RIP Aunt Augusta

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Black Widow Spider, Bonnie Prince Charlie, bun fight, encomium, Eulogy, Existentialist, Hegel, John Fowles, Land Girl, Life of Pi, Lyme Regis, Meryl Streep, Richard Parker, Simples, Sliding Doors, Snodland, St Birinus, Steelite, The Cobb, The French Lietenant's Woman, Tupperware, Venus Flytrap, Wyvern Mote, Yann Martel

Augustus Snodbury rose to his feet in the Recreation Room of

Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.  He was about

to deliver the meconium, nay encomium to his ‘Aunt’ Augusta.

Her commital was over and everyone had gathered for the

‘bun fight’, or, to clarify the matter, the sausage rolls and cups

of builders’ tea, stewing in institutional Steelite crockery.

Murgatroyd Syylk had donated the sausage-meat from his best

two porkers, but it had not seemed appropriate for him to slay

The Emperor, since, before the re-sexing of the animal had

taken place, it had been named after the venerable lady herself.

There hadn’t been sufficient time for Gus to read his eulogy-cum-

end of life report at the crematorium, as the coffins had been

stacking up like planes at Heathrow.

It had been agreed that he would present the paeon back at

the nursing home.

Thankfully he and Dru were still on half term.  The old girl had

been remarkably considerate in her timing of clog popping.  The

mourners really only amounted to two: Drusilla and his good

self.

Berenice, Augusta’s younger sister had pre-deceased her and

was buried in Venezuela, leaving a son, Hugo de Sousa, who

unfortunately was not in a position to leave the country.

That meant that it was only themselves and the staff and

residents of the home who had to be counted for catering

purposes.

Gus had rehearsed and re-composed his tribute over and over

as Dru drove down to Kent.  He thought he would write an

introduction, followed by the development of a thesis and

antithetical redress, in the manner of a discursive essay.

Perhaps he could throw in a couple of anecdotes- the episode

of her involvement in the missing Bonnie Prince Charlie chalice;

some wartime Land Girl reminiscences; some of her pithier

comments and so on?  Then he should sum everything up and

make an evaluation of her life.  Simples, as that annoying

furry animal says.

No, that sounded pompous.  Who did he think he was- the

Recording Angel?  Title of speech?  ‘Augusta Snodbury- kindly

maiden aunt versus Alpha female?‘  Ambivalence was surely

of the essence.  Quintessence, even.

He thought about the woman behind the mask of nonagenarian

vulnerability.  They had been asked to instal a surveillance

camera in her room, after she had made accusations about

a male resident whom she alleged had tried to climb into her

bed.

She should be so lucky! was the only comment from a lady in

the adjoining room, when she had been interviewed as a

potential witness.

The cameras had shown evidence of shocking abuse, albeit

only of a verbal nature.  They could never have believed that Aunt

Augusta was capable of such bullying behaviour to a young carer,

whose only crime was to have reduced the amount of gin in her

charge’s tonic.

His ‘aunt’ reminded him of a Black Widow Spider; a Venus Flytrap…

something female and venomous.  That was the antithesis.

The thesis was that she had supervised his education and been

in loco parentis, when his supposed mother, her sister Berenice,

had vamooshed to Venezuela, renaging on her paid agreement

with Lady Wivern: to wit that she, Berenice, should state that

the child was hers, the product of a liaison with Anthony Revelly.

This was a credible version of events, as Berenice had had a fling

with the tutor at Wyvern Mote, from 1945-7.  However, Anthony and

Aurelia, Lady W, had commenced their affair thereafter.  Although Lady

W was a widow, and technically a free agent, she did not want to

complicate matters for her two legitimate sons, Lionel and Peregrine.

Therefore, a deal had been struck. A monetary one.

And so it was that Augustus had been enrolled at St Birinus’ Prep

School, at a very tender and impressionable age, by his ‘Aunt’

Augusta.

Had she latterly discerned that he had discovered the truth?

Maybe he should expatiate and wax philosophical about alternative

narratives?  Why shouldn’t he present varying outlines?  After all,

John Fowles had done so at the end of his novel, The French

Lieutenant’s Woman. (Gus blushed as he recalled how he had really

fancied Meryl Streep.  He used to go down to Lyme Regis and hang

about The Cobb, until one blustery day, he had nearly been swept

out to sea.  That had taught him the valuable distinction between

Art and life)

Yes, he could construct an Existentialist Sliding Doors type of

scenario.  Like that boy, Pi, from the eponymous Life of, he could

persuade the inmates to choose whatever biographical version they

preferred.  How very Post-Modern!  He hadn’t seen himself in that

light before.

I mean, he mused,  am I Augustus Snodbury, the bona fide nephew

of the deceased? Or am I -say–a ‘Richard Parker’-type of clerical error?

Certainly, I am not using my real name.  What constitutes identity?

As Yann Martel said: ‘I live in a society of ‘unpalatable realities, but

realities I prefer to face.’  So, maybe I should face them down now.

After he had uttered the bombshell that Augusta was not actually

his aunt, but that Revelly was his father, Matron’s jaw dropped at

the revelation.  She had only recently taken delivery of Revelly’s

urn which was taking up an inordinate amount of space on the

mantelpiece in her office, along with other unclaimed remains of

yesterday and yester-year.

Gus concluded: I make no apologies for quoting Martel a final

time- ‘Life is a story…You can choose YOUR story.’

It could be argued that I became the man I am today as a result

of a synthesis.  (He was pleased at this Hegelian transition.)

Unfortunately no one else noticed the logic of his coda, as

they were mostly asleep, except for one old chap who was

hoovering up the remaindered sausage rolls that Gus had

been hoping he could ask to be reserved in a doggy bag for

his return journey.)

C’est la vie, was all that Dru could comment.  He thought that

was a trifle unsympathetic.  But ‘trifle’: yes, Matron did put some

of the leftover pudding into a Tupperware bowl for him.

It would be strange not to be coming back to Kent.

They went out to the car park, carrying two clinking bags

containing bottles of Dewlap Gin for the Discerning Grandmother.

Both were filled with empties.  They would have to find a bottle

bank en route to the motorway.

Did I do her justice? Snod asked as Dru pulled out of the

grounds.  He wiped a greasy palm on his best suit

trousers. I missed out all the stuff about when she

was Hamish Diecast’s Muse on that island in The Inner

Hebrides.  Did I dwell overly on her failings?

Let the enigma be.  Perhaps all our lives are illusory. 

We could all have been otherwise. All that remains of

us is love, Dru replied.  I think you conveyed that

sentiment.  Let them choose the better story and…

For Pete’s sake, don’t eat trifle in my car!  She braked

suddenly, on seeing a re- cycling bank, and the custard

landed in his lap.

He could hear Aunt Augusta cackling: Serves you right! 

Ice Bucket Challenge

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barmkin, Better Together, Cunning Little Vixen, First Minister, Flower o' Scotland, Flower O'Scotland, Ice Bucket Challenge, Kelvingrove, mote and beam, Oh Scotland, Pele Tower, Purgatory, Sassenach, Scotland, Scottish Play, Snodland, snowploughing, sporran, Trident, Wee Eck, Wyvern Mote

Murgatroyd and Diana settled down in the barmkin to watch The Debate.

Murgatroyd sensed that there were many diasporan Scots- was that the

same etymological root as ‘sporran‘?- who felt somewhat aggrieved that a

Sassenach such as himself could vote on their country’s future, so he

wanted to be fully informed and astute in his response.  He had tried to

follow some of the arguments on his tablet, but found that he kept

re-playing The First Minister’s Ice Bucket Challenge instead.  He liked it

when Wee Eck said, Dae it again!  No doubt that would be his cry if the

result in September didn’t please him.

Mrs Connolly came in with a tray of salmon sandwiches.  Murgatroyd

felt ashamed that he had ever suspected her good self, or her son, of

theft.  Forced bonhomie led him to ask her how she intended to vote.

Oh, Scotland!  Scotland! she quoted.

Again, Murgatroyd was impressed by the standard of the natives’

education.

..nation miserable

with an untitled tyrant,

when shall you see your wholesome days again?

He thought that this might be from that Flower O’ Scotland song. He

hummed a few bars to show solidarity.

No, Mr Syylk!  It is your own National Bard.  The Scottish Play.

She went on:

Alas, poor country!

Almost afraid to know itself.  It cannot be called our mother, but our grave;

where nothing is, but who knows nothing..

I didn’t think Alistair did too badly, Murgatroyd remarked, trying to be

impartial and failing.

If that’s the best they can do, Mr Syylk, I intend to emigrate, like past

millions.

Fare thee well!

These evils thou repeatest on thyself

have banished me from Scotland.

Yet my poor country

shall have more vices than it had before,

more suffer and more sundry ways

by him that shall succeed.

Surely not, Mrs Connolly.  Murgatroyd was at a loss to reply to such

moving rhetoric.  Maybe she should have been representing the

‘Better Together‘ campaign at Kelvingrove.

Diana just thanked her and took two generous-sized sandwiches

from the tray. Mad!  All of them.

But, it was only a few weeks since Diana would have thought a barmkin

was some kind of Scottish oatcake.  It was amazing how she had been able

to see Murgatroyd more clearly, the scales having dropped from her

over-prejudicial eyes.  What was all that about motes and beams?  Maybe

her stay in The Tibetan Centre had helped her to move on.

They were going to have a trial reconciliation. (Sonia had said that she

had seen it coming.)  She always said that.

Anyway, it seemed fortuitous that Dru had accompanied Great-Aunt

Augusta back to Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.  That

meant Nigel was able to give Sonia a lift home in the hired van.  Dru had

decided to leave her harp at the Pele Tower, so there was room for

Sonia’s luggage.  In fact there was plenty of room for a dismantled Trident,

if Alex and Co had wanted to send it down south.

Nigel’s concentration was being hampered by Sonia’s inquisition on his

relationship with Dru.  How could anyone be more intrusive than his own

mother?

Diana and Gus were already back at school, fielding disgruntled parents

and snowploughing their enquiries, to grit the path for the incoming

Headmaster.  The term stretched before them like a path through

Purgatory.

Gus was annoyed as he had been sent a postcard from Wyvern Mote,

from Maxwell Boothroyd-Smythe, commenting on the wonderful concert

and praising Dru’s musicianship.  Snod knew, with that unerring classroom

intuition developed over decades, that the missive meant that Dru had

taken him there.  He had seen them, tete-a-tete, during the interval, no

doubt arranging to meet up after Dru had dropped Aunt Augusta back at

the care home.  Musicianship?!  Hah!  Cunning Little Vixen!

Gus did not approve of her having led Nigel on.  His own past

experiences returned to haunt him.  He had seen the look in

Nigel’s eyes as he sang some of the more romantic ballads. Poor

fellow!  His vocal timbre was developing, but his charisma was,

like the proverbial gas, at a peep.

Furthermore, there was an issue which now loomed larger than the

outcome of a referendum: if Dru were to strike up a liaison with

Maxwell Boothroyd-Smythe and it should become permanent, then-

Heavens forfend!!-he might end up step-grandfather to that bolshie

Juniper and her odious younger sibling, the biggest bete-noire of St

Birinus’ Middle.

He would like to empty a bucket of something else over that

particular parental head.

 

Gardy Loo!

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affrontee gules, Alex Salmond, Auchentoshan, Bannockburn House, bauchle, beeswax, Bohemia, Bonnie Prince Charlie, chamber candlestick, chatelaine, Clementina Walkinshaw, dexter and sinister, Faberge egg, Game of Thrones, Gardy Loo!, King of Cumbria, lion sejant, Lost Middlelands, manflu, mizmaze, Nemo Me Impune Lacessit, Pele Tower, reivers, Rory Stewart, The National Trust, The Proclaimers, The Young Pretender, Tindall, Tyndale, Walter Scott, Wyvern Mote

Drusilla and Murgatroyd sipped their Auchentoshans simultaneously

and gazed at the faux Faberge egg sitting on the coffee table.

Sorry to have disappointed you, said Murgatroyd.  It isn’t one of the missing

ones.  Bless Aunt Augusta.  She was trying to bestow something on you,

but it is practically worthless.

The Tindall Jewell, on the other hand is priceless. I wonder if it had any

connection to either of the Tyndales who turned down the throne of

Bohemia?  I must do some research.  But I suppose it is earlier than

that.  Looks medieval.

The strange coincidence is, as we discussed earlier, that a branch of the

Tindalls owned this pele tower at one time.  So, in a sense, you might be

coming home.  I’ll dig out the charters tomorrow.  I was going to frame one

or two for the Great Hall.

I’m not going to drag Gus through a lengthy process of establishing rights.

The insurance on the jewel would be a liability and a nightmare.  It should

remain with The National Trust at Wyvern Mote, Dru stated firmly.

I think you are right, Murgatroyd nodded sagely.  I get in a tizzy over the

security of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s communion chalice.  I hated getting it

marked by ultraviolet, but it is alarmed in that niche by the fireplace.  One

day it will be yours, my girl.  Come to think of it, you do resemble

Clementina Walkinshaw a tad.

Well, thanks for that.  I have no intention of escaping to a convent just

yet.  Do you think it came from Bannockburn House when Clementina was

nursing The Young Pretender from a nasty bout of Manflu?  He probably was

demanding the Last Rites histrionically- you know- the way all you guys do

when you catch a cold!

So the story goes, but Walter Scott and his ilk tended to embellish things

as you can imagine.  It does come from the Rebellion period and has a very

good maker.  I won’t take it out now, but it bears the motto: Nemo Me

Impune Lacessit and the lion sejant affrontee gules, crowned, holding in

dexter paw a sword and an erect sceptre, proper..

Whae dare meddle wi’ me?  A motto I would gladly adopt as my own ,

smiled Dru.  Well, I must go up the spiral stair to bed.  My head is

spinning with all this history, the Auchentoshan, or losing myself in the

mizmaze this afternoon. 

I’m sure it is a combination of all three, speculated Murgatroyd, handing

her a beeswax taper in a pewter chamber candlestick.  The hive has

been busy to light you on your way.  I’ve only been stung twice.  You can

taste the honey at breakfast, my sweet. 

She felt a renewal of filial affection which wasn’t diluted by being shared

with her biological pater.

The embers were dying, so Murgatroyd placed the fire-guard in front of the

glow and rolled back the rug, lest a spark should catch.  He was turning into

a fussy old chatelaine.  Dru left the egg on the table.  If there should be a

raid by the reivers, they were welcome to it.  The egg, not the table!

She dreamt of Border tussles: mafia bosses fuelled by proxy wars, with

visages remarkably like Rory Stewart.  She briefly counted sheep in Cumbric,

that language, Stewart claimed, of The Lost Middlelands.  She thought she

saw the face of the last independent King of Cumbria who vanished in the

11th century and screamed as it morphed into the heavy-browed, jowly

phizzog of Alex Salmond.  Clearly she had watched too many Game of Thrones

episodes.  Or he had.

Thank goodness the tower was fortified!  Any snatch of The Proclaimers

which might herald the approach of The First Minister and penetrate the foot

thick walls and she would be tipping the contents of her chamber pot out of

the window.  If Alex was stationed below with his troops and that wee

bauchle, the standard bearer, who shall remain nameless, Dru would not even

give them the warning:  Gardy Loo!

Snod’s Law

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, Caracas, crystal ball, DNA analysis, Elgin marbles, exhumation, Katherine of Aragon, kinship, Lady of the Bedchamber, perjury, St Birinus, Tindall, Tyndale, Wyvern Mote

Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe was open on the Bank Holiday and, the

weather being clement, Sonia, Diana and Dru were sitting in the courtyard,

out of earshot, they hoped, of the other customers.  Snod came in, looking

ill-at-ease in this bastion of good taste.  He was probably the only

customer who could have explained what a ‘bastion‘ was.  Most would

have thought it a term of abuse.

I just want a simple coffee.  Why does life have to be so complicated? he

grumbled.

Diana cleared her jacket from the spare chair that she had been reserving.

I’ve been studying the paperwork from Aurelia, she began.  The Tindalls of

Coquetbrookdale!  Quite a family.

Not related to that rugby player with the smashed nose who married Zara?

queried Sonia.

No, not the same branch. Elizabeth Swan married John Tindall and this was

how the- here Diana lowered her voice and looked around furtively – the

Tindall jewel came into Elizabeth’s possession.  It had been handed down

from generation to generation, from mother-in-law to daughter, or daughter-

in-law.

A relation of Sir William Tyndale, who was knighted at the marriage of Arthur,

Prince of Wales to Katherine of Aragon, originally seemed to have acquired it,

possibly from a royally-esteemed Lady-of-the-Bedchamber.

Whose bedchamber? asked Sonia, forthrightly.

Ah, that might have been telling! said Diana, coyly.  No, it might have

come into the family through a marriage.

Which leaves the problem of what you are going to do about it, said Snod,

nodding to Dru.  The letter says that it comes to the wife, or daughter of any

of her sons.

I’m definitely out of the picture, said Diana.  But what if you were to marry in

the near future?  Would that rule Dru out?  She was desirous of protecting

her daughter’s interests.

And can we be sure that Lionel and Peregrine did not have any illegitimate

daughters? asked Sonia.  They would have entitlement.

I suppose Bunbury et al will advertise in the press in Thailand and Canada for

any claimants to come forward within a certain period of time.  They might

have to be subject to DNA analysis, said Snod.

I might have to give a swab too, interrupted Dru.  They might want to check

your paternity.

Diana blushed and her chin disappeared into her collar.  Shhh! she hissed.

I might have to have a DNA test, agreed Gus, not relishing the idea,

as he confused it with sperm banks for some reason.  After all, my father is

not named on my birth certificate and my mother is designated as Berenice. 

Just because Lady Wyvern, er.. Aurelia, paid some school fees and confessed

to perjury in her letter, it might be seen as the ravings of a madwoman and

Anthony being dead too, how can we prove kinship?

There could be a hair on Aunt Augusta’s sheets, suggested Dru.

Don’t be silly, laughed Diana.  I expect that in an establishment as genteel

as Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry, they have probably

changed the bedding since Anthony’s last nocturnal perambulation.

Dru looked sceptical.  From what I’ve read, it’s a miracle if the sheets

are laundered at all on some of these premises. But, seriously, DNA

is pretty resistant material.  It survives washing machines, apparently.

Sonia said: Washing machines have inbuilt obsolescence nowadays,

so it wouldn’t be difficult to outlast them.  I only had mine three years.

Yes, but you don’t use de-calcifiers, reprimanded Diana.  That’s why

your towels are brick hard.

Sonia shot her a look that might have been interpreted as inviting

her to lodge elsewhere if she had any further criticisms.

Well, I am not going to sanction any exhumations, avowed Gus.  And

that includes Berenice’s.  It’s rather extreme to rule out a blood

relationship.

You wouldn’t have to, clarified Sonia.  You could get a sibling swab from

Aunt Augusta which would disprove your relationship to her entire family.

Not by stealth, Diana countered.  Only by informed consent and the

authorities might think she is too confused to comply.

Nonsense, said Sonia.  From what you’ve told me-here she nodded

towards Dru- she has all her marbles and it wouldn’t surprise me if she

had some of the Elgin variety too, stashed in her bedside locker, alongside

her gin.  Anyway, you could ask that De Sousa chap in Caracas to supple a

hair.  That would disprove that he is your half brother.

Oh, I’d forgotten about Hugo, said Snod, a trifle guiltily.  I’d better write to

him to disabuse him of our familial ties.  He will be disappointed.

Well, you asked me what I was going to do, Dru finally chipped in.  And I have

already decided.  If the lawyers are satisfied that Dad is Aurelia’s son and I am

offered the jewel, I am going to say that I want it to remain on exhibition at

Wyvern Mote.

These things can bring a curse on families and I don’t want Mum to regret

that she should have had no stake in it. Nor do I want to alienate any future

step- mothers. (Here Gus flushed deeply)  And, anyway, what would I do

with it?

It’s probably uninsurable in private hands. I don’t need the money.  I am more

interested in my career and this seems as good a time as any to announce

that I have been short-listed for the post of Head of St Birinus Middle, with the

blessing of its finest Master, my father!

And she raised her coffee cup to her lips in a loyal toast.  I wouldn’t need

any treasures, as there is accommodation provided and, without having to

worry about a mortgage, I would be well provided for and would have an

adequate salary and pension.

That’s my girl! Gus flushed with pride.  He could only hope that she would

be successful.

He had declared his affiliation and conflict of interest to the Governors and

had stepped down from the interview panel.  He had yet to be informed of

the other candidates.

But what about your parentage? Sonia challenged Gus.  Don’t you want to

have everything cleared up?  I know there is no inheritance involved, since

Wyvern is now National Trust, but aren’t you a teeny bit curious?

I thought you would have taken out your crystal ball and enlightened me,

teased Gus. But, I’ll take Aurelia’s word for it. As far as I am concerned, at my

time of life, I am grateful to one parent alone and he is the one who has

perpetually looked out for me through thick and thin..

And that is..? they all asked simultaneously.

St Birinus. And Snod twiddled the ring on his little finger and drained his

cup of basic filter coffee with satisfaction, even though there were no

accompanying Bourbon biscuits on offer.

So, you don’t mind the uncertainty? Sonia probed a little further.

No, Gus shook his head. It’s just like many of life’s vicissitudes: an

exemplification of Snod’s Law!

Balls

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Cadbury's Creme egg, Call the Midwife, Cato, coronet, De Agri Cultura, Discovery Trail, Easter Bunny, gastropod, Gladstone bag, Istanbul, Judas, kelim, Laetare Sunday, Mary Berry, marzipan, mollusc, onesie, Paralympian, placenta, plakous, plebeian, Simnel cake, souk, Thornton's chocolate, Tortoise and Hare, Wyvern Mote

Great-Aunt Augusta was ready and waiting for them.  She was

ensconced in her usual corner of Snodland Nursing Home for the

Debased Gentry and the tea trolley had been parked beside her little

enclave.

Her gimlet eyes had already detected the Thornton chocolate egg that

Drusilla was bearing.  The old lady smiled broadly and greeted them with

an invitation that could not be refused:  Go on- have some placenta cake.

It’s that time of year.

Snod sat down in one of the institutional high-backed chairs.  What did

you just say, Aunt Augusta?  I need to have my ears syringed.

Placenta cake.  One always has it from Laetare Sunday onwards.

Oh, I see.  You are drawing an analogy with that plakous cake so beloved

of the Greeks?  But I thought that was made with dough, cheese, honey and

was flavoured with bay leaves.  Wasn’t there a recipe for it in Cato’s De Agri

Cultura?

Possibly, replied Aunt Augusta, but people have linked it to our Simnel cake

and Matron has allowed us to have one for afternoon tea.  So, you be

mother, she directed Drusilla.

Dru looked relieved that she was not going to be faced with something

slithery from Call the Midwife.  It looked fairly innocuous, but shop-bought.

It’s to a recipe from that youngster Mary Berry, Augusta informed them.

Ah, simila, meaning ‘fine flour’, Snod pontificated.  It was going to be a

long afternoon.

And you know all about the balls?  Augusta interrogated Dru, distracting

her while she was pouring, so that she slopped some tea into the saucers.

Balls?  Coronets had them and now simnel cakes.  They were ubiquitous. 

Balls? Dru repeated gormlessly.

Gus looked a little red-faced.

They represent the Apostles.  Minus Judas.  But when I baked mine, I

always used to add him in. After all, he did repent.

Hmm, mused Dru.  I’ve been thinking about that during Lent.  I would like to

be inclusive in my attitude too.

You see, Augusta said.  I knew we think alike.  So, assuming that you don’t

have one of those dreadful tramp stamps, I can now give you an Easter

present.  Fair exchange, as I see you have brought me a Thornton’s

chocolate treat.  Just something mother picked up in a souk in Istanbul,

or somewhere.  Don’t get too excited.

Dru looked puzzled as Aunt Augusta opened a kind of Gladstone made

from a Turkish saddle-bag. Or maybe it was Anatolian.  Dru wasn’t an

expert.

This is for you.  Don’t open it here.  I’ve been hiding it ever since I came in

here, in case one of the inmates took a fancy to it.  I was going to give it to

your father, but he has had the proceeds from quite a few of Mother’s kelims

in the past, so now it is your turn.

She picked off a marzipan ball and popped it into her mouth.

Like a hole in one, Snod thought.  Not much evidence of a significant

handicap.

Dru thanked her and together they managed to wrap her up and wheel

her out for the afternoon.  Of course, they went to Wyvern Mote, where,

I am afraid to relate, Aunt Augusta whirled her wheelchair around a

children’s Discovery Trail, as if she was a Paralympian, and bagged

all the Cadbury’s Creme Eggs which had just been secreted by a giant

Easter Bunny in a ridiculous Onesie.

Sugar is very bad for you, she justified herself.  I heard it on the news. 

It doesn’t matter at my age, but I am saving the little ones from future

health problems.

And she stuffed a whole one into her mouth, much as she had done with

the marzipan ball, leaving a trail of slivers of silver paper behind her, like

an orienteering trail, or the shiny slime from a sweet-loving snail.

(I was going to write ‘toothed’ instead of ‘loving‘, but the metaphor didn’t work

for gastropods and molluscs.)  Tant pis, as the escargot race are wont to say.

Once she had been delivered safely and they had driven off, Dru raised a

subject that she had been saving for a private moment.

I had a letter from someone whom I haven’t heard from for quite some time,

she said to Snod, after they had reached a straight section of road.

Oh, who was that? Gus asked, only mildly interested.  Get out of the way,

you plebeian!  It’s 30mph, or can’t you read?  It’s the hare and the tortoise

all over again!

Someone had cut him up and it wasn’t a policeman.  He reserved the

right to use the term, as a long-standing Classics scholar.

Mum doesn’t know, but it was from Murgatroyd.  He wants me to go up and

stay for a couple of days.  To see what he’s achieved in the restoration of his

house in the Borders.  Allegedly.

Indeed, remarked Snod.  This was a useful word which he employed to

good effect in difficult parental interviews.  Why do you say ‘allegedly’?

Because I think he misses me. He was in loco parentis for my first

formative years.

And I wasn’t, I suppose.  The latter was not expressed with any hint of

bitterness.

There was silence for a few minutes.  Then Snod responded.

In the light of our conversation on Judas, I can only say that we might as

well think of Murgatroyd as an extra ball.  He may not be the icing on the

familial cake, but he probably needs to be included.

Father, that’s generous of you.  It makes no difference to how I feel about

our relationship.

What about your mother?  Do you want me to keep the lid on this for the

moment?  She’s moving house and perhaps that is enough stress for her

at present.

I will think about how to tell her, but for now, it’s what I feel I have to do.

Snod dropped her off at Royalist House in High Street.  She was

exhausted.

Here!  You forgot your present! shouted Snod, handing her the parcel out

through the driver’s window.  It was quite heavy for its size.

He wasn’t going to come in.  He had some work to do for the new term

and he was so behind.  Would he change his name, or leave things

as they were? Decisions, decisions..