Invalid Comforts

19

Invalid Comforts

    Almost all the medical staff—doctors, Matron in person, Jill, the nurses, and even the friendly Brett—had assured Josh, Harriet and the Drinkwaters that it was going to be a slow process, but Crispin had a strong constitution. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was Matron herself who told Harriet firmly that he was over the worst. The most definite statement that any of them had managed—quite.

    They could see he was improving: he wasn’t awake for very long at a time but he was quite rational when he was awake. He hadn’t volunteered any information about how he’d got shot and nobody had asked him, the more so as he obviously wasn’t up to much talking. Towards the end of that first week he did manage to tell Harriet that he’d been looking for her for ages.

    “I know,” she said, squeezing his hand hard. “I’m sorry I was so awful to you in Oxford that time. I should have cut you some slack, we’re all only human, after all.”

    It was just after four-thirty: Josh had gone off ostensibly to get a coffee, but actually to let his father and Harriet have some privacy, but Kyla and Jimbo hadn’t been so tactful: they were both listening, wide-eyed.

    Crispin smiled faintly, and squeezed her hand back. “Very Australian… expression,” he managed.

    “Um, is it? Um, yeah, I suppose it is!” she gulped. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

    His eyes closed. “Nonsense,” he murmured.

    After a moment Kyla breathed: “Is he asleep again?”

    “Mm, I think so,” replied Harriet, smiling shakily at her.

    “I think he meant he’s forgiven you, Aunty Harrie!” she hissed.

    “Yeah,” agreed Jimbo hoarsely, very red about the ears.

    “Mm.” Harriet blew her nose—this was the second box of tissues from the generous Ellen Gilbert. A different design but also her own, evidently she had clients all over the state who wanted fancy tissue boxes with toning tissues for their offices or for an advertising gimmick or something. Well, most of the so-called civilised world was mad, and customised tissue boxes seemed relatively harmless. And as Kyla had pointed out happily, it meant work for Ellen and her, and Fancy Feast as a weekly treat for Patches, Ellen’s cat!

    “What did you say to him in Oxford?” her tactless niece then asked.

    “Shuddup, Kyla!” hissed Jimbo.

    “That’s all right, Jimbo, I don’t mind telling you. Um, it was stupid. I found out he hadn’t let on he was a stupid lord, his family used to own a huge great hideous mansion we went to on the tour: it’s a National Trust house now. And I tore a strip off him, I was really furious.”

    “A lord?” gulped Kyla.

    “A stupid lord!” murmured a male voice from the doorway with a laugh in it, and they all jumped.

    A meek-looking, rumpled man of medium height with short pepper-and-salt hair was looking at them mildly. “Hullo; I’m his brother, the other stupid lord,” he said. “May I come in?”

    Harriet, rather naturally, had turned purple. “Yes!” she gasped. “Sorry! Come in! We’ll get out of your way!”

    The kids by now had stumbled to their feet. “He’s only asleep,” volunteered Jimbo hoarsely, turning almost as purple as his aunt.

    “Good. I won’t disturb him,” murmured John Narrowmine.

    Out in the corridor Harriet just headed numbly for the waiting area, so Kyla and Jimbo followed her. They all sat down, looking numb. It was an appreciable time before Kyla ventured: “Um, so what had he done?”

    “Crispin? Nothing. It was me, I just suddenly saw red. Well, I could see his clothes were very up-market, but he’d said he had a job, so I thought he was—well, I thought he was fairly well-off, but just an ordinary person.”

    “Only he’s a lord,” said Kyla.

    “Mm.”

    “I don’t see why you hadda get mad with him, though.”

    “Kyla, for Pete’s sake stop harping on it!” burst out Jimbo. “So what? I mean, heck, like she said, we’re all human!”

    “Yeah, with bodies that get huge great holes in them if beastly terrorists shoot them with guns,” said Harriet heavily. “Boy, if I needed anything to bring home to me how really dumb I was about the title crap, this has done it!”

    “Yeah, so shuddup!” the valiant Jimbo ordered his sister.

    “I wasn’t harping,” she protested, very red.

    “Ya were!”

    “That’s okay, Jimbo. I mean, I appreciate it, but I suppose it’s natural to take an interest. Ya don’t get many lords in Australia. Well, none, actually,” Harriet ended drily.

    “Nah,” Jimbo agreed. “Good thing too, eh? The Brits can keep them. Hey, in the old days, all the state governors used to be lords. Like Lord Lamington. That was up in Queensland, we done it last year in Social Awareness when we were looking at the derivation of Aussie cultural icons.”

    “Not Lamington, surely?” protested Kyla with a laugh.

    “Yeah, it’s where the lamingtons like, come from. They’re named after him. Or maybe after his wife, she was Lady Lamington, ’cos see, all the does they went to, the Queensland CWA and like them, they useda lay on these great afternoon teas. And maybe someone made these special little cakes and she liked them, so they called them after her!” he beamed.

    “Right. A bit like Melanie Satterthwaite’s dumb cousin naming her kid Harry after Prince Harry, eh, Kyla?” said Harriet drily. “Whaddaya bet everyone’ll think it’s after Harry Potter?”

    “’Tis about that dumb Melanie’s reading level!” choked Jimbo, suddenly going off in a spluttering fit.

    “Yeah!” she gasped, joining in.

    Kyla was rather flushed. “I think it’s a nice name.”

    “Mm,” agreed Harriet weakly. “So do I, actually.”

    “So what’s his name?”

    “Who?” replied Harriet blankly.

    “Crispin’s brother, of course!”

    “Lord,” noted Jimbo drily.

    “Um, well, he’d be Josh’s Uncle John. I dunno, Kyla, if ya mean his blimmin’ title. I think Crispin might’ve mentioned it—and I’m sure that dim guide at the hideous mansion did—but I can’t remember it.”

    “Anyway, who cares?” said Jimbo sturdily.

    “Exactly,” Harriet agreed firmly. “I suppose,” she noted, lapsing rather from the proper auntly stance, “we could always call him La-ha-Lamington!” She collapsed in helpless giggles, closely followed by Jimbo.

    Kyla didn’t think it was funny. She was very flushed.

    “Well! That’s better!” said a pleased contralto voice, and Jimbo’s and Harriet’s giggles ceased in midstream. Matron came up briskly, smiling at them. “Nice to see you all looking brighter, my dears. Now, did Mr Narrowmine find Crispin’s room all right?”

    Mister Narrowmine? Harriet swallowed, and was incapable of speech. Had someone been slinging Matron a line? Matron, of all people?

    Finally the intrepid Jimbo offered: “Um, yeah, if ya mean Josh’s Uncle John. He’s in there with him.”

    “Good!” she smiled.

    “Um, have ya seen Josh?” he ventured.

    “Yes, Jimbo, my dear: he went down to reception to fetch his uncle, but there was a representative from the British High Commission to see him as well, so he’s just having a word with him in my office.”

    “Matron,” said Harriet, suddenly turning very red: “they’re the mob that let Crispin in for being shot, you know! Please don’t let him disturb him, will you?”

    “Well, I don’t think the High Commission would have been directly responsible for that, my dear: from what Josh has told me, Crispin was getting his orders from MI5. But don’t worry: we shan’t let him be bothered by officialdom.”

    “Won’t you? Thanks awfully, Matron,” she said weakly. “I think you must be the only sensible person on the entire staff!”

    “Nonsense, Harriet!” replied Matron with a laugh—if a laugh could be brisk, hers was. “No-one at St Vincent’s wants our patients bothered by bureaucrats, I do assure you!”

    “Jill’s all right,” said Jimbo unexpectedly, turning very red.

    “Sister? Yes, she most certainly is!” she agreed. “Now, I hear the canteen has got in a large order of cranberry juice today, so why don’t you all pop along and try it?”

    “Ooh, really?” gasped Kyla. “It’s my absolute favourite!”

    “Splendid. Off you go, then!”

    And off they all went. Anybody would have. Well, possibly not Saddam Hussein in his heyday. But anybody else.

    … Yep, the cranberry juice was there, all right. It wouldn’t have dared not to be.

    The reason John Narrowmine hadn’t let Josh know he was coming, it was eventually revealed, was that he’d lost his number. At this point Jimbo burst into speech on the subject of smart phones, your “contact numbers” and other points of breathless technological interest, but was promptly howled down by his loving relatives. John then admitted with a twinkle in his eye that his home phone was about as old as he was, it didn’t store numbers. He’d written the number down but then he’d lost the piece of paper somewhere between Elinor coming down with pneumonia and packing for the trip. So he’d just got on a plane. Er—no, Jimbo, he’d never felt he needed a mobile phone on the farm.

    Of course when Trisha turned up—she finished earlier, not being fulltime—and then Steve, there were more explanations and John’s heartfelt thanks and the expectable somewhat embarrassed disclaimers from the Drinkwaters, but eventually the smoke cleared, and as Crispin was peacefully asleep they adjourned to that handy steakhouse. Where John duly goggled at the immense slab of meat on his plate.

    Jill had told them briskly that there was no need for anyone to stay overnight with Crispin now and Josh and Harriet needed to get some proper rest, so after they’d all been back to the hospital that evening and seen for themselves that Crispin was very peaceful and in fact did actually seem a better colour, and had been assured by a very young-looking Nurse Darlene that his temperature was normal, the Narrowmines gave in and let the Drinkwaters take them home and install them in the spare room that had once been Kyla’s, since it had two single beds in it. Harriet shared the loft: Kyla’s gracious abode now featured not only her own new queen-size bed but the original single one that had been in there, now doing duty as a sofa. It had been intended—before their falling out—for Miss Satterthwaite’s use during sleep-overs, but these had never eventuated, Steve’s claim being she was too stuck-up to condescend to their humble abode. Kyla generously offered her aunt the big bed but Harriet firmly took the small one.

    “John seems a decent joker, eh?” concluded Steve, yawning, as Trisha mucked round putting muck on her face. He turned off his bedside light but she didn’t take the hint and get into bed and let them get some sleep, she just went on mucking round.

    “Mm? Yes, of course,” she said vaguely.

    Steve yawned again. “Harrie said anything to you about him being a lord?”

    “What are you on about, Steve?” she sighed.

    “Eh? You were there! Aw—no, it was when me and Jimbo were putting our order in, come to think of it. ’E come out with some story about John really being a lord. Well, lamingtons got into it somehow—”

    “For Heaven’s sake, Steve! Stop burbling!”

    “No, well, according to Jimbo, John’s really a lord—well, he’s the older brother: I s’pose if one of them was, it’d be him, eh? Um, only come to think of it he said somethink about Harrie having a row with Crispin because he is, too. Back in Pongo, this was.”

    “Rubbish.” Trisha screwed the top back firmly onto her jar of night cream and stood up. “Put the bedside light on, for Pete’s sake.”

    “Eh? Oh.” Steve put his light on again while she went over to the door and turned the main light off.

    She got into bed with a firm look on her face. “Does he look like a blimmin’ lord?” she demanded on a grim note.

    “Uh—well, no, but—“

    “Then stop talking rubbish.”

    But the kid couldn’t have made up something like that out of thin air! Steve stopped talking rubbish, though. After twenty-two years of married life he more than knew when discretion was the better part of valour.

    Trisha had finally got round to ringing Aunty Mary and thanking her for putting Josh on to Harriet. Of course she had to have the full story—what Trisha knew of it, it still hadn’t dawned that Jimbo had been perfectly correct in claiming that John Narrowmine was a lord—and of course she had to just pop over— Nonsense, dear, it’d be no trouble! Oh, and she must tell her—

    Yeah, well, it was good news that Uncle Don had given in and got a hearing aid, but not such good news that he claimed any sort of electronic equipment made it go funny. They’d been back to “the place” three times and they kept saying there was nothing wrong with it, but… Yeah, yeah. In summary, she wouldn’t bring Uncle Don to St Vincent’s. No, well, probably just as well, he tended to shout, these days, and Crispin didn’t need that. If they’d even be allowed in: Harriet had reported gleefully that Matron hadn’t let the bloke from the blimmin’ British High Commission anywhere near him, and there’d been a cheeky policeman that wanted to ask him questions about who shot him but Jill had sent him off with a flea in his ear!

    Added to which, what if the blimmin’ hearing aid was wonky and it upset Crispin’s machines, rather than vice versa?

    So Aunty Mary Harrison turned up by herself. Sort of. If you didn’t count the huge bunch of flowers and the giant bags of stuff. She’d just rustled up—and perhaps he wasn’t eating properly yet— It was a Sunday, so the assembled Drinkwaters and  Narrowmines were all enabled to gape at her: with all those tubes going in and out of him? But a few little treats couldn’t hurt, and your uncle hadn’t felt like anything else after his prostate! Those who had been expecting these last syllables to be followed by the word “operation” were confounded, and the Narrowmines just looked limply at her. Not to say at the hermetically sealed dish of, er, custard? Helpfully, though possibly redundantly, Aunty Mary explained that it was ovenproof and microwave-safe, you see! Not the lid, of course. No, the lid wouldn’t be, it was some sort of softish plastic with a strange doo-hickey in its centre that—swift demonstration—helped it seal up nicely, you see!

    Besides the custard there was a large plastic container, possibly not Tupperware itself, but given Aunty Mary’s generation, not to say mind-set, possibly Tupperware, of home-made muffins: these just had sultanas and a bit of apple in them, the supermarket hadn’t had any blueberries, well, maybe it was the wrong time of year but she was sure they must grow them somewhere in Queensland or the Territory! It was that supermarket: you just couldn’t rely on it! And she had tried the frozen ones—no-one had even suggested frozen ones, not even Trisha: they all just looked at her limply—but they made the mixture too wet, don’t let anyone tell you different!

    “Ellen Gilbert, she done blueberry ones,” offered Jimbo unwisely into the unexpected silence.

    Aunty Mary got her breath. Or possibly her second wind. “I dare say, dear. A younger lady, is she?”

    “Yuh—um—dunno!”

    “Um, she’s about Mum’s age, I think,” put in Kyla in a small voice. “She’s the lady I’m working for, Aunty Mary. She’s very nice.”

    “That’s good, dear! A nice office, I hope, not like that other awful place?”

    Which of the many? “Um, no, she works from home!” she gasped.

    “Much nicer! And where does she live, Kyla?”

    The name of the suburb was greeted with a sniff and a significant: “I see!” And: “I dare say their supermarket does have blueberries out of season!” Then—more delving in the bags—it was “just some chocolates” because everybody liked them, didn’t they, and it cheered you up, didn’t it, to have something like that when you were stuck in bed—an enormous box, of course, though, the elder Drinkwaters registered in relief, not a really expensive brand—and they’d had a special on plain sponge cakes, so she’d thought why not? They were always popular, weren't they? Whipping open the giant plastic container to reveal—

    Poor Trisha went very red and glared at her ungrateful relatives, as Harriet gave a shriek and collapsed in giggles and Jimbo collapsed in hoarse guffaws.

    Yep, Aunty Mary had brought a huge batch of lamingtons.

    Very much later that evening, when only Josh and John were with him, Crispin opened his eyes and asked faintly but clearly: “What in God’s name are lamingtons?”

    His relatives exchanged helpless glances. Finally John volunteered: “Little brown cakes, old man, that look like small square hedgehogs.”

    Josh bit his lip, but as he couldn’t better this description, didn’t try.

    After quite some time Crispin murmured: “Am I delirious?”

    “No!” said Josh quickly. “Look, I’ll show you!” He leapt up, opened the container—not without difficulty, Australia apparently went in for the sort of plastic container that was designed for outer space: sealed for all eternity, right—and produced one. And held it up for him.

    “Small square hedgehog,” Crispin agreed faintly. “I am delirious.” Then he closed his eyes and apparently fell asleep again.

   John and Josh looked limply at each other. Finally Josh swallowed hard and said uncertainly: “A setback, do you think?”

    “Er… I don’t know, old chap! I mean, he isn’t delirious.”

    “No, but if he thinks he is? Um, should we ask the nurse?”

    “Josh, she’s an Australian: the hedgehog cakes will be the norm to her, she won’t know what we’re on about!”

    “No. Come to think of it, when I mentioned hedgehogs the family didn’t even seem familiar with them, did they?”

    “No, except for Harriet,” agreed John with a little smile.

    “Mm. She’s a reader,” Josh reported happily.

    Jolly good show! Crispin certainly wouldn’t be able to take a permanent helping of someone who wasn’t, and from what Josh had told him so far it certainly sounded as if that was what he was headed for!

    After a moment Josh noted: “At least Jill let him have a taste of the custard.”

    “Don’t,” John warned unsteadily.

    Their eyes met, and they both collapsed in helpless sniggers.

    The staff at RightSmart had been much exercised over whether to send Harriet’s shot-up boyfriend a get-well card—in addition to Harriet’s “Thinking of You” card, that was. Well, Marlene, the receptionist, certainly had, and Christie, their youngest personnel placement consultant, had joined in eagerly. The main problem, it turned out, was that they didn’t know his name.

    “That is a problem, yes,” the red-headed Iain Ross remarked drily to his boss in the privacy of her office.

    “Yes, though not a deterrent,” Gail replied, even drier.

    “No! Er—did young Kyla let it out to you?”

    Gail merely eyed him drily.

    “Gail, you can’t just leave the poor girls in suspenders!” he protested with a laugh. “Added to which, if the bloody thing isn’t resolved, we’ll never get any work out of them!”

    This was true. “Oh, well, I suppose I’d better end it,” she admitted, reaching for the phone.

    Iain listened to the subsequent conversation with a very sardonic expression indeed on his good-looking face. Gail had to spell, not only the surname, perhaps not surprising, Narrowmine wasn’t a very common name, but also the first name. The latter twice: they both—Christie was apparently out there in reception—seemed convinced she had it wrong, in fact Marlene’s: “Are you sure it’s not Christopher?” came over quite clearly.

    When she’d hung up he said sweetly: “Shouldn’t there be something in front of that? If these is the Narrowmines what I think they are.”

    Gail for once wasn’t on the ball and replied hazily: “Uh—the kid did go on about MI5, so, uh, well, I suppose he’d have some sort of military title, would he?”

    “Them an’ all,” replied Iain airily.

    The penny dropped. Bloody Iain Ross was actually Iain Duff-Ross—he’d explained sweetly that the family did use the hyphen, though as they claimed to be Scottish this was incorrect. His uncle owned huge tracts of Scotland, doubtless crofting land enclosed by his bloody English ancestors in the past, and was some sort of flaming Sir into the bargain. “Go on, enlighten my ignorance,” she said sourly.

    “I’m pretty sure it’s the family from Blefford Park. They don’t live in it, it’s a National Trust house now. Giant Baroque blot on the landscape of Oxfordshire. Think they live in the dower house. Uh—that’d be a brother, I think.”

    “Go on,” said Gail evilly.

    “Uh—well, if you like overdone Baroque that’s almost as awful as Castle How—”

    “No! Just spit it out, Iain!”

    “The head of the family is Lord Blefford.”

    “And?”

    Iain’s lips twitched. Most Aussies, he was damn’ sure, would have accepted that statement without thinking it might need clarification. “An earl, Gail. So if Harriet’s one’s a brother—”

    “Thanks, I do understand about English titles of honour.”

    Alone of her kind! Iain beamed upon her.

    “What’s that grin for?” asked his boss suspiciously.

    “Just that I love you, Gail,” he said sweetly.

    Gail Vickers was gay and Iain Ross was extremely hetero. “Thanks,” she replied drily. “In that case I’m sure I can ask you to do me the favour of not breathing a word—”

    “No! Pas si bête!” he said with a laugh.

    “Right. They can address the flaming thing to Crispin Narrowmine, care of St Vincent’s,” she said grimly.

    “Help, will the hospital get it to him?”

    “Of course!”

    Very well, of course they would. Iain trotted off smiling to reception, where he meekly admired the lovely card, incidentally made sure the girl had got the name right, and meekly signed, putting, since Marlene seemed to expect more than just a signature and she and Christie had in fact inscribed glowing wishes for a speedy recovery, “All the best, Iain Ross.” Not his usual signature, no, but he was quite sure Marlene would have been upset if he’d just put “I. Ross”.

    He wandered back to his office reflecting that if Crispin Narrowmine had any sense he’d apply to stay on in Australia once he’d recovered, but that a chap who was bloody silly enough to volunteer for something that got him shot up by bloody Arabs—Iain had had a considerable stint in Iraq with the British Army, so there was some excuse for his racist terminology—probably didn’t have any sense, no.

    Several weeks had now gone by and Crispin was much brighter. John had gone home: it was a busy time of year on the farm, they had to get the harvest in, and it was obvious the patient was really on the mend, now. Josh was staying on, but he’d relaxed to the extent of occasionally going off to explore Sydney. Well, a large part of the exploring seemed to be at the State Library of New South Wales, where he’d apparently made friends with somebody who looked after their very old books, but whatever turned you on! And in the weekends he was amiably letting Steve drag him off to the footy. It was Australian Rules, so he probably didn’t understand a fraction of what was going on on the field, but they both seemed happy, so that was all right. Kyla was still coming in conscientiously to keep Harriet company every afternoon, and Jimbo was still managing several afternoons a week, having explained airily, once Crispin got up the strength to question him, that he could do most of his homework on the train.

    The worst of the unwanted visitors had now been dispatched—cross fingers. The ruddy policeman had been the worst by far. All poor Crispin could remember was that there’d been a bloke with a gun when he’d gone to a rendezvous appointed by a nameless voice on the phone. What could he tell them about the voice? Er, it was male, at least, he couldn’t remember but he was sure it must have been. Well, was it an Aussie? He couldn’t remember. Well, had it spoken English, at least? Er… he was very sorry but he honestly couldn’t say. Why not? At that point Harriet had bounced up and said angrily: “Look, get out! He can’t remember anything, isn’t that obvious? It’s a miracle he can even remember the bloke having a gun, most people completely block out traumatic events when they’re badly injured. And get out!” The man might have objected, in fact he looked as if he was about to, but Crispin started to cough and Jill shot in, so that was all she wrote.

    The next most irritating was the official visitor from the High Commission. Papers to sign? For God’s sake, he couldn’t even sit up properly, he wasn’t up to signing bloody papers! The idiot started bleating about the paperwork having to be filled in so Harriet rushed out and fetched Jill. All she wrote: right.

    “I could have signed,” said Crispin faintly.

    As he had his eyes shut, Harriet retorted firmly: “No, ya couldn’t,” and Jill took his temperature, patted his good hand and told him to get some rest and not worry.

    “Not… worrying,” he said faintly, smiling with his eyes shut.

    Silently Jill passed Harriet a bunch of tissues.

    “Thanks!” she gulped, blowing.

    “You’d better get me straight away if there’s another one,” she murmured, going.

    So when another one turned up, Harriet rushed out immediately and got her. Not neglecting to close Crispin’s door with the visitor on the outside of it.

    “I’m sorry,” Jill said firmly to the unassuming-looking young man in the extremely smart zoot-suit, “but Crispin isn’t up to receiving visitors just yet. Anything official will just have to wait.”

    “No, it’s not official!” he gasped.

    “You said you were from the ruddy British High Commission,” noted Harriet grimly.

    “Um, yes, I am, but I’m just a friend! I mean, he shared my flat in Canberra!” he gulped. “I— We were terribly shocked to hear the news. I mean, I knew—well, I suppose I assumed, the high-ups don’t tell you anything—that he was something hush-hush, but— And there was something on the news about a shooting in Sydney and suspected terrorists but we had no idea—! I mean, they didn’t give his name, so… Um, and I think they’ve known for ages at the Commission, but nobody told me, I had to hear it from one of the girls! I’d have come before if only I’d known!”

    Harriet swallowed hard. Ooh, heck.

    “Then of course you can see him,” said Jill nicely. “Just don’t upset him by talking about the incident, will you?”

    “No, of course not!” he gasped. “Thanks so much!”

    “We had a horrible man that talked and talked and tried to make him sign stuff,” Harriet explained awkwardly.

    “From the Commission? They would!” he said bitterly. “Honestly! It was bad enough when poor Barbara Wingate broke her leg and both arms skiing: I ask you, how can a person sign silly forms with both arms in plaster?”

    “No, quite,” said Jill smoothly, while Harriet was still gulping. “Well, just call me if you need me, Harriet, dear.” And with this she went back to her little office.

    “Um, I will try not to disturb him,” said the young man humbly to Harriet.

    “Yes, of course. Come in.” She opened the door and they went in, the visitor gulping at the sight of Crispin, now propped up slightly, with the mess that was his chest showing, and still plenty of tubes. Not to mention those terrifying machines by the bed. His eyes were shut but he’d been awake before, so she said: “Crispin, are you awake? There’s a friend from Canberra to see you.”

    He opened his eyes, and smiled. “Hullo, Gary.”

    “Hullo, Crispin,” gulped Gary, sounding about Jimbo’s age in spite of the suit. “Terribly sorry and all that.”

    “Rats. Own stupid fault,” he murmured, making a face.

    “Sit down, um, Gary, is it? Take this chair,” said Harriet. “Um, he’s brought you some lovely flowers, Crispin.”

    Jumping, Gary proffered the flowers, and sat down. “Um, well, thought of grapes but they don’t seem to be in season.”

    “That’s okay, these are lovely.”

    “Good,” said Gary in tones of heartfelt relief. It was an enormous bunch of gorgeous red roses, it must have set him back a packet. “Um, well, only just heard, no-one tells me anything, of course, or I’d have come over before, honest!”

    “That’s okay. Timed it well, really, I was pretty out of it earlier. This is Harriet Harrison, by the way. Harriet, darling, this is Gary Butler. He kindly let me share his flat; accommodation’s at a premium in Canberra.”

    “Yes, it’s all those ruddy public servants and the flaming pollies grabbing places they only use a few days a week and driving the prices up,” she agreed. “I’ll go and find a vase for these lovely roses while you have a chat.”

    She went out, to the accompaniment of Crispin asking with a smile in his voice how they all were at the Commish and Gary taking a deep breath and beginning: “Well—”

    She was filling a vase in the little sink room that the nurses let her use when Jill came in and said: “He seems a pleasant young man, Harriet.”

    “Yes. He was genuinely upset,” she agreed. “Crispin used to share his flat In Canberra. Um, well, I think he’s gay but, um, well, Englishmen aren’t as macho as our mob tend to be, and you might have thought that Crispin might be, too—”

    Jill’s eyes twinkled. “I never thought that for an instant, Harriet!”

    “Um, no, didn’t you?” she gasped, very flustered. “No, well, he definitely isn’t, so I think it was really nice of Gary to let him share his flat, don’t you?”

    Many people might have pointed out that possibly he just wanted someone to  help with the rent, and those less naïve might have pointed out that Crispin wouldn’t necessarily be unattractive to a young gay man, but Jill just agreed nicely. And helped her arrange the roses in the vase.

    Crispin had now received quite a few get-well cards, so Kyla had appointed herself to demonstrate them all to him. Unfortunately there was no-one available to stop her, this afternoon: Harriet had been hauled off on a shopping expedition by her Aunty Mary, and Josh was at the State Library again. She held one up. “This one’s really lovely, see?”

    It was certain extremely elaborate. “Mm,” he murmured.

    She read out the card’s own effusive message and then explained: “It says ‘To Crispin, wishing you all the best for a speedy recovery, from all Harriet’s friends at RightSmart.’ Like, that’s our temp agency that gets us jobs!” she beamed. “See, they found loads of jobs for Aunty Harrie before Uncle Ben left her all those shares in BHP-The-Big-Astrayan and them, and they found me my job with Ellen Gilbert, too!”

    “I see,” he murmured.

    Happily Kyla proceeded to read out what each staff member had put, with brief biogs of each personality. Ending: “Help, this is awful writing! Um… ‘All the best, Iain Ross.’ He’s, like, one of the senior placement consultants. He’s got red hair but he's real handsome as well, ya wouldn’t think so, wouldja? I mean, they usually have awful freckles. But he’s gorgeous. Old, though.”

    She’d paused, so he murmured: “I see.”

    This was apparently enough encouragement for Kyla to pursue: “Marlene—she’s the receptionist, I told you about her, eh?—well, she was telling me that he’s a British Army man, too! She reckons there was this man, he saved his life, that’s why he wrote him a reference!”

    “Uh—did you say Ross?”

    “Yeah, Iain Ross. He spells it funny only I think it’s supposed to be Scotch.”

    “British?”

    “Yeah, he talks like you and John and Josh.”

    Crispin swallowed. “I think we may have met.”

    “Heck, was he a spy, too?” she gasped.

    He had already tried to explain—and her brother had, too, come to that—that he was not and had never been a spy. Crispin didn’t bother to sigh, it tired his chest. “No, this was when I was with the regiment.”

    “Hey, wouldja like to see him? ’Cos I could give him a bell—”

    “No, that’s all right, thanks, Kyla.”

    “It’s funny he didn’t put somethink, like, personal,” she decided, looking dubiously at the card.

    Was it? If she said so.

    She picked up the next card. “This one is from England,” she announced impressively.

    Er… how in God’s name could she tell?

    “See?” She whipped out the envelope which someone had carefully folded and put inside the card.

    Who done dat dere? He couldn’t imagine Harriet or either of his relatives doing it for an instant. “Mm?” he murmured.

    “It’s a bit plain. Smart, though!” she decided. “See? It just says ‘Get Well Soon’, that’s like, on it, and ‘All the best, Martin Richardson’.—I think it’s Martin. It might be Melvin.”

    “Uh—no, I do know a Martin Richardson.” In fact Richardson had been the chap whose life Ross had saved in Bosnia, unless he was misremembering. Crispin started to feel a bit dizzy: after all he was at the other side of the world, Martin was with the War Office; and what in God’s name was Iain Ross, an iconoclast if ever he’d met one, doing in Sydney working for, ye gods, a temp agency? “Wheels within wheels,” he said faintly, closing his eyes.

    Kyla got up quickly. “Are you okay?” she breathed, leaning over him. “Want a sip of water?”

    She had long since appointed herself chief water-carrier: he had an idea she was fascinated by the bent straw arrangement of the water bottle. “Mm, lovely,” he murmured.

    The usual iron fist held the bottle firmly for him while he sipped, perforce. He was, actually, up to holding it for himself, now, but never mind.

    “Shall I go on?” she asked hopefully.

    “Mm; that’s a pretty one with the pink roses,” he murmured.

    “Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it? It’s from Aunty Mary’s Bella, ya won’t know her, she lives down in Tazzie but Aunty Mary will of told her, ya see.” She opened it and read out its interior message, which was, of course, in addition to the fulsome one emblazoned on its front. “‘With Very Best Wishes for Your Speedy Recovery’: that’s nice, eh? And she’s put from all of them.” She read out the exact wording but by this time he’d have been disappointed if she hadn’t. “Nice of her, eh?”

    “Very nice,” Crispin agreed, smiling.

    “Yeah. I’ll put it here, shall I? Next to your flowers!” She put it next to the roses from Gary, which were still going strong. “He brung a lovely card, too!” She duly showed it to him. Blimey: York as well as Lancaster! He’d really made an effort, bless him!

    “Hey, it was decent of him to come over from Canberra, eh?”

    “Very decent,” he murmured.

    “Yeah; mind you, ya can do it easy in a day: like, you could have the whole day in Sydney if ya caught the red-eye.”

    “What?” he fumbled.

    “Like, say ya had a breakfast meet at eight o’clock, it’d get ya here in real good time. It leaves around six, ya see.” Possibly something about his expression caught her notice, because she then added: “It’s only a short flight.”

    “Y— Uh, yes. Well, rather like London to Birmingham, I suppose.”

    “That right? It’s only about 250 K to Canberra if ya fly, Dad reckons.”

    If his brain was functioning correctly, the flying distance to Birmingham was about 100 miles, which would be… a hundred and sixty kilometres? About that! “Mm.”

    “Only he might of caught a later flight: he didn’t need to get here first thing, eh?”

    Er… Oh! Gary. “No, well, I hope he didn’t get up at crack of d—” Belatedly he got it. “Bleary and red-eyed, eh?” he said, smiling.

    “Yeah, that’s right.” She picked up another card. “This one’s pretty: it’s got irises on it! Do ya like irises?”

    “Very much,” he murmured.

    “Hey, I wonder if they’re in season? I could try the florists for ya!”

    “You mustn’t do any such thing,” said Josh’s voice from the doorway. He came in, smiling. “You’ve all done far too much for him already, Kyla, and he’s got lots of flowers. Are you showing him the cards?”

    Bother, that thought ray to the effect “Please stop her if you want me to retain my sanity” hadn’t reached him. Crispin leaned back and prepared to sit through it.

    There were several more English cards, and Josh had to explain exactly who they were from. She approved of the ones from John’s kids but was disappointed that neither of them had any photos of the kids on their phones. Crispin was feeling slightly stronger, as Josh had been fielding all the questions for him, so he made the mistake of saying foggily: “Do people?”

    “Eh? ’Course!” She bounced up, retrieved her phone from her capacious handbag—the first sight of which had made Crispin blink, until he’d realised it was only a clone—and showed him. Aunty Mary’s Bella’s little kids—right. And that was Melanie Satterthwaite’s cousin’s little boy, Harry: cute, wasn’t he? Limply Crispin agreed. Winston Churchill to the life. Oh, well!

    “I haven’t got any photos of our cousins in Brizzie,” she then revealed sadly. “Like, we did meet them at Uncle Ben’s funeral, everybody came, only I never thought of it. Aunty Daphne, she’s like my great-aunt, really, she’s Dad’s aunt, well, she’s got a big back garden, we could of had a bouncy castle for them, I thought it was a good idea, but she told them not to be silly.”

    Not a syllable of that had made sense. Crispin looked limply at his son.

    “That’s a pity,” Josh said smoothly, “but I suppose it wouldn’t really have been appropriate at a funeral.”

    “Nah, maybe, only it was only afterwards. You know, when we had the party.”

    Hah, hah! Josh was reduced to a gulp!

    “They call it a wake, Kyla,” murmured Crispin.

    “Aw, yeah, I knew there was a funny word for it!” she replied happily.

    Somebody up there must love Crispin Narrowmine after all, because she then decided, since Josh was here to keep an eye on him, that she'd just see if the cafeteria had any of that cranberry juice left, and—not without urging them to choose something for her to bring back for them—went.

    Crispin felt too weak to talk. He just sagged limply against his pillows.

    ‘How’s the shoulder?” murmured Josh after a while.

    “Itching,” he sighed. “And the arm. Every square inch of it, ’smatter of fact.”

    “Fully deserved,” replied Josh severely.

    “Yeah.”

    Silence fell.

    After quite some time Crispin murmured: “Gosh, isn’t it quiet?”

    “She’ll be back,” he warned drily.

    “Mm. Oh, dear!” Crispin laughed weakly.

    “Don’t laugh, Dad, it’ll strain your chest.”

    “Had—to,” he wheezed. “No, I’m okay, Josh. Oh, lawks. She’s such a dear little girl, but… She seems to have no terms of reference outside her own little peer group and the crap she gets off the media.”

    “It’s not an uncommon syndrome back in Britain either, Dad.”

    “No, but… Well, the brother seems quite bright.”

    “Mm. Nice lad, isn’t he? No, well, look at me and Jacintha,” Josh ended drily.

    “A very valid comparison. Kyla greatly admires her get-well card,” replied Jacintha’s father. He watched with a smile in his eyes as Josh shook helplessly for some time.

    They’d gone over him with a fine-tooth comb this morning: the neurosurgeon had ordered scans, so they did that, and barely was he back in bed when the blasted cardio-thoracic chap turned up—well, very nice fellow, yes, but the poking and prodding—ow!—and the checking on this, that and t’other… More scans? Oh, no! Oh, yes. There was a delay of at least five minutes and then the smiling Brett turned up with the trolley… Barely was he back in bed after that when the physiotherapist came in. Why the Devil was the girl—and the male nurse with her, yeah, him an’ all—why the Devil were they looking so cheerful? He knew that lying around in bed wasn’t doing him any good.—Did he? He’d have contested that one strongly if he’d had any strength.—So come along! Wouldn’t it have been simpler if they’d just helped him out of bed and let him totter along the corridor? No—well, yes, much, but that wasn’t how it was done. The trolley again. Brett and the male nurse got him onto it and he was wheeled off to the proper place. A very large room full of, um, railings, really. Unfortunate victims in horrid hospital gowns struggling along slung between them, kind of thing.

    After that—at long, long last, yes—he was finally allowed to rest… No, he wasn’t.

    “Lunchtime!”

    Oh, God. Brett was a very helpful, friendly chap, but just at this moment he’d have preferred—well, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, say. Something lugubrious: quite. He didn’t ask what Lucullan delights the rest of the patients were having, he just let Brett help him with the approved muck. Maybe next week he could have chicken, Brett suggested kindly. It seemed like a lovely dream. He had pointed out that he could chew, not to say that the surgeon had said he was very, very lucky that the bullets had missed his digestive tract—they would have, yeah, bullets in the left lung would be liable to do that—he didn’t even ask what today’s muck was, he just got it down him.

    Harriet must have turned up some time after he’d dozed off, because she was sitting there when he woke up.

    “Jill said you had physio this morning.”

    “And the rest. –Scans. Prodding. Poking. More scans. Shlop for lunch. Brett being kind,” he sighed.

    “Don’t be so ungrateful!” she replied, smiling.

    “They’re wonderful, and I am grateful, but it was all at once. I say, you know that delicious-sounding cranberry juice that Kyla—”

    She’d ask Jill. Bother.

    She came back with the report that Jill thought it might be a bit acid for him at this stage, but just a small glass.

    That was the highlight of the day so far. By a million miles. “Delicious,” he sighed.

    “Good. Well, if you get the runs, you can comfort yourself with the thought that you asked for it,” the woman he adored replied hard-heartedly.

    “Thanks.”

    “I can’t stay, I promised Kyla I’d pop over to meet Ellen Gilbert this arvo, and Trisha’s managed to make up some time, she’s picking me up.” She looked at her watch, got up, said cheerfully: “See ya later!” And dashed out.

    Bother.

    It must have been well after four when he opened his eyes to find Jimbo sitting by the bed, reading. “How are ya?” he asked hoarsely.

    Well, there was no sign of the runs. “Fine, thanks, Jimbo,” he lied. “Swot?”

    “Nah, I done my homework on the train. It’s a book Miss Hunter said I might like.”

    “Miss Hunter?”

    “She takes the seniors for English.”

    “So you have women teachers as well as men?”

    “Yeah, ’course. It’s not like Britain,” he said kindly. “Josh was saying he hadda go to an all-boys school.”

    Oh, good grief! “So it’s a mixed school, Jimbo? Boys and girls?”

    “Yeah, ’course. Bells Road High. Mum and Aunty Harrie, they went there, too.”

    “I see. So what’s the book?”

    “A Tale of Two Cities. It’s not bad. A bit hard, only ya get used to the way he puts things. It’s all about the French Revolution. I thought that Dickens, he only wrote about England.”

    “Mainly. Have you got to the bit about Madame Defarge yet?” asked Crispin, his eyes twinkling.

    “Nah. Who’s she?”

    “A tricoteuse,” said a new voice from the doorway. A tall, good-looking man in perhaps his early fifties looked in, smiling. “French for knitter. One of the ghoulish hags who used to sit at the foot of the guillotine knitting while the heads rolled.”

    “Sounds all right!” Jimbo conceded, grinning.

    “I’ve always thought so, mm. May I come in, Narrowmine? Martin Richardson asked me to look you up. –Gil Sotherland,” he explained.

    Good grief! Talk about a blast from the past! Not to say wheels within wheels. “Bosnia,” said Crispin faintly. “Come in, Gil.”

    He came in, smiling, was introduced to Jimbo and sat down. “’Fraid Martin’s got the idea that you ought to chat to a fellow-sufferer,” he explained, making a face.

    “Did you get shot up, too?” gasped Jimbo.

    “Mm. Iraq.”

    “Heck!”

    “Something like that, mm.”

    “Did they get you in the lung, as well?”

    “Yes. However, one only needs one.”

    “Yeah, the doctor said that,” he conceded. “Were you in St Vincent’s, too?”

    “No, a hospital in London. With the British forces, you see.”

    “I geddit. Did they make you do physio an’ stuff?”

    “Endlessly,” Gil Sotherland admitted.

    “Yeah, they’re making Crispin do it, too. Like, we think he’d do just as good walking down the corridor and back, eh, Crispin?”

    “Absolutely. Mind you, if one fell over I suppose those damned parallel bars would help.”

    “Unless ya just fell forward or backwards,” replied the percipient Jimbo.

    “Quite!” gasped Gil. “Added to which, grabbing at the rail with the one good hand is kind of apt to result in wrenching the one good shoulder.”

    “Yeah, it would, eh?” he agreed thoughtfully, what time Crispin tried very hard not to laugh.

    “Sorry,” said Gil, grinning at him. “You up to eating yet?”

    “Yes, but they won’t let me!” replied Crispin a lot more bitterly than he'd intended—though about as bitterly as he felt.

    “See, he was out of it for yonks. –You don’t wanna overstrain your stomach, after they’ve been feeding you intravenously for weeks and weeks,” Jimbo reminded him.

    “So the story runs, yes,” he sighed. “Easing me into it slowly. I was allowed a small glass of cranberry juice as a special concession today, though.”

    “That’s good,” said Gil smoothly. “Well, various idiot nephews and such-like urged various delicious and hard-to-chew viands on me for you, but as we decided the lavender-flower ice cream might not last out the trip in the esky—I’m about three hours out of the city up in the hills, way up the end of an obscure meandering inlet, and there’s a B&B up the road with a great cook—I’ve just brought you a little bowl of fluff.” Forthwith he produced it and opened it.

    “Pavlova!” discerned Jimbo. “Hey, that’s nice and light, you can eat that okay, Crispin!”

    “Mm. Persuaded them not to put the usual strawberries on, or kiwis, might be too acid,” Gil explained. “Just the fluff. Left off the cream, too.”

    “Yeah, it’s good, mind you, but it might of been a bit rich,” noted Jimbo. “Didja bring a spoon, Gil?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    Okay, he’d have to eat it, whatever it was. Gingerly Crispin tried it. It wasn’t all fluff, the fluff was sort of contained in, er, crunchy bits. Sugary. “Yum, yum!” he reported, grinning. “Thanks very much, Gil. I may feel human again some time in the next millennium.”

    “Yep, everybody loves pavlova,” said Gil smugly.

    “Yeah. It’s good with passionfruit, too,” said Jimbo seriously, “only not everybody likes the seeds. You done good to bring it, like, not all collapsed.”

    “I think that’s more thanks to the cook, Jimbo. I just put this nice little lidded bowl carefully in my bag and made sure the bag wasn’t going to fall over in the car. And promised to carry it very carefully,” he ended, poker-face.

    “Good. Hey, were you in Crispin’s regiment?”

    “Boot on the other foot,” murmured Crispin.

    Ignoring this, Colonel Sotherland explained smoothly: “No, different regiments, but we were in a joint operation at one stage.”

    “In Bosnia?”

    “That’s right. Filthy hole. Civilians slaughtering one another, their so-called military slaughtering civilians, mud to the eyebrows.”

    “Sounds bad. Hey, do you reckon the Yanks’ll ever really withdraw from Iraq and Afghanistan?”

    Gil and Crispin exchanged glances, and Gil admitted: “Probably not, Jimbo. The bloody Yank arms manufacturing industry’s got too much pull with the politicians, you see.”

    “I never thought of that,” he admitted. “We discussed it when we were doing modern history,”—the two elderly gentlemen in his audience tried not to wince—“only they all started arguing and Mr Sullivan, he said that was enough, if we couldn’t discuss it sensibly our stream could do some calculus and the others, they could swot up their French grammar.”

    “I see. So you’ve started calculus, Jimbo?” Gil asked.

    “Yeah. Well, sort of. We’re doing a bit this year. It’s interesting, eh?”

    “Very,” Gil agreed, smiling.

    “Mr Sullivan said that Bosnia, it was a bloody mess,” he confided.

    “He was right.”

    “Yeah. He’s pretty good value, really. Only the Head Teacher, he won’t let him take a school party to Woomera to test his rockets. Mum said good on him and Dad said he was only thinking of his bottom line if the parents tried to sue him if there was an accident.”

    “Got it!” Gil assured him, grinning, while Crispin choked slightly.

    Then there was a pause in the conversation, not to say a guilt-ridden silence on the part of pavlova consumers and providers, as a nurse bustled in, took the patient’s temperature and checked his charts, reminded the visitors not to tire him, and bustled out again.

    “Talking of Bosnia, Gil,” said Crispin, “do you remember Iain Ross?”

    “Of course! Pulled Martin Richardson out of a tight spot there. He’s living in Sydney, did you know?”

    “Mm. Working for a temp agency,” said Crispin limply.

    Gil smiled. “A considerable amount of sock-pulling-up has gone on since you met him, Crispin. Married a lovely girl, settled down to domesticity in the Sydney suburbs, loving the work at the temp agency. Every day a new challenge, one gathers: similar in kind, but different in specifics. Gather he’s being groomed for managerial responsibility.”

    “Yeah, he’s the guy that Aunty Harrie reckons that Gail, she wants to be a partner in the business,” said Jimbo helpfully.

    ”Your aunt knows RightSmart?” croaked Gil, what time Crispin eyed him sardonically, not all that displeased to see him phased.

    “Yes, she was temping for them for ages. And my sister.”

    “Mm. Are they coming back here this afternoon, Jimbo?” asked Crispin.

    “Yeah, ’course, they’re gonna pick me up, Mum’s got the car.”

    Right.

    “Er, before they get here—” Gil began. He broke off.

    “Mm?”

    He grimaced. “Look, this is bloody ludicrous, old man, but Martin seems to have appointed himself chief trick-cyclist to the troops, and I’m under orders to tell you—well, that having a tin shoulder and one lung is liveable with. Sorry.”

    “It wouldn’t be tin, would it, these days?” ventured Jimbo.

    The two embarrassed elderly gentlemen smiled upon him in relief and Gil explained: “No, there’s a hunk of titanium in there, um, replacing the joint, or so they tell me. Limited mobility, is the euphemism.”

    “I geddit. Crispin, he’s had an operation, but Jill, she’s the sister, she’s ace, well, she told me that if he does his exercises and follows their advice once the bones have knit he should be okay.”

    “That’s good.”

    “And Darlene, she’s one of the nurses, um, well, she let it out that ya scar tissue, it kinda pulls for ages after a serious operation. I don’t think she was supposed to tell me, because one of the older nurses, she come along and shut her up, but anyway, I looked it up on the Internet and it’s true. But there’s special ointment and stuff you can use. Did you have big scars?”

    “Yeah. Darlene was right, they do pull like buggery. Front and back,” Gil admitted wryly. “It’s slackened off these days, though. –Well, that’s the gen, Crispin. Sorry.”

    “Don’t mensh. About what I expected, actually. And you can tell Martin from me that he’s developing into a bloody mother hen in his old age.”

    Gil’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, I already have, but I’m happy to repeat it. I’m pretty fit these days, though the silly bugger won’t believe it. Do a fair bit of riding. My nephew and I are running a horse-trekking enterprise for doods. Got a bunkhouse, fourteen nags plus my nephew’s Palomino, and one donkey, we call him One Donkey.”—The expected startled guffaw from Jimbo.—“Not making our fortunes, but it’s a healthy life. I teach the novices, Phil takes the longer, all-day treks. Nothing strenuous, just along the creek, cross over where it’s really shallow, picnic lunch, and amble home.”

    “Sounds all right!” beamed Jimbo. “Hey, that sounds like that place Aunty Harrie knows. She went to an ecolodge, there was a place that did horse riding just down the road, and a crafts place, she got Mum a little picture there.”

    “Good grief,” said Gil limply. “We’re at Potters inlet, Jimbo, and the ecolodge up the road from us is Blue Gums Ecolodge.”

    “That’s the place, yeah!”

    “Small world,” murmured Crispin. “Well, possibly it’s shrinking in the wake of Richardson’s good offices. Show him Martin’s card and the one from the RightSmart people, would you, Jimbo?”

    … “Right,” concluded Gil somewhat numbly. “Small world, indeed. I say, do you feel rather…”

    “Dizzy? Yes,” Crispin admitted.

    “Disoriented, but dizzy’ll do.”

    They looked at each other and grinned feebly.

    … Gil Sotherland was rather relieved, and the dizziness in his case dissipated somewhat, to find when Jimbo’s relatives turned up that this “Aunty Harrie” was Crispin’s girlfriend! Well, that certainly clarified why he was incarcerated in Sydney’s best hospital with a very typical Australian schoolboy paying him a sick visit!

    Another batch of cards had come in—clearly bloody Martin had told everyone he knew, and the clots at ’5 had more than got into the act—half of these seemed to be from their better halves, for God’s sake! And who in the world were Daphne and Phil? …Steve’s rellies from Brizzie. Right.

    There was only one thing for it, clearly. Cunningly waiting until Josh and Harriet had gone off to get coffee, Crispin said: “Kyla, you know that idea you mentioned about putting cards into an album?’

    Her face lit up. “Yeah! Shall I? I been doing scrapbooking, ya know, there’s a club near us; well, they’re mostly quite old, but I’m learning up a lot of techniques!”

    “Lovely,” he said hypocritically.

    “I’ll sort through them now!” Eagerly she fell upon them…

    Crispin did feel a little guilty, but alas, not much.

    … “I suppose you think that was funny,” noted his beloved grimly.

    “Yes, but I’m a poor, sick boy—”

    “Shut up. If ya thought that’d be the last of the blimmin’ fuss over the cards you were wrong. Just wait.”

    He waited. Nothing else he could do, stuck here, was there?

    She was right. The cover, the layout, the glitter, the twirled things, the glued-on things, the frilled things, with or without lace, with or without gold lace— Oh, help, la!

Next chapter:

https://trialsofharrietharrison.blogspot.com/2023/08/among-people-that-walk-with-their-heads.html