Previously…

‘Right, I have some good news. She is responding well to the medication. The lumbar puncture results showed that she does indeed have Pneumococcal Meningitis but it was caught early and as I say she is showing every sign that things will be all right. She will have to stay in for a while as we need to monitor her closely though.’

‘Thank God!’ I said as Abby and I embraced.

‘We will also have to do some tests for hearing and eyes. Difficult in one so young but not impossible. All motor functions are responding and there is no sign of brain damage that we can see, although there is still some inflammation that should subside once the treatment takes effect. As I say we need to do further tests, but I am feeling positive about this one. I have to be frank with you though. We cannot test for everything and she will have to be tested regularly as she grows to make sure that there is no lasting damage caused by this.’

‘She was vaccinated though.’ I said.

‘Yes, but the vaccination doesn’t cover all strains. Heather was unlucky enough to catch a strain not covered by the vaccine. Anyway, you can go and see her now and if you have any further questions come and find me.’

She smiled and hugged us both and then went off leaving us to find our way to Heather’s ward.

She still looked small and vulnerable, but her colour looked more normal. She was sleeping but not fitfully. She looked more like the baby we knew and loved. A little noisy monkey sometimes, but our little noisy monkey and we wouldn’t have her any other way.

And now the story continues…

Heather was in hospital for a week and, with the resilience of youth, soon bounced back to her normal noisy self.

We had gone through hell and back worrying about her illness and although we knew that she would have to be monitored for residual problems, Marcia was hopeful that she would be okay.

Life went on as usual. The gallery was busy, especially at the weekends when day trippers came and had a look at what we had on offer. I nearly thumped someone in a ‘kiss me quick’ hat who prodded a painting with a dirt encrusted fingernail, but Tracy held me back before |I could be prosecuted for assault with a deadly paintbrush.

Heather was either with me or Abby next door when we were working. If we both had things on, Jocasta was happy to look after her, in fact if we didn’t take our bundle of joy up to her and not forgetting Dotty at least once a week, we were in serious trouble.

Today was Abby’s turn and it was a peaceful, cry free zone that we had at the moment.

As Tracy and I sat down for one of our many cuppas, I smiled as I recalled the last visit from the grande dame of Penmarris yesterday. Dotty was often in, making sometimes complimentary but more often rather nasty comments on some of the works of art on offer.

She sailed in with her faithful butler, Jenkins holding some packages in his arms, trailing after her.

‘Samantha, my dear, you may kiss me.’

I went and did my duty, noting that some hair had sprouted on the mole on the side of her face. Perhaps I should tell her, I thought and then thought better of it. Not in public, in front of the butler or the giggling Tracy.

‘Well, anythin’ new in?’ she asked, surveying the gallery with a RADAR-like scan. Jenkins was in the corner hovering around and looking efficient. I swear that he didn’t walk–he glided.

‘Oh, Mummy, come and look at this!’ I said enthusiastically, almost dragging her arm off with excitement, as I took her over to one of our new paintings.

Claire Winston had been introduced to me by Jocasta at the Young Mothers meeting and she, I was told, was a budding artist.

She had brought in a couple of her oils a few days before. She painted in the style of Cubism and her work was skilled and thought provoking. Knowing how many art lovers that we had–a surprising number considering the size of the village–I believed they would go down well with the viewers and possible buyers and they made a good counterpoint to the more traditional artists–like little old me–on display.

The first one in particular I liked, as it was a parody of Picasso’s Three Musicians, called Three Singers.

Dotty’s reaction was measured and thoughtful.

‘Bugger me with a pitchfork, what the bloody hell is that?’

‘It’s Cubism.’

‘Cu, what?’

‘Cubism, Mummy.’

‘Looks like some of that Picasso rubbish.’

‘I take it that you are not keen on this type of work.’

‘Odious little man; once met ’im on the left bank. Bloody cretin was more interested in starin’ at me bosom than discussin’ art. Sir Tremaine bloody nearly thrashed him there and then on the spot. Anyway enough of that; ‘can’t abide this modern rubbish, give me a good Gainsborough, anytime.’

I didn’t bother showing the other painting as it was perhaps a bit too much for her somewhat biased palette, so I changed the subject quickly. ‘So, Mummy, how are you doing with the new charity we are setting up?’

‘Damn’d pen pushers and red tape,’ she retorted, still looking at the painting as if it was something left on the pavement by Fifi that she had trodden in, ‘Do you know they wanted to police check me? What do they think I am, a bloody child molester and what would I do, set up some sort of child slavery organisation? I told them to contact Ronnie––’

‘–Ronnie?’

‘Yes, he’s the Chief copper around here.’

‘Chief Constable?’ I asked, in awe.

‘Isn’t that what I said? Having my screaming God child around yer must’ve made yer deaf. Anyway, what was I sayin? Oh yes, that Millie, or whatever her name is, is scourin’ the area ter see if we can find a suitable place. You would think that a small house with ten bedrooms would be easy ter find, but it’s seems that they are as rare as hens’ teeth.’

I had asked Dotty to get the ball rolling for me. I wanted to set up a holiday home for underprivileged children so that they could have a free seaside holiday. Aren’t I a nice girl?

Jenkins coughed politely. Glancing over, I notice that one eyebrow had gone up about an eighteenth of an inch and his eyes had flicked to the wall clock. That was the most expressive that I had seen him for some time and wondered, in passing if he had been at the cooking sherry or something.

‘What’s that, Jenkins? Oh yes, have ter go. Need ter go inter town with the Purdey. Sights gorn orf again. Missed a bloody mole by a good inch––’

‘–That’s about two and a half centimetres isn’t it, Mummy?’ I asked innocently.

‘Do not talk to me about that European rubbish. Feet and inches were good enough for our bloody forefathers and it should be good enough for us. It was bad enough when they started importing garlic by the sodding tankerful. Come on, Jenkins, stop twitchin’ yer eyebrows like that; it makes yer look ridiculous.

Coming back to the present, I could see Tracy looking out of the window with a strange look on her face.

I followed her gaze and saw a pretty girl about her own age staring rather intensely at a few of the photographs in the window.

‘Erm, I’ll pop ahtside, I fink I saw a smudge o’ dirt on the winder wot needs cleanin’.’

She put her mug down, grabbed a cloth from the kitchen and rushed outside. The girl looked at Tracy as the door opened and smiled.

Soon they were having an animated discussion with a lot of arm waving and it looked very much to me, that they knew each other quite well. Knowing Tracy’s preference of girls over boys, I wondered if this was one of those Kodak Moments.

I went to clean up the mugs and made sure that I didn’t stare at them more than ten times a minute. After the two girls kissed each other on the cheek and the girl went off, I made sure that I was looking the other way and polishing a mug as Tracy came back inside.

I glanced at her, noticing the soppy look on her face.

‘Was it dirty?’ I asked.

‘Wot?’ she said, looking both guilty and furtive at the same time, if that was possible.

‘The glass, was it dirty?’

‘Wot gl…oh, na, it was okay. I musta been mistyken.’

‘So,’ I asked casually, ‘is that a new friend?’

‘Who?’

‘That girl outside?’

‘Nah, never met her before in me life.’

I put the mug down with a clatter.

‘Tracy, you’re nose will get longer if you lie like that. Tell me all, is she your girl friend?’

She sighed and then sat down.

‘Met ’er on Facebook, didn’ I? Then we started textin’ and tweetin’ an that and she said that she would come and see me ’ere if she was passin’.’

‘Where does she live?’ I asked.

‘Penmarris.’

‘That doesn’t tell me much.’

‘She lives out by the recreation grahnd, near the skewl.’

‘And you like her?’

She went red and then nodded.

‘So,’ I asked, ‘what happens now?

‘We are goin’ to the flicks uptown ternight. ’Er mum’s gonna pick us up from Cove Cottage and take us there.’

Tracy’s mum didn’t drive so I suggested the obvious. ‘Would you like me to pick you both up afterwards?’

She looked up and smiled. ‘Can yer? That would be ace and brill an that. I—I—I want for yer ter like ’er.’

‘Why?’

She went even redder and mumbled something.

‘Pardon?’

She looked up and smiled shyly.

‘Cos you are like anuvver mum or at least an aunt ter me. I don’t ’ave any rellies–’

‘Rellies?’

‘Relations like, ’cept me mum, an it’s like—like I’m almost family––’

She got up in a hurry and I could see the tears on her cheeks as she rushed off to the loo and slammed the door behind her.

‘Aww,’ I thought, ‘isn’t that sweet!’ For some reason my eyes were watering. I wonder why that was?

~ §~

Hoverton was about twenty miles from Penmarris. It was a biggish town for Devon and not far from the Cornish border, with its check points, barbed wire, pasty-smuggler traps and killer piskies.

It was nine thirty on a Thursday evening and the town was fairly quiet, just a few pubs, restaurants and the Playhouse Cinema open. Luckily, it was a fine night and fairly warm, so I had no need to get my darling Beemer wet. I had of course polished her earlier which was normally a sure sign of rain on the way.

I had parked nearly opposite the cinema under a lamppost so that they could see my car clearly and I was expecting the film to finish in about ten minutes. I think I looked rather glam tonight, though I say so myself. I was wearing a pretty pink satin blouse and rather scrumptious–if somewhat short–black skirt and tights. I kept pulling the skirt down a bit because it was riding up.

I wanted to show Tracy and her friend that she might think of me as a ‘mumsie’ or ‘auntie’ figure, but I could, with a bit of effort and in poor light, look more twenty something than thirty something.

Mind you, Abby, for some reason, had thought that it was a mistake to dress like that.

‘‘You can’t go out like that!’ she said.

‘Why not?’ I asked as I looked at myself in the mirror.

‘Well, it’s just––’

‘–What?’

‘Well, you’re not going to a vicars and tarts party.’

‘Don’t be daft, I look perfectly respectable. Are you saying that I don’t look nice?’

‘Of course you do. I want to ravish you on the spot, but––’

‘–I haven’t got time; look, I have to go, byeee!’

I kissed her passionately on the mouth, my pink lip gloss sliding against her moist, red ,soft and succulent lips... and wanted to stay for more, but I had to go as I hate being late at the best of times and Tracy would never forgive me for not being there for her.

I dashed outside and nearly ran into Mrs Pearson who was walking her Great Dane, or was the Great Dane walking her?

‘Hello, Mrs P, got to dash…’

‘Yez. ’M’ she said trying to control her dog who was almost too close to comfort to my darling car and was threatening to drool all over the shiny bonnet.

‘Fancy dress, init?’ she said

‘What.’

‘Tarts clothes, fancy dress, never saw nothin’ in ‘t parish news.’

‘I am not going to a fancy dress. I wear this because it’s nice. Elvis, get off of my car!’

‘Ee only bein’playful, ’m.’

‘If he doesn’t stop doing that, I’ll playfully wring his neck. Look, sorry I have to go, I’ll be late–’

‘Wouldn’t let Mr P see me lookin’ like that for nobody. Give ‘im ideas that would, Skirt up aroun’ yer neck an’ a tarts blouse–’

‘Look, I have to go and Elvis, stop that! If you dare pee up my tyre, I…I’ll tie your thingie in a knot!’

The daft dog seemed to get the idea and slunk or is that slinked off with Mrs Pearson holding on for dear life muttering something about Lady Chatterley…

I got in the car, stroked the steering wheel and whispered, ‘there, there, there, my precious, that naughty doggy woggy nearly weed all over you,’ and then was about to drive off to meet Tracy, when I saw my reflection in the rear view mirror

‘Eek!’ I said looking at my lipstick ravaged face. Abby and I had obviously been a wee bit over-enthusiastic a little earlier.

I may have mentioned it before, but I have a wonderful BMW and it has lots of goodies that make a girl swoon with pleasure. One of the most important features, almost more important than the engine is the sun visor.

When I pull down the drivers sun visor it reveals two lights mounted in the roof lining. These lights come on whenever the flap over the vanity mirror is slid open. This accessory is essential when you need to repair your makeup.

I soon repaired the damage, but as I was in a hurry, I sort of went past the normal edges of my lips, making them look fuller and rather more alluring, if I say so myself. It made me wonder if I should have those injections to make my lips look more glamorous but then again, I don’t like injections at the best of times so I might give that a miss.

I looked at the clock and gave another little ‘eek,’ I was going to be late if I didn’t hurry myself up.

Without further delay and with screeching tires, I headed off to town.

~ §~

Anyway, back to the present; I was listening to a nice calming bit of Vivaldi’s L’autunno with my eyes closed and getting wrapped up in the splendour of the piece when there was a knock on the passenger side window. There was a man there.

I stopped the music and then looked over to him.

‘Yes?’ I said.

He mumbled something. I couldn’t hear him, so I pressed the window button down and let the window drop six inches. I love the smooth swish of the window when I do this. I could play with it all day…

‘Yes?’ I said to the middle aged balding man, who despite the clemency of the weather was wearing a heavy and rather dirty raincoat.

‘How much?’

‘How much?’ I replied, wondering why he was breathing so heavily. Perhaps he had been running?

‘Yes, how much.’

‘How much what?’

‘Do you charge.’

‘Charge?’

‘Yes.’

‘For what?’

‘For your services.’

A light went on in my head. He must know me from the gallery. He wants to exhibit something.

‘Oh it depends. I’ll give you one of my cards and you can ring me…’

‘No, I just want to know what you charge.’

He kept looking up and down the road for some reason. Perhaps he was waiting for his taxi?

‘Oh right,’ I said, getting very businesslike and to the point. You can’t say that I can be the hard headed business women when I want to be. ‘It’s free to exhibit…’

‘I don’t want to exhibit, that’s what you do. I just want a quick one.’

‘Quick one? Oh you mean you want to sell quickly. Well, is it a painting or photo…’

‘Got no time for photo’s - look how much.’

This was getting us nowhere. I could tell I was near the Cornish border, people were strange over there and it must be creeping over this way like some strange fog...

‘Well, the normal charge is ten percent or a hundred pounds, whichever the least is…’

‘How much! Bloody hell woman, I could get three for that.’

He stood up, looked down the road, seemed to pale a bit in the yellow of the street light and without another word, strode down the road, looking rather furtive, I thought.

I looked at my watch and realised that the girls would be out in a minute. I was just about to caress my ears with more Vivaldi when there was yet another knock on my window.

I looked over and there was a policeman bending down, looking at my legs and then my chest for some reason and frowning.

The window swished down again.

‘Yes officer?’

‘You can’t stop here.’

‘Why not?’

‘You lot have been warned before, no loitering otherwise you get nicked.’

‘Loitering? There’s no yellow lines officer, I don’t know what…’

‘Spare me the excuses; I’ve heard it all before. Look, you don’t look like a regular, you must be new. Drive off now and we’ll say no more, but if you come back here, you are nicked. I…’

‘Oh, there are the girls. Get in now; hurry up, this nice police officer wants us to move.’

Tracy and her friend Tammy were both giggling and got in the back while the policeman stood there shaking his head.

‘Thank you sergeant,’ I said.

‘I…I’m a constable.’

‘Not for long, I’m sure.’

I gave him my sweetest smile and drove of leaving him scratching his head for some reason.

‘Well girls,’ did you have a nice time?’

‘Yes,’ said Tracy, who then started giggling.

‘What?’

I looked in the mirror and noted that they were holding hands. Ah, wasn’t that sweet?

‘What are you wearing?’ said Tracy.

‘What’s wrong with this? I think I look nice.’

They just giggled all the more for some reason. Girls eh?

~ §~

I went to Tammy’s house first and Tracy walked hand in hand with Tammy to the door of her cottage. I pointedly looked away as they got up close and personal before Tammy opened the door and went in.

Tracy climbed back into the car looking a bit mussed up and sat next to me.

‘That’s a nice dress.’ I said.

She looked at me and exploded with laughter.

‘What?’

‘Nuffunk.’

‘Mmm; soooo, did you have a nice time,’ I asked as we drove off.

‘Yeah, it was ace.’

‘So, what was the film about?’

‘Can’t remember,’ she said and started giggling again.

I don’t think that I would ever understand young girls.

I dropped her off and she went into Cove Cottage with a wave and yet another giggle. As I wended my way up the hill to Jellicle Land, I wondered if I would have been like her if I had been a genetic girl? I rather hoped that I would, it seems like fun!

~ §~

I pulled up outside the cottage, switched the engine off, said ‘night, night,’ to my car, stopped for a moment to remove a speck from the bonnet and then went in.

Abby was in the sitting room, she had undressed and was wearing a rather revealing short nightie and peignoir.

I went and sat next to her and gave her a toe-curling Heineken kiss–that reached the parts that other kisses don’t.

‘Shall we go to bed?’ I breathed in her ear.

‘Mmm,’ she replied, ‘but don’t change, I’ll help you with that.’

~ §~

The next day I was rather tired and sore for some reason and it was with some difficulty that I got up and ready for the day. I was dropping off Looby Loo aka Heather at Jocasta’s and then picking up Abby from the pottery.

We were having a boring meeting with the accountants. Tracy was temporary gallery manager for the day and Abby was letting her assistant, April Flowers, look after the pottery. April was a nice girl–dim but nice. If you told her what to do, after the twelfth time of asking she generally got it right. However, once in her head, she seemed to get it correct more times than not.

We had our meeting which mainly consisted of finding ways to defraud the Inland Revenue out of its blood money legally.

I still didn’t understand why, when the world’s finances were going downhill, mine were going up without me actually doing much. The businesses were doing fine without my interference and the nest eggs that I evidently had planted everywhere up to and including Timbuktu, were doing very well and I was, if wasn’t very careful, soon going to appear on the FT richest list if I didn’t do some serious spending.

I did not realise how rich my ex daddy-in-law had been. Quite often, I wondered how many of his doubloons were obtained legally and how much loot he raked in using dubious means. Early on, I had shut down the worst of his loan shark businesses and wiped off the debts: I had many letters of thanks from the victims of his dubious transactions.

I had opened up some new shops for loans where people could borrow money at little more than the bank base rate. People–so called in the know–said that I would rake up huge debts; but it just didn’t work out like that and although we didn’t run at a profit, we didn’t lose either. I also helped out with various charities and if I saw something where someone was in dire need, I would send them something anonymously to help out.

Nigel had been a right s**t, and I hoped he was spinning in his urn as he thought about the amount of money that I was handing out to worthy causes.

Right now, the local school kids were having a spin aboard the yacht. I didn’t know who were more excited, the children or teachers and parents. I wanted to go with them, but what with everything, I hadn’t had the time. We had booked to go for a short cruise in about a month’s time and we were looking forward to it and so were all our friends. It’s funny how many friends you find you have when you own a huge great plastic tub!

Mind you, I did have a bit of a problem with begging letters, but Katie dealt with all of those–or rather Mrs Jenkins did.

Ah you are quick, you Sherlock Holmesian types, aren’t you? Well it isn’t a three pipe problem. Mrs Jenkins is the mother of the Butler Jenkins and, by the way, of Katie too. She lives at Dotty Towers with the rest of the mob and works part time with Katie in the office.

She is as hardnosed as they come and vets all the letters that come in. Thank goodness my home address isn’t advertised. About one percent of the letters are genuine and I help out where I can; the rest go in the bin or get polite rejection letters.

~ §~

One day, Heather, Abby and I were on the beach, making the most of it before the winter came and spoilt things. Heather was in her buggy-cum-carry cot thingy with a sweet little sun hat protecting her delicate little head.

Abby was building sandcastles for some reason and I was looking on, humouring her and making suggestions as to where she should plonk her next bucketful. I was in charge of the sandwiches and had the important job of keeping the sand out of everything.

Abby looked very fetching in a one peace coral-coloured swimsuit. I was wearing one too, but with a short skirt that hid my unmentionables. One day quite soon I hoped to have the op and as I could afford it, I would get the best surgeon available. Then I would wear a two piece and to hell with the ogling.

It was an idyllic scene: the beach was dotted with late holidaymakers, making hay–or should it be sand–while the sun shone. Various locals, whom I now recognised, if not by name, then by looks, were also frolicking or rollicking on the beach with or without an optional dog or two.

In the distance I could hear the chink of glasses as the Crab and Lobster and The Toad and Tart catered for their clientele. The fish and chip shop smell wafted in and out on the tide, making me feel like I could murder a haddock and chips or even–at a pinch–a nice juicy saveloy. I didn’t even think of having a pasty as I had already exceeded my legal weekly allowance.

I sat back in my deck chair ( £1 an hour) and shut my eyes. This was what I wanted, a nice peaceful life with nothing to worry about…

My phone chirped.

‘Bugger.’ I said.

‘Language!’ said Abby as she worked tirelessly on her moat.

I fished out the iPhone and pressed the right button.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi Sam, it’s Marcia.’

‘Hi Marcia, how’s my favourite Doc?’

‘Fine, now I need to see you and Abby as soon as.’

‘Why, is it about Heather?’

‘No, she’s doing fine, it’s about you and Abby.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look, I can’t talk on the phone. Can you come up to the surgery sharpish. We’ll talk then.’

‘We’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’

‘Okay, ’bye.’

I heard the click and looked at an enquiring Abby. ‘Marcia wants us up at the surgery, pronto.’

‘What about?’

‘Don’t know. We’d better go.’

We picked up everything and made our way up the beach. We covered ourselves with our almost matching Saress beach dresses; pink for me, yellow for Abby and after cleaning the sand off our feet and putting on our sandals, we were ready. Pushing a pushchair up a sandy beach ought to be an event at the Olympic Games. It certainly gave me muscles where I didn’t ought to have any!

It was only a few moments later that we were in the surgery.

‘Hi, Candice, Marcia wanted to see us.’

Candice looked ten years younger now. She was happier with life, now that her daughter–once her son–was ‘out’. I considered her as one of my friends, where once there was decided enmity between us.

‘Go straight in. I’ll look after Heather,’ she said, smiling and picking up the young ’un for a quick cuddle.

We went in and I was surprised that Katie was also there. For a moment, I thought that something was missing, then I realised that Katie’s ‘boyfriend’ Captain Caveman, wasn’t there. It was strange seeing her without him; she normally stuck to him like some sort of human barnacle. No doubt he was on our ship, looking after the school kids and polishing the hubcaps or something equally technical.

After the obligatory hugs and air kisses we settled down on chairs and looked at medical and legal advisers expectantly.

‘Bad news or very bad news?’ asked a decidedly cryptic Katie.

I glanced at Abby, mystified.

‘Bad?’ she said, appearing as baffled as I.

‘You go first then, Marcia.’

‘Right you two, it’s decision time,’ said Marcia.

‘What about?’ Abby asked.

‘Do you two want more children?’

I looked at Abby and she at me. We had talked about this lot lately and hadn’t really made any decision yet. We presumed that we had all the time in the world and we also wanted to concentrate on Heather for a while. We had discussed it with Marcia about a month ago and she said that she would find out what our options were, for when we were ready to decide.

‘Yes, eventually.’ I replied, ‘but we weren’t sure about whether we would adopt or use some of the sperm that Olivia had siphoned off, so to speak.’

‘I have just had the fertility clinic on the phone. They say – we have a problem, Houston.’

‘What problem?’

‘Nigel’s mother has demanded that the sperm be destroyed. If we move quickly we can head her off. The person in charge of the clinic is an old school chum and she’s stonewalling, but time’s limited. If it goes to court, it could take half a lifetime to sort out and the sperm may not be viable by the time it is sorted. It would mean inseminating you, if you want that, Abby and hoping that it all works out.’

‘What?’ said Abby and I together.

Then Katie spoke–

‘Now for the very bad news, she is going to court to gain custody of Heather. She doesn’t consider your “relationship” to be a fit one in which to bring up a child.’

‘WHAT––?’

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.