Chapter Of Accidents

7

Chapter Of Accidents

April 26 Not. (August, actually.) Flossie, Crumpy and Bean were scheduled to take off for the Lake District fairly soon to stay with a school pal, but meanwhile we could anticipate a nice peaceful time, with nothing much to upset it except maybe the Crumpet falling off a horse. As it turned out these were the typical plans of mice and men…

    The Glorious Twelfth had come and gone and since some fool had invited him, Horrible Hearty Henry had pushed off northwards to slaughter the guy’s grouse. On consideration a somewhat jaundiced meeting of the Junior Drones—tho all were pleased to see the back of him, the heartiness having got too much for us—as I was saying, a somewhat jaundiced meeting decided that the plural had bally well got to be “grice” and one would definitely be drummed out and one’s buttons torn off if it was not used in place of the Hearty term.

    Oddly, Mrs Ovenden collapsed in helpless giggles when the innocent Bean Minor purveyed this decision to her, but then, it takes all sorts, doesn’t it? And she’d come out of her vague fit (on a temporary basis, understood) and had produced, not necessarily in this order, a huge delicious dish of steaming cheesy, meaty, tomato-y lasagna, I think strictly speaking it was the big roasting pan she used, a yummy pudding called a “peach cobbler” but nothing whatsoever to do with shoes and it certainly in no wise resembled leather, so possibly Crumpy’s dubious suggestion that it was because it had to be cobbled together was right, and some totally scrumplicious individual chicken pies. For which Mr O. rose from the table, went over to her and kissed her soundly. To the hideous embarrassment of wretched Bean and little Bean Minor, forgivable in the latter, but not the former. Egg grinned and proposed a toast to her, Flossie merely smiled benignly, and even Crumpy only lifted his glass and said: “Hear, hear! Three cheers for Mrs O.!”

    Afterwards Egg said kindly to me: “There is the possibility that the Bean is merely a slow developer on the emotional and, er, common sense fronts, old chap.”

    To which I replied: “Remote. And how long would one have to cross one’s fingers on that assumption? Until they turn blue and fall off?”

    At which he just smiled kindly and patted my shoulder kindly, leaving me to the somewhat sour reflections (a) Bother, I made a mess of that; and (b) Golly, he has grown up this past year.

    Of course with Horrible Hearty Henry out of the way there was much less competition for the hacks not to say his favourite eventer, so given that Mr O. was awfully busy with racing stuff and Sid, his head “lad” (gnarled, aged about two hundred, and distinctly equine-reeking when it wasn’t liniment) had a soft spot for the Crumpet—or, as Flossie noted with a sigh, must be a lot softer in the head than he looked—these splendid examples of equine, um, prowess, were eagerly claimed by the said Inedible C.

    “That brown one with the black mane and tail looks too big for him,” I said uneasily to the Egg. “He will be able to steer it, will he?”

    Flossie had a coughing fit.

    “Er—my esteemed colleague, the Hon. Sec., may just possibly have picked up one or two lacunae or as it were, gaps, in your knowledge of equestrian terminology, Sister Bean,” the Egg explained.

    Um… “Well what do you say when a person is on it and holds the reins and has to make it go in the direction they want?”

    “Good question!” he said with a laugh. “Funnily enough the word ‘steer’ seems to be confined to the boating fraternity. Possibly just ‘ride it,’ or if you prefer, ‘control it.’ Tho actually, the creature’s a male.”

    “Another— I’ve forgotten the word,” I admitted, rather crestfallen. “Sorry. Um, it means he’s a eunuch, poor thing.”

    “Gelding,” he said kindly, ignoring Flossie’s spluttering fit and gasps of: “Please! Stop her! Save my sanity!”

    “Oh, yes: that. Well will Crumpy be able to control him?”

    “Evens,” offered Flossie unsteadily.

    “Six to four, Sister Bean,” said Egg promptly.

    I searched my jeans pockets. “Um, say I betted 10 P… Bother. Why don’t they teach one useful sums in stupid Maths? That’s better odds, isn’t it, Egg?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “So that means if I gave you four pounds… No, hang on. Am I betting that he will control it, I mean him, or that he’ll fall off?”

    At this point both Flossie and Egg lost it and dissolved in what in the distaff side would slightingly have been called hysterics.

    I just waited them out. “Well?”

    “If I offer you six to four that he can’t control the nag, Sister Bean,” said Egg shakily, blowing his nose, “and you give me four quid and he succeeds in controlling him, I have to give you six quid. Only in pounds, shillings and ounces, tho.”

    “Oh. I won’t bet, then,” I said, stowing my 10 P away again.

    “Very wise,” drawled Flossie.

    Meanwhile the deluded Sid had given the Crumpet what I think is technically termed a leg-up onto the giant creature and it, I mean he, was taking him out of the yard. The word “control” not actually forcibly coming to mind at this precise juncture, tho no doubt Egg had the terminology right, generically speaking.

    Sid came over to us grinning. “He hasn’t fallen off yet, Mel! –Sure you wouldn’t like to try Lady Aurelia? Gentlest mare we’ve ever had in the stables, you know.”

    “Um, no thanks, Sid, I think she’s absolutely lovely, but it’s the height, you see.”

    “Sister Bean, here,” said Flossie kindly, patting my shoulder, “has been known well within living memory to get the violent shakes when mounted on a set of kitchen steps and fall off said steps before anyone could get near enough to grab her.”

    “Yes,” I admitted glumly. “It was stupid. I should never have gone up the beastly things.”

    Sid gaped at me. “But kitchen steps aren’t high, love!”

    “No,” I agreed glumly. “But they are when you’re standing on them, you see.”

    “Where was this?” the unfortunate man croaked.

    Flossie made a face. “Actually it was over at Aunt Miriam’s place.”

    This aunt, née Nightingale, is one of Mrs O.’s and of course Uncle Flossie’s sisters, and well known hereabouts, so Sid just looked sour and said: “Gotcha.”

    “The brain of a hen,” Flossie agreed with a sigh. “Not to say bloody terracotta tiles on the bloody kitchen floor. –The ethnic Florentine look. As in Florence, Italy.”

    She lives just outside the village, on the other side of it from the Ovendens, with nothing remotely Florentine in sight, so Sid said weakly: “I thought that place of hers was a converted barn?”

    “Yes. An English barn. Not a Florentine villa,” Flossie replied sourly.

    “Shit, didja land on ’er bloody terracotta tiles, then, Mel?” he said in horror.

    “No, thank God,” Egg explained. “She landed on one of Aunt Miriam’s hideous handmade art-and-crafty rag rugs, and missed out on concussion. But her legs were horribly bruised, they somehow got tangled in the bloody steps. She could hardly stand. We had to call the doc, and of course were told to load her into the car and take her to the bloody hospital.”

    “Eh? That’s twenty miles from that place of yer aunt’s!”

    “Pretty much, yes,” Egg agreed sourly. “So we rang Mrs Tanner instead.”

    “Good move,” he acknowledged in relief.

    Yes, it was. Mrs Tanner lives locally and “does” for Aunt Miriam, that is, washes the dashed terracotta tiles and does all the other household jobs that Aunt M. doesn’t fancy, like putting the laundry in the machine and transferring it to the dryer slash pegging it out, and feeding the highly rural-cottagey hens that Aunt M. has lost interest in and weeding the highly ditto herb garden that ditto. Not to say making the beds, the Brain would have a fit at an able-bodied woman being incapable of making her own bed. And to do her justice so would Grannie. Mrs Tanner’s family have lived in the village for generations and she knows all these incredible great remedies handed down from great-great-grandmothers, said by the locals to have been witches one and all, but never mind, the stuff she put on the bandages did stink to High Heaven but it was very soothing and I got better. But you can still feel the lumps on my shin bones.

    So I purveyed this intel to Sid and he said it was good that the stuff had fixed me up but frowned a bit and came right up to me and bent down and ran his warm brown hand down my shins in the exact same way as he does with the horses, and decided: “Yeah. Well if you were one of my horses I’d’ve had the vet to you, pronto, but you’ve healed all right—young bones. You were bloody lucky it wasn’t yer head, love.”

    “Yes, I was. It was stupid, I knew I couldn’t do it, but Aunt Miriam said I was making a fuss about nothing.”

    “See? Hen,” said Flossie through his teeth. “Vertigo is a medical condition.”

    “That’s right. But why didn’t you two stop ’er?” the old man demanded grimly.

    “We were in the next room, Sid,” said Egg with a sigh. ”The bloody woman was trying to teach Mel to cook something putrid—forget what.”

    “A syllabub,” I said heavily.

    “Eh?”

    “It’s some putrid old-ee English-ee thing that mad ladies like Aunt Miriam think should be reintroduced because it’s a traditional dish and part of our heritage, Sid,” I explained.

    “Never heard of it,” he said dismissively. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer, eh?”

    “That’s right,” I agreed glumly.

    “This’ll be why Ian’s taken a scunner to ’er,” he decided thoughtfully, scratching his chin. “Thought it was just because ’e can’t stand ’er.”

    “That as well!” Egg admitted with a laugh.

    “Yeah. Well, anyway, Mel, love, Grantley’s Pride isn’t dark brown, he’s a bay. That’s what that colour is,” Sid explained kindly, reverting to the last topic but fourteen.

    Yes? Most of them looked brown to me. But I said kindly: “So that’s what ‘bay’ means.”

    “Yeah,” he said, patting my back. I refrained from neighing but it was a close-run thing. I have never felt more like a shortish pony in my life.

    “Um, so do you think Crumpy will fall off Grantley’s Pride, Sid?” I asked uneasily.

    “Wouldn’t’ve put ’im up on ’im if I did.”

    “Oh,” I said limply. “Good.”

    “Good unless you want him to fall off,” drawled Flossie.

    “Don’t be horrible! Of course I don’t!”

    “No, ’course she bloody doesn’t,” Sid agreed, giving him a hard look. “Why don’t you take Jackanory, Jimmy? Do you good to get some decent exercise, might get some fresh air into that noggin of yours.”

    “I’m breathing fresh air at the moment, actually,” he replied with considerably less than his usual insouciance, so sucks.

    “Come on,” said Egg heavily. “Might as well. I’ll take the Slug, talking of needing some decent exercise.”

    “He won’t gallop,” Sid reminded him heavily.

    “I’ll aim at a slow canter, Sid!” he replied cheerfully.

    “Yeah. Well—’e might. You’ll need to kick the bugger, Alan.”

    “I think I can manage that! –Come on, Flossie, they won’t saddle themselves.” And he towed him off to the tack room.

    “Jackanory’s very pretty, isn’t he?” I said to Sid as the two intrepid riders slowly moved off, Egg with a pretty sharp kick at the Slug. “So what’s he?”

    “A gelding, of course, love.”

    Mm. They mostly were, poor old things. “Um, is he? Mm. Actually I meant his colour.”

    “He’s a chestnut. White blaze. You quite often get that with chestnuts. Dunno why.”

    “I see. So would you call the one that’s been winning all those races this year a chestnut too then, Sid?”

    “Red Racer? Yep. No blaze, tho; two white socks.”

    “Has he? I’ve never noticed… But then he’s usually wearing his stockings, isn’t he?”

    “Something like that, love,” he agreed tolerantly. “You want to come down to the paddocks, take a look at the yearlings?”

May 1 Not. And continuing straight on: They were young horses that Mr O. had got in recently that weren’t grown up enough to race. As I knew that Sid really loved leaning on the railings and looking dreamily at them, I agreed I’d like to, and we strolled down there.

    “Aren’t they sweet?” I said after a while. “They look… As if they haven’t quite grown into their bodies, kind of! Like the boys still were last year. They’ve all grown up so much since, they’re much bigger and solider now.”

    “Yep.” Sid put his arm round me and hugged me a bit. “Colts do that, pet. Only one year of that bloody daft school to go now, eh? –Alan’s getting to look very like ’is dad.”

    “Yes. And he’s kind of… sensible and responsible like Mr Ovenden, too.”

    “Yep. Pity ruddy Henry’s so thick. Never mind: one out of two, eh?”

    “Yes.” I didn’t point out that the only filly Mr O. had sired was dumb as they come with a head full of the same sort of bleached yellow fluff as adorned its outside.

    The old man was still hugging me. “One of these days,” he said in dreamy tones, “dare say it’ll be Alan’s kids getting on a seventeen-hands nag behind our backs like he done when ’e was only five, and scaring the living daylights out of us!”

    “Um—yes!” I agreed, very startled. “But I thought it’d be Henry that’d want to take over here, Sid.”

    “Good with the horses but he’s brainless, pet, he’d never be able to manage the business. Far too dumb to be a vet, too, the swot’d be beyond ’im. Still, dare say they’ll work it out…” He looked at the young horses and smiled. “See that nice young bay? Hoppy, the lads call ’im. Hopton Horatio, his stud name is. Now, his dam…” He plunged into it. It was all Greek to me, but I just smiled and nodded, leaning on the rails with his warm, wiry old arm round me, watching the darling leggy yearlings alternatively kicking up their heels and nibbling grass in their sunny paddock…

    If it could be like this all the year round I wouldn’t mind living here myself, I thought dreamily, but I knew it wasn’t: this was England. For very large parts of the year it was drenching rain, biting frosts, and chillingly cold winds funnelling down through gaps in the surrounding low hills, even tho they did shelter the property quite well. Oh, well, Mel, enjoy the moment, I reminded myself.

    So I went on enjoying the moment while the old head lad rambled on, getting more and more historical, names like “Nijinsky” (which I did now know was nothing to do with ballet, I’d already made that boo-boo) and “Red Rum” (not alcoholic) and “good old Lester Piggott” and so forth gradually getting in there…

    It was a perfect morning, really.

    Egg and Flossie returned safely in time for lunch, and as most of the horses had gone off with the lads and Mr O. on racing business, Sid joined us. Crumpy had earlier informed us that he’d have a good day out and not to expect him till late afternoon, he was going to ride round to the other side of the village (which meant, as all understood, that he’d con lunch out of the amiable Mrs Tanner). So there were only a few of us sitting round the big old kitchen table sipping a precautionary cup of tea or in my case a glass of spring water as we waited for Bean and Bean Minor to return from a fishing expedition. Bean had borrowed a rod, looking important, but Bean Minor preferred a long stick with an elderly pair of Mrs O.’s tights attached, or at least a portion thereof, and a large jar, tiddlers, tadpoles and newts for the use of. So far over all the splendid hols. we’d spent there he’d only bagged one newt that later died (I think he might have squeezed it) and a lot of weed, but he lived in hope.

    We’d decided to give them up and Mrs O. had set out the remains of a large ham and a huge bowl of succulent-looking potato salad and another bowl of cherry tomatoes, plus a magnificent pile of lettuce which certainly hadn’t come from anywhere on their property but which had been donated by Mrs Terry that morning, her garden having run mad, plus one giant platter of crusty bread and another of huge cheese chunks, assorted, Sid kindly advising me to lay off that mouldy one, love, but the Red Leicester was okay, when in they came.

    Bean was looking sour—no trout in evidence—and Bean Minor was looking even wetter than was usual on such riparian occasions.

    Mrs O. got up hurriedly. “Tommy, dear, did you slip?”

    “No,” said the Bean sourly. “He didn’t manage to catch anything from the bank, of course, so then he insisted on getting in the punt with me, and he fell in trying to net a trout, serve him right. One doesn’t catch trout in a bally net.”

    “It was an accident!” protested Bean Minor loudly, very red in the cheeks.

    “Of course it was, dear,” said Mrs O. kindly. “You’ll feel better after a nice hot shower.”

    “I’m okay, it’s only a bit of water, and anyway I can swim, Sar’t Treloar taught me! Backstroke as well and next year I’m going to learn butterfly stroke,” said the miniscule legume importantly.

    “That’s nice, dear, but just pop up and have your shower and get out of those wet things. Michael, I think you’d better change, too. Now, I thought we’d have salads, but Mrs Terry brought up the best part of a rabbit pie, so I could heat that up, if you two would like something hot.”

    Bean and Bean Minor would, loudly.

    “Perhaps others might, too, Mum!” said Egg with a laugh. “Would you fancy some, Sid? And you, Mel?”

    We both would, actually, if there was enough. And Mrs O. admitted there was stacks, enough for everybody, Mrs Terry still cooked as if all four of “her boys” were still at home. (GIANT hulks in their late twenties or early thirties, one drives a horsebox for Mr O., one’s a long-distance lorry driver, currently said to be headed for Turkey, one’s in the Army, a sergeant, he’s completely terrifying, and the fourth, actually the eldest, is in the Merchant Navy, currently on a container ship which could be anywhere, last time his mum heard from him she didn’t even recognise the name of the port. And sends her home all sorts of strange gifts most of which she doesn’t know what to do with.)

    So the pie went in the oven while the siblings hurried upstairs, and soon we were all tucking in. Sid waxed so keen on the pie that Flossie, doubtless inspired by his Uncle Ian’s earlier reaction to his Aunt Margot’s chicken pies, suggested he should give Mrs Terry a big kiss next time he saw her, the which suggestion was received with a disgusted look and the response: “’Er? She might be a great cook but she’s got the brain of a hen and a tongue what’d talk the hind leg orf a donkey!”

    “I suppose she does chatter on, rather,” Mrs Ovenden agreed mildly. “But she’s a very conscientious worker, and very kind, and very fond of the children.”

    “She gave me some fudge!” piped Bean Minor unwisely: that huge helping of pie had gone to his head.

    “What? When was this?” demanded Bean crossly.

    Flossie sighed. “Bean, dear old thing, do try to attain some semblance of maturity. What can it signify who gave what minor person what, when or in what quantity?”

    “I think that means grow up, Michael,” Mrs O. translated. “You had plenty of treats when you were Tommy’s age, didn’t you? That was back when Mrs Terry was into toffee, wasn’t it? Just as well all you boys have good strong teeth. –You’re getting worse, Jimmy,” she added by the way. “I don’t know about the Diplomatic, I don’t think any poor foreigners are going to understand a syllable of what you say. Maybe you ought to think seriously about the law: didn’t you once say you’d fancy being a barrister? They use floods of words in court. I must say, when your Aunt Miriam sued the County Council last winter they both ran on forever, the whole thing was incomprehensible.”

    “The judge’s decision wasn’t, tho!” put in Egg with a laugh.

    “No well, serve her right,” said Aunt M.’s sister coldly.

    “Thrown out of court, ticked orf for wasting the court’s time, Mel,” Sid explained. “That was a great day.”

    “Help, did you go, Sid?” I gasped. –He rarely takes a day off from the horses, and has to be forced to take his hols. Last time—was it?—anyway, quite recently, when Uncle Flossie went to stay with friends in Jamaica Mr O. asked him to take Sid with him, or he, Mr O., I mean, would be in risk of being taken to court for slavery. He went, tho it was rather a surprise when Uncle Flossie upgraded him to First Class—he likes an audience—but he said it was too hot and there wasn’t much to do. Tho he liked the rum.

    “Yeah,” Sid admitted. “Winter, you see: wasn’t busy. Was hoping she’d lose—well the silly cow said Lady Aurelia was a lump,” he revealed.

    “What? She’s not!” I cried.

    Oh dear, identical kindly smiles had appeared on the faces of Sid himself, Egg, Flossie, Mrs O. and, insult to injury, little Bean Minor. And even Bean looked almost tolerant.

    “Nah, ’course not. The woman can’t tell ’er arse from ’er elbow,” Sid dismissed her with a sniff. “You want to try some of this Red Leicester, love?” Helpfully he took a slice of crusty bread, buttered it lavishly and passed it and a generous chunk of cheese to me.

    Why not? I’d only had a wedge of pie, a spoonful or maybe two of potato salad, one or two slices of ham… Er, never mind. “Thanks, Sid.”

    He was right, it was jolly good cheese. English-style, of course, off a big round. Uncle Flossie has cheese sent down to them regularly from London which if you look at the map is a bit odd in this particular case, it would have been just as easy, in fact with a lot less traffic on the roads, to have it sent from Leicestershire, but never mind, he likes to contribute and he hasn’t got any kids of his own, his wife died young of leukaemia, it’s a terribly sad story. But on the other hand, since then he’s had at least as many bimbos as Mr Lamont or probably more, I think Sid was actually a bit shocked at what went on in Jamaica, so one can’t say he’s been lonely, exactly. But he’s never remarried. He once told me wistfully that he wished Flossie was his son, so I said in my opinion he was a better father to him than his own father had ever been, and he went all pink and pleased. True, he’s generally rather pinkish anyway what with gentlemen’s barbers plus the steam baths and such-like that you need after a hard session in the House, but yes, quite pinkish with pleasure, bless him.

May 6 Not. Continuing a bit later. Sid had gone back to the stables and we were sitting round relaxing, it must have been some time after half-past two, and I at least was reflecting happily that probably Bean Minor’s falling in the river would be the last accident for these hols., when the phone rang. And proved that the Fates had been laughing at me as they worked away with their shears.

    Egg answered it.

    “What?” he said. “Slow down, Crumpet, I can’t understand you. …Colonel Raice what? –Shit!”

    We all looked round in alarm.

    “Y— Yes, all right, Crumpy, just calm down,” he said firmly. “How bad is it? –Oh. Right, hang on, I’ll put you on speaker-phone.” He pressed buttons competently, he’s quite good at the technological crap, even tho he despises it.

    And we could all hear the Crumpet’s voice saying agitatedly: “I’m sure the leg is broken, he looks awful and he was kind of groaning when I found him, and he’s too heavy for me to move, what the Hell shall I do?”

    “Stop panicking for a start, old chum,” replied the Egg firmly. “Where are you and how did it happen?”

    They were on some stretch of grass which had an actual name, I forget what, but Egg recognised it, he knew where the Crumpet meant, and the Colonel’s horse had thrown him.

    “What?” gasped Mrs Ovenden. “Don’t tell me he set that stupid Twelfth Night at a water jump!”

    Crumpy burst into redundant explanation. “No, it wasn’t him, it was a hack belonging to that awful Ellen Wetherby or maybe her dad, anyway she was down for the holidays and he borrowed it and she took Twelfth Night only he hates ladies and he wouldn’t jump at all for her, if you ask me it’s that scent muck she wears, a horse’s nose is miles more sensitive than a human’s, and it makes me feel queasy, I can tell you. Anyway they had a row and she went home and he set this thing at the hedge and some bloody idiot had gone and mended it with wire!”

    “What?” shrieked Mrs Ovenden in horror. “Round here? They ought to be shot! Poor John! For Heaven’s sake ask him how he is, Alan!”

    “I did, Mum. Crumpy—Crumpy! Pay attention! How’s the horse?”

    “Okay, he only caught his off hind on the bloody stuff, only the Colonel came a real cropper. Was that your mum, just then?”

    “Yes. Never mind her. I’ll call an ambulance, just don’t try to move him. You sure he didn’t hit his head, at all?”

    “No,” said a faint voice in the background. “For God’s sake give me back the phone, Lucius.”

    “No, Egg’s telling me what to do, sir! –He’s still wearing his helmet, Egg, I think his head’s okay. Shall I stay here with him?”

    “Yes. The ambulance had better come as far as”—technical detail of lanes and stiles. “I’ll tell Sid to get on over to the lane, he can show the men where to go from there.”

    “Oh, good!” said Crumpy in huge relief. “I did think you might bring the Blue Monster over, we could load him onto the tray.”—This was a smallish vehicle of the camion variety with a flat area on behind instead of the usual, um, sides. Very useful for loading and unloading bales of hay.—“Only come to think of it he’s a bit heavy.”

    “No, we don’t want to move him, leave it to the experts,” said Egg very firmly. “I’m going to ring off now, Crumpy. Keep the phone free in case we need to contact you again or the ambulance crew does.”

    “It’s the Colonel’s.”

    “Yes, got that. I’d better stay here, coordinate things. Flossie and Bean will ride over to you—okay with you chaps?”—They nodded hard.—“Right, hang up, Crumpy, but don’t switch the bloody thing right off, okay? ’Bye.” He hung up. “One can but hope,” he said grimly, dialling. …“Ambulance please, it’s a riding accident.”

    Fortunately they were well used to riding accidents in these parts so from then on everything went smoothly, given the obscurity of the place where the silly man had fallen off. Tho true, the way that broken-down hedge had been mended was scarcely his fault, as several people pointed out angrily. Especially Sid. It was me that ran out to tell him and his language on hearing the word “wire” was frankly unprintable.

    Six days later the Colonel was out of hospital and back in his cottage and Mrs Blake, his nice daily help, rang up all distracted because she and her family were booked to go to Bournemouth the next day and she couldn’t find anybody to keep an eye on the poor dear man, unquote, and he was supposed to keep right off it, it was a nasty compound fracture and they’d only let him come home on condition that he would keep right off it and those stairs were far too steep, he couldn’t possibly, he’d be breaking the other leg or his back and all he needed really was someone to make a few simple meals for him and pop upstairs from time to time to see that he was all right… This was the gist, but it was a lot longer and with a lot more circumlocutions. Mrs Ovenden answered but I caught the lot because the Egg had forgotten to switch off the speaker-phone thing.

    “Knowing him,” said Mrs O. with a sigh, hanging up at long last, “he’ll have lied to the hospital about how much help he could actually rustle up.”

    Yes, and knowing him it wouldn’t have been entirely the fault of the wire: he rides like an idiot: “going for it” I think is the term.

    “Well,” Mrs Ovenden went on, “I don’t think we’ll ask you to give him a blanket bath, Mel darling, but you can make him sandwiches and toast and stuff, can’t you?”

    “Me?” I gasped in horror not to say terror.

    “Yes. You can take little Tommy with you, if you like, actually I suppose that might be better…” She stared off into space looking rather vague for a moment and I quailed, afraid she was about to go into a fabric-y fit, but she smiled at me and said brightly: “Well we’ve lost Jimmy and Lucius and Michael to the lure of the Lake District, haven’t we?”

    “More likely to the lure of Hutchinson Major’s dad’s speedboat, but yes,” I allowed.

    “Mm. And normally I’d ask Alan but just at the moment, with that rotten little sod Paul deserting Ian without notice and poor Rob with a broken arm, they’re so short-handed—”

    “I know. And I’d be hopeless with the horses, tho I can muck out okay, I’m strong. you know. It’s okay, I’ll go, I suppose we can’t let him starve. Tho anybody that goes round with Ellen Wetherby— Never mind,” I muttered, reddening.

    “Yes, well, he’s lonely, poor John, but I must say she’s the most selfish little bitch that ever walked. She’s waltzed off to Spain, did you know? –Mm. Her mother rang yesterday, she’s furious with her, evidently the man’s married. But that’s Ellen all over. A grabber.”

    A gr— Oh! “Good name for her. Um, should I take some, um, provisions or something, Mrs Ovenden?”

    “Yes, of course dear. I’ll drive you over, we’ll pack a nice hamper, shall we? Where’s Tommy got to?”

    Bean Minor was eventually disinterred from a “hut” in the tangles of runner beans gone wild down the back of what was once intended to be a vegetable garden, and after the obligatory washing we loaded him into the back seat of Mrs Ovenden’s car together with two hampers, two redundant eiderdowns and three extra pillows, God knew why, the man had had that cottage for years, it must have had bedding and in any case it was summer; and having made sure that there were actual clothes in Bean Minor’s suitcase, we closed the boot on it and went.

    Which is how I ended up at the Colonel’s cottage for the rest of those summer hols.

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