All Other Things To Their Destruction Run

Episode 19: All Other Things To Their Destruction Run

    Funnily enough, just because we think we oughta have Jamaica, the English weather hasn’t decided to be on side. We have managed to have a bit of a one, though. Rupy brought a friend, we had met him before, Benedict Little, it is his real name, he’s not in the Business, he’s in the diplomatic service, and Rupy hasn’t seen him since we were all in America the Christmas before last, so although of course John didn’t object to him bringing him, he was rather surprised to see him. Baby Bunting’s still in our room (though Yvonne thinks maybe he didn’t oughta be), so the nursery was free for them. Unfortunately Mr and Mrs Thwaites didn’t entirely approve of Benedict, or rather of the combination of Rupy and Benedict, but that wasn’t all bad: meant she didn’t keep coming over uninvited and muscling in on Yvonne’s area of responsibility.

    Also, another good thing, it meant Yvonne definitely decided to come out to Australia with us! She was hesitating because it’s an awfully long way, that trip to France with us was the furthest she’s been, and she really hasn’t been in the cottage all that long, and Henny Penny made her a counter-offer, doing Personal Dresser on one of their other shows, on location in Wales (right: more competition to Heartbeat coming up, boy does Brian hate that show), and it’s her parents’ wedding anniversary in August. Cold feet, in other words: I am familiar with the syndrome. But as it’s not their golden wedding or anything like that, the thought of Mrs Thwaites looking after Baby Bunting instead of her settled it. That and the pics of Sydney Mum sent plus and the letter she wrote her. Being Mum, she’ll of done it to make Yvonne feel she’s wanted, not out of any deliberate strategy, in fact she won’t of thought at all, she’ll just of sat down and written it. But it worked just as good as any deep-laid plot possibly could have.

    The pics were mostly taken round about October-November when the weather’s often good, very blue, not too humid. Like, not in July-August when it’s freezing cold and pouring with rain and features howling gales that bring down trees all over the state. Though those can happen in midsummer, too. Likewise not taken at Christmas because guess what? Last Christmas-New Year featured horrific bush fires all round Sydney. I have warned John we’ll get taken on a lovely drive to see the places where the bushfires encroached on the outer suburbs but, poor deluded clot, he thought I was pulling his leg.

    So given I’m going to be away for most of July and all of August, and given that D.D.’s rehearsals in London are gonna start very soon, Greg and me and have plunged ourselves into real work. Given that John’s on duty in Portsmouth. He says it’s temporary—ya right: could mean anything at all.

    Greg thinks it might be better to do a bar graph, showing the relative consumer patterns for each street. It wouldn’t, see? Because there’s a lot of streets in Bellingford, and that makes an awful lot of bar graphs, especially if, as he seems to be envisaging, he has a different colour for each sub-set of questions. And if you average out the responses, which you will have to do in order to produce that sort of graphic display, Greg, streets such as George Street or Dipper Street will show completely unreal results, because half of the inhabitants are fourteenth-generation villagers and half are rich retirees or weekenders! And if that CIA map program can’t produce a coloured map, DO IT BY HAND!

    I think he’s got the point, he’s scowling as if he has, anyway.

    “I’m not asking you to draw a fucking map by hand, for God’s sake!”

    “Do you want a map drawn?” says a baritone voice from the passage door and we both jump and gasp.

    “No, thanks all the same, John,” I admit limply. “We’ve got the basic map. What are you doing home?”

    He raises his eyebrows and holds his wrist up. Uh—shit.

    “Did we have lunch?” I say lamely to my research assistant.

    “Um, we had some spaghetti on toast,” he remembers. “Only I think that was elevenses.”

    In that case John thinks Greg had better have dinner with us, no arguments, he’s bought enough steak for all of us. And where’s Yvonne? Uh… Good question. After quite some time Greg recalls that she and Baby Bunting went out this morning.

    Unemotionally John rings Yvonne. Oops—not there. Just as I’m starting to panic he rings Mrs Thwaites, and her and Baby Bunting are there. Phew!

    So Yvonne hurries over with him and apologises profusely for forgetting the time, this goes over very well, as it enables John to explain that not only had we not noticed the time and even forgotten to have lunch, we’d also forgotten all about the pair of them. And would she like to stay for dinner? There’s plenty of steak, and he’s picked some curly endive from the gard— That puts her off, she hates it, so she refuses very nicely and escapes.

    Of course the expectable consequence of feeding your little curly-haired research assistant on huge meals of steak is that he stays on for ages telling your hubby all about the bloody map program that won’t— Gee, John’s worked it out, no sweat. Greg is very, very, very crestfallen.

    “Shoulda thought of asking you before,” I admit, once he’s more or less bodily shoved Greg out the door, pointing out very firmly that the print-outs can be done tomorrow.

    “You should, yes. Where in God’s name did you get that program?”

    “Eh? Oh, some geography nutter at uni. The p.c.’s have got enough grunt to handle it.”

    “That wasn’t what was worrying me. You should have sent that poor boy off for some training.”

    “Eh? Oh—in the program! Never thought of it.”

    Ouch, he gives me the standard lecture on treating the subordinates right, Royal Naval officers for the use of. Could he be missing his ship, I hear you cry?

    “Um, yeah,” I mutter. “Um, shall we go to b—”

    “Not yet. Just sit down for a moment, please, Rosie.”

    Christ, what’ve I done now?

    Turns out he’s not specifically accusing me of anything, he’d just like a full explanation of why I forgot all about lunch, and forgot all about Yvonne and Baby Bunting, and didn’t notice a whole day going by today.

    “I was immersed,” I bleat feebly.

    “Mm. Your last report,” he notes without smiling, “had the basic research coming along very well, the future research strategy drawn up, the personnel categories defined and the criteria for working out the geographical boundaries more or less established, or do I have that wrong?”

    “Ya know ya don’t, Captain.”

    “Then why today?”

    “I don’t want to get behind. We will be away for two months.”

    “Normal people do take holidays at some stage during the year.”

    He should talk! Susan Corcoran reckons the reason he’s free to get away is all the leave he accrued over the past thirty years of hardly ever taking it.

    “Um, yeah. Well, there’s that conference coming up next year… No, well, Mark rung this morning, just after you’d gone to work, and he has got the chair,” I reveal.

    “And?”

    “You know what Yanks are. Prof. was quite happy just to let me turn up for the occasional staff meeting with a bit of a report on progress if he thought of it, but Mark likes everything in triplicate with monthly staff meetings and giant written progress reports every term. It’s not that I’m behind with the research, but writing up stupid progress reports is the greatest time-waster in the known universe, so I thought I’d better get on with it. And I want to finalise the maps for this year before next year’s load of new retirees arrives, for Chrissakes!”

    “Mm.” He picks up a print-out from the geog. program. I’ve still only got a B&W printer so the pink bits have come out grey, but at least they’re where the colour was supposed to be, if ya get my drift. “You’ll need a system of overlays.”

    “You’re right. And Greg seems to be incapable of working out that if ya put yellow on top of pink ya get orange, so some categories will have to be like, spots and cross-hatchings instead of colours. So Guess Who is working all that out?”

    “Mm. It might help him to grasp it if you buy a decent colour printer, Rosie.”

    “No, well, now that you’ve got the program working I will buy one.”

    “Good,” he says in a very neutral voice.

    Oh, all right, I give in!

    “It’s not just Mark,” I admit glumly. “Brian rung just after I’d put the phone down. He wants me for this year’s Christmas Special after all.”

    “Oh, really?” he replies neutrally.

    “No, well, they have shot the first version of this year’s, and he hates it. Him and Varley had a huge row over it: Varley maintained it was all his fault for not signing me up again, or something… But turns out Varley hates it, too. He reckons that Katie’s lost her, um, was it zing or pizzazz? Um, well, lost it.”

    “I see… ” he says slowly, staring blankly at the smudgy grey map.

    I’m just opening my big mouth to put my foot in it when he says: “And Keel?”

    “They seem to have busted up for good. Mrs Granville Thinnes reckons he’s putting the cottage on the market,” I admit glumly. “She’s terrified that something down-market’ll snap it up.”

    “Is this her extrapolation, or did he actually tell her he wanted to sell?” asks the Naval brain coolly.

    “She said he told her, so I s’pose it’s true. She did tell me in person, I had afternoon tea at Dimity’s yesterday after Sloane Square Salon.”

    “That certainly explains the mood you were in last night. Why didn’t you mention it?”

    “I think I was hoping it might go away if I didn’t talk about it.”

    “Mm. Have you seen Katie lately? –No. Spoken to her, or to Bridget?”

    “No. Well, I rung their flat this morning. Sammi Day answered. You don’t know her—she’s a girl,” I explain quickly. “S,A,M,M,I. She said Katie was in at Henny Penny, and she thought Bridget was down here. So then I rung Rupy at the flat and he reckons Bridget was at the Twelfth Night The TV Version rehearsal the other day but Aubrey said he wouldn’t need her for the rest of the week. I checked with Velda but she’s not down here with her. And she’s definitely not at the pub.”

    “How did you— I don’t want to know,” he says faintly.

    “Hah, hah. I just asked Lynne Carter’s sister, Helen Walker, she does the rooms there.”

    “Chambermaid,” he corrects faintly.

    “Yeah, in Great-Aunty Lil’s time! But Bridget’s not there: they’ve got one fat businessman with his secretary that’s pretending to be his wife, a retired couple from Birmingham celebrating their weeding anniversary, don’t ask me why they chose Bellingford pub for it, a pair of honeymooners from Watford, I know about them, they know Megan Vasanji’s aunty and Megan recommended Bellingford because it’s so quiet and pretty“—he nods groggily, possibly remembering that Megan’s a colleague from uni—“one foreign man, Helen thinks he’s Dutch, he speaks very good English, she can’t imagine what he’s doing here, and one other businessman that’s quite young and wears very sharp suits and makes calls on his mobile phone all hours of the day and night.”

    “And can she imagine what he’s doing here?” he asks faintly.

    “She thinks he works for a Developer,” I admit, grimacing. “It can’t be for the food, he told that nit that runs the joint that his so-called filo roll was flabby and tasteless and not to give him anything that had been warmed over in the microwave or he wouldn’t pay.”

    “Good for the mobile-phoned yuppy businessman. –One presumes he is a yuppy?”

    I stick my tongue out at him but admit: “Gotta be.”

    “Mm. Well, that’s all very well for your statistics, Rosie, darling, and I won’t ask how often you interrogate Lynne’s sister, but it doesn’t get us any forrarder on the Bridget front, does it? Um—not gone home to see her parents?”

    “Not according to Sammi. Um, I did try Katie at Henny Penny but Karen said they were filming in Studio 3 and it it’d be more than her life was worth to disturb them.”

    He grimaces. “I’d think you’d better ring her, darling.”

    “Uh—now?”

    He looks at me drily. “It only feels very, very late, Rosie.”

    Oh, so it does: it’s not quite ten-thirty. I ring the girls’ flat. Gee, no news. Katie sounds really grumpy: she doesn’t know where Bridget is but she took a suitcase so it’s odd-on she hasn’t been run over. And as far as she knows she hasn’t fallen for any of those idiots in the play, and anyway they’re all gay (they can’t be, it’s Adam McIntyre that’s taking Duke Orsino, but I guess she’s automatically excluding him), and she, Katie, isn’t her keeper.

    And if I really want to know, it is all off with Euan, she’s had it with his playing around, every time she sees him he’s got a different starlet in tow, and don’t tell her it’s only publicity for the film, because last time she was at his place she found long blonde hairs on the pillow and that means he has been having it off with that horrible girlfriend of Derry Dawlish’s! –She isn’t horrible, actually, she’s very nice and out of all the girlfriends that D.D.’s ever had, the only one that doesn’t want to be a fillum star. But I don’t point this out, especially as my spies have told me she does sleep around behind Derry’s back. Well, given the size of the back, wouldn’t you? It must be like sleeping with a hippopotamus.

    And yes! Euan is selling Quince Tree Cottage and she, Katie, has made him buy her out. And don’t dare to tell her I was right all the time!

    “No, I won’t. I’m really, really sorry, Katie. He has got his good points. I was hoping it could work out.”

    “What good points?” she says coldly. “I don’t think he’s ever been honest with me from the word ‘go’.”

    Uh—no, on the whole I don’t think he has, either, but then, isn’t not being honest a part of his essential nature? Can he help it? It’s always been my firm conviction that people can’t change their essential nature, and so it’s no using blaming them for it. I don’t say any of this, I just say lamely I’m very sorry, and I’ll send her lots of postcards from Oz, and to tell Bridget to ring me if she surfaces, and bye-bye.

    John got most of that but I report in detail anyway.

    He grimaces but admits that breaking up with Keel is by far the best thing that could happen to Katie.

    Yeah, and let’s hope that by the time the next round of filming for the series starts up, won’t be until September, she’ll be over it enough to get back some of her pizzazz, or bloody Varley will start agitating to get rid of her, I know him from way back. I don’t say it, though it’s probable John’s guessed I’m thinking it.

    We go up and get ready for bed and get into it, yawning widely in the case of one. So he tells me to snuggle down. But he doesn’t turn his bedside light off and after a moment he says slowly: “Was this Sammi girl sure Bridget was coming down here?”

    “Well, yeah. According to her, she rung for a taxi to take her to the station.”

    “Hmm.” Rubs the chin slowly.

    Gulp. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, John?”

    “Given that Perry Horton’s garden’s looking almost as if the house is inhabited? Yes.”

    Yo, boy. When the Navy says “Yes”—!

    He takes my hand very firmly. “Darling, you cannot run other people’s lives for them. They have to work it out for themselves.”

    “Or not work it out. Yeah, I know.” Since he’s not bringing it up I’ve got to. “Um, what about the Christmas Special?”

    “The filming for it will coincide with the publication of your nationalism study,” he points out neutrally.

    “Uh—s’pose it will, yeah.”

    “And, or I misread that letter from your publishers, with The Observer’s feature on it.”

    “Yeah. Well, potted selection—yeah. Can’t quite see what you’re getting at. I mean, it’s between them and the publishers, really.”

    “No editing or such-like by you, then?”

    “No. It’s in my agreement with the publishers.”

    “Good: at least that won’t be eating into your time. Then, there’s the publicity Brian will insist on. Is that what your academic career needs?”

    Uh—crumbs. “Um, don’t think it’ll make any difference, John. Given that it was The Observer that broke the news that I’m not really Lily Rose Rayne in the first place, they’re never gonna overlook an opportunity like that. In fact it’s probably why they wanna run a feature on the nationalism study at all. And it and the Christmas Special’ll both be right on top of D.D.’s film, could anything make it worse?”

    “You’re right. My next point is, can you fit the Christmas Special in? Given that Mark will be expecting these monthly reports from you. Not to say, observable progress reported in them.”

    “Uh—well, I’ve managed so far, or don’tcha think I have been managing?”

    “No, darling, I think you’ve been managing very well. But Baby Bunting’s growing up, isn’t he? Not that Yvonne isn’t very capable. But you might find you want to spend more time with him.”

    “Well, yeah, only not by next September!”

    There’s a short silence. Then he says: “It is his birthday in September.”

    Oh, shit. What a big-mouthed nong. “Not that,” I say weakly.

    Sighs, gets out of bed. “I’ll get the Diary.”

    “What, now?”

    “Yes.”

    Goddit, that’s another Navy “Yes.” He gets the Diary. Any agreement with Brian for filming the Christmas Special will incorporate exactly these possible days and not these other days. Bullshit, it’s not gonna take us a whole week to get ready for Baby Bunting’s birthday! But if he thinks so, I’m not gonna say a word.

    He’s reading my mind, of course. “Jellies,” he says neutrally. “Platefuls of tiny squares of brightly-coloured bread and butter. Burnt sausage rolls by the score.”

    “Hah, hah. It was Yvonne burnt the sausage rolls, not me. And ya mean fairy bread, and who told you about that?”

    “Yvonne,” he says, ticking them off on his fingers. “Fiona. Michael Manfred. Belinda Stout. Murray Stout. Isabel Potter. Jack Powell. Young Cross.”

    “Duncan Cross?” I croak.

    “Yes. His wife was most impressed by them and intends to have them for their infant’s six-months party, which incidentally, we shall miss.”

    What? January to February, one; Feb. to March, two… Oh, bugger! So we will.

    He was waiting for me to work it out, the wanker. “Yes,” he says mildly.

    “Bugger. Well, Samantha Rose’s birthday’s on the fifteenth of January, John, has that thing got next year?” Thought it was a five-year one, yep. So he marks it in it.

    “Now, will Sheila be strong-minded enough to force Brian to agree to these terms, or should I sit in?” he asks.

    “Uh—”

    “Given that she only gets her percentage if you do the work.”

    Right. Only where are you gonna be at the time this sitting-in should be taking place, John? This here Diary doesn’t say that. Like, it’s not marked “In middle of Med.” or “Bombing defenceless Afghans from the Gulf.” Or even “Working until 8 p.m.”—beg ya pardon—“zero twenty hundred hours at the Admiralty.”

    “Um, yeah, only when do you think we oughta finalise the contract with Brian, John?” I croak.

    Next week. Gee, that clarifies a lot, I don’t think.

    Well, wouldn’t it be sensible? Yeah, yeah, can we go to sleep, please? I’ve got to sort out Greg’s revised plan for fifteen hundred coloured bar graphs and stop him using all the paper, not to mention all the toner, on grey-shaded A4 maps we don’t want first thing tomorrow morning.

    “What’s up?” the Naval wanker says mildly.

    John, you’ve sorted me out nicely, and you’ve even sorted Baby Bunting’s birthday out nicely, but you haven’t said what you’re gonna be doing, come September!

    “Nothing. Tired, that’s all.”

    So he goes downstairs to put the flaming Diary in its appointed place on the ruddy roll-top desk, why did I ever marry the anal, neatnik, obsessive naval administrator in the first place?

    Oh, he’s come back with Tim. Yeah, it did enable him to kill two birds with one stone, but I do not withdraw my previous observations.

    “Go to sleep, darling,” he says, turning out his lamp.

    Jesus, John! I’m trying to!

    “That’s the phone,” notes Greg next morning, “and granted it’s probably Double Dee Productions, it may be important, given that you’ve agreed—”

    All right! I’m getting it! Jesus!

    Funnily enough it isn’t Double Dee Productions, it’s Christine Carter from Upper Mill Lane. She popped up this morning to see if Mr Horton needed any washing done—omigod, here it comes—and she doesn’t know whether I already know, but my little friend Bridget seems to be, um, staying with him.—It’s come. Oh, God.

    “Are you there, dear?”

    “Yeah, sorry, Mrs Carter. I didn’t know, but I sort of had an awful suspicion.”

    “Oh, dear,” she says lamely.

    “Yeah.”

    “He’s so… Well, he’s nice, of course, I’m not saying that! I mean, any man that’d put up with Georgia and her blessed aerobics and all them hairdoes she’s given him— But he is odd, Rosie, you’ve gotta admit it.”

    Good word for it. “Yeah.”

    Silence from both ends.

    Then she offers: “It could just be a fling.”

    “Yeah.”

    “But she did say,” she says, swallowing, “that he’s got a washing-machine coming.”

    What? Omigod. That’s It, then!

    “Are you there, dear?”

    “Yeah. I’d say that’s It, then.”

    “Yes.”

    I can’t think of another syllable to say so she says lamely that she thought I’d better know.

    “Yeah. Thanks for ringing. Um, how’s Grandpa Carter?”

    He’s blooming and she reminds me that they’ll see me and the Captain at the Rock ’n’ Roll Night at the Workingmen’s Club before we go. Um, yeah, thought it was just gonna be a dance with supper? When did it turn into—I’m not gonna ask. But I’d better ask someone if we’re supposed to wear full skirts and tight cardies to it, preferably someone that’s not labouring under the impression that I already know all about it, before we actually rock up to it, no pun intended.

    “Mrs Carter,” I explain glumly to Greg, ringing off.

    “Uh-huh,” he says vaguely into this computer. “Which one?”

    “Christine. Wife of Jim, mother of Georgia, Roseanne, and assorted other offspring.”

    “Blast. Thought it might be Judy, ringing to say she’s forced him to agree to buy out Pa and Ma Higginbotham.”

    Automatically I respond: “Bill Carter isn’t that thick, they’ve got a perfectly good seventeenth-century cottage of their own, why’d he want to buy one that’s a nightmare of Ye Olde?”

    “The only reason I can think of is to pad out my Cottage Garden Yuppy theory,” he admits sourly.

    “Right.” I sit down glumly. “It’s true about Bridget.”

    “Mm-mm?” he says vaguely.

    “Greg! Pay attention! This is important!”

    “Don’t tell me the Jim Carters are selling?”

    “No! My God, you have no conception of what real life is, do ya? Mrs Carter rang to say Bridget’s at Perry Horton’s place! And he’s getting a washing-machine!” I shout.

    “What? Shit! That’s buggered up our statistics!”

    “To HELL with the bloody statistics!” I bellow.

    Yvonne rushes in, panting. “Ssh! What do think you’re doing? I’ve just got him off!”

    Ulp. “Shit. Sorry, Yvonne. But Mrs Carter’s just rung to say Bridget is at Perry Horton’s.”

    “Oh, help,” she says limply.

    “Yeah. And when I said he’s bought a washing-machine, all this idiot could say was it’s buggered up our stupid sta-sta-statuh-huh-histics!” And I burst into sobs.

    She rushes over to me. “Put the kettle on, you useless lump!” she snarls at the luckless Greg. Numbly he totters out to the kitchen.

    … Later. We’ve all had a nice cuppa and I’ve stopped bawling but I don’t feel all that much better.

    “It’s all right,” announces Greg confidently.

    We glare bitterly at him.

    “I’ve worked it out!” he says triumphantly.

    We glare bitterly at him.

    “Technically we did the survey last year, so Perry Horton’s 9 (b) ‘No’—”

    “Shut up, Greg,” warns Yvonne.

    “–goes into the first year’s statistics! Then, next time around, he joins the trend to ownership of time-saving consumables: demonstrates the dominant trend really nicely! Irrespective of—”

    “Shut up, Greg!” she snaps.

     “–of why he might have changed his mind. After all, you’ve said it yourself a million times, Rosie, personal relationships are irrelevant to sociolog—”

    I’m bawling again.

    Yvonne’s had it. She gets up and shoves him out to do his gardening. “Never mind, Rosie, he’s a blithering idiot,” she says, putting a kind arm round me.

    I just bawl.

    Rupy’s got up in time for breakfast. He sits it out through John demonstrating how the flat’s clone of his sacred coffee-pot makes perfect coffee, the consumption of same, the preparation and consumption of toast and Vegemite and/or toast and marmalade, in Baby Bunting’s case the consumption of milk and shlop, though closing his eyes during my initial mashing of the banana and even more so during my revolting offspring’s subsequent mashing of it, and the first round of bungee spooning. Until John’s uniformed back disappears out the door, in fact.

    Then he hisses: “What’s he doing in town?”

    Biff! Sproing-g-g, clack, bounce! Automatically he hands it back to him.

    “Ya mean, besides managing me, supervising the infant’s diet and bungee spooning, and showing Sheila how a real Naval administrator draws up a contract and negotiates said contract to a successful outcome?”

    “Y—And supervising your diet, dear,” he produces with a feeble smile.

    Biff! Sproing-g-g, clack, bounce! Automatically he hands it back to him.

    “Right. Well, you saw him, Rupy: going off to the Admiralty.”

    “For what?” he hisses madly.

    “Talks.”

    “What?” he screams.

    “All right, ‘just talks.’”

    Biff! Sproing-g-g, clack, bounce! Automatically he hands it back to him. “For God’s sake, Rosie! He can’t have said that!”

    “Can’t he, just?”

    “But you’re his wife,” he says limply.

    Biff! Sproing-g-g, clack, bounce! Automatically he hands it back to him.

    “That doesn’t mean I’m involved in the defence of the realm, however.”

    “Look, um… Ring Sir Bernard!” he suggests wildly.

    “To complain about John? Are you mad?”

    Biff! Sproing-g-g, clack, bounce! Automatically he—

    “STOP!” Jumping, he stops, bungee spoon in hand. “Rupy, you dill, he’s got you doing the trained-seal bit. –Leaping to it.”

    “Oh. Bother. Well, what do I—”

    “Just wait.”

    Edgily he waits.

    “Now. –Now!”

    He hands it back to him.

    Biff! Sproing-g-g, clack, bounce!

    “I see what you mean, dear. –Arf, arf,” he said says amiably to Baby Bunting, not handing the spoon back. “Well, if you won’t ring Sir Bernard, sound out Admiral Hammersley?”

    I take a deep breath. “Behind John’s back?”

    “Oh. No.”

    “No. –Quick!”

    He hands it back to him.

    Biff! Sproing-g-g, clack, bounce!

    “It’ll sink in,” I reassure him.

    “Either that or we’ll all go barking mad. Why didn’t it seem so bad down at the cottage?”

    “You and Benedict generally missed brekkie, and when you did get up, we generally had it outside, let him roll round on the mats.”

    “Oh, yes. –Now?”—I nod and he hands the bungee spoon back to the Infant Moron.—“What happened to that mat he ground the shlop into?”

    Biff! Sproing-g-g, clack, bounce!

    I eye him drily. “Like, after Tim had licked it and rejected it? Yvonne washed it thoroughly, Lynne Carter used some special cleaner on it, and Mrs Thwaites took it away and really cleaned it.”

    He tries to smile.

    “It’s a monstrous regiment,” I sigh.

    “Yes, well, at least you’ve got the sense not to compete with them!” he encourages me.

    Shudder, shudder. “What a truly awful thought! I’m not kidding myself that John doesn’t enjoy it, however.”

    “Er—no.”

    “Waa-waa-waa! Waa—”

    “Oh, Hell! Here, Baby Bunting!” he gasps.

    “Waa-waa—” Ooh, my spoon! Biff! Sproing-g-g, clack, bounce!

    “Shouldn’t I leap to it?” he says, eyeing him uneasily.

     Sigh. “No, that’ll teach him that yelling gets him what he wants. And John and I have already had this conversation.”

    “Oh. It’s harder than you might think.”

    “Something like that, yeah. Ya can give it back to him now.”

    He hands him the spoon. Ooh, is this my spoon? My spoon, my spoon… Rupy’s watching breathlessly. My spoon… Mum, I’m losing interest in this old spoon. Banana? Even better num-nums?”

    “What’s he making faces for?”

    “I think that’s a ‘want rest of banana after all’ face.” I produce the ’orrible remains. Rupy shudders and recoils.

    Squish, mash, squash… Ooh, lovely. Really mucky. Squish, squish…

    “I think he only wanted to be revolting with it.”

    “Yeah, so do I,” I agree. “That or the revolting feel of it took his mind off eating it.”

    “I can see why you prefer sociology.”

    “I don’t prefer it, you clot! But after three mornings in a row watching him being revolting with his banana and biffing his bungee spoon, ya mind tends to take on the consistency of the said banana, if ya don’t do something about it.”

    “It would. It’s peaceful, though.”

    Biff! Sproing-g-g, clack, bounce!

    Rupy hands it back, beaming.

    Screech!

    “Help! What was that for?” he gasps.

    “Because silly old Uncle Rupy didn’t realise that that was a ‘Biff! I don’t want silly old spoon any more’, not a ‘Biff! Let’s play bungee spooning.’”

    He’s goggling at me. “How can you tell?”

    “The loud screech had something to do with it. Added to which experience has indicated that if he loses interest in the spoon he doesn’t usually go back to it. There are exceptions to this rule, however. Not predictable ones, Rupy: don’t worry, you’re not the only one who’s come in for the screech.”

    He sags. “And I thought it was just me!”

    “No. It must be so frustrating, having to communicate at that level,” I note, eyeing the Infant Moron narrowly, “and having clots of grown-ups not understand you.”

    “Yes. Helluva good reason to learn to talk!” he offers happily.

    “Just don’t.”

    “What? Oh, God, has your Aunty Allyson—”

    “Yeah This time she sent us a tape, I kid you not.”

    He's gone into a paroxysm so I just wait it out. Then I elaborate grimly: “Da-Da-Da and Mum-Mum-Mum’s the least of it. Kieran can say Uw-uw.”

    “Huh?”

    “Uw-uw.”

    “Meaning?” he asks limply.

    “Aunty Allyson, Wendalyn, and presumably the martyred Bryce, if he’s got any sense, which mind you I don’t claim he has, insist it means ‘pussy’. When we get home they’ve promised they’ll show us the video of Kieran on the front path pointing at next-door’s uw-uw and saying ‘Uw-uw’.”

    Rupy goes into hysterics, so I just get up and dump the dishes in the machine and wipe the muck off the Infant Moron’s face and hands, ugh, and neck, how’d it get down there? and dump him in his playpen. And then wash the highchair thoroughly with a wet squeegee and a good helping of detergent.

    “Any muck on the carpet?” he asks helpfully.

    Yes. Naturally. I retreat to the kitchen and get the Naval-designated floor squeegee. John’s right, plastic sheeting will be the go. And it’s a Helluva pity the flat’s kitchen’s so small ya can’t turn round in it, or I’d incarcerate the little bugger in there for his breakf— No I wouldn’t, he’s sat up in his playpen all by himself, and he’s playing with his Rupert Bear!

    Rupy’s watching him, smiling. “How can they be so adorable and so revolting, all rolled up into one?” he wonders.

    “Dunno, Rupy, it’s one of the great mysteries of Life,” I sigh.

    “Never mind, you’ll have Yvonne when you go to Australia,” he consoles me.

    Right. And her and Mum will immediately start fighting over who’s in charge of Baby Bunting, you betcha boots. Added to which, I had a huge great letter from Dad the other day: he’s been expanding the business these last couple of years, got into online gambling now, not just races and sports fixtures, but games as well—he’s in a joint venture with the Jap mafia, reading between the lines—and it suddenly struck him with a blinding light that the business could use John’s organisational abilities. And there’s a really nice house for sale just down the road, a corner site, I’ve always, he claims, liked that house…

    “Eh? Oh! Yeah, I’m looking forward to getting her back, but we didn’t like to stop her when she wanted to race off to Jersey to see her mum and dad: after all, she’ll miss their anniversary.”

    “Mm. Um, nothing from Li?” he ventures.

    “You’re joking!”

    He makes a face, and subsides. He saw for himself when he came down for Jamaica that nothing was ever gonna start up between Jack and Yvonne, in fact he had a heart-to-heart with Jack down in the immense bean patch (the products of which Mrs Thwaites has already volunteered to freeze, they mustn’t go to waste) and Jack revealed that Yvonne’s a bit of a hen. Drat the man, what does he want?—Don’t answer that.—And she isn’t, she’s a very sensible woman, even if she does like dressing her furniture up like Humpty Dumptys in pudding cloths and had a giggling fit when he offered to put in a few beans for her. Ya see, he’d already sown our immense— Oh, ya got that. Yeah. Oh, and she made the mistake of refusing absolutely to take one of his bloody walkie-talkies. I mean to say! Bad-mouthing the things from here to Christmas is one thing, but refusing to take one? Doesn’t she know that the male ego’s irretrievably connected to its stupid toys? –No, apparently.

    “What?” he asks.

    “Mm? Oh, nothing much.” But I tell him about Dad’s bright idea anyway, and of course he’s terribly sympathetic. Does this mean he’ll be a tower of strength when we’re out there filming and Dad starts putting the pressure on, not to mention the emotional blackmail of which, believe you me, he’s more than capable? No, it means he’ll slide out of it like an eel and manage to be absolutely elsewhere. That making me ring Sir Bernard over the gossip column panic was a one-off. Oh, ya did get that, eh? Good on ya.

    By the time D.D. produces a script, make that something that looks faintly like a script, we’ve already been to three cast meetings at which the Grate Director expounded some of his theories about the Fifties ethos, and been sent four videos of old Fifties films which in the case of Rupy and me we’ve already seen. And in the case of The Pajama Game, Let’s Make Love, and How to Marry a Millionaire, already got our own copies of. It’s nice to be given a free copy of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, however, and after a fierce argument over the exact staging of The Song, into which both Gray and Della get dragged by phone, we settle down to watch it with Miss Winslow and Miss Hammersley.

    John comes home when we’re well into it and the two elderly ladies get up, quite overcome, but he greets them nicely, tells them of course they must stay for dinner, accepts a pink gin from Rupy without so much as a flicker of a snigger, and settles down to watch it with us. Only slightly interrupted by Baby Bunting waking up and wailing and having to be changed and given his bottle and his shlop in front of it.

    Eh? Rupy and Doris (backed up by Gray and Della) were right, and Miss Hammersley and I were wrong, all right? Though Miss Hammersley had remembered the exact cut of that pink dress okay.

    After that we give in entirely, ring Mrs Singh and tell her we’re accepting her very kind invitation to come any night and bring the baby, Imelda or Tiffany will look after him upstairs, and all go off to The Tabla. The elderly Macdonalds from our building are here, too, so they have to have an admire of His Majesty the Baby and ask how the rehearsals for the film are going before Imelda and Tiffany in tandem exit with him. Mr Singh’s thrilled we’ve come tonight, the tandoori fish is on, it isn’t every day he gets some beautiful fish that are just right for the tandoor. Yes, very mild! So we all have the fish. Gee; it’s lovely, and those hugely fat Sikhs in real turbans over there must think so, too, because they’re having it with a monstrous rice pullao in case the piles of naan aren’t enough.

    John doesn’t think we’ll need rice as well as bread. And he also thinks one naan will be enough, Rosie. Unless Dawlish had you tapping? –No. Just one, then, darling. And the reason that Mr Singh’s curried spinach tastes so wonderful is that it’s soused in real butter and do you really think you should have it? (Yes.) So everybody else has wonderful tandoori fish with lime pickle to taste, and piles of naan and as much extraordinary spinach curry as they like plus and as much very unusual green banana curry, not a recipe of the North but they’re trying it out, but I have the wonderful fish and one naan and a very large glass of nimboo pani without sugar. Yes, actually, I do know bananas are full of starch too, thank you for that intel, John Haworth. If he was any other man I’d be sure he was doing it to pay me out for wanting to do the film. But it’s impossible to suspect him of any such thing. He’s seeing it through, folks. The shoulder has been put to the wheel. Geddit? Hours ago, didja? Sorry.

    Next morning. Rupy orders Double Dee Productions’ startled limo driver to stop here for a mo’, Aaron, dear, and nips into the corner shop and accepts a fifth of what he reckoned was gonna be his minimum price for those videos we didn’t need. “No demand round here,” he explains, scowling.

    I just shrug, immersed in my script.

    “Well?” he sighs.

    “Ya right. This is not only a bloody concept, it’s a bloody concept with Varley Wanking Knollys written all over it! Where are the lines we’re supposed to be mugging up gonna come from? And how does the great D.D. expect us to put over a characterisation if we haven’t got any idea of what the characters are gonna say?”

    All he says is: “Yes, I am right.” Thanks, old mate.

    We’re late: Aaron got stuck in traffic even though Rupy warned him he was gonna get stuck in traffic if we went that way—Rupy’s a Londoner and Aaron’s an unconsidered trifle that the Grate Director casually picked up on his last trip to Montreal, it’s not that he’s AC-DC, it’s just that he likes being surrounded by slavish admirers and hangers-on that imagine being one of Derry’s slaves is the way to instant stardom.

    However, Euan is even later than we are, and when he does turn up he’s wearing trendy sunnies that he doesn’t remove even though this rehearsal room is even greyer and more overcast than the London streets, and is accompanied by not one but two giggling starlets. One blonde and one brunette. Brutally D.D. turfs them out. Then he asks if we had time to look at our scripts.

    Everybody nods sycophantically except me. I say baldly: “I never got a script. I got a bloody half-developed concept with no dialogue. I think I oughta warn ya that my contract with you specifies a maximum number of days with a specified termination date, after that I’m outa here. I don’t care what sort of nightmare of 21st-century Fifties kitsch you make, Derry, or how much ya come the Fellini as ya do it, but my professor’s expecting me to be on deck for real work come September. And this will happen, no matter how many megabucks ya try to bribe me with.”

    “Darling, isn’t she direct?” he says to his martyred P.A. “Just make a note that that’s exactly what we want for the big confrontation with Vyv Carteret-Brown.”

    This name is not in the so-called script. Rupy and me exchange startled glances, our jaws sagging. “Eh?” I croak. “Is Adam McIntyre gonna be in it?”

    “What?” says Euan sharply.

    “Just a cameo,” says the Grate Director, waving the ham-like fist. Wafts of Saint Laurent Pour Home surround us.

    Gee, Euan’s taken off the sunnies. “You never breathed a word of this, Derry!”

    “Euan, dear, he’ll be a draw,” he explains happily.

    He’ll be a draw and a half, that’s precisely what Euan means! Added to which, you can see plain as plain he’s thinking what if D.D. gets carried away and Adam’s part grows somewhat bigger than a cameo?

    “Yes, well, that was the broad outline, dears,” our Master then explains, waving the fist, just let’s be thankful he’s given up the cigars that used to be stuck in it. “Dominic!” A slave rushes in, murmurs in the directorial ear. “Right. Quiet, everybody, please!”—The “pleases” disappear entirely as the filming wears on, according to very reliable report.—“Dominic’s going to show us the storyboard. – Bernie! Bernie! Where is the fellow? Oh, there you are,” he says as a thinnish, mild-looking bloke wanders in, looking vague. “Bernie Anderson, our Artistic Director,” he explains. “He’ll fill out the Concept for you, dears. All right, Dominic.”—Nothing.—“Dominic!”

    Jumping, Dominic draws back this huge curtain, some of us thought there must be a stage behind it, and the giant D.D. storyboard is revealed, hasn’t the man ever heard of computers, for God’s sake? …Credits over what?

    Rupy’s humming it, nodding approval. Isn’ tit romantic… da-de-dah, dee-daah… “Sabrina,” he explains. “Divine Audrey.”

    “She was thin,” I croak.

    “Ssh!” the Grate Director chides us.

    It’s that bloody bingo hall where Della has her shows, or my name’s not Lily Rose Haworth; what is the cretin on about?

    “Bing-go hall,” I mouth.

    Hmm, dee-hmm, dee… Isn’t it— Rupy blinks. “Della’s?” he mouths. I nod violently.

    “Glad you approve, Rosie, darling,” says the Grate Director blandly. “Cut to the audience, lovely old biddies in old-lady gear—”

    “That’s Miss Winslow and Miss Hammersley!” I shout.

    “Sit down, Rosie,” he says, smiling like anything.

    “Derry, if you dare to put mock-ups of our friends in this bloody thing—”

    “Doris’ll love it,” admits Rupy.

    “Yes, but Miss Hammersley won’t, she’s a real lady, where do you think you get off?” I bellow at the Grate Director.

    He just smiles blandly. “All grist to the mill, dear.”

    “That first show for Della that we were in. It was you that sold them the tickets,” Rupy remembers. Me? Only because Della always needs as many tickets sold as possible to cover costs and I never really believed they’d come and even when they did come I never thought they were interested, added to which it was a pure accident that I hadn’t flogged off all my tickets and he had!

    “This is just the sketch,” says the thin guy, Bernie, was it? on an uneasy note.

    “Doris’ll be in it like a shot!” offers Rupy, grinning.

    “Nonsense, darlings, we’ll have a couple of old dears from the profession,” says the Grate Director blandly. Blandly he names two theatrical Dames. Me and Rupy are reduced to gulping. “Carry on, Dominic!” he orders. Dominic carries on for about a sentence and a half, and then D.D., very, very occasionally referring to Bernie Whatsisface, takes over from him…

    Folks, it’s all crap. But what it amounts to is, The Modern Girl (blonde but waify) is sitting with her old aunties (Guess Who) as the performers whirl and stamp, Isn’ tit romantic, whirl and stamp and bow, the curtain swishes and sticks, and sticks (Rupy bites his lip), the performers bow and whirl and Sisters! Sisters! There were never such devoted sis—

    “That’s Gray!” he shouts, bounding to his feet.

    “Of course, Rupy, darling. We’ll use the actual Gray, isn’t he deliciously horrible?” says the Grate Director with relish.

    “He is not!” I scream. “You’re the greatest beast in nature, Derry Dawlish!”

    “Darling, where did you get that phrase? Gareth, make a note—” The P.A. already has.

    “Um, he’ll love being in it, Rosie,” says Rupy uneasily.

    “Of course he will!” agrees Euan, mistakenly.

    “Shut up, Keel. He won’t love it when he sees the result!” I snarl.

    “Derry’s only going to show him as he is, it’ll be just like seeing himself on stage,” offers the dim Dominic.

    “What? How cretinous are ya?” I bellow.

    “Gareth, make a note; absolutely no Australianisms for the Daughter,” orders Derry blandly. “Now, sit back and be quiet, Rosie, dear. All your friends will look absolutely delishimo, I promise.”

    “Divine frocks,” says Bernie Whatsisface solemnly.

    “I suppose that was you taking snaps the time Gray and me did Sisters?” I retort bitterly.

    “Yes,” he agrees mildly.

    I sit back, breathing heavily.

    And so it goes on. “That’s me!” gasps Rupy as the credits roll to Steam Heat. Yeah, and it’s—well, not me, something very like me only thinner, and if he imagines I can lose that much weight in the next few weeks he’s got another imagine coming.

    The credits cease rolling and Euan swallows loudly. That’s him in his Buttons-like skating suit that he wore when he muscled in on Della’s year before last’s Christmas show, and me, well, thin me, in my scarlet velvet make-over from something of Miss Hammersley’s with the white fur trim. Bugger me, that’s Eva and Ziggy pretend-ice-skating in their blue and white outfits, that was the previous show, and I could of sworn I saw D.D. sleeping through their number!

    “It won’t be the actual Eva and Ziggy,” notes Rupy sourly.

    “Nope, it’ll be your actual Torval and Dean pretend-skating, the super-pseuds’ll think it’s a laugh a second.”

    “Ssh!” the great Director chides us, smirking.

    On the storyboard The Modern Girl is now saying to her old aunty, mixed scorn and wistfulness, yeah, we guessed that, thanks all the same, Derry, that she bets it wasn’t really like that in the olden days, close-up of the old aunty smiling reminiscently, fade out to, you goddit, Gib in the Fifties.

    Of course it’s a long way from there to Singapore, but not for D.D. Who cares, as I say it’s all crap. The Modern Girl puts all the characters she sees on the stage into the old aunty’s story, ya see, this is D.D.’s brilliant Concept. Ending up in Euan’s arms at the end of it. I tell ya what, it’ll be the first time in history Buttons ever got the heroine. What’s the betting he does change his mind and award her to Adam McI.?

    Going home. “I said right at the beginning—remember, darling?—Ken Russell!”

    “Who?”

    “Rosie! The Twiggy thing! Brighton pier!”

    “I thought those were two different films? That is, if you are talking about The Boyfriend.”

    “That was it, of course! You remember: we were talking about wonderful Dirk Bogarde at your second audition, and I said he was going to do a Ken Russell!”

    “I thought Paula said that?”

    “She may have said it too,” he allows graciously. “But he is! I was right all along!”

    If I don’t admit he was right all along I’ll never hear the last of it. But The Boyfriend was definitely not mentioned (though wonderful Dirk Bogarde was), and was it even a Ken Russell epic? “Yeah, you were right all along.”

    Smirk, smirk.

    “I think we’re gonna have to warn Doris and Miss Hammersley,” I croak.

    “Oh, pooh! Those theatrical Dames don’t look anything like them!”

    No, and they don’t look anything like me, either, and one of them is meant to be me, it turns out as Derry’s so-called plot laboriously unfolds. Exactly what a senior Royal Naval officer’s wife is doing sitting in the audience of a seedy amateur tap show with her niece or great-niece in approx. 2002 is never revealed. Um, the hubby croaked early and the insurance ran out? Lost all his moolah in unwise speculation? Early divorce? Oh, forget it. This is Planet Cinema Art.

    Aeons later. Aaron’s turning into our street.

    “If it was me…” says Rupy dreamily.

    “Yes?”

    Undeterred, he pursues: “I’d have the ending, they walk out of the bingo hall and The Modern Girl’s boyfriend’s waiting for her on his Harley, all leathers and five o’clock shad—”

    “Rupy, it isn’t a Rough Trade epic.”

    Undeterred, he concludes triumphantly: “And he takes off his helmet and it’s Adam McIntyre!”

    Gulp! Boy, would that end it good or would it end it good. One in the eye for Euan, too. And the punters’d love it, McIntyre’s still terribly popular, they remember that not-Bond thing of his, ya see.

    “Great,” I croak.

    Smirk, smirk.

    “Um, there is one snag, unfortunately. Why’s the silly girl spent the entire show mooning over bloody Euan when she’s got Adam McI. in tow?”

    Very crestfallen, can’t answer that one. No, you and the rest of the cinema-going world, Rupy. With the exception, presumably, of Katie Herlihy.

    We go back down to the cottage to say goodbye to everyone and attend the Rock ’n’ Roll Night, and yes, full skirts and tight cardies or unlikely blouses that were never invented in the Fifties are the go. I decide to wear a test-run provided by Derry’s martyred Wardrobe people that he hated: given that the skirt’s one of those quilted ones that we came to the conclusion existed only in Varley’s imagination (back around the time Katie was having her first audition—’member that?), it’s sure got the right look. Or it has once I’ve dug out those huge mounds of stiff petticoats that, actually, I hadn’t remembered Katie giving back to me.

    Rupy’s come down for the dance, because he’s at a bit of a loose end with his lovely Benedict being posted to the Cook Islands, he never knew we even had an embassy there (dare say “we” don’t: aren’t they in the Commonwealth?), and isn’t it awfully hot and steamy there, dear?—Yes.—He won’t like that. After a bit of head-scratching he remembers that Katie brought back the petticoats not long after Baby Bunting was born. I was asleep but he and Doris had come up to keep an eye on me while Aunty Kate popped out to do some shopping. Yeah, yeah, very circumstant—

    What? Now he’s claiming that Katie’s disillusionment with Euan dates back to then, because he behaved so badly over the terrorist attacks, pretending they never happened. Well, ignoring the whole bit, dear. What rubbish! I mean, I know he did, and I’ve come to the conclusion that that was his way of coping with it, but her disillusionment with him, good way of putting it, dates back to that time he turned up bloody late for Paul’s rehearsal and lied about Aubrey keeping them up till all hours the night before. He’s looking blank so I remind him “Eau de Nil and aubergine” and that rings the right bell. Yes—Um, but she’d never even taken up with him at that stage, dear! Nevertheless, Rupy. Oh, he sees what I mean, and we will drop the subject, yes.

    Next day. The dance went off good, only approx. five hundred kind persons informing me during the course of the evening that Bridget is with Mr Horton, yes. Rupy’s trying to repack all that unnecessary packing of his that John unpacked, because John’s gone off to Portsmouth, yes, in the uniform, doing what, has only been described as “filling in for old So-and-so”, and I’m trying to tell him that I won’t need six suitcases full of wanking Fifties evening dresses in Sydney when the phone rings and it’s Bridget in person.

    She supposes I might have heard. Gee, does she, fancy that. So I just say neutrally: “Yes.” So she tells me not to be cross, she knows I don’t think he’s right for her but they’re really in love. She feels it could work out. Bridget, I know you’ll work bloody hard to see it does, but will he? Does he even know what working hard at a relationship is? And, never mind if he intellectually knows, can he? I don’t say any of it, there’s no point whatsoever.

    So she invites us to lunch tomorrow, if we can possibly make it? She’s knows it’s short notice— Gee, it’s our last Saturday, do we want to have a lunch of frozen fish fingers while we wrangle with Rupy over the evening dresses? I accept on all our behalves, dunno that she realised Rupy was here, but too bad. Perry’s going to cook something really special, she reveals with a smile in her voice. Yeah, well, anything’ll be better than fish fingers but, I admit, John’s not letting me eat anything with cream or butter in it. Gee, she’s collapsed in giggles, fancy that.

    “He helped Sheila sort out the contract with Double Dee Productions, so now he’s seeing it through,” I admit glumly.

    “Yes!” she squeaks. “Managing you! Rather you than me!”

    Gee, ya know what, Bridget? Rather me than you, yeah. Any old day. At least he cares, silly though the whole Daughter bit is. I can just see Perry looking down that elegant nose of his and then ignoring the whole bit, in his place. I don’t say it, though I’m in no doubt she’s reading the thought waves. I just agree one o’clockish, where did she get that “ish” from, I’ve never heard her say “o’clockish” in her life, as if I needed to ask, and we ring off.

    Saturday’s come round like they do. Rupy’s horribly nervous because of Perry being so upper-clawss but John tells him bracingly to wear anything, Perry won’t care. True, but what’s the betting he’s not in them scungy jeans and sanctified sweater, make that scungy and sanctified jeans and sweater, no more?

    … Gee, he isn’t. A clean, darned sweater and almost neat, if old cords. Not patched, no, and no rude holes. Them as hadn’t seen the house in its Before manifestation might think that nothing’s been done to it but me and John take in at a glance that the frilled pelmets have vanished, the awful cabbage-rose curtains have been washed and their hems mended, the table’s been moved away from the fireplace and got a cloth on it, and there’s a proper complement of dining chairs, not matching, true, but they all look not just clean but as if they’ve been washed and polished. And the wooden floors have definitely been washed and polished, though it’ll take a few more months of that treatment before they manage to achieve a shine. And there’s a rug in front of the fireplace. I’m not going to look in the kitchen, I know it’ll be clean and neat as a new pin, Bridget’s a meticulous housekeeper and the girls’ flat was always spotless.

    Yeah, the lunch is ace, and very up-market. Starts with clear soup, Rupy tells us something unintelligible about supreme Noël, he put what in it? Sounds totally potty and I can only conclude it’s a gay thing— Gave it to the Queen Mum? What crap, Rupy!

    “Mm, true,” says Perry, looking completely neutral. Oh, well, gee, that proves it! I catch John’s eye just in time and don’t say it.

    Next we have just a small portion of salmon each, and he’s afraid he did put butter and cream in the sauce, but may Rosie have just a spoonful, John? Bridget collapses in giggles closely followed by Rupy, the bloody traitor. It’s delish, needless to state. Then it’s very rare sliced beef, Rupy doesn’t like bloody meat, he’s trying not to blench, with a minceur sauce, he boiled the alcohol right off. If we prefer, he’ll boil my glass of wine. Yeah, hilarious, Perry. I’m allowed a small helping of mashed potato with it and we’re all allowed peas out of the garden. The sauce is ace, so he solemnly gives John the recipe and Bridget, you goddit, collapses in giggles again. Rupy doesn’t, he’s busy trying to push the bloodier parts of his meat under his knife and fork. Salad comes next. I already know Perry’s salads taste like food of the gods so I tolerate Rupy’s gasping fit fairly well. Bridget’s smirking like anything; look, the fact that the man can cook proves nothing! I’m not allowed a second glass of the red wine but you knew I wouldn’t be, didn’tcha?

    There’s pudding and cheese, and he thinks we might like both or either so he’ll put them out at the same time, if we don’t mind? John doesn’t mind at all and me and Rupy can’t see there’s anything to mind about, so he does it. Ooh, is that gooseberry foo— Made with yoghurt? Jesus Christ! I hardly ever have gooseberries, I’ve had them once in Britain, when Aunty June made a real fool with cream, read my lips, C,R,E,A,M, cream, and before that not since Mum last tried making Grandma’s recipe for gooseberry pie: they have a very short season and they’re bloody dear and Dad and me are the only ones that like them. Unless she’s invited Aunty Sally and her lot, in which case me, Dad, my cousin Dot and Uncle Andy are the only ones. Like that.

    Bridget reveals, smiling like anything, that that tangle of prickly bushes down at the back of the kitchen garden are gooseberries. (Good thing Greg didn’t slash them down, in that case, eh?) They’re fiddly to top and tail—right, he made her do it—but so unusual, they’re worth it, aren’t they? Not with yoghurt in them instead of cream, Bridget. I don’t say it, I don’t wanna voluntarily set myself up, for God’s sake.

    The cheese is English Stilton, what else? There’s a stick of French bread to go with it, Bridget will of stopped him shoving the usual whole white loaf from Stouts’ on the table—right. Shit, last time me and John had lunch with Perry we got through the best part of a pot of the Stilton, it’s ace once you get used to it, plus the best part of the loaf.

    This all is followed by coffee and liqueurs and guess what, it’s a brand-new coffee-pot, same generic type as John’s, and incidentally Mr Franchini’s from down the road from Mum and Dad’s place. So Guess Who chucked the old one out? And good on her. Perry notes tranquilly that the new one’s not run in, yet. Yeah, hah, hah. At least it isn’t walking out of here on its own legs.

    We walked over, John decided it’d do us all good (meaning me). So we walk very slowly down Upper Mill Lane. And Lower Mill Lane. Finally Rupy ventures that it looked all right.

    “Yes,” John agrees. “I thought they seemed very comfortable together.”

    “Right,” I agree sourly. “She’s only washed the place, she hasn’t tried introducing real furniture or actual carpets, yet.”

    “Those lovely old oak floors don’t need carpets, darling.”

    “That was merely an example, you literal-minded Naval nong!”

    “I really don’t think Perry will mind what she puts in the place, Rosie. He doesn’t care about his surroundings, you know.”

    “John, that’s the point! He’ll let her have her way but he won’t care! How many women can put up with their bloke being totally indifferent to every blessed suggestion they make about the house?”

    “Thought that was the norm—” Rupy catches the glare and subsides.

    “Look, she’s a nice middle-class girl: in her socio-economic group”—Rupy’s rolling his eyes and John’s bitten his lip, pair of wankers—“husbands, especially New Age husbands,” I note evilly, “are expected to take an interest in the fucking interior décor!”

    “Er, well… I think she’s got a point, actually, John,” Rupy admits glumly.

    “Mm.” He’s tucked my hand in his arm. Now he pats it firmly. “Sufficient unto the day, darling. If Perry cares enough about her he’ll pretend to take an interest in what interests her.”

    Right. For how long? Oh, well, maybe they’ll have kids and she’ll be able to concentrate on them…

    “I thought he seemed quite besotted, actually, Rosie,” Rupy offers anxiously.

    “Yes.” I am trying to cheer up, it just doesn’t seem to have took.

    Gee, as we walk past the end of Medlars Lane five thousand Volvos and Beamers are observed triple-parked outside Quince Tree Cottage, yep, it is open to view today, fancy that.

    Sunday. We gotta be absolutely packed and ready by such-and-such a time because We Dive At Dawn. No, well, it sure feels like that. Early flight from Heathrow on Monday morning. Rupy trots off to remind Yvonne that it’s one suitcase each, or we won’t be able to manage, remember that Baby Bunting will have to be carried and someone will have to carry his B.B.H. suitcase—right, John only had to remind him three times plus and undo all that extra packing he did for me, twice.

    And John and me take Tim for one last walk on the beach. Mr and Mrs Thwaites offered to take him but John knows neither of them will walk him much so Velda’s going to nip down and collect him at such-and-such a specified time. Fortunately she’s used to the Navy so she will arrive on the dot and she wasn’t taken aback when he specified it.

    And I finally say it. “John, what are you gonna be doing come September?”

    “Mm? Well, it’s not finalised yet, darling.”

    “Tell me before I go stark, raving mad, John Haworth!” I scream, Gee, and I thought I was really working at this relationship, ulp.

    “I— Look, Rosie, the orders haven’t been cut, yet.”

    “No, but you know, don’t you?”

    “Well, uh, barring accidents— Well, yes, very well, but for God’s sake don't mention it to a soul, darling. Not even Rupy. And—uh, don’t ring Miss Hammersley about it—or mention it in a letter.”

    “Or a postcard,” I groan. “I won’t. What?”

    He’s taking over old So-and-so’s position in Portsmouth for the next few years. And after that it will probably be something at the Admiralty, darling. And no, Hammersley is due to retire so it won’t be under him.

    “John, are they gonna promote you to Admiral, is that it?”

    He hesitates. Then he says: “Possibly. In due course.”

    Honestly! What a fuss about nothing! He could’ve told me yonks back and put my mind at rest, the silly wanker! Phew, what a relief!

    “At least that’s cleared up!” I say, hugging his arm. “Hey, I bet your Father’s pleased!”

    “What? He doesn't know yet. Why do you imagine he would?”

    “Because he knew all about that promotion of Corky’s, of course!” I say cheerfully, not realising what I’ve said until the words are out of my big gob, ow, help!

    “What?”

    Gulp. “Um, well, I don’t think it’s any secret that he was expecting more than a frigate,” I croak.

    “And?”

    “Um, Bernard didn’t seem surprised,” I croak.

    He stops dead and looks at me with a frown. “Rosie, what are you not telling me?”

    Oh, shit. “Um, well… Well, if he never had anything to do with your Portsmouth job, or, um, the possible Admiralty job it doesn’t matter, John.”

    The frown grows. “What do you know that I don't?”

    “Nothing! I mean, I just thought that maybe he, um, pulled strings, or… Well, you said yourself that Hammersley wangled you that stint at the Admiralty, John!”

    He stares at me, frowning. Just when I’m about to spill my guts he says: “Hammersley’s a serving officer.”

    “Yeah, only Bernard still has influence.” God, why did I say that?

    “Rosie,” he says, the nostrils flaring, “please tell me the lot immediately.”

    Um, is he wild just because he can see I’m trying to hide something or because he thinks that maybe his father had something to do with him getting this new job?

    “Um, if your father hasn’t said anything to you, John, I’m sure he hasn’t pulled strings to get you the job. I mean, I think he’s got too much, um, respect for you to do that. Even though—”

    “Even though what?”

    “Even though he knew I wanted you to stay home,” I admit miserably.

    Silence. Thinking, thinking…

    “You told Father that?”

    Gee, I could lie and say he coulda guessed— No, I couldn’t, he’ll spot me. “Um, yeah.”

    Deep breath. “Rosie, did you go to Father and ask him to wangle something for me?”

    “No! And what’s more we both know you’d never stand for it and he agreed to talk to you before he did anything!”

    “You did go to him,” he croaks.

    “No! I didn’t go to him, you ape, it cropped up because of Cuh—”

    “Because of Cuh?” he says coldly, raising the eyebrows.

    “Don’t raise your eyebrows, I’m gonna tell you the lot, but ya won’t like it. And actually I thought Bernard might of told you already. And we only didn’t tell you at the time because you were busy on your ship and we didn't want to worry you.”

    “What about?” he says grimly,

    “I’m telling you!” Shit, where do I start? “Um, see, when Terence and Corky came home on leave, Corky walked in on me giving Euan a hug. Well, he was bawling on my shoulder, see, because of things going from bad to worse with Katie.”

    “What about it?” he says blankly.

    “Um, well, there wasn’t anyone else here, ya see, because Aunty Kate—”

    “Rosie, my darling, Corky is not silly enough to assume that because one of your theatrical friends bawls on your shoulder you’re having a mad affaire behind my back.”

    Not flaming half! “No. Um, well, just a bit later a stupid gossip column published a, um, not story, more like an innuendo, and it was obviously it. Naming no names, only they mentioned the Captain’s Wife, like in so many words, and a cosy cottage and next to it they run that silly pic of Euan with his arm round me.”

    “One of the many,” he says drily.

    “Yeah. Um, this was the one at D.D.’s awful party.”

    “One of the many.”

    “Um, yeah,” I agree weakly.

    “As a matter of fact Corky did send me a copy of that, Rosie, but only in order to assure me there was nothing whatever to worry about. Which I already knew. So where exactly is this leading?”

    Corky sent—To assure you— You are blind about the man, I thought ya were!

    “Um… Shit. This is complicated.”

    “It always is,” he says heavily.

    “Well, Henny Penny didn’t like it, wrong image, they want to push the sweet wee wifey thing now that they’ve married me off to Rupy, see, so they wanted something to counteract it, and I’d said I couldn’t manage the children’s party at Portsmouth that woulda been ideal, so, um, I made a real blue. I rung Admiral Hammersley.” Swallow. “I thought he’d be the one to, um, fix it. About the party, see? Only he went straight into tactical mode and asked me why I’d changed my mind and dragged it all out of me. And then he wanted to know how the paper had got hold of the story in the first place, and figured out that the only ones that knew about it besides me and Euan were Terence and Corky.” Swallow.

    I just about have time to met his eye and then he says calmly. “And Rupy, of course.”

    “Nuh—Uh—” Crumbs, did he? Uh… “I dunno,” I say weakly. “I can’t remember whether I told him or not. But he was there when I rung the Admiral. And I tried to tell him it couldn’t of been Corky that let it out but he got very cold and said the man was due for a promotion. So then I rung Susan to warn her he was on the warpath and to ask her if Corky had told her and she mighta told another Navy wife. And she admitted he had, only not blaming me, just, um, well, husbands do tell their wives things, and she let it out to Gloria Stewart.”

    “Gordon’s wife? Good God, the woman’s the biggest gossip in the civilised world!”

    “Yeah. I was gonna ring Admiral Hammersley back straight away only Rupy stopped me, he said I’d made such a mess of it the first time, I’d better ring your Father. And I hadn’t seen it, but he pointed out that the gossip piece was smearing me, I mean, like, your wife, so it could be your career down the tubes if the Navy didn’t like it, not just Corky’s. So I did. And I asked him if him and your Mother would do the appearance with me—you know, family solidarity—because I was panicking about your career, John, and he agreed immediately. And I woulda rung the Admiral and told him Corky told Susan and she told Gloria but he wouldn’t let me, he said he’d do it. And so he, um, sorted it.” Swallow. “And we never actually discussed Corky’s promotion but when it came out he wasn’t surprised.”

    “I see…” he says slowly. “And throughout this whole saga, it never dawned on either you or Father that Rupy probably knew and more than likely had gossiped about it to one of his little boyfriends? Not meaning to, Rosie, but in, well, the euphoria of the moment, some such.”

    Swallow. “No!” I squeak.

    He takes a deep breath.

    “John, it doesn’t alter the fact that Corky did let on to Susan. Your Father was pretty peeved about that.”

    “He was up for a destroyer,” he says tightly.

    Yeah, the whole of the Navy knows that, John, and they’re all speculating about why he didn’t get it.

    “Well, what’s done can’t be undone,” he says, frowning.

    “No.” Oh, God, I bet it was Rupy… Oh, shit.

    “Father never has liked Corky,” he says with a sigh.

    Eh? Hasn’t he? Well, chalk another ten up to Father Sir Admiral, then!

    “Why in God’s name didn’t you contact me instead of Hammersley or Father?”

    “I didn’t want to worry you. I mean, of course I didn’t think you’d take the stupid gossip column’s innuendo seriously, but you were busy on your ship. All right, I was wrong, it was dumb, but I was trying to do the right Navy-wife thing. And I can see now that you’ve got better, um, dunno if it’s strategic or tactical, um, better skills in that direction, um, certainly better skills of analysis than your Father or Hammersley, only… Well, Rupy was right there at my elbow: he never pointed out that he knew!”

    “Right there at your elbow and it never occurred to you to ask yourself if you’d told him,” he says heavily.

    “All right, talking of no analytical ability! But up until five min. since, I thought your Father did good!”

    “Mm. Within his lights,” he says wryly.

    “Yeah, So, um, now do you believe he didn’t pull strings over your job?” I say uneasily.

    “On the contrary, now I’m beginning to suspect he did,” he says evenly.

    “No, he wouldn’t, John, not behind your back! I mean, we agreed he wouldn’t!”

    “That wouldn't stop him, darling, any agreement with a person of the opposite sex is ipso facto null and void, haven’t you realised that?”

    Ouch. Uh, now I come to think of it… Ouch. Possibly this does explain, though not justify, a certain amount of Lady Mother’s icy cool.

    We walk on in silence. He spots a nice stick and automatically throws it for Tim. Tim dashes after it eagerly. He whistles him back, throws it again. We walk on…

    Later, in the Jag heading towards London. Rupy and Baby Bunting are asleep in the back. Yvonne’s coming up in her own car with most of the luggage. The reflection has now had time to surface, never mind presenting pictures of family solidarity to the Press, what if all I've done is drive a wedge between John and his Father? Oh, God…

    And what if he decides to turn down the job, if he only got it through influence and not on his merits? Oh, Jesus! More six-months’ stints at sea, missing all of Baby Bunting’s growing up… I won’t be able to stand it, I know I won’t.

INT.  Kingsford Smith airport, SYDNEY - DAY

Enter a gaggle of paparazzi. The flashbulbs pop and FLASH.

Paparazzi

(together)

{ Lily Rose! Lily Rose! Are you glad to be home?

{ Lily Rose! Is it true Adam McIntyre’s—

{ Lily Rose! Hold the baby up!

{ Lily Rose! Give us a smile! Is this your real

Captain?

    And so forth. Thank you, Downunder. Crocodile Dundee country this is not. And the first one that dares to utter the words “global village” is gonna be crowned.

    … Two days later. It’s been pouring like buggery ever since we arrived. Dad reckons it’s been raining solidly for a fortnight. Mum reckons it’ll clear any day now. Joslynne’s Mum reckons (darkly) the weather patterns are changing. Aunty Allyson reckons I oughta have some lovely publicity pics taken with Sickening Little Taylor in matching outfits but I’m managing to ignore that. Just. We had a flaming Press conference yesterday and the photo up satisfied the vultures for the time being, and we’re blessedly free of them. So I’ll just nip out and get the morning paper, Dad. Shit, I don’t mind a bit of rain, don’tcha remember what Blighty’s like?

    So I nip out and grab it, and dash back up the—Ow! Slip, slide, help! OW-OOO-OUCH! God! Help, I think I’ve—broken…

    I’m waking up in a hard bed in what doesn’t look like that nightmarish guest room of Mum’s and I’m all strung up in strings. So yes, I have broken my leg. Gee, that’s It, then.