Back In The UK

24

Back In The UK

    “Well,” said Archie Foxe-Forsythe happily: “you’ll be able to make it to the Ashes after all, old boy!”

    “Archie,” replied Peter grimly, “what the Hell are you doing in London? It must be Palmyra Polynesia’s busy season: their American clients will be taking their long vac, for God’s sake!”

    “Well, yes, but Mrs L. said I could just nip over, sort out stuff, y’know.”

    “Sort out stuff while, coincidentally, the Ashes are on? Just from late July to mid-September?” he enquired arctically.

    “N— Uh— She doesn’t follow cricket, old boy.”

    “Archie, are you serious about Taggy, or NOT?”

    Archie winced. “No need to shout, Peter. No, I am—well, I thought just the first two Tests, eh? Only take… Well, not that long.”

    “Nineteen days,” said Peter arctically. “The best part of three weeks.”

    “N— Well, I dare say, you always did have a head for figures—no, but thing is, her mother says we can be engaged but she wouldn’t let her come with me!”

    “So you came anyway? What did Taggy say about that?”

    He looked sulky. “Said it wouldn’t be nice.”

    “Ni— Oh.” Peter smiled a little. “In the sense of nice people don’t do that sort of thing? Quite right.”

    “Very well, what would you have done in my shoes?” he demanded crossly.

    “Kissed the girl soundly, stayed right there, and sweet-talked her mum into letting us get married soonest, you birk!”

    “She’d see right through that.”

    “Archie, if you’re genuine about the girl there’s nothing to see through!”

    “I am, but Mrs T. says we have to wait.”

    “Right. Wait until you’ve proved that you can’t stick at anything. You’re well on your way to that, I’d say.”

    “I— No, but good grief! –For that matter, what are you doing here?”

    “What, in the club? Waiting for Lalla and Petey: they’ve gone to look at the Tower of London, though in Petey’s case I think it might be the ravens that are the attraction. I thought I’d better pop in and sort out a few things—bar bills and so forth, make sure they’ve got my forwarding address. Due to meet up for lunch.”

    “No, here! In the UK!” he said crossly.

    “It’s Petey’s mid-year hols, you idiot! I’ll make it to Lord’s for the First Test, but that’ll be it. Look, Archie, stay on for the first one, that’s reasonable, but then go back and ask—um, Mac’d be the best person, I think. Ask him about connecting to Sky Sports or whatever they have out there. If all else fails I’m sure there’ll be a radio report you can listen to: they do play cricket, you know.”

    “Not Test cricket, though. I mean, they haven’t got a Test team…”

    Peter sighed. “Archie, you’re a bloody idiot. Look, be sensible. Come back with us: we’re going via the States, for Petey to have a day at Disneyland, then hopping over to Honolulu, and then Rarotonga.”

    “That doesn’t sound too bad… No, you’re right, I shouldn’t have… Only it’s been months, old man! I mean, Jesus, to put it bluntly, talk about blue balls!”

    “Yeah. Well, it hasn’t been six months, yet.”

    “Bloody nearly!”

    Peter did the arithmetic. Oops. ‘”Mm, well, time flies when your new house, that you imagined was going to be a peaceful love-nest, is invaded by scores of decorators, cleaners, gardeners, unsolicited neighbours, and just general lame dogs that she will insist on helping over stiles.”

    Archie brightened visibly. “You asked for it! Um, well, yes, on second thoughts I will come back with you. But, um, what about my ticket? This nice little chappie in the airline office—”

    Peter let him get right through it and then said soothingly: “Don’t worry: John’s pet agent will sort all that out for you. Guaranteed. First-class all the way to— Uh, well, Honolulu, anyway. No extra charge.”

    “Really? Thanks awfully, old man! I say, do you think I’d better close my bank account? Dashed if I know how these things work. I mean, Mac was saying I’d lose on the deal, something about whacking off a fee, it’s not just that their dollars are worth less, or something… Only what if I want to pop something on something likely-looking on the Stock Exchange? Shouldn’t think they’d accept the local money, eh?”

    Peter resisted a strong urge to scream—or possibly tear his hair out, yes. “It would be sensible to keep some funds here—at least, who do you bank with, Archie?”

    “Northern Rock; y’see, this chappie…”

    Peter just waited until the involved explanation was over. “Mm. Look, I don’t want to be alarmist, but Vibart’s are damned uneasy about the banking sector here, especially some of the smaller lending institutions that seem to be going it a bit. Aping the Yanks; and according to our analysts the U.S. banking system is riding for a fall. Um, unregulated lending, you see. Well, to put it simply, if some of the biggest institutions over there are letting thousands of people who can’t afford to repay take out mortgages, and—uh—let’s just say, treating these as assets, which other idiots are also taking as such,”—he’d visibly lost him—“they’re creating a huge bubble. Their, um, their bloody assets aren’t assets, and if this goes on they’re heading for a crash.”

    “Ye-es… The market’s pretty buoyant at the moment, though, isn’t it, Peter?”

    “If we’re talking about the New York Stock Exchange, yes, because Wall Street is full of stupid kids gambling with not only their investors’ money but also with huge sums of virtual money”—avoiding the expression “hedge funds”—“that don’t exist!”

    “But, um, I mean, my chappie told me that Northern Rock’s only small potatoes.”

    “That makes it more vulnerable, not less, if there’s a crash. Vibart’s analysts don’t think it’ll come tomorrow, but it will come. Before the end of this decade, they think. Unless things change drastically in the U.S. and the morons who think it’s cool to follow their example stop their bloody gambling.”

    “Damn. So you think I should close my account? Um, well, who do you bank with?”

    “I have a chequing account with Barclays,” said Peter on a temperate note. “I don’t say they’re immune, but they’re reasonably sound. Um—well, Lalla and I also have accounts in Australia, now. Their system is much more tightly regulated than ours—and certainly than the U.S.’s. You might do well to shift your account to one of their big banks. They’re much of a muchness. Well, if one raises its lending rate half a percent, next day the rest follow suit, kind of thing.”

    Archie’s brow was seen to wrinkle. “Ye-es… Wouldn’t they attract more custom if they put it down, though?”

    “One would think so, yes,” said Peter drily. “This is banking in a tightly regulated, homogeneous system where the so-called Big Four are in cahoots: it ain’t gonna happen.”

    “Oh, right. So, um, does Vibart’s think the Aussie banks are okay?”

    “Very much okay at the moment, yes.” He looked at his face and said kindly: “We’re with the ANZ, Archie, because there’s still a small branch in our local shopping mall, though the word is they and their brother banks have closed down innumerable local branches all over the country—cheaper to go electronic, you see, regardless of old Mrs A and old Mr B who’d like to withdraw a little bit of their pension payments to buy milk and bread. They’re no better or worse than the others. The ANZ does operate in the Cooks: we checked it out, been there since the late 1980s. I think it’d be the best bet for you, if you wanted to shift. Er, that is, you’d do your everyday transactions in Rarotonga, but you’d be banking with the Aussie bank, old man, not a local institution.”

    “Right. Oh—see what y’mean, eh? Yes, not much money floating around in the Cooks: I must say I was surprised to see how small the place is. No, well, that sounds the way to go, Peter. Say I leave a bit with Barclays, and transfer a bit to Rarotonga, then Mac could put my pay into that, couldn’t he?”

    “Yes, certainly.” A horrible suspicion was beginning to raise its head. Peter swallowed. “Archie, old man, have you got most of your worldly goods in the bank?”

    “Oh, well, got a few shares, y’know, nothing much. Usually have a bit of a flutter, then pull out and pop the proceeds into… Oh. Not the right move?”

    Peter sighed. “Well, if the banks crash the bottom’ll fall out of the markets, but as a general rule, it’s not a good idea to leave your money in a retail bank—um, you know: standard high street bank—because you don’t get much interest.”

    “No. Well, there’s a very decent trainer chap I know: flat-racing nags; he’s keen for me to— No?”

    “No. Not unless he’s rock-solid and is only looking to expand a very flourishing business!”

    “Um, well, had one or two winners, in a small way, y’know… No. Okay. Um, Crowsnest, then?” he ventured.

    Peter gulped. From the ridiculous to the sublime? “Paul Warden’s place? Well, he’s not huge but as far as I know he’s certainly solid. And he’s a by-word for probity. Michael Stuart’s got a couple of horses with him.”

    “Oh, yes? Oh, yes: fellow that’s into trucking and stuff. Got stuck behind one of their big lorries—when was it? Well, while back, I suppose. Went down to Spain, y’see, drove back through France, then got stuck in this damned queue—well, I mean, it wasn’t the queue, because they siphon off the lorries, don’t they? But it wasn’t going anywhere for a while, I can tell you! So after a bit this lorry-driver chappie, you see, he pops out of his cab and asks me if I’ve got a fag—well, gave them up years back, of course, but as it happened—”

    At this juncture Peter waved desperately for the club’s waiter and ordered two whiskies.

    “Oh, ta very much, old man. Cheers! –Where was I? Oh, yes: happened to have these very decent cigars, because this Spanish fellow—”

    The point of the story, it turned out, if point there could have been said to be, was that the lorry driver had revealed that Michael Stuart’s S-Speed-Tran International was a good firm to work for: very fair, didn’t expect one to go without sleep like some of the ones that had to spend three days on uppers, sort of thing.

    “But I say, Peter, I mean, thanks frightfully for all the good advice and so forth, but how does one do it? I mean, just march in and say: ‘Oy, I want to take all my money out’?”

    Um… shit. If he had no bank at the other end for it to go to… And Archie managing the thing long-distance from the Cooks? Well, yes, these things could be tackled, but not by the Archibald Foxe-Forsythes of the world! –Talking of lame ducks: yes. Peter looked at his old schoolfriend’s wide, amiable face and took a silent vow never to use the phrase to poor darling Lalla again.

    One option was simply to ask for the lot in a bank cheque. Mm. Which Archie would promptly lose. There’d been that ghastly time at school when one of his aunts, or possibly great-aunts, had coughed up fifty quid in cash for his birthday. He’d tucked it away safely—never to be seen again. At that stage they’d both been in the First Eleven and rather than alert the Powers That Were, the whole team had helped hunt for it. NBG. No unpleasant personalities were spotted flaunting sudden wealth, so it couldn’t have been one of the three prime suspects, none of whom was cunning enough to hang onto it until the holidays came round. The consensus was, if it had been nicked, he’d asked for it.

    “I think the first move is to transfer it to Barclays, okay? Then we can look at options for you. I’m sure they’ll be able to help.”

    “Right; thanks, old man! I say, this Aussie bank wouldn’t have a branch in London, would it?”

    “Not a high street branch, no,” replied Peter on a sour note—they’d been into that. “Whacking great suite of offices down at Canary Wharf, but that’s only the commercial stuff—um, like a merchant bank, Archie,” he said, reverting to the vernacular of their grandfathers’, not to say great-great-grandfathers’ day.

    “Oh, gotcha. Seems odd to me. I mean, what do Aussies do if they come to London and run out of cash?”

    “Use their cards, I presume.” Peter looked desperately at his watch. Damn. “Er, settled everything else, have you?”

    “Hey?”

    Oh, God. “Your flat, and so forth? Getting your mail sent on?”

    “Only get dashed circulars and bills, old chap.”

    “Bills that will need to be paid, one would assume.”

    “Not really, because they’re for stuff for the flat. Electricity and stuff,” he said vaguely.

    “Yes, well, you need to fix a date to vacate the flat—let the landlord know, don’t just decide on it and walk out—and let the electricity people know, and tell them where to send their final account.”

    “Ye-es… But how could I pay it, if I’m back in the Cooks?”

    Peter sighed. “Look, we’ll do it this afternoon, okay? Vacate the bloody flat as from today, notify the landlord and the electricity people—have you got gas? Right, them as well; and you can come and stay with us until we take off. Come to think of it, we’re popping up to Scotland day after tomorrow, so you’d be welcome to come, too, if you’d fancy it.”

    He demurred, but gave in gratefully. And, ascertaining that it was Scotch Jimmy’s place, agreed to that, too. But what about the First Test?

    “We’ll be back in time for that; Jimmy’s coming, too.”

    “Oh, jolly good! I say, ’nother one?”

    Peter looked at his watch. It couldn’t be only— But it was. “No, thanks, Archie. Think I’d better have a coffee, Lalla doesn’t like me to drink in the morning.”

    “Very sensible. I’ll have one, too. –Waiter!”

    Peter swallowed a sigh. Oh, lawks!

    Lalla hadn’t appeared phased by the sudden appearance, not to say sudden adoption, of Archie, and Petey had been only too happy to have an enlarged audience for the saga of the ravens, the Bloody Tower, and the Crown Jewels—though these last seemed to be rather an also-ran. As it was a lovely sunny day, Lalla admitted it had been a peculiar feeling, standing in a neat, spick and span place with its smooth lawns, and knowing that so much tragedy had taken place there. Though (sadly) she hadn’t realised the Crown Jewels had had to be remade at the Restoration. What a vandal Cromwell had been!

    “Yes. Joyless Nonconformist,” Peter agreed, with a grimace.

    Archie nodded sagely. “I’ll say. Should’ve heard me grandfather on the topic! Dashed Roundheads smashed all the stained glass in the chapel, y’know: not a jot left. Think they might’ve hanged the local bishop, too—well, no loss, by all accounts, but going a bit far, eh? Couldn’t old Cromwell have just, um, whatsitsname? Defrocked him?”

    “I think only the Pope can do that,” said Lalla uncertainly. “Or maybe an archbishop?”

    Nobody was sure of the powers of an archbishop, so they let that one go, and turned to plans for the afternoon.

    “The London Eye!” cried Petey.

    “You’ve been on it,” said Lalla feebly.

    “Yeah, but it’s ace, Mum! And the weather’s much better today, we’ll be able to see everything! Won’t we, Peter?”

    “Sorry, Petey, but not today. After lunch we have to sort out Archie’s bank account and his flat.”

    His face fell. “Aw.”

    “And don’t suggest your mother, you know she can’t take heights,” said Peter quickly.

    “That right? Got a cousin that’s just the same,” said Archie with interest. “Now, what was it? Something one of me dashed aunts took us to. Um… Eiffel Tower, I think. Said her legs had gone wobbly, that’s right, and sat down, plonk, right up in the thingummy. Uh—viewing platform, that’s it. Me aunt was furious with her, poor kid. –Couldn’t help it, y’see,” he elaborated.

    “Poor girl! It sounds terrible! Nothing’d get me up it!” cried Lalla in sympathy.

    “Yes, so no London Eye today, Petey,” said Peter firmly.

    “Well, tomorrow?”

    “Thought you wanted to go to the zoo?”

    “Nah! The London Eye!”

    “We can try, but, er, it’s the tourist season. It may be booked out.”

    “No problem, old man!” said Archie breezily, outing with his phone. “Get my bloke onto it—he’s a whizz. Get you tickets to anything. Got me aunt into the Abbey for the Queen Mother’s funeral—don’t ask me how he managed that!”

    “Archie,” said Peter very faintly indeed, “surely your aunt—both aunts, come to think of it—would have been invited anyway?”

    “Eh? Oh! No, not them hags, old boy!” he replied with a loud laugh. “Other side. Pa’s younger brother’s wife. Not that she’s not pretty much of a hag, too.”

    “Is she?” asked Petey with interest.

    “Oh, absolutely! Sort that’s always telling you to pull your socks up.”

    Every sane person who had ever met Archie Foxe-Forsythe considered that he needed to pull his socks up: Peter and Lalla looked at each other limply.

    Petey, meanwhile was peering at the socks in question. “Your socks look all right.”

    “Mm? Oh—yes. Found this nice little shop—forget the name of the street—not Bond Street, don’t think. Uh—down an arcade, that’s right.”

    “The Burlington Arcade?” ventured Peter faintly.

    “Mm? Yes, could well be. Anyway, Petey, they know all about socks, y’see; always get m’socks from them these days. Only, back when I was at school, never knew about them.” He looked uncertainly at Petey’s skinny brown, rather scratched and scarred nether limbs, which supported a pair of very crumpled green shorts and sprang from a sockless pair of sneakers. “Had to wear dashed knee-socks, y’see. Not the sort of thing you’d need in Australia—not in summer, at any rate.”

    “Yeah. School socks, I geddit,” he agreed. “Dean Martin’s mum, she makes him wear elastics.”

    “Elastic garters, Petey,” Lalla corrected. “The socks are supposed to stay up, Archie, but after they’ve been through the wash a few times they don’t, of course.”

    “Gotcha.”

    “Addison Leman, she calls them elastics,” Petey reported dubiously.

    Lalla winced. When she was about the age that Petey was now, the more cretinous and more athletic girls in her class (the two attributes had seemed to go together) used to play a frightful sort of game, possibly derived from skipping, which they called “elastics:” it entailed stealing yards and yards of elastic from your mother’s or more likely your grandmother’s sewing box, and stretching it out to form unlikely patterns round your legs and, she thought, preferably those of a friend as well. She couldn’t have said, then or now, what you then did, or what the point of it might have been.

    “No, she’s got it wrong. They are made of elastic. The proper name for things that keep your socks or stockings up is garters.”

    “Oh, rather!” Archie agreed.

    This was apparently the required ratification, and Petey conceded: “I geddit. That Addison, she’s a dork.”

    Archie then rang one, Harry, who assured him that’d be no problem. They had tottered off to a nice little riverside café, where Peter had booked a table, thank God, as the place was crowded, and where they apparently didn’t even notice that their party consisted of four, not three, and had placed their orders, when Harry rang back. How many tickets did he want? Archie thought three, but then realised that’d leave Lalla out. Look here, old man, what say Petey and I go up in the thing—never done it, meself, kind of never got around to it: be fun; and you and Lalla have a bit of a breather, eh?

    Leaping on this offer like the proverbial drowning man, Peter accepted gratefully before Lalla could even open her mouth. He had a feeling that the rest of this afternoon was going to approximate to slow torture: he’d need a break.

    … Yes, on the whole. Archie didn’t know if he had any regular payments coming out of his Northern Rock account, that was one. Actually he had no idea if the balance might be right, old man. Peter demanded a printout from the clerk at the guichet, and ran a swift eye over it. Well, that page was okay, but who knew what they might have been taking off in the past? And this here looked remarkably like a rent payment. Eh? Well, yes, could be, Peter, if you say so. …So, um—waving the bank cheque around in a carefree manner—was this tantamount to cash, old boy? Peter didn’t have to tell him to put it away, Lalla was doing that. Petey, meanwhile, was goggling at him. It was to be hoped, learning that this was the wrong way to do things!

    Barclays was next. Couldn’t we just pop off for a quick coffee— No, very well. No hurry, though, you know. Not pointing out that there yet remained the question of the flat and all pertaining thereto, Peter confirmed to the waiting taxi driver that they did want Barclays, thanks.

    It was his own branch and, since lunchtime was now well past, there was a senior clerk on duty who recognised him and immediately produced the manager. Who was all over him. Blast! Not a good example for Petey, at all! Er, though if he did eventually want to go into the company… No, well, sleeping dogs. Archie was surprised at how easy it was to open an account and informed the manager in confidential tones that of course he was moving to the Cook Islands—the man blinked in spite of his professional poise—but it’d be jolly handy to keep some cash in London in case he wanted to pop over: well, little flutter on the Stock Exchange, y’know, or on the gees! Once he’d tied the knot, thought he might bring her over for Ascot week: show her off. The man was now looking from him to Lalla, so Peter said quickly: “I’m sorry, I should have introduced you. My wife, Lady Sale. Darling, this is—” Quite. Did he gather that congratulations were in order? Congratulations ensued, Archie explaining, redundantly, one felt: “Got hitched out in the Cooks, y’see. How I met my fiancée, actually: popped over for the wedding. Should’ve seen the flowers! My word, it was exotic! Whole congregation was wearing wreaths of them—well, was meself, y’know, wouldn’t have been the done thing to refuse.”

    Business actually looked like it had been concluded satisfactorily, when Archie asked if it would be possible to send some of his cash out to Rarotonga, only of course he didn’t have an account there yet. The man had lost him, it was horribly evident, before the first ten syllables had passed his lips. Archie looked helplessly at Peter.

    Lalla pre-empted him. “It’s a very small country, and I don’t think the ANZ branch is very big at all,” she said in a kind but firm tone. “I think it’ll be easier if Archie opens his account there first, and then maybe he could ring you and ask you to transfer some money? But please could you give him your direct number, ’cos it’s horrible trying to ring banks—well, not as bad as the blimmin’ phone companies, back in New Zealand it was terrible, and my cousin Jean says it’s still just as bad, and in Australia it’s frightful! Of course it’s easy if you want to buy something off them, but for anything else it takes forty-five minutes to get an answer! And the bank just kept giving me numbers to press and horrible music when I had to ring them.”

    He stuttered that that would be no problem, Lady Sale, and—though he’d already given him his card—duly told Archie his direct number. Silently Peter copied it to his own phone—though actually he might well have it somewhere. Better safe than sorry, however.

    On adjourning to Archie’s flat it was discovered that the milk in his fridge had gone off and he didn’t have any orange juice (Petey); that some lady had left a pair of tights and a pair of scarlet lace knickers hanging up to dry in his bathroom (Lalla); and that he had no idea if any dividends from all the share certificates in the drawer of his desk might have been being paid into his now non-existent bank account (Peter). Oh, and that he’d taken the dump furnished, less bother. The which, together with the place’s location, most certainly explained the extortionate amount he’d been paying in rent.

    … And that, actually, he’d forgotten the name of his stockbroker, Peter. Um… Teddy Something?

    “If you mean Teddy Arbuthnot, he is something in the City, but he’s not a stockbroker, Archie.”

    “Oh. Can’t be him, then.”

    At this point Lalla suggested that maybe she and Petey could go for a little walk down the street and maybe see if they could get something for afternoon tea?

    Mm, well, they could hardly get lost walking down Piccadilly. “Okay, darling,” Peter agreed. “Try a big shop called Fortnum & Mason. If you can’t see what you want, just ask, Lalla, they’re very helpful. Got your credit card?” –She was carrying the purple handbag, correction, the violet handbag (“Non, non, couleur de violettes!”), donated by Maman, so probably all she’d have to do would be wave it at them, true. And looking particularly luscious in a little pale mauve top scattered with tiny embroidered heartsease in purple, white and gold—Maman, who’d gone back to France at the beginning of June, had sent it from Paris in case London was unexpectedly warm—plus a pareu in toning shades of white, lilac, and a very dark purple, with medium-heeled lilac sandals also sent by Maman, a bargain, so she’d claimed, at Les Galeries Lafayette. She hadn’t made any claims for the top, which judging by its label, was just as well, even Lalla wouldn’t have believed her for an instant. No, well, one could sum it up by saying that the pareu had cost a few dollars at the market in Avarua because its dyes had run, and the rest hadn’t. In especial the earrings, which Peter had persuaded her to wear because they looked so pretty. Little flowers. The petals were only amethysts, true. The yellow centres, that she’d admired for their twinkly effect, were not topazes. The full set consisted of drops to append to these little flowers, each comprising one more amethyst-petalled bloom and one yellow bud, plus a delightful brooch, rather Fifties in style, slightly asymmetrical, a basket with mixed blooms spilling from it, the basket itself being composed of white diamonds set in platinum. Quite suitable for afternoon wear, unquote. Yes, well, his Grandmother Sale had been an extravagant woman and his Grandfather Sale had liked to flaunt his wealth.

    Lalla produced her Diners’ Club card. “This funny one?”

    “Yes, that’s the one. It will work in London, don’t worry.”

    “Eh?” said Archie at this point.

    “Shut up. You didn’t even know if your bank balance was correct.”

    “Nah, he didn’t, eh, Peter?” Petey agreed. “I know if my account’s right! This man, see, he come to school, he said we could have bank accounts and he was gonna give out these feeble, like, piggy banks, they were dumb, only the girls wanted them, but I said I didn’t want a bank account, my dad had got one for me.”

    “Petey, you didn’t mention any man!” gasped Lalla.

    “No, I didn’t need to, see, ’cos I’ve got a bank account. –See, I put five dollars into it every week when Peter gives me my pocket money,” he explained to Archie. “Peter, he says they don’t give ya much interest, that’s not, like, interesting, that’s money they pay ya for letting them have your money in their bank. Only it’ll do for the time being. I’m saving up for a really good collar for my dog with his name on it. Not an ordinary one.”

    “Oh, jolly good, old man,” he agreed, faint but pursuing.

    “And Mrs Adams, she says it’s better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick!” he finished pleasedly.

    Archie looked frantically from Peter to Lalla.

    “It’s an Aussie saying, Archie,” she explained placidly. “Funny, isn’t it? Because anything’d be better than that! But I think it’s just an example of the genuine old-fashioned Aussie sense of humour, which is very dry and wry. It’s almost died out, now. Well, judging by the awful comedy shows on their TV, you’d say it had completely died out. But occasionally you meet an older person who’ll come out with something very dry and, well, rather disillusioned, really. But not in a bitter way. More…” Her eyes narrowed. “More an accepting sort of way, I’d say.”

    “That’s it,” Peter agreed. “Even the egregious Pop Martin comes out with one every now and then. Well, you right, darling?”

    “Yes, fine. Come on, Petey. Think of something you’d like for afternoon tea.”

    “C’n I choose?”

    “Yes, but not if it’s something sickening like those peanut butter and gherkin sandwiches like that mad cousin of Dean’s likes.”

    “At Fortnum’s?” mouthed Archie incredulously as they departed, Petey telling his mother not to be mad, he wasn’t gonna choose anything that barmy.

    Alas, Peter collapsed in helpless sniggers, gasping: “She doesn’t—know—what it—is! Never heard of it!”

    “Gotcha,” he grinned. “Er… s’pose they will know what afternoon tea is, old man?”

    “Mm?” Peter blew his nose. “Oh! The Colonial vernacular. Well, I should think so: they do get hordes of tourists.”

    “That’s true. –Now, um, about these share whatsits. I’d only get dividends if they were paying out, so it wouldn’t be regular—”

    “With these shares, it would! Now, who’s your broker? Think!”

    He thought, but nothing was produced. No, he didn’t have copies of his earlier bank statements, no point, really, was there? That stuff was all in the past.

    One might well, reflected Peter grimly at around this point, ask how in Hades Archie Foxe-Forsythe had ever achieved even the mediocre degree he had, which had apparently enabled the FCO to close their eyes to the rest and take him on. But, as his schoolfellows had discovered, long before it had dawned on the masters, Archie had an eidetic memory, and what amounted to an instinct when it came to foreign languages. He had barely to glance at a page of Latin declensions, and he’d have remembered the lot while his friends were still struggling to memorise “mensa, a table.” He didn’t have a clue what it all meant, of course: no functional grasp of the rules of grammar in any language. But he could parrot it back, all right. And when it came to a page of translation, he’d just sit down and read it out. Often putting in colloquialisms that were, if not the standard versions, nevertheless spot-on. He wasn’t quite so good with the proses at first, but they’d discovered, after some struggles, if he, as he put it, screwed up his eyes and just looked at it for a while, it sort of came to him. “You know: find a few words, and bingo: suddenly the whole thing comes right!” So he’d managed that. As to the critical stuff: well, alas, the eidetic memory came into play there. Various old pals sorted out the appropriate chunks of the critics for him to read, and apparently he’d trotted out enough of them to get through his examinations. Though he said himself that his tutor admitted he didn’t know how he’d done it. Certainly his translations, “if a trifle on the demotic side”, had been excellent, but… Quite. The various old pals had been fêted right royally when the results came out.

    Hang on… Suddenly it clicked. “Archie,” he said with a grin, “think of when you last got a letter from your broker. Might have been about the latest dividends or some such.”

    He shut his eyes. “Ri-ight…”

    “Now, see the signature? What does it say?”

    “Awful scrawl.”

    “Y— No doubt. His name must be typed underneath it.”

    “A.J. Mortimer,” said Archie promptly. He opened his eyes. “I say! Well done, Peter! That worked! Could tell you what was at the top of the sheet, too?”

    “No need,” said Peter, getting out his phone. “That’s Jack Mortimer, you ass!”

    “Oh, so ’tis. What is his first name, again?”

    “Ashford.”

    “Oh, yes, poor chap.”

    Possibly it was no worse than Archibald—however. Peter rang him. Luckily Jack knew them both so well that he didn’t have to wonder why one able-bodied man was speaking on behalf of another able-bodied man, he merely agreed that the dividends should go into the new account, and got the details. Peter then passed the phone to Archie, who duly thanked Jack for his trouble and explained about the Cooks, the engagement, the forthcoming marriage, and into the bargain Peter’s wedding.

    Yes, well, if the chap at Barclays was discreetly not spreading it all over the City, he might as well spare himself the pains, because Jack Mortimer had pals in every nook and cranny of the square mile. Not to say contacts in Tokyo, New York, Hong Kong, Paris—anywhere there was a stock exchange, really. Not that Peter minded them knowing, as such. But what the City knew today the bloody media knew this evening. Hell.

    “Well, that’s that, Archie. Pack those certificates, they’re your proof that you own the bloody things. Uh—Jesus. Have you got a safety deposit anywhere, old man?”

    “No, nothing valuable to squirrel away, really. Well, couple of gold sovs from Grandfather, just keep them on me watch chain. S’pose the watch might be worth a bit. Nice old thing, eh? But it’s always on me, y’see. Couldn’t really think how to manage it in the Cooks, just wearing shorts or slacks and a shirt, but Mrs T. soon sorted that: put the chain through a buttonhole in the shirt: got a head on her, that woman. And of course if I’m doing reception I’m wearing me waistcoat in the air conditioning.”

    Peter blinked slightly at this piece of intel, but nodded. “Good, one less thing to worry about. Okay, we’ll do the landlord and the utilities next.”

    … Similar problems arose. However, the eidetic memory again came into play, not to say Peter’s ruthless emptying of his desk, and then it didn’t take too long. Given the usual phone delays.

    Fortunately Lalla and Petey resurfaced with delicious goodies for afternoon tea, all beautifully packaged, and including a packet of teabags and a bottle of American orange juice, so they were able to recruit their forces.

    Then, really, it only remained to pack all Archie’s personal stuff and to make sure he didn’t leave his briefcase behind; in fact, Petey capably took charge of that. Archie thanked him quite genuinely. Well, that was Archie Foxe-Forsythe for you. The sweetest-natured bloke in the world, but also the most helpless. Thank God he’d have Mrs Tangianau on the one, or more personal hand, and Mrs Ledbetter and Mac, on the other, more professional hand, to keep an eye on him in the Cooks! In fact, when you thought about it, he couldn’t have done better for himself, could he?

    In spite of predictions it wasn’t pouring in Scotland. Someone had incautiously mentioned the train in Petey’s hearing, so they’d taken it, and been met at the station by a grinning Scotch Jimmy with his arm round a blushing Katie Macdonald’s waist. When they were over that shock, and Petey had ascertained from Katie that yes, Fergus the Scottie dog was waiting for them at the castle, they piled into Jimmy’s huge and elderly estate waggon. It had an extra seat in the back amongst assorted old macs, fishing gear, and crates of Scotch, so Archie sat down, propped his legs on a crate and went happily to sleep. Petey also dropped off, but had to be woken when they got there, as apparently he’d never have forgiven them if they just put him to bed.

    Mrs Macdonald, confiding by the way that it had been a wee bit of a surprise, though she’d always thought Katie would be more than capable of managing Jimmy, and she was doing him all the good in the world already, then conducted them upstairs, assuring them that the central heating was still on, they wouldna be cold…

    Next day “all the men” were going trout fishing. Apparently this ipso facto included those under the age of eleven. Lalla looked wildly at her offspring. “Petey, you’ll be bored stiff! Fly-fishing is notorious as one of the most boring sports in the world!”

    “I won’t! I don’t get bored going yabbying with Pop an’ Dean!”

    “What-ing?” asked Scotch Jimmy in astonishment.

    When that was over it was agreed that Petey would go trout fishing with Jimmy, Peter, Archie, Hamish and Donnie. Rather shyly Lalla, looking at the heap that had collapsed on the nearest piece of carpet, ventured that perhaps Donnie might like to stay behind with her, but Hamish rubbished this one sternly, assuring her that his pet was a lazy wee [Scottish term of opprobrium] and it would do him good to stretch his legs. So off they went.

    “I’ll be doing a nice roast, Lady Sale,” said Mrs Macdonald comfortably. “Don’t fret, we won’t rely on the troot for our teas.”

    Lalla looked at Katie, who was grinning at her, and suddenly collapsed in giggles, gasping: “No, ’course not! Good on you, Mrs Macdonald!”

    There were, if one could count, four able-bodied men out there with rods and “silly little bits of fluffy stuff to stick on the ends of them”, as Lalla put it, plus Petey. They returned home late in the afternoon, rather damp round the edges and the gentlemen very cross. The trout hadn’t been biting.

    “Mine was!” shrieked Petey, jumping up and down. “Look, Mum! Look, Mrs Macdonald! Look, Katie!”

    They looked. “Aye, it’s a fine fush,” approved Mrs Macdonald.

    “Ooh! Well done, Petey!” cried Lalla.

    “It’s a whopper!” agreed Katie. “You’re a better fisherman than the lot of them!”

    Suddenly she and Lalla collapsed in gales of laughter.

    “Beginner’s luck,” said Jimmy on a sour note.

    “Shut—up—Jimmy!” gasped his girlfriend.

    “He’s just jealous eh, Hamish?” said Petey on a proud note.

    “Aye, that’ll be it. It’s a guid fush, laddie. Well, I’m awa’ to ma tea. DONNIE! COME! HEEL!”

    Reluctantly the shaggy rug dragged itself to its feet, the great hairy, bony legs, it would seem, barely supporting its weight…

    “Nane o’ that, ye daft [Scottish term of opprobrium]. –Ye’d nivver think it to look at him, mistress,” Hamish suddenly informed Lalla, “but he put up a dozen birds the day, and chased Duncan Macdonald’s coo fit to curdle the milk, the shtippid wee [etcetera].”

    Wiping her eyes, Lalla gazed at Donnie in astonishment.

    “That was after lunch,” noted Archie. “My fault, really: spilt a glass of Scotch and the pooch lapped it up before—”

    Simultaneously Lalla and Katie let out ecstatic shrieks and were off again.

    The trout was ceremoniously served to Petey, with Lalla, Katie and Mrs Macdonald herself being allowed to share—they were, incidentally, eating in the big, roomy kitchen, rather than in the Victorian dining-room with the Victorian Gothicizing, as they’d done when Mrs McNeil and Marie-Louise had been present.

    Petey solemnly voted it one of the best days ever. Though the London Eye had been good. As had the day they went to all the banks with Archie. Peter’s bank was the keenest: it was old. And Archie’s money was gonna be much safer in it, and the rest of his money was gonna be in the ANZ, like theirs, ’cos it was an Aussie bank, they were much safer, and they had a branch in Rarotonga!

    It took the adults quite some time to recover from this speech. When he’d finally, protesting untruthfully that he wasn’t tired, been forcibly carted off to bed over his father’s shoulder, Lalla said limply to the company: “It all must’ve sunk in.”

    “Oh, absolutely! ’Nother budding financier in the family!” agreed Archie heartily.

    She winced.

    “Well, someone’ll have to take over from Peter at some stage, old girl,” he pointed out logically. “Might as well be young Petey, hey?”

    “Good at sums, is he, Lalla?” asked Jimmy kindly.

    Katie looked at Lalla’s face. “Look, you pair of tactless idiots, shut up! It’s far too soon to be making decisions about his career!”

    “I—I sort of thought he might be an architect and design sensible houses,” Lalla admitted weakly. “I mean, after we bought our house he did lots of drawings of it…”

    “There you are, then,” said Katie comfortingly, with a glare at her intended, who’d incautiously opened his mouth again. “Ignore these idiots.”

    “He’s not doing very well at maths,” Lalla ventured. “The teacher says he got behind in Rarotonga. But Peter’s been helping him with his homework.”

    “That’s good,” said Mrs Macdonald quickly. “And does he like reading, my dear?”

    “Yes, he’s a great reader, Mrs Macdonald!” she beamed. “Peter’s mother had all his old children’s books sent over, and Petey’s loving them!”

    Encouraging her in this vein, Mrs Macdonald chatted and nodded interestedly, though not neglecting to direct a stern eye from time to time at the two male idiots. And not neglecting either to note drily to her daughter, when they were preparing the late-night cocoa: “All mouth and troosis! Aye, ye’ve your work cut oot there, ma dearie!”

    To which the level-headed Katie Macdonald merely replied: “I know that, Mum. But at least Jimmy doesn’t head up a huge financial empire, like Peter Sale.”

    “Aye, you’re not wrong, ma lovey… It’ll be a hard row to hoe for the lassie, if she wants them to lead anything like a normal life.”

    Back in London a normal life was more or less achieved, if one could discount the crowd of Press outside the building. It was, of course, the Silly Season in Britain, and anything was grist to the mill. “Lady Sale! Lady Sale! Look this way! Smile, darling! How did you meet? Sir Peter! Sir Peter! Are you gonna live permanently in the Cook Islands? How did you meet? Lady Sale! Lady Sale! Is this your son?” Grimly George, on the door, assured them he wouldn’t let them buggers, excuse his French, Lady Sale, past him, but if they liked they could have a bobby, it was only a matter of paying for him. Lalla’s jaw dropped, so Peter, thanking George but saying he didn’t think a bobby would necessary, hurried her into the lift.

    “Peter, he didn’t mean a London policeman, did he?”

    “Mm. But they’ve got their snaps, I don’t think they’ll bother us much more.”

    “Hire a policeman?” said Lalla dazedly.

    “Uh—oh. Well, yes, one can, I understand, but as I say, I don’t think it’ll be necessary.”

    “It’s a different world, all right,” she said, eyeing him uncertainly.

    “Um, darling, it’s only for a few days, we’ll soon be on our way home.”

    “Mm. Good.”

    The Beatties were reassuringly normal, Mrs Beattie assuring Lalla with a sniff that if one of them did get this far he’d get short shrift, but George knew it’d be as much as his job was worth to let them in, and plunging into a cosy discussion about bedding, Lalla counting on her fingers and then realising in dismay that it’d only be August when they got home, and she didn’t know about Australia, but in Auckland it was a miserable month, with freezing winds even if the spring flowers were out… Two more suitcases were then filled with eiderdowns, but even if the bloody airlines charged by cubic capacity instead of weight, which Peter wasn’t at all sure of, it was a cheap price to pay, really…

    Then there was the argument over the First Test. Lalla was sure Petey would be bored. He was sure he wouldn’t be. Peter suggested maybe if he just came on the first and last days? “No-o!” he wailed. Archie pointed out that he had to start some time, and got a bitter glare from his hostess for his pains. Peter then pointed out that he’d undoubtedly be bored stiff by the end of the first day in any case—“I won’t be, so there!”—so they might as well try it and see. Lamely Lalla told him not to say “so there” to his father…

    The day of the First Test having arrived, like death and taxes, he went.

    … “Hey, Mum! Guess what! The Aussies are winning!”

    Feebly certain persons began: “England can still—”

    “Nah! They’re gonna lose, you’ll see! They’ve got three wickets left, Mum, they’re never gonna make ninety-eight to level it!”

    “So—so will that end it?” she fumbled.

    “Nah! That was only the first day, Mum!”

    Lalla had recourse to the kitchen, Mrs Beattie’s comforting presence, and a nice cup of tea, never mind what the time was. “It’s a male peer group, Mrs Beattie, and he’s in it, boots and all!”

    “Well, he’s growing up, bless ’im! Now, I don’t usually, but the sun’s over the yardarm well and truly, with this blessed cricket, so just a drop—”

    The ladies had a drop in their tea to fortify their spirits.

    They needed it.

    … “Hey, Mum! The Aussies are leading by three hun’red and fourteen! Like, twice England’s first innings total, eh, Archie? They’re smashing them!”

    “Oh, good,” she said lamely. That was only the second day of the blimmin’ thing, and it felt like a week already. How much longer could it go on for?

    … “Hey, Mum! Guess what! England needed four hun’red an’ twenny by the time the Aussies were out in the morning! Archie reckons it’ll be a world record! Day four’ll finish it, you’ll see, they need three hun’red an’ one for five, they can’t recover, eh, Peter?”

    “Er—doesn’t look like it, old chum, no,” he admitted, glancing uneasily at his spouse’s face.

    … It was raining on “day four”, but the macho men had not returned. Lalla looked uncertainly at Mrs Beattie. “Surely they can’t still be…”

    “Well, the fans are mad enough for anything, dear. But don’t worry, I’m sure Sir Peter will be seeing he keeps nice and dry.”

    They duly returned, Petey glowing with the report: “See, when it stopped raining it only took ten overs to finish England: see, Glenn McGrath, he took four wickets an’ Warnie, he took one: they got four of them out for ducks! The Aussies won by two hun’red and thirty-nine!” And the three Brits looking sour, oh, dear!

    “Uh—yes,” said Jimmy on a lame note. “Pietersen did quite well for England: not out for sixty-four; that’d give him a batting average of—what was it, again, Peter?”

    “One twenty-one, but I really don’t think Lalla needs to know that.”

    “No,” she said heavily. “What I would like to know is if you’re all warm and dry or if you got soaked.”

    They were fine!

    Lalla sighed. But at least it was over. Well, there’d be the re-hashing, she was in no doubt of that, but she’d just switch off.

    It wasn’t quite over, alas. Next morning, Beattie as usual served breakfast with a couple of neatly folded newspapers by Peter’s plate. Neatly folded and quite possibly ironed: Lalla had read somewhere that real butlers did that.

    Five minutes later Mrs Beattie shot in, very flushed. “Sir Peter, that’s the wrong—”

    “Yes, isn’t it?” he agreed wryly, looking at the photo. It featured him hoisting an excited Petey up out of the crush at the bar, flanked by Archie and Scotch Jimmy, drowning their sorrows. It was captioned: “Hoisted High: A Win for the Aussies”, with the intriguing sub-caption underneath it: “A young Aussie fan at Lord’s lifted by Sir Peter Sale, with Sir James McNeil and Archibald Foxe-Forsythe, Esq.” And then: “Reliable sources in the City tell us Sir Peter met his lately-acquired new wife in Australia ten years ago. Is this the beginning of a new Sale dynasty?”

    “I’m sorry,” said poor Mrs Beattie lamely. “It’s that dratted George’s paper, sir. Fred got them mixed up.”

    Petey peered. “Ooh, look! That’s us, Peter! Look, Archie! That’s us and Jimmy!”

    Peter sighed. “Never mind, Mrs Beattie. It’s hardly a secret. Tell Fred not to worry.”

    “Him!” she snorted, exiting.

    “I think you’d better let me see, Peter,” said Lalla firmly.

    Archie had got up and was peering over his and Petey’s shoulders. “Cheeky so-and-soes! And what’s more, this is one of the bally papers owned by that beastly old Aussie! You know, chap that looks like an evil goblin!”

    “Yes, well, Aussies one, England naff all,” said Peter heavily, passing the paper to Lalla.

    She looked at the photo. Her lips firmed. There was no way she was gonna let him be upset by this sort of crap! Heck, these were the kind of horrible paparazzi that had killed poor, silly Princess Diana! “Nonsense, Peter,” she said calmly. “It’s a double win for England.”

    Archie got it first: he gave a shout of laughter. “By Jove! So it is! What better score could you possibly have made, old man?”

    Peter grinned. “Right! Absolutely!”

    “I don’t get it,” said Petey, frowning over it.

    “She means, Peter Christie Macdonald Townsend Holcroft,” said Peter, getting up and hoisting him up very high, “that I’ve got you and her! That’s a great win for England if ever there was one! So sucks to silly old papers that are trying to be rude, eh?”

    “Were they?”

    “Yeah, but it’s a great snap, isn’t it? You could cut it out, stick it up in your den: memorial of a great First Test, mm?”

    “My study, you mean. Good idea. –Yay, Aussies!”

    Peter lowered him to the floor, smiling. “Listen, Peter Christie Macdonald Townsend Holcroft. Once we’re home and you’ve got your dog, and Mum’s settled in, and the Beatties are in their granny flat, how would you like to be Peter Christie Macdonald Townsend Holcroft Sale?”

    His brow wrinkled. “Like a proper family?”

    “Mm,” Peter agreed, swallowing hard.

    “That sounds sensible. Then you could be Mr Sale, and Mum could be Mrs Sale, and I could be Petey Sale, and the teachers wouldn’t get mixed up, eh?”

    “Right.”

    “But what about my raincoat an’ gumboots?”

    Peter looked wildly at Lalla.

    She was smiling mistily and wiping her eyes. “They have to have their names in them for school.”

    “Yeah. Like, ‘P. Holcroft’, ‘D. Martin’, ‘A. Leman’. She drew a flower in her gumboots: just like a stupid girl, eh?”

    “Well, um, for your next raincoat and pair of Welling—I mean gumboots?”

    “That’d work,” he agreed. “Mum, I’m still hungry.”

    Lalla jumped. “Oh! Well, run and ask Mrs Beattie for some more toast, Petey darling.”

    “Not darling: that’s sissy,” he declared tersely, disappearing.

    Lalla looked shakily at Peter. “That—that sounds okay.”

    “Very much so!”

    “Good Lord, yes!” Archie agreed heartily. “Think I might ask Mrs B for a bit more, too. ’Scuse I!” He hurried out.

    “Come and sit on my knee, my big Aussie score,” said Peter with a smile, “and give me a great big kiss.”

    “Well,” replied Lalla detachedly, getting up, “they haven’t got their facts straight, City or not: I’m not an Aussie, so it’s hardly a win for the Aussies.”

    “’Course not,” said Peter, kissing her soundly. “Mmm… It’s a win for me!”

    Any smugness he might have felt in the wake of this encounter was well and truly wiped out by bloody Disneyland. Exhausting. Yes, it was clean, and relatively safe, even if they had been warned to hang on tight to their purses and wallets, and yes, Lalla—Mrs Beattie—Archie, the “Small World” was charming—shut up, Petey, if Archie likes it it’s not sissy—but why in God’s name did they all want to see so much? No, Archie, nothing on God’s earth would get him on a mule; no, Lalla, darling, you are not going on a mule, the things are not only notoriously stubborn, they can be bloody spiteful, we don’t want your kneecap being crushed against the railings on that track they have to negotiate. Nor you, Petey! What? Well, yes, that is someone dressed up as Mickey Mouse and the head does look artificial, but this is Disneyland, I think it’s meant to— Come back here! What? Look, that is not the Matterhorn, it’s a cardboard facsimile— Very well, Petey, not cardboard, go up it if you must. No, Lalla, it will manifestly be steep, you won’t like it. Uh—yes, thanks very much, Archie, old man, we will just wait for you down here. …Why the Christ did Mrs Beattie want to see a simulacrum of Abraham Lincoln, presumably, if his arithmetic was correct and if the dates on the bloody brochure were correct, built long before computer animation, reciting whatever-it-was? Uh—the Gettysburg Address? Well, presumably—but then, this was the U.S. of A.: he, or rather it, could well be reciting the Declaration of Independence, or even Mary Had a Little Lamb— Mm, I’ll just wait. …Pretty lame was it, Petey? (Fancy that.) Next? Oh, God!

    They did make it to Honolulu. Petey, Archie and the Beatties went off in search of a better view of Diamond Head and a putative real Galapagos tortoise, possibly in a zoo, that some idiot in the hotel lobby had let on about. Peter just lay under a large beach umbrella and closed his eyes.

    Lalla was reading a bloody brochure. “It says you can go on a little plane to the Big Island and look at the volc—”

    “No!” He sat up abruptly. “Do not dare to breathe the word ‘volcanoes’ to Beatties, inane old schoolfriends, or assorted offspring, if you value my sanity!”

    “How’dja know I do value your sanity?” she returned with an awful leer.

    “If I wasn’t exhausted by Small Worlds and Lincolns and hotdogs and Mickey Mouses I’d object strongly to that remark,” he sighed.

    “And he’s your assorted offspring as well as mine,” she noted.

    “How very true,” he sighed, lying back again and closing his eyes.

    “Do you want—”

    “No.”

    “I was only going to say a nice glass of fruit juice. Or an Orange Julius? Archie says they’re yummy.”

    “I am incapable of choosing,” said Peter with his eyes shut.

    “It was your idea to go to blimmin’ Disneyland.”

    “So it was!” he discovered. “And the Test. Silly me.”

    “Yep,” Lalla agreed comfortably. She lay down beside him. “We’ll just pop over to Rarotonga and then go straight home, then.”

    “Yes,” said Peter gratefully. “Thank you, darling.”

Next chapter:

https://thelallaeffect.blogspot.com/2024/01/a-hard-row-to-hoe.html