Cake And Crisis

16

Cake And Crisis

March (ctd.) Well it was my birthday but no-one but me seemed to have remembered the fact. I did my best to appear normally cheery at breakfast, and none of them seemed to notice anything amiss. Then Judy rang to say I wouldn’t be needed at the restaurant today. True, it wasn’t the weekend, but in the fine weather they still had loads of retired couples in quest of nice lunches, and even some asking if the grape harvest was in yet. Tho not so many buying actual wine at the cellar door, as per usual. Okay, nobody wanted me, what was that phrase I’d once read? Something about the garden and worms? It fitted the jolly old mood. Oh, yes! “Going down the garden to eat worms.” That was exactly how I felt.

    By this time all the others had hurried off, the younger boys to their classes and Greg, Webber and the Bean of course to the vendange, and nice Janine Stuart had turned up to do the housework. So I offered to give her a hand. That was okay, dear, she could manage. Why didn’t I relax, have a nice day off? But I didn’t want to relax! I wanted to keep busy and keep my mind off—well, everything, really. I didn’t say so, she was not only entirely well-meaning, she was also very firm. So I went down the garden to eat worms.

    —You’d think Bean Minor, at least, would have remembered! To think of all those years when I’d conscientiously got him a birthday present when he was at school! Which hadn’t been all that dashed easy at first, while I was incarcerated at putrid Merrifield, given the fact that I had no pocket money. Grandfather might have been blackmailed into paying our fees but that was as far as it went. Grannie of course was too mean to cough up, besides being of the firm conviction that children do not need money to throw away on junk food (much, much worse in French); Dad in his ivory Oxonian tower had forgotten he’d had us; and Mum wouldn’t have bothered to think of it in the first place and if by any miracle she had done, would have decided she couldn’t possibly afford it. However, as my French was better than anybody else’s in the entire school, I had managed: all the bimbos, who of course all had rich parents to a bimbo, had been only too happy to have me do their French “prep” for them. Quite a little earner, yes. Unfortunately no-one had been able to work out an infallible scheme whereby I would also sit their exams—that would have been far, far, more lucrative. Oh, well!

    Um, yes. Anyway, I’d always remembered Bean Minor’s birthday, why couldn’t he have remembered mine? And even the Bean had usually remembered—prompted by dear old Trisha, it was later discovered, but yes. Even if it was only a Mars Bar. (No pocket money, no, so it was often courtesy of his chums, or from judicious bets on the gees, that book Flossie and Crumpy between them had made had been very successful in more ways than one, or from carrying out ludicrous “dares” from the more cretinous of his peers.) And Trisha had always remembered, bless her. Only not this year, it appeared. Okay, maybe at twenty-three one was supposed to be old enough not to get birthday presents?

    In which case one was certainly old enough to be living with, to say no more, one Col. J. Raice, and WHERE THE HELL WAS HE?

    … Right: eating worms.

    By lunchtime Mrs Stuart had gone home. I looked in the fridge. Okay, she hadn’t left anything for us. Not that I was hungry, anyway. I waited but nobody turned up, presumably they were all occupied with the grapes or had nipped up to Silvercreek Cellar Door to bum something off Silvia or had piled into the people carrier and headed off to the pub, a not unlikely scenario. Anyway, they were not here. I got a drink of water and retired to my room with it and a book, but as it was one of the Bean’s, it turned out to be a shoot-’em-up thing, very boring…

    I woke up with a start. Ooh! Greg’s phone! I belted out and grabbed it up.

    Judy again. Could I possibly come down to the Cellar Door after all, dear? She was sorry to interrupt my day off, but—

    Of course I could! Joyously I slapped some sunscreen on my exposed parts and my now rather battered straw cowboy hat on my head, and headed down there. About halfway it occurred to me to wonder how come they’d suddenly got busy at gone two-thirty, but presumably it was retired couples in search of afternoon tea.

    Help, it said “Closed” on the door! Was something wrong? Heart beating hard in panic, I tried the door. It was unlocked, so I went in. Ooh!

    “SURPRISE!” they all cried.

    The big ceiling fans were on as well as the air-con, the sliding glass doors were open onto the lovely vine-hung enclosed terrace, and they were all there, at the big table we’d had at Christmas, beaming all over their faces. And in the middle of the table was a giant cake, pink icing with white frills and doodads, and a big “23” made of candlewax stuck in the middle of it!

    Well naturally I burst into tears on the spot.

    For once my siblings didn’t reprove me, and dear old Charlie Lewisham came over quickly to put his arm round me and lead me over to the table—oh dear, he must have driven out all the way from the city especially! And Bean Minor and Trelawney would be missing their classes, just for me. Somehow I found I was crying more than ever and trying to protest. A total goop, yes. But oddly enough no-one seemed to mind. Trelawney assured me cheerily that they never had anything important this soon after Term started, and Bean Minor explained that today his lot were supposed to be touring a winery, he wasn’t missing a thing! And Duck added bracingly that the picking was nearly done, they’d be having the big party next week, he wouldn’t be missed today. Webber agreed that everything was hunky-dory: no-one’d need him, either. Even old Kev Manning had come, with his paraplegic son, Matt, the old man assuring me that their grapes were picked, they hadn’t done too bad at all this year: good drainage up at their place, ya see. And Matt, who was looking very well, said I must sit by him and tell him about the croquet we’d played at the Château LeBec during the lockdowns: he was heavily into wheelchair basketball, but he was wondering if wheelchair croquet might be fun, too. Well he knew some blokes that went in for wheelchair polo, it wouldn’t be much different, would it?

    So I blew my nose hard and sat down between him and old Charlie, explaining: “Well you have to hit the ball with a long stick, Matt, tho it isn’t as hard as golf, it’s quite a big ball in comparison, but it’s not like polo: it has to go through these little hoops, you see.”

    “Yes. I’d say it’d need more skill than speed,” the Bean put in.

    “Definitely,” Bean Minor agreed. “But don’t ask her any more, Matt, that’s all she knows. She’s hopeless at all sorts of games, indoor or outdoor. She was completely incapable of grasping the rules of croquet.”

    He looked at me in surprise but as I was nodding hard, smiled weakly and conceded that the boys had better tell him about it instead. And he hadn’t realised that Tommy had been stuck at the château during the pandemic as well. At which of course everyone had to hear the full saga, as Silvia and Judy bore in the birthday feast and Greg, noting that I loved bubbles so that was what it was, poured generous glasses of Mr Manning’s Shadow Road Sparkling Brut.

    In fact so much was drunk that a grinning Brad had to dash out to the storage room and haul in another crate. Fortunately the restaurant possessed one of those cunning things which can instantly chill a bottle. True, one had heard Mr G. Lewisham roundly condemn the use of this modern artefact as “ruination to a decent vintage,” but funnily enough he was not heard to do so on this particular occasion. And they were able to have another toast while I cut the cake under Silvia’s and Judy’s careful supervision.

    Mmm-mm! Delicious! It was, Judy happily clarified, what was called a “pound cake”. (Was this possibly because it had a whole pound of butter in it? Help!) Indescribably yummy. And one would have said more-ish, had one not already absorbed an elegant sufficiency of the other choice viands on offer. The gentlemen present did not hesitate to express their appreciation of its toothsome goodness, both verbally and by way of enthusiastic mastication.

    After that somehow we had to have another toast, and then I had to open the presents!

    “But I thought the party was the present,” I quavered. Oh, dash it! I was going to bawl again!

    “No!” they all beamed. “Open them!”

    Kindly old Charlie passed me his pocket hanker, so I mopped and blew and thanked him shakily.

    Well of course the boys were rather broke but they had all come up trumps, bless them. The grinning Matt, he disclosed, had let them use his workshop. It was the garage, really, but his dad had had it lined and put in an air conditioner for him: he spent a lot of time out there, with almost as many hissing and whirring and clinking tools as old Great-Uncle Alphonse, back in the Restaurant LeBec in Paris. Tho on rather more, er, legitimate, so to speak, articles.

    Bean gave me a pair of silver earrings that he’d made! I was speechless. However, he explained hastily that one could buy the hooks to go in the ears, Matt knew the place to get that sort of stuff, all the amateur jewellery-makers went there. He’d just done the dangly bits. Um, not silver, actually, Mel, only aluminium. That didn’t matter, Bean, they were lovely! Dainty triangles, with a dear little pattern of tiny dots on them! One would have said repoussé work, indeed, had this not been Michael Fullarton-Browne, aka the Bean. But yes, it was, Trelawney the Exact clarified that one for us. I had to kiss the Bean on both cheeks after that. He winced, but bore up nobly.

    Golly, Bean Minor had made me the matching pendant! A larger triangle, also with little decorative dots punched into it, on a silver, well silver metal, chain. The latter from the place Matt knew of. I had to wipe my eyes, confessing: “I thought you’d forgotten.”

    “I’ve never forgotten before,” he replied in surprise.

    “No, but I thought muh-maybe you thought—everybody thought—that twenty-three was too old.”

    “For the Lord’s sake don’t blub again, Mel! No-one thinks you’re too old!”

    “Non? Viens ici, mon chéri,” I said mistily. Fervently I kissed him on both cheeks.

    Greg had been watching me with a grin but now he declared robustly: “Anyway, no-one’s ever too old for birthday presents! –Tho Dad thinks he’s too old for a decent dressing-gown,” he noted pointedly.

    “Nobody’s gonna to see me in it, except maybe them gays in the next-door flat when I hoik down the flamin’ ’Tizer from the tree first thing,” the old chap noted. –The object referred to being, as was understood by all, the local Adelaide volume of felted sheets of cellulose fibres, purveyor of gripping used automobile advertisements, fascinating full-page supermarket advertisements, and detailed accounts of scandals created by overseas celebs none of which could possibly impinge on the lives of its faithful readers. However, it did have the cricket and footy news. And had one wanted to buy a car, it would have been jolly useful, yes, Bean.

    “It can be a treat for them, then,” said Duck extra-kindly, and the table of assembled guests, alas, exploded in laughter.

    Trelawney then, rather pink about the ears, presented his gift. Helpfully Matt explained as I unwrapped it dazedly that he had a bit more know-how than the others, he was capable of the slightly more advanced stuff. –You know: soldering. I did know, yes: in between such exercises as cutting keys old Oncle Alphonse did a fair bit of that at the resto in Paris, as did Tante Thérèse, with a very small implement, the said aunt being the one who was a qualified manufacturing jeweller.

    Gosh! Trelawney had made me a metal jewellery box! Hinged and everything!

    “Look out,” the Bean warned laconically. “She’s either gonna blub again or give you the full French treatment: one cheek, two cheek, one cheek again. Or both.”

    “Well I must just give you one kiss, Teddy, dear!” I said with a laugh. “Thank you so much! I’ve never had a jewellery box! Now I can put my Scottie dog brooch in it, too!”

    “Yes, of course,” he agreed gamely, tho turning very red indeed as I duly saluted his youthful cheek.

    I abso-bally-lutely had to recruit my forces with another glass of fizz after that. And told them all that it was the loveliest birthday I’d ever had!

    “It’s not over yet,” said Greg with grin. “Go on, Silvia love. Give it to her.”

    “What? But Silvia, you put on this lovely party!” I cried. “You shouldn’t have!” It was a super parcel, with pretty floral paper tied up with a big pink bow.

    “Nonsense, Mel, dear! Go on, open it. It’s nothing, really.”

    Nothing? It was the prettiest broderie Anglaise blouse I’d ever seen! It didn’t have a manufacturer’s label in it… “Silvia,” I said in a trembling voice, “you didn’t make this, did you?”

    “Of course, dear! Well I sew for myself and Jamie, you know. l ran it up in in no time.”

    “Thank you so much. It’s the prettiest blouse I’ve ever had.” I had to wipe my eyes. “There’s an old photo at the château of Grannie’s grandmother when she was young in a blouse of this lacy fabric. Only, high-necked: you know, like they wore in those days. I’ve always loved it.”

    “Good!” she beamed. “But just mind you get some wear out of it, dear. It’s just for everyday, you know.”

    Everyday? If one attended garden parties every day, perhaps!

    Well after that the others all offered their gifts and I felt overwhelmed, embarrassed and tremendously grateful all at once. The Lewishams, bless them, had both given me things which really I felt ought to have stayed in the family. Dear old Charlie’s was a wonderful length of batik, a souvenir of a long-ago trip to Indonesia. Green and gold on black. It would make the most gorgeous skirt to go with the blouse! It was nothing, pet, no use to him; his wife had always meant to do something with it and never got around to it, and flamin’ Mandy had looked down her nose at it and said she’d never been interested in Flower Power gear. It might have been nothing to him but it was more than something to me, and I kissed him warmly for it. Greg’s contribution was a darling little brass bell, only about eight centimetres high: a little lady in a long skirt! Picked up in a junk shop once. Noticed me admiring it on his mantelpiece. No, well, didn’t have any daughter to give it to, did he? Okay, big kiss for Greg! It would be just the thing for John’s cottage, it had the right style!

    Judy and Janine, who both went in for crafts, had collaborated to make me a “scrapbook”, that was, a photo album with all sorts of decorative ribbons and gold paper lace and that sort of thing on its cover complete with my name, “Mélisande” in a flowing script. Help, they must have taken the trouble to consult one of my siblings to get that right. Inside they’d started it off with photos of everybody from Silvercreek, plus views of the winery and the vineyards! It was the loveliest souvenir! So I gave them each a hug and a kiss, and was reminded, embarrassingly, that of course most people had a special wedding album but there was stacks of room in this for snaps of the kiddies! Whereupon dashed Bean and Bean Minor went into sniggering fits, but Greg squashed them firmly, good for him!

    Well I felt rather nervous as Brad proffered his gift but whatever it was I was determined to like it. But I didn’t have to pretend. It was a thin book… Ooh! You And Your Scottie! Well yes, I had wasted a lot of Silvercreek Cellar Door’s time one day in the storage area telling him about the dog I might have and the red plastic Scottie dog brooch that John had given me… Big hug and a kiss for Brad! “Thank you so much, Brad! It’s just the thing! It’ll help me and John train him!”

    Webber had bought me a lovely silk scarf, shades of green and gold to match the batik: he and Charlie must have consulted. Oh dear, I was sure he’d spent far too much on it, but I didn’t like to say so. “I’ll think of you every time I wear it, Webber!” I promised fervently. He went very red and grinned sheepishly, but allowed me to kiss his cheek. Duck, by contrast, hadn’t bought anything, but he’d got me a very large jar of “M&D Orchards Best Fine Shred Orange Jelly Marmalade” off his Aunt Noni Drake. With a fancy hand-painted label and a little yellow-checked mob cap on it tied up with an orange ribbon! He knew I loved that sort of marmalade and on no account let them ruddy boys near it! Well yeah, he admitted, he had just nipped up to the orchards… Nipped! He must have wasted a whole day, and at harvest time, too! Big kiss for Duck which he returned enthusiastically but never mind, one could overlook that on top of lovely birthday treats and all that fizz.

    Which talking of which, dear old Kev Manning had come up trumps: he’d named last year’s vintage of the fizz which they’d just finished bottling after me! The specially designed label read:

Shadow Road Vineyard

MELISANDE

Sparkling Brut

2022

Chardonnay

    Well never mind that I could almost hear dashed Bean Minor thinking it was a rather backhanded compliment given the usual quality of Mr Manning’s wines, I was so overcome that I had had to wipe my eyes. So he said he’d have given me a dozen to take home, only Greg had warned him that I’d have to pay megabucks to British Customs. So this one was for me to drink and there’d be more whenever I wanted it! And I could give him a kiss. Which of course I did. And never mind if I didn’t have anything to carry stuff in, Matt had taken care of that! he added cheerily.

    At which the grinning Matt produced his gift. Far too kind, given that I hardly knew the chap: I’d only popped up to visit him a few times, really; the boys knew him better, they’d played a lot of basketball with him. The times I’d watched they’d mostly missed the hoop and Matt had scored a goal every time.

    “Matt, I can’t take this!” I gasped. “It’s far too much!”

    “Nah,” he said. “Made it yonks back. Like, at the Rehab., they made us do leatherwork and stuff. Don’t do it these days, prefer metalwork and carpentry, meself. It’s yours, Mel, it was only going to waste. See, we can pack everything else into it!”

    So we could! It was a really smart leather fourre-tout: tan with an elegant pattern appliqued in dark brown to match its smart brown handles. I had to give him a kiss first, and then, with Judy supervising us, we carefully packed the other presents into it.

    “Just don’t let Mum set eyes on it,” the Bean warned grimly. “She’ll pinch it for sure. Then she’ll tell everyone it’s by a Big Name, of course.”

    “It is by a big name!” Kev informed us happily. “Matthew James Bartholomew Manning, after ’is great-uncles Jim and Bart—see?”

    At this unexpected intel everyone laughed so much that we all had to recruit our forces with just a bit more fizz…

    Rousing groggily from a little rest some time later, I heard the Bean shouting: “MEL! Hey! Mel! Wake up!”

    Well it was a trifle late to claim I hadn’t been asleep so I staggered groggily out to the kitchen, whence the noise was proceeding. “What?”

    “Trisha’s here!” he beamed.

    “What?”

    “Yeah: come on!” He dashed out the back door,

    Sure enough, just getting out of a limo which took up a goodly stretch of the driveway in front of Greg’s garage, there she was!

    “Happy birthday, Mel darling!” she gasped. “I told her I had one of my migraines, and just came!”

    “Oh, Trisha!” I wailed, bursting into tears and hugging her madly. “I—thought—forgotten!”

    Well of course she hadn’t forgotten but she hadn’t been able to get away earlier, Mum had needed her to— Etcetera. Never mind, she’d got here. Uh… Did anybody know she’d taken what was very probably Mum’s limo? On second thoughts I wasn’t going to ask. And in what, I now realised, was the fast-gathering dusk, I must have been asleep for some time, we led her indoors and got her sat down with an appropriate glass. And Bean Minor dashed out again to urge the driver to come in. It was Brett again, so it was Mum’s limo, help!

    “Well,” said Trisha, sipping, “I was just so cross that she didn’t even mention what day it was, dear, so I just thought, blow it! And Brett said he knew the way and could get me here, no worries. –Yes, that’s right, Brett, dear, there’s parcels for the boys as well, but the big one’s for Mel!”

    Oh crumbs, what had she been and gone and wasted her money on? It wasn’t as if Mum paid her generously for being at her beck and call every hour of the day and frequently half the night. The excuse was that she got free trips abroad. “Free” as in selling her soul, as the Bean had grimly put it.

    Shakily I opened the parcel. Inside the pretty wrapping paper was a long box. Oh!

    “It’s a parasol!” I cried.

    “That’s right, dear!” she beamed. “I saw a girl with one in downtown Adelaide and I thought Well isn’t that sensible in this climate, and it will help to stop little Mel from getting freckles!”

    Trelawney came to scrutinise it narrowly, deciding it was perhaps a Japanese design, but probably made in China.

    “Well yes, it was a Chinese girl that I saw,” Trisha admitted. “But you don’t mind, do you, Mel dear?”

    “No of course not! I love it! It’s ideal! –Why on earth would I mind?”

    “Oh well when we were in— No, it wasn’t that. Um, no: I think it was when we had to go and film the orangutans. Goodness, that does seem a long time ago, now!”—It would do: it was.—“I think it might have been in Malaysia, we had to stop off there because your mother had been asked to make a personal appearance on a cookery show; yes, I think it was! Such pretty little girls, and the most darling outfits, and I thought the parasols were so sensible as well as pretty, but your mother said it would make one look like a native.”

    Greg had emerged from his room some time since, yawning and blinking, and had greeted the caller kindly. Now his jaw sagged and he croaked: “Eh?”

    “Mum says that sort of thing, Greg. Well you’ve met her,” said the Bean sourly.

    “Yeah, but in this day an’ age?”

    “Yes,” we all said, even Trisha.

    “I think I’ll have a drink,” he decided weakly. “Fancy a beer, mate?”

    Brett did fancy a beer, so they did that, no-one pointing out the amount of alcohol that Greg had already absorbed today. And I popped out to the kitchen and grabbed the very last slice of the miraculous pound or birthday cake for Trisha. And after some persuasion she actually began to eat it, washed down with what no-one mentioned was a jolly strong Bundy and Coke. (“Ooh! This is nice! Thank you, Michael dear!”)

    The boys’ presents, thank goodness, weren’t expensive. She’d been so intrigued by them, and then, she was sure they did all drink beer these days! –Coy giggle. And they had the most extraordinary name—but that was right, wasn’t it, Brett? “Yeah,” he confirmed. But what was it, Trisha? Oh! Well, you may not believe this, dear, but— Etcetera. But she finally revealed it.

    Stubbie holders. One put the beer bottle or can in it, you see, and it was so much more comfortable to hold, because of course they always served them icy-cold here, didn’t they, Brett?

    “With luck, yeah,” he agreed, winking at the lads. “Like, meant to keep ’em chilled instead of warming up in yer mitt.”

    And they had genuine Australian brands on them, you see, she pointed out happily! (Er, yes: mostly genuine ads for genuine Australian Rules football teams, I rather thought, but jolly good!) So they could be lovely souvenirs when they were back home in England! she finished brightly, polishing off that enormous rum and C.

    My siblings exchanged guilty glances. Finally Bean Minor ventured: “Well it’ll probably be France, actually, Trisha. I mean, we’ll eventually go back to the Château LeBec.”

    “I see, dear. Well it’s your heritage, of course,” she said sadly.

    Awarding his junior a swift glare, the Bean said hurriedly: “Yes, but Mel will be in England with John, of course. –Show her all the stuff you got, Mel. You know: the things to put in the cottage and the book on Scotties and everything!”

    So the jewellery box and its lovely contents, including my red plastic Scottie dog brooch, of course, the little brass bell lady—she was sure it was a real antique, that sort of thing was very collectible these days, and it would be just right for a cottage!—and everything else was proudly displayed and was being admired and explained—

    When the Bean’s pocket rang and he hauled out the instrument, looking relieved and saying: “That’ll be Egg: I knew he wouldn’t forget!” And put it on speaker-phone.

    Unfortunately, as it turned out.

    “That you, Bean?”

    “Yes well, we’re all here, old man!” he replied happily.

    “What-ho, Egg!” Bean Minor, Trelawney and I cried.

    “Uh—you on speaker-phone?” asked the Egg.

    “Yes, of course,” the Bean returned blankly.

    “Uh—Michael—” began Greg uneasily.

    “What’s wrong, Egg?” asked Bean Minor anxiously.

    “Uh—you there, Mel?”

    “Yes. Is You-Know-Who all right?” I croaked, feeling suddenly very sick.

    “Yes—well, situation unchanged. Uh—no, it’s the bloody tabloids, they’ve published a huge publicity snap of you and Lady Patrizia on the beach out there, and identified you. ‘Another Little Lady Pat?’ being the nauseating headline. It’s bloody clear you’re in South Australia, I’m afraid, old thing. Uh—well, if the fuss over You-Know-Who has blown over as predicted, it won’t matter, of course. But um, well, thought we’d better warn you; sorry and all that, old girl. I mean, on your birthday, too.”

    “We were planning a nice chat on Zoom,” said Carrie-Ann’s voice sadly in the background.

    “Were you?” I replied wanly. “That would’ve been lovely, Carrie-Ann.”

    Greg at this point took a deep breath. “Never mind, Mel, you’ve had a lovely day here, haven’t you? –Look here, Alan, I think you’re panicking unnecessarily. It’s been a good six months, now, hasn’t it? But if you’re worried, we’ll keep Mel here with us, no trotting into town or that, she’ll be fine.”

    “I’d agree with you, Greg,” the Egg replied heavily, “if the Powers That Be had let You-Know-Who out. But as it is— Well I just thought better safe than sorry. –Risk management, all that,” he ended glumly.

    “Yeah. Well, you’re not wrong,” the vineyard owner conceded.

    “Have you checked out the cottage lately, Egg?” asked the Bean.

    “Yes; Carrie-Ann and I ride over every other day. No change there, and one of Mrs Blake’s sons is looking after the garden. No strangers spotted. It does look okay. –Well, listen Mel: happy birthday anyway, old chap. Did our cards come? We sent them care of your host.”

    “No,” Greg and I said blankly.

    “Damn. Thought they’d make it in good time.”

    “Never mind, it was a nice thought, Egg. And—and Trisha’s here. –Mum doesn’t  know,” I added quickly.

    “Is she?” he said with a smile in his voice. “That’s great. Well I’d better let you go, it must be pretty late your time. We’re just about to ride out with the second string. It’s brass monkeys, of course, but that’s the training life for you. Take care, old dear. So long!”

    “’Bye, Egg. ’Bye, Carrie-Ann,” I said sadly, and he rang off.

    “Bugger,” the Bean concluded simply, pocketing the dashed instrument.

    “I’m sure the delay is just bloody MI5 crossing the I’s and dotting the T’s,” said Greg. “Civil servants in uniform, aren’t they?”

    “Yes,” I agreed, sniffling, and trying to smile. “I s’pose.”

    “’Course they are!” Bean Minor agreed quickly. “You’d better have a glass of that nice sweet stuff Bean gave Trisha. –Bean!”

    He jumped. “Oh—right. Like another, Trisha?”

    “Ooh, yes please, Michael dear. It’s very nice and sweet. An Australian brand, would it be? Not like the usual Coke at all.”

    “Yes, that’s right, an Australian brand,” he replied without a flicker. “What about rustling up a few sandwiches, Bean Minor, and we’ll call it supper.”

    “After all that food this afternoon?” I said faintly.

    “Yes,” said Bean Minor firmly. “Come on, Trelawney.” And they headed for the kitchen.

    The evening ended with us all sitting round drinking variously Bundy and Coke, beer, or Scotch, and eating sandwiches of what Bean Minor had found in the fridge: mousetrap cheese and pressed ham, or pressed ham and Judy’s plum chutney (off her own tree, yes). After which it was decided that Brett would not drive all the way back to the city at dead of night, he could have the loft over the garage and Trisha could share my room.

    Well not surprisingly she went out like a light. But it was ages before I got to sleep, in spite of the Bundy and Cokes on top of all the fizz earlier. Eating those worms again, yes. Well recriminations butter no parsnips, as the weird English saying goes (when someone said that when I was at Merrifield School I thought it was a leg-pull), but I could have strangled the idiot, some publicity person, I suppose, who’d sorted through those dashed shots of Mum and me at the beach and sent whichever snap it was to the frightful English tabloids.

    It felt like there’d been no progress at all in all the last six-plus months and we were back to square one! WHY was the MOD keeping John hidden for so long? He must still be in danger!

    My lovely birthday party seemed as if it had never been, lost in the mists of time, so to speak, gone with the bally wind …

    Well bother.

Next chapter:

https://theeggandfriendsdownunder-anovel.blogspot.com/2026/05/now-that-aprils-here.html