Interregnum

16

Interregnum

    Having thought his approach out carefully, Hill went round to the back door this time. He blinked slightly at the blaze of luminous yellow furniture that was revealed as Hattie opened the door, but managed to smile. “Hullo, Ha—”

    “If this is about that last lot of flowers, just don’t,” she said tightly.

    “Um, ordered them in London: had to pop up—”

    “I think the whole country’s realized that, Hill,” she said evilly.

    Hill essayed another smile, which didn’t come off. “Yeah, um, thing is, had to pop up to see Colin—Colonel Haworth, my old commander, he’s in hospital. Got shot up in Iraq a couple of months back.”

    Hattie was about to wither this bare-faced lie; then she realized that the stupid TV news had said something about a hospital. “I’m very sorry,” she said in a small voice. “How is he?”

    “Recovering well, thanks. Well—took a burst of fire down one side. Got him in the hip, the knee and the ankle. The lower leg suffered, but the femur wasn’t touched—small mercy. The butchers have replaced the knee and put a pin in the hip, but they seem to think the foot’s reasonable. Well, the nerves are unharmed, though the ankle’s pretty chopped about. He’s in plaster, of course, but having lots of physio. Had a frightful bash on the bonce as well, unfortunately: concussed. Some pressure on the brain that the bloody neurosurgeon claims to have relieved. Well, he’s sitting up fairly merry and bright, but dizzy fits were mentioned and I couldn’t get the bloody medical staff to admit how bad that might be.”

    “I see,” said Hattie faintly in the face of this information overload.

    “Sorry,” said Hill feebly. “Didn’t mean to burst out with it all like that.”

    “That’s all right. You’re worried about him, it’s natural. He’s the man you were with in the desert, isn’t he?”

    “Yes,” he said, flushing brightly, “he is. Fancy you remembering that!”

    “You told us lots of stories about him,” said Hattie simply.

    “Uh—yeah. S’pose I did. Look, Hattie, couldn’t we make a fresh start? You must have realised I’m serious, I’ve been trying to see you for m—”

    “No.”

    “What have I done?” he cried.

    “Not explained why seeing your friend Colin in hospital somehow got mixed up with blondes on the telly, for a start,” said Hattie with a horrid, bleak humour. “But don’t bother, I’m not interested in your stupid excuses.”

    “I didn’t even know them! Lily Rose Rayne is married to Colin’s cousin—that was him, in the naval uniform—and they just happened to drop in on Colin when I was there!”

    “I said, I’m not interested. You’re all the same,” said Hattie flatly, closing the back door.

    The Saturday lunch dishes were done, Kath Benson had finished her Japanese lesson and gone—she had improved but she hadn’t been able to tell Gordon in Japanese that although it was school holidays she still wanted to do her lessons—Joanna had gone off to an afternoon shift, Kenny, who was very keen on the Baroque architecture of Daynesford Place, had gone over to the mansion on his pushbike—probably to a convenient spot on the boundary wall where an old tree hung low over it, rather than to the main gate where you had to pay to get in—and Gordon and Hattie went into the back garden and took up their usual occupations.

    After some time he emerged from the jungle down the back where he had his hut. “Look! Wossis?”

    Hattie sat back on her heels. “Crikey.”

    “’S’good, eh?” he beamed. “See, it could be, like, a dish! Funny shape, though.”

    “If this wasn’t Abbot’s Halt,” said Hattie dazedly, “I’d say it was a bonsai pot. Where did you find it, Gordon?”

    “Dug it up,” he reported succinctly.

    Hattie examined it closely. It was a narrow oblong, about a foot long, with sloping sides. Unlike the bonsai pots she’d seen, however, the sides were fluted and the inside of the dish was decorated with pretty little sprays of somewhat stylised flowers.

    “See, ’s’got ’oles in it,” said Gordon, sticking a finger through one in demonstration.

    So it had. Holes that were only just big enough for Gordon’s finger, all over its bottom. Not accidental, broken-dish holes: meant holes. There was a tiny chip out of its rim but otherwise it seemed in perfect condition. A perfect, functionless china dish full of holes.

    Gordon set it down and looked at it experimentally. “Could it be a flah pot?”

    “Um, well, drainage holes? It’s a bit shallow. Well, I thought bonsai—you know, those mad little twisted trees that old Mr Collins up the road in London used to have. But in that case why’s it got flowers painted inside it, you’d never see them!”

    Gordon stared at it blankly. “Yeah.”

    “But it’s in very good nick. Maybe we could use it as an ornament?”

    He brightened. “Yeah! Like that daft ’en of ’ers!”

    Hattie bit her lip. “Mm.” Joanna’s huge white china hen occupied pride of place on the little yellow-painted kitchen cabinet, and daft was how it looked, all right.

    Gordon had laboriously fetched some water in a bucket and drowned the dish, Mandy had come up and inspected it hopefully but retired in disappointment to give his fat, stripy person a good wash, and they were contemplating the find in all its glory when a when a coy voice called: “Yoo-hoo! Anyone home? It’s little me!” And Lambie Heather appeared, beaming.

    Since it was mid-morning of a working week Lambie was in her leisure gear. Or one version of it. The more lounging round Abbot’s Halt version, not the jogging fitly but not actually all that far or fast version, or the aerobics in front of the telly version. Naturally she had several variations of each version. Today’s was a poem in shades of primrose and violet. The tight pants were some sort of shiny, pale yellow nylon. The blouse was the obligatory wrap-over style, very low in front, in a charming print of dark violets on a lilac background. As it was not a particularly warm day, though the sun was out, over this was a cardigan. Lambie owned fleets of cardigans. Today’s was palest primrose, very possibly Cashmere—she was not a poor woman—and delicately embroidered down the fronts with tiny purple violets. The gauzy lilac scarf knotted around the neck was appropriate to her age, true, though the gauzy lilac, black and purple scarf jauntily knotting up the riotous black curls in a pony-tail was rather less so. As for the rest, a girl of about twenty might just have got away with it all. Including the high-heeled lilac sandals.

    “’Ullo, Lambie!” screeched Gordon immediately, jumping. “Look wot I found!”

    “Oh, my!” she cried. “Isn’t that lovely! Gordon, dear, I think it could be worth quite a bit!”

    Gordon was Lambie’s greatest fan. “Yer can’t ’ave it,” he said in an uncertain voice.

    “Goodness, no, dear, I wouldn’t dream of it! It’s yours, isn’t it?”

    “Yeah,” he said in relief. “See? ’S’funny, eh? ’S’got ’oles, an’ all. It’s like, a dish, but it’s gonna be a h’ornament. Better than Joanna’s old ’en.”

    “What? Oh—yes!” she said with a laugh. “Well, that is a nice hen, but not in the same class as your dish, Gordon! May I pick it up?”

    “Yeah, ’course. We washed it, an’ all.”

    “Of course,” she murmured, picking it up and examining its every side narrowly. “This is Spode, dears! This pattern was very popular in the first decade of the 19th century. See the mahogany shade of the Spode red? These are quite rare these days, though the pattern was very popular—but they were used in the kitchen, of course: not many have survived.”

    “Um, yes, but what is it, Lambie?” asked Hattie feebly.

    “A DISH!” shouted Gordon crossly.

    “Sorry, Gordon, of course it is. But I mean, um, what sort of special dish would have these holes in it? Is it, um, a sort of planter?” said Hattie lamely to Lambie’s surprised face.

    “Goodness, no, dear!” she cried with her trilling laugh. “No, this is a cheese dish!”

    There was a short and, alas, disbelieving silence. Then Hattie said: “I’ve seen antique cheese dishes, and they usually have lids. Quite big lids.”

    “Not a dish for serving cheese, dear!” said Lambie brightly. “For making cheese.”

    “Cottage cheese, I presume,” said a deep voice.

    They all gasped, and swung round.

    “Hullo,” said Hill meekly. “I heard voices out here, so I came round. –Cottage cheese. If it’s got holes in its bottom?”

    “Yes, of course!” beamed Lambie. “How lovely to see you again, Sir Hilliard! Yes, Hattie, dear, didn’t you realize? It’s for making cottage cheese. You pour the mixture in—”

    “Lambie, the milk’d run out the holes!” said Hattie loudly, her cheeks very red.

    “Cheesecloth,” drawled Hill.

    “Y—Well, muslin, I think!” beamed Lambie. “Once the mixture had started to set a little, Hattie, dear, they’d line the mould—it’s a mould, really—with muslin, several layers, I should think, and pour it carefully into it. In a big bowl or tray, of course! The whey would drain out the bottom and there was your perfect little cottage cheese, all ready to serve! –This is quite a big one. You sometimes see modern ones, in the posher sort of kitchen shop. Heart-shaped, that sort of thing. Too small to be useful, really.”

    “Mm,” agreed Hill, examining it with a smile. “Spode. What a pity it’s got a chip in the rim. If you felt like selling it, Hattie—”

    “NO!” shouted Gordon.

    “No,” said Hattie on a weak note. The more so since Hill was again carrying an enormous bunch of the palest apricot Lady Tarlington roses. “Um, it’s Gordon’s, he found it. And he doesn’t want to sell it.”

    “No. Could we make that cottage cheese stuff, Hattie?” he asked hopefully.

    How many ages had that antique cheese mould lain undisturbed in the back garden? “Um, well, I could probably find a book, Gordon, but, um, I think your cheese dish is really too valuable to use. It would be dreadful if I broke it. Maybe we better just have it as an ornament.”

    “There you are, then, Gordon, dear!” cooed Lambie. “I think,” she added with a coy giggle, “that those lovely roses might be for you, Hattie!”

    Hill grinned valiantly. “Of course!”

    “They’re lovely!” chirped Lambie. “The Lady Tarlington rose, you know! Named after the Lady Tarlington painted by Sargent, of course! Not one of the Chipping Abbas family, but the two branches were very close in those days, and so the cousins planted it here, as well!”

    “Yes. There’s none left at home: originally I didn’t realize what it was,” said Hill. “I’m sure Ma will want to try to start it again, though.” He pushed the bunch into Hattie’s hands.

    Hattie took them automatically and automatically bent her head to sniff them.

    “Not scented,” said Hill hoarsely.

    “Yes: they smell of tea.”

    “Mm. Well—true tea-roses!” he said with an awkward laugh.

    “Before the hybrid teas really got going, of course,” said Lambie on a complacent note. “The Sargent’s in the National Portrait Gallery now: she’s holding one of the roses. A long grey dress; terribly elegant. So fortunate it wasn’t destroyed in the fire at the Great House!”

    “What?” said Hattie dazedly.

    “When the Great House at Guillyford Place burned to the ground before the War, dear—such a loss! Appalling! –Let me put those in water, Hattie, dear.”

    “Um, no. I’ll do it, I’ve got stuff to do. –Sorry,” she added gruffly, walking off.

    They watched numbly as the back door closed after her.

     “Er—excuse me,” said Hill abruptly. He hurried off round the corner of the house to the accompaniment of the woman’s sympathetic: “Of course, Sir Hilliard!”

    Lambie had gone home, and Gordon and the cheese dish, the latter properly washed and in pride of place in the middle of the yellow table, were infesting the kitchen.

    “Hey, Hattie,” he said thoughtfully.

    “Mm?” she replied with an effort.

    “’E’s your Army man, eh? Do ya reckon ’e’s got a great big Army knife?”

    “He isn’t my Army man, Gordon!” she gasped, very red.

    “But ’as ’e?”

    “Don’t be silly, Gordon, you’re not allowed to carry great big knives in England.”

    “I’ll ask ’im,” he decided.

    Hattie sighed.

    “Hey, Hattie?”

    “What?” she groaned.

    “Do ya reckon ’e’d teach me to shoot a paint gun?”

    Hattie drew a deep breath. “I strongly doubt that he’s got a paint gun with him down here, or any sort of gun, but if he had one and you wanted to learn, I’m very sure he’d teach you, he’d teach anybody, that’s what stupid Army men do, fire off stupid Army GUNS!”

    “A paint gun’s not an Army gun, Hattie, you don’t know nuffink,” he replied, unmoved. He got up. “I’m gonna turn my hut into an Army fort!” he decided, exiting.

    Hattie slumped all over the yellow kitchen table. “What is it? Hormones or just the stupidity linked to the Y chromosome?” she groaned.

    Silence reigned in the kitchen. After quite some time she became aware of the most glorious fresh, cool smell of tea. Blimming Lady Tarlington tea roses! Hattie began to cry very softly into her folded arms amidst the scent of the tea roses.

    Colin was now in a nursing-home of the most luxurious sort. He had explained carefully to Hill that his Uncle Matthew was paying, because it was the preferable alternative to being incarcerated in Uncle Matthew’s ultra-luxurious town house, completely at the old boy’s mercy, but Hill had merely replied with a laugh—being in an over-optimistic mood about Hattie at the time—“Self-evident!”

    He came into Colin’s room to find a perfect vision of Madonna and Child sitting in the visitor’s chair by the window. Lily Rose Rayne and her Infant J—, um, whatever the little boy’s name was.

    “Hullo, Rosie,” he said, dredging up a smile. And wondering dazedly whether that was a Rubens he was thinking of, and whether, if so, it was a Madonna he was thinking of or a Venus with Cupid and Attendant, because she had a plump, dusky young maiden in attendance. Oh—right, one of the Indian family who were their neighbours in London: the donors of the pink sweets that were the “ambrosia for the mouth”. They’d brought a fresh supply and Colin was duly scoffing them.

    With the lovely Lily Rose present there wasn’t much need for anyone else to make conversation, which today was just as well. Not that the dusky young maiden didn’t also contribute nobly. Hill was damned sure that Colin couldn’t possibly be interested in a syllable that proceeded from the kid’s mouth.

    “Was that a Madonna and Child or a Venus with Cupid and Attendant Nymph?” he said, dredging up a smile as they departed at long last, Rosie having failed in a well-meaning attempt to persuade him to come down to their cottage in Hampshire for a day with Colin.

    “The latter. She’s got a blue dress for the Madonna and Child number,” replied Colin mildly, taking another pink sweet.

    Hill actually believed that. He smiled feebly.

    “What’s up?”

    “Nothing,” he said shortly, going red in spite of himself. “I merely dropped in to see you.”

    “Tell me the lot or I won’t offer you another pink barfi,” he threatened.

    “I’m not so hung up on rosewater as you.”

    “I told Terence the pink ones had aniseed in ’em,” said Colin smugly.

    Taken unawares, Hill choked.

    “The little boy’s sweet, isn’t he?” said Colin mildly.

    Hill eyed him uneasily. “Uh—yeah. Of course.”

    “Nearly two,” he said, smiling.

    “Mm.”

    “I envy them. Though if John could start a family at fifty, the thing isn’t impossible,” he said airily.

    “Look, Colin, you’re not funny! And I’m not bloody well fifty, or anything like it!”

    “You’ll be forty next year, unless the bang on the bonce has muddled me riffmatick. But I was thinking of myself as much as you. Well, almost,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Being as how I haven’t got a specific vehicle in mind.”

    “Why don’t I tell her you said that?” replied his former subordinate evilly.

    “Who, Rosie? She’d laugh!” he said, laughing himself. “Why don’t you come down to the cottage for the day? It’d be completely informal: sun, drinks, and all three Australian lovelies. You could keep me company in the ambulance that Uncle Matthew’s decreed I have to go in.”

    “Uh—no. Sorry.”

    “It can’t be me,” said Colin dulcetly, “so it must the preponderance of Australian lovelies in rural Hampshire this summer. Go on, spill the beans, or I’ll be tossing and turning over it all night. –The whisky’s in the bedside cabinet, if you fancy a slug.”

    “No.”

    Silence fell in Colin’s pretty, sunny room. The invalid was lying at full length on the bed, still—or possibly again—encased in plaster from ankle to hip. After a bit he sighed, and said: “Ever tried to scratch your thigh under six inches of plaster?”

    “Shit, is it itching? Sorry, old man,” said Hill uncomfortably.

    “Yeah. You can get me a slug, if you would.”

    Obediently Hill got him one, though venturing cautiously as he handed it to him: “Is this matron anything like the other one?”

    “Even fiercer.” Colin swallowed, and sighed. “Goes with the territory: penalty of command, eh? –Go on, tell me, that’s an order.”

    “She saw me with the Australian lovelies on the bloody telly and jumped to the obvious conclusion. I’ve made two efforts to explain— Forget it.”

    “I’m really sorry, Hill.”

    “Thanks,” said Hill sourly. “You thought I’d done something cretinous, didn’t you?”

    “Only on your form up to now,” he said apologetically.

    “Quite.”

    Colin sipped his whisky slowly. “Is that all?”

    “Apart from me coming on too strong and showing her that I admired her—oh, and giving her some more Lady Tarlington roses, almost undoubtedly a faux pas—yes.”

    “I suppose I believe you,” he said mildly.

    Hill got up. “I think I will have a whisky.”

    “Be my guest.” He watched silently as Hill downed a shot in one swallow. Then he said: “You haven’t really seen very much of her, have you?”

    “That’s right, rub it in!”

    “No—listen. The corollary is, she hasn’t seen much of you—she’s really only seen you in your, er, if not military, than at least war-gaming persona. Gung-ho, if you like. Guns and fighting, old chap,” he said with an apologetic grimace.

    “What?” replied Hill crossly.

    “Think back to that ruddy course. Did Hattie give any sign at all of being the sort of person who enjoys any type of game, competition or so-called sport?”

    “Well, no. She wouldn’t even watch the cretins climbing the rock face under the delusion that it was a prize for the bloody cross-country— Um, no. But, uh, she doesn’t like heights.”

    “That’s probably a factor,” he said nicely. “But you see? She’s only seen you in your guns and fighting persona, really, Hill.”

    Hill’s mouth tightened. Then he said: “I think you and I both know bloody well that’s who I am.”

    “No-one with any brains is only that. Has she seen you doing your project manager thing?”

    “What? Well, there was that bloody weekend at Boddiford Hall… Did I tell you about that? She was doing interpreter for the Japs from the Gano Group.”—Colin nodded silently.—“Um, yeah. Well, uh, I suppose she only saw me in meetings, really. Not, um, on the sites. Not working.”

    “Mm. If you could make it apparent that you’re more than just guns and fighting it wouldn’t hurt.”

    “Is this a delicate hint to me not to ask the firm to get someone else to manage the rest of the Chipping Abbas conversion?” he replied evilly.

    “Yes,” said Colin baldly.

    Silence fell. After quite some time Hill admitted sourly, not looking at him: “I suppose you’re right.”

    “Mm. If you want her, being utterly elsewhere won’t do it, Hill.”

    “No,” he said with a sigh. “Everything I do seems to turn out disastrous, though. She wouldn’t believe for an instant there was nothing in that bloody shot of me with the cousin on the news.”

    “That’s a good sign, you moron! Jealous!” said Colin with a laugh.

    “Oh. Um, suppose so, yes.” With an effort he added: “Well, thanks, Colin. It does help to—to get it clear. Um, you thought any more about what you’re going to do?”

    Colin had resigned his commission. He had been offered what was said to be a very good job at the War Office, but pen-pushing and paper-shuffling wasn’t his bag any more than it was Hill’s, according to him.

    “No. Well, thought about it, yes. Haven’t come to any decisions. –Pa’s already started nagging me about going into fund raising with bloody Clive,” he revealed with a sigh.

    “Your brother-in-law? Ugh!”

    “Quite.”

    “Come into project management with me?” he suggested cautiously.

    “Didn’t you do a couple of qualifications, though, Hill? You were half my age, back then.”

    “Not half, for God’s sake!” Colin was only in his mid-forties. Hill looked at him doubtfully. “Um, in any case you could do the more practical stuff. Out on the sites with the chaps. But don’t try to claim you’re incapable of writing a report, Colonel, sir.”

    “I’ll think about it. No—promise!”

    Hill left it at that, reflecting guiltily that Colin obviously wasn’t up to making any decisions yet and he bloody well shouldn’t have dumped his problems on him.

    What was the saying? Lucky at cards, unlucky in love, or something? In his case it seemed to be “lucky at work, unlucky in love”, because the architect that Maurice had wanted for the New Zealand ecolodge had had a skiing trip to New Zealand that had resulted not only in his busting his leg, but in his doing an about-face and deciding he wanted to take the job on after all. In fact he’d decided to dump his present firm and come on over to YDI. He and Hill had a very satisfactory meeting and then went for a drink.

    When they got to the watering-hole the chap had chosen it dawned why he was so bloody cheerful in spite of the busted leg. A sturdy-looking blonde girl with a lovely honey tan and unusual, widely-set amber eyes came up to them and said: “Hi,” and he cried: “There you are, darling!”

    “Yeah, I found it,” she agreed. “Hullo,” she said to Hill.

    The figure wasn’t fashionable at all—if anything, it was a bit like Hattie’s—and she was dressed in shabby jeans and a limp tee-shirt, instead of a smartly cut dark business suit like the female half of the happy-hourers surrounding them—but nevertheless it was very clear to Hill exactly what the chap saw in her. Lucky bugger.

    After a while it dawned that that was a New Zealand accent and the chap must have met her out there and— Yeah. Lucky bugger.

    Maurice was thrilled, and thrilled with the architect’s preliminary sketches, and happily gave Hill all the credit for it, whereas all he’d done was have a couple of chats with the man— Oh, well. That was life, apparently.

    With October the weather closed in abruptly and the road to Chipping Abbas was very bad. Not that the stretch between Chipping Ditter and Abbot’s Halt was much better.

    “Good thing we decided to kip on the site,” explained Red Watkins cheerfully, leaning on Miriam’s counter.

    “Yes,” said Miriam faintly. He was a nice man, but she rather wished he wouldn’t do that, it felt sort of intimidating. And it made the shop sort of shrink! “Um, so you’re working on the inside, are you, Red?”

    They were. Happily he gave her chapter and verse.

    It sounded horribly messy. “Yes. What’s happened to all the pictures and things?” asked Miriam feebly.

    “Eh? Well, dunno, really, Miriam. The Major’d know. Dessay the firm’s got ’em locked up safe somewhere. Well, we lock up at night but anyone could wander in during the day.”

    “Mm. Um, are you sure you wouldn’t rather have wholemeal bread?” said Miriam faintly. Mr Watkins’s purchases today consisted of two pounds of bacon, three dozen eggs, six tins of baked beans, and four loaves of white bread. He’d have bought some marmalade, but she was out of it, except for the posh Rose’s lime sort that the retirees bought.

    “In this weather? There’d be a riot on me hands!” he said with a laugh.

    “Mm. Well, I suppose beans have got roughage in them.”

    “Don’t worry about us! Hattie had us all over to her place the other day, done a sort of Chinese stir-fry for us!”

    “What, all of you?”

    “All us boys that are kipping in the hut, sure! Well, plus Jack Barker: he lives in Ditterminster but she found out he isn’t feeding ’imself proper since the divorce!” revealed Red, grinning.

    “Um, yes, I know: he’s the thin, dark man.”

    “That’s ’im. Qualified stonemason, but can set ’is hand to a bit of really nice plastering, too. Been working on the ceiling in one of the sitting-rooms. Done a real artistic job, too: it’s got cupids and flowers and I dunno what! Got quite a lot of experience: done the Deanery, over in Ditterminster, too.”

    “I see,” said Miriam feebly. “And was it a nice stir-fry?”

    “You bet! And guess what: it was from a recipe in real Chinese writing!”

    “Not Japanese? Like the boy?”

    “No, I asked ’er that. Definitely Chinese. Got it off a Chinese lady in Australia what she boarded with at one stage. Talk about a dream of a cook! There was a chicken thing, too—well, I said to ’er, don’t waste chicken on the boys, but she just laughed.”

    “I suppose it was Chinese as well?”

    “Yep!”

    Miriam sighed. “I tried the Chinese over to Ditterminster, once. Well, it’s a big town, I s’pose they’ve got more than one. Regent Square, near the Hammond Arms.”

    “Oh, yeah, I know that place! Nothing like it! No comparison! Sort of place that puts English cabbage in everything. Hattie was telling me ’er Chinese lady, she reckoned they don’t even eat it, in China! Chinese cabbage was what Hattie had. Real delicate, melt in the mouth—no comparison!”

    Miriam gave the three wilting English cabbages in her microscopic vegetable section an evil look. “That explains why them there aren’t selling, no doubt!”

    “Um, yeah,” said Red uncertainly. “Well, tell us the bad news, eh?”

    Jumping, Miriam came to and totted up his groceries.

    Red handed over some notes, waited while she punched in the amount and the machine told her the change, accepted the change, gave her back 50 P, and exited. “Women,” he said sourly to young Mal Brown, who, coward that he was, was waiting in the truck.

    “Toleja she was in a bad mood this lunchtime!” he said, vindicated.

    “Yeah, well, presumably she ’asn’t got over the discovery that the reason the boys haven’t bought no lunches from ’er this week is that Hattie’s been feeding us on soup, and who was the idiot that let it out to ’er?”

    “I never! She got it out of me!” he cried, very flushed.

    “Yeah, well, they do. She’s run out of marmalade again.”

    “Good, let’s go to Hattie’s and get some jam!”

    Red scratched his chin. “We’re scrounging off ’er too much, Mal.”

    “She doesn’t mind!” he said eagerly.

    Red gave in. “Oh, all right. But listen! We’re not staying for dinner!”

    “It’s only ’ar-pas’ four—”

    “Never mind that! We are not staying for dinner, no matter what she says! Got it?”

    “Yeah,” he agreed glumly.

    They went. Of course she did urge them to stay for dinner, but Red was adamant in refusing. Well, he reflected, jolting back to the hut with the prospect of baked beans, bacon and eggs before him, it was a victory of sorts. There was a word for it, he was almost sure. Like when you’d won, technically, but hadn’t won nothing. Yeah.

    June sniffed. “I told her it was pearls before swine, but she insisted on making the buggers another nice stir-fry for lunch yesterday.”

    “She thinks they’re not getting enough greens in that hut of theirs,” replied Miriam feebly.

    June sniffed but allowed: “That’d be right. Catch me letting one of them set foot in my kitchen!”

    “They have got hot water in their hut,” replied Miriam somewhat weakly to the sub-text.

    “Yeah? Don’t got no razors, though, ’ave they?”

    “Um, I think it is the look, these days, June,” said Miriam weakly.

    “Explains the divorce rate these days, then, dunnit?”

    Miriam was now bright red. “Something like that!” she gasped desperately.

    “Yeah. Where did those apples come from?”

    Miriam jumped. “Oh—them. A feller came in with a crate of them last week. Fell off the back of a lorry, I s’pose. Only cooking apples, mind, but they’re all right. Hattie bought some, she’s making her own Christmas mince, and Sheila Jukes bought some to make George’s old Gran’s apple sponge pudding.”

    “You astound me,” said June drily. “Maybe she’s wised up to the fact that a man don’t want to be fed on frozen apple pie what tastes like wet flannel on top of the flat-ironed fish fingers and the frozen peas. Though I’m not saying George is old enough to remember what real peas tasted like.”

    “A woman doesn’t have to be a man’s slave these days, June!” retorted Miriam tartly.

    “She does if she wants to keep ’im, human nature hasn’t changed that much since the microwave was invented,” noted June drily. “Go on, I’ll ’ave a pound, I’m making apple pie.”

    Miriam came out from behind the counter and put some apples into a plastic bag. “Puff or short pastry, June?”

    “Neither, I’ll ’ave a pound of butter,” said June on a dry note.

    “Don’t tell me you’re making pastry!”

    “All right, I won’t. –No, well,” she admitted, watching as Miriam weighed the apples and found they were just over a pound, “—go on, it won’t break the bank—no, I’ve gone back to me old Granny’s recipe. Fed up with the bought stuff, tastes of nothing but salt. And anyway, ’oo cares, at my age? The cholesterol can ’ave a go at me from now on. Got any cloves? Didn’t think so. ’Ow much is that? ’Ow much? Talk about highway robbery! Oh, go on, it’s still not ’alf the price of a frozen wet flannel pie.”

    The shop bell tinkled sharply as she exited. Miriam jumped; she still hadn’t got used to the noise it made since Ted had proposed, seconded and accepted himself to fix it. “Ted the Toolman,” she said sourly.

    “So you managed to miss the Japanese lunch, did you, dear?” said Miriam sympathetically.

    Joanna smiled feebly, not trying to explain to Miriam that the Japanese lunches that Hattie was now laying on every second Wednesday as part of Kath Benson’s lesson were, actually, delicious, because she was right in essence: Kath herself was very hard to take. Aggressively feminist: the sort that shoved it down your throat—well, didn’t they all? “Would you believe, Miriam, Kath told Gordon there was no reason he shouldn’t play a lioness in their school show!”

    This year Daynesford Primary School was putting on a version of The Lion King. “Potty,” agreed Miriam comfortably. “So what is he gonna be, dear?”

    “A gazelle,” said Joanna heavily. “I did say I’d make his costume—well, I’ve got the sewing-machine, after all. But it’s that stretch fabric, it’s really hard!”

    “What about the head?”

    “They’re doing them at school, thank God! Well, the kids are supposed to be doing them in their art classes, but actually I think the teachers are doing most of it.”

    Miriam nodded sympathetically. “Yeah. The year they did The Sound of Music half the teachers were actually in it. Well, the kids couldn’t manage most of the songs.”

    “No,” she croaked, trying to imagine it.

    Miriam totted up Joanna’s wholemeal bread, milk, marg and toilet paper. “Is it that Kath that’s looking for a cottage round these parts?”

    Joanna sighed. “Yes. She looked at old Mr Pringle’s but she didn’t like it. She reckons she wants something with a really big garden. She wants to raise bees.”

    “Bees!”

    “Yes.” Since the entire district was covered in rapeseed plants for as far as the eye could see, in fact further, all the way to the Daynesford forestry plantations, Joanna admitted: “I s’pose there’s enough flowers.”

    “I wouldn’t think they’d make very tasty honey, though!” returned Miriam in shaken tones.

    “No. Added to which, Miriam, what if they’re that GM stuff?”

    “Um, would it get into the honey, though?” she said on weak note.

    “Dunno, but I wouldn’t volunteer to be the first to try it! –I might as well have a jar of honey, since we’re on the subject,” said Joanna with a smile.

    “Right, well, I wouldn’t hang round until that Kath produces some for you!” said Miriam with a snigger, obligingly coming out from behind her counter and finding it for her.

    “Ta. –No, and I tell you what, I bet she doesn’t give us any free!” she said with feeling.

    “Doesn’t strike me as that type, no. I did hear as Harry Adamson wants to sell his cottage.”

    “He wants too much for it.”

    “Yeah. Well, there’s those dumps over near Ted and June. Though I dunno as they’ll want bees next-door.”

    “You’re right, there,” agreed June from the doorway. She came in, picked up some potted relish and looked at it with distaste. “Who’s the beekeeper, then?”

    “That Kath Benson,” said Joanna on a sour note.

    June raised her eyebrows. “Some sort of hobby, is it, or is she mad enough to imagine she can make money out if it?”

    “I don’t know,” admitted Joanna. “She’s very determined, so maybe she will make it pay.”

    June eyed her drily. “Mm. Bees have to like you, before they’ll produce honey for you, did you know that?”

    “No,” she said, swallowing.

    June sniffed. “So they tell me. Though maybe a Lezzie in daft desert boots’ll appeal, who knows what goes on in a bee’s mind?”

    “I don’t think she is, actually, June,” said Joanna weakly. “I mean, she was married.”

    “Don’t think that stops ’em, these days, does it?”

    “She’s militant enough,” contributed Miriam, not betraying the fact that she’d been trying to think of the word for some time.

    “Yes,” agreed June. “Told Lambie Heather that bodily adornment— What was it? Um, that it was an indicator—hang on, or was it an index? No, that doesn’t sound right. An indicator of female subjugation to the male Establishment mind-set and she’d be much better off putting her money into something solid for her old age.”

    “Lambie knew what she was talking about, did she?” rejoined Miriam.

    “Well, she got the bit about her old age,” replied June at her driest.

    Joanna gulped. “Oh, dear! Kath’s got no tact, I’m afraid. And, um—I mean, something solid for her old age? Last time she was round our place she started telling Hattie that stocks and shares were one of those male Establishment whatsits as well!”

    June snorted. “That’d be right! What did Hattie say?”

    “That that was all right in theory,” admitted Joanna, trying not to laugh, “but in the world of reality if there was no big business, there’d be no jobs. Kath was really annoyed.”

    “Good,” replied June simply.

    “Well, at least she can see through her!” contributed Miriam.

    June eyed her tolerantly. “Yeah. Probably not to the extent of not giving ’er free Japanese lessons—but, yeah. That friend of hers, Penny, she seems to be even worse.”

    “The hair’s worse, yes,” allowed Miriam, wincing.

    June sniffed. “You can say that again! And if she buys her clothes second-hand, like what she claims, ’ow come she can afford to shout herself a trip to China, Joanna?”

    Joanna now knew that Penny’s three kids were off her hands and that she was a lawyer, now only working part-time, and in her business persona wore the sort of severe but expensive suit that you never saw in Abbot’s Halt unless Julia Weekes from YDI happened to be around the place. Her rattly car was because two years since she’d decided to reject that particular form of subjugation by, or possibly to, the male Establishment and/or its mind-set, and put her money into the things she really wanted. Like trips to China—yes. Added to which her father had been a doctor and though her mother was now in a home, the cost of which Penny duly grumbled about, she was the only child and had inherited a substantial sum outright. As there was no point in withholding this information from June and Miriam, and she wasn’t in a hurry, she kindly imparted it.

    “See,” explained June, leaning on the counter, “that’ll be this new middle-class poverty.”

    This surprising phrase was not her own, in fact it was as of this instant prominently displayed on a magazine cover on Miriam’s magazine rack some three feet away from them, so they all promptly dissolved in mean sniggers, agreeing it was.

    “Want that relish?” said Miriam without hope after Joanna had gone.

    June put it down. “Foreign. One sliced loaf, ta, Miriam.”

    Resignedly Miriam rang it up. “Hattie and Joanna seem to be coping, don’t they?”

    “Well, yeah. Ruddy Hill Tarlington apart. Not that the bloke dashing off to do his projects while she dashes off to do translating ’ud be what I’d call a relationship, but— Oh, well. Up to him to wear her down, I s’pose, if ’e’s keen. –This potty idea of doing up your shop gonna go ahead, is it?”

    “Dunno. They’ve given me a load of legal papers to look at,” admitted Miriam sourly.

    “Get that Penny to take a look at ’em, she’d only charge you megabucks for the privilege!” gasped June, collapsing in splutters.

    Miriam glared. “I just might! At least she won’t let them grind me down!”

    June rubbed her nose. “Well, you oughta let some sort of lawyer look at them, Miriam.”

    “Yes, but they all tell you the same things,” replied Miriam sadly.

    “Eh? Oh! The Establishment line, eh? You’re not wrong there! No, well, if you let them take you over it’d be less worry for you, Miriam.”

    “I want to decide what colour the shop is!” replied Miriam fiercely.

    Bright yellow—yes. “Yeah. Well, tell them to take a running,” advised June kindly. “We’re not still in the ruddy 19th century, you don’t have to do what they say just because one of them’s a Tarlington.”

    “But I can’t afford to do it up myself. And they might have some good ideas,” she said miserably.

    “I’d nick their ideas and start saving up,” advised June.

    “Oh, yes: I won’t go on that trip to China!” said Miriam in a mad, high voice.

    “That’s the idea,” she agreed drily. ”Fancy coming to the races? Lovely spring day, innit? Take yer mind off things.”

    “Up to Newbury? But how’d we get there?” she said weakly as June nodded.

    “Ted’ll drive us up there, said ’e fancied a day at the races.”

    Miriam’s mouth tightened. “No, thanks.”

    “In that case the picnic basket can go on the back seat next to old Tibbs,” replied June insouciantly, picking up her loaf and handing over the exact change. “Ta-ta!” She exited while Miriam was ringing it up, refraining with a great effort from telling her that cutting off the nose to spite the face, not to say avoiding the bloke that you wanted, never had been the way to get the bloke that you wanted.

    Miriam had asked her what she was looking for and found the rice for her before she could move. Hattie was almost used to this, but not quite. After all, the shop was supposed to be self-serve. However, there was no-one else in here and if Miriam wanted to rush about getting stuff her customers could very well have found for themselves…

    “Um, Miriam, do you know if anyone in the village has ever tried to grow capsicums? Red or green peppers—the sweet sort, not the very hot ones,” she added lamely, as the shopkeeper was looking blank.

    “You’re getting mixed up with Australia, Hattie!” said Miriam with a laugh. “We can’t grow that kind of tropical stuff round here! Um, think Sheila Jukes, she might’ve had a red pepper in a pot, once,” she added hazily. “But they won’t grow outside, the frost’ll kill them.”

    It was spring, and the frosts were supposed to be over, which was why Hattie was asking. But she merely replied: “I see. They’re terribly dear over in Ditterminster. Actually I think they might be Israeli ones. Oh, well, it was just a thought.”

    Miriam gave her a kindly, superior look. “Hill Tarlington was in just the other day,” she said on a casual note.

    Hattie went very red. “Was he?”

    “Mm. Seems to’ve been in contact with Ted’s friend Bert Pringle, out in New Zealand. That’d be before your time, of course, but he’s old Tom Pringle’s son. He’s an architect.”

    “Oh,” said Hattie faintly.

    Miriam sniffed. “Said he had some good ideas but they couldn’t wait for a year until ’e’d finished all his other commitments, so they’re going with some other man.”

    “Oh.”

    Miriam looked superior. “For something out in those parts, not for Chipping Abbas, of course!” she said with a light laugh. “Dare say it doesn’t need redesigning—but then, you’d know more about that than the rest of us, I suppose!”

    “No, why should I?” said Hattie in a strangled voice.

    “Well, with your dad, an’ all,” said Miriam in a terrifically casual voice.

    Hattie was already so red she couldn’t go any redder, but she felt as if her cheeks were trying to. “I don’t know what you mean,” she croaked.

    “All right, dear, if that’s the way you want it; and I’m sure it’s understandable,” said Miriam in a super-kind voice. “Kenny was saying there was some plan his dad might come over next summer,” she added idly, putting the cat food on top of the rice.

    “What? Oh—yeah. He’s thinking about it,” said Hattie weakly.

    “That’d be nice, though it’d make the cottage a bit cramped.”

    “Mm, but Japanese homes are very small,” said Hattie desperately.

    “Is that right? Is it true they sleep on the floor?”

    “Well, traditionally, yes. Kenny’s cousins used to have bunk beds, though, just like Western kids,” she said feebly.

    “Right. I s’pose lots of them are pretty Westernized, these days. That Kath, she planning to sleep on the floor, is she?”

    “Kuh-Kath Benson?” Who had told Miriam about her plans to go to Japan? Kath lived over in Ditterminster and only came to Hattie a couple of times a week for coaching! “Um, yes, she wants to stay in the old traditional inns.”

    Miriam shuddered. “Ugh, she can have them!”

    “Yes, um, they do sleep on futons, like, um bedrolls, um, kind of mattresses, not on the floor itself,” offered Hattie feebly.

    Miriam eyed her drily. “Inner-spring, these’d be, would they?”

    “No.”

    “No. Right.” She put Hattie’s two tins of tomatoes in the bag. “Making lasagna again, are you, Hattie, dear?”

    “Um, no. I’m trying out a Spanish recipe that you can use tinned tomatoes in.”

    “I see, dear. You sure you want this allspice stuff? It’s awfully strong—well, would be, if it’s got all the others in it, eh?”

    Hattie opened and shut her mouth. “Um, yes. I’ll just use a tiny pinch.”

    “Is that the lot, then, dear?”

    “Um, yes, thanks,” said Hattie limply, not asking if there was any olive oil because she already knew there wasn’t. Mrs Whyte had come in so she said Hullo and escaped while Miriam was asking her how Mr Whyte’s arthritis was in this cold, damp weather. Phew! Sometimes a great big impersonal supermarket seemed a really attractive idea.

    Cautiously June accepted a liquorice allsort. “Nope. Nothing like the old ones.”

    Miriam sighed. “No… Well, the kids don’t care, of course… Hattie tried one but then she wouldn’t buy them.”

    “Can’t blame ’er for that! –’Ere, wonder if Hill Tarlington knows she’s Col’s daughter?”

    Miriam’s probing of course had produced less than nothing, so she replied: “Are you sure she is, June?”

    June shrugged. “She’s gotta be. Work it out. –Well, I said to ’er: ‘Are you and Kenny really Perkinses?’—he was putting ’is name on all his school stuff: they even gotta have their names on their socks, poor kids, even though ’e’s not a boarder—and she said Kenny is: it was their mum’s maiden name that she always went back to after her divorces; and she’s always used it, but her legal name’s the same as her dad’s and her mum won’t hear his name spoken.”

    She waited, but as expected Miriam didn’t point out the logical flaw in this statement. So she didn’t admit that she hadn’t had the guts to come right out and ask Hattie if she really was Col Tarlington’s daughter.