The Townsmen enjoys the country (1) - The Timekeeper 

He was already seated in the special bus when I arrived, and as a stout lady in the front row moved herself and her coats to disclose a seat for me, he looked round to confirm that our numbers were complete. Watch in hand, he marked the seconds to starting time, with frequent annoyed glances at the stream of late~comers filling the row of buses waiting to start on their evening circular tour. When half-past ‘six came and new arrivals were still hurrying up, his impatience became vocal. 

"This trip was timed to start at six-thirty. We are all here? Why don't they start?” 

 He was getting on his feet to interview the driver when the latter climbed into his place and we drew out. For many miles we heard little but of that lost five minutes. Then we ran out into the country and his grumblings lapsed. 

"Poor man," I thought sentimentally, “how impatient he was to to see fields again. How he will enjoy that twenty minutes halt later! 

In the cool of the evening we drew up by a village churchyard overhung with copper beech in its early spring pinkness. This would delight our fellow passenger, I thought, but he was already alighting. As the driver announced the halt, he snapped open his watch, marked the time, and demanded “Where can I get a drink?" 

He was gone in a moment, the rest of us descending more leisurely. With a smile for the driver, the stout lady drifted up the main street. I went to worship the copper beeches. Twenty minutes was all too little for them and for the bluebells beyond, and our voluntary timekeeper was already checking us off when I returned.

"Two missing,” he grunted, and then, with a withering glance at the meek man climbing in:“Only one missing now!" He looked  accusingly at me and I realised that the next seat was empty and the stout lady nowhere in sight.

 Our clocker in turned slowly purple and his comments of "Cheek!" “Disgraceful!" came each minute with the force explosions. Five minutes passed ~~ the bus ahead moved-off, Ten minutes - the string behind drew out and passed us. Fifteen -- the driver was looking worried now, but keeping well out of earshot. Then in a fluster of haste the stout lady fell in on top of us and we were off, but the return  journey was already ruined for the punctual mam. What mattered hill or dele, hawthorn or lilac? We were fifteen minutes behind schedule and last in the row! His anger, simmering all the way, broke out in a final explosion as he reached home.

 “That women ought to have been left behind, Let her stay ; there all night if she can't be punctual - do her good!" 

The driver watched him stamp away and then, his responsibilities ended, permitted himself to smile. 

“Can't think why that sort ever comes at all," he said, and then, catching the look of sympathy on my face, he added behind his hand: "Couldn't have left her behind, could I? That's my missus!"