Previously…

‘What’s all this about then?’ I asked, eying up Popeye while his new Olive Oil looked on appreciatively.

He was a handsome man, if you liked that kind of thing–which Katie, with her simpering look obviously did. She was hanging on his every word and was the antithesis of the hard headed business woman we knew and loved. I nearly missed his words.

‘Well, Ms Smart––’

‘–Samantha, please.’

‘Right, erm well, erm, Samantha. I had no instructions as to what to do, that’s why I wrote to you.’

‘You wrote to me? Why?’

‘Well, it’s in the letter.’

‘But I haven’t seen it–’

Then I remembered the post that even now was sitting on the kitchen table waiting to be opened…

‘Anyway, now you’re here, you can tell me what this is all about.’

‘Well, It’s about the Sunseeker––’

‘Sunseeker?’ I queried.

‘The boat–in the harbour.’

‘What about the boat in the harbour?’

‘What do you want to do with it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, after Nigel and his daughter died, it became yours.’

‘WHAT!’

‘It’s your boat and I need instructions from you.’

‘Bloody Hell!’ I exclaimed.

Here we go again––

And now the story continues…

You could have spliced my main brace with a marlin spike.

You could have spanked my spinnaker.

You could have heaved me by the leg in a runnin’ bowlin’.

You could have keelhauled me and made me walk the plank, but not necessarily in that order.

You could have done more nautical thingies–but I’m too much of a landlubber to think of any more.

I’m not a clever girl. I never said I was. I didn’t even have an O level in some sort of ology.¹ *

What I was, was (is that too many wasses?) a girl who was lucky to have my Abby and Heather. A girl who was happy with her friends and family, not forgetting Mummy Dottie and living in an idyllic spot that made me want to pull open the curtains every morning and shout ‘Yes!’ at the top of my voice.

I did do that once and I nearly gave Mr Pearson a heart attack as he was mowing the tiny lawn. It didn’t help by the fact that I was wearing a naughty nightie that left little to anyone’s imagination. My face was as red as my nightie and he evidently needed two pints of scrumpy and an illegal Cornish pasty to get over the trauma.

Anyway, back to the plot.

I looked at Captain Birdseye, incredulously.

‘Pardon?’

‘Erm–she’s your boat and I need instructions from you?’

‘About what?’

‘What to do with her?’

‘With who?’

‘Lady Olivia–your boat.’

‘My boat?’

‘Yes, your boat.’

‘The one in the harbour, enormous, white, plastic, sleek and sexy looking?’

‘That’s her.’

He was looking at me strangely. I didn’t mind that. It was strange. I wasn’t being helped by the others who looked like they were at Wimbledon, looking at one of us and then the other as if they were watching the ball passing back and forth over the net. I would be having words with Abby later–if I could get over the shock–and I’d have to change its name.

‘You’re saying it’s mine?’

‘I did say she’s yours, yes.’

‘All of it, him, her?’

‘Yes–all a hundred and twenty-one feet of her.’

‘It, erm–she’s not a time-share type boat then. You know, I have her for a week then she goes orf–I mean–off to someone else?’

‘Nope, all yours, lock stock and barrel.’

‘Smoking barrel?’

‘No, just barrel. Her exhaust is almost invisible.’

‘She wasn’t bought with ill-gotten gains, was she?’ I said, thinking about gun- or drugs-running, and stuff like that.

‘I don’t think so; she was bought from a lawyer in Miami who wanted to liquefy his assets.’

‘So she was a booze ship?’

He looked at me as if I had a screw loose–well I felt that I did–nuts screws washers, and bolts as well as other assorted hardware.

‘Erm–no.’

There was a pregnant pause, whatever that means. Katie coughed gently as I sank into a chair and tried to take it all in.

‘Sam, I know it’s a shock, love, but you do own the Sunseeker whether you like it or not.’

‘Like it, like it! she’d be mad not to like it.’ said Abby enthusiastically, ‘what is there not to like about a Sunseeker?’

‘The running costs for a start. I bet Captain L J Silver here gets paid loadsa dubloons for driving the boat and then there’s the deck hands––’

‘–Ooooh, deck hands!’ squealed Katie–rather too enthusiastically for my liking.

‘I bet there’s a chef and I don’t mean the McDonalds variety either and of course there has to be a cheeky ship’s boy too, who hid as a stowaway in chapter 4 and stayed on, as he is such a lovable character. It’s a lot of expenses for a floating plastic tub. Then of course there’s probably a ship’s engineer–Scottish of course–who always pipes up and says "Captain, the engines cannae tak’ ony mair!"’

Captain Ahab mumbled something.

‘Pardon?’ I said.

He coughed.

‘She has a fibreglass or GRP construction.’

‘Who has?’

‘Your yacht, Ma’am.’

I rather liked being called Ma’am, a bit regal and Mummy-Dottie-like.

‘Never mind that,’ I said, getting back to the point, ‘I can’t afford it. I’ll have to sell her.’

Katie coughed.

‘Have you all caught colds?’ I asked. ‘What’s with the coughing, already?’

I was sounding more and more like a Maureen Lipmann’s BT advert-type clone by the minute and me not even a good Jewish girl–oy vey!¹

‘Samantha, you are sufficiently well off to own the boat and anyway, your accountant will tell you that everything, including this gorgeous–I mean the captain and crew–could be tax deductible if you play this right.’

‘Yes,’ said Abby enthusiastically, ‘and you could take those underprivileged kids for a spin in her when you have your charity set up. Then of course, we can do trips to France or the Med or and go to posh places like Monte Carlo and Cannes, moor her in front of a quay or riverside pub and show off a bit. The possibilities are endless.’

I wasn’t sure about mooring a one hundred and twenty foot-long gin palace in front of a pub would be a very good idea, even if Cap’n Pugwash could get her up the river.

I gazed at them all; the smooth captain, the occasionally wise Katie and the delectably edible Abby. I was teetering, a bit like someone aboard the Titanic, just about to go overboard for the final dive with the band playing on–

It would be nice to have a boat though and swan off to places new, meet other people and generally mess about, but there was just one thing––

I looked shamefaced. It was something I was ashamed of.

Abby came and sat by me.

‘What’s up, honey?’

‘It’s just––’

‘–Just what, love?’

‘Just, that, I—I—I–erm–can’t swim––’

‘–’sthat all,’ she asked dismissively.

‘It’s enough. How can I have a boat and not swim,’

‘Fiddlesticks. ’Course you can,’ Katie exclaimed. ‘Most of the fishermen in Penmarris and several members of the lifeboat crew–including Grace, the coxswain–can’t swim either. Ask David Gotobed, he’ll tell you. Anyway, you were talking about going sailing a few months ago.’

‘I know, but I was only dreaming.’

‘Mmm, what do you think mon capitain?’ said Katie.

He shrugged, ‘You don’t need to be able to swim; we can always use life-buoys.’

‘Ooh,’ she purred, hanging on his every word, ‘you can be my life boy, anytime!’

‘Katie, for God’s sake get a grip!’

We blethered on for another hour and I was eventually persuaded to keep the boat, as long as I wore a life jacket and kept off the booze…as if I ever let a drop of anything stronger than ginger beer pass my lips!

To be honest, I didn’t need that much persuasion. As Abbey said when we were in bed, exhausted after wave upon wave of nice naughtiness followed by an excessive ecstasy of erotic excitement; a boat is a nice accessory to have and I had to–breathlessly–agree.

~ §~

Word spread around the village quicker than a ship’s rat up a hauser. I was now the Onassis of Penmarris–Jackie, that is, not that fat bloke.

Next morning, Mummy bellowed down the phone at me as I consumed my cornflakes prior to going down to the Gallery.

‘Samantha, is that you?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, holding the phone several inches away from my delicate, shell-like ear.

‘Heard a rumour. That your boat out in the harbour?’

‘Yes.’

‘The bloody great big thing, flying a foreign ensign?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, get the bloody thing orf and put a red duster up in its place.’

‘Why should I use a red duster? All my dusters are yellow.’

‘Not that sort of duster, you blithering chump; Red Duster is what sailors call the red ensign–flown by all British ships the world over. Don’t forget to get her registered here too, none of yer Panama or other convenience rubbish. If she’s British, make sure she’s registered here. I expect to be given at least one cruise a year and if any royals come down, we need ter make sure that she’s fit for a queen.’

‘Queen?’ I squeaked, ‘our queen?’

‘How many queens d’yer think we’ve got? Philip might come, but keep him away from the controls, he’d go and put her aground on a reef, just fer the hell of it.’

‘Riiight, okay, Mummy, I’ll do what I can.’

‘Good, any problems with the authorities, let me know. I have a few chums in the Admiralty, don’t yer know. Mind you, the place has gorn to the dogs. What with the damn’ cutbacks, we have a smaller navy than bloody Switzerland. Got ter go, that idiot Crowland woman has made a dog’s breakfast of the flowers in church again–Fifi, don’t do that, it’s dirty.’

I heard a click and the phone went dead.

I contemplated my original wish for a quiet life down in the country, away from it all and being at one with nature.

‘Ah well,’ I thought, ‘this is more interesting!’

After feeding, watering, changing and inserting Heather into a BabyGro, making sure that the arms went into the arm holes and the legs into the holes cunningly designed for legs, I put her in the buggy and then we were off down to the quay and the gallery. Abby was going potty this morning–she had a rush job of vases–so she had gone off early to do her sweat and toil bit.

On the way down, I met a rather upset looking Jocasta on the way up.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, stopping the buggy and just remembering to put on the brake before it careered down the road and plunged into the harbour.

‘Philippa’s fallen off her pony and broken her stupid collarbone.’

‘Ooh, nasty. Where is she?’

‘In the Cottage hospital getting strapped up, silly moo.’

‘Why ‘silly moo’?

‘Because she thought she could jump a fence and show off to her sister, Jennifer. Luckily the horse is okay, otherwise I’d have broken her other collarbone for her.’

‘That’s not very charitable.’

‘No, well you just wait until you have another child; sibling rivalry is no laughing matter. Look I have to go, I’ll phone you later.’

‘All right, but remember, you were young once.’

‘Was I? I can’t remember, but even if I was, I wasn’t as stupid as my two!’

I continued down and found myself back at the quay. From about half way down I could see Lady Olivia rising and falling gently to the swell and felt a funny feeling in my tummy that she was my boat and any time I wanted to I could leap aboard, release the handbrake and zoom off anywhere I wanted–on the sea that is. That made me wonder if I needed L-plates or something to drive her?

Shrugging my shoulders, I continued on my way down the quay, past the Pottery, where I finger waved to my beloved and then opened my gallery.

As I walked in, my nose twitched slightly as the smell of new paint hadn’t totally disappeared yet. There were a number of paintings stacked up ready for hanging. There were also a few small sculptures to be placed strategically for viewing and possible sale.

I couldn’t wait for the opening in a few short days time and wondered how well the business would do. Alright, I had a few bob in the bank, but I didn’t earn it by the sweat of my fevered brow. The paintings of mine, that were going to be shown–with those of other local artists–were all my own work and I would be more than a little chuffed to actually have a few bought by people who appreciated art; well my art, anyway.

I parked the buggy in the corner out of the sun. Heather was fast asleep so she didn’t need much in the way of attention at the moment.

‘Right,’ I said to myself, ‘let’s get this show on the road.’

I had a lot to do today; I wanted to hang the paintings, place spotlights. Rearrange some furniture––

There was a knock on the door. Peering through was a well known face.

I went over and opened the door. ‘Hello Marcia, what does my favourite doctor want?’

‘Well may I come in then?’

‘’Course,’ I replied, stepping aside and letting her in.

‘’It all looks very nice,’ she said looking around.

‘It’ll look even better when the paintings are hanging.’

‘True,’ she said.

‘Erm, is this a social call?’

She looked at me and smiled.

‘Nice boat out there?’

‘Which one?’ I asked, innocently.

‘You know the dirty great flashy one with the radar what’sit whirling round and round.’

‘Oh that boat. Yes, she’s quite nice.’

‘Of course you being the owner, you will get to use her quite a lot.’

‘I don’t know about that––’

‘–And of course, you’ll need a ship’s doctor, on call day and night in case you get seasick or maybe scurvy, beri-beri or typhus; the list is endless.’

‘I’m sure it is, but I think I’ll be okay.’

‘Oh, right, erm–good, well I’d better be off to surgery then.’

‘See ya later.’ I said.

‘Right, I’ll be off.’ She went to the door and opened it.

‘Marcia.’

‘Mmm?’ she said turning back.

‘I might need a doctor, on board. Scurvy can be a bit tricky if you haven’t any lime slices for your pink gin–not that I drink of course–but I suppose that it’s better to be safe than sorry.’

‘Great!’ she said enthusiastically. ‘See you in the pub later?’

‘All right, Mummy Dottie’s babysitting Heather tonight, she wants to strengthen her stiff upper lip or whatever and she says that I need to get out and enjoy myself. I couldn’t believe it was her saying that and then I heard Sarah say something in the background so she’s probably takin’ advice from the ex hired help. She’s softer than she looks.’

‘I still wouldn’t want to meet her on a dark night.’

‘Didn’t you say you had surgery?’

‘Yes, Cap’n,’

‘Don’t you start, I’ll see you later, bye.’

~ §~

‘Right, let’s–’ There was another knock on the door.

‘Bloody h––come in Millie.’ I said as she came in, breathlessly.

‘Tell me you haven’t sold it?’

‘Sold what?’

‘Your yacht.’

‘No, why?’

‘It’s just I have contacts, who’ll give you a good price.’

‘But I’m not selling?’

‘Not?’

‘Nope.’

‘Oh, I heard, well never mind. That’s good. Am I invited?’

‘To what?’

‘Your inaugural voyage. You’ll have to have one, it’s good form.’

‘Where would I go?’

‘Not sure, you could venture into hostile waters like Cornwall; plunder and pillage for pasties, kidnap a few piskies and be back in home waters in time for tea.’

‘If and when that happens, you will be the first member of the boarding party–bring your own knife and fork.’

‘Will do, must dash, I have to see a woman about a rose covered cottage,’

‘Riiight, see you later.’

I shut the door and my with my head swimming, I made my way to the kitchen and put the kettle on–then looked in the mirror and it didn’t suit me, so I took it off again! It appeared that all of my friends and half the village wanted to get a ride on the boat. At this rate the engines would wear out sooner than you could recite, “the boy stood on the burning deck”.

After making my tea, I returned to the gallery, checked on Sleeping Beauty, who was still in the land of nod and blowing raspberries, then put my cup down and rubbed my hands in anticipation.

‘Righ’–’

There was a knock on the door.

I nearly swore; only the presence of my lickle, ickle baby girl, who was legendary for light sleeping, prevented me from uttering some dockyard badinage pertinent to the moment.

I opened the door and saw a teenage girl.

‘The boat’s fully booked for the next ten years.’ I said rather testily.

‘Do what?’ she said.

‘The boat.’

‘What boat?’

‘In the harbour.’

‘I don’t want a boat.’

‘No?’

‘No,’

‘Oh, sorry, got my spinnakers in a twist. Let’s start again. Can I help you?’

‘Job?’

‘Job?’

‘Mmm.’

‘What about a job? Oh, you’ve come in answer to the advert?’

‘Yes ’M.’

‘Come in then, don’t stand on the doorstep.’

I ushered the girl in; got her to sit down on a–erm–seat.

I made us both a cuppa–my original one was a bit wishy-washy and not strong enough for an old sea dog or is that bitch, like me. I giggled at that naughty word and the girl gave me a strange look for some reason.

I kept glancing at her, trying to make up my mind on the brief–very brief conversation, whether she was suitable. They say at an interview that you make your mind up in the first few moments, but I wasn’t so sure. She was a pretty little thing with long blond hair, and not too pancake-like makeup; sensible skirt down to mid thigh and blouse that was almost mumsie. All that made me suspicious. Why didn’t she have the grunge look, wear jeans and t-shirt that showed her navel and have a snivelling snarl on her face? She wasn’t yer normal teenage stereotype. Mind you, up to now she hadn’t strung a sentence together, so I would have to suspend judgement.

I gave her the tea and drew up a chair.

‘So,’ I said brightly, ‘you saw the advert?’

‘Yes ’M.’

‘It said, I think, “bright, alert assistant required to help in a new art gallery on the quay. Experience not necessary but should be quick with figures”. Do you think you qualify?’

‘Yes ’M.’

‘Goood–erm–tell me about yourself. Firstly it would help to know your name.’

‘Tracy–I’m 17 and live at ’ome wiv me mum.’

‘You aren’t from around here are you, Tracy?’

Perceptive aren’t I?

‘Na, Peckham Rye. Mum moved down ‘ere when scum bag pis–I mean–went off wiv vat cow.’

‘Cow?’

‘Yeah, she was a shop assistant at Tesco’s.’

I thought we were drifting from the point. ‘Okay, how did you do at school?’

‘Hated it.’

‘Why?’

‘I woz picked on wern I?’

‘Wern…I mean, were you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why were you picked on?’

‘Cos I were different.’

‘In what way?’

She looked at me, blinking. I could almost hear the cogs in her brain clanking and getting into gear.

‘I ’eard fings?’

‘Fings?’

‘Yeah.’

‘About what?’

‘You.’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What about me?’

‘Yer different like.’

‘Like?’

‘Yeah.’

This was getting surreal.

‘Tell me what you heard.’

‘My mum works in the post office; she heard fings…like you woz once a bloke.’

‘So; it’s no secret that I am a girl with bits that are superfluous.’

‘Super what?’

‘It means that I have boy bits that I don’t need.’

‘Riiigh’.’

She was silent, looking at me.

‘Well?’ I said.

‘Well what?’

‘You were going to tell me about things.’

‘Yea, right, well, I’m different too.’

‘You mean that you’re a boy too?’

‘Nah, I’m a girl.’

‘What makes you different then?’

‘Gay, in’ I?’

‘So you’re a lesbian?’

‘Yeah, I went to an all girls school and I fancied a coupla ve uvva girls, didn’ I. Only ve girls woz straight an they got it all round the school that I was a dyke, like and then my life was pure ’ell. Couldn’t study an got upset an’ me results stank.’

‘Did you get any good results.’

‘Only in art.’

Ah, I was getting closer. ‘So you like art?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So,’ I said, standing up, going to the corner, picking up one of my paintings and showing her. It was of a field with poppies on a bright summer’s day. I liked it as it was colourful and caught the moment. I put it on an easel. ‘What d’you think of this?’

She stood up and came over. I watched her expression as she inspected the painting. Her face had come alive–she was smiling slightly and her eyes were darting all over the place, absorbing everything.

‘Wow.’ She said.

‘Apart from “wow” can you tell me anything about it?’

‘It’s a watercolour, obviously; I like the delicate brush strokes, the way the sunlight plays on the flowers and the shadows mean that it’s prob’ly mid-mornin’. It has good balance wiv the tree on the left and gentle hill on the right, makin me eyes draw through to the back of the painting. It’s a brill picture–who painted it?’

‘I did?’

She turned to me her eyes wide with surprise.

‘You? Wow, can yer teach me ter paint like vat?’

‘Can you do anything yourself?’

‘Yeah, but not vat good.’

‘What have you done then?’

She went back to the chair and picked up her rather large shoulder bag, rummaged around and pulled out a rolled sheet, then returned and handed it to me.

I took off the laccy-band and unrolled it.

It was a sketched portrait, drawn of a pretty woman sitting on a deck chair with the beach and sea behind her. To the side was a long pier and children playing by the water. Sea gulls were flying in the sky and it was altogether a lovely and very detailed sketch from a raw but talented artist.

‘Vat woz at Sarfend,² last summer. Vat’s me mum.’

‘She’s really pretty?’ I remarked.

‘Mmm, so why did dad go off wiv vat cow of a bitch?’

I looked away from the drawing and noticed a tear in the corner of her eye.

‘I don’t know, honey,’ I said quietly, ‘sometimes things just don’t work out. My marriage failed.’

‘Cos you dress pretty?’ she sniffed.

‘Partly, I suppose but there were other things. Anyway, back to you. Why d’you want the job?

‘’Coz I love art and I want to be an artist like you and be famous an’ ev’ryfink. Bu’ I need to learn more.’

‘So you think you can learn from the experience?’

‘Yes ’m.’

‘I pay fifty pee above the minimum wage. If you suit me and I suit you, I’ll review things after three months. The job includes keeping the place spotless and being nice to customers. You have to be good with people mind. I don’t want you putting customers off. Do you think you can do it?’

‘Yeah, if I get the chance.’

I looked at her. She looked eager and keen now and not defensive and teenage angst-like. I wondered if I was making a mistake, but she was a character and there were plenty of those around here, and it might be the making of her.

‘Hmm, alright, be here tomorrow at nine and bring some work clothes. We’ll keep the nice stuff for when we open. Do you normally dress like that or did your mum say you should?’

She looked down at herself.

‘I like ter look pretty: How can I ’ook anuvver girl if I ain’t pretty?’

I sighed. ‘Oh for the simple life,’ I thought.

‘Well, see you tomorrow then.’

‘Fanks, ’M.’

‘You don’t have to call me ’M’, Samantha will be fine, Tracy.’

‘Okay, Samanfa, see yer tomorrrer.’

She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder and bounced out of the gallery like a female Zebedee on steroids.

I sighed, wondering once again why I was so soft, but I saw something of myself in Tracy. That passion for art that you’ve either got or you haven’t, and that she had struggled for her sexuality–as I had. It was enough for me to give her a chance.

I put the cups in the sink for washing later and cast my eyes around the studio.

‘Now then,’ I said, ‘Let’s––’

My ’phone chirped. ‘Shit,’ I muttered under my breath.

Heather woke up and flexed her lungs, at the same time there was a knock on the door; I glanced at it and saw Jocasta and the girls outside. Philippa had her arm in a sling. I waved them in and answered my extremely persistent ’phone.

‘Yes?’ I snapped, none too politely.

‘It’s Dawn, you sound annoyed for some reason.’

‘Sorry, Dawn, can you hang on for half a mo’.’ I put my hand over the ’phone.

‘Can you sort Heather out?’ I asked Jo and the girls, who immediately descended on the flapping child while I retired out the back and continued the conversation outside.

‘Sorry, Dawn, all hell seems to be breaking loose at once. I can’t wait till you all come down.’

‘Yes, in a few days we’ll be Penmarris residents.’

‘And as mad as the rest of us. Did you ring for a reason?’

‘Yes, look, I heard that you now own that bloody great ship in the harbour, and we were wondering–’

I groaned––

___________
¹ Maureen Lipman as Beatrice Bellman (Beatie/BT)and one of her BT adverts from the 1980’s
See: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vEfKEzX9QLE

² Sarfend: Cockney-speak for Southend in Essex, a favourite seaside resort among Londoners, famed for the length of its pier, the longest pleasure pier in the world, being 1.33 miles long. It has its own railway with a train to take you to “The End of the Pier”.
See: http://www.southend.gov.uk/content.asp?section=583

---

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.

 

Previously…

I put the cups in the sink for washing later and cast my eyes around the studio.

‘Now then,’ I said, ‘Let’s––’

My ’phone chirped. ‘Shit,’ I muttered under my breath.

Heather woke up and flexed her lungs, at the same time there was a knock on the door; I glanced at it and saw Jocasta and the girls outside. Philippa had her arm in a sling. I waved them in and answered my extremely persistent ’phone.

‘Yes?’ I snapped, none too politely.

‘It’s Dawn, you sound annoyed for some reason.’

‘Sorry, Dawn, can you hang on for half a mo’.’ I put my hand over the ’phone.

‘Can you sort Heather out?’ I asked Jo and the girls, who immediately descended on the flapping child while I retired out the back and continued the conversation outside.

‘Sorry, Dawn, all hell seems to be breaking loose at once. I can’t wait till you all come down.’

‘Yes, in a few days we’ll be Penmarris residents.’

‘And as mad as the rest of us. Did you ring for a reason?’

‘Yes, look, I heard that you now own that bloody great ship in the harbour, and we were wondering–’

I groaned––

And now the story continues…

‘So, I have great pleasure in opening this gallery. It’s about bloody time we had some culture here in Penmarris Cove. Where’s the scissors, then?’

~ §~

I couldn’t help smiling at Dotty, in her finest finery; dead fox draped around her neck and bits of birds on her head in the shape of a hat; looking more regal than royalty as she stood there doing her civic duty. I half expected animal welfare protesters with placards complaining about her cruelty to animals–something I agreed with but I was too much of a coward to say so–regarding her outmoded fashion statement, but she would have set Fifi on them. Then again, what she did or tried to do with the poor mole colony on her lawn would send out the RSPCA hit squads or God forbid, Rolf Harris (with optional didgeridoo) on a raid, if widely known.

Prior to Dotty’s stepping up, we had to endure a speech by the Lady Mayor–one Ms Prendergast. I could see that there was history between her and Dotty. If looks could kill, they would both be pushing up the daisies. I put a mental knot in my finger to ask Jocasta why these two wanted to throttle one another…

While the good Mayoress was boring the knickers off everybody with her speech, my mind sort of wandered–

I gazed around at all those present and smiled. All my friends were there; Jocasta, David and the girls–Phillipa still with the much written-upon plaster cast on her arm; Marcia and Brian Sinclair, our resident doctors and my once sworn enemy, Candice from the surgery was with her daughter Bethany who was standing next to young Sarah, Dotty’s young adopted sprog–as she liked to call her. I was slightly concerned about those two–they were up to mischief, I just knew it by the constant nudges and, giggles and whispers.

Then there was Katie, on the arm of Captain Hornblower–she was all over him like a rash and I think it did nothing for women’s suffrage to see a grown woman simper like that. The captain’s teeth shone so brightly in the sunlight that I wondered if he flossed more than once daily.

Glancing over at the humungous white streamlined plastic tub moored in the harbour, I wondered if I was making the right decision to keep her. The sun was glinting off the chrome bits, making me think that it must be a pig to keep everything “shipshape and Bristol fashion”.¹ Later on, Abby and I were going to be taken on a tour of inspection. What that entailed, I wasn’t sure but I think that the skipper mentioned something about splicing the mainbrace–it sounded painful and guaranteed to make my eyes water.

Millie, the resident estate agent had her iPhone glued to her lug’ole while doubtless arranging the sale of the vacant beach hut on the East Beach for a price that would buy a mansion in many other parts of the country. She had high hopes of a nice commission on that particular des. res.

My Abby and Heather were present–of course–and I smiled and gave them a little wave. Then there were some of the artists looking proud to be part of everything and done up to the nines in their best bibs and tuckers. These gifted people were showing their works at the gallery and were hoping to become rich and famous at some future, as yet unspecified, date. I was so surprised at the level of talent in these ’ere parts and I would be a bit miffed if everyone else’s works were sold before mine! Then I remembered that I was a bone fide professional artist and Mummy Dotty had already bought one of my paintings, so I shouldn’t be an ungrateful cow but be happy for others, should they happen to sell their stuff before mine.

My brand new assistant, Tracy looked very nice in a silky top and rather short white skirt. She had been a godsend to me and was very useful around the place. She had almost, but not quite, lost the “Dick Van Dyke” Cockney accent but I was working on it. I felt a bit like Henrietta Higgins saying things like the rain in Spain, etc. It was hard work, but someone had to do it. I was a bit concerned though as the last few days she hadn’t been as chirpy as before and she had dark circles under her eyes that Max Factor couldn’t totally hide.

Then to complete the throng, there were a fair number of locals and others I didn’t recognise. Altogether a splendid turnout, I thought. I just hoped that we had enough vols—aux—vents and canapés to go round!

It had been decided to use a room in The Toad and Tart for post opening festivities. The last thing I wanted was some oik throwing up over one of the paintings. See, I told you I was a hard-headed business woman.

It was a fine day and Mr Sun was behaving himself. I was wearing a long flowing peach dress with a matching bolero jacket, just right for births, marriages and gallery openings. Abby had her cream tailored business dress suit on and looked truly scrumptious and Heather was very pretty in a very fetching pink dress and a pink ribbon in her three hairs.

Everyone had glammed up for the occasion and even my sister Dawn–newly arrived Penmarris resident–complete with her brood, had smartened herself up and was wearing a blouse and skirt rather than something and jeans. I just wished that young Timothy, my only nephew, would stop picking his nose and inspecting the contents before eating them.

The Boy Scouts and Girl Guide Bands had played something on their brass instruments but I wasn’t too sure what it was, as the girls were playing one tune and the boys another. Pachelbel’s Cannon it wasn’t!

The only thing missing from this festive scene were the normally ever-present sea gulls, probably due to the presence of Mummy Dotty, but that may just have been a coincidence.

I frowned as I saw the old sooth-sayer standing over by the harbour wall, mumbling incantations to herself and looking decidedly sixpence short of a shilling. I was not looking forward to her next pearls of wisdom. If she could foretell the future, why didn’t she win the lottery and get some clothes that didn’t look like they had been recovered from a skip? Word had it though; was that she was quite rich and had money stashed away in various places (including under her bed) and spoke to her stock broker every other Wednesday. The more I saw of this place and its residents the more I thought that truth could be stranger than fiction.

~ §~

Back to the present and everyone was looking expectant as the Mayoress had finally stopped speaking and Dotty proceeded to cut the wide pink ribbon across the front door of the gallery.

‘I have great pleasure in declaring this gallery ope–––Bloody hell, what’s wrong with these ******* scissors––’

Repeatedly, she tried to cut the ribbon, but the scissors wouldn’t cut! I took a swift glance towards Sarah and Bethany and saw them tittering. In a trice–or maybe a thrice–I knew that the scissors had been replaced by trick ones. I rummaged in my handbag as Dotty began to look as red as a beetroot and ready to blast anyone with her twelve bore, hastily took the trick ones from her shaking hands and replaced them with my nail scissors.

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled as she gave me a look that would have sunk the Spanish Armada and then she snipped the ribbon after the third go without further oaths or comments.

Everyone clapped and her face gradually returned to its more normal puce colour.

There was a bit of a tussle between Ms Prendergast and Dotty as to who should enter the gallery first. Dotty won of course with the judicial use of a couple of elbows and a feint to the left. I felt sure that she could play scrum half for the Penmarris Rugby Club, if asked.

The gallery looked gorgeous. All the paintings, drawings and other works of art were in place. It looked bright and airy with the large windows and well placed spotlights. The smell of paint had virtually disappeared and I was pleased to see Arthur Potts amongst the crowd who, erm, crowded in.

In an instant everyone was milling around looking at the artwork and making appreciative comments. Then I heard a Tracy-type squeal. She had seen it.

Without her knowing, I had put the drawing of her mum in a frame and hung it on one of the walls. It looked even better under the lights and I thought that she might be pleased to see it. I had made sure that it wasn’t something that she was bothered about keeping. She had told me over the inevitable cuppa only three days previously that she had made several similar sketches.

She bounced over to me with a huge grin on her face.

‘Cor, fanks ’Manfa,’

I sighed; we still had a long way to go with her elocution lessons, but today was not the day for quibbling.

‘You like?’

‘Wot?’

‘You like your drawing being shown?’

‘Yus; it’s great. I must get mum to come ’ere. She’d be right praad.’

‘That’s nice. You should ask her come and see your drawing.’ I was surprised that she wasn’t here.

‘Can I?’ she said excitedly. ‘She lives in Bodmin–so ’snot far.’

‘I thought she lived in the village?’

‘Erm no; like, Bodmin–’

‘That must cost a lot in petrol though; anyway she could stay with you for a few days if she can get time off, that is. Have you got room at your place?’

Her face fell for a moment and then lit up again.

‘Erm, yea, probly.’

‘Well if you haven’t let me know. We’ll sort something out.’

She brightened up again and then without thinking, she gave me a huge hug.

‘You are sooo brill, you are.’

‘I are…am?’

‘Yus,’

‘Oh look, Lady Fairbairn is looking at your drawing. I think you should go over there and explain that it’s yours.’

‘Oooh, she’d eat me alive–I’ve ’eard stories.’

‘It’s not true, she only eats humans when it’s a full moon; ask Sarah.’

I pushed her towards Dotty and then got caught up in a conversation with Ms Prendergast who was gushing over the gallery.

‘My dear, it’s toooo wonderful, divine, just what Penmarris needed––’

I zoned out again, nodding sometimes, shaking my head at others and trying bravely not to fall asleep–

Someone touched my shoulder.

‘Lady Mayoress, can I drag Samantha away, she’s needed urgently.’

‘Oh…right, of course.’

Ms P wondered off in search of another victim and I grinned at Millie.

‘Thanks, I was enduring terminal boredom with that woman.’

‘That’s what friends are for. Can I have a private word?’

‘Of course, let’s step outside and I can admire that wonderfully ostentatious, pretentious, flamboyant, gaudy, flashy, glitzy boat that appears to belong to me.’

‘Blimey, have you swallowed a dicker?’

‘Indubitably, now what is all this about?’

‘Let’s sit down by the harbour. Walls have ears’

‘I thought they had bricks.’

‘Ha, ha, you’ve been at the cooking sherry again?’

‘No, but I think our good Lady Mayoress has. She was slurring her words somewhat back there.’

‘She does like the odd snifter, or so I’ve heard–but let’s not get into that. You know the beach hut that I am trying to flog?’

‘You mean the bijou little residence with all mod cons and good lcn?’

‘lcn?’

‘Location, I thought you were supposed to be an estate agent?’

‘Never mind that, we are a misunderstood species. Anyway, as I was saying, I was there last night quite late. I had just finished some cod and chips–the haddock was off–and I walked over to the East Beach. I wondered if we could do a few more flattering photos of the hut to maximise its potential. Anyway I heard some noises coming from inside the hut. I sneaked over and put my eye to a crack in the wall boards and peaked inside. You never guess what I saw?’

‘Elvis?’

‘No, he’s on the moon–don’t you know anything?’

She looked around furtively and then continued. ‘Tracy.’

‘Tracy?’

‘Yes, Tracy.’

‘What about Tracy?’

‘She was in there. She had her jim-jams on and had made herself at home, using the tastefully appointed bench as a bed.’

‘Blimey!’

‘As you say–blimey.’

‘I thought–I mean I was under the impression–that she was staying at her mum’s place, though she’s just told me that she lives in Bodmin so maybe a B&B would have been appropriate. Anyway, sorry to interrupt, you were saying?’

‘Right. Anyway about the beach hut, a B&B it isn’t. There might be what is loosely termed as a bed in there, but the breakfast bit is stretching things a tad.’

I sighed; another problem to sort out. ‘You haven’t told anyone or done anything?’ I asked.

‘No. She’s a good kid, well I thinkk she is. I can’t understand a word she says. She should come with sub-titles.’

‘I’m working on her accent. Look can you leave it with me? I’ll have a chat with Abby and then see if we can’t do something about it.’

‘All right, shall we return to your gallery?’

‘ “Your gallery”, that sounds nice.’

‘Not as nice as “my, sodding great big ship lying in the harbour”.’

‘Don’t be course, Millie.’

‘No, ’M.’

‘Bloody cheek!’ I retorted and that set us off giggling like schoolgirls.

~ §~

After about an hour, when several of the works had been bought including I am pleased to say, Tracy’s drawing and one of mine, we all adjourned to The Toad & Tart for nibbles and nobbles.

Mummy Dotty had gone orf in the Rolls. She had to go and see a duke about a pheasant shoot or something–it was all death and destruction with her. Dawn and the clan had toddled off too as they still had crates and things to unpack.

I lost count of the number of people who came and congratulated me on opening the gallery. I had wanted to spend some time with my friends and family, but every time I got near one of them, I was dragged away by someone. Half the people I couldn’t understand and Mrs Pearson was particularly difficult to comprehend. What manglewurzels had to do with my gallery, I didn’t know or particularly want to.

Tracy had found a corner to sit in and was sucking on a coke through a straw. I really needed to speak to her before she disappeared, so in a lull in the conversation, I tore myself away from one of the more enthusiastic contributors of the gallery and went over to her.

I sat down and looked at her. Her face was flushed and she looked very pleased with herself.

‘Happy?’ I asked.

‘Mmm. Fanks again fer showin’ the drawing.’

‘That’s all right. Erm, where are you staying at the moment? I need to tell the accountant so we can have your employment contract sent to you.

‘I—It’s all right, I’ll pick the stuff up from the gallery. I’m not there, like often, yer know? An’ I might miss it comin’.’

I looked at her. She wasn’t a very good liar, but I wasn’t going to force it out of her. However, I couldn’t let things stand. I would have a think about it and speak to Abby before I decided what to do.

~ §~

The post gallery opening party went on for about another hour before I felt a touch on my shoulder. I was, at the time, giving Heather a nice cuddle and Abby had gone to get me another pasty. Well I was eating for two–I was eating Heather’s for her.

‘Ma’am.’

I looked up and there was Captain Pugwash. Something was missing and then I realised that Katie wasn’t hanging on to him like a limpet mine, for once. I hastily put on my sunglasses as I was worried about being blinded by the glare coming off his teeth.

‘Mmm?’ I said conversationally, wincing at the same time as Heather was practicing arm wrestling with my lickle ickle pinkie. God she was strong. I would have to reduce her intake of spinach or something…

‘Ma’am, you wanted to look over your yacht?’

‘Oh yes,’

I looked around and saw that the party was beginning to break up and those still standing were helping those that weren’t, out of the pub. I do hate those people that can’t hold their drink, don’t you?

Abby was trapped in the corner looking terminally bored while Ms Prendergastly was spouting about something or other.

‘I’ll just go and grab my sig other and we’ll be down at the quay in two shakes of a Finnan haddock.’

He looked at me strangely nodded and then smiled again. I would have to get stronger sun glasses.

Heather did one of her instant sleep thingies and was snoring gently and blowing bubbles–neat trick that–I placed her in her twenty-five in one, pushchair/cot/baby seat/space ship module and assorted other things (good from age 0 to 25 years) and wheeled her over to Abby whose smile had just reached rigor mortis proportions.

‘–it’s soooo good to have more culture in our little community, don’t you think?’ beamed Ms P.

‘–oh, Abby, I’m sorry I have to drag you away.’

Ms Prendergast turned to me. ‘Oh. Samantha, I was just saying––’

‘–I heard Ms Prendergast, but I think Jocasta is dying to speak to you.’

She glanced towards Jo, who was sipping her sherry and looking a bit bored. She wouldn’t be in a moment or two. I cackled evilly as Ms Prendergastly left us and homed in on Jo like a bloodhound who had just picked up the scent.

‘You are soooo bad,’ Abby giggled, ‘so very bad, but thanks for rescuing me.’

‘That’s all right, sweetie pie, we have to go and have the guided tour our little boat now; the capn’ will be down at the quay in a few moments.’

We said our goodbyes to the few remaining revellers including Jocasta who looked as sick as a ship’s parrot as she tried to extricate herself from being cornered by the formidable Ms Prendergastly and her verbal diarrhoea.

I smiled benignly and after a nod, left with Abby and Heather.

~ §~

It was barely a moment later that we found ourselves on the quay. The weather was fine, but a bit cloudy. I eyed the water in the harbour critically. Did I see waves?

‘A bit choppy,’ I said as we walked towards the tender–that’s a ship’s boat for all you landlubbers. I had read the brochure, so I was an expert now.

‘Rubbish, it’s as calm as a mill pond,’ Abby replied.

‘Hmm––’

The little motor boat reminded me of the one in Some Like It Hot and then I giggled as for some reason as I remembered what Joe said to Sugar, slightly off topic.

Sugar: ‘Water polo? Isn't that terribly dangerous?’
Junior: ‘I'll say. I had two ponies drowned under me.’

That thought steadied me a bit and made me calm down.

The captain was in the driving seat–I learned later that it was called ”at the helm”–and smiled as we approached. We didn’t need the lighthouse anymore, we could just plop him on the headland and get him to open and close his mouth at regular intervals–

One of his seamen was standing on the quay wearing a dinky sailor suit with “M.Y. Lady Olivia” emblazoned in red letters on his chest, compete with a hat. He looked somewhat uncomfortable and I bet he couldn’t wait to get back into a t-shirt and jeans.

‘Hop in, ladies,’ said the skipper.

First he helped Abby aboard with the buggy and then held out a hand to me. Somehow I managed to get into the boat without falling overboard and as soon as the seaman undid the knot holding the rope to the quay, he jumped in after us, making the thing rock a bit and give me the heaby-jeabies.

‘All set, then let’s go!’ said Captain Flint with gusto.

Abby gazed at me and smiled. Heather carried on sleeping and I looked towards the yacht as she came ever nearer. I was obviously an old sea dog as I wasn’t feeling seasick. I had heard that Nelson got seasick every time he put to sea, but I was made of sterner stuff!

As we approached the yacht I realised more and more how huge she was. From a distance she looked big, but up close, she was absolutely ginormous.

The captain was wittering on about ‘luxury, performance and comfort of the Tri-Deck 37m yacht, with its four full decks of lounging and activity spaces; three decks in the open air high over the seascape, with cruising, tanning, and sun worshipping opportunities galore–space for not only the whole family, but several generations to occupy and relish at the same time–and down the twin stern staircases, a swim platform to be enjoyed by many, with observation stations above––’

I stopped listening and just ogled. All this was ours! I couldn’t believe it. I wondered fleetingly how much she had cost and whether she had been bought by ill-gotten gains. Then I thought about what I could do with her and how I could use her to make others have a wonderful time and put such thoughts behind me. Giving her to the authorities would only be a gesture anyway. I could just imagine some government official using her for a fact finding mission to Lower Umbongo-Bongoland, the Seychelles–or even Brighton, maybe.

We arrived at the stern and were helped aboard the yacht by willing crew all dressed in the same sailor suits. I had almost expected to be piped aboard, but as I was not in the Royal Navy, I had to make do with a few nonchalant salutes. I was faintly disappointed that no one was dancing the hornpipe, but I couldn’t expect everything. Everyone seemed nice though and it was but a moment before Abby, myself and Heather were aboard and being shown into what was called The Skylounge.

Deep cream leather sofas and seats were dotted about and the walls were lined in wood. There was a fully stocked bar and 42 inch plasma TV screen on the wall. It was all the height of luxury and I was, for once, speechless as was Abby, who was doing her famed impression of a goldfish at that moment.

Not so Heather who had decided to wake up and sing a few sea shanties. The captain went over to the phone and spoke or rather shouted a few words as Heather’s volume increased by several decibels. None of us could hear ourselves think, so I grabbed a bottle out of my bag and headed towards her.

Just then, a woman came in wearing the female version of the boys’ sailor suit. Quite pretty actually, the suit I mean, not the woman–well she was pretty but well, let’s not go there. I have only eyes for one and that was my Abby, who I would be having strong words with if she didn’t stop ogling the woman like that, just ‘cos she had legs going up to her armpits, not that I was jealous, of course!

The woman approached. ‘Shall I take her for a while? I’ve got two of my own and you need two have a look round in peace.’

I was torn with being a possessive mum and wanting to see the yacht without distractions and in the end–as she looked competent enough and Abby had given me a slight nod–I said, ‘thanks,’ and handed our precious baby over to her.

Why did I feel a pang when she was no longer in my arms? Maybe that’s what all mothers feel. Not being her birth mother made me feel sad that I would never have the opportunity to give birth myself. Gazing over to Abby, I could tell instinctively that she knew what I was going through. Maybe we would be able to make a baby sometime so that Heather could have a little brother or sister?

I sighed; all this was for the future. With an effort, I snapped out of it as the skipper continued to give us a tour while Heather and the nice lady disappeared stage left–or should that be “stage port”?

I won’t give you a blow by blow account of the yacht, except to say that it was all the height of luxury. Mind you, the Master Suite took up the whole forward section of the main deck, had a king size bed and yet another 42 inch TV.

We were taken up to the bridge, which made the flight deck on the Starship Enterprise look like something Noah might have designed on his Ark, given the technology.

The skipper kept up his well used spiel about how fantastic everything was.

‘Powered by twin MTU 12V4000's M90's, rated at 2736 hp each, she will cruise at 21 knots and top-out at 23 knots.’

‘Do what?’ asked Abby intelligently while I stroked the polished wood steering wheel somewhat orgasmically––

‘She goes very fast,’ the skipper replied.

‘What if I press this button?’ I asked.

‘Try it.’ said the captain, a slight smile playing on his lips.

In the hope that it was not an ejector seat, á  la Jamesh Bond, I closed my eyes and jabbed it with my finger.

There was the tremendous noise of a ship’s foghorn that made not only me jump nearly out of my skin but Abby also; she nearly wet herself as she clutched at her vitals rather suggestively.

The seagulls around the harbour, still traumatised by Mummy Dotty, rose as one and started making rather a lot of noise. I saw at least two crash into each other and several others did a creditable impression of a kamikaze ’plane by diving for the sea bottom and not coming back up for air.

Millie, the font of all gossip, told me later that more than one fisherman fell into the harbour, Dotty blew the head off of one of her Greek statues with her twelve bore (she was aiming at a mole); Old Mr Potts clamped down on his favourite pipe and broke it in two and Buxom Beryl, The Toad and Tart’s, rather voluptuous landlady, who was having a quiet cornet on the quay, had a 50p lump of ice cream jump into the air and land in her ample cleavage, when she heard the racket of the horn.

‘Oops,’ I said in a small voice, my ears still ringing from the noise.

The captain and a few others had a good laugh at that. It was obviously their party piece and if that was what it was, it afforded them a certain amount of merriment. Now if I was a hard headed business woman, I would dock their pay and stick them in the brig with just bread and water and a few ships rats for company. But I’m a nice girl and would get my own back when I was good and ready. Who said that “La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid?”

We stayed aboard a little longer and then had to go. Heather needed to be fed, changed and put down for the night and I had to go and make sure that the gallery was all locked up ready for tomorrow’s normal opening. At the weekend, we were going to have a little cruise around the local beauty spots and might even make a foreign trip to Cornwall to stock up on our depleted tiddy-oggy supplies. I thought that it might be nice to take a few friends along and I sincerely hoped that it would be a hoot–but not a foghorn.

As the little motor boat sheared away from the yacht and putt-putted away from her, I looked at the waving skipper and crew and thought that they were quite a nice bunch of people. I might just let the captain off and not make him walk the plank after all.

~ §~

Abby went off up the hill with the buggy thing after we disembarked and said goodbye to Sailor Moon–the lady who had looked after Heather on our tour. I must find out her real name sometime, she was an absolute sweetie.

I carried on down the quay and made sure that everything was shipshape and Bristol fashion¹ at the gallery.

I stayed a while, did a bit of sweeping up and tidying. By the time I had finished, the sun was well over the yardarm, as we sea-persons say, and had started to give up the ghost and go down towards Australia. I decided to have a quick stroll along the beach and dip my toes in the water before heading for home. The sun setting on the water looked large, orange and very beautiful. The water lapped gently over my feet, cooling them and helping me relax after what had been a decidedly hectic day.

The breeze ruffled my thin dress against my bare legs and my hair moved gently over my bare shoulders. I had left my bolero jacket on the yacht and would have to remember to pick it up at the weekend. I had had a wonderful day and hoped that I would have many more days like it. All was quite on the beach except for a lone man walking a dog over the other side. It wouldn’t be long before the full force of the winter would unleash itself on the very spot I was standing and in some ways I was looking forward to that as I believed that all the seasons had a unique beauty that I was eager to see.

I had begun to get goose bumps on my arms, so sandals in hand; I walked back up the beach to the steps, the sand oozing through my toes rather pleasantly as I went. Gazing over the village, nestled on the hillside, there were already the twinkling of lights as people battened down the hatches for an evening in front of the TV or more interesting things like watching paint dry.

Glancing to the left, I saw the row of beach huts, brightly painted and well used in the summer. Now they were all locked up waiting for the nasty weather to pick away at the paintwork. The end one had a “for sale” sign on it and I glanced at the bright yellow hut for a moment. There was a light coming from a crack under the door. Tracy must be in there. I paused for a moment, hesitating, then I made my mind up and went over to the hut and knocked on the door.

I could hear a gasp and then something being knocked over, followed by a naughty word and then the light went off.

‘Tracy, it’s me, Samantha. Can we talk?’

There was a silence and all I could hear was the surf behind me and a few of the inevitable sea gulls.

The light went back on; it was, I think, one of those Tilley-type ones that made wheezing noises. Then there was the sound if a bolt being slid back and the door creaked open. There was Tracy, in pale pink satin pyjamas looking out at me with a terrified expression on her face.

‘Please, Tracy, can I come in. I only want to talk.’

Silently, she opened the door a bit more and I passed her. She locked and bolted the door behind her and then turned to face me. She was trembling slightly.

‘Shall we sit down?’ I asked.

A slight nod of the head and that look of sheer terror was all I got.

I sat on the bench across from the makeshift bed. To say that the amenities were crude would be an understatement. They say location is everything and it was very true with this beach hut. It was little more than a hut with a couple of benches, a table and sink with cold running water. God knows what she had to do if she wanted to go to the loo. Moot point really as the only toilet facilities she could use were the public ones about fifty yards down the road and they shut at sunset every day. I assumed that she used a convenient sand dune or something at other times.

She sat opposite me and I my heart melted as she began to cry. Immediately I went and embraced her. She sobbed on my shoulder for several minutes, her body heaving with the pain, or whatever it was that was causing this. I made shushing noises and stroked her back as she let it all out. It was hard for me. I had been there myself and had bought the t-shirt. I knew pain and angst and Tracy was feeling all of this and more.

Finally, the heaving slowed down she stopped and blew her nose on a tissue and wiped her eyes with another. She looked at me then, once again fearful at what I would say or do. It was getting chilly now and she had no heating except the warmth coming off the Tilley lamp and only a few blankets to keep her warm.

‘Look,Tracy, you can’t stay here. Whatever the matter is, we’ll sort it out. Get your things together and come back to our cottage.’

‘I–I, like won’t be sacked?’

‘No, of course not. Just come on and hurry up. I’m getting flaming cold here!’

A few minutes later, she had got dressed again, put her belongings together in a holdall–not that there was much–and she followed me out of the hut and closed the door; it wasn’t locked. I made a mental note to tell, or at least text, Millie about that, but not now, I had more important things to sort out.

~ §~

While Tracy was packing her things away, I texted Abby to expect us soon. We had a spare bedroom at Jellicle Cottage and that would do until we decided what to do.

We didn’t say much as we walked up to the cottage. She was sniffing a bit and I didn’t want to set her off again by talking about things that obviously were painful for her.

After five minutes we reached the cottage, to be greeted by several cats who wanted to be made a fuss of. Tracy seemed to be a natural cat lover, which would be in the plus column with both Abby and I. Whether there would be any more ticks in that column, only time would tell.

Abby opened the door as we made our way up the short path. She saw Tracy and immediately gave her a hug. My Abby was a girl and a half!

We ushered her in and settled her down in the little sitting room. She said that she wasn’t hungry, but Abby likes to fatten people up a bit and Tracy was soon eating some Big Soup– for the uninitiated, that’s soup with big bits in it–followed by a chocolate éclair. We had some too as we thought it rude not to join her.

Then she went up for a shower and to change back into her jammies, while I filled Abby in while Tracy was upstairs.

‘So,’ said Abby, ‘she really is homeless?’

‘Yes, but I don’t understand why. I pay her a fair wage and at this time of year, when the tourists have mainly gone home, there are plenty of places that she could stay which aren’t expensive.’

Abby shrugged. ‘There’s more to this than meets the eye.’

‘Two true, flower blossom–’

Just then Tracy came back down, her hair up in a towel turban.

‘Feeling better?’ asked Abby.

‘Y—yes fanks.’

‘Right,’ I said, getting down to business, ‘let’s get comfy and you can tell us all about it.’

I sat down next to Tracy on the overstuffed sofa with Abby sitting on the chair opposite.

Tracy looked at us, once again looking scared.

‘Don’t worry, honey,’ I said, ‘we can help you but only if you tell us what the problem is.’

She looked at us both and then took a deep breath.

‘It’s me mum.’

‘What about your mum?’

‘Shhh,’ I said to Abby. ‘Carry on, honey.’

‘She works at Tesco’s or like, worked. They gave her the push, cos they got in those self-service checkouts. She an’ two uvver women got the push. It was last in, first aht. Her landlord was givin ‘er grief, so I had ter send ’er some money, like.’

‘So that’s why you can’t afford to pay for somewhere to live yourself?’ I asked.

She nodded staring at her feet.

Abby and I did a sort of Vulcan mind meld without the touchy feely bit and I could see that we thought as one.

‘I thought you said your mum worked in the post office?’

‘I sorta bent ver truff. She did work in the post office at Peckham Rye, then we moved dahn ’ere and she worked at Tesco’s in Bodmin. She ’as a flat there.’

‘Does your mum like living where she is?’ I asked.

Tracy looked up.

‘Nah, she ’ates it. The land-lord is scum and wants to chuck ’er aht. She still owes two monfs’ rent.’

Tears began falling again. I wasn’t pleased that she had lied to me but I could understand her reason. She was ashamed of her circumstances and her mother’s and tried, like so many people to bend the truth so she had the best chance of getting a job.

‘All right,’ I said, ‘thanks for telling us the truth. It must have been hard. You look all in. Why don’t you go up to bed and we’ll sort something out tomorrow.’

‘You’re not angry?’

‘No, but you must promise in future to tell the truth. If you do it again, I don’t think I could trust you.’

‘I won’t lie ever again, I promise–’

‘Okay, off you go and we’ll see you in the morning. Make sure you get up early, we have to open the gallery at nine sharp.’

‘Yes ’M–I mean S’manfa.’

She hesitated for a moment looking very vulnerable in her jim-jams and scrubbed face – she looked about twelve and then she came over and hugged me and then Abby, who for once was lost for words and appeared to have something in her eye–

She gave us both a shy smile and then left the room.

Abby and I gazed at each other.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘you seem to be good at looking after stray cats, I appear to be collecting the human variety.’

She smiled.

‘She is sweet, if a bit rough around the edges. We could send her to Mummy Dotty’s for finishing orf, but knowing Dotty she wouldn’t be that gentle. Are you thinking what I am?’

‘About my cottage? Yes, she and her mum could house sit for us and I could still come and go when I use the studio.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Abby, smiling.

‘I just thought of another plan,’ I said.

‘What’s that?’

‘There are still two éclairs in the fridge, crying to be eaten.’

‘I thought that was one of the cats.’

‘Shall we find out?’

‘Lets––’

---

¹     Shipshape and Bristol fashion:   For origin see: http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/ship-shape%20and%20Bristo...

---

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.

 

Previously…

‘All right,’ I said, ‘thanks for telling us the truth. It must have been hard. You look all in. Why don’t you go up to bed and we’ll sort something out tomorrow.’

‘You’re not angry?’

‘No, but you must promise in future to tell the truth. If you do it again, I don’t think I could trust you.’

‘I won’t lie ever again, I promise–’

‘Okay, off you go and we’ll see you in the morning. Make sure you get up early, we have to open the gallery at nine sharp.’

‘Yes ’M–I mean S’manfa.’

She hesitated for a moment looking very vulnerable in her jim-jams and scrubbed face – she looked about twelve and then she came over and hugged me and then Abby, who for once was lost for words and appeared to have something in her eye–

She gave us both a shy smile and then left the room.

Abby and I gazed at each other.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘you seem to be good at looking after stray cats; I appear to be collecting the human variety.’
She smiled.

‘She is sweet, if a bit rough around the edges. We could send her to Mummy Dotty’s for finishing orf, but knowing Dotty she wouldn’t be that gentle. Are you thinking what I am?’

‘About my cottage? Yes, she and her mum could house sit for us and I could still come and go when I use the studio.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Abby, smiling.

‘I just thought of another plan,’ I said.

‘What’s that?’

‘There are still two éclairs in the fridge, crying to be eaten.’

‘I thought that was one of the cats.’

‘Shall we find out?’

‘Let’s––’

And now the story continues…

The following morning I was up bright and early. I would like to say that Tracy was too. You would have thought that she would be keen to be up and at ’em, but she was one of those girls who prefer to stay in bed till lunch time, have a light brunch, followed by a rest in bed that would last until five o’clock, by which time she would be ready to face the day. One of her faults had always been that she was never on time for work. Well, that had to stop. We were now opening for business and had set opening hours. She might be feeling a bit off now, what with the beach hut incident and the fact that her mum was boracic¹; but if she wanted our help and a roof over her head, she would have to change the habit of a lifetime and actually get up in time to get to work.

I cut her a bit of slack that morning, letting her stay in bed for a further ten minutes, but being the hard headed business women I was–I recalled that in Nelsons day, they used to cut peoples’ hammock ropes if they were more than a minute late–I threatened her with the wet towel treatment if she didn’t stir her bones.

It worked and a short time later she came in the kitchen, looking like death warmed up and demolishing her Shreddies in record time. She said little. I think that she had had a poor night of it, so I wasn’t too hard on her.

Abby had gone off early to her pottery as she had a few pots to throw about and she had to meet a man about an urn. Jocasta had forgiven me for throwing Prendaghastly in her direction at yesterdays post-opening nosh up, although I had to go to church on Sunday and prostrate myself at the altar as a penance. She had picked up Heather and would be looking after her today as I had lots to do. From tomorrow, Abby and I would be looking after her. She was no trouble really and if she cried too much, it was normally because of a, feeding and watering time; b, bum changing time; c, ‘I want my dummy’/cuddle/tantrum time. I wish everything was as simple as that.

Dead on the dot of nine o’clock, I turned the sign on the gallery door to ‘open’, stood back and waited for the Harrods sale-type onrush of bargain hunters.

Of course, no one came in and we were able to spend the time waiting for the first client by having a cuppa, dusting the exhibits, reading the paper and other important things (my nails needed repainting and Tracy texted her mum).

At about eleven o’clock, the rush started as a man walked in. I stood up and went to greet him. ‘May I help you?’ I asked in my best subservient and yet slightly condescending way that shop keepers have perfected over the years.

He looked around, eyes wide, a bit like a hedgehog being caught in the headlights just before being flattened.

‘Erm, where the post office?’ he asked.

I looked at him and wondered if I should be polite or just kick him out of the shop. Unfortunately, my parents gave me a ‘polite chip’ that I haven’t been able to prise out of my brain yet.

‘It’s in the High Street. Left outside the door, go past two lanes and the third one is the High Street. It’s about half way up. You can’t miss it as it has a sign that says Post Office on it.’

‘Erm, thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘I won’t.’

He smiled nervously and left rather quickly.

‘Blimey,’ said Tracy looking up from her Teen Angst magazine, ‘not got much people skills ’ave yer?’

‘How do you know about people skills?’

‘We learnt it at skewl di’n’twe?’

‘Did you?’

‘Yus.’

‘Well, I didn’t see what I did wrong.’

She sighed, put her magazine down and stood up.

‘Righ’, let me show yer ’ow yer shouldda done it. You go out an’ come in again an ask the same question, got it?’

‘Erm, well I don’t know––’

‘Look, it won’t ’urt like; jus’ do it fer me. Let’s face it, we ain’t got no customers ’ave we?’

‘I wish you wouldn’t use double negatives, Tracy.’

‘Yer wot?’

‘Never mind,’ I sighed.

At some stage, Tracy and I were going to have a somewhat pointed conversation regarding the correct employer/employee interaction, but for the moment, I decided to go with the flow.

‘All right,’ I continued, smiling, perhaps rather falsely and leaving the gallery.

I waited for a few moments and then came in. The door bell tinkled as I opened it and tinkled again as I shut it behind me. I wondered how long it would take before I wrenched the damn thing off the door but I had no time for that because Tracy came up to me in her Zebedee, bouncy mode.

‘Good morning, Madam, ’ow may I ’elp yer?’

‘Erm, I want the post office.’

‘Certainly, but while yer ’ere would you like to ’ave a butcher’s–I mean, ’ave a look at our fine works. Look, this is one that our loverly owner pain’-ed. See it’s a paintin’ of the cove. Innit colourful, look at the texture and quality; the fine brushwork, the way the paintin’ draws yer in. It’s full o’ life, don’cher agree?’

‘Erm, yes.’

‘I fought vat’cher might.’ Her voice dropped almost to a whisper,’ she’s going places, she is. In a few years time she’ll be up for the Turner Prize, that is if they stop being daft and let a real artist win instead of someone who shows a dead cow or somefink.’

I had been completely sucked in. I was thinking, ‘wow, the Turner Prize!’ then I shook my head and realised that it was little me she was talking about.

Tracy was looking at me with a slight smile on her face.

‘Blimey,’ I said, ‘you’re good: how come?’

‘Why I’m good? Like I’ve got the patter in’ I?’

‘Patter?’ I asked, wondering if she was talking about the patter of tiny feet, like my Heather would be trying to do within the next year or so.

‘Yea, yer know, I got the shpeel, patter, rabbit,’

I sighed.

‘Please try to talk English Tracy. It’s bad enough living in the darkest depths of Devon, trying to understand their strange lingo and here you are talking yet another weird unpronounceable language.’

‘Eh?’

She gave me ‘the look’. The one teenagers use everywhere when an adult is talking rubbish. She sighed, went over to her chair and sat down. I dragged up a chair and sat opposite her.

‘I think you did brilliantly there. How did you learn to talk like that?’

‘Peckham Market, I used to do a bit o’ sellin’ on the stalls. I were good too. You try selling dodgy gear–I mean, stuff what fell off the back–I mean, stock that was crappy ter people who didn’t want to part with their readies–’

‘Readies?’

‘Money, loot, spondulicks, – yus. If yer can sell there, yer can sell anyfink, anywhere.’

I gazed at her, then just smiled, and then laughed.

‘Wot?’ she said indignantly.

‘Sorry, Tracy. I might as well give you the keys and let you be the sales girl while I go and paint a few masterpieces. I’m surplus to requirements here.’

‘Yer wouldn’t do that, wouldgyer?’

‘What?’

‘Leave me in charge. I don’t want that. I might do somefink stoopid.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know, sell the paintin’s at the wrong price or make meself look a proper narna.’

Looking at her I could see that despite the patter, as she called it, and show of bravado, she was still an insecure young girl with more than a few hang-ups and problems. I made one of those snap decisions that I seemed to be taking lately. I hoped that my reading of her was right–that she was desperate to get on and make something of herself. It was a huge plus in my eyes that she had been sending money that she could ill afford to her mum, while squatting in that wooden beach hut.

I leaned forward and took her hand.

‘I won’t do that until you are ready. But I want you to learn as much as you can so that I can go and do what I am good at while you eventually run the gallery for me. I will send you on courses and teach you what I know, but in the end it’s down to you. Are you up for it?’

Her eyes looked wide, she reminded me of Bambi for some reason.

‘D—do you fink I c’n do it?’ she asked, her voice quavering slightly.

‘I do, after some training. But no more getting up late. I can’t rely on a person whose day starts at five or six in the evening.

‘You sound just like my mum,’ she said ruefully.

‘Well I suppose that I’m in loco parentis until she comes down.’

‘Is that some sort of train?’

I sighed. This was going to be a bit of an uphill journey.

~ §~

After that, the day went quite well. We had several customers come in and we sold three paintings, a wonderful sunset photograph and a lovely repro of a Greek urn. How much did the Greek earn? No, I won’t say it.

At five, we shut up shop and went to collect Abby, who was still plastered in clay. I think that she had enough on her to make more than a few pots.

I just happened to glance over at my lickle boat as we popped next door and saw that she was still there. I couldn’t believe that the thing was mine; well Abby’s and mine because what’s mine is hers and little Heather’s too. I felt sorry for the other boats in the harbour because as they bobbed up and down in the gentle swell they looked so small. They say size isn’t everything but as far as boats were concerned, big is beautiful–mind you, I am biased. I almost fired up my iPhone and asked for someone to come in the tender and take us all to some far off exotic place. Then real life–if you could possibly consider my life to be anything like real–popped up and told me not to be such a silly moo and get on with things.

‘I’ll just have a quick shower then I’ll be with you,’ said Abby after coming up to me and trying to give me a hug.

I of course, shrieked and backed away from her as if she had some sort of highly contagious and deadly disease while Tracy giggled behind her hand as if it was funny or something.

We waited outside, sitting on a convenient bench overlooking the harbour. Smells from the chippy wafted over making me long for haddock and chips. There should be a government health warning about that smell. I swear that they have ginormous fans in the fish and chip shop that blows the divine perfume all over the village.

The beaches were practically empty now–it was very much the tail end of season. The kids had all gone back to school and the only visitors were those that prefer to go out of the main season. During the day the village was still quite busy, but come evening it sort of turned into a ghost town. Apart from dog walkers, joggers and those taking evening constitutionals, the place was pretty devoid of people. It was a bit busier around the two main pubs and a couple of restaurants, but apart from that it was quiet.

It was nice like this though as we locals were now back in charge. No more queuing up for things, being overrun by holidaymakers who seemed to think that they had a right to take us over.

That wasn’t fair though. The visitors were the lifeblood of the community. Without them a lot of jobs would go.

Tracy had whipped out a sketch pad and pencils from her bag and was drawing things while we waited. I was dying to look at what she was drawing but knew from bitter experience what it was like to have somebody look over one’s shoulder while trying to be creative.

I just stood up and walked over to the edge of the harbour. I had to hold my skirt down lest I shock some of the local wildlife with a glimpse of my panties á  la Monroe.

Glancing down I watched some seagulls basking on the small strip of sand by the harbour wall. Before long, the sand would be covered and the fishing boats would be going out on the high tide with the birds following the boats out as they tried to catch some of the ever dwindling stocks of fish. This was a cod and haddock area with a few other types of fish that added variety to the local taste.

Winter would be here soon and the boats would still have to go out and try to make a living under the ridiculous quotas imposed by the EU they had to adhere to. I wondered if it was worth their risking their lives over a few fish. Maybe it was if they wanted to continue the tradition carried down through father to son and now a few daughters too––

‘Samantha, come on, Dolly Daydream, we have to go and collect the favoured daughter.’

I smiled as I turned away and joined Abby and Tracy on the uphill trek to the Vicarage.

After picking up number one child and saying the obligatory thanks, hugs and goodbyes we made our way home.

~ §~

After putting Heather to bed and our Spag Bol tea, we settled down on the comfy sofa in the sitting room and held hands. Tracy was in her new room on my mobile, calling her mum about the arrangements for her to move into the other cottage.

‘It will be nice to be by ourselves again,’ said Abby.

‘Why, don’t you like having Tracy here?’

‘Yes, but I can’t ravish you quite so much while she’s in the next room?’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re too noisy,’ she replied with a grin.

‘Noisy. I am not!’

‘Yes you are. The cats can’t sleep when you are in full voice. You remind me of wotsername in that film–the name of which I can’t remember–you know, when she was in that restaurant with that bloke, dark short hair and she started shouting ‘yes, yes, yes!’

‘I am not like that. I might just get a wee bit carried away, but it’s your fault for doing things that make me go all squiggly.’

‘Squiggly, is that a real word?’

‘Well it ought to be––’

Just then Tracy came in, all bubbly and bright.

‘S’mafa, Abby; mum can’t wait ter come. She’s telling wotsisface where to get orf and she’ll be ’ere termorrer.

‘Oh good,’ I said, realising that at last I was getting used to her awful accent. ‘You can go and meet her from the bus stop and take her to the cottage and settle her in. Mrs Pearson will be there but I’ve already told her of the situation so there shouldn’t be any trouble there.’

‘Mrs Pearson? I can’t understand a flamin’ word she says!’

Both Abby and I laughed at that but Tracy didn’t get the joke for some strange reason.

The next few days were pleasant but busy. We had a steady dribble of people come in and have a look at our gallery and what we had to sell and we were lucky in as much as we sold several pieces.

Tracy’s mum had arrived and she and Tracy and made themselves at home in the cottage. Peace and quiet had returned once again to our little Shangri-La.

~ §~

It was on the third day after Tracy’s mum had arrived that I had the summons.

I was just burping Heather who was kind enough to puke all over the towel that I had over my shoulder when the phone rang. It was just Heather and I in Jellicle cottage, if you discount the one thousand one hundred and twenty-two cats–I exaggerate but you know what I mean if you have cats, they are everywhere–anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Abby was doing her pottery class. She was roped in the previous year and now did evening classes. The phone went. I put Heather down on the rug so that she could play with her mobile thingy and I answered the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Samantha is that you?’

I took my ear away from the phone and rubbed it. Dotty was at full volume.

‘Yes. Hello, Mummy?’

‘Don’t ‘hello mummy’ me, you prime idiot.’

‘What have I done now?’

‘It’s not what you have done; it’s what you have not done.’

‘Oh, right…sorry, being a bit thick here. What haven’t I done?’

‘Brought Heather up for four days, updated me about the paintin’ of me and me husband, told me about how the gallery’s doin’. Shall I continue?’

‘Sorry, Mummy, it’s just that there has been rather a lot happening––’

‘–How could I know that? The lines of communication have broken down. Consider yerself chastised. Now I need to talk to you.’

‘Right, erm what about?’

‘Can’t talk on the phone. Need ter see yer in person. Are yer at the gallery tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be there at eleven sharp. Have the tea ready and at least two cream cakes. Have to go–bloody moles have been havin’ a go at me vegetable gardens. It looks like bloody World War Three out there. If things go on like this, I’ll have to lay out some mines.’

The phone went dead and I sat there staring at it.

Heather started giggling and I smiled then suddenly, she sort of frowned and started crying. I shushed her a bit and gave her a cuddle and her dummy. I put her down again as I didn’t want her to get all clingy and expect hugs every two and a half seconds. She didn’t like that, but we all have our off days.

Recalling the phone conversation, I smiled. Even an angry Dotty was a bit of a laugh. I did feel guilty at not keeping my brand new Mummy more in the loop though.

I picked up Heather again and played ring-a-roses on her tiny hand. I was trying to take her mind off what was bothering her. I realised though, distractedly as I shushed Heather, that if I wasn’t careful, I would be too busy and not be able to enjoy life to the full, now that I had a family and a wonderful place to live.

Heather seemed to be tired and listless and I wondered if she was coming down with a cold or something. She seemed rather warm to me, though her little hands and feet were cold. I put to bed and read her Snow White. I’m not sure that she was paying much attention as she fell asleep on page three. She’s a tough little cookie though, and I expected her to be back to her usual chirpy self next morning.

Mind you, I was yawning too. I wondered why I always felt sleepy when reading her a bedtime story, must be something from my own childhood.

Abby returned at nine o’clock and we decided on an early night. We checked on Heather first and she seemed to sleeping fitfully with a frown on her tiny forehead. I picked her up and she didn’t like that as she wriggled about a bit. We took her temperature and it was up slightly. We would have to check that a bit later and before going off, we made sure that the baby alarm was working properly.

After a few minutes she seemed to settle down and we left her in peace. She was prone to having colds and this wasn’t the first time that she had caught the sniffles. She just liked to be left alone in those circumstances so we did just that.

~ §~

Abby and I had been getting to grips with each other and exploring new places. Our five-year mission: to explore strange positions; to seek out new heights and new naughtiness; to boldly go where no woman has gone before––

–Why is it that babies know exactly when you are trying to do something interesting and begin screaming at the most inappropriate and inopportune moment?

It took a few moments untangle ourselves before Abby, bless her, went to have a look to see what Heather was up to. I must admit that her crying was quite shrill and loud, but that was nothing unusual for her. She would put our yacht’s foghorn to shame sometimes. Mind you, I was in such a state of arousal; I was contemplating doing something with the bedpost–

However all that stopped as soon as I heard Abby shout for me.

I got up and ran out of the bedroom and into Heather’s.

Abby was there gazing down at Heather who looked hot, flushed and very agitated.

‘This isn’t right,’ said Abby, very worried.

Something was ringing a bell in my mind. I turned the light down and she didn’t seem quite so restless.

‘What is it?’ said Abby, ‘this isn’t one of her colds.’

I carefully un-popped Heather’s baby grow, no signs of anything there. But she seemed to be in a bit of pain. I looked at the back of her neck–nothing, but she was feeling really hot while her little hands and feet were cold. Then she was promptly sick all over the bedding.

I looked up at Abby.

‘Call Marcia and then get the Beemer out. We’ll take her straight to the hospital; we haven’t time to wait for an ambulance.’

I was amazed at how calm my voice sounded while inside I was screaming louder than Heather. I had read an article in Mother’s Monthly only a few days previously. I didn’t even want to think of what it might be and dared not tell Abby, who was upset enough. I had to be strong for all of us. I would cry later if I had to but for now we had to get our baby to hospital–and quickly.

I cleaned her up, wrapped her in a blanket and rushed outside. Abby had just got off the ’phone. As we went out to the car, she told me; ‘I ’phoned Marcia and then the hospital and quickly told them that our baby wasn’t well and we were worried. They asked about symptoms and I told them what I knew. They’re waiting for us now and Marcia will meet us there.’

I could tell by the way she was talking that she was close to losing it. I got her to sit in the back of the car with Heather in her seat as I drove off down the road, tyres screeching.

The journey up to the cottage hospital seemed to take ages. I was exceeding the speed limit until Abby told me to slow down. The last thing we wanted was for me to kill someone while speeding.

Things were rushing through my head as I tried to concentrate on driving. I felt guilty about not realising that our daughter was suffering and the fact that we were having sex next door while she–she––

I shook my head. I had to pay attention and not be negative.

‘How is she?’ I called over my shoulder.

‘She’s gone to sleep–please hurry.’

I couldn’t go fast now even if I wanted to. The trees and bushes flashed by in a blur as I went up the twisty road that led to the hospital. I refused to think too much about what it might be. I just hoped and prayed that I was wrong. What did I know? I wasn’t a doctor. Marcia would take one look at our precious baby and laugh at us for being so silly.

We went through the gates and I screeched to a halt in front of the hospital entrance. Marcia was there and couple of nurses. As I opened the car door, Marcia smiled briefly and didn’t hang about. Abby had undone the belts holding Heather and lifted her out to Marcia who ran into the hospital with the nurses, leaving us alone in the drive.

We looked at each other and hugged. Abby was crying.

‘What is it Sam, what’s making her ill? She seemed like a rag doll when I lifted her out of the seat.’

I took her arm and led her into the hospital. Amanda Freeman, the receptionist was there. I knew Amanda well; she had a few of her photographs up in my gallery. She got up from behind her desk and walked over. Taking one look at us she took us to a side room–a small waiting room–disappeared and returned a few moments later with cups of Rosie Lee, as Tracy would say.

It was only then that I realised that both Abby and I were only in our dressing gowns. I would have been highly embarrassed if I wasn’t so worried. Amanda didn’t bat an eyelid though.

‘All right, you two,’ she said in a no nonsense tone, ‘you have done everything right and the team here are the best that Devon can offer. I know that you are worried sick, but we’ll let you know what’s happening as soon as we know. I’ll leave you alone now and maybe get something more appropriate for you to wear–only hospital scrubs, but beggars can’t be choosers.’

With that she left us to our thoughts. A few minutes later she came back and gave us some clothes to put on. Green wasn’t my colour, but I couldn’t give a toss about that.

~ §~

Half an hour later and my nails were in a sorry state. Abby just sat next to me holding my hand. We hadn’t spoken much, each with our own thoughts to occupy us.

The door opened and Marcia came in. she looked tired and she wasn’t smiling.

I gripped Abby’s hand tightly as she came over and sat next to us.

‘I thought that you needed to know. She has Pneumococcal Meningitis,’

Abby gasped, I didn’t; I thought that it might be meningitis, although I wasn’t sure.

‘But there was no rash?’ cried Abby.

‘It isn’t always present. Look we have her under treatment and are doing a number of tests. Indications are that we have caught it early enough, but time will tell. She’s sleeping now.

‘Will she die?’ I asked.

She looked at me, compassion on her face.

‘I can’t lie to you. It’s a nasty thing to get and some people do die, but that is more likely to happen if treatment isn’t sought at an early stage. If you had left it another hour things might be different but what I can say is that she is strong and all the signs indicate that she should be okay. We’ll know a lot more tomorrow. Why don’t you both go home…?’

‘I’m not going home!’ I said forcibly.

‘Nor me,’ said Abby.

She sighed.

‘I thought you might say that. We have a family room that you can use. Amanda will show you. Try to get some rest though.’

‘Can we see her?’ I asked.

‘For a few minutes then you both need to get some sleep before we have to admit you too!’

She gave us both a brief hug and then led us out of the room, down a short corridor and into another room. We had to put masks on and wash our hands with anti-bac before we were led into a room with a number of cots. A couple of the cots were occupied by tiny forms but our eyes were on the third cot, where our little girl was. A nurse was close by and she smiled as we came up. Marcia whispered goodbye and went off.

Heather looked so small and defenceless there. She was asleep with a monitor on one of her toes and a few others attached to her body with small pads. She was twitching slightly and moving in her sleep. Whether that had anything to with her illness or just that she was dreaming, I didn’t know.

Abby and I held hands as we looked at her. The beep…beep of the monitors was all we could hear in that quiet room. I looked at the nurse as she went around almost constantly checking on the three children in the ward. I was thankful that we had some wonderful people looking after our baby.

After a while, we left Heather to rest and after a whispered thanks to the nurse, we left the ward and went down the corridor, through the swing doors and into the reception. We stopped short as there stood my sister Dawn, Jocasta and David, Katie and Dotty too!

They came over straight away and we had a sort of group hug with Dotty doing most of the crushing.

After a few moments of this, we went back into the waiting room and everyone dragged up chairs. There was a mad grab for the tissue box and surprise, surprise, Dotty won.

‘How did you know?’ I said to no one in particular. David spoke first.

‘The hospital rang me. They do when there’s a chance that I might be needed. I know that there are confidentiality issues, but this is Penmarris and we all stick together. I told Jo of course and she, not knowing how to keep quiet, rang around a few close people. We thought that you might need some support.’

‘Flaming cheek, David. I do not blab, I just sort of try to–erm, help.’

David snorted at that. He had heard it all before.

‘Damn good thing she did ring,’ said Dotty, ‘can’t stand secrecy. Didn’t want to find out too late. Wanted to help and all that sort of rot. She is my God child and you are family. When did yer intend tellin me, when she’s all better and home again?’

‘Sorry, Mummy, it’s just it happened so quickly. One minute we were home in bed and––’

‘–what Sam’s trying to say is that we had to get Heather in quickly and worry about telling everyone, especially you, Mummy Dotty, as soon as we could.’

‘Hmm. Well…that’s all right then. So how is the little sprogette?’

‘She’s responding to treatment, Marcia told us,’ I said, ‘they should know better by the morning.’

I was still a bit tearful. I had held myself together for so long, not wanting to worry Abby about my suspicions and then everything happened at once. Now it was really sinking in and I started to sob and put my head in my hands.

Before I knew it I was in a bear hug with someone wearing a fox fur. It could only have been Mummy.

I must have lost it for a few moments but being in her reassuring arms helped make me feel better. No matter how old you are. Having a hug, even from an honorary mother, is very nice and reassuring.

~ §~

The others left after about an hour, promising to come back when needed. Dawn said that she would go and sort out the cats and the gallery and pottery tomorrow so that we didn’t need to worry on that score. Mummy said that she would come up after breakfast to get a bulletin and we were ordered to keep our pecker up, whatever that means.

As they left, despite how desperate I felt, I had a warm fuzzy feeling about how everyone rallied around at our time of crisis.

Abby and I slept fitfully that night. We kept waking up at the least noise, dreading the possibility that someone might come and give us bad news. Eight thirty found us awake and after confirmation that Heather had not deteriorated overnight, we were advised to go and have breakfast as there would be more tests and then the doctors’ rounds a bit later and we wanted to back for that.

The hospital cafeteria hadn’t opened yet, as the volunteers wouldn’t show until ten, so Abby, who knew the area better than I, said we should go to Tony’s Café for breakfast. We left our mobile numbers with the duty receptionist–Amanda’s shift had finished last night–and made our way down the road, to the café on the hill that was Tony’s.

As we walked I tried to ’phone Dotty to tell her what was happening. She was on the ’phone so I left a message. Abby rang Jo because we knew that the whole village would get the information in ten minutes flat. Dawn had texted me that all was well with cats and businesses and that she would be up with the rest of the family a bit later on unless she heard otherwise.

Tony’s was on the hill leading down to the quay. It was not a big place but you couldn’t miss it as the walls were painted a bright yellow and the doors and window frames blue. It looked bright clean and very seasidish–if there is such a word.

Abby went up the single step, opened the door and went in. I followed close behind. There wasn’t anyone in the cafe that I could see but behind a door, we could hear singing. I think that it was Nessun Dorma, but Pavarotti it wasn’t, being rather off key and making the possibility of shattered glass a distinct possibility.

Abby glanced at me and grimaced as we approached to the counter.

‘He’s at it again. He’s in the talent contest at the end of the month and thinks that he’s Penmarris’s answer to the three tenors.’

‘Well, I said, ‘I wouldn’t give a fiver for him.’

We giggled at that, releasing the tension a bit.

The door flew open and there was Tony. How do I describe Tony? He was short, fat, bald and as ugly as sin, but that didn’t matter. He had such twinkling eyes and a smile of welcome that would melt the ice caps.

‘Liedies, welcome to my ’umble restaurant.’ The Italian accent seemed to be a bit over the top, but what the hell, it wasn’t as hard to translate as Devonian or–God forbid–Tracy’s. Didn’t anyone talk proper like what I do around here?

‘Tony, nice to see you. Lost some weight?’

‘Yessa, you like?’ he said as he did a bit of a twirl that reminded me of the hippo thing in Fantasia.

‘Very nice. Look we are in a hurry can we have one of your specials?’

‘Cominga up, dear liedy.’ His eyes came onto me. ‘so you are the delityeful and beautiful Sarmantha?’

‘Erm, yes.’ I said, blushing.

‘Charm-ed, you are as beautiful as the swans on-a the like.’

‘Like?’

‘Yessa, like. You no speaka da lingo?’

‘He means lake,’ Abby whispered.

‘Oh, thanks,’ I said, not really knowing if I had been complimented or insulted.

‘No mention it. Two specials a-cominga up.’

With that he pirouetted on the spot and disappeared out the back. A few seconds later we heard the banging of pots and pans, some Italian type oaths and then verse or was that round two of Nessun Dorma?

‘Blimey,’ I said, ‘is he for real?’

‘Yes,’ replied Abby with a smile, ‘mind you, although he is Italian on his mother’s side, he actually comes from Scunthorpe.’

‘Riiight.’ I said, more confused than ever.

After a surprisingly small space of time, the breakfast was brought in and placed in front of us as if it was some sort of tour de force. ‘Two specials for two special liedies!’

‘Thanks,’ we replied, smiling.

‘I leave you alone–enjoy.’ Another pirouette and he was gone.

The breakfast was an English “full house” with all the trimmings. I won’t describe it in detail, as even thinking about it could add inches to my bum. Needless to say, it was lovely and added about three times my recommended calories for the day.

After thanking Tony for the excellent breakfast and promising to back real soon, we struggled back up the hill to the hospital. The break had done me good and made me put the worries we had into the back of my mind, but now it was back to reality. We had to see what was happening with our wee Heather and steel ourselves for the worst.

We had been told the previous night that it looked as if she was going to be okay, but I had an ominous feeling in the back of my mind that they were just saying that to make us feel better. The fact that we weren’t allowed to see Heather this morning because of tests being done, didn’t help the feeling of dread that was rising with every step that I was taking back towards the hospital.

When we entered, Amanda was back on duty and smiled at us. She was on the ’phone, so we sat on the hard plastic chairs and waited. With a start, I realised that we were still wearing hospital scrubs to and from the cafe and also, Tony never said anything–we must have looked decidedly strange to the passers-by. Mind you this place was full of strange people so we probably didn’t look out of place.

A few moments later Marcia came through some swing doors wearing a white doctor’s coat and a stethoscope around her neck. She came straight over and ushered us into the waiting room that we had spent so much time in.

She did not keep us in suspense.

‘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.

¹ (Boracic = boracic lint = skint in cockney rhyming slang);

To be continued…

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

As a point of information, I had meningitis as a baby and my mother told me that I nearly died. I have short term memory problems and these have been attributed to that illness. The more people who know about the symptoms, the more chances of recovery if caught early enough.

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

 

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.

 

Previously…

‘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––?’

And now the story continues…

The silence was tangible. Both Abby and I were in shock, while Katie let what she had told us sink in.

After a minute or two, Katie coughed gently and said, ‘Tell us about Nigel’s mother,’

I looked at them took a deep breath and trying to ignore the shock of what had just been said, proceeded to tell them the few facts about what I knew of her.

‘Victoria Manning was–is a bitch. She never liked me even before she knew about who or what I was. Olivia was her only granddaughter and she doted over her. Nothing was good enough for Olivia. I don’t think that even that Charlie Windsor would have been up to standard. According to Victoria, Olivia married beneath her when she married me.

‘I was a penniless artist–in Victoria’s eyes, the lowest of the low. I should have been a banker or at least have money behind me. It was always money-money-money with her. She likes it more than anything else. She married three times and all three husbands died early. There was no suspicion of any foul play, but when one dies of food poisoning, another falls off a cliff and a third dies of a heart attack in the middle of sex with a girl half his age, you can see that things never go quite right when you are in her sphere.

‘Nigel was her son and he was a product of her warped, power-crazy and–I think–lunatic personality. Nigel idolised her and did all he could to live up to her standards. I know Olivia told Victoria about my ‘dressing’ in an unguarded moment and that the old bat did everything she could to poison her against me. The only strange thing was that she never told her son about that side of me. Whether this omission was because she was reluctant to hurt Olivia or just wanted to use the information as some sort of weapon when she might require Nigel to do her a service of some kind, I never knew.

‘I only ever met her twice; once when I was summonsed to tea on our engagement and once at the wedding, where she snubbed me as thoroughly as a Darcy at a ball. I just wasn’t good enough for her precious Olivia who was constantly bombarded by the old cow to drop me, but she never did, well for Victoria, anyway.’

I stopped there, thinking about what actually did happen to split up Olivia and I. The thought of her and a man in my bed still hurt, despite the fact that she was now lying in the graveyard not half a mile away.

I glanced up and everyone was gazing at me, and smiled slightly as my eyes met Abby’s. I was the lucky one in all this–or I was until this bombshell dropped.

‘Thanks, Sam, at least we know a bit more about her. We’ll talk of this later. I want to know all the dirt. Well, let me say this; as far as I can see, she hasn’t got a leg to stand on regarding the sperm. Legally it’s yours and she would find it extremely difficult to make any sort of case against you in court. I reckon she’s doing it to highlight the other business–whether or not you are fit and able to look after Heather. Marcia, did you want to say something?’

‘Yes, thanks Katie.’ she looked at Abby and I and smiled, ‘it looks like we don’t have that much to worry about regarding Victoria and her claims regarding the sperm, but the clinic say that when Olivia was inseminated, they told her that the sperm that they used was not of good quality and that it was hit and miss as to whether she could be impregnated. The place you went to have your sperm count was not properly equipped to store the sperm and when it was moved to the clinic, it was found to be a less than ideal batch. In theory the sperm can be frozen indefinitely; however, because of the quality they feel it should be sooner rather than later that you decide what you want to do with it.’

I gazed at Abby and she looked at me.

‘We’ll discuss it and get back to you very soon,’ Abby said.

‘All right, we’ll leave it at that for the moment.’

‘Good,’ said Katie, all business, ‘As far as you and the law are concerned Sam, you are the natural father of Heather and Victoria would have to prove that you are not caring for the child properly. I could get twenty witnesses in court to swear that you are a wonderful mother and that Heather is spoilt rotten in the nicest possible way. Now let’s face facts, she will get the best legal team that her money can buy, but she doesn’t realise, I think, that you are stinking rich and what she can do, you can top.’

‘She must know that I inherited from Olivia?’

‘Yes, but from what I have heard, she had not been as close to Nigel towards the end as she had been, due to some sort of bust up and so wasn’t aware as to how his wealth had mushroomed in a comparatively short time. I would be very surprised though, if she doesn’t find out soon; especially as you are rather splashing your wealth about now.’

‘You can’t blame me for the yacht–up until recently–I didn’t even know that I owned it!’

‘Perhaps: anyway, I have already set my tame detective agency to poring over her finances and one thing is clear, she hasn’t got as much money as she had. She was hit badly in the recession. I do think that she is being devious and may at some early stage try to contest Nigel’s will, especially when she is made aware of the amounts involved; but once again, I think that she is on very shaky ground as the will stated quite clearly that everything bar a few small items went to Olivia and Olivia had you as her sole beneficiary. I will be getting Queens Counsel’s opinion on this but I am sure we’ll win through on all counts.’

‘Thanks, Katie, you too, Marcia. I don’t care what it costs; I want her off our backs so we don’t have any chance of losing Heather–or the money.’

‘That’s my girl,’ Abby said with conviction.

~ §~

All these upsets and potential problems put a bit of a damper on the rest of the day and I was only too glad to get to bed that night.

As I spooned up to Abby, her breathing slow and quiet as she slept, I pondered the revelations I heard today. I had spent some time talking to Katie about Victoria–she was pure poison and I had thought that she would be banished from my life forever. It had occurred to me that she might contact me regarding access to Heather, but never expected this. I tried to put all thoughts of the odious old hag out of my mind. One thing I had learned over the years was that worrying about things rarely helped, especially at one o’clock in the morning.

I cupped my hand over Abby’s silky clad breast and played with her erect nipple; she moaned slightly and then slept on.

While we had cuddled up that evening, we had discussed at some length about what we would do about the sperm and I recalled the conversation. We had been sitting on the sofa–well, she had been sitting and I had lain down with my head on her lap as she stroked my hair.

‘What do you want to do then?’ I asked, gazing up at her pretty face.

‘What do you want to do? ’tis your sperm, my love.’

I pondered momentarily. ‘It would be nice to have a brother or sister for Heather. I am not a great believer in only children–look at Olivia; she was a singleton and look what happened to her.’

‘You can’t use Olivia as an argument; there are millions of kids that are only children in the world. They aren’t all like Olivia.’

‘I know I’m generalising and being irrational, but that’s how I feel at the moment. I want to have a big family if we can, either by trying for our own or adopting.’

‘You aren’t getting erections any more, are you?’

‘No, not really, it sort of goes semi hard–especially when I’m thinking about you or doing some of the sexual gymnastics we get up to but other than that, it’s a bit of a damp squib. Marcia said that would happen once the pills started to kick in.’

‘And you want to go all the way still and have it snipped off?’

I squirmed a bit at that thought. I wasn’t very good with surgery–especially if it was on me, but a girl has to do–– ‘It’s not snipped of like with garden shears you know, it’s sexual reassignment I want, not pruning.’

‘I know, love, but you still want to go through with it?’

‘Yes, more than almost anything. Look, we are going round and round in circles. If it means that we can have a baby using my sperm and you are willing to try it, let’s do it and try for a baby. You’ve said before that you want to get pregnant if and when the time was right.’

She stroked my hair for a bit and looked into the distance. Then gazed down at me lovingly and smiled. ‘I wonder what the fashionable mothers-to-be wear now days?’

‘How about a raffia skirt and gumboots?’ I suggested and we both got the giggles.

After that, we went to bed and practiced a few ‘manoeuvres’ that were knackering, but very satisfying.

~ §~

The next morning we were up and about as usual. Breakfast in our cottage was a strange affair by any standards. When you have two million cats to feed and they insist on following you around, getting under your feet and trying to trip you, or sticking their heads into fridges or sitting exactly where you want to plant your own posterior, it can, at times, try the patience of a saint.

Then there is our beloved Heather, who has learnt that food does not necessarily have to go in the mouth and when it does, it’s a lot of fun to spit it out again.

Then we had to feed ourselves, hose Heather down–again, and get ready to go to work. You can see that we rarely have a dull moment in the morning. In fact by the time we get down to the quay, we are already shattered. As we left the cottage, struggling with the almost lorry load of stuff we had to take for little Missy, Postman Pat pulled up in his red van. His name is really Arnold, but as he had a black and white cat (supplied by Abby) everyone calls him Pat after the children’s TV show, not that I ever watched it of course!

‘Mornin’ ladies!’ he said in his soft Somerset accent. Like me, he was an immigrant from other places. ‘Recorded delivery for you, Samantha, m’dear.’

I transferred Heather to a spare arm and using a pen scribbled my signature on his little hand-held computer thingy.

‘Thanks, m’love. Yurr y’are then.’

He handed me an envelope and without really looking at it, I stuffed it into my bag with the nappies and other essentials.

‘Thanks, Pat.’

‘No problem and if yew wants I to deliver any mail to yer boat, yew let I know.’

‘Riiight! Bye now.’

I waved him off and continued on to the car. Abby had gone on ahead and to the lovely, wonderful, clean and shiny Beemer which after my immediate family, was the love of my life.

I strapped lickle Heather in her seat and let her play with the mobile thingy on the back of the front passenger seat; moments later I slid into the seat next to Abigail and was all belted up. Slid being the operative word when you have yummy cream leather seats.

I sometimes let Abby drive, otherwise she sulks. She had a perfectly good car of her own, but it is a bit small for our joint needs and she only uses it on the rare occasions when we have to go somewhere separately. I kissed my two best girls goodbye at the pottery. Heather was with Abby this morning and I was going to take over on the afternoon shift. Tracy was in the gallery when I turned up three minutes late.

‘Wot time djyer call this then?’ she said, rather smugly I thought for someone who quite recently was unable to get in on time to save her life.

‘Belt up and make the tea,’ I growled pleasantly.

We had a bit of a rush on that morning, five people came in and two of them bought some art, which was good because that’s why we’re there. I wasn’t making a mint of money, but the place was paying for itself, which was good enough for me.

Tracy did most of the selling. I cannot understand how anyone who didn’t know her could possibly understand her without a cockney/Southend phrase book, but somehow she got her meaning across and I only had to sit there a looking intelligent and hopefully pretty while she strutted her stuff.

At about 11 o’clock, the door pinged again. Looking up from the mag I was reading, I smiled.

‘Hello, Dawn!’ My sister entered looking slightly scruffy in a t-shirt and jeans. ‘You look nice,’ I added, ‘dressed up to come and see me then?’

She sat beside me. ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Sam. No, I have been clearing out the attic of our cottage and it’s exceedingly grotty up there. Then, after seeing a spider the size of a dinner plate, I decided to let hubby darling deal with it before I venture up there again. Then I thought of my dear sweet sister and the fact that I am dying for a drink or something. I couldn’t be bothered to change, as ’tis only you, after all. So I am killing two birds with one stone; let’s have a cuppa.’

I looked at Tracy who was texting her new girlfriend–again.

‘Trace, can you look after the shop. Dawn and I have an important meeting with a couple of cappuccinos’

She looked up and smiled; she was miles away.

‘Yeah, wot? Erm, gotcha.’

‘I take that to mean yes?’

‘Wot? Er, yeah.’

Dawn and I looked at each other and smiled knowingly–ah, young love.

Sitting outside the Continental Tea Rooms was rather nice. It was autumn now, of course and the village was fairly quiet, being-mid week and out of season. Even the seagulls were standing outside the Sun And Sea Holidays shop on the promenade gazing wistfully at the Photoshopped pictures of tropical climes. It was still warm but of an evening it became decidedly nippy with the breeze coming off the sea. But enough of the shipping forecast; we sipped our drinks and nice, but naughty jam doughnuts and caught up on things. I had texted her the previous day about Victoria so I expected this call today.

‘How are the kids?’ I asked, as Melanie went to fetch our order.

‘Not bad, had to go up the surgery yesterday.’

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Marcia didn’t mention it.’

‘I told her not to say anything. Anyway she has to abide by that hippy-whatsit oath. Anyway, don’t ask me how, but Timothy, bless his little cotton undies, managed to stick a small pebble up his nose when he was down on the beach with the other school kids; he’s been doing things like that lately. We had the pencil incident and then the pea occurrence and now this. Marcia reckons that it’s just a phase. I hope so. I don’t want to take him to the doctor’s at eighteen with this sort of problem.’

‘Is he all right now?’

‘A bit sore but it serves him right, so I have no sympathy.’

Just then, Melanie came back with our goodies so we waited until she had parked the comestibles and then Dawn got to the point.

‘Now, tell me,’ she said after a quick slurp of coffee and a bite of doughnut that left a film of icing sugar on her top lip; ‘What that sodding bitch has done now?’

Dawn and Victoria were like oil and water, chalk and cheese and other opposites that I can’t think of just now but would remember later.

Quickly I brought her up to speed regarding the sperm thingy and the fact that she wanted to baby-snatch Heather.

‘The cow, isn’t there anything that slimy, two-timing excuse for womanhood wouldn’t do?’

‘Probably not. Remember her son was Nigel and he was no angel.’

‘Hmm; well I think that you are doing the right thing. Let the legal eagles sort it out and let’s hope your private dicks––’

‘–I wish you wouldn’t call them that, sis. They’re a well respected investigation agency, not something disgusting that’s hidden in their knickers.’

‘All right, whatever. Let’s hope your ‘investigation agency’, can come up with the goods.’

‘You watch too much television.’

‘Wash your mouth out. Television is the only true God and I follow it religiously.’

‘God will strike you down for that or at least make your toast fall butter side down.’

‘Has Jocasta been filling your head with religion?’

‘Well she is the vicar’s wife and now I’m in the young mother’s gang, it’s kind of expected to at least say ‘God is cool,’ occasionally. But let’s not get into religion now. What do you think about Abby and I getting the turkey baster out and making a new baby?’

‘Sounds cool to me. The little frozen wriggly things are doing no good in the deep freeze. Get ‘em out and put ’em to work. The little lazy buggers have to earn their keep, you know.’

‘Dawn, you never used to be quite so crude before. What’s changed you?’

‘Big Brother.’

‘Oh.’ I said, understanding.

I would have to get her on a few committees and doing some good works before her brain completely rots. She used to be a nurse once. Perhaps now the kids were growing up she could get back into that? I would suggest to Dotty that she asks Matron at the cottage hospital to see if there were any vacancies. If there were, I would casually bring it up in conversation when her guard was down. Dawn was a woman with a low boredom threshold and I felt it was my sisterly duty to get her back to sanity. Who said I couldn’t be machi–machiavel–devious?

~ §~

The afternoon followed its normal course. While I had been out cappuccinoing–if that’s the word–with Dawn, Tracy had managed to sell a bust and a photograph. I felt decidedly surplus to requirements so I left her in charge again and went to collect Heather from the other ’alf.

As I left Abby, she was busy with an old lady who couldn’t decide which chamber pot she wanted–she called out to me.

‘Dotty and Sarah are babysitting tonight.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought that it would be nice to go to the restaurant for a meal for a change, so dig out a tent or something to wear and we’ll go and taste the high life.’

‘All right; it will be nice to go out for a change. I could murder a nice bloody undercooked steak.’

Abby winced. She was a semi-vegetarian and always gets on her high horse when she was eating like a rabbit and I was eating like Orca, The Killer Whale on steroids. I say semi-veggie, but after a bit she can’t take any more and starts eating her way through anything that had been killed and gone in the freezer.

I waved goodbye to her and to the old lady who was ignoring me and attempting to try out one of the chamber pots–don’t ask how, this is Penmarris!

As it was such a nice day, I decided that delegation was a good thing and left Tracy to look after the shop while I had some quality time with Heather.

We walked along the quay, well I walked and she sat there in the buggy pointing at everything and sucking on her dummy with her celebrated imitation of a sink plunger.

We went down the steps and sat on the beach for a bit. Over to the left in the harbour, our yacht was rising and falling gently on its moorings. I wondered if Victoria knew about it. Well I was getting rather attached to it and hell would freeze over before she got her clammy mitts on it or anything else of ours, up to and including Heather.

I pondered at my reaction, while sifting some fine golden sand through my fingers. I never wanted any of this when I ran away from home–because that is what I did after I found my wife in bed with another bloke–and came down to this idyllic place with all its mad inhabitants and quirky ways.

I never asked for the money, I never wanted Olivia to die–or Nigel come to that–although he was a complete and absolute sod. Heather would now grow up without ever knowing who her natural mother was and that was sad.

I had decided early on to accept what ‘is’ and not what ‘could have been’. There were now so many more positives in my life, in fact, more than I had ever had before. I had found Abby and we were as happy as any couple could be; then, Heather had come to me as a gift from heaven following tragic circumstances and I knew that I could never allow her to be taken from me and Abby.

After our little outing on the beach, we returned to the quay and the Continental Tea Rooms; I had another Cappo and Heather a juice. I fished out my purse to pay Melanie and saw the envelope that Postman Pat had given me earlier. I had clean forgotten it.

I put the envelope on the table, made sure that Heather was suitably refreshed with her juice and then I had a sip of coffee before picking up the hand written envelope and opening it.

My coffee went cold as I read the contents.

Tom or whatever you call yourself now.

I won’t say ‘dear’ because you are not that to me and never will be.

I put you on notice that I will not stand by and let both my son and granddaughter’s name be tarnished by one such as you.

I know that somehow you have got hands on my son’s money and assets and I intend to contest the will made by Olivia due to the fact that the marriage had irrevocably broken down due to your unnatural habits and demands and should therefore be made null and void. I have been told by my legal people that I have no chance of restricting your access to the sperm that was in possession of my granddaughter’s so called representatives and I will, for the sake of harmony and the fact that I do not wish to appear vindictive, drop that part of my claims against you.

However, my great granddaughter is another matter. I believe that you are an unfit father and not able to look after a child, any child, due to your unnatural lifestyle. The fact that a woman, any woman in fact, could live with you and your ‘dressing-up and other unnatural habits’ shows that she is either a fool or a simpleton. I will therefore seek custody of my great grandchild as soon as the courts allow it.

If you harm my great grandchild in any way or attempt to escape abroad, I will ensure that the full force of the law, both civil and criminal will be ruthlessly pursued.

Victoria Manning.

I could have cried then, but I didn’t. She was pressing all the buttons that on previous occasions would have set me off down the ‘falling apart at the seams’ route. But, I had seen it, done it and bought the t-shirt with Nigel and to a certain extent Olivia already, with this type of crap. Whereas Olivia had mattered to me at one time and the fact that also I had tried my hardest to get closer and friendlier with Nigel, if only for the sake of my marriage, I never had any feelings for the Venom Woman.

I stared at her letter for a while and then carefully put it back in the envelope and then my bag. For some time I sat there wondering why and how this could possibly have happened. Then again, I had been forewarned by Marcia that the bitch was coming after me so it should come as no great surprise that I would receive a letter from her. Indeed she had written to me before about my so called shortcomings, while I was still married to Olivia. I had never shown any of the poisonous letters to Olivia as my marriage was shaky enough without that added petrol on the fire, but, knowing Olivia, she probably knew about them anyway.

It was almost as if Nigel had been looking over Victoria’s shoulder while she wrote this letter. It sounded so much like something that he would have written. Well at least I knew now where I stood. I would take the letter to Katie tomorrow and let her have a look at it.

I decided to say nothing to Abby about it; she was worried enough about things without her seeing a noxious letter like that, especially as it said such vile things about her. I would show it to her eventually–but not just now.

I suppose I was still unsure of myself and insecure. Deep down I was terrified that Abby would not want to have anything to do with me and get fed up with the amount of old baggage I seemed to have around my neck. I wouldn’t blame her. Everywhere I went I was haunted by the past and another piece of that past had now arrived and things looked as if they would be difficult for a while to say the least…

‘Enough, Samantha, be strong; you are not a blob of jelly.’

So I picked myself up, dusted myself off and started all over again; sticking the letter back in my handbag and added it on my mental ‘things to do’ list for the following day.

~ §~

That evening, we dropped off Heather at Dotty’s and after a protracted farewell where Mummy Dotty showed us how accurate her Purdy was by firing at an old bust of Julius Caesar and blowing him to smitherines; we left them to it and drove down to the sea front and Luigi’s.

I had decided not to wear a tent and had on a rather nice cream off-the-shoulder silk dress by Alexander McQueen with matching pashmina. Abby looked lovely in her Vera Wang navy silk, net draped front, cocktail dress with lacy shrug. A year ago, I would never have thought of wearing such finery but now, it was something that wasn’t that unusual.

We had both made the effort; because we didn’t have many occasions where we could glam up a bit and enjoy ourselves. I had taken ages over my hair and makeup as I wanted to look as nice as possible for Abby. Judging by the way she looked, she felt the same about me. To be frank (or would that be Frances?) it was a tossup whether we would make it to the restaurant because we wanted to go all primeval and do things that would make even ‘a lady of the night’ blush.

In the end, sense won over lust, (shame!)

Luigi’s is an Italian restaurant; just off the East Beach, was one of those restaurants that oozed class and refinement. People came as far as Cornwall and Somerset to taste the delights and heights of Signor Luigi’s culinary excellence. It was one of only a few three Michelin star restaurants in the area and it was extremely popular all year round. The fact that Abby had managed to get a table was a miracle in itself. I had a vague suspicion that money had exchanged hands.

We were shown to our table, which was in an alcove one and overlooked by nobody. The lights were dim and there was a lighted candle and a single long stem rose on the pristine white table cloth, talk about romantic!

I won’t go into a blow by blow account of the meal, but it was five courses and by the time we had reached the coffee, we were pleasantly replete. The food was superb and the service excellent and unobtrusive. I chanced just one glass of Pasqua Soave Classico Superiore Sagramoso - 2001, for you wine snobs–you know who you are–and it was superlative wine that left me feeling warm and relaxed and not squiffy in the least.

We talked of many things–how we met and when we realised, quite early on that we were in love. Our lives and future, what we wanted to do and how we could make things even better for the future. Mind you, I did most of the talking as Abby seemed to be a bit preoccupied, but when in the mood, I can talk for two so I didn’t pay much attention to the fact that she was somewhat distracted.

Then, in a pause in the one sided conversation, Abby fished about in her bag and produced a small red leather-bound box. She gazed into my eyes and smiled rather shyly, I thought and then pushed it across the table.

I looked at the box but didn’t touch it. My heart had suddenly decided to dance the tango.

‘Open it, please,’ her voice sounded strangely strained.

I wondered if it was––

I thought that it might be––

Could it?

With slightly shaking hands I opened the box.

Inside was a lovely ring with a small but bright diamond, its fire glittering at me in the light of the candle.

In the background, I sensed that someone had come up behind me and I could hear the quiet sounds of someone playing something mushy on the violin.

‘Samantha, will you marry me?’

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.

 

Previously…

I looked at the box but didn’t touch it. My heart had suddenly decided to dance the tango.

‘Open it, please,’ her voice sounded strangely strained.

I wondered if it was––

I thought that it might be––

Could it?

With slightly shaking hands I opened the box.

Inside was a lovely ring with a small but bright diamond, its fire glittering at me in the light of the candle.

In the background, I sensed that someone had come up behind me and I could hear the quiet sounds of that someone playing something mushy on the violin.

‘Samantha, will you marry me?’

And now the story continues…

I stared at the ring and heard the music; then gazing into the eyes of the one I loved with all my heart, took her hand and, in passing, noted that she was trembling slightly.

I could have said that it was too soon.

I could have said that I had too much baggage.

I could have said that it was a silly idea and that it would never work.

What I did say was––

‘I will!’

I didn’t realise that–although we were in a slightly secluded spot–it wasn’t at all secluded if the other patrons stood up and watched. It was therefore somewhat of a surprise when I heard the clapping and wolf-whistling. But I wasn’t really surprised. By now the village grape-vine would be full swing and by the time we walked home, hand in hand, everyone up to and including Mrs Clapworthy’s old talking budgie would know all about it.

We didn’t stay long after that as we wanted to get home and erm–do things.

As we walked up the hill to Jellicle Cottage, as predicted, hand in hand and whispering sweet nothings to one another, I glanced to the left and down the lane to where our other cottage stood. Outside, by the street light, were Tracy and her friend. They were sort of up close and personal and I smiled at the thought of those two love birds. But I wasn’t jealous, as I had my very own love bird and she was all I wanted.

~ §~

The following days were busy as we still had our day jobs and looking after Heather and the cats also took up a lot of our time, especially as Matilda gave birth to about a hundred adorable kittens–not that we minded, we were on a high that you seldom get on drugs. Although tiresome things like real life tend to get in the way, we tried not to let anything spoil our euphoria.

Of course, there was the tiresome problem of the Bitch from Hell hanging over our heads, although, to be honest, I was pretty sure that she was just trying things on. Nevertheless, I would fight like a trapped lioness where Heather was concerned, and if that cow was stupid enough to come around ‘these ’ere parts’ as Tracy put it, I would do–do–do–Grrrrrrrr!

We hoped for a traditional midsummer wedding with David doing the honours. He didn’t seem too fazed by the fact that we would be wearing matching wedding dresses and for that we were grateful. One of the reasons why the wedding was going to be later than we would really have liked was that we had decided to dust off the turkey-baster and try to get Abby preggers using my spare squiggly things. Whether it would work, we wasn’t sure, because the poor weenies were not as strong as normal sperm, but we would give it a bash–sorry, wrong choice of words–

Tracy was being a decided Godsend. She took to the gallery like a duck to water. I had so much on, she was increasingly left in charge. In fact I got her an assistant called Barry.

Now Barry was one of the Pearsons’ many grandchildren. At 16 he was somewhat shy and not used to work, having left school at the end of the summer term. But he was cheerful enough and didn’t mind being ordered about by a girl of similar age. He worked hard in the background, doing deliveries, cleaning up, making the tea and other important jobs that left Tracy to do her special thing with our clients. Barry had a girlfriend, almost as shy as himself, called Annabel. It amazed me how they both plucked up the courage to actually go out together!

I was spending lots of time trying to get artists to exhibit their work and doing some painting myself to fill in the gaps on the walls. Additionally, I was working hard on Dotty’s painting; I hoped finish it by the time of her birthday as I dearly wanted to give it to her as a birthday present. I know that she commissioned the piece, but Dotty was family now and I don’t charge family.

I was in my studio painting a beach at sunset scene which appeared to be popular with the buyers. I always tried to do something different with everything I paint by adding a boat here or there or people on the beach–something that makes it individual and not just a copy of a copy–of a copy –of a copy, if you know what I mean.

Heather was fast asleep as I had just fed and watered her. She was a happy little baby and didn’t cry all that much. Yes she had lungs that could be heard on the other side of the bay when she took a fancy, but all in all, she was a contented little soul. We still had worries that her meningitis might just have left some residual problems, but it did look like she might be one of the lucky ones who don’t have problems following the illness.

My mobile went off and I winced as Abby had changed the ring tone to that flaming frog again! I would have to give her a good spanking when I saw her, then I had a rethink, she would enjoy that too much, perhaps a withdrawal of privileges for a couple of days? No I liked our nightly manoeuvres too much for that–

‘Hello,’

‘Is that Ms Smart?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ms Cartwright here, from Devon S.S.–’

‘S.S?’

‘Yes, Social Services. I would like to come and see you tomorrow at nine a.m. sharp.’

She sounded like a hard-faced women who wore tweed skirts and was not what one would call a ‘people’ person.

‘For what purpose?’

‘It’s about your daughter, Heather.’

‘What about her?’

‘We need to assess you?’

‘For what?’

‘To see if the baby is safe and well looked after and not in danger.’

‘Danger, from what prey?’

‘Erm–well we’ve had a report stating that you might be an unsuitable parent for a vulnerable child––’

‘–unsafe parent? Who the hell do you think you are and what’s all this about ‘unsuitable parent’?’

‘Now-now, Ms Smart, do not take that tone of voice with me, it shows that you may be volatile and that the report might, in fact, be true.’

I counted to five and then continued. ‘Who made this gross accusation?’

‘I am not at liberty to divulge that information.’

‘I think I know who it is. The cow has been trying to get hold of my baby and assets. Let me tell you this, Ms Cartwright, that I do not take kindly to being assessed like this or told that you are having to visit me because some old bat has an agenda all her own.’

‘Such words will not help your case, Ms Smart.’

‘Won’t it? What if I refuse to see you?’

‘Then, regretfully, we would have to get a court order to take your baby into care until such a time as we are satisfied that she is going to live in a safe environment.’

Shouting at this–this–person was going no way towards helping me. I would have to be cool, calm and collected and not let my–sometimes–hot temper get the better of me.

‘Very well, I shall see you at ten a.m. tomorrow as I already have a previous appointment at nine. You may come to my home at Jellicle Cottage then. Good day to you, Ms Wheelwright.

I stabbed the disconnect button and slammed the phone down. I was livid and it took a few moments for my heart to stop trying to thrust itself out of my chest like the alien did when it came out of John Hurt’s chest in that film that I can’t remember the name of…

I made myself a cup of tea, went out on the balcony and sat in the rickety old seat that I had promised myself I would change but hadn’t got round to doing yet.

The day was a cloudy and breezy, making the sea gulls looked decidedly fed up as they huddled in groups to discuss the current state of the economy appertaining to the cod quota.

Why does my mind go off at peculiar tangents when I’m worried?

I myself was not feeling cold, because the wind was coming from behind the house and not off the sea for a change. My thoughts were about Heather and how I should play this meeting. I would, of course talk to Abby about it as soon as possible, but she was up in London as a couple of West End shops now stocked her pottery and I knew she would be in meetings all day today and, in fact, wouldn’t be home until after lunch tomorrow.

So, it was up to me to deal with this pestilential person.

Drinking my tea, I wondered why my life never seemed to go smoothly for more than a few days at a time. Was I fated to have problems crop up like this on a very regular basis? I yearned for a touch of normality. I smiled ruefully at that thought. Here was I, a pre-op transgendered woman, obscenely rich, with several successful businesses and a bloody great plastic tub sitting in the harbour, declaring the fact that I had more than a little wealth. Then I have a vengeful grandmother who wanted to strip me of my assets and more importantly, my baby. No life would never be ‘normal’ for me.

I went back indoors and closed the door.

Heather was still asleep and looking blissfully unaware of the problems in which she was embroiled at the moment. I picked up my phone and texted Abby.

Pleas rng me whn u cn lv Sam

Then I used the speed dial to ring Katie.

‘Hi Katie, are you busy?’

‘Not really, just doing a probate.’

‘Sounds nasty; do you need some cream? It must hurt to sit down.’

There I was, at it again!

‘I think that you might be getting mixed up. What did you want or is this just a social call?’

I told her what the woman from the S.S. told me.

‘Well, it doesn’t surprise me. They have to look into all cases where a member of the public has reported someone.’

‘Even if that member of public is a silly old cow with a vendetta against me?’

‘They scrutinise all such instances carefully. There have been far too many cases where child abuse has been allowed to happen and they get it in the neck if they are seen to do nothing.’

‘So I’m a child abuser now?’ I felt like crying–it was all getting on top of me.

‘Oh, Sam, don’t get all uppity with me. You couldn’t abuse a teddy bear let alone a lovely baby like your Heather.

‘I should think not!’

‘Right, back to basics. When is the Obersturmbannfá¼hrer coming?’

‘Sturbum what?’

‘The lady SS officer–I mean Social Services official–when is she visiting you?’

‘Tomorrow morning at ten, she’s coming to Jellicle Cottage.’

‘Right, I shall be there with you to protect your interests and hold your coat if you decide on fisticuffs.’

‘You will–? Ooh, you’re such a treasure.’

‘I know–it’s a curse too, but someone’s got to do it and just wait until you get my bill for all this. It will make the National Debt seem trivial by comparison.’

We spoke for a few minutes more and then I let her go to put some ointment on her probate.

Just after that the ’phone went off again with that bloody Crazy Frog going , ‘dingding-de’dinding or whatever. The number of the caller had been witheld.

‘Hello?’

Silence.

‘Hello, is there anybody there?’ I must have sounded like a psychic medium conducting a séance.

More silence. I shrugged and put the ’phone down. Just then I heard a whimper of someone in extreme distress as Heather woke up and wanted feeding/cuddling/changing/playing with, but not necessarily in that order.

‘Hello my little, ickle, munchkin?’ I said in my best Baby-ese, ‘has didums woken up then? Ooh what’s that smell, is it a curry, nuclear waste or bad eggs? No it’s sweetums, bub-bum gone and done and packety-wackety in her nappy-wappy!’

Well, I think she understood because she giggled and then blew bubbles at me; a sure sign of understanding.

After cleaning her up at one end and then refuelling her at the other, swiftly followed by a very satisfactory burping session that rattled my cup and saucer, I glanced at the clock. It was coming up for lunch time. I recalled the evocative smell of fish and chips, wafting up from the harbour earlier while I was having my cuppa on the balcony. This seemed like it would be a nice time to go and sample some nice haddock and chips, so I put wriggle-bum in her pushchair, quickly cleared up my painting things and we were soon on our way down the steep hill towards the chippy.

We met a few people on the way down, locals mainly, who ‘ooed’ and aahed’ at Heather as we passed them. I even saw Mrs Pearson as she walked up the hill with Mr Pearson in tow. She had wicker basket with her, which was older than the one that Moses was plonked in, a few short thousands of years ago.

‘’M,’ she said conversationally.

‘Hello, Mrs P, finished shopping?’

‘Oh-arr.’ She was being quite chatty today.

‘Nice day today. Are you going to clean the cottage this afternoon?’

‘Oh-arr.’

‘And Mr Pearson, will you be sorting out the garden?’

‘Yez ’m.’

‘Oh good, we have a lady visiting tomorrow and I want the place to look as nice as possible.’

‘Do me best ’m,’ said Mrs Pearson who was now making faces at Heather who was giggling. Come to think of it, it was her normal face so that was why Heather always giggled when she saw her.

‘Anyway, I have to dash; see you later at the cottage. I’ll make you a cuppa.’

‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘Father, go get tea pot.’

Mr P was the original hen pecked husband and as I knew that she would only drink tea out of her old tea pot that hadn’t been properly cleaned since Noah had a brew-up, he just turned back down the hill with a look that meant that he might stop in at The Toad for a couple before venturing back up the hill with the famed pot.

Mrs Pearson watched him potter down the hill and then turned to me.

‘An’ you want ter get wed?’ She looked at me as if I was mad, shook her head and then walked on without another word.

On we went, getting ever closer to the source of the Nile–well, the chippy smell, anyway.

I popped into the gallery before going to get lunch. Tracy was hard at work with a rather portly man who looked, according to the evidence of his belly, like he regularly overdosed on pasties and by the look of his red face and slightly bulbous nose, that he washed the said pasties down with copious pints of scrumpy.

‘Righ,’ she said, ‘this paintin’ ’ere is by an up an comin’ painter called Albert Stoggins. As yer can see, it’s of the ’arbour, when it’s pissin’ dahn–sorry rainin’ quite ’ard. See ’ow ’e’s captured the crappy weavver and that poor sod who’s standin there with ’is dog, almost g’tting' blown over––’

I quietly let myself out, making a mental note to point out to Tracy at some stage that swearing shows a limited interlect and lazy speech, a thing that I would never do.

There were a few people on the quay as it had brightened up and the blue sky had started peeping out from behind the clouds. There was a group of school children on the beach up by the rocks looking for things under rocks. I could hear their squeals from where I was, as something wriggly and possibly iggly was found.

I shook my head. This baby talk was getting to me. What I needed was a nice grown up conversation with Abby. Talk of the devil. My ’phone went off again? Could this be her?

I pulled the ’phone out of my bag and stabbed the go button or whatever it was called to stop that sodding frog making a noise.

‘Hello?’

Silence.

‘Hello, is that you, Abby?’

‘Hello, hello?’

Nothing. I pressed the stop button and thought that I might take my ’phone up to Cedric’s Mobiles, up on the High Street next to the Post Office to see if it needed servicing or smashing with a hammer.

First though, I needed sustenance and the chippy was calling me from afar–well fifty yards anyway.

I had just got going and the damn’ frog went off again. I would get Cedric to change that bloody tune when I go in there…

It was a text from Abby

caught up in meetngs. rng u 2nite lv abby

I sighed. I would have liked have spoken to Abby but I knew that these meetings were important to her.

We carried on and then there it was, in all its glory, with an evocative but unlikely picture of a haddock with a smile on its face, outside. I had reached the fish and chip shop.

There was no one about now and as I didn’t want to overpower little Heathers lungs with essence of grease, I stopped the pushchair by the entrance where I could easily see it and walked in.

Big Dave was the shop manager. He was very big and played for Penmarris RFC. Part of his training was rather unique, he ran up and down the quay carrying a hundredweight sack of potatoes on his shoulders, but he was a nice man and was kind to old ladies and children. Opponents didn’t think he was so kind though and there was a trail of broken bones from Penmarris to Bodmin that showed just how hard he was on the rugger pitch.

‘Mornin’, ’m,’ he said with smile that showed that he still hadn’t replaced the broken teeth from his last pitched battle.

‘Hello, Dave, can I have haddock and chips please?’

‘Addocks off ’m; cod’s good though.’

‘Okay, cod and chips please and don’t go easy on the chips.’

‘Yez ’m.’

As he got my order, I looked at the push chair. Did I put the brake on?

I squinted a bit, realising that I might have to get some glasses. Yes it was locked on.

My ’phone went off again. Dave looked up from shovelling five thousand calories worth of chips in the bag and winced. The crazy frog was even noisier in the confined shop.

I stabbed at the button and turned to the wall.

‘Hello?’

Silence.

‘Salt an’ vinegar?’ said Dave distracting me from my task.

‘Erm, yes please Dave.’

I returned to my call.

‘Hello'–damn phone-'hello, is there anybody there?’

Nothing; I shook my head and put the phone back in my bag. As soon as I had eaten my low fat lunch, I would go and see Cedric.

‘Two-eighty please, ’m.’

‘Thanks, Dave,’ I said giving him the exact money from my purse.

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘Bye,’

‘Bye ‘m.’

I left the chippy, put the wrapped fish and chips on the tray under the push chair, my mouth watering at the thought of eating it soon and then let the brake off.

‘Right, sweetie-pie, let’s go and have–’ I looked in the push chair and my heart flipped.

Of Heather there was no sign––

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.

 

Previously…

‘Hello, Dave, can I have haddock and chips please?’

‘’Addocks off ’m; cod’s good though.’

‘Okay, cod and chips please, and don’t go easy on the chips.’

‘Yez ’m.’

As he got my order, I looked at the push chair. Did I put the brake on?

I squinted a bit, realising that I might have to get some glasses. Yes it was locked on.

My ’phone went off again. Dave looked up from shovelling five thousand calories worth of chips in the bag and winced. The crazy frog was even noisier in the confined shop.

I stabbed at the button and turned to the wall.

‘Hello?’

Silence.

‘Salt an’ vinegar?’ said Dave distracting me from my task.

‘Erm, yes please, Dave.’

I returned to my call.

‘Hello'–damn phone–‘hello, is there anybody there?’

Nothing; I shook my head and put the phone back in my bag. As soon as I had eaten my low fat lunch, I would go and see Cedric.

‘Two-eighty please, ’m.’

‘Thanks, Dave,’ I said giving him the exact money from my purse.

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘Bye,’

‘Bye ‘m.’

I left the chippy, put the wrapped fish and chips on the tray under the push chair, my mouth watering at the thought of eating it soon and then let the brake off.

‘Right, sweetie-pie, let’s go and have–’ I looked in the push chair and my heart flipped.
Of Heather there was no sign––

And now the story continues…

I screamed. Looking to my right and left, there was no sign of my little darling. Then I dashed back into the chippy and looked at Dave in desperation.

‘My baby–– Heather–gone, oh God, c—call the police, Abby, Jocaster, Dawn, Mummy–anyone, now––!

I didn’t wait for any answer but remembered afterwards that he did a very good impression of a mentally defective halibut–

I ran out of the shop and some sixth sense told me to turn left.

Further down the quay an old couple, sitting on one of the many benches dotted about, were licking ice cream cornets.

‘Have you seen someone carrying a baby?’ I asked, rushing up to them.

‘Eh, what’s that?’ said the woman cupping her ear. The man appeared to be somewhat vague, so there was no hope there.

Raising my voice; ‘I–said–have–you–seen–a–baby–?’

‘Baby? No, dear, I’m too old to have a baby at my time of life–’

I could hear the panic in my voice. ‘HAVE–YOU–SEEN–A–BABY–?’

She looked a bit puzzled and then her eyebrows shot up.

‘Baby; little thing? Yes, she went down the road with her mother a few minutes ago. Went round that there corner, didn’t she, Father?’

Father paid no attention so I just mumbled a thanks and rushed off.

I jabbed 999 and then found that I had no sodding signal on my, bloody ’phone. I shot round the corner into the High Street, which comprised of a few shops, the surgery and Post Office. It was quite busy as I saw no less than 5 people but none of them were carrying my baby!

Dashing up the street, I accosted everyone asking if they had seen someone carrying a baby. Most of them, seeing my wide-eyed panicky appearance, must have thought I was fresh out of the loony-bin but the last one–a woman about my age–said she had.

‘Yes, she went up the hill and turned into Marine Parade. I thought it was strange that she didn’t have a push chair or summat.’

‘Thanks,’ I gasped and ran on, trying my mobile again, this time to Abby–no signal! This was getting ridiculous–and where were the police when you want them? One mile an hour over the speed limit and they are all over you like a rash, but when something important like a baby abduction happens, they are nowhere to be seen!

I turned into Marine Parade and saw nothing, no-one, nada, nix, sweet Fanny Adams. Then I noticed someone I recognised–the old soothsayer. I ran up to her while she was feeding some seagulls with eye of newt or something.

‘Have you seen my baby?’ I asked.

She stopped what she was doing, thought for a moment and said. ‘Is she ‘bout four months old, blond ’air, in a pink babagrow?’

‘Yes, that’s’ her!’

‘Oh arr, I’ve seed ’er outside yurr ’ouse t’other day; pretty young thing, she were–’

‘Oh b—bugger.’ I breathed and left her, thinking less than charitable thoughts, and ran along Marine Parade, my heels clattering noisily on the cobbles. At the end was a small playground for kids with a bit of grass, swings, see-saws and stuff like that. As I went along, I had all sorts of terrible things going on in my mind. She had been murdered, maimed, taken away. Had those silent calls had anything to do with it?

Nigel’s Mum. I almost stopped dead in my tracks at that thought, was she behind all this? She was deranged as far as I was concerned and she dyed her roots––

–Where did that come from?

I cleared my head of such moronic notions because I was now almost at the end of The Parade. Where was everyone? I thought that as this place had so many busy-bodies who knew everything about everyone, somebody should have seen something.

I tottered through the green wrought iron gates and stopped in the entranceway, breathing hard and feeling slightly light-headed. I was sobbing at this point, thinking all sorts of black thoughts.

The place was empty and I nearly broke down there and then––

There was no sign of movement except one swing that was moving–

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something move, over to the side by some bushes. I could see legs–bare legs. A woman, in a skirt, her body hidden by the bushes––

I approached slowly, not knowing what I would find; my heart was thumping and I was breathing heavily. I had to find out what was going on, but dreaded the thought of what I might find––

She was sitting with her back against a tree, crying her eyes out and cradling Heather in her arms. She was a young girl–no more than fifteen or sixteen. Heather was looking up at her and making gurgling noises, her little arms waving around.

Something told me that my wee angel was in no danger and the girl meant her no harm. She wasn’t even aware that I was there. I could have just grabbed Heather and run for it, shouting for help, but, for some reason, I didn’t. I sat down by the girl and just waited. The girl gradually stopped crying and then seemed to be aware of where she was and that I was sitting next to her.

She looked up and her eyes focussed on me.

‘H—h—hello,’ she said, ‘are—are you her Mummy?’

‘Yes.’ I replied gently.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Heather.’

‘That’s a pretty name.’

‘Yes.’

‘A pretty name f—for a p—pretty g—girl.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘S—Sophie.’

I could hear the sound of sirens in the distance but ignored them.

‘That’s a pretty name too.’

She looked at Heather and then smiled sadly.

‘You’d b—better have her b—back,’ she said, sniffing and handing me my baby.

‘Thank you.’ I replied, trying to keep the relief out of my voice.

‘S—sorry I took her. I thought for a bit that she was mine.’

‘Why?’

She broke down and cried and I soon had two people to look after, a baby who perversely had gone to sleep and a young girl who was soaking my cardi with her tears.

‘I—I had a miscarriage.’

‘When?’

‘Y ¬—yesterday.’

‘Why aren’t you in hospital or at home?’

‘My dad w—would’ve k—killed me. He’s been strange since Mum died. I wasn’t big or anything, I never really showed–just hid my bump under loose clothes.’

‘Where is the baby?’ I asked.

‘What?’ she said looking up at me with tears in her eyes.

‘You had a miscarriage, where is the baby?’

‘In the garden; I g–gave ’im a proper burial and ’at. He was tiny–’

She came into my arms again and cried even more. I could hear voices coming from over the other side of the playground and I called out.

‘I realised that she wasn’t my baby after a bit and nearly brought her back, but I—I just wanted to hold a real live baby for a while an’–an’ see what it was like. I’d never have hurt her.’

‘I know, honey, I know.’

Seconds later, Jo, David and Dawn were there, together with young Tom Bailey, the new Community Support Officer. It took a few minutes to explain what had happened and Tom, David and Jo took the girl away leaving Dawn with Heather and me. Jo had said that she would make sure that Sophie would be looked after.

Now it was my turn to cry my eyes out. I cried for the stress that I had been through, the terror at the thought of losing Heather and guilt that I had left her and let someone take her away. I also cried for the young girl who had suffered also and had buried her own stillborn child–

When I had calmed down a bit, we sat on a bench in the playground while I pulled myself together again. After a while, I glanced at Dawn, who had not said much, but had been there for me.

‘Poor girl,’ I said, ‘did you see the bruises on her arms and legs and that awful black eye?’

‘Yes, she looked dreadful,’ replied Dawn.

‘I’ll give you three guesses as to who I think did that and who the father is.’

‘You don’t have to paint a picture. I wonder what will happen to her.’

‘Well I won’t prosecute and judging by the state of her, I would be surprised if she would be charged, but you never know. I’ll ask Katie to look after it. She shouldn’t go back home either. Her father…’ the rest I left unsaid.

~ §~

After things had calmed down a bit I went home and didn’t want to let Heather out of my sight. She hadn’t suffered and wasn’t aware of the drama that had taken place. I kept picking her up and cuddling her. I was so relieved that she was safe and in my arms again. Eventually, I fed her and put her to bed.

As soon as she was settled, I rang Jocasta.

‘Hi Jo, how is Sophie?’

‘She’s with me now. I’m looking after her for a bit. The social services have David and I as emergency fosterers, so there’s no problem there.

‘She’s been cautioned by the police and I have to take her to the police station in town tomorrow morning. It seems doubtful if she will be charged though, due to her circumstances and state of mind. The CPS don’t think that they would get a conviction.’

‘I don’t want a conviction, I want to help her, poor lamb.’

‘Marcia Sinclair has seen her, she says that Sophia should be okay, but she has booked her in for an appointment at the hospital tomorrow morning. The police have collected the miscarried foetus from Sophie’s garden. The poor thing was at about five months.’

There was silence for a moment as we both thought about what Sophie must have been through then Jo continued,

‘She evidently lived with her dad in Bodmin. She has happy memories of being here with her mum when she was little so, to get away from her dad, she came here.’

‘What about the father?’

‘He’s being questioned by the police in Bodmin. An unsavoury character, by all accounts.’

I sat down on a chair and sipped my cup of tea.

‘I want to help her, Jo. We must try and do something for her. Mummy Dotty would know, she has her fingers in so many pies.’

‘Mmm, I agree, we need to have some sort of council of war, but do you really want to get involved, considering the problems you are having with Heather’s great grandmother?

‘I can deal with that bitch...sorry, I get emotional when I think of her.’

‘Understandable; look, lets see what happens tomorrow and then we can decide what can and what cannot be done. Look, I have top go. Jennifer and Phillipa are showing Sophie their horses, but they’ll be back soon. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’

‘Okay…and thanks, Jo.’

‘No thanks are needed, bye.’

After I put the ’phone down, it kept ringing and I left it on answer phone–I didn’t want to talk to anyone. If I heard one more platitude from my friends, I thought that I would break down entirely.

I was sitting with a cat, purring away on my lap, when I jumped slightly as my mobile went off for the first time today. I picked it up.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, love, I thought that I would ring you. We got that contract for the pottery. The way things are progressing, I might have to get more help in the shop; anyway, what sort of a day have you had?’

‘Oh Abby––!’

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.

 

Previously…

After things had calmed down a bit I went home and didn’t want to let Heather out of my sight. She hadn’t suffered and wasn’t aware of the drama that had taken place. I kept picking her up and cuddling her. I was so relieved that she was safe and in my arms again. Eventually, I fed her and put her to bed.

As soon as she was settled, I rang Jocasta.

‘Hi Jo, how is Sophie?’

‘She’s with me now. I’m looking after her for a bit. The social services have David and I as emergency fosterers, so there’s no problem there.

‘She’s been cautioned by the police and I have to take her to the police station in town tomorrow morning. It seems doubtful if she will be charged though, due to her circumstances and state of mind. The CPS don’t think that they would get a conviction.’

‘I don’t want a conviction, I want to help her, poor lamb.’

‘Marcia Sinclair has seen her, she says that Sophia should be okay, but she has booked her in for an appointment at the hospital tomorrow morning. The police have collected the miscarried foetus from Sophie’s garden. The poor thing was at about five months.’

There was silence for a moment as we both thought about what Sophie must have been through then Jo continued,

‘She evidently lived with her dad in Bodmin. She has happy memories of being here with her mum when she was little so, to get away from her dad, she came here.’

‘What about the father?’

‘He’s being questioned by the police in Bodmin. An unsavoury character, by all accounts.’

I sat down on a chair and sipped my cup of tea.

‘I want to help her, Jo. We must try and do something for her. Mummy Dotty would know, she has her fingers in so many pies.’

‘Mmm, I agree, we need to have some sort of council of war, but do you really want to get involved, considering the problems you are having with Heather’s great grandmother?

‘I can deal with that bitch…sorry, I get emotional when I think of her.’

‘Understandable; look, lets see what happens tomorrow and then we can decide what can and what cannot be done. Look, I have top go. Jennifer and Phillipa are showing Sophie their horses, but they’ll be back soon. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’

‘Okay…and thanks, Jo.’

‘No thanks are needed, bye.’

After I put the ’phone down, it kept ringing and I left it on answer ’phone–I didn’t want to talk to anyone. If I heard one more platitude from my friends, I thought that I would break down entirely.

I was sitting with a cat, purring away on my lap, when I jumped slightly as my mobile went off for the first time today. I picked it up.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, love, I thought that I would ring you. We got that contract for the pottery. The way things are progressing, I might have to get more help in the shop; anyway, what sort of a day have you had?’

‘Oh Abby––!’

And now the story continues…

There was a knock on the door and I went to answer it.

Abby, Katie and Heather in her best bib and tucker were in the sitting room, waiting for the dreaded trump of doom in the shape of Obersturmbannfá¼hrer Cartwright.

The heretofore mentioned Ms Cartwright, from Devon Social Services had arrived. It was on the dot of ten according to the church clock.

I opened the door and she stood there. She was younger than I thought, about twenty one or two. She was wearing her Nazi uniform–sorry, an expensive business suit and looked cool, efficient and very pretty. Not a hair dared to be out of place and her makeup looked like it had been applied by a very expensive artist–I hated her on sight.

‘Ms Smart?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am from the social services, we spoke the other day?’

She flashed a card at me with her mug shot on it.

‘Yes, please come in.’

I waived her through and closed the front door. She went ahead of me and I caught a slight waft of Canal…sorry Chanel N °5; I really didn’t like the way she walked, like someone on a catwalk, with long legs, expensive tights and high heels. What did they pay these people?

Thinking of catwalks, Ellie Mae, the cat was in pounce mode and at that very moment she had seen what might have been a mouse over the other side of the corridor and made a dash for it. It probably wasn’t a mouse, because nothing but a kamikaze mouse would live here with all the felines about, and Ellie, bless her, didn’t have her glasses on.

I have to explain that dotted about the place were cat litter trays for the convenience of our four–or three if you count poor Tiddles–legged friends and there was one in the corridor and sadly, it hadn’t been emptied that morning.

Ms Cartwright, tripped over Ellie; Ellie did a double flip and clawed her tights, screaming blue murder as only a distressed cat can. Ms Cartwright then landed in the cat tray, and did a credible impression of that girl who’s name escapes me, who got knifed in the shower.

Upon landing on the floor, I noted that she had got erm, things on her lovely skirt and blouse…and jacket and face and hair…you get the picture.

Abby came bounding out, closely followed by Katie who stopped dead at the sight of Ms Cartwright, who now looked more effluent than affluent.

Ms Cartwright looked up and gasped.

‘Katie!’

‘Miranda!’

It seemed that Katie and Miranda went to the same school together.

~ §~

Katie helped Miranda have a shower and Abby found a change of clothes for the poor woman, while I shoved some of the soiled items in the washing machine. The suit needed dry cleaning and I bagged it up ready. The tights went the way of all tights–in the bin.

Forty-five minutes later, Ms (call me Miranda) Cartwright was sitting with the rest of us in one of Abby’s dresses, turbaned towel on her head and sipping tea.

We apologised several times but she waved it off with a, ‘My bloody silly fault, should have looked where I was going.’

‘So,’ she continued, ‘let’s get down to business. We received a complaint about how you are looking after your daughter. We have to follow these complaints up as, occasionally, I am sad to say, such complaints are justified. I have seen Heather and she looks loved and well cared for. I know that Katie would not be friends with people that abuse children. I have spoken to your doctor, the hospital and a few other prominent residents and they all confirm that you are a loving parent. As far as I am concerned you have no need to worry.’

‘What about my transgendered status?’

‘Has no bearing on the case, even though the person who made the complaint against you seemed to think that it should do. Are you going to fully transition?’

‘Yes, I intent to as soon as practicable.’

‘Well, for the record, you look very pretty and I am hard pressed to imagine that you looked anything remotely like a bloke before.’

‘Thanks,’ I smiled.

‘Dishy, isn’t she?’ said Abby.

‘Abby!’

‘Well, my boyfriend Adrian would probably say so, before I bash him over the head. So you two are an item then?’

‘Very much so,’ said Abby holding my hand.

‘What about you Katie, grabbed a man yet? It used to be anything in trousers when we were at school.’

‘I object m’lud,’ said Katie.

‘She has her eye on my captain.’ I mentioned.

‘Your captain?’

‘Erm, yes.’

Miranda looked puzzled.

‘On your way through, did you happen to notice a phallic-looking yacht in the harbour?’ Abby asked.

‘What that bloody great pointy thing that makes all the other boats look tiny? Yes, I was so envious. Ade and I went to the South of France last year–St Tropez, you know–? Well they had ships like that there. I always wanted to go on one and pretend that I’m part of ‘the set’–why are you all smiling like that?’

Miranda stayed for a while longer and I invited her and Adrian to come on board when we all went on our jaunt. I did ask if there might be a conflict of interest and she said no as she was closing the case down.

Oh, for those cat lovers who are interested, Ellie Mae was perfectly all right after some intensive counselling and a can of her favourite cat food.

~ §~

I was pleased that the S.S. interview went so well, even though it could have been a disaster. Miranda was a nice girl who genuinely wanted to help kids. I told her to get in touch with Dotty and maybe we could rope her in to help out with a few of the things that we had going.

Believe it or not, things quietened down for the next few days. On the Sophie front, she was checked over at the hospital and found to be a bit anaemic and malnourished, covered in bruises and had proved positive for Chlamydia. Her father was, as we suspected, abusing Sophie and had evidently raped her on more than one occasion, resulting in the pregnancy and terrible aftermath.

I felt like I wanted to do something using a blunt instrument on the slime ball, but we had to let the legal system do its best to remove the scum from society.

Sophie was staying with Jo, David and their children and appeared to be getting over the trauma, but these things have a habit of coming back and biting you, so Marcia was keeping an eye on her.

~ §~

Life at the Walton’s continued–ooops sorry wrong story, Life with Abby, Heather and one thousand and one cats continued as per usual with us working hard and playing hard.

As soon as I had a chance to, I went to the mobile ’phone shop–Cedric’s Mobiles, to have my one looked at. I was concerned that it wasn’t working well and the reception was crappy, to put it technically. I was sort of super glued to Heather at the moment, not wanting her out of my sight, so I had to struggle with her buggy up and down the cobbles on the quay and other roads in the town. It might be quaint looking, but you try it sometime and for God’s sake don’t wear high heels–you have been warned!

It took me forever to get to Cedric’s, mainly because I was stopped every few minutes by well wishers who had heard all about Heather’s abduction. It was the biggest news since the Women’s Institute Annual Cake Competition Gambling Fiasco (The details of which can be found deep in the vaults of the Penmarris Herald). Anyway, I made it eventually. Entering his shop was like walking in an Aladdin’s cave of ’phones. The walls and floor space was littered with boxes of many shapes and sizes and they all contained mobile ’phones or accessories for the go ahead and with it ’phonisterati.

A lot of the ’phones were on display next to photos of scantily clad women. Though where you could possibly hide a ’phone in micro bikinis and thongs I’ll never know…

Behind the counter was Cedric, the man himself. About 25, he had taken over the shop from his dad. Cedric’s dad had been a cobbler–well he mended shoes and his dad before him was a cobbler too and before that Cedric’s great grandfather had been a blacksmith–so you see where the shoe connection came in. Then, Cedric broke the mould and shut down the cobblers as it had stopped making money years ago and went all high tec and reopened as a mobile ’phone shop. He lived above the shop with his wife Hortense and children, Mathew, Mark, Luke and John.

I knew Hortense from the Mothers Coffee Mornings that Jo hosted.

‘Hello, Cedric.’ I said brightly as I struggled to get the buggy to go around all the boxes and to the front of the shop.

‘’Ello, Sam,’ he said smiling, though how anyone could still smile with quadruplet babies and lack of sleep, defies belief. They had been trying for kids, according to the grapevine, for nearly five years and then, just like buses, four came along all at once.

I finally parked the buggy, put it into neutral and switched the engine off (joke). Then I dummyfied Heather and she started to do her sink plunger impression and cross her eyes in concentration while I fished out the mobile from my voluptuous–sorry, I mean voluminous–bag and handed it to Cedric.

‘It doesn’t work properly.’

‘Mmm,’ he said professionally.

He pressed a few buttons, took the battery out, put it back in again, sucked his teeth, mumbled something in Serbo-Croat, or perhaps gobbledegook and shook his head.

‘It be knackered.’

‘Knackered?’

‘Ar.’

‘Ar?’

‘Ar.’

‘Don’t arse about then; do I need a new one?’

Arse, ‘ar’…se, get it? Witty aren’t I?

‘Yez, ’M’ he said, obviously not realising that he was talking to the female equivalent of Oscar Wilde.

Mind you, he wasn’t big on the hard sell, was our Cedric.

‘So what do you suggest?’ I asked after a pregnant pause.

‘Well ’M, it depends what yer after.’

‘A ’phone.’ I said helpfully.

‘Yes ’M, but do yer want ter text, do photos, Facebook, Tweet, video, play filums an’ music. Do yer want a touch screen, go on ter internet, shop online, GPS, Satnav?’

‘Erm, no, I want to make ’phone calls.’

‘That’s all?’ He asked incredulously as if I had said something a heretic would have been stoned for in days of yore.

‘Yup.’

He shook his head, mumbled something unintelligible and no doubt actionable and then went out the back and rummaged around. After about ten minutes, he came back with a box and put it down on the counter in front of me. He blew the dust off it, making me cough delicately and then he opened the box and handed me a small black ’phone.

‘This is it then?’

‘Yez ’M.’

I flipped it open and the thing had the usual number of buttons. ‘How does it work?’ I asked…..

Half an hour later, I left with the new ’phone in its special leather case and an arm full of must have accessories like in car and out of car charger, screen protectors and spare batteries…just in case. I never knew that it was so complicated just buying a ’phone. Anyway, I wanted to try it as soon as I could so I stopped outside the Bide a Wee tea rooms and ’phoned Abby–but there was no signal.

‘B.U.G.G.E.R,’ I said, but quietly as Little Miss Big Ears was listening and I hadn’t had her tested for alphabetitis yet.

~ §~

A short while later, I was up in my studio singing O sole mio, off key, of course and trying to do some painting.

The singing was my attempt to get Heather off to sleep–it wasn’t working.

Heather was teething now and her face looked red and she cried a lot, not forgetting the nappy rash and slight cold. Nothing unusual for a baby, but because of her previous health problems, naturally we worried.

I was very clingy, re Heather as I may have mentioned before, and was constantly worried that she might be taken from us because of The Wicked Witch in the shape of Great Grandma Victoria. The cow kept writing nasty letters to me and I refused to open them, just taking them to Katie for her to deal with.

Abby was my rock and tower of strength and it was wonderful that I had someone to share my worries and concerns with. As I say, I was in my studio putting the finishing touches to Mummy Dotty and her late husband’s painting. I was quite happy with it and I hoped that Mummy would like it. It should be finished, I hoped, within the next week or so–plenty of time, as her birthday was two weeks away. Sarah, her adopted daughter came around quite often to see how it was getting on, apart from giggling a lot and saying that her mother was never that young and pretty, was she? She had nice things to say about my efforts though.

Tracy and her mum were both out at work, so I was getting all creative and inspirational. I got so excited at one stage; I had to stop for a moment to having a calming cup of tea and obligatory sticky bun before carrying on.

Heather, bless her was now in the land of nod. I think that her laughing at my singing may have worn here out.

All was calm, well relatively calm, as Mrs Pearson was in on her cleaning day and she did tend to throw things about when she’s in the mood. Mr P was outside decapitating flower heads with a certain amount of élan and panache.

I know, I hear you say, why don’t I let Tracy and her mum do the cleaning? Well to tell you the truth, I didn’t want to give Mr and Mrs P the sack, so I just let it slide. Strong aren’t I?

Anyway, I was cleaning my brushes and Mrs P was hoovering and making a lot of noise downstairs. The vacuuming noise ceased abruptly and I heard Mrs. Pearson go downstairs, her hobnailed boots clattering a bit as she went.

I glanced outside and noticed in passing that all the birds in the harbour seemed to rise as one and disappear over the horizon–funny that as the trawlers had just arrived and were full of juicy fish…

The door creaked open, there was the murmur of voices and then the door closed again. After that, I heard the clatter of two sets of feet coming up. One set stopped and then the Hoover went off again and suddenly the door of the studio opened and there she was, larger than life and looking a bit miffed.

‘Hello, Mummy,’ I said as I casually turned the painting towards the wall where she could not see it.

‘There you are, young Sam.’

‘Yes, erm, here I am.’

‘Don’t be a bloody parrot, woman. What yer up to?’

‘Oh, just this and that.’

‘Never mind this and that, where’s me bloody paintin?’

‘Nearly finished, Mummy.’

‘I should think so. At this rate, you’ll have ter put it in the coffin with me.’

‘You are good for years yet, Mummy.’

‘Hmm, flattery‘ll get yer nowhere with me, young lady.’

I did like the ‘young lady‘ reference, but it was obviously not the painting that she had come about as I had spoken about it the other day when we had taken Heather up to the big house for high tea.

She sat down on a chair and then motioned me to do the same.

‘What are yer doin’ about that woman?’

‘Woman?’

‘The one that’s Heather’s great grandmother; what’s her name Victoria Manning? Heard that she’s bein’ a pain in the arse; is it true?’

‘Yes, it’s worrying. She’s threatened me with the SS and everything.’

‘SS? What’s that? Damn SS, we got rid of Hitler and his mob years ago, what all this about them comin’ back? Nothin’ in The Times about it...’

‘Social Services, Mummy.’

‘Them?’ she spat, ‘busybodies, the lot of ‘em; that load of incompetent nincompoops’ve got nothin’ better to do but cause misery to folk. They tried to jump in and get involved when I adopted that young pest Sarah. Put a flee in their collective ear and told ’em ter bugger orf.’

‘Well, it’s all okay on that front. I have met the lady from the S.S and she turned out to be a school friend of Katie’s. The case is now closed. She might contact you at some point to help out with a few of our projects —I’ll jot down her details and give them to you.’

‘Good, we can do with as many troops as possible. So what’s happenin’ about that child who had the baby?’

‘Sophie you mean?’

‘Yes, how is the poor child?’

‘Jo is looking after her.’

‘And the father?’

‘Helping the police with their enquiries.’

‘As long as the sod gets his comeuppance. He made the girl preggers?’

‘We think so.’

‘Should be strung up, but will probably be told not ter be a naughty boy.’

‘Katie thinks that they want to throw the book at him.’

‘It had better be a ‘damn big book–War and Peace at least, I’ll speak to some people.’

‘You can’t interfere with the law, Mummy.’

‘You watch me. Anyway, got ter go, there is a shop in Bodmin that has a new electrifying thing that kills moles. Zaps ‘em or something. Get that bloody painting finished quickly before I’m too old ter see it!

‘Yes, Mummy,’ I said kissing her cheek and tugging my forelock.

‘Hmm,’ she said suspiciously as she went over and inspected her god child who was still happily sucking on her dummy, whilst asleep and blissfully unaware of Her August Presence.

‘Right,’ she said straitening up, ‘don’t ferget you are all comin’ for dinner tomorrow night, best bib and tucker; have ter show the staff that we still do things in style, despite that bloody government!’

‘Are you coming on the yacht at the end of the week?’

‘Oh yes, yer little jaunt. Make sure I have a good cabin, plenty of sea views and caviar on tap.’

‘Erm, right. Also remember, you are going to do the renaming ceremony.’

What are you goin’ to call it?’

‘I thought Dun Romin,’ I said casually.

‘What!’

‘Or maybe The Saucy Sailor.’

‘Over my dead body. Think of sonmethin’ appropriate or I won’t thump the bow with the Bolly. I’m orf now. Jenkins frets if I’m too long, bye.’

‘Bye Mu––’

She had gorn.

I took the opportunity to ring Cedric up on the land line regarding my ongoing mobile problems. According to him, our ’phone reception problems were due to two factors, one we were too far from the aerial–antenna thingy for us to get a good reception and secondly, the council under the leadership of the mayoress, Ms Prendergast, refused permission to have one put up anyway due to aesthetic reasons.

I knew that Dotty didn’t get on very well with the Lady Mayor and I also knew that anyone who asked for planning permission for anything more than a small dog kennel had a tough time getting it through the planning committee which she happened to be the chair whatsit of. According to the grapevine, malicious gossip department, Rosebud Prendergast was power mad and she made Charles Foster Kane look like a bit of a sweetie.

I had seen Ms Prendergast only the once, when the gallery was opened and once was enough. The gossip was that she once had her eye on Dotty’s husband, Tremaine and Dotty won by a furlong and a half. Ever since, whenever they met, it was handbags at fifty paces. Anything that Dotty approved of, Rose Prendergast opposed.

I shelved the problem of Ms Prendergast and carried on with the painting. I just had to get Dotty’s enigmatic smile right…

~ §~

That night, after a round of bedroom gymnastics that were at least 4.9 on the Richter Scale, we lay exhausted on the bed, prior to our post-nookie shower. I liked this time as we were all cuddly and relaxed, if a trifle damp.

‘Abby,’

‘Yes, honey.’

‘When are we going dust off the old turkey baster?’

‘Do you want us to go ahead then?’

‘Yes, if you do?’

‘Of course I do. I can’t wait to look like a beached whale, have back ache, stretch marks and want to wee all the time–not forgetting the tent like dresses, that are so much in vogue now.’

‘I am a bit worried about this sperm problem. We should get our finger out and do it soon.’

‘Interesting turn of phrase you have there, young Samantha. If I didn’t know you better, I would suspect that you were being a trifle risqué in your terminology, but as you are sweet and innocent, I will overlook it, this once.’

‘Oooh, fank you milady, I don’t know wot I’d done if you hadn’t ‘ave dragged me out o’ the gutter like and cleaned me up like.’

‘Oh be quiet child and fondle my nipple.’

After several minutes of asterisks we came off the ceiling and resumed our conversation.

‘I’ll ring up the clinic tomorrow and see if they can fit us in sometime next week after our sea voyage. I don’t want to be sea sick and pregnant at the same time.

And so another busy day had finished and we went to sleep after our shower, happy in the knowledge that we would soon be trying for an addition to our happy little family. Then there was the weekend where we would be shivering our timbers and doing some Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum type things on the seven seas on the ship that I had decided to rename–The Gin Palace.

Got you!

Tune in for the next nautically inclined instalment where Dotty renames the ship––

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.

 

Previously…

‘I am a bit worried about this sperm problem. We should get our finger out and do it soon.’

‘Interesting turn of phrase you have there, young Samantha. If I didn’t know you better, I would suspect that you were being a trifle risqué in your terminology, but as you are sweet and innocent, I will overlook it, this once.’

‘Oooh, fank you milady, I don’t know wot I’d done if you hadn’t ‘ave dragged me out o’ the gutter like and cleaned me up like.’

‘Oh be quiet child and fondle my nipple.’

After several minutes of asterisks we came off the ceiling and resumed our conversation.

‘I’ll ring up the clinic tomorrow and see if they can fit us in sometime next week after our sea voyage. I don’t want to be sea sick and pregnant at the same time.

And so another busy day had finished and we went to sleep after our shower, happy in the knowledge that we would soon be trying for an addition to our happy little family. Then there was the weekend where we would be shivering our timbers and doing some Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum type things on the seven seas on the yaccht that I had decided to rename–The Gin Palace.

Got you!

And now the story continues…

WARNING!

You are warned that this chapter involves extensive nautical references and descriptions. You are strongly advised to take a sea sick pill if you have a weak stomach and even if you haven’t, a sick bag is advisable–just in case.

On the quay, Mummy Dotty and David in his Naval chaplain’s robes stood on a little platform, built for the purpose by the Penmarris Boy Scouts and Cubs.

Multi-coloured bunting and balloons leant an air of festivity to what might have been an otherwise solemn occasion.

Mummy looked radiant in her pink confection and matching hat with fruit and veg. All around were the locals who were A, going on our mini cruise to the bleak foreign waters of Cornwall, B, others who hoped that they might stowaway on board, C, those who were just nosy, and 4, confused holiday makers wondering what the fuss was all about.

I was dressed up to the eights–not nines, there’s a recession on–Abby looked scrumptious, Heather, gorgeous in her little white sailor dress and matching cap and Mrs Pearson was wearing her best hobnail boots–my poor decks, I must find her something else. Others had made the effort and it was a festive and highly decorative scene that confronted me as I looked at the yacht as she rose and fell to the gentle swell, her white fenders kissing the side of the quay gently.

Dawn and the tribe had scrubbed up well and looked rather pleased that they had upped sticks and moved to this idyllic, if slightly anarchic, place. I know that the kids couldn’t wait to get aboard and press a few buttons and twiddle the occasional knob–worrying that.

My Captain and crew were all resplendent in Royal Navy-style tropical whites and everything was yacht shape and Penmarris fashion. I noted that Katie was doing her famous limpet mine trick and had hold of the Skipper in such a way that an oyster knife–or even a crow bar–would be necessary to prise her away from him. He didn’t seem to mind, although those rings under his eyes and deathly pallor made me wonder if he was man enough for the praying mantis that was our Katie.

Everything that could gleam on the boat gleamed and the brass looked as if it had been polished and buffed to within an inch of its life.

The Penmarris Brass Band were doing their utmost to make a musical occasion of it by playing sea shanties and other nautical type numbers which set the foot a-tapping and the little boys and girls on the quayside a-dancing.

The day was glorious–one of those Indian summer days that are as rare as hen’s teeth in these gloomy days of global warming and Conservative governments. The only things missing were the sea gulls who, for some strange reason, disappeared as soon as Mummy loomed over the horizon.

David raised his hand and the band stopped playing Abide With Me, which was, I must admit, putting a slight damper on the occasion.

Everything went quiet.

‘We are here for the renaming and blessing of this fine vessel. It is so good to see you all and I only wish that a few more came to Sunday morning Service; but enough of the advertising let us get down to the reason why we are here. Samantha here has graced us with her presence for only a short time but has entered into our hearts in a way that few others have been able to manage––’

‘–Get on with it,’ said someone in the crowd who only sounded a little like me.

‘–as I was saying. She is the rare sort of kind, genuine people who make others feel better, just being around her. As I can see that her face is getting redder than is natural or desirable I will move on swiftly. Let us say the Lord’s prayer together and then I shall ask Lady Fairbairn to take over.

The prayer was said with all solemnity and then the proceedings were handed over to the good lady.

‘Right, pin back your ears and if someone doesn’t shut that dam’ dog up, I’ll get me twelve bore out. Recently, I had a word with Phillip, who knows about these things. He might be Greek, but at least he had the good sense to marry an English woman of reasonably good stock and he briefed me on the form for these occasions.’

She turned towards the huge yacht. Everyone was quiet–even the dog–who knew when to shut up when he had too.

Mummy put on her half moon reading glasses, coughed gently into her gloved hand and read from a document that she had pulled out from her handbag like a rabbit from a hat.

‘In the name of all who have sailed aboard this yacht in the past, and in the name of all who may sail aboard her in the future, we invoke the ancient gods of the wind and the sea to favour us with their blessing today.

‘Mighty Neptune, king of all that moves in or on the waves; and mighty Aeolus, guardian of the winds and all that blows before them and Anemoi, the Greek wind gods Boreas, Notus, Eurus, and Zephyrus.

‘We offer you our thanks for the protection you have afforded this vessel in the past. We voice our gratitude that she has always found shelter from tempest and storm and enjoyed safe passage to port.

‘Now, wherefore, we submit this supplication, that the name whereby this vessel has hitherto been known as Lady Olivia, be struck and removed from your records.

‘Further, we ask that when she is again presented for blessing with another name, she shall be recognized and shall be accorded once again the selfsame privileges she previously enjoyed.

‘In return for which, we rededicate this vessel to your domain in full knowledge that she shall be subject as always to the immutable laws of the gods of the wind and the sea.

‘In consequence whereof, and in good faith, we seal this pact with a libation offered according to the hallowed ritual of the sea.

‘I name this yacht Penmarris Surprise and may she bring fair winds and good fortune to all who sail on her.’

She then picked up the bottle of Bolly and with practiced ease, smashed it against the bow.

Even as everyone was cheering and clapping, I was in tears, Mummy hadn’t even dropped an ‘H’.

In the upper saloon, on the bulkhead was a wooden plaque. On the plaque, beautifully lettered in gold was the name ‘Lady Olivia’ as part of the tradition where the previous name should be displayed prominently and proudly.

~ §~

After all the pomp and ceremony, I was nearly trampled underfoot as people clambered aboard for the post boat christening thingy–bash.

I will gloss over the festivities as those of you with a delicate constitution may feel that it was a bit over the top. I will only mention in passing that Sarah should not have tried diving into the chocolate fountain; Jocasta’s girls might have been wiser to avoid having a ‘how many pasties we can eat in ten minutes’ competition. Mrs Pearson, who quite frankly should have known better, should not have tried ‘that’ in the Jacuzzi, especially with her traumatised husband looking on, but strangely taking notes.

It would also not be wise to dwell on the noises coming from a certain cabin following certain manoeuvres on the part of Katie and the captain.

Luckily Mummy was on to her fourth pink gin by then and was hors de combat, regarding these and other things that delicacy forbid my mentioning. However, her participation in the Hokey Cokey, ably assisted by Jenkins, will go down in infamy.

In short, the renaming went rather well.

~ §~

Two hours later, those without boarding passes were thrown off the ship. A couple of jokers thought it was funny to try and walk the plank and got their knickers and other things wet in the process. I was lucky that Heather was fast asleep while all this was going on and her little mind wasn’t poisoned by the total lack of control on the part of some people–Marcia should have known better…but enough of this badinage, it was time for our mini cruise type jaunt.

After the infusion of copious amounts of coffee and pain killers, we were all, more or less back to normal. Mummy, who had the constitution of an ox–sounds better than cow–was soon back to her normal happy, placid self; not so Jenkins who, not being used to the high life had to go and lie down in a darkened cabin.

Tracy and her mum had the sort of shell shocked look of people who had led a sheltered life and didn’t realise that the world can be a rather shocking place at times.

Tracy sidled up to me before we went on board.

‘’Ear, ’Manfa, 'taint ’alf a giggle this, innit?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Well, you know, nuf said,’ she concluded and then tapped the side of her nose suggestively. She then went back to her mum who was making an effort to try to understand what Mrs Pearson was saying–I know the feeling!

The captain, looking a bit worn out for some reason, and the rest of his staff and crew helped everyone to his, her or their cabins. There would be a slight delay before setting off so that everything could be put back shipshape and Bristol fashion. I could see that Mrs Pearson was itching to get hold of her Hoover and had to be physically restrained by Mr P in an uncharacteristic show of male dominance.

Abby and I together with Heather made our way to our cabin–called the owners state room for some reason and chilled out for a bit.

I lay down on the bed while Abby changed Heather. I could hear sounds from other parts of the yacht as I looked up at the ceiling–or whatever it’s called on the ship. There was scrubbing, washing, squeals of delight, laughing, shouting and a few sounds which were unusual and probably naughty. But I was just happy to be there, in the lap of luxury, with my every whim, catered for.

If I so desired, I could watch satellite TV on the huge screen, which made the ones in those multiplex cinemas look puny by comparison. I could pick up the phone and ask for almost anything to eat–except, I understood from Pierre, the rather excitable chef, the ’addock, which was erff).

I could drink myself into an early grave from the large fridge and drinks cabinet in the corner.

One of the crew on board– I think it was the incredibly pretty one who looked after Heather last time–we had been told, could do manicures, professional; makeup and things with your hair that would defy gravity. I must get her name, I thought, Little Miss Perfect, perhaps?

Mentally, I slapped my face with a wet kipper. I was getting to be jealous of anyone in a skirt. Insecure or what?

Heather went down for another kip in the king sized cot with optional mobile attachments like balls, rings, stars, cuddly toys and bottle opener. I hoped that she wouldn’t wake up in the night, as I would like to have an uninterrupted sleep. This girl needed her beauty sleep!

After a bit I could feel a throb under me and it was nothing to do with what Abby was doing.

‘Ooh,’ I said, ‘someone’s weighed the anchor, sliced the main brace, shivered the barnacle and taken off the handbrake–we’re off!’

Both Abby and I ran to the window, no tiddly-wee port holes for us, we had a floor to ceiling job and we could see Penmarris disappear from right to left–or should that be starboard to port? There were people on shore waving at us with hankies, bras and things like that. The band was still playing, the scouts and guides were fighting and the children were gambolling or galloping around. It was a festive scene and one that brought a lump to my throat. Even the sea gulls, missing for some strange reason, returned as we left the safety of the harbour and surged out into the open sea.

I could hear the cheering from the deck and I wanted to join them until Abby coughed.

‘You may want to get some clothes on first, honey?’

‘Oops,’ I said sheepishly, ‘so that was why people were waving their bras at us–’

~ §~

I threw on a Calvin Kline dress–as you do; did something with my hair and reapplied my lippy and then I was ready. Abby wanted to stay and look after Heather. She had a headache, not surprising the amount of alcohol she had consumed earlier. I of course didn’t touch a drop, knowing the Jekyll and Hyde scenario if I so much as sniff a brandy. I was even banned from eating liqueur chocolates as they made me giggly.

I gave her a toe-curling kiss and Heather a chaste one and left for the deck.

The ship seemed rather crowded and then I remembered the amount of people we had invited on this jaunt. We had so many that several had to bunk up together, Katie being the prime example.

I was getting crude in my old age. It was being around all these old sea salts I supposed. I would have to try to be more refined and above all of that. After all I had a position to keep up and the youngsters looked up to me. Upon stepping outside, I slipped base over apex on the wet deck and landed on my adequate posterior, showing–to all who cared to look–my pink satin panties. The trouble was everyone looked and I felt a proper nana.

Mummy was looking down at me. She had some binoculars strapped around her neck and was wearing a headscarf with anchors on–very nautical.

‘What the hell are ye doin’ young Sam?’

‘Just dropped in,’ I said trying to make light of my embarrassment.

‘Well, it looks like yer enjoyed yer trip. Why in the name of blood and thunder did yer wear four inch heels?’

‘They went nice with the dress.’

‘Lord preserve us!’

One of the hands kindly went to my cabin and came back with some sensible shoes and I was soon ship shape and Bodmin fashion.

Dawn, Adrian, Hayley and Tim were all on deck, the kids looked almost as excited as the adults as the wind whipped at their hair and clothes.

I went to Dawn and gave her a sisterly hug.

‘You like?’ I said.

‘Yes, this is fantastic. Who thought when we were kids that we would end up here on a dirty great big plastic tub out on the high seas?’

‘Well, we did have boats then and they were plastic.’

‘Yeah, but playing with toy boats in the bath is hardly the same as playing with the full-sized ones on the open sea.’

‘Subject to family planning, we were thinking of taking a trip down to St Tropez next year. We got the idea from Miranda. We were thinking of going mob handed if people were up for it, including Katie, if Bentley, Bentley, Letwynd and Fartworthy can spare her and she’s still superglued to Captain Caveman; Marcia and her dishy hubby; Jocasta and co, Mummy and Sarah, Sophie if she’s still around–’

‘Miranda?’

‘Oh, Miranda, she gave me the idea of St Tropez–she’s around somewhere, last seen knocking back some bubbly–works for the Social Services and likes mixing with the cats–I think she has a thing going with Sonya Nicholson, the cool efficient woman in the girlie sailor suit that helps us when on board with Heather and does other essential things like hair and makeup.’

‘Blimey, Samantha, I can’t keep up with you. How d’you make friends so easily now? When you were in boy mode, you did a fine impression of a wallflower. You were so shy, you wouldn’t even go on Santa’s knee?’

‘Well it was August.’

~ §~

Cool and efficient Sonya, who, we discovered was the Chief Stewardess and Purser, was looking after Heather while the rest of us enjoyed the full on experience of motor cruising up and down the coast. We got ever nearer to the Cornish waters, where Piskies lived and the main currency were pasties and the preferred currency was the dynar, now replaced by the Cornish pound and shilling, and I could feel a certain nervous edge in the air as we realised that we were leaving safe waters and going foreign.

I remember the conversation I had with Mrs Pearson just a short few days ago.

Being almost a natural born local now and sprinkling the occasional ‘ee’, oo’ and arhs and one or two ‘manglewurzels’ into my conversation to prove that I had gone native, I was able to take in at least 50 percent of what she was actually saying, aided by my Devon-English phrasebook.

I won’t give you the undiluted version as it makes my head ache to even think about it, but this is the semi-translated version.

‘Tis well known that there is a fierce rivalry between Devon and Cornwall, with the Cornish people thinking that they have the right to self-government and other such revolutionary independent thoughts. Devon also has strong feelings about the origins, customs and traditions of Devon folk, but like the idea of grabbing as much money from the UK government as we can–we don’t bite the hand that feeds us. The Cornish think that us folks from Devon are trying to pinch bits of their nationality and Celtic roots, which we resent as we are as old as they are, roots wise. It’s just that we don’t have a song and dance about it. (see link).

‘They say we keep on selling Cornish pasties and actually making counterfeit ones outside Cornwall. We claim that they are trying to muscle in on the “Devon Cream Teas racket”.’

There was a lot more of this, most of which I couldn’t understand, but you can see that there is much bad blood and clotted cream between those two ancient counties.

We, however, came in peace and had on board, scrumpy and other things like gallons of clotted cream and pretty-coloured beads to placate the natives if they did happen to get restive. We should not have been worried about going into Cornish waters, but we were.

I was up on the bridge or wheelhouse as we old sea dogs call it with Abby, Sarah (gor blimey, this is a lark innit?’) her mum–the Lady Fairbairn and a few other hangers on, like Katie who was still hanging on to Cap’n Pugwash.

The wheelhouse would not have looked out of place in Star Trek, not the iffy set that wobbled, but the later ones that looked more lifelike and had pretty twinkling lights.

Sarah insisted on pressing the foghorn button, making everyone jump and her giggle like mad and a catamaran capsize half a mile off our starboard bow-which I think is to the right but could for I know be on the left.

‘Fer God’s sake, child, if ye do that again, I’ll turn yer pony into glue!’

‘Sorry, Mummy,’ said Sarah, smiling.

‘Where’s the handbrake?’ I asked to change the subject.

The driver, a rather dishy looking (if I was interested, but I wasn’t) man in a white uniform with brass buttons, laughed for some reason but kept his eyes on the road or whatever ahead.

The Captain had to do things with his thingy and whatsit, so Katie unhooked herself and came across to me and sat in one of the deep leather armchairs that pressed all the right buttons for me. I wondered idly if the seat had a massage setting as Katie sighed several times and looked dreamily at her dreamboat of a man. I felt faintly sick, and here is someone who cries when she reads Mills & Boon weepy books.

‘Hi Katie’ I said as she sighed for the seventh time like an asthmatic sheep.

‘Cor, I want to rip his trousers off and make mad passionate love with him in his hammock.’

‘Hammock, hammock? I thought that he had a bed like the rest of us?’

She looked at me like a star crossed, or is that an eyes crossed, lover.

‘He’s into tradition,’ then she seemed to pull herself together and get something of a grip on her emotions, ‘well Samantha, this is brilliant.’

‘Yes, it is rather. So when are you and the captain going to do the decent thing?’

‘What have sex? We’ve done that hundreds––’

‘–No, idiot; I mean get married?’

She started to look coy–not a pretty sight.

‘I—I’m not sure.’

‘Do you love him?’

‘Yes.’

‘More than all those others you fell head over heels with?’

‘They were different.’

‘How so?’

‘They were just infatuations, this is the real thing.’

‘What, all twelve?’

‘What are you implying?’

‘Nothing, nothing, it’s just that you should really be sure before you commit yourself. What do you like about him?’

‘Apart from the nice bum and incredibly large––?’

‘–I don’t mean physical–is it that large?’

‘Very.’

‘Doesn’t it make your eyes water? Well never mind that; what I’m trying to say is, what is he like to be with?’

‘In bed or out of bed?’

‘You have a one track mind, Katie, and you decent, law abiding solicitor too.’

‘Solicitors have needs.’

‘Not two times a day and twice on Sundays––’

‘–Three times–’

‘Never mind, oh, I give up. If you love him and want him to fold you in his arms and make mad passionate love swinging off the chandeliers and make a reasonably honest woman of you–then go ahead, but, before you do, make sure that he hasn’t got a wife in every port.’

‘Not all seamen follow the stereotype.’

‘Well as long as you’re sure. So I return to the question, when are you too lovebirds going to get hitched?’

‘In the fullness of time; when we have weighed up the options and the pros and cons. After careful consideration and long soul searching–if he doesn’t ask me, I’ll ask him by this time next week.’

‘Oh Katie!’

~ §~

While all this was happening, we were sailing on, though the deep blue waters off the coast of Cornwall. We went past several lovely beaches with golden sand, a number of cliffs, several coves and a lighthouse. The sea was calm and there was not a cloud in the sky. The sea breezes were gentle and it didn’t seem like autumn, but high summer.

All our friends were dotted about the yacht, enjoying the views or snoozing in a deck chair like Mummy. Most of the kids over the age of six were in the Olympic sized, hexagonal spa on the fore deck and looked wet and happy playing with the water. Some were playing deck quoits, others were taking turns doing a Kate Winslet on the bow–I just hoped that we wouldn’t hit an iceberg as I had forgotten to book the band.

Abby and I returned to the owners’ state room–I still get a kick out of that–owners’ state room. I once went on a short cruise around the Med with Olivia. Our cabin was down where the fishes swim and you couldn’t swing a ships rat let alone a cat in the place.

Our state room was vastly different from that, with its huge bed, polished wood everywhere, huge plasma screen, comfy deep leather seats, bathroom…in short, raid your piggy bank and get one if you can–you know it makes sense!

There was a knock on door and in came cool efficient Sonya Nicholson with Miranda who looked slightly flushed. More importantly, they had Heather who was awake now and wanted her mummies.

‘Thanks for looking after her,’ Abby said to Sonya.

‘Not a problem, she’s a sweetie isn’t she, ’Randa?’

Miranda smiled vaguely and then hiccupped.

‘That Bolly is evil.’ I said, ‘won’t touch the stuff, myself.’

Cool and efficient Sonya smiled fondly at Miranda.

‘I had better go and get her some strong coffee. Come on ’Randa.’

They went off and I raised an eyebrow at Abby whilst she gave superbaby a quick bum change.

‘They do appear to be an item.’

‘We’ll have to call this The Love Boat soon,’ I said.

‘Well, as long as we don’t get any cheesy stories and have to rename her Pacific Princess.

We both giggled and Heather gurgled.

~ §~

We cruised on in enemy waters and I expected at any moment to be dived bombed by kamikaze sea gulls using Cornish pasties as incendiary devices. We were lucky to have mummy on board as that meant, for some reason, no airborne or for all I knew, water born life forms dared come near.

Everyone got to drive or ‘take the helm’–as we seafarers say. I even got to push the little leaver that made it go faster and before we knew it, we were going at 20knots! I kept looking for the rope though but couldn’t find any with or without knots.

The Captain did shout at me though as I was heading for this small sailing craft with waving kids in it and the thing refused to move out of the way. Silly that as when I’m in my darling little Beemer and a ten ton truck comes near, I get out of the way fast. Not so on the sea, where for some daft reason small boats think that they can go where they like. I think it was okay though as we passed them with at least 20 metres to spare, they might have got a bit wet in the process but as they were wearing yellow wet weather gear, they had nothing to complain about.

I was relieved from the steering wheel then by a young lad, who looked just out of school and whose pimply face looked as white as his uniform for some reason.

Abby, Heather and I went up to one of the decks (not to boast, but we have three) and watched the coast go by. It was exhilarating to see our wake behind us and feel the throb of the engine through our feet.

The Cornish coast looked pretty as we followed the shoreline from a safe distance. We had toyed with the idea of parking in one of the harbours dotted along the coast, but decided against it as this was a sea cruise not a yacht parking cruise. I could certainly get used to this and Abby and I had all sorts of flights of fancy as to where we could go and what we could do. However, we both had businesses to run and also we had committed to having another baby if we could so it would just have to wait. Mind you, when we got married, what better excuse to have a honeymoon in some far off exotic place?

Mrs P came up at one point with Mr P. I wish that they wouldn’t tug their forelocks and curtsy like that. It was bad enough with Mrs P but in Mr P–it wasn’t a pretty site.

‘Hello, Mr and Mrs Pearson, having a nice time?’

‘Yez’M.’ They said in stereo.

‘How is the cabin?’

‘Bain’t seen nothin’ like it in all me born yurrs m’ducks,’ said Mr P with more animation than I had seen in him since he started reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover (confiscated after chapter 2 by his good wife).

‘Do you like it Mrs Pearson?’

‘Yez’M, ’ave to share it with four people but still, when you’ve slept in a bed wi’ six others and a pig, an two of ’em ’ad smelly feet, it baint nothin’.’

There was no answer to that and after more genuflecting they went off in search of the elusive scrumpy.

The yacht was a might overloaded with residents at the moment, but at least Abby, Heather and I, would have our room to ourselves. Not because we didn’t want to share, but Heather, bless, wouldn’t settle if others were in the room–that’s our story and we were sticking to it.

Even Mummy was sharing with Sarah, she said she didn’t mind as it reminded her of the blitz and anyway it was only for one night.

All too soon it was the evening and everyone got ready for dinner. It was a dress up affair for the adults who would be in the main saloon and the kids, headed by Jo’s children, Jen and Pippa would be on another deck and hopefully out of earshot in the other saloon. They were going to have a junior disco after eating and cool and efficient Sonya aided by Miranda, who must have been a masochist as she actually volunteered, were there to oversee the event. Sarah, Tracy and Sophie were with the younger ones too, so I had no worries about things getting too out of hand.

I was just in my slip as Sonya expertly applied my makeup. I didn’t look at myself as I only wanted to see the finished article, so I had to be patient. When she finished her magic on me, she moved on to Abby while I slipped on my dress. She was then going to sort out my hair, which needed sorting as it looked like a bird had nested in there somewhere.

I had pushed the boat out regarding my dress. It was a midnight blue Dolce and Gabbana lace taffeta cocktail dress made with flower lace combined with taffeta silk, built in wired bra, adjustable spaghetti straps and an attached belt with snap closures on the back. I loved it as soon as I saw it and I had been waiting for an occasion like this to show it off.

I stood by a window watching the twinkling lights of coves, harbours and villages go by as I waited for my turn to have my hair done.

After about ten minutes, Sonya had finished Abby’s makeup, dressing and hair and my jaw dropped when I saw the finished article.

Her makeup was flawless; her hair was wonderful, with gently waving curls cascading down to her bare shoulders. Her Karen Millen black, jewel bow, cocktail dress was simply stunning on her and the net underskirt helped the dress to flair out dramatically. She looked like a princess going to the ball–my princess.

I had little time to take all of this in as Sonya returned to me and worked on my hair for several minutes. I wondered what I would look like. I would hate to look like mutton dressed up as lamb and the only reservation I had about the dress was that it might be a bit young for me…

‘All done,’ said Sonya smiling and then twirling me in front of the mirror.

I stood up and then I could see myself from my head to my shiny black four inch court shoes.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Abby, coming up and looking at my reflection with me.

‘N…nothing, it’s just…’

‘…that you look beautiful?’

‘Do I? Yes I do. I scrubbed up well, didn’t I?’

‘Yes you did,’ laughed Abby, giving me a squeeze.

I turned to Sonya, who was packing away her lotions and potions.

‘Thank you, Sonya. You are an angel.’

She smiled.

‘It’s OK I love, my job. Now I have to shoot off. Bring Heather to my cabin when you’re ready.’

Sonya was babysitting for us tonight and I could see that she was one special girl. I must admit to feeling a tad guilty about being jealous of her. It was one female trait that I wasn’t particularly fond of.

Before we could say any more, she was gone.

~ §~

It was a wonderful evening and chef really pulled all the stops out to give us a meal to remember. The conversation was great and no one disgraced themselves by drinking too much–especially me, who stuck to a subtle, yet unpretentious grape juice of unknown vintage and origin. David kept us amused with a story about a defrocked vicar but it’s too rude to talk about here. Mummy told us about when she went big game hunting in Africa with Tremaine and half the royal family and that put me off my sorbet for at least two minutes. How could a sweet lady like her like to kill furry things for fun beats me–it must be a generation thing.

Jenkins was helping the staff to serve and was his usual unobtrusive and yet efficient self, gliding here there and everywhere. I had hoped that he might join us and let his hair down, but he was so shocked at the suggestion that his left eyebrow went up at least half a millimetre.

Mr and Mrs P looked a bit uncomfortable in all their finery. Mrs Pearson was wearing an evening gown with more flowers on it than in Kew Gardens that was probably quite new in 1950. It appeared that they never really did much in the way of going out much. I would have to try to persuade her to go out more. Mr P was wearing what looked suspiciously like a demob suit although he didn’t look that old. It smelt slightly of mothballs. His shirt collar was so tight; I had concerns about possible asphyxiation issues.

We could hear the occasion thump, thump of mindless head banging music wafting up from down below and I assumed that the kids party was going full swing. I worried a bit about fixtures and fittings and then remembered that we were insured against perils at sea and so I shrugged and forgot about it.

It was lovely having all my friends around me. It showed how far I had come since I had arrived in Penmarris as an upset, damaged and slightly shop worn person with issues. Penmarris had opened its arms to me and I was truly grateful.

‘So, Samantha,’ said Mummy taking me away from my personal thoughts, ‘where’s me bloody paintin’ then?’

~ §~

The party broke up at about twelve and we all drifted off shortly after. The kids’ party had finished, with much groaning and complaints about child abuse, an hour earlier. There had not, thankfully, been any fatalities, but Sarah had broken a nail and for some reason, this was a major trauma for her.

Abby and I strolled hand in hand back to our owners state room (I do like saying that!) after many hugs and kisses from our guests.

We crept in, not wanting to wake Big Ears. Sonya was on the sofa, shoes off, reading a book. She smiled as we came in.

‘How has she been?’ I whispered.

‘Like a little lamb. She hasn’t stirred.’

‘Thank you, Sonya.’

‘No problem. Anytime you want me to do this, just ask.’

We all hugged and Sonya left us. We gazed down at Heather in her cot. She was fast asleep and looked so pretty. I felt Abby’s arm go around my waist.

‘It will be nice if we can give her a little brother or sister to play with,’ Abby said, tenderly.

‘Mmm, it’s nice to have the set; let’s not waste any more time and get out the turkey baster as soon as possible.’

~ §~

The next day found us going around and through the waters of the many islands that make up The Isles of Scilly. It was pretty, even breathtaking in parts and if we had had more time we would have stopped, but we had to get back to port by lunchtime and so we promised ourselves that we would spend more time there, as soon as we could.

We had slept well in our luxurious bed following a night of muted passion as the last thing we wanted to do was wake up young Heather. Still it was nice and romantic and for that we were truly grateful–amen.

People went to breakfast at various times depending on when they woke up and the chef had a running buffet type system where you could have anything from cornflakes to full English.

As we returned towards home, the sea became a bit choppier and one or two of our happy band felt a bit sick. I of course, being an old sea salt, had no problems and smiled sympathetically at those who needed to use the loo on a regular basis. I had wondered why members of the crew called the toilets, “heads”, and I assumed that was because when you are sick that’s where the head goes–but I might be wrong on that.

I felt invigorated, with the wind whipping my hair and dress. Any cobwebs from the night before were truly dissipated in a short space of time. The kids seemed to love the slight rock and roll motions of the yacht and didn’t seem at all phased–messing about on deck, playing quoits or at one time back in the Jacuzzi being prunyfied. Not so Mrs Pearson who spent most of the time in the cabin refusing all food. Mr Pearson was not troubled however and it turned out that he was once in the merchant navy. He spent some time looking at the engines and fondling them in a suggestive manner. He really ought to get out more.

As we passed Cornwall, I could see at some stage that there would be some rough weather, although Captain Ahab assured us that we would be back before anything filthy happened. The dark cliffs interspersed with sandy coves and harbours looked lovely that morning. The hills and moors behind however, looked a bit foreboding as the storm clouds gathered. I recalled Mrs Pearson’s words of doom and gloom about nothing good coming out of Cornwall other than pasties and for a short moment, I wondered if those thoughts were prophetic.

However, we did beat the storms back to Penmarris and more than a few of us sighed in relief as the familiar harbour hove–or is that hoved–into view?

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?’

To be continued…

http://www.bbc.co.uk/devon/news_features/2003/flap_over_flag...

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.

 

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.

 

Previously…

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–


And now the story continues…


Things seemed unusually quiet in the quaint and wonderful seaside village of Penmarris following the departure of the last of the summer visitors. Winter was upon us and we suffered the usual storms that the Devon and Cornish coasts were known for.

It seemed that every other day it rained and it was only the fact that we lived where we did, that we didn’t have snow or frost in November and early December.

David went out in the lifeboat several times and came back safe and sound with the brave crew, as did the tremendously brave fishermen. Despite ridiculous quotas which other countries seemed to ignore - but we didn’t, our people managed to eek a living out of our still rich waters. Although they had to go further and further afield to get a catch nowadays.

Without the visitors and holidaymakers, Penmarris seemed to settle down and relax a bit. The younger children went to the little primary school at the top of the hill; the new little ones in their brand spanking new, pristine uniforms that stayed pristine for about ten minutes after going into the playground.

The older kids caught the coach to the town where the large comprehensive school catered for nearly fifteen hundred children from surrounding areas. Girls, who had to wear skirts, wore them as short as they thought that they could get away with, despite the weather. The boys, regretfully, looked as scruffy as possible, not wanting to be targeted as un-cool or even, god forbid, nerdish.

The tradesmen and women carried on erm, trading. The butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker–who happened to be Abby–all continued to sell what they could, but of course there weren’t so many people to buy things at that time of year. This was why they all worked long hours in the summer to make enough to tide them over the winter months.

It was a time when I could do a bit more in my studio. I was now well on the way to completing the painting that I had promised to hand over to the RNLI Lifeboat Station. Whether they sold it or just hung it in the loo, was up to them, but a promise is a promise.

In addition to that, I was a busy beavering away with more works with which to stock up the gallery.

Tracy was busy too. She had virtually taken over the running of the gallery now, because she was such a good saleswoman. Her girlfriend Tammy had been roped in to help her out seeing as I had other fish to fry–not haddock. Tracy carried on drawing and painting herself and she had a lot of raw talent which I encouraged as much as I could. I promised that I would show a few more of her works come the summer and that alone was enough to keep her on her painted toes!

Other artists, sculptors and photographers were hard at it so they too could use the gallery to show their work. Altogether, I was very pleased that the gallery was a success and hoped for big things next year

Those other fish I was referring to were, apart from looking after Heather and my other business interests, locating a suitable large house for my pet project. Mummy was doing all she could to pull strings, gee people along and if that didn’t work using threats little short of violence to get her way. She had taken to carrying her Purdy about with her and had had more than one brush with the local PC Plod.

Evidently she said it was to keep vermin like moles down, but as the moles were holed up (or is that holed down?) underground at that time of year, feasting on deeply buried worms and not poking their noses above ground, this excuse was flimsy to say the least.

Deep joy and much celebrating ensured after it was confirmed that my darling Abby had a ‘bun in the jolly old oven’ as Mummy said rather graphically. As December started, Abby had a definite if still very slight bump–but that could have been because of the increased pasty consumption. She started glowing as only pregnant mums do, but that may have been due to the hot showers that she insisted on having.

We bought a book from eBay–the delivery cost more than the book–that showed, in pictures what size the little darling would be at each stage. According to the German white coat, Dr Frankenstein or maybe it might have been Frankenfurter from the fertility place; she was about three months gone.

According to our glossy, full colour pop out book, baby was probably about three inches long and weighed approximately .81 ounces.

Abby was on constant alert for stretch marks. She used lots of lotions and potions to stop this terrible deformity but didn’t go down the route that Mrs Pearson suggested–goose fat. I tried to knit some little booties, but gave up after my fingers got knotted up.

Abby had the added joy of wanting to use the bathroom six times an hour and feeling sick, the rest of the time. It wasn’t all fun and games this pregnancy lark!

I felt a bit like a spare part sometimes and made up for it by doing my bit with Heather and looking after her needs more and more. Not that I minded, because Heather was our little angel. Mind you, she was what I would call a fallen angel when she started to chuck her food about rather than eat it. She loved tinned rice and tapioca but hated just about everything else.

Accorded to Myrtle Styrtle the midwife–who knows if you’re fertile–I had no need to worry, as she was at least eating something and her size and weight were okay. It was a bit trying though. What I couldn’t understand was why if she was eating white stuff, did it come out the other end the colour of chicken korma?

December carried on hurtling towards Christmas. I had been looking forward to Christmas in particular as I loved that time of festivities and general jollyfication. Not that I had had much with Olivia. Her idea of Christmas was to go away to some God forsaken hotel and be pampered. She wasn’t into cooking at the best of times and the thought of her sticking her beautifully manicured hand up the backside of a semi frozen turkey, left her somewhat cold for some reason.

I would have done it, if only for the experience, but she was averse to the idea and that was that.

When I was a child, I always loved Christmas, even though my wish of becoming a girl never really materialised. Dawn, my sister, knew about my rather girlish tendencies and quite often we swopped prezzies. She had a thing going for action man and I rather drooled over Cindy, so we naturally did a few swopsies. More than once, we swopped clothes too and although my parents understood and were sympathetic, they didn’t really approve of my early attempts at trying to be a girl. I thought that it would be a really good idea to go to the Christmas carol service wearing a pretty dress, they thought that a yucky shirt and tie was more appropriate. (What, no trousers? Ed.)

Back to the present: I had been looking forward to Christmas eagerly this year. As Mrs P said, ‘You’m gonna love the Yule an be chuffed as a maggot come boxin’ day.’

On the first of December, like flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la, pretty coloured lights started sprouting out all over the place. Before long, of an evening you could see lights on houses everywhere. Trees were lit too, with twinkling lights and the High Street was a riot of colour.

The village was twinned with a German village called Pumpernickel am Oder and they had sent over a large Christmas tree. It had been given pride of place in the High Street and really made everything uber festive.

Down on the quay of an evening, the smells of the fish and chip shop were joined by chestnuts roasting on an open fire–well a brazier anyway. Mulled wine filled the air with a heady scent and a few stalls selling toys, Christmas presents and other goodies started appearing as Christmas grew ever closer.

It was cold, but Abby and I took a wrapped-up, almost totally mummyfied (get it Mummyfied?) and warm Heather down to the quay on several occasions to taste the atmosphere, but not the mulled wine, of course! It reminded me a bit of a German Christmas market, the only things that were missing was the lederhosen and the ice rink, due to the council banning the idea —not the lederhosen — the ice rink. I think that they might have actually approved of all that thigh slapping, leather stuff. No, it was the ice rink that was verboten.

Anyway, back the ice rink situation, we really had to do something about Ms Prendergast, the lady mayoress and her henchman Mr Grouser, rumoured to be her ‘yes man’ and general dogsbody (read hitman) for the county council, but now was the time for fun and frivolity and not political shenanigans and dark, underhand deeds.

We did have a few visitors to Penmarris at this time–regulars who came in the summer and had been told what a magical place Penmarris was at this festive time of the year, but happily, not too many as this was a time of village togetherness. The ones who did come were almost family anyway, having been with us year after year, come rain or shine. Although we didn’t put the barriers up to repel visitors, we hoped that we could keep a lid on it. We had done our bit in the summer to welcome one and all, but now we wanted to let our hair down and do our own thing, or so I had been told by Jo and her kith and kin.

We were to spend Christmas afternoon and evening with Mummy Dotty and Sarah. Dawn and the family were supposed to be there too but had to cry off due to a prior engagement. All our friends were going to be there, so it was going to be a jolly time for one and all.

‘It’ll be nice ter see the place full again,’ said Mummy, with a bit of a glint in her eye. Fifi looked up and wagged her tail, no doubt already planning a covert raid on a turkey leg or two.

And so it came to pass that Christmas Eve arrived and we all trouped dutifully into the small church on the top of the hill for the evening carol service. Mrs Pearson, who was tone deaf and her husband, who did as he was told, babysat Heather as Abby and I walked up to the little floodlit church, hand in hand. It was somewhat cold and windy, but we had several layers on and it wasn’t that far to walk anyway. The night did remind me a bit of the night that Olivia turned up at our door, heavily pregnant and close to death. It made me sad to think that she would not see her lovely daughter as she grew up, but I knew that both Abby and I would do our best for Heather and not let our baby forget who gave birth to her.

‘Enough sad thoughts.’

We entered the church and was welcomed by Jo and given the order of service and carol sheets.

Mummy was there sitting at the side, in the pews reserved in olden days for the nobility and gentry–posh folk to you and me. Somehow we found ourselves sitting next to her. We were in the best seats in the house as we could see the pulpit, chancel and choir stalls and most of the pews in the church. We even had extra padding on our hassocks, which can’t be bad!

It didn’t take long for the church to be full to bursting as it seemed as if most of the village had turned up. There was the general hubbub of quiet conversation, and flowers were everywhere making the whole church look almost springlike, despite the weather outside, which seemed to be blowing up somewhat.

Near the west door was a large Christmas tree covered with tinsel and lights; under it were some presents, which I had been told were for the people in the old folk’s home and had been donated by the villagers–I did say that they were nice people in Penmarris!

I realised that I knew many people in the village as I recognised nearly all of them sitting there in their Sunday best. My arm grew tired of all the waving as I saw yet another person who had come into my life in a positive way.

There were candles in special holders in front of the choir stalls and it all added to the special, festive nature of the service.

The organ–played by Miss Ethel Potts, who ran the Penmarris Chamber Ensemble and was known, inevitably, as “Chamber Potts”–emitted a long drawn out single note and the hubbub of conversation died down. As the entire congregation struggled to their feet, I took a glance towards the west door where I saw the choir assembled–boys, girls, men and women, wearing royal blue cassocks and white surplices, the children with white ruffs round their necks. One of the girls–my niece Hayley–stepped forward and in her sweet, slightly breathy voice began to sing:

Then the rest of the choir joined in–singing unaccompanied in harmony–and began to process slowly around the church, following the crucifer, Percy Potts, carrying the cross, with David Gotobed, resplendent in ceremonial robes bringing up the rear.

Then the organ began to play the tune, which, according to the printed service sheet, was the signal for us–the members of the congregation–to join in.

There were three more verses, the last one–sung with the choir installed in the candle-lit choir stalls–had a descant sung by the trebles in the choir. We of the congregation sat down noisily and David began to read the bidding prayer. Then came another carol, Up, Good Christen Men and Listen, sung by the choir, followed immediately by the hymn, In the bleak mid-winter, sung by everybody. As we sat down–noisily–afterwards, a small boy, looking angelic in his choir robes, made his way to the lectern. I recognised him as Del Timmins, a bit of a tearaway and always in trouble with his teachers; he was too small to be able to see the reading on the lectern and had to stand on a box to be able to read the First Lesson which he introduced as: ‘God announces in the Garden of Eden that the seed of woman shall bruise the serpent’s head.’ He read it very nicely, finishing with the words ‘Thanks be to God’.

In the choir, apart from my niece Hayley, I could see the Gotobed girls, Phillipa, and Jennifer as well as several other kids I recognised but whose names were unknown to me; they all looked very angelic. At six, Timothy was too young for the choir this year so he was sitting between Dawn and Adrian in the front pew, looking a bit bored and picking his nose.

The service was beautiful with the nine lessons being read between the carols and David didn’t give a sermon. It was late and there were quite a few children in the congregation, so the service was mainly carols and hymns with the readings in between. The last lesson was read by David. During the service we sang, or listened to: Adam Lay Ybounden… In Dulce Jubilo–both sung by the choir… While shepherds watched their flocks by night… O Leave Your Sheep… O little town of Bethlehem… The Angel Gabriel From Heaven Came… Away in a manger–sung by the children… See Amid the Winter’s Snow… O come all ye faithful… finishing up with Hark the Herald Angels Sing, with Miss Potts doing sterling work with the rather splendidly triumphant trumpet stops on the organ.

Then, David standing in the pulpit beamed down on us. ‘Thank you all so much for coming. It’s wonderful to see so many faces, new and old, coming and giving thanks for Christ’s birth––’

There was the sound of a distant cannon and several mobile ’phones went off, including David’s.

David frowned and Jo walked up to the front.

‘Excuse me,’ he said apologetically, and with several others–including two of the choir men–ran down the aisle and out of the church.

Jocasta turned to us and just said calmly, ‘Shall we all say the Lord’s Prayer?’

~ §~


Twenty minutes later, Abby and I, together with many others found ourselves at the lifeboat station waiting for news on the radio as David and the others ploughed out to sea to try to rescue a gaff-rigged yacht that had got into difficulties ten miles out.

It was brewing up a rare storm now and the seas were high and very rough. Jocasta stood with us, gripping the rail tightly as she stared out to sea.

I wanted Abby to go home, but silly goose that she was, she refused. So there we were on Christmas Eve, standing and waiting–

I felt bad enough, what about all these others waiting for their loved ones and not knowing whether they would ever return?

The worst thing about all this was the waiting. There was radio contact with the lifeboat, but it was patchy at best. It appeared that the yacht, “Annie Laurie”, having lost her mast in a heavy squall, had been heading for our harbour under auxilliary engine power but that had failed and she was wallowing in heavy seas and drifting. There were two adults and three children aboard. We had no idea why they went out in that weather. Surely people get a weather report first? We discovered afterwards that “Annie Laurie” was owned by the Brewster family and they were returning from a year spent cruising the Mediterranean, so they were experienced “yotties” and had not ventured out for a “Christmas Jolly”.

I felt like a bit of a spare part so I made everyone steaming mugs of tea and coffee to help keep the home fires burning whilst we all waited for news.

If anything, the weather worsened. It was now a true, full on, force 10 gale, and the sea was crashing hard against the harbour walls, throwing plumes of spume and spray high up into the air. It was dark and raining hard. We could hardly see the occulting beam of the lighthouse on the south-eastern point a mile or so down the coast.

We had to shout to make ourselves and everyone, despite wearing waterproofs, was getting rather wet as the wind blew towards us and high into the lifeboat shed, where we stood…and waited. Most of us ladies, having come straight down from the church were still wearing our Sunday best, which–of course–meant skirts. Both Abby and I were very glad of our thermal tights, but several of the other ladies only had the non-thermal variety.

This was not how I wanted to spend Christmas Eve, now Christmas Day as it was just past midnight. I couldn’t and wouldn’t leave; neither would Abby, despite dire threats of no prezzies come the morning. Whether we would open presents would depend on the outcome tonight’s launching.

I shivered involuntarily as a rivulet of water found its way past my defences and started trickling down my neck and then my back.

How much longer?

I gave Jocasta a cuddle as she stood by the rail, her eyes never shifting from the gap in the headlands where two beacons marked the entrance. She gave me a weak smile and then we just stood there. Abby, who had a few friends boarding the crew was comforting a young girl–fiancée to one of the life boatmen–with her arm around shoulder.

Mummy had evidently mobilised local forces and a mass crá¨che cum baby minding service was being held at The Manor. I briefly smiled at the thought of Jenkins changing nappies and then of our little one, safe and sound in Jellicle Cottage, totally unaware of the drama taking place off the coast.

It all seemed a world away from when we had been sitting in the church listening to some heavenly voices. It all seemed a bit much, that so many of our people were out there battling against tremendous seas to rescue a family in peril.

We were there for an hour more, then the radio crackled into life and we could hear the cox’n’s voice.

‘Am approaching harbour, all safe and well!’ Sonia, the cox’n sounded tired, but cheerful, and a collective sigh of relief could be heard from all of us who had been waiting anxiously.

We all cheered and clapped as the lifeboat, towing the Annie Laurie, hove into view through the harbour entrance.

Relief and happiness showed on all the faces around me. I glanced at Abby who seemed to be all in; I went to her and put an arm round her shoulder. ‘Come on, love, let’s get you home!’

We would leave the relatives to greet one another and catch up with everyone the next day.

The rain had stopped by the time we arrived home and the wind was dying down too. I hoped that the rest of Christmas would be less fraught and that we would be able to enjoy ourselves at long last.

~ §~


Mrs Pearson smiled as we walked in.

‘All safe?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Good. Littl’n be awrigh’ not a peek from ’er. I’m off to me bed–’night.’

We thanked her profusely.

‘Twernt nothin’. In Penmarris we looks after our own.’ And with that she scuttled off, like a ferret disappearing down somebody’s trousers.

Abby and I dried ourselves off, had a look at Heather and then tumbled into bed. Christmas was two hours old.

Heather woke us up at 7.30 with a yell that would slice steel.

I told Abby not to move, which was unnecessary because she didn’t seem to be doing any such thing. Preggy ladies get away with murder, don’t you think?

I slipped my robe on and went to Heather’s bedroom. A cat had managed to find his way into the room and was playing with a strand of cotton and chasing it all around the floor whilst Heather watched on, giving giggling encouragement from her cot.

‘Google, goo,’ Heather gurgled.

‘The same to you with brass knobs on,’ I said as I picked her up and wrinkled my nose. It smelt like she needed changing and fast.

I did the necessary, still wondering if someone was feeding her illicit chicken korma and then we went to see her other mummy.

‘Wake up, sleepyhead.’ I said as both Heather and I joined her in bed.

‘Oooh,’ she yelled, ‘cold feet!’

‘Sorry; well it is cold.’

Abby turned over and gave Heather a kiss.

‘Hello, sweetheart. Happy first Christmas!’

‘Google gaga.’

‘Yes, dear, you can have a computer when you are a leeetle bit older.’

Heather smiled at that!

‘Happy Christmas, Abby.’

‘The same to you with jingle bells on. Now shift over, I need to use the loo!’

I went to the window, drew the curtains back and gasped.

‘Hey, Abby, it’s snowing!’

~ §~


We had a quiet morning, sharing gifts and playing with Heather. Quick phone calls to several people confirmed that all was well and the Brewsters were being looked after in palatial splendour by Mummy–who else.

The Christmas do at Mummy’s that afternoon was getting bigger and bigger as more of the village were invited following the trials and tribulations of the night. I wondered if Harrods had delivered enough food for all the revellers and then remembered that Jenkins was the master of these things and would think of everything.

We were told be there by 2.30 post meridian or lose out on the sherry and mince pies. I wasn’t too sure about the sherry, but I’m a bit of a piggy for mince pies, so 2.29 on the dot we rolled up in my wonderful Beemer–we left ten minutes early due to all the snow on the roads. We were not the first visitors to arrive and by no means the last either. Many had walked up the hill rather than take their cars and judging by the way my pride and joy had slipped along the road, it was a wise decision. Maybe I should get a Chelsea Tractor?*

Looking back down on the village as we got out of the car, it was like a picture post card scene; all the lovely with snow covered houses and cottages that looked so picturesque against the backdrop of the cove, harbour and the blue of the sea, now relatively calm after the previous night’s storm.

I took in all that I could see of the scene before me and put my memory of it safely away in a mental drawer so that I could reproduce it on canvas at a later date. The doors of the mansion opened and there was cool and efficient Jenkins standing there to welcome us. We passed him and made him blush as we both gave him a Christmas kiss on the cheek.

We took Heather to the impromptu crá¨che, once again manned–or should that be womanned?–by some mothers on a sort of rota scheme. I offered, but was turned down due to the fact that I had a slight cold. Alright I was sniffing a bit; well so would you if you had been standing outside all night in freezing rain. But I was a full time and fully paid up girl now and bravely remembered the fact that when men had a cold it was at least man flu, but we girls were made of sterner stuff.

After saying bye, bye to fluffybumkins and telling her to steer clear of the boys, we made our way back to the entrance hall. It was a wrench to leave Heather, but we didn’t want her to get too clingy.

Behind Jenkins, in the hall were two girls in black and white waitress outfits, each holding glasses of sherry on silver salvers, their only concession to Christmas being that they had tinsel garlands around their necks. I took a drinkypoos as I wanted to appear polite, but just sipped it minutely while others who shall remain nameless, but should know better, being a vicar’s wife, downed theirs in one.

Mummy was there looking regal and yet somehow approachable as she sailed towards us and soon I was gathered–or should that be smothered–into her ample bosom when she gave me a bear hug. I wondered distractedly whether she had ever been an all-in wrestler in a previous life.

‘Hmmmphr.’ I said.

‘What was that?’

‘Hello, Mummy and Merry Christmas,’ I wheezed after surfacing for air.

Abby got the same treatment and then after more hugs, ‘hello’s and how’re ye doin’s?’ we all moved to the ballroom where the place had been copiously adorned in Christmas decorations with a huge tree in the corner, covered with white twinkling lights.

The full length of the room was taken up with the festive table, with wonderful place settings, table decorations and lighted candelabras dotted along the full length.

Everyone including Abby and I oohed and aahed at the sight of all the finery and I must admit wondering how long it took Mummy’s staff to prepare for the occasion.

I did know that the staff would be having their own do “below stairs” later on and from the stories I had heard, their parties were legendary.

At each setting was an ornate silver duck place card holder with a name on a card held by the beak.

Abby and I found ourselves opposite each other and just one step removed from Mummy Dotty.

Something caught my eye as I glanced out of the window. It looked suspiciously like Fifi with something large and meaty in her mouth being chased across the lawn by a person in white with a chef’s hat and a meat cleaver. As Fifi was now a fit animal due to a strict exercise regime and the chef was to put it politely, rather portly, I knew who my bet was on–

‘Are yer listenin’ ter me, Samantha?’

‘Sorry, Mummy, you were saying?’

‘Not happy with the soddin’ crackers. Harrods promised jewellery inside but I have the rejects. I swear the ear rings are silver plated. The place has gorn to the dogs, in my day––’

I switched off a bit then and my eyes wandered along the table.

On one side of Dotty was Sarah in a pretty white dress and on the other was Sophie, looking equally fine in a satin top and shortish skirt. She still looked a bit frail and I didn’t like the dark circles under her eyes, but she looked a hundred times better than when I saw her in the park holding Heather and in complete shock over losing her own baby.

It was nice to see that Mummy had taken Sophie under her wing and Abby and I looked significantly at each other and wondered if Mummy had decided to add to her now extended family.

Along the table were many friends like Marcia and Brian our doctor friends, Katie, with Capn’ Ahab, Jocasta, David and their family and several Potts–but no Pans–were scattered about too.

I wondered who was on watch aboard ‘the yacht’ until I remembered I had been told that the crew were holding their own party there tonight. I would count the spoons in the morning.

My sister Dawn together with Adrian , Timothy and Hayley were visiting Adrian’s parents and so this year would be missing the festivities, but we would be seeing them on Boxing Day, so that would be nice.

The meal was the traditional one of roast turkey with chestnut stuffing, cranberry source, pigs in blankets** and the usual veg. It was served piping hot and was absolutely delicious. A great time was had by all and the wine and ginger beer flowed freely. I won’t go into the nitty-gritty of the meal as that would bore non participants, but what I can say was that afterwards we were all–like the turkey–well and truly stuffed!

The meal lasted for a long time and we stayed at the table for what seemed to be hours. This gave us all time for gossip and allowing the Christmas pudding to go down a bit.

‘So, young Samantha,’ said Mummy as she sipped her port, ‘How do yer like yer first Christmas here?’

I looked around at the smiling faces and just said, ‘it’s just wonderful.’

‘And, Abby, how’s the sprog doin?’

‘Fine Mummy, I swear that the little thing is going to be a footballer the way he or she is kicking me already.’

‘Probably wind,’ Mummy conjectured wisely.

‘Please may we leave the table,’ Sarah asked sweetly.

‘Off yer go then. The hop, dance, disco or whatever it’s called is in the stables.’

‘I know; I helped set it up, remember?’

‘By help yer mean tellin’ everyone else to do the hard work while you sat and watched––’

‘–Mother, how could you think––’

‘–Shove orf young Sarah and take Sophie with yer. Sophie, if Sarah asks yer to do anything, do the complete opposite and yer won’t go far wrong.’

‘Mummeee!’

Sophie giggled and went off with Sarah who seemed to be in a bit of a huff.

‘Mummy smiled at their retreating backs and shook her head.

‘I’m too soft on that gel!’

‘No you’re not, you love her to bits.’

‘Never mind that, did I tell you that I have found a great new way to kill those bloody moles–?’

~ §~


We found ourselves walking home that night. The roads had iced up quite a bit and I didn’t want to prang the Beemer. It wasn’t bad on the footpaths as they had been gritted. It wasn’t that cold and the stars and moon were out and lit our way home.

I carried Heather and Abby held on to my arm. Neither of us had drunk much if anything alcoholic, unless you count the sherry trifle and the small glass of sherry on arrival at Dotty’s, However, I felt drunk with happiness at the good time we had had today. It was certainly a different Christmas to previous ones I had experienced and I wondered if future Christmases would be as pleasurable. I hoped and prayed that they would be.

We put our baby to bed, she hadn’t stirred on the way home, and then, still feeling full and tired from the short amount of sleep and the day’s activities, we fell into bed and into each other’s arms.

The church clock struck twelve and outside we could hear some late-night revellers singing in the distance:

I smiled as I turned over and spooned into Abby’s warm and cuddly back. Then, typically Penmarris, a cock crowed and I wasn’t sure if he was early, late or just the usual nut case that this place seemed to breed with abundance.

Sighing, I went to sleep to the sound of Abby snoring gently and a cat jumping on the bed and taking up half the space–

This was the life and I wouldn’t change it for the world!

To be continued…

* Chelsea Tractor - http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Chelsea%20Tra...
**pigs in blankets - http://www.sausagelinks.co.uk/recipe_detail.asp?id=135

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

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

 

Previously…

I smiled as I turned over and spooned into Abby’s warm and cuddly back. Then, typically Penmarris, a cock crowed and I wasn’t sure if he was early, late or just the usual nut case that this place seemed to breed with abundance.

Sighing, I went to sleep to the sound of Abby snoring gently and a cat jumping on the bed and taking up half the space–

This was the life and I wouldn’t change it for the world!


And now the story continues…

As our Christmas and New Year festivities were faded into a dim memory, things carried on the way they always did in the picturesque Penmarris Cove–for a while anyway.

As the winter gradually turned to spring, the trees started budding and plants decided to wake up and promise some early blooms. Living in the west country meant that we tended to be ahead of the rest of the UK in this respect–or so I had been told by the old sages and soothsayers.

I couldn’t believe that I had been in Penmarris for such a relatively short space of time. So much had happened to me in such a short period, I hadn’t really had time to draw breath. I had so many friends now. I realised that my pre-Penmarris life had centred around Olivia. On reflection, despite all the pain and the heartache, finding Olivia performing sexual gymnastics with that man was probably the best thing to have happened to me.

Oh, I regretted and felt so much sorrow that Olivia had died so tragically and in my heart of hearts I knew that a small piece of me died when she passed away. No one who shares your life and is so important to it can leave the scene without there being regret, sorrow and a sense of loss.

The fact that I had found love and fulfilment with Abby and our darling Heather meant everything to me. Now we were eagerly awaiting another addition to our family and we could hardly wait to see our new baby.

The winter had been a harsh one for us in Penmarris–harsher than usual, I was informed by many of my friends and that made me wonder where all that global warming had gone to. Anyway, not being one to miss an opportunity, I had been along the cliff tops a couple of times and down by the harbour when the weather was at its worst. I wanted to capture in my mind all the seasons of this wonderful place so I could put everything I had seen on canvas.

There is a wild and savage beauty in the way waves crash against rocks and I got soaked through more than once and told off by Abby as a consequence. In fact, one afternoon I was down on the harbour wall and a huge wave came up and gave me a drenching. I went home looking like a drowned rat and promptly caught a nasty chill that turned into the flu–putting me out of action for nearly two weeks. Now Marcia Sinclair, my esteemed friend and doctor said that no way do you get influenza from a soaking as it’s a virus and probably lurking around in my body ready to pounce, but that didn’t stop Abby banning me from going out in rough weather after I recovered; how I love it when she’s forceful!

Anyway, as I say, winter eventually turned into spring and it was good to see everything springing back to life again. I had gained about a pound over the winter and Abby, bless her, had added about twenty-five. She was now getting rather big and moaned a lot about her size, her back and the constant need to use the loo. She looked so beautiful and I jokingly called her my little barrage balloon–she didn’t see the humour of it for some strange reason.

The harbour looked strangely empty while the good ship Lollypop aka Penmarris Surprise was away on manoeuvres–well not manoeuvres really, but wearing my business hat, I had arranged through agents to have the yacht chartered out to selected companies for use when I or my friends were not using her. This meant that my captain and crew were kept employed, expenses were minimal and I would have some sort of return from her. All profits were to go to the Lady Fairbairn Children’s Foundation that Mummy and I had set up and were trying to organise.

Katie was going around like she had lost her favourite pet while her nautical boyfriend was away at sea and she sometimes found it hard to focus and frequently I found her gazing wistfully out to sea. Her soliciting–or whatever it’s called–kept her busy though, as she threw herself into her work. We all thought that she was on the mend as her sighing was down to once every ten minutes and the crying fits were now controllable–just.

Returning to the philanthropic thingy, we had found a large mansion about a mile away over the hill past the church. It was a bit run down and needed work doing, so we managed to acquire it quite cheaply with the help of Millie, our friendly estate agent. It was ideal for our needs with lots of bedrooms and large grounds for the little kiddiewinks to play in.

One fly in the ointment was regarding the essential council permissions and change of use necessary for such a venture. The fly in question was Mummy’s arch-enemy and báªte noir, Ms Prendergast, Lady Mayor and right royal pain in the arse.

For those of you not in the know, Ms Prendergast and Mummy Dotty hated each other due to a fight that they had over Mummy’s hubby, Tremaine back in the year dot.

Anyway, Ms P took every opportunity to make all our lives a misery in the normally peaceful and tranquil Penmarris. Planning permission for anything more than a bathtub was refused unless it was a bathtub owned by her cronies. She blocked anything and everything she could unless she wanted it–like the extension to her ample house, for example.

One wonders how she managed to get elected year after year and the general consensus was that she fiddled the figures but no one quite knew how.

Mummy Dotty was spitting bullets over the problems we were having with the Prendergast person. I had enough on my plate without worrying about that, thinking, in my rather positive way that things would turn out okay in the end. So I left that one to dear Mummy and I had hopes that she might be able to sort things out without actual physical violence–but I wasn’t holding my breath!

Winter was a time for catching up with all those jobs that needed doing, like decorating the new baby’s bedroom, sorting out which masterpieces were to be sold in the gallery, doing yucky accounts stuff for the unspeakable taxman and also generally gearing oneself up for the coming summer when Penmarris would once again be full to the brim with holidaymakers doing all they could to spend money so that we could sit out the following winter once again in some comfort.

Abby was busy doing her pottering whenever she could. She began to complain that her basketball sized bulge was getting in the way when she was throwing pots, but she managed somehow to produce piece after piece of wonderful pottery. She was six months gone now and according to our eBay baby book, the little one was no longer very little, being about a foot long and still growing at an alarming rate.

Baby was quite active and could now kick quite strongly, making us think that we had another Susan or Mark Hurst in the making. Anyway we were thrilled to bits with baby as we were with Heather who was now crawling at warp speed and eating like a goodun. Changing her nappy was sometimes a bit of an adventure and gas masks were on order.

When not working, we spent a lot of time–weather and Abby aches and pains permitting–on walks in the brisk air up on the cliffs or just around and about the village. Abby wanted to make sure once the baby was born, that she wouldn’t gain much weight or lose her fitness. Mind you, the symptoms that she was getting as she gradually grew in size made me wonder if I could have stood it all–if I had been a GG, that is. She had constipation, cramps, dizziness, backache and to top, or is that tail, it all–haemorrhoids.

Still, in spite of everything she was happy to be pregnant–most of the time!

Spring arrived on the vernal equinox–20th of March. We didn’t go by the new fangled view of the 1st of March and anyway, it snowed on that day for once, so any thoughts of it being spring-like were laughable.

One day late in March, I was in the gallery sorting out some things to go on display. Tracy and Tammy were doing some cleaning and general tea duties and Heather was playing in her lobsterpot playpen. Barry Pearson, my other–rather shy but nice–assistant had man flu, which meant a runny nose and was confined to bed for a few days by his fussy and protective mum.

All was at peace with the world and I was humming ‘Money, Money, Money’, slightly out of tune according to the tone deaf Tammy, when I caught a whiff of Chanel No. 5 of all things coming from I knew not where.

Now where had I smelt that fragrance before?

I stopped humming and ignored the sighs of relief coming from girls who don’t know good music when they hear it. The door opened with the jingling of the bell thing that rings when somebody opens it.

There was a chill in the air.

The fragrance was almost overpowering.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose as one.

Looking up from my work, I frowned and my heart flip-flopped.

It was Victoria Manning.

She closed the door behind her and looked around with apparent distaste.

‘So,’ she said looking down her nose unpleasantly, ‘this is what is being paid for by my son’s hard-earned money.’

She looked the same as she always had. I knew that she was about seventy-five now, with short, almost severe, iron grey hair. She was tall, thin and decidedly prune-like. She had a slash of red on her lips–the only concession she had allowed in the way of makeup. Her coat was grey and long and the skirt beneath was of a similar colour. Don’t think she was a frail old lady though, she could have done a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson and still not have been out of breath. All in all, she looked as she always had–a bitch of the first order.

‘Tracy, Tammy, go and powder your noses.’

‘What?’ they said in unison.

‘Have an early lunch,’

‘It’s only eleven…’ said Tracy who obviously wanted to stay.

I looked directly at her and she turned a nice shade of white. Maybe my features gave her an insight as to how I was feeling at the moment and the fact that I wasn’t taking any crap from her today.

They grabbed their handbags and ’phones were out of there as quick as their clicking heels could take them.

The door tinged shut and I was alone with her.

‘So, you have started ordering around little girls now? About your level that. You never had the spine to talk back to Olivia and as for my son, you nearly peed in your pants every time he spoke to you.’

‘Why are you here, Victoria?’ I asked, trying to hold my temper.

‘It’s Mrs Manning to you. How is it that they let a pervert like you work with real girls? Come to that, Heather should not be with you. She needs a father as well as a mother and you are neither of those. A so-called man, dressed up like a woman? Nice clothes don’t make you a woman. Makeup doesn’t make you a woman. Having bits cut off you doesn’t make you a woman. You should not be allowed to have any contact with children–you will poison the sweet innocence of that child with your perverted and ungodly ways. I hear that you live with a woman. Does she know what you are? Have you had some sort of disgusting sex with her? She has your defrosted seed in her I hear, despite my protests that they should have been destroyed. You were not good enough for Olivia and she had to go to a real man to have sex. Now you have caused her to die and you have stolen the baby that I should be looking after.

She suddenly fished around in her handbag and pulled out what looked like a kitchen knife. Then she walked over towards the lobsterpot where Heather, despite all the noise, was sleeping, cuddling her favourite cuddly toy–Upsy Daisy.

‘I am taking her with me and you will not stop me. She belongs in a stable home with a real woman–’

Without thinking, I was over to her in three strides and with one hand I chopped her wrist making the the knife drop to the ground with a clutter and then slapped her on the face. She fell to the ground, looking undignified with her legs open and her peach Directoire knickers on display to all and sundry.

I kicked the knife away and it went under a bench in the corner. I then turned to the still prone and shocked-looking ex-grandmother-in-law and let rip.

‘How dare you come in here and insult me like this? I have done nothing to you. I have always tried to be polite, despite that fact that you have been a dried-up cow for as long as I’ve known you. Trying to get Heather taken away from me was a despicable act. Getting the authorities to try to arrest me with trumped-up drugs offences puts you the same league as that scum of a son of yours. The fact that Nigel was murdered had nothing to do with me, but the world is a better place without that poisonous monster around. My only regret was that he and you put a wedge between Olivia and I and gave us no chance of a decent marriage. Now you act like your despicable son and use violence. I now know from whom he got his vicious streak.’

She had risen as I spoke and appeared to be on the verge of an apoplectic fit because she was shaking with rage. She had a vivid red mark on her cheek where I had slapped her. I hoped that she bruised easily–it would be a reminder not to come between me and mine.

I glanced at Heather and couldn’t believe that she hadn’t woken up–and here was a girl who would normally wake up if a gnat farted–

‘I told you, I mean to have Heather. You are not a fit parent and it’s an abuse against God that a person like you should have custody of an impressionable child––’

‘–an abuse against God? You come in here with a knife, ready to no doubt use it if you didn’t get your way and then spout about God? You make me sick. There is only one place where you deserve to go and that’s hell. So get the hell out of here and don’t come back. If you do, I will have you charged with attempted murder and kidnap.’

She had stopped looking as if she was just about to peg out on the spot and her colour (apart from her livid cheek) began to return to its normal puce colour. She was breathing heavily, but apart than that, looked distressingly normal.

‘You have no proof, you fool. You sent those girls out and you can hardly ask the child to give evidence.’

I hated that smile; it was as if nothing had just happened and she was in command of the situation–but I was about to burst her smug bubble.

‘I think that you might need to get some glasses. If you care to look up at the ceiling, you will notice there are several fine cameras up there. Those cameras are on all the time–day and night. Our friendly local bobby suggested that we installed some security as a precaution. All your antics and comments have been recorded on camera. Now I’m not a cow, unlike someone I could mention and I will do nothing about your actions on condition that I get your assurance that you will go away and never come back. I will not tell the authorities unless and until I have to, but the tapes will be lodged with my solicitor as a precaution. The choice is yours: go now and nothing will happen as long as you leave us alone. Fight me and you know what I will do.’

She looked like she was about to explode and I was sure, given a chance, that she would strike me down there and then. I was glad that the knife was out of harm’s way.

Her hands clenched into fists and she stepped toward me–I stayed put. I was not going to be afraid of her, despite that fact that she was, I realised, as mad as–if not madder than–a hatter.

She bent down and picked up her crocodile skin handbag. She then looked across at Heather and finally at me.

‘This is not over by any means,’ she spat, turning on her heels and pulling the door open; she slammed it behind her with such force that the little bell over the door fell off and clattered tinkling on the floor.

‘ Ah well,’ I thought, ‘that bell was getting on my nerves, anyway.’

I could hear snuffling noises behind me and, turning, noticed that Heather was finally waking up. I went over to the lobster pot and with her eyes still shut she smiled such a sweet smile.

I burst into tears.

To be continued…

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

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

 

Previously…

‘I told you, I mean to have Heather. You are not a fit parent and it’s an abuse against God that a person like you should have custody of an impressionable child––’

‘–an abuse against God? You come in here with a knife, ready to no doubt use it if you didn’t get your way and then spout about God? You make me sick. There is only one place where you deserve to go and that’s hell. So get the hell out of here and don’t come back. If you do, I will have you charged with attempted murder and kidnap.’

She had stopped looking as if she was just about to peg out on the spot and her colour (apart from her livid cheek) began to return to its normal puce colour. She was breathing heavily, but apart than that, looked distressingly normal.

‘You have no proof, you fool. You sent those girls out and you can hardly ask the child to give evidence.’

I hated that smile; it was as if nothing had just happened and she was in command of the situation–but I was about to burst her smug bubble.

‘I think that you might need to get some glasses. If you care to look up at the ceiling, you will notice there are several fine cameras up there. Those cameras are on all the time–day and night. Our friendly local bobby suggested that we installed some security as a precaution. All your antics and comments have been recorded on camera. Now I’m not a cow, unlike someone I could mention and I will do nothing about your actions on condition that I get your assurance that you will go away and never come back. I will not tell the authorities unless and until I have to, but the tapes will be lodged with my solicitor as a precaution. The choice is yours: go now and nothing will happen as long as you leave us alone. Fight me and you know what I will do.’

She looked like she was about to explode and I was sure, given a chance, that she would strike me down there and then. I was glad that the knife was out of harm’s way.

Her hands clenched into fists and she stepped toward me–I stayed put. I was not going to be afraid of her, despite that fact that she was, I realised, as mad as–if not madder than–a hatter.

She bent down and picked up her crocodile skin handbag. She then looked across at Heather and finally at me.

‘This is not over by any means,’ she spat, turning on her heels and pulling the door open; she slammed it behind her with such force that the little bell over the door fell off and clattered tinkling on the floor.

‘ Ah well,’ I thought, ‘that bell was getting on my nerves, anyway.’

I could hear snuffling noises behind me and, turning, noticed that Heather was finally waking up. I went over to the lobster pot and with her eyes still shut she smiled such a sweet smile.

I burst into tears.


And now the story continues…

‘So, Katie,’ I asked as we sat in her office, ‘how do you solve a problem like Victoria?’

‘Sounds a bit like that song from The Sound of Music,’ Katie quipped, looking out of her window using a telescope. The Penmarris Surprise was about a thousand miles away, but she still kept on look-out for her hunky jack tar, more in hope than expectation.

She sighed and returned to her desk.

‘It’s up to you how you deal with this, but I strongly suggest that you get the police involved.’

‘I told her I wouldn’t as long as she stays away from us.’

It was the next day and I was still fuming about it all. I hadn’t told Abby everything about the incident with the knife; she had slight blood pressure problems and the last thing I wanted was for her to go ballistic over what I hoped would be an isolated incident.

She was at home at that moment taking the weight off her belly and practicing breathing techniques. Heather, of course was with me and she had decided that she wanted to play explorer and was crawling about the room and giggling rather a lot. We had taken the precaution of removing anything that could harm her like ornaments, Kalashnikov rifles and stun grenades–just joking!

I had shown the DVD of the Victoria Incident to Katie and she blanched visibly at the knife-toting Victoria and subsequent events. My CCTV had audio as well as visual and everything was on record.

‘Well, I have had a fax through from her solicitor; she wants to prosecute you for slapping her.’

‘What! I was protecting my baby and she was brandishing a knife. Anyway the CCTV will confirm that I was in the right.’

‘I agree, but I don’t think the audio can be used as evidence, just the video. She doesn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of winning on this, based on what we can see on the DVD. You can clearly see that she was brandishing a knife and was heading towards Heather. It’s a clear case of self defence. She’s obviously as nutty as a fruitcake and has bats in her belfry. Maybe she wants to have her day in court so that she can say things about you that would cause you pain.’

‘Maybe, so what should I do?’

‘Have a chat with the police. I’ll have a word with Inspector Mallory from Bodmin, he’s a good man although he has a strange way about him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s from Bodmin, need I say more?’

‘Point taken.’

So while I sat on the carpet and played chase with Heather, Katie spoke to her friend the police inspector. We were rather noisy, so we went out into the reception area and carried on there. Being lunch time, the office was officially closed, so the receptionist, young Ellie Parslow was out having her lunch.

A few minutes later, Katie opened her door and motioned us back. By this time, Heather was flagging a bit so I was able to park her in her buggy where she promptly fell asleep and started snoring gently clutching Upsy-Daisy in her tiny hand.

‘Right, I’ve spoken to Gary Mallory. He’s actually coming over this way to have a word on another matter. He’ll be here about three. D’you want to go and have something to eat and then we can be back by then?’

‘Okay. I’ll just text Abby.’

‘Hi Abby, gone for din—dins with Katie—will be back l8tr. r u ok?’

The reply flashed back in a few moments.

‘headache, tummy ache and bum ache. ok otherwise. feeling a bit tired so will lay down for a bit. luv u.’

‘me 2 u.

‘do you want me home?’

‘no just need some shut eye.’

‘call me if you need to.’

‘ok, have fun.’

‘bye.’

‘bye,’

‘She’s feeling it a bit,’ I told Katie as we walked up the hill to The Toad.

‘Yeah, I don’t know if I want to have a baby; pain and me don’t mix.’

‘Tell me about it; but I wish it was me having the baby.’

I wasn’t sure where that came from, but I think it was wishing for something that could never happen. I sighed and then looked down at my little munchkin as she slept on with her mouth slightly open as we walked towards our local watering hole.

~ §~

The Toad and Tart wasn’t very busy with it still being off season, when we walked in and ordered a scampi-and-chips-in-a-basket–chicken was off–from Agnieska, our newish Polish barperson. There were slight language difficulties, but she managed to get the gist of what we were saying to her in the end, with the help of flow charts and pointing suggestively at the menu.

Then, we were noticed by a raucous crowd in the corner by the panoramic window.

‘Coooeee, over here.’

Seated around the corner table that overlooked the harbour and East Beach were Jocasta, Millie, Marcia and last but not least my sister, Dawn.

We ‘coooeeed’ back and with our glasses joined to our friends. There then ensued a general round of air kissing, hugs, musical chairs and eventually we settled down and waited for our meal, taking the time to update what had been going on since we last got together.

I won’t bore you with the details of the conversation which touched on babies, clothes and the occasional reference to pending divorce, marriage and wife swapping. Needless to say, a good time was had by all and it seemed only minutes until Katie, Heather and I were back in the office awaiting the arrival of Inspector Clouseau–I mean Mallory.

Ellie Parslow the receptionist and keen babysitter looked after Heather while we awaited the inspector.

‘So, what’s he like?’ I asked.

‘Tall dark handsome. He was my boy friend for a while but it didn’t work out.’

‘How come?’

‘Too much baggage.’

‘What, does he have a drink problem, drive an old Jag, love classical music and treat his sergeant badly? Maybe he’s a secret druggy, gambles a lot and can’t relate to women. Perhaps he’s a loner, with a past who no one likes but everyone respects because he always gets his man––’

‘No, it’s not that,’

‘What then?’

‘We went away to North Wallop on a naughty weekend.’

‘So?’ I asked, all ears and leaning forward.

‘We went for two nights.’

And?’

‘He brought four cases– never trust a man with too much baggage.’

I was just about to say more when the intercom burped.

‘Katie, there be a strong dark ‘andsome man waiting to see you.’

‘Let him in and you shouldn’t say that about your uncle.’

‘Awww, I like to see him blush, dun I?

A few seconds later the door opened and there he was, standing in the doorway.

Well he was strong, dark and handsome and if I wasn’t already taken, I would have been sorely tempted to get more intimately acquainted with his nether–and other–regions. As it was, I took a strong gulp of coffee and nearly suffocated and scalded myself in one swift move.

After I had recovered myself, we all sat down and the inspector looked at me appraisingly.

‘So, he said,’ you’re the famous Samantha Smart.’

‘Me, famous––?’I said with an annoyingly squeaky voice.

‘You’re well known down at the station,’ he replied in a soft creamy Devonian accent.

I felt a shiver going up and down my spine that had little to do with the weather.

‘Why am I well known, I haven’t a record have I? I was late paying for the TV licence ten years ago and that parking ticket––?’

He laughed a manly laugh.

‘No, nothing like that. You managed to stop Colin Statham from killing you. He was a nasty bit of work with blood on his hands. He didn’t only kill your father-in-law, Nigel Manning, but he was implicated in a whole string of unsolved murders, extortion and other nasties. He was what we call in the trade, a bit of a sod. We were able to close the book on several cases when he was fricasseed.’

I shuddered at the thought of Statham and the way he died. Well, he burnt his fingers once too often–literally and I would not be crying any crocodile tears over that piece of excrement.

‘Yes,’ continued the smooth policemen in his spotless and somewhat expensive suit, pristine white shirt and red silk tie–not that I was noticing that sort of thing, ‘he was what is technically known as a naughty boy.’

He smiled at his subtle joke and then his perfect eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch enquiringly.

‘So, how may I help you ladies?’

‘Well, Gary,’ said Katie, ‘Sam here has a bit of a problem regarding Victoria Manning–’

‘Not surprised, she came down the nick a few times wanting to get Ms Smart here arrested for everything up to and including attempted infanticide. A nasty bit of work she is. She’s been cautioned for wasting police time, twice now. If she does it again, we’ll ’ave ’er, as my sergeant says.’

‘Well things have moved on a bit–look, I’ll let Samantha explain.’

He turned to me gave me a smile that would melt glass and I knew that I would be punished by Abby later. She always says look but don’t touch, but my steely resolve was crumbling under the intense gaze of those icy blue eyes. He made James Bond look like a double glazing salesman from Cleethorpes–tacky.

Yes, I would have to confess all to Abby later and when she stopped laughing I would have to pay the consequences which normally involved the industrial strength loofah and some chocolate sauce liberally s––

‘–Are you with us Sam?’ asked Katie.

‘Sorry, right erm, well Inspector––’

‘–call me Gary please; all my friends do.’

‘Gosh–erm well Ins–I mean Gary, it was like this––’

I told him all that had happened regarding “the Victoria incident”.

‘Mmm,’ so you have the CCTV footage?’

‘Yes,’

I fished the DVD out of my handbag and handed it to him.

‘I’ll have a look at it when I get back to the station. You know that she’s a fruit cake?’

‘Nutty as? Yes. It must run in the family because Nigel was several pence short of a shilling too and my late wife, although I loved her at one time, had her extreme moments.’

I had the vision pop up in my head of Olivia and I having sex in a cinema once–or was that twice? It was a good job that it was dark and the film was noisy…Why did I have to always agree to what she wanted? Was she the strong one or was I just weak? Ah well, water under the bridge––’

‘–Earth to Samantha.’

I looked up and Gary was smiling. I blinked slightly. Were those teeth naturally that white? They sure gave off a bit of a glare.

‘Sorry, you were saying?’

‘Yes, will you want to prosecute?’

‘I wasn’t going to, but while she is able to threaten me and my family, I don’t want her anywhere near us. Abby’s pregnant and I don’t want anything to go pear shaped–’

My phone made clucking noises like a hen who had laid an egg. Abby had changed the ring tone for a laugh and I hadn’t worked out how to change it back. Technology and I don’t mix very well–you may have noticed.

With a smile of apology, I answered it, as it was Abby.

‘Hi, Abby how’s it going, why are you breathing heavily like that, have you been running?’

‘Come–home–now!’

‘What’s up, doc–I mean, honey?’

‘Baby–water–broke.’

‘Baby water–what–oh my God! Don’t move. I’ll call Marcia; get some towels–boil some water–no don’t do that. I’ll be there soon, hang on in there, sweetie!’

I looked up at Katie and Gary.

‘My Abby–she’s pregnant–I mean having it–the baby I mean. Must call Marcia––’

Katie looked at me and got all decisive and firm. Gary looked uncomfortable–typical of a man not to know what to do in a female-type crisis.

‘Right,’ said Katie, ‘toddle off and see to Abby. I’ll ring Marcia and the hospital. Gary you go with Sam and try to make yourself useful–she’s not fit to drive in this state. Ellie will look after Heather. Right, let’s get cracking!’

Gary and I went downstairs, stopping momentarily as I gave Heather a quick hug. He then bundled me into his car and strapped me in.

‘Ooh,’ I thought, ‘he has a Beemer just like mine but in black–enough thoughts about cars. My Abby’s in agony and I think about cars!’

He put a flashing blue light bulb on top of the car and soon we were tearing up the hill to Jellicle Cottage, the car making ‘eee-aw’ noises and frightening the local population as we went. He nearly ran over two cats as we drove into our little drive but they jumped out of the away just in time as we skidded to a halt.

I was out of the car as soon as it stopped and ran into the house, nearly tripping on that step with the wobbly plank that we always said that we would fix one day.

‘Abby, Abby, where are you?’

I stopped to listen and heard some steps coming from the kitchen.

‘Hello Sam, you made it then?’

There was Abby standing there as large as life holding a mug of tea in her hand and a hobnob in the other. She looked all right and not exactly in the throes of birth labour whatsits.

‘Bloody hell Abby. I thought that you were unshipping the sprog or something!’

‘Tut, tut Samantha, you can be a bit coarse sometimes. No, it’s okay. Marcia’s arranging for an ambulance. My case is packed and the contractions are still manageable and well spaced out.’

‘When you phoned me, I thought that you were having the baby there and then.’

‘Sorry honey. I must admit that I panicked a bit. It’s not every day that you have Niagara Falls occurring between one’s legs, drenching one’s knickers and it was a bit painful with the contractions when you rang. Come and give us a hug.’

She put the drink and biscuit down on the hall table and we embraced as enthusiastically as possible, belly permitting.

‘Er—hem!’

We decoupled and turned around and there in all his glory was the inspector looking only five percent flustered, the rest being cool, calm debonair and edible–did I just say that? Put it down to the tension.

‘I take it that the emergency has passed?’

I could hear an almost inaudible wow coming from Abby. I could see that she too was taken in by his rather obvious charms, though how she could think of things like that when she was on the verge of dropping a premature baby, I would never know.

‘Panic over,’ I said, rather lamely.

‘That’s good. Look if you don’t need me, I need to go and see a man about a horse that’s been nicked. Samantha, I will have a look at the tapes and get back to you.’

‘Any time,’ I said smiling.

‘Abby, nice to meet you. I hope all goes well,’

All Abby did was giggle for some reason and then give him a little finger wave.

As soon as we were alone again–or as alone as you can get with several thousand cats all wanting attention–we went and sat in the sitting room to await the cavalry.

Abby winced slightly as she sat down.

‘All right, love?’

‘Mmm, the contractions are getting more regular.’

‘D’you want me to do anything?’

‘Just hold my hand and tell me about these tapes.’

‘Oh, there nothing, but they are DVD’s not tapes. I just saw someone that I had rather not see in the gallery and I wanted to know if she had form.’

‘Form?’

‘Yes, TV detective speak for if she has a record.’

‘Not that cow Victoria?’

‘Mmm.’

‘What has she done now?’

‘Oh she just came and shouted a bit, nothing to worry about. Anyway,’ I said, subtly changing the subject, ‘what do you think of Inspector Gary?’

‘A bit of a dish, I thought. Judging by the way you looked at him, I think that you might need a cold shower and a session with the loofah.’

‘You too, I saw what you were like.’

‘Never mind that, how long is this ambulance going to take? I could have had baby by now and he or she could be in secondary school.’

Just then we heard the ambulance siren and then a few seconds later, the place was full of paramedics and Marcia who came straight to us.

‘How are things?’

‘You’re the doctor, you tell me?’

‘Not helpful, Abby. Have you timed your contractions?’

‘About 5 minutes apart. I get back ache that comes around to the front in waves.’

‘Okay, let’s have a quick gander.’

Without any ceremony, she got down on her knees, hitched Abby’s skirt up and had a look. After a few minutes, she came up for air.

‘Everything looks all right. We have time to get you to hospital. It’s going to be a premature so we need to be close to the NICU. Right, boys, let’s get moving.’

The ambulance people loaded her on a wheeled stretcher and we were out of there and heading for the hospital almost quicker than I write about it, which wasn’t very quick as I am a one finger typist.

On the way, I held Abby’s hand and tried to support her but felt pretty useless. The contractions seemed to get a bit closer and I was worried that she might give birth in the ambulance but we managed to get to the hospital without mishap and Abby was soon in bed awaiting developments, as it were.

She had some pads on her tummy to monitor things and as no alarm bells were sounding, we assumed that everything was hunky-dory.

I sat beside her offering encouragement. It seemed as if the baby would come out when he–or she–was ready and not before, so we waited–and waited–and waited–– I managed to check up on Heather during one of the boring non—contracting times and was told that Dawn had her and we were not to worry.

I also rang Mummy Dotty. ‘Hello, Mummy. We’re at the hospital, Abby has started.’

‘Started what?’

‘Having the baby.’

‘Oh so it’s sprog eject time, eh? Bit early don’t ya think?’

‘Yes, she’s gone seven months, two weeks and three days approx.’

‘Mmm; Abby all right?’

‘Yes, she’s having contractions but we don’t know how long it’s going to be.’

‘It took Mother three days ter have me. She was climbing off the ceiling by the time I came out. Always been late that’s me. Anyway, hope the little tyke’s all right. Want me ter do anything, feed the cats? I’ll send Jenkins around with a hamper when it’s all finished.’

I couldn’t really get my head around Mummy’s jumping all over the place whenever she talks.

‘I’ll let you know.’ I said, ‘anyway I must dash.’

‘Right; give her me love won’t yer. I’ll be thinking of yer both. Keep yer pecker up.’

‘Will do, Mummy,’ I said, a bit emotionally.

~ §~

As we sat and waited for things to happen, I had a bit of a guilt trip. It should have been me lying on the bed sweating a lot, grimacing and in pain, but it wasn’t; Abby was going through all the pain and sufferings and not me. Well I was in a bit of pain as Abby has a strong grip, not surprising, bearing in mind what she does with clay, and my hand felt at the time like it had gone through a mangle, but I’m a brave girl and I could take it and whimper in silence.

The day turned into night and the contractions only gradually came together. I was wide-eyed as I had been drinking vending machine coffee for hours, although it could have been tea for all the difference in the taste. My heart was thumping like a big base drum most of the time and was only sometime afterwards that I realised that I hadn’t taken my thyroid pills–naughty Samantha.

I had spent a lot of the time phoning people to let them know what was happening but it was waste of time as the grapevine knew more than me about it. Abby had periods when she almost fell asleep between the bouts of pain. The poor love was very tired. Marcia had been in several times, but had other things to do around the hospital and had to dash off at regular intervals. The midwife, Mavis Potterlow was in constant attendance and she was a reassuring–if rather prim–presence in what was a scary time for us.

The baby’s heart was okay according to Mavis, but we were surprised at that, as it was going so fast. I was getting constant texts asking what was going on by virtually the whole village, or so it seemed. Then a number of friends came and waited outside and I was forever up and down delivering bulletins like they do at Buck Palace.

~ §~

By two in the morning, most, apart from Jocaster, Marcia, Millie and Katie, who was doing the rounds as well as popping in from time to time, had gone home.

Dawn, my sister and and Adrian, my brother—in—law were looking after Heather and their own brood. Tracy and Tammy were staying at ours to watch out for the cats. Mr and Mrs Pearson were going to Jellicle Cottage early in the morning to do things with the new nursery–we hadn’t expected to need it so soon and anyway, didn’t want to tempt fate. We would probably have the little one in with us at first, but it was a village thing that the nursery had to be finished before the child could cross the threshold. Jocaster and the girls were going to assist the staff and open up the gallery and pottery in the morning and keep things going until we were back in harness.

All in all I think we were truly blessed to live in such a closely knit community. Even the old sage dropped in and gave us some lucky heather and mumbled something about the waxing moon. She might be weird, but her heart was in the right place.

All was relatively calm until Mummy Dotty arrived on the scene. She wasn’t waiting outside for anyone and to hell with hospital protocol.

She burst in with Sarah trailing along looking a bit worried for some reason. I was in the waiting room at the time drinking my umpteenth cup of pig swill–sorry, coffee.

‘Mummy!’ I exclaimed and then, unaccountably, ran to her and burst into tears.

‘There there,’ she said, hugging me, ‘bit much for you, eh? Not surprised. A lot on yer plate. Not easy waiting for a sprog to hatch. Now then young Samantha, it’s goin’ ter be all right.’

Sarah stood behind her mother and looked a bit uncomfortable and not her normal cheery self. After I had calmed down a bit and Mummy had sailed in to see Abby, I went and sat down beside her.

‘What’s wrong, Sarah?’

She just shrugged, but said nothing.

‘Come on, you can tell me.’

She looked at me, indecision etched on her pretty face.

‘You know my Uncle Ronnie–though he prefers to be called Ronald?’

My mind did a quick checking thing and the name popped up, Mummy’s son Ronald, something in the city —got a wife called Cara, I thought.

‘Mm.’ I said, ‘I know of him but we’ve never met.’

He's coming home at the weekend and bringing her.’

‘Her?’

‘Aunt Cara.’

‘What’s wrong with that? I would have thought that it would be nice to see your relations.’

‘We didn’t see them much. I think that Mummy and Uncle had a row once about something they won’t talk about. But they patched things up and there are coming here.’

‘You still haven’t told me what’s wrong,’

Sarah looked up and had small tears her eyes.

‘I…I think that they want to take me back to London. I overheard Mummy talking to him on the phone. They can’t have children themselves, something wrong with her Philips tubes or something.’

‘You mean fallopian tubes?’

‘Probably; anyway, I think that they think that Mummy’s too old to look after me especially as I still have my boys’ bits. They don’t mind me being the way I am, but they want to sort of have me as the daughter they never had.’

‘And don’t you want that?’

She shook her head emphatically. ‘No way. All my friends are here and I love the school. I don’t want to leave Mummy, I love her too much. If I go away, I would have to live in grotty old London. I hate cities, my parents lived in cites when they were alive and I hated the noise and dirt and so many people who never even say hello. You don’t get that here. Everyone knows everyone else and if you are in trouble, people care and will look out for you. And anyway, if I went to them, she would probably dress me up as a Violet Elizabeth Bott* lookalike or something.’

‘Well you like to look feminine.’

‘Yeah, but there are certain levels that I would never descend to.’

‘Have you spoken to Mummy about this?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t want to worry her.’

‘You must tell her; otherwise she won’t know how you feel about it. Speak to her before they come so that she can think of ways to sort it all out for you. She loves you to bits and I know she wouldn’t let you go unless you really wanted to.’

‘Do you think?’

‘I know.’

She smiled a bit then.

Just then Mummy sailed out of the side ward.

‘She’ll do,’ she said briskly, ‘Strong as an ox, that one. My two took forever to pop out, didn’t seem to matter after drinkin’ half a bottle of claret. They won’t do that here. Namby-pamby NHS. Don’t see why yer didn’t go private, at least you’d have carpets on the floor and the staff are more deferential.’

‘Mummy, you can’t go around saying things like that; and you a governor of the place too.’

‘Good job that I am, otherwise it would be worse than it is. Matron knows my views on the subject. Hello, young Sarah, been blubbing?’

‘Oh, Mummy.’

She ran over to Dotty and hugged her tight. Mummy looked at me enquiringly.

‘I think that you two should have a quiet chat. I’ll go and see Abby.’

~ §~

Abby looked up as I walked in.

‘Hi,’ she said rather breathlessly as Mavis pottered around her.

I sat down next to her and held her rather sweaty hand. She looked like she was nearly all in and how she could raise a smile, I would never know. Then she gripped my hand tightly and started panting.

‘That’s right, dear, breathe.’

‘That’s what I am doing.’

She was breathing in and out deeply and I followed her pattern and gave her some encouragement.

‘Oooh,’ she gasped.

‘Oooh,’ I gasped as she crushed one of the bones in my hand. I knew that giving birth was painful–but it wasn’t supposed to be like that for the audience.

Mavis had a quick look under Abby’s gown.

‘Good, any minute now—bear down.’

‘What the hell do you mean “bear down”? I’m bearing as much as I bloody well can!’

‘No need to swear, dear, just push when you need to.’

‘If–I–want to sodding–well–swear, I bloody–well–will!’

‘There-there,’ I said soothingly.

‘Don’t–there, there–me, it’s your bloody fault that I’m doing this, don’t you dare come anywhere near me with that sodding turkey baster again–blooooooody hell!’

I was lucky that my hand was now numb. It would probably drop off at some point. Just then Marcia came in looking cool, efficient and pretty–damn her!

‘Right, how are we doing, Mavis?’

‘We–WE–? It’s me on–this bloody–bed trying to give–birth to a baby whale––!’

Marcia just grinned and winked at me, then with a degree of panache, she lifted up the hem of Abby’s gown like she was doing some sort of conjuring trick and exposed her belly and other bits.

‘Ah good, cervix is fully dilated, we have a go situation, all lights green–’

Did I tell you that Marcia always fancied herself as a wannabe astronaut?

I craned my neck to see what was happening, but then Abby yelled.

‘Aaaaah,eeeey,oooh. Where’s the gas and air?’

‘Breathe, dear––’

‘–Sod off, Mavis.’

‘Language, Abby,’ said Marcia smiling.

‘Right– here’s the top of the head; not much hair, but what do expect when we are this early? Give us a push Abby, don’t just lie there and think of England, push!’

‘Aaah,eeeeeh, oooooh!’ I said as my hand was crushed once again in a killer grip. I could actually here my bones cracking…

‘EEEH, OOOH, AAAAAH––––OH SHIT––!’ screeched Abby.

Then it all happened in a rush.

‘We have ignition, Houston,’ said a chirpy Marcia.

‘Lift off, first stage, head out………… second stage, body out…………. right number of arms and legs………..ooh lucky you, an easy birth. We won’t talk about the third stage, Mavis, get a kidney dish dear; Samantha looks like she’s going to lose the contents of her–’

‘For–God’s sake!’

‘Don’t blaspheme, Abby.’

‘Bugger off.’

There was a snipping sound and then a sucking sound and then there was baby wrapped in a blanket, incredibly small.

‘She’s a fine baby girl,’ said Marcia beaming as she laid the little one on Abby’s chest.

‘A quick hug and kiss from both of you and then we’ll take her down to NICU. She’s breathing okay but we need to be careful.’

All too soon, our little darling was transferred to a portable ventilator thingie and was wheeled off with Marcia and a nurse in attendance. I felt a tug at my heart strings when she was taken from us and I knew that Abby, despite being totally knackered, felt the same way.

‘Ooooh–aaaaah––mmmmm.’

That was the third stage; we don’t need to talk about that.

~*~

‘Baby will be fine,’ said Mavis, matter of factly after cleaning things up, ‘she looks a strong—un and is breathin’ fairly easily despite bein’ quite early.’

I was asked to leave while Mavis did ‘things’ to Abby and I was able to tell Mummy and Sarah what had happened.

‘Heard her yellin, of course. When I had my two I was as pissed as a newt, sorry Sarah.’

‘That’s all right Mummy,’ said Sarah who hadn’t batted an eyelid at her mother’s language–probably used to it.

Sarah looked a bit happier and when I had the time I would talk to her more.

‘I have to get back. Can you ring around and tell everyone. The baby’s in NICU so I’ll probably stay for the rest of the night. I will have to call Dawn to see if she will look after Heather in a minute,’

‘We’ll sort that out, won’t we, Sarah.’

‘Will you? that’s great. I’ll let you know what happens when I know more. Abby’s really tired so she’ll see everyone tomorrow probably.’

I hugged and kissed Mummy and Sarah and then returned to Abby. She was fast asleep so I didn’t disturb her. Instead I went down to the small but well equipped NICU unit and looked in on the new addition to our family.

She looked so small in the plastic bubble thingie. Annabel Potts was the nurse in charge and she came over to me.

‘She’s doing fine. Vitals are okay and we are doing blood tests to make sure that we keep her that way.’

‘She’s so pretty.’ I whispered.

‘Yes, she’s not as scrunched up as some we have in here. She’ll be a right looker when she grows up.’

I nodded and smiled as Annabel departed, leaving me staring down at the small form covered in a white blanket with wires coming out from underneath, a little white hat on her head and sensors on her likkle tootsies.

I felt very emotional at that time and wondered what she would be like as she grew older. Would she be a happy child and would she love her two mothers as much as we loved her. Would she have a boy friend or maybe a girl friend? Would she marry, would she have children of her own? I was going ahead of myself. We would have a sister for Heather and I hoped that they would be friends and love each other.

All I did know at that moment was I was the happiest woman alive.

~ §~

Abby was still asleep when I returned to her room, and I was given a room just across the corridor so that I could be nearby if anything untoward happened.

Luckily, I passed the night undisturbed and at nine in the morning after ensuring that the baby was all right–she was fighting fit and smiled at me I think, though it may have been wind–I went into Abby’s room just after doctors’ rounds. She was eating breakfast and looked a lot more chipper than the previous night in her clean nightdress.

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ I said going over to her bed and giving her a kiss.

‘Hi you; seen baby yet?’

‘Yes, she’s wonderful.’

‘We’ll have to think of a name soon. I hope she and Heather get on.’

‘Well you know what they say about sisters?’

‘Mmm, maybe they’ll buck the trend. Why are you wearing a rather fetching looking plaster on your arm?’

‘Oh, I just hurt it.’

Recollection dawned on her face.

‘I did it?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Oh My God, I am sorry how bad is it?’

‘Three bones broken in my hand. I should live if I rest, have thin soup for a week followed by an extensive holiday to which you and the girls are invited. The doctors have hopes for a full recovery.’

‘Blimey, I didn’t know I was that strong. Still, at least you felt the pain of childbirth.’

We stared at each other for a moment and then dissolved into fits of helpless laughter.

To be continued…

*Violet Elizabeth Bott see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Just_William_series

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

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

 

Previously…

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ I said going over to her bed and giving her a kiss.

‘Hi you; seen baby yet?’

‘Yes, she’s wonderful.’

‘We’ll have to think of a name soon. I hope she and Heather get on.’

‘Well you know what they say about sisters?’

‘Mmm, maybe they’ll buck the trend. Why are you wearing a rather fetching looking plaster on your arm?’

‘Oh, I just hurt it.’

Recollection dawned on her face.

‘I did it?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Oh My God, I am sorry how bad is it?’

‘Three bones broken in my hand. I should live if I rest, have thin soup for a week followed by an extensive holiday to which you and the girls are invited. The doctors have hopes for a full recovery.’

‘Blimey, I didn’t know I was that strong. Still, at least you felt the pain of childbirth.’

We stared at each other for a moment and then dissolved into fits of helpless laughter.

And now the story concludes…

3 months later…

The alarm went off–no it wasn’t a clock type alarm, it was a baby one.

‘Your turn,’ said Abby sleepily, turning over and then almost immediately snoring as only she can–loudly.

I sighed, picked one of the random cats off my tummy–Josh I think it was, but that early, I couldn’t care less–and got up, slipping on my robe and then going into the baby’s room. Heather was fast asleep, her mouth slightly open and looking as sweet as our little girl could be. That couldn’t be said for relatively new baby girl, who was testing her lungs for England.

I looked in vain for the volume control, wondering vaguely why God didn’t incorporate one when he or she had the chance to do so. Baby looked up at me and the noise switched from full blown thousand decibel, ear crunching screaming to happy gurgle at the sight of one of her mummies.

I wondered why Heather hadn’t woken up because she could hear a fly fart at sixteen paces, but she hadn’t, so for once the noise had been mono instead of stereo.

Baby was soaking wet, so with practiced ease, I changed her bum and took her into the kitchen. It was warm even this early in the morning. I loved the summer and it looked like this one was going to be another scorcher. After placing her carefully in her travel cot, it was handy for this sort of thing, I warmed up her milk and sort of zoned out for a few moments. it was only the ping of the milk warmer thingie that brought me back to life again and with the now warmed milk, I picked our little honey bunch up and sat in the rocking chair over by the window and fed her out of the bottle.

I liked this time, it was early and the day held promise, not like P.P.–pre Penmarris–where my life was full of unhappiness as I struggled with a marriage that was going nowhere.

Now I had a partner who I loved dearly and two children who were adorable. This little one’s day was to be special as it was the day of her christening. Heather had been christened some time ago and that was a lovely occasion and all our friends had come to the church and she hadn’t cried once.

Now it was Baby’s turn and I looked forward to dressing her up in Abby’s christening gown, well it was her grandmothers really–white, full of frills and lace and maybe a bit big for Baby, but tradition is tradition and I am all for that.

Baby wouldn’t be the only one to dress up today. Heather had a lovely pink flowery dress that made her look a bit older than she was, but she looked cute in it and we had almost worn out our digital camera, taking pics of her in it. Abby and I had new frocks, mine a peach colour and hers lemon. In my honest opinion, I thought as a family we scrubbed up rather well!

As Baby slurped on her milk I thought back on a few things that had happened in that already eventful year. First the unpleasant stuff. Victoria Manning had tried to spoil things for us all. She hated me and could not forgive me for her son’s death or Olivia’s for that matter. The fact that I had nothing to do with either was neither here nor there. She was fixated on me. She hated the idea that I inherited everything despite what had happened in the family.

After brandishing a knife in my gallery, she was arrested and then, because of her mental state, sectioned under the Mental Health Act.

She was now in a secure private hospital being treated for her problems. I would never tell her that I was paying for the treatment though. The doctors say that she was getting better but it was early days yet. Time would tell if she finally gets over her demons.

We were so lucky with Baby, although she was premature; she gained weight rapidly and was soon off the ventilator and thriving on her own. Although small for a three month old, Marcia, our doctor was happy with Baby and thinks that at the rate she was going, she would soon catch up and be the normal size for her age or close to it, anyway.

Everybody has been going mad over what name we were to call Baby and although it’s written in black and white on the birth certificate, we haven’t let on yet. There is a sweepstake over it, the proceeds to go to charity. I suppose an enterprising person might go to the Registry Office to look up her name, but up to the present, no one had.

Heather now walks a few steps but still prefers tearing around on all fours or her bottom, depending on how she feels at the time. We get the occasion ‘mama’ out of her too and she seems to understand the word chocolate very well. All in all we are a very happy family and I couldn’t wish for more.

On the work front, Abby has had to take on more staff and she has just bought a lock up behind the village to store the extra pots and things her and her staff produce for her due to the ever increasing orders from shops that appreciate fine work.

My gallery–now in its second year–was a roaring success and we sometimes struggled to get enough art to fill the place. I quickly sold out of my paintings and tried to keep things going by casting an ever wider net for works of art to hang. I did wish that I had more time to paint, but with two little ones, my other successful businesses and charity work; it was hard going that year.

Nigel’s businesses were going very well, despite the downturn in the economy. I had now incorporated all my business ventures apart from the gallery under an umbrella group. I was chairperson and I had a CEO to deal with all day to day matters. She was Ruth Edwards, a thirty something who had been the manager of one of Nigel’s many businesses and had shone through despite Nigel and not because of him. We got on well and had regular meetings to iron things out and to be honest, just have a girlie natter.

The upshot of all this was that I was getting richer and richer without having to do too much. I funnelled a lot of the money to charities as I felt the need for Nigel’s money to be used for the benefit of others, it was strange though as the businesses were in a lot healthier state now than they ever were under Nigel and worth a lot more. I must have been doing something right!

Dotty was in charge of the charity side of things and she loved the cut and thrust of dealing with what she snobbishly called her social inferiors–the lady mayor being the prime focus for any angst that she had. We managed to get the planning permission and change of use for the children’s home and refuge that was now being changed from a small mansion to a purpose built home that could be used for deprived, battered and abused children. There were objections from you-know-who, but Jenkins– Mummy Dotty’s butler of all people– had somehow found certain facts about Ms Prendergast that were used to, shall we say, persuade her to let things go through.

I never found out what those things were, but after that, the position got a bit easier with the council and one counsellor in particular!

I put the bottle down and managed to get a satisfactory although rather milky burp out of the now almost comatose Baby. I placed her carefully back into her cot and made my way back to bed.

Abby was toasty warm and I snuggled up to her. She woke up and one thing led to another and we… well never mind that. Needless to say, the earth moved–again!

After our bedroom gymnastics, we awoke at seven and by some small miracle the girls were still in dreamland.

After a rather intimate shower where we attempted to save water by erm, doing it together, we started getting ready for the day ahead.

Sitting at the breakfast bar eating our Shreddies, we looked forward to the rather hectic day ahead.

‘I hope it all goes well,’ I said.

‘It will, don’t be a worry wart.’

‘Me worry, you were the one gnashing her teeth over what dress to wear yesterday. I had to physically restrain you when you wanted to rush off to London for a dress. I ask you, hundreds of miles, just for a dress.’

‘I would have used the helicopter.’

‘Ever heard of the carbon footprint and anyway, you know that the chopper has been seconded to the ambulance air rescue people.’

Evidently, Nigel apart from owning huge boat also liked other toys, one of them being a helicopter. Another one was a steam train but I’m not going there. Anyway, we used the chopper very occasionally and once used it to go up to London. Dotty wanted to pop into Harrods and we all went along for the ride, other than that, it has been useful to the rescue people–that was another thing that Nigel never thought about when he was alive; selfish, self-centred man was our Nige.

Regarding the plastic tub; The Penmarris Surprise, she was sailing or is that motoring around, the Med with twenty kids who have never seen the sea before and are more used to living in what the council calls a modern functional housing estate in one of the nearby towns but what I call a slum. Whoever thought that those sixties high rise flats were a good idea, ought to have lived in one.

On another nautical note, The Penmarris RNLI station is being rebuilt and they are getting a brand new state of the art boat to put in it–all thanks to a mysterious benefactor. I have nearly finished the painting I promised too, so that will be hung up somewhere; in the loo, probably–no it’s too good for that, maybe the canteen where they can throw darts at it.

Still with me? Good, then back to the story.

‘Anyway, Abby, your dress is lovely.’

‘I’ve worn it before.’

‘Just the once and nobody else around here has seen it.’

‘Still, it’s the principal of the thing–’

‘Look, it isn’t our day, it’s Baby’s. People won’t be looking at us, they’ll be oohing and aahing at our little darling and maybe Heather who will be truly scrumptious in her dress.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Anyway, what time is the kick off?’

‘Mid-day and then to Dotty’s for the nosh up.’

‘Mmm, Jenkins was over the other day, did you see him?

‘Yes, poor man looked a bit flustered.’

‘Well, Mrs MacTavish the cook had given him instructions about getting some bits and pieces needed for the post christening bash and he seemed a bit out of his depth.’

‘Mmm, it’s a pity that Mrs MacT is agoraphobic, it stops her from personally inspecting the food that can’t be delivered.’

‘Mind you, what a cook!’

‘True.’

Just then, foghorn Annie in the shape of Baby started screaming and Heather decided to join in.

Peace was shattered and another noisy yet interesting day commenced.

The church looked lovely, with flowers everywhere, the heady fragrance reminding me that the days of winter were now long gone and Penmarris looked its best.

The village was full of holidaymaker’s and the whole place just had an exciting buzz about it. Not so in the church; it was cool and quiet and a haven of peace and tranquillity–well it would have been if it wasn’t for the fact that the place was full to the brim with friends and relatives and a not insignificant amount of babies and children who were trying their hardest to outdo themselves in the noise stakes.

Just about anyone who was anyone was there including the whole of the Potts clan, who took up two full rows of pews, but to a man and woman looked uncomfortable in their Sunday best.

Mr and Mrs Pearson were there, looking unusually prim and proper in clothes that rarely saw the light of day.

There was smell of mothballs in the air that mixed strangely with the scent of the flowers. I was glad that I had taken some hay fever tablets as I think I would have swooned otherwise.

There was a gaggle of teenagers to one side, all giggling and texting as they talked incessantly. Amongst them were Tracy with her girl friend Tammy, Bethany, Jennifer and Phillipa.

Brian and Marcia Sinclair, our doctors were also there together with my one time enemy and now friend Candice.

There were so many other friends present and it brought home to me how many people had touched our lives in a good and positive way.

At the front were the proud parents–that’s Abby and I. Jocaster was by our side holding Heather in her arms and trying to shush her at the same time. Last time when Heather was christened, Dawn and Adrian, my sister and brother in law were the God Parents, This time it was Mummy Dotty (I might be ancient but I’ll outlive most of you) and Jocaster who fulfilled that important role. Mummy was standing by Abby wearing a pink creation that clashed a bit with her purple hat, but no one dared to mention her fashion faux pas.

I won’t bore you with the ceremony that went off without a hitch other than the fact that Baby didn’t particularly like getting her head wet, especially with cold water and the screams coming from her tiny throat set just about every other child off crying except Heather, who giggled and thought that the whole thing was a bit of a joke.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when the baby was named Gabrielle Dawn Jocaster Silverton-Smart.

After the baptism, there was a general stampede to Dotty’s mansion.

I remembered being there the day before with the kids while Abby was sorting things out in the pottery. I wanted to tell Mummy what colours all the principal guests, that’s me and Abby–or Abby and I if you want to go posh–would be wearing. We didn’t want a clash of colours after all.

As I arrived the previous day in my lovely, wonderful, cool BMW with the kids all strapped up in their seat and cot thingie, I could see Jenkins glide down the steps to greet us.

He opened my door.

‘Good morning Ms Smart.’

‘Sam or Samantha, please.’

‘I would be more comfortable with Ms Smart, miss.’ He replied with a differential smile.

‘Oh, if you insist, now where is she?’

He managed to look embarrassed.

‘Cough up, Mr Jenkins, what has she done now?’

I heard the sound of gunshots in the distance and cocked an ear.

‘Lady Fairbairn has an old friend visiting just at the moment–over from South Africa.’

‘Oh? Do go on.’

‘He has commandeered the Landrover and has taken her on a sort of mole hunting safari. Mr Van der Valk is more used to big game but has a keen eye.’

‘You don’t approve.’

‘It is not for me to say, Miss.’

‘You don’t have to; it’s written all over your face. He would be hard pressed to find any game around here, except perhaps pink elephants.’

‘Very droll, Miss; would you care to have tea in the drawing room?’

‘Only if that includes Mrs Mac’s famous scones.’

‘I will see what can be arranged, Miss.’

The tea and scones with the obligatory jam and clotted cream were, as usual, up to scratch and par excellence.

As I ate, I could hear the occasional sound of light artillery as Mummy and her guest blasted away at the local wildlife. I wondered in passing where Fifi was and she must have had a mental thingie whatsit, dooda as the doggie in question ambled in looking bored. At the sight of me and the girls she did a sort of a sailors jig and then ran at me, showering my face with wet licks.

‘Down, Fifi, what would Mummy say?’

At that, the intelligent mutt stopped mid lick and looked around guiltily. I swear that she had more intelligence than half of our politicians.

I did wonder if Fifi was deaf as she didn’t seem at all phased by the sound of gunfire. She wasn’t a gun dog but maybe, somewhere in her shady past or perhaps one of her ancestors had a gun dog type gene, who knows, anyway she settled down next to me as we awaited the return of her mistress.

As I looked out over the lawn, still looking a bit like the Somme after Dotty’s previous attempts to blow up the mole population, I wondered when she would stop her one woman crusade against our cute little short sighted furry friends. I did know that she was on the RSPCA hit list, but she didn’t exactly lose sleep over it.

Just then something caught the corner of my eye and I saw an open top Land Rover tear across the lawn. Mummy was standing up at the back, shooting off her Purdy at some unseen mole and looking like a sort of mechanised Boadicea on full war alert.

Fifi looked up as the Land Rover, engine screaming, shot off in the direction of Bodmin, with Dotty shooting from the hip, not an easy thing to do with a Purdy.

I swear I could hear her shout ‘Bugger it.’ as she disappeared from sight.

Fifi yawned as if this was nothing unusual and proceeded to lick herself where no lady should.

I stayed for a while longer and as Mummy didn’t reappear, I just left a message with the ever efficient and cool Jenkins and with my tiny tots, made my way home. At least I got a cream tea out of my wasted journey.

And so back to the post christening nosh up as Mummy put succinctly.

It was a highly festive occasion where a good time was had by all. The star of the show–Gabi, did not take too much notice of the proceedings as she was busy in dreamland. Her sister though, fully appreciated the fact that she was at a party and both Abby and I found it difficult to hold her back. She was into everything and had a crawling speed of about ten mph or so it seemed; not bad for one so little.

I was sitting down with Abby for a well earned rest while the more junior members of the mob looked after Heather and Gabi–God help them.

I took off a shoe and rubbed my aching foot.

‘Was it your idea to wear high heels?’ I asked Abby as she downed a Pims in one go.

‘Wow, I don’t know what’s in this stuff, but it reaches the spot–what did you say, oh shoes, well I did tell you not to get them?’

‘But they looked gorgeous in the shop and they felt quite comfortable.’

‘Ah, little one, you have learnt an important lesson about shoes, they can feel great in a shop, wearing them for just a few minutes, but sometimes they can be a bit of a bugger if you wear them for more than ten minutes.’

‘Alright, Miss Knowitall, are your feet hurting?’

‘Of course not.’

‘But your shoes have the same sort of heels as mine.’

‘I know, but I have been wearing heels for years longer than you, so my feet and legs are more used to them.’

‘I read in the Daily Mail the other day that high heels can damage your health.’

‘What, falling bum over tit, you mean?’

‘You are getting very course in your language, Abby, just because you have had a drink or three. No–well there is the possibility of accidents but also your Achilles tendon gets buggered up.’

‘I’m not the only one with potty mouth,’ said Abby as she lurched up and grabbed another drink from a passing waitress.

‘Look, haven’t you had enough?’ I asked primly as I sipped my lemonade.

‘Not yet, I need to wet the baby’s head.’

‘It got wet at the christening.’

‘It’s jus…jus…jusht a shaying.’

‘Oh Abby.’

I couldn’t be angry with Abby for long. She didn’t let her hair down often and as I had, in the past, had my moments with the demon drink, and the saying involving “stones and glasshouses” came to mind, I didn’t push the point. I smiled evilly though as I knew that she would feel rather delicate in the morning and even worse when I put down a full English breakfast for her to eat–making sure that the eggs have that nice runny constituency–while I turned up the CD of Barry Manilow singing “Could It be Magic” to full blast. I’m not a very bad person, am I?

The afternoon stretched into the evening and the kids went off and had a disco in the hay barn while we incredibly old ones had a party of our own. I got to dance with Abby a couple of times; she seemed to get her second wind after her umpteenth drink and the only signs of inebriation was her slightly red nose and the fact that her eyes crossed occasionally.

As usual, a sort of crá¨che was in operation and the mums took turns looking after the little ones in a soundproof bomb shelter under the mansion. Once again, we got off lightly as Abby and I were principal guests.

I had dances with half the male population of Penmarris including Mr Pearson who I think told me that his wife didn’t understand him, but as I couldn’t understand him either, he could have been talking about the prices of turnips.

The Potts clan were well represented at the party and according to old Albert Potts, they had evidently never knowingly missed a good p**s up since great grandfather Arnold lost his virginity to a cow maid and forgot himself.

Mummy Dotty was in her element. She lorded–or should that be Ladied–it over the proceedings like a general on the field of battle. She never allowed anyone’s glass to be unfilled and she had provided enough food to feed a regiment.

‘Goin’ well, young Samantha,’ she said as she came up during a rare lull in the proceedings.

‘Yes, Mummy, thanks for putting it on here, we didn’t really have room at Jellicle Cottage.’

‘That’s all right, m’dear, glad to help and all that nonsense.’

‘So, Mummy, erm, did you bag any moles yesterday?’

Her painted and powdered brow creased into a number of furrows, making it look a bit like a ploughed field.

‘Blasted Van Der Valk, said he was good at shootin’ game. Bloody man couldn’t hit the back of a barn door at ten paces. Had to take over and let him drive. I think I got three of the buggers, but not so sure, they kept poppin’ out of the bloody holes and then disapearin’ for some reason. I still, feel that mines are the answer, but that stupid cow, Prendergast, on the council wouldn’t allow it, some soddin’ by-law or somethin’. What’s the world comin’ to when yer can’t use high explosives on yer own land?’

I smiled at that and then she had a look of intense concentration on her face. I looked over in the direction Mummy was staring at and there she was.

Fifi was on an SAS mission, perhaps emboldened by our last party. She sort of crept along the walls, stopping occasionally like some wild animal and crouched down, her tail twitching, the only sign of movement. Then, when she felt safe again she continued on her covert exercise. People were dancing and talking and did not notice the small form as she slinked–or is that slunk–along, belly almost touching the highly polished parquet flooring.

We both held our breath as she reached one of the long tables, still full of food. She must have known where to go. Perhaps she had done a recce earlier or perhaps her strong sense of smell could discount the jellies, cakes and other delights–she was after meat.

She stopped under the table and then waited, looking around the room, her radar like senses scanning the crowds around her. Someone came up with a plate and filled it quickly. Fifi was completely still, not wanting draw attention to herself, no doubt. The man left and the coast was relatively clear.

She struck.

In the blink of an eye, she came out from under the table, grabbed a ham on the bone and then shot out of the nearest door. It was so fast, that she was like a streak of lightning.

I felt like applauding. Then I turned to Mummy, expecting a number of expletives. Instead she was smiling.

‘That’s my girl.’ she said.

As the evening drew to a close, we said our goodbyes to all our friends and family, thanking Mummy for a wonderful evening and David and Jocaster for the service and all the help and support that they had given us. Then we took our sleeping girls back home.

As we walked back, the sky was full of multi coloured fireworks put on by the local Rotary Club. They did this in the summer on a regular basis for the holidaymakers and they were getting a reputation for such a good show that it drew more and more crowds down on to the beaches when a display was to take place. There were three old barges, moored a quarter of a mile off the coast that were used for the display and everyone with a view of the sea had a grandstand view of the wonderful Technicolor display.

We were both too tired to go anywhere but home though; but it was nice to see the fireworks light up the sky as we walked up the hill to our lovely quaint Jellicle Cottage and all the cats that awaited our return with varying amounts of anticipation and gluttonous thoughts.

We soon arrived home and managed to put the girls to bed, feed the cats, grab some hot cocoa and sit out on the veranda as the last of the fireworks shot up into the moonlit sky.

The moon shone on the water and gave the cove and surrounding hills an eerie and yet reassuring glow. Almost automatically and without really noticing it, a cat jumped up and sat on my lap. It was Suzie, she was looking for cuddles and attention that she thought was her right to have. I didn’t argue but just stroked her gently. I noticed in passing that Eric, our argumentative and know it all big tom cat was on Abby’s lap, but purring loudly, so he had nothing to complain about; mind you, it didn’t stop him from meowing for attention every few minutes.

‘Happy?’ asked Abby.

‘Mmm, you?’

‘Very.’

We talked for quite a while about how things went that day and our plans for the future.

Since little Gabi had been born, we had put some things on the back burner. It didn’t help that she popped out rather early!

Sipping my cocoa, I brought up a subject that had increasingly come to mind.

‘I want to have my surgery as soon as possible; I’ve been a good girl and it’s been a year now. I mentioned all this to Marcia and she thinks that I’m ready now; the shrink thinks so too.’

I had been seeing a trick cyclist for some time now and she had dealt with any minor issues that I had regarding completing the physical changes to a girl–like the blood, pain, suffering and torture that I would go though, just to put right the problems with my plumbing and also the acceptance or non-acceptance by others of the official change of gender. Marcia had already told me all of this, but Sharon Gold, the shrink, put it all into perspective and made sure that I wasn’t going to turn round afterwards and ask for my manhood or money back.

It helped a lot that everyone around here knew me as Samantha and not some hunking, hairy brute.

Abby looked at me and smiled while stroking the purry engine on her lap.

‘It will be nice when you are complete. I know that it’s been a problem for you. You do know that I love you, no matter what happens?’

‘Despite my faults.’

‘You mean the fact that you leave the top off the toothpaste, don’t tidy up after you, take twice as long as I do in the bathroom of a morning; you can’t cook for toffee, have no patience with me when I go and buy another pair of shoes when you know that a hundred pairs are just not enough?’

‘Is that all?’ I asked.

‘I have a list, do you want me to go and get it?’

‘Don’t bother, I get the picture. I don’t know why you put up with me.’

‘That’s easy, despite your faults, you are lovely, kind, compassionate, love cats and babies, are generous to a fault and not a little bit scatty sometimes. I love you for who you are, my love, so don’t change too much.’

‘I’ll try not to, so you agree that I should make my outie into an innie?

‘Of course, what have I just been saying?’

I sighed. I had so much to learn and so little time.

‘What about the wedding?’ I asked.

‘What about it?’

‘We said that we wanted to get married as soon as pos, but I have a hankering to have two brides maids and they are both too small, are you willing to wait a while?’

‘And live in evil sin with you?’

‘Mmm, that’s the idea.’

‘Sounds good to me. I think that they would love to be part of their mummies wedding. We won’t wait until they are teenagers though–too much angst and they will be well into sibling rivalry by then.’

‘Fair enough, that’s a deal. So shall we go to bed and see what heights of ecstasy we can attain?’

‘Will that involve chocolate sauce and the loofah?’

‘I think so, don’t you?’

Nearly 4000 miles away, in Chicago, three men sat around a table in a luxurious room at The Trump International Hotel. The air conditioning had a hard time coping with the strong cigar smoke. They drank their Jack Daniel’s and looked through some papers.

The three men were in expensive business suits and had the look of people who did not always go to church on Sundays and if they did, it was to confess their many sins, including murder, extortion and other illegal and dubious pastimes.

‘What do you think, Lou?’ asked one, slightly differentially to the man sitting opposite.

‘So, she’s got all of Nigel Manning’s stuff?’

‘That’s right, every last cent.’

‘Including the boat and the chopper?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think that we need to liberate her from these things, after all, Manning was the one who double crossed us and she has items that are ours by right.’

‘It could be difficult.’

‘In what way? We’ve had problems like this before, Phil. We lean on her and her family, she’ll crack and if she doesn’t she’ll face the consequences.’

‘Which are?’

‘The usual end contract.’

‘How much?’

‘One hundred K.’

Lou turned to the third man who up to that moment had said nothing.

‘Angelo, are the terms acceptable?’

Angelo’s ice blue cold eyes looked at Lou for a long second. He shifted in his seat, the glint of a gun in its holster under his arm becoming visible for a moment.

‘One hundred K now, and another hundred K on completion of the contract.’

His voice was quiet, well modulated and lacked any warmth or inflection.

Lou looked at Phil and then back to Angelo.

‘Make it so––’

To be continued in Book 3? It's up to you.

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

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