Flags waving, the pretty cheerleaders energetically high-stepped and twirled up the main street to the appreciative applause of the onlookers. Behind them, performing choreographed steps as they blasted out an upbeat version of Hope and Glory, came the high school band in their red, white and blue uniforms, courtesy of Fowlds Theatrical Supplies - stickers on the jackets proclaiming that fact.

The Calesh carriage, sporting a decorative profusion worthy of the Rose Parade, bounced over the various lesions in the asphalt road, while the occupants greeted the crowds. Elizabeth executed her current namesake's royal wave, while Malcolm thrust fists in the air like he'd scored a touchdown, and grinned almost painfully.

Behind the Calesh, the Boy Scout Troop marched out of step, more interested in looking for friends and parents than maintaining any kind of discipline. Their troop leader oblivious to the disarray behind him.

The group in the Dodge sat in silence, weakly waving to the cheering crowd. Leyland's plus one had been introduced as Roger Speer, an orthodontist from a neighbouring town. Cynthia was almost forced to stuff her shawl in Archie's mouth. To him, Leyland's perceived ladykiller reputation was upended, and the myth exploded like the impending fireworks.

Leyland guessed what Archie was thinking, and instead of correcting his conclusion, he got Roger to play along. Cynthia just gave up and watched the performances until she felt Archie was close to losing it, then called a halt.

"I'm sorry, Arch. It's just that you were so gullible." Leyland slapped his leg and turned to Roger. "Show him the picture of your kids, Rog."

"I don't need proof. I knew you were pulling my leg." Archie frowned at the pair, and shied away from his wife's glare.

"All good?" Roger asked.

"Yeah. Fine." Archie turned his attention to the crowd.

There was loud applause and laughter as the WTF ladies snaked up the street behind the purple car, their tree costumes occasionally threatening to tangle together. Theirs was a mission to awaken awareness in the population regarding the preservation of forests, and to that end they gave it their all. Following the trees, Clive nodded pleasantly from the Phaeton to the crowd, pointing an occasional finger at familiar faces.

Olivia sat close, but not too close, beaming her innocent smile.

Looking past the WTF teetering costumes, Clive could see Wilma sitting in the front of the Dodge, turning to speak, but looking back to him.

"I bet Whitcombe is eating this up." Wilfred chuckled, breaking the silence.

"Did you see Elizabeth in that corset?" Olivia leaned toward Esther. "Her voice went up an octave."

"She had me looking up the correct fashions for the royal court for the entire week." A cheery wave to a cluster of library members.

"Thank God it's only once a year."

A sudden cry went up from the crowd as one of the WTF ladies stumbled, did a slow pirouette, and tottered backwards, snagging her tree's branches in Edgar's new street banner, bringing both it and her tree crashing down. The horse behind, pulling the Phaeton shied, and the lad driving instinctively snapped the reins.

In a flash, the carriage bolted from the line and took off across the street and into the park. Olivia's scream split the air as the wheels bounced harshly over the curb, and she latched onto Clive like a leech, urging him to do something.

The surprised roar of the crowd had the boy driving, forget every instruction he had been given, and he braced his feet, hauling on the reins, screaming "Whoa! Whoa!"

Wilfred found himself pressed against Esther, incapable of righting himself as the carriage bounced when it made the violent turn.

The band had stopped playing and Malcolm turned to see what happened, horror written across his face as he saw the tangle of tree costumes, the scouts breaking rank to chase the runaway carriage, and the kazoo band suddenly sounding like communal flatulence. The second convertible pulled out of line and sped down beside the parade, horn blaring, heading for the intersection at the top of the park.

Roy Ekhardt, reacting with startling speed, had shoved the driver aside and taken the wheel. He sped up alongside the parade, scattering veterans, some tardy scouts, and band members. The Whitcombe's looked on, stricken, as he blew past.

"Roy! What are you doing?" Jill shouted, holding the window frame with white knuckles.

"Heading them off at the top of the park on Winston. John told me if the horses were left to themselves, they'd just head for home. I think that's where this one's headed."

Sean and Wilma were prone on the rear seat, clutching one another, babbling incoherently. Jill turned, looking across the park, and her heart nearly stopped. The Victoria carriage was racing across the park with Ted wielding a buggy whip, and behind him, the Groome's, welded together in stark terror.

A top hat blew out of the carriage and bounced across the park grass.

******

Roy pulled the car onto Winston Avenue in a skidding turn ala Steve McQueen, tires burning and squealing and then a screeching stop, blocking the park exit. At the same time, the Phaeton and the Victoria arrived, almost side by side. Ted was yelling to the boy driving, while keeping a safe distance.

Roy was standing in the car, waving his arms and yelling halting words to the horse. He shifted his feet, ready to bail if the animal didn't stop. Suddenly the horse made a sharp turn, the carriage tipped against the side of the car and the boy, along with the passengers, were thrown onto the convertible.

The Victoria pulled up behind the car and Ted got down, hobbling as fast as he could to the horse, and catching his head, calming it down long enough to unhook the trace. He let it go and the horse headed back down into the park, running a crazy pattern that gradually slowed down until it was just walking.

The car passengers were helping one another from the car and off the road. Clothing was brushed off and adjusted, each assuring there was nothing really serious, wrong. Roy held Jill, who was speechless over her father's actions. The Heston's wobbled to the curb and sat, muttering to one another. Ted was talking to the boy driver, who was crying and shaking his head at something Ted asked.

"Dad! Dad, my God what- how . . ." She fell against him, arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

"Now that was a holiday ride to remember." Ted patted the boy's shoulder and told him to wait around, before moving Jill back so he could look at her face.

"You okay, girl?"

"Me! Yes, yes, I'm fine. Dad, what were you thinking?"

"Of you, sweetheart. Of you."

"Maybe a little help here?" Roy called.

Everyone pulled together and righted the Phaeton away from the car, checking both vehicles with tongues clicking and eyebrows lifting.

"Offer might drop a little Ted," Roy half smiled. "Looks like it will need some repairs."

"Not as much as the car." Clive ran a hand over the scarred and dented door panels.

"I thought you might be more concerned about me." Olivia stood, hands on the hips of her torn skirt.

"I think Wilfred is the one who needs our concern," Esther broke in, "his head is bleeding."

"It's nothing. It's superficial." He waved them away.

"Does he mean his head or the bleeding?" Ted queried, getting a dig in the ribs from his daughter.

"You could be looking at an insurance windfall here, Wilfred." Clive's face fell at the silent reaction from the rest. "Well, hell, we could have been killed." Olivia's glare had him regretting the remark.

"Ted! The Groome's!" Roy ran over to the Victoria and looked at the couple sitting frozen, squeezed together. "You folks okay?"

"Nell- she isn't breathing." Edgar declared, his face a mask of anxiety.

Jill and Esther helped get her out of the carriage, and then they eased her down onto the grass. A loud gasp, followed by moans groans and deep inhalations, and Nell looked up at the women. "He- he squeezed me so tight, I- I couldn't breathe."

A red and white Land Rover screeched to a halt by the convertible, and a band of cammo covered men surrounded the scene while General 'Bull' Sledge, approached, jaw out thrust, warily waving a military baton.

"Freeze! Nobody moves!"

Nobody did.