A Colonel To Dinner

4

A Colonel To Dinner

February 4 Not. We entered the Ovenden kitchen at the déjeuner hour to be met by the unpropitious sight of Mr O. and Horrible Hearty Henry eating bread and jam with resigned looks on their faces.

    “Why are you eating bread, respected Pater?” asked Egg. “What’s wrong with the toaster?”

    To which Mr Ovenden replied literally: “Henry stuck a knife into its innards and it went bang.”

    We all looked hopefully at Horrible Hearty Henry, but alas, he did not present the frizzled-haired, bug-eyed, electric-blue look of one whose heart had just been arrested by electric shock.

    “I say,” he said, “how are Lower Bumbleton doing in the match?”

    We older Junior Drones all looked blank but Bean Minor piped: “Losing.” With considerable satisfaction: he doesn’t like Horrible Hearty Henry—well, no-one does, but in this instance there is a verifiable reason, to wit the Horrible Hearty one’s having told him once too often to “Throw your heart over, boy!” on the Slug. Whereas even I know that no amount of heart-throwing-over will induce the Slug to shamble along at more than a shamble.

    Horrible Hearty Henry’s horrible face fell. He’s an Old Bumbletonian, and feels terrific solidarity with the village adjoining that putrid establishment of minor public school learning. Tho he didn’t stir his, hah, hah, stumps and get along to the match. That would have required things like forethought and organisation, and working out how to fit it in with his supposed duties with the horses. Not to say the realisation that all the stable lads would be heartily glad to see the back of him and would have been only too happy to fill in for him, if so be there had been any assigned duty he was supposed to carry out other than falling off any given quadruped.

    No-one pointed out that Bean Minor was being distinctly over-optimistic and that with only one innings played, as even I know, one can’t really tell who’s winning or losing a cricket match, and we all, with a bit of parental shouting about rinsing the hands, sat down to a lunch of bread and jam. And tepid tea, since there was a huge pot of it and Mr O. didn’t object that Bean Minor was probably too young to be supping the caffeine output of the camellia bush.

    “I say,” said Egg, as Horrible Hearty Henry, having discovered that the cake tin held only the crumbs of a fruit-cake, shambled out, “you do know there’s nothing for dinner, do you, Dad, and she’s invited Colonel Raice to a dinner party?”

    “Mm?” replied Mr O. from inside a paper of the racing or sporting variety.

    “A dinner party, Uncle Ian,” drawled Flossie. “You know: where one sits down to a civilized meal and consumes civilized food, or at the very least mutton with caper sauce and the odd mackerel larded with goosegog. Together with egregious colonel chappies that are a good two generations too old for young Sister Bean, here.”

    “Mm? Oh,” he said, lowering the paper, “have you still got a crush on John Raice, Mel, dear? Well, I dare say it won’t do you any harm, and he’s a decent man. And I suppose all girls have crushes at your age,” he added, sounding vague, in fact almost like his helpmeet. “Tho I don’t think Pamela did, did she, Alan?”

    “Egg, if you don’t mind, Pater,” the Egg returned sternly. “No, she went straight from flaxen-haired dolls to flaxen-haired oiks with unspeakable squashed little Hunnish vehicles masquerading as sports cars.”

    “Well yes, vile; give me a decent Aston Martin or Lotus Elan any day!” Mr O. agreed with a grin—he’s rather keen on vintage cars, at least Bean claims I should say Classic cars instead, but anyway, them. Very old shiny sports cars quite possibly driven by Sean Connery in those really good old James Bond films, now they are Classics.

    “Yes!” piped Bean Minor excitedly. “I read a thing that said that Porsches were invented by the Nazis!”

    At which there was a certain silence, oh dear, that camellia caffeine had gone straight to his poor little brain. Not to mention the amount of J,A,M lightly supported by white bread and butter the child had consumed.

    “Ah… More than likely, Bean Minor, old chap,” Flossie conceded at last. “Actually I rather think Egg’s point there, Uncle Ian, about three thousand millennia back, might have been that there’s nothing in the fridge and you’ve got dinner guests coming.”

    “Yes,” Bean agreed, gazing fixedly at Mr O.

    “It’s no use looking at, me, boys, I haven’t got a magic wand,” our host stated firmly, getting up. “I’ll be in the stables, checking Peregrine Pry’s leg, if anybody phones, but they won’t.” With this he exited, stage left.

    “Oh dear!” squeaked Bean Minor. “Isn’t Peregrine Pry the one that was going to win the Derby?”

    There was a short silence. Then the Crumpet volunteered kindly: “They’ve had that, old chum.”

    “Oh.”

    “He didn’t win,” Bean added.

    “Oh. So—so what’s wrong with his leg?” he quavered.

    “Throwing out a splint!” we all replied rather vociferously.

    “Don’t be horrible! You chaps always say that!” the boy cried in anguish.

    Oddly enough a disconcerted silence fell.

    “The bally ball’s in your court, Egg, old chum,” said Flossie at last. “It is your dad’s place, after all. None of us are horsey, y’know.”

    Actually the Crumpet would be if his dad didn’t keep dragging him off unexpectedly to tropic climes just when he was planning to get out on a decent hack all summer, words to that effect, but no-one bothered to point this out.

    “Uh… Well sorry, Bean Minor,” said the Egg, “but all I can say is no one was pulling your hind appendage. The thing is, horses always do throw out splints, known for it, and poor old Peregrine Pry has.”

    “Oh. So, um, what is it, exactly?”

    Nobody else volunteered, not even the Crumpet, tho his lips moved silently, so Egg explained. More or less. Well, making the point that the horse would get better, they always do.

    “I see. It sounds a bit like Grannie’s arthritis,” Bean Minor concluded dubiously.

    “Yes, it is, but horses recover entirely, you see,” I said quickly.

    He brightened. “Oh, good!”

    Oops. It thus became transparently clear that he hadn’t quite believed our respected Junior Drones Hon. Chairperson.

    Flossie cleared his throat. “Yes, well, never mind that, tho one sympathizes with the unfortunate quadruped in Q. What about the problem of dinner, or rather no dinner, Egg?”

    Egg shrugged. “Personally I don’t care if Colonel Thing starves to death, he should know better by now than to accept Mum’s invitations.”

    “One admits the soft impeachment, my good old Egg,” Flossie agreed, “but are our stomachs going to be sustained by another repast of butter and jam lightly supported by baked ground, aerated, and nutritionless GM wheat grains?”

    “It was good jam, tho,” Bean noted.

    “‘Was’ being the operative word,” I put in, picking up the jar.

    “Point of order!” cried the Crumpet unexpectedly.

    We all looked hopefully at him.

    “You helped eat it, Sister Bean,” he said.

    “Er… Ye-es…”

    “Never mind him, chaps!” said Egg briskly. “Think! No food and no money! Bend the great brains to it! Concentrate the leetle grrr-ey cells! Ruminate upon the infinite possibilities opened up by a vast and putatively expanding universe!”

    We all tried to look as if we were thinking…

    “Eat fish?” suggested Flossie on a glum note.

    “There isn’t—” Bean began unwisely.

    “To stimulate the BRAIN!” I shouted. My God, what had I ever done to deserve such a sibling?

    “Ignore it, Sister Bean,” Flossie advised. “We’ve found it’s the only thing to do, or the jolly old brainpan will start to bubble over.”

    “Um… I could ring Dad,” Crumpet produced at last.

    “And he’ll dispatch a banana boat from Ther Bee-ah-mas?” retorted Egg.

    “Bermuda. No, he isn’t there this year.”

    Blank silence.

    “Is he at home, Crumpet?” ventured little Bean Minor. Where angels wouldn’t: quite.

    “Well, he’s at the flat,” he replied temperately. “Sulking because the latest one, I forget her name, told him he was an old skinflint and walked out on him.”

    We gaped. True, there are many adjectives, soubriquets or other appellations that could well be used of Lamont, père, with considerable accuracy, but “skinflint” is not one of them! “Chucks-it-away-with-both-fists” would be more on the mark.

    “What wouldn’t he buy her, Crumpy, old chap?” whispered Egg at last.

    “Yeah: that,” I croaked.

    The ivory Crumpetly B. was seen to wrinkle. “Not a diamond necklace,” he produced at last.

    “No?” Egg endeavoured to encourage him.

    “No. That was, um, Juliette, or was it Julianne? Anyway it wasn’t that this time. And definitely not a broken-down castle in Scotland, that was Miriam, the one he almost got engaged to.”

    “Uh-huh. And?” pursued Egg. –There’d be plenty of choice, Mr Lamont’s taste ran to the sort of mindless bimbos who fancied all sorts of fancy, expensive tat.

    “Um…”

    “One of those putrid handbags that cost six thousand quid on the Internet and then they turn out to be Hong Kong fakes?” I suggested. “Mum bought one of those. Well not her, of course, she never chucks her own moolah away, she just chose it, it was, um, Kuh—um, Kuh… Something odd. Rolling in it.”

    “Kendrick,” said Bean, making a face. “The one that wouldn’t go to Mozambique with the camera crew.”

    “That’s right. So she chucked the bag back at him—by that time she’d found out it was a fake, of course.”

    “No, it wasn’t one of those, he’s always buying them that sort of putrid junk,” said Crumpy heavily.

    “Well?” sighed Egg.

    “I think it was a villa in Spain.”

    “Hasn’t he already got one of those?” groped Bean.

    “No, his is in Spain.”

    A disconcerted silence reigned for so long in the Ovenden kitchen that Cat Ovenden, who for some reason unknown, tho applauded by all, avoids the place like the plague when Horrible Hearty Henry is around, came in through her cat door and miaowed pathetically at Egg.

    “There is no food, Cat,” he said heavily. “It’s water or nothing.”

    “Help! Isn’t there even any cat food for her?” gasped Bean Minor in horror. He’s terribly fond of Cat Ovenden but unfortunately it isn’t reciprocated, she’s not that sort of cat, she despises all of humanity and will not sit on any knees even if bribed by morsels of meat.

    “Toi, ferme la gueule. Il y en a, mais il n’est pas l’heure de dîner des chats,” replied the Egg in passable or at least comprehensible French.

    “Ah, j’y suis. Reste-là; moi, je vais lui offrir de l’eau!” he beamed, in much better-sounding Froggy lingo, rising to his tiny pieds.

    Egg shrugged. “Go ahead.”

    We all watched silently as Bean Minor refilled Cat’s water bowl at the sink, set it tenderly before her and bent over her, breathing stertorously. And was duly rewarded by having her reject it with a sneer, and turn away and begin to wash her bum.

    “Um, I expect she’ll drink it later, young Bean Minor,” said Crumpy kindly.

    Bean Minor sat down looking dished. “Yes, I expect she will,” he lied valiantly.

    “Oy, Crumpet!” said Egg loudly, as the idiot was now looking goopily at me in the hope I was sitting there approving of his kindness to my dear little sibling.

    “Hey?” he replied vaguely.

    “Concentrate the little solid matter floating between those cauliflower jug-handles! Your dad already has a villa in Spain, why would this bimbo ask for another one?”

    “She didn’t,” he said in surprise.

    “You just said she did!” he shouted, losing it.

    “Is your conversation really necessary?” murmured Flossie at this point.

    “Wrong period,” I noted, “but I must admit I was thinking that, too.”

    “One observes a minute quota of good may lurk in your auxiliary self, Sister Bean, in spite of your blood connections here present,” he approved.

    “Um, no-o…” the Crumpet said dubiously to the Egg. “Not if we were talking about Sienna.”

    “Is that where it is?” I said in relief. “You said Spain.”

    “Um, no—sorry, what?”

    “Is the villa that this last bimbo of your dad’s wanted in Sienna? –Sienna, Italy,” I elaborated to his blank face. “Namesake of that reddish-brown block in your Winsor & Newton paint box. Si-en-na.”

    Flossie took a deep breath. “Sister Bean, old chap, your gallant effort is much appreciated, but I think there may be a certain amount of cross purpose here. –Crumpet, dear old School chum and co-participant in innumerable illicit Mars Bars and side trips to the betting shop in the days of our giddy youth, was this latest bimbo’s name Sienna?”

    “Yes, I just said.”

    “Crumbs,” croaked Bean.

    “It can’t have been,” whispered Egg.

    “Is that a girl’s name?” ventured Bean Minor.

    “Don’t look at me!” I said hurriedly. “It dashed well wouldn’t be at Merrifield, the Brain wouldn’t allow it, that’s all I can tell you!”

    “Was she American, Crumpet?” asked Flossie.

    “That’ll be it!” decided Bean in huge relief.

    “No, she came from Hastings.”

    “Wait!” said Flossie, holding up a hand.

    We all waited, tho not entirely breathlessly.

    “Was she a model, Crumpet?” he asked with a certain tenseness about the voice not to say the shoulders.

    “Um… sort of. Panties.” He looked at us hopefully. “Does that count?”

    Egg had a violent coughing fit, what time Flossie failed to control himself, hah, hah, and went off in a gale of what would have been giggles in the distaff side—manly chortling, perhaps. Bean went very, very red and sniggered helplessly and Bean Minor just went very, very red.

    Strangely, I was unaffected by this shocking mention of feminine lingerie items.

    “Well,” I said briskly, “I think that’s sorted that out. Crumpet’s dad’s last bimbo that told him he was an old skinflint and walked out on him, causing him to lurk in his tent sulking, was an undergarment model who went by the forename Sienna, unlikely even in these benighted times, but not impossible given what plasters itself across every form of so-called social media known to beleaguered humanity these days. And she wanted a villa. Which Mr Lamont was apparently reluctant to award her.”

    The Crumpet beamed upon me. “That’s it, Mel! I mean Sister Bean.”

    “Vote of thanks to Sister Bean,” said Flossie on a weak note.

    “Hear, hear!” Egg, Bean and Bean Minor obligingly agreed.

    “Carried. I don’t suppose you can recall where this bloody non-existent villa was, can you, Crumpy?” he sighed.

    “Um… Well is there a place called Reunion?” he asked, going rather pink around the edges.

    “Sounds like a rugger thing,” noted Bean blankly.

    “Ugh! Yes, it does,” Flossie admitted. “However… Crumpet, my deluded old friend, suppler of unnecessary bottles of water to con artists of the feminine gender, and indefatigable consumer of jolly old raspberry-choc ices, there is no place called Reunion, but there is an island, a French-owned island somewhere in the tropics, called Réunion, which is a playground of the loaded and credulous, and very, very, very expensive. And full of native slaves, if the Frogs are on form, which I have no doubt they are.”

    “Oh yes!” Bean realised. “Putrid Tante Élisabeth dragged poor little Oncle Patrice there one year, didn’t she, Mel? I mean Sister Bean.”

    “Yes. The poor little chap said his bank balance was never going to recover and could Grannie possibly see her way clear, but of course she couldn’t. –In French, of course,” I explained for the benefit of the lower forms of life.

    “I thought you didn’t have any French aunts—it does mean aunt, doesn’t it?” fumbled one of the aforesaid.

    “Yes, Crumpy,” replied Bean kindly, “and we don’t have any on Mum’s side, no. She’s technically a great-aunt, so Patrice is Grannie’s brother-in-law, y’see.”

    “Oh, abso-bally-lutely! Crystal clear, old Bean! Thanks!” he beamed happily.

    “Well, er,” said Egg on rather a weak note, “given the putative tho undoubted cost of villas on Réunion, and given that the Frogs are generally reluctant to let foreigners purchase solid real estate on their illegal colonial Overseas Possessions in any case, I can understand your dad’s refusal to buy this Sienna a villa there, Crumpy.”

    “Oh, can you?” he said happily. “Jolly good! So he is in town, y’see. Only if you were hoping he’d gallop to our rescue, um, I’d say it’s six to four against.”

    “Worth a try!” replied Egg briskly, getting his second wind. “Have you still got that humungously expensive piece of hand-held communications crap that the said progenitor awarded you?”

    “Um, my iPhone, do you mean, Chairperson Egg?”

    Egg winced. “Mm. It.”

    “Not actually. I mean technically I do but Plodger confiscated it at School because it rang in my pocket in foul Stinks.”

February 11 Not. Carrying straight on: (He meant Chemistry, I did mention that they’re very Trad. at Marbledown, didn’t I? Tiresomely so, yes.)

    “I thought we all had to hand them in at the beginning of Term,” piped Bean Minor, very puzzled.

    “No, the Senior Boys are allowed to have them but not in class, only in our Studies,” replied Crumpy kindly—personally I wouldn’t have bothered. However.

    “Ooh, really?”

    I thought of reminding him how many years he has in front of him before he reaches that pinnacle of Marbledownian success, a Study, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

    “In that case you’d better use Dad’s phone. Um, not the office line, the kitchen extension’s for the house phone,” Egg added quickly.

    “Oh right-ho, old chap. If you think it’ll do any good.”

    “YES!” we all shouted, even Bean Minor, gosh.

    So the Crumpet rang the senior Lamont…

    “He wants to talk to you, Mel, I mean Sister Bean,” he reported after a certain time had elapsed in mumbling semi-coherent explanation incorporating obscure references which it was a hundred to one no parent would get. Well: “Straw boaters, Dad. Like that ancient French chappie, Aunty Mag’s got an ancient record with him in one on the cover.” And: “And they put real chocolate in their chocolate.” And: “Ancient, of course, but jolly good, stripey, y’know. There was bags of choice, and likewise the cream bags.” Clear as mud—quite.

    So I took the receiver and said cautiously: “Hullo, Mr Lamont, this is Mel.”

    And a horribly familiar fruity brandy-and-cigar-laden voice replied heartily: “Hul-lo, Mel darling! So they’ve roped you into this damned club of theirs, have they? Do tell me, what are you wearing, darling?”

    “Um, well, it’s the gear,” I croaked.

    “Yes?”

    “Um, well, we’ve all been down to the village green for a bit to watch a bit of the cricket, you see. Um, well, my blazer’s striped blue and black, it’s pretty good, really, and I scored one of the genuine old cream silk shirts, um, with like a cravat, it’s a bright pink silk scarf with white polka dots. Um, and a stripey tie for a belt, emerald green and white, it’s quite keen, really. And cream flannels, of course, there were loads of them in the attic, maybe in the Old Days all the Ovendens played cricket or tennis or something. But none of the really cool cream and tan shoes with little punched holes in them would fit me, they were all huge, so it’s just white tennis shoes, I mean real ones not putrid Sneakers. Um, and a straw boater, there were loads of them too, I can’t imagine why.”

    “Boaters for boating on the river, darling!” he said with his fruity laugh.

    “Help, did they really?”

    “Well people’s family albums are full of snaps of them doing it, so they must have. Are you actually wearing it as of this min’, dear?”

    “Yes,” I replied, wondering why it was significant.

    He gave a deep sigh. “Glorious! I wish I was there, darling little Mel.”

    “Um, actually it’s Sister Bean, not Mel, I’m an Auxiliary Junior Drone, you see.”

    “Not really, sweets?” he gasped, it sounded as if he was shaking with laughter.

    “Yes, I don’t go to Marbledown so I can’t be a full member.”

    “Isn’t that discrimination?”

    “Only against non-Marbledownians, I think. They decided girls have to be allowed to join because otherwise it’s gender discrimination and that’s really off, in the twenty-first century.”

    “If you say so, my dear. So why is Lucius in a panic? –No, hang on, what’s his club name?” he asked eagerly.

    “He’s the Crumpet, Mr Lamont. Crumpy for short.”

    Oops, Crumpy’s parent had gone into a painful sniggering fit. “One admits the soft impeachment!” he gasped when he could speak.

    “Well, yes, but then, Alan Ovenden is the Egg and my brothers are Bean and Bean Minor. –Good egg and old bean, you see.”

    “Oh, good Lord! Is P.G. Woodhouse the inspiration for this club?”

    “Um, yes, I thought Crumpy might have told you about it before.”

    “I think he did, but it was so mudded I couldn’t follow it. Now, why is he in a panic?”

    “Um, because we’re all at the Ovendens’ place and Mrs O.’s gone into a vague fit and forgotten she’d asked, um, people to dinner and there’s no food. Well some bread and butter and I think Marmite and Bovril and marmalade, but we ate all the jam for lunch.”

    “Good grief, I had no idea the woman was that bad!”

    “It’s when she’s having fabric-y inspirations, you see, Mr Lamont.”

    “Well yes, I do see, my dear, but it’s rather hard on all of you, isn’t it? Not to worry! I’ll pop down in the old chariot with a Fortnum’s hamper!”

    “Really, Mr Lamont? Thanks awfully!” I gasped.

    “Not at all, darling. You wouldn’t consider putting me up for membership of the club, would you?” he asked wistfully. “I’m pretty sure I can rustle up some appropriate gear. Well if all else fails, Harrods.”

    “Um, I don’t think I can, I’m only an Auxiliary… Hang on, I’ll ask.” I put a hand over the receiver and reported: “He’s going to bring a Fortnum’s hamper and he wants to be put up as a member of the Junior Drones. And he can get the gear.”

    “But he’s too old,” said Crumpy weakly.

    “But—” Egg broke off. He produced his notebook from his side pocket, wrote something in it with the biro from the breast pocket of his blazer, ripped the page out and held it up to him. BUT DO YOU WANT HIM? it said.

    “I wouldn’t mind,” the Crumpet said weakly, “but—” He reached for the paper and with a huge shiny pen from his blazer’s breast pocket wrote: DO YOU?

    Egg shrugged. “He’ll forget all about it by tomorrow, but why not? Only as an Auxiliary, mind. Hang on, was he at Marbledown, tho?”

    “Well only in his last year,” Crumpy revealed. “He got chucked out of Eton for making a book.”

    “Oh, yes, of course; I’d forgotten. That’s all right, then. Just tell him to hang on, Sister Bean: we’ll put it to the vote.”

    Everyone held up their hands to vote Aye tho it was doubtful if my and the Chela’s votes were valid, but anyway it was carried and Mr Lamont was thrilled and said he couldn’t wait. And he would bring some positively delish pudding especially for me, and rang off.

    “Well,” I said glumly, “the stomachs have it, carried unanimously, but never mind, Egg’s right, he’ll have forgotten all about it tomorrow.”

    “That or he’ll want us to do something dashed putrid,” noted Crumpy. “Oh, well. A Fortnum’s hamper can’t be bad, chaps. He often gets those. And it won’t be anything foul like game pie, it’s not the Glorious Twelfth yet, is it?”

    “Veal and ham pie’s good,” offered Bean.

    “Smoked salmon is even better,” noted Flossie. “Will he bring some champers, do you suppose, Crumpy?”

    “He always does,” he replied simply.

    “Hurray!” they all cried.

    Yes, well. The stomachs had it, all right, but who’d rather be noble and starve?

    Those long, very clear blue eyes of Colonel Raice’s twinkled like anything as he got out of his ancient MG and took in the details of my club outfit but he only said mildly: ‘”Hullo, there, Mel. Good to see you. I gather you’re all down for the holidays this year?”

    “Yes, Flossie and Crumpet as well, I mean Lucius, but Crumpet’s his club name, you see, Colonel. We’re all Junior Drones!” I could feel the fatuous beam on my own face, but never mind, at the moment he is too old for me. But just wait, lovely Colonel, I Will Get Older. C’est promis!

    “Ah… P.G. Wodehouse?” he ventured.

    “That’s it! Alan’s the Egg, Michael’s the Bean and Tommy’s Bean Minor, and I’m Sister Bean, I’m an Auxiliary Member because I don’t go to Marbledown.”

    “I see. But what about Flossie?”

    “Well nothing suited him so he’s still Flossie, but it’s a jolly good name anyway, isn’t it?”

    “Yes, very Wodehousean,” he agreed.

    “Good, we thought so. Um, there’s something I have to tell you before you come in,” I said, unfortunately standing on one leg.

    “Mm?”

    I don’t know why but somehow when tall, strong Colonel Raice says “Mm?” very mildly like that I just want to cry! I had to swallow hard.

    “Um, Mrs Ovenden went into a very vague fit not long after she invited you and so there wasn’t any dinner. So Crumpy rang his father and, um, Mr Lamont’s coming down with a Fortnum’s hamper.”

    “Jolly good!” he said with a laugh.

    “Yes but the thing is he’s got all fired up about the club and he’s joined up as an Auxiliary and he’s going to be wearing the gear, Colonel!”

    Colonel Raice himself was of course in mufti, one doesn’t wander about the English countryside in dashed uniform, and besides he doesn’t actively soldier these days, he’s something terribly hush-hush in Military Intelligence. Possibly Mr Ovenden knows exactly what he does, they’ve been friends for years and he trains the Colonel’s horses, or possibly Legs, but he isn’t letting on.

    So today it was fawn slacks and a rather casual pale blue short-sleeved cotton-knit shirt open at the neck and, it being a warm day, a jacket over the arm which I was kind of praying wasn’t a blazer because believe you me in the blazer stakes the tall, slim Colonel was going to make poor stout Mr Lamont look really, really silly. And a person who dives into his Roller with a gorgeous hamper just because a crowd of schoolkids are going to miss out on dinner when a woman he barely knows has gone vague doesn’t deserve that.

    “I’ll do my best not to laugh, Mel, my dear, I promise you,” he said mildly.

    I lowered my off foot. “Thanks. Um, I thought it might be a shock, so you’d better be forewarned.”

    “Of course. Thank you so much. Er—I’ve brought a bottle of wine but I’ve no idea if it’ll be appropriate now, I thought Margot Ovenden would be doing her usual super-special chicken filo roll,” he said, smiling. –Okay, eat your heart out, Dan (Bounder) Britten, when my lovely Colonel Raice smiles never mind perfect teeth (tho his top ones are and the bottom ones are just irregular enough to be human), the sun comes out! He’s very slim, the word lean describes him best, really, but his cheeks crease in the most irresistible way. Gosh.

    “Um, yes, that is really yummy,” I agreed. “But she’s been in her studio all day. Well, I don’t know what Mr Lamont’s going to bring in his Fortnum’s hamper but I wouldn’t worry, Mr Ovenden’ll drink anything and if Mrs O. bothers to turn up for it she won’t notice what it is, she never does.”

    “Er—Pouilly-Fuissé,” he murmured.

    “Oh, good! That’s usually lovely!”

    Displaying no surprise at an expression of approbation for an alcoholic beverage from a person of tender years, he agreed: “I like it. Tho I dare say it won’t hold a candle to Lamont’s vintage champagne.”

    “The bubbles are fun, of course, but one has to admit in general it’s rather over-rated, while a good Pouilly-Fuissé never comes amiss. Not that most of the palates here will appreciate it, I’m afraid.”

    “Well, you will and I will and I’m sure young Flossie will! How is Michael’s palate these days?”

    I made a face. “Not improved. One of the greatest disappointments of Grannie’s and Oncle Fernand’s lives. And Oncle Patrice’s, of course, tho he isn’t really related.”

    “Mm. Rather sad that Patrice and Élisabeth never produced offspring of their own.”

    In my considered opinion poor old Patrice can’t and if he ever had been able to Tante Élisabeth is enough to put any chap off. A giant dragon in clothes so garish that her unfortunate French connections swear she buys them in Florida. Whereas Grannie has exquisite, elegant taste. In wine as well, natch.

    “And your Cousin Gérard?” he murmured.

    That’s Oncle Fernand’s heir. Not a first cousin, strictly speaking, as “Oncle” Fernand is Mum’s cousin, the son of Grannie’s oldest brother, our great-uncle, for aeons the head of the famille LeBec but now mercifully passed on to that great vineyard in the sky.

    I shrugged. “Still jaunting all over Europe spending the château’s income as fast as it comes in.”

    “Pity.”

    “Yes. But Bean Minor’s coming along splendidly!” I beamed.

    He grinned. “The hope of his family, eh?”

    “We think so. I say, did you ever know someone who can tell the brands of chocolate bars with his eyes closed?”

    “Er—no. –My God,” he said as it dawned: “can he really?”

    I nodded hard. “Yes. Well some of his chocolateering discoveries are probably actionable, like swearing the choc coatings of two completely different brands sold by rival companies are identical! We all tasted them and compared them with something he said was totally different and as far as we could tell, he was spot-on!”

    “Good for Bean Minor!” said Colonel Raice with a laugh. “Heritage will out!”

    So there you are. The man is perfect! Picked up the right Junior Drones nomenclature and used it without being patronising about it, and completely grasped the implications of the lad’s being able to differentiate between different choc mixes. Because, natch, that is what a palate is. Immaterial whether one is tasting chocolates or wines. And when she finds out, which mercifully she hasn’t yet, Grannie is going to be ecstatic and will probably do her utmost to kidnap the poor kid away from Marbledown and bring him up à la française and have frightful Gérard struck out of all the family wills. Because the family château, that is, not the undistinguished stone heap that’s the old Château LeBec itself but its land and the vintages grown thereon, and keeping control of said V. and L., are all that matter in the Grannie scheme of things.

    As Colonel Raice hadn’t been to Marbledown but to a much posher establishment of young-lad-torturing, tho he doesn’t bruit it about, he couldn’t join the club but on Bean Minor’s eager prompting he was allowed to be an Official Guest and wear a boater, which he did with not the flicker of a grin, bless him. Bean Minor then went too far and proposed Cat Ovenden as Honorary Junior Drones Cat and was duly howled down. So he assured her that she could have a bit of whatever delish meat dish Mr Lamont provided but she merely yawned and had another wash.

February 17 Not. Carrying straight on: Then it was time for afternoon stables so after coming in and having a cup of tea with us Mr Ovenden led the Colonel off to them. I went with them because I wasn’t going to let my lovely Colonel out of my sight if I could help it and Crumpet came, too. I was conscious of a fervent-ish hope that it was because he really is keen on the horses and not because of his too-evident growing fondness for me.

    The Colonel currently had two horses with Mr Ovenden, tho he’d syndicated a couple of legs of one of them, and they were both looking splendid, eating well and hadn’t thrown out splints lately. Poor old Peregrine Pry was looking very hangdog, tho, if one can say that of a horse, and tho he ate the sugar lumps Crumpy offered him didn’t seem very keen about it.

    “Stay overnight, John, then you can ride work with us tomorrow,” suggested Mr Ovenden.

    “I’d like to, thanks, but will you have room, with a crowd in the house?” replied Colonel Raice.

    “Stacks: last Christmas Alan refused to sleep in the room next to Henry’s because of the snores, and claimed half the attic, so the boys are up there, we’ve shoved some stretcher beds in for them. They’ll probably gossip half the night but that’s their look-out. And Margot’s given poor Mel the pink room that we did up for old Aunt Harriet!” he said with a laugh.

    “It’s putrid, Colonel,” I reported with a sigh.

    “I’ll say!” the Crumpet agreed. “I couldn’t believe it could be as bad as she said so I had a look, y’see, sir, and it’s all pink! I mean even the dashed dressing-table!”

    “That sounds Hellish, all right,” he agreed.

    “Yes, it is,” I admitted sourly. “It has a nice view, mind you, but that doesn’t help. And their Aunt Harriet encouraged Cat, you see, and for some reason she actually liked her and she keeps coming in, and then miaowing to go out at four in the morning.”

    “Good God, I thought she loathed all humanity.”

    Mr Ovenden laughed. “Wouldn’t call Aunt Harriet human, exactly, John! And she certainly loathes poor Mel, as far as is ascertainable: if she isn’t let out immediately she gets on the bed and sits on her face.”

    “Yes. And if I leave any shoes on the floor she bites them, Colonel. I’m going to catch it at School: she’s ruined my School shoes, I left them out the first night, you see.”

    Oops, Colonel Raice burst out laughing, gasping: “Sorry Mel, my dear! Oh, Lor’! Fiendish animal!”

    “Right,” Mr O. agreed. “But if she isn’t let in she scratches and howls outside the poor girl’s door. I did warn Margot but she gave signs of going into a vague fit, so I stopped.”

    “I say,” said the Crumpet, “this is appalling, sir! Look, I’m all for poor dumb animals and all that, but I must say I’d have the beast put down.”

    Mr Ovenden made a face. “Mm. But she’s lived with us all her life, she trusts us to feed, water and house her, and at least she doesn’t foul the place or rip up the furniture. And besides— Well you’re old enough to hear this, Lucius, and you’re certainly sensible enough, Mel, to realise that marriage entails give and take. Margot couldn’t have any more kids after Alan—well, had a bad time when he was on the way, high blood pressure etcetera, and ended up having to have a caesarean—not funny, it’s a serious operation. She was okay until he was about six and then she started brooding over it. Well nothing to be done, really, and I’d had a vasectomy, no way was I up for letting her risk another, so the doc said why not a pet, it’d be at least a distraction if not a substitute. So as she didn’t seem to be getting any better I got her a kitten. That would have been when Alan was seven. His seventh birthday had been a bit of a bloody disaster: Margot had had weepy fits the entire day before and then she burst into tears all over the cake in front of half a dozen scared little boys. Well the cat did help, in that she became fixated on the bloody animal. Then after a bit the doc found some woman on the far side of the town who was giving these fabric design classes, and I persuaded her to enrol—so that mania took over, thank God. But with that history it’d be bloody disastrous if I got rid of Cat.”

    Poor Crumpy had gone bright puce at the gynaecological bits and still wasn’t over them. “I see, sir!” he gasped. “Gosh, no; sorry I suggested it! –I say, tho,” he realised, brightening. “she must be, um, well if Egg was seven…” He muttered a bit and counted on his fingers, ending weakly: “When is his birthday, again?”

    “October. Cat’s nearly ten,” said Mr O.

    “Then she can’t last all that much longer, can she?” he said in relief. “I say, sir, may I give Lady Aurelia some sugar?”

    “Er—yes, certainly, Lucius. She’s in her paddock.”

    “Right!” And off he hurried.

    “Well, Ian,” said the Colonel drily, “either you’ve put him off the distaff side for life or it may help him to become relatively human in a few years’ time. One or the other.”

    “We all have to live in the real world, John, and you haven’t exactly got a sparkling matrimonial record, have you, after two years of that witch Paulina.”

    “Witch and bitch; no,” he agreed mildly. “I was merely trying to suggest there are generally two sides to a coin.”

    “Um,” I put in, “Crumpy will be all right in a bit, I think. The thing is, I don’t think anyone’s ever talked seriously to him before, Mr Ovenden. His dad isn’t that sort and he hasn’t got any siblings and goodness knows where his mother is these days.”

    “Jamaica, last I heard,” said the Colonel in a detached voice. Oh dear, had Mr O.’s last remark struck home?

    “Um, yes, well there you are,” I said. “Of course they give them right-thinking homilies at Marbledown, they’re not completely hidebound, but tho they imagine they’re moving with the times and all that, the boys just take it all as Master-Speak and don’t absorb a syllable.”

    “I’ve certainly always had that impression, yes, Mel,” Mr O., agreed, patting my shoulder. “Now, I’ve had a thought: I know you like Lady Aurelia, so if I put you up on—”

    “No!” I gasped. “No, really, Mr Ovenden! I mean, she’s lovely, but she’s so tall! I can’t!”

    “It’s such a waste,” he said.

    “Only to one to whom horses are the be-all and end-all of existence, old man,” drawled the Colonel—honestly, he sounded just like dratted Flossie for a moment! That reference to his frightful ex had hit home, poor thing! And everybody says he married far too young and she was something like six years older and a totally rapacious cow, it wasn’t his fault it all fell apart in a horrid scandal, caused entirely by her, and he was hauled up before his colonel who was obviously a truly beastly person with no understanding at all.

    Mr O. sighed. “There’s nothing like the feel of a good horse under you, but if you cant, you can’t, I suppose, Mel. Well, come on, we’d better brave the house and see if Lamont’s turned up yet. –Did Margot give you any indication of who else she might have invited for tonight, John?”

    “Well,” said the Colonel as we headed off, “the Berringtons, I think.”

    “Oh, God,” he groaned.

    Ugh! Of all the neighbours she could have asked—! Mr B. is a complete nullity, quite innocuous, he’s a solicitor in the nearest town and collects stamps, but she’s poisonous. They’re in their forties—no kids—and she specialises in girlish titters, continual batting of the false lashes, and little pats and pinches at every hetero male in sight between the ages of sixteen and sixty. And refers to herself as “Little Me”. What Dad’s sister, Aunt Beth, calls a “bottle blonde,” tho usually the reference is to Mum, to be fair. I don’t think the Ovendens even like them but as he’s their solicitor, they do invite them occasionally. Very occasionally and if they have been invited for tonight, with all of us here, it’s certainly an indicator that Mrs O. has gone into one of her worst vague fits.

    Mr Lamont had just arrived and was waiting, he said, for me, before he unveiled the contents of the hamper. In the kitchen just in case anything should have leaked but of course, it being a Fortnum’s hamper, nothing had. The champers was separate, a whole case, gosh. Which he duly forced on the embarrassed Mr O., ignoring his weak: “Look, you shouldn’t have, Clive,” and “For God’s sake, take the overflow back with you!” and such like.

    Well it was all abso-bally-lutely smashing, tho we weren’t quite sure what everything was, but we all recognised the giant ham, and there was definitely a veal and ham pie as well, so Bean was thrilled, and in short as Flossie put it: “‘Cakes and apples in all the chapels’ not to say ‘fine polonies and rich mellow pears’ absolutely need not apply! You’ve done us proud, sir! Can’t thank you enough!”

    To which the genial Mr L. responded with a hearty buffet on the shoulder (having to reach up slightly in order to deliver it, he is pretty tall but it must be a generational thing, Flossie and Egg have both overtopped him, also Mr O., and of course Horrible Hearty Henry is a Towering Infernal Hulk as his unadmiring brother hasn’t failed to remark). This was followed up by a genial: “Not at all, my boy! Drink a little fizz, can you?”

    To which the only possible answer was of course a fervent “By Jove, yes sir!” which he got from three of the idiots, Crumpet not needing to add his mite, I think his dad already realised he could. Tho he did look very pleased.

    Bean Minor then put his foot slightly in his masticatory organ in these Anglocentric precincts, as Egg didn’t fail to note, by piping: “So can I, sir!” but Mr Lamont just gave his meaty, hearty laugh and grabbing him bodily, lifted him up very high and said: “I’m sure you can, young Artful Dodger, but I’ve got something very special for you! Had it in Italy, they all drink it there!”

    So of course we all had to taste it. It turned out to be Chinotto, amazingly putrid, and poor Bean Minor could barely choke it down, his little eyes watering, but managed to gasp: “Thanks awfully, sir! Really unusual!” Which is the sort of flim-flam that Olds swallow hook, line, and, so that was all right.

    Well I can’t really analyse it, but bitter but sweet cough syrup would come close, certainly Bean Minor privily later conceded the strong cough syrup motif, adding something mysterious about “Irish moss” and also “putrid balsamic vinegar,” this last a ref. which all recognised, so a chorus of Ughs arose. And we had three groans for Chinotto, that’s Italian “Kee” NOT Anglo-Saxon “Chee”, thanks, and three cheers for Mr Lamont for everything else. Later on, I admit, Flossie said to me with a laugh that a discernible ref. to Campari was also in there somewhere but the boy-child had obviously never had it.

    Not admitting I hadn’t either in fact I’d never heard of it I merely gave him a cold look and said: “I dare say.” Unfortunately not taking the blighter in for an instant and he laughed again and said: “Aunt Sybil Brinsley-P. knocks it back all the time,” which admittedly is understandable if it’s alcoholic, anyone married to a Brinsley-Pugh would have to, there’s a minor female scion of that woeful house at Merrifield and really, one draws a veil.

    Naturally Mr L. was extremely proud of his Junior Drones outfit, which had to be admired by all tho unfortunately lovely Colonel Raice lost it in spite of good intentions and laughed like a drain causing our host to break down and likewise, but never mind, we all did our best to shout them down and assure poor Mr L. that it was the jolly old cat’s whiskers. –Not hers, no, she was in a corner growling over a piece of something Mr L. had nonchalantly tossed her, subsequently revealed to be a duck’s liver and as Flossie whispered, shaken to the core: “Sacrilege.”

    Well the blazer was, as the helplessly shaking Colonel gasped Byronically: “‘Shining in purple and gold’!” at which Egg nearly lost it, too. It was, actually. Wide purple stripes, narrowish gold stripes, and very narrow black stripes which one’s dazzled eyes barely discerned, plus gold edgings on everything, and a screaming emerald, white polka-dotted silk hanker puffing jauntily from the breast pocket, on which was inscribed an obscure Logo, Motif, Crest or Insignium in possibly Esperanto, as it certainly wasn’t Latin, possibly reading, according to Flossie: “Honourable Elks Brothers of Lesser Midgely Inc.”, the prancing quadruped cunningly entwined in its curlicues being almost definitely an elk. Well it wasn’t any known species that Royal Pursuivant would have recognised, he noted airily.

    Rather fortunately Mr Lamont was terrifically chuffed at this and gave him another buffet on the shoulder, grinning all over his broad, genial, reddish face, and agreed: “Yes, what I thought, me boy! Have a gorilla!” Thereupon producing from said ye Breaste Pockete an actual juicily fat Corona, I have never in my life seen anyone so stunned as was Flossie (James) Nightingale at that juncture. Ten medals and a round of applause for Mr Lamont!

    Possibly the cravat paled in comparison, tho pale it was not: a very, very bright yellow satin, we didn’t think wherever the rest of the outfit had come from he could possibly have got it at Harrods. Unless Arab sheiks favour searchlight-bright buttercup yellow cravats, which I don’t think they can do, those pristine white flowing robes they wear are all so totally tasteful. To die for.

    The shirt was his own cream silk, he’s the sort of chap that has wardrobes full of the stuff, but the fruitier cream bags had been acquired for the occasion. Harrods, yes, tho he assured us that his tailor could have knocked him up a pair given sufficient notice. They were… Let’s just say the word “bags” fitted them to a Tee and how he ever persuaded a Harrods salesman to let him buy them is beyond me. He is rather broad so it wasn’t an elastic belt or, sadly, an old school tie, but a real belt of the sort that Mum might be seen flaunting round the odd Soukh or Casbah or Veldt or Kew from time to time. Narrow, but definitely webbed, in heavy cream whatever webbing is made of, and finished at the ends in tan leather and a gold buckle. “Sanders of the River, where art thou now?” as Egg put it.

    The white shoes at first sight looked like cricket shoes so we all goggled and looked uneasily at the Ovenden flooring for spike holes but they turned out to be lawn bowling shoes, at which Mr O. had a further fit of hysterics, one couldn’t see quite why as it was a suitable choice. The pièce de résistance, however, was the socks which were white with maroon Marbledownian-like stripes!

    “Three cheers for Mr Lamont, best-socked Hon. Auxiliary Mem.!” cried Egg, very aspirate on the “Hon.”, natch. “Hip—”

    “Ra! Ra! Ra!” all Junior Drones shouted, rapping the table. Which took certain Olds aback, but it’s the correct shout, you see, one doesn’t wish to be beyond the Pale or indeed, Bounderish.

February 24 Not. Carrying straight on: So the grinning Mr Lamont took off his supreme boater and bowed very low in response. No, it did not have a garish ribbon, it was the most totally tasteful boater ever, utterly correct and deserving in my humble opinion three more cheers.

    And he opened a bottle of fizz in case it might have gone off during the journey even tho it wasn’t properly chilled yet and we all sat round with Fortnum-type pre-dinner nibbles and sipped and had a lovely time.

    And Mr L. persuaded the Colonel to tell us about the time he was faced with a real bandit in the real wilds of Afghanistan with a giant turban and a rifle that could have floored an elephant dating from approx. the Boer War. Which was probably all apocryphal but it made a good story and my lovely Colonel was completely deprecating and I for one cannot believe he ever legged it in his life.

    Then Bean Minor begged, predictably: “Tell us about the big bahloo, sir!” And Colonel Raice laughed and said: “Well, you have heard it before, and it was the complete fiasco, y’know, old chap!” but Bean Minor cried: “Plee-ease!” and he laughed again and gave in.

    The story went something like this (and to tell it properly one must say “Him-AH-layas”, not “Himmer-LAY-ers” as is customary in the seat of Empah):

    Once upon a time an idiot was bumbling about the foothills of the High Himalayas near the Eternal Snows, way, way up above the Chandni Chowk.

    At this point the knowledgeable Flossie and Egg were seen to choke: the Chandni Chowk is in Delhi, of course; but Bean and Crumpet were as wide-eyed and serious as little Bean Minor.

    Fortunately his old friend Ranjit was with him or this story would never have been told.

    Well they stumbled around, y’know, falling over the odd boulder or two and narrowly missing a crevasse or gorge or so, far, far out of sight of anything approaching civilisation like the odd paan-seller or jalebi stall, and it got colder and colder even tho they were both wearing all the clothes they had with them, not having expected it to be this chilly up amongst the cloud cover. Finally they decided they’d better pack it in for the night, so they made camp, but unfortunately they had failed to keep their powder dry and so couldn’t light a campfire.

    After a bit Ranjit said: “I can hear something and there’s a smell of bahloo, Johnny Sahib,” to which the aforesaid idiot replied: “For God’s sake don’t call me Sahib, Ranjit, it makes me feel like something out of Kipling. I can’t smell anything, you don’t mean someone’s making a stew or a curry in the vicinity, do you?”

    To which Ranjit replied, sounding slightly nervous: “No, Johnny, bahloo is bear and I think maybe we should climb a tree in case he’s hungry.”

    So they climbed a tree, not easy up there in the foothills of the High Himalayas which are infested by deodars and such-like which tend to be tallish and lacking in branches of the convenient sort, so first Ranjit had to stand on the idiot’s shoulders, with the consequent cries of “Ow!” And: “Do you mind?” And: “Ow! That’s my head!” And then he had to haul him up, providently having a rope with him for such emergencies, very sensible fellow, Ranjit.

    After some time perching in the tree the idiot ventured: “I say, Ranjit, I can’t see or smell a thing, and did you say bear or hare?” To which his companion replied: “Bear with a B.”

    After a period of silent contemplation the idiot said: “I say, can’t bears climb trees, tho?” and the faithful Ranjit replied: “Yes. Much better than humans, Johnny.” After which there was a certain pause for reflection, as it were.

    Then the idiot said: “I say, have you got your rifle?” and Ranjit replied: “No, have you got your shot-gun?”

    “No,” said the idiot, “it’s down there by what was going to be a campfire if those bloody matches hadn’t got wet.”

    “Ah. So is my rifle.”

    And another period of silent contemplation ensued.

    Then the idiot said: “I say, it might be a frightfully good idea if one of us had a gun in his hand, y’know.”

    And blasted Ranjit replied: “You’re the sahib, Johnny Sahib, I’m only a poor Indian bearer, you get the bloody guns. It was you got us into this mess in the first place, I said we should’ve gone right not left down by that stream.”

    The idiot found no answer to this save: “Shut up,” which he duly produced.

    He was just about to indulge in a further period of silent contemplation when Ranjit hissed: “I can hear him! He’s down there!”

    Yes: there was a definite stink of bahloo down below and the sound of a large furry body moving about knocking over empty cooking pots and such-like. It was too dark to see much but there was the occasional gleam of a nasty eye or two in the moonlight barely filtering through the foliage of the dashed deodars.

    The intrepid companions sat there shaking in their inadequate boots which were reliably failing to warm their numbed toes.

    The idiot was just about to feel that an Englishman bally well ought to do somethin’, don’tcha know, when there was a loud BANG! from below followed rapidly by the sound of a large furry body departing, and Ranjit gasped: “Did you leave that bloody shot-gun cocked?”

    Er… What could one say? All the idiot came up with was: “I think it scared the bahloo off, anyway.”

    Which is pretty much the end of the story. But they stayed up the tree all night just in case, and when daylight returned and the bahloo didn’t they retraced their steps to the bloody stream in Q. and turned right not left and in less than three hours were drinking hot, sweet milky chai and scoffing jalebis in blessed civilisation.

 

    We were all cheering and booing and throwing small articles at the narrator when the door opened and a horrible cooing voice cooed: “Well! Here you all are, darlings! Johnny, my darling! Long time no see! Such a treat! Slim as ever, I see, darling, how do you do it?”

    And a smothering pong of Madame Rochas pervaded the room and that was it, I,T, for our lovely dinner with lovely Colonel Raice and genial Mr Lamont.

    Not that I have anything against Madame Rochas as such but the poisonous woman souses herself in it.

    And don’t ask me how she managed to be all over the Colonel and Mr Lamont at the same time, but she did. One lost count of the extraneous little pats and arm squeezes and the wriggles and giggles and ugh!

    The meal itself was totally tremendous of course, and I don’t say I didn’t get round my share, and the pudding Mr Lamont had chosen was extra, it had fresh peaches and strawberries and cream and some sort of cake-y something soaked in something gorgeous in the liqueur line, but blasted Mrs Berrington of course gave a shriek at the sight of it and cried: “Oh! Too, too fattening, darling Clive!” Like she hadn’t even met the man before but it took her two seconds to start calling him by his name.

    Then she looked at me and gave this stupid titter and said: “Dear little girl, do you think you ought to, at your age? I mean, darling, spots, and then there comes a time when one should think about the figure! A minute in the mouth, forever on the hips, you know, and what cream does to the B,U,S,T does not bear thinking!”

    So l said: “Sorry, but I’m a Junior Drone and a bally good trencherman, not a little girl, so just run that by me again, would you, Mrs B., I didn’t quite get the gist.”

    She gave a totally silly laugh and squeezed the Colonel’s arm horribly and sort of leaned on him and said: “Oops! I’m afraid the younger generation is a closed book to Little Me! Cweam is a definite no-no, Johnny darling, but I might just manage a ’licious stwawbewwy, if so be?”

    At which, believe me or believe me not, he spooned up a strawberry and fed her with it!

    I’ll say this for Egg and Flossie, they did their best to show solidarity. Egg stared very hard and then said: “Perhaps young Bean Minor ought to pop off to beddy-byes, I think this party might be getting wather gwown-up.”

    And Flossie got up and said: “Oh abso-bally-lutely old son, in fact my withers may be distinctly w’ung if I stay on. I think I’ll doff the old nosebag and toddle off for a last sip of something. Coming, Junior Drones?”

    To which Crumpy agreed in relief: “Abso-bally-lutely, old man! Carried unanimously! Come on, you chaps! –Bean, grab that sibling before it learns something it shouldn’t, there’s a good chap.”

    And on that note we all exited in fairly good order, considering.

Next chapter:

https://theeggandfriends-anovel.blogspot.com/2025/12/aftermath-of-night-before.html