Campari for Breakfast

by Sara Crowe

  So without further ado, so she doesn’t have to do that, I have hatched my own plan with Glenn, and I’m going to transfer my ten thousand straight to him after Christmas, so that Aunt Coral won’t have to worry. It is the least I can do for her, and I’m certain Mum would have approved. What a surprise it will be for Aunt C to find she’s in credit for once! I’m not going to tell her until after the transfer’s gone through, and I’ve asked Glenn to keep it under his hat for now too.

  Every time I think of my father it is accompanied by a strong feeling of guilt. Aunt Coral keeps on saying I shouldn’t blame myself for not knowing there was a whole other story. The revelation of Mum’s secret relationship has changed everything. I do wish it was all for a more stomachable reason. She has fallen off the pedestal that death had put her on. She is human again, and herself, not the saint I mourned. As soon as they get back from their trip I will arrange to see Dad.

  Aunt C hasn’t had time as she normally would to prepare anything much for Christmas, because of the building work. And now that the greater anxiety had been addressed, she has become consumed with making sure we are on time for the Gala. We had a special Christmas Group after lunch, where our stories were handed in. The judges now have one week to read and make their choice.

  I worked right up until the final minute, but it was difficult to concentrate on ‘Brackencliffe’. The house was busy, and I felt raw inside. How could Mum’s revenge on Mr Edgeley not feel like revenge on me? As a mother, she had always tried to protect me from fire, drowning, cruelty or fear. So it’s ironic that the one thing she couldn’t save me from was the force of her own despair.

  But as there was no more time left for reflection, I had to find an end to my story. I worked in the attic until the deadline, interrupted only by Delia wondering where to teach her Italian to Admiral G. She had changed into a skirt for the benefit of the lesson.

  Loudolle got back about twelve, just in time to hand hers in. I heard her taxi pull up through my skylight, but I had nothing to do with anyone until we assembled for Group after lunch.

  Egham Hirsute Group

  Pre Gala Christmas Special

  ‘Some days it seems to me,’ said Aunt Coral, ‘that everything sounds like a book title. I was saying to Pat earlier, “I am too short for this chair,” and realised that it sounded like a title. She replied, “It’s not like you to sit down in the afternoons,” and I thought that sounded like a title too, but I think it’s just that I am so excited that we have finally come to this hour. I wish you all the best of luck. Now, why don’t we share a little flavour from our entries?’

  We all put our hands up.

  ‘Sue,’ said Aunt Coral, with a tear in her eye.

  Brackencliffe

  Yet Pretafer Gibbon was not satisfied, and stole unto the Pasture of Sage and Parsley. Here she placed a knife at the tender throat of Cara, knowing that Keeper was gone for a gamble, and Fiona was in haste to the market. How beautiful she looked in the icy dawn, with her blooms about to burst out.

  Pretafer toyed at Cara’s milky throat with a ravaged and shaking hand, when suddenly her death wish was halted by the footsteps of a stranger.

  ‘Happiness is like a distant cousin I hardly ever see,’ cried Pretafer Gibbon, thwarted.

  ‘Then you must make happiness your bed socks,’ said Nurse Chopin, who was in full conspiracy with the evil. And they scurried away.

  But happiness attends on the good, and in all those in its bosom.

  Keeper came home safe, and Fiona, with a basket, and then suddenly, clear from the woodsmoke, the maker of footsteps was made plain. And if Cara had ne’r gone to Brackencliffe, she would n’er have known his dear step.

  ’Twas Philip, and he held out his man arms and betook a diamond from out of his horsecoat.

  ‘Marry me, Cara,’ he said.

  ‘Keeper, my Knight is come home.’

  The End

  The Group members gave me a small round of applause. Joe and Aunt Coral were beaming like they were my parents.

  ‘And Loudolle?’ said Aunt Coral.

  The Polo Player

  By Loudolle Shoot

  Argentinean Allain D’Angelo had won more matches than Kitty had even bet on, but he thought she was hot enough for an invite to a private pool party for two.

  ‘You give the love, I give the booze,’ he growled, knowing the effect this would have on Kitty.

  ‘Oh Allain D’Angelo!’ said Kitty, ‘I . . . Yes! Yes! Ye—’

  ‘Why don’t you come over here and let me show you how to play polo?’ he said, pulling her on to a sun bed.

  ‘What? Here?’ she said.

  ‘Yes here, you hussy, I want to show you my rod.’

  ‘Thank you, Loudolle,’ said Aunt Coral, cutting her off to save the Admiral having to excuse himself. There was again polite applause, though her clip was absolutely awful.

  ‘And Avery?’

  Controversially, the Admiral still hadn’t quite finished writing, but paused to read some out.

  ‘We are all trains arriving at the station, and some arrive sooner than others,’ said Aunt Coral in his defence.

  The Socialites

  By Ad miral Avery John Little

  There was a vast array of dresses, so many pretty things. In the fast-moving world of fashion, they had to keep up with the looks.

  Debs was late to the catwalk because she had got into a dispute; she was going to take it up with the council very first thing the next day. Apparently, her car had been contravening a white line, and she’d had a heated exchange with a warden, before being issued with a paper ticket which he said she would have twenty-eight days to appeal.

  ‘Writing about our favourite things. Well tried Avery!’ said Aunt Coral on full beam. After his applause died down she resumed. ‘And Joe?’

  Roger Mead

  By Josef Fry

  Roger Mead may have had the wool over Vienna’s eyes, but he never had it over Hawley’s. Had Hawley the money or a plane, he would have taken Vienna far away. Instead he returned to the office, where she was photocopying the letter.

  ‘I still don’t believe you. You’ve made it all up, where’s Roger?’ said Vienna.

  ‘Does it matter?’ said Hawley.

  ‘It matters to me.’

  ‘Vienna, please, Roger’s gone. He’s gone and he’s not coming back,’ said Hawley, thu mping his wrist in frustration against the idiotic machine.

  Again we applauded; there was a strong atmosphere of support, although this would end soon because at the gala we’d be pitted against each other.

  ‘Goodness me, a thriller! I literally can’t wait,’ said Aunt Coral. ‘Thank you Joe. Admiral Gordon?’

  At Forty Knots

  By Rear Admiral William Percival Gordon

  He was only a lad, and it was only his first year at sea. He was like a duck on the bathroom floor. Yet when the wind got up and they opened the sails, something happened; it was like he hadn’t existed until they were moving at full speed.

  ‘I’ve seen many bright lads like this,’ said Cap’n John, ‘and they usually end up as Officers.’

  ‘Or overboard,’ said the deckie, whose own brother had been claimed by the sea.

  ‘Goodness, thank you Admiral Gordon, what a variety we’re offering!’ said Aunt Coral. ‘Thank you. And Delia?’

  Don’t Wait

  D Shoot

  Would there come a day when he felt at peace, when he could forget the thorns in his side?

  ‘You’ll be seventy and you’ll still not have let go,’ said Imogen, prancing round doing her drama.

  It was all right for her; nothing bad had happened to her yet, she hadn’t been alive long enough. But Ray was old and round with a goatee beard and a temper.

  ‘Thank you Delia, how mournful. And finally, Admiral Ted?’

  An Excellent Hand

  By Vice Ad miral Edward Anthony

  The smoke-filled parlour played host for the last time before they left.
Language was no barrier; they knew the language of the game. He shook the pot and the die was cast. Iris shook off her shawl.

  ‘Thank you, Admiral Ted, well done. Goodness, another cliff-hanger. Well, we shall all have to wait and see!’

  We handed our stories in to Aunt Coral in proud A4 envelopes, and she placed them in a pile with significance.

  ‘I hope one day this will become a ritual,’ she said. ‘Well done everybody.’

  At which point Glenn and Mrs Bunion came in with a Christmas cake, hats and sparklers. Pat stayed on and Glenn Miller tuned in while he planered one of the walls.

  ‘I’m just listening in, but I do keep a diary at home,’ he said.

  One of the things I love most about Group is the totalitarian mix of people; there were the high-ranking Admirals sitting beside Pat Bunion, both equals in aspiration.

  ‘Now,’ said Aunt C, looking as though she had been up all night inventing things. ‘This is our penultimate exercise of the year, inspired by the Egham Hirsute Group itself which takes its name from a misunderstanding of language. And so, I would like us all to think of words which we have misunderstood. Hands up please if you can think of one. Sue?’

  ‘Dumb waiter,’ I said.

  ‘Excellent Sue . . . and Avery?’

  ‘Antimacassar; I thought it meant against Scotland.’

  ‘That’s wonderful Avery! And Admiral Gordon?’

  ‘Scruples; I thought it meant a kind of eczema.’

  ‘Oh dear! Admiral Gordon. And Admiral Ted?’

  ‘Uxorious doesn’t mean fragrant,’ he said.

  ‘What does it mean?’ she said.

  ‘It means wife-loving.’

  ‘Good, really excellent, that is a very good one. That little exercise shows us that words can mean anything which we want them to.

  ‘And now for some fun final questions! Quick fire, who can tell me what “N” is another word for something a lady might wear to bed?’

  We all put our hands up.

  ‘Avery?’ said Aunt Coral.

  ‘Nightie?’ he said.

  ‘Well I’ll give you it, but I was actually looking for negligee.’ I couldn’t help suspect a plan. She was on full beam again, which he didn’t notice because he was so busy hoping to guess the next word.

  ‘Now, who can tell me, what word covers sprouts, carrots, parsnips, peas etc.?’

  We all put our hands up.

  ‘Admiral Gordon?’ said Aunt Coral.

  ‘Gravy,’ he said.

  ‘Well I’ll give you it, but I was actually looking for vegetables.’

  She was finally beginning to show signs of judgement on what was certain stupidity.

  ‘OK, let’s go again. Who can tell me what “P” is another word for bucket?’

  ‘Sue?’ she said.

  ‘Pisspot,’ I said.

  ‘Right. Perhaps we should crack open some champagne, and go out into the drawing room?’ I think she had realised we were all brain-dead from our stories.

  The Admiral popped open the bubbles while Aunt Coral carried on. ‘What “L” is another word for affection?’

  ‘Like?’ said the Admiral.

  ‘Well I’ll give you it, but I was actually looking for love …’

  Later

  It has turned out to be an exciting Christmas Eve.

  After champagne the Ad went out to do his shopping, leaving the rest of us to sit down to a hot broth of cheery tomatoes. We were just about to start, when we had a call from Egham Police to say that the Bentley had smashed into a parked car at high speed, in reverse, across two areas of grass, before driving off in front of a bus, taking out four bollards and an ornamental gnome. They were looking for the Admiral to get him to surrender his licence.

  ‘Avery’s at the club,’ said Admiral Ted. ‘What the blazers is going on?’

  Then the Admiral telephoned from the station, having been arrested at his club, wondering in his innocence if Aunt Coral had been the one driving. Her alibis were quickly established, as were his, so he was set free.

  Admiral Gordon took the Rover to go and fetch the Admiral while the rest of us checked for witnesses along Clockhouse Lane. Mrs Bunion stayed to answer the phone, and Loudolle went to unpack, being the only person not to be bothered at all by any of the fewrory. By the time we returned home after about an hour or so, the police had a sighting of the Bentley being driven by a male with long hair, ‘aka the Green Place Tramp, over’, said Papa X-ray on the radio.

  ‘Probably borrowed it to go to the hairdressers,’ said Aunt Coral, flippant as ever in misadventure.

  The car was only insured for a thousand miles per year, being mainly used just for Egham, so Aunt Coral went upstairs to look at the policy. We were planning to go to ‘Carols By Candlelight’ after dinner, and there were still all the presents and bits to do, so the rest of us got on with our preparations.

  I managed to find time this morning, before any of this had happened, to update one of my pinafores into a racey little dress – and although it shows my knees, it still had a devastating effect on Joe. I have never fully understood until now, the minx one can find in one’s wardrobe! Or maybe it’s because Joe sees me in this way, and so in a strange way I will become it, like he is the creator of a hitherto unknown croquette.

  He had to go home for dinner before joining us at carols, but first he helped me set the table, handling Aunt Coral’s dishes with the care of museum pieces.

  ‘I’ll see you at the gala, if I don’t see you before,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks for everything, Joe,’ I said.

  He didn’t speak but looked overwhelmed. I know he was feeling sad about leaving me again and returning to the madness of his mother. She is very strict with him over Christmas; I think he is her stand-in husband. I watched him ride down the drive, and as soon as he’d gone, I wished he’d come back. He has the power to make setting the table feel like jazz.

  Mrs Bunion rang the dinner gong on her way out; she was heading to the village hall with our stories.

  ‘See you soon Mrs B, have a nice break,’ said Admiral Ted as he opened the front door for her forlornly.

  ‘I’ve put you a mousse in the bottom of the fridge. Just one, just for you,’ said Mrs Bunion.

  Every chef needs someone to love what they make. Without that, life has no meaning.

  Apart from the missing Bentley, there was an upbeat glow to the eve. The Admirals doused themselves with fragrance and all the bathrooms were singing. There was vanilla in the air, and butter and herbs and musk and chicory. I felt so under-scented that I went upstairs to put a dot behind my ears before we left. And then I went to the carols with the oldies who, hirsute, did know how to have a good time. (I’m using hirsute here deliberately – maybe it will become a convention.)

  Christmas Day

  The Bentley was found this morning on the drive with a few bumps and bruises. None of us heard a thing. There must be at least twenty tramps in Egham, and more than seven with long hair – although I’m not convinced that the tramp took the car at all. But PC Pacey believes that it must be the same tramp who broke into Green Place, as he would have had access to the car keys to make copies. He wants to come and see if the prints from the car match those in the house, but because it is Christmas, these things are bound to take time.

  I hope it wasn’t my visitor. He is my strange friend, just mine, and he never once tried to hurt me.

  When I came downstairs this morning, I stopped myself outside the drawing room, listening to my housemates’ snippets, neither being with them, nor being alone, in the no man’s land of the Hall. Bing Crosby was playing and they had begun to open their presents. Aunt C is a black belt shopper and was reaping the rewards of her trips.

  ‘Beryl’s a little belter,’ said Delia. She was talking about her new rabbit, which has been given complete run of its own suite in the East Wing.

  ‘Another G and T?’ asked Aunt Coral.

  ‘Oh, yes please. In fact make it a dou
ble, and save your legs,’ said Delia.

  ‘P. D. James,’ said Admiral Ted, in reply to some question or other.

  ‘If they don’t find any prints, then it means they’ve got the wrong man,’ said the Admiral.

  ‘Or that he was never here,’ said Aunt Coral. ‘Sue has quite an imagination …’

  ‘Ted, where are you?’ shouted Admiral Gordon. He was calling from the kitchen.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Admiral Ted, on account of his tittinus.

  It must be how we sounded to the tramp. Loudolle passed me on her way out. I pretended to be cleaning the door frame, so I don’t think she suspected. She was dressed till the nines and was on the way to a luncheon, having already generously given her mother a couple of hours of her time. She eyed me somewhat nervously in the hall. We hadn’t actually spoken since the Toastie.

  ‘See you at the gala,’ she said, elongating her vowels as though she was having difficulty sounding authentic.

  ‘See you at the gala,’ I said, knowing that, if there was any justice in this life, by the New Year she would be conkered.

  ‘There were so many birds on the feeder this morning, you just missed a starling,’ said Delia, coming to say goodbye to Loudolle.

  ‘Great,’ said Loudolle. ‘See you later.’

  Delia believes that no matter what she does, her progeny walks on water. But both she and Loudolle have been very altered by their experience of life. Delia is a cynic who thinks men just want women to waft about, when back in girlhood she was an irrepressible optimist, and Loudolle has reinvented herself to the point where she is no longer even English. When Loudolle shut the front door, Delia went into the kitchen to write up her pretend calendar. There are dark shadows for each of us even in the Christmas light.

  ‘From the moment they are born, they are leaving you,’ she said in a moment of close confiding.

  ‘Indeed,’ I said, and it stung. I can’t remember why I ever preferred to sit at the bus stop with Aileen rather than watch Christmas TV with Mum.