The Merry Month Of May

19

The Merry Month Of May

May. April had just ticked over into May and I was personing the bar, pouring glasses of Duck’s blended Silvercreek Shadow Glen for a middle-aged couple who didn’t look to me like buyers of whole dozens or even a bottle: “looking for freebies” written all over them, when Judy popped out from the kitchen on a wave of deliciously scented baking cupcakes to say that Webber wanted me on the phone.

    Immediately thinking: Accident to Bean? I rushed to the instrument, heart thumping.

    “Webber? Is anything the matter?”

    “Don’t think so, love, nah. Just a bloke looking for you. Seems okay, definitely not one of them lot that was after Whatsisname, so I’ll send ’im over: that okay?”

    “Yes of course. Thanks, Webber.” And I hung up, very relieved. Um, who could it be? Well probably just Geoff Stephenson. He had rung a couple of times but I’d claimed I was too busy at the Cellar Door to take the time to come into town. The awful thought did arise, What if it was the bounder Britten? But no, I was pretty sure that he and Mum were still over in the vast reaches of the west, having gone up to the very far north to film some special tide or some such. Which the Bean claimed had already been done by the Beeb and no-one would want to see dashed Britten’s version. Let alone with Mum standing in front of it blocking most of the view in some unlikely so-called beach get-up. Unquote.

    So I returned to the bar and the tasting. Very drinkable, wasn’t it? (Lying in my teeth.) It was popular as a table wine, but we did have a few bottles of this year left. (More than a slight understatement.)

    It was the female who spoke up, of course. I was used to this phenomenon now.

    “Oh, well… What do you think, Marshall?”

    Marshall—small, grey, meek, also a not uncommon phenomenon—began to open his mouth but as was customary in these circs. was forestalled.

    “Tho I don’t think we really need it… After all, we’re not really drinkers, are we?” –Silly titter.

    Marshall (meekly): “No, dear.”

    Female (to me): “No, I don’t think so. Not today. We might try a white. What do you think, Marshall?”

    Marshall (meekly): “You always like a white, dear.”

    Me (mendaciously): “This vintage has been very popular with our clients.” (Picking up the bottle of Shadow Road Reserve Bin Chardonnay set temptingly on the counter. Not the 2020 vintage, the one that Duck claimed was reserved to spare the wine-buying public, because it was the worst wine Mr Manning had ever produced. No, this was the 2021. Like its predecessor, over-oaked and far too sweet.)

    Female: “I suppose we could try it. –Just a drop for him, thank you, dear, he’s driving.” (Yes, well, a common leitmotif. This regardless of the fact that this was supposed to be a tasting. One was not supposed to swallow, and that there fake silver tankard was for spitting into. Usually bone-dry by the end of the day—yes.)

    Marshall (meekly, having drunk his portion): “What do you think, dear? You usually like Chardonnay.”

    Female (without enthusiasm): “I suppose it’s better than that awful stuff Glenys and Harry had the other day… Not as sour, anyway.”

    Marshall (meekly): “No, you’re right. I quite like it.” (Looking hopeful.)

    Female: “Ye-es… No, I don’t think so. –I don’t suppose you’re doing lunches, are you?” (To me. She’d already asked this.)

    Me: “Not during the week in May, madam. Weekends and public holidays only, I’m afraid. But we are serving morning and afternoon teas.”

    Female: (scornfully): “Good Heavens, dear, we don’t want wine for morning tea!”

    Me (no longer taken aback by this one, it was quite a popular leitmotif): “No, of course not, madam. Your choice of tea, coffee or herbal tea, and our cook’s delicious scones or cupcakes.”

    Female: “What’s the time, Marshall?”

    Marshall (meekly): “Going on ten to eleven, dear.”

    Female (resignedly): “Well I suppose if we don’t have any you’ll be complaining for the rest of the morning. –There’s a menu, is there?” (To me.)

    Me: “Yes, madam, the menus are on the tables.” (And on that good-sized blackboard two metres away, actually.) “Please sit anywhere you like.”

    Marshall (wistfully, looking over at the long windows): “There’s a lovely terrace, Colleen. We could go outside.”

    Female, now revealed as Colleen: “Don’t be silly, Marshall, it’s far too chilly to sit outside! Come along!”

    Marshall (lamely, to me): “Um, thank you for the tasting. Sorry we won’t be buying any today.”

    Colleen (already in the distance): “Don’t be silly, Marshall, it’s what they’re here for! Hurry up, or we’ll be here all day!”

    Heaven forbid. Not that most of them weren’t more or less like that.

    I leant heavily on the bar counter, wondering if maybe Judy would like to pop out and serve them, because I had a strong feeling that another instant of them might reduce me to screaming point. And it was fifty to one, no, make that a hundred to one, that the frightful Colleen would criticise Silvia’s yummy cupcakes and Judy’s superb scones. And if she opted for coffee, ask for a version which wasn’t on the menu. Silvia had decided to stick to cappuccino (the most popular), flat white and flat black. Another popular choice in SA was a “latte” which according to the dictionary just meant milk, but this was coffee with a lot of hot milk in it. They could have made it, but for reasons known only to the hospitality industry it required to be served in stupid little glasses which were guaranteed to burn the hand, and so had to be wrapped in folded paper napkins which never worked very well. Too fiddly, time-wasting, and Greg didn’t want to be let in for a personal injury suit, so he’d long since vetoed the things. A more exotic variety which one often saw in town was coffee with hazelnut flavouring, but Silvercreek didn’t do that either: according to Judy it was a young trendies’ thing and their clients wouldn’t want it. Jolly good, it sounded positively putrid!

    … Ah! And she’d probably demand skim milk! We’d had a few of those, by now. Much cheered by this brilliant thought, I was leaning on the counter smiling when the front door opened and a loud, cheery voice said: “Think this is it, mate. What they need is a nice big sign, stop ya driving right past it, eh? –Come on, Christine—you too, Ella. –Oy, Rod! Come on, mate, no-one’s gonna nick the Beamer in this neck of the woods!” And in surged a grinning, burly, red-cheeked chap, two well-fleshed, merry-faced, middle-aged women, all looking eager and ready to be pleased, and another burly middle-aged chap in an expensive-looking leather jacket. They fronted up to the counter, their substantial forms occupying most of it and more or less blocking the view of the door.

    “Gidday, love!” the first chap greeted me breezily. “Thought we’d do a bit of tasting. A mate recommended the Silvercreek Reserve Bin Shiraz: got any of that?”

    Crumbs. “The 2018 is sold out, I’m afraid, sir, but we do have a few dozen of the 2021 left. One of the best vintages ever, and will repay keeping.” –A formula which I had given up expecting to have to use.

    “Crikey!” said the other man with a laugh. “I’m not up for that, Steve-o! –Got a Shiraz that’s drinking now, have ya, love?”

    “There are several, sir,” I replied, picking up a bottle. “This is the 2020. Very drinkable, but not a great wine.”

    “That’ll do me! You can pour for the ladies too, thanks. –You’ll like it, Ella,” he assured one of them.

    “Fine,” I said, pouring. “The Reserve Bin is out the back, sir: I’ll just fetch you a bottle,” I said to the first chap.

    “Good-oh. –Bring it over to us, wouldja? Think the ladies’d like to sit down, we been sight-seeing all week. –Come on, girls, over here.” And he herded them all over to a table, what time I hurried out to the storage area.

    “Cripes,” was Brad’s reaction. “It’ll mean breaking the dozen, love.”

    “That’s okay, he seems really keen.”

    “Greg reckons it oughta be cellared for a few years yet.”

    “Mm. But I think he knows that, Brad, he struck me as a genuine taster.”

    “That’s a first!” he returned with a chuckle. “Just a mo’, Mel.” He retreated to the far regions of his empire.

    To resurface proudly with a bottle. Well he could read, he wasn’t that slow, but I did check the label just in case. Yes, “Silvercreek Reserve Bin Shiraz 2021”. Good!

    And I returned happily to the bar with it—

    What?

    I staggered. No! It couldn’t be!

    “Oops!” said the tall figure with a laugh, reaching over and grabbing the bottle as it dropped from my nerveless hand.

    “John! What are you doing here?” I gasped.

    “Looking for you, cuckoo,” he replied with a grin, setting the bottle neatly on the counter top. “Asked at the winery, and they sent me up here, and this friendly chap,” nodding over at the table of eager tasters, “kindly put me on the right track— Oh, Lor’! Don’t bawl, sweetheart!”

    “Why—didn’t—warn—me—you—wanker!” I sobbed.

    He made a face and came round to my side of the counter. “Couldn’t,” he said, putting his arms round me. “Bloody orders. It got a bit complicated. Come on, cheer up!”—Producing his usual freshly ironed, pristine handkerchief and pressing it into my hand.—“Blow your nose. It’s all okay, flap over. The SAS has polished off the last of the buggers. Well, long story, but they left fingerprints all over what was left of the flat, and the brass are quite sure it was their lot that the SAS took out. And by that time they’d turned their attention to other matters completely, nothing to do with me. So here I am!”

    Groggily I blew my nose and wiped my eyes. “So it was you in Canberra at the Dawn Service!”

    “Oh, Lor’. You saw that, did you? No, well, by that time they were pretty sure it was the blighters concerned that had been polished off, but it wasn’t finally confirmed, so I wasn’t allowed to contact anyone.”

    “But what on earth were you doing in Canberra?”

    “Hang on,” he said, picking up the bottle and opening it. He sniffed it. “Think I might have a drop of this, too!”

    With this he calmly grabbed a glass and the tankard which I’d forgotten to give the eager tasters and walked over to their table, saying to Number One chap: “Here you go, Steve.” And poured a glass for him, cool as a dashed cucumber!

    “Thanks, mate. –So that’s why you were looking for the place, eh?” –Jolly chuckle and huge wink. “Well good luck with it, mate!”

    “Thanks,” my beloved replied, grin, grin.

    He’d just come back to the bar when there was a loud: “Excuse ME!”

    Ooh, help! The frightful Colleen!

    “I’ll have to serve them, John: they want their morning teas! Sorry: elevenses to you!” I gasped.

    “Go right ahead. I’ll just make like a taster,” he said, pouring himself a glass of the Reserve Bin Shiraz.

    So I shot over to their table. Which was as far away from the counter as they could have got without actually removing the upturned chairs from the unused dining tables and sitting there instead. Which I wouldn’t have put past the frightful Colleen, actually. Tho she’d have made poor old Marshall do the actual lifting.

    “Can we have our morning tea, or is that too much to ask?”

    “I’m sorry. What would you like?’

    Was there a discount if one had scones and cupcakes?

    True, it wasn’t the first time that I’d received such an enquiry, but honestly! Eating twice as much didn’t make the stuff any cheaper to produce, did it?

    “I'm afraid the prices are fixed, madam.”

    Loud sniff. Then: “It’s all teabags, I suppose?”

    Only if one chose tea! “That’s right.” –We’d had that one before, too. Judy had suggested sarcastically that we could always offer to put the teabags in a teapot for them but much tho I’d have liked to say it, I refrained.

    Loud sniff. Then: “How strong are your cappuccinos?

    Oh, really! As strong as they came? Cunningly I replied: “It’s an Arabica bean, madam. Freshly ground.” (The latter untrue—tho presumably they had been freshly ground by the factory that had packed them in their bags.)

    “That sounds all right, Colleen, dear,” said the martyred Marshall meekly.

    Loud sniff, but she conceded: “I suppose it’ll do. He’ll have a flat white. And you’d better make it scones for two and cupcakes for one.”

    Marshall began: “Um, but I—” He met her eye, and subsided.

    “Right!” I said quickly. “One cappuccino, one flat white, scones for two, cupcakes for one.” And dashed out to the kitchen before she could change her bally mind.

    “It’s a couple. One cappuccino, one flat white, scones for two, cupcakes for one, please Silvia. –And guess what!” I burst out. “John’s here!’ Forthwith collapsing in tears, what a hopeless goop!

    Huge excitement! They sat me down at the kitchen table, Silvia taking charge of me while Judy took charge of the order. Then Silvia, very pink indeed, dashed out.

    To return with a grinning Colonel John Raice.

    “Oops, bawling again,” he said calmly, sitting down beside me and putting an arm round me. “Come on, cuckoo, it’s all okay.”

    “Yes,” I said, sniffing juicily. “’Course ’tis.” Tho a few more tears leaked out.

    Judy shot back in from the restaurant, panting. “Boy, she’s one of them, isn’t she? Asked me if the scones were fresh, the madam! –So this is the famous John, eh?”

    “Yes; isn’t it exciting!” beamed Silvia.

    “Mel darling, blow your nose and introduce me to your friends,” he said with a laugh in his voice.

    Ooh, help. “I’d forgotten you haven’t met them,” I said soggily, blowing. “This is Silvia Vickers, she’s the manager and head cook, and this is Judy Perrin, she’s her assistant. –And your scones are wonderful, Judy, and I hope that horrid Colleen woman chokes on them!”

    Judy was now shaking hands fervently with John, assuring him it was great to meet him at last. Help, how much had I said to the two of them? I didn’t think I’d mentioned him much at all.

    “Colleen, eh?” she said. “l always did hate that name. What’s that limp grey thing at the table with ’er?”

    At this John went off in roar of laughter. Ending by wiping his eyes and saying weakly: “My god, the woman’s a prize bitch, isn’t she, Judy? Are they often like that?”

    “All the time, eh Sil’?” the robust Judy replied, grinning. “Ya get used to them.”

    “Mm, I’m afraid so!” Silvia admitted, blushing and laughing. “But the nice ones always send a lovely message to the kitchen and thank whoever’s waiting on, don’t they, Judy?”

    “Yeah, few and far between, they do. –You’ve got some tasters out there, by the way, Mel.”

    “Ooh help! They’ll want more tastes!”

    “Not after they’ve tried that Reserve Bin Syrah,” John noted. “I mean, they will, of course! But they won’t want any other wines opened, guaranteed!”

    Silvia looked at me in dismay. “Mel dear, you didn’t— I mean, did they ask for it?”

    “Of course! Don’t worry: I’d never volunteer to open a bottle of the Reserve Bin for just anybody!”

    “No, of course not.” She smiled weakly.

    Judy was grinning. Now she said: “I’ll tell Brad to pop out there. He’s got no palate, of course, but at least he can read the labels.” And she hurried off.

    “So can I,” I noted. “I mean, I’m exactly the same. My male relations say I’ve got le palais d’un phacochère.”

    “The palate of a how much, darling?” croaked John.

    “Um, I forget the English word. It’s a very ugly South African animal, according to Bean. With um, long teeth, I think he said tusks, but not like an elephant. Teeth.”

    His shoulders shook. “Ugly with nasty long tusklike teeth? I think he meant a warthog!”

    “That was it.”

    “The palate of a— Surely not!” gasped Silvia.

    “Yes. Come to think of it, it was Oncle Fernand who said it first. I’m a disappointment to my family,” I explained.

    “On the French side, the LeBecs,” John added. “Tho I’m quite sure you’re not, darling!”

    “Well palate-wise, definitely. But I think Oncle Fernand’s quite fond of me, really. Grannie hates me, of course, but then she hates everybody. And Tante Élisabeth disapproves of me entirely. I can’t dress properly, I can’t speak properly and I have no idea of what’s due to the family’s position. –Well it was much worse in French but that’s the gist of it. But the Paris ones don’t mind what I’m like. Of course Oncle Albert would like it if I could appreciate good wine, but he doesn’t mind that I can’t.”

    “I should hope not!” cried Silvia, very partisan, bless her kind heart.

    “Isn’t there an old aunty in Paris on your Grannie’s side as well?” asked Judy.

    “Tante Émilie, yes. She’s lovely; I don’t know how she came to be Grannie’s sister. –Ooh, good!” I realised. “Now that they’ve let you out, John, I’ll be able to get in touch with her again! The poor old dear must be wondering what on earth’s happened to me, tho Oncle Albert did promise to tell her that I’d be out of touch for a while and not to worry about me.”

    “Did you say let him out?” croaked Judy, goggling at him.

    “Um, yes. Not jail.”

    John cleared his throat. “Sort of a Witness Protection thing, Judy. My London flat was bombed—Mel and I were down at my cottage at the time, thank God. So my bosses decided to get me out of circulation for a while.”

    “Good Heavens,” said Silvia very, very faintly. “Is this what you’ve been worrying about, Mel dear?”

    “Um, sort of. I couldn’t understand why they didn’t let him go sooner, you see.”

    “But what on Earth do you do?” croaked Judy. “Are you a sort of James Bond?”

    “Nothing so glamorous, Judy. Reading stuff in various Middle Eastern languages, mostly. But just for once they sent me out into, er, the field, to check out some information I’d come across.”

    “And the baddies found out who he was and blew his flat up,” I explained.

    “That’s it,” he agreed calmly.

    The two Silvercreek Cellar Door personnel were gaping at him.

    “Er—a one-off,” he said on a weak note. “I’ve told the bosses that’s it for the action stuff—getting too old for it, anyway. It’s a nice safe desk for me in future. Well, uh, after a stint out here and er, possibly one or two other places,” he ended, giving me a guilty look.

    “John Raice! What do you mean?” I cried.

    “Er, military attaché at one or two high commissions, darling, or maybe an embassy or two, that’s all. Just fill-in positions, nothing long-term: they’ve lost a chap—nothing drastic: the City beckoned, evidently, but it’s upset their schedule.”

    I was speechless.

    After a moment Judy said on a grim note: “Which embassies, exactly?”

    “Only our allies’!” he replied quickly. “Er, sorry, Judy: Britain’s allies; but Australia’s interests are pretty well aligned with ours, aren’t they?”

    “Ya reckon? Nearly half the country voted for being a republic in the last referendum, ya know,” the indomitable Judy replied.

    “Did they? Good for them. Well, the utmost respect for Her Late Majesty, y’know, but the rest of them are a poor lot, aren’t they?” he said to their astonished faces. “No well, they can’t be definite at this stage, but it could be Washington next.”

    “Well there’s enough madmen over there with guns and bombs or both, but I suppose you’d be safe enough at the British Embassy,” Judy allowed.

    “Yes of course! It won’t be like in that series with that lovely man with the blue eyes!” Silvia assured her quickly.

    “He’s got blue eyes,” I said in confusion.

    “Um, yes!” she agreed with a flustered laugh, going very pink. “Yeah—no, it was so complicated I couldn’t follow it at all, but I don’t think real ambassadors behave like that. –I mean, running all round Washington and driving his own car and things.”

    “And getting mixed up with a dollybird in his own office: that the one?” asked Judy.

    “Um, yes.”

    “I can promise you absolutely that I won’t get mixed up with any dollybirds, office or not!” said John with a grin. ‘’And Mel’ll keep me on the straight and narrow, won’t you, sweetheart?”

    “Yes. Besides, you’re not an ambassador.”

    “Er—no. Quite. I wonder, Silvia, if there’s some coffee going, might I have a cup?”

    At this—which I was quite, quite sure he’d said deliberately, he may not be an ambassador by trade but he’s a born manipulator—they both leapt to it. In summary, he could have anything at all. So as it was a beautiful mild May day, and they’d got John to admit he was starving, he’d come over from Canberra on this morning’s red-eye, the two of us ended up sitting on the terrace in the sun, eating hastily “rustled up” omelettes by Silvia and salads by Judy.

    And drinking Silvercreek Reserve Bin Shiraz (John: the eager Steve had finished the first bottle and had this one opened, bought the remains of the case, and ordered two dozen more) and Shadow Road Vineyard Melisande 2022 (me).

    The misguided chap had said: “What a touching gesture!” when he saw the latter’s bottle. However, when he tasted the liquid that proceeded from it, his pleasure was somewhat diminished, so to speak. “Mel, darling—” he began.

    “I know! No palate, remember?” I replied happily. “It’s got lots of bubbles, that’s what matters.”

    He picked up the bottle and looked at the label again. “I wouldn’t have believed,” he said after a moment, “that Chardonnay grapes could— I mean, they’re what go into Pouilly-Fuissé!”

    “That was pretty much Bean Minor’s reaction, too.”

    He put the bottle down, looking at me limply. “If that’s what you want to drink, sweetheart.”

    “’Course! Eat your nice omelette up before it gets cold, John.”

    “Er— I think I need fortification first.” He sipped the Silvercreek Reserve Bin Shiraz, and sighed pleasurably. “It’s good now, but give it a few years—”

    “Yes. The consensus was that they were idiots to sell it, they should have stowed the lot away in the cellar until the wine buffs were begging for it, holding out immense loads of moolah, but as Greg pointed out, he doesn’t make wine in order to have it stored away by dashed collectors and not drunk.”

    “Sound man,” he replied, grinning.

    “Yes.” I watched him anxiously but he did eat his omelette up, so I ate mine, noting: “You look thin, John; you’ve lost weight.”

    He made a face. “Months of incarceration; all there was to do was trot round the estate or use the exercise machines in the cellar.”

    “Estate?”

    “Um, it’s an old country house. I did a lot of running,” he said with a sigh. “No horses.”

    Well gee, that was good, because he rides like an idiot: what similar horsey idiots call “going for it.”

    The omelettes and salad were followed by coffee and cupcakes, which John congratulated the blushing Silvia on. Whether he was genuine or not, impossible to tell. Tho he’d certainly eaten them.

    Then he thought perhaps we might adjourn to a quiet spot? Those long blue eyes twinkling like anything.

    “Um, it depends whether they come back to the house for lunch, John… It’s not very private. I mean, Greg and Webber and Bean usually turn up. Bean Minor and Trelawney are at their university classes, of course.”

    “Uh—so young Trelawney’s still with you, is he?” he said, looking stunned.

    “Oh, crumbs!” I realised. “You won’t have caught up at all, will you?”

    “No. Well I rang Alan to find out where you were, but he merely explained that they’d got you out to Australia with the horses for safety’s sake, and you were staying out here at the vineyard. Tho I didn’t quite get what the connection was.”

    “Um, well,” I explained clearly, “the Bean knew Greg’s nephew at School—he’s an Aussie but his dad was in England for a bit with his job and then I think he had to go to Saudi Arabia or Dubai or one of those places. Anyway when he found out Bean was from a winemaking family but didn’t fancy working there with Grannie vetoing everything smacking even faintly of the 20th century let alone the 21st, he mentioned his Uncle Greg and Silvercreek, you see.”

    “More or less, darling! But what’s Tommy doing?”

    “A viticulture course, of course. It’s very big in SA, sorry, that means South Australia here. Run by the University of Adelaide only it’s a separate campus further out from the city. He did show me on the map but it was very confusing. Anyway Greg usually lets him take the car or the ute and he drops Trelawney off in time to catch the workers’ bus into town.”

    “Er—I see. So what is Trelawney doing, Mel?”

    “Engineering. He decided to come out with Bean Minor. Well he’s got nobody, really. The poor boy’s parents ignore his existence, John!”

    “Mm, you said so before, darling,” he murmured, smiling at me.

    As usual when he smiled my heart hammered wildly and my brain went totally fuzzy. “Did I? Um, yes.”

    “And Michael?”

    “What?”

    “What’s he up to, sweetheart?”

    “I just said.”

    “I don’t think so, Mel!” he said with a laugh in his voice.

    “Oh. Well he’s working with Greg and Duck and Webber, of course. Learning the ropes.”

    “Er… Hang on. Greg owns this place: right?”

    “Silvercreek. Yes,”

    “Got it. So Michael’s learning the winemaking business in South Australia from him!”

    “Yes, I said.”

    He grinned. “Something like that! Well jolly good show! Get him out of your blasted grandmother’s orbit, eh?”

    “Yes. And Tommy,” I said with a little sigh. “Bean and me were really, really worried about him, John. Because with his perfect palate she’d never let him go once she realised.”

    “Jesus, you mean she still doesn’t know?”

    “No.”

    He laughed. “Serve the old hag right!”

    “Yes. Well maybe,” I said cautiously, “she hasn’t got long to go, ’cos last we heard she wasn’t very well. That ass Bean has been in touch with Oncle Fernand all along, even tho Egg ordered him not to phone anyone, just to be on the safe side.”

    “I see. Well fingers crossed, eh? Tho I presume Tommy will want to finish his course, now he’s started?”

    “Yes, he’s really keen.”

    “Good. Er—tactless question, darling, but what happens to the Château LeBec after your Oncle Fernand pops off?”

    “Well the Château itself will come to putrid Gérard, that’s Oncle Fernand’s only son: he’s a useless playboy. They don’t have those entails like you have in England, like in Pride and Prejudice, but it’s all tied up like that: male primogeniture thing. But Oncle Fernand’s shares in the business will come to Bean and Bean Minor!” I finished, grinning.

    “Really? Good show!” he beamed.

    “Yes. Well—if Grannie’s obstinacy hasn’t managed to run it into the ground by then, but en principe, yes. I don’t think they’d be happy anywhere else, really, tho they’re having a lovely time here.”

    “Mm. Call of their roots too strong, eh?”

    “Yes. And it could be really lovely there, without Grannie.”

    “Uh-huh… Look, when the old bird does go, will Michael want to hive off back there straight away?”

    I made a face. “I don’t know, John. I haven’t been brave enough to ask him, actually. I’m hoping he’ll stay here until Bean Minor’s finished his course.”

    He nodded.

    I looked at him hopefully. “Could you have a word with him, do you think?”

    “I could sound him out tactfully, darling, yes; why not?” he said lightly. “Oh, good God, sweetheart! Don’t bawl about it!’

    “It’s—just,” I sobbed, “—didn’t want—Tommy—all alone!”

    “No. But realistically, he isn’t, is he? His pal Trelawney’s here, and I gather you’ve all been made very welcome by Greg. –What is his surname, by the way? Same as the nephew’s?”

    “Mm?” I replied soggily, wiping my eyes. “Oh—yes. Lewisham.”

    “Yes, well it sounds as if Tommy’s got plenty of support.”

    “Mm. Everybody’s been so kind to us, John! Well—you’ve met Silvia and Judy. The others are just as nice.”

    “Good. So shall we head off to the house, or what?”

    “Um,” I said, going rather pink, “my room’s not very private but I could ask Greg if we could have the loft over the garage. It’s where Egg and the frightful Anthea stayed over Christmas.”

    He stared at me. “Are you telling me Alan—Alan—had an extraneous bimbo out here?”

    Ooh help! Yes, I was telling him, and I’d meant never to breathe a word to anyone who knew Egg back in Blighty! “Um, yes, but there was nothing in it, and for Heaven’s sake don’t say anything to anyone about it, John!”

    “Shouldn’t dream of it!” he said, grinning like anything. “Just shows he’s not perfect after all, mm? As fallible as the rest of us. Just one of those little bits on the side that don’t count in the scheme of things, was it?”

    “Yes, it was exactly that,” I said in relief. “And I only had two and they meant nothing, honest!”

    “Of course not, darling,” he replied mildly. “Well, grab the car, then, and head for the house?”

    So we did that.

    Greg and the others did turn up for lunch, not five mins. after we got there, and there were hearty greetings and hearty thanks from John for looking after me, and of course we could use the loft, no worries!

    And since we’d already had our lunch we were able, once the Bean had been assured that all the blighters had been taken out by the SAS, and had got the admission that it had been John at the Dawn Service and the explanation thereof—with a lot of “I told you so’s”, of course—as I say, we finally were able to totter off to the loft. And its nice big bed.

    John sank onto the edge of it with a sigh. “Phew! And I suppose that there’ll have to be further explanations for Tommy!”

    “Yes.”

    “Thanks, darling!” he replied, shaking slightly. “Come here. –Just one rude question.”

    “Yes?” I said, hoping fervently that it was nothing to do with little bits on the side.

    “Whereabouts are you in your menstrual cycle?”

    Oof! Was that all! “Well actually my period only started on Anzac Day and that’s always the twenty-fuh—” He was kissing me madly.

    And so to bed.

    Well I can now report that months and months apart seem to be more than encouraging to a chap, jolly good show! In other words it was as good as ever. Oh, John!   

Next chapter:

https://theeggandfriendsdownunder-anovel.blogspot.com/2026/05/southern-hemisphere-hospitality.html