Women-Men-Work

24

Women-Men-Work

    Ted’s phone rang in the middle of the afternoon. He nearly didn’t pick up—well, who the Hell would be ringing him? It was only the thought that it might be the Ditterminster nursing-home calling about his friend Ned Cummins that made him answer it. Hattie. She’d never rung him up in her life, even the invitation to that daft birthday party for Lambie had come from ruddy Gordon—

    “Uh, yeah, ’course I can pick you up from the station, Hattie,” he said dazedly. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a wedding or something, though? –Only according to Miriam’s gossip!” he added quickly.

    “Yeah, hah, hah. That was yesterday.”

    “I see.”

    “Hill’s gone off to his stupid old family’s stupid place,” said Hattie sourly to the question he was carefully not asking.

    “Uh-huh. Well, I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.”

    “Thanks, Ted,” she said in a small voice. “Don’t speed!” she gasped just as he was hanging up.

    Thoughtful. Ted hung up with a very wry expression on his thin, tanned face.

    He didn’t speed, apart from that straight stretch between Daynesford and Ditterminster, where as usual at this time of day there was nothing at all on the road. He hadn’t even seen the school bus—oh, hang on, holidays. In that case it was a wonder he wasn’t passing fleets of tourist coaches, all bound for Daynesford Place or Chipping Ditter. Though come to think of it they were probably already there, parked. In that case, though he had been intending to buy some Brie this week, he’d avoid Chipping Ditter on the way back—unless a miracle occurred and she suggested a coffee might be nice.

    A miracle didn’t occur. In fact apart from saying: “Thanks, Ted,” in a small voice and going very pink, and going even pinker when he said: “Haven’t you got any luggage?” and saying: “No,” in an even smaller voice, she didn’t say anything as they got into the car and set off.

    Ted didn’t put his foot down on that straight stretch to Daynesford, he drove very slowly and carefully, though telling himself he was a deluded fool. After quite some time he said in a voice that came out drier than he’d meant it to: “Not that I’m not happy to fetch you—and I certainly wasn’t doing anything—but why didn’t you ring Miss Whyte? She’d have been thrilled to do you the service.”

    “I never thought of her,” said Hattie in a small voice.

    No, well, bloody June was right in saying she was a man’s woman, then, wasn’t she? Boy, that made it better—not, as the kids said.

    Making up his mind to it and trying not to sound resigned, he asked baldly: “What’s gone wrong, Hattie?”

    “Nothing.”

    “Balls,” said Ted mildly.

    “We had a fight, that’s all. He tried to take me to his stupid family’s place without telling me and then he reckoned he had told me and he hadn’t, he’d rushed off on something to do with his stupid project and drunk a lot of vodka stuff made from apples or something and forgotten to tell me! And then he said I was always blaming him!”

    “If you’re not, you’re the only woman on earth that doesn’t,” replied Ted drily.

    Hattie opened and shut her mouth.

    “Well, don’t they?”

    “Yes; I’ve noticed that,” she said in a tiny voice.

    “Uh-huh. Hard not to let oneself fall into the prescribed patterns for a given situation.”

    “Not prescribed,” she said faintly.

    “Prescribed by our bloody society—yes.”

    “Oh. Mm,” agreed Hattie, gnawing on her lip.

    “Yeah. ’Tis hard not to do it—or even to realize you’re falling into the trap. And God knows I can’t talk, my marriage was a miserable failure. I was away on the job even more than he is,” he said drily.

    Hattie frowned. “It isn’t that.”

    “You may think it isn’t, but I’d say it’s got to rankle, underneath. We all hanker to be first in the life of the person who matters most to us. Have you read much Zola?”

    “Um, not much,” said Hattie dazedly. “I’ve read L’Assommoir and Germinal.”

    “Uh-huh. I was thinking of L’Oeuvre—it’s the one about an artist and his woman. Well, I found it rather boring as a novel, but it depicts the man-woman-work situation pretty acutely.”

    “With the man first, I presume?” she retorted acidly.

    “No, actually it’s more woman-man-work. I think he was much more interested in women than men, never mind his grand plan,” said Ted with a smile in his voice. “The female characters are all miles more interesting.”

    “Um, yes. I thought so, but I thought it was just me. Though the whole situation in Germinal, I mean the setting of the mine, that was fascinating.”

    “Yes, that’s the big attraction of the book, isn’t it? But it’s the women who stand out throughout the whole of the Rougon-Macquart saga.”

    “Have you read them all?” asked Hattie in a small voice.

    “Uh-huh. They started us off at school with L’Assommoir—pity, really, because it’s a difficult book to get into. But I found it got to me, and I went back to it. –You want to watch out for Ditterminster’s bloody Sixth Form, by the way: it’s a damned forcing-house. They push the boys too hard and then they tend to waste the first year or two of university completely: reaction. Same like in Japan.”

    “Yes, their secondary schools are terrible forcing-houses. I’ll keep an eye on Kenny.” She hesitated and then added: “So what’s Zola’s solution in L’Oeuvre?”

    Ted made a wry face. “There is none. The whole thing falls apart. Well, didn’t go in for solutions, much, did he? Most of the Rougon-Macquart books are about the ways in which we destroy ourselves.”

    Hattie swallowed. “Mm.”

    “When he does provide any sort of solution it tends to be either horribly saccharine or horribly facile!” said Ted with a laugh. “Though Au bonheur des dames has a happy ending, and works on its own terms. But if you’ve read the preceding book about the hero it’s difficult to believe that he really is a changed man.” He blahed on in this vein for some time, realized he was blahing, and stopped.

    “Yes,” said Hattie. “Um, have you got those books?”

    Bitter experience had taught Ted not to lend his books. He almost made an exception. But Jesus, what was the bloody point? “No, borrowed ’em from various libraries,” he lied. “Ditterminster University’d be your best bet. You still working for the Polytech? You’d have borrowing privileges there.”

    “Kath Benson said that, too. Um, no, my contract finished and Hanae’s got a permanent Japanese tutor lined up for the new academic year.”

    “In that case I can give you the addresses of a couple of reliable bookshops in London that’ll either have them in stock or will get them for you—they’re always in print, vive la France, eh? Uh, sorry; that is, if you do want to read them in French?” he ended feebly.

    “Yes, of course,” she said mildly.

    Ted smiled weakly. Boy, had he got carried away or had he— Yeah. Not to the extent of lending his precious battered paperbacks, though.

    “How’s Kath getting on in Japan?” he asked with an effort.

    Hattie looked at him doubtfully. “I thought you didn’t like her?”

    In that case she was one with the rest of the village. All of ’em disappointed about it, too, apart from Miriam. Well, and possibly Mrs Everton, who’d noted that she struck a rather masculine figure. “I don’t actively dislike her, she’s just not my type. But by all means don’t tell me.”

    “Um, no, sorry! She’s having a great time and Kenny’s father’s looking after her, he’s taking her to Kyoto this week, her last postcard said.”

    Oh, really? So had Kenny’s dad had the sense to transfer his allegiance? Or was he doing it because the woman was a friend of Hattie’s? And quite possibly loathing every moment— Er, yeah. “That’s nice,” he said nicely.

    “I’m glad she didn’t chicken out,” said Hattie with a smile.

    Ms Benson hadn’t struck Ted as likely to chicken out of anything she’d decided on: more like the grimly determined type that couldn’t be stopped with a tank. “Mm,” he managed. “So what are your plans for next term, then?”

    “What?” said Hattie blankly.

    “Well, if Kath’s gone to Japan— And the other woman went to China, didn’t she? And the tutoring job at the Polytech’s over—unless they want you for Mandarin?”

    “No, they’ve got plenty of tutors for that. I suppose I’ll just do some more interpreting.”

    “Er—yeah.”

    “Don’t tell me I’ve got the boys, the interpreting’s helping keep a roof over their heads!” said Hattie crossly. “I’ve invested the money that I got for the London property, Ken told me how to.”

    Uh—oh, Kenny’s dad again—right. “Good, so you’re a plutocrat!” he said lightly.

    “No. It brings in a reasonable income but I need to work as well. The Council have put the rates up,” she noted glumly.

    “Yeah, mine and June’s, too. Everyone’s, I think. Result of Hill’s damned Chipping Abbas project: the village is starting to go up-market and the bloody Council’s expecting us to pay for the road upgrade that’s for the benefit of the tourists that’ll be infesting Chipping Abbas.”

    “Yes. Um, will the village go up-market, then, Ted?”

    Ted made a face. He hadn’t meant to burst out with all that, though it had been weighing on his mind—certainly since he got his last rates bill. Unlike Hattie, he didn’t have a vast insurance pay-out and the proceeds of the sale of a London property to live on. “I think there’s no doubt of it. They’re doing up Miriam’s shop in anticipation of it, and Mrs Everton’s bought those two ruins next to her—um, two together, other side from Miss Whyte, I mean,” he added lamely.

    “Um, yes. Um, to stop newcomers from building something awful there, Ted, or to sell them for a profit?”

    “Both, I’d say,” he said drily. “So as she can control the sort of incomers who buy.”

    “Yes, but once the property’s theirs, can’t they do what they like with it?”

    Why the fuck were they having this conversation? “Uh, well, within certain limits, yes. But she may only consent to a long lease with all sorts of conditions.”

    “I can see that. Harry Adamson’s taken his cottage off the market, though,” she said doubtfully.

    “The little bastard’s seen the writing on the wall, Hattie, and he’s gonna wait until the village really takes off, and make a huge fortune out of it. And don’t be surprised if he and that father of his buy up the whole of the rest of Old Mill Lane.”

    Hattie was looking at him in horror.

    “Old Adamson’s as shrewd as they come.”

    “Um, yes, I’ve met him, he got a fortune out of the German-Japanese consortium for that Ditterminster property of his where they’re gonna build the new mall... It’ll be awful, they’ll all be Mrs Evertons and it’ll be just like Chipping Ditter!” she burst out.

    “I’d say so.”

    After quite some time of staring miserably at the view of on-coming rapeseed fields Hattie asked: “But will there be the demand?”

    “For quaint village housing that’ll cost a fortune either to build or to renovate? In the Britain of the 21st century? You bet,” said Ted very sourly indeed. “It’s really only been the awful road and the complete lack of local facilities that’ve been holding the place back. ‘Ripe for development’ is probably the phrase the Adamsons are using between themselves as they gloat over it. –That cottage of old Pringle’s has been sold to an unknown buyer, by the way.”

    Hattie swallowed hard. “I thought—well, I dunno that I thought, I just sort of imagined—that it’d all just go on being like it is. Scruffy,” she ended wanly.

    “Mm. Me, too. And imagined is the word. Um, if you sold out your investments I suppose you might beat the Adamsons to a sizeable portion of Old Mill Lane. Though the rates’d be astronomical. But you might discuss it with Hill: I’m sure you could swing it together.”

    “He’s gone,” said Hattie flatly. “He said it was going nowhere so we’d better end it.”

    Ted swallowed a sigh. “This’d be after you accused him of blaming you, would it?”

    “Mm. I—I can’t remember what I said, really, I was so angry,” said Hattie in a trembling voice.

    “No. Typical of rows,” he agreed. “Give him time to cool down: he’ll be back.”

    “He said I never told him anything.”

    Ted felt himself cringe. “Oh?”

    “But it isn’t fair, because he never tells me stuff! And I’ve never been a Tarlington!”

    Well, maybe never called herself that—no. “That nose of yours is a dead giveaway,” he said heavily.

    Hattie looked at him in surprise. “What?”

    “Only for those with eyes to see, Hattie. Your nose—and mine,” he said, taking his hand from the wheel to touch it briefly, “and Hill’s are all the Tarlington nose. Very straight, rather narrow. It’s smaller on a woman, of course, but exactly the same shape. His sister missed out on it but his brother’s got it, though he doesn’t look like him at all, otherwise: did you notice? And one of the sister’s boys, the one that’s pally with Kenny. I dunno if you saw the portrait of Aden Tarlington up at the house before they put it into storage, but it’s his nose. Must be a dominant gene.”

    “But…”

    “If the village put their collective mind to it—not the bloody incomers, of course, but the locals—they would recall that Marilyn Perkins married Col Tarlington: in fact they do recall it: it was considerably more than a nine days’ wonder, for a villager to nab a Tarlington. In legal wedlock,” ended Ted on a dry note, touching his noise again.

    “Then—then who was your father, Ted?” said Hattie in a trembling voice.

    Ted smiled a little. “My dad was my father, Hattie, but I wouldn’t take any bets about my grandfather on that side or my great-grandfather on the other side. Possibly everyone’s had the tact not to mention it to you, but the Tarlingtons put it about pretty freely over the last two hundred years: the village might not recognise the expression droit de seigneur but they all know bloody well what it is. Even the old boy—Col’s grandfather—was hot stuff in his youth. Not that the local girls were at all unwilling.”

    “Um, yes, when they all came to Chipping Abbas that summer someone did say that by rights it should be your older brother up there,” said Hattie faintly.

    “That’s one story, yeah!” he agreed, his shoulders shaking slightly. “Don’t tell me Hill was annoyed to find you’re a very distant relation?”

    “Um, no, because I hadn’t told him, but he knew! Joanna told him when Gordon ran off to Heathrow, because my legal name’s on my passport. And he never let on he knew! And he still hasn’t let on about thinking he might have had Gulf Syndrome! I’d never have known a thing about it if I hadn’t got it out of Joanna—and she only knew by accident!”

    “Er, yeah,” said Ted uneasily. “Um, that was partly my fault.” He told her about Hill and Colin dropping in at his cottage, ending glumly: “Bumped into Hill a few days later at the station and he said in his shoes would I tell you and I said not unless it turned out I had the bloody thing. Though I admit he said he thought that’d be best, too.”

    “I thought relationships were about sharing things!” said Hattie loudly and bitterly.

    “Did you?” replied Ted drily.

    She went very red so presumably that had sunk in—good. Well, good if he wanted ruddy Hill Tarlington to have her—yeah. Ted swallowed a sigh.

    “Sometimes—in fact quite a lot of the time—they’re about protecting the people we love.”

    “Um, yes.”

    “Put yourself in his shoes,” he suggested mildly.

    “I am.”

    Mm. He didn’t say anything more. And presumably it hadn’t struck her as odd that Hill and Colin should have told him the lot. Well, the male peer group in action—yeah.

    As they neared Chipping Abbas he said: “Excuse me if I take a detour, won’t you?” And instead of following the main road through the village turned off into Cobblers’ Lane—these days more like a load of old cobblers—thence into Badgers’ Way, a perversion, in more than one sense of the word, of Bodgers’ Way, by a natural progression into Bottomers’, skirting the huge and nasty coach that was pulled up outside the heavily restored “E. Cummins, Joiner”, with its crowd of trippers eagerly buying completely ersatz bits of badly turned wood, jolted over the restored cobbles of the little square into String Alley, and emerged onto Carpenter Street and thence the main road again.

    After a moment Hattie said glumly: “Was that an object lesson in what Abbot’s Halt’s gonna become?”

    “Eh? Er, no, the opposite: trying to avoid the log-jam of coaches and trippers in the High Street!” said Ted with a startled laugh. “Sorry! But it’s all like that.”

    “Yeah. Was it always String Alley, do you know?”

    “No: it was Arse Alley, but that was too picturesque, so the Chipping Ditter and District Historic Site Preservation Society and the Chipping Ditter Historical Society had a joint meeting—the same membership, that would’ve made it easier—and after the sort of harmonious discussion that you can imagine, voted by a narrow, indeed thread-like margin, for ‘String’.”

    Gratifyingly, Hattie collapsed in sniggers. Though she did then say, blowing her nose: “You made that up.”

    “No, I didn’t have to,” said Ted wryly. “And apropos, Ma Everton’s already got the Whytes and a few more on side for an Abbot’s Halt and Chipping Abbas historical society. Though it may never get off the ground, as they can’t agree on which name should come first.”

    “They’ll agree on what Mrs E. wants,” she said heavily. “I’m beginning to wish I’d never decided to come down here!”

    It’d be easier all round, that was for sure. Ted sighed. “You and me both,” he admitted.

    “Um, you’ve got your brother over in Ditterminster, haven’t you?” she said on a shy note. “But otherwise, is there anything to keep you in the village, Ted?”

    “No, the rest of the family’s dead or moved on. I may sell up once poor Ned Cummins goes—and it can’t be long now.”

    “Um, sorry, I don’t think I know him,” said Hattie, going very pink and wondering if it was a boyfriend that the village didn’t know about. Though as Cummins was one of the local names, it didn’t seem likely.

    “I was at school with him,” said Ted heavily.

    “Um, yes. You don’t have to tell me!” she gasped.

    “I might as well, since the subject of bloody Gulf Syndrome has been raised.” Grimly he told her.

    “I’m awfully sorry, Ted,” she said faintly.

    She was, too: a tear was slipping down her cheek. Sighing, Ted drew into the side of the rutted road to Abbot’s Halt. “Don’t.”

    “Sorry; I didn’t mean to make it worse,” said Hattie, accepting his handkerchief and blowing her nose hard.

    “That’s okay. Uh, don’t mention it locally, will you?” he said awkwardly. “Well, June knows, but no-one else does. Ned’s family have all gone, too: the nearest is a sister over to Salisbury. There are lots of Cumminses around but they’re only distant relations.”

    “No,” said Hattie soggily, blowing her nose again. “I won’t. Um, but could I tell Joanna? She won’t tell anybody.”

    “Yes, sure. I meant Miriam or any of those local moos,” he said glumly.

     “Mm. Um, I think Miriam’s very fond of you, Ted,” she said, turning puce.

    “Unfortunately for both of us I don’t reciprocate, I never have reciprocated and I’d strangle the woman if I had to live in the same house with her for as much as two hours!”

    Hattie gulped. “Mm.”

     He sighed. “So it won’t be her that keeps me in bloody Abbot’s Halt.”

    “No. Would you—would you think of going back to civil engineering?”

    He shrugged. “Probably have to. Sort of lost faith in the large-scale construction thing, y’know? It’s a nineteenth-century philosophical stance, isn’t it? Progress with a capital P.”

    “Mm. Um, you might not like this idea,” said Hattie, turning puce again, “but Hill was telling me about some of the people he met when he was looking at sites for ecolodges, and, um, it did sound as if that sort of life, um, managing one or running a B&B, would be, um, well, interesting, and um, well, the guests might not be exciting, but a lot of them are built in quite remote places and they’re seasonal, you wouldn’t be busy all the year.”

   “Out of the swing of the sea, or words to that effect, eh?” said Ted with a little smile.

    Hattie nodded hard. “Yes, that’s it, exactly! One ecolodge he saw in Taupo, that’s in New Zealand, it sounded really lovely! Um, not nearly as silly as YDI’s ecolodges.”

    “Right.” He scratched his chin. “I have got a friend in New Zealand: Bert Pringle; in fact at one stage I thought he might be interested in doing some design work for Hill’s lot—he’s an architect—but he was booked up for a year. Well, it’s far enough away to be out of Miriam’s orbit, that’s for sure!”

    “Um, yes. Poor thing. But if you don’t feel the same way about her it wouldn’t work out. But, um, people are people everywhere you go.”

    “I don’t mind the minutiae of daily life, Hattie,” said Ted with a smile. “So long as I can shut my door at the end of the day!”

    “Not that; in fact the opposite. I think New Zealand is still relatively scruffy, like I remember it, but parts of it are going up-market, too. Hill saw some really fancy, rich people’s houses when he was out there. You’d have to be really careful about where you settled down. And it’s not like England: you can’t live in a village but go up to London whenever you fancy the opera or a really good concert or an art gallery.”

    Ted made a face. “You’ve got me down pat.”

    “No, it was June,” replied Hattie seriously.

    “Uh—it would be, yeah! Well, uh, I’ll think about it,” he said, repressing a wince as Mr Whyte’s car passed him with Mrs staring avidly at the pair of them.

    “Um, that was the Whytes. Um, sorry, now they’ll ask you what we were doing,” said Hattie weakly.

    “They may not, but I can guess who will! Well, we’d better get our stories straight,” he said, starting the car again. “Um, well, seems unfair to make Hill’s work the villain, but how’s this? Called away urgently to a meeting with Sir Thingamabob, he rang me and begged me to collect you safely?”

    “I could of rung you,” she returned dubiously.

    “You think?” replied Ted drily.

    “Um, no. Okay, Ted, that’s a really good story. Thanks,” she said in a squashed voice.

    Yeah, wasn’t it? He drove on into Abbot’s Halt, trying not to sigh.

    Joanna got home to find the sitting-room empty, so either Kenny hadn’t brought Gordon home from Lambie’s at the time he’d been told to, or he’d let Lambie give them both their dinners when he’d been told not to. She went upstairs but neither of the little sods was home. She was just going to ring poor Lambie when it dawned that Hattie’s door was shut. She tapped cautiously. “It’s Joanna, Hattie.”

    “Go away,” said a very soggy voice after quite some time.

    Joanna bit her lip. “Was it awful after all?”

    “What?” replied Hattie. Joanna could hear her blowing her nose, ooh, heck.

    “The wedding reception, of course,”  she said limply.

    “Oh—that!” There was a pause. “Pretty awful, yeah. Some of the people were nice. Not Colin’s relations or all the snooty ones that knew Hill, of course.”

    “Mm. Um, didn’t he come back with you?” she ventured.

    “NO!” she shouted.

    Ooh, heck. “What’s up, Hattie, love? Thought you knew his stupid friends weren’t worth worrying over?”

    “I’m NOT!” shouted Hattie, bursting into tears.

    Joanna gave up on the polite-conversation-through-a-closed-door bit and went in. Hattie was in a faded blue tee-shirt and the jeans she wore around the house. There was no sign of the nice frock she’d had for the wedding reception.

    “What’s up? Did you have a fight?”

    Hattie burst into tears again, but Joanna, putting her arm round her and giving her her own hanky, finally got it all out of her. Well, it seemed to be all. Shit, Hill must’ve been really wild with her to dump her at the station in Portsmouth and let her find her own way back via London!

    “Um, I think he was only hiding stuff from you because he didn’t want you to worry,” she said at last in a small voice.

    “Because he thinks I’m less than him, ya mean, like a stupid doll that has to be taken care of!” she retorted angrily.

    “I wouldn’t say that,” said Joanna feebly. “Everybody tries to protect the people they love, don’t they?”

    “Ted said that,” she admitted, blowing her nose hard.

    “Well, there you are, then.”

     There was a long silence. Finally Hattie said: “He still doesn’t take me seriously, though. I mean, he expects me to fit in with all his plans and—and his stupid friends, regardless of—of my tastes.”

    “Ye-ah. Well, yeah, maybe he does, but I think men always do, Hattie. Um, well, ’tis natural, if you’re a couple. Um, well, it’d be loads worse if ’e went orf and did stuff with them without you, wouldn’t it?”

    “Um, yes, like stupid Bri and his surfing. Most weekends Lorrae never sees him.”

    “Your brother and his wife? I thought it was your other brother that was into surfing?”

    “Kieran. Yeah, he is, too: he’s the one that owns a surfing supplies shop in Queensland. Bri’s an accountant but that doesn’t stop him going surfing all weekend and ignoring his wife.”

    “Yeah. Um, what about winter, though?” said Joanna limply.

    Hattie sniffed. “The really keen ones wear wetsuits, see? But when the weather’s too bad or the sea’s too rough he’ll be in the garage, working on his boards.”

    “Boards?” she echoed faintly.

    “Surfboards, Joanna.”

    “Crumbs.”

    “I’d use a rather stronger word, for preference, but yeah.”

    “Well, see, you’re better off than poor Lorraine!” she declared firmly.

    “Yes. Um, Lorrae, not Lorraine,” said Hattie on a weak note. “L,O,R,R,A,E.”

    Joanna blinked. Finally she admitted feebly: “S’pose if I can have a cousin that’s called Louella you can have a sister-in-law that’s called Lorrae.”

    “Yep.”

    She seemed brighter: Joanna looked at her hopefully. “Hill’ll come rahnd, love, you’ll see.”

    Hattie’s lips trembled. “I was really mean to him.”

    “Yeah, but he’ll cool down!” she urged.

    “No, because he went off to his stupid family’s stupid place and left me!” she wailed, bursting into sobs all over again.

    Joanna patted her back and did her best to calm her down, an awful scowl marring her lovely high café au lait forehead. She wasn’t too sure that Hill’s ruddy family wouldn’t try to persuade him to give Hattie up for good. Well, Harriet was okay, but she and Will weren’t down there, they were busy settling into their flat at Chipping Abbas. But Allan was an awful snob: he’d proved that, hadn’t he? And she didn’t know about their mother, but heck, she was a Lady, and she’d never taught them better, had she, or Allan wouldn’t have dumped a person just because they shouted a bit at a horrible cousin that fully deserved it! Well, and because they had a horrible cousin in the first place, but that was all part of it, wasn’t it? And as for Hattie being a Tarlington—well, given what her dad had been like, that was probably making it worse instead of better. And Hill had known since the airport do and he’d never seemed to have told his family—well, heck, if he’d never even mentioned it to Hattie herself—!

    Okay, she thought, persuading Hattie to pop into bed and going downstairs to make her a cuppa: she’d give Hill the benefit of the doubt, but if he didn’t ring Hattie first thing tomorrow, she’d ruddy well sort it out herself!