Paper Round

17

Paper Round

    Once upon a time morning paper deliveries in Bellingford had been done by Terry Stout. Since he’d gone to university Murray and Belinda had had to rely on others. Perhaps not technically less reliable, but certainly less under the parental eye and subject to forcible turfing out of the pit at crack of dawn. Currently, Sly Hopgood, who was now seventeen and about as reliable as they usually were at that age, his friend Tony Carter (sixteen, Heather Carter’s, not fully under her control), Melissa Black (fifteen going on sixteen), and Melissa’s sister Amanda (fourteen, and more reliable than the rest of them put together). This morning only Amanda had turned up. Murray looked grimly at the sturdy figure clad in a red and black padded anorak and camouflage trousers with bulging leg-pockets. He didn’t ask what the Hell the kid had in the pockets: Amanda was one of the Black tribe from Bottom Street, so it could be anything, up to and including a dead rabbit. Or, with luck, a dead pheasant belonging to Mr You Know Who, unhyphenated.

    “I can do it, Mr Stout!”

    “Yeah. Where’s your ruddy sister?”

    “Dunno.”

    This might not be a lie: sixteen was about the age the Blacks usually started reproducing their kind; Melissa could be anywhere, not excluding Portsmouth. ”Yeah,” he said heavily. He looked at the round, hopeful face. “Had any breakfast, Amanda?” he said heavily.

    “I had a drink of milk,” she replied in dubious tones.

    Pinched from someone’s doorstep or his name wasn’t Murray Stout. “Yeah. Well, come on, I suppose I can do a fry-up, we’re gonna be so late with the papers anyway it won’t make any difference, will it?”

    “Ooh, ta, Mr Stout!”

    They went into the kitchen and got on with it.

    Amanda then volunteered to do Dipper Street and Mill Lane, nominally Tony’s route. This was probably not wholly self-sacrifice, steep though it was: if she timed it right, she’d get to the very top of Upper Mill Lane just as Perry and Bridget Horton were starting their Sunday breakfast. Not cottagers: friends of John’s and Rosie’s. She was a very soft touch. He wasn’t, but that didn’t count. Oh, all right. And check the names, Amanda, don’t just shove them in anybody’s box, particularly not old Ma Blaine’s, she was illiterate, remember? She knew, of course she knew.

    He didn’t make the kids bike all the way to their routes, he usually took the van to about halfway and started them off from there. Well, that was the idea, if the kids had all turned up. So they loaded Amanda’s bike into the van and, crossing the High Street, turned into Dipper Street, ignoring the fact that that long streak from the Garden Centre ordered The Sunday Times and complained like buggery if it was late.

    “Medlars Lane,” noted Amanda detachedly as they shot past it.

    “Ma Fucking Granville unhyphenated Thinnes can be last, all right?” he snarled.

    “Suits me. What’s she done now?” replied Miss Black cheerfully.

    Murray breathed heavily for a bit. “Advised old Ted and Ethel White to sell their place so as some trendies from Portsmouth can open up a health food shop in it,” he revealed grimly.

    “It’s right on the High Street,” noted the percipient Miss Black. “Next to The Bakery.”

    “Exactly!” he snarled.

    “You don’t sell health food, though.”

    “Amanda, it won’t just be tofu and vitamins, it’ll sell cereals and fruit juice, and low-fat biscuits and brown rice and soy milk! And for all I know, soy ices as well!”

    “Soy ices? Never ’ad them,” she said thoughtfully.

    Murray breathed heavily. “The weekenders’ll all start going there for their tofu and muck, and then they’ll start buying their rice and stuff there, and—”

    “I get it. Not just the weekenders, all the ones that work, too. Like, that Ms Deane Jennings.”

    “Yes!”

    “You oughta start selling it before they can,” she noted, inserting an entire packet of unpaid-for blue bubble-gum and chewing juicily.

    “Yeah,” said Murray sourly.

    “I would.”

    He sighed. “Yeah. It means a different supplier, ’cos the wholesalers don’t stock that sort of stuff, and there’s no room in the shop—I’m thinking about it, but it’s a question of which is gonna send us broke first!”

    “Yeah. Are we gonna go right up the top?”

    He blinked, and looked about him. “Oh. Uh—well, look, I’ll drive you up to Albert Street, okay? It’s bloody steep up there.”

    “Okay, ta.”

    He turned left and headed for Albert Street and the frighteningly modernistic palace occupied by the Arvidsons. They took The Sunday Times and The Observer, and during the week The Times, and that was the only custom they had ever had from that side of Albert Street! Given that the palace occupied the entire higher side. With the nice southerly exposure and the splendid view over the valley—yeah. Its cold expanses of flat-roofed plate glass, steel and concrete seemed, somehow, made for them. But oddly enough they hadn't built it, it was actually a Helluva lot older than it looked: built just after the War by some black-marketeer.

    Shit! There was a big “For Sale” board outside it! When had that happened? Not even a Portsmouth land agent, a London one. Better tell Rosie, that was gonna effect her stats. Well, perhaps they might get some custom from the dump, at last… Murray leant his forearms on the wheel and stared blankly into space, as Amanda biked round Albert Street, Linden Walk, Linden Close and Lime Walk, biffing papers vaguely in the direction of the abodes of those who had ordered them. Though funnily enough favouring The Green House (guess what colour it was) with an actual insertion of The Sunday Times into the paper-holder. What was that all about? It was far too early for Mrs Foster to be up, yet.

    “Why’d The Green House get the special treatment?” he asked idly, revving ’er up again.

    Amanda breathed bubble-gum fumes all over him. “I like it!”

    “The house?” he said weakly.

    “Yeah! I reckon Anne of Green Gables’ house would really of been like that!”

    “Eh?”

    “Not like in that telly series, it was lame.”

    Right. They headed downhill and turned into Hammer Street.

    “Are we gonna do this area next?”

    “Yes. We’ll leave the top end of Dipper Street and Mill Lane for a bit.”

    Amanda looked at her watch. Well, technically not her watch, no. “Okay!”

    Jesus, the gay joggers were out in Belling Close already! This didn’t stop Amanda biffing their Observers into their lily ponds, their carefully carved bay trees—good shot!—and up on their “genuine” slate roofs, though.

    “Hey, Mr Stout!” she panted, returning with an empty bag. “You could do down, if I do up, okay?”

    Murray came to with a jump. “Shit! Uh—yeah, ’course, Amanda. Sorry; I was miles away. You sure you wanna do up?”

    She was sure, so he grabbed a bag and headed down towards the High Street, wondering what the attraction was, up that way. There were quite a lot of in-comers and retirees, none of whom would dream of giving the papergirl the time of day, let alone a nice hot breakfast, and none of the cottagers round that way were soft touches. No more green houses, either. Oh, well.

    Finally that side of the High Street was all done except for the Upper Bellingford area, where hardly anyone got the Sunday papers. Murray looked at his watch and decided to do the southern side of the High Street. Nobody down in the Bottom Street area got the Sundays, of course, so it was really only Church Lane—a heavy route, bloody Sly usually did it, because the Hopgoods lived down here: meant he could have R&R in his mum’s kitchen. Plus one or two retirees up Moulder’s Way, Harriet Burleigh Street and George Street, though George Street’s newcomers were nearly all weekenders, they bought their papers in Portsmouth and in most cases also their weekend food. So he wasn’t too heartbroken when they got to Ma Mason’s and Amanda discovered there was only a Sunday Times left in the bag.

    “Never mind; let her have it, Amanda, we’ll skip fucking George Street and its pâté-eaters, okey-doke?”

    This was okey-doke. And that left the top of Dipper Street and Mill Lane!

    “Want me to do old Mr Simons’ side of the road?” he said tolerantly.

    “I’m not scared of him!” she retorted scornfully.

    Alone of the entire village. Murray just leaned his arms on the wheel and stared into space…

    “Hey! Bridget, she had blueberry pancakes for breakfast!”

     Murray woke up with a start. “Shit! –What?”

    “Bridget, she had blueberry pancakes for breakfast!” she panted.

    “You did, you mean. And it’s Mrs Horton, to you.”

    “She doesn’t mind if I call her Bridget!” she said aggressively, getting in. “’Ere!” she gasped, thrusting something at him.

    Ugh, it was all warm! Murray nearly dropped it. A cylinder, well wrapped in greaseproof paper. He unwrapped it gingerly… Oh! A rolled-up pancake!

    “It’s got blueberries and cottage cheese in it!” she urged.

    Cottage cheese? He’d have taken his dying oath the kid didn’t know what that was. …Ooh, yum! It wasn’t just tasteless cottage cheese direct from the tub like what Belinda made him eat when she was on a slimming kick, it had sugar and something else mixed into it. Lemon? Possibly Perry had done that part of it: he was a better cook than her.

    After that he felt so much more cheerful that when Amanda noted he’d driven straight past Medlars Lane he actually did a U-turn and went back to it. Well, there was Mrs Humboldt’s paper, too: she was okay.

    “Hey, there’s an Observer left over,” noted Amanda in puzzled tones, her head in a bag in the back of the van.

    Murray didn’t ask which bag it was, because he had a fair idea it was the George Street one. “Oh, well, give it to Euan Keel—think ’e’s down this weekend.”

    “He oughta order it.”

    “Yeah, he’s down here often enough,” he agreed.

    She didn’t chuck it in the old tree, she went up to the front door and knocked. Why? Uh—wanted to see the film star? Well, she was about that age, of course… He’d have said she had more sense. Added to which, the entire village had seen him hundreds of times.

    She returned beaming, with two apricot jam turnovers, one for each of them. Fried? Oh, well, one couldn’t hurt! From the door Terri waved and smiled. Murray waved back, grinning sheepishly. Ooh, yum!

    “Was he up?” he said tolerantly, turning the van.

    “’Im?” replied Miss Black with withering scorn. “’Course not!”

    So much for famous film stars. Murray headed home, grinning.

    Euan wasn’t up because it was his firm belief, as he’d explained to the giggling Terri, that a person who in his youth had been the shivering, chilblained martyr that delivered the Sunday papers on those icy cold, pre-dawn Scottish mornings deserved to spend every Sunday for the rest of his life in bed. She hadn’t even known what chilblains were! Not just the word, the concept. Unimaginable! He had told her that she mustn’t hurry over to feed his fat face on a Sunday: she deserved a lie-in, too, but Terri had said that she did have a lie-in, till at least eight-thirty. Feebly Euan had forbidden her to show her face until at least nine-thirty. It was sort of working: she generally turned up just before nine.

    The big bed was placed with its head under the window, practically in the quince tree. You could lie back and look right up into the tree… He roused, blinking. “Did I nod off again?”

    “Yes,” said Terri, smiling. “The paper has come: here.”

    “I don’t get it delivered,” he said blankly.

    “Well, a dear little girl brought it. She said that it was for you. And Murray Stout was in his van and he waved, so it must be all right.” Smiling, she removed his breakfast tray.

    “That was wonderful, but I’m going to get fat,” he said feebly.

    “You might if you ate lots of those every day, but this is Sunday, they were special treats.”

    “Hang on. What cholesterol-saturated, carbohydrate-laden joys are you planning for lunch?”

    “Only an omelette.”

    He passed his hand over his hair. “Terri, my darling girl, eggs are full of fat! Delicious as your omelettes are, we had one yesterday! Didn’t we?”

    “Yes. There’s a pot of Habas à la Asturiana.”

    “It’s lovely, and I grant you beans are full of roughage and protein, but it’s got lots of potatoes in it, hasn’t it?” She nodded mutely. Euan sighed. “We’ll have it tomorrow, for our dinners. Use that low-fat yoghurt I got in Portsmouth and make a cucumber soup.”

    “But what about bread? Turkish breads would be best with that soup, but we haven’t—”

    “Terri, it’s already mid-morning: we don’t need a heavy lunch, we’ve breakfasted off the richest apricot puffs I’ve ever tasted. Didn't Manuel teach you anything about meal planning?”

    “No. he just cooked what he felt like, or whatever the customers wanted.”

    “Mm. Well, one tries to strike a balance. Not eggs two days running, for instance.”

    “I see. And not bread if one has apricot puffs. Is it the pastry that’s wrong?”

    “It isna wrong, it’s wonderful! But it is full of starch.”

    “Is that the same as carbohydrates?”

    “Yes.”

    “But then one cannot have bread and rice and potatoes!” she cried.

    “You’ve got it. Try to balance the food groups.”

    Terri nodded and went out, mouthing dubiously: “Balance the food groups.”

    Euan passed his hand over his hair again. “Och, you have to watch her like a hawk!” Sighing, he sat back against his pillows, and opened the paper…

    Owing to the vagaries of the paper delivery system in Bellingford, not to say the vagaries of the systems of reading the Sundays in the various households, the Hortons up at the top of Upper Mill Lane were the first to spot the giant three-quarter-page reproduction of Anna’s picture of Colin in The Observer. Mrs Horton—Bridget to such as Amanda Black—gasped. Her husband looked, and grinned. “Yes, Rosie said it was good! Just as well he’s left the Army—though his name isn’t mentioned, is it?”

    “Not there! In a feature article on our forces in Iraq!” she gasped.

    “In the front section?” He turned over feverishly. Bits of Observer slid off the bed. “Filler,” he diagnosed with a slight sniff.

    “No, the photo!” she gasped.

    Perry looked. He whistled. It was unmistakably the same man. Same profile, in fact. Head and shoulders. With a whacking great caption: “Colonel Colin Haworth.” Ouch.

    Old Mrs Humboldt was next. She usually got up later than usual on a Sunday, steamed a little fish for her two official cats and four strays that had adopted her and that she could only hope her neighbours over the road didn’t know about—old Scar-Face had the look of a tom that wouldn’t mind a juicy pheasant chick—made some toast and tea for herself, usually with strawberry jam, and took it all back to bed with the paper. If it had been delivered. Otherwise with a book. Her system was to read the news at the front first and then turn to the reviews, firmly avoiding the editorial or anything that looked like editorialising. This morning, however, her eye was caught by a face she knew. She read the article through, taking in with interest the details about Colin’s career but dismissing the article as a whole, as Perry Horton had done, as filler. Then she turned to the reviews. “Oh!” she said pleasedly. “So this is what it looks like! Bond Street—oh, yes, the horrid place that wouldn’t tell me the price of that thing that looked a bit like a Georgia O’Keefe but wasn’t. I’ll go up next week and do my impression of an eccentric millionairess! They can only throw me out.” The article didn’t say very much at all about the rest of L’Informel’s exhibition. She raised her eyebrows slightly and turned over…

    It wasn’t until she was reading an historian’s encomium of another historian’s new book—neither particularly good at doing their own research, but certainly known to hobnob over a glass of burgundy in the senior common rooms of their respective colleges, wasn’t there a name for that, Observer?—that it suddenly dawned. “Help,” she said feebly. She turned back to the article on Iraq and stared at the photo of Colonel Haworth. “His family won’t like that,” she said numbly.

    Carole had slept very late, for her. It had been an exhausting week. She wasn’t quite admitting to herself that the most exhausting thing about it had not been the stock-taking she’d hurled herself into but the realisation that Colin had definitely gone away so as to get away from her. She had suspected it, when he went away before Christmas, but she hadn't really had much time to think about it, because the pre-Christmas period was always such a busy time at the shop. But this time she was sure! He hadn't been near her for ages and when she’d suggested dinner in Portsmouth he’d said he couldn’t manage it and had claimed to be too busy to have her over even if she brought a nice chicken casserole, and after that when she’d tried phoning him his phone had always been off! And she had no idea where he was. Well, with his parents again, she’d got that much out of Terri, but the girl didn’t seem to know where they lived. More than likely he’d told her not to let on. She boiled the kettle and made a mug of coffee, drinking half of it before she worked up the energy to go and see if those dratted kids had bothered to deliver the paper.

    Oh! It had crushed her lavender bush! Just when she’d got it established, too! Frantically she examined the damage. Well, the bush would live—but it looked dreadfully lopsided! She removed the broken sprigs, grimly deciding to dry them for lavender bags, there was no point in letting them go to waste, and who looked inside lavender bags? They’d never know it was only the leaves, and they smelled just as good as the flowers, anyway! She picked up the paper and went back inside, scowling. Somehow she didn’t feel like breakfast. Even though it was a waste of electricity she put the fire on in the front room and sat down in front of it with another coffee and the paper.

    What? It was the wrong one! But who had hers? Who on earth took this thing in Hammer Street? None of the retirees, she was positive. Not nice Mrs Gordon, surely? She was very young, but not a leftie. Probably the stupid kid had simply left the wrong one—in fact probably the whole street had got the wrong paper this morning! She turned the pages discontentedly. Tony Blair and stupid politics and the Americans something or other… The Pension Funds what? Why was that in the news section? Even the pictures were boring. She turned over. Oh! Ooh, it was all about his career in Iraq, ooh, it said he’d got a medal! Why hadn’t he told her? A real war hero with a medal! Carole’s eyes shone. Never mind if it had just been a fling for both of them, it wasn’t everybody that had a fling with a real war hero and a Colonel that commanded a regiment! She bounded up, got her paper-cutting scissors from the kitchen drawer—there was nothing like paper for ruining your good dressmaking shears—and carefully cut it out for the album. And she didn’t care what Belinda Stout said, he was handsome! Very—very manly, especially in his uniform! She got up and made herself another coffee, humming, and a plate of toast and—since it was Sunday—real American grape jelly! Mum said it was an extravagance, and of course it was, they weren’t even in the European Union, but it wasn’t a very big jar and it was lovely jelly!

    She put the radio on, turned down just loud enough to alert her if any nice tune came on, and, though she didn’t approve of food in the front room as a normal rule, set down her tray carefully on the coffee-table in front of the fire. She began to eat her breakfast with the paper beside her on the sofa, flicking over the pages with her left hand and holding the toast with the right so as not to get the pages sticky. Ugh, financial stuff, what did they want to waste all that space for, wasn’t there a thing called The Financial Times that did all that? She flicked over. No: more garbage… She gasped, and the jellied toast fell from her nerveless hand and landed, sunny-side down, on her good Axminster. That was so rude! How could he? And—and that beast Jack Powell had been right all along!

    After quite some time Carole retrieved her toast, put it on the tray, got up and, on legs that shook a little, took the tray through to the kitchen, where she threw all of the remaining toast in the tidy, and then mercilessly scrubbed the dishes in scalding hot water and detergent, giving them a final rinse and setting them carefully to drain. Tea-towels were not hygienic, whatever Mum said. Then she got the floor wiper and the spray-on carpet cleaner and operated on the carpet, following the instructions on the can religiously. Only when the wiper was rinsed and put on the back step to air and the can of cleaner back in its place did she look about her distractedly. Suddenly she rushed back into the front room, grabbed the picture she’d cut out, and tore it violently into tiny pieces, scattering them all over the Axminster. Then she wrenched the rude page out, tears running down her cheeks, and tore it to shreds, too. Then she rushed into her room and threw herself face-down on her pink bed, sobbing.

    Euan’s system of reading the paper—unless it was likely to be reviewing something he was in, of course—was to start with the news, go on to the rather more solid stuff, look at the financial pages to see if his shares were down where they usually were and if there might be a comprehensible article indicating something that was worth investing in (there never was, but some of the articles were surprisingly interesting), and then wallow in the arts section and the reviews. He wasn’t in a hurry to get to the reviews today: he started from page one, with that usual delicious Sunday feeling. The article that mentioned Colin was, if not surprising, quite interesting—but nothing new. The financial section had a short piece on Richard Peregrine-White—could he be any relation of Anna’s? It was an unusual name. He turned over…

    Ah! Superb photo, looked really good!

    There was a tap at his door. Euan jumped. “Come in, Terri.”

    She came in, looking shy. “‘Would you like a cup of coffee?”

    “Aye, I would, thanks very much.” She had the pot on a tray, and carefully poured. Then she said: “Euan, if you have finished with some of the paper, could I please read it?”

    Euan went very red. She usually popped back to Colin’s on a Sunday morning; it hadn't occurred to him that she might like to see the paper. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t think of it,” he said lamely. “Um—well, I’ll just keep the reviews: have the rest of it, Terri.”

    “I don’t want the part about cars.”

    “Nor do I, I’m satisfied with the Beamer. –Look,” he said, smiling, holding up the photo of Anna’s painting.

    “Oh! Wonderful! They have reviewed the new exhibition at L’Informel!!”

    He smiled. “Aye: three cheers. Oh: it says here she is related to Richard Peregrine-White.” Terri looked blank, so he explained who he was, adding: “There’s a wee bit on him in the financial section.”

    Terri laid the paper down on the bed and turned over the pages. “There!” he said.

    “Oh, yes.”

    “There’s a bit about Colin’s Iraq stuff—um, first section, I think. Fairly early on, anyway.

    She turned back eagerly. Euan went back to the reviews.

    “Very interesting. But there are very many military terms.”

    “Eh? Oh. Well, what don’t you understand? Though I don’t guarantee I can explain.”

    Terri began to read out words and phrases. After a bit Euan picked the paper up. “Come and sit beside me, I’m no’ goin’ to leap on you and ravish you.”

    “No, of course not!” she said with a laugh, coming to sit beside him. “There.”

    “Uh—dunno. Some sort of, um, missile—hang on. Anti-missile missile?” he said weakly.

    She nodded…

    Euan came to as he finished reading the gossip. She was still ensconced beside him, buried in the paper. He bit his lip a bit. When he’d taken up with Katie Herlihy, this had been very much the sort of Sunday at the cottage that he’d envisaged: sitting up in bed companionably, reading the Sunday papers. Katie thought that was a waste of time, she preferred to be up and doing. If nothing else, going for a walk in the fresh air.

    “Here,” he said somewhat weakly. “You can have the reviews; can I have the financial section back? There’s a longer article I might read.”

    “Of course.” She handed him the section and glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear! What about lunch?”

    “I don’t feel like cucumber soup any more,” admitted Euan.

    “No,” she agreed on a guilty note.

    “Any of those lovely apricot turnovers left?”

    “Sí. Four.”

    “Good, two each. I’ll get them; and I’ll make another pot of coffee.” He got up, put on his dressing-gown and hurried downstairs, humming.

    Terri hadn't realised there might be anything embarrassing in the situation: she was used to reading the Sunday papers very much en famille when she stayed with Joanie and Seve. It wasn’t always possible in summer, the bar was very busy from mid-morning, but in winter Manuel would hold the fort and Seve would dash over to the news-stand near the hotel which always had the English papers. He and Joanie would read them sitting up in bed and she and Dad had got into the habit of joining them, he in the big saggy armchair by the fireplace and she on the window-seat. The sitting-room was very small, and the big main bedroom had, really, become the most social room in the place: they usually all watched television in there, too. They would start Sunday off with coffee and perhaps pastries or croissants, and later Manuel would bring up a proper lunch and join them—he didn’t mind that they were all reading, he just looked at the pictures in a Spanish paper or checked the racing results. He usually put the radio on, too. Not pop songs: he hated those, he usually listened to a local station that played a lot of gypsy music.

    “I miss the Spanish music,” she said as Euan came back.

    “I should bring my stereo gear down. I’ve got some flamenco: that what you like?”

    “Yes; but I was thinking of the Spanish gypsy music that Manuel likes. What’s the joke?”

    Euan was laughing so much he nearly dropped the tray. He set it down hurriedly. “Not long after she went to Spain Joanie sent Rosie and Rupy some videotapes: some local show she and Seve had filmed. They call ’em Spanish Thunder!” he gasped.

    “Hah, hah,” said Terri, grinning. “It is a bit like that, I suppose.”

    “Aye!” he gasped. He put the tray on her lap and got back into bed very carefully.

    “Terri,” he said, when they were sipping and munching.

    “Mm?” She looked up and smiled at him. “Yes, Euan?”

    “Uh—it’s just occurred to me,” he said, swallowing hard, “that mebbe we should warn Colin that, though the article about Anna’s painting doesna identify him, it’ll no’ be difficult for anyone who knows him, or who sees that shot of him in that thing on Iraq.”

    “Yes? I don’t see that it is a matter of concern,” she said, frowning over it.

    Sweet, wasn’t she? His lips twitched a little. “It wouldn’t be for most people, no. But—uh, well, by the way he described his parents, they’re supposed to be very liberated, but I didna get the impression they’re the sort that are all that open-minded about their children. And the mother’s side sound terribly stuffy. Well, so are most of his father’s side.”

    ”In that case we had best ring him and warn him,” she said firmly.

    “Aye. Have you got his parents’ number?”

    “Yes, and his mobile number.” She felt in the pocket of her apron. “Here.”

    “Weren’t you afraid of losing this?” said Euan feebly, taking the slip of paper.

    “No, for I wear the apron all the day: it is the one place where I could not possibly lose it.”

    “Right,” he said, swallowing a smile. He picked up his mobile, and turned it on. The messages could wait, they’d probably be from Derry. He dialled Colin’s mobile but it was off. He tried the parents’ number. A very upper-class English voice, sounding very, very annoyed, said coldly: “Paul Haworth speaking. We have no comment to make about either the portrait of my son or his military career. Good-da—”

    “No, wait!” he cried. “I’m a friend!”

    “If any of the Duff-Rosses have put you up to this—”

    “No,” said Euan feebly. “It’s Euan Keel. I’m sorry, I know you don’t know me, but I do know Colin. May I speak to him, please?”

    “He may be awake at last, though I doubt it. One moment,” he said grimly.

    Euan laid the phone down in the faint hope of muffling anything he and Terri said. “It was his father, in the De’il’s own temper.”

    “But I thought he was a priest?” she said, her eyes very round,

    “Minister—uh—clergyman. Vicar. Well, yes. Nevertheless. No comment on either the portrait or the Army career.”

    Terri clapped her hand over her mouth and goggled at him.

    “Aye. People must have been ringing them all morning.”

    She nodded frantically.

    “Now I havena the faintest what I’m going to say to him,” he admitted. Picking up the phone, he listened, and shook his head. “Someone shouting. –Oops, that was a leddy shouting.”

    “His mother?” she hissed.

    He shrugged. “Best guess—aye. –Aye, hello, Colin,” he said, making a face at Terri. “It’s Euan. I was ringing to warn you, but I guess the news is out.”

    Colin’s voice replied wryly: “Apparently, yes. I’ve been asleep, though Pa doesn’t seem to believe it. One of the Sundays has published a photo of Anna’s painting, that it?”

    “Yes: The Observer. It doesn’t identify you, but anyone who knows you— And to make it worse, the idiots have run a thing on Iraq with a summary of your military career and a shot of you in uniform in the same issue!”

    “That would have gone down really well,” he said dryly. “Salt in the wound, as it were.”

    “Yes,” agreed Euan awkwardly.

    “Thanks for trying to warn me, though, Euan,” said Colin with a smile in his voice.

    “Aye, well, I tried! Did John no’ ring you?”

    “Could have left a message, though the paper delivery’s rather erratic over their way. Dependant on a boy called Sly with one of those bikes that doesn’t always fancy hills.”

    “Sly? Oh, is his name Sylvester?”

    “No. Sly Hopgood, the butcher’s kid. Doesn’t do martial arts, doesn’t box—one of those unsolved mysteries of modern life!” he said with a laugh.

    In the background his father’s voice said angrily: “What the Hell are you blathering about, Colin? If that’s some damned Scotsman that one of the bloody Duff-Rosses has sicced onto you, hang up!”

    “I’d better go,” said Euan awkwardly. “Seem to be making it worse.”

    “No, he’s making it worse all on his ownsome,” said Colin drily. “Thanks again. I may see you rather soon. Is Terri there?”

    “Yes: she thought we should ring you.”

    “Say hi, and thanks, and I’ll see her soon.”

    “Aye, I will. ’Bye.” He rang off and conveyed Colin’s message.

    “Oh, dear. But it will be nice to have him back,”

    “Aye,” he said, smiling. “Well, we’ve done our best, eh? Like another wee drop of coffee?”

    Colin hung up, and looked wryly at his father. “Sorry. If I’d known it was going to happen, I’d have warned you.”

    “You know you posed for the bloody thing, I presume!”

    “Never expected it to make the Sundays, though. Anna must be as good as the fat man seemed to think.”

    “Kindly do not speak in riddles, Colin,” said his father coldly. “And who the Devil was that Scotsman?”

    “Didn’t he say? Euan Keel.”

    “That’s not amusing, Colin!” said his mother’s voice angrily. She emerged from the kitchen regions. “What are you keeping your father hanging around out here in the cold for?”

    “I’m not, he’s keeping himself. By all means let’s continue the row in the sitting-room.” He held the door for them. They glared, but went in.

    “That was Euan Keel. He’s a friend of Rosie’s,” he said flatly.

    “That explains how you know him, I suppose!” she snapped.

    “Well, yes.”

    “Next thing you’ll be claiming to know Derry Dawlish!” sneered his mother.

    Colin sighed. “I do: he’s the fat man I just mentioned to Pa and it’s about ten to one he’ll buy that painting.”

    “That’s extremely unfunny, Colin,” she said coldly.

    “Quite,” agreed his father acidly.

    Colin sighed. “I apologise abjectly for being painted in the nuddy and not telling you. That what you wanted to hear?”

    “Kindly don’t be flippant,” said his father coldly. “I suppose you realise the bloody Duff-Rosses are rubbing their hands in an ecstasy of I-told-you-so’s over this?”

    “Don’t think they’ve the imagination to have told you any such thing, have they?” said Colin mildly.

    “Don’t be so bloody rude!” cried his mother.

    “Come off it, Ma, I’ve heard you say much worse about Uncle Hector.”

    She flushed angrily. “That has nothing to do with it! Don’t try to change the subject!”

    “What is the subject?” said Colin drily.

    “You making a bloody public spectacle of yourself, that’s what!” replied his father angrily.

    “The thing hasn’t got my name on it. And since I’m no longer in Her Majesty’s employ, it’s no-one’s business but mine.”

    “Rubbish! Clive’s absolutely furious: all his City contacts read the damned thing!” he warned.

    Colin eyed him sardonically. His brother-in-law was a professional fund-raiser, at the moment in the employ of a large private charity. Not how he’d met Viola: he’d been raising funds for something a lot less worthy, in fact political, back then, and on realising just what Pa’s contacts were had clung to Viola like a leech. Now he was more sanctimonious than the professional do-gooders themselves, hard though it was to believe that anyone could be. Well, barring all officials of the Church of England. “Why should they connect it with Clive?”

    “Because there’s a photo of you a few pages back in uniform with your bloody name under it!” he snapped.

    “Oh—yeah, so Euan said. Is it the uniform or the nuddy that you’re afraid’ll put the kybosh on Clive’s attempts to squeeze dough out of these City types, Pa? Perhaps he could wear a little notice saying ‘I am not my brother-in-law’s keeper’,” he said thoughtfully. “Or no: strikes an unchristian note, not that Clive is one.”

    His father turned puce. “That is beyond the pale!”

    ”Don’t be such a bloody hypocrite,” said Colin tiredly. “I could dance naked in Piccadilly Circus and you and Clive wouldn’t give a damn so long as no-one in your sanctimonious crowd was reminded that I’ve spent my working life in uniform. Though actually, since 9/11 it’s fashionable in leftist circles—or hadn't you noticed that the balance of power his shifted to the New Left?”

    “Stop that, Colin!” snapped his mother.

    Colin bit his lip. “Yeah. Sorry, Pa. But I would have warned you if I’d known the thing was going to appear so publicly.”

    “It’s apparently on public display in Bond Street!” he shouted.

    “Look, what does it matter?” said Colin heavily.

    “You’ve humiliated your family!” he shouted.

    Pa had never given a damn about the family. Certainly not about the Haworths, with whom he had nothing in common, and very little, in spite of lip service, about his own nuclear family. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry,” he said tiredly. “Hasn’t John rung?”

    His parents exchanged annoyed glances. Then his mother said: “It may have escaped your notice, but since he took up with that Australian actress person—don’t tell me she’s a sociologist, thank you, that has worn very thin—John has become distinctly odd.”

    “Human, you mean. Not that he wasn’t always, only you two couldn’t see past the uniform. What odd thing has he done now?”

    “How should I know? He certainly hasn’t had the decency to phone us!”

    “Probably doesn’t know,” he said, scratching the beard. “Sly won’t have delivered their paper!” He collapsed in sniggers.

    “I am very tired of your levity, Colin,” stated his father grimly.

    “And for goodness’ sake, shave that thing off!” snapped his mother.

    “Yeah: makes me look like a drop-out, doesn’t it?” said Colin sardonically.

    She changed tack—possibly not consciously, he recognised drily. “Colin, dear, we’re only interested in what’s best for you.”

    “No, you’re not, Ma. You’re interested in what’s best for the environment, and for the poor and underprivileged, and for the world’s children—oh, and for the whales; but you’ve never been interested in what’s best for me. I think I might go.” He went out.

    There was silence in the Paul Haworths’ slightly shabby but very comfortable living-room with its deep armchairs, its small collection of Spode that Colin’s mother was rather fond of, it had come to her from her maternal grandmother, its Lalique bowl that had been handed down from Great-Aunt Ellie Haworth and which his father kept for sentimental reasons, not because he was interested in useless icons that bolstered the wealthy’s belief in their infallibility, and its walnut commode that a local antique dealer had offered them a very large sum for that they hadn't really needed—and after all, it had belonged to Paul’s great-grandparents, and it was very useful.

    “How long has that been rankling?” said Colin’s mother dazedly.

    His father snorted. “It’ll be that knock on the head! He hasn’t been right since he came back from that pointless blood-bath!”

    “No, well, there is that.”

    He paced around the room. “I’ll ring Clive!” he said grimly.

    His wife sighed but didn’t try to dissuade him. Clive and Paul had decided that, with his experience in forward planning, logistics and tactics, Colin would be an asset to the charity. And it’d be something he could do, something to occupy him, reassure him that he was still useful in the world! Oh, dear.

    Richard Peregrine-White did normally give himself Sunday morning off, and did normally glance through the Sunday papers in bed—though if there was anything significant in them, highly unlikely, his PA would of course alert him to the fact and provide a brief summary and background. This morning, however, he slept later than usual, so he just glanced at the headlines and turned to the reviews in The Observer. He usually looked first for anything historical in the book reviews: history was a hobby of his. Oh. Old school ties, you pat my back, I’ll pat yours. He sniffed, cast the paper aside and firmly got up. That pile of rubbish on his desk would not have miraculously vanished overnight. And if Matthew Haworth thought he was going to pay through the nose for Flinders & Haworth without going over every detail of their transactions for the last ten years, minimum, with a fine-tooth comb, he was dreaming. As for their so-called projections! Boyd’s Bank’s own analysts had given him a much more realistic picture.

    Peace reigned in his elegant modern flat with its view of the river. The couple who looked after him did not live in: it maddened him having people underfoot and the flat, though not small, was not that spacious. And in any case it was their day off. Richard worked steadily until one o’clock, and then made his lunch: rye bread, smoked salmon and the non-fat yoghurt and dill dressing which his cook had left in the fridge for him. He did watch his caffeine intake, but as it was Sunday he allowed himself a demitasse after lunch. He was sipping it, back at his desk, when the phone rang. His PA. Swallowing a sigh, he picked up.

    “Yes, Joshua?”

    Joshua wondered if he had seen the review section of The Observer today. No, not the history book, sir, the art exhibitions. Richard could hear him swallowing.

    “Look, if Leda’s had herself snapped in the altogether again, I have it say it, Joshua, I don't care!”

    This was his ex-wife: his PA swallowed again. “Not Lady Leda, no, sir.”

    “Mallory?” said Richard in tones of doom. His elder daughter was an idiot—took after her mother.

    “No, sir.”

    “Not Potter Purbright?” he croaked.

    This time there was a smile in Joshua’s voice. “Of course not, sir! Miss Paula is safely at school.”

    “Too much sense to get herself mixed up in anything remotely connected with anything reviewable!” agreed Richard with a laugh. “I presume it’s not James?”

    James Peregrine-White was a solid young man, unlike his father in anything but the fair hair and pale blue eyes. He was in the Navy. It hadn’t been a career Richard had anticipated for his only son, but he’d clearly be hopeless at any sort of business, so he hadn't raised any objections when he’d wanted a commission. He was now in his first posting, somewhere in the Persian Gulf.

    “No, it’s nothing to do with the children. It, um, well, there’s a feature article on an artist who’s claiming to be your cousin.”

    There was a short silence. Then he said evenly: “You mean my name is mentioned?”

    Joshua Young closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes.”

    “Just hold on, would you, Joshua, I’ll take a look for myself,” he said evenly.

    Oh, God! thought Joshua. But he’d have got to hear of it anyway: he got to hear of everything. He waited.

    “I see. Thank you for alerting me, Joshua,” he said coolly.

    “The paper must have made a mistake, sir,” he stumbled.

    “In that case their lawyers will be hearing from us. But you know, I really don’t think they would have claimed any such thing off their own bat,” he said lightly.

    “You mean she claimed it?” he croaked.

    “She or that frightful little man from L’Informel.”

    Joshua bit his lip. L’Informel had had something which they’d tried to say might have been a Miró  sketch. “Um, yes. Shall I check into it?”

    “I really think you might, Joshua, yes,” he said with horrible lightness. “I don’t particularly care for having my name used as a piece of self-promotion. Thank you.”

    Numbly Joshua bade him goodbye and hung up. Oh, God.

    Richard’s phone rang again about two minutes later. He blinked: Potter Purbright’s school? He snatched it up.

    “Hullo, Dad!” said his youngest offspring’s cheerful tones.

    Richard sagged. “Hullo, darling. The dragons letting you ring me, are they?”

    “They recognised the urgency of the situation,” said Potter Purbright with a smile in her voice. “Have you seen The Observer this morning?”

    “Yes. It’s rather a nice painting, isn’t it?”

    “Yes, but Dad, she’s not our cousin, is she?”

    “No,” he said grimly. “Not unless your frightful Great-Uncle William produced lawful offspring that he never let on about.”

    “You’d think he’d have demanded vast sums for them, if he had produced any,” she admitted on a regretful note.

    “Yes,” said Richard sourly. “And then gambled and drunk them away.”

    “Yeah. He is dead, isn’t he?”

    “Yes, thank Christ! Died about five years back—intestate, of course. There was only George and Margaret.”

    “That’s what I thought. She always sends me a birthday card!” revealed Potter Purbright.

    George Peregrine-White and Margaret Hanson, née Peregrine-White, were unlikely descendants of Richard’s bloody Uncle Will: stodgily upright Methodists of the old-fashioned sort. Lived in Chelmsford and had never given the family a moment’s anxiety, or asked for a penny, in all their blameless existences. Richard smiled a little. “Glad to hear it, darling. Read the book reviews?”

    Potter Purbright had, and expounded at length on the shallowness, old-boymanship and general ineptitude of the history review. And rang off with the assurance she’d see him next weekend.

    Richard made a little face. Potter Purbright was sixteen. There had been too many weekends when she hadn't seen him. Most especially when he and her bloody mother had still been married. He tried to see a lot more of her now: Leda was supremely uninterested in her.

    He went back to his work, but after some time looked up and frowned. Then he rang Joshua. Had anything been done about advertising abroad when Uncle Will died? Joshua thought not: there was nothing to leave, and if he recalled, in fact substantial debts.

    “Ye-es. He was out of England for some time—or so we concluded, the demands on Father’s purse dried up. Um—look, check with the family lawyers on Monday, Joshua: they may have a record of where he went—I think it was Canada. I suppose this artist could be a legitimate daughter: poor Freda divorced him when it became clear that the fugue seemed to be final, unlike the half-dozen temporary disappearances with floozies that preceded it.”

    “I’ll do that, sir. What was he actually like? I mean as a person?” he asked curiously.

    Richard made a face. “Apart from being an unscrupulous scoundrel? Bags of charm. Father claimed he was irresistible to a certain type of woman—well, look at poor Freda. The later photos of her don’t show it, but she was terrifically handsome as a young woman, and quite determined she could make something of him.”

    “I think it’s more than likely he did remarry, then,” he said in somewhat shaken tones.

    “Mm,” said Richard wryly. “In all probability more than once. Bigamously or not—the dates will need to be checked.”

    He tried to concentrate on his work once he’d hung up but it was no good. He picked up The Observer again, frowning. No—no indication where this so-called Anna Peregrine-White might have sprung from. The mention of his name was the only biographical information. There was no photo of the artist. He sighed, and went back to work.

    Owing to those vagaries of the paper delivery system in Bellingford, the Haworths didn’t get a paper at all that Sunday. However, as Rosie was throwing up, it wasn’t really missed. John made her go back to bed. He’d missed the worst of the morning sickness when Baby Bunting was on the way, but he’d come in for enough of it to know it was unlikely she’d be feeling better until elevenish. He advised her to stay in bed. She snapped that she wasn’t sick, she was merely pregnant. He replied mildly that she looked bloody crook to him and went out before she could tell him that the Aussie vernacular sounded very silly in his accent. So what with Baby Bunting choosing today to throw out a new tooth—at least, the redness of the cheeks, the roaring, and the redness and tenderness of the gum certainly indicated as much—he didn’t get over to the Superette until mid-afternoon.

    Murray in person was on duty behind the counter and greetings were duly exchanged, with enquiries after Rosie which were not meant as conventional ones at all. The red-faced infant in his pushchair was inspected and Murray declared it was a tooth, all right—Belinda!—and he was sure they had something for it. Belinda rushed in and provided the right stuff. John looked at it dubiously but on being assured that Ms Deane Jennings had had it for Kiefer, let her give him a dose. He didn’t scream, bash her in the eye or just plain bellow, all of which phenomena had been encountered earlier in the day, in fact he licked his lips, so that was all right.

    John then conceded Rosie probably would be feeling like a nice strawberry cheesecake this evening, allowed Murray to sell him two while Belinda was serving a weekender in search of a special brand of chilli paste not found west of Sumatra—“They’re all like that,” she groaned as the strangely-clad young man exited, looking sulky—and finally got to ask after his Observer.

    “Oh, shit,” croaked Murray, his jaw sagging. “That must’ve been yours!”

    “Don’t worry about it,” he said nicely.

    “No, um, the thing is, all the little buggers let me down this morning except Amanda—that kid’s worth her weight in gold.”

    “Solid gold bacon and black pudding,” noted Belinda, rapidly serving a retiree with a small tin of Nescaff and a small tin of sliced peaches and accepting the fifty-pound note with a resigned expression.

    “Um, well, we had to do the lot by ourselves: I couldn’t ask the kid to do it on an empty stomach,” he said feebly. “Um, thing is, it took ages, and we ended up in Medlars Lane with a spare paper, and I thought it was just one that should’ve gone to George Str—um, never mind that. Anyway, we gave it to Euan Keel. Only we forgot all about Miller’s Bay!”

    “That’s all right, Murray: wholly understandable!”

    “This isn’t an Oriental grocery, dear,” said Belinda firmly as a young female weekender tried to ask for rice-noodles and coriander. “But the rice and the noodles are just down the back, there, you can’t miss them. Past the biscuits.”

    Looking stunned, she forged off in the direction of what John knew were the packets of rice and the packets of spaghetti. Oh, well, she’d either learn, or give up the whole idea.

    He was untying Tim from the lamppost outside the shop when Murray hurried out. “Try this on ’im,” he said, presenting Baby Bunting with a rusk and stuffing the opened packet in the carrybag attached to the back of the pushchair. “There ya go, fella! Nice rusk! Mmm!”

    “Thanks, Murray,” said John feebly.

    “Forgot to tell you.”

    “Mm?” he prompted, as he’d stopped.

    Murray scratched his plump chin. “She won’t want to ’ear this,” he warned.

    Oh, God! Now what? Another old-timer dropped off the twig? Marital breakdown? Worse, breakdown of relationship looking likely to lead to marital relations? The parking-lot agitators’ having got their way and a whole set of cottagers’ homes being razed to provide—Phew! No. The Arvidsons selling “that modern place of theirs up Albert Street.” It was a lovely house: he’d looked at it last time it was for sale; not because he’d wanted to buy it but out of simple curiosity. Him and half of Bellingford, actually. “Modern,” however, was a bit of a misnomer: it had been built in 1949. A classic house of its type: it would be a pity to see it replaced.

    “Let’s hope it doesn’t go to a developer,” he said mildly.

    Murray blinked. “Um, yeah. Well, I was thinking of Rosie’s stats, more.”

    John rather thought they wouldn’t be affected: whoever bought the house would be highly likely to be in the income bracket that bought “named” recliners and whatever else it was Rosie and Greg had gone on about. A model of fridge that no-one else in the whole of Bellingford owned, that was it! He hadn’t asked if it was the same model as Battersea Power Station, though it had been an effort. He made appropriate noises, attempted to pay Murray for the rusks and was of course rebuffed, and eventually set off for a little walk, as the infant seemed happy with his rusk and Tim certainly needed the exercise. He headed for Albert Street—why not?

    He was at the corner of Medlars Lane, reflecting that it would probably be safe to let Tim off his lead soon—Tim had plenty of sense but the Volvo-owners of the lower part of Dipper Street didn’t—when a huge limo slid to a stop beside him and an enormous voice boomed: “John!”

    Tim reacted with a fusillade of barks. On the whole John felt rather like joining in.

    “Hush, Tim. Quiet,” he said, not too emphatically. “Hullo, Derry. How are you?”

    “Splendid, splendid! And how are you? Looking fit as ever!”

    John made all the appropriate remarks, wishing the man at Jericho, and as Derry asked if he was heading for Euan’s, too, replied firmly that he wasn’t: he was going further up to look at a house that had had just come on the mark—Oh, Christ! Wrong move entirely, he proposed and seconded himself to accompany him. John could have argued, but it would have been damned rude—and besides, if he gave in now there might be some faint hope of shaking him off later and walking home in peace and quiet. There was plenty of room in the back of the limo, so they wedged Baby Bunting’s pushchair firmly between the seats, Tim was hauled in, protesting vociferously, and off they went.

    Number 10 Albert Street, in other words the whole of that side of the street, received Derry’s loud approval, as did the huge, gnarled linden that dominated its rather narrow front garden, the rest being a severely controlled lawn, a severe semicircular drive, and a selection of fair-sized oval stones.

    “It gets more Frank Lloyd Wright at the side—the eastern side—and the back,” said John somewhat neutrally.

    “Ah! A stream?”

    “No, though there is a heavy stone wall and various little walks. I think quite a lot was bulldozed out of the slope of the hill when it was built, though to look at it now you’d think it was built right into it, wouldn’t you?”

    Derry agreed enthusiastically and wondered if it was open to view? But the agents’ board informed them it wasn’t, one had to apply to them. “If they’re serious about selling, would they mind if one just knocked?” he said on a wistful note.

    Had the man ever bought a house before? Certainly he owned at least one—but in his income bracket that was not the same thing. “I think they might be rather annoyed,” he murmured. “The householders usually need advanced warning to tidy up and make sure the place is in pristine condition.”

    Derry didn’t think that mattered. Then he had an inspiration! He’d send in his card!

    John, his pushchair and his disgusting rusk-smeared infant just stood well back and left him to it.

    Unfortunately the garden wasn’t so narrow that he could hear what went on at the large Frank Lloyd Wrightish varnished wooden door—ash, he rather thought. It closed, and Derry returned, looking crestfallen.

    “It wasn’t Heather Carter, was it?” murmured John.

    “Uh—no. Thin chap. Grey sweater. Cashmere,” he said, scowling. “Cool as a cucumber. Said the right sort of interest would be welcome and the agents would be happy to arrange a time to view.”

    “Mm. Rosie reports she’s one of those limp, greyish women with cold hands.”

    “Then they’re well suited!”

    “Mm.” John glanced at the array of French windows of the big, split-level house, but nothing moved behind the thin-slatted, genuine wooden Venetians. “It is a lovely house, Derry, but could you be happy in it?” he said cautiously.

    “I suppose someone told you the villa’s pink!” he returned crossly.

    “Several people,” agreed John, unmoved.

    “That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate this style of house!”

    “I know, but that’s not the same as being comfortable in it, Derry.”

    “Rubbish! Roaring log fires, a few of my own bits and pieces—I’ve got a lovely genuine Navajo rug in storage—” Etcetera. John agreed with his every word, hoping to escape, but a flurry of rain blew up and Derry forced him back into the limo.

    They ended up at Euan’s in time for Terri to give them cups of Earl Grey accompanied by fried quince-filled pastries—perhaps quince jam, it was very thick and sweet. Euan admitted they’d been eating pastries all day and had finished all the apricot jam.

    Derry then inspected the dinner arrangements and announced he’d stay, cordially inviting John, but the threatened rain had blown over so he escaped, complete with his thawed cheesecakes—they’d eat them tonight, so it didn’t matter—a bottle of preserved quinces, what they’d do with them he didn’t have a clue, but perhaps Greg would like them, and a greaseproof packet of fried pastries. On due consideration, John popped in next-door and gave them to Yvonne. He didn’t think Rosie needed them as well as cheesecake, and he certainly didn’t. Besides, the poor woman deserved a treat: this week the terrible infant had stuffed all her tights down her toilet. Incidentally, he had let Terri feed him on spoonfuls of quince mush and then nodded off like an angel. Terri had seemed really keen, and Euan had seemed rather keen on her keenness. Hmm. On due consideration, Rosie wouldn’t be favoured with that morsel, either!

    She was fast asleep on the big sofa when he got home. John washed the infant’s horrid face, kissed the rosy result gingerly, though the tooth certainly didn’t seem to be playing him up any more, failed to persuade him to let Dada see his toofy-pegs, changed the nappy for about the sixteenth time that day, and, though he probably didn’t need it, gave him his dinner. He was practically dropping in his tracks—well, all that screaming and plate-hurling no doubt took it out of a chap—so he bathed him and put him to bed. Of course having to change the nappy yet again.

    Then he sat down by the electric fire with a whisky. Tim came and lay down on the rug with a huffing noise, resting his chin on his ankles. “Mm. Later, fella,” he murmured, opening the somewhat greasy and sticky Observer which Euan had kindly passed on. Peace reigned…

    John sat bolt upright, goggling. He looked at the sleeping Rosie. Then he got up, grabbed the answering machine and took it and its long cord through to the lobby, carefully closing the French doors behind him. There were an awful lot of messages—emphasis on the awful.

    Fiona: “Have you seen it? Anna’s wonderful picture of Colin’s in The Observer! There’s a whole page on it! She’s made! What did I tell you?”

    Their former neighbour at the flats, old Miss Hammersley: “Tuppence Hammersley here. My dears, if you haven’t seen today’s Observer, I just thought I should mention that there’s a rather silly portrait of your Cousin Colin in it. Not that anybody who knows him will think anything of it, of course!”

    Norman: “John, old man, I suppose you do realise there’s a bloody indecent picture of Colin in the bloody Observer? Don’t blame me, I thought it was one of Fiona’s damned exaggerations when she said it had gone to Bond Street.”

    Father: “John, old man, have you seen today’s Observer? Couldn’t you have stopped damned Colin? I mean, it’s gone beyond a joke!”

    Susan Corcoran, John’s former First Officer’s wife: “John, dear, it’s Susan. I know it’s none of my business, but there’s an awful picture of Colin in The Observer this morning. I really think— Well, I mean, it’s not normal, is it? Especially for a man of his age. And goodness knows I ought to know what a serving officer goes through, but— Well, couldn’t you get him some help, John? Do give my love to Rosie and tell her I know exactly what it’s like, I was just like that with our John! And a big kiss for Baby Bunting!”

    Old Cousin Matthew Haworth: “What the Devil are you playing at, John? Thought the idea was you were giving Colin some space to look about him, or some such rubbish? Have you seen that bloody picture of him in the fucking Sunday papers? Next thing we know the tabloids’ll have hold of it!”

    Molly: “We’ve just seen Anna’s big picture of Colin in one of the papers. Susan says it’s one of the top papers and she’ll be absolutely made after a review like that! Isn’t it wonderful? Sucks to Aunty Julia! –No, Micky, it’s just the machine, you can talk to them another time. ’Bye for now!”

    Susan Walsingham: “Susan Walsingham here. Molly didn’t get it; thought I’d better ring you. The thing is, the blasted paper’s also got an article on Iraq that includes a photo of your cousin with his name under it. Dare say it might not go down too well with some of his family. Hope I’m not sticking my nose in.”

    Colin’s father: “This is Paul Haworth. I presume you people knew that Colin was about to make a public spectacle of himself. We’d have appreciated some warning, if you couldn’t manage to prevent him.”

    June Potts: “Um, I suppose you’ve seen today’s Observer? There’s a big photo of one of Anna’s pictures… Um, well, it’s art, of course, and it’s wonderful that she’s showing in Bond Street, but I’m afraid it’s nothing like those lovely pictures at The Green Apple. I had no idea when Fiona was so keen on Bond Street that that was what she meant! I mean, I thought it was going to be seagulls or something! Um, well, just in case you don’t know about it, I think I ought to warn you—Go AWAY, George! Sorry. I was just going to say, it’s just a bit rude. But real art, of course!”

    George Potts: “Wish you two’d answer your phone sometimes. Don’t take any notice of June. Damned fine thing. Er—only thing is, I sort of gathered from, um, an article on the war in Iraq that it’s your cousin, Colin Haworth, John. Thought I ought to mention it. June maintains it isn’t, of course. No, well, good for Anna.”

    Colin’s brother, Michael: “Hullo, John. I say, the parents have got hold of some damned picture of Colin, stripped. I know you couldn’t have stopped him, old man, but couldn’t you possibly have a word? He’s not mixed up with this damned woman artist, is he?”

    Colin’s sister, Viola: “John, dear, it’s Viola. Ma and Pa have seen that awful picture of Colin in The Observer. I do think you might have stopped him! I mean, you went and offered him a cottage. We were quite prepared to have him here! Clive’s awfully miffed, he says he’ll never be taken seriously if he wants to go into fund raising, and I must say, one can see his point. Do drop in on us once the fuss has died down, won’t you? Love to see you! And Rosie, of course!”

    Colin’s maternal uncle: “Hector Duff-Ross here. Look here, John, the family would appreciate a warning next time Colin takes it into his head to make a public spectacle of himself. And for God’s sake, man, get him some help!”

    Admiral Sir Kenneth Hammersley (this was getting ridiculous, yes): “Kenneth Hammersley here. None of my business, John, but there’s a damned silly picture of your Cousin Colin in one of the ruddy Sunday papers. Post traumatic stress syndrome. Get him some help, there’s a good chap.”

    Georgia: “Hi. ’S’me. Anna’s picture of Colin’s in The Observer! Isn’t it fantastic? Fiona was right, that stuck-up place in Bond Street’s gonna be the making of her! Sucks to Aunty Julia!”

    A completely strange female voice: “John, darling! You won’t remember little me, but it’s Rosemary Dalziel! Rosemary Abbott-Pryce that was! If I was to say ‘delirious summer in Gib,’ would that ring any bells, darling?” (Very silly giggle.) “One has just seen that naughty, naughty picky of Colin in The Observer! My dear, hasn’t he kept his figure! Not the only one, darling: adored that picky of you and your Lily Rose in Spain! Do give him my love, and if he’s at a loose end, little me would absolutely adore to hear from him: we could talk over old times!” (Very silly giggle.) “We’re in the book, tell him! Oh—Dicky’s got his K, so tiresome! So it’s under Sir R. Dalziel! Ciao!”

    A completely strange male voice: “Good afternoon. My name’s Joshua Young. I’m trying to obtain a current address for a Colonel Colin Haworth. If you can help, please call me, reversing the charges, on…” There followed a London number. John rolled his eyes. He hadn’t thought Colin appealed to that sort, at all.

    Colin’s mother: “John, it’s Aunt Liz. I’m afraid Colin’s father’s very upset about that horrid picture of him in The Observer—well, we both are. However, one must make allowances—though I have to say it, he was extremely rude to his father and me! He’s rushed off back to Hampshire. Could you possibly let us know that he’s got there safely? Oh—we have to go up to London this evening, we’re meeting with the leaders of a non-dairy lobby group that Paul’s very keen to see joining the crusade against GM soybeans. But just leave a message with Clive and Viola.” John sighed and passed his hand over his bald pate.

    Joanie Potts (all the way from Spain, yes): “We’ve just seen Anna’s picture in The Observer! Isn’t it exciting! I’m so glad! Seve sends his love!”

    The last two messages were from Rupy: “Darlings, fab pic of Colin in The Observer, darling Anna’s fortune is made! Must rush, date with yummy Jimmy Smith!”

    “Um, ’s’me again. Um, Jimmy says that there’s a horrid article on Iraq in the same issue as Colin’s pic and they’ve identified him. Um, well, ’tisn’t as if he’s still in the Army, it can’t possibly turn out as bad as that pic of Rosie and you in Spain did, John, um, but I just thought there may be ructions from the family. Um, sorry, dears, just thought I’d better warn you.”

    On due consideration—though he did make a mental note to ring the well-meaning ones—John erased the lot.