Grand Plan

18

Grand Plan

November 16 Not. Well I have to admit that the Grand Plan got more and more complex as more of its intricacies were revealed, but at first I didn’t realise this: the Egg was far too good a strategist to spring it all on me at once.

    The basic idea, he explained, conscientiously using his mobile to contact mine, had of course been his dad’s. They’d now consulted with Oncle Albert and thrashed out the details. The Grand Plan, it emerged, couldn’t come into full flower until October and as it was still only September (with Scotland getting discernibly colder by the day) we needed to fill in the interval safely. The good-natured Mac had said that of course we were welcome to stay with him but Mrs McBride having reminded him that he was due to entertain some English friends who regularly came up at this time of year, had subsided.

    “The thing is, Dad’s due to send a horsebox or two over to France: a couple of the owners have got horses running over there soon, and another couple have bought horses over there and want them shipped home.”

    “But Egg, we said we didn’t want to put the family in France in danger!” I protested.

    “Not that, Mel,” he said kindly.

    He was on speaker-phone so unfortunately the Bean could hear, and had to open his big mouth. “Just shut up, Mel, and let the man speak!” he ordered.

    “Okay,” said Egg briskly: “you three and Crumpy will act as lads, with me driving one box and old Sid the other. We’ll make the different destinations the excuse for not sending Donnie with the big box. –Sid would never give you away, Mel,” he said with a smile in his voice: “he’s one of your greatest fans.”

    “That’s because she lets him lean on the paddock rails and moon over the yearlings while he bores on about the history of British racing over the last hundred—”

    “Shut up, Bean,” groaned the Egg.

    “Yes, shut up,” agreed Bean Minor. “You said yourself to let the man speak!”

    “Thanks, newly appointed full Hon. Mem., Junior Drones,” said the Egg. “Now, there is a flaw in this scheme. Any takers?”

    “Um well, only how long will they have to stay in France and where,” ventured Trelawney into the silence that had fallen.

    “They’ll be with the horses, and the time will be fully taken up with getting to the various venues, loading and unloading the nags, looking after them before they race, waiting while they race, and so forth,” the Egg explained kindly. “But it won’t be for all that long, the aim is to be out of there by early October.”

    “I see,” he said uncertainly.

    “And if you fancy coming as an extra lad, Trelawney, you’re very welcome, but there is a slight risk, of course.”

    “It sounds jolly safe to me. Yes, I’d love to come, thanks!” he said eagerly.

    “Okay, good. No other objections?”

    “It sounds all right, only are we expected to share accommodation with her?” asked the Bean sourly.

    Egg was heard to sigh. “She is your sister, old man. –Don’t worry, Mel, we’ll see you’re okay.”

    “Yes of course, Egg,” I agreed, awarding my dashed sibling an evil glare.

    “Well,” the Egg went on, on a dry note, “there is a snag. Even in the obscure rural parts of Scotland it’d be a trifle conspicuous for a couple of huge horseboxes to roll up. I mean, one visit was okay but this time we’re going to need a couple, it’d be a bit much.”

    “Oh help,” I uttered.

    “Yes. But Oncle Albert’s solved that one. Eugène will turn up with his nice ordinary commercial lorry, drive to the processing plant—they’re completely used to large lorries of that sort, no-one will turn a hair—and then just drive on up the road to the house.”

    “Track,” I corrected involuntarily.

    “If you say so, Mel!” he said with a laugh. “He’ll time it for very early in the morning before it’s light, when hardly anyone will be about, so with luck no-one will notice that he carries on to the house. And if they do they’ll just assume that it was some delivery for Mac.”

    “Cases of Bordeaux, for example,” said Bean Minor.

    “Er—if y’like, old chap.”

    “No, I mean, he does place orders for them, Egg.”

    “Oh—right! Well there you are.”

    “That sounds really good!” I approved.

    “I thought so,” said Crumpy’s voice in the background.

    “Whilst not spotting the obvious flaw,” noted Flossie.

    “Is that you, Flossie? Shouldn’t you be in London?” I cried.

    “It’s the weekend, dear heart,” he sighed.

    Uh—oh. “One tends to lose track, up here,” I admitted.

    “I can well imagine!” he said with a laugh. “Well, this cunning scheme has got you all crammed into the back of le camion de l’Eugène. Which isn’t a horsebox or anything like it.”

    “Mel could go in front, tho,” objected Crumpy.

    “Er—yes. Not the point, old chum.”

    “Oh dear!” I cried. “We can’t possibly come back to the stables, Egg!”

    “No,” he agreed mildly. “We have figured that out; Flossie’s just trailing his coat, as per usual.”

    That or endeavouring to make us look silly, also as per.

    The jolly cunning ploy that Oncle Albert and the Egg had devised was that Eugène would drive us down to a big caff, in fact the one where we’d stopped for lunch, and we’d all pile out and go in for a meal, where lo and behold, we’d spot some old friends amongst the crowd of gorging lorry drivers and sit down with them. After lunch we’d head out in a bunch and no-one would notice who peeled off to what vehicle. Thus getting us inconspicuously into the horseboxes! The added bonus, not an inconsiderable one, being that no-one bothered much about lads accompanying horses to or from Europe at the border checks.

    “That’s quite ingenious,” the Bean allowed.

    “Quite?” I cried indignantly. “It’s genius! Then Eugène won’t get into trouble for trying to smuggle us out of the country!”

    “Exactly,” the Egg agreed.

    “But what about the poor horses?” I worried.

    “Come again?” he groped.

    “Egg, it’s an awful lot of extra travelling for them.”

    “Uh—the caff’s not that far, Mel. They’re all seasoned travellers. In fact I really don’t think they differentiate much between being in their looseboxes at home and being in the stalls in the horseboxes. The same with going on the plane: one stall’s much like another to a horse, and in fact there’s less motion once they’re airborne!” he ended with a laugh.

    True, tho I didn’t see where planes came into it. “Well—if you’re sure they won’t get too tired?”

    “No of course not! Dad would never have agreed to it if he’d thought it’d be too much for them.”

    “Oh good. Well that’s great.”

    The Egg cleared his throat. “So long as everybody’s got their passports with them.”

    “We have,” said the Bean firmly. “At least, I’ve got mine and Tommy’s: that time Mum mislaid hers and missed her plane to Brazil taught me a lesson, I can tell you.”

    “Good; and mine’s in my handbag. How about you, Trelawney?” I asked.

    “Yes: I keep it in my kangaroo pouch,” he said solemnly. “It’s almost like a sporran, really, isn’t it? Donald MacDougall thought it was great. You see, Dad had his passport in his back pocket once in, um, was it India? No, think it was somewhere in Africa—maybe that time he was sent to Nigeria and Mum wouldn’t go with him—yes, I think it might have been. Anyway he only got out of the car for a comfort stop and some blighter picked his pocket. He wasn’t in very good odour when he got back to the office, I can tell you. I mean, they warn the tourists against that sort of thing and then one of their own gets caught out! So he bought himself a kangaroo pouch and sent me one too. Well it was almost my birthday, so it sort of counted,” he ended happily.

    Yes well. Better than some dashed parents. “Good,” I managed.

    “So—all clear?” asked Egg.

    “Yes, sounds pretty simple,” dashed Bean replied.

    Bean Minor gave him a reproving look. “It’s jolly ingenious, you mean! But we get it, Egg.”

    “Good. –Mel?”

    “Yes, I’ve got it, thanks, Egg. I must say, it’d be lovely to see the horses racing in France,” I sighed.

    “Er—mm. Well not entirely the object of the exercise, but yes!” he agreed cheerfully.

    “Good; well,” the Bean concluded, “we’ll see you soon, then, Egg.”

    “Yes: Eugène will be with you tomorrow morning.”

    “Tomorrow?” I faltered.

    “Yes,” Egg confirmed. “Problem, Mel?”

    “Y— N— I mean, what about saying goodbye to everyone? I mean, all the people at the salmon farm and the factory have been so—”

    “NO!” shouted several voices.

    In the background I heard Alysse, who so far hadn’t uttered except to say hullo, say: “We warned you, didn’t we, Carrie-Ann?” and Carrie-Ann agree: “Yes. You chaps can be awful chumps.”

    “Mel dear,” said the Egg quickly: “the whole point is we want you to just slip away. We don’t want anyone to be able to trace you through the stables, another reason for not sending the horseboxes up to you—and we don’t want the locals up there to be able to say exactly when you all left.”

    “Oh. I see,” I said sadly. “What about Jock?”

    “Her second greatest fan after old Sid and about as dotty,” noted the Bean.

    “He is not! Just because he said you couldn’t hit a barn door at ten paces let alone a rabbit at fifty!”

    “Mel dear,” said Crumpy kindly: “you’re not concentrating!”

    Ooh, help, was I getting like Henry? “I just didn’t want to be rude to people,” I muttered.

    “Several other people aren’t concentrating either, tho possibly one can’t count the two boys,” drawled Flossie.

    “What do you mean?” they cried indignantly.

    “Never mind. Sufficient unto the day,” he sighed. “Tho Egg has given you a clue.”

    “Shut up, Flossie, we’ve agreed we’ll tell them later,” said Egg heavily. “Get them down to old Johnson’s place, get a belt of his blessed ginger wine into them and a decent meal, and let them sleep after the trip. The next morning’ll be time enough.”

    “For what?” groped the Bean blankly.

    Flossie sighed loudly: we could hear him quite clearly. “For what happens next. This brilliant scheme has only taken you up to early October, in case that’s skipped your notice in the plethora of minutiae.”

    “They needed to know all the details, Flossie!” said Alysse on a cross note.

    “I thought that was It,” groped the Bean.

    “Mm, we know,” replied Flossie at his horrid driest.

    “Um, that does only cover it till early October, yes,” noted Trelawney cautiously. “I mean it feels as if we’ve been here forever but it’s only been a few weeks. When you think about it it’ll only be a bare two months by then. I mean, aren’t we supposed to be keeping Mel safe for six months?”

    “Well said, young Aux. Hon. Mem., Junior Drones,” drawled Flossie.

    Poor Trelawney went very red and looked at me anxiously.

    “It’s all right, I think he meant it that time, Trelawney, dear. –Just shut up, Flossie, we’re all very grateful to Egg and his father for having worked out how to keep us safe for that long!”

    “Jesus,” he muttered. “It hasn’t sunk in, has it?”

    “Shut up, Flossie,” said the Egg firmly. “Crumpy, Sid and I will meet you at the caff for lunch tomorrow, Mel; okay?”

    “Lunch tomorrow?”

    “Yes. Eugène will drive you straight down. Apart from the usual comfort stops,” he said with a smile in his voice.

    “Yes, that’s it, Mel,” Alysse agreed. “Best of luck.”

    “Yes: good luck, Mel,” put in Carrie-Ann. “I’m sure it’ll all go like clockwork.”

    “Of course,” the Egg said firmly. “See you!” And with that he rang off.

    “Lunch tomorrow?” I croaked.

    “It comes after tomorrow morning,” replied the Bean crossly, “so go and get packed right now! –Go on!”

    “Um, yes.” I got up uncertainly and tottered over to the door. Halfway there I realised I’d forgotten my phone and turned round.

    But the Bean had grabbed it up. “I’m hanging on to this,” he said grimly. “You’re not ringing anyone! Get it?”

    “YES!” I shouted, losing it. “You’re a real pest, Michael Fullarton-Browne!” And I rushed out.

    In my wake I heard Trelawney saying in some horror: “Help, she wouldn’t have, would she?”

    And both blasted siblings replying bitterly: “Not half!”

    I would not have! Well, um maybe I might have tried John’s number, tho I knew it’d only be that dashed recorded message again… And possibly Oncle Patrice because I hadn’t yet told him, um, well I just wanted to hear his voice, really. And there wouldn’t have been any harm in talking to Oncle Albert, surely, and maybe speaking to the aunts for a few minutes…

    Honestly, bossy brothers take the bally biscuit!

November 23 Not. Dear Eugène turned up as planned and gave me a big hug and of course the obligatory three kisses on the cheeks—to Mac’s disgust.

    “Je dis pas non,” he conceded as Mrs McBride, yawning but game, offered him breakfast. I was afraid he might be in for a shock when he encountered British stewed, milky, deep orange tea but with his lorry driving perhaps he was used to that sort of thing, so we sat down and had it. Slices of “black pudding,” fried, no way to cook a decent boudin but then the British ones weren’t nearly as juicy as the French ones, with lashings of bacon and eggs and mountains of hot buttered toast. Like nothing ever encountered in France for le petit dejeuner but it went down a treat.

    And after that we were off, oh dear. It was terrible leaving darling MacLad behind, his big brown doggy eyes looked at me so sadly, but at least he had dear old Jock to love him.

    “Now what are you bawling for?” sighed Bean as the lorry bumped down the track and we did our best to settle down comfortably between the boxes of stuff in the back.

    “Leaving darling MacLad behind,” I snuffled.

    “He’s a dog,” he said blankly.

    “Yes!” I gulped.

    “Dingue,” he muttered in disgust.

    “I think he’s a great dog,” said Trelawney loyally.

    “You’re English,” replied Bean sourly.

    I blew my nose soggily. “It’s got nothing to do with that.”

    “Not half. Tell you what: it’ll be John’s influence,” he decided. “She’s going all English-wifey on us.”

    “Bean, for God’s sake!” cried Bean Minor.

    “Well isn’t she?”

    “Look, shut up! How tactless can you get?”

    I blew my nose again. “About that much.”

    “I’ll say!” agreed Trelawney, and he and Bean Minor both glared at the culprit. He merely shrugged and retired into a horrible magazine about hunting that he’d got off Mac.

    “Anyway, Mel,” said Bean Minor consolingly, as soon as we were a good distance away from Mac’s, “you can go in the front with Eugène soon, that’ll be nice, won’t it?”

    Er… Sort of. That greeting of Eugène’s, tho of course he is my young cousin Colas’s father, had not been in the least avuncular, but one can hardly point out to a well-meaning English lad that the usual French salute on the cheeks should not be accompanied by the pressing of the hot body in Q. to the front of the party of the second part. Or that the said Eugène was clearly even keener than he’d been getting the last time I’d seen him in Paris.

    Weakly I agreed that that’d be nice.

    Sure enough, after not too long, the jolting having stopped, the surface we were now on clearly having become a real road, we pulled up. And Eugène opened up, grinning, and said the road was clear, not a soul in sight: I could come and hop up into the cab now.

    Well given that the two younger boys were now playing poker with a bent pack of cards that was missing at least three of its members and blasted Bean was still immersed in the dashed mag.—

    I got into the cab.

    We must have gone at least three kilometres before Eugène’s hand got onto my thigh. Oh well. We owed him more than something and if that was how he wanted to be paid so be it. Besides, as I may have mentioned in the past he was not an unattractive chap.

    The big lorry went a lot faster than the horsebox had done, besides which it was a fine day tho it didn’t look particularly warm out there, so there was nothing to hold us up. There’d be no stop for elevenses, we’d already been warned that Oncle Albert had told Eugène not to stop for anything except petrol and to let me go to the loo—no mention of the boys’ possible needs, oh well, I’d just have to make them go when I did, as if they were little kids, which frankly it often felt like.

    Of course having started so early in the morning we didn’t meet much traffic at all and had really come quite a long way by the time I needed to go. And Eugène obligingly pulled in to a likely-looking service station. And got out with me, declaring grimly that Oncle Albert had ordered him not to let me out of his sight. Help.

    “The boys had better go too,” I said firmly.

    “If you say so.” He opened up the back and ordered them out and off to the W.C. in no uncertain terms, I didn’t even have to say a thing! They grumbled but shambled off obediently.

    Well it was a nice-looking service station, quite bright and shiny and when we went in and asked, it turned out I didn’t have to go round the back as is not uncommon with older establishments in Britain: there was a civilised inside set of toilets, Ladies’ and Gents’, plus a nice area to sit down and have something to eat and drink, with four sets of tables and chairs looking very nice and clean.

    “You don’t have to come with me, Eugène,” I said feebly. “I mean, the boys are here.”

    This was rubbished and he accompanied me to the very door of the Ladies’, explaining grimly that he’d be right outside. Okay, so be it.

    After quite some time he tapped on the door and asked me if I was okay.

    I wasn’t actually, no, blast and damn it! So I had to admit: “Um, not really, Eugène, my period’s started and I haven’t got any tampons in my handbag.”

    “Hang on,” he said calmly—of course in French. “I’ll tell Michael to get you some, the shop here seems to have loads of chemists’ stuff.”

    “I don’t think he will,” I quavered.

    “Hein?”

    “He’s not sensible like you, Eugène,” I quavered. “He’ll be embarrassed.”

November 26 Not. Continuing: I heard him mutter something about the English in general and stupid English schools and then I heard him shouting for the Bean, oh help! Then I heard a very strict order and a strangled reply from my silly sibling. And Eugène shouted something rather rude, perhaps fortunately still in French, as the proprietor of this nice clean establishment was not really that far away in terms of the usual norms of not-huge service stations. I mean some of them on the motorways are like palaces, what with their giant cafeterias, but this one had obviously been here for decades and had merely been smartened up by its enterprising owner.

    Then Eugène’s voice said to me, in French of course, sounding very, very annoyed tho thankfully not with me: “Michael will be right here, mon chéri; I’ll get them for you myself. Don’t open the door to anyone but me.”

    So I waited…

    He came back and said nastily to the Bean: “That was easy. Get back to the lorry before I clock you one.” And then called out: “Here you go, Mel!”

    So I opened the door, as by this time naturally I had flushed and was looking entirely respectable and of course had washed my hands, that pink liquid soap again.

    “Merci mille fois, Eugène. Thank God you’re a sensible man.”

    “I should hope so. Wait until Oncle Albert hears about this,” he replied grimly, as I shut the door again.

    Help. Oh well, serve the silly Bean right!

    Well as might be imagined I came out feeling much better and cleaner and safer, and good old Eugène put his arm round me as we went back to the lorry. And even if it wasn’t entirely platonic it was extremely comforting. And once we were in the cab he opened the plastic bag he was carrying to reveal a carton of chocolate milk for me and a paper cup of coffee for himself, saying calmly: “The calcium will do you good, and I think chocolate’s got iron in it.”

    Er—yes. Bean Minor’s discriminating palate had previously determined that these so-called chocolate milks were over-sweet and had very, very little cacao in them as opposed to a considerable amount of brown food dye and artificial chocolate flavouring but never mind, it was a very kind idea. So I drank it and he drank his coffee which was of course dégueulasse but at least had some caffeine in it and was hot.

    And after that adventure or perhaps misadventure would be the right English word, tho at least it had turned out happily, we set off again.

    … Come to think of it, it had probably been PMT that had made me so weepy, not to say so incapable of concentrating properly the other day, but I wasn’t going to admit that to anyone nearly related to me. I could cheerfully have beaned dashed Bean! So much for Marbledown’s efforts to drag the little blighters into the 21st century with their Humanity and Society stuff! Tho perhaps his year hadn’t had so much of it as Bean Minor’s and Trelawney’s. On the other hand, could one imagine Egg, Flossie or Crumpy being so… sheepish? No, one could not!

November 28 Not. It seemed forever before we reached the caff but in fact it was only about one-thirty when we drew in, joining a row of more big lorries, and—hurray!—two big horseboxes. And hurried inside, to be greeted by the sight of Egg and Crumpy placidly sipping spring water.

    “Hullo, ’ullo, ’ullo!” our Hon. Chairperson greeted us.

    “What-ho, chaps!” Crumpy contributed, grinning all over his friendly moon-like face.

    “Ils disent ‘Salut’, Eugène,” Bean Minor explained helpfully. “Et ne pleure pas!” he hissed at me.

    “Qui, moi? –Salut, les gars! I mean, Hullo, chaps,” I amended somewhat feebly, as both Egg and Crumpy promptly dissolved in sniggers.

    Meanwhile Eugène was telling us that he’d guessed that, and warning us redundantly that it’d all be English food, which judging from the twinkle in his eye I think the Egg got.

    “But hang on: where’s Sid?” I cried.

    “Sitting in one of the boxes guarding thousand of pounds worth of horseflesh with his life,” Crumpy explained with the utmost calm.

    I goggled from him to the Egg. “Thousands?”

    “Yes,” our peerless leader confirmed placidly. “Well you do know that racehorses aren’t cheap, Mel.”

    “But what about his lunch?”

    “He’s had it, Mel,” Crumpy explained kindly. “We guarded the gees while he came in here, okay?”

    “Oh. Well good, but I must go and say hull—”

    “Not by yourself, for God’s sake!” cried Egg, rising hurriedly to his feet.

    “She’s been like this for the past week,” said the Bean sourly.

    “Que dit-il?” asked Eugène.

    Glaring at the Bean, I translated and he said he’d thought that was what he’d said and then added loudly, his English is very accented and definitely limited but he can make himself understood: “Yes, Michael, and if one thinks, one guesses why, I think!” Very, very pointedly.

    At which the Bean turned puce, gave him a bitter look, and shambled off to the counter.

    “We won’t ask,” the Egg decided with a sigh. “Come on, then, Mel.”

    “I’m coming too,” Crumpy decided, getting up.

    And we went outside—no crazed terrorists in sight, only one skinny lorry driver and his mate, a stouter man, both in tired anoraks, hurrying inside in quest of nourishment—and yes, there was dear old Sid!

    “Hullo, Mel, love!” he greeted me, his gnarled brown horseman’s face crinkling into a wide grin.

    Promptly I burst into tears and threw myself on his wiry chest. “I’m so gluh-glad to suh-see you, Sid!”

    “Me, too. No need to bawl about it,” the old man said calmly, patting my back. “You’re safe now, love, we’ll look after you.”

    And after a considerable amount of snuffling and nose-blowing I was able to return to the caff…

    Ugh. Yes, okay, ham and cheese sandwiches, I agreed thankfully as Egg offered to get my lunch for me. The males all ended up with huge platefuls, of course, even Eugène. I draw a veil…

    Well after this there was no hurry: Egg explained placidly that we were headed not directly for the Channel tonight but to an old friend of his dad’s who would put us up for the night— Yes, Mel, the horses would have a lovely stable and fresh hay, and no, the chap didn’t train any more, he was retired, and there’d be no-one at all there to gossip. Added to which he’d brought me this—producing it—and if it didn’t complete the disguise nothing would!

    Er… quite. It was an aged baseball-style cap, a sort of faded yellow, which tho clearly it had been washed featured some very black stains that wouldn’t come out. Had Mrs O. perhaps worn it when she was doing her fabric stuff and incautiously used it to mop up black dye? –No, it had once belonged to Henry and no-one had any idea what the black stuff was but as it had been through the wash several times it was guaranteed not to come off on the hair. So I put it on and promptly the whole table exploded in sniggers.

    “It’s hardly my fault that the brim dips,” I said with dignity, attempting to push it off my nose.

    “Peak,” the Egg corrected kindly.

    “Run that by me again, old chap?”

    “It’s ‘peak’ in English, Mel. Caps have peaks, hats have brims.”

    Oh really? Fascinating. “I’ll remember,” I sighed, readjusting it again.

    “Gosh, it looks even worse than I’d thought!” noted the Crumpet.

    “Good,” I replied defiantly, adjusting it again.

    “Just hang on a minute. –I told you it looked as if it’d be too big,” he said to the Egg, coming round behind me to investigate.

    “Ow!”

    “Sorry, Mel. Thought I might be able to put a knot in this elastic bit here, that’s kind of not elastic any more. Um… No. Blow. Oh well, pull it well down at the back, eh?” he said cheerfully, suiting the action to the word.

    “Ow!”

    “Sorry. Is it still slipping over your nose?”

    “Um… No,” I admitted. “Thanks, I suppose.”

    “Oh, any time you want your head tortured, old thing, I’m your man!” he replied brightly.

    Really! And I’d thought he of all people would be supportive.

    And with that we repaired to the—

    “No! Over here!” hissed Bean Minor crossly, grabbing my arm.

    Uh—oh. Yes. Oops.

    —repaired to the horseboxes, Bean Minor gripping my arm tightly and hissing at me not to kiss Eugène goodbye, this was England, did I want to look conspicuous?

    “But I haven’t thanked him properly!”

    “Shut up. Get into this one with me and Trelawney,” he said sternly.

    Glumly I got in. I’d envisaged myself going in the front with Sid or Egg. Bother.

    “Um, Bean Minor,” I said cautiously as the vehicle revved up and the horses just continued to stand there placidly in their stalls, “you know when you and the other chaps went to the Gents’? –At the caff, I mean, when you left Crumpy and Bean to guard me.”

    “What about it?” he replied cautiously.

    “Um, did Eugène, um, by any chance did Eugène, um, say something to Egg?”

    “If you mean did he tell him about dashed Bean making a perfect tit of himself over getting you des tampons—it is the same word in English, is it?—Right: about the tampons, yes he did, in no uncertain terms. And I wouldn’t say the Egg’s French is all that good but he got the point, all right.”

    “Oh dear. I thought he gave Bean a filthy look when he came back.”

    “Yes. He’s probably chewing his ear right now,” said the younger sibling happily.

    Gulp. Well fully deserved, true.

    “He asked for it, Mel,” put in Trelawney, a trifle pinkish about the cheeks and ears but determined, bless him.

    “Mm.” Well yes, he did. The horrible thought had more than once struck me that the Bean in fact was getting more like Dad every day and if some sensible young woman didn’t take him in hand very soon…

    “I say, you chaps,” I said, having thought it over, “you know this scheme of Bean’s to go out and work on his vineyard stuff in Australia?”

    Bean Minor and Trelawney exchanged what seemed to be an odd glance but as it was quite dim in the horsebox I couldn’t be sure; then my sibling replied cautiously: “What about it?”

    “Well I was just thinking… Do you think there’ll be lots of sensible girls out there?”

    “Why?” groped Trelawney.

    “Well I was just hoping that if there are, one of them might take Bean in hand. Smarten up his ideas for him.”

    They snorted. Bean Minor then added somewhat redundantly: “If they’re sensible they’ll steer well clear of him.”

    Bother, that was what I’d thought, too.

    After some time and what I was almost sure was a series of cautious looks at one another, but again it was too dim to be sure, Bean Minor ventured: “So you’re getting used to the idea of Australia, are you, Mel?”

    “I suppose so,” I sighed. “Tho I still don’t fancy you being on the other side of the world from me.”

    “You could think about coming, too,” Trelawney suggested.

    “And do what?” I sighed.

    “Get a visa for a working holiday: then you could do some waitressing,” offered Bean Minor. “It’d be a lot warmer than England.”

    Well doubtless that was true. There was the small point of who would pay the fare? I knew that Trelawney had been in touch with his father, who’d told him he was mad but if that was what he wanted, so be it. Washing his hands, yes, but at least he’d coughed up the fare and agreed to pay the tuition fees. True, after the lad had reminded him that at twenty-one he was due to come in for some money from an old great-aunt and could repay him, but still, it’d tide him over. And Dad was still paying his sons their allowances, no doubt he’d forgotten to check his bank statements and didn’t realise the money was still coming through, plus darling Oncle Patrice was going to contribute to their fees from a “little fund” that Tante Elisabeth didn’t know he had, gulp! And Oncle Albert had also insisted on chipping in, tho he’d done so much for us all already. Even the old great-uncles Maurice and Alphonse were helping, bless them: they’d said the cash would be shared equally between Colas and Tommy and they must have it now, not wait until it came to them in their wills because now was when young persons needed it!

    “Um, well it’s an idea… I’ll have to wait until my next lot of cash from Dad comes through,” I admitted. “And I haven’t a clue about how to get a visa.”

    “Its easy,” said Trelawney firmly. “Egg knows: he can show you.”

    Egg does? A visa for Australia? Oh well, he knew everything, he’d probably checked up to see that Bean Minor and Trelawney were doing it right. And Bean, back when the idea was first mooted, come to think of it.

    “Oh good,” I said, yawning. “I think I might try to have a nap.”

    “Good idea,” they both agreed, sounding very relieved. Uh—why? Worried that the subject of the workings of ladies’ innards might come up again? But they’d taken that in their strides, bless their liberated little hearts, pink ears or not. Oh well, probably Marbledown had encouraged them to think of women as the feebler sex, whereas in reality…

    “Crumbs, did I go to sleep? Where are we?”

    “Just pulling in to Mr Johnson’s place,” said Bean Minor comfortably. “We’ve made jolly good time, considering.”

    Er—if those high windows in the horsebox weren’t lying it was now jolly dark but on the other hand this was England, it might just be raincloud.

    So we piled out, to be welcomed by the large, cheery Mr Johnson, who promptly stated firmly that “the little girl” was not going to help with the horses, you stout fellows could do that. And with his beefy arm round me I was led inside, sat down in an amazingly old-fashioned sitting-room, chintzy cabbage roses everywhere, and given a glass of something to warm me up.

    “Ooh gosh! It’s all gingery! It’s lovely, Mr Johnson! What is it?”

    “Stone’s Green Ginger Wine,” he beamed. “My late wife Jenny loved it, bless her. She used to say it warms the cockles of your heart!” –Jolly chuckle.

    Uh—the what? Weren’t cockles shellfish? I’d ask Egg or Crumpy about that one privily, I decided. Meanwhile I just sipped it and enjoyed it.

    By the time the chaps and Sid came in there was an enormous meal of steak and kidney pudding ready for them, prepared by Mr Johnson’s Mrs Evans, but she’d gone home, don’t worry, he assured us. And pretty soon after that we tumbled into bed. It had been a long day, and there’d be another early start tomorrow…

December 3 Not. Ever since that morning at kindly Mr Johnson’s I’ve been unable to look at a plateful of bacon and eggs without a stunned feeling creeping over me. Because that was how I felt when Egg revealed the next stage in the Grand Plan.

    “What? But Egg—”

    “Just listen.”

    I listened but I couldn’t really take it in.

    I might not have known it—no, I certainly hadn’t—but Mr Ovenden had several runners in the Melbourne Cup Carnival: it was more than just the Race itself, Mel, there were several days of events, each with a first-class race in it. Words to that effect.

    “But—”

    “Just hush.”

    I looked round at the faces stolidly munching their way through the enormous brekkers. They knew!

    “You all knew, didn’t you?” I cried.

    The Egg preserved his calm but the others of more or less my generation studiously avoided my glance. And continued to munch.

    Only the old head lad spoke up. “Alan didn’t want to spring it all on you at once, Mel. Now, ’e’s got it all sorted, no need for you to get yer knickers in a knot, love. Just you listen, you’ll see.”

    “But Sid, this is mad! If you mean he wants me to go out to—”

    “Just shut up and listen,” he ordered sternly.

    The Bean at this point might have been observed to take a deep breath and open his mouth but luckily for him it dawned that the Egg was eyeing him fixedly, so he subsided.

    And the Egg continued to reveal the remainder of the Grand Plan.

    It was—apparently—normal for horses and lads to fly halfway round the world for this sparkling event in the Flat racing year.—For God’s sake, at whose expense?—And so it would be perfectly natural for a load of assorted young stable lads, plus of course the experienced Sid, to accompany Mr O.’s owners’ horses to Melbourne Cup week.—So were the besotted owners paying all the fares, for all the lads as well as the horses, merely to chase the dream of having a winner in—apparently—the most prestigious Flat race of the Australian season and—apparently—the richest two-mile handicap race in the world? –Crumbs, really?

    “Um, what?”

    “Just try to concentrate, Mel,” sighed the Egg.

    “I am! So would it be Australian dollars—it is dollars there, is it, not pounds?”

    “What?”

    Unwisely the Bean began: “I told you she’d be like—”

    “Shut up, Bean,” groaned the Egg. “Have you got the point, Mel? We’re going out for the Cup anyway.”

     “Ye-es… The Cup?”

    “The Melbourne Cup. That’s how they refer to the race,” he said flatly.

    “Oh. I see. –That’s funny, isn’t it? Because one says ‘the Derby’, I mean, the name of the race, not the name of the—”

    “Mel, love, just shut up and listen,” sighed old Sid.

    Unwisely the Bean began: “I told—”

    “Yes! Shut up, Michael!” the old head lad snarled.

    Scowling, the Bean shut up.

    “Anyway,” the Egg pursued valiantly, “as we were all set to go, Dad thought you lot might as well tag along.”

    “Can girls come, tho?” I groped.

    “Uh—yes, lots of girls do stable lad these days,” the unfortunate chap replied weakly.

    “There you are, then, Mel! It’ll all be okay!” beamed Crumpy.

    “Um, ye-es… Australia?”

    “Yes!” they all chorused firmly, even old Mr Johnson, help!

    I gulped.

    “All right, Mel, dear?” asked Crumpy kindly.

    “Ye-es… But what about John?” I couldn’t stop myself asking with a definite quaver in the voice that hadn’t been meant to be there, bother.

    Crumpy and Egg exchanged glances and the former said firmly: “You don’t need to worry about him, Mel, the MOD’s keeping him safe, and this way he won’t need to worry about you, see?”

    “Um, ye-es… But—but when is this Melbourne race?”

    Immediately the Egg and old Sid answered sort of automatically: “First Tuesday in November!”

    “Oh. –November?”

    “Yes,” they said firmly.

    “But… I mean, that won’t be long enough, I mean, the horrid MOD will still have John squirrelled away: he said it’d take about six months—”

    “Egg, I really think we’d better let the Bean tell her the rest,” said Crumpy on a resigned note.

    “The rest what?” I cried.

    “Calm down, Mel,” said Egg quickly. “Go on, Bean.” He fixed him with his glittering eye—that’s from a classic English poem, very long and boring, it’s got a large bird in it but I can never remember its name. The bird’s, I mean, Or the poem’s, actually.

    “Well um, just her bits, you mean?” the Bean produced in response to the eye.

    “Yes.”

    “Right. It’s all fixed up with Lewisham, Mel. We’ll head for his uncle’s place in South Australia. There’s a vineyard—well boutique, more or less, not a big show—but they do a very nice Syrah, they call it Shiraz over there—”

    “You mean they have la syrah out there?”

    “Yes. Very popular grape there,” he said firmly. “Anyway, they’ve got a cellar door, combining the wine sales with a small restaurant, and they need staff for that, so with your working holiday visa, you can do that. And the boys can pitch in round the place until their term starts—”

    “What? Until next September?” I gasped in horror.

    “No!”

    “It hasn’t dawned,” said Bean Minor hurriedly. “Term starts in March over there, Mel.”

    “That’s right,” Trelawney agreed on an anxious note. “That’s the beginning of their academic year.”

    “Oh. That’s funny. Um, so by that time it should be safe, should it?” I counted on my fingers.

    “Yes, very,” said the Egg firmly.

    “That sounds okay… It’s a long time.”

    “Not really, and there’ll be plenty to do,” said Crumpy bracingly.

    “Mm… So this is after we go to France, then.”—They all nodded firmly, tho it hadn’t actually been a question.—“But how do we get out of Europe? And, um, I thought the idea was I wouldn’t come back to the stables so as not to put your family in danger, Egg?”

    “You’d better tell her how it’ll be worked, Egg,” said Bean Minor.

    The Egg was seen to hesitate. “Neural overload, tho, old chum?”

    “Um, it might be less worrying if she knows the details,” offered Trelawney.

    “Mm. Well, as you know, Mel, we’re due to pick up a few horses in Europe but as well, we’ve got a couple racing over there. One of them is also slated to run In Australia—not in the Cup itself but another of the big races. So you and Sid will stay with her—”

    “Ooh, is she a ‘she’?”

    “Uh—yes. Filly. Due to run in the Oaks, on what the Aussies call ‘Ladies’ Day’: it’s a race for three-year-old fillies.”

    “That’ll be lovely!”

    “Mm. Well as I was saying, you can help Sid to look after her, and when we head back to England the three of you—that is, you, Sid and the horse—will stay with Mr Johnson again.”

    “That’s right,” the genial old chap put in, beaming at me.

    “That’d be nice. Your ginger wine’s lovely, Mr Johnson!”

    “Dégueulasse. Sucré, comme un sirop,” murmured Bean Minor.

    “Ouais, mais elle aime également l’orgeat,” the Bean reminded him.

    The Egg awarded my siblings a minatory look. “Yes, Mel,” he said firmly. “Excellent of its kind.”

    “Dad likes it, too,” put in Crumpy peaceably. “Sometimes adds a slug of whisky to it. Jolly warming on a chilly night. –Now, you’ve got it, haven’t you, Mel? Sid will look after you the entire time, you won’t need to worry about anything.”

    “That’s right, love,” Sid agreed.

    “That’d be lovely; thank you, Sid… Um, in Australia too?” I found myself asking in a very small voice.

    “’Course. We’ll be okay.”

    “Mm… What’s her name?”

    Several persons appeared flummoxed by this perfectly logical enquiry but old Sid replied with the utmost calm: “Little Princess. Pretty, innit?”

    “Yes, very! Little Princess! Lovely.”

    “Good. Okay, you lot, stir yer ruddy stumps, we ain’t got all day!”

    And everybody got up and thanked dear, kind Mr Johnson fervently for his hospitality and collected up hand luggage and/or dashed to the loo and before I knew it we were all loaded into the horseboxes again and on our way to the Channel crossing.

December 6 Not. So that was that, really. I still haven’t used up all the pages in this daft diary from dear old Miss Pinkerton but never mind, I could never keep neatly to each page and besides, she’s never going to read it, is she? But with the details of Egg’s Grand Plan fully revealed we were pretty much all set for a completely new chapter in the saga of the Junior Drones’ progress.

    … If there’d still be any Junior Drones, with the Hon. Members scattered to the bally ends of the Earth—and would we have to have “virtual” meetings by horrid Zoom again? Ugh! But after all, we’d all come through the pandemic okay, this dashed exile couldn’t possibly be as bad and doubtless one could get through it, too. Okay Mel, grin and bear it.

    Well as might be imagined I still felt completely dazed in fact worse, if anything, but I did think it would be all right: as usual, the Egg was on top of everything. And Crumpy was right: at least the MOD was keeping my darling John safe. And—and I’d just have to look forward firmly to seeing him again when the six months or so were up. And then we could be together permanently, like he’d said!

    … Um, had he meant it? But then John Raice never said anything he didn’t mean, all the Junior Drones knew that, he was the most trustworthy character that ever walked. And in spite of a certain quota of blotted copybook with assorted lady friends some time back, which rather unfortunately for him we’d all more or less witnessed, there had at one stage been a Junior Drones’ vote in favour of him. Oh yes: after he’d rushed off to Oxford and forced Dad to set up regular allowances for us three F.-B. siblings. All vote Aye? And the Ayes had had it.

    Um, yes. So he must have meant it.

    … But Australia? Just like that? It was on the other side of the world!

So the Junior Drones have come through. But their story continues in

The Egg And Friends Down Under:

https://theeggandfriendsdownunder-anovel.blogspot.com/