The Lily Rose Crisis

14

The Lily Rose Crisis

    Deirdre and Betty are urging me to go over to the hospital. Daniel can hold the fort here! Daniel can’t, he’s a nerd in his first year out of computer college. Give him half a dozen years of solid grind and he may attain something like competency, but at the moment, no—way. Anyway, what could I do if I did go over there? Get in the way and be refused admittance to her room because I’m not immediate family? And maybe none of them’ve noticed it, but Rosie busting her leg didn’t immediately reduce the amount of work waiting to be done round here, and I don’t think they’ll have cancelled the races all over the country on the strength of— They’ve got the point, and we all go off to our desks and more or less get on with it. Well, the longest morning tea-breaks in recorded history are taken, yeah, only that was to be expected.

    Uncle Jerry rings up at lunchtime. No news. Still concussed. The leg’s in plaster. Ugh.

    The longest—and earliest—afternoon tea-break in recorded history is just about to start when he rings again. She’s come round. Seems to be completely herself again.—“She’s come round!” I report to the breathlessly listening audience.—The expressions of relief are almost deafening me: what? Oh! Poor old John was in a bad way: threw up in the Gents’ from sheer relief after she woke up. No, well, five hours’ concussion, you do start to worry, he admits.—“She’s fine! John’s very relieved!” I report.—Uncle Jerry notes that May’s bawling, what else? Er, yes. I won’t relay that to “the girls.” He doesn’t think he’ll be able to make it in to the office today—no, well, someone’s gonna have to wrench Aunty May away from the invalid’s bedside and take her home and get some solid nosh into her, I do realise that—and have I got any idea where my cretinous cousin might be?

    “Kenny?” I croak. “Isn’t he at work?”

    “Doesn’t seem to be. That nong that usually works with him isn’t there, either. Couldn’t get a word of sense out of the moo on the switchboard. Asked for the boss, but he’s off at some flaming conference in, if you please, Honolulu. Nice time of year for it.”

    “Um, there is a big uni there, Uncle Jerry, and they do do a lot of the scientific stuff—No, ya right. What a rort. Um, I think Kenny and that nerd that works with him might be out collecting water samples.”

    “Oh,” he says, sagging. “That’ll be it. In the rain, eh? That’ll make them really representative.”

    “Ye-ah. He said something to Tim about run-off; think they might be actual rainwater samples they’re testing. Well, I didn’t really catch it: he wasn’t telling me, I’m only a female.”

    “Dot, there are female scientists at the dump— Forget I spoke. Persons with X chromosomes in grimy white lab coats and beat-up jeans,” he says with a sigh.

    That’d be right. Well, the ones at Tim’s Forensic Sci. joint are, so why wouldn’t the ones at Kenny’s joint be? –He’s only got a B.Sc. but he’s got quite a good job as a lab technician, and beside that he’s a card-carrying Environmentalist and every spare minute of his time he’s out there picketing, only funnily enough, not the stretches of water his bosses have told him to analyse. A phenomenon which doesn’t exactly impress his father or his sister.

    “Well, anyway, tell the girls that Rosie’s a box of birds,” he says with a sigh.

    “Yeah, I have. Are you okay?”

    “Fine. No, well, it gave us all a fright.”

    “Mm. Um, who’s looking after the baby? Oh, Yvonne, I suppose.”

    No: Yvonne and Joslynne are both in at the hospital. Aunty Allyson’s got the baby. Yikes.

    “He’s too little to be hauled around overheated hospitals—make that super-heated, but somehow they manage to get these draughts whistling down the corridors— Never mind. Just tell everybody Rosie’s okay.”

    “Yeah. –He’s just saying to tell you all she’s fine. Baby Bunting’s at Aunty Allyson’s,” I offer.

    “Ah!” they all go. No, more sort of halfway between “Oh!” and—Forget it. Ya know exactly the noise I mean, if ya human.

    “Um, if you were thinking of coming in to the hospital, Dot, I think you’d better hold off until tomorrow,” he goes cautiously. “Anyway, I'll see you at work in the morning, okay?”

    “Yeah, sure, Uncle Jerry. –Hang on! They all wanna know what ward!” I gasp.

    “Eh? Oh, ye gods. Anything addressed to Lily Rose Rayne will be sure to reach her, Dot. Um—hang on, John’ll know.” I can hear him asking him, and he’s afraid he doesn’t have any idea, but Aunty May pipes up with the answer! No, well, she is the sort of woman that laps up anything to do with hospitals or illness, but—Forget it. Probably knows sixteen other people what have been in the exact same w— Oh, private room, beg ya pardon. So I relay all this and say goodbye firmly, since Uncle Jerry seems to have lost it, and he gets the point and rings off.

    And I hang up and note quickly: “He was ringing me on his mobile, but just in case any of you were thinking of trying his secret emergency-only number, he wants us to keep that line free.” Gee, Betty goes very red and quietly puts down that receiver she’d just picked up. Yeah.

    Most of the rest of the afternoon is spent in deciding who ought to send cards—individually or jointly, get it?—and who ought to send flowers, individually or—ya got it, right, right—and popping out to the nearest stationer’s and the nearest florist’s, make that the two nearest, there’s a huge argument over that—and the Post Office, not to mention the office-stamp nicking that goes on, but any manager worth their salt could tell you that at this point if you don’t let them, you’ll be resented for the rest of your life and they’ll resist every last blind thing you ask them to do forever and a day. Not that any actual human being could of stopped them, I’ll give ya that, but then, one of my managers in Canberra—fortunately she moved on to higher things pretty quick—most certainly would of stopped them. Stopped them cold.

    Me and Daniel are in our office, of course, but given there’s only a partition wall that’s half glass between us and the main office we get a real good view. He couldn’t understand why I wouldn't let him shut the door earlier, silly young sod. After quite some time—quite some time—he ventures very, very quietly: “Are they always like this?”

    “Under these sort of circumstances—yes. Wait until Uncle Jerry’s birthday rolls round.”

    “Um—yeah,” he croaks foggily.

    Then his mobile rings and he goes very red and mutters: “Um, sorry,” because there is actually an office rule—introduced by Uncle Jerry when he realised how many of the nerd’s nerdy little mates were ringing him on the bloody thing in his, Uncle Jerry’s, time—that says private phones have to be turned off in office hours.

    “Take it, it’ll be ya mum,” I sigh.

    “Very funny, Dot! –Hullo? …Oh, hi, Mum,” he goes sheepishly.

    Yeah, well.

    “It’s on the news,” he reports numbly, ringing off.

    Whaddelse? Gee, that means in two mins—less than two mins— My direct line goes.

    “Your mum?” he ventures .

    “My sister, more like. –Dot Mallory. Yeah, I knew it’d be you. –It is,” I report. He smiles weakly. “No, Deanna— Will ya just shut up! Nobody rung ya because it didn’t occur it was a need-to-know of Bob Springer’s employee!” Gee, as I shout this, Daniel suddenly buries himself in his work. “She’s all— Will ya just shut up and listen? She’s all right! She’s come round and she’s perfectly— Will ya listen! It’s only a busted leg! What? For Pete’s sake! I don’t give a bugger about the flaming film! And nor should you!” Crash!

    “That was a bit hard,” he ventures.

    “Was it, just? Stupid little cretin! –Her, not you!” I shout.

    “I got that,” he admits. “Um, well, Mum was going on about the film, too… Um, well, won’t they of had to book the studios?”

    “So?”

    “Um, well… I suppose they could shoot the backgrounds, and the scenes she isn't in. Um, Mum was wondering, would it be okay to send her a card?”

    “She’s not Nicole Flaming Kidman, ya know!”

    He’s gone very red. Bet he wishes he never mentioned that one to young Shona, because somehow, it got all round the office! No, well, when the famous bust-up that anyone with half a brain could have predicted took place—well, he may imagine he can go on playing slim young heroes forever and a day, but how old is he, actually? And how many Hollywood marriages survive the male’s discovery that, contrary to what he’s always assumed, Time’s wingèd chariot is right at his heels? Anyway, like I say, when the bust-up took place and the whole of Oz, never mind what the media was prating, came down firmly on Our Nicole’s side, Daniel’s mum sent her a lovely card with a message of solidarity, because in the by and by Daniel’s sister went to kinder with, uh, think it was Nicole’s younger sister—forget her name. These days she’s doing intro.s on some film-gossip programme on, uh, forget. Ten, is it? Forget.

    “Uh, sorry, Daniel. Forget I spoke. If ya mum really wants to, it’d be fine to send Rosie a card, but, um, well, half the country’ll probably be sending cards, ya know.”

    “That won’t stop her! Um, would it be all right to ring her?”

    Crikey, he’s asking, those calm words of Uncle Jerry’s sure had an effect! He didn’t even speak to him in person: he just called us all together and said, in view of the fact that we were in the New Millennium, he thought we’d better have a new office rule. And he did mention, just by the by, that unless it was an emergency no-one should be making private calls except in their lunch-break, which stopped bloody Betty in her tracks. Poor little Shona went very red, so he said in a very general way that by emergencies he meant anything to do with people’s families’ health, and of course pets’ health. So now Shona’s his slave for life.

    Look, it was her flaming guinea pig: it’s a great fat thing that’s lived longer than any guinea pig has a right to expect and—Forget it. Like I say, she’s his slave for life.

    Barely has Daniel stopped passing on his mum’s thanks for being told she can send Rosie a card along with most of the rest of the population than my phone goes again. Ruddy Wendalyn.

    “She’s all right, it’s only a busted—” She knows: Aunty May rung Aunty Allyson. Uh—so is she there, then? Well, spends half her time over there, true. I won’t ask. So what is it? …Eh?

    “Saturday afternoon is visiting-time, Dot,” she goes in a small voice to my stunned silence.

    “Uh—yeah. But, um, what about Bryce?”

    Ouch, it’s his badminton club’s winter tournament finals. True, only an idiot like Wendalyn would of taken up with a nerd that abandons her and the kids for badminton every Saturday, after the first nerd, Shane, that belonged to a vintage sports-car club that took up all his Saturdays. Bryce isn’t even in the finals, but he’s on the committee and according to him, has to be there. She sounds very sour indeed so of course I say quickly that I’ll go with her to see Rosie, if she really— She really wants me to. Aunty Allyson’s gonna take the kids, well, that explains why she isn't coming to the hospital too. I don’t ask what about Martina but she tells me anyway. Her work’s cross-country car rally. Words to that effect.

    Uncle Jerry’s at work bright and early today but unfortunately for him so are all “the girls”. If it hasn’t already dawned, lemme just say now that “the girls” are all over fifty at least, and been with him for yonks, and Shona and Riana, who are both under twenty-five, in fact Shona’s under twenty, in fact I doubt if she’s even eighteen, yet, are not in the category. Ya got it yonks back? Well, good for you.

    However, the dust eventually clears and we settle down to it. So around twelvish he comes into our office and says: “Come on, Dot. Lunch.”

    Daniel gives me a desperate look.

    “I was gonna let Daniel go at twelve and take my lunch-break later.”

    “That’s all right, the place won’t fall down without you. –Yes, go, Daniel!” he says loudly.

    Gratefully Daniel vanishes.

    “Is this lunch?” I say, getting up.

    “Something like that. Come on, for Christ’s sake, before they can give me any more fatuous messages for Rosie that I’m going to forget!”

    We do make it to the door but of course not without sixteen fatuous messages.

    “The reason that they aren’t giving you the actual cards—”

    “Just don’t, Dot,” he says with a sigh.

    All right, I won't.

    So we get as far as the ground floor in the lift and then Uncle Jerry says a Very Rude Word and we quickly go up again. –Ooh, isn’t it interesting, never been on this floor before, wonder what G. Watkins Pty Ltd does?

    “Back stairs. Through the carpark,” he says grimly,.

    “They might be stationed at the carpark exit, too.”

    “Only if they’ve got the brain-power to work out that that tunnel in the laneway behind the building actually gives access to our carpark, Dot.”

    “Yeah. Well, if we’re in the car we can drive right through them.”

    “Something like that,” he agrees grimly.

    There’s certainly no signs of any Press in the carpark itself, that augurs well.. So we get in the maroon Merc and crawl cautiously up to the entrance, not that ya don't have to be ruddy cautious anyway: these ceilings are fiendishly low and there’s this gasp!—bump just before the exit.

    “Good,” he says, driving out into the laneway. It lets us out into another road entirely, so we’re—once the traffic clears, we’re—Shit. …Now we’re off!

    “I don't know where the Hell we’re going,” he admits after a while.

    “The Blue Mountains?”

    “Very funny. Oh, well, keep driving until we find a nosh-house, mm?”

    “Yeah.”

    “What’s the joke?”

    “Nothing. Um, well, it’s just when ya say ‘mm?’ like that, sort of interrogative, well, not really meaning you need the others person’s agreement but kinda, um, like polite interrogative, you sound just like John.”

    He shakes silently for some time.

    “I never meant to imply anything,” I manage to say weakly.

    “I know!” he gasps.

    Yeah, hah, hah, hilarious. “Now where are we?”

    “I don’t know, Dot, but that’s a Chicken Hut: come on.”

    So we park the maroon Merc in the Chicken Hut’s grimy parking lot that they share with a dry-cleaner’s and a wholesale bathroom fittings place, and queue for our takeaway chicken and chips with the locals.

   …  “Yum! I really needed that!” I admit, licking my fingers.

    Uncle Jerry drains his Coke, “Me, too. I thought May was going to be all right—she spent most of the drive home from the hospital telling Yvonne about the best supermarket to buy baby-foods—don’t say you thought they all stocked the same stuff, that’s my point—and when we picked Baby Bunting up from Allyson’s she wrote out the recipe for the bloody pineapple fight-starter for her, chirpy as you please, only the minute she set foot inside her own front door she burst into tears.”

    Yikes.

    “So I’m going to have to replace the entire front path forthwith with guaranteed non-slip pavers. In case you didn’t notice, I spent most of the morning chasing up hopeless tradesmen and calling in favours. Or trying to. Which reminds me,” he notes grimly: “I’ve written off Jim Harbottle’s debt.”

    Gulp. True, Harbottle Hard Paving will doubtless do an excellent job on his front path, but Old Man Harbottle’s the type that doesn't think it’s a bet unless it’s got at least four zeros at the end of it.

    “Anyway, once I’d promised, and re-promised, and sworn my soul away, I thought it was okay: she actually sat up and let me force a sherry down her and agreed that Yvonne could make scrambled eggs and toast for tea,”—gulp, Rosie’s mentioned Yvonne’s attempts at scrambled egg: a cook she is not, however great a dresser-cum-nanny she might be—“only then she had to go to the loo and I could hear her bawling in there—”

    “Help.”

    “That was my cry. I began to wonder if I was going to have to break the fucking door down, she wouldn’t answer me—or Yvonne.”—Right: Yvonne would’ve been in there boots and all: she’s not the type to hang back and let a married couple get on with their family crisis.—“But finally she came out—still bawling—and informed me that the bloody ensuites are death-traps!”

    Gulp. These’d be the bloody ensuites that were only just finished before Rosie and John came out last time, and that set him back a fortune, because she kept changing her mind about what she wanted. That pale turquoise one Rosie and John have got, it was tiled three times in all. Plus and the vanity and matching cupboards being ripped out twice.

    “Well, um—put a lot of bath-mats down?” I croak.

    “Very sensible, Dot,” he says with a sigh.

    “Um, ya can get non-slip flooring, but it’s like, rubber, and real hideous.”

    “Yeah, it’d go well with the pastel tiles, or in the case of that nightmare Yvonne’s got, the screaming buttercup tiles. –No, she hates it. Guess again.”

    “Um, apart from redesigning them all, I can’t think of anything, Uncle Jerry.”

    “No,” he says heavily: “no. Handicapped rails,” he says heavily.

    “Eh?”

    “Handicapped rails.”

    So I go limply:  “Who’s handicapped?”

    “Well, ruddy May, only it’s not physical! No, Rosie will be, for a while, once they let her out of the hospital. Well, don't look at me! Leg in plaster and blah, blah, slipping and breaking her neck or her back were all in there somewhere, and definitely dropping the baby! –She changes him on the bed, I’ve seen her do it with my own eyes, and going on their form up till now, she, Yvonne, and his blasted grandmother intend to cram in there and give him his bath jointly. I gather John’s usually in there, too, whenever he’s— Yeah,” he finishes weakly as I break down in helpless sniggers. “You can only laugh or cry.”

    “Right!” I gasp, blowing my nose. “Um, who do ya—Well, Bob Springer could probably sell you the rails and um, those handles to put above the bath and beside the dunny and stuff, only who are you gonna find that’ll put them in for you before Rosie’s gone back to England again?”

    “That’s partly what I was on the blower about all morning.” He gets his book of maps out of the glove-compartment. “Uh… bugger. Hang on, I’ll ask the fellow in the Chicken Hut.”

    That’s Uncle Jerry all over. No shame, geddit? Doesn’t care who he lets himself down in front of. After about thirty seconds in his company most people don't even notice the Pommy accent any more.

    Sure enough, in about five minutes he comes back with Chicken Hut Guy, who leans on the Merc and tells him amiably, as they study the map, that he doesn't wanna go that way, mate, and never mind what it says here, mate, that way’ll take you to the Blue Mountains (see?), so you gotta go this way. No worries, mate!

    He’s right. His route takes us practically direct to the hospital: only got held up at three level crossings, too.

    “I never knew there were so many railway lines in Sydney,” admits Uncle Jerry, as we park.

    “No-o. Um, maybe it was the same one…”

    “Give me that!” He wrenches the book of maps off me, grinning, and shoves it back in the glove-compartment. “Come on; and do your jacket up, it’s icy.”

    And we scramble across the vast spaces of the hospital carpark so fast I don't even have time to think maybe Rosie won’t wanna see a mere cousin the first day after her accident and maybe John and Aunty May’ll be there and it would be much nicer for it just to be the immediate family…

    “Cold feet?” he says as we get into the HUMUNGOUS lift and I realise I haven’t got her a bunch of flowers or anything! “John’s a very decent fellow, you don’t need to feel shy of him.”

    “No! I mean, I like him. Um, I haven’t got her anything!”

    “Mm? Oh, good Lord, Dot, don’t let it worry you!”

    “But I oughta get her something!”

    “Very well, get her something,” he says calmly as the lift doors slowly open to a view of a giant junk-food boutique—thought it was a firm medical belief that junk food was bad for ya?—the expression “franchise rights,” likewise the expression “megabucks” spring to mind—and a giant flower stall. Well, practical. Ooh, and in its lee, a magazine and card stall, how thoughtful. …Will she take one look at the mixed bunch of strange spotted lilies in fawn and maroon, massed gypsophila, three small mauve chrysanths, one red rose and two greenish—are these unopened bottlebrush? Uh, no, those South African thingos, forget their name. Will she take one look at it, it and its white-spotted cellophane, and recognise it instantly as a hospital bunch? Oh, plus and the small bow of that ribbon that you do the ends of with a pencil, so it curls itself into a squiggle. Mauve, matches the chrysanths, a tasteful touch. Too bad, it’s all I can afford. Added to which, you see the exact same bunches on the stalls downtown. Slightly cheaper, unless my imagination’s running away with me.

    “Nice New Idea?” drawls Uncle Jerry, holding one up. Gee, “Lily Rose: Home At Last” and Rosie’s mug plastered all over its front cover, fancy that.

    “Get choked! Added to which, hasn’t Aunty May already bought it for her?”

    “Well, her or Allyson—yes. Or quite possibly Yvonne.”

    Gulp. That’d be right, yeah.

    “It’s this way. –Did we ever tell you about the time,” he says dreamily as we begin walking slowly down the vast corridor, “that Rosie’s TV producer—Hendricks, don’t know if she's mentioned—Right. About the time he rang May in quest of an authentic photo of Rosie as a toddler?”

    “Um, no…”

    So he tells me all about it. I don’t think there’s a point to it, except she had all the family albums out and it took so long to choose a snap that Mr Hendricks rang back from England wondering if she hadn’t been able to find one. Given Rosie’s age, not to say Aunty May’s penchant for full colour, it was a real fuzzy Polaroid, as he doesn’t fail to point out. Rosie's show is set in the mid-Fifties, if you’ve forgotten, so that would mean her character was born mid-Thirties. If Polaroid wasn’t even invented in the Fifties it certainly wasn’t invented in the Thirties, so now I’m goggling at him.

    “I don’t suppose you remember the episode?” he says with relish. “No. I was watching for it, of course. I can’t remember what the Hell excuse the plot gave for it, but sure enough, there was little Rosie in her mid-Seventies frilled bikini-bottom, in the most authentic Thirties smudged sepia imaginable.” He looks bland, while I go into a horrible wheezing fit.

    “Yeah,” he says with satisfaction. “Hullo, Wayne,” he says to Uniformed-Sitting-On-Chair-Guy, opening a door. And here we are. Boy, that didn’t leave me time for cold feet, did it?

    Gee, why was I worrying about immediate family? Sure, John’s here, crinkling up the eyes. And Aunty May’s here, eating chocs—Rosie’s eating chocs, too, suppose she might as well give up on the salad diet, yeah: the leg’s strung up in whatsits, she won’t be doing no tap-dancing on that for a while—and Yvonne’s here, well, so is Baby Bunting, but Rosie doesn't seem to be getting to hold him as of this min; and Joslynne’s here, well, she is Rosie’s best friend, make that oldest best friend, because Rupy Maynarde’s here and he’s her new best friend, of course; and my sister-in-law Narelle’s here, well, she does work real near the hospital, true—just popped in her lunch-hour, yeah, goddit; and guess what? Aunty Allyson’s here! She approves of my lemon jumper, oh, good show.

    … We’re driving back to work when it dawns. “No Press. Is that what Uniformed-Sitting-On-Chair-Guy’s for?”

    “Yes. Dawlish turned up yesterday evening and had to fight his way through a crowd of them, and was not amused. So he’s paying for Wayne and his mates. Apparently more crowds of them showed up very early this morning, but whoever tells Wayne what to do had been expecting that, and he had two fellows to support him. One reporter was turfed bodily out of Rosie’s room, I gather, so they just hung round long enough to catch Dawlish turning up again, and gave it away. If you go to see her by yourself I’m afraid Wayne, or whoever it happens to be in the uniform sitting on the chair, will ask you for ID, Dot.”

    “Heck, that’s okay. Um, did any of them manage to snap Rosie in bed?”

    “Not as such,” he replies precisely.

    “Go on,” I croak.

    “John told me this, and he was not best pleased, but reading between what he actually said, Dawlish brought an official Double Dee Productions photographer last night,”—what?—“and made Rosie up and combed her hair in gracious person,”—WHAT?—“and had the fellow take official snaps. John did contemplate stopping the bugger,”—and a half, mate, if I’ve been reading him right!—“but decided it was the least of the evils, and spared Rosie the fight over her recumbent form. –Dawlish is used to having his own way, you know,” he ends wryly.

    “Yeah, but so’s John: he is a captain—Oh, I geddit, yeah. He’d of won but it would’ve been nasty—right.”

    “Mm.”

    We drive on…

    “Um, we never asked if she got the girls’ cards!” I gulp.

    “No, well, I think you got to utter two syllables, didn’t you? But she got them all right, if Betty’s still into Siamese cats.”

    “Um, yeah, her and Deirdre had a— Never mind. But it was a lovely card, and it let you put your own message, so I really don’t see that Deirdre— Never mind.”

    “Which was Deirdre’s?” he asks, grinning. “Pink roses?”

    “Better than that.”

    Uncle Jerry signals frantically and gets out of the middle lane and pulls in violently to the curb and collapses in hysterics.

    “Yeah,” I admit, grinning. “Daniel couldn’t see the joke but I hadda rush out to the Ladies’, yesterday arvo.”

    “Don’t—set—me—off—again!” he howls. Tears run down his cheeks.

    After I bit I venture: “’Tisn’t that funny. When we were in Rosie’s room I counted at least seven bunches of mixed—”

    “Don't!” he howls helplessly.

    “—mixed lilies and roses,” I finish. Well, I did.

    “I feel too weak to drive,” he finally admits. “Wanna take ’er?”

    Me? The Merc? Cripes!

    “Uh—yeah. Sure.”

    So we change places and I drive us back to work very carefully. Just shows every cloud has a silver— No, that’s mean. But I honestly can’t think of much else that’d make Uncle Jerry let me drive his precious Merc.

    “What about the film?” gasps Wendalyn, all agog. Couldn’t of guessed she was gonna say that. There’s only us here at the moment: whether everyone else assumed everyone else’d be here, Saturday arvo— No, well, I know Uncle Jerry’s forcibly taken Aunty May out for a nice drive. Sure, it’s drizzling, and sure, it’ll end up at the racetrack, his nice drives usually do, but—Yeah. Well, most of the populace is usually frantically busy all Saturday, cos it’s when Aussies lead their real lives, see? Bugger work, that’s only what ya do to earn a cr— Ya goddit way back then, huh? Well, just as well we came, isn’t it?

    Wendalyn’s already admired Rosie’s flowers. Derry Dawlish must have a much more conventional mind than his films would give you to suppose, because his offering is a huge bunch of red roses. They are lovely, I’m not saying they’re not. Fortunately Rosie’s used to Wendalyn, so she didn’t mind her announcing what one long-stemmed red rose costs at the florist’s in their Mall and working out just how much— Or if she did she never let it show. Naturally Wendalyn hadda know who all the big fancy bunches are from. I mean, she read all the cards on them and hadda ask who— Right, self-evident, yeah. When she admired the bunch from Brian Hendricks and his wife Rosie said “Flowers by Interflora,” but she didn’t get it, she just made a brisk squashing remark along the lines of “Don’t be silly, Rosie, how else would they get here?” I think she's forgotten that Rosie’s a World-Wide Household Name (world-wide in the global sense, not a synonym for “Australian,” for once) and has just lapsed back into the old relationship, where she’s superior on account of being a married woman with a huge house and giant mortgage (the superiority didn’t even falter during the divorce) and Rosie is inferior because of doing odd uni study for yonks and not caring what she wears and not being interested in owning a huge modern suburban palace with ceilings so high all the heat shoots straight up there in winter and plate-glass windows so huge you roast in summer. Or in Wendalyn’s case—and Bryce has begun to grumble sourly, yes—spend megabucks of hubby’s hard-earned on the air-con. Rosie of course has spotted her and is mildly amused by it.

    “Well, I dunno what about the film, Wendalyn,” she says amiably, “all I know is I can’t do it. The doctors think I’ll be out of these strings—”

    “Traction,” she corrects firmly.

    “—whatever, in about a week but it’ll be ages before I can do much.”

    So she tells her all about when Bryce broke his arm, this is second-hand, she never even knew him back then and actually, I think Rosie’s heard it before. So have I.

    “I thought we might see him,” she then admits wistfully, looking round the private room. –No, Uncle Jerry didn’t get it for her, surprisingly enough, nor yet Derry Dawlish: John insisted on it. No, ya right, I wouldn’t of asked, but Wendalyn didn’t hang back.

    “Who? Adam McIntyre?” the poor woman gropes in response to this new gambit.

    “No, it said on the news he wouldn’t be coming out for ages, yet,” she concedes regretfully. “Derry Dawlish.”

    Ugh! Heaven forbid!

    So Rosie explains: “The word is he’s closeted with the ideas boys and girls, frantically trying to make a feasible contingency plan before the backers take their moolah out of the thing.”

    “He could do your scenes after you’re better,” Wendalyn offers brilliantly.

    “Only if I was available. Which I won’t be, I’ve gotta do my uni work.”

    “But you can’t turn down an opportunity like this!” she gasps.

    I rather think she can. Yep, she’s saying: “It woulda been interesting, but I won’t have the time to fit it in.”

    This has no effect whatsoever—boy, those Aunty Allyson genes are showing, Wendalyn—and she goes on and on and on…

    At last she decides we gotta go. I mean, I would try to stay on and actually speak to Rosie, only I stupidly let her pick me up in the humungous station-waggon only two years old that she’s hanging on grimly to in spite of Bryce’s feeble efforts to make her agree to sell it to pay off some of the debt incurred on that Spiro Anastasiou four-wheeled black hole of hard-earned.

    So I go: “Shall I bring you something to read?”

    “Dot, she’s got piles of magazines!” protests Wendalyn. “Mum’s brought her all her back copies of The Australian Women’s Weekly!”

    Rosie’s eyes meet mine. “Yeah, bring me something to read, Dot.”

    She’s still in hospital but they reckon there’s a tentative time when they’re gonna let her out. The media’s been going mad, of course. I know this not only from observation but because every time Deanna spots a new pic for her album she rings me up and tells me about it in great detail. The officially sanctioned visitors have tailed off very slightly, that is, Aunty Allyson’s only there every second afternoon, and most of them—not Deanna, of course—have got the point that John would rather like to have the evenings alone with her. She’s still getting myriads of hopeful unofficial visitors and rubber-neckers, but Wayne and his mates have got that sorted. Well, in fact they’re going too far, they wouldn’t let Bob Springer in, he just turned up meekly to drop off a bunch of flowers from The Flower Box down the Mall, and Uniformed Guy, don’t know if it was your actual Wayne that day, didn’t believe he meant it when he said he wasn’t gonna stay, only fortunately the door wasn't quite closed and Rosie called out who was it and of course had him come in. I dunno that he actually enjoyed meeting Double Dee’s Production Designer and Dialogue Writer, but he certainly seems to have enjoyed meeting the tall, curvaceous blonde that was with them. And was quite surprised when Deanna was eventually driven to scream: “Shut up about her!” Or so report has it.

    Aunty Allyson came yesterday arvo so today I skipped lunch, or I mean, this is my lunch-hour, only it’s later than— Ya get it. Yeah, I know my employer’s her father, so that means I have to take advantage of the fact? It’s Steve on the chair today. One of the others’ll be round somewhere, it’s always one on the chair and one in the offing to spell him for comfort breaks and tea-breaks, and they change over at lunchtime. They keep in touch by walkie-talkie, so as the other one can belt up here and help manhandle the rubber-neckers and Press. Well, I asked, it’s interesting.

    “Gidday, Dot. You can go in.” He’s opened the door before I can say but it’s firmly closed and the blinds are closed and I can hear a male voice—

    She’s sitting up in bed looking fab, not to say, all pinkish, and sitting beside the bed is a male back— Shit! Why did I come today?

    “Hullo, Dot,” she says, without batting an eye.

    “Yeah gidday, Rosie. Hullo, David,” I go, real weak, what an idiot!

    So he gets up looking a bit of a nong—well, I swear he was holding her hand. She was letting him, of course, that’s Rosie all over. And he goes: “Hullo, Dot. So it’s all true and not a fantasy invented by Kate McHale to impress the bowling club?”

    Rosie’s gone into a sniggering fit, so I give her a glare. “Ya got it wrong, see. She wouldn’t acksherly lie.”

    He raises the eyebrows. Boy, and I thought I’d forgotten how that charming gesture gets under the skin. Right under the skin, where it smoulders away like a cross between itching powder and ground chilli. “Just give the impression of?”

    Yeah, drawl, drawl, and flaming hilarious to you, too, Pom. Rosie’s in stitches, of course.

    “That’s Aunty Kate, all right!” she gasps, blowing her nose.

    “Yeah, hilarious,” I admit, sighing. “So talking of Great Movie Lies, it wasn’t a lie that you’re gonna be doing the music, make that were gonna be doing the music, of this Captain’s Daughter Downunder In Deepest Singapore crap?”

    “No, all true,” he says sweetly, pulling up a chair for me. Flaming Norah, I am capable of grabbing meself a chair in me own cousin’s hospital room, mate!

    “He did the music for Ilya, My Brother, ’member?” says my own cousin helpfully.

    “Ya mean he stuck bits of Mr Tchaikovsky together,” I note, sitting.

    Blast! David’s gone into a sniggering fit, I didn’t want him to think it was funny—quite the reverse. He looks exactly the same. Exactly. Sallow’s the technical word, I think. Well, probably it’s the Greek blood. Though that doesn’t explain the five o’clock shadow. Or excuse it, actually, not in a person of his education and upbringing. Dim little tennis stars—yes. Boys that the height of their ambition is to drive a taxi like their Uncle Aristos—pardon my élitism—yes. Pretty little pieces of slime with elastic sexual preferences that give you the eye as they serve you lukewarm short blacks in trendy cafés—yes. Upper-class Poms with famous dads that’ve been to posh Pommy boarding schools—no. N,O, read my— Oh, what’s the use. If I refer to it he’ll claim he merely forgot to shave, or was up working all night and never got to bed, or—Forget it.

    So I go: “Is it gonna come off?”

    “What, the leg?” retorts Rosie brilliantly, going into a sniggering fit.

    “Well, you’re feeling better, that’s for sure! So much for five hours’ concussion and poor old John chucking up his brekkie in the Gents’!”

    “Hell, did he?” says David with interest.

    “So the story runs, though I admit we only got Uncle Jerry’s word for it.”

    “And John’s: he admitted it,” she says in that serene way of hers. Well, curse the woman! Why’s she gotta be wearing that clinging satin-look palest pink nightie that outlines the boobs with— What’s several notches up from precision? Loving precision? Whatever. He can’t take his eyes off them.

    “In that case, I believe it,” replies David in that mild voice he puts on.

    “You better,” I note. “Well, is it?”

    “Mm? Oh, the film, Dot? We groundlings don’t know, do we, Rosie?”

    She shakes the curls, smiling into his eyes. Some of the rest of the equipment shakes, too. Sigh. She can’t help it, half the time she doesn’t know she’s doing it— And let’s face it, if she did know she wouldn’t stop.

    The bed’s scattered with Get Well cards; when last seen they were all arranged in well regimented order by John on the bedside table or the dressing-table or the windowsill or whatever, so I go feebly: “What’s all this?”

    Evidently John’s sorted out the cards that came with flowers and the get-well cards. Some of them are from the same people, so this was possibly a wise precaution, Rosie admits, or she’d be sending two polite notes of thanks—or he would—to the same people. David came in just when she was supposed to be getting started on them and volunteered to help. (Fancy that.) –Don’t worry, she adds with a giggle, John’s already responded to the overseas ones.

    Gee, I wasn’t worrying! So I pick one up and go: “Bernard?”

    “Uh—dunno. Hang on, not John’s father?”

    “Doesn’t say ‘from Father Sir Bernard.’ How do ya tell when it’s a sir, otherwise?”

    “Black crabbed handwriting, a bit like John’s,” she says, holding out her hand for it. “Nope.”

    “Not Bernie Anderson?” asks David.

    “No. –D.D.’s Production Designer, Dot. –No, those blue flowers are his.” She shrugs. “Beats me.”

    David takes it and puts it aside. This proves that the male brain is capable of some sort of functioning while the eyes are on stalks. He picks up another one. “Lois and Gary?” It’s one R, he further reveals.

    “Nope. Uh, hang on, I was at school with a girl called Lois Henderson. Only if she’s married to this Gary character she’ll of changed her name.”

    He puts it with the “Bernard” one.

    I pick up one adorned with lovely pink flowers. “Very best wishes for a speedy recovery, Jim and Moira Truscott.”

    “Who? Oh: friends of Mum and Dad’s. –Make a note, David.”

    Obediently he makes a note on it and puts it carefully on a pile. Hopefully the right pile. Like, if this was all worked out by John there won’t be nothing wrong with the principle, that’s for sure, but trusting David Walsingham to put it into practice?

    The next one is a very elaborate card, gold edging plus and a view of the Blue Mountains. Its own profuse sentiment is followed by “All the Best, Freddo.” David assures us that is what it— Yeah, yeah.

    “Old boyfriend. Freddo Wilson. Think Mum said he was married; if he hasn’t put her name, probably not a good idea to respond.”

    Looking dry, he makes another pile.

    “Get well soon, Rosie,” he reads carefully. “All the best, Tanya and Allen. – A,L,L,E,N,” he spells

    “Tanya Franchini. Oops, sorry,” as he writes it on the card. “That was. Baldino, now.”

    Makes correction. Picks up a florist’s card. Fat curly green writing, on the back Someone has carefully noted “Pink roses,” and, I kid you not, the date they came! “Get well soon, Larry.” Is he sure it’s L,A,R,R,Y and not L,O,R,R,Y? she asks tranquilly. Heh, heh, heh, he doesn't manage not to gulp! Er… yes.

    “Old boyfriend. Larry Hopgood. Married.”

    Looking wry, he adds it to the growing pile…

    Rosie picks one up. “Peter and Marie Goldman. Ring any bells?”

    Blank, blank, bl—Oh! “Our neighbours, I mean, they were. I mean, Mum and Dad’s. Rachel Goldman, Rosie!” I remind her.

    “Oh, yeah! She was at Putrid St Agatha’s with me and Joslynne. Put it with ‘identified family friends, must reply’, David.”

    Gee, he can't remember which pile that is, fancy that!

    “That pile! –No, that pile, ya wanker!”

    Covered in confusion, blow me down flat. “Is it? Uh—oh, yes, you’re right, Dot.” Quickly picks up another. “Get well soon. Joyce, Gwenda, Helen, & all the girls at Jaylene.” The eyebrows go up and the drawl comes out. “Fans, one presumes.”

    Rosie, I’m not sorry to see, immediately corrects this misapprehension: “’Course not! They’re the girls at the factory!”

    He’s looking blank, and I’m just about to explain, hopefully in a way that’ll make it worse for him, not better, when a deep voice says blankly from the doorway: “You’ve never mentioned a factory before,” and we all jump ten feet where we sit.

    John comes in, smiling. “Hullo, Dot, my dear: lovely to see you. They ganging up on you, are they, David?”

    “Something like that,” he agrees on a rueful note. “Er—we haven’t got very far, I’m afraid, John.”

    “Well, heck! Half the idiots haven’t put their full names, let alone their addresses!” cries Rosie.

    John grabs a chair and takes it round to the other side of the bed, smiling. ”No, well, the assumption is that, even ten years on and with the experience of several other worlds under your belt, you’ll immediately remember them, of course! –I think we were saying that the phrase ‘the factory’ doesn’t ring any bells?” (It does with me, but I’m not volunteering.) He holds out his hand for the card.

    “No, maybe not,” she concedes. “Well, ya can’t tell every detail of your past life in eighteen months of marriage, can ya? Especially when the party of the first part is on the high seas.”—By this time at least one of us doesn’t know where to look and as a matter of fact the sophisticated David Walsingham has gone rather red, too, well, hah, bloody hah!—“Part-time job when I was at uni,” she finishes, cool as a cucumber.

    John finds the appropriate pile and adds it to it. Next! Florist’s card, fat purple writing. “Best wishes for a speedy recovery, Leila Morton,” he reads out.

    “That’s her,” I assure Rosie.

    “Yeah. The only Leila I know is the one Dot worked for for yonks, waitressing, John, and I did fill in for her the Chrissie she was imprisoned at Aunty Kate’s, so it’s gotta be her.”

    Good, files it. (Now we’re getting somewhere, see? Thoughtcha did, yeah.) “Get well soon. XXX Pete P.,” he reads, pronouncing it “Ex, Ex, Ex.” Gee, well, dunno if I could of stood it if he’d of pronounced it “Kiss, Kiss, Kiss,” come to think of it.

    Rosie’s looking blank. Blast, can’t tell if it it’s put on or not.

    “Dot’s looking prescient,” murmurs David. “Or possibly egg-bound.”

    “N—Uh, very funny! Um, no, well—Pete Pedersen?” I croak.

    “Oh, yeah!” she remembers blithely. “That’s E,N, John: an old boyfr—” He’s got it. Married? Bound to be. No-reply pile.

    David’s feeling pleased with himself after that egg-bound crack. He picks up an elaborate floral card and reads out with relish: “‘To Lily Rose, Very Best Wishes from Your Loving Fans, Hettie, Jayne, Kylie, Ronni’—if one can spell it with an I?—‘Fran & Eva.’”

    “Leave it out, David!” she hollers.

    Gee, think he took that as being accepted into the Rosie Haworth extended family circle or something, because he’s grinning like anything. And once John’s reminded him it’s that great mound, there, he puts it on the immense mound of other left-them-outs.

    And we plough on. Joey Gerard’s an ex-boyfriend, she admits without a flicker. Ya could say that, yeah. More than twice her age, but. In fact he’s a grandfather several times over.

    “Jo Christensen’s a female, for God’s sake, John!” she shouts. John just looks at her mildly. “Friend of Aunty Kate’s. Widow.”

    He puts it on his “must be replied to without delay” pile.

    “Joe and Wendy Gehrke?” ventures David.

    “Friends of Mum and Dad’s.”

    Help, here’s another Joe, this is getting ridiculous! It’s a very posh card, lots of gold stuff, is that what you call deckled? “Joe Spalding? Um, the racehorse owner, Rosie?”

    “Racing mate of Dad’s—yeah.”

    “Married?” asks John mildly. Well, I suppose he does know what she’s like. Well, I bloody well hope he does. Or if he doesn’t, can I be very, very far away when it dawns, please?

    “Eh? I suppose he is, yeah,” she says without interest. He’s raising his eyebrows interrogatively at her—not a D. Walsingham sort of eyebrow-raising. And she goes: “And what’s it to ya?” Shit!

    He’s not interrogating her about her past relationships, he says mildly—meantime David and me look hard at our own knees. He merely wants to know if it would be tactful to reply.

    “Oh.” says Rosie on a weak note. “Um, well, if ya put it like that, it wouldn’t be all that tactful, no.”

    Calmly he puts it on the old boyfriends pile…

    What? Give that here, John! “Ya right, it is Aunty Kate’s bowling club, only it’s not her current bowling club, see, it’s the one she used to belong to before they moved to a suburb with a more up-market bowling club. And don’t reply, John, they’ll only of sent it to get an autograph to raffle off!”

    In that case he’ll send them a signed photo. Not a joke, help! Added to which signing photos, not to mention unnecessary replies to Get Well cards and flowers, is gonna become slightly less than hilarious after the first five hundred, isn't it? But ya right, John, whaddelse has she got to do except sit here, eat chocs, and get fat? Boy, them little dints at the sides of his mouth are coming and going like anything, she was sure right about that! (Sigh.)

    Get this: he’s got these neato little cards, like, a bit like a wedding invitation: Uncle Jerry put him on to the local printers that’ll do you a decent job at a reasonable— Right. “Many thanks for your kind wishes on my accident.” Strewth. Rosie holds one out, any other newish wife you’d be almost sure she was gonna show you the thing proudly—Nope.

    “See? Ordered them to tactfully leave off the signature, this means I can sign either ‘Lily Rose Rayne’ or ‘Rosie Haworth’, or in the case of the ones that won't know who the fuck that is, ‘Rosie Haworth (née Marshall).”—David at this point is driven to clear his throat desperately. Mind you, I think the pink flush on her cheeks may have something to do with it; why is it that other people look like boiled lobsters but she looks like a bloody pink rose, no pun intended!—“I’ve already told him I’m not gonna sign myself née anything and been flattened.”

    “You’d better get on with it, then,” says John. Completely poker-face, but those sky-blue eyes are twinkling like anything. (Sigh.)

    So gee, she gets on with it. As he hands her each pile he tells her which signature she oughta put, I kid you not…

    Here’s Rupy, so she greets him immediately with: “Thank God! You can sign some.”

    His face falls, was he under the impression he was gonna sit down and read that mag he’s brought, while getting down on the posh chocs John buys her? “What’s John doing?”

    “Gee, Rupy, he’s sorting out the ones that fall into the category ‘deserving of signed pic for actually having identified themselves and/or given a return address’, and inserting their pics in large envelopes. The ones that he’s got Dot addressing. Before you ask, the pics are in that briefcase he’s put David in charge of.”

    “I’m capable of handing out pics when asked,” David explains meekly.

    Rupy ignores that, good on him. “Briefcase? Where did that come from?”

    “Old one of Dad’s. Though he is capable of going out and chucking good money away on a new one, I'm not denying it.”

    He nods, takes a choc, and gets on with it. “Lily Rose Rayne,” lovely rounded script, little flower over the I… Better than she can do it, actually. It goes much quicker with him signing the pics, so now Rosie’s done enough cards for John to start putting them in envelopes and addressing same. Um, from what? Help! Rosie’s address book, dates from the Ark, it’s got a pic of a white cat sitting in a bowl of pink roses on it, and don’t blame her, Deirdre from work gave it to her when she was about… Dunno. Her first or second year at uni, woulda been.

    Rosie looks up from the cards, smiling. “It is still the same one. He did try to organise me into a proper one, but I couldn’t manage it, the number of names never matched the pages for the letters and there wasn’t enough room for the phone numbers.”

    “Yes, it was stupid of me,” he admits placidly.

    “Yeah. The ones Mum and Dad know won’t all be in it, though, John.”

    Calmly he produces Aunty May’s address book! My jaw’s dropped ten feet and so has David’s, but Rupy’s just getting on with signing pics, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, he must be used to him.

    “Captain Efficiency,” agrees Rosie to the dropped jaws. “Added to which, he’s bored, poor lamb, what with the rain. Even Aunty Allyson’s vetoed trips to the Blue Mountains until it stops.”

    Choke! God, poor John! But you can’t say he wasn’t forewarned, they were out here for their honeymoon, of course.

    … Strewth, look at the time! No, I can’t stay to hear about this thrilling party of local super-pseuds Derry’s dragging ya to tonight, Rupy, I’ve gotta get back to work! John gets up quickly and offers to drive me.

    “No, thanks very much, John, but I’ve got my car.” And I manage to escape without being kissed on the cheek. Not that I dislike it when it’s John, but do I wanna blush like a lobster in front of ruddy David Walsingham?

   … Bugger it, he’s followed me like a ruddy sheep! Don't tell me he’s got better things to do on a drizzly winter arvo in Sydney than gawp at Rosie’s boobs and hand Rupy pics to sign when prompted!

    He doesn’t say anything so I offer desperately, as the lift doesn’t put in an appearance: “You must feel a bit up in the air, with Rosie laid up.”

    “What? Oh, the film. Well, yes, though the word is Dawlish is working something out.”

    Yeah? Rosie’s claim is, trying frantically to flimflam the backers before they pull right out of the thing. Cos the way she tells it, her contract definitely says she works up to the end of August and no later, she’s gotta be back at uni in London under the mad Prof. Mark Rutherford’s fanatical American eye at the beginning of September.

    “Good luck to him.” Phew, here’s the lift, thank God!

    “It could be rather good,” he says on a wistful note as we get in.

    “Eh? Oh, the film! If you say so.”

    “Your cousin is wonderful in the rôle,” he murmurs.

    “Yeah. Well, in the series—yeah, pretty good, I agree.”

    “Mm. Dawlish was absolutely determined to get her, you know; I shouldn’t be surprised if he does work something out.”

    Maybe. But it sure as Hell won’t be something that entails Rosie working for him when she’s promised Mark Rutherford to be back at uni—and when she wants to get on with her sociological stuff, something that I rather think hasn't dawned on these one-eyed movie types.

    “Yeah. Well, I hope so, for your sake.”

    “Mm? Oh! Er, well, it’s just bread-and-butter stuff for me, Dot,” he says in this special vague voice. “Pays the bills—you know—but it isn’t my real work,”

    Right. Not your real work. Silly wanker! “I suppose you gotta eat like the rest of the population,” I note in a hard voice as we reach the ground floor at last. “Hey! This way—this way!”

    “What? Oh. Thanks—I was disoriented.”

    Yeah, weren’tcha, mate? What with the pink satin nightie and the boobs and the flush— Disoriented. Puts it real good.

    “Haworth’s a lucky fellow,” he says wistfully as we pause in horror at the front entrance—it’s belting down.

    Yeah, plus and he’s got fifty times your nous and five thousand times your drive and even if she’d never met him Rosie wouldn’t of looked twice at you, mate, cos two things all her blokes have had in common—oh, right, not the dreepy Euan Keel, no; but all the rest—are nous and drive. No, something more fundamental than that. Testosterone? Well, that, too. No, what I mean is, just plain common sense. Common sense, David! And no, ya won’t “dash” over to the carpark with me, you will grab that taxi, because not only ya haven’t got a brolly with ya, ya haven’t even got a raincoat! Though I don’t say all this, only the bit about the taxi and the raincoat.

    “There! Grab it!”

    “Oh, yes. Thanks, Dot. Well—“

    Five thousand wrinklies that have been hospital-visiting other wrinklies are approaching from the direction of the lifts. “Go on! Grab it!”

    He grabs it.

    Steve’s on the chair again today. “Gidday, Dot. Rosie said you might be here this arvo. Go on in.” He’s opened the door before I can scream NO! Cos the blinds are closed and I can hear a male voice and if it’s D. Flaming Wals—

    No, ’tisn’t, phew! A very fruity male Pommy voice: “Darling, of course we’ll send someone down to the cottage to photocopy absolutely all your notes for you—not a problem, we’ll hire one! Then a special courier—no, of course we won’t entrust your precious research to some bloody global initialism: accompanied; and if there’s anything at all you need from your computer we can have them burn it to a CD,”—Right, read-only, this’d be, would it, ya nong?—“and naturally any log-ins you need—log in to Double Dee Productions’ server, darling, that cretin Garry Whatsisname can give you a password!”—Eh? Why? And do what?—“And I know you’re using a very special computer map program,”—wot?—“but don’t worry, darling! We’ll contact your nice little research assistant—the Indian boy—Greg, isn’t it? All may be managed!” Gasps for breath. What a jerk.

    So I go: “Yeah, get Greg to email ya the CIA’s GPS, Rosie.”

    The giant black back on the visitor’s chair that’s all I can see turns to blast me. Oops, what with the bulk and the beard, gotta be Dawlish in person!

    His jaw drops, an unlovely sight, and he turns purple under the beard, also unlovely, and staggers to his feet, gasping.

    “My cousin Dot. Dot Mallory, Aunty Sally’s eldest girl,” Rosie explains on an airy note. “Don’t think ya met Aunty Sally: it was Aunty Allyson and a crony that inflicted themselves on ya that other time.”

    Shit, was it? Wish I’d of been a fly on the wall!

    “Lily Rose!” he wheezes, is he gonna have one of those apoplexy things? And, just incidentally, this confirms what she told me: the prick does thinks of her as “Lily Rose.” “It’s you!” Wheeze, gulp, gasp. “The young Daughter in person!”

    “We are a lot alike, yeah,” she agrees on an airy note: boy, is she enjoying this or what! “This here is the Famous Fillum Director Derry Dawlish in person, Dot, as if ya couldn’t of guessed.”

    Well, up his. And his burning to CD’s, too. Like what he’s doing, as if ya couldn’t of guessed, is trying to talk Rosie into agreeing to make the film for him when he knows she has to be back on deck doing her uni work in September. “Yeah hi.”

    “Dot!” He surges forward. Cripes, what is it? Well, very nice, yeah, only there’s too much of it, the beard must be soaked in it. Actually it reminds me of David Bloody Up-Himself Walsingham’s after-shave. “Wonderful to meet you, my dear!”

    “Saint Laurent Pour Homme,” notes Rosie neutrally. Right. Goddit. She’s giving me a warning look, but gee, I don’t need it, cos I’ve guessed what’s gonna come next.

    We’re so alike!—Think ya said that already, Famous Film Director.—It would be a marvellous experience!—No, it wouldn’t, you up-yourself git. Do you imagine Rosie—and Rupy—haven’t told me what filming’s like? And calling me “Dot, dear” is really impressing me, I don’t think! Boy, do I loathe fat foreigners that call ya dear at the drop of a hat!

    All right, I will sit down, because it’s better than standing here listening to ya. And I will have a choc—thanks, Rosie. Very artificial strawberry, yummy!

    “This is the new box Aunty Allyson gave me,” she explains.

    It would be, yeah. I can see she’s on my side. On the other hand, does she maybe want to do the film after all? Can’t tell—blast.

    So he goes on and on and on. His plan is they’ll film all the other scenes and all the background scenes—gee, Daniel was right, must tell him his brain works the same way as the great director’s—and as soon as she’s feeling better, film Rosie, just down to the knee—sitting, of course! He said that very, very quickly so she’s obviously already bitten his head off about that, good. And then later, and only when she finds the time, finish off the tapping, and Brian Hendricks has come on board with an offer of the Henny Penny studios for that—he’s breathing all over me: behind him, Rosie pokes her tongue out at him, though knowing her, she wouldn’t care if he did see her. And blah, blah, blah. But the outdoor scenes would be immensely improved—immensely—if only I’d come on board—if he uses that nautical expression once more I’ll scream—as double for the Captain’s Daughter! Pause, pant, gasp.

    “Offer her megabucks, Derry,” suggests Rosie, eating a choc. “Maybe Dad’ll give ya some leave, Dot, it’s not as if they’ll be filming during the Cup, or like that.”

    Smiling like Jaws itself, he makes me an offer. See, what he doesn’t realise is that (a) I know that the Singapore scenes are gonna be shot at Isabelle and Scott’s new place up in Queensland, and (b) I’m due for some annual leave in September and Uncle Jerry of course won't mind if I take it in August instead. I look sideways at Rosie.

    “Noddeven close,” she notes.

    “It’s not as if we’re asking her to act, Rosie!”

    “It’s noddas if ya even close, neither,” she notes.

    Smiles feebly. Ups the ante.

    “Don’t accept anything without consulting me, Dot,” she warns.

    Who, me? “I’m not accepting anything anyway,” I note.

    Dawlish urges it’d save the show, does he think he’s in a Judy Garland-Micky Rooney epic, or what? And completely save his bacon, charming use of the vernacular, here, accompanied by the obligatory charming smile, and blah, blah. What? Crap! I don't care about ya wanking Concept or the Fifties ambience or the wanking “genuine” Fifties music you’ve roped the well-known David Walsingham in to do! And if ya think I thought them audible quotes round “genuine” were funny, think again! And crinkling the eyes at the corners only works from males like John that are total dishes and don't realise they’re doing it, not from completely deliberate fat old hypocrites like you! All right, gimme ya speech about ya wanking Concept, see if I care!

    So at the end of it, I go: “Help; you were right, Rosie: it is all crap.”

    “Yep. Have a choc?”

    We have a choc.

    Dawlish is very, very hurt. This has been in the pipeline forever, it’s close to his heart, the amateur tap shows of his youth are mentioned. He was a little what dressed in what? Bullshit, he was never thin enough to tap, he’s making up every word of this! And blah, blah, blah…

    “Have another choc, Dot. Like a cuppa?” We can do this, Aunty May’s bringing her a thermos of real tea every morning—the hospital tea’s so revolting, dear. Well, she’s right, it is. Why not? We have a cuppa. And another choc.

    Eventually the raving dies down and he looks at us sadly.

    “Offer her megabucks,” repeats Rosie calmly.

    Yeah, why not? “I could buy a house,” I note, narrowing my eyes.

    “The eyes are different,” he spots regretfully. –Mine are blue, but hers are blue-grey, though of course two and half years’ close study of the box will of told ya that.

    “Yeah; she’s prettier than me, actually,” Rosie notes detachedly.

    Gulp! “I can’t act, though,” I croak.

    “Offer her megabucks,” she repeats calmly.

    Reluctantly he offers me megabucks. Crumbs! Should I? It would fit in well, because I was planning to go up to Queensland to see Isabelle and Scott anyway—

    “Twice that,” advises Rosie calmly before I can open me gob.

    “No!” he shouts.

    All right, no. So be it. You can offer me twice megabucks or get stuffed. I don’t really wanna do it anyway. “All right, No. –See ya, Rosie.”

    His mouth’s opening and shutting like a huge stranded, well, whale is the only possible comparison, only do they open their mouths when stranded? Tough tit. I walk out.

    As the door doesn’t catch I can clearly hear—me and Steve can clearly hear—Rosie saying: “Hard cheese. Shoulda offered her megabucks, if ya really wanted her.”

    And the Great Director vowing: “I’ll get her! It’ll completely solve the middle-distance shots! The hair and carriage are exact!”

    “Yeah, yeah. Offer her megabucks, Derry.”

    The heavy breathing gets louder and something stomps over to the door and slam!

    Me and Steve exchange glances.

    “He offer you the double?” he asks laconically.

    “Yep.”

    “Rosie thought he might, the minute he set eyes on you. You wanna do it?”

    “Nope.”

    “She reckoned ya wouldn’t. So, make him pay through the nose?”

    “You betcha! Hey, want anything from the junk-food stall?”

    So he gives me some money and I nip down and get him a Crunchie Bar and another coffee from the machine. Well, the Crunchie Bar’ll take the taste away. And of course Rosie’d give him a cup of real tea if he asked, but who’s gonna go in there with that raving going on?

    So I go: “Well, see ya.”

    “Yuh—Uh, hang on. Do ya think I better ring John and get him to—uh—”

    “Break that up? Nah, wouldn’t worry: Rosie can handle them types! See ya!”

    “See ya, Dot,” he goes, very relieved.

    And I go.

    Yeah, yeah, the opportunity of a lifetime. It is if ya got the brain-power of a Wendalyn or a Deanna, yeah. Well, it would be interesting to see a film being made from the grass-roots, yeah. But it wouldn’t be exciting. What it’d be mostly, see, is endless waiting around while the Great Director makes up his mind about the angles and the bah, blah and fights with the camera crew and the lighting crew, and endless repositioning while he tells you you’re the wrong shape and the light’s all wrong and blah, blah, and then endless retakes. And quite possibly the whole process repeated the next day because he didn’t like the rushes. No, I never been in a film before, and no, ya right, Rosie hasn’t been in one yet. But TV filming’s exactly like that, according to her bitter reports, and she reckons Rupy says movie filming is even worse. And in fact, according to Rupy himself it’ll be dreadful because D.D. is notorious for being an auteur—the actors are mere putty in his hands, dear, and expressing an opinion on set is tantamount to sudden death. And I’d only be a double, ya think anyone’d consider my feelings and comfort for an instant?

    Painful, is probably the best word. Painful. Rupy’s word was excruciating, actually. Only if I can squeeze megabucks out of Dawlish it’d sure give me a nice deposit on a house. Why do I want a house? Well, financial security, see? I mean, this is a country where everyone owns a house or aims at owning a house. If ya start wondering why, ya do slowly start to feel ya going mad, so don’t, is my advice: just take it as read.

    Anyway, if I don’t put it all towards a house I could afford that holiday in Europe much sooner than I thought I’d be able to. That is a thought.

    Well—maybe. If and only if he offers me mega-megabucks plus and a free return trip to Queensland.