Young Visiters

1

Young Visiters

    Colin opened his eyes slowly. “Angels and ministers of grace,” he said blurrily.

    “Hullo, Colin,” replied his cousin’s wife in tones of unalloyed relief.

    Right, well, if that bash on the head hadn’t completely confused him, wasn’t she the one that actually was an actress? As opposed to that bloody act all the rest of ’em had been putting on. And if she was making it that obvious, it most certainly confirmed what the act had suggested. He refrained from saying he wasn’t dead yet, however, and merely said: “Hullo, Rosie.”

    “John couldn’t come,” she said with her dazzling smile, sitting down beside the bed. “He had to go to a horrible committee meeting at the Admiralty. He’ll come this evening.”

    “Mm. I’ll just put up with you, then.” She was in, though possibly it was that bash on the head and his eyes had gone fuzzy, a pale pink thing that shimmered round the edges. See, Allah hadn’t had him shot up for spite at all: it was a present for being a good boy!

    “Are you feeling better? You haven’t got that big bandage on your head any more,” she said hopefully.

    “Yes, progress. Feeling much better.” Well, not entirely a lie. He could speak, the head no longer ached interminably, only when he nodded, spoke or blinked, and the leg was immobilised in plaster from waist to toe. The cracked shoulder was nothing, but the nurses did their nuts if he took his arm out of the sling arrangement that was clamping it to his chest, so he was leaving it there—line of least resistance.

    “John said shortbread might be better than chocolates, but I thought you might not feel like chewing yet,” she said, proffering a box. “These are nice squashy ones.”

    Colin essayed a smile. That only hurt if it reached the ears. “Mm. I do love shortbread, but you’re right about the chewing. Had a bash on the bonce yourself, have you?”

    “Not as bad as you. I did have concussion when I broke my leg last year.”

    Uh— He’d sort of had the impression, though possibly another year had gone by without his noticing it, that it was last year she’d made her blessed film? To the wider public John’s wife was known as “Lily Rose Rayne”: currently on view world-wide in Derry Dawlish’s extremely successful film of The Captain’s Daughter. Set in fake Fifties Singapore, and according to its publicity, full of delicious one-piece bathing-suits, what in his weakened state didn’t bear thinking about. Possibly for anyone else—nay, undoubtedly for anyone else—a fellowship at London University entailing a sociological study of the dynamics of a workplace group would not have ended up in her masquerading as the 21st-century Marilyn Monroe, darling of the tabloids, and singing, tap-dancing telly actress for three years; but then, if it was going to happen to anyone, Rosie was that anyone. Five-foot-two in her stockinged feet, all curves in the right places, and that perfect pearly-pink skin topped by a mop of palest gold curls.

    “Last year? Weren’t you making your film?” he groped.

    “Yes: we did the close-ups and stuff last summer, but we had to put off the tap dancing until my leg was better. One of my cousins did double for me. All the walking and ballroom dancing and running on the beach was her, not me.”

    “You mean there’s more than one of you?” he whispered.

    Rosie giggled. “I’ve got three cousins that look very like me, actually!”

    Colin just gulped.

    “The close-ups were all me, of course. Down as far as the knee,” she said, smiling at him.

    Those were the good bits, all right. If they ever let him out of this dump he’d definitely go and see it. He smiled feebly and fumbled one-handed at the box.

    “Its lid comes off,” she said helpfully.

    “You do it.” There was always the hope that— Yes: Allah loved him! She didn’t take the box off him, she let him hold it in his good hand while she bent right over—Chanel Numéro 5 or he’d never set foot in a duty-free emporium in his life—and took the lid off then and there.

    “I’m very weak: pop one in my mouth, Rosie,” he said plaintively.

    She smiled and replied: “Only because you’re a poor, sick boy!” And did so. Allah was merciful, all right.

    Terence Haworth took a chocolate, grinning. “So, what’s the verdict?”

    Colin sighed. Why had he ever mentioned that Rosie had popped in? It could have stayed forever a lovely secret between him and the Almighty. “He’s the jammiest bastard in the country, Terence, what do you think’s the verdict?” he said wearily.

    John’s brother laughed smugly.

    “Oh, get knotted,” said Colin tiredly.

    “No, but apart from that, what did you think?”

    The bash on the bonce didn’t actually prevent ratiocination, not any more, but he didn’t want to think. Resignedly he replied: “How can it be apart from that, for a chap with hormones? Uh—obviously fond of John, nothing to worry about there. I— Well, the regiment was abroad, of course, but I did manage to see quite a bit of her blessed telly thing. I suppose I didn’t expect the strong Australian accent: it threw me a bit.”

    “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve never been to Sydney, I think? No, well, we were out on joint manoeuvres not long since and I took the opportunity to suss it out. Even Mother and Father would approve of the suburb her parents are in—bit like Surbiton, though most of the houses are larger. But I took a look at the place where they lived until she was old enough for secondary school—and it was a very decent school, I might add—and between you and me, and for God’s sake don’t repeat this to any of the relatives, it’s a bloody slum. The taxi driver was edgy as Hell, kept saying ‘Seen enough, mate?’—though the actual street wasn’t too bad; but the area’s a Black ghetto, these days. There was some damned riot there quite recently. Her father was building up the business, is why they lived there. Don’t be fooled by the accent: she had a very good education—did two Bachelor’s degrees before going on to her Master’s and then a Ph.D., how many of the blasted Haworths can say as much?”

    Colin didn’t even bother to sigh. Very obviously Terence had been burning to get that lot off his chest for some time. Younger brother syndrome—right. Colin was a younger brother himself, actually, but he’d never suffered from it. He didn’t attempt to voice any of this or to tell Terence he hadn’t wanted to know, even though he was quite glad to hear it. “I see.”

    “Sorry, old boy, feeling tired?” he said kindly.

    “Fed up, really. Itching under the plaster,” he admitted with a grimace.

    Immediately Terence plunged into a long, boring story about the time old So-and-So had busted his leg. If he didn’t watch it he’d end up a club bore, like Uncle Matthew, Uncle William, and, come to think of it, old Cousin Bernard, his father. Colin just let his eyelids droop, it was quite restful, really.

    “So, um, you boys back for a while?” he ventured when the noise had stopped. –Terence was in subs.

    Terence blinked. “Uh—well, dare say. We were out for a while, this last time, y’know.”

    “Uh-huh. Seen anything of, uh, Whatsername?” he asked feebly.

    “Um… Oh! Juliyanne! Came clubbing with us on your last long leave, that the one you’re thinking of?”

    Who knew, amongst the many? He didn’t have a specific recollection of clubbing, either, but no doubt it had happened. He did recall that this particular one spelled her name with a Y, though: that sort of thing was hard to forget, even with Saddam Hussein’s lot on the job. “Yes,” he agreed.

    Sourly Terence replied: “Pushed off to Barbados, and it’s welcome to her, the little tart!”

    “Weren’t you warned about lipsticked young ladies that call themselves Juliyanne with a yuh, Terence?” he asked solicitously.

    “Shut up,” he said with a silly grin. “You should talk.”

    Right, well, even though he couldn’t recall the female’s face, that had undoubtedly been spot-on. “Pass me a choc, if there’re any left.”

    “Mm? Oh! Sorry, old man.” Sheepishly Terence passed him the box.

    Molly blew her nose hard. She was being a silly watering-pot, bad as Aunty May! “Sorry, Rosie,” she said to Aunty May’s daughter.

    “That’s all right,” replied Rosie kindly. “But what went wrong, Molly?’

    Rosie’s cousin Molly Leach had come to London to spend some time with Lucas Roberts, who was an Executive Director of the film company, Double Dee Productions Limited. She’d met him in Queensland when they were filming—Rosie had got her up there for a long-overdue holiday. Rather naturally her relations had assumed this visit was going to lead on to something more permanent.

    Biting her lip, Molly attempted to explain what had gone wrong between her and Lucas. The stupid thing was, there was nothing specific! Lucas was as kind and considerate as he’d been when she’d first met him. And she’d come all this way to be with him, even bringing Micky—well, it was almost his mid-year break, and he was only nine, it wouldn’t do him any harm to miss a couple of weeks of school, and this was the time when Lucas had been able to take his leave…

    “Um, wuh-well, he had this stupid dinner party… I mean, that wasn’t it specifically. Um, only it was indicative, Rosie,” she said feebly.

    Rosie nodded, a grim look round her mouth. “Fancy, was it?”

    Molly shuddered. “Horribly! Little bitty servings, and they all had French names.”

    “Did something go wrong with it?”

    “The food? No, it was perfect, he had his usual caterers. He was very pleased with it.” She swallowed. “Um, actually, Rosie, that was sort of it. It was too perfect. Not just the party—all of it. That flat of his is like something out of a magazine. And—and there was a crisis at Double Dee Productions, so he had to go into work. I wasn’t upset about that, Rosie, honestly! I do understand that his work has to come first. I mean, he’s a serious person, who takes his work seriously: that was one of the things I—I liked about him.”

    Or that she thought she had. Lucas was a dead ringer for Robson Green, that hadn’t hurt. All of Molly’s boyfriends in the past without exception had been good-looking. Rosie just nodded kindly.

    “Yes,” said Molly, sniffing. “It was just as well, actually, ’cos it gave me an idea of how I’d have to live if—if I married him. It was really terrible. Nothing to do during the day except go to the hairdresser and—and awful dinner parties with null people with no sense of humour!”

    Rosie bit her lip. “Um, lots of ladies do live like that, specially in England.”

    “Yes, but I’m not a lady!” cried Molly. “And I could see he wanted me to be, but I don’t want that!”

    “No, um, it has only been three weeks, Molly,” she said cautiously.

    “It wouldn’t’ve been fair to him to let it drag on any longer. Not now I know I can’t hack it. Not full-time. I—to tell you the truth, I don’t feel as if I’ve been cheerful since I got to England!”

    “Well, that’s pretty indicative, only what with the jet lag, and everything being different over here,” said Rosie, “are you absolutely sure it’s him?”

    “Yes. That flat makes me all cold. And don’t say it’s the décor, because he chose it all. He doesn’t want me, not the real me. He wants someone who can do him credit in his gracious living quarters and say the right things to the null people from work and—and be pretty enough,” said Molly with a wobble in her voice, “for Derry Dawlish to approve of!”

    Rosie made a horrible face. “I get it.”

    “He actually said,” revealed Molly with something like incredulous awe, “that it didn’t matter if I didn’t feel I had a handle on it all yet, because he could teach me!”

    “Oh, shit. Moulding you, eh?”

    “Yes. I’ve been me for twenty-six years,” she said strongly: “I don’t need to be moulded by anyone!”

    “No.”

    “He hates anything ordinary, you see, Rosie. It’s all got to be in good taste and the right thing, and he’s spent huge amounts of time learning up the right things, and he really thinks they matter! And I just can’t live like that! It—it’s soulless. And it wouldn’t have been fair to him to let him go on believing it was gonna work out when I knew it wasn't.”

    That seemed to be that, then. Rosie took a deep breath and refrained from reminding her that everyone had told her Lucas Roberts was a cold fish and to look before she leapt.

    “I—I suppose we’d better go home,” said Molly with a wobble in her voice. She blew her nose hard. “Micky’s bewildered by it all. I should never have done it.”

    “He seemed okay to me, Molly. Kids are pretty resilient. Why not stay with us for a bit? We’d love to have you both,” she said with her warm smile.

    Molly went very red. “We can’t do that! And—and would you even have room for us?”

    “’Course! Georgia’s not due for a while.”

    “Georgia?” gasped Georgia’s big sister.

    “Oh, God, hasn’t she told you?” croaked Rosie.

    Molly shook her head wildly, her eyes bulging.

    Rosie swallowed. “Um, well, you turned Derry Dawlish down when he tried to persuade you to be the next Lily Rose Rayne, so I think she thought you’d try to talk her out of it.”

    Molly took a deep breath. “I certainly tried to talk her out of pretending to be you for the Sydney premiere of your film!”

    “Yes,” said Rosie, rather pink. “Well, so did I. But Derry seems to have pulled the wool over everybody’s eyes, up to and including CNN, doesn’t he?”

    “She could be sued if it ever gets out,” said Georgia’s big sister grimly.

    “I’m sure it won’t, if it hasn’t by now,” replied Rosie quickly. “Anyway, Derry got onto her again—I think he actually flew out again. Was he at this horrible dinner party of Lucas’s?”

    “Yes. He gave me his usual blah about being a dead ringer for you and that stupid twin Lily Roses idea he was on about in Queensland. I did remind him you’ve given up acting.”

    “Yes, well, he doesn’t believe it yet, but he will. Well, pretty obviously he decided he’d try Georgia, when he couldn’t persuade you. Um, far be it from me to talk you into doing anything bloody Derry wants, but don’t you honestly fancy it?”

    Molly sighed. “I’ve got Micky to think of. He’s had enough upsets. First we moved to Sydney—not that I regret that, and he loved being near Aunty May, of course. And then I stupidly dragged him over here… What if I let Derry talk me into it and it all falls through? Lucas was telling me how many film ideas a year never get into production, and it was a huge proportion of the ones they consider seriously.”

    “Lucas is the type that doesn’t fancy being married to a tarty fillum star, Molly, didn’t that dawn?” replied Lily Rose Rayne very drily indeed.

    Molly went red. “Well, yes. As a matter of fact he doesn’t want a wife that’s got any sort of job. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t right about the statistics.”

    “No, fair enough. Um, it wouldn’t necessarily be a film: Derry’s been on about directing a television series. I know you’ve never had any acting experience, Molly, but you can do accents, and you’re a wonderful mimic. And if they cast you in a TV series, you would get paid, whether or not the thing was a success.”

    “But if it was a flop I’d be out of a job again! It’s all right for Georgia, she hasn’t got any responsibilities!” Her hands shook a little. “You don’t understand, Rosie, you’ve never been a solo mum,” she said in a low voice.

    “No. Well, I wouldn’t give up the idea entirely, if Derry wants you: they pay very well and it’d be a nice little nest-egg. But why not do an ordinary job for a while?”

    “Ye-es… I’ve only been doing database stuff, I’ve given the marine biology away,” she reminded her.

    “Yeah. Let me think about it. But meanwhile, you and Micky deserve a holiday! From what he was saying it doesn’t sound as if Lucas showed you many of the sights.”

    “Um, he took us to the cultural things, I suppose. Um, well, museums and art galleries, and Westminster Abbey,” said Molly without enthusiasm.

    Rosie adored the abbey. She just nodded, however. “St Paul’s?”

    “Yes. Micky went up in the whatsit and shouted and Lucas was very annoyed. He said you were only supposed to whisper and it was, um, sacrilegious, I think. Micky didn’t understand what he was on about, of course,” she said dully.

    “No. What about the zoos? There’s a couple of them.”—Molly shook her head. Rosie had to swallow. Hadn't Lucas Roberts ever been a kid, himself?—“The Tower of London? Windsor Castle?”

    “Lucas said it was at Windsor,” replied Molly in a confused voice. “Isn’t that a long way?”

    “You might be thinking of Balmoral,” replied her fellow Australian cautiously. “That’s the one that’s up in Scotland.”

    “Um… no. No, it was definitely Windsor Castle, the one where they had the big fire. Lucas definitely gave me the impression it was quite a way from here.”

    Yeah, well, possibly he’d had enough of sightseeing, after having dragged a sticky-pawed nine-year-old kid round St Paul’s and Westminster Abbey. Or possibly, to give him the benefit of the doubt, it was only because he was a Pom. “He’s a Pom. Got no idea of distances,” she said briskly. “It’s real close.”

    “Oh. Well, I think Micky would like to see it. Um, and the Tower of London. We did plan to go, only Lucas had to dash into work that day,” she said in an exhausted voice.

    “Why not have a proper holiday, then, since you’ve come all this way? And if you feel like staying on for a bit after that, I know of a couple of people that might need someone in their office.”

    Molly gave her a plaintive look. “Thanks, Rosie. Only—only not at the uni. I’ve sort of had enough of uni types.”

    Right, that was the last disaster, shortly before Rosie persuaded her to get out of Melbourne and come up to Sydney. A very married professor of marine biology. “No, wasn’t thinking of the uni, really.” She got up. “Meantime, I think you’d better have a nice lie-down.”

    Weakly Molly let her take her into the London flat’s spare room. It was very pretty and had clearly been done up recently: no doubt because they were expecting dratted Georgia.

    “When’s Georgia coming?” she said weakly, sitting down on one of the twin beds.

    “In about a week. I dare say there’ll be a letter for you at Lucas’s,” said Rosie kindly.

    “That or she was just gonna turn up in London and give me the fright of my life,” replied Molly drily.

    “Yeah. Never mind her, she can look after herself. Want a cuppa?”

    “Thanks, Rosie,” said Molly in an exhausted voice.

    Rosie went into the kitchen and made a cuppa rather slowly. When she came back with it Molly was asleep in an exhausted heap with all her clothes on. Since it was the English idea of summer, Rosie adjusted the floral duna over her carefully, and then crept out.

    “I’m seeing double again,” said Colin groggily. Either that or the Almighty had called him upstairs and he’d been put in the wrong section: this was definitely the Musselmen’s Nirvana, not Pa’s ’orrid C. of E. Heaven.

    “No!” said one of the golden-haloed visions with a giggle. “There really are two of us!”

    He blinked hard. Jumping Jehosophat, so there were! Rosie was again in pink—hadn’t it shimmered, last time? Damn, must’ve been the bloody bash on the bonce, because only the miraculous spun-gold hair was shimmering. The vision next to her was in pale lemon. He smiled slowly. This last time out there hadn’t been any time for a spot of leave, not to say, to even catch your breath, but during the previous stoush he and the lads had managed a few weekend passes, and at a little hole in the wall that sold the sort of coffee that knocked you out of your chair under the tattered awning and right across the street, he had been served a plate of Turkish delight with not only the pink sort with which he was familiar, but also a palest yellow variety: lemon flavoured. At the time, what with the extraordinary coffee—no wonder the Koran told them not to drink, they didn’t need other stimulants, did they?—and the contrast of the ambrosial rosewater in the pink variety and the mixed sharpness and seduction of lemon juice and lemon zest in the yellow one, he’d felt about as close to Nirvana as you could get here below. Silly him.

    “This is my cousin, Molly Leach!” beamed Rosie.

    “Hullo, Colin,” said the lemon-flavoured vision, going rather pink and smiling shyly. “I’m awfully sorry you’re in hospital.”

    “I’m not,” said Colin blatantly. “Hullo, Molly: I can’t tell you how nice it is to meet you.”

    She went much pinker and gave a flustered laugh.

    “And this is Molly’s son, Micky,” added Rosie.

    Oh, so it wasn’t a gremlin the Almighty had sent along as a sort of yin and yang thing? All right, Zen was out, but this was definitely a touch of Paradise. Colin held out his hand, smiling a little. “Good to meet you, Micky.”

    “Gidday!” he gasped convulsively, gripping convulsively with a hard little claw.

    Uh-huh. The bigness of the eyes, not say the gasping, very clearly indicated he’d come to see the wounded hero. Very possibly making such a pest of himself that the two of them had given in.

    “How are you enjoying London, Micky?” he said kindly.

    Brightening, Micky burst out with it. London Eyes, elephants, giant pandas, boats on the river and the Crown Jewels were all inextricably mixed. “We seen the Changing of the Guard, too!” he ended, panting.

    “Uh-huh, that’s always good. –‘Christopher Robin went down with Alice,’” murmured Colin.

    “‘A sojer’s loife is terrible ’ard, says Alice’,” agreed Rosie very drily indeed.

    “I’m sorry, Colin!” gulped Molly, turning scarlet. “He insisted on coming!”

    “Quite understandable,” he murmured.

    Micky might not have taken the precise reference but he was now very red and glaring.

    “Look, if Micky could keep me company for a bit, I wonder if you two ladies would do me an immense favour?” said Colin. “Somewhere down the far end of the corridor there’s a rumoured Coke-dispensing machine. I’d kill for a belt of sugar and caffeine in liquid form. Perhaps you might like a Coke, too, Micky?”

    “Yeah! Tha-anks, Colin!” He looked hopefully at his mother.

    “Come on, Molly,” said Rosie with a twinkle in her eye. “Let’s leave them to their male peer group.”

    Colin watched with a smile as the two perfect pastel forms tittuped out on their silly high heels.

    “Uh—yeah,” he said, coming to with a jump. “Right, old man, if there’s anything you’d like to ask me, do it before the womenfolk come back, eh?”

    Micky gave him a doubtful look. “Mum said not to.”

    “They always do. That’s why I got rid of them. Go on. Want me to tell you something about Iraq?”

    He nodded hard. “You got shot out there, eh?”

    “Yes. Burst of submachine gun fire. I was standing on the step of a truck, with my left side exposed. They got me in the leg.”

    He nodded, looking in awe at the mounded bedclothes over the cage protecting the leg.

    “It is still all there. I can wiggle my toes, so the doctors have told me it can stay on. This,” he said, tapping it, “is just a sort of cage thing to stop idiots putting trays or other heavy objects on it. Want to see?”

    He nodded convulsively so, endeavouring to be as polite as possible—he did have a night-shirt on but it tended to ride up—Colin lifted the sheet.

    “Heck,” he breathed. “Bevan Fletcher, he had a broken leg, but he never had one of those.”

    “No, if it’s just a break they usually put the plaster on and send you home straight away. I had to have the bullets dug out of me, see?” he said, lowering the sheet again.

    “Yeah. Did they let you keep them?”

    He’d been unconscious at the time, so he wouldn’t have been able to ask, if he had wanted to keep them, would he? “Never thought of that,” he said easily.

    “I’d of kept them! Hey, did you shoot any Iraqis?”

    Oh, Lor’, he should’ve seen that coming. “Not me personally, no. Officers don’t usually get the fun of shooting the buggers.”—Damn, should he have said buggers? In fact should he have said any of it?—“We only carry small arms. Um, a pistol on your belt,” he said feebly.

    “Hey, neato!”

    “Not really, it’s no use against tanks or machine guns. Er—well, I’ve given my chaps a fair few orders to shoot Iraqis to blazes.”

    “What with?” he breathed.

    Colin scratched his jaw. “Depended on the circumstances. Rifles. Anti-tank guns. Submachine guns. Machine guns.”

    Micky nodded in awe, his eyes bulging.

    “And if you want to know—or even if you don’t,” said Colin heavily, “getting shot hurts like Hell. At the moment it happens—though I hit my head when I fell off the truck, didn’t have time to feel much—and certainly for weeks afterwards. War isn’t fun.”

    “Does it hurt now?” he asked in a tiny voice.

    Oh, God, how old was he? Hard to tell when they were the scrawny, big-eyed, skinny-armed, huge-eared type. “Not too bad at all, because the nurses give you lots of painkillers once you’re lucky enough to end up in a nice clean hospital.”

    “We seen a nurse,” he said in relief. “She told us not to tire you out.”

    “Exactly,” said Rosie from the doorway. “So we’d better not stay once you blokes have had your Cokes.” She handed Colin his. “I spoke to Matron,” she said grimly.

    Colin shut his eyes.

    “Hah, hah. She said one won’t kill you but don’t dare to ask Nurse for coffee this afternoon.”

    “I promise,” he whispered.

    Micky was goggling. “Here,” said Molly heavily, handing him his can. “You’re not sick.”

    “Can’t you have Coke when you’re sick?” he said in a tiny voice.

    “It depends what sort of sick it is. Colin’s been very sick but he’s getting better now,” replied Rosie firmly. “His tummy’s been very empty: you don’t feel like eating if you have to have operations. Coke makes you too excited on an empty tummy.”

    “You know, Micky,” agreed Molly. “It makes you hyperactive, like little Harry Mirza.”

    “I thought that was because he’s little?”

    “Yes, it was. Having an empty tummy has the same result, even if you’re grown up.”

    “Like, Georgia, she didn’t know, she let him have a Coke and he run round like mad and biffed all his toys out the window and their flat, it’s on the third floor,” Micky explained clearly to Colin.

    “Georgia’s my sister,” added Molly. “She was baby-sitting for Joylene Mirza.”

    “Right, well, I won’t run round, but if I start biffing anything, don’t tell the nurses on me, will you, Micky?”

    “Nah!” he choked, apparently finding this feeble effort exquisitely witty.

    Colin sagged back against his pillows, barely able to appreciate it when Rosie came and popped another one under his head so as he could drink. It was rather nice to have a Coke for a change, actually.

    “Have you got medals?” asked Micky thoughtfully, after the initial gasping and gulping had slaked the burning thirst.

    “Mm. Not here.”

    “Aw. I seen on All Saints, this man, he was a soldier, and he had medals in his drawer!” he said on an aggrieved note.

    “Since when did you watch All Saints?” croaked his mother.

    “I seen it at Aunty May’s. She always watches it. It wasn’t on late!” he added quickly.

    “It may not be on late but it’s the most utter tripe,” said Molly weakly. “–Sorry, Colin, it’s an Australian hospital show. I’m amazed he could sit through it.”

    “It must be tripe, if the patients have their medals in their bedside cabinets,” Colin conceded.

    “Well, where are yours?” pursued Micky.

    “Micky, honestly!” protested his mother.

    Actually Colin was damned if he knew. The regiment had been stationed in Germany when their orders had come through. “Um, with the rest of my stuff in Germany, I suppose.”

    “Why were you in Germany?” asked Molly in astonishment.

    Colin blinked.

    “There’s loads of the British Army over there,” explained Rosie quickly. “You know, like on Redcap!”

    “Oh, yes,” she agreed.

    “’Ve you seen that, Colin? It’s neato!” Micky offered eagerly. “It’s about this pleecewoman, see: she’s an Army lady, she—”

    Colin just sipped his Coke and let it all wash over him.

    Terence collapsed in sniggers.

    “Right, you’d have done better, I suppose,” he sighed.

    “Show us your wound!” he panted.

    “Sod off.”

    Terence wiped his eyes and took one of Colin’s chocolates. “Mm, thezhe are nishe!” he approved through it. He swallowed. “Coffee-flavoured! Don’t you want one?’”

    “If you look at the box again you’ll see it’s real coffee and no, I don’t want one, because Matron in person has told me I’m a silly boy and Coke on top of chocolate and painkillers would give anyone heart flutters.”

    “Oh, Lor’.”

    “It was worth it,” said Colin dreamily. “There they were, two of ’em, a vision of rosewater Turkish delight and the lemon variety. All soft and squidgy.”

    “You are feeling better!”

    “I feel as if I might be human again within the next millennium, yeah. –Molly seems like a lovely girl, don’t you think?”

    “’Abn’t agsherly met ’er ye’,” he said through another coffee-filled choc.

    “Oh? Rosie is slipping.”

    “That or she doesn’t think that my two divorces are a good enough track record to offer a girl that came all the way across the world on account of some chap, only to discover she can’t stand him.”

    “Oh. I’ve got it wrong, then,” said Colin in a puzzled voice. “Thought she’d come to star in some telly thing? Extension of Rosie’s show, or something?”

    Terence looked bland. “No, dear boy, that’s the sister. Georgia. Due any day, reputed to be equally blonde and delicious.”

    “How many of them are there?” he whispered.

    “More than enough for you and me, old man, so you’d better hurry up and get well!” Terence took another coffee choc, looking impossibly smug.

    Today Rosie had merely brought her Baby Bunting. Perfect Madonna and child. The more so as she was in a soft blue dress. Colin just lay back on his pillows and drank them in.

    … “How was he, darling?” asked John Haworth.

    Rosie made a sour face. “Pretty zonked out, they’ve been operating on his hip again.”

    “Uh-huh. Baby Bunting behave himself?”

    “Too right. I stuffed him full of Vegemite sandwiches and gave him a real good dose of that kiddies’ cough syrup that Doris recommended. He was the Infant Jesus to the life.”

    John bit his lip but conceded: “Good. I think that’s about all Colin could have taken, just now.”