Consequences

18

Consequences

    Jack Powell was round at Anna’s that Friday. Once the big picture of Colin in the nuddy had gone up to London she’d started on the one of him. Though at the moment she wasn’t painting, just drawing. It was quite interesting, actually. Well, why not? She was quite a good sort, she didn’t seem to want him in the nuddy—she did sort of admire his chest but as her exact phrase was “nice and brown and scrawny” he didn’t feel there was anything to worry about—and since he’d swept her chimney the place was nice and warm. She couldn’t cook, of course, but she didn’t mind if you got yourself a cuppa and a biscuit or a sandwich. And didn’t object at all when he suggested a bit of a fry-up for lunch. No remarks about cholesterol or fattening, either: that was a nice change from most of them! Since she was an artist, he thought he’d ask her about stained glass and lead-lighting. She knew quite a lot about stained glass—they’d done it at Art School. Never heard of lead-lighting—maybe they didn’t have it in Australia. It was an ancient craft, come to think of it. She thought if he did do some stained-glass work he could probably sell it at the craft shop in the village. Jack winced a bit but agreed he probably could.

    It was already dark outside and he was just gonna suggest they better knock off for dinner when there was a knock at the door.

    “Not expecting Molly or Georgia, are yer?”

    “Not this weekend. There’s a film on in town that Micky wants to see, and Georgia said she’d go with them.”

    “Yeah. I’ll get it.” Jack went over to the passage door. “Uh—Molly ever take ’im to the footy, that sort of thing?”

    “Um, I don’t think so, she doesn’t like football.”

    Ye-ah… Jack went out, scratching his jaw dubiously. For Pete’s sake! It was another bloody smoothy in a zoot-suit! This one had a posh overcoat, as well. Fair hair. Nose built for looking down, which he was.

    “Good afternoon. Is this the correct address for Miss Anna Peregrine-White?”

    “It’s evening by my watch,” replied Jack nastily. “She’s got a gallery bloke that buys her pictures, ta, she doesn’t need another one.”

    “I am not an art dealer,” he said in an annoyed voice.

    Jack shrugged. “She only sells through the gallery, so shove orf. And I’m not asking how you got this address, but you can tell whoever give it to yer that if I get ’im at the end of me fist he’ll regret it.”

    “Perhaps you could give Miss Peregrine-White my card and assure her that I am not here to purchase a painting?” he said, handing him a card.

    Jack peered at it, scowling. Shit! He nearly dropped it. He squinted at the bloke. Well, he was fair, but he didn’t look anything like Anna. “Who are yer?” he said weakly.

    “Apparently I’m her cousin. Would you be so good as to give it to her?”

    “Yeah. Hang on.” He shut the door on him: better safe than sorry.

    “It’s a bloke—accent you can cut with a knife, too. He reckons he’s a cousin of yours. Here.” He gave her the card.

    Anna looked at it dubiously. “Richard Peregrine-White. I think that’s the man Fiona said was my cousin. It’s a mistake, I haven’t got any cousins that live in England except Rosie. Maybe he’s the man the limo at the airport was collecting.”

    “Uh—right. What did ’e look like?” he asked cautiously. Well, these days, who knew? Maybe this bloke was some sort of nutter—a stalker, something like that.

    “Very pale blue—ice blue,” said Anna thoughtfully.

    That was the impression Jack had got, all right. “Yeah. Well, if he’s just some sort of busybody, I’ll tell ’im to sling ’is ’ook. You sure you haven’t got any cousins of that name? Be your Dad’s side, would it?”

    “Mm. Well, I don’t know anything about that side of the family.”

    Jack scratched his head. “In that case he could be a cousin, but what he wants is another matter. Hang on, I’ll have a word with him.”

    He went back. The bloke had retreated down the path a bit and was staring up at the dark sky. Peculiar. “She reckons you can’t be ’er cousin.”

    “I don’t think that can be right, given that she claimed cousinship in an article in The Observer only last Sunday.”

    Jack sucked his teeth. “Yeah, well, she never claimed anything, see? No-one was more surprised than her to see that piece. It’ll of been that gallery bloke, and if it was him told you where she lives—”

    “He advised my people,” he said tightly, “that her manager said she was my cousin.”

    “She hasn’t got a—Oh. If this so-called manager was a posh dame that looks as if she might of fallen orf a few ponies in ’er time, not to say nearly drowning yours truly in me dad’s dinghy, name of Mrs Kendall, that wasn’t nothing to do with Anna.”

    He took a deep breath—this might of indicated he was human after all but Jack wasn’t taking any bets. “My people have verified the fact,” he said, opening his poncy briefcase, “that Miss Peregrine-White is my cousin. Here is the family tree: be so good as to show it to her. I am not about to make any claims on her; I’d just like to speak to her.”

    Jack took the piece of paper and shut the door. He leaned weakly against the passage wall. Well, yeah, if this was right, they were cousins, but what sort of nutter turned up at a lady’s house with a family tree all printed out? Looked real professional, too. He outed with the mobile and rang Rosie’s and John’s number. “Hullo, Rosie, it’s Jack. John home yet? –Ta.” He didn’t deny to himself that he experienced a sensation of overwhelming relief as John’s usual calm tones said: “Hullo, Jack.”

    “Hullo, John. Um, this is gonna sound weird, but I just thought I better ask you. Better safe than sorry, eh?”

    “Yes?”

    Jack cleared his throat. “There’s this bloke turned up at Anna’s—she’s painting me now, dunno if you— Right. Um, he reckons he’s her cousin. Not an Australian. Posh. Richard Peregrine-White, he’s got a family tree and all to prove it!”

    “He’s got a family tree?” said John weakly.

    “I thought it was weird, too!” he said gratefully. “Looks as if it’s done on a computer, and all! Real professional!”

    “It hasn’t got a crest or, er, anything to do with the College of Arms, has it?” said John in a very weak voice.

    “Eh? Nope, nothing like that. Just nice printing.”

    “I see. What is the relationship, Jack?”

    “They are cousins, according to this. Um, there’s him and her, down the—not quite down the bottom, looks like he’s got kids. Um, his Dad, he was Willoughby Peregrine-White, and his brother, he was William—must of been fond of names in Will in that family, eh? Um, well, looks like this William, he had two families: there’s two ‘equals ladies’ next to him. With a 1 and a 2. George and Margaret, their mum was Freda, she’s 1. And Anna, Michael, Barbara and Douglas, their mum was Julia. Never knew she had brothers and sisters.”

    “Mm—scattered to the four winds now,” he murmured. “Michael’s in Canada, Barbara’s married, in Darwin, and Douglas is in New Zealand.”

    Jack had never heard of Darwin but he got the picture. “Right; got right away from the mum, eh?”

    “Yes. What’s he like?”

    “Fair feller. Looks down ’is nose at yer. Poncy overcoat. Got a limo waiting,” he reported.

    “Mm. Well, that sounds like Richard Peregrine-White. He’s a merchant banker, Jack. I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen a photo of him.”

    “Right. Oh—he gimme a card for her.”

    “What’s it say on it?”

    “Hang on.” He went into the studio. Anna was looking thoughtfully at some of her sketches. “Where’s that card?”

    “Didn’t I give it back to you?” She looked round vaguely.

    “Look in your pockets.”

    “Has he gone?” she said, looking in her pockets. “Is this it?”

    Jack took it. “Yeah. –No, ’e’s still out there, worse luck. John thinks he’s genuine. Hang on. –You there, John? This is a bit odd, actually. The card’s only got his name. ‘Richard Peregrine-White.’ Thought the whole point of your card was it had your contact numbers and business address?”

    “No!” said John with a sudden laugh. “Not in his socio-economic bracket! I’d say there’s absolutely nothing to worry about, Jack: it’s him, all right!”

    “If you say so. I’ll let him in, then, shall I?”

    “Do that,” said John on a weak note.

    “Ta, John. See ya!” He looked dubiously at the peculiar card. Then he felt in his pocket. He had one somewhere, ’cos he was gonna tell Ken Jones, who was an out-of-work brickie in Sylvia’s and Steve’s street in Portsmouth, to give him a bell: the cottage and the front wall both looked as if they could do with a bit of repointing and he, Jack Powell, was up for a bit of a quick patch job but he was no mason. Ah! “John Haworth, R.N.” Not his rank: bit funny, eh? Underneath that, in small letters: “Miller’s Bay, nr. Bellingford, Hants.” And the phone number at the cottage. Jack frowned. He had another look at Richard Peregrine-White’s card. Then he looked at the “John Haworth, R.N.” Ye-ah…

    “What?” said Anna.

    Jack jumped. “Nothing. John reckons ’e sounds all right. I’ll let him in. But I’ll be ’ere, okay?” he added firmly.

    “Okay,” said Anna obediently.

    Jack let him in. He looked round the studio with interest and said: “Miss Peregrine-White? I’m—”

    “No, I’m Anna Leach, really, I just paint under the name Anna Peregrine-White.”

    “Oh,” he said weakly. “I see. How do you do? I’m sorry to call on you without warning. I’m Richard Peregrine-White. It appears we’re cousins.”

    “That’s what Fiona said,” she said in a vague voice.

    “Er—yes. Your father was my father’s brother: Will Peregrine-White.”

    “Uncle Jim said he always called himself Bill White,” she said in that vague voice.

    “Thing is,” said Jack chattily, “he disappeared, left ’er mum flat, so she’d never talk about ’im, right, Anna?”

    “Yes.” She looked at Richard mildly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

    “Er—yes. –Perhaps you could give Miss P—Miss Leach that family tree!” he said in an annoyed voice.

    Jack jumped. “Oh—yeah. Here ya go, Anna.”

    She looked at it. Then she looked up and said to Richard: “Do the equals mean married?”

    “Yes, of course,” he replied limply.

    “Then Dad was married before. So George and Margaret would be my half-brother and half-sister. I suppose he walked off and left their mum flat, too.”

    “Several times,” said Richard with a sigh.

    “Are you broke?” she said abruptly, going very red. “’Cos I haven’t got any money: the galleries don’t pay you until they’ve actually got the money for a picture.”

    Richard was so stunned he let her get right through this speech. “No! Good Christ, I—” Words failed him.

    “’E come in a ruddy great limo,” said Jack helpfully.

    “Oh,” said Anna doubtfully. “I was going to say, I could manage ten pounds.”

    “No, you couldn’t,” he said immediately. “Anyway, John reckons he’s rich—if ’e’s who ’e says ’e is.”

    “Yes,” said Richard grimly. “To both your points.”

    “If it’s a painting, I can’t let you have one, because I’m only selling through L’Informel at the moment. “

    “Yeah,” agreed Jack. He gave Richard Peregrine-White a sardonic look. “Go on: why have you come?”

    Richard’s new-found cousin was looking at him expectantly. “I— Look, could we possibly sit down?” he asked weakly.

    “Sorry. You get used to standing, when you’re painting. Have that chair.”

    Richard sank onto the hard wooden chair. The man gave him a mocking look and went to perch on the model’s stand. His cousin took another hard wooden chair.

    “My people couldn’t find a phone number for you, so I couldn’t warn you I was coming.”

    “Yeah, but why have you come, matey?”

    “Shut up, Jack,” she said unexpectedly. “Did you just want to meet me?”

    Richard was very tempted to lie. He passed a hand over his face. “No,” he said wearily. “I’m sorry. I was really annoyed to see you’d used my name in that article in The Observer. I came to ask you not to do so in future.”

    “Could of got one of them people of yours to write ’er a nasty letter if that was all you wanted to say. Or your ruddy lawyer: got one of those, ’ave yer?”

    “Leave him alone, Jack,” she said mildly. “He is ice-blue, but I don’t think he’s bad.”

    “Anna,” he said urgently, while Richard was still repressing a desire to shake his head madly, “he could have interesting colours but still be a real rotten egg!”

    “Yes, like Mr Gates. But he isn’t.”

    Richard was now goggling. “Which Mr Gates, dare I ask?”

    “You wouldn’t know him. He lived in our old street, when I was a kid. After we moved to Perth. The cops came and took him away, he’d been receiving stolen goods. But we knew he was a rotten egg anyway.”

    “What were his colours?” asked Jack, beginning to really enjoy himself. The bloke was looking like a stunned mullet!

    “Khaki and grey, with a bit of yellow-green.”

    “See?” he said.

    “Look, I’m trying to apologise to my cousin for barging in on her like this!” said Richard loudly.

    “That’s all right,” she said kindly. “We’ve got loads of cousins back home. Sometimes they ring up and say can they come over. They don’t expect you to say No.”

    “This is a bit different: we’ve never met before,” said Richard on a very weak note.

    “I’d never met Aunty Allyson’s Martina before, either. But her and her friend Roxanne, they came over and stayed with me.”

    “From New South Wales, was this, Anna?” asked Jack with relish.

    “Yes.”

    “Couple of thousand mile,” Jack told him happily.

    Anna agreed mildly: “I suppose it is.” She looked at Richard’s expression. “Martina Roberts. She’s not on your tree,” she said kindly.

    Richard passed his hand across his face. “I see.”

    “Would you like a cup of tea?” she said kindly.

    Jack didn’t think there was much to fear from a bloke that was looking as much like a stunned mullet as this bloke was. He got up. “I’ll make it.”

    In his absence there was silence. Finally Richard’s cousin said: “He talks a lot. Rosie says he’s lonely.”

    “Er—yes.” He drew a deep breath. “I apologise.”

    “What for?” she replied mildly.

    “Barging in on you like this!” said Richard wildly. “Accusing you of nameless crimes! Even if that fellow didn’t let me voice the accusations! Who on earth is he?”

    “Jack Powell. He does plumbing and stuff. Didn’t you see his truck outside? Faded green.”

    “So he’s just here to do a job for you?” he said limply.

    “No, he’s posing. I’m just working on the preliminary sketches, at this stage.”

    Very well, since they were through the looking-glass anyway, he’d ask! “May I see them?”

    “Yes. These ones are in pencil, but don’t put your fingers on them, will you? It’s 6B, it smudges easily.”

    He took the large sketch block and looked through it, at first dazedly, and then with growing awareness. “It looks as if it’s going to be every bit as good as the one in The Observer,” he said at last, smiling at her.

    “See?” said the maddening fellow’s voice from the doorway. “You’re gonna launch me to fame and fortune and me dial in the Sundays, Anna: they’ll be queuing to do me portrait!”

    “Hah, hah,” she replied cheerfully, accepting a mug of tea.

    “Thank you, Mr Powell,” said Richard with a certain grimness as he was handed a mug.

    “Milk? Sugar?” he offered, grinning.

    Richard was astonished they weren’t already in it. “Thanks. Just a little milk, please.” He looked numbly at the man’s tray as he poured. Corgis. She could buy a thing like that when she produced work like that big nude in The Observer?

    “So?” said Jack, perching on the table again. “Didn’t try anything, did he?”

    “No, of course not; he just looked at the sketches.”

    “Um, yeah.” He sipped his tea, eyeing Richard warily.

    “Look, if you’ll just let me speak, I suppose I had two reasons for coming, Firstly, I wanted to warn Miss Leach against using my name without my permission for promotional purposes—do not speak!” he snapped. “The second reason was vulgar curiosity. Satisfied?”

    “Yeah.” Jack buried his nose in his tea.

    “It wasn’t me, it was Fiona,” said Anna apologetically. “I’m really sorry: I did tell her you couldn’t be my cousin but she didn’t take any notice of me.” Her wide brow wrinkled. “But you are, after all, so it wasn’t a lie, was it?”

    “No. I’m sorry,” he said tightly. “In my position, people are only too ready to take advantage. I assumed you were like the majority.”

    “I think I see. Did you say you were rich?”

    “I think Mr Powell did. But yes, I am.”

    “Yes. It must be a bit like when a person wins the big lottery.”

    “Yes. I try to live as private a life as possible, and of course my people screen any begging letters—” He broke off: she was manifestly not listening, she was looking at the family tree.

    “You’ve got three children,” she said, smiling at him. “How old are they?”

    Richard gave in, joined her through the looking-glass, and told her a great deal about Mallory, James and Potter Purbright. Almost managing not to call her that.

    “Sorry,” he said. “I mean Paula. –Stupid nickname. James calls her Potter.”

    “I see. –It’s funny how rich people send their kids away to school,” she said thoughtfully.

    “Get ’em out from underfoot. If you had any, you’d know the feeling,” said Jack helpfully.

    “Mm,” she agreed, smiling him. “Everybody feels like that I, think. But imagine not seeing them, all term!”

    Richard was now rather red. “She loves the school, she’s with kids of her own age, and I get down there every other weekend!”

    “Do they let the parents?”

    “Yes! It’s not Dotheboys Hall!”

    “Nicholas Nickleby, I’ve read that. It was long, but I liked it. Are you going this weekend?”

    “Yes. It’s not far from here. Merrifield, near Brighton.”

    “That sounds sort of familiar,” she said dubiously.

    It damn well ought to, with the fees Richard was paying! He stared at her.

    “Sent Princess Anne there, that it?” said Jack hazily.

    “No!” said Richard in annoyed tones.

    “Beg ya pardon, I’m sure.”

    Anna was looking at the family tree again. “Did you do this on a computer? It’s very clever.”

    “Uh—not me personally, Miss Leach. My PA—well, possibly his assistant.”

    “Call me Anna,” she said with a lovely smile. “You can’t call me Miss Leach if you’re my cousin, it’s ludicrous!”

    “Thank you, Anna. I’m Richard.”

    She nodded. “You’re named after your grandfather.”

    “Our grandfather, Anna,” said Richard Peregrine-White with a little sigh.

    “I suppose he was. Um… I can’t remember Dad much at all. But Uncle Jim said he was a bit of a pan-handler,” she said on a cautious note.

    “He’s not on your tree,” said Jack kindly. “Her Aunty Kate’s husband.”

    Richard’s mouth twitched in spite of himself. “Shut up,” he managed.

    “So I hope he didn’t try to borrow money off you,” finished Anna.

    He winced, but admitted: “Yes, he did. Off my father before that. Um, look, I’m sorry, Anna: I should have said earlier; you may not know that he died about five years back.”

    “Yes, it’s got his dates here,” she said placidly.

    So it had. Richard smiled feebly and drank his tea. “I must go—stop bothering you. I wonder if I could have your phone number, Anna?” he said nicely.

    “I’m not on the phone.”

    His jaw dropped.

    “You can drop in any time, though,” she said mildly. “I might be working but just call out it’s you.”

    “Come tomorrow. Bring this daughter of yours you claim you’re gonna be visiting,” drawled Jack snidely.

    “Yes; that’d be nice!” she said, smiling at him.

    “Thanks,” he said dazedly. “I’ll ask Potter Purbright if she’d like to. I think she will. She saw the article in the paper and rang me—think she was quite disappointed when I said you couldn’t be a cousin. Well, um, what time would be convenient?”

    “Any time. If I’m not here I’ll only be up at the shops.”

    He got up. “I’ll hope to see you tomorrow, then.” He held out his hand. “Goodbye, Anna. It’s very nice to have met you.”

    Anna came over to him and took his hand. She looked up into his face and went rather pink. “Yes. Bye-bye, Richard.”

    Richard was, frankly, staggered. He didn’t think she’d registered him as a man, at all—Hell, he didn’t think she’d even really registered him as a human being, rather than a set of colours! “I’ll let myself out. ’Bye,” he said rather hoarsely, going.

    Jack looked sourly at the pink-flushed Anna. “Dare say he’s the type that can have as much bird as he wants.”

    “What? Oh—well, yes: he’s rich.”

    He hadn’t meant that, entirely. He got up, sighing. “Yeah. I better push off. And oy! You lock the fucking front door after me, all right?” –It had been unlocked this morning, and he’d more or less got her to admit it must have been like that all night.

    “That key hates me,” she said, scowling.

    “I dare say. Do it. Where is it?”

    Anna fetched her key. Jack led her out to the front door, went out, and closed it after him. “Go on!” he said loudly through the letter slot.

    “I am!”

    He could hear scraping and clicking. He tried the door. It opened. He shut it again. “Turn it the other WAY!”

    “I am!” she gasped.

    More scraping and clicking. He tried it. It opened. “Gimme the fucking key! I’ll shove it through the slot, all right?”

    He closed the door grimly, locked it and shoved the key through. “Got it?”

    “Yes! Thanks!” she cried. “Can you come tomorrow?”

    Whenever. Jack sighed. “Yeah!” he cried. “Tennish, okay?”

    “Okay! See ya!”

    “See ya,” said Jack heavily, mooching off. Christ! Talk about needing a keeper!

    Potter Purbright seemed to really take to their new-found cousin. She asked eagerly what Anna was doing for Easter and was dashed to find she hadn’t thought but would probably have her cousins down for it. Couldn’t she come to them instead? Because it was her birthday, as well, this year! They were going to open up Dad’s awful house, in the Cotswolds.

    “I didn’t know you thought it was awful, Potter Purbright,” said Richard feebly.

    His daughter gave him a look of complete scorn. “It’s like living in a museum! –Even the old things in it look new!” she said to Anna. “I’ll tell you what it reminds me of: the house in that television series, To The Manor Born!”

    “I don’t watch TV all that much.”

    Eagerly Potter Purbright described the programme. Anna, Richard registered with some amusement, didn’t seem to recognise a single one of the names his daughter was glibly reeling off. Finally she ran down and said lamely: “His name was Richard, too, like Dad. Richard De Vere, it was made up. He was Czechoslovakian.”

    “Did he have a helicopter?”

    “Yes! That’s right!”

    “I saw an episode at Carolyn’s. The lady broke her leg. Or maybe pretended: I couldn’t follow it, it was awfully complicated. She had a cottage. I don’t remember his house.”

    “Oh,” said Potter Purbright very feebly indeed. “Um, well, anyway, that what’s Dad’s dump is like. We’re nouveau riche, too, you see! Gramps’s father was the first one to make any money.”

    “Are you Czechoslovakian, too?”

    “I think you mean are we,” said Richard drily. “No. Solidly Anglo-Saxon, as far as I know. In the late 19th century a White married a Manchester factory-owner’s daughter—by what means I don’t know, but I think he must have had the same sort of charm as your father—and then his son, our grandfather, married a Miss Peregrine and tacked their names together. His investments did well and during the Depression he snapped up a bank for almost nothing. Then he invested in armaments and made an immense sum during the War. Dad concentrated on the banking side when he took over.”

    “He bought a bank?” croaked Anna.

    “Mm. Merchant bank.”

    Helpfully Potter Purbright explained what a merchant bank did.

    Anna nodded dazedly. “Um, yes. I’m sorry, Paula, but I never understand when people talk about money and shares and stuff.”

    Potter Purbright beamed at her. “You don’t need to, you’ve got talent! Call me Potter.”

    “Um, okay,” agreed Anna. “Potter.” She looked dazedly round her shabby sitting-dining room. “It doesn’t seem real, somehow.”

    “No, the obsessions of the money-movers have nothing to do with the real world,” agreed Richard drily. “Going to show us your sketches?”

    “If you like. Um, some of them are rude,” she said, looking doubtfully at Potter Purbright.

    Richard got up, grinning. “Potter Purbright’s school takes them up to London regularly to look at rude nudes, Anna. Come on.”

    “You’re lucky,” said Anna seriously, getting up. “My school wouldn’t let us do figure drawing. I had a lot to catch up on when I went to Art School. Um, Mr Allen has taken both the big paintings away. But I’ve started blocking out the one of Jack.”

    Potter Purbright headed eagerly for the studio.

    They were looking through the sketches—there were a great many of them, far more than Richard had seen the other day—when the original of Study of a Red-Headed Man came in. Potter Purbright dropped the sketch she was looking at and gaped. So much for Merrifield School. Richard got up quickly and introduced himself.

    “Colin Haworth,” he said, shaking hands. “Jack Powell mentioned you’d turned up.”

    “He seemed to think she needed protecting from me,” said Richard with a sigh.

    “You made the mistake of rolling up in an overcoat and a limo with a card and a computer-generated family tree,” he replied drily.

    “Dad!” cried Potter Purbright loudly. “You idiot!”

    “Apparently, yes. This is my younger daughter, Paula.”

    She said “How do you do” nicely, so Merrifield had at least managed that much. Though the eyes still had a tendency to bulge—regular trips to see rude nudes or not. Richard was conscious of a certain desire to send up a request to the Almighty not to let Euan Keel walk in on them.

    “Maybe we could buy a sketch, Dad!” she then proposed.

    “I’ll give you one, don’t be silly, you’re my cousins,” said the artist quickly.

    Richard protested, but Anna merely urged Potter to choose one.

    Colin smiled at them rather wryly. “She’s given me several. I was intending to give one of the studies of the head to my parents, but they received the publicity in The Observer so badly that I’m afraid it would only be salt in the wound.”

    “Have it framed and hang it on your wall. It’ll be insurance against penury in your old age,” said Richard.

    “I’ll say! The art gallery fellow’s already asked—I tell a lie—demanded that all sketches be set aside for his inspection. –Planning a one-woman show for her later in the-year.”

    “Ooh, good! We’ll go!” cried Potter Purbright.

    “I may not have done enough. Sometimes I just stop,” said Anna placidly.

    “You can’t just stop!” she cried. “With your talent?”

    “It doesn’t work like that. I might do some more funny ones. People with their cottages.”

    “On the lines of Portrait of Mrs Lambert?” asked Richard. “Faux-naïf?”

    “Yes. I thought he hadn’t hung it,” she said, very puzzled.

    Richard looked dry. The bloody fellow hadn’t hung it publicly, no. It was in his own office, not over his desk but opposite, where he could gloat over it. “It’s in his office.” She nodded innocently, but Colin Haworth gave him a very dry look. “He invited me in for a private view. I like it very much, but it’s certainly not in the same category as your serious work.”

    “No, but that sort of thing’s fun to do. I’ve done quite a few from this side of the main road. What do you think about the cottages on the other side, Colin?”

    Richard looked on with considerable annoyance as the bloody man pretended to think this over seriously. “What about Mrs Granville Thinnes and Medlar Cottage?”

    “Hah, hah,” replied the artist, grinning broadly.

    “Ooh, what’s she like?” cried Potter Purbright.

    “She’s certainly a meddler,” he said drily.

    Anna collapsed in giggles, nodding madly. Potter Purbright, her father was relieved to see, gave a loud snigger. Good: growing out of the self-conscious, adults-are-getting-at-me thing at last.

    “I don’t dare to paint anything to do with medlars, actually,” Anna then admitted, blowing her nose on a large and very grimy rag. “Terri showed me what it said about them in that cookery book John gave her.”

    At this, to the visitors’ astonishment, Colin Haworth collapsed in hysterics. Tears ran down his cheeks and he had to sit down. “Yes!” he gasped finally, mopping his eyes. “Oh, God! And Ma G.T. is so refeened! What a juxtaposition!”

    “What?” cried Potter Purbright, in agony.

    “Yes, what?” asked Richard.

    Colin wiped his eyes. “The old French vernacular name for medlars was culs de chien. The corresponding English is openarse,” he said blandly.

    Richard grinned. “Good one!”

    “Ooh, help!” cried Potter Purbright, collapsing in giggles.

    “Want to see the book?” Colin asked her.

    “Yes, please!”

    “Right, well, why don’t you all come next-door and you can look at the book and have some tea and extremely fattening Spanish pastries.”

    “Ooh, good,” said Anna pleasedly.

    Grinning, Colin led Anna’s up-market cousins next-door and introduced them to the delights of Spanish fried pastries filled with quince jam, and the book.

    … “That was the nicest afternoon I’ve ever had!” said Potter Purbright with a deep sigh, leaning back in the back seat of the car, having waved ecstatically until Anna and Colin were out of sight—just as if she’d been six rather than sixteen going on seventeen and due for university at the end of next year. Too young, really, in her father’s opinion, but she was bright and the school hadn’t wanted to hold her back.

    Richard bit his lip. “I see.”

    “Dad, if she doesn’t want to come to us for Easter, couldn’t we come down here?”

    “Darling, we can’t intrude.”

    “But it wouldn’t be an intrusion! She likes us!”

    “Potter Purbright, my angel, she supported us for an afternoon. I think she does like us, as far as it’s in her nature to like any human being, but I don’t think that’s saying very much. She’s almost entirely focused on her art, surely that dawned?”

    “Um, yes. But a person can’t paint all the time!”

    Richard rather thought that Anna could. He said nothing.

    “I don’t mean, stay with her,” she said, very flushed. “I wouldn’t want to disturb her. But we could stay in the village—there must be somewhere!”

    In the course of the afternoon it had become very clear that staying at the pub would alienate almost everyone Anna knew. He sighed. “Given that the pub’s out, I don’t think there is anywhere.”

    “Hire a house?” she said in a small voice.

    “Well—uh—I doubt that it would be a house. A cottage might be possible. But just think: Anna’s painting apart, a small village like that will be very, very dull, sweetheart.”

    “It won’t! And it’ll just be for the Easter break! And it can’t possibly be as dull as that house of yours!”

    “Do you want me to sell the bloody thing?” he said heavily.

    “No, of course not, you like it.”

    “I don’t like it, I bought it because your bloody mother nagged me into it! She fancied herself as the lady of the manor—it lasted about five minutes, of course. I was hanging onto it under the mistaken impression I was creating a home for you and James to come to in your hols. And—though I realise this is potty—because I thought James might like me to leave it to him.”

    “Dad, it’s about as far from the sea as you can get, in England! He’ll never live in it.”

    “I know,” he said wearily.

    “If you bought a house down here—”

    Richard just leaned back and let her rattle on. He’d have bet half his fortune that there was not one house for sale in Bellingford. Dingy cottages—yes. They had seen a couple of larger houses, near the corner where you turned off to the only petrol pump in the place, but these were very clearly occupied by shiny Volvo and BMW owners.

    “James’s ship’ll be docking in Portsmouth!” she reminded him.

    Didn’t that depend on the whims of the Lords of the Admiralty? Not to say, of George W. Bush. “Mm. Oh—see what you mean. Well, yes, at least he wouldn’t have to travel over most of southern England to get home. We’ll see,” he said feebly.

    Judging from the beaming smile, she seemed to think that settled it. Hell. Would Anna be pleased to see them for the Easter weekend, or not? Well, she had seemed to like Potter Purbright—yes. Richard had a strong feeling the jury was still out as far as he was concerned, though. And just what was the relationship with Colin Haworth? They seemed very much at home in each other’s cottages. He stared gloomily out at the gathering dusk.

    Colin opened his door on a frosty Saturday morning to something ’orribly sharp, particularly about the elbows. He gaped.

    “Good morning, Colonel Haworth, I do hope I’m not disturbing you!” it said brightly.

    “Nuh—”

    “We haven’t met. My name’s Caroline Deane Jennings. Robert and I live at The Church, at the bottom of Church Lane.”

    “How do you do, Ms Deane Jennings?” he croaked.

    She shook hands briskly. “I’m afraid it’s a frightful imposition, dropping in on you like this. The thing is, Robert and I had heard that you might be interested in buying The Church.”

    Colin’s jaw sagged. Who the—? Surely not Juliette pulling his leg, she’d struck him as far too decent. Not to say too scared of her boss. Old Jim Parker’s idea of a joke?

    Ms Deane Jennings was explaining that they’d like to see it go to someone compatible.

    “Yuh—Look, I’m sorry, Ms Deane Jennings!” he said loudly. “But I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I’ve got no plans to buy in Bellingford.”

    “Oh. But Robert and I were sure— I’m so sorry.”

    “No. Um, The Church would be far too big for me, anyway.”

    “It is quite roomy,” she admitted. “But not entirely suitable for a family. More suited to a young couple or a single. We’ve been very comfortable there, but with Kiefer growing up, it’s a case of renovate extensively or move, I’m afraid.”

    Well, yes: that was the consensus, wasn’t it? She was explaining that they had costed it but it wasn’t an economically viable alternative. God! “What?” he said numbly. “No, I haven’t heard of any bigger places for sale.”

    She fixed him with her glittering eye. Didn’t even need the long grey beard, either. “It isn’t necessarily a question of more square feet, just a more convenient layout. We’d like a place with two bedrooms and an area for a study. And space for Robert’s cacti and succulent collection: enough ground to put up a glasshouse.”

    “Mm. That glassed-in arrangement you’ve got now,” he said, avoiding the word “scaffolding,” “looks ideal for them.”

    From the horticultural point of view it was, but not entirely convenient: there was no access from the house. No, well, at least the bloody architect hadn’t bored a door-sized hole in the twelfth-century stone wall! Fleetingly Colin contemplated living in it. Was the scaffolding really necessary? “Um, I was wondering if those supports the architect put in would be, um, structurally necessary, if one didn’t want an upper storey?”

    Briskly she enlightened him. What the fuck did she do in that famed Portsmouth office of hers, structural engineering? Because she was certainly on top of all the jargon. What it boiled down to, in between the stresses and strains and load-bearing crap, was that the village was right: holding the whole ruddy thing up. Damn.

    “If you’re not in the market,” she said on a regretful note, “I suppose you wouldn’t know if the far cottage in Miller’s Bay is available?”

    Very, very belatedly it dawned. The creature didn’t think he was in the market for a house at all: this was a fishing expedition about John’s spare cottage!

    “The last I heard,” he said drily, “that whole bay is my cousin’s property and he doesn’t believe in letting real estate go out of the family.”

    The glittering eye did its thing again. “A long lease would be no problem, provided the terms were suitable.”

    “I think it would be a problem to John, Ms Deane Jennings,” said Colin grimly. Though at his age he did know there were those that could take a hint and those that never would.

    She took a deep breath. “Colonel Haworth, may I speak confidentially?”

    Christ, were those tears in the creature’s eyes? Oh, God, what was it: she and the martyred Mr Jennings were splitting up, or— Well, even the horribly sharp-elbowed presumably had their troubles. “Of course. Please—come in,” he said resignedly.

    They went in. She sat on the unyielding cane sofa before Colin could shout a warning. The thing must be agony with that pointed bum! He sank into the big chair. “Like a cuppa?”

    “No, thank you, Colonel Haworth, I don’t drink tea or coffee.”

    “I’m afraid I haven’t got any herbal tea,” he said on a dry note. “I think you’d better come clean, don’t you?”

    She went very red, but said: “Yes. I’m sorry. We were told that Captain Haworth would never consider… It was only a forlorn hope. The thing is, it’s Kiefer!” she burst out.

    Oh, Hell, she was about to bawl. Naturally he didn’t have a handkerchief on him. “Yes?” he said cautiously.

    “He got up on the balcony— I’m sorry. Our house has got—”

    “I’ve seen it,” said Colin flatly. “Sorry: conned Juliette into letting me in.” He left Rosie out of it, no sense in dropping them both in it.

    She didn’t even seem to notice she’d been spied on. “Then you’d know,” she said, sniffing. “He’s strictly forbidden to go up there at all, of course, but he—he went up there and—and when I turned round he was standing on the railing!” She burst into tears.

    “Oh, Christ. Is he all right?” croaked Colin.

    “Yes!” she sobbed, producing an immaculate, sharp-edged handkerchief. She mopped and blew for some time. “I dashed up there and got him down, but— And Robert’s blaming me, but I merely turned my back for a— And he knows he’s not supposed to go up there! And we can’t have the bloody woman all the time, she means well but she drives me insane with her incessant chatter! I wiped a whole file last week that had taken me hours, and I’ve never done that in my life!”

    No, she probably hadn’t. Ordinary people did stupid things with their computers all the time. Officers, men, and civilian assistants alike, in his experience. “No, well, that’s life, I’m afraid,” he said as kindly as he could. “It does catch up with all of us in the end, you know.”

    She blew her nose again. “Yes,” she said dully. “Robert says I’m a control freak.”

    “I’d say he’s right,” said Colin calmly. She blinked at him. “Your sort does do it hard when life catches up with them, in my experience. Um—well, that cottage of John’s is a bungalow, that’s true.” He got up. “Look, we’ll give it go, okay? Pop over there, speak to John and Rosie. But first you’re going to have a drink and a biscuit, I don’t care if you’re teetotal or—well, I’ll concede diabetic. But alcohol and sugar, otherwise.”

    “Thanks, Colonel Haworth. I’m not diabetic. I’m sorry to—to dump it on you.”

    Colin grimaced. “I’m used to it. Contrary to what the rest of the world seems to assume, playing soldiers is more than just rushing around with guns.”

    “Of course,” she agreed. “You’d need management skills: certainly human resources skills.”

    “Let’s call them people skills—though my grandfather wouldn’t have recognised the term,” said Colin drily, going out to the kitchen.

    When he came back with a jug of water, a glass of whisky—unfortunately he didn't have any brandy—and a plate of assorted biscuits from the Superette, she had perked up a bit, because she smiled shakily and said: “Thank you. I think that would be General Sir Hamish Duff-Ross, wouldn’t it?”

    “Uh—yeah. Stiff-necked old bastard that he was. You from an Army family?”

    “No: I did History at university before I switched to Management.:”

    It was hard to know which part of this to respond to, really. Bloody Grandfather being considered history, or anything that sharp-elbowed having taken anything even verging on the humanities, or the switch to management being self evident— So he just poured her a whisky, ascertained she would prefer it watered down, stood over her while she got some down her, and forced a biscuit on her.

    When they got outside he saw she’d brought the bloody Saab over instead of jogging healthily or walking loose-jointed with those sharp elbows out—poor cow. She was very sympathetic about his having to push the passenger’s seat back and assured him that any time he needed a rest when he was on his way home from the shops he mustn’t hesitate to pop in—Church Lane was very steep and she and Robert no longer jogged down it, Robert’s chiropractor had advised them it was extremely bad for the joints. God, had she jogged Robert into early arthritis, or dislocation, or what? The chap couldn’t be more than thirty-two at the outside. He didn’t say he quite often popped in on Juliette and Kiefer anyway, it didn’t seem quite the moment.

    Down at Miller’s Bay she pulled in and stared numbly at the Thwaiteses’ former residence. Stunted lilac bushes in the front garden, lilac doors and windowsills an’ all.

    “If you did move in, John would let you paint the door and sills any shade you fancy—his old batman and his wife were living in it, that lilac’s her taste.”

    “Yes—not that,” she said numbly. “I hadn't realised there was no fence!”

    Oh, Lor’. “How long is it since you were last down here?” he ventured.

    “Quite a while. We used to come over on our Sunday runs, but then we were advised,” she said grimly, “that this side of the hill is all Captain Haworth’s property. Of course we wouldn’t dream of intruding.”

    Who in God’s name had told them that? Cautiously he replied: “Well, it is all John’s, yes—the big old stone wall at the top of the rise marks the boundary—but he doesn’t insist on it. He might put a gate across the road if chara-loads of trippers started using the beach, but he doesn’t mind the locals, at all. You must have got hold of the wrong end of the stick.”

    “I see,” she said limply. “–It gave me quite turn to hear you say chara-loads, like that: I haven’t heard anyone call them charas since my old Granny went.”

    That “Doddsy” who had looked after him and his siblings when Pa and Ma were away on marches, or absorbed in organising marches, or simply absorbed—she’d been on as many committees as he had—had also called them charas. “No,” he said, smiling. “It’s all buses these days, isn’t it? Or worse, coaches! Well, want to have a look at it?”

    They had a good look around the outside and then went over to John’s to ask if they could see the interior. The door was opened by Rupy in a lovely crimson satin quilted dressing-gown. Ms Deane Jennings’s jaw dropped.

    “’Morning, Rupy!” said Colin breezily. “Bit early for you, isn’t it?”

    “Very funny, Colin, dear. One is rallying round,” he replied, staring at Colin’s companion.

    “Have you met Ms Deane Jennings?” said Colin smoothly.

    It was the turn of Rupy’s jaw to drop. “No,” he croaked. “How do you do?”

    “Rupy Maynarde, a close friend of John’s and Rosie’s, Ms Deane Jennings,” explained Colin.

    They shook hands, both looking numbed.

    “They in?” Colin then said briskly.

    He jumped. “Oh—um—sort of: there was a slight domestic crisis earlier: Baby Bunting upset a carton of milk all over himself and the kitchen floor, having to be washed and completely changed, and then when they’d got him in his highchair he waited until he had milk in his bowl as well as his slush and then deliberately, or so one gathers, hurled that to the floor, and Rosie burst into tears, and when John spoke sternly to him he screamed at him.”

    The unfortunate Ms Deane Jennings began: “If it isn’t a good time—”

    “No, no! Rosie’s gone back to bed—preggy, you know. The morning sickness seems to be going on much longer with this one. But the crisis is over: John’s in the kitchen. Come in.”

    “Go on, he wouldn’t have said it if he didn't mean it,” said Colin to his companion, grinning.

    Numbly she went in.

    It took John under two minutes, and then Colin and Ms Deane Jennings were comfortably installed at the kitchen table, he with a cup of coffee and she with a cup of the camomile tea that he was making for Rosie in any case. He excused himself nicely to take her tray up.

    “How is she?” said Colin cautiously as he returned.

    “Denial verging towards the giving-in,” replied John calmly. “Well, what can I do for you, Ms Deane Jennings?”

    She took a deep breath. “I was wondering if the third cottage in your row might be available. To lease or buy, as—as it suited you.”

    “The thing is,” said Colin quickly, “they’ve discovered that that damned mezzanine arrangement of theirs is a bloody death-trap when you’ve got a little boy of four or so.”

    “I hope Kiefer’s all right?” said John immediately.

    “Yes. Thank you. He—he got right up on the railing.”

    “All very traumatic,” said Colin on a firm note as Rupy gasped, “so if that bungalow is available she’d like to look at it.”

    “It is empty, but we weren’t really thinking of a let, at this stage. But by all means look at it,” he said nicely. “You wouldn’t consider relocating to be closer to Portsmouth?”

    “No, Robert prefers it here. It is a very much healthier environment for Kiefer. And we like being able to get right away from it all in the weekends.”

    Right away from it all and bring it all with them, like the retirees and weekenders, was more like it. Colin buried his nose in his coffee cup, avoiding John’s and Rupy’s eyes.

    Five minutes later Ms Deane Jennings was standing looking stunned in what could be a nice, plain little bungalow, so Colin said kindly: “All this is Mrs Thwaites’s taste, of course.”

    “Yes. So—so he’d let a tenant redecorate?”

    “Of course. I’m not sure about knocking holes in the wall to build on a conservatory, though. Want to see the kitchen?”

    She did, in fact she inspected every detail of the place thoroughly, very pleased to find it had two bathrooms and three bedrooms. “It’s very nice,” she decided finally.

    Back at John’s place the cottage’s owner explained that fencing off the front garden would be no problem, but he wondered if Ms Deane Jennings had considered whether Juliette might find it very isolated? She blinked, so she obviously hadn’t.

    “Yvonne finds it a bit much, stuck down here all week with Baby Bunting while Rosie and Greg are both buried in their computers,” he said mildly.

    “I see,” she said on an uncertain note. “How is Dr Haworth’s research coming along?”

    “Very well, thanks. Well, thanks very largely to Yvonne,” he admitted with a grimace. “We’d be lost without her. Now, perhaps we should both think it over, mm?”

    She agreed, and drove Colin back home to Moulder’s Way, where she thanked him for all his help and apologised all over again.

    “Look,” he said, “if you and your husband decide you’re really interested, I’d be happy to speak to John and Rosie.”

    “Thank you,” she said, swallowing. “You’re very kind, but I can’t possibly let you do that: you’ve done far too much already.”

    Well, no: he wasn’t particularly kind, he was at a loose end, and rather used to running an op and making all the decisions involved. Though he did feel sorry for her—yes. Very little in common with the bloody retirees that infested Bellingford—though give her another thirty years and she’d be a Mrs G.T.!—and nothing whatsoever in common with the villagers: she and Robert must have been damned lonely in their silly Church. And the mere thought of that rosy-cheeked little boy balancing on the railing of that bloody bed platform—!

    “I think John’ll agree,” he said, smiling at her. “Um, look, I think I’d better say this. You may find that it isn’t as peaceful as you’d hoped. Rosie often has friends down. And she’s a very gregarious person: I’m not saying she’d pester you, but there may be more invitations than you’d care to accept. And I don’t think she’d understand if you preferred your little boy not to join in anything she arranged for Baby Bunting.”

    “We’d be only too happy for Kiefer to attend any children’s party that was properly supervised. Well, the village children’s parties are another matter. But I really don’t see that it’ll be a problem, Colonel Haworth. Dr Haworth’s a university-educated woman, after all. And naturally we’d be very flattered if we were invited to anything, but we certainly wouldn’t expect to socialise in Captain Haworth’s circles!” She smiled brightly at him.

    Colin gave up. Ms Deane Jennings could fight her own battles. But nothing he’d seen so far at John’s place even approximated to a circle!

    Bellingford was all agog: huge vans had moved the Arvidsons out, lock, stock and Mediaeval crucifix, and even huger vans—fleets of them—had come and unloaded giant crates and giant strangely shaped other things and more giant crates, and three cars were now sitting in the huge garage at the western side of the property. Variously reputed to be a Roller, a Jeep and something American, a Roller, a new Range-Rover and a Cadillac, or a Roller, a new Range-Rover and a 1972 Chrysler—take your pick. Those who were better acquainted with young Sly Hopgood and who realised that he’d actually exerted himself to go up there to check conceding that the third option was the likely one. Though old Jim Parker did say snidely: “You wouldn’t of ’eard, of course, but back around 1972 didn’t the fuel crisis make the Yanks decide not to build gas-guzzlers the size of aircraft carriers with ’uge aerodynamic fins?” To which Master Hopgood replied, looking down his nose: “The year’s models are designed the year before and come out the Christmas before, don’t you know anything?” Jim’s smart rejoinder being: “Nope. Don’t ’ave to, do I, ’cos you know it all!”

    The author of all this excitement was not of course in evidence until the dust settled. Then he was reliably reported to have swanned up in a huge limo half the length of Albert Street and an enormous fur-collared overcoat, with a train of hangers-on. And don’t ask Murray Stout who or what they were! All sexes, was his guess. Several people—largely those who were annoyed to have been pre-empted—wanted to know what he needed a huge limo for if he owned three cars, but Murray merely replied superbly that his guess would be, because he was that sort of bloke. Isabel Potter wanted to know how many Fortnum’s vans had been seen delivering giant hampers, whole hams, and so forth, but Murray almost managed to take that in his stride.

    Then word went round that he still wanted Heather Carter to clean the house! Hurray! So none of them that went in with him could of been a housekeeper, then. But no! Heather reported there was a lady, her name was Mrs Mitchum, with a U, but her job was only to see the house ran smoothly and to show guests in. No, she didn’t cook. Yes, she lived in. There was a PA, too, but he didn’t live in, he had a flat in London, only if Mr Dawlish wanted him on deck, he used the bedroom down the end of the hall. Yes, the one that looked out over the garage, Mrs Mitchum was next to that. So who had the room over the garage, or weren’t they using it? “The chauffeur, of course,” replied Heather superbly. Several of her interrogators felt so annoyed at this one, which they should have seen coming, that they failed to ask if he had a cook, but Belinda Stout didn’t. No, and Guess Where he’d be inviting himself for his meals, was the answer. Belinda didn’t need to guess: poor Terri!

    Once the lane was safe after the fat man’s giant car had collected Euan—it couldn’t turn, it had to back all the way down the lane—Anna sketched steadily. After a while she became aware of a silent presence by her left shoulder and a slight smell of fish.

    “I’m not disturbing you, I hope?” said the little old lady as she glanced round.

    “No, that’s okay. This isn’t a serious piece.” She looked at her with interest. She had a small, round, withered face, a bit like the withered pomegranates that used to hang for ages from the tree at the flats back in Perth, but not so highly coloured. And a round, untidy bun of white hair on top of her head. She didn’t look much like a retiree: instead of a tweed skirt and twinset or a camel-hair skirt and tweed jacket, she was wearing baggy black tracksuit pants and a black parka over a heavy jumper in what looked like natural black wool. The only old-ladyish thing about her was the pink gauze scarf tucked into the neck of the jumper.

    Mrs Humboldt watched with great interest as Anna worked on a sketch of Medlar Cottage, not having to wonder why Mrs Granville Thinnes wasn’t there in person supervising, because she’d seen the BMW taking off earlier this morning. After quite some time Perryman emerged from the bushes and rubbed round her ankles, miaowing.

    “Greedy brute,” she said mildly, picking him up. He immediately emitted his rumbling purr.

    Anna looked round, and smiled. The old woman was very little and the cat was big, with a very round black and white face and enormous whiskers, the same pristine white as her bun.

    “Would you like a cup of tea?” said Mrs Humboldt mildly.

    “That’d be nice; thank you. I’m Anna Leach.”

    “I know. We don’t get many artists in Bellingford—or not who’d be up to your standard of draughtsmanship, let alone capable of anything approaching that wonderful study of Colonel Haworth in The Observer. There are quite a few who produce genteel watercolours, of course. –Come on in: I’m Alice Humboldt. This is Perryman.”

    “That’s an interesting name.”

    “Mm: I took one look at him and he simply named himself.” They went into the cottage and though to the kitchen and a large striped tabby immediately appeared. “This is Pen—Perryman’s sister. Not short for anything.”

    “I think it suits her.”

    “So do I,” said Mrs Humboldt, smiling. “Well, I suppose if I give you two greedy brutes a drink I’d better call the others in.” She opened the back door and four more cats immediately raced in. “Not mine. They’ve adopted me. Scar-Face, Splodge, Ginger and Gimpy.”

    Anna watched with interest as the cats all headed for different saucers in the array set out near the small fridge. “I see: the names are what they are. Gimpy means it limps, doesn’t it?”

    “Yes. They originally used to lurk down at the back of my garden—I’d just get an occasional glimpse of them. The nicknames just happened.”

    Anna nodded seriously. “My cousin’s got a corgi. His name’s Roger, but he was named before she got him. He’s nice, too.”

    “Yes, I’ve seen him up at the shops,” agreed Mrs Humboldt tranquilly, boiling the kettle.

    Over the tea Anna said abruptly: “Could I paint you and your cottage, Alice?”

    The bright little eyes twinkled. “It’d be an honour, Anna.”

    “No, it wouldn’t,” said Anna, going very red, “because often my paintings don’t turn out like what people think they’re going to.” She told her the story of Mrs Lambert. Alice Humboldt laughed until she cried.

    “Yes,” said Anna, grinning in relief. “But you might not like it if it was you.”

    “I’m uninsultable!” she said with a laugh.

    “Mm,” replied Anna vaguely, looking at Perryman doing his trick of sitting up stiffly like a china cat on the windowsill. “Hasn’t he got a round face?”

    Mrs Humboldt swallowed another laugh: pretty obviously the attraction at Number 4 Medlars Lane wasn’t entirely her humble self or the shabby little cottage.