Snips And Snails

Episode 9: Snips And Snails

    Innumerable warnings have been issued about lonely young mothers stuck at home with babies getting the blues because there’s nothing to do but the housework and look after the baby, and it’s such a change from their previous busy life as a carefree bachelor girl or working wife, but funnily enough it isn’t happening to me. Well, for a start, with Aunty Kate here no-one could be lonely. Maddened, yes. Lonely, no. Though actually she isn’t here all the time, she’s started going out on half-day tours and even day tours, she’s got piles of brochures. Then, quite often, unless she’s gone with her, Doris pops up for morning tea (elevenses to some, right) and Miss Hammersley usually pops in on Mondays or Thursdays, those being our usual days, or me and Baby Bunting pop in next-door to her. And of course Jessica Strezlicki comes on her regular day, but with Aunty Kate in the flat there generally isn’t all that much housework left to do. I have tried explaining to her that Jessica likes playing with the dishwasher, we leave our plates out deliberately the evening before she’s due, but that’s nonsense and it encourages vermin, Rosie. Well, all right. But can we at least leave the breakfast dishes? She has conceded this but so far she hasn’t managed to do it.

    And funnily enough if I’m not having afternoon tea with Miss Hammersley or else been invited to the O’Connors’ or maybe to Mr Els’s, he’s got very clucky over Baby and thinks Jay-Jay has taken quite a shine to him, or down to the Macdonalds’, they’re grandparents, so very keen, too, I’m probably entertaining a visitor who’s just popped in. So far these have ranged from, of course, Imelda after school, and also Tiffany on the days when her lectures end, she claims, early, to Bridget if she hasn’t got rehearsal, Mike having just dropped someone from Henny Penny off (where unspecified, could be anywhere in Greater London), Mrs Morrissey on the days she’s got cleaning jobs near us, Arthur on the days he isn’t helping with the Over-Sixties Club or having classes at Della’s, Gray on a Wednesday, that’s the day Della and the junior ballet teacher, Joelle, use both the studios of Della’s Dance Studio and he’s free, Vanessa if it’s a slow day at the salon or she’s having the afternoon off for having worked both Friday evening and all day Saturday, Admiral Sir Kenneth Hammersley, covered in medal ribbons and beaming all over his square, reddish face, Joanie’s parents, Aunty June and Uncle George (they’re not officially together but they’re sharing the house after the official separation and no-one’s asking), Fiona and the hen-pecked Norman, every time he sees Baby Bunting he tells me happily that they’d almost given the old boy up, and even Commander Corky Corcoran’s very up-market wife, Susan. Full of proud reports about how Linda’s getting on at Cambridge—after she fought tooth and nail to stop the girl even getting to the point where she’d be eligible to sit for a scholarship. Oh, well.

    And, gulp, Admiral Sir Father, Rtd. Me and John Frederick Bernard Haworth, aka Baby Bunting, were all on our ownsome and he’d woken up and we were having a nice play, like, snuggling the forehead into the chest after he’d been illegally changed on the bed, and telling him how gorgeous he was, and kissing the tiny fingers and toes and like that. I couldn’t believe it when the door-phone buzzed and it was him: I mean, he knew John Senior’d be at work.

    “Yes, um, come up!” Nothing. I remembered what happened that first time, not to mention the first time I tried to work the bloody thing, and said into the phone: “When I yell ‘Now’, Bernard, give the door a good shove, okay? NOW!”

    It worked, ’cos the next thing he was tapping at the door. He’d brought a huge bunch of flowers for me, we’ve got so many we’ve started giving them away: Doris is a hospital visitor, she was thrilled to be able to take them. Plus an enormous soft, squidgy parcel for Baby Bunting.

    “I know he’s got a Gladly Teddy,”—jovial chuckle; boy is he a different man when he’s out from under her eye—“but I thought he might not have one of these!”

    Quail, cringe… Coulda been anything, folks. But it was only a giant panda. Like, a giant toy giant panda, geddit? About five times Baby Bunting’s size. I was immediately seized by an awful desire to call it Black-Eyed Soo.

    So, since Baby Bunting was wakeful, we both went into the bedroom and started to admire him and put him on the bed and play with the toes and tickle his chest gently and eventually hold him on the naval knee and kiss his forehead and tell me proudly that he was so like John as a baby. Cor, thought the nannies never let the dads near them, in his socio-economic bracket. After which we had a nice cuppa and he expressed a wistful wish for something a bit stronger. But I had more sense than to let him, not gonna deliberately get in bad with her, thanks. And he told me a lot about John’s prowess at school and the full details of that time he crashed the car his maternal grandfather insisted on giving him, silly old beggar, unquote, when he was in his late teens and should have been studying for his A-Levels. Which I didn’t let on Terence had already told me all about. And then he got quite mournful and told me lots and lots about Matt, and how bright he was at school and the fun they used to have when he took him out for the weekends, and how—very sad—he never writes.

    Having met Matt last Christmas in the States I know he’s a very nice young man and though he most certainly bears her a grudge, he’s quite fond of the old joker, so I said: “No, but do you write, Bernard?”

    “Er, well,” he said, going very red, “that’s a bit difficult, Rosie, my dear.”

    Right. Monitors his correspondence, the bitch: thought so. “Yeah. But couldn’t you come up to your club and write from there? Matt could reply there, too.”

    Very red again. “That’s a bit difficult, too, frankly, me dear.”

    Goddit. Doesn’t let him off the leash to the extent of being allowed to come up to town by himself. Jesus! I managed to say I’d tell Matt that, next time I wrote, and he cheered up and began to tell me about all the cricket matches Matt had won at school—single-handed, apparently—and then went on to explain just exactly what all those cups of John’s down at the cottage were for… Coming to with a horrible start and realising he was going to be late for dinner if he didn’t hurry. (At the hotel: they are still in town, she’s got herself into a bridge tournament, filling in for some crony that dropped out.) So I called a taxi for him, and actually left Baby Bunting by himself for five minutes while I saw him off; he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to work the front door downstairs, oh, dear. And yet Admiral Hammersley, who’s definitely the sort to call a spade a spade, has told me that he was a very competent fellow at his job. Of course I dashed back into the flat with my heart hammering nineteen to the dozen, but Baby Bunting was perfectly all right, in the same position as I’d left him, snoring slightly. I don’t think I'll ever risk it again, though, not even for five minutes, it’s too traumatic.

    So, like I say, I’m not lonely. But that isn’t the half of it, is it? Because gee, it’s October, and remember what I promised I’d do for Brian in October? Ya don’t? Well, yeah, it does seem like several lifetimes ago. Film my parts of Captain’s Daughter The Christmas Special, is wot. Like what’s only been in the pipeline since last Christmas. Though having to be changed drastically, story-line wise, when I confessed to Brian who I was and that I didn’t want to go on doing the Daughter full-time. So, you might remember this bit, Rupy proposes to me as Commander and then Euan makes a heavy pass as Macfarlane. The actual wedding is the finale, but before that there’s a fairly large bit where Captain Harding and Amaryllis’s character meet again and he decides, never mind the earlier and very funny episode centring on his efforts to avoid the poor woman, that she isn’t like all the puce and magenta hags that’ve been chasing him since his wife died, and maybe a second marriage wouldn’t be too bad after all. To the consternation of the misogynous Ship’s Doctor. They’ve already filmed all that, Brian’s really pleased with it.

    So today Paul’s gonna have a rehearsal, full words and moves, in the morning, and in the afternoon they’re gonna try my costumes on me. Ulp. True, they make the dresses and skirts with enormous side-seams, but they can’t do that with the genuine little knitted Fifties jumpers… Why did I ever eat all those ice creams and all that Fortnum’s pâté and those giant wodges of sultana cake? Not to mention the bacon, the chips, more chips, the fried fish fingers, the giant steaks…

    Rupy’s been in voluntary exile at Doris’s. Though he could have had his own room, Aunty Kate’s in the study, but he thought we might need the breathing space, dears. Yes, we do, Rupy, and it’s a pity the thought hasn’t occurred to someone else. Though I fully admit it is wonderful knowing I can leave Baby Bunting with her with absolute peace of mind. Not Tim, though. She doesn’t dislike him but she doesn’t trust him not to (a) get on the sofa behind her back, (b) put his paws on the kitchen bench behind her back, (c) go into the bedrooms and get on the beds behind her back, and (d) lie on Baby Bunting behind her back. And, I rather think, (e) open Battersea Power Station and eat everything in it behind her ditto, though she hasn’t actually expressed this one. So when Rupy comes up and suggests we can take Tim, Linda’ll keep an eye on him, she agrees with a sigh of relief.

    He’s eyeing me sideways but refrains from speech until we’re safely in the limo with Mike. “Did you have to wear that?”

    It’s the giant fuzzy black mohair jumper that Sally dyed for me and put the little silver star studs round the neck of. And it is quite a cool day. Plus and a pair of pale pink stretch pirate pants that stretched a bit more in the wash, they’re miles too loose on Katie, or she’d probably have got down on them as well as the blue ones. “Yes.”

    “You might at least have made a gesture in the direction of propitiation, Rosie!”

    “She looks fine,” Mike puts in tolerantly.

    “Fine but not in the least Fifties, Mike,” he says tartly, “and to put it kindly, that jumper has an enlarging effect. It’d have an enlarging effect on an anorexic six-stone model, which, need I remind you, she isn’t! What have you got underneath it?”

    “A singlet, sorry, vest, one of those nice ones from Marks and Sparks, with wide shoulder straps, this jumper’s really tickly. And a nursing bra.”

    “In that case expect Varley to kill you. No, I tell a lie: Varley and Paul jointly, and Brian’ll hold their coats while they do it.”

    “That’ll do,” says Mike on a grim note. “Leave her alone. ’Course she’s wearing a nursing bra. And only a tit like Brian would’ve asked her to film the bloody thing less than a month after she’s had a baby!”

    Very little phases Rupy. “Mike, dear, I’m not criticising, I’m merely explaining what her reception will be.”

    “Well, stop explaining,” he says grimly.

    He’s right, though…

    The whole cast and a fair number of the production crew have been to see me, singly or in groups, so they know I’m blooming, and just ask eagerly after Baby Bunting while Paul fidgets crossly, he’s not into babies. Then we get on with it. Funnily enough Katie’s come with Euan: she sits down by Amaryllis’s hubby, Jimmy Fairfax, smiling.

    Euan’s forgotten his lines.

    “CAN'T YOU TRY TO BE A PROFESSIONAL FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE, KEEL?”

    Etcetera and so forth, heard it all a million times…

    Rupy insists that we have to break for elevenses and gets Paul's most ferocious glare but to the astonishment of all, except, by the look on her face, Amaryllis, the meek-seeming Jimmy Fairfax gets up and says loudly: “Yes, Rosie mustn’t be over-tired. Come along, everybody.” Very mildly, but somehow everyone shuts up and follows him docilely. Well! Maybe that explains why she’s stuck with him so long, though she’s certainly had other and more glamorous and very well-publicised offers.

    The episode in the canteen is rather lengthy because Madge and Jasmine and everybody need the full report. But eventually we make it back to the studio— Oh, God.

    Varley gets up, glaring. “Where the fuck were you lot?” Gee, and he writes such nayce English in his books, too!

    “In the bloody canteen, and don’t look at me!” snaps Paul. The director is like the captain of the ship on set, you see. But Varley Knollys has never heard of that rule.

    “All right, get on with it,” he orders in a snarl, just to prove it.

    We start to get on with it, it’s the scene where Euan and me end up on the sofa down centre, but before he’s barely said his introductory line Varley’s on his feet screaming: “Look at that creature! What the fuck have you done to yourself, woman?”

    Funnily enough Euan goes very red and says loudly: “She’s had a baby!” just as Rupy and Amaryllis and, oops, Katie, are also saying it loudly.

    Citing by the by several instances of beautiful, tall, thin actresses and/or models who had babies without it noticeably affecting their figures, Varley strides onto Paul’s sacred set. “Take that abortion of a garment off!”

    “No,” says Euan grimly, putting his arm round my shoulders. Folks, it’s very decent of him, and I know him well enough to know he means it, but I can feel Katie’s emanations of approval from here. Oh, lawks. It’s so complicated I’ll never be able to explain it to her: it’s not real courage or decency as such, it’s all tied up with the nesting instinct, and it doesn’t mean he’ll stand up for anybody else under different circs, or even under the same circs once the instinct’s worn off…

    “It’s warm in here, I don’t mind,” I say mildly. “And I suppose they’d better know the worst.”

    “Rosie, you don’t have to!” says Euan urgently.

    “No, you don’t,” agrees Rupy bravely.

    “No, I know. But I might as well get it over with.” Euan stands back looking dubious—I am trying not to contrast this with John’s probable behaviour in his place—and I remove the giant fuzzy black jumper.

    “Sweet bleeding Jesus!” screams Varley, ooh, that must be his original accent, how fascinating.

    “The tum’s going down, Varley,” Rupy puts in, actually coming on set and coming up to my side.

    “Not that! Look at the bust!” he screams.

    “It’s full of milk, you idiot,” I say mildly. Euan goes purple but grins valiantly. Rupy’s so used to the whole bit that he merely confirms placidly: “Yes, that’s right. They’ll go down quite a bit when she’s fed him. She’s only about a for—” Stops.

    “A FORTY-FOUR?” he shouts at the top of his voice. “You’re killing my concept, you stupid cow!”

    “Moo,” I say mildly and Amaryllis and, oddly, Paula O’Reilly, both collapse in splutters.

    “No!” says Rupy quickly, he’s so used to it all he doesn’t even smile. “About a forty!”

    Paul’s been standing there dumbfounded, hah, hah. Now he croaks: “What about the wedding dress?”

    “Exactly!” shouts Varley. “That was made for a thirty-six C!”

    Everybody knows this: there are no secrets in Show Biz. I know you probably assumed that the “no secrets” bit applied to the sex lives, because that’s what the media leaps on, but though of course there’s always loads of gossip on set, in actual fact everybody’s just as vitally interested, and in many cases more vitally interested, in vital statistics, like the quality of the complexion and how well it takes make-up, the quality of the hair, not to mention the facial hair, and whether or not there might be a hint of cellulite as to the thighs. Not mine, in this instance, I’m too young and all the tap dancing would have prevented it, anyway, But there have been certain scenes over certain older ladies who’ve played Daddy Captain’s so-far unending string of ageing paramours. (I think the last phrase might have originally been Varley’s, but it’s become common usage with The Captain’s Daughter crowd, so much so that to say to a middle-aged actress: “Oh, are you doing an ageing paramour, dear?” is actually a complimentary remark.) The problem being that so much of the show has been shot in bathing-suits in the Med (studio set with glamorous back-projection) that several of these actresses have been slated to wear cozzies of the sort appropriate to their age in the Fifties. Like, usually rather plain, but allowed to have frills or similar nonsense on the bust, one black one sported white roses on the bust, and with a little modesty skirt. Even the slinky ones managed a little modesty skirt over the pudenda, their construction is fascinating, it must have keep factoryfuls of Pyjama Game-type ladies in work in the Fift— I’ve stopped.

    Paul and Varley are rampaging up and down; Jerry, Paul’s assistant, is mistakenly trying to calm him down by bleating that they can shoot round me whenever he takes a breath; and it goes on for some time, during which Euan kindly helps me back into my jumper and makes me sit down on the famous sofa. It is a real sofa, this time, the set’s looking super, they’ve copied one of the rooms in an actual stately ’ome that I never made it to because of the bulge. –More expense for Henny Penny, quite.

    Unobtrusively I extract a toffee from the pocket of my droopy drawers, sorry, ex-Fifties pink pirate pants, and unobtrusively unwrap it and pop it in my—

    “Are you EATING?”

    Oops, not as unobtrusively as all that. “’Sh’on’y a toffee.”

    Varley takes a terrible breath but before he can utter Amaryllis comes over to us and says: “She’ll go down after his midday feed. Will your Aunty Kate bring him in, Rosie, or will you go home?” And sits down beside me.

    “Aunty Kate’s bringing him in: she thought it’d be easier for me.”

    She nods interestedly. “They really need a crèche here, don’t they?”

    “Yes, because then Jasmine and Maureen could bring their kids in, and Hetta Morris when they’re doing her show—”

    “SHUT UP!” hollers Varley. “We’ve got six weeks to complete the filming of this show, and WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING TO DO ABOUT IT?”

    Six weeks? Ooh, good. Thought it was only four. “Um, well, the doc says I’m all right for mild aerobics, like, not the full jazzercize bit, but definite aerobics, only tapping’s a no-no with the milk, it jolts them too much, it’s really uncomfortable. I’ve started eating lots of salads and veggies. I can’t go on a starvation diet while I’m feeding the baby, Varley.”

    Breathes heavily, nostrils flared. “Then I suggest you stop feeding it and start behaving like a reasonable adult instead of a moronic wee wifey out of the FIFTIES!”

    This strikes a chord with Amaryllis, she’s already told me she breast-fed hers. She goes very pink, on her it looks good, anybody else’d look like a lobster, and bounces up and says: “That really is beyond the pale, Varley! And please don’t mention Simeon’s Quest again, because I’ve quite decided I won’t do another part for you, and I don’t care if the Older Woman is a peach of a part! –Haven’t I, Jimmy?”

    And nice Jimmy Fairfax says stolidly from the sidelines: “That’s right, my dear. Added to which there’s no guarantee the Beeb will ever take up that option.”

    And, alas, at this point several persons—well, everybody’s nerves have now been stretched to twanging point—break down in helpless hysterics at Varley’s expense. Including me, yeah.

    So Varley bellows: “I don’t give a tinker’s curse if you never speak another word for me, you stupid woman! Don’t imagine I want a creature with raging Alzheimer’s who can’t remember more than two consecutive words of her part!”

    At which point, thank God, Brian strolls on set. So when I spotted young Damian exiting hurriedly, stage right, he must’ve been rushing off to tell him that a big row was going on on the set of The Captain’s Daughter.

    “Oh, good, you are in, Varley. I’d really appreciate your input on the new show we’ve been discussing with Euan. –How are you, Euan? –Good, good,”—not listening. “I’m seriously reconsidering the choice of Eddie Melville as writer, he’s a good craftsman, of course, but lacks the intellectual ability, I’m afraid.”

    “Yuh— Uh— Of course.” Deep breath. “Brian, have you seen Lily Rose?”

    “Yes, of course, Penny and I had her and John over for dinner just a couple of nights ago. Early dinner, on consideration of mother and baby!” he says with a little laugh. Boy, he’s good, ya gotta hand it to him. “We’ll work something out if she can’t get into the damned wedding dress. Paul’s shooting-script has most of her shots from behind, anyway. Close-ups of Rosie, use a stand-in for the distance shots?” And he takes his arm cosily and leads him off.

    Nobody utters or moves for quite some time.

    Finally Paul gathers himself together and demonstrates he is the Leader of this Group, never mind if even leaders have got a Leader. (I’ll have to describe the whole bit to Mark Rutherford at uni, it’s a fascinating example of small group dynamics, he’ll love it. Though being Mark he’ll tell me he knew it all along and it was typical of its kind.)

    “Varley apart, Lily Rose, you’d be doing us all a great favour, not to mention keeping the show’s ratings up,”—cor, he’s quite genial, must’ve really lapped up Brian managing Varley—“if you would stick to the salads and the aerobics for the next few weeks.”

    “Yes,” I say meekly. “I will, only I have to drinks lots of milk.”

    Amaryllis has sat down again but now she gets up quickly and says: “Yes, of course, but low-fat, dear. Isn’t there some sort of calcium-enriched stuff these days, too? I think I’m off for this scene, is that right?” And wanders off.

    Euan’s pretty shattered; we retreat to our former position and while Paul mutters to Jerry about camera angles he says in my ear: “That was dreadful. I mean, I’ve put up with some frightful directors in my time, especially in Hollywood, but I’ve never seen a writer—”

    “No, well, the writers haven’t got any power in Hollywood, have they? They have to have an actual union.. But Varley’s an Intellectual Name to people that have gone to Oxford and Cambridge university and read The Observer.” –He knows I read it myself.

    He smiles at me. “Aye! But my God, I've let maself in for another show with the dreadful man. I had no idea Brian was going to ask him—”

    “Euan, it’s ten to one Brian didn’t mean a word of—”

    “Quiet on SET!”

    “Really?” he mouths, hope dawning.

    I nod hard. Gee, at his age, with all of his experience of the Business, he oughta know that you never believe a word a producer says unless it’s in your contract in black and white and he’s actually signed it and dated it with the right date. And unless the date on the get-out clause has actually passed.

    And we get on with it: “Darling wee Janey…” Och, aye.

    Later. Aunty Kate turned up at the appointed hour with Baby Bunting in his pale blue carrycot, this effectively put a stop to Paul’s rehearsal, everybody had to ooh and aah over him. I’d have just fed him in the canteen but she thought that wasn’t nice, dear, people (unspecified) might be embarrassed, so we went along to First Aid where Carmel was absolutely thrilled to have us. And eagerly offered to look after him for the afternoon if Mrs McHale—“Call me Kate, Carmel dear,” very gracious, ouch—wanted to watch the rehearsals. So I said quickly we weren’t rehearsing this afternoon, I had to be fitted, and Paul would be filming Katie’s first epi— Oh, God. Did that do it or did that do it? It must be the milk, my big mouth usually doesn’t run away with me to quite that extent. As mentioned, Paul hates spectators, and he specially hates Aunty Kate, remembering her very clearly from the first time she was over here, when she gave all those unauthorised interviews to the Press and attended everything with me for a solid week. Filming, rehearsals, try-ons, recordings, interviews on chat shows, the lot. She only stopped because she hadda go off on a tour of stately ’omes for the next week and then we had tickets for Euan’s show at Stratford and she couldn’t pass up a chance to visit Stratford on Avon and meet a real Shakespearean actor and boast to the bowling club back home who’d never heard of him. Like that.

    So now it’s fittings. Carmel has promised absolutely not to leave Baby Bunting unsupervised for an instant, if there’s an emergency she has to go off to, she’ll ring me. She’s written the right extension very large on the phone pad.

    This is the door. Ugh. Could turn tail and run? Oops, no, it’s opened. Nice Ruth, the Wardrobe lady. There you are, dear! That’ll be the last smile I see this arvo, folks, that for sure. We go in…

    Terry vander Post, the Designer, responsible for the overall Look, looks at me in my droopy pink pants and recycled Eighties-trendy black mohair fuzz (from a garage sale near the posh Sydney waterfront high-rise where Joslynne’s got housework clients) and winces. Gee, and I long since took the giant shoulder-pads out of it, too.

    They’ve got a new Costume Designer, an even more up-market lady than the previous one, but at least she isn’t into putting down poor Ruth or silently letting her take the blame for her boo-boos like that one was. Her name is Dinah Wentworth-Green, and her accent is the most fluting thing I’ve ever heard outside of the actual Royal Family, or the actual Royal Naval Commander Corky Corcoran and Susan (Naval Wife) Corcoran. She went to a teddibleh, teddibleh good school, as if ya couldn’t of guessed, and was teddibleh, teddibleh dished to discover that Paula O’Reilly, who hasn’t even got a hyphen, went to an even better one. Yah, sucks, boo—quite. The big compensating factor as far as I’m concerned is that Dinah always wears the most fab gear. Being very tall, slim, and aristocratic-boned, she can. She’s a bit like that lady that played the fab lady lawyer in that frightful thing about the lawyers, y’know? Um, one of those frightful things, it didn’t have John Thaw in it, for a wonder, it had that old fat actor that’s reputed to be an Aussie, Downunder, though the fact’s never mentioned in the North. You know: it went on for yonks, like a really bad rash that keeps coming back just when ya thought that ointment— Yeah. They showed it on the ABC back home, it was that up-market. Anyway, she was the best thing in it by miles. Dinah’s taller than her, I’d say.

    Today the gear is a nut-brown suit, the skirt very long and slim, the jacket very nipped-waisted, rather short, big Vee at the front, filled in with, get this, a totally plain dark grey satin blouse. The shoes, very high-heeled, are the exact same shade of dark grey, in suede, and she’s wearing a jaunty dog-collar, also dark grey suede, with an actual buckle on it, only not a metal buckle, no sirree, it’s nut-brown tortoiseshell. The hair is a natural-looking nut brown, very, very shiny, and today it’s scraped back severely into a bun, showing off the wonderful bones. Tiny silver keepers, one in each ear, and the usual perfect make-up. And, need I say it, the tights are the sheerest dark grey you ever saw. To die for.

    “Hullo, Dinah, you look wonderful,” I groan.

    She’s very pleased, but replies evenly: “Good afternoon, Rosie. I’m afraid I can’t return the compliment. Though you certainly look blooming. How’s the baby?”

    “He’s really good! If ya wanna see him, Carmel’s got him this arvo.”

    Dinah isn’t into babies but Ruth says eagerly: “Ooh, good! I might pop over later, if—” Cops a gander at Terry’s face. “If we’ve finished,” she ends lamely.

    “By the look of her, we won’t have finished, Ruth,” he says grimly. “I see those horror stories of Paul’s weren’t an exaggeration after all.”—Shit, they musta hobnobbed over lunch.—“You’d better take that thing off, Lily Rose, and let us know the worst.”

    I take the jumper off, reflecting that at least I’ve fed him.

    Terry gasps and claps a hand to his mouth and then the expectable horrified silence prevails.

    “She is feeding the baby,” murmurs Ruth faintly.

    “My sister Caroline fed her baby and didn’t shoot up three whole sizes. –More, she was originally a C cup, wasn’t she?” notes Dinah grimly. “What on earth are we going to do? She’ll never fit into the wedding dress!”

    Ruth gets her tape-measure out. “Take the vest off, dear.” Measures. Reports feebly: “Double D, at least.”

    Terry takes a deep breath. “When I think of all the work that went into the designs for the finale— No, well, I refuse to fall into hysterics yet. Get the wedding dress, Ruth, would you? Because if we can’t get her into that, I have a feeling we are finished.”

    Folks, Terry isn’t exaggerating: they spent months and months of working time, a whole team of people being involved, you understand, deciding on the wedding dress. The decision influenced the choice of veil, the choice of bridesmaids’ dresses, the width of the aisle (oh, yes), the choice and style of flowers for the bouquets, the flowers for the church decorations…

    If you look at wedding dresses of the Fifties there was a bewildering array to choose from. Like, take How To Marry A Millionaire: Lauren Bacall’s hat was dire, even with those facial bones underneath it, but the dress was good. Long, flared skirt but fitted over the hips, rather a heavy lace, smart rather than pretty. We never saw Marilyn’s, it was a quick off-screen marriage because he was on the lam, ’member? David Wayne, he was really cute and cuddly. Then in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes Marilyn and Jane Russell both wore white lace, smothering. But nevertheless rather gorgeous. Both princess-length, I think. But although princess-length was very popular there are plenty of examples of full-length gowns, frequently satin, frequently lace over satin. What they all have in common, long or princess, besides full skirts, is fantastically well supported bosoms. Usually the dresses are boned: look closely at the shoulders—under the lace, right? No straps. What else is holding those exceedingly well developed busts up? Not as exceeding as mine, though: no.

    There was a terrific fight for full-length white satin, very, very tight and pointy as to the bust, and very full as to the skirt, the then Costume Designer had come under the influence, it was decided, of Julie Andrews’s wedding dress in The Sound Of Music. The which epic, Design-wise, according to Terry, was not Fifties, and most certainly not Thirties, and a bloody disaster. I’d have to agree with him, there, but the word is well applied to the whole thing in my opinion, except the actual Julie and her singing and verve. Well, and except Christopher Plummer’s person, I admit I’ve got a soft spot for him, but if you’ve ever seen anything more po-faced than his performance, barring yer actual supreme Noël, I’d really like to hear of it, folks.

    Well, pure white satin high to the neck and long-sleeved lost out, though Terry admitted the dress, as a dress, was to die for, but I’m too short and not a nun and it wasn’t the Look he wanted. Certain people fought really hard for princess-length, but I’ve had loads of princess-length dance frocks in the series and (nastily) if Paul and Brian wanted those tracking shots up the aisle it wouldn’t give the effect. Trailing veils down the aisle like the Royals were all very well, but not particularly Fifties, and (threateningly), it would have to work. And NO, he did NOT have the Di look in mind! Creased silk that the bloody girl couldn’t manage was DISASTROUS! Unclear to all concerned whether he meant poor little Diana or me, folks, and at that point Brian said very kindly that I could be excused the rest of this meeting, Rosie, it looked as if they weren’t quite at the stage that he’d thought they were, and I crept out.

    I didn’t get the rest of it verbatim, thank God, but evidently Terry kept insisting he wanted something different but typical, and Varley (oh, yes, he was in on it) kept insisting that princess-length was typically Fifties and the look of the skin under white lace mustn’t be missed, and Terry kept further insisting that plain heavy satin was too severe and the previous Costume Designer kept on hanging out for it until she left right in the middle of it, and they were getting nowhere at Brian’s expense until at last Mandy, of all people (remember her? Wields a clipboard for Brian at auditions and tinkles the ivories if required), reminded them that it was a winter wedding, after all. And everyone became very, very thoughtful…

    So what it is, folks, is a sort of white velvet coat. Skin-tight long sleeves, and skin-tight as to the top but cut in a giant Vee to the waist. This Vee is outlined in pure white mink, wider as to the part forming the actual collar round the neck. The Vee gives a view of first, pale pearly-pink skin (Varley’s phrase, not mine, for cripes’ sake!), plus Commander’s double string of graduated but large pearls (real, borrowed: the jeweller will get a credit), above exquisite lace, Terry reportedly didn’t care what it cost Brian. The lace very low-cut, rounded over each of them, goodly part of them showing through, below that over heavy white satin. The full-length skirt of the coat is open in another big Vee (reversed), revealing more heavy white satin, this time totally unadorned, to the ground. To just above it, or I’ll fall over the bloody thing. (Terry, he’s got no illusions about his stars.) At the back, just trails on the ground, no train as such, just perfectly, perfectly cut white velvet, exquisite.

    Huge rows went on over the veil and Ruth almost killed herself sewing mock-ups for them, but finally it was agreed: soft veiling, not that damned stiff purplish nylon net, oversewn with a tiny scattering of exquisite white lace motifs, softly floating, not DROOPING! (poor Ruth) to about underarm level, very Fifties. The wedding will be very C. of E., this is also very Fifties, and include a portion of the veil actually veiling the face, for Rupy to lift in the obligatory misty close-up. (Dunno if that is C. of E., but I do know Ruth spent days and days getting it to work.) There were more rows over the head, but Terry won: a “perfect circlet” of pure mink just dotted with tiny spikes of orange blossom. This allows the yellow curls, still in the delightfully naïve, unquote, Shirley Temple cut, to blah, blah. Delicious, virginal, very, very Fifties and actually, everybody was ecstatic over what Ruth finally created, even me.

    If this was Real Life— No, well, if this was real life I’d not of come off that much better: did I mention that bloody cream velvet suit they got me into for the real thing? But if it was, the dress of course would be a wonderful example of couture. What Ruth now produces is several weird-looking pieces. Par for the course for the Theaytre, though the syndrome’s less common in Television Land, where we have to take account of the close-ups.

    “Don’t go all coy on me now,” threatens Terry as I hesitate.

    “What? No, I don’t mind taking my bra off, Terry, but what if I leak on that lovely lace?”

    Consternation, horror, but Ruth suggests a couple of bits of cling-wrap—rip, tear. Ooh! No, sorry: just felt funny. Good idea, Ruth. Carefully she puts the bra on me. It’s a sort of very, very low but very strong corset with two half-saucer shapes to support them. Other actresses are awarded, according to the figure and the rôle, half-moons of padding to go into these saucers, but I’ve never needed them. You can breathe in, now, Lily Rose, we’ll just see if— Help! Takes it off me quickly, checks the cling-wrap, tries another on me; and another… Terry walks round and round me, lips tight. Ruth puts the first bit of bodice on me. Heart-shaped lace over Vee-shaped satin with a strip fastening at the back at waist level with Velcro, and some narrow ties that anchor it under the arms, and pull it in under the bust, and smooth it out— Heavy breathing on the part of some and Jilly, one of Ruth’s helpers, quickly hands her the safety-pins. Smooth it out over the bust, right. Terry walks all round me, scowling…

    Dinah suggests the petticoat next. Ruth was gonna get me into it next anyway, she’s had thirty years longer in the business than up-market Dinah Wentworth-Green. Silently she helps me into the crinoline, then the petticoat, froth of white nylon net, then the cheap muslin skirt with the expensive wide satin Vee at the front. Terry walks all round me, scowling… No. Get that petticoat off, take out several layers of that bloody nylon net, what does she imagine this is, Come Dancing? Ruth is unmoved, she’s had twenty years longer in the business than highly creative, artistic Terry vander Post. “I think the weight of the velvet overskirt will minimise it, Terry.”

    Scowl. “All right, we’ll see.”

    The velvet overskirt has to be thrown over my head, but Ruth and Jilly and Valmé, another helper, are experts at this, they can even do it when a person is already coiffed and made-up, so they accomplish it neatly. They don’t manage to do it up, though, and Terry gives a scream of anguish.

    “My God, how much weight have you put on?” gasps Dinah, forgetting herself.

    Meanwhile Ruth’s capably slitting the inner line of stitching of the side-seams, up at waist level. And the next line. Ouch, and the next. Shit. The skirt is cut in huge gores, so Terry screams: “My God, that’ll ruin the line of the skirt!” –What I was thinking, yep.

    Carefully Ruth slits the stitching right down to the hem, silently demonstrating that it won’t.

    His mouth tightens. “Yes, very nifty, Ruth, dear, but will you ever get those creases out of it? Why in God’s name did you store it sewn up?”

    Because he ordered her to, will be the word. In fact Dinah says she thinks he did, thus proving that she’s a much more fair-minded person than her predecessor. Not to say, more gutsy.

    Ruth says calmly she’s steamed out worse creases than that, and he appears slightly mollified.

    But now comes the crunch. They gotta get me into the tight, tight velvet jacket. At least Ruth hasn’t sewn it up: the underarm seams of the sleeves and the side-seams of the bodice are open. They fit it round me…

    “Jesus Christ! You can’t have put on that much round the arms!” chokes Terry. Rushes up, peers. “Jesus Christ! How could you do this to me, Lily Rose?”

    “I can make new sleeves, Terry, easily,” says Ruth quickly.

    “You’ll have to, won’t you? Fasten it at the waist, I want to know the worst,” he orders grimly.

    It’s already fastened at the front, he means at the sides. The sweating Jilly and Valmé leap to it…

    “It meets,” says Ruth weakly at last.

    And there’s a horrible, horrible silence.

    Finally Terry totters weakly to a chair. He swallows. Shit, is he gonna burst into tears? “I’m terribly sorry, Ruth dear, but I’m afraid you’ll have to make a new one. We cannot—we positively cannot—have a bride with a bodice that’s straining at the seams.”

    Misguidedly Jilly offers that it is only pinned, maybe some of those creases are— Um, no.

    Terry produces his handkerchief and blows his nose sadly, yikes. It’s much easier to take when they just bellow at you. “No. Could one of you girls possibly give PR a ring and tell them we won’t need the photographer this afternoon, after all? And Make-Up. Oh, and Whatsername, the blonde woman who does Personal Dresser for her: tell her, would you?”

    “Yvonne, “ I prompt as Dinah says capably: “I’ll do it,” and goes to the phone.

    Ruth licks her lips uneasily, experienced though she is. “It won’t take long to whip up another little jacket, Terry. And the fur’s detachable.”

    “Ruth, dear, forgive me for bringing up a sore point,” he says tiredly, “but did we or did we not spend hours over that point where the Vee closes with its two perfect little buttons?”

    “I did, you mean,” she says stolidly. “Well, yes. But it’s always easier the second time around!” she adds bracingly.

    “Could you— Um, no,” I mutter.

    “Go on, Lily Rose. Even the ill-informed sometimes have a useful contribution to make,” says Terry bitterly.

    “Ill-informed and incapable, Terry: I can’t set a stitch. Well, I’ve sewn hems but I wouldn’t count that. Um, well, the front bit’s perfect. Could you, like, put in panel bits at the sides?”

    At this Dinah hangs up from apologising to PR and turns round and says: “That’s not a bad idea; it’d allow us to emphasise the cut, Ruth. Look—here.” She comes over to me and carefully traces a line down the side of my bodice, not actually touching the velvet. Jilly and Valmé, by the way, are both wearing surgical gloves. Yep, that’s how particular they get at Henny Penny about protecting their hours of investment in white velvet. It’s bloody nerve-wracking to be the one that has to wear it.

    Ruth’s eyes narrow. “That would do it, Dinah. It’ll help minimise the waist, too.”

    At this Dinah really forgets herself and says: “Something has to. Well, try that, Ruth. –All right, Terry?”

    He brightens: her predecessor never consulted him on things like the actual cutting, they used to have the most frightful rows, even though he has got final cut, so to speak, over the whole Look including the clothes. I don’t think it’s anything more than a good school and natural tact, Dinah doesn’t butter him up deliberately, but it most certainly works. “I think so, yes. But we’re going to have to warn Paul to avoid the waist in the close-ups, mind you.”

    She winces slightly, nods, and turns back to the phoning. –Her predecessor, by the way, would never have lowered herself so far as to convey phone messages, she’d of made little Jilly or Valmé do it. Thank God the woman was bribed away from Henny Penny, that’s all I can say. And I wish her new employers joy of her.

    After a moment Dinah confesses she can’t find Yvonne, my Personal Dresser, and since nobody else has any ideas I have to say: “Um, try the First Aid number, Dinah.” And of course Yvonne’s there, cooing over Baby Bunting. Terribly disappointed she won’t be needed. Are they sure? What about the other dresses for the Christmas Special? –We can hear this loud and clear, she’s got a loud voice.

    Dinah is seen to take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Yvonne, I don’t think so. Not today.”

    “You can’t blame Lily Rose for having a baby!” she says loudly, oops.

    Dinah takes another deep breath. “No, of course. It’s just that she has put on rather more weight than we anticipated. We’ll let you know when we've sorted something out, Yvonne. Thank you so much, and apologies once again.” Yvonne’s background isn’t that different from mine, and all this upper-clawss politeness cows her and she mutters something we can’t hear and rings off.

    And we get on with it. The pink suit I'm supposed to wear when I turn up at the stately ’ome with Rupy is a disaster, a total disaster. Serve them right: a pink tweed suit, for God’s sake!

    “I suppose we might let Amaryllis wear it,” Dinah allows glumly: she was really keen on that pink tweed suit.

    Terry sighs. “Not and live. Varley’s decreed that pink is a total no-no for Amaryllis. Before your time, dear.”

    “Mm. Um, Terry, didn’t you say that they’ve already the filmed the scene with the double, when Daughter and Commander arrive?”

    His jaw sags. “Oh, my God,” he moans, very slowly.

    Total horror and consternation reign. Someone is going to have to tell Paul.

    “Um, if he shoots me from the front and we slit the thing right up the back?” I croak.

    “And do what with the sleeves, Rosie?” demands Dinah acidly.

    Terry just gets out his hanky and trumpets into it, yikes.

    A glum silence falls…

    After a very long time Terry reminds us tearfully that that whole arrival scene is designed in shades of pink, the set is the huge entrance hall of the stately ’ome, and the owner has let Brian borrow an actual giant vase, Famille rose according to him, and the insurance payments on the thing are unbelievable. Unbelievable. We believe him, though.

    “I’ll tell him,” I say at last, biting my lip.

    Terry swallows. “I suppose it ought to be me… Well, Paul or Brian, dear?”

    “Both. I’ll tell Brian first, I think.”

    “Good idea,” he says wanly. “And about the apricot set?”

    “Yeah, why not? And the ball dress, don’t worry, Dinah,” I add kindly.

    Dinah had a lot of input into that ball dress, her predecessor hadn’t got around to finalising it, and she smiles wanly. It features in the crucial Reconciliation Between Daughter and Commander scene. “Mm. Thank you.”

    I’m just getting up to go when Mandy comes in, looking brisk, with the usual clipboard. Brian would like to know how it’s going. Yeah, right. “I was just about to come and see him, Mandy. You wanna walk along with me? I can give you the bad news as we go.”

    “And the good news, dear!” says Ruth quickly.

    Huh? Oh! “Yes, the good news is that because the wedding dress was made in sections, it’ll be fine, once Ruth magics up some new sleeves for it and lets it out a bit at the waist.” –Slight glossing-over of the facts, here. And no mention of the final point Terry made, very dismally, which was that I look like a little stout snowman in the final rig-out.

    “New sleeves?” croaks the skinny Mandy faintly as I lead her out.

    “Yes. Well, I didn’t do it deliberately, Mandy, but plump upper-arms are in my genes, ya see.”

    As I’m back in the black jumper she looks at me blankly. And we proceed to Brian’s office, with her face gradually freezing into total horror…

    Brian is made of much sterner stuff than Terry vander Post or even Dinah Wentworth-Green. “Hm,” he says, when I’ve stumbled through it. “No contingency plans?”

    “Um, what? Oh—them! Um, well, no, don’t think they have, Brian.”

    “Hmm…” Drums fingers on executive desk while me and Mandy look at him in a strange mixture of frozen horror and hope. Both of us, I mean. “Yes,” he says finally to himself. Presses intercom button: “Karen, get Paul Mitchell up here with the shooting-script of The Captain’s Daughter Christmas Special, would you?”

    “Um, now, Brian?” squawks the intercom. “But he's filming Series Five in Studio 3!”

    “I know. This is more urgent. Get him.”

    “Um, yes, very well!” she gasps.

    We wait. Brian looks bland, Mandy looks nervous and, if my face is expressing a tenth of my emotions, I look scared stiff.

    Eventually Paul comes in looking furious. “What’s the cow done now?” he says without preamble.

    “Had a baby. We did know for some time it was happening, Paul. Sit down,” says Brian mildly.

    Paul sits, still looking furious.

    “May I?” Brian takes the script off him. “Mm…” Looks through it slowly. “Ah. Yes.”

    “What is it?” he shouts.

    “She can’t get into that pink tweed suit,” he says calmly.

    Paul gasps, and turns a strange shade of mauve. “What? But we’ve filmed the arrival! We used one of the cars from Beaulieu, Brian, it cost—”

    “I know. Can we cut round the double?”

    “No, it was an MG,” he says tightly.

    “Hmm… Yellow hair, right?”

    “Um, yes. I told you we should have scheduled it for April before she started to show!”

    “She was on her honeymoon,” Brian reminds him calmly. “And we hadn’t finalised the script.”

    “Varley hadn’t got off his butt, you mean,” he says bitterly.

    “No, quite…” Brian’s buried in the script again, or perhaps only pretending to be buried. Mandy and we are now watching him with expressions of breathless hope. He picks up the Parker. Mandy and me continue to watching him with expressions of breathless hope, but Paul screams: “That’s my shooting-script!”

    “It was,” he murmurs, scribbling all over it. “Yes,” he says finally. “Here.”

    Paul takes it numbly. We wait… Gasp. We can’t introduce a new character at this point!

    “She’s not totally new, she’s at the unfortunate Stepdaughter’s putrid academy for young ladies,” he says blandly, not so much as glancing at yours truly, though there’s absolutely no doubt that’s where he got the phrase. Gulp.

    “Um, is she?”

    “Well, one of Rupy’s cousins is, yes. This can be the same one, we’ve already stressed the point that he’s got thousands of them all up and down the country. If none of the bit-parts are blonde, pick one and dye her.”

    “Ye-es… But if she’s at the putrid academy,”—Paul doesn’t realise that that’s one of mine—“what’s she doing turning up at the stately ’ome,”—or that—“in a Norman Hartnell suit?”

    Brian’s eyebrows rise very slightly. “It was the genuine one, was it?”

    “Yes,” he says tightly.

    “Mm. Pity you can’t get into it, Rosie. Well, get Paula to pop in a line explaining that Mummy or Aunty or some other female dragon made Rupy pick her up from home, God knows Commander’s wet enough to do anything the distaff side orders. Will that do you?”

    We all realise, even Paul, that that last was only phrased as a question out of courtesy. Grudgingly he admits that it’ll have to. But what’s Lily Rose going to wear? he asks sourly.

    Possibly Brian had overlooked that small point, folks, but he merely returns blandly: “Any ideas?”

    Paul is apparently as blank as I feel. The Look he can cope with, yes, and direct with great feeling, but choosing actual garments is beyond him.

    “Um, well,” ventures Mandy at last, “it is midwinter.”

    “So you keep saying,” notes Paul, “and while I grant you that that cretin vander Post and that so-called Costume Designer had apparently never realised it, Hartnell tweeds or not, and it did inspire them to think of white velvet, yes, may I ask if it indicates an actual inspiration on your part, this time round?”

    “No,” she says indifferently. “I just thought you might know of something she’s worn before.”

    “I’ll get Karen to get the Wardrobe List,” says Brian on a certain resigned note. Folks, it’s not a list, it’s a bloody book, they’ve had me in so many different garments.

    “I did say we should put it on the computer and cross-reference it all, Brian,” Mandy reminds him.

    “Mm, and I thought it’d be a waste of time, silly me,” he agrees drily. His hand is just going out to the intercom button when Paul gasps: “Hang on!”

    We hang on.

    “The brown fur coat!” he cries, snapping his fingers. “Get Karen to get on to Wardrobe!”

    Mandy and me exchange anguished looks: he’s forgotten that that coat actually belongs to me (me and Rupy, strictly) and is not the property of Henny Penny Productions.

    “Um, hang on, Paul,” I croak. “If you mean that genuine Fifties coat—”

    “Yes! What else?” he says impatiently. “It’s midwinter, as our resident meteorologist has just pointed out.”

    “Yeah, um, that’s the one my neighbour Miss Hammersley gave me, she had it in the Fifties, It’s at home,” I report miserably.

    “What?”

    “There’s no need to panic,” says Brian mildly. “Tomorrow will be time enough— Something else?” he says mildly as I clear my throat.

    “Yeah, um, the thing is, Aunty Kate discovered it, there’s no wardrobe in Joanie’s old room and so she hadda use one of  the ones in Rupy’s room, and, um—”

    “My God, the bloody woman’s an Animal Righter!” cries Paul, clutching his head.

    “No, it’s not that bad. But it was last month, and the weather was still very mild, and, um, she’d done it before I knew anything about it.”

    “For God’s SAKE, Lily Rose!” he shouts. “Done WHAT?”

    “It’s the milk,” says Brian mildly. “Penny was even worse with our two. Go on, Rosie.”

    “She’s smothered it in mothballs. They do that in Adelaide. The pong’s unbelievable, it’ll take months to get it out of it, Rupy almost burst into tears over it.”

    “Is that all?” says Paul in scornful relief. “Just as well we don’t have Smellorama, I suppose. Bring it in tomorrow, without fail.”

    “‘Righto,” I concede glumly. It can go in the boot of the limo. Mink or not.

    Paul flips through the script and says on a hopeful note: “What about the apricot outfit, Brian?”

    “She can’t get into that, either,” replies our producer drily.

    “I might have known!”

    “That’s the lacy jumper, isn’t it?” says Mandy mildly,

    Paul nods. “With the tight skirt, yes. Didn't that bloody woman leave enough leeway in the skirt?” he says sourly.

    “No, it was made out of something else. Terry was very keen on the colour,” I explain.

    “This would be the colour that tones exactly with our detailed reconstruction of that stately reception room, would it?” he snarls.

    “Um, yeah,” I mutter. Though at the same time I'm wondering why Mandy is looking at him expectantly. Surely she can’t think he’ll come up with another— Hang on, hang on.

    Sure enough, she says: “He said the skirt picked up the tones of the woodwork, I think. It was a real pity you couldn’t come with us, Rosie, it was a wonderful experience, being shown round the house. When we saw it that reception room was filled with great bunches of apricot gladioli in fabulous gold and brown vases, that was what set Terry off. They toned wonderfully with the brown and gold shades in the room. That lacy jumper”—there she goes again—“is exactly the same shade of apricot.”

    “Oh, well, in that case, we’ll get the knitters to make up another one in a larger size,” says Paul immediately in a terrifically decisive voice. “Simple!”

    “Oh, good; I’ll make a note of it,” she says, writing busily on the clipboard. I risk a glance at Brian but his face is totally bland and expressionless.

    That’s solved the problem of the scene with Euan, then, but it hasn’t solved the great Reconciliation With Commander in which I have to wear the ball dress, midnight blue, whatever that is, looked like the dreaded navy to me, with a sparkly thing on the head.

    “And the ball-dress?” says Paul, frowning over that scene.

    Brian gives up playing executive mind-games and says briskly: “Get them to make up another one, but if it’s the cups that are the problem—that right, Rosie? Yes; right; not that exact design. Something with an expandable bodice, same overall look. That’s it, I think.” Presses the intercom. “Karen, buzz the canteen and get all cast and crew of The Captain’s Daughter Five back to Studio 3 immediately, would you? –Thanks. If there are any questions over the budget, Paul, refer them to me.”

    And we all thank him and file meekly out.

    And that’s how it’s done, folks, top-executive wise. Not a panic in sight. No wonder he’s made a mint out of producing. Added to which, he knows how to choose his staff, doesn’t he, and I don’t mean ruddy Paul Mitchell in this instance!

    Mandy comes back with me, clipboard under the arm, and I say to her: “That was ace, Mandy.”

    Suspicious look. “What was?”

    “The way you handled Paul.”

    Slight pause.

    “I think you mean the way Brian handled him, don’t you?” –Very polite.

    “No, I was expecting that. I never understood before what your job was.”

    Another slight pause. Then she says: “Most people never realise. But then, we’ve never had a Fellow of London University on the payroll before.”

    “No. Trouble-shooting, would you call it? No, it’s a bit more than that.”

    “Brian calls it that,” she says mildly.

    I just bet he does. What an asset to the company she is! What with solving the initial problem of the wedding dress, and now solving the problems of my gear in the big Arrival scene and the even bigger Almost Seduction scene and actually making Paul believe he thought of having a new apricot jumper knitted all by himself! I hold it in as long as I can and then I fall all over the corridor laughing myself silly.

    And Mandy actually breaks down and grins. And admits, when I’m at the mopping my eyes stage: “Paul’s pretty easy to handle, really. And I have worked with him on other shows. you know.”

    “Yeah. Well, come on, you can manoeuvre Terry and Dinah into thinking they thought of how to make an expanding navy blue ball dress top all by themselves!”

    She comes on, smiling, though murmuring: “It’s not quite like that.”

    No, it isn’t, is it? It’s much more subtle. Boy, does she make all the male wankers in the employ of Henny Penny Productions Limited look bloody sick! With the notable exception of Brian Hendricks himself, natch. Every word of this is gonna be reported to John tonight, he’ll love it! Being, let’s admit it, a pretty good manipulator himself.

    Much later. He loves it: he laughs till he cries.

    “Good, eh?”

    “Super-good!” he says, trumpeting into the pocket hanker.

    We’re sitting at the dining-table. He’s having his dinner and I’m just watching, because he was very late home, not that that’s new, these days. Aunty Kate’s tactfully gone down to Doris’s, for a wonder.

    “Um, Rosie, there’s something I have to tell you.”

    Is there, just? I’ve been expecting this for ages: every time there’s anything on TV about the whereabouts of the Fleet, or NATO supporting President Bush’s stand against terrorism, he gets a funny look on his face. Well, on the pretty rare occasions when he’s home to watch it with us.

    “It looks as if I may be sent back to Dauntless for a spell.”

    “Yeah. When?”

    He swallows, and looks at me lamely. “In a couple of weeks, I think, darling. I’m sorry: I know I said—”

    “Yeah. Forget it. If I was the Navy I wouldn’t leave something the size of Dauntless in Corky Corcoran’s tender care at a time like this, either.”

    “He’s perfectly competent,” he says weakly.

    And the rest.

    “Yeah, but he’s never commanded anything before, has he?”

    “Er—he has had her for the last few— No, well, whatever their reasons, Hammersley’s warned me to expect it.”

    “Yeah,” I say, sighing. “It’s all right, John. One of these days Baby Bunting’ll be old enough to know he was born the week after the terrorist attack, and to ask us who the Frederick was we named him after, and all that. I wouldn’t want him to wonder why the fuck you stayed in London when the fleet was in the Persian Gulf.”

    “Mm. It’ll be for months, Rosie,” he warns.

    “Yeah, ’course. Like your last stretch at sea, right? It’s all right, I’m not gonna bawl right now, John, I’m not quite as bad as Mum. Only don’t expect me to have a stiff upper lip when you actually go.”

    “No,” he says with a crooked smile.

    So I offer him some more roast lamb and he hurriedly says he’ll carve.

    I watch him carving expertly, boy have we made that leg look sorry for itself. “She went on for ages about how much it cost.”

    “Mm? Oh—well, I suppose, compared to prices in Australia… And with the damned foot-and-mouth forcing the prices up, too,” he murmurs.

    “Yeah. She’s overcooked the beans, but they are real. So’s the mash, she insisted on buying real potatoes down the market with Mrs Singh and mashing them up by hand.”

    The spoon hovers over the potatoes. “With real butter?”

    “No, marg: I think your cholesterol level can take it.’

    He takes some more mash to go with his roast lamb but funnily enough doesn’t help himself to more gravy. Not the cholesterol thing, the came-out-of-a-packet thing. Boy, does it taste weird. Doris recommended it, and Aunty Kate actually reckons she likes it. I just sit here watching him chew.

    Well, what else was there to say? Short of bawling my head off. Like I say, I've been expecting it.

    … What, him? Turn down a posting to a real danger area at a time of world crisis just because he’s just had a son and heir? Don’t be bloody funny! That’s not what Haworths are made of.