Something rotten

was downhill from there. I lost by 503 points to 319.

24 Home Again

DENMARK BLAMED FOR DUTCH ELM DISEASE

'Dutch Elm Disease was nothing of the sort' was the shock claim from leading arboreahsb last week. 'For many years we had blamed Dutch Elm Disease on the Dutch.' declared Jeremy Acorn, head spokesman of the Knotty Pine Arboreal Research Facility. 'So-called Dutch Elm Disease, a tree virus that killed off nearly all England's elms in the mid-seventies, was thought to have originated in Holland — hence the name.' But new research has cast doubt on this long-held hypothesis. 'Using techniques unavailable to us in the seventies we have uncovered new evidence to suggest that Dutch Elm Disease originated in Denmark.' Mr Acorn went on to say: 'We have no direct evidence to suggest that Denmark is engaged in the design and proliferation of arborealogical weapons, but we have to maintain an open mind. There are many oaks and silver birches in England at present unprotected against attack.' Arboreal Warfare — should we be worried? Full report, page nine.

Article in the Arboreal Times, 17 July 1988

I hurried home to get there before my mother as I wasn't sure how she'd react to finding that Friday was being looked after by a gorilla. It was possible that she might not have any problems with this but I didn't really want to put it to the test.

To my horror Mum had got there before me — and not just her, either. A large crowd of journalists had gathered outside her house, awaiting the return of the Mallets' new manager, and only after I had run the gauntlet of a thousand 'no comments' did I catch her, just as she was putting her key in the front door.

'Hello, Mother,' I said, somewhat breathlessly.

'Hello, daughter.'

'Going inside?'

'That's what I usually do when I get home.'

'Not thinking of going shopping?' I suggested.

'What are you hiding?'

'Nothing.'

'Good.'

She pushed the key into the lock and opened the door, giving me a funny look. I ran past her into the living room, where Melanie was asleep on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table with Friday snoring happily on her chest. I quickly shut the door.

'He's sleeping!' I hissed to my mother.

'The little lamb! Let's have a look.'

'No, better let him be. He's a very light sleeper.'

'I can look very quietly.'

'Maybe not quietly enough.'

'I'll look through the serving hatch, then.'

'No—!'

Why not?'

'It's jammed. Stuck fast. Meant to tell you this morning but it slipped my mind. Remember how Anton and I used to climb through it? Got any oil?'

'The serving hatch has never been stuck—'

'How about tea?' I asked brightly, attempting a form of misdirection that I knew my mother would find irresistible. 'I want to talk to you about an emotional problem — that you might be able to help me with!'

Sadly she knew me only too well.

'Now I know you're hiding something. Let me in—!'

She attempted to push past, but I had a brainwave.

'No, Mother, you'll embarrass them — and yourself.'

She stopped.

'What do you mean?'

'It's Emma.'

'Emma? What about her?'

'Emma . . . and Hamlet.'

She looked shocked and covered her mouth with her hand.

'In there? On my sofa?'

I nodded.

'Doing . . . you know? Both of them — together?'

'And very naked — but they folded the antimacassars first,' I added, so as not to shock her too much.

She shook her head sadly.

'It's not good, you know, Thursday.'

'I know.'

'Highly immoral.'

'Very.'

'Well, let's have that cup of tea and you can tell me about that emotional problem of yours — is it about Daisy Mutlar?'

'No — I don't have any emotional problems.'

'But you said—?'

'Yes, Mother, that was an excuse to stop you barging in on Emma and Hamlet.'

'Oh,' she said, realisation dawning. 'Well, let's have a cup of tea anyway.'

I breathed a sigh of relief and Mother walked into the kitchen — to find Hamlet and Emma talking as they did the washing up. Mother stopped dead and stared at them.

'It's disgusting!' she said at last.

'Excuse me?' enquired Hamlet.

'What you're doing in the living room — on my sofa.'

'What are we doing, Mrs Next?' asked Emma.

'What are you doing?' flustered my mother, her voice rising. 'I'll tell you what you're doing. Well, I won't because it's too . . . here, have a look for yourself

And before I could stop her she opened the door to the living room to reveal . . . Friday, alone, asleep on the sofa. My mother looked confused and stared at me.

'Thursday, just what is going on?'

'I can't even begin to explain it,' I replied, wondering where Melanie had gone. It was a big room but not nearly large enough to hide a gorilla. I leaned in and saw that the French windows were ajar. 'Must have been a trick of the light.'

'Trick of the light?'

'Yes. May I?'

I closed the door and froze as I noticed Melanie tiptoeing across the lawn, fully visible through the kitchen