Lost in a Good Book

finish with the one about meeting the gorilla.’

‘What about the lion and the baboon?’

‘Good point. Use that instead of the white horse if the centipede goes flat.’

Bowden made a note.

‘Centipede… goes… flat. Got it. What about the man going bear-hunting? I told that to Victor and he sprayed Earl Grey out of both nostrils at once.’

‘Keep it for an encore. It’s three minutes long on its own—but don’t hurry. Let it build—then again, if your audience is middle-aged and a bit fuddy-duddy I’d drop the bear, baboon and the dogs and use the greyhound and the racehorses instead—or the one about the two Rolls-Royces.’

‘Canapes?’ said Mum, offering me a plate.

‘Got any more of those prawny ones?’

‘I’ll go and see.’

I followed her into the vestry, where she and several other members of the Women’s Federation were getting food ready.

‘Mum, Mum,’ I said, following her to where the profoundly deaf Mrs Higgins was laying doilies on plates, ‘I must talk to you.’

‘I’m busy, sweetness.’

‘It’s very important.’

She stopped doing what she was doing, put everything down and steered me to the corner of the vestry, just next to a worn stone effigy, reputedly a follower of St Zvlkx.

‘What’s the problem that’s more important than canapes, o daughter-my-daughter?’

‘Well,’ I began, unsure of how to put it, ‘remember you said how you wanted to be a grandmother?’

‘Oh, that,’ she said, laughing, ‘I’ve known you’ve had a bun in there for a while—I was just wondering when you were going to tell me.’

‘Wait a minute!’ I said, feeling suddenly cheated. ‘You’re meant to be all surprised and tearful.’

‘Done that, darling. Can I be so indelicate as to ask who the father is?’

‘My husband, I hope—and before you ask, the ChronoGuard eradicated him.’

She gave me a hug.

‘Now that I can understand. Do you ever see him in the sort of way I see your father?’

‘No,’ I replied miserably, ‘he’s only in my memories.’

‘Poor little duck!’ exclaimed my mother, giving me another hug. ‘But thank the Lord for small mercies—at least you get to remember him. Many of us never do—just vague feelings of something that might have been. You must come along to Eradications Anonymous with me one evening. Believe me, there are more Lost Ones than you might imagine.’

I’d never really talked about Dad’s eradication with my mother. All her friends had assumed my brothers and I had been fathered by youthful indiscretions. To my highly principled mother this had been almost as painful as Dad’s eradication. I’m not really one for any organisation with ‘anonymous’ in the title, so I decided to backtrack slightly.

‘How did you know I was pregnant?’ I asked as she rested her hand on mine and smiled kindly.

‘Could spot it a mile off. You’ve been eating like a horse and staring at babies a lot. When Mrs Pilchard’s little cousin Henry came round last week you could hardly keep your hands off him.’

‘Aren’t I like that usually?’

‘Not even remotely. You’re filling out along the bustline too—that dress has never looked so good on you. When’s sprogging time? July?’

I paused as a wave of despondency washed over me, brought on by the sheer inevitability of motherhood. When I first knew about it Landen had been with me and everything seemed that much easier.

‘Mum, what if I’m no good at it? I don’t know the first thing about babies. I’ve spent my working life chasing after bad guys. I can field-strip an M16 blindfold, replace an engine in an APC and hit a two-pence piece from thirty yards eight times out of ten. I’m not sure a cot by the fireside is really my sort of thing.’

‘It wasn’t mine either,’ confided my mother, smiling kindly. ‘It’s no accident that I’m a dreadful cook. Before I met your father and had you and your brothers I worked at SO-3. Still do, on occasions.’

‘You didn’t meet him on a day trip to Portsmouth, then?’ I asked slowly, wondering whether I really wanted to hear what I was hearing.

‘Not at all. It was in another place entirely.’

‘SO-3?’

‘You’d never believe me if I told you, so I’m not going to. But the point is, I was very happy to have children when the time came. Despite all your ceaseless bickering when you were kids, and teenage grumpiness, it’s been a wonderful adventure. Losing Anton was a storm cloud for a bit but on balance it’s been good—better than SpecOps any day.’

She paused.

‘But I was the same as you, worrying about not being ready, about being a bad mother. How did I do?’

She stared at me and smiled kindly.

‘You did good, Mum.’

I hugged her tightly.

‘I’ll do what I can to help, sweetness, but strictly no nappies or potty-training and Tuesday and Thursday evenings are right out.’

‘SO-3?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘bridge and skittles.’

She handed me a handkerchief and I dabbed at my eyes.

‘You’ll be fine, sweetness.’

I thanked her and she bustled off, muttering something about having a million mouths to feed I watched her leave, smiling to myself. I thought I knew my mother but I didn’t. Children rarely understand their parents at all.

‘Thursday!’ said Joffy as I reappeared from the vestry. ‘What use are you if you don’t mingle? Will you take that wealthy Flex fellow to meet Zorf, the Neanderthal artist? I’d be ever so grateful. Oh my goodness!’ he muttered, staring at the church door. ‘It’s Aubrey Jambe!’

And so it was. Mr Jambe, Swindon’s croquet captain, despite his recent indiscretion with the chimp, was still attending functions as though nothing had happened.

‘I wonder if he’s brought the chimp,’ I said, but Joffy flashed me an angry look and rushed off to press flesh.

I found Cordelia and Mr Flex discussing the merits of a minimalist painting by Welsh artist Tegwyn Wedimedr that was so minimalist it wasn’t there at all. They were staring at a blank wall with a picture hook on it.

‘What does it say to you, Harry?’

‘It says… nothing, Cords—but in a very different way. How much is it?’

Cordelia bent forward to look at the price tag.

‘It’s called Beyond Satire and it’s twelve hundred pounds; quite a snip. Hello, Thursday! Changed your mind about the book-flick?’

‘Nope. Have you met Zorf, the Neanderthal artist?’

I guided them over to where Zorf was exhibiting. Some of his friends were with him, one of whom I recognised.

‘Miss Next!’ said Stiggins as I approached. ‘We would like to introduce our friend Zorf.’ The slightly younger Neanderthal shook my hand as I explained who Harry and Cordelia were.

‘This is a very interesting painting, Mr Zorf,’ said Harry, staring at a mass of green, yellow and orange paint on a large six-foot-square canvas ‘What does it represent?’

‘Is not obvious?’ replied the Neanderthal.

‘Of course!’ said Harry, turning his head this way and that. ‘It’s daffodils, isn’t it?’