Coping

14

Coping

    “Maybe I could stay with Meggie for a bit,” said Ellie Borovansky, sniffing dolefully.

    Er—no. The last time she’d phrased such a suggestion in just those vague and watery terms poor Meggie had ended up supporting her financially and emotionally for three whole years. Iain took a deep breath and replied calmly and firmly: “That wouldn’t be fair on her, Mummy: she’s got her own life to lead and she’s already done far too much for us, hasn’t she?”

    Ellie blew her nose. “She is my sister, Iain!”

    “Yes, of course. I don’t mean just now, Mummy, but all those times she let us stay at the cottage for extended hols—especially me in my teens, eating her out of house and home, poor Meggie—and that time after you and Derek Webster broke up when you were homeless and landed yourself on her for the best part of three y—”

    “Not landed, Iain, she is my sister!”

    “Landed, Mummy,” said Iain calmly and firmly. “She’s never had anyone to support her financially, has she? Whereas you have to admit you did bloody well out of Derek while it lasted. And Rudi seems to have left you pots, if Bresson’s figures are right.”

    “I wouldn’t say pots,” said Ellie dolefully, blowing her nose again.

    No? Most other people would. The cottage alone was worth a fair whack, and the frightful English couple who had the place on its one side had already put in an offer of megabucks—sterling megabucks, no euros need apply, we’re British, thanks—on behalf of their friends the Whosises. Ellie was quite sure she didn’t want to go on living in it, but they had managed to get her back to it, though it probably wouldn’t have happened if Gérard’s wife hadn’t turned up uninvited on Christmas Eve with the two bad-tempered, spoilt, whiny Mercier grandchildren who, surprisingly enough, hadn’t wanted to spend Christmas under Mémé Mercier’s stern and unrelenting eye at all. The subsequent loud recriminations had suggested even to Ellie that the cottage might not be such a bad option after all. Christmas Day without Rudi had of course been extremely painful for everybody, but by dint of keeping her on the old dame’s meds and drinking a great deal of Rudi’s excellent Cognac themselves, Meggie and Iain had somehow got through it.

    Since then poor Ellie hadn’t done anything much except cry, but Meggie and Iain had been extremely busy. Sorting and packing Rudi’s clothes was the least of it—though he’d had three crammed wardrobes and five full chests of drawers, it hadn't been a small task. The local priest had been thrilled to accept the lot, but this pleasure was probably not because his shoe size was exactly the same as Rudi’s and his figure was not unlike Rudi’s and those chests of drawers had contained a great deal of scarcely worn underwear of the finest quality. Well, put it like this, the local underprivileged would probably come in for the coloured shirts and English tweeds and drill slacks and the brightly coloured woollies. And possibly the socks. Well, the very bright ones.

    But besides the clothes there had been unending meetings with Maître Bresson, checking and re-checking of everything in the desk, listing the entire contents of the cottage, and a trip to Paris in the company of one of Bresson’s clerks to check out the contents of a safety-deposit box, armed with a certified copy of the will and Ellie’s power of attorney—Iain and Meggie had been in no doubt that she hadn’t understood what she was signing, but had kept stumm. Iain had more or less shaken in his little cotton socks the entire way, but the box had only contained a quantity of Krugerrands and a Russian icon. The last undoubtedly stolen, but it could have been much, much worse. In fact the stuff Iain had found in a rusty tin in Rudi’s garden shed had been much, much worse; but one, Thierry, surname not available, had turned up at dead of night in a car with obscured number plates to collect that. Thierry had been accompanied by a person referred to only as le beauf’, which was possible, if Thierry was married to a Chinese woman who’d grown up in Russia. Thierry himself spoke pure Parigot, unmistakable. Like listening to a chap gargling with his mouth full of marbles. –Jewellery. According to Thierry Rudi had already had the fric for it, but Iain hadn’t actually been going to argue the point anyway.

    Bresson thought that the cottage should be put on the market if Mme Borovansky really instead on selling, but had to concede that the Whosises’ offer was very fair and in fact slightly over the current valuation, so Iain told the English neighbours that their mates could have it. Upon which Mr and Mrs Whosis drove over, the Channel Tunnel was so convenient, it meant one didn’t have the annoying dogleg to Paris, and signed papers under Bresson’s clerk’s supervision. Of course the first thing the buggers’d do would be cut down the flowering cherry tree, but as this didn’t appear to occur to his mother Iain didn’t mention it. Though he did go outside—with a heavy coat on, northern France was, of course, freezing—and glare at the tree and mutter: “Well, sod the buggers!”

    It was a whole month before he managed to ring Daph, what with all the frantic activity, not to mention keeping an eye on Mummy and tracking how much dope she’d taken and keeping the said dope out of her reach and sleeping with one ear open in case another surnameless visitor accompanied by a dubious brother-in-law turned up at dead of night in a vehicle with obscured number plates... One did, a large lorry driver called, possibly not called, but known as, Charlot. He was headed for the Baltic and wanted to know if le vieux mec required— O. La mauvaise chance, hein? And, embracing Iain heartily on both cheeks, he vanished. It wasn’t technically the dead of night, it was four thirty-five in the morning, but Iain had a belt of Cognac anyway: he felt he deserved it.

    His feeble apologies to Daph were of course rubbished and after kind enquiries after his mum she had to hear all the details. Well, not all, but he did include the Mercier grandkids bit and the Charlot bit, he felt she’d appreciate them.

    “What’s the lawyer like?” she then asked suspiciously.

    Iain smiled a little. “Seems a solid chap. A local: his father and grandfather before him ran the firm. Not one of Rudi’s old mates.”

    “Oh, good!” said Daph in tones of heartfelt relief.

    “Yeah. So how was Christmas?”

    Everything had gone off very well, that mad ice-cream maker that Roz had insisted on treating herself to at David Jones’ so-called sale last year actually made lovely ice cream, though it had turned the first lot to butter, she’d churned it too much, but now she’d found a really reliable recipe, you used plenty of full-cream milk powder—etcetera. Vanilla for Dad, mango—as Iain knew, Roz was mad on mangoes, personally Daph could take them or leave them, but the ice cream had been nice—and strawberry, Scott had made a pig of himself over that. Well, three sorts was over the top, yeah, only she’d had time on her hands, since it had been Cotty’s turn to do the dinner. The turkey had turned out good, that oven of Cotty’s needed watching, mind you, but did Iain have any idea what new stoves cost? Roz had tried to talk her into a ceramic stove top but apart from the fact that the bloody things cost an arm and both legs, the burners weren’t the problem, it was the oven that needed replacing. Well, yeah, Daph admitted, she had just taken over a couple of pies, save Cotty the trouble, eh? –As a matter of fact they had looked in at David Jones—well, Roz had dragged them, more like—but no way! Um, the January sales were over, Iain.

    “Oh, shit, so they are,” he realised numbly.

    Daph was heard to take a deep breath. “It’s so maddening that it’s so far, Iain! Otherwise I’d just pop over!”

    “I know,” he said wanly. –It hadn’t been meant to be wan, it had just come out like that, ooh, ’eck. “It’s brass monkeys here,” he admitted. “Thank God you made me bring those sheepskin boots!” he burst out.

    “I knew they’d come in handy. And Dad isn’t missing them, in fact he was last seen in a pair of those weirdo Indian sandals—you know, like thongs only they’ve got a loop round the big toe—that he got down the St Vinnies’ shop. Plus his new green and white cotton shorts Cotty got him at Kmart’s sale: they’re bathers, really, but she told him they were shorts. The pattern’s kind of splashy, so unless you look hard you don’t realise it’s meant to be butterflies. And let’s face it: you don’t wanna look real hard at Dad in shorts!”

    “A horrid sight!” agreed Iain with a laugh. “I hope he wasn’t mowing his bloody lawn in these Indian sandals, Daph.”

    “Nah, it’s been so dry the grass hasn’t grown at all. It’s full of bindi-eye, of course, blimmin’ Scott set the blades too low last time I made him mow it.”

    Iain winced, he’d met the dreaded Australian bindi-eye. A tiny plant with delicate lime-green foliage: harmless-looking, but with wicked little burrs that dug nasty claws into your bare feet. “In that case he’d need his Indian sandals!”

    “Too right. –Your aunty coping okay, is she?” she asked.

    Ulp. “Um, been magnificent, mm.”

    “You’re making those English noises,” she warned.

    Oh, shit, was he? “Um, sorry, Daph, must be the influence of the frozen North or some such. Well, Aunty Meggie was coping magnificently, but she’s had to go home, got a job filming a commercial for Tetley’s tea. Not that she imagines she’ll ever be the Tetley’s Tea Lady, too much to hope for, but she can’t turn down work.”

    “No, of course not. So what’s your mum gonna do, has she decided?”

    “She’s not up to deciding, but she is definite she wants to sell the cottage—just as well, since they’ve signed papers. We’d better hang on to see if probate’s gonna come through, but Rudi’s affairs were actually in very good order. Maître Bresson—sorry, that’s the lawyer—he thinks there might be a delay because of getting the ruddy Russian icon from the safety deposit box valued. Sort of thing the art experts argue over, apparently.”

    “Pooh!” said Daph sturdily. “Send it to that Sotheby’s place: you know, you told me about it that time we were watching The Antiques Roadshow. Tell them they can sell it for you if they give you a valuation for it right smart, and it’ll be over before the cat can lick ’er ear! –Any nice bits of china tucked away like that lovely little cat we saw?”

    Iain’s eyes twinkled: Daph had become a convert to The Antiques Roadshow in the wake of that lovely little china cat. “No, unfortunately Rudi didn’t go in for extraordinarily rare and horrifically overpriced Staffordshire cats with funny faces! It was cute, wasn’t it? Well, uh, Sotheby’s might be the go, but they’re so big that I doubt that a million-dollar Russian icon’d mean much to them.”

    “Try it,” she said drily.

    Iain laughed. “Yeah, okay!”

    “Could it be worth that much?”

    Maybe. If it was really rare it could go for even more, but he didn’t say so, the more so as personally he’d class it as grimy junk. “Theoretically, yes.”

    “That’d be nice, then you could bring your mum out and she could buy a nice house,” she said comfortably.

    Er—Mummy in suburban Sydney? Well, at least she’d speak the language—sort of. “Um, yeah, I think I’ll have to bring her out anyway, as a matter of fact, Daph, because if I leave her in Europe she’ll go and batten off poor Aunty Meggie, and it isn’t fair on her. She’s been battling away on her own all these years, always there for us whenever Mummy felt like dumping herself and little Iain on her—told you about that three-year stint, eh? –Mm. Post-Derek. There was an extended period before that, too, though I was too little to realise it,” he said thoughtfully. “Until she met Brian Stanton. –That was another one,” he explained kindly. “Pre-Derek. He lasted up until I was, um, elevenish, I think. That’s right, the Duff-Ross relatives had volunteered to send me to a school of their choice and Mummy had to accept because Brian had just dumped her. She’d done her vague thing: wandered off for the day, think it was only the Tate, completely harmless—um, a picture gallery, Daph—but unfortunately it happened to be the day she’d promised to lay on a special dinner party for some frightful work pals of his. Not the top boss, but Brian’s immediate boss, think was the story.”

    “Does she often wander off for the day?”

    “Tends to, mm, but much more so if she’s not happy. Brian was the jolly bully type—you do what I say and no arguments, jolly laugh, kind of thing—and looking back, she’d had enough of it. Rudi had the sense not to try to timetable her at all, so if she wandered off—it’d only be to the far side of the village or into the countryside for a bit—it didn’t matter. And of course he didn’t make her do stuff she didn’t like, like cooking or housework or going on long car trips with him at the wheel—or driving herself, come to think of it; she has got the basic skill, but the scenes when Brian tried to persuade her that all she had to do was concentrate are engraved on my memory—so she wasn’t unhappy with him.”

    Daph seized on the essential point. “She doesn’t like housework? Well, I mean, nobody likes it, but are you telling me they paid someone to do it?”

    “Yes—well, Rudi could afford it. Not quite sure where all his income came from, Bresson and I certainly haven’t been able to make the expenditure match up with the assets—or put it like this, I have got an idea where it came from but it’s now dried up—but there was more than enough to pay Jeanne Dupont from the village to clean the place.”

    “Right,” she said wryly. “That puts paid to my bright idea of having her sign on at RightSmart when you bring her out.”

    Iain bit his lip. “The word work’s never been in Mummy’s recognition vocabulary, I’m afraid, Daph. Just a natural parasite, I think. Well—very pretty girl, you see: married more or less straight from school, never had to work. The Duff-Rosses would have done their best to see she didn’t get a penny out of my father, but fortunately the English divorce laws are very fair. And Meggie was on her side: she made sure that the payments kept coming. If the marriage had worked out I think she’d have been very happy just to stay home and cook and clean for him—Meggie reckons that the little house they had was always spotless, completely charming, frilled muslin curtains that she washed every month and so on—but when he let her down she just gave up, I think.”

    “Mm. Iain, love, this is gonna be a big responsibility for you.”

    “Yeah. Do me good, eh?” said Iain drily.

    “Have you thought about the implications? You’ll have to find somewhere to live.”

    “Um, take a flat to start with, I suppose, while we look for a place to buy.”

    “Mm-mm... Look, I know we made a joke of it, but what say you did stay with Dad for a bit? It’d be company for him, and he’d be company for your mum if you had to take a job out of town for a bit, like that one at the ecolodge.”

    “Uh—are we talking about Scott’s full-blown master plan, here?”

    “Not buy the ecolodge, ya dill!” she said with a laugh. “Not that ya could, ’cos it’s burned down.”

    “Eh?”

    “Yeah. I’ll tell you about it in a bit, but whaddaya reckon? Stay with Dad, see how you all get on?”

    “Stay with him and pay board, I hope you mean, Daph.”

    “Yeah, sure. Well, bit of a trade-off, if you wanted to do a few odd jobs around the place, but we can talk about that later. Does the basic idea appeal?”

    Actually, it did. More and more as he contemplated it. “Yes, actually, Daph, it sounds wonderful!”

    “Goodoh. Dad thinks it might be the go, too. Well, you and him have always got on good, eh? And it means I can let Veronica have your room.”

    “What?” said Iain feebly as his ears rang.

    “Yes. Well Scott’s not here at the moment, but I don’t wanna let his room out from under him, poor kid.”

    “Y—um, sure, feel free to let the room, Daph, I dunno how much longer I’ll be stuck here... Veronica?” he croaked.

    “Yes. She understands you couldn’t help having to go away, and you were really looking forward to seeing her,” said Daph calmly.

    “Yes, um, thanks very much. And she—she hasn’t run away?”

    “No, of course not,” she said calmly.

    There was no of course about it! Iain sagged on the well-sprung real leather of Rudi’s palatial desk chair. “Oh, good,” he croaked.

    “See, she’s in an awful flat with noisy neighbours that play loud pop music all night—dole-bludgers, by the sound of them, she never sees them leaving for work in the mornings and when she gets home the music’s always blaring out—and it’s costing her an arm and a leg, so I thought, if you’re not gonna need the room—”

    “Oh! Yes, let her have the room, Daph!” Veronica at Daph’s? Funnily enough the thought didn’t seem incongruous at all: it seemed sort of... right. Wishful thinking, no doubt. “Um, so is she still temping for RightSmart?”

    “Yes, she did that job for those Lytton people. I rang Gail and got her to agree to let Scott go and help out. Not on Christmas Day, of course, but the rest of the week—just as well, as it turned out, ’cos they sounded like real pigs. Rich drunks.”

    “Thanks awfully, Daph,” said Iain weakly

    “As a matter of fact I think they were all too kaylied to make a serious pass, but better safe than sorry, and she is very pretty. Too old for Scott, but!” she added with a laugh.

    “I don’t think I dare ask what his reaction was, Daph.”

    “I said ‘What do you think of her?’ and he said ‘She seems like a nice lady.’ Which is what he said about Mrs Ainsworth that time RightSmart got you and him to paint her back bedroom.”

    Iain swallowed. Mrs Ainsworth was at least seventy.

    “At least we won’t have to worry about him going moony over her!” said Daph cheerfully.

    “What? Oh! No,” he said weakly. Was the boy blind?

    “Anyway, I was gonna tell you about the ecolodge burning down— Hang on, this call must be costing you a fortune! I’m sorry, Iain—”

    “No, no, don’t stop!”

    “Well, if you’re sure—” He was sure, and Daph explained: “Scott rang your friend Gil, you see—he said he sounded even fancier than you, but he told him to call him Gil—and he said he was very sorry to hear about your stepfather and he’d write to you. –Did he?”

    It was a reasonable enquiry, given that Iain had given them the address but that Scott couldn’t spell too well even in English. “Yes—sympathy card, and a note to say anything he could do.”

    “Good. Nothing about the fire, though?”

    “No. I thought the ecolodge was closed?” he said dazedly.

    “Yeah, but that was the thing, see! They think it was bikies—” Daph plunged into it.

    “Omigod, burnt to the ground?”

    “Yeah, well, almost, but listen! It’s worked out really good, because the bosses have decided it wasn’t that Jack guy’s fault—”

    “I should think not!”

    “Yeah, and they’ve put him in charge of pulling the rest of it down and clearing up the mess and guess what? He’s taken Scott on to help him!”

    “Fulltime? Thank God!” said Iain fervently.

    “You said it!” agreed Scott’s mother fervently.

    Er—yeah. Hard yacker in the blistering heat of an Australian summer. Oh, well, Scott was young and fit enough to take it, and otherwise he’d only be on the beach in the blistering heat, so why not? He might lose a bit of that flab round the middle, with luck.

    “The singer lady’s been what?” he croaked.

    “Feeding him on Greek food!” repeated Daph with a jolly laugh. “Well, I think it was only grilled octopus and shish-kebabs on the barbie, she’s not much of a cook, but it was Greek enough for Scott!”

    Iain collapsed in splutters. Though admittedly the mind was boggling, rather, at the thought of Scott being fed by Antigone Walsingham Corrant. “So is he staying with them?” he asked.

    “No, Jack’s letting him use the ecolodge’s cabana,” replied Scott’s mother cheerfully.

    How much had that cabana been setting the punters back, three—uh, no, four months since? Five thousand a night, was it? Iain smothered a laugh.

    “He can do nightwatchman for them, you see, in case the bikies come back. But Jack’s put in some really loud alarms, that’ll scare them off.”

    One could but hope: Scott slept like a log. Iain agreed that Blue Gums Ecolodge burning down had worked out good for them, agreed that it was a blessing they were all signed on with RightSmart—uh, presumably this was in reference to Jack’s taking Scott on, was it?—never mind—and, thanking Daph once again for everything and assuring her he had enough warm clothes, he’d scored a couple of Rudi’s pullovers and a large goose-down anorak, reluctantly rang off.

    Bugger. 16 Lavender Avenue seemed very, very far away. And if you looked at the map it bloody well was: about as far away as you could get without starting to come back, as it were. Though the thought of Veronica in his room in it was very cheering! Well, would have been more so if he hadn’t been stuck in bloody Europe...

    A certain period of silent scowling intervened and then Iain picked up the phone and demanded to speak to Maître Bresson in person.

    The lawyer could certainly manage things for him here, though he should just mention that the contents of the house would need to be cleared— But they were not mentioned in the agreement with the Whosises, M. Ross! One could not just let them have the contents, there were some very valuable pieces of furniture in the house!

    “They said they didn’t mind if we left some furniture in as they’d have to furnish it anyway,” said Iain without interest.

    Mais mon dieu, unheard of, and blah, blah... Iain finally got him to admit there were one or two pieces he would take off their hands himself—of course at the independent valuation, M. Ross had a copy of the valuer’s report, and blah, blah... Okay, they’d clear the cupboards and—well, together he and Jeanne Dupont could scour the place, but it was very clean anyway. And Bresson would just remind him of the linen, would he?

    “We’re going to Australia: it isn’t worth taking linen all that way,” said Iain grimly.

    Then his good aunt, surely? Much of it was English linen! Uh—was it? Oh, yeah, the pillows were oblong, not those square ones the Frogs went in for, and there were no bolsters. Okay, that meant Bresson’s wife, mother, sisters and his cousins and his aunts wouldn’t be panting to take it off their hands. “I’ll parcel it up and take it to the PTT and if it weighs too much to be worth posting I’ll leave it with Père Malraux, I’m sure he could find a good home for it,” said Iain on a note of finality. “Eugh—the desk?” He looked limply at it. Weighed a ton, he couldn’t have moved it single-handed to save his life. “It's one of Rudi’s fakes: feu mon beau-père, as I’m sure you’re aware, went in for faked antiques.” Hah, hah! The lawyer was heard to clear his throat! “But if you know someone who’d like it they can have it, if they’re willing to cart it away. Well, we have been through it but I’ll make sure there’s nothing left in its drawers—or in the cabinets in the sitting-room, yes. No, all the wardrobes and chests of drawers have been cleared except for my mother’s things. –Maître Bresson, I don’t give a damn about the kitchen stuff, and in fact I’m about to call Mme Mercier and tell her she can have whatever she wants, and Jeanne Dupont can have her pick of the rest! Thank you for all your help. If there’s anything else I need to sign, please let me know.” On which he hung up on the fellow. Kitchen drawers? God! He picked up the phone again and dialled, closing his mind completely to what he was about to—

    “Allô, oui, qui est là? Allô, oui, j’écoute, qui est là?” she screeched, not pausing for breath let alone an answer.

    —to hear. “Bonjour, Mme Mercier, ici Iain Ross!” he shouted—wouldn’t admit she was slightly deaf, as well.

    It finally got through to her and she was round there like a shot. With a wheelbarrow, help. Well, okay, good for her, she’d been genuinely kind to Mummy, she could take the lo— Uh, that bloody coffee machine of Rudi’s was priced at around four thousand dollars in David Jones in Syd— Oh, who gave a damn! Oui, Mme Mercier, it is just like the one in the bar in the village (not, they wouldn’t have paid that sort of price), but it’s too heavy to take on a plane to Australia, please have it if you can possibly make use— No, quite sure the coffee couldn’t possibly be as good as yours, that you make in your little ordinary pot on the st— Eugh, oui, please do take it. Good knives? Eugh, mais si, have them. Omelette pan? Eugh, is it? By all means, anything you think might come in handy. ...Yes, of course, come back for a second load, madame.

    What the Hell, the stuff was going! Iain went to check on Mummy: she was dressed but lying on her bed with the duvet over her in spite of the central heating, with an old Beatles recording playing softly.

    “All right, Mummy?”

    “Mm. What was all that commotion in the kitchen, darling?” she asked vaguely.

    Gosh, she’d noticed! Huge step forward! “Letting La Mercier take as much of the crap in the kitchen as she fancies. Think she’d want any of the furniture?”

    “All of it,” she said with a weak smile.

    Boy, making a joke, that was real progress! “Yeah! No, but any special chair or a little cabinet or something she’s admired?”

    “Not that little writing desk in the sitting-room, I thought Meggie should have that, she really likes it.”

    Gee, expressing a definite opinion: betterer and betterer! Not to say, actually thinking of someone else! “Good show, that’s slated for Aunty Meggie, then. Anything else the old witch likes?”

    “Don’t call her that, Iain, she’s been so good to me. She likes the cabinet in the study with all the shells in it.”

    Those shells were worth a bomb, they were on the valuer’s list, and fuck probate, Iain had found a chap on the Internet who was coming to take them off his hands tomorrow.

    “Um, yes, well, a chap’s taking the shells; she can have the cabinet tomorrow.”

    “Good. –Don’t forget the secret drawer.”

    “No, cleared that.” And its belt of gold coins—yep.

    “Oh, did you, darling? Good. There’s the desk, of course.”

    “Too heavy to move. Bresson’s got a chap lined up that’ll take it away.”

    “Not that, Iain: the secret drawer. He had it built in specially, it’s down the bottom—on the left, is it? I’m not sure. You press, um, I’m not sure. The side of the drawer or something.“

    Oh, God. “All right, I’ll check it out.”

    “Give Mme Mercier the sitting-room suite.”

    “What? Er, setting aside the whole fake Louis Quinze thing, will it even fit into their place?”

    “She’ll either sell it or keep it and get rid of her own suite. I think she’ll probably keep it, she really likes it.”

    So be it. The Merciers could have the fake Louis Quinze suite. –The valuer had at first been very excited over it and then very annoyed indeed. Someone, unspecified, could have paid a lot of money for this and he did hope that feu le beau-père de monsieur had not been taken in by it!

    When the old witch came back for another load he said nicely: “My mother would like you to have the sitting-room suite, Mme Mercier, with her gratitude for all your kindness to her.” And with only a very token protest she accepted it. The old boy came over after a certain amount of screeching on the phone and he and Iain lugged it home forthwith. –It wasn’t heavy, pine and plastic tended not to be. It looked bloody good, though, ’specially with all that genuine ormolu nicked off God knew what and the lovely silk brocade Mummy had chosen for it. A cream background with lozenges of flower sprays amidst pale pink trelliswork. Well, pretty, yes.

    After that Iain made himself a coffee—scrub that, Mme Mercier had come back for another barrowload, so she had to make it. Rudi had a perfectly good ordinary pot, the same model as hers, that went on the stove top and made excellent coffee, so why the Hell he’d bought that expensive machine— On second thoughts very probably he had merely accepted it in payment for something or other. Or even more probably given the person offering it much, much, much less than its retail price because this particular machine had fallen off the back of a camion. Yeah.

    After that Iain was at last able to stagger into the study and look feebly at the two bottom desk drawers. Elaborately carved an’ all as they were. Not to mention them there genuine eighteenth-century brass handles nicked from God knew where. A sweaty interval ensued, unproductively. Then La Mère Mercier tottered in. Push the button. What bloody button? There wasn’t a— She tottered over to him and put a gnarled finger on one of the bosses in the elaborate carving. –Not the work of an eighteenth-century artisan, no, or even machine-cut in the nineteenth century: laser-cut in the last decade of the twentieth. Rudi had known a chap who made a very good living— Yeah.

    “Those’ll be nicked,” the old witch ascertained calmly, as the front of the drawer slid sideways to reveal a cavity full of—uncut diamonds? Oh, God!

    “I wouldn’t tell that lawyer about them, if I was you,” she advised. “Ni les flics, non plus.”

    “No,” croaked Iain. Nicked? They were more than nicked, he’d swear on his life! Smuggled—what did they call them? Conflict diamonds? Something like that. Smuggled out of Africa without De Beers ever getting a sniff of ’em. Oh, God, oh, God.

    “Wait a bit and one of his mates’ll turn up at dead of night to take them off your hands,” she warned with a sniff.

    “A mate with a Beretta in his hand, this’d be,” he croaked.

    “Yeah, or an Uzi under his arm,” replied the old dame, cool as you please. “I’d get rid of them, pronto.”

    “Yeah, um, the safest thing’d be to put them back and pretend I never found them,” he croaked.

    “They wouldn’t believe you, so what’d be the point?”

    “No, then I’d say they’re free to look everywhere and I think there’s a secret drawer in the desk but I don’t know the trick of it, and then I’d fiddle round and accidentally open it.”

    “Might work. Go on, have go,” she said, closing the drawer again.

    Iain had a go. After three goes he’d got the trick of the bloody thing. Push in and slide just slightly to the left, then the drawer front could be slid to the right.

    “Yeah, well, up to you,” said the old dame, going.

    Iain just sat there feebly on Rudi’s almost genuine Persian rug—genuine Persian but no provenance whatsoever—sweating.

    Ten days down the track they were just about packed and ready to leave and it had dawned that possibly the Russian mafia didn’t know that Rudi had had the bloody diamonds. Um, hand them in to the cops, say he’d only just found them? What if they claimed Mummy must have known about them? Didn’t bear thinking about, really. Added to which there was the possibility that she had known and that was why she’d mentioned the secret drawer: she’d be more than capable of it, she never had been up for anything that could possibly leave little Ellie in the poo if there was an alternative... Um, leave them there for some lucky chap to find years and years in the future? But the desk was worth almost nothing, what was the betting it’d end up as firewood? What a Helluva waste! No, well, if anyone was gonna have the profit from them why shouldn’t it be Mummy? But who did he, little Iain, know that might be willing to accept a load of contraband diamonds for a very low price? Well, relatively low...

    “Skin-Flint McMurtrey,” said Iain under his breath. “By God. I bet he would!”

    They were planning to head for England in any case, to deliver Aunty Meggie’s writing desk and say goodbye. And incidentally to award Aunty Meggie Rudi’s bloody second car, the one that he hadn’t written off. Quite a pleasant little Renault—the one he’d crashed had been his big Merc. Mummy wasn’t too keen on driving all that way with little Iain, so he’d been mulling over the advisability of getting her on a plane—well, yes, if Aunty Meggie would meet it, why not? Yeah, pop her on a plane, then if he did get caught smuggling diamonds through the Channel Tunnel—oh, lawks. Not very responsible, Ross! Not when he had Mummy on his hands. Fuck. Um, well, ring Skin-Flint, get him over here— Ah, hah! Ring Skin-Flint, ask him to pick up Purple Portia and bring her over here! Make sure he realised that he had to come in person, though, otherwise he’d send Jim.

    All right, bugger it! He’d give it a go!

    The subsequent conversation didn’t quite go as little Iain had planned it. He started off good. “Hullo, Mr McMurtrey, this is Iain Ross—”

    “Ullo, Captain, thought you might be turning up like a bad penny. Sorry to ’ear about your stepdad—bad luck for your poor mum, eh? If it’s the car wot ’e crashed, not interested, ta all the same, not unless she’s something pretty tasty.”

    “Uh—” Jesus God, was he actually in with the Russians? How the Hell could he have heard? “No, just a Merc. Well, recent model, nice enough but nothing special.”

    He sniffed. “All the Russkies like Mercs, don’t ask me why. Got rid of the Ferrari, then, did ’e?”

    “Y—uh, he must have, there was only a very ordinary little Renault in the garage over here.” Ferrari? What bloody F— Oh, don’t ask!

    “You still in France, then?”

    “Yes, but we've sold the cottage, just about to clear out. Look, I was wondering if you could possibly collect Purple Portia and bring her over here? In the next couple of days, I thought.”

    Sniff. “That urgent, is it, Captain? I might manage it, yeah. Nuffink Jim could ’andle for me, is it?”

    “Not really, no,” said Iain on a weak note.

    “Righty-ho. Might see yer day after termorrer, then. Car at yer aunty’s place, is it? Better gimme the address.”

    Feebly Iain gave him the address. He was about to give him the address of the cottage over here but Skin-Flint said briskly: “I know. Not a bad spot—cold winters, though. Prefer the South of France meself. ’Ere—want me to bring a trailer?”

    “Uh—no, thanks,” said Iain very feebly indeed. “Thanks, Mr McMurtrey.”

    “Anyfink for you, Captain,” the blighter replied with huge irony. “See ya!”

    He turned up, all right. There was a knock at the door the day after Iain had got his mother safely on the plane and there he was, large as life and lugubrious as ever.

    “’Ullo, Captain. I’ve brung the car for yer. Wanna come out to the gate and give her the once-over?” he said giving him, or Iain Ross was a Dutchman in his clogs, a very meaning look.

    “Uh—yes. Thanks, Mr McMurtrey.” Iain grabbed a coat off the hall stand that neither Mme Mercier nor Jeanne Dupont had offered to give house-room and went out. “Purple Portia’s looking good,” he said as they reached her.

    Skin-Flint raised the bonnet. “Phone bugged, is it?” he said, sucking his teeth.

    Taking a deep breath, Iain replied grimly: “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

    “Yeah. You looked for bugs in the house?”

    “No. I think if there were any we’d have had uninvited visitors long since.”

    He sniffed. “Still, better safe than sorry. Go on, what is it? And it better be worth me while, or you can pay for me time bringing ’er over for yer.”

    “I think it may be worth your while. It’s a cache of uncut diamonds.”

    “’Ow big?” he said unemotionally.

    “Ranging in size,” replied Iain on an annoyed note, “from something that’d fit an average engagement ring to several about the size of a cherry.”

    “Could be worth me while, then,” he said, unmoved. “No idea where they came from, I s’pose?”

    “Angola, just as a guess?” replied Iain coldly.

    “’E wasn’t into that,” the old bastard replied immediately, closing the bonnet.

    “No? He must have been into receiving them, though!”

    “I’d keep me voice down, if I was you. Any of your neighbours speak English?”

    “Uh—yeah. That lot. They were here for Christmas and they’ve been hanging on ever since. I admit he’s retired, and I also admit we’ve sold the cottage to some mates of theirs—”

    “They’ll be tearing up the floorboards, then,” he predicted unemotionally.

    “Uh—no, not that sort. Horribly proper,” said Iain limply.

    “Just as well. They’ll of hung on for the show, then. Seen anything of a bloke called Charlot, ’ave yer?”

    Iain just about managed to reply “Why?” to this one without choking. Just about.

    “’Eard he was on a run up to the Baltic, thought ’e might pop in to see if yer stepdad needed—“

    “Yes! All right, you know the lot!”

    “—To or from, as the case might be,” finished Skin-Flint, unmoved. “Come on, then, you can show ’em to me, but can the chat, eh?”

    Taking a very deep breath, Iain led the way indoors.

    The study curtains had to be drawn, of course. Then the blighter let him open the secret drawer and, cool as you please, produced a jeweller’s loupe from his pocket! After quite a long time peering he uttered: “Yeah.”

    “Fifty thousand, I thought,” said Iain on an airy note.

    “You’ll be lucky! Whatcha think this is, the retail trade?”

    “All right, how much?”

    Skin-Flint sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Now, I’m not saying as they aren’t worth somethink, in the right ’ands, so ter speak.”—Oh, boy, here it came.—“But seeing as they aren’t no use to yer if yer can’t find no-one to take ’em orf yer, I’ll make you a very fair offer, Captain. You let me ’ave this little lot—I’m taking a risk, mind—and I’ll arrange to get Purple Portia sent out to you in Australia. Do all the paperwork for yer an’ all: yer won’t ’ave to do a thing! Ow’s that?”

    Iain opened his mouth angrily to shout at the bugger. Then he closed it again. Then he said slowly: “You’ll pay all the freight costs?”

    “You got it, Captain.”

    Presumably this meant he’d get a mate of a mate to get her on board some tramp freighter that was eventually bound for Australia by way of the rest of the world. Iain knew for a fact that an old Army mate of Jim’s was now serving as radio officer’s assistant cum general hand aboard a container ship whose entire crew consisted of a number of persons that could be counted on the fingers of one hand, plus the captain, plus his computer that ran the ship.

    “Australia’s a very big place. Let’s say you pay all the freight costs as far as the wharf in Sydney, okay?”

    “Far as the bonded ware’ouse—right you are!” he agreed insouciantly.

    “There is more than one port,” said Iain through his teeth. ‘”And at least one of them is two thousand miles from Sydney. As far as the bonded warehouse in Sydney, thanks.”

    “That’s what I meant,” he replied, unmoved. “All the freight costs far as the bonded ware’ouse in Sydney, plus do all the paperwork this end for yer.”

    “Plus get her out there before the end of the year?”

    “Yeah, sure,” he said easily.

    Uh—possibly there was a catch, but Iain couldn’t see one. Well, yeah, the obvious one was that Skin-Flint must have realised he wasn't intending to return to England in the next few years, but— Oh, what the Hell! He was right, of course: there was no way Iain could find anyone else to get rid of the bloody things to, and if he didn’t accept the offer he’d have to ask Mummy for the money if he ever wanted to see Purple Portia again!

    “Very well, Mr McMurtrey: done,” he said, holding out his hand.

    Solemnly the old bastard shook, agreeing: “Done.” He then produced a grimy handkerchief, shovelled the diamonds into it, and shoved the bundle in his trouser pocket, but frankly by now Iain wasn’t expecting anything else. Or put it like this: his bet would have been either that, Hatton Garden was clearly his spiritual home, or a combination-locked titanium briefcase.

    “Oh, there is one more condition, by the way: you drive the Renault back to England while I drive Purple Portia.”

    “That’s not a condition, Captain, that’s more like a huge relief,” he returned sardonically.

    “Hah, hah,” said Iain weakly. It was lunchtime and even though he was being rooked, he felt he owed the old devil something. Well, he had come all this way on just his say-so. “Fancy some lunch?” he said, showing him out to the passage.

    “Ta, Captain, don’t mind if I do.”

    “Through here. There is just one snag,” said Iain on a weak note as Mr McMurtrey looked round the denuded kitchen, which now featured the stove—the Whosises were expecting to find a stove, otherwise Mme Mercier would kindly have taken it off his hands—a small wooden table, two mismatched wooden chairs, a wobbly stool, and one coffee-pot. There was still a small amount of cutlery and crockery but these were not immediately visible. Rudi’s very decent fridge had gone, surprisingly enough not to the Merciers but to a close friend, actually Iain had an idea he was a second cousin on the old boy’s side, who had given him a very fair price for it, considering that it was at least five years old, unquote.

    “That’d be you can cook as good as Jim, would it? Bread and cheese’ll do me, Captain,” McMurtrey replied kindly.

    “No, um, I’ve accepted a neighbour’s kind invitation to go over there. You’ll be very welcome—in fact if you don’t come she’ll kill me if she finds out you were here—but, um, it’ll be French peasant food, I’m afraid. She was threatening fried—” Blast! He’d forgotten the English word! “Um, blood sausage? Boudin. –Black pudding, that’s it! Black pudding with stewed apple,” he ended feebly.

    “Boudang oh poms?” replied Skin-Flint in execrable French. “Suits me. ’Ad that in Paris a few times, and there’s a little dump in Calais what does it real good, too. Funny ’ow it takes the Frogs to do a good black pudding these days, eh? The English seem to of lost the art,” he said sadly, shaking his head.

    “Yuh—um, yes. Around about the time fish fingers and frozen peas became the staple diet, I’d say. Well, great, if you can stomach it!”

    He could stomach it, so Iain opened the back door for him, and they went. Skin-Flint had very little French and the old Merciers of course had almost no English but funnily enough Iain hardly had to translate at all. Blood-brothers—too right. The fact that Skin-Flint obviously genuinely enjoyed the boudang oh poms helped, true. Old Mercier actually produced a glass of marc each to end the meal: it was the highlight of the last two months, really. Well, that and the relief of realising that those bloody diamonds were safely in McMurtrey’s pocket and there was no way they could ever be linked to little Iain.

    “Santé,” he agreed to old M. Mercier’s toast. “Et merci pour tout!”

    They were sitting on Rudi’s good kitchen chairs and had just eaten off Mummy’s everyday dining set and the boudin had been cooked—experimentally, but nevertheless—in a very nice flameproof ceramic skillet that had once belonged to Rudi, but judging by the old Merciers’ gratified beams they were in no doubt that Iain meant every syllable of it. Which he did, ’smatter of fact.

    … “Il les a pris, hein?” croaked the old girl as they all waved Skin-Flint on his way—not directly back to England, no: he thought he might just do an errand or two on the Continong, exact locations unspecified.

    “C’est ça,” admitted Iain.

    She sniffed. “Bên alors, il va en Hollande, sans doute.”

    It wasn’t a question, but Iain agreed very weakly indeed: “Oui, sans doute, madame.”

Next chapter:

https://temps-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/poissons-davril.html