Previously…

As we steamed through the harbour entrance, everyone was packing up and ready to go. Looking out of the vast window of the state room I noticed a rather official looking ship, slap bang in the middle of the harbour, right where we anchored our yacht normally.

It was sleek, about 45 metres long, looked as if it should have gun turrets, was grey in colour and called HMRC Gotcha on the stern.

I smiled at the name, thinking someone in authority for once had had a sense of humour. I noted as we stopped and dropped anchor nearby that a rubber inflatable boat–a RIB–with a large outboard motor on the stern came from around the other side of the ship and made towards us at a rate of knots. There were several people aboard, all wearing uniform and I swear that I saw some guns too.

‘Abby,’ I said while she changed Heather’s bum–again, ‘look at this.’

She finished what she was doing, picked up Little Miss Perfect and walked to the window.

‘What’s all that about? It seems like we have visitors.’

Both of us made our way to the main deck. My Captain was there–with Katie, of course–with a few of the crew and friends, all watching the fast-approaching RIB.

In seconds it was alongside and the seamen all scrambled aboard looking vaguely menacing. One of them, who seemed to be the boss, spoke to the captain.

‘We have been informed and have reason to believe that this vessel is carrying a cargo of illicit drugs. We have a warrant to search her and no one is allowed ashore until the search has been completed.’

There was a moment’s pregnant silence.

‘Who told you this information?’ I demanded.

‘We are not at liberty to divulge that information, madam. Skipper, may we begin?’

And now the story continues…

One of the sailors stayed on deck fingering his rifle suggestively while the others, including the young officer started swarming over the ship like bargain hunters rummaging through the reduced knickers at the Harrods sale–pleasant, it was not!

After about ten minutes I heard a sort of a screech. I and my friends, who had been standing about like spare parts in some sort of Ealing comedy, looked at each other with synchronised, raised eyebrows.

That was the sound of Mummy Fairbairn in mole murdering mode.

There was some shouting, more than a few thumps, a certain amount of swearing, a smashed glass or china sort of noise and then, a few seconds later, Mummy came storming up like a galleon in full sail.

‘What the hell is goin’ on,’ she said and before waiting for a reply, she continued. ‘There I was havin’ forty winks and this, this boy in a sailor suit comes in and starts rummagin’ around in me drawers. I wasn’t havin’ that, so I heaved a vase at him and beaned ‘im on the noggin. Nice shot really, it’s all in the wrist…anyway enough of that, what in the name of blood and thunder is goin on young Sam?’

‘Is he hurt?’ I asked with alarm.

‘Yes…no well he’s breathin, anyway. Good job I didn’t have me elephant gun. Would have made more mess on the carpet.’

‘Mummy, you can’t go round assaulting people like that.’

‘I bloody well can. I could have been raped or somethin’.’

‘They wouldn’t dare,’ I breathed.

‘What’s that? Speak up, confound yer.’

‘Never mind that. Look we have been boarded by the HMRC; they had a tip off that we had carrying a cargo of illicit drugs…’

‘Bloody nonsense, who’s in charge?’

Just then, the officer in charge happened to come along the corridor, gangway–whatever.

‘I am in charge Madame,’

‘Lady Fairbairn to you, sonny.’

He turned pale.

‘L—L—Lady Fairbairn?’

‘S’what I said. Got cloth ears, have yer??’

‘It’s me?’

‘Who?’

Giles?’

‘Giles who–?’

‘–Giles Penworthy-Farquar,’

‘Bugger me with a blunt pitchfork.’

It was like a day at Wimbledon with all of us following the dialogue like the ball as it flew over the net, one side to the other without the obligatory strawberries and cream, obviously.

‘Hello, Aunt Dorothy.’

‘You’ve grown. Yer were knee high to a grasshopper when I last saw yer.’

‘I know.’

‘I know yer know.’

‘I know you know I know.’

‘Yes, I know––’

‘Look,’ I said interjecting, ‘We could have gone around The Horn the time this is taking–’

‘Sorry, Sam,’ said Mummy, ‘it’s my brother’s boy.’

‘So your maiden name was Penworthy-Farquar?’

‘Yes, want to make somethin’ of it?’

‘No, nice name,’

‘Mmm,’ she said looking at me speculatively and then turning back to her nephew.

‘So Giles, what’s all this about?’

‘We had a tip off about drugs being on board–’

‘Stuff and nonsense. Who told you? I’ll string ‘em up from the nearest yardarm.

‘We are not at liberty––’

‘–Never mind all that balderdash, come with me.’

I swear that she was going to grab him by the ear lobe but changed direction at the last second and held him by the arm in a vice-like grip and pulled him into one of the cabins from hence or is that whence, came the sound of raised voices.

Abby looked at me and I looked at her and for a moment, I felt quite sorry for Giles Penworthy-Farquar.

A few minutes later, the RIB full of the revenue man–including a rather red faced Giles–set sail back to their boat. What Mummy said to him, I never knew, but I found out some time later that a certain female person who, for some strange reason, didn’t like me, had been charged with wasting HMRC’s time.

And so our jolly nautical jaunt came to an end and we were back on dry land again. I was sorry to see the festivities end–apart from the drugs raid, of course–but knew that we would have plenty of more chances to sail the seven seas in the time to come–post turkey basting, that is.

~ §~

Life carried on as it usually did. I was putting the finishing touches to Mummy’s painting, Abby managed to get a big order from Liberty’s which meant that she had to employ a few other people and think about opening a workshop somewhere. Heather, bless her little pink booties, started sprouting a tooth, dribbled everywhere, bit everything that moved and some things that didn’t and had a redder face than old Arthur Gruntfuttock, who was known to be permanently drunk.

Jo looked after Heather one day whilst Abby and I went to the baby farm in London to see if the little wrigglies were wriggling enough for some of them to be erm–you know what. We had the green light so it was tally ho and off we go!

The process didn’t take long and both Abby and I were very emotional about it all. Only time would tell if it would work, but we were told that we might not get a bulls eye situation on the first go. We would just have to wait and see.

It was pleasant flying back from The City Airport and collecting the good old Beemer. It was wonderful driving through the beautiful lanes and roads towards home and could feel anticipation rising with every mile we got nearer until, once again, we peaked over the rise and there, before our very eyes, in all its glory stood Penmarris with the village, harbour, bay and sparking sea. It was a lump in the throat time for me and I knew that Abby loved this quirky place as much as I did.

~ §~

Things seemed to be going quite nicely now as we waited to see if the insemination whatsit had taken. I daily asked Abby if she had morning sickness or fancied eating things like black olives on cheesecake, pickles wrapped in cheese, or maybe eggplant on pizza–all to no avail. She said that I was being a bit obsessed by it all and I told her, as I flicked through a Mothercare baby catalogue, that she was being silly.

I had finally finished Mummy’s painting and was rather pleased with it. I know that I only had a faded photo of her and her late husband, Tremaine, to go on and in black and white–or to be more accurate, faded yellowy-brown–at that, but I felt that I had captured the feel of the occasion and only hoped that Mummy agreed.

I remembered that portrait of the queen by Lucian Freud that was less than flattering. It was reported that the queen was not amused and that wasn’t surprising as Her Madj looked a bit like a geriatric Cabbage Patch Doll in it. Whether Mummy would be amused by my little effort, time would tell. That time though was now upon us as this was the day of her birthday party. No one knew how old she was or had the courage to ask her, so the cake, baked and lovingly iced by Mrs Pearson had just one silver candle on it.

Sarah helped or hindered as she said that she wanted to be involved. She wasn’t much a help though, more of a hindrance according to the stressed out Mrs P.

The party was to be held at The Mansion where Dotty ruled with a rod of iron and carried out a constant war against the local wildlife–moles in particular.

She had tried everything short of a nuclear device to get rid of the moles and had, as yet, not been able to eradicate them from her once pristine and immaculate lawn which now sadly seemed more like a war zone. But this wasn’t a time to talk of poison, bullets, guns, explosions or other forms of mayhem, this was Dotty’s day and we wanted to make sure that she would never forget it.

Everyone who was anyone and anyone who wasn’t, was invited as it was a sort of open house do, where people mingled and nibbled on nibbles whilst juggling with a glass of wine, scrumpy or soft drinks for those too young or like me, too soft headed for the hard stuff.

We rolled up in the Beemer with Heather in her car seat. She was going to have fun in the impromptu crá¨che where parents would do shifts looking after the little darlings.

Abby looked particularly ravishing and ravishable in her little black number by Calvin Klein and I was wearing an Alexander McQueen creation; A buttery yellow dress with an intricate black webbing overlay. I may have not been pretty, but the dress certainly was.

Looking at the throng milling about, everyone had made the effort and looked very nice indeed. Mummy was at the door of the ball room where the party was held and welcomed us all individually with a giggling Sarah to one side and an austere Jenkins on the other whispering the names of those Mummy didn’t recognise into her shell-like and pearl-adorned ear.

I kissed Mummy on the cheek, curtsied and told her how absolutely gorgeous she looked in her peach evening gown and pearls.

’Don’t be daft,’ she riposted. ‘Go and get a drink–and by the way, where’s me soddin’ paintin’––?’

I just gave her an enigmatic smile, tapped my nose and before she could utter another word, beat a hasty retreat.

Unbeknownst to her, the painting was in a side room and at the height of festivities–when her back was turned or she had to visit the loo–I would replace the horrible Gauguin over the mantelpiece and replace it with mine and cover it with a cloth curtain thingy.

There were maids and servants flitting hither and thither, giving drinks, taking coats and generally keeping things flowing smoothly. A string quartet was over in the corner to add music to the occasion and it was all very refined. I think the kids would have preferred something a bit more head banging, but it wasn’t their night, it was Mummy’s.

The room looked magnificent. All wood panelling, masters on the walls and two huge chandeliers at either end of the room.

‘I bet they’re a bugger to clean,’ Abby whispered in my ear.

‘Language, Abby, children present.’

‘Sod it, I forgot.’

‘Abby!’

‘Oops.’

Over to one side was a table which went the full length of the room, on which was a spread, large enough to feed an army. Some of the younger ones were already over to the side and dipping in when no one was supposedly looking. I could see, to my shame, my nephew and niece, Timothy and Hayley in the thick of it with Jo and David’s kids, Jennifer and Pippa–words would be said later.

There was a gang of older kids and teenagers nearby too, including Tracy and her girlfriend Tammy who were holding hands and giggling a lot. I was pleased to see Sophie with the group and hoped that the scars were healing from her terrible ordeal with the miscarriage. I would have to ask Jo about that as she was living with them.

There was dancing and eating and talking and catching up. It was a nice and informal occasion. Mummy’s actual birthday was the next day and a small group of us were invited for dinner the following day in our best bibs and tuckers–that meant posh frocks all round–except Jenkins, who preferred trousers for some reason.

Dawn, my sister and Adrian my brother-in-law were in our little group and I asked Dawn how she was settling in now.

‘Oh it’s great. We never had so much interaction with our neighbours back at our old place. Everyone here knows your name and everything about you.’

‘Mmm, it can be a bit disconcerting at times.’

‘I know, but it’s rather sweet.’

‘I never forget the time when I nearly gave my gardener Mr. Pearson a heart attack when I pulled the curtains open wearing a see through nightie. It was around the village before I was properly dressed. Mrs Pearson has said that he hasn’t been the same since and has even suggested that she buys one off the catalogue. She was not amused.’

Abby came back and reported that Heather was asleep but others babies and toddlers were making enough noise to raise the dead.

‘Shall I go and help?’ I asked.

No, it’s all right. It’s a bit of a mothers’ meeting in there with the mums comparing stretch marks and things. I hope I don’t get like that if we manage to plant one in the pot.’

‘Abby, you are awful––’

‘–But you love me?’ she said smiling and planting a kiss on my lips as Timothy and Pippa went past laden with food.

‘Ooh yuck!’ they said in unison making us laugh out loud.

~ §~

It was getting on for nine o’clock and I knew that some of the parents would have to leave with their offspring soon, so Abby went and took Mummy out of the room on some sort of pretext.

Jocasta, Marcia, Katie, Dawn and I mobilised ourselves into action and in moments the Gauguin was taken down and replaced by the portrait painted by little old me.

It was only a few seconds later that Mummy sailed back into the room and stopped dead as everyone started clapping.

‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’ she demanded.

Abby walked her over to the corner and then moving aside a partition, showed her the cake with the singe lit candle. It was huge, enough for everyone to take a piece home, but for now Mummy simply smiled and blew out the candle.

‘Make a wish,’ shouted Sarah excitedly.

Mummy’s face went blank for a moment and then she smiled, looked around at the smiling faces and just said, ‘thank you for coming and sharing my birthday.’

I walked up to her and took her by the elbow.

‘Can you come over here, Mummy?’

‘What now, young Samantha?’

‘Be patient and you’ll see,’ I told her as we crossed the floor to the huge Adams fireplace.

‘What’s this? Where’s me Gauguin?’

‘Pull that cord.’ I said pointing to the side of the covered painting.

I stood back and could barely look, my hands felt for and found Abby’s. What if she hated the painting? Would she set Fifi on me?

The cloth fell away and I could hear her gasp. I looked down. She hated it. She was in shock. She wouldn’t want to know me any longer I would be drummed out of Penmarris–

I was given what amounted to a bear hug and an overdose of lavender as I was embraced by Mummy. After regaining my breath, I could see that she had a few tears , not sad ones, but the happy type.

‘Thank you, thank you. My Tremaine, so handsome and we look so happy together.’

‘It’s my present to you Mummy. I hope that you like it.’

‘Like it? I adore it!’

Everyone was full of praise and I felt rather embarrassed but Mummy clapped her hands and got immediate silence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Fifi slink into the room a bit like a commando on a raid. All hunched up, wary, and fully expecting a fight or flight situation…

‘Thank yer all for comin’ and makin’ the party a roarin’ success–’

Fifi had reached the long table upon which resided the remains of the food. She glanced around furtively–particularly at her mistress. She saw that Mummy was distracted as were nearly everyone else–she lifted her front paws––

‘–and thank you, young Samantha, for the splendid portrait of Tremaine and I. I remember in Burma–’

– Fifi’s head was now level with the table and after another quick glance around, she delicately lifted the remains of a ham on the bone and, in the blink of an eye, was gone–as silently and successfully as a crack SAS soldier on a successful mission in the middle of enemy territory.

‘–I know that some of you with young sprogs have ter go soon but first, please make yer way through to the gardens–‘

We all trooped out and stood on the terrace. It was a lovely sight with many trees full of twinkling lights and flood lights on the flower beds.

Then the fireworks began and we watched a spectacular display put on by a couple of the Potts and their clan.

Rockets, Catherine wheels–that somehow misspelled out “Happy Birtday”–plenty of whizzes, bangs, oohs and aahs.

Flames shot up into the inky black sky and burst into a riot of colours. It was wonderful to behold and I had a crick in my neck from looking up at the spectacular display of pyrotechnics.

After about fifteen minutes all went silent and we began to clap–but too soon because there was then a series of tremendous and highly colourful explosions coming from the lawns, shooting red, yellow, blue and orange fiery trails high up into the sky.

As a climax it was perfect and the clapping was even louder after the final incredibly loud and earth shattering rainbow of an explosion which made the very ground rumble, finally ended the firework display.

In a brief hush, my ears still ringing from the noise, Mummy spoke crisply and clearly in that penetrating voice that I loved so well.

‘Take that, you soddin’ moles!’

Everybody laughed.

Gazing towards the corner of the terrace, under a garden table lay Fifi, still gnawing away at the remains of the ham, not bothered by anything and anyone and looking well pleased with herself.

I know exactly how she felt–

To be continued…

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, help with the plot-lines and pulling the story into shape.