Matthew.
‘That I did,’ said Jonathan, ‘and nor did I miss ’em playing possum.’
‘Jonathan, they were laughing at us,’ said Matthew. ‘They knew we were here.’
‘Smelled us, I reckon,’ said Jonathan.
‘But they’ll stay off limits now for a few nights,’ said Matthew, and they walked to the cottage, Jonathan limping along. The war had left him with a tin kneecap.
Reaching the cottage, with its gabled upper windows and its annexe, they fortified themselves by sharing a bottle of beer. Beer, like spirits, was still in short supply, and a fair amount of under-the-counter tactics prevailed with one’s local suppliers. Not everyone knew a black market alternative, to wit, a spiv. Spivs, of course, were all in favour of short supplies, much as Al Capone was in favour of no legal supplies at all during America’s Prohibition years.
Fortified to some extent, Matthew and Jonathan informed Rosie and Emma exactly how the perishing foxes had diddled them.
‘You mean you two old Army crackshots both scored misses?’ said Emma.
‘They ducked the moment we fired,’ said Matthew. ‘They scented us.’
‘At that distance?’ said Rosie.
‘Ah, well,’ said Matthew.
‘Emma,’ said Jonathan, ‘you’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if I had a high level of BO?’
‘I’d divorce you,’ said Emma. ‘Listen, how d’you feel about letting those mangy lamb-eating foxes diddle you?’
‘Fair mortified,’ said Jonathan.
‘Well, men, Emma and I will forgive you this time,’ said Rosie, ‘but don’t make a habit of it. Lost lambs mean lost revenue.’ A local butcher bought the lambs at the right time. ‘Those foxes have got to pay the penalty.’
‘Too right,’ said Matthew, a lean and sinewy man of endurance and vigour at thirty-eight. ‘And don’t I know it.’
Rosie gave him a little pat of sympathy. The adopted and treasured daughter of Boots, at thirty-four she was still extraordinarily attractive, and still like Boots in finding the peccadilloes of people amusing rather than irritating. To Matthew, Rosie in line and form made everything in his immediate world look better than anything in the National Gallery. In fact, the National Gallery was overburdened with far too much plump flesh for his liking. He saw Rosie as a tribute to God’s finer handiwork, and that went for her intelligence and disposition as well as her looks, although there were a few things she couldn’t suffer gladly, such as badly behaved kids who bawled in public places. Crying babies, well, they were understandable, but bawling kids, no.
As for Emma and Jonathan, both in their late twenties, they had one child, little three-year-old Jessie, and a shared gift for funny repartee. Jonathan came of a Sussex family full of jokersfrom his parents downwards, and Emma came of Adams stock, noted for what Chinese Lady called its music-hall comedians.
Saying goodnight to Rosie and Matthew, Emma and Jonathan went through the kitchen to the annexe, their living quarters, where little Jessie lay sound asleep. Their own home, off Denmark Hill in south-east London, was occupied by a young couple who were renting it on a year-by-year lease.
‘Is Emma expecting?’ asked Matthew. He and Rosie knew their business partners wanted a brother or sister for Jessie.
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Rosie.
‘Still no bun, then?’ said Matthew.
‘No conception.’ Rosie smiled. ‘Matthew Chapman, I object to bun.’
‘Noted,’ said Matthew. ‘Jonathan looks healthy enough, but I wonder, would a Guinness a day help him if we could feed him oysters as well?’
‘Phone the fishmonger tomorrow,’ said Rosie, ‘and if he can oblige, we’ll feed Jonathan a Guinness and some oysters with his lunch.’
‘Who’s serious?’ asked Matthew.
‘I am,’ said Rosie, ‘and so are you. And so is Emma, I’m sure.’
‘Oysters and Guinness for Emma too, then?’ said Matthew.
‘Don’t go over the top, Dorset man,’ said Rosie.
‘That I did,’ said Jonathan, ‘and nor did I miss ’em playing possum.’
‘Jonathan, they were laughing at us,’ said Matthew. ‘They knew we were here.’
‘Smelled us, I reckon,’ said Jonathan.
‘But they’ll stay off limits now for a few nights,’ said Matthew, and they walked to the cottage, Jonathan limping along. The war had left him with a tin kneecap.
Reaching the cottage, with its gabled upper windows and its annexe, they fortified themselves by sharing a bottle of beer. Beer, like spirits, was still in short supply, and a fair amount of under-the-counter tactics prevailed with one’s local suppliers. Not everyone knew a black market alternative, to wit, a spiv. Spivs, of course, were all in favour of short supplies, much as Al Capone was in favour of no legal supplies at all during America’s Prohibition years.
Fortified to some extent, Matthew and Jonathan informed Rosie and Emma exactly how the perishing foxes had diddled them.
‘You mean you two old Army crackshots both scored misses?’ said Emma.
‘They ducked the moment we fired,’ said Matthew. ‘They scented us.’
‘At that distance?’ said Rosie.
‘Ah, well,’ said Matthew.
‘Emma,’ said Jonathan, ‘you’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if I had a high level of BO?’
‘I’d divorce you,’ said Emma. ‘Listen, how d’you feel about letting those mangy lamb-eating foxes diddle you?’
‘Fair mortified,’ said Jonathan.
‘Well, men, Emma and I will forgive you this time,’ said Rosie, ‘but don’t make a habit of it. Lost lambs mean lost revenue.’ A local butcher bought the lambs at the right time. ‘Those foxes have got to pay the penalty.’
‘Too right,’ said Matthew, a lean and sinewy man of endurance and vigour at thirty-eight. ‘And don’t I know it.’
Rosie gave him a little pat of sympathy. The adopted and treasured daughter of Boots, at thirty-four she was still extraordinarily attractive, and still like Boots in finding the peccadilloes of people amusing rather than irritating. To Matthew, Rosie in line and form made everything in his immediate world look better than anything in the National Gallery. In fact, the National Gallery was overburdened with far too much plump flesh for his liking. He saw Rosie as a tribute to God’s finer handiwork, and that went for her intelligence and disposition as well as her looks, although there were a few things she couldn’t suffer gladly, such as badly behaved kids who bawled in public places. Crying babies, well, they were understandable, but bawling kids, no.
As for Emma and Jonathan, both in their late twenties, they had one child, little three-year-old Jessie, and a shared gift for funny repartee. Jonathan came of a Sussex family full of jokersfrom his parents downwards, and Emma came of Adams stock, noted for what Chinese Lady called its music-hall comedians.
Saying goodnight to Rosie and Matthew, Emma and Jonathan went through the kitchen to the annexe, their living quarters, where little Jessie lay sound asleep. Their own home, off Denmark Hill in south-east London, was occupied by a young couple who were renting it on a year-by-year lease.
‘Is Emma expecting?’ asked Matthew. He and Rosie knew their business partners wanted a brother or sister for Jessie.
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Rosie.
‘Still no bun, then?’ said Matthew.
‘No conception.’ Rosie smiled. ‘Matthew Chapman, I object to bun.’
‘Noted,’ said Matthew. ‘Jonathan looks healthy enough, but I wonder, would a Guinness a day help him if we could feed him oysters as well?’
‘Phone the fishmonger tomorrow,’ said Rosie, ‘and if he can oblige, we’ll feed Jonathan a Guinness and some oysters with his lunch.’
‘Who’s serious?’ asked Matthew.
‘I am,’ said Rosie, ‘and so are you. And so is Emma, I’m sure.’
‘Oysters and Guinness for Emma too, then?’ said Matthew.
‘Don’t go over the top, Dorset man,’ said Rosie.
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