Meanwhile, Back At Abbot's Halt...

10

Meanwhile, Back At Abbot’s Halt…

    When Hill had abruptly deserted Chipping Abbas his relations had stayed on. As Will had said, they were here, so why not? Might as well the enjoy the fleshpots while they could, before the place was delivered over to Maurice Bishop’s tender mercies. He had wondered idly how much rent Hill’d manage to squeeze out of the old bastard but as he’d wondered it in front of Joanna, Harriet had shut him up crossly. Joanna had come up for tea but although Hattie had also been invited she hadn’t come, and no prizes for guessing why. Honestly, Hill was the idiot to end all idiots!

    Joanna wandered out into the vegetable garden when she got back. “Um, Allan’s asked me back to his place for the weekend,” she said awkwardly to the back bent over the garden fork.

    “Has he?” said Hattie dully.

    There was a short silence.

    “Um, down to Guillyford Place, I mean,” said Joanna in a strangled voice.

    “Oh. Good,” said Hattie dully.

    “Um, he wants to check up on the farm, and um, well, his mum’s still in Florida with her sister, so, um, Harriet’ll look after the girls,” said Joanna awkwardly.

    “I see,” said Hattie dully. “Gazetted dirty weekend. Good on ya.”

    “Mm.”

    There was another short silence, during which Hattie forked in a row of weeds or possibly, thought Joanna, eyeing the operation doubtfully, the cabbage seedlings she’d planted the other day.

    Finally Joanna said in a strangled voice: “I’m awfully nervous, actually!”

    “I wouldn’t be: it’s a very good sign if he wants you to see his home,” said Hattie with an effort.

    “Not that!” she said with a mad laugh.

    “Oh!” Hattie straightened, and smiled at her. “I see! You’ll be okay!”

    Joanna licked her lips uneasily. “I’ve only done it with stupid boys like Jimmy Porter and corporate jerks like Hugh Bleeding Forrest.”

    “Corporate ning-nongs is the correct expression!” said Hattie, now frankly grinning. “You’ll be right! I mean, he’s obviously a very nice man. Um, and it’s like, um—”

    “Don’t dare to say riding a bike!”

    “I wouldn’t dream of it. For one thing, I can’t ride a bike for nuts, I don’t think I’ve got any sense of balance. No, it’s a bit like, um… wine,” said Hattie thoughtfully.

    “Eh?”

    “Mm. See, the first sip might be really strange but that doesn’t matter, you’ve got the whole bottle, everything doesn’t depend on the first sip. And then you have a bit more and if it’s a nice bottle,” said Hattie, grinning rather sheepishly as she extended her metaphor, “you often find you really like it!”

    “Yes,” said Joanna, smiling weakly. “Well, I don’t think Allan’ll be really strange, first time or not!”

    “There you are, then!”

    “Um, yes. Um, I dunno if I’ll be… able to satisfy him,” she said in a very small voice.

    Hattie had started forking again but she straightened and stopped, goggling at her. “Is he a man?”

    “Yeah, buh—”

    “Then you’ll satisfy him.”

    “He might expect me to be more, um, sophisticated,” she muttered.

    “You’ve been reading those stupid women’s mags, haven’t you?” she said grimly.

    “Well, um, not specifically, Hattie.”

    “Look, forget all that crap. I dunno who it’s aimed at but my guess’d be (a) middle-aged, middle-class women who’ve been married to the same bloke for thirty years, (b) very young girls that’ve only done it with clumsy idiots like Jimmy Porter, and (c) very young married women that’ve been stupid enough, or hormone-driven enough, to leap into marriage with clumsy idiots like Jimmy Porter. And I’m not sure about the first category, though I have my suspicions, but in the two other cases none of it is the woman’s fault,” she said pointedly.

    “No, but, um…”

    “Look, I’m largely going by my experience with Jake Gatenby, here, and he was a Hugh Forrest clone if ever there was one, but though I’m not denying that the first time round he might just leap on you and poke it up there and go bang,”—Joanna winced at the turn of phrase but nodded hard at the semantic message—“after that he’ll make bloody sure you enjoy it as much as he does. Immediately, judging by Jake. I’ll say this for him, he was a yuppie and a slime-ball but he knew enough to give a girl a come!”

    Joanna gulped, and nodded.

    “And God knows I knew from nothing at the time,” said Hattie detachedly, looking at her forked-over row.

    “Um, didn’t you? Um, no. Good. –I don’t mean good, of course!” she gasped.

    “No,” said Hattie, smiling at her. “So stop worrying. I don’t think they want or expect sophistication, so-called, not even the yuppie ones. It’s their job to make you enjoy it, see?”

    “Ye-es. Isn’t that very sexist?”

    “Sex is,” said Hattie simply. “Fancy ratatouille tonight?”

    “Um, no, I can’t, I mean, we thought we’d drive down this evening!” she gasped.

    “Oh, righto. Maybe I better do lasagna, then, but I’m a bit sick of it.”

    “Do what you want, Hattie!” she said, rather loudly.

    “Mm… If there’s a word for something halfway between a zucchini—which can’t be a singular, come to think of it—and a marrow, we’ve got two. They need using up. I could stuff them, I suppose…”

    “No, it’s too much work, they’d only eat it!”

    “Yeah,” she said, grinning at her. “Say I do spaghetti as a side-dish, with olive oil and garlic and maybe a few herbs—I won’t tell them what’s in it, of course—and the ratatouille?”

    “That sounds lovely!”

    “It sounds incredibly scrumptious!” The handsome blond Harry Adamson who owned the restored cottage up the lane came down the garden path to them, grinning. Joanna noticed with a sinking feeling that he was wearing yet another new shirt: this one was a tropical pattern of white yachts, red palm fronds and maroon flowers on a very pale blue background, tucked into what looked like a brand new pair of very expensive designer jeans. These were the very dark sort but Harry had apparently limitless supplies of them in every style and shade imaginable. “I’ll stay for it! Dinner tonight, is it?”

    “I suppose you’d stay for it if it was dinner next week, too,” said Joanna on a sour note.

    “Absolutely!” he panted.

    Hattie, Joanna did not fail to note with irritation, had gone very red.

    “Well?” said Harry with a laugh.

    “It is for tea tonight. –Dinner. If I make it.”

    “I’ll definitely stay!”

    “Will there be enough?” said Joanna in a grim voice to her friend.

    “Yes: there’s two of those overgrown zucchini. I think I once saw them called courges, but that’s wrong, that’s just the French for marrows, though I don’t deny the French version of a marrow is probably eaten younger than the English giants: they like their vegetables young.”

    “Courgettes?” suggested Harry, grinning.

    Hattie replied seriously: “I have seen that distinction. But I think it’s wrong. That’s just the French for zucchini.”

    Joanna sighed.

    “Why don’t you go and pack your frillies?” said Hattie with a smile.

    And leave her to the tender mercies of Harry Bleeding Adamson? There was no doubt in Joanna’s mind he was after Hattie, and if anyone had “Bleeding Yuppie,” not to mention “Hugh Bleeding Forrest Clone” written all over him, it was Harry Adamson!

    Harry gave her a mocking look.

    “Um, yes,” she said feebly. “I suppose I’d better. Um, thanks, Hattie.”

    “No worries.”

    Smiling feebly, Joanna retreated up the path.

    “What is it?” said Harry with a grin. “Dirty weekend away with Allan Tarlington?”

    “Okay, you do know it all,” replied Hattie grimly.

    Harry sniggered.

    Hattie had, more or less, known Harry ever since she and her friends from London had started using the cottage for the occasional weekend. “Where’s Jillian?” she asked heavily.

    “Don’t you mean ‘poor Jillian’?” he drawled. Hattie glared. Grinning, he revealed: “Had a definitive row and she’s pushed off. Good riddance. She had a mind like a pea on a hot griddle.”

    “Have you ever seen a pea on a hot griddle?”

    “No. Nevertheless. Added to which she was a nagger.”

    “I think she was a nagger because you kept letting her down. Which as far as my observation goes, is pretty much the norm,” she said detachedly.

    Harry grinned. “Yeah. I do adore your detachment, Hattie darling!”

    Hattie ignored this. She forked busily.

    “What’s it going to be?” he asked idly.

    “Not a cabbage patch.”

    “Er—no?”

    “No. It had cabbages in it before. I’ve been reading this book on organic gardening and it explained that was wrong. You need to rotate your crops. It recommended beans or peas after cabbages, because they put nitrogen back into the soil, but it’s too late in the season.”

    “Wouldn’t this imply it was wrong, then?”

    “No. Well, it was an American book, but you are in the same hemisphere. Root veggies might be okay. Well, if I was back home I’d say definitely, but I don’t think I’m on top of your English seasons, really. I wouldn’t want them to die in the frosts.”

    “No. –Look up rutabagas in your American book,” he said meanly.

    Placidly Hattie replied: “I have, but the boys don’t like turnips of any sort.”

    Momentarily vanquished, Harry smiled weakly.

    He did stay for dinner but there was nothing he could do that evening in front of Kenny, and Hattie ignored his suggestions that they could, variously, pop into the kitchen together or step outside together.

    Harry turned up again next morning and offered to make a cuppa. Hattie’s reaction to this was only a tepid “You can if you like,” but Harry was undeterred.

    Over the cuppa he ascertained that Kenny was up at Chipping Abbas with Joe, working on a skateboard, and Gordon was spending the day with Lambie Heather. Grinning, he invited her to do anything at all with him. Lunch at the Boddiford Hall Park Royal’s Solarium? Wallow in the stately ’ome atmosphere at Daynesford Place? Drive over to Ditterminster, lunch there? Hattie admitted she wouldn’t mind looking at the bookshops in Ditterminster.

    “If you’re looking for something collectible, the ones in Chipping Ditter—”

    “No, I want a sensible book on what veggies to plant in England.”

    Harry pulled his ear, looking rueful. “Mm. Well, we could try the bookshops. Um, there is a decent public library in Ditterminster.”

    “I hate libraries, they make you give the books back before you’ve finished them,” replied Hattie grimly.

    Harry’s handsome jaw sagged. “Uh—yeah,” he croaked. “Okay, bookshops.”

    She appeared ready to take off in her grimy jeans but accepted his suggestion she change, though noting: “I dunno into what.”

    Grinning, he came upstairs with her and looked through her clothes. “Why don’t you wear any of these?” he said in a stunned voice.

    “Joanna made me buy them after the fire. You don’t need fancy clothes around the house.”

    “You do in my car,” he said firmly, choosing a nice summer dress in a soft peach shade.

    “That’s a bit fancy,” said Hattie uneasily, backing off.

    “So am I. Have a wash and get into it,” he replied brutally.

    When she came down in it, Harry admitted to himself that his eyes were on stalks. “Cor! Who chose that?” he grinned.

    “Joanna, of course,” said Hattie glumly. “It’s too tight, isn’t it?”

    “No, just tight enough!” It was a slim cut, incorporating little draped cap sleeves and a wrap-over skirt, also with a little draping where the wrapped-over bit closed. This did not hide the fact that she had a rounded tummy and the thighs to match but even though his girlfriends had all been very slim ladies indeed, Harry admitted frankly to himself that that fell into the class of a bit of all right. It wasn’t low enough over the full bust but then, you couldn’t have everything. Yet.

    “You could brush that hair out, too,” he noted.

    “No, it’ll blow all over the place in that car of yours.”

    “Yeah. Well, I don’t want to be blinded by your crowning glory—or not while I’m driving,” he said with a grin. Hattie, he was very glad to see, went very pink and looked away. “Come here.” He unbraided the hair, combed it out, and rebraided just the top few inches, leaving a great curly mass hanging down her back. “There!” he said with a laugh, very excited.

    “Will I do?” replied Hattie heavily.

    She could have done with a touch more make-up, though she had put a bit of lipstick on. But the cheeks were flushed anyway and the skin was lightly tanned to a delicious honey shade—and never mind that the local tarts smothered their eyes in muck, Hattie’s big hazel eyes with their long, curling lashes were lovely enough not to need muck! “Absolutely! Come on!”

    Obediently Hattie followed him out.

    He gave her lunch at the place that called itself The Buttery—God knew why, it was miles from Ditterminster University, a newish foundation on the far side of the town, and its minceur menu certainly didn’t feature anything with butter in it. He could see Hattie didn’t think much of the fare, but that was all right, nor did he, and the place was at least comfortable and quiet. Not to mention, the favourite haunt of such personalities as Pauline Mason, glaring at them over her usual Slimmer’s Special Salad (finely grated carrot, finely grated beetroot, alfalfa sprouts and wilting cucumber) and Megan Griffith that was, now Harrison: not daring to glare because she was with Mr Harrison, but nevertheless unable to refrain from sneaking looks at their table while he told the waiter to take back the wine, it was corked, to take back her main, it was cold, and to bring him a cognac and make sure it was the good stuff.

    “Have a glass of something nice to take the taste away!” he suggested with a laugh when Hattie had finished her orange water-ice with its artistic sprinkling of finely grated orange and lemon peel.

    “It didn’t seem to have real orange in it,” she replied in a puzzled voice.

    “I know! Sorry! Well: brandy? Or liqueur? Cointreau’s got real orange in it,” he said slyly.

    “Witty. No, I won’t, thanks; alcohol at lunchtime makes me fall asleep in the afternoon.”

    “Hattie,” said Harry earnestly, leaning across the table, the blue eyes sparkling, “should you fell like falling asleep in the afternoon my flat is entirely at your disposal!”

    “Very funny. Have you got a flat?”

    “Er—yeah,” he said numbly. “Thought you knew that?’

    “I wasn’t sure if it was a house or a flat. You do sell houses, don’t you?”

    Harry was the “& Son” in Adamson & Son, the largest firm of land agents in the county. “The firm does, yes. I tend to show the country properties—houses, cottages, and the very occasional farm that comes on the market. Dad does the industrial properties, the bugger, and the occasional town mansion, and the rest of ’em do the city domestic properties—houses and flats.”

    She frowned over it. “Why is your father a bugger for doing the industrial properties?”

    Harry made a horrible face. “Highest prices, biggest commissions! No flies on Dad! Mind you, I’m happy showing the country properties.”

    “Yes. You know a lot about restoring and antiques and stuff,” she said seriously, nodding.

    He was quite glad to hear she’d realised it. “That’s right! Would you like to see the flat?”

    “Um, I would, quite, Harry, but not if there’s any strings attached,” said Hattie honestly.

    Harry went rather red. “I can’t actually promise not to leap on you, I am only human!”

    Hattie merely returned: “Do you want a drink?”

    “Uh—not really. Well, head for the bookshops, then?” he said nicely.

    On the way out of The Buttery he look her bare elbow, since it was there.

    “Stop squeezing my arm!” she hissed.

    “I can’t,” replied Harry simply.

    Very red, Hattie pulled out of his grasp and walked off.

    Harry ran after her, laughing. “Oy! The bookshops are back the other way!” he hissed in her ear.

    “Then lead the way sensibly. Why do men always have to be silly?”

    “Hormones,” he said smoothly. “Come on, then.” He led the way sensibly.

    The first bookshop didn’t have anything that even looked like a sensible gardening book, in fact Hattie took one look at the display of giant picture books in its window and blenched.

    The next bookshop was the sort of place that fills its window with bestsellers. “Cretinous,” said Hattie in awe, after some concentrated staring. They emerged from it with Harry carrying an interesting book on cooking vegetables: not sensible, with lovely illustrations.

    “Those pictures are all faked. The food’s tarted up with sprays and God knows what. You can see a mile off that that red pepper on the cover’s not even cooked!”

    “Still, the recipes look easy,” he said mildly. “If I can’t figure them out you can help me!”

    Hattie snorted.

    At the third bookshop, somewhat to Harry’s relief, the gardening section was much larger and seemed much more sensible. She took ages. He wandered off and bought a leftover Booker Prize contender that hadn’t won, a lovely coffee-table book on chocolate, and a glorious volume of plans of Victorian and Edwardian conservatories and glasshouses.

    “Where are you gonna put one of those?” croaked Hattie.

    “Mm? Oh, not thinking of a glasshouse for the cottage!” he said with a laugh. “I just like the look of them. Wonderful wrought-iron work! Find a sensible book on veg?”

    “Well, it hasn’t got much about crop rotation, but it does tell you when to plant them.”

    “Good.”

    On the pavement he admitted: “I really need a decent coffee after all those bookshops!”

    “That’d be nice.”

    “Yes, but it’s unobtainable in Ditterminster.”

    She looked at him doubtfully. “Do you want to go over to Chipping Ditter?”

    No, he wanted to go to bed, couldn’t she see that? “No, the coffee there’s three times as much and five times as nasty. Come on, let’s grab one at my place.”

    “Okay,” said Hattie in a dubious voice.

    Harry headed off quickly before she could change her mind.

    “There’s the cathedral,” she said as they neared the great stone edifice.

    “Yes, I’m quite near.”

    “But isn’t it terribly expensive round this way?” she croaked.

    The Adamsons, of course, had the pick of everything as it came on the market. “The building was very run-down: Dad got it for a song,” he said in a vague voice, not mentioning how much it had cost to turn it into three nice flats, or the extortionate prices Dad had sold the other two for. He headed down his little side street, smiling just a little.

    “It’s all very old,” said Hattie, tilting her head to look at the grey stone to either side of the narrow little street.

    “Yes. Some of the stonework’s about as old as the cathedral,” he agreed, unlocking his little blue door. “It’s up two flights, I’m afraid,” he apologised.

    “Does it only go to your place?” said Hattie in surprise as they reached the blank-walled first-floor landing and he urged her up.

    “Uh-huh.”

    Obediently she went on up. Harry hung back a bit: the view was tremendous!

    “Ooh, it’s a real old door,” she said as they reached his genuine old front door.

    “Right. Belongs to the old building,” he said, grinning. “Come on in.”

    Hattie looked about her in amazement. “Look at the rafters!” she cried.

    Exactly. The place cost a fortune to heat but then, every place had its drawbacks, didn’t it? “Yep,” he said, grinning. “It was an old warehouse. The genuine two-foot-thick stone walls are good, too, don’t you think?”

    “Fantastic!” she beamed.

    Harry led her over to the French windows opening onto his balcony. Not original or anything like it: there had been objections from the choice residences on the other side of the river when Dad had undertaken the development, and they’d had to be very careful to paint every visible frame or railing a dull stone shade. And occupants were strictly forbidden to have exterior blinds. Nevertheless the balcony was very pleasant indeed.

    “Ooh, look, you can see the river!” she gasped.

    “That’s right.” The Ditter, as it meandered though the town, wasn’t much wider than a stream, but certainly in this choice area it was very, very pretty. He came up close and said into the tiny, wispy curls that clustered round that very attractive pink ear: “See the swans?”

    “White swans! Aren’t they lovely!” she breathed.

    What other colour would swans be? –Never mind. Harry slid his arm round her, just under those extremely beckoning full breasts. Hattie gulped, but astonishingly enough, didn’t pull away. He put the tip of his tongue in her ear on the strength of it.

    “Don’t do that,” she said faintly.

    “Okay,” he breathed. “I’ll do this instead.” He pulled her round gently against him, not neglecting to press his hard-on very firmly against the rounded belly that had been driving him mad for some weeks, not merely when it had appeared in the peach dress, though that had most certainly played its part. Gently he put his mouth on hers. And waited until her lips just parted and then— He wasn’t too far gone to experience a sensation of astonishment as Hattie grabbed his back fiercely and crushed herself against him.

    “Well!” he gasped finally, coming up for air.

    “This doesn’t mean anything!” gasped Hattie, very flushed.

    No? It was bloody well gonna mean the usual, or his name wasn’t Harry Adamson! He buried his face in the tits, on the strength of it.

    “Ooh, Harry!” gasped Hattie.

    This was encouraging. Even though she hadn’t put her hand anywhere interesting as yet. After a lot more kissing and heavy breathing he grabbed the hand and positioned it for her.

    “Ooh!” gulped Hattie.

    “Yes!” he gasped. “Not a bicycle pump in my pocket!” He kissed her again, then mumbling his face down her neck and down a bit. “Rub me,” he said faintly.

    Obediently she rubbed him, Jesus! “We could go to bed,” he croaked.

    “All right,” said Hattie faintly.

     Not chancing his luck, he led her into the bedroom immediately. It was conveniently off the sitting-room: the flat was basically two large rooms.

    That enticing peach dress was off her and on the floor in two seconds flat. Hattie was very flushed but then, so was he. “Um, I didn’t have a petticoat that fitted under this dress,” she muttered.

    “Good!” replied Harry frankly, staring at the incredible bush peeking round the sides of the inadequate lacy panties. He tore his clothes off. “Come on!”

    Hattie was blushing madly and looking away. He cupped the bra gently. “Mm, these are good!” He buried his face in them, meantime getting his hands round and operating on the bra. The pair of them were putting quite a strain on the fabric, but though he hadn’t had experience of this exact phenomenon he got it off without trouble and they sort of went all soft and pliable as he quickly cupped them in his hands. He got his mouth over a nipple and damned nearly came.

    “Shit!” he gulped, backing off. “That was too bloody good! I’ve never seen tits like those!”

    “Oh,” said Hattie feebly. Her guess would’ve been he’d seen all kinds—several times over.

    “Siddown, I’ll just ease the rest off you!” he said with a laugh.

    She sat down on the edge of the big bed and he eased the flimsy pantyhose off and then the lacy aforesaid. Then pushing her back very gently while he knelt by the bed. “This is an act of worship!” he explained, grinning.

    “Mm!” she squeaked.

    Grinning, Harry buried his face in that fantastic bush..

    “Oh, Harr-ee!” she wailed.

    Gee, that was a good sign. He did it a bit more.

    “I might come!” gasped Hattie frantically.

    Harry knelt up, grinning. “That’d be really good, Hattie. I’d be flattered!”

    “Oh,” said Hattie limply. “Jake said that, too. Only sometimes they get wild.”

    “Morons might get wild,” he allowed. “Um, well, if I get on top of you,” he admitted, “I might come like a rocket—in fact I’m bloody sure I will.”

    “Mm. You will use a condom, won’t you?”

    “Of course. –Hang on.” He got one out of his bedside cabinet. “Since I’m such a good boy,” he said plaintively, “if I were to just roll on top of you and squash your whatsits and then just touch your other whatsit with my whatsit before I put this thing on, would you object?”

    “I would if you shoved it up there without using the condom,” said Hattie, very red.

    “No, just a touch. Promise!”

    “Um, well, okay.”

    Immediately Harry rolled on her. “This is glorious!” her gasped. “Lemme just— Jesus!”

    “Don’t,” said Hattie faintly.

    “I’m not—shoving—it up!” he panted, sweating like fury. “Oh—crumbs,” he croaked, rolling off her.

    “Um, wasn’t that all right?’

    “Too all right!” said Harry with a laugh. “Whew! Nearly came! Come on, just edge up a bit and I’ll get down there!”

    “Okay.”

    Harry got on with it. Well, tried to. In about ten seconds she shrieked like a banshee, clawed his shoulders to blazes, and came like a whirlwind. He only just had the self control to haul the condom on before falling on her, letting himself be sucked in there and letting himself fuck like fury for at least two seconds before exploding like a rocket.

    About a hundred years later he rolled onto his back, grunting, and drew her head onto his shoulder. About a hundred years after that he managed to say: “It must’ve been the orange sorbet. Can’t’ve been anything I did, never got that keen a reaction in me life!”

    “I thought you had millions of girlfriends?”

    “Yeah, but none that were wet as Hell to start with and came like a whirlwind just because I had my tongue up there!”

    “Oh,” said Hattie dubiously. “Wasn’t I supposed to?”

    “You were absolutely supposed to: some of ’em don’t!” said Harry with a laugh. “Some of ’em tell you what you’re doing wrong, too, that’s very encouraging—not.”

    “You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Hattie, very puzzled.

    “Glad to hear it.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “These are good, too,” he noted, tweaking one.

    “You said,” said Hattie, blushing. “Um, Harry?”

    “Mm? Get you anything? Nice sip of white wine? Mineral water? That coffee we thought about, a million years ago?”

    “You don’t have to get me anything. Um, I just wanted to say that this doesn’t mean anything.”

    “I thought it meant bloody good sex, actually,” said Harry with a pout.

    “Um, yes!” she said, giving a sudden yelp of laughter and clapping her hand to her mouth.

    “Good,” said Harry with a grin. “Well, nice mineral water? And shall I put the coffee on?”

    “Um, yes, if you’d like to, Harry, that’d be really good,” said Hattie politely.

    “Right!” He got up. “This good sex, we are gonna have some more, are we?”

    “Um, like not today?” said Hattie cautiously.

    “Well, today as well! Um, no, um, go on with it?”

    “Well, if you’re sure it’s just sex?”

    “Sure I’m sure!”

    “Um, well, yes, please,” she said blushing.

    “You got it, Babe!” Harry went off to dispose of the condom and fetch her a drink, whistling.

    Allan’s phone rang at ten-thirty on the Sunday morning. Harriet, quickly assuring him the girls were fine. Some brothers might just have shouted rude words at her and hung up, but Allan said patiently: “Then what’s up?”

    “Um, sorry, I suppose it’s too early,” she said lamely.

    “Something like that,” replied Allan drily, smiling at Joanna emerging from the ensuite in a pale pink dressing-gown. It was a very smart cut, like a man’s, but the soft, fuzzy material it was made of and the pink entirely counteracted this. He had an idea she might have bought it as suitable for a dirty weekend with your chap when you didn’t want to look like a floozy. “Go on. –Harriet,” he explained. “Nothing wrong, apparently.”

    Looking mildly surprised, Joanna came to perch on the edge of the bed.

    “Um, sorry,” repeated Harriet lamely. “Um, well, I popped down to the village shop this morning—”

    Sighing, Allan ran his hand through his greying light brown hair. “Couldn’t village gossip have waited?”

    “No! Just listen!”

    Resignedly he listened. Young Harry Whatsisface had got off with Hattie. Ouch. “In your shoes I wouldn’t tell Hill—no,” he said drily.

    Evidently he wasn’t listening—she was right, there: Joanna in that ridiculous pink thing was entirely entrancing. His sister was raving on about Hill. “Eh?” he said groggily.

    “You might at least show some sympathy!”

    “I am sympathetic, but if he wanted her, he shouldn’t have rushed off like that.”

    “Couldn’t you—”

    “Absolutely and definitely not. I’m sorry, Harriet, but there’s nothing any of us can do.”

    Harriet conceded sourly there wasn’t and rang off.

    Allan sighed. “Sorry,” he said to Joanna.

    “Is—is something wrong?”

    He made a face. “I suppose you’d better hear it now as later. Well—forearmed, or some such? Hattie seems to have got it together with your neighbour, young Harry Thingamabob.”

    Her jaw sagged in horror.

    Allan cleared his throat. “Don’t know any details but, um, yes.”

    “I knew he was chasing her!” she cried.

    “Mm.”

    Joanna thought it over. “Oh, dear. How could she be so stupid?”

    “Um, attractive young chap,” he offered.

    “He’s too young for her! And he’s got hundreds of girlfriends, he doesn’t really want Hattie at all, he’s just—just amusing himself, because she’s unusual!”

    “Mm. Um, how old is she, Joanna?”

    “She’d be twenty-eight, now. And I know he’s technically older, he’s about thirty-two, but emotionally he’s a complete adolescent!”

    “Yes,” he said slowly. “Then she’d only have been about twenty-two when Hilly met her.”

    “Um, yes. It must’ve been about a year after she came to England.”

    “Uh-huh. I have an idea,” he said, biting his lip a bit, “that he didn’t have a clue that she was that young.”

    “Oh,” said Joanna cautiously.

    “Well, the bloody course was full of the usual more-than-experienced scrawny lady execs: think he assumed she was another corporate dame in her thirties, well up with the play. No wonder he put his foot in it with her.”

    She nodded numbly.

    Allan took a deep breath. “Oh, well. I don’t see that there’s anything anybody can do. Just be supportive, mm? Whichever way it turns out.”

    “With Harry Adamson in it, it’ll turn out disastrous,” she replied grimly.

    That’d be his bet, too. “Well, stand by to pick up the pieces? –I don’t know about you,” he added with a rueful smile, “but as far as I’m concerned, that’s almost ruined what started out as a lovely morning!”

    “Um, yes!” said Joanna with a sudden laugh and a conscious look.

    “Come here: console me.”

    “I think you can console me,” she admitted, kissing him gently.

    Allan put both arms round her, rested his chin on her shoulder, and sighed. “Fancy a coffee?”

    “Mm, that’d be lovely,” she agreed.

    “Good. Come on, want to brave the horrors of the kitchen?”

    “Ooh, help!” she gasped. “We never did the dishes!”

    “Actually we never had the pudding, either!” said Allan with a broad grin. “It’ll be sitting in the fridge.”

    “Never mind, we’ll have it tonight,” said Joanna serenely, getting up and taking his hand.

    Allan’s nice grey eyes twinkled, but he agreed sedately with this innocent remark, and they went off to the kitchen hand-in-hand.

    “Joanna’s gone very quiet,” noted Miriam, leaning on her counter.

    “And can you blame her?” replied June smartly.

    Village society had been augmented at the beginning of September by the arrival of one, Louella Kitson. A cousin of Joanna’s. Aged approximately twenty-one, terrifically curved as to the bust and the bum, given to displaying a wide strip of bulging tummy above the indecently low-slung jeans, and blatantly made eyes at anything approximately male between the ages of eighteen and—well, not eighty, no. But June had with her own eyes seen her cosying up to the burly Bob Metcalf, who must be sixty-five if a day. Nobody had the exact details but June and Miriam had certainly gathered that Allan Tarlington hadn’t been all that impressed by her.

    Hattie and the Broadbents hadn’t seen much of Louella in London, but now she’d decided that since Joanna was making a successful career in hospitality she wanted to follow her example. This ambition didn’t seem to entail actually enrolling for a course and doing some hard grind, but Joanna had straightened her out grimly on that one. So Louella thought she might enrol for the course at Ditterminster Polytech and might there be any jobs going at the Boddiford Hall Park Royal?

    Joanna had replied that they always needed kitchen hands but unfortunately this didn’t discourage her. She turned up complete with two bulging suitcases of badly folded and largely unwashed clothes, plus an enormous make-up case. She was a very pretty girl, the features not as coolly beautiful as Joanna’s, but rather cuter, with a dark skin, enormous black eyes that she was given to rolling, and a thick head of hair that changed colour more frequently than the seasons. Currently it was light brown with yellowish streaks, rather bouffant, and dead straight to ear-lobe-level, where it was chopped off severely in what might have been a bob if it hadn’t been swept behind the ears with amounts of gel.

    “Cor, what a dump!” she said, staring round at the motley collection of furniture in the sitting-room.

    “If that’s gonna be your attitude, you can go home!” replied Joanna swiftly.

    “Yeah, push orf, we don’t want yer,” agreed Gordon. “And yer can’t come in our room!”

    “I wouldn’t come in your room for quids,” replied Louella cheerfully.

    “You’re sharing with me,” admitted Joanna. “It’s a stretcher-bed. Through here.”

    In the pretty white bed-sit Louella shrugged. “Looks just like your old place. Them white walls are real cold-looking. Is there any room in that wardrobe?”

    “Not much. You’ll have to hang your stuff in the wardrobe in Hattie’s room.”

    “I suppose she’s upstairs next to the bathroom.”

    “Yes, because it’s her cottage, Louella. And don’t ask to share with her.”

    “I wasn’t gonna. She got a job yet?’

    This was a sore point. Joanna had recently tried to suggest tactfully to Hattie that a job might not be a bad idea: it’d keep her mind occupied. Hattie had replied that her mind was occupied. Joanna had tried to point out that the garden wouldn’t need much doing to it in winter but Hattie had replied grimly that the only sort of job she could do was IT support and she hated it. Joanna had retired undefeated, to have a good think. Later she had urged a job in a nice bookshop, because Hattie liked books, but had been met by the reply that she couldn’t do change in English money. This was undeniably true. However, Joanna had pointed out that Miriam Green couldn’t make change either, and she managed! Cash registers were automated these days— No go. She hadn’t given up, though, and in fact was in the process of investigating the language courses at the Ditterminster Polytech in case they might need a tutor in any of the foreign languages Hattie could speak. Cheerfully ignoring the fact that Hattie had never taught anything.

    “No, and is that any of your business?” she replied grimly. “You can stay until Christmas but after that if you haven’t got off your bum and found yourself a flat, you can pay board.”

    “All right,” said Louella, unmoved, investigating the wardrobe. “C’n I borrow—”

    “No!” said Joanna loudly. “You can’t borrow any of my clothes or underclothes or shoes!”

    “I never meant to spill that red wine down that dress of y—”

    “No, and presumably you never meant me to know you’d borrowed it!”

    Louella was completely unmoved by this and proceeded to make herself at home. In other words to strew her clothes all round the place, completely maddening Joanna and, oddly enough, Kenny. In fact when she left not only her coat and shoes but also a bra in the sitting-room he threw them all out onto the front path. Louella told him he was a prat and the bra had been strangling her and if the coat was dirty he could pay for the dry-cleaning, but didn’t really seem annoyed.

    “You must admit she’s good-natured,” said Hattie on a weak note to Louella’s cousin.

    “Huh!” replied Joanna witheringly.

    It was extremely unfortunate that Allan should have chosen to call around eleven of a Saturday morning, though possibly, as Hattie at least acknowledged grimly to herself, the outcome would have been the same whatever time he’d chosen. Louella was lounging in the sitting-room in what was her normal wear for that time of a Saturday—that was, presuming she was actually up rather than recovering from a Friday night on the town. Bright lilac tracksuit pants, one of the tee-shirts she usually wore with these as sleep-wear—this was the black one with what at first glance one might assume was a rude message on it in white Gothic lettering, actually the name of a pop group—and over these, a fuzzy nylon dressing-gown that had once been pale blue but was now dingy grey. She had the electric fire on, so the dressing-gown was flung open, allowing the world to see that under the tee-shirt she was a well-developed girl. Her feet, which were up on the sofa, were in giant fuzzy once-orange slippers, very bedraggled, and her straightened, stripy hair had just been carefully pulled back on large plastic rollers, which would remain in until she was dressing to go out for the evening. As she hadn’t removed yesterday’s makeup before going to bed the face was very smeary round the eyes. If it was rather a colourful sight, it was also, as Hattie was later to reflect grimly, one that you’d see in at least seventy percent of the households in Britain, and only a snob of the worst sort would have been put off by it!

    Kenny opened the door to Allan and automatically showed him into the sitting-room, simultaneously shouting: “Hey! Joanna! It’s Allan Tarlington!”

    Allan was very disconcerted. Louella wasn’t. Joanna came in from her own room opposite in time to catch the expressions on both their faces.

    Much later that day Hattie said grimly to her silent friend, who had come into the kitchen and picked up the packet of teabags but then just stood there aimlessly by the bench: “Look, it might sound mean, but maybe we’d better get rid of her.”

    Joanna bit her lip. “She hasn’t done anything, poor girl.”

    “No. Well, heck, if he’s gonna let your relations put him off, Joanna— And she’s only a cousin, it isn’t as if she’s a really close relation!”

    “No. She—she is the sort of person that, um, tends to turn up if she, um—”

    “Thinks she can get something out of you for nothing, yeah. Mum’s exactly the same. Actually Kieran and Katie and Bri aren’t much better.”

    Joanna already knew this. None of them had offered any help when Hattie had written to say her house had burned down and in fact none of them had even asked if she needed help. Though it was true Katie had sent her a book of recipes.—Slices. They were delicious.—“Mm. But we’ve never seen much of her, really.”

    “No. Everyone has awful relations, for Pete’s sake! I mean, crikey, look at his own cousin!”

    Joanna just looked at her blankly.

    “Um, that awful Cynthia woman. Nancy’s mother,” Hattie reminded her. “The lady in the model frock at the social.”

    “Oh! The Lagerfeld lady! Of course.” Joanna swallowed. “Um, she was awful. Only, posh awful, Hattie,” she said in a low voice.

    “Look, they’re not worth bothering about!” said Hattie loudly and angrily.

    Joanna’s eyes filled with tears. “No,” she said in a tiny voice, going out.

    “Oh, shit,” said Hattie lamely to the oblivious Mephistopheles and Mandragore, faithfully stationed by the fridge.

    Recognising they were being addressed, Meffie and Mandy came to rub round her legs.

    “I don’t suppose either of you greedy monsters’ll nip round to the Superette if we run out of milk.” She got the milk out to the accompaniment of more rubbing and rumbling purrs, and looked round for the teabags. “Help, I think she’s walked off with them! Oh, well, let’s all have a drink of milk, it’s consoling, isn’t it?” she said with a sigh to the greedy monsters.

    “You’ll never believe this,” warned June grimly, some three weeks after this incident. She launched into it. Miriam did believe it, actually.

    Harry Adamson hadn’t appeared interested in Louella, though he did seem to find her mildly amusing, so it was all the more peculiar that it happened. Well, men were peculiar, decided Hattie grimly when she was over the shock.

    She’d been in Ditterminster shopping, and after a late lunch at a very ordinary little café, had decided to go for a wander along the river to help fill in the time before the one bus back home to Abbot’s Halt was due to leave. She crossed the pretty little footbridge some way below the cathedral, and went up the towpath on the far side. It was a pretty walk, especially with the leaves turning, and Hattie didn’t hurry, just walked slowly along by the river for some time. There was plenty of time in hand but she didn’t want to risk getting lost on the far side of the town, which she didn’t know at all. So she decided to retrace her steps to the bridge. Whether this was a fortunate decision or not depended on your opinion of men who cheated behind their girlfriend’s back.

    The up-market residences on this side of the river of course had an excellent view of the cathedral, and also of the old stone building where Harry had his flat. Hattie looked across the river, smiling, at the stone-coloured railings of the little balconies, and blinked. The lights were on in Harry’s flat and in there, right in front of the French windows, were Harry and Louella, kissing. It was unmistakably Louella: the river wasn’t very wide and Hattie could see perfectly well she was in her avocado wrap-over top.

    It was true that Hattie herself had insisted the relationship with Harry didn’t mean anything and it was only sex—and neither of them had said it was exclusive. Nevertheless she felt shocked, betrayed and furious. She herself wouldn’t have dreamed of having it off behind someone’s back. Well, obviously their standards were different.

    She couldn’t have said what she did for the rest of the afternoon, but she ended up on the workers’ bus okay, and got herself and her shopping home safely.

    She didn’t have to wonder for long whether she should ring Harry and tell him what she thought of him because he turned up at lunchtime the next day, grinning.

    “What are you doing here?” said Hattie grimly.

    “Showing a cottage in Chipping Ditter, thought I’d pop in for lunch, Hattie, darling!” said Harry breezily.

    “Don’t darling me, you’re a creep and a—a betrayer!” said Hattie loudly.

    His handsome jaw dropped. “Eh?”

    “I saw you the other day!”

    “What do you mean?” he said uneasily, trying to look insouciant.

    “I was over in Ditterminster and went for a walk along the river and I SAW YOU AND LOUELLA!” shouted Hattie.

    “Uh— Look, there was nothing in it! I mean, I bumped into the girl at lunchtime, and she more or less threw herself at me! It was nothing!”

    “I don’t care what it was, GET OUT!” shouted Hattie.

    “Look, honestly, there was nothing in it! It meant less than nothing to me: can’t we talk—”

    Hattie looked round desperately, grabbed the metal colander that was draining on the bench and hurled it at him. “Get OUT!”

    “I’m going,” said Harry feebly, rubbing the shoulder the colander had bounced off. Hattie was again looking round her so he went over to the door. “We’ll talk about this when you’re calmer.”

    “We WON’T! I DESPISE you, Harry Adamson!” shouted Hattie. “You’re a person with no standards! Don’t ever come here again!”

    Scowling and very red, Harry slid out.

    Possibly the village wouldn’t have known the details—or not for some time, at any rate—had it not been for the fact that June had just popped over with a recipe for a treacle tart that she’d promised Hattie. She heard the last of the shouting and observed Harry’s exit. Other people might just have retired quietly at this point, whether out of consideration or cowardice, but June went in. Hattie was just standing in the middle of the kitchen looking blank.

    “Harry’s blotted ’is copybook, has ’e, dear? Thought it wouldn’t be long. He’s the type that can’t keep it in his trousers,” she said sympathetically.

    “It was Louella. I thought he didn’t even like her,” said Hattie dully.

    “Probably doesn’t,” replied June shrewdly. “That doesn’t stop ’em. You sit down, Hattie, lovey; I’ll make you a cuppa.”

    Hattie sat down at the yellow table, looking lost. “I thought he was nice,” she said sadly. “I mean, I knew he’d had loads of girlfriends, but, um…”

    “No, well, a spoilt, good-looking feller like ’im, never bothered to take another person’s feelings into account in ’is whole— That’s right, Hattie, dear,” she said as Hattie burst into snorting sobs at last. “You have a good cry: it’ll clear the air. He’s no loss, mind!”

    Hattie bawled for some time but was finally able to sit up, blow her nose, drink up her tea and agree with June, albeit grimly, that Harry was no loss.

    “It can’t have got worse,” said Miriam feebly, two days later.

    “It has.” June leaned on the counter, looking grim, as Mrs Rushforth came in, greeted them graciously and, assuring herself that Mrs Biggs didn’t need to be served before her, purchased a loaf of sliced wholemeal, a packet of Digestives and a pack of quilted pastel toilet paper.

    “He won’t touch that bread,” she noted as the doorbell tinkled after Mrs Rushforth.

    “She was on about diets the other day— Never mind that! What about Hattie?”

    “Not Hattie, this time,” said June grimly. “Joanna.”

    Miriam listened with an expression of pure dismay overtaking her pleasant features. June was right: it had got worse.

    Allan had turned up unexpectedly at Number 7 Old Mill Lane, claiming he was visiting friends over in Salisbury. He came round to the kitchen door: Hattie and June were in the kitchen and both silently recognised that he’d avoided the front door because of the loud pop music coming from the sitting-room. Hattie sat him down at the kitchen table and was about to say over the noise that she’d fetch Joanna when it suddenly stopped.

    A door slammed upstairs and someone shouted: “LOUELLA! Are you ready?”

    The voice was undoubtedly Joanna’s. June cleared her throat uneasily.

    “I don’t ’ave to go!” screeched Louella in reply.

    “Yer bleedin’ well do ’ave to go, because you’re a lying, cheating little SLUT!” shouted Joanna. “And get yourself out to the car THIS INSTANT!”

    “You’re mean an’ ’orrible, Joanna Broadbent, and I never done NUFFINK!”

    “You fucked Hattie’s boyfriend, when was that nuffink, yer bleedink ’orrible tart?” There was a thunderous sound of feet on the stairs. Then Joanna shouted, closer at hand: “Pick up that case, yer selfish little cow, I don’t care ’ow many of my decent clothes you’ve nicked, you can keep them, I’d give more than that to see the back of yer!”

    There came the sound of the front door being thrown open and the sound of hasty footsteps—presumably Louella rushing out. Then the front door slammed.

    The kitchen rang with silence.

    “Um, Joanna’s really wild with her, but it wasn’t only her fault,” said Hattie uneasily.

    Allan got up abruptly. “I’d better be off. It was nice to see you again, Hattie,” he said stiffly. “Say hullo to the boys for me, won’t you?”

    “Um, yes, thank you. Bye-bye, Allan,” said Hattie numbly as he vanished.

Next chapter:

https://theprojectmanager-anovel.blogspot.com/2021/12/winter-of-discontent.html