"Among The People That Walk With Their Heads Downwards"

20

“Among The People That Walk With Their Heads Downwards”

    Crispin looked at the house with a little smile. “So this is where you live, darling!”

    “Um, yeah,” replied Harriet uneasily. She was positive Ben’s house was gonna turn out to be far too down-market for the Narrowmines, père et fils.

    Josh smiled. “Cute!” he approved, opening his door. Josh had driven the hire-car, actually a 4x4, from Brisbane airport. He had volunteered to drive them up from Sydney, but Steve, silently realising that the joker had no idea of Aussie distances, had vetoed that. Neither of the Narrowmines was admitting that the trip up from Brisbane had seemed endless. Josh hadn’t quite got to the point of thanking God that Steve had prevented him from driving from Sydney, though he had got to the point of wondering how the Hell long that would have taken.

    Steve had made sure that Josh knew that Harriet had to go in the front because of her weak stomach, so Crispin was in the back. Josh opened his door and helped him out. There was no need to: Crispin had had months of physiotherapy in Sydney, and of course every molecule, nay atom of his anatomy had been checked out—ruthlessly, it was felt by some—before he’d been allowed to leave St Vincent’s, and only the day before their trip Josh in person had taken him for a check-up, and he was self-declaredly as fit as a flea. Of course what the doctor had actually said was that he was to take it easy, not overdo things, and seek medical help immediately if he experienced any pain, breathlessness or headaches. The phrase “seek medical help”, alas, had actually been used, so Josh, in spite of his naturally easy-going, optimistic temperament—which he’d inherited from his father, Harriet and the Drinkwaters had by now realised—hadn’t been in a very good mood after the visit. Crispin, on the other hand, had been all smiles. And in fact had declared, apropos, that it was fascinating to find 21st-century verbal circumlocutions in the Antipodes. Harriet, who was very nervous at the thought of having him stay with her, had retorted tartly to this: “Along with walking with our heads downwards, would this be?” and Crispin had collapsed in delighted sniggers.

    Just when Josh was hauling out bags from the boot and ordering Crispin grimly to leave that, and Crispin was objecting that he could carry a bag with his good arm and Josh was reminding him crossly that he only had one working lung, and Harriet, biting her lip, was involuntarily recalling with blinding clarity her very first visit, when Ben had had a strained arm, Hughie came wandering round to the front of the house and said on a horribly neutral note: “Aw, there you are.”

    “Hi, Hughie!” said Harriet in some relief at not having to face unadulterated Narrowmines after all.

    “You’re bloody late, what time did the fuckin’ plane get in?” he returned—still neutral, however.

    “Um, well, I dunno. I think it was on time. Is—is everything all right? Is Brindle okay?” she quavered, her voice starting to shake.

    “Eh? Yeah, ’course!” returned Hughie huffily. “Joel’s taken ’im for a walk. You weren’t exercising ’im enough, I knew ya wouldn’t of been.”

    “I—I thought I was. He wasn’t demanding more,” she faltered.

    “Huh! ’E’s a dog! Ya don’t wait for ’im to demand!” retorted Hughie with withering scorn.

    “I see. I’ll give him more walks in future,” she said in a small voice.

    “Runs. He’s a big dog.”

    “Mm. Runs,” Harriet agreed glumly.

    Crispin had been, though silently recognising that it was unworthy of him, thoroughly enjoying this interchange. Now he came up to Harriet’s side, put an arm round her, ignoring her startled jump and the fact that her cheeks turned puce, and said with a smile: “I think you must be Harriet’s friend Hughie Davis? I’m Crispin Narrowmine, and this is my son, Josh. I can’t thank you enough for all the support you’ve given Harriet, Hughie.” He held out his hand.

    “No worries,” replied Hughie on a wary note, shaking. “Gidday, Josh. Come with yer dad, eh? –So your rellies didn’t wanna come up for Chrissie?” he said to Harriet before Josh could draw breath to return a polite answer.

    “No, they thought they’d better save up their annual leave, ’cos we’re gonna have a party for Kyla’s twenty-first in February.”

    “Right. So that’s still on? Joel reckons you’ll need a marquee.”

    “Mm, he did say something about that. Um, I think she wants a candy-striped one,” Harriet admitted, swallowing.

    He sniffed. “She would. –Oy, give us that, mate,” he added, wrenching the biggest case off Josh. He grabbed another, said: “Come on, then,” apparently to no-one in particular, and headed for the front door.

    The Narrowmines’ suitcases ended up in the spare bedroom. Harriet didn’t say anything, just showed them where the bathroom was and gratefully allowed them to let her use it first. Then she ventured into the kitchen. Hughie was pouring out mugs of tea.

    “Um, did you ask them if they wanted tea?” she faltered.

    “Brits, aren’t they? Godda like tea, they all do,” he returned flatly.

    Harriet swallowed. “Mm.”

    “Ya never told us that that Crispin, ’e had a plum in ’is mouth like that,” was his next remark.

    “He can’t help it,” she said faintly.

    Hughie sniffed. After a moment he added: “So what was ’e up to, to get ’imself shot up?”

    “Um—well, he—he was sent out to investigate some—some Muslim terrorist sympathisers that seemed to be plotting to, um, blow up British installations here, I think.”

    “What flamin’ British installations?” he immediately spotted.

    She smiled limply. “I said that. Well, I think he came to the conclusion it must be the British High Commission in Canberra. Anyway, he was based there. Then somebody seems to have told his bosses back in England that the suspects were in Sydney, so he went over. I—I don’t think he’s supposed to tell us the details, actually, Hughie. He met up with some people that were connected, or something… Anyway, next thing he got a phone call about it. He can’t remember the exact message: the neurosurgeon said that’s not unusual, he probably won’t ever recall much about what happened just before he was shot. When he went to the place it was a trap.”

    “Bloody nit,” noted the Australian sturdily.

    She gulped. “Mm.”

    “So what does the young joker do?”

    “He’s just finished his uni degree. He was having a gap year, he came out to see his dad, and, um, I think him and his uncle, that’s Crispin’s older brother, they were hoping to talk him out of the whole, um, anti-spy thing.”

    “Right. –Counter-espionage, you mean,” he noted. “In MI5, is ’e?”

    “Yes,” she croaked.

    Hughie sniffed again. “So what’s ’e gonna do now? They gonna pay ’im compo, or what?”

    “I—I don’t think they do that… I mean, don’t they have to sign stuff? Well, there’s the Official Secrets Act, but I don’t mean that, I mean, um, saying that they know what the risks are?”

    “Prolly.—That Isabelle, she sent over this cake,” he noted on a grudging note, getting out a large plastic container. “Might as well try it, I s’pose.—Can ’e do anythink else?”

    “Yes, he’s been working for Sotheby’s off and on, partly as a sort of cover, I think, um, evaluating Arabic manuscripts and—and writing up notes about them for their sale catalogues. You know, they’re a big, um, what’s the expression?”

    “Arts and antiques auction house,” said Josh’s voice with a smile in it. “They’ve got a branch in Sydney that would like to expand into that area: evidently there’s quite a lot of stuff in Indonesia and Malaysia that’s coming onto the market these days.”

    “Right. Them lot are all flamin’ Muslim terrorists, too, I s’pose your dad does know that, does ’e? Next thing ’e’ll be goin’ over there and getting ’imself shot up again!”

    “No,” replied Josh calmly: “the Sotheby’s types just sit back on their bums in their air-conditioned offices and wait for the stuff to come to them.”

    Hughie sniffed, but conceded: “Sounds okay. Wouldn’t do me, mind you, being stuck in a ruddy office all day.”

    “No, but Dad can work from home a lot of the time,” replied Josh with his nice smile. “They’d scan the stuff for him, you see. He’s not an expert on paper or parchment, they’ve got other people for that, but he knows a lot about Arabic calligraphy: he can tell if the writing’s fake or later than it’s claimed to be from the handwriting. And he knows quite a lot about the different styles of illumination, though they have got other experts that can be called in to judge the quality of the decorations, at need. His real strength is his knowledge of the literature. Say it’s a manuscript of a poem, or a book of poetry: he can spot the era the poetry belongs to, as well as whether it was written at that period or is just a later copy.”

    “I getcha. Enough in that to keep ’im, then, is there?”

    Harriet looked anxiously at Josh: would he think this was rude? But the young man replied calmly: “Perhaps not in just the local market, but the London office seems keen on his doing their stuff, too. They auction stuff from all over the Middle East: the really rare manuscripts rake in hundreds of thousands for them. There were a couple of pages from a blue Qur’an not long since that went for a huge sum.”

    “Blue?” said Harriet dazedly.

    “Yes: it was beautiful, Harriet! Gold calligraphy—the writing itself quite incredibly lovely—and the entire background was this stunning deep blue: lapis lazuli, I suppose.”

    “Is this the extract from the blue Qur’an?” asked Crispin. He came into the kitchen, smiling. “Yes, it was lovely. Such a pity to dismember an extraordinary work of art like that. Though the Eastern manuscripts market’s not unique in that: colour plates from Western books are always appearing for sale. I can’t imagine the sort of mind that would own, say, a volume of Redouté’s stipple engravings, and tear it apart for profit.”

    “I can, Dad,” returned Josh, looking sour. “Only too vividly. You’re too unworldly!”

    “Ya gotta be, if ya didn’t realise you were walking into a trap when that flamin’ terrorist rung ya,” grunted Hughie. “Ya lucky to be alive. Not thinkin’ of goin’ back to it, are ya?” He gave him a hard look.

    “No,” replied Crispin simply. “I’ve learned my lesson. –I say, is this tea? Wonderful: I’m parched!”

    “Ya better siddown and have it, then.” Hughie placed a mug of his usual dark orange milky brew on the table for him.

    “Thanks, Hughie,” said Crispin with a smile, sitting down.

    Harriet sat down limply. “Where was that place we had those Cokes?”

    “Somewhere between Halfway-There and Thought-We’d-Never-Get-Here, Harriet!” replied Josh with a laugh, accepting a mug. “Thanks, Hughie. This’ll hit the spot.”

    “Go on,” said Hughie stolidly, putting a mug suggestively in front of Harriet. “Wanna try the cake? God knows what she’ll of put in it, mind you.”

    “It looks delicious!” protested Crispin with a little laugh, as the cake was unveiled.

    Hughie sniffed. “That Isabelle, she could of put anythink in it. She gimme a cheesecake, once. Thought it was off, only guess what the silly moo had put in it?” He pointed one of Ben’s giant knives at them.

    “Um, yoghurt?” ventured Harriet, eyeing the knife askance.

   “Nah. Wouldn’t put that past ’er, mindjew. Nah. Somethink like that, only worse.”

    Worse? Hughie loathed yoghurt! Harriet goggled at him.

    He began to operate on the cake, cutting it into giant wedges. “Go on, guess.”

    “Er… lemon juice?” suggested Josh weakly, not daring to look at his father: he was pretty sure Crispin would be trying not to laugh.

    “Nah.”

    “Um, well, I’ve heard of salted caramel, that’s supposed to be trendy, but… Unless she put it on top of it?” said Harriet feebly.

    “Nah. In it.”

    Everybody gave up, so he revealed with gloomy triumph: “Sour cream.”

    “Ugh!” said Harriet involuntarily.

    “You do mean dairy sour cream?” ventured Josh uncertainly.

    “I dunno about dairy. Stuff that comes in liddle pots. Revolting. Well, me sister, Joel’s mum, she sometimes does this steak thing with it, that’s not bad. But ya don’t want it in a cheesecake!”

    “No,” they all agreed. Limply, in the case of the Narrowmines.

    The cake, of course, turned out to be delicious, without any strange ingredients at all. In fact, Harriet recognised silently, it was just a standard sultana cake with a few chopped glacé cherries added, dressed up with a fancy pink icing. She’d have preferred it without the icing, but it went down well, she registered with amusement, with all four of the blokes—Joel having got back in time for it.

    Brindle promptly came and propped his chin on her knee, looking up at her adoringly, but it didn’t even need Hughie’s warning: “No treats off yer plate,” or Crispin’s: “I was just going to say that!” for her to remain adamant.

    “I’ve learned my lesson,” she said seriously. “Life is too short to treat it lightly, whether it’s a person’s or a dog’s.”

    There was a startled silence. Joel King for one was rather wishing he was anywhere else.

    Then Hughie said stolidly: “Glad something’s sunk in, at last. We been teaching ’im ‘Fetch’. If ’e does that right for ya, you can give ’im a doggie treat. All right?”

    “Yes,” Harriet agreed, smiling at him. “Has he done it right often?”

    Joel cleared his throat.

    “He’s learning,” replied Hughie calmly. “We just gotta keep at it.”

    “Yes, of course! –You’ll learn, won’t you, lovely Brindle?” she cooed, smiling down at him and fondling his ears.

    Over her bent head the two Englishmen and the two Australians exchanged dry glances of male solidarity. The word “Maybe” didn’t even have to be articulated.

    Those who had assumed that Hughie Davis would push off home after the afternoon tea found they were mistaken. Joel went off to get some jobs done before teatime, but his uncle, with a sour reminder that if that bludger, Foster, tried it on, it’d be a bloody lie, he’d been fed today, remained behind. In fact he unilaterally decided that Josh would be interested in his lizards DVD—with the caveat that just when you thought it was goin’ good, they started ringing in bits from flamin’ zoos—and led him off to the sitting-room to watch it.

    Crispin got up and closed the kitchen door after them, his eyes twinkling. “A lamb to the slaughter,” he murmured.

    “Yes,” Harriet agreed limply. “He—he hasn’t got a phobia about lizards, has he?”

    “Who, Josh? Not as far as I know. I dare say we’ll soon see!”

    She winced. “Now or when he spots a gecko on the bedroom ceiling.”

    “What?”

    “It’s the climate,” she explained faintly.

    “I’m sure it is, darling, but I’m afraid I’m don’t know what a gecko is.”

    Harriet gaped at him.

    “I assume it’s a kind of lizard?”

    “Yeah,” she said limply. “You must’ve seen them on David Attenborough!”

    “Er… not that I recall, no. Um… think there was a big, slender, handsome one—dark grey, was it? Very decorative, hugely long tail. I do remember it had an Aboriginal name, but I can’t recall it. –Think he appeared to be lying down beside it on the desert sands,” he added without emphasis. His eyes twinkled.

    “I think that was the perentie; I saw that episode.”

    “Right,” he replied weakly. “So—er—how big are these gecko lizards that Josh can expect to drop on him from the ceiling?”

    “Only small. Um, well, up to about as long as my hand, I suppose. But they don’t drop, they’ve got special feet, like suckers.”

    “That’s good,” he said mildly.

    “Yes,” replied Harriet nervously, waiting to hear a yell of revulsion from the lounge-room or, worse, a loud thud as Josh hit the floor. “Um, Trisha had the horrors when there was one in the bedroom. She made Steve get rid of it.”

    “Get rid?”

    “He only flicked it outside, I think, but he had to tell her he’d killed it.”

    Crispin went into a spluttering fit.

    “Um, but they do sit on the ceiling,” she added uncomfortably, recalling that time with Ben.

    He nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Got it.”

    “Um, you haven’t got a phobia, have you?”

    “I don’t think so. Well, watched the Attenborough programme without a qualm: I think that’d be indicative, wouldn’t it?”

    “Yes,” said Harriet in relief. “When I saw it was gonna be on I rang up Trisha to warn her, but she already knew, she said Steve and Jimbo could watch it if they liked but no way was she gonna go anywhere near it, they could watch it on the old TV in Jimbo’s room and she was gonna watch her DVD of Pretty Woman in the lounge-room.”

    Crispin collapsed in splutters again. “Classic!” he gasped.

    Harriet smiled weakly. “Yeah, it was, pretty much, I s’pose.”

    “I say,” he said, eyeing the remains of the cake: “do you suppose I could have another slice of this delicious cake? I seem to be hungry all the time, these days. Unless it’s just a sugar craving.”

    “Of course you can have another bit. Anyway, sugar gives you energy: if you’ve got a craving it shows you need it.”

    “Good! And—er—perhaps a cup of weak tea?”

    Harriet smiled slowly. “Yeah, but there’s no guarantee it’ll take the memory away!”

    He laughed weakly. “One shouldn’t be ungrateful—but really!”

    He made to get up but she said: “Sit there, I’ll get it. Go on, help yourself to the cake.”

    “Want another piece?”

    “Um, no, that icing’s a bit sweet for me, really.”

    “Is it?” said Crispin in surprise. “I think it’s yummy. Oh—and now that you’ve elucidated the gecko mystery, darling, can you elucidate the Isabelle mystery?”

    “Oh, didn’t we— Um, no,” she realised weakly. “Um, she’s the lady from the motel at Big Rock Bay—that’s just the next bay along. Her and her husband, Scott, they run it. Scott’s got Brindle’s sister, Dee: she’s really lovely!” Brindle had come up to her side as she stood at the bench: he pressed against her leg and she said to him, beaming: “Yes, pretty Dee’s your sister, isn’t she, Brindle? We’ll see Dee soon! –She’s really pretty, Crispin: she’s mainly white with some black spots, but she’s got a black patch over one eye that put silly people off, can you believe? But as it turned out it was all to the good, because then Scott got her! We take them out together for their socialization—don’t we, Brindle? Yes, you like W,A,L,K,S with your pretty sister, don’t you?”

    Crispin had been almost overset by the “socialization”, and the “W,A,L,K,S” very nearly finished him off. He swallowed hard. “I see,” he managed to croak. “Well—uh—we must remember to thank Isabelle for the lovely cake.”

    “Yes, I will… Only the thing is,” Harriet admitted, turning from the bench with a teabag in her hand, “every time I ring her up I’m scared she’s gonna foist more grey nomads on me.”

    His jaw sagged. “Grey— Did you say grey nomads?”

    “Mm. Don’t you have them in Britain?”

    “Uh—I don’t think so,” he said cautiously.

    Harriet dunked the teabag in a mug. “Really? Well, I suppose it is a bit small—I was looking at a map the other day because I read a thing that mentioned Oban and I didn’t know where it was, so I looked on the map and it did seem a long way from London, only then I looked up the distance on the Internet, and it made me realise how small the whole of Britain really is.”

    “Uh—yes,” he agreed limply. “But what are they, Harriet?”

    “Retirees that go round the country with campervans or caravans. They usually just go from campsite to campsite. I’ve been one myself: me and Kyla, we went with Hughie to the Red Centre. We didn’t always stop at proper camping grounds, but when we did they were always full of them. They need them, you see, because they need to plug in.”

    “Eh?”

    Harriet nodded hard. “The official campsites all have these thingos where they plug in their big plugs. Hughie reckons they’re quite safe, they’re insulated.”

    He had to swallow. “But—but why do their campervans or caravans need to be plugged in?”

    “I dunno!” replied Harriet cheerfully. “Here’s your tea. Want milk?”

    “No, thank you, darling,” he replied dazedly. “It’s a different world,” he muttered, as she sat down with her own mug of weak tea, looking quite—quite normal, he registered groggily.

    “You could ask Hughie, if you really wanna know,” she noted, as he ate cake in the hope that the sugar might stir his brain into action, or at least recall him to some semblance of reality from the far end of the rabbit hole.

    “Harriet, my angel, he’ll conclude I’m a moron!”

    “Yes, but he thinks that about everyone that doesn’t know the stuff he knows,” replied Harriet comfortably.

    Suddenly Crispin grinned widely. “You know, I think I had almost realised that,” he murmured.

    Harriet gulped, failed to control herself, and went into a fit of laughter, clapping her hand over her mouth in an effort to deaden the noise.

    “Well!” he said happily as she recovered, and finished her tea: “Shall we go and move my bags from Josh’s room into yours?”

    Harriet turned puce. “If you like,” she agreed in a strangled voice.

    “Of course I like! Come on.”

    Limply she got up and followed him out.

    In the main bedroom, Crispin was kissing Harriet and telling her not to worry about his wonky shoulder, he was planning to prop himself on the other elbow, or if she insisted, she could go on top and he’d just lie back and imagine he was a sultan with his favourite concubine, and Harriet was simultaneously going very red and giving a strangled laugh. In the kitchen Hughie was cheerfully ordering Josh to peel them sweet potatoes while he bunged the lamb roast in the oven…

    As a great concession to females’ known obsession with greens, Hughie had done some frozen peas to accompany the roast. Them apart, not a skerrick of green was allowed near it. Perhaps needless to state, all four males lapped up the lot: roast shoulder of lamb, the roasted sweet potatoes, their mates the roasted ordinary potatoes, and their other mate the roasted pumpkin. Plus the traditional globby Aussie gravy made from the drippings and thickened with flour. Followed by three sorts of ice cream: cherry, because Hughie knew that Harriet liked it, his favourite, Connoisseur’s “Belgian Chocolate”, and plain Peters vanilla: those who reckoned it was just ordinary needed their heads read. Peters might of been going for ages, but it was still the best! Joel revealed, grinning, after the chocolate one had been duly admired, that actually, he’d looked the fancy “Connoisseur” brand up on the Internet, and it was also a Peters product!

    Mercifully, Joel firmly removed his uncle after the two younger men had done the dishes. Incidentally removing Josh also, with the cheerful remark that they’d leave Harriet and Crispin in peace.

    Silence fell in Harriet’s sitting-room.

    Eventually Crispin ventured: “Sorry, darling, but I have to say this.”

    Harriet looked at him nervously. “Yes?”

    “Where was the celery?”

    “What?”

    “You told me that Hughie raises celery as well as macadamia nuts. I was expecting to see it on the table.”

    “Oh! He doesn’t eat it, he just grows it,” she explained feebly. “He doesn’t like green veggies.”

    Crispin collapsed in splutters.

    “Yeah,” said Harriet, smiling weakly. “There’s a fair bit of it about.”

    He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and got up. “Well, bed?”

    “Um, I have to walk Brindle.”

    “Oh, of course. I’ll come, too. Where is he?”

    “I dunno. He usually comes in here with me. I put that silly rug in my room, he still doesn’t like it but he really hated it in here.”

    Taking this almost without a blink, Crispin responded: “Right. Is he in the kitchen? It must still smell of delicious roast lamb!”

    Harriet stood up slowly. “Delicious and full of saturated fats.”

    “My cholesterol count needs building up,” he replied firmly.

    “Not any more, it doesn’t. That fancy chocolate ice cream had chocolate sauce in it as well!”

    “Yum, yum!” returned Crispin unrepentantly, grinning.

    “If you put on a lot of weight you’ll never take it off again, at your age,” she warned dispassionately, going out.

    Rolling his eyes madly, Crispin followed her.

    Brindle was discovered meekly lying down under the kitchen table. Harriet bent and peered. “Someone’s put a mat under there for him,” she discovered.

    “Er—perhaps Hughie trained him to sleep under there while you were away, darling.”

    “He must of.”

    He looked at her disconcerted face and bit his lip. “He’ll soon get used to having you back. Where did he use to sleep?”

    “Um, on the bed—only at the bottom!” she added quickly.

    Uh-huh. Well, three cheers for Hughie, Crispin reflected drily. “I see. Well, given that my feet will need to go somewhere, perhaps we might plan to train him to sleep beside the bed? Transfer his mat to the bedroom, mm?”

    “Um, yes, that might work.”

    “Yes, well, not tonight; I think he needs time to get used to having you back and to having me around. Come on, Brindle: walkies!”

    Recognising the far-from-dulcet tones used by dog owners throughout the Commonwealth of Nations, Brindle got to his feet. His lead having been clipped on carefully by Harriet with assurances—to the dog, not her wounded hero, the latter noted with appreciation—that they wouldn’t go far, it’d just be a little walk, they headed outdoors.

    Beyond the patch of light from the back door and the kitchen windows, it was very dark. Crispin stopped dead. “Harriet, where’s your torch?”

    “I usually keep it on the bench, next to the phone, I mean the jug. I mean, where the plug is. Only I didn’t see it. I thought there might be a moon.”

    “Too overcast, I think. Better let him off the lead, then: we don’t want to risk tripping over in the dark.”

    “Buh-but what if he runs away?” she faltered.

    “He won’t do that, he knows this is his home. Dogs aren’t thick.”

    “But I never let him off the lead.”

    Then Hughie’s claim that she hadn’t been exercising the pooch enough was undoubtedly correct. “He’ll be fine. Come along.” Not waiting for any reply, he bent and unclipped the lead. “Okay, Brindle: good dog!” Brindle just stood there, so he gave him a gentle push. “Go on, fellow!”

    Harriet watched in agony as her pet got the point and headed for the bushes. “He’s gone!” she gasped.

    “Rats. Having a pee behind that bush. Come on, if we go inside he’ll get the point.”

    “But if he can’t see us he’ll panic!”

    “Talking total rubbish, darling,” he returned with the utmost calm. “Come along.” Thanking the Almighty for His mercy in leaving him one good arm, he seized her hand and tugged her forcibly inside.

    In the kitchen he said mildly: “Why don’t you go and use the bathroom?”

    Harriet looked at him in horror.

    “Go on,” he said mildly. “I’ll be here.”

    She gulped, but she went.

    Crispin sat down at the kitchen table, grinning.

    Naturally Brindle turned up about three minutes later. He came and shoved his nose meekly into Crispin’s hand, then retired to his mat under the table.

    Crispin’s shoulders shook, but he managed a creditable: “Good boy, Brindle!” Then he got up, closed the back door, and went out to the passage. “Oy,” he said outside the bathroom door: “He’s back. Don’t dare to bawl.”

    There might have been a few gulping noises from the bathroom, but he ignored them, and went along to the bedroom, grinning.

    He stripped, laid his clothes neatly on a chair, and got into his dressing-gown. Then he just sat down and waited. He heard her come out of the bathroom. He waited. As expected, she went into the kitchen, greeted Brindle with rapturous relief, and told him what a good and clever dog he was. Then she came slowly up the passage.

    “You were right,” she said in a small voice.

    “Mm. Well, I am used to dogs: we always had dogs at home when I was a kid. –Can you give me hand to get this damned strapping off my shoulder, darling? I’m dying for a shower. You were spot-on about the humidity up here.”

    Harriet came over to him and looked dubiously at the elastic bandage round his bad shoulder. “But you had a shower when we got here. How on earth did you get it on?”

    “I didn’t: Josh did. You can help me get it back on afterwards. I know how it should go, don’t worry.”

    “But I’m hopeless at that sort of stuff!” she gasped.

    “Don’t panic: we’ll stand in front of this terrifying decorated mirror of yours and I’ll tell you exactly what to do.”

    “You’ll have to,” said Harriet limply. “Um, Ben found that mirror at a dump. It’s a wardrobe door, really.”

    “That is no excuse for it,” he replied severely. “And what are these English bluebells doing all mixed up with Australian wattle and that spiky red thing, which I’d take my dying oath is also a native?”

    “Bottlebrush,” said Harriet limply. “I think it must date from the 1920s or ’30s. They did that sort of thing, back then.”

    Crispin collapsed in sniggers, nodding madly. Adding, when he could speak: “That strange shade of almost mushroom with a touch of apricot on the door proper is a bonus!”

    “Kyla was gonna get rid of it,” said Harriet glumly. “She was making all sorts of plans, only, um, then Josh rung up.”

    Crispin bit his lip. He put his good arm round her. “I love it, silly one. It’s a completely glorious piece of kitsch!”

    “Really? So you’re not gonna want to get rid of the weird stuff and—and clean up the place?”

    “No. Neither the place nor you, Harriet, dearest.”

    Harriet burst into tears.

    Crispin just hugged her until she’d recovered. Then he guided her through the process of getting the bloody bandaging off.

    “I’ll just grab a quick shower.”

    “Righto,” she agreed, sniffing a bit. He went out, smiling, and she looked gloomily at the discarded bandage. Yards of it. She was gonna do it all wrong and then it’d put a strain on his shoulder and probably ruin it forever…

    Oddly enough, however, when Crispin came back, she found that all she had to do was wrap where he said and it was okay.

    “Thanks,” he said with a sigh.

    “It’s not too tight, is it?”

    “No, it’s fine. Just has to be snug enough to feel as if it’s supporting me a bit. I’m lucky; Gil Sotherland had to wear a heavy elastic support that was Hell to get in and out of for ages. Um… Which side of the bed would be best, I wonder, given that I’d normally prop myself on my left arm, leaving my right free for more interesting things?”

    “I don’t know!” she gasped, turning purple.

    “No, well, you pop in as you normally would and I’ll take the other side. See how we go.”

    “Um, where’s my nightie?” said Harriet limply.

    Crispin forbore to say she wouldn’t need it. He perched on the edge of the bed and waited while she checked the bag she’d earlier unpacked, and ferreted in drawers. Finally a faded cotton garment was produced and she got into it, politely turning away from him as she did so.

    “Those knickers can come off,” he said conversationally.

    Harriot said nothing but she removed the knickers in the shelter of the nightie.

    “It’s inside-out,” he murmured as she got into bed. On the side further from the door. Er… was it perhaps the side she’d had in the days of the famous Ben? He didn’t ask, just dumped his dressing-gown and got in beside her.

    “Inside-out,” he repeated, fingering an exposed seam.

    “I know. It’s got horrible nylon stitching on the seams, it makes me itchy.”

    “On a cotton garment?” he croaked.

    “They all do it. Made in China,” said Harriet with a sigh. “You can’t buy anything without scratchy nylon stitching, these days. Um, shall I turn the light off?”

    “Do, then we can cuddle down cosily.”

    She turned the bedside lamp off.

    As she was on Crispin’s right, it was easy enough to prop himself on his right elbow. “Damn, none of that endless physio took this into account,” he grumbled. ‘I may just manage to put this hand on your tit, but I don’t think I can get my arm round you.” He duly put left his hand in the indicated position. Harriet swallowed hard. “Now, incline your face towards me, if you’d be so good—” He kissed her. “Oh, God, I’ve missed that!” he admitted.

    “Me, too!” she gasped.

    “I—uh—damn. Look, darling, if I don’t get right in there I think I might explode. Can I?”

    “Um, yes, um, have you got a condom?” she gulped.

    “Shit! No.”

    “I think there might still be some in the bedside cabinet. Um, do they go off?”

    “In this humidity? Very likely.” He rolled onto his back resignedly and tried to— “Oh, bugger! This bloody arm’s useless!”

    “I’ll have a look.” Harriet put the light on, got out of bed, came round to his side, and investigated the cabinet. “There’s a whole box,” she reported on a dubious note.

    “Have a look.”

    She opened the box and held a packet up dubiously. “How can you tell if it’s okay?”

    “If it’s perished, we’ll soon know, it’ll disintegrate.” He took the thing in his right hand and tore its envelope open with his teeth.

    “Has it?”

    “Looks all right. Maybe modern ones don’t perish.” He operated one-handed, what time Harriet, not looking, hurried round to her side of the bed and got in again. Helpfully turning the light off as she did so.

    Crispin turned to her, more or less rolled on top of her, and gasping: “Put your legs apart, woman!” got up there.

    Harriet grabbed him fiercely, moved fiercely on him, let out a shriek to raise the dead, and came like the clappers. Just as well, since he was bellowing his head off and shooting his load furiously.

    About ten aeons later he managed to roll off her, though not to utter.

    About another ten aeons after that Harriet said groggily: “Sim’taneous.”

    “Uh,” he agreed.

    Quite some time after that he managed to utter: “Simultaneous but graceless. Sorry, sweetheart.”

    “No,” she murmured, groping for his hand. “Good.”

    “Mmm…”

    Crispin came to to find the light streaming in round the edges of the rather awful old Holland blinds. Dark brown, rather cracked: very likely the house’s original blinds—and quite possibly the original Holland blinds! The curtains frankly weren’t much more decorative, but in any case they weren’t drawn. He looked round for his watch but it wasn’t on the bedside cabinet. Perhaps he’d left it in the bathroom? Harriet was still fast asleep. He wouldn’t have minded a second round, but he didn’t want to wake her up, he was aware that she’d been on edge all day yesterday—what with the invasion of the Narrowmines on top of all that travelling. He was lying back looking hopefully for geckos on the ceiling—there were none—when there came the noise of a vehicle grinding up the drive, followed rapidly by the most Goddawful hammering on the front door.

    Harriet woke up with a start. “Thunder! Where’s Brindle?”

    “No, it’s some fool at the door. Stay there, darling, I’ll go.” He got up, struggled into his dressing-gown—until you lacked mobility in one arm you had no idea how much a human being relied on having two—and went out to the door.

    A stocky, square-faced male figure was revealed. He said nothing, so Crispin ventured: “Good morning. Can I can help you?”

    “Ye-ah… Well, think so. This Harriet’s place?”

    “That’s right. I’m afraid she’s not up, yet.”

    “Eh? Scott said ya gotta be, it’s gone har’ pas’ eleven!” was the startled reply.

    “We had a long drive yesterday and she’s not a very good traveller,” replied Crispin smoothly, starting, alas, to enjoy himself thoroughly.

    “Aw. –Craig Magson,” he suddenly offered.

    Okay, unknown stocky Australians three, Pommies nil, recognised Crispin wryly. “I’m sorry?”

    “Craig Magson. Mate of Scott’s. Come over with a meat delivery for them—see, we got a special on. He reckoned Harriet might like some, too, so I brung a bit extra. There’s some bones for the dog, too.”

    Crispin at this glanced down involuntarily at knee-level, but no, Brindle hadn’t come up the passage to investigate a large stranger on his doorstep. Too meek, he decided. “That’s very kind of you, Mr Megson.”

    “Magson. –Craig,” he corrected. “You’d be Crispin, then.”

    “Yes—I’m sorry, Craig. Crispin Narrowmine,” said Crispin weakly, holding out his hand—the score had now gone up to about twenty-nil.

    “Good to meetcha. Here ya go,” he added, thrusting a large shopping carrier at him.

    Crispin staggered, but managed to grab it. “Thanks so much. If you’ll just hang on I’ll get my wallet.”

    “Nah! On the house. Had a bad run, eh? –Yeah,” he acknowledged as Crispin, recognising that this remark was in the second person singular, not the first, nodded weakly. “Scott told me. Tell ’er it doesn’t need nothin’ done to it, she can just bung it in the oven, only Isabelle, she reckons she might wanna soak it in red wine for a bit. See ya.” With this he headed for his vehicle—a large van emblazoned with the words “SunnyVale Supermarket”—before Crispin could utter again.

    “Thanks frightfully, Craig!” he called.

    “No worries! Havin’ a special!” floated back to him as the benefactor mounted into the said vehicle and it burst into life with a roar.

    “Who on earth was that?” croaked Harriet as he tottered back to the bedroom with his bounty.

    “Craig,” said Crispin limply.

    “Craig Who?” she asked blankly.

    “Er—I thought he said Megson, but he corrected me—though it still sounded like Megson. Magson? This is meat. A present. Some for us and some for Brindle.”

    “But I don’t know any Craig Magson.”

    Abruptly Crispin lost it. He collapsed onto the edge of the bed and laughed till he cried.

    Harriet just stared at him in bewilderment, her lips moving from time to time in the words “Craig Magson.”

    “Meat,” he said finally, wiping his hand across his eyes.

    “You said,” she replied blankly.

    “Don’t set me off again!”

    “Meat…” said Harriet limply.

    “Yes. Oh: SunnyVale Supermarket,” he recalled, pointing at the carrier bag.

    “That’s a Woolie’s bag, ya twit,” replied his beloved—not, however, in a condemnatory tone, in fact she sounded distinctly weak.

    “Oh. Well, his van had ‘SunnyVale Supermarket’ on it. No?”

    “Um, it’s the supermarket in the township… Did you say meat?”

    “At least twice,” he murmured. “And bones,” he added without much hope.

    “Bones… Hang on… I know!” she cried. “He’s the man that gave Scott the big bone for Foster!”

    “Ah… You’ve lost me there, darling.”

    Eagerly Harriet plunged into it. It took some time but he did eventually get the point that Foster was Hughie’s “terrible dog”.

    “Gosh, I wish I’d been there!” he concluded fervently.

    “Yes. He was great. And you should have seen him leap in the air and catch the bone!”

    “Well,” Crispin concluded, gathering himself together and picking up the carrier bag, “should we have any more grey nomads wished on us, we’ll send for Foster!” He went over to the door but paused to say: “Did you hear the bit about the red wine?”

    “What?” replied Harriet blankly.

    “Craig informed me—now, I’m not sure I’ve got the vernacular right, mind—he informed me that the meat doesn’t need anything done to it, you can just bung it in the oven, only Isabelle reckons you might want to soak it in red wine for a bit.”

    “The ‘Isabelle reckons’ sounds spot-on,” replied Harriet on a dry note. “But what sort of meat is it?”

    “I don’t think he said. I’ll take it out to the kitchen and investigate. Hadn’t you better run and have a pee?” he added meanly.

    “I’m going!”

    Crispin headed down the passage, his shoulders shaking.

    Under the table the pooch was awake, just lying meekly on his mat. Oh, dear. He opened the back door for him and he hurried out: the poor brute must have been holding on all morning. “Meek,” said Crispin limply, running his good hand through his hair. He sat down heavily at the table and investigated the carrier bag. Ooh, ’eck. He put the lot in the fridge.

    “Did you find out what sort of meat it is?” asked Harriet, coming in shrouded in a sort of floral tent. She began to busy herself opening a tin of dogmeat.

    “Y—uh, yes. Sweetheart, I don’t want to criticise, but what is that garment?”

    “Aunty Mary gave it to me. She reckons it’s a housecoat.”

    “Really? I’d call it a full-length prophylactic.”

    “Yes, isn’t it?” agreed Harriet in pleased tones. “Trisha says blue isn’t my colour.”

    “How right she is. Particularly not those shades of… Are those hydrangeas?”

    “Dunno. I think of them as piles of blue mashed potato. –Brindle! Here, boy! Brindle! Good boy!” she approved as he panted in. “Here’s your breakfast—well, it’s a bit late, but it’ll still taste nice, won’t it? Good boy!” she approved as he gulped it down. “–The thing is, if I throw it out, sure as eggs are eggs Aunty Mary and Uncle Don’ll turn up here and she’ll ask me where it is.”

    “Of course.”

    “What sort of meat was it?”

    “Mm? Oh! A huge piece of sirloin—on the bone, darling. A wonderful cut of meat.”

    “Like, a roast?”

    “Mm, definitely.”

    Harriet opened the fridge cautiously. She gasped. “It must be worth megabucks!” she gulped in dismay.

    “Craig assured me they were having a special.”

    “On this sort of meat?”

    “Well, possibly not, but then, would he have done it if he couldn’t afford it? Does he own the SunnyVale Supermarket, or just run it?”

    “Um… I think Isabelle once said he’s the manager.”

    “There you are, then. He’ll write it off as wastage. Er—so is that the name of the town?”

    “What?’

    “SunnyVale. Or even Sunny Vale.”

    “No,” replied Harriet simply.

    Crispin collapsed in splutters.

    Harriet just waited it out, looking lofty. When he’d recovered she said: “You needn’t laugh. You come from a place that’s got names like Beaulieu and Marjoribanks!”

    He found a handkerchief in his dressing-gown pocket and blew his nose. “How true. Likewise Cholmondeley and Ruislip.”

    “I’ve never heard of the rye one,” replied Harriet suspiciously.

    Helpfully he spelled it for her, adding: “It’s a town. In my youth I didn’t have a clue how it might be pronounced. I was convinced for years it must be a Dutch word.”

    “It probably is, when you come to think about it. Like Beaulieu was once a French word.”

    “Yes, you’re right! Well, do you fancy sousing that magnificent piece of beef in red wine?”

    “Um, actually I’d rather drink it. That lovely roast we had in Oxford, that was just plain, wasn’t it?”

    “Quite. Very well, darling, we’ll just roast the meat and drink a good red in its honour! Er, an Australian Syrah—um, Shiraz?” he suggested kindly.

    Harriet looked dubious. “There’s some French wine in Ben’s cellar.”

    “And?”

    “I forget the names. There’s one lot he told me not to touch for another ten years. Mind you, that was—heck, it must have been nearly three years back.”

    “Good show, we’ll count the days! And the others? Think!”

    “Um… I think one was called George, because I said we ought to give George a bottle of it and he said he’d strangle me if I did any such thing.”

    Crispin’s eyes gleamed. “Nuits St Georges?”

    “Dunno. And I think one said Rhone something.”

    “Côtes du Rhone?”

    “Um… It could have been.”

    “Drinkable,” he allowed with a grin. “Good, I’ll suss them out later. You want to boil the jug up, sweetheart? I’ll just have a piss.”

    When he came back from the bathroom she’d disappeared. “Harriet?” he called up the passage. Nothing. The back door was open. He peered out. Nothing. What the Hell? …Er, walking the pooch? There was certainly no sign of him, either. Sighing, he got on with boiling the jug.

    He’d optimistically made two mugs of instant and was looking unavailingly for bread when she resurfaced. “Here! I knew those silly men wouldn’t have picked any!” she panted, setting down her burden.

    Crispin’s eyes bulged. A colander full of beautiful yellow mangoes! “Where did those come from?” he croaked.

    “Off the trees, of course.”

    His jaw sagged.

    “Mangoes grow on trees,” said Harriet kindly, inspecting the mugs. “Is one for me?”

    “Mm? Oh: yes. Either.”

    “Good. There won’t be any ricotta or cottage cheese, but we could just eat them like fruit.”

    “They are fruit,” he croaked.

    “Yes, but I usually have them sliced on toast with ricotta or cottage cheese for breakfast. Kyla says ricotta’s fattening, but I like it.”

    He nodded limply. After a while he managed to croak: “Mangoes do not grow on trees where I come from.”

    “No,” Harriet agreed vaguely, opening the freezer and taking out a loaf of sliced bread.

    “Good grief! Is that where you keep the bread?” he cried. “I looked everywhere!”

    “This is Queensland. It goes mouldy before you can turn round if you leave it out.”

    He watched numbly as she split off a couple of slices and put them in the toaster. “Actually it doesn’t keep too well in Sydney, either,” she noted detachedly.

    “No,” he said faintly. “Uh—doesn’t it?”

    “There’s only Vegemite, I hate Marmite, but we can buy some if you like,” was her next offering. “If SunnyVale hasn’t got it, I can get Trisha to send some up.”

    “That’s all right,” he replied faintly, wondering if they’d ever heard of marmalade in Queensland.

    The toast popped up, so the feast was set, and they sat down to a strange Australian breakfast—perhaps technically brunch, given the time—of instant coffee, just as horrible as Britain’s, toast and Vegemite and superb sweet, fresh mangoes straight off the trees. With a warning not to eat too much of them, they’d give him the runs.

    “My God,” concluded Crispin reverently, licking the last aromatic, sweet, sticky, unmistakeable tropical taste with that odd hint—just a hint—of rot behind it off his fingers. “A woman who owns mango trees. You’d better marry me at once.”

    Harriet went very red but managed to reply: “There’s an expression for that… I know! Cupboard love,” she said sternly.

    “Too right,” he agreed in the local vernacular.

    Suddenly she gave a loud laugh. “Actually, you’d better marry me! ’Cos you love my surreal pre-Raphaelite cushion cover!”

    “I adore it. Don’t tell me nobody else—”

    “Of course not! Well, Kyla admired it, but I think only because it struck her as daringly modern and her art teacher liked the idea. Everybody else hates it. Plus and it confirms that I’m mad.”

    Right, got it. He nodded a trifle grimly.

    “When I got the idea I decided that if anybody liked it I’d marry them,” she explained.

    “Then I’ll definitely have to,” he said mildly. “It’s obvious we’re soulmates.”

    Harriet bit her lip. “Um, just joking.”

    “I’m not,” said Crispin with a smile. “Though I do feel I need a little more practice before solemnising the union.”

    “Hah, hah,” she replied uneasily.

    He got up, his eyes twinkling. “Come on, darling, give us a kiss, for a start!” He bent over her tenderly…

    “See? The door’s open, they gotta be up!”

    Oh, boy. Resignedly Crispin released his now red-faced beloved, as Hughie marched in looking pleased, followed by Josh looking sheepish.

    “Are youse mob havin’ breakfast?” was Hughie’s opening gambit.

    “No, we’ve just finished,” replied Crispin smoothly. “In case your next question was going to be have we had our showers yet, the answer is no. And in case you were wondering if Harriet is dressed, that’s a no, too. That non-garment is her pro—”

    “Shut up!” she gasped.

    Grinning, he shut up.

    “You better have your showers now, then,” stated Hughie firmly. “Go on.”

    “Um, yes. You can go first, Crispin,” said Harriet weakly, wondering what he might come out with if she left him here.

    “Er—the damned shoulder strapping, darling,” he reminded her, grimacing.

    “Oh! Okay, I’ll come and take it off for you. –His shoulder has to be all tied up, to support it, Hughie,” she explained—unnecessarily, some might have said. “Come on.”

    Grinning, Crispin came on.

    —The mystery of Brindle’s disappearance after his breakfast was solved the minute they looked in the bedroom. He was ensconced on the bed, fast asleep. As anyone but a Pommy tit should have guessed, Crispin Narrowmine recognised silently, his eyes twinkling.

Next chapter:

https://trialsofharrietharrison.blogspot.com/2023/08/summer-delights.html