.’
    Norman Beamish looked less besotted. ‘I have got one or two fairly important engagements myself,’ he pointed out.
    His wife dismissed this contemptuously. ‘Oh, we can safely leave Daddy to deal with all that side of things!’
    The Smiths had been whispering frantically together. Trevor Smith looked up and transferred his chewing gum to the other cheek. ‘You can count us in,’ he said. ‘ We’ve got nothing to hide, one way or the other, but …’ He shrugged his shoulders.
    The Hon. Con swung round on the Withenshaws. ‘Looks as though the ball’s in your court!’ she informed them curtly. She glanced out of the window. ‘And you’d better hurry up and play it. Madam Bossy-boots is coming!’
    Zoë Withenshaw opened her guide-book. ‘Frankly I find the whole situation quite farcical but I’m quite prepared to abide by the decision of the majority. OK, Desmond?’
    â€˜No skin off my nose,’ said her husband sulkily.
    The Hon. Con snapped up this unanimous vote of confidence with gratitude but her thanks, promises and resounding resolutions were mercifully cut short as the redoubtable Ludmilla Stepanovna was piped abroad.
    She greeted her flock brusquely and then counted them. Only when she was sure nobody was missing did she turn her mind to other matters. ‘Where,’ she demanded in a voice of thunder, ‘is your chauffeur?’
    Tony Lewcock had a ready, if crude, wit. ‘I reckon he’s having a leak, love!’ he chuckled and Miss Jones spent the next ten minutes wondering if their driver could, perhaps, be a vegetarian. But, even if he was – how did Mr Lewcock know? She would have referred the problem to dear Constance if it hadn’t been only too obvious that dear Constance was deep in planning her forthcoming campaign. Miss Jones naturally knew better than to disturb her.
    Before too long the minibus driver appeared and took his place. Ludmilla Stepanovna unhooked the microphone from the dashboard and blew into it to see if it was working. The Albatrossers perked up and began to pay attention. They were off!
    Alma Ata is a pleasant enough town, though somewhat undistinguished. There is not a great deal to be said about it, but, whatever there was, Ludmilla Stepanovna duly said it. The microphone was somewhat de trop in the restricted confines of the minibus and it lisped rather badly. This, coupled with Ludmilla Stepanovna’s thick Russian accent, made listening a little less than pleasurable but luckily most of the Albatrossers knew they weren’t there to enjoy themselves.
    The Hon. Con fought hard to keep Ludmilla Stepanovna’s commentary out but her voice was hard and unrelenting. Snatches of useless information kept breaking through in spite of the Hon. Con’s fierce determination not to know.
    Alma Ata, Ludmilla Stepanovna informed her group (and, beyond them, the world), was the capital of the Soviet Republic of Kazakhstan. Before the Revolution it had been an important garrison town called Verny and on the left was the bus station – a product of the present glorious regime. The current population was five hundred and seventy-six thousand and