Текст книги "Rage"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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'That hussy is throwing herself at Lothie. Just look at her, showing everything she has. I wish I could go and pull her away from him-' 'I wouldn't do that, skat,' Manfred advised soberly. 'Nothing could make her more attractive to him than our disapproval. But don't worry, Heidi. We have brought him up the right way. He might have a little man's sport with her, but that's not the kind of girl he will bring home." He stood up heavily. 'Trust our boy, Heidi. But now you must forgive me. I must talk to Shasa Courtney – it's very important." Shasa in full morning dress, a white carnation in his buttonhole, the black patch over one eye and a long black cheroot between his teeth was in deep conversation with the groom, but when he saw Manfred approaching and recognized the seriousness of his mien, he slapped Garry's shoulder lightly and said, 'I think it's a good bet,' but you listen to what Sean has to say. Make up your own mind, then come and discuss it with me,' and then he left Garry and came to meet Manfred.

'We must talk – privately,' Manfred greeted him.

'Now?" Shasa looked incredulous, but Manfred insisted.

'It will not take long." 'Let's go up to the house." Shasa took his arm, and chatting amiably led him to the exit, as though they were going off to the men's room together. As soon as they were outside the marquee, they headed for the carpark behind the grandstand.

Manfred prowled around Shasa's gun room, restlessly peering at the framed photographs of hunting safaris, at the mounted animal heads and the racks of sporting rifles and shotguns in their glass fronted cabinet, while Shasa slouched in one of the armchairs and ú watched him patiently, letting him take his time, puffing on the black cheroot.

'Is this room secure? We cannot be overheard?" Manfred asked, and Shasa nodded.

'Perfectly secure. I do much of my private business here – besides which, the house is deserted. Every last servant is down at the polo field." 'Ja, nee, goed!" Manfred came to take the armchair facing Shasa.

'You cannot go off to England as you planned,' he said, and Shasa laughed.

'Why on earth not?" 'I will tell you why." Manfred assured him, but made no attempt to do so. Instead he asked, 'Did you ever see a film called The Manchurian Candidate?" He pronounced it in the Afrikaans fashion 'ri-lien'.

For a moment Shasa was surprised by the irrelevance of the question. Then he replied, 'No, I didn't get around to the movie, but ] did read the book by Richard Condon. Rather enjoyed it, to tell the truth." 'Do you remember the story-line?" 'Yes. It was about a plot to assassinate one of the American presidential candidates." 'That's right,' Manfred nodded. 'The assassin was hypnotized and programmed to respond to the sight of a playing card, one of the aces, I think." 'Ace of spades,' Shasa agreed. 'The death card. He would respond like an automaton to any command he received after he had seen the ace. In a hypnotic trance he was ordered to carry out the assassination." 'Do you think the idea was credible? Do you think a man could be completely subjected to the hypnotic suggestion of another?" 'I don't know,' Shasa admitted. 'The Koreans and the Russians are supposed to have perfected the technique of brainwashing. Perhaps it is possible, in special circumstances, with a particularly susceptible subject – I don't know." Manfred sat in silence for so long that Shasa began to fidget.

Then he spoke curtly, 'Our jobs are in danger,' he said, and Shasa went very still. 'Ja." Manfred nodded heavily. 'Verwoerd is thinking of reshuffling the cabinet. You and I will be sacked." 'You have done a difficult job,' Shasa said softly. 'And you have done it as well as was humanly possible. The storm is over, the country is calm and stable." Manfred sighed. 'Ja, you also. In a few short years since Sharpeville, you have helped rally the economy. Foreign investment is pouring in, thanks to your efforts. The value of property is higher than it was before the crisis. You have done an excellent job building up the armaments industry. Very soon our own atomic bomb – but we are going to be sacked. Myinformation is always reliable." 'Why?" Shasa asked, and Manfred shrugged.

'Verwoerd took two bullets in the head. Who knows what damage that caused." 'He shows no signs of any permanent damage. He is just as logical, rational and decisive after the operation to remove the bullets." 'Do you think so?" Manfred asked. 'Do you think his obsession with race is logical and rational?" 'Verwoerd was always obsessed with racial matters." 'No, my friend, that is not so,' Manfred contradicted him. 'He didn't want the ministry of Bantu affairs when Malan first offered it to him. Race meant nothing to him. He was concerned only with the growth and survival of Afrikaner nationalism." 'He certainly threw himself into it body and soul, when he did take the job,' Shasa smiled.

'Ja, that's true, but then he saw apartheM as uplifting to the blacks, a chance to conduct their own affairs, and become masters of their own destiny. He saw it as exactly similar to the partition of India and Pakistan. He was concerned with racial differences, but he was not a racist. Not in the beginning." 'Perhaps." Shasa was dubious.

'Since those bullets in the head he has changed,' Manfred said.

'Before that he was strong-willed and certain of his own infallibility, but since then he will brook not the slightest criticism or even a hint that anything he says or does might be wrong. Race has become an obsession, to the point of lunacy – this business with the coloured English cricketer, what is his name again?" 'Basil D'Oliveira – and he is South African. He plays for England because he can't play for South Africa." 'Ja, it's madness. Now Verwoerd even refuses to have a black servant to tend him. He would not attend the film version of Othello because Laurence Olivier had painted his face black. He has lost all sense of proportion. He is going to undo all the hard painstaking work we have done to restore calm and prosperity. He is going to destroy this country – and he is going to destroy us personally, you and me, because we have stood up to some of his wilder excesses in cabinet. You even suggested he permanently abolish the pass laws he has never forgiven you for that. He calls you a liberal." 'All right, but I can't believe he would take the ministry of police away from you." 'That is what he plans. He wants to give it all to John Vorster combine justice and police into a single portfolio and call it "Law and Order", or some such other title." Shasa stood up and went to the cabinet at the end of the room.

He poured two large cognacs and Manfred did not protest when he placed one of them on the table at his elbow.

'You know, Shasa, for a long time now I have had a dream. I've never told anybody about it, not even Heidi, but I will tell you. I dreamed that one day I would be the prime minister, and that 'you, Shasa Courtney, would be the state president of this country of ours.

The two of us, Englishman and Afrikaner, side by side as South Africans." They sat quietly and thought about it, and Shasa found himself becoming angry at being cheated of that honour. Then Manfred went off at another tangent.

'Do you know that even though the Americans are refusing to sell us arms, we still cooperate very closely with their CIA on all matters of intelligence that affect our mutual interests in southern Africa?" Manfred asked, and although Shasa could not fathom this new change of direction, he nodded.

'Yes, of course, I know that." 'The Americans have just interrogated a Russian defector in west Berlin. They passed on some of the intelligence to us. There is a Manchurian Candidate in place, and his target is Verwoerd." Shasa gaped at him. 'Who is the assassin?" 'No." Manfred held up his hands. 'They don't know. Even though the Russian was highly placed, he did not know. All he could tell the Americans was that the assassin has access to the prime minister, and he will be used soon, very soon." He picked up the cognac glass, and swirled the oily brown liquid around the crystal bowl. 'There was one other small clue. The assassin has a history of mental illness, and he is a foreigner, not born in this country." 'With that information it should be possible to identify him,' Shasa mused. 'You could check every single person who has access to the P.M." 'Perhaps,' Manfred agreed. 'But what we must decide – here in secret, just the two of us – is do we really want to find the Manchurian Candidate and stop him. Would it be in the best interest of our country to prevent the assassination?" Shasa spilled the cognac down the lapels of his morning jacket, but he did not seem to notice. Aghast, he was staring at Manfred.

After a long pause, he set down his glass, drew a silk handkerchief from his inner pocket and began to mop the spilled liquor.

'Who else knows about this?" he asked, concentrating on his cleaning, not looking up.

'One of my senior officers. He is the liaison with the military attach at the American embassy, who is the CIA man here." 'No one else?" 'Only me – and now you." 'Your officer is trustworthy?" 'Completely." At last Shasa looked up. 'Yes, now I see why I should cancel my trip to London. If something should happen to Verwoerd, it would be essential for me to be here when his successor is chosen." He lifted his glass in a salute, and after a moment Manfred returned the gesture. They drank the silent toast, watching each other's eyes over the rims of the crystal glasses.

There were only two couples left on the dance floor, and except for the band and the servants who were cleaning up and stacking the chairs, the marquee was empty.

At last the coloured band-master descended from the stand and approached Sean diffidently. 'Master, it's after two o'clock already." Sean glared at him over the head of the girl he was dancing with, and the man quailed. 'Please, Master, we've been playing since lunchtime, nearly fourteen hours." Sean's thunderous expression changed dramatically into that radiant boyish smile of his. 'Off you go then! You have been just great – and this is for you and your boys." He tucked a crumpled wad of banknotes into the band-leader's top pocket, and called to the other couple.

'Come on, gang. We are off to Navvies." Isabella had her face pressed to Lothar's shirt front, but she looked up brightly.

'Oh goody!" she cried. 'I've never been there. Nana says it's sordid and disreputable. Let's go!" Sean had borrowed Garry's MG and Isabella raced him in her new Alfa Romeo, and managed to keep up with him through the curves of the mountain drive. They were neck and neck as they tore down Buitenkant Street to the notorious Navigator's Den in the Bo-kaap area near the docks.

Sean had purloined two bottles of whisky from the bar in the marquee, and his partner was draped around his neck.

'Let's carouse,' he suggested, and pushed his way through the cluster of seamen and prostitutes who crowded the entrance to the nightclub.

The interior was so dark that they could only barely make out the band, and the music was so loud that they had to sit close and yell at each other.

'You are a marvelous brother,' Isabella shouted and leaned across to kiss Sean. 'You don't preach to me." 'It's your life, Bella baby, you enjoy it – and call me if anybody tries to stop you." She perched on Lothar's knee and nuzzled his neck. Sean's partner had collapsed, and he laid her out full length on the padded bench, with her head in his lap, while he and Lothar sat with their shoulders touching and talked seriously. The music blanketed their voices, so that from farther than a few feet nobody could overhear them.

'Do you know that you still have a rather prominent billing in the police files?" Lothar asked.

'It does not come as any great surprise,' Sean admitted.

'You don't mind taking a chance, do you?" Lothar smiled. 'I like your nerve." 'From what I know and see, I'd say that you are a fairly nerveles customer yourself,' Sean grinned back at him.

'I could make sure that your file disappeared,' Lothar offered.

'In exchange for a little something or other, no doubt?" 'Naturally,' Lothar agreed. 'You get nothing for nothing." 'And all you get for a pinch of dung is a cloud of flies,' Seal laughed, and refilled the whisky glasses. 'What do you want fran me?" 'If you were to act as an intelligence agent for the bureau for stat.

security – our man in Rhodesia – we might forget about your littl indiscretions." 'Why not?" Sean agreed instantly. 'Anything for a laugh and livin dangerously is half the fun." 'Do stop being so boring, you two,' Isabella cried, strokin Lothar's cheek. 'Come and dance with me." Sean's partner sat up groggily and blurted, 'I'm going to be sick/ 'Emergency,' said Sean. He hauled her to her feet and hustled heJ through to the tiny women's room.

There were two other females fussing over the single wash han basin, and they squealed demurely.

'Don't worry about us, ladies." Sean pushed his partner into the cubicle and aimed her at the toilet bowl. Noisily she got shot of who!

was troubling her and then straightened up and grinned at him shakily. Tenderly he wiped her mouth with a wad of toilet paper.

'How are you feeling?" 'I feel better now." 'Good, let's go somewhere and ball." 'Okay,' she said, perking up miraculously. 'That's what I've been waiting for the whole evening." Sean stopped beside Lothar and Isabella on the crowded floor.

'We are cutting out of here – something just came up, if you will pardon the expression." 'I'll call you at Weltevreden' some time tomorrow,' Lothar said.

'Just to arrange the details." 'Don't make it too early,' Sean advised and grinned at his sister.

'See you later, Bella Bunny." 'For God's sake, don't say "Be good!"' Isabella pleaded.

'Perish the thought." Sean picked up his partner and carried her down the stairs.

Isabella made one more circuit of the floor, just to let Sean get clear, then she murmured, 'That's enough dancing for one night let's go." Lothar had never seen a woman drive with Isabella's skill and flair. He relaxed in the passenger seat and watched her. Despite the long day and its excesses, she was still dewy fresh as a rosepetal and her eyes were clear and sparkling.

She was the first English girl he had ever been with, and her free and forthright manner at once appalled and intrigued him. With their strict Calvinist upbringing Afrikaner girls would never make themselves so available or behave with such abandon. Yet although she shocked him more than a little, she was without any doubt the most strikingly lovely girl he had ever met.

Isabella drove straight through the intersection of Paradise Road and Rhodes Drive.

'You've missed the turn to Weltevreden,' he pointed out, and she gave him a brief impish grin.

'That's not where we are going. From here you are in my hands, Lothar De La Rey." They followed the coastal road from Muizenberg around the bay, through the deserted streets of Simonstown, the British naval base, and then on towards the tip of the continent.

Where the road skirted a high cliff above the sea, Isabella pulled the Alfa off the road and cut the engine.

'Come on,' she ordered, took his hand and led him to the edge of the cliff. The dawn was turning the eastern sky to lemon and orange, and far beneath them the cliffs were folded upon themselves to form a sheltered bay. 'It's so beautiful here,' Isabella whispered. 'One of my favourite places." 'Where are we?" Lothar asked.

'It's called Smitswinkel Bay,' she told him, and led him by the hand to the start of the steep pathway that descended the cliff.

At the bottom a narrow horse-shoe of silver sand surrounded the bay, and above the beach a few locked and shuttered shacks were crammed against the foot of the cliff. The dawn light filtered down, soft and pearly, and the waters of the bay glowed with the misty sheen of moonstones.

Isabella kicked off her shoes and walked down to the water's edge, and then without looking round at him she slipped her dress off her shoulders and let it drop to the sand. Beneath it she wore only a pair of silk and lace panties. For a long moment she stood staring out across the bay and her back was long and shaped like the neck of a lovely vase, the beads of her spine just showed beneath skin that was pale and lustrous as mother-of-pearl. Then she stooped to pull the panties down to her ankles, and stepped out of them.

She was naked and Lothar's breathing caught in his throat as he watched her walk slowly down to the water's edge, her hips rolling in time to the lazy pulse of the ocean. She walked out until she was waist-deep and she lowered herself until only her head was above the surface. Then she turned and looked back at him. The challenge and the invitation were as clear as if she had called them aloud.

Lothar undressed as unhurriedly as she had done. Naked, he walked into the bay and she rose to meet him, the waters streaming from her bare shoulders down her breasts, and she lifted her arms and placed them around his neck.

She teased him with her tongue, letting him explore the warmth and softness of her mouth, and she gave a little purring chuckle as she felt how much he wanted her.

The sound goaded him and he lifted her in his arms and carried her out beyond her depth. She was forced to cling to him, and her body was weightless. He handled her like a doll and she offered no resistance. His strength seemed limitless – it made her feel helpless and vulnerable, but she was grateful for his patience. To hurry now would spoil it all. She wanted this to be something far beyond the frenzied groping and often painful thrusting that was all she had been offered by the three or four college lads she had allowed this far.

She learned quickly that he could tease as well as she could, and he let her float around him, light as the buoyant kelp in the gentle swell of the ocean while he stood foursquare and refused to make the final assault. In the end it was she who succumbed to impatience.

In contrast to the cool water that eddied around her, he was like a flaming brand buried deep in her body. She could not believe the hardness and the heat, and she cried aloud with incredible delight.

None of the others had been anything like this. From now on this was all that counted, this was what she had been searching for all along.

Still clinging together they waded ashore, and by now it was full morning. They bundled up their clothes and still naked she led him to the last shack in the row. While she searched for the key in her purse, he asked, 'Who does this belong to?" 'It's one of Daddy's hiding places. I only discovered it quite by chance and he doesn't know tlat I have a key." She got the door open and led him into the single room.

'Towels,' she said, and opened one of the cupboards. They made a game out of drying each other, but the light-hearted mood changed quickly to serious intent, and she dragged him to the bunk against the wall.

'Where I come from the man does the asking,' he chuckled.

'You are an old-fashioned chauvinist prude,' she told him.

As she clambered up onto the bunk he saw that her bottom was still bright pink from the cold waters of the bay; he found that peculiarly endearing and he was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of tenderness towards her.

'You are so gentle,' she whispered. 'So strong and yet so gentle." It was mid-morning before they felt hungry, and dressed only in one of her father's old fishing jerseys, Isabella raided the larder for their breakfast.

'How do you fancy smoked oysters and asparagus with your baked beans?" 'Won't your father miss you?" he asked as he opened the cans.

'Oh, Daddy is a push-over. He will believe anything I tell him. It's my grandmother we have to watch out for, but I've arranged with one of my girlfriends to cover for us." 'Ah, so you knew where we were going to end up?" he asked.

'Of course." She rolled her eyes at him. 'Didn't you?" They sat cross-legged on the bunk with the plates on their laps and Isabella tasted the mixture. 'It's ghastly,' she gave her opinion, 'if I wasn't starving I wouldn't touch it." 'Of course, you will see your mother while you are in London?" he asked, and the loaded spoon stopped half-way to Isabella's mouth.

'How did you know I was going to London – and how did you know my mother was there?" 'I probably know more about your mother than you do,' Lothar told her, and she replaced the spoon on her plate and stared at him.

'For instance?" she challenged.

'Well, for instance, your mother is a rabid enemy of this country.

She is a member of the banned ANC and of the anti-apartheid group.

She associates regularly with members of the South African Communist Party. In London she runs a safe house for political refugees and escaped terrorists." 'My mother?" Isabella shook her head.

'Your mother was deeply implicated in the plot to blow up the houses of parliament and assassinate most of the members of the House, including the prime minister – and your father and my father." Isabella was still shaking her head, but he went on expressionlessly, watching her with those golden leopard eyes.

'She was directly responsible for the death of her own father, your grandfather, Colonel Blaine Malcomess. She was an accomplice of Moses Gama who is now serving a life sentence for terrorism and murder, and if she had not escaped she would probably be in jail with him." 'No,' said Isabella softly. 'I don't believe it." She was amazed and distressed by the change in him. Minutes before he had been so gentle, now he was hard and cruel, wounding her with words as he went on, 'For instance, did you know that your mother was Moses Gama's lover, and that she bore him a son? Your ?. i half-brother is an attractive coffee colour." 'No!" Isabella recoiled, shaking her head in disbelief.

'How do you know all this?" 'From the signed confession of Moses Gama, the man himself. I can arrange for you to see a copy, but that is not really necessary.

You will almost certainly meet your bastard half-brother in London.

He is living there with your mother. His name is Benjamin Afrika." Isabella jumped up and carried her plate to the kitchenette. She dumped the food into the garbage bin and without looking around, she asked, 'Why are you telling me all this?" 'So that you will know your duty." 'I don't understand." She still would not look at him.

'We believe your mother and her associates are planning some sort of violent action against this country. We are not sure what it is.

Any information on their activities would be invaluable." Isabella turned slowly and stared at him. Her face was pale and stricken.

'You want me to spy on my own mother?" 'We simply would like to know the names of the people you meet in her company while you are in London." She was not listening. She cut in on what he was saying.

'You planned this. You picked me out, not because you thought I was attractive or sweet or desirable. You deliberately set out to seduce me, just for this." 'You are beautiful, not attractive. You are magnificent, not sweet,' he said.

'And you are a bastard, a ruthless heartless bastard." He stood up and went to where his clothes hung behind the door.

'What are you going to do?" she demanded.

'Get dressed and go,' he told her.

'Why?" 'You called me a bastard." 'You are." Her eyes were glutted with tears. 'An irresistible bastard.

Don't go, Lothar, please don't go." Isabella was relieved when her father told her that he was unable to fly to London with her and Michael. Meeting her mother again after all these years, and after what Lothar had told her, would be difficult enough, without her father there to complicate matters and confuse her feelings. She had, indeed, tried to beg off going to London herself.

She wanted to, be close to Lothar, but he had been the one who insisted she make the trip.

'I will be back in Johannesburg and we wouldn't see much of each other anyway,' he told her. 'And besides that you have your duty and you have given me your word." 'I know Daddy would give me a PR job with the company in Jo'burg. I could get a flat and we could see lots of each other, I mean lots and lots!" 'When you come back from London,' he promised.

There were representatives from South Africa House and the London office of Courthey Mining to meet Isabella and Michael at Heathrow and a company limousine to take them to the Dorchester.

'Pater always overdoes it by a mile,' Michael remarked, embarrassed by the reception. 'We could have taken a taxi." 'No point in being a Courtney, unless you get to enjoy it,' Isabella disagreed.

When Isabella was shown up to her suite which looked out over Hyde Park, there was an enormous bouquet of flowers waiting for her with a note: Sorry I can't be with you, darling. Next time we will paint the town bright scarlet together.

Your old Dad.

Even before the porter had brought her bags up, Isabella dialled the number that Tara had given her and she was answered on the third ring.

'This is the Lord Kitchener Hotel, may I help you?" It was strangely nostalgic to be greeted by an African accent in a strange city.

'May I speak to Mrs Malcomess, please?" In her letter Tara had warned her that she had reverted to her maiden name after the divorce.

'Hello, Mater." Isabella tried to sound natural when Tara came on the line, but Tara's delight was unrestrained.

'Oh Bella darling, where are you? Is Mickey with you? How soon can you get here? You have got the address, haven't you? It's so easy to find." Isabella tried to match Michael's enthusiasm and excitement as they drove through the streets of London and the taxi-driver pointed out the landmarks they passed, but she was in a funk at the prospect of seeing her mother again.

It was one of those rather seedy little tourist hotels in a side street off the Cromwell Road. Only part of the neon sign Was lit. 'The Ord Kitch', it flashed in electric blue, and on the glass of the front doo were plastered the emblems of the AA and Routiers and a blaze o credit card stickers.

Tara rushed out through the glass doors while they were stil paying off the taxi. She embraced Michael first, which gave Isabell a few moments to study her mother.

She had put on weight, her backside in the faded blue jeans wa: huge, and her bosom hung shapelessly in the baggy man's sweater.

'She's an old bag." Isabella was appalled. Even though Tara hoc never gone to any pains with her appearance, she had always had or air of freshness and neatness. But now her hair had turned grey, ant she had obviously made a half-hearted attempt to henna it back to it original colour, and then given up. The grey was streaked brassy ginger and violent mulberry red, and it was twisted up into a careless, bun at the nape of her neck from which parti-coloured wisps hoc escaped.

Her features had sagged almost to obscure the bone structure whicl: had been one of her most striking assets, and through i her eyes were still large and bright the skin around them had creased and bagged.

At last she released Michael, and turned to Isabella.

'My darling little girl, I would hardly have recognized you. What a lovely young woman you have become." They embraced. Isabella recalled how her mother had smelled, it was one of her pleasant childhood memories, but this woman smelled of some cheap and flowery perfume, of cigarette smoke and boiled cabbage, and – Isabella could barely credit her own senses – of underclothing that had been worn too long without changing.

She broke off the embrace, but Tara kept hold of her arm, and with Michael on the other side of her led them into the Lord Kitchener Hotel. The receptionist was a black lad, and Isabella recognized his voice as the one who had answered her phone call.

'Phineas is from Cape Town also,' Tara introduced them. 'He is one of our other runaways. He left after the troubles in sixty-one and, like the rest of us, he won't be going home yet. Now let me show you around the Lardy –' she laughed. 'That's what my permanent guests call it, the Lardy. I thought of changing the name, it's so colonial and Empire –' Tara chattered on happily, as she led them around the hotel. The carpets in the passages were threadbare, and the rooms had washbasins, but shared the toilet and bathroom at the end of each passage.

Tara introduced them to any of her guests they met in the corridors or public rooms. 'These are my son and daughter from Cape Town,' and they shook hands with German and French tourists who spoke no English, Pakistanis and Chinese, black Kenyans and coloured South Africans.

'Where are you staying?" Tara wanted to know.

'At the Dorchester." 'Of course." Tara rolled her eyes. 'Fifty guineas a day, paid for by the sweat of the workers in the Courtney mines. That is what your father would have chosen. Why don't you and Mickey move in here?

I have two nice rooms on the top floor free at the moment. You would meet so many interesing people, and we'd see so much more of each other." Isabella shuddered at the thought of sharing the toilet at the end of the passage and jumped in before Michael could agree.

'Daddy would be furious, he has prepaid for us – and now we know our way, it's only a short taxi ride." 'Taxis,' Tara sniffed. 'Why not take the bus or the underground like any ordinary person?" Isabella stared at her speechlessly. Didn't she understand that they weren't ordinary people? They were Courtheys. She was about to say so, when Michael sensed her intention and intervened smoothly.

'Of course you are quite right. You'll have to tell us what number bus to take and where to get off, Mater." 'Mickey darling, please don't call me Mater any longer. It's so terribly bourgeois. Call me either Mummy or Tara, but not that." 'All right. It will be a little bit strange at first, but okay. I'll call you Tara." 'It's almost lunch time,' Tara announced blithely. 'I asked cook to make a bread and butter pudding, I know it's one of your favourites, Mickey." 'I'm not awfully hungry, Mater – Tara,' Isabella announced. 'And it must be jet-lag or something, but –' Michael pinched her sharply. 'That's lovely, Tara. We'd love to stay for lunch." 'I just have to look into the kitchen – make sure it's all under control – come along." As they entered the kitchen a child came running to Tara. He must have been helping the Irish cook, for his hands were white with flour to the elbows. Tara hugged him, happily heedless of the flour that rubbed off on her sweater.