Now That April's Here

17

Now That April’s Here

April. Well of course in the British Commonwealth they don’t have poissons d’avril, they have April Fool’s Day, so Greg and Webber were a trifle surprised to see Bean, Bean Minor and me appearing at breakfast on the First sporting large fish shapes. The boys must have got hold of some chalk or similar, as the backs of their Tees were adorned with these curious French artefacts and on inspection (twist, twitch, pull, bother!) so was mine.

    “Poisson d’avril!” they chanted gleefully as I released my tortured Tee.

    Okay, chaps, just wait for it. I made toast, what time in their smug innocence they sat down at the kitchen table and waited to be servilely served…

    Fish-shaped toasts, adorned with scales artistically done in Vegemite!

    “Poissons d’avril!” I chanted gleefully.

    Greg at this point burst out laughing. “I geddit! It’s like an April Fool!”

    “Yes,” I admitted. “Except that in France we’d have a great big chocolate fish as well.”

    “Eh?”

    “Yes. Like about this long.” I held my hands about thirty centimetres apart. “Beautifully modelled. In Paris it’d be the, um, I think you’d call them the sweet shops, that would have them, but at the château it was just the village baker—I mean, he was a pâtissier and boulanger combined, really, and he did the chocolate fish as well.”

    “Clear as mud, Mel,” noted the Bean detachedly. “Honest; she’s not pulling your leg,” he assured our genial host.

    “Yeah well, tell me again when it’s gone twelve, and I may believe ya.” He looked at our blank faces. “Uh—ya don’t have that in France? I mean, if someone tries to play an April fool trick after twelve noon it’s them that’s the April Fool, see?”

    Not really, but we accepted his word for it, and Bean Minor recalled hazily that someone at School had once said something of the sort.

    Webber had been eating stolidly throughout, if grinning occasionally, too. Now he put in: “We have chocolate Easter eggs, not fish.”

    “A curious relic of the spring pagan rites of the pre-Christian era,” said the Bean kindly.

    “Thanks,” the poor chap replied feebly.

    “Like in England. They’re not bad,” Bean Minor conceded. “Mind you, the proportion of actual cacao in their so-called chocolate coatings—”

    “Yes. Shut up,” sighed Trelawney. “It’s all true about the chocolate fish, I’m afraid,” he said nicely to the Australians. “In our last year at School Mel and Michael tried to send us a big one from France. Michael emailed us a photo of it, only the parcel never arrived.”

    “Confiscated by Customs. Post-Brexit, you see,” the Bean explained grimly. “Part spite against the EU, part greed, we concluded, eh Mel?”

    “Yes,” I agreed.

    “Shit, they’re as bad as our mob!” cried Greg. Forthwith he and Webber both launched, antiphonally, as it were, into what we’d now realised were the standard Aussie horror tales about their Border Control officials with their big barrels of confiscated treats. You name it, the yummier the better. Chocolate, pâté de foie gras, dried Chinese dates, innocuous Chinese Moon cookies (? Okay, Moon cookies), harmless tins of Danish biscuits, ditto tinned herrings, cheese, cheese and more cheese, more chocolate—Swiss? The Swiss were the most hygienic nation on Earth, outstripping even the Dutch and the Japanese!—Yes, Swiss; and the very special genuine Scotch shortbread that a distant rellie of Webber’s had tried to bring in at enormous expense for her aged great-uncle who hailed from those parts but had never been able to afford a trip— Quite.

    “Next weekend, eh?” said Greg amiably. “Easter Friday’s the 7th this year. Well, my old Gran always reckoned it wasn’t nice to dish out the Easter eggs on the day of the Crucifixion, but like Michael says, eggs are hardly a Christian thing in any case. And us kids could never wait, of course. Not that Mum and Dad were churchgoers, anyway.”

    “So you have English-style chocolate Easter eggs. What about mince pies?” I ventured hazily.

    “No! That’s Christmas!” they all howled.

    And the Bean added heavily: “Go back to sleep again.”

    “I think she’s thinking of hot cross buns,” said Trelawney kindly.

    “That’s right! I knew it was some kind of pâtisserie!”

    “I wouldn’t say that English buns fall into the category, Mel, but you’re right, generically speaking,” Bean Minor decided kindly.

    “We’ll be having those all week if the girls are on form. Janine’ll bring some for lunch,” said Greg calmly. “You’ll see. And Silvia always lays them on down at the Cellar Door, too.”

    Webber swallowed the last dregs from his mug and got up. “Yeah. You’ll be sick of the sight of them by afternoon teatime.” With this he exited, grinning.

    “We had them at School,” said Trelawney on an uncertain note. “I don’t think one could get sick of them…”

    Yes well. Anything in the nature of a bun was, of course, manna from Heaven to the average schoolboy incarcerated in an English institution of learning, but Webber wasn’t far wrong. By the time Silvia’s afternoon tea customers had been served (now at the rates firmly set by the Egg, not as freebies or near-freebies) and Silvia, Judy, Brad and I all sat down in the kitchen to have ours, the sight of a plump, fresh hot cross bun had palled, rather. Even tho Judy assured us that they were home-made ones which did not, unlike the supermarket ones, have too much allspice in them.

    Which seemed a funny thing to say, but Bean Minor later kindly clarified it for me. She hadn’t meant all the spices: “allspice” was a single spice. Little dried berries, Mel. Marthe sometimes used it but Grannie didn’t like it. Toute-épice. Or sometimes piment jamaïque. Well in the olden days when it had been discovered by the Europeans they thought it combined the tastes of lots of other spices like cloves and cinnamon. –Mel! Les clous de girofle! La cannelle!

    Er… If he said so. Yes, okay, little chum, I was hopeless.

    “What do you imagine you’re going to feed John on?” the tactless sibling then demanded. “Ham or cheese sandwiches, like when we looked after him when we were still at School?”

    Had there been a spare hot cross bun to hand I would have hurled it at him. As it was, I merely screamed: “Shut up, you insensitive little beast, Tommy Fullarton-Browne!” and rushed off to my room, sobbing.

    … The poet who said that April was the cruellest month was dashed well spot-on. Where WAS he?

    More hot cross buns featured during the following week and of course over the Easter weekend, when the Silvercreek Cellar Door proved very popular indeed and we were run off our feet. And even the wine sales picked up. “Stocking up on the reds for the winter,” Greg discerned happily. Well the weather was still fine and mild but if he said so.

    Excellent tho Silvia’s and Judy’s baking was, by closing time on the Easter Monday I didn’t care if I never tasted toute-épice again. In fact I had a strong feeling that forever after it would bring back the memory of the agony of not knowing if John was safe or where on earth he was.

    Well April of course featured, along with the official Barossa Valley celebration of the vendange for the benefit of the day trippers, the Bean’s birthday. By this time Mum was reportedly in Western Australia filming patches of red earth and complaining about the red dust but frankly she wouldn’t have been invited anyway. And since late evening SA Time was the time for which Egg had scheduled an official Junior Drones meeting via Zoom, we had to have it.

    According to the minutes faithfully circulated by the Hon. Sec. it went like this:

MINUTES of Extraordinary GENERAL MEETING of the JUNIOR DRONES, Apr. 2023

Present: Egg. (A.) Ovenden, Hon. Chairperson; Flossie (J.) Nightingale, Hon. Sec.; Crumpet (L.) Lamont, Hon. Mem.; A. Johns, C.-A. Fletcher, Aux. Hon. Mems.

Via Zoom: M. LeBec, C. (N.) LeBec, Aux. Hon. Mems.; Bean (M.) Fullarton-Browne, Bean Minor (T.) Fullarton-Browne, Hon. Mems.; Sister Bean (M.) Fullarton Browne, Teddy (E.) Trelawney, Aux. Hon. Mems.

Apologies: Mr. C. Lamont, Sir Flossie (C.) Nightingale.

    The Minutes of the previous meeting were read and condemned to the customary chorus of Boos and the Hon. Sec. was formally thanked.

Order of Business:

(1) Proposal for full Hon. Membership of Teddy (E.) Trelawney.

The proposal was moved by Bean Minor Fullarton-Browne. Seconded: Sister Bean Fullarton-Browne (disallowed on the grounds of Auxiliariness); further seconded: M. LeBec (disallowed, ditto). Seconded: Crumpet Lamont. The proposal was put to the vote. Carried unanimously.

(2) Proposal of a vote of Congratters to Hon. Mem. Bean Fullarton-Browne on the Attainment of his 24th Natal Day.

The proposal was moved by Crumpet Lamont. Interjection (Hon. Sec.): Point of Order, Mr Chairperson! “Congratters” is not Standard English! The proposal should be disallowed on account of Non-Parliamentary Procedure! A certain rumpus then arose and the meeting was called to Order. The Hon. Chairperson then decreed that the Hon. Sec. could go and boil his head, correct in essence tho he might be. (Interjections from the floor: “Hear, hear!” “Rhubarb!” “Get off!” “Boo!” “Take him away!” “Off with his head!” “A la lanterne!”)

    The proposal being on the floor, a seconder was called for. Seconded: Sister Bean Fullarton-Browne (disallowed, see above.) A move from the floor was made to propose a vote of thanks to the said Sister Bean and the Hon. Chairperson called the meeting to Order. Bean Minor Fullarton-Browne then seconded the motion and it was put to the vote. Carried unanimously. C. LeBec then requesting a translation of the word “Congratters”, a short break was taken in order to forestall a certain measure of mayhem.

    The meeting then resumed, the Hon. Chairperson calling for a vote of Congratters to the said Bean Fullarton-Browne on his attainment of the said anniversary. All vote Aye, Junior Drones? The Ayes had it.

(3) Report by Hon. Chairperson and Hon. Mem. Crumpet Lamont on progress of “Le Club”, London.

Renovations at Le Club were reported to be going well. Cellar, kitchen, and conveniences and washrooms on all floors were now completed. Interjection (Sister Bean Fullarton-Browne): What colour are the bathrooms, Egg? I mean Mr Chairperson. The Aux. Hon. Mem. was reproved on account of Non-Parlt.ry Proc., and the report continued. Painting and plastering were now complete and those upstairs rooms designated as bedchambers were being wallpapered in the agreed patterns. Interjection (C.-A. Fletcher): Not all William Morris, don’t worry, Mel. Reply (Sister Bean Fullarton-Browne): Oh, good! Thanks, Carrie-Ann! The Aux. Hon. Mems. were reproved on account of Non-Parlt.ry Proc., and the report continued. Panelling was yet to be installed in the main gaming rooms. The floors were sound and appropriate floor coverings would be installed after all walls were done. Interjection (Bean Fullarton-Browne): That’s all very well, Egg, but what about the technical stuff? I mean, has the heating been okayed and all that? The Hon. Mem. was reproved on account of Non-Parlt.ry Proc., and the report continued. As reported on an earlier occasion the building’s infrastructure—heating, lighting and so forth—was sound and additional power points had been installed as needed and all official inspections duly carried out. The Hon. Mem. Crumpet Lamont had all the figures and the Hon. Chairperson yielded the floor to him. Certain small missiles were thrown and the meeting was called to Order. The Hon. Mem. reported that you chaps didn’t want to hear all this but expenditure to date was well within the projected figure. Hon. Mems. were then asked if they had any questions.

Question by Hon. Mem. Bean Minor Fullarton-Browne: That’s all very well, but what about the outside, Egg? Mr Chairperson, I mean. I mean. it was looking jolly shabby. Answer: The weather’s been putrid here, you ass, but the roof’s sound if that was what was worrying you.

Hon. Mem. Crumpet Lamont: There you are, then! I rest my case.

Hon. Chairperson: Crumpy, you haven’t stated a case, old man. –Order!

Hon. Mem. Bean Fullarton-Browne: Yes he has, Egg, I mean Mr Chairperson, his case is that the accounts are hunky-dory.

Aux. Hon. Mem. Sister Bean Fullarton-Browne: There you are, then: I vote we have a vote of thanks to Crumpy and Egg.

Hon. Chairperson: Order! Sister Bean, strictly speaking you haven’t got a vote, you’re only an Auxiliary Hon. Mem. –Order!

    The meeting having thus been called to Order, the Hon. Chairperson asked for a formal proposer and seconder for the vote of thanks. Proposed: Hon. Mem. Bean Fullarton-Browne. Seconded: Hon. Sec. Carried unanimously. Aux. Hon. Mem. C. LeBec (en français): Mais ce n’est pas logique, ça! The Aux. Hon. Mem. was called to Order and reminded in two languages that he always said that and as a matter of fact in this instance it was, so why (en anglais) didn’t he make a noise like a hoop and roll away?

(4) Report by Hon. Secretary and Aux. Hon. Mems. M. LeBec and C. LeBec on progress of “The Club”, Paris.

Renovations at The Club were reported to be going well. Cellar, kitchen, and conveniences and washrooms on all floors were now completed. Interjection (Sister Bean Fullarton-Browne): Did you actually go over there to have a look at it, Flossie? I mean Hon. Sec.. The Aux. Hon. Mem. was reproved on account of Non-Parlt.ry Proc., and the report continued. Personal inspection confirmed that painting and plastering were now complete and those upstairs rooms designated as bedchambers were being wallpapered in the agreed patterns. Panelling was yet to be installed in the main gaming rooms. The floors were sound and appropriate floor coverings would be installed after all walls were done. The building’s infrastructure—heating, lighting and so forth—was sound and all official inspections had duly been carried out. The Hon. Mem. Crumpet Lamont had all the figures and the Hon. Sec. yielded the floor to him. Certain small missiles were thrown and the meeting was called to Order. The Hon. Mem. reported that you chaps didn’t want to hear all this but expenditure to date was well within the projected figure and Oncle Albert was round there every day keeping a sharp eye on the blighters. The Hon. Chairperson then asked for a formal proposer and seconder for a vote of thanks to the reporters. Proposed: Hon. Mem. Bean Fullarton-Browne. Seconded: Hon. Mem. Bean Minor Fullarton-Browne. Carried unanimously. Hon. Mems. were then asked if they had any questions.

Question by Aux. Hon. Mem. Sister Bean Fullarton-Browne: That’s all very well, but does it look nice, Mireille?

Answer by M. LeBec: Yes, I think vairy nice, Mel. The panelling will be new, but it will look most English, just like a gentlemen’s club, tu sais?

Hon. Sec.: There you are, then. Didn’t you see those snaps we emailed to the Bean?

    A certain amount of mayhem then breaking out, the Hon. Chairperson called the meeting to Order. An informal move from the floor was made for a vote of condemnation of the Hon. Mem. Bean Fullarton-Browne on the grounds of dilatoriness and failure in his duty as an Hon. Mem., Junior Drones. Interjection (Teddy Trelawney): I say, that’s a bit hard, isn’t it? I mean, it has been the vendange here, you know: he’s had a lot on his mind. Further interjection: Hon. Sec.: On what passes for his mind. I believe the motion is on the floor, Mr Chairperson? Reply: Not really, Flossie, but we’ll take it as read. The motion being considered to be on the floor, the Hon. Chairperson then called formally for a proposer. Proposed: Hon. Mem. Crumpet Lamont. Seconded: Hon. Sec. All vote to condemn the Hon. Mem. Bean Fullarton-Browne? The Ayes had it. Comments arose from the floor, to wit: “Hear, hear!” “Rhubarb, rhubarb!” “Get off!” “Boo! Boo!” “Off with his head!” “A la lanterne!” The meeting was called to Order.

(5) Proposal by Hon. Mem. Crumpet Lamont that this meeting should adjourn for the customary jolly good cream tea at the Cosy Cottage Café. Interjection (C. LeBec): But we ’ave not heard of Bean’s birthday! Reply by Hon. Chairperson: The Aux. Hon. Mem. is out of order but don’t worry, Colas, they can tell us all about it after the meeting. The proposal was carried by unanimous acclaim from the floor, those members participating via Zoom abstaining. The Chairperson then apologised to the said members and explained that of course it was only the morning in England so it would be elevenses but it’d still be a cream tea. This apology/explanation was greeted by gales of giggles (Aux. Hon. Mems. M. LeBec and Sister Bean Fullarton-Browne) and a French expression of derision (Aux. Hon. Mem. C. LeBec). An informal proposal to scrag the latter the minute the Hon. Mems. got their mitts on him was carried by unanimous acclaim and an unnecessary chorus of “Hear, Hear!” “Rhubarb, rhubarb!” “Boo!” “Sit down!” and &c.

    Date of next meeting: to be determined.

 

    Well of course after the formal meeting the others had to hear all about Bean’s birthday, not to mention the superb cake Silvia had made for it. Trelawney reported unnecessarily but aggrievedly that Bean’s dashed Mater hadn’t shown up for it or even indicated she’d remembered it, but as this was abso-bally-lutely par for the course none of the Junior Drones were surprised, tho darling Mireille looked very distressed and told the birthday boy she was so sorry, and Alysse, who hadn’t said much so far, agreed with her, adding that she couldn’t imagine her own Mum and Dad forgetting her birthday. Carrie-Ann agreed that her Mum never forgot either, but pointed out sensibly that considering what our parents were like would we want Mum joining in? The reply being a fervent chorus of “No’s” from all F.-B. siblings.

    On the far side of the world they were all well, in spite of the putrid English weather on the one hand and the freezing April winds in Paris on the other. Well yes, Mireille and Colas admitted, they had seen some lilacs blooming, Mel, but terribly whipped by the wind. (En français, so Flossie helpfully translated for the rest of them, which did rather give rise to the jolly old speculation, just how many times had he got over to Paris to check out The Club and exactly how much of Mireille had he seen during these visits? Not to say how had he paid the fares, tho I suppose Uncle Flossie would have been happy to cough up. Not to say go with him, rather unfortunately.)

    Colas was very keen to hear about the vendange—of course he’d spent those two frightful years during the pandemic with us at the Château LeBec, so he’d absorbed  a fair bit about wine and viticulture—so we tolerantly let the Bean rattle on, after all one’s birthday comes but once a year. Then they all had to hear about the Cellar Door, and how old Mr Manning and Matt were doing. Crumpy was very glad to hear the boys were still making time to play some basketball with Matt. Of course! Did he imagine they’d stopped after he went home? He was about to apologise, dear old Crumpy, but I stopped him. Anybody who knew my siblings would have imagined precisely that. They began to object but on the far side of the world Mireille, Alysse and Carrie-Ann all collapsed in helpless giggles, nodding frantically, so that was that. Male siblings nil, girls and Crumpet fifteen!

    And with fervent good wishes to Greg from Egg and Crumpy, of course not forgetting Silvia, Judy, Janine, and Brad, and lots of love to Mr and Mrs Ovenden and dear old Sid and everyone at the Ovenden Stables from me, and to everyone at the Resto LeBec from all of us on this side of the world, we finally signed off or whatever it is one does with the dashed thing.

    And total silence reigned in Greg’s comfortable sitting-room.

    After quite some time I managed to say: “I think I’ll go to bed.”

    “Um, they are all okay, Mel,” said Trelawney valiantly.

    “Mm. Good-night, everyone. I’m glad you had a nice birthday, Bean, mon chéri.” And I tottered off.

    Well all I dreamed about that night was April in Paris with its usual piercing winds and rain squalls, but frankly that was quite bad enough. It was all so far away!

Next chapter:

https://theeggandfriendsdownunder-anovel.blogspot.com/2026/05/easter-hangovers.html