Old Acquaintances

13

Old Acquaintances

February. What happened next was definitely not my fault. None of it. Well not most of it. Possibly some of it was because our numbers had diminished greatly. Flossie and Mireille had both had to get back to work. True, they both worked for lawyers but even the legal holidays don’t go on forever. Especially not if one’s on the bottom rung of the pecking order, so to speak, and has only been allowed this long away as a very special concession. And Egg had admitted he’d better get back to the stables, and while he was at it get in touch with Oncle Albert and have a good look at the progress with the clubs: he didn’t want the old boy to think he’d lost interest in working for him.

    So we waved them off sadly.

    “Dash it,” Bean Minor concluded. “I thought we might have a meeting of the Junior Drones. Colas and Alysse and Carrie-Ann could’ve joined in on Zoom.”

    Mm, well possibly a nice idea in theory, but when it came down to cases exactly what did we have to report, the Egg in particular?

    “Er—don’t think Egg was too keen on the idea, old chap,” offered Crumpy in enfeebled tones.

    “No, of course he wasn’t, you little chump!” the Bean chimed in. “What was he going to report, that he spent all of Christmas closeted with the Anthea Infestation?”

    “Um, he could have skipped that bit,” the minor one replied lamely.

    “And just sat there mumchance while poor Carrie-Ann wondered what the Hell was up!”

    “Oh. No. Um, but he is still keen on the Junior Drones, isn’t he?”

    Hastily Crumpy assured him: “Of course he is! Well, making noises about having a dedicated Junior Drones room in the London club, eh? Notice on the door an’ all!”

    Bean Minor and Trelawney were both looking surprised, so I put in: “They missed that, Crumpy: that was the day that they had to head off and enrol officially for their courses and pay their fees.”

    “Oh—was it? Right. Well anyway, he’s still jolly keen. It would be rather fun, having a proper club room, what?”

    “Yes, jolly good!” the minor legume beamed. “I say, if it’s going to be ‘Le Club’, what language should the notice on the door be in?”

    Er…

    “We’re still the Junior Drones, it’s not really translatable, Bean Minor,” I ventured.

    His lips moved silently, but he then conceded: “Well one could, but I see what you mean. A name is a name!”

    Er—mm. Sometimes. “OTAN” versus “NATO” and etcetera apart. But I hurriedly agreed with him.

    And we concluded that we’d look forward to the new official Junior Drones club room!

    The two older gents were very keen to go on a gourmet tour round Tasmania, words to that effect, no mention of any possible scenic sights that might pop up, and rather naturally his father wanted to see a bit of Crumpy, so, ordering me sternly to behave myself, he took off with them. Bean was immersed in vintner stuff from dawn to dusk, as it were. The two younger lads were now completely engrossed in their own stuff, what with buying books for their courses and etcetera. Not to mention preparing for the start of term next month by fumbling their way around various campuses, because as it turned out there were three universities in Adelaide, not that it was a terribly big city but nevertheless, and then, persons wanting to do winey things were not based in the city in the main university buildings at all, but in one of the far-flung— Etcetera. And the generous Greg assured them they could borrow any of the vehicles except of course the people carrier which was going to be needed for the pickers before so very— Quite.

    Well yes, that left yours truly, didn’t it?

    Silvia was adamant that I mustn’t spend all my time working at the Cellar Door, I needed to have some time to myself: You pop off and enjoy yourself, dear, kind of thing. So on a glorious fine morning with a kind of whiteish look to the clear sky which, it had gradually penetrated to the old consciousness or bonce, was an indicator of a jolly hot day to come, Bean Minor having kindly suggested that I might like to come into town in the car with them, I went. And it was a pure coincidence that the evening before Geoff Stephenson had rung to say if I should happen to be in town, what about lunch?

    The lads having parked in the far-flung Entertainment Centre carpark that we’d used earlier, we took the eventual tram and, stiflingly airless tho it was, I decided I might stay on it till it got to the main square. So they hopped off outside the railway station-cum-casino in order to head for the University of Adelaide’s bookshop, and I stayed aboard while it swayed perilously round a sharp corner to the imminent danger of passing traffic, stray pedestrians and its passengers, and up the main street to the main square. Where I thankfully tottered off. Now, coincidentally on one side of this main square one discovers the Hilton hotel (as the two old chaps had already done, yes). And it just happened to be the appointed rendezvous spot because Geoff had thought it would be easy for me to find: we’d meet in the lobby bar. I was rather early so I went in and sat down on a comfortable sofa and watched the passing scene of fumblingly bewildered American tourists looking for non-existent bellboys, Japanese tourists, desperately blank but polite, and selfie-taking Chinese tourists failing to make themselves understood in what they presumably imagined to be English. No waiter surfaced to offer refreshment but having by now of course experienced a fair amount of Australia I wasn’t terribly surprised.

    What did surface was tall, very good-looking, with chiselled features, heavily-fringed blue eyes, softly waving glossy brown hair, and, as was revealed when he favoured my humble self with an eager smile, perfect teeth.

    “Hullo! Surely we’ve met before? Now don’t remind me—” Holding up an elegant but, as it were, manly hand.

    Er…

    “Village cricket comes to mind!” he said with a little laugh. “But I’m dashed if I can recall exactly—”

    Er… Actually the word “bounder” in Flossie Nightingale’s peerless accents came vividly to my mind but I couldn’t quite recall, either…

    Village cricket? Me? Uh…

    “You are English, aren’t you?” he said, crinkling up those heavily-fringed blue eyes in a way which I was quite sure many adoring females had long since assured him was devastatingly attractive. And that ten to one he’d practised for hours in front of his bathroom mirror until he got it exactly right.

    “Yes,” I admitted weakly. “I think we did once meet at a village cricket match in England…” It all began to come back to me. The boys had stigmatised him as a bounder, that was right! And wasn’t he something in telly? Um…

    Oh, help. I was pretty sure—

    “And surely— If I said ‘Lady Patrizia Fullarton-Browne’?” he ventured, doing the crinkling thing again.

    Omigod. He was in British telly, yes, and Mum had once done some putrid personal appearance thing on one of his putrid shows!

    Possibly I didn’t look as appalled as I felt, because he snapped his fingers and said gaily: “Got it! I was presenting the winners’ cup that day. You very kindly lent me your Swiss Army knife!”

    “Yes,” I agreed in a hollow voice. “Ages ago. You must have a very good visual memory.” –It had been when we were staying with Egg, the very first summer of the Junior Drones: the summer hols. before my last year at putrid Merrifield School and the older boys’ last year at Marbledown.

    “Well in this instance no effort required,” he replied on a coy and horridly meaningful note, “but it does rather go with the territory. –Dan Britten,” he said, holding out his hand and awarding me the smile. Not to say bending over me so as there was no escape.

    “I’m Mel Fullarton-Browne,” I admitted, shaking.

    “Patrizia’s daughter, then?” he smiled. “You have a great look of her.”

    “Mm.”

    “May I?” –Terrific charm.

    Well there was no sign of Geoff, so I said feebly: “Of course,” and the blighter sat down next to me on my sofa. Bother. I should have chosen an armchair. Bad tactics, Mélisande. Go to the bottom of the Fending off Egregious Chaps with Too-Charming Smiles class.

    “You’re here to meet Patrizia, are you, Mel?” he smiled. Not in the tones of one expecting the answer “No.”

    What?

    “I’m looking forward tremendously to doing the new show with her.”

    What?

    Well chaps like him don’t usually notice if the party of the second part is sitting there bally well gobsmacked, and so it was. He went on happily, words such as “unique fauna” and “incredible natural beauty” and “unspoiled wilderness” getting bandied about freely, but all I took in was the appalling horror of Mum being about to descend on Australia in the very near future, just when I was supposedly safely squirrelled away in the said Antipodean landmass. Her and her big mouth, yes. What in God’s name could I do?

    Ring Crumpy? What could he do, from the wilds of Tasmania’s little gourmet restaurants?

    Ring Bean? Then two of us could panic, well done, Sister Bean.

    Run? A tempting option. But wouldn’t it look a trifle conspicuous to hare at top speed out of the pleasant purlieus of this nice hotel? Added to which I was dashed sure that Dan (Bounder) Britten was as much of a Big Mouth as Mum herself.

    Oh, help.

    It had got to the stage of me agreeing to coffees in the desperate hope that the beverage might stimulate the leetle grr-ey cells or at least temporarily shut Mr Britten up while he sipped, when thank God, Geoff arrived.

    True, he didn’t look too pleased to see me incarcerated on a sofa with a handsome, well-dressed, eagerly smiling chap in possibly his late thirties but no more. But his face cleared when I bounced up and said in undisguised relief: “Geoff! There you are!” And held out both hands to him.

    He grinned and took them warmly in his. “Hi, Mel. Not late, am I?”

    “No, I was very early, I had to come into town with the boys. Shall we go? I’m starving. –Nice to see you, Dan,” I added, not meeting his eye.

    He got up, perforce. Nice manners? Well nice acquired manners, I rather thought, as clearer memories surfaced of Flossie’s reaction to that very pale blue, nicely aged cap he’d been wearing at that long-ago cricket match.

    “You too, Mel,” he agreed, doing the eye-crinkling thing. “Well—get together as soon as your mother gets here, mm?”

    Now when my darling John Raice says “Mm?” it is not deliberate, it’s natural to him. I was abso-bally-lutely positive that the usage was not Dan Britten’s native woodnotes wild, however.

    “Um, probably,” I managed. “’Bye.”

    “Looking forward to it, Mel! Ciao!”

    Well I think my fingers must have sunk right into poor Geoff’s arm as I grabbed him, but he bore up manfully and we were, thank God, out of there.

    Er—and round the corner to the hotel’s side bar, but at least out of range.

    “Wasn’t that that Dan Britten fellow who did those Rambles Round Britain things?” he said as we found a table. “And, um, some chat show, I think.”

    “Yes. A telly presenter,” I agreed. “Mum was on one of his shows, ages back. Not that I ever saw it, but the boys did.”

    “I see. And your mother’s due out here soon, is she?”

    “Don’t ask me, it’s the first I’ve heard about it.”

    He was eyeing me dubiously so I said: “She isn’t exactly a motherly mother, I think you might have gathered as much back in Blighty, Geoff.”

    “Um, well, some inkling, yes.”

    “Yes well, don’t let’s talk about her. Or him,” I added with a moue that was, alas, entirely deliberate. Certain persons of my acquaintance would have noted that I was getting worse at this point, and they wouldn’t have been wrong.

    “Rather a smarmy type, isn’t he?” the innocent Geoff replied with patent relief.

    “And a half!” I looked at the lunch menu. “What shall we order? It all looks yummy!”

    Brightening terrifically, he replied that his Uncle Lars recommended the warm beef salad.

    We had that. I think it was good, but nothing much registered, I just felt numb. Though several glassfuls of a chilled Chardonnay did their best.

    After that Geoff thought a stroll in the botanic gardens might be nice: these days one could take a tram all the way, they’d extended the line. And if it started to get too hot for me, there were some nice shady trees to sit under.

    We did that. The gardens were lovely but it did get rather hot, so Geoff navigated us competently to where a huge spreading deodar bent its great branches over a smooth green hillock of lawn, looking down upon a rather pleasant low stone building. Some sort of botanical research centre or had been originally or something, had it, Geoff? Mm. Well the scene was entirely peaceful, there were no screaming kids around, the school hols. being well and truly over, and under the spreading deodar tree there was a great pool of drenching icy shade!

    “This is wonderful,” I sighed.

    He grinned. “Pretty good, yeah.”

    And we lay back on the grass and relaxed, gazing blissfully up through our sunglasses into clear blue beyond the thick tracery of branches.

    After a while the name “deodar” began to ring strange bells…

    Oh. Oh, crumbs. John Raice’s silly story about a bear! He and his friend Ranjit, somewhere up in what was possibly the Himalayas but even more possibly the Hindu Kush, hid up a deodar tree from a bear—with some difficulty, because of the lack of lower branches. It must have been a very old tree, grown very tall: this one was big and wide but distinctly spreading rather than extremely tall. …Oh, dear. Little Bean Minor loved that story and John used to tell it so… self-deprecatingly, really, bless him. Very funny at the same time.

    “Anything up?” said Geoff in alarm as I blew my nose hard and mopped my eyes.

    “Not really. Just thinking about a story about deodars… It was a long time ago.”

    “A sad story, was it, Mel?” he asked cautiously.

    “No, it was funny, really. It’s just… Tommy was so little, last time we heard it. And now he’s so grown up and lordly,” I sighed.

    Help, Geoff was giving me that kindly smile that the sterner sex award the funny little woman! “They tend to do that.”

    I produced a weak smile. “Mm…”

    Well don’t ask me why at that point he raised himself on his elbow, leaned over and kissed me, but he did. And a trifle unfortunately I did not bear various kind friends’ strictures in mind but responded in kind. Well as I say: very good-looking, very nice… And there was bally well no-one else in the offing, was there?

    After which we somehow ended up in Uncle Lars’s flat, which wasn’t far away at all, and the said nunky not being in evidence (at a meeting in Sydney), took it from there…

    “You bally idiot, Mel!” shouted my elder sibling.

    “I couldn’t help—”

    “You COULD!” he shouted.

    “Bean, if you’d just listen—”

    “Shut up! You’re the bally end!”

    “Um, Stephenson’s a decent sort, I don’t think he’ll blab,” put in Trelawney nervously.

    The Bean rounded on him. “Shut up, Trelawney! You’re only saying that because of his dashed cricket!”

    Well this was probably true, and poor young Teddy subsided.

    “It is her fault that she went and flung herself at Stephenson,” noted Bean Minor judiciously, “but you can’t say it’s her fault that that Britten bounder turned up at the very same hotel.”

    “No, and if you’d just listen, Bean—”

    “Shut up! I don't want to hear another word!”

    “Just LISTEN!” I shouted. “The Britten bounder isn’t the worst of it!”

    “Not half!” the Bean retorted bitterly.

    “Just listen, Bean! It’s not just him: Mum’s coming out here as well!”

    The Lewisham sitting-room rang with silence.

    Finally the Bean managed: “What do you mean, Mum’s coming out?”

    “Yes! She’s coming out to make some putrid telly series with the awful bounder Britten, I’m trying to tell you, Bean! You know she can’t keep her mouth shut, and London’s packed with her ghastly pals: she’ll be blabbing that I’m out here before you can turn round, and what if the horrible terrorists get to hear of it?”

    “Uh—well, don’t see how they could, realistically,” he said weakly.

    “No,” Trelawney agreed bravely. “And it’s nearly six months since John’s flat was blown up, isn’t it? They’ve probably moved on to other targets by now.”

    The word “targets” was somewhat unfortunate, one felt. I glared. “Targets!”

    “Um, well yes,” the poor lad muttered.

    “Well that takes the bally biscuit!” said the Bean bitterly. “After all our efforts to stay under the radar! –And may I point out,” he added evilly, “that if you hadn’t made a date with dashed Stephenson you’d never have been in the ruddy hotel in the first place and never have bumped into the Britten bounder, and Mum would still not have an inkling where you are!”

    “Um, yes,” said Bean Minor uncomfortably. “It is sort of your fault, Mel.”

    “All RIGHT! It’s all my FAULT!” I screamed, bursting into tears and rushing out.

    It didn’t help that as I headed up the passage the kitchen door opened cautiously and Greg said round it: “The shouting over, is it? There’s homemade pizza tonight, if ya fancy it.”

    “No!” I choked, rushing off towards my room.

    In my wake I heard him say heavily to, presumably, Webber: “Always rather wanted a sister for Harrison, but I’m beginning to change me mind.”

    Honestly! Can’t one even be human?

    It took until around seven-thirty the next morning. We were all sitting glumly round the breakfast table, certain persons avoiding other persons’ eyes, as it were, when Bean Minor’s pocket rang.

    “That’ll be her,” said the Bean sourly.

    “Why me?” the poor lad asked plaintively.

    “Because my phone’s turned off, you dashed twit. You’d better answer it.”

    He glared but answered it, ostentatiously putting it on speaker-phone as he did so.

    “Tommy! Is that you, darling? I can’t get hold of anybody! Where on earth is Michael?”

    As she’d actually paused he was more or less forced to answer. “He’s here, Mum.”

    “What? What’s he doing at the school?”

    “I’ve left school, Mum!” he cried, turning puce.

    “What? Your grandfather will be furious, Tommy; how could you be so silly?”

    “He finished school last year, Mum!” cried the Bean angrily. “And horrible old Grandfather had stopped paying his fees anyway, it was Oncle Albert who paid last year’s! He’s at university this year!”

    “Is that you, Michael? Where in God’s name have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages! And where’s your sister? I’ve just had the strangest call from that frightful chap Dan Britten—well one has to keep in with these television personalities, of course, it keeps one’s image before the public, and the creature does have influence, so I agreed to do his show with him, but only on condition that they supply all the outfits, of course, but I ask you! Australia? For one thing, old Sir David’s done it to death, hasn’t he? I mean, what more can one show? Though I dare say one can get quite a decent book out of it and my publishers are keen.—NO! I won’t need a heavy coat, Trisha, are you MAD? Go away, you’re driving me insane!—My dear, she’s getting worse, I swear. It’s her age, of course: brain all over the show, not that there was much there in the first place.—Put that back in the wardrobe!—Michael! Are you listening to me? I said, where’s your sister?”

    Uh… Had she said that? The Bean fumbled, no wonder.

    “What? I can’t hear you, darling, speak up!—I tell you what, Trisha, he’ll be holding it flat instead of speaking into it nicely: they all do these days, it’s some inane fashion of the half-fledged. –Not my good shoes, you fool!—Michael! Are you listening? I can’t get hold of Mel and Dan Britten’s just told me an extraordinary story of bumping into her out in Australia, of all places!”

    My siblings looked at me frantically but as I was looking frantically at them nothing much eventuated.

    Finally Bean Minor ventured: “Um, he must’ve been mistaken, Mum.”

    “Is that you, Tommy? I hope you’re wrapping up warmly, dear, those colleges are always freezing. I don’t suppose you’ve seen your ghastly father, have you? And darling, if he asks you to dine with him in college, don’t: it’ll be all horrible port and old men backbiting. Make him take you to a decent restaurant, he can afford it, the miserable skinflint!”

    —“Ox-ford,” mouthed the Bean at this point, somewhat redundantly. Bean Minor, Trelawney and I nodded numbly.

    “Anyway darling, I said to him Don’t be silly, that’s impossible: what in God’s name would Mel be doing in a dump like Australia? –They wanted me to go on some frightful cooking show with an Australian telly chef; my dear, can you believe it? Everything smothered in chilli, of course, these people have no idea! One shudders to think what Maman would have said. Oh—that reminds me, darling. Fernand rang the other day to say that the old bat isn’t well. And something about that idiot Gérard risking his silly neck—luge, was it? Something ridiculous where they chuck themselves down mountain ice slides or some such. I said to him, If you’d put your foot down with that boy long since, Fernand, he wouldn’t have turned out such a spoilt, selfish brat. And it may be true that he’s been dating one of those frightful Royal girls but we all know what that side of the family’s like, don’t we? But of course he won’t put his foot down, he never does: soft as butter. I said Don’t complain to me about tes sacrés tonneaux, mon cher Fernand, there’s nothing I can do, when did the stubborn old bat ever listen to a word I say? You’re the major shareholder: just ignore her. But of course he won’t: completely spineless! And really, when you think what a martinet his horrible father was, one cannot imagine where he gets it from!—Trisha! Answer the door, that’ll be Sir G., that frightful Prosser’s finally given in and conceded he’s seen him here before and he’ll send him right up. Yes, it’s tonight, your wits are wandering again!—Darling boys, must run, but if you know where Mel is, do let me know, I’d really like to flatten the bumptious Britten! Bye-ee!”

    Tingling silence.

    After quite some time Greg noted drily: “Not that I meant to eavesdrop, but does your mum think you’re still in Britain?”

    “Yes,” the boys admitted.

    “She seems to have got the idea that Tommy must be up at Oxford,” added Trelawney. “I mean, that’s where his father is, so—”

    “Right. Sort that never listens to a word ya say, eh? Do we gather she’s headed this way, or have I got that wrong?”

    “No. I mean, you’re not wrong,” said the Bean sourly. “She is. Making some frightful telly series with that awful chap Dan Britten. Um, maybe you didn’t get his stuff out here. Rambles Round Britain—that was meant to be a pun, dunno if anybody got it—um, Dan Britten's Britain, and a vile chat show.”

    “With celebs,” Trelawney added helpfully. “Dan Britten Chats With, add name of celeb.”

    “Yes. Mum was on it: that’s how she met him,” Bean explained heavily.

    The vineyard owner looked at us in some amusement. “Got it. Modified rapture, eh?”

    “You said it!” we chorused gratefully.

    “Yeah. Well, you’ll be safe enough here, Mel. Just don’t traipse into town with yer latest admirer,” he concluded drily, getting up. “Come on, Michael, mad TV shows may come and go but here in Silvercreek it’s business as usual.”

    “Yes,” the Bean agreed gratefully. “You’ve no idea how great it is being here, Greg, where everyone’s sane!”

    Judging by the expression on the older chap’s face he had a very good idea, but he just nodded kindly, clapped him on the shoulder, and led the way out.

    … Okay, it wouldn’t be sensible to go into town. Of course, Geoff could always come out here. …Um, no. Better not, on the whole.

    But what was the betting that Dan Britten wouldn’t let the subject of yours truly drop, especially if Mum insisted he was mistaken? She’d be on the blower constantly. And we couldn’t go on indefinitely with our phones turned off, certainly not now that the lads’ courses were about to start. They might have important calls about changes of venue or some such. Or bookshops trying to get in touch to tell them their books had arrived: that sort of thing. Bother.

    Well what a rotten piece of luck! If only Geoff hadn’t chosen the Hilton for our rendezvous. Or bally Britten hadn’t been staying there. Or hadn’t recognised me. Though I do look horribly like a younger version of Mum, except for the weirdly light hazelish-greyish eyes that I get from Dad.

    … Mum coming out here? Ye gods!

    Well really all one could say was that Fate, once again, had it in for me.

Next chapter:

https://theeggandfriendsdownunder-anovel.blogspot.com/2026/05/no-escape.html