Councils Of War

14

Councils Of War

October 7 Not. Bean and Crumpy were looking very pale.

    “We’ve just heard, Mel dear,” said Crumpy shakily.

    “We were out riding when John rang,” Bean added. His mouth trembled and he burst out: “I could kill the bastards!”

    “And so say all of us, old man,” good old Egg agreed, patting him on the shoulder, “but at the moment, let’s all just agree to rally round Mel, okay?”

    “Yes of course,” he said shakily. “Thanks, Egg.”

    “Where—where is everyone?” I asked, looking round the kitchen, scene of so many happy memories of our school hols. with the Ovendens.

    “The girls are upstairs getting your room ready,” Crumpy explained.

    “Um, Mrs O. went and told them you usually have the pink one, Mel,” the Bean added uneasily. “The one they did up for their old Aunt Harriet. Sorry.”

    “That’s all right,” I replied, trying to smile. “It’ll feel like home.” Forthwith I burst into tears like a fool.

    At that the Bean actually came over to me and put his arms round me: he must be upset, I registered groggily. “Come and sit down. At least John’ll be safe. His bosses seem to be used to this sort of thing.”

    “I’ll put the kettle on,” said Crumpy, going over to the sinkbench.

    “Good idea,” the Egg agreed. He began foraging for clean mugs, ending up by investigating the innards of the dishwashing machine.

    By that time I’d more or less dried my eyes on a very soggy handkerchief and was able to say: “From what horrid Farnsworth said, his flat must have been all blown up. It didn’t sound as if there’s anything left, and the ceiling, well it would have been John’s floor, of course, it fell right onto the poor old man downstairs. But he’s okay, just a few cuts and bruises and they’ve taken him to hospital to make sure. Only the horrid man didn’t have a clue about the poor buh-hudgies!” And I started to bawl again.

    Over at the bench Crumpy said in a lowered voice to Bean, who had joined him with the teabags: “I didn’t know the Colonel had budgies.”

    “Uh—no, far’s as I know he didn’t. Think they were the old boy’s.”

    “Oh—right.”

    “Um, shouldn’t think— Well, y’know. Effects of blast,” my sibling muttered.

    “Shut up, Bean, you benighted ass!” the good old Crumpet hissed.

    “Oh. Yes. Um, Mel, there’s nothing to bawl about,” he said uneasily. “John’s safe and the Egg’s figuring out contingency plans.”

    The Egg was now proffering a roll of paper towels. I tore one off and blew and mopped. “Thanks. –I don’t see how even you can make six months go away, tho, Egg.”

    He sat down beside me and patted my hand. “No, well keep busy, is my idea.”

    I blew my nose again. “Mm. –He was planning to give up the intelligence stuff and everything!”

    “Yes. Now don’t bawl again, Mel, dear, we’re all here for you.”

    “Yes of course,” I agreed, trying to smile, tho given the circs., I honestly didn’t see what on earth he could do about anything. “Um, where are the boys?”

    He smiled. “Well I think Bean Minor’s reverted to his childhood: bolted down an enormous brekkers and took Trelawney off to inspect the old punts!”

    “With a jar for newts?”

    “Not quite!” he said, laughing. “Any bets they won’t both come back soaked, tho?”

    “No takers!” grinned Crumpy, placing a milky mug in front of me. “Here you go, Mel. –Bean! Where’s that sugar?”

    “Oh—sorry.” He removed the sugar bowl from a cupboard—how had it got in there? It usually sat on the big old kitchen table—and helpfully spooned three spoonfuls into my tea. “Marthe says it’s good for shocks,” he said firmly.

    “Is that right?”

    He nodded, repeating his remark in French.

    “Um, yes, I did understand you, Bean, dear. But is it right?”

    “Oh! No idea, but it makes one feel more cheerful, y’know,” he said, accepting a mug from Crumpy and sugaring it liberally.

    “Yes,” Egg agreed. “Thanks, Crumpy. –Pass the sugar, would you, Bean?”

    Crumpy sat down with his own mug. “Flossie’s just popped out into the yard to get better mobile reception. He’s, um, very angry, Mel. He’s ringing your relatives.”

    “What?”

    “Er—yes. Well uh, think he had an idea that rather than spring it on dear little Mireille, it might be better to speak to your Oncle Albert and maybe an aunt or two. –Y’know, when we were over there,” he said reminiscently, “I couldn’t get over the fact that the French for ‘aunt’ really is ‘tante’!” He grinned hopefully at me, as if this obscure statement meant something.

    “Er… Not wholly clear to one who didn’t have to learn French at an English prep. school, old man,” murmured Egg.

    “Eh? Oh! Sorry, Mel! Well y’see… Dash it. You explain, Egg.”

    “Let me see… It became a commonplace of English discourse during the twentieth century for the phrase ‘la plume de ma tante’ to be used as a sort of shorthand for the French language and the learning thereof, Mel. Possibly it had been a genuine phrase from old phrasebooks, so to speak. Certainly good old Bertie W. would have recognised it at once.”

    “That’s it!” beamed Crumpy. “It’s become a joke, y’see. Which is why I didn’t grasp that it was real.”

    “I see…”

    “Moi, pas,” said the Bean firmly. “Pourquoi ta tante aurait-elle une plume? Explique-moi ça!”

    “Elle voulait t’écrire une lettre?” I offered.

    He shook his head. “Non, Grannie avait raison. Les Anglais sont—”

    “Don’t say it, they’ll get it wrong!” I said quickly.

    “Eh? Oh: yes. Okay: ils sont dingues.”

    “D’ac.” And I drank my well-sugared milky tea and did feel a bit better.

    Alysse and Carrie-Ann then surfaced, and tho being very English they didn’t fling their arms round me and kiss me on both cheeks, they did look very, very sympathetic and say how sorry they were, and Alysse actually sat down beside me on my Egg-less side and squeezed my hand. Which for her was very demonstrative. And we all drank sweet, milky tea and felt a bit better.

    Then I had to be shown to my room, ex the late Aunt Harriet’s room, smothered in pink as it was. But Carrie-Ann had put some lovely white sheets on the bed and turned the bedding back so that the top sheet showed, with a matching white pillowcase, both with lacy edgings, I think it was what they call broderie Anglaise, and Alysse had found some big white daisies, which was good going, the Ovenden Stables don’t go in much for extraneous flowers, and made a lovely flower arrangement in a crystal vase on the dressing table. At which point I nearly bawled again.

    When we went downstairs Flossie was in the kitchen. He was looking very angry, all right.

    “Mel, dear!” he said, and came and gave me a big hug and kissed my cheek. Well the English expression ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather’ just about fit the bill, I was stunned.

    “This is absolutely bloody,” he said grimly. “I’ve rung your Oncle Albert and he’s standing by, he’ll pop over if you need him or you must go to them, whatever suits you. And I got on to Jim Wells—the head clerk at Chambers, Mel—and he got hold of his contact at Scotland Yard, who confirmed the flat’s a complete write-off. It’s a wonder the whole building didn’t collapse, but those old apartment blocks that came through the Blitz are pretty solid. Nevertheless they’ll have to get the structural engineers in before it’s safe for the residents to go back.” He made a wry face. “The official story is a gas leak, of course.”

    “What? The cheeky blighters!” I gasped. “John didn’t even have gas!”

    “No,” Bean agreed. “She asked him that, y’see, Flossie, because she’s terrified of the stuff. Well of electricity too, to be fair, but more so of gas.”

    “No, well bloody MI5 aren’t going to publicise the fact that the place was bombed by bloody terrorists that had it in for one of their chaps, are they?” said Flossie sourly.

    “You’re right,” the Bean agreed. “It’d make them look damned incompetent, eh? Like that James Bond movie where they blew up that abortion of a building on the river.”

    “That’s MI6, you twit,” sighed Carrie-Ann.

    “I know, but nevertheless. Made them look dashed silly, see?”

    “Sillier,” said the Egg firmly. “Well thanks very much, Flossie. The family sent messages, I suppose?”

    “Well yes, but the aunts got very idiomatic,” he admitted. “Mireille sends love and support, tho, Mel dear.”

    “Thanks, Flossie. How—how did she sound?

    His nostrils flared, help! “Frightened and upset, poor little soul.”

    “No wonder,” said Alysse. “It is frightening. I mean, when it’s someone you know… I mean, we all knew that John was in some sort of intelligence job, but… I suppose we didn’t expect it to get so close to home.”

    “No: one doesn’t,” said the Egg tightly. “One of Dad’s owners had a brother who was killed in bloody 9/11: worked for some big American corporation. He was having coffee at the twin towers. Dad said the poor fellow said he just couldn’t take it in: he felt numb.”

    “Yes,” I agreed hoarsely. “One does.”

    “Yes, but at least John’s safe. And you’ll be all right with us for the time being, Mel, but we’ll think about getting you away somewhere, just to be sure, okay?”

    “Yes, well good old Sid’s out there in the yard with a bloody great shot-gun, I don’t think anything’s going to get past him!” Flossie admitted with a wry grin.

    He meant, of course, the gnarled old head lad, I don’t know how old, exactly, but sixty would be close. “Is he? Dear old Sid. I—I didn’t think, Egg,” I faltered. “I’m putting you and your family and all the lads in danger, too! And the poor defenceless horses!”

    “Um, she’s been reading some book of John’s about a nutter who gives some racehorses some muck that makes them get cauliflower growths on their hearts,” Bean explained to the company. “Found it in his flat, evidently. Rang me up and ear-bashed me about it. I tell you what, it’ll be no loss!”

    “Nothing’s going to happen to our horses, Dad’s got excellent security,” said the Egg firmly. “Let’s all just pull ourselves together, okay? We’ll have something solid for lunch as soon as the mums get back from the shops, and then you can have a lie-down, Mel, and later this afternoon we’ll talk strategy, okay?”

    “Yes: good,” said Flossie grimly, giving the Bean a hard look.

    “There’s no need to look like that, Flossie, I was only trying to explain why she was worrying about the horses when we all know she won’t even get on one, she says they’re too high!”

    “Yes,” said Crumpy soothingly, patting his shoulder: “we know, old man. Come on, the second string’ll be back from work about now, won’t it? They’ll be short-handed if old Sid’s on guard, better give them a hand.”

    “Oh—right-ho.” And they went out.

    “One feels,” said Flossie in a languid tone that was much more like his old self, “that one ought to apologise to you for the egregious legume, Mel darling, but after all, he is your sibling.”

    “Yes, tho sometimes I wonder. Tho he was right about that book: I mean, it was very clever but the more I think about it—”

    “Yes. Hush. Stick to good old PGW.”

    “Yes, I will,” I said gratefully. “And the Lucia stories, too: they’re really great and luckily John keeps his copies at the cottage, so they weren’t all blown up. Oh—and Bean’s discovered another one: she wrote detective stories and they’re terrifically literate but they are good stories and her hero’s very clever but he does the Bertie thing to a Tee!”

    Flossie rolled his eyes madly at Egg.

    “Mm. Tell you later. Come on, we’ll wash these things and set the table for lunch, shall we?”

    And with that we all got up and soothed our feelings with domestic routine. You can say this for Egg Ovenden, he is the epitome of Good Sense, bless him.

October 11 Not. Bean Minor went very white and poor Trelawney looked stunned, tho saying stoutly: “It sounds as if the MOD are on the job, the Colonel’ll be safe, old chap.”

    “Yes, but— You mean everything in the flat was blown to smithereens? What about his medals?” Bean Minor burst out, rather as if he was still only eleven, instead of a month off eighteen.

    “No, they’re in a safety deposit box,” said the Bean quickly. “Don’t you remember? They had a series of petty thefts at the flats a few years back and the flics came round and told them not to keep valuables around, so he shoved his medals and that gold watch of his grandfather’s and, um, papers and stuff, I think, in a safety deposit box. And, um, was it his grandmother’s rings or something? Anything valuable, anyway. Not that he cared about the dashed medals as such, Bean Minor, don’t you remember him laughing about it? He said it was pour encourager les autres, and to get the old boy downstairs to put that glorious gold hunter of his away safely.”

    “Oh, yes! That’s right!” Bean Minor agreed, looking much more cheerful.

    “I thought a hunter was a horse?” I groped. “When was this, Bean? I never heard about it.”

    “One half-hols., I think. He came down to Marbledown and took us out for a decent lunch.”

    Bean Minor nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I was thinking of that time he showed me the medals: I mean, they were just shoved in his desk drawer at the flat.”

    “Oh, did he? Right. –A hunter in English doesn’t have to mean a horse, Mel,” my elder sibling added kindly. “It’s a pocket watch. Gold. Well I s’pose technically that one of John’s is too, of course, but this one of the old boy’s is dashed valuable: eighteenth-century, I think. Beautiful engraved case, but it’s the innards that are absolutely superb!"

    “Mm,” agreed Bean Minor, nodding hard.

    “I say! That sounds splendid!” put in Trelawney. “I remember my old Great-Uncle Paul had a chiming watch, it wasn’t half bad, either.”

    “Good, well John’s medal’s are okay, then,” said the Egg briskly. “You two lads had better nip upstairs and change out of those wet things.”

    Not arguing, they nipped.

    “Um, I don’t think the full implications have sunk in yet,” noted the Crumpet uneasily.

    “No, well, good,” the Egg replied firmly.

    “Um, yes. S’pose so. Um, thing is…” He looked awkwardly from me to Bean.

    “Yes, all right, Crumpet, old chap,” said the Egg firmly. “I think it’s dawned on all of us. It’s not just Mel that we’ll have to squirrel away out of sight, it’s all three of them. Tho fortunately,” he added on a dry note, “I don’t think even the dottiest terrorist could suppose that kidnapping Lady Patrizia or Dr. F.-B. could possibly be a bargaining counter.”

    “Not with us,” said the Bean tightly, “but it bally well could with John!”

    An appalled silence fell. He was right.

    I looked at Egg in dismay. So did Carrie-Ann and Alysse. Even Flossie was looking at him.

    The Egg took a deep breath. “That had occurred, actually, Bean. There’s nothing we can do about it, tho we could warn them to be on their guard. But John would have to get to hear of it first, wouldn’t he? And if the MOD have him incommunicado I doubt if they’d pass the intel on to him.”

    “No,” I said in relief. “That’s a point.”

    “Yes,” Flossie agreed. “Well I don’t mind ringing your damned parents, Mel dear. It’d be a pleasure, in fact.”

    “Mum’d have hysterics in your ear, that wouldn’t be a pleasure,” noted the Bean.

    “Shut up, Bean,” I sighed. “That’s very good of you, Flossie. Mum’s still abroad somewhere, tho. Um, but Dad’d probably pretend he doesn’t know who you are or what you’re talking about and hang up: he does that. If he bothers to answer at all.”

    “I’ll ring the College and get onto his porter, and if that doesn’t work—tho given the porter in Q.,” he said with a smothered laugh, “there’s very little doubt about it! But if it doesn’t, I’ll get onto the Dean.”

    “Uh—yes. As a matter of fact I suppose the College authorities ought to be warned in any case,” Egg admitted.

    “Um, Egg,” said Carrie-Ann cautiously, “isn’t this, um, spreading it around a bit much, tho? I mean, the more people know, surely the more risk there is of someone talking.”

    “Ye-es…” He rubbed his chin. “Good point. –Okay, Junior Drones, the question is on the floor. What do people think?”

    “I think bloody Dad can stew in his own juice,” said the Bean sourly.

    “That’s not helping, Michael,” noted Alysse grimly.

    I don’t think any of them had ever heard her reprove anyone before, and they all stared. Of course I know her rather better, after our mutual incarceration at Merrifield, and I’ve long since realised she’s the sort of person that’ll say what she thinks when it’s something that matters, and stick to her guns, what’s more.

    She went rather pink but said to us: “I know he’s pretty much in shock but he’s old enough to realise that remarks like that don’t help.”

    “Mm, and to control his big mouth,” noted Egg drily.

    “Yes, abso-bally-lutely!” Crumpy agreed, coming to put a supporting arm round Alysse. She went pinker than ever but gave him a grateful look.

    “Well sorry,” said my sibling, “but Dad’s been totally useless all his life, y’know.”

    “Yes,” I agreed, sighing. “Well you seem to know this Dean, Flossie: what’s he like?”

    “A damn’ solid chap. But blasted F.-B.’s your father, after all, Mel: do you think we should warn him?”

    Er…

    “Look, how’s this?” said Egg. “Tell the Dean the lot, Flossie, but suggest bloody F.-B. should just be told there’s been a threat against Mel, and the blighters may have a go at any close relatives.”

    “Right! Damn’ good idea! –And don’t worry, I’ll use my mobile, the call won’t be traceable to the Stables. –I’d better do it outside, the reception’s better.” And he strode out forthwith.

    “Crumbs,” I said numbly. “He is rallying round.”

    “Yes of course,” the Egg agreed mildly, patting my shoulder. “–I think that’s Mum’s car I can hear: come on, Bean, let’s give the ladies a hand to haul the shopping in.”

    “Oh—right-ho!” And out they went.

    We looked at one another somewhat numbly.

     After quite some time Alysse said: “Gosh.”

    “Mm,” Carrie-Ann agreed. “I mean, I knew Egg was a born leader… Of course I haven’t known Flossie all that long, really, but I didn’t think he had in him.”

    Alysse nodded numbly. “No. I’d have put him down as… Well, as the dilettante sort, frankly.”

    “I have seen him rally round once or twice before. That time poor old Egg came down with a Beasley Measley, f’r instance—well, ancient history!” Crumpy admitted with a grin. “But I have to admit no-one would have thought it from his recent behaviour. I must say, the Beak whanged the jolly old nail on the bonce in that dashed homily he gave him in our last year at School: said he needed to grow up and take responsibility for himself and others. Let’s hope it makes him face up to the fact that it’s dear little Mireille he really wants, at last!”

    This speech was more than somewhat muddled but one had to agree with the sentiment. And by the time the others came back in with Mrs Ovenden and Mrs Fletcher and the shopping, the Crumpet was deep in the saga of one, Beasley, dashed nuisance, scourge of the Middle School, and indefatigable spreader of any kind of germ known to humanity, the very culprit who had infected the entirety of the First Eleven on the eve of their historic match, having struggled up the schoolboy ladder, you understand, to the dizzy heights of facing your actual Eton!

    It wasn’t until quite some time later, when I was having that afternoon rest recommended by the Egg, that it dawned on me that Crumpy had undoubtedly introduced the “Beasley Measley” motif on purpose to distract and cheer us girls. One can say this for the Crumpet, he may not be the most intellectual chap that ever walked, but he is most definitely one of the kindest-hearted, and utterly to be relied upon. Alysse was a lucky girl, and I think that that day she had realised just how very fortunate she was.

    In fact we all were. Me especially, to have the lads rallying round like that. One had to admit that they were three jolly good chaps!

October 13 Not. The get-together after lunch produced several suggestions but no decisions and we decided to sleep on it.

    Next day the routine of the stables of course had to go on: quite a lot of the horses were entered in races and the big horseboxes, a couple belonging to Mr Ovenden and the rest hired, rolled off early in the morning. Then Egg, Flossie, Crumpy and Bean went out with the remainder to ride work, Carrie-Ann, who had eagerly let Egg teach her to ride but wasn’t yet good enough to be put up on thousands of pounds worth of horseflesh, accompanying them on the Slug, an ageing hack so-named because he was distinctly unkeen about going faster than a slow walk.

    “Well, girls,” said Mrs O. on a dry note: “that appears to leave us without male protection except for the two boys.”

    “No, old Sid’s on guard in the yard with his shot-gun,” said Alysse.

    “Mm. Do you know how to work one, dear?”

    “Um, one just pulls the trigger, I suppose,” she said blankly.

    “Yes, twice. That’s all that it holds. Not that a rifle would be any more use, unless one could reload at supersonic speed. That’s men all over,” the matron pronounced heavily. “Never mind, I’m quite sure nothing will happen. I’ll make a nice pot of real coffee, shall I?”

    —Behind their backs, understood. And all being agreed, the coffee was made, more toast and marmalade or toast and jam was prepared, according to taste, and we all sat down to have it.

    The two boys eventually surfaced, blinking and yawning, Mrs O. explaining super-indulgently that they were at that age and both Alan and Henry had been impossible in the mornings for most of their teens, their father had begun to wonder what on earth he’d sired—forgetting his own boyhood, obviously!

    “What do they do at Marbledown?” croaked Alysse. “Blow a bugle?”

    “No, it’s a bell,” said Bean Minor seriously.

    “Electric,” added Trelawney. Well, he had hopes of becoming an engineer, we’d discovered, so doubtless anything technical would appeal, yes. “Makes an appalling racket. Mind you, it’d be easy to—” Technical detail followed to which, alas, none of the distaff side listened, in fact Mrs Fletcher said kindly when he’d run down: “Very nice, dear. Now, would you like a boiled egg with soldiers for your breakfast? How about you, Tommy dear?” –Well yes, Carrie-Ann had mentioned that her mum would be in her element with the two of them staying, she’d always wanted a tribe of little boys, it was one of her grudges against the unlamented Mr Fletcher, long since disappeared. Not that either of them was actually little, and they immediately proved it by asking if they might possibly have two eggs each.

    The answer was Yes from both matrons, so clearly they’d both gone into Mothering Mode. Alysse and I exchanged glances and slid out.

    “Whew!” she said with a laugh. “It must be hormonal.”

    “Well yes: it’s their ages. Mind you, Mr O.’s just about as bad without the same physiological excuse. He used to pat Tommy on the head a lot when he was a bit shorter.”

    “Help. I wouldn’t have said he was that sort, at all.” Her brow wrinkled. “Do you think he wants grandkids?” she ventured.

    “Definitely. They get like that: start getting soft. That’s hormonal, too.”

    “It must be. But I think the women are worse: Mrs Fletcher’s been embarrassing poor Carrie-Ann horribly by dropping frightful hints!” she revealed.

    Alas, at this dire revelation I collapsed in giggles.

    “You can laugh, your mother’ll never get like that, but it’s getting so I’m afraid to go home in case Mum’s going that way, too. Tho actually Dad’s the more sentimental of the two,” she admitted thoughtfully.

    Alas, I merely collapsed in further giggles.

    After lunch it was time, the Egg decided, for some serious discussion. We’d go down by the river where there’d be no distractions. Well Flossie grabbed several bottles that Uncle Flossie had kindly sent down with him, but otherwise there wouldn’t be, no: there was nothing much down there but a few bushes, a fair amount of grass and a bit of water, supposedly a river but more like a stream if I had the English terminology right. Well true, the said body of water featured the old punts, and the two younger boys looked at them wistfully but dutifully sat down with the rest of us.

    Well to start with Flossie tried ringing Mum’s mobile for the second time round but again it just rang out, not even going to voicemail—to which she wouldn’t have listened in any case, she’d always refused to. Then he had a bright idea and rang the telly production company that I sort of thought she was working for at the moment but they refused point-blank to give out any information. Likewise her agent, whose surname I remembered with an effort: she always referred to him by his first name. Ditto. So we concluded that if we couldn’t track her down in all likelihood no-one else could.

    The Egg had, in his usual businesslike manner, sorted out the proposals to be considered for keeping us three safe. So the proceedings went more or less like this:

ENGLISH PROPOSAL 1. Mel, Bean and Bean Minor stay here with the Ovendens. Bean Minor was looking at me hopefully but I ignored him. “No,” I said grimly. “I’ve told you, Egg, I’m not going to put your family and the lads in danger!”

    “Or the horses,” noted the Bean snidely.

    “Eh?” said Crumpy.

    “Said it the other day,” he grunted.

    “Yes—drop it, Bean,” ordered the Egg. “Well the whole neighbourhood knows that you lot have come down for the hols so it probably wouldn’t be the wisest thing, no.”

    “Supposing that the Baddies are after Mel and her siblings,” drawled Flossie.

    “Shut up, Flossie. We’ve agreed that we need to act as if they are.”

    He sighed, but shut up.

ENGLISH PROPOSAL 2. We go and stay with Uncle Flossie at his house in the country. We all three simultaneously vetoed it. “We don’t want to put good old Uncle Flossie in danger any more than Egg’s family,” the Bean explained, possibly redundantly and possibly not exactly grammatically, but his meaning was clear enough.

    “I’ll say!” agreed Bean Minor.

    “Absolutely!” chimed in Trelawney. –Had he ever met the gent in Q.? Oh well!

    “But listen: he could afford to pay for decent protection!” urged Flossie. “Day and night patrols, all that! He’d be glad to do it!”

    “We know,” I said. “But it’s still no, Flossie. But thank you very much anyway.”

    Very flushed, he said: “Look, I’ll get him to ring you, Mel!”

    “No, don’t, I’d only have to refuse.”

    “Okay, I think we can scratch that one,” said the Egg firmly.

ENGLISH PROPOSAL 3. Mel goes to old Miss Pinkerton from School. My jaw dropped, I hadn't heard this one before or I’d certainly have stopped it in its tracks! At her age, the poor old thing? Added to which, she was entirely scatty and had never been known to keep a secret in her life!

    The Egg was saying cheerfully: “In Margate, is it, girls?”

    “Yes, Margate,” Alysse agreed, looking at me anxiously.

    “Honestly, Alysse! I wouldn’t dream of it! What defence could the poor old thing possibly have against a wicked terrorist?”

    “But listen,” the Bean began: “the place is completely obscure and so is she: no-one would ever think—”

    “Was this your idea?” I cried.

    He stuck his chin out defiantly. “Yes. No-one would ever look th—”

    “It would be! No!”

    “In any case what’d become of the lads if Mel went off on her own?” asked Crumpy.

    Bean scowled. “I’ve got a contingency plan.”

    Nobody looked as if they believed him, and the Egg went on to the next proposal.

ENGLISH PROPOSAL 4. Mel and Bean to work for Alysse’s dad at his plant nursery under a different name while Bean Minor stays here as one of the lads. “The same objections,” I said. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Alysse, tho it’s very good of you and your dad to offer.”

    She tried to argue, of course, but I was adamant and the siblings both weighed in on my side, even tho Bean Minor was obviously tempted by the idea of becoming a stable lad, so that was that.

ENGLISH PROPOSAL 5 was a somewhat informal suggestion, tho nonetheless serious, from Crumpy. “Um, Mel, I could ask Dad to squirrel you away in a nice hotel somewhere, God knows he knows enough nice hotels all up and down the country, and they’re used to him, um, booking rooms for girls, so to speak.”

    “Bimbos is the technical term, I think,” noted Flossie drily.

    “Well yes.” The Crumpet looked at me hopefully. “Nice comfy seaside hotel like that one he took us all to the summer you met Carrie-Ann, Mel?”

    The Egg took a deep breath. “Bombs have been let off at nice British seaside hotels before now, Crumpy, if you look at the political history of the last quarter of the twentieth century.”

    “Eh?”

    “We’re not talking about dashed Party conferences, tho, Egg!” Carrie-Ann objected. “I think that’s quite a good idea, actually.”

    The Egg sighed. “In a hotel?”

    “I think my esteemed colleague may be thinking of the point that such establishments are notorious hotbeds of gossip,” drawled Flossie, “the which is apt to become a tradeable commodity, so to speak, the staff of said establishments being known as not averse to a few Treasury notes in the palm.”

    “Yes,” the Egg agreed heavily, what time certain other persons glared bitterly at Mr Nightingale. “Far too risky.”

ENGLISH PROPOSAL 6 was then put forward by my darling innocent Bean Minor. “We could just change our names and go to another town.”

    Flossie looked drily at the Egg. “I think that one’s yours, Hon. Chairperson.”

    “Thanks. –The thing is, Bean Minor, you will all have to do something to earn a crust, and it’s impossible to get any sort of job these days without the proper papers: references, driver’s licence, you name it. Unless anyone knows a handy forger?”

    None of the English persons there present did, oddly enough, tho Bean and I exchanged glances. The sibling then saying: “Um, well can we do the French ones now, Egg?”

    “Go ahead.”

FRENCH PROPOSAL 1. We all three stay with Oncle Albert. Of course he’d said that we must come to them—or at least in the first instance; but the Bean pointed out: “It’s the same thing, we don’t want to put the family in danger.”

    “No, of course not: good show, Bean,” said Flossie.

    Obviously the Bean didn’t make the connection with Mireille, he just said: “Well most of the time they’re under the eyes of the flics anyway, so that wouldn’t be entirely bad, but what’s the betting the blighters’d turn round and accuse Oncle Albert of being in cahoots with the damned terrorists? I mean, they’ve been trying forever to get something concrete on him… Um, yes. Anyway, we’re not going to put them at risk. Um, tho if the worst comes to the worst, we could hide in the cellars, y’know: like the three Jewish families did during the War.”

    “What?” said everyone except Flossie not nearly related to us.

    “Yes: thought you knew.” The Bean looked vaguely puzzled. “How the family got to know Carter Bachelier: he’s their descendant.”

    “There was something,” the Egg admitted. “But three whole families?”

    “Yes: the cellars are huge: thought we showed you?”

    “Not the entire extent, I think, old Bean,” drawled Flossie.

    “Oh—didn’t we? Oh, well maybe it was you, that time you and Uncle Flossie came over.”

    “Something like that,” he murmured.

    “Okay: provisionally staying with the family at the restaurant is out but in extremis you take to the cellars,” said the Egg firmly. “Next, Bean?”

FRENCH PROPOSAL 2. The Château. “What? Vetoed unanimously!” I cried. “Shut up, Mel,” my dashed sibling retorted. “I was just going to say, it might work, but there’s the same objection: we don’t want to put people in danger. I mean, there’s Marthe and old Jacques-Yves to think of. I mean, it’s no secret that we’re LeBecs on Mum’s side. And of course no-one would deliberately give us away, but we can hardly ask the whole village to say nothing, can we?”

    “And their sisters and their cousins and their aunts: no,” Flossie agreed heavily. “And while I’ll concede that that mouldering heap of grey stone would be no loss, it’d be a Helluva pity to see the Château LeBec cellars blown sky-high!”

    “They probably would, too, out of sheer spite!” Trelawney put in unexpectedly.

    “Exactly. Have a medal, that Aux. Hon. Mem.”

    “Well,” the Egg began: “I think that rules out the French side— Er, no, Bean?”—as the sibling in Q. was shaking his head.

FRENCH PROPOSAL 3. Rather shady proposition from the Bean, “No, actually, Egg, talking of false papers… Um, you see, Oncle Albert’s got, um, contacts,” he explained to the company. “Well I mean, they’d be French ones or at least EU ones, I think that’s what the chap— Um, yes. False papiers d’identité, y’see.”

    “Gosh,” said Carrie-Ann, her jaw sagging.

    The Egg evinced no surprise, possibly he’d heard the Bean on the subject during their pedagogical incarceration. “Well yes, old Bean, but how good are they? Could they pass French Customs not to say Australian Customs?”

    “Border Control, think the Aussies call it. Um, well, dunno,” he admitted. “Lewisham says they are awfully strict. But at our ages we could get some sort of holiday-work visas—well, forget the actual name, but, um, yes. Working holiday or some such.”

    “Um, where did the Australia bit come from?” ventured Crumpy.

    “Lewisham from School, what else?” replied the Egg heavily.

    “Oh yes, that chap. But that was ages back!” he objected.

    “He’s been in touch with the Bean since,” the Egg explained heavily. “Look, Bean, if you’re serious about eventually going out there to get some working vineyard experience, it’d be the height of idiocy to risk blotting your copybook by falling foul of the authorities over this bloody do. After all, it’s only a short-term thing, isn’t it? John seemed to think it’d be about six months before the blighters conclude he won’t be giving them any further trouble.”

    “Um, ye-es…”

    “Yes, that’s right,” I put in anxiously. “He’s got a valid point, Bean. I mean, take that chap that went to, um, was it Sweden? On false papers, I mean. They caught up with him eventually, didn’t they?”

    “Jean-Marc Domingue,” he admitted glumly. “Yes. Bunged him in clink, even tho by that time he’d long since got rid of the—“ The fascinated faces of his audience registered. “The doings,” he said glumly. “Old Mère Domingue came round to the resto and tore a strip off Oncle Albert, which wasn’t fair, really: after all it wasn’t his fault the silly ass had— Um, anyway.”

    “Well I’d say that one was definitely down the gurgler, then, Bean,” said Bean Minor firmly. “You’d not only have completely blown your cover, but I shouldn’t think they’d ever let you into Australia again, and then where should we be?”

    We? Omigod! “Bean Minor, darling, do you mean to say that Bean’s told you about the Australia thing and you want to go?” I gasped.

    “Yes: I’ve had a look at the courses the University of South Australia offers and they’re jolly— Oh, Hell,” he muttered as I burst into tears.

    “Big-Mouth. Why now?” said the Bean bitterly to the crushed younger sibling.

    “You brought it up first!”

    “Um yes, actually: you did,” chimed in Trelawney loyally.

    “Yes, so just shut up, Bean,” said the Egg firmly. “Give Mel a clean handkerchief, someone—thanks, Flossie.”

    I sniffled and blew my nose. “Sorry. Thanks, Flossie, it’s a lovely handkerchief.”

    “Er—yes. Unnecessary gift from the Nunky. Burlington Arcade,” he said, making a face. “No, keep it, Mel,” he said as I tried to give the now soggy object back to him.

    Firmly the Egg decreed: “Right well, that’s it for the time being, Junior Drones. No-one’s going to dash off at a tangent, right? Or put others in danger. Anyone vote for opening a bottle?”

    “Seconded!” said the Crumpet hastily. “All vote Aye, Junior Drones?”

    And even tho it wasn’t perhaps proper Parliamentary Procedure, the chorus of Ayes had it. So, tho he did remark that it wouldn’t be properly chilled yet, Flossie retrieved a couple of bottles of fizz from the river, and we duly lifted a glass or two. Well I’ve forgotten what it is that’s supposed to be the English cup that cheers, but Champagne is certainly guaranteed to cheer. In fact, as Trelawney remarked some time later: “Dashed good idea! Hic! Cheers!”

Next chapter:

https://theeggandfriendscomethrough-anovel.blogspot.com/2026/04/interim-solution.html