Aftermath

19

Aftermath

    Hill and Ben got Hattie, the wheelchair and a scowling Gordon safely into his flat. There was a lift, luckily. The block wasn’t a slum, just elderly, dark and poky. Ben went, with Hill’s fervent thanks, and that left the three of them, alone in Hill’s very basic flat.

    Gordon offered several conversational gambits, along the lines of: “Which is your room?” and: “You ’aven’t got any cats, ’ave yer?” and: “Your fridge is real small, innit?” and: “Where’s your washing-machine?” and: “’Aven’t yer got no videos or nuffink?” All of which were greeted with either ignore or “Shut up, no-one’s talking to you.” Finally he addressed Hattie directly, with: “’Ow’d yer break yer leg?”

    “It isn’t my leg, it’s a small bone in my ankle. Don’t ask me why they put so much plaster on it. Go to bed.”

    “There ain’t no bed for me!” he shouted angrily.

    “Don’t shout,” she said tiredly. “Hill can put some blankets or stuff on the floor. And if you haven’t got any spare blankets, Hill, he can sleep in his clothes, I don’t care.”

    “He’ll have to sleep in his clothes anyway. I don’t keep much stuff here.”

    “I could borrow one of your tee-shirts!”

    “You could shut up.”

    “Why can’t I even TALK?” he screamed, bursting into tears.

    Hill ignored this and Hattie, he was glad to see, did, too. “Come on, Hattie, you can have the bed.”

    “I can’t take your bed. And you need your sleep, what about work?” she said faintly.

    “It’s Saturday tomorrow. This is still only Friday, though I know it probably seems like Thursday of the week after next.”

    She smiled faintly. “Thursday always seemed a grey sort of day to me, too, when I had those IT support jobs.”

    “Of course. Let me wheel you through.”

    “You’ll have to, I can’t seem to make the wheels go, like you see on the Paralympics.”

    “No.” He wheeled her through, closing the door on the snivelling Gordon.

    “Is the front door locked?” asked Hattie fearfully.

    “You don’t think he— Yes, it is. Deadlock. The key’s in my pocket. There’s no back door.” Someone had parked her case neatly by the bed. Ben? He certainly couldn’t remember doing it. He put it on the bed. “Um, look, are you going to be able to manage in the bathroom? Transferring yourself to the loo and so forth?”

    “Um, yes,” she said, blushing. “I can hop.”

    “I’ll wheel you in,” said Hill with a smile. “Then you won’t have to hop too far, okay?”

    “Thanks. –I fell over at a temple,” she said abruptly.

    “In Japan?”

    “Yes. People were very kind. And Mr Watanabe insisted on paying for it all.”

    “The medical expenses? So I should hope!” He wheeled her into the bathroom. “Hang on, where’s your sponge bag?”

    It was in her case and the keys were in her handbag and she didn’t seem to think he didn’t oughta fossick in either of them. He had a feeling it wasn’t because of her Australian background, it was because she was Hattie, unique amongst women.

    When he’d given it to her he retired to the sitting-room, humming.

    “You don’t even CARE!” screamed Gordon, possibly apropos of the humming.

    “About you? No, you little sickener, I don’t.” The flat featured an elementary lobby which contained one cupboard and an elaborate set of brass wall hooks. He went out there and hauled out blankets, pillows and a sleeping-bag which he’d forgotten was in there. “When Hattie’s finished in the bathroom you can use it and then you can get into this sleeping-bag.”

    Gordon’s snivelling stopped miraculously. “Ooh! A sleeping-bag!”

    Hill shrugged and went out to the kitchen: Hattie looked as if she needed a warm drink.

    “Ooh! Bournevita! Ace!”

    “Come here,” said Hill grimly. He searched him ruthlessly. Gordon looked surprised but confined his protest to wriggling. The search yielded innumerable junk food wrappers, a bus pass in a plastic holder, a credit card belonging to a Mr S Kemp and which had expired eight months back, a small plastic, uh, possibly gnome or, uh, troll?—whatever—a small plastic car, a key ring featuring a giant pair of luminous green dice and no keys, the Swiss Army knife which Hill had once won for him, and 10 P.

    “Is this all you’ve got left? 10 P? According to your sister you started out with fifty quid! You’re not getting Bournevita or any other nourishment tonight, chum, and in fact you’ll be lucky to get fed for the next week.”

    “I’m nodda chum!” he screamed. “And you’re MEAN!”

    Hill ignored him.

    He screamed something else but Hill picked him up bodily, dumped him in the sitting-room and went back into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him.

    When he went back in with the Bournevita the kid was just sitting there sulking. Good. He tapped on the bedroom door and went in to her faint: “Come in.”

    “Is he still being bad?”

    “Yes,” said Hill, unable to stop smiling. She was sitting up in bed, plaiting the hair. “Forget him. I’m putting him to bed in about ten seconds. Thought you might like some Bournevita.”

    “Lovely. Thanks,” said Hattie with a sigh.

    He watched, smiling, as she sipped it.

    “Um, Hill—” she said, going very red.

    “Don’t talk.”

    “All right. But thank you.”

    “Any time.” He waited while she finished the drink, took the mug with a smile, and went over to the door. “Want the light out?”

    “Yes, please. –No, wait! Won’t you and Gordon have to come through to the bathroom?”

    “No, that’s what the second door in the lobby is for. Dunno why, in a one-bedroomed flat. For one’s delicately-minded visitors? It’s got several weird features. Oh—there’s a lock on your side. Want me to lock it so’s he can’t barge in on you?”

    “Um, yes, actually.”

    “Good show!” He did that. “Good-night, Hattie,” he said, returning to the main door and switching the light off.

    “Night-night,” she replied obediently.

    Hill closed the door, smiling.

    Gordon looked at him with a pout.

    “When ladies are in the bedroom we use the other bathroom door. This way.”

    “I don’t wanna—”

    Ignoring that, he dragged him out, opened the bathroom door and shoved him in. “Use it!” After a moment he added: “I’m right out here, Gordon, so I’ll know if you don’t go. That other door’s locked, by the way.”

    “You’re HORRIBLE!” he shouted.

    “Oh, I hope so.”

    Silence emanated from the bathroom—Hill could only hope it was a baffled silence.

    He did go, and actually washed his hands afterwards. That or he’d craftily poured water from the tooth-glass— Oh, who cared? Let him burst—or alternatively, piss in that sleeping-bag, Hill had forgotten he owned the thing in any case.

    “Right, get into that sleeping-bag and stay in it while I use the bathroom.”

    “Where are you gonna sleep?” he said sulkily.

    “On the couch. No talking.”

    Scowling, Gordon got into the sleeping-bag on the hideous rug before the revolting couch.

    He was still in it when Hill returned, so he chucked his clothes at a chair and got into a pair of pyjamas which fortunately lived in the cupboard in the lobby—there was almost no storage space in the flat and the bedroom wasn’t big enough for anything but one tiny chest of drawers and one of those wardrobes in which one’s suits hang at an angle because the bloody thing isn’t wide enough to accommodate the average suit jacket designed for the average human shoulders.

    “Why can’t I ’ave a pair of your pyjamas?”

    “Gordon, shut up. You’re in disgrace.” He turned the main light out, stepped over him carefully, got onto the couch and pulled the blankets up, then having to disturb them in order to turn out the lamp.

    “Good-night,” said a very small voice into the dark.

    Hill smiled to himself. “Good-night.”

    He hadn’t thought he’d sleep, with Hattie in the flat, but he must have gone out like a light, because it was broad daylight and Gordon was sitting up in the sleeping-bag, looking at him with a mixture of hope and what he sincerely trusted was fear, rotten little toad.

    “It’s morning.”

    “Yes. Good morning, Gordon.”

    Gordon looked puzzled.

    “When someone says good morning to you, the correct thing is to reply ‘Good morning’,” said Hill. Well—starting as he meant to go on, yes, but he wasn’t examining the implications of that one too closely as yet. “Especially if it’s your host who’s addressing you.”

    “Good morning,” he said blankly.

    “Have you had a piss yet? No? Then go, please.”

    “Are you gonna go?” he replied suspiciously.

    “I am human. –Yes! After you, you’re the guest! Go!”

    Gordon went.

    Hill came back from the bathroom in the sweaty running clothes that lived more or less permanently in the laundry basket in there to find the sitting-room empty. He had a panic, but the kid was in the kitchen, looking in the fridge.

    “Leave my fridge alone, thanks.”

    “You ’aven’t got nuffink,” he replied with a glare.

    “No.”

    “What are we gonna have for breakfast?”

    “Ssh! You’ll wake Hattie up! It’s not time for breakfast yet, it’s time for a run.”

    “Go on, then,” he said sulkily.

    “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Gordon,” said Hill very drily indeed. “In this flat, chaps get up in the morning and go for a healthy run before breakfast.”

    “I’m nodda chap!” he replied with loathing.

    “Are you a lady with a broken ankle? Then you’re a chap. Come on.”

    He pouted, he glared, he shambled, but he came.

    Hill took his usual route, not mentioning that he usually did the circuit five times. Or ten, if he was feeling really desperate about Hat— Never mind, today she was in his flat and the sun was shining and everything in the garden was luverly! Actually the sun was trying half-heartedly to come out from behind a lot of grey murk and the blocks of elderly flats the district featured didn’t go in for gardens—though Kitchener Terrace, even though most of its houses were converted into flats long since, was an exception.

    On the way the usual sights were seen. Seriously Jogging Thin Dark Girl with Walkman. Mr Pork-Pie-Hat-and-Labrador, walking the Labrador. Seriously Jogging Redhead with No Tits. Half-Hearted Green-Tee Jogger with Overweight Retriever—it was half-hearted, too. Mrs Manton with Pompadour Percival.

    “Good morning, Mrs Manton! How’s Percy?”

    “Good morning, Major Tarlington! We’re very well, aren’t we, Percy diddums? Sit! Yes, good boy! And who’s this, may we ask?”

    “This is a friend, Gordon Broadbent. Gordon, this is Mrs Manton.”

    “’Ullo,” he said cautiously.

    “Good morning, Gordon! How lovely to meet you! So you’re staying with Major Tarlington, are you, dear? Isn’t that nice! Well, we mustn’t hold you menfolk up: standing around won’t do those muscles any good, will it? And Percy wants his brekkums, don’t you, diddums? Yes: good boy! Bye-bye for now! Walkies! Heel! Good boy!”

    Gordon turned to watch them suspiciously as they headed on down the road. “She talks to ’er dog a lot.”

    “Yes, she gives him the right commands: he’s been to Obedience School, you see.”

    “Hah, hah!” he said crossly.

    “Uh—no, truly, Gordon,” said Hill weakly. “That’s what they call a training course for dogs. To, uh, make them obey their owners.”

    “Like when she says ‘Sit,’ it’ll sit?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “So what’s ’eel?”

    “See how it’s walking nicely just, um, by her leg?”

    “Kind of behind ’er.”

    “Exactly. That’s ‘Heel;’ keeping to heel, you see?”

    “Yeah. So that dog, it understands words.”

    “A few words, yes. That and the tone of the owner’s voice when she says them.”

    “Funny-looking, innit?”

    “Uh—it’s what they call a giant poodle, Gordon. They often have white fur.”

    “It’s ’ad a perm, right?” he said confidently.

    Jesus! Well, growing up with a mum who did full body waxing and manicures, and spending his afternoons with a gay hairdresser: that was really quite a logical conclusion. “No, its fur’s naturally curly. It does look like a perm, doesn’t it?”

    “Yeah,” he said gratefully.

    “Come on, we go this way.”

    Gordon jogged on slowly at his side but after a moment offered: “’Tis quite giant, I s’pose.”

    “Percy? Yes, they’re much bigger than the usual poodles.”

    “Right.”

    They jogged on. Seriously Jogging Thin Dark Chap with Walkman. Seriously Jogging Grey-Tracksuit Brunette. Glum Fairisle Jumper with Beagle.

    “Wossat?”

    “Eh? The dog? A beagle. Like Snoopy.”

    “’E don’t look like that!”

    “He’s supposed to be a beagle, though.”

    Gordon jogged backwards, watching the beagle. “Nuffink like ’im!”

    They jogged on. Seriously Jogging Thinning Blond Chap with Walkman. Where was his mate, Seriously Jogging Bald Chap in Shorts? Down with the bot? They jogged on…

    “Are we—there—yet?” he gasped.

    Hill stopped abruptly. “No. Sorry, Gordon, forgot your legs were shorter than mine.”

    “No—problem!” he gasped. He panted. “Are we there yet?”

    “Er—not quite. I mean, I usually do the circuit. We’ll end up back at the flats.”

    “Right,” he said, as Black Adidas with White Trim dashed passed them. “Adidas.”

    “Yes. If he’s on time,” he said, squinting at his watch, “we’ll see Nike in about five minutes from now.”

    They jogged on… “There!” shouted Gordon, pointing across the road. “Nike!”

    “That’s him,” agreed Hill.

    “Why ’aven’t you got no posh running gear?”

    “Because I believe the purpose of running is getting fit, not wearing posh running gear. Or put it another way, I don’t want to look like a tit with ads for Nike or Adidas all over me.”

    Gordon frowned over it. “Well, which?” he finally produced.

    “Both!” said Hill with a laugh. “Come on, got the breath to race me down to the corner of Kitchener Terrace?”

    He didn’t, but he gave it a go anyway. Hill didn’t let him win: he hadn’t forgiven his disgraceful behaviour to that extent—or he didn’t want him to think he had. Added to which, jogging at a pace Gordon could cope with was beginning to make him feel he was in a straitjacket.

    “Which—way?” he gasped.

    “Get your breath back first. Then it’s along Kitchener Terrace—with luck we’ll see the collie, Camel-Hair Duffel Coat usually walks it round about now—and then back up Haig Street and that takes us into our street again.”

    “Gotcha!” he gasped.

    They jogged—very slowly—on. “Cor! That it?”

    “Yes, that’s the collie: beautiful dog, isn’t it?”

    “Cor! It’s a Lassie!”

    Good God, were the kids still watching— “Yeah, Lassie was a collie,” said Hill weakly.

    They jogged on. Seriously Jogging Thin Dark Girl with No Tits in Red Tee with Walkman. Mr Pork-Pie-Hat-and-Labrador, walking the—

    “’Ere! We seen them before!” he screeched, coming to a dead halt.

    “Yes, they go round in a circle.”

    “What sort of dog’s that?”

    “A golden Labrador.”

    “Wouldn’t call it golden, meself.”

    Feebly Hill tried to explain, incautiously mentioning Pa’s old Blackie, and then being forced to elaborate into Blackie’s golden mum and the litter from which Blackie… At this rate they’d be almost sure to bump into— Damn! On the far side of the road Seriously Jogging Spiky-Hair Girl shot past to Gordon’s cry of “’Nother Nike!” and sure enough, out of the next street on their side came—

    “Ooh, an Army man! –Is ’e?”

    “Yes,” groaned Hill, ceasing to even pretend to jog. “That tee-shirt’s telling the truth. Hullo, Martin.”

    “Hul-lo!” replied Major Richardson with a laugh. “Not yours, old man?”

    “It’s not biologically impossible,” returned Hill grimly.

    “I’ll say!” he agreed with a loud laugh.

    “But as it happens, no,” said Hill, giving him a filthy look. “This is Gordon Broadbent. Gordon, this is Major Richardson.”

    “Were you in the Army with ’Ill?” he gasped.

    “That’s right, old chap,” said Major Richardson tolerantly. “Out for a jog, are you?”

    “Yeah. Me and ’Ill are gettink fit,” he replied firmly.

    Major Richardson eyed Hill tolerantly. “Uh-huh.”

    “Do you live dahn there?”

    “No; two blocks over. Known Hill long, have you?”

    “Ages!” replied Gordon on a scornful note.

    “Ages,” agreed Hill mockingly. “Don’t let us hold you up, Martin.”

    “No, yer don’t wanna stand abaht, it’s bad for your muscles.”

    Hill swallowed. “One of Mrs Manton’s.”

    “Have I missed her?”

    “Yes, you great girl, it’s safe.”

    “Good, then I might jog on with you,” he said insouciantly.

    “We’re ’eadink ’ome,” Gordon warned him.

    Major Richardson looked at his watch in a startled way.

    “See, we been right rahnd there!” he said, waving his arm expansively. “That old lady, she won’t ’urt yer, and see, ’er dog, it’s a giant poodle but she’s got it on a lead and it’s been to Obedience School! It knows sit an’ ’eel and stuff!”

    Hill eyed Major Richardson mockingly.

    Major Richardson cleared his throat. “Yes. Quite a fine animal.”

    “It won’t ’urt yer,” he assured him.

    Major Richardson, who was six-foot-four without his sneakers and had been used to box for the regiment, looked helplessly at Hill.

    “Why don’t you explain, Martin?” he said kindly.

    “Yuh—Uh—” Gordon was looking up at him expectantly. “I’m not scared of Mrs Manton, or her dog,” he said limply. “I just—uh…”

    “Yes, that was the easy bit, wasn’t it?” said Hill kindly.

    “Look, shut up! Um, If you must know, I can’t stand the way Mrs Manton gushes at a chap,” he said very feebly indeed. Gordon was merely looking blank, so he added desperately: “And if you don’t look out she invites you to tea!”

    “Sahnds all right to me. She’s got a dog, an’ all. Don’t she give yer good teas?”

    Hill put his hand on the skinny shoulder. “She gives you excellent teas, usually with cream cakes, and I quite like her, but Martin, here, feels she’s a bit of a Mrs Everton.”

    “Right! Gotcha! Only Mrs E., she ain’t got no dog,” he reminded him.

    “No, but would you want to go to tea with her if she did?”

    “A giant poodle?”

    “Mm-hm.”

    “Yeah—fink so. A giant poodle’s not ’alf bad.”

    “I’m with you,” agreed Hill, giving Major Richardson a mocking look. “Shall we jog on?”

    They did that. Major Richardson jogged along with them, but he didn’t offer any observations. Hah, hah, hah.

    Hattie sat up in bed and listened dazedly as Gordon poured it all out. “You took him jogging?” she said dazedly to Hill, who was leaning in the doorway, listening with a smile in his eyes.

    “’Course!” replied Gordon scornfully. “It’s what chaps do in the morning! Major Richardson, ’e was aht, too. ’E’s got an Army tee-shirt. See, ’e’s still in the Army."

    “That doesn’t follow.”

    “Nah! ’Ill told me ’e’s still in! An’ guess what? ’E works at the War Office! That’s where they do the planning for the wars! They got ’uge, like, tracking systems, computerised!”

    Hill eyed her uneasily. “I’m sorry, Hattie, I suppose I… But he asked.”

    “Of course. A person can only learn by asking,” she replied seriously.

    “An’ guess what! Mrs Manton, she lives in our building!”

    “Yes, um, which one was she, again?” she said weakly.

    “Hattie! You’re not listening! She’s the lady with the giant poodle! –White, ’Ill says she washes it a lot, only sometimes, she takes it to, like, a dog ’airdresser’s for a proper shampoo an’ trim!” –Hill had not used that last phrase. He looked limply at Hattie.

    “Oh yes, I’ve heard of those dog-washing places,” she agreed tranquilly. “Did it have a fancy trim?”

    “Pretty fancy, eh, ’Ill?”

    “Mm. Mrs Manton favours the puff between the ears.”

    “And tail!” he added quickly.

    “Mm. I have seen them with a short all-over trim, they can look quite doggy,” he said feebly.

    “Percy looked all right! ’E is tall, only not really a giant,” he said kindly to Hattie. “Like, you know Labradors? They’re miles ’eavier. We seen a golden one—look kinda pale yeller, only yer gotta call ’em golden,” he noted loftily, “only ’Ill’s Pa, ’e used to ’ave a black one, ’is name’s Blackie, ’e lives with Allan, now. ’E likes living on the farm. And ’is mother, she was a bitch, see, it’s a proper name for a lady dog and Mrs Tall, she’d let yer say that, well, she ’ad some golden and some black puppies all in the same litter!”

    “That must have been lovely,” said Hattie, smiling at both boys impartially.

    “Yes,” said Hill feebly. “It was, actually. Labrador pups are adorable.”

    “They’re mostly what they use for Seeing Eye dogs,” explained Gordon. “Only some of them, they learn up what the beagles do, sniffink and that, to sniff out drugs in people’s luggage!”

    There was a short silence.

    “At the airport,” said Hattie very drily indeed.

    “I never seen none and I’m SORRY!” he shouted.

    “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Gordon. Everyone was very frightened. We imagined that all sorts of bad things had happened to you. A—a bad man might have got hold of you,” she said in a trembling voice. “Like a child molester, Gordon. You know: what you learned at school about strangers.”

    “Nah! ’E couldn’t of got ’old of me!” he boasted.

    “He could,” said Hattie, her eyes filling with tears. She looked helplessly at Hill.

    “Yes, he could. If he’d grabbed you, you wouldn’t have been able to get away.”

    “Pooh! I’m strong, see—“

    Hill grabbed him.

    Gordon struggled madly, his face contorted in fury. Hill just stood there.

    “Gordon, he’s—he’s not even moving,” said Hattie at last in a very weak voice. “Can’t you see how strong he is compared to you?”

    “No!” he gasped, kicking like mad. Hill just stood there.

    “Don’t let go, I think it had better sink in,” she advised.

    “I’m not letting go. What would you fancy for breakfast, Hattie?”

    “Lemme GO! There isn’t anyfink!” he gasped, kicking.

    “Um, anything’ll do me,” said Hattie in a weak voice, as Hill just stood there.

    “I usually have a shower and then pop out for milk and stuff on a Saturday.”

    “I see,” replied Hattie weakly, eyeing the struggling Gordon. “Um, well, I don’t mind, Hill. Toast or—or muesli? What do you usually have?”

    “Saturday’s my day for a treat. Porridge with brown sugar?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

    “No-oo!” screamed Gordon. “I ’ATE porridge! Lemme GO!”

    “Gordon, you idiot, the point is that a bad man wouldn’t let you go and a bad man would be at least as strong as me.”

    “He wouldn’t!”

    “Yes, he would.”

    “Lemme GO!” he screamed, kicking and squirming.

    Hill just stood there.

    Hattie cleared her throat. “I do like porridge with brown sugar, actually. But eggs might be nice. Um, unless they’d be too much cholesterol for you.”

    “I don’t want porridge!” wailed Gordon. “Lemme go-o!”

    “We could have porridge,” said Hill with a smile. “Never mind about him.”

    “I’m ’ere!” he sobbed. “Yer can’t make me starve!”

    “Actually,” said Hattie detachedly, “he can make you starve, Gordon. I couldn’t stop him, he’s miles stronger than me. And a bad man’d make you starve, because he wouldn’t care about you.”

    “I want some bre-heh-heak-fast!” he sobbed. “Lemme go, ’Ill! You’re really mean-hean!”

    “No,” said Hattie firmly. “Not until you admit that a bad man would be so strong that if he grabbed you, you wouldn’t be able to get away. Hill isn’t mean, he’s just showing you how strong a grown man is compared to a child.”

    Gordon sobbed and kicked weakly.

    “With a glass of juice?” offered Hill. “I like orange and cranberry, but the shop’s got quite a choice.”

    “Juice stinks. I ’ate yer, ’Ill,” moaned Gordon.

    “Well, oatmeal is said to counteract cholesterol, isn’t?” said Hill cheerfully. “Why not start off with some nice porridge and brown sugar and go on to scrambled eggs and toast?”

    “I ’ate porridge,” he moaned.

    “Not you. Fancy that, Hattie? Or the shop may have muffins—for the two of us, I mean.”

    Gordon’s struggles had ceased and the sobs were low and sounded genuine. Hill made a horrible face at Hattie, raising his eyebrows.

    “Um, I don’t know,” she said, swallowing. “Well, um, an idiot that doesn’t admit that going all the way to Heathrow by himself puts him at risk of being grabbed by a bad man certainly doesn’t deserve muffins. Even if they are his favourite.”

    Hill had to bite his lip. “Mm,” he agreed in a strangled tone.

    Gordon continued to sob.

    “I tell you what,” said Hill conversationally. “Why don’t you get up and have a wash; then I’ll wheel you down to the shops and we can decide when we get there. I’ll just tie Gordon up and leave him here, maybe then it’ll sink in that he’s not as strong as a bad man.”

    “I’m—not!” he sobbed.

    Hill put him down on the carpet. “Glad to hear it.”

    Gordon just curled into a ball and sobbed.

    Hattie was now looking at Hill in horror. “No,” he said firmly. “He’s going on eleven, isn’t he? A lesson is a lesson, Hattie.”

    “You’re right. Um, do you think you could help me into the bathroom? But I won’t come down to the shops, it’d be too much bother.”

    “Fine,” he said, smiling a little. He came over to her and helped her warm, soft, pyjama-ed form into the wheelchair. Ooh, gosh!

    “Um, thanks,” said Hattie shakily.

    Smiling, Hill wheeled her into the bathroom. Then he went out into the sitting-room, stepping over the quietly sobbing, curled-up Gordon, and through to the kitchen, where he firmly shut the door behind him. He had fully intended to laugh. Instead he found himself sinking limply onto a kitchen chair. God. Had that been the right thing, or not? Was the kid going to regress to an infantile state? And even if he didn’t, was he ever going to speak to either of them again?

    Hattie had had her wash and was dressed. Hill had had his shower and changed. Gordon was now face-down on the couch. Feebly Hattie suggested Hill wheel her into the kitchen. He did so, closed the door, and into the bargain put the radio on.

    “If we were at home I’d leave him to get over it and go down to the shop,” she said, “but I dunno about leaving him in a strange place.”

    “No,” he agreed uneasily.

    “I don’t think he’d bust stuff—though mind you, Shelby did once, at around that age, when Amanda left him home by himself as a punishment.”

    “I haven’t got much stuff here to bust. But I’d rather not risk it.”

    “No. Um, maybe if I stay in here? Could I make some coffee?”

    “I think that might work. Close enough to be reassuring but not intruding on his space.”

    “Yes. Um, thanks, Hill,” she said, going very pink. “I could never have done that: he’s already getting too strong for me. He’s small, but he’s wiry, you see. It—it’s true what they say. A boy does need a man’s hand.” She swallowed.

    “I’d say so,” said Hill very mildly. “In my opinion boys and girls need two parents, one of each sex, but then I’m old-fashioned, as I think you know.”

    “Mm. Perhaps I should have made him go to New York with Amanda. At least she’s got Kevin. And he’d have got over the sulks eventually.”

    “Well, she’s got Kevin for as long as it lasts, yes. Uh, Hattie, God knows I don’t believe in giving in to spoilt kids, but, uh, just possibly you’d better rethink this globe-trotting stuff. He must see it as a desertion, which with his family history isn’t terribly surprising.”

    “Would you?” replied Hattie simply.

    Hill blinked. “Me? In your shoes, you mean?”

    “No, that’s exactly what I don’t mean. Not if you were a woman, but if you, yourself, had taken him on.”

    “I—” He reddened. “There is the small matter of making a living.”

    “I have to make a living, too. I’m not saying I’m devoted to the job, but I am saying that it makes it a Hell of a lot easier to say that I should give up my job if you believe that woman’s work is less than man’s.”

    “But, um, if you’re not devoted to it—” he began weakly.

    “I think what I’m trying to say,” said Hattie, going very pink but looking him firmly in the face, “is that I believe that kids need two parents, one of each sex, too, but only if the two parents can treat each other as equals and really believe that they both have equal rights, and that it’s not the woman who should be expected to make all the sacrifices.”

    Hill was about to argue that that wasn’t the point at issue. What a tit! Of course it bloody was! He went very red and croaked: “So do I, in theory, but I take your point that that sort of thing is very difficult in practice. Especially when one’s imbued with a whole set of preconceived notions that up until this instant one fondly imagined one didn’t have!”

    “Don’t be cross,” said Hattie uneasily. “I’m just trying to be serious.”

    “Yes. ’Course you are. I’m sorry, Hattie. I— Jesus! When you said that I could see myself as clearly as I see you now sitting in front of that bloody garbage chute—it’s nailed up, we’re not allowed to use them—I could actually see myself waltzing off to an interesting project on the other side of world leaving the wee wifey behind to look after the kids!”

    “Mm,” agreed Hattie, chewing on her lip. “In a frilly pinny.”

    “That an’ all.” Hill looked at her limply. “Ma was a botanist, once. She had a really interesting job at Kew but she gave it up when she married Pa and moved to deepest Sussex.”

    She nodded. “Mm. Rôle models.”

    “I suppose, really, she could have commuted, it’s not that far.”

    “Preconceived notions again. You’re assuming it would be her that made the sacrifice and did the really difficult thing. He could have let the property and moved to London to be near her job.”

    “Yes—of course.” He looked at her limply. “I—uh—this has given me a lot to think about. I’ll get down to the shop. Um, discussion to be continued at a later time, then?”

    “If you like,” said Hattie uncertainly.

    “I do like,” replied Hill firmly, going out.

    Hattie looked round her blindly. What was she in here for? Um… Oh! Coffee! He hadn’t told her where he kept stuff. She began opening cupboards…

    It’s somewhat disconcerting to find, when you’ve sorted things out in your own mind and determined on a clear course of action, that everything has to be put on hold because you’ve got a ten-year-old kid to take into consideration. If only it wasn’t Saturday! They could have dumped him at school and got on with it.

    As it was, they stuffed him with muffins and Hill then trudged round to the lock-up where he kept the Range Rover—not alone with his thoughts, no—and shoved him in it and drove back and collected Hattie. There was one plus: she was of the school of thought that believed it was safer for kids to go in the back. Strapped in; she only had to bellow at him twice to do that seatbelt up before Hill got the point and bellowed at him.

    The drive was sufficiently hideous, given that he couldn’t think of a thing to say—well, he could, but not in front of Gordon—and Hattie was almost completely silent, too. Gordon wasn’t, however. He refused to go to the lavatory when Hill stopped for petrol, but exactly eight miles further on wailed that he had to go. They looked for a service station with the appropriate sign. Not on the other side of the motorway, you cretin! Like that.

    “You’d better take him,” said Hattie in a small voice as they pulled in.

    “I’m not a baby!” he shouted.

    “Shut up, Gordon,” sighed Hill. “You’re not going to go to a public lavatory full of strangers on a public highway by yourself!”

    “That’s exactly the sort of place where the bad men might grab you!” added Hattie crossly. “I know Mrs Stawell told you that, Gordon, because I came to that session!”

    “Like, some of the mothers, they come, too,” Gordon explained. “And Mr Cummins. ’E’s all right, ’e’s not a stranger, ’cos ’e’s Bruce Cummins’s Dad. ’E just pretended to be a stranger and then Mrs Clark, she put on a ’at and pretended to be a stranger in a park.”

    “I see,” said Hill, cutting it short and getting out. “If you want to piss, come now, otherwise I’m driving on!”

    Gordon looked sour, but he came. He didn’t fail to point out that there was no-one else in there but on the whole this was marginally better than pointing to a stranger and asking if he was a bad man, so Hill merely replied that no, today they were lucky.

    “There wasn’t no-one in there, see!” he reported on a triumphant note to Hattie.

    “The point is there could have been, you nit!” she replied loudly.

    Astoundingly, Gordon subsided.

    “And do your seatbelt up!” she shouted.

    There was no answer from the back but Hill, looking cautiously over his shoulder, saw that he had.

    And they drove on with only a slight contretemps over wanting a Coke—No—and wanting an ice—No!—and wanting a Coke, again—NO!—and wanting to stop off in Ditterminster for fish and chips—Shut UP, Gordon!—and wanting to nip over to Dittersford for a pizza—NO! Are you DEAF? We are NOT stopping for junk food! And like that.

    Joanna wasn’t home. Hill stood numbly in the sitting-room of Number 7 Old Mill Lane. “Where is she?”

    “Work, of course,” said Gordon indifferently, heading for the television.

    “OY! You’re still in disgrace, chum, in case it’s escaped your notice! Leave that television set alone!”

    “I can watch it, can’t I, Hattie?” the little sod immediately said.

    “No. Are you deaf?” replied Hattie grimly. “Um, thank you very much, Hill,” she said, going very red. “For everything.”

    “If that was meant to be valedictory, forget it,” replied Hill grimly. “I’m not going anywhere. Where’s Kenny?”

    “Here,” said Kenny meekly, appearing in the doorway. “I was in my room, reading. Can we have lunch now?”

    “You could have got yourself something,” said Hattie on a weak note.

    “No, there isn’t anything and I’ve spent all my pocket money.”

   “Again?”

    “I had to buy some new Textas because he ruined mine,” he said with a glare.

    “Oh, right. –Felt-tipped pens,” she said heavily to Hill.

    “I never!”

    “Shut up, Gordon, you’re a rotten little liar!” snapped Kenny angrily.

    “They run out, I never ruined them!”

    “You did, you ruined the yellow one by drawing on top of blue to make green!”

    “I—”

    “That’ll DO!” said Hill loudly. “Come on, Kenny, we’ll get round to the shop and buy something for lunch. You can tell me what’s suitable to buy,” he added drily.

    Kenny brightened. “Keen! Hey, can we take the Range Rover?”

    Two minutes. Oh, well. They took the Range Rover. Hill didn’t kid himself that Miriam Green and the bony Miss Whyte weren’t thrilled to see the pair of them together.

    When they got back Gordon wasn’t watching television: he was in the kitchen sitting at the yellow table looking sulky and Hattie was unsteadily propped on one leg investigating the freezing compartment of the fridge. The two large cats were doing their best to topple her over.

    “What happened to that Moroccan stew?” she said as Hill and Kenny came in through the back door, for which Kenny had headed as a matter of course.

    “We ate it,” said Kenny. “You did tell us to.”

    “Um, well, I said to eat anything. Did you like it?”

    “It was okay. Bit funny. That thing with the smoked fish and the mashed potato, that was good!” he added, brightening.

    “Um, good. Did the potato unfreeze okay, then, Kenny?”

    “Yeah, sure,” he said easily. “We ate the lasagna, too.”

    “Mm. Well, that’s it, then.”

    “Aw-wuh!” wailed Gordon—approximately. It was a very nasty sound. “What ’appened to the macaroni cheese?”

    Kenny gave him an evil look. “Me and Joanna and June and Lambie, we ate that yesterday, see, once the relief of finding out you hadn’t been mugged or kidnapped cut in and we all realized it was gone eight and we were starving! And SHUT UP!”

    “And so say all of us, Kenny,” agreed Hill mildly into the tingling silence, patting him on the back. “Tasty, was it?”

    “Yeah, ace! See, she uses different cheeses!” he beamed.

    “Yes: it’s the Parmesan that brightens it up,” said Hattie faintly.

    “Sounds good. Lunch won’t be anything along those lines, I’m afraid, though we did buy some mousetrap.”

    “I thought we could have toasted cheese sandwiches,” said Kenny.

    Apparently Hattie didn’t have any objections, so they did. And apparently Joanna had fed the cats before disappearing to work, so they were merely given some milk. No wonder Kenny had said they’d better get threes time as much milk as Hill in his blindness had proposed. After lunch they did the dishes. Hill and Hattie couldn’t go for a walk after that as of course she was incapacitated, and being wheeled over the bumpy, rutted lanes in these parts would have been a really bad start to what he intended was going to be a relationship. Added to which, though Kenny did seem a reliable, sensible sort of boy, he didn’t want to risk leaving bloody Gordon with him. Nor did he feel it would have been fair to Kenny to do so. However, a Master Grant Cummins turned up on his bike and he and Kenny disappeared upstairs into the boys’ room, firmly ordering Gordon not to accompany them.

    Into the silence Hattie said in small voice: “Kenny really ought to have a room of his own, at his age.”

    “Mm. Well, you might consider building on: extend the place out the back?”

    “I like it as it is,” she said doubtfully. “That’d ruin the kitchen.”

    Okay, she liked her yellow-furnished kitchen. “I suppose you might think of turning this room into a bed-sit for yourself and giving the two boys the upstairs bedrooms, but it wouldn’t be very convenient for you, sleeping down here, with the only bathroom up there.”

    “No.” Hattie looked glumly at her plaster. “It’s not all that convenient right now, actually.”

    “Oh—Hell. You need to go?” He got up. “Come along, let me help you.”

    “I’d better try it by myself.”

    Okay, so be it. She managed to haul herself up half a dozen stairs. Then she panted and clung to the railing. Hill didn’t say anything: he just came up and put his arm round her.

    “This is ridiculous!” said Hattie with tears in her eyes.

    “Mm. Never mind: come on.” He helped her up the rest of the way. Behind them Gordon, unasked, was helpfully bringing the folding wheelchair up with a lot of crashing and banging and taking-off of paint but as, with the exception of the kitchen and Joanna’s room, the whole place was in need of repainting, Hill didn’t say anything.

    “Game to go down again?” he said when she emerged from the bathroom.

    “Yes: I’ve worked it out.” She got out of the wheelchair with his assistance, then made him help lower her to the floor, and then proceeded to get downstairs on her bottom.

    Hill felt quite weak, really. So much so that he let Gordon fold the wheelchair up and bump and crash it down again.

    “That worked good!” the little boy cried. “See if yer can go up like that, Hattie!”

    She could, declaring happily that it was quite easy. Hill just sagged against the wall, feeling like a spare part.

    “Now can I watch telly?” said Gordon hopefully.

    “Not today, Gordon,” said Hattie with a sigh. “You can go outside and play in your hut, if you like.”

    “It’s a Army fort!” he reminded her.

    “Mm. Or you could read a book. How far did you get with that Harry Potter book?”

    “It’s too ’ARD!” he shouted angrily.

    Hattie sighed. “Yes. Wouldn’t Kenny help you?”

    “I don’t want no ’ELP!”

    “No. Well, maybe we could read it together at bedtime.”

    “All right,” he said grudgingly. “Are you gonna watch telly?”

    “No, I’m going to read my book.”

    “What are you gonna do, ’Ill?”

    “Read a report that I should have read yesterday afternoon,” said Hill in a pointed tone.

    “All right, I will go in my fort, and you can’t come!” He gave him a bitter glare and marched out.

    “Uh—will he be all right?” asked Hill uneasily.

    “Yes; he’s not really adventurous like Shelby, he’ll just stay in the garden,” said Hattie with a little sigh.

    Hill went over and shut the sitting-room door.

    Hattie looked at him nervously.

    “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not about to leap on you and ravish you, plastered leg an’ all. –Let me wheel you over by the fire.” He positioned her chair next to the big heater. “I meant what I said to you in the car coming back from the airport.”

    Hattie had gone very red. Her hands shook a little and she looked into her lap, not saying anything. She had a strong feeling that if she did try to say anything she might just bawl or—or give in and do anything he wanted.

    Hill took a deep breath. “I love you, Hattie. I’ve been in love with you for seven years, though I don’t deny I’ve been denying it to myself. I was a compete idiot not to get your phone number out of you at the bloody course.”

    Hattie gnawed on her lip.

    “Look, I don’t want a—a bloody fling,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve had more than enough of those and I’m fed up with them.”

    “So am I,” she admitted in a small voice.

    “Uh—are you? You mean with mine?”

    “Well, them, too,” said Hattie honestly, avoiding his eye. “No, um, mine. When you went away— Never mind.”

    “The fair-haired chap from up the road, wasn’t it?”

    “Yes. He’s not there most of the time: he only uses the cottage in summer. It was stupid,” said Hattie rapidly, “’cos I knew exactly what he’s like. Every time we’ve been here he’s had a different girlfriend, only I just thought, why not? If someone offers you a juicy peach and—and no-one else is offering you anything, why shouldn’t you? And I’m as entitled as anybody else! Only it was really stupid, ’cos he—he hasn’t got any values or—or standards, really, and I know we hadn’t said it was, um, I forget the stupid word: it’s what they stay when they mean you can sleep around with other people.”

    “Uh—exclusive?” he croaked.

    “Yes. I could only think of monogamous,” she admitted, still glaring into her lap. “And he didn’t even like Louella! But June’s right: that doesn’t count with people like him.”

    Hill was now hoping fervently this didn’t mean people like Harry Adamson and him, Hill. “Mm. Who’s Louella?”

    “Joanna’s cousin—you never saw her. She came to stay and—and ruined everything! Not that it was really her fault: she’s just that sort of girl, and if he didn’t have the willpower to say no, that wasn’t her fault. And I wasn’t in love with him, at all, it was only my pride that was wounded. Only Allan was really, really put off. Don’t say so much the better, I know that’s what you think!” she ended, suddenly glaring at him.

    Hill ran his hand through his short curls. “Hattie, what are you on about? What’s Allan got to do with it?”

    “He came round here—well, it was twice, really, but he must have got over it, ’cos he came back. It was the day Joanna had told Louella to leave and she was bawling her out. She didn’t realize he was here.”

    “Uh—oh! Allan got an earful?” he said dazedly.

    “Yes. Joanna was just sticking up for me,” said Hattie on a lame note. “I don’t think he understood that that was just her vernacular.”

    Hill took a deep breath. “I think I see. I’d say it sounds as if he understood precisely that.”

    “Yes. I didn’t put it very well. You hear much worse every day round where we used to live. Joanna meant well and—and she was sticking up for me, really. And Louella’s behaviour really shocked her, you can’t say that she isn’t a person with nice instincts.”

    “I suppose I see what you mean,” he said slowly.

    “He—he should have listened to—to the sentiments, not the words,” she said anxiously.

    “Mm,” agreed Hill, not managing not to sound dry.

    “Um, and the words weren’t really all that bad. She can’t help her vernacular, but she is a nice girl. Um, well, there’s lots of four-letter words she didn’t even use! Well,” said Hattie, going very red, “when you think what she might have called Louella.”

    “Uh—oh!” he said, looking at the red cheeks and recognising with an amusement not unmixed with a great deal of relief that Hattie was such a nice girl herself that she didn’t want to say it. “I see!”

    “Mm,” agreed Hattie, looking at him sadly. Sadly but also… expectantly? Oh, Christ.

    “I do see what you mean. But my feeling is,” he said carefully, “that Allan’s realized just what a gap there is between them.”

    “Class doesn’t matter!” said Hattie loudly, very flushed.

    “Not as such—no,” he agreed nicely. “But upbringing and, well, background count for a good deal, with most people. What would be normal—no, more than that, definitely on the restrained side of normal, for a girl from Joanna’s background wouldn’t strike Allan like that at all.”

    “I see: Allan’s only used to nice ladies,” said Hattie glumly.

    “His ex-wife, Iras, was selfish, spoilt and extremely silly, and no-one who deserts their little kids for the fleshpots of California and a man twice their age could be called nice, exactly, but on the whole, yes.”

    “Did she, um, did she shout at people, at all?”

    “Not as far as is known. She was a bawler,” said Hill with a shudder. “Used to weep buckets—usually to get her own way. Never seen her bother about other people’s troubles at all—in fact I don’t think she was capable of it: completely self-centred. She had no redeeming features at all, but—”

    “I see. She was horrible in a way he was used to.”

    Hill had to swallow. “That puts it very well.”

    Hattie looked at him sadly. “Couldn’t you, um, try to make him see it doesn’t matter? I know you can’t see it, but Joanna’s a really sweet person, and it’s obvious he is, too; I think they’d be perfectly suited to each other.”

    Hill grimaced. “I could try, but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t work. Uh, you said there were two episodes, didn’t you? What was the first?”

    “Allan came round one morning just after Louella got here.” Lamely she explained.

    Hill made a face. “In other words the second visit finished him off.”

    “But it’s only a surface thing!” cried Hattie with tears in her eyes. “Can’t you make him see that?”

    “Hattie, I wasn’t going to bring this up, but for God’s sake! Joanna’s mother’s deserted her little boy to go off to America with a man she barely knows! Not even dumping him on his sister, but on you! Do you really think Allan’d fancy being mixed up with a family like that?”

    “You’re visiting the sins of the mother on the daughter. But as a matter of fact it wasn’t like that all,” said Hattie on a grim note. “Those are the bare facts, you haven’t taken the personalities into account at all. That’s you all over, Hill!”

    “I—” After a startled moment he managed to say: “I suppose I like to get to the root of a matter, if that’s what you mean.”

    “No, it isn’t. You try to reduce everything to its—its basic facts. Life isn’t like that. It was Gordon that didn’t want to go to America. He can be very determined. And—and then when Amanda decided to stay on with Kevin, they would have sent him a ticket but he just kept shouting that he wanted to stay here. So Joanna rang Amanda and they agreed he’d better. It would’ve been pointless sending him to New York, he’d only have sulked like he did back when he wanted a canary like old Mrs Maple’s and Amanda wouldn’t let him have one, because she was afraid the cats’d eat it. It was just after Kit came to live in the house and the kids were all fascinated by the cats and always enticing them in. Not to say leaving all the doors open. She was right, it would’ve been hopeless. –Don’t say the canary could’ve stayed in its cage: Mrs Maple’s one used to hop onto her finger, that was half the attraction.”

    “How old was he then?” asked Hill feebly.

    “Um, it wasn’t all that long after that silly course,” said Hattie, blushing suddenly. “Um, four, I think. But his age isn’t relevant, it’s a matter of fundamental character. He sulked for six months and only came out of it when an old uncle came over from Jamaica and spoilt him rotten. We came to the conclusion that he just needed to be made to feel special. It must be hard, being the youngest of a large family.”

    Hill passed his hand over his forehead. “I suppose I see. I won’t ask what made you agree to have him. Or to take your brother, for that matter!”

    “It was Kenny’s choice, but Mum was really keen to get rid of him. If you want an example of a rotten mother, it’s her, not Amanda,” said Hattie detachedly.

    “Mm. I see.” He swallowed. “Listen, Hattie, I will speak to Allan, but as I say, I don’t think it’ll do any good. You won’t—you won’t make it any sort of condition, will you?”

    “Condition?” echoed Hattie blankly.

    “Condition for—for considering me as a fellow human being,” said Hill hoarsely, swallowing again. “One that loves you.”

    Hattie opened her mouth in amazed indignation. Then she looked at Hill’s face. There were tears in the dark grey eyes that lengthened and narrowed so entrancingly at the outer corners. “No. It never even occurred to me.”

    Hill essayed a smile that didn’t come off. “That’s good. So I don’t have to come on as some sort of knight errant?”

    “I—I think you already have,” she said shakily. He just looked blank so she added: “At the airport.”

    “Oh! Good grief, I didn’t do anything! Couldn’t even find the little perisher!”

    “No, but you were there,” said Hattie hoarsely.

    “Mm.” Something began dimly to percolate through his very blurred mind at this point so he croaked: “I know the job takes me away a lot and I think we’re agreed on my rotten track record, but—but couldn’t you give me a chance to be there for you all the time, Hattie?”

    Hattie opened her mouth. Then she shut it again. Then she said in a tiny voice: “If you like.”

    Hill’s ears hummed. He got up and staggered over to her chair. “Really?”

    Hattie looked up at him, very flushed. “I don’t think it’ll work. But when you went away I sort of thought what if I never saw you again? I don’t think anything could be worse than that.”

    “No,” he said dazedly. “No.” He bent down with every intention of kissing her very hard but Hattie held her arms up and said: “Thanks; let’s sit on the sofa.”

    So he lifted her right out of the bloody chair. Ooh, gosh! And then just held her against him for ages and ages and— Ooh, gosh! “Crumbs,” he said into her ear.

    “Mm,” agreed Hattie into his shoulder.

    Grinning, Hill said: “If you’d look up at me, I might manage to kiss you.”

    She held her face up. It was very, very flushed. Hill found he didn’t mind that at all, so he kissed her. To his complete astonishment she responded fiercely, half-strangling him into the bargain.

    “Whew!” he said with a laugh, coming up for air. “So it is there, eh?”

    “Yes!” panted Hattie. “I love you, Hill!”

    Hill didn’t ask himself whether this was just sex or a lifelong commitment or what the Hell it was, he just dumped her on the sofa and fell on top of her and kissed her madly.

    After quite some time, during which his hand had somehow found its way inside her woolly jumper, Hattie said groggily: “You’d better stop.”

    “I think you mean, we’d better stop!” replied Hill with a laugh.

    “Mm. ’Cos if we don’t one of the boys’ll come in, it’s Lombard Street to a China orange,” she said glumly.

    “Yes,” he admitted, kissing her entrancing little straight nose, since it was there. He sat up reluctantly. “Boy, you’re really squidgy when a chap’s squashing all the breath out of you, Hattie!” he said with a laugh.

    “Um, am I? Yes,” said Hattie in a confused voice.

    “I’ll say! –I suppose that room of your isn’t very sound-proof? Not now, cretin!” he added as she frowned and opened her mouth. “Tonight!’

    “Oh. Um, not very. But the boys sleep like logs. Um, Joanna did say she could stay over at the hotel tonight if, um, you know,” she said, reddening.

    “Eh?” he croaked. “When was this?”

    “When I rang her up while you were round at the shop with Kenny.” Hill was just gaping at her so she added with dignity: “Men aren’t the only ones that think about what if we had sex, you know.”

    “Apparently not!”

    Hattie pulled her jumper down neatly. “Your fly’s undone,” she said detachedly. “Lombard Street’s a real place, I went there once, to see what it was like. I should think a China orange must be a mandarine: what do you think?”

    Hill just gaped at her, incapable of any sort of thought at all.

    The rest of Saturday was good. Well, the latter part of it was superb. Joanna did stay on at the hotel. Hill ignored Hattie’s claims that there was plenty of stuff in the garden and got them pizza from the place in Dittersford for dinner. This extraordinary treat of course gave Gordon the impression he’d been completely forgiven, but too bad. They finally got to bed around ten-thirty, Gordon having been packed off some time since and Kenny not raising any objections, though warning his sister he was gonna listen to his CDs.

    “He’ll fall asleep with those stupid earplugs in,” said Hattie on a weak note.

    “So much the better. Let me get you out of that bloody chair!”

    “I’d better go to the bathroom first,” said Hattie on a weak note.

    Grinning, he wheeled her along to the bathroom.

    “This is silly, I’ll have to learn to make it go by myself,” she said weakly, coming out to find him there.

    “I think hauling yourself along by grabbing at the door jambs may be the only way to make it go, it’s the cheap sort that the airlines use for pushing people between the plane and the ambulance, kind of thing,” replied Hill with a grin. He wheeled her back to the bedroom. “Which side of the bed?’

    “It had better be the side nearest the door,” said Hattie on a weak note.

    Grinning, he helped her onto the bed. Then he got on it himself. He was going to undress her but she rolled over and grabbed him fiercely, squashing herself against him. Ooh-er! So he sort of undressed her by degrees, in the intervals of kissing her madly, shoving a hand up under the jumper, shoving a hand down the fleecy-lined tracksuit pants… Then he tore the remainder of his clothes off and, since she couldn’t really manage with that heavy plaster, helped her to put her legs apart.

    “What are you doing?” said Hattie faintly.

    “What do you think?” replied Hill, grinning. He knelt between ’em. What a lovely view! He applied his tongue—

    “OH!” she shrieked.

    Hill stopped, clearing his throat. “That was flattering, but loud.”

    “Mm,” agreed Hattie, biting her lip.

    “Kindly do not suggest I check on the boys at this juncture.”

    “No!” she choked, clapping her hand to her mouth and collapsing in sniggers.

    “Just try not to scream the house down,” said Hill mildly.

    “Mm. Um, maybe you’d better not do that for a bit,” she said weakly.

    “Okay, I’ll just do this.” He lay beside her and kissed her gently, hugging her to him. Hattie responded eagerly, so he found he was sort of nibbling her neck and kissing her more urgently and nibbling her neck more and then he was mumbling his face between them and she was gasping: “Oh, Hill! Oh, Hill!”

    “Squidgy,” said Hill in a muffled voice, getting her hand on his old man— “Jesus!”

    “Now who’s shouting?’

    “Er—mm. Well, I’ll, uh—just kiss you very slowly all over?”

    He did that. It got so exciting that he had to stop. Then he had to go on. Then he had to get down there again. She shrieked “OH!” again but by this time Hill was past caring if she woke the whole of Abbot’s Halt, so he just got on with it.

    “I might come!” she gasped after a lot of squeaking and mauling of his shoulders.

    “Mm,” agreed Hill.

    “No, um, don’t you want to do it the other way?” she gasped.

    He looked up and admitted: “I’ll put it in and go bang, Hattie, it has been a seven-year wait, after all.’

    “It’s not a competition, is it?” said Hattie on a dubious note.

    “Eh? Oh!” Something Colin had said on a very vaguely associated topic floated vaguely back to him at this point. “No, ’course not. Well, if I go bang without you I’ll do you after, okay?”

    “Mm,” said Hattie, nodding hard, very flushed.

    He pulled on a condom, fell on top of her—Jesus! And shoved it up her and—

    “Ai-EEEE-EEE!” shrieked Hattie, clenching like fury on him.

    God! “AAA-ARGH! Uh—AAARGH!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

    That was the bit that was superb. Well, quick but superb.