More Consequences

28

More Consequences

    Richard Peregrine-White had bought the elegant house in Albert Street, he’d failed to find a cook, he’d more or less installed Potter Purbright—well, she’d chosen her room and arranged her junk in it, but of course she was at school most of the time—he’d sold the dump in the Cotswolds, he’d written to his son and had received an entirely uninterested if kindly reply—no more than he’d expected, but nevertheless he felt both let down and annoyed—he was conscientiously coming down to Bellingford every weekend, he’d even made it down during the week several times—the train service was very good but the subsequent drive from Portsmouth was a damned nuisance—and funnily enough things hadn’t miraculously got ever so much better on the strength of it.

    He finally admitted to himself that this was because Anna was treating him as a cross between a combination of colours and an extraneous cousin—make that yet another extraneous cousin: every time he called on her there seemed to be a different one there. Not to mention the ones that weren’t, strictly speaking, her cousins at all, they were on her cousin Rosie’s husband’s side, and why the Hell didn’t the fellow stay put in his own perfectly good cottage next-door, damn his bloody eyes? Or if it wasn’t cousins it was the ubiquitous Jack Powell. Mr Powell had turned up on his immaculate sandstone doorstep very early one Sunday, in extremely grimy boots, and offered to look after his garden for him. That had really helped. The alternative seemed to be to get a firm in from Portsmouth—to be precise, the firm that had previously looked after the place and done an extremely good job. But if anything went wrong he’d have all the bother of trying to manage it at several removes, and at least he knew how to get hold of Jack. Or he knew people who did. He was about to give in when the fellow pointed out: “Your front lawn needs mowing.” Richard had to take a very deep breath—he could see the fucking motor-mower sitting right there in the man’s truck, for God’s sake! He managed to accept the offer nicely, and asked, to spite the fellow, whether he knew of a cook, but Mr Powell merely replied stolidly: “I was just gonna ask you that.”

    His motor-mower, incidentally, was the noisiest Richard had ever heard in his life. Bar none.

    Things got slightly better when it dawned that Colin Haworth had taken up with the sturdy woman blacksmith who operated the smithy on the green. However, Anna seemed to have disappeared entirely at the same period, so they weren’t all that much better. Was she very upset over it? Unfortunately there was no-one at all he could ask about this tricky point. Though undoubtedly bloody Jack Powell would know.

    Eventually he gave in and said in a weak voice to his daughter: “Anna doesn’t seem to be around much these days.”

    Potter Purbright gave him an amazed and scornful look. “Dad! Don’t you know? She’s gone up to London to paint John!”

    “What?” he said feebly.

    She burst into explanation. Richard was just about able to protest feebly when she finally paused for breath: “I don’t think you should be calling them Rosie and John. They’re not our relations, remember.” Only to be withered by: “Da-ad! Everyone does! They’d think I was barmy if I suddenly started calling them Captain Haworth and Dr Haworth!” He then put his foot in it by querying this latter usage. Oh—right, of course, she was the cousin that was a sociologist. He felt so weak after this that he let her foist a so-called “health shake” on him—judging by the colour it was composed mainly of seaweed and its taste didn’t belie it—and rabbit on for hours and hours and hours about an idea for opening up a health food shop here in the High Street in partnership with the people who ran the village shop. Finally being forced to point out that Boyd’s Bank had no ambition to go into the retail grocery trade, healthy or not. Then venture capital, Dad! It got so ridiculous—after all, she was hardly a kid any more, she was due for university next term—that he told her that if she was serious about it their Venture Capital Section would be willing to look at a properly put-together proposal. Whereupon his daughter vanished into her room with her laptop, not to be seen again for hours and hours and hours. Ending up ratty as Hell, of course, and having to be helped. Not to say, forcibly dragged away from the laptop and down to the pub for a meal of the fish, chips and salad of which Richard, frankly, was getting very tired. The sooner that restaurant opened up down on the green, the better.

    “When’s Anna due back, do you know?” he said in a casual voice as they strolled home.

    “Dunno. When Rosie brings the baby home, maybe?” she said vaguely. “It’s a pity she’s up in London, ’cos she’d be the one to know what proportion of the population’d be likely to want health foods.—Bran muffins’d be good.—I s’pose I’ll have to ask Greg.”

    “Who?”

    “Dad! Rosie’s research assistant! You’ve meet him! Greg Singh!”

    “Oh—the good-looking Indian lad we bumped into at the village shop? Well, if he’s her research assistant, he should be able to give you some facts, yes.”

    “He’ll sneer, though,” she said sourly.

    “Why should he?” replied her dim father blankly.

    “Da-ad!” Potter Purbright gave him the entire low-down on the Singh family’s business interests, expertise, capabilities and general commercial acumen. In toto. Richard could only conclude that she was right: he would sneer. Unless he fancied plumpish, determined girls with untidy brown curls in big thick plaits? –Potter Purbright had her mother’s colouring. Not that Leda’s hair had ever been permitted to be that untidy, or, certainly since Richard had known her, that colour.

    “What? No, you can’t go over there tonight! At this hour on a Saturday? Phone him tomorrow.”

    “I don’t know his number. I’ll go over there first thing,” she said in grimly determined tones.

    Ouch! Father to the life. Not to say, Grandfather. “Very well,” he replied weakly. Mentally counting the days until the university term started and with it, one could but hope, her real life. “Um, what about your exams?” he said feebly. “Shouldn’t you be swotting?”

    “Da-ad! I’m on top of the work! I don’t want to get stale! Miss Venning says—”

    Right. Got it. At least once she had left Merrifield he would never, ever have to hear the phrase “Miss Venning says” again. Not for as long as he lived.

    … “They’re all like that at that age, Mr Peregrine-White,” said the ironmonger’s wife kindly, leaning on her counter.

    “No, please—call me Richard,” said Richard, flushing slightly.

    “Richard, then!” she beamed. “I’m Isabel! Our Harry was terrible, this time last year. We had to force him to apply for his accountancy course, even though it was what he really wanted to do. He had some mad idea that he was gonna go into acting and be an instant star. He wasn’t even chosen for the school play, but that didn’t stop him. And Terry Stout was miles worse! That’s Belinda and Murray’s boy—you know, from the Superette!” she beamed. She plunged into the full saga. Offered a university scholarship—a really good college, the boy must be brilliant—and turned it down in favour of a job in a land agent’s office in Portsmouth? Richard listened in horror. The saga ended happily: the boy had now taken up his scholarship and was doing very well at university—something scientific, he was interested in genes, Isabel elaborated vaguely—but that didn’t make him feel all that much better, frankly.

    “Our Gwennie’s not so bad, though. Well, no ambition and doesn’t know what she wants to do, but at least she doesn’t want to do something mad,” she added cheerfully. “She thinks she’s gonna work in Colin’s new restaurant this summer—that’s Higgledy-Piggledy, down on the green, they’re only doing teas at the moment,” she explained kindly. “I dare say she’ll be hopeless, but at least it’ll open her eyes to what real work is. Now: that’s an electric kettle, a nice German electric tin-opener—they’re definitely the best—and a little set of screwdrivers. You weren’t thinking of doing anything electrical, were you, Richard?” she added cautiously.

    “Definitely not!” he said with a laugh and a shudder. “I wouldn’t in any case, but the electric kettle going bang was a horrible warning! No, there’s a loose window catch that I thought I might manage to fix by myself. Is there a qualified electrician in the village?”

    “As a matter of fact there is, now!” she beamed. “He’s one of Colin’s sappers: Owen Bridges. Hang on, I’ve got his contact number somewhere…” She scrabbled in a drawer, eventually producing a card.

    Richard wrote down the number, didn’t ask why in God’s name she didn’t stick the card up where the populace could see it if she wanted the fellow to have custom, didn’t ask why, during the period she’d been serving him, her husband had successfully routed the efforts of would-be customers to buy or rent an industrial fan heater, to buy an extension ladder, and to buy a pot of white ceiling paint, all of which he could surely have got in for them, and tottered out, feeling very like Alice on her return from the other side of the looking-glass.

    “That was him, then,” said Jim Potter thoughtfully.

    “Mm,” agreed Isabel.

    “She’s right, ya know,” he said thoughtfully.

    “Who?” she asked on a weak note.

    “Anna. He’s ice-blue, all right.”

    Isabel swallowed, and tried to smile. Ice-blue he might be, or at least ice-bluish, but he was a total dish! Oh, well, men were blind, she’d always said so.

    “Colin’s in the snug,” C.P.O. Timms reported to his commanding officer. “Tying one on.”

    “So what’s new?” replied Terence mildly. He tasted the so-called German beer that one of the gay artisans from up Belling Close way had just complained about. “Ugh! Christ, you’re right! I’m really sorry, this must have been some of the old stock—dates from my predecessor’s time. Dunno whether he stored it next to the boiler, or what. Try something else—on the house. Have a short, if you like.”

    The artisan plumped for a glass of the Chardonnay he’d had the previous week. And could Terence possibly order a dozen in for him?

    The stuff was Australian: Rosie had written to her Dad about the prices the git used to charge, or possibly the prices he, Terence, was charging in view of what he had to pay wholesale—anyway, the result had been twelve dozen cases of this stuff and the address of a reliable vineyard which would supply direct. In Terence’s considered opinion it was an indifferent wine but as this patron’s reaction was typical, he’d gratefully put an order in. So he was able to reply that he could let him have a dozen immediately. He suggested a price that was three times what the stuff cost him to import but the fellow seemed very happy about it.

    “Could of charged ’im twice that,” noted Alan, leaning on the bar at his side, as the satisfied customer trotted off happily to his seat.

    “Yeah.”

    “When I say tying one on I mean really tying one on,” said the ex-C.P.O., pouring a drop of the Chardonnay for himself.

    Terence blinked. “Oh—right! I’ll investigate, in that case.” He watched as Alan tasted it. “Want a case?”

    “I don’t even want the rest of this,” he replied frankly.

    “Them’s my sentiments, too,” admitted the new proprietor of The Mariner’s Rest, going off to the snug.

    The snug was the only part of the pub that had been allowed to retain its original dark faked-up varnished panelling. Terence had planned to leave it untouched, but after Jack Powell and his mates had spent a merry evening in there Jack had offered him a very good price for sanding and revarnishing it. Pointing out that otherwise he’d have to pay compensation if an American lady tripper caught her silk dress on it. “Rough as bags” was the phrase. Terence had been under the impression that Jack had more than enough to do on Colin’s project, still, but Jack assured him he could fit it in. Yes, well, dying to get a toe in the door, of course: since he’d been completely booked up when Terence bought the place, he’d had to get a Portsmouth firm do his painting. The snug was a very small room and the job had only taken a weekend. The panelling was now smooth as silk and looked—well, not antique, no. Like antique panelling might have looked back when Will Shakespeare was a lad.

    Tonight the snug, which had two tables, was very crowded. One table held Colin with the remains of a whisky in front of him, and, likewise provisioned, old Jim Parker, the very old Merv Watkins from George Street, John Mason from Moulder’s Way, not the first time he’d been seen boozing with that lot and both Terence and Alan would have taken their dying oaths his wife didn’t know about it and would kill him if she found out, and Mr Williamson. Hitherto assumed to have been a genteel sherry drinker. What the Hell was he doing in that lot? He wasn’t a local, he was a collector of Toby jugs from Albert Street and his wife would kill him if she found out. The other table held two strangely-garbed strangers with very strange accents indeed. Well, technically strangers but Terence did know who they were, because they’d taken one of his as yet not done-up rooms: a pair of Swedes having an early summer holiday. Their table held the best part of two pints of bitter in traditional English tankards. Drinking in the local colour but not really able to stomach the local grog—quite. The room also held, he discovered as he nearly fell over him, old Merv’s very old dog—part bull-terrier, part Christ knew what. His name was Sometimes because, according to his owner, he sometimes took notice of yer. He was snoozing with his nose very close to his usual bowl of beer. Bowl that had held his usual beer, strictly speaking. It was local colour, all right. Enough to satisfy any number of Swedes in strange leisure gear.

    “Evening, Commander,” said old Jim immediately, grinning. “We’re shelebrating. ’Ave one on Colin.”

    “Isn’t it a bit premature to be wetting the baby’s head?” replied Terence grimly, glaring at his cousin.

    “’S never too early!” contributed old Williamson with a loud snicker.

    Terence took a deep breath. “Be that as it may, Mr Williamson—”

    “Greg,” he said, draining the remains of his whisky.

    “Yuh—uh—Greg.” He’d been under the impression that he was Gregory, in full. Certainly Mrs had called him that over the genteel sherries before lunch, last Tuesday as ever was. –Oddly, the retirees who had been regulars for the git’s poncy, inedible lunches were still turning up regularly for the fried or grilled fish, the chips and the salad bar. Alan claimed it was because they’d discovered the food was actually miles better but Terence himself had a strong feeling it was more like the elephants all going to the same place to die. Ingrained so deep they couldn’t have told you why—right. “Um, be that as it may, I think you’ve all had enough. And does Mrs Williamson know you’re down here?” he finished on a weak note.

    “Visiting ’er sister,” revealed Jim, winking. “Birmingham.”

    That explained that, then. More or less. Well, why he was down at the pub but not why he’d joined up with— Oh, forget it. “Colin!” he said loudly.

    “Shelebrating,” explained Colin, grinning widely. “Have one on me.”

    “No, thanks. You’ve had enough. Does Penn know you’re on the booze?”

    “No!” contributed the meek John Mason with a loud snicker.

    “Gorn over to Top Lane for a vegetarian dinner with that ’en that does them weird pots,” explained old Merv. “I’ll ’ave another if you’re buying, Colin, ta.”

    “You won’t!” said Terence loudly. “You’re talking crap. –Colin!”

    “Not a hen, a heron,” explained Colin, grinning widely.

    “What they mean is,” said Jim on a tolerant note, “Penn’s gorn over to ’ave a vegetarian dinner with Marion. And she is in Top Lane: renting Number 5. Got it for a song—mind you, it’s not the one with the leaky roof. See, the reason she wanted to rent over there—besides the rent,” he said as Merv tried to tell him that was the reason, “is that she wants to do good.”

    Terence gulped. “Who to, the Blacks?”

    “Them an’ all. Very supportive of Lulu Black, she’s been.” He eyed him drily.

    That really was her name: she’d been named after the singer. Lulu Driver, she had been. She was several years Terence’s junior but nevertheless he remembered her very clearly indeed from the more gloriously misspent parts of his teen years. He swallowed hard.

    “Got seven, in all. Young Amanda, what’s ’elping in yer kitchen, she’s the youngest,” explained Merv. “Sid Black’s not ’er dad, but then, ’e can talk, considering them two ’e fathered on Lulu’s sister. Not to say, ’oo ’is dad was, when yer come to think about it.”

    “Right,” agreed Jim on a tolerant note. “She’s doing good to the Drivers, too.”

    “Them kids of Leia Driver’s could do with it,” noted Merv stolidly.

    “Little Meg and Keanu,” explained Colin, grinning widely.

    “Not after her grandma—Hang on. Great-grandma. Margaret Rose,” explained old Merv. “’Ot stuff in ’er day she were, too. After some film star.” He sniffed. “Modern. Skinny bint.”

    “Sleepless in Seattle. Meg Ryan,” explained Greg Williamson.

    Terence gaped at him.

    “She likes it,” he elaborated sourly.

    “So does Rowena,” agreed John Mason sourly.

    All was explained. He took a deep breath. “You drunks can all get off home. –YES!” he shouted as his cousin opened his mouth. “I mean it, Colin! Or you’re barred! –Alan! Oh, there you are,” he said sheepishly as his henchman straightened from behind the bar with a bottle in his hand. “Don’t dare to give them any of that.”

    “Wasn’t going to,” he returned. “Replacing the empty.”

    Terence watched numbly as he replaced the bottle of Black Label. “I put that bottle up myself at five this afternoon.”

    “No. You thought you did. They’ve drunk two,” he said unemotionally.

    “I thought you had more sense!”

    “Wasn’t all me. Yvonne was serving for a bit.”

    “I thought she had more sense!” said Terence with feeling.

    “That’s right. See, we both thought we was the only one serving them. Turns out ruddy Colin actually told her they’d been waiting for service and got two rounds each out of ’er. Triples. With beer chasers. Pints.”

    Terence gulped. “Got it. Sorry, Alan.”

    “Not as sorry as they’ll be termorrer morning!” he said cheerfully. “Better take their car keys, Terence.”

    “You said it!” Grimly Terence got car keys off John Mason and Greg Williamson and forced Jim and Merv to admit Colin had given them a lift. “Colin! Give me your car keys!”

    “She’s not a car!” He collapsed in sniggers. Promptly Mason and Williamson joined in.

    “Very well, Colin,” said Terence evilly. “Give me whatever you insert into Emerald to turn her over.” Promptly old Jim and Merv joined the retirees in their sniggers. Terence was crossly aware that in the background the Swedes were muttering together and the male was now smothering a laugh. He breathed heavily.

    “Aw, go on then,” said Colin, pouting horribly, and handing over his keys.

    Terence examined them grimly. There had been an episode—true, when they were both around twenty-two—when under circumstances very similar indeed to these, Colin had handed over what subsequently turned out to be the keys to a girlfriend’s flat. Come to think of it, he’d had a stupid name for that car, too—a vintage Mini, painted bright red with two broad black stripes running from stem to—

    “Not Ruby O’Hara,” his cousin explained, grinning widely.

    —stern. Quite. They were Mercedes keys: he pocketed them.

    “Hang on, Terence: I’ll put them all in the bowl,” said Alan. Under Terence’s numbed gaze he dropped all the confiscated keys into a fair-sized pottery bowl up behind the bar. “It’s one of Marion’s. Got a crack in it, but Yvonne liked it, so she give it to us for nothing.”

    It was a handsome glazed bowl, brown and black, with a sort of bronzy sheen in parts. “Um, yes,” he croaked. “Are my ears deceiving me or were there already some keys in there?”

    “Yeah. Three lots.”

    “Three?” he croaked. “Are we turning the village into alcoholics?”

    “No, well, better safe than sorry. But they’re not villagers’ keys, actually. Two of them gays from up Belling Close,”— at this point the Swedes muttered together in what were unmistakably disapproving tones—“they were in earlier, drinking margaritas. Then Colin come in and started telling them about the mixed drinks he’d had with tequila when he was in the American Southwest, so they tried some. Not that we ’ad all the ingredients.”

    “Don’t tell me you gave him Black Label on top of tequila!”

    “No, he stuck with the whisky. Don’t ask me why ’e got so chummy with a pair of gays in pastel jogging suits, though.”

    “Were they his chair-bott—um, furniture restorers, Alan?” he said weakly.

    “No, a different pair. Queer as Dick’s hatband, though.”—The female Swede gave a horrified gasp and said something quite loudly to her mate in their native language. Terence took a very deep breath.—“And you do mean chair-bottomers, Commander, sir,” finished Alan, poker-face.

    Terence swung round on the Swedish babble that had broken out. “Chair-bottoming,” he said clearly, “is a very old traditional English craft. And those that drink in snugs for the local colour can expect to hear the traditional English vernacular. Not to say, the traditional English prejudices being aired. Though we’ll forgive you for not picking up exactly whose usage is largely ironic.”

    They had both gone very red, hardly surprising, and he could obviously expect no Scandinavian custom in the future. The female put her chiselled jaw in the air. “To use such pejorative expressions ironically is itself an expression of prejudice, Commander Haworth.”

    “She’s right,” drawled Alan, leaning heavily on the bar.

    “If you can recognise that,” said the male on an annoyed note, “why do you do it?”

    “Habit, largely. Not caring?”

    “Shut up, Alan,” said Terence feebly as Colin’s entire group, his bloody cousin included, dissolved in streaming hysterics. “Just give me a hand to get these drunks out of here.”

    “Don’t you want to know whose else’s keys they were?” he said mildly, coming out from behind the counter.

    “Uh—Jesus. More?”

    “Yeah: like I said, there was three lots.—The gay pair, they come together.—One lot’s young Greg Singh’s. Blotto, ’e was. Barely able to walk. Murray Stout popped in for a pint and give ’im a ride home. Think it ’ad something to do with ’is brother coming down ’ere—’e was muttering about it. For Colin’s restaurant,” he explained to Terence’s blank face. He hauled Williamson bodily to his feet, since he was the nearest. “Can you walk? –The others, they belong to that young driver of Derry Dawlish’s. Orf the leash for once, poor stupid young tit. Went ’ome with Sharon Bellinger—dunno what good she imagined ’e’d be to ’er, in that condition. –Don’t think ’e can walk, silly old git.”

    “No. I’ll get the car out,” said Terence with a sigh.

    “Take his. Then if ’e chucks up, he can clean it out termorrer,” said the ex-C.P.O. brutally.

    “A good idea in principle, Alan,” replied Terence with a smile, “but in practice it could result in me being stranded up—where is it he lives, again?”

    “Albert Street. Dunno what number. OY!” he said loudly to the now giggling Gregory. “What’s your address?”

    “16A, King Edward Street, Pimlico. Hic! I do beg your pardon. Pim’co,” he corrected himself.

    “Pissed as a fart,” concluded Alan in disgust. “That’ll be where they lived before they come ’ere. Or maybe the place ’e grew up, ’oo knows?”

    “’E can come ’ome with me, use me spare room,” said Jim Parker tolerantly.

    “If you wanna take the risk. Well, that makes it easier, Terence: you can head up George Street and drop ole Merv orf—yer can’t walk, yer silly old bugger, you’re as stewed as a newt!” he said loudly over the objections—“and then drop the rest of them in Moulder’s Way, and if they haven’t chucked up in Williamson’s car, drive yerself back in it.”

    “Great tactics, Timms, should’ve been a general,” said Colin solemnly.

    “Shut up: you’re fucking well stonkered, too,” replied the ex-C.P.O.

    “They let generals go on benders without breaking them,” he explained helpfully.

    “I suppose they let ’em do other generals’ wives without sending ’em orf to America, too, do they?” retorted Alan swiftly. “Don’t answer that, you’re drunk as a skunk.”

    At this the male Swede gasped something incoherent and broke down in helpless hysterics.

    “Please excuse my husband, Commander Haworth,” said the female Swede grimly. “Per! You are being very rude! –Your barman has just used three vernacular expressions for being extremely drunk, though that does not excuse him.”

    “No! Five!” gasped Per helplessly, his eyes streaming.

    “It’s the sort of thing that males do find amusing, I’m afraid, Mrs Svensson,” said Terence nicely. “Certainly in all the European cultures that I’ve encountered.”

    “Non-European ones, too,” agreed Alan mildly. “Sorry, Mrs Svensson: I used them on purpose. Didn’t think it’d work that good, though.”

    Her chiselled jaw dropped.

    Terence swallowed hard. “It’s the English sense of humour, I’m afraid. Come on, Colin, let’s be ’aving yer.” He assisted him to his feet—Colin always had been able to hold his liquor but there must be around half a bottle of Black Label inside him, not to say God knew how many pints—and helped him outside, where he let go abruptly, regardless of whether his cousin might drop in his tracks, and laughed till he cried.

    When they finally got to Number 11 Moulder’s Way—in that he’d had to go all the way up George Street and then back down Harriet Burleigh Street Terence had now traversed almost the entire length of the village, twice—Colin invited him in warmly.

    There were no lights on; nevertheless Terence eyed the cottage warily.

    “She does understand that a chap needs to get pissed occasionally.”

    “Balls. No woman under the sun understands that, and don’t tell me again that she’s a blacksmith, thanks! All right, I’ll come in, but if she’s home I’m leaving you to your fate, and don’t expect me to take any of the blame!”

    “I don’t,” he said mildly, leading the way. Terence followed resignedly. Colin wasn’t staggering, which was possibly a plus. On the other hand he hadn't been staggering the night he’d painted old Cousin Matthew’s precious Roller candy pink. Or the night he’d filled a certain unpopular major’s veteran MG with tile adhesive. Nor, to get off the subject of cars, had he been staggering at Cousin William’s second son’s wedding, quite some years later, where he’d been discovered in flagrante with the bride’s mother, in the florally bedecked bridal gazebo. After the ceremony, true. And some had said it served them right for having a bloody garden wedding, true. But staggering or not, he had certainly been verging on blotto, on all those occasions.

    In Colin’s sitting-room he looked round numbly. “Haven’t you done anything to this place?”

    “No!” said Colin cheerfully.

    “You’re not still sleeping down here, are you?” he croaked, staring at the big bed with the brown and orange quilt folded up neatly at its end on top of a large navy— It wasn’t a proper duvet, for Christ’s sake, it was a bloody unzipped sleeping-bag!

    “Yes!” said Colin cheerfully.

    “Colin,” said Terence grimly, “blacksmith or not, no woman expects to pig it like this when a chap’s asked her to marry him!”

    “Penn doesn’t care.”

    “She may have said she doesn’t, you stupid idiot,” he shouted, “but underneath of course she cares! You’ve done nothing to welcome her to your house, you bloody fool!”

    “On the contrary; I’ve done lots of—”

    “Wipe that grin off your face! I’m not talking about sex—and you’re bloody lucky she hasn’t accused you of having nothing but that on your mind! For God’s sake, man! Look at the dump!”

    Colin looked about him, blinking a bit. “Oh.”

    “Yes, oh!” shouted Terence.

    “Uh—yeah. Stop shouting,” he said feebly, sinking down on the edge of the bed. “Had other things on my mind. Um, well, I’ve sunk all of my capital in the project and, uh, I’ve still got a few shares, but we need that income for day-to-day expenses.”

    “You can’t have spent all your capital! On those dumps down on the green?”

    “Um, there’s advertising and stuff. Costs of setting the company up. No, well, the bank account’s not in the red yet, but the money has to stay there, Terence. Keep us going until the project starts generating something.” He looked at him lamely. “Like a coffee?”

    “I’ll get them,” said Terence heavily, since the shouting hadn't produced a wrathful Penn.

    “Thanks. Use the dust.”

    Terence hadn't been going to start mucking about with coffee-pots at this hour in any case. He made two mugs, one very strong, added milk without bothering to try and remember if Colin took it, and took them and an opened packet of biscuits into the main room. Being careful to give Colin the strong coffee. “Did you eat anything this evening?” he said heavily as his cousin fell on the biscuits.

    “Chipsh,” said Colin through a biscuit. He swallowed. “Before I went up to the pub.”

    “Right, they’ll have soaked up half a bottle of Scotch. I know unexpected fatherhood at our age must be a bit hard to take—”

    “Nob that,” said Colin through another biscuit. He swallowed, drank coffee, and sighed. “Penn’s bloody doctor—the hardest case I ever met, by the way—has just informed me that I am not suffering from Gulf Syndrome, so-called. Or more specifically, that my genes have not been altered by exposure to fucking depleted uranium. And that we can therefore expect our kids to be normal.”

    “What?” said Terence numbly.

    “Not headless vegetables!” he shouted. “Shit!” He scrubbed furiously at his eyes.

    After a few numbed moments Terence got up and came to sit beside him. He put his arm round his shoulders. “It’s all right, old man,” he said eventually.

    “It is now,” said Colin grimly, sniffing. “Damn!”

    “Have mine,” said Terence mildly, passing him his handkerchief.

    Colin blew his nose hard and smiled shakily. “Smells of Kahlua.”

    “Eh? Oh—poured for a refeened lady retiree, got a bit on my hand. Um, what made the doctor think you might have Gulf Syndrome, Colin?”

    “Only the fact that I’d had two stints out there. No symptoms. He just wanted to be sure. Tested my DNA. There’s a couple of chaps in the town who’ve been badly affected. What I mean is, both them and their kids. One of them’s got such perverted chromosomes that he can’t have normal—”

    “Yes,” said Terence quickly. “I get the picture.”

    “The other one’s got a little girl.” He sniffed. “Club foot, altered chromosomes. It’s permanent. What I mean is, the father’s handed the altered chromosomes on and she’ll hand them on, too.”

    “Yeah.” Terence gave him back the handkerchief.

    Colin blew his nose again. “Haven’t mentioned anything to Penn. Thought, sufficient unto the day. Bad enough discovering you’re unexpectedly pregnant by a chap you hardly know in your mid-thirties without that.”

    “Yes, of c—”

    “Without what?” said a loud, indignant voice from the doorway. Penn came in, very flushed. “Without what? What isn’t the little woman entitled to know this time?”

    Terence got up awkwardly. “Penn, it’s not something that anyone would want to know, and it was a false alarm—”

    “Shut up!” she shouted. “Why don’t you keep your bloody cousins out of our business, Colin?”

    Oh, Lord. Terence glanced uneasily at the door but she was between him and it.

    “Or is it only the mighty Haworths’ business?” she cried bitterly.

    Colin got up, a trifle unsteadily. “No. I haven’t spoken to anyone about it.”

    “That’s a LIE! You told HIM!”

    “Only just now. I thought I owed him some explanation for drinking half a bottle of his Black Label and having to be driven home.”

    Penn’s jaw shook. “Right, and you don’t owe me anything.”

    “He was only trying—”

    “No, don’t, Terence,” said Colin quickly.

    “Aren’t I even allowed to be spoken to, now?” she cried bitterly.

    “All right: say what you were going to say,” said Colin heavily to his cousin.

    Terence licked his lips uneasily. “Um, he was only trying to shield you, Penn. And it was a false alarm, as it turned out.”

    “I see. Protecting the mother of a future Haworth, or more generally just protecting the mothers of the race, or just assuming that because I’m a woman I have less of a right to know ANYTHING?”

    “Yes,” said Colin flatly.

    Not entirely to Terence’s surprise, but certainly to his relief, Penn burst into snorting sobs at this.

    “Go,” said Colin quietly.

    Gratefully Terence slid out.

    Colin waited for a bit, not attempting to put his arm round her. “I’ll tell you, but I’ve had far too much to drink, so if it comes out wrong, that’s why,” he said as the sobs abated.

    Penn sank down on the edge of the bed, sniffing and gulping. “Go on, then.”

    He sat down heavily beside her. “Old Doc Maddern thought I might have Gulf Syndrome, so he tested my DNA. I haven’t. That’s why I tied on one tonight—relief.”

    She looked at him blearily.

    “There’s a couple of chaps over in Hythe that have got it. So-called. There’s no such disease: it’s exposure to the depleted uranium used in the anti-tank ammo.” Penn was still looking at him blearily. “Um, you must have heard something about it, surely? It’s the sort of thing that your father would get hot under the collar about—and rightly so.”

    “Um, no,” she said sniffing loudly.

    “Hell.” Colin rumpled his curls wildly. “I think I'm too drunk to explain. Using the pernicious muck makes the ammo more efficient. Slices through a tank like a hot knife through butter, kind of thing.”

    “But they didn’t find any weapons of mass destruction,” she said blankly.

    “That didn’t stop them using the stuff, though.”

    “But—but where would they have got it from?” she faltered.

    Colin blinked at her. “Eh? It’s the muck left over from nuclear power plants,” he said feebly. “Dirty by-product.”

    “Did someone sell it to them?”

    “Yuh—uh, to whom?”

    “The Iraqis, of course. Breaking the sanctions.”

    “Jesus,” he said feebly, goggling at her. “What’ve you been drinking?”

    “Dandelion cordial—not wine!” she said quickly. “It’s the non-alcoholic version. It was revolting. The wine is, too, mind you.”

    “Yeah. Penn, it wasn’t the Iraqis shooting the muck at us, it was our lot—us and the Yanks—shooting it at them. Some of our poor chaps got horribly contaminated through handling the stuff—either loading it or when they were clearing up after the first do. Um, checking for unexploded ammo, blowing up leftover land-mines, that sort of thing.”

    Penn just stared at him.

    “I don’t know what to call it,” said Colin lamely. “Radioactive contamination?”

    “Do you mean the ammo was radioactive?” she said faintly.

    “Yes.”

    “But—” She broke off.

    Colin just waited.

    Penn swallowed hard. “What did Dr Maddern say?”

    “Initially he said there was a possibility I’d been exposed and that I could hand on chromosomal abnormalities or that we might not be able to have normal children at all. It’s similar to the after-effects of Chernobyl.”

    “Yes,” she said faintly. “Dad was in a big protest against nuclear power after that.”

    “Uh-huh. Dr Maddern also said that until he’d had the test done and we knew for sure I’d better not tell you, but believe you me, I wouldn’t have told you anyway. Not entirely because I wanted to save you the agony: also because I didn’t think I could bear seeing you go through it. Anyway, he rang today to give me the all-clear.”

    “Mm,” she said, swallowing hard. “Um, when you say chromosomal abnormalities…”

    Colin sighed. “There’s these two poor chaps in the town that were out there last time—”

    “You said,” said Penn.

    “Did I? Oh, um, well, one of them’s got a little girl with a club foot and permanently altered chromosomes. The other one,” he said grimly, “hasn’t managed to sire a normal foetus at all. His wife’s only had miscarriages. And before you start shouting about it being the woman’s body and the woman’s responsibility,” he said tiredly, “the women is only the vehicle. The foetus is fifty percent the man’s. And don’t make me say what the poor bastard produced!” he shouted.

    Penn swallowed hard. “I think I’ll ring Dad.”

    “Be my guest, the phone’s over here,” said Colin dully, not bothering to point out the time. Or even to check the time.

    She fumbled around but eventually managed to make the thing work. “Hullo, Dad,” she said in a small voice. “It’s Penn. …Um, is she? No, it was you I wanted to speak to. Um, I need to ask you something urgently. Um, it’s about Gulf Syndrome.”

    The phone quacked at length. Colin just sat there dully staring in front of him as it did so.

    “So—so it was our side that used that dirty ammo stuff,” said Penn in a shaking voice.

    There was a further prolonged burst of noise from the phone.

    “I see, Dad,” said Penn miserably. “So—so what about their babies, then?”

    More noise from the phone. Then it fell silent. Then it shouted “Penn!”

    “Um, sorry, Dad,” said Penn miserably. “I am still here. Dr Maddern thought Colin might have it, but he hasn’t, so he got drunk from relief. …Um, well, he was in the Army.”

    Colin sat up and stared at her.

    “Um, well, as a matter of fact, we are going to have a baby,” said Penn in a very small voice.

    Judging by the noise the poor chap was having an apoplexy. Two apoplexies. Colin staggered to his feet. “Shall I—?”

    “No!” she hissed, glaring at him. “Eh?” she said to the phone. “That’s right, he’s the man that’s running it. He is related to Paul Haworth, he’s his son. …Um, well, he doesn’t think that us disarming is going to stop other countries arming. –Yes, I know,” she agreed glumly. The phone was getting agitated again. “No!” she cried loudly. “Nobody deserves that sort of a lesson! …Oh, did you? Sorry. Um, actually I don’t really think anybody deserves to get shot, either, Dad. He was in hospital for ages and he’s still got an awful limp. …I know.”

    “Look, Penn—”

    “Ssh! Um, yeah. …No, he told him it was all of a piece with his previous behaviour.”

    Colin winced: Pa’s reaction to the news he was getting married.

    “Yes; Dr Maddern wouldn’t make a mistake over something like that. And he’s given me a couple of very thorough check-ups, he says I’m as healthy as a horse. He’s done one of those scans and everything, only you can’t see much yet. …Um, I forget,” she said vaguely. “Well, anyway, it’s due in February. …Um, well, all right. Hang on! Don’t say anything to her about the Gulf Syndrome scare, will you? I mean, there’s nothing to worry about, now. …Yeah. Ta.” She lowered the phone and said to Colin: “He’s getting Mum. She’s watching telly in bed.”

    “And are you sheltering her because she’s your mother, because she’s one of the mothers of the race, or because she’s a woman and has less of a right to know anything?”

    “Because I love her, I think,” said Penn in a very small voice.

    “See?” he shouted,

    “Mm,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “Don’t shout. Dad told me all about those dreadful babies they’ve had.”

   Colin sat down suddenly and passed his hand over his face.

    “He didn’t know why I was asking, said Penn lamely. “Um, yeah, hullo, Mum. …Can they break? …Oh. No, we just forgot and I thought my period was due that week, only I hadn’t counted right. …Um, yes, he was in the Army. …No, he’s managing the project now, I told you that! …In his cottage. …Mm, February. …Of course I’ve been eating a healthy diet, I always eat a healthy—That was ages ago! …Um, dunno. Hang on, I’ll ask him. –Colin, Mum wants to know when you want the wedding to be.”

    “Well, uh—before we head for the Southwest? As soon as the Portsmouth registry office can fit us in?” said Colin feebly.

    “Yeah. –As soon as possible, Mum. Before August, ’cos we’re going to America for a honeymoon. …Oh. Well, they don’t have to come.” The phone yacked at her for some time. Penn just looked vague. “What?” she said vaguely at last. “Dunno. I haven’t got any clothes, anyway. …Don’t ask me. His father was wild with him but then he always is, whatever he does. Well, my guess’d be a flowery frock, it sounds as if she’s that sort of lady. …Um, one brother and one sister, I think.”

    “Yes,” said Colin feebly. “If you mean me. Michael and Viola. They’ll come. If asked.”

    “It doesn’t really matter when we have it,” she said to the phone, “but we definitely want to go to the American Southwest in August, so if Kesha and Roger can’t put off their trip to Greece we’ll just have to have it without them. Who’s gonna look after the kids?”

    The phone quacked at length. Colin began to think about making another mug of dust. He looked sneakily over at the abandoned packet of biscuits… “Eh?” he said, jumping.

    “She wants to speak to you. Her name’s Janet,” said Penn.

    “Yuh—I do remember that, drunk though I am,” he said with dignity. He got up. No, he didn’t. “Give it here,” he said feebly.

    “Are you all right?” she replied cautiously bringing the mobile phone over to him.

    “It’s the booze catching up with me. –Hullo, Janet, this is Colin Haworth,” he said nicely. “Terribly sorry to spring this on you like this—”

    And that was all he said for quite some time. Apparently her sister, Susan Walsingham, had told her all about him and she wasn’t in the least surprised! Did this mean not in the least surprised that he’d got her daughter up the duff or that he wanted to marry her in spite of it or merely that he wanted to—Never mind. He just sat back and let her rattle on. It was quite restful, really.

    “Mm? Oh—well, if they can make it, it’ll definitely be a flowery frock, Janet, yes,” he said feebly. “Um, probably a hat, too, Ma seems to have gone back to hats these last few years. My sister Viola’ll definitely be in a hat.”

    Mrs Martin seemed prepared to chat on about outfits for the wedding forever but after a certain amount of shouting in the background she resigned the phone to her husband. And apparently retreated to make a cuppa, at least he certainly told her she might as well.

    “This is Dick Martin,” he said grimly. “What the Devil was all that about Gulf Syndrome?”

    Colin winced. “False alarm, sir. I’m sorry: I tried not to tell Penn but she walked in just as I’d told my cousin Terence, and—uh—I told her. I’ve had far too much to drink this evening but I realise that doesn’t excuse me.”

    “Never mind that. Are you clear?” he said grimly.

    “Yes.”

    Penn’s father took a very deep breath.

    “I had no idea she’d check with you: I thought I’d explained it.”

    “Anything smacking even faintly of the scientific is a closed book to her,” said Penn’s father grimly. “She wouldn’t even make the effort to understand the very elementary metallurgy they tried to give her in that daft blacksmithing course she did at polytech. There were some really solid courses available but of course she wouldn’t look at them!”

    “Uh—no. Well, it’s a practical trade and she seems to be on top of all the techniques,” he said very feebly indeed.

    “Is he on about— Just ignore him, Colin!” said Penn loudly. “I’ll make a cuppa.” She went out.

    “Has she gone?” asked her father.

    “Yes,” said Colin glumly, waiting for the sort of strip Pa had torn off him.

    “See? The mere mention of the word ‘metallurgy’ is enough to make her head for the hills!”

    “Um, yes,” he said numbly, not pointing out that Penn couldn’t have actually heard the word.

    “It will be registry office, will it?” asked Dick Martin.

    “Uh—yes, certainly. Oh, were you thinking of my father? I’ve never shared his religious convictions. Though I’m not all that sure they are religious. He doesn’t seem to believe in the virgin birth and I think, though Anglican theology is a completely closed book to me, not the Resurrection, either.”

    “Typical!” he said with a snort. “The superstitions are good enough to keep the peasants in line, of course, but the lords of the Anglican Hierarchy are far, far above—”

    Colin raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips in a soundless whistle, and let him rave on. Not that he disagreed with any of it, really, but why get that steamed up about it? Especially in view of the size of your average C. of E. congregation these days!

    “Yes, well, Pa may come. Um, I’ll have to check what slots are available, but is there any particular time you can’t come, Dick?”

    They had nothing planned, so unless his lot—Colin winced—made another unprovoked attack on a sovereign country, they should be able to fit in with whatever he and Penn wanted. And it’d be doing the world a favour if he could talk her out of turning up to it in jeans.

    “Lovely pastel maternity suit?” ventured Colin.

    “Hah, hah,” replied Dick with a grin in his voice.

    Then there was a short pause.

    “I suppose I ought to apologise,” said Colin glumly.

    Dick Martin sighed. “Yeah. Pete, our eldest, was an accident, too. Conceived in late 1968, after the sort of party you can probably imagine. After that she went all broody—wanted the other three. Saw herself as the eternal earth mother. Kesha finished that off. She was a horrible baby: bawled all night, allergic to cow’s milk—your father wrote and invited us not long since to join in a protest against GM soybeans, but frankly, after the amount of my hard-earned that we’ve spent on soy milk over the years I just tore the letter up. Mind you, when she was still on a bottle it was goat’s milk: that costs an arm and both legs! –Penn keeping well, is she?”

    “Yes, fit as a flea,” he said numbly. Goat’s milk? Soy milk? It was a whole different world!

    Dick Martin sniffed. “Her mother was like that for the first three.”

    “I see,” said Colin numbly.

    “You two busy this Saturday?”

    “Uh—nothing special, no.”

    “Might come over, then,” he said cheerfully.

    “That’d be lovely, Dick,” replied Colin numbly.

    “Good. We’ll see y—Is that the Earl Grey? You’ll be up all night!” he said loudly. “Sorry, Colin. See you on Saturday, then!”

    “Yes. Lovely,” said Colin numbly. “Goodbye, Dick.”

    Dick hung up. Colin looked numbly at the phone.

    Penn came in with a tray of tea.

    “Your mother’s just made a pot of Earl Grey,” he said feebly.

    “She’ll be up all night.”

    “Your father said that.”

    “He was right, too. This isn’t Earl Grey, it’s an anonymous tea-bag out of that screw-topped plastic jar of yours. It makes them smell of plastic, had you noticed?” she said mildly.

    “Not really, no. It wasn’t me or Terri, it was Rosie. She’s got a mania about rats and ants. Don’t blame me, I couldn’t stop her.”

    “I get it.” She set the tray down carefully on the bed, pulled the little table over to it, and transferred the tray to that Then sitting down neatly beside him.

    “Your father seems to be planning to come over on Saturday,” he offered feebly.

    “Is that okay?”

    “It is by me, yes.”

    “That’s all right, then.” Penn took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I bawled you out.”

    “What? Oh. That’s okay. You couldn’t know how horrible it really was.”

    “No. –It’s all right, I’m not gonna say you’d’ve felt better for sharing it. It’s different when—when it’s real, isn’t it?”

    “Damn right.” He stared blankly at the tray of tea for some time. “Penn, are your parents pleased or not?” he said desperately.

    “Um, quite pleased, I think. Did Mum bawl?” she replied uneasily.

    “No, she blahed on about floral frocks—and something about knitting patterns, I think.”

    “Then she is pleased. Did Dad sound wild?”

    “Only about the attitudes of the Established Church vis-à-vis its humble parishioners! Never mind: just pour the tea, please, Alice.”

    “Alice?” she said doubtfully, pouring.

    “Given the conversation I’ve just had with the Mad Hatter, yes!”

    Penn poured. “Most people don’t stick relentlessly to the point,” she offered.

    “Some of ’em make at least a show of— Forget it. It was a shock for them. And poor Dick was pretty bloody rocked by the Gulf Syndrome bit, I think.”

     She bit her lip. “Mm.”

    Colin sipped tea, and sighed. “Did you have cold feet about telling them?”

    “Mm,” admitted Penn miserably.

    “I should have suggested we drive over to see them.”

    “That’s okay, you had other things on your mind.”

    He put his free hand on her knee. “Yeah. So you’re looking forward to the Southwest in August, then?”

    “Um, ’course. Aren’t you?” she said cautiously.

    “I certainly am! I’ve heard from Ramona—didn’t mention it because I was feeling depressed over the other thing. The letter’s in my in-tray.”

    “This’d be the large wire basket on the desk labelled ‘IN’, would it?” replied Penn amiably.

    “All right, call me an anally retentive obsessive.”

    “I’ll call you an anally retentive obsessive neatnik,” she corrected, getting up. “You’re an anally retentive obsessive neatnik.” She looked eagerly in the in-tray. “There’s an awful lot of stuff here, Colin.”

    “Yes. It’s the huge piece of sand-coloured paper with a giant picture of a cactus on it.”

    “Very fun—” She gulped.

    “See?”

    Penn came back to the bed with it, grinning. “Yeah. Pour the tea, it’ll be stewed.”

    He did. It was. He added plenty of milk. “Um, this allergy to cow’s milk,” he said uneasily.

    “Mm? –She sounds really keen to have us!” she beamed.

    “Yes,” he said, smiling very much, “she does. Um, well, it may not be tactful to bring up a genetic topic, but I’m never going to get to sleep tonight unless I ask. Is lactose intolerance the sort of gene that might be recessive, or, um, carried but not necessarily manifesting itself?”

    “Was Dad on about Kesha again? It’s a mania,” said Penn, not sounding interested.

    “It sounded like a bloody justified mania to me! Bunting’s two and half now—more—and he’s still drinking gallons of the stuff!”

    “It makes their bones and teeth grow.”

    “Penn, what is the likelihood of your sister’s allergy turning up in our kids?” he said loudly.

    “Dunno. Her kids haven’t got it.”

    “That proves less than nothing,” said Colin grimly.

    “Yeah, well, fixate on it by all means,” she said politely.

    “I may well do!” he threatened. “Soy milk in Bellingford?”

    “There’s a nice girl that wants to open up a health food shop.”

    “Richard Peregrine-White’s kid. Going through the school-leaving stage,” he groaned.

    “All right, someone else,” she said placidly. “Any sort of health food shop’d be absolutely bound to sell it. And goat’s milk. Or Marion might want to go back to raising nannies!”

    “What?” he croaked.

    “She had three, and they were all pregnant and then Miser Watson made her get rid of them.”

    Colin found he was silenced. Utterly silenced.

    “Could she?” said Penn on a hopeful note.

    “What, darling?” he said feebly.

    “Marion. Could she raise nannies in Bellingford or would they stop her?”

    “Up Top Lane? She could raise a flock of llamas and no-one would stop her!”

    Penn brightened ’orribly. “Not really?”

    Colin just sat there and gaped at her while she raved on about vicunas versus other ones and mohair goats and fresh goat’s cheese…

    Finally he got up and groped his way to the abandoned packet of biscuits. “Move over,” he croaked. “Me and my biscuits are going to bed. You can stay up with the llamas if you like.”

    “I’ll just go to—” She went. She came back and switched the main light out. She undressed, climbed into bed and switched the lamp out. “Baby llamas are really adorable!”

    Oh, God, that was It, then! I,T. Colin laughed helplessly. Then he found he wasn’t laughing, he was crying, Hell and damnation!

    Penn put her arms round him very tight. “It’s all right now, Colin.”

    “Mm. Just hold me.”

    Penn held him tight.

    Eventually he said: “Have as many baby llamas as you like, darling.”

    “They’ve been domesticated for hundreds of years, you know! We could give rides!”

    And this would send their insurance costs soaring to—? “Lovely,” he murmured.

    Oddly enough Penn didn’t claim he was patronising her because of her sex or treating her as less than human, she just snuggled up and said sleepily: “They’re very woolly.”

    Colin fell asleep with a smile on his face.

    Everything in the garden was delish, Rosie and New Baby were splendid, the proud father had taken his augmented family home to his cottage and Rupy and, unfortunately, Georgia, were now reinstalled in the flat. It was Sunday, so, even though he hadn't been out last night, Rupy was having a lovely lie-in— Not.

    Georgia rushed in and shoved The Observer under his nose.

    “Um, no reviews until September, Georgia,” he groped.

    “What? Not that, you moron!”—Why was it he had never minded when darling Rosie called him a nong or a nana or even a wanker—in fact it was quite an honour to be called a wanker, usually only John got that one—but being called a moron by Georgia was really irritating?—“It’s so-called LUKE!” she shouted, tears starting to her eyes.

    Oh, Gawd. He looked at the article. Um… in London for merger discussions: some big hotel chain. With quite a big pic. It was Luke, all right. Well, it wasn’t, of course, it was Henry Beaumont. John had been right all along—naturally.

    “Um, well, yes, um, dare say the man wanted time out. Um, had burn-out?” he offered.

    “You KNEW!” she shouted, the tears drying up in pure fury.

    “No!” he bleated. “It was just— Well, John and Colin and me did think he might not be Luke—I mean, did he strike you as a chap that had bummed around the world for twenty years? But it is his own business, after all, so we decided not to interf—”

    “HUH! John did, ya mean, so you spineless twerps went along with him! I suppose Rosie knows as well!” she shouted.

    “No. Um, well, he didn’t want to upset her while she was preg—”

    “And she calls herself a liberated woman!” shouted Georgia bitterly.

    “Um, duh-dunno what you mean,” he fumbled.

    “She’s married to a man that treats her like a stupid DOLL, is what I MEAN!”

    Rupy had gone very red. “He does not, and kindly don’t speak of them like that, if you don’t mind! They are my friends!”

    Georgia’s bosom heaved but she didn’t shout, merely said grimly: “If you think about it objectively, you’ll see I’m right. Where would a rich American businessman stay?”

    “Duh-dunno, dear!” he stuttered. “Um, the Dorchester? The Ritz? Um, there’s lots of lovely hotels, but, um, a man like that won’t stay at the sort that’ll tell you what room he’s in.”

    “I suppose I can phone him!” she said evilly.

    “Uh—well, they might put you through. At least to his secretary,” he said weakly. “Um, Georgia, dear, don’t take it personally. Luke didn’t do it on purpose to deceive you, you know.”

    “I thought we were friends!” she said bitterly. “I really liked him! He was the only person that ever talked sensibly to me down at that dump!”

    Oh, lawks! “Yes, um, well, that was the real him he was showing you, dear! Didn’t show it to anybody else, did he?” he offered.

    “Shut up, Rupy!” She marched out.

    Rupy looked round frantically. Um, um— Better not ring John, not with the new baby, spoiling their innocent bliss. Um, Colin? But he was with his Penn: their lives were complicated enough, and anyway, Georgia wasn’t his responsibility. Um, Molly? The poor girl wasn’t her sister’s keeper, though! He had a very strong urge just to put his pillow on his head and stay where he was forever. Um, um… Oh, lawks, he could hear her shouting on the phone! He fumbled for his diary, found the unlisted number which Georgia had given him in case he had to contact her urgently, and grabbed up his mobile phone. Well, not strictly speaking his, it had been lying around at rehearsal, unclaimed. It was ringing… Thank God!

    “Derry? It’s Rupy Maynarde, and I know I’m not supposed to have this number, but it’s Georgia, she’s gone berserk!”