No Escape

14

No Escape

March. An appropriate month, given the discovery that a certain person was as mad as the traditional M. hare. I mean, how potty can you get? This time it was the bally Bean’s boo-boo, not mine. Unbeknownst to the rest of us he’d told Oncle Fernand where he was headed and all about the course Bean Minor intended to do! And in fact had been keeping in touch ever since we reached Silvercreek, bar certain times when the technological nuisance instrument had been confiscated. Because, he admitted crossly, the uncle was interested, after all wine was his business— Et tout et tout.

    Well what happened was this. It had been a gloriously fine day, the véraison progressing nicely, Duck very optimistic about the harvest, actual dates being mentioned, and since Silvia had had a lunch cancellation by a group of eight there were extra quiches left over at the end of the day which Angie and Dane of the Barossa Brown and White Eggery for once didn’t require, so we scored them. And decided to have them with a nice big mixed salad, old Robbo having come up trumps with two enormous cartons of tomatoes, varied types and sizes, which could always be popped in the fridge but they never tasted as nice, did they? Words to that effect. Plus lots of pea sprouts from Judy’s garden not to say a bag of the crisp, sweet snow peas that had been allowed to develop instead of being strangled at B., so to speak, and a feisty fresh lettuce provided by Mrs Janine Stuart. Bean Minor, to Greg’s amusement, had appointed himself in charge of the salad dressing, so it was a classic vinaigrette. And we were just about to sit down to it, the quiches, as per orders, warmed up in the oven, Greg, not the microwave, when—

    “Um, in here,” said Webber’s voice on a sheepish note as the back door opened.

    “There you are, darlings! My God, I thought I’d never find you! It’s the back of beyond!”

    Bean Minor gasped: “Merde!” and dropped the salad servers on the floor, the Bean choked, and I just sat there with my mouth open. Pure dismay, yes.

    “Language, Tommy darling!” she said gaily, patting the minor legume on the cheek. “Goodness, you’re taller every time I see you! Mais embrasse-moi, mon chéri!”

    Numbly he awarded her a peck, English-style.

    Promptly she swooped upon him and gave him the full French treatment, one cheek, two cheek, one cheek again.

    “Mum!” choked the Bean, stumbling to his feet. “How did you find us?”

    “I asked your Uncle Fernand, silly one!” she trilled. “Come and give me a kiss, Michael darling! My, handsomer than ever!” she added with a gurgle, giving him the treatment.

    “But Oncle Fernand doesn’t know we’re here,” I croaked.

    “Of course he does, darling! Come along, give me a kiss! –Well he didn’t mention that you were here too, but of course one concluded that you must be, if that ass Britten had bumped into you in the town! –My dear, what a provincial dump!”

    “Um, we think it’s rather pretty,” I croaked, avoiding Greg’s eye.

    She shrugged. “I dare say. But what on earth are you doing here, Mel darling?”

    “Um, I thought I’d come with Michael and Tommy,” I croaked.

    “To keep an eye on us,” Bean Minor contributed hoarsely.

    Light laugh. “Tommy darling, talk about the blind leading the blind! Well never mind, now that you’re here you’ll all have to be on the show: human interest, you know, darlings! It’ll do my image no end of good; thank God you’ve all grown up so good-looking, the TV cameras will love you! –But I’m forgetting my manners: how frightful of me!”—Batting the heavily mascaraed lashes at poor Greg, who was sitting there dumbfounded.—“Do introduce me, Mel darling!”

    Numbly I fumbled through introductions. Ending numbly: “And that’s Webber Johnson.” –He was standing by the door looking extremely sheepish.

    “Of course! We’ve met!” she trilled. Awarding him one of those blinding don’t-see-you smiles that celebs specialise in. “The driver’s a total imbecile, one can’t imagine where they find these creatures, and he went absolutely the wrong way, and Webber rescued us, didn’t you?”

    “Sort of. They were halfway to ole Kev’s dump,” he admitted, shuffling a bit and grinning sheepishly. “Duck says we can pick the Cab. Sav.,” he added to Greg.

    “Eh? Yeah, I know. Um, siddown, um, yer ladyship,” he muttered, turning rather red. –Obviously never thought he’d have to use a dashed English title in his life, and good for him!

    “Patrizia, please, Greg: the handle’s too utterly tiresome,” she smiled. “Perhaps if I could use the little girls’ room first?”

    “Uh—yeah, ’course.”

    Bean was nearest the passage door. “I’ll show you the way,” he said heavily. “Come on.”

    They went out, allowing a numbed silence to prevail.

    Eventually I said grimly: “Who told Oncle Fernand, may I ask?”

    “Bean, I s’pose,” replied Bean Minor glumly. “Well it certainly wasn’t me!”

    “Um, I expect they’ll only have talked about grape stuff,” put in Trelawney uncomfortably.

    I took a deep breath.

    “Yeah, all right, Mel, we all know yer brother’s a twit,” said Greg hastily. “Oy, Webber!”

    He jumped. “Yeah?”

    “You gonna go on decorating that doorway or are ya gonna get out there and ask her poor bloody driver to come in?”

    “Aw—yeah. Right. Um, sorry,” he added sheepishly. “Only she said she was yer mum and, um… Yeah.” With this he disappeared.

    After a moment Greg ventured: “She always done up to the nines, is she?”

    Today it wasn’t even extreme, for her. Well it incorporated a huge hat that with a stretch of the imagination could be called an Australia-suitable sunhat, but for her, almost restrained. Bean Minor, however, replied simply: “Yes.”

    “Right. Perfume too, eh?” –Soused in it, he meant.

    “It’s Shalimar, by Guerlain,” said the minor legume glumly. “We’ll be smelling it for hours. Sorry, Greg.”

    “Yeah well, we can always turn the range-hood’s extractor fan on,” he said drily. “Out here to make some sort of TV thing, is she?”

    “Yes, and I am not going to be in it,” I announced grimly.

    “Um, it won’t be due to go to air for ages, you know,” Trelawney offered kindly. “I mean, that’s how they make them, isn’t it? They make a whole series, usually, don’t they?”

    “Well yeah, he’s got a point, Mel,” Greg agreed. “All the kerfuffle over your boyfriend’s flat will’ve blown over, love. You’ll be right.”

    “Added to which, you won’t even be here by the time it’s screened,” Bean Minor pointed out.

    Um, wouldn’t I? Um, no-o…

    “Besides, they may not want us on it,” he added comfortingly. “It’d help her steal that Britten chap’s thunder, wouldn’t it? He won’t want that: after all, it’s his show, not hers.”

    He had a point. I tried to smile, tho I wasn’t much cheered. “Mm.”

    “Wait and see,” Greg concluded firmly. “Yeah come in, mate!” he said cheerily, as Webber resurfaced with an awkward-looking chauffeur in black trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt, the dark navy tie loosened. “Fancy a cold one?”

    “Um, thanks mate, only she’d kill me,” he muttered, his eyes roaming uneasily round the room.

    “She’s gone to the bathroom: she’ll be ages, she’ll be redoing her paintwork,” said Bean Minor kindly.

    “Uh—yeah. Will she? Yeah. –Well yeah, mate, I wouldn’t mind a coldie, thanks. She’s been bending me ear all the way,” he disclosed.

    Greg looked dry. “Ya don’t say. Well—take a pew. –Oy, Webber! The fridge is over there, it hasn’t moved!”

    He jumped. “Aw—right.” And proceeded to distribute ice-cold cans.

    And by the time Mum reappeared, all spruced up and emitting a very strong pong of expensive French scent of the exotic and unnecessary kind, the driver, first name Brett, had downed his beer and was looking virtuous with a harmless glass of spring water in front of him.

    She was very kind about the quiches, praised the salad dressing, “Quite like dear old Marthe’s at the château” (it would be, that was who had taught the minor legume how to make it), and refused the ice cream which was on offer for pud with a girlish trill and the gratuitous information that one had to watch one’s figure! Which did not go over with Greg and Webber as well as she’d rather obviously intended, hah, hah.

    She did finally sling her hook. Greg wrung Brett’s hand rather hard as he bade him farewell. One could fully sympathise with the gesture: an Australian TV production company which was affiliated with the one in Blighty that did Dan Britten’s shows had provided him as her driver for the duration. Poor chap!

    “Limo, eh?” Silvercreek’s proprietor noted as it bumped its way down the dusty road.

    “Of course,” replied the Bean sourly.

    “Shut up, Bean, you’re in the doghouse for the next MILLENNIUM!” I shouted.

    Sighing, Greg put an arm round me. “Calm down, pet. He wasn’t to know yer French uncle would go and blab to her.”

    “No? Oncle Fernand’s the one that can’t stand up to Grannie,” I reminded him. “He’s putty in Mum’s hands and always was, as anyone but a chump like the Bean would have realised, if he’d bothered to think!”

    “She hardly ever rings anybody at the château, tho,” he muttered.

    “Just can it, Michael,” sighed Greg. “Crawl back into that there doghouse. Come on, Mel: what about a nice game of Snap, eh?” –He’d discovered recently how hopeless I was at English Scrabble—and even more so at Ludo.

    “She can’t do it, Greg,” sighed Bean Minor.

    “Eh?”

    “She gets hopelessly confused—no card sense at all. She’ll start saying ‘Snap’ when it’s two cards of the same colour,” he warned.

    “Isn’t that ‘Snap’?” I fumbled.

    “No!” they chorused.

    “Oh. I don’t think I will play, thanks, Greg. The boys all go too fast. They’re horribly competitive. I think I might go to bed.”

    “Okay, love. What say I bring you a brandy, eh?”

    “That’d be lovely,” I sighed. “Thanks awfully, Greg.”

    So he brought me a brandy and it did make me feel slightly better. But no amount of the distilled juice of the jolly old grape could fortify one against what was to come. Oh help.

    Yes, the scenes that followed were truly horrible. I shall just list them chronologically, because it’s impossible to sort them by horror-value: all were vile.

Scene 1. At The Seaside. A fairly obscure stretch of wide, beautiful beach on the coast of South Australia, not far out of the city, but one could have sworn one was in the wilderness. A haunted wilderness. That old house up there had been used for (insert name of unknown Australian epic), had it, Maurie? (Soundman.) Mm, very interesting. It was very early in the morning but nevertheless the site was ringed by security, keeping off non-existent gogglers and gawpers. In spite of the joint efforts of the Australian production company and the English production company, the feverish publicity had not generated any breathless interest locally. Not at six-thirty in the morning—no.

    The large van—standard in such scenarios—provided for Lady Patrizia’s use was completely unsatisfactory. Completely. The martyred Trisha was ordered to go and tell them. “Just GO, Trisha!”

    Looking very hangdog, she went.

    … “Well?”

    “Um, they say it’s what they always give the stars, Lady P.,” (all her own, that one: a trifle wince-making, yes) “and it’s the same as Nicole Kidman had!” (Unfortunately slightly breathless on this last name.)

    Mum does not like other celebs being mentioned in her presence, not to say cited as examples in her presence. Especially not female celebs. And most especially not female ones that are far, far more famous than her.

    Nasty little laugh. “I’m sure it is! It’s about that vintage!”

    Ouch.

    “You’ll just have to do something about it, Trisha. Find some flowers to brighten it up. –A decent production company would have provided some,” she added in a vicious aside. “Tho I’m sure it’s no more than one would have expected from Dan Britten’s producers! The man is a complete pseud! Did you see what he was wearing yesterday?”

    Er… Trisha and I looked blank. She thought Britten the bounder was marvellous and had been incautious enough to say so in Mum’s hearing, poor thing, and even I had to admit that he’d been looking rather dishy yesterday, that was, when he was in his civvies, so to speak, not the outfit the TV studio had dreamed up for him. Pale blue short-steeved knit shirt that showed off the figure rather nicely, paler blue jeans, ditto, all seams and flat, unused stitched pockets and tiny studs. With a plaited leather belt featuring a Western-style turquoise-studded silver buckle, not that one had looked that closely.

    “Tan suede shoes!” Mum produced awfully.

    Er… Trisha and I looked blank.

    “With pale blue? And jeans? Really!”

    Okay, tan suede shoes with pale blue and jeans were beyond the sartorial Pale.

    “Well go on, Trisha! What are you waiting for? –Go with her, Mel, make sure she doesn’t forget what she’s supposed to be doing. Go on!”

    Er… Trisha and I crept out, still blank.

    “What are we supposed to be doing, Mel, dear?” the poor thing quavered once the van’s door was safely shut behind us.

    “Um… I think looking for flowers to brighten up her van.”

    “Trailer, dear,” she corrected my usage. “It’s what the In-people say,” she added sadly.

    Okay. I’d thought that in English that meant something shabby on two wheels that one dragged behind a beat-up car, but never mind. Oh—probably it was American, the TV crowd tended to relentlessly copy any and all Americanisms, especially those originating from Hollywood, CA.

    Er… I surveyed the jolly old scene. Oddly enough it hadn’t sprouted flowers, no. In the foreground, sand dunes, not very high but sufficiently. Plus some very dry tufty fawn grass. In the background to the rear, only sky, the bank of sand efficiently blocking off anything else that might be lurking there, not that there had been anything that I’d noticed, and in the other direction the wide stretches of the sea, the shallows stretching out for a very long way. Um… Gulf St Vincent, that was it! And lots more wide sky.

    “No flowers. Tell you what, Trisha: let’s go and grab some brekkers!”

    Her jaw dropped in horror “We can’t do that!”

    “Why not? I’m starving!”

    “She’ll find out! She’ll be furious!” she hissed frantically.

    “Not if we tell her that we hunted everywhere for flowers and couldn’t find any. –I know! We’ll say we grabbed a car and went to the nearest shops only none of them are open yet! Come on!”

    She looked dubious but gave in, poor meek Trisha. So I managed to get some brekkers into her—she always looks half-starved and that is because she is. Mum doesn’t notice or care whether she eats, and is quite capable of sending her off on errands at mealtimes.

    Well it was breakfast in her terms, but better than an empty stomach. There was lots on offer: the crew were nearly all Aussies with the typical hearty appetites. Sausages, bacon, eggs, tinned spaghetti (not sure why), tinned baked beans (ditto), lashings of toast, giant packets of every reconstituted, rolled, crushed, flavoured and toasted cereal grain know to Messrs Kellogg and their ilk, full-cream milk, skim milk as well, almond milk (crumbs), plain yoghurt, flavoured yoghurt, tinned peaches (yes, fresh peaches were in season, ours not to reason why) and giant urns of brown fluid misnamed coffee and tea. Trisha had cornflakes, skim milk and a meagre spoonful of tinned peach slices. Plus a cup of dark orange-ish tea. Oh well.

    Quite some time later, after I’d crammed in that last banger on the assumption that TV filming here would be as inefficient and tedious as everywhere else in the world and it was unlikely we’d see another meal for something like eight hours, we returned to the van, sorry, trailer.

    “Where have you been?”

    “Looking for flowers for you, Mum. We grabbed a car in the end and went along to the nearest shops, but they aren’t open yet. Sorry. But I’ve told the director that you must have flowers. And we bumped into Dan in the”—cough, not mess tent, no—“bumped into Dan, so I mentioned it to him, too, and he was absolutely horrified and he’s phoning someone to say send some immediately.”

    “Oh. Well I suppose that’s something. –Trisha!”

    The poor woman jumped ten feet where she stood. “Yuh—yes, Patrizia, dear?”

    “Go and tell the wardrobe people I’m ready and to get over here immediately.”

    She vanished. The look of terrific relief on her face would have alerted anyone less totally self-absorbed than Mum to the fact that she was feeling guilty as Hell over something, but no.

    “Janyce!” –Depressed-looking hairdresser standing by waiting to be harangued further. “Do something about Mel’s hair, for God’s sake!”

    Well Janyce was clearly an expert: Mum’s own hair was looking superb, but I sincerely doubted that even she would manage to do anything much with my mop of recalcitrant dark blonde curls. But okay, so be it. I sat down on the chair and Janyce commenced battle…

    The verdict was: “Hopeless. But it’ll have to do. Just stand well back, dear.”

    And since two cowed ladies from the wardrobe van (possibly trailer) had now been ordered around sufficiently and she was arrayed in Outfit Number One for the first beach shots, we went off to it.

    Well it was bad. Very bad. Beachwear for the South. If one was living a hundred years ago along with Bertie W. and his chums, that was. Britten the bounder sporting an almost-genuine Panama hat and blazer plus white duck bags, mon Dieu. Mum horridly girlish: rather fly-away white skirts, large hat de rigueur, natch.

    They emanated huge cordiality as they jockeyed for prime position in front of the camera. He won. Then he introduced, at his most charming, So-and-So, Doctor So-and-So, Ph.D., who was studying the unique seahorses they had off the coast of South Australia!

    Oops. Seadragons, the cheery-looking but rather bewildered chap firmly corrected Mr Britten.

    Airy laugh. “Of course! Seadragons. Do tell us about them, (first name, uninvited)”.

    “Yeah. Um, well…” They weren’t usually found just off here (one could see the wheels going round behind Mr Britten’s smooth ivory B.: we’ll cut that bit), but… Much zoological detail, worthy, one felt, of an interview with Sir David A. himself. Wasted on the Britten gleaming smile. However, he did give with: “So interesting!”

    Then Mum muscled in. “Fascinating, Doctor So-and-So, or may I call you (first name)?”—Overwhelmingly charming smile, and complete avoidance of a meaning glance at Britten: one had to hand it to her, she was good.—“And do call me Patrizia.”

    He was an Australian: I sincerely doubted that he’d been going to call her anything else. Added to which it was obvious that he didn’t have a clue who she was!

    “Yeah, sure, Patrizia. –Yeah, they are fascinating, and of course their life-cycle—” He was off again. Both presenters’ eyes glazed over…

    Yes well. A great deal of that would end up on the cutting-room floor, but the director was terrifically pleased, the cameraman was pleased, the affable Maurie, the soundman, admitted that had been good-oh (also an Aussie), and the zoologist was assured that of course they’d be cutting in some of his wonderful underwater shots!

    “Um, yeah. So don’tcha wanna come down with me, then?” –Bewildered. Obviously had believed he was going to be talking to real nature lovers, poor chump.

    Mum pre-empted Britten, no sweat. “Darling boy,”—he’d have been in his late thirties: he blinked—“of course one would adore to, but time constraints, you know. Filming is so tedious, you would not believe! One is forever changing into and out of different outfits and having one’s hair fussed with,”—I avoided Trisha’s eye: we both knew that she demands a decent hairdresser and throws a tantrum if one isn’t at her beck and call for every instant of a shoot—“so time-consuming. And if one goes in the water one has to start all over again, seawater is just ruination to one’s hair!”

    Yes, well.

Scene 2. Encounter With An Older Gent. The travellers had returned from Tasmania, and we’d had a sorrowful goodbye scene, since Clive Lamont had to get back to London and Crumpy thought he’d better get back too: show some interest in Oncle Albert’s clubs, hey? Uncle Flossie, however, decided to stay on for a bit. With the inevitable result.

    “Not darling Sir Charles? Mel, why didn’t you say?”

    “I think she did, Mum, only we always call him Uncle Flossie,” put in Bean Minor.

    “Ridiculous boy!” she trilled. “We must absolutely get together! What’s his number? –Mel! What’s his number?”

    At this point her fell intent might have been foiled for all time, as I didn’t have it, but dashed Bean admitted he did. There was a certain suggestion of a pout as she relayed the intel that “darling Sir Charles” insisted on taking us all to dinner, but by the time the appointed hour rolled round she was—well, more or less reconciled. Not ready, no: too much to hope for.

    “She’s just finishing off her make-up!” gasped Trisha, opening the door of the hotel suite (at the telly company’s expense, yes).

    “Okay, we’ll just sit down for the next two hours,” said Bean Minor promptly.

    She smiled weakly.

    “I say, Trisha, did anyone warn her that it’ll still be dashed hot after dark, this time of year?” enquired the Bean.

    “Um, no-o… I don’t think so, Michael dear. Will it?” the faithful Sidekick fumbled. “Oh, dear… I’d better warn her not to wear anything too heavy, then.”

    “At your peril,” noted Bean Minor drily.

    Abso-bally-lutely! But I took pity on her. “I’ll do it, Trisha. Bean, why don’t you pour Trisha a nice cool drink?”

    “Is there any?”

    “If all else fails, ring Room Service,” I replied, vanishing into the holy of holies. Not there. She’d be closeted in the bathroom with the Face. Sighing, I sat down on the bed…

    “What? Rubbish, Mel, it’s March! That’s like September at home!”

    “That’s still very hot in South Australia, Mum. Though all the restaurants have air conditioning, of course.”

    “Well where is this place?”

    “Um, it’s supposed to be one of the restaurants of choice here… Um, well, it’s out of the city, up in the hills, but it’s really not a long drive.”—Unless with the Bean in charge taking the wrong road.—“Uncle Flossie was sure you’d like it,” I ended lamely.

    “Not if it’s anything like that appalling place Dan and I went to last night!”

    Did they? Mm… It went on for some time but I stopped listening.

    “Mel! Mel! Pay attention! This?”

    This what? Oh—peach creation she was holding up. Horribly fancy.

    “I suppose it’ll do as well as anything else.”

    “Really! Haven’t you any taste, child? One would never guess you’re my daughter!”

    Well no, apart from the horridly evident likeness. Most of the TV lot had already exclaimed and/or cooed over it, dash it.

    “Um, no. Well what else have you got?”

    She began hauling them out…

    Eventually the Bean poked his head in to say that he’d rung Uncle Flossie to warn him there’d be a delay but evidently the old boy had been expecting that and in fact had booked for an hour later than he’d told her. I burst out laughing, which did not go down too well, in fact I was ordered out, and Trisha was to get in there immediately.

    “She’s full of gin,” noted Bean Minor detachedly as the poor thing vanished.

    “Good.”

    “Well yeah, but she’ll be even more out of it than usual.”

    “Bean Minor, you don’t imagine Mum will notice, do you?”

    Trelawney choked, and Bean Minor smiled foolishly, admitting: “Not really, no.”

    No.

    The eventual outfit, thank God, was fervently admired by the elderly gent—whether truthfully or not it was impossible to tell. One might say it should have been him who went into the Diplomatic, not Flossie’s dad, his younger brother, but then during his time in Parliament he’d doubtless had a lot of practice at hiding his true feelings not to say just plain lying.

    And the faithful Brett being within summonsing distance of the hotel’s portico, we piled into the limo, and went.

    The dinner might have been good but frankly the spectacle of Mum flirting with Sir Flossie and him encouraging her was just so embarrassing that I have no memory whatsoever of what we ate. Or drank. Tho I vaguely recall there was plenty of the latter.

    “How’d it go?” asked Greg with a grin next morning.

    “I draw a veil,” I groaned, collapsing onto a kitchen chair.

    “That bad, eh? Flung herself at the old boy, did she?”

    Yes well, one had never thought there were many small flying insects on the amiable Greg Lewisham, had one? “Precisely,” I sighed.

    “So what’s next?”

    “Another beach scene, this time to get the ambiance. Read, show shots of females in swimsuits.”

    “Right. And presumably the Britten type in ’is Speedos? Think I’ll pass.”

    Somehow this dry remark made me feel much, much better, and I laughed, got up and dropped a kiss on his head. “You were never intending to go anyway! I’ll make some real coffee: want one?”

    “No thanks, Mel, gotta get on down to the winery: we’re expecting the pickers.”

    Well bother! After two years incarcerated at the château during the COVID pandemic with Grannie refusing utterly to let us join in the picking, I’d been looking forward to it. Trust Mum to turn up and spoil one’s pleasure. Tho one consolation: nothing was going to drag my siblings away from the vendange, so she’d have to be content with just me to victimise. Um—oh. Slight transport problem, here.

    “Um, Greg,” I said in rather a small voice, “would I be able to take the car into town?”

    “You got the right licence, pet?”

    No, so that was out. But old Robbo would be able to give me a lift: it was his day for going into town to take his daughter some veggies. Him and his dog, known in the neighbourhood as Stinker, the explanation being: “Well pongs a bit, yeah. But it’s his behaviour, more than that. Lessee… Well, recalcitrant ’ud be the polite word, I think.”

    “Oh. So what would be the not polite word?”

    Greg winked. “Bloody-minded.”

    At which I collapsed in giggles. And that was, alas, the last occasion for laughter that day.

Scene 3. At The Seaside Again. “Trisha,” I hissed, as our queenly star descended from her trailer in full panoply: “is she seriously going to wear that? For filming on an Australian beach?”

    “It is beachwear, dear,” the Sidekick replied nervously. “And it has been approved by the studio.”

    Okay, Lady Patrizia was going to appear on an Aussie beach in an outfit that would have done Vogue proud and that no sane person would have been seen dead in on a beach. Tho come to think of it, possibly de rigueur in the more exclusive sites around the Riviera or on um, Guadeloupe or, um, the Maldives? Anywhere very expensive with hot and cold running slaves at one’s beck and call to supply the iced water with the slices of lime that would be discarded. Ludicrous, in other words.

    And the scene proceeded. It was ostensibly her and Britten chatting about more Australian marine fauna (turtles and tropical fish, mainly, not found in these waters but, as we’d seen, hundreds of miles away around the Great Barrier Reef). However, that was not precisely what we got.

    … “No! Tell that man to get my best side!”

    Take fourteen.

    … “Stop! What’s that fool doing? The light’s in my eyes! Move that Goddamn lamp!”

    Some might have asked at this point why did they need lamps on a bright Australian day on a sparkling Australian beach but Trisha and I just silently shared our last bikkie from the packet I’d nicked from the mess tent earlier…

    Much later.

    Britten: (unscripted, well semi-scripted): “Well, Patrizia, it’s been a marvellous day, hasn’t it? And—”

    Mum (interrupting with his next line): “Yes, and we’ve seen so many wonderful things! The seas off the Australian coast are just so bounteous, don’t you think, darling?”

    Britten (angrily, not in script): “Cut! Look, Tony, I was supposed to say that!”

    Tony (the director, weakly): “Yes, but I think we’ll keep it in, old man: it sounded good—very natural, Patrizia.”

    Mum: (smirks).

    Britten: (pouts; scuffs at sand with expensive studio-provided white footwear).

    Mel: (to Trisha): “Par for the jolly old course, what?”

    Trisha: (very weakly indeed): “Oh, dear. They were supposed to cooperate…”

    Yes, well.

    It didn’t get better but then, one had no expectation of its doing so. And gee, I had to be in the next scene with Mum, which actually we should have filmed some two hours since. The one featuring bathing beauties, yes. Well sunbathing in this instance, possibly. Background: ambiance. It necessitated a change of garments, of course. Tho this was not entirely what held us up…

    “My God! That bloody outfit’s ruined my hair!”

    This was true.

    “Mel, go and find that hairdresser and get her here immediately!”

    I did, and the hair was redone. That, however, was by no means the end of it.

    … “I see. Well dear,”—acid-sweet—“you can run and tell that bloody Tony that I do not take orders from minions. If he wants me, he can bloody well tell me so in person.”

    Exit chastened minion.

    … “No, Tony. Absolutely not.”

    “But—”

    “I think if you consult my contract, darling,”—acid-sweet again, help!—“you will find that it specifies no sea-bathing. No sea-bathing.”

    Exit Tony, discomforted.

    “Um, Mum, it’s a lovely fine day and the sea will be quite warm, you know: it’s not deep off this co—”

    “Nonsense, darling! One does not knuckle under: that, my dear, was the thin end of the wedge!”

    Oh. Was it? Oh. Righty-ho. Jolly good. And it’d remain a mystery forever more why she didn’t want to have a dip in the lovely pellucid waters of the Gulf St Vincent.

    Um, and come to think of it if her contract says she doesn’t have to go in, what was all that the other day about seawater being ruination to one’s hair? –Forget it, forget it: that way madness lies.

    … “Trisha! TRISHA! –Where is the bloody woman?”

    I volunteered to go and look for her, only to be told that if she had one of her blessed migraines Mum didn’t want to set eyes on her, she could go back to the hotel—and remind her to take her pills, the idiot had taken some notion into her head that the pills were unnatural and she’d been taking herbal muck which did not work. Words to that effect. I hurried off hoping that someone had given Trisha alcohol and she was merely happily passed out somewhere, but no, she was discovered in the first-aid van (possibly trailer) with the sympathetic Charlene, the location nurse. Who, thank God, had given her some pills for the migraine that would really work. So I loaded her into the limo and Brett drove off with her. I then returned to the fray.

     … “No, darling, absolutely not. It will clash with my outfit! Go and tell Wardrobe to find you something that will tone.”

    Oh help. But I headed off to apologise to the luckless wardrobe ladies.

    … “I’m not going on that beach without a sun-umbrella!”

    Pause while sun-umbrella was sought and brought.

    “No! I don’t care how authentic they are, Tony, boring seagulls ruin an exotic shot, have you no nous?”

    Pause while minions endeavoured to get rid of seagulls.

    … “What do you mean, recline gracefully? I have never sprawled in my life! And I certainly have no intention of reclining on the sand! Get me a beach towel!”

    Pause while beach towel was sought and brought.

    … “No! TONY! He’s blocking me AGAIN!”

    Resentful glare from Britten but he was ordered to stop blocking her.

    Yes, well. We eventually got it done. In the finished product it would probably constitute less than two minutes’ screen time, I kid you not. But that’s show biz, 21st-century style. Or certainly the biz of fake Nature documentaries with two spoilt stars in them.

    Oddly enough that night I didn’t have bad dreams about the frightful competitiveness that had gone on all day. What I did dream about harked back to an earlier scene, or possibly, given the nature of telly filming, a later one: goodness only knew exactly when and how it would all be slotted in. Seadragons. Well of course one hadn’t actually been privileged to see the stock shots of these extraordinary sea creatures, so what my brain pictured was probably unlike the real ones, but yes, definitely seadragons. Or a seadragon.

    I was at the beach, with a chap. Goodness knows what beach. Or indeed, what chap. Was it my darling John? I tried very hard to see but couldn’t quite make him out, bother! …Ugh, it wasn’t the relentlessly smiling Dan Britten, was it? …Couldn't tell.

    Anyway this chap had, at least my dream brain supposed so, happily proposed some sort of um, waterskiing? Not on skis, no, but being towed while standing on a jolly old board, rather like those surfboards that the cheery Kieran Burns and his pal had had in Queensland (remember them?). But the chap definitely wasn’t Kieran: I was aware that he wasn’t “a dork”, to use his cousin’s phrase. Which possibly cut Britten out, too, my subconscious suggested. …Golly, it wasn’t Geoff Stephenson, was it? Um, tall, tanned… Even my dream self experienced a sort of dashed embarrassment at the thought: a trifle blush-making, as it were. But I still couldn’t make him out and was feeling very frustrated. (In the dream, that is: dreams do that sort of thing to one, especially after a long, hot day at the beach topped off by a large dinner of the kindly Mrs Janine Stuart’s lasagna and Greg Lewisham’s idea of “weak” Planter’s Punch—no such animal, right.)

    Well it has to be admitted that in real life nothing would manage to get me anywhere near any sort of board balanced on the water, especially not one being towed at speed behind a dashed boat! I leave that sort of thing strictly to the Hearty types. Sudden death on the water? Correct, Mélisande. Go to the top of the Not Making a Fool of Oneself in the Briny In Order to Compete with the Stronger Sex class.

    However, dreams apparently don’t take any notice of these common-sense decisions. Well this one certainly didn’t.

    The chap of course was in charge. (That bit was realistic, yes.) He was standing at the front of the thing, hanging onto the whatsit, possibly some sort of steering mechanism, and I was on behind, hanging onto him. Sportily, nay athletically, but in a very feminine way.

    Yes, well. In real life, supposing someone had hogtied me in order to get me onto the bally thing in the first place, I would have been plastered to the chap, screaming my head off with my eyes tight shut. However.

    It was a glorious day, the sea deep lapis lazuli, the sky doing its jolly old cerulean thing, and we sped along, kicking up spray (um, not quite the right phrase, never mind, it’ll do), the wind in our faces kind of thing, and I could almost taste the traditional salt spray on my lips when, glancing down to the waves (a thing that I would never have done, given those screwed-shut eyes and the abject terror), lo! What should I behold but a giant seadragon streaking along beside us, keeping us company! Greeny-yellowy, it was, just as the scientific chappie had described it. Um, don’t think it had any floaty bits, so maybe it wasn’t that sort, but there was also the other sort, which— Um, yes.

    And we sped along under the glowing sun in company with the gallant seadragon (why I decided it was gallant, goodness only knows) and I had just started to wonder again if the chap was John and was straining to see, when someone cried loudly: “Get out of the water! That seadragon’s going to put you in his lasagna!”

    And I woke up feeling terrified, my heart thumping.

    Well, bother!

    What in God’s name was that in aid of? Well, besides too much lasagna and far too much Planter’s Punch. And far too much Mum and Dan Britten, QED.

    Er… Had it been John? And did not being able to see if it was him indicate that I was still worrying about him? Or was it some sort of guilt thing because of the thing with Geoff, um, and Devon Holmes after the Melbourne Cup, too, come to think of it, not to mention assorted other bits of male fluff back in Blighty? Er, and Paris, actually. But I knew perfectly well that John’s attitude was that little bits on the side don’t count and that everyone needs to get some experience under their belt, so to speak.

    I got up, had a pee and a drink of water and decided that it must just have been that I was still worrying over John, because guess what dashed message was still (or once again) on his office email which I’d cunningly looked up on the free Wi-Fi at Uncle Flossie’s hotel:

    “Colonel Raice is out of the office at present.”

    Added to which my birthday was coming up very, very soon and there were several points there:

    (a) twenty-three is more than old enough to marry the chap you’ve been in love with for years;

    (b) the latter is not possible when the chap is dashed well incommunicado;

    (c) no-one had mentioned the fact of said anniversary, in fact not breathed a word;

    (d) and if I was still supposed to be out of touch all the Junior Drones back in Blighty wouldn’t be able to contact me, and I was jolly well sure they’d all remember!

    Well bother.

    … And why hadn’t John been in touch? It was a good six months now since the flat was bombed: why was the MOD still keeping him locked away in Parts Unknown? Was he even still alive?

    Well goodness. Under those circs., any girl is entitled to have a weird dream about a seadragon, isn’t she?

Next chapter:

https://theeggandfriendsdownunder-anovel.blogspot.com/2026/05/more-embarrassing-scenes.html