Cousin, Cousine, Another Wedding And A Funeral

30

Cousin, Cousine, Another Wedding And A Funeral

    “We thought they’d have it from her parents’ home,” said Terence’s Cousin Viola in a bewildered voice.

    Her and the rest of the family. Well, apart from old Cousin Matthew: he’d thought Colin and Penn should be married from Little Wyndings, with a giant marquee and all the trimmings. “They’re living here, most of their friends and colleagues are here, Viola,” Terence replied temperately. “Have a drink.”

    “Is there any champagne?”

    “There was; your Uncle Matthew paid for it,” he said temperately.

    “I think those people from the village have got down on it,” she said in a lowered voice. Well, Viola’s form of lowered; she’d been to the sort of school—courtesy of her paternal grandfather, Cousin Paul didn’t believe in throwing money away on an upper-class education—that didn’t do lowered voices.

    “Good for them,” said Terence blandly. “Hang on, I’ll investigate.” He investigated. They had. Or somebody had—the groom, for one, had certainly done his bit. However, there was plenty of cider, no-one seemed to be drinking that, so he added some to half a glass of orange juice and presented it to Viola as a Buck’s Fizz. As expected, she lapped it up like a lamb.

    “There’s a perfectly nice little church: why didn’t they use that?” said Colin’s mother to Rosie in a bewildered voice. “Paul was so upset when he realised they’d decided against a church wedding.”

    “It’s been deconsecrated. It’s actually a house,” replied Rosie with the utmost placidity. “The village hasn’t got a church any more. There hasn’t been a regular Sunday service here since 1968.”

    “It must belong to a parish, though.”

    “Dunno,” lied Rosie cheerfully. “I’m not a Christian. Have a savoury. –Hang on: do Anglicans eat pork?”

    “What?” she groped. “Of course!”

    “Then I won’t warn you there’s bacon in those round ones,” she said cheerfully.

    Mrs Haworth’s eyes were now glued to her face in fascinated horror. Numbly she took a savoury.

    “Think you better go and rescue Rosie: she’s just given Colin’s mum the idea she’s a Jew, on top of the film star thing,” noted Jack Powell kindly.

    John gave him a dry look. “In that case it doesn’t sound as if she needs rescuing. What happened to that fizz old Cousin Matthew sent down?”

    “There’s plenty left out the back,” replied Jack calmly.

    “In that case, Jack, I suggest we bring another dozen out: this is a wedding.”

    Jack shrugged. “Could of fooled me. Most of them relations of Colin’s seem to think it’s a funeral, but if you wanna waste perfectly good champagne on them, go ahead.”

    John didn’t say half of them were also his relations, he simply headed for the back regions of the Bellingford Workingmen’s Club, noting: “I need it.”

    “I offered them my place,” said old Matthew Haworth sourly. “Stacks of room, lovely big lawn—could have had a marquee and a decent band!”

    “That would of been good,” replied Jasmine with complete sincerity. “But Colin and Penn have got lots of friends down ’ere, see?”

    “Yes,” he said with a gusty sigh.

    “There might be karaoke later,” she said kindly.

    “Something West Indian, is that?” he groped.

    “Nah, I fink it’s Japanese,” she said vaguely. “You feeling peckish?”

    “Starving,” he admitted grumpily.

    “Me, too. They ain’t put the proper food out yet: Mrs Fitzroy and Richpal, they’re doing that, it’s practice for when we open up the restaurant proper-like. Come out the back, I’ll find somefink for yer!”

    Brightening, Matthew accompanied Jasmine to the kitchen.

    Rupy, Molly, Anna, the elderly Mrs Humboldt and old Jim Parker had completely given up and were sitting round a table laden with their own private stock, classifying.

    “Colin’s side,” decided Jim.

    The lady in question was probably in her forties. She had glowing platinum locks, a glowing violet dress and a huge hat that was completely see-through apart from the glowing violet rose on it. So Alice Humboldt noted drily: “That was difficult.”

    “All right: that one!” he suggested.

    They all looked at the lady with narrowed eyes. This one was much more difficult. Elderly, not very tall, plump, perfectly done white hair in a conservative cut under a hat that was about as fancy as Isabel Potter’s and not nearly as fancy as Carole Jackson’s, Belinda Stout’s or Colin’s mum’s. The frock was floral, pinks and mauves with drapings and bits sort of dangling off it, but then, so were Penn’s mum’s and Mrs Granville Thinnes’s.

    “One of Penn’s aunties?” offered Molly uncertainly.

    “Could be one of Colin’s aunties!” retorted Jim swiftly.

    “Speak to her: if she hasn’t got a Scotch accent she’ll be one of the Scotch ones,” said Anna on a sour note.

    “You couldn’t know: ’e wasn’t wearing a kilt,” replied Jim kindly.

    “Why did they bother to come if they all hate the English ones?” she replied fiercely.

    “Dunno, Anna,” said the old man with a wink. “Life?”

    “Gotta be!” she admitted, giving in and grinning.

    Rupy’s eyes narrowed. “Got it! Definitely one of Colin’s side, dears, in fact it’s probably the Scotch aunty, the one that’s a hyphenated Lady, because that’s a Hermes handbag!”

    Solemnly Jim awarded him a brandy and ginger. Then kindly pouring for everyone else as consolation prizes. “That one, long streak,” he suggested.

    This was much, much harder. The gentleman was tall and thin but didn’t have a beaky nose like the Scotch one Anna had made the mistake of assuming was an English one. He wasn’t in hugely well-cut Armani, but that didn’t necessarily rule him out of the running for Colin’s side—though it did make it more likely he was Penn’s side. The lounge suit didn’t have what Rupy had discerned to be a military look in several other gentlemen, so he probably wasn’t one of Colin’s Army buddies. The hairdo wasn’t particularly military, either, but then, as Rupy had already pointed out, nor was Terence’s, and he was ex-forces. It was conservative but that could merely be because of his age. Though Penn’s Uncle Bill Martin was that age and he had a pony-tail. On the other hand her father’s hair was cut as conservatively as Colin’s Uncle Matthew’s, Jim Potter’s, or Rob Cowan’s, to name only three.

    “I give up,” said Anna with a sigh.

    “Better ’ave a drink to perk you up, then,” decided Jim. He poured her a gin and lime. Well, a gin and gin with lime waved at it.

    “Ooh, this is strong!” she approved, beaming.

    “Are they ever going to serve up proper food to sop this lot up?” wondered Alice without any vital concern in her tone.

    “S’posed to. Mrs Fitzroy and that brother of Greg’s, they’re probably re-fighting the partition of India out the back,” explained Jim.

    “Shut up, you bugger,” she replied, grinning.

    Immediately Jim poured her a gin and gin with lime waved at it.

    “I think,” said Molly, narrowing her eyes, “that he’s a fund-raising friend of Colin’s brother-in-law’s!”

    Immediately Rupy pointed out that he couldn’t be: fund raisers were much, much better dressed, in fact Clive Melchett was the best-dressed man present. Not excluding old Matthew Haworth, Richard Peregrine-White, and young Owen Bridges.

    At this Molly collapsed in helpless giggles, so much so that there was probably little need for Jim to pour her a gin and gin with lime waved at it, but he did anyway. Also pouring one for Rupy. And one for himself.

    They stared at the gentleman with narrowed eyes… He was talking to Penn’s dad. That didn’t count: so were John, Greg, and Murray Stout.

    “I’ll find out,” said Alice finally. She forged off to join them.

    “Well?” they chorused on her return.

    She sat down, looking bland. “You’ll never guess.”

    “What?” screamed Rupy indignantly.

    “Give us a clue,” suggested Jim tolerantly. He poured her a rum and Coke but held it out of her reach.

    “Verging towards the medical,” said Alice smugly.

    Glaring, Jim drank the rum and Coke himself.

    “That is a clue, Jim,” said Molly fairly. “Verging towards… He’s a dentist!” she said brilliantly.

    “Yes,” admitted Alice.

    Grinning, Jim poured Molly a huge rum and Coke.

    “Thanks. I always like rum and Coke,” she said happily.

    “That’s good, because they’ve run out of gin, them lady cousins of Colin’s got down on it.”

    “What about the brandy?” asked Rupy.

    “This ’ere’s the last bottle, them old uncles and things of Colin’s got down on it. Oh, and them uncles of Penn’s.”

    “I thought there was only one, Jim, with the pony-tail?” he objected.

    “Nope. The posh type that looked down his nose at everybody except Colin’s Uncle Matthew and the beaky-nosed Scotch git without the accent, ’e was knocking it back like nobody’s business: ’e’s ’er uncle. Think ’e’s one of Susan’s brothers.”

    “Sir John Walsingham?” croaked Molly.

    “Could be. And the very old boy with the stomach and the bald pink ’ead, ’e’s ’er dad’s uncle. ’E was knocking it back, too.”

    “That’s very clear,” recognised Alice, grinning. “Go on: he’s a dentist, but which side?”

    “Um… too old to be one of Penn’s brothers. Well, could be a brother-in-law,” said Jim.

    “No, I was introduced to them, dear!” objected Rupy. “Both quite young. Though one of them is a dentist,” he admitted feebly.

    Their table collapsed in agonised splutters…

    “They seem to be enjoying themselves,” noted Henry Beaumont drily. “Want to join them?”

    Georgia eyed her sister’s spluttering table with disfavour. “No. They’re on the booze. Brian and Varley’d throw ten thousand fits if they could see her.”

    “Yeah. Added to which I don’t want to embarrass them, do I?”

    “They’ll get used to it,” she said mildly.

    Well, possibly. Would it before the next millennium, though? It had been a real mistake to come, but Georgia had insisted. Well, true, old Jim Parker hadn't appeared embarrassed, but he had had a go at him. Anna, however, was completely incapable of looking him in the eye and went scarlet if he so much as glanced her way. And Molly, actually, wasn’t much better. “Have another Buck’s Fizz,” he said on a resigned note.

    “No, thanks, a wedding isn’t an excuse for going off your diet,” replied his beloved grimly.

    Oh, no? Especially a wedding with such an ill-assorted crowd present as this! Not that, come to think of it, he could think of a single one that hadn’t had an ill-assorted crowd. Certainly not either of his. “Have you ever been to a wedding that you actually enjoyed, Georgia, honey?” he said with a smile.

    Georgia goggled at him. “Yes! Of course! Mandy’s!”

    Uh—oh, yeah, the best friend. She, of course, had been chief bridesmaid. “Yes,” he said feebly.

    “And Joanne Donovan’s was lovely! They had it up in the Dandenongs—” Georgia plunged into an avid description. Henry, alas, didn’t listen. He put a very listening look on his face and made all the right noises and wondered glumly how much longer they’d have to wait for the food and whether she’d let him eat any of it when it came.

    “No place cards,” noted Colin’s Aunt Louise acidly to Lady Haworth.

    John’s mother replied coolly: “No, but one was hardly expecting them.”

    “What’s wrong with the man? Why in God’s name couldn’t he do it properly? John’s wedding was perfectly decent!”

    “By comparison, yes,” agreed John’s mother coolly.

    “Aren’t they awful?” hissed Isabel Potter in awe.

    Jim was very full of the excellent bubbly Colin’s old uncle had sprung for, so he was able to reply tolerantly: “Pretty awful, yeah.”

    “Pretty?” she gasped indignantly.

    He eyed her drily. “Are you claiming yer Uncle Fred and yer Aunty Kath aren’t awful? To name but two.”

    “Ours wasn’t that bad,” replied Isabel feebly to the sub-text.

    “Much!” he snorted.

    “Marion’s standing on one leg again!” hissed the bride in the groom’s ear.

    “Can’t blame her. Feel pretty much like standing on one leg, myself.”

    Penn gulped. “Yeah. Um, I couldn’t stop Aunty Barbara and Uncle Ted.”

    “I couldn’t stop any of mine,” replied Colin frankly.

    Penn smiled feebly. That had dawned, actually, as incensed Haworth and Duff-Ross relations from all over the British Isles—oh, there were a clutch that apparently lived in a villa in Portugal, too—rang their number unceasingly after his Uncle Matthew, unasked, had published the notice of their engagement and the date of the wedding in The Times. She looked uneasily over at Marion. She was still standing on one leg but there was nothing they could do about it because in about two seconds the very worst of Colin’s male relations was going to—

    “What the Devil’s gone wrong with the arrangements for the food, Colin?”

    “Are you hungry, Uncle Hector?” replied the groom solicitously. “I’ve got one savoury held in reserve, here. Though it has got bacon in it.”

    Turning purple, his uncle spluttered incoherently and marched off.

    “That worked,” said Penn numbly. “What’s wrong with bacon?”

    Shaking slightly, Colin explained Rosie’s manoeuvre. Pointing out, somewhat redundantly, that she’d only had to suggest it to one of them and it was all round—

    Regrettably, the bride gave a shriek of laughter and collapsed in hysterics.

    Wilhelmina Duff-Ross’s purple claws dug sharply into Viola Melchett’s arm. “That’s Euan Keel!”

    “Ouch! Don’t do that, Willi!”

    Ignoring her cousin’s agony completely, Willi repeated: “That’s Euan Keel!”

    “Yes. However, I can almost guarantee that if you try any sort of manoeuvre he’ll give you the complete brush-off.” Her large grey-green eyes wandered maliciously over the crowd. “Though possibly he only brushes off platinum blondes in purple Valentino gear that are old enough to know better, pouting brunettes in outdated corsets that don’t disguise the boobs job—”

    “If you mean your frightful cousin Lydia Tomlinson, she had a reduction!” she snapped.

    “That’s what I meant, darling,” drawled Colin’s sister maliciously. “Where was I? Oh, yes, ageing debs in floating garden party gear like one of poor Camilla’s efforts, and al-most natural blondes with al-most genuine Gucci accessories.”

    “My God! Aren’t they?” she gasped.

    Viola had been waiting for just this sort of reaction and replied with immense pleasure: “Do you mean Cousin Angela Brinsley-Pugh, or that sulky little bitch who came with your brother Andrew? I do hope you don’t mean Cousin Julia Gold: hers are completely genuine, he gets a discount, his father’s on the board of directors. Which also—in case one was wondering, dear—explains why she’s wearing Givenchy. The perfume as well, naturally.”

    Not betraying that this last was complete news to her, Willi returned: “That tart Andrew’s picked up wouldn’t know Gucci if it bit her; I meant the frightful Angela, of course. Did she try to speak to him?”

    “I wouldn’t call it speak, darling. If the shoulder blades had been any closer together she’d have needed surgery to unlock them, but yes, she went up to him. N.B.G.” She shrugged.

    “Who is that dark girl with him?” replied Willi crossly.

    “No idea, darling. Sister of Catherine Zeta Jones?”

    Willi was about to rubbish this angrily when she recollected just who Euan Keel was. She swallowed.

    Viola smiled very slightly. “Why not get someone to introduce you?”

    “But who knows him? Besides bloody Colin, presumably.”

    The groom was at this precise moment being harangued by old Cousin Bernard Haworth, John’s father: Viola didn’t need to ask why she didn’t go and ask him. “Well, Rosie, one imagines,” she drawled. “But would it be tactful to ask her? One is almost sure she overheard you calling her a tart of a telly actress at Julia and Daniel’s wedd—” She didn’t have to finish the sentence, Willi was already flouncing angrily away.

    Smiling, Viola drifted away in the general direction of the bar and gave the lovely dark boy standing at it a helpless look from the big grey-green eyes.

    Obligingly Owen Bridges asked her what she’d like. He was aware that she was (a) old enough to be his mum and (b) the Colonel’s sister but if she didn’t care he certainly didn’t.

    “Sit by me, Julia,” said Rosie kindly. “Give me the baby.”

    Julia Gold went very, very red but handed over her little girl and sank down onto a chair beside Rosie’s. “Thank you, Rosie. We wouldn’t have dreamed of bringing her, but our baby-sitting arrangements went completely wrong. Our frightful nanny’s left us flat—well, Daddy chose her, I suppose it was only to be expected. And the other servants refused point-blank to look after her. Daniel was furious, he sacked the cook-housekeeper on the spot—not that I’m blaming him, but now we haven’t got a cook!”

    “It sounds to me—Yes, who’s a pretty girl? Hullo, Beth!” she cooed. “I think that Beth’s an absolutely lovely name! It sounds to me as if you’re trying to live a much too fancy life, Julia. You’ve let them push you into it, haven’t you?”

    “Yes,” said Julia faintly. “I suppose I… But Father Gold gave us the house, he wouldn’t hear of us just keeping on Daniel’s old flat. –It’s terrible, Rosie! He and Daddy are competing!” she burst out.

    “I thought so,” said Rosie placidly. “Do you think she’d go down? We’ve got a sort of crèche out the back, ’cos of course everybody wanted to come. New Baby’s out there.”

    “Don’t tell me your nanny’s left you, too?”

    “Only sort of!” she said with a laugh. “Yvonne’s given up nannying for us, ’cos she’s going to marry the pub’s assistant manager, and we’ve taken on Juliette, she used to do nanny for our neighbours—their little boy’s started school, now—but of course she’s here, she’s known Colin since the first day he settled in his cottage!”

    Colin’s cousin gave a bewildered smile. “I see. I must say, if it was mine I’d do a bit more to it, but… I do envy them,” she confessed, biting her lip.

    “Yes. Well, I don’t think either of your fathers’d let you hear the last of it if you tried to live in a simple little cottage like that. But there is a lovely modernised place available, with all mod cons. And the life here is very relaxed, and we’re never short of baby-sitters!”

    “It sounds wonderful,” said Julia limply.

    In what turned out to be the pool room, lit by one set of lamps over a green table, June Haworth was blissfully asleep in a blue bassinet, another baby was asleep in a pink one, and a little boy was standing up in a pink cot, grasping its bars.

    “Party!” he shouted.

    “Yes, you can come to the party!” smiled Rosie. “Grab Beth, Julia; I’ll get him up. Then she can have the cot, save putting up another one.”

    Numbly Julia obeyed. “Is he your little boy, Rosie?” she ventured as his nappy was changed.

    “No way; him and his friend Kiefer are out there, boots and all! No, this is Danny Tanner. –There you go, Danny! –Penn’s nephew,” she explained, smiling.

    “Yes,” said Julia, sagging. “I see. Daniel thought there might not be any other children here.”

    “I’m Danny!” he cried.

    “Yes, you’re a Danny, too!” beamed Rosie. “It is a family wedding, Julia.”

    “Yes,” she said limply. “The last one we went to—it was a mistake, I was still feeding Beth—was simply ghastly. No children allowed and we all had to be colour co-ordinated.”

    “Black and white? I was invited to one of those once back home in Oz. I wore red,” she said, grinning.

    Julia swallowed. “No, worse: grey and pink. The men were all right, of course, they just wore morning suits. I simply cannot wear pink, it makes me look terribly yellow, so it had to be pale grey. It was a beautiful suit—silk. I leaked all over it.”

    Rosie settled Danny Tanner comfortably on her hip. “Right, and none of them recognised that it was a perfectly natural process, eh? Well, up theirs! Come on, let’s take the weight off and you can talk to Caroline about the house she wants to sell!”

    “Food at last!” said Murray Stout, sagging.

    “All stomach,” replied Belinda, but extremely mildly.

    “What were they doing out there: killing the sacred cow?”

    Belinda gulped. “That isn’t funny, Murray,” she warned in a very weak voice.

    “No place-cards,” he ascertained. “Oh, well, sit anywhere—Ouch!” he gasped as her fingers bit into his arm.

    “Not over there,” said Belinda faintly.

    Murray followed her gaze. He blenched. Ma Granville Thinnes inviting herself to John’s parents’ table. “How right you are. The human nervous system definitely isn’t up to that. Not after overhearing that aunty of Colin’s wondering why ’e’d felt it necessary to invite ’is artisans.”

    Belinda nodded palely.

    “Come on, let’s join up with Jim Parker and Anna and their lot, they’re only bombed out of their brains,” he said kindly.

    Far from passing any remarks on either the childishness of those who got bombed out of their brains at other people’s weddings or the inappropriateness of his phrase, Belinda accompanied him gratefully.

    “I thought the food was going to be Indian,” said Marion in a bewildered voice to the pretty, round-faced, brown-haired girl who’d asked her to sit with them. The handsome fair man was her father, though he didn’t look like her at all.

    “Not as such. See, Mrs Fitzroy does do Indian cooking and so does Richpal Singh, and the restaurant will offer an Indian choice every night, but—”

    Marion tried to smile. They’d seemed to assume she ought to know who they were, but she didn’t! They were both terribly well spoken, so they must be some of Colin’s relations. And Penn needn’t claim she hadn’t warned her! She tasted the thing on her plate gingerly. The girl who had served her had sworn it was vegetarian but she was almost sure it had meat in it…

    “What?” she said, looking up dazedly.

    “I said, it’s nice, isn’t it?” said the fair-haired man with a smile.

    “It’s wonderful!” said Marion dazedly. “What is it?”

    “Nut balls in a cream and basil sauce,” he explained.

    It couldn’t possibly be! Nut meat was horrible! Well, terribly good for you, of course, but— These delicious little balls tasted rich and creamy and—and tasty!

    “Largely Brazils, I think,” he said, smiling.

    “I wish I’d had it, now,” said the girl, looking wistfully at his plate.

    “More fool you,” he said happily. “There’s a vegetarian choice for the main course, too,” he said to Marion.

    “Really? Are you a vegetarian, too?”

    “No, but I try to limit my intake of red meat and heavy fats.”

    She brightened. “That’s so wise! I always think—”

    Tolerantly Richard and Potter Purbright let the odd lady potter that looked like a heron tell them a lot of stuff about a sensible diet.

    “Those look good!” said the wiry Rob Cowan, looking at Carole’s plate with interest. “Little balls, eh?” He winked.

    Carole went very pink and gave a delighted snigger. She was feeling very, very pleased with herself. She had never expected to be personally invited to Colin’s wedding. She’d thought, if she got to go at all, it might be as Rob’s partner—if he asked her. And then he had asked her! But as well, she’d got a personal invitation! Engraved, too, on really tasteful heavy cream card, with a tiny scalloped gold edge. It was sitting safely in her new handbag at this very moment, ready to be carefully put in the album. And she was thrilled with the new outfit she’d bought for the occasion. She had had an inspiration and asked Rosie where she thought she should shop. Well, heck, it wasn’t as if she hadn't known her for ages, and she was always so friendly and nice, and why not? And she’d been terribly nice about it and said that Terri had asked her, too, and she honestly thought you couldn’t go past Harrods, and why not go up together? Well, of course everybody knew Terri, she was the sort that didn’t put on side at all—but a lovely girl, of course! And, well, Euan Keel’s girlfriend. And he might’ve been around the village for ages, but, well, he was Someone: you couldn’t deny it! And then he’d come into the new shop in person and said how lovely Terri’s quilt was, they had it on their big bed in the cottage, and they were doing up their new flat in town and could she recommend anything, and if she didn’t feel it would be an intrusion he’d come shopping with them! An intrusion? Shopping at Harrods with Euan Keel? It had been wonderful—wonderful! And the outfit was perfect. Not a dress, for a morning wedding, and Euan had thought a suit was a bit ordinary: no, a two-piece. And one could always take the jacket off if there was dancing! She didn’t usually wear peach shades—Mum had always said pink was her colour—but Euan had thought the warm look of peach would be just right for her skin, and he’d been so right! You didn’t expect a man to have a real eye for colour, did you? But of course he was an actor. It was a silk and linen mix, the most glorious feel to it, in an abstract print in several shades of peach with a little white and pale green. And since it was Harrods they of course had found the perfect hat to go with it! Perfect. Palest peach gauze with a ribboned edge to the brim and the most delicate spray of feathers on it. The shoes and handbag were pale green. Euan had thought that more peach would be too much and he was so right!

    And he had taken on board her advice that although Terri’s hair was of course so glorious that it didn’t need a hat, the other ladies would be sure to be wearing hats and from what dear Rosie had let slip about Colin’s family, remarks might be passed if she didn’t. So she was. A little pillbox in dark red silk with one huge black silk rose on it.

    “Terri looks lovely, doesn’t she?” she said to Rob.

    “Yeah, pretty nice. That the hat you chose, love?” he said tolerantly.

    Bridling pleasedly, Carole corrected this to: “Recommended. Yes.”

    “Looks real good on her,” he said kindly. “The dress looks smart, too.”

    “Two-piece, Rob,” said Carole. “It does, doesn’t it? Of course, she can wear that dark red,” she added wistfully.

    “Well, yeah, those dark girls can. Bit of an Arab look to ’er, really, don’tcha think? Heavy-looking, too. Nice girl, of course. Don’t go for that type, meself. Prefer dainty blondes.” He winked.

    Giggling pleasedly, Carole replied: “You don’t say! How’s the pâté, dear?”

    Was it? He’d thought it was meatloaf. “Nice. Got a nice sort of crust thing, too.”

    “En croûte,” said Carole smugly. “Like in the best restaurants.”

    “That right?” said Rob, not pointing out that the crust was a dead ringer for his old Gran’s, on her raised pies. Pork or ham and veal, usually. Or pigeon, if the racket from the coops on next-door’s roof had got too much for Granddad and old Campbell for once wasn’t out there gloating over his racing birds.

    “Isn’t it a lovely wedding?” she then said, sighing deeply.

    No, but what he intended to do when he got her home and got that nice tight frock off ’er would be, he could promise her that. “Yeah, not bad at all,” he agreed tolerantly.

    Greg drew up a chair beside Rosie’s with a sigh. “That’s one of Richpal’s. No matter how bad it is, for God’s sake tell him it was lovely.”

    “It is lovely,” replied Rosie placidly, eating some. “What went wrong out there, Greg?”

    “Don’t ask!” he said with a laugh. He tasted the thing on his plate cautiously. “Overcooked,” he discerned drily. “No, well, believe me or believe me not, the morons have had the gas disconnected.”

    Rosie gulped. The pretty brown-haired lady on her other side gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. Greg smiled at her. “Hi, I’m Greg,” he said mildly.

    “This is Julia,” explained Rosie. “She’s got a baby girl, too!”

    “Good show,” said Greg, grinning. “All young mums together, eh? –Anyway, Mrs Fitzroy got hold of Jack, but setting aside the fact that he had a whole bottle of old Matthew Haworth’s bubbly inside him, he couldn’t do anything about it, because it wasn’t just the stove that’d been disconnected, the supply’s off. –Reminds me, if anyone was looking for old Matthew, he’s been out in the kitchen for the last half hour letting Jasmine feed him. Well, and letting himself pinch her bum,” he added fairly. The pretty brown-haired Julia had gone very pink, so he winked at her. “Hope you girls didn’t want the oyster patties: they’ve had to save them for the bridal table: they ran short because the old boy hadda show Jasmine the right way to eat oysters and she hadda show him this recipe she got off her grandma. It’s good, mind you. Hot as Hell, though: the poor old bugger hadda down a whole bottle of soda water after it.”

    “When he says hot as Hell he means hot as Hell!” said Rosie to Julia with a laugh. “He’s used to his mum’s chilli pickle. I mean, pickle of chillis!”

    Greg winked again. “My parents are in the restaurant business. Anyway, they’ve had to do all the cooking down at Higgledy-Piggledy and bring it up in relays. Think they’ve borrowed every microwave in the village, and of course Richpal’s been going spare: warming stuff up in the microwave is one of Dad’s absolute no-noes.” He ate some of the stuff on his plate. “Not that he’s entirely wrong, in this instance. Oh—the Évian’s all gone, by the way: some of those la-de-da lady cousins of Colin’s are on diets, they got down on it. I told them they shoulda got more in.”

    Rosie looked cautiously at the open bottle of Évian on the table in front of them. “What’s this, then?”

    “Tap,” said Greg succinctly. “Want soda water instead?”

    “Is that all there is?’ she replied sadly.

    “There was orange juice earlier,” said Julia cautiously.

    “It’s all gone,” replied Greg simply. “Want me to get you some soda water, Rosie?”

    “No, thanks: anything with bubbles in it seems to give me burps at the moment,” she admitted mournfully.

    “Not that we’d mind, but we wouldn’t want her to pass them on to New Baby!” explained Greg to Julia with a laugh.

    “Um, no!” she gasped, flushing brightly.

    Greg looked at her plate. “Did you choose the squashy vegetable stew?”

    “Yuh—yes! I thought I’d have something vegetarian,” she stumbled.

    “The vegetable stew’s delicious, Greg,” objected the lady called Caroline who wanted to sell her house.

    “Well, passable. But if Julia’s a new mum she needs to keep up her iron intake,” the handsome young Indian replied sternly.

    Blushing horribly and wishing she could stop doing so, Julia nodded numbly.

    “What happened to the roast beef of old England?” asked Rosie.

    “Richpal turned it into Boeuf Wellington—to spite Dad in absentia, I think—and it’s all gone to the top table. Well, that and your parents-in-law’s table,” he said fairly.

    Shuddering, she avoided looking in that direction.

    “Mrs F.’s done some lamb, though,” he said kindly. “Navarin.”

    “If that’s that thing she was threatening with turnips in it, I’d avoid it like the plague,” Rosie advised Julia.

    “Could it be worse than Richpal’s microwaved vegetable stew? He did put okra in it, by the way, so now Jasmine’s nose is really out of joint! –She think she’s the only one that can cook it,” he explained generally. “Um, lady’s fingers?” he said to the blank faces of Caroline and Julia.

    “Oh!” cried Caroline. “So that’s what’s making it—” She broke off hurriedly.

    “Slimy,” finished Rosie serenely.

    Suddenly Julia went into the most agonising fit of the giggles. She couldn’t stop herself, hard though she tried.

    Greg got up, grinning. “Yeah. I’ll get you both some of the lamb. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it, but it’s really good, actually. Wouldn’t do you any harm, either, in your condition,” he said to Caroline.

    Still swallowing giggles, Julia looked weakly at the now blushing Caroline.

    “Well, yes,” she said as Greg went off to the buffet counter. “We haven’t actually told—I mean, Rosie knows, of course!”

    “Robert will of told him,” said Rosie. “He’s bursting with pride.”

    “Mm,” admitted Caroline, smiling.

    “He will get you some stew, you know,” warned Rosie.

    “Mm? Oh! I don’t really mind!” she said with a laugh.

    Julia really loathed turnips. But she found, somehow, that she didn’t mind, either! Wasn’t he nice? Um… but who was he?

    “Who is that man?” said Lady Duff-Ross on an acid note to Lady Haworth as a short, dark, red-cheeked man sat down after toasting the happy couple in one of the grubbiest speeches she had ever heard—including those at the frightful Highland weddings Hector always insisted they should attend.

    “I have no idea, Louise,” replied John’s mother coldly.

    Admiral Sir Bernard Haworth leaned across the table, looking annoyed. “Rubbish, Miriam! Known him all his life! That’s Jack Powell!”

    “Really?” she said coldly.

    Scowling, the Admiral got up.

    “Bernard, they’re in the middle of the speeches,” she said tiredly.

    “Don’t care,” he grunted. “Going to take a peek at little June.” He walked off.

    “Besotted,” said June Haworth’s grandmother acidly to her companion.

    Well though she knew her, Colin’s aunt was barely able to raise a smile in answer to this one.

    “Don’t they usually have the speeches earlier?” said Pauline Stout in a fuddled voice to her employee.

    Georgia Carter had ostensibly been helping with the serving, but had long since joined the party. She just giggled.

    “Oh, well. –Just as well we live so near, isn’t it? At least we won’t have to drive home,” she said happily. “Weren’t those champagne cocktail things Colin made us lovely? It’s so like him, to think of us, in the middle of his wedding!”

    Nodding hard, Georgia giggled.

    “It’s been a lovely wedding… Penn’s hair looks really good, you did a great job on it, Georgia. It’s lovely to see them so happy,” sighed Pauline.

    Georgia just nodded and giggled.

    “The secret’s in the smoking,” explained Tom Hopgood earnestly.

    Michael Haworth nodded interestedly. “I see.”

    Maureen got up, a resigned look on her face. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

    Neither her husband nor Colin’s brother noticed her go; Michael was asking: “Do you grow your own herbs?” and Tom was replying: “Ah! Now! I got me sources, yer see!”

    “They’ve had the speeches. Couldn’t we go?” asked the bride glumly.

    “Dunno. How soon can one?” replied the groom blankly.

    “Don’t look at me, I’ve never been to a huge society wedding before!”

    “What about your cousin Antigone Walsingham, when she married Corrant?”

    “I had chicken pox,” replied Penn simply.

    “Very wise. Uh—well, can’t say I’ve ever really noticed…”

    “You must have noticed at your first wedding, Colin!”

    “No. Hair of the dog after the night before. Uh, will anyone notice if we just slope off?”

    Penn was about to say of course they would: there was his awful Uncle Hector and the ghastly Aunt Louise, not to say his parents— She looked about her. “No.”

    Grinning, Colin took her hand. “Come on, then!”

    “Oh, there you are, Captain,” said Alan Timms on a weak note, going into the pool room to find his former commander and, ulp, Admiral Sir Bernard Haworth sitting companionably on one of the battered sofas that featured along the side of the room, watching Rosie nurse New Baby.

    “Mm. Just giving New Baby her own champagne!” said John with a smile.

    Alan could only hope that in front of the Admiral his face—not to say any other part of his anatomy—wasn’t expressing what he felt about this speech. “Yeah. Colin and Penn have got out of it.”

    “Good for them,” grunted the Admiral.

    “Yessir,” he said weakly. “People seem to be going. Well, some of them. Well, the champagne’s well and truly run out.”

    “Can’t throw out a nursing mother, man!” snapped the old man.

    “Nossir!” he agreed. “Wasn’t gonna! I mean, I wouldn’t dream—I mean, no, it’s Yvonne, Captain. I mean, it’s Dad as well.”

    John’s eyes twinkled. “Want a hand to load ’em into your car?”

    “If you wouldn’t mind, Captain,” he admitted miserably.

    “Of course,” said John with his lovely smile, getting up.

    “Um, Yvonne’s insisting on going back to her cottage. Something daft about not being married yet. And she won’t give me the car keys!” he burst out.

    “She’ll give them to John,” said Rosie, looking up with a smile. “Don’t worry about the cottage thing, Alan: it’s wedding jitters.”

    “When is it?” asked the Admiral suddenly.

    Alan gulped. “Ours, sir? September, sir. The eighteenth.”

    “Two days after Bunting’s birthday,” said Rosie to the old man.

    “Realise that,” he grunted. “Not in me dotage yet. Our invitation in the post, is it, Timms?” He gave Alan a hard look.

    “Yuh—Nuh— Um, do yer wanna come, sir?” he gasped.

    “’Course I do!” he said huffily. “Known you all your life, haven’t I? Working for me son, aren’t you? Where the Hell is Terence, anyway?”

    “He’s taking care of some of those ladies that have got dr—um, tiddled, sir. Making sure they don’t drive and their husbands know where they are and sorting out rooms at the pub.”

    He sniffed. “Glad to hear that’s all he’s doing with them. We’ll expect an invitation, then.”

    “Yessir,” he said numbly.

    “Come on, Alan,” said John, laying a kind hand on his shoulder. “Where is she?”

    “Um, well, actually, she’s in the Ladies’ and she won’t come out—”

    His shoulders shaking only very slightly, John propelled him from the room.

    A mariachi band with immensely frilled sleeves played—shook and played—the scent of fresh flowers filled the big, airy adobe-walled room, the air conditioning chilled the big room nicely, outside the sun blazed in an immense blue sky and the lawn-sprinklers filled the garden with a romantic haze…

    Penn took a second slice of superb fruitcake. “This is wonderful,” she croaked.

    “Mm? The cake? Yes, isn’t it?” agreed her husband mildly.

    “No—I mean, it, too. No, the whole wedding.”

    Possibly to those more nearly concerned in it, it wasn’t, but yes, to the mere incidental participants—it wasn’t even Ramona’s own wedding, it was her fifth husband’s second daughter’s by his third wife—wonderful described it rather well. Superb cordon bleu food, gallons of well-iced champagne, anything else to drink that one’s heart could desire and more than one’s brain could conceive of: “Jonno”, Number Five, was immensely well-off. Though the house was Ramona’s old house that Colin remembered. Well, not exactly as he remembered it, but it was that house. Huge old beams and genuine adobe walls in the old part, huger new beams and even thicker adobe walls in the new parts. Waggon wheels galore. Patios. Huge Pueblo pots on said patios. Giant smothering swags of bougainvillaea in at least three colours: a screaming puce, bit like Ramona’s outfit today, a glowing red, verging on crimson but with more pink in it—an extraordinary colour—and a heart-shakingly deep, bright purple.

    “Yes, it’s lovely,” he said kindly.

    “Mm.” Penn swallowed cake. “Mind you, the bride’s dress looks a bit tight: she hasn’t been eating much, have you noticed?”

    No, but he’d certainly noticed how tight the dress was. It was his bet her shoes were pinching like buggery, too. Either that or she had acid indigestion. Or very possibly they’d had a flaming row over the amount the groom had drunk last night. “Bridal nerves,” he said, very mildly. “So you’re enjoying yourself, darling?”

    “Gosh, yes! I’ve never seen so much food in one room!” she said fervently.

    Colin’s shoulders shook. She wasn’t showing yet but she was certainly eating for two. Ramona had spotted it right off. Not that he’d had any intention of hiding it from her, in any case. “Mm. Not just the wedding, Penn: the whole Southwest experience.”

    She sighed deeply. “Yes. ’Specially what you said.”

    “Mm?” said Colin, getting rid of his plate and putting his arm round her very firmly.

    “The ersatz modern bits mixed with the genuine bits.”

    “Oh, absolutely! It’s even better than I remembered it!” He leaned against her solid form, since it was there.

    “Mm…” said Penn dreamily.

    Jonno’s substantial elbow connected gently with Ramona’s wiry, well-exercised side. “They’re off again.”

    “Huh? Who, honey?”

    “That weird Limey pair. Yesterday he asked Mike if his belt buckle was real Indian work.”

    “Tourists, honey,” she said tolerantly.

    “That ain’t my point. When he said no, it wasn’t, he was real pleased and asked to look at it close up.”

    Ramona made no attempt to analyse or interpret—though she was than capable of both; she just replied tolerantly: “Colin always was weird. But they’re happy, that’s was what matters, hon’.”

    “I guess so,” he said with a gusty sigh.

    “Dalinda wanted him,” she said to the sub-text.

    “Yeah. Well, at least it seems to be going okay,” he said, giving the gay she’d employed to manage it all an evil look.

    “Honey, after ours I wasn’t gonna risk anything, and Freddy’s real reliable: he did the McAndrew-Warrender-Hyde wedding, you know!”

    “Yeah. Well, nothing could be worse than ours,” he admitted.

    “No: a real disaster, wasn’t it!” said Ramona with a smothered laugh.

    He smiled slowly. “Bits of it were okay.”

    “Oh, sure. Name one.”

    The bride’s father might have been observed to say something in the bride’s stepmother’s ear and the bride’s stepmother then gave a yelp of laughter and bashed his substantial thigh.

    After which those in the know might have observed Ramona’s gaze to return edgily to the giant cake, because that was one of the things that had gone wrong at theirs, and Jonno’s to return edgily to the giant waggon wheel festooned with white roses on the ceiling, because that was another. Well, to flicker between it and the very new fire extinguisher positioned handily just to the side of the giant Southwestern fireplace big enough to barbecue a steer, because that was another.

    “I’ll have to go,” said Colin with a sigh. “There’s no need for you to come, Penn.”

    They’d got back from their honeymoon to find Higgledy-Piggledy open for dinners—Richpal Singh and his wife having decided, in spite of the near-fiasco at the wedding, that they liked Bellingford, wanted to help run the restaurant and would like to start immediately—The Village Bookshop going full bore, and new people installed in The Church. Well, new for The Church. Not entirely new to Colin, they were his cousin Julia Gold and her husband and baby, and in his opinion they’d need all the beneficent influence that might still be hovering around the ecclesiastical edifice to avert Uncle Matthew’s and Daniel’s father’s wrath. In fact, in that they’d offended at one blow the Old and New Testaments, so to speak, probably nothing would avert it.

    They’d also found Anna immersed in a giant painting of Greg Singh in his old denim shorts. Had it been the example of his older brother’s liberating himself from their dad’s influence that had been the deciding factor, or had he just grown up over the year that had passed since Jamaica, or had it been John’s example? A bit of all of these, possibly. Anyway, he was doing it. The startling portrait of Euan putting his kilt on was now completed and very temporarily propped against the wall in the artist’s studio, waiting for James Allen to swoop on it. He was planning a monster exhibition for the New Year, complete with a coloured catalogue of the most expensive kind and was, apparently, ringing Anna every day from Corfu to make sure she was getting on with the picture of Greg. It didn’t take Colin long at all to discover that she had a vague idea that Corfu was in Cornwall. He laughed so much that he was barely able to warn her not to ring him back there, and why. Anna merely replied placidly that she wasn’t gonna ring him anyway.

    Since Robert had the tour bus companies, the website and their other advertising well under control, Caroline had the book wholesalers and publishers well under control, Hermione G.T. was personally in charge of the itinerary for the cottage tours (and of keeping the cottage owners up to the mark), and Mrs Fitzroy was managing Higgledy-Piggledy and cooking the lunches while Jasmine did the Devonshire teas and Richpal did the dinners, there was really nothing for Colin to do except maybe find a pony and a llama or two for the field next to the smithy and give the littlies rides. Would 10 P be too much to charge? The village kids didn’t, when you looked at the price of junk food in the Superette, get much pocket money. Um, well, fodder, and a shed for them to shelter in during the colder months—all right, Marion, a stable. But that wasn’t urgent, so, as another Jamaica was in full swing down at Miller’s Bay he might as well join in—recover from the honeymoon! And then, in no time at all it’d be Bunting’s third birthday and Alan’s and Yvonne’s wedding: he had to be fighting fit for—

    It was at about this point that they got the news that his Grandfather Haworth had died.

    “I’ll come, too,” said Penn in a small voice. “Unless you don’t want me.”

    Colin had now pretty much got the measure of these small voices of Penn’s and was trying very hard not to provoke them. In spite of the sturdy frame and the way she came over as sensible and capable, she was, really, a pretty vulnerable person. Certainly where relations between the sexes were concerned. Various details of her past relationships had leaked out over the past few months and it was just as well for Messrs Gardner and Border, to name only two, that he was unlikely ever to have their fat, self-satisfied, selfish faces at the end of his fist.

    “Of course I want you, chump!” he said quickly. “If you can stand the ruddy ancestral acres: there’s sure to be a crowd of frightful relatives. Worse than our wedding.”

    “It couldn’t be! My side won’t be there!” said Penn with a sudden grin.

    “Right! Got any black kit? Well, apart from the black vest that sometimes alternates with the red vest down at the forge!”

    “No. –I know! Maybe I could have the dress I wore to our wedding dye—”

    Colin went into a helpless wheezing fit. He laughed so much he had to sit down. Finally he was able to wheeze: “Shopping. Portsmouth. Caroline.” He mopped his eyes.

    “She’ll make me buy a neat black suit,” said Penn dubiously.

    “Ex—act—ly!” he howled.

    “Goddit,” she acknowledged, grinning all over her face.

    So a neat black suit was rapidly purchased, Caroline kindly sorted out which of the rest of Penn’s clothes, mostly acquired in America, were suitable to take, and off they went.

    … “Is—is this it?” quavered Penn, as Emerald ground her way up the vast reaches of Michael’s newly gravelled drive.

    “Yeah. Great Greenwold—so-called. Up until some ancestor took it into his head to go extremely rural with the help of a follower of Capability Brown, in the late eighteenth century, it was called Haworth Manor. That low hill over there is a wold.”

    “Hah, hah.”

    “No, true. We’re on the edge of the Yorkshire wolds,” said Colin heavily.

    “Very funny. Moors or ridings, I do know that!”

    “Wolds. It’s the northern version of the word ‘weald’, I think.”

    “Are we in Yorkshire?” she said feebly.

    “Yeah. Possibly technically Humberside, these days. See these cheekbones?”

    “Mm. They’re just like John’s.”

    “Correct. And Pa’s. Lot of Yorkshiremen have them. The faces tend to be either oval like ours or very square like Uncle Matthew’s.”

    “I suppose that proves it,” said Penn feebly. “What was that town we just came through?”

    “Great—Not the village?”

    “No, before that.”

    “Great Driffield,” he said heavily.

    “Oh,” said Penn limply. “–These are very nice trees.”

    “Yes, this is the Capability Brown bit. Unfortunately it peters out about—”

    “Ooh!” she gasped as they rounded a bend and the avenue of huge old oaks suddenly wasn’t any more.

    “About here,” said Colin heavily. “There’s the house. Local stone. It wasn’t the mad landscaper who built it, it was his grandfather—early eighteenth century, and we can only be thankful he didn’t have the money to hire a Vanbrugh. Though, true, then his grandson could have renamed it Castle Haworth.”

    “Hah, hah,” she said, grinning. “It’s not as big I as I thought. And it’s nice and plain.”

    “Blessedly plain, mm. Unfortunately, genuine though it is, its plainness means it’s not much of a draw for the tourists: Michael’s had the Devil of a job keeping it going. Especially since,” he said on a grim note as they drew up before the plain oak front door, “getting Pa to break the entail so as Grandfather could leave it directly to Michael cost the estate a very great deal of money.”

    “You—you mean your father made him pay?” she croaked.

    “Yes. He pointed out what good he could do in the world if he sold the dump to a hotel chain or a developer when it came to him—I’m not kidding.”

    “But—but didn’t it belong to your grandfather?” she said dazedly.

    “Um, there were legal technicalities that gave Pa the upper hand.”

    “I see,” said Penn weakly. “Like in Pride and Prejudice.”

    “Well, there was certainly a huge amount of both on both sides!” he said with feeling. “But in what way, precisely?”

    “Mr Collins. Poor Mr Bennet couldn’t leave the property to his daughters because it had to go to Mr Collins, don’t you remember?”

    “Uh—oh! Yes, that must’ve been an entail. –Hang on. There’s one more thing I’d better warn you about,” he said as Penn made to open her door.

    “Go on.”

    Colin sighed. “My grandfather was Sir James Haworth: it’s a baronetcy, okay? Technically Pa is now Sir Paul. Please don’t even breathe—”

    “No!” she said with a loud laugh. “I’m not that silly!”

    “Good. Er, there may be some disaffected locals who will address Michael as ‘Sir Michael’ in front of Pa to spite him, or even address Pa as ‘Sir Paul’ to his face to spite him, but just do your best not to laugh.”

    Penn nodded. “I suppose everybody knows.”

    He grimaced. “Everybody whose ancestors were born round these parts, certainly.”

    “No wonder you’re so much at home in Bellingford!” said Penn with a laugh, getting out.

    Uh—was he? Did he seem to be? Oh, well, good show! Colin got out, grinning.

    Rosie and John had popped over, complete with Bunting and New Baby. Colin wasn’t quite sure why: Rosie, of course, was an inveterate popper, but it wasn’t like John to suddenly turn up on a relative’s doorstep on a Sunday morning without warning. The male peer group apparently had to go out into the apology for a back garden.

    “No sandbox!” cried Bunting indignantly.

    “Er—no, sorry, old chap: this isn’t Von-Von’s place,” said his father weakly.

    “There isn’t much of anything,” said Colin limply. “Not since Jack cleared it for me last year.”

    Bunting fixed him with a glacial blue eye that reminded Colin irresistibly of Grandfather’s, and he didn’t think it was because they’d been back from the funeral for less than a week, either. “Have you got a greenhouse?”

    “No, um, sorry,” he bleated.

    “You haven’t got anything!” he cried accusingly.

    “No,” said Colin humbly.

    “Got any garden implements? Spade?” suggested his cousin. “Trowel?”

    “N—um, hang on, I think Terri did have a trowel: she put some herbs in but the frost finished them off, so she opted for pots. Indoor pots. She’s taken them over to Euan’s. Um, think it’s in the laundry.” He investigated.

    “Good,” said Bunting, grabbing it off him. Colin watched numbly as he began to dig up the lumpy lawn two yards from the back door.

    “Making a vegetable garden for you, old chap,” explained his father.

    Suddenly that scene during Rosie’s sick-visit came back vividly to Colin. He choked violently.

    “Yes: an inherited mania!” John sat down on the back step in the sun, smiling. “Could grab a kitchen chair, old man,” he suggested.

    “I could grab those two cane armchairs from the front roo—No? Exactly what is this visit in aid of, John?”

    “Not sure. She insisted.”

    “She insisted you all come, with the babies?”

    “I’m NODDA BABY!” bellowed the son and heir from two yards away.

    “Uh—no. Sorry, Bunting, I mean with the boy and the baby,” he said feebly.

    “I’m a boy,” he agreed happily, digging to China.

    “With the boy and the baby, yes,” said John placidly.

    Colin sighed. “Want a beer?”

    “Thought you’d never ask.”

    Resignedly he went into the kitchen, grabbed a wooden chair for himself, placed it pointedly outside, John of course not appearing to notice the pointedness, returned, got them each a beer and, since the choice was water or milk, a glass of milk for Bunting. Which he immediately spurned in favour of some of his father’s beer.

    “Rosie says they grow out of the taste for it,”  said John placidly, wiping the lip of the bottle in a perfunctory way with his palm, when the gasping, gulping and grimacing seemed to be over.

    “Yeah. Possibly lasts ten years or so, too.”

    “If we’re lucky: mm,” he said, smiling. He drank thirstily.

    Colin gave up entirely, sat down on his wooden chair, and sipped beer.

    In the front room Rosie had sat down on the big bed and offered Penn a hold of New Baby, which was duly accepted.

    “Ooh, she’s awake! She’s looking at me!”

    “Yes, she’s starting to focus and take notice.” Rosie bent over the baby and smiled at her. Suddenly Miss June Haworth produced the loveliest smile—so exactly like her mother’s, except for the lack of teeth, that Penn nearly dropped her. “Isn’t she lovely!” she beamed.

    “Yep, she sure is. Yes, look at you smiling, New Baby! Who’s got you? That’s Penn! That’s Penn!”

    “Hullo, New Baby! Aren’t you a pretty girl! –Help, am I allowed to say that?”

    “Wozza bad Penn reinforcing sekshal sterry-typing, den?” cooed Rosie. “Wozza naughty dirl, den!” New Baby produced a happy gurgle. “Um, yeah. I mean, I was against it in theory until she came along. –’Es, ’oo! ’Es, ’oo! –Then it seemed, not so much potty, though it did. More irrelevant. I mean, she is a girl, and she is pretty.”

    “Exactly,” said Penn in relief. “Marion’s dead set against it.”

    “She hasn’t got any girls, has she?” returned Rosie placidly.

    “No!” she said with a sudden grin. “That’s her all over: really good at the theory!”

    “Mm. How was the funeral?” she asked mildly.

    “Didn’t John say?” replied Penn cheerfully. “Pretty horrible!”

    “He said I was very wise not to come, the knives were all out,” replied Rosie, still mild.

    Penn’s lips quivered.

    “Give her to me.” She took the baby and put her carefully right at the back of the bed, against the wall. Then she put a warm arm round Penn’s shoulders and Penn, though telling herself she was a feeble feminine idiot and it was only because she was pregnant, and it wasn’t fair to inflict it on Rosie just because she was married to his cousin, burst into snorting sobs.

    “We try to see as little of them as possible,” said Rosie at last with a sigh. “But it’s pretty much water off a duck’s back to me; I’m a lot tougher than you.”

    Penn sniffed hard. “You must be. Lady Haworth was there—John’s mother. She said some really cold things. In a sort of—of detached voice.”

    “Yep, that’s Lady Mother, the bitch,” she said cheerfully.

    “Yes. It hadn’t really sunk in: Michael’s a widower,” said Penn faintly.

    “Yes, poor man. It’s a very sad story: she left him, did you know? Mm: walked out on him and the three little girls. She was a dim deb: couldn’t hack it buried in the depths of the countryside, and that shit of a grandfather had started sniping at her because she hadn't produced a boy. Don’t tell me he was still living in the nineteenth century!” she added with feeling. “I’ve been pretty much quids-in with Admiral Sir Father, even though he’s shit-scared of her, of course, since I brilliantly gave birth to Bunting.”

    Penn bit her lip.

    “Yeah,” said Rosie with a smile, giving her a folded, ironed hanky. “Pardon the ironing, that was Juliette being a new broom.”

    “Ta,” she said, smiling and blowing. “So how did she die?”

    “Drowned in the Caribbean—my geography’s shaky but I think that’s right: off Nassau? Yeah. Diving when drunk. Serve her right. But poor Michael took it very hard.”

    “I see. Um, I suppose he could marry again,” she said in a small voice.

    “It’s possible, but I’d say he’s off women for life.”

    “I got that impression, too. I—I didn’t realise before that their grandfather was a baronet.”

    “Yeah. Sir James. Fuck him,” said Rosie sourly.

    “Mm. Um, Cuh-Colin’d be next,” said Penn in a tiny voice. “Or—or our son. It’d be horrible!”

    Rosie patted her knee. “Holy Paul’s pretty hale and hearty, isn’t he? And the old creep was ninety-nine. I think you’re getting yourself worked up for nothing, Penn. An awful lot’d have to happen before a son of yours’d have to live in the dump.” She brightened. “Hang on! Didn’t the old creep break the entail so as bloody Paul couldn’t turn it into a refugee farm?”

    “Organic farm,” said Penn faintly, blowing her nose. “For Black refugees. And Jews.”

    “Absolutely! In that case Michael can leave it to those poor little g—What?”

    A tear slid down Penn’s cheek. “They’ve put it back.”

    “Ya mean they chucked more moolah in the direction of the lawyers after the amount it must have set them back— Well, I always knew they were mad!” said Rosie in disgust.

    “Yes. –Sorry, Rosie, I think I went into a sort of panic. You’re right, of course. –Do you think Mark’s a nice name?”

    “Very nice!” she beamed.

    “Yes. Only the thing is, it was his father’s idea.”

    “Then you better give up any hope of it!” said Rosie with a laugh.

    “Yes. Or I could insist on it. Deliberately,” said Penn in a hollow voice.

    “Right. You could wear a little pink maternity suit with a broderie Anglaise collar, too.”

    Their eyes met. They both collapsed in yelps of laughter.

    Outside on the back step John said cautiously: “That sounds promising.”

    “Mm. Does one ask?”

    “Ah… Tricky. One waxes sympathetic, not overdoing it and not patronising. No guarantee it won’t be taken the wrong way, mind you. But if you’re very lucky it’ll work and she’ll tell you. Otherwise… Wait for the shouting followed by the burst of bawling.”

    Colin was going to protest: “Not Penn!” He thought better of it.

    “Mm,” said John wryly. “Sorry: life as we know it. Only in this universe, of course.”

    “Ya wanna bet?” replied Colin with feeling.