Enjoy the film but read the book. It’s as true, or truer, of the aspirations of much of today’s Western society as it was when Scott Fitzgerald began writing it in 1922. That’s why it has been called, by many literary lions, The Great American Novel.

New ideas come, says Nick, from ‘the darker recesses of my brain – and my kid’s brains. A child’s brain is a great place to look for ideas. My kids tend to come up with absolute corkers!’
It may help a bit that Nick’s main career is as a clinical psychologist but being a parent has been even more important in showing him that children need to have fun with their reading. He says ‘Being a parent makes me realise that kids books are about helping kids enjoy reading – ideas of making them ‘good literature’ or ‘worthwhile subjects’ is nonsense. The point of a good kids’ book is that kids enjoy reading it. The other side of my brain which works as a child psychologist, would wholly concur!’

Fun is a theme that runs through all of Nick’s thoughts on writing. Although there is an educational undertone to the books he says ‘The books are 99% about entertainment and silliness. But I think it’s also fun for kids to learn new stuff, especially about dinosaurs, space and Roman invasions. So I make sure to always include a few fun facts along the way – the other 1%.’

Nick points out that if a writer is to be successful he or she deserves some fun, too, along with the necessary graft. ‘I just write what I want to write, and hope my readers enjoy it!’ he says. ‘I find writing for fun easy. But as soon as a publisher gets involved – which is of course what we want – and sets series guidelines and completion dates, things get a bit harder. I always find the hardest bit is making my ideas fit with the series ‘rule’. I like to let my stories go whichever way they want to go but with a series such as Saurus Street you have to ensure the same ‘universe rules’ are followed. Constraints like this make writing a bit harder.’

Nick was already a dinosaur enthusiast before he wrote the first book, an enthusiasm that has probably also contributed to the series’ success. ‘I have to admit I’m just a dinosaur and science nerd. And I’d also spent three years prior to writing talking dinosaurs with my son, and reading dinosaur books with him. So that was all the research I needed.’

Writing is a solitary craft. It helps to mull over ideas with others, says Nick. ‘I exchange ideas with my wife, who writes Screenplays, and I throw ideas around with Tony Flowers, the illustrator for my books. But writing is a lonely business in many ways, and it’s important to write what you want to write and not try and stick to other people’s ideas if they don’t mesh with your own.’
It is all good advice but can anyone write? It’s that fun word again. ‘Start as early as you can. Writing should be fun, so age, talent and writing style are irrelevant. If you’re not enjoying it, it won’t be any good. So start writing for fun as early as you can. Just remember the golden rule – Don’t Get It Right. Just Write!’

At Learn to Write Online, we couldn’t have put it better ourselves. Just Write!

Nick’s latest two books in the Saurus series will be out in September. Published by Random House, the first four, Tyrannosaurus in the Veggie Patch, The Very Naughty Velociraptor, A Pterodactyl Stole my Homework, and An Allosaurus Ate my Uncle.

 
If you are unfamiliar with any of the words, look them up in your dictionary or Google them.

logical
conceptual
judgemental
harsh
dreamlike
analytical
imaginative
speculative
critical
foolish
weird
reflective
visual
symbolic
poetic
digital
dreamlike
non verbal
analogical
lyrical
surreal
concrete
practical

The words on the right are the imaginative, creative types of thinking you should use for the first draft of your writing. They let your ideas pop up. They don’t inhibit you. These kinds of thinking don’t tell you what you should be writing. They encourage you to let it all hang out.

The words on the left, concrete, practical, are just that. They are the kinds of thinking you need when you are editing your work.

Don’t confuse the two. Allow yourself to think creatively when you are writing.
Only think analytically much later when you switch into editor mode.
 

Writer’s Toolbox – Creative Writing Course in London

From: Andre.Bottin@Ac.Fiji

To: Colette@Writer.fr

December 29, 2009

Dear Madame Colette,

I hope this email surprises you as pleasantly as my discovery of your website did me. I am writing to you from my office in the English Department of the University of Fiji. You may imagine, then, how I was ‘surprised by joy’ when I chanced upon your website, Colette, whilst researching on the internet. The more so when I discovered that you are an English woman academic, albeit with an appropriately French literary name, living near Toulouse, where I plan to reinstall myself when I return to France in mid April. Your brief biography on the site – I am ‘impatient as the wind’ to learn more about you – indicates that you are unmarried. Excellent. Very good indeed. I foresee many happy discussions, excursions, ‘expotitions’. Yes, as you will gather, I am a devotee of Winnie Ille Pooh.  I hope we may anticipate a meeting, very soon though necessarily, alas, slightly delayed.

I am, as you will have deduced from the main thrust of the quotations, a Wordsworthian, a lover of all things Wordsworth; of the Pantheists, of Coleridge, of Dorothy, of ‘Chatterton, the marvellous boy’. My PhD was on the poet himself Wordsworth and the Semiotics of Loneliness. I am, in a word, immersed, living in his very world, out here in Fiji, no less.

A little more about myself: I am a lecturer in the English Department. (See biography, attached.) We are a small, tight ship, sailing on the rugged waters around this cultural desert island, smaller still when I jump overboard to return to France in two months’ time. My particular joy, my passion, is Wordsworth, as I have intimated. But do not let that intimidate you. My interests are many and varied. As writers we have much to discuss. Now, a little about yourself, if you please, lest my unsatisfied curiosity blow me straight across the water towards you.



Yours very cordially and in hopeful, I should say, in happy anticipation, of your reply,

Andre Bottin, (Phd)

Colette was enthralled. Here was a literary man, no less, sent to warm her winter chill. She did not want it to appear that she had too little to do to occupy her time so she waited for two days before she replied. She passed the days browsing an anthology of Wordsworth, who had grown dim in her memory since schooldays.

From: Colette@Writer.fr
To: Andre.Bottin@Ac.Fiji

December 31, 2009

Cher Andre

‘O blithe new-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice’.

Two can play at this quotations game, you see.

I’m not sure how you stumbled across me and am puzzled as to how you would have encountered me or my site in the normal course of your research. Was it really my website you found and not my profile on the Meetic site? Whichever it was, I was delighted to hear from you. I am, indeed, unmarried, divorced rather than a spinster of the parish, and am hoping to make new friends in the area. Villejoie is not, as I am sure you must know, the epicentre of the cultural world, although the absence of distraction is excellent for a writer painfully plodding through her dissertion. I write, ah yes, indeed, I write, but slowly and it’s a solitary occupation, as you will know.

How interesting that your sphere of interest is Wordsworth. He is such a very English poet, one of the most English, don’t you think, and yet many of his descriptions are so apt for this part of France? As a Francophile your passion for him is maybe no coincidence. I see you have attached to your email a list, impressively long, of your publications. And to my surprise, my pleasure, I should say, a CD of four of your lectures dropped into my post box yesterday. What excellent research, to have discovered my address and have sent the CD even before the email. Should I swot you up before your arrival? The thought is just a little intimidating. I shall enjoy the effort, however, should my own studies permit me to take a little expotition into the world of Wordsworth.

Does anything remain uncharted of his life, I wonder? You seem to have written or spoken on every aspect of it. I had forgotten that he and his circle were so heavily drug dependent. How interesting. Do you suppose they held their own twelve step meetings? What a frivolous thought. I suspect you may think me flippant. So to be serious. What are your plans when you return? A new life awaits you. I like to imagine you making a dash to Paris in search of Oscar Wilde.

I have been here for three years. An impulsive move prompted by England’s low barometric pressure and high property prices. The South Aveyron is, I must admit, a contrast from central London. What am I doing here, I ask myself at times? Then I remember; peace, calm, tranquillity, but don’t get me started on French builders.

I am in the final stages of writing a dissertation on George Sand. It is going well but when I need a rest from study, I transform my garden into a miniature Sissinghurst. Have you been to that wonderful garden created by Vita Sackville West? That is the basis of my design for my own garden and I’ve made a very good start with beds of white roses and silver leaved shrubs. I hope I may show it to you, one day.

I look forward to hearing from you with more details about your life.


Cordialement


Colette.

 
Her hopes ran ahead of the reality. Colette’s garden did not resemble that of Sissinghurst. The moles were winning on the lawn which, when newly planted, was tender and green but had quickly become humped and bald. She had tried sewing grass seed but, however many handfuls she cast about her, the birds ate the new shoots as soon as they appeared. In the midst of winter, the ground was too frozen to work so she doodled her designs in the margins of her notebook and dreamed of spring. The project stuttered slowly along. She was a novice gardener, not naturally gifted.
 
It snowed at the beginning of January.  It was not the snow of the picture postcards in the village shop. It fell in mean, wet flakes, barely covering the grass and melted within hours, leaving icy patches at the edges of the flower beds. The rose bushes she had planted in the autumn had lost their leaves and looked as miserable in the cold as she was. Colette made darting forays to fetch wood for the stove from the pile in the animal byres under the big barn. Once, she startled a stone marten and ran shrieking back into the house with only a couple of logs to keep the fire alight. She was discovering too late that she was not a natural country woman. She sat as close to the stove as she could, huddled in her green tartan dressing grown, the duvet from her bed covering her knees. She longed for the spring when she hoped she would have renewed energy to attack and tame the garden wilderness.
 
She searched her emails more hopefully now but It was mid January before Andre wrote again. Oh, surprised by joy¸ indeed.
 

15^th January, 2009

Ma Tres Chere Colette

A rich reply from you; more, I fear, than I deserve. ‘The world is too much with us’, especially right now as I wind down my year ready for a departure which brings me ever closer to you. Dear Colette. How I long for the day when we shall meet, tete a tete.

Do tell me more about your life. What is happening right now, in the Springtime of the year, in the Aveyron? Do share the minutiae of your ‘diurnal course’ (cf A Slumber did my Spirit Seal)


Until we meet, adieu

Andre

18^th January, 2009

Bien Cher Andre

How disappointing that you have so little time at the moment. I have too much and am, I fear, in danger of creating you more in my own image than in yours. I look forward so much to hearing about your life and thoughts but shall have to make do with the impressively full bibliography of suggested Wordsworth study (thank you for attaching that with your last) and the second CD of your interesting lectures. For the rest, I shall curb my impatience until we meet. Only eight weeks now. I count the days.

The springtime of the year, you say. That’s a happy thought if ever there were one. Here, we are in the dog days of winter, with mist and rain swirling around us. Yesterday, I ventured down to the village clutching a fog lamp in one hand and a stick in the other. I understand now how it must feel for Claire, my nearest neighbour, who can hardly see. I stumbled down the hill, groping my way, able to make out the path only a foot or two in front of me. The wind was blowing so hard that it took me ten minutes to reach the village, although it is only 200 yards from my house. Claire called me in to shelter from the rain. It was ten in the morning but she laced my coffee with cognac, or rather, heated my cognac with a tablespoon full of coffee and I was grateful for every drop.

We huddle at this time of year. I go out as little as possible, some days only to fetch logs to stoke the fire which I keep ablaze around the clock. I’ve moved from my first floor bedroom downstairs where it is warmer and I am a shorter distance from the fire. It’s lonely, though. I have only the mice for company and I would prefer your companionship. Here, I am not wandering lonely as a cloud. I’m trapped in it and not enjoying it.  My garden, alas, blooms in my head rather than on the ground.

I am not clear about your country of origin. Your name seems French, as mine does, but your accent is not. Of course your English is perfect and your accent does definitely lean rather more towards Leeds than Toulouse. I must confess, though, it was a little difficult to hear because of the rather high volume of audience participation in your lectures. How different from my student days. Heckling was not countenanced then. It was brave of you indeed to record your dignified retreat before the end, slamming the door so assertively. Most impressive.

You do not mention any family. I have a trio of offspring, scattered rather to the winds as is the fashion with the young these days. I have been divorced for more years than I care to remember and do not always enjoy the spinster life. I do look forward to our meeting. How long have you been divorced?

Warmest good wishes,

Colette.

 
Her literary man had a busier life in Fiji than Colette could claim in the Aveyron. She waited for nearly a month for his reply, impatient as the wind and deeply impatient with the mist and the rain.

A bat had woken from its winter torpor and flown through the open window into her bedroom. It whirred overhead and she dived under the duvet until it flew out again. She had seen signs of rats in the byre and had made an excursion to the Mairie just below her house to ask what she should do about them. Phillipe, the mayor, had brought poisoned grain to her and had stayed so long drinking cognac that she began to think she would prefer the rats. She made a mental note not to apply to him for assistance again. She admitted to herself, though, that her irritation with the mayor might have been triggered when, seeing a photograph of her daughter, he had suggested that Colette should return to England and send Alice in her place. ‘Tell her’ he said, ‘that I have very pretty moustaches.’

When Andre’s answer came, she printed it so that she could sit cosily by the fire to enjoy it and let its warmth seep into her soul.
 

15^th February, 2009

My Dear Colette

Another rich email from you which I shall savour as soon as I have a moment so to do. ‘Oh Duty’. I am sure you know the rest (cf Ode to Duty). So much to do, so little time; too little, alas, to reply to you as you deserve. In haste, therefore.

My marital situation is a little complicated. In a word, I am at present still married but working to resolve the situation and shall, I trust, have good news for you in this regard before much longer. Certainly, I expect to move things forward on my return. It is all rather too involved to make an explanation in this email. Duty calls. Oh Duty.

More at my next.


Much love

Andre

 
Colette noted the reference to his marital complications but skimmed over them in her haste to plug the gaps in her knowledge of Ode to Duty. It brought her closer to her literary man and her studies of Wordsworth and his circle edged George Sand out of pole position in Colette’s research. By the time the Professor arrived, she would be able with complete confidence to parry Wordsworth quotes with him.

It was still too cold to work for long in the garden but bramble twines had started to invade the rose bed. She waited until it had rained for several days before attacking them with a hoe. The ground was still so resistant that she bent the metal neck. She retreated into the house, frustrated by her inability to tame this hostile wasteland. She hoped that her literary man might, perhaps, be a gardener, able to hack his way through the brambles which were impervious to her efforts. So far, the signs were not promising.

She slept at odd hours during the day, hibernating while she waited for spring. At the beginning of March she felt at last that winter was turning the corner into early spring. It was still cold but there were rare moments when the sun poked dimly through the clouds. With a faint stirring of energy she wrote to Andre again.

4^th March 2009

Dear Andre

How very nice it was to receive your photograph in the mail this morning. I do like curly black hair, or at least, now I do. And such a huge smile. What a charming photograph, like a vibrant Della Robbia cherub. I have nobody here I can ask to take one of me so I am afraid you will have to wait to see the original. Only 46 days to go. I am already a little nervous. I am, you see, falling in love with you but I know that it is only my own projection. One cannot fall in love with somebody with whom one has corresponded for only a couple of months, can one? So I imagine you and I must say, it is keeping me going through the last, I hope, cold days of this slow springing Spring.

The daffodils are starting to poke up but no flowers yet, just the green sheath where the flower waits to burst through. My neighbours, Claire and Jean, have yet to emerge from their burrow. The shutters are still firmly closed on the summer visitors’ houses so all is a bit duller than I would like. There is a suggestion of green in the hills and forests. I love the pale lettuce shades of early spring and the way the wheat, only a few weeks after it is sown, ripples in the breeze like crushed velvet. So I try to keep loneliness at bay, watching for the signs of approaching spring. Most important, of course, I have the prospect of our meeting to cheer me up.

Now that the spring is on the way, I am impatient to get back to my Sissinghurst- in-the-Aveyron. My poor garden is looking just a little dejected but I shall coax it into glory as soon as the ground softens.

I am still working my way through your latest paper with the very useful footnotes directing me to further reading. Thank you for it. Is it really true, about Wordsworth and Dorothy? It is not how I would have interpreted the Romantic in Romantic Poet. But I suppose if the Egyptians thought it alright, who are we to point the finger? Your research and impressive bibliography at the end is so thorough I am sure you must be right. I read now with eyes newly awakened. It does make me wonder who he is describing in

‘A noble woman, nobly planned,

To warn, to comfort, and command’

(cf Memorials of a Tour in Scotland.)

Probably not Dorothy at all, but was she a model for all the women he writes about?  There’s a subject for your next paper, although already much researched, I imagine.

I have resumed my own researches into George Sand with renewed vigour. Such an admirably strong woman every bit as noble a woman, nobly planned as any in Wordsworth’s circle. I look forward to sharing with you my findings about her life and work. I think I have a rather new angle on her which I shall enjoy discussing with you. In the meantime, I attach the first draft of my chapter George Sand, Proto-feminist, which may be of interest.

There is not much more news I can give you to entertain you. So I eagerly await your reply.



Yours affectionately

Colette.

She had emerged from her dressing gown cocoon and was starting to plan what she would wear for her first meeting with Andre. She did not have too much from which to choose. In winter she wore a couple of sweaters under her dressing gown and thick corduroy trousers tucked into woollen socks. Men’s carpet slippers completed her cold weather attire. In summer, she removed a few layers but the effect remained rough and rural and her trousers were usually streaked with grass stains. She inspected her wardrobe with dissatisfaction and decided, faute de mieux, on a pair of black trousers, a full sleeved, peasant blouse and a long, brown woollen cloak which seemed to her to be the sort of outfit George Sand might have worn. She imagined that a trilby with a feather in the band would add a dashing touch but all she could find in the local shop were the flat caps the farmers wore.

With Andre’s departure so imminent, Colette did not expect an immediate reply and it was just as well. He wrote three weeks after she had sent her last email.

25^th March, 2009

Dearest Colette

How angry you must be with me for my shameful neglect of you these past couple of weeks. Parties, parties, parties. One does get so very tired of the tributes poured upon one by people with nothing better to do. No invitations to speak of for the five years of my time here and now, all of a sudden, I am bidden to attend farewell functions hosted by all from the Dean to the janitor. I shall be so very relieved to leave all of this frenetic merrymaking behind and to be able to focus on the really important things in life; our meeting, for example.

I have a growing fantasy that we shall meet on the steps of the Toulouse Lautrec Museum in Albi. You know it, of course; a bijoux collection, not of his very best work but enough to give some small idea of his talent. If we have time, we might spend a couple of hours there before lunch and I can introduce you to a few of my favourite works. Then I shall sweep you off to the best restaurant in Albi, L’Esprit du Vin, without a question. Every dish a little masterpiece. We can talk and sip wine and bask at our meeting in the sun.

But until then, duty calls once more. Adieu, sweet Colette, till we meet.


Much love

Andre

p.s I had time only to skim the headings of your chapter on George Sand, who does not seem to me to be an admirable woman. I am not sure you made the point convincingly enough. There seemed, dare I say it, a suggestion that you actually admired her? Surely not.

 
Colette allowed herself to feel disappointed by his reply. She did indeed admire George Sand who, she felt sure, would have coped much better with rural solitude than she had done. Hovering for a  moment over her mind was a doubt about whether Andre could experience empathy. She did not permit it to settle. She had invested too much hope in the relationship and too much time in becoming reacquainted with Wordsworth. She was not prepared, at this late stage, to allow an imagined drawback to come between them.

 
On reflection, the George Sand outfit might not be the most appropriate for their first meeting. A Vita Sackville-West style of black dress and large hat would, she decided, be more suitable.

There was time for one more communication before they met.

10^th April 2009

My Dear Andre

Just a quick email to wish you well on your journey home. I do hope all goes smoothly.

I was suitably chastened by your comments on George Sand who I do, indeed, admire, and so did numerous other more distinguished writers, including Elizabeth Barrett Browning.  No matter. I hope to convince you of her merits.

I have decided to wear a Vita Sackville-West hat by which you can easily identify me on the steps of the Toulouse Lautrec Museum. I do hope it doesn’t rain. A large hat under an umbrella won’t be quite the same. How exciting. There you will be, standing at the bottom and – there my imagination fails me. I hope my words don’t but I am sure I can count on you to plug any gaps.

Before I forget, thank you for sending me the speech made by the Dean at your ‘passing out parade’. Clearly, you are going to leave an unbridgeable gap in their lives. I thought his reference to the greatly increased workload slightly gratuitous. Rather pragmatic for such an occasion, I thought, putting the emphasis too much on work. It must have been very sad for everyone to see you go. But their loss …

I shall save the rest of my musings for our meeting. I await it with the greatest imaginable impatience.

Love

Colette

The telephone rang. Colette rushed from the end bedroom upstairs, from where she had been watching the swallows circling the bell tower, harbingers of spring at last. She jumped down the  three steps of the winding wooden staircase into the salon and plucked up the ‘phone just before it flicked onto answer phone.

‘Allo, j’ecoute’ she said.

There was a pause and she thought the line had gone dead. Then a man’s voice said

‘Is that Colette, writer’?

She hesitated for a moment, trying to identify the voice. ‘That must be you Andre. Welcome back. How wonderful to hear your voice.’

‘Et tu brute’ he said.

‘I can’t wait to meet you. I’ve thought so much about our meeting. When do you think you can make it? Of course you are just back and must have a lot to do. Any time this week would do for me ‘. There was a sound of paper rustling. ‘Or next’, she added.

‘I’m looking at my diary’ he said. ‘It’s filling up quite alarmingly.’

‘With what?’ she asked. ‘You’re only just back.’

‘I can manage next Wednesday’ he said.

‘Done. On the steps of the Toulouse Lautrec. At midi. Me in the hat. You down the steps.’

There was a pause and she was about to hang up when he said ‘There’s something I thought I’d better warn you about, in case you get a fright.’

‘I am sure, where you are concerned, I am impervious to fright’ she laughed.

‘I have no teeth’ he said.

The teeth did come as a surprise and even, she had to admit to herself, a disappointment. She pictured the professor with his black curly hair and his toothlessness now making him look like a still younger Della Robbia cherub than she had imagined.

‘None´? She asked.

‘None.’

‘Fine, fine’ she said. ‘No problem. Absolutely fine. Definitely.’

She had five days before their meeting in which to adjust to the news about the teeth. She held his photograph at arm’s length in front of her, squinting at it to try and visualise him, toothless. The white dazzle of his smile was all she could see. She took a felt tip pen and carefully blacked it out. It gave him a different look, but not too horrible. She wondered how he could eat. Surely his diet did not consist of baby pap? She concluded that he must, somehow, have toughened his gums. She tried to chew a chicken leg with her lips wrapped round her teeth. It was not a successful experiment. In the days before she met him, though, she managed to adapt her new vision of him to one very nearly approaching the image he had sent her, but rather darker and more mysterious.

 
By the time Wednesday arrived, she was again anticipating the meeting with pleasure. She set off happily, wearing the black dress and a bright orange hat with a ragged rose and a floppy brim which fell over her sunglasses making her, she thought, look satisfactorily literary.

 
The drive from Villejoie to Albi usually took fifty minutes but she managed it in forty, running along the banks of the River Tarn, rushing down the middle of the three discarded railway tunnels which were cut through the rocky hills. Into her aged Seat’s cassette player she inserted a recording of TS Eliot reading The Wasteland. His voice was monotonous and his reading was not jolly and uplifting but it was the only poetry recording she had and would have to do. The route along the Tarn made up for Eliot’s lugubriousness.  Clumps of primroses flowered along the banks, the moorhens were diving and chasing each other across the water.

‘The roads

Were crowded with the bravest youth of France ….. ‘

driving tractors that blocked her way and she hooted, trying to disguise her irritation with a friendly wave as she squeezed past them. The air smelled of spring manure, horsey and earthy and a relief after the smoggy, clogging fumes of winter.

 
At 11.56 she made her way slowly towards the steps of the Toulouse Lautrec Museum. As the bells of the Cathedrale de Ste Cecile tolled mid day, she arrived at the top and paused. She looked down and there, at last, was her professor, gazing up at her. She began to walk down the steps, trying not to stumble in heels which suddenly seemed ill-advised. It wasn’t until she reached the bottom that she was able to see him properly. He was wearing a mustard coloured jacket without lapels and a maroon shirt. He smiled. He had misled her about the teeth. There was one on each side of his upper gum. On the right was a sharpened stake, on the left an inch long, dangling donkey hoof. But it was the hair that surprised her. Where were the black curls? They had turned to ash. Her professor resembled Mr. Pickwick to her carefully contrived Vita.

 
They greeted each other with the awkward kiss on each cheek that the English affect when in France.  His gaze swept down her but his expression did not alter. Perhaps, she thought, his disappointment matched her own.

 
Andre led the way towards the doors of the Musee des Berbiers, where the Toulouse Lautrec collection was housed. Tottering across the cobbles, Colette tried to keep up with him. Andre reached the door just as the curator was switching  the notice from ouvert to ferme. He banged on the door. ‘What’s all this?’ he said. ‘It’s just mid day. We’ve come a long way just to see the exhibition and you’re bloody well closed.’ The curator shrugged his shoulders, pointed towards the panel displaying the opening hours, mouthed ‘bon appetit’, turned around and walked away. ‘Typical French’ Andre said. ‘If they’re not on strike they’re closed for lunch. I had decided exactly what I was going to show you. It was just enough to whet your appetite for a more in depth knowledge of Toulouse Lautrec. I suppose we’ll have to eat first and come back later. It won’t be the same at all’.

 
‘I’m sure we’ll enjoy it just as much after lunch. I have seen the exhibition before, you know’ she said.

 
But Andre was already halfway up the steps. He waited for her at the top and led the way across the Cathedral Square to L’Esprit du Vin where the black aproned waiter, lounging by the wall, jumped to attention when he saw them. ‘Madame’ he cooed, as he pulled a metal cafe chair out and seated her with her back to the traffic on the brick paved terrace. Colette and Andre were silent while they studied the menu. He ordered steak, saignant, perched on top of black squid pasta and managed successfully to suck his way through it. She chose mussels and magret de canard. She was tempted to watch him eat but focused her eyes firmly on her plate so that she could not. They shared a huge platter of cheese and a trio of desserts. In between mouthfuls, they began to talk.

‘What news of your wife?’ she asked. ‘Have you managed to resolve the marital impasse you mentioned’?

‘It’s very complicated’ he sighed. ‘I have to tread delicately. Very delicately. She is not a well woman, Griselda. She lies in a darkened room most of the day.’ He tapped the side of his forehead. ‘Depressed.’

Colette nodded, the brim of her hat bobbing in sympathy. ‘Your very own mad woman in the attic’ she said. ‘How thrillingly literary.’

‘Give it time’ he said. ‘Time and the hour runs through the roughest day’. He sighed and she sighed with him.

 
When they had finished eating, an hour remained before the museum opened its doors again so they decided to visit the Baptisterie de St. Jean. He took her elbow and steered her along the lane and into the dark gloom of the building. It was filled with tourists, also sheltering until the shops and gallery opened again. They began to circle the pillars.

 
‘That photograph you sent me´ she said. ‘You seemed to have very black hair and a full set of teeth.’ She was whispering so that an English speaking couple, slung about with cameras, could not overhear her.

‘Must be very old then’ he replied. ‘Haven’t had teeth for a long time now’.

‘Are you planning to replace them any time soon?’ she whispered, trying to sound disinterested.

‘Certainly not’ he said. ‘That’s very bourgeois. I’d rather spend the money on a new car.’

‘Teeth in general are bourgeois or replacement teeth in particular?’ she asked.

He did not answer. He had sunk down into a nearby pew and motioned for her to sit beside him.

‘I think I should forewarn you’ he said. ‘I don’t want to lead you along the primrose path of dalliance then cause you disappointment.’ Colette wondered what else he might reveal that had not already caused disappointment.  ‘I have greatly enjoyed our intellectual exchanges, a meeting of true minds.’ He tapped his forehead as if to indicate where his mind lay. ‘But I feel I must confess. I recently reconnected with a former girlfriend I met in China. It is looking promising. I don’t know how it will work out. I should know quite soon and if it doesn’t, of course I shall be straight back in touch with you. I hope you don’t feel too disappointed but I felt I should tell you that this may, possibly, be as far as we travel along life’s road together.’

Colette removed her hat and held it in front of her face, seeming to fan herself with it. She paused until the laughter which fizzed up had subsided and she could sound suitably composed. She could not decide whether relief or disappointment predominated. ‘Andre,’ she said. ‘How wonderful for you. I do hope it works out. And don’t worry about me. I find, now that spring is here, I have regained my enthusiasm for my garden. My own design, as it happens. Sissinghurst in the Aveyron didn’t work. Besides, as your poet said ‘Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.’
 

The neighbour arrived at the front door beaming. He had the hare firmly by the hind legs and held it aloft for me to admire. The hare’s eyes were glazed. I managed to mumble “Thanks very much Dimitri” before shutting the door in his face. But he ambled away good naturedly.

The old knot in my stomach tightened as I turned away. I saw the dead boy’s eyes again in my mind. Glazed like the hare. It was my Billy who had shot the boy. He had shot the boy when he meant to shoot the rabbit.

“He walked in front of me Ma” Billy had said

“I had the rabbit in my sights”

Koos lived next door. He was Billy’s best friend. He was always at our house. Koos was like my other son.

It was me. I was the one who had to go next door to tell Koos’ parents. Jan Willem was away as usual, off on one of his diamond business trips. If he wasn’t away on the diamond business, it was the hunting trips. My, he had so many guns in the house. I always told him, he should lock those guns away; but no, we might need them in an emergency. He was the one who taught Billy to shoot. I told him Billy was too young. Didn’t he know a ten year old shouldn’t be in charge of a gun. But no, Jan Willem said, “A boy must be a man someday. So he must learn to be a man. He must learn how to shoot”

All very well for him to say. He wasn’t there that night that the boys went out to Boucher’s Kop to shoot rabbits. He wasn’t there when Billy came back with blood all over him saying,

“Come quick Ma. Koos is shot. He is bleeding”

I ran. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me and Billy ran too. We ran down the road and through the farm gate and up that dirt track to Boucher’s Kop. Koos was just lying there. His eyes were glazed like the hare. I could see he was dead straight away. By the light of that moon I could see he was dead. They took him away in an ambulance, and I had to tell his parents. They never spoke to me again of course, or my Billy. They never spoke to either of us. It was hard on Billy. He was always at their house too. My heart used to weep for Billy. I would see him looking at Koos’ bedroom window and I could see his heart was breaking.

I used to cook rabbit all the time in those days. Whenever the boys brought back a rabbit, I would make a stew, like a bredie with lots of tomatoes. Jan Willem said it was the best rabbit stew he ever ate. Every time he said that.

“Elna” he would say, “this is the best rabbit stew I ever ate.”

But I have never cooked a rabbit stew since that day.

I am alone now. Jan Willem has passed on and I am older. Now I have a hare in my kitchen. What am I going to do. It was very kind of Dimitri of course, to bring this hare for me. He doesn’t know about Billy and Koos and the rabbits. But I don’t think I can cook this hare. I can’t give it to anyone. Dimitri would hear of it and be insulted. Poor Dimitri, he is a good neighbour.

Even when Freddy started coming round to the house, Billy never stopped thinking about Koos. Freddy was new in town maybe that is why his parents let him play with my son. Freddy and Billy were in the bedroom that day, when those skollies broke into my car. Billy told Freddy he mustn’t worry because there was a gun next to his father’s bed. I told Jan Willem after Koos was shot,

“Jan Willem, now will you put those guns away”

But Jan Willem said, “OK Ma, but I’ll just keep the one next to the bed.”

“What’s the use of having a gun if you can’t use it when you need it?” Jan Willem said.

And what did I say? I said, “Jan Willem, you must know what you are doing.”

But you see what happened. That Freddy he went straight to Jan Willem’s bed and he got the gun to scare the skollies. And my Billy ran up to him to stop him, and then there was a shot, and I came running upstairs, and there was my Billy lying on the floor. And Freddy was standing there with the gun still in his hand and a shocked expression on his face. It happened all over again. I couldn’t believe it. Only this time it was my Billy who was lying dead. I thought I was going mad and it was all a dream. But it wasn’t, it was real.

So you see why I can’t cook that hare. But maybe I will. Maybe I should cook it. I will cook it for Billy and for Koos and for poor Freddy who suffered just like my Billy. Maybe God will be merciful and punish Freddy too like my Billy, or maybe Freddy will live a long life with his suffering. I don’t know because I never saw Freddy again either.

Now, I think that I will cook that hare. I will cook it for those boys and I will invite Dimitri to come and eat it with me. Maybe he will say like Jan Willem used to say

“Elna, this is the best rabbit stew I ever ate.”

by Barbara Siedle  2012

‘So kind of them’ said Val, who had just removed the book from its place in the hall table drawer. ‘It’s not Charles’s writing and it sounds more like Belinda than Charles, from the little we’ve seen of her, just a bit over the top. Fondest love has grown rather quickly, given that we’ve only been with her for two days. Talking for Charles, I suppose. Still, nothing wrong with a bit of fulsome praise. Rather sweet, don’t you think, Steve?’

‘I detect a hint of sarcasm. Not the best time for it. They’ll be here any moment. Put on the kettle and comb your hair, maybe in reverse order.’

They had so greatly enjoyed their first stay they had asked if they could come again. Good country air would do wonders for Charles, said Belinda’s email, especially in the dry atmosphere of the farm. His lungs had collapsed after he had rushed too fast up Kilimanjaro. He was brought down, by helicopter, even faster. He had been on a ventilator for weeks and even now, a year later, his voice sounded grazed. Steve and Val did not hesitate.

‘Of course you must come’ Steve wrote. ‘It´ll be such a pleasure for us. This time, we’ll be here during your visit. Val and I are so looking forward to spending time with you. And, of course, to getting to know you better Belinda.’

‘Poor fellow’ Steve was sympathetic. ‘Always been a physical chap. Could have happened to anyone but I wouldn’t have thought he’d be the one. He’s so fit’. The men had known each other for decades, shared a flat in Johannesburg before he and Val had married, forty-five years before.

‘He should have thought of altitude sickness, with all the tramping up mountains he’s done’ said Val. ‘Think of what it cost to rescue him.  The helicopter was just the start of it. You boys should realise you’re past it now. Leaping up mountains is for kids.’

The dogs were the first to herald the visitors’ arrival. O’Malley, the Irish wolfhound, launched his bass bark before their car had rounded the bend by the dam and entered the drive leading to the house. He ambled out to the courtyard, followed by Cinnamon, Justice and Fluffit the Yorkshire terrier whose small legs whirled her along in the big dogs’ slipstream. Steve and Val followed, reaching the scarlet Mercedes, its roof open, as Belinda was saying ‘Cover your nose with your handkerchief, Darling. The last thing your poor lungs need is an allergic reaction to dogs. Good doggies. Shoo’ she said ‘shoo’.

‘Welcome back to Africa’ said Val.

Steve walked round the front of the car to open the driver’s door for Belinda, who was leaning out over the edge of the lowered window, flapping a pink, silk scarf at O’Malley. ‘How wonderful to see you again.’ He bent to kiss her but she fended him off with a raised palm.

‘I’ve got a terrible cold’ she said. ‘It’s the air conditioning on the ‘plane.  Shares all the germs around.’

‘Nothing that good fresh air won’t fix’ said Steve. ‘You seem in good shape, Charles. You’re pretty much recovered now, by the looks of things.’

‘Far from it’ said Belinda. ‘We have to look after him, don’t we Darling?’ She leaned over, puckering her lips for a kiss but Charles was already clambering out over the window on his side, thrusting his hand out to shake Val’s as she opened her arms wide to hug him. Neither hand nor embrace connected. Charles sprang back from her, stumbling over Fluffit and bounded towards Steve, his legs entangled in the barking dogs, his hand still outstretched. Val rounded the car to where their guest stood, still flapping her scarf at O’Malley. ‘Good doggie,’ Belinda said again.

They were to stay on the farm for three weeks. Charles and Belinda, newly married, his second attempt, her first, had so much enjoyed their honeymoon visit; a week on the Wilderness farm while their hosts were attending the Cape Town baptism of their latest grandson. They had relished having the house to themselves. Their parting gift had been thoughtful. As a heartfelt, albeit small, token of their gratitude, they wrote, they hoped Steve and Val would enjoy using this gold-embossed, black leather visitor’s book. They looked forward to the opportunity of writing in it again!!!!!!! Steve and Val did not know what they were supposed to make of the exclamation marks.

‘Go on you dogs. Inside. I know you want to say hello but they’ve had a long journey.’ Val took hold of O’Malley’s collar and pointed him towards the house.

‘Yes, shoo. There’s a good doggie. I can see who rules the roost in this household’ said Belinda. ‘And talking of roost, is that a chicken I see, going into the house? Really Val. That’s taking eco friendly a little far, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Could be a chicken. Probably is’ Val said. ‘They think they have the run of the place. Where are your bags? Heavens. You don’t believe in travelling light. It’ll need a few trips to fetch it all in.’

‘What shall we unload first?’ Steve’s voice sounded louder than usual. He shot a warning look at Val. ‘We’ll come back for the rest after we’ve had tea. I should think you’re ready for a cup after your journey. The cup that restores but does not inebriate, isn’t that it?’

‘Rooibos for both of us, please Steve’ said Belinda. ‘Caffeine is not good for Charles, is it Darling? Dries the vocal chords. They need lubricant. I just hope this dry air doesn’t make them worse.’

‘We know how to lubricate vocal chords’ Steve said. ‘We have a cellar full of just the right medicine, never fear.’

‘We’ve brought wine’ said Charles. It’s in the boot. Belinda has converted me to organic. So handy, being married to a nutritionist, aren’t I lucky? She knows just what’s what. Organic wine is not unpleasant though, Steve, don’t you find? Most of the South African stuff is so full of sulphur. No, don’t you take it. We can bring it in later.’

‘Now, please, Charles’ Belinda said. ‘Bring it all in now, please. We don’t want it boiling in this heat. It’ll be ruined.’ She walked towards the house, carrying a handbag shaped like a pair of bright red lips and a pink carry-on suitcase.

‘There are some ostrich fillets in the cool bag’ said Charles. ‘We’d better offload those. We eat ostrich now, instead of red meat. Belinda says it’s all we should have, at our age. We’re on cholesterol watch.  We stopped off en route to get some wonderful fillet for us all.’

The men carried the cool bag and the wine carton. Val walked behind them, a suitcase clasped in each hand. They dropped the luggage in the hall and joined Belinda on the stoep. She was gazing over the reservoir to Sleeping Beauty mountain beyond. ‘Perfection’ she breathed. ‘Quite magical. Look at those birds, chasing each other over the water. Moorhens are so agile.’

‘Nothing even as exotic as moorhens, They’re ducks’ said Steve. Plain old common or garden ducks I’m afraid.’

’Are you quite sure?’ said Belinda. ‘They look like moorhens to me’.

‘Ducks’ said Val. ‘Now, tea first or would you like to settle yourselves in while we get it ready?’

‘We’re easy to please’ Belinda laughed. ‘Give us a wonderful view, a comfortable bed and some good food and we need nothing more. Do we Darling? I am feeling a bit sticky, though. A wash wouldn’t go amiss, I suppose. Same room as last time?’ Belinda turned towards the master bedroom.

‘You’re in the guest room this time´ Steve said. He noticed Belinda’s raised eyebrows and the surprised glance she shot at Charles. ‘You remember how the plumbing works, don’t you? The instructions are in the bathroom.’

‘Who could forget?’ asked Belinda. ‘We had such fun with it last time. I’ve never seen such a contraption. It may be the last word in green installations but I’m afraid we were not green with envy.’

………………………………………….

‘What’s the long face about?’ Steve asked when they were out of earshot.

’Need I explain? I fear this could be slightly heavy going.’

‘They’ve only just got here. It’s been a long trip. Give her a chance.’

‘Tea’s on the stoep, when you’re ready’ Steve called.

Charles tiptoed out of the bedroom, closing the door silently behind him. ‘Belinda’s taking a nap,’ he whispered. ‘I’m afraid she’s whacked out after the journey. I’ll wake her in time for dinner.’

‘Poor girl’ Steve said. ‘Would you like to take her a cup of tea to the bedroom? No? Alright. It gives us a chance to catch up a bit. Remind me. I’m sure you’ve told us already but how did you two meet?’

Charles waved his hand vaguely in the air. ‘We met in the mists of time. Can’t remember when. She’s always been in the background. She and Lee were great friends. They’d known each other for forty years. In fact they were already friends before I met Lee. Belinda’s never married. I can’t imagine why. She’s quite a looker, as you may have noticed.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m a lucky chap. There was some fellow hanging about, for about fifteen years, as it happens. Just wouldn’t commit. You know how some men are. Lucky for me, though. When Lee died, she was a wonderful help. She knew just what to do. Came over to France with me to clear Lee’s stuff out of the barn. I couldn’t have managed without her. Had it sorted in a trice. I’m afraid I’m not very good on my own.’

‘Good for you, then, that you didn’t hang about before you got married. Six months must have felt quite long enough’ said Steve.

‘Amen to that’ said Charles. ‘She takes such good care of me. We rub along very well together; none of that awkward getting-to-know-you stuff. I can’t quite believe my luck.’

‘A match made in heaven’ said Val.

‘What is?’ asked Belinda, walking around the side of the stoep.

‘Us, Darling, us.’ Said Charles. ‘You’re up already. That was quick. I thought you’d sleep until dinner time.’

‘I couldn’t sleep. Out of the question, I’m afraid.’ said Belinda. ‘Val, could I have a quick word?’

‘As many as you like’ Val said.

‘We have a problem’ said Belinda. ‘Mould.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘There is a strong odour of mould on the duvet. Terribly bad for Charles’s lungs. It could send him straight back to Emergency. Would you mind if I washed it?’

Val glanced over towards Steve but she could hear that he and Charles were planning a game of golf and she couldn’t catch his eye. ‘That’s odd’ said Val. ‘It’s such a dry climate here and we haven’t had rain for ages. Are you sure it’s mould?’

‘Quite sure’ Belinda said. ‘I don’t make comments on things about which I am unsure. The duvet smells of mould and mould is bad for Charles’s lungs. So with your permission, I’ll wash the duvet cover.’

‘Bring it and we’ll put it straight into the machine. It should be dry by bedtime’ Val said. ‘I can’t imagine …..’ But Belinda had marched away to the guest room and the sentence hung between them, unfinished.

‘You didn’t need to bring your own wash powder’ said Val, as Belinda reappeared, holding the offending bed linen as far in front of her as her arms would stretch. She had crumpled it into a ball and its purple embroidered irises merged together, reproachful bruises. ‘We have washing powder here in Africa, you know’.

‘Non-allergenic’ said Belinda.

‘Ah yes, of course. Silly me. Charles’s lungs. I forgot. Put it in and I’ll start the machine. It is clean. We do wash the linen between guests. A short cycle should do then we’ll have time to hang it out in the sun.’

‘The hottest cycle, please’ said Belinda. ‘A cool wash won’t kill the spores although it might get rid of the smell.’

‘You seem to be quite the expert’ said Val. ‘How did you come by so much useful information? I’ve never heard of mould spores being bad for lungs.’

‘I take it you haven’t had a husband with collapsed lungs’ Belinda replied. ‘If you had you would have done your homework, as I have. Besides, I am a nutritionist.’

‘That must be interesting’ said Val, sounding relieved to have tiptoed over the mould onto more neutral ground. ‘How long did you have to train for that?’

‘On and off’ Belinda said. ‘Many years. On and off’.

‘What do you get at the end of it? Val asked. ‘Is it a degree course or a diploma or what?’

‘Are you questioning my expertise?’ Belinda asked.

‘Of course not’ Val said. ‘I had heard you were an actress, that’s all.’

‘The two are not mutually exclusive’ Belinda tossed a sheet of straight, black hair back over her shoulders and strode out of the kitchen to rejoin the men on the stoep.

‘There you are’ said Steve. ‘All sorted? We were just making a tentative plan for the next few days. Charles and I thought we might have a round of golf tomorrow and leave you girls relaxing on the farm. I’m sure Val will want to show you around. We have changed a few things, done a lot to the garden since you were last here.’

‘I’d prefer to caddy for Charles’ said Belinda. ‘We like to spend our time together don’t we Darling?’

‘We certainly do’ said Charles. ‘But I think Val might have a few things to do and she’d probably welcome your company.’

‘I’m sure she would’ Belinda said. ‘But I would prefer to come with you, if you don’t mind.’

‘Next time, Darling. We’ll have a quick round and be back in time for lunch. You stay and help Val. I’m sure she could do with a bit of help with the lunch.’

Belinda’s footfall as she strode to the guest room proclaimed that she was not pleased. She emerged shortly afterwards, holding another crumpled ball of bedding.

‘It’s all the same’ she said when she reached the kitchen, where Val was stretching up to remove a copper saucepan which was hanging from a hook on a low beam. She looked over to Belinda, her mouth a round O of surprise.
Everything smells of mould. Absolutely everything.  It’s the room. Yours didn’t  reek like this one. There must be a leak somewhere. This will have to be washed as well. It’s so bad I doubt one cycle will do it. We’ll have to see when the first load is finished. We simply can’t risk it. If it has to go in again, so be it.’

‘We have a water shortage here’ said Val. ‘I am sure one wash will be more than enough to avert the danger to Charles’s lungs.’

‘We shall see’ said Belinda. ‘If we have to, we’ll buy some linen in town. What time do the shops close?’

‘Closed already’ Val said.

‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’

‘Wonderful fillet’ said Steve. ‘So kind of you to bring it.’ They were seated at a table, placed so that their guests could enjoy the view over the moonlit lake to the purple night time silhouette of Sleeping Beauty. ‘It’s a great treat for us, I must say. We have excellent lamb here but we’re rather light on ostrich in this area. I’m surprised you managed to find any.’

‘Ah, lamb, I remember it well’ said Charles. He tipped his nose skywards and made as if to sniff the aroma.

‘We’ll make sure it’s not just a distant memory while you’re here’ said Steve. ‘The butcher in town is the best around. I don’t know which farm rears it but his lamb is top quality. You’re in for a treat.’

The men continued eating in silence. They looked up, startled, when Belinda clattered her knife and fork sharply onto her plate.

‘I know you don’t like me’ she glared at Steve. ‘It’s quite obvious. But you might at least attempt not to insult me.’

Steve’s open mouthed expression clearly showed that he had no idea what she meant. He said as much.

‘It’s been plain from the way you’ve contradicted everything I’ve said that you dislike me. I think you could try a more subtle concealment of the fact. I think we made it quite clear that red meat is off our menu.’ She threw her napkin onto her plate, pushed her chair back and walked swiftly to the house. They could hear the slam of the bedroom door.

‘What was all that about?’ Steve’s tone was bewildered. He spread his hands open wide and shook his head at Charles. ‘I can’t imagine what I could have done to upset her.’

‘She’s over tired. But she is, after all, a nutrition expert, Steve. It’s quite rude on your part to challenge her. As a scientist, she knows what she is talking about.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sure a simple apology in the morning will sort it out. I’ll see if I can calm her down. We don’t want her getting one of her headaches so early on in the visit.’

‘How was I supposed to know she was a scientist?’ Steve and Val were still seated at the table, Belinda’s unfinished plate a congealing reproach. ‘But does that mean we can’t say anything in the realm of science in case it conflicts with her views?’ he asked.

‘She has a diploma, if that, in nutrition.’ Val’s tone was neutral. ‘Nothing wrong with that, but it hardly qualifies you as an expert in all things scientific. Probably not even in all things nutritional.’

‘I like her’ said Steve. ‘Really I do. I like her because Charles likes her. She seems to have turned him around since Lee’s death. What did I say to upset her?’

‘Search me’ said Val. ‘I have my own problems. Better see whether the linen is dry and fragrant. Well, it’s dry’ she said when she returned from the clothes line, carrying the linen, roughly folded, ‘but whether its fragrance passes Belinda’s sniff test remains to be seen. And I can’t iron it again. It’s too late, especially if she’s already prone on the bed. They’ll just have to sleep on crumpled sheets.’

She handed the pile to Charles through the half closed door of the guest room. ‘Sshh’ he put his finger to his lips to warn her. Then tilting his head on one side, put his hands under it to indicate sleep. ‘Very tired. All better in the morning after a good night’s sleep.’ He crept inside the room again, silently shutting the door.

‘Does it still smell as vile?’ Val heard Belinda say, and it did not sound as if her words were emerging from the depths of sleep. ‘Oh God, we’ll have to use it now I suppose but tomorrow we’ll have to buy a new set. Poor Charles. This is all you need.’

The guests did not reappear that night. Steve was worried. Val was not. ‘I still don’t know what I’ve done to offend her’ he said. ‘I only said ten words to her in all.’

‘Clearly the wrong ten words’ said Val. ‘Don’t worry about it. There’s only another 20 days until they leave.’

‘It’s fine for you to laugh. It’s not you she was talking about. Honestly, Val, I like her. And she looks after Charles. She’s really picked up the pieces and so quickly too, after Lee died. If it hadn’t been for her, he’d probably have died too, when he was so sick.’

‘Competition, Steve, competition.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’.

’No? You’ve been friends longer than she’s known him. Remind me, by the way, not to die before you do. You won’t know what to do with all the casserole bearers lined up outside the kitchen door.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Widowed men. They have to fight off the casserole bearers.’

‘I wish you weren’t so cynical.’

‘Realistic. It’s the way of the world. Wait and see. Though personally, I hope you don’t ever have to find out.’

………………………………

The night’s rest had done Belinda good. She and Charles appeared, in time for breakfast. He was dressed for golf in green tweed plus fours which looked incongruous in the midst of the veldt. She was wrapped tightly in a pink and grey chiffon sarong. They seemed cheerful enough.

‘I hope you slept well’ said Steve. ‘A good night’s sleep always blows away the cobwebs I find.’ He rubbed his hands together as if clearing them of the offending cobwebs. If that was intended as an apology it fell short of being thorough but since he seemed unclear about the nature of his offence, it was probably the best he could muster. Belinda accepted it with a half smile and a gracious inclination of the head. She even managed to wave Steve and Charles a smiling goodbye as they left for their game of golf.

‘How about a walk around the farm and I’ll show you what we’ve done since last time you were here?’ said Val. She linked her arm in Belinda’s and led her out through the courtyard, the dogs scampering after them, joined by two goats as they rounded the corner of the house into the garden. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘shoes.’ She pointed at Belinda’s feet. ‘I didn’t notice yours. Will you be alright in them? They look a bit flimsy. Maybe wellies would be more comfortable.’

‘Quite alright’ said Belinda. ‘Let’s get on with it. Charles will need his lunch as soon as he gets back from golf. He has low blood sugar if he waits too long between meals. He needs routine, poor love. Lee had her good points but routine wasn’t one of them. I had a lot to organise when I took on Charles, I can tell you. If you could have seen what I had to throw out when I moved into the house. I don’t know how he managed to put up with it. And I say that as her best friend.’

‘So lucky you were on hand to comfort him. Did they ever find out what happened? Was he driving on the wrong side of the road? Or did he fall asleep? I suppose it can happen all too easily after one of those long French lunches.’

‘We prefer to put that behind us’ Belinda’s tone was crisp. ‘I don’t let Charles dwell on it. What’s past is past. Very unhealthy for him to dredge it all up. Live in the present, is my motto. We have our lives ahead of us. Poor Lee. I’m not sure they got on all that well, from the small hints Charles has let drop. I was very fond of her, of course. And the boys. It’s a scandal how they’ve been brought up to speak to their father. I’ve had to have a few very sharp words with them.’

‘How old are the boys? I thought the youngest was 24. Still, I’m sure Charles counts himself lucky that you were on hand to take up the slack. And Lee must be smiling down upon you right now. ’ said Val. Belinda gave a sharp look in her direction but Val had moved ahead of her on the narrow path skirting the dam and if her face wore anything other than a bland expression, it was hidden from Belinda’s view.

……………………………..

‘Two days down, only nineteen to go´ said Val. ‘How was your game? Did Charles manage to get round without Belinda’s encouragement?’

‘I don’t know what’s got into you’ said Steve. He shook his head, straightened up from the cupboard where he was stowing his clubs, glared at her and shook his head again. ‘This is just not like you. What’s up?’

‘Not a lot’ she said. ‘We’re doing what we can to welcome them. I can’t see what more we can do.’

‘Tread more carefully, I suppose. She’s obviously sensitive.’

Val snorted but said nothing.

Steve knocked on the guest room door. ‘Come and join us for a drink before lunch. We’ll have a chat about what you’d like to do during your stay. There’s plenty to see around here. We’ll be on the stoep again. Must make the most of this glorious weather.´

His tone was heartier than usual but only Val would have noticed.

‘Plans, plans, plans’ he said when the guests had joined him. ‘We must make the most of your stay. Tomorrow, Sunday, Val and I go to church in the morning. We’d love you to join us if you’d like to. We leave by about nine, if that’s not too early for you. Then we can drive a bit towards Knysna and stop off for lunch somewhere en route. How does that sound?’

Steve seemed not to have noticed the glazed look that passed across Belinda’s face. ‘Val’s giving the sermon’ he said. ‘It’ll be a good chance for you to hear how great she is.’ He smiled.

‘Val? Is she a vicar or something?’ Belinda sounded amused. ‘Where’s your dog collar, Val? Lent it to the dogs?’

‘Nice idea. I’d love to hear her. What do you say, Darling?’ Charles said.

‘Whatever you say, Darling, where you lead, no pun intended, I’ll follow, even if it’s into a church in darkest Africa.’

‘That’s settled, then’ said Charles. We’ll be on parade at nine. Suited and booted.’

When they reached the car at nine the next morning, Belinda was standing by it, not booted and suited but in a brief, black and red, two piece swimsuit. Charles was nowhere in sight.

Steve and Val said nothing, there was no need for words; their faces asked the question. ‘We need a little time to ourselves’ Belinda answered. ‘We thought we’d just sit in the garden. What time did you say you’d be back?’

‘We have tea in the hall when Val’s preached. Very disappointing you won’t be joining us. Are you sure you don’t want to change your minds?’ Steve asked. Belinda shook her head. ‘Well do cover up a bit in the sun, Belinda’ he said. ‘It’s very fierce even at this time, you know.’

‘There you go again, Steve. Be so good as to stop patronising me. I would like to remind you that I’m a scientist. Sun is good for me. Vitamin D, as even you must know.’

‘Have it your own way, Belinda. I do, as it happens, know what an overdose of African sun can do. Val’s father died of a melanoma. But far be it from me to stand between you and your tan. We’ll see you later.’ He nodded curtly, rammed the car into gear and shot through the gates at the end of the drive.

‘They’ve gone’ Belinda shouted to Charles. ‘If we hurry, we’ll just have time before they get back.’

‘I’ll just scribble a note apologising for leaving so soon. Not quite sure what excuse I can give’ said Charles.

‘No time for that. Just pack our things and let’s go. Come on, quick sharp. Have you taken your clothes out of the drawers yet? Don’t stand about looking helpless, darling. No, put the food and wine back. We’ll leave it for them. Not a bad return for one night in their mouldy sheets.’ Belinda was throwing her clothes into her suitcase. ‘Get a move on, Charles. The sooner we can get out of this place the better.’ She sidled up to Charles and rubbed herself against him. ‘My own darling man’ she murmured. ‘Do hurry. I can’t wait to have you all to myself again.’

He’s like his Dad, is Billy, without the bad bits – like Brian would have been if life hadn’t spoiled him. Billy’s had a lot of love and it beams back out of him. His wife’s a loving girl, too.

‘What do you think of mothers-in-law, Katrina?’ I asked her as I kissed her after the ceremony.

Quick as a flash she said, ‘So far, Karen, I have no complaints about you.’

It’s starting well.

They won’t be sharing the honeymoon bedroom with me, though, as I did with Madge. They’ll be on the barge on the Thames and I shan’t set foot on it. That is progress – genetic mutation for the better.

I didn’t plan to invite Madge into our room but I should have spotted her edging in. Brian didn’t want her at the wedding. He wasn’t even going to tell her he was getting married. My parents would never have forgiven me if I hadn’t told them. There wasn’t a space as thick as tissue paper between us. My mother wanted to know everything and opened my letters before I did and searched my drawers for evidence of contraception. I couldn’t have kept an engagement secret from her.

‘Did he hold your hand? Did he kiss you? Are you in love? Are you getting married?’ she’d ask me after the first date. I thought holding hands and kissing were all you needed before you agreed to marry.

‘You must tell your mother,’ I said to Brian. So he rang her in England, told her we were engaged, then passed the phone across to me.

‘How old are you?’ she asked. The answer seemed all right. ‘Are you taller than him?’ I was but I said ‘no’. Brian was short then and he’s shorter now. ‘Amazon woman,’ he called me and I wasn’t sure he meant it as a term of endearment. But you can’t be holding hands and kissing all the time so I ignored it and wore stilettos when he wasn’t around. He had his good points, though. He held the door open for me. My father used to do that, too, and these little traditions are important, aren’t they?

We married in December, in Johannesburg, where we both worked. Madge was a widow. She came out alone for the wedding and, as bad luck would have it, nobody invited her for Christmas, not even my parents, who did not seem to be hitting it off with her.

My father mentioned one of the reasons much later. On the way back from the reception, Madge, in the car with him, was crying her eyes out. He tried to comfort her but she wasn’t having it. He said,

‘They’ll be fine together, Madge. You wait and see.’ Dad said she sniffed and nearly spat at him.

‘It’s not that I’m bothered about. It’s just, fancy my son throwing himself away on a girl like that.’

I wanted to start things off right with my mother-in-law so I invited Madge to join us for the Christmas bit of the honeymoon, on the Transkei coast. We got her into a hotel 25 miles away from our Hotel Cormorant, which was full.

We arrived ten days before her and, to tell the truth, we were having a couple of honeymoon teething problems. Little things, nothing very important, like Brian blocking his ears and humming when I sang. He couldn’t stand screeching women’s voices, he said, and you had to respect personal preferences, didn’t you?

I shan’t go too much into the sex side of things. Well, my generation didn’t, did we? Brian was a Catholic, brought up by the Jesuits since his mother, who lived a busy life, sent him, aged seven, to their boarding school, in another land far from home. You know that Jesuit saying ‘Give me a child for the first seven years and he’s mine for life’? Well, they got Brian after he was seven but I think they caught up on the wasted years. I did try to discuss children and timing but Brian said ‘God will know what is right,’ and wouldn’t talk about it again. Well, to be honest, he felt so strongly about it when I mentioned contraception that he stuck his fingers in his ears and hummed. But you had to respect a man with such firm convictions even if you didn’t share them.

Once she had arrived, the time it took us to fetch Madge ate into our honeymoon. There we were jolting about in Brian’s little Ford Anglia, along the untarred road between Qoloqa and Kentani. Talk about red dust, it was more like crossing the Red Sea, in and out of those bumps. There was many a time when we just missed a goat, wandering carefree as you please across the road, with no sense of danger. I felt sorry for the village women, bowed down by the wood they carried on their heads, but Brian said you couldn’t afford to be sentimental in Africa and, besides, it made their backs strong. Now I remember those African journeys as one of the best bits of my honeymoon.

Madge wasn’t happy with her hotel. The food was not up to much and the beds were lumpy too, so Brian asked at Hotel Cormorant whether there wasn’t some little corner where they could put her up and they said sorry but there was no room at the inn, it being Christmas. Then Joan, who owned the hotel, said, quite hesitantly, that if she could stand it they could put a camp bed on the games room. And Madge said of course she could stand it.

She made herself cosy in her camp bed in a corner of the games room and wove a web of clothes and cards and pictures across the six dining-room chairs around her bed. On the closest chair she put the glass for her whisky nightcap. Funny, I noticed Brian made the same kind of wall with boxes of work papers he had brought so that time didn’t hang too heavy on our honeymoon. But looking after Madge didn’t leave him with much time, so he just kept them there, for safety.

All was peace for a while, though I wasn’t seeing much of Brian because he had his mother to look after. I wasn’t altogether sorry to tell the truth, because he was a bit irritable, with her on the spot, and I was pleased to have him out of the way so I could finish the jersey he’d asked me to knit for him. I didn’t like knitting much but Brian said if I did enough of it I was sure to improve and I needed to be able to do it for the children.

Madge set herself up in a deckchair on the beach, placed so she could keep an eye on what we were up to. Next to her was a footstool carved from one piece of wood with a smiling, black man’s head holding a tray with her bottle of sherry, her Camel cigarettes and her lighter. She like a ciggie and a drink, did Madge. Every morning she wrote Christmas cards, just to the people who had sent them to her. That was protocol, she said, her husband having been a high-up captain in the army. She was economical. Brian said ‘Nothing wrong with that.’ She cut the picture off last year’s cards and wrote on the back; ‘With best regards and Christmas greetings from Madge and Brian.’ After lunch she had her afternoon nap and sometimes Brian and I had time for a nap ourselves. Then he would take Madge her tea and that was how we spent our days.

The peace and quiet did not last long. On the third day, as Brian and I were settling down for a couple of hours by ourselves I heard her shout,

‘I can’t sleep while you lot are playing badminton!’ Brian shot out of bed and over to the games room and I got dressed and followed.

Joan was there, looking anxious but Madge seemed cheerful, considering the noise she had just been making. Joan said

‘I’ve had an idea. There’s a spare bed in your room. Would you mind?’

I did mind, being on honeymoon, but I felt a bit shy so I left it to Brian. But he had lost his tongue, too.

We’re divorced now. The marriage never really worked. But Billy’s wedding was a time to celebrate and forget the past. I looked over at Brian and was about to have a few friendly words with him. Just then, he glanced at me, his face all crinkled and sour. I walked across to Billy instead, who put his arm around me and whispered

‘Leave him, Mum.’

So I walked away with my handsome son, humming the organ exit march by Widor. And I did feel quite grown up and clever, then.

She liked his voice. He sounded cheerful and the photograph he’d sent her was reassuring, his face at least. His suit was a bit of a drawback; off-white linen, rather Jack the Lad, she thought. She would have preferred something more sober, a good, dark, Saville Row suit. The image was cropped at the waist so she could not see if he was wearing brown suede shoes but she suspected he was. For goodness sake, she said to herself let me at least meet the man before I start revamping his wardrobe.  She held the photograph at arm’s length and squinted at it as if, at this distance, it would yield more clues. His hair was grey and he looked distinguished with his chunky tortoiseshell frames. Fifty-five, she thought.Fifty-seven at the most. It was older than she would have liked but the voice was pleasantly youthful.

‘So I hope that works for you’ he was saying, as she jerked herself back to the present.

‘Sorry’ Janice said. ‘I was miles away. Thought I heard the doorbell. It must have been next door. What do you hope works for me?’

‘Lunch’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, 1.15. As it happens I have to collect a Rembrandt that I’m having valued at Sothebys. I thought we could meet there. I know a rather good restaurant nearby. Langans. They do a fine lunch.’

He had lost her again. A Rembrandt, she was thinking. Thank you God. Maybe a Rolls to transport it. No more Ford Mondeos. No more used car salesmen with little moustaches. This time she’d mined gold.

‘Sounds perfect’ she said and she meant it.

Research has shown that British women take between fifteen minutes and three hours to get ready for a date. Fred and his Rembrandt were worth every bit of the two hours Janice invested in her preparations. She bathed herself, if not quite in ass’s milk, as close as she could get to it with a sheep’s milk soap she’d found at a small market in Leucate in South West France. It did have a mild sheepish aroma but that should wear off quite quickly, she thought. She smoothed a mud pack on her face, relaxed for ten minutes with her feet up as she mentally rearranged the paintings in the Long Gallery Fred must surely have to display his Rembrandts. Makeup took another three quarters of an hour. She was running out of time. She tugged on her lilac crepe dress and the purple silk blazer that so perfectly complemented it. And then the taxi arrived, ready to whisk her away to Sothebys.

She stood in the marble-floored entrance, peering around her for a likely looking Fred. Standing at the reception desk was a short, grey-haired man in an old tweed jacket. It could not be …. but it was. He turned around and she recognised him, a much older Fred than the man in the photograph, and shorter than she had imagined him. He came smiling towards her and she noticed the wedding band on his finger.

‘Janice?’ he enquired‘.

Afraid so’ she said.

‘Let me just finish here and we’ll be off’ said Fred. ‘There. That’s it. ‘

He tucked a very small packet into his pocket.

‘Is that the Rembrandt?’ she asked.

‘It is indeed. Rather disappointing, as it turns out. It’s a pencil sketch with a crack down the canvas and is only worth  seven hundred pounds. I had hoped for more.’

Janice had, too.

‘Before we go’ Fred said ‘I have to confess to a couple of little white lies.’

‘You’re married’ said Janice.

‘How did you know?’ He sounded surprised.

‘The wedding ring was a bit of a giveaway but if you’d taken it off there’d have been a white indentation so probably best that you left it on. What was the other white lie?’

‘My name isn’t Fred’ he said. ‘It’s Peter Palmer-Jeffreys.’

‘On balance, I think I prefer that white lie to the other.’

‘I’ll explain everything over lunch. There are reasons’ he said, tapping the side of his nose as if therein lay the secret. ‘You will still have lunch with me, I hope?’

‘Absolutely’ she said. She was not going to let all that preparation go to waste.

They walked briskly to Langans, not talking as they dodged through the lunch hour pavement traffic. ‘Palmer-Jeffreys’ he said to the Maitre d and followed the man to their table, tucked away by the edge of the bar. ‘I thought we could talk more privately here’ said Peter.

They studied the menu briefly. She ordered sole. He asked for trout. ‘Now’ he said. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I have contacted you when I have a wife.’

‘It had crossed my mind’ she said.

‘Well’ he said ‘It goes back rather a long way, I’m afraid. Twenty-eight years, to be precise. That’s when our youngest son was born.  Things went a bit wrong, you know?’

She did not know. She did not nod encouragement. He was forced to elaborate.

‘Plumbing’ he whispered. ‘Tubes and pipes, that sort of thing. Water works. Afraid it has never been the same since. But I have no complaints. None at all. We enjoy a wonderful family life in all other respects. And Clarissa, my wife is very understanding. Provided I am discreet,‘ his voice had  hushed to a whisper, ‘she doesn’t mind. You must understand, I am not a fly-by-night. I am looking for long term companionship. I did have a wonderful friend for eight years but she has just returned to the States.’

‘And now you are looking for a replacement’ she said.

‘Exactly so’ Peter seemed relieved to have got that part of the story out of the way. ‘There is, though, another reason.  I need a travelling companion.’ He held aloft a small, blue enamel pill box.

‘Ah yes’ she said. ‘You are ill, I take it.’

He nodded. ‘The beginning of Parkinsons. Not very bad, I hasten to add, and quite containable provided I remember to take the pills. I might need a bit of a nudge every now and again but usually I am quite good.’

‘I’m sure you are’ she said. ‘So what do you see as my role in all of this.’

‘I thought I’d explained’ Peter looked pained. ‘I’d love you to come travelling with me. Cruises, pleasant escapes to sunny climes. That kind of thing. What do you think?’

She could not express to him what she thought. Instead, she said ‘Absolutely. I’m on for it. There is just one small condition.’

‘Yes?’

‘You must ask Clarissa’s permission’ she said. ‘No yay, no cruise.’

He seemed surprised. He considered it for a moment. ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. Why not? I should think that might be alright. I hadn’t thought of it before. I’ll ask her and let you know what she says.’

Janice was very keen to hear. ‘Good. That’s settled then.’ She said. ‘Now, let’s play my favourite game with people I’ve never met before. I have a theory that we are all connected much more closely than by six degrees of separation. In fact, I bet you and I know somebody in common.’

He laughed. ‘I doubt it’ he said. ‘We know nothing about each other.’

‘You told me you were a magistrate. And you live in Wiltshire ‘ she said. ‘That’s enough to begin with.’

He leaned back in his chair, looking amused, like a man who was enjoying himself, now that his revelations seemed to have gone down so well.

‘Fire away, then’ he said.

Janice did know of one magistrate but he lived in Surrey. ‘Gerry Templeton’ she offered.

‘Afraid not’ he said. ‘Never heard of him. So it seems we might be the exception to the rule’. He laughed. ‘Coffee?’ he asked.

Janice was still thinking. She smiled. ‘I know’ she said. ‘You’re a magistrate in Wiltshire. You must know Priscilla Charlesworth.’

She looked over at Peter. He had been pale before. Now he was noticeably paler.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked. ‘Have you forgotten to take your pill?’ Despite herself, she was taking on the nursing role he clearly had in mind for her.

‘Jeffrey Charlesworth was my best man’ he sounded shaky and it had nothing to do with his early Parkinsons. There was a long pause. He looked at his watch, made a scribbling motion in the air to summon the waiter with the bill. Then he leaned towards Janice. ‘I tell you what’ he said. ‘If by any chance you should bump into Priscilla in the next little while, perhaps’, he paused, seeming to search for the right phrase. ‘Perhaps’ he said, ‘it might be better if you didn’t mention this meeting.’