London Pride

29

London Pride

    I never actually been to Harrods all by myself before. Rupy dropped me off and pointed me in the direction of the right department but he couldn’t stay, he had to rush off to Henny Penny: something went wrong with one of the episodes they filmed last week, the colour come out wrong or something—anyway, they gotta redo it. Fortunately it’s not one of Katie Herlihy’s bits, cos she’s gone back to her uni course in Manchester full-time.

    Yeah, well, I’ve found it. Not the steamer as such, how dumb are ya? The kitchenware department. I have never seen such mounds of stuff! Unfortunately it’s rather busy, otherwise an assistant would probably ask me if they can help me. Put it like this, that’s what happened every time I came shopping here with Rupy…

    Uh—nope. Definitely not steamers. Bowl thingos. Maybe they got a different name for them in Britain? Strainers? Colanders? Only ya gotta be bloody careful with them. Like, one of Isabelle’s dumb flatmates, she used a plastic colander as a steamer one time and it went all droopy and Isabelle only just rescued it before it actually melted down the side of the pot. She threw out the stuff in it, she didn't want them all to get plastic poisoning. Um… nope: another sort of bowl thingo. Blow. Maybe I’m the wrong part of the department…

    Gee, funny tin-openers…

    Maybe I oughta be in the pot department, maybe that’s where I gone wrong! Only see, I don’t want the whole bit: like, a pot, a steamer that actually fits it and a lid that fits them both, though they are nice, and Aunty Kate’s got as least four sets of them, but they cost too much. All I want is a nice metal steamer that ya bung on a pot and use as a drainer as well. Um, colander as well? Whatever. One of them. And could I even find the pot section from here?

    Ooh, those look… Nope.

    Blow, I seem to be in the wrong section entirely, now: these are all fancy pepper thingos! Ooh, and salt thingos, those look nice, I only seen that sort of fancy salt on TV before— No. Not necessary to sustain life.

    Mincers? Mincers? How’d I get here from— Uh, well, I suppose a natural progression from salt grinders and pepper grinders to mincers. Only in that case shouldn’t there be coffee grinders, or would they be cunningly placed near a gi-normous actual coffee department…

    The thing is, even if I bought some real nice cheap meat I don’t think Rupy would eat meatloaf. Even though Aunty Kate’s genuine meatloaf recipe is in the notebook. Don’t eat it hot, “May be served hot or cold” is a lie. It’s horrible hot, tastes like hot mince. No, chill it at least overnight, three days is better, and then serve it cold with a salad and it’s real good. Specially if you have it with her peach chutney, to die for… Ya can’t get decent homemade chutney here. Well, maybe here ya can, yeah, after all this is earthly paradise, or that’s what Rosie calls it. But it’s an awfully big shop to start looking for one small jar of chutney.

    Anyway, I’m supposed to be here for a steamer! …But where am I? I thought I was in the right sort of area before, blow!

    Ooh, this is a nice mincer, like, practical: got a proper thingo to grip the bench, and real heavy, Aunty Kate says a mincer’s gotta be heavy. Hers weighs a tonne, dates back to Grandma Leach’s day. See, the thing is, a food processor will squidge the meat up, no sweat, but it doesn’t mince it. Reduces it to mush—yep. Since I’m here, I’ll just…

    “Dot! How wonderful!”

    Yelp! Spin round only just managing not to drop Harrods’ heavy real mincer— “Nefertite! What are you doing here?”

    “You may well ask!” she goes, laughing and shuddering. “Thank God you’re here, you can stop me buying the wrong things!”

    “Uh—yeah. Do me best.”—Silly grin.—“Um, acksherly I thought you were in Greece.”

    “I was. No, well, I had those concerts in Vienna, but then I did go down to Athens. I’ve had a row with Aunty Ariadne,” she admits, shuddering.

    Oh, Christ. See, the thing is, most of the old great-aunties have dropped off the twig, but two of them, Great-Aunty Aphrodite and Great-Aunty Persephone, are still going strong—well, Great-Aunty Persephone’s gaga, but pretty hale and hearty with it—and Aunty Ariadne, she’s Nefertite and David’s mum’s oldest sister, she’s taken them over and is generally making their lives Hell. She’s a been a widow for yonks, see, and the hubby left her quite comfortably off and she hasn’t got anything else to do. Except victimise the daughters and daughters-in-law, natch. Well, yeah, ya don’t have to be Greek to be very familiar with that syndrome.

    “What happened?”

    She sighs. “I took Great-Aunty Persephone for a ride on the bus. She wanted to visit an old friend who lives in a village about three hours out of Athens.”

    “Don’t tell me ya didn’t let on to Aunt Ariadne you were going!”

    Weak smile. “Well, the thing is Dot, I planned to be back around sixish. You see, the bus gets there around ten: in nice time for a chat and the midday meal, and then a little rest and catch it back again around three.”

    “And?”

    “I let Aunty Ariadne think I was taking her to, um, it’s like a club for the old people, Dot. They make stuffed toys and, um, crochet things,” she ends weakly.

    “Sure, the Over-Sixties, we got them in Oz!”

    “Yes, of course you do! She actually believed me,” she reveals in awe, “even though she knew Great-Aunty Persephone hates it and makes a point of going to sleep the minute she gets there.”

    “People like that do. Like Aunty Kate: believes what she wants to believe, and never dreams anyone’d dare to go behind her back and do anything she didn’t approve of.”

    “Exactly, Dot!” she says with this huge sigh. “Oh, dear! Mother couldn’t understand at all, she said I was a complete idiot— But that’s exactly it!”

    “Yeah, ’course.” Like, reading between the lines—never heard her say a word against her, her and him are both hung up on the mum—but as I say, reading between the lines, she sounds as if she’s one of those women with bags of charm but completely incapable of understanding anyone else’s point of view. Well, never bothered to, more like. I’ve seen pics of her, she’s still astoundingly good-looking, and in her younger days she was incredibly beautiful: you can see why the frightful dad fell for her. But I gotta admit it, now that Nefertite’s told me a lot more about her, I can also see that it wasn’t entirely his fault, selfish shit though he undoubtedly is, that that marriage went down the tubes.

    “So what went wrong? Bus break down?”

    “Even worse!” She admits with a laugh and another shudder. “We had a lovely morning and a marvellous lunch and of course we all settled down for a little nap after lunch—everyone does, you see. And I don’t know whether it was because I’d got out of the habit or because I’d had to get up earlier than usual to fit in my voice exercises before I got the old lady ready— No, well, perhaps it was just old Mrs Papadakis’s dolmades!” she admits with a smile. “But anyway, I didn't wake up until gone four. And that was the only bus until ten-thirty.”

    “And that one woulda got you into town around one-thirty at night, right? Yeah. So what didja do, Nefertite? Bite on the bullet and ring Aunty Ariadne?”

    She nods, shuddering.

    Yikes. I can just imagine it. Well, putting me in her place, and Grandma Leach in old Great-Aunty Persephone’s place, and Aunty Kate in— Exactly. All Hell broke loose, in fact.

    And this was regardless of the facts that old Mrs Whatsit had a nice comfy spare bed and there was a nice clean hotel right in the village as well and that Great-Aunty Persephone was having a whale of a time and hadn’t suffered at all? Naturally. Did anyone expect anything else?

    So she brung the old duck back to town next day, there’s a bus that leaves at crack of dawn to get the workers into the city, crawls round ten or so small villages, kind of thing, but that was the wrong thing, too. Don’t ask me why, Nefertite certainly didn’t seem to know.

    And then she went home and the famous “Mother” didn’t make the effort to come down on her side, oh, cripes! Poor ole Nefertite! Look, I know she’s in her in forties but everybody’s human, for God’s sake! And she was giving the old dame a treat, what’s more!

    So she goes glumly: “And then Aunty Ariadne began to take it out on Mother so I thought I’d better get on out of it, Dot…”

    Exactly. Right. Ya bloody Mother couldn’t of told fucking Aunty Ariadne to take a running, could she?

    She’s trying to make a funny story out of her trip home, so I’m doing me best to smile… Hang on. Home to where? Cos last time I saw her, that was just before she took off for the concerts in Vienna, she was staying in a hotel, she’d sold the flat, it was costing her a fortune and she was only in it for less than half the year. Well, sold the lease, think was the story, she didn’t own it outright, it was like Rosie's and John’s flat.

    So I go: “Yeah, it sounded like a good idea at the time, but you’ll know next time, dogs’ legs to Morocco aren’t cost-effective if ya don’t make ya connection! Home to where, Nefertite?” Cripes, surely not to the Unlamented Corr—

    Phew, no! She’s made a face but goes: “Aunty Susan’s flat, Dot. It may be sterile but at least there’s no nonsense about her. You always know where you are with her.”

    Er—yeah. Well, true, she’s not the Aunty Kate or Aunty Ariadne sort. Not the Greek side, she’s a Walsingham, the dad’s spinster sister. She’d be around sixty, quite a lot younger than him. She’s a solicitor, in business for herself. It’s mostly local conveyancing and wills with a small amount of court work, mostly quarrels over wills. Not all that different from what Dad does, actually. And “no nonsense” says it all. Got two hobbies, horse riding and whisky drinking, and the common sense not to practise them simultaneously. You might think she was the stereotypical Les, but far from it: she was a real Sixties swinger in her younger days but got bored with it and threw herself into real work. There is a feebleized lover somewhere in the offing: he comes up to town about three times a year from some bloody uni where he’s not making a name in whatever he does and has no hope of rising higher than professor, which he already is, so why hasn't he dumped the wife long since, you may well ask. Gutless, is the unanimous verdict of all who know him, but presumably that’s how Aunty Susan likes them. No, well, I don’t think she needs him all that much, her life’s quite busy and fulfilled enough without him. She won’t of felt that much sympathy with Nefertite’s tale of woe, I don’t think, but as she completely loathes the Greek side, she won’t of criticised her. Besides, she isn’t really into criticising anybody, more into letting them go to Hell in their own way.

    “So are you looking for something for her?”

    “Oh, goodness, no, Aunty Susan’s not into kitchen cra—” Breaks off, looking foolish.

    So I go: “Gee, a woman after my own heart!”

    “Yes!” she says with a relieved laugh. “Isn’t it lowering? All these consumables—I couldn’t even tell you the names of half of them—and thousands of people spend their lives coveting them!”

    “You said it. I’m just looking for a steamer, like, it could be a strainer. You know: metal with holes in it. Only they don’t seem to have them, or it’s the wrong section or something.”

    “Of course! Nanny always used to steam our greens: she said they were much better for you.” This isn’t the first time she’s mentioned “Nanny”, so I don’t stagger and knock over a pile of Harrods’ expensive kitchen crap. –Forget any picture ya might have in ya head of a sweet white-haired old lady in a frilly cap, “Nanny” was a smart young swinger in a tailored uniform that was one of the reasons that the mum left the dad. One of the many—yep.

    “I think they might be back that way, near the pots and pans, Dot. I’m looking for something for David, but I don’t know where to start, really.”

    “Well, anything fancy and unnecessary.” Uh—’tisn’t his birthday, is it? No, I’m pretty sure that’s in March. “Um, is it for, like, a special occasion?”

    “Uh—no,” she says, gaping at me. “My God, Dot, don’t tell me you haven’t heard?”

    Heard what? Cos I thought he was in Iceland. Or has he— “What? Heard what?”

    “He’s quite all right!” she says quickly, grabbing my arm. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, Dot, I shouldn’t have put it that way. Um, look: sit here.”

    It’s a pile of fancy boxes, part of Harrods’ shop decor, but— Yeah, I will, thanks. Gee, she pulls up a pile of other boxes, think they were meant to be advertising them gizzmos what that sign’s about— Oh, well, too bad.

    So I go, swallowing hard: “Is he in Iceland, or what?”

    “No, he got back last week, the day after I did, actually. And he didn’t have anywhere to stay, because of course I’ve sold the flat, and of course Aunty Susan wouldn’t have minded if he’d come to her, but she hasn’t got a piano.”

    Good on her. “Uh—right.”

    “And, um, well, I don’t know what he might have told you, Dot, but it’s true he said he’d never ask him for anything, but of course he was a lot younger then, and he’s more or less got over it all.”

    “Um, ye-ah?”

    “And of course, he’s got that huge place in the country, he hardly comes up to town at all these days. I know he claims conductors only mature, but he is nearly eighty, he is virtually retired, these days.”

    “Your dad—right.” It dawns. “Crumbs, ya don’t mean—”

    “Yes, he rang Father and said as the flat was standing empty he’d like to use it. Of course Father was frightfully superior and said he was entirely welcome, but he bit on the bullet and accepted anyway.”

    “I see, and then there was nothing to cook with. I s’pose he always ate out, did he?”

    “What? Oh—no. I mean of course he did, Father’s never made himself so much as a sandwich in his life—but no, it’s not that the kitchen didn’t have anything: he’s burnt it down, Dot!”

    “Eh?”

    “Mm,” she says, gulping. “Don’t look at me like that: it wasn’t on purpose!”

    “Much,” I croak.

    “No, truly!” she goes, laughing weakly and patting my hand.

    “And—and is David all right?” I croak.

    “Um, well, his hair got a bit burnt and he inhaled a lot of smoke so they’re keeping him in hospital for observation.”

    Deep breath. They’re keeping— “Nefertite,” I go clearly, “when did this happen?”

    “Muh-Monday,” she says weakly, trying to smile. A tear trickles out of one over-made-up eye and drips blackly down her over-rouged cheek.

    Omigod. Today is Wednesday, she’s still in shock! What on earth did she imagine she was gonna buy here? I mean, if the kitchen’s all burnt up it’ll need complete— And in fact the flat probably needs to be gutted! A few ruddy kitchen implements aren’t gonna help that! No, well, like I say, shock.

    She blows her nose and mops her eyes. “I was thinking of moving in with him. Well, it is a big flat. And it’s very boring with Aunty Susan.”

    “Yeah. Has she been to see him?”

    She doesn’t ask why I’m asking, she just says: “Yes, we went on Monday night when the hospital rang and she came again yesterday evening.”

    Right, well, at least she’s on deck for her. “Good. So did the whole flat go up or just the kitchen?”

    “Just the kitchen, it’s at the far end of the hall. He thinks he must have left a pot on the heat.”

    “That’d be right.” The man is not fit to be let out without a lead, for God’s sake! No, well, lots of people have stupid accidents in the kitchen, but really!

    “I knew you think he’s hopeless, but he’s usually very competent in a kitchen, Dot. It’s just— It was unfamiliar surroundings, I suppose, and, um, it’s no sinecure working for Derry Dawlish.”

    “Yeah. Is he gonna do this Iceland crappola?”

    “David? No: he said it was very beautiful and there was no way he was going to participate in any attempt by Derry Dawlish to trivialise it, and Derry shuh-shouted things about suing him for what they’d spent on sending him there, so David walked out.” Sniff, blow.

    “Good on him.”

    “Um, yes! Well, I think so, too,” she goes, smiling. “He is all right, Dot; Aunty Susan spoke to the doctor.”

    I don’t smile: I already know Nefertite isn’t the sort of person that can get the truth out of shits like your average medico, never mind the age or sex or of the said medico, I just go: “Glad to hear it. Look, if the kitchen was all burnt up I don’t think shopping at Harrods is the way to go. It’ll need to be completely refurbished, the crap that ya bung in the drawers’ll be the last thing to buy.”

    “Um, yes, I suppose… I just thought… Um, well, if I buy him something nice he can take it back to Adelaide with him!” she goes, looking at me hopefully.

    Oh, what the Hell! Let her, if she wants to. “Why not? Anything nice in particular? They got good mincers, but they’d be a bit heavy to bung in your airline baggage.”

    “Um, yes. Oh, yes, I know what you mean! No, he’s got Great-Aunty Ariadne’s old one.”

    “Right. Um… Hey, what about a waffle-iron?”

    “Aren’t they only American?”

    Uh—yeah. See whatcha mean. A half-English, half-Greek idiot that’s just burnt down his horrible dad’s up-market kitchen wouldn’t want one of those, no, stands to reason! “Asparagus pot?” I go, waggling me eyebrows at her.

    She gets it, she’s not slow, and she collapses in giggles. “Surely he must have one, though, Dot?”

    “Don’t think so, cos he showed me the one they had in that nightmare of a place he stayed in in Sydney.”

    “Oh, good! Come on then, let’s ask an assistant, and maybe they can show us where the steamers are, too!”

    So we do that. Gee, the assistant shows us in person where the asparagus pots are. Don’t think it’s got anything to do with the greyish smudges on Nefertite’s cheeks, think it’s got more to do with the gorgeous deep violet coat she’s in and the dinky little hat to match and the diamonds in the ears, not to mention the wonderful French scent coming off her. The shoes are good, too. Not extra-high, just high enough, and the main part of the foot’s violet, exactly the same shade as the coat, and the toes are black. Extra. And if you’re thinking that a truly caring sister wouldn’t get all gussied up and sally forth to Harrods a day and a bit after her brother almost burnt himself to a crisp you’re wrong, see? She’d of been on automatic mode: still in shock, geddit? If ya don’t ya never been involved in any sort of family crisis, then, and I just hope for your sake ya never are. And ya must of slept through 9/11, that’s for sure!

    Gee, Harrods have got asparagus pots. Quite a few models, yep. “Nothing with fancy lids,” I warn. See, he has given me the word on fancy lids. Twice, if ya wanna know. Once back in Adelaide and once in Sydney before he took off for London and the fights with Dawlish over the sound track. We had lunch at Doyle’s and if ya think that sounds romantic, think again; the fish was good, sure, but the place was crammed with tourists and it was a Hellishly humid day and guess who had tacked themselves onto the expedition?

    Uh—no, not Aunty Allyson, for a wonder. Flaming Dad and Tim, that’s who. Gone into a panic over what to get Deanna and Bob for a wedding present. Ya would of thought paying for the ceremony would be enough, yeah, but contrary to all expectations, though her excitement over Miff’s wedding dress didn’t abate, she decided that she didn’t want a huge reception after all. Specially since yours truly wasn’t gonna be able to be there. Though Wendalyn woulda done matron of honour, no sweat. No, they decided to sink everything into a B&B. See, round about the time Bob bit on the bullet and decided to ask her, his Uncle Martin popped off and left him just the dump for turning into the perfect B&B. Only slightly east of Outer Woop-Woop, and if you fancy precipitous climbs through thick bush, very near the water—yeah. There is road access, though it takes three hours longer. Words to that effect. So what she’d like from Dad, she decided, was something for the house. By this time we’d seen the dump and there was plenty of choice, it needed everything. In fact that was what the matter was.

    So Tim and Dad descended on me at work without warning the very day David had picked for lunch. As I was just getting into the lift as they were getting out of it there was no escape, was there? Well, first they said they’d just come with me to collect him and get my advice on the way, but that wouldn’t wash, he’d said he’d meet me there. ’Course by the time we got there through the Sydney traffic they were still talking: far from getting my advice they hadn't let me get a word in edgewise; and they followed me in still talking and even if he didn’t want their company what could he say? They were very glad to be able to get his opinion, cos of course he’d be able to tell them what the kitchen needed! Needless to say they barely let him utter two syllables. Though they were pleased to have him ratify Tim’s opinion that Dad didn’t wanna listen to Mum and Narelle on the subject of ceramic tops, a good plain industrial stove is what a B&B needs. Turns out David knows all the genuine cookery supplies places in Sydney, so that was all right, they borrowed my car and took him off with them for the rest of the arvo. Me? I just went back to work. Deirdre was so surprised, she thought I’d taken the whole afternoon off!

    Um, well, fancy lids—yeah. Tim thought him and Narelle could manage a decent set of pots, ya see, so that’s when the fancy lids comment came up.

    So we find an asparagus pot that’s solid stainless steel with a very plain lid and only costs The Earth. She outs with the Gold Card, no sweat. Oh, well, let her, it’s just for the once. But if it’s pots he needs, Mr and Mrs Singh’ll give me the Dinkum Oil, you betcha!

    And now for a lovely plain steamer!… Solid stainless steel and only costs The Earth—right.

   “Nah. It looks real solid, but it’s too dear. Think I’ll probably find one down the market, thanks all the same.”

    “But Dot, let me!”

    “Thanks, Nefertite, but no way. It’d be chucking your money away. I know it’ll last out my lifetime, but see, I don’t need a steamer that’s gonna live longer than me, specially since I already got twice the amount of luggage I came over with and I gotta get back to Oz in a few months.”

    The salesman’s pointing out it can double as a colander, madam! Or a salad drainer—though they have got some very nice salad drainers, of course. French ones.

    Nefertite’s eyes light up. “David likes those! He say the French ones are the best!”

    Oh, God, she’s as bad as Rupy, she’ll be buying out the shop if I don’t stop her! “Yeah, but he’s got one back home, hasn’t he? The asparagus pot’s enough for today. Maybe they can gift-wrap it. And tell ya what, they’re bound to have some of those nice bottled fruit he likes: why I don’t I get a jar of those? You know, with the brandy in with them.”

   “Oh, brandied fruits! Yes, he loves those.”

    So I manage to get her away from the kitchenware with only the asparagus pot. Gee, the salesman makes sure we know how to get to the spot where they have the brandied fruit. Give him a bonus, Harrods.

    And here we— Crikey Dick! All the fruit in the world, soused in alcohol! Nefertite isn’t phased—well, she is the sort that shops at posh shops, true. Posh shops that, never mind them to-die-for diamond earrings, are too dear for her budget. Okay, it’ll be one small jar each. How much are they, anyway? …Gulp. Very small.

    It takes a while, but I eventually get a jar of brandied cherries and she gets a jar of peaches. On second thoughts she gets a second jar of peaches for Aunty Susan because she’s been so good to her. And these ones have got whisky in them, she’ll love them! Beaming smile. Oh, well.

    Cripes, is that the time? Yeah, maybe I will join you in a coffee, Nefertite.

    Not here? Thank God for that! Because, earthly paradise or not, and I know Rupy has found some marvellous bargains here, my budget really can’t take much more of it.

    ’Tisn’t that I’m mean, and yeah, Double Dee are paying me a decent lump sum, but heck, everything costs much, much more in London. Rosie was always going on about the train, she actually enjoys the trip down to Portsmouth, and of course normally she chucks up in anything that moves, so I thought that’ll be the way to go, comfortable and easy, and ya get a great view and don’t have to concentrate on your driving, and I looked at a map of England with the railway lines on it and I was really looking forward to some interesting trips in the weekends, but the trains cost the earth, like just to go to Oxford, it’s barely just up the line, costs a fortune. The locals don't think anything of it, it’s natural to them. But people on wages—I mean, not like Rupy but say, the people in the offices at Double Dee—they get like London allowances built into their wages because the cost of living is so much higher in the capital.

    So we go outside and immediately have to grab a—

    “Look, can’t we catch a bus instead?”

    She doesn’t know which bus, from here. But it’s not very far! Oh, I give up. Let her.

    So the taxi crawls along in the usual snarl of traffic heading to Harrods or away from Harrods and then turns off, and turns off again… If this is not very far, what in God’s name is a long way? Now where are we? I’m entirely lost!

    No, hang on, isn’t this Soho? This looks like the dump Rupy dragged me to, served the worst cappuccinos in the Known Universe, turned out it’s a trendy joint favoured by the boys from some show he went to recently, don’t ask me what. The food was dire, all nasty little bits mucked about with horrid little swirls of sauce and sitting on them revolting Japanese salad greens, shades of Deanna. In fact she’d of loved the place, so I kindly told Rupy so.

    “Nefertite, how much further is it? This trip’ll be costing a fortune!” I hiss.

    “No, no: it’s just down here!” And she tells him to stop by the Vietnamese restaurant on the corner.

    So we get out. Right, now for the Vietnamese muggers, cos this look like the daggy part of Soho to me. Down this alley? Hang on to your purses, girls, and be ready with the mace—Oh. ’Tisn’t. It’s been totally trendified, ugh, what is that place with the wrought-iron verandahs, looks like a piece of dinkified Paddington, NSW, transported to London! “Au Homard” what? “Restaurant” what?

    “Cajun food, Dot,” she explains kindly.

    “Huh? Oh! Goddit, goddit, a piece of Ole N’Orl’ns, huh?”

    “Yes!” she says with one of her gurgles. “David says the food’s terrible: very ersatz!”

    “With them verandahs I think it’d almost have to be.”

    Nodding the hat madly, she heads for— Ulp. The original Greek restaurant. I kid you not: that faded sign above the door says “Zorba’s.” 1960s? Something like that. Looks as if it hasn’t been done up since then, the dingiest place in the whole dinkified alley by far. It’s got a shop front about as wide as me flaming car, like if it was a garage you wouldn’t be able to get a car in it, and one dingy table outside, you’d call it wrought-iron if it was wrought but it isn’t. Might of once had a bit of dark green paint on it. The chairs match. Nobody’s sitting at it, even though it’s quite a mild day for May in London and there’s a watery yellow sun shining.

    We go in, the tables are even smaller in here—they’d have to be, ya right—and at the one in the window there’s two fat middle-aged Greek men playing a board game and smoking, with small empty glasses and empty coffee cups at their elbows, they don’t look up, and at the next one there’s two obvious Greek waiters, smoking and reading the paper, they don’t look up, either. Talk about your macho home away from home, what are we doing here? Those tables are bare. The next table’s empty, but it’s got a dingy red and white gingham cloth on it and a tired-looking menu card propped against an empty glass.

    After that it’s the counter, to the left rather than the right, you can just about squeeze between its end and the empty table. There’s no one either propping it up or serving at it, but there’s a fair few strange-looking bottles behind it. And a large cash register on it.

    “Nefertite, it looks closed!” I hiss.

    “Not really, Dot, though of course they won’t start serving dinner until after eight. Ari and Melina’ll be out the back.” And she suddenly calls out something, real loud, jump!

    The blokes at the tables don’t even look up, but the bead curtain down the back is pushed aside with a kind of chorus of horrid little rattling noises, gee, I’d hate to have the table next to it, that noise’d drive ya barmy going on all through the meal, and out comes a fat old Greek woman in an apron, she lets out a yell and a fat old Greek man in an apron comes shooting out, and them and Nefertite launch into this full-blown shouting match. Not a row, no: it’s a Greek reunion. Haven’t seen her for five thousand years, right, or, as it turns out once the noise dies down and they’re getting their second winds, since just before she took off for Vienna.

    So with a terrific lot of tutting over the news about David, we get taken out the back—Melina flaps a disparaging hand at the macho types up the front and utters something that sounds dismissive in Greek—and gee, not into the kitchen, upstairs and into a real Greek parlour!

    Okay, now, folks, I do know some Greek families back home, in fact Joslynne’s Mum’s mate Mrs Giorgopoulos springs to mind, and most of them have just the same sort of style houses as the rest of us. Mrs Giorgopoulos certainly does, they had that huge house of theirs done up and terracotta-rendered very shortly before Aunty May had the new wing built and their place cream-rendered. Plus and the huge Eighties-style puffy suite in real pale grey leather replaced with an equally sickening but different late-Nineties style leather suite. Light tan, if ya that interested. And new body-carpet throughout, natch, while she was at it, plus and a Chinese rug to go over the body-carpet, you goddit! But see, I have met one or two of the older style immigrants, like, Chris Giorgopoulos’s Grandma, and so I can instantly recognise that this here is a traditional Greek parlour. Well, for one thing, it’s got a bright red velvet sofa with a smiling dolly with spreading lace skirts sitting on it. Yeah. Likewise the mantelpiece is decorated with slightly smaller-skirted dolls, and the backs and arms of the armchairs are hidden under lace antimacassars. ’Tis a real word, Rupy explained it to me, like, back in the 19th century men used to use macassar oil on their hair (instead of mousse and gel—right) and so the ladies invented these to be anti it, to keep the flaming oil off their good suites! Well, don’t ask me where he got that from, but it’s true, I checked up on him at the uni library when I went in with Rosie one day.

    So we don’t sit down on the sofa, we sit on some of the chairs and after being introduced and asking narrowly about my family—well, don’t look at me, old ladies back home do it too, it’s not confined to the Greek side—Melina rushes out again leaving us alone with old Ari. He’d be… seventies? At least, I’d say. His English isn’t too good so him and Nefertite talk in Greek, but every so often he looks at me and smiles and nods like anything. False teeth.

    Then Melina brings it in, and we have it. Phew! Not unlike Leila’s old mum’s spread. Certainly them crescent-shaped biscuits with the clouds of icing sugar feature largely, they must be endemic to the entire Mediterranean basin. Plus them little K-cakes made of the shreds and shreds of pastry, like David brought round that time, plus and baklava and quite a few more I’ve never seen before. All indescribably yummy. Naturally Nefertite can’t tell me what’s in them. Melina can, only she only knows most of the words in Greek, and Nefertite does sort of know, now she comes to mention them, what those are, but she doesn’t know the English for them. Never mind, I’ll just enjoy the moment. Mm-mmm! The coffee is gaspingly strong, thank God it’s only in those tiny cups and she’s brung a pitcher of ice water to go with it. If Rupy was here he’d be patting his chest and saying “Flutters”, he done that at old Mrs Morton’s, but only when she was out of the room getting more biscuits for Aaron. Can’t say I’ve ever had flutters, but this here coffee of Melina’s is sure strong enough to bring them on.

    After a while Melina drags the Aunty Ariadne row out of Nefertite. Duck for cover, everybody! Ya never heard anything like it! The word “Ariadne,” or morphological variations thereof, only crops up in every other breath, boy does she not approve of her! Even old Ari joins in.

    So I go: “Yeah, there was no harm done at all and Great-Aunty Persephone had a great time.”

    “That’s quite right, Dot!” Melina agrees. “That Ariadne, she never takes her anywhere, the poor old lady.”

    Yeah. Well, by my calculations she wouldn’t be much more than ten years older than Melina is, but, yeah.

    Next Nefertite’s headed for the hospital to see David so Melina decides she’ll come, too. Suddenly she opens the door and rushes out, screaming something.

    “Nicky will drive us,” says Nefertite, smiling. “He’s one of the grandsons, Dot.”

    One of the macho lumps sitting around uselessly downstairs, she means. “Right. Um, has she got anything on the stove, though?” –Talking about setting the place on fire.

    “I expect so, but Ari will keep an eye on it.” She says something to the old man and he grins and nods like anything, and makes an excited speech in reply. Then he says to me: “I’ll look after the kitchen, Dot. Lotsa cooking, I do! You come Sunday, I make you my special lamb unpronounceable, okay?”

    “Um, yeah, thanks, Ari, that sounds great. Um, well, I dunno if I can make it next Sunday—”

    He bursts into speech, simultaneously Nefertite bursts into speech.

    Okay, good, we’ll all come next Sunday, she’ll bring Aunty Susan and I’ll bring Rupy, it’s settled. And Ari’ll do his roast lamb on the spit with rosemary and several other things that Nefertite doesn’t know the English words for.

    Then Melina comes back with her scarf and coat on and her black patent leather handbag—yep, it’s just like Chris’s grandma’s—and we pile into the sulking Nicky’s car, and go. Gee, his grandmother only screams at him five times on the way, is this a record?

    Naturally Melina hasn’t only brought herself and her handbag, she’s brought a large Tupperware container as well. So with a brief stop-off at a handy flower stall, even though Nefertite assures us she and Aunty Susan got him some lovely flowers yesterday, we go up.

    It’s a private room! Nefertite’s noticed my amazement, she says quickly: “He was in a public ward at first, but Aunty Susan rang Father.”

    Cringe! Glad I wasn’t here, though I wouldn’t of minded being a fly on the wall!

    So we go in and there he is. Me and Nefertite don’t get to say anything because Melina bursts into speech. It goes on for quite some time. Can’t tell if she’s mad with him or not. She’s certainly kissed his cheek very heartily but they do that, anyway. Old ladies that’ve known you since your cradle, I mean, not specifically Greek ones.

    Finally she runs down and David smiles at me sheepishly and says: “Not an argument, Dot.”

    “Yeah. Hah, hah. How are ya, David?”

    “Fine. I breathed in a lot of smoke, that’s all: made the mistake of trying to get down the hall and turn the stove off.”

    “Yeah.” His arm’s in a sling: the right arm, the one with the good hand. I’m too afraid to ask, actually.

    “This?” he goes with a funny little smile. “Singed my forearm a bit.” He withdraws the arm from the sling and holds it up. Phew! Only the arm’s bandaged, the hand’s quite hale and—

    “Dot!” cries Nefertite. “Don’t cry, my darling, he’s perfectly all right!” Think Melina’s saying the same thing in Greek. So they get me sat down on a visitor’s chair, it’s very close to the bed, this is real embarrassing. Melina’s hanky smells lovely. Lavender, I think. No, maybe lavender and something else. Lovely, anyway.

    Sniff, blow. “I’m okay.” Another tear rolls down my cheek, blast! What an idiot! “It was just a shock, that’s all. I thought he might of done in his other huh-huh—”

    “Yes. Hush,” says Nefertite. “He’s quite all right.”

    There’s a low-voiced confab behind me in Greek and someone pats me on the shoulder—think Melina, lavendery and garlicky smell rather than French perfume smell—and suddenly the door closes, real quietly. And I look round and it’s only him and me.

    “They’ll be back in a little while,” he says with a smile. “Melina has a strong sense of the proprieties. Sometimes in conflict with her strong matchmaking instinct, of course.”

    “Hah, hah,” Sniff, blow.

    Short silence.

    “Go on, tell me I’m an idiot,” he goes wryly.

    “I think enough people probably done that, David.”

    “Mm.”

    ’Nother short silence.

    “What was it, did ya doze off?”

    “No,” he says tiredly, “I simply forgot that I’d started to make a sauce.”

    Cripes.

    “It was for the pudding,” he says heavily. “I had the first course and—Well.”

    “Yeah. Everybody has accidents in the kitchen at some time or another. Gee, even Aunty Kate’s had a kitchen fire!”

    He smiles reluctantly. “Not really?”

    “Yeah. Forget which house it was in—it was one of the ones that didn’t last long, I do remember that. Uncle Jim had installed this handy small fire-extinguisher only most unfortunately it was so handy that when the oil burst into flames she couldn’t reach it past the fire.”

    “Mm,” he goes, biting his lip.

    “Her story is that she’d only turned her back on the pot for three seconds, and the South Australian gas grabbed the chance to spite her.”

    “Yes,” he goes feebly. “The local gas is like that, though, Dot.”

    “Right. Anyway, she screamed like billyo and rushed out to the shed, dunno whether leaving the back door open was the wise thing, cos it fanned the flames, but anyway, Uncle Jim had a humungous great full-size fire-extinguisher out there so he tore over with it and that was all she wrote.”

    “Yes,” says David limply. His shoulders are shaking, though, heh, heh!

    “So ya see: if she can have a kitchen fire—”

    “Yes! Don’t go on!” he gasps, suddenly collapsing in hysterics.

    Good, that’s cheered him up! …Why’s he grinning at me like that? Oops, cos I’m sitting here grinning like a nana, that’s why.

    “So Nefertite rang you, did she?” he murmurs.

    “Eh? Oh! No, we bumped into each other in Harrods.”

    “What?” he croaks.

    “Well, the thing is, David, I think she was still in shock, she’d of got herself gussied up automatically and tottered off to Harrods like, um, a homing pigeon or something. Had some hazy idea she hadda buy you something for the kitchen.”

    “Yes, I quite see that,” he murmurs. “No, ah—you, Dot.”

    “Eh? Oh!” Why’ve I gone red, what a nong! “Um, I wanted a steamer and I made the mistake of asking Rupy what shop to go to. Don’t laugh. And the only reason he wasn’t there supervising me was he hadda rush off to Henny Penny and refilm an episode—or maybe part of an episode.”

    “I see. They do have excellent steamers,” he replies simply, not taking the Mick at all.

    “Uh—yeah. Nefertite asked the man and he showed us some, only they cost a bomb, so I didn’t get one. Like see, my baggage is gonna be hopelessly overweight, so I won’t be able to take it back with me. –What’s up?” I ask in alarm. “Shall I ring for the nurse?”

    “No,” he says limply. The tears just keep slipping down his cheeks, “Damn! What a fool.”

    He’s got a big box of tissues on his bedside table so I grab them for him. “Thanks,” he says soggily, pulling at them—Blast! That’s his bad hand! Oh, what the Hell. So I grab a huge wad of tissues and shove them in the hand.

    “Thanks,” he says faintly, mopping his eyes clumsily. “Most people avoid touching that hand as if it had the plague.”

    “Um, yes, natural human instinct, David. Like people don’t look you in the eye if you’re in a wheelchair. We did a scene on that in that dim drama course I did. Think the tutor expected it to burst on us all like a revelation, but of course we all knew it, in fact we’d probably all done it, in our time.”

    “Mm. Sorry. I— So you are going back to Australia?” he says faintly.

    “Of course! Heck, it’s my home!”

    “I thought you were going to stay on here,” he goes faintly.

    “Dunno what gave ya that idea.” Given that you haven’t spoken to me since well before ya rushed off to Chicago and points north, mate.

    “Not what, who: Lucas.”

    “Eh?”

    “Lucas Roberts. It was not long before I had to get over to the States; I don’t know if Nefertite’s mentioned that I’ve been abroad for a while?”

    I just say: “Yeah.”

    “Mm. I rang your office because the machine at your flat seemed to be playing up.”

    “Um, yeah. Think that must of been the week Rupy thought he’d change the message on it. But John and Rosie came up to town next weekend and he sorted it out for us.”

    “Mm,” he says with a little smile. “I see. Um, I was going to ask you to lunch, but I think they put me through to the wrong extension or— No, perhaps you were out of the office and Lucas just happened to be there. Anyway, he answered.”

    I’m beginning to see. Deep breath. “Go on, David.”

    “He just said you were tied up in meetings all day, and that they were very pleased with your progress and very glad you were seriously considering their offer to stay on as Systems Manager. So I…” His voice trails off.

    “David, you idiot!”

    “Apparently, yes. But there was absolutely no—no personal note in anything he said…”

    “For God’s sake! It was a lie from beginning to end! They haven’t asked to me to do Systems Manager for them! The man is the 21st-century Machiavelli, hasn’t that ever dawned?”

    “I hardly know him, really,” he says limply.

    “No, but ya know him and me were having a thing in Queensland!”

    “Mm. Well, that was it, I suppose. I assumed if you were staying on in Britain you and he would be getting back together, and… I lost my nerve,” he says, swallowing hard.

    “Look, we’re not getting back together, ever. And if ya must know the gory details,”—scowl—“he did try to ask me to dinner, and he reckoned it was only a meal, so I said don't let’s pretend, with our history, and we better drop it entirely, it wasn’t ever gonna work out, because them suits, like, they’re the real him.”

    He looks in a stunned way at my smart black London coat and the smart suit under it.

    “Ya don’t think Rupy would of let me get away with wearing grunge to Harrods, do ya?”

    “No. Oh! I think I see…”

   About time! “Yeah. Anyway, I can't stand underhand, and Lucas is that all right—boy, does this demonstrate that—and I can’t stand button-down smooth and cold control, and ya must of noticed he’s that, and I could never hack life full-time in London, cos what it says to me is—”

    “Grey?” he interrupts mildly.

    My jaw sags. “Who told you that?”

    “No-one. But it’s what it says to me, every time I come back. In some ways I enjoy the contrast, but I couldn’t live here full-time any more, either.”

    “No,” I croak, goggling at him. “Lucas couldn’t understand it at all. Though I think he did get what I meant when I said that by contrast, Sydney says blue.”

    “Mm. The man’s aesthetic perceptions,” he says, sort of lightly but eyeing me consideringly underneath it, I know that look of his, it means he’s testing you, “are almost entirely confined to the adornment of his person and his terrifying flat. Have you been there?”

    “Yes, he put on a dinner for several of the managerial types from Double Dee. Terrifying’s a good word for it. And since ya not asking, I went with Rosie and John and I went home with them after.”

    “Mm. Sorry, Dot,” he mutters.

    Yeah. Are ya? Good. I’d quite like to return to the subject of losing your nerve only I can’t see how to. Oh, bugger it! If I don’t say it, who will? “Whaddaya mean, ya lost ya nerve?”

    “I— About you,” he says, making a face. “I kept thinking that Lucas is younger than me and you’ve got a lot more in common with him. I mean, he seemed to be on the same wavelength about your work, and I wouldn’t know a database if it jumped up at me, and, um, he’s doing a regular job and pulling down a decent screw and— Well. He can offer you the lifestyle you ought to expect, Dot.”

    I’ve gone bright red, as you can imagine. “What total balls!”

    “No, really…”

    Boy, all of a sudden I’m real mad with him, y’know? Real mad. So I lean forward and go fiercely: “David Walsingham, don’t you dare do the droopy fringe-of-society, arty-tarty bit on me!”

    “What?” he says, blinking.

    “You’re as successful in your field as he is in his—more! He doesn’t get asked over to conduct stuff for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra!”

    “Um, no,” he says, swallowing.

    “Anyway, I’m not interested in him and I’m going home as soon as I’ve got the databases up and running!”

    “Good.”

    Boy, is he maddening or is he maddening! “You’re doing it.

    “Uh—oh, the droopy aesthete thing? Sorry!” he says with a weak laugh. “But I do feel a bit droopy, after almost burning myself to death.”

    “Yeah. Well, from Nefertite’s description you only burnt the kitchen down, not the whole flat—but yeah, it would come all over ya that ya might of gone up with it.”

    “Mm. Father was furious, of course, but his lawyer’s told him that the insurance will have to cough up a really smart new kitchen and then he’ll then be able to sell the dump for disgusting sums, so he’s cheered up.”

    Yeah? I’m not interested in ya ruddy Father, David! “That sounds typical, that’d leave you without a base in London. Why doesn’t he give it to you and Nefertite, mean old sod?”

    “Well, because he’s a mean old sod, Dot! No, well, it’s his, he can do what he likes with it,” he says with a shrug. Then he goes into a coughing fit, blast!

    “You all right?”

    “Mm.” He has a drink of water, and sighs.

    “Personally I can never understand the sort of attitude that stows it all away and then leaves a lump sum at the age of ninety-plus to its kids that are now all seventy-plus and don’t need it. If ya got it, why not give it to the kids when they do need it? I mean, for Pete’s sake, what do people have kids for?”

    “Don’t ask me,” he says with a wry smile.

    “No. Right. Listen, has Nefertite told you what went on with Aunty Ariadne?”

    “Not the details, no,” he says warily. “I gather they had a row and she couldn’t take it any more. No?”

    “More or less. The details don’t matter. The point is, your mum didn’t take her side at all, even though she hadn't done anything wrong.” I give him a real hard look.

    “Mother’s like that,” he says simply. “I don't view her completely through rose-coloured spectacles, you know.”

    No? Glad to hear it.

    “The word ‘supportive’ isn’t in her vocabulary,” he says slowly. “I grant you Father's unbearable, but I can see there is some sort of excuse for him. I did consider asking her to come out to Australia, but apart from the fact that she wouldn’t get the shopping she’s used to, I couldn’t face sharing the house with someone so completely self-centred. God knows I don’t want a prop,” he adds on wry note, “but that tacit refusal ever to take an interest in another human being’s concerns— No. Well, Nefertite does know she’s like that,” he says heavily, “but she keeps on hoping that next time she won’t be.”

    “Mm. I get it.”

    “Why did you bring the subject up?”

    Jump! Cripes, I dunno. Why did I? “Dunno,” I growl. “Wanted to see if you were as, um,”—why did I start this?—“um, as blind to what your mum really is as what I thought Nefertite was.” And God, I’ll believe in You forever if You’ll just let me sink right through this hospital floor now!

    So he goes slyly: “Satisfied I haven’t got an Oedipus complex, now?”

    Of all the—! “Yes!” I holler. “Boy, are you a hard case, David Walsingham! Just because you got a Greek mum—by cripes!”

    Oops, he laughs so hard he has another coughing fit and a nurse shoots in. Ouch, she told him not to laugh!

    “Yes,” he says weakly. “This is Dot, Jill. You’ll have to keep her out of my room entirely if you don’t want me to laugh.”

    Jill gives me a severe look. She’d be all of twenty, but from that type a severe look is a severe look. “At least you seem to have cheered him up. I thought you were Lily Rose Rayne, for a minute, actually.”

    “That’d cheer the average red-blooded male up!” he wheezes.

    “Shut up, ya clot, you’ll be coughing again. Um, I’m her cousin, as a matterafack. Like, I done double for her in the movie of The Captain’s Daughter.”

    “I see; that’s how you met David! Well, don’t make him laugh too much,” she orders, going.

    Silence.

    “Um, how are you really?”

    “Pretty good. They need to make sure my lungs aren’t seriously affected and that I’m not going to come down with pneumonia, I think is the story. Ask Aunty Susan,” he adds with a sly smile.

    Glare. “I might do that.”

    “I think they might let me out tomorrow: I really do feel okay.”

    “Have you eaten anything?” I demand.

    “I—not very much, Dot, no.”

    “Thought not, ya got that pale yellowish-grey look ya get when ya not eating. Well, Melina’s brung a Tupperware thingo full of something fattening: dunno what, but ya better eat it.”

    “I promise,” he goes meekly.

    “Very funny.”

    Silence.

    Look, David, if ya wanna see me, ya gotta ask me! I mean, I’m not gonna make all the running. Okay, it’s not logical and maybe it’s stereotypical, but it’s how I feel. And doesn’t it all come down to feelings, in the end?

    So he goes: “Did I gather that Ari’s going to do his famous roast lamb on the spit for you, on Sunday?”

    Cripes, the old dame did get a lot over in that babble, didn’t she? “Um, well, yeah. Think so. He said lamb, anyway. And?” –Glare. Stick chin out.

    “Well, if they let me out, may I take you?”

    That’s a start. Blush, blush, will ya stop going red, Dot Mallory! “Um, yeah. Thanks. Um, only what about Rupy?”

    “Couldn’t he find himself a partner, Dot?”

    “Don’t laugh, it’s not funny! Just because he’s gay, doesn’t mean he’s not a person, too! Um, well, the thing is, Tony’d come like a shot—I know ya don’t know him, nevertheless. But Rupy’s gone off him, a bit, and there isn’t anyone else at the moment, really.”

    “Then perhaps he could come with Nefertite and Aunty Susan,” he says mildly.

    “Good. Yeah. Or he might bring Doris from downstairs. Like, she’s an old lady and I dunno if she’ll be up for Greek food, but he is very fond of her.”

    “Fine, the more the merrier,” he says mildly, and I dunno why, but somehow this inspires me to tell him all about Rupy’s true love. He hasn’t seen him for ages, cos he’s in the Diplomatic Service, Benedict is his name, pretty, isn’t it? He met him that time him and Rosie were in Washington with John. He got posted to the Cook Islands round about the time Derry decided to film Downunder, and Rupy was all pleased, he thought Benedict would be able to pop over to Queensland during the filming, easy-peasy. Got no idea of geography—right. Well, the Pacific is ruddy big! True, there are flights—well, more to New Zealand than to Australia, like, they’re traditionally into the Cooks like our lot are into PNG: right, the colonial masters shit, you said it. Anyway, he was awfully dished when Benedict couldn’t manage it.

    I’m still blahing on when Nefertite and Melina come back. David’s just leaning back against his pillows, smiling.

    So I go: “There you are! He had a coughing fit or two, and the nurse come in: she said I was making him laugh and I didn’t oughta. But he’s feeling okay, I think he could manage something from that Tupperware container, Melina.”

    “And some brandied fruit!” says Nefertite with a laugh. “Give him the jar, Dot!”

    Shit, I been sitting here all the time clutching— Shit. So I give it to him. “Yeah. It’s a get-well prezzie.”

    “Warm!” he goes, grinning. “Thanks, Dot; I’ll open it immediately.”

    Gee, he isn’t kidding, he does open it, and the Tupperware container. Like, it’s a big square one, at home if it was Aunty Allyson you’d suspect there was a pineapple upside-down cake lurking in there—that sort of size. Nope, it’s layers of little cakes plus and another Tupperware container, smaller, though, with its lid on. So he opens that, too.

    “Are they dolmades?” I go dubiously. Cos see, what he said sounded like that but there seemed to be more.

    So he explains it was the words for little dolmades. Hors d’oeuvre size. This probably means that the old girl made them for the restaurant. Oh, well.

    In the end we all have one, and David has several, and then he starts on the cakes. Nefertite and me have a couple of those just to keep him company. Yum! Jill comes in, gives the food the once-over without saying anything and goes out again, so that must be all right.

    Then Melina decides he better have a nap and the visitors going ashore bell rings, so we get up to go. They both give him a kiss and go out. “Wait, Dot,” he says.

    All right, I will. Gee, dunno that it helps that Nefertite’s considerately closed the door behind her.

    He swallows. Then he says: “Are you sure?”

    Gee, guess what? I’ve gone red. Very tempted to say I dunno what he means. “Yes,” I go grimly.

    “Good.” He swallows again but rallies to say: “Then come here.”

    Look, mate, them windows are only covered with Venetians that are open, you get a real good view for the ward just out there and from Jill’s desk. I go over to the bed real slow.

    “Don’t glare, Dot!” he says with a faint laugh. “It’ll be a lot betterer when I’m better, I promise you!”

    “Hah, hah.”

    “Couldn’t you go so far as a peck on the cheek?” he goes wistfully—putting it on.

    “You can drop that, for a start!”

    “I often think about that Christmas,” he says in a dreamy voice.

    What is this leading up to? “Uh—yeah. Do ya?”

    “Have you still got that pretty red dress?”

    “Eh? That Chrissie thing with the bloody stars on it that Aunty Kate gimme? Ya gotta be joking! I give it to Deanna to cut up for patchwork yonks back! Anyway, it wouldn’t fit.”

    “No, I’ve noticed your breasts are bigger,” he goes dreamily.

    What? You cheeky bugger! And stop staring at them!

    “Don’t—clutch—them—like that—Dot!” he gasps, laughing himself into a coughing fit.

    “Stop it! Ya stupid wanker! Stop it! You’ll hurt ya lungs!” I pour him a glass of water. “Take a deep breath and see if you can swallow.”

    He does manage a few sips of water. Then he says—boy, is he feeling better or what: “The thing is, Dot, a chappie starts to feel as if he’s got a proprietorial interest, once the party of the second part has, er, agreed to go out with him.”

    “You can drop that entirely!”

    “Only if you’ll peck my cheek.”

    All right, I will. Cos by this time I can feel fifty pairs of eyes boring into me back from the far side of them open Venetians and all I want is to get it over with! So I bend down and peck his cheek.

    Uh—gee, he hasn’t grabbed me or—or nothing. His cheek felt quite warm and soft, only a bit scratchy just on the lower part where the whiskers have started to grow. Maybe Jill made him shave? Or maybe she shaved him herself?

    “There! Was that so bad?” he murmurs.

    Scowl. “No. See ya.”

    “Don’t glare, darling Dot!”

    I’m ignoring that. “And don’t laugh again, ya stupid wanker, you’ll make yourself cough!” I open the door. “See ya.”

    “Mm. I’ll ring you—possibly not at work,” he murmurs.

    “Believe you me, if ya do ring me at work, you’ll get through to me, next time!”

    “Oh, I believe you. Bye-bye.”

    Right. “Oh: and in case you were worried about that Greek lot smoking in the restaurant on Sunday, don’t be. Cos if they are gunnoo, we won’t go, see? See ya!”

    And I’ve closed the door before the silly wanker can say anything about Greeks always smoking or being exposed to Greek smoke all his life or—anything. He’s laughing again, of course. Yeah, a person’s lungs being ruined by smoke is really funny, likewise the entire topic of lung cancer.

    Melina’s saying something in Greek and Nefertite goes: “Don’t worry: they won’t smoke in the restaurant, Dot, not when they’re serving a meal, it would be against the regulations.”

    Right. Dunno that that stopped a Greek yet, but I go: “Glad to hear it. I’m really looking forward to it. Real lamb, eh? Haven’t had a decent feed of lamb since I got here!”

    So they start telling me about all the lamb dishes the restaurant can do, yeah, yeah. At least we’re not talking about her brother. Cos frankly, I dunno what I’d say. I feel a bit stunned.