Now That April's Here

20

Now That April’s Here

    The crowd in the Club had cleared at last. Colin sagged over his pile of plans, predictions, surveys and just plain garbage. After quite some time Robert said cautiously: “We did agree it might be like that, Colin.”

    “God! Preserve me from communal decision making! If ever I had any faint idea of making the project a cooperative, that’s strangled it still-born!” he said with feeling.

    Bob Potter had ambled over to the bar—nominally closed. There came the sound of sliding doors being slid up and down. He ambled back. “Get these down yer.”

    “Bless you, Bob,” groaned Colin.

    “Thanks, I will,” admitted Robert.

    “I really don’t drink spirits,” murmured Caroline. “Oh, well, just for once—”

    Jack Powell and old Jim Parker had gone out to see that the front doors were firmly locked. They came back and accepted glasses gratefully. They all drank….

    “Isabel was keen,” noted Isabel Potter’s brother-in-law at last.

    “Com orf it, Bob, she thinks we’re gonna buy all our tools from Jim!” retorted Jack with vigour.

    Silence fell.

    “Pauline was keener than what I thought she’d be,” admitted Jack.

    Caroline took a deep breath.

    “Thinks the salon’s gonna get more custom from all the lady potters and things—yeah,” he said quickly.

    “Didn’t go too bad,” offered old Jim. “Well, the bits where Ma G.T. wasn’t talking.”

    “Why was old Hartley-Fynch going on about parking?” groaned Colin.

    “Self-evident. Afraid all these trippers of yours’ll park up Church Lane and block the Volvo,” said Jack smartly.

    “The gradient’s about one in five, what’s going to get up Church Lane? Apart from Caroline’s Saab,” he noted fairly.

    Caroline opened her mouth, caught her life-partner’s eye and, amazingly, shut up.

    Silence fell again…

    “Where’s Terri?” said Jack dully.

    “Dunno. Bog?” offered Bob.

    Silence fell again…

    “They don’t want an arts centre down Hammer Street,” noted Jack sourly.

    “Then why did they go on for forty-five minutes by my watch about it?” shouted Colin.

    “Dunno.”

    “Town meetings are like that,” said Robert dully. “Well, any community meeting, really… Well, most meetings, I suppose, really. I have got a book on running them… It seemed to assume you’re dealing with rational human beings.”

    Silence fell again…

    “At least they filled in the forms for the SWOT analysis,” offered Caroline weakly.

    Certain people eyed the papers overflowing the smart woven basket (Caroline’s) and the large plastic bucket (courtesy of the Club, when it became apparent the basket wouldn’t be enough) and breathed deeply.

    “Greg’ll help to analyse them,” said Robert feebly.

    “He’ll have to,” noted Colin. “Since the average human being does not live for a thousand years!”

    Silence fell again…

    “Here we are!” beamed Terri, hurrying in, her hands laden, accompanied by the most wonderful smell. “Be careful, they’re hot!” she said with a laugh as Robert, Jack, Bob and old Jim all bounded up to help her. “They’re just little—”

    Nobody listened, they just fell on them and devoured them voraciously. Even Caroline. Even though most of them had meat in them.

    After that old Jim felt bright enough to pronounce: “They didn’t put the kybosh on it, Colin: I’d say you’re quids in. And Murray was real pleased when you asked about getting your catering supplies through him.”

    “And of course the meat and sausages from Tom!” beamed Terri.

    “Yeah. And presumably our tools from— It’s all right, Jack,” said Colin quickly as Jack drew a deep breath. “I know they don’t supply the technical stuff.”

    Jack subsided, though not without a mutter about four-inch nails.

    “I suppose it was wise to let Mrs Granville Thinnes take home all those names put forward for the residents’ advisory committee,” said Caroline, as Bob kindly refilled their glasses.

    “Caroline, she offered,” groaned Colin. “There must have been more than eight hundred bits of paper in that pile!”

    “It was perhaps in some sense a tactical error to say that each person could put forward more than one name,” offered Terri.

    “Yes. But at least we told them to use a separate piece of paper for each name,” said Caroline pleasedly. “They won’t be hard to sort.”

    Jack cleared his throat.

    “Well, yeah,” conceded Jim, scratching his head. “Setting aside the bright sparks what wrote ‘Me’ or ‘Mickey Mouse’—oh, and the teenagers that put down pop stars, shouldn’t of let them in at all—there were some that were tempted by free writing paper, or in the case of Bottom Street and the undeveloped parts of George Street, not looking at anyone, Merv Watkins, bog paper. Ole Merv wrote on both sides of ’is sheet, too,” he noted thoughtfully.

    “Whadd’e put?” asked Bob with interest.

    “It is supposed to be confidential, like the elections,” said Robert weakly.

    “Yeah,” agreed Jack. “Go on, Jim.”

    “Well, ’e wrote ‘The Captain,’ of course.”

    Everyone nodded. Those who had helped collect the papers or had glanced at the collected papers with the faint notion of sorting them on the spot and announcing the possible candidates had already registered that most of the evening’s participants had put that. Or, according to their socio-economic bracket, “Captain Haworth.” Or in the case of Perry Horton from Upper Mill Lane—no-one had thought he’d turn up and most of them were convinced his wife had forced him—“John Haworth.”

    “And ‘Rosie,’ of course.”

    Everyone nodded again; most of them had put “Rosie.” The nicer retirees had put “Mrs Haworth,” mind you. Colin had spotted one that had had “Dr Haworth” but he was damned if he could guess whose it was.

    “They’re technically residents of Miller’s Bay, not Bellingford,” noted Caroline.

    “I don’t think that’s going to count,” admitted Colin. “And frankly, I think if we leave their names off the eventual ballot papers there’ll be a riot.”

    “Yeah,” agreed Jim. “Wanna know what else ’e put?”

    Everyone, even Caroline and Robert, gave in and nodded.

    “’E put ‘Colin,’ of course.”

    “What?” cried Colin. “But I tried to explain—”

    “Yeah. ’E wasn’t the only one, be no means,” said Jim with relish. “Then ’e lapsed a bit and wrote ‘None of them ponces from Church Lane. Not Hartley-F.’”

    Jack and Bob collapsed in spluttering fits.

    “Shouldn’t that render his paper void?” asked Caroline dubiously.

    “No!” gasped Robert, suddenly joining in the spluttering.

    “You did not say not to put those whom they did not wish for, so I hardly think that that could disqualify his suggestions!” said Terri gaily.

    Jack got up, though still shaking, and silently removed the whisky glass from her fist.

    “Thanks, Jack,” acknowledged Colin, grinning at him. “That it, Jim?”

    “Nope. ‘Not Mrs Granville Thinnes’. Well, ’e can’t spell it, ’e wrote G,R,A,N,V,I,L, T,H,I,N,S, but it was clear enough. Then ’e got inspired and put ‘Or Mr Granvil Thins or No F,E,S,A,N,T,S.’”

    The entire company collapsed in splutters.

    Colin blew his nose. “That’s done me good! That was it, then, was it?”

    “No, there was one more.” He eyed Terri dubiously. “It was a bit rude, so I better not tell yer.”

    “I am not very sensible, Jim,” she assured him.

    Colin coughed. “Yeah. The meaning of the word ‘sensible’ has changed since Jane Austen’s time, Terri. ‘Sensitive’.”

    “Oh, yes! Of course! I am not very sensitive, Jim!”

    “Well, you asked for it. ‘That Terri wood be good, she got good tits.’”

    “What?” cried Caroline, turning bright red with pure indignation.

    “—W,O,O,D,” finished Jim lamely.

    Terri was also rather flushed, the more so as the men were smothering sniggers, but she said gamely: “It’s all right, Caroline: I understand that it is his generation; and from an elderly man like that it is a compliment, really.”

    “It is not! It’s grossly sexist! –Robert, stop laughing at once! How can you?”

    Alas, Robert collapsed completely and laughed until he cried.

    “The ballot will be a disaster,” said Caroline grimly.

    Colin blew his nose. “I don’t think so, Caroline. We’ll have to print the voting papers with an explanation of why I can’t stand, obviously.”

    “We’ve let them put forward too many names,” she said grimly.

    “I think we may find it narrows down to relatively few. But this is a democracy: if anyone wants to stand they should at least get the chance to receive two votes, from themselves and their spouse, and make fools of themselves in front of the entire vill—What are you doing?” he cried indignantly as Jack removed the whisky glass from his fist.

    “You can get orf home. Bed.”

    “But it’s barely—Oh,” he said feebly, having looked at his watch.

    “Yeah, and they wouldn’t of gone when they did, only Terminator 2’s the late movie tonight.”

    “Surely most of them have video-recorders, though?” said Caroline feebly.

    “Not everyone. But I’ll grant you a good few of them have already got it on tape.”

    “I ’ave,” admitted Bob.

    “Yeah, me too.” They looked at Jim.

    “Norm gimme a copy years back,” said the old man calmly. “‘Hasta la vista, baby.’”

    All the males and Terri promptly collapsed in delighted sniggers.

    Caroline looked weakly at her sniggering husband. “I’ll drive.” Robert continued to snigger. “Robert! I’ll drive! Give me the keys to the four-by-four, please!”

    “‘No problemo,’” he growled.

    His audience collapsed again. Caroline smiled feebly…

    “You’ve done an excellent job, Mrs Granville Thinnes,” she said briskly.

    The elderly lady smirked. “Thank you, my dear. As you see, I’ve listed the complete number of votes for each candidate—”

    Caroline and Colin let her get right through it, listened to her suggestions for the design of the ballot paper, for what to do if there was no outright majority, for what to do if too many candidates got in, and at long, long last got rid of her.

    Then there was a short silence.

    “How many did we decide turned up?” he said at last.

    “Not counting the teenagers? Two hundred and five,” she said on a weak note.

    It had been an excellent turnout. Though of course they’d chosen a night when there was nothing popular on the telly. “Yeah.” According to Mrs G.T.’s figures, a hundred and eighty-five of them had put forward John’s name.

    After a moment Caroline offered: “Several of the ships are in port; I suppose that may have…”

    “Yeah.”

    “Don’t they understand this is no longer a feudal system?” she said in tones of despair.

    Colin tried not to smile. “Not really, I’d say. But what else, realistically, are they used to seeing on the wider political scene? When you think of it, how many of our politicians come up from the grass roots unsupported by any gigantic entrenched hierarchy? None, Caroline,” he said heavily as she opened her mouth. “Added to which, the villagers do recognise a natural leader when they meet one.”

    “Yes. I suppose the ones that didn’t suggest him must be the in-comers who don’t know him,” she admitted.

    “Quite!”

    Caroline broke down and asked: “How many did she get?”

    “Um… sixty-five, according to this.”

    The looked at one another.

    “All retirees, I suppose. Used to be being bossed about by her,” he said.

    “I think you’re right. –Jack Powell seems popular.”

    “Yes; those nominations will all be from the villagers. They either love him or loathe him. The bloody retirees are unaware of his existence except when their loos back up.”

    “He doesn’t advertise himself!” she said crossly.

    “No,” agreed Colin, smiling at her. “These little rural settlements tend to be like that. They assume that everybody knows, you see. When the demographic patterns start to change, the small businesses like Jack’s really suffer. I’ve seen the same thing in the village where my parents live: it isn’t entirely the case that strangers come in and steal their clients. –Let’s see… Oh, Lor’. I don’t think it dawned on Mrs G.T. that some of these names are jokes! Or just plain indecent,” he added, wincing slightly.

    “Good heavens, if we make the mistake of putting anything like that on the ballot we’ll be a laughingstock!” she gasped.

    “Yes. Don’t worry, Rosie’s got a list of the entire population in her computer. Down to this month’s very new arrival! If necessary we’ll check the names against that.”

    Caroline looked at the bottom half of the list: Mrs G.T. had ranked them by the number of so-called votes for them, apparently not realising that this was not an election. “She’s got Dick Short down as receiving fifteen votes,” she said in a strangled voice,

    Alas, Colin immediately collapsed in frightful sniggers.

    He had to admit, though, that Mrs G.T.’s carefully compiled list was quite a heartening sight. And a cautious foray into the High Street revealed that the natural pessimism that had overtaken the meeting’s organisers had been premature. Some people were extremely indignant about the planned takeover of their village by outsiders—most of them retirees, all of whom were outsiders, too—but by and large the plan’s reception was both favourable and excited. Maybe they could pull it off, after all! True, their market survey of the wider public had yet to be carried out, but Caroline’s friend had done a small preliminary test run which had looked encouraging. Well, there were a terrific lot of factors to be taken into consideration, not least, as Rosie had said, the tour bus companies, but it certainly looked as if the antique dealers and interior decorators would be keen clients. That would give them a good base to work from, while they built up their reputation as a tourist mecca for the wider world!

    Colin and Jack were deep in confabulation over the renovations the row houses would need—Jack had begun to get very excited over the thing and was talking about taking on his “boys” again—he hadn’t been able to give them any work over the past year. Colin had discovered the term wasn’t literal: true, Ivan Coates was aged possibly as much as twenty, but Fred Carter was Jack’s age. Ivan had taken a job in a supermarket in Portsmouth, unloading deliveries and shelf-stacking, but had been laid off, so he was back in the village. Fred, poor chap, had been on the dole for a year: there was a lot of competition in the building trade and not many employers were willing to give a man in his mid-fifties a chance, however experienced he might be. Colin had met him at the Workingmen’s Club: he was a burly man who looked as if the word “delicate” wasn’t in his vocabulary, but in fact his hobby was making the most incredibly light, dainty model boats from wood shavings and similar tiny odds and ends. They were not literally models but tiny imaginary, fairy-like craft, which he refrained from painting. Funnily enough the year without employment had not prompted him into a mad spurt of creative endeavour: as Jack had explained sourly, the dole did that to you. Colin didn’t think the handouts from the vestiges of Britain’s social security safety-net as such had that effect, but he hadn't corrected him: his meaning was damned clear. Well, if he and Robert ever got any sort of a crafts anything off the ground there should be a market for Fred’s charming little artefacts.

    “It’s Anna: I’ll get it,” said Jack helpfully as there came a knock at the door.

    “Tell her to go away again: Terri’s only doing enough Spanish Hopgood sausages for three!” he said with a laugh.

    “I just might.” He went out. Colin wouldn’t have minded getting it himself, the hip was nagging. He stood up and stretched. Ugh, ow!

    Jack came back, followed by Anna. “She’s got some people come to see ’er, she wants your advice.”

    “Yes,” said Anna. “If you wouldn’t mind, Colin? They want to make a book out of my cottage pictures and I don’t know what to ask them.”

    “Sounds like a good thing, Anna. Lead the way, I’ll do my best.”

    Anna led the way. Jack came too, as a matter of course. The people from Perryman Press were very excited about the cottage pictures, though the tall, thin male in the specs, one Alexander Jones, admitted wistfully that he’d rather publish a book of her serious pictures, what time the short, brisk, workmanlike female in the tweed jacket and grey Eton crop, Gwen Peters, reminded him sourly what quality high-gloss plates cost and what a cropper they’d come over their book of seascapes. Mrs Humboldt was with them and noted that they should have let her pay for her copy but this was rubbished cheerfully by both of them.

    “They’re her friends,” explained Anna.

    “Yes: so my advice would be entirely partisan!” she said with a laugh.

    “It was her idea in the first place,” explained Anna. “They do children’s books and books of pictures. They’ve brought some samples.”

    Colin looked with great interest at the samples. They seemed genuine, Perryman Press seemed genuine, and all in all he thought it sounded a damn good plan, so long as—taking another look at Gwen Peters’s determined chin—it didn’t take Anna away from her serious work.

    “We’d wait,” said Alexander, looking dreamily at the big portrait of Jack. “This gold lettering’s too bright.”

    “Yes; I’m going to scrape most of it off,” said the artist.

    “Good. –Gypsy blood, have you?” he said with a smile to the model.

    Jack’s jaw dropped. “Yeah,” he croaked. “My mum. She couldn’t hack the village: she went back to the travelling people when I was about fifteen… How did you know?”

    “Partly the colouring, but mainly the shape of the eyes. A lot of travelling people aren’t true gypsies, of course, but you still see it occasionally. More in Europe then here: Hitler didn't manage to kill them all,” he said grimly.

    “It’s one of his hobbyhorses,” said Gwen Peters, sighing.

    “Good thing, too,” contributed Mrs Humboldt sturdily. “The generation that remembers the War’s dying out, not to say those that remember why it was fought. A reminder or two can’t damn well hurt, especially in the present political climate.”

    “Look,” said Colin heavily, “let’s just concentrate on Anna’s pictures. I do know a very little about getting published, as a matter of fact: a misguided friend of my brother-in-law’s tried to persuade me to write my memoirs. You’ll need a lawyer who specialises in—well, not literary contracts, exactly, in your case, Anna. Who knows all about the publication rights pertaining to artistic works.”

    “Yes, you will,” agreed Gwen, smiling at her. “Not that we’ll try to gyp you: we want it to be mutually beneficial.”

    “Mutually beneficial to both parties,” murmured Mrs Humboldt.

    “Shut up, Alice!” she said with a laugh. “–Ignore her: she did 19th-century English lit. about forty ages past! Are there any more we can see, Anna?”

    “Yes,” said Anna. “The other one of Alice’s cottage is finished. It didn’t turn out quite like what I thought it was going to.”

    It was a study of a fireplace, but in the grate instead of the fire was a miniature of the little cottage, shabby white windowsills and all. Four figures, all the same height, occupied the foreground, two on either side of the grate. The two inner figures were in profile, facing inwards, and the two outer faced the viewer. Reading from the far left, a large tabby cat with a round moon-face, its paws neatly together like a china cat, though it was unmistakably furry and alive. Next, Mrs Humboldt, rather shorter in the leg than she in fact was, indeed almost garden-gnomish: reduced to similar proportions to those of the cat. Facing her, a large black and white cat, its paws neatly together. At the far right, glaring at the viewer, a scar-faced tom with fretted ears, his coat an unlovely mixture of dingy ginger overlaid with black. The Christmas stockings hanging from the fireplace were filled with fish. At the top of the picture cherubim gambolled in a blue sky. They did have wings and trumpets but they were three fat, round-faced cats and one chubby, round-faced, smiling girl. Colin peered. He choked. Anna’s young cousin, Potter Purbright.

    “It was the name,” said Anna apologetically. “It sort of got in there. It’s her birthday at Easter, so, um, I thought I’d give it to her, if she likes it.”

    “She’ll be mad if she doesn’t!” said Colin with a laugh. “But did you say this is the other one of Mrs Humboldt’s cottage, Anna?”

    “Alice,” corrected the little old woman, smiling. “Come and look.” She led him over to he table which Anna usually used as the model’s stand and unwrapped the two pictures on it. “These are what made me think of a book: the front and back covers, see?”

    “And the centrepiece!” Gwen added eagerly, coming up to their sides.

    Colin smiled slowly. “Where’s Snow White?” Anna’s second depiction of Mrs Humboldt, her cats and cottage was, indeed, a procession of seven dwarfs. The six cats, led by their mistress. They were proceeding from left to right across the two boards, heading, more or less, for the cottage, in the right background. Perryman in boots followed his mistress, next came his stout stripy sister, and then the four strays, ending up with the grubby white Gimpy, leaning on a crutch. They weren’t all upright: some were on two paws and some on four, and somehow this had resulted in the most delightful sensation of forward motion across the two boards.

    “Really,” admitted Alexander, “she shouldn’t be wasting her talent.”

    “I think it relaxes her,” replied Colin with a smile.

    “Yeah,” agreed Jack. “She hums. Doesn’t hum when she’s working on the big ones. –The one of Ma Granville Thinnes is almost done!” he urged.

    “I haven’t finished the border,” said the artist, removing the cloth from a cottage-sized—Ooh! Colin went into a helpless choking fit immediately. Finally gasping: “Pheas-ants!”

    Alexander and Gwen looked again. Suddenly Gwen gave a shriek of laughter and Alexander collapsed in a wheezing fit.

    “Yeah,” said Jack with huge satisfaction. “You goddit.”

    Mrs Granville Thinnes was, of course, a short, plumpish, brisk figure. Somehow Anna had managed to suggest, by painting her in shades of brown, bent over ostensibly looking at a very small, leafless tree, that she was a neat, plump bird. The brownish coat flung over her shoulders being the wings. To the right the scrawny Mr G.T. was to the same scale, but as he was nearly upright, appeared taller. His outstretched hand could have been scattering corn for the three pheasants in the foreground, yes… Colin peered at the objects that might just have been lying around—as with all the cottage pictures the piece had no true perspective—or could have been flying through the air. “Medlars!” He was off again.

    “Yes. They’re not quite finished,” said Anna. “There’s more in the border.”

    He nodded, unable to speak. Tears ran down his cheeks.

    “The cottage is real realistic,” admitted Jack, blowing his nose.

    “Stop—it!” he gasped.

    “I don’t think they’ll get the point,” said Alexander kindly.

    “They’d better not!” admitted Gwen.

    Colin wiped his eyes. “Ma G.T. is too up herself to get that sort of point. I mean, Anna would have to give her actual feathers and bird feet to get it across. –These red splodges in the border are going to be autumnal medlar leaves, are they, Anna?”

    “Yes; intertwined with pheasant feathers—I’ve done that corner, see? –I used gold again but I’ve scraped most of it off,” she assured Alexander.

    “Yes,” he said weakly. “It’ll be a lovely border, Anna.”

    “Any more we can see?” asked Gwen eagerly.

    There were Colin’s and Terri’s, so they went next-door and admired them. Alexander somehow managed to admire the sausages, too, so they all ended up in Colin’s sitting-room with plates on their knees, eating the sausages augmented by a Spanish omelette—even better than Euan’s version. After that they were more than fortified enough to go up the road to view Jim Parker’s picture. Alexander was ecstatic over it but old Jim informed him, grinning, that he couldn’t have it. On the way back they spotted Bob Potter and one of his many girlfriends going into his place so they popped in to admire his. Gwen was ecstatic over it so Bob led them proudly out to admire the real machine.

    Yvonne’s was next. She, Bunting, Juliette and Kiefer were all really pleased to see them. The picture was duly admired and over cups of tea or glasses of milk and illicit biscuits Anna asked if Juliette or Yvonne knew anyone from Belling Close, because she wanted to do a picture of it but so far only had cottages and cars. Juliette merely shook her head but Yvonne replied placidly: “No. I think they’re all artistic people that work in Portsmouth, aren’t they?”

    “You wanna go over on a Saturday,” said Jack thoughtfully. “’Bout eleven-thirty. They’ll be to-ing and fro-ing from the shops and cleaning their cars.”

    “Ooh, good, I’ll do that. But I might wait until the weather’s warmer: lots of them have got window-boxes but there aren’t any flowers in them, yet.”

    Visions of the gays of Belling Close amidst their flowery window-boxes—please, please let them be full of pansies!—whirled in Colin’s head…

    “Sí,” said Terri when the dust had cleared and they were, amazingly, alone at last. “That pun occurred to me, too! But I did ask Greg what sort of flowers people plant in their window-boxes, because Euan said that window-boxes might be nice at Quince Tree Cottage, and he didn’t mention pansies. Geraniums are popular—which is odd, because they’re popular in Spain, too, but here they can’t be left outside during the winter—and some people start off with spring bulbs. And petunias—is that the word?”

    “That’s definitely the word!” he said with a laugh. “Uh—when the quince is in leaf I doubt if window-boxes would get much sun, Terri.”

    “Greg also made that point. One would have to have shade-loving plants and they do not have bright flowers, so Euan has decided against the window-boxes.”

    “Uh-huh. We don’t seem to have seen much of him lately, Terri,” he said cautiously.

    “No, because he is very busy with the TV series. He did suggest that perhaps I might like to go up to London for a while and cook for him there.”

    “Well, go! Don’t worry about me!”

    “I do not wish to go,” said Terri, going very red.

    Colin took a deep breath. “Look, Terri, I don’t think he’s seeing much of Molly at all. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

    “I am not worrying about it!” she said crossly. “But Derry has forbidden him to be seen in public with her because of some silly plan relating to the series, so I do not think that one can—can—I have forgotten the stupid word!”

    Colin sighed. He put an arm awkwardly round her shoulders.

    “I am not upset!” she said angrily. “Merely, I have forgotten a stupid English word!”

    “Yeah. He’s a purblind cretin,” he said heavily.

    “He is not!”

    “Yes, he is. The Indian who threw a pearl away, richer than all his tribe,” he said sourly. “But whatever Dawlish may or may not have ordained, I am quite sure both that Euan’s lost interest in Molly and that she’s lost interest in him.”

    Terri attempted to pull away from him. “That has nothing to do with me, I assure you! I am his part-time au pair, merely! Please excuse me, I have to go and see Mrs Granville Thinnes.”

    Feebly Colin released, her croaking: “Eh?”

    “She has asked me to teach her to make a Spanish omelette,” she said grimly. “She is not a caricature, but a person, although I know that you do not wish to believe that!”

    “Look, I never said— Oh, Hell,” he said feebly as she marched out.

    A cold wind whipped through Bellingford as Potter Purbright and her martyred father emerged onto the old village green. “There!” she cried triumphantly, pointing to The Church.

    Richard blenched.

    “What’s wrong with it?” she cried defensively.

    He took a deep breath. “Potter Purbright, my darling idiot, you’re old enough to recognise that wanting a thing to be does not make it so. That church is hideous, and you know it.”

    “It is not! Um, well, it’s basically nice.”

    “I am not buying an abortion of a tarted-up Norman church held up by tubular steel and adorned with the sharpest pointing known to Silicon Man!”

    “Um, maybe you could get it off, um, chip it out.”

    “I’m not buying it,” he said mildly.

    “Then a cottage!”

    He sighed. “Most of them are no bigger than Anna’s: two up, two down. Either you or Joshua would have to sleep in the sitting-room on the weekends I needed him, because believe you me I’m not sharing with him! And have you forgotten you’ve got a brother?”

    Manifestly she had. Her face fell.

    “We’ll need at least four bedrooms,” he said firmly. “If Mallory ever graces us with her presence she can share with you. At a pinch I’ll do without a cook—though I strongly doubt that you’ll be able to. But there are no four-bedroomed houses available in Bellingford.”

    Potter Purbright glared around the square. “There’s loads of land: we could build a place!”

    “Not down here,” he said, wincing. “Not if Colin’s developing a tourist industry.”

    “But there’ll be little craft shops and stuff, and a smithy! It’d be interesting!”

    “Not living here, it wouldn’t, with loads of coaches rumbling by and trippers rubber-necking at us sunbathing in our garden. There’d be no privacy. But if we did build,” he said on a weak note, “you could always come down here whenever you felt like it.”

    “Um, say we bought a row like that and knocked them together!” was the next inspiration.

    “It depends what’s available.”

    “Well, have you had your people looking into it, Dad?”

    Yes, and there was nothing suitable available in Bellingford! Richard sighed. “Yes. Come on, let’s go up to Anna’s.”

    They went up to Anna’s, where she presented the stunned Potter Purbright with her birthday present.

    “I love it!” she cried ecstatically. “Thank you so much, Anna, I’ll keep it forever!”

    Richard swallowed a sigh. It was delightful, yes, but there was more than one point that could have been made. Firstly, Anna shouldn’t be giving her work away: he was quite sure James Allen could have got several thousand for it. Secondly, delightful though it was, she should be concentrating on her serious stuff. He’d looked in at L’Informel again and discovered that squirreled away in the back room was another large figure study: Study of a Man in Grey. Not a nude, this time, but every bit as good as the painting of Colin Haworth. In reply to his annoyed request to know why it wasn’t on public show James Allen had replied smugly that he was saving it for the one-woman show. Richard had then demanded angrily why the gallery assistant had told him that Study of a Red-Headed Man was not available, as it had no red spot on it, but the bloody man just replied smugly that it was not available. And pointed him in the direction of the clutch of blue and white studies. If you liked abstracts with the feel of the wind and the sea in them they were lovely, but not a patch on her recent work. And how the Hell was she managing to live? He was damned sure, though many of the abstracts had red spots, that she hadn't yet received a penny from James Allen.

    He didn’t, however, say any of this. Nor did he say anything when Anna revealed happily that they were going to have a birthday afternoon tea over at Colin’s. He just went along with it all, accepting introductions to yet more cousins in addition to the two pretty blonde girls who were staying with her for the Easter weekend, eating up his slice of birthday cake, and trying to look pleasant. Did she live in the bloody man’s pocket? And what the Hell was the relationship? He didn’t seem particularly interested in either of the of the two pretty cousins.

    Terence stood huddled in his duffel-coat in the carpark on the corner of the High Street and George Street, shivering, as the chill April wind whipped round him. Any minute now they’d get an April downpour, too. Well, as pubs went it was quite a good size and entirely unenticing. Though possibly if you ripped the bloody fake beams off its frontage—no, it’d have to be inside as well as out, wouldn’t it?—well, ripped them off, um, painted it light cream? Added some navy, or perhaps a lighter blue to the windows and doors, um, ran up a couple of little flags and called ’er— The Jolly Terence, quite. Um, The Sailor’s Rest? Or was it Sailors’, plural? Um, blue and white striped awnings over the windows? They’d probably flap like buggery in this ruddy wind. It wasn’t too bad a picture… But did he want to be a pub-keeper? And could he? Never mind the sums, and there’d be plenty of those, the git that was selling it was built like a tank and though he, Terence, wasn’t a seven-stone weakling he didn’t fancy having to heave great barrels about. Um, eliminate part of this hideous fucking carpark—there was miles of free parking all the way down George Street—have a few tables outside, striped blue and white umbrellas? Tubs of flowering plants? Anything to brighten it up, it was so bloody bleak! The tables would be hopeless most of the year, of course, and—he rocked where stood—certainly the umbrellas would. But it’d look good in summer. More a sort of Mediterranean look. The Med in Hampshire—exactly. Was this as potty as Rosie’s and Rupy’s bloody Jamaica in Hampshire? Well, not quite. The pub was sound enough. It wouldn’t need any actual repairs, only a change in its décor. Well, and its menus, and almost every drop it sold.

    But was there any point at all in trying to settle down in John’s village, given that he’d be heading off for bloody Australia and Jerry Marshall’s gambling business in three years or so? Could he hack it here by himself? Well, possibly Colin’d be around—but in his, Terence’s, considered opinion, once Colin had got his project off the ground—which would take several years, certainly—but once it was up and running he’d be off to busier scenes. Perhaps he and the young fellow would go into that sort of development project as a business: Terence could just see that. Bugger. Well, he supposed in a pub he’d at least see a bit of life, it’d be a Helluva lot better than being stuck in a bloody office…

    “’Morning, Commander!” said a cheerful voice. “Sussing it out, are yer?”

    Terence jumped. “’Morning, Timms,” he said feebly to the sturdy, broad-shouldered figure in a duffel-coat that matched his. “Yes, I am, more or less. Still on Dauntless? Saw she was in port.”

    Alan Timms nodded. “Yeah. ’Tisn’t the same without the Captain, mind.”

    Terence swallowed. He meant John, of course, which given that his brother’s was the ultimate responsibility for breaking the man from C.P.O. back to Petty Officer when he’d gone on that huge bender— He looked at the round, tanned, blunt-nosed, red-cheeked Hampshire face and smiled a little. “I know. You’ve lost Commander Corcoran, too, haven’t you?”

    Mr Timms sniffed. “No loss.”

    Corky Corcoran had been John’s First Officer and his closest friend for many years, but Terence entirely agreed with him on that one! He didn’t comment but said: “Been made back up to C.P.O. yet?”

    “Well, yeah, this last voyage, and I don’t say as I object to it, but it shows yer, dunnit?”

    Showed you the quality of his new superior officers? Quite. “Uh-huh. How many years have you got in, now?”

    Scowling, Mr Timms replied: “More’n what you ’ave, and I don’t mind saying I’d get out if there was anything to get to!”

    Terence bit his lip. The poor chap had been divorced three times, the great bender being on the occasion of the last wife’s cleaning out the bank account and walking out on him, and though doubtless there were faults on both sides—and no woman found it easy being a Navy wife—still, you couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. There was only his old father left in Bellingford, now. He had no siblings—though Terence thought there might have been one that had died in infancy—and the first wife had taken the kids and gone to New Zealand—shit, twenty years back? Must be. They must all be well into their twenties, now. It had been a young marriage, true: but Christ, he and Alan Timms had played together as kids! Behind Mother’s back, naturally.

    “Yes, know what you mean,” he agreed.

    “You’d see a bit of life in a pub!” Alan encouraged him.

    “Mm, I was just thinking that.”

    “Wish I could afford to take it over, meself. Though with my record, dunno as I’d ever get a licence.”

    You might say what were a couple of benders and the associated fist-fights while in the Navy, but given that bloody Corky Corcoran had undoubtedly done the paperwork, Terence didn’t offer him any false hope. “Mm.”

    “Do yer reckon yer might need a cellarman?” he said on a hopeful note as the git was seen to emerge from the public bar and glare up and down the road, possibly in quest of his beer delivery.

    “Uh—hasn’t he already got one?” he said weakly.

    “Nope. Does most of it ’imself. But you’d get a lot more custom, Commander!” he urged. “The village wouldn’t boycott you!”

    “I should bloody well hope not,” admitted Terence, smiling. “I’d be happy to employ you, but with your experience, you could do a lot better than cellarman.”

    “Not round ’ere. –Dad’s getting on, though ’e won’t admit it, silly old fart,” he explained. “Anyroad, I wanna stay ’ere, I’ve seen enough of the world. You and your boys seen the Shatt al-Arab?”

    Bits of it, yes. Bits of the underneath of it, mostly. “Mm.”

    “There you are, then!” he said with feeling. “Shat’s right! Aden’s a dump, too.”

    “I’m with you on that one. In fact you can keep the whole of the Middle East, it’s not worth fighting over,” said Terence heavily.

    “You said it! Bet Tony Blair’s never even been there!”

    Er—quite. “Doubt it. Well—uh—” He looked at his watch. “Sun’s over the yardarm. Fancy one? Look round the place?”

    “’E don’t sell nothing drinkable, but yeah, don’t mind if I do. Thanks, Commander.”

    “Terence,” corrected Terence mildly as they strolled over to the public bar.

    “You still in?”

    “For a little while, yes,” he said heavily.

    “Then I’ll stick to Commander, sir, ta all the same. –I’d ’ave a short if I was you, the beer’s like gnat’s piss,” he said as they went into the bar, not bothering to lower his voice.

    “What, all of it?”

    “Dunno about that poncy bottled stuff, seems to be German or something, and never mind your fucking European Union: my old dad, ’e was in the War and me Uncle Bob and me Uncle Fred, Mum’s brother, he was, they bought it in France—two that didn’t make it back at Dunkirk,” he noted sourly—“and me Uncle Bert, ’e drowned in the North Sea. U-boat. So I don’t buy no German nothing. But the stuff on tap’s gnat’s piss, yeah. Think it all comes out the same barrel, never mind he calls it mild or bitter. Mind you, ’e’ll do yer a lovely Fallen Angel,” he said snidely as they leaned on the bar and looked vainly for service.

    “Eh?”

    Alan sniffed. “That Carole, she used to drink ’ere. You know: Lee Petty Cab’net dee Carole.”

    “Oh, yes! I bought a lovely quilt there. Oh—I get it,” he said with a grin.

    Alan looked dry. “It was on offer.”

    “Why not?” he agreed comfortably. “OY! SHOP!”

    “’E won’t like that.”

    “I dare say he’ll like my chequebook, though,” replied Terence placidly. “Whisky?”

    “Ta, Commander. ’E waters down ’is rum.”

    “You astound me. Two Bell’s, thanks,” he said to the scowling proprietor, “and make it the Bell’s out of the bottle marked Bell’s, would you?”

    Alan shook all over his substantial frame but admitted: “That’s no guarantee of nothing.”

    “I know: Colin said he’d made the mistake of ordering Black Label.”

    Alan snorted. “’E’d be lucky!”

    “Mm: watered-down Teacher’s. Well, that’ll stop. What do you think of real ale?”

    “Just beer’d do me,” he said drily. “But yeah, for them as fancies it, why not? They ’ave these, like, coach tours to all the real ale pubs of England, didja know? Not only in summer, either.”

    “Real ale it is, then,” he said placidly. “–How much?” he croaked, as he was asked for the money. “I know I’ve been out of England for six months, but that’s ridiculous!”

    “Take it or leave it,” replied the git.

    On his own, Terence would have left it. He shrugged and handed over the dough.

    “Sorry,” said Alan feebly as the git disappeared.

    “Christ, not your fault.”

    “We can always go up the Club, after.”

    Terence looked feebly at his depleted wallet. “We’ll have to. No hole in the wall in Bellingford, I suppose?”

    “Nope. Murray Stout’ll give you some cash on the plastic, though, since it’s you.”

    He meant, since it was John’s brother. Terence just nodded and smiled.

    They had a good look round the place. The dining-room was empty, but it wasn’t yet noon, that was fair enough. Alan had experienced the menu with Carole: he explained its inadequacies in some detail. Terence made a sick face, but silently wondered how one would do better, in isolated Bellingford. Marry a cook? Um, turn the fucking dining-room into a winter-garden or something—glassed-in bar with loads of palms, kind of thing, maybe opening it out onto a courtyard in summer—what was behind it, anyway?—and leave it up to Colin’s restaurant to provide food? He ran this one by Alan. Alan thought he could do both: not table service but have a buffet. Salads, fish and chips: then the Club wouldn’t have to bother and them as made the fish and chips could be paid for their labour! Terence gaped at him.

    “See, it’s the overheads,” he explained. “The Club’s got a power bill like you wouldn’t believe, and there’s the gas as well. Not that the suppers use that much, but it’s having to have it connected, you see. Stop doing the suppers and we’d close the kitchen, sell all the stuff we hadda buy for it. Colin’d probably take the stove off our hands.”

    “Yes, um, what about your washing up?” croaked Terence.

    “We got a machine. No, well, not literally lock the kitchen up. Just leave one light bulb in there, see? Them idiots that fancy themselves as barmen and barmaids, they run all the lights in there all day and night, that’d ruddy well stop. And don’t ask me where all the biscuits we buy go to, but that’d stop, as well. Beer, Coke, lemonade and orangeade. Period. No, well, few packets of crisps, like that: makes ’em thirstier!” he said with a laugh.

    “Right. And I suppose you don’t have to make ’em put more money in the machines: they do that for themselves.”

    “That’s it, Commander,” he said comfortably. “But ya see what I mean? There’s no point in us competing, on the one hand, or you and Colin competing, on the other.”

    “No. Well, it sounds bloody good in principle, Alan. But I’d have to look at the figures,” he said as they wandered into the empty lounge bar.

    “Yeah, sure. Only don’t believe any of his, will yer?”

    “But how do I find out what he’s actually making from his bloody poncy food for the retire—Uh, good morning,” he said feebly to the spry elderly couple who'd just come in and greeted him as if they knew him.

    Alan watched sardonically as the git hurried in and provided them with sherries. “What was that, sir? Oh! Right! No problem, Rosie and Greg can tell you that. He comes here every so often and takes notes. Don’t ask me how ’e forces himself to eat the muck, though.”

    “You mean he goes into the dining-room and—” Alan was nodding. “That’s a dedicated sociologist for you,” said Terence in awe, allowing himself to be steered out. “Who the Hell were those two old fogies?” he croaked.

    Alan blinked. “Uh—dunno. Thought you knew them. Oh, well, they’d be people Rosie knows. Or the Captain.”

    Terence smiled. Quite!

    “Thanks awfully, Greg,” he said feebly, some time later, inspecting the great mass of printed tables.

    “That’s okay. But ya do realise this is a special favour, do you? Rosie hadda get onto Prof Rutherford about giving Colin and Robert the stats they asked for.”

    Terence looked at him in horror.

    “It was okay: he got all interested. Partly on behalf of the university, ’cos he thinks if the project comes off it might perk up our study no end, plus into the bargain give us the material for another study—well, he’s been nagging at me to do my Ph.D., he thinks the introduction of a new industrial focus into a small rural community might be just the go,” he said on a dry note. “And on his own behalf as well, ’cos he’s looking for something to put his millions into. Well, not literally, but he is rolling in it: he’s one of those Yanks that seem to have been born knowing about money. Had a share portfolio since he was twelve, would ya believe?”

    From Rosie’s reports off and on over the years he would believe, yes. “So will he?”

    Greg grinned. “Dunno if Norma—that’s the wife—will let him. But he’s been down for talks with Colin and Robert a couple of times, seems genuinely keen.”

    “How old is he?” he asked uneasily.

    “’Bout your age. But relax, it’s not middle-aged spread.”

    Alan choked.

    Greg winked at him. “That’s what Yvonne calls it! Mid-life crisis. Any would-be mid-life crisis’d take one look at Rutherford and run like the wind, I can promise you that.”

    “Yes!” said Rosie’s voice cheerfully from the direction of the front door, and they all jumped and gasped. She had a load of shopping: Terence started forward to help her with it but Alan was before him.

    “Thanks, Alan.”

    “What are you doing, carrying great loads of shopping in your condition?” he replied crossly.

    “Only from the car. Yvonne gave me a lift. I dunno why, but this one seems to be miles heavier than Baby Bunting was.”

    “I told you not to take all those bags!” gasped Yvonne, surfacing behind her with Bunting in tow. He pulled away and rushed to hug his uncle’s knees.

    “I carried them for approx. five yards, and then Alan grabbed them off me,” she said heavily.

    “Um, yes,” replied Yvonne uncertainly, looking at Alan and going very pink. “Hullo.”

    Their audience watched with great interest as the burly C.P.O. also flushed noticeably and said huskily: “Hullo. So you’re Yvonne? We meet at last, eh?”

    “You must have met before!” cried Rosie in astonishment.

    “No,” they both said definitely.

    “Oh! Well, this is Yvonne, of course: Yvonne Baker; and this is Alan Timms, Yvonne. You’ve meet his dad.”

    Agreeing she had met his dad, the very flushed Yvonne shook hands with the almost equally flushed Alan.

    … “Well!” said Rosie with a laugh, as the two retreated to Yvonne’s place, ostensibly so as he could help her unload her shopping. “All this time in Bellingford, and I never realised they’d never met!”

    “He has been at sea,” said Greg drily. “But what she means is, Terence, all this time in Bellingford, not to mention London and Australia, throwing Yvonne at the wrong ones and she never realised she’d never met Alan.”

    Terence had rather thought that was what she meant, mm. “Rosie, you do know about Alan’s track record, do you? Even worse than mine.”

    “Pooh! They were all wrong for him! And come to that, what about Yvonne’s frightful Li?”

    “Yeah, all right; he doesn’t wanna know,” said Greg heavily. “Sit down. Me and Bunting’ll make you a cuppa. Come on, fella, you can play with Uncle Terence another time, we’ll make Mum a cuppa, shall we?”

    “I can boil the jug!” he cried.

    “Yeah, but only if Greg holds you, okay?” said Greg firmly, taking his hand.

    “Or Dada!”

    “Yes, or Dada, of course.”

    Terence watched with a smile as they went out, the tall young man having to stoop to hold the tiny boy’s hand.

    “You oughta have some of your own,” said his sister-in-law in an iron voice.

    He reddened. “Just drop it, Rosie, okay? It takes two.”

    “Mm. Sorry,” she said, biting her lip.

    Terence sighed. “No, I am. Didn’t mean to snap. These figures Greg’s given me look excellent, Rosie.”

    “Yes,” she said, smiling at him. “The git’s not making much from his bloody meals, is he?”

    “I’ll say he isn’t!”

    “No. But look at what he charges for the drinks. One glass of wine for the price of two bottles of quite drinkable plonk—retail.”

    “Yes. Where did you get all these figures?”

    “What, on his costs? We rung people up and lied about who we were, mainly, when he wouldn’t let on. Usually telling them we were thinking of opening up a pub or a restaurant here: they were terrifically eager to help us,” she said serenely.

    He cringed. “I see.”

    “It’s no holds barred in sociology!” said Rosie with a laugh, putting her feet up on the big old leather chesterfield. “Ooh! That’s better!”

    “Have you been trailing round the Portsmouth shops?”

    “Yes: it didn’t seem worth it just taking the car up the hill. –Only to get stuff Belinda and Murray don’t sell,” she assured him.

    Right. Like most stuff. John didn’t seem to mind a diet based on fish fingers and frozen peas, but Terence didn’t think he could stick it. “Uh-huh.” He explained Alan’s idea about the metamorphosis of the pub’s dining-room.

    “Sounds good. We’d come!”

    “Right, and you wouldn’t come for, uh—” He peered at the print-out. “God!”

    “No,” she said placidly, yawning. “We haven’t got many stats on the Club, but by the sounds of it Alan’s efficient enough to be able to supply you with those.”

    “Yes, he is efficient, isn’t he? You know,” he said slowly, “he and Yvonne together would make far more likely pub-owners than me.”

    “While you do what?” said his sister-in-law. “Die of boredom in your old Uncle Matthew’s bank?”

    “Y—Uh, cousin. Father’s cousin, Rosie; Colin’s uncle. That does seem to be the only alternative.”

    “Go out to Oz, join up with my cousin Dot and her mob.”

    “Is this the B&B scheme? Look, I’d be very tempted if wasn’t clear that it’s three couples involved, and I’d stick out like a sore thumb!”

    “There are unmarried females in Australia,” she said mildly.

    “Right, at the back of the Black Stump?” he retorted crossly.

    “Not so much there, no. And you mean Outer Woop-Woop, the Black Stump dates back to Nevil Shute, for Pete’s sake.”

    “So do I,” said Terence grimly.

    Rosie didn’t say this was a gross exaggeration, she just said calmly: “Stay here for a while, use a cottage. That one Luke had’s standing empty. John wouldn’t mind.”

    “He’d behave as if he didn’t mind—and of course he wouldn’t mind my using his cottage as such—but underneath he would mind very much that I was lounging around the place doing nothing, unable to make up my mind about anything, Rosie!” he said loudly.

    “Yes, well, that’s his nature. But those are your options. Unless you fancy Derry Dawlish’s idea of launching you to fame and fortune as this year’s answer to Hugh Grant?”

    “No!” he said angrily.

    “It can be quite fun.”

    “I don’t fancy making an exhibition of myself in front of the camera, and can we drop it, Rosie?” he said grimly.

    “Yes. –I see: there’s no exhibitionism in your nature, really, is there? John’s the same,” she said thoughtfully.

    Terence blinked. “Uh—”

    “There’s a lot in mine,” she said with her lovely smile. “And Georgia’s the same. Dot hasn’t got any at all: that’s why she refused point-blank to have a bar of Derry’s silly schemes when she was doing double for me in Queensland, it’s not just that she thought they were silly per se. I’m not sure about Molly, though.”

    He sighed. “If the girl’s doing the telly stuff, she must have some helping of exhibitionism.”

    “Yes. Well, she realised that Susan only needs her part-time, so she could fit it in—but, yes. She’s always liked pretending and mimicking, too. Though actually that’s what got her into the shit in the first place.”

    “Oh?” said Terence very casually.

    “Yeah,” she said as Greg and Bunting came through from the kitchen, Greg carrying a tray of tea and the little boy carefully carrying a large plate on which reposed four small cakes, rather close together. “Good boy, Bunting! You’re almost as good a waiter as Greg!” she cried as he put them down on the coffee table. “Terence likes it weak, too,” she reminded Greg as they sat down.

    “I do know that by now, Rosie. What was that about Molly? She’s not in strife, is she?”

    “No. I was just gonna give Terence the Dinkum Oil. Only it’s a secret, okay?”

    “Okay,” said Greg obligingly.

    “Okay!” cried Bunting. “Uncle Terence! It’s a secret, okay?”

    “Okay,” said Terence feebly.

    Rosie took a deep breath. “Micky’ll be ten this year and Molly’ll be twenty-seven.”

    Terence dropped his sheets of print-out. “What?”

    “I thought you didn’t realise. She was sixteen when she got pregnant. She was really into mimicking bird songs and animal noises at that stage: she wanted to be like that old man on the BBC that made all those animal noises—I think the ABC had broadcast some crapulous programme about him. She didn’t realise that these days it’s all sound libraries and computer-generated crap. Anyway, the pricks at the local TV studios—this was in Melbourne, they’ve got lot of studios there—they just laughed at her when she tried to get a job, so she decided the best way to break into the scene was to go into a talent contest. TV, but her part was never screened. She got past the initial trials and into the thing, but then it dawned that all they wanted were singers and anyway the main point of the thing was for the judges and everybody to have a good snigger at the contestants’ expense, so she pulled out. But by then she’d met him.” She swallowed. “Micky’s father. He was something at the TV studios, we don’t know what, exactly—nothing to do with the contest, I don’t think. –Thanks, Greg,” she said as he poured tea in an automaton-like manner and handed her a cup. “Anyway, she got pregnant, Aunty Buff refused point-blank to hear of an abortion—she was under-age, she had to have her consent, ya see—and the result was Micky.”

    “It’s a big secret!” cried the little boy pleasedly.

    “Yes, it is, Bunting, sweetheart,” she agreed with the serene smile that was so like Molly’s. “Didn’t get a B,L,I,N,D  W,O,R,D,” she explained.

    “No—well, just as well,” admitted Greg. “What sort of mother is she?”

    “Aunty Buff? In a word, Catholic,” she said sourly. “Molly wouldn’t let on who the bloke was, mind you: she can be very stubborn.”

    “Rosie, that’s appalling,” said Terence in a low voice, swallowing.

    “Yes. –No, darling, first we pass the plate to the grown-ups, then you take your cakey. Hand it to Greg carefully: good boy! Now, hand it to Uncle Terence.” She assisted the little boy with an iron hand.

    Terence took a cake numbly. “Thank you, Bunting.”

    “Hand it to Mum,” he announced.

    “Mm, a cakey for me! Thank you, Bunting!” she cooed.

    “I’m a good boy,” he decided with satisfaction, taking the last iced cake.

    “Yes, what a good boy!” agreed Greg. “S,A,D, really,” he said to Rosie: “socialisation.”

    “Too right. Better me than Lady Mother, though,” she said grimly.

    Greg gulped, goggling at Terence in horror.

    “What? Oh,” he said, trying to smile. “Don’t worry, Greg, I’ve known for ages she calls Mother that. Since I brought him his Tigger, I think.”

    “Yeah, we had a cosy confab that day!” beamed Rosie.

    “Mm.” Terence picked up his cup with a hand that shook. Rosie shot a warning look at Greg. He pretended to be very interested in his tea…

    “I think,” said Terence, once the tea and cakes had vanished, “that I might go for a walk.”

    “Take Tim, he needs the exercise,” replied his sister-in-law calmly. “Not today, Bunting,” she said as her offspring lodged a shrill request to go with his uncle. “Uncle Terence’ll be walking too fast. You can go another day. –Go,” she said briefly.

    Gratefully Terence went.

    Ignoring Bunting’s aggrieved shrieks, Rosie and Greg exchanged glances. “Gosh,” he mouthed, his eyes very round.

    She nodded hard.

    Terence was so stirred up that he didn’t notice where he was going, he just strode out over the hills, letting Tim lead the way. Jesus! The poor little—Sixteen? The man should have been castrated! And the mother—! Christ!

    They ended up about five miles up the coast.

    “Whew!” he said, sitting down on a dampish rock. Tim panted up to him eagerly. “Yeah, you could go for miles, old chap,” he said, fondling his ears. “But I’m a bit past it, frankly.”

    Tim licked his face and he realised that tears were slipping down his cheeks.

    “Mm,” he said, sniffing, and hugging him. “Good dog! Well, I dunno if I can make a go of the pub, or if she’ll ever so much as look at me, after Mr Glamour Boy, but I’ll stay, and give it a go! Alan can work for me if he wants to. I think he’d be a great asset on the Stores side—well, whatever they call it in the trade. Um, and if—if Molly wants to go home to Australia, well, I can do that, dare say they’ve got a few pubs out there. Or whatever she wants, I don’t mind.”

    Tim licked his face sympathetically.

    “Sixteen!” said Terence. “By God, I’ll make it up to her if it takes me the rest of my life!” He laid his cheek on the big dog’s silky head and frankly wept.