Sylph

By W B Baker MBE

Flashing through crystalline skies on prism wings of gossamer or madly cantering through autumn’s fallen leaves astride their nutmeg-colored mounts of sable voles and ash-colored mice: images of sprite-like fairies with insanely delicate features, bedecked in gauzes of layered green, shimmering with morning’s dew. Fairies bequeath themselves as the virtually immortal emissaries of enchanted glens and timeless worlds that twinkle amidst the shattered nonsense of our dreams. Well may that all be true. Quite possible, then every bit as real, may be phantasmal, spectral creatures that glide through the folding fogs of night: an entire world of entities who, long fallen from the morning stars, have twisted their whole existence to thwart the intent of God and pathetic exploits of man. Horrific and terrifying, blackened apparitions lurk at the very edge of short-sighted humanity’s periphery with features that curdle both our hearts and our imaginations—soulless, illusory beings that nightly prance and plot amidst a nightmarish existence that lies just outside mankind’s perception. Enduring the squalid darkness eternally, they wait patiently, every iota as legitimate as the fleeting, pale, and all too fragile physical reality humanity chooses to acknowledge and inhabit. One would do well to keep in mind that not all fairy tales are purely make-believe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796018776

W B Baker MBE

W.B BAKER WAS PRESENTED THE QUEENS GOLDEN JUBILEE MEDAL AT THE COMMAND OF HER MAJESTY QUEEN ELIZABETH II, UPON RECEIVING THE COMMENDATION OF HIS GRACE, THE MOST REVEREND AND RIGHT HONOURABLE DR ROWAN WILLIAMS, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY, IN RECOGNITION FOR OUTSTANDING CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE MONARCHY OF THE UNITED KINGDOM. APPOINTMENT TO THE MOST EXCELLENT ORDER OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE OCCURRED IN 2010, WHEN DR BAKER RECEIVED AN HONOURARY MBE FOR CONTRIBUTIONS TO LITERATURE. THE AUTHOR HAS BEEN CONVEYED THE ANCESTRAL LORDSHIP AWARDED HIS 23RD GREAT-GRANDFATHER, BARON WILLIAM DE LA ZOUCHE OF BEDFORDSHIRE, IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1324 DURING THE REIGN OF KING EDWARD II ACCORDINGLY ACKNOWLEDGED UNDER ENGLISH TITLE LAW AS THE LEGITIMATE AND RIGHTFUL LORD OF THORNBURY. FURTHER ACCOLADES INCLUDE A SENATE RESOLUTION IN HIS HONOUR (UNITED STATES) AND A CONGRESSIONAL TRIBUTE FROM THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVE OF THE CONGRESS OF THE UNITED STATES IN WASHINGTON, DC

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SYLPH

W. B. BAKER

MBE

Copyright © 2019 by W. B. Baker MBE.

Library of Congress Control Number:        2019902293

ISBN:                Hardcover                978-1-7960-1871-4

                          Softcover                  978-1-7960-1872-1

                          eBook                        978-1-7960-1877-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 02/28/2019

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CONTENTS

By The Same Author

With Appreciation

Dedicated to

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

About The Author

Lordship

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The Director’s Handbook

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on American Theatre

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* * * * * * *

WITH APPRECIATION

Appreciation is humbly offered to:

The Right Reverend M 47021.png ichael Greene-Butler

Whose inspiration and friendship over the many years have inspired my on-going efforts to portray, to some small degree, his dignity and innate integrity. Beyond any doubt, he is and will ever remain my Brother.

My Dear and True Friend.

* * * * * * *

There are no direct routes to wisdom. While humanity is always searching for shorter or less thorny paths to knowledge, we miss the point that none can exist on the way to understanding. Therein, I should think, lies the difference.

Any individual can memorise remedies or solutions to specific problems. Wisdom comes from understanding what questions initiated the need for answers in the first place. Outcomes are only important when one ultimately uncovers their inspiration. With wisdom comes the realisation that every obstacle overcome only presents each of us with a more difficult question. And, if that were not difficult enough, the earth itself defines the limitations of mankind’s allotted span of time to search, as well as confining his perception of how to phrase his questions.

Over the course of my lifetime, there have been a select, and dare I say illustrious, few individuals that unilaterally took it upon themselves to buffet, cajole, and on the odd occasion, deliberately browbeat me in an effort to make me realise that the object of one’s education in University and in life as well is not to merely acquire a set of skills or soak up as much knowledge as possible. While a great many of their lessons, unfortunately, went unheeded; the premise of their unremitting tutelage did not: it was the single presupposition which served as the foundation of my own tenure as a university professor and mentor for thousands of students over my lengthy academic career.

Specifically, the presumption arises from the fact that statistics show, on the average that any graduate of college or university will forget ninety per cent of the material they which have learned during the course of their matriculation within ten years from their graduation. Further, a pathetic three percent of all graduates will actually end up working and making a living in the field of their Major. Those are, by no means, not reassuring numbers: particularly for any parents footing the often overwhelming costs of higher education.

My assertion and that of the tutors that tried to direct my education and development as a human being was that, if one learns anything during life: one needs to be able to learn to think. To think critically and analytically: to judiciously attempt to maintain a critical perspective of one’s place in his or her chosen field, in society, and the overall universe. Without an astute, thoughtful insight into how one intentionally interacts with other people and how each of our actions positively or negatively affect those with whom we chance to share this life, no amount of education, training, or experience can ever hope to save us from an uncaring world; or, indeed, from ourselves.

It was a hard fought lesson, the outcomes of which I will ever try my best to implement: but learning how to think is and will ever be equally as important as what matters and issues we, as disparate individuals, choose to spend our precious lifetimes contemplating.

For that intangible and equally ethereal lesson, I will be ever in these individual’s eternal debt.

John Linstrum

Late Organising Tutor

University of Wales

Dr John Mizell

Late Professor Emeritus

College of the Ozarks

Terence Knapp, RADA

Professor Emeritus

University of Hawaii

Dr James Meikle

Late Professor Emeritus

College of the Ozarks

and

Dr Leonard Gittenger

Late Fellow

College of the Ozarks

* * * * * * *

Noteworthy appreciation is, likewise, extended to the following organisation for their invaluable contributions of time, information, and expertise:

CADW

Welsh Historic Monuments

This organisation conserves, protects, and presents the built heritage of Wales and undertakes the Secretary of State’s statutory responsibilities for securing all ancient monuments for the future, for grant-aiding rescue archaeology work, and for offering grants to owners of historic buildings.

* * * * * * *

Llyfrgell Genedlaethol Cymru

The National Library of Wales

Aberstwyth, Wales

* * * * * * *

Many organisations and individuals should, by rights, entertain specific mention for their important contributions with respect to the historical research and time-consuming analysis required for the production of this fictional work set in the Parish of Moretonhampstead and, specifically, within the region of the Lydford, Lobhillcross, Downton, and Beardon.

* * * * * * *

Special appreciation is extended to the exquisite Sarah Ryan Walter. In the course of life, we so rarely chance to come across kindred souls. Even more rarely, one accidentally stumbles into the heart of an intuitive person who, for no apparent reason, accepts a complete stranger with all their foibles and frailties. It is my proud privilege to call this rare and beautiful woman my dear friend. Her gleaming witness to what God actually had in mind when He created woman has given me far greater insight into what I might be expected of as a man.

And, for that, Sarah has not only my deepest esteem but my eternal appreciation.

* * * * * * *

Thanks are extended to Donald Cohron – for his categorically direct advice. Though I still find myself at times attempting to decipher some of the code words and phrases - I have, over the past ten years, at least begun to understand, if not exactly then in principle, what he is asking for: my background in German and a smattering of Welsh having proven to be of no value whatsoever. Generous to a fault, Don has always made himself available to consult, help, and instruct - and, for a man who can fix, adapt, or fabricate absolutely anything … even while being hampered by a terribly slow learner such as myself. Consequently, I have developed a great admiration for his blushing bride of forty-seven years, Linda, who has far, far more appreciation of her husband’s quirks and has not threatened him any more than has been absolutely necessary. The happiest married couple I have ever seen; watching them interact over the years has taught me much about lasting relationships … and when it is time to take cover and to duck behind a tree.

In a world that has grown quite barren and cold, it has been my great fortune to have embraced such fine and devoted friends.

* * * * * * *

When one attempts to define friendship, many accolades are bandied about and, though it is sad to say, most really end up meaning absolutely nothing: platitudes and hollow praise handed out right and left with altogether too little thought. I wanted to make that perfectly clear; so no one might ever accuse me of doing the same.

I have few friends … and it has been a calculated, deliberate decision.

You see, most of the people I have dealt with over the years and continue to placate to this day are merely acquaintances. Acquaintances don’t really take all that much effort or commitment to retain. Colleagues, contacts, and associates are neither permitted to witness one’s weaknesses: nor allowed to ever quantify one’s fears. True, that insularity comes at a price and tends to breed quite a deal of loneliness at times; so, when I call a person friend, though it might mean little to nothing to that individual, quite the opposite, it means quite a deal to me.

I suppose I said all that just to say this: I call Rick and Jena Brecht my friends. Friends don’t have to have all that much in common; they don’t have to agree on things all the time; nor be at the other’s beck and call. But friends share a kinship that words cannot encapsulate: feelings that make time of little consequence; that seem to fill some emptiness in the other’s life they had never before noticed or managed to express. And so, I would like to thank Rick and Jena; for reminding me that not every brother and sister might share the same relations: that faith and trust in one’s fellow man has at least two enduring advocates left in an altogether unsympathetic, unkind world.

* * * * * * *

Shelly, Allison, and Rebecca Mitchell all deserve notable appreciation and special mention. Though I don’t have the opportunity to visit with them as often as I should; what with everyone running everywhere and the distances involved growing greater with each passing year; the few opportunities I have had to watch them interact during the years have taught me much about the enigmatic workings of the female mind. While I may or may not really understand any more than I did before, at least I have been able to pick up a few of the nuances that precede the baffling formalities of female conflict resolution, the dogged determination of the altogether puzzling gender, and, ultimately, the application of principles of fair play.

When the author found himself in desperate need of encouragement, these three young women found the strength to believe in me when, much as one might be reluctant to openly confess, the candle of faith had almost succumbed to darkness.

* * * * * * *

For the past four or five novels, I have simply permitted my formal eulogy for Gary Scott Mitchell to be reprinted again and again verbatim.

Though remaining impressive overall and full of what those who have come to know the man personally would laughing refer to as glaring inconsistencies, distortions, outright deception, and perplexing obfuscation; being a dear friend, I would hope his eulogy for me would be at least as gratifying and complimentary, regardless of how he might have to waltz around the excruciating truth.

Thirty-five years of knowing a person; through victories and disasters, amidst hilarity and tears: friendship over such a span tells much of a man’s integrity. A devotedness to the truth; high moral character; unquestionable fidelity; courage in the face of overwhelming adversity … all this and so much more - it’s just a tragedy he hasn’t applied any of these or even found them yet; but I continue to have high hopes.

In all seriousness, I have great difficulty in expressing how much this individual means to me: he exemplifies all the aforementioned qualities and more.

I am and ever will be proud to call him friend: he is the man I always hoped to be and never found the courage to become.

* * * * * * *

For Tavish

My heart is ever yours

Eternity too short a time

to tell you how your love

filled and transformed my soul

Wait for me, my Love

Illustration%201.jpg

CHAPTER ONE

Death plodded across the ragged rows of rolling barley fields without the slightest hesitation.

Far taller than any who had not met him personally might ever have imagined; entirely silent, the lithe and loping shadow defied the steepest grade and jagged stony track. Striking abject terror and, strangely, a sense of simultaneous admiration in the souls of any who caught glimpse of his faintest shadow, Lord and leper alike drew halted breath at the mere mention of his name.

Oblivious to wind or weather, Death blustered through the fainthearted menageries of mankind entirely at his pleasure: his muted exodus marked only by astonishment and startled gasps of abject fear. Amidst the hovels and quaking hearts of scattered humanity the creature had no equal: entirely without foe or friend, the shadow of his uninterrupted gait stalked the most stalwart of imaginations. Immune to adverse season or inclement, inconvenient time, Death disregarded flattery and expletive alike and wandered where and when he took his leisure.

Solitary by his own resolve, no moor might slow his sauntering, nor marsh impede Death from his timeless rounds: ripples of the rivers’ depths proved no deterrent, nor did the foaming whirls of frothing flumes and waterfalls. Majestic in both his Creator’s design and composition, he walked through the wake of trembling women and men without the slightest consideration of the whims of puny humanity.

To rouse his ire would be one’s last mistake.

* * * * * * *

Flashing through crystalline skies on prismed wings of gossamer or madly cantering through Autumn’s fallen leaves astride their nutmeg coloured mounts of sable voles and ash-coloured mice: images of sprite-like fairies with insanely delicate features, bedecked in gauzes of layered green, shimmering with morning’s dew - Fairies bequeath themselves as the virtually immortal emissaries of enchanted glens and timeless pixie worlds that twinkle amidst the shattered nonsense of our dreams.

Well may that all be true.

That being quite possible, then every bit as real, may be phantasmal, spectral creatures that glide through the folding fogs of night: an entire world of entities who, long fallen from the morning stars, have twisted their whole existence to thwart the intent of God and pathetic exploits of man. Horrific and terrifying, blackened apparitions lurk at the very edge of short-sighted humanity’s periphery with features that curdle both our hearts and our imaginations: soulless, illusory beings that nightly prance and plot amidst a nightmarish existence that lies just outside mankind’s perception. Enduring the squalid darkness eternally; they wait patiently: every iota as legitimate as the fleeting, pale, and all too fragile physical reality humanity chooses to acknowledge and inhabit.

One would do well to keep in mind that not all fairy tales are purely make-believe.

* * * * * * *

Illustration%202.jpg

CHAPTER TWO

Keron was simply waiting to die.

It was a realization that had come upon the big man slowly: creeping stealthily ever closer; camouflaged against the abject loneliness and depression within the frantic nonsense of his dreams.

Slyly, it had silently strangled the hushed whispers of Inspiration and, stepping over its still quivering features, rose slowly up to take its place: precisely mimicking the mocking refrains of worthlessness and uselessness his heart had been echoing over and over within his tortured mind. So perfect had been the subterfuge that the former Saxon sheriff had not even noticed Inspiration’s absence until he waded through the trivial notions of his abandonment and constant depression to go looking for the long-absent spark of ingenuity.

Melancholy can do that to a man.

Taking a deliberate exit from the world of petty politics and even cheaper niggling, narrow-minded men had done nothing to bolster the sheriff’s already willowy self-esteem. Virtue may be, as they say, its own reward; but, now entirely alone in what suddenly materialized as a malevolent world populated and crammed to the gills with equally spiteful, trivial, and outright irrelevant stewards with nothing but their own comfort and vanity in mind, Keron lay upon his back amidst the sheaves of the remote cow-shed in the dark and tried to accurately weigh the substance of his life.

It was certainly far more dismal than the big man might ever have anticipated.

Thirty-seven years of integrity had cost the sleepless Keron far more than he had ever thought to tally: now chief among which had now become another man’s now disparaged spouse - for whom the sheriff might ever silently pine. Courtly love - the struggle within his breast to love from secret and afar; cherishing without ever realizing the hope of being cherished in return - had proven to be the devout Christian’s greatest test of faith to date. To love someone devoutly, unreservedly, and in utter silence: to daily view his life that might have been was as nigh to the gates of Perdition as Keron might ever hope to venture.

No wife, no children, no fortune nor family: the Sheriff of Moretonhampstead’s bleak existence seemed more penance than profit for his inability to abandon his integrity and be a little less literal in his adherence to his Creator’s commandments. Other men never seemed to share his apparently overly developed sense of morality: a stance upon the precept of situational ethics that, to all outward appearances, had stood all of them in good stead with regard to happiness and prosperity. Even Dumphrey, with the cretin’s all-too-dubious grasp of propriety, seemed to have fared far better. Slave to his overly-pampered libido and constant philandering, Dumphrey had unceasingly maintained that, if one lowered his or her standards enough, one might engage in carnal delights most every night. And, of all the greasy reprobates with which the former sheriff had to deal in the execution of his duties over the years, Dumphrey would be the one man Keron would vouch for to have proven that premise for a fact beyond all certainty: for, if ever a man had been born to be murdered in cold blood, it would have to have been Dumphrey.

No … Keron, in his best understanding of the precepts of Christianity, had stayed true to his convictions and now, in the middle of what truly seemed to be, without a doubt, the darkest and loneliest of evenings he could remember, the big man quite unsurprisingly found himself utterly alone. The night felt about as cold as Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell; and on top of that, it was raining: the weepy, uncommitted kind of rain that only makes a person want it to actually rain and get it over with or just go away and sniffle on someone else’s shoulder: a moody kind of damp that makes the darkness feel eerie: eerie to the point of not being able to close your eyes without wondering who or what is out there in the darkness watching you.

There, in the excruciatingly damp darkness, with only a scraggly, sleeping hound to share the empty hours, the man carefully examined all the aborted opportunities and deliberate decisions of his life and, though in the throes of unbelievable depression, was surprised to find that he would have, for the most part, made precisely the same decisions should he have been afforded identical occasions: an astounding realisation that only seemed to hammer further writs of despair to the front door of his tattered soul.

Coxswain in a lonely boat without benefit of crew, the big man had never managed, despite his finest intentions, to fit in anywhere.

Fully awake and chewing on an offensive barley stem he had yanked from the broadcloth shirt in the small of his back amidst the humid blackness of the manger, some part of Keron’s angst-ridden mind kept clinging to the faint hope of Job’s equally anticipated Maker’s songs in the night. Instead, all the former liveryman of King Henry VII could visualise was the disciple Matthew’s admonishment:

For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?

Damn little, it would seem. the lawman thought. Certainly, no one on this earth seemed to give a damn for his life - and even less for his solitary suffering. Tomorrow, if he somehow managed to survive the twilight, would simply be another excruciatingly long day.

Wedged up against the northern wall of the abandoned sheepcote that lay to the west of the outskirts of Lydford, Keron listened to the rain. The shower seemed to applaud his desperation; now giving a standing ovation to the torrents of his sorrow. The wind picked up the accolade with even louder compliment and pattered in some recognisable rhythm upon the old rectangles of slate above their heads. For the first time since he and his dog had taken shelter inside the crumbling edifice of husbandry, the growing roar of the thundershower actually began to drown out the snores of the aging wolfhound at his feet. The once meticulously maintained slate, long abandoned and bequeathed back to the encroaching forest, could not withstand the unexpected onslaught and began to weep drop after drop; which, with a seemingly appropriateness, hit the only man there that night squarely in the chest.

Well … shit.

* * * * * * *

Illustration%203.jpg

CHAPTER THREE

Prejudice is the strangest of onions.

Peel off enough layers of bigotry and one will always come across a centre far paler and more acidic than you might ever have expected on first picking up the knife. Likewise, it seems to more difficult to palate the longer it remains buried: until reaching a point to where even one’s best friends take offense and shun the smell that always appears to linger on one’s breath.

It had been four centuries since William the Conquer had paddled the twenty miles from France and claimed England for his own; the first two hundred being spent in open rebellion, guerrilla warfare, and astonishing acts of outright treachery. Saxon uprisings led to the Normans being horrified by the cruel, horrifying, harsh and arbitrary way in which they felt each had not received their fair share of the indigenous people’s land and possessions.

Ultimately, the only area in which any agreement could be reached was in the concession of each side: confessing that it was, undoubtedly, someone on their counterpart’s side who remained ultimately responsible. Normans across Britain finally agreed in allowing limited Saxon rule: the Saxons being permitted to rule any areas of England in which the Normans had shown little to no interest whatsoever.

The third century bore witness to more subtle skirmishes: with prejudice taking on the fashionable mantles of sarcasm and stylish double entendre. Saxons and Britons laid down their swords for the most part and began to serve their discrimination à la mode: sniping at their French lords in well-seasoned witticisms over innocuous and very often excessively generous plates of steaming, over-boiled intolerance.

Now, a full four hundred years after poor Harold fell from his horse at Hastings, inequities between uneasy friends and the all-too-questionable progeny of generations of mixed marriages had refined the perceptions of both contingents into the realm of the sardonic: the ruthless satire and mocking irony of language having slowly evolved from being violent and blatantly vulgar to a sophistication marked by the heartless, pitiless, and unkind. It was now vogue to gift-wrap one’s bigotry and underhandedly present it to the adversary in couched anecdotes disguised as humour or jests; and some, like Keron’s bailiff, Dumphrey, were far more accomplished and simply better at the game.

An accomplished master of semantics and verbal warfare, the well-educated Norman derived great satisfaction at employing language to put the Saxon sheriff in his place. Having grown somewhat accustomed to the annoyance of the jousts, Keron would suffer quietly in the lists until his irritation boiled a bit too near the brim, and then revert to simple physical intimidation to bring the sling of onslaughts to an end; the rest of the time, most of the conversations revolved around a mutual rubbishing of the Welsh and Scots.

The sprinkle was still threatening to open up into a full-blown rainstorm but, as the two men and the hound really had no home or anywhere particular to go, they kept on plodding along the track that led to Lydford Gorge.

I never really think of dying all that often, the Saxon’s altogether curious travelling companion kicked at the larger pebbles and sent more than a few skittering off into the grass. There are so many women … things, I meant to say things, things I need to do.

The big man was using his quarterstaff as an oversized walking stick and swung it to his right from time to time to brush back an overly intrusive limb. Well, over the years, I have found that there are many things people you meet may want you to do; a lot of things one should probably do; along with any number of things one might physically take upon himself to do: but, on the whole, very few things any of us really have to do. Much like, as I said last night, defending and championing any particular or peculiar dogma of one’s religion.

It was one of the few times Keron actually ventured blindly into a conversation and tried to express his opinions: anything more than a couple of sentences always seemed to send his acquaintance into a diatribe where Dumphrey felt it necessary to, at whatever cost, win the argument. Sadly, this incredibly wet morning was to be no different.

I make it a point to avoid any and all detailed or exhaustive examinations of politics or religion. If the unwashed, ignorant people of England begin to take the time to discuss either, you know what will eventually happen. The morons will inevitably fall into the habit of actually thinking about theology and the monarchy. Then, sure as shit, a few of the grunion will come to appreciate the problems, the weaknesses and errors in the reasoning of those they have deliberately delegated to deal with such matters. As a result, the entire country will start to become confused about whether what they have always been led to believe is actually the intended order of things: blemishes and imperfections of the Church and King will be brought out into the open. That will inevitably lead to anxiety, then that anxiety will grow into a bevy of unanswerable or, at the very least, uncomfortable questions. Those will ultimately digress into open criticism of what people have always been taught to believe and you know where that will lead? The man of truly questionable Norman heritage deliberately baited the big man by ending his examination with a question; and, as usual, Keron walked good-humouredly straight into the trap.

Where?

Organised religion will never be the same: people will begin to question the authority of their priests and vicars. People will actually want their King to do more than sit on his ass all day being pampered by a population that don’t ever see him doing anything to make their lives any better. There will be …, the small man drew his shoulders up into an obviously counterfeit shudder and grunted, … change.

So?

Perish the thought! The weasel kicked even more furiously at the defenceless stones with the well-worn sole of his left shoe. "England needs at least another thousand years to think about what questioning authority might really mean. Any upset in the order of things might mean that there would be all kinds of unforeseen inferences, aftereffects … maybe even, dare I say it, consequences. The upwardly mobile