Rabbit's Friends and Relations

20

Rabbit’s Friends And Relations

    “Don’t cry, Mum: there isn’t anything to cry about.”

    Maureen sniffed and gulped. “No.”

    “I thought you’d be pleased,” said Polly, not at all sure that she had thought so.

    “I am,” said Maureen. She blew her nose loudly.

    There was a short pause.

    “Um, he didn’t have anything to do with that murder, you know.”

    “That’s what your Aunty Kay reckons,” agreed Maureen, sniffling a bit,

    “Oh,” said Polly weakly. Her mother didn’t reply, so she added awkwardly: “Um, we thought we’d come down next weekend, if Jake can manage it: would that be all right?”

    “Yes,” said Maureen, sniffing. “Does he like trifle, too?”

    Polly’s jaw sagged slightly but she managed to reply weakly: “Yes; well, I think so. He eats most things. Mum, are you okay?”

    “Yes,” said Maureen.

    Polly swallowed. “Is Dad there?”

    “No, him and Vic are rounding up that mob from the boundary. –Polly, are you sure?” she said in a trembling voice.

    Polly didn’t know whether to reply bracingly “Sure about marrying Jake, or sure he didn’t bump off Don Banks?” or not; so she didn’t. “Sure about what, Mum?”

    “About marrying this man,” said Maureen,

    Going very red, her daughter replied gruffly: “Yes. I do love him, Mum.”

    “Good,” said Maureen, still sounding teary

    “We thought we’d get married some time in March.”

    “March?” repeated Maureen faintly.

    “Jake doesn’t want to wait. Well, nor do I.”

    “Um—no.”

    “I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re thinking!” said Polly loudly.

    “No,” replied her mother, swallowing.

    “We can talk about it when we come down,” said Polly uneasily. “The wedding arrangements, I mean.”

    “Yes. All right, dear.”

    Polly waited but she didn’t add anything. “I’m not sure if Jake will be able to get away this weekend, he might be tied up with business,” she said rapidly. “I’ll ring you again later on, okay?”

    “Yes. Um, you’re not still at Vi’s, are you, Polly?”

    “No: why?” replied Polly in surprise.

    “I rang you up last night but that machine—”

    “Oh! No, I’m at the penthouse.”

    “What?” said Maureen faintly.

    “You know,” said Polly, going very red again. “Jake’s penthouse. In town. On top of the Carrano Building.”

    “Oh,” said her mother in a bewildered voice,

    “It’s a flat: it belongs to the Group.”

    “Oh.”

    “I’ll give you the number; write it down, Mum.”

    “Okay, dear,” said Maureen obediently.

    Polly gave her the number; she wrote it down.

    “Are you happy, Polly?” she said in a trembling voice,

    “Yes; very,” replied Polly.

    Maureen could hear she was smiling. “Oh—good!” she said in relief.

    “Aren’t engaged girls usually happy?” asked Polly with a little laugh.

    “Um, yes,” admitted Maureen.

    “Well, there you are! Um, will you tell Aunty Kay?”

    Maureen put her hanky away. “Yes. What about Vi?”

    “I’d better do her.”

    “Yes. Um, don’t take any notice of her, Polly. She doesn’t know anything about—you know. Men,” said Maureen in a strangled voice.

    “I know. Don’t worry, I’ll ignore every word she utters!”

    “Righto, dear. Had you thought about the cake?”

    Gulping, Polly said: “We’ll talk about it when we come down, okay?”

    “Ye-es... Two tiers is nice, I always think: not overdone. I’ve got all those almonds left over from Christmas, too: isn’t that lucky?”

    “Yes. Um, I’d better go, Mum, I’ve got to ring up loads of people this morning.”

    “Yes: righto, dear!” said Maureen.

    She sounded quite bright and cheerful, now. Polly wasn’t altogether sure that that was a good sign: it might be some sort of overreaction, or something. However, she was pretty sure that the first thing she’d do after hanging up would be to ring Marilyn, so that’d be okay: Marilyn’d come over and calm her down. “Bye-bye, then,” she said.

    “Bye-bye, Polly dear!” said Maureen brightly.

    Polly hung up uneasily.

    “What?” she said numbly.

    Miss Macdonald replied in a snappy voice: “Don’t say ‘what’, Polly, it isn’t nice! –I said, so he has seen sense, after all!”

    “What do you mean, ‘after all’?”

    Violet gave a slight sniff.

    “What?” demanded Polly suspiciously.

    “Nothing.”

    “Aunty Vi,” said Polly in a voice that shook slightly, “have you— What have you done?”

    Crossly her aunt replied: “If you must know, I rang Jacob up and gave him a good talking-to!”

    “What?” she croaked.

    Sniffing again, Miss Macdonald snapped: “I have known him for years, you know! And I suppose a cat can look at a king!”

    Of course she was sounding so crabby because she was guilty about what she’d done. “What did you say to him?” she demanded grimly,

    “I only— Well, I just thought it was about time someone brought him to his senses, that’s all!”

    “Aunty Vi,” said Polly in a choked voice: “if you told Jake that—that he had to marry me because he’d—he’d compromised me, or some such nonsense—”

    “Rubbish!” she cried,

    “Well, what did you say?”

    “I merely told him that he was making mountains out of molehills and that it was about time he pulled himself together and—and asked himself what he really wanted!” retorted Miss Macdonald, fierce but somewhat obscure.

    “Stop talking in clichés,” said Polly tiredly.

    “Polly!” she cried.

    “I’m an adult, Aunty Vi,” said Polly in a leaden voice. “If you’ve filled Jake full of a load of rubbish and made him propose to me when he never really meant to—”

    “Nonsense!” she cried. Her niece didn’t respond so she elaborated uneasily: “Of course he wanted to, Polly. He just wasn’t sure that you wanted to marry him!”

    “Of course I— Are you making this up?”

    “No!” cried the old lady in genuine indignation. “You admitted to me that you never gave the slightest indication that you did want to marry the poor man! Not to mention going out with other men and accepting all sorts of suggestive presents from them!”

    Uh—had she admitted that? Sighing, she said: “If you’re on about that nightie that Leo gave me, I gave it to Janet: she thinks it’s pretty, and I don’t like nylon next to my skin. –And in any case,” she finished loudly, “Jake hasn’t set eyes on it!”

    Sniffing slightly, Miss Macdonald retorted: “That’s as may be!”

    “Don’t let’s argue about it,” she said tiredly.

    There was a pause. Then Miss Macdonald said in a voice that wasn’t her usual martial snap but was suddenly a wavery old lady’s voice: “He really does love you, dear: he does want to marry you.”

    Polly’s eyes filled with tears. “Are you sure, Aunty Vi?” she whispered,

    “Yes. A man doesn’t commit himself to something like that unless— Well, does he?”

    “No, I s’pose not. He can be pretty pig-headed, though.”

    Miss Macdonald sighed. He wasn’t the only one. “I’m quite sure he wants to marry you, Polly: he’s been very unhappy.”

    “Mm.”

    After a moment Miss Macdonald said uncertainly: “Are you all right, dear?”

    “Yes,” said Polly, sniffling a bit.

    “Good!” she said briskly. “Well, I think you’d better bring him round tomorrow for afternoon tea!”

    “Um, ye-es. Well, we did think of driving down to the farm tomorrow afternoon—but I suppose we could manage it.”

    Miss Macdonald pointed out briskly that it was on their way.

    “Well, I’ll ask Jake. Um, don’t make that chocolate cake of yours, will you?” she croaked.

    “I thought you liked it!” she cried.

    “I do, only it’ll remind Jake of when he was married to Esmé. You always used to make it. I mean, he likes it, he said it was a wonderful cake, only—”

    “All right, Polly dear, I’ll make that nice orange cake, shall I?”

    “Yes; that’s lovely,” said Polly in relief.

    Miss Macdonald then ascertained very rapidly and with evident satisfaction that she hadn’t rung any of her other aunties yet, bade her a brisk good-bye, and rang off.

    “Help,” said Polly, sagging—as much as was physically possible—in a hideous aqua armchair that had never been designed with the human form in mind.

    “Oh, hi: so you’re back?” she said in surprise to the voice that answered Jill’s phone.

    Agreeing she was back, and explaining that Gerhard and Putzi had gone home, Gretchen said she’d fetch Jill. She didn’t, Polly noticed in some amusement, ask her if there was anything wrong, or anything like that.

    “This had better be important, Mitchell, I was balanced on one leg on a ladder hanging wallpaper on the bedroom ceiling,” said Jill’s voice threateningly.

    “So that’s how you spend your holidays! Madeleine’ll be thrilled to hear that, Jill!”

    “If you’ve only rung up to spy for La Defarge—”

    “No, you idiot! I wanted to tell you the good news!”

    Jill swallowed hard. “What?” she croaked.

    Gretchen came up beside her and hissed: “Vhat iss it?”

    “Ssh! –WHAT?” she bellowed.

    “I said, Jake and I are engaged,” repeated Polly with a gurgle of laughter in her voice,

    “Since when?” said Jill feebly.

    “Um—last night, I suppose.”

    “Oh. Well, congratulations, and all that,” said Jill weakly.

    “Thanks!” said Polly with a laugh.

    “She hass not— Vhat hass she done?” hissed Gretchen,

    “Hang on, Polly,” said Jill.

    Polly heard her say in a grim voice: “Got herself engaged to the mad macho millionaire.” Gretchen’s voice replied: “Mein Gott!”

    “I’m glad you’re both so pleased,” she said.

    “Yes.—Look, shut up, Gretchen!—I suppose we are pleased. Provided you know your own mind, this time.”

    “What do you mean, ‘this time’?” responded Polly cautiously.

    Jill took a deep breath. “Doc-tor Man-fred.”

    “Aw—him!” said Polly scornfully.

    Jill rolled her eyes madly at Gretchen. Gretchen shrugged hugely and rolled her eyes back,

    “I suppose I was mad about him at one stage,” admitted Polly.

    “You could say that,” said Jill weakly. “About eighteen months back, by my reckoning.”

    “That was before I met Jake.”

    “Ya don’t say.”

    After a moment Polly said with a gurgle in her voice: “I admit biological imperatives probably come into it somewhere!”

    “Probably?” cried Jill.

    “We can’t all be made of stone.”

    “Thanks. Well, anyway, we do congratulate the pair of you,” she said weakly. Gretchen was glaring at her. “What?” she hissed.

    “I should congratulate her myself!” she hissed back. More “congradulate”, really. Shrugging, Jill handed her the receiver.

    “This iss Gretchen, here. Congradulations, Polly,” she said politely.

    Jill wouldn’t have taken a bet that that wasn’t a stunned silence emanating from the other end of the phone. Then it finally crackled in response.

    “Not at all. So vhen iss it to be?” she said politely.

    “The Bonn good manners thing—and I thought it was only ruddy Gerhard!” muttered Jill madly, clutching at her short fawn locks.

    “Oh, dear: the second veek in March? I’m afraid I haff German Camp that week,” said Gretchen politely.

    “Lucky swine,” muttered Jill.

    “Off course, Polly; and please give my congradulations to Jake,” she said politely. “Here iss Jill.”

    Jill grabbed the receiver. “The second week in March? Term will’ve started!”

    “Yes, but too bad. We thought we’d better give the relatives that much notice, you see. You’re invited: you can buy yourself a flowery hat and put Madame Defarge’s nose well and truly out of joint!”

    Reflecting that the nose bit was certainly accurate, though the flowery hat bit would be over her dead body, Jill agreed limply: “Yeah. Well, thanks for letting me know.”

    “That’s okay. –Thanks for everything, Jill,” said Polly in a shy voice.

    “Don’t mensh,” she said feebly, trying not to wonder if the mad macho millionaire had actually, in the excitement of getting to the point, remembered that a chap had been bumped off on his patio and they still didn’t know who dunnit. She didn’t have to wonder if Mitchell had remembered, she was bloody sure she hadn’t.

    “Um, there is something else. Um, nobody knows except Jake.”

    God; now what? Preggers? She made a ferocious face at Gretchen, who was hissing something about the wallpaper paste drying out, and said: “Go on.”

    “Um, it was Leo. Um, well, he attacked me.”

    Jill listened numbly as she stumbled through it, too stunned even to holler “WHAT?” Her face must have conveyed what she was feeling because Gretchen gave up on the Bonn manners thing and came and put her ear next to the receiver.

    “Shit,” Jill concluded numbly.

    “Ja,” Gretchen agreed. “You had better sit down.”

    There was nowhere to sit, the phone on its short EnZed cord being handily placed in Jill’s strangely-shaped lobby, originally the landing, so, letting Gretchen wrench the receiver off her, she sank down onto the floor.

    “Jill iss very shogged,” the Aryan idiot informed Polly. “Ja, don’t worry, I look after her. I hope Jake rings the police? …Ja, good, that’s for the best. No-one vill miss him. And Roger vill be able to take the Third-Years for Sartre and Camus, that vill be good all round.”

    While Jill was still just goggling weakly at her she made sure that Polly was quite all right and hadn’t suffered any ill-effects—the vocabulary was as good as ruddy Gerhard’s, even if she had no ear for furrin languages—congratulated her on the engagement again, and rang off.

    “Jake hass given Leo the option off being prosecuted or getting out off the country,” she reported. “No doubt he vill go to his unfortunate relatives in France. Personally I would prefer to see him go to gaol. But at least it vill spare his parents the shame and humiliation.”

    “Uh—right. Um, Gretchen,” she said feebly, “did you get any idea of—of whether it would actually have got as far as rape?”

    “Vhen a man throws a girl to the floor and ignores her shrieks of No, I am very sure it would haff got ass far ass rape. Besides, Leo Schmidt iss the sort off man who hass no respect for women and iss incapable of empathy with any other person.”

    Jill swallowed. “Yeah. –My God, what did she do?” she muttered.

    “Merely, she turned him down. Wounded pride. –Do not say you should haff seen it coming,” she warned.

    Jill bit her lip.

    “No-one could predict that sort off thing,” said Gretchen severely, “because it iss not something that normal people, those who are not unbalanced, do!”

    “Er, yeah. Well, unbalanced on top of twenty years of soaking up the vodka—yeah.”

    “It sounds ass if Jake hit him very hard; I vish I’d seen it,” she said on a wistful note.

    Jill gave a shaky laugh. “Me, too!”

    “I’ll make us a nice cuppa, okay? Come and sit down.”

    Limply Jill tottered into her hot sitting-room and sat down.

    The tea revived her to the point where she was able to croak: “Have you really got German Camp that week?”

    “Ja; but I assure you, if I do not, I find some other excuse just as good!”

    Jill saw no reason to doubt her word. None at all.

    Gretchen looked at her uncertainly. “This iss not the worst outcome ve might haff expected?” she ventured.

    “What? Oh! The engagement, not bloody Leo! Well, no, I suppose there are worse candidates she might have got herself engaged to.”

    “Ja. Either Roger Browne or Mike Collingwood would be disastrous.”

    “Yeah. –What in God’s name made Carrano change his mad macho mind?”

    “I think,” she said simply, “that he must haff missed her very much and realized how much he loves her.”

    It was as good an explanation as any. Jill smiled limply. “Yeah.”

    “So all’s vell that ends vell,” she said placidly.

    “Gretchen, you Aryan clot, what about the ruddy murder?”

    “Ah—ja. Gerhard and Putzi and I discussed that. Let us consider the facts.”

    Oh, Jesus, she’d gone into her Aryan analysis bit! “Go on,” groaned Jill.

    “There iss clearly no evidence against any off the people who knew Banks would be at the house that evening, or they would haff been arrested by now. One would like to think that the Jablonski woman did it, but although it’s not impossible, it seems highly unlikely, vhen Banks vas about to pay her a very large sum off money.”

    “If she’s as barmy as they claim, logic won’t come into it; but go on,” she sighed.

    “The likeliest scenario iss that it vas someone attempting to burgle the house. No doubt he thought that no-one vas home—very possibly he had seen Jake drive avay—and it vas pure bad luck that he stumbled across Mr Banks on the patio.”

    There had been no suggestion—not the slightest—in the ruddy EnZed media of a burglary gone wrong. “Uh—but why didn’t he go ahead and burgle the house?”

    “He hears Mrs Jablonski banging at the front door, panics, and runs avay.”

    By God! Jill stared at her numbly.

    “Simple, no?”

    Er… this could just be a manifestation of the Aryan passion for Ordnung. Especially if the three of them had worked it out together. “Mm.”

    “Do not brood on it. I dare say the cold policeman vill work it out in the end. Drink your tea. Then ve finish hanging your wallpaper, okay?”

    Numbly Jill drank her tea.

    “Mum’s gone into varsity,” said Barbara Michaels indifferently. “She’s doing that wardrobe garbage for that dumb play.”

    “Oh,” said Polly, disconcerted. She’d forgotten all about Angie’s involvement with the University Drama Club’s annual outdoor Shakespeare production. “So they’ve started rehearsals already?”

    “Started yonks back,” said Barbara indifferently. “Mum’ll be in that big room with the sewing moos.”

    Polly swallowed. She wasn’t too sure which of her parents Barbara had got that one off, but she wouldn’t have put it past Angie herself: Angie’s attitude to the sewing ladies that she was supervising (largely mums and hangers-on of the cast) was rather that of the slave-master to the galley slaves. Get as much work out of them as was humanly possible before they dropped. And no quarter.

    “Yes,” she said weakly. “Um, which play are they doing this year?”

    “Dunno. Mum said it’ll be rotten, she said I don’t have to go. –Dad’s in at work, too,” she volunteered. “He reckons he’s gonna introduce ole Mac to the concept of the body-mike this year if it kills him.”

    “Oh—yes, he’ll be doing the lighting and stuff for the play, won’t he? Um, yes, well, that Romeo and Juliet were pretty awful,” said Polly weakly.

    “Yeah. Dad reckoned you couldn’t hear a blind word they said past the first row of seats. C’n I take a message?”

    “Um, no thanks, Barbara, I’ll ring Angie later.”

    “She’ll be dead ratty when she gets back: she always is,” said Barbara cheerfully.

    “Yes. –Oh! How are you, Barbara?”

    “All right,” said Barbara in astonishment.

    “I meant, how are the measles?” said Polly weakly.

    “I’m not infectious any more!” replied Barbara quickly.

    “No,” said Polly limply, wondering why she sounded so urgent about it.

    “I’m only a bit spotty.”

    “I see. Well, I’m glad to hear you’re getting over them.”

    “Dad reckons I can’t go out on the boat until I’m better!” she burst out aggrievedly.

    Polly smiled. “I see. I think that’d be because of the sunburn, mostly, wouldn’t it?”

    Barbara betrayed no surprise that Polly Mitchell apparently knew all about her medical history; she only said glumly: “I’m peeling like billyo, he keeps calling me Stringy-Bark.”

    “I knew it was a mistake to let him go on that I triple-E conference to Oz last year!”

    “Yeah, well, at least he’s stopped singing Waltzing Matilda in the shower!”

     Polly gave an explosive giggle.

    “It wasn’t funny if ya hadda listen to it,” she reported mournfully. “Shall I just tell Mum you rung, then?”

    “Righto. Thanks, Barbara.”

    “See ya,” said  Barbara stolidly.

    Polly bade her good-bye and hung up, smiling a little. “There’s a whole big world out there that you wot not of,” she said to the awful aqua sofa. “—And strangely enough, it’s rolling along regardless!” she added with a laugh.

    “Who’s doing the catering?” said Gary with a laugh in his voice.

    “Gary! Really!” hissed Basil in the background.

    “I hadn’t thought about it,” she said vaguely.

    “Still in a state of shock?” he murmured, the laugh still there.

    Polly attempted to pull herself together. “Yes. Would you like to do it, Gary?”

    “Love to!” replied the Chez Basil’s chef eagerly.

    “Are you sure? I thought you and Baz’d rather just be guests.”

    “Sweet of you, Polly; but we could do with the business; help to pull us out of the red, y’know?”

    “Well, great, if you’d really like to. We haven’t arranged anything, yet. I’ll let you know.”

    “Sure!”

    Polly took a deep breath and said rapidly: “Gary, did you know Jack Banks has been hauled in for questioning by the police?”

    There was a nasty silence. “When?” he said at last in a tight, strained voice.

    “Some time yesterday. Jake’s got him Wal Briggs for his lawyer.”

    “I see.”

    “Wal thinks that they might arrest him if he doesn’t come up with an alibi for that Tuesday night; evidently he won’t say where he was.”

    There was a horrid pause. Then he said stiltedly: “Well—thanks for ringing, Polly.” Basil was squawking agitatedly in the background. “Baz wants to speak to you again,” he said tonelessly.

    “Darling!” Basil said breathlessly. “Anything we can do: advice on the dress, the flowers—anything! And don’t take any notice of Gary over the catering: he’s shameless about touting for business: shameless!”

    “Don’t be silly,” said Polly feebly. “Um, actually I’m not too sure I’ve got much of a say in it,” she admitted weakly, “but if I have, it’ll be you and Gary for the catering.”

    “Darling!” said Basil with a laugh in his voice. “Bliss for us! But are you coping okay?”

    “Um, more or less.”

    “They do say going public’s the hardest bit!” he said with a giggle.

    “Mm. I’m already beginning to feel irrelevant,” said Polly drily. “He’s got his secretary on the job sussing out Bride magazines and possible places for the reception and likely shops for the dress.”

    Basil of course had known Polly since they’d shared a flat when she was only seventeen. He swallowed. “I see. Polly, are you sure about marrying him—quite, quite sure?”

    “Yes, I’m sure about that. Not about the palaver, though. Um, well, the details of it scare me a bit—you know, being a rich businessman’s wife! But I’m fundamentally sure it’s right.”

    The restaurateur gave a little sigh. “Thanks all right, then,” he said simply.

    “Mm. Well—’bye for now, Baz.”

    “”Bye, darling—Oh, Gary wants to talk to you again; bye-ee!”

    “Polly?” Gary said. “Look, about that other matter.” Polly heard him swallow. “Who should I see?” be said weakly.

    “Wal Briggs. Hang on, Gary, I’ll give you the number.” She had it written down all ready for him: she read it out carefully. “Ring him and he’ll tell you what to do.”

    “Yes. Thanks,” he said painfully.

    “That’s all right. I’m sorry for the short notice about the catering; I will ring you about it.”

    “What? Oh,” he said limply. “Yeah, great. Thanks again, Polly.”

    “Bye-bye,” said Polly feebly. She hung up, and groaned. What a mess! Still, if it meant poor, silly Jack Banks did have an alibi...

    “You can pop off now,” said Jake kindly to his secretary. Smiling, pretty dark-haired Marianne rose gracefully, bade Polly “Good-bye for now”, and departed for the office.

    “We can pop into bed now,” said Jake kindly to his fiancée.

    Polly groaned. “You can: you’ll have to carry me, I’ve been ringing up Rabbit’s friends and relations all morning.”

    “Oh. Uh—rather have lunch first, then?”

    “I would, actually, yes.”

    “Is there anything?”

    “Yes: Marianne bought a whole lot of buns and cold chicken and stuff when she got the magazines. –She’s the most super-efficient person I ever met,” said Polly in a hollow voice. “How does she manage to be so nice with it?”

    “Dunno,” he said smugly. “Knew I was onto a good thing when I hired her, mind you. Only young, ya know, but topped her class at Secretarial School—”

    “Yes, I know. And at Charm School, it would appear,” she sighed.

    “Eh?”

    “Not literally, fool!” She fixed him with a hard eye. “She’s offered to nip out and buy me something to wear. During her lunch-hour,” she said pointedly.

    “Mm? Oh—good.” Jake headed for the kitchen.

    Polly followed him. “It probably had something to do with me still being in this dressing-gown when she turned up around eleven.”

    “Whaddaya need clothes for? I’m planning to keep you up here chained to the bed naked on a permanent basis: hasn’t that dawned?” he leered.

    “Hah, hah.”

    Jake said weakly: “Did you tell her about Leo?”

    “No. She’s got ‘nice girl’ written all over her, she wouldn’t have understood.”

    “It wasn’t your FAULT!” he shouted.

    Polly returned calmly: “No. But I wasn’t too sure she’d understand that. I just said I would like something fresh to put on.”

    He sagged. “Good.”

    “I’ve rung Aunty Vi,” she said, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

    He winced.

    “You might have said!”

    “I suppose you’re about to change your mind on the strength of it?” he said tightly.

    “I’m not that dumb! Cor, ya don’t think I’m gonna let a millionaire slip through—”

    “Shuddup,” he said, hugging her roughly.

    Polly suffered herself to be hugged roughly. “She is an interfering old bat, but she thought she was doing the right thing,” she said into his shoulder.

    “Well, wasn’t she?” the deluded man replied pleasedly.

    She returned in that thoughtful voice of hers with which he was all too familiar: “I suppose that remains to be seen.”

    Jake groaned. But he went on hugging her.

    By lunchtime both Marilyn and Vonnie had come over—Marilyn with Deirdre, and Vonnie with little Diana, of course—and they were all hard at it.

    Dave Mitchell came whistling into his kitchen and stopped short at finding no wife and no lunch.

    “What’s up?” said Vic from the back door.

    “Dunno. Only if you were thinking of having lunch at our place it looks as if ya better think again. MAUR’!” be bellowed.

    “Through he-ere, dear!” came a hoot in reply.

    Dave and Vic looked at each other, and shrugged. “Through there,” noted Dave.

    “Yeah.”

    They went through to the sitting-room.

    “Crikey,” said Dave weakly. His wife and his two daughters-in-law were bum-up on the carpet. Surrounded by yards and yards and yards of—uh—

    “Shit,” agreed Vic simply.

    “Don’t say that, dear, the children copy you,” said Marilyn, glancing up for a split second from the mess of white fluff on the sitting-room floor. “Look, this bit’s still good,” she said to Vonnie.

    “What is this?” said Dave weakly.

    “Don’t be silly, dear, it’s your mother’s wedding dress, of course,” said Maureen, not looking up.

    “The veil’s got so yellow,” lamented Marilyn.

    Dave opened his mouth to repeat his question but before he could, his elder granddaughter bellowed: “GRAMPA! I’m gonna be a BRI’MAID!”

    “Whose?” he said limply.

    “Only if she says you can, dear!” said Marilyn hurriedly.

    “Gramma said I could!” wailed Deirdre.

    “I’m sure she’ll want the little ones, at least,” murmured Maureen. “—I knew we should have used more mothballs: oh, dear, look at this!”

    “I think the skirt’s had it, really, Mum,” said Vonnie sadly.

    Maureen sighed. “Yes.”

    “Some of the lace is still good, though,” said Marilyn.

     Maureen brightened “Yes! We could unpick it—I know!” she cried. “We can use the lace for the christening dress!”

    Dave looked weakly at his son. Vic looked back weakly. Then they perceived that both Marilyn and Vonnie were now both looking a bit weak.

    “Marilyn, before we both go barmy, whose wedding is this?” said Vic loudly to his wife.

    Marilyn looked in an apologetic sort of way at Maureen.

    “Polly’s, of course, dear,” she said in an abstracted voice, holding up a piece of lace-trimmed satin. “This is beautiful: re-embroidered with seed-pearls—see?”

    “Look, just HANG ON!” bellowed Dave.

    They all looked up at him in surprise

    “Look, if me only daughter’s got herself engaged, I’d quite like to know who to!” he said loudly. “And if ’e’s got ’er up the duff, I’d quite like to know that, too,” he noted grimly.

    “No—” began Marilyn. At the same time Vonnie began: “It isn’t like—”

    They both broke off.

    “It’s Jake, of course, dear,” said Maureen placidly.

    Dave swallowed.

    “Well, she was pretty keen, back at Christmas,” allowed Vic.

    “You said he’d given ’er the push!” retorted his father angrily.

    “Well, she reckoned— Well, must all be on again, eh?” said Vic in a very cheerful voice.

    “It was only a lovers’ tiff!” said Maureen happily, beaming up at them.

    Dave took a deep breath.

    “Is she up the spout?” said Vic to his wife.

    “Of course not!” replied Marilyn huffily.

    Vonnie had been watching her father-in-law’s face. “She does love him, Dad,” she said nervously.

    “Yeah. Well, let’s hope so.”

    “David!” cried Maureen. “What’s that supposed to mean? Of course she loves him! She’s been in love with him for over a year, now!”

    “Mm. –Look,” he said in a weak voice: “are you absolutely sure this is right, Maur’? I mean, that they are engaged.”

    “Yes!” cried Maureen in astonishment. “She rang me up!”

    “It is true, Dad,” said Vonnie nervously. “She’s rung up Aunty Vi, as well.”

    “Must be true, then,” muttered Vic.

    Dave coughed. “Yeah. Uh—well, good show, eh?”

    “I’ll drink to that,” said his oldest son in a pointed voice.

    “Eh? Aw—yeah. Righto. You girls fancy a sherry?”

    After a slight contretemps, in the course of which Grandmother Mitchell’s silk orange-blossom headdress was removed forcibly from little Diana’s clutches and Diana burst into loud shrieks, they admitted they could fancy a sherry.

    “Go on,” said Vic, after Dave had poured for them all.

    “Eh? Aw. Yeah. Well, here’s to them.”

    Maureen raised her glass. “The happy couple!” she beamed.

    The rest of them said things like “Polly and Jake!” or “The happy couple!” and drank. In Vic’s case, eyeing his father nervously.

    “You’ll be letting Bert get his own lunch, will ya?” Vic then said pointedly to his sister-in-law.

    Vonnie gave a startled yelp of laughter. “I’d forgotten all about— Hang on, I’ll just give him a ring!” She scrambled up and rushed out.

    “Um, I’ll get the lunch, shall I, Mum?” said Marilyn in a weak voice.

    “What, dear? Oh, good Heavens, is that the ti—”

    “Good idea,” said Vic loudly. “I’ll give you a hand. –You stay there, Mum, and keep an eye on the kids.”

    Marilyn suffered herself to be propelled out to the kitchen.

    Vic shut the kitchen door behind them. “What about this flaming murder?” he snarled.

    Marilyn’s lips trembled. “Don’t start on that, Vic, it took Vonnie and me nearly an hour to get Mum calmed down once she—once she’d thought of it.”

    Vic had to swallow. “It wouldn’ta been the first thing that sprang to ’er mind, then?”

    Marilyn smiled a little. “Well, no.”

    “Grandma’s wedding dress woulda been in there with a chance,” he  noted. “It or the ruddy christening.”

    “Um—yes. Well, I suppose, when it’s your only daughter…”

    Vic sighed heavily. “Yeah. Well, wedding dresses and bloody christening gowns won’t be the first things that will’ve sprung to Dad’s mind, let me tell ya!”

    Marilyn gulped.

    Scowling, Vic marched over to the sink and glared out of the window. “Who the fuck can we ask?” he muttered at last.

    Marilyn gulped again. “Vonnie and me were wondering that... Aunty Vi seems to have gone as mad as Mum,” she reported weakly.

    “Yeah, well, she would, eh?”

    There was quite a long silence.

    Finally Marilyn opened the fridge and said weakly: “There’s stacks of cold meat.”

    “Good,” he said vaguely.

    Marilyn got the cold joint out.

    Vic scowled into the back garden. At last he said: “I’d better give Bob a ring.”

    “Ye-es... I should think Mum or Dad’ll do that, Vic.”

    “No, ya nana,” he said, scowling. “Get ruddy Mike Collingwood’s number out of him. Find out whether he thinks Jake Carrano bumped that joker off or not.”

    Marilyn swallowed.

    “Well, someone’s gotta do it, and I can’t see Dad— Or ruddy Bob, he’s his ruddy friend, but— Well, he’s always been worse than useless,” he said sourly.

    Marilyn swallowed again. “Surely Mike wouldn’t— I mean, if—if this man was a murderer he wouldn’t have let Polly get engaged to him, surely?” she quavered.

    Vic swung round and goggled at her.

    “Surely,” repeated Marilyn weakly. “I mean, he’s known her all her life...”

    Vic took a deep breath. “Yeah. And some woulda said, if he’da had the sense he was born with, it woulda been his engagement we were drinking to today!”

    “Jake Carrano must be all right, if Polly likes him,” said Marilyn faintly.

    “All RIGHT?” he shouted. “Was that ruddy Yank she was mixed up with for I dunno how long all RIGHT?”

    “Ssh! Um—no, but at least she never got engaged to him!”

    Vic sighed. “No. Nor she did.”

    Marilyn hesitated; then she said: “You probably won’t be able to get hold of Bob until tonight.”

    Bob was usually out and about during the day doing his Farm Advisor stuff. “No. All right, I’ll ring him then.”

    “Yes,” she said limply. “All right, dear.”

    By lunchtime Miss Macdonald had spoken to Maureen on the phone, and, having agreed that Maureen should let Kay know, after all Kay was her twin and Polly was her daughter, had beaten her to it with their other sisters, Miriam and Jan. Not to mention Mary Macdonald, who was married to their cousin Ian. And if dear Hamish was coming out from Scotland for that seminar in Canberra, he could pop over for the wedding! Hamish’s mother agreed limply that he probably could, and forbore to remind Vi of her once-upon-a-time hopes for Hamish and Polly.

    Miss Macdonald then rang round her sufficiently large circle of local acquaintances, inviting Miss Milsom to lunch on the strength of it, and then rang the dear Dean. The Dean was very sorry to have to tell her that there was a two year waiting list for the cathedral. But if they had it in an Anglican church it was just possible (very weakly), with the agreement of the local vicar, of course... Had the happy couple been confirmed? Miss Macdonald replied smartly that of course dear Polly had been confirmed, she herself had seen to that, omitting to add that Maureen had also had her initiated into the nearest Presbyterian congregation (about sixty miles from the farm) or that Polly hadn’t darkened a church door since, except when dragged. She would find out about dear Jacob, but as his first— Oh. The Dean expressed regrets, but he really couldn’t. Miss Macdonald rang off, considerably annoyed but not wholly deterred. There were many vicars around who were much more liberal-minded than the Dean and there were very many churches that were much, much prettier than the cathedral.

    Over lunch Miss Milsom managed to express her sorrow that the man was divorced, her sorrow that he was so much older than Polly, her reservations about a man of unknown mixed parentage, and her deep sympathy that there was no hope of the dear Dean’s marrying them in the cathedral. She didn’t mention the murder directly but by then she didn’t have to.

    Take it for all in all, Miss Macdonald, though she had stood her ground doggedly, was very glad to see the back of her and her ancient but extremely well-preserved Morris Minor. She went slowly up her front path, nipping off a couple of withered hibiscus blooms in passing.

    “Hullo, Miss Macdonald! Lovely day!” called a cheery voice.

    Violet jumped. Then she leapt upon the startled Mrs Thurston and, dragging her inside and foisting a cup of stewed tea upon her, told her all about it.

    Rather naturally Julie Thurston wasn’t totally averse to getting the inside gen on the private life of Jake Carrano, so Miss Macdonald had a willing audience for the better part of the afternoon. Eventually Mrs Thurston remembered guiltily that she had kids that ought to be collected from the Council’s Holiday Programme and rushed off to do so, by now bursting with the need to impart her news.

    The indefatigable old lady washed her dishes and then sat down at her writing desk and with the aid of her address book began drawing up three lists. For the kitchen evening, the engagement party proper, and the wedding reception.

    Janet had brought the boys up to the Fields’ farm for the day. This meant that Kay had a captive audience. Well, that was how Mirry put it to herself when she came in late for lunch and her mother broke the news.

    “I’m not gonna be a bridesmaid,” she warned.

    “I don’t expect she’ll ask you,” said Kay limply, the wind taken out of her sails.

    “Mirry! Aren’t you glad?” gasped Janet.

    Mirry eyed her sister’s red eyes sardonically. “Yeah, any minute now I’ll be breaking down and bawling, I’m so glad.”

    “Go and wash your hands before lunch!” snapped Kay.

    Mirry wandered over to the door. “I’d be gladder if someone had proved that Jake Carrano wasn’t a murderer,” she noted.

    “That’ll be ENOUGH!” shouted Kay.

    Mirry shrugged, and went out.

    Janet looked at her mother nervously.

    “You can take that look off your face: it wasn’t him!”

    “Mum, you can’t be sure,” she faltered.

    “Rubbish,” said Kay grimly. “Of course I can be sure. Isn’t there anyone with any common sense in this family except me?”

    Janet swallowed. “Aunty Vi s pleased,” she admitted.

    “There you are, then,” said Violet’s arch-enemy immediately.

    Janet swallowed again. “Yes.”