and
therefore made him more irritable than usual. Of course he’d had to drive out
here and of course his children had made their usual fuss about not wanting to
go. Delia chose not to drive and that meant he was usually limited to a single
drink. This would not stop people putting pressure on him to have endless
refills and he would hear the endless refrain that if the Assistant Chief
Constable couldn’t drink and drive then who could! The fixed grin he had
adopted for this inevitable joke had now become a part of his repertoire on
these occasions. He had only just now placed his hand over his glass, as one of
the host’s children had come around with a jug of badly mixed Pimms.
In the far corner of the
Newsomes’ garden, he saw his younger daughter sitting desultorily on a swing
that she was a good four years too old for nowadays; her complaint about having
no-one to talk to, seemed to have been borne out. A few very young children,
most likely pre-school splashed around in a blue inflatable pool under the
watchful eye of a woman who was probably the nanny. The Newsomes' older children
had been press-ganged as waiters and were hefting jugs of Pimms and bottles of
wine around their newly bought ancestral home.
Clive, his never off-duty estate
agent friend, had already pointed out the garden was newly laid out and not
mature and though not a short coming per se, houses often looked better when
complemented by a less minimalist look in his opinion. Fiona was over with her
mother, being kept on a very short leash having embarrassed them at the Gordons
over Easter, when she’d been caught smoking in the conservatory. He still
wasn’t sure whether it was the smoking, or the fact that she’d stolen the
cigarettes from Angela Gordon’s bedroom table that had been the real
embarrassment for Delia. The fact that Angela Gordon and her husband were part
of the group making small talk with his wife below the awning the Newsomes had
erected over their patio did not mean Number One Daughter was necessarily
persona grata again. He wondered if Delia was having to make more capital out
of the fact that he had helped Rob Newsome’s brother escape a drunk and
disorderly charge four years ago when he was still a Chief Super?
He estimated there had probably
been about fifty people in the garden when the party was at its height. Delia’s
rule for socialising was always that they arrived half an hour after the start
and left half an hour before the end. When the end was reached became a moot point;
it always appeared to be when Delia had run out of people to gossip with and
before they were easily identifiable as the last of the freeloaders. There had
certainly been enough food for at least a hundred people and enough booze to
float a battleship – which given the amount the retired Commodore had been
knocking back was probably fortunate. Their ‘turn’ on the August Bank holiday
weekend was looking like it was going to be more expensive than he’d bargained
for, especially as Delia was always finding yet more names to add to their
address book, or Filofax as she insisted on calling it.
Perhaps if he called in a favour
he could have all the guests breathalysed when they left? That would certainly
cut down on their reciprocal entertaining duties…
He pulled ineffectually at the
sleeve of the polo shirt his wife had made him wear; he hated baring his arms
almost as much as he hated baring his legs. It just made him turn as pink as
one of the slightly underdone steaks which kept being circulated, with almost
as little enthusiasm as professional waiting staff, by their hosts’ home grown
waiters. At least he’d managed to detach himself from Delia’s introductions and
avoided the other circles of hell dotted around the garden in the forms of
middle aged men and women who seemed far more secure in their smart casual wear
than he was in his. He was grateful he’d put his foot down about the Bermuda
shorts.
At least Clive
therefore made him more irritable than usual. Of course he’d had to drive out
here and of course his children had made their usual fuss about not wanting to
go. Delia chose not to drive and that meant he was usually limited to a single
drink. This would not stop people putting pressure on him to have endless
refills and he would hear the endless refrain that if the Assistant Chief
Constable couldn’t drink and drive then who could! The fixed grin he had
adopted for this inevitable joke had now become a part of his repertoire on
these occasions. He had only just now placed his hand over his glass, as one of
the host’s children had come around with a jug of badly mixed Pimms.
In the far corner of the
Newsomes’ garden, he saw his younger daughter sitting desultorily on a swing
that she was a good four years too old for nowadays; her complaint about having
no-one to talk to, seemed to have been borne out. A few very young children,
most likely pre-school splashed around in a blue inflatable pool under the
watchful eye of a woman who was probably the nanny. The Newsomes' older children
had been press-ganged as waiters and were hefting jugs of Pimms and bottles of
wine around their newly bought ancestral home.
Clive, his never off-duty estate
agent friend, had already pointed out the garden was newly laid out and not
mature and though not a short coming per se, houses often looked better when
complemented by a less minimalist look in his opinion. Fiona was over with her
mother, being kept on a very short leash having embarrassed them at the Gordons
over Easter, when she’d been caught smoking in the conservatory. He still
wasn’t sure whether it was the smoking, or the fact that she’d stolen the
cigarettes from Angela Gordon’s bedroom table that had been the real
embarrassment for Delia. The fact that Angela Gordon and her husband were part
of the group making small talk with his wife below the awning the Newsomes had
erected over their patio did not mean Number One Daughter was necessarily
persona grata again. He wondered if Delia was having to make more capital out
of the fact that he had helped Rob Newsome’s brother escape a drunk and
disorderly charge four years ago when he was still a Chief Super?
He estimated there had probably
been about fifty people in the garden when the party was at its height. Delia’s
rule for socialising was always that they arrived half an hour after the start
and left half an hour before the end. When the end was reached became a moot point;
it always appeared to be when Delia had run out of people to gossip with and
before they were easily identifiable as the last of the freeloaders. There had
certainly been enough food for at least a hundred people and enough booze to
float a battleship – which given the amount the retired Commodore had been
knocking back was probably fortunate. Their ‘turn’ on the August Bank holiday
weekend was looking like it was going to be more expensive than he’d bargained
for, especially as Delia was always finding yet more names to add to their
address book, or Filofax as she insisted on calling it.
Perhaps if he called in a favour
he could have all the guests breathalysed when they left? That would certainly
cut down on their reciprocal entertaining duties…
He pulled ineffectually at the
sleeve of the polo shirt his wife had made him wear; he hated baring his arms
almost as much as he hated baring his legs. It just made him turn as pink as
one of the slightly underdone steaks which kept being circulated, with almost
as little enthusiasm as professional waiting staff, by their hosts’ home grown
waiters. At least he’d managed to detach himself from Delia’s introductions and
avoided the other circles of hell dotted around the garden in the forms of
middle aged men and women who seemed far more secure in their smart casual wear
than he was in his. He was grateful he’d put his foot down about the Bermuda
shorts.
At least Clive
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