Fence Mending

Episode 15: Fence Mending

    So me and Rupy are just sitting here at the dining table like a couple of turds.

    After a bit he says: “Let’s hope they tear all Corky’s buttons off him, the bastard!”

    “Rupy, he’ll of done it in a moment of madness, God knows why, but maybe he had a barney with Susan or Linda’s got an unsuitable boyfr— Tell ya what, their John will of failed his end-of-year exams, that’ll be it!”

    “That doesn’t excuse him.”

    “Oh, shut up, ya sound like supreme Noël at his stiff-upper-lip-est.”

    “That’s not a word,” he murmurs, unable to hide the smirk.

    “Then it oughta be.”

    Silence falls…

    “What would John do?” he croaks at last.

    Like, after he’d torn a strip off me for ever letting it go this far, or before? I’m blowing my nose. “Dunno. He wouldn’t turn a blind eye, that’s for sure.”

    “No-o…”

    “Look, ya realise his oldest friend’s career is about to go down the tubes because of me?”

    “No, it isn’t, Rosie, it’s about to go down the tubes because Corky Corcoran’s a spiteful shit.”

    More silence…

    “Gimme the address book, Rupy, I’m gonna ring Susan Corcoran.”

    “You can’t!” he gasps in horror.

    “Yes, I can, because guess what ? I’m a Navy wife, too!”

    So I ring her. “Hullo, Susan. …We’re good, thanks, but this isn’t a social call. Is Nigel around?” No, he’s collecting John from school this weekend. Well, hooray. “That’s good. Listen, I’ve gotta tell you something you won’t like, and before you start, I’d better say it’s connected to Nigel’s career, so any polite lies you might of felt you had to give me, just don’t, okay?” Strangled noise of agreement. Stunned and strangled. “Right. Did he mention that the day he came home on leave him and Terence walked into the cottage unannounced and he caught me hugging Euan Keel?”

    She admits in a strangled voice that he did just mention it but of course she knows there was nothing in it, theatrical people are like that.

    “Right: Euan’s gone all moody because the thing with Katie Herlihy’s not going too well, added to which they want to make a film of The Captain’s Daughter with a good part for him in it, and I’m not that keen on it, and the director won’t film without me.”

    Excited noises.

    “I dare say, but that’s not the point, Susan! The point is that the story’s been leaked to the nationals, um, the papers, and Admiral Hammersley got it out of me that the only people that know about it are me and Euan, and Terence and Cor— Nigel.”

    Horrified silence. She’s not bright, but she’s got that point.

    “Yeah. Now, think hard. Did you tell anybody at all, like even another Navy wife, about Nigel seeing me and Euan?”

    Of course not. Yeah, right.

    “Susan, ’member what I said about no polite lies? I don’t care if ya did or ya didn’t, but surely you can see that if no-one else knew, Hammersley’s gonna come down real hard on Nigel!”

    Gulp, followed by considerable silence. Then she quavers: “Buh-but… I mean, what sort of man is this Euan Keel, Rosie?” –Very wavery and tearful.

    “Not the sort that’d have the guts to leak the story to the media in the hope that it’d further his career. And he does have the nous to realise that if he did any such thing Brian Hendricks would never hire him again, and would see that he never got the part in the film. Um, sorry, Susan, that’s the boss of the TV company: it was his house we had our wedding reception in.”

    Of course, she says dully.

    I just wait.

    Ages go by and then she says very faintly: “I’m terribly sorry, Rosie, but I did mention it to Gloria Stewart. Not—not accusing you of anything, but— It was stupid: we had a silly argument about—about Euan Keel,” swallowing, “and, um, I said he wasn’t a nice man, and then I told her… Well, I mean, a decent man wouldn’t have been hugging you when he was alone in the house with you!”

    “No. –That’s Gordon Stewart’s wife, right?”

    Dully she agrees and names the ship he’s captaining. He’s in the Gulf, too. And, um, she supposes that Gloria is a rather silly woman.

    “And a half. Well, good, at least this’ll show the Admiral that Corky isn’t the only one that could’ve leaked it.”

    “Rosie, I’m sure he didn’t!” she cries. “I know you’ve never liked him”—the boot’s on the other foot, Susan, are you blind?—“but he’s not like that, honestly! Surely you don’t think I could’ve married him if he was that sort?”

    Maybe ya didn’t know, Susan, given you were about twenty at the time. (Don’t say it.) “No, well, I don’t think it was him, either,” I lie firmly. –I hope it’s firmly. “But it’s the Admiral that needs to be convinced, not me.”

     “Yes. …Oh, God,” she says wanly. “Mud sticks; you know what the Navy’s like.”

    I do, indeed, given they packed John off to the States for six months merely for letting himself be snapped in nothing but shorts with me in a bikini leaning on the chest. Well, once influence had been applied by Guess Who and Guess Who Else they did. But yeah, I know exactly what she means, and I wouldn’t be at all sure that, even if Hammersley’s convinced that dear Nigel’s innocent as the driven snow, this isn’t the end of his Brilliant Career.

    Blast, she’s crying down the phone! “Don’t cry, Susan. And whatever you do, don’t panic and tell Nigel, okay?”

    “No!” she gulps, sniffling.

    Well, if she does, it’ll be her that’s in the shit, that’s for sure. He’s not the forgiving kind.

    “I’ll ring the Admiral and put him straight.”

    “Mm!” she gulps, sniffling. “Ruh-Rosie, why didn’t you ring me first?”

    Sigh. “I’m really sorry, Susan. The Henny Penny PR people want me to do the appearance at the big kids’ Christmas party in Portsmouth so as they can put out something nice to counteract the gossip column, and I rang the Admiral to say I’d do it after all before I’d thought it out. I never dreamed he’d drag it all out of me. He’s pretty hard under that charm, isn’t he?”

    “Of course; hadn’t you realised?” she says numbly.

    Grimace. “No. Whenever I’ve seen him he’s been giving his sister a lovely tea or cooing over Baby Bunting, or like that.”

    A short silence. Then she says: “That’s not the real man.”

    “No, I see that, now. I was stupid.”

    “It's not your fault, it’s mine,” she says dully. “I do know what Gloria’s like.”

    Gee, you’re right, Susan, it is your fault. All the same, I should of thought before I rung Hammersley. “Never mind, it’s done now. I better ring off, I think I oughta grab the Admiral straight away, before he puts wheels in motion, or something.”

    “Yes,” she says faintly. “Thank you, Rosie. Bye-bye.”

    “Bye-bye.” I hang up and Rupy immediately says: “She will tell bloody Nigel, and what’s the betting he snaps back with an even dirtier version so as to dump it all on you?”

    “Shut up.”

    He puts his hand on the whatsit just as I’m dialling. “Hold on. Your last call to old Hammersley was disastrous: hadn’t you better stop and think?”

    I do stop, but I don’t think, I just look at him numbly.

    After a bit he says: “I hate to say this, but I’d ring Father Sir Admiral.”

    “What? Rupy, the man’s spineless, hasn't that been proved?”

    “Proven,” he corrects me, not smiling. “Look, what’s going to really mend fences; you putting in a solo appearance at this children’s thing like Princess Di, or you flanked by Her Majesty and the Duke?”

    My jaw’s dropped. An aeon or two creep by. Then I croak: “Rupy, she’d never do something like that for me!”

    “Not for you, and not off her own bat, no. I think she might for family solidarity, given that you’ve produced the heir. If he can persuade her.”

    “Um, but Rupy, the GBP won’t really care, in fact if they believe the goss.’ it’ll probably be better for the show—”

    “I mean, you idiot, really mend fences with the Navy!” he shouts. “It’s not just the show or bloody Corky Corcoran’s career, it’s John’s career, too, can’t you see that?”

    I can now. “Oh, God.”

    He gets up. “Exactly. Grab that animal’s lead and your coat, we’ll go down to Doris’s and use her phone, no way am I going to sit here while you explain this lot to your Aunty Kate!”

    He’s got a point. In fact, no way am I going to try to explain it to her.

    We go down to Doris’s. Gee, she takes that paper, does she? So we don’t need to do much explaining.

    “Ring Sir Bernard now,” says Rupy sternly, dropping the funny-names bit entirely, ouch.

    So I ring him. Gee, she lets him answer the phone in his own house. “Hullo, Bernard, it’s Rosie.” My voice has got very small, all by itself. “Yeah, good, thanks. How are you?” Rupy glares at me. “Good. Um, I need your help.” Rupy nods madly. “Um, yes, thanks, but you better wait until you hear it.” He’s assuring me that anything—of course, my dear—anything! Gulp. “Um, well, I know you only take the posh papers, but, um, one of the silly ones has published a, um, a spiteful story about me and Euan Keel. You know, the actor. Um, not naming names, only they call me ‘the Captain’s wife’ and right next to the story there’s a stupid publicity photo of us both. What? Um, sorry, hang on. –He wants to know what paper,” I say dully to Rupy and Doris. They chorus its name. “Oh, right.” I tell him.

    He tells me to hold on, he thinks their daily takes it. Well, yeah, but does she bring it to work with her? And given it’s Saturday, does she come and slave for them— Forget it. I hang on. Rupy picks up the paper and becomes immersed in the rest of the goss.’ Doris asks if I’d like a cuppa. I nod fervently so, looking relieved at having something to do, she gets up, dumps Buster the corgi on my knee, oops, is this going to make Tim jealous? and goes over to the bench. We’re in her kitchen, of course: all three of us are from the sort of background where you automatically make for the kitchen, especially in times of crisis.

    Rustle, rustle. “Are you there, Rosie, my dear?” Unfortunately, yes. He’s explaining that Mrs Baker brings it with her because she knows he likes to see the pics of me, ouch.

    “Um, yeah. Um, have you found it?”

    He has, because he says crossly: “Stuff and nonsense! –My dear, if you were thinking of suing the so-and-sos—and I must admit I entirely sympathise with the impulse—I wouldn’t: it’ll only draw attention to it.’”

    “Um, yeah, I know. I wasn’t thinking of suing.”—Rupy looks up sharply and rolls his eyes in horror. I shake my head madly at him.—“Um, the thing is, there’s nothing between me and Euan—” He’s assuring me that of course, of course, he quite understands it’s only stupid gossip, shit, why doesn’t he shut up and let me explain? “Um, yeah. But I gotta tell you the rest!”

    A little silence. Then he says in this very even voice, for once he sounds very like John—like John when he’s reserving judgement, ouch: “Go on, Rosie.”

    “It’s quite a long story,” I say weakly.

    “Then I won’t interrupt.” That sounded like John at his grimmest, oh, God.

    “There is a grain of truth in it, but only a grain.” Blast, Rupy’s frowning at me. “Um, Euan came down to the cottage one day when Aunty Kate was up in town, and more or less bawled on my shoulder because,” trying to avoid the expression “love-life”, “um, things have gone wrong between him and his girlfriend. And, um, he did have his head on my shoulder,” avoiding the word “tits” or any synonym thereof, “and I was giving him a bit of a hug, when Corky Corcoran and Terence walked in on us. They could see it was nothing, and Euan wasn’t even particularly embarrassed, because theatrical people think nothing of sobbing on each other’s shoulders. But you see, that stupid story is based on—on something that really happened. Um, sorry, I don’t think I was very clear, it was the day Terence and Corky came home from the Gulf.”

    “Of course: Terence mentioned he stopped off to see you and Baby Bunting,” he says in this very vague voice that means he’s thinking. I just wait.

    “Why have you told me all this, Rosie?”

    Oh, cripes, that must be his senior-officer voice, why did I ever take bloody Rupy’s advice?

    “Um, buh-because it’s got worse.”

    Yeah, I will go on, anyone’d go on if you were using your senior-officer voice, Admiral, and why did I ever think you were nothing but a spineless jellyfish?

    “One of Henny Penny’s public relations people rang me, and they thought the best thing would be to put out a story that’d ignore the gossip and show me in a favourable light, preferably doing something, um, connected with the Navy.” Swallow. “So, um, I thought maybe the ratings’ children’s party at Portsmouth would be the answer, but I’d already told them I couldn’t make it, it’s on the 23rd, and we were going to stay in town. So I rang Admiral Hammersley,”—shit, I can hear him taking a deep breath through his nose—“and said would it be too late to tell them I’d do it after all? And he said it wouldn’t, but he wanted to know why I’d changed my mind, and, um, I never meant to tell him, but he got the whole thing out of me. And then he started to work out who could of told the paper, and there was only me and Euan and Commander Corcoran that knew, really. I mean, Terence didn’t see us, though I told him all about it afterwards. Um, but I know he wouldn’t mention it, and I really don’t think Admiral Hammersley thought he would, either.” He’s glad to hear that—very grim. Ouch. I look at Rupy and grimace horribly. He just frowns.

    So I take a gulp of my tea. “Sorry, Admiral, I was drinking my tea. Um, Bernard, sorry!” He doesn’t react at all. “So Admiral Hammersley was going to look into it. And—and I realised that he must be thinking that—that Nigel Corcoran was, um, was a candidate for leaking it.” –Not knowing how to refer to him, because I never had have to refer to him in front of the old boy, and I know I shouldn’t call him Corky, but John never calls him anything else, does his father even know his name’s Nigel?

    “Logical—yes,” he says in this very even, give-nothing-away voice.

    “Yes. And I know he’s a naval officer and comes from a good family and everything, Ad—Bernard, but he’s never liked me. He thinks I’m not good enough for John, and when John and me were in Spain last summer—” I stop abruptly. Rupy’s glaring at me, can’t blame him.

    “Yes?”

    Oh, shit! “I’ve never told John this,” I say in a very, very small voice.

    “Then I think you’d better tell me immediately.”

    Yeah, I better had. “Um, well, the Corcorans were over there on a motoring holiday and they dropped in to see us. And John had popped down to the village and Susan took the children down to get something for lunch, and Corky took the opportunity to tell me to give John up while I was still doing the Lily Rose thing.” Miserable silence.

    “Yes, Nigel did mention that to me,” he says evenly.

    Oh, did he, just? Well, suspicion confirmed, then!

    “May I ask what your reaction was?”

    “Um, well, it’s not relevant. Well, I told him I would, and then I told John that I wouldn’t be able to go back down to the cottage with him when we got back to England, because of all these public appearances I had to do. Then I rung Henny Penny’s PR people behind John’s back and got them to jack up some public appearances for me and made them promise to collect me from the airport. Only before I could do anything else the Navy decided to send John to the States.”

    There’s a considerable silence. Then he says: “That was my doing, I’m afraid.”

    “I guessed that.”

    “Mm. Ah… I think it’s only fair to Corcoran to tell you that he did say you’d agreed to, ah, ‘cool it’, I think was the expression. But he also said that he doubted that much reliance could be placed on your word.”

    Gee, that’s clear. “Yeah, well, like I say, it’s not relevant any more.”

    “Possibly not, no,” he says in this really odd voice. “Go on: you’d got as far as saying Hammersley was going to look into this leak, and logically he must suspect Corcoran.”

    “Yes. So I rang Susan Corcoran straight away, to warn her. I mean, whether or not he did it—and because I knew he doesn’t like me, I thought he probably had—um, whether or not he did it, I thought she’d better know. And also I wanted to check whether he’d told her and she’d told someone else. And she had, she’d told another Navy lady. Officer’s wife, I mean.”

    “Who?” he says grimly.

    “Uh—” I look frantically at Rupy. He just looks stern. “Um, I don't think I’ll tell you that, Bernard.” He doesn’t say anything so I add quickly: “But I know the lady, and I know she’s a terrible gossip.”

    “Mm. So it could have got around.”

    “Yes. Um, I’m not explaining it very well.”

    “It seems clear so far,” he says grimly. “Have you told Hammersley there are other people who knew besides Terence and Corcoran?”

    “Not yet. I was going to ring him straight away, only—only Rupy wouldn’t let me.”

    There’s a short and, who can blame him, astounded silence. “Your actor friend?”

    “Yes. He saw all the implications, you see, and because the first time I rang the Admiral it was so duh-disastrous,” swallow, “he thought I’d better ring you.”

    Another short silence. “And just what are these implications?”

    “Well, I thought it was just Cork—Nigel’s career that could be in jeopardy if Admiral Hammersley thought it was him. Or, um, even thought he’d gossiped about it. Only Rupy could see that maybe John’s career could be affected, because the piece in the gossip column was—was smearing his wife. And—and maybe the Navy wouldn’t like that, you see. Regardless of whether it was true.” Swallow. “Especially because the paper actually uses the phrase ‘the Captain’s wife’.”

    After a moment he says: “So he suggested you ring me?”

    “Yes. Um, not just to warn you. But because he thinks… Um, you’re not going to like this.” –Rupy’s glaring horribly.

    “Then you’d better tell me and get it over with.”

    “Yeah. We think—I mean, it was Rupy’s idea, but I agree with him—that the best way to, um, appease the Navy might be if”—swallow—“if the family shows a united front,”—Rupy’s nodding madly—“and, and if you and John’s muh-mother come down to the children’s party with me.”

    I think that’s a stunned silence but I’m too weak to decide, I just siphon up tea blindly.

    Then he says briskly: “I entirely agree. Is Rupy there? May I speak to him?”

    “Um, yes,” I croak feebly, holding out the receiver. “–He entirely agrees. He wants to speak to you.”

    “What do I call him?” he mouths frantically.

    “Sir Bernard,” I mouth.

    “Hullo, Sir Bernard. This is Rupy Maynarde,” the poor thing croaks into the receiver.

    So Sir Bernard goes yack, yack, yack… Doris and me finish our tea, watching Rupy anxiously, his face is very pink, but then the kitchen is very warm, she’s got the oven on.

    “Yes,” he says finally. “Glad you see it like that. …Will you? I think that’d be best, yes, sir. …Bernard, of course!” Weak smile. “No, well, the trouble with Rosie is,”—God, what’s he gonna say? Me and Doris goggle frantically at him—“that she will involve herself in other people’s emotional messes.”

    What? Bullshit! And stop nodding, Doris Winslow!

    “Yes, that’s right: of course she was,” he says, sounding, ye gods, lightly amused in a sort of sophisticated way, supreme Noël to the life. “Oh, will you, Bernard? Frightfully decent of you.” Come off it, Rupy! If my jaw’s anything like Doris’s, it’s practically hitting the table-top. “No, really? I say, frightfully jolly! Thanks awfully!” What in God’s name—? “No, well, Kate and I won’t give her the chance!” –Jolly chuckle. And ho, ho, ho to you, too, Rupy Maynarde, what’s going on? “Absolutely! Well, see you soon, then, Bernard! Here she is.” He holds out the receiver and says sternly, not putting his hand over it or anything: “Behave, and do what he tells you.”

    I give him a good glare but somehow when I actually speak my voice has gone very small again. “Hullo, Bernard. It’s Rosie again.”

    He’s very brisk and tidying-away, ship-shape and Bristol fashion, in fact he sounds exactly like John when he cleared out the mess in the flat’s sideboard drawers. I’m not to ring Kenneth Hammersley, he’ll take care of that. Yes, Rosie (tolerant but firm), he will make quite sure he realises that other people knew the story. I try to tell him to make sure Admiral Hammersley understands that it wasn’t Corky Corcoran’s fault but he only says in a very dry voice that wherever the immediate blame may lie, Corcoran should never have mentioned it to his wife, the more so as he apparently did grasp that I was blameless. I gasp that a man can’t be blamed for talking to his wife, but he ignores me, oh, shit. Now, about the children’s party: he’ll speak to Miriam (gulp, will he?) and the best thing will be if we all go over to Portsmouth together. And I’d better come to them for Christmas. I manage to gasp “But—!” He and Rupy are agreed it would be much the best thing—of course Kate and Rupy too, Rosie. Never mind if Kate’s planned to join up with the Hammersleys, Tuppence will understand. Now, no arguments. And we won’t mention this to John until it’s all cleared up, mm?

    Sag. If you say so, Admiral, sir, in fact I couldn’t agree more!

    He goes on for a bit, something about cars, and arrangements for Baby Bunting and stuff, and something about a tree, and presents for who? Oh, the kiddies in Portsmouth, right, right—but I don’t really take much in, I’m just so relieved that he doesn’t want to put in a call to John immediately.

    “What? Um sorry, Bernard, I missed that.”

    “I said that I’m damned sorry we didn’t invite you down earlier, me dear. Should have had you down as soon as John left: could have avoided all of this mess, hm?”

    “Yuh—Uh—It was my fault, I knew Greg had to be away that day and I let Euan come down. I mean, I thought I could handle him. Um, well, I can handle him, and the theatre people wouldn’t’ve thought anything of me giving him a hug: it was just that it looked bad to the Navy people.”

    “My dear, you are Navy people, now,” he says, sort of, um, emphatically?

    Gulp. “Yeah. I see what you mean. A proper Navy wife like Susan Corcoran wouldn’t have been alone with Euan, let alone give him a hug.”

    “I think we’ve just proved that Susan Corcoran’s a silly hen; but in essence, you’re right. I wasn’t going to say this, Rosie; you’re a bright girl, and I’m sure you can see it. But I think it does need saying. You do owe John something, don’t you?”

    Blast! I’m gonna bawl. “Yes.”

    “There’s no need to cry, my dear. All marriages involve some adjustments, don’t they? And God knows, it’s not easy being a sailor’s wife.”

    “Yes!” I gulp, as Doris gives me a hanky. “I mean, no, it isn’t. I thought maybe he’d get a shore job, because he seemed really keen on seeing Baby Bunting grow up… Only then the crisis happened.”

    “Yes. No serving officer wants to stand on the sidelines at such a moment, my dear.”

    “No, ’course not. Only he said he’d made a mess of one marriage and—and he wanted to be fully involved in this one!” Blast, I never meant to say that, what’s wrong with me? Added to which I’m dripping tears into Doris’s portable phone—Rupy’s giving me his hanky. Snuffle, blow. “Sorry, Bernard, I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

    “My dear child, who else can you say it to, if not his father?” There’s a short silence, think he has to let it sink in, or something. “I see… I rather thought it might be like that, from something he said to his mother and me. Now, listen, Rosie, my dear. We can’t do anything at this juncture, but once we see which way these damned terrorists are going to jump, I’ll have a serious talk with him about putting in for a shore job.”

    “But he’ll hate it!”

    “No, he won’t, my dear. He did damn’ well at that liaison stuff in America, and Hammersley was very pleased to be able to have him at the Admiralty before he rejoined Dauntless. Said he has a gift for organisation.”

    “Um, yes, he is very organised… Um, you mean, like a long-term job at the Admiralty?”

    “We’ll have to see,” he says with a smile in his voice.

    “That’d be wonderful!” Ugh, not if the old boy’s going to wangle it behind his back, though! “But for goodness’ sake don’t go and jack it up behind his back!” I gasp.

    “No, I won’t do that.” Shit, the tolerant, pat, pat, funny little woman thing. “Now, Rosie, are you quite clear about the arrangements?”

    “Um… You mean like, I don’t ring Admiral Hammersley, you do?”

    “That, too. No, about the cars and getting Baby all packed.”

    “Uh—not really. Well, I mean, what cars?”

    I’d better let him speak to Rupy again. And no more tears, mm? Glumly I give Rupy the receiver, it only needed the old joker to invite him into a male peer group, he’s gonna be unbearable for the rest of Christmas.

    At long last he hangs up, well, presses the thing’s buttons, and Doris goes and puts it carefully back on its stand, it’s like, only a semi-mobile.

    “You were right,” I say quickly.

    Warily he replies: “What about?”

    “Everything. Well, mainly about ringing John’s father being the go.”

    “Yes,” he says smugly.

    “I suppose I've misread him, too, same like Admiral Hammersley!” I say angrily.

    He looks intensely smug. “Not entirely. Don’t think you thought much about Admiral H., you just took him for granted as a kindly old daddy figure, didn't you? “

    Glare. “Yeah.”

    “I’ve heard you say yourself the Navy has got more sense than to appoint—”

    “Yes!”

    “Michael, for instance,” he says smugly. “But like I say, I don’t think you did misread Bernard, entirely. He does let her rule the roost, at home. The kind of macho man that’s terrified of the managing type of woman. That doesn’t mean he can’t do a good job when the responsibility’s dumped in his lap.”

    “Exactly,” agrees Doris, putting the jug on again. “There’s some pink-iced cake in the tin with the Royal corgis, on it, Rupy, dear. I think we might as well have our elevenses.”

    “Ooh!” he goes, bouncing up to get it. So much for male peer groups.

    “So Sir Bernard’s sorted it out, has he, dear?”

    I let Rupy tell her all about it while he slices pink-iced cake nicely and chooses some pretty cake plates for us. Finally the tea’s made and she asks: “What was all that about cars, Rupy?”

    He explains that we’re all going down to Bernard and Miriam’s, quote unquote, and because Baby Bunting needs his bassinet we’ll need two cars and they’ll be arriving at two o’clock this afternoon.

    “What?” I gasp in horror. “Today?”

    “I thought you weren’t listening! Don’t start squawking, it’s all arranged.”

    “But we’ll be stuck there for a whole week before it’s even time to go to Portsmouth!”

    “I said,” he says severely, “don’t start squawking. Then when we go over to Portsmouth on the 23rd, Doris, there’ll be quite a crowd of us. Bernard thinks it’ll be too much for Baby Bunting, so their Mrs Baker will look after him—she’s a grandmother, Rosie, you don’t need to worry—and that’ll mean Kate can come with us, so although of course we could all fit into the Mercedes—”

    I’ve stopped listening again. Though I do register vaguely that if Rupy imagines Terence is gonna let him drive his Porsche, he’s got another imagine coming. What’s he going on about now? Oh, the Grate Arrival Scene in the series when he bowls up at the stately ’ome in the veteran sports car with the blonde stand-in; what’s that got to do— Right, right, proves he can drive a sports car.

    Eventually I’m driven to say: “Rupy, all this depends on old Sir Bernard being able to make Lady Mother agree to it.”

    He looks down his straight nose at me. “Don’t call him ‘old Sir Bernard’ like that, Rosie, it’s disrespectful.”

    I take a deep breath and manage to hold my tongue.

    “I should think so!” he says virtuously. “Oh, and while I think of it: you’re not to wear anything too theatrical to the kiddies’ party.”

    “Nuh—Uh, what do you mean?”

    He looks down the nose again. “It’s not what I mean, dear, it’s what he means. None of the Marilyn outfits, they’d prefer you to look like a nice Navy wife.”

    I’m so stunned I dunno whether to say first I don’t believe for an instant that John’s father actually said that, or shout that he, Rupy, I mean, is a raving hypocrite, or point out that I’ve never chosen, I mean voluntarily chosen, a Marilyn outfit in my puff— Or even point out that I don’t own any nice-Navy-wife outfits.

    Finally I gasp: “Rupert Maynarde, you hypocrite! Who’s been stuffing me into blasted Marilyn outfits for the last two and half years solid, may I ask?”

    “Got nothing to do with it,” he says smugly. “Whatever Henny Penny may decree, ignore them. This is a Navy show, got it?”

    “Rupy, Sir Bernard didn’t say that, surely?” says Doris faintly.

    “Yes, he did, see.” Putting on a terrifically posh upper-clawss voice he goes: “And Rupy, m’dear fellow, see to it that the gal doesn’t wear anything too theatrical, would you? It’ll be a Navy show, after all: flyin’ the flag, y’see.”

    Me and Doris exchange numbed glances. Finally she admits: “I’m convinced, Rosie, dear.”

    “Um, yeah, I think I am, too. Well, heck, I don’t mind what I wear, Rupy, but I haven’t got anything suitable.”

    “What do you wear to the university, dear?” pipes Doris hopefully.

    “Old jeans, and at best, a horrid old second-hand leather jacket,” he says evilly.

    That’s out, then. We review my wardrobe… Finally he decides to fall back on the black Marilyn suit, if we don’t tell Father Sir Bernard (forgetting to be respectful) it is, he’ll never know, will he, with that pretty soft yellow jumper that Gloria spilled eyeliner down the arm of, if I don’t take the jacket off Lady Mother will never spot it, will she? And John’s pearls.

    “Where are they?” he demands terribly.

    “In the safe, see!”

    That’s all right, we've given the combination to both Doris and Miss Hammersley, and Doris produces her address book.

    Naturally Rupy isn’t overlooking the fact that this arvo I have to turn up in something that will please Sir Bernard and not actually get up Lady Mother’s nose. Most unfortunately that really nice white knit dress I got as a Chrissie present when we were in America now looks distinctly theatrical on me. Yes, Rupy, the sooner I lose all that weight the better, and I had better not imagine I’m going to stuff myself on turkey and Christmas pud, no. Um, those blue pants’ll be too tight and anyway I've given them to Katie, I remind him. Um, those pink pants— You’re right, Rupy, disastrous is a good word for them. Eh? All right, I’ll try to remember to call them slacks. –Is that U? All right, I will just shut up.

    What does Susan Corcoran wear in the weekends? Gee, Rupy, she wears carefully coordinated camel-hair slacks, camel-hair coats and camel-hair Cashmere sweaters. With a cream silk shirt and a tasteful twist of scarf at the neck in which a touch of orange is allowed to be glimpsed amongst the camel— You did ask. And rather nice laced suede shoes with crêpe soles, regardless of the fact that the rest of the word is getting around in giant sneak—I’m shutting up.

    Doris asks haven’t I got one nice pair of black slacks?

    No. I’ve got several skin-tight pairs of black slacks verging on the disastrous and one pair of hopelessly baggy black slacks that used to belong to Mum. And a pair of black tracksuit pant— You’re right, Rupy, she didn’t ask me that.

    He gets up. Kate should be back by now: he’s going to have a good talk with her, and meanwhile, I can take Tim for a walk.

    “Wuff, wuff, wuff!”

    Buster joins in, in his higher little corgi voice: “Yip, yip, yip!”

    “Sorry, Doris!” I gasp, clipping Tim’s lead on.

    “That’s all right, dear; we’ll both go, Buster needs the exercise.”

    I don’t say Tim doesn’t need to toddle along at a Doris-and-corgi pace, I just put my parka and woolly hat on and we go.

    We get as far as The Tabla and she pipes, smiling like anything: “I must say, I was pleased to see Rupy being so decisive!’

    “Um, yeah. Me, too.”

    “Of course, dear! It’ll do him so much good to feel you’re relying on him, Rosie!”

    Uh—yeah. She’s right, it probably will. That or he’ll have a huge crisis… I won’t think that way.

    Funnily enough, when Doris remembers she needs some cream from the corner shop, Barry Machin doesn’t greet us with a grin and the question have we seen the papers, he goes bright red and shuts up like a clam.

    I take a deep breath. “It’s all right, Barry, we’ve seen it and we’re over it. It’s all malicious spite. Euan Keel’s the dreep to end all dreeps, and I’m hopelessly in love with my husband.”

    “We know that,” says Mr Machin, glaring at him. “Your aunty was in a while back. Don’t think she’s seen it.”

    “No. Um, we’re going away for a bit, Mr Machin, so we won’t need the Sunday papers for a while. Um, starting tomorrow. Um, not until after New Year’s, I wouldn’t think.”

    “We thought you were staying here,” says Barry.

    “Um, yeah, only John’s father wants us to go down to them.”

    “Well, now!” says Mr Machin, actually smiling. “That’s a bit more like it! Well, that new lady down at Grafton Lodge Apartments, she can have The Observer for a bit, only don’t you go letting ’er imagine it’s all hers, Barry!”

    “No, righto, Dad.”

    “Um, but if she always wants it—” I begin dubiously.

    Sniff. “We gotta see if she’s gonna be a regular, first. And ’ow’s the Captain?”

    I report that I haven’t had another letter since the last one I told them about and they nod sympathetically and Doris collects up her cream and Barry says to his dad: “Can I?” and gets the nod, and produces a huge parcel from under the counter. With a giant red bow on it.

    “What’s this?” I gasp, I’m about as red as the bow.

    “Open it!” he urges.

    His father squashes this utterly. “No.”

    “Aw, Dad! All right, can I tell her what it is?”

    Another sniff. “If yer must, yer must.”

    Beaming, Barry reveals it’s a bag to fasten onto the pram .A proper one, he got it from a proper shop, and it’s from both of them!

    “It’s just what we need. You shouldn’t have,” I say weakly

    They rubbish this and rubbish my thanks and Mr Machin with his own hands gives me an ice-lolly. On the house!

    “What did I do to deserve it all?” I say numbly to Doris once we’re out on the pavement again.

    “Don’t be silly, dear!” she beams.

    Uh—righto. I’ll try not to be.

    “They can afford it,” she says comfortably. “That little shop does a roaring trade.”

    “Yes, I know. Open all hours,” I say numbly.

    Suddenly Doris goes into hysterical giggles.

    “Yeah,” I admit, grinning. “’Tis a bit like that!”

    And we trot on happily together; since we’re down this way she’ll just collect her dry-cleaning…

    By the time we get back I’m laden with early Christmas presents for Baby Bunting. We had to wait while Mrs Wu shot out to the back of the shop to wrap theirs.

    “Now don’t bawl,” Doris says sternly as we wedge ourselves into the lift and check our dogs’ tails.

    “I’m not,” I say, sniffing.

    “They’d do it whether you were Lily Rose or not, you know.”

    “Mm, I know,” I agree, sniffing.

    She only goes to the second floor, of course. So I give her a big kiss, can’t hug her, my arms are full of presents, and she gives me a kiss back and tells me to have a good Christmas and, twinkling, to never say die: after all they are Baby’s grandparents! And me and Tim go up—

    No, we don’t, Mr Els has stopped the lift. “Sorry, Mr Els, we’re going up.”

    He knows, and this is just a little something for Baby Bunting’s first Christmas from him and Jay-Jay!

    Yip, yip, yip!

    I’m hanging on like grim death to Tim’s lead but he just looks at him mildly, I rather doubt that he even thinks he is a dog. “Thanks awfully, Mr Els! Merry Christmas!”

    “Merry Christmas, Rosie, my dear, and send my best to the Captain!” And up we go.

    Aunty Kate is not going to say a word. Gee, that’s a switch, has Rupy performed actual surgery on her vocal chords? And personally, she has her own opinion as to who’s responsible for that spiteful piece of gossip. Ouch.

    They both superintend my packing, do it for me would be more accurate, even, no, especially the undergarments being severely vetted. Nothing too outrageous, the silly red lace knickers Joslynne and me bought on a silly shopping expedition to cheer me up during the honeymoon in Sydney get the thumbs-down, and nothing too saggy and comfortable. The elastic in these has completely gone, what am I keeping them for? Biff, biff!

    I end up in the nice gold-flecked brown tweed skirt, not too tight, that Daughter wore with the famous apricot knitted jumper at the stately ’ome, not with the jumper, which I didn’t score, but a nice caramel one of Aunty Kate’s that’s rather loose and elegant on her but isn’t on me. Though it does manage not to be too theatrical. Plus and a pair of genuine crocodile shoes of Miss Hammersley’s, she’s popped in to help: dear Kenneth has rung her, and she’s very sympathetic. The shoes are quite suitable for afternoon wear, Rosie, my dear. Phew, are they? Great. Thanks awfully, Miss Hammersley! (And I won't mention to you that crocodiles are now a protected species in Oz.)

    Somebody seems to have been eating all morning, so we’ll just have some sandwiches for lunch. Turns out that pâté Aunty Kate bought at a posh shop the other day needs eating up: they’re really nice sandwiches.

    “I needed that,” says Rupy with a sigh, swallowing.

    “Of course, Rupy, dear!” she cries, boy is he in her good books. “It’s been such a traumatic morning for you!”

    “Traumatic but successful, Kate,” he says, grinning like the Cheshire cat. If he doesn’t stop very soon, I’ll tell her that that’s John’s Aran jumper he’s nicked. “And guess what was the very best part of it?” We’re just about to when he adds: “And the most surprising.”

    She can’t guess and I just eye him suspiciously.

    “The fact that when she rang Sir Bernard, she told him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!” he produces triumphantly.

    “That is surprising,” she goes before she can stop herself.

    “Yeah, hah, hah.”

    “No, seriously, Rosie, darling. I thought— Well, you are quite an artiste at the half-truths, aren’t you, dear?”

    I am not! Hardly ever. Well, only when it’s necessary.

    “She’s growing up at last, Rupy. It’s about time. Her mother and father’ll be very glad to hear it,” she concludes with grim triumph.

    What? What flaming garbage! And as for him—! “Look, ya great Pommy nong, ya said yaself—”

    “That’ll do, Rosie,” she warns.

    “He said himself that it was John’s career at stake, was I gonna lie to his father about something like that?”

    She picks up the plates and gets up. “Apparently not.” Smirk, smirk. “I never thought I’d see the day.” Exit to the kitchen, smirking.

    “And you can wipe that grin off ya mug, Rupy Maynarde, or I’ll let on whose jumper that is! And look out: Terence has borrowed it before now, he’ll recognise it!”

    He just looks down his nose at me.

    Terence hasn’t brought the Porsche, he’s driving his dad’s big old “estate car”, quote unquote, station-waggon to youse yobs, and the old boy’s driving the Merc. Well, good, maybe we can bring the pram after all. Aunty Kate has now discovered that the bassinet can very easily be dismantled, though I wouldn’t say that Rupy—Ow! Gasp, hop—entirely agrees with her. It goes into the boot of the Merc, no sweat, and the pram can now be, um, well, leave it to Terence, surely he can manage that? It does go in, but we may never get it out again. Tim has to go in next to it. Will he be all right? Tolerantly Terence pads the pram a bit with Tim’s rug.

    Aunty Kate’s quite happy to go in the back of the Merc with Baby Bunting down on the floor in his carrycot, wedged between the seats. Odds-on she’ll be telling the old joker all about my weak stomach before we’ve even hit the High Street. So we’re off! ’Bye, Doris! ’Bye, Miss Hammersley! ’Bye, Imelda! ’Bye, Tiffany! …Gee, she’s telling the old joker all about my weak stomach.

    It’s reputed to be not that far, “only down in Kent”, but it feels like a Helluva long way to me. She has more than time to tell Sir Bernard exactly what sort of carrycot restraints he oughta put in the Merc quick smart, what sorta baby-seat and restraints he oughta follow that up with, and what sorta kiddie-seat and restraints he’s gotta graduate to after that.

    Funnily enough I’ve never been here before, though I have seen a pic. Well, to be fair, look at the time John and me have had together. Um, no, well, I agree: if they’d really insisted on it we could’ve nipped over— Forget it. Are we near the sea? Yes, he has a good view of the sea from his “crow’s-nest”, that’s his study, me dear. Jolly chuckle. Oh, good. Gee, the house isn’t as huge as I thought it was gonna be. Largely brick with white windowsills and only a smallish porch with smallish white pillars. That pic gave ya no idea of perspective at all. Ugh, this loose gravel on the front drive, crunch, crunch, is a real no-no, wonder how many skinned knees poor little John and Fiona and Terence woulda had from that? Maybe I can work on the old joker to get nice cream pavers put in by the time Baby Bunting’s— Uh, yeah, we have arrived, haven’t we? I get out…

    Aeons later. They thought they’d put me and Baby in here, blah, blah, references to the old nursery— I’m not taking in a word. Lady Mother of course received us with cool grace. Didn’t refer to nothing, no sirree, not even to what on due consideration I’ve decided can only be characterised as Susan Corky’s big-mouthed idiocy.

    “Um, what, I mean pardon? Sorry, La—um, Miriam.”

    She sighs slightly. “Rosie, my dear, I think you’ve been overdoing it, as usual.”

    As usual? I stare at her with my gob open.

    “John wouldn’t be very pleased with you. You’d better take a nap before dinner.”

    Gee, better I? Um, hang on, where’s Tim gonna slee—On second thoughts, I won’t ask that. “Um, yes, I’d like to, thanks, if it isn’t rude?”

    “In one’s parents-in-laws’ home? I hardly think so,” she says in that light tone she specialises in. “I’ll see you’re woken in time for dinner. I think you’ll find everything you need in that bathroom.” Gracious inclination of the head and she goes.

    I check on Baby Bunting and then I just totter over to the bed and fall onto…

    It’s the 23rd, and she still hasn’t referred even by implication to anything. Though given that the Corcorans live quite near (they would), she’s had Susan over and taken me shopping because really, I had nothing suitable, did I? Several times, there’s nothing very much in the nearest town to them, unquote, so we just bought tights and she vetoed my idea of gloves, and a couple of expeditions to London, it’s unpleasantly busy at this time of year, unquote again. Going to London from their place, if you don’t force Bernard to drive you in the Merc, entails forcing him to take you to the station at crack of dawn and coming up by train, the service being sadly run down since her day. Boy, she oughta cop a gander at some of the Sydney suburban trains, not to mention at the accidents incurred by same.

    With her and Susan on the job the clothes turn out to be as boring as you’d expect. Susan was horrified to discover, well, to be told by Guess Who, that I had no good winter coat, but gee, Harrods took care of that one very nicely, thank You, Harrods. Objectively it is a nice coat, and very warm, but I don’t like navy blue. On me, I mean. Harrods had some really nice suits but we didn’t buy any of those, because those pastel shades are not practical. And Susan quite agrees that trouser suits are practical but they don’t flatter short women, do they? Ulp. We bought a nice plain navy suit for town and the plain court shoes to match, a heavy brown and grey tweed suit for country wear, those who thought they’d escaped from the Fifties ethos were wrong, plus and a horrible checked thing, oh, right, houndstooth, if she says so, in grey and navy, dunno what it’s for and I don’t care. Harrods carrying out the alterations no sweat, even though, if anyone’s looking, it’s the week before Christmas. (Skirts up to where Susan thinks they did oughta be, not to where I’d of had them and sleeves up, why do they always assume you’ve got arms like a gorilla? Or, on the other hand, we did have to go a size up because of my hips and bust—yeah.) The nice saleslady on the suits recognised me and Lady Mother didn’t know whether to be pleased or insulted. It woulda been quite a triumph if I hadn’t of been too drained to feel anything, much.

    Several nice blue, grey or navy sweaters were also purchased, plus an oatmeal one, these all in fine knits, and a heavier knit loose one in what Susan calls natural wool, ya can tell she doesn’t come from a wool-producing country, and several pairs of slacks. Even though Lady Mother’s got a fabulous figure, tall and slim, she thought she’d better leave those to Susan, smile, smile. For Heaven’s sake! When was the woman born? Uh—oh. Keep forgetting she’s a generation older than Mum. Then it turned out everything had gone on the old joker’s account! She insisted. Very firm. But John and me have got loads of cash, there’s his whacking great salary and my TV mon— There was nothing more to be said, Rosie. She was right, there. In future I won’t be so vulgar as to mention filthy lucre at all. …Well, how do they do it, if they need to mention it? Buggered if I know.

    So guess what I’m wearing for the kiddies’ Christmas party? No: wrong. The navy suit’s for town. It’s the grey and navy checked thing. Susan thinks it’s smart but pretty. Her Linda’s home from uni: she’s come over with her to watch while her mum vets me before I go downstairs to face Lady Mother’s eagle eye. She makes a spewing noise and is told sharply to stop that.—She looks ace, herself, she’s in heavy black tights with a big grey jumper over them and red calf-length boots. She’s got dark brown hair like Susan’s, but where Susan’s is naturally curly hers is straight and she’s wearing it longer, her mother thinks it looks dreary and bedraggled.—Under the suit I have to wear a short-sleeved Cashmere jumper in very pale grey that’s allowed to have a very, very restrained V of tiny, make that minute, holes across its front as decoration. Over that I’m wearing John’s pearls, whaddelse? Pale tights, I was gonna wear navy ones. All right, ya wear pale tights and ya plain navy courts to a children’s Chrissie party, and I give up.

    Cripes. Lady Mother looks wonderful, she musta decided if she’s gonna fly the flag she’s gonna do it right. She is a very handsome old lady, with a wonderful bone structure and lovely pure white hair, short, very smart cut, and the outfit sure does her justice. No, she hasn’t gone all Queen-Mumsy, whaddareya? She’s in a very dark green suit, with a little dark green hat with just one touch of colour, a bright puce many-petalled flower on it. The blouse is dark green silk with a rather high collar, and her pearls. And over it all she’s wearing a to-die-for black fur coat, Rupy’s turned bright green with envy. I’ve gotta say that next to her, Aunty Kate in shades of brightish blue, Adelaide-smart, looks real lower-class. Of course I don’t say it, in fact I don’t say anything, I’m not too sure that it’s the Done Thing to comment on how your mother-in-law looks for a family flag-flying exercise that’s all your fault. Or your fault plus and that of the Navy wife next to you in her new navy overcoat, nice pale tights, new navy courts, new blue hat, new navy leather gloves and new silk scarf, Corky’s gonna enjoy it when the Harrods account comes in, I can tell ya. On second thoughts, serve him right.

    So we pile into the cars, and go. …Thought so. The mums are looking a mixture of excited to meet Lily Rose Rayne and Rupert Maynarde in person and real peeved at having their nice Chrissie party for the kids patronised, boy is that the word, by an ex-Admiral’s wife, a Captain’s wife, a Captain’s wife’s aunt, a Commander’s wife, and a submarine Commander in his uniform. (Yep, they haven’t spared poor old Terence, though absolutely none of it is his fault. Given that he could hardly have had the foresight to strangle Corky on the spot.) Oh, and the ex-Admiral. Though as he pretty soon gets a cute little boy on one knee and a squashed-faced little girl with a squint and specs on the other knee, they don’t mind him all that much. The Henny Penny photographers are here in force, so’s Barbara, very relieved to see what I’m wearing.

    Right, well, that’s that. Going home Rupy and Aunty Kate end up in Susan’s car. Lady Mother doesn’t in the least mind going in the back, in fact she finds the back seat more comfortable (her and the real Queen, yep), so I’m in the front beside the Admiral. Terence is beside his mother but no-one was gonna ask him what he wanted, anyway.

    It finally dawns, as the Admiral gets stuck on a roundabout, that this disposition of personalities probably isn’t entirely coincidental, so I say in a squashed voice: “Um, I thought it went off okay. Um, thank you all very much for coming and—and supporting me.”

    Old Bernard just pats my knee, and Terence says with a smile in his voice: “That’s quite all right, Rosie: I enjoyed it, especially the green fluffy stuff!”

    “Um, yeah. Fluffy jelly. Mum makes that.”

    There’s a short silence. Is she pretending I never spoke?

    The she says tiredly: “You are John’s wife, after all, Rosie.”

    So I go: “Mm! Thuh-thank you, Miriam.” Very squeaky, I’m gonna bawl, blast!

    “Don’t cry, my dear. –Terence!” orders Admiral Sir Bernard sharply. “Give Rosie a handkerchief, for the Lord’s sake!”

    “Mine’s got red jelly on it,” I say limply, sniffling. “Thanks, Terence.” Blow. Sniffle. Blow.

    And that’s it. Subject closed. Is it better or worse than the endless post-mortems that would go on in my own family? I honestly don’t know.