Mafeking And Murray

12

Mafeking And Murray

January. The last few days of December were so painful that I draw a veil. The Anthea Infestation in full swing.

    But on New Year’s Day Flossie returned from a brekkie-time forage to the “loft” to see if the two of them were awake—tho admitting it was self-torture, he was becoming a masochist in his old age—with a shining morning face and the announcement:

    “I say, you chaps! Mafeking is relieved! She’s pushed off!”

    “Golly! What happened?” gasped Crumpy.

    Flossie shook with laughter. “She found out that Uncle Ian doesn’t own fleets of racehorses, but only trains them!”

    This of course was Mr Ovenden, Egg’s dad, Flossie and Egg being cousins. We goggled at him, speechless.

    Finally Bean croaked: “It sounds too good to be true, Flossie.”

    “No!” he choked. “The silly cow had it fixed in her head that Ovenden père was rolling in it and that Egg was slated to come in for the lot! He mentioned casually last night that he’d have to be getting back home fairly soon, as he’ll be needed at the stables once the flat-racing season gets going, and apparently she giggled and informed him that he couldn’t possibly be needed to look after his father’s horses himself, they must have people to do all that, and”—he looked bland—“then the horrid truth was revealed. Floods of furious tears, accusations of lying to her, etcetera, ad infinitum, one gathers.”

    “My God,” said Crumpy in awe. “The rapacious bitch.”

    “I’ll say!” Bean agreed fervently.

    Bean Minor and Trelawney were also agreeing—the horror on their faces due, I rather think, in large part to the revelation that someone of that generation, not much older than themselves, could be that much of a gold digger.

    “Well jolly good riddance!” I cried.

    There was no sign of our host yet that morning—the fizz had flowed rather freely the previous night as we watched the fireworks over the Sydney Harbour Bridge on the telly, a longstanding Aussie tradition, apparently—and saw the New Year in. Webber had surfaced, however. He’d been sitting quietly at the table eating toast and Vegemite without marg and drinking well-sugared black coffee.

    Now he put in stolidly: “Always struck me as that type.”

    “Abso-bally-lutely!” I agreed. “‘Gold digger’ written all over her!”

    Flossie decided to make a pot of real coffee to celebrate the occasion and began to be busy at the bench. I looked cautiously at the Crumpet, but he was looking cautiously at me.

    Of course it was the Bean who rushed in where angels wouldn’t. “So do you think we’ll see Egg today?”

    Flossie was at the stove but he replied sardonically, not turning round: “Tactful.”

    “Well it is the obvious question!” the misguided legume pursued indignantly.

    “True.”

    “Well DO YOU?” he shouted.

    “Don’t shout,” moaned Webber.

    “Some of us thought that that white fizz of old Mr Manning’s on top of Greg’s Red Label was a mistake, last night,” noted Bean Minor in a detached tone.

    “Shut up, kid,” he groaned.

    “Was it Mr Manning’s fizz, Bean Minor?” I said in surprise. “I thought it was Angas Brut.”

    He gave me a wild look. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’ve got any LeBec blood at all, Mel!”

    “Genes will do that,” noted the Bean in superior tones, possibly but not inevitably diverted from his topic. “She may bear the gene or genes in Q., but they’re turned off.”

    “I tell you what,” said Trelawney to his pal in confidential tones: “the family should never have let him do that biology course!”

    They sniggered.

    Flossie had finished fiddling with the coffee-pot and sat down at the table, looking bored. “To return to your last question but fourteen, Bean, I have no idea. If he does turn up, do us all a favour by not mentioning the cow herself nor the topic of gold diggers, will you?”

    “Nor the topic of Carrie-Ann,” I added quickly.

    “Quite,” Flossie agreed, wincing. “That.”

    “No,” Mireille put in, in a very small voice. “That would be vairy embarrassing.”

    “I’ll say!” Crumpy agreed. “—How much coffee did you make, Flossie?”

    “Er—depends what size cup one requires, really, old thing. I filled the pot, I can no more.”

    “Oh good. I think I’ll have some, and some toast and marmalade! I must say I feel a lot more cheerful, now she’s gone!”

    “Me, too!” I agreed. “Tho I wish we had some croissants.”

    “Ask Janine Stuart: she’ll get them in for you like a shot!” Flossie suggested with a laugh in his voice.

    “Don’t be an ass, I couldn’t do that!”

    “No,” Mireille agreed, looking anxious. “They have all been so kind and generous, Flossie.”

    “I wasn’t serious,” he sighed, getting up to inspect the coffee-pot.

    She looked anxiously at me. I did my best to look indifferent.

    “I apologise, Flossie,” she said. “Sometimes I find that it is vairy difficult to interpret the nuances of English.

    Rather naturally everyone was now looking at Flossie, even Webber.

    He had his back to us, but from where I was sitting I could see the side of his face, and he was grimacing, serve him right. Then he turned round and said:

    “No, don’t apologise, Mireille. My fault. Shouldn’t have made a joke of it. Though I’m sure Mrs Stuart would do her best to get in anything that any of us expressed a preference for. Very decent woman.”

    “Yes, she is,” she agreed in relief.

    “Mm. And I do understand about not seizing the nuances of English. I thought my French was pretty good until Uncle Flossie and I had that break in Paris—late summer 2017, wasn’t it? I popped into a supermarket early one morning to get something the old boy wanted—razor blades, I think it was—and when I got to the checkout and proffered a note, the woman said: ‘T’as pas cinq sous?’ and I just goggled at her. The syllables made no sense whatsoever to me!”

    “She was asking you for change,” said Bean Minor limply.

    “Yes,” I agreed. “They often say that, never mind the euro.”

    Flossie made a face. “It eventually dawned on me that they must do. And that in spite of the dictates of one’s school grammar book they do use the familiar ‘tu’ with adults whom they’ve never met before!”

    Mireille by this time was biting her lip. “Yes,” she admitted in a strangled voice. “It’s the vernacular of the people, no? I also have a similar experience when Mel and I come to Oxford to see you all. Mel lets me go into a shop to buy a comb by myself, and the young woman who serves me, she calls me ‘me dear”, and I just stare at her!”

    “They mean nothing by it,” said Trelawney helpfully.

    “No, exactly, Teddy, I realise that now!” she smiled. “And when one thinks about it, it is exactly the same as the French usage. English does not have the familiar ‘tu’, but she was using the familiar voice!” She beamed at us.

    Flossie’s face was now all smiles. “It’s precisely that, yes! Never struck me before… But of course!”

    “Our Mireille’s brighter than you think, respected Hon. Sec., Junior Drones,” noted the Crumpet in horribly smug tones. “That coffee-pot’s sending up smoke signals, by the way.”

    He jumped, and swung round, but it wasn’t, of course: just hissing madly. So he took it off the heat and he, Crumpy and Mireille all had smallish cups of very black coffee with sugar, plus in one case toast and marmalade, what time Bean Minor got up, rinsed the coffee-pot with much hissing of steam, it was still boiling hot, and made another brew for himself, Bean and me. Tho he assured Webber that it’d do him much more good than instant. Which got merely a pale smile in reply.

    Egg came in looking rather silly while we were sipping it.

    “Hullo,” he said weakly. “The blonde mistake’s pushed off, did Flossie say?”

    “Yes!” we all chorused, even Webber.

    He sat down, smiling feebly. “Yeah. Well now I know what good old Bertie Wooster felt like when pursued by rapacious females such as Whatserface—Hermione Something, was it?”

    “Something like that,” Crumpy agreed. “Well good riddance. Fancy a coffee?”

    “No thanks, old man. I think I’ll just have a nice soothing cup of tea.”

    “I’ll make it, Egg,” I said, getting up.

    “What’s that, Mel, coals of fire?” croaked Flossie, staring.

    “No, I think it’s sheer relief,” I admitted.

    “I was never serious about her, Mel,” said Egg on a weak note.

    “I know. I’m still relieved.”

    “And so say all of us!” Crumpy agreed. “In fact Flossie’s just called it the Relief of Mafeking.”

    “Hah, hah,” said Egg limply.

    “Eugh—but—” Mireille broke off, flushing.

    “Go on, ask,” said Flossie, smiling a bit.

    “Hé bien, what—what is Mafeking?” she faltered.

    There was a disconcerted silence.

    Then Crumpy said with a loud laugh: “By Jove! It’s the bally British Empah thing!”

    “Oh gosh!” Trelawney discovered. “Of course it is! They wouldn’t bother to teach them about it in French schools!”

    Eagerly he, Crumpy, Bean and Bean Minor all began to tell her about the Siege of Mafeking, and the topic of Egg’s gold digger was mercifully forgotten. In fact, by the time Mireille and I left to give Silvia a hand to open up at Silvercreek Cellar Door, it was as if it had never been. Phew!

    January continued hot and Mireille, Crumpy, Flossie and I spent a lot of time at the Cellar Door helping Silvia and Judy, allowing Jamie for once to spend some of the summer holidays with her friends, while Egg took over from Crumpy as office assistant to Greg, in between investigating the management techniques practised by him, by the somewhat surprised Webber, who hadn’t known he had any and, down at the Dispatch Office, by the efficient Vern.

    Uncle Flossie and Clive Lamont had spent a somewhat riotous New Year’s Eve with some chaps encountered in the hotel’s bar, and on recovering were keen to come up to the Barossa again and collect us for some sightseeing. A handful of gaudy tourist brochures were produced, and the good-natured Greg cheerfully ordered us to get out and see a bit more of the country.

    Somehow Clive had heard about a very well thought of restaurant “up the Murray”—using the phrase to the manner born. One had to book, especially during the holiday period, but they’d done that.

    So we went.

    We had of course got as far as Renmark before, but this time we’d be driving all the way to Mildura, which is in Victoria and one of the great tourist centres on the River Murray. With several famous restaurants and innumerable other ones, all of which the older gents had apparently sussed out. These seemed to be the main attraction there these days, frankly, as the Bean had ascertained after some rather puzzled work at the dreaded hand-held technological wonder instrument, but it looked as if in the old days there had been no gourmet restaurants at all, and the great attraction had been paddle steamers! Um, only these days they all seemed to be diesel-powered. (Very dished.) Trelawney the Exact had had a look on his own account but reported uncertainly there still did seem to be one “real one,” only the second time he tried looking for it all he got were the diesel ones, run by a much bigger outfit and—mournfully—it seemed to be like everything else these days, the biggies had swamped the I. word with their dashed ads. He and Bean Minor had then had an argument about something called (inaccurately) “bookmarking,” but I stopped listening. Bertie Wooster it wasn’t.

    It was a glorious day as we headed into the unknown, not a cloud in the sky, but somehow I found myself wishing I was back in the English so-called summer, safely at the Ovenden Stables for the hols., under a shaky-looking sky that could rain any moment, with dear old pale grey Lady Aurelia grazing peacefully in her field, good old Sid leaning on the rails watching the leggy yearlings prance around or just graze in their field, and darling John just a short drive away in his cottage… And that the horrible MOD had never sent him on a stupid unnecessary mission and that his flat hadn’t been bombed as a consequence and he hadn’t had to be spirited off to Parts Unknown by the said dashed MOD. Well bother! And I was not going to bawl, so there!

    “What’s up, old thing?” said Crumpy quietly, putting an arm round me as a stupid tear slid down my cheek.

    Sniffle. “Nothing, really, Crumpy. Just wishing… You know.”

    “Mm,” he said kindly, giving me a bit of a squeeze. “Had an email from Alysse just the other day. She popped down to see her mum and dad for Christmas, of course, but she’s back in London now, working hard on the thesis. It’s very cold and her aunty and the neighbours are moaning about the heating bills. Anyway, Alysse thinks we’re well out of it, old thing. No risk of chilblains here, eh?”

    This was true. “No,” I agreed, looking out of the car window at miles of blue, blue sky…

    “I rather think the old boys just want to eat,” he said in a lowered voice—we were in the back of his dad’s hire car, with the Bean driving at the moment and Mr Lamont nodded off beside him. “But the paddle steamers sound like fun.”

    I agreed nicely, privately hoping that the river called Murray would be as peaceful as claimed and the dashed things wouldn’t go up and down. Because according to the combined investigations of the older gentlemen, the Bean and Master Trelawney, one of the big draws was that the cruises always featured either lunch or dinner. Oh, dear.

    It was all organised. Day One. Arrive rather late, settle in to pleasant motel, wash and brush-up, leisurely drinks, light and tasty dinner.

    Day Two. Morning river cruise on paddle “steamer”, read diesel. Two hours, ending in light lunch because we were slated for a really good dinner at the most famous of the gourmet restaurants. Thank God, the river was placid. We chugged along quite pleasantly, endeavouring to hear one another speak over the crowds of shouting tourists. It was almost the end of the school holidays and they all seemed to be making mayhem while the sun shone.

    With the tangled roots of gnarled dead trees appearing constantly along the banks, it wasn’t like a European river. There were lots of living gum trees, too, of course. And stretches of dry mud on the banks where the river had once used to rise to. The Bean muttered darkly about over-irrigation further up the river system, and, unlikely tho it sounded, rice farmers draining the rivers dry… Rice? In Australia, the driest continent? Er, if you didn’t count Antarctica, which was “dry” because it only snows not rains. Well I knew the world was mad but hitherto I hadn’t thought the Aussies shared the madness to that extent. …Rice? Could they have thought of a more unsuitable crop? Er, well, watercress, possibly—but really! “Big business,” the Egg concluded on a sour note. Crumpy agreed but then patted the Bean on the back, pointing out that it was a lovely day and the Murray wasn’t dry yet! He scowled, but admitted it wasn’t, and we chugged on… Smooth tho the trip was I didn’t eat much lunch, just in case.

    Then back to the motel, wash and brush up. Flossie tapped on the door of the room Mireille and I were sharing and asked us nicely to come for a little walk, just round and about, so I let the two of them go without me: the poor girl might as well have her chance. She trotted off looking very pink and pleased. Okay, fingers crossed…

    Unfortunately that gave me a certain time to brood… Where was John? Was he safe, and were the dashed MOD types looking after him properly? …Bother.

    Well it did seem to be okay between Mireille and Flossie: they returned looking pleased with themselves, and no sarcastic remarks about the little town were passed by F. Nightingale, Esq.

    And we all rolled up to the much-publicised restaurant in a state of eager anticipation. We weren’t disappointed. It did tend rather to the gourmet little piles side, but the food itself was utterly delicious. A discernible Italian influence, but absolutely no clichés. Lovely taste combos, nothing too fancy, certainly nothing over-elaborate, and superbly cooked. Oncle Albert would definitely have approved!

    Mireille in fact declared blissfully as we turned in very late and settled down to sleep that it had been a perfect day! Well frankly I had been so tense all morning in case the boat trip was rough that it was hard to agree wholeheartedly—and then, there’d been the session of brooding over John, too—so I just said “Yes, lovely,” and she seemed satisfied. Well who knew whether it would ever develop into anything solid between her and Flossie? If only one could—could shake some sense into the blighter!

    Day Three we were slated for a lazy time, pottering around the town or down to the riverside, lunch not planned, wherever we fancied, and perhaps a pub dinner? It was a very pleasant day: hot, of course, but uneventful. Just as well, because the next day turned out to be anything but.

    Day Four. Destined to enter into Junior Drones folklore as “Asian-Moroccan-Italian Gor-May Lunch Day.” At—sigh—a winery. Bean and Bean Minor were thrilled. A different terroir! And a lot of googling then took place. Its website was, apparently, baffling, but a look at the list of wines it sold resulted in the discovery that they grew too many varieties, both whites (Pinot Gris, Sauvignon Blanc, Chardonnay) and reds (Merlot, Pinot Noir, Shiraz). Well Grannie and Oncle Fernand would both have thrown several fits, true. They also bought in from other local growers and were proud of the great variety of wines they made… Grimly the Bean demanded were they trying to set themselves up in opposition to old Kev Manning? Gulp! The years advertised on the website were all very recent, were they, Bean Minor? Mm. Well, perhaps they were just simple table wines? the Egg hazarded kindly. Presumably they were, the junior legume replied with horrible dryness.

    The restaurant had a lovely setting, right on the riverbank. But the food was even more mixed than the wines! Er, “fusion”, perhaps? Certainly the aforesaid Asian-Moroccan-Italian touches, plus the odd classic French influence. Many of the combos were just silly—incompatible flavours, or as Bean Minor put it, positively antipathetic. Some of the dishes’ names were also very silly, and we lapsed, alas, into hilarity.

    “Quail Veronique” (the E not acute). Bean Minor renamed it “Mrs Veronica QuaiI Sneered at by Mr Parsnip”, possibly not brilliant, but for a first attempt not too bad. The thing was, the bird was sitting on a bed of parsnip purée! “Au panais? Bon dieu!” The dish did include grapes and white wine but M. Escoffier, said to have invented the “Véronique” style for fillets of sole, would not have used tarragon nor, ye gods, put cream in the sauce. As for the parsnip— Le panais was not recognised by French cuisine in those days and in fact many persons of Grannie’s and Tante Élisabeth’s generation still refuse to accept it as an edible vegetable. Not to mention—tho the dazed Crumpet did—that lots of people don’t like that aniseed taste! Well quite.

    The quail formed part of the generous “Entree” course (no accent). There was also a “Main” course. Both overladen with seafood, which considering how very far we were from the ocean in any direction one cared to name…

    There were starters to share. The “dukkah” was rejected as “a dashed gritty thing” (Uncle Flossie). It came with something called “Caramelised Balsamic”—Bean Minor wincing horribly. Trelawney renamed the dish “Gritty Dukky Ballsed Up,” not elegant but deserved, one felt. So we all plumped for the duck liver pâté instead—if they could be persuaded to serve it without the redundant “caramelised onion”. What was this thing with caramelised this and that? groped Crumpy. We decided it must be the In Thing hereabouts. And the dish was renamed “Puddleducky” by Flossie, which somehow reduced all of us except the puzzled Mireille to helpless giggles. So he had to tell her all about Jemima Puddle-Duck as he helped her choose her main course…

    Uncle Flossie was keen on the eye fillet with its optional topping of a mixture of seafood in a garlic cream sauce (I kid you not) but Flossie managed to stop him. Refrigeration was all very well but that combo was instant cardiac arrest, Nunky! So he rejected the renamed “Eye Fillet, Cardiac Arrest Optional” and settled for joining Mr Lamont in the slow-cooked Moroccan lamb, even tho it did come with “jus”, tho noting that there was no indication of just how it was cooked or what cut it was, so it could be anything from a genuine tagine to a roast, hey? Er… He was right, by George! the Egg conceded, choking. Okay, “Secret Moroccan Lamb with Juss!” Crumpy declared, rubbing his hands. Mireille promptly collapsed in helpless giggles, nodding madly, causing Mr F. Nightingale, Esq., to look rather put out, hah, hah!

    In the end Mireille and I settled for the pasta dish, type of pasta unspecified, with roasted red peppers, sundried tomatoes, basil and bocconcini cheese, deciding that even with our share of the pâté that would leave us room for a dessert, possibly a yummy-sounding “Mango Passionfruit Panna Cotta”. Okay, Uncle Flossie, “Cooked Cream Mangled with Passion”—jolly good, actually!—and one would not look pointedly at Flossie as he decided he’d try it, too.

    Bean Minor of course elected himself to taste one of the wines we’d ordered. White, since he and Trelawney were having the pan-fried Atlantic salmon, though T. the Exact had noted dubiously that we were a long way from the Atlantic Ocean and Bean had promptly dubbed it “Well-Travelled Saumon Sauté.” We held our breath…

    Undistinguished, little nose, quite drinkable well chilled, was the tepid verdict. Phew! It could have been much, much worse. So Flossie, Mireille and I joined them in it.

    “I suppose,” the jolly Uncle F. concluded at the end of the beanfeast, after lapping up his Cooked Cream Mangled with Passion with enjoyment, “that they imagine they’re offering a challenge to that dashed fine other place.” He shook his handsome silvered head. “Misguided, what?”

    We agreed feelingly, the final verdict being Flossie’s: “One is tempted to damn them utterly for those extra bowls of chips the menu offers! But on the whole… Barring the B-plus desserts, I’d say A for effort, F-minus for flavour combos.”

    Quite. Oncle Albert’s hair would have stood on end. Actually so would M. Escoffier’s. Au panais? Bon dieu! Well the locals clearly wouldn’t have supported this verdict: the place was packed with eager eaters. But really—!

    And we left them to it and retreated outside, admiring the lovely setting. Pretty soon the two older gents found a secluded seat and the cigars were produced, ugh. Bean and Bean Minor of course were keen to forge off to inspect the winery, and Trelawney supported them, so Egg and Crumpy tolerantly agreed to do that, tho the yeasty one noted with a grin that there was no guarantee they could stop Bean Minor from cramming his boot into his speaking apparatus and one could only hope he dashed well did it in French, what?

    Er—yes. I decided that I didn’t have the energy for a winery inspection.

    By this time Flossie had attached himself firmly to Mireille’s arm and led her off in another direction entirely.

    “Don’t get lost, will you, Sister Bean? I’ll stay, if you like,” the Egg offered.

    “No thanks, Egg, I’ll be okay. You’d better go with them in case they start tasting too much. –As has happened heretofore.” I looked hard at the Bean and the Crumpet.

    This was undeniable. So the Egg replied: “Okay, if you’re sure? Er—perfectly safe here, y’know, old thing.”

    Of course I was sure! And off they went.

    I just wandered along admiring the setting on the riverbank, my Junior Drones boater carefully adjusted over my nose. It went well with the flimsy floral frock I was in, a relic of that long-ago visit to see them all at Oxford, how it had got into my packing when I had to leave John’s cottage in a hurry after his flat was bombed I had no idea. Oh, dear! If only… No well, I should stop thinking about “if only’s” and just enjoy the peace and the sunshine and the view of the placid river called Murray…

    “Hullo! Mel! Hullo! Mel!”

    Er… Tall, fair, very good-looking, about Bean’s age—

    Geoff Stephenson? Help! Tho I had known he’d intended heading out to Australia, um, last summer, it would have been. The Northern Hemisphere summer, that was. Not so very long back in terms of the calendar, but what with John’s flat being bombed and the Ovendens spiriting me away to Scotland for several weeks after the men from the MOD descended on the cottage and hauled John off to a Secret Location, and then the huge change of coming out all the way to Australia and meeting so many new people and…

    I just looked at him limply. He’d been at Marbledown, and it was some time after he’d left school that I’d met him: he’d turned up at the end of year cricket match that I’d only gone to because otherwise Bean Minor wouldn’t have had anybody in loco parentis for his last year at the putrid place. Oh yes: Geoff was a cricketer himself, that was right! Well we had had a brief fling but it had been understood, at least I jolly well hoped it had, that that was all it was. The last time I’d seen Geoff, in fact, he’d just looked in to say goodbye.

    It had been a bit of a fiasco. I was staying in Mum’s flat in London at the time. I’d been all gussied up, ready for an evening out with Christopher Eames (as mentioned, one of Oncle Albert’s clubs’ English backers): tall, slim, good-looking in a restrained way, in his forties, rather sophisticated. So when someone came to the door I’d naturally assumed it was him. No—Geoff Stephenson, complete with a large bunch of flowers. I was barely over that and was wondering how the Hell to get rid of him, when another someone tapped at the door. Oops, not Christopher. The very much older, very sophisticated Étienne de Beaupré. A wealthy wine-shipper pal of Oncle Fernand’s, whom I’d accompanied to the Derby that June and helped celebrate a win on the Derby. So to speak. With a large bunch of flowers. Étienne was amused, not annoyed, he’s that sort of gent, but poor Geoff was looking very red and upset. Then someone else came to the door! This time it was Christopher Eames. With a large bunch of flowers. He said something faintly sarcastic in the sort of upper-class drawl guaranteed to get up the nose of rather lately fledged lads like Geoff, and just at that moment who should appear behind him but John! Out of the blue. Literally: he was only just back after a long stint God-knew-where, completely uncontactable, on some stupid mission for the MOD which, incidentally, would soon result in his flat being bombed. He wasn’t phased, and nor was Étienne, but I could see that tho Christopher didn’t show it, underneath he was annoyed. And of course young Geoff was completely overset.

    I lost it and screamed at the lot of them to get out, but when the dust cleared the rest had scarpered but John hadn’t: he’s like that. I think—tho by that time I was so shattered that I don’t remember that bit very clearly—that he said something like “Been going it a bit?” in a very mild tone, and called them all chumps. And said one should always get a bit of experience under one’s belt. Anyway, that was the last time I saw Geoff, so why he should be looking so pleased to see me now—

    And none of it would ever have happened if John hadn’t disappeared for months and months and months, with these stupid automatic messages on his phone and email: “Not here at the moment, sorry. Email me and I’ll try to get back to you.” Likewise: “Sorry but I can't get back to you just now. All well. J.R.” Somewhat disheartening, yes. To cap it all the MOD had put a really helpful automatic message on his office email: “Colonel Raice is out of the office at present.” Like, he’d just popped down the corridor for a pee. Or he’d gone to lunch. Or he was at the other side of the world being shot at by horrible terrorists!

    Um, yes. I tried to pull myself together and smile at Geoff. And uttered weakly: “Hullo, Geoff. Fancy seeing you here.”

    “Fancy seeing you, more like!” he replied with a laugh. “I’ve been working with Uncle Lars, of course! But what on earth are you doing in Australia?”

    “On yes, your uncle builds bridges, doesn’t he?” I remembered. “Um…” Help! What could I say? Very, very limply I produced: “Well I don’t know if you remember that Bean, Michael, I mean, and Tommy were keen on coming out here to get to know the Australian viticultural scene? Michael’s working for a vineyard and Tommy’s starting a qualification in viticulture this year.”

    “Of course! The family interest!” he grinned. “You’re not by yourself, are you?” he added on a hopeful note.

    “No, there’s a whole crowd of us. Most of them have gone to suss out the vineyard. They’ll probably be ages,” I added without thinking.

    He looked very pleased, oops. And asked: “So are you staying in Mildura?”

    I admitted we were, but due to go back soon. He then got out of me that I was working at the vineyard’s cellar door and that it was in South Australia. Really? Uncle Lars was based in Adelaide! –Beaming smile. Oops, again. Then he tried to persuade me to come out with him on the real paddle steamer tomorrow but I had to admit that I wasn’t too good on boats. So he firmly got my contact details at Silvercreek out of me, took my arm, and proceeded to show me some of the prettier aspects of the restaurant’s grounds, ending up behind a secluded gum tree rather close.

    “I can’t believe it’s really you, Mel!” he admitted with a breathless laugh.

    “Me too neither,” I said feebly.

    “So—uh—you with anybody in particular, out here?”

    “N—”

    That did it, and he kissed me soundly. Unfortunately I reciprocated. Well he was very nice, and very good-looking—I’d forgotten, actually, just how attractive he was—and all the better for a light tan, and I had had rather a lot of that white wine, in fact Bean Minor had decided unanimously that I could finish the second bottle… And it had been a while since Devon Holmes, and as a matter of fact I had been holding back, rather, in the matter of lovely kind Webber because I would hate to hurt him… And I did know that Geoff, in spite of his relative youth, wasn't inexperienced with persons of the opposite sex. And it was a very warm day.

    “I’ll ring you at Silvercreek,” he promised, or threatened, holding me tightly against him and leaning his head on mine, rather easy to do, as he was a great deal taller.

    “Mm,” I foolishly replied.

    So he kissed me some more. Not half bad. Mmm…

    When we eventually wandered back towards the restaurant building his Uncle Lars surfaced. Just as tall, just as blond and good-looking, even more tanned, and much broader in the shoulders. Gosh, in fact. Rather what one imagined a Viking at his peak might have looked like. –They are of Scandinavian descent. Lars is Geoff’s mother’s brother: his parents were Swedish and emigrated to Australia. He seemed very pleased to meet me. I can’t say I didn’t reciprocate. Well Heavens, how often is it that one gets to meet a genuine Viking?

    That night the Egg managed to corner me in my motel room when Mireille was having a shower.

    “How much did you let on to that cricketing oik Stephenson?” he demanded grimly.

    “He isn’t an oik!”

    “How much?”

    “Um, only that we’re staying at… Silvercreek,” I ended feebly. “Well I had to say something!”

    “You bally idiot, Mel! What’s to stop him from emailing all his boring Hearty Old Marbledownian pals with the glad tidings?”

    “Um, I don’t see why he should… Anyway, why would the terrorists be monitoring their emails?”

    “Never mind that! It was bloody indiscreet! Who knows who else he may mention it to?”

    “I know, but I really don’t think it’s likely. I mean, we couldn’t be further away from London and—and everything.”

    “And John Raice,” he corrected in a hard voice.

    “Shut up! You should talk, with your putrid blonde bimbo!”

    He passed his hand over his hair. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mel, that has nothing to do with it. We agreed at the outset to be as discreet as possible about you being out here, and not to take unnecessary risks. –Didn’t we?””

    Er, not in those words, but on second thoughts I didn’t say so.

    “I couldn’t think how to get out of it, Egg,” I admitted glumly.

    He sighed. “No. How long is he out here for, anyway?”

    “Um, indefinitely, I think.”

    “Good, at least he won’t be heading home and blabbing all over Blighty,” he conceded heavily.

    Mireille then came out of the bathroom looking cautious, so he just wished us goodnight and slung his hook.

    “Don’t breathe a word!” I warned her.

    “If that means Ne dis rien, I think I must say something, Mel. Is it wise to encourage that nice Geoff, if you are not serious?”

    “Um, well, I don’t think he’s serious: he’s not much older than Bean, you know.”

    “Beut a young person also has feelings! –Non, non, ne pleure pas, Mel, mon chéri!” –as I burst into tears.

    When I’d more or less stopped she said sadly, passing me a box of tissues she’d apparently acquired in case: “I think they were wrong, and Mafeking has not been relieved after all.”

    I might have snapped back something to the effect that John and I had long since agreed that little bits on the side didn’t count, but I looked at her woebegone face and merely said heavily: “No. I don’t seem to be able to change. But when I’m with John it’s different.”

    “You must just be patient,” she said, patting my hand.

    Something like that.

    … Yes, well, I reflected, staring at the ceiling in the dark long after sweet, loving Mireille was fast asleep, as far as I was concerned Mafeking was certainly not relieved. There was still over a month to go before I was even supposed to try to contact John. And no knowing whether the dashed MOD would concede it was safe for him to come out of hiding by then, either!

    The bally siege continued, in short.

Next chapter:

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