The Bulge And I

Episode 6: The Bulge and I

    August. No sign of the Navy. Greg’s proof-read the nationalism book, made lots of helpful suggestions. The first chapter’s much better, now. He likes the conclusion. But if I’m really that edgy about it, get Mark Rutherford’s opinion. We zip the files and email the lot to Mark, though as he's nominally on holiday in the wilds of Scotland, it could be weeks and weeks before—

    Two days later. He emails back, great approval, several small suggestions for the final chapter. I incorporate them. Greg proofs it and approves. Zip and email back to Mark. Get the nod. Dunno what effect this is having on his marriage, is Norma Rutherford absolutely ropeable or is she preserving her usual cool? Now, print it out, Rosie. Go ON! Get it over with! I print it out and Greg parcels it up it with his own fair hands and hires Graham Howell’s hire car—actually it's the one he drives himself, but he does hire it out to those in the know, like not the ruddy retirees or wanking weekenders—and drives it into Portsmouth and posts it.

    Gee, Othello’s occupation’s gone, I feel really peculiar. Well, the hellish wind isn’t helping, at first we thought it was the bulge demanding to be born but now we’ve realised it isn’t. Euan’s still here, more uxorious then ever, Katie’s emanating terrific approval. It’ll take one phone call from his agent or a producer, folks… Never mind, they’re company for Velda.

    … Still August. Still no John. The bulge still in place. I’ve laid off cheese entirely, the wind was getting to ridiculous proportions. Very restless, going for lots of walks, mainly along the beach, the hill road up to the village is getting a bit much.

    I’m really fed up. Where is he? We take to watching the bloody News breathlessly, night and day, have the radio on most of the time, is the blasted Navy gonna send Dauntless to the Middle East, is that it? Velda’s no help, she’s relying on us for news, junior lieutenants get even less chance to contact their rellies from somewhere at sea than captains do. Don’t they ever call in at port, Velda? Not all that much, she says sadly. She’s not too happy, the reason she knew the right doc to take me to in Portsmouth was she’s three months gone—make that four, looking at the calendar—and she’s getting swamping nausea at odd times. Not chucking up as much as I did, so that’s a plus, but it’s really inconvenient if you’re halfway to the superette and you feel so foul you have to sit down on the grass verge. Guess what the doc says? It’s normal, it’ll pass, try not to do too much…

    Imelda turns up. Hello! How are we? Looking sideways at the bulge in awe. Raptures over Jamaica in the front garden, she didn’t realise we had all this ace stuff! Raptures over the nursery. The teddy bear has got a squint, all right; an awful urge to name him Squinty Bear comes over me. I fight it down… Raptures over Euan, blast, that’s stroked his pathetic ego nicely, just when we thought it was at normal human level, the villagers now being so used to him they don’t even bother to look up. She’s brought a great big hamper of stuff for us from Mrs Singh and reports that Mum says it might be better if I came back to the flat. Yeah, only the flat entails the wanking lift with the open grille-work, and we’re on the fifth floor and so far I haven’t worked up the guts to face it. Give it a few more days, huh? Mrs Singh rings up to make sure she’s arrived safely and to bend my ear on the subject of coming home. Doris Winslow rings up to bend my ear even more severely: she’s right on the second floor and she is a former nursing sister, I know! Yeah, of seventy-four. Still sprightly, I grant you. Even dear Miss Hammersley, who never criticises anybody or tells anybody what to do, rings to say how am I, and wouldn’t it be nicer to be near my own doctor at this time? Yeah, it would, especially if my own husband happened to be in the same country. (No, I don’t say it, she'd feel I was letting the side down.)

    Since Imelda’s here we better make a slight gesture in the direction of making an effort. Well, tonight’s a bit late for an effort, we’ll just have frozen pizzas. She think that’s ace, anyway. Tomorrow we’ll have a big Jamaican lunch, promise.

    Tomorrow’s rolled round, like death and taxes, right, and we have to have that big Jamaican lunch, you betcha. The contents of Mrs Singh’s hamper are duly inspected, Greg’s cries of “What’s Mum sent this for?” getting so annoying that he’s sent out to help Jack in the back garden. What are they doing out there, it looks like an allotment! she discerns brilliantly, having nipped out to make sure he went.

    “Yeah. Never mind, it’s keeping Jack happy and giving Greg a bit of healthy exercise. Not to mention Euan.” –Lèse majesté: she goes into half-horrified, half-delighted giggles. “Can you find that Fortnum’s hamper of Rupy’s, Imelda? Think there might be some small tins or jars hitherto overlooked.” She does and disinters everything else the rich grocer sent, what’s left of it… Yikes. What on earth can we do with this lot?

    We’re still looking at it as Euan and Katie come in. “Rijstafel,” he suggests brilliantly.

    “Huh?”

    He explains. It’s very exotic! –Exotic? Shit, ya can’t escape fake Indonesian and fake Thai food back home, and I don’t think the bulge will like anything with chilli in it. Oh, it doesn’t have to be hot? Imelda warns him about the pickles, just to be on the safe side. He thanks her nicely and she goes into a stifled giggling fit. Still, she can cook rice beautifully. Oh, why not? East Indies instead of West, it’ll be a change.

    … Boy, it’s a mixture, all right. Rollmops from the rich grocer, they are delicious but is pickled herring with dill gonna make the wind worse, scrumptious banana curry, not too hot, whipped up by Imelda from that giant bunch of bananas that came with the jackfruit. (Oh, do they grow like that, dear? How odd.) The things were never gonna ripen in this climate, so why not? Assorted little jars and tins from Fortnum’s, is that more caviar? What the Hell, might as well. Plus and Mrs Singh’s delicious meat curry. Sliced tomatoes, why? Oh, Euan thought we ought to have something fresh. Imelda’s made a yoghurt and mint dressing for them but didn’t put it on in case “people”, sideways look at him, might not like it. You have to admit he is sweet, he immediately puts a huge amount on his helping of tomatoes. The mint didn’t come from that dug-over nightmare out the back, no: it’s the dried stuff she bought in Portsmouth last time she was down here. Tim’s joined us so she warns everybody that dogs can’t eat anything with onion in it, it’s poison to them.—I’m bloody glad that sunk in, folks.—And look out for the veggie curry, Jack, it’s hot! (One of her Mum’s, right.) What’s this, Imelda? I croak. Grilled aubergine what? Oh, come out of tin a from Fortnum’s, right, I’ll try some.—Rup-ee! she cries in immense scorn. Those are dolmades, everyone knows those! Don’t think he does, he’s looking bewildered, and gingerly takes one.

    But eventually we’re all sorted out and munching. It’s all extra. And very exotic, yes, Velda! Feeling all right? Very hungry, she reports, grinning. That’s good.

    And the sun shines, the pineapple juice flows, the rum and pineapple flows in the direction of some, Euan nips inside and returns with a wonderful concoction in a huge glass jug: where on earth— Oh, be a wedding present. Freshly squeezed limes, soda water, sugar, drop of pink, sprinkle of mint, ice-blocks. Yum! Very thirst-quenching! He's terrifically chuffed, and settles down beaming on, guess what, the new sunlounger that I broke down and bought in Portsmouth. Well, heck, we didn’t have nearly enough Jamaican-style seats for this crowd! It’s next to the other sunlounger that I bought: Velda’s on that, preggy status, and Katie’s in a hammock, beaming, and of course Rupy’s in the other hammock. Jack and Greg are sitting in the white cane armchairs, they’ve pulled them up to the white cane table and are thus handily near to the main dishes. Imelda’s sitting happily on one of the straw mats. So is Tim.

    Of course since it’s a special lunch we have to wear the right gear. Velda thinks it’s terrific, she’s really got into the swing of it: as soon as Duncan gets back she’s gonna have a Jamaican party on her lawn! She’s wearing a very exotic piece of material as a sarong, a souvenir Duncan picked up somewhere in the East, unquote. She doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but she thought it’d be just the thing! –Batik, you can buy them for practically nothing in most of Indonesia, and for an inflated tourist rip-off sum in Bali: my cousin Wendalyn and Shane (her first, biological father of Sickening Little Taylor) came home from their honeymoon laden with the things. And as a matter of fact it is technically a sarong. Maroon, grey and black with gold bits, Duncan’s got taste. Above it she’s wearing her bikini top, she’s a slim person so the effect is nice if not spectacular. The top’s pale blue and doesn’t actually go with the sarong, but never mind. And she bought a big bunch of artificial flowers last time she was is Portsmouth, really cheap ones, and she’s made a lei from them, she’s wearing that round her neck, and one big bright yellow flower behind her ear.

    Imelda almost outshines her, she’s wearing one of Rupy’s sarongs, very bright orange flowers, huge, on very bright puce, with the occasional very bright lime green leaf here and there. The bikini top is one of my Fifties ones from the show, it fits her quite well. Pink and white checked gingham with a little frill of broderie Anglaise. Underwired, of course. She’s wearing the huge sun-hat Rupy got for Greg, brightened up with three of my scarves, sort of interwoven: a bright blue one, a striped one in shocking-pink and white, and an emerald silk one. Plus and a flower donated by Velda. Bright purple. Katie’s two sets of gold bangles adorn one wrist: the veins on Euan’s forehead actually bulged when he copped a gander at Katie cheerfully stripping them off and handing them to the kid, but of course he couldn’t scream “Stop that, they’re real gold!” because of his Big Fat Lie earlier. Serve him right, the clot. The other wrist sports a nasty plait of grimy mixed wools interspersed with little Rasta beads, they’re into that at her school. Plus and the anklet to match. She thinks she’s Christmas.

    Rupy’s very exotic in my tropical sarong with the splashy blue, red, yellow, turquoise and pink tropical blooms on a white ground, a chaste gold chain at the neck, and his big fringed wheel of a tropical hat which he’s dressed up tremendously by wearing a striped headscarf of mine, turquoise and white silk, under it, swathed under the chin and tied at the back of the neck. Isn’t that hot? Pride feels no pain, dear. I’ve never actually seen that effect outside the pages of Vogue or in the sort of Fifties films that featured fashion parades. Velda gave him a big blue flower so he’s twisted up a small shocking-pink silk scarf of mine attractively round one wrist and slipped the flower into that. Delish. Especially with his bright pink rubber flip-flops, yes, fab, Rupy. The beautiful straight nose that’s one of his greatest assets is liberally adorned with sunscreen and the Blues Brothers shades keep slipping down it…

    Katie of course joined in, giggling like anything, so she’s in one of Rupy’s sarongs, this one’s a screaming lime green splashed with shocking-pink, royal blue and orange blooms, and the bikini top’s my shocking-pink one, reigned in a bit rather than with the straps relaxed to their last millimetre like I was wearing it. She’s disinterred the huge cartwheel of a sunhat I had in Spain with John last summer—boy, does that seem like a lifetime ago or does that seem like a lifetime ago? Blue and white stripes in a dizzy pattern that goes round and round and round—you goddit, huh? Velda was running out of flowers that might tone with anything so the one she's tucked behind her ear, peeping out from under the hat, is bright red. Euan protested faintly but she just laughed and said “Every little helps!” She wanted big gold hoops for the ears but no-one had any, so Jack produced some brass curtain rings and she tied them on with bits of string, giggling like mad, bless her: they look really, really silly. Especially with those round-lensed, trendy sunnies.

    Jack didn’t want to get dressed up but Imelda almost burst into tears of disappointment so he let her drape him in a silk leisure shirt of Rupy’s. Rupy turned sickly green when he saw him in it so it’s either a very expensive one he broke down and bought with his own money or a very expensive one he nicked from someone else’s sugar daddy. It’s dark maroon blooms on a dark navy ground, extra, and my vote’d be for nicked. With Jack’s dark looks he looks better in it than Rupy does, actually. He’s only wearing his own grungy khaki shorts with it, but the legs aren’t bad, so personally I’m quite glad he didn’t let Imelda force him into a sarong.

    Greg, in the way of brothers, resisted all efforts at forcing him into anything, so he’s wearing his own denim shorts and a pair of sneakers. The effect is wow! actually, but he’s totally unaware of it. They can be very innocent, can’t they?

    Euan isn’t so innocent, of course, but I don’t think the effect’s deliberate at the moment, especially since Jack made him labour in the garden until five minutes before we sat down to eat. So it’s Duncan’s ancient jeans and his own new panama. Oh, and the silly round sunnies. Even they don’t spoil the effect of the chest, folks.

    Me? That shocking-pink bikini top was the last thing even resembling a bra I could get into. I was just gonna wear a giant tee-shirt over a giant wrap-around skirt and forget the whole bit. But being pregnant doesn’t matter! I have to look Jamaican! Sigh. Imelda and Rupy between them found a large headscarf, artificial silk, not my colours, jade green and gold on white, dunno where it came from, and fiercely cut it up, and she sewed it under his supervision, using the sewing machine bought in Portsmouth the time she made all the striped frills for the spare room. It weighs a ton, he bloody nearly dropped it getting it out of its cupboard. So now I've got a new bikini top! Two triangles, three long strips. The two ends of one strip tie in the middle of my back, and the free ends of the other two tie behind my neck, gee, you got it. The sarong’s the old white cotton one I had in Spain. And of course I’m wearing the new hat with the giant sticking-out straw fringes, it is so Jamaica. And my Blues Brothers shades. Supreme Noël would be proud of me. Yeah.

    The teddy bear’s sitting on the swing next to my feet, he’s very Jamaica, too, he’s in a green canvas hat of John’s, it looks big on him, though he is quite a big teddy, adorned with Velda’s last flower. The shade Rupy calls morve. The big bow round his neck isn’t so Jamaica, but it’s nice and bright. Scarlet satin. That genuine Polynesian carved mother-of-pearl butterfly pendant round his fat neck belongs to yours truly, John got it in the Pacific ages ago and never had anyone to give it to before that he knew would appreciate it: it’s wasted on Squinty Bear and if I’d of known what the kid was up to— Oh, what the Hell. She’s thrilled to be here with all the grown-ups and she’s made lovely banana curry and superb yellow rice with little whatsits in it. She can dress Squinty Bear up in those ruddy diamond earrings John got me at Tiffany’s, if she likes! Except that they’re locked in the very new safe in the flat in town.

    The spread looks wonderful as well as tasting extra: Imelda insisted on dishing everything up herself, even though Velda and Kate were dying to help, and she’s used dishes from every dinner-set in the house, plus and the ones kept in the antique oak sideboard that John reportedly only uses at Christmas, which she doesn’t know and which I for one am certainly not gonna tell her. They’re bloody hideous, they look like cabbages, and let’s hope the dishwasher settles their hash: who wants to look at that sort of thing over the Christmas turkey?

    I help myself to a nice chunk of Plumrose ham from off a hideous cabbage plate, add two dolmades and a spoonful of banana curry, and settle back in my big swing seat with a sigh…

    “Car,” discerns Rupy quite some time later, yawning.

    “No, it’s Graham’s taxi!” says Imelda self-importantly. Why is it that kids become activated by food, while adults merely become somnolent? Even Katie’s yawning, under her big striped hat.

    We glance over our shoulders without interest as Graham’s taxi grinds its way down the hill. Probably Murray Stout asked him to pop over with our groceries, or Tom Hopgood’s sent us some B,O,N,E,S for Tim. Or maybe Graham just thought he’d pop over and see us.

    “It’s a lady!” hisses Imelda as Graham pulls up in the road, he can’t get in because Velda’s car’s blocking the drive, and hoots and waves.

    “Uh.”—Caught me in the middle of a yawn.—“Is it?” If it’s not John I’m not interes—

    “Well! What on earth’s going on here?”

    “Jesus!” gasps Rupy, falling out of his hammock.

    “Wuff! Wuff! Wuff, wuff, wuff!”

    “Tim, stop that,” I say numbly.

    “Who is it?” hisses Imelda in horror, looking at the almost uncreased linen-look suit, nice jade green, and the rigidly controlled, short layered gold curls of the middle-aged lady that’s got out of Graham’s taxi.

    “Rosie Haworth! What on earth are you wearing?” she cries.

    Aunty Kate in person. Why didn’t she— No, of course she didn't let us know she was coming: she never does, or only the day before from the other side of the world so that you can’t escape.

    She comes right up to the wall, watches as Rupy clambers sheepishly to his feet, and holds out her hand. “How are you, Rupy?”

    “Fine, thank you, Kate,” he says numbly, shaking hands. She’s giving him a sharp look. “Very relieved to see you,” he admits.

    Loud sniff. “I’m not surprised.”

    He scurries to help Euan open the bloody double gate and grab the cases off Graham, and in she comes. The rest of us just sit here like nanas, too stunned to move.

    “Well, Rosie?”

    Numbly I grope my way to my feet, Imelda coming to in the middle of it and scrambling to give me a hand. “Um, hullo, Aunty Kate.”

    “Really, Rosie!’—Proffers cheek.—“You might at least pretend you’re pleased to see me!”

    Funnily enough I peck her cheek and then collapse on her scrawny but determined shoulder in floods of tears, howling: “Aunty Kuh-huh-hate! I’m so guh-guh-lad to see you!”

    Aunty Kate doesn’t bawl, she’s not a bawler like Mum: she just pats my back briskly and says: “That’ll do, dear. I suppose there’s no sign of John?”

    “No! I thuh-think they’re sending him to the Muh-huh-hiddle East!” I wail.

    Pat, pat. “I dare say.—Rupy, can you possibly control that dog? Thank you.—Come along, Rosie, you can come inside and wash your face.”

    And my sobbing form is led indoors.

    And that’s more or less that. There’s no softening, of course, though those who know her really well can discern she is grimly pleased that I’m glad she’s here.

    She remembers Euan very well—he cringes, poor guy. And how is the Shakespeare? What can ya say? Very well, Mrs McHale? He manages to stutter that it’s going quite well, and he’s repeating Posthumus for a TV production. Yes, she knows, Rosie wrote them all about it.

    And of course this must be Katie! She hopes Rosie hasn’t talked you into anything, dear—narrow look. Rosie can be very bossy, especially without dear John to keep an eye on her. Poor Katie just smiles limply and says I didn’t talk her into it and she thinks it’s a good opportunity to make a little nest-egg. This gets the nod: very sensible, dear, though accompanied by another narrow look. She doesn’t glance from Katie to Euan or vice versa: she can be that crude, but she’s normally a bit subtler.

    Of course in private, like about five minutes after I’ve introduced them, she tells me it won't do. We understand that Euan is just a friend, but what if those nasty newspapers got hold of it, Rosie, dear? Like, those horrid newspapers that last time she was over she gave all those interviews to about “My Niece the TV Star,” and “Little Lily Rose As I Knew Her, She Was Always a Little Performer,” or “How her Mother Made Little Lily Rose Learn to Sing and Dance and her Distinguished Rôles as Fifteenth Elf and Third Baby Lamb”, etcetera, etcetera, not to mention “My Niece the TV Star and Her Boyfriend the Distinguished Shakespearean Actor Euan Keel.” Yeah.

    “Got hold of what, Aunty Kate? –Stubborn glare.

    “Don’t give me that look, thank you, Rosie. The fact that Euan is spending twenty hours out of the twenty-four in your cottage, of course.”

    “He’s with Katie, they’re staying with Velda—” Why didn’t I save my breath?

    “And of course I know he is a nice fellow, Rosie,”—here we go—“but isn’t he a little old for dear little Katie?”

    “Yes.”

    That took the wind out of her sails, but only for a moment, and she’s predicting tears before bedtime. Doesn’t mean he’ll get up her and get her preggers, she’s not that naïve. She means that once she’s fallen for him good an’ proper he’s gonna cast her adrift in the cold world. No argument there.

    It takes her a day, no, to be precise, the rest of the day she got here, that night, the next day, the next night and part of the following morning before Euan gets the point and comes to say he’d better be off, my Aunt Kate is afraid the tabloids might get hold of the fact he’s here and it would be embarrassing for John. God knows what he said to Katie—or what Aunty Kate said to her—but she’s nodding approvingly and smiling bravely. So he gets into the Porsche and goes. Aunty Kate actually has the cheek to make him up a packed lunch for the journey. No, well, she’s like that.

    Of course it’s pretty soon dawned that Jack Powell’s good and smitten. Takes me into the kitchen for a little private chat, this is easy to do, Jack’s digging in the garden, Greg’s helping him, Rupy’s discovered the Solitaire on my computer and has got himself hooked, and Imelda and Tim have gone over to the village to see the Potter kids. And Katie’s still staying with Velda and hasn’t turned up today. Probably doesn’t want Aunty Kate to see her red eyes.

    “Dear, isn’t that nice Jack person John’s wood man that you wrote your mother about?”

    “Yeah. What do you fancy for lunch, Aunty Kate? There’s some nice mushroom soup, John’s favourite brand that the Queen eats.”

    Totally ignores my every word. “He seems a very good sort of person, Rosie, but it wouldn’t do to encourage him.”

    “He is a very good sort of person, he did the nursery up all by himself and wouldn’t hear of being paid for it, and he’s working like stink in the garden and teaching Greg a Helluva lot about gardening. I know he’s got a crush on me, but it’s totally harmless. He’s lonely, he was divorced yonks ago and his daughter and grandson have gone to France for their holidays.”

    She pounces. “Divorced?”

    “Aunty Kate, your Andrew’s divorced! Uncle Jim’s sister Deirdre’s divorced! Half the world’s div—”

    “That’ll do. Why did he get divorced?”

    I give in and admit that the village says she deserted him, went off with a handsome sailor, leaving him with the daughter on his hands aged seven. Disgraceful! How these women can, blah-blah, it side-tracks her for at least ten min. Then it’s: “Nevertheless it won’t do to encourage him to hang around, Rosie.”

    “He is not hanging around, he’s my friend, he came to our wedding, and John knows all about it! And nobody can say it isn’t proper, with you staying in the house.”

    She actually pauses. Crikey, oughta be videotaping this. “Very well, then, Rosie, we’ll leave it at that for the time being. He certainly seems a very decent sort of man.” –A very decent sort of man. Thank you, Australia My Country, land of Equality and Mateship. Jesus!

    Mysteriously next day Jack’s truck sprouts a large and concealing tarpaulin. God knows what she said to him. I’m too chicken to ask him, or even to apologise for her.

    So life has settled into a very temporary routine, she’s gonna drag me up to town to the doc next Monday as ever was. Which gives us two more days in the cottage. Rupy thinks, guilty smile, he might stay on for a bit. Yeah, go for it, Rupy. Greg’s definitely staying on. Ooh, good! In that case Imelda’ll— Certainly not! Aunty Kate never heard of such a thing! She’s coming up to town with us! Rings Mrs Singh on the spot and gets her ratification of the entire plan. Imelda shouts: “You’re really MEAN!” and rushes out like a whirlwind. Before I say anything, Rosie, I was (apparently) just like that at that age. Gee, was I? Right now I don't feel that much different at this age. Bulge and all. Funnily enough I don't say it.

    Later. I’ve gathered up a handful of mags, some Aunty Kate had on the plane, some Velda brought over (what with her sister being a commercial artist and her being an illustrator they get loads of mags between them) and some Rupy brought down, very posh ones, think he made Grocer Mal pay for them, and retired to the swing in the front garden. She hasn’t made us dismantle Jamaica yet, but between her and Jack the cushions from the swing and the sunloungers, plus a few satin cushions Rupy picked up in Portsmouth to decorate the hammocks, are sure as Hell being brought in every evening without fail.

    Tim’s in his little half-globe-shaped pink tent, hiding. He sticks his nose out, verifies it is only me, and let his chin sink back onto his paws. I know exactly how he feels. She’s declared that dog is (a) eating too much, (b) being given far too many titbits, haven’t we got any sense, (c) not getting enough exercise and (d) filthy, he’s not coming into the house in that state! Since then Greg and Imelda between them have tried giving him a bath and Jack’s waded in (almost literally, there was a huge flood on the floor of the guest bathroom) and actually given him a bath, not to mention making the two of them scrub out the bath before Aunty Kate got back from the shops, but he’s looking all sticky and matted again. Well, it’s partly salt water, he loves rushing into the sea, pretending to fight the breaking waves and rushing out again, barking madly. Then (a) shaking himself all over the nearest human and (b) rolling in the sand while still wet. Also, of course, the dug-over back garden is a great temptation and he keeps going out there and attempting to dig, only not when Jack’s out there, any more.

    I read the mags peacefully… Rupy appears, yawning like anything, draped in his terry-claath robe over his bathers. Do I feel like a dip, dear? Yeah, only with the bulge Aunty Kate thinks it’s not seemly, I remind him sourly. Greg’s gone into the village, a gardening job, he tells me helpfully. And Katie’s at Velda’s. –It’s not that we banished her or even that she banished herself, but Aunty Kate of course has one of the divan beds in the nursery, and she decreed that Imelda had to have the other instead of sleeping on a stretcher next to Greg’s stretcher in the sitting-room. So Katie stayed on with Velda, they’re getting on really well. And several of the scripts that Henny Penny’s been promising for weeks actually arrived for her, Velda’s only too thrilled to hear her lines. A script also arrived for me but Aunty Kate snatched it off me. I’ve been working too hard: I need to take it easy over these last few weeks. Take it easy? For God’s sake, I'm bored out of my mind, I've read all John’s books that aren’t on navigation or science or like that, or, shame, cringe, in the case of some of philosophy tomes, that I can’t understand a blind word of.

    “Where’s Jack?” I ask cautiously.

    “He won’t mind dear!”

    “No, but she will. That reminds me, you know that scarf you and Imelda cut up to make my new bikini top out of?”

    “One of hers, yes. Not the one she made you wear to that nouvelle cuisine place.”

    The elephant never forgets. Not when it’s sartorial, anyway. “Um, yeah. According to her it was one of her favourites and she was gonna grab it back off me this time round. Never mind. Well, no, ya better have a medal. –Where was I? Oh, yeah, where is Jack?”

    “He drove away in quest of—uh—steak and tomatoes?”

     Tomato stakes, more likely. Never mind, he’s out of the way. “Where’s Imelda?”

    “Will the bulge shock her, dear?”

    “Prolly. But I didn’t mean that. Where’s she got to? She run out in a temper when Aunty Kate was doing her nut at her.”

    “Again? Er, well, no idea, Rosie.”

    After this sparkling exchange of repartee I go upstairs and get into my bright pink bikini bottom and my new bikini top and swathe myself in my terry-claath robe, and we go for a dip. Neither of us is much of swimmer so it entails gingerly splashing out to mid-thigh, gasping at the temperature of the English Channel, and a bit of bobbing and splashing.

    “It has got bigger,” he notes as we hurry back to our towels and terry-claath robes.

    “Yeah, the experts reckon they do that. It’s kicking a lot, too. Aunty Kate reckons I oughta call it Vernon if it’s a boy.”

    “Ugh!”

    “My sentiments exactly. And Cherie, C,H,E,R,I,E, if a girl. Thought I was taking the Mick when I asked if she meant S,H,E,R,E,E.”

    “I’ve seen it on American telly a thousand—”

    “Exactly. Anyway, I can’t stand it. Well, I don’t mind S,H,E,R,E,E but I can’t stand C,H,E,R,I,E.”

    He thinks it over and agrees with me and we go companionably back to Jamaica and wriggle out of our disgusting wet nether— Ugh! Ah, that’s better! For good measure I remove the wet bikini bra and we settle down cosily in our terry-claath robes in respectively the swing and a hammock…

    “Wish someone had thought of bringing out a tray of refreshments before we went for a swim,” he sighs.

    “Mm, me, too,” I agree.

    We just lie there, flicking over the mags and wishing…

    “Ooh, have you been for a swim?” –Jealousy, jealousy.

    We leap ten thousand feet and Rupy tells Imelda severely she wasn’t here. But there’s nothing to stop her. But first, what about a nice, um, just a cuppa, he ends feebly.

    “That’d hit the spot. –Yes, of course you can have one, Imelda. What are you on about?” Aunty Kate told her— She would. She isn’t here, is she? Imelda rushes inside, grinning.

    She comes back with the best tea-set, the one Terence Haworth gave us for a wedding present, white bone china with small sprays of pink roses, yer actual Wedgwood. Ulp. Plus and John’s silver trophy tray, but that’s par for the course. He’s even started using it as a tray himself, he’s got so used to seeing it bottom up draining on the bench. (Too big for the dishwasher, yep.)

    “Pretty china,” Rupy approves.

    “Mm. It’s the set John brings me tea in bed on. –If he’s home,” I note grimly.

    “Tea as in tea, as in a cup of tea, as in early morning tea, as in morning tea or elevenses—”

    “Stop that, Rupy,” I warn, the more so as Imelda’s gone into a helpless giggling fit.

    He does stop, and she gets over the giggles, and we graciously accept slices of microwaved sultana cake—mm, warm! Lovely! And Imelda gets very carefully into the second hammock, there having been a few accidents earlier, and settles back with her cuppa and a giant wodge, wedge would be a misnomer, of cake. Oh, well, good on her, if I was her age and being victimised by Aunty Kate McHale I’d be eating giant slabs of supermarket sultana cake at every opportunity, too.

    “My bathing-suit’s really horrible,” she then introduces as a new (fairly new; new for today) topic of conversation.

    “I think it suits you,” I offer in my feeble adult way. Pumpkin-coloured, not sure that would ring any bells here in the North, the Brits don’t seem to favour it but back home we have it a lot. Just steamed, usually. Or sometimes roast, if Mum’s bunging a big roast in the oven and can be blowed doing more than just roast potatoes and frozen peas with it.

    “Yes, it looks fab with your dark skin, dear,” Rupy offers. “Very Naomi.”

    She looks at him suspiciously but decides he isn’t having a go. “Yeah, but it’s old!”

    Read, last year’s. Oh, well. “Dare say we could nip into Portsmouth and get you a new one. Why not? Give Graham a bell: see if he can run us in this arvo.”

    “Ooh, great! Um, but what about her?” she hisses.

    She’s not here, is she? Otherwise that swim would never have happened, whether or not Greg and Jack were around the place. “Went into the village with the declared intention of buying something nice and fresh for lunch, don’t think it’s dawned there’s no greengrocer, and of making a hair appointment for this afternoon. So fingers crossed.”

    She nods madly and after confirming that I do mean it (Why would I say it if I—Forget it), rushes inside and rings Graham. Yes, is the word. Well, it would be, the alternative’s to stay home and mow the lawn that Molly’s been nagging him about for the past three weeks. Or, failing that, to go into the service station and serve all the wanking weekenders and up-themselves retirees he can’t stand the sight of, thus giving their eldest, Ben, an excellent excuse to skive off and do nothing all arvo. Life, in other words.

    The tea by now’s a bit stewed so before we can tell her not to bother she grabs the tray with the Wedgwood teapot on it and rushes inside…

    “And don’t run,” I whisper, trembling slightly.

    “Er, irreplaceable, darling?” Rupy asks delicately, looking up from a Country Life.

    “John claims it’s a standard design and may be replaced at any time by his gracious self or wanking Terence if not somewhere under the sea, from the right shop.”

    “Irreplaceable,” he confirms, shuddering.

    “Yeah. “

    The teapot makes it back safely to Jamaica, however, plus and another slab of sultana cake. We’re halfway through it when she admits sadly that that was the last of the frozen sultana cakes.

    “They’re sure to ask Rosie to open another supermarket or fifteen once the fourth series goes to air,” Rupy says kindly.

    “Yeah. And even if I’m not allowed to, depending on whether the Royal Navy’s come back from sea, we can always break down and buy some.”

    “Frozen?” she asks dubiously.

    Boy, the offspring of parents that cook live in another world, don't they? Laboriously we explain: they don’t come frozen but if you’ve accepted five dozen slabs of the stuff (own-brand) from a friendly supermarket in, um, Bournemouth?—No! he shouts.—Well, somewhere. Reading?—No! That was that factory!—Oh. Well, if you’ve got a car-load of them, you can freeze them. She gets it. And by tacit consent, we rebury ourselves in our mags and cake…

    Some time later. Imelda’s rushed inside, found the radio, brought it back. Had enough of the wanking News, can we have music, please, Imelda? We have music, her choice. Rupy bears it as long as he can and then asks her it turn it down. She does, and Tim actually pokes his nose out of his tent again. And we get back to the mags…

    “Car,” he yawns, chucking Imelda a Country Life.

    “It’s not time for Graham yet,” she says immediately, consulting the wrist.

    No. But I’d of said it does sound like his taxi, actually. Can’t see from here, can't be blowed turning my head. Rupy twists his neck. “It is him, dear.”

    Uh—Aunty Kate walked from the superette to the service station, approx. the distance from the superette to the top of our hill, in order to get him to drive her home in style? More than likely. “It’ll be her.”

    “Mm,” he agrees, wincing.

    We don’t look up, though there’s not much hope she’ll ignore us. We gotta done something wrong, it’s not humanly possibly not to, with Aunty Kate McHale.

    “So this is Jamaica!” says a deep voice with a laugh in it that’s not Graham’s.

    “Wuff! Wuff, wuff, wuff!” Tim’s out of the pink tent like a shot, over the wall and fawning on him. Pant, pant, leap, lick, pant! Imelda screams and falls out of her hammock, fortunately just missing that Wedgwood cup and saucer I shoulda told the kid not to leave on the straw mat where her big feet— Rupy just chokes and drops his mag, though mind you his hammock wobbles wildly.

    I’m so stunned I can’t move. Or speak.

    “Yes, good boy! Down, Tim! Come on: heel! –Hullo,” he says, grin, grin, operating on the fucking gate latch as if it was child’s play and coming over to us. “Are you all right, Imelda?” –Bends smoothly, removes Wedgwood cup and saucer from within range of the giant sneakers, puts them neatly on drinkie-poos cane trolley.

    “Yes! Hi!” she gasps, getting up, pant, beam. “Doesn’t it look good?”

    “Immensely!” he says with a laugh and a sideways look at me and the bulge.

    “She’s finished the nationalism study!” she then hisses, sotto voce, a metre and a half away from me.

    “Good. –Mrs Haworth, I presume?” he says politely, since I still haven’t uttered.

    “Hullo,” I croak.

    He sits down on the swing by my feet, shoving a few mags out of the way and squashing Squinty Bear. “Nearly done, I see.” –Puts hand on immense bulge.

    “Is she gonna bawl?” Imelda hisses to Rupy, a metre and a half away from me.

    “Hundred to one, dear, yes.”

    I’m not gonna bawl, I’m too stunned to bawl. “What are you doing here?” I croak.

    “Came home to see my son born.” –Grin, grin.

    “We don’t know it’s a boy, you Royal Naval wanker!” I shout, almost recovering my full powers of speech. “What are you DOING here? Where’s Dauntless? Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?”

    “‘Welcome home, John darling,’” he says, grin, grin.

    “Shut UP! The shock coulda killed me!”

    “Balls. Come here.” He attempts to lean over and kiss me but, fancy that, the bulge gets in the way. “My, you are huge, darling,” he says admiringly. Lifts terry-claath robe cautiously, raises eyebrows slightly, politely covers the bulge up again.

    “We’ve been for a swim,” I say, glaring.

    “I can see that.”—Rupy’s bright jade G-string is draped on the garden wall to dry and my ill-assorted bits of bikini are on the grass where I left them, so yes, no doubt he can.—“How’s the water?”

    “Like the fucking English Channel, how d’ja think? Are you on shore leave, or what?”

    “Er—more or less. Couple of days’ leave, then a bit of—uh—shore duty,” he admits, rubbing the chin. –Shit, he needs a shave. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him unshaven except first thing in the morning, he’s the best trained male creature in the universe.

    “Shore duty?”

    “Mm. At the Admiralty for a while, darling. Wangled,” he says, making an awful face.

    “Wangled?” I croak.

    “Mm. Kenneth Hammersley.”

    Miss Hammersley’s brother, the one who’s an active admiral, not the retired one. I gulp. Not because Admiral Hammersley wangled it: he’s the sort that would cheerfully wangle anything for anyone he liked, but because John accepted it.

    “And Dauntless?”

    “Sweltering in forty-five-degree heat somewhere in the Middle East, darling, with Corky in charge.”

    “I won’t ask when this was jacked up, because I’d hate to have to force the Royal Navy to tell a lie, beg pardon, to issue an official explanation. But I will say, how did you get back?”

    “Er—bit of this, bit of that. Well, a helicopter to—um, shore. Then a lift on a plane. Well, a couple of planes.”

    Folks, this is nothing: last March he flew all the way back from the States on one of those giant American Navy planes that don’t have proper seats and it’s so noisy you can't hear yourself think, because waiting for a commercial flight would have meant another day’s delay before he saw me again.

    “You need a shave,” I say limply.

    “Mm. And a shower. If we went inside you could help me have one.”

    That's what he thinks. There’s barely room for me and the bulge in the posh blue-tiled shower with the translucent wiggly door, the whole thing, that is the entire ensuite, being a tasteful birthday present from his sister Fiona. Well, he's one up on me, there. The only thing my brother Kenny ever gave me for my birthday that I really wanted was a copy of a Hardy Boys book that he wanted to read himself.

    “I’ll come inside with you,” I concede. He gets up and helps me up. “Ooh, help! Um, thanks, John.”

    “Wouldn’t a sunlounger be easier, darling?”

    “No, I’m like a bloody cast sheep on one of those. Once down, impossible to raise without a winch.”

    We get as far as the front door and he looks round in surprise for Tim. The black nose is peeping meekly out of the bright pink half-globe again. “What on earth—”

    “It’s his: Rupy bought it for him.”

    He’s starting to lose control of his mouth. “But it’s not a pup t—”

    “We know! Um, sorry. Rupy had hysterics all over the camping gear display and the poor man in charge of it couldn’t understand what he’d said to set him off. Um, it’s keeping the tropical Jamaican sun off him,” I end lamely.

    “Er—yes. But—uh— Oh, Christ; don’t tell me it’s turned into a mania?”

    “Eh? Oh, like that guarding stuff he was doing at one stage! No. Wouldn’t say that.” I exchange an uneasy glance with Rupy. “Would you?”

    “Entirely sane, Rosie, darling,” he confirms on an uneasy note.

    “Rosie, what’s going on?”

    Oh, God. “Didn’t Graham mention—uh—anything?”

    “No. Well, remarked on the fact that I didn’t have any kit—it’s following me, there was no room for it in the chopper. What have you— Painted the wainscoting?” he croaks, swallowing hard.

    “No! As if I would!”

    “It’s nothing to do with redecorating, John, dear. I think you’d better put the poor man out of his agony, Rosie.”

    “Out of it! No, well, Tim’s not that keen on coming inside these days because, um, not at this precise moment, but um, normally, Aunty Kate’s in there.” I wait for the sky to fall.

    “Oh, good, she got here,” he says placidly. “I’m not surprised she’s not making him welcome: haven’t any of you idiots ever heard of the word ‘bath’?”

    “We gave him a bath, John!” Imelda cries shrilly.

    “Mm. When they’ve been rushing into the surf and rolling in the sand, they need a damn good wash every day, Imelda,” he says kindly but firmly.

    This crushes her utterly, the man doesn’t realise how strong he comes on, for God’s sake!

    “Get inside, you hopeless Royal Naval commandant,” I say, giving him a good shove. “Not everybody’s capable of coming up to your standards of super-efficiency and super-hygiene.”

    “Super-hygiene? Look, just turn the house on the brute, Rosie!”

    Hose him down? He’s not an ani— Oops, yes he is.

    “I wouldn’t say it, if I were you,” he recommends.

    “No, I won’t, Captain Subjunctive Voice.”

    “Whose is that bear, by the by?”

    “Mine, um, the bulge’s, Imelda gave him to me for it,” I say weakly.

    “I see. Why is he wearing my hat?”

    “He’s in JAMAICA, you right Royal Naval nong!” I shout. “And your terry-claath robe is miles too big for him, or he’d be wearing it, too! Get IN!”

    He goes in, grinning like anything.

    Gee, folks, the sitting-room’s décor hasn’t changed since he left. True, there are two neatly-made stretcher-beds over there by the window. And two computers on the dining-table rather than one. He takes it all in in a single glance. “It’s so nice to be home,” he says. “It’s so peaceful here.”

    “Hah, hah.”

    “I had this really stupid idea,” he admits, the mouth does that not-quite-smiling thing that’s totally irresistible, “that I might come home to find—er—floral linen sofas and frilly cushions everywhere. Not to mention the wainscoting painted a nice pale pink.”

    “What total crap!”

    “Wasn’t it? Forgot I was married to a sociologist and a fellow,” he says, grin, grin: his favourite joke, dates from the very first time we met, at Mark and Norma Rutherfords’ ghastly drinkies party. (His sister Fiona and the hen-pecked Norman live next-door and he was on leave, staying with them, geddit?)

    “Stop scowling! Come here!” he says with a laugh, attempting to pull me against him. “Good grief!”

    “Don’t blame me, I'm not responsible for human—” I shut up, he’s managed to lean across the bulge and kiss me.

    “Human?” he says mildly.

    Gee, that was good. Pity it’s gonna be impossible to do anything about it, folks. “What?”

    “Human. Babies? Think you might be deemed at least half responsible, in this instance. Genetics?”

    “Developmental PHYSIOLOGY!” I shout.

    “Nor you are. If you were to lean forward— No?”

    “It’s a matter of balance, you nong.”

    “Of course,” he says mildly, putting an arm round my shoulders. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

    “Don’t imagine you’re gonna do anything,” I warn feebly as we head for the passage door.

    “I manifestly can’t get near enough to do anything.”

    “Serves ya right for staying at sea so long.”

    “Absolutely!” he agrees, grin, grin. “–God, can you negotiate the bloody stairs all right, darling?”

    “It’s a bit tight at the corner,” I admit. He comes up and stands ready to catch us. John, I been climbing these here stairs for— Forget it.

    We go into our room and he chucks his jacket on the bed and heads for the ensuite, so I follow him and watch silently as he has a pee. Since it’s there. He wouldn’t of closed the door, in any case, folks, coy he ain’t.

    “Well, that hasn’t changed,” he notes wryly.

    “John, you knew I’d be huge by this time.”

    “Mm. I hadn’t realised that there’s no way the three of us can get into the shower, though,” he admits ruefully.

    No, thoughtcha hadn’t. “No. Go on. I’ll find you some clean clothes. What ya wanna wear?”

    He strips and goes into the shower while I watch somewhat glumly from the doorway. “Oh, my terry-claath robe, of course. Why let a perfectly good Jamaica go to waste?”

    “Hah, hah.”

    “I wasn’t joking,” he says mildly, picking up the soap.

    Oops. “Hang on, John, that’s some posh soap Aunty Kate gave me. Possibly not as posh as your sandalwood stuff, but I haven’t admitted that to her, natch. Think it’s carnation or something; ya wanna smell of carnations?”

    “‘Why not?” he says mildly. “As I was saying: I wasn’t joking, but were you?”

    “No, smell it, it's got that clove-y smell.”

    “Not the soap, Rosie, the terry-claath robe. When you said mine would be too big for the bear.”

    “Oh! No, ’course I wasn't, that’s be a weird sorta joke, wouldn't it?” –What’s that funny smile for? Could he be comparing L.R. Marshall, M.A., Ph.D., Fellow, with certain real ladies that have left soap in that there shower before this day?

    “It would, indeed. I’d like to wear it, please.”

    “Goodoh.”—He turns the shower on and closes the wiggly translucent door. (Look, if ya know them, ya know them, and if ya don’t, all I can say is, don't believe me. Or alternatively check out the posh bathroom shops or the bathroom issues of like House & Garden.) And he’s not closing it from modesty, he's closing it because otherwise the water’ll go all over the ensuite’s pale blue ceramic-tiled floor and only drain out the posh ceramic so-called rose, drain-hole to some. Like I say, well-trained.—“HEY!” I yell. ‘Ya wanna wear some UNDERPANTS?”

    He sticks his head out. “What?”

    “Underpants, ya want underpants?”

    “That is the normal—”

    “Yeah. Only nobody else is wearing any under their terry-claath robes. Want swimmers instead?”

    “Er—no.”

    “Look, if ya didn’t buy those fancy stretch-nylon things that flatter the figure, to say nothing of anything else they flatter, ya wouldn’t have the agony of sitting around in tight stretch nylon!”

    “How true. It had better be those odd shorts Kenny insisted I buy in Sydney, in that case.”

    “They’re only cut like shorts. They’re actually swimmers. Or bathers.”

    “Yes. What is the distinction?” he asks, closing the door again.

    “EH?”

    “What‘s the DISTINCTION?” he bellows above the water. “Between BATHERS and SWIMMERS!”

    “Oh. Same thing. –SAME THING, JOHN!”

    He opens the door again. “Not semantically. As regards usage.”

    “Oh, usage-wise,” I say meanly, to see him wince. He winces and closes the door again. “Don’t think there is one!” I screech. “Possibly regional!” I screech. “Aunty Kate usually says bathers!” I screech.

    He opens it a fraction. “Interesting. –Are there enough towels, darling?”

    “Oh—bummer. No. Took mine down to the beach. I'll get some.”

    I retreat to the oak-panelled Harrods at the end of the passage. We’d been together for weeks before I finally showed up my ignorance and asked him why he had those towers of strange little white huckerback towels with the crocheted blue edging. Evidently they're shaving towels, mostly dating from his father’s day. Like for wiping the shaving soap off, geddit? He doesn’t use shaving soap, he uses an electric razor like a normal human being. I’ve demoted them: they’re kitchen hand-towels now, and we’re getting through them nicely, thanks. Aunty Kate didn't know what they were, heh, heh, so I didn’t enlighten her. I grab several large navy bath towels—they're a joy to wash, ya gotta put them in a separate cycle all by themselves, the buggers, because they bleed like crazy, never mind the labels on them—and several almost as large navy hand-towels, and on second thoughts a couple of navy bath mats, he belongs to the socio-economic group that believes you use a bath mat once and then it goes in the wash. And trot back with them. He’s humming. It’s vaguely familiar. “TOWELS!”

    “Thanks, Rosie, darling.” He turns the water off, gets out and grabs one, still humming.

    I put the loo seat down and sit down and watch. Gee, might as well, how many opportunities in an average year do I get to do it? –Don’t answer that, I don’t wanna know the actual statistics, they might just finish me off. “What the Hell is that tune?”

    “Mm? Oh!”—Hums a bit. -“Papageno’s tune. –Rosie! The Magic Flute!” He hums a bit more and sings a bit in German, he’s lost me there, German’s a closed book to me: I did French and Italian at uni. French because they made us do it at school but not enough, if ya get my drift, kept feeling there must be more to it, turned out there was, like Racine and Ronsard and Baudelaire and a few guys like that; and Italian mainly because old Nonna Franchini who lives near Mum and Dad’s, she’s Tanya and Joe’s Grandma, well, her and me could only communicate by lots of smiling and pointing, so I thought it’d be nice to be able to talk. Turns out the Franchinis come from a different bit of Italy than Dante and those guys, but at least we eventually managed to exchange remarks on the weather. Che bel giorno oggi, you goddit.

    “Lots of little Papagenos!” he says with a laugh.

    “Oh, yeah. Thought it seemed familiar.

    He nods valiantly, bless him. He’s taken me through the whole thing, the video and the CD, with the script, um, don’t think they call it that in opera, never mind, pointing at the English. The video had sub-titles, but he pointed anyway. It's not that I don’t like it, I do, but I'm not that good at remembering tunes unless I can sing along with the words. And the words of the video were real weird, turns out they were like Swedish or something and we didn't oughta wholly approve of it. (? Seemed magical to me. Those little boys in the balloon were lovely, that was the bit I liked best.)

    “What? –Sorry.”

    “Rosie, you were miles away! What on earth were you thinking about?”

    Scowl. Not gonna show up my ignorance, thanks.

    “Don’t scowl like that, darling; thought we’d agreed you’d say, when it's just us?”

    One of us agreed, ya mean. Oh, well. “If ya must know, I was thinking about that real silvery bit in The Magic Flute.” Scowl, scowl.

    “Silvery?” Kindly smile, verging on the tolerant. “Oh! The actual flute—”

    “NO! The bit I thought was silvery and I can’t help it if I’m IGNORANT!”

    “Don’t shout, darling. Which bit did you think was silvery?” –Pretends to be looking at his chin in the mirror with great interest, who does he think he’s kidding?

    “The little boys, and ya needn’t laugh, thanks.”

    He doesn’t laugh; he turns round and gives me one of those genuine smiles, not the macho grin, grin thing but the real smile that creases his cheeks and shows those irresistible dimples above the creases, before I met him I'd assumed that dimples were absolutely yuck on a man but believe you me, his aren’t. “Silvery! Yes, those voices are exactly that!”

    “Um, yeah. I like the balloon, too.”

   “Oh, in the”—insert Well Know Name—“version! So do I. Though it’s possibly just a little anachronistic.”

    “Oh. I thought it was supposed to be authentic? Um, maybe not those wanking robes,” I note cautiously.

    He’s very pleased, and puts his damp towel neatly in the used-towel basket (cane stained dark blue, would you believe? Fiona musta looked all over London for it, that or she just rung Harrods and told them what she wanted) and goes into the bedroom. I get up and follow him like a sheep, letting all the really useful information about early French balloonists go in one ear and out the other, likewise the information about Freemasons.

    “Yeah. Here is it,” I say getting the terry-claath robe of his wardrobe, pardon me, closet.

    “My initials, too!” he says with a laugh, putting it on. Oh, God. Why did we ever buy it? It looks totally fab, those shoulders, which are bloody impressive when he’s in a state of nature, make it look unbelievably good. “What’s up, Rosie?”

    “Nothing. You look even better in it than I imagined in my wildest dreams you could.”

    He never takes my compliments seriously, don't think there’s any vanity in his nature, or as little as is possible in a normal human being that’s not a saint. So he just laughs and says: “Thanks!”

    I find the swimmers in a drawer and he puts them on. They’re pretty baggy, at the moment this is just as well. What a Hell of a waste.

    He can read my mind like an open book, he says: “Come here!”

    “It’s pointless,” I mutter, letting the bulge be pulled against it. He’s about five-foot-ten. I’m five-foot-two. In order for it not to meet the bulge he’d have to bend his knees quite considerably.

    “It’s not that!” he says with a dirty chuckle.

    “You said it. What a waste.”

    “Mm. Before I, er, copped a gander,”—very funny, if he imagines it's Pommy side One, Aussies Nil, he better Look Out,—“don’t scowl, sweetheart; as I was saying, before I set eyes on you, I had fondly imagined that, so long as it was safe for you and Baby, of course, we might manage, with a certain amount of, um, bending and stretching, so to speak—”

    “Doubt it. Not even from behind. Added to which Rupy reckons I've put on pounds round the bum and Varley’s gonna kill me. Ya might manage to get an inch in.”

    “Mm.” He kisses me very slowly and warmly. “Never mind, sweetheart. It won’t be long now.”

    “No. I can always give you a hand job,” I offer glumly.

    “Thank you for that gracious offer, Rosie!”

    “Clot. Well, ya know what I mean. Take it as meant, or something. And how long is this shore duty gonna last?”

    “Oh, at least three months, darling, didn't I say?”

    Gee, really? Let’s hope the bulge hurries up, then. Let’s see… Uh, well, Mum reckons she was at school with a girl whose brother was only ten months older than her, they musta been at it like rabbits the day after the woman came home from the hospital… No, well, probably gives us almost two months. Um, six weeks? “I better read some of those books,” I admit. “Well, one. They all contradict each other.”

    “Isn’t the consensus, as soon as the party of the first part feels like it?”

    “Ye-ah… Joslynne’s Mum was off sex entirely for eight months after she was born.”

    “Darling, Joslynne’s Mum is known to the entire population of Sydney to be as daft as a brush,” he says primly.

    Gulp. This is true. But I didn’t realise he’d picked up on that choice bit of the Aussie vernacular. “Um, yeah. Well, wait and see. Prolly wouldn't hurt to nip into St Paul’s or like that and light a candle or two, though.”—The poor man’s concealing a wince, think I got the C of E stuff wrong, there, folks. Nonna Franchini was always lighting candles, it used to drive Mrs Franchini nuts, because see, the Church, it makes ya pay. Big earner for them. Dunno what all of them were for, because of the pointing and smiling, but some of the pointing was at the tum, then at Mrs Franchini when she was expecting little Julia or Baby Kyle, so that was clear enough.—“Um, sorry, was that wrong? I was thinking of the Franchinis. –Hey, I had a letter from Tanya: Joe’s wife Francie’s expecting twins! Two for the price of one, eh?”

    He agrees sedately that that’s good news and kisses my nose and lets me go. I look up at him glumly.

    “I came as soon I could, Rosie,” he says, biting his lip.

    “I know. And ya shouldn’t of gone and let Admiral Hammersley wangle anything for you, on account of us.”

    “It’s not as if we’re at war.” Blimey, he's admitted it! “And I’ve had plenty of time to think it over. I’ve decided,” he says, feeling the chin and looking in the drawer of the dressing-table where he keeps his at-home razor (he’s got another set of everything on board), “that having made a bloody mess of one marriage, I want to share in as much as I can of this one. And,”—turns round, boy the mouth and chin are grim, “in case I haven’t made it plain, Rosie, that I don't want to fuck it up.”

    It’s only at this point that Imelda’s and Rupy’s expectations are fulfilled and I break down and bawl like a total nit.

    He just steers me over to the bed and pulls me onto his knee and hugs me and the bulge until it’s over. “Better?” He gives me a handful of pink tissues from the box on the bedside table. –Chosen by Imelda, and the fretwork container of gold-coloured metal they’re in was a wedding present from her sister, Tiffany, so it’s use it or be damned forever, isn't it?

    “Mm. Much. I’m glad you’re taking it seriously, John.”

    “Yes,” he says, hugging me. “Tell me something.”

    Oh, God, is it gonna be something gynaecological? Or, worse, has he seen the credit card statement and it’s gonna be something financial? “What?”

    “Have you named the teddy bear?” he asks solemnly.

    Uh—phew! “No-o… Um, well, for God’s sake don’t tell Imelda, but ever since I first laid eyes on him I’ve had this awful urge to call him Squinty Bear.”

    “That would never do. Though I admit the soft impeachment: he does squint horribly. No, well, do you think she'd be insulted if we called him Gladly?”

    I bet you got that, didn’tcha? Me, I’m ignorant. We never went to church when I was a kid, but at St Agatha’s Putrid Academy for Putrid Young Ladies we had bloody Assembly every morning with a hymn and a prayer and a reading. You had to bring a note from a parent to get you out of it but Mum just said: “Don’t be silly, Rosie, it won’t kill you,” and Dad said: “A bit of religious education won’t do you any harm, though I suppose it’s too much to hope they’ll use the King James Version.” I never knew what he meant until I was in the Sixth Form (Year 12 to the rest of the country) and had to do the reading one morning when all the prefects were down with the flu except Angela Up-Herself Barrett-Hyphen-Rodd, she was home with an inflamed tendon, too much netball, serve her right.

    John explains about Gladly, the cross-eyed bear, and I go into hysterics. But I have to admit, regretfully, that she probably would be insulted.

    The eyes narrow fractionally. “Mm. Well, we’ll see.” Shit, means he's gonna charm the kid. Look, he may not be vain, but he sure as Hell knows the effect he can have on women, large or small! Uh, don’t mean that. Young or old. I don't say anything, I just send up a very loud prayer to St Agatha’s God that he’ll forget all about it.

    “Are you hungry, John?”

    “Very! Are you?”

    “Yeah, only Aunty Kate was threatening a salad, I suppose we better wait for her.”

    “Dare I say, Whose house is it, Rosie?”

    “Not if you’ve got any sense, mate. Well, we could put out the plates and stuff.”

    So we go downstairs in our terry-claath robes and make a start. After about twenty seconds Imelda joins us and looks narrowly at my face and asks me if I'm all right now. So possibly in revenge, he is capable of it, like I say he’s not a saint, John gets going on the Gladly story, and in five minutes she’s laughing like a drain and has decided, apparently believing it’s off her own bat, that the bear has to be called Gladly.

    So after that, will it surprise you to hear that when Aunty Kate comes back from the village with a pound of nice ripe tomatoes from Murray Stout’s garden, in spite of the fact that I’ve made unauthorised hard-boiled eggs, into the bargain knowing the effect they’ll have on me, she’s immediately all smiles and eating out of his hand? Wonderful to see him again, he’s looking so well! She’s looking so well, and he can’t thank her enough for coming—

    In fact there isn't one of my female relations and acquaintances that doesn’t eat out of his hand. Even Joslynne, who while being firmly on my side in the matter of dishiness, nevertheless had her doubts on the score of his extreme age. She was totally stunned by him and remained in a state of goggling awe the entire duration of the visit to Sydney. Luckily it never dawned that he didn’t think much of her.

    Oh, well. At least he’s realised at last that he owes me and the bulge something. Possibly not as much as he owes the Navy, but ya can’t have everything. Not all at once, anyway.

    Later. Katie’s come over, thrilled to meet John. She’s only too happy to stay and keep me company in the front garden while Aunty Kate goes off to her hair appointment, Greg gets down to it on his p.c., and John, Rupy and Imelda go into Portsmouth with Graham to choose a new bathing-suit and incidentally collect the Jag. When they’ve gone she tells me I’m looking much better. Yeah. Well, in spite of the fact that John and Aunty Kate are already combining against me for my own good—part of John’s is only intended to get on her good side, but part of it isn’t—with the two of them here I may actually be able to produce the bulge without having a total nervous breakdown.

    “Yeah, I feel much better, Katie. Didja bring your scripts? Good. Wanna go through them?”

    She does, she’s so relieved that I’ll be able to give her some coaching after all! She thought they’ve never get here!

    “Yeah, me, too. Uh—oh! The scripts!” (Sheepishly.) “Yeah, too right. Them, too.”