5
　　Quarry¹ Cottage
　　Little Brockleton was a dear little village. The car ran through it, scattering² hens and a line ofquacking ducks. Bill stopped at a little post office.
　　‘Must just send off a message,’ he said. ‘Won’t be a minute. Then we’ll go and call at thefarmhouse to ask the way to Quarry Cottage, and to pick up eggs and things, and order milk.’
　　He reappeared again after a moment. The children knew that Bill had to report where he waseach day, because urgent jobs might come his way at any moment – secret tasks that only he coulddo.
　　They went off to the farmhouse³. The farmer’s wife was delighted to see them. ‘Now, you comeaway in,’ she said. ‘I’ve been expecting you this last half-hour, and I’ve got tea for you. Youwon’t find anything ready at the cottage, I know, and a good tea will help you along.’
　　‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Mrs Cunningham, gratefully. ‘My goodness – what a spread!’
　　It certainly was. It wasn’t an ordinary afternoon tea, it was a high tea. A fresh ham, glisteningpink. A veal⁴ and ham pie smothered⁵ in green parsley, like the ham. Yellow butter in glass dishes.
　　A blue jug⁷ of thick yellow cream. Honey. Home- made strawberry jam. Hot scones⁸. A largefruitcake as black as a plum pudding inside. Egg sandwiches. Tea, cocoa and creamy milk.
　　‘I’m absolutely determined⁹ to live on a farm when I’m grown up,’ said Jack¹⁰, lookingapprovingly at all the food on the big round table. ‘I never saw such food as farm houses have. Isay, isn’t this smashing?’

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