It was as though time itself had stopped. Nothing stirred. The battlefield of Kenwood lawn became simply a tapestry, a majestically spread-out still-life. Tiny plaster-of-Paris corpses in a variety of uniforms lay motionless, piled everywhere amid the litter of up-turned go-carts and abandoned fairy cycles. The only sign of what had been so violent a conflict were the stray wisps of acrid smoke still ascending from the partially burnt-out Catherine Wheels. The sheer awfulness, the unbelievable magnitude of the transition broke upon a nation wholly unprepared for it. Only the Deputy Commissioner was unperturbed. So far as he was concerned, all that remained was for the powdery mess, the shambles, to be cleared up. And, even here, he had shown his resourcefulness by careful forward planning. Stand-by teams of clearance and removal men were already on call in Finchley, Muswell Hill and Upper Holloway. Even so, disturbing things were still happening. In Ross-shire, a bicycle leaning up against a wall of Presbyterian church unaccountably burst into flames; and, to the surprise of the simple villagers, the weather-cock on a Suffolk steeple began crowing lustily before flapping its way to some distant and uncharted farmyard.
