"Ces Frazer"

11

“Ces Frazer”

    “Les voilà,” said Gilles with a sigh of relief as the crowds at Charles de Gaulle parted for a moment and he caught sight of two familiar heads.

    “Ce sont elles?” said Marie-Claire on a scornful note, raising her eyebrows. “Bah, dis-donc!”

    Annie merely made a scornful noise.

    Gilles sighed. It had been a mistake persuading his daughters to accompany him to the aérogare. They had both sulked all the way from La Rance, even though Annie had been quite glad of a ride back to Paris. Marie-Claire would normally have also been glad of a free ride to the capital, but she didn’t like living by herself and at the moment there was no-one at the flat: Isabelle and Zizi were still in Guadeloupe. Though admittedly due to return before long for the January Collections. So Marie-Claire had decided to go back to the château with Papa after collecting ces Frazer. It hadn’t stopped her sulking, though.

    Fabien hadn’t needed a lift: he’d driven over to the château in his own little car several days earlier, having, as he put it himself, had enough of Pauline’s bread and lectures for one festive season. True, it was unfortunate that La Rance was at the moment infested by Bertrand, but then Mathieu’s house was infested by Guy in the worst mood since the Flood. Fabien also should have been thinking about getting back to Paris and his studies, but he wasn’t as keen as Annie. Neither to get back to work nor to escape from La Rance.

    Naturally neither Marie-Claire nor Annie had admitted to the seething curiosity which had driven them to accept Gilles’s pressing invitation. Fabien had, however. Now he tip-toed and peered, asking eagerly: “Which one is yours, Oncle Gilles?”

    Gilles reddened a little and laughed self-consciously. Marie-Claire scowled, and pouted, and told Fabien to grow up. Annie just scowled and pouted. Both of them looked fearfully in the direction in which their father’s eyes were now glued.

    “Ah!” he said with a sigh as the crowds parted again. “Here they come! Come on!” He forged ahead.

    “Merde: which is it: the pink one or the blue one?” said Fabien to his distant cousins with a giggle.

    “Cretin,” responded Annie sourly.

    “You mean what is it,” said Marie-Claire sourly. “What on earth have they got on?”

    The Muller girls were of course in their tracksuits. The airport, in the manner of international airports, a point which had slipped Rose’s mind as she planned their travelling dress, was very hot, so they were wearing them open and carrying their padded parkas.

    Rose’s outfit was pale blue: although she was very fond of pink and green she had, of course, blue eyes, and often wore that shade, so she had chosen blue for her tracksuit. They were all three in a shiny, space-agey, light-weight material which the lady at Meyer had assured Rose was the latest. There had been a few warmer tracksuits on display but they hadn’t been as pretty and besides, the lady at Meyer had assured Rose, the new-fashion ones were windproof. Rose’s hair had grown a lot during her depression and the style had just about grown out. She hadn’t been able to decide on a new style and then she’d thought that in Paris she would no doubt find a much more stylish style, so she’d plaited it instead, plaits were very In. Linnet being all thumbs when it came to la coiffure, it wasn’t one of the latest fish-tail plaits which required an operator, but an ordinary plait. The side bits were, however,  pinned up decoratively with little crescent clips of iridescent brilliants and the tip of the tail was adorned with a pale blue silk scrunchie.

    Linnet’s thick waves were in their normal long, heavy plait adorned by one rubber band. Her tracksuit was a cheerful pink, and the tee-shirt under it a very pale pink, where Rose’s was very pale blue. Rose was wearing a bra but Linnet wasn’t: the one Rose had fitted on her carefully at Meyer had started to dig into her rib-cage round about Hong Kong so she’d removed it in the toilet and forgotten all about replacing it.

    Fergie was in pale green. With that hair, Rose usually chose pale green for her. Monica thought that lilac would be okay, it looked quite striking with red hair, but as Fergie’s was frankly ginger and as Meyer hadn’t had very small space-age tracksuits in lilac, Rose had fallen back on green. Fergie had originally been in a pale green tee-shirt, but during the long flight she’d been through that one (orange juice), a white one (chocolate), an old pale yellow one of Jenny’s (Coke, gravy and custard), and an old pale blue one of Jenny’s which had been made to last until they were actually over France in spite of the gravy, orange juice, felt-tipped pen and chocolate smears, and was now wearing the last one of Jenny’s: once-orange, very washed-out, with a still-green Kermit the Frog on it. Fergie had had to suffer the indignity of Treasures two-year-old nappies on the plane not merely when it was darkened for sleep but all the time, after Rose and Linnet had discovered she was terrified of the plane’s toilets, but she was now free of this humiliation. And her mother and aunt were both silently praying she wouldn’t wet her pants with excitement or nerves.

    At Kingsford Smith or indeed at Hong Kong International, or for that matter in Miami or the Bahamas, no-one would have looked twice at this colourful trio. However, at Charles de Gaulle in the middle of a freezing January it was a bit different. They more or less stood out like sore thumbs. The Bellecourts, and ninety-nine percent of the other people at the airport, were in the drab shades which most French persons considered suitable for winter. And which certainly were, if you lived in a grimy city like Paris. The two younger ones would have been immediately identifiable as students by their compatriots. Annie was naturally in jeans: dark navy. Buffy would have recognized them as real Levi’s. With them she wore a long, loose black sweater and a large black duffel coat which she had found in a cupboard at La Rance several seasons back and had refused sturdily to believe had ever been worn by her boringly conservative father even in his own student days. It had been a reasonable length on Gilles, who was about five foot eleven: on Annie, who was two inches shorter, around the same height as Linnet and Rose, it still looked a reasonable length, but the sleeves had to be rolled up drastically and it was far too wide in the shoulders. A very old grey fedora was pulled well down over her black curls. Fabien would probably also have worn jeans if it hadn’t been such a freezing cold day. Instead he was in heavy brown cords, topped by a heavy wool sweater in brown and grey Fairisle, with a dark brown padded anorak open over It. What with this outfit and his brown curls and merry brown eyes he looked rather like a friendly teddy bear.

    Marie-Claire was much, much smarter, but equally subdued: black velvet pants tucked into long black boots and a wide-shouldered black trench coat. At the moment the coat was open over a black and grey checked tweed jacket, a matching checked waistcoat, and a high-necked black jumper in fine wool which featured its own matching stock, pinned with a large modern silver clip. The earrings were also silver, and her hat was a black and grey checked flat cap. A pair of fur-lined black gloves reposed in one pocket of the trench coat. Perhaps needless to state each sister had taken one look at the other’s outfit and thought: “There she goes again.”

    Gilles did not normally dress informally in the city but as they’d only come up for the one night and were planning to go back to La Rance this afternoon straight after lunch, he was wearing country clothes. Virtually identical with Fabien’s except that his anorak and heavy cords were a dark bronze shade and his heavy sheepskin-lined boots were dark brown where Fabien’s were fawn. Under the large, loose anorak he had a fawn and bronze tweed jacket over a dark green Viyella shirt buttoned to the neck. A droopy tweed hat was stuffed into one pocket of the anorak and a long dark green muffler draped over his shoulders. He was unaware that the outfit made him look about twice the size he had seemed in Australia in his cream or white lightweight tropical suits, often without the jacket because of the heat. On the other hand, a heavy black broadcloth overcoat and one of his dark business suits would have made him seem utterly intimidating to Linnet, so although he hadn’t chosen his clothes with the impression they might have on her in mind, it was just as well that he’d chosen as he had.

    “I bet on the blue one!” said Fabien to Annie with a giggle as his uncle forged ahead.

    “Imbécile,” she said morosely.

    “Pas terrible,” he decided, tiptoeing.

    “Does she look like his petite dame, grand con?” she replied witheringly.

    “Oh. Um... No, but on the other hand the petite dame isn’t en pyjama!” he said with a giggle.

    “Shut up. Come on,” said Annie morosely, giving him a shove.

    “Yes, let’s get it over with,” agreed Marie-Claire, taking another look at the brightly coloured trio and wincing.

    They trailed glumly in Gilles’s wake.

    Rose, who was carrying Fergie, was peering and trying to tiptoe. “I can’t see him! Can you see him?” she panted. “Fergie, keep still!”

    Linnet was endeavouring to cope with the trolley of luggage. She wasn’t the sort of person who captures a trolley at airports from under the noses of five hundred competing passengers but fortunately Rose was. “She doesn’t want to go to the toilet, does she?” she asked in a voice of doom.

    Rose gulped. “Fergie, you wanna go toilet?” she demanded grimly.

    Linnet tiptoed and peered. “I can’t see one.”

    “‘Toilettes’,” said Rose helpfully. “—Do ya?” she insisted grimly.

    “No! Wanna walk!” she snapped.

    “You can’t walk, there’s all these people, Fergie, you might get crushed. Look for Gi’, eh? Where’s Gi’?”

    “I can’t see him,” reported Linnet. “I can’t see any signs saving ‘Toilettes’, either.”

    “WC?” suggested Rose, pronouncing it “Vessie” as Mémé had.

    “Oh.” Linnet tiptoed and peered.

    “C’est moi que tu cherches, je crois!” said a light baritone with a laugh in it.

    “Non: je cherche ‘WC’. –Oh!” gasped Linnet, turning puce.

    “Tu veux faire pipi?” he said with a laugh.

    “No. Um—hullo, Gilles,” said Linnet in a tiny voice, staring at her toes. He looked so... huge. And unapproachable. And awfully French. Oh, help. Maybe it had been a mistake to come.

    “Hullo, Linnet,” replied Gilles uncertainly.

    Linnet looked up at him doubtfully. He said hoarsely: “Shall you kiss me?”

    “Yes,” she said huskily, nodding. “Okay.”

    Gilles wrenched the trolley out of her grip and swept her into his arms.

    Behind him, his daughters had gone very pale. Marie-Claire was also looking very sick. Annie was scowling horribly. Fabien, on the other hand, was all pink and interested.

    “Voilà!” he said at last with a laugh. “Tu ne m’avais pas oubié, j’espère?”

    “No. I couldn’t see you,” said Linnet dazedly.

    “You see me now, I hope?” he said with a smile.

    “Mm!” she said, nodding and gulping.

    “Don’t cry, ma mie,” he said, putting an arm round her shoulders and turning her gently towards her relatives. “You are here now: everything will be all right. And here are Rose and Fergie! Hullo, my dears!”

    “Hullo, Gilles,” said Rose, beaming at him. The passionate embrace she’d just witnessed had stunned her, but also very much pleased her.

    Gilles kissed her gently on both cheeks and said: ‘‘And Fergie: have you forgotten Gi’? Will you let me give you a big kiss, hein?”

    “Gi’,” replied Fergie. “I been on a big plane!”

    “Indeed you have, mignonne, a very big plane, and come a very long way,” he said, kissing her rosy cheek. “Will you come to me? –Ah: voilà!” he said with a pleased laugh as Fergie let herself be transferred from Rose’s shoulder to his.

    Behind him, Fabien was raising his eyebrows and suggesting in an undertone to his cousins that their Papa was gaga, and Marie-Claire and Annie were glaring at him.

    “Whew!” said Rose, grinning. “She’s getting heavy. She’s grown a lot, this last year.”

    “I’m FREE!” she shouted.

    “Yes, of course you are three, Fergie, you are a big girl now!” said Gilles, kissing her again. “And who is this? Yellow Bunny has come on the plane with you, I see?”

    “’Ellow Bunny, he wasn’t burned up,” she said solemnly. “Our house was all burned up. Teddy, he was burned up.”

    “Teddy—? Ah, merde, son nounours?”

    “It’s all right, he wasn’t her favourite,” said Rose hastily.

    “Barbie was a brand from the burning, though, as well as Yellow Bunny,” said Linnet with a twinkle in her eye. “Likewise Fozzie Bear.”

    “Fozzie Bear? Ce n’était pas le nounours?”

    “No, he was a Christmas present.”

    “I got him for Christmas,” said Fergie.

    “Did you, my darling? That was nice. I have some more Christmas presents also for you, at my home,” he said.

    “Gilles!” protested Linnet. “You’ll spoil her!”

    “Non, non, pas possible!” he said with a laugh. “—Maman and I, we have thought if a small person’s things burned up, a small person deserves a second Christmas,” he said to Rose.

    “That’s awfully decent of you, Gilles,” she said, pinkening and smiling. “She’ll be thrilled.”

    “Have you been on a plane, Gi’?” said the little solemn voice.

    Under cover of her gaga father’s replying that yes, he had been on a big plane: one must come on a big plane to get to France from Australia, Annie said grimly to her relatives: “Mais on pronounce pas l’L post-vocalique, en Australie?”

    Fabien reddened; Marie-Claire glared at her.

    Linnet turned her head and said with a twinkle in her eye: “Surtout pas quand on n’a que trois ans. Ni l’Y initial non plus: vous l’avez entendue dire ’Ellow Bunny? D’habitude en anglais on dit ‘Yellow Bunny’, même en Australie.”

    Rose choked, but looked at her sister in horror. Fabien went off in a terrific giggling fit.

    “Quite. I think that is enough of the sotto voce asides; as you see, Linnet and Rose understand you perfectly well,” said Gilles to his red-faced and glaring younger daughter in English. “But we will all speak English, I think, just at present, or Fergie will not understand us. She has had sufficient strange experiences for the time being, without adding a strange language as well.”

    “Oncle Gilles, pas si vi— Eugh... Please slow down;” said Fabien, very weakly.

    Gilles eyed him drily. “Make an effort, Fabien. –Linnet, my darling, these horrible people whom you have routed so successfully are my relatives. This is my elder daughter, Marie-Claire,” he said, drawing her forward with the arm that didn’t have Fergie perched in it. “Marie-Claire, this is Linnet Muller, and this is her sister, Rose Bayley, and of course this small person is Fergie!” he added with a smile.

    Marie-Claire held out her hand to Linnet. “How do you do, Linnet?” she said, going pink. She glanced nervously at her father but he didn’t order her to embrace la petite dame.

    “Hullo, Marie-Claire,” said Linnet in a tiny, shy voice, shaking her hand.

    Marie-Claire and Rose then shook hands, Marie-Claire saying: “How do you do, Rose?” and Rose replying cheerfully: “Hi, Marie-Claire, it’s nice to meet you. What a fabulous coat: did you get it in Paris?”

    “Eugh.... Yes,” she said weakly. “Thank you, Rose. It is—Papa, what is prêt-à-porter?” she asked, flushing.

    “Ready-to-wear,” said Rose immediately.

    “Merci. Eugh, yes, my coat is ready-to-wear. I buy it aux— at the Galeries Lafayette.”

    “Is that a nice shop?” asked Rose in her vernacular. Marie-Claire looked helpless.

    “Say yes,” said Annie scowling, “et finissons-en!”

    “It is a grande surface but we do not know the word in English; I think you would say it is a very nice shop, Rose,” said Gilles kindly. “—Mais dis bonjour au bébé!” he said sharply to Marie-Claire.

    Reddening, Marie-Claire, who had never spoken to a small child in English before, let alone one whose English was more fluent than hers, said in a small voice: “Hullo, Fergie.”

    Both the Muller sisters immediately registered that she pronounced it “Fair-gay.” They avoided each other’s eyes.

    “‘Fergie’,” corrected Gilles heavily. “Fergie, this is Marie-Claire; can you say ‘hullo’?”

    Fergie hid her face in his shoulder.

    “Tu vois?” said Annie rudely and scornfully.

    “Shut up. And come here. –This uncouth person is my younger daughter: Annie. Annie, shake hands with Linnet.”

    Scowling, Annie stuck her hand out.

    “You don’t have to shake hands. We don’t much, at home,” said Linnet mildly.

    Annie went very red.

    “On the contrary, my dear, she most certainly does,” said Gilles in a hard voice.

    To Annie’s astonishment Linnet went redder than she was, said awkwardly to her: “Sorry,” and shook hands immediately.

    Fabien had watched this byplay in a state of flabbergasted suspended animation. He came to and hurried forward as Annie shook hands with Rose and said: “Hullo, I am Fabien.”

    “He is my...” Gilles’s voice trailed off. “He calls me ‘uncle’,” he said lamely.

    “I know: Monsieur Bertrand’s grandson,” agreed Linnet, nodding. “You’re the youngest, aren’t you?”

    “Eugh... yes,” he agreed.

    “Sort of a first cousin umpteen times removed!” said Linnet, laughing, and shaking hands with him.

    Fabien hadn’t understood “umpteen times removed” but he had certainly understood the tone and the smile. Not to say the earlier put-down of Annie. Not to say entirely sympathizing with her reaction to Oncle Gilles’s telling Annie off over the hand-shaking business. So he replied carefully in his heavily accented English, one eye on his “uncle”: “You don’t have to shake hands weeth me, because in France, you know, one kisses the cheek!” He laughed and embraced Linnet heartily on both cheeks before she could move. “Welcome to France, Linnet! It’s so nice to meet you!”

    “Thanks,” said Linnet, very pink.

    The eye that was on Oncle Gilles had perceived to its surprize that the Comte, far from scowling awfully, was giving him an approving smile; so Fabien then greeted Rose in the same way. Rose replied that she was thrilled to be here, and did he live at the château, too?

    Fergie refused to be introduced to any of Gilles’s relations and continued to bury her face in his shoulder, so finally he said: “Well, shall we go? But my dears, where is your baggage?” he said to Linnet, staring at the trolley, which held only three small zippered hold-alls and a large shopping bag.

    “Here,” she said blankly.

    “Everything else was burnt up,” Rose reminded him.

    “Teddy, he was all burnt up!” added Fergie, raising her head from his shoulder.

    “Oui, oui, mignonne, on le sait, and I will buy you a new teddy,” he promised vaguely. “But—eugh...”

    “We thought the shops would be better in Paris,” said Rose cheerfully, “so we just bought a few basics at Meyer.”

    “Mey’card!” piped Fergie, beaming,

    Gilles kissed her gently. “Yes, indeed, my darling, your Mummy uses her Meyercard; aren’t you a clever girl?”

    “You are right, Rose,” said Marie-Claire abruptly, going very pink. “Of course the shops are so much better at Paris.”

    “‘In’ Paris,” murmured Gilles, smiling at her. “But of course! You girls will be able to do much shopping! That will be fun, hein?”

    “‘A lot of shopping’,” murmured Linnet.

    “Ah: ‘a lot of shopping,’ is it?” he said with immense courtesy. Linnet went into a giggling fit, and he sniggered pleasedly.

    His relatives had followed this exchange with bulging eyes. At this point Fabien winked at Marie-Claire. She gulped. “So we go?” he said loudly and cheerfully. “I take thees—eugh— C’est quoi, en anglais?” he asked Linnet, taking her trolley.

    “Um—trolley, I suppose. Um—no, it’s okay, Fabien, I can—”

    “Rubbish,” said Gilles, taking her hand firmly. “You must have this hand free for me, and you cannot possibly steer a trolley with only one hand.”

    Linnet went bright pink and laughed awkwardly.

    “Why? Is she so weak?” asked Annie scornfully, not revealing the effort it had taken to produce this remark in a foreign language in front of people who used it so effortlessly.

    “No, but the trolley’s got wobbly wheels!” squeaked Linnet. She gave a stifled giggle and looked nervously up at Gilles.

    “Very wobbly,” he agreed, shoulders shaking.

    “Wibbly-wobbly wheels,” contributed Fergie suddenly. “C’n I go in the trolley, Aunty Linnet?”

    “No: it has weeb-lay wobb-lay wheels!” gasped Fabien ecstatically.

    “No, it’s not like a supermarket trolley, Fergie,” said Linnet feebly.

    Gilles was trying not to laugh. “Eugh—no, Fergie, not at airports. We will find the car now, okay?”

    “C’n I go inna car?” she asked with a frown.

    “She’s a bit confused,” murmured Rose, coming up close on that side.

    “Yes, I see that, Rose, my dear. We shall go, okay?” he said, setting off. “And by the time Fergie has had a sleep—well, by this time tomorrow, I think—she will start to settle.”

    “Yes. She was very good on the plane,” she confided. “Weren’t ya, Fergie? You were a good girl!”

    “I been on a big plane, Gi’,” agreed Fergie. “I was brave. The toilet, it went V-R-ROOM!”

    “Actually, she was terri— Um—elle avait très peur des toilettes,” explained Rose.

    “O, là, là: la pauvre petite!” he said.

    Fabien had come up close on Linnet’s other hand. “You see how nicely we all speak Engleesh,” he said. Linnet went into a giggling fit. Fabien grinned.

    Annie was walking along at Fabien’s other side, scowling. Now she said across the trolley to Linnet: “So at that age, they lie very much?”

    “Annie!” gasped Fabien, turning scarlet.

    “No, it’s okay. I understand: it’s hard to say things properly in a foreign language, isn’t it?” said Linnet,

    Annie nodded mutely, biting her lip and glancing nervously at her father, who appeared not to have heard the exchange.

    “She isn’t exactly lying, Annie, though it’s true what Rose said: she was terrified of them.”—Annie nodded.—“I think when she says something like that she’s telling a story... Blow. I don’t mean— I mean, ‘elle raconte une petite histoire,’ not ‘elle ment’,” she said.

    Anne nodded again, looking puzzled.

    “Yes. And she’s doing it so as to—to absorb the event into her consciousness. To understand it—I think I mean master it,” said Linnet. “Um—maîtriser?”—Annie nodded.—“Yes. So as to be able to manage it. Not to be frightened of it any more.”

    “I understand you...” said Annie slowly.

    Suddenly Gilles leant across Linnet and translated her whole speech rapidly.

    “I am understanding!” shouted Annie, turning puce.

    “Yes. It’s all right, Gilles,” said Linnet, squeezing his hand. “She did understand, I could see. She was thinking about it, weren’t you, Annie?”

    “Yes,” said Annie, glaring at her Papa.

    “It’s interesting, isn’t it?” said Linnet in her detached way.

    “Yes. It’s interesting,” said Annie, looking resentfully at Gilles.

    He smiled a little. “Yes, it is, indeed: very interesting.”

    Annie looked baffled.

    Gilles began to urge Marie-Claire to tell Rose what was to be found at Les Galeries Lafayette at the moment.

    Fabien grinned to himself. “Linnet, what ees een thees bag?” he asked carefully, nodding at the big paper carrier “It looks most—eugh... It tempts!”

    “‘Tempting,’” said Annie.

    “Ah: yes. It looks most tempteeng!” he said, laughing.

    “Uh—well, it’s duty-frees,” said Linnet. “Help, I don’t know what that is in French.”

    “The whole world understands ‘duty free’,” murmured Gilles.

    “Yeah, I thought so,” she agreed, grinning. “Um—well, it’s for you, really, Gilles.”

    “For me?”

    “From both of us.”

    “That was most thoughtful of you, my darling.”

    “That’s all right,” said Linnet gruffly, still very pink.

    “We hope you like it,” said Rose shyly. “It’s whisky. It’s supposed to be a good brand.”

    Fabien grinned. “You must better geeve eet to me, for he weell not like eet, he is most—eugh—”

    “Fussy,” said Annie.

    “Mais non!”

    “Si: c’est le mot de Grannie.”

    “That is the mother of Oncle Gilles, Linnet. We call her ‘Tante Roma’,” Fabien explained, as Gilles, Rose and Marie-Claire were now discussing whiskies.

    “I see: he didn’t tell me that. And you and Marie-Claire call her ‘Grannie,’ do you, Annie?” said Linnet, carefully pronouncing it as she had.

    “Yes,” she said warily.

    “That’s cute. –And the word is fussy!” said Linnet with a laugh. “We went to McDonald’s with him once and he just hated the food! You should have seen the expression on his face!”

    “Okay: fussy,” allowed Fabien, grinning.

    “Papa went to McDonald’s?” said Annie dazedly.

    “Yes: Fergie likes it,” said Linnet simply.

    “I can eat a hamburger all up!” she cried from Gilles’s shoulder.

    “Elle ment pour de vrai, cette fois!” said Linnet to Annie, laughing.

    “’Ellow Bunny, he can eat a hamburger all up!” she cried.

    “Go on, great psychologue,” said Gilles to Linnet, chuckling: “How would you define that for Annie?”

    “Yes: go on, Linnet!” said Annie with a sudden laugh.

    “It’s a lie,” offered Fabien.

    “No! Idiot!” cried Linnet. “It’s a fantasy!”

    “Yes: all little kids have them,” said Rose across the others, grinning.

    “Ye-es... I see,” said Annie slowly. “Do you mean she—she knows that to say she can eat a hamburger herself, it is a lie, and that to say the ’Ellow Bunny he can do it, is—is only a fantasy?”

    “Mm!” choked Linnet, giggling helplessly.

    Gilles put his arm around her waist and drew her into his side. “Of course. She’s not stupid, la petite, you know,” he said to his younger daughter.

    “But—but why does she say it, Papa, if she knows that it is a fantasy?” stumbled Annie.

    Fabien went into choked hysterics.

    “Stop LAUGHING!” cried Fergie crossly.

    “Yes—eugh—stop laughing,” agreed Gilles feebly.

    “They do at that age,” said Rose cheerfully. “—Marie-Claire, have Galeries Lafayette got nice undies?”

    On Gilles’s Fergie side the young ladies, with some confusion and translating, talked lingerie. On his Linnet side, Linnet leaned against him and shook quietly, and Fabien erupted into an occasional muffled snort. Annie was silent, pondering the mystery of Fergie’s knowing she was lying but still wanting to indulge in it. Gilles headed for the exit, smiling.

    At the exit he lowered Fergie to the floor and said: “Now I fetch the car, okay? And you must put your coats on, my dears: it’s very cold outside.”

    Fabien was doing up his anorak. “Yes, it ees three degrees. Also the wind, it... makes colder,” he ended weakly.

    “The chill factor: your English is worse than I thought,” said Gilles briskly.

    “I didn’t even know that expression, Gilles!” objected Linnet.

    “Lin-net!” cried her sister.

    “Ignore Linnet when she says she did not know such-and-such; Rose has told me that she is a hopeless dreamer,” said Gilles briskly to his young relatives.

    Fabien smiled weakly; the girls gulped.

    “Wanna go inna ca-ar!” wailed Fergie, clutching his leg fiercely.

    “Ow!” he gasped. “Eugh—yes, mignonne, you shall come in the car, but first Gi’ and Fabien must fetch the cars, okay? And it is very, very cold out there, you must wait here for us.” He squatted down to her. “Donne-moi son petit manteaux, ma mie,” he said.

    Linnet handed him Fergie’s little green parka, blushing.

    Gilles then discovered she had no gloves.

    “Oncle Gilles, she can be in the car vairy queeck,” said Fabien.

    “Yeah, she’ll be okay,” said Rose bracingly. “We’ll get her some mittens when we got to the shops.”

    “I can be a liddle kitten!” she cried.

    “Hein?” he said, looking up helplessly at her relatives.

    “Do up the zip, Gilles,” said Linnet.

    “She means like the three little kittens,” explained Rose, putting her own parka on.

    Gilles did up Fergie’s zipper in a numbed way. “Three little kittens?”

    “‘Free liddle kittens, they lost their mittens,’” said Fergie.

    “C’est charmant, ça!” he said with a laugh.

    Scowling, she repeated loudly: “‘Free liddle kittens—’”

    “Gilles doesn’t know it, Fergie!” said Linnet quickly.

    “Ah! It is a little poem, non?” he smiled.

    “Kittens—mittens!” gasped Fabien helplessly. “Evidemment!”

    “Stop LAUGHING!” she shouted. “You’re a silly boy!”

    “Indeed he is, Fergie, my darling, a very silly boy,” said Gilles, grinning. He stood up and said: “How does it continue?”

    “‘Three little kittens, they lost their mittens,’” said Linnet, sighing. “‘And they began to cry. Oh, mother dear, see here, see here, our mittens we have lost!’”

    “‘What, lost your mittens?’” Rose joined in.—Gilles jumped and gasped; Fabien was in ecstasy. The two French girls were biting their lips trying not to laugh.—“‘You naughty kittens! Oh, you shall have no pie.’ –What happened next?” she said to Fergie.

    “‘Free liddle kittens, they found their mittens! Oh, muvver dear, see here, see here, our mittens we have FOUND! –An’ ’oo shall have some pie!’ An’ they ate it all up!” she finished, beaming.

    “Adorable, non?” murmured Marie-Claire to her sister. Annie nodded, pinkening and smiling sheepishly.

    “Clever girl!” cried Rose, picking her up.

    “I can stand! I can STAND!” she shouted. Rose put her down again.

    “That is most clever, Rose!” agreed Marie-Claire, beaming at her.

    Rose winked. “Yeah, considering we only read the blimmin’ thing to her on the plane five hundred times.”

    “Six,” corrected Linnet glumly.

    Gilles put a hand in the middle of Fabien’s back. “Quick, before she shouts that you are a silly boy again!” he said, grinning. He propelled his shaking form out into the gale.

    “Say ‘Free liddle kittens!’” urged Fergie, pulling on Annie’s jeans leg.

    “But I do not know eet, Fergie!” she gasped.

    “‘Free liddle kittens—’” she prompted slowly.

    Gulping, Annie repeated: “‘Free liddle kittens.’”

    “‘They lost their mittens!’”

    “‘They lost their mittens.’ –Is that grammatically correct?” she asked carefully.

    “Dunno,” said Rose, grinning.

    “Doesn’t have to be: it’s a poem,” explained Linnet, also grinning.

    “Go ON! An-nie!” cried Fergie, tugging at her jeans leg.

    “Merde, elle a appris son nom!” gasped Marie-Claire.

    “She’s not dumb, ya know,” explained her mother tolerantly. “Come and sit down over here. –Yeah, come on, Fergie, you can teach Annie Three Little Kittens, okay. We’ll just sit on these nice seats.”

    When Gilles dashed in from the car Linnet and his younger daughter were sitting neatly side-by-side on the nice seats. Annie was talking animatedly. There was no sign of the others.

    Annie was telling Linnet, in French and in some detail, about her architecture course. She broke off short as her father came up to them.

    “Mais où sont les autres?” he asked.

    Annie explained that they’d taken Fergie to the toilet.

    Gilles said: “Oh,” fidgeted nervously, and looked over his shoulder. “I can’t stay parked out there, you know.”

    Annie decided they’d take the bags out. Gilles agreed. Linnet had a panic in case the others might come back and panic, so he ordered her to stay there. Linnet sat on by herself as Annie and her father took the bags out.

    “Where are they?” he demanded, coming back.

    “We said.”

    “Yes, but how long—” Gilles looked at his watch.

    “It takes a while,” said Linnet placidly. “You have to get her in and out of her tracksuit pants, you see.”

    “Oh.” He sat down limply beside her.

    “She’s probably having a go at the hand-driers, too,” she said placidly.

    “What?”

    “I can’t say that in French!” said Linnet with a laugh.

    “No—eugh—I understand you. But—”

    “Little kids are like that. They slow you down. You just have to go into a sort of—of grazing mode!” said Linnet, laughing suddenly.

    He goggled at her.

    “Moo,” said Linnet.

    He goggled at her.

    “Grazing. Like a cow. Very slow and placid.”

    “Mon Dieu,” he said, passing his hand over his head.

    “Did you think I’d flipped?”

    Gilles took her hand. “Linnet, please stop being so idiomatic.”

    “I don’t think I’m doing it on purpose.”

    “No,” he said, kissing her fingers. “My darling, do you not have any gloves, either?”

    “No. Nor mittens,” she said with a twinkle.

    “Mittens! She is so sweet!” he said enthusiastically.

    “Yeah. Sweet but she slows you down,” said Linnet with a grin.

    “Yes,” he admitted, smiling sheepishly. “Well, I have told Annie to sit in the car and pretend to be a poor orphan child who cannot drive if a big policeman comes along and tells her to move.

    “Little Orphan Annie,” agreed Linnet.

   He goggled at her.

    “Sorry; was that too idiomatic?” she said with a giggle.

    “Much.” He kissed her hand again, this time turning it over and pressing his face into the palm.

    Linnet sighed deeply.

    “I have missed you so much,” he said. “It was so wonderful when you telephoned.”

    “Was it?”

    “Yes. –I’m sorry, my dear, that must have sounded so selfish, considering you had telephoned to say the house was burned down. –Is it ‘down’ or ‘up’?”

    “Um—‘down’ in that context.”

    Gilles sighed. “English is so Germanic.”

    “I know. Especially when it’s idiomatic.”

    “You’re teasing me!” he discovered.

    “Mm. Don’t you like it?”

    He put an arm round her shoulders and picked up her hand with his other hand. “I adore it. –Darling, did you see how shocked my silly relatives were when you did it before? When you tell me to say ‘a lot of shopping.’”

    “Mm. I think they’re pretty much in awe of you. Actually, I think I’m pretty much in awe of you.”

    “No!” he protested.

    “It’s the clothes, I think,” said Linnet detachedly. “How many layers have you got on?”

    “How many— Darling, what are you talking about?”

    “You look so big,” she said simply; looking up at him.

    “Yes,” he said in a vague voice, putting his mouth gently on hers. After a moment Linnet made a little muffled noise and put a hand on his shoulder, and he pulled her tightly against him and went on kissing her until they were both breathless.

    “Aunty Linnet give Gi’ a big kiss;” said a little voice.

    Gilles looked round, laughing. “Indeed! And Gi’ gives Aunty Linnet a big kiss, also! –Come along, then,” he said, releasing Linnet and standing up. “The car is waiting.”

    Fergie held out her hand to him. “I beena big toilet.”

    “Have you, my darling? I am sure you were very brave.” He bent down and took her hand.

    “’Es. I dried my hands.”

    “Interminably, I’m afraid,” said Rose, grinning. “Did we keep you waiting long, Gilles?”

    “Well, I did not really notice, Rose!” he said with a laugh.

    Rose pinkened and also laughed, looking very pleased.

    “Is that your car?” said Fergie as they reached the doors.

    “Yes, that is mine, the black one,” he said, picking her up, “and now I put you into it very quick.” He dashed out with her.

    “Come, we hurry. It is very cold,” said Marie-Claire, hurrying in his wake.

    The two Muller sisters looked at each other limply.

    “You lose,” said Rose, though in a distinctly weak voice.

    Linnet nodded feebly. She had bet it would be a huge Citroën. Rose had veered between a Rolls Royce and a big Merc. It was the latter.

    “Come on,” said Rose, zipping the top two inches of her parka. They dashed out into the freezing gale.

    When they reached the car Fergie was in the back seat next to Marie-Claire wailing: “My seat! Where’s my seat?” and Gilles was looking horribly disconcerted.

    “She will not understand when I say she is to sit here between her Mummy and Marie-Claire,” he started to explain.

    “Not that, idiot!” said Linnet. “Her child-restraint, she means. Don’t tell me you haven’t got one!”

    “Linnet—Rose—I am so sorry; we never theenk,” faltered Marie-Claire.

    “She’ll be okay. She can have her seatbelt on. –Ya have got seatbelts, have ya?” said Rose to the Comte.

    “Eugh—well, yes.”

    “Come on, Fergie,” said Rose, getting in. “You can sit on the big seat like a grown-up. And wear a real seatbelt—see?”

    Fergie appeared mollified.

    “She’s all right,” said Linnet with a sigh. “If you can move up a bit, Rose, I’ll—”

    “But no!” cried Gilles. “You will be beside me! Annie is not to sit in the front—mais descends, grande imbécile!” he said to her.

    “I thought we must to speak Engleesh?” she replied. “Fabien is—eugh—disappeared. The—the man—the policeman—he—eugh—he commands him, go.”

    “‘He moved him on,’” said Linnet kindly. “That’s idiomatic.”

    To Annie’s mystification her father went into a sniggering fit at this one. “Yes, very!” he gasped. “So get out, Annie, and let Linnet get in!”

    “‘Get out’ or ‘in’ is probably Germanic,” said Linnet, smiling, as Annie got out to let her in. “Thanks, Annie,” she said over Annie’s Papa’s spluttering fit. “You pop in beside me; is he coming back?” she added, squeezing up.

    Gilles put his arm round her as Annie got in again. “‘Pop in beside’ is terribly idiomatic but I’m not sure if it’s Germanic,” he noted.

    Linnet collapsed in a fit of the giggles.

    “Oh,” said Annie in relief, closing the front passenger’s door. “It’s a joke. Eugh—Fabien does come back, he—he… makes the circle.”

    “What sort of car’s he got?” asked Rose, leaning forward. “Stop fussing, Fergie,” she added, as Fergie began to fuss about Fabien. “Didn’t you understand? Fabien’s got his own car, he’s just circling round because the cop moved him on.”

    There was a short silence. Those who had understood this idiomatic speech were waiting for Annie to respond.

    “There was a question in that, addressed to you, Annie,” said her father kindly.

    “I know!” said Annie crossly. “I— I— Does she mean the marque?” she asked Linnet.

    “Yes.”

    “And the colour,” added Rose.

    “Oh. Well, it is red.” She glanced at her father.

    “Vulgar,” said Gilles promptly.

    “Because you drive always boring black cars!” she cried.

    “Go on, tell Rose what brand it is,” he prompted.

    “‘Make’, not ‘brand’, Gilles,” said Linnet calmly. “It’s not a pot of jam.”

    “It resembles it, I assure you! Eugh—yes. ‘Make of car’,” he murmured,

    “Papa, I truly cannot say eet, in Engleesh!” burst out Annie.

    “Non. Calme-toi, mignonne.”—Annie was already very red. At this she went even redder.—“It is a small and very old Karmann-Ghia, Rose. Which he has had—eugh—painted red expressly. It makes a terrible noise, we will hear him coming long before he gets here.”

    “Yeah, they only had Vee-Dub engines, didn’t they?” she agreed. “—Look for a little red sports car, Fergie,” she ordered.

    Fergie twisted round as far as she could and peered.

    “So you know about cars, Rose?” asked Gilles. –His daughters both groaned.

    “Not really. Well, I know more than Linnet does, that’s for sure!” she said with a laugh. “But Kyle was interested in cars. He had a whole collection of models.” She sighed.

    “Daddy’s cars got all burnt up!” chirped Fergie.

    “Yes,” Rose agreed heavily. “Melted, most of them,” she informed the company. “I sort of thought—well, if Fergie ever has a son it would have been nice to pass them onto him.”

    “Yes,” said Gilles in a strangled voice.—His daughters were incapable of speech: Annie was staring rigidly ahead, blinking, and Marie-Claire was biting her lip and looking fixedly out of her side window.—“We were so very, very sorry to hear you had lost everything, Rose.”

    “Thanks,” said Rose, sighing again. “Aunty Mim’s putting together some photo albums for me, she’s got copies of almost everything—our wedding photos and so on—but everything else is gone.”

    “’Ellow Bunny, he wasn’t burnt up, Mummy,” said Fergie.

    “No, he was with us, wasn’t he? And Barbie and Fozzie.”

    “Uncle Jimmy’s car wasn’t burnt up.”

    “No, that’s right. –They saved the ruddy garage,” Rose informed the company. “That heap of Jimmy’s must be worth at least two hundred dollars, too.”

    Gilles swallowed, and gnawed his lip. “I should have made an effort to come out; I’m so sorry. But it was very difficult just at that—”

    Linnet put her hand on his knee. “No. We understood you were tied up. Didn’t we, Rose?”

    “Yeah. And there was nothing you could have done, Gilles. Mr Green said that by the time the firemen got there, the house was well ablaze.”

    Gilles had his hand over Linnet’s. He squeezed it hard. “Yes,” he said faintly.

    “Oh, well, it’s helped us make a clean break, I suppose!” said Rose bracingly.

    “Yes. We—we will do all we can to help you settle comfortably here, Rose,” said Gilles.

    “Yes,” croaked Marie-Claire.

    “Yes,” agreed Annie hoarsely.

    “That’s awfully nice of you,” said Rose composedly. “I was wondering if my share of the tontine money would run to a nice little house, Gilles? Somewhere in the country, I think.”

    “I am sure that would possible, my dear,” he agreed.

    “Good. That kindy your mother told Linnet about sounds really nice.”

    “Ye— Eugh—‘kindy’?”

    “Kindergarten. Maternelle,” she explained.

    “Oh!”

    “That is truly Germanic!” said Annie with a sudden loud guffaw.

    Gilles didn’t reproach her for this somewhat inappropriate note: he understood that it was a reaction to the previous tension. “Yes. Horribly, indeed. But ‘kindy’ is rather sweet.”

    “I beena kindy!” said Fergie on a defiant note.

    “Ooh! What a whopper!” gasped her mother.

    “Fergie, that’s an awful fib,” said Linnet, twisting round in the grip of her seatbelt.

    “I BEENA KINDY!” she shouted. “Wiv Monny!”

    “Oh,” said Linnet limply. “Yes. I’m sorry, Fergie, you did go one day with Monny to collect Jenny, didn’t you?”

    “’Es. I beena kindy,” she muttered, pouting.

    “Yeah, ’course. And soon you can start going to a lovely new kindy, Fergie,” said Rose. She asked Marie-Claire about the Christmas holidays here. After some initial language difficulties they were soon chatting happily.

    In the front seat Gilles’s hand was still on Linnet’s. He said nothing. Linnet didn’t speak, either.

    From Linnet’s other side Annie from time to time glanced warily at her father. After some time a feeling of desolation crept over her: she looked fiercely ahead, saying nothing.

    When a little red car drew up alongside and honked at them the three in the front seat all jumped. Then Gilles wound his window down and cried: “Where have you been?”

    Fabien had been expecting he might say something like this and he had his answer all prepared. “I have been around the block!” he shouted, grinning.

    Linnet leaned across Gilles. “Are you sure you don’t mean round the bend, Fabien?” she cried. Gilles choked. In the back, Rose collapsed in giggles.

    Fabien goggled at them. “Eugh—I—”

    “Hurry, Annie, or the cop will come and move us round the bend!” gasped Gilles.

    Annie scrambled out and got into Fabien’s little car. He waved jauntily to his Uncle Gilles, and drove off, yelling: “Suis moi!”

    “Does he know the way?” asked Rose.

    Gilles let the clutch in. “Yes, certainly. We will go into Paris to give you some lunch, Rose. First we shall have a wash and brush-up at Isabelle’s flat—if you would not object?” he said to Linnet.

    “Me?” she replied blankly. “Shouldn’t you be asking Isabelle?”

    “Maman and Zizi have said please to use the flat,” said Marie-Claire, leaning forward. “I also live there, you see. When I am at—in Paris.”

    “I see,” said Linnet, nodding. “That’s good: we’ll be able to take Fergie to the toilet in peace,” she added to Rose.

    “I BEEN!” she shouted.

    “Yes, but you might need to go again before lunch,” said Linnet. “Um... Where were you planning to have this lunch, Gilles?” she asked cautiously.

    “Eugh—why do you ask, my darling? The plane lands quite early, it will be certainly lunchtime by the time we get to Paris—”

    “Just answer the question!” cried Linnet.

    “Grannie always does that, Linnet; Papa does not realize, I think, that he does it too,” said Marie-Claire.

    “Does what?” he said blankly.

    “Hah! You see?” she cried.

    “Yes,” said Linnet. “He does it all the time, doesn’t he?” She smiled over her shoulder at Marie-Claire. Maire-Claire smiled back, nodding.

    “I do not— What do I do?” he said plaintively.

    “Tu divagues, Papa!”

    “You go off at a tangent,” said Linnet firmly.

    “At a— Oh. Well, Maman most certainly does, but...” He swallowed. “What was the question again, mon chou?” he said meekly.

    Choking, Linnet gasped: “Where are we gonna have lunch!”

    “Oh. Well, at a nice restaurant, quite simple, on the grands boulevards. Not—not fancy at all but much nicer than—eugh—M,C—”

    “We get it,” said Rose hurriedly.

    “I think you would say a family restaurant?”

    “Like Sizzler’s,” she agreed.

    “Eugh—that is the place we had the schnitzels, Rose, while Linnet had the fish?”—Rose agreed.—“Well, very much the French equivalent, yes, but one does not have to queue: the waitress will take our order. That is more comfortable, I think?”

    “Yes, sounds good.”

    “Yes. Papa weell not go there for dinner,” explained Marie-Claire.

    “We get it!” said Rose, laughing.

    “At first he wants to take you to a most smart restaurant, but Grannie says that would not be suitable for a child,” explained Marie-Claire carefully.

    “Yes,” he agreed. “O—mon Dieu!”

    “What?” said Linnet.

    “I—I completely forget— How remiss of me! I hope you will forgive me, my dears!” he gasped.

    “What, Gilles?” said Linnet firmly.

    “Maman wishes to come to meet you, very much, but I would not let her, she has had a bad cold, and the weather is so frightful. She sends her love and—and greetings.”

    “That was nice of her,” she said, smiling.

    “Yes,” he said, biting his lip. “Oh, dear. She told me most expressly to say it to you first thing—”

    “That’s all right,” said Linnet in some surprize. “She won’t be cross, will she?”

    “Well—eugh—well, I think she will be a little cross but— Oh! Maman is not a dragon!” he said, laughing a little, as he caught sight of the expression on her face.

    “Non, non!” agreed Marie-Claire. “Grannie is—most—eugh— Papa, what is the Engleesh for ‘sympa’?”

    “I think one could only say ‘nice’ in English, my dear. English is such a tepid language,” he said with distaste.

    “Nice? Well, Grannie is so nice,” said Marie-Claire on a dubious note.

    “Yes. But it was unpardonably rude of me,” said Gilles, flushing.

    “That’s all right! Anyone could forget, in the heat of the moment!” said Rose, chuckling.

    “In the— Oh!” he said, glancing sideways at Linnet’s pink cheeks. “Oh, absolutely! But I am very glad you understand. And—and you will not think Maman was—was ignoring you, hein?” he said, touching Linnet’s pink-tracksuited knee fleetingly.

    “No, of course not.”

    “She is not vairy sick, only she is an old lady, you know? So Papa says she must not come in the cold weather,” explained Marie-Claire carefully.

    “No, of course not!” agreed Rose. “How old is she?”

    “Eugh... Sixty-nine, only soon it is her birthday.”

    “It’s her birthday at the end of this month and she will be seventy, and Marie-Claire has never been able to count in English!” said Gilles, laughing. “Maman was twenty when I was born, and soon it will be my birthday, also. But I think Marie-Claire can do that number, it’s only when she gets to sixty-ten that she becomes confused!”

    “Stop, Papa!” said Marie-Claire, very pink and laughing.

    “So when’s your birthday, Gilles?” asked Rose.

    “February,” he and Linnet said in chorus.

    “Yes,” he added, smiling. “The twelfth of February.”

    Marie-Claire was muttering to herself. “Fifty!” she said triumphantly. “Papa will be fifty!”

    “Ah, she has learned not to say ‘Fivety’,” he noted in surprize.

    “Stop!” she squeaked, giggling.

    Gilles hesitated. Then he said to Linnet in a low voice: “Does that seem very old?”

    “Not very old, no. Objectively, I suppose it is quite old. But I can’t think of you as old or any particular age, if that’s what you mean. You’re just you.”

    Gilles was very flushed. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. He took his hand off the wheel for an instant and touched her knee again. “Yes.”

    In the back Marie-Claire and Rose had both turned very pink. They glanced cautiously at each other and smiled tremulously.

    The big black car sped on. Fergie had nodded off. After a while Rose asked where they were. Marie-Claire and she began to chat cheerfully.

    The two in the front were silent. Occasionally Gilles touched Linnet’s knee. After quite some time he picked up her hand and put it on his knee. Linnet said nothing but her cheeks got very pink. Gilles said nothing, either, but his breathing quickened and deepened, and a flush rose to his high cheekbones.

    As Annie scrambled into his car Fabien had said: “Hé bien?”

    “Ta gueule,” she growled, doing up her seatbelt.

    Fabien shrugged, shouted “Suis moi!” to his Oncle Gilles, and drove off.

    Annie didn’t say anything for some time so Fabien didn’t either. At last she said in a shaken voice: “He—he was actually making jokes.” She swallowed. “Letting her tease him.”

    “Didn’t you like her?”

    “Of course I liked her, grand con!” she snarled.

    “What’s up, then?” he said mildly. “I thought she was really sympa. Intelligent, too. And Rose seems okay. Marie-Claire and her seemed to be getting on together, didn’t they? And the little girl’s very sweet—”

    “Ouais! Tais-TOI, Fabien!” shouted Annie.

    Instead of shutting up Fabien replied: “I should have thought you’d want your father to be happy.”

    “Of course I—” Annie broke off, gnawing at her lip.

    “Don’t you think Linnet would be right for him?”

    “Yes!”

    There was a moment’s silence. Then she added sulkily: “Too good for him, if you ask me.”

    “Perhaps. You never give him credit.”

    “What for?” she said sulkily.

    “Being a pretty decent father, as fathers go, for one thing,” he replied mildly.

    “He’s a stiff-necked, old-fashioned, chauvinist capitalist!”

    “I know that, Annie. That’s not what I said. I think he’s pretty decent. And you must admit he’s behaved very well over this tontine thing.”

    “So he ought to,” she said sourly.

    “I agree. Only compared to Grandpère—not to mention Guy!” he said with feeling.

    There was a short silence.

    “Ouais, t’as raison,” she admitted. “But Oncle Mathieu’s been okay over it, Fabien.”

    He sighed. “Maybe. Only sometimes I think Pop’s too thick to take in all its implications. Though he did tear a strip off Maman when she tried to make him transfer all his cash to a numbered Swiss account.”

    Annie gulped. “Oncle Mathieu tore a strip off Tante Pauline?”

    “Ouais. And before you say you didn’t think he had it in him, nor did I. But he was really mad.”

    “I see,” she said faintly.

    They drove on. Occasionally Fabien glanced cautiously at her. Finally Annie burst out: “He’s—he’s sort of—adopted them!”

    Fabien had noticed that. He looked at her with some sympathy. “I suppose he has. But it’s only natural. He is going to marry her, isn’t he?”

    “How would I know?” she shouted angrily.

    “I hope he does; I like her.”

    Annie scowled horribly. She twisted up a pinch of fabric of the knee of her jeans.

    Fabien swallowed a sigh. “Look, would you rather he married that cow of a Verdeuil woman?”

    “Mais NON!” she shouted. “T’es con, ou quoi?”

    Fabien didn’t reply directly. But after a few moments he said: “You’ve ignored him ever since—well, before the year you did your bac, even.”

    Annie pouted.

    “Look, he feels he owes them something. And besides, he’s that type.”

    “What ‘type’?” she replied in a rude voice.

    “Tante Roma says he’s always adored little girls: she reckons he was nuts about you and Marie-Claire when you were tiny. The paternal type, I suppose,” he said, shrugging.

    “Paternal! Paternalistic, you mean!” she cried scornfully.

    “Put it like that, if you like,” he agreed mildly. “But Tante Roma says there’s a gap in his life and not to be surprized if he fills it with ces Frazer.”

    Annie sniffed scornfully. “All right, they can have it, if that’s what they want! Alternately spoiled and bullied! And patronized to death, into the bargain! Huh!”

    “You must be blind,” he responded calmly.

    “What’s that supposed to mean?”

    “I can see Linnet’s a bit shy—well, that’s natural, she doesn’t know him very well yet and he is twice her age. But—well, I grant you he may do his best to spoil her. But he won’t patronise her; if you couldn’t see that patronising her was the last thing he had on his mind you really must be blind. And he won’t bully her, either: he doesn’t really bully. If you want to see what a bully is, you should get a load of Guy with that dumb tart Chloé.” He sniffed.

    “He’s not still going round with her, is he?”

    “Oh, he condescends to bully her every so often, when he’s got nothing better to do.”

    “Oh. –Well, anyway, you’re wrong: of course Papa will bully her!”

    “You are blind.”

    “He bullies everybody!” she shouted.

    “Tu déconnes,” he replied calmly.

    “He does!” she shouted.

    This time Fabien informed her she was dingue. And that in the first place Oncle Gilles didn’t bully, he only tried to make people do what he thought was best for them, and in the second place, he was bossy, all right, but that wasn’t bullying.

    “Well, okay; but he—he is terribly—terribly aggressive, Fabien,” she said uncertainly. “Will Linnet be able to take it day in, day out? She seems so—so gentle. And not only that, he—he dominates people, tu sais?”

    “Look,” said Fabien, going rather red: “it’s different between them, see? She’s not his daughter.”

    “Ouais, mais quand même... He’ll still try to make her do things for her own good.”

    “I dare say he will. I think she’ll stand up to him okay. –Actually, I don’t think I mean that, exactly. She’ll... go her own way regardless? Something like that.”

    Annie gulped. “Papa won’t like that.”

    “Yes, he will, silly, he’s in love with her.”

    “Oui, mais…”

    Fabien glanced at her cautiously. She was blinking hard and twisting at her jeans again. He didn’t say anything more. He did feel rather sorry for her, but on the other hand he was fond of Oncle Gilles and he knew that Annie had had virtually ignored him for at least the last three years. Fabien, of course, was the same age as Annie but unlike her he had made the discovery that adults had feelings. He felt rather superior to his cousin and after a while this became a more general feeling of wellbeing, and he began to whistle.

    “Stop WHISTLING!” she shouted.

    “Was I? Sorry.”

    After a moment she said: “If he marries Linnet, what will happen to La Rance?”

    “Haven’t a clue!” said Fabien cheerfully. “Didn’t you ask him?”

    “No,” she said, pouting.

    “Well, if you don’t ask, you won’t know, will you?”

    “He won’t tell me!”

    “Try asking,” said Fabien, very drily indeed.

    Annie opened her mouth. She shut it again.

    Fabien felt he’d scored one, there. After some time he began to hum. Annie shouted at him not to hum but this time he didn’t apologize, he told her that she could get out and walk if she preferred to: it was his car and he’d whistle or hum in it as he pleased.

    Annie lapsed into scowling silence.

    Fabien continued to alternately whistle and hum.

    In the hugely elaborate silver and gold spare bedroom of the Fleuriot du Hamel apartment Rose and Linnet looked at each other limply.

    “Help,” said Rose, suddenly sitting down on the huge silver and gold bedspread.

    Linnet collapsed beside her. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

    “Nor me. Well, Marie-Claire did say this Zizi type’s a banker.”

    “Mm.” Linnet chewed on her lip. “Rose, they—they all seem to be on awfully good terms. I mean Gilles and—and Isabelle and her second husband,” she gulped.

    “Ye-ah... Well, we haven’t met them yet. Only it does seem a bit funny, him just walking into her flat and everything, doesn’t it?”

    Linnet nodded.

    “Yes. Well—um—maybe the French do it like that? Amicable divorce?” She shrugged.

    “Yes,” said Linnet in a low voice. “He—well, he hasn’t told me all that much about her, but I think she must be very fashionable,”—Rose looked at the modern chic that surrounded them and nodded feelingly—“and—and very cold.”

    “Well, you’re one up on her, there!” she retorted cheerfully.

    Linnet went very pink. “Mm.”

    “Well, you don’t feel cold about him, do ya?” she said, laughing.

    “No,” she whispered, now a glowing scarlet.

    “No. And I can see for myself he’s still totally crackers about you. –He was awfully nervous just at first, did you notice?”

    Linnet nodded.

    “He is nice,” said Rose happily. “I’m glad I came.”

    Linnet looked round the bedroom uneasily. “Even with all this?”

    “Uh—well, can the château be this bad? Isn’t it an old house?”

    Linnet swallowed. “Ye-es...”

    “Besides, this isn’t bad,” said Rose, narrowing her eyes. “It’s just that we’re not used to being filthy rich.”

    “Rose! It’s terrible!” she gasped. “I’ve never seen anything so—so ostentatious! And the lounge-room’s worse! All that stark black and white!”

    “I suppose it is a bit overdone, yeah. –That white rug alone woulda cost what Kyle earned in a year,” she noted.

    Linnet nodded feelingly.

    “And didja see those shells on the mantelpiece?”—Linnet nodded again.—“I looked at some big ones like that when we were in Sydney—you and Gilles were arguing with the lawyers. I thought I might buy one or two—I saw some like them in Bali and they weren’t too dear there. Only they cost the earth!”

    “Well, perhaps she got them in Bali,” said Linnet without conviction.

    Rose made a rude noise. “And what’s more, I betcha anything ya like she chucks them out when she’s sick of it all!”

    “I’m sure you’re right,” said Linnet in a hollow voice.

    There was a pause.

    “What did you think of the girls?” asked Rose cautiously.

    “I like them. I think Annie resents me a bit, but I like her. And Marie-Claire’s nice, isn’t she?”

    Rose nodded.

    “And Fabien’s really sweet, isn’t he?” said Linnet, beaming at her.

    Rose grinned. “Yeah; he’s male, too.”

    “Eh?”

    “You’ve never liked women much, have you? –Oh, it’s all right: Fabien likes you, too!” she said, laughing.

    “Rose!” she gasped in horror.

    “Come on, Linnet!”

    “I don’t— I—”

    “It’s all to the good, actually,” she decided with narrowed eyes. “I think Gilles likes the very feminine type.”

    “I’m not!” she gasped.

    “Of course you are, ya nana! I don’t mean, um, domesticated, you’re not that, that’s for sure. And it’s not just a matter of having dress-sense.”

    “That’s good,” said Linnet limply.

    “Well, I can’t describe it, that sort of thing’s never been my bag. But men usually think you’re cute, I’ve noticed that. –Lorrae Hordern can’t stand you, have you ever noticed?”

    “No!”

    Rose got up. “Yeah. Jealous. Not just because of Andy fancying you in the sweet by and by, either, since you’re not asking. And come to think of it, Monica gets edgy as Hell if you’re around Dean too long.”

    “Rose, that isn’t true!”

    “’Course it is,” she said calmly. “And that lawyer—not Peter, the older one, his uncle—he had his eyes out on stalks the minute you walked into the office. Buffy told me he fancied you dead rotten, only I thought it was just one of her fantasies,” she said, grinning. “—Come on, let’s see if Fergie’s flooded the ensuite, yet. What’s the penalty for piddling on the floor of up-market French society dames’ incredibly up-market guest ensuites, do ya reckon?”

    Linnet gulped, but managed to say: “It’s gotta be the guillotine, at the very least.”

    “Yeah!”

    The sisters went into the ensuite, giggling.

    In the glossy living-room Marie-Claire had reported to her father in horror that Rose and Linnet had no clothes with them except what they stood up in.

    Gilles smiled at her. “Then you must take them shopping very soon. But not this afternoon, we must get home; I think the weather’s closing in, and your grandmother will worry about us if we’re late.”

    “Anyway, who needs clothes?” said Annie, scowling.

    “Everybody except you!” snapped Marie-Claire. “What about money, Papa?”

    “She’s overspent on her credit cards again,” noted Annie.

    “No! Only, um…”

    “Later I’ll open some accounts for Linnet, of course,” he said. “For the time being— Here,” he said, taking out his wallet, “take this, and I’ll write you out a cheque as well, okay?”

    “That would be best,” said Marie-Claire in relief.

    “And don’t borrow from the bank if you have overspent, that’s a mug’s game. And especially don’t borrow from anywhere or anybody else,” he said.

    “No! I’m not— I took that stupid car back,” Marie-Claire admitted.

    “Indeed? Well, I’m very glad to hear it, my dear. I didn’t think it was a very safe car for you to be driving.”

    Marie-Claire was very flushed. “No. And the beast wasn’t going to give me my deposit back at all, only I told him I knew that that pig Guy had got a commission out of him for bringing me in as a customer. So he paid up.”

    “Guy? Your cousin Guy?”

    “He does it all the time, Papa!” said Annie impatiently. “What world are you living in? His hairdresser gives him a rake-off, too, for bringing in new cli—

    “Hush,” he said. “I am right in assuming that you bought—or didn’t buy—this car from Motos Totos?” he said to Marie-Claire.

    “‘Motos Totos: le ‘look’ total pour l’automobiliste d’aujourd’hui’,” quoted Annie scornfully. “You can’t escape from their foul ads!”

    “Quite. –Was it?” he said to Marie-Claire.

    She nodded numbly.

    “What’s the matter, Papa?” said Annie.

    “Guy is a director of Motos Totos,” said Gilles grimly.

    “There you are: raking up business,” she said scornfully.

    “No-o...” said Marie-Claire uneasily.

    “No. It was entirely unethical of him to take a commission from this particular dealer when he’s on the board of the company,” said Gilles grimly.

    “Typical, though,” said Annie, shrugging. “Was it in cash?” she asked her sister. Marie-Claire nodded. Annie shrugged. “Typical.”

    “Yes. How fortunate that I’ve managed to keep him off the board of ULR,” noted Gilles grimly.

    “Papa, you won’t report him to their board, will you?” faltered Marie-Claire.

    “Why not?”

    “He’ll—he’ll know it was me gave him away,” she whispered.

    “Et alors?”

    “I’m scared of him,” she whispered.

    “What?” he cried.

    “Please don’t, Papa! Can’t you just forget about it?”

    Gilles saw that she was nearly in tears. “Eugh—well, since it isn’t one of my companies, I suppose... But they should be told.”

    “Let someone else tell them: you don’t want Marie-Claire in his bad books,” said Annie. “You know that girl Charlotte Thingy?”

    “No,” he said.

    “Her father’s Armand Thingy, Papa!”

    “Eugh—Armand Berbéris’s daughter?”

    “Yes. She fell for someone else and dumped Guy, and six months later he got her hooked on coke to spite her.”

    Gilles looked incredulous.

    Marie-Claire nodded, shivering. “He’s like that, Papa.”

    “Is he, indeed? I shall keep an eye on Master Guy in future, then. But don’t let’s talk about him any more; what do you think of ‘ces Frazer’?” he said, smiling.

    “I like them!” said Marie-Claire, beaming at him. “Linnet’s just lovely, Papa! And so like la petite dame en gris—don’t you think, Annie?”

    Annie shrugged. “I suppose she is.”

    “You do like her, Annie?” said Gilles anxiously.

    “What difference does it make?”

    “It won’t affect my purpose, true. But of course it would make me happier to know you like her, Annie.”

    “All right, I like her,” she said, scowling. “She’s intelligent. And—and sweet, I suppose.”

    “Good!” he said, beaming. “I thought you must like her, darling: you were telling her about your architecture course, weren’t you?”

    “Yes,” she said, looking at him suspiciously.

    “Well, you will have to show her the buildings around Paris that rate true appreciation!” he said with a laugh. “Let me see: la tour de Montparnasse? Le Centre Pompidouche?”

    Promptly Annie informed him his jokes were as out-of-date as his knowledge of architecture.

    “And you like Rose and Fergie?” he said.

    “Of course!” cried Marie-Claire.

    “Papa, no-one could not like Fergie, even I’ll admit that,” said Annie with a sigh.

    “I’m glad to hear it,” he said mildly.

    “Say Three Little Kittens for Papa!” urged Marie-Claire, giggling.

    “Non,” she said, going very red. “Don’t be absurd.”

    “What, did she teach it to you?” he cried.

    “Yes. While you were getting the car. –And don’t ask me to recite it!” said Annie loudly.

    “Well, I own I would like to hear you, darling. –Remember when she could tell us the whole tale of Le Petit Chaperon Rouge?” he said to Marie-Claire.

    “Oh, so she could! I’d forgotten all about that!” she cried.

    Laughing, Gilles said to his red-faced younger daughter in a squeaky little voice: “’Y avait une fois…”

    “Stop it,” she growled.

    He smiled, and went over to Zizi’s well-stocked drinks cabinet. “Shall we have an apéro? Zizi won’t mind, will he?”

    “Of course not, Papa, have anything,” said Marie-Claire.

    “Dubonnet?” he suggested.

    “Ugh, no, I hate it,” said Annie.

    “Have a Pernod, then,” said Gilles with a laugh in his voice.

    “She hates that, too. I wouldn’t mind a Dubonnet, Papa,” said Marie-Claire.

    “Perfect.”

    Annie looked at him suspiciously. “I can’t see how, but he’s pulling your leg,” she warned her sister. “Look out, he’ll probably do something pathetic like putting a rubber spider in the glass.”

    “Non, non, you’ve got it all wrong!” he said, laughing. “Talking of something pathetic, where’s Fabien?” he added, strolling over to the window.

    “Desperately seeking un parking,” drawled Annie.

    Marie-Claire went off in a fit of the giggles.

    “I’m sure she’s pulling my leg but I can’t see how,” he noted plaintively.

    Annie tried in vain to control herself and also went into a fit of the giggles.

    Grinning, her father said: “Well, that’s better! –No, seriously, what do people want to drink? Ah: here they are!” he said in English as Rose and Linnet came in. “But where is Fergie?”

    “She’s just coming: she’s fishing Fozzie Bear out of one of the bags,” said Rose.

    “But—”

    “She’s not incapable, Gilles. She isn’t a baby,” said Linnet.

    “No-o... “

    “It’s only just down the passage, and she’ll hear our voices,” said Rose. “She had the plane sussed out in no time, didn’t she, Linnet?”

    Linnet nodded, smiling, and went shyly over to him.

    “Yes, come here,” he said, sighing, and putting an arm round her waist. “What would you like to drink, mignonne?”

    “I’m not really thirsty. They gave us juice and so forth on the plane.”

    “Just an apéro, then?”

    “Um... what’s that?”

    “Your Mémé did not take an apéro? –Non,” he said as she shook her head.

    “She drank that grenadine muck,” noted Rose in a doomed voice.

    “Ugh,” agreed Linnet, closing her eyes in anguish.

    “Ah!” he said. “Du sirop! Of course, I should have thought of that!”

    “Papa, you hate eet,” said Annie.

    “But it’s so very French!” he gasped, going off into a sniggering fit.

    “Ignore him: he’s being naughty,” said Linnet to the Comte’s daughters.

    “Oh! I see now!” gasped Marie-Claire. “Yes, Linnet, you are right, he is being naughty. He says first we weell have Dubonnet, which at home we never drink, you know? And then he says we weell have Pernod, which he is knowing vairy well that Annie hates.”

    “They’re very French, all right,” agreed Linnet, grinning.

    “So you don’t want a Dubonnet after all?” said Gilles sadly to Marie-Claire. “You’re not very French, are you?”

    “Just pour the drinks and stop being silly,” said Linnet, pulling on his sleeve. “What’s a nice one?”

    “I would like un grog,” said Annie wistfully.

    “Okay. Since it’s a very nasty cold day, and since we have to wait around for Fabien in any case, I will make us some grogs,” he agreed. “You will like that. Especially since it has rum in it,” he added to Rose.

    She sat down, smiling at him. “Good, I’m all for it, then!”

    “Is there any of that sirop muck? I suppose Fergie could have some,” said Linnet.

    “You are so rude about our French national drinks!” he objected.

    “Get on with it,” she said, grinning.

    Gilles pulled her into his side. “Okay. But it entails going out to the kitchen. You will have to come with me.”

    “It doesn’t, does it?” she gulped.

    “Yes. One must boil the water. Come along, this way.” He led her off.

    “Was that tact on your part?” Rose asked Annie with a grin.

    “Tact? Oh! No,” she admitted, smiling sheepishly.

    “It worked, though!” said Rose, laughing.

     Annie had gone very pink. “Yes.”

    “Linnet’s all right, you know,” said Rose.

    Both Bellecourt sisters were now very pink indeed.

    “I mean, she’s drastically honest and she’ll always play fair with him,” she said. “You don’t need to worry about him with her. And she’s the faithful sort, too. Well, she’s never had a real boyfriend before, but she’s a loyal sort of person.”

    “Yes! Thank you, Rose!” gasped Marie-Claire, now a sort of lurid puce.

    Annie was about the same shade. “Yes. Papa is also a most faithful and—and honourable person,” she gulped.

    Rose nodded. “We know. Linnet wrote to him that we only want forty percent of the ULR shares, but he’s been trying to make her take more, did you know that?”

    They nodded mutely.

    “Yes,” said Rose. “I’d have done my best to stop her coming, otherwise. Only I could see he’s basically the same sort as her. Um—of course she’s not a lady. We’re not posh, like you,” she added awkwardly.

    “That does not matter!” cried Marie-Claire.

    “No,” said Annie hoarsely. “That is—is out-dated rubbeesh. We are a democracy, in France.”

    “Yes. And—and it is the personality that matters, au fond,” added Marie-Claire anxiously.

    “I think so, too,” Rose agreed. “There you are!” she cried as Fergie came in, carrying a hideous curly brown object. “So you found Fozzie Bear! –Il est moche, non?” she added casually.

    They gulped.

    “Fozzie Bear’s gonna have some lunch,” returned Fergie.

    “Yeah—righto, he can come.”

    “Where’s Aunty Linnet?” she asked.

    “She’s just out in the kitchen with Gi’.”

    “French toast!” she cried.

    “Not today,” said Rose, grinning. “—Don’t ask me to explain that, it’d take too long,” she said to the Comte’s daughters. “I’ll tell you some day. –Gi’’s gonna take us out to a restaurant, today, Fergie. That’ll be fun, won’t it?”

    “’Es. I can come.”

    Rose nodded.

    “Fozzie Bear can come, too.”

    “Yes, he can come.”

    “So this is Fozzie Bear, Fergie?” said Marie-Claire weakly.

    “’Es. I got him for Christmas.”

    “Yes. How nice he is,” she said faintly.

    “Menteuse,” muttered Annie.

    “Yes: show Marie-Claire Fozzie Bear, Fergie,” prompted Rose.

    Fergie trotted over to Marie-Claire. She began detailing such points of Fozzie Bear’s anatomy as his nose, his eyes and his mouth. Marie-Claire agreed dazedly.

    Annie sidled up to Rose’s chair. “T’as raison: il est moche,” she muttered.

    “Ouais,” Rose agreed calmly. Annie then admitting in a shaken voice that she couldn’t see how on earth Fergie could love such a hideous thing, she returned, still calm, that nor could she, but then, she wasn’t three years old, was she?

    Annie sat down weakly on the rug at her feet. “Non,” she agreed limply.

    When Fabien arrived about ten minutes later looking harried, the grogs had been served but they were in more or less the same positions: Fergie had joined Marie-Claire on the sofa and Annie was still sitting on the rug by Rose’s feet. He looked at the scene weakly.

    Gilles had let him in. “I’ll get you a grog but you don’t deserve it.”

    Fabien’s English was up to that: he glared at him.

    “He was desperately seeking un parking,” Annie explained to Rose.

    Rose went off in a fit of the giggles.

    “You are all drunk!” cried Fabien crossly.

    “No, we’ve only had one,” said Linnet, smiling at him from the depths of a big white chair. “It’s awfully nice. It’s only got rum and lemon juice and sugar in it, you wouldn’t think that could be so nice, would you?”

    “Eugh—no,” he said feebly, looking round for help.

    None came. Annie was in smothered hysterics on the rug, Rose was in snorting agony, and Marie-Claire was having a coughing fit.

    Pouting, Fabien went and sat on the arm of Linnet’s chair. “I tell you what it ees,” he said. “They conspire against us.”

    “You mean they’re ganging up on us.”

    “Yes. Also they conspire against us.”

    Gilles came back with a glass. “No. That is not ganging up on you, Fabien,” he said. He gave him the glass. “This is ganging up on you,” he said, inserting himself into the big squashy chair with Linnet and sliding an arm around her shoulders. “As they say in Australia, Piss off, mate,” he said airily.

    Linnet choked.

    Fabien got up, grinning. “Okay, I shall go and sit weeth Fergie. Hullo, Fergie; what ’ave you there?” he said, sitting down beside her.

    The audience watched gleefully.

    “Fozzie Bear. I got him for Christmas.”

    There was a short pause.

    “Maintenant tu dis qu’il est très joli, grand con,” said Annie amiably.

    “Ah, yes?” he said to Fergie in a very weak voice. “How—how pretty he is.”

    His audience choked.

    “He’s not pretty!” she cried in astonishment. “He’s a boy!”

    At this Fabien’s entire audience went into choking hysterics.

    “Mais qu’est-ce que j’ai dit?” he wailed.

    They continued to choke.

    “Mais merde!” he cried.

    “Dis qu’il est sympa, grand con!” gasped Gilles.

    “Yes—eugh—Fozzie is most—most—j’sais pas le dire, Oncle Gilles!” he gasped.

    Gilles went into further hysterics.

    “Stop LAUGHING!” shouted Fergie, bright red. “You’re all SILLY!”

    “Sorry—Fergie!” gasped Rose helplessly.

    Linnet jumped up. “It’s all right, Fergie, it’s just that Fabien doesn’t know the English word. He’s French—like Old Mémé: you remember; we explained it to you on the plane.”

    “NO! He’s STUPID!” she shouted.

    “Um—well, yes, that’s why they’re laughing at him,” she said quickly. “They’re not laughing at you. Silly Fabien called Fozzie pretty, didn’t he?”

    “’Eah,” she said suspiciously.

    “Mm. He should have said he’s very nice, shouldn’t he?”

    “’Es. Fozzie’s a very nice boy,” said Fergie, glaring at the hapless Fabien.

    “Vairy nice,” he croaked.

    “Trop tard, grand con!” said Linnet cheerfully. “Come on, Fergie, come and get your parka on, and then we’ll all go out to lunch with Gi’, okay?”

    “’Es. Not Fabien,” she said, glaring at him.

    “Oh, I think we can let him come. He’s only silly, he can’t help that, can he?” Linnet led her out, closing the door after them.

    Immediately the assembled company went into further paroxysms.

    “You are not AMUSING!” he shouted.

    More ecstasy.

    “Très bien, comme vous voulez, je ne vous accompagnerai pas,” he said grandly.

    “Cesse! Grand con!” gasped Gilles.

    Rose blew her nose and sat up straight. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Sorry, Fabien. But honestly, I thought everyone knew that in English bears are boys, and boys are never pretty!”

    Annie and Marie-Claire gave helpless wails, but Gilles got up, grinning, and said: “That puts it very succinctly. Come along, everyone, put your coats on. And just buh-bear in mind,” he said to Fabien with a slight quaver in his voice—“that Rose’s dictum applies across the board. Boys are never pretty, in English.”

    “Or beautiful,” said Rose, blowing her nose. She got up. “We didn’t realize how cold it would be. “You wouldn’t have anything that Fergie could wear for a hat, would you, Marie-Claire?”

    Marie-Claire immediately bounced up and hurried her out to her own room.

    “So, are you coming?” said Gilles to his young relatives.

    Annie got up. “I’ll come, but don’t boss everybody, Papa. –It’s embarrassing,” she said as he opened his mouth to tell her he had no intention of bossing anyone.

    “Embarrassing to whom?”

    “Everyone,” she said, glaring.

    “Was I bossing everyone?” he said plaintively to Fabien.

    “Not really,” he returned, glaring at his cousin.

    “Oh,” he said. “Well, I shall try not to. But don’t worry,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, going over to the door: “it may not have dawned on you yet, but Linnet isn’t likely to let me get away with bossing everyone!” He laughed, and went out.

    Fabien immediately hissed: “See?”

    Annie automatically stuck out her tongue at him. But not with much conviction.

Next chapter:

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