Fire, Fire!

10

Fire, Fire!

    If Rose hadn’t burned the house down, perhaps the Mullers would never have gone to France. But as it was, once she’d done it, Jimmy’s sensible arguments for staying put and not letting Gilles de Bellecourt talk them into anything didn’t seem to hold much water. Not that Rose had ever thought they had.

    It happened just after Christmas, during another heatwave. By this time, Gilles had been back to France and returned, and gone back to France again to spend the festive season with his mother. By this time, also, it was pretty clear to everyone, not excluding Fergie and the glum Peter Morpeth, that Linnet had fallen for the Comte in a big way. None of her well-wishers who might have wanted to do something about this had been able to, for one reason or another. True, at one stage Aunty Mim had been threatening to descend on them and sort Rose out (being under the misapprehension that her depression was as bad as ever), but this hadn’t happened: Felicity’s husband’s ingrown toenail had intervened and she’d had to stay in Queensland to support Felicity through this crisis. In fact none of the Frazer and Muller relations were aware of what was going on. Linnet felt too shy about it to write to them, Jimmy was too crawlingly embarrassed by the whole do, not to say hoping it would all blow over, to write to them or phone them about it, and Rose was deliberately not writing to anybody or ringing anybody because she had a feeling they might try to stop it.

    As far as her immediate family knew the Comte hadn’t “said anything” to Linnet, yet. He hadn’t done anything yet, either, except kiss her. Only Rose knew that, though it would be fair to say that Jimmy had guessed it.

    He first kissed her in the car he’d hired, on the fourth evening of his first visit to Adelaide. The temperature had dropped and it was a pleasant evening of around twenty-three degrees, and, having decided to hire a car in order to be alone with Linnet in it, and having discovered there was a restaurant up in the hills with a view out over the city to the Spencer Gulf, he’d driven her up there. Linnet had been too excited and nervous at being alone in his company for the first time to be able to eat much and Gilles hadn’t been hungry and hadn’t noticed what he’d eaten. Which might have been just as well. Then they’d driven off a little way to look at the city lights.

    “Pretty,” said Linnet in a strangled voice.

   Gilles agreed: “Oui.” He undid his seatbelt, slid his arm along the back of her seat, put his other hand under her chin, and his lips gently on hers.

    Linnet’s heart fluttered wildly and she clutched his arm; after a few moments he stopped, breathing hard, undid the seatbelt which she had naïvely left fastened, and pulled her into his arms,

    “Haven’t you ever kissed a man before?” he said into her ear, as his heart hammered madly against her.

    “Um—well, Andy Hordern kissed me. Um—actually he made me do it, in the back of his four-wheel-drive. It was horrible,” said Linnet frankly.

    It took him a moment to translate this. “‘Do it’? You mean he raped you?” he said grimly.

    “No. He just seemed to take it for granted that I’d want to.”

    “And you let him?” he croaked dazedly.

    “Well, it wasn’t as if he was a nasty person; I’ve known him all my life. I suppose I just thought it’d be silly to scream, or anything. It seemed like making a fuss about nothing.”

    “Merde,” he said in a shaken voice.

    “And it would have been, actually,” said Linnet, looking up at him.

    “It—it— You mean that it was a nothing to you?”

    “Yes. Well, unpleasant, I suppose. But not important.”

    “I see. Well, I am not going to make you ‘do it’ in the back of this car.”

    “No,” she said obediently.

    “I—I would just like to kiss you.”

    “Yes,” she whispered.

    He kissed her again, very gently, and this time said in her ear: “When I—I kiss you, tu sais?—you kiss me, too, Linnet.

    “How do you mean?”

    “When I  do... comme ça, hein?” he said, wiggling his tongue in her ear.—Linnet gave a squeak and a stifled giggle.—“You do it to me. Okay?”

    “Um... I’ll try.”

    “Yes. Try,” he said, kissing her again.

    This time Linnet tried and it worked so well that she clutched his back convulsively, and when they both had to get their breaths gasped: “It’s miles nicer than with Andy!”

    “Good! Eugh—that Peter Morpeth: you have also kissed him?”

    Linnet made a face. “No. He wanted me to but I wouldn’t let him. I—I quite like him, but I don’t love him.”

    “I see,” he said softly as the blood pounded in his ears. “Do you love me, then?”

    “Yes,” said Linnet simply, looking into his eyes.

    “I love you, too. Embrasse-moi!” he said with a little laugh that broke in the middle.

    Linnet held up her face again; he kissed her fiercely and hid his face in her neck with a sound that was like a sob.

    “Are you all right?” she said timidly.

    He made a muffled noise.

    “We could do it, if you want to,” she said on a resigned note.

    “No! Not in the back of the damned car, mon Dieu! –No. Listen, ma petite Linotte: it’s too soon, I know. We—we must talk seriously about it. About us,” he said, swallowing.

    “Um—yes. If you like.”

    “Very soon. But I can’t think now,” he confessed, kissing her neck.

    “Nor can I. I feel sort of dizzy.”

    “Oui, moi aussi.” He put a hand under her chin and this time she shuddered. Gilles’s nostrils flickered: he kissed her eagerly and forgot all other considerations for the time being.

    He had, of course, by this time recollected that there were other considerations: cultural differences, certainly, and the age gap: he was far too old for her; and the fact that perhaps his mother wouldn’t like her—though it was hard to imagine anyone not liking Linnet; and the possibility that she might not like life in France and— Well, many points. Not the least of which was how on earth they were going to work out the tontine mess.

    But at this moment none of these matters seemed important. Or even to exist, really.

    His first visit lasted ten days. Peter Morpeth flew over from Sydney on the second day, to be present at the meeting between the Comte and the Muller children. During it Linnet stuck to her forty percent offer and reiterated, to Peter’s horror, the suggestion that she could resign her share, and Gilles endeavoured to insist they take more: at least eighty percent of the current value of the family’s holdings in ULR. Jimmy backed this offer, he felt it was pretty fair. Rose wanted to know how much it would come to and on being told, in Australian dollars, just sat there numbly for the rest of the meeting. Peter and Jimmy got together next day and decided there was something fishy about it: probably the Comte had found evidence that the tontine had founded the factories. Would it be worth taking him to court?

    On the fifth day—unfortunately he couldn’t manage it earlier—George Morpeth flew in from Sydney. Gilles reiterated his offer, and offered into the bargain to let Morpeth, Swale have any documents relating to the family’s finances they might wish for. George thereupon became convinced there was something in Peter’s and Jimmy’s theory.

    On the sixth day Peter managed to get Linnet alone. He started off very cool and sensible but as she remained calm but obdurate, he ended the interview nearly in tears. Over lunch at the Hyatt, not an appropriate setting for a smooth young Sydney lawyer to be nearly in tears in.

    “For God’s sake, Linnet! This De Bellecourt type’s got you dazzled!” he repeated.

    “No, he hasn’t, I offered him the forty percent before I’d even met him. –You seem to be forgetting it was all my idea.”

    “Linnet, you can’t let him take you in like this!” he said urgently.

    “He’s not—”

    “I mean personally!” said Peter, going bright red.

    “I know. And I’m telling you, he’s not taking me in. He’s in love with me,” said Linnet, blushing fierily but looking him in the eye.

    “He told you that, I suppose!”

    “Yes.”

    “Look, ya don’t know anything about him! He’d tell you anything that suited his purpose—”

    “I know a lot about him. Things like honour matter a lot to him. I know he wouldn’t tell me a lie.”

    “Rubbish! Think of what he’s got to lose!”

    “Exactly. Why hasn’t he jumped at the forty percent, if he’s as crooked as you seem to think?”

    “Because he knows damn well Uncle George and me ’ud never let him get away with it, that’s why!”

    “I put it in writing. I don’t think even you and Mr Morpeth could explain that away,” she said detachedly.

    “For God’s sake, will ya stop and think!”

    Linnet merely replied: “I have thought. I’ve decided what the honourable thing to do would be, and I’m doing it. And please stop saying nasty things about Gilles. I don’t like it.”

    “Well, too bloody bad, because I’m gonna go on saying them! Listen: he’s gonna stitch you up nicely and then he’s gonna waltz off back to France and forget you ever existed!”

    “I don’t think he’s that sort of person. And I asked you not say that sort of thing. Thank you for the lunch; I think I’ll—”

    Peter grabbed at her hand as she made to get up. “No! Jesus, Linnet, can’t you even—even— Just because he’s a Frenchman and—and sophisticated and so forth, you’ve let him take you in completely!”

    “I suppose he is sophisticated. But he doesn’t strike me that way at all. I think he’s very sweet. And a bit sad.”

    “He’s stringing you a line!”

    “No, he isn’t. And let go my hand.”

    “No. Look, he’s not the only pebble on the beach!” he said, very red.

    Linnet looked at him warily.

    “Christ, can’t you even give us a chance?” he said, tears in his eyes.

    “No; I told you when we went to the Barossa: I like you but I don’t want—um—that.”

    “Please!”

    “I’m sorry, Peter. I just can’t. And I don’t think you’d really like me if you knew me better.”

    “Me!” he choked. “What about him! You’ve known him for about five minutes!”

    Linnet managed to extricate her hand, and got up. “I haven’t known you for much longer. I’m awfully sorry, I did try not to encourage you. Um—thanks for the lunch.”

    She went out while the smooth young Sydney lawyer was still blinking and trying to control himself.

    There were several more meetings with the Morpeths, during which the lawyers became more and more suspicious, and then, on the last day of his first visit, Gilles had a meeting alone with the three Mullers, in which he suggested to them more or less what Roma had originally proposed: that they should come to France, where the Bellecourts would assist with Fergie’s education and look after Rose. He didn’t say anything specific about looking after Linnet, but he did suggest that Jimmy might like to finish his architecture course in Paris.

    Rose was very tempted. Linnet was very flushed. Jimmy was absolutely confounded but flattered himself he hadn’t let on to the Frog.

    Gilles urged them to think about it seriously: he would be back in December, and they could discuss it then. Jimmy managed to croak would it count as part of the tontine settlement, and the Comte replied vaguely: “Eugh... Of course, if you wish. We could get your Mr Morpeth to write it into the settlement, if you think that would be best, Jimmy.”

    Jimmy went very red but met his eye and said sturdily: “Yes, I do. Well, heck, what if ya get Rose and Fergie over there and then your mother gets bored with it or decides she can’t stand them or something?”

    “She will not do that; but I see what you mean. Yes, splendid; I shall ask Béjart to draft something for your approval, hein?” He held out his hand to him, smiling at him approvingly.

    Jimmy found himself on his feet shaking hands with the bloody Comte de Bellecourt without actually knowing how it had come about.

    Gilles did not have a last ecstatic evening with Linnet. For one thing he doubted his ability to control himself if he was alone with her. And for another thing he didn’t want her to take any decisions when she was under the influence of physical passion—failing to reflect that decisions taken under the influence of romantic passion were just as likely to be unwise ones. Instead he took the whole household, Fergie of course included, to McDonald’s. Fergie, Linnet and Rose appeared to enjoy the evening unreservedly. Gilles enjoyed it unreservedly apart from the quality of the food and the desire to be in bed with Linnet. Jimmy ate a lot but otherwise didn’t appear to be enjoying himself.

    During the interval which ensued after Gilles left Linnet went about looking like a stunned mullet. Rose went around all starry-eyed, making plans for Fergie to be a real lady. And trying to talk Jimmy into giving her back her Meyercard, because Fergie had nothing to wear. Jimmy hung on grimly to all the credit cards, did endless sums both in his head and on his uni lecture pads, had endless and fruitless phone conversations with Peter, and tried without any success at all to talk some sense into—or at least get some sense out of—his oldest sister. No, Gilles hadn’t said anything definite. Yes, he’d said he loved her. Yes, she thought she would like to go to France. She’d like to see Semences ULR. –The day she came out with that one, Jimmy got his car out and went for a very long drive.

    Gilles returned in December, as he’d said he would. This time he brought several French lawyers with him. Rather naturally the Morpeths’ reaction was that the Comte de Bellecourt was lining up his big guns against them. They refused to let their clients sign anything. And they would require a look at— They had a whole list of documents and figures they would require to see before they’d agree to anything.

    Most of the initial discussions took place between the French and the Australian lawyers, sometimes with Gilles present, but he flew the Mullers over to Sydney for a few days. This afforded them the opportunity of catching up with their sister and the Comte the opportunity of meeting Buffy the Supermodel for the first time. Not to say Marilu, Mrs O’Donaldson, and Jocelyn.

    Jocelyn and Mrs O’Donaldson between them had got Buffy a photographic contract. Swimwear. It was only what all the girls were wearing but nonetheless Gilles was shocked and furious and told the enthusiastic Mrs O’Donaldson and Jocelyn, and the crestfallen supermodel herself, what he thought of the whole proposition. Linnet tried to shut him up but to no avail. Jimmy supported him, deciding the joker couldn’t be all bad after all. It wasn’t that he objected to bathing-suits as such, he just didn’t want to see his sister plastered all over the bloody mags wearing them. He and Buffy ended up shouting at each other, and Buffy, declaring that she was gonna get her own lawyers and get her quarter share of eighty percent of EVERYTHING, like what the Bellecourts OWED them—furious glare at Gilles—ended up flinging out.

    Linnet apologized anxiously to Gilles. Rose, seeing Linnet’s chances of becoming a comtesse and living in a château going down the gurgler, not to say Fergie’s of becoming a real lady, also apologized anxiously to Gilles. Jimmy, once he’d calmed down, also apologized for Buffy, telling Gilles that she was a dumb little tart and she could say what she liked, him and Linnet were her legal guardians and she’d have to do what they said.

    Gilles recollected that he actually had no rights in the matter, not even those of a future brother-in-law as yet, laughed sheepishly, apologized to everybody, and suggested Buffy might think differently about it if she came to France with them. And if she didn’t change her mind about the modeling thing—well, ULR made several lines of knitwear, one of the arms of the ULR group was in fashion garments, and he knew they were advertised in England and so forth, perhaps Buffy would like to do that? Nobody volunteered to put this proposition to the enraged supermodel on the spot but everybody thanked him profusely, including Mrs O’D. and Jocelyn, both of whom had visions of themselves in France as Buffy’s manager or companion or whatever. Jocelyn as well having a vision of herself talking the Comte de Bellecourt into subsidizing her in a health farm venture.

    This time Gilles did have an evening alone with Linnet. He took her to dinner at a restaurant that had been strongly recommended by the hotel. He was just about compos mentis enough to recognize that the food was terrible: everything seemed to be smothered in chilli, garlic, and coconut milk. But as he wasn’t hungry he didn’t much care. Linnet wasn’t hungry either. He didn’t feel up to driving, really, so afterwards he just went down near the river and stopped.

    “Let’s walk,” he said hoarsely, feeling that if he stayed in the car he’d be unable to stop himself getting into her.

    Linnet agreed. He took her hand and they strolled along by the river for a little way. Then he put his arm round her slender shoulders and they strolled along a little further. Then he stopped, and put both arms round her and kissed her passionately, straining her to him.

    After a few moments Linnet said in a breathless voice: “The buttons on your jacket are sticking into me.”

    He laughed a little, slackened his hold and said teasingly: “I hope that’s not all that’s sticking into you?”

    “No,” she gulped, hoping he wasn’t going to ask her to hold it or anything like that, like Andy Hordern had done, because the embarrassment of it would kill her. Not that she wasn’t glad to know he had one and it did that when he kissed her.

    “I want so much to make love to you,” he said in her ear.

    “Yes,” said Linnet in a tiny voice.

    “But I shall not,” he said, taking a deep breath, “because I want you to be very sure, before we do. And—and before we do, also, I want to talk most seriously about our future, tu comprends?”

    “Mm.”

    “I have things I must arrange in France. But you promise to come?” he said anxiously.

    “Yes.”

    “Good,” he said, hugging her very hard.

    This time everything stuck into her again but Linnet didn’t say anything. She cried into his cream suit jacket—the hotel had told him that a dinner jacket would not be necessary in the restaurant they were recommending, which should have warned him—and Gilles hugged her very hard and also cried a little into her slender shoulder.

    Linnet was very shaken: she hadn’t thought men did. She hugged him tighter than ever and said: “Don’t. I love you; I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

    “I—I want you to come and live with me in a little nest, ma petite linotte!” he said with a crazy little laugh. “But I want you to think it over first. So we won’t say any more now, d’accord?”

    “Oui. D’accord,” said Linnet, sniffing.

    Gilles gave her his handkerchief and she blew her nose hard and smiled at him in the dim light of a riverside lamp and the stars and the glow from passing cars back up on the road.

    “Come here,” he said as she gave the handkerchief back to him. “Kiss me and—and just put your dear little hand—” He took her hand and put it on himself.

     Linnet blushed fierily but didn’t try to pull her hand away.

    “Oui, c’est ça!” he said with a gasp. He kissed her eagerly. “—What is it?” he asked, feeling her resistance.

    “Nothing,” she said faintly.

    He stood back a little and Linnet quickly withdrew her hand. “I see. I go too fast, hein? But I—I am only a man,” he said on an anxious note.

    “Yes,” she murmured.

    Gilles looked at her with a tiny smile hovering on his mouth. “Such poor creatures as I are quite horridly phallic-fixated, tu sais!”

    “What?” she said blankly. “Oh!”

    “Nature builds us this way, we cannot help it,” he said, pulling her against him and laughing a little. “Did I shock you?”

    “Mm. A bit.”

    “And I scared you? –Yes,” he discovered, peering at her face in the dim light. “But surely you do not doubt my word, mignonne?”

    “Um—sometimes men can’t stop themselves, can they?” she said in a vague voice.

    “Brutes cannot stop themselves, this is true.”

    Linnet looked up at him doubtfully.

    “But of course one does not want to stop: I do not want to stop, at all!” he said, laughing a little. “But the decision to do so is what distinguishes man from the beasts—non?”

    “Mm.”

    “Yes. So don’t be afraid,” he said, hugging her gently and kissing her hair. “But I mutt tell you at this point that it is entirely natural for a man to want a woman to put her hand on him!” he added with a laugh.

    “Mm.”

    “It will all be strange at first, especially since that Andy person, he was very rough, I think? –Yes. And of course you did not like that. But I shall not be rough. And I think I shall not do anything more tonight except kiss you very softly—okay?” he said, kissing her very softly. “Voilà. Now we walk back to the car, okay? And I will take you straight home.”

    “Okay.”

    Gilles could hear the relief in her voice: he put his arm gently round her shoulders and turned her in the direction of the car. “Come along, then,” he said, taking her hand.

    When they reached Rose’s house he kissed her gently, and got out of the car and let her out. Then he said: “I—I shall not come to the door with you, mignonne, I don’t feel like conversation. Just tell me you love me.”

    “I love you,” said Linnet, looking up at him trustingly.

    “Dis-le en français,” he said, hugging her fiercely.

    “Je t’aime, Gilles,” said Linnet into his chest.

    “Moi aussi, je t’aime—je te veux bien!” he said on a groan. “I will come back very soon, okay? –Oui, c’est ça. Bonsoir, ma bien-aimée.”

    “Bonsoir, Gilles,” said Linnet politely.

    “Go: quick,” he said, biting his lip.

    Linnet ran up the path. He waited until the door opened and then he drove quickly away.

    This time round her brother and sister had expected the stunned-mullet behaviour, so they more or less ignored it.

    Christmas was almost upon them. Jimmy and Rose had a row over the Meyercard but Jimmy remained adamant. Rose then went through all her magazines—she had half a closetful—and found all the hints on do-it-yourself Christmas decorations, and after some nagging of Linnet she, Linnet, and Fergie, with the eager cooperation of Monica next-door, who was only too glad to cooperate in anything that might help keep Rose busy and happy, plus of course additional help from Monica’s Jenny, got down to it. The house had glitter in every nook and cranny but no-one minded. Though the preponderance of glue (Fergie and Jenny in particular being very heavy-handed with it), as it would turn out, was unfortunate.

    Jimmy didn’t partake in these activities, though he wouldn’t have minded, as he, like all the Muller children, had an artistic bent: but both he and his friend Shane were working in Noel Marriott’s office these holidays. Whether it went beyond making cups of tea and fetching things for the real architects, and putting on hard hats to go out with the real architects to the sites, his sisters kindly didn’t ask.

    Buffy had been unable to go ahead with the swimwear ads, as her mean and horrible guardians had refused to sign the contract. She landed a small contract for a catalogue—an Easter catalogue, the Christmas ones having been prepared and sent out long since—modelling tights. It was only legs, so Jimmy and Linnet let her. The more so as Gilles wasn’t there to stop them. Buffy came home for Christmas but it wasn’t much of a success. Marilu had taken over the swimwear job and she was furiously jealous about it. And still furious with Linnet and Jimmy. Rose copped it, too, since she’d supported them.

    A bunch of this semester’s model-school graduates had been hired as background in a TV ad for breakfast cereal (not Kellogg’s Special K, something rather more down-market) and she had to be back in Sydney for this epic in the New Year, so she thought she’d go back on the twenty-seventh. Then she could spend New Year’s with the Garfields—the jealousy of Marilu being on a purely professional and not a personal level, apparently. The TV ads would feature the girls leaping about playing volleyball on a beach in—obviously—bathing-suits, but by this time Jimmy and Linnet were pretty well past caring. Besides, Buffy would probably be indistinguishable amongst the crowd. They consented, and cautiously put Gilles’s suggestion to her.

    Buffy decided she’d talk it over with Mrs O’D. and Jocelyn. If she went to France, she added threateningly, Mrs O’Donaldson had to come to be her chaperone. Linnet pointed out feebly that Mrs O’D., as far as was known, couldn’t speak a word of French. However, Rose said cheerfully: “Never mind, she won’t need to. All they do is knit. And anyway, most of those supermodels are American.”

    Buffy duly departed, with the warning that no matter what He said (Gilles, apparently), she wasn’t gonna give up modelling.

    A heatwave had struck the day before Buffy left. The following day the temperature was up to forty degrees and the Mullers had the air conditioning on throughout the house. After considerable argument Jimmy had conceded Rose’s point that if you left it on in the bedrooms all day they wouldn’t take so long to cool down at night. It was ducted, but each room was on a separate switch. Jimmy and Linnet hadn’t done a comparative study but they would have taken a large bet it was the most expensive option available.

    What with arguing with Buffy, and Buffy sulking over the loss of the swimwear contract, and the excitement of opening Fergie’s presents—and Buffy sulking because they’d decided no-one but Fergie was getting presents this year—everyone but Rose had forgotten that the twenty-eighth had been Kyle’s birthday. And even Rose had almost forgotten it. It came back to her all of a sudden after they’d seen Buffy off, and she cried all the way home. On the day itself she wouldn’t get up at all.

    Jimmy and Linnet had a council of war with the kindly Monica and her husband, Dean, and, partly in order to try and cheer Rose up, partly in order to celebrate the fact that Monica’s in-laws had pushed off back to Victoria that very morning, they decided that next day they’d go on an all-day trip down to Victor Harbor, where the temperature was reported to be a couple of degrees cooler. And where the kids could go on the steam train! Nobody pointed out that Dean and Jimmy were visibly keener on the idea than Jenny, who was only four, and Fergie, who was, of course, only three. So next morning Monica came over very early and got Rose up and they all piled into Dean’s big station-waggon, and went.

    They got back around eleven o’clock at night, by which time the house was well ablaze.

    It eventually turned out that Rose had left her electric blanket on—it had of course been on because of the air conditioning—and that a loose wire in it had started the fire. The air-con that Rose had insisted on leaving on low to cool the house for when they got back had fanned the fire capably through the house, and the immense amounts of glue Fergie and Jenny had used for the Christmas decorations had really helped spread it.

    Very fortunately they had with them in the car such absolute necessities as Fergie’s new Fozzie Bear, Fergie’s ’Ellow Bunny, Fergie’s Barbie, and Linnet’s letter from Gilles, which she was carrying in her handbag during the day. And sleeping with under her pillow at night. The neighbours on the other side were away but Mr Green from down the road had dashed in and rescued Uncle Jim’s escritoire, the coffee table, the video player, the Chinese rug, and several shelves of books before the flames took hold in the lounge-room.

    That was it. Everything else was ruined. Rose cried over the furniture and her clothes and Jimmy just about passed out at the thought of two years’ lecture notes and all his uni textbooks down the gurgler. Linnet cried with relief that two of the books Mr Green had rescued were Uncle Jim’s specimen albums. Then she cried because all that Lucozade and Ribena she’d bought had gone. Jimmy inspected the video player with trembling hands in case it had his precious tape of The Day The Earth Stood Still in it but it didn’t, it had Fergie’s Muppet Movie.

    Rose had another burst of tears over the lost photo albums. Fortunately Jimmy remembered that Aunty Mim had copies of almost everything: Rose’d probably be able to replace them from those.

    Not the slides of their holidays and her trip, though, sobbed Rose. And not Kyle’s videos of Fergie when she was tiny. This was undeniable. No-one could find anything to say to comfort her, though Monica did point out weakly that at least she still had Fergie and no-one had been in the house at the time.

    Of course Monica and Dean took them in. It was a bit of a squeeze, but they managed it by putting Fergie in with Jenny, the two young women in the official spare room and Jimmy in the unfurnished little room that was gonna be Dean’s study when they got round to doing it up.

    “What happens now?” said Dean cautiously to his wife on the night of the thirtieth, when their guests had retired and the two of them were making a quiet pot of tea.

    “The bloody insurance company coughs up, that’s what! And listen, Dean, you can see that they do! I don’t care if they are gonna come into a fortune, they haven’t got it yet, and poor Rose has had a really raw deal! And those blimmin’ Bayleys won’t lift a finger to help her, you can bet ya boots!”

    “No—um—okay, love. Of course I’ll see them through it.”

    “Thanks, darl’,” said Monica, sighing, and sagging against the bench.

    “I tell ya what,” he said grimly.

    “What?”

    “It’s gonna prove whether that Frog that’s Linnet’s fallen for is prepared to put his money where ’is mouth is!”

    Monica sighed. “Yeah. –Peter Morpeth’s such a nice guy! Why couldn’t she have fallen for him instead? It’d be so suitable! But this Frenchman! Well, for all any of us know he might have a wife and ten kids back in France!”

    “Ye-ah... Well, Jimmy reckons Morpeth’s bloke got onto that,” he admitted, “and the story he gave Linnet is true enough.”

    “Oh. Well, that’s somethink.” She hesitated. “She hasn’t rung him, ya know.”

    “Probably doesn’t know how,” he said drily.

    “Don’t be silly! Um—well, even if she doesn’t,” said Monica on a weak note, various instances of Linnet’s ineptitude returning to her, “one of us could help her.”

    “Mm.” Dean got out a couple of mugs. “Has she got his number?” he asked on a dry note.

    “Well, she must do!” There was a short pause. “Um—surely?” said Monica weakly.

    He shrugged.

    There was another short pause. Then Monica said in a very weak voice: “Jimmy rang Peter Morpeth, first thing.”

    “Uh-huh,” he noted.

    “Well—um—well, don’t you think that—um—it might only be um—fair,” she gulped, “to let this Gilles type—um...” Her voice trailed off.

    “Fair to who?” he wondered dreamily, looking up at the ceiling.

    “Don’t be like that! Um—well... Well, suppose he really is genuine, Dean!”—Dean snorted.—“Um, well, he might be,” said Monica without conviction. “Rose says he’s very nice. And he was really keen on Fergie, anyone could see that.”—Dean snorted again.—“Well, I just thought that if Linnet has got his number I could help her to ring him. Tomorrow,” she ended weakly.

    “What if she hasn’t?”

    Monica licked her lips. “The lawyers’ll have it.”

    “For Pete’s sake, Mon’!”

    “Well, heck, Dean, it could be her big chance!” she cried crossly. “If he is genuine he’ll—he’ll come out and help them through it!”

    “Thought you were barracking for Morpeth?”

    “I am,” she said, scowling. “I just think—”

    “Look, it’s up to Linnet. If she wants to get in touch with ’er blessed Comte, she’ll do it. And if she doesn’t—” He eyed her drily. “Well, so much the better.”

    “All right, I agree,” she said sulkily. “But at least it’d prove it, one way or the other!”

    “Yeah; and if she can’t be blowed ringing him, that’ll prove something, too!”

    “No, you idiot! She’s so shy! Even if she really does believe he’s in love with her and—and genuine about offering to take them all off to France and everything, can you see her ringing him up?”

    “Uh—not actually, now ya come to mention it, no.”

    “Well—um—well, do you think I ought to encourage her to, dear?”

    “Um—well, if ya must, ya must,” he said with a sigh. “Only for the Lord’s sake get her to put it on their account; the bank balance won’t take calls to bleedin’ Countships on the other side of the world right after Christmas.”

    “No. Um—the phone was all burnt up,” said Monica uncertainly. “Will that make a difference?”

    “Yeah: the buggers’ll put the cost of a brand-new phone on the next bill,” he noted nastily. “Uh—shouldn’t think so.” He scratched his head. “Theoretically the number must still exist.”

    “How can it if it’s all burnt up?”

    “Uh... Well, heck, it must do! Look, tell her to charge it to their number anyway, and if they say she can’t, put it on ours, okay? And listen: don’t tell ’em the phone was burnt up, geddit?”

    “Mm!” said Monica with a giggle.

    “You ever done that before?”

    “What, charged a huge great overseas call to a number that’s all burnt up?” she said with a giggle.

    “No! Charged an overseas call to another number.”

    “Um—no. Actually I’ve never rung up overseas at all.”

    Dean sighed. “It’s just the same as an interstate call, only there’s more numbers to dial.”

    “But if we’re dialling direct, won’t it go on our bill, Dean?”

    “Uh— Bugger. Come on, bring the tea. We’ll take a dekko at the White Pages.”

    Monica and Dean retired to bed with their tray of tea and the White Pages.

    On the morrow Monica got down to it. She saw Dean and Jimmy off to town to see the insurance company, got Jenny and Fergie settled in front of the TV in the lounge-room with Fergie’s Muppet Movie in the video player, settled Rose in an armchair in there with them with a pile of magazines at her elbow, and steered Linnet out to the kitchen.

    “Come on, we’re gonna ring this blessed French boyfriend of yours,” she said grimly.

    Linnet went bright red.

    “Well?”

    “Um—I can’t!” she gasped.

    Monica had more or less expected this. “Why not?”

    Linnet gulped.

    “Look, if he’s too blimmin’ good for ya to ring up and tell him your house has burnt down, then ya don’t flamin’ well need him, Linnie!”

    “I can’t— I don’t want to ask for... He’ll think I’m asking him for something!” she gasped.

    “So?”

    “I can’t!” gasped Linnet, twisting her hands together.

    “I geddit, ya want Peter Morpeth instead.”

    “No!” she cried.

    “Well, unless I was imagining things at teatime yesterday,” said Monica drily, “Jimmy was saying he’s coming over later today. Like, on the first flight he could get?” she finished pointedly.

    “Yes; they were all booked up,” said Linnet faintly. “I never wanted him to come, though, Monica. It was all Jimmy’s idea.”

    “Yeah, and it was all Jimmy’s idea for him to ask you all over to New South Wales to stay on Gordon Morpeth’s horse farm, too, was it?”

    “I—I don’t think you’d call it a horse farm, exactly.”

    Monica wasn’t a country girl and she wasn’t interested in racing. She shrugged. “Whatever.”

    “Um—Peter asked his parents,” said Linnet faintly.

    “I know that, Linnie! –Listen,” she said in a kinder voice: “what’s this Gilles of yours gonna think if ya don’t bother to let him know: had ya thought of that?”

    “Um—no...”

    “And do ya want him to find out and then discover you’re staying with Peter Morpeth at his parents’ place?”

    “No.”

    Monica hadn’t thought so, no. “No,” she agreed. “And anyway, what if he rings you and he can’t get through?”

    “Yes—um—he said he’d be fairly busy. And—and it’s hard to make a call at Christmas, the lines are so—”

    “Has he rung you at all?” interrupted Monica, staring at her.

     Linnet went very pink. “Yes. Twice. No, three times, only once I was at the shops.”

    “Some of us mighta thought a rich French Count’d be ringing you every day. At the least,” she noted drily.

    “No—um…” Linnet looked at her plaintively. Monica gave her a hard look. “Um, he says he doesn’t want to talk me into anything... And he’s very busy,” she finished in a small voice.

    Monica sighed. “Yeah. All right, then: just give him a ring and say you wanted to let him know, okay? And you’d better tell him that you’ll be with the Morpeths—”

    “But I don’t want to go!” wailed Linnet, bursting into tears.

    Monica sighed, patted her back, and said of course she could stay here, no worries, if she’d rather.

    “Yes. Much. Thanks, Monica,” said Linnet, sniffing.

    Monica then proposed ringing him immediately but even she had to concede, on Linnet’s pointing out there was a time difference, that they’d have to wait until at least five o’clock. No, hang on did Summer Time make a difference? They consulted the phone book.

    Okay, Linnie could ring him at four o’clock.

    Meekly Linnet agreed. Monica dragged her off to the supermarkets forthwith: there was, of course, another long weekend coming up.

    At four o’clock, having sent Dean and Jimmy off to meet Peter’s plane rather early, and having settled Rose, Fergie and Jenny in the lounge-room to watch Jenny’s video of Ewoks, and having warned Rose that Jenny, in spite of claiming she wanted it, would get bored with it fairly soon, Monica got going. The phone, typically of the whole of Australia, was handily placed in the passage, equidistant from any point in the house where you might be when it rang. Dean had talked about getting an extension put in for her in the kitchen but then he’d found out what the buggers were proposing to charge for it: no way.

    First Linnet didn’t think she had Gilles’s number: he’d be in the country.... Was it New Year’s Eve over there? He’d be in the country. She was pretty sure. Then she remembered the letter and, blushing, withdrew it from her shorts pocket. Sure enough, it had the number on it. Then Monica couldn’t get through to an operator. She tried STD instead. She must have put in an extra nought or something because she only got a funny noise. Then she tried again.

    “Allô, oui?” said a male voice.

    “Help, he’s talking French!” she gasped.

    “You must have got through,” said Linnet with a faint smile.

    The phone was quacking: “Allô! Allô! Ici Château de La Rance! A qui voulez-vous parler? Allô! ’Y a quelqu’un à l’appareil? Allô!”

    Monica shoved the receiver frantically at her.

    “Allô, oui,” said Linnet faintly. “C’est bien le Château de La Rance?”

    The phone quacked at her. Linnet said something else.

    “Is it him?” hissed Monica.

    “No.” Linnet put her hand over the receiver. “He’s gone to get him. He said he was having breakfast,” she gulped.

    “Oh,” said Monica limply. “Um—well, who was it?”

    “Jacques.”

    “Who’s he?”

    “I don’t know. Ssh! –Bonjour, madame,” she said faintly. “C’est Linnet Muller, madame. J’appelle de l’Australle.”

     Monica swallowed anxiously.

    “Oh!” said Linnet, going very red. “How are you? ...Is he?”

    “Linnie, who is it?” she hissed.

    “His mother!” hissed Linnet frantically.

    “Help!” gasped Monica.

    “Yes. Um—no,” said Linnet to the phone. “Has he? Oh.” Monica was making faces at her; she hissed: “He’s taken the dogs for a run!”

    “Help. Sounds like the Royals,” said Monica limply.

    Linnet nodded.

    “What’s she saying?” hissed Monica, as the phone appeared to be making a prolonged speech.

    Linnet held the receiver a little away from her ear. Eagerly Monica applied her own ear.

    The Comte’s mother was inviting the Mullers warmly to her home, telling Linnet a great deal about the number of bedrooms available and the suitability of the local maternelle.

    “What?” hissed Monica.

    “Like a kindergarten,” whispered Linnet with her hand over the receiver.

    Monica nodded. “She sounds like a Pom!” she hissed.

    “She is,” whispered Linnet.

    Monica’s knees went all funny.

    “That sounds lovely. Fergie hasn’t been to kindy yet,” Linnet said feebly to the receiver.

    The Comtesse told Linnet—and Monica—a lot about little children’s needs for socialization, and plunged into a description of a very nice flat in Paris.

    After some time Monica whispered with bulging eyes: “Is she assuming you’re gonna live in it with him?”

    Linnet was very pink. “I think so,” she murmured.

    “Cripes,” she said numbly.

    Then they both heard the cultured English voice say: “There you are, darling; where on earth have you been?” And a man’s voice reply: “Walking the dogs. Why are we speaking English: is it some sort of New Year’s Eve tradition you’ve never told me about?”

    Monica gulped. Linnet whispered: “He’s like that.”

    Monica gulped again.

    “Don’t be silly, dear,” said the Comte’s mother serenely—still in English.

    “Jacques tells me there’s a phone call for me,” he said. “If it’s only Isabelle wanting to inflict herself and Zizi on us for the holiday, tell her I’ve come down with the plague.—C’est bien ça, la peste?”

    “Yes,” said his mother in English. “And don’t be silly, of course it isn’t Isabelle, they’ve gone to Guadeloupe to stay with those strange cousins of Zizi’s.”

    “Of course. She’ll be back in time for the fashion shows in January,” he noted, making strange grunting noises.

    “Gilles, for pity’s sake leave your boots and answer the phone! It’s your little Linnet!” said his mother loudly and crossly.

    “Why didn’t you say?” he gasped.

    His mother’s voice said in Linnet’s and Monica’s ears: “Here he is, my dear.”

    Then the Comte’s voice said: “Darling! So you have worked out how to make work the nasty phone?” and Linnet went very pink and Monica went scarlet and precipitately retreated several paces.

    “Um—no: Monica did it,” she said in a tiny voice.

    Monica could hear he was laughing. Linnet was very pink still. She just listened while he talked.

    “Linnet!” hissed Monica, after this had gone on for some time and all Linnet had said was: “Yes;” and: “I miss you, too;” and: “No,” and: “Yes, she said you were walking the dogs;” and: “Yes.” In that order.

    Linnet looked at her mildly.

    “Tell him!” hissed Monica.

    “Yes,” said Linnet, nodding. “Um—no, not you,” she said to the phone. “Yes, of course she’s still here. Um—the house has burned down.”

    Monica went all saggy and had to lean hard on the passage wall.

    The phone was making horrified noises, Monica could hear them all the way from France—and no wonder! Coming out with it just like that! The poor man! –This was the first time that any of Linnet Muller’s acquaintance had thought “The poor man” in reference to her relationship with Gilles de Bellecourt; but it was certainly not destined to be the last.

    Monica continued to sag against the wall, listening. What with the horror and the fascination it never occurred to her that she was being rude or that Linnet might want to talk to her boyfriend alone.

    Linnet continued not to say very much but what she did come out with was enough to make Monica’s eyes bulge.

    On the matter of going to France: “Yes, of course I want to come to France. I said I wouldn’t change my mind. ... Haven’t you? Good, nor have I.”

    On the matter of passports: “Passports? Um—well, Rose and Fergie and me have got ours. We went to the place and filled in the forms and everything when you asked us the first time. ...I thought I had told you. ...No, Jimmy hasn’t got one. ...I have talked to him, Gilles. It’s up to him, though, isn’t it? His uni textbooks were all burnt up.” –Here Monica rolled her eyes.

    Then they got onto the subject of visas. “Um—Rose has got a Visa card, is that the sa—”

    “NO!” cried Monica at this point, unable to stop herself.

    “That’s what he’s saying,” she said to her, grinning. “Gilles!” she said loudly to the phone. “I don’t understand!” There was a pause. He was talking: Monica couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then Linnet went very pink and laughed. Then she said: “Well, go on about these visa things. ...Oh. I don’t see why we need them as well as passports, but if you say so. Where do we get them from? ...Oh. I think that’s in Canberra. ...Oh.” She turned to Monica and said: “He says he’ll pull some strings so as we can get these visa things quicker.”

    Monica just nodded limply.

    Then it was tickets.

    “We don’t need to go first class, Gilles!” said Linnet in amazement.

    “Yes, you do: Dean’s mum says there’s more leg-room!” hissed Monica.

    “It’s all right: he’s insisting,” said Linnet loudly and glumly to her without putting her hand over the receiver

    Monica nodded limply. The poor man, she thought again.

    Linnet apparently accepted the Comte’s offer to pay for first-class tickets.

    “What’s he on about now?” hissed Monica as the phone then quacked at length and Linnet began to look bored and stood on one leg.

    “This blessed flat in Paris,” she said with her hand over the receiver.

    Monica gulped.

    “I can’t imagine it,” she said simply. “—Sorry, I was saying to Monica I can’t imagine it, Gilles.”

    The phone spoke at length.

    At about this point it occurred forcibly to Monica that this extremely extended international call was gonna be on their phone bill! She gulped, and pointed frantically at her watch.

    “What? Oh, help!” gasped Linnet. “Gilles— Gilles, shut up and LISTEN!” she shouted.

    Monica was frankly relieved but couldn’t help thinking again: The poor man.

    Linnet then tried to make Gilles understand, gave up because she was incapable of explaining it, and thrust the receiver upon Monica. Weakly Monica explained to the Comte it was an STD call. He rapidly took Monica’s number, hung up and rang back.

    At first it appeared that he had called back merely for the purpose of having a long and complicated discussion as to how they would pay Monica’s phone bill. Linnet ended up assuring Monica that Gilles would send her a cheque. Monica went all limp: it was sure to be a French cheque; she didn’t think the NAB took French cheques.

    The Comte went on talking. Volubly, apparently. Monica thought that perhaps some of it was about clothes. At intervals Linnet raised objections that apparently weren’t listened to. He eventually dragged all the details of the fire out of her: well, that was something!

    At long last she said: “Oui. Oui, moi aussi.” She looked sideways at Monica, went scarlet, and said in a strangled voice into the phone: “Oui, je t’aime.”

    Monica at this point also went scarlet, and whisked herself out to the kitchen.

    Linnet came in two minutes later, still very flushed.

    “I’m sorry, Linnie, I sort of didn’t think,” said her hostess in a strangled voice.

    “Eh?”

    “I shouldn’t have listened!” gasped Monica.

    “That’s all right,” said Linnet in a puzzled voice.

    Monica bit her lip. “Um—well, what did you decide?” she asked brightly.

    “Nothing!” said Linnet with a laugh. “He decided it all!”

    Monica had got that impression, yeah. “What?”

    “He can’t come out himself, he’s in the middle of selling the house in town. And there was something about the audit that I didn’t understand... What I mean is, he could come out, only not straight away. So he thinks we’d better go to France. We’ll have to wait for those visa things.”—Monica nodded limply.—“He said it’ll only take a week.”

    “Eh?” she gasped.

    “Or less. He knows the French ambassador. He thinks a week because of our strange Australian public holidays,” said Linnet with a little smile.

    “Eh? –Oh, forget it. Look, you’re not seriously telling me if he can pull strings with the embassy you’ll be off to France in a week?”

    Linnet nodded.

    “What about Rose’s insurance and everything?” she gasped.

    “He’s going to send a man...” she said vaguely. “I told him Morpeth, Swale could look after it for us, most probably, only he doesn’t trust them.”

    “Send a man? Linnie, who’s gonna pay for all this?”

    “He is.”

    “Your tontine-thingo money is, ya mean!”

    “It probably will be, yes. I think he’s forgotten that legally eighty percent of almost everything he’s got is ours,” said Linnet with a strange little smile.

    “Yeah,” she said limply. “Linnie, don’t you—don’t you care?”

    “No.”

    “You can’t be that nuts on him!” she said wildly.

    “I’d love him whether he was rich or poor, I’m not interested in the money. But actually, he was going on about putting stuff in my name.”

    “I’m glad to hear it,” she muttered.

    There was a short silence.

    “Look, Linnet, what does he want?” said Monica grimly.

    “Me, apparently,” said Linnet with another of those strange little smiles.

    “Marriage, or what?” she said desperately, very red.

    “I don’t know. He’s divorced, I don’t know whether he’d want to marry again. They had a Catholic wedding, only of course the Church and state have been separate in France ever since the Revolution.”

    Monica just goggled at her.

    “He’s not a believer. But he’s very keen on social forms. –He’s very old-fashioned.”

    “He hasn’t asked you, then?”

    “No. But he hasn’t asked me in so many words whether I want to be his mistress, either.”

    “N— Uh, they don’t, do they?”

    “Don’t ask me. I don’t know how old-fashioned French counts behave in these circs any more than you do, Monica,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

    “Linnet, it’s not funny!”

    “Well, he appears to have told his mother all about me. Would you say that was a good sign?”

    “Well—uh—well, yeah: I would if he was an Aussie; only he isn’t, Linnet!”

    “I suppose I’ll find out what he wants when I get there.”

    “Look, you can’t go off to France just like that!” she cried.

    “I’d go off to the moon if Gilles was gonna be there and he asked me to.”

    “Listen, this could affect the rest of your life!” she cried.

    Linnet smiled a little. “I hope so. So far my life’s been pretty boring. It couldn’t get worse.”

    Monica went very red and shouted: “It could, too! And it could get better if ya stayed right here and married that nice Peter Morpeth that’s nuts about you!”

    “No, it couldn’t, it could get very boring. He’d try to turn me into a Sydney-trendy wife. And before you say anything, I wouldn’t know lean cuisine if I fell over it.”

    “Don’t be ridiculous! He’s nice!” snapped Monica.

    “Is this Peter Morpeth you’re arguing about?” asked Rose from behind her.

    Monica screamed, and leapt.

    “Yes,” said Linnet tranquilly.

    “He’s all right. Only Linnet thinks he’s boring,” said Rose calmly.

    “He is,” said Linnet.

    “Yeah. What did Gilles say?” Rose asked.

    Linnet explained.

    “Good. Let’s go,” she agreed. “I’ll get the Meyercard off Jimmy and we’ll get a warm coat and a good pair of shoes for each of us. We can buy more clothes in Paris.”

    “Rose!” wailed Monica. “Be sensible!”

    “There’s nothing left for us here, Monnie.”

    “But—”

    “Gilles is really nice. I know you and Jimmy don’t think so, but me and Linnet have talked to him more, haven’t we, Linnet? I trust him,” said Rose.

    “Rose, that’s his French charm!” she wailed.

    “Pooh.”

    “Yeah: pooh,” agreed Linnet. “He’s charming because he’s Gilles, not because he’s French. Heck, Mémé was French, and she wasn’t charming!”

    “No!” agreed Rose, giggling loudly.

    Linnet also giggled.

    “You can’t just go off to a foreign country! Anything could happen once he’s got you in his clutches!” wailed Monica.

    “White slavers,” said Linnet with relish. She and Rose collapsed in giggles again.

    “How do you know he’s not after this tontine money?” shouted Monica.

    “Don’t be an idiot! He’s offering us eighty percent!” said Rose scornfully. –Linnet didn’t even bother to answer.

    “Yeah, he is when you’re safely out here with your own lawyers to look after you!”

    “Don’t be thick. I like him, and I believe he’s sincere, and I want a better life for Fergie; what’s wrong with that?”

    “‘A better life!’” she cried scornfully. “Europeans emigrate out here for a better life! You’re mad, Rose!”

    Linnet had wandered over to the window. “Les Australiens,” she said, peering out, “—et surtout les Australiennes—croient qu’il n’existe que l’Australie. Tantôt qu’en réalité la vie en Australie n’est que l’existence.”

    Rose collapsed in giggles, gasping: “Help! You sound just like her!”

    “If that’s one of your Mémé’s, don’t bother to translate it, thanks,” said Monica bitterly.

    “Monnie—the French—are civilized!” gasped Rose, still laughing.

    “Ugh, here they are,” announced Linnet, backing away from the window as the station-waggon pulled in. “I’m gonna have a lie-down.”

    Rose collapsed in giggles again as her sister exited.

    “Look, be sensible!” said Monica angrily.

    “I am,” she said, blowing her nose. “The French are the most sensible as well as the most civilized people on earth. –And if he’s had his mother talking to her about a kindy for Fergie and a flat in Paris,” she said with a grin, “I can assure you you can stop worrying about white slavers!”

    “Rose, she’s—she absolutely mad about him and—and—we don’t really know anything about him,” she faltered. “Not really. Not what he’d be like to live with.”

    “No. But he’s mad about her, too, ya know. And come to think of it, I didn’t really know what Kyle’d be like to live with until I started doing it,” she said, tilting her head on one side. “You never do, do you?”

    “No— But—but—”

    “I think she’s right, and she would be bored with you-know-who,” said Rose, jerking her head in the direction of the sound of slamming car doors.

    “Uh—ye-ah...”

    “She’s a bit odd, ya know,” admitted Linnet’s sister. “Only Gilles doesn’t seem to mind.”

    Monica gulped. “But will he be able to cope with it?”

    “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” she said cheerfully. “Put it this way: it’s a free trip to France, and it’s a chance to get away, and see a bit of a different sort of life.”

    Monica nodded dumbly.

    “And even if I said I wouldn’t go with her, I think she’d go,” added Rose.

    Monica nodded again, this time with considerable feeling.

    “I know she’s fallen out of her tree. Only I’d rather see her mad about a man than with her head buried in her blasted scientific crap for the rest of her natural!” said Rose strongly.

    “Well, yes, only—”

    “And he’s Hell of an attractive!” said Rose with a smothered giggle. “Honest; Monnie: don’t you think he looks just like Jean-Luc Picard?”

    “Uh—help. Star Trek The Next Generation? Yes, you’re right,” she said limply.

    “Right. Ya can’t blame her for going for it,” said Rose happily.

    Monica nodded numbly.

    “Added to which, trying to stop her at the moment’d be like trying to stop a raging bushfire with a garden hose,” said Rose detachedly.

    Monica’s jaw sagged, but she managed to nod.

    “Come on! Better tell Jimmy and Peter the good news!” said Rose with a loud giggle. She forged off back to the lounge-room.

    Monica followed numbly. They could say what they liked, but even if that mad old grandmother of theirs had been French, it was a foreign country and—and anything could happen over there! But she could see there was no hope of talking them out of it: Linnet wasn’t the only Muller sister that was acting like a bushfire out of control.

    That wasn’t the end of it, though it was true that the unfortunate Dean, for one, would have been just as glad if had been.

    Jimmy and Peter tried arguing, they tried throwing cold water, they tried common sense, they fell back on saying weakly just give it a few weeks. They tried saying wait until George Morpeth had got something on paper from the Comte, they tried— Well, they tried every sensible argument. Jimmy lost his temper and shouted. After a bit Peter also lost his rag and also shouted. Then he got Linnet out for a walk and tried begging. That didn’t work any better.

    So in the end they went. The visas came through as fast as Gilles had promised—in fact the French embassy rang that same afternoon, just when it had dawned on Jimmy that it wasn’t a pathetic joke and the girls hadn’t been on the sherry all afternoon. Rose got her Meyercard off him and bought herself, Linnet and Fergie three sets of underwear, three tee-shirts and a tracksuit each to travel in, a warm anorak each, since Meyer had put all their winter coats away, and a pair of comfortable walking shoes. On second thoughts buying them each two cotton frocks for the meantime.

    They got on the Ansett plane in plenty of time to make their Air France connection in Sydney wearing the cotton frocks, and Rose competently got them changed into the tracksuits at Kingsford Smith. Helped by Buffy, who had met them off the Ansett flight and was in such a state of vicarious excitement that in spite of the image she kept jumping. And Marilu, who was just about as excited even though they weren’t her sisters and niece. Then Buffy, Marilu and Mrs O’Donaldson saw them onto the Air France plane. Well, through the gates.

    And that was that.

Next chapter:

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