The Egg And Friends Come Through: A Novel: Plans Of Mice And Men

Plans Of Mice And Men

September 30 Not. The sun shone, the sky was blue, dotted here and there with tiny puffs of white, and everything in the garden was, if not rosy, certainly blooming, thanks to the ministrations of Mrs Blake’s son. A very minor fly in the ointment was John’s discovery that “we” were out of beer. As I rarely drank the stuff— Okay John, you scoot down to the village for more beer. It would never do for the world to stop turning for want of beer. He laughed, kissed me, and dashed off.

I went into the kitchen and looked glumly at those breakfast dishes which had not done themselves, oddly enough. The sooner this place had a dishwashing machine the better! No I would not descend to hinting, I would tell him straight out that he’d better jolly well get one put in. In the meantime—

On second thoughts one would not wish to set a precedent which might be taken as a precedent, so to speak. The bally washing-up could wait until he got back, at which point we would both do it. Then my point might strike a chord. I retired to the sitting-room and picked up a book…

I leapt like the jolly old traditional startled D. at the sound of a thunderous knock on the front door. Who on earth—? Er, Crumpy, fallen off a horse, and limped this far for succour and sympathy? The large Blake offspring come to, um, something in the garden? He was the sort of huge, blundering chappie that would batter one’s front d— There it went again!

Bother.

Sighing, I laid down my entrancing tome. One of John’s: Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy L. Sayers, which he claimed was even better than the vol. the Bean had found in Brighton. So far it was certainly full of presque-Bertie-isms and chaps of both sexes from the jolly old Oxbridge colleges. Had the advertising scene ever been that collegiate, even back in the 1930s? Hard to imagine, but John claimed that the highly literate author had been in it herself.

Er… Two large, blank-faced suits. Er… Mormon missionaries? Weren’t they said to hunt in pairs? But in this nook of gentrified rural England? Added to which they looked too old, didn’t the Mormons send them out young as a sort of rite of p—

“Yes?” I said feebly, as they didn’t immediately utter.

One of them felt in his breast-pocket and I backed off, ready to slam the door in their faces. I mean, these days one never knows, he might be reaching for a gun, they could be Hold-Up Men even in this part of gentrified rural England.

“Ministry of Defence,” he said, flapping something at me.

Des conneries! I slammed the door in their faces, my heart going nineteen to the dozen.

Deep breaths, Mélisande!

Well whoever they were they were definitely Up To Something. Number one, they were Muslim Terrorist Assassins after John. Number two, they were Burglars. Number three, they were after John, but not Muslim—which they didn’t look like—but given those flat, expressionless faces, Russian Assassins!

They were now hammering on the door shouting: “Miss! Ministry of Defence!” A likely story.

But just in case, I dashed over to the phone and dialled the MOD and when someone answered spoke the magic words, as advised by John for such emergencies: “Department Zed, please.” –Which is very cunning, because Baddies who learn their English from American telly and American movies would inevitably pronounce it “Zee.”

“One moment please.” –Ultra-polite.

I waited edgily.

“Department Zed.”

Help! Thanks, Mr Department Zed, very enlightening. “Um, I’m ringing from John Raice’s cottage. This is Mel Fullarton-Browne speaking, I think you might have me in your, um, files as Melly-sand, actually. Um, there’s two men at the door claiming to be from you, I mean from the Ministry of Defence.”

“Did you check their IDs?” he replied immediately. Well presumably he knew who I was, then, and believed me. Or not.

“No, because he just flapped it at me and no-one could possibly read anything at that speed and please could you check that your lot have sent them?”

“Uh—yes. Is Johnny not there, Miss Fullarton-Browne?”

“No, he popped out to get more beer!” I hissed, not wanting to be too loud in case they overheard me and Went After Him.

“I see. Uh—well yes, we have sent a couple of men down. Let me give you their names and ID numbers.” He did that and I wrote them down, having to get him to repeat the numbers, I’m terrible at writing down numbers in the right order. Then he asked me to describe them but all I could say was that they were big, in grey suits with flat faces, expressionless.

“I see. Well I really don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Perhaps you could ask them to slip their ID cards through the letter slot?”

Oh yes: English cottages did have those, so I could.

“Yes, I will,” I said gratefully. “Um, you won’t go away, will you?”

“No, I’ll hold on.”

So I tottered over to the door again and said loudly: “Oy! If you’re who you say you are, shove your ID cards through the letter slot!”

Short pause and muttered colloquy outside. Then the lid thing on the slot clattered and two ID cards in smart black leather holders plopped onto the floor. So I picked them up. Um… Oh.

“Hullo, are you there, Department Zed?”

“Yes, still here. Everything okay?”

“Well um, the photos seem to match and the names and numbers are what you said.”

“Good. Well why not let them in, then, and ask them to ring us for verification.”

And then what? They don’t get this verification and they assassinate me? And they do get it but they still assassinate me because they’ve kidnapped the real ones and taken their place and one flat, expressionless face looks very like another especially with those short, uninteresting hairdoes?

“Um, well if you think I should…”

“Yes, that’d be best. Be sure to say for verification, won’t you?”

Oh sure, that’d save my life. But I agreed and he hung up.

I went slowly over to the door. “Um, are you still there?”

“Yes. May we come in?”

Crumbs. Well at least they could speak Standard English. Slowly I opened the door.

“Thank you, Miss,” said the one who seemed to be able to speak.

“You can come in but I need you to ring the MOD and ask for verification,” I said grimly. “There’s the phone. –You can put that away,” I added as Number Two produced his mobile.

“We really are from the MOD,” he said weakly, nonetheless obeying.

“Never mind the flimflam,” I replied, dredging up the word from God-Knew-Where, I hadn’t known it was in my vocab. “Use that phone.”

So Number One went to pick it up and I said: “Hang on! I’ll dial the number, thanks!” Which I did, and then handed the phone to him.

“Verification, please,” he said.

Okay, that was what Mr Department Zed had meant, was it?

There was a pause and then the phone said something and he said: “Yes, we got here. What? If you insist, Budders.” And said his name and ID number. I must say I don’t know how people ever remember strings of numbers, I never can. Then he said to Number Two: “It’s Budleigh-Smythe: he wants to speak to you, Tony,” and Number Two, putatively Tony, said his name and number. And handed the phone back to me.

“Miss Fullarton-Browne? It’s all hunky-dory: they’re our chaps all right,” said Mr Department Zed.

“Right. Well one can’t be too careful.”

“That’s quite correct: well done. Er—don’t let them get too comfortable, will you? They’re supposed to stay alert.”

Ugh! For what?

“No, okay. Thanks very much,” I quavered.

“Not at all. Give the Colonel my best, won’t you?” he said, and rang off.

So I eyed them grimly and said: “You’re supposed to stay alert, according to Department Zed, so you,”—to Number Two—“can get out to the kitchen and keep watch from the window there—and don’t try to open the back door, it’s locked! And if you spot a large chap doing stuff in the vegetable garden it’s probably only Mrs Blake’s son but don’t try letting him in on that account, thanks. And you,”—Number One—“can stay right here in this front hall and keep watch from that window. And don’t dare to ask for cups of tea: you’re not going to sit round swilling dashed English tea if you’re supposed to be staying alert!”

They exchanged uncertain glances and then Number One said weakly: “Go on, Tony.” And went over to the front window and stared out. And Number Two went through to the kitchen.

Well the layout of John’s cottage unfortunately doesn’t allow one simultaneously to keep watch on a chap in the front hall and one in the kitchen. Actually it was once two cottages: they were thrown into one about a hundred years back, during the Roaring Twenties, when it became fashionable to dash down to the country to one’s charming rural cottage, which was kept charming for one by the efforts of local rural slaves, who did all one’s cooking apart from the times one patronised the new teashops which had sprung up all over the place. Like the one not far away, the Cosy Cottage Café, which evidently was converted into a teashop round about then tho it lapsed in the interval, but has been revived, dinkier than ever. Tho its cream teas are jolly good, as I may have noted.

As I say, the cottage’s layout wasn’t conducive, so I went back and forth, keeping a sharp eye on both of them as best I could.

After a bit Number One said uneasily: “Where’s the Colonel gone, Miss?”

To which I replied: “You can ask him that when he gets back.”

After which he shut up.

And I continued to patrol the somewhat wandering, if not large, downstairs layout of the cottage…

October 3 Not. It seemed like a long time before John came back but of course it wasn’t really.

“Hullo!” he said in surprise as Number One stood up very straight, not quite saluting but one could see he wanted to. “What the Devil are you doing here, Farnsworth?”

“There’s another one, too, John, he’s in the kitchen keeping alert,” I explained. “They’re from the MOD and I didn’t just let them in: I rang up like you said and Department Zed okayed everything.”

“Good girl. –Well?” –To Number One, now revealed as Farnsworth. “I’m on leave and unless it’s World War Three I’m staying on leave, and what’s more they know it!”

“Yes, um, not that, sir. Um, bit of a flap, actually,” he said, glancing uneasily at me.

“Oh? Well you’d better tell us all about it.”

“Uh—I think you’d better sit down, Colonel. And the young lady.”

“What? Just spit it out, for God’s sake!”

Mr Farnsworth gave a desperate cough. “Well uh, not to put too fine a point on it… Well your flat’s been bombed, sir.”

“Crazed terrorists!” I gasped.

“Yes,” said John in a very level voice, putting an arm round me. “Come on, darling, we’ll go into the kitchen, shall we, and the other chap can keep watch out here.”

So we did that, and sat down at the kitchen table, what time Tony, having visibly restrained himself from saluting, clumped out to the front hall.

“Well?” said John mildly.

“Well, uh, not much more intel at this stage, sir… The flat’s a write-off, I’m afraid. Semtex, they think. They must’ve got in somehow.”

“Are the neighbours okay?” he said sharply.

Mr Farnsworth duly stumbled through it. The upstairs flat—“Old Miss Carson”, John interjected—um, yes, an old lady, she wasn’t hurt, her floors must be jolly solid, but some of her furniture was knocked over and some ornaments broken—“Hell, not her collection of Staffordshire dogs? Fireplace dogs: large ones, so high. She lives for the things.”—He couldn’t say for sure but he had the impression it was small stuff. Um, plates and things. The old lady was very shaken and had been taken to hospital, just as a precaution. The downstairs flat had suffered more damage: his ceilings had collapsed. The old boy was all right! he added quickly.—“Mr Shallcross. What about his budgies?”

The unfortunate Farnsworth at this one looked thoroughly taken aback and croaked: “Budgies, Colonel?”

“Yes: old Mr Shallcross has two pairs.”

“Well I don’t know, sir.” –Eyeing John warily. Obviously thought the shock of it had gone to his brain.

“He hasn’t lost it,” I said grimly. “Some people care about their neighbours, even if they are old and silly with funny hobbies.”

John put his hand over mine and squeezed it. “Yes; hush, darling. –Is the old boy in hospital too?”

He was, but it was just shock and a few scratches and bruises.

“We could go up and see them, John,” I said quickly.

“No!” gulped Farnsworth. “I mean— Sorry, Colonel! That’s the thing. They’ve told us to collect you and, um, close up the cottage and, um, get the young lady out of it. There’s no doubt it was a targeted attack.”

“I see. And they think they’ll come here?”

“Well the Brigadier said so, sir. He doesn’t think it was meant as a warning—well you know what these…” His voice trailed off and he looked uncomfortably at me. “…fellows are,” he muttered.

“What these crazed terrorists are, you mean,” I said grimly. “I suppose it’ll be a—a revenge thing next like the horrid Ayatollahs put out on that poor writer man.”

“Don’t think I rank that high in the scheme of things,” said John drily.

“Uh— In any case, sir, those are our orders.”

“Right. Are we allowed to pack?”

“Well, uh—if the coast is clear,” he replied uneasily.

“Well I can’t see anything at the back,” I noted, “not even a hulking male Blake.”

“No,” John agreed. “Come on, then, darling, we’ll get our cases.”

I followed him out numbly and up the stairs…

“All your things at the flat…” I said numbly, sitting down on the bed.

“Only junk. But I hope to God the neighbours’ stuff’s okay.”

“Mm. And the budgies.”

“Yes. You okay, Mel?”

“I don’t know. I feel sort of… numb.”

“Yes. Bit much to take in, isn’t it? You start packing, darling; I’ll just dash down for the brandy.”

“Good idea.”

So he duly dashed and I went over to the wardrobe and removed the things I’d shoved in there and hauled my case out and bundled stuff in: it didn’t seem to matter if it got crushed, not even my precious Junior Drones gear…

“Drink this,” he said, handing me a generous slug.

“Thanks.” I sat down again and sipped.

“Uh, Mel…”

“Mm?”

John bit his lip and sat down slowly beside me. “Bloody Farnsworth didn’t make it clear. They’re going to spirit me away somewhere well out of sight, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to take you with me, sweetheart.”

“What?”

He made a face. “No. Standard procedure. I mean, this sort of thing doesn’t happen often, but there have been cases… One has to drop right off the radar. Um, if necessary complete change of ID.”

“What?”

“Mm. ’Fraid so.

“You—you mean it’s like Witness Protection?” I faltered.

“Bit like that, yes.”

“But—but why can’t I be with you?”

He ran his hand through his hair. “Hiding a couple is a lot more complicated than just one. We’re not actually married, sweetheart. They won’t wear it.”

“But surely we could just go somewhere else—anywhere else in the world, really—and call ourselves Mr and Mrs Jones or something! Or we could go to France, the family would—”

“No. Thems are the rules,” he said, making a face. “We’ll just have to wait it out. The usual pattern is that after a time the blighters assume that one’s learned one’s lesson and won’t be causing them any more trouble, so they drop it.”

“I see. How—how long will it be?”

His mouth tightened. “I don’t know. At least six months, I’d say.”

I was trying not to cry but at this a tear leaked out and he sighed and put his arm around me and leant his head against mine. “It was going to be America for six months anyway, sweetheart.”

Actually the phrase “a few months” had been used, if I remembered rightly. I sniffed very hard and said: “Yes. Well at least we can keep in touch by phone or Skype, like during the pandemic.”

I could feel him take a deep breath. “No. It really is like Witness Protection. No contact whatsoever.”

No contact? Just when we’d got together at last? No! At that I really lost it, and bawled my eyes out.

… “She must come to us, John,” said the Egg firmly. He had immediately taken in everything John had rapidly told him. “I’ll be over right away, and don’t worry, I won’t use any of the vehicles with the Stables’ name emblazoned loudly on them.”

“No. Good man. Thanks, Alan,” John replied and rang off, just as dashed Farnsworth tapped on the door and called out: “I say, sir, are you ready? We really have to get going.”

John went over to the door. “We’ll just wait until a friend’s collected Mel.”

“Oh. Well—uh—we could have dropped her off, but I suppose that’s the best idea.”

“It certainly is, given that the blighters may follow us.”

“Uh—pretty sure nobody followed us down, sir.”

“They may be watching the cottage, you idiot!” I cried. More loudly than I’d intended, really. Tho I wasn’t too sorry it had come out the way it had.

“Oh—yes, of course. Uh—now you do understand, Miss Fullarton-Browne, don’t you? This whole thing is absolutely hush-hu—”

“Yes,” said John, brutally cutting him off in his flow. “Get out. We’ll be down in a minute.”

Glumly Farnsworth retreated.

“Come here,” said John tightly.

I got up and went slowly over to him. Promptly he hugged me very hard. Well I think the usual phrase is “swept me into a hard embrace” but actually that doesn’t sound very real, does it? And kissed me soundly.

“I love you, darling Mel,” he said grimly, “and as soon as I get back we’ll think about making it permanent, okay?”

“Yes,” I agreed, sniffling.

“And try not to worry,” he said, pulling me tightly against his chest and leaning his chin on my head.

“What: stiff upper lip and all that?” I managed.

“Mm.”

I waited but he didn’t tell me to behave myself or anything like that. So I said in a small voice: “I don’t love anyone but you, John, and I never have.”

“Mm,” he agreed, kissing my hair. “Me too neither. Little bits on the side may come and go, but they don’t count, okay?”

Ye-es… Ooh, help! Mine? I thought he’d meant his! “Um yes. Or do I mean No? I mean, they don’t.”

“No, ’course not,” he said, hugging me harder than ever.

And that was it, really. Egg arrived ten minutes later, he must have broken the speed limit all the way. And I got into his highly decorative runabout, ex his mum’s ordinary runabout, and dratted Farnsworth and Tony bundled John into their discreet vehicle, and, no kidding, padlocked the cottage, that was going to stop the bombers, and we left.

Halfway to the stables I managed to say: “So much for the plans of mice and men.”

“Yes,” the Egg agreed grimly. “Well we came through the dashed pandemic safe and sound, Sister Bean; we’ll see you through this.”

Yes well if anyone could the good old Egg could, that was for sure.

“Thanks, Egg,” I said in a very, very small voice: “You’re a brick.”

Naturally the Egg merely replied: “Cobblers. Junior Drones stick together. All for one and one for all, and all that jazz, what?”

“Abso-bally-lutely,” I managed to agree.