Rabbit's Friends And Relations

22

Rabbit’s Friends And Relations

    As, amazingly, Hattie had agreed to go to Colin’s and Penn’s wedding reception, they went—with Hill, rather unfortunately as it would turn out, in tearing good spirits in the wake of the agreement. The reception was being held in the unpretentious precincts of Colin’s village’s Workingmen’s Club, and most of the village seemed to be present, but that didn’t mean the predicted noses on Colin’s side weren’t being looked down as predicted. Whether under ’orrible flahry ’ats or not. The fizz was good, though. Well, the stuff John Haworth was pouring was—the other stuff that some young chaps were dispensing was ’orrid.

    “Nectar of the gods!” approved Hill, sighing.

    “Exactly,” agreed John. He held up the bottle suggestively.

    “Ooh, ta!” replied Hill.

    “No, I’ve still got some, thanks,” said Hattie faintly, pinkening. –Somewhat overcome by John. The ladies usually were.

    They eyed her tolerantly but said nothing, and John refilled their plastic flutes.

    “You said it was sugary battery acid, before, Hill,” objected Hattie.

    They eyed her tolerantly.

    “I see, it’s one of those male mysteries,” she said heavily.

    “I’ll say!” agreed Hill, sighing deeply.

    “Bottoms up!” said John. He sipped, and sighed deeply. “Oops,” he murmured under his breath, reaching under his trestle table, as an ’orrible flahry ’at approached. Considerable gushing ensued from under the ’at what time John, looking completely insouciant, poured from a completely different bottle. Appropriate toasts were given, with sentimental sighing over Colin—she didn’t seem to care much about Penn—and finally, mercifully, the ’at disappeared into the crowd.

    “Where were we? Oh, yes,” said, John picking up the good bottle again. “Colin’s Uncle Matthew. Brought some down when the engagement was announced. My wine merchant’s told me he can’t get it for love or money. The old boy must’ve got it at the vineyard.”

    “Not a need to know,” replied Hill dreamily, holding out his glass suggestively.

    Hattie came to. “Hill!”

    “One of us may have to drive much later today, but it won’t be me,” he promised dreamily.

    “Well, it won’t be me, I can’t drive!” she said in dismay.

    Eh? Hill just gaped at her over his third glass of nectar of the gods.

    “That’s all right, Hattie: Terence is jacking up rooms at his pub,” said John kindly.

    Good though old Matthew’s fizz was, Hill looked at her in fear and trembling, but she just said: “Your brother, is this? That’s the pub here, then, isn’t it? Good, then we won’t have to go on that horrid road to Portsmouth.” Phew! Under the J. Haworth spell, all right.

    They watched with interest as another ’orrible flahry ’at came up, gushed at John, was served from the bottle from under the table, gushed again, and was swallowed up in the crowd.

    “Colin’s side?” ventured Hill.

    “No, retiree. The village is full of them. Don’t ask me why they all love Colin,” returned Colin’s cousin calmly.

    “QED,” replied Hill simply.

    “’Tis, really!” he conceded with a laugh.

    Hattie looked at them anxiously. “I suppose there’ll be some food soon,” she ventured.

    “Before Hill falls over? Let’s hope so!” replied John cheerfully.

    “He won’t be the only one!” said a cross soprano. “Stop drinking, John!”

    As he replied cheerfully: “Pooh, you and New Baby between you will easily be able to drag me home!” it must be obvious to Hattie that this must be, in addition to eye-poppingly gorgeous in something slightly floaty and very pale pink, his partner in life. So introductions weren’t really necessary but Hill made them anyway. Slightly hampered by Rosie’s determination to tell Hattie that she’d known it was her and you’d think at their ages they’d be capable of realising when they could dispense with the social forms they’d been brainwashed into.

    Hattie only managed a faint “Yes,” in response to this, though she did look at Lily Rose Rayne with interest rather than fear, a Good Sign, but John said smoothly: “I think you mean the forms of polite social intercourse, darling.” At which Rosie cried accusingly: “You are drunk!” and Hattie collapsed in giggles.

    There was a momentary hiatus as an ’orrible flahry ’at came up, gushed at John, was served from the bottle from under the table, gushed again, and was swallowed up in the crowd again.

    “’Orrible flahry ’at,” explained Hill, just in case Rosie hadn’t got it.

    “Ignore him, he’s been saying that all day,” said Hattie, going red.

    “Of course!” replied Rosie with a laugh. “Me and Rupy started counting them but there’s too many, so we’re counting two-pieces instead.”

    Hill mouthed “Two-pieces?” wildly at John and Captain Haworth shook his head, but Hattie smiled and agreed: “There are a lot of those.” So that was all right!

    Oh, God. Colin’s ma. Impossible to avoid, the woman had known him for years, though whether she’d bother to notice him was another— Better get it over with.

    “How are you, Mrs Haworth? Bit of a fun do, isn’t it? Good to see old Colin looking so happy.”

    She peered at him from under the flahry ’at and over the glass of Buck’s Fizz. –If it was one of Terence’s it’d be twenty percent orange to eighty percent sugary battery acid.

    “Oh, yes: Hill, isn’t it? How are you?” Not waiting for an answer, she added: “None of this was our idea. Paul was so upset when he realised they’d decided against a church wedding.”

    Right. Well, she was like that—and Holy Paul was even more so—but yep, she was well away on Terence’s version of Buck’s Fizz, all right! He made polite noises and managed to escape, though not without having to introduce Hattie. Not that Mrs Haworth had looked as if she wanted to know her.

    “Yes, Colin’s ma,” he said heavily.

    “She didn’t look happy,” said Hattie uncertainly.

    Actually, Hill had never seen her look that. “No, but at least she didn’t tell us about Holy Paul’s latest campaign to save the underprivileged gay whales!”

     She swallowed. “No.”

    “And you thought your ma was pretty bad!”

    Hattie gave a startled laugh. “Well, yeah!”

    So that was pretty much all right, after all. Hill hugged her arm, smiling.

     Still no actual food, though savouries had been glimpsed in the far distance. Unfortunately if Hill deserted Hattie in order to grab some she might (a) panic, (b) run away, (c) be kidnapped by ruddy Jerry Coleby, who’d already given her the eye, or (d) panic. Or, of course, (e), panic. Damn.

    “Could rotate back in John’s direction? ’Nother glass of nectar of the gods?”

    “Do you actually want to fall over?”

    Given the preponderance of flahry ’ats, make that ’orrible ’ats, he wouldn’t have minded, really. “N— Look out!” No, it was all right! Phew! Colin’s father, who loathed all Colin’s Army buddies, had just looked right through him.

    “’E done that to me, too, Major!” said a cheerful baritone voice.

    “Cowan! By God! Good to see you!” He wrung his hand fiercely. “Put in your thirty, eh? Colin mentioned you were out. Operating a trucking business, that it?”

    “Yeah—well, in a small way, yeah,” grinned the thin-faced Rob Cowan. He was one of those wiry chaps who were a lot stronger than they looked at first glance, and he was, thank Christ, looking as fit as a flea. So he was clearly one who’d escaped bloody Gulf Syndrome. “Based down ’ere at the moment; me and Owen Bridges are helping the Colonel with ’is project!”

    At this the over-made-up, thin blonde in a sort of pale orange silly ’at who was hanging on his arm looking at Hill and Hattie with avid interest burst out: “That’s right, and it’s going so well, isn’t it, Rob? They’ve both been invaluable, with all their experience as sappers!”

    “Something like that, yeah. Well, Owen rewired the main block, all the Colonel’s craft people won’t be electrocuting themselves,” conceded Rob.

    “We’re hoping he’ll settle down,” contributed the blonde bit archly.

    Rob sucked his teeth. “Yeah.”

    Hill followed his gaze to the far side of the room. Young Owen Bridges, in a suit that must have set him back the equivalent of six months’ Army pay, was offering a glass of fizz to the extremely up-market Willi Duff-Ross.

    “By God, she came!” he croaked unguardedly.

    “What, the red-head? Yeah, she’s the Colonel’s cousin, isn’t she? By the looks of ’er, not to say the looks of ’im, won’t be long before she comes again,” noted Rob drily.

    At this the blonde gave a shriek and managed to smack his arm with her free hand, even though she had a ’uge, ’ideous ’andbag slung over that wrist. “You are awful, Rob! Isn’t he awful?” she said proudly to Hill and Hattie. “You haven’t introduced me, either.”

    “Eh? Aw. Sorry, love.”—Interestingly, she bridled and beamed as he uttered this typical male version of an apology so (a) it couldn’t really have got up her nose and (b) she must be really keen.—“This is Carole—runs Le Petit Cabinet de Carole here, sells crafts and stuff. Nice quilts and pots, you know the sort of stuff. This is Major Tarlington what I told you about, love.”

    “Hill. Lovely to meet you, Carole. And this is Hattie,” said Hill, managing to smile as the woman assured him coyly she’d been sure it must be him and she was so thrilled to meet him at last!

    Rob was wringing Hattie’s hand, telling her the Colonel had mentioned her. “Hullo, Rob,” she said shyly. “Were you in the Army with Hill?”

    “That’s right: in the regiment!” he grinned.

    “In the regiment, yes,” she repeated obediently.

    Carole gave a high-pitched giggle. “One has to say that, Hattie, or be completely beyond the pale: aren’t they dreadful? And never, ever call it guns and stuff, it’s ordnance!”

    “Yeah, Hill says that, too. But I looked it up, and originally it didn’t just mean the guns and ammo and stuff, it meant all the Army supplies,” replied Hattie with a sort of grim pleasure.

    “Help!” said Carole with a giggle. “But should one correct them, Hattie?”

    Hill shook in his best party shoes but Hattie replied: “Depends whether one wants peace in our time, I think, Carole,” and Carole went into a long trill of delighted laughter.

    Hill would have stayed happily chatting to Rob and Carole for quite some time but Carole, being very evidently one of those persons with a strong sense of the fitness of things, pretty soon gathered Rob up and carted him away to circulate, shushing him as he wondered audibly where the Hell the grub was.

    Hill looked sideways at Hattie. “Not so terrifying?” he murmured. “Though I grant you that was a flowery frock and a silly ’at.”

    Hattie’s eyes twinkled. “Not a frock, a two-piece, you nit!”

    He sagged. Phew!

    “Hill, darling!”

    Oh, God. Colin’s sister, Viola. Hill had known her, as it were, in another existence, as it were. He suffered the kiss on both cheeks and kissed her politely in return.

    “How are you, Viola? Bit of a fun do, isn’t it? Good to see old Colin looking so happy.”

    She blinked the large grey-green eyes. Well—change from batting the lashes deliberately, yeah.—“Well, yes, but he’s known the woman for about five minutes, Hill!” If you could have a lowered hoot, that was what it was. Very good school—on the grandfather’s dough, Holy Paul didn’t believe in coughing up for his kids’ education.

    “I think they’re both old enough to know what they want,” he replied easily.

    “I suppose. –They refused to hear of a church ceremony, you know.”

    “No, well, Colin’s given up that sort of hypocrisy,” he replied easily.

    “At least it might have appeased Pa!” she hooted.

    Hill gave up. “He came, though, Viola,” he said drily. “More than I for one expected.”

    She swallowed. “He isn’t as bad as you think, Hill.”

    Possibly not, but very, very nearly. “Mm. Well, good to see you again. Lovely hat, by the way.”

    Brightening ’orribly, she plunged into the full bit.

    “Heck,” concluded Hattie as they staggered away at long, long last. “She really cares about buying stuff at the right shop, doesn’t she?”

    At this, alas, Hill collapsed in hysterics. Well, it had been rather a strain: Viola never had known what the word “discretion” meant and that had definitely been one of Terence’s specials in her fist.

    Back at John’s trestle table. Still no grub in sight. Had something gone wrong with the arrangements? Hill was just going to ask when a cautious voice ventured: “Is this the good stuff, then?” A short, plumpish elderly man had come up to his elbow and was standing there looking meek.

    “That’s right, Mr Williamson,” agreed John kindly. “Fill ’er up for you?”

    “Greg,” the elderly chap corrected him gratefully, handing over his glass. “She’s drinking that stuff those lads are serving at the bar,” he informed them gratuitously, if sourly.

    John shook his head sadly. “Rosie’s got no palate either, Greg. Hate to say it, but I’ve concluded it’s gender-linked.”

    At this the prim-looking Greg emitted a delighted neigh and conceded: “You’re not wrong there, John! Well, bottoms up! To the happy couple, and may all their troubles be little ones!” He drained his plastic champagne flute.

    There was a short silence.

    “What is it?” croaked Greg in awe.

    Placidly John handed over the bottle. “Colin’s Uncle Matthew provided it. Terence almost cried when he tasted it!” he revealed, grinning.

    “No wonder! –May I?” Courteously he refilled Hill’s glass, ignoring Hattie, whose glass was still half full, topped up John’s and then refilled his own.

    The males then sipped reverently. Just in time, ’cos a flahry frock topped by an unspeakable ’at swept up to them, a very brief contretemps ensued, Captain Haworth was informed, with a sort of coy but cross archness, that he was not to encourage “Gregory”, and the luckless Mr Williamson was bodily removed.

    “I see,” said Hattie slowly. “One of those ladies.”

    “Which ladies would they be, Hattie?” asked John, poker-face.

    “The sort that never use their husband’s nickname that all his mates use.”

    John’s sky-blue eyes twinkled. “How very right you are!” He readied the bottle as a very old gentleman in a suit that possibly dated from about 1972, judging by its giant revers and flared trousers, tottered up to the table.

    “If that’s the good stuff, Captain,” he said in a cracked old voice, “yer can let us ’ave a drop, ’cos me tubes won’t take no more of that muck them lads are dishing out at the bar.”

    “Of course, Mr Watkins,” said John nicely, filling his plastic champagne coupe. Ooh, plastic coupes as well as plastic flutes!

    “Ta. ’Ere’s to Colin and Penn, and may all their troubles be little uns!”

    Obediently they raised their glasses with him…

    “Love a duck,” said the old gentleman solemnly, looking at his empty glass.

    “’Tis rather, yes!” agreed John with laugh.

    “This the stuff ’is Uncle Matthew corfed up? –Right, and so ’e oughta. –No, I won’t deprive you, Captain, I’m saving meself, Jack Powell reckons there’s some real good stuff coming up with the eats.” And with a polite nod, the old gentleman tottered away.

    “Mr Watkins and Mr Williamson are both drinking buddies of Colin’s, Hattie,” explained John solemnly.

    Hill swallowed. “Yeah. Er, most of that pong was mothballs: don’t think that suit’s seen the light of day since the Seventies.”

    “His youngest son’s wedding. The christening was a non-event, as the daughter-in-law’s an unbeliever. –Not a local: we’re all unbelievers, too, in fact we haven’t got a church—at least, the building is still standing but it’s now a private residence—but most of us still follow the polite forms,” said John smoothly.

    “Right: so where was Baby June christened?” retorted Hill smartly.

    John made a face. “Bit of a sore point: Father was making a fuss so Rosie gave in and agreed to have it over their way. –Kent: their village church, Hattie,” he added politely.

    “But don’t you have to promise all sorts of things, like bringing it up in the faith?” she ventured, rather pink.

    “Mm—well, that’s mostly the godparents, in the Anglican service. But Rosie was quite ready to promise anything: promises to a non-existent deity can’t possibly count and people’s feelings’d be hurt if she didn’t!” He twinkled at her. “That sort of lady, you see?”

    Sturdily Hattie replied: “I don’t think that’s a sort at all, John, ’cos hardly anybody’s like that!”

    “Two,” said Hill smoothly, putting his arm round her.

    “Mm,” agreed John with a twinkle. “Fill ’er up, Hermione?” he said smoothly to a completely terrifying ’at, reaching smoothly under the table. After considerable cooing and fluttering, the flowers and frills and God-knew-what under the hat finally fluttered away and John said: “Forgive my not introducing you, but—”

    “No! Thanks!” interrupted Hattie fervently.

    “And so say all of us!” agreed Hill with a laugh.

    “Hill, darling! How delightful!”

    Ooh, ’eck. The lady in question would be in her forties, with glowing platinum locks, a glowing violet frock and a ’uge ’at that was completely see-through apart from the ’uge flah on it. He suffered the kisses and etcetera.

    “Hattie, this is Rowena Sanderson,” he croaked.

    “Lovely to meet you, Hattie,” she cooed, sizing her up in one swift bat of the enormous mink lashes. “Hill, darling, have you seen bloody Reggie? He’s deserted me, as usual.”

    Who could blame him? The woman made eyes at anything in trousers and Hill had seen her not twenty minutes since blatantly flirting with young Owen Bridges. “Uh—think old Duff-Ross has buttonholed him, actually, Rowena,” he croaked.

    She shuddered. “The idiot! You’d think he wanted to ruin his career!”

    Er—yeah. Well, Sir Hector wasn’t in the forces himself but as he was the son of the late General Sir Hamish Duff-Ross and had in his time been Under-Secretary for Defence— Er, yeah. And Reggie Sanderson wasn’t known for his smooth tongue or ingratiating manners at the best of times, let alone with a glass in his hand.

    “Sorry, but I’m not volunteering for a rescue sortie, Rowena.”

    “But darling,” she said archly, batting the eyelashes ’orribly, “if not for the regiment, then for little me?”

    Hill gripped Hattie’s elbow strongly. “No. Sorry. My dancing days are over. Saw Adam Gilfillan earlier: he might volunteer.”

    She pouted. “Darling, you know and I know that that’s not the sort of job bloody Adam volunteers for!”

    Right on all counts. “Sorry, Rowena: that was my best shot,” he said definitely, dragging Hattie forcibly away.

    “Don’t ask,” he warned.

    “I have to, I’m bursting! Were those false eyelashes?”

    Uh—phew! “Mink, I think!” he said gaily. “Come on, let’s find Terence: at least if he can’t give us a glass of the good stuff—yes, had more than enough, darling, I know—he might be able to tell us when the Hell the grub might eventuate!”

    Five minutes later, leaning on the bar from the serving side, Terence warned them solemnly that as Rosie had just given Colin’s maternal relatives the notion that she was Jewish on top of the telly actress thing, he personally would be awfully obliged if they didn’t disabuse ’em of it.

    Hill and Hattie gulped.

    Hill then, though admitting that one conceded the soft impeachment, asked faintly “Why?” but was told that the soft impeachment was why. He went into a choking fit.

    “Er—it pressed several buttons, Hattie,” added Terence, clearing his throat.

    “Yes; I’m just working out which ones they were,” she agreed seriously.

    Abruptly Terence went into a choking fit.

    “’Tis Hill, isn’t it?” cooed a coy tenor. “I recognised you immediately!” he cried as Hill admitted he was. “We have met once,” he added coyly, “but Colin’s told me such a lot about you that I quite feel it was more than just a brief encounter at his ’orspital!”

    Oh, of course: Hill’s hormones hadn’t been sending out the wrong signals after all, this was um, um, Rosie’s gay actor friend, um, um—

    “Rupy Maynarde!” he beamed, holding out his hand.

    “Of course, Rupy. Lovely to see you.” Hill had sort of expected him to be gleaming in purple and gold, but it wasn’t that bad. The suit did scream “summer wedding,” true, in fact it was almost bridal: white linen, or quite possibly a silk and linen mix, the shirt a very pale, buttery yellow that exactly matched the buttery yellow hair, ulp. The tie of course being a symphony of toning shades.

    “Likewise, Hill!” he beamed, clasping Hill’s hand convulsively. “One has just decided that the world is divided into the mucho sympatico who did turn up at darling Colin’s bedside and the other lot.” He pulled an awful face.

    “You said it,” agreed Hill, grinning, and introducing Hattie. Rupy was thrilled to meet her and, thank Christ, she didn’t appear displeased to meet him.

    “You know most of them invited themselves to this?” added Rupy viciously.

    Uh—oh, the other lot! “They would,” agreed Hill.

    “Exactly! The minute his Uncle Matthew put the ad of the engagement in The Times they started ringing up from all over the British Isles, not to mention the ones that invited themselves all the way from Portugal! –Not that anything could really spoil their day for darling Colin and Penn,” he added, beaming. “Isn’t it lovely to see them so happy? But believe you me, dears, this lot are doing their best!”

    Hattie nodded hard. “And the really weird thing is, they don’t even seem to be enjoying themselves!”

    Rupy winked. “Not here for that, Hattie.”

    Abruptly Hattie collapsed in an agonising fit of the giggles, so that was all right!

    Oh, God! Lady Haworth, John’s and Terence’s mother. Couldn’t he just die now?

    “How are you, Lady Haworth?” His tongue wouldn’t get round the words “Lovely to see you again,” so he just added lamely: “Rather a fun do, isn’t it?”

    “How are you, Hilliard?” she replied coldly. Oh, God. She was looking expectantly, if coldly, at Hattie, so he stumbled through introductions.

    He was expecting anything at all: the woman was quite possibly the world’s greatest bitch; and what he got was “Perkins?” with a faint lift of the eyebrows.

    “Yeah: we aren’t anybody, in your terms,” replied Hattie on a defiant note, going very pink but sticking out her rounded chin.

    Lady Haworth was a tall, slim woman—very elegant, if that counted for a thing. It was thus very easy for her to look down her nose. “My dear, once you’ve been here for a little—that is an Australian accent, I think? –Yes. Rather like poor, dear Rosie’s. Once you’ve been here for a little you’ll realise that one just doesn’t say that sort of thing. I’m sure Hilliard will be able to help you: I do hope you haven’t allowed yourself to be deceived by that hail-fellow-well-met manner that seems to be the thing in the Army set. Poor Colin is even worse, of course—but then, that was a terrible bump on the head. Do give my best to your mother, Hilliard.” And with that she walked away from them, cool as a cucumber and unsmiling to the last.

    “John’s and Terence’s first marriages were unmitigated disasters—and Terence’s second wasn’t much better, come to think of it—and that,” said Hill clearly, “is why.”

    Hattie swallowed hard. “Mm.”

    Oh, Jesus, there were tears in her eyes! “Darling, don’t let the bitch get to you!”

    “No, um, she wasn’t: I was only thinking poor little boys, growing up with a mother like that!” she gasped.

    “Mm.” Hill put his arm round her very tight, hugged her into his side and leaned his head on hers. She didn’t pull away, so perhaps the world’s greatest bitch deserved a medal instead of shooting, after all.

    “Here,” said Adam Gilfillan with great sympathy, holding out his bottle and managing to squint down Hattie’s front as he did it. “Not claiming it’s a cure for exposure to Greenland’s icy mountains in person, but it might help.”

    It wasn’t a champagne bottle, but Hill held his glass out anyway. “Mafeking is relieved! Ta awfully, Adam. Oh: this is Hattie.”

    “Guessed that!” said Adam, grinning like a maniac and managing to squint down Hattie’s front as he did it. “Super to meet you at last, Hattie! Have a slug of this: I’m sure you need it.”

    “Adam Gilfillan, darling,” said Hill as Adam filled her glass with a not unpleasant Riesling. “From the regiment. –It’s a still white, sweetheart, not champagne.”

    “No, the champagne’s run out. Drink it up anyway: Lady H. is the greatest bitch in nature!” said Adam, shuddering, but somehow managing to squint down Hattie’s front as he did it.

    “Yes, she is. Thanks,” said Hattie gratefully, drinking. “Ooh, it’s nice!”

    “Mm, not a bad drop. Have a bit more.”

    They all drank, gazing reflectively before them…

    “Funny thing is, the old boy’s quite decent,” said Adam reflectively, ceasing to gaze before him and redirecting the gaze to Hattie’s front.

    “Mm? Oh, old Admiral Sir Bernard H.? Well, yes. ’Tis odd,” agreed Hill. On any other occasion he’d have told the randy bastard to look elsewhere but as he’d relieved Mafeking, he deserved a reward, didn’t he?

    “Hill, darling! How lovely to see you, after all this time!”

    Ooh, ’eck. ’Nother one. This one would be in her forties—no, well, she’d been younger at the time, see?—with glowing auburn locks, a glowing green frock and a ’uge ’at, not quite see-through but almost, with a ’uge spray of green spikes on it. He suffered the kisses and etcetera. God knew why she was asking kindly after Ma: she’d met her once, that time the boat had capsized with all their clothes in it and they’d had to rush up to the house— Er, yeah.

    “Was that a cousin or an Army wife?” asked Hattie on a dry note once it had finally glowed itself off into the crowd, having spotted Jerry Coleby all on his ownsome.

    Hill produced a silly smile. “Neither. Old friend.”

    “Of yours or Colin’s?” she asked drily.

    “Yes,” he admitted with a silly smile.

    She took a deep breath and visibly refrained from comment. Ooh, ’elp.

    “Follow me,” ordered Rosie. Numbly they followed her. Ooh, this was interesting! The back regions of the Workingmen’s Club! Ooh, pool room! Gosh: babies! They watched numbly as she bent over the cot of a sleeping cherub. Not a cot, one of those other things. Um, um…

    “Is this New Baby?” whispered Hattie.

    Rosie nodded hard.

    “She’s lovely,” she breathed.

    Rosie nodded hard and led them out again.

    “She’s adorable, Rosie! Thank you!” said Hill with a laugh.

    “Ssh! Not that! Come in here!” Numbly they followed her through the door labelled “Office. Private.” Ooh, plate of savouries! Hurray!

    “Eat. –No, I’ve had my share,” said Rosie calmly. She watched calmly as they fell on the savouries. “Better?”

    “Mush!” agreed Hill with his mouth full.

    “Yes, thanks, Rosie,” said Hattie, pink but smiling. “We only had a cup of coffee and a slice of toast and Vegemite for breakfast, and he’s started calling everybody darling and saying ‘Ooh’, and ‘Um, um’ and stuff.”

    Rosie nodded solemnly. “Reverting to type: yes. John does it, too, with too much grog inside him.”

    Hill swallowed the last of the very nearly almost last savoury. “Isn’t it the forms of polite social intercourse we’ve been brainwashed into?”

    They gave him identical hard looks and chorused: “Them as well!” And looked at each other and laughed. Well! Couldn’t be bad, eh? Generously he offered Rosie the very lastest, squashed savoury.

    “Thanks, I will. –We only had a slice of toast and Vegemite, too,” she said to Hattie, eating it. “Yum!”

    “They’re delicious, Rosie. What’s in them?” she asked.

    “Dunno. Not a cook. Um, well, if Mrs Fitzroy or Richpal Singh made them they might be Indian, but he can do classic French cooking as well, so they might be cordon blue or something, but if Terri made them they’re probably Spanish. Or if Jasmine made them they could be West Indian.”

    “Sure that covers all bases?” asked Hill kindly.

    “Yes,” replied Lily Rose Rayne flatly.

    Immediately Hattie collapsed in agonised splutters. Well! Betterer and betterer!

    Oh, lawks. ’Nother one! Just when everything in the garden was, so to speak, rosy. Willi Duff-Ross in person, was wot. Very much in person, bulging out of that—ooh, two-piece?

    “Er, what? Sorry! This is Hattie Perkins. Don’t bother to patronise her, Willi, we’ve already had a dose of Colin’s aunt, Lady Haworth, than which nothing could possibly be worse. Not in this continuum.”

    Willi eyed him drily. “Hill, darling, you’re pissed. –It takes three hours, my dear, or three bottles, whichever is the earlier,” she said cordially to Hattie. “Not a friend of Penn’s, are you?”

    “Not an old friend, no, if that’s what you mean,” replied Hattie with a glare.

    “In that case I won’t ask you if you know what the Hell’s gone wrong with the catering arrangements,” she drawled, mercifully slinging ’er ’ook.

    “Slung ’er ’ook. Knew she would, if I was downright rude!” he reported gleefully.

    “You are drunk: she’s quite right,” said Hattie with a worried look.

    “Drunk? Rubbish! Just cheerful!” he replied, hanging on her arm and—oops! Hanging on her arm.

    Fuck! Admiral Sir Bernard Haworth was steaming their way: man the lifeboats, you chaps!

    “There y’are, Hill. Glad you could make it,” he grunted. “Good to see some of Colin’s old friends are standing by him.”

    In his hour of need, would this be? “Yes, sir,” he said respectfully. “May I introduce Hattie Perkins, sir? Hattie, darling, this is Admiral Sir Bernard Haworth, Colin’s uncle—John’s father.”

    “How’djadoow?” he grunted. Poor Hattie was observed to blink, even though the ones that had deigned to speak to her had mostly said that. Not the old buffer’s ghastly spouse, natch.

    “How do you do?” she faltered. Stymied by the bloody ’andles, was wot. And why the Hell shouldn’t she be?

    Oddly enough, though, the old admiral was looking at her with approval. True, she wasn’t in glowing ghastly purple or bright green. Also true, she wasn’t wearing a silly ’at—or any hat, the hair was just loose in a clean rippling flood, full of golden lights.

    “Seen Baby June yet?” he grunted unexpectedly.

    Hill was completely stymied by that one but Hattie replied eagerly: “Yes, Rosie gave us a peek! Isn’t she lovely?”

    “Not bad at all,” he conceded. “Take another little peek, hm? –Y’needn’t bother, I’ll look after her,” he informed Hill, brazenly taking her arm and walking off with her. What? Well, admittedly Colin had mentioned at one point that though Lady H. was not amused, the old boy thought that the grandkids were the cats’ whiskers, but—

    “’E’s harmless,” said a kind voice in his ear at this point.

    Hill jumped ten feet. “Yes, I know,” he said feebly to a wiry, high-coloured chap. Very dark eyes. Bit of a gypsy look to him: the hair was very dark, too, though he must be fifty.

    “Known ’im all me life,” the chap explained. “’E might look, poor ole bastard, but ’e won’t do nothing, ’cos she’s long since cut ’em orf, the B,I,T,C,H.”

    “Er—yes. What if I were a close relation of Lady Haworth’s?” replied Hill weakly.

    “On six glasses of old Matthew Haworth’s bubbly and three triples of ’is single malt? I’d still say it, matey!” the chap assured him. “Know you’re not, though. Army pal of Colin’s, aren’tcha?”

    Hill gave in and grinned at him. “That’s right. Hill Tarlington.”

    “Jack Powell,” he returned, shaking his hand excruciatingly hard. “Heard all about your project.”

    “I see. Er—single malt?”

    “Old Matthew corfed it up, ’cos unlike the rest of them, ’e really likes Colin!” said Jack Powell with some vigour. “And ’e likes Penn, what’s more!“

    “Right. Not querying its provenance, old man. Where is it?”

    “John’s stuck it under the table until we get some solid nosh into us,” he admitted regretfully. “There is another case out the back, mind, only old Matthew’s sitting on that.”

    “Er—until we’ve drunk the rest up?”

    “No!” he said with a snort of laughter. “No, ’e’s sitting on it, see?”

    “Uh—oh! Sitting on it! Right you are!”

    “That Jasmine, she’s feeding ’im on these oyster things. Done in batter, drops ’em in ’ot oil.”

    “Yum, yum!” said Hill, grinning.

    Jack Powell eyed him drily. “Yer think? She got the recipe orf ’er old Gran. West Indian, see? ’Ot as ’Ell.”

    “Er—right. That doesn’t sound too bad.”

    “Only if you’re expecting an oyster not to be ’ot. Ever ’ad ’em devilled?”

    Er—yes, at the Savoy Grill and a few other spots. Hill nodded dumbly.

    “Right,” he said drily. “Nothing like it. Not even close. ’Ot as ’Ell. Still, if yer fancy ’em?”

    “Ooh! Yes, please!”

    “Right you are. Through ’ere.”

    Ooh, ’nother way to the back regions! Ooh, the actual kitchen! Gosh, rows and rows of microwaves and a tall, cross-looking Indian chef and a short, cross-looking yellowish lady in a large, professional apron— Jack guided him silently past them. Crumbs, the tall Indian chappie was muttering in, uh, Indian?

    “Punjabi,” said Jack very, very quietly. “’E’s real narked cos someone ’ad the gas turned orf and forgot to tell ’im they’d done it. Well, comes of running the dump by a committee, dunnit? Over ’ere.”

    Sure enough, in a quiet corner of the huge kitchen old Matthew Haworth, Savile Row tailoring an’ all, was sitting on a case of Scotch what time a huge Black woman operated on a teeny, weeny stove set on a kitchen chair nearby. Oh! Camping-gas burner, right!

    “Any left?” said Jack without preamble.

    “Loads, ducks!” she beamed. “Yer want some? They’re ’ot, mind.”

    “Yeah. Not me, ta, Jasmine. Hill’s game, though. Hill Tarlington: Colin’s pal, the Major.”

    “Oh, yeah, ’course!” she beamed. “The one wot manages projects! Colin’s told us all abaht you, ’Ill, ducks! Come on, take the weight orf. Now, they are ’ot, mind,” she said comfortably as Jack shoved another kitchen chair under his bum, “but nobbad, eh, Maffew?”

    “Delicious,” he grunted. “Better than those namby-pamby devilled things the blasted Savoy Grill serves up. H’are you, Hill?”

    “In the pink, thanks, sir. And you?”

    The old man scratched his chin. “Better than I have been for years, tell you the truth. ’Bout time Colin settled down, eh? Couldn’t damn’ well do better than Penn, either, so don’t try to tell me otherwise! When you think of those bitches that never bothered to visit him in hospital!”

    “Calm down, Maffew,” advised Jasmine. “Drink some spring water, it’ll do yer innards good.”

    Under Hill’s goggling eyes the old chap obeyed her! Lumme! He’d never seen him ingest anything weaker than champers!

    “And Julia’s marriage seems to be working out, never mind the chap’s a Jew,” he admitted.

    Julia was his youngest daughter and it was the second marriage, the first having been very short-lived. However, none of this needed to be explained to the company, because the mountainous Jasmine immediately advised: “Ignore ’im. Daniel’s a luverly boy! And the baby’s a real trick!” And Jack nodded agreement with her.

    “Ten to one she’ll have his damned father’s damned nose, but yes,” grunted the proud grandfather: “she’s not bad at all. Pity she’s a girl, that’s all.”

    Oh, Lor’: the old boy’s theme song. He only had daughters, of course, and Colin wouldn’t come into his bloody merchant bank—

    “Get along wiv yer! Girls can do anyfink these days!” scoffed Jasmine, rapidly setting half a dozen little fried offerings on a plate and handing it to Hill.

    Ooh, yum! Ooh, hot! Good, though! “Good!” he gasped.

    “Glad you like ’em, ducks,” replied Jasmine happily.

    “She’s used up the oysters that I was going to use for the oyster puffs,” said a cross, deep voice from somewhere up above Hill’s head. He jumped guiltily and squirmed round: the tall Indian chef was glaring down at them.

    “You can’t do decent oyster puffs without no decent oven, Richpal, love,” replied Jasmine calmly. “And yer done some patties for the top table, that’ll do them. –Go on, ’ave one.”

    Sighing, the chef took one. “Good,” he conceded.

    “’Ow’s the beef?” she asked kindly.

    “Boeuf Wellington,” he replied sternly. “There’ll be enough for the top table. There’s no time to do any more.”

    “Never mind, Mrs Fitzroy’s lamb stew’s luverly!”

    “Navarin,” he corrected heavily. “It’ll have to do, won’t it? Can you come and stir the sauce for the nut balls, please?”

    “We ready for the orf, then, love?”

    “No, Jasmine,” he said grimly, “because oddly enough, microwaving enough hot food for a crowd this big takes time!”

    “See, first they hadda cook it dahn the restaurant and then they hadda bring it up ’ere,” explained Jasmine.

    “Yeah,” said Jack quickly. “Well, uh, better get back to it, eh, Hill? Lemme know when you want me to round the girls up to serve, eh, Richpal?” And with that, and hurried thanks to Jasmine, he and Hill slid out of it.

    Oh, good, Rupy seemed to be looking after Hattie— Ooh, help, that wasn’t Rosie with him, that was her cousin Molly of his, Hill’s, brief telly news fame! Notoriety, rather. Or was it the other one, also very like Rosie but very slightly slim— No, that was her over there with a chap old enough at a conservative estimate to be her elderly uncle. And judging by his tailoring he could more than afford her. In which case the one with Rupy and Hattie was Molly. Ooh, ’eck.

    “Hullo again,” he said with a silly grin.

    “This is Hill,” explained Rupy to their table generally. There was a little old woman and a little old man, and a tall, handsome but badly dressed blonde woman in her early forties who, mercifully, was not one of his and Colin’s—make that of his, he wouldn’t guarantee she wasn’t one of Colin’s—and of course the lovely Molly.

    “’Ave a rum, Hill,” said the little old man by way of greeting.

    “’S’all there ish—sorry, ish,” explained Molly with the seraphic smile she shared with Rosie.

    “There was some gin,” noted the little old woman with tremendous judiciousness.

    “Somebody must’ve drunk it!” choked the older blonde woman, breaking down in splutters.

    Okay, they were all pissed. Hill looked uneasily at Hattie but she just raised her champagne flute and explaining: “Rum and Coke, it’s lovely!” drank it off. That looked so close to all right that he was emboldened to sit down and try one.

    Oh, bugger. That over there was the worst—no, second worst, next to Lady Haworth—the second worst of Colin’s aunts cutting poor Michael Haworth, his older brother, down to size and then some. And Michael was the meekest chap in the world: the last thing he needed—

    “Rescue sortie,” he said briefly to Hattie, standing up. “Colin’s brother. Bitch of an aunt—’nother aunt,” he explained clearly.

    “Tally-’o, Major!” the little old man, Jim Something, encouraged him.

    Hattie got up uncertainly. “I think they’re bringing the food out.”

    “Then we’ll sit with Michael,” he said firmly.

    “He’s quite harmless, Hattie,” the little old woman, Alice Something, encouraged her.

    “Not toffee-nosed,” added the blonde woman, Anna Something, with great solemnity.

    “Meek,” said Molly with her seraphic smile.

    “No wife, Hattie, darling: she couldn’t stick the country life with the horrid old grandfather and left him and the two little girls years back. Then she drowned in Ther Bee-’ah-mas: snorkelling while sozzled,” explained Rupy.

    “In a nutshell. I’m going,” said Hill firmly, forging off.

    To his surprise Hattie scrambled after him and grabbed his arm. Well!

    “Hullo, Michael,” he said amiably.

    The poor bugger jumped ten feet. “Oh—Hill,” he said weakly. “Terribly good to see you. Colin was afraid you might have to hive off to the Antipodes or somewhere.”

    “No, told the firm I’m on hols and they could put up or shut up.” He introduced Hattie and, smiling his pale, meek smile Michael shook hands. He did manage to look her in the eye—well, the manners had been drummed into him, of course—but only just, poor bastard. Been completely off women since the wife left him, and small wonder.

    “Come on, Michael, let’s grab a table,” he said as there was a definite smell of food and a stir amongst the crowd. “Not supposed to be with the bridal party, are you, old chap?”

    He didn’t shudder but it was a close-run thing. “I think I am, actually.”

    “There’s such a scrum you won’t be missed! Or do you want to sit with your Pa and Ma and that old bitch Lady Duff-Ross?”

    “Um, no,” he said miserably. “Um, I seem to have lost track of the girls.”

    “Would this be two little girls in pink frocks?” asked Hattie kindly. He nodded miserably and she said: “I saw them just a while back with Rosie’s little boy: don’t worry, a lady that Rupy said was his nanny was looking after them all.”

    “But, um, Sarah Jane’s allergic to shellfish and she won’t know!” he blurted, looking agonised.

    “What a pretty name,” said Hattie immediately, smiling at him. “Well, I tell you what, let’s find them and sit with them, okay?”

    At the kiddies’ table? Oh, well, why not? If it got Michael out of his bloody relatives’ orbit— And for sure, none of them would be volunteering to look after the littlies!

    In addition to little Sarah Jane and Anne Louise the kiddies’ table was ornamented by Rosie’s little boy, he’d be about three, another little boy who informed them proudly that he was nearly five, he was going to school next term! and several rather older children, including an adorable little girl aged perhaps as much as eleven, with the same delightful skin colour as Joanna: almost undoubtedly Jasmine’s daughter. True, none of them looked capable of stopping Sarah Jane from eating shellfish, but the burly chap with them most certainly did. Oh—right! Alan Timms, Terence’s right-hand man at the pub! He thought he ought to be keeping an eye on his old dad but the busty blonde Yvonne who was in charge of him didn’t, so he sat down again.

    The children were not going to get up and serve themselves from the buffet—sit down, Micky!—Yvonne, Hill and Michael would get them stuff. Like that. And keep an eye on them, Alan! Like that, as well.

    After that it was all plain sailing, really, and nary a skerrick of shellfish touched Sarah Jane’s lips. Nor anybody’s at their table, in fact nobody’s except possibly the top table, but Hill wouldn’t have gone over there for quids.

    The food ranged from delicious (Mrs Fitzroy’s Navarin) to really odd (a slimy vegetable stew with a touch of yer gumbos to it: possibly Jasmine had had a hand in it), but never mind, it was all fun! As the champers had long since run out, the orange juice had long since run out, and it was a choice of Coke or soda water, they had soda water, leaving the Coke to the kids. What had happened to the good stuff with the eats that at one point Hill thought someone had mentioned was never made clear. It certainly never showed its head at their table. Never mind, the puds were good!

    In fact the food was so good that Michael felt brave enough to go over to the top table in case they wanted him for the speeches. It did help that bloody Lady Duff-Ross wasn’t sitting there, but at John’s parents’ table—yeah.

    That chap, Jack Something—um, um, Powell, that was it!—was making a speech. The busty blonde Yvonne went bright red and collapsed in splutters. Timms had already collapsed in splutters. Hattie was just bright red.

    … A fat old pink-headed chap was making a speech. Timms was shaking helplessly, tears streaming down his face. Yvonne was so red she couldn’t go any redder, bolt upright and had just uttered the syllables: “Well, really!” Hattie, Hill was glad to see, was looking completely puzzled.

    … “Here,” said Adam Gilfillan kindly, holding out a bottle of something ’orrid-looking.

    “Go ’way. Don’t look down Hattie’s front!” replied Hill crossly.

    Adam just grinned, what time Yvonne gave a startled snicker and Hattie clapped her hand to her mouth. Timms just grinned.

    “It’s to counteract the old buffer’s speech. I have heard riper, but only just,” said Adam kindly, picking up Yvonne’s glass, since it was nearest, and, just for a change, looking down her front.

    “You can leave orf Yvonne’s front, too!” gasped Timms, going into a paroxysm.

    “Stop it, Alan,” she said weakly. “Thank you,” she said weakly to Adam.

    “He’s an Army mate of Colin’s from the regiment, like Hill, and I think he’s probably as drunk as he is,” explained Hattie.

    “It’s a wedding!” replied Adam happily, grabbing her glass. “Staying at the pub, are you, Hattie?” he asked hungrily.

    “Yes! For God’s sake, sit!” cried Hill. “Or is the view better from up there?”

    “’Tis, actually. No, well, thought Jerry might need a belt, too,” he said amiably, sitting and handing Hill the bottle, “but I can’t see him.”

    “Is he the tall man with the very military haircut?” asked Yvonne, peering cautiously at the contents of her glass.

    “There’s one or two of them ’ere!” noted Timms, wresting the bottle off Hill. He sniffed it. “Blimey,” he said conversationally, pouring.

    “Yes, of course he is,” said Hattie pointedly to Yvonne.

    “Then I think he went outside with that lady in the violet dress,” she said, going red and avoiding everybody’s eyes.

    “Not Rowena S.?” croaked Adam.

    “Probably,” agreed Hill.

    “Thought he said that was once bitten, twice shy?”

    “Probably,” agreed Hill.

    This struck a chord and Timms collapsed in splutters again. Yet again.

    “Ignore them,” said Hattie pointedly to Yvonne.

    “I am, Hattie!” she assured her fervently.

    Looking defiant, Hattie sipped from her glass. An amazed expression came over her face.

    “Galliano,” said Adam airily. “Nobody else seemed to want it.”

    Abruptly Hill collapsed in splutters…

    “Don’t even look for the car,” warned Hattie as they emerged into a warm evening from the Workingmen’s Club. It was quite some time since the bride and groom had disappeared. Not in a hail of rice, in fact nobody was admitting to actually having seen them go. Oh, well!

    “No. Wouldn’t recognise it in this crowd, anyway,” he conceded.

    “You’re very drunk,” she said severely.

    “Yes,” he conceded. Even though he wasn’t very. Well, cheerful. Happy.

    … “Ooh, where am I?” he croaked.

    “Are you still saying ‘ooh’?” cried Hattie loudly.

    Hill sat up, blinking. Completely strange bedroom: never seen it before in his puff. Er, no, hang on. “Terence’s pub, right? ’Orrible décor. Untouched by ’uman ’and since the Fifties.”

    “Sixties; Fifties might be interesting.”

    “Right. Ooh, still daylight! Come on, let’s see if there’s a bite of din—”

    “It’s TOMORROW!” she cried.

    Ooh, ’eck, was it? Ooh, ’eck.