Georgia And Max

33

Georgia And Max

    Max’s mother’s rung up again. If she didn’t flaming say “Alison Lattimore here” you’d know if she’s a Lady like Rupy reckons, or not! Silly moo. She reckons he rung her again. Well, why the fuck can’t he ring me, in that case? It’s been a week and he still hasn’t managed to get leave. Shit-scared of his new captain, hasn’t put the hard word on him, if you ask me. He wants to get over to Thailand and look for Katherine. Fat lot of good that’ll do. Okay, Alison, I won’t expect him back in Pongo for the foreseeable, then, even if he does manage to get leave, which he won’t because he’s a pathetic wanker! Just in time I remember to ask after the hubby. No change. In a coma but the doctors reckon he’s holding his own. Couldn’t Max get compassionate leave for that, for Christ’s sakes?

    “Look, Alison, that doesn’t sound too good, to me. Have you told Max that in so many words?”

    She finally admits that he does know that he’s had to be hospitalised and that he’s holding his own. Stupid moo, does she want her son back to hold her hand while her husband dies or NOT?

    “I think you’d better tell him to give up any daft idea of Thailand and come home to you right smart, Alison. When people are only holding their own when they’ve gone into comas at that stage of a terminal illness like emphysema it’s a real bad sign.”—Nothing.—“It’s doctor-speak for the bastards can’t tell how long the patient’s gonna take to die.”

    She gulps a bit and finally admits: “I suppose that’s true. I’ve been trying not to tell myself that, I think.”

    “Yeah. Has your sister turned up?”

    “No, Roger’s arthritis is very bad: it’s the weather.”

    “Roger sounds to me—”

    “Yip, yip, yip!”

    “Yeah, not you! Good boy! Sit! –Sorry, Alison, R,O,G,E,R is my corgi’s name, too. Your brother-in-law sounds like the type that when someone else needs his wife bad, his arthritis would get worse. Aunty Kate’s got a brother-in-law like that, too. Her hubby’s older brother, in her case. Isn’t there anyone else you can think of that can be with you?”

    Okay, right, Jane can’t come up from Wales because she’s got one, too, I don’t listen to what this one’s feeling sorry for himself about, and they don’t really know the Wiltons, though of course they have had the place next to them for some years, and her cousin Caro’s grandchildren are sick— Got the picture, yeah. In other words she’s staying in a bloody hotel room all by herself while her hubby dies. I’ve really had it!

    “I’ll find someone to be with you. If necessary, we’ll come up ourselves.”

    But the girls shouldn’t be here at a time like this! Not with their mother missing, as well!

    No, well, she’s got a point, they’re traumatised enough already, poor little sprats. I never seen such frightened, white little faces as when I collected them from the bitch the grandparents had them parked with. He, I might add, was on his feet, hale and hearty, making himself toast and strawberry jam when we looked in there. Poor old Grandie was pretty bad, though. Not eating, face all swollen up with bawling. Well, ya might say she should of made an effort because they are her grandkids, but then, Katherine’s her daughter. But if he was capable of making toast and strawberry jam, he was certainly capable of looking after them, the useless, selfish wanker!

    “Yeah, okay, Alison. See how it goes. Look, I might send a friend of mine up to be with you, okay? Doris from downstairs. Don’t worry, she’s not a dollybird.”

    Gasp of horror. “Georgia! I never said—”

    “I know, I’m just telling you. She’s an old lady, but she’s real spry with it, and she’s an ex-nursing sister. Seen it all. Three years back she delivered Baby Bunting—my cousin Rosie’s little boy.” –Well, to hear Aunty Kate tell it, she delivered him with Doris standing by holding towels, but the whole family’s taken that with a huge pinch of salt. “She’s real nice and sensible. Not old-ladyish at all, y’know?”

    She makes these feeble protests like doesn’t like to impose and it’s a long way, but she obviously does want her, so that’s that. Anyway, I can jack up transport: Henry can send her up in a limo. Derry or Brian’d probably lend us a limo, too, they’ve been pretty decent—specially since I had to ring and tell Brian that much though I wanted to start my job learning about the production side I couldn’t, and why. Actually Penny, his wife, she’s taken the kids to Rupy’s panto this arvo. Well, yeah, their daughter and the useless wanker she’s married to haven’t yet produced grandkids for them and she’s dying for some, but all the same it was real nice of her.

    So Alison thanks me in this exhausted voice and rings off.

    The more I think about it the more FED UP I feel, so I won’t grab Doris straight away, I’ll ring John. The nit that answers his phone reckons he’s in a meeting. But I just lie and say this is a family emergency. Well, ’tis, sort of: I’m family.

    “This is terminal emphysema, is it, Georgia?” he goes calmly.

    “Yeah. She told me that much the first time she rung but she doesn’t seem to of grasped that he’s not gonna come out of this coma and the bloody quacks’ve only told her he’s holding his own because—”

    “Because they can’t predict when he’s going to go: yes,” he says calmly. “Well, if Max is where I assume he is, you won’t be able to contact him, my dear, but I can certainly get a message to him making it very clear just how bad his father is.”

    “Right. Thanks, John. Um, she’s not at home, she’s in a hotel—”

    He makes sure he’s got the exact details. I’ll never laugh again when bloody Rosie calls him Captain Exactitude, I can tell ya!

    Now he’s warning me that Rosie’s being inundated with requests to make personal appearances at this, that and the next for tsunami relief and I can expect some phone calls.

    “Don’t worry, John, I already told Henny Penny’s PR people to take a running jump, and then when Derry’s lot had a go as well I rung him personally and since then I haven’t heard a peep! I’m not waltzing off all over the country when the girls might get bad news about their mummy at any point!”

    “Good,” he says with a smile in his voice. “And how’s Rupy?”

    So I give him the report, box of birds, buying tropical gear madly and all. “Thanks for everything, John.”

    “Any time, Georgia, my dear,” he says in this real warm voice. I dunno why but I hang up and bawl all over poor ole Roger.

    “This won’t do, eh?” Sniff, sniff. “We gotta go down and see Doris. Well, wash the face first.”

    So we do that. He wants to come so I let him, we can go for a bit of a walk after.

    “Of course I’ll go, dear. What’s wrong with that sister of hers?” she goes crossly, good ole Doris!

    “She’s married to one of those wankers that think the world revolves around them.”

    “I get you, ducks: a man,” she agrees and we both collapse in helpless giggles.

    “Yes, well, they’re all like that,” she says, blowing her nose.

    “Not all, John’s not.” So I tell her how he’s promised to get hold of Max.

    “The exception that proves the rule, isn’t he? Rosie’s a very lucky girl. Now, let’s see, that’ll be the northern line trains, of course—”

    No way! After the expected argument she gives in and I get her to admit she’s not scared of flying—actually I haven’t found anything yet she is scared of—and so I ring Andrea, she can earn that huge salary Henry pays her, for once, and get her to make all the arrangements. Easy-peasy. And on second thoughts I do ring poor old Alison Lattimore back and tell her she’s coming. After which me and Roger finally get to have our walkies.

    “Yip, yip! Yip, yip!” No, well, there won’t of been a cat near that lamppost, but if he wants to make his cat noise at a lamppost, let him. It’s very cold, but it sure is good to be out in the fresh air, eh, Roger?

    “Why can’t we go up to see Granny?” goes Sally dolefully as we wave Doris off.

    “Grandpa’s very sick, idiot!” snaps Julie.

    “Don’t call her an idiot. –She’s right, though, Sally. ’Tisn’t that your granny doesn’t want to see you, but she’ll be at the hospital all day with your grandpa, and he’s too sick to sit up or anything.”

    “Is Grandpa going to die?” she goes fearfully.

    “Yes!” snaps Julie.

    “Yes. He’s a very old man. Old people do die, it’s only natural. He may last out a few weeks, or it may only be a few days, the doctors don’t seem to know.”

    “Well, where’s Daddy?” she wails, bursting into tears.

    “He’s at SEA!” shouts Julie. “You KNOW That! She KNOWS that, Georgia!”

    “Yes, he is at sea, but I’ve rung John—Captain Haworth—and he’s gonna get on to the Navy and make them send him home, okay?”

    They’re both goggling at me, though tears are still trickling down Sally’s cheeks. “Really?” breathes Julie, her face lighting up.

    Gee, she doesn’t seem to doubt it, or to think that maybe he won’t manage it, or— Well, maybe she’s used to male authority figures with high ranks getting things done, This Does Not Mean You, Max Lattimore. “Yes. He may not be able to come here first, he may have to dash up and see his dad, but he’ll be here soon.”

    “Do you promise?” breathes Sally.

    Sigh. “Don’t be silly, how can I promise something like that? It’s up to the Navy, isn’t it? But Captain Haworth’s doing his best, he has promised that.” –Not technically, maybe, but John’s word is his bond, you better believe it!

    “See?” goes Julie.

    She doesn’t snap back, she just nods, looking up at me hopefully.

    “Yeah. Wipe your face. Anyone for Mars Bars?”

    They brighten immediately. It’ll be impossible to get them out of the taste for junk food, now, even if bloody Mummy does turn up again, which as the days roll by, I have to admit it, is seeming less and less likely…

    The flat’s phone rings at crack of dawn. I’m in there like a rocket, grab it up just as Rupy pants in. He’s been known to sleep through anything, this is a first. “Hullo?”

    Strange noises; if this is a heavy breather or a wrong number—

    “Georgia, is that you? It’s Max.”

    What? “Where ARE you, you stupid wanker? And why are you ringing me on THIS PHONE?”

    “I’m at the airport. I tried your mobile number but it was off.”

    “Uh—oh. Sorry, the fucking thing’s recharging. Which airport?” And if it’s Manchester or like that, I will KILL—

    “What? Heathrow,” he goes feebly.

    “Then grab a taxi and come on over!”

    “Yes. I— That is all right, is it?” he goes lamely.

    “What? Of course it’s all right! The girls have been going nuts with you at sea!”

    “Yes. Um, no news of Katherine, is there?” he goes, swallowing.

    “No. Or of your dad, as of tennish last night. Get—a—taxi.”

    “Right. I’ll see you soon. Um—thanks for everything, Georgia.”

    “Yeah. See ya.” Crash! “Jesus!”

    “Ssh, you’ll wake the sleeping beauties,” Rupy goes nervously.

    Doubt it. I’ve discovered they can sleep through anything, too. “That was flaming Max, since you’re not asking. He’s at Heathrow. Coming over.”

    “Um, yes, I did get that, dear. Want me to disappear?”

    “What? No! It’s your home! Though if you want to go back to bed, feel free. I suppose I’d better make some breakfast, though if he’s full of the usual gut-blocking airline food he won’t need it.”

    “Mm. Um—full-strength muesli?” he goes.

    “Hah, hah.” But I am grinning. It’s a joke, see? Like full-strength vindal—Forget it. You either get it or ya don’t.

    By the time I’ve had a shower and got dressed and walked Roger and fed him, I’ve decided: it will be muesli, but since it’s a special day we can have some of those tinned peaches on it.

    “Ooh!” he goes.

    “Yeah, all right, Rupy: you too.”

    “I could nip down to Mr Machin’s and get some cream!”

    “In your dreams. You could nip down and get some yoghurt, though.” I cop a gander at his drooping face. “Um, tell ya what, some of that nice made-up custard. A carton if he’s got them, otherwise I think Rosie said you can get it in tins in Blighty.”

    Brightening terrifically, he goes: “Of course! Already custified, she calls it! Lovely!” He chucks his anorak on and dashes out, only having to dash back at the last minute gasping: “Sorry, darling, forgot! No cash!”

    See, Mr Machin at the corner shop doesn’t take credit cards, and good on him, because anyone that took one of Rupy’s ’ud find their business going down the tubes right smart. “Take my wallet.”

    “Sure, darling?”

    Whaddelse is gonna buy us custard, Rupy? “Yeah, go on.”

    He grabs it and rushes out.

    “Yip, yip, yip!”

    “No, you had your W,A,L,K. And what’s the betting he does come back with cream? Or he maybe won’t go that far, but it’ll be something fattening. Biscuits. Pink-iced cake. Coke.”

    “Ooh, is there Coke?” goes a silly little voice.

    “No! For breakfast? In your dreams, kid!”

    Sally comes in, grinning. “I didn’t really think so. Can we have eggs?”

    “Since it’s a celebration, yeah. Your daddy just rung from the airport. He’ll be here soon.”

    “Hurray!” she goes, jumping. Phew, that’s a relief, thought she might bawl.

    She rushes out to tell Julie.

    Julie rushes in. “Sally says Daddy’s coming home!”

    “Yeah: not a big fat lie, Julie,” I admit.

    “Hurray!”

    Sally doesn’t even shout “See?”, she just goes “Hurray!” too, and they both do a sort of Red Indian dance.

    “Yeah. This doesn’t mean you still don’t have to have your showers. Go on, get on with it.”

    Julie rushes out. Sally’s dawdling. “What, Sally?”

    “Could I please, please use your shower-cap, Georgia? Just for once?”

    What? Flaming bloody Norah! I’d give the kid the bloody thing—it’s an extra-fancy, Yank-type one Henry bought me, smothered in frilly pink flowers that Rupy reckons are peonies—only if I did Julie’s nose’d be out of joint. “Yeah, go on, then, since it’s a special day.”

    “Hurray!” She rushes out.

    Uh—right. Muesli. Peaches. Toast. Um, scrambled eggs? Um—blow, forgot to put the coffee on. How long does it take from sodding Heathrow? Can’t remember how long it took us when I arrived, think I was more jet-lagged than what I thought I was.

    … So they’re like: “What time is it now?” And: “He must be here soon!” And like that. Jesus!

    “Look, who knows how long it’s gonna take him or if his taxi’s stuck in traffic or whatever. Ya better have your breakf—”

    “No! Not without Daddy!” they wail.

    Then Julie has a brilliant idea. “Georgia, if we absolutely promise not to go on the road and just stay on the steps could we possibly put on our anoraks and go down and wait for him?”

    Eh? In the freezing cold? Added to which, if they weren’t such a pair of over-protected little wimps they could go down to Mr Machin’s and do the shopping for us whenever it needed doing: he’s right down the road, they’d have to pass The Tabla and that’d be Mrs Singh in person keeping an eye on them, and Barry Machin’d be sure to come out as far as the doorstep and watch they headed straight back. Or Mr Machin in person, even, come to think of it. Not that he’d need to, because if they weren’t back in ten min’ Mrs Singh’d be right out there investigating why not.

    “Look, normally I’d say yes, Julie, but it’s very, very cold. Too cold to stand around. Um…” Desperately rack brains. “What say you make him a welcome-home card?”

    “We could make him a banner!” cries Julie.

    “Um, no, we got nothing to put it up with. But a really nice card.”

    “One each,” she says firmly.

    “Yeah.” So I fetch them the large sketch-pad that I think might of originally been Anna’s, too bad, it’s had pictures of virtual Roger—neither of them can draw—and yours truly and Rupy and the entire panto on it by now. Oh, and a really, really hideous one—Julie’s got the idea that you show people smiling and as their teeth show when they smile you draw the teeth in and colour round each tooth black to make them stand out, meanwhile the mouths are bright red—of Euan and Terri, once she realised who our new neighbours are. Terri bravely put it on her fridge door, though later admitting to me that Euan’s named it Portrait of Mr and Mrs Witch. That may not sound particularly brill’, but actually, it’s spot-on.

    At last the door phone buzzes, thank Christ! ’Cos the cards are done—overdone, yep—and Julie’s started whingeing about they could still make a banner and Sally’s started whingeing about maybe they could cook something nice for him— Yeah.

    Rupy beats them to it by a whisker. “Yes?” he gasps. “Is that Max?”

    The door phone emits its usual horrible scratchy noises but admits that it is.

    “Wonderful, dear! Come up!” he cries over the screeching and jumping and the yelps of “Let me speak to him!”

    He hasn’t even pressed the button to let him come up before they’ve wrenched the door open and are in the passage leaping up and down in front of the lift.

    Next-door’s door opens and Euan’s voice goes cautiously: “Hullo, there. Something up?”

    “Daddy’s come home!” they scream, leaping.

    “Good show!” he goes, grinning.

    “Yeah. Something like that. What you done with Terri?”

    “She wanted to go down to the cottage,” he bleats.

    Right. And the rest. “Right. Ta-ta.”

    Grinning, he goes back inside. Stupid wanker.

    “Darling, there was nothing for Terri to do, he’s out all day and the super-pseuds are giving him enormous meal—”

    “I know!”

    Rupy doesn’t say anything, he just puts his arm round me. Ta, Rupy, I really need you to demonstrate to Max that I need your support at this juncture.

    “Yip, yip, yip! Yip, yip, yip!”

    Blast! “What idiot let him out? Roger! Here! Heel!”

    “Yip, yip, yip!”

    Blast! Here’s the lift— “ROGER! HEEL!”

    “Grrr-rr!” he goes, shooting forward just as they’re throwing themselves at him with screams of “Daddy!”

    “It’s not you, it’s the flaming lift!” I gasp, making a grab at him. “Come here, you stupid little wanker! Bad dog!”

    “It’s the noise it makes when it stops, Daddy!” gasps Sally, jumping. “He doesn’t mind going in it, though!”

    “Yes,” he says feebly, picking her up and hugging her. “Come on, Julie, give us a hug, darling.”

    Julie’s hanging back a bit. He does look dreadful. Needs a shave. Very grey, as well. Bags under his eyes. Oh, Hell, has he been bawling? ’Cos the eyes are very red, as well.

    He puts Sally down and picks Julie up and hugs her. “Uh—can’t manage both. Getting to be a big girl, Julie,” he admits, putting her down again, as Sally’s started shrieking: “Pick me up, too!”

    RIN-G-ING-G!

    “Yip, yip, yip! Arf, arf, ARF!” Stupid little bleeder! Unfortunately I need both arms to hold him, so I can’t muzzle him as well.

    “It’s the lift bell, Daddy!” explains Julie. “He goes mad when he hears it, doesn’t he, Georgia?”

    “Yeah, um, you better come inside, it’s ringing because another tenant wants to use it,” I explain feebly.

    “Oh—yes,” he says sheepishly, picking up his bag.

    “Is that the only bag ya brung?” It’s about the size of a carry-on bag.

    “Uh—yes. I, um, there wasn’t time to do any shopping, girls,” he goes lamely.

    “Not that! It’s a world crisis, they weren’t expecting you to bring them junk! Well, let’s hope it’s got a sea jersey in it, and some warm pyjams, ’cos the weather here’s been brass monk—No, ya don’t!” As Roger thinks my attention’s been diverted and tries to leap out of my arms. “Come on: come in.”

    And in we go. Rupy’s trying not to laugh but I’m past caring. And I think Max has forgotten who he is, but I’m past caring about that, as well.

    Anyone who thought they mighta been going to get a word in edgewise was wrong, see. Daddy has to hear all about the flat and the panto and bloody Roger—my feeling is we’ve all had enough of him for one day, but there’s nowhere we can safely shut him up where he won’t destroy something, the little perisher—and admire the cards and hear all about how they were made and the cooking they’ve done… They do let him go to the bog but he has to fight them off to do it. Breakfast doesn’t stop the chatter, they carry on right through it. Literally, in the case of those who’ve completely forgotten Mummy’s injunctions about talking with the mouth full.

    He’s terribly hungry and admits he didn’t eat much on the plane. In that case I’ll make some more scrambled egg and toast, never mind cholesterol, he looks as if his cholesterol count’s down to about zero. And coffee.

    “It’s wonderful coffee, Georgia,” he goes dazedly as I grab the coffee-pot.

    “Thanks. It’s an Italian coffee-pot. They’re cheap, but good.”

    “We always had a percolator,” he goes on a dubious note.

    “Right. Aunty Allyson uses one of them. Percolated coffee’s like water that’s rinsed an ashtray.”

    After a bit Rupy comes out to the kitchen. “I’ll heat some milk in the little pan, dear.”

    “Was it a lie about liking the coffee, then?”

    “No, he likes it strong but milky. Georgia, darling,” he says in a lowered voice, “he looks very tired. I think he’d better go to bed, never mind any plans for shooting off up north.”

    “Yeah. If he needs to get there urgently Henry can flaming well cough up a helicopter, be of some direct use for once in his useless, spoilt life.”

    He gulps. “Darling, he is putting a lot of effort into this charity stuff.”

    “Right, and they’ll probably get the benefit of it in ten months’ time.”

    “Mm. I suppose it is all chaos over there, dear.”

    “Rupy, I think my point was that it’s chaos here, and never mind he’s got Colin on board, they aren’t gonna sort it out while each charity’s hanging on grimly to its own little strip of turf. Every time ya turn the TV on there’s a new set of fucking initials making an appeal, have ya noticed?”

    “Well, yes. I thought it was just me.”

    “No, ’tisn’t. It’s the same in Oz, too: Rosie said Aunty Kate rung her the other day complaining like mad ’cos ya don’t know where to give your money where it’ll do most good.”

    He knows Aunty Kate, so he quavers: “Your Aunty Kate rang?”

    I eye him drily. “Yeah. That shows you it’s a global emergency.”

    He nods violently.

    Well, yeah. ’Cos Aunty Kate knows the value of a buck: she doesn’t make flaming international calls at the drop of a hat, not looking at anyone, Aunty Allyson! And do we wanna know that Little Kieran said: “My wocking-horse has got a long wane,” at this point in world history? No. And don’t ask me why she didn’t tell him the word was mane. Added to which, what if Max had been trying to call while the silly hen was blahing on?

    So after he’s eaten the second helping of scrambled eggs and toast, the girls having to be stopped forcibly from eating half the toast with the strawberry jam that was Rupy’s helpful contribution (instead of Coke—right), I make him go to bed, Rupy weighing in on my side.

    “But isn’t this your room, Georgia?” he goes lamely, looking at the unmade big bed.

    “Technically it’s Rosie’s and John’s, but yes. Go on, you’re dead on your feet.”

    “I—I should be getting up to see Dad,” he goes lamely.

    “You’re not fit to go anywhere. I suppose ya do wanna be of some help to your mother when you get there? –Well, don’t be silly, then. Anyway, Henry can send you up there in the helicopter. Or the Lear jet, why not?” He’s just staring at me so I go: “Henry Beaumont! Ya met him when he was pretending to be fucking Luke! He came to that mad festival with us!”

    “Oh—yes, Terence wrote me about it. I don’t want to take anything from him, thanks,” he goes grimly.

    Don’tcha, Max? Actually I’m quite glad to hear that. “No, but there are times when it’s stupid not to accept help wherever it comes from. Go to bed: we can talk about it when you’re not so tired.”

    So I go back out and report that Daddy’s in bed and not to disturb him. Helpfully Rupy suggests a W,A,L,K? But that horse won’t run, it’s brass monkeys out there. Meanwhile they’re promising loudly that they’ll be good: they’ll be really, really quiet—

    “Shut up! You’re not being really quiet, are you?”

    The faces go very red and dead silence falls.

    Rupy’s next suggestion is to watch videos in his room? That’s a real good idea, except the ruddy TV’s a huge old one, it dates back to when Rosie’s cousin Joanie Potts had the flat, we’ll never manage to move it. “If you want a hernia, yeah. Um, got any board games?” Joanie had a Monopoly set but they could never work it out and he hasn’t seen it since she left. Right. 1999, was that? Silly idiot. “Cards?”

    He’s got plenty of cards! On his form, they’ll be different packs, none of them complete, but all right, we’ll play cards in his room.

    “Can they?” he mutters as they rush off to get there first.

    “Uh—it might have to be Snap. Well, my brother Sean, he made up a version of Happy Families with ordinary cards, but I can’t remember how it went.”

    “I know!” he goes brightly. “Not the one that’s a defrocked priest, the one that had the worm farm!”

    He doesn’t mean defrocked, the nong, but that’s pretty good, I don’t think I’ve mentioned Sean or Frankie more than once or twice the entire time I’ve been over here. “Yeah.”

    We play Snap. It gets very, very, very boring. Rupy thinks bridge’ll be too hard for them. I think it’ll be too hard for me, too. “Um, um… Poker?” he goes desperately.

    Why the fuck not? But first they can cut out some poker chips! Once they’ve got the point that poker chips are meant to be round, not edible chip-shaped, they cut them out like billyo, making a huge mess all over Rupy’s beautiful neat room. I do have the sense not to let them use their Textas in here, we don’t want streaks of indelible ink all over that beautiful fawn and black duna cover of his, but we’ll allow them crayons. Only if they put the chips carefully on a sheet of paper that’s resting on a book, not on the duna cover, Sally! She doesn’t even correct this loftily to “duvet cover” she’s so busy colouring in with the tongue sticking out the corner of the mouth.

    This could of gone on even longer, though personally I can’t see what’s so good about making misshapen paper poker chips. However, we finally get to actually play. Everyone’s hopeless, even Rupy, in fact he’s forgotten all the rules, so we just make them up. Julie ends up a huge winner but actually, no-one’s particularly surprised.

    I have checked on Max a couple of times but he’s out like a light. So I ring Henry. The Lear jet’s taken Colin to Geneva, Jesus!

    “Does his wife know?”

    “That is between him and her, hon—”

    “Don’t honey me, thanks. She’s due to have a baby in less than a month. I happen to think that’s a joint responsibility and while the man can’t go through it biologically he has a duty to support her through it. But of course duty only relates to stupid Men’s Business, doesn’t it?”

    “Uh—oh, that Australian case about the sacred Women’s Bus—Yeah. Good image.”

    “Good image to demonstrate that types like you and Colin have come nowhere in the last eighty thousand years—yes!”

    “Eighty—eighty thousand, honey?”

    “Yes. That’s human history where I come from,” I say flatly. I can hear him swallowing, stupid wanker! “Look, can he use the helicopter?”

    “Sure. Well, one of them’ll be available, it always— Um, sure. But a commercial flight might be faster, Georgia.”

    “I don’t want him hanging around in fucking airports! He’s had enough of that, he’s exhausted! I want him taken care of!”

    There’s a little silence and then he says on a tired note: “Yeah, of course you do. Just hold the line, Georgia.” I can hear muttering in the background—he’s stopped putting me on hold since the time I bawled him out about it. “Georgia? I’ve spoken to Julius: he’s making his Lear jet available. The limo’ll pick him up. The weather’s not so good, it might be as well to fly up while it’s still daylight.”

    “Yeah. Hang on, what is the ti— Oh.” That all? It feels like half-past forty-two! Um, hang on, Rupy can have a lift to the theatre, while he’s at it. “Okay, say the limo picks him up at quarter to one, that sound feasible?” It does, so I thank him and ring off.

    So now they’re gasping: “Can we go to the airport?” Well, there’ll be plenty of room in the limo, why not? I won’t give Max time to argue about anything, I’ll let him sleep until quarter to twelve, wake him up, make him shower and shave, shove some lunch into him and that’ll be it.

    I’m just wondering what to have for lunch when the door phone goes crackle-bzzz-crackle!

    Now what? Ted, Henry’s own driver. Like, chauffeurs him round in the Roller in town, geddit? Yeah. Mr Beaumont thought we might like what? “Trot it up, Ted.”

    What Mr Beaumont thought we might like is a complete roast chicken dinner—genuine roast, not slathered in chicken-flavour and dye. With roast potatoes and gravy. Plus a dish of turned carrots lightly scattered with—Never mind. He’s sent it, we’ll have it. And real American orange juice, fancy that. Yeah, thanks, Ted. You wanna join us? The poor bloke’d obviously love to but he can’t, he has to take Mr Beaumont and his business colleagues to lunch. Right. And I won’t ask where.

    So we end up having a huge feast, like, as Sally puts it ecstatically, another Christmas dinner!

    Uh—yeah. Where did they— Grandie’s, I suppose. Before the bad news, so it wouldn’t of been entirely bad, but I’m not gonna ask for the gruesome details. They’re giving them to me anyway. Not a turkey. Not chicken, Rupy, Grampy can’t digest the skin. A rolled, boned turkey roast from the nice supermarket! We look at their beaming faces and manage to say that that sounds lovely.

    Rupy’s very torn but finally does let the limo drop him off at the theatre for his matinée rather than tell them a big fat lie about being suddenly crook and coming with us. We don’t have to worry about what to do when we get to the airport because the limo driver’s on top of it. So we drive through a special gate and right up to the plane! No, well, ’tisn’t Heathrow or any of the great big airports, I admit that, but yeah, I was ecstatic, too, the first time Henry took me over to Paris. After a bit it palls. Never seeing anyone ordinary or doing anything ordinary, I mean. No, well, you’d have to experience it to believe it.

    “Georgia—” begins Max.

    “The plane’s waiting. You better go.”

    “Mm. Well, thanks for everything,” he says with tears in his eyes.

    “No prob. Go on.”

    He gives the girls a last hug and kiss, and goes.

    We just sit here watching as the plane’s door closes and it taxies slowly off…

    Finally the driver says: “Home, now, Miss Leach?”

    Jump! “Oh—yeah, thanks, Vic. And leave the flaming glass down, okay?”

    So he does that. And the only reason I’m not asking him to call me Georgia is that I know that they’re all too shit-scared of flaming Henry Beaumont to do any such thing. What I mean, they’d happily do it behind his back but what if they went and forgot in front of him? Like that.

   … “Georgia! Georgia!”

    “Huh? Shit, did I doze off? Sorry. Where are we?”

    “We’re home!” they cry, beaming.

    Uh—yeah. The flats. Home? Oh, well. …God, and at some stage someone had better find out if they’re supposed to be back at school, ’cos in the middle of all this turmoil one of us had forgotten that Christmas isn’t when they have the long holidays on this ruddy side of the world.

    Next day. Max rings. The doctors say no change. Big fucking deal. Unfortunately he’s chosen the middle of the afternoon so we’re overwhelmed by the screams of: “Let me talk to him!” and can’t actually discuss anything. Anyway, he still sounds pretty shell-shocked. Doris wants to stay on and she’s been a wonderful help to Mummy? Well, great, if she wants to. Tell her Mrs Parkinson rang and we’re going round to tea tomorrow to see how Buster’s getting on with his brother and sister!

    Day after. Benedict rings, early afternoon. Gee, he’s got a very up-market voice. Well, Rupy speaks nicely, of course, but, um, neutrally, y’know? Standard nice actor voice. Benedict sounds more like John. Or Max, actually. “Rupy’s at his matinée, I’m afraid, Benedict.” No, it’s me he wants to speak to. Ouch. Only one thing it can be about, isn’t there?

    They think they’ve found Katherine’s body but they can’t be sure? Whadda they mean, they can’t be— Oh. Not after so long—no. But she still had her handbag and it has got her ID.

    “What? Look, then it’s her! Bury the poor woman, Benedict!”

    They need to get hold of the next of kin and the dental records. Right. And who’s she got down as her next of kin? Fucking useless Grampy, that’s who. Fly the body home? Who’s gonna pay for that? Oh, the Embassy’s arranging all that, is it? Glad to hear it’s capable of arranging something. (Though mind you this doesn’t guarantee there won’t be a giant bill some time in the future.)

    “I’ll ring Max—her ex. He may be able to get some sense out of her bloody father—when last seen, he was stuffing himself on toast and strawberry jam, please note! Still too shaken up to take care of his own grandkids, of course. Failing that I’ll break into the house and find her last dentist’s bill.”

    “Er, doesn’t someone have a key, Georgia?”

    “The first someones to have keys are the neighbours. Not on side X, they’re not nayce. Side Y. And guess what? They’re so approved that they went on this Thailand jaunt, too!”

    “Oh, God.”

    “Yeah. The second someones with keys are her parents. He put himself in charge of those and locked them in his safe, and after poor Max had managed to ring him from somewhere at sea the stupid old wanker had hysterics and couldn’t remember the combination!”

    “I see. Um, if you have to break in you’ll need ID and something to show you’ve got a valid reason—”

    “Would the poor woman’s two KIDS do it?” I shout long-distance all the way to Bangkok.

    “Um, probably. I’m sorry, Georgia, but you’ll have to go the local police station and get the police to do it for you officially.”

    “Right, the ID’s for them, is it?”

    “Mm.”

    “Or I could just go round there and bust the laundry window and climb in!” I shout.

    “Don’t do that, it’s illegal,” he goes miserably.

    Cripes, and this is the man that’s contemplating Rupy Maynarde as a life-partner? Maybe I shouldn’t have told him to go out there and join him, after all. “Um, yeah. ’Course. Sorry, Benedict, didn’t mean to take it out on you. Thanks very much for ringing.”

    I’m not gonna say anything to the girls yet, though of course it’s positive. What it is, see, over there they’re doing some sort of UN-prescribed international identification shit. Takes forty times longer than necessary—right. Um… Blow, it’s too early to go round to Mrs Parkinson’s. Not that she’d mind, but she’s an old lady and a bit shaky: can’t dump the kids on her all arvo. Um… Yeah. I’ll just her give her a bell to make sure, but— Yeah. ’Course. Phew!

    They’re in their room, cutting out. Found a pile of Rupy’s old mags: the scissor-work with the poker chips seems to have set off a cutting-out gene that was dormant. “Get your coats on, girls, we’re just popping down to The Tabla, there’s a few jobs I gotta do this arvo.”

    So we all grab our coats and— No, Sally, we know Mrs Singh likes Roger, but— No, of course Mr Singh likes him, too! Just because he’s big with a deep voice and a turban doesn't mean he doesn’t like little dogs! It’s a restaurant, dogs aren’t allowed and I know they live upstairs, not in the restaurant, but he is NOT COMING! –And go.

    They’ve met her several times now, but nevertheless they’re looking lost and bewildered and very, very shy as she shoots out of the side door, huddled in a sort of rug over the sari over the huge woolly jumper, and warmly urges us in and up the stairs. Little though they are they do recognise, looking about dazedly, that this is not your average English décor. It’s not all gold and red like the restaurant, no. Very pale blue, Mrs Singh loves pale blue, and the sofas and chairs are very pale pink but you can’t see most of them because the good stuff’s covered in fitted clear plastic and the stuff they normally sit on is neatly spread with huge lace, um, not antimacassars, though there are some that would be if they were smaller. More like lace rugs, really. There are a fair few brass ornaments, too, not quite the type of thing that Mummy and her friends have in their sitting-rooms. And some very elaborate coffee tables. Apart from the large brass elephant in that corner supporting a potted palm and possibly the velvet picture of a tiger over on that wall, there’s nothing that you could point to as being definitely Indian, but the overall impression is certainly of foreign.

    The very dark, round-faced lady sitting on one of the lace-spread sofas is Aunty Pretty, the girls can call her Aunty Pretty, and this is her little grandson, Brad! Fortunately they’re too little to recognise this last for the fascinating global linguistic phenomenon that it is.

    Sally doesn’t understand what Aunty Pretty’s doing so after some concentrated staring she hisses: “Is it a game?”

    “No, dear, not a game,” says Mrs Singh, with a few pithy words in Punjabi to the giggling Aunty Pretty. She’s a bit dim: capable of looking after the grandkids, the younger nieces and nephews and the great-nieces and great-nephews, but not really of holding down a job, or she’d be out in the workforce like the rest of the mums. “She’s just cleaning the lentils.”—Nothing.—“She’s looking through them to get rid of the bits of grit and any funny seeds, dear. Then we can cook them up!” Giggling, Aunty Pretty confirms this. “Come on, dears, we’ll make some carrot halwa, my Imelda loved making that when she was your age!”

    They follow her out to the kitchen, looking dubious.

    “It’s like pudding,” I explain. “Or more like sweets, really, it’s very sweet. They make a lot of sweets, don’t you, Mrs Singh?”

    Placidly she confirms this, opening one of the fridge doors—there are two large fridges in here. Racks and racks and racks of barfis: pale pink, pale yellow, pale green and plain white; trays and trays of delicious rasgullahs swimming in syrup— The precise recipes are unfamiliar but they’re in no doubt what they are. “Gosh!” they breathe.

    Competently Mrs Singh swathes them in aprons and urges them to wash their hands. “You might not think,” she says comfortably, getting a huge bag of carrots out of the other fridge, “that carrots would make a nice dessert, but you’d be surprised! They’re naturally sweet, you see, and we’ll add lots of sugar. We’ll just peel them first, and then we’ll use the big food-processor, shall we? In the old days you had to grate them by hand, but this is the 21st century, a woman needs to take advantage of all the labour-saving devices she can get her hands on!”

    Exactly. She may not look it, but in her way she’s a bloody liberated woman.

    “Thanks a million, Mrs Singh. I’ve just got to do, um, those things I told you about on the phone.”

    “That’s all right, Georgia, dear! I’m always here! –Yes, that’s right, Julie, that sort of peeler’s really efficient. But it’s easier if you do it away from you, dear.” They watch in awe as she grabs up another peeler and goes Whip, whip, whip! “Off you go, then, Georgia! We’ll be fine!”

    Jump! Mesmerised by the super-efficient carrot-peeling. “I’ll be back in time to take you over to Mrs Parkinson’s to see Buster, kids. See ya later.”

    And I’m out of it. No way am I gonna risk having them walk in on me when I’m on the phone to Max about identifying their mummy and getting her body back to bloody Blighty. Which I suppose they will wanna do. Seems pointless to me: once you’re dead, you’re dead. However.

    Max was just gonna ring me. Oh, shit, now what? His dad’s died. Right. Well-timed. If I’d ever been about to believe there was any sort of a God, this would of changed me mind, I can tell ya!

    “I’m very, very sorry, Max.”

    “He had been going downhill for some years,” he says glumly.

    “Yes, I know. But it’s still a shock, isn’t it? Um, look, I’m sorry to dump more on you. Um, well, they think they’ve found Katherine’s body. Her handbag was with her, but, um, they need dental records. I’d go round there myself, but last time flaming Grampy had a hissy fit and accused me of bullying a poor old man.”

    “He’s a bully himself,” he says grimly. “The covert type. He’s terrified of her, who isn’t, but that doesn’t mean he’s got any sympathy for anyone he thinks might be weaker than he is. Uh—Hell. Sorry, Georgia. Dental records. There’s no point in asking him, he’ll claim he doesn’t know.”

    “What I thought. I can get over there, no sweat, but I dunno that I’ve got the authority to convince the police to break in. I’m not even a relation.”

    “No. Um, I can’t really leave Mummy, even though Doris is being marvellous… I’ll contact my solicitors and get them to ring you. They’ll know exactly what to do.”

    Phew! Never thought of that! “Yeah. Great. Um, I haven’t said anything to the girls yet. Might as well wait until she’s been identified officially.”

    “Mm. I’d better break the news about Dad, I suppose.”

    “Yes. They’re over at Mrs Singh’s at the moment, and we’re going out this afternoon. Want to ring them after dinner?”

    He agrees to that.

    “Um, would you want them to come up for your father’s funeral?”

    “I don’t know, Georgia,” he goes in this sort of lost voice. “I— Would it be better or worse, do you think?”

    “It’d be closure. Mind you, that’s pop psychology, God knows if there’s even a smear of truth in it. Um, I suppose her parents will insist on a service for Katherine, too.”

    “Bound to,” he says heavily.

    “Shit, I dunno. Um… It always sort of seems to me that when someone dies it is nice to be able to go and put a few flowers on their grave on a Sunday arvo. Um, sorry, that sounds dumb. Mandy and me used to go with Mrs Regan, it was her dad’s grave.”

    “Mm. Mummy and Granny and I always used to visit Grandpa’s grave, when Granny was alive… I can’t decide.”

    “No. We can think about it. Don’t worry, I’ll get all the gen out of the solicitors and take care of everything this end.”

    “Yes. Thanks awfully, Georgia. I—I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

    “Balls. You’d of done the same for me. See ya.”

    “’Bye, Georgia,” he goes in this exhausted voice.

    I could ring Penny Hendricks, see what she thinks about the funeral. Or ask Mrs Singh what she thinks. Or I could ring Aunty Kate in Adelaide— Um, no. Just because she’s the strongest person in the family doesn’t mean I got a right to dump stuff on her. Likewise John. Anyway, he hasn’t had any experience with kids.

    Finally I ring Molly. Well, heck, she’s my generation and she’s a mum. She’s horrified, why didn’t I contact her earlier, Terence is Max’s friend, etcetera. And Susan Walsingham could of rallied round. Rallied round and taken over, but yeah, wish I’d thought to ask her advice about the dental records in the first place. Molly thinks about it and then admits if it was Micky she’d probably ask him what he wanted. And there is the point that if I take them to their grandpa’s funeral service they’ll know what to expect when it’s their mum’s, rather than being completely bewildered by the whole thing. She’s right, bewildered is what they are, I’d say.

    So she goes: “Yes. It isn’t so much the idea of death, they’re old enough to understand that people do die, it’s the details, isn’t it? Where they’re gonna sleep and who’s looking after them.” She tells me about Micky packing his pillow to come down to the cottage last year, that time Terence collected them for the Yacht Club do. Not on the same scale—but yeah, I get her point.

    There’s a few tears when Max rings them and tells them Grandpa’s dead, but they’re not too bad. Well, they weren’t that close to him, Lattimore Court’s a fair way north and Mummy only let them go there when Max insisted on his rights or she wanted to take off somewhere glam’. Molly was right: once they’ve made sure that Daddy’s going and Granny’s going and I’ll be going if they go, they vote to go to the funeral. Julie reminds me about their Charlie Bird’s funeral. That’s right, so at least they’ve got some idea of what a funeral is, good.

    So it’s all sorted. Max’s lawyer’s taken me over to get the dental records—the guy turned out to have been at school with Max, but that’s par for the course—and Terence and Molly collect us in his new station-waggon: we’re all gonna drive up together and Terence won’t hear of me arranging anything else. Actually I’m quite glad to just stop and let him make this decision: I feel really drained, to tell ya the truth.

    It’s a really nice service in the local village church. Nobody asks, so Molly and me don’t mention that we’re very lapsed Catholics. Max’s mother looks a bit like Fiona Kendall: tallish, thinnish. Fair, so the dad must’ve been dark. Exhausted, but she’s bearing up not too bad, since Doris is on the job.

    Molly and Terence go back the next day but Doris and me stay on. Unfortunately the day after that Max gets the news that they’ve definitely identified Katherine’s body. He has to tell them, of course. Naturally they bawl but once they’re over the first shock Julie comes out with: “We don’t have to stay here, do we, Daddy?”

    “Julie, I thought I’d explained all that to you? We can’t stay, it’s not ours. Your Cousin Peter owns the Court now.”

    That’s right: Max isn’t the eldest son, he had an older brother, Randal, who was killed fighting in Northern Ireland: he had three sons, all grown up now. And the reason they haven’t been rallying round is they’re living in Canada—the mum was Canadian and took them back there with her. Incensing Max’s dad, who wanted them to stay on in Pongo and go to nayce Pommy schools, geddit? They didn’t turn up for the funeral but Peter, the eldest one that gets the lot, has given Max’s mummy a month to vacate the property. Still bearing a grudge—right.

    “Good, that means we don’t have to live here,” goes Julie.

    So Sally bursts out: “Can we stay with Georgia?”

    Max turns puce and manages to utter: “Georgia isn’t our relation. And I—I have to sort out what I’m going to do. Um, I’ll have to decide whether to keep your mother’s house on… It will come to you girls, but, um…”

    “I hate it!” says Julie viciously.

    “Transference,” I note briefly.

    “What?” he says numbly. “Oh, um, yes. Though, um, there were a fair number of, um, Medes and Persians, Georgia.”

    Is he telling me? The not pinning posters on your bedroom walls was the least of it! “Yeah. Well, say you sold it and sold your flat, then you might manage something nicer.”

    He makes a face. “She had two huge mortgages on it, Georgia.”

    Goddit. “Right: that’d finance a few tropical holidays. Um, well, you’d get a bit of equity out of it, though, surely?”

    “Mm.”

    “What are you going to do, Daddy?” goes Sally.

    Julie’s older, so she’s got a fairer idea of what he might do, and she just looks at him in terror. ’Cos Number One, at the top of the list, is run away to sea again—oh, yeah.

    So I take a deep breath. “Times of stress aren’t the best for making life decisions. On the other hand, unfortunately they seem to be the times when you gotta make them, don’t they? But put it like this. Your mother’s elderly and she didn’t marry Katherine and have these two, you did. I know you gotta earn a crust to put food in their mouths, but that ain’t the half of it. Just try putting what might be best for them at the top of your list of male priorities, Max, for a change.” And I grab up Roger and I’m outa there before I really tell the wanker what I think of him.

    “Yip, yip, yip!” Licks my face like mad.

    “Yeah. You can have your corgi boots on and we’ll go walkies, eh?”

    “Yip, yip, yip!”

    Right. Never mind the fucking place is under six feet of snow and if it wasn't for Doris taking the initiative and finding out who Max’s father used to order to sweep the fucking drive clear it wouldn’t of happened at all, I need fresh air!

    We go out, well bundled up. It’s so cold that after he’s watered a dead-looking bush and done a present on the snowed-over lawn which I merely kick a bit of snow over, this Cousin Peter that never turned up for his grandfather’s funeral can have it, I pick him up and admit: “Gee, Roger, I wish to God we were back home in Australia! And I’ll never call a Melbourne winter cold again as long as I live!”

    No way am I going back in the so-called small sitting-room again, and I know Doris and Alison’ll be sitting in the warm in the so-called breakfast room, which is actually the cosiest room in the flaming barracks, so we nip up the stairs to my room. It’s perishing—there’s no central heating, of course—but at least there is a gas fire so I light it and we get under the pile of dunas. Eiderdowns? Whatever.

    Tap, tap! Blast! Who the fuck’s that? Go—away. But I say Come in and he comes in.

    “Reading?” he says with a wan smile.

    I put it down with a sigh. “Just it finished it, actually. I suppose that huge collection of books downstairs’ll go to this flaming Cousin Peter, too, will it?”

    “Mm.”

    “Right.” Dunno why I chose Pride and Prejudice except that the author’s name was one of the few I recognised amongst all the Latin shit and what I think is Greek shit down there.

    He looks at it with a smile. “I like it, too.”

    “Yeah? I hadn’t read it before: we never hadda do Jane Austen at uni, but I’ve seen the TV version. Actually I’ve seen two versions on TV: there was a really, really old film with Laurence Olivier in it, “lithping ever tho thligthly,” as Rupy would say. He was terrible, but it didn’t matter, because the Eliza Bennet was a simpering moron anyway. The modern version had that really nice, curly-haired tall guy that was in Bridget Jones’s Diary: he was great. Mind you, it wasn’t like the book at all, in fact at one point I was starting to wonder if I’d got hold of the wrong book, here. But Mr Collins, he’s just like the one in the old film: he was fabulous! The one in the modern version was hopeless. Never got the point that that character was meant to be funny as well as awful. Like that really bad version of Molière at the festival.”

    “Er—yes,” he goes limply.

    “There’s no, like, fencing or horse-riding in his shirt in the book, either.”

    “What? Oh! I have seen that telly thing, yes: Mummy taped it for me!” he says with a sudden laugh. “No, that was all the modern version’s own, I’m afraid, Georgia.”

    “Right. They put back all the stuff she left out, didn’t they?”

    “All the stuff she left out on purpose, mm,” he says with a smile, sitting down on the side of the bed.

    “Yip, yip, yep!”

    “Oh, Jesus, did I squash him?” he gasps, bounding up.

    “No, he’s okay,” I say he comes up for air. “Yeah, good boy! –Think you were invading his space, that’s all, Max.”

    “Yes,” he says limply, sitting down again. “I seem to have been doing a fair bit of that, over the past couple of weeks. I—I can’t thank you enough, Georgia.”

    “I told ya, it’s no prob’.”

    “Yes, it is. I mean, I—I had no right to even ask for your help,” he goes, gnawing on his lip. “But I—well, I couldn’t think of anyone else. I mean,” he says, going very red, “there wasn’t anyone else, Georgia.”

    After a moment I go red, too, what a nana! He means he hasn’t had any other girlfriends since me. “Oh.”

    “And I knew you’d help if you could and—and that you’re a very reliable person,” he goes in a low voice, not looking at me.

    Ri-ight. Is that good, or not?

    “Um, Georgia,” he says, swallowing, “I know you think I’m a bit of a Bingley.”

    Eh? Oh! Well, yeah, he’s not wrong there. Always in his stronger friend’s shadow, right? Never gets to captain the bloody thing, put it that way. But…

    “Like, wasn’t Jane Austen a spinster lady?”

    “What?” he says groggily. “Um, well, yes.”

    “Yeah. She does it so well you don’t notice when you’re reading, but on thinking it over I don’t think many blokes’d let a mate put them off a girl they really fancied.”

    “Uh—no. perhaps not that. But, um, easily led,” he goes, picking at the duna.

    “Don’t do that, some ruddy ancestor seems to have embroidered that fucking thing by hand!” He stops with a jump. “You did seem to be trailing round in Terence’s wake, summer before last. But if you’re asking me if I see you as a big strong hero, Max, no, I don’t.”

    He’s gone very red. “No,” he goes in a trembling voice, his eyes filling with tears. “But—”

    “But actually, Darcy was a real wimp, too, if you look at him objectively.”

    He swallows hard. “What?”

    “Yeah. Lets himself be taken in by all that cultural brainwashing of his for ages and ages, doesn’t make any sort of real push to get Eliza but lets her give him the big brush-off. Mind you, anyone would of, he came over as the up-himself prick: begging for his comeuppance. But he came right in the end, all that stuff he did for her, getting that bastard to marry the sister. –Wish that happened in real life,” I go sourly.

    “Whuh-what?”

    So I explain about Molly getting pregnant at sixteen—which, note, Lydia Bennet must of been, or even younger, because she was fifteen at the beginning, wasn’t she? He’s absolutely horrified and really furious with the bloke, but points out that marrying that sort of bastard wouldn’t necessarily be the best solution.

    “No, and see, Jane Austen, she’s shrewd enough to spot that: she doesn’t give you that idea or anything like it! Only it was the only possible thing that could make it good, back in those days!”

    “Er—yes,” he says limply.

    So I come back to myself. “Um, sorry. Didn’t mean to get carried away with a literary discussion, here. Um, well, Bingley was pretty feeble, I guess, but he was human,” I go cautiously.

    “Mm.”

    Okay, Max, it’s up to you, I’m not gonna say it for you.

    “I won’t say there aren’t any heroes in real life, Georgia, but I will say that—that if that’s what you expect from me, I can’t be it, I’m only human, too.”

    “Did I say that was what I wanted?”

    “No, I suppose I just got that impression,” he goes glumly. “And Luke Beaumont—I mean Henry, or whatever he calls himself—”

    “Never mind him. Having so much money you can order anyone to do anything you want doesn’t actually cut any ice with me. And okay, I know he built up his business himself, he’s a really capable bloke, but whatever he might claim he wants, he doesn’t know what ordinary life is, any more.”

    “Um, and do you want an ordinary life?” he says in a small voice.

    “Pretty much, yeah.”

    “But what about your career?”

    “What, the Georgia Rose shit? Do me a favour! That’s seventy five percent Derry’s directing, twenty percent the clothes and five percent my so-called talent!”

    “That’s very—very exact,” he says in a wobbly voice.

    “It’s okay, you can laugh. I never wanted to be a star, just wanted to do something different and get out of the rut of office life on the fucking Fourteenth!”

    “I remember, you said something like that when we were down at Miller’s Bay,” he goes dazedly.

    I’m glad ya remember something I said, Max! “Yeah. I’m much more interested in the production side of it; I think Brian Hendricks might let me do that—well, he’s said I can start with the production team this year. He still imagines they’re gonna go ahead with a second series of the New Daughter but him and Derry were too mean to sign me and Molly up for two series, and we haven’t signed contracts for the second lot yet. I think she’s gonna pull out of it, between you and me. And if she pulls out it’ll fold, no way can I do both Daughters, even if I wanted to.”

    “But you wouldn’t pull out first?”

    “Not if Molly wants to carry on with it, ’cos she putting the money away for Micky.”

    Suddenly he smiles. “I see! –So producing’s what you really want to do?”

    “Yes. Like, as a career—yes.”

    “Yes. Um, would you consider combining a career and—and marriage?” he goes in a trembling voice.

    “That’d depend who it was with. Not with Henry, for sure, I’ve had it up to here with his lifestyle. Added to which, I like him but I’m not in love with him, and he’s got too much baggage. Emotional baggage, y’know?”

    “Mm. As well as the more substantial kind,” he goes drily.

    Um, yeah. I was overlooking for a moment, there, that he’s actually a pretty bright guy. And educated, y’know? Well, reads Jane Austen, yet? Most of the nongs I knew back home never read a book from cover to cover in their lives. Including the ones with the so-called degrees: yeah.

    “Well, with me, Georgia?” he says.

    Deep breath, try to ignore the fact me face is flaming. “Look, I want to, Max, but that’s not all there is to it, is it?”

    “Um, apparently not,” he says, swallowing.

    “No. I have thought about it, because of all the blokes I’ve met you’re the one I’d most like to marry, if ya wanna know.”

    “I do want to know, actually, yes!” he goes, brightening.

    “Just hold your horses. I can’t be a Navy wife. That’s just not how modern marriage oughta work. All those poor women in Bellingford, there’s hardly any of them that really cope with it, you know. Don’t tell me they’re mainly ratings’ wives, I don’t need your officers and other ranks shit, we’re all human! And Rosie totally couldn’t hack it, it’s why John wangled that transfer to a shore job.”

    “The way Terence tells it, it was John who couldn’t hack it.”

    “Eh?”

    “Yes. He looked at the options and couldn’t face being at sea, away from the woman he loved, for half his life. So he gave up the idea of advancing his career.”

    “But his situation was very different from yours: he’d made it: full Captain, commanding a thing the size of the QEII. But you’re at the point where your career could go somewhere. And before you say anything, I don’t wanna land myself in the situation where you blame me ’cos you hadda give up your career! And just in case you were wondering, I am up for looking after the girls, but only on a share-and-share alike basis. Not if you’re at sea.”

    “Yes: you did once say that you thought modern marriage should be on an equal shares basis. I’ve been thinking a lot about it,” he admits. “I’m not quite sure what you’re envisaging, but even if we’re both working I don’t know that we could manage after-school care.”

    Cough. We could if it was Aunty Pretty, ’cos she’s already offered. “Um, I have thought about that.”

    He brightens terrifically. “Really?”

    Why’ve I gone scarlet again? So I tell him how it’d be real handy, she’d come over to our street, she’d be happy to look after them in the flat or she might pop in to her sister-in-law’s place just down the road now and then, and of course little Brad’d come, too—he smiles like anything and agrees that’d be fine, he hasn’t got it, yet. So I spell it out.

    “Aunty Pretty?” he croaks.

    Glare. “It’s quite a common name, in India.”

    “Y—Foreigners?” he croaks.

    “That’s right, Blacks and Pakis and FOREIGNERS!” I shout furiously. “They’re really, really nice and they’ve been really generous and kind—”

    He’s collapsed on the bed, narrowly missing Roger again, in complete hysterics. Finally he sits up, mopping his eyes and grinning like anything.

    “Oh, dear, shouldn’t laugh, now the poor girl’s dead. But honestly—! Nothing even faintly pale brown was ever allowed to get near them! When we were first looking for a flat she vetoed a perfectly nice place because the people next-door were a couple of pleasant Nigerians from their High Commission.”

    Jeez, even the diplomat ones were out, too? Most of his lot make exceptions for them. Never realised she was that bad.

    “Is it too much to hope this Aunty Pretty’s as black as your hat?” he goes, grinning.

    “Look, stop it. She is, but—Will ya stop LAUGHING, ya prejudiced nit?”

    “I’m not prejudiced, but I have to ask this. Did either of the girls say anything?”

    So I go nastily: “Like, ‘Isn’t she dark?’ or ‘Mummy doesn’t let us talk to Them.’ NO!”

    “At least she didn’t manage to brainwash them to that extent, then. Sorry I laughed, Georgia: Aunty Pretty sounds the perfect solution. But, um, was this based on the assumption that we’d be living in the flat?”

    My jaw’s sagged ten feet. I never even noticed myself doing it!

    He’s got this funny little smile on his mug now. “I think I’d better talk to John about buying the lease. They don’t use it much any more, do they?”

    “No. But there’s Rupy: he doesn’t share the lease but he does contribute to the rent.”

    “Isn’t he going off to Thailand, though?”

    “Well, yeah, only we don’t know that’ll work out, Max.”

    “No. But we’d only need two rooms. We could keep his room on for him,”

    “Um, yeah. He might not want to share with a family.”

    “No. We’ll talk to him, okay?”

     So I go in this very small voice: “Yeah.”

    He smiles at me. “So is it settled, then? I agree, marriage should be share and share alike. And don’t worry, I won’t blame you about leaving the Navy: actually I can’t wait to get out. It hadn’t dawned, but the reason I was so happy in the job before was because Terence has got the knack of maintaining a really happy ship. My new captain’s a bit of a prick, frankly. New Age type. Everything by the book, management techniques till they come out your ears. Don’t tell me that can’t be all bad, it can.”

    Okay, I won’t. “Have you thought about what you might do?”

    “Not really. Something in personnel? I like working with people.’

    “Um, yeah. Human resources, they call it in Civvy Street these days, Max.”

    “Ugh! I suppose I can stand it!”

    “It’s pretty by the book, too, these days. Um, well, depends who ya work for… Um, look: I think you might be happy doing that sort of thing with Henny Penny or if they haven’t got a slot, Double Dee. I’ll look into it,” Short pause. “I mean, wouldja like me to look into it?”

    Suddenly he takes my hands and hold them very tight. “Yes. Ask rather than tell, Georgia, I think, if you can manage it.”

    Okay, I know I’m a bossy-boots. “Yes. Okay, Max. Sorry.”

    “Mm. Come here.” He kisses me gently and like a nong I bawl all over him.

    “There is a lot to sort out and quite a lot more that I think we need to discuss,” he goes, smiling, as I mop my face with his hanky, “but in principle, can we say we’re engaged?”

    “Aw, Hell, yeah, Max!”

    Don’t think that was the ladylike response he was unconsciously expecting but he grins and kisses me again. Ooh! But I gotta point out we can’t, what if one of the kids came in, as he suggests popping under this nice warm eiderdown with me. So he goes: “Well, tonight?” Dunno why I only manage a squeak in reply and I go red as fire, I’ve done it with him before!

    “In the meantime,” he says, grabbing my wrist and unbuckling my watch, “allow me.”

    “What are you doing?”

    “Removing this bloody thing that Beaumont gave you.”

    “He said it come from a street market,” I go lamely.

    “And you believed him?” There’s a water glass on my bedside table so he goes scratch, scratch on it with the things round the face that I thought were glass. “See?” He drops it on the bedside table. “Don’t wear it again, okay? It can go back to him.”

    “No, okay.” Well, I won’t wear it again, no. But I won’t send it back to him: a bloke with his sort of dough? Talk about a drop in the ocean! What I will do— No, first I’ll get it valued. Then I’ll bung it in that safety-deposit box alongside them pearls Derry gimme. Because yeah, everything in the garden’s hunky-dory as of this precise min, but shit, if 9/11 hadn't already of suggested it to me, this month certainly would: in life, ya never know, do ya? And there’s the girls to think of, now.