Sure enough, far down the street a speck resolved itself into a pedestrian. We waited until he came abeam.
“Hey!” I hailed him.
He looked up. “My word,” he observed genially, “Americans!”
“Too right!” I responded in flawless New Zealandese. “Can you tell us how to get out of here?”
“I’m frightfully afraid I can’t,” he admitted. “I should think everyone’s gone home by now. The holidays, you know.”
He started on, but then he had a thought. “By the way,” he added, coming back and speaking directly to Jessica, “if you should want a Christmas tree, you’ll find bags of them at my stand just down the road. No one seems to be buying this year, I’ll take a frightful loss. Just trot on down and help yourself!”
“But there’s still time. You’ll sell lots tomorrow,” Jessica pointed out.
The man sounded positively shocked. “On Saturday! Now, what would the wife and kiddies say if I was to tell them I was going back to the stand on a Saturday just to sell a few more trees? No, I stayed a good half hour over as it is and now I’m for me holiday! And a happy Christmas to you!”
He disappeared around the next corner, but we were not alone for long. A car drew up to the curb and four very large bobbies stepped out. They deployed in approved Scotland Yard fashion, one remaining near the car and two covering the fence, while the fourth strode toward us purposefully. His face was officially stern. He opened his mouth—but not fast enough, for Barbara, always the strategist, spoke first.
“Can you tell us how to get out of here?”