Rough Winds

21

Rough Winds

    The first episode of The Captain’s Daughter: The New Generation had been completed, and it was, as Euan informed Terri gleefully, a complete wash-out. Flat as a pancake, if she wanted another English figure of speech! The great director had edited it himself. Then he’d sat in while Brian’s editor went through it. Then he’d brought in one of his own editors from Double Dee Productions, in spite of the man’s protestations that he’d never done television, and made him go through it. Alas, the verdict had been that there was nothing wrong with the editing, in fact it was only the editing that was preventing the audience from falling completely asleep, it was the dialogue that was the problem. And if Derry wanted to know—regardless of the fact that he manifestly didn’t—it was a mixture of long-winded verbosity: nobody wanted to hear speeches that long these days, unless William Shakespeare had written them; and laboured so-called wit that made you want to cry, not laugh, frankly. And those puns were not funny. Could he get back to his real work, now? Thanks.

    Derry had stomped around breathing fire and brimstone but finally calmed down enough to admit that the fellow was probably right and it was ALL VARLEY’S FAULT! And he’d said in the first place that this would happen unless they got in a competent dialogue writer. He hadn't, the grinning Euan explained to Terri, he’d said they wanted Varley’s touch and they weren’t paying through the nose to let him get away with as little real work as Brian had for the Daughter. And that he was sick of those endless one-liners that woman of Brian’s trotted out every episode.

    “But Euan, you cannot be pleased because it’s a flop!” she gasped.

    “Can’t I, just?” he said with a laugh. “I’ve got a cut of it here, want to see for yourself?”

    Terri did, so they sat down and watched it. Well, Euan watched about a quarter of it and then he got up and made them cups of tea. He watched a bit more until he’d finished his tea and made sure Terri didn’t want a second cup, and then he wandered out into the garden, where all sorts of interesting things had poked their heads up in what they’d thought was just a scruffy front lawn. For once Mrs G.T. didn’t spot him there and harangue him: she was very busy pestering poor old Colin, these days. The quince was in miraculous bloom, and what with that and the flowers in the grass it was just idyllic.

    … “You were right,” said Terri, emerging from the cottage looking chastened.

    “Aye, was I no’?” he grunted, on his knees.

    “Euan, what are you doing, those are your good corduroys!” she gasped.

    He sat back on his heels, grinning. “I’m breaking them in, woman, a pair o’ cords mustna look fresh! –Thistles. Not Scotch thistles, thank the Lord, they’re a bugger to get out,” he explained. “Other sort of thistles. Milkweed. The things Uncle Fergus had a rude name for—some sort of flat-leaved thing. Weeds, Terri, spoiling our lawn. If I don’t root them oot now, it’ll be a disaster come summer.”

    “Yes. Euan, that is my shopping basket,” she said faintly.

    “Eh? Oh. Sorry; I couldna find anything to put the weeds in.”

    “You are ruining my shopping basket that Colin paid for!” she cried.

    “Och, Hell, did he?” He scrambled up. “I’ll look round the back. Did ye no’ manage to contact Jack aboot that mess round there?”

    “You said that it would be a waste of money and that we didn’t need a veggie garden,” said Terri feebly,

    “I must have been mad!” he said with a laugh. “I’ll see if I can find something.” He vanished round the back. Terri looked limply at the weeds in her shopping basket…

    Euan returned, grinning, with a huge, um… “Is that a meat dish?” she gulped.

    “It could well be. You’ve got the choice: sacrifice your basket or an antique meat dish. Would it even go in our oven?”

    As a matter of fact it wouldn’t, so he tipped the weeds into it, and shook out the basket briskly. He was about to hand it to her but took a look at her face. So he went round the back again and rinsed it under the outside tap, setting it neatly on the back step to dry.

    “Thank you,” said Terri feebly, following him back round the front and watching limply as he fell to his knees again. “So what will Derry do?”

    Euan was fighting with a dock plant. He grunted loudly. “Shit!” he gasped. “Will ye come oot, ye wee bugger!”

    “Possibly a garden fork would be better than that little, um, instrument.”

    “Trowel!” he gasped. “Och, I’ll dig ye oot!” He dug viciously with the trowel.

    “You are digging a big hole.”

    “Aye, they’ve got roots to China, the buggers,” he grunted. “Now! Ah!” He sat back on his heels in triumph, waving the dock plant.

    “Good,” said Terri feebly. “Don’t squash the pretty flowers, will you?”

    “No, of course not. I’ll just…” He approached a feisty-looking milkweed, squashing a primrose as he did so.

    Terri suppressed a strong urge to shut her eyes. “Euan, what will Derry do about the episode?” she said loudly.

    He looked up and grinned. “Hire Brian’s dialogue writer, Paula O’Reilly, like he should have done in the first place!”

    “You seem very pleased,” she said cautiously.

    “Aye, I am, I’ve worked with Paula on the Daughter: she writes brilliant dialogue, and what’s more she’s capable of standing up to Varley! Ah! Gotcha!”

     “That’s good,” she said feebly, retreating indoors.

    … The front lawn was covered with little holes, numerous spring flowers would never rise again, and Euan had had a shower, singing in it. Terri had removed the cords while he was having it and put them straight into the laundry tub to soak the dirt out of them, ugh!

    “No gardeners in your family, are there?” he grinned, coming back downstairs to find her in front of the TV again.

    “No,” admitted Terri. “Grandmother’s house is in town and there is only a back garden, for which she employs a professional gardener.”

    “She sounds that sort, aye,” he said dismissively. “That scene,” he said, picking up the blab-out and pausing the tape, “was supposed to be excruciatingly funny. Laboured, isn’t it?”

    “Yes, that’s the word!” said Terri pleasedly.

    His shoulders shook. “Aye, well, Paula will take care of that.”

    “But Euan, if she writes new words you will have to film it again!”

    “Refilm it. You said it. One or two of us who have actually worked with Derry, as opposed to having business lunches and dinners with him, did try to tell Brian that’d happen,” he said with satisfaction. “Och, well, dinna look at me: the man’s rolling in it and if he was silly enough to give Derry his head, he can pay the piper!”

    “What?” she said feebly

    “One of those English metaphors!” he said with a laugh. “The saying is ‘He who pays the piper calls the tune’, meaning if you’re coughing up the dough, you can say how it’s it to be spent, but it’s hardly ever used in full these days. To pay the piper usually means—well, to pay what’s owing.”

    “But isn’t a piper Scottish?”

    “Only if he’s playing the pipes!” he said with a laugh. “No, bagpipes are Scottish. I think the saying refers to a little flute-like instrument.”

    “I see! Um, I don’t think, really,” she said frowning over it, “that you used it in quite the sense of to pay what’s owing, though, Euan.”

    Euan looked at the little frown with a smile. “To pay what you’ve been silly enough to let yourself in for, then.”

    “These English verbal expressions! Let—in—for. Oh, yes! Yes, that’s better.”

    “Good. Coming for a walk? Thought I’d go over and look at the farm.”

    “There is a farm?” she said in astonishment.

    “Aye, you didna think those were the wild hills of Spain, did you?”

    “No, of course not. What do they farm?”

    “Cows, I think Rosie said,” he said vaguely.

    “I see. Please wait, Euan, there is something that I must confess,” she said, going very red.

    “Eh?” he croaked, gaping.

    “Wait!” Terri rushed out to the laundry.

     Euan raised his eyebrows, but waited.

    She came back with a corgi on a lead. Euan shut his eyes. “Don’t tell me: bluidy Georgia’s lost interest in the poor little pooch!”

    “No!” she cried indignantly. “That is very unjust! This is not Roger! Georgia loves him, she would not give him away!”

    He opened his eyes. “Use contractions, woman, you’re not Data!” he said with a laugh. “Well, I’m verra glad to hear she loves him. Who’s this, then?”

    “Kitchener. Colin said I could have him. Are you—are you very cross, Euan?” she said to his bulging eyes.

    “No,” he croaked. He looked at her face. “No!” he said with a laugh. “Of course I don’t mind if you have a wee dog, Terri! But where in God’s name did the name come from?”

    “Oh,” said Terri, terribly relieved. She gave him a tremulous smile. “It is silly, isn’t it, for a wee dog like him? It was a silly friend of Rupy’s. He told Rupy’s friend Miss Winslow—”

    “Old Doris; aye, we’ve met,” he said mildly.

    “Oh, have you? Well, he told Doris that he would look after him properly, and he bought him a little coat and a lovely lead, and the coat had a Union Jack on it, you see, so then he said he looked very patriotic, and he would call him Kitchener.”

    Euan was beginning to lose control of his mouth. “Mm,” he said in strangled tones, trying not to laugh: it was all evidently very serious, to her.

    “He had him for three weeks and then he brought him back because he had been offered a part in a movie that was to be filmed in Morocco and so he had decided that a dog was too much responsibility!” she said indignantly.

    “We actors are like that. Responsibility’s not our strong suit,” said Euan drily. “Gay friends of Rupy’s or not. Where is this patriotic coat?”

    “He has lost it,” said Terri, very flushed, “because he had a silly party and his silly friends took it off Kitchener and—and tried to wear it themselves!”

    “I see: one of them will have nicked it or thrown it out the window or God knows what. Lots of Rupy’s friends are like that. Well, I know a fair few like that masel’. Party animals,” he said with a shrug. “Some of us grow out of it. I’d say Kitchener was bluidy lucky the fellow at least had enough sense of responsibility to return him!”

    “Yes. So you don’t mind if have him with me while I’m here?”

    “Not at all!” Euan squatted and patted the panting little dog. “Welcome to Quince Tree Cottage, Kitchener! Good boy! What a good dog!”

    “Doris said that it would be not be wise to try to get him used to another name, for it has all been traumatic enough for him.”

    Euan’s mouth twitched but he said merely: “Aye, she’s the expert. So Rupy decided you’d better have him, eh?”

    “No, no, it was Georgia!”

    He looked up at her in astonishment. “You do surprise me.”

    “She knew that I liked Roger, you see?” she said, smiling down at him.

    “Yes,” said Euan in a shaken voice. He looked blindly down at the corgi again and patted him for some time.

    “Shall we go?” said Terri at last.

    “Yes. I’ll get ma coat.” He scrambled up and went to get his anorak.

    Terri was in hers. She checked Kitchener’s lead carefully and tried giving the “Heel!” command. Nothing happened. Oh, help.

    As they approached the far north-eastern side of the village the farmhouse became visible, up on the hill, considerably higher than the former Arvidson house, now Derry’s house, on the opposite side of the little valley. “You can probably see the sea from up there,” noted Euan.

    “I think so, yes! Come on, Kitchener!”

    The wee dog was eager, so the two of them forged ahead. Euan followed them, looking wry. Who would be the mug that would have to carry the silly wee brute once his midget legs gave out? Oh, well!

    “Good thing Dad isn’t here!” he said, catching up with them.

    “Why?” cried Terri indignantly. “I wish he was here!”

    “Do you?” he said, smiling ruefully. “When I left for London he predicted next thing I’d be seen walking a poodle.”

    Terri bit her lip. “A corgi is not a poodle.”

    “You want to laugh, I can see it!” retorted Euan.

    She did laugh a little but said: “I do wish he was here.”

    “Aye. He said he wouldna live in ma pocket,” he reminded her sourly.

    “No. But what if you were to build on a wing for him?”

    “Eh?”

    “Isn’t that the right expression? Rosie told me that her mother had a new wing built on.”

    “God, yes! You should see it! A nightmare of posh hotel décor, circa Year 2000!” he said with a laugh and a shudder. “Well, a wing’s a bit grand, you see, for a wee cottage like ours. I think you’d probably say an extension. We-ell, it’s an idea. Just a room with an ensuite? Or would he like a private sitting-room, do you think?”

    Terri frowned over it. Finally she said: “I think that he might feel that we had excluded him, banished him from the sitting-room, if he had a separate room. And from the kitchen.”

    Euan smiled a little. “Aye, he sat in the kitchen a lot, didn’t he? He’s got a rocking-chair in the kitchen at home. He never used to use it, until after Mum died… Oh, well.”

    Terri swallowed hard. “Was it her chair?”

    He nodded, his eyes full of tears.

    “It would be more comfortable with his hips,” she said practically.

    “Aye,” he said, blinking and trying to smile. “It would that! Well, we’d bring it down for him, of course. And all his bits and bobs.”

    “Bobs?” she said cocking her head to one side.

    “Och, dinny ask me to translate! It’s an expression! Use Rosie’s dictionary. And remind me to get ma books down from London: they’re doing me no good up there!”

    “Buh-but the flat is your principal residence, I think?” she faltered.

    “No, I hate it. Well, I love the view over the river, but the flat itself is Goddawful. Remind me, okay?”

    “Yes,” said Terri feebly. “Okay, Euan.”

    “Come on. Is Kitchener up for the rest of the way to the farmhouse?”

    “Yip, yip, yip!”

    Apparently he was. So they forged on, finally stumbling across an actual, er, well, it was wider than a track and had ruts as of vehicle wheels down it. A farm road, possibly. It certainly led directly to the farm gate. Terri wondered if they might buy a fresh cheese, but Euan disabused her hastily of any such notion. Though admitting that in the by and by, Uncle Fergus had known a man who would illegally sell you fresh milk for half the retail price. Provided that you brought your own container.

    “A bucket?”

    “No, a large Tupperware pot with a lid. He’d milk the cow straight into it. Not pasteurised, you see,” he said drily.

    Terri looked blank. Euan explained. “Oh! Louis Pasteur!” she cried.

    “Exactly. Ooh, it’s a lovely old house, isn’t it?”

    Indeed it was. Rather a higgledy-piggledy house, as Terri, having picked up the word from Colin, proudly declared. It had been whitewashed, and bits of it were clearly stone under the whitewashing, bits were probably brick, and part of it was definitely half-timbered. With lovely old lead-lighted windows. These were unfortunately above a very new plate-glass abortion which was doubtless the farmer’s wife’s pride and joy. Some bulky upholstered objects reminiscent of what Rosie’s mum had put in her new wing could be glimpsed through it.

    “You know,” said Euan slowly, “this house would suit Derry much better than the Frank Lloyd Wright lookalike.”

    “Isn’t he happy in it?” asked Terri fearfully.

    “I don’t think so, Terri, no. –That was a nice contraction, verra good!” he added with a grin. “Well, he’s terrifically busy, of course, but he isn’t spending much time there and though he has got his Navajo rug out of storage he hasn’t done much at all to the place. The Arvidsons put in a frightful electric fire with fake logs, and he was talking about having it ripped out so as he could have real roaring log fires, but it hasn’t happened. It is a lovely fireplace: long and low, do you remember?”

    “Yes; a pale grey stone, rather like a sandstone in texture.”

    “Aye, that’s it. I’m not denying he appreciates it aesthetically, but I doubt he’s happy in it. I really think this sort of thing would be more him.”

    Terri looked at the sprawling, higgledy-piggledy, gabled farmhouse and smiled slowly. “But yes! In summer the roses would bloom over the doorway—and look, there are flowers in the window-boxes! I think this is much more suitable for Derry!”

    “Aye. Wonder if they’d sell? Mind you, that road’d be murder on your springs, but then, he could afford to pave it. I suppose it’s a damn cheek, but do you think we might ask if they’d ever think of selling?”

    “I think that that would be all right. Naturally we would not try to push our way in.”

    “No,” said Euan with a smile, thinking of Derry’s heated report that very first time he’d called at the Arvidson’s house. “Come on, then. Oh: keep tight hold of Kitchener’s lead, there may be farm dogs about.”

    Terri looked at him in horror.

    “Okay, give me the lead, and I’ll carry him.”

    Thankfully she looped the lead over his wrist and picked the little dog up for him.

    The farmer’s wife in person opened the front door, was thrilled to recognise Euan Keel, and led them eagerly into the sitting-room with the awful plate-glass window, introducing herself as Cherry Jackson and acknowledging that of course, Terri must be the Spanish girl, Belinda Stout had told her all about her! Though she didn’t shop there very much, Terri wouldn’t have seen her, no: they were so near to the Portsmouth road, it seemed silly to get the car out and then not bother to go over—and then, the Stouts really didn’t stock much, did they? It was quite some time before Euan managed to explain their errand. In fact it wasn’t until Kitchener was lapping a bowl of water and Cherry Jackson was handing mugs of instant coffee.

    She sighed. “Ian’s only the lessee. Well, his family’s been here for generations but we don’t own the house. We’d certainly like to get out, it costs a fortune to heat. And it’s very awkward: the upstairs rooms are on different levels. Murder to drag the vacuum round.”

    “I see… Well, it’s not for maself I’m interested, it’s for a friend,” said Euan with his charming smile. “Do you think the owner might consider selling just the house and a wee bit of a garden, and building a modern farmhouse for you?”

    “I doubt it, they’re too mean to do capital repairs, even: Ian’s Dad spent a fortune on the dratted roof! –It’s a company,” she said glumly. “Ian’s mother reckons it’s owned by some lord or something, but I think that’s just local gossip.”

    Euan was about to agree with her. Then something sour that Murray Stout had once said about John Haworth’s family came back to him. And something Rosie had said about the grandfather who’d once owned the Miller’s Bay property. On the ghastly mother’s side, that was it! “As a matter of fact I’ve heard something similar about the land hereabouts. In principle, would you be interested in moving into a new farmhouse, Cherry?”

    “In principle, yes!” said Mrs Jackson with a laugh. “But I think pigs might fly, first! Have another biscuit, Euan: they are real Scotch shortbread!”

    Smiling at her, he took another shortbread…

    “Well?” he said at last, as Terri hadn’t uttered a word since they’d left the farmhouse and the waving Cherry Jackson a good five minutes previously.

    She took a deep breath. “You deliberately wound that woman around your little toe!”

    Euan choked helplessly.

    “It is not particularly FUNNY!” she shouted, turning puce.

    “No!” he gasped, falling all over the rutted road. “Ow! Help!” He groped for a handkerchief. “Not that!” he gasped. He blew his nose hard. “Finger,” he said in a wobbly voice.

    She glared. “What?”

    “Wound—her—ma—finger!” he choked, off again.

    Terri frowned, and waited out the fit. “Very well, I had the idiom wrong. It is not funny, however,” she said grimly.

    “Yes, it is: a busty wee body like Cherry Jackson would never fit round ma toe!”

    “Stop laughing, you did it deliberately! I have never seen anything so—so—”

    “Yes?” he said politely.

    “Shameless!” she snapped.

    “Shameless: well done. Aye, it was. That’s what women like that expect from a film star,” he said with a shrug.

    “You are not nice at all when you behave like this, Euan,” said Terri in a trembling voice.

    “Dinna be daft, woman, I was giving her what she wanted! Look, she’ll put it down as one of the most exciting afternoons of her life!”

    “What? You vain pig!” she shouted..

    “No! Its no’ pairsonal!” he cried. “It wisna me, ye daft wee hinny, it was Euan Keel the film star!”

    After a moment Terri said : “So now I am a daft wee hinny.”

    “Aye, you are.” He attempted to put his arm round her shoulders. She pulled away, scowling.

    “I was acting,” said Euan lamely.

    “Yes, you certainly were,” she agreed grimly.

    He sighed. “Did you expect me to be rude to her?”

    “No. You know perfectly what I mean, and I am not prepared to listen to your excuses,” she said grimly.

    “Look, Terri, just put yourself in my shoes: it’s bluidy awkward to be recognised as a glamorous film star, if you must know!” he said crossly.

    “I am sorry to have to tell you this, but an ordinary person like me cannot possibly imagine what it is like to be a famous person like you.”

    “Thanks, you’ve made that verra clear!” he said bitterly.

    They walked on in silence.

    After quite some time Euan realised that the reason she was lagging behind wasn’t that she was trying to avoid him, but that Kitchener was tuckered out. Sighing, he picked him up. Kitchener licked his chin gratefully.

    “Put him down!” she shouted. “He is my dog, not yours!”

    “Terri, the poor wee thing’s tuckered out. Now shut up, and give me that bluidy lead.”

    Terri glared.

    Shrugging, Euan detached the lead from the collar. He walked on, not waiting for her.

    They got as far as the eastern end of Hammer Street before he gave in, stopped, and waited. “Here she comes, the daft wee hinny,” he said as the little dog again licked his face. “Ugh! Yes, good dog, that’s enough!”

    “At least you have had the sense not to put him down without his lead,” she said grimly.

    “Aye: I’m no’ kiddin’ maself that he’ll obey ‘Sit’ any more than the rest. Have you thought about it?”

    “Yes,” said Terri, biting her lip. “I do see, I think, and I’m sorry. Nevertheless, you—you have overdone it.”

    “I overdid it, yes. I’m sorry. ‘Oozing charm from every pore, he oiled his way around the floor.’”

    She gasped, and clapped a hand over her mouth.

    “My Fair Lady. Mum adored it, she used to play the record unendingly. I can sing every note from it. The Julie Andrews version,” he said smiling at her.

    “Sí. Rex Harrison. My mother likes it, too,” she said numbly.

    Yes? He would have said Terri’s glamorous mother, of whom he had now been privileged to see a photo, would have preferred something like Cats. “She canna be all bad, then,” he said lightly.

    “No, she is, apart from that. Well, she has exquisite taste in clothes and scent: one can appreciate her as an artefact, but not as a person.”

    “Quite,” he said, shuddering. “You meet quite a lot of those in the Business, too.”

    “Yes. Female ones and male ones,” said Terri tightly.

    He sighed. “I try not to be, okay?”

    “Yes. Sorry. But you were continually smiling at her!” she burst out.

    “Aye, the leddies love it when you smile into their eyes—Och, shit! Sorry, Terri! Look, to some extent even Adam does it!”

    “Sí?”

    “Adam McIntyre. He’s a lovely guy, but— Well, you won’t want to hear this, but one has to develop a sort of shell, a public persona, in order to protect oneself. Otherwise,” he said, grimacing, “the fans would eat you up. I didn’t think of that all by myself, it’s what Adam said.”

    “Yes. I see, you admire him very much. It’s interesting to hear about him as a person, when one has seen him on the screen. I thought he was very good in the film of The Captain’s Daughter, though of course it was a very light rôle. And he was wonderful as Oberon, though I thought the South Seas setting of the film was rather silly. But when he and Titania had the rows, it was just like Señor Gonzalez and his wife who live near Seve and Joanie! She is very much younger than him and very spoilt, too! He gives her horrid gold rings and very nasty furniture. He is a butcher,” she explained.

    “Aye!” he gasped. “Nothing new under the sun! No, well, you’re right, it was marvellous, wasn’t it? Portrait of a marriage between very disparate ages just as the gilt was wearing off the gingerbread. Um, sorry, that’s an image.”

    “I know!” she beamed. “From the mediaeval gingerbread: isn’t it fascinating how these usages have persisted in modern English?”

    “Absolutely.”

    They headed west down Hammer Street, Euan smiling a little.

    After some time Terri said: “Sorry. I did not mean to change the subject.”

    “Mm? Did you? I didn’t notice.”

    “Adam sounds very nice,” she said shyly.

    “Yes, he is.”

    “Euan, why do you not invite him and his wife? Do they live too far away?”

    “Uh—they’ve got a place somewhere in the middle of England—Wiltshire, I think. Though they’re often in town, they’ve got a house in Hampstead. Aye, well, they’ve got two wee boys, now. The cottage is a bit small for guests with children.”

    “Yes,” said Terri regretfully. “It is. But listen: when you build on the extension you could add a guest room!”

    “That’s a great idea! And in that case, it would be a wing! Ugh, I wonder if there are building regulations that might stop me… I’ll look into it. –Look,” he said as they crossed Dipper Street, he keeping a very tight grip on Kitchener and looking out for speeding Volvos, “I need to speak to Rosie. I think she might know who owns the farmland. And, um, well, it could possibly be ticklish—uh, that means difficult. Delicate and difficult.”

    “I don’t understand,” said Terri lamely.

    “No.” He looked at her round, trusting face. “I don’t know when I’ll be back this evening. You’d better go over to Colin, okay?”

    “Um, yes. Now?”

    “Yes. No point in hanging around waiting for me,” said Euan very firmly. “Uh—hang on, I’ll take you and Kitchener over in the car.”

    “Thank you. Is something wrong, Euan?” she faltered as he headed up Medlars Lane, his face grim.

    “No, I just need to check some facts.”

    “With Rosie?” she faltered.

    “Aye, with Rosie.”

    Terri bit her lip. She really liked Rosie but she did wish Euan wouldn’t bring her name up so often.

    “What’s up? Not still brooding about Cherry Jackson, ma greatest fan?”

    “No. I understand, now.”

    “That’s good,” he said in a vague voice, feeling in his pocket for his car keys. “Hop in.”

    Numbly Terri hopped in, not pointing out that she’d left a jelly to cool on the kitchen bench and it should really go in the fridge.

    Rosie’s jaw dropped at the word “lord.” “Christ!”

    “Don’t panic yet,” advised Greg grimly, tapping at his keyboard. He looked at the screen.

    “Well?” said Euan.

    “Well, yes, the farm is owned by a company. We haven’t got much detail, the farm’s beyond our survey area. Landwich Holdings. Like Sandwich only with an L. Ring any bells?”

    “No: Lady Mother’s family name is Loomis,” said Rosie faintly.

    “Doesn’t prove a thing,” he said, tapping.

    “Search under Landwich—”

    “I am! –She thinks no-one’s got brains but her,” he explained to Euan. “Uh—Hell.”

    They peered over his shoulder. According to the sociologists’ database, pretty accurate after all their title searching, Landwich Holdings also owned a considerable amount of real estate in Bellingford.

    “That dingy wee cottage up the road from me,” ascertained Euan feebly.

    “And the rest of the top end of Hogs Lane—I mean Medlars Lane—and the hill behind it. Shit,” said Rosie numbly. “I think it must be Lady Mother’s fucking family. At one stage they owned Miller’s Bay and all the adjoining land.”

    Greg pointed silently to the addresses under “The Green.”

    As Euan had feared, Landwich Holdings owned all of the southern side of the square, where Colin wanted to put his craftspeople. Oh—and the eastern and western sides, too, where there were no houses left standing. “Aye. Can we find out if Lady Haworth’s family does own Landwich Holdings?”

    “Not if it’s a private company, unfortunately,” replied Greg. “Hang on… Nothing, they don’t seem to have a website.”

    Rosie sighed. “Search Landwich and Loomis, you nit!”

    Greg gave her a glare, but did so. “No; no—peculiar. Um, no… Oh.” Swallowing, he clicked. A lovely picture of a charming stately home sprang out at them, captioned: “Landwich House, country seat of Lord Landwich, & home of the Loomis family.”

    “It isn’t that far,” he said dully. “Open to view. We could go.”

    “Drop dead,” replied his sociological superior evilly.

    “Aye: we were exposed to rather a lot of country houses when Paul was filming the last series she did as the Daughter,” Euan excused her. “And then John went and took her round more of the same, under the impression, poor chap, that he was giving her a lovely holiday before we all had to take off for Australia!”

    Greg gave his sociological superior a very hard look. “Was Landwich House one of them?”

    “NO!” she shouted. “All right, we’ve proved what we didn’t wanna know, the same company that owns the farm owns those houses on the claypan that Colin’s fondly imagining he’s gonna turn into a productive centre of cottage industry, not to say food on the village’s tables. All we have to prove now is that Lady Mother’s fucking family does own the company and they haven’t sold it to some other upper-class gits, and we can really be miserable! And just listen! Whatever the outcome, do—not—tell—Colin!”

    “I wasn’t going to!” they both bleated.

    “Ya better not.” She staggered over to the sofa and sat down heavily.

    Greg gave Euan a warning glance. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

    “Aye. I’ll give you a hand.”

    In the kitchen with the door carefully closed, Greg said grimly: “Why the Christ did you have to come out with that in front of her? Couldn’t you’ve just asked me?”

    “I’m really sorry: I didn’t realise it would all be in your computer, Greg: I just remembered something she’d said about John’s grandfather and his property. Actually I thought we might have to ask John, but I didn’t want to do that first off, in case he thought Colin ought to know.”

    “He’s certainly not into shielding capable adult males from stuff they need to know,” said Greg with a sigh. “Though it depends whether he thinks Colin is capable again.” He opened and shut cupboards.

    Euan swallowed hard. “Greg, do you know if Colin’s had any blackouts since he got here?”

    Greg’s pleasant mouth tightened for a moment. Then he said: “Two that I know of. Back last year. Rosie only knows about one: don’t mention it to her. He passed out going up Jack’s path not long after he first came down here, and then a bit later, when he was helping old Jim Parker in his back garden. Jim told John and he made him go up to see the neurosurgeon but all the bugger said was he wasn’t altogether surprised and he couldn’t see anything, but not to drive long distances, and not to drive at all after physical exertion.”

    “He let me drive him home from the train stop after Anna’s show,” said Euan numbly.

    “Yes. Think that was before that, though, Euan.”

    Euan was very pale. He sank down at the kitchen table. “He made a joke of the episode at Jack’s.”

    Greg sighed. He placed a plate of small green triangles in front of him. “Eat a couple.”

    “What are they?” he croaked.

    “Technically barfis. Sugar and milk, green dye, peppermint oil. She’s had a craving for peppermint. Eat.”

    Numbly Euan ate a couple.

    Greg made the tea busily, not looking at him,

    “Haven’t the mother-fucking incompetents found out if it’s pressure on the brain, at least?” said Euan in a low, angry voice.

    “No. He’s had innumerable tests.”

    “Greg, has he told you the truth, though?” said Euan with tears in his eyes.

    Greg came and sat down, looking wry. He ate a barfi. “Yeah, ’cos John and this neurosurgeon are old school chums. When you’re wearing the right tie patient confidentiality goes out the window.”

    “Well, thank God for it!”

    “Yeah. Have another.”

    They each had another.

    “I wouldn’t tell Terri,” said Greg cautiously.

    “Och, I havena even told her anything about the land company, do ye think I’m likely to tell her this?”

    “No, I don’t, as a matter of fact.” Greg went over to the pantry. He returned with a Tupperware container. “These are nicer,” he said simply, offering it.

    Euan took a pale pink barfi. Rosewater. Wow! The only thing you could compare it to was being in that picture Anna had done for old Jim: floating in Paradise amidst the pink mermaids and the spouting whales and the blue, blue sky. Nirvana—quite.

    “Have another.”

    Weakly he took another taste of Nirvana.

    Greg fetched an empty Tupperware container. He put a layer of green barfis in it, a layer of greaseproof paper and a layer of pink ones; then he put the lid on. “Here,” he said briefly.

    Euan had known for ages that Greg didn’t really like him. Well, he very clearly hadn't approved of his relationship with Katie, or of its breaking up. “I shouldna deprive you,” he croaked.

    “That’s okay. Mum sent these down, but I can make them. Go on.”

    “Thanks, Greg, they’re wonderful.”

    “Nip out the back way and put them in your car or she’ll be asking questions.”

    Weakly he nipped with his Tupperwared Nirvana.

    John looked at the three anxious faces and said evenly: “Landwich Holdings is Uncle Harold’s company, yes.”

    “UNCLE?” shouted Rosie terribly. “You said it was your GRANDFATHER that was a ruddy belted lord!”

    “Rosie, stop shouting, you’re getting yourself all stirred up for nothing. My grandfather was Lord Landwich, yes. When he died Uncle Harold inherited.”

    “Your mother isn’t Lady Miriam, though, is she?” said Greg.

    “No, it’s a barony.”

    “Clear as mud,” said Rosie sourly. “All right, next question. Is this the side of your family that’s had the almighty row with Colin’s side?”

    “There is considerable ill-feeling between Uncle Harold’s family—the Loomises—and Colin’s mother’s family, the Duff-Rosses: I think that’s what you’re thinking of. They don’t care for Cousin Paul—Colin’s father—but that’s not connected to the other thing.”

    “No, well, we know that none of your side like Colin’s father. It’s possibly because he’s the only one that’s ever tried to do a bit of good in the world!”

    “Instead of getting yourself all stirred up and going on about irrelevancies,” said her husband evenly, “just bloody out with it, Rosie. I know it’s largely the pregnancy, but if you must have it, it’s starting to drive me crackers.”

    “Me, too,” admitted Greg gratefully.

    John had thought it might be. He refrained from glancing at the poor chap. “Well?”

    “Is this company of your uncle’s gonna stop Colin’s project dead in its TRACKS?”

    “No. Anything that can bring in money from their properties would be a good thing for them. They may well, however, demand their pound of flesh. –Bump the rents up,” he said on a sour note.

    “Aye, that makes commercial sense, Rosie,” said Euan in considerable relief.

    “Yes. Hadn’t that occurred?” said John.

    Euan hesitated. Then he said: “I didna have any details but I had the impression there was ill-feeling between your side of the family and Colin’s, so I was afraid that either they’d stop the project dead in its tracks or they’d put the rents up so astronomically that he wouldn’t be able to afford them.”

    “For spite,” said John heavily.

    “Well, yes.”

    “I thought so too, John,” said Greg, swallowing.

    John took a deep breath. “I see. I think you’ve unconsciously picked up Rosie’s prejudice, here. There’s nothing to fear: Uncle Harold is a rational man. I know you’ve experienced Mother’s spite, Rosie, in the business over the family cradle, and I know she behaved appallingly over Matt. But she’s a soured elderly woman. I’m sure it will dawn on Uncle Harold, or his agent, it’s him that manages the daily affairs of the family company, that any attempt to bump the rents up too high will result in no income. And as they’ve made nothing out of their Bellingford properties for forty years or more, I’m sure they’ll realise that something’s better than nothing.”

    “Aye,” agreed Euan in relief. “That makes sense.”

    “Yes, it does,” Rosie admitted. “What about the farm, John?”

    “I was excepting it. They do get a reasonable rent from that, I believe.”

    “It’s like something out of Maupassant,” she said evilly.

    “Les rentes? Yes, it is,” he agreed calmly. “How does the farm come into it, though?”

    “That was me,” said Euan awkwardly. “Terri and I went up that way and were admiring the house. We wondered if it might suit Derry better than that modern place he’s in. But the farmer’s wife explained that it’s not theirs to sell.”

    “And the rest!” said Rosie forcefully.

    “Mm. There seemed to be some resentment towards the landlord, John,” he said, reddening.

    “I think that probably dates back to my grandfather’s day. I can understand that it gave you an unfortunate impression of the family company, though.”

    “Aye,” he said gratefully. “E-er… well, this may sound daft, but would there be any possibility of their selling the old house and a wee bit of land to make a decent garden, and putting up a new house for the farmer?”

    John scratched his chin. “They’d be opposed to selling real estate.”

    “Them and the rest!” said Rosie with energy. “And don’t imagine me and Baby Bunting and New Baby are ever gonna live in that dump of your father’s over in Kent!”

    “I’ve never for a moment imagined any such thing, are you bonkers?”

    “No. Sorry. It’s the preggy,” she muttered, swallowing.

    “I should hope so! –She been keeping up her calcium intake, Greg?”

    “Yes. On peppermint barfis, largely,” he admitted.

    “Better than nothing. –Sorry, Euan!” he said with a grin. “I was about to say, if Derry makes Landwich Holdings a giant offer, they may well be tempted.”

    “Really? Good! I’ll show him the place, in that case!”

    “It couldn’t hurt,” agreed John, smiling at him. “That it? No more storms in teacups? Good. Then perhaps someone could give me a hand to unload the car?”

    “I’ll do it,” said Euan quickly.

    Out at the car he took a deep breath and said: “I’m terribly sorry, John. I never meant to panic her.”

    “She’s paranoid about anything to do with Mother’s side, but you couldn’t possibly have known that. –Grab the esky,” he said with a smile, handing him a foam hamper.

    Euan laughed. “That takes me straight back to Queensland! Sun, sand and eskies full of beer!”

    “Yes: wasn’t that beach glorious? Dawlish certainly has an eye for a beautiful site. Don’t know why I didn’t think of the farmhouse back when he started enthusing over the Arvidsons’ place: I think it’d be just the thing for him. Large, rambling and untidy, but plenty that’s aesthetic about it!” he said with a chuckle.

    “Aye!” agreed Euan, laughing.

    “There’s the best part of a salmon in that hamper: I’m fed up with fish fingers and pizza interspersed with curries, but don’t for the Lord’s sake tell Greg that, will you? Want to stay for it?”

    Euan hesitated. Then he said: “No, I won’t, thanks verra much, John. I bundled Terri off to Colin’s wi’oot a by-your-leave because I was panicking over who owned Colin’s row houses. I think I’d better go and apologise and offer her some sort of an explanation.”

    “Of course,” he said with his nice smile.

    Euan took a deep breath. “Don’t go into the house just yet, John. I want to ask you something.”

    “Yes?”

    “I bailed up Greg in the kitchen while Rosie had her feet up, and got it out of him about Colin’s blackouts and what the neurosurgeon said.” He swallowed. “Apparently said.”

    John put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, old man.”

    “Is it?” said Euan bleakly. “I’d like to know the truth, thanks. I’m verra fond of Colin.

    John squeezed his shoulder hard. “There’s a blood clot they can’t get at. The neurosurgeon thinks it may dissipate.”

    “I see. Does Colin know?”

    “No,” said Colin’s cousin simply.

    Euan hadn’t thought so. He nodded grimly, his mouth very tight.

    Rosie was lying on the big old leather sofa when John came back into the main room. “Has Euan gone?” she said in surprise.

    “Yes. –Come out of that bloody computer, Greg, and have a whisky.” He poured for them both and informed Rosie: “You can have an orange juice.”

    “Get choked.”

    He sat down in his big chair, smiling, and reached over to pat the bulge. “How’s New Baby?”

    “Kicking like billyo, the little bugger’s gonna be a footballer. Male or female,” she noted heavily.

    “Yes, like that lovely Indian girl in that delightful film!” he smiled.

    “Bend It Like Beckham,” they both said immediately.

    John’s eyes twinkled. “Mm.” He swallowed whisky. “Euan’s improved,” he said mildly.

    Greg had come and sat down in the green leather club chair at the other side of the hearth. He and Rosie exchanged startled glances: they’d assumed John would come to the opposite conclusion.

    “I offered him fresh salmon and he refused because he’d deserted Terri,” he explained.

    They nodded groggily. After a moment, however, Greg admitted: “Actually, I was just thinking he wasn’t too bad after all.”

    “Eh? When where you thinking that?” croaked Rosie.

    “What? Oh—in the kitchen,” he said, trying to sound airy.

    “Yes, he’s growing up at last,” said John calmly. “With a bit of luck he’ll drop the rôle-playing entirely. I was very glad to see he had his old father down for Christmas.” He sipped whisky. “Shall we ask him to the Yacht Club with us for Terence’s birthday?”

    They looked at him in horror. Finally Greg croaked: “Wasn’t the last time a disaster?”

    Euan had last been to the Yacht Club with the Haworths at the time of his thing with Katie Herlihy. Since the thing had consisted mostly of flaming rows, that was more or less what they’d had. He’d chipped at her because her frock was off the peg—at least, that was the ostensible reason—and then he’d flirted with the satin-frocked young ladies of the Club all night while she’d flirted with the extremely eager young Naval officers the place was always full of.

    “Yes. Well, we had a lovely time! Rosie wore her pale blue dress with the tiny frills on the bust, as I remember!” said John with a laugh.

    “Elephant. –One of the vile Marilyn dresses from Henny Penny: his choice,” she said heavily.

    Greg shook all over, nodding.

    “But as far as Euan and Katie were concerned, it was a disaster, yes. That’s why I’m thinking of asking him again,” said John tranquilly.

    Their jaws dropped. Finally his wife croaked: “You unscrupulous manipulator!”

    “I want to see if he invites Terri as his partner and if so, how he behaves.”

    “John, Terri isn’t as tough as Katie: what if he’s horrible to her and goes into his Big Star thing again?”

    His mouth tightened. “Then we’ll conclude he’s bloody well a lot cause and I’ll contact Seve and get him to get her back to Spain.”

    “John! She’s not a—a puppet! You can’t run her life for her like that!” she gasped. “And to think you told me off about trying to run people’s lives for them!”

    “Laying silly plots and getting yourself all worked up, I think it was. –Think about it. What’s the alternative? To let her going on moping after Euan while he treats her as cruelly as he fancies? Because if he can do it once,” he said grimly, “I doubt very much he’ll stop. Not human nature.”

    They gulped.

    John got up and helped himself to another whisky. “’Nother one, Greg? No? Just as you like.” He came back and sat down. “I don’t anticipate it’ll turn out badly, as a matter of fact.”

    “Oh,” they croaked.

    John just sipped whisky, looking mild.

    Finally Rosie conceded: “It may work. But—but if it doesn’t, John, there’s always Colin. Terri’s really fond of him: I think she could well turn to him.”

    “There is not always Colin,” he said grimly.

    Greg looked at him in horror.

    John got up. “He likes her very much, but as his daughter, darling. Just don’t get your hopes up on that one. I’ll put the salmon on. Baked, I think. Someone give poor old Yvonne a bell and get her over for it. Though if the infant’s in the sort of mood he was in yesterday, she can leave him behind, for me.”

    “It was a tooth,” said Rosie feebly as he went out. “He’s better today, it’s come through.”

    Greg got up. “I’ll go and get them.” He went out quickly.

    Rosie looked sideways at his glass. Greg wasn’t much of a drinker—Jamaican experiments apart—and there was a smear of whisky in it. Quickly she grabbed it and drank it off. “Aah!” Her mouth firmed. She went into the kitchen.

    John was laying salmon steaks in an oven tray.

    “Don’t forget the potatoes,” she said mildly.

    “Mm. Could you put them on, darling? There’s some of those nice washed ones: we could have them in their skins.”

    Rosie put water and potatoes in a pan and put it on the bench. “What’s that green muck you’re ruining the salmon with?”

    “Fennel.” He added a little olive oil.

    She watched as he set the pan of potatoes on the Aga. “Put the fish in the oven.”

    “Not just yet: it won’t take very long.”

    “Right. Is Colin dying?”

    John swallowed hard. Rosie just looked at him.

    “What gave you that idea?” he croaked. “Did—did you overhear Greg and Euan?”

    “No. Euan did seem super-concerned about the landlord bit, though.” She just waited.

    He licked his lips. “There’s a blood clot. Fucking Francis Dorning can’t get at it; he says it may dissipate of its own accord. Um, Colin doesn’t know, Rosie.”

    “No, the old boy network will have agreed on that one. Well, I’m glad to hear they’ve got it right, for once. What’s the prognosis?”

    “One can’t say, in these cases… I poured brandy into Francis until he admitted there’s an eighty percent chance it’ll kill him within the next three years,” he said tightly.

    She nodded grimly.

    “Come here,” he said with a sigh.

    Rosie went over to him and looked up at him uncertainly. “I’m all right, I sort of knew.”

    “Mm.” He put his arms round her and pulled her tightly to him, the bulge getting considerably in the way. “I’m not really all right,” he said in a muffled voice into her untidy blonde curls.

    She hugged him very hard, saying nothing.

    John sniffed. “I’ve been talking to Jerry about coming into the business,” he admitted abruptly.

    “Good.”

    “I’d like to. When you finish your study of the village, mm?”

    “Yes. Bunting can start school in Australia,” she said matter-of-factly.

    “Mm,” he agreed into the curls, sniffing. “Don’t let go, darling.”

    “I’m not letting go,” replied Rosie sturdily. “That’s New Baby squirming, not me.”

    “Yes!” he said with a shaky laugh. “So it is!”