Penny In The Old Man's Hat

15

Penny In the Old Man’s Hat

    Anna’s cottage pictures were greeted with unalloyed rapture by their recipients that Christmas—though their relatives weren’t all so sure.

    Jack’s picture was on account he’d agreed to pose for her and hadn’t accepted cash money for it, same like old Jim—and had come as a complete surprise. He was over in Portsmouth, of course, at his daughter’s. For once Steve was home. Home but unable to stop young Gareth rising at five o’clock in a state of huge excitement, however, so they all got up and opened their presents. Well, first the adults knocked back mugs of coffee with a nip in them, since it was Christmas. Jack had already had a look at it—he’d thought he’d better be forewarned. But it wasn’t rude and it wasn’t particularly funny—until you looked at it for a while and then it sort of dawned and you had a real good grin. It showed him in his black denims and grubby red jumper at the right-hand side. Leftish in the distance was a sort of hill with a lane going up it and his cottage perched on top of it. Top Lane, see? The left foreground was occupied by his truck in all ’er glory. Bits of junk sticking out the back and all. Him and the truck were exactly the same height and he had his hand in a friendly way on ’er bonnet. It was called Jack with Truck and Cottage at Top Lane, but it might just as well of been Jack Loves His Truck. Gareth was completely thrilled and told him he had to hang it on his wall but Sylvia and Steve were a bit dubious until he told them what Mr James Poncy Allen reckoned he could get for the Australian one that was the same size and style, and then they all had another nip on the strength of it. Well, it was Christmas.

    In Moulder’s Way Micky was up at five-forty. Pretty good going, considering the time at which their joint efforts had finally forced him to go to bed last night. His presents had to be first, of course, and he had to be re-reassured that there’d be more over at John and Rosie’s later. He gaped at the picture that the very flushed Molly, protesting that Anna shouldn’t have, had just unwrapped. “It’s us! I’m as big as you, Mum!”

    Susan Walsingham went into a spluttering fit. Molly and Micky were simply standing holding hands, smiling, in front of Anna’s cottage. The perspective wasn’t right: the cottage was shown in full—well, the naïve thing, yes. He was right, they were the same height.

    “It’s not funny, it’s neat!” he cried scornfully.

    It was then Susan’s turn to redden, as she unwrapped a smaller flat package in the same Santa-patterned paper. A pencil sketch of Micky’s head.

    “I thought you might like to have it,” said Anna simply.

    “Shut up, Fat Ego,” she said with a sigh as he cried: “Hey, it’s me again! Look, Mum, it’s me again!”—“Thanks very much, Anna.”

    The presents had all been opened—Micky being reassured yet again there’d be more for everybody over at John and Rosie’s—and now he’d just go over and see if Colin—NO.

    “Wait until you see lights go on in his cottage, Micky,” said Molly firmly.

    He rushed to the window…

    Colin and Terri were awake, just, and had wished each other a very merry Christmas and were sipping some of her wonderful coffee while Terri, still very flushed, looked at the recipes in the extremely second-hand copy of Jane Grigson’s Vegetable Book that Colin had found for her, when there was a thunderous knocking on the front door.

    “It’s Micky, not the last trump. Though it’ll feel like it,” Colin warned.

    Aw-wuh! Colin and Terri had started opening their presents without him! Lamely they apologised. Lamely Colin said he’d thought the rest were going to be opened over at John’s—All right, Micky could open his now and they’d open theirs from him and Molly…

    “That’s it, I think,” said Colin feebly after he’d ascertained that his presents worked. No! He’d get—

    Colin grabbed him just as he was about to race out. “Adults go back to bed on Christmas morning, geddit? A long-standing British tradition. Go on, tell me they didn’t go back to bed and I’ll eat that electronic thing.”

    “Aw-wuh! You’re up!”

    In reply to this effort Colin got back into bed and pulled the covers right up over his head.

    “Co-lin!” he wailed.

    Colin sat up resignedly. “Oh, go on. Trot them over here. If I’m going to suffer they can, too.”

    Beaming, Micky raced out.

    … “Sorry!” said Molly, with a loud giggle. “Merry Christmas!”

    They were all in their dressing-gowns, hadn't that said anything to the Christmas-befuddled pre-pubescent brain of Master Leach? Colin sat up resignedly and prepared to be merry.

    Anna’s unexpected gift to him cheered him up immediately. Tears ran down his cheeks and he was unable to speak.

    “Don’t laugh!” cried Micky aggrievedly. “It’s not funny! It’s good!”

    It was good, all right. The style was faux-naïf, like her other cottage pictures, but this was an interior scene—the room they were in, in fact. Over the fireplace hung a picture of the cottage itself. In front of it sat Colin in his easy chair and Jim Parker and Jack Powell in the cane chairs, with glasses of beer in their fists. The glass-topped table, centred, was occupied by empty beer bottles and Rupy’s felt pineapple, every nasty tricolour diamond on it lovingly depicted. To Colin’s rear Terri was standing with his brown teapot in her hand, looking disapproving. The picture had a frame—something of the same treatment Anna had given the one of Mrs Mason. But this frame wasn’t standard roses, it was beer bottles.

    “Ooh, look! The bottles all have different labels!” cried Terri.

    “Yes,” said the artist modestly. “People collect them. Rosie looked them up on the Internet for me.”

    “What’s it called?” asked Colin, grinning. “R&R in Bellingford?”

    “No,” she said placidly. “Colin with his Boozing Mates.”

    Her audience collapsed with one accord.

    Mr Parker had of course not been forgotten and now they had to go up to—No, Micky. It was too early. But it was already nine o’clock! Actually it was eight fifty-two. And, as whatever Micky had previously consumed hadn't been breakfast, they all had it together. It was said to be traditional in Spain at Christmas and it was certainly delicious, even if they couldn’t pronounce any of it. Nobody was capable of stopping him after that, so he raced up the road. Some time later it dawned that he wasn’t coming back so they hastily got dressed and went up there.

    “Merry Christmas, Jim,” said Colin, grinning broadly, holding out a present. It was shaped like a square bottle, though true, it was wrapped in robins and holly, so Jim replied happily: “Merry Christmas! Looks merry, all right! Come in, we’re sort of on deck.”

    “Merry Christmas, Jim. I hope Micky didn’t you wake you up?” said Molly anxiously.

    “Nope, we was up. Well, I say up, me and Norm usually give Jeannie breakfast in bed on Christmas Day and ’ave a bite of black pudding ourselves—she can’t stand it.” He led them in and introduced them to his dressing-gowned son and daughter-in-law.

    The painting was already in pride of place over the mantelpiece. “Looks good, dunnit?” he said proudly.

    Colin grinned and nodded, Molly cried ecstatically: “Oh! It’s wonderful!” and Terri gasped and clapped her hands.

    Jim’s lovely little cottage occupied the upper half of the picture, surrounded by pink and white clouds, pale blue waves, and small gambolling mermaids and spouting whales. On the bright green lawn stood Jim and his mermaid, she slightly taller then he, arms round each other’s waists. The lawn was edged by the picket fence, with roses and sea-shells peeping from it here and there.

    “See, Aunty Susan, that’s his mermaid, from his fountain!” urged Micky, jumping.

    “Right,” she croaked.

    “Guess what he gimme?”

    Jim had given Micky a model launch about two feet long, radio controlled!

    “My God,” said Colin in awe. The launch was wooden, beautifully made. “Did you make it, Jim?” The old man replied that he did a bit of woodwork in his spare time, yeah.

    “Micky, say thank you,” said Molly feebly.

    “I did!” he returned scornfully. “Hey, guess what Norm and Jeannie gave him!”

    Astonishingly, nobody could guess. Micky urged that it was in the kitchen. Still nobody guessed. It was a real waffle-maker! Jim admitted sheepishly that Luke had told him about American waffles and he’d mentioned them to Norm but he hadn't thought the silly buggers’d go this far. Micky urged the visitors out to see it in all its glory.

    Susan was back first. “I don’t mind if I do,” she admitted as Norm sympathetically held up a bottle. She sat down with a sigh. “Merry Christmas, I suppose!” she said with a feeble laugh.

    “Yeah. Well, Dad and me were up.”

    “Och, will you stop behaving like an old Scrooge!” cried his wife. “The wee boy’s entitled to his Christmas, bless him!’

    “Yeah.” Norm eyed the door warily but there was no sign of the rest of them. “What do you reckon about this picture, Susan?”

    Susan didn’t offer her opinion of its artistic merits. “Hasn’t Jim said? She did one a bit like it that the dealer thinks he should be able to sell for at least three thousand.”

    Norm and Jeannie gulped, and he admitted: “Dad did say something like that, but we thought it was just one of his leg-pulls.”

    “Aye,” said Jeannie numbly. “Three thoosand poonds?”

    “Uh-huh.” Susan raised her glass, looking wry. “Cheers!”

    “Cheers!” agreed the Parkers fervently.

    The man known in Bellingford as Luke Beaumont had wondered why, exactly, the Georgia peach had proposed and seconded herself to share his cottage for Christmas—was it just that Anna’s was rather full? But he hadn't asked her, why look a gift horse in the mouth? She didn’t ask where the bed in the spare room or its mound of goose-down duvets had come from, so he didn’t volunteer anything.

    He was awake at his usual time on Christmas Day but there was no sign of her or the little dog. He spent an extra half-hour in bed, and then went quietly into the kitchen, closing the door, and made himself his usual toast and coffee. Not too weak: he’d discovered over the last twelve months that there were some things you’d rather be dead than give up. Not many, but a few. He didn’t put the lights on, though it was still fairly dark: he didn’t feel he needed a visit from Micky at this point. He washed up his dishes quietly and then went into the living-room and lit the fire.

    Georgia came down around nine-thirty, in a dark green quilted robe. “Merry Christmas, Luke!”

    “Merry Christmas, Georgia; merry Christmas, Roger!” he said with a grin. “Is that a Christmas robe, Georgia? That forest green suits you.”

    She looked blank. “Christmas robe? This? No! A dressing-gown just for Christmas?”

    “Uh—back in the States people tend to, uh, dress for Christmas, I guess,” he said feebly.

    “Mad,” said the Georgia peach definitely. “Don’t tell me you went out and spent money on that jumper just for Christmas?”

    He looked down lamely at his Christmas sweater. Had reindeer, and all. Holly. Sleighs. Green, white, black, brown and red. Real cheery. “No, uh—second-hand,” he lied feebly.

    “I should hope so!” She looked around the room. “Where’s my parka?”

    “Huh? Oh—your windcheater, Georgia?”

    “Anorak, windcheater, whatever.”

    “I hung it up in the hall,” he said lamely. “Look, I’ll walk Roger”—“Yip, yip, yip!”—“Yeah: good boy! –I’ll walk him: you sit down by the fire.”

    “No, thanks, he’s my dog,” she said firmly.

    “Georgia, it’ll be freezing out!”

    “I’ve got my fur-lined boots on. We won’t go far. Come on, Roger!”

    He watched feebly as she exited to the hall, assumed her padded windcheater, putting its hood up—Roger was already in his tartan coat—and went out.

    “I guess that takes me off with my cloak over my face,” he muttered sourly, sitting down limply by his nice Christmas fire.

    On their return Georgia fed Roger and refused all offers of special Christmas breakfasts, demanding to know what he had had. She snorted triumphantly on being told, and made herself a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. Spurning the peanut butter and grape jelly he had got in specially—not from the Superette, no—and, since he’d failed to buy Australian Vegemite, eating it dry. No marg, didn’t he realise what they’d be expected to eat today?

    By this time he had almost lost his nerve so he quickly got the larger present from under his little tree. Jack Powell had produced it: roots, nice pot, and all. He hadn't asked where it had come from, though recognising it was the coward’s way out.

    “Look, when I said could I come and stay, we agreed no presents!” she said loudly, going very red.

    “That ain’t an American tradition,” he said sadly.

    “And don't use that fake down-home voice with ME!” she shouted.

    He bit his lip. “No. Sorry. But it isn’t really for you, it’s for Roger. Merry Christmas—I guess.”

    “Um, sorry,” said Georgia, sounding uncertain for the first time since she’d proposed herself as his guest. “Thanks.”

    He watched sadly as she unwrapped it. It was gift-wrapped and all: Harrods would do that for you.

    “Ooh!” said Georgia with a laugh. “Thanks, Luke! It’s ace!”

    “Good. Doesn’t just have to be for Christmas.”

    “No,” she said vaguely, not listening. “Look, Roger! A new collar! Isn’t it lovely, all sparkly! And red, to match your winter coat!”

    “Yip, yip, yip!” He let her put it on him.

    “He looks a trick!” she beamed. “Thank you very much, Luke!”

    “It was nothing. Saw this shop that had them, y’know?” Well, not entirely a lie, Harrods was a shop and it had had them on display.

    “Yes, of course,” she said vaguely, admiring Roger in it. “Look at you, Roger! A real diamond collar! Aren’t you smart!”

    Yeah. Well, they were only brilliants, he wasn’t that far gone. Not quite. “Uh—now we’re over that hurdle, Georgia, I did get you a little something—just to match his.” He handed her the little parcel. At Cartier they had thought he was mad—though much, much too polite to say so—when, after having ordered it as a special rush job and approved of the result, he’d asked them to gift-wrap it without their box. It was a watch—no, it did not say “Cartier,” or anything, on the face—with a red leather strap.

    “Oh!” cried Georgia, all lit up. “Where did you find it?”

    “Can’t recall the street, but it was some street market up in London,” he lied. “They had a selection, all different colours. Couldn’t see one with a red face, though.”

    “That’s okay, this is lovely!”

    It oughta be: a thin slice of white jade. Looked good with the red-enamelled hands and the narrow diamond and platinum surround. “Good.”

    “Look, Roger, now we match!” she cried.

    “Yip, yip, yip!”

    Right. Yippee! In fact, yippy-kay-ay! Words to that effect. Now he only had to hope and pray that no-one at this family Christmas party was gonna recognise it for what it was.

    The contingent from Moulder’s Way got over to Miller’s Bay around twelve—about two hours before dinner was due to be served, but there had been no way under the sun of stopping Micky. Rosie in person opened the door, beaming. “Merry Christmas! Here you all are at last! We were starting to wonder if you’d all slept in!”

    “See?” he cried. “Merry Christmas, Rosie! Hey, look what I got!”

    The boat from Mr Parker was duly admired and John conceded they could try it out in the bay, so long as the wind didn’t get up. After the presents, though, John! Yes, after the presents—no, not yet, Micky, we weren’t all here.

    “Yes, we are!” he cried shrilly. “Aunty June and Uncle George, they got here!”

    “Yes, we started early!” beamed June Potts. “The roads usually aren’t busy on Christmas Day! Merry Christmas!”

    “Merry Christmas! Hey, you wanna see my boat?” They did, but this didn’t distract him: he returned relentlessly to his point. “Who isn’t here?”

    “Euan, of course,” said Rupy.

    “We don’t need him!” he scoffed.

    “Micky, that was very rude,” said his mother. “Of course he’s invited.”

    Micky glared resentfully at the giant mound of presents round the giant tree that took up most of the dinette—the computer desks had been pushed right back against the right-hand wall and the dining-table now took pride of place in the middle of the room. Complete with Yvonne’s dining-table pushed against it, the whole covered with successive layers of tablecloths and decked with boughs of holly. “He’s always late!”

    Molly had gone rather red; several people quickly offered to phone Euan, and Rupy and Greg quickly distributed glasses of Christmas punch. Rosie then firmly turned off a CD of Carols From King’s and put on a rival offering, Carols from the Domain. Just as several people were wondering if she’d gone mad—or deaf—she explained to Micky that it was and he cried: “Hey! I been there! We been there, Mum, ’member? Last Christmas!” So they concluded there was method in her madness.

    Punch had been drunk, quite a number of delicious mince pies had been consumed—much nicer than the ones the Stouts sold: some people wondered silently if they’d come from Fortnum’s—and at last there came a knock at the door!

    It wasn’t just Euan, it was his dad as well! And once the exclamations of delighted surprise were over, and Euan had explained that Terri had rung Dad off her own bat and worked the miracle—Terri blushing and laughing meanwhile—and several people had remarked how alike Euan and his father were, and the stunned-looking Mr Keel had been sat down in John’s big chair and was gratefully sipping a single malt, and John had made sure everyone was introduced, they could at last have the PRESENTS!

    It was very hard to decide whether old Jim Parker’s radio-controlled launch or the wonderful real submariner’s jumper from Terence was best. Micky put the jumper on immediately. Of course it was miles too big for him, even though Terence must have got it off the smallest sailor on the sub, but everybody kindly refrained from saying so. He decided off his own bat that he’d better write to him and thank him. And John would know how to address it, wouldn’t you, John? Gravely John agreed—and this last one was just a book from him. It was about real warships! Neato! Tha-anks, John! He buried himself in it immediately. Those who had radically misjudged Master Leach’s taste and given him expensive pieces of electronic junk eyed John rather drily and said nothing.

    The whole experience had been so exhausting that the adults had to have another glass of punch—well, except old Mr Keel, he had another single malt.

    John then reminded Master Leach that everybody else had to open their presents, old chap, so with a few passing details about Repulse he came out of the book and watched eagerly. Duly screaming: ‘That’s from me!” or: “That’s from me and Mum!” at appropriate intervals.

    Of course, the manifestations of unalloyed rapture on receipt of the presents from Anna weren’t all the same. Rosie gasped and burst into tears when she unwrapped her large, flat package. Micky peered. It was a full-length, life-size sketch of Baby Bunting standing up and smiling, wearing his workmanlike overalls. “She could colour it in for you,” he offered dubiously.

    “No!” she gasped through her tears. “I love it, silly! Thank you so much, Anna! It’s so like him!”

    “Yeah, ’tis, eh?” granted Master Leach.

    “God! Put this in it,” said Colin heavily, handing him a large sweetmeat from the box Greg had kindly bestowed on him.

    Micky gagged himself with a rosewater-flavoured barfi and the rest of them got on with it.

    “For me, Anna, dear?” gasped Rupy as she presented him with a large, Santa-covered flat package.

    “Yes: merry Christmas, Rupy!”

    Numbly Rupy opened it. “Jamaica!” he gasped.

    So it was! It was really lovely: beautiful colours. John’s and Rosie’s cottage was in the background, but overhung with palm trees and giant fern fronds. Big lacy white hammocks swung between them, and there was lacy white furniture everywhere—cane or ironwork—and— “Hey! There’s me!”

    Rupy pushed him aside. “Look, she’s got everyone in it! It’s all little scenes amongst the curly ferns and the white lace! It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, Anna! And so Jamaican!”

    Euan leaned forward, smiling. “It’s delightful! Rather like the technique used by the Indian miniaturists: no real perspective, and each little scene is an episode.”

    “Quite right, Euan!” agreed Rupy. “That’s Colin in his Jamaica hat, and Luke in his caftan, and these must be Max’s little girls—yes, all right, Micky, playing with you and Tim—Hang on, where’s Roger?”—“Yip, yip, yip!”—“Yes, good boy! Ah! Found him! Look, Georgia, he’s sitting up like Jacky sipping a Planters’ Punch!” He collapsed in hysterics.

    Georgia was rather red. “He is not!” She peered. He was, too. She gulped.

    “Hey, look, there’s Greg: this is like the day he passed out!” announced Micky.

    “I did not! I just dropped off! And Anna wasn’t even there!”

    “No, but they told me about it,” said Anna placidly.

    “Hah, hah,” said Greg weakly. “At least I’m not wearing a yachting cap like some.”

    “No, it’s his Navy hat,” said Anna, smiling.

    “Eh?” croaked the sole representative of the Senior Service.

    Rosie had spotted him. She collapsed in helpless giggles. June Potts had also spotted him. She gasped, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

    “Why’s he up on the roof?” demanded Micky blankly. Rosie let out a howl. He glared. “And who’s he pointing at?” Rosie gave a screech.

    Colin came to peer over Rupy’s shoulder. “Only the whole of mankind!”

    John got up, his face neutral. He held out his hand. Rupy ceased sniggering and swallowed. He passed it to him. Everyone watched breathlessly.

    “Great God Almighty,” he said mildly.

    Rosie collapsed in renewed hysterics. Colin was in agony. Luke and Euan gave in entirely and came to look over John’s shoulders, grinning. Yes, Anna had painted John as Michelangelo’s God, all right! The angle of the pointing hand was exact.

    The picture was then passed from hand to hand and admired in detail. Terri was sitting beside Mr Keel. “See, there is Euan, he is cooking on the barbecue!”

    “Did he wear a chef’s hat like a great girl?” asked his father, unimpressed.

    “Well, I wasn’t here, Mr Keel, they had Jamaica in the garden before I came, but I think that he doesn’t own such a hat.”

    “Och, of course not, Dad!” he said, rather flushed. “It’s a joke, can ye no’ see that?’

    “I’m no’ blind,” he grunted. “Trout, was it?”

    One of the trout was standing up on its tail, as big as Euan. “Aye,” he said, eyeing him uncertainly.

    “I hope you didna let it burn.”

    “No, I followed Uncle Fergus’s instructions to the letter.”

    Mr Keel made a Scottish noise, compound of a sniff and a grunt, and passed the painting on. Several people eyed Euan warily, but he was looking relieved, so they concluded that that passed for modified rapture in the northern climes. And, in the case of those who had known him for some time, reflected that perhaps his faults were not unconnected with his early life, after all.

    Those who had thought that (a) nothing could top Rupy’s Jamaica picture and (b) Rosie’s tears would be the last, were wrong. The last but one of Anna’s presents was for Yvonne: Yvonne in Jamaica with Car and Cottage. She opened it, gasped, and burst into floods.

    John got up and handed her a flag-like handkerchief. “Tears of joy,” he said briefly.

    “Oh, yes!” she sobbed. “Oh, it’s wonderful! A real portrait of me!”

    So that was all right.

    Possibly the contents of the large, flat package with the holly wrapping which Euan handed Terri, smiling all over his face, didn’t quite top Rupy’s picture—but it was a close thing.

    “Buh-but Euan, I thought that Anna painted the picture for you!” she gasped.

    “No. I bought this one off her.”

    “He made me sell it, he means!” said Anna with a laugh.

    “But would not Mr Allen be very angry?” she gasped.

    “No, none of these new works are in the contract. Euan went over it very carefully with me, didn’t you?”

    “Aye, so it’s all legal. And it’s for you! Open it!” he urged.

    Very flushed, Terri opened it.

    It was, of course, Quince Tree Cottage. But it was also Euan and Terri and the old tree. The branches writhed all over the picture with the little cottage glimpsed beyond their heavy curlicues. In the foreground were two large shapes, nearly the whole height of the picture. The one on the left was the outline of a quince, with some of the yellow, grey-dusted skin showing. Superimposed on it was Euan’s smiling face. The one on the right was a red pepper, treated similarly, with Terri’s smiling face and her mass of shiny black curls.

    “Oh!” she cried. “Look! A quince and a pimiento!”

    “Yes. It worked out,” agreed Anna happily.

    “But Euan, this is a very valuable work. You cannot give it away,” she said in a low voice.

    “Och, stop it, woman! It’s a present!” he said with a laugh.

    “Aye take it, lassie, its no’ often he gives up something that he really likes,” noted his father.

    “He’s right,” admitted Euan. “And there’s an end of it!”

    Terri stroked her painting slowly. Tears began to slip down her face.

    “Oops,” said June. She got up and poured her a whisky. “Drink this, dear.”

    Terri sipped and shuddered. “Too strong!”

    “Havers!” grunted Mr Keel. Those who had been waiting for him to produce this Scottish expression had to swallow. “Get it doon, lassie!”

    Smiling mistily at him, Terri sipped it.

    This was not, however, an end to it. Anna of course had had something for everybody, including another sketch of the boxers for June, and a very nice study of Georgia cuddling Roger for her. So when she handed Euan the last big Santa-wrapped package he assumed it was another sketch, but larger. Perhaps framed, it felt heavy. He thanked her nicely and opened it. His jaw dropped.

    “Another cottage picture?” asked Rupy.

    “No.” He swallowed. “No.” Limply he showed it to them. It was a painting of his quince tree—the board in landscape format, not portrait. The cottage was not present: there was just a light greyish background. The entire picture was just the leafless, gnarled, spreading old tree.

    “It looks more like your tree than Terri’s one does,” said Micky with satisfaction.

    “It looks more like it than the tree does!” he croaked. “Anna, I canna possibly accept this!”

    “Of course you can: you chopped all that wood for me and I didn’t even have to ask you.”

    “So he ought to!” grunted his father.

    “Yes,” said Euan, very flushed.

    “I want you to have it,” said Anna firmly. “I know you wanted the one of Jim, and horrible Mr Allen’s gone and sold it to someone else for more than you could afford.“

    Euan could see—though he realised most of the others couldn’t—that there was far, far more work in his tree picture than in any of the amusing cottage pictures. He bit his lip. “At least let me pay you for it,” he said in a low voice.

    “In our family,” said Rosie very firmly indeed, getting up, “you don’t pay for a present. Just take it, and be grateful!”

    Poor Euan looked in dismay from her to Anna and back again.

    “Aye: take it, lad, your mother’d be wondering where your manners have gone,” grunted his father.

    “He’s not ungrateful, Mr Keel, he’s flabbergasted!” said John with his lovely smile. “So would I be, in his shoes. It’s a very fine work. But of course it is a present: shut up, Euan. Come and see how Micky’s boat takes the waves in Miller’s Bay.”

    “YAY!” cried Micky, bounding up. “Yeah, come on, Euan! Come on, Colin! Come on, Uncle George!”

    Colin got up looking wry, George Potts got up looking as if he was wondering why he’d been thus favoured, and the intrepid mariners went out.

    “It may not be Christmassy, but I’m going to make a nice cuppa,” said Rosie placidly to old Mr Keel. “Like one?”

    “Aye, I would that, lassie.”

    She smiled at him. “He’s not so bad, you know!”

    He made his Scottish noise again but the whole room could see he was pleased. They sagged collectively.

    Christmas was over and the comatose Master Leach had been carted off bodily to his innocent bed over Colin’s shoulder. His verdict was that it had been the best Christmas ever. True, Molly had noted that he’d said that last year, when they’d been at Aunty May’s, but on the whole Colin tended to agree. He bade goodnight to the yawning Terri, and got undressed. Then he positioned his picture carefully on the mantelpiece—he’d hang it properly tomorrow—got into bed, lay back, and just gloated over it. Hilarious! And look at the detail in it! His brown teapot to the life, every blessed flap of the ruddy pineapple tea-cosy, all of old Jim’s lines and wrinkles—good as in her portrait of him—the patches on Jack’s aged denims and his tired boots with the different styles of string for laces, and the beer bottle labels! How many of ’em had he tried? No, um, yes, had that—and that; um, no: was that Norwegian? Finnish? Um—no. Had that in Hong Kong airport; had that; no…

    Georgia had actually let him take Roger for his last walk. It was an even greater triumph than getting her to accept the presents. When they came back there was no sign of her: she must actually have taken his advice and gone straight off to bed. They mounted the stairs very slowly. After a bit he came to and picked the little dog up. “Too much turkey,” he murmured as Roger licked his face. “You’ll have to go back on your diet, boy!” Her door was closed. He bit his lip, and then tapped.

    “Yip, yip, yip!”

    “Come in, Luke,” said Georgia sleepily.

    They went in. She was in bed. The big electric heater was off, sweet Jesus!

    “Georgia, you don’t have to economise on power,” he said with a sigh. “John’s refused to let me even get a sniff of a utilities bill for this place.”

    “Okay, then it’s his power I’m not wasting. I don’t need the heater on, the bed’s really warm. Where did the electric blanket come from?”

    “Portsmouth. And don’t say a word: if I find the dump cold, God knows how it must strike you, coming from the Australian climate!”

    “Melbourne’s pretty cold in winter. But did you get one for your own bed?” she demanded, sitting up.

    Old-fashioned brushed-cotton pajamas. She looked about fourteen in ’em. Funnily enough this wasn’t off-putting. He had to swallow. “Yeah. You wanna come in my room and inspect it? Just be warned, those pajamas won’t be any protection if you do.”

    “Hah, hah,” said the Georgia peach, looking at him for the first time in their acquaintance as if he was a man and not a—an extraneous weirdo of a cousin!

    “Don’t panic. After all that turkey I doubt I’m capable of anything.” She was looking at his pants. “That’s bravado,” he said drily.

    “Um, yeah,” said Georgia very weakly indeed, her cheeks bright pink. “Thanks for walking Roger.”

    “Yip, yip, yip!”

    “No sweat. Want him on the bed?”

    “Well, yes. It’s too cold for him to sleep on the mat.”

    Obligingly he assisted Roger onto the goose-down duvet. Since she was sitting up he got on her lap and licked her face. Well, kind of between her legs plus and licking her face, y’know? Yeah.

    “Boy, is that one lucky pooch,” he noted. “Think I’ll be up for hours, now—bravado or not. ’Night, Georgia!”

    “Night-night, Luke,” said the Georgia peach in a very small voice indeed as he went out, firmly closing the door behind him.

    June and George Potts had accepted Yvonne’s kind offer of her spare bedroom. Neither of them had wanted to drive back on Christmas night. And George had certainly wanted to drink John’s grog. Whether Yvonne had actually remembered they were officially divorced was a moot point. Oh, well—and at least there were twin beds, she wouldn’t have to put up with him kicking all night—not to mention his other, more disgusting habits!

    June got into bed after a very sketchy gesture in the direction of creaming her face. He was pottering, of course. It took him ten times longer than any normal human being to go to bed!

    “You know, that silly boy’s in love with that lovely Spanish girl and he hasn’t even realised it!”

    “Which silly boy?” said George with a sigh. It was no use telling her he wasn’t interested, she’d get even worse. Bawl him out and tell him the lurid details. Getting them wrong, nine times out of ten.

    “George!” she hissed. “Are you blind? Euan Keel, of course!”

    “Oh,” he said without interest.

    This didn’t shut her up, far from it. George closed his ears… “Eh? How much?”

    “Three thousand pounds! At least!”

    “That’s love, all right,” he concluded drily.

    “Don’t be so mercenary!” she hissed angrily.

    Look, that was what she meant, why wouldn’t she admit it? “Thought he was having it away with Molly?”

    “Kindly do not be so coarse, George Potts.”

    He could be a lot coarser than that and if she didn’t shut up, he would be. “Well, isn’t he? What did he give her?” –Miss Marple would know, of course.

    “Only scent,” said June in tones of huge significance.

    What? Look, when Joanie had been going round with Whatsisface, never had been able to stand him, drove a flashy red Honda sports job, never had been able to stand them, either—he was an actor, too—June had claimed that a present of scent from your boyfriend— Oh, forget it. He grunted unencouragingly.

    “George! Don’t you see?” she hissed.

    “French scent, was it?”

    “Well, yes, a classic perfume.”

    “Right. Five hundred quid a fluid ounce or my name’s not George Potts.”

    “Rubbish!” she hissed. She told him a lot more but he’d definitely stopped listening.

    The cottage was quiet, apart from Rupy’s snores in the baby’s room and Baby Bunting’s snores in their room. Tim was on the foot of their bed: pretty soon his snores would join the choir. And Rosie’s, probably. She was in the ensuite. John turned Baby Bunting carefully on his side and the snores stopped. He’d have been perfectly all right in with Rupy, but John wasn’t going to ask why she’d insisted on having the cot in here.

    He began to undress, yawning.

    Rosie came back and got into bed. “Ooh, hottie!” she beamed, putting her feet on it. “It was a good Christmas, wasn’t it?”

    “Mm, lovely.”

    “Greg’s turkey was great! But you were right, it was a good idea to do a hot ham as well, lots of them had that.”

    “Mm. Big crowd for one turkey, sweetheart.”

    “Yes. Hurry up, John.”

    She always said that. John proceeded at his usual pace. “Asleep?” he murmured, getting in beside her and cuddling up.

    “Not quite. What did you like best?”

    “Frankly,” said John, “the discovery that my brother can actually care enough about another human being to work out what her little boy would like, go to the effort of getting it for him, and go to the further effort of getting it to him on time!”

    “That’s a bit mean,” she said, very disconcerted. “He did get a lovely Tigger for Baby Bunting after he was born, and he’s given him lots of other stuff.”

    “Yes. Generally on impulse, like the Tigger.”

    “Um, I think he just gave him that because he’d arrived safely and we’d had 9/11—you can hardly blame him for that!”

    “I’m not, really, but getting that guernsey to Micky was a terrific leap forward!” he said with a laugh.

    “Yes. Well, I think Euan’s lost interest in Molly; it’s a question of when he’s going to realise it.”

    “Yes, and when he’s going to realise it’s Terri he really wants, the idiot!”

    “Mm,” Rosie agreed. “I think he was genuine about wanting to please her with the picture. I don’t think he was doing it for effect.”

    In the past they had seen Euan Keel do a lot of things for effect. But John found he did actually agree. “I’d say he did it because he couldn’t help himself.”

    “Yes. Good.”

    “Tell me what you liked best, Rosie, and then go to sleep,” he said, hugging her.

    “Baby Bunting’s picture, of course.”

    He smiled. “Mm. Lovely. –Oh, Lor’! Don’t cry over it, darling!”

    “He looked at—it—and said—‘Bunting’!” she gasped through the sobs.

    John made a face. “Yes. Well, in a few months he will be the big brother, darling. If he wants to call himself Bunting I think we should let him. And follow suit,” he said, grimacing.

    “Yes. At least we’ll have the picture. It’s a lot better than photos, don’t you think?”

    John was rather proud of his photos of Baby Bunting. She was right, however. “Immeasurably. It’s wonderful.”

    “Mm,” she murmured.

    Good, she was dropping off. He composed himself for sleep.

    “June?” she said.

     He jumped. “What?”

    “June. If it’s a girl. It’s a nice name, but Aunty June’d assume it was after her.”

    “’Tis nice, yes. I thought May?”

    “’S a question of which’d go barmier, Mum or Aunty June,” said Rosie, yawning widely.

    May was at least on the other side of the world from them. “Mm. June Haworth. Nice.”

    “Not Bernard if ’s a boy,” she muttered sleepily.

    No, well, John Frederick Bernard Haworth, aka Baby Bunting, would have to do for Father. “Terence?” he murmured.

    “Mm. An’ Molly. Goob,” said Rosie groggily.

    John smiled. Good, indeed!

    Terri roused about four. Her quilt had slipped off. She reached for it drowsily and then realised a light was on downstairs. She crept out of bed and investigated: it might be nothing, but John had told her that Colin had had a series of blackouts after he’d been knocked out in Iraq. No: all was well: Colin was fast asleep on his back, one hand flung out of bed. Terri looked from him to the painting on the mantelpiece and, smiling, switched the light out and tiptoed back to bed.

    Euan roused slowly. There was a light showing behind his door: what time— Not quite six. Och, Hell, was Dad okay? He looked into the passage cautiously, grimacing. No sign of him, and the light was coming from downstairs. He threw on his dressing-gown and hurried down.

    His father was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug beside him, plucking a— Plucking a pheasant! Euan gasped.

    “Dinna fesh yirsel’, I’m no’ deid yit,” he said—approximately, it was very broad and he didn’t have his teeth in.

    “What the Hell— Who do ye think ye are, ye silly old bugger, Uncle Fergus?” he shouted.

    “Aye, well, he knew a trick or two,” replied his father calmly, slurping tea.

    “Dad, did you pinch that pheasant from fucking Granville Thinnes?” said Euan limply, sitting down all of a heap.

    “Och, no!” he said with the utmost scorn. “I didna pinch this, I pinched these!” He waved at the bag on the floor beside him. Terri’s big cloth shopping bag, suspiciously bulgy.

    “How many?” he croaked.

    “Twa. A brace. I didna pinch the lot, do ye think I’m shtyippid?” he snapped.

    “Aye, that or mad!”

    “They’re for her,” he said on a grim note.

    “Who?” he quavered.

    “Yon wee Spanish lassie. Terri, who’d ya fuckin’ weell think? And if ye were half a mon ye’d ha’ got them for her yirsel’, ’stead o’ buying her daft pictures!”

    “Dad, she likes art. …Did she say she wanted a pheasant?”

    “Say she wanted a pheasant? She told me she’s been wantin’ to cook a fuckin’ bird for your dinners ivver since she go’ here, are ye blind and deif as well as shtyippid?” he shouted.

    “I must be,” said Euan in a shaken voice.

    His father eyed him sideways. “Aye, weell.”

    “Dad, ten to one Granville Thinnes will come straight up here when he finds the bluidy things are gone: he did when he saw a fox. The other cottages aren’t usually occupied, you see,” he said feebly.

    “In that case, I’ll awa’ to ma bed, ’cos I’m a puir old mon what dinny ken a thing!” he said with satisfaction.

    “You can say that again,” he muttered.

    “Och, pu’ the mess on the fire: he’ll nivver kna it was us, shtyippid fuckin’ Sassenach.”

    Euan sighed. He would if he spotted a single pheasant feather! He collected up the mess, put down more newspaper for the further mess the stupid old sod was about to make, went through to the main room, stoked the fire and chucked the mess on it. After about two seconds the room filled with the stink of burning feathers. True, the chimney drew well, the room wasn’t filled with smoke. They could only hope old G.T. had no sense of smell.

    “Pour us another cup, Euan!” his father ordered irritably as he returned to the kitchen.

    Sighing, Euan took the mug. He sniffed it cautiously. Christ! Uncle Fergus’s recipe for a chilly night out poaching and then some! Grimly he rinsed it, made a fresh pot of tea and poured some for him.

    “Four sugars.”

    “Aye, I kna, do ye think I’m shtyippid?” he shouted.

    “No, just blind. That blonde skirt isna interested in you.”

    “Havers,” said Euan grimly.

    “Terri’s the nicest wee lassie I’ve met in many a long year—worth ten of any of them—”

    “That’ll do,” he said grimly

    “Of any of them you’ve ever brought hame from England,” he finished grimly.

    Euan glared.

    “Not to mention the ones ye were too ashamed to bring hame.”

    “I wisna ashamed o’ them!”

    “Go on, Euan, tell me to ma face you’re ashamed o’ me!”

    “I’m not, ye fool! If you must know, I’m proud of you!” he said with a crazy laugh. “God! Poaching Granville Thinnes’ sacred pheasants? The whole village has been dying to do that for forty years!”

    Mr Keel sniffed. “Sassenachs. –Weell?”

    “Weell what?” he said limply.

    “Are ye gonny sit doon and help or no? And pour yirsel’ a cup o’ tea, mon, or are ye too guid for that, as weell?”

    Grinning, Euan poured himself a cup of tea and, sitting down opposite his daft old father, began helping him to pluck the second pheasant.