Back in the day, Blackbury Park (NO SINGING, DANCING, OR RIDING, BY ORDER) was closed every night at six o’clock with a big green padlock.
It was dark and lonely inside. Shadows lurked among the rhododendron bushes, played across the silent waters of the boating lake, and hung between the flower beds.
“Go on, push off, you great booby!”
The voice came from a statue on a pedestal in a clump of rhododendrons by the lake. A bronze plaque said it was of Lord Palmerston. The statue—a Victorian-looking man in early trousers and frock coat—was flailing wildly at a pigeon with a marble scroll.
“Go away! Get off! You ought to be in a pie!”
The statue jumped down from his pedestal and clumped heavily to the pool edge, where he removed his boots and cooled his feet in the dark water with a sigh of relief.
All over the park the other statues were waking up. There was a neigh as General Sir George Balaclava, horse and all, leaped down from his plinth and cantered across the lawns. Sir Harold Pincer, cast in bronze, strolled pompously past. A couple of marble water nymphs picked flowers; a lion, carved in millstone grit, stood up and shook his mane.
Soon the park was alive with movement, the air filled with talking and laughter. In the middle of it all sat Lord Palmerston, soaking his feet.
“She wasn’t there again today, Leo,” he said as the lion padded up. “I’m getting worried. It’s been nearly a week now.”
“That’s odd. She even comes here at Christmastime,” growled the lion.
“Who’s this?” asked a bronze nymph who lived at the other side of the park.
“Mrs. Mince,” said Lord Palmerston. “The old lady who comes in to feed the ducks of a morning. She’s been coming to the park ever since I remember—even when she was a little girl. There were only a few of us here in those days,” he added wistfully.
“She used to come courting here with that young man what got killed in the war—the first one,” said the lion.
“Then she married that fellow from East Slate,” said Lord Palmerston.
By now quite a crowd had gathered.
“She used to bring her kids in to play,” said General Sir George Balaclava, whose plinth overlooked the children’s playground.
“And her grandchildren,” said Sir Harold Pincer.
“She must be very, very old now,” said Lord Palmerston, drying his feet on the lion’s mane. “I hope nothing’s happened to her.”
“Does anyone know where she lives?” asked Sir George.
“Number seven, Mafeking Terrace,” said the lion. “I heard her talking about it to someone once.”
“Are you suggesting that we go and look?” asked Lord Palmerston. “That’s risky. Still . . . she has been here thousands of times. Let’s wait until tomorrow. She might come back.”
All the next day the statues in Blackbury Park waited for Mrs. Mince. They stood as still as, well, statues, watching the visitors, but there was no sign of the old lady.
As soon as the gate was locked for the night Lord Palmerston jumped down from his pedestal.
“Right,” he said, “who’s going to come with me to Mafeking Terrace?”
“It ought to be me,” said bronze Sir George Balaclava. “I’ve got a horse.”
“Then take me too,” said Lord Palmerston, and a couple of water nymphs helped him onto the metal horse. “How are we going to get out?” he asked as they cantered off.
For an answer, Sir George spurred his horse and next moment it was thundering toward the fence.
It landed on the other side in a shower of sparks.
“Wheee!” said Sir George. “I haven’t enjoyed anything so much since the Battle of Balaclava—where I was shot dead, as I seem to remember.”
There was no traffic, which was a good thing since they were riding down the middle of the road.
“Here, you don’t think she’s dead?” said Lord Palmerston after a while.
“That would be all right—they’ll make a statue of her then.”
“You’ve got to be famous or decorative for that, and I don’t think she was really either.”
Sir George reined his horse in by a policeman. “We’re looking for Mafeking Terrace, Officer,” he said. “Could you direct us?”
“Just down the street and second on the left,” said the policeman. “That’s a fine horse.”
“Tends to squeak,” said Sir George as they rode away.
They soon found Mafeking Terrace, and Lord Palmerston hammered on the door of number seven. Since he was seven feet high and made of marble this made rather a din, but no one answered.
The window of number nine shot up.
“If you’re looking for Mrs. Mince, she passed away on Saturday,” said the neighbor. “’Ere, who are you anyway?”
But Sir George and Lord Palmerston were already galloping away through the dark streets of Blackbury.
Eventually they reached Blackbury cemetery and leaped over the gates.
“He’s always here,” said Lord Palmerston, looking about. “Haven’t visited him in years, but he— Ah, there he is.”
“He” was carved from white marble, and was an angel in the family vault of the lords of Gritshire. Most of the statues in there were of angels or cherubs, which rather embarrassed Lord Palmerston, used as he was to the hurly-burly of the park.*
“Good evening, Pietro,” he said to the angel he was looking for. He removed his hat.
The angel nodded and smiled. “It’s a long time since we’ve seen you in here,” he said, removing nothing since he was wearing nothing.
“Er—yes, well, it’s been a busy time at the park,” said Lord Palmerston. “Er—have you had a Mrs. Mince brought in?”
“Yes, plot thirty-two in row forty,” said the angel. “Dear old soul.”
“We were a bit worried because she stopped coming to the park,” said Sir George. “I suppose there is no way of getting a statue made? I mean, I was human once, and now I’m a statue. I’m sure she’d enjoy being in the park. She used to spend nearly all her time there anyway.”
The angel sat down and folded his wings. “I don’t expect she did anything to get people to make a statue of her, like shooting guns and going on and on in Parliament.” He smiled. “You know her—can you think of anything?”
“Only something like ‘FOR SERVICES TO FEEDING DUCKS,’” said Sir George.
“Just a moment, though,” said Lord Palmerston. “When she was young she used to chain herself to railings for votes for women. She was a big leader of the suffragettes* of Blackbury. Chained herself to the park railings twice, and to the park keeper once. Threw mud at Prime Minister Asquith. Oh, she really fought for the vote. I’m just glad I wasn’t prime minister at the time.”
“Well, people have had statues made for much less,” said the angel.
“Trouble is, what can we do? We don’t look human enough to go and see the town clerk,” said Lord Palmerston.
“Use the public phone box by the park gates. I’ll tell you how to use it,” said the angel. “You’ll need to put money in to use it—sixpence,* I think—and you have to reach him during the day. You might find some coins in the park, if you look where people have dropped it. Try the wishing pool.”
Sir George and Lord Palmerston looked at each other.
“It’s worth a try,” said Lord Palmerston.
Lord Palmerston had trouble using the telephone box. Since he was seven foot high and carved out of marble he found it difficult to dial, for one thing. His fingers were too big.
The statues had had a big meeting in the park the previous night and decided that Lord Palmerston shouldn’t phone the town clerk but something called the British Political History Society. A statue of William Makeworthy, the twentieth mayor of Blackbury, said that the society were just the type to go around erecting statues.
“I’ve only got one sixpence,” said Lord Palmerston. “And that’s worn thin.”
Anyway, he finally got through to the society.
“This is Lord— This is Mr. John Smith speaking, I mean,” he said. “I think you should know that Mrs. Mince has died. You know, she did a lot for votes for women.”
“Mrs. Mince?” said the secretary. “Of course. Dear me.”
“We thought a statue in the park would be appropriate,” said Lord Palmerston. “She often used to visit there, you know.”
“Actually, we were thinking of this ourselves,” said the secretary. “What did you say your name was, sir?”
But Lord Palmerston had put the receiver down and was hurrying back to the park, greatly surprising a young lady who was waiting to use the phone box.
The others were waiting for him. Since it was daylight they were all standing still on their pedestals, but they moved their eyes as he rushed past waving his hands in the victory salute. Then he leaped onto his plinth while the park keeper’s back was turned, picked up the marble scroll he had been holding, and in a moment was looking as though he hadn’t moved in a hundred years.
They waited all that summer and through to the following spring. It was late in February when Lord Palmerston was dozing under a light coating of snow that the packing case arrived. A new pedestal was set up down by the ornamental fountain and something shrouded in a cloth was cemented to it.
The mayor and the president of the British Political History Society turned up, with photographers and a crowd of people. There were several speeches . . . and then the mayor unveiled Mrs. Mince.
The statues gasped, and the crowd clapped politely.
“Of course!” said Lord Palmerston to himself. “The sculptor’s shown her as she was when she was a suffragette!”
The statue was of a much younger Mrs. Mince in an Edwardian dress and a gigantic hat, chained to a piece of railing and wearing a defiant expression.
When everyone else had gone home the statues rushed to greet her.
Lord Palmerston broke the handcuffs and helped her down.
“Here, I recognize you!” the suffragette said in delight. “All of you. Isn’t this the park?”
“Dear Mrs. Mince, let me explain,” said Lord Palmerston.
And he did. Then, as the moon came up, the statue of Pan and the statue of Menuenchi the violinist* turned up and started to play a waltz, Lord Palmerston swept up Mrs. Mince in his arms, and they swirled out among the dancing statues over the park keeper’s carefully mown, snow-dusted grass.