The New Kitten

13

The New Kitten

    “What’s she up to?” demanded Karen grimly.

    “Don’t ask me, Mum!” replied Sloane airily, avoiding her eye.

    Karen sighed. She held baby Rose Anne on her shoulder and patted her back gently. “And I suppose it’s useless asking you what that photo session with Ingrid was all about, yesterday.”

    Sloane swallowed involuntarily. “Weren’t they taking photos of the baby?”

    Karen patted Rose Anne’s back gently. “Come on, Bub, nice burp! –Photos that apparently entailed padding Kitten’s cheeks.”

    “What?” gulped Sloane.

    “Unless the pregnancy’s left her with some strange trace-element deficiency that means she has an irresistible craving for cottonwool,” said Kitten’s mother grimly.

    “I think you must have got it wrong, Mum,” replied Sloane feebly.

    “Have I? Well, what I heard was Ingrid saying: ‘That wig does look like your old hair, but your face is too thin,’ and Kitten replying: ‘Hang on, I’ll stuff some cottonwool in my cheeks.’”

    Sloane gulped.

    “Well?”

    “Mum, whatever she’s up to, I don’t know anything about it! Um—maybe she thought she looked too thin for the camera.”

    Karen replied drily: “She looks almost fit for once in her life, if that’s what you mean by too thin. I must say, I’m surprised: I thought she’d double her weight during the pregnancy.”

    “Mm. I think she went for lots of walks. And—um—ate a plain, healthy diet,” said Sloane feebly.

    Karen sniffed slightly. “Good girl, Rose Anne!” she said as the baby belched loudly. She resettled her in the crook of her arm and began forcing the rest of the weak rosehip drink that Kitten had earlier declared Rose Anne didn’t need down her rosebud gullet.

    The Mannings’ sitting-room was peacefully silent, apart from the gulping noises produced by Rose Anne drinking and the snorting noises produced by Rose Anne trying to breathe at the same time as she drank. Sloane picked up the bottle from which Karen had prepared the baby’s drink. Danish? Her eyebrows rose slightly.

    “‘Wig’?” said Karen in an evil voice.

    Jumping, Sloane gasped: “I said, don’t ask me!”

    “I’ll get it out of Ingrid,” she threatened.

    “You can try, but she’ll tell you the same as she did before: it’s all in your imagination.”

    “Not her, your Aunt Ingrid.”

    “Oh,” said Sloane feebly. “Um, did she send you this?”

    Looking pleased, her mother gave her chapter and verse. Okay, hard though it was to imagine Aunty Ingrid getting worked up at long distance over what went into her great-niece’s stomach, she apparently had.

    “Look,” Karen then said, frowning over it, and then hurriedly smiling at the baby, “number one, Kitten produces this infant with a complete cock-and-bull story as to who the father is—yes, pretty girl!” she cooed. “Not that I give a damn,” she noted by the by. “But it’s symptomatic. Number two, she grows her hair long—she’s worn it short all her life, you know—and spends a fortune on getting it straightened, after twenty-six years of looking down her nose at girls not born with curls. Number three, there’s the business with the cottonwool. –Never mind if that isn’t chronological. Number four, instead of seizing on the excuse to slack off and get as fat as a pig—yes, Mummy’s a piggy!” she cooed; “as I was saying, she actually manages to lose weight during her pregnancy and puts herself on a sensible diet the minute the kid’s born! –Mmm, nice rosehip drink for Rose Anne! –Everybody’s going to call her Roseanne, your sister Ingrid’s right about that one, you know.”

    She seemed to have stopped. Sloane replied feebly: “Mum, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. I suppose she just wants to change her image.”

    Karen sniffed. She fed the baby the remaining rosehip drink in silence and put her on her shoulder again. “Who is the father?” she said artlessly.

    Sloane was very nearly caught. She choked slightly. “No-one. I mean, don’t ask me,” she said, getting up.

    “They’re in there trying on all those new clothes she bought the other day. And I’m not asking where the money came from—good girl, Rose Anne! What a big burp!—because frankly, I don’t think my stomach’s strong enough to take the answer. Or the money for this damned trip to Denmark.”

    “Pooh,” said Sloane uneasily, edging towards the door. “You’ve said yourself, millions of times, that Kitten never spends a thing, the boyfriends seem to actually like chucking their dough away on her.”

    “Wait,” said Karen grimly. “Just tell me one thing, please, Sloane. –Pretend that I’m a human being, not your mother, if you can,” she added tiredly.

    Sloane went very red. “What?” she said on a defensive note.

    Sighing, Karen said: “Was it Pete?”

    “What? No!” she gasped.

    “I don’t know whether that makes it better or worse,” she admitted with a sigh. “’Es! Pete’s a decent fellow!” she said in a squeaky voice to her grandchild. “It wouldn’t have made the slightest difference to her, don’t tell me,” she added grimly. “She’d have walked off and left him flat in any case.”

    “Y— Um, I think she was quite up-front about the whole thing with him, Mum.”

    Karen sighed. “Sloane, that doesn’t make it better, have you been completely brainwashed by all that American crap you watch on the goggle-box?”

    “No!” said Sloane angrily. “And I do not! And at least she hasn’t wished someone else’s kid on poor old Pete!” She went out, refraining with an effort from slamming the door behind her.

    “Your Aunty Sloane’s an idiot, too,” said Karen gloomily to her newest grandchild. “’Es! That’s right! Aunty Idiot!” she squeaked. “So much for enlisting her support to try to get your bloody mother to let me see a bit of you before you cut your first tooth,” she grumbled. “’Es! Toofy-pegs!” she cooed.

    Sloane went into Kitten’s room and shut the door carefully behind her. “I hope you don’t think Mum doesn’t know you’re up to something,” she said grimly.

    “Mm…” Kitten replied vaguely, revolving slowly in front of the long mirror in a black sheath dress. “Like this?”

    “No. It’s tarty,” she said sourly.

    “It isn’t tarty in itself, it’s you in it,” said Ingrid kindly.

    “Thanks!” Kitten revolved slowly again.

    “It shows too much of your bottom,” explained Ingrid kindly.

    “I’m not gonna give it to you, whatever you say,” replied Kitten sourly.

    Ingrid laughed. “I couldn’t get into it!” She patted the bulge.

    Sloane looked at it and sighed. “Just as well. Mum’s awfully upset over you taking Rose Anne off to Denmark, Kitten, I suppose you realise?”

    “Yes, well, when Ingrid’s is born she can go soppy over it,” replied Kitten indifferently.

    “Kitten! Anybody’d think you didn’t love Baby!” cried Ingrid.

    “Anybody’d be dumb, then. –I need to lose about another ten kilos,” she pronounced, eyes narrowed.

    “For what?” said Sloane limply.

    “Never mind.”

    Ingrid groaned. “Look, if you’d tell us what this master plan is, we might be able to help!”

    “You have helped, you took those pics.”

    “Kit-ten!”

    “Mum’s had the pair of you on the rack already: the less you know, the less you can let out. –To her or anybody else,” she added with a hard look at Ingrid.

    “I don’t tell him everything!” she said quickly to the sub-text.

    “You’d better bloody well not, that’s all.”

    “He wouldn’t mind if Nikki got Neil.”

    “Much!” retorted Kitten strongly.

    “No, um, he’s always saying that sending him to school in England was a mistake.”

    “Yeah, but is he always saying he wants him to marry the Nong of the People, N. West?”

    “Kitten, honestly! She’s supposed to be your friend!” cried Ingrid.

    “She is. Well, more Melodie’s than mine, but I suppose it’s fair to say she’s a friend. That doesn’t mean I can’t see she’s a nong.”

    “Give up,” advised Sloane sourly. “Motherhood hasn’t softened her.”

    “No, and that isn’t its usual effect,” noted Kitten, beginning to struggle out of the black sheath. “I grant you they frequently go soft as mush while they’re lactating, and possibly up until the infant turns into a Terrible Two. Or even till it reaches school age. But the usual effect of a lifetime of coping with kids, not to say with hopeless teachers and pill-pushing doctors and other kids’ mothers and bossy scout-leaders, is to turn you hard as nails; or haven’t you ever actually looked at life in our delightful suburbs?”

    “Don’t argue with her, Ingrid, she’s hopeless when she’s in this sort of mood,” said Sloane with a sigh.

    “It’s not post-natal blues, is it, Kitten?” asked Ingrid cautiously.

    “No. Talking of blue, pass me that blue one.”

    Sighing, Ingrid passed Kitten the blue dress. Kitten got into it. She revolved slowly in front of the mirror again. “Well?”

    “We-ell… You don’t look like you,” said Ingrid dubiously. “Does she, Sloane?”—Sloane shook her head.—“No. Is that part of the plan?”

    “Possibly.” Kitten revolved slowly again. “Yeah, this’ll do.”

    “Do for what?” said Sloane feebly. “Christmas in Copenhagen under six foot of snow?”

    Kitten immediately explained acidly and in detail how David Jones—the main store, downtown, what was more—had failed to supply winter clothing.

    “It’s just over a month till Christmas: can you blame them?” replied Sloane.

    “She can,” noted Ingrid.

    “Yeah, shouldn’t have asked, should I?” They grinned at each other.

    Meanwhile Kitten was trying on a blue straw hat and deciding she hated it: Mum could have it. Ingrid tried to say that Mum never wore hats but was silenced by the retort that she could wear it for Ingrid’s own baby’s christening.

    There was a short silence.

    Sloane began: “Talking of christenings—”

    “No.”

    “Kitten, it’d be meaningless, but Grandma Andersen—”

    “No.”

    “Drop it,” sighed Ingrid. “Everyone’s had a go at her. I suppose it doesn’t matter. But Grandma won’t leave that silver sugar bowl to you, if you don’t have her christened.”

    Kitten shrugged. She got out of the blue dress. “Hang on: would she give me her fur coat, do ya think?”

    Ingrid’s eyes twinkled. “Not if you don’t have Rose Anne christened,” she replied definitely.

    A thoughtful look came over Kitten’s new, thinner face…

    “I thought she might have told you, at least,” said Ingrid with a sigh.

    “No. I thought she might have told you,” replied Sloane, shrugging.

    Ingrid sighed again. “This new slim look’s got to be part of it.”

    “Yeah. Well, she’s working hard enough at it: it must be.”

    “But she got Hugo Kent in the first place with her old figure: how’s being skinny gonna help get him back?” said Ingrid on an exasperated note.

    “Dunno.”

    “I can’t exactly figure out how the photos fit in, either. Well, I mean, I could, without her new figure, but… Well, heck, Sloane, say Hugo Kent does get a look at them, highly unlikely, but say he does, and does fall over himself at the sight of Kitten with the baby, and comes rushing out to see her: well, there she is, looking like—”

    “You.”

    “Uh—well, more like me than she did before, yes. I’d have said she looks more like you.”

    “Actually, she looks more like Aunty Ingrid—not her today, you idiot!” she said loudly as Ingrid’s jaw dropped. “No; thirty-odd years back: in those old snaps of Grandma’s.”

    “You’re right. Coolly Scandinavian and cheek-bone-ish!” said Ingrid with a laugh.

    “You forgot stand-offish.”

    “Y— Well, no, she hasn’t quite managed that, yet.”

    “It’ll come when the last ten kilos go,” predicted Sloane.

    “You’re right!” she squeaked, collapsing in giggles. “But what I’m saying is,” she said, blowing her nose, “if he does come rushing out here to find the old, plump Kitten, he’ll be vastly disappointed!”

    “He’ll be that, all right: she’ll be in Copenhagen,” Sloane reminded her drily.

    “Uh—yeah. No, well, you know what I mean.”

    Sloane conceded she did, yes. “Has she told Melodie anything?”

    “No,” replied Melodie’s twin definitely. “All the girls know is that she’s got a plan.”

    “Mm. At least it doesn’t seem to entail dumping Rose Anne on Mum or Grandma. Or you.”

    “No-o… I dunno what she thinks she’s gonna do in Denmark with a baby, though, Sloane.”

    “Even Danes have them,” said Sloane mildly. “And after Mum said they don’t seem to sell rosehip syrup here any more, Aunty Ingrid did send that organic rosehip soup stuff out for her. Sourced from wild roses,” she added on a dry note. “Evidently the Scandinavians are really into all sorts of wild berry drinks—for adults as well, I mean.”

    “Or Aunty Ingrid is, yeah,” noted her namesake. “Haven’t you got any idea why Kitten’s so keen to go over there?”

    “No, she hasn’t told me a thing. But if it does nothing else, it’ll give her a nice holiday.”

    “She’s had a nice holiday for the past nine months.”

    “Uh—well, something like that,” replied Sloane weakly.

    Ingrid looked at her sideways. “Pity it had to involve trampling all over poor old Pete’s feelings.”

    “Ingrid, he is a grown man! He went into it with his eyes open! And he’s known her all her life: he can’t have had any illusions about her.”

    Ingrid sighed. “I think all men have that sort of illusion, Sloane: they can’t help it, they’re made that way.”

    “This is incipient motherhood turning you to mush, is it?” retorted Sloane on an acid note.

    “Eh? Oh!” she said with a laugh. “No, I think it’s being married to one of them.”

    “You were married to one before,” noted her sister drily.

    “I was too young to see anything very clearly, back then. But we’re not talking about me.”

    Sloane got up. “We’re not talking about me, either.”

    “Where are you going?” asked Ingrid limply.

    “Home. I’ve got a heap of washing waiting for me.”

    “But I thought you were gonna help me choose curtain fabrics for the new house today!” she cried.

    “No, you didn’t, Ingrid: you thought I was gonna put up with you asking me what my intentions are with Hardy.”

    “Sloane, I wasn’t going to! And anyway, what are they? He’s awfully nice, why don’t you dump Kendall, for goodness’ sake? You can’t still be thinking about that revenge rubbish!” she cried.

    But Sloane, closing the door very quietly after her, had gone.

    Ingrid sat back limply on Ward’s fawn sofa amidst a litter of fabric samples. “Blow,” she muttered.

    It was a warm, rather muggy day. Grandma Andersen was terrifyingly smart in a black silk two-piece with a black straw hat bedecked with mauve, white and black silk roses. Ingrid, despite the bulge, was elegant in a sleeveless light tan tunic over a matching slim skirt. The thick, pale hair was up in a French roll, held in place by a very Fifties-look bandeau of a white hat with a wisp of veil; the handbag, the sandals and the plain bangle matched. Sloane, to her sisters’ eyes, was also elegant: high-heeled black patents, a tight black skirt, and a short white jacket over a collarless black silk blouse. Her hair was tied back simply with a severe black bow. Karen had already noted twice, once to Dick and once to Ingrid, that Sloane was looking tired, and Grandma Andersen had already noted three times, once to Karen, one to Ingrid, and once to Sloane herself, that she was looking pulled and was she overdoing it? Even Karen Andersen Manning was elegant, in a plain linen-look blue sheath with the blue straw hat that had briefly been Kitten’s. Her short, thick, pale hair was tucked up neatly under it, though it was true that this was thanks to Kitten and a considerable amount of gel, and not to any effort Karen had made.

    Kitten was not, oddly enough, looking thin and elegant. “What the fuck’s she done to herself?” said Dick numbly to his wife as they piled into the cars.

    “No idea. And don’t go and use that language in front of Mum, I’ve got enough on my plate without that, thanks.”

    Dick subsided, but he continued to wonder to himself off and on, as the day got worse, what the fuck Kitten had done to herself.

    Kitten was almost looking her old self. The long, straightened hair, which when she wore it out now looked very like Ingrid’s, had been fluffed out and rolled up loosely all round her head. The effect was as near as she could have got, her sisters silently admitted to themselves, to the old chrysanthemum look. On top of the blonde fuzz perched a pink silk pillbox with a giant pale pink rose and a fluffy veil attached. The body was shrouded in a longish, loosely gathered skirt in a heavy pale pink silk: a style guaranteed to make the wearer look dumpy unless she wore very, very high heels with it. Kitten’s wardrobe was stuffed with high-heeled shoes. She was wearing medium-heeled pink sandals. The skirt was surmounted by a loose matching tunic which reached well down over the hips. In its turn the tunic was surmounted by a loose open jacket, again pink: a fine Indian cotton, according to Ingrid. It could have been almost anything, it was so slathered in pin-tucks and strips of lace that the fabric as such was immaterial. The style was guaranteed—as Ingrid and Sloane did not fail dazedly to note—to make the wearer look at least four dress sizes larger than she actually was. Which she did. But in addition…

    Ingrid pulled Sloane aside. “Is she wearing padding under that get-up?” she hissed.

    Sloane shrugged.

    Ingrid rolled her eyes madly. “What’s she up to?”

    Sloane just shrugged again. They watched expressionlessly as Grandma Andersen patted Kitten’s cheek and told her she was looking well.

    Baby Rose Anne was, of course, entirely adorable in five metres of metre-wide hand-made lace that had belonged to Grandma Andersen’s great-great— Yeah, well. Needless to state, Kitten was due to come in for not only the famous silver sugar bowl when the old lady popped off, but also, more immediately, the full-length fur coat.

    The Uniting Church patronised, in every sense of the word, by Grandma Andersen, was full of flowers, though none of the Mannings found they had the intestinal fortitude to inquire who had provided them. After the christening itself they were all dragged off to Grandma Andersen’s to be stuffed like her dratted Scandinavian dumplings. And to be generously helped to servings of ear-bashing in re Kym (not coming to his niece’s christening being the least of it, apparently), Melodie (rushing off to Denmark like that and losing all that weight like that, amongst other points), innumerable other family members, present or not, and innumerable other grudges, real or imagined, old or new.

    … “My God, that bloody sugar bowl had better be worth it,” moaned Dick as they headed home at long last in the stifling humidity of late afternoon.

    “As far as I can make out,” sighed Karen, removing the hat, “she did it for the bloody fur coat, not the sugar bowl.”

    “Don’t mention fur on a day like this! –And listen, coats or not, has she got any idea of how cold it’s gonna be over there?”

    “No real idea, no. How can she? She’s never experienced anything like it.”

    “Thanks! Boy, no two guesses where she gets it from!” he muttered sourly.

    “Ingrid’ll look after her,” said Ingrid’s sister, yawning.

    “After her and the baby?” retorted Rose Anne’s grandfather angrily.

    “Mm. Well, she has had several of her own. And she sent that organic rosehip drink for her.”

    Dick sighed heavily. “Yeah.”

    “Where did that come from?” said Karen limply, goggling at the set of silver-grey matched luggage.

    “Nice, isn’t it?” said Kitten airily. “Light-weight but strong.”

    “Yes. Who paid for it?” demanded Karen baldly.

    “If I say I did, you’ll only say I’m chucking away a fortune that I haven’t got.”

    “All right, Kitten,” she said sweetly: “try telling me who did pay for it!”

    “Well, actually it’s none of your business.”

    “You’re living in my HOUSE!” shouted Karen.

    “Thought you’d put it in Dad’s name for tax purposes? –No, well,” she said to her purpling mother: “no-one actually paid for it in cash. Bob gave it to me.”

    “Buh-Bob Who?” she croaked.

    Dick had come into the sitting-room in time to catch the last of this. “Bob (Leather-Goods) Carewe from the Precinct; who else?”

    “Yeah,” said Kitten simply.

    “Kitten, he’s a married man!” cried Karen.

    “No, he isn’t, he’s getting a divorce.”

    “Whose fault would that be?” asked Dick drily.

    “Sheilagh’s.”

    Karen took a deep breath. “Tell us she doesn’t understand him and I’ll throttle you, Kitten!”

    “Don’t do that!” said Dick hurriedly. Karen glared, and he said simply: “Not until Bub’s fully weaned. Then I’ll hold yer coat for ya.”

    “Uh—yeah,” she said weakly.

    “I had nothing to do with it. It happened before I got back from SA,” said Kitten mildly, squatting. She unzipped the smallest bag. “Lots of pockets. It expands to three times its—”

    “SHUT UP!” shouted Karen. “Bob Carewe’s twice your age and you don’t care the snap of your fingers for him!”

    “I like him,” said Kitten mildly. “I couldn’t stop him giving me the stuff.”

    “Just don’t argue with her, Karen, you’ll only exhaust yourself,” advised Dick.

    “It’s getting so as I don’t dare show my face down the Precinct!”

    “You could always avoid Carewe’s Leather-G— Oh: Ian Gruber,” he remembered. “That was years ago, love, I wouldn’t let that—”

    “Not only that, Dick! She’s conned— Well, if that’s the word; don’t ask me how or what she does! She’s got a mountain of disposable nappies out of Ron Graham!”

    “Ron the Scone?” he said with a smile. “He was in her class at school.”

    “Exactly! She spends the first twenty-six years of her life calling him that, poor little fellow, and then she walks into his pharmacy and— Well, like I say, don’t ask me how.”

    “He does look a bit like a scone, ya know. That doughy, floury-faced look. Shoulda become a baker, really, instead of following in his dad’s footsteps. Well, good show: if he wants to chuck millions of free naps at Kitten, let him: Bub goes through ’em like nobody’s business, ya know. –Mind you,” he said, scratching his nose, “I’da said ’e was immune. How didja do it, Kitten?”

    Kitten looked soulful. “I didn’t do anything, Dad. Me and Rose Anne went for a walk down the Precinct. And it was an awfully hot day, and we were outside Ron the Scone’s and I didn’t have enough money for a drink, so—”

    “She did the poor little waif act,” said Karen grimly.

    “Eh?”

    “It’s this new figure, it’s given her another string to her bloody bow, as far as I can gather, and it’s NOT FUNNY!” she shouted, striding out.

    “Go on, Kitten,” said Dick, his shoulders shaking slightly. “I might as well know the worst, in case I need a packet of aspirin or something.”

    Kitten looked soulful. “That’s all, really. I just went in—”

    Kitten had gone into the shop with Rose Anne in her pram. It was a modern, light-weight pram, easily convertible to a pusher. That didn’t mean the cherubic countenance was going to be all that visible from behind Ron the Scone’s counter, however, so she had parked the pram behind a display stand, removed Rose Anne from it, and arranged her becomingly in her arms. Kitten was wearing, incidentally, a little limp cotton dress, black with a Laura Ashley-like pattern of tiny spring flowers. Its style would have made almost anyone look like a waif: tiny cap sleeves, not-quite-fitted bodice, and loose skirt just slightly gathered at the lowered waistline. The droopy hem came to about two inches above Kitten’s slender ankles and to emphasise them she had put on flat sandals of black raffia with ankle straps, which certainly added to the waif-like, too-young-to-be-a-mother look. The straight blonde hair was in long strands over her shoulders: somewhat helped along by judicious applications of mousse and gel. The lashes were darkened, there were artful grey-blue smudges round the big eyes, and the lipstick was a very, very pale pink. The complexion gave the impression that she hadn’t been eating enough but was battling on gallantly nonetheless. It had been achieved with the aid of a pale foundation with a touch of green eyeshadow mixed into it, the whole well rubbed in and then artfully tissued off until it looked entirely natural. Admittedly she had not gone into the chemist’s shop with the expressed intention, not even mentally expressed, of getting free nappies out of Ron the Scone. Only of trying out the effect of the look.

    “Hullo, Ron,” she said, opening her eyes very wide and artlessly licking her upper lip. “Hot, isn’t it?”

    “Uh—Kitten?” gulped Ron the Scone. “Hullo,” he said weakly. “I hardly recognised you,” he said weakly. “How are you?”

    “Oh, I’m quite fit again, thanks,” said Kitten with a tired, brave smile. “I’ve been a bit busy with this for the past year. –This is Rose Anne,” she explained.

    Ron the Scone duly made cooing noises.

    Kitten agreed her daughter was very pretty and added plaintively: “I don’t suppose I could have a glass of water, could I?”

    Of course she could! And if she came over here— He produced the chair that was normally only used by very elderly or very pregnant customers waiting for a scrip, and duly fussed over them both. Kitten ended up with not merely the glass of water, but a small gift-basket of goodies for mother and baby that the chain that Ron the Scone’s shop belonged to was featuring this month, a free packet of baby-wipes for Baby in the hand plus the promise of more with the nappies, and a ride home in Ron the Scone’s brand new Holden Apollo. While Andrea took care of the shop. He had been horrified—horrified—to learn that Kitten had walked all the way in the heat. He hadn’t even wanted a quid pro quo, either: he’d been happy to do it.

    “We had a lovely talk about school, and the old days,” she finished placidly. “I think he was in a nostalgic mood, Dad.”

    Dick rolled his eyes to High Heaven, but refrained from asking whether nostalgia had also entered into the latest lot she’d scored, and consented to examine the luggage in question. It was really good stuff. How was Bob Carewe gonna explain that on the books? Added to which, if he wasn’t very much mistaken, Sheilagh Carewe was a partner in the business, so, divorcing or not, how was he gonna explain it to her?

    … “And we thought she’d changed,” he noted airily to his wife, a little later.

    “Shut up, Dick,” warned Karen.

    Dick sniggered. At one stage Karen had made the double mistake of saying (a) that Kitten really did love the baby and possibly motherhood would be the making of her, and (b) that perhaps the new diet and the new figure meant she was starting to take life seriously and had stopped throwing herself at every stray male who happened to cross her path.

    “Wish I’d been a fly on the wall at Ron the Sc—”

    “Shut UP, Dick!”

    “Oh, well. The she-leopard and her spots, eh?” he said peaceably.

    “It’s not funny,” replied Karen grimly.

    “Harmless enough,” he offered feebly.

    “I bet Sheilagh Carewe thinks so!” Karen brooded over it, scowling. Dick merely read his PC Magazine.

    Eventually she said: “Maybe Ingrid’ll be able to knock some sense into her.”

    “Your sister?” Dick thought of Ingrid when last seen: skinny as a rake, brown as a berry, apparently living entirely off, no kidding, All Bran, apples, and dried prunes, with the occasional nut thrown in for protein, plus and with the brown as a berry and skinny as a rake weirdo of a boyfriend in tow. Dr Scholl’s Painful Massage Sandals and all. He cleared his throat.

    “Yes?” said Karen dangerously.

    “Nothing. Well, see she eats sensibly, maybe,” he temporised.

    “And?”

    “Nothing! I’m agreeing with you!”

    “Don’t whinge, Dick.”

    “Um, she does know when to expect her, does she?”

    “Yes!” she snapped.

    Dick subsided into his PC Magazine.

    In spite of the airlines’ version of Standard English it wasn’t actually possible to fly “direct” from Sydney to anywhere much in Europe except London. Kitten, of course, was very much up with the play, so when the travel agent in the Precinct had tried to tell her she could have a nice direct flight to Stuttgart (at an extortionate number of dollars), and then easily get a “connecting” flight to Copenhagen, she had ignored this information and had booked herself competently the same distance, still with only one change, for a thousand dollars less, via a Thai Airways special offer to Rome and an SAS flight to Copenhagen. The travel agent had tried to point out feebly that if she took that flight on to Copenhagen she’d have three stops on the way and would miss out on the Thai Airways special stopover offer of two nights in Rome followed by a “direct” flight to London but Kitten merely replied: “This direct flight to London only stops at Paris on the way, does it? Or is it the even more direct flight that stops at Frankfurt and eventually dumps you in Manchester in the middle of the night?”

    “Yeah, um…” The agent attempted to look up her timetables in order to squash Kitten with the information that it got to London mid-morning but was only able to croak: “Um… well, early morning.”

    “It is a direct flight, though,” said Kitten neutrally.

    “Yes, of course! You see, we can ticket you through to—”

    “No, thanks.”

    Kitten had emerged victorious from the travel agency. With the parting remark to Mr and Mrs Elliott from Kookaburra Crescent who were in there timidly enquiring about bookings for their long-awaited Overseas Trip on his retirement: “Don’t believe anything they say. Direct only means you don’t have to change airlines. Usually it means it’s the same plane but not always, by any means. Insist on getting the cheapest flight possible. Ask them about the deals from Singapore—not from here. Don’t fly Qantas, whatever you do. And mind you check out the prices from Perth: if you take an internal flight there it can still be cheaper. And don’t change any money into foreign currency before you leave, lots of foreign countries confiscate it when you try to take it in. –See ya!”

    In spite of the evil thought-rays that emanated from the lady travel agent Kitten’s flight was uneventful and she made her connection easily at Rome, changing airlines competently and spending two peaceful, unrushed spare hours feeding Rose Anne and chatting to a nice Italian couple with a little boy who were also waiting for the flight to Copenhagen. He’d just got a job with a computer firm there and was very nervous about the language problem and his wife was even more nervous. Kitten assured them that their English was excellent and that all the Danes they met socially or at work would undoubtedly speak English. But if there was any problem with local shopping or that sort of thing, she and her relations would be happy to be called on at any time, and her Aunty Ingrid would be able to put Enza in touch with a very nice English tutor who spoke some Italian. –Kitten was not being over-optimistic, here: she knew perfectly well that her cousin Christina, the product of Ingrid’s very brief second marriage, was doing Italian and French at university, and even if she wasn’t available to do the tutoring herself would undoubtedly know some impoverished student who was.

    Unfortunately Mario’s and Enza’s seats turned out to be at some distance from Kitten’s, but that didn’t matter, because she ended up next to nice Mr Mitcham!

    Her sisters Sloane and Ingrid would undoubtedly have said it was typical. And in fact even Melodie, as they waited for what seemed like forever for the last of the passengers from the very full plane from Rome to straggle off, predicted grimly: “Just wait.”

    “We are waiting,” pointed out Christina sourly. “I thought you said she’d be first off?”

    “First or last; just wait!” said Nikki with a giggle.

    They went on waiting, though Harald, Christina’s boyfriend, noted dreamily: “If this cousin’s got five million great heavy bags, I’m volunteering to point out to her that we’re liberated in Denmark.”

    “Don’t be horrible, she’s got a baby!” snapped Christina.

    When Melodie had more or less translated this, Nikki was able to explain kindly: “The thing is, if it’s taking her this long to get off, you can bet ya boots she won’t need your feeble help.”

    Harald didn’t quite get the bit about boots, but he got the rest of it, and glared. Harald was six-foot-four, very blond, tanned and good-looking. He was unaware that Nikki and Melodie, to whom six-foot-four surf life-savers were pretty much the norm, had immediately spotted him for a hopeless wimp. Even without the round-lensed, gold-rimmed specs he needed for reading. Harald was a student, like Christina. Doing mainly politics and economics, rather than languages, though. Melodie had asked him what he intended to do later on with his politics and economics and he had merely looked blank. They hadn’t really needed to ask him anything else. His English was quite good but not nearly as good as he thought it was. Christina’s, on the other hand, was a lot better than she thought it was. Christina was a rather gruff, shy, retiring person, and both Melodie and Nikki—though they had privily expressed the thought that they hadn’t really expected a Danish girl to be like that, y’know?—had taken to her immediately, in spite of the fact that it had been immediately apparent that she was pretty much the student type, y’know? Jay had been of the same opinion, of course, but at the moment Jay was no longer in Denmark.

    “That’s her!” said Nikki with a loud giggle as Kitten’s cortège appeared.

    “Help,” said Christina numbly in Danish.

    Kitten’s cortège consisted of Mr Mitcham, fur-collared overcoat and all, beaming in a fatherly, make that almost fatherly way, as Kitten leaned heavily on his arm, a tall, handsome, middle-aged uniformed gentleman who was, judging by the bars on his sleeves, very definitely not a cabin steward, and two hovering stewardesses looking humble and servile, presumably for the benefit of Mr Mitcham and the other gentleman. The stewardesses were, respectively, carrying several bulging carry-on bags, one a bright pink with “Baby” embroidered on it in pale blue, no prizes for guessing whose it was, and pushing a laden trolley of silver-grey luggage. The burly middle-aged man in the overcoat with the fur collar was carrying, in his Kitten-less hand, one neat briefcase. Kitten was carrying Rose Anne, swaddled in a pale pink creeper-suit scarcely visible for the yards of lacy wool shawl.

    “Help, she’s got Great-Grandma’s shawl!” gasped Melodie.

    “And your grandma’s fur coat!” agreed Nikki with a loud giggle. “Unless that’s a dead bear the pilot’s carrying!”

    It took quite some time to disentangle Kitten from the pilot and Mr Mitcham, both of whom seemed to be under the impression that she had promised they could give her a lift, but eventually they got her, the baby and the luggage into the sufficiently beat-up Volvo station-waggon that Aunty Ingrid had forced Christina and Harald to use instead of his minute and very elderly Fiat.

    “This thing handles like a pig,” he grumbled in Danish as they lurched out of the carpark.

    “It’s a very safe make of car, though,” replied Kitten happily from the back seat.

    Harald hadn’t thought any of the Manning girls’ Danish would be that good. His ears turned red.

    Christina, to his unspoken annoyance, had deputed herself to sit beside Kitten in the back, leaving him with the dumb and irritating Melodie beside him. “Just make sure you drive safely with the baby in the car,” she said anxiously, leaning forward.

    “I am!” he replied angrily.

    “Don’t speed,” said Melodie calmly in Danish.

    “I am not speeding,” said Harald loudly and clearly in English.

    “That’s good,” approved Nikki cheerfully.

    “I thought you weren’t even interested in babies?” said Harald sourly to his girlfriend as they proceeded on their way, sufficiently slowly, and Christina asked shyly, in English, if she could hold Rose Anne.

    “Not in the car, she has to stay in her carry-cot: it’s safer, you see,” replied Kitten kindly. “But you can hold her as much as you like as soon as we get home. Is it far?”

    “Thank you. Well, no, the apartment is not very far,” replied Christina carefully. “But the traffic is heavy, as you see.”

    “They’ve got a house in the country, too, Kitten, only at this time of year it’ll be under six feet of snow!” said Nikki eagerly.

    “Yeah. I thought Aunty Ingrid had decided to live there, Christina?”

    “Well, no. She did live there for a while. But it’s not convenient for her job.”

    “So they just use it as a weekender,” said Melodie.

    “I geddit,” she agreed peacefully.

    “Er—Mother will not be at home,” ventured Christina awkwardly.

    “No, she’ll be at work, I suppose?” returned Kitten cheerfully.

    Christina sagged. “Yes,” she said thankfully. Ingrid had also been at work when the other girls had arrived, and Nikki had expressed astonishment at not having been met by the Mannings’ aunt and then further astonishment at her not having been waiting for them at home. Melodie had pointed out that she was as bad as Mum, in fact worse: that last time that Aunty Ingrid had come out Mum had actually collected her from the airport, though she’d had to go into work in the arvo; and Nikki had limply agreed.

    Possibly it was as well that their aunt was not at home with a steaming hot lunch waiting for them, because as soon as she’d got Rose Anne settled Kitten got on the phone to “Nick”. The pilot, apparently. After a very long conversation of which her end consisted mainly of giggles, she got on the phone to Mr Mitcham. Ken. This conversation consisted mainly of giggles, too.

    Melodie, Nikki and Christina left her to it and rejoined Harald in the living-room of Aunty Ingrid’s very pleasant modern flat, closing the door after them, in fact both doors, but you could still clearly hear the giggles.

    “Good grief!” said Harald in disgust in Danish.

    Even Nikki didn’t need that translated: she and Melodie collapsed in giggles.

    “They did warn you,” said Christina detachedly, as they blew their noses.

    “Yeah, but she’s appalling! That fat man with the fur collar’s got ‘bloated capitalist’ written all over him! What sort of business was he doing in Rome, that’s what I’d like to know,” he said darkly. —Melodie translated this briefly for Nikki as: “Garbage.” Nikki nodded.—“And as for the pilot!”

    Christina had secretly been terrifically impressed by the pilot. “What about him?” she said in a grudging voice.

    “In the first place, that type’s got a girl in every port and in the second place, I bet he’s married!”

    “He’s saying the pilot’s probably married,” explained Melodie.

    “She likes them like that, Harald!” squeaked Nikki, collapsing again.

    Harald got up. “Pair of fools,” he noted grimly to his girlfriend in Danish, walking out.

    “Don’t come back for DINNER!” shouted Christina furiously in English. “For there will be NONE for you!”

    “I suppose we are pretty dumb, compared to all the students he knows,” said Melodie composedly, blowing her nose.

    “No!” she gasped. “I’m so sorry, Melodie: he is so rude!”

    “Whadd ’e say?” asked Nikki without much interest.

    “He said we were a pair of fools.”

    “Yeah, right, it’s not us that are going to uni on our dad’s money, and don’t even know what sort of job we want, at going on twenny-three! Um, sorry, Christina,” she ended, reddening.

    “No, that’s all right, Nikki. That is exactly what Mother says.”

    “Um, yeah,” said Nikki, rather taken aback.

    “So, will Kitten not want lunch?” asked Christina cautiously.

    “Who knows? ‘Ken’ prolly fed her on champagne and caviar on the plane,” replied Melodie sourly. “Hang on, I’ll ask her.” She hurried out, to reappear in a few minutes, explaining: “Her Ladyship did get champagne out of him, poor twit, but it was breakfast, not lunch, so they made it a Buck’s fizz as a great concession.”

    “Melodie, honestly!” cried Nikki. “She means Kitten had champagne and orange juice, like, mixed. It’s, like, a drink, y’know?” she explained kindly. “Ya might have it for a special occasion, like with Eggs Benedict. For breakfast, see?

    “I see,” said Christina dazedly. “Oh! Yes! So she had breakfast?”

    “Yeah, but she can manage a bit of lunch. I wouldn’t mind some, actually,” admitted Melodie.

    “Remember your diet,” ordered Nikki automatically.

    “Hard not to, in this house!” she said with a guffaw. “Um, sorry, Christina.”

    “No, I know exactly what you mean, Melodie, please don’t apologise. Daddy claims that Mother’s food is why he divorced her.”

    “Yeah,” they said, smiling uneasily. They had been privileged to meet the gentleman who was Christina’s biological father. The “Daddy” bit was all his idea: he thought it was cute. He also thought the gruff, shy Christina was cute. Well, he teased her enough, and didn’t take a word she said seriously, put it like that. And he thought Nikki and Melodie were very cute and very pretty and had pinched their chins on the strength of it. Also favouring Nikki’s bum, on the occasion of finding himself alone with it in the kitchen of his very trendy bachelor pad for about two seconds. In their opinion he’d divorced Ingrid because she hadn’t bothered to play up to him. The only question was, why on earth had he married her? After some pondering, they had decided that it must have been for the sex. Back in those days she hadn’t been sinewy, it was before she really got into exercise.

    After lunch Kitten thought she and Baby might have a nap. Nikki sagged with relief. At least she wasn’t going out right away to meet Nick or Ken, without even waiting for her Aunty Ingrid to come home from work!

    Although it was nearly Christmas, Christina wasn’t having uni holidays, the girls hadn’t figured out why, and she had a lecture in the afternoon. They assured her they’d be fine and she went off to it. Looking a bit doubtful, though.

    “There is one thing,” noted Nikki as silence settled over the flat.

    “What?”

    “At least she can’t dash out to meet either of them before your Aunty comes home: Christina’s got the car.”

    Melodie eyed her tolerantly. “Kitten speaks Danish as good as English, hasn’t that dawned yet? What’s gonna stop her from ringing for a taxi?”

    Nikki gulped.

    “Were you dumb enough to think having Rose Anne’d change her?”

    Nikki glared.

    There was a short silence.

    “She is awfully cute, eh?” admitted Rose Anne’s aunt.

    Nikki nodded hard, looking at her hopefully.

    “I wish she was mine,” muttered Melodie on a sour note.

    Nikki bit her lip a little and looked at her sympathetically, nodding hard again.

    “Hey,” hissed Melodie, “you wanna creep in an’ take a peek at her?”

    Nikki nodded eagerly.

    “Come, on then!” she hissed. “And mind ya keep quiet!”

    The two slim, with-it figures tiptoed into the room that had originally been Christina’s study and mooned over the sleeping cherub…

    When Ingrid eventually came home she was carrying armfuls of groceries and accompanied by a deeply tanned, tall, sinewy male figure. Melodie and Nikki were now used to this phenomenon: they greeted him composedly. But, the girls noted with glee, Kitten’s jaw sagged as Ingrid Andersen, who had long since gone back to her maiden name, introduced him carelessly as “Bodo. Don’t think you’ve met him, Kitten,” and it dawned that it wasn’t the same deeply tanned, sinewy weirdo she’d had in tow that time she’d come out to Oz, it was a different one!

    Tea with Ingrid was pretty much like tea with her sister Karen, in that it was mainly vegetarian and full of roughage. Though Ingrid’s board also featured fish. Today it was some sort of pickled herrings because she hadn’t had time to go to the fresh fish market. Melodie and Nikki were now accustomed to the fact that the Danes seemed to eat lots of pickled fish: like those horrible rollmops you saw in the delicatessen section of the supermarket. Nikki hadn’t thought they’d eat that sort of thing at all, she’d thought they produced cheese and biscuits, her Mum usually had a tin of fancy Danish biscuits at Christmas. They’d tried the Aussie variety one year, not Arnott’s, she didn’t think, some other brand; only they weren’t nearly as good. But according to Christina the Danes had always been a fishing nation. The bread was pretty horrible, she usually had this sort of very dark rye mix, Nikki hated rye bread. But they didn’t seem to have heard of plain sliced wholemeal. Well, if they had, Ingrid never bought it. But today good old Bodo had brought some French bread, hooray! And some French cheese, but Nikki didn’t go much on that, he always seemed to choose a smelly, runny sort, in her opinion that was cheese that had gone off. It was as bad as blue-vein and Nikki knew the Danes made that, her sister often bought it. Only fortunately Ingrid didn’t often have that.

    Kitten, to the unexpressed annoyance of her sister and friend, lapped up the runny, smelly French cheese and the pickled fish and told Ingrid and Bodo a load of garbage about how you never got anything of this quality in Sydney. Well, if they’d believe that they’d believe anything! Never mind, at least she’d stayed home on her first evening in her aunty’s flat. And the sinewy, brown Ingrid seemed to think that Rose Anne was the cat’s whiskers, so that was all right, too! Melodie and Nikki exchanged sneaky glances of relief as the family settled down to a peaceful game of Monopoly after tea.

    “She’ll start tomorrow, ya know,” warned Melodie as the girls crawled into bed, exhausted, at around eleven.

    Nikki grinned. “Yeah, but at least she held off today!”

    “You haven’t done anything!” shouted Kitten furiously.

    “Ssh, you’ll wake Baby!” hissed Melodie nervously.

    “No, she always sleeps like a log in the mornings,” replied Kitten, nevertheless ceasing to shout.

    “We have done something,” Melodie pointed out, pouting.

    “Yeah, we’ve met up with Brucey and Maddalena,” agreed Nikki, also pouting.

    “Big deal! When they came over here to see Aunty Ingrid!” she scoffed.

    “Ssh!” hissed Melodie. “Yeah, well, so?” she said sulkily.

    “You never even got yourself invited to Crowsnest!”

    “We couldn’t ask to be asked there for Christmas, Kitten,” protested Nikki, reddening. “And Brucey says it’s the big time of year for his dad, all the mares have their babies and then they have to be mated again. –Weird, eh? In winter!” she noted.

    Ignoring this, Kitten replied grimly: “You two never even tried, ya mean!”

    “We’ve got Jay all settled in a nice little flat in London, like you told us!” retorted Melodie pugnaciously.

    “Yeah, but have ya got her to Crowsnest so as she can meet up with Pommy Graeme when he comes down with Roderick Kent and Neil Reardon?” she retorted grimly. “No,” she answered herself redundantly.

    “I found out where Jerry’s staying,” reported Nikki, very red-faced, after some rumination.

    “Yeah, right, because you asked his mum, back in Oz!” she sneered.

    Instead of replying to this gambit, Nikki retorted fiercely: “Anyway, who says Roderick Kent even knows Neil Reardon and Pommy Graeme?”

    “The Tatler, that’s who, don’t tell us you’ve never heard of it, thanks, that’s another thing that’s gotta be remedied, unless you want Neil Reardon to think you really are the Nong of the People!” Ignoring their indignant gasps, she got up. “Get your coats, we’re going out.”

    “Where to?” asked Nikki sulkily, not moving.

    “Downtown. We’re gonna find a good newspaper stall, the sort that sells something a bit more up-market than The Age or The Australian, thanks very much, and start turning you into something that hopefully Neil Reardon will at least recognise as human!”

    “Kitten!” gasped Melodie in genuine horror.

    Kitten reddened. “Sorry, Nikki, I didn’t mean to make it sound like that. I think I’ve got jet-lag or something.”

    Nikki gave her a wobbly smile. “Yeah, that or the combination of that smelly cheese with all that pickled fish you ate last night. –I always thought they were up-market,” she added miserably.

    “Mm,” agreed Kitten drily. “We’re gonna buy the sort of mags that take pics of the sort of upper-class lady that creeps like Neil Reardon and Roderick Kent think of as marriage material. That doesn’t mean we gotta be taken in by them for a second, okay? Only act as if we are, when we meet them.”

    After a moment Melodie said uncertainly: “Do ya mean by Roderick Kent and Neil Reardon, or by the mags, Kitten?”

    Nikki gave her a grateful look, and nodded. They both looked at Kitten hopefully.

    “Both,” she admitted drily. “And listen, you’ll both have to concentrate, and remember the stuff we go over, okay?”

    “It sounds like school,” said Nikki wanly.

    “Did school ever teach you anything that’d help you grab Neil Reardon?” she retorted fiercely. “No! Come on!”

    “What about Baby?” gasped Melodie, scrambling up.

    “I’m taking her, she can wear two all-in-oneys and that ace padded creeper-suit Aunty Ingrid gave me, she’ll be okay. And we’ll get a taxi. And if you’re really good,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “I’ll shout you to a nice lunch.”

    They smiled reluctantly, and went over to the door. “Um, have you got any Danish money, though?” asked Nikki.

    “No. We’ll change some money at the bank.”

    “Which bank?” she quavered.

    “Any bank. This is a civilised country,” replied Kitten through her teeth, “not bloody Kookaburra Crescent! Now, move it!”

    They moved it, though Nikki did mutter sulkily, “We don’t even live in Kookaburra Crescent, what’s she on about?” But only sotto voce. It was very, very evident that, Baby Rose Anne or not, jet-lagged or not, Kitten Manning was very much on form again. In fact, to be downright honest about it, even more so.

    Melodie and Nikki quite enjoyed Christmas in Copenhagen, in spite of the homesickness which neither of them had the guts to come right out and admit to. Really, it wasn’t all that different, except in small things, from an Australian Christmas. The weather was very, very different, of course, but everything else was pretty similar. Everybody was very kind to them and Christina even took the trouble to explain their traditional Christmas customs—incidentally withering Harald, who had pointed out that customs were ipso facto traditional. They got lots of presents: as well as the ones conscientiously forwarded by Mrs West, Sloane and Grandma Andersen, everyone they’d met in Copenhagen presented them with something. Just to make them feel welcome. These offerings ranged from a cake of soap each tied up with a red bow from the little boy who lived in the next flat, through such items as woolly ski hats from Harald (they weren’t absolutely sure whether those were meant as a joke), to huge padded overcoats from Ingrid, much to their confusion. The overcoats made them look like walking eiderdowns and in fact, on examination turned out to be more or less that. Melodie’s was black and Nikki’s was dark grey and even though these shades were quite In and Christina assured them earnestly that everybody wore such coats in Europe, and they had seen lots of quite smart ladies with lovely Russian hats and smart long boots wearing them, Melodie and Nikki could only class them limply as gross. Gross. However, it was so very, very cold outside that they accepted them with genuine gratitude.

    Bodo’s presents, much less practical, had considerably more appeal: a lovely bottle of real French scent each! Even such persons as Christina’s paternal grandmother (mother of “Daddy”) got in on the act: she gave all of the girls a lovely nightie each. Really modern, y’know? Christina got the matching negligée as well, but that was fair: after all, she was her grandmother. Ingrid instantly condemned these garments as “not practical”, though not with all that much interest. “Daddy” presented Christina with a car. It was a Volkswagen Golf, not a Porsche, to the girls’ surprise. Ingrid actually expressed tempered approval of this, to the astonishment of all, family and guests alike.

    Even Ingrid’s ex-boyfriend Erik Eriksen got in on the act. He popped in on his way home to his parents’ place with gifts for all of them. Ingrid’s one was a large goose, plucked, drawn, and ready for the oven. Melodie and Nikki had been sneakily wondering for several days what she was proposing to serve them for Christmas dinner, because there was no sign of anything likely in the fridge or freezer as yet; they could only conclude that he’d got to know her really well during the relationship. Her reaction, in fact, was “I’m not going to cook this!” but Bodo calmly offered to take care of it. He would do his mother’s traditional apple and chestnut stuffing, with nuts. Ingrid could have some of the stuffing done separately from the meat, if she liked. Ingrid appeared not to see this as a jibe, and agreed to it quite calmly. Help! Had he been serious? The two girls, who were trying not to laugh, goggled at his thin, tanned face, but it was unreadable.

    Thanks to Erik’s present, to Bodo’s cooking, and to the fact that Bodo himself contributed a leg of ham to the feast, Christmas dinner was very traditional indeed and not really different from home, apart from the absence of such items as Nikki’s Aunty Sue’s fluffy jelly with pineapple chunks in it, made from a secret recipe known only in the West family which included such secret ingredients as a tin of Nestlé’s unsweetened condensed milk whipped within an inch of its life in the blender and a packet of, not pineapple, but lemon Aeroplane jelly crystals.—A secret recipe which Nikki appeared only too willing to impart to Christina’s grandmother on receipt of the nightie.—In fact, it was much better than the Mannings’ usual Christmas dinner, as Melodie freely admitted. Ingrid pointed out sourly that if certain idiots had had their way they’d have gone totally traditional and eaten it around midnight on Christmas Eve, but Christina, who had insisted on taking the visitors to church that night, even though she normally never went herself, just laughed.

    The Christmas pudding was Mrs West’s contribution: she had forced the hideously embarrassed Nikki to carry it all the way to Europe with her. But it was worth it. Well, almost worth it. Mrs West would also have contributed a Christmas cake, but Dick Manning had remembered in time that Ingrid had once mentioned that her first husband’s family always sent one. Sure enough, they did: it was from Harrods, much to Kitten’s excitement, and accompanied by a card which read “Compliments of the Season from Ida and Timothy Warden & Family”. They were, Christina explained happily, Maddalena and Brucey’s uncle and aunt, and it was Maddalena and Brucey’s theory that they kept up the custom because they were just so relieved that Ingrid had stayed in Denmark and had let Paul Warden send the two of them to English secondary schools. Interrogation revealed that these schools were not near to Paul Warden’s Crowsnest, no. Boarding schools. It thus being clear that Paul Warden’s intention on wanting custody had not been to have his kids with him, Melodie and Nikki exchanged glances and shrugs, not even needing to express the conclusion that the Poms were mad.

    Kitten appeared to enjoy her Danish Christmas unreservedly and Melodie and Nikki were in little doubt that she did. Personally they wouldn’t have cared if she’d bawled her eyes out the whole time, though it would have been embarrassing in someone else’s home. But she could have done practically anything just so long as she behaved herself. Much to their relief, she did. Well, for Kitten it was behaving herself. For almost anyone else it would have been pushing it, a bit. But luckily Ingrid didn’t seem to care. Well, actually she didn’t even seem to notice.

    Kitten of course didn’t need a huge padded eiderdown coat, she had Grandma Andersen’s full-length fur, the purpose of which had now become blindingly clear to Melodie and Nikki. It was not actually snowing but it was so cold outside that your sinuses felt as if they were kinda freezing up, y’know? Well, that was obviously the practical purpose: yes. The other purpose was for Kitten to skite all over Copenhagen, especially in the posher restaurants, which it took her less than two days in her aunt’s flat to start doing. Not at her own expense, of course. At the expense of Ken Mitcham or Nick the pilot, or Nick’s friend Hans, another pilot.

    Mr Mitcham was apparently fixed in Copenhagen for Christmas, his expression. He was an American businessman and had good friends at the consulate. You would have thought that the Consul or even the Ambassador would have asked him to Christmas dinner, in that case, wouldn’t you? Well, put it like this, they certainly asked him to a slap-up cocktail party three days before Christmas, because Kitten went to that. Wearing a dress which hadn’t been in her wardrobe when she arrived in Copenhagen and a necklace which hadn’t been in her possession until the instant the besotted not to say misguided Ken arrived to collect her that very afternoon. And they certainly asked him to a giant pre-Christmas dinner, because two days before Christmas she went to that, too. Not getting home—Nikki and Christina could vouch for this personally because they had both stayed awake worrying about the fate of little Rose Anne’s only mother on a frosty Copenhagen night with drunks on the roads two days before Christmas—not getting home until five-thirty in the morning. Melodie reportedly slept like a log the entire night, arising bright as a button next day to remark: “Nothing ever happens to her.” In spite of the burbling small bundle that was on Christina’s knee in a pink all-in-oney as its aunt spoke, they had to admit she was right, there.

    Well, possibly Mr Mitcham only rated invitations to large cocktail does and pre-Christmas dinner parties featuring teams of roast turkeys and pheasants with their tail feathers on them and French champagne; or possibly he simply told them a big fat lie—and Melodie and Nikki weren’t taking any bets which—but whichever, he came and foisted himself on them for Christmas Day. So did Nick, the pilot: he was apparently having a “layover” (yeah, right) in Copenhagen, and according to Kitten would have spent a lonely day in his hotel room if they hadn’t asked him. He was very charming and unlike certain other gentlemen friends of Kitten’s bothered to expend the charm on other people as well as her, so it wasn’t that he stuck out like a sore thumb, and in fact everybody said how nice he was, but really! Two blokes her aunt had never even met asked round for Christmas Day just like that? Nick brought half a dozen bottles of champagne and Mr Mitcham brought giant presents for everybody, tied up American-style with yards of tinsel and bows. He was actually a very nice man—except that, even if it was true he was divorced, he was a grandfather (Bernie, Allyce and Hudson, he had the Polaroids to prove it). Well, that was Kitten Manning for you. Goodness only knew what Christina’s grandma must have thought!

    Melodie and Nikki had sort of assumed that after Christmas they might have a sort of rest, or holiday, or something. Because after all, it was holidays and they hadn’t been here all that long…

    “Crowsnest?” gasped Nikki, her eyes bulging.

    “Not for actual New Year’s,” replied Kitten loftily. “We’ll nip over on the second.”

    “England’s quite near, really,” allowed Melodie dubiously. “If ya look on the map, I mean.”

    “Yes, but you’ve barely got here, Kitten!” gasped Nikki, ignoring this last. “And—um—well, Brucey and Maddalena might be your cousins, but they never invited you.”

    “We’ll pretend we’re just dropping in on them, ya nong. Just passing through.”

    Christina had been keeping well out of it. At this she put in cautiously: “You should feel at home. She has made you read those English journals.”

    “Magazines,” corrected Nikki firmly. “Yeah, but so what?”

    “All those types in that stupid Country Life thingo look like nongs. Pommy nongs,” noted Melodie sourly.

    “Rich Pommy nongs,” corrected Kitten firmly. “And by the by, just try not to say ‘reech’, would you? Or Pommy, while I think of it.”

    “R-r-r-rich English nongs, Ay say, golleh gawsh,” replied Melodie very sourly indeed.

    Ignoring the fact that Christina had gulped and that Nikki had gone into a muffled sniggering fit, Kitten agreed: “Yeah, exactly. Get packed. I’ve made the bookings.”

    “Brucey and Maddalena will be thrilled to see you, there is no doubt,” said Christina kindly.

    “Yeah, but will Roderick Kent be within cooee of the ruddy place?” returned Melodie grumpily.

    “Yes,” said Kitten briefly, handing her a French Vogue and a Paris Match. “If this is right. He’s been in France and Italy: heading back to Pongo.”

    “Don’t say Pongo!” said Nikki with a sudden giggle. She came to peer over Melodie’s shoulder. “Shit.”

    Melodie looked at a very smudged photo in the Paris Match. “Help, it’s him.”

    Giving in entirely, Christina came to peer, too. “Roderick Kent. See, here, it says he was driving for this—um—”

    “Team,” said Kitten in a bored voice.

    “Yes. Thank you. For this team, and there is a big scandal that has—um—arisen, to do with this team. There has been a big, um—procès?” she said to Kitten.

    “Court case.”

    “Oh, yes? Court case, you see, Melodie. In France. Roderick Kent is, ah… a witness,” she finished just as Kitten was about to.

    “It’s probably all lies from start to finish, up to and including Roderick Kent’s evidence,” said Kitten in a bored voice. “See, he’ll’ve taken the opportunity, since he had to be in Paris anyway, to throw this bloody wing-ding the Vogue’s on about.”

    “Oh, absoluteleh! Ay say, cheps, let’s have a rayght royal rave-up whaile we’re in Perris!” squeaked Nikki, going off in muffled hysterics.

    “Upper-class English accents sound like that to the untutored Colonial ear,” noted Kitten sourly to Christina. “Don’t tell me Brucey and Maddalena don’t sound anything like it, I already know that, thanks.”

    “Honestly, Kitten!” cried Melodie, bright red.

    “You two idiots aren’t taking this SERIOUSLY!” she shouted.

    “You never tell us anything,” replied Melodie sourly.

    “No,” agreed Nikki.

    “Just get on with those English mags, I’m gonna test you on them later,” she replied grimly.

    “This’ll be before we take off for flamin’ Pongo, will it?” retorted Nikki bitterly.

    “Yeah.” Kitten produced a packet of American gum, courtesy of Mr Mitcham, and, carefully unwrapping it, inserted the whole packet into her mouth.

    “That’s very ladylike!” noted Melodie.

    Chewing juicily, not to say stertorously, Kitten replied: “Yeah. But at least I got the nous not to do it in front of any rich Pommy nongs. Can you say as much? –Geddon with it. Give them that London guidebook, they can swot it up, too,” she ordered Christina.

    Limply Christina handed them the guidebook.

    “If we’re going to London,” ventured Melodie cautiously after quite some time had passed, “maybe we could see Jay.”

    “Nick’s got us on a flight that’ll get us miles closer to Crowsnest, then we only gotta take a bus or a train,” replied Kitten blightingly. “It leaves at seven in the morning, so I’m warning you now: be ready.” She got up.

    “Where are you going?” said Melodie crossly.

    “Date for lunch with Hans. I gotta get changed.” She stalked out.

    “Typical!” concluded Melodie bitterly.

    “Mm.” Sneakily Nikki drew the Paris Match closer. She pored over the pictures in the article about Roderick Kent. Some of them had a lot of faces in them. They were all blurred, but nonetheless it was quite clear that none of them was Neil Reardon’s face. Blow.

    Christina had retired into her book. After quite some time, during which the two Australian girls sighed heavily over their reading, and during which, also, Melodie quite clearly made an abortive attempt to fight her way through the article in the Paris Match, she ventured: “But this is great progress, I think?”

    “Christina, it’s gonna be the end!” replied Melodie feelingly. ‘Kitten’ll be frightful! Brucey and Maddalena’ll think we’ve lost it!”

    “Ye-es…”

    Nikki tapped the side of her head. “You know: lost it.”

    “Oh! I see! Er—no, I don’t think they’ll think that. And I can’t see that Kitten will be frightful,” she said on a dubious note.

    “Not much!” retorted Melodie strongly. “Well, ya gotta admit, she’s been pretty ghastly so far! I mean, bringing two perfect strangers to Aunty Ingrid’s place for Christmas?”

    “They were very welcome. So—er—you don’t think that Roderick Kent will be at Crowsnest? The Vogue is very definite about it. Well, definite for Vogue!” she amended with a little smile.

    This reference passed Melodie by. She was very red. “I suppose he might be,” she growled.

    “Yes, indeed,” said Christina kindly, perceiving that Melodie had entirely lost her nerve at the thought of meeting Mr Roderick Kent in person. And also perceiving, for she was very far from stupid, that so far the whole thing had been, so far as Melodie was concerned, and very probably Nikki also, just a pleasant fantasy. “I think one must congratulate Kitten. It is real progress, no?”

    “Yes,” they admitted, smiling uncomfortably. “Real progress.”

Next chapter:

https://thelallapindarevenge.blogspot.com/2022/11/out-of-realms-of-fantasy.html