All Change For Bellingford

31

All Change For Bellingford

    “You wouldn’t know the place!” Derry said to Molly on a smug note. He gave one of his expansive waves at the interior of Higgledy-Piggledy’s Borage Room. Each of the five small dining-rooms, three downstairs and two upstairs, had been given the name of a herb or spice, with a plaque depicting a sprig of the same affixed to the passage wall by the doorway. Not done by Anna, who had been much too busy, but by Velda Cross, the artist-illustrator and wife of one of John’s former junior officers warmly recommended by Mrs Granville Thinnes. Once she’d grasped the point that they didn’t want typical botanical drawings on a white background, since the plaques had to hang on white plastered walls, she’d produced some lovely works. The misty pale blue and pale green of the borage was set against a dark navy background, with a tiny border featuring leaves and buds entwined in a formal pattern of what Derry, examining it with his nose practically in the plaque, had declared to be rose or bramble branches, based on a Renaissance design! Molly had completely ignored this. As also his forging off to inspect the plaques on the other rooms. And his happy report that they all had the same border, brown and gilt, but their own leaves and buds or seeds worked into it!

    He hadn’t let her order her own lunch but that was no more than she’d expected. It was almost Christmas, so Higgledy-Piggledy was offering several Christmassy choices but Derry had ignored those. She ate a mouthful of savory-flavoured chestnut soufflé without interest. “No; they have done it up very nicely,” she agreed mildly.

    Derry swallowed slowly, and sighed deeply. “Mmm! Just the right touch of savory; it can be too peppery-if overdone. –Not the restaurant, darling, though I agree. No, the whole place!”

    “The village hasn’t changed that much,” said Molly feebly. “Well, there’s that health food shop in the High Street, I suppose.”

    “Darling, one can now not only buy a few basic ingredients, but get decent lunch, a decent dinner, and a decent drink! Not to mention, find something to read!”

    “Yes, that’s true,” she said peaceably. “Have you found a cook yet, Derry?”

    As expected, Derry launched into the saga immediately. “No” was the short answer. Molly didn’t listen to the details: she just smiled and made appropriate noises from time to time and wondered on a sour note why she was having lunch with a fat old producer-director when Terence Haworth had seemed so interested back at that do at the stupid Yacht Club. And since: what about that time he’d shown her over his pub? It was true he’d been very busy since then: the summer was always a busy time in Bellingford, all the people who owned weekenders up George Street and so on came over for the summer holidays, but the summer was long since over and she’d hardly seen hide nor hair of him! Well, possibly he’d only given her and Micky that ride down here because John had told him to, whatever he might have claimed at the time. And possibly he’d only seemed interested in her because John—or Rosie, she was more than capable of it—had suggested he might see a bit of her. He’d certainly hardly spoken to her at Colin’s and Penn’s wedding! Never mind if half those horrible ladies in fancy frocks had been his rellies, he could at least have come and sat with them for a bit! Molly thought of the amount of booze their table had consumed, and had to bite her lip. But sitting with them for a bit wouldn’t have hurt him! Had he chickened out entirely because his parents were there? She wouldn’t, actually, once she’d had the privilege of meeting icy-cold Lady Mother, have been at all surprised. Admiral Sir Father hadn't seemed to disapprove of her, though. Only very likely Rosie was right and what he thought didn’t count.

    “Um, what?” she said feebly. “Sorry, Derry.”

    Derry’s shrewd eyes sharpened but he merely said mildly: “If you haven’t had braised chicory before you may find it odd. Mrs Fitzroy does it with a touch of marjoram: very unusual. Adds a little sweetness which balances the bitterness. I find it goes very well with the rich texture of steak and kidney pudding. You’ll like hers, she adds dried oregano to the suet dough. Not traditional at all, but it suits it.”

    “I thought I was supposed to be on a diet?” replied Molly without emphasis.

    “Mm? One doesn’t have a huge helping of the suet pudding, of course, dear! You could just have a sorbet for dessert.”

    “You’re the boss. –I thought it was Jasmine that was doing the lunches?”

    “No, darling, got that all wrong,” he said, reading the wine list which he’d ordered Gwennie Potter to leave for him. “Rubbish! Uh—sorry, Molly. Must talk to them about their wine list. No, Jasmine’s doing teas for them. Does the baking for the elevenses, you see, and then for the teas in the afternoon, but not lunches. Working for young Julia and Daniel Gold as well, you see. At The Church.”

    “The lady and man with the dear little baby girl?” said Molly feebly. “I didn’t know that.”

    “Ought to get down here more often.”

    “Anna’s very busy and Micky can be a bit, um, noisy,” she said feebly.

    “Uh-huh. Beaujolais? Rubbish! Where is that girl?” He looked round crossly for Gwennie.

    “She’s getting our mains. Um, well, that’s good. I’m glad Jasmine’s got extra work.”

    He sniffed. “’Tis for old Matthew Haworth, yes. The girl’s father,” he explained. “Colin’s uncle. Down here every weekend letting Jasmine stuff him like a Strasbourg goose.”

    “You should talk!” replied Molly strongly as Gwennie staggered in under their mains and she realised that when he’d ordered his “usual” portion he’d meant a double helping.

    “Every man needs a hobby,” he said blandly. “Thanks, Gwennie, dear. Looks good. Just send Mrs Fitzroy in when she’s got a moment, would you? Need a word with her about the wine list.”

    “Ordinary people just like ordinary wine,” said Molly, eyeing the disgusting-looking white veggies askance. “Added to which, they can’t afford the stuff you buy. If you want fancy wine, though personally I think it’s a waste of money, why not ask them if you can bring your own bottle?”

    “The art of compromise!” he said, suddenly smiling at her with tremendous approval.

    “Um, yes,” said Molly feebly, tasting the meat. Tasted just like one of Aunty May’s stews. Not that they weren’t nice—but pretty ordinary. What was all the fuss about?

    “Nice?” he said hopefully.

    “Lovely,” she agreed tactfully.

    Over the dessert—he did let her just have a lemon water-ice, but he himself had what claimed to be “Key Lime Pie” but which Molly, eyeing it drily, could see was a dead ringer for Aunty May’s lemon meringue pie—he blahed on about Series Two of The Captain’s Daughter: The New Generation. The first series was going to air and was a riotous success, as had been the revelation that the two New Daughters were played by the “Rose” sisters, as had been Molly’s and Georgia’s appearance on Parkinson. Derry in person had chosen their outfits for it, so they’d been about as silly as you might expect. Not sensible trouser-suits like most of the ladies wore—you could see why, with those cameras pointing up at you, not to mention that silly staircase you had to walk down! No: full-length evening dresses. Strapless, very tight round the hips and bottom but fuller round the legs, with sort of extra diagonal draped bits across the skirt, hanging down unevenly. Chiffon. Georgia’s was black chiffon over white satin, the draped bits daintily edged with sparkling black bugle beads, and Molly’s was pale green chiffon over dark green satin, the draped bits daintily edged with sparkling crystal bugle beads, and lovely dress though it was, she had felt like a complete twerp. Georgia had appeared to enjoy every moment of the experience.

    “Yes, I see: Rupy being a counter-spy’s going to provide most of the suspense; that should work,” she said kindly.

    He bent over the table, beaming. “Yes! And in this series, we’re going to reveal that Andrew isn’t really a rating, he’s a lieutenant, undercover for Rupy!”

    “That’s a good idea: who thought of that one?” said Molly obligingly.

    “Well, Euan, as a matter of fact,” he admitted on a regretful note. “It’ll work very well, you see: because if he’s really an officer, he’s in the running for Daughter 1!” He was off again. In Molly’s opinion the thing was getting madder and madder—though Rupy had been very believable as the Naval Intelligence officer—but if the punters liked it and the ratings were up, almost as high as for Rosie’s show, presumably that was all that mattered. She put a very listening look on her face and switched off completely…

    “Mm?” she said with an effort. “Oh—a lift up tomorrow? That’s very kind of you, Derry, but I can’t: I have to get Micky to school.”

    “We can manage that!” he beamed.

    Drily Molly told him what time they’d have to leave for the limo to get Micky to school on time. His face fell.

    “We’re getting the train up tonight.”

    “Darling,” he said cautiously, “now that the series is such a success, you could afford a car and a much nicer place—”

    “Bullshit, Derry,” she said firmly, sounding horribly like Rosie at her most determined. “It’s going straight into the bank. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever been able to put anything away for Micky’s future.”

    “Mm,” said Derry, swallowing hard. “I see. Sorry, Molly, darling.”

    “That’s all right!” said Molly with her sunny smile. “Do you think we could have an Irish coffee? Since it is Sunday!” she added merrily.

    Weakly Derry, who affected to despise such messes as Irish or any other so-called coffee mucked up with mounds of whipped cream and spirits, ordered Irish coffees for both of them.

    “Yum!” he admitted with a laugh, licking the last traces of cream off his lips.

    “Yes!” agreed Molly, laughing back.

    Oh, dear. Luverly, wasn’t she? What an awful pity it was only too clear that none of it could ever be for him. In fact she treated him like an elderly uncle. He had seldom felt less like an elderly uncle in his entire existence.

    … “Hullo!” said Anna in surprise, wandering into the sitting-dining room to find Molly just sitting there by the electric heater. Not reading or knitting or anything. “Was it a nice lunch?”

    “The lunch was nice, yeah. Well, apart from some horrid veggies. A bit like one of Aunty May’s when she’s not being really fancy.”

    “That sounds okay!”

    “Yes.”

    “Was he all right?” she asked cautiously.

    “Yes, very kind. Well, gushy, you know—but he’s always like that.”

    Anna sat down opposite her. “Colin’s taken Micky down to the forge to watch Penn working.”

    “She shouldn’t be working at that heavy stuff, should she?” said Molly in some alarm.

    “She’s pretty fit, and it’s not due for another couple of months. But she’s not doing any heavy lifting. You know that man you said might like to learn blacksmithing off her? He’s come. Him and Bob are doing the lifting.”

    “Andrew’s father? Not really? I didn’t think he was serious. I mean, he’s an engineer. Qualified. He’s been working on really big projects.”

    “Yes, he told us. He went into it because his father was very keen on it. I think maybe when his wife died he sort of thought twice about it.”

    “Um, Anna, from what Andrew said that must have been about ten years back: he was still at school.”

    “Yes. He couldn’t stop then because he had to support Andrew. But now that he’s grown up he’s decided to do what he’s always wanted to. He looks like a smith,” said Anna in a satisfied tone.

    “Anna, you’re not painting him already, are you?”

    “Yes. Wanna see?” she said in a terrifically careless voice.

    This of course meant she was very pleased with it, so Molly got up and accompanied her into the studio. She’d only met Andrew’s father once—he wasn’t Mr Mackie, of course, that was Andrew’s stage name, he was Mr McIntyre. In spite of the Scotch name, he had an English accent, like Andrew’s. He was tall, even taller than his son, with a square, rather bony face that, interestingly, was very like Andrew’s in shape but without his good looks.

    “Crikey!” she said in awe, goggling up at the picture of a sweating Mr McIntyre in a leather apron, hefting a giant hammer. “Is that Penn’s apron?”

    “Yes, but she’s getting one for him.”

    “It’s awfully good, Anna!”

    Anna had thought that would be Molly’s reaction: Doug McIntyre, though not handsome, was a very masculine man, with an excellent figure, of the craggy, broad-shouldered type. “It’s just called Study of a Smith at Work, but Colin calls it The Hammer of God.”

    “He would!” replied her cousin scornfully. “I think it’s one your best!”

    It wasn’t as good as the ones of Jim Parker, Colin, or John, but yes, she was very pleased with it. In spite of James Allen’s dire predictions it hadn’t turned out too melodramatic, and he had added it to the one-woman show at the last minute, having to have an extra page inserted in the expensively printed catalogue for it. Though possibly the advertisement on its reverse had managed to cover the cost of that, Anna had not been too naïve to reflect.

    “Thanks; I’m glad you like it. It’s going up to town on Monday. The catalogue’s come,” she said. “Wanna see?”

    “Of course!” Molly went back into the other room with her. Anna scrabbled in the battered desk, courtesy of Jack Powell, in which she now kept her papers.

    “Not it,” she said, discarding a magazine. She laid some leaves aside, noting sadly: “Blow, those have faded, I thought they might.”

    “Throw them out,” said Molly with a sigh.

    “Mm? Oh—yes,” she said, not doing so.

    Firmly Molly picked them up and put them in the wood box.

    “Here.” She thrust it into her hands.

    Molly almost dropped it. The cover of the large catalogue was very plain. Its background was a dull blue-grey. At the top it said in quite large white letters “Anna Peregrine-White.” At the bottom it said in very large capitals, also white: “MEN”. A very plain, classic font: it looked like Times New Roman. The picture in the middle of the cover had a thin white surround. Its own background was a soft blue-grey, lighter than the main background. The painting showed a naked man with his back turned. Very pale skin. He was bald, looking down, and just turned slightly to his right. Anyone who had ever seen John Haworth in his bathers would have recognised him immediately—though Molly was in no doubt that a large part of the point of this picture was the bit the bathers covered. It was the most stunning thing she had ever seen. Literally stunning: she felt as if it had just delivered a hefty blow to the head.

    “His bottom’s very well shaped,” said her cousin mildly.

    Molly hadn’t seen the picture before; Anna of course had painted it up in town, staying in her flat while she was she working on it, but for most of that time she’d been away on location with the TV people. “I’ll say!” she croaked. “Anna, it’s wonderful, of course, but—”

    “No-one’ll know it’s him. It’s just called Back View of a Man.”

    “Mm. Good.” She swallowed hard.

    “He’s tremendously sexy, isn’t he?” said Anna dispassionately.

    “Yes. Even—even back view,” she croaked.

    “Of course. Men often are.”

    “Mm.” Molly sank back down onto her chair. After quite some time she managed to say: “If Aunty Julia could see this, she’d have ten fits.”

    “Georgia said ten thousand,” replied Julia Leach’s daughter calmly.

    Molly gave a yelp and collapsed in helpless giggles.

    At one point Anna had been afraid she was going to cry. She wasn’t sure why; she did know Molly wasn’t in love with John, though she liked him very much. She sat down opposite her, very relieved, and smiled at her.

    Molly recovered and looked through the catalogue. “Ooh, the one of Greg’s lovely, Anna!”

    It had turned out very well: the combination of worn, dark denim and bronzy skin had worked well, as she’d always thought .Greg was standing at a slight angle, his left side slightly nearer to the viewer, smiling his charming smile. “Thanks. It’s hard to paint a person smiling.”

    “Yes. Oh, you’ve just called it Study of an Indian Man.”

    “He wasn’t sure whether his father would want him to have his name on it,” explained Anna. “You can’t tell from that black and white reproduction, but there’s a lot of light in his hair. He was interesting to paint because although he’s dark there’s a lot of light in him. That’s why I had him smiling, too.”

    “Um, yeah,” said Molly weakly. “I see. And did you finish the one of Richard?”

    “Yes: it’s at the back.”

    It was reproduced in colour. Study of a Man in a Blue Shirt. Molly’s jaw sagged. After an appreciable period she managed to say: “Anna, I know you see him as ice-blue, but did you have to make it so—so cold?”

    “Yes.”

    She swallowed hard. Poor Richard! He was in shirt and slacks, holding a gold pen in his hand, the pose very similar to Greg’s. The shirt was a very, very pale blue—well, ice-blue, yes—and the background was an even icier blue and Richard’s pale English skin looked somehow frozen and his pale yellow hair looked cold and… Cripes. Needless to say he wasn’t smiling: his head was turned directly towards you and he was looking straight at you. No, through you. “I should think he could sue you!”

    “Not for showing the truth. Anyway, he said it was excellent. Colin said it was bloody cruel, though.”

    “Anna, I thought you liked him!” she cried.

    “I quite like him,” replied Anna cautiously. “He doesn’t fuss.”

    Molly waited but that appeared to be it. “Oh, Anna, how could you?” she said sadly, closing the catalogue.

    “I had to.”

    “Bullshit! Don’t you even care about other people’s feelings?” she cried.

    “Um, I am very fond you and Micky. And Colin and Penn.”

    “I don’t necessarily mean the people close to you. Anybody’s feelings.”

    After a moment Anna said: “Only on a personal level, I suppose.”

    “Not when your flaming art’s involved, you mean!” she cried, springing up.

    “Mm. I thought you knew that, Molly?”

    “I suppose all those cosy cottage pictures disguised it or something, but I sure as Hell know it now!” she cried.

    “I have tried being like everybody else, but it didn’t work,” said the artist on a glum note.

    “Um—no.” Molly swallowed. “No, all right, Anna. Sorry I shouted. You can’t help it. And you have been very kind to me and Micky.”

    “Mr Allen was very pleased with the one of Richard because he said that it showed a businessman, and a lot of men are like that. They don’t let their feelings show. He wanted to call the exhibition ‘Men’ because he said that they’re all different aspects of men,” said Anna gloomily. “It’s not that I deliberately set out to do that.”

    Molly’s jaw had now sagged. “Uh—yeah. I see, aspects of men.”

    “But that wasn’t why I wanted to do it: I just thought his colours were interesting. Potter Purbright doesn’t like it,” she admitted.

    Molly had to bite her lip. “I’m honestly not surprised, Anna. He is her dad, after all, and he obviously adores her. Couldn’t you have shown that, instead?”

    “He only lets it show when he’s with her. Or sometimes when he’s talking about her,” she said, getting up and edging towards the door. “Um, I have done a sketch of them together for Christmas.”

    “You’d better show it to me,” said Molly heavily.

    Even though the sketch was done with, or Molly’s eyes had gone fuzzy, blue and brown crayons, she was able to cry quite genuinely: “Oh! It’s lovely, Anna!”

    “Good,” said Anna with undisguised relief.

    “You ought to do some more like this!”

    “No, I’m thinking about buildings,” she said in a horribly vague voice.

    “Buildings? Oh; more cottage pictures?” beamed Molly.

    “No, industrial buildings.”

    “In—Industrial?” she faltered.

    “Mm. Doug McIntyre showed me some snaps of places he’s worked. Interesting lines and masses,” she said in a vague voice.

    “Anna, there won’t be a market for pictures of industrial buildings!” she gasped.

    “I don’t care. John’s letting me pay rent now but it’s very reasonable and I’ve got lots of money. So I don’t need any more,” said the artist simply.

    “What does Mr Allen say about this industrial buildings idea?” she croaked.

    Anna looked vague. “It might work.”

    “It might work but did he say so?” she shouted.

    Her cousin grinned suddenly. “No. he doesn’t know yet. Sufficient unto the day! And Perryman Press are paying me to make a book of the cottage pictures.”

    “So they should,” said Molly feebly. “All right, you’re a bloated capitalist. I suppose I could make us cuppa.”

    “That’d be good; thanks.”

    Molly went into the kitchen, where she discovered that the bloated capitalist had run out of milk. Oh, well.

    No-one else who’d seen the picture of Richard had reacted as strongly as Molly—whether because they knew more about art, did not have such tender feelings, or had exercised greater tact. Anna didn’t feel any differently about the picture because of it, but she could now see that when Colin had said it was a wonder the poor bugger hadn’t curled up and died on sighting it, he hadn’t been joking. When Molly and Micky had taken off in Graham Howell’s taxi for the train, she sat down and thought about it. Finally she said glumly to herself: “Blow. I suppose he is my cousin.” She got up, and put on her heavy padded parka. It was a brand new one, Rosie had made her buy it: in fact she she’d got Graham to drive them both into Portsmouth in his taxi, also buying a new parka for Bunting. It was nice and warm, much cosier than Anna’s Western Australian one. It was bright red with black stripes down its sleeves. Anna felt uneasily it was too bright for her but Rosie had said it looked cheery.

    Up in Albert Street Number 10 looked cool and elegant and very right for him. It was certainly an ice-blue house. Anna nodded approvingly at it. Then she went up and knocked on the front door.

    Heather Carter was competently doing his cleaning three days a week, but apart from her, Richard had not managed to get anything like a staff for his new house. He had tentatively tried the London agency who’d supplied him with the excellent couple who looked after him in town but although they’d sent down a few candidates the drive from Portsmouth had completely finished them off—even though the road surface was very much better than it had been that first time he’d come to see Anna. He had put up a notice, at Belinda Stout’s suggestion, in the Superette, but the only applicants for the position of cook had been a chewing Miss Melissa Black, aged possibly as much as seventeen, smothered in makeup and earrings, bursting out of a brightly striped top which showed a strip of bulging tummy with, sweet Christ, a ring in it, and a blowsy, buxom, brassy-haired Mrs Glo Stevenson, who had revealed herself as Christine Carter’s sister, a Bellinger by birth, desirous of returning to the village, and divorced, and had blatantly given him the eye. Not to say a referral to a gent from Upper Mill Lane which he was bloody sure wasn’t because of her culinary abilities.

    “Hullo,” he said feebly, opening the front door to a very bright vision. “The ghost of Christmas Present, I presume?”

    “Colin said that,” replied Anna, unmoved.

    Richard’s mouth tightened. “I’m sure.”

    “I can’t see why you don’t like him. Everybody else likes him,” she said mildly.

    He was aware she couldn’t see that. “Anything wrong?” he said on a tired note.

    “No. Is it a bad time? I won’t stay,” she said before he could say no, it wasn’t. “I just came to apologise about the picture.”

    “What?” said Richard blankly.

    “The picture. Study of a Man in a Blue Shirt. Molly was wild with me about it. I think she thinks I’ve hurt your feelings. She said it was cold. At least I think that was it: I get muddled when people talk,” said Anna glumly. “And she can never understand when a picture isn’t a portrait. Anyway, I’m sorry if it hurt your feelings.”

    “I think it’s excellent,” said Richard dazedly.

    “Yes, you said. I did tell her that.”

    He passed his hand over his immaculate pale hair. “You’d better come in, Anna.”

    “Aren’t you busy?” replied Anna, standing her ground.

    With an effort Richard refrained from shouting at her. “No. Come in.” He led her into the living-room with the long, low fireplace and the views from the south-facing French windows over the front lawn with its gnarled, bent old linden, and beyond it the spread of the valley, and from the east-facing end windows of the landscaped garden with its old stone wall, meandering walks, and slender silver birches. It was already nearly dark: he pressed the button by the door that drew the long fawn curtains.

    “Ooh!” gasped Anna as they slid to silently.

    “Sorry: automated. Sit down, Anna.”

    Anna took off her parka and sat down on one of the simple oatmeal wool sofas he’d installed, looking at the empty grate and noting in a confused voice: “It’s very warm in here.”

    “Uh—yes. The central heating’s on,” said Richard feebly.

    “Oh. Can you get that in England?”

    “Yes,” he said feebly, sitting down in his own chair. Fawn leather, a very plain, modern design. He had originally had a dark brown one but it had dominated the room, so he’d got rid of it.

    “That’s a nice pot,” she said, looking at the big unglazed coiled pot on the hearth.

    “Yes, I think so, too. Er, there’s no need to apologise to me about the painting.”

    “Molly was really wild with me,” repeated Anna. “She said I didn’t care about people’s feelings.”

    “I see.” Richard hesitated. Then he said, trying to sound light: “Do you care about mine, Anna?”

    “Sort of. I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

    His fists had clenched in spite of himself. “You might have come because you thought you ought to care.”

    “Um, ye-es… Might I? That seems a bit complicated,” she said dubiously.

    “Yes. Forget it. As I said, there’s no need to apologise to me. I quite understand that I present that way.”

    “Ice-blue,” said Anna glumly.

    “So you’ve said. If it equates with cold and detached, which I’m presuming was Molly’s conclusion, I’ll admit it’s an attitude I have cultivated over most of my adult life.”

    “Yes. You’re different when you’re with Potter Purbright.”

    “I’m glad to hear it,” said Richard tiredly. “Fancy a drink?”

    “No, thanks. I’d better go.”

    “All right, go,” he said, running his hand over his hair again.

    “I think I’ve left the door unlocked,” explained Anna on an uneasy note.

    “What?” he said limply.

    “I think I’ve left the door unlocked. My keys aren’t in my pockets.”

    “You haven’t locked yourself out?”

    “No, I haven’t even got the keys.”

    “You wouldn’t have if you’d locked yourself out!” said Richard, rather loudly.

    “I see what you mean. Like those stupid car doors. Penn did that one day. She kicked it.”

    “What, that green abortion of his? I can’t say I blame her.”

    “It is very green, but I like it. Most cars aren’t funny. –Those locks are different: my door’s the sort that you have to lock from outside with a key.”

    “Uh—oh! Jesus, is the study of the smith still in your studio?”

    “Yes. I don’t really think anyone would steal it…”

    “Or vandalise it: possibly not. Let’s not take the risk. I’ll run you home.” He hurried to get his keys and coat.

    On the way he was unable to refrain from saying: “I suppose my car’s not funny?”

    “No, it’s very serious. It smells nice, though.”

     Yes, Bentleys were apt to do so. “Mm.”

    The bloody door was unlocked. Richard followed her in and just sagged limply against the passage wall. “Lock it,” he croaked.

    “I’ll only have to unlock it again when you go.”

    “Give me the keys.” Grimly he locked it. For good measure he went down the passage and checked the back door. Unlocked. Fancy that. He locked it, too.

    “Jack did say he was going to put a Yale lock on the front door instead but I think he’s forgotten: he’s been very busy.”

    “Right. And you didn’t remind him because?”

    “Because he talks too much. I know Rosie says he’s lonely, but I often need to concentrate.”

    “I see. I thought he was more or less a permanent fixture here.”

    “No. I’ve finished painting him,” said Anna simply,

    “Right! I suppose I’m not welcome here any more, either?” he shouted.

    She stared at him. “You’re my cousin, that’s different.”

    “I don’t want to be just your bloody COUSIN, Anna!” he shouted.

    Anna licked her lips uneasily. “I don’t want that,” she muttered.

    “All right, you can’t stand me, a nod’s as good as a wink to a blind man: I’ll go,” said Richard with tears in his eyes.

    “No, um, not that,” she said hoarsely, going very red. “I can stand you.”

    Richard gaped at her. “Yuh— Uh— Don’t tell me it’s because of the relationship? It’s not illegal, you know.”

    “What? Oh, um, no,” she said, redder than ever. “I didn't think it was.”

    He took a step toward her. “Then what?”

    “I’ve sort of stopped all that. Emotional stuff. Um, sex stuff,” said Anna, turning scarlet.

    “I’m glad you realise we are talking about sex stuff, here! –Oh,” he said slowly, “I see. That must have been a really bad relationship you were in back in Australia.”

    “Yes. I didn’t really realise it was until I escaped.”

    He winced. “Yes.”

    “The thing is, I know I can’t do ordinary things. I mean, I can, sort of, but I’m no good at them.”

    “But I like you because there’s nothing ordinary about you,” said Richard feebly.

    “No, I mean, do ordinary things.”

    “Can you give me an example?” he said feebly.

    “Always going to the car-boot market on a Sunday morning,” said Anna promptly. Richard looked blankly at her. “It had the cheapest fruit and veggies and they were always very fresh. And a lot of other things, junk, mostly, only Bruce always said we weren’t there for that.”

    “Er—yeah. I sort of got the impression he was married? What did his wife think he was doing when he was relentlessly forcing you to buy fresh produce at the car-boot market?”

    “Playing golf,” said Anna simply. “It was a good idea in theory, only it used up an awful lot of petrol because it was a really long way from my place. But the thing is, some Sundays I really needed to paint.”

    “Of course.”

    “It’s not the sort of thing you can plan.”

    “No.”

    “And I couldn’t always finish up what I was working on by seven o’clock every Wednesday. Well, six o’clock, really, if I was supposed to get the tea,” she added gloomily.

    “Right. What did the wife imagine he was doing on Wednesday evenings?”

    “Going to the gym and then his men’s group. And he’d always get really wild if I’d forgotten to put my bin out at the curb but I don’t see why, it wasn’t his bin.”

    “No,” he said feebly. “I see, he liked a routine,”

    “Not more than anybody else. Jude and Bob McIntosh from next-door—they were nice, quite young, they didn’t like him—they always used to do their grocery shopping at the supermarkets on Saturday mornings and go to the indoor pool on Sunday mornings after their run. And Monday was her night for mah-jong and Tuesday was her gym night and Thursday was his. And Bob always used to buy his petrol on a Thursday morning from the servo down Barton Road because he reckoned that was the best time, before the bastards put the prices up for the weekend rush.”

    Er—yes. Verbatim, he rather thought that was. “I see.”

    “And Jude usually did her washing on Saturdays: I mean she’d put it in the machine and let it run while they went to the supermarket and then she’d hang it out, so I always tried to remember not to do mine that day. Each pair of flats shared a line, you see.”

    “Y—”

    “And she always bought one wholemeal sliced, one wholegrain sliced, and a funny little black rye loaf that they only had in on Wednesdays, so she always used to pop into the supermarket on the way to work for that. I know about that because one week she had to go and look after her sister’s kids while she was in hospital, and Bob had a sprained ankle, so I did the shopping for them. And she rang me up to tell me about the rye bread.”

    Richard nodded numbly. Talk about the floodgates opening! He felt as if he was drowning in minutiae. Drowning in the minutiae of Western Australian suburbia, in fact: poor bloody Anna!

    “I’m no good at remembering about the toast or the things in the oven, either.”

    “No, I realise that.”

    “Ordinary things,” explained Anna earnestly. “I like that wild back yard. Jack had a go at Molly over it: she likes it, too, and Micky loves it, he pretends it’s a jungle. But Jack keeps saying I ought to let him clear it up.”

    “Anna,” he said cautiously, “I would never expect you to conform to the norms.”

    “You would expect me to be there if you’d said you’d come over, though.”

    “Uh—yes. I have to say this, Anna: any chap would.”

    “Yes. A couple of times I was out for a walk and I forgot. I don’t mean I just forgot the time.”

    “Mm. Vague artist. I think I could cope with that.”

    “Ye-es. I haven’t got any fancy stuff.”

    “Um, no?” he groped.

    “Stuff,” said Anna glumly. “Fancy undies and nighties and stuff. Nice towels. Well, I did have a fancy nightie but I had sudden idea about a colour combination in the middle of the night, so I got up and tried it out and I forgot I wasn’t wearing my painting gear and wiped the brush down it.”

    Richard collapsed in hysterics. He laughed so hard that he had to stagger into the front room and collapse on her battered sofa. At long, long last he was able to say, wiping his eyes: “Had he given it to you?”

    “No. That would’ve been good,” she admitted thoughtfully. “He’d’ve claimed I’d done it on purpose and gone into his psychological thing.”

    “God.”

    “Actually,” she said drily, “I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s who he thought he was.”

    “I see!” he said in some surprise.

    “I hate him,” said Anna with, apparently, all of her usual placidity. “Looking back, I hated him for ages. Terri said could some of the things I did have been deliberate, in that case, and I think maybe a few were, but not most. I mean, my salary wasn’t all that good and I couldn’t afford fancy stuff as well as paint and boards.”

    “No, I quite understand that those are your priorities. –Anna,” he said, biting his lip, “I’m not him.”

    “No, but you're used to very conventional things. Um, well, conventional ladies, I suppose,” she said glumly.

    “Mm. Believe you me, I’m very, very fed up with conventional ladies, and the things they’re interested in. –Themselves, mainly. I don't deny I enjoy a conventional lifestyle, however. But i wouldn’t demand you join in it.”

    “No, but say you came over—”

    “And you weren’t there? I would be peeved. Any man would—didn’t I just say so?”

    “Yes. Not that. Say you wanted a cuppa.” She paused. “And there wasn’t any tea.”

    “I’d throw a frightful wobbly. You’re not telling me he did?” he croaked.

    “Yes. He said I could never manage anything competently and I’d forgotten on purpose to spite him.”

    “I really don’t think I’m that childish,” he said limply.

    “No-o… What about if the jug had gone bang and I’d forgotten about it and it wouldn’t work?”

    Richard shuddered. “I would entirely sympathise! They do go bang, don’t they? Mine did, a few months back, but nice Isabel Potter chose a better one for me.”

    “Yes, but say this was in the evening, and you wanted a cup of tea,” she said earnestly.

    Suddenly Richard, very vividly, got the picture. She meant afterwards, of course! “In the circumstances which I think you’re tactfully trying to indicate, I’d be much, much too satisfied to care if the jug had gone bang, there were no tea leaves in the whole of England, and the water had run out into the bargain.”

    Anna went very pink. “Oh,” she said doubtfully.

    “Yeah. Added to which I’d have brought over something much nicer than mere tea! Didn’t he ever bring a bottle of something nice?”

    “Yes, but he used to get wild because I could never remember them. I’m no good at wines and stuff.”

    Richard passed his hand one his hair. “Mm. Well, as far as one can guarantee anything, I can guarantee— Let’s just say I can guarantee I’m not him, Anna! Bruce, was that his name?”

    “Yes,” she said sourly.

    “Right. May he burn in Hell,” said Richard conversationally. “I can guarantee that I’m not him, that I won't put on any childish tantrums and if that you tell me when I’m asking something of you that you can’t do, or don’t want to do, I’ll stop. If that’s agreeable, can we up this relationship to at least the status of kissing cousins?”

    “I won’t wear fancy shoes,” warned Anna.

    “Heaven forbid,” said Richard mildly.

    “Um, well, would you want to stay the night, ever?”

    Richard was very flushed but he managed to say: “Whatever you prefer, Anna. I mean, I’d like to, I am only human. But if you want your space, I won’t stay.”

    “The thing is, I hardly ever do, but just occasionally I wake up with an idea. It happened once when we’d gone away for a weekend when his wife had gone to see her cousins in New Zealand. I didn’t have my painting gear, I only got up and did a bit of sketching, but Bruce was furious.”

    “Why?” he said blankly.

    “I dunno. Maybe he thought I should have been concentrating on him?”

    “Mm. Jealous of your talent. I won’t mind how often you hop up in the middle of the night—whether to sketch, paint, or merely pee.”

    Anna had gone very pink. “He said—”

    “Yeah. Let’s stop talking about the bloody man,” said Richard. “Come here.” He patted the sofa invitingly.

    Anna came and sat beside him, looking timid. “I’ll do it all wrong,” she warned glumly.

    He didn’t make the mistake of arguing over that one. “Yeah, but do you want to?”

    “Mm,” she said nodding hard.

    You could have knocked him down with a feather, frankly. He didn’t chance his luck by asking any more questions: he just kissed her gently. Anna responded uncertainly.

    “All right?” he murmured.

    “Yes. I’ve remembered: I haven’t got any condoms,” she said, going very red but looking him determinedly in the eye.

    “We’d better go back to my place, in that case.”

    “That’s a good idea. My bed’s not very big.”

    “No,” said Richard in vague voice. “Any electric fires or stoves that might just be switched on?”

    “No, I don’t think I’ve had tea. Um, have I? No.”

    He checked the kitchen anyway. And the studio. “Right. Come on.”

    To his amazement she accompanied him like a lamb.

    She didn’t say anything during the short drive back to Albert Street, so he didn’t, either.

    “Have you had your tea?” she asked as he closed his front door against the world.

    “No. We’ll eat something later. Come here.” He kissed her hard. Anna looked up at him in surprise. “Yes, I do feel rather fierce. Come on, the bedroom’s in the higher part of the split level,” he said with a smile in his voice.

    They went up the shallow flight of wooden stairs. “This very nice wood,” she said.

    “Yes. Ash. This is my room. Like it?”

    Like the rest of the house the room was furnished in soft fawns and oatmeals, the coverlet on the bed being a fitted thing in flecked oatmeal wool. The large headboard was, however, rather surprising.

    “Burr walnut!” gasped Anna. “It’s lovely!”

    Yes. He could almost guarantee it was going to get considerably better, too. He switched the electric blanket on and went through to the ensuite. When he came back he almost dropped in his tracks: she was sitting up in bed—admittedly with the covers drawn up to her chin.

    “Isn’t this right?” she said uncertainly to his dropped jaw.

    “It’s extremely right!” replied Richard, tearing his clothes off and hurling them at the floor. He got in beside her, finding to his immense gratification that she’d removed every stitch of clothing. “Thank God!” he said, cuddling up. “I had a really awful feeling, just for an instant, there, that you might have kept your knickers on.”

    “Did you? I had a feeling that you might keep your underpants and socks on,” replied Anna.

    “Would you have gone home immediately?” he said into her neck.

    “No, but I’d have felt like it.”

    “Mm. Kiss me, kissing cousin,” said Richard, smiling into her wide blue eyes.

    Anna kissed him shyly but not unwillingly, so Richard just took it from there.

    Molly couldn’t have said whether it was the awfulness of having to have lunch with Derry, or the fact that Rosie rang her up mid-week, very excited, to report that Anna and Richard had got together at last, but whichever it was she found herself that Thursday ringing to ask her cousins if she could use the cottage that Henry had had. John had answered the phone: he agreed placidly, not asking any questions, but Rosie must have been listening, because she then came on the line and asked eagerly if Molly would like Yvonne’s old cottage instead. It was available, because Alan and Yvonne had moved in with his old dad after the wedding.

    “No, I’d spend every minute of the day worrying that Micky was drowning himself,” replied Molly frankly. There was the sound of a brief struggle in the background and then John came back on, saying calmly: “Sorry about that, Molly. Use Number 7, by all means. Want me to pick you up from the station?”

    “No, um, thanks very much, but I might get an early train, if the rehearsal finishes on time.” He agreed placidly to this and managed to ring off without Rosie interrupting again, thank goodness. So that was that. But if she was rehearsing and Micky was at school, how was she going to manage? Of course he’d be fine at home until she got back, but if she had to trail across London on a Friday after the rehearsal and then they had to go all the way to the station… Her mouth firmed. She rang Derry. She then had to fend off countless counter-offers of limos all the way down, dinner in town with him, then a ride in the Roller all the way down, etcetera, but finally got him to agree that the limo would just pick Micky up after school, bring him to the rehearsal rooms, and then take them both to the station. He rang off with a reminder to wear something lovely: the railway station and the train were public places, and she was a Star! Molly went over to her wardrobe and looked at her nice, warm, thick, completely undistinguished camel-hair winter coat. “Sit on your Star crap, Derry,” she said to the ambient air.

    Naturally Derry was right and once she and Micky were settled in their seats with a huge pile of magazines and comics that she wouldn’t have dreamed of asking for, not to mention an unnecessary bunch of roses that was an awful pest to have to manage along with their luggage, first the lady in the seat across the aisle and then a lady and man behind them and then a dozen other people came and asked for her autograph. Camel-hair coat or not. Though she had taken it off: the English trains were very warm.

    “John isn’t meeting us,” she said firmly to the offspring as he hurtled off, first as usual.

    “Yes, he is!” he shrieked. “JOHN!”

    All right, he was. Had he met every train, or been planning to meet every train? And had it been his idea or had Rosie talked him into it?

    “Hullo, Molly,” he said mildly, taking her bag and the bunch of magazines, leaving her with just the roses and her handbag. “Derry load you up with that lot, did he?”

    “Yes,” said Molly limply. “He doesn’t understand how ordinary people have to manage.”

    “Quite. We thought you two might be hungry: Rosie and Bunting have come over for dinner. Hamburgers suit y—?” His voice was of course drowned by the shrieks of “YAY! Hamburgers!”

    “Um, yes, lovely. Thanks, John,” said Molly weakly. “What about New Baby?”

    “She’s too little for hamburgers,” he said solemnly. “Caroline’s got her. She’s full-time at The Village Bookshop, now, but even though they’re doing a roaring pre-Christmas trade—Anna’s book of cottage pictures is selling like hot cakes—she managed to take time off.”

    “She has changed her tune!” said Molly in somewhat shaken tones.

    “Uh-huh. Hormones, we concluded. She managed to hold out against ’em when she had Kiefer, but this one’s got her good an’ proper!” he said with a laugh.

    Molly smiled weakly. Lucky Caroline, to be in a position to give in.

    By now she was expecting almost anything: would dratted Rosie have dragged Terence away from his pub on a busy evening to have hamburgers with them? But no, it was just them. They had a lovely time, along with crowds of other very ordinary families in the big, very ordinary hamburger place—not a McDonald’s, some English place that Rosie reckoned did fatter chips, but that apart there wasn’t much discernible difference. But somehow, by the end of the meal, what with John solemnly wiping Bunting’s chin and assuring him that ice cream down the front didn’t matter and the jumper would wash, and letting Micky tell him exactly what a “Spider” was—the place didn’t sell them, that made it a lot clearer—and then putting Bunting back into his nice warm parka—it was a new one, a bit big for him, two shades of blue with a rather unfortunate red stripe as well—and not flickering an eyelash when Micky immediately got into his parka—somehow she found herself wishing that Rosie had invited Terence, after all.

    Not entirely to her surprise, Siobhan, Jasmine’s little girl, turned up on their doorstep at crack of dawn. On their doorstep that she’d only asked if she could have the use of on Thursday night. Oh, well, presumably that was a village for you.

    “Going where, Siobhan?” she croaked feebly.

    “Ms Hutchinson’s,” repeated Siobhan importantly. “See the nanny goats.”

    “Penn’s friend Marion Hutchinson? When did this happen?” croaked Molly.

    –Unwisely: Siobhan immediately told her the lot. Okay, right, the things didn't have kids yet, but they would next spring. Apparently these two saw themselves as nanny-goat midwives. This was the same Micky that had chundered the time she killed a mouse because there was a tiny spot of blood on its nose after she’d bashed the thing with the mop— Oh, forget it. “What’s her phone number?”

    You couldn’t ring her at home, and if you wanted her at work you had to ring the Green—the whole village was now referring to Bellingford Green Craft Enterprises this way, Molly did know that—but if you needed to get hold of her you could ring Jack Powell! Resignedly Molly picked up the phone. On second thoughts she rang Jasmine. She had known Siobhan was coming over to Micky’s but she’d had no idea they were headed for Ms Hutchinson’s, and the lady didn’t mind the kids looking at the goats, but she didn’t know about turning up without asking. Exactly! Grimly Molly rang Jack.

    “Marion won’t mind,” he said mildly.

    “Would you mind just getting her anyway, Jack?” said Molly with precarious politeness. “Not if she’s not up, of course.”

    “Always gets up at crack of dawn, goats or not,” he replied mildly. “Hang on.”

    Molly waited, her mouth grim.

    “Not here,” he reported. “She’ll be down at the Green, doing her pots. Send the kids over anyway, I’ll show ’em the goats.”

    “I can’t ask you—”

    “You’re not asking, I’m offering. There’s a footy match on in Portsmouth this afternoon, would Micky fancy it?”

    “Well, um, are you going anyway?”

    “Yeah,” he said heavily.

    “Um, I think he was sort of planning to spend the whole day with Siobhan,” she said weakly.

    “Yeah!” they both hissed, glaring suspiciously.

    “I’ll take both of them,” he said.

    “Jack, she’s a little girl, she might not like foot—”

    “Who’s playing?” demanded Siobhan immediately.

    “Sorry, Jack, what? Oh. –Portsmouth,” she said to Siobhan. “At home.”

    Siobhan countered this information with a lot more at top speed, though ending with the information that she didn’t barrack for Portsmouth and up the Gunners.

    “Well, um, Jack’ll take you if your mother says you can go,” she said feebly. “Yes, you too, idiot!” she shouted at her son. “Um, are you there, Jack? She seems to want to come even though she said something about barracking for Gunners.”

    “They’re not playing Arsenal,” replied Jack mysteriously. “Send ’em over.”

    “Jack, if I send them over now you’ll never get rid of them. It’ll mean you’ll’ve had them for the whole day,” said Molly uneasily, ignoring the horrible glaring that had succeeded the cheering and the shouts of “Up the Gunners!” and so forth.

    Apparently he knew that. Molly gave in, thanked him, failed to get him to admit how much the tickets would cost, rang Jasmine and got her okay, gave them both some pocket money and gave Micky what she hoped would be enough money for their tickets and, tying Micky’s scarf tightly round his neck, cramming his knitted hat on his head with a shout of: “Yes! Siobhan’s wearing hers!” and making sure he was wearing the gloves that she knew perfectly well he’d lose in the course of the day, saw them both off. Only realising once they’d disappeared up the track that possibly she should have warned Micky it’d be soccer, not Australian footy.

    And that left her free for the rest of the day, didn’t it? She felt quite peculiar.

    She got up to the High Street around mid-morning, carrying a very up-market wicker basket that she’d found in the cottage—it was full of expensive bits and bobs: had Luke, she meant Henry, just left his stuff there? Well, presumably he was so rich it didn’t matter to him. Georgia had reported that he owned a place in Guadeloupe and they were thinking of going there in January, to get a bit of sun. Nice for some.

    Since she had the basket she might as well do some shop—Um, no, if she did that she’d lose her nerve completely. Trying to smile nicely at a retiree in a heavy camel-hair coat rather like hers and a headscarf that made her look like the Queen, she turned right, not left, at the top of Church Lane, and headed for the pub.

    It wasn’t open at this hour but Molly went round to the back door, a determined look on her face, and knocked. It was opened by a red-eyed girl aged possibly about fifteen but not much more. “Wotcher want?” she said dully, sniffling.

    “To see Terence Haworth, please.”

    “Yer can’t see ’im, ’e’s sneezing ’is ’ead orf,” she replied, sniffling.

    It could have just been a cold, too, but Molly wasn’t sure it was. “Is anything wrong?”

    “Ole Mr Timms ’as died and there’s no-one ’ere but me and I can’t do them fryers!” she wailed, suddenly bursting into choked sobs.

    “It’s all right,” said Molly, coming in and putting her arm round the heaving shoulders. “Don’t cry, I’ll help you.”

    “Can you do fryers?” she gulped.

    Not if she meant chip fryers, which Molly had a nasty suspicion she did. “No, but we’ll work something out. Old Mr Timms is Alan’s father, is that it?”

    “Yeah,” she gulped, sniffling.

    “Have my hanky. You’d better come and sit down. Where’s the kitchen?”

    “Through ’ere,” she said, leading the way. “See?” she gulped, sniffling horribly.

    Molly did see, yes. She looked at the giant industrial fryers in frank horror.

    “They got them temperature things on ’em!” gulped the girl.

    “Yes. Blow your nose. What’s your name?”

    “Amanda Black,” she replied, blowing her nose loudly. “Ooh, ’s’a nice hanky! Yer not Georgia, are yer?”

    “No, I’m Molly.”

    “Yeah, the one what does the English daughter. But you’re not English, are yer?”

    “No, I’m one of Rosie Haworth’s Australian cousins,” said Molly, smiling at her. “Where’s the rest of the staff, Amanda?”

    “Um, Yvonne, she’s with Alan.”

    “Yes, of course. But there’s a lady that does the cleaning, isn’t there?”

    “Mrs Walker,” she said, sniffing. “Only she’s got the flu.”

    “I see. Doesn’t anyone else come in to help?”

    “The Commander said that that Cora Potter, she was useless and we didn’t need no washer-up, acos what I can’t ’andle the machine can do,” reported Amanda with satisfaction.

    “I see. But there are waitresses in the dining-room, aren’t there?”

    “That Sue-Anne Smith. Mr Timms and me, we was managing the rest, ’cos we ain’t so busy now it’s winter. She reckons she needs the money ’cos of what she spent on that there cottage garden of ’ers. Mr Timms, ’e said she was as about as reliable as ’is old granny’s boot. She can’t come today, ’e’s got the flu. Useless great lump what ’e is.”

    “Yes, well, no-one ever took the day off work to look after me when I had the flu,” said Molly on a dry note. “But men expect it, don’t they?”

    “You said it!” she squeaked, grinning suddenly.

    “Mm. Who usually does the fryers, then, Amanda?”

    “Mr Timms. ’E says they’re dangerous bloody things.”

    “I’d say he’s right,” said Molly, eyeing them sideways and wondering if the temperature thingos were Fahrenheit or Celsius.

    “Them silly moos, they do the fish, usual,” she offered. “And the salads, only they don’t do them ’ere.”

    “What moos are they?” replied Molly simply.

    “We got ’alf a dozen of them. They got a roster. Mr Timms, ’e says they’re ’opeless, ’cos they need to be kept up to the mark more’n yer average wet-be’ind-the-ears rating what thinks ’e’s gonna be Lord Nelson!”

    “Mm,” said Molly, biting her lip. How many hundred years was it since Nelson’s time? “Can I see the roster, Amanda?”

    “Yer can see it,” she allowed, “but it won’t do yer no good, acos the two that’s on fish and salads today, they got the flu in the house, too.” She offered chapter and verse.

    “I see. Have I got this right? You keep the fish here and they take turns to come and cook it but they make the salads at home and bring them in?”

    “Yeah,” she said, stowing the handkerchief away in the pocket of her hooded sweat-shirt. “Not the same ones.”

    “No, I get it,” said Molly mildly. “I can probably manage the fish, I can shallow-fry it, and I can oven-fry the chips—they’re better for you like that anyway.”

    “Some of the fish has gotta be grilled. Mr Timms, ’e says it’s ’arder than what yer might think and not to let Yvonne touch it with a bargepole, ’cos she’s a scorcher!” she reported pleasedly.

    “Yvonne the Scorcher! Right!” said Molly with a gurgle. “Rosie calls her that!”

    “That’s it, yeah! Can you grill fish?”

    “I can give it a go.”

    “Good. What’ll we do about the salads?”

    “Dunno. I’ll think about it,” she said calmly. “I’d better see Terence, even if he is sneezing his head off. Is he up?”

    “’E’s up, yeah,” conceded Amanda. “Come on, I’ll show yer.” She led the way upstairs.

    Molly had to bite her lip. Terence was sitting in the small sitting-dining room of his private quarters, dressed but looking very sorry for himself, huddled over a mug of coffee with a blow-heater pulled up close to the dining table. There was a giant box of tissues at his elbow.

    “Molly!” he said in astonishment, making to rise.

    “Don’t get up. How sick are you?” replied Molly on a grim note.

    “Dot very,” replied Terence soggily, trying to smile. “Just a co’d.” He sneezed violently. “Damn! –Sorry,” he said, blowing his nose.

    Molly went over and put her hand on his forehead. Terence, who was very flushed anyway, went even redder and tried to smile.

    “’As ’e got a temperature?” asked Amanda with clinical interest.

    “Yes, hot as fire. You’d better go back to bed, Terence. There’s no point in being a martyr, you’ll only give it to the whole village.”

    “I can’t go back to bed: Alan’s not here, his father’s—” He gasped, and sneezed. “Sorry,” he said limply, blowing his nose. “His father’s died.”

    “I know, Amanda told me. I’ll find someone to help out. You’re in no fit state to serve drinks, and if you imagine people’ll want your germs, you’re very much mistaken. But before you go,” said Molly grimly, “I have to say it: it was really unfair to expect poor Amanda to hold the fort alone.”

    Terence looked limply at the now smirking Amanda.

    “She’s very capable, I can see that, but she’s not old enough to shoulder the responsibility. And those fryers look downright dangerous: what possessed you to install things like that? Why don’t you just do oven-fries?”

    “Never heard of them,” said Terence limply.

    “Oven-fries! You just put them in a roasting-pan and do them in the oven! They chips come soused in oils and fats anyway, you don’t need more fats on them!”

    “Sounds okay. Never ’ad them like that meself,” said Amanda dispassionately.

    “Um, we buy them in huge commercial bags, Molly,” said Terence cautiously.

    “Right, and you’re claiming that in the 21st century they’re not ready-soused in oil and fat?”

    “Ubb, do idea,” he said soggily, blowing his nose.

    Molly gave him a dry look. “No. Go to bed. If we’ve got time I’ll get you some Lucozade. Have you got any salad ingredients in the place?”

    “You don’t need to worry about the salads: Mrs—”

    “Terence, everybody’s got the flu!” said Molly loudly. “Just answer the question!”

    “Aye, aye, ma’am!” said Terence, starting to grin. He stood up and gave a wavering salute.

    “That’s not funny,” warned Molly

    “No, ’tisn’t,” agreed Amanda.

    “Uh—no. Sorry,” he said feebly. “Well, um, tend to rely on the salad-makers for by owd greens, really. There might be something in the kitchen downstairs. Um, well, dohtigg buch idd by—” He sneezed madly. “Blast! Sorry! Idd by cupboards,” he said, blowing his nose hard.

    “Mum says they’re all useless,” noted Amanda dispassionately.

   “Mm. Go to bed, Terence. Now.”

    “But the bars—Oh, very well, I’b goigg.” He went, sneezing explosively.

    Molly went back downstairs with Amanda, looking determined.

    “It was just as well she was there,” said Belinda over her counter. “That was the day Graham brought over a load of Asian tourists in his new minibus. The Christmas trade, dear: they come for the church services and so on,” she explained.

    Rosie shuddered. “Yeah, like that Christmas I was in Paris: we went to Notre Dame, and a whole lot of them came in late, in the middle of the service, pushing and shoving to get to the front—it was standing-room only. It was dreadful: they didn’t seem to realise it was a sacred edifice or there was a religious service going on, at all!”

    “That’d be right, dear,” she agreed comfortably. “Anyway, Molly sent Amanda up here for some tins of beans and a few packets of frozen ones and she made a nice bean salad from them, with some of that Paul Newman’s dressing, and a pasta salad from some packets of macaroni, she used Heinz mayonnaise with that. And I let her have some nice sliced ham—well, it was silly trying to do mounds of fish when there was only her and Amanda in the kitchen. And most of them eat ham at home, so why shouldn’t they buy it for lunch? She got Bob Potter for the public bar—he’s had a lot of practice serving at the Club, of course, and if he did let his mates have a few on the house, well, it was only for a few days. But you’ll never guess who else she got to help serve!”

    “Um, one of Bob’s mates?” ventured Rosie.

    Belinda shook her head smugly. “Those aren’t minted, Mrs Kinnear!” she warned loudly.

    Looking dashed, Mrs Kinnear retreated with her bag of frozen peas.

    “Getting very short-sighted,” mouthed Belinda. “If I said it was someone as unlike one of Bob’s mates as could possible be imagined—”

    Rosie gave a stifled giggle. “The mind boggles!” she hissed. “Male or female?”

    “Oh, not female, dear, she didn’t go that far.”

    “You do relieve my mind, Belinda! Um, help. Unlike… Mr Dillon?”

    Belinda choked. “Anchovies, tapestry-work, and all!” she gasped. “No, not him, Rosie, dear—that was a good one, though,” she conceded.

     “I give up, then,” said Rosie with a smile.

    “I thought you’d never guess,” she said smugly. “Mr Mason.”

    Gratifyingly, Rosie’s jaw was observed to sag. “Not old John Mason? Ya mean she let him?” she croaked.

    “Well, actually, dear, I have to admit,” she admitted regretfully, “that she rallied round magnificently. Shot over to Portsmouth in the car and got a load of nice salad veg, which was just as well, ’cos they got a lot of custom for the dinners and the Sunday lunches, and Molly’d just about bought out our stock of tinned beans.”

    “I see! Well, good for Rowena! But why on earth didn’t Molly ring us?”

    “Well, you have got two kiddies under four—and Juliette doesn’t work on the weekends, does she? Besides,” she said shrewdly, “I think she wanted to manage it all herself, Rosie.”

    “Mm, she’s like that,” admitted Rosie with a little smile.

    “Of course. But as to what she was doing over there in the first place—” Their eyes met. There was a pregnant pause.

    “Um, as a matter of fact, Belinda, she’s like that, too,” admitted Rosie. “Back when she took up with Euan in Queensland—it was the night they had a big barbie for the cast and crew, they’d got some great steak off the local supermarket manager—um, well, Euan was a bit upset—”

    “I remember, dear: that was the night he wore the silly sarong,” said Belinda placidly.

    “Um, did I tell you that?” replied Rosie weakly. “Yes. I think he might have braved it out, but the motel shop had run out of Dimp for the mozzies. Anyway, he went back to his motel cabin and when she realised he wasn’t gonna come back and have tea, Molly went over to his cabin. Making the first move, see?”

    Belinda nodded hard. “I see! And what about that awful Lucas Roberts, Rosie?”

    “No, he came out from Eng—Hang on,” she said slowly. “No, by cripes! She did make the first move! It was when she was working for Dad, after we’d finished the filming. Molly had a problem with the accounts and she rang Lucas. She claimed he was very good at accounts and he’d always been very nice to her in Queensland. Both of which points were true. But Dad employs a very competent firm of accountants that could have sorted it out for her in a trice.”

    “There you are, then! She’s that sort!” said Belinda triumphantly. “And it’s worked, hasn’t it?”

    “She certainly seems to be living at the pub, yes,” admitted Molly’s cousin weakly.

    “I think it’s very romantic,” offered the elderly Mrs Kinnear meekly.

    They jumped.

    “Yes, of course it is, dear,” said Belinda on a weak note. “One packet of frozen peas and a packet of Earl Grey teabags. –You might find that rather scented, it’s not like usual tea.”

    “Sniff it,” suggested Rosie kindly.

    Mrs Kinnear sniffed the packet, and recoiled. “Mrs Granville Thinnes recommended it,” she admitted weakly. “Perhaps I won’t, then.”

    “Just have some of your nice English Breakfast,” decided Belinda, taking the Earl Grey off her and forging off to the shelves.

    Mrs Kinnear asked after Mrs Haworth’s kiddies and then disclosed that they were so enjoying her cousins’ show.

    “It’s not as good as yours, though, Rosie,” said Belinda, coming back with a large packet of Twining’s English Breakfast teabags.

    “Well, no, I must say I have to agree!” admitted Mrs Kinnear. “I adored all the lovely tap dancing and the funny bits with Commander—though of course he’s very good as the new Commander!”

    Quite. “Boy, she’s a gauge of British public opinion all on her ownsome!” said Rosie as the shop door tinkled in her wake. “Ya know they’re only making one series a year, instead of two, like our series? Mind you, at the pace Derry works, one a year is about all he can manage.”

    “Is he going to direct the next series?” asked Belinda on a dry note.

    “Put it like this, Belinda, he’s supposed to, but he’s already making noises about maybe only giving it the final polishing.”

    “I knew he’d lose interest once he’d done one lot,” she said calmly.

    “That’s right. He's the sort of person that likes a challenge but gets bored once he’s on top of it. Never mind, Brian’ll bring back Paul Mitchell.”

    “Mm. Um, will Molly go on with it, do you think?” she asked cautiously.

    Rosie pursed her lips dubiously, and shrugged. “Dunno. Your guess is as good as mine.”

    Belinda thought it over. “I really think it might be a bit much for her, if she wants to help out at the pub. It’d be an awful lot of commuting.”

    “Yes. And her heart’s not really in it. She thinks it’s silly—well, it is silly!” said Lily Rose Rayne with a laugh. “But I always thought it was fun, too! But Molly doesn’t seem to be enjoying it. She opened a supermarket the week before last and she said she felt silly, as if she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t.”

    “Mm. She’s got a completely different temperament from you, dear.”

    “I know. I just loved opening supermarkets! Well, and factories and things, as well. Everyone was really lovely to me and I met loads of new people and they showed me all their stuff… And I actually was pretending to be someone I wasn’t, when you think about it, but I never felt that!”

    “No,” said Belinda placidly. “That’s you, though, Rosie, dear. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Molly chucks it in.”

    Rosie grimaced, but nodded. “What’ll poor Brian do then?”

    “Could Georgia do both Daughters, do you think?”

    “Um… She’s really good as the Australian Daughter, isn’t she? But I honestly don’t think she could: most of that character’s just her, you see. Varley’s picked up on her own characteristics for the rôle.”

    “That’s what I thought,” agreed Belinda.

    “Mm. And she’s miles more interested in the production side, actually. She’s persuaded Brian to let her work in the production office: starting at quite a low level. She wants to learn production from the ground up.”

    “Not really, dear?” she gasped. “But what’ll happen to the series, in that case?”

    Their eyes met. Rosie shrugged.

    Belinda bit her lip. “So much for the new Captain’s Daughter,” she concluded.

    “Eh?” said Jack feebly.

    “Yeah,” replied old Jim Parker, looking airy. “Happened… uh, ’bout a week before Molly took up with the Commander. That’s why her and Micky were staying at Number 7 instead of Anna’s place.”

    “I’ll believe it when I see it,” replied Jack tightly.

    Jim looked at him with a certain sympathy, not unmixed with irony. Spread himself too thin, was one phrase that sprang to mind. There were other, ruder phrases, too, of course. “All right, get down there now and you will see it.”

    “Very funny, Jim,” replied Jack evilly. “In the middle of a working week? You’re slipping. Get back to yer fucking green balloons.”

    “If you hadn't of had yer head up Shirley Bellinger’s pipes—”

    “SHUT UP!” he roared, turning purple.

    Well, that one had hit home. And he’d thought that was over years back—about nine months before young Pam, that was now Pam Melly, was born, as a matter of fact. “No, well, nasty weather, lot of people’ve been complaining about their pipes icing up,” he said mildly. “You better give Mr Horton a bell, now I come to think of it.”

    “Was he complaining about the pipes?”

    “’Im! No, but Bridget was.”

    “Oh. Right, I will.” Jack edged back towards his truck.

    “It is true, and if yer don’t believe me, get on over to the Superette—”

    Scowling, Jack turned on his heel and got into the truck.

    Jim shrugged and went slowly on his way. He could of done with a lift over to the shops, but not, actually, with witnessing bloody Belinda telling Jack the glad tidings. Which was why he’d told him himself, the silly bugger. Only there was no hope he’d see it.

    There was no poncy car parked outside Anna’s dump. Jack got out, scowling. All right, he’d see for himself, and if it was one of old Jim’s ruddy leg-pulls he’d never speak to the old bastard again as long as he—

    “Good morning, Jack,” said Richard mildly. “Come to check on the pipes? I think they’re fine, thanks.”

    Given the bugger was standing there in a poncy navy silk dressing-gown large as life and twice as natural—added to which he must of had all her heaters on as well as the fire lit: you could feel the warm coming out of the house from here—

    “Right. Good,” he said with an effort. “See ya.”

    He got into the trusty truck and drove off blindly. Not that he’d ever thought— Well, a mad lady artist? And that back yard of hers had been really starting to get under his skin, and he was ninety percent sure she’d spotted it and was refusing to let him tidy it up on purpose to annoy. But Jesus! A cold fish like that? It was one thing Molly taking up with Terence Haworth, he wasn’t a patch on his brother but there was nothing much wrong with him that marriage to a sensible woman wouldn’t speedily cure. But—but shit!