All Systems Go

24

All Systems Go

    Penn said with a silly look on her face: “Don’t look at me like that, Marion. He just sort of—assumes he can. Or something.”

    Her potter friend gave her a dry look. “I won’t ask you if you know what you’re doing, in that case.”

    “No, don’t.”

    Marion Hutchinson looked at the little smile, and sighed. “Is this gonna be another Jonathon Gardner—”

    “No! He’s not a namby-pamby potter with the fixed idea that woman’s place is to be his faithful little slave!”

    The potter eyed her drily. “Glad to hear it. Did you tell him about him?”

    “No,” she said, going very red. “Why should I? Anyway, he didn’t want to know. Mind you, he was quite up-front about his, um—”

    “I dare say he was quite up-front about his um, and I’m quite glad to hear it, but tell me they weren’t all the floral-frocked, French-scented type with accents you could cut with a knife and indulgent Daddies in Surbiton and I’ll eat that there kiln that we’re never gonna move if we live to be a hundred! –Sequentially,” she added evilly.

    Penn glanced at it. “Block and tackle, no sweat.”

    Marion sighed. “You’re the expert. And?”

    “Well, leaving aside a few lady journalists, they don’t count—and the word was ladies—oh, and a so-called macho lady brigadier, though I don’t think he’d know macho if he fell over it—I’d say they were the type that have indulgent Daddies with large country houses in the Cotswolds, Marion. The ex certainly was.”

    “For God’s sake, Penn! As if your own family wasn’t bad enough!”

    Penn sniffed. “Uncle John’d like to think they are, the up-himself prick. At least David and Antigone have escaped his clutches at last.” She began to tell her how her Walsingham cousins were getting on in Australia but Marion shut her up ruthlessly and dragged her back to the topic of Colin Haworth.

    The word was that yes, he’d been wearing a flaming dress uniform the other night and so what, most of the time he wore painty rags, no, she had no idea how much of his capital he’d put into the Bellingford craft project and she didn’t want to know, as it was none of her business, and—very flushed—of course the sex had been good, in fact it had been more than good, and so it ought to be, with all that practice he’d had!

    Marion bit her lip. “Yes. Um, Penn, it’s no use getting jealous—”

    “I am not jealous!”

    Not much. “What about current girlfriends?”

    “There aren’t any!”

    “None that’d deign to poke their noses into a dump like Bellingford, I think is probably closer to the mark, Penn.”

    “Look, it’s, just—just convenient for both of us!”

    Marion sighed. “That’s what you said when you took up with Julian Border—”

     Apparently he was an up-himself prick that had only wanted to add a woman blacksmith to the other scalps on his belt and show her off to his City friends so as they’d think what an irresistible fellow he was, the prick.

    “I’m not arguing with that, Penn,” she said grimly, “and that’s my point. He saw you as a trophy, and Colin’s from the same background: he’ll see you—”

    “He won’t! And shut up, or you can get your own ruddy kiln over to Bellingford!”

    Marion shut up, for the time being, and they examined the electric kiln narrowly. Then they went outside and examined the wood-fired kiln. “Dismantle it,” decided Penn grimly.

    “Yeah. Or I could just leave it here, I’ll never get the same performance out of it if I dismantle it.”

    “All right, leave it for Miser Watson.”

    Marion winced: this personality was their mutual landlord. “No.”

    “Okay, dismantle it.”

    “Yeah,” she said, sighing. “How are we going to move all this junk, Penn? It’s going to cost us a fortune.”

    “No, it won’t, as a matter of fact, because Colin’s sappers’ll do it,” said Penn on a defiant note, sticking her rounded chin in the air.

    “Eh?”

    “Ex-Army. They’re doing a great job on the smithy, after that moron Jack Powell wouldn’t pull his finger out. –I didn’t ask, he offered. They won’t do it in project time, of course.”

    “Penn, that means he’ll order the poor bastards to do it in their own time! I thought you were opposed to the hierarchical militaristic institutions of the Right!”

    Penn gave her old friend a dry look. “If you’d ever stopped to look, that was always you rather than me, Marion. Who was it that went on the anti-nuclear demo in Portsmouth?”

    “Yes, against his cousin’s sub!” she retorted promptly.

    “I dare say it was. I didn’t go because us disarming isn’t going to stop the rest of the world arming and taking pot-shots at us. Don’t say you realise that: you’ve only realised it since 9/11.”

    “Now say you approve of the invasion of Iraq!” she cried.

    “I approve of getting rid of Saddam Hussein, all right. As a matter of fact I do approve of the invasion, but I don’t approve of the attitude our glorious leaders have taken over their reasons for it. –Their ostensible reasons for it, if you like. Personally I’d have just said: ‘The Iraqi régime is victimising its own people and committing genocide against the Kurds, it’s not democratically elected, and we’re going in with our guns blazing.’”

    “That’s HIM!” she shouted. “You’ve never breathed a word of that before!”

    “It isn’t him, it’s me. We’ve never even discussed it. I’ve never breathed a word of it before because I knew you’d explode like that, Marion. Can we just get on with the packing?”

    They got on with dismantling the potter’s studio in preparation for the move to Bellingford.

    After a bit Penn admitted: “I said we’d pay Rob and Owen—the sappers—okay? But it won’t cost nearly as much as getting a local carrier.”

    “Yeah. All right,” said Marion with a sigh. “Thanks, I suppose.”

    “You’ll like him when you meet him, I think,” said Penn calmly.

    “I liked bloody Julian Border, that’s hardly the point! Oh, forget it. –I think we’re running out of boxes.”

    “No, there’s more in the heap, Caroline lent me a whole lot. They have to be returned to her.”

    Numbly Marion accompanied her out to the little old Morris van. Return packing cartons? What sort of woman was this Caroline?

    “Penn,” she said very cautiously, “it’s not that I’m not keen, and if the project’s willing to take over most of my advertising, I’m bloody grateful for it, and God knows I can’t afford to pay Miser Watson’s rent any more—”

    “But?” said Penn, straightening with an immense stack of giant folded cartons in her arms.

    “But what sort of people are they? I mean, they want their packing cartons back?”

    “They’re very sensible, business-like people,” said the smith calmly. “I like them.”

    Marion just stood there leaning on the heap with her jaw sagging as Penn carried the cartons labelled “Deane Jennings” effortlessly inside.

    Somehow Colin hadn’t imagined that the Anglo-Indian Mrs Fitzroy would be a tiny, thin, very sallow woman in a sari. God knew what he had imagined, but— Never mind. She seemed very pleasant and her daughter Mandy, who was the woman from Henny Penny Productions whom Molly knew, seemed both pleasant and business-like. Mrs Fitzroy was, however, a lot older than Colin had thought. In fact now that he did come to think of it he thought he’d got her and the daughter confused. Certainly she had many years of experience running her restaurant in Woking—Mandy’s father wasn’t in evidence—but it was a big move for a woman of around sixty to take on a whole new venture…

    Mrs Fitzroy, her large Black friend and Molly went into a huddle in the as yet unfurnished kitchen, what time Molly’s son and Jasmine’s daughter rushed upstairs. Colin, Mandy and Rupy—why he was with the party not clear, unless he’d wanted a free ride to Hampshire—wandered back into the front room with the little lead-lighted panes.

    “Actually,” said Mandy, “I’m sort of hoping that Mum’ll retire here, eventually.”

    Colin wasn’t entirely surprised. “I see. But in that case, what about the restaurant? Mrs Littlewood hasn’t got any managerial experience, has she?”

    Mandy smiled a little. “I haven’t heard Jasmine called that since the day she joined Henny Penny! No, she hasn’t, and I don’t think she wants to run a business. No, Greg Singh’s brother would like to branch out on his own: I think he’d be interested in taking it over.”

    “Yuh—uh—you don’t mean the perfect Richpal, do you?” gasped Rupy.

    “Yes, that is his name. The oldest son, who helps their father at The Tabla, in town.”

    “Mandy, dear, they only do traditional North Indian cuisine,” he croaked.

    “Punjabi, largely: yes,” said Mandy tranquilly. “That’s partly why he wants to branch out. And partly because the father won’t give him any responsibility.”

    “I did know Richpal was a bit fed up with Mr Singh, but I thought it was just the usual father and son thing,” Rupy admitted.

    “Greg and Rosie haven’t breathed a word to me,” said Colin feebly.

    Mandy smiled. “Well, Rosie’s a bit busy, with the sociology and the new baby on the way! But in any case we thought I’d better run it by you first.”

    “Yuh—um, well, when do you think your mother might retire?”

    “If forced?” said Mandy drily. “In a couple of years, I think, Colonel Haworth.”

    “Call me Colin,” he said feebly.

    “Colin, then,” she said nicely. “I’m Mandy. We thought perhaps give Mr Singh a little time to get used to the idea, while Mum and Jasmine get ready, and then perhaps Richpal and his family might come down for the summer and see how they like it? They’ve driven down a couple of times to see Greg, but that’s all. Oh, and if you’re worrying about who’ll do the scones for the Devonshire teas, don’t! Jasmine’s are as light as air: they vanish like dew in the morning when she’s on teas in the canteen, though unfortunately Madge, the canteen manager, finds it more economical to buy in awful leathery mass-produced things. But Jasmine often does a little batch just for Brian and the senior execs.”

    “Completely yummy, Colin, dear!” agreed Rupy.

    “That is a recommendation!” he said with a laugh. “Well—uh, well, yes, in principle, Mandy: it sounds excellent.”

    “Good,” she said briskly. “Mum’s very keen, as you can see. Shall I ask Richpal to contact you, then?”

    “Yes, do that,” he said feebly.

    After a very thorough inspection of the higgledy-piggledy restaurant, now pristine white plaster throughout—Jack had been on the job and the result, Colin freely admitted, was beautiful—the party adjourned to Number 11 Moulder’s Way for tea, in toto. And after Mrs Fitzroy and Jasmine had been forcibly dragged out of the kitchen, they managed to have it. And somehow the expression “higgledy-piggledy” came up.

    “Ooh!” cried Molly. “That’s just it! It is higgledy-piggledy! It’d make a lovely name for the restaurant, Colin!”

    “Uh—”

    “Yeah!” cried Miss Siobhan Littlewood, aged eleven. –Rupy had already managed to explain that she was the youngest of Jasmine’s four kids, a lot younger than the others, and if the other canteen staff hadn't witnessed the pregnancy, one would have suspected she was the eldest daughter’s, wouldn’t one? Because where Jasmine’s skin was a wonderful shiny black, Siobhan’s was a soft café-au-lait. She was very, very pretty: the mixture of Black African and whatever the father had been, unlike the mixture of Indian and English in the unfortunate Fitzroys, had produced a really wonderful result. “Hey, that’d be a great name! Wotcher fink, Mrs Fitzroy?”

    “I like it!” she beamed. “Molly’s right, it just suits it, doesn’t it? And it’s unusual: a bit different!”

    Colin scratched his beard, thinking of Caroline’s sensible objections. He took another look at the bright-eyed Siobhan. Well, granted she was clearly a bright little kid, but if she could take it in her stride, surely the wider population of Britain could? “I’ve always liked it,” he admitted.

    And that seemed to settle it. The restaurant became Higgledy-Piggledy from that moment on. Well—unofficially. Mandy gave forth with a lot of information about trading names and how the same might be registered—yikes. Ditto web pages—yikes again.

    The efficient Mandy had whisked Mrs Fitzroy, Jasmine and the complaining Siobhan back to Woking, Molly and Micky were installed at Anna’s for the weekend, and Rupy had invited himself to Colin’s, rather than intrude on Rosie and John when the baby was due in less than a month. Colin didn’t mind but he was still a bit puzzled as to why he’d come down at all. It certainly wasn’t the weather for Jamaicas and lime-green thongs. Oh, well.

    “You have done well, Colin, dear!” he beamed, over the brimming glass of Campari and soda Terri had provided. “The cottages on the green are looking lovely! And darling little Higgledy-Piggledy’s to die for! They’ll flock to it!”

    Colin certainly hoped so. Well, the market survey was really promising. And Mrs Granville Thinnes and her friends were putting terrific pressure on the authorities to get that bloody road improved, so with a little bit of luck their customers wouldn’t come once, be put off by the bumps and ruts, and never return.

    “Let’s hope so. How are things in town, Rupy?”

    Rupy told him a lot at top speed about the progress of The Captain’s Daughter: The New Generation that he didn’t want to know. Terri came in and listened with interest, now and then agreeing that Euan had told her that. Colin was glad to hear it: Bellingford hadn't seen much of him since the filming had got into its stride.

    “So if work’s good, what’s up?” he asked baldly as, having refilled Rupy’s glass, Terri bustled out to the kitchen again.

    “Um, well, Georgia’s in such a mood,” he admitted sadly. “All the principals have rehearsed with Molly, now, you see, and it’s obvious they all like her much more than Georgia, and silly Andrew’s taken up with little Ronni—a girl, dear, R,O,N,N,I, he’s totally straight—and she’s been going on stupid dates with Varley, and now she’s going out with Derry, as well! –For real. Not publicity stunts.”

    Colin grimaced. “I thought she seemed all right at the Yacht Club do.”

   “That was before Andrew took up with Ronni.”

    He got up and staggered over to the whisky. “Have something stronger, Rupy. Gin?”

    Rupy wouldn’t say no, so he poured him one. He wanted pink in it but there wasn’t any so Colin added a little Campari.

    “Ooh, this is nice!” He watched as Colin swallowed whisky. “Um, haven’t heard from Luke, I suppose? Or should I say, possible Luke?” he added sourly.

    So much had happened in the interval that Colin hadn't given Luke a single, passing thought—let alone thought about whether he was really his brother. “Uh—no. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since Christmas.”

    “Nor,” said Rupy grimly, “has Georgia.”

    “Look, if he is Luke, he’d be all wrong for her: never settled to anything in his life, let alone to any one partner—I should talk, but at least I haven’t spent my working life floating from place to place with a trail of debts behind me.”

    “Not to say pursued by the police of five continents!” he said acidly.

    “Something like that, mm. And if he is Henry, I hate to say it, but a little girl like Georgia doesn’t have a hope. He’s used to the New York society crowd. Tarts they may be, but they’re Bryn Mawr tarts in designer clothes, Rupy.”

    “She is very pretty and bright,” he objected.

    “Okay: if he is Henry he may make her his mistress and it’ll last as much as six months, leaving her with a diamond bracelet and not even the prospect of palimony!”

    Rupy scowled. “Yes.”

    “Look, if she hasn’t heard from him I think, whichever brother he actually is, he’s thought very much better of the idea. And I have to say that one can only think the better of him for it, Rupy.”

    He bit his lip. “See what you mean.”

    “When do you have to be on deck next for the TV people?” said Colin kindly.

    “Mm? Oh—not until Thursday, they’re not working on any of my Trimmer bits or my Naval Intelligence bits till then,” he said dully.

    Colin didn’t ask. “Good. Stay here: let Terri spoil you rotten.”

    “Ta ever so, Colin, darling, I won’t say no!” he beamed.

    Smiling, Colin popped into the kitchen to warn Terri and to tell her to put gin, bitters and more Campari on the Portsmouth shopping list.

    Terence stood in the sun and wind of the pub’s carpark, grinning up in a proprietorial way at the new cream paint and the blue trim. Very smart! The sale had gone through with remarkable rapidity, in fact he’d had the strong impression that the git couldn’t wait to shake the dust. Well, so much the better! He shoved his hands into the pockets of his grey flannels and rocked back and forth on his heels a bit. Sort of getting the feel of it.

    “Hey, Mister!” piped a sharp little voice.

    Jumping slightly, he said weakly: “Yes?” to the shortish, crumpled object in camouflage trousers and a strangely-labelled tee-shirt. Shouldn’t the kid be at school?

    “Need any ’elp in the bars? Or I could do waitress for yer! Or wash dishes!”

    Or be a pot-boy, presumably. “How are old are you?” he said heavily.

    “Eighteen!” she snapped.

    A likely tale. “We’ll need proof of identity, proof of age, and your National Insurance card. Take them round to Mr Timms in the Quarterdeck, if you want a job.”

    “Eh? The wot?”

    Terence cleared his throat slightly. “The dining-room: that glassed-in place that fronts onto the High Street.”

    “Oh! Right you are, Mister. ’Ere, I could make beds!”

    “Mrs Walker makes the beds, thanks.”

    “I know ’er,” she admitted regretfully. “C’n I go round the front?”

    “Yes, just tap on the double glass doors. Hang on, what’s your name?”

    “Amanda Black,” she said pugnaciously. “Mr Stout’ll give me a reference!”

    “Murray Stout?”

    “Yeah.”

    She did surprise him. “You’d better tell Alan—Mr Timms—that, then.”

    “Oh! Alan Timms! Right! Ta, Mister!”

    Terence watched dubiously as she hurried off towards the Quarterdeck. Exactly what was behind that? Never mind, if there was anything shady about her—no, put it like this: whatever was shady about Miss Amanda Black, not aged eighteen or anything like it, Alan would be absolutely sure to sniff out! He returned to the gloating contemplation of his pub…

    “Hullo, Terence,” said a shy voice.

    He swung round eagerly. “Molly! Hullo! I didn’t know you were down in the village!”

    Molly blushed. He was making it a bit obvious. And though he was a very nice man, she didn’t know that she was ready for, well, anything, really. The evening at the Yacht Club had been lovely, and she hadn't minded when he’d kissed her in the car when he brought her home, but frankly it had been a relief when he hadn't tried to take it further. He was very attractive, in fact technically handsomer than John, really, but… Well, very, very English. Micky, of course, thought he was the cat’s whiskers, but that was just because of the submarine rubbish. He had taken them on his sub on the Sunday, and although almost of the crew were on leave, there was still a skeleton crew on board and it had been embarrassing, really, because they’d all stared, first off, and Terence had had to announce that she wasn’t Rosie or Georgia, and then they’d kept coming up to them on, um, flimsy excuses, really—after all Terence wasn’t driving the thing, it was just sitting at the wharf—and offering to make them cups of tea and, um, stuff. Two of them had been terrifically keen to show her the thing’s torpedo, um, thingos. Where they put them. Shafts? No… Tubes? Yes, maybe it was tubes. Well, men were always keen to show you their stuff, but it hadn’t been entirely that: they’d kept looking from her to him… Oh, dear.

    “Um, yes,” she said feebly. “Derry suddenly changed the schedule, and I’d already told Susan I wouldn’t be in today, so…”

    “What about Micky?”

    Molly sighed. “He’s coming down this evening with Mandy. He and Siobhan, Jasmine’s little girl, have struck up an undying friendship—something to do with X- Men, don’t ask me what, I thought he was over that—and he jacked it all up without consulting me.” She looked at Terence’s face and explained lamely who these personalities were.

    “I see. Feeling the tug at the apron-strings are you, Molly?”

    She blinked. “Um—yes! I suppose it is that. Well, he’s always been quite an independent little boy: most kids of solo mums have to be—but, um, yes. He’s asserting his independence.”

    “Mm. Well, gives you a bit of freedom, too. Like to come in, see the changes we’ve made?”

    “I’d like to, but I’ve only been in it once, actually: I’d only just got here when Colin wised me up about boycotting the git!” said Molly with a gurgle of laughter.

    “Of course,” agreed Terence easily, taking her arm and tying to deny the surge of acid jealousy that had suddenly engulfed him. There was nothing between Molly and his cousin—though it was pretty plain Colin fancied her, he’d more than had his chance, and hadn't made a move—and besides, he was now involved with his macho lady blacksmith.

    Molly didn’t actually need to be helped over a perfectly flat asphalt carpark and up one step into a modern pub, but she let Terence take her arm and steer her, since he seemed to think it was the thing to do. The pub certainly looked lighter and brighter, from what she remembered.

    “Painted it light cream, dumped the fake Tudor beams, mainly,” said Terence with a grin.

    “Yes. The tables and chairs look good in the blue.”

    “Yes, well, they were only cheap deal with a load of ye olde dark varnish on them. We decided just to slap a coat of paint on the panelling rather than rip it out: want the place to start paying its way.”

    “Yes: that’s sensible. Um, we?” she said cautiously.

    “Alan Timms: he's working for me. He’s a local; known him all my life. Ex-C.P.O.,” he explained.

    “I’m sorry: I don’t know what that is.”

    “Chief Petty Officer: he was on Dauntless.”

    “I see. Um, working what as, exactly?”

    “Well, that took a bit of working out. He’s a very capable chap, but I thought if I appointed him as manager yours truly would just sit back on his fanny and let him do all the work.”

    “Not after the Navy, surely?”

    “I’m not in the Navy now,” said Terence drily. “Though that was partly it: when one’s had one’s own command one doesn’t run a bloody bar, as most of the senior relatives on both sides have already informed me.”

    Molly was now rather flushed. “I hope you told them where to put it!”

    “I did, as a matter of fact, yes,” he said, grinning. “Alan and I talked it over and decided that he’d be Stores and I’d be Admin. No, seriously!” he said as she bit her lip. “He’s used to requisitions and supplies, not to say doing sums, and I’m used to overseeing things. Uh—don’t know how much you might’ve picked up from Rosie,” he said, rumpling his smooth, silvering brown locks in gesture that suddenly made Molly see Colin in him, “but captaining a sub’s very different from the commands John’s always had. Even though the crew’s bigger than a girl might’ve thunk,” he said, grinning at her, “it’s necessarily much closer quarters. Besides, I like the contact with people.”

    “Mm, I see,” said Molly, blushing and smiling. She’d been astounded to discover how many men had crammed aboard the sub. And how big it was, close up.

    “But on a more practical level,” said Terence, his eyes twinkling, “he’ll be in charge of the dining-room and kitchen, and I’ll be chief barman. Though it won’t be that rigid: he’ll haul the heavy barrels about: he’s got the muscle for it!”

    Molly nodded.

    “And there is the point,” he murmured, “that he’s not used to running his own show. He seems very happy with the arrangement.”

    “I see! He wants a boss to fall back on!”

    “Er—well, yes, I suppose it is that.”

    “Most people do,” said Molly on a wry note. She told him how, when her cousin Dot had got the contract to upgrade Double Dee’s databases, Uncle Jerry had moved Peta up to her job, and moved her, Molly, up to Peta’s job in charge of a section, and even though she hadn't been there very long the other people in the section had started asking her stuff and relying on her when things went wrong!

    Terence didn’t have a clue who most of the personalities were, though he remembered Dot as the little blonde doll who’d been in London a year back, and it dawned that Molly’s uncle must be Rosie’s dad, so she was talking about the betting business, but he listened attentively and agreed: “Yes: it’s human nature. Not many born leaders around.”

    “I suppose you can’t really empathise with it, you’d be a born leader.”

    “Uh—not really. A few of us achieve leadership, I suppose. John was always the leader. Well—seven years between us, it was natural.” He looked at her sympathetic face and found, as they strolled through to the other bars, that he was telling her about Father's explosion when he’d said he wanted to be in subs. Molly clearly thought the old boy was potty, though nicely refraining from saying so. Well, she wasn’t far out, unreasoning prejudice was damned potty.

    “This is nice!” she said with a smile in the refurbished dining-room—they’d thrown out an awful lot of fake brass-rubbings and fake horse brasses. “You’ve gone all green and white in here!”

    “Yes, loads of potted palms.” He told her about their plans for a salad bar and simple fish and chip meals. Molly thought that sounded good, but some people might like grilled fish rather than battered. Alan came in from the kitchen at this point so Terence introduced them and retailed this to him. The burly ex C.P.O. nodded, eyeing Molly with considerable approval. “Right: for ladies that are watching their figures. We’ll do that.”

    “Not only ladies, these days,” she said with a smile. “What sort of salads are you thinking of, Alan?”

    “Um, well, we haven’t got a cook, yet. Yvonne knows several local woman that might like to contribute—you know, more like a bring-a-plate supper—but the thing is, that sort of arrangement’s apt to break down at the wrong moment.”

    “Yes: you need everything to be on an official basis when you’re running a business. But you could still use them: offer them definite contracts,” she said, smiling her lovely smile.

    Terence watched with growing annoyance as that gazetted lady’s man, Alan Timms, fell under Molly’s spell. He himself hardly managed to get a word in edgeways.

    “Lockers?” he echoed feebly as a delivery van arrived and Alan hurried off to deal with it.

    “People need a little piece of territory that they can call their own at their place of work; if it isn’t a desk, it needs to be a locker. Uncle Jerry had some part-time staff who had to share desks at one stage, and it was disastrous. They’d spend the first half hour after they came in fuming about what the other person had done with their stuff and their chair—they were ergonomic chairs, of course—and then they’d be so steamed up their work’d suffer.”

    “So did he solve it by giving them their own lockers?” he groped.

    “No, it wasn’t that sort of place: he didn’t manage to solve it at all. One of them left and he managed to fit in an extra desk. I was thinking of the factory jobs I’ve done. They all personalised their lockers with pictures of their family and pets, or pop stars if they were younger, and taped little mirrors to the insides of the doors—you know,” she said, smiling at him.

    “Uh—well, seen the chaps do that sort of thing, yes,” he said, thinking of some of the boobs that had been on display and wincing.

    “Yes. It seems to be a very strong human instinct.”

    “Mm. Did you do it?”

    “I didn’t feel the need,” said Molly tranquilly. “But when I realised they thought I was peculiar, I brought in a snap of Micky and a really yicky little calendar with flowers round it that came in the mail from a health food shop. It had a magnet on it to stick it up with.”

    Terence had to smile, though it wasn’t really funny. She was pretty much a born leader, herself, if you asked him!

    … “Yes,” said his brother thoughtfully over drinks that evening. Rosie was in bed and Molly, alas, hadn’t been able to dine with them: she and Anna had been asked over to Alice Humboldt’s. “Jerry wouldn’t have promoted her out of nepotism, Terence.”

    “No, well, maybe you’ll be able to stick it, working for him, after all!” he said crossly.

    “Yes.”

    “Father was saying—” He broke off.

    “Yes?” said John politely.

    “All right, you don’t want to make admiral, and you don’t want to do liaison with the Aussies and the Yanks out in Canberra!”

    “No: God knows what Admiralty fathead dreamed that one up.”

    “John, do you really want your kids to go to Australian schools?” he said heavily.

    “Yes. Day schools,” said, smiling. “Shut up and have another drink.”

    Terence accepted another brandy.

    John looked at him thoughtfully. “There is a cultural gap, never mind we more or less share a common language.”

    “I know. ’Tisn’t that. Um, well, sometimes she comes right out and— But so far I’ve agreed with her every word, as a matter of fact!” he admitted with sheepish laugh.

    “That’s good,” said his brother mildly.

    Eagerly Terence told him about the lockers and the factory.

    “Uh-huh. She’s very bright, you know. And very determined. Put herself through her M.Sc., part-time. –Yes,” he said to his brother’s dropped jaw. “Marine biology.”

    “Then why she’s been mucking about in Jerry Marshall’s betting office?” he croaked.

    “Drop the prejudice, Terence, it’s a large online gambling consortium. She decided she didn’t want to end up in an ivory tower with a lot of other marine biologists, and who can blame her? The point is, she’s got the brains for it.”

    “Yes.”

    “Until she came to England she never really had the chance to try her wings. Did what she could with the opportunities available—and a lot more than many would have managed.”

    Terence nodded numbly.

    “What’s up? Is it the cultural thing?”

    “No. Um… Dunno that she really fancies me,” he admitted glumly.

    “I’m quite sure she likes you. But I think you may have to give her time. She rushed into the thing with Lucas Roberts, and it turned out very badly. Er—and I suppose I’m telling tales out of school, here, but she has got a history of rushing into things with unsuitable chaps. Well, the marine biology was a case in point. I don’t say she would never have taken her degree otherwise, but I do know for a fact that she chose marine biology because the fellow she was involved with at the time was into it.”

    Terence looked at him numbly.

    “I think she’s decided to be very wary of future entanglements, old man. And, um, well, Yvonne got this out of her over a gin, but—well, to be very wary of Englishmen.”

    “Eh?” he croaked.

    “Yeah. Uh—well, I rather like Lucas Roberts, but that’s because of the cold control-freak side of my nature. –Rosie. Had bad menstrual cramps that day,” he explained with a twinkle in his eye. “Um, hard to convey this without sounding like the world’s greatest snob. He was a working-class boy, fought his way tooth and nail through what little schooling the bloody parents let him have, had the tremendous luck to land a job at Double Dee Productions with a sympathetic management who saw his potential, completed his A-Levels at night school, got his qualifications in accountancy and then management, and grimly lost the working-class accent and taught himself about the finer things of life.” He rubbed his nose slowly. “What many people consider the finer things of life. His flat is a work of art, his suits are a miracle of understated perfect tailoring, and he buys his shirts in the Burlington Arcade.”

    Terence bit his lip. So did he.

    “Quite. Molly found poor Lucas’s way of life, his values and his perfect taste completely… alien, I think is not too strong a word,” he said slowly. “Alien and off-putting.”

    After a moment Terence said dazedly: “Tell me that your point isn’t that now she thinks all Englishmen have got to be like him.”

    “All Englishmen of our class—yes.”

    “That’s ridiculous!”

    “Not to anyone who’d got a look at that bureauful of shirts of yours, Terence.”

    “She’s never even—” He broke off, scowling.

    “It’s the way youse jokers talk, too,” said John on a snide note.

    “Very funny,” he said grimly.

    “No, well, think it acts as an early warning signal. Then the shirts confirm—”

    “Yes! –Shit,” he muttered.

    “Euan put his foot in it in exactly the same way. Took her to a couple of art galleries, concerts… Oh—and Greenwich: an unmitigated disaster!” he said with a smothered laugh.

     Terence adored Greenwich. He looked at him limply.

    “It was just old buildings with a load of scientific junk in them, Terence.”

    “But she is a scientist!” he stuttered.

    “A biologist. Not into anything mechanical. Euan’s temperamentally nothing like Lucas, but they both have an appreciation of the finer things. Oh—and Euan’s a natural gourmet, whereas poor Lucas just tries to be. Molly likes simple food.”

    “I like simple food myself!” he said heatedly.

    “I know. Molly’s a bright girl, but she’s a girl of simple tastes. Neither of them grasped that.”

    Terence just looked at him limply,.

    “It’ll take time. Don’t for God’s sake take her to any art galleries or museums.”

    “You know damn’ well I loathe bloody art galleries!”

    “Mm,” he said, smiling. “And I know one’s instinct is to chose the best restaurants for one’s best girl, but don’t, old man.”

    Terence drew an indignant breath. “Look, I’ve seen Rosie at the Ritz lapping up—”

    “She doesn’t know what she’s eating,” said her husband tranquilly. “But unlike Molly, she does enjoy a bit of the high life. Loves dressing up and having people looking at her, though she’d deny it hotly.”

    Terence looked at the little smile and sighed.

    “Take it slow, make it simple, is my advice.”

    “Yes. Thanks, John.”

    “But don’t assume that because Molly has simple tastes, she’s a simple person. I think Lucas may have made that mistake,” he said thoughtfully.

    Terence bit his lip and got up. “No. Right.”

    “Want a lift home?” said John, smiling at him.

    “Uh—no, I’ll walk, thanks.”

    “Right you are. –No, Tim,” he said as the big dog woke up and tried to go out with Terence. He got up and grabbed his collar. “Go on, or the mutt’ll follow you all the way back to the pub!”

    Terence hurried out silently.

    John shook his head and sat down again. “Later, fella,” he said to his dog. Tim came up to his chair and rested his head sadly on his knee. “Give over, that look only works with the ladies!” he said with a laugh. “No, well, ’tisn’t as easy as us simple-minded chaps assume, is it?”

    Colin coughed. Anna’s picture of The Church didn’t, and here he offered thanks to a merciful Providence, include Caroline or Robert. It did, however, include the ’orrible sharp pointing, and a plethora of sharp-pointed succulents and cactuses. Kiefer as the resident cherub was lovely, but that didn’t mean that the rest wasn’t all meant.

    “Sharp points, see?” said Potter Purbright, grinning.

    “Don’t!” he gasped, breaking down in hysterics.

    “They won’t get it,” she said confidently.

    Colin blew his nose hard. “Not unless some big-mouthed cretin goes and says it front of them,” he noted pointedly.

    “I’ve already warned her,” said her father mildly.

    “Shouldn’t you be in London taking over poor old Uncle Matthew’s ruddy bank?”

    “Not until he’s admitted that two and two don’t make fifty-five,” replied Richard coolly. “What do you think? Page 1?”

    That would be up to Perryman Press, but Colin agreed: “I’d vote for page 1. It’d lead one on gently and then, after the others had sunk, in one would go back to it and—”

    “Snigger,” said the artist placidly. “I’ve given Caroline one of the studies of Kiefer’s head.”

    “Good. How’s the one of Belling Close?”

    “Near libellous,” said Richard detachedly.

    “Good show! Let’s see!”

    Anna took the cloth off it and heaved it up. Yep, near libellous was what it was. The window-boxes were harmlessly full of snapdragons, large daisies, putative Canterbury bells, and possible petunias, but the border had worked pansies in along with these blooms. She’d done four of the neat little houses, and each of the four had a little neat little car outside it and a neat little person in strangely bright clothing…

    “Merry and bright, as well as gay,” said Richard drily.

    “I’d have it as the last picture in the book,” said Potter Purbright with a deep sigh. “It sort of sums up what Bellingford’s becoming.”

    “Too subtle,” rejoined Colin: “but you’re right. Oh, Hell, I suppose I’m contributing to it.”

    “Bringing much-needed employment,” corrected Richard firmly, smiling at him.

    “You’re a bloated capitalist, too,” he grumbled. “Oh, well. Can’t have life without change, eh? You selling these in London, Anna?”

    “Um, Richard thinks maybe I could have a showing down at the Green.”

    “Those rooms above the bookshop,” murmured Richard. “You’d need a connecting door, I think, but keep them as two rooms, then you could run two exhibitions.”

    “That’s a great idea!” beamed Colin. “Now we only have to find someone willing to run a bookshop down here,” he admitted.

    “I think Caroline might do it,” said Anna placidly.

    “Eh?” he croaked.

    “I know she doesn’t read what you call books, but she’d be good at the business side. And she wants to have another baby: she’s got really keen since Rosie started New Baby.”

    Colin just gaped at her.

    “She brought Kiefer for some sittings. Juliette was hopeless: she wouldn’t try to keep him still. Caroline likes talking to me, because I don’t interrupt,” she said mildly. “Alice’d like to help, part-time. She knows all about books. But she doesn’t want to work full-time.”

    “Er—no. Well, don’t think there’d be enough work for a full-time assistant. Well, that sounds great!”

    “Good. –Do you think John’d let me paint him in the nude?” she said abruptly.

    Oh, Christ!

    Richard shot a look at his face, explained smoothly that he and Potter Purbright had an appointment to take measurements at the house they’d talked Derry Dawlish into selling, and dragged her away.

    “Anna, the thing is,” said Colin on a desperate note, “John’s a senior Navy captain, and though personally he’s no blushing violet, I think there’d be Hell to pay with the Navy high-ups if it got out it was him.”

    “I was only thinking of a back view,” she said sadly. “He’s got a wonderful figure.”

    Er—well, yeah, always had had, and the strings of girlfriends to attest to it. “A back view?” he echoed feebly.

    “Yes. Standing up, not quite straight on—“

    “How not quite straight on?” he croaked.

    Anna got up and demonstrated. Colin sagged in relief. “That looks all right. But you would have to be very, very careful not to breathe a word to anybody who the model was.”

    “Yes. Back View of a Man?”

    “That sounds neutral enough, yeah. Um, look, the village’d know,” he said awkwardly.

    “Him and Rosie are going up to town for the baby, though. She says that doctor’s very nice. Molly says I could stay with her.”

    Colin passed a hand through his curls. “You seem to have got it all worked out. Uh—shit: does Fiona know?”

    “Yes. She said he’s always had a good figure.”

    Not asking whether Norman knew and if he did, whether his reaction had been printable, Coin said feebly: “Right, in that case, I’d say it’s all systems go, Anna.”

    “Ooh, good! I’ll ask him!” she cried.

    Yeah, right. And might he please be very, very far away—in another galaxy, preferably—if old Cousin Bernard ever found out. His mind completely refused to contemplate the possibility of Cousin Miriam’s ever finding out, so he took it and himself down to the Green, and had a gloat over his flooring plan. The rooms were filling with tenants! And with Richard’s great idea for the gallery above the bookshop, that made two more filled in!

    He went over to the smithy. Rob and Owen had neatened off Jack’s hole at the front and found a second-hand roller door for it. Terracotta and a dim blue had been chosen as Bellingford Green Craft Enterprises’ corporate colours—those who hadn't realised that they had to have corporate colours jes’ layin’ low and sayin’ nuffin’—and Penn in person had pained the roller door in the dim blue (“faded denim” according to the paint pot—oh, well.) It looked really good—though it wasn’t down all that often. The forge was now in operation, Rob, Owen, and, surprisingly, Jack, who’d got all keen, had brilliantly piped hot water from the giant fireplace to all the other houses in the row, and Penn was in the process of making a giant grille to go in front of the roller door, when it was down, and just to advertise her skill, when it wasn’t.

    Colin put his hands over his ears and went in.

    CLANG! CLANG! BOINGGG!

    “Hey!” he squeaked.

    CLANG! CLANG! BOINGGG! BANG, BANG, BANG! Hisss-sss!

    “Hullo,” he said mildly.

    “Oh, it’s you,” replied the smith, grinning.

    “Yeah. Working on the grille, are you?”

    Penn held it up in her giant pincers, looking dry. Um, well, it could be a curly bit for the top, or, um, a decorative bit to go crosswise, or um…

    “Candlestick for Ma G.T. –Mediaeval candlestick,” she said with a wink.

    Right. “Well, just be sure you charge her for it.”

    “Mates’ rates,” grunted Penn, falling to again. “WHAT?” she bellowed above the clatter.

    “Can’t you—Can’t you stop for a mo’?” he squeaked.

    “NO!” she bellowed.

    Right, strike while the iron—Oh, yeah! Silly him. Where it came from. Nothing to do with smoothing irons.

    “What?” she said, smiling, having fashioned the thing’s tip, um, possibly its bottom, into a sort of curly—never mind.

    “Strike while the iron is hot,” he said feebly.

    “Yes. Hit it at the wrong moment and you could bust it. Is this a social call, or do you want something?”

    “You,” he said, grinning.

    Penn was already very flushed, what with the heat in there, but at this she went even redder. “Hah, hah.

    “No, well, later,” he threatened. “Wanted a word with Marion: isn’t she here?”

    “No,” she said with a sigh. “I told the silly idiot the heat would get too much for her.”

    “Mm.” The potter’s kilns had been set up in the smithy, since it was hot in here anyway. And extremely fireproof, after Rob and Owen had had a go at it. “So she’s got out of the kitchen?”

    “Yeah. Think she went off to moon at row-houses she can’t afford.”

    “Oh? I didn’t see her—she might be inside somewhere. No, well, Richard’s come up with a bright idea for a gallery. What do you think?”

    Penn listened critically. “Sounds good. You could put a few pots or statuettes on the stairs, they’d spot them from the doorway.”

    “My thought exactly!” he said with a laugh. “Thought it might cheer Marion up: at least we’ll have a spot where she can show.”

    “Doesn’t solve the problem of her clay drying out and her sweating like a pig, though.”

    “No. Don’t start that thing again for a moment, Penn. Seriously, what can she afford?”

    “Just for a studio, not accommodation?”

    Colin agreed ruefully that that was what he’d meant. Marion and Penn were currently sharing Penn’s bed-sit above the smithy. It had given rise to a certain amount of gossip locally, yes, even though they’d crammed two beds in. And it was certainly hampering his sex life! Penn had come over to Number 11 Moulder’s Way with him on quite a few occasions but he didn’t feel it was all that fair on Terri. Not that she seemed embarrassed, but nevertheless. And the amount of noise Penn made in bed was certainly a consideration. As was the fact that he most certainly didn’t want her to shut up. If he hadn't been pretty sure that things were at a very delicate stage between Terri and Euan he’d have asked her to sleep over there.

    “Um, well,” Penn admitted glumly, “I’d say she can only afford about half of one of your back rooms, Colin.”

    “Mm.”

    “And pottery’s quite a messy craft. She couldn’t share with anything really clean.”

    Colin had now worked that out for himself: there always seemed to be floods of water and liquid clay in Marion’s vicinity. “Mm. Look, the laundry in Number 22’s not done up yet. It’s small, but it’s got a nice tiled floor. There’s not much light but we could put in a bigger window for her. What do you think? The weaver’d have to put up with the kitchen being in her studio: we’d knock a bit off her rent.”

    “Right, the woman’d need that,” said Penn drily. “Actually, I think that might do. Marion’s probably down there somewhere brooding over rooms she can’t afford.”

    That was his cue to disappear, obviously. He hesitated. “Dinner tonight?”

    “I can’t, she’s doing one of her blessed vegetable pies.”

    He winced: Marion was a vegetarian. “Well, tomorrow?”

    “Isn’t Euan due? Haven’t you self-sacrificingly volunteered to get yourself beans on toast? –It’s a wonder you’re not the size of a house,” she added.

    “I’m sweating it off,” he explained, pulling his tee-shirt away from his ribs. “Look, we’ll find something to eat, and if you come over early we can have a nice fuck first!”

    Penn went redder than ever. “Yes. Good,” she said in a strangled voice.

    Colin laughed. “Come here!” He pulled her to him. “I could get up there right now!” he said in her ear.

    “Don’t,” said Penn in a strangled voice.

    He kissed her hungrily and slid his hand between those extremely tempting generous thighs: when she was working she usually wore, praise be to Him Who giveth all, the soft black bra, the red vest, and a pair of very tight, very, very short fringed denim shorts. Frequently without knickers because managing mundane things like laundry was not, he had now discovered, her strong suit. Well, glory hallelujah!

    “I’ve got to finish this thing, she’s found five more customers for me,” she said with a sigh.

    “Five? All for candlesticks? Mediaeval candlesticks? –Ooh!”

    “Stop it,” said Penn faintly. “Don’t, you sex-crazed maniac! They’re not candlesticks, they’re—”

    “I’ve got another candlestick here,” he explained.

    Penn swallowed loudly. “Mediaeval door latches and stuff.”

    “Mm,” he said into her neck. His face then sort of travelled down—

    “Blast!” gasped Penn, kicking him in the shin.

    Ow! Fortunately she’d got him in the good leg. “What was that for, ya mean cow—” Oh! Oh, lawks: hat, gloves, an’ all!

    “Good morning, Colin! Good morning, Penn, my dear!”

    “’Morning, Hermione,” they both mumbled.

    “You look very smart,” offered Colin feebly as she bustled forward, all coy smiles.

    As a matter of fact she was just off for a luncheon meeting—she actually said that—with the Lady Mayoress! Colin and Penn just goggled at her in awe as she assured them that they could expect to see progress with that shocking road very soon, admired the misshapen thing that was going to be her candlestick, grabbed one of Penn’s smaller samples to show the Lady Mayoress, and departed, waggling the gloved fingers coyly.

    “I think I’d better sit down,” said Colin faintly.

    Penn glanced at him in alarm, but he was joking. “Stupid ass,” she said grimly.

    “If they ever need a cure for it in the average male, I can recommend an unexpected encounter with an Hermione G.T. just when it’s reached the approximate height and heat of a towering inferno,” he said glumly.

    Immediately Penn collapsed in helpless sniggers.

    “Do ya think she noticed?” he said plaintively.

    “Get out of here!” she spluttered.

    “I am going, actually, I can’t risk another one like that. –Tomorrow?” he said timidly.

    “Yeah—Jesus, don’t do that!”—Colin removed his hand from his genitals.—“Um, yeah. Um, well, what time?”

    “I can do it at any time,” he said, looking prim.

    Penn had now realised that this was scarcely an exaggeration. “I usually knock off around five,” she said in a weak voice.

    “Five’s good for me!” agreed Colin, going.

    Penn looked blankly at the misshapen piece of metal in her hand. What the Hell had she been going to do with… Oh! Right! She got on with it.

    Marion was discovered drooping mournfully—she was a tall, thin, angular woman: herons in a pond had nothing on her, she was even fonder of standing on one leg than a Masai—in the front room of Number 21.

    “You couldn’t afford it, Marion,” said Colin as kindly as he could.

    She gasped, and lowered the leg. “Um, no,” she said glumly. “Just wishing. Who is moving in?”

    “Haven’t got a tenant for the downstairs, yet. Four quilt-makers, a lacemaker—I’m hoping she’ll want to sit outside with her cushion on her knee in the nice weather—and a doll-maker intend cramming into the back bedroom, however. Possibly not all at the same time. I haven’t enquired too closely, I’m leaving it to them. If they can’t pay the rent or if they leave the place empty they’ll be out, and we’ve got that in computerised black and white with all their signatures on it.”

    “What sort of dolls?” she asked fearfully.

    Colin eyed her drily. “Not those really pretty Victorian ones with the long flaxen curls, the sweet faces and the lace-trimmed dresses, actually.”

    “Good,” said Marion on a defiant note. “I’ve even seen the bloody things with hand-knitted stockings. Cotton thread,” she elaborated sourly.

    “I’m sure,” he said politely. “No, this woman makes ugly-faced, puffy stuffed things. Soft. I’ve been assured they’re not Cabbage Patch Kids, that mean anything to you?”

    “It means they are but they’re not mass-produced. They’ll probably sell like hot cakes.”

    “If you say so. Don’t think my brother’s or my sister’s kids would have thanked me for offering them that sort of thing instead of a flaxen-haired, smiling Victorian dolly—though I do recognise there’s brainwashing and brainwashing. –Look, if you fancy it you can use the laundry next-door, we can put in a nice big window for you. It’s poky, but it’s tiled: you can make as much mess as you like. Come on,” he said firmly to her dubious face, leading the way.

    Marion brightened as he opened the laundry door. “It’s not that poky!”

    “No: used to be the kitchen. We could rip that laundry tub—”

    “No, I want the tub!” she said quickly. “How much do you want for it, though?”

    For himself Colin would have let the poor woman use the place for nothing. She combined the face of a horse with the figure, and stance, of course, of a heron, she had a messy divorce and a very messy custody battle in her past, and the husband had somehow ended up with the house. And the three great louts she’d fed, clothed and housed throughout their teens—in spite of the said custody battle—never came near her now that they were earning good money. Her pottery, in his humble opinion, was really lovely, but she had no commercial acumen whatsoever and was hopeless at dealing with potential customers and/or shops that might want to sell for her. Added to which she’d had to put the pottery on hold while the louts grew up.

    “I’ll have to check with Robert and Caroline—we didn’t envisage letting it. But in principle, Marion, very little.”

    Marion went very red and said hoarsely: “Thanks, Colin.”

    “We’re glad to have you. Terri and I both adore that bowl you gave me.”

    She went redder than ever and made a rough disclaimer.

    Yes, well, there were some as had smooth people skills and some as didn’t. He walked out to the front with her and watched with a smile as she hurried off to give Penn the good news.

    He’d amended his plan with a very firm “MARION H.: POTTER” on the laundry and was brooding over Number 21, with its dim blue front door and sills and smart white window frames, when a small voice said: “Hullo, Colin.”

    Colin swallowed, and turned. “Hullo, Carole,” he said weakly. She’d been at several of the meetings they’d held but he hadn't spoken to her personally since, er—quite.

    Carole was very flushed. She gave him a wobbly smile and said: “I wonder if I could have a word, if it’s convenient?”

    “Of course. Come on in here, we’ve got two whole chairs in Number 21,” he admitted, ushering her in.

    The chairs, both wooden, were one paint-spattered but dry thing that various people had stood on and rested paint pots on, and one soft pastel blue bentwood one belonging to the restaurant. It was not Bellingford Green Craft Enterprises’ own blue, but a lighter shade, which Caroline and Mrs Fitzroy had agreed would be just the thing for Higgledy-Piggledy’s inside sills and chairs, while the tables would be covered in a toning gingham, as to the top and very washable layer, and a heavy pale terracotta linen as to the under-cloths. All right, if that was how it was done, so be it. –Oh, beg your pardon: linen-look, of course. Washable. Non-shrink. Mm.

    Carole looked askance at the paint-spattered one so he quickly offered her the blue one.

    “What a pretty shade of blue,” she said as she sat down.

    “Yes: that chair belongs to the restaurant. Higgledy-Piggledy.”

    “I think it’s such a sweet name! And I love the sign that Anna’s done for it!” she said eagerly. “Really, it’s too good to hang out in all weathers! ‘Higgledy-Piggledy my black hen!’”

    Uh—was it? Blast! Now he was more confused than ever! The sign certainly showed a black hen—well, a fat black hen—but that was because just before she painted it Anna had been up George Street and the very old Mr Watkins had shown her his fat black hens. And God knew what sort of a cottage picture would eventuate! Unfortunately the book had not been located and a very red-faced Juliette had privily admitted to him that it was the book that Kiefer had tried to flush down the toilet in a temper tantrum and She didn’t know and for goodness’ sake not to let on! Colin wouldn’t have let on to save his soul, even though he didn’t think, now he’d got to know her better, that Caroline’s wrath would be as terrible as Juliette seemed to assume. As an employee Juliette had a lot in common with Jack Powell.

    Carole was now telling him eagerly that she’d been so thrilled to get the custom for the gingham-lined bread-baskets and the napkins! Eh? Well, it was Mrs Fitzroy’s business who she bought crap for the restaurant from.

    Then there was a pause.

    “Um, it’s about this place, really, Colin,” she said, biting her lip.

    Colin was occupied in telling it sternly that it didn’t ought and it had better stop, ’cos even if it remembered having had her in the past, it wasn’t gonna have her ag— “Mm? Number 21?”

    “Yes. Ms Deane Jennings mentioned that you still haven’t got a tenant, and you were thinking of a—a general crafts shop.”

    Unfortunately telling it that hadn’t had any effect. Nor did telling it that he had Penn now, and tomorrow at five was not that long to wait— No effect whatsoever!

    “That was the idea. We’ve got some specialised people that are happy to demonstrate their work—”

    “I’d like to take it over, Colin, ” said Carole, holding up her narrow chin defiantly.

    Colin gaped at her. “Buh—Well, we’d be delighted to have you, of course! But would our market suit the kind of thing you sell?”

    “But that’s the thing!” she said in what was perilously near a wail: “I’ve got lots of lovely stuff, really high quality, but I can’t sell it! Well, you saw my quilts, Colin!”

    Uh—well, yes, so he had. “They’re certainly wonderful.”

    “Yes! And I’ve got boxes and boxes of beautiful pottery—I had to send some back, I just couldn’t sell it for them, poor things—and I know a wonderful wood-turner, but I’ve only sold three of his wooden bowls, and one was to Rosie and I think she only bought it out of the kuh-kindness of her—”

    “No,” said Colin quickly, “she didn’t. It’s on her sideboard, she uses it as a fruit bowl.”

    “Oh, really? Oh, good!” she said limply. “The second one was to Mrs Kendall, she’s the Captain’s sister— Oh! You must know her, of course, silly me!”

    “Yes, she’s my cousin Fiona. Well, she certainly has an eye for a good piece.”

    Carole nodded gratefully.

    “And who bought the other?” he asked nicely.

    She went very red. “‘A gentleman from—from one of the nice homes.”

    Oh, Gawd, the chap that used to own Dawlish’s house that had been up her? “So you’ve got the product, eh?” he said quickly. “You only need the market. Well, that is what we’re hoping to encourage, of course. What about your existing customers, though?”

    “I think they’d still come if I was down here. Some of them come to me for birthday presents quite regularly. And wedding presents, that sort of thing. But there’s a limit to that sort of market, really. I think I might do better down here, if you’re all here.”

    “Yes. You might be a bit isolated up there, amongst the food shops,” he said slowly. Carole nodded eagerly and he added kindly: “So has your current lease run out?”

    She went very red and said angrily: “No! The horrid old man won’t give me a proper lease, it’s only a weekly rental, and I’ve been going from week to week not knowing where I am for five years, now, and it’s the most awful, insecure feeling, Colin!”

    “Good Christ, who is he?” he croaked.

    “Mr Simons,” she said, the narrow mouth tightening. “I don’t think you’d know him; he lives in Upper Mill Lane, up in Upper Bellingford, and he hardly speaks to anybody, he wouldn’t even fill in Rosie’s questionnaires!”

    “I see. Uh—local or an in-comer?”

    He was a local, and the place Carole was renting for her shop had belonged to his grandfather, who’d bought it outright back when all the shopkeepers in the High Street had been offered the freeholds: ages ago—back before the War. Only most of the cottagers hadn't had the capital to buy, of course. And his grandfather must have been an old miser like he was! Every time she asked him for a lease he said he might have a better offer!

    “Right, well, he deserves to lose you,” said Colin briskly. “Let’s see. There’s the whole of the downstairs.” He got out his plan. “And actually the front room upstairs hasn’t been taken.”

    “I think I’d only need the downstairs. Um, but I might need some storage. I’ve got lots of storage where I am now because he made me rent the whole place.”

    “Uh-huh. Well, Jack’s done some work on the cupboard under the stairs, that’d be a bit of storage for you.” They had a look at it and Carole approved, and also approved of the kitchen, it wasn’t every shop that had a proper kitchen! And they opened the back door and looked out at the giant steel shed which Rob and Owen had very recently erected for the furniture restorers. “Ooh!” she gasped.

    “Mm.” Blast: they were necessarily standing very close together, the back doorway was pretty narrow, and her scent was reminding it— Down, boy. Not for us. Been there, done—Er, yeah. Why was it that notions like fidelity, monogamy and all that jazz did not reach below the waist? He edged back a little. “Um, that shed’s for the furniture restorers, but I should think we could fit in some big cupboards for you.” It was padlocked, but he had a key, so he opened up. Huge echoing spaces and one upright piano.

    “They don’t do the musical bits, they’re going to fix up its varnish and stuff and then send it off to be tuned. Well, probably restrung,” he said with a smile.

    “I see! Ooh, it’s exciting, isn’t it?”

    It was, actually: Colin grinned at her. “Yes.”

    “I suppose it’ll be very dirty, though.”

    Pink towels and coasters, he thought involuntarily. “Yeah. Think so. Well, they’re scrupulously spick and span themselves but I think there’ll be a lot of dust, and probably a strong smell of varnish. You could have steel cabinets, but I don’t know about storing your lovely quilts in here, Carole,” he said, scratching the beard. “Wouldn’t want the smell to get into the fabric.”

    “No. Well, I could have most of them on display, and I can always keep the rest at home.”

    “Sounds like a good plan,” he said, grinning.

    “Yes,” said Carole, looking up at him and going very pink.

    Hell! “Uh, look, Carole,” he said, clearing his throat, “I—um well, we had fun, didn’t we?”

    “Yes, it was fun,” she agreed. “It’s all right, you don’t have to say anything. I know you’re involved with that lady blacksmith now.”

    “Yeah. Um, well, I don’t want it to be uncomfortable for you.”

    “No—well, I mean, these things happen, don’t they?” she said brightly. “And we are both adults!”

    Er—yeah. “Yes, of course. Well, if you’re really interested, would you like to look at the terms of the lease?”

    She was very keen, so they went into the front room of 22, which was serving as a temporary office. Robert was now working full-time for the project but he wasn’t in, he was over in Portsmouth having meetings with tour operators, an advertising agency, and a web site designer. No, well, office was a bit of a misnomer: Robert had a second-hand desk and an ergonomic chair, but Colin’s space consisted of part of one large battered metal filing cabinet, and what might have been a metal rubbish bin if one overlooked the fact that there was a large hole in its bottom. He sat Carole firmly down on the chair—it was miles too high for her but it was so complicated he didn’t know how to drive it—and got a copy of the draft lease out of the filing cabinet. The top drawer was his and it was arranged on the “Keep It Simple, Stupid” principle. Numbered by street number of the little houses. Then there was a file labelled “Copies of Employment Contracts.” And another file labelled “Copies of Important Docs”. The final file was labelled “Emergency Teabags.” What it actually held was a bottle of beer.

    “Is this yours?” she said, eyeing the computer on Robert’s desk.

    “No, Robert’s. It does belong to Bellingford Green Craft Enterprises, though. We’re not into crap like secret passwords that no-one can remember and the whole world knows are written on sticky labels stuck to the inside of your top desk drawer, so I can use it, if I need to. I can print out a copy of that draft lease if you’d like to take it away with you.”

    “Yes, that’d be good, thanks. Um, haven’t you got a desk, Colin?”

    “I’ve got one up at the cottage but hauling it down here’s been a low priority,” he said with a smile. “In any case we’re hoping to let this room fairly soon.”

    “I see. So where will you have your office, then?”

    “Well, any room that’s not taken, really. We won’t need much space. Want to go over the terms of that?’

    Somewhat dazedly Carole went over the terms. Of course, it wasn’t the same as renting a whole building, but even so, the rent they were asking seemed incredibly low! She asked about the cupboard space in the shed and Colin seemed quite surprised that she wanted it spelled out but agreed to it amiably. Also agreeing when she said firmly she’d better pay something, because not paying for it could cause ill-feeling with the other tenants. And what about the kitchen facilities? Colin admitted she’d have to share those with the building’s other tenants. She understood that, but how much would it come to? It was all included, but Bellingford Green Craft Enterprises wouldn’t sort out any disputes with the other tenants over who had the rights to the electric jug and the pretty pottery mugs! he said with a laugh.

    “No,” said Carole dazedly. She had offered him a mug of coffee in the shop, when they were looking at the quilts, that was right. “Fancy you remembering that!”

    Yeah. Bit of a pity it wasn’t all he remembered, and was it gonna do this every time he met the woman? Well, it did it every time he met not a few other women, too. Such was life, he guessed.

    Carole thought she’d better show this to her lawyer and he agreed amiably. But if it was all right—and she was sure it would be—how soon could she move in? she asked eagerly. Weakly Colin said as soon as she liked and she hurried off with shining eyes.

    Colin and his hard-on just sagged in the front doorway. Or one of them sagged—yeah.

    “Who was that?” said a grim voice from behind him and he gasped and leapt.

    “Oh—hullo again, Marion. That was Carole Jackson from Le Petit Cabinet de Carole—the craft shop in the High Street. She wants to move down here.”

    “I see. How soon can I move my stuff in?” she said, going very red.

    “Right away, if you like. Want a hand?’

    “Thanks,” she agreed gruffly. “I’ll have a lot of slurry,” she said as they headed down to the smithy.

    “Mm? Oh: I suppose you will. I don’t know that our drains are equipped to handle it, Marion. I’ll have a word with Jack. We might have to put in a special drain for you—drain it out into the back somewhere,” he said, trying not to think of the word “environment.” Though God knew the green itself was, as Rosie said, a claypan. Greg, who seemed to do a bit of jobbing gardener work, Colin thought it had started as part of what the sociologists had fondly imagined was their secret plan to spy on the daily doings of Bellingford, had given him the name of a very reliable firm in Portsmouth who would do a proper drainage job—and the names of quite a few so-called lawn experts to avoid like the plague. When they’d get all the junk off it to let the draining and turf-laying begin was another matter, however.

    A lot of Marion’s stuff was in the smithy’s back yard: she explained it had been too hot in there for the clay. Well, quite. They lugged it up to the laundry. Colin looked at the wheel itself and thought better of it. He went to fetch Rob while Marion mucked around moving stuff from where he’d put it down and putting it in better places. Today (and yesterday and probably tomorrow and the next day) Rob and Owen were putting in the broad driveway that Colin, Robert and Caroline hadn’t realised they’d need until the day the furniture restorers looked at the place. Just as well they’d bought those two empty lots, nominally Numbers 26 and 27, wasn’t it? They didn’t want to bring trucks through the square, so the driveway—private road, was more like it—led off the very short piece of road leading out of the south-east corner of the square to George Street, which they now knew was Wills Lane, and along the backs of Numbers 27, 26, and the smithy at 25. Yes, they would have to fence it off if they wanted to put horses, not to say the public and its kids, in those empty lots, wouldn’t they?

    The wiry Rob agreed cheerfully to lug the potter’s wheel down to the laundry of Number 22 and the burly Bob Potter, who seemed to have developed a sort of crush on him, assisted eagerly.

    Marion then rushed back to the smithy for something she’d overlooked, and the menfolk adjourned to the kitchen area. Jack had found a small fridge for it. Colin hadn't objected, though he certainly had objected to the ridiculously low price: had Jack costed in his time? Well, no, but— Colin had got Robert to cost it properly for him in the faint hope that it’d dawn he’d been underselling himself and his services for years. All he said was: “If you wanna chuck yer dough away, I’ll take it. But if I charged those prices regular I’d never manage to sell anything.” Robert—he was, after all, very young—had tried to argue that if he sold stuff at the correct prices the market would have realistic expectations, but Colin had just quietly melted away like the dew. His head had met more than enough hard surfaces: he wasn’t up for banging it against brick walls.

    “Funny looking dame, that Marion, isn’t she?” said the sapper thoughtfully.

    Colin got the beer out. What was left of it. “Yeah. Bit like a heron.”

    “That’s it! I was thinking of one of those African birds—saw something similar out in Iraq, too, sir, remember?”

    “Cranes?” he said with smile. “And it’s Colin, not sir, Rob!”

    “Habit,” said the ex-sapper. “Right. Cranes. Just before we blew them and that apology for a so-called bridge sky-high. Toleja the ruddy Iraqis had mined it!”

    He had, indeed. Colin grinned. “Yeah. Those Yanks and their fat general with the medal ribbons on the camouflage gear all owe their lives to you, Rob. –She’s a heron, not a crane, though.”

    “Right.” He swallowed half a bottle of beer thirstily. “Aah! That's better! Want us to get some more in, s—Colin?’

    “Yeah. Take it out of petty cash,” said Colin, handing him a handful of notes.

    “Ta.” He leaned on the sink-bench eating biscuits. “Owen’s at it already,” he offered.

    Colin wasn’t entirely surprised. “Oh? Quickish work. Or has he found the Workingmen’s Club?”

    “Nuh—Yeah, he has, only he didn’t meet her there.”

    “Go on, tell me the worst.”

    “Don’t think there is a worst, this time. Well, it won’t be like that do when that Iraqi that claimed ’e was ’er dad tried to make him marry ’er with the business end of ’is rifle.”

    “No; just as well we’d replaced that lady interpreter, that new chap was worth his weight in gold,” he said thoughtfully.

    “’E was to Owen, yeah! Added to which the Doc claimed she gave ’im the worst case of crabs ’e’d seen since—”

    Bob had collapsed in painful splutters already, so Rob stopped, grinning. “Yeah,” he said when the noise had died down. “Anyway, he is. Met ’er at the pub.”

    “But it isn’t open yet,” said Colin dazedly.

    “Would that stop ’im? –No,” he said over Bob’s further splutters, “he was looking to see if it might be, see? And she was there.”

    Colin quailed. Not Yvonne? That tank-like ex-C.P.O. had dibs on her: if it was her they could expect ructions and then some! “Rob, she’s not a busty yellow-haired woman, is she?”

    “Sounds like ’im!” he acknowledged with a wink. “No, well,” he said over Bob’s yet further splutters, “’e doesn’t insist on the yellow hair. But she’s got good tits, all right. Red hair, though.”

    “Oh,” said Colin blankly. “What was she doing at the pub, or didn’t he get as far as asking?”

    “Works there. Well, when they’re open. Does the cleaning and stuff: beds and so on, if they got anyone staying.”

    Colin shut his eyes and Bob cleared his throat loudly.

    “You do know ’er, then,” spotted Rob.

    “Yeah, we know her. I was under the impression she was a respectable married woman,” said Colin heavily.

    “Right. Helen Walker. He’s at sea. Gunner,” explained Bob. “I always thought— Well, I mean, ya know what villages are like, but no-one’s ever breathed a word about her! And they got four kids, the oldest one must be twenty if ’e’s a day!”

    “That doesn’t stop ’im,” explained Rob.

    “No, in fact it’s pretty well par for the course. He was doing two married women in their forties at the same time when we were in Germany—”

    “No, three, sir,” objected Rob.

    “Not technically, she was divorced. Two married women and one divorcée. The husband of one beat Owen up and then beat the other husband up—I forget the details, but it was juicy!”

    “I think one of them’s husband told the other one’s husband he was doing his missus— Was it? Anyway, the Colonel’s right, it was juicy!” said Rob with a laugh. “Only the stupid plonker ended up in hospital for a week. Then the Colonel gave ’im twenty days.”

    “To cool off. Giving the regiment a bloody bad name. The divorcée was in on the fight, too,” said Colin drily. “The bar was pretty well a write-off. Well, thanks for the warning, Rob. And at least it wasn’t the yellow-haired one.”

    “Right. Alan Timms, ’e’s got a ruddy ’ard fist,” noted Bob.

    Quite. Possibly it was a mistake to introduce a couple of Army boys into a Navy village. Though Owen was okay except where the ladies were concerned. They could only hope and pray that Gunner Walker would remain at sea until his attention had turned to fresh game. Which there was no doubt it would. Well, why change the habit of—not a lifetime, no. Owen Bridges was twenty-nine. He’d done a ten-year stint. Colin would not, frankly, have chosen him for the job, though he was a damn’ good worker and a great man to have beside you in a tight spot—but he and Rob were partners. Rob Cowan was a very different kettle of fish. Forty-nine, career soldier, retired after thirty years in. As solid as they came. If Bob Potter wanted a rôle model, he could hardly have picked a better one.

    “Oh—by the way, Rob,” he said as they finished the beer and agreed the sappers and Bob might as well shoot into Portsmouth for supplies this lunch-hour on company time, “the woman who runs the craft shop in the High Street’s moving down here. You might pop up there some time and ask if she’d like us to move her. It’ll only be one truck-load, I think, but she’s got some fragile stuff. Oh—and do us a great favour, would you, and don’t take Owen with you.”

    Bob promptly collapsed in splutters, gasping: “Sorry, Colin—sorry!”

    “Yeah,” said Colin wryly. “I’ve already complicated that picture more than enough.”

    “Blonde, is she?” asked Rob drily.

    Bob was in agonies. Colin sighed. “Yes. There was nothing in it. She’s a pleasant woman, we were both at a loose end, and—Well.”

    “Right you are, Colonel,” said the wiry sapper calmly.

    In the ill-lit passage of Number 22 The Green, the very flushed Marion came to herself and retreated noiselessly. She hadn't meant to listen, but when she’d realised the sort of thing they were talking about and heard that stupid male laughter, she hadn’t liked to go in. She went back into her laundry and closed the door very carefully, swallowing hard. Men were pigs!