Gone Dotty

23

Gone Dotty

    Okay, I admit it, I’m crackers. But heck, would you have turned it down when it was offered to you on a plate? See, the thing is, I didn’t know Lucas was gonna come up to Queensland with us. Turns out he’s officially on his annual leave, so he decided to grab the chance to come out to Oz and look at our accounts system while getting a bit of sun in tropical Queensland and simultaneously keeping a sharp eye on what Dawlish is doing to Double Dee’s budget. So gee, just when D.D. was telling Bernie Anderson he wanted a proper Colonial square with real buildings, not painted backdrops and bugger the expense, Lucas ups and puts the kybosh on it. Phew! Smooth as silk, the shouting just slid off him like water off a duck’s. When D.D.’d calmed down a bit Lucas reminded him they hadn’t originally budgeted for borrowing the Henny Penny studios to do Rosie’s tapping bits in, so after a bit of shouting about Brian Hendricks being a rapacious Scrooge with as much aesthetic sense as a mandrill, he gave in completely. Though later that day he did stomp round aggrievedly shouting, possibly the mandrill image had prompted the thought: “Monkeys! Monkeys! Tropical forests should be full of monkeys!” Only several people assured him the bits of tropical forest round Singapore aren’t, so he eventually gave up on that one. He did blow up at one of the sound-men who’d said that the noise of the crickets in the tropic night was already deafening and he didn’t need monkeys as well, the dialogue’d be drowned out. But only as a form—not really meaning it, kind of thing.

    Anyway, like I say, it was a shock seeing Lucas up here, too. Specially in a pair of shorts and a blue tee, he’s got great legs. In his suit you don’t really notice the figure but it’s really nice, well proportioned, y’know? Maybe if I’d of had something to do, or someone to be with that first night, it wouldn’t of happened, but— Anyway, everybody had sorted out where they’d be sleeping, with the expectable fights over the pecking order when some people found they hadda go in the trailers, not looking at anybody, Darryn Up-Yourself Hinds, except Lucas. So Isabelle said he could sleep on her sofa-bed, or if he could jack up transport Sharon and Kieran Wong could put him up, they’re only fifteen minutes down the road. Rosie tried to tell him it’d be a sleepout only Isabelle flattened her. ’Tisn’t, see, it’s a really nice room with its own ensuite over the garage, at one stage that were thinking they might do farm holidays only then Dirk Wong, he’s Kieran’s nephew, he boarded with them for a bit, he’d finished his Ag.Sci. course and wanted to get some working experience, only he’s gone now. It’s got air-con, they put it in when they were thinking of doing holidays.

    So Lucas jacked himself up a 4WD, no sweat, and asked me if I’d like to come over and see it. Well, heck, nobody else wanted me, that was for sure! All the ones that were sleeping at the pub had already pushed off there by this time. Rosie and John were just gonna have tea on a tray in their room and have a quiet night, cos Rosie hates travelling. D.D. wasn’t gonna want me again this evening, that was for sure: he’d done a big moan about the humidity and after some shouting at Miff had vanished into his cabin, ordering Isabelle to provide fresh pineapple juice, dunno what he meant by that but she just poured a can of it into a jug and added some ice-blocks. I had been sort of planning to have tea with Rupy and the Bells, only Isabelle was real busy managing the teas for the crews, she’d jacked up quite a few local ladies to help and it was obvious I was only gonna be underfoot. And Rupy’s sharing a room at the pub with Michael Manfred and he’d already ordered their tea and I didn’t wanna butt in.

    You might say what about Euan, but he’d already installed himself in the bar at the pub, shouting everybody drinks and letting all the local girls from miles around cluster round and tell him he was wonderful, plus and giving off-the-cuff interviews to a load of Press that somehow had managed to track us from the airport. Well, true, this last really got up D.D.’s nose, I didn’t object to that, but heck! Ya shoulda seen the performance! Deprecating smiles all over the place, he didn’t quite say “Surely you don’t want to take snaps of little Me?” but very bloody nearly, and chummy laughs till they came out your ears. Well, yeah, okay, he was in a bad mood and some of it was my fault, cos the day before we took off he did ask me out to dinner and I said: “Would this be at a tiny little hole in le mur that does exquisite Czech dumplings in cabbage dishwater, Euan, or at London’s most exclusive one-party restaurant, pay five hundred bucks a bottle for French plonk and call the chef by his first name or be damned forever, or are ya still doing your impression of a down-home Scottish lad that’s never had a decent piece of meat?” So he tried to say that everything he’d said about his early life was true, but ya know what? Suddenly I couldn’t even work up the energy to shout at the poor drip. So I just said: “Yeah. Okay, ya can’t help yaself. Just let’s call it quits, eh?” No, well, anyway, he wasn’t a contender to keep D.M. Mallory company on a real warm, pleasant Queensland evening, so I just got out of the pub real quick and piled into the Double Dee van that was coming on down to Big Rock Bay.

    So Lucas got the exact directions from Isabelle and off we went. After a bit he said: “So you’re staying at the motel, are you, Dot?”

    “Mm. Sharing with some of the Wardrobe ladies.”

    “I see. But I thought Isabelle and Scott Bell were old friends of yours?”

    Gee, ya know what, Lucas, I thought they were, too! “Um, yeah, well, the thing is, I suppose it is the only chance Scott’s mum’s ever gonna get to see a film company in action. So obviously she hadda have their spare room.”

    “She and her sister and a daughter, isn’t it?”

    “Um, yeah, Scott’s sister, and his aunty.”

    “Yes. The sister does realise that being an extra for Derry will be no sinecure, I trust?”

    “Dunno. Well, I wised Isabelle up, and she’ll of wised her up, but whether it sunk in past that pale orange rinse is anyone’s guess, Lucas.”

    Suddenly he laughed. “I’d’ve called it apricot!”

    So I grinned, sort of in spite of myself. “Ya right, apricot is what it is. Hey, what’s the betting D.D.’ll make her change it before he lets her on set?”

    “Fifty to one!”

    “Too right!” And we both laughed like anything.

    After that I felt a lot more comfortable with him. And gee, then we got to the farm, they got a real nice modern house—well, Queenslander style, on stilts, big wide verandah, but modern, ya know?—and Sharon Wong just sort of assumed we’d be taking the room together and showed us everything kind of on that assumption.

    So when Lucas had accepted and she’d finally agreed to terms—at first she wanted to let him have it for nothing, all I can say is, the Chinese nous musta worn off over the generations and the Aussie “she’ll be right, mate,” must’ve took, that’s for sure—he just sat down on the edge of the huge bed and looked at me limply and said: “I’m terribly sorry, Dot!”

    Blush, blush, silly grin. “Gee, that’s okay, Lucas. It is a real nice room.”

    “So share it,” he murmured.

    Gulp! And I could sure see he didn’t mean it platonically!

    So he kind of raised his eyebrows and said: “No strings? I very much enjoy your company, and I got the impression you enjoyed mine; and since there doesn’t appear to be anything between you and Keel after all, in spite of Derry’s misleading emails—”

     “Um, no.” Blush. “Um, see, it was all in Derry’s head. And initially me and Rosie and Euan, we knew that was what he wanted and, um, we deliberately set out to give him that impression.”

    His shoulders shook and I couldn’t help noticing again what real nice shoulders they are. “Serve him right! Do you think you might fancy it? Or don’t Pommies appeal?”

    ’Nother silly grin. “Hah, hah.”

    So he got up and kind of took me by the shoulders real gentle and smiled at me. Boy, did that do it or did that do it! Ever had that kind of melting-away feeling? Ooo-ooh…

    I must of been emanating it or something because he went on smiling and bent down and put his lips softly on mine and I tell ya, when his tongue came into my mouth I just about exploded! Right there on the spot, yeah.

    So about five seconds after that we were on the nice big bed with its lovely fresh cotton duna cover in a pattern of blue and turquoise splashy waves with white froth and he had my shorts and pants off and my tee right up and his shorts and underpants off—panting like crazy, ya know? And being Lucas Roberts, I mean, I wasn’t quite so far gone that the thought didn’t occur, he did have some condoms in his pocket, yeah. So after he’d got down there with his mouth and I was almost coming already—and I reckon he knew it because he sat up and grinned at me, even though he was still panting like anything—he pulled one on and then kind of fell on top of me and just slid it up there. Like, no fumbling, talk about smooth as silk! Wow! And gee, D.M. Mallory that Alan Fairbright always complained was slow as a wet week came like blazes on him and smoothy Lucas Roberts came like a ruddy rocket. Boy, I thought I was loud but he really yelled! Good thing that the farmhouse is a fair distance away. Plus and, good thing they had the TV on real loud.

    So after about an eternity just laying back on those fancy splashily-painted waves he went: “That’s a yes, I take it?”

    Uh? “Uh!”

    He rolled over on his side and buried his face in my shoulder and said into my neck: “Still incapable of speech? That’s flattering, Dot!”

    And after a bit I was capable of saying: “Yeah, course it was yes, didn’ it feel like it?”

    “Not that!” he said, grinning like anything. “Idiot,” and he kissed my nose, real gentle. Ya know what? I can’t remember a single instance of Alan Fairbright ever doing that, or ever kissing me at all, afterwards. “I mean, yes to sharing the room with me, Dot.”

    “Oh! Hell, yeah!”

    So he murmured: “Hell, yeah,” kind of an echo, ya know? With a smile in his voice. Well, yeah: he was enjoying my dialectal usage, but gee, no skin off my nose.

    So I admitted: “Um, the only thing is—”

    Gee, he looked real anxious and said as quick as lightning: “Yes?”

    Er. Cof. How the Hell was I gonna put it? “Um, I don’t always come like that.”

    “What, clenching like a suction pump and just about taking it off? How very disappointing!”

    Grin, grin. “Hah, hah. Um, no, I mean, um, so quick.”

    “Nor do I, I promise you!” he said with a laugh.

    Yeah, um, don’tcha? Gee. Like, ya mean ya can count up to more than five before you’re rolling off me? I won’t kid myself that, never mind all them books A. Fairbright claimed he’d read, this will be a real new experience for me. “Um, yeah, um, good. Um, no,” I admitted, swallow, swallow: “sometimes I’m real slow.”

    So he looked at me with his head on one side and murmured: “And this is bad because—?”

    “Don’t ask me, you’re the bloke! All I know is, it’s bad!”

    “So that’s what the local talent’s like?” he said thoughtfully to himself. “I can’t say I’m terribly surprised.”

    Gulp. No. Well, given Rosie’s comments—and she’s done a real representative sample, too—that reaction from a smooth and experienced guy that’s miles older than me isn’t all that astonishing. Well, empirically I knew they were bad but it was kinda nice to have it confirmed, if ya see what I mean.

    Then he kind of put his arm round me and pulled me against him and said: “Be as slow as you like, Dot, my darling; I promise you, we’ll both enjoy it!” Like, smiling a bit, but I could tell he meant it.

    Well, heck, can’t be bad, eh? I mean, okay, I got no willpower, I admit it. But I’m not blind, I can see all we got in common is S,E,X plus an interest in maths and systems, and I’m not claiming that I’d ever be able to cope with a relationship with him. But gee, he’s very good-looking, he’s wonderful at sex, and he seems to like me. Wouldn’t I be even madder turn to all that down?

     So by now the thought has had time to surface, even though a long-term relationship would never work, I am learning quite a lot from Lucas. Not just about S,E,X—no! But yeah, a lot about that that I never knew. Not the technical stuff, no: I mean, the books go on about that, don’t they? Or Alan’s sure did. Ad infinitum. I suppose I mean, about the feelings. Or the sensations? Both, I guess. Plus and about things like good taste. I mean, no way does he cram it down my throat, or even make like a mentor (which I must say’d drive me ropeable). No, he just does what’s natural to him (or possibly acquired, I do recall what Dr L.R. Marshall pronounced on the topic, but it’s obvious it’s now second-nature to him) and every so often it dawns on D.M. Mallory: Aw. Yeah. That. Or: So that’s how that’s done. Or: Aw. Yeah. So that’s what that means. Or: Aw. Yeah, thought that that [tee, lipstick, colour, wallpaper, car model; or likewise, expression, way of standing, choice of phrase; or similarly, food combo, dish, recipe, mixed drink] was real unpleasant and/or ugly and/or undesirable but now I realise why! Like that, y’know? In a way it’s a bit like being with Uncle Jerry when he’s dropped the casual mateship bit that he uses with his racing mates and is just being himself, reading out a bit from The Observer and snorting over it—like that.

    By now Euan has been in a sulk for days, he didn’t even smile when Molly came up and we staged the three Lily Roses scene for D.D., and I admit I have begun to feel slightly guilty. Well, not that I ever done anything specific, and he made it ruddy clear he wasn’t gonna sleep with D.M. Mallory this side of the Tropic of Whatever, so he can hardly complain about me taking up with Lucas, but yeah, I did come on a bit strong with that remark about the restaurants and the down-home Scottish lad. Unfortunately I don’t think apologising is gonna make it better. I have sorta tried not to flaunt the thing with Lucas—well, Lucas is the last guy in the world to flaunt anything—but it’s a real small world here on location and even if poor old Euan hadn’t noticed for himself there’s a fair few that will have told him. It’s not that the crew and the Wardrobe people and the make-up girls don’t like him: he’s always very nice to them and never pulls the Big Star crap with them. But most of his fellow actors are pretty fed up with the incessant silly interviews he’s been giving and the way he’s been encouraging all the hangers-on for miles around to come out to the set and adore him—Double Dee are having to spend megabucks on security—and the times he’s stopped the filming to ask D.D. about the interpretation—there is nothing to interpret, for God’s sake: it’s a perfectly straightforward part and anything D.D. wants him to do, look or say, he tells him. He’s even got the guy who plays Ship’s Doctor off-side, and he’s the most placid guy you could imagine, specially for an actor. What he did, see, he suggested that they could give the Press photographers (not Tony, the uninvited ones) a photo op with a glimpse of the scene they have to do where Euan's character is suspected of having something catching (nothing rude, calm down) and he has to display the chest while Doctor uses his stethoscope. He spotted him immediately and told him in so many words that if he wanted to flash the equipment to feel free, but he personally wasn’t gonna help him.

    Rosie’s a real box of birds now that John’s official orders for the job in Portsmouth have come through and so she drags Molly into a huddle and suggests: “Why don’t you try cheering Euan up?” –Smothered giggle.

    Molly just grins—I’d forgotten, really, how terrifically good-natured she is; her temperament’s miles more placid than mine or Rosie’s—and replies: “Hasn’t he had enough of being cheered up by short Aussie blondes that drop him like a hot potato?”

    Hah, hah, hah, she’s gone a bit red and has to snap back: “He dropped me first!”

    “Yes, but you didn’t know about it until after you’d taken up with John,” she replies placidly.

    “Then it was mutual!”

    “Yeah,” I agree: “it pretty much was, Molly.” –We’re sitting under Rosie’s big sun-umbrella, it’s a lovely mild day, and Baby Bunting’s with us in one of his appalling pale blue embroidered English romper-suits—not that I haven’t seen Wendalyn’s Little Kieran in something very similar, courtesy of Aunty Allyson—so I pick up the rusk that he’s dropped on the rug and give it back to him but he goes biff!

    “Maybe he’s gonna be a baseball pitcher when he grows up!” suggests Molly with a laugh.

    Rosie winks at her. “Yeah. Only ya not allowed to say that: see, that wasn’t a real good baseball pitch, he was just doing the arm exercises to get fit for the C,R,I—”

    “Yeah, yeah,” we both groan and she grins, and drops it.

    “Does John like cricket?” asks Molly idly.

    “Village cricket, backyard cricket and so-called extempore games got up by his crew—yeah. And test matches. One-day is O,U,T, out, though: they never had it at his ruddy public school,” she explains cheerfully. “And he certainly doesn’t like the publicity-hungry modern cricketers. But as a game—you bet.”

    “Has he tried to explain the scoring to you yet, Rosie?” she goes sweetly.

    “Shut up!” she chokes. She laughs so hard that Baby Bunting, bless him, joins in with a little crow.

    “Isn’t he adorable!” beams Molly. She scoops him up and cuddles him but he squirms like mad and dots her in the eye so she puts him down again. “He’s a lot prettier than Micky was at that age,” she admits cheerfully.

    Er—yeah. Micky wasn’t pretty at all, he was rather a skinny baby, and he’s one of those rat-faced little boys, very like the twins.

    “Yes,” Rosie agrees with a smothered sigh. “He’s gonna grow up to be as hotly pursued by the distaff side as his father ever was. And believe you me, it’s still going on.”

    Yeah, we noticed: all the Wardrobe ladies and the make-up girls and in fact every female that ever meets him falls with a thump for John.

    “Better than being a gay,” Molly notes cheerfully as Baby Bunting starts playing with his Rupert Bear’s ear. Like, he is a Rupert Bear, they’re quite popular in England, but as well, Rupy did give him— Ya guessed that yonks back, didja? Right.

    “Yeah,” agrees Rosie simply. “Mind you, John’s brother’s miles worse. Better looking, technically, though personally I don’t think he’s got as much charm as John,”—no, well, she wouldn’t think so, wouldn’t she?—“and not only hotly pursued but lets the most of them catch up with him.”

    Right. John’s brother Terence’d be in his mid-forties, commands a sub and thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Molly doesn’t point out that this isn’t too bad, she just goes kindly: “Yeah, but look at his parents, Rosie!”

    This is true. A son of John’s could not possibly grow up to be a vain little sod—yeah, that is what Rosie was worrying about—so I go: “Right! No son of John's could possibly grow up to be as pathetic as Terence Haworth, Rosie! Don’t let it get to ya!:”

    “No, I won’t,” she says with a smile. “Oo’s not as silly as Uncle Tewwence, is ’oo, Baby Bunting? No, ’oo isn’t! No, ’oo isn't!”

    “Can a bloke command a sub and be pathetic, though?” wonders Molly, lying on her back and propping her head on one of those blow-up cushions that the Brits evidently think are proper beach gear. Don’t ask me where they came from, but John in person produced them with the beach umbrella, in fact I think he might of found a shop that sells them with the umbrellas, because they match. So now we all use them—except Baby Bunting, he’s got his very own Jamaica squashy cushy that Gray gave him, of course. Washable—just as well.

    “QED,” replies Rosie with a little sigh. “No, well, look at Father Admiral Sir Bernard! Generally admitted to have been extremely competent at the admiralling, but he lets Her completely rule the roost in their personal life! I mean, for God’s sake, she won’t let him go up to town by himself!”

    Molly can’t of heard this one before cos she turns her head and takes her sunnies off and gapes at her.

    “Yeah! Believe it!”

    “She has mentioned it before,” I note cautiously. “But then, John’s mother is the bitch to end all bitches, I wouldn’t think many men could stand up to her.”

    “I bet Lucas could!” says Molly with feeling.

    Too right! I nod hard.

    “Yes, I think he could, but that doesn’t mean he could make a relationship with her work,” says Rosie thoughtfully. “Poor old Father Sir Bernard just manages to sort of absent himself—figuratively, if not literally. He never argues with her. I think Lucas’d try to have a rational discussion about their problems and that’d finish her off. Don’t think she’d ever admit she was in the wrong, but she’d seize the opportunity to accuse him of being a cold fish and walk out on him.”

    “Hotly?” asks Molly clinically.

    “Eh? Oh, Lady Mother? Um, can’t see her losing her cool, no. Think it’d be a cold walking out.”

    “Heck,” she goes, swallowing. “I can’t really imagine it, Rosie!”

    Rosie looks at her with affection. “No, but you’re a very different type, Molly.”

    So I go: “Yeah. Warm-hearted.”

    “Thanks, Dot! But I’d say soft-hearted, more like. Soft-headed, too. Well, I knew Simon Fanshaw was never gonna give me a second glance, really, but I had to go and fall for him,” she admits with a sigh.

    This is the unlamented prof, so Rosie goes firmly: “You’re better off without him.”

    “I’ll say!” she says with a laugh, so I guess she must be over him. “It was only a stupid crush, really, I suppose… How do you know if it’s the real thing?”

    “Dunno. It just takes you over, I suppose,” says Rosie dubiously. Like, no, you wouldn’t of expected a platitude from her along the lines of “You just know, dear,” but heck! What use is that? How do you tell if it’s different from an almighty crush? Cos they can take you over, too, believe you me!

    So Molly goes: “I can see it would, only how do you know it’s different from a crush?”

    Rosie sits up and hug her knees, staring out at Big Rock Bay, sparkling down below us in the sunshine, and ignoring the shouting and reflector-repositioning that’s going on on the sand—easy to do, we’re quite high up on the slope. Out of shot of Adam’s tropical hideaway—right. And after quite some time she goes: “I honestly can’t say, Molly. Well, when he reciprocates, it’s incredibly good… No, well, it usually is! Um, well, it seems to get stronger, even when you’ve lost your rag with him.”

    Gulp. With John?

    So Molly goes: “I can’t really see that that’s different. And why on earth would you lose your rag with John? He’s so considerate and—and even-tempered!”

    So Rosie tells us about the dreaded back-path-laying and the dreaded walkie-talkies (fell off the back of a truck: their local handyman, Jack Something, knows lots of guys that manage to be there when things fall off the backs of trucks), and the obsessive scrubbing of the dinghy’s bottom during the so-called leave— Yeah, yeah. Normal male crap, in other words.

    So Molly concludes with a laugh: “At least he’s normal!”

    “He’s that, all right!” she admits with feeling. “So Simon Fanshaw wasn’t?”

    “Not really, no. The type that gets a man in to do all that.”

    “Um, well, apart from the flaming boat, John got Jack in, but he still gave him a hand.”

    “Yes, cos he’s normal, Rosie!” she says with her cheerful laugh. “That’s what I’m saying! Simon Fanshaw was so incredibly up-himself he wouldn’t have lowered himself. One day I overheard him on his mobile having a go at the guy that had repainted his flat, and ya know who he sounded like?” Neither of us can imagine, and Baby Bunting sure isn’t interested, he’s still absorbed with Rupert Bear—he is washable but that ear’s gone sorta grey and daggy—so she goes impressively: “Aunty Kate.”

    I’m duly horrified but Rosie’s collapsed in agonising giggles. So I go: “Rosie, stop it! It’s not funny! It’s horrible!”

    “Musta been—gay!” she squeaks, collapsing again.

    “No, he wasn’t. Actually it was real weird, seeing all the la-de-da shit in a guy that wasn’t gay. Wouldja believe he told Barbara, that was one of his long-legged brunettes, that her placemats were bourgeois?”

    Gee, even Rosie’s stopped giggling. “Bourgeois?” she croaks. “Ya mean he used that word?”

    “Yes! That’s my point!”

    Boy, that’s silenced her.

    So after a moment I go: “Did he kind of dominate his women, Molly?”

    “I never got close enough to find out, Dot!” she grins.

    “Not that! I mean, um, psychologically, I suppose. You know, how Aunty Kate bosses Uncle Jim around—well, Aunty Allyson’s another case in point and I gotta say it, Molly, Aunty Buff isn’t all that different, though without Aunty Kate’s precise brand of la-de-da. I meant dominate in that sense.”

    “Big strong woman, weak little man,” explains Rosie helpfully.

    “Um, Aunty Kate’s not big—but I see what you mean, though. Heck… I suppose it was like that, actually. I just thought of him as being far too particular and wondered why those up-market ladies took it. I mean, this was when the crush had started to wear off!” she admits, twinkling at us. “Um, yeah. Everything hadda be the way he wanted it and what was more, he rubbished any ideas they mighta put forward. He was a terrible teacher, too,” she adds dispassionately. “Scornful and impatient, y’know? I audited some of his classes and I felt really sorry for the students.”

    “Molly, why did you ever fall for him?” croaks Rosie,

    “What she said,” I croak.

    “He looks like Harrison Ford,” she replies simply.

    Gulp. That’d do it, yeah.

    “Right!” Rosie acknowledges, grinning at her. “So you’ve gone off the Charlton Heston type?”

    “I was never on him, I can’t stand him, actually: what are you on about?”

    “Um, chiselled features,” she says feebly.

    “What?”

    “Never mind,” the great psychologist says feebly. “I just thought maybe you admired that type.” She brightens. “No, well, in that case—”

    “Rosie, drop it,” I warn.

    That obstinate look comes over her face—looks exactly like Baby Bunting when he’s decided he will so spoon up his shlop with his bungee spoon—and she goes: “No! If you don’t insist on the chiselled-features type, Molly, why don’t you try cheering Euan up?”

    “Ignore her,” I advise quickly. “If John knew she’d said that to ya, he’d do his nut. He’s told her loads of times not to try to run other people’s lives for them.”

    Poor Molly’s gone rather pink. “Rosie, I’ve barely spoken two words to him. And seriously, I do think he’s had enough of short Aussie blondes.”

    “Of us,” I translate kindly.

    “Mm,” Molly agrees, biting her lip.

    “Oh, bullshit! It’s going begging—or do ya want that goopy Stepdaughter to snap him up?”

    She’s an English actress that D.D. insisted on casting in the rôle because she’d make a contrast with Rosie and not offer her a challenge—it is a real thankless rôle, mind you, hardly any lines and all she has to do is trail after Amaryllis to parties looking resigned—and he’s been nagging her ever since because she’s so lifeless in it. Well, him all over—yeah. If you’ve ever seen The Reluctant Debutante you probably won’t remember the girl that played Kay Kendall’s bossy best friend’s daughter, and initially D.D. declared that was what he wanted from her. So I note: “Poor little Heather can’t help being goopy, and the least you could do is call her by her own name instead of her part, Rosie!”

    She looks surprised but says: “Sorry. Heather. No, well, I don’t think she’d be into snapping up anything—though it’s amazing what hormones will do, even with the most lifeless-seeming girls—but she has got those refined English aristocratic looks, they’d sure bolster up his act as the sophisticated gourmet, Shakespearean expert and 21st-century Renaissance man.”

    “I thought her dad was a barber?” croaks Molly.

    “Be fair. Hairdresser. Mom and Pop company.”

    So Rosie goes: “Shut up, Dot! Be that as it may, Molly, there’s not that much else on offer in these tropic parts that’s got anything that’d flatter him rather than pulling him down.”

    Molly eyes her drily. “And you imagine that me in my old brown tee won’t pull him down?”

    She’s got a point. Those who thought Rosie used to get round like a rag-bag (and still would, of course, only most of the time John manages to rein her in) ought to’ve copped a gander at what Molly wore for a flight to Queensland. No, well, she hasn’t got many clothes and between you and me, anything saleable she sold to help pay for the trip up from Melbourne, along with the heap. Got three hundred bucks for it, and it wasn’t as if it wasn’t going. But she reckoned no-one’d give her more. I admit it was a rust-bucket, but shit, she paid two thou for it, less than three years back. And who paid for her flight up here from Sydney was Rosie, that’s who. John let her, once he was absolutely sure that she’d found a flat (she let Aunty Allyson and Martina find it for her, it’s quite near them—don’t ask me why they didn’t find one for Martina while they were at it) and that Micky had settled in at school. Which he has, and he’s staying with Aunty May and having a wonderful time. Well, she lets him play Nintendo all the time and she’s bought him loads of new games and when she collects him in the waggon after school she takes him down the Mall and lets him have his choice of an ice-cream, a thick-shake, or a hot-dog with a Coke (they got a Wendy’s there). Surrogate grandchild—right. I gotta say it, it’s an awful warning to John not to come and settle out here when Baby Bunting’s a bit older, isn’t it? And the real reason that John gave in and let Rosie pay Molly’s fare to Queenland was that Aunty May rung him up and explained that since that Chrissie I was over at Aunty Kate’s, which woulda been the year me and Molly were twenty, she hasn’t had a holiday at all.

    All Rosie says is: “You’re not in it at the moment.”

    No, she isn’t, she’s in a bikini of Rosie’s, it’s a tropical one that she bought in the nearest town the time D.D. went mad and let her off the leash in time for her and John to borrow Scott’s 4WD and nip in and do some late-night shopping. What I mean, she could of bought it anywhere in Oz, all I’m saying is it’s got a pattern of splashy hibiscus flowers in pink, red, and royal blue with lime-green leaves on a white backgr— Yeah. And yeah, I do know that ya can’t get blue hibiscuses in real life, thanks. Rupy said he would have chosen a much more tasteful pattern, but John squashed him by laughing and saying that he liked it, it was cheerful. On her it’s cheerful, all right. And on Molly, you betcha. Underwired, it ain’t. Thong, it is. She’s been tanning very slowly and carefully—well, after five years of no holidays? Yeah.

    –Yeah, as a matter of fact it is more daring than anything I’d wear and you’d have to hog-tie me to get me into a thong on a public beach and if ya wanna know, Lucas entirely agrees with me, but when I asked him he did laugh and say of course Molly looks great in it.

    “I’m not gonna—” Molly breaks off. She sits up and frowns out to sea. After quite some time she says: “Rosie, I know you’ve meant it all for the best but I really do think you ought to stop playing around with poor Euan’s love-life.”

    “I never—”

    “Just shut up a minute. I know you didn’t want him to get involved with Katie Herlihy, and I think that’s what the trouble’s been, hasn’t it? You’ve been sort of trying to make up for that, and for it all going wrong, ever since.”

    So Rosie says in this real squashed voice: “Um, maybe.” Shit, didn’t think Molly had it in her. Well, I guess she hasn’t had an easy life, she’s learned to stick to her point of view when she needs to.

    “I can see he’s really attractive, you’d have to be blind not to see that. But it’s plain as the nose on your face that he’s really unhappy and unsure of himself. Well, I ask you: that stupid performance on that quiz show the other day?”

    Blank silence. Then Rosie goes feebly: “You mean chat show, Molly.”

    “Do I?” she says, calm as anything. “Some stupid radio thing. Couldn’t you hear his voice was trying not to shake with nerves?”

    “Um, no,” she mutters. “Um, well, I wasn’t really listening—actually I was real annoyed that he’d hived off to do the Rising Star of British Theaytre thing agai— Sorry.”

    –It was an early-morning show, I never heard it, me and Lucas were otherwise occupied at the time, so I can’t put my two bobs’ worth in and what’s more, to be quite honest I don’t wannoo.

    “He’s a really hurt person, and it isn’t gonna be me that hurts him again,” Molly finishes calmly, getting up.

    “Where are you going?” says Rosie limply.

    “Home.” She’s staying with the Wongs, it’s near enough to be an easy walk, and it means me and Lucas can give her a lift if she doesn’t wanna walk, and Harry Wong didn’t mind letting her have his room and using the sofa-bed, in fact he was thrilled to be able to sleep on it—he’s only twelve. “I mean,” she says placidly, smiling at us: “back to the farm: I’ve had enough sun for the time being. I’m gonna look up a map and find out how far it is to the Big Pineapple.”

    “Molly,” she says limply, “that was the place we all got lost trying to find, that time—”

    “I know. But Micky wants some snaps of it,” she says mildly, going.

    After quite some time Rosie says: “She could get him some postcards of it.”

    “Mm.”

    “Shit, that went over like a lead balloon,” she mutters.

    Oh, dear; poor Rosie! And she was so up! So I say, real cautious: “Rosie, ya gotta bear in mind that Molly’s had a real hard time of it and she’s a pretty hurt person, too. That would be the first thing she’d see in Euan.”

    “Mm.” Sniff, sniff.

    Oh, heck! There’s a big packet of tissues on the rug, not to mention a huge pot of wet-ones, ya sure do need loads of moppers when ya got a little kiddy, so I grab some and give them to her.

    “Thanks,” she goes, mopping and blowing. Oh, heck, Baby Bunting’s stopped playing with Rupert Bear and he’s looking at her anxiously!

    So I pick him up quick. “There ya go, Baby Bunting! Come to Dot! Mum’s all right. Mum-Mum, eh? Mum-Mum!”

    “Yeah, Mum-Mum, Baby Bunting,” she goes, smiling at him. “You’re right, of course, Dot.”

    “Yeah, come on, Baby Bunting! Mum-Mum!”

    “Muh, Muh! Muh, Muh!”

    “Clever boy! There’s Mum, she’s smiling at you! –What, Rosie?”

    “Nothing,” she says, smiling like anything. She lies down and readjusts the sunnies and puts a bit of sunscreen on her nose even though we are under the umbrella. Then she goes: “John was saying he’d like a girl, next. A little Dot!”

    “Hah, hah.”

    “No, honest! So would I, as a matter of fact.”

    Swallow. “Thanks. I think.”

    “Pity you can’t plan them down to the last detail,” she murmurs.

    Yeah, well, pity ya can’t plan life, Rosie. “Mm. Yeah, here’s Rupert Bear! Lovely Rupy Bear! Lovely Rupy Bear! Nope—want Gladly Teddy instead? Here he is! Here’s Teddy!”—In a growly voice: “‘Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!’”—Don’t ask me why John says that when he’s playing with him and Gladly Teddy, but he always does.—“‘Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!’ –Hey, we’re gonna have to have a crèche, cos Georgy and Adam’ll be here tomorrow with their kiddies!”

    Why’s she collapsed in giggles? Well, better than sitting there bawling—yeah.

    So me and Baby Bunting just play with Gladly Teddy for a bit. –It’s got a squint. It’s a joke of John’s. If ya never went to a church school or ya weren’t brought up Church of England like he was, ya won’t get it. Gladly the Cross-Eyed Bear, right? No, it’s got nothing to do with “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!” and if ya don’t know that life is like that, I’m sorry for ya!

    So she goes: “Talking of strong women and weak little men, Molly’s a lot stronger than she looks, isn’t she?”

    “Mm. Wurra, wurra , wurra! Here comes Gladly Teddy! Here comes Glady Teddy! Wurra, wurra, wurra!” Ooh, he’s gurgling like anything! “‘Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!’ ‘Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!’ –Eh?”

    “I said, Molly’s a lot stronger than she looks.”

    “Had to be,” I grunt. “Had a kid a month after her seventeenth birthday and she’s got bloody Aunty Buff for a mother.”

    “Well, yes, exactly. Don’t you think she might be exactly what Euan needs, after all?”

    “Wurra, wurra—” What? Deep breath. I’m not gonna shout at her, it’d frighten Baby Bunting. “Just don’t,” I warn.

    “I can’t help thinking about it!”

    “Try harder. –Yes, here he comes! Gladly Teddy’s flying! Whee-eee-eee! Wurra, wurra, wurra!” Boy, he loves it when ya go “Wurra, wurra, wurra!” and kind of bury Teddy’s head in his tummy.

    “I wasn’t gonna do anything about it, Dot.”

    “Good. Wurra, wurra, wurra! Wurra, wurra, wurra! Oops, is he getting too excited, do ya think?”

    “Probably. Better stop with the wurra, wurra, wurras.” She feels his forehead, as he gurgles madly. “Hot. Partly the weather, partly the excitement, think. Ya wanna give him some rosehip?

    Ooh, me? “I’ll be up for that!”

    So she gets it out of the esky. It’s not that he likes it cold, but he doesn’t like it too warm, so what she does, see, she doesn’t put one of those chiller things in, she lets it stand at room temperature and then she pops it in. Well, yeah, it does mean the esky’s not good for nothing else, but too bad, the motel’s right over there, if anyone wants a cold drink they can nip over and get one, we’ve all got le— Uh, scrub that. Well, anyone’ll pop over for her, of course! Anyway, Baby Bunting has to come first.

    “Yes, ya do!” I coo, popping him on my knee. “There ya go, Baby Bunting! Rosehip!”

    “Boh, boh!” he goes. “Boh, boh!”

    “Hey, he said bottle, Rosie!”

    “I told you he could!” she beams. “Clever boy, Baby Bunting! Yes, Boh, boh! Quick, give it to him, Dot!”

    Quickly I put the teat in his mouth. “Yeah, that was wanted ya wanted, eh, feller? Good boy! Boh, boh!”—Suck, suck, suck.—“Yep, he was thirsty, all right.”

    So she draws up her good knee and puts her arms round it and leans her chin on it. “Yeah…” she says on a long sigh. “Other things sort of get in the way, don’t they? But this is what matters, fundamentally.”

    “That’s right, good boy! Wanna have a burp? Okay, sit up, Baby Bunting! –Mm? Yeah, ’course it is, Rosie.”

    “It’s just a pity that the ones that ought be making them are so busy with their potty men’s business that they don’t stop to notice it,” she notes.

    “Mm?” Pat, pat. “Come on, Baby Bunting, big burp! Aw—them. Yeah.”

    BURP!

    “Good boy!” we both cry.

    “I’ve worked out it’s when the balls drop that they start to lose it,” she notes heavily.

    “Mm? Oh! That musta been difficult!” Suck, suck, suck… “His skin is incredible, isn’t it?”

    “Mmm,” she agrees. “Pure silk.”

    “Um, does John notice it?”

    “Of course! He said it was like the finest shantung!”

    “What? Not the skin per se, ya clot! No, the being fundamentally what matters.”

    “Well, he sure did round about the time he was born, what with 9/11, but then, we all did, even Aunty Kate. Well, especially Aunty Kate! No, well, he didn’t for a long time, the brainwashed, male-stereotyped British upper-class chump that he was: admittedly the first wife was a total bitch, but it wasn’t entirely her fault that that marriage went wrong. But he does now, Dot, it’s why he’s decided to take the job in Portsmouth instead of going back to sea.”

    “Mm. Goddit.” Sniff, sniff.

    “Um, Dot,” she says cautiously, “they gotta have the testosterone and everything that goes along with it, in order to make them. The male drive is kind of a prerequisite, isn’t it?”

    Yeah, ’tis. But heck, do ya have to wait until they’re fifty-one before they’re capable of grasping what’s fundamentally important in life?

    “Dad rung me last night,” she murmurs.

    “Mm?”

    “He hasn’t admitted it in so many words, but he’s really pleased about Miff and Kenny. Well, ya know Mum was round there helping her brighten up that sterile hutch he calls a flat, don’tcha?”

    “Yeah. Frilly cushions.”

    “Well, at least Miff’s tastes coincide with hers!” she says with a laugh. “And Kenny did grow up in her house: he thinks frilly cushions are a norm, and women that like frilly cushions are what women oughta be!”

    She’s got a point! “Yeah!”

    “Mm. Dad said he was glad to see that Kenny was growing up a bit at last and had some kind of a hazy idea that settling down to have kids was what really mattered in life.”

    “Shit, they’re not talking about having kids already, are they?”

    “No, but Kenny did say that the flat was a dump and a house’d be a good investment, but never mind moving to anywhere near them to be near the schools, cos he wouldn’t send a kid of his to ruddy St Stephen’s if his life depended on it.”

    “Crikey,” I croak.

    “Yeah, well, it was every bit as bad as Putrid St Agatha’s, but all the same!”

    “Exactly!”

    “So Dad said he was really sorry but Mum would of made his life Hell with the endless floods of tears if he hadn’t let her send him there, and realistically, how many boys enjoyed their schooldays? At which Kenny pointed out bitterly that he’d had to play hockey, so Dad refrained from laughing and apologised again. And then he told him that he’d made the mistake of letting Mum completely take over with us kids, and Kenny said he was glad he was admitting it, can you imagine? I mean, here was us thinking he’d had his head completely buried in his ruddy test-tubes all these years!”

    “Mm. –Aw, yeah, ’member that flaming chemistry set he had when he was at school? Yeah.” Belatedly it dawns. “Shit, ya mean Uncle Jerry actually said that?”

    “Exactly, Dot! So evidently—well, Dad was trying not to laugh but he was really pleased all the same—Kenny told him loftily that he envisaged marriage as an equal partnership with both partners sharing the child care and the decision-making equally.”

    “Good on him,” I croak. Unfortunately me brain’s trying to apply it to the precise instance so I croak: “Um, but with Miff?”

    “That BSc. of his means less than nothing: he’s no brighter than she is,” his sister says tranquilly. “And even if they don’t manage it, at least he’s thought about it.”

    “Yeah. –So Uncle Jerry really thinks he made a mistake in not getting more involved with you kids when you were growing up, instead of spending all his time building up the business?”

    “Yes. Well, not so much with me, Dot, I think, reading between the lines, but certainly in Kenny’s case.”

    Yeah, maybe he wouldn’t of turned out quite such a lump if Uncle Jerry had encouraged him to read anything above the level of chemistry textbooks, ruddy joke books and Mad Magazine, followed closely by car mags and girlie mags. I don’t say it, I’m quite sure it’s apparent to her, too, I just say: “At least he wasn’t as bad as Janyce Hardwycke’s dad or ruddy Mr Smythe: he did take you on family holidays. ”

    “Right,” she agrees, grinning: “driving round Queensland in ever-decreasing circles failing to find the Big Pineapple behind your lot and Aunty Kate!”

    “Yeah; they musta been nuts to decide to take that load of kids on a camping holiday.

    “Well,” she says, lying back and linking her hands behind her head: “I suppose they were all quite young, Dot.”

    Blink. Uh—yeah, s’pose they were, come to think of it: we were all quite little—and the twins hadn't even been born, back then.

    “I wouldn’t mind seeing it again,” she admits on a wistful note. “After all, it is a cultural icon.”

    “Hah, hah.”

    “No, honest! What’s a Queensland holiday without a Big something? The Brits don’t seem to go in for them at all.”

    “Ye-ah… I honestly don’t think a Big something’d be John’s bag, Rosie.”

    “You’re wrong, see, he’d love them.”

    So I go, real feeble: “I suppose you haven’t got all that much time before ya need to get home… Um, there’s a Big Banana, too, isn’t there?”

    “Thought that was apocryphal?”

    “No, I think there really is. Well, Aunty Kate’s seen the Big Potato, but I don’t think that’s up this way.”

    She takes of her sunnies and squints at me doubtfully.

    “Yes, Gladly Teddy’s gone walkabout! Where’s Gladly Teddy gone? Boo! Here he is! –Eh? Aw—yeah. Looks like a huge brown, slightly chipped fake turd only she was too nayce to come out and admit it. Uncle Jim gave me the dinkum oil, though!”

    “Come to think of it, hard to see how you could fake up a Big Potato not to look like a giant turd. Well, Molly’d be up for it if we got up an expedition to the Big Pineapple or the Big Banana, or even both, if they aren’t a thousand K apart, only how are we ever gonna get out of D.D.’s clutches long enough to do it?”

    “We aren’t, this time round. Just be thankful that something good’s come out of the ruddy Captain’s Daughter palaver, Rosie!”

    “Um…” She takes off the sunnies and squints at me again. “You and Lucas?”

    “What? No!” Blush, blush. Quickly: “I mean, that too, of course! No, I meant Kenny and Miff. Well, Miff getting away from D.D.’d be good all on its ownsome, but if it’s resulted in Kenny actually tending towards halfway human—!”

    “That’s good, all right!” she says with a laugh. “And it’s giving Molly a holiday!”

    “And Micky a junk food overdose. No, well, I agree, that’s good, too. Okay, two good things have come out of it.”

    “Three: a tropical holiday for Gray, as well! He’s sent millions of postcards home, I think he’s sent one to all the pupils at Della’s, and several to Della and Joelle—that’s the ballet teacher,” she reminds me, “and so far it’s running at at least one a day to his mum and Aunty Maybelle!”

    Baby Bunting’s given up on Gladly Teddy, think he might of been trying to stuff the teat into his mouth, there, but now he’s just lying on his tum blinking so I go: “Right. Three. Think this one’s had it, Rosie; better get back and put him down for a nap, eh?”

    She sits up, yawning. “Righto. That makes two of us, actually. And wouldja do us a favour and get one of those big strong cretins that reckoned they were always gonna be on hand and of course aren’t when needed, cos I don’t think, after yesterday’s marathon, I’ve got the strength to hop all the way back to the car.”

    No. Right. And a veil shall be drawn over yesterday and everything contained therein. Well, the very early bits were good so far as me and Lucas were concerned but then it went right down the tubes and actually, though I’m not gonna admit it to her, I was so exhausted that I had tea in bed and washed it down with a swift Johnnie and passed right out before the poor bloke could do a thing.

    “I passed right out five minutes after tea last night,” she says with a sigh. “Never even saw the News.”

    “Y—Um, the Late News?”

    “No, Dot, the Seven O’clock News on the ABC that poor John’s been watching under the illusion that because it’s got two initials in common it must be the national network like the BBC.”

    Gee, poor joker. “Uh—right. Um, me, too.”

    She breaks down and laughs like a drain. So I get up and walk away from her. Well, crikey, a whole day on the beach with ruddy Dawlish screaming at you? And anyway, from some of the things she’s let slip about her and John’s early days, she’s got—hah, hah—no leg to stand on. And shit, this is real life, it’s not a flaming movie romance! I mean, I’m keen, but I’m not superhuman.

    So I go over to the motel and look in the office but there’s no big strong cretins in there, only Charlene Wong minding the counter. I don’t ask where Scott is, I know where he is, he’s watching D.D. filming the chorus of Fifties bathing beauties from a large raft being towed by a very noisy launch. I mean, D.D.’s on the raft, Scott’s lurking behind a bush out of shot. Or he better be. So I go down the row of cabins. “HOY! Anyone THERE?”

    A door is flung open violently, a silver-rinsed strand-by-strand job pokes out and the famous prize-winning writer Varley Knollys screams: “Stop that bloody row!”

    “Rosie needs someone to help her up to the car.”

    “Do it your fucking self!” he snarls, slamming the door shut. So much for English culcha.

    So I go on down the cream pavers. “HOY! Anyone THERE?”

    Another door opens. “Is anything wrong, Dot?”

    “Um, no. Hi, Amaryllis.”—Lamely: she’s in her dressing-gown. Well, I mean, she is verging on famous, I seen her in British TV things for as long as I can remember. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. Looking for someone to carry Rosie back up to the car.”

    “Jimmy’s not here, I’m afraid.”

    “I know; Rosie said he went off with John to take some serious snaps.”

    “That was the idea, yes, but they’ll end up in a pub doing some serious drinking,” she says with her lovely smile. “Sure I can’t help?”

    “Um, no, thanks, cos she’s past hopping. I’ll find someone!” And I go on down the little cream-paved path. “HOY! Anyone THERE?”

    Another door opens and a daggy figure emerges onto the cabin’s verandah. “What in God’s name’s up?”

    Ruddy D. Walsingham, it would have to be him. At first D.D. said he wouldn’t need him, then he changed his mind because various cretins were dunno what and some crap about ambience. Anyway, he’s here and I dunno who they turfed out but he’s got a cabin.

    “I’m looking for someone with the strength to haul Rosie back to the car: so you can go to sleep again.”

    He leans against the verandah post and eyes me drily. “Get Roberts to do it.”

    “I can’t find him, you nong!”

    So he goes in this silly voice: “Oh, dear, they’re never around when you need one, are they?”

    “No, it’s got something to do with being flaming useless.”

    He puts a hand on his hip and simpers, if he doesn’t drop it I’m gonna drop him, I tell ya! “I could help her to hop. She could lean on me.”

    “She can’t hop because she’s flaming had it, you cretin! Look, do something useful for once in ya life and get on down the beach and grab Scott!”

    So he shades his eyes with his hand and peers. “I can only see bathing beauties. Not that that’s bad, of course.”

    “Over to the far side, past Adam’s hideaway, behind that clump of genuine banana palms in genuine plastic pots.”

    “I can see a hibiscus bush.”

    It’s Scott, of course, he’s got a Hawaiian shirt on. So I go: “Will ya just GET HIM?”

    “Have you had too much sun, Dot?” he asks nicely.

    I am actually gonna reply pleasantly only then he adds: “Or is it just too much Lucas Roberts?”

    “Get choked!” So I head off down to the beach, I’ll get the cretin meself.

    After a couple of mins he comes up beside me. “Couldn’t you have done this in the first place?”

    “I’m supposed to be getting Baby Bunting back to the car and into the air-con: are you UNNATURAL?”

    Gee, that hit home, cos he gulps. Then he goes: “Sorry, Dot. Didn’t think. Look, you go and grab him up and—and start the car or, um, whatever you do to turn the air conditioning on, and I’ll get Scott.”

    Right. I’m not gonna say no. But I’m incapable of thanking him, the stupid wanker. So I just grunt: “Right,” and hurry back over to Rosie.

    So she goes: “What the Hell was that all about, or is it so self-evident that I don’t need to ask?”

    “If ya must know, the stupid wanker never stopped to think that if some nit like Scott’s hauling you off to the car you won’t wanna be carrying Baby Bunting, not to mention never asking himself why we were packing up at all and correlating it with the heat tolerance of those under the age of one— Oh, forget it. Come on, give him to me: he’s starting to whinge, isn’t he?”

    “Yeah. I have changed him. Thanks, Dot,” she says holding him up to me. “Um, sorry about the self-evident crack.”

    “That’s all right. You’re tired, too. Shoulda just stayed at the pub instead of coming down here.”

    “No, Laverne would have lined up a pack of fans, and I’d’ve had to socialise graciously,” she admits with a sigh. “Go on, better get him into the air-con.”

    Exactly. So I cart his whingeing form off to the car. We hadda park way up on the track, the veto has gone forth: no extraneous vehicles will be parked on the motel’s drive, because the official inhabitants need to get in and out plus and the delivery trucks need to get in. No, not D.D., for once: Isabelle, and actually, she’s as bad as he is. You’d think she coulda made an exception for a person with a busted leg. Not to say a busted leg and a baby.

    I’ve got Baby Bunting into the car and turned the air-con on; I’ve put him in his seat but he’s whingeing like anything, so I better not leave him by himself and rescue the esky and the sun umbrella and the bagful of baby moppers and stuff that Rosie brought. I can’t see the beach from here but pretty soon Scott heaves in sight carrying Rosie, no sweat. And guess who’s with them? Right. And what’s he carrying? Gee, no, not the flaming great umbrella that’s a real bugger to get up or down and weighs a ton—think John got the most expensive brand. No: one esky and one rug. Rosie’s carrying Gladly Teddy and Rupert Bear but I don’t think as of this min either of them are gonna stop the whingeing.

    “She doesn’t weigh that much,” notes Scott, having got her in the car. It’s the thing John hired, sort of combined 4WD and station-waggon, well, it is handy, yeah, but it’s a sod to drive, sits up high like a 4WD and then you got all that extra at the back as well. Rosie’s okay in the front now with the seat pushed right back, they reduced the plaster to just to the knee. And of course she’s got quite short legs.

    So I go: “Not to some, no. Hey, couldja do us a real favour and get that bugger of a sun-umbrella down for us?”

    He’s just saying: “No worries,” when D. Walsingham goes: “I can—”

    “So why didn’t you?”

    “I thought you might need the hamper: hasn’t it got the baby’s drink in it?”

    “He’s drunk it, David, but thanks for thinking of it,” says Rosie quickly. “Maybe you could help Scott with the umbrella: it is a pig to carry.”

    “Of course,” he says, sliding off quick.

    “Don’t you dare to ask him back to the pub, Rosie Haworth!”

    “I wasn’t going to. And what’s he done, for Heaven’s sake, Dot?”

    “Nothing. As per usual. That’s his trouble.”

    So she goes: “I don’t think he’s very happy.”

    “Acksherly, I’ve never known him when he was.”

    “Not even back when you first met him in Adelaide?”

    Shrug. “It was hard to tell under the five o’clock shadow, but no, don’t think so.”

    “What about when he cooked that lovely meal for you?”

    It wasn’t for me, ya flaming cretin! And why don’tcha just shut up about it, it was yonks ago and anyway, who cares? “It wasn’t for me, it was like their Chrissie dinner that they never had on the day because Aunty Kate asked them over.”

    “So was he?”

    “Uh— Dunno. Well, think he was when he was cooking, yeah. So?”

    “What about during the evening, when he was playing the piano for you?”

    He wasn’t playing the piano for me! He was playing the piano because he likes playing the piano, ya dickhead! “Dunno. Well, he played nice stuff, not that crash, crash, bonk, bonk modern crap that makes ya wanna cut ya throat. That’s all I know.”

    So she goes: “You must’ve noticed if he smiled or—or like that!”

    “Can’t of, there’s no huge crack down the face.”

    She gives a smothered snicker but then says weakly: “That wasn’t very nice.”

    “I don’t feel very nice, I’ve just been snarled at by Varley Fucking Up-Himself God’s-Gift-to-English-Litracha Knollys, real name Dick Short, and if ya wanna know, after that the D. Walsingham sneer was the last flaming straw!”

    “Oh, heck, did he sneer?”

    “Of course he did, Rosie, it constitutes normal conversation to him!”

    “I think that’s only because he’s unhappy.”

    “Will ya just drop it, Rosie? I don’t care!”

    So she goes: “Don’t you? Are you sure meeting David again wasn’t one more reason for taking up with Lucas?”

    “What total bullshit!”

    “Think about it,” she goes, looking smug. “He’s not really your type, is he? Well, I would have thought the venture into the button-down, tight-arsed executive type with Alan Fairbright would’ve been more than enough to show you you haven’t got a thing in common with that kind of guy except maths and computers.”

    What? Silly cow. Not enough to occupy her mind, that’s her trouble. Needs to get away from the Captain’s Daughter crap and get back to her real work. “You need something to occupy your mind. Why not email ya mate Greg, see if anything worth recording’s happened in the village?”

    “He’s on holiday, it’s the English long vac,” she says heavily.

    Oh. Right. It would be, yeah. But at least it’s distracted her, because she starts telling me about the indications of upward mobility amongst the old village families, that is, the younger members of them. Yeah, yeah, having cottage gardens put in, fascinating, will anyone actually read this shit if and when they manage to publish it? Oh, well. At least it’s better than having her go on about David Flaming Walsingham. And Lucas, of course.