Ladies' Troubles

12

Ladies’ Troubles

    Molly hung up the phone and went back into the sitting-room.

    Susan Walsingham gave her a wry look. “So, how’s The Boyfriend?”

    Molly bit her lip and tried not to laugh. “Don’t call him that, we’ll go and say it in front of him! He’s fine, but he’s had to cancel our date for lunch tomorrow, after all.”

    “Good: you may be sober enough to do my filing tomorrow afternoon,” replied the solicitor hard-heartedly.

    “Grr, grr, grr, to you, too, you old grouch!” said Molly to her boss with a laugh. “I don’t think he would have filled me with grog; I warned him I’d only have an hour.”

    “Uh-huh. Do I dare ask what the excuse was?”

    “I think it was a reason, not an excuse,” said Molly tranquilly. “Derry Dawlish has set up a lunch meeting with Brian Hendricks and Varley Knollys—he’s the writer—and some new actor they’re considering for a part in the new series.”

    “Didn’t know Euan was that involved in it.”

    “He seems to be getting more involved in the production side of things,” she said mildly.

    Susan eyed her drily. That or he lived in bloody Derry Dawlish’s pocket and jumped when the man said “Jump.” She didn’t say so: if it wasn’t already obvious her saying so wouldn't make any impression, would it? “Mm. The date for Anna’s opening still on?”

    “It seems to be, yes,” said Molly calmly, sitting down and picking up her knitting.

    “Good show,” replied Susan, equally calm.

    Molly’s eyes twinkled a bit, but she just concentrated on the knitting. It was Susan’s firm policy not to interfere in another people’s lives. The warm heart which the gruff manner didn’t manage to conceal meant that this policy was often rather hard for her to stick to.

    Susan had gone back to her book but after a bit she said: “Ralph’s threatening to come up.”

    Molly looked up, grinning. “Talking of The Boyfriend, is this?” –Susan and Ralph Overington had been lovers off and on for twenty years. Apparently his academic career required that he didn’t divorce his wife. However, the relationship seemed to suit Susan—or perhaps she had merely got used to it. There was now, in any case, very little room for him in her busy life. Nevertheless Molly had told herself, more than once, that it was a horrid object lesson in getting mixed up with the wrong man and not breaking it off when it was obvious it was going nowhere.

    Susan was unmoved. “Hah, hah. I doubt if he will turn up: this is just the new term syndrome. Looks around him and finds nothing has changed and his career’s in a rut.” She shrugged.

    Molly knitted silently for a moment. Then she said slowly: “That sounds awfully like Euan.”

    Susan swallowed. “Hell, does it? Didn’t mean it to, Molly!”

    Molly smiled her warm smile at her. “No, I know. It does, though. Not literally the new term for him, of course, but when one acting job’s finished and another hasn’t started. He feels at a loose end—unsettled—so he—he has time to look at his life.”

    “Yeah,” said Susan in a hollow voice.

    “Or when a relationship’s finished—like when I met him in Queensland.”

    Susan winced: she’d been trying not to think that. “Well—uh—take it slow, I suppose, Molly. Don’t jump in with both feet.”

    “It’s hard not to, when the party of the other part’s as dishy as Euan is!” said Molly with a little laugh. “No, well, he hasn’t asked me to share his flat.”

    That might indicate he didn’t have sufficient hormones, but Susan sincerely doubted it: even she, dried-up old spinster though she was, had sat through the film of The Captain’s Daughter with her eyes on stalks—though recognising, every time there was an artfully casual close-up of Euan in the tropical humidity licking the sweat off his upper lip or rolling up the sleeves of his dampish white shirt to show that enticing, nay, biteable stretch of pale muscle between the shirt and the sun-tan, that Derry Dawlish was a devious bastard who more than knew his business, not to say more than knew every instant of The Wrong Box—Euan was every bit as yummy as the young Michael Caine had been.

    Or it might indicate he was scared of commitment. Which at his age was starting to look a bit silly, frankly. Well, did he want kids, or not?

    “Mm,” she said. “Didn’t Rosie say he plunged into the thing with Katie Whatsername without thinking twice? Maybe he’s learned caution at last.”

    Or maybe he wasn’t as keen as he claimed to be. Molly didn’t say so, she just got on with her knitting. It was a heavy jumper for Micky: if they stayed here, he’d need it, and even if they went back home he could always use it, the winters in Sydney were far from tropical.

    “Is it very humid in Queensland in August?” asked Susan abruptly.

    Molly jumped. “What? Um, not really,” she said weakly. “It’s winter. It gets miles more humid in summer. Why?”

    “’Satiable curiosity,” said Susan on a weak note. “Sorry.”

    Molly smiled slowly. “Were you thinking of the film?”

    “I admit the soft impeachment.”

    “Yes. Well, you can discount anything you thought your eyes were telling you, Susan,” she said drily. “Derry Dawlish is a very clever director.”

    Yeah, he was that, all right. Unfortunately Susan didn’t think she could discount all of it. No director could make the hormones bounce off the screen if the chap didn’t have ’em in the first place. She didn’t say so: it was bloody obvious that whatever else she’d recognised about Euan Keel, Molly knew that.

    The lunch meeting started off inauspiciously, with Euan’s taxi decanting him somewhere in Soho, and this Zorba’s that Derry had been praising to the skies turning out to be a tiny hole in the wall, a real dump. However, things brightened considerably when the funny old Greek woman who was looking after their table brought the food. Superb! All right, Derry had been right all along. They were slated to meet some new actor that Derry wanted Brian to see, he thought he might do for one of the New Daughter’s boyfriends. So much the better, it’d take the pressure off him, Euan: he was really sick of playing young lovers. But first, apparently Derry wanted to discuss his Master Plan with him, Brian Hendricks from Henny Penny Productions, and Varley Knollys, the writer.

    The hors d’oeuvres were vanishing with remarkable rapidity, not to mention the Greek firewater, but eventually Derry said, through the last of the fetta in olive oil and garlic: “We’ve been thinking along the lines of a plot line involving two Daughters, Euan.”

    “Och, God, it’s the twin Doris Days again!” he cried.

    “Thought it was triplets?” said Brian, grinning broadly.

    “No, that was How To Marry an Australian Millionaire,” Euan explained smoothly.

    “This’ll be Gentlemen Prefer Twin Blondes,” said Varley on a sour note. “Where did that cheese go?’

    “In the usual direction,” explained Brian, looking round the small crimson-hung private room. “How the Hell does one summon a waiter, Derry?”

    “Not a waiter!” he replied scornfully. “MELINA!” he bellowed.

    The little old woman hurried in, beaming, with a tray of more delicious nibbles.

    These were duly investigated, and Derry returned to his theme. “They won’t literally be twins: think they’ll be cousins.”

    Euan collapsed in hysterics.

    Derry seized the moment and grabbed the last of the second lot of aubergines—in fact he grabbed the dish, and mopped up the sage-flavoured oil remaining in it with a piece of bread, advising the company through it: “Uh ay air oh ’ea’.”

    “I think that was ‘They make their own bread,’” said Varley acidly. “Apart from Rosie’s relatives, what was the inspiration, Derry? Hayley Mills?”

    “I remember that!” grinned Brian. “Glorious Technicolor. One English and one Yank, wasn’t it? There was a telly series, too—who was that girl? Not the flying nun, the other one.”

    “Patty Duke,” said Derry, swallowing. “Think these may possibly be ducks’ livers,” he noted, liberating the last of the little hot skewered delights.

    Quickly Varley grabbed the last of the second lot of fetta from under his nose. Admitting as he mopped up the last of its olive oil and garlic: “This bread is homemade.”

    “Wood oven, out the back,” explained Derry, swallowing.

    “Is that legal?” croaked Brian.

    “One neither knows nor cares, dear boy,” he explained. “Where was I?”

    “Twin Hayley Millses,” said Varley in a bored voice. “Can that little Australian bint bring it off, is the next question.”

    “You said yourself she was managing the Lily Rose coo very well these days,” said Brian mildly.

    “That isn’t the same as portraying—convincingly portraying—two different personalities,” he replied nastily. “Nor is the ability to produce two accents, before you start.”

    “No,” agreed Derry.

    Brian made a sour grimace. “Derry, if you’re still hoping that Rosie will take a rôle, bloody John Haworth in person has told me that she won’t.”

    “No. But there are other options. Georgia isn’t the only cousin in the offing.”

    Euan choked on his glass of firewater. “By God, if that’s why you got me down to Quince Tree Cottage—!”

    “No! How low do you think I am?” he cried plaintively.

    “About that low,” said Euan grimly.

    “What he said,” agreed Varley acidly.

    “Is this the girl that—Yes,” recognised Brian limply. “In that case, Derry, it’s unanimous.”

    “I have absolutely no intention,” he said superbly, “of asking you to persuade Molly to do the twin, Euan.”

    “That’s good, because I couldna. I dare say you didn’t notice in Queensland, while you schemed up madder and madder Lily Rose triplet scenarios, but she’s actually very determined, in her quiet way.”

    “Of course I did, do you think I’m blind?” he returned irritably. “But she’s working in some bloody office, isn’t she? Why shouldn’t she want to do the English twin?”

    “English?” said Varley, his glass of firewater suspended.

    “Yes. Georgia can do the feisty, Australian twin, and Molly the quiet, less overtly aggressive English tw—cousin. The girl’s a splendid mimic, Varley.”

    “That has nothing to do with acting!” he snapped.

    “No, it hasn’t,” agreed Brian uneasily. “Isn’t it risky enough, casting Georgia—”

    The great man launched into a huge speech but as it was one of his usual justifications of his own genius none of them listened. In fact Varley wandered out in the middle of it, returning to report, just as the peroration ended: “There is a bloody wood oven: why the fuck didn’t you order the oven-roast lamb instead, Derry?”

    “Because the spit-roast, though different, is equally magnificent. My proposal is, we use Molly’s own personality: meek on the surface, but terrifically determined underneath—not unusual, with those rather quiet people. And Euan’s going to fall for her meekness, but he only thinks she’s meek—meanwhile fighting madly with the macho Naval one—and of course they’ll do the twins-swap thing, and get all mixed up!”

    “Like the Great British Public,” croaked Brian.

    “Exactly: half of them congratulated Rosie and Rupy when the baby was on the way,” Euan reminded them. “Which one do I end up with, or is that to be decided seven years down the track?”

    “Oh, we keep the punters guessing!” Derry replied with one of his expansive waves. “Damn!” he said as the bottle which had mysteriously moved from the centre of the table to beside his elbow flew off the table, missing the crimson carpet, and crashed onto the floorboards. Old Melina flew in, clucking.

    “It was empty, anyway,” said the great director, failing to sound insouciant.

    “A bit like your proposal,” noted Varley. “Don’t order another, thanks, I’d prefer to be relatively compos mentis for the lamb. If Euan’s fighting with the macho Naval one, where does this new discovery of yours come into it?”

    “He’ll be the other love interest. Well, two girls, have to have two boys!” concluded the great director brilliantly.

    “God, can he actually add as well?” groaned Brian.

    “No,” said Euan with some satisfaction. “The recent fright over the budget for The Last Thrush has proved that.”

    At this Varley abruptly collapsed in sniggers, gasping: “Thought it—was Alzheimer’s—not—vaginal—irritation!” And was still wheezing and mopping his eyes, the more so as Derry shouted: “Working title!” when Melina returned, announcing proudly: “Here he is, what a nice-a boy, you give him nice job, okay?”

    “What she said,” agreed the tall, dark young man, grinning. “Hullo again, Derry.”

    Derry was all over him and Brian looked at him with considerable interest, so presumably, if he could act—make that, if he could look decent on camera and take direction—they’d have him. He seemed a pleasant young fellow. Euan, frankly, was more interested in the lamb. Wonderful. Um, would Terri maybe be able to manage a spit?

    When the Henny Penny limo arrived, Derry grabbed Euan’s elbow. “Come on.”

    “If you insist,” he said mildly, rather surprised that he was being allowed to participate in the further deliberations.

    “Well?” said the great director, sitting back at his ease in the back of the limo.

    “Do you want two tall, dark and handsome heroes?” replied Varley drily.

    “Could re-bleach Euan!” choked Brian, going into a paroxysm.

    “I’ll no’ do it on those conditions, Brian, and as a matter of fact I’m no’ sure I want to do it in any case.”

    “Rubbish, dear boy, no such thing!” cried Derry. “Of course we want two: that’s the point! We’ve got two blonde girls!”

    “Oh, is that the point?” returned Varley acidly.

    “Yes. Besides, not into blond heroes.”

    “What about the Lord Peter Wimsey idea?” drawled Euan.

    He sighed gustily. “The exception that proves the rule. –No, Brian, I have not found a possible,” he added heavily.

    “Blow,” admitted Brian, grinning. “All the same, Derry, Varley’s right: it will be a bit sameish, won’t it?”

    “No. Euan’ll be rather older, much, much smoother, and definitely a lady’s man. –You’re going to captain something, Euan, did I mention it? Possibly a sub, haven’t thought it through, yet. Well, Varley’s been mulling over possible scenarios, haven’t you, old man? But my concept is”—his audience swallowed sighs—“we have a contrast: one smooth, more mature boyfriend, much more experienced, and one rough diamond—and, we make him a rating!” he finished triumphantly.

    There was a stunned silence.

    “See? Class conflict as well as the girls aren’t wanted on ships thing!”

    Brian took a deep breath. “Derry, before you get completely carried away, I can see it has dramatic possibilities, but it is supposed to be a comedy show. –Light.”

    “Do you want to slaughter Heartbeat in the ratings or NOT?” he shouted.

    Brian winced. “Don’t shout. Yes.”

    “Then we’ll do it. It’ll ensure we won’t run out of plot.”

    “All right, don’t rub it in,” said Brian heavily. “I didn’t actually envisage losing first Rosie and then Katie. Do you mind telling us what the twins-swap plan is?”

    “Hayley Mills,” groaned Varley. “Not to mention The Prisoner of Zenda and the man in the iron mask.”

    “It doesn’t matter how many times the idea’s been used before!” said the great director crossly.

    “That’s just as well,” noted Brian grimly. “Derry, I’m not opposed to any of it on principle, but I would like to see a clear plot line indicating why the English and Australian twins swap places, why the captain, who I think we’ve agreed should be the father of one of them, doesn’t realise that the girl claiming to be his own daughter is an impostor, and why either of them, supposing that either or both are young naval lieutenants, should even look twice at a rating! –Never mind if he does look a bit like Connery in his youth!” he said as Derry tried to tell him he did.

    “That is a reason,” said Varley reluctantly.

    “It is not! Don’t you understand the first thing about the class distinctions you’re supposed to be writing about?” he cried.

    Varley had gone rather red, so Euan, who was aware that the writer’s background was as ordinary as his own, said quickly: “It’d be a wee bit like the way the characters in Jane Austen never notice the servants: not people to them. And it’s ever so much worse in the forces. Rosie was telling me that even John didn’t know some fellow’s first name, and the man works in his outer office: he sees him every day of the week.”

    “Yes: with the English twin, we have both her class and the Navy thing against her falling for the rating,” agreed Derry.

    “Derry, that’s what I’m saying!” cried Brian in exasperation. “Why should she look twice at the man?”

    “Ah! We only think she does! Because is it the English twin at all?” he said with huge meaning.

    They all glared at him indignantly. Then they began to look thoughtful. Finally Varley gave in entirely, got out a notepad and a pen and began scribbling. “Shut up,” he said as Brian tried to speak.

    “There!” he said with a sigh as the car turned in at the Henny Penny gates.

    Brian grabbed it off him and read eagerly. “By God, Varley!” he said with a loud laugh.

    “It’ll work, won’t it?” said Derry smugly.

    Looking dry, Brian handed him the pad.

    “This isn’t what I—Oh! Hang on!” He shook with rich chuckles. “I love it! Not exactly as I envisaged it, of course, but I love it, Varley! We’ll do it! And what’s more, Brian, the opportunity for publicity is magnificent! The minute the story breaks, follow up with an interview on Parkinson, like we did with Rosie’s masquerade?”

    “Like I did,” said Brian on a grim note.

    “Oh, pooh, dear boy, you were on the phone for at least two hours.”

    “Be that as it may, I’d prefer the series to break it without any risk of it leaking.”

    Euan had now managed to read Varley’s outline. He sniggered. “Aye! Otherwise, where’s the surprise? But I wouldn’t worry, Brian: book Georgia in with Parky anyway, and they’ll be begging to have both of them! But isn’t it supposed to be a family show? Do we want sex to rear its ugly head—and so early in the plot?”

    “Prime time, less emphasis on the family show thing.” corrected Derry firmly. “But it’ll be tasteful: no full frontals. But of course we do: explains why the two girls are so mad with the two guys!”

    They adjourned to Brian’s office for some further discussion, but as Brian had an appointment, had to break up fairly soon. Varley wanted to write, so he was awarded the limo and went off in state in the back of it, bent over his notepad, and accompanied, after a certain amount of grimness on Brian’s part, by a Henny Penny secretary with a laptop, deputed to transcribe everything and email it to her boss soonest. Georgia’s series of the Daughter was only in rehearsal so Derry was unable to barge in on the filming. He and Euan got a taxi.

    “Go on, say it,” said Derry with a twinkle in his eye.

    “Actually I was just wondering if I could make it to the earlier train, but then, I’d have to let Terri know I needed her… No, couldn’t manage it,” he said, looking at his watch. “Well, I do have some doubts, Derry, but do you want to hear them?”

    “Yes.”

    Shrugging a little, Euan said: “I can see complications further down the line, not the least being that if you introduce a sexual involvement in the beginning, you’re not going to be able to use the possibility of it as a hook for the punters. I do like the idea of this initial mix-up—at least it’s something different from what the other shows are doing. But what the other shows mostly do—in fact do almost without exception—is hook the punters with the possibility of a sexual involvement between the leading characters. Is this idea really viable for a long-running series?”

    Very pleased, Derry replied: “Not unless we can emphasise the question of whether either couple is ever going to get together again.”

    “Ye-es… That might work. But when you say either couple…”

    Derry grinned, and patted his knee with a hammy hand. “All possible combinations! On the one hand, English Twin and you, and Australian Twin and the rating, and on the other hand, English Twin and him, and Australian Twin and you!”

    “Play it both ways?” he croaked.

    “Certainly, dear boy! Well, what else is Varley’s idea good for?”

    “Uh—aye,” he said weakly. Varley certainly hadn't gone that far. “Right. But Hell, Derry, how do we even attempt to explain that both men want both girls—well, not so difficult, I suppose—but that both girls want both men?”

    “In my experience sex seldom needs explaining,” said the great director affably. “But you see, Varley’s scenario will already have set it up that both girls have given in to temptation with the wrong man in the first place.”

    He frowned over it. “Then the wrong man is the right man, sexually. That leaves you with only the class thing against it. I don’t think that’ll work for more than an episode or two. Look, what about this: Australian Twin meets Rating and really fancies him. Meanwhile English Twin is doing it with me—possibly pushed into it by Daddy Captain: suitable suitor, all that jazz. Then they swap places, as in Varley’s outline, and Rating assumes English Twin is his one and comes on really strong—sets up your lower class conflict. And she falls for him even harder than Australian Twin and does it with him—assuming it’s a one-night stand, possibly unaware that he’s even in Daddy Captain’s Navy. Then I assume that Australian Twin is my one and we do it. Back aboard, Rating discovers the girl he thinks is his girlfriend is actually a junior officer. So he turns to the foil. My idea would be to make her very unlike the Lily Rose type: mebbe one of those skinny little red-heads, very short red curls, freckles, sharp pointed face? And horribly athletic.” He made a face.

    “Excellent!” beamed Derry. “Who did you have in mind?”

    “E-er—well, actually, there was a girl at Stratford. Aubrey had her draped in something unlikely—she was some of the shepherdesses, Dorcas, I think—but every time I laid eyes on her I sort of kept imagining her in one of those greenish singlets—pointy little tits, bony arms and chest, very freckled—and camouflage pants, jogging: the tight red curls being doused from the water bottle on the way, frizzier and tighter than ever!” He grinned at him. “Sorry to be so graphic, I know that’s your department! I was at school with a horrid wee lassie just like her—it’s not an uncommon type in Scotland.”

    Derry nodded, but gave him a sharp look. “Horrid?”

    “Aye—well, the one I was at school with, Derry!” he said with a laugh. “Spiteful wee tease. I dare say Ronni Vaile isna like that at all.”

    “Ronni?” echoed Derry in a voice of doom.

    “Och, come into the twenty-first century, Derry! Even Aubrey accepted her for the bluidy Bard! R,O,N,N,I.”

    “That makes it worse,” said Derry promptly.

    “Well, don’t have her. Dare say she might not handle the rôle in any case. It was just the type, that I was thinking of. Try the casting agencies, dare say there’s hundreds more out there—what a dreadful thought!” he ended with a laugh and a shudder.

    Derry relaxed. There didn’t seem to be anything in it—good. Because the sexual tension could stay in the script, thanks very much. He had no intention of getting involved in anything that even looked like being a long-running series with the leading players at one another’s throats. “No, no: trot her along, dear boy, we can try her out. Who’s her agent?”

    Euan eyed him drily. “Dunno. My bet’d be Sheila Bryant.”

    The great director took a huge breath and plunged into it. The woman was a shrew and a Shylock— Euan didn’t listen. He might mention the spit-roasting idea to Colin…

    “Why not work it up for me?” the great director then said.

    Euan had been mulling over the possibility of getting down to the cottage after all. “Eh?”

    “The longer-range strategy. The plot outline!” he said, pounding his knee with the hammy, make that lamby and garlicky, fist.

    Euan sighed. “You do realise this suit will have to go to the cleaners immediately? What are you on about now? The plot outline is Varley’s department.”

    “He’s incapable of taking the longer view, dear boy. What I’m looking for is something that reaches over four series—don’t mention this to Brian, but that’s my limit; if he wants to run with it after that he can—yes, four series, with a strong plot-line that develops into something credible, and some solid suggestions of character types and possible casting. And someone to control Varley’s scenarios and see they fit in with the overall vision and shape of the thing.”

    Euan gaped at him. “I’m no’ a bluidy producer! That’s your job! And if you canna keep bluidy Varley in line, that’s your problem!”

    “On the contrary, you coped very well when Brian put his foot in it over the class business. It’s not like Brian—but then, he’s a lot more stirred up about the Daughter folding than he’d like us to think. I’m not looking for artistic inspiration, before you start: I can provide more than enough of that. I’m looking for a controlling hand. Not a co-producer at this stage, but certainly an assistant producer.”

    Euan just gaped at him.

    “You’ve seen enough of the way I work, over the past three or four years,” he said mildly.

    Euan had never realised that Derry had noticed him noticing. And he certainly hadn’t done it with any sort of career change in mind: he’d done it because he’d found it fascinating. “Uh—well, that’s true,” he said weakly. “It’s been very interesting, but I never envisaged…”

    “Outline. Work on it, dear boy. Spend a week on it—why not go down to the cottage, let Terri spoil you, mm? No distractions. Then get back to me, we’ll talk it through.”

    “Are you serious?” Derry just nodded, so Euan concluded he was.

    “I’ll give it a go,” he said weakly.

    Nodding happily, Derry began to explain how the very bad Molière he’d seen at the Mountjoy Midsummer Festival had given him an idea for a much better modern version—

    Typical Derry, so Euan didn’t bother to listen. He leant forward and said to the driver: “Could you drop me just along here, please? I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

    The great director came to. “I thought we were going back to your flat!”

    “I didn’t. I am going back to ma flat. You can go anywhere you please.”

    “But I’m in a frightful hotel!”

    “Then get yourself a flat—or a house, God knows you can afford one.” The taxi had pulled in, so Euan got out. He gave the man fifty quid. “Keep it, it’s worth it to get rid of him. And make sure he pays you for the trip from here to wherever.”

    “Ta, mate,” said the driver weakly.

    Euan walked off, whistling.

    In the taxi the diver glanced cautiously at his large passenger and was surprised to see he was grinning. “Where to?” he said cautiously.

    “Just a moment.” He outed with the mobile phone. The driver rolled his eyes, but the meter was ticking, so he just waited it out. He gave him the address.

    “That’s miles away! All right, it’s your funeral.” He set off, silently determining that that fifty quid the other bloke had given him could fucking well be a tip, the fat old geezer could ruddy well cough up if he expected him to drive him across London in the rush hour!

    Derry sat back at his ease, smirking, as the taxi ground its way slowly across London in the direction of Susan Walsingham’s flat.

    Micky was very keen to go down to the cottage this weekend, so Molly gave in. There were several convenient trains on the Friday evening. The journey was remarkably quick: the trains that didn’t stop at all the stations only took an hour and a half, and what the English people called the stopping trains about two hours. Rosie had impressed upon her that she was to let John know if she was taking the train, because he always had the car with him, but Molly didn’t want him to have to hang around in Portsmouth waiting for them. She decided that they could make the five o’clock train from Waterloo if she finished up work an hour early: that would mean they’d be in Portsmouth by six-forty! And of course she would make the time up: start early and have a short lunch break. Susan agreed amiably to this proposal. And for once Micky actually did as he was told and came straight round to the office after school without dawdling or spending hours in the corner shop or going off to play video games, or rather, as he was very bad at them, to lose his pocket money rapidly in the machines and spend the rest of the afternoon watching Paul Walker and Kenny Fisher play. And they got to Waterloo on time and piled onto the train with a huge crowd of people. Molly had now realised these early evening trains were really commuter trains: a lot of people travelled to London from other cities to work. Well, yes, it was an excellent service, and distances in England weren’t really all that big, but imagine having to do that!

    There wasn’t time to buy anything to read at the station, but she’d brought along a book for herself and a couple of comics for Micky—and he had one of his horrible electronic thingos, of course. But actually he was much more interested in her timetable, and spent most of the journey with his nose alternately pressed to the window, reporting where they were now, or consulting this magical work of English literature. “See,” he said, breathing heavily as he pointed to a minute and almost indiscernible symbol, “this here means that you can get the high-speed catamaran!”

    Molly peered. Possibly it did. “Mm.”

    “Hey, I wonder if John knows? ’Cos see, it says here that it goes to Ryde, and that’s on the Isle of Wight, that’s where we went on the hovercraft!”

    Molly shut her eyes. “I’m not going on a high-speed catamaran, Micky. Or any catamaran.”

    “John’ll take me. You’re as bad as Rosie!” More poring over the thing. “Hey, I geddit! This other, whadda they call them? Aw, yeah: symbol—like, symbol, this here means the hovercraft!” To prove it, he read out: “‘Alight here for Portsmouth City Centre, The Guh—um—G—um—Giled hall—’”

    “Give it here,” she sighed. “Oh. It is rather a hard word, if you’ve never seen it before. Guildhall. That’s a hard G: Guh, see? It’s an English word, and don’t ask me what it means, I’ve had a hard week.”

    “Yeah, Aunty Susan said that fat man was a pest and if it was her she’d of sent him off with a flea in his ear.” The thought didn’t suggest anything to him, however: he read out the rest of the message relentlessly. “See? Mum!”

    Molly peered. “That symbol’s minute, Micky, are you sure—?” He was sure. Though it was funny that the catamaran had a little boat and the hovercraft only had a, like, symbol.

    Yes, it was extraordinary, really. Molly leaned back and closed her eyes…

    “Mum! Mum! Wake up! Mum!”

    She woke with a start. “Are we there?”

    “Nah! ’Course not! We’re at Petersfield, and the next stop’s Rowlands Castle and we don’t stop there!”

    “Um, it may not be a real castle. ’Member how disappointed you were when Kenny Fisher said his house was near the Elephant and Castle, and it turned out to be a pu—”

    “I know that now!” he said crossly. “But Windsor Castle’s real!”

    “The bits of it that weren’t reconstructed in the 19th century or re-reconstructed a few years back after the big fire,” said Molly drily. She looked at his face. “No, well, it is a real mediaeval castle, of course. It would have had knights and everything, originally. Well, you could try looking for a castle, but don’t get your hopes up too much.”

    He flattened his nose to the window. Molly leaned back and closed her eyes…

    “Mum! Mum! Wake up! Mum!”

    “Are we there?” she said groggily.

    “No, we’re at the stop for the hoverport! We could go on it free!”

    “Micky, we couldn’t. John paid for us, didn’t you realise?”

    “No! It says!” He thrust the timetable at her.

    She blinked over it. “Oh. Um, I’m sorry, Micky, what it’s trying to say is that if you’ve got a train ticket the bus ride to the hoverport’s free. It’s our stop next: make sure you’ve got everything.”

    “I know! And don’t go to sleep again!” he ordered.

    In seven minutes? Molly sighed but didn’t tell him to do the requisite arithmetic.

    Micky was first off. “John! John! Hey, JOHN!”

    Molly just tottered in his wake, trying to smile.

    John took one look at her face, competently squashed Micky’s suggestion of hamburgers, competently shut Micky up on the subject of catamarans, loaded them into the old Jag and took off for home. Molly leaned back in the back seat and closed her eyes…

    “Mum! Mum! Wake up! Mum!”

    She came to with a start. “Where are we?”

    John turned round and smiled at her. “Moulder’s Way. Why don’t you pop straight up to bed, and I’ll get you a hottie and then we’ll see about dinner.”

    Molly tried to smile, but couldn’t. “That sounds lovely,” she said feebly.

    Micky was trying to tell him that Georgia, she wasn’t coming down, so see, he could have her bed. John competently shut him up and dispatched him to let Anna know they’d arrived. He helped Molly out of the Jag.

    “It—it was Derry Dawlish,” she said shakily.

    His mouth tightened. “I see.”

    “Um, no, that isn’t fair: he was perfectly nice, actually. The thing is, John,” she burst out. “Euan was at the meeting where they discussed it and he hasn’t contacted me or anything!”

    He took a deep breath. “I believe he’s at Quince Tree Cottage,” he said evenly.

    “I know,” said Molly, sniffing. “I mean, Derry said he’d asked him to—to work on some of the outlines or—or something. I mean, he must be busy, but he could have at least rung me.”

    “Yes. Possibly he’s just lost track of time; or if Derry’s trying to talk you into something, Molly, possibly he doesn’t want to influence you.”

    “What’s stopping him from ringing to say he doesn’t want to influence me, then?” she said indignantly.

    What, indeed? John did try not to condemn people for weaknesses they couldn’t help, but his answer to that one would, frankly, have been rank cowardice. He said nothing, just helped her inside and up to bed.

    “She’s not sick," said Master Leach as he boiled the jug for her hottie. “She’s got that period thing ladies get. Aunty Susan doesn’t get that, she said she’s too old.”

    Anna went very red and looked at John desperately.

    “It often makes a lady feel very sick,” said John calmly. “The menfolk need to rally round at these times.”

    “I geddit. That's why you’re making her a hottie, eh? Can ya get like, medicine?”

    “It’s a good thought. Not really. Rosie sometimes takes painkillers—Panadol, that sort of stuff.”

    “I’ll see if she’s got some,” said Anna thankfully, escaping.

    “Would there be any gin in the house?” said John mildly to Master Leach.

    “Um, dunno. What is it?”

    “Uh—well, it’s an alcoholic drink. Sort of stuff they put in their Jamaica drinks. Or brandy, would be good. Where do they keep their drinks?”

    Micky looked in the fridge. “There’s no Coke,” he reported.

    “Uh—no. I’ll ask Anna.”

    “I’ll ask her!” He thundered out. John shook his head slightly but filled the hottie and took it upstairs.

    “She’s taken some Panadol,” said Anna, coming out of Molly’s room.

    “Good. Want to give her this?”

    “You made it: you’d better give it to her.”

    “If you think so,” he murmured. “Have you got any grog in the house, Anna? Gin, brandy?”

    “No. Um, well, Colin’d let us have some whisky, I’m sure.”

    “I’ll ask her if she’d like some.” He tapped and went in.

    “She’s taken some Panadol!” reported Master Leach. “And Anna never buys that gin stuff, it’s too expensive!”

    “Mm. Would you like a hot whisky toddy, Molly?” he said, giving her the hot-water bottle. “Rosie claims that a hot gin toddy reduces the cramps.”

    “Really?” said Molly weakly. “Um, whisky might make me feel sick, I think, thanks, John.”

    “Hot soup, then,” he said, smiling. “Put that hottie on your tummy.” He went out before she could thank him for it.

    “He’s very nice,” she said feebly to Micky.

    “’Course!” he replied scornfully.

    “Go and see if you can help.”

    He thundered out. Molly lay back against her pillows. A tear trickled down her cheek. John was so nice! Why couldn’t she meet a really nice man?

    In the kitchen John said grimly to Anna: “I wouldn’t bring the subject up unless she volunteers, but I gather bloody Derry Dawlish has offered her some sort of acting job, and although Euan knows about it, he hasn’t rung her all week.”

    “Terri said he was down here.”

    “Yes, but he’s one of the mobile-phoned brigade, Anna.”

    “Oh, yes. That seems really peculiar, John,” she said, frowning over it.

    “Yes, doesn’t it?” he agreed grimly. “Well, either he’s so absorbed in what he’s doing that he’s forgotten to contact her—Dawlish has got him working on some sort of series outline—or he simply doesn’t give a shit about her. And the first alternative would seem to indicate that, in any case. I did wonder if he didn’t want to influence her decision over the acting job, but as she pointed out, he could have rung her and told her that.”

    “Yes.”

    “Got any ingredients for soup?” said John, smiling at her.

    “Um, I don’t think so.”

    “Had you planned anything for dinner?”

    “No. I think there’s some eggs.”

    “Mm. Rosie seldom feels eggy when she has her period. That’s why I thought soup.”

    “Colin might have some: Terri often makes it. I’ll go and see.”

    She vanished. John investigated the bread situation. Just as well he’d bought some in Portsmouth. He went out to the car and fetched it. Then he rang Rosie on his mobile and reported.

    “I’ll bring the gin over,” she offered.

    “She doesn’t know that remedy, sweetheart. I’ll see if she fancies some soup and if not, we may fall back on gin. Er—think we may have to have Micky tomorrow. Get him out of her hair.”

    “All right, but if the weather or the tide is wrong for taking the boat out, it’s entirely your problem!”

    “Could work on that model sub.”

    “It’s far too hard for him, but then, he was only the excuse for buying it, wasn’t he?”

    “Mm.” She hadn't said anything in answer to his report about Euan. Cautiously he said: “What do you think about Euan, Rosie?”

    “He’s probably too absorbed in what he’s doing to think about her. He used to get like that when he had a script he was really keen on.”

    “I cannot see that that excuses him.”

    “I know. I do think he could at least have rung her.”

    “Exactly! Not being able to spend time with her’s a different matter—but not even phoning the poor girl?”

    “Yeah. Pretty bad. But she didn’t exactly throw herself into his ready arms when he indicated he was interested again, you know.”

    “Uh—well, that’s a point.” Micky had surfaced again; he smiled at him and said to the phone: “I’d better go: see about some soup. I’ll see you in half an hour or so, darling.”

    “Hey, tell her about the catamaran!”

    He rang off. “She knows: she’s already told me wild horses wouldn’t drag her onto it. –She can’t help getting travel sick, you know: it’s not something that you can control.”

    “Do old ladies get it?”

    John blinked. Then it dawned. Oh, Christ! “Some of them do. People of any age can get it, Micky, it’s not just ladies. Men, women, boys and girls. Very old people, or very young people. Strong men. I’ve seen an admiral throw up in a bad storm at sea. And an experienced helicopter pilot who’d shot down several enemy choppers.”

    “Heck.”

    “I’ve seen a general spew his heart out in the Gulf,” said his cousin’s voice, and Colin limped in, grinning. “One of the happiest days of my life, actually. The brass had called a time-wasting meeting on the flagship, a storm blew up, and there you were. That was one of our generals—English,” he said to Micky, “but as a matter of fact the Yank general, covered in medal ribbons, I might add, looked as green as grass too, and had to retire to the captain’s night cabin.”

    “To throw up?” he said eagerly.

    “Think so. He wasn’t seen again for another full day and then they took him off in a chopper,” he said, grinning. “The meeting was rescheduled for dry land. Was there a call for soup?” He placed the large pan he was carrying on the stove and lifted its lid. “Beef broth. Only needs heating. The other name for it is ambrosia for the mouth.”

    “Is it Spanish?” asked Micky.

    “Yuh—uh—the recipe is, yes,” said Colin weakly.

    John grinned. “Thanks: I think it’s just what’s called for.”

    “It’s for Mum. She’s got that period thing that ladies get.”

    “She’d want you to know,” explained John primly.

    “Shut up,” he said, grinning. He looked at Micky’s face. “Poor Molly. Up to us to rally round, then, eh?”

    He brightened. “John said that!”

    “Yes: he knows all about it,” said Colin smoothly.

    “Yeah, ’cos Rosie, she gets it, too.”—Over his head, John gave his cousin a mocking look.—“Hey, John, Colin’ll come on the catamaran!”

    “When did you ask him that?” he said limply.

    “Just now,” said Anna from the doorway. “Micky, did Molly say you could go over there?”

    “She didn’t say I couldn't.”

    “I don’t think that’s an answer,” she said in a detached voice. Micky went very red and glared impotently.

    Anna went over to the bench. “Is that your bread?” she said to John.

    “No, it’s for you. Want to slice it up?”

    Anna sliced bread. John operated on the soup. Colin sat down on a kitchen chair. Micky fidgeted.

    Master Leach’s nerve broke first. “All right, I won’t go over there without asking!”

    “Good,” said Anna placidly. “Terri’s made us some jelly. The sort you put on bread: it’s in the cupboard. Do you want to taste it to see if you like it?”

    “Yeah!”

    “Okay. Get a teaspoon. Just one spoonful: we don’t want your germs in it.” She took the bread through to the sitting-dining room.

    “It’s quince: might strike you as a bit sour,” said Colin kindly as he found the jelly. “Lots of people think quince is odd.”

    “Nah! It’s ace!” he gasped, a startled look coming over his face.

    “Good,” said Anna, coming back. “We can have it after the soup.”

    “Neato. And some for Mum?”

    “Yes. I tell you what, I won’t put it on her bread, in case she doesn’t like it: I’ll put some in a little dish.” She investigated the cupboards. “It’ll have to be a saucer.” She put some jelly in it and set it on the corgi-illustrated tray.

    “Aunty Susan does that when she makes a tray!” he cried.

    “Does she? Most ladies do, I think.”

    Master Leach watched narrowly as John carried the tray out. “He’s not spilling it.”

    “No: he’s had quite a lot of practice,” said Colin drily. He got up and began ladling out soup for them.

    Micky came up to his side. “Aunty Susan, she says that a working woman, sometimes she rates a tray in bed.”

    “I entirely agree.”

    He appeared satisfied with this, and merely supervised narrowly as Colin carried the soup through to the other room, not spilling it.

    Colin walked his cousin out to the car, having squashed Master Leach’s attempt to abandon his soup and escort them.

    “What the blazes is wrong with Keel?”

    John eyed him drily. “Every male who meets him asks himself that in due course, Colin.”

    “I’m not surprised! –Anna was absolutely steaming,” he added.

    “Mm. She’s a decent sort.”

    “Yeah.” He hesitated. Then he said: “What about this Susan, John?”

    John smiled a little. “Salt of the earth.”

    “And?”

    “My dear chap, supposing that she was a raving Les, Molly would be a thousand times better off with her than with Keel. But she isn’t, as a matter of fact. Ex-Sixties swinger, actually: of the Sloane Ranger type, I think!” he said with a grin. “Got fed up with the swinging scene, qualified as a solicitor and made a decent career for herself. There’s a long-term boyfriend in the offing, of the too-comfortable-having-it-both-ways-to-ditch-the-wife type. And possibly you need to ask yourself why you’re so concerned, Colin.”

    “I’m not her type,” he said grimly, “and as a matter of fact she’s not mine, lovely creature though she is, but I can tell you whose type she is!”

    “Yes?” said his cousin mildly.

    Colin had gone very red. “Forget it.”

    There was a short silence. Then John said slowly: “So that’s why Terence rushed off like that.”

    “All right, Hercule Poirot, you’re right, as usual. I tried to tell him— Never mind.”

    “Mm. Well, the fat lady hasn’t sung yet,” he said mildly, getting into the car. “I’ll collect Micky tomorrow morning. ’Night!”

    Colin could have kept an eye on Micky. He went back inside, admitting wryly to himself that he was rather glad he wouldn’t have to.

    “Molly and Micky are here?” said Terri limply as she made his breakfast the next morning.—Colin was capable of putting the coffee on and singeing the toast himself: he had told her this but it had had no effect.—“But Euan hasn’t said a thing!”

    “No,” he said, smiling a little in spite of himself: that last sounded as if it must have come straight from Joanie Potts. “He hasn’t been in contact with Molly this week, even though Dawlish has offered her a job and he was in on the meeting where he decided to.”

    She stared. “Euan has been talking about the new television series where they will have an English girl and an Australian girl who look like twins. But I am sure he did not mention Molly.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    Weakly Terri offered: “He has done a big diagram on the wall. I got the paper for him from Tom Hopgood.”

    “Butcher’s paper—right. No names on it?”

    “That is casting, yes? He has not yet put any names. He is working out the time lines.”

    In that case he must have more brains than Colin would have thought. He shrugged.

    Terri swallowed hard. “He has been very—I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten the word. Very concentrated?”

    “Concentrating on it. Very absorbed, I think you mean. I suppose that’s an excuse, of sorts.”

    “Of sorts—yes. You wouldn’t like a sausage for your breakfast?” she said wanly.

    Colin jumped. “Uh—well, I wouldn’t say no. Hang on: what sort of sausage?”

    “Fresh. Tom made it from Manuel’s recipe but he has not yet got hold of the man who smokes the fish and learnt how to smoke them.”

    “Right. What’s in it?”

    She told him. Jesus. He looked at her round, hopeful face. “Sounds good!”

    Beaming, Terri got it out of the fridge and put it in the pan.

    “Hullo, Molly,” she said cautiously. “I hope you are feeling better?”

    Molly dredged up a smile: none of it was Terri’s fault. “Hi, Terri. Yes, I’m miles better, thanks. I was just a bit blue yesterday.”

    “Yes. I also get menstrual cramps.”

    Molly went very red: did the whole village know? “Mm,” she managed.

    Terri was also now very red, under the olive. “I’m so sorry! Does one not mention these things in England?”

    “Um, no, that’s okay.” She looked at her distressed face. “Well, um, it’s just that I didn’t realise you’d know. Of course I don’t mind if you do.”

    “Colin told me. He was very sympathetic. I have brought some herb tea that may help.”

    “Thanks. That’s very kind of you,” said Molly limply.

    “So would you like some now?” she said hopefully.

    Limply Molly agreed she would. Terri trotted out to the kitchen, looking much more cheerful. Molly just went on sitting limply by the small heater in the sitting-dining room.

    Terri came back with a mug of the tea. “I put sugar in it. I find it too sour without.”

    “Thanks, Terri.”

    “Would you like some quinces, Molly? I have brought over a big basket of them.”

    “Off Euan’s tree?” said Molly tightly.

    “He is working very hard,” said Terri lamely.

    “Yes. I suppose you know all about that, too.”

    Terri licked her lips. “This is a small village, Molly,” she said miserably.

    “Mm. It’s all right—I do know what he’s like,” she said with a sigh. “Um, well, I dunno what to do with quinces. They’re a very unusual fruit, you hardly ever see them back home.”

    “In Spain they grow quite well, but many people dislike them. I have brought an excellent recipe book: John gave it to me,” she said hopefully.

    Molly smiled in spite of herself. “Did he really? I’m not much of cook, though, Terri. Why don’t you sit down and tell me what the recipes are, maybe I could manage them.”

    Beaming, Terri rushed out to the kitchen, to return with a giant basket of quinces and a yellowing paperback book.

    “How old is that?” said Molly feebly.

    Gravely Terri consulted the verso of the title page. “It’s about twenty years old, but they are excellent recipes! And it is so well written, it is a joy to read! It was John’s own book.”

    “Yeah, well, Rosie doesn’t cook,” said Molly with a feeble grin. “Go on, tell me what to do with quinces.”

    Happily Terri sat down and plunged into Jane Grigson’s Fruit Book.

    At the end of it—it took some considerable time, and the tea had cooled and been drunk—Molly said firmly: “I absolutely could not do any of those recipes, Terri. And I’d take my dying oath John hasn’t done a single one out of that book!”

    “He said he looked up medlars, because of your tree, but there was only a recipe for jelly, which did not explain what was meant by setting point, so his heart failed him!”

    “I’m not surprised. My heart failed me the minute you read out that one for stuffed quinces with meat.”

    “I thought it sounded excellent,” said Terri wistfully. “It’s based on a Persian recipe. It combines yellow split peas with minced beef, or one may use pork!”

    Right: it sounded as if it required hours of mucking around for very little result. “I don’t fancy the idea of meat with fruit, really.”

    “But it’s delicious!” she cried in astonishment. “My grandmother has many recipes for meat with fruit! And there is a Russian recipe for beef in a casserole with quince that is really easy!”

    “Terri, if that’s the one I think it is, I didn’t even understand the words for the sort of beef she uses,” said Molly with sigh.

    Terri turned over the pages sadly. “Oh. I should very much like to try the recipe for quail.”

    “Don’t look at me, I’ve never even seen a quail.”

    “Small birds. Or it may be done with pheasant. Mr Granville Thinnes says pheasants: is that correct? She does not use the plural, here,” she said, frowning over it.

    “Um, I think maybe up-market English people use those words for game birds differently, Terri,” said Molly very feebly indeed. “And from what I’ve heard of Mr Granville Thinnes, I don’t think you’ve got a hope of getting a pheasant in Bellingford.”

    “No. But there’s plenty of beef! And I have some yellow split peas. Perhaps I could cook them for you!” she offered, beaming.

    “Haven’t you got enough on your plate?” said Molly weakly.

    “Plate? Oh! It’s another English metaphor! English is so metaphorical!” she beamed.

    “Is it?” said Molly feebly. “Well, haven’t you?”

    “No, no! I could do them in Colin’s oven: it’s better than yours. One has more control over gas, and also I think the heat is more… even? Yes. Enough for him and for you!”

    “Um, yes. It’s very kind of you, Terri, but I honestly don’t think Micky would eat a quince stuffed with meat. They’re very gritty, aren’t they?”

    “He could have a hamburger instead!” she beamed. “Tom could mince the meat for me. Does one say mince or mince up?”

    “Um, either. I suppose mince is more, um, proper.”

    “I see. Thank you, Molly. What do you think?”

    “Um, well, yes, that sounds lovely,” she said weakly. “If you can be bothered doing it.”

    “But it’s no bother! I love cooking!” she beamed. “Would you like them tonight?”

    Feebly Molly agreed she would. Beaming, Terri chose four of the nicest quinces from the basket, and shot off back to Colin’s.

    Molly looked at the giant basket feebly. What in God’s name were they going to do with the rest of them? She picked up the book. Compote? Eh? Something about something French in 1692? Shuddering, she put it down again.

    Back at Quince Tree Cottage Euan was still absorbed, sitting at the dining table they had bought together in Portsmouth. Terri had been horrified at the amount it and its six matching chairs had cost—they were second-hand and not in very good condition—but Euan had liked their lines. They were very simple, solid-looking pieces: they did look good in the cottage. And since they completely lacked the ornate carving that featured on Grandmother’s furniture, they’d be very easy to dust. Euan had claimed they could easily be stripped and revarnished but Terri had a strong feeling, looking at the table laden with papers, that this would never happen. He had also bought a heavy sideboard, in a similar style but rather better condition. At least, he called it a sideboard, but the label on it in the shop had called it a chiffonier. Well, perhaps sideboard was the Anglo-Saxon name. There was nothing in it, but a large bowl of quinces on it. It was a shallow blue bowl, and it had also cost far too much, especially since Euan had bought it for the quinces, not seeming to even hear her when she said that their season wasn’t very long. He had tried to buy a sofa in that department store, but had been very annoyed when they’d said that though they could cover it in the fabric he liked it wouldn't be ready for two months. So he’d gone back to the second-hand shop and bought a large second-hand sofa that was quite an interesting shape, but covered in a grimy green and white brocade. He claimed it was a Thirties sofa and would look splendid re-covered. Possibly it would. At the moment it just looked shabby.

    “Oh, there you are,” he said in a vague voice.

    “Yes: I have given Colin his breakfast and prepared his lunch. Would you like your lunch now, Euan?”

    “Mm? Is it lunchtime already?” he said vaguely. “Might as well, if you’re getting it.”

    “Yes.” Terri went over to the kitchen door. She hesitated. Then she turned and went back to the table. “Euan, I must speak to you, please.”

    “Mm?” He looked up, smiling vaguely. “Go ahead.”

    Frowning, Terri said: “I think you are unaware that Molly has come down for the weekend.”

    He raised his eyebrows slightly. “I was, yes. Funny she didn’t ring me.”:

    She took a deep breath. “It was not funny, Euan, because you have not rung her, even though you know that Mr Dawlish has said that he wants her to be in his series!”

    “E-er… Well, I’ve been busy,” he said uneasily. “And the casting is up to Derry and Brian. I don’t want to give her the idea that she’s got the part before she’s even had a screen test.”

    “There is no reason that you couldn’t have told her that!”

    He ran his hand through his hair. “Look, what is all this?”

    Very red, Terri replied defiantly: “I know it’s none of my business, but she is a lovely woman and you are making her very unhappy!”

    “Because I haven’t rung her while I’ve been working?” he said with an uneasy laugh.

    “No, because she knows that you know that Mr Dawlish has offered her a part in the series which you will be in, Euan!” she shouted.

    Euan had gone very red. “It is none of your business, actually.”

    “All right, I go! Colin wants me!” she shouted.

    “Don’t be silly, I want you, too!” he said quickly. He fidgeted with his pen. “Um, the thing is, Terri,” he said uncomfortably, “I’m not quite sure whether I… I mean, I do like her, and the wee boy’s verra sweet…”

    “I think it would do you all the good in the world to be a father to a little boy!” she said on a scornful note.

    He winced. “Aye, you’re not wrong. Look, you probably can’t see it: but Molly’s quite a managing woman. I don’t mean she’s bossy, like Dot—Sorry, you don’t know her, she’s another one of Rosie’s cousins.”

    “And you do not need a managing woman!” returned Terri. “Huh!” She marched out to the kitchen, very flushed.

    Euan bit his lip. After a moment he got up and followed her. “It isn’t just that,” he said lamely. Terri was working at the bench. She didn’t look round. “Um, I like Molly, but… Well, I did see quite a lot of her in town, and, um, well, it began to dawn that we haven’t got much in common. I mean, I took her to a very nice restaurant and she said its Sole Normande was ordinary.” Terri didn’t react. “It wasn’t, it was exquisite,” he said in a lame voice.

    After a moment Terri said, still not looking at him: “Sole Normande is a difficult dish to do well.”

    “Yes, exactly! And we went to an art gallery and she was bored. So the following weekend I took her to the Victoria and Albert—thought she might like to see some of the costumes. I mean, she’s got beautiful taste in dress; but although she said some of the clothes were pretty it was obvious she didn’t have a clue what period she was looking at. –I suppose that sounds puerile,” he ended gloomily.

    “No. But she has never needed to take an interest in costume, whereas as an actor, I think it is something that you have been aware of for a long time, yes?”

    “I dare say, but most actors don’t know what they’re wearing, they only know if it suits them!” he said crossly. “Anyway, I thought since she did a science degree she might like something more scientific—though God knows it’s not my bag—so I took her to Greenwich.”

    Terri looked round, smiling. “Ah! That’s very interesting! The old machines are fascinating, no? Also the architecture itself is beautiful!”

    Euan eyed her drily. “Mm. Architecture’s a closed book to Molly—though being an Australian I suppose there’s some excuse for her. Though mind you, there are some lovely William IV buildings in Sydney. Derry and I saw one exquisite little house with an oval lobby: quite perfect. I did mention it, but Molly didn’t know what I was talking about. Anyway, Greenwich was a dismal failure. As for Harrison’s timepieces—don’t get me started.”

    “Oh! The longitude man!” she cried. “Joanie’s father has sent her a video of that wonderful English mini-series; have you seen that?”

    “Aye, I have, and I thought it was wonderful, too, Terri. They did get it in Australia: Molly said it was boring and she couldn’t sit through it.”

    “But no! It was thrilling! I am not scientific at all, but I couldn’t look away! Also Joanie, who knows nothing of science either! And Seve also, he has done some science at university, but not in English, of course, so he rushed to get his big dictionary, and afterwards, we looked up the encyclopaedia because we were all so interested!”

    “Aye. Me, too,” said Euan very drily indeed.

    Terri gulped. “Oh.”

    “Aye. Well, Micky had a great day,” he said heavily. “Actually we ended up with Molly sitting on a bench while Micky and I had a good look at the instruments. True, we weren’t the only family group that had sorted itself out like that. Funnily enough, though, the wee girls seemed as interested as the boys.”

    “Yes,” said Terri thoughtfully. “I have noticed that phenomenon. I wonder whether it is genetic, or perhaps hormonal would be more correct, or if it is just socialisation that teaches girls to lose that type of curiosity?”

    “My bet would be a bit of both,” said Euan on a sour note.

    “Yes. Were there any teenage girls here?”

    He laughed suddenly. “Aye: two! One fat and spotty, the other skinny and freckled, the dearest pair o’ wee frights you ever saw!” Terri was smiling at him; he admitted: “They recognised me: asked me for my autograph; I suppose that’s really why I remember them.”

    That might have been why he remembered them, but not why he’d described them as “the dearest pair o’ wee frights you ever saw.” Terri smiled again and said: “That sounds like the time Seve and I were looking at the local church. It’s not very special, but quite nice: fifteenth century. An English couple came in with their two teenage children. They just walked round very quickly, as all the tourists do, but the girl came back and stood looking up at the nave for quite a long time. We were intrigued, because if the tourists look at anything it is either the stained glass—which is very bad modern glass, the original windows were destroyed during the Civil War—or the altar, which is very gaudy. So we spoke to her and found she was very bright and interested, though she knew only a little. She was one of the skinny, freckled ones.”

    “Aye!” His smile faded and he said sourly: “I suppose you’ll say that isn’t a reason for breaking up a relationship and that you don’t need to have everything in common.”

    “That is a point,” she said cautiously.

    “Aye. But I was bored, Terri,” he said grimly. “We did both enjoy the Mozart concert we went to—but I began to envisage a lifetime with a partner than I could barely share a thing with. And I know maself well enough to recognise that once the boredom sets in I behave very badly.” He grimaced. “Sexual infidelity and then just letting it dawn that my interest has shifted. I suppose I hoped this week could be a cooling-off time. To let us both think it over.”

    “Yes,” said Terri sadly.

    Euan gave a hard laugh. “Ma God, I’ve got more in common with you than I have with Molly!” He went over to the door. “Can you do that bruschetta sort of thing you mentioned the other day?”

    “Sí,” said Terri in a very small voice into the sink.

    “Good. Just grill the sardines lightly, never mind if they’re tinned.” He went out on this.

    Automatically Terri got on with brushing the crusty bread he liked with the extra virgin olive oil, lightly grilling it on both sides so as it wouldn’t go soggy, then adding the red peppers, which she’d already grilled and peeled and put in the fridge, the nice tomato from Portsmouth, and finally the sardines, with an extra sprinkling of olive oil before she lightly grilled them, removed them from the heat, and added the final touch of a few leaves of fresh thyme: he’d said that one must not burn the thyme, it ruined the dish, and he was quite right. He hadn’t asked for a side salad but Terri prepared one anyway. Euan loved black olives so she stoned some and added them to the lettuce, together with some slices of the Italian bocconcini cheese she’d found in Portsmouth and of which he was very fond. Finishing it with a vinaigrette of Dijon mustard, olive oil, and of course wine vinegar, because Euan loathed balsamic vinegar and had forbidden her to have it in the house. Terri hadn’t been going to buy any, anyway: she hated it, too. She poured him a glass of cold spring water, the brand he preferred, and took it all through to him on a tray Jim Potter had sold her: it had a picture of horridly juicy-looking orange begonias on it.

    “Thanks,” he said vaguely. “Aren’t you eating?”

    “No. I’m not hungry.”

    “Mm-hm,” he murmured. “Oh—table napkins. Think Stouts’ might have some paper ones—or possibly the ironmonger’s.” He laid down his pen. “This looks good!”

    “Good. I go over to Colin’s now,” said Terri abruptly, exiting.

    “Mm-hm,” murmured Euan, tasting the bruschetta. Delicious! Just right.

    In the kitchen a tear ran down Terri’s cheek. He’d said “more in common with you” as if she was the last woman in the world that he’d ever look at! Not that she’d ever thought he would look twice at her. Sniffing angrily, she wiped the tear away with the back of her hand and ran off to Colin’s, completely forgetting to make Euan’s coffee.