“They were burned to buggery hell,” Mrs. Doyle told Eunice. “I was too busy phoning the ambulance to remember the buns, but I don’t blame her. It wasn’t her fault that she went and dropped dead, poor love. The ambulance came quick enough, but she was already gone when it got here. Not a mark on her, mind you. Heart attack I ’spect. My Bert says it could have been an ‘annualism,’ but my money’s on a heart attack. Or a stroke.”
Eunice could remember a crowd gathered and a distant siren, but that was all. She was sad to think that the best day of her life so far had been the last day of someone else’s, and all that had separated them had been a few feet of tarmac.
“Tea up!”
Bomber plonked the tray down on the table.
“Shall I be mother?”
Bomber poured the tea and dished out the iced buns. Douglas settled down with his bun gripped between his paws and set to work on the icing.
“Now, my dear girl, tell me what you think of old Pontpool’s latest offering. Is it any good or shall we chuck it on the slippery slope?”
It was Bomber’s name for the slush pile of rejected manuscripts. The scrap heap of stories invariably grew so high, so quickly, that it avalanched onto the floor before anyone transferred it to the bin. Percy Pontpool was an aspiring children’s author and Bomber had asked Eunice to look at his latest manuscript. Eunice chewed thoughtfully on her iced bun. She didn’t need any time to decide what she thought, but simply how honest to be. However amiable Bomber was, he was still her boss and she was still the new girl trying to deserve her place. Percy had written a book for little girls called Tracey Has Fun in the Kitchen. Tracey’s adventures included washing up with Daphne the dishmop, sweeping the floor with Betty the broom, cleaning the windows with Sparkle the sponge, and scrubbing the oven with Wendy the wad of wire wool. Sadly, he had missed the opportunity of having Tracey unblock the sink with Portia the plunger, which might have proved to be some small redemption. Tracey had about as much fun as a pony in a coalpit. Eunice had a horrible feeling that Percy would be working on a sequel called Howard Has Fun in the Shed, with Charlie the chisel, Freddy the fretsaw, and Dick the drill. It was a load of sexist codswallop. Eunice translated her thoughts into words.
“I’m struggling to envisage an appropriate audience for it.”
Bomber nearly choked on his bun. He took a swig of tea and rearranged his face into a suitably serious expression.
“Now tell me what you really think.”
Eunice sighed.
“It’s a load of sexist codswallop.”
“Quite right!” said Bomber as he snatched the offending manuscript from Eunice’s desk and hurled it through the air toward the corner where the slippery slope skulked. It belly flopped onto the pile with a dull thud. Douglas had finished his bun and was sniffing the air hopefully in case any crumbs remained on the plates of his friends.
“What’s your sister’s book about?”
Eunice had been dying to ask ever since her first day, but before Bomber could answer, the downstairs door buzzer sounded. Bomber leaped to his feet.
“That’ll be the parents. They said they might pop in for a visit while they were up in town.”
Eunice was eager to meet the couple who had produced such contradictory offspring and Godfrey and Grace were a double delight. Bomber was a perfect mix of their physical characteristics, with his father’s aquiline nose and generous mouth and his mother’s shrewd gray eyes and coloring. Godfrey was resplendent in salmon-pink jumbo corduroy trousers, teamed with a canary-yellow waistcoat, matching bow tie, and a rather battered but still decent enough panama. Grace was wearing a sensible cotton frock with a print that might have looked more appropriate on a sofa, a straw hat with several large yellow flowers attached to the brim, and smart shoes with a small heel but comfortable for walking in. The brown leather handbag which was tucked firmly into the crook of her arm was large and sturdy enough to biff any would-be muggers, who Grace was convinced were lurking in every alley and doorway of the city, waiting to pounce on country folk like her and Godfrey.
“This must be the new girl, then.” Grace pronounced it to rhyme with bell. “How do you do, my dear?”
“Very pleased to meet you.”
Eunice took the hand that was offered; soft but with a firm grip.
Godfrey shook his head.
“Good God, woman! That’s not the thing at all now with the young’uns.”
He grabbed Eunice in both arms and squeezed her tight, almost lifting her feet from the floor, and then kissed her firmly on both cheeks. She felt the scratch of whiskers he’d missed when shaving and caught a hint of eau de cologne. Bomber rolled his eyes and grinned.
“Pops, you’re shameless. Any excuse to kiss the girls.”
Godfrey winked at Eunice.
“Well, at my age you have to take any chance you can get. No offense intended.”
Eunice returned his wink.
“None taken.”
Grace kissed her son affectionately on the cheek and then sat down purposefully to address him, waving away offers of tea and iced buns with a dismissive hand.
“Now, I promised that I should ask, but I refuse to interfere . . .”
Bomber sighed. He knew exactly what was coming.
“Your sister has apparently written a book that she would like you to publish. I haven’t read it—haven’t even seen it, come to that—but she says that you’re being deliberately mulish and refusing to give it proper consideration. What have you got to say for yourself?”
Eunice was agog and intrigued by the hint of a smile that skittered across Grace’s mouth as she delivered her words in such a stern tone. Bomber strode across the room to the window in the manner of a defense barrister preparing to address the jury.
“The first point is undoubtedly true. Portia has written something that she calls a book and she does indeed want me to publish it. The second point is a wicked falsehood, which I deny with every fiber of my being.”
Bomber slammed the palm of his hand onto his desk to emphasize his apparent indignation, before laughing out loud and slumping into his chair.
“Listen, Ma, I have read it and it’s bloody awful. It’s also been written by someone else first and they made a damn sight better fist of it than she did.”
Godfrey furrowed his brows and tutted in disapproval.
“You mean she’s copied it?”
“Well, she calls it an ‘ommage.’”
Godfrey turned to his wife and shook his head.
“Are you sure that you brought home the right one from the hospital? I can’t think where she gets it from.”
Grace bowled a rather desperate attempt at a defense for her daughter’s sticky wicket.
“Perhaps she didn’t realize that her story resembled someone else’s. Perhaps it was simply an unfortunate coincidence.”
It was a no ball.
“Nice try, Ma, but it’s called Lady Clatterly’s Chauffeur and it’s about a woman called Bonnie and her husband, Gifford, who’s been paralyzed playing rugby. She ends up having an affair with her chauffeur, Mellons, a rough yet strangely tender northerner with a speech impediment who keeps tropical fish.”
Godfrey shook his head in disbelief.
“I’m sure that girl was dropped on her head.”