The Egg Fiasco

The annual outing of the Upper Bottomley Parish Flower Arrangers Society was, for William Shufflebottom, a prospect roughly akin to a visit to the dentist, only with more floral tributes and significantly less anaesthetic. His wife, Edith, however, approached it with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for storming the beaches of Normandy. This year’s destination: the slightly less-than-picturesque municipal rose gardens of Lower Puddleton.

William, a man whose internal workings operated with the subtle grace of a cement mixer full of gravel, had decided to pack a lunch. Not for him the dainty cucumber and watercress affairs favoured by the ladies of the society. Oh no. William’s culinary masterpiece consisted of six generously proportioned egg and cress sandwiches, each slathered with a suspicious yellow substance that might once have been mayonnaise. He’d secreted them in a plastic bag, nestled amongst Edith’s meticulously prepared fruitcake slices, like a culinary time bomb ticking softly in the floral-scented air.

The journey commenced with the predictable chirping of polite conversation and the rustling of souvenir brochures. William, perched precariously on the aisle seat, unwrapped his first sandwich with a sigh of quiet contentment. The aroma, however, that wafted forth was anything but quiet. It was a pungent, sulphurous cloud, redolent of damp hens and forgotten gym socks. A collective shudder rippled through the coach.

“William,” Edith hissed, her voice a low, dangerous tremor. “What in heaven’s name is that awful smell?”

William, mid-chew, merely blinked at her with bovine innocence. “Lunch, my dear. Lovely egg and cress.”

Lovely was not the adjective currently circulating in the minds of the other passengers. Faces began to turn a delicate shade of green. Mrs. Higgins, whose prize-winning begonias were wilting visibly in the overhead rack, let out a small, strangled cry. Soon, a chorus of increasingly desperate pleas arose, directed at poor Mr. Grimshaw, the perpetually flustered coach driver.

“Driver! Please! Can’t we have some air?” wailed Miss Pringle, clutching a lavender-scented handkerchief to her nose. “It smells like something has… expired!”

Mr. Grimshaw, a man whose life ambition was to complete a journey without incident, glanced nervously in his rearview mirror. The scene was not encouraging. Several passengers were now fanning themselves with their order of service from last year’s Harvest Festival.

The situation, however, was about to escalate. The egg sandwiches, having found a welcoming environment within William’s digestive system, were beginning to exert their secondary effects. It started subtly, a low rumble that could have been mistaken for the engine. Then came a more assertive outburst, a resonant braaaap that caused several heads to snap around.

Edith’s face was a study in mortified fury. “William Shufflebottom! Have you no shame?”

William, his cheeks slightly flushed, offered a weak smile. “Must have been the… the bumpy road, dear.”

The bumpy road, it transpired, was having a remarkably consistent effect on William. Each bump seemed to trigger another, more volcanic eruption of intestinal gas. The air inside the coach, already thick with the aroma of decaying poultry, now vibrated with a series of loud, trumpeting noises. Children started to giggle nervously. Elderly gentlemen coughed pointedly. Edith sank lower and lower in her seat, wishing the earth would swallow her whole.

“Good heavens,” exclaimed Reverend Timothy, his normally placid countenance etched with horror. “It sounds like a herd of disgruntled elephants has taken up residence in this vehicle.”

Mr. Grimshaw, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, had finally reached his limit. He pulled the coach sharply onto the verge, the sudden braking sending several floral arrangements tumbling into the aisle.

“Right,” he announced, his voice tight with suppressed exasperation. “Everyone off. Fresh air. Now.”

The passengers scrambled out, gasping for breath like beached whales. Mr. Grimshaw then fixed William and Edith with a look that could curdle milk.

“Mr. and Mrs. Shufflebottom,” he said, pointing down the deserted country lane. “I think it would be best if you… walked the rest of the way. It’s only a few miles. And frankly,” he added, sotto voce, “for the sake of my other passengers, it’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

Edith, her face a mask of thunderous indignation, grabbed William’s arm. “Come on, you disgusting old goat,” she hissed, dragging him towards the distant smudge of Lower Puddleton.

William, blissfully unaware of the social carnage he had wrought, ambled along beside her, a faint, eggy afterglow lingering in his wake. He still had three sandwiches left. The roses of Lower Puddleton, he mused, were in for a very interesting afternoon indeed.