Tidal Wave

32

Tidal Wave

    Rupy was staying in town for Christmas, because he’d unexpectedly landed a part in a panto! Just a small part, but it was quite fun. He accepted Doris’s warm invitation to join her and Buster downstairs for a nice, cosy Christmas Day. Back when he got the part he had been planning something quite different, but most unfortunately darling Benedict had been sent abroad by the horrible Foreign and Commonwealth Office again. Another horrid hot, humid place, what was more! He didn’t have a performance on Boxing Day, as it was Sunday, so he decided not to get up at all.

    Not getting up at all had palled around two-thirty, so he was huddled on the sofa in his dressing-gown and an afghan with a cuppa when unexpectedly Georgia and Henry turned up with prezzies. Fortunately he’d remembered to get something for them, though God knew, it wasn’t easy to choose something for The Man Who Had Everything! However, he seemed very pleased with the little sketch of the three cottages in Moulder’s Way that Rupy had got off Anna. Not commissioned specially, no: she had loads of sketches of all sorts of things, not all of which had turned into pictures. Georgia was much easier to buy for, even though she was The Girlfriend of The Man Who had Everything, because one could always give her something for Roger. Which he had: corgi boots. When he got them it had seemed like an inspiration but later on he’d had second thoughts: would she think it was a mean joke? Phew! No, she was thrilled and tried them on him immediately and told them how worried she’d been about his little paws in the frosty English weather. No, well, not much sense of humour, really. Luke—blow! Henry was trying not to laugh, however.

    Henry presented him with a huge bottle of very good Cognac—well, typical uninspired but rich present from The Man Who had Everything to a strange connection of The Girlfriend’s, yes. Georgia, however, had chosen something really special: the most beautiful make-up case, huge, with compartments for everything, in real Morocco leather!

    “And just watch out those types at the panto don’t nick it,” she ordered grimly.

    “Darling, they’re quite a nice bunch,” he said feebly.

    “Huh!”

    “Well, um, have to share a dressing-room, but the three of us have got a dresser, ’cos the costume changes are fiddly. Um, well, I’ve known Joe for twenty years, he’s the salt of the earth, I’ll get him to keep an eye on it.”

    “Good. Get dressed, we’ll have a nice tea,” she ordered.

    Presumably Henry Beaumont wouldn’t have any difficulty getting in anywhere for a nice tea on Boxing Day. So they did that.

    Monday was exhausting: two performances, so very naturally he got up rather late on the Tuesday. He was just getting himself some toast and coffee when Georgia turned up again.

    She was frowning, so he bleated: “Don’t look like that, I had two performances yester—”

    “Not that, Rupy,” she said, biting her lip.

    “Um, everything all right, darling?” he asked cautiously. It had certainly seemed to be okay on Sunday. On the other hand, why wasn’t Henry with her? Surely he wasn’t working: what about all those claims about scaling back his workload? Had he lapsed—gilt worn off the gingerbread? “Where’s Henry?’

    “He’s in a meeting. About disaster relief,” said Georgia with a horrible frown.

    “Oh,” replied Rupy vaguely. “Well, that’s commendable, darling. Though it’s a pity he had to schedule it for his hols—couldn’t he’ve put it off?”

    “Rupy, haven’t you been watching the news?”

    “Far too busy, dear.”

    “Yes. I think you’d better sit down,” she said grimly.

    Rupy paled. “Something happened to Rosie or the babies?”

    “No, nothing like that.”

    He sank onto the sofa, looking at her limply. “What, then? –Um, yes, come on, Roger.” He helped him up beside him. Roger seemed to want to get onto his lap so he let him, fending off the attempts to lick his face.

    Georgia took a deep breath. “There’s been a big tsunami in Asia. In the Indian Ocean.” She looked at his blank face. “A tidal wave, Rupy.”

    “Terrible, dear. Oh, I see! That’s why Henry’s in his meeting!”

    “Yes. The big charities are run by professional wankers that can’t pull their fingers out, and the UN seems to be doing fuck all. He can supply a fleet of cargo planes but the authorities over there are incapable of clearing the airports in the first place and of getting the stuff to the affected areas in the second place, but gee, does that matter? Because the charities can’t manage to jack up anything to put in them in the first instance!” She took a deep breath. “Sorry. They’re all guarding their own little empires like mad, it’s driving him crazy. –Never mind that. Um, the thing is, there was this huge earthquake off Indonesia, and, um, that started the tidal wave. It travelled north, more or less.” She looked at him without hope.

    “Terrible thing, dear.”

    “Yes.” Georgia took a deep breath and said flatly: “Thailand’s been very badly affected, Rupy.”

    “But that’s the place they’ve sent Benedict!” he gasped, clutching Roger convulsively.

    “Yes.—Quiet, Roger!—There’s no need to panic: if he’s in Bangkok he’ll be fine. It’s the coast that’s been swamped. Um, well, you won’t of heard of it, I don’t think, but it’s a very popular tourist area. I know quite a few Aussies that’ve been there.” She paused, looking at him dubiously.

    “Buh-Benedict said when he rang that—that he and Jill Something, nice girl, he’s worked with her before, and, um, think it was Eric, um, yes, Eric, were going to have a break by the sea because none of them were due for home leave… All I could think was the place is full of pretty little brown lads.”

    “Um, well, yes, ’tis,” allowed Georgia fairly. “Did he say where, Rupy?”

    “Suh-some foreign name,” he quavered.

    “Phuket?” replied Georgia grimly.

    “Duh-dunno dear!” he stuttered. “Foreign. Um, think maybe it was an island. Is—is that bad?” He stroked Roger feverishly.

    Her jaw firmed. “Depending which part of the coast it was on, it could be. Do you know his family, at all?”

    “Um, there’s an elderly mum and a brother—no, hang on, stepbrother, he was the father’s by an earlier marriage. He’s a lot older, they don’t get on.”

    “Half-brother, I think you mean. Do they know about you?”

    “Um, the mum does, but she’s a bit vague, dear,” he stumbled. “She’s in one of those retirement homes, very pretty town, um… Rye, I think.”

    “In that case we better ring his work. They should at least know where he went for Christmas.”

    “The—the Foreign Office?” he quavered. “Darling, I don’t think they’ll let on!”

    “I’ll say I’m his sister.” She looked at his face. “All right, sister-in-law. Or you could pretend to be his brother, he’s probably got him down as next of kin.” She looked at his face again. “All right, I’ll do it.”

    Rupy just watched and listened numbly, hugging the corgi. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office appeared to believe Georgia was Mrs Roger Little, but their latest information was that Benedict Little was on a posting to Bangkok. They gave her a special emergency number for relatives and friends of victims of the tsunami and rang off. Grimly Georgia dialled the emergency number. The voice at the other end took Benedict’s details but had absolutely no information it could give her. Nothing about whether he had gone on holiday to the affected area, even.

    “Hopelessly inefficient,” said Georgia grimly. “Henry was right.”

    “Yes. Shall—shall we try the telly, dear?”

    They were sitting numbly in front of the telly watching the awful pics and some totally muddled news, it all seemed to be guesswork and frightful statistics and filthy brown water, when Georgia’s phone rang.

    Rupy watched in horror as Georgia went a very funny colour. “Max’s mother?” she said sharply. “Is Max all right?”

    Oh, Jesus! Had Max’s submarine been under the frightful tidal wave or something?

    “I see,” she said finally. “No, it’s all right, Mrs Lattimore. –Yes: Alison. No, you did the right thing. Of course her mother’s in no fit state. Where is Max?” The phone spoke for some time. Rupy watched numbly. “I see. Yes, tell him not to worry, I’ll take care of them. …No, ring me any time, Alison. Hang on, I’ll give you another couple of numbers.” Rupy listened numbly as she gave her the number here and Henry Beaumont’s private number. She then said goodbye, hung up and said grimly: “Don’t ask me why the wankers can’t make a mobile phone that doesn’t die on you when you most need it!”

    “Nuh—um, no. Max’s mother?” he croaked, patting Roger blindly.

    “Yeah. He rung her up in a panic. He’s at sea, what else. Katherine, the ex, was on holiday in Phuket when the tsunami struck.”

    Rupy clapped a hand over his mouth and goggled at her in horror.

    “The kids weren’t with her,” said Georgia grimly. “She was with the boyfriend.”

    “Oh,” he said limply, sagging all over the sofa. He swallowed hard. “Still, bad enough. Are the girls with their grandparents?”

    “Sort of. She did dump them with her parents for Christmas. They live in High Wycombe, know where that is?”

    “Not very far out of London, dear. Um, the M40, I think. Very nice.”

    “Yes, Mrs Lattimore said it wasn’t far.”

    “Yuh—um, darling, I think it’s Lady Lattimore.”

    She shrugged. “Whatever. Anyway, the grandmother—Grandie, the girls call her—she’s gone to pieces, understandable enough, it is her daughter that’s gone missing. She’s in bed on tranquillisers. And reading between the lines, he’s useless. They’ve parked the kids on their neighbour.”

    “Rallying round,” agreed Rupy faintly, nodding.

    Georgia snorted. “The nice High Wycombe version of it, Rupy! Can’t wait to get shot of the poor little sprats. Julie rung her Granny and bawled down the phone because Sally sicked up on the carpet in the fucking lounge-room and the bitch has banished them from it forever and a day and they’re not even allowed in the kitchen, ’cos the daily threatened to leave. Which leaves their room, doesn’t it? Given the English weather. But Max’s mother can’t come down and fetch them because the dad’s really sick. I mean, he was a bit gaga before, but this time it sounds really bad: it’s his lungs. Emphysema. She was ringing me from the hospital.”

    “Oh, Lawks, darling!” he cried. “And Max is at sea?”

    “Yeah. Typical. Dunno why he told her she better ring me, but.”

    Rupy’s jaw dropped: he’d been assuming the mum had an old number and had desperately rung Georgia off her own bat. “He told her to?”

    “Yeah. Well, I dare say he doesn’t know anyone else dependable,” said Georgia, terrifically grim.

    “Yuh—well, not unlikely… Yes, go to Georgia, good boy!” he encouraged the panting corgi. “The ex must have friends, though, dear! I mean—old school friends?”

    Georgia scooped Roger up and hugged him in an automatic manner. “Don’t ask me. Whether or not she’s got them, they’re not on deck. I told Max’s mum I’d fetch them.”

    “Yuh—um, darling, two little kids in that pristine apartment of Henry’s?”

    “He can afford to replace any number of carpets they sick up on,” replied Georgia grimly.

    “Yes, not that. It’s—it’s not a very homey environment,” he said limply.

    “’Tis a bit off, I suppose, yeah. Been too busy to think about it, really. Andrea chose most of the stuff that’s in it. Um, well, you don’t want them here, though!”

    “Why not?”

    Georgia gnawed on her lip. “They have been here once before, that’s true. ’Tis nicer. Um, I think I ought to take them home to their place, only I dunno about keys or anything, I’ll have to see if I can get any sense out of the grandfather. They call him something sickening, too. Um… Grampy. Well, if I could bring them back here, Rupy, just temporarily, that’d be great.”

    “Of course, dear. They’d better use the spare room, it’s got those two nice twin beds, and you can borrow Rosie’s and John’s room!”

    “Right. Thanks, Rupy.” She hesitated. “Um, want me to ring the theatre and tell them you can’t make it today?”

    His mouth firmed. “Ta ever so dear, but no. The show must go on. And if I stay here, I’ll only mope.”

    Georgia looked at him with undisguised approval. “Good on ya. Well,” she said, looking at her watch, “if you wanna have a shower and get dressed, I can drop you off at the theatre. I’d better ring Henry.”

    In spite of everything Rupy deliberately lingered in the doorway while she did so: he wouldn’t have missed it for all the tea in China.

    “Hi, ’s’me,” she said. “This is an emergency, you nit! Just shut up and listen! I won’t be home today, Max Lattimore’s kids have been left in the lurch: the ex has gone missing in Phuket. …No, he’s at sea. Don’t ask me where. …No, I’ll bring them back here to Rupy’s for the night. …He’s bearing up, but there’s no news at all, and the fucking F.C.O. was worse than useless and don’t tell me not to call them that! ...Oh. Good on ya. …No, Henry, it’s a sterile dump, added to which it sounds as if Sally’s been having a tummy upset, might not be a bad idea to be close to Doris, she used to be a nursing sister. …No, I’ve decided. Hang on: I’ll need the limo. ..For Pete’s sake! I am capable of ringing him myself! …Right. See ya.” With that she rang off.

    Rupy didn’t wait to hear her give Henry’s limo driver her orders, he just staggered off to have his shower. What with everything, he felt so numb that he was barely capable of asking himself whether that indicated that Henry Beaumont had had his chips, or not.

    Benedict rang on the third day after that. Sally beat Rupy to the phone by a whisker.

    “Hullo?” she said importantly.

    “Give me—”

    “Ssh! Speak up, please! …This is Sally Lattimore speaking.”

    “Sally, give me—”

    “Ssh! Yes, this is the right number for Mr Rupy Mayn—”

    He wrenched it off her. “Rupy Maynarde speaking.”

    A very crackling voice, very, very far away, replied: “Rupy, it’s Benedict.”

    “Where have you BEEN?” he cried, bursting into tears.

    “I’m all right! Darling, don’t cry! I haven’t been able to get through—”

    Sally stood back, goggling, as Rupy bawled down the phone. “He’s crying,” she said in a small voice as Georgia came through from the kitchen. “Men don’t cry.”

    “Obviously they do.” Georgia put an arm round Rupy. “What is it?”

    “It’s him!” he sobbed. “He’s all—right!”

    “Benedict?”

    He nodded hard, tears dripping down his face.

    “Then I wouldn’t waste an international phone call by bawling,” she said cheerfully. “Come on, Sally, it’s good news: he’s crying because he’s so relieved his friend’s all right. We’ll leave him to it.” Grabbing her hand, she hauled her off bodily to the kitchen.

    Rupy gulped and sniffed but finally managed more or to less to concentrate on what Benedict was saying.

    “He’s all right,” he reported, coming through to the kitchen.

    “Yeah, got that!” replied Georgia, grinning at him.

    “Does that mean that Mummy’s going to be all right?” asked Sally in a small voice.

    “No!” snapped Julie.

    “That dough looks good, Julie,” said Georgia calmly. “I think you could roll it out now.”

    “I’ll just check the book.” Julie checked the recipe book.

    “If people are turning up okay, it means there is hope your mummy’ll be okay,” said Georgia to Sally. “Where was he, Rupy?”

    “Well, it wasn’t all that clear, dear, but he and Jill had gone on a day trip. Um, somewhere inland? Mm. But the whole island seems to have been fluh-flattened.” He swallowed hard.

    “Yes, that was the holiday island we saw on the news, Rupy.”

    “Mummy wasn’t on that!” cried Sally.

    “No,” agreed Georgia.

    “There’s no sign of Eric,” explained Rupy awkwardly.

    “Their friend from work? That’s terrible. They must all be in a state of shock. Is the Embassy sending them home, Rupy?”

    “He seems to think he should stay on and do anything he can, dear. The foreign aid does seem to be getting into Bangkok. The Embassy’s terribly busy, of course.”

    “Yes. Well, he’s probably better keeping busy.”

    “Mm, what I thought.”

    Georgia hesitated. Then she said: “Rupy, once things have settled down a bit and they’re running normal tourist flights again, why don’t you go out there?”

    “Juh-join him?” he gulped.

    “Yes. The Embassy wouldn’t kick up, would they? I mean, there are such things as gay rights, these days.”

    “Nuh—um, you don’t mean, go as his wee wifey?” he squeaked.

    “Yes,” said Georgia flatly. “This is totally mad, you moping every time he gets sent overseas when it’s his job to be sent overseas.”

    Rupy’s fists clenched. “He’s quite a bit younger than me,” he said in a small voice.

    “Then in your shoes, I’d go, and find out if he really wanted me,” she said baldly.

    “Mm.” He licked his lips. “Um, but what about my work?”

    “If you do decide to get together I’m sure his salary’ll be enough to support the both of you. But you could always nip back to Britain if you want to keep on with The New Generation. But I wouldn’t guarantee it won’t fold: from the look on Molly’s face on Chrissie Day when was she was holding Baby June I’d say she and Terence’ll be starting a family the minute he puts the wedding ring on her finger, if not sooner.”

    “You have to be married to start a family,” announced Sally.

    Rupy winced. “Little pitchers.”

    “No, you don’t, that was in the old days,” said Georgia calmly. “Anyway, I wouldn’t pin any hopes on the New Daughter, Rupy.”

    “No, um, quite. Well, um, the panto won’t run for all that long.”

    “No. You could plan to go out as soon as it’s over,” she said calmly. “–Mm, those biscuits look really good, Julie! How long has the oven been on?”

    Julie consulted her watch importantly. “Twenty-two minutes.”

    “Good, it’ll have reached its temperature, we can put them in. I’ll do it, since it’s the first time.” She seized the tray of greyish, dead-looking things in an iron hand, opened the oven door with the other iron hand and bunged them in. She straightened and met Rupy’s eye. “They’ll cook up okay,” she said blandly. “–Time that,” she ordered Julie.

    “I am! Five fifty… -seven,” she announced.

    “Right, well, you better work out when they’ll be done. Just remember, there’s sixty minutes to an hour.”

    “I know!” Julie went over to the phone pad with the curly wire attaching a pen to it that John had efficiently put up by the kitchen extension—if he hadn't already done so, Rupy was quite sure Georgia would have—and, breathing heavily, began to do arithmetic. She was taller than Rupy remembered her: she was now going on eleven, but he sincerely doubted she was capable of that sort of sum. He looked limply at Georgia.

    She consulted her watch and winked at him.

    “Um, yes,” he said feebly, smiling feebly. “Um, well, pot of tea? Even if it is going on six. Then we can have the biscuits with it!”

    “What about your dinner?” demanded Sally, fixing him with a hard, unwinking gaze that was not, actually, unlike Georgia’s.

    “Um, I never have a heavy meal before the evening show, dear. Oh! A pot of tea and a biscuit won’t spoil it, Sally.” The gaze didn’t waver. “Um, well, it can be part of it: high tea, eh?” he said feebly.

    She brightened. “High tea! Granny has that! We could have boiled eggs with soldiers!”

    “Don’t let her boil them,” said Julie grimly into the phone pad.

    “I can do it!”

    “Can not!”

    “Can too!”

    Rupy tottered out into the main room, to the sounds of Georgia wading into it. “Yes, you’re well out of it!” he said as Roger looked up blearily from his position very close to the big electric fire. He sat down shakily. “Ooh, I feel all of a doo-dah!”

    Roger came over to him, panting eagerly and wagging his little tail.

    “Oh, go on, then,” Rupy hoisted him onto his knee. Eagerly Roger licked his face. “Ugh! That’s enough! Good boy!” He cuddled him firmly. “Wee wifey? Me? I haven’t even got a frilly pinny!” he said with a mad laugh.

    Penn came slowly into the kitchen—the baby was really weighing her down, these days—and halted in her tracks with a gasp. He’d shaved the beard off!

    “Colin, what’s this in aid of?”

    He rubbed his chin and looked at her ruefully. “Don’t like it?”

    “Um, no, it looks good, actually,” she said weakly. It did, too. His jaw was leaner than John’s, not quite so oval, but he had a similar rounded chin. Would you call it rounded? Perfectly shaped, anyway. The sort of chin that made a lady feel very weak at the knees, if you wanted to be strictly accurate, and most unfortunately something was telling her loud and clear that today was a day on which her knees would need to be considerably stronger than titanium.

    “I, uh, I’ve given in to Clive’s nagging: going up to town to talk about whether the charity can use me,” he said with a grimace. “Well, don’t want to sit round on my hands at a time like this if there’s something I can do.”

    “At a time like this,” echoed Penn weakly, groping for a chair. She sat down heavily.

    “I realise it’s not particularly well-timed, darling, but you’re not due till next month, after all. If they can use me right away, then I can give them a few weeks. Otherwise, at least sort out if they do need me and when I might join them, mm?”

    “What about the Green?” she croaked.

    He sighed a little. “It rather pales in comparison, Penn.”

    “Colin, it might not be on the same scale, but people’s lives are involved here, too!” said Penn, rather loudly.

    “Mm. I honestly think Robert can manage everything, darling.”

    “He’s not so good with people as you. And—and it’s your project,” said Penn in a shaking voice.

    “Yes, but it’s up and running now, isn’t it? The craftspersons are all beavering away building up stock for the summer season next year, and Robert’s got other outlets lined up for them—he’s done a really good job on that—and the advertising’s well in hand. All that side of it’s really much more his sort of thing than it is mine.”

    “Right, now tell me that he’d have sorted out that row the other day between the weaver and the new woodcarvers in the front room of 22 as well as you did!”

    “I think he’d have managed, sweetheart. Um, this is a global emergency, Penn.”

    “Yes,” said Penn with a heavy sigh. “The call of duty, isn’t it? You’re much more your father’s son than I realised, never mind the Army stuff reinforcing it for thirty years.”

    “I can’t not go, if I can help.”

    “No, I realise that. Well, since you’re going, you might speak to Henry Beaumont as well: from what Molly got off Georgia, I sort of got the impression he can provide the money and the fleets of transport planes but Clive and the other wankers can’t manage to—” She looked at his face. “You have,” she said flatly.

    “I’ve made an appointment, yes. Henry thinks I might be a lot more effective working for him. Liaison sort of position.”

    “Yeah. I won’t say,” said Penn with a sigh, “why didn’t you talk it over with me first.”

    Colin grimaced but replied: “It’s my feeling that any so-called talking over would have been the piece of pure hypocrisy it usually is in such situations. This was a decision I had to make.”

    “Yeah, I get that,” said Penn wryly. “I could have put my point of view, however. Then you would have been fully informed before taking your decision.”

    “When you come right down to it, your point of view could only have amounted to stay or go.”

    “And since you knew which one it’d be, you didn’t need to consult me: all RIGHT!” she shouted, tears in her eyes.

    “I am trying to be honest,” said Colin heavily.

    “Yes. I know you’re like this: I’ve always known,” said Penn, scrubbing angrily at her eyes with the cuff of her heavy jumper. “The only astonishing thing is you weren’t off to London the day the news broke. Now tell me you’re driving up.”

    “No. Global emergencies aren’t an excuse for going bats,” said Colin drily, getting up, “despite appearances. I’m catching the train. Doug’ll drive me in to the station.”

    Penn’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got Doug McIntyre on your side in this?”

    “A sensible man like him?” replied Colin wryly, raising his eyebrows. “Well, yes.”

    “My God, you’re all the same, aren’t you?” she discovered.

    “Mm. Seems to go with the Y chromosome or something,” he said, bending to kiss her hair. “Don’t bawl, Penn, darling. I have to at least see if I’m needed.”

    “Of course you’re needed,” she said wearily. “It’s all right, I do understand. It’s just a shock. I suppose if I had your abilities I’d react in exactly the same way.”

    “Mm,” he said, giving her his handkerchief. “Good. Blow your nose and give us a kiss.”

    Penn was about to say was this a goodbye kiss, but there came a knock at the front door and the blasted man said: “That’ll be Doug now,” so it was obvious it was. She blew her nose, gave him a kiss and warned him not to ask Doug in, because she’d have a piece of him. He ignored that, of course, and Doug came in with that sheepish male look on his great bony, ugly mug, Jesus!

    “Don’t speak,” she warned him grimly. “Or that middle-aged apprenticeship of yours’ll vanish like the dew. Subsidised or not.”

    Doug didn’t correct her terminology. He just replied calmly: “I’d go myself if they needed engineers at this precise moment.”

    “Shut up,” said Penn with a sigh. “Next thing we know they will be calling for engineers: presumably their dams and power stations and whatever other crap you used to build will need replacing.”

    “Yes, but it won’t be on a volunteer basis, there’ll be huge aid contracts,” he replied calmly.

    “Look, just take that other wanker and go!”

    “You’re the boss,” replied her mature-age apprentice. “I’ll wait for you in the car, Colin,” he said mildly as Colin reappeared.

    “I’m ready,” replied Colin, doing up this huge great overcoat Penn had never seen him in before in her— Oh. Khaki. He’d taken the crap off it, but it was clearly his uniform greatcoat. “I’ll be back for dinner, darling, but I’ll try and ring you from town, in any case.”

    “Do that,” said Penn with a sigh. “–I’ll be at the forge when you get back, Lieutenant Wanker,” she added evilly.

    “Okay,” said Doug mildly, going out.

    Colin hesitated in the doorway. “Don’t rush off and lift something heavy on the strength of this, will you, Penn?”

    “It’s not me that’s completely lost my head just because there’s been a tidal wave on the other side of the world,” replied Penn evilly. “Go on, I can stand it—I suppose.”

    “Right you are, darling,” the wanker said cheerfully, going.

    Penn looked round for something to HEAVE across the kitchen but unfortunately there wasn’t a single thing on the very second-hand table supplied by Jack and painted soft blue with a bit of leftover Bellingford Green Craft Enterprises paint by herself. The anally retentive neatnik wanker had apparently not only got his own toast and coffee, he’d washed up and put everything away after him, including the marmalade, the sugar bowl and—Jesus!—the salt and pepper shakers that she always left out! …Added to which, those obsessive, anally retentive male neatniks who had said that that paint wouldn’t do for the tabletop, it would need several coats of polyurethane as well, had been right all along, she noted wanly.

    There was no-one, really, in whom Penn could confide with any confidence they’d share her sentiments. Marion, of course, was completely anti-Colin, but this tended to have the effect that Marion’s rabid partisanship always had done: to make Penn see the other side of the question. Regardless of whether, at the precise moment, she particularly wanted to see it.

    Terri was so sweet that Penn found she did confide it all in her—but of course she was completely pro-Colin, though trying nicely not to let it show too much.

    “His family has a very strong tradition of service,” she said, holding Penn’s hand tightly.

    Penn sniffled, and blew her nose hard. “Mm. What? Oh—I see. Service. Not just the armed forces crap? Right.”

    “Sí. His father, of course, is no different, really.”

    “No. Just the trendy Leftie version,” said Penn, trying to smile.

    “Yes. And—and in English families of—of their class,” said Terri, licking her lips nervously, “when the men see that, um, that duty calls, the women and children, um, must just wait at home, I’m afraid.”

    “It isn’t just their class, either!” said Penn with considerable feeling. “Not that the rest get much of a choice in the matter! Pam Melly, from up the road—she’s got a little girl, Lily Rose, she’ll be two in a couple of months, and there’s another one on he way—well, she was saying that none of the men in her family have ever been home for any of their children’s births!”

    “The ones that are in the Navy, Penn?” said Terri mildly. “One can see that that could well be. There is Stan, her husband, of course, and her father.” She refrained from adding that according to village gossip, Tom Bellinger wasn’t in fact Pam’s father. “But that is not all the men in her family: her brothers, Fred and Pete, are not in the Navy.”

    “There’s her uncle, though,” said Penn grimly. “One of her mum’s brothers.”

    “Yes, I am sure,” replied Terri mildly. “That is the tradition, of course. Service—in the case of the Navy, service to one’s country—must come first.”

    Penn sighed. “It’s admirable in the abstract, I suppose. Only when you find yourself being one of the women and children that have to come second, it doesn’t feel like it!”

    “No, of course!” she said warmly, squeezing her hand. “Euan is also very involved with the tsunami disaster relief. He has said he envies Colin, being able to be so directly involved,” she admitted.

    Since Colin had taken up Henry Beaumont’s offer of a liaison job and was now, of course, being driven mad by the empire-protecting that was going on amongst the rival charities, not to mention innumerable governments and government organisations, not to mention international organisations, Penn replied sourly: “If you call kow-towing to fifteen thousand fat cats in offices from here to Geneva directly involved.”

    “More so than Euan can be. But he has plunged himself into helping arrange a big benefit performance. He has said that it is all a poor player can do, and that he recognises that there will be limitless opportunities for world-wide free publicity, to which most of those so eagerly offering their talents will not be completely indifferent, but he cannot not do it.”

    “They’re all the same,” said Penn grimly.

    “Sí, sí, but then would one rather that they sat back on their bums and did nothing?” said Terri gaily. “I think not!”

    “Um, no. Where did you get that ‘sat back on their bums’ from?” asked Penn feebly.

    “From Terence, I think!” she said with a smile. “Does it sound silly when I say it?”

    “Just a bit,” admitted Penn, flushing.

    Terri laughed. “The more delicate nuances of usage in foreign languages are almost impossible to grasp, you know! Though I do realise that, just as in Spain, there are some things that it is all right for men to say, even gentlemen, but women should not say them!”

    “You mean ladies, I think,” said Penn drily. “Um, and probably not ‘gentlemen,’” she added on a weak note.

    “No? But what else could one possibly call them?”

    “Ruddy gents!” said Penn with a sudden snort. “Um, dunno, really, Terri,” she admitted, smiling at her. “It just sounded very old-fashioned, somehow.”

    “I see. –I have brought you some Habas à la Asturiana,” she revealed.

    Penn reddened. “You shouldn’t have.”

    “But it is no bother, I was cooking them for myself in any case. But Mrs Granville Thinnes has told me that possibly in your condition one will not feel like beans,” she said anxiously.

    “Eh? Oh! That’s all right: everything seems to make me fart these days, beans are no worse than the rest!” said Penn, grinning. “Thanks, Terri: I could just do with something tasty. He let Tom Hopgood talk him into sheep shanks last week, would you believe, and we had to make some sort of putrid barley soup with them from what Doug claimed was his granny’s recipe for Scotch broth.”

    Terri had to swallow a smile: the whole village was now aware that Penn’s mature-age apprentice had the most tremendous crush on her. Poor man: he was very nice, but he had no hope there: Penn, very obviously, could not see past Colin, however annoyed with him she might be just at the moment. And Terri had to admit that, nice though Doug was, he didn’t have a fraction of that, well, animal magnetism, really, of Colin’s. Let alone his knack of making himself liked by everyone who met him. “A soup of that sort, with the bones simmered for a long time, can be very tasty.”

    “This was revolting. Pale, insipid and worse than tasteless.”

    “Did you not add enough vegetables and herbs, perhaps, Penn?”

    “A carrot and a leek. The Scots have never heard of herbs. One of us suggested that maybe they oughta brown the meat and vegetables first, they might have a fighting chance alongside all that barley, but Doug’s old granny never did that. It explains why the Scots invented porridge: it’d taste positively good after that.”

    Terri bit her lip. “I shall give you an excellent recipe for a soup using sheep shanks.”

    “That’s very kind of you,” said Penn with a grin, “but don’t bother, I’ve told the pair of them I’m never gonna look a sheep shank in the eye again as long as I live!”

    Terri was very relieved to see this grin. “Sí! Very understandable! I shall just put the habas in the fridge for you, then.”

    “Thanks,” said Penn feebly. “Um, did you say you’d made some for yourself?” she added cautiously.

    “Yes; Euan has not come down,” said Terri in a terrifically airy voice, becoming very busy with rearranging stuff in Penn’s fridge. Which at the moment held half a cabbage from Jim Parker, a bowl of Marion’s home-made yoghurt, a Swede turnip from Bob Potter (or technically from his father), a quarter of a home-made meat pie from Rowena Mason, and half a bought cheesecake from Rosie—or, indirectly, from the Superette. Penn had been holding out against these cheesecakes for quite some time: she didn’t think Colin needed that amount of sugar and fat in his diet and she certainly didn’t, added to which the things were stuffed with the sort of flavourings, dyes and other edible chemicals—flavour enhancers, right—that all of Janet and Dick Martin’s kids had conscientiously avoided all their lives. It was, however, completely yummy—as Rosie said, its artificiality made it more yummy—and a woman that was very, very preggy deserved some leeway.

    “What’s gone wrong?” she croaked.

    Terri straightened and turned, smiling. “Nothing has gone wrong! You Britons are so pessimistic!”

    “It’s the climate,” croaked Penn. “Then why are you down here while he’s in London? Don’t tell me he’s sick of your cooking! He may be a Scot, but he’s not barmy!”

    “Thank you! He is just so very busy that I have hardly seen him, this past week. And he has not been home for his meals.”

    “Oh, God. Eating out with the cream of Britain’s theatrical Establishment, right?”

    “Sí. Also with very rich people who can supply things as their contribution. Well, a theatre and advertisements, I think, Penn.”

    “They could at least have fed you, too!”

    “I went to two. Different people, you understand, but they all, um, dropped names, is that the expression?”

    “That’s certainly the expression,” agreed Penn drily.

    “Thank you: they all dropped names all night in the most terrible sort of competition. And of course they did not bother to talk to me, once they had checked that, as they had thought, I was no-one. So Euan said that they were fair samples of the sort of frightful super-pseuds that he’d have to be with until the performance comes off and he would not inflict them on me. So I came home.”

    Penn looked at her dubiously. Terri put her rounded chin in the air defiantly. “But did you want to come home, Terri?”

    “Not particularly, no, to tell you the truth. But there was certainly nothing for me to do up there!”

    No. Quite. Penn sighed. “Right. We’ll just have to be grass widows together, then.”

    “But I am not married,” she said dubiously, very flushed.

    “Uh—oh. It’s an expression. Not real widows. It means any female partner whose male partner’s busy being utterly elsewhere, usually because of his blasted job. Heard the expression golf widow?”

    “Why, yes!” she cried. “Mrs Granville Thinnes said that Mrs Carmichael was a golf widow! But he had not died on the golf course, for she is not a widow at all. She meant that when he plays golf he doesn’t take her with him.”

    “Yeah. I’m pretty sure the expression is actually based on ‘grass widow’. Um… I think, though I’ve no idea where I got the notion from, that it’s something to do with Anglo-India.”

    “You heard Mrs Fitzroy use it?” groped Terri.

    “No!” said Penn with a sudden laugh. “Not that sort of Anglo-India! Look, shall we go over to Rosie’s? She’ll be able to tell you—or at least look it up, if she doesn’t know where it came from!”

    “But won’t it be inconvenient for them? It’s Saturday, after all.”

    Penn snorted. “Ya wanna bet? Guess what he’s spending his Saturdays doing!”

    “I don’t think that John plays golf… And it isn’t the right weather, is it?”

    “Don’t ask me, trying to hit a ball that small with a stick that long strikes me as even barmier than all the other barmy games with balls that their side invented. –No, she’s not a golf widow, Terri, she’s another grass widow,” she said evilly.

    Terri gulped, but let herself be led out and loaded into Emerald.

    When they got there Rosie was discovered in layers of woollies, with her big electric heater on, positioned in front of the empty grate. Bunting was also in layers of woollies. Baby June was in her carrycot, conveniently near the heater. John’s big black dog was occupying most of what was left of the Persian rug before the hearth but after a bit of shouting and hauling at the collar Rosie managed to make him make enough room for the visitors’ feet, and they all sat down.

    “More super-pseuds, is it?” she said grimly to Terri.

    “Yes, exactly, Rosie.”

    “Uh-huh. What’s your one’s excuse?” she said grimly to Penn.

    “The bloody wanker’s given up even offering excuses, Rosie.”

    “Right. Ditto.”

    “But what’s he doing, Rosie?” cried Terri. “I thought he worked for the Royal Navy?”

    “You thought right. That’s what he’s doing. Working. They’re loading ships for the relief effort. Or possibly merely loading supplies for the ships that are out there relieving, or possibly it’s merely the supplies they’d normally have been supplying last week when they were busy loading unwanted plastic lifeboats after the horse had bolted, and don’t ask ME why Captain Duty-First has to be there in person on a SATURDAY!” she shouted.

    “See?” said Penn into the ringing silence.

    Terri nodded, gulping. She saw, all right.

    Rosie blew her nose angrily on a grimy hanky. “Added to which, he had the brass face to come out and say that possibly he could be of more use in that liaison job in Canberra after all, because the efforts of the combined naval forces of all the Commonwealth countries seemed to be a complete cock-up!”

    There was another ringing silence.

    “At least since the Second World War,” said Rosie with a silly grin. “Um, no, as far as responding to the tsunami disaster goes. I did point out that if you look at the fucking map, Canberra is a very long way from the scene of the disaster, never mind the prating that goes on about being a part of Asia when they wanna get trade concessions out of the Japs or the Indonesians or sell Aussie coal and gas to the Chinese, but Captain Circumnavigator just said that it wasn’t as far as London. –Portsmouth,” she noted sourly, “wasn’t mentioned.”

    After a considerable silence, Terri ventured: “I suppose it is commendable, Rosie.”

    “Very. And of course I’m not against anyone doing their bit for the relief effort. Only he’s been doing his bit for two weeks solid including weekends, and not getting home until ten in the evening! Or at all, one delightful night. –They dropped something from one of their silly cranes, I think. And no, the cranes are not his direct responsibility, or anything like it.”

    “Colin’s talking about flying to Brussels!” burst out Penn.

    “There you are, then. No-one else could possibly do their jobs. And yes, he did admit after 9/11—actually admitted in so many words—that the Navy did not need his specific person out in the Persian Gulf!”

    More silence. Then Penn said in a weak voice: “Yes, but how long after, Rosie?”

    “You’ve hit the nail on the head, there,” she said tiredly. “Of course if you pointed out to them that they’re all completely reactive and the word pro-active isn’t in their vocabularies, they’d conclude the little woman was just spouting her usual female crap!”

    “He said that although Adam McIntyre is lending his name to it, which is a great draw, he has very little organisational ability!” burst out Terri.

    “That’d be right, Terri,” agreed Rosie sourly. “Regardless of the fact that in the first place Adam’s got pots, he could more than afford to pay a professional to organise the bloody do for them, and in the second place if all the money that’s gonna go into organising the fucking thing was simply given directly to a relief fund, they’d make twice as much, twice as fast.”

    “Yes, and they see no incongruity in eating enormously expensive lunches and dinners whilst they discuss it!” she cried.

    Rosie winced. “No. Well, that’s more or less endemic to the super-pseud life, Terri. Of the theatrical or any other variety. The Armed Forces lot aren’t quite so bad—though there’ve been a few admirals down in Portsmouth being wined and dined at the British taxpayer’s expense, I have to say it.”

    “Colin’s had umpteen expensive meals with stupid contacts at the stupid Army and Navy Club!” burst out Penn.

    Rosie opened her mouth.

   “Euan’s also had umpteen expensive and unhealthy meals at the stupid Garrick Club!” burst out Terri.

    Rosie shut her mouth again.

    A sour silence fell…

    “Terence and Alan thought we might get up a village concert for tsunami relief!” said Molly gaily. “Would you like to be in it, Rosie?”

    Her cousin’s jaw dropped.

    “Only in the Workingmen’s Club. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

    “You and all the world,” she croaked.

    “What?” said Molly with an uneasy smile.

    “Don’t tell me you haven’t been asked!”

    “Um, Euan’s asked me and Georgia to be in his big show in London. It won’t be for a little while, yet.”

    “Yeah. He’s asked me to do three numbers with him for it: the dumb fake-skating number that we did for one of the Christmas shows at Della’s Dance Studio, yonks back, and White Christmas from the film, regardless of the fact that I sang that with Rupy, and Euan can’t sing, plus and the big Sisters number regardless of the fact that he wasn’t in it, in the film! Not to mention the famous Lily Rose solo tap number, On The Good Ship Lollipop, flashing frilly knickers and all, regardless of the fact that I haven't tapped a step since Derry finished the flaming film!”

    Her voice had got rather loud. Molly smiled weakly.

    “So he’s given that one away, only to fall back on the almost equally famous Lily Rose number, Diamonds are A Girl’s Best Friend The Indecent Version.”

    “You were very good in both of those in your series, and it wasn’t indecent,” said Molly on a firm note.

    “The version that got onto the telly screens of the world wasn’t, no!” she said with some feeling.

    “Rosie, you won’t refuse, surely? It is for a very good course.”

    “I haven’t refused to appear—though I have refused to tap—but if you think that’s the half of it, think again! Della’s Dance Studio’s also putting on a tsunami relief show. Well, it’s mainly Gray, Della isn’t the charitable sort, but she’s agreed to it so long as he organises it all and gets the owner of the bingo hall on side. Gray’s blackmailed me into agreeing to do the polite, Della-approved version of Diamonds are A Girl’s Best Friend with a chorus of soft-shoe he reckons he can train up in time. –They will all be in tails, but there aren’t enough male dancers, so half of them will be girls,” she noted by the by: Molly had to swallow. “Plus Sisters with him in blue drag, and the famous Lily Rose number, My Heart Belongs to Daddy The Completely Suggestive Version. In very little under a fur coat. Not that there are any animal righters round their way.”

    “You did go to dance classes at Della’s for ages,” she said weakly.

    “I haven’t finished. Plus and the White Christmas duet from the film with Rupy in person.”

    “It’ll be better than doing it with Euan, that’s for sure!” replied Molly brutally.

    “Mm! Um, there is more. Quite a lot more,” said Rosie on a weak note. “The types at Henny Penny have also had the brilliant and original idea of putting on a show. Since they’ve got the pool of talent to call on. Reading between the lines most of the talent’d rather be in the sort of thing Euan’s organising, but however. They want me to do Diamonds are A Girl’s Best Friend in the original frock—think they’ve forgotten it’s actually mine, it was one Miss Hammersley gave me—Derry’s version of I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair with actual water on stage, My Heart Belongs to Daddy sliding down a pole like Marilyn—they’ve forgotten I’m terrified of heights—and Sisters with Georgia.” She eyed her drily. “Or they did, until they found out she can’t harmonise. So I’m gonna do White Christmas with Rupy instead. But look out, they’re working up a little skit for three girls based on How To Marry a Millionaire.”

    “They did ask me if could sing We’re Just Two Girls From Little Rock, but I didn’t think they were serious,” said Molly feebly.

    “They’re always serious,” replied Rosie simply.

    “Um, well, I’ll give anything a go, but I can’t harmonise, either. Um, so are you going to be too busy for our little village show, Rosie?” she said sadly.

    “It depends when it is,” replied Rosie frankly. “There’s more. There’s two rival Navy groups in Portsmouth that’ve asked me. The officers’ wives are getting up a really nayce show. This doesn’t completely explain why they want me to sing Diamonds are A Girl’s Best Friend, but however. The frock’s terribly nayce, and they did ask for it. And if I could possibly manage to beg Mr Maynarde, they’d adore us to do our White Christmas duet and him to do his Noël Coward impersonation—‘I wonder what happened to him’—that one.”

    Molly swallowed hard. “Um, actually, we were wondering…” she muttered.

    “He’ll do it like a shot if he’s free,” said Rosie with a smile, “but his calendar’s filling up, too.”

    “Yes. Was there another lot?” she croaked.

    “Yes. The ratings’ wives—the ones that put on the kids’ Christmas party every year,” she explained. “They’ve booked a couple of popular local pop groups, so they should get a pretty good turnout. They had a big row over what they wanted me to do, because while the hubbies are frightfully keen on On The Good Ship Lollipop, the wives on the whole aren’t, likewise My Heart Belongs to Daddy and I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair. That does leave plenty of choice—Brian had me singing in about eighty percent of the episodes—but not the very popular ones. So they’ve decided on Diamonds are A Girl’s Best Friend. In the frock.” She eyed her blandly.

    Molly gulped. “The ratings wives’ show as well as the officers’ wives’?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “Rosie, they’re both gonna think the other side did it on purpose!” she gasped.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “You can’t!” she gasped.

    “Look at it this way. If I turn down one lot and then do it for the other lot, is it gonna be any better?”

    “Um, no!” she gulped in dismay.

    “Correct. Captain Duty-First has already pointed out it’s the classic definition of a dilemma, the sort that comes up all the time in personnel management, but I’m ignoring him,” she assured her. “I’ve solved it by telling both sides that the other side’s also asked me to do it. So they’re both clinging grimly onto their rights. But I think I’ve made it a bit better, ’cos I’ve promised the ratings’ wives the actual frock and offered the officers’ wives one of the vile frocks Derry made me wear in the film, as a very special favour. –One of those blue horrors with the yards of nylon net petticoats, I think it’ll be.”

    “One of the genuine Edith Head designs?” she smiled.

    “Think so. Well, I’ve told them it is, so they’ll die happy!” replied Lily Rose Rayne blithely.

    Molly nodded weakly. “Um, well, what’s your schedule like, Rosie?”

    Rosie dug in her jeans pocket, looking wry. She produced a folded sheet of paper. She unfolded it. Molly’s jaw dropped.

    “Yeah. Anything that hasn’t got anything already printed on it is a nominally free day.”

    “What’s ‘May Lunch, Chich’?” she croaked. “’Tisn’t May!”

    “Eh?” Rosie peered. “Oh: Mayoral lunch, Chichester. For tsunami relief—they all are, of course. Guest appearance, they’ll charge the lunchers for the privilege. No singing.”

    “Yeah, um, there’s another Chich!”

    “Um… Yeah. ‘Mlds Superm Staff L.’ Merrilands Supermarket Staff Lunch,” she translated kindly. “It’s one of the supermarkets I opened when I was doing the Lily Rose crap. I couldn’t refuse: they were really lovely to me and gave me lots of own-brand sultana cakes and stuff.”

    “No singing, I suppose,” concluded Molly limply.

    “Not officially!” admitted Rosie with a laugh. “I have explained I’m past tapping, with two kids under four, but they just urged me to bring them, as well.”

    “Right. ‘Billingshurst JFactStaffL’?”

    “Greg said I’d better put Billingshurst in full ’cos I’d never remember its name. That’s Johnson’s, it’s a factory. One of the factories I opened.”

    “Right. Singing optional.” Molly counted, gnawing on her lip. Rosie had twenty-two lunches on her schedule as well as the shows.

    “The evenings are fairly free, but I’m pretty booked up with lunches during the day. Of course, I opened supermarket branches and factories and things all over England, but John won’t let me accept the ones that are too far away. Graham’ll drive me to the ones that can’t afford to send a car.”

    She nodded numbly. “I’m really sorry, Rosie: I had no idea! I mean, Henny Penny and Sheila Bryant have rung me with a few requests for personal appearances, but…”

    “Yeah. Well, if I can fit in a show at the Workingmen’s Club of course I’ll do it, I’d love to do it, but just don’t think I’m putting on a prima donna act when I say you might have to work round me.”

    Molly just nodded numbly.

    “Talking of tidal waves!” she said numbly to Terence later that day. “Rosie’s had a tidal wave of requests to do personal appearances! She’s got twenty-two lunches booked all over the south of England!”

    “Yes,” he said, giving her a sharp look. “Bit like when her series was coming out and the Lily Rose fever was at its height, mm?”

    “Mm,” said Molly, biting her lip. “We didn’t sort of realise… I mean, being at the other side of the world.”

    “Right. They had her opening endless bazaars and fêtes, too. Just as well it’s not the weather for those, eh?”

    “Yes. Um, Sheila Bryant Casting have sent me a list of places that want me and Georgia together. I sort of didn’t think we had to…”

    Terence raised his eyebrows. “This bloody tsunami has upset everybody’s plans, of course. But I think once the initial fund-raising efforts have died down you may find the PR people at Henny Penny will put considerable pressure on you to do personal appearances this year.”

    She licked her lips. “Mm.”

     He eyed her shrewdly. “The Parkinson thing the pair of you did was just the tip of the iceberg, if you ask me, Molly.”

    “Mm. I have done a few other things… Oh, dear, you’re right: it’s only because of the tsunami that they’re not nagging us to do more, I’m absolutely sure!”

    “I think you’d better read your contract: find out if you’re obligated to do them. I know Rosie was,” he said neutrally.

    “It—it’s in Susan’s document room!” she stuttered.

    “Then I’d get it out and have a good read of it,” said Terence.

    Molly looked at him numbly. “Yes. I was hoping to— Well, I was thinking I might give it up, this year.”

    Terence was very, very glad to hear it. He didn’t honestly give a damn what Mother and Father thought, or the rest of the ruddy family, but having the woman one loved plastered all over the square screen in form-fitting uniforms unlike anything ever seen in the entire history of the Senior Service or, worse, in almost nothing pretending to make love to assorted chaps who weren’t gay and one of whom was an actual ex-boyfriend, was, he had discovered, something he very much did not fancy. And lovely though it was having Molly come down to the pub every weekend and being able to make love to lovely Molly, he hadn't yet suggested anything more permanent because he wasn’t at all sure how she envisaged her telly career going.

    “I see. And do what, instead?” he said mildly.

    Molly’s lips trembled.  “I duh-don't know!” she blurted.

    There was a short silence.

    Molly’s lips firmed. She looked him in the eye. “I was hoping you might have a suggestion about that, actually, Terence.”

    “Yes, I have. Marry me and give up the telly crap entirely.”

    “Ruh-really?” she faltered, going bright red.

    “Yes. It was quite amusing when it was Rosie it was all happening to—and I have to admit it, when it was poor old John putting up with it—but I’ve discovered that when it’s you, I don’t like it at all.”

    “Not that!” said Molly dismissively. “Really marry you.” She swallowed hard.

    A chap didn’t normally propose unless he bloody well meant it! And it could hardly be different in Australia! He gaped at her. “Yes. Really.”

    “Terence, I’ve got Micky, you know. And—and what about your parents?’ said Molly in a trembling voice.

    “I’m fond of Micky and I’d like to be a father to him,” said Terence firmly. “If Mother and Father can’t put up with it, I don’t care.” He took a deep breath. “If you can’t stand England, we can go to Australia.”

    “No!” said Molly in amaze. “I love the village!”

    “Good. So will you?”

    “We—we haven’t talked sensibly about—about anything, really!” she faltered, very flushed.

    Terence’s second had been an extremely sensible, managing young woman who had talked everything over sensibly. Talked him sensibly out of marriage and into divorce, really. No, well, her career had gone ahead while he’d been at sea—and really, apart from the sex, which he didn’t deny had more than been there, they had had nothing in common except for a liking for the odd round of golf on a Sunday afternoon. But he hadn’t thought Molly was that sort, at all.

    “Can’t we do that later? Get engaged first?”

    “But it wouldn’t be fair on you. I—I mean, you’ve put all your capital into this place, and I—I’ve been putting my money away for Micky,” she faltered.

    “Highly commendable. We’ll have to think of all the kids’ futures,” he said briskly.

    “Yes. Um, all?” she faltered.

    “Only if you want more.”

    “Um, yes.”

    “Good. In that case we’d better get married, don’t you think?”

    “Buh-but what if horrible Henny Penny make me do more of the New Daughter crap?”

    Terence put his arm round her very flushed person. “We can talk about everything later, but that sounds like old Jim Parker battering the door down—I’ll have to open up.”

    “Ooh, help, yes, the bar!” she gasped, terrifically flustered.

    “Mm. Will you marry me?”

    “You’re trying not to laugh,” objected Molly, biting her lip.

    “I’m trying not to laugh because you’re being ridiculous. But I do want to marry you,” he said, holding her hands tightly and looking into her eyes. “I love you. Will you?”

    “Well, if you really want to, Terence, yes,” said Molly very weakly indeed.

    Terence gave a huge sigh of relief and held her tightly to him. “Gosh, for a moment there I thought you didn’t want to!”

    “I’m not very suitable,” explained Molly in a squashed voice against his chest.

    “Suitable! Yer do me, sheila!” he grinned.

    “You’ve got the vernacular all wrong, not to mention the accent,” replied Molly with dignity, pulling away from his grasp. “–SHUT UP! We’re COMING!” she bellowed.

    Shaking helplessly, Terence led his Australian sheila off to open the public bar.

    Not entirely to his surprise, Father’s and old Cousin Matthew’s reactions to his good news were almost identical. Father produced: “Er—well, you know your own business, best, Terence. Your mother won’t like it, y’know: not two Australian telly actresses in the family. Er—look, old man, this damned tsunami affair’s got everyone a bit off-balance. You sure you’re not rushing into it because it’s—uh—made you think about your age, so forth? I mean, with John having a second brat, too… No, well, you know your own business best, old man. Lovely girl, of course!”

    Cousin Matthew offered: “Thought you scarcely knew the girl? Not up the spout, is she? Well, at least you’ve got more sense than ruddy Colin! Look, Terence, not rushing off like a cut cat because this damned tsunami affair’s knocked you a bit off-balance, are you? Know quite a few chaps that made quite a few decisions after 9/11 that they’ve regretted since. No, well, dare say y’know what you’re doing. Lovely girl, naturally: not claiming she isn’t!”

    But when it came to ruddy Colin, it was just about the last straw!

    “What did you say?” he shouted.

    “No need to shout,” replied Colin, trying to smile, as the snug rang with the echoes.

    “I have not lost my mind because of the tsunami in the Indian Ocean!” shouted Terence.

    “I didn’t say that. I merely meant that it’s a situation of extreme stress, and your First Officer’s ex actually being involved brings it fairly close to home, and it’s possible that it’s, well, rubbed off a bit, old man. Pushed you into making a precipitate decision.”

    “Precipitate yourself out of that door and just thank your lucky stars I don’t bar you FOREVER!”

    Colin didn’t get up. “I know you claim to be indifferent to what Cousin Bernard and Cousin Miriam may think, Terence, but just think about how the family’s going to react, for a moment! You’ll never hear the last of the two Australian telly actresses in the family thing and the following in your brother’s footsteps thing.”

    “I don’t give a fuck what they think!”

    “Look, you idiot, it’ll be every family wedding, christening, funeral and anniversary from now until Kingdom Come! Don’t tell me you avoid the things like the plague, Terence, because you know and I know that whenever you’ve been ashore and there’s been one, you’ve been in it, boots and all! And it won’t merely be you bearing the brunt, it’ll be poor Molly, as well! The bitches had their knives well and truly into poor Penn at Grandfather’s bloody funeral, I can tell you!”

    “I’ve no intention of dragging Molly to any family shit she doesn’t want to go to, and if she doesn’t go, I don’t go.”

    “Your father’s funeral?” replied Colin grimly.

    Terence’s jaw sagged.

    “See? It’s not so bloody easy when it comes down to cases, is it?”

    “No. All right, it isn’t. But fundamentally the family and their opinions don’t matter to either Molly or me, Colin. Which I must say is a point of view I thought you shared.”

    “I do. I’m just trying to warn you what you’re letting yourself in for,” he said heavily.

    “Yeah. Thanks, I suppose. Go home. And give Penn my apologies for keeping you.”

    “Dropped in on my way home from the station, actually,” he said easily.

    “Get out, Colin, before my fist connects with that self-satisfied smirk of yours!” he warned.

    “Eh?”

    “Look, if either of us has gone potty because of the bloody tsunami, it’s YOU! What do you think you’re doing, rushing around all over Europe with Penn about to have your baby?”

    “She understands that I can’t sit on the sidelines when I can be of use.”

    “Get out. You wouldn’t know use if it stood up and bit you,” said Terence tiredly.

    “But I have made some real headway—”

    “Go AWAY, Colin!”

    Colin shook his head slightly, but went.

    After a bit Alan appeared in the snug, looking cautious. “He pushed orf?”

    “Yeah. Sent him off with a flea in his ear, stupid tit.”

    “He’s the type what can’t see that if charity don’t begin at ’ome,” said the ex-C.P.O. slowly, “it don’t count.”

    “Ain’t that the truth,” agreed Terence with a sigh. “Him and the rest of the bloody Haworths.”