No Ordinary Gentleman

“Ten minutes,” he announces in a soft brogue. “Mari and Sophie, you’ll be ready.”

The girls nod though his words weren’t issued as a question.

“And you’ll be Holly,” he says, turning to me with a smile. A smile that softens his hard edges and lines makes me wonder if the parentheses bracketing his mouth have been caused by the frequency of his smile or the opposite.

I’ll be Holly. I usually am, though I like to pretend I’m a little more interesting than Holly Harper. Just look at my Instagram! Sometimes, I even get to pretend to be someone else. Someone called Olive.

I shake off the thoughts and hold out my hand.

“Yes, that’s me.” We shake hands, then both turn to watch the final touches being laid to the tea trays. Small, rectangular platters are filled with tiny tarts laden with crème anglaise and fresh raspberries, a lemon iced slice, colourful macarons, and scones with tiny dishes of clotted cream and jam as fingers sandwiches, minus crusts, of course, are laid onto plates with military precision, then decorated with a neat pile of arugula topped with tiny lilac flowers.

“I doubt Hugh and Archie will be excited at the prospect of eating flowers for tea,” Mr McCain murmurs lightly.

“They’ve hankering for sausage rolls.” I turn my head, catching the rise of his brows.

“Much more sensible,” he says with a nod.

“Dinnae fash,” Dougal mutters. “The wee ones have their own menu.” He dips his head in the direction of a two-tiered plate in Mari’s hand. Tiny burger sliders, sausage rolls, a pink and yellow cake chequered cake, which I’m assuming is Battenberg, plus a row of tiny chocolate cupcakes.

“We’d best start moving this lot upstairs.” I take a seat at the kitchen table and watch the military operation commence. Hot water urns, ornate solid silver teapots, serving ware, food; the list goes on and on . . . and then it goes into a rickety-looking dumb server. Meanwhile, I get to stuff my face with sausage rolls. As for Battenberg cake, I can’t even persuade Gertie to take it.

19

Alexander

“How’s school?”

“Boring,” Hugh replies without missing a beat.

“But it’s . . .”

He rolls his eyes dramatically and looks exactly like his mother when he does so. Or at least how she used to look when we were children, living in this monstrous house with only each other for company.

“Necessary,” he mutters sullenly. “Because knowledge is a powerful weapon.”

“Exactly.”

“But sometimes, I’d really just like to stab someone.”

Wouldn’t we all.

“Anyone in particular?” I ask, keeping my tone bland as Hugh rapidly shakes his head.

“I don’t want anyone to die, but I’d really like to kick my art teacher. Hard!”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Uncle Sandy, you can’t go around kicking teachers. It’s just not the done thing.”

“You’re right, of course.” I stretch out in the chair and cross one ankle over the other. But the school seems mercenary enough to offer me the privilege for a price. God knows I pay enough in fees already, not that Isla knows. Her husband suggested it was that or he’d be forced to remove both boys and put them into the local state school. Like my father did for me for a time. I thought it was for his amusement at the time, but now I wonder if he was trying to toughen me up. I certainly learned to use my fists. But I wasn’t about to let my nephews repeat the experience, even if it might give Hugh an outlet for his pent-up feelings.

“When I feel like you do right now, I usually go for a run. Maybe you could take Dirty Gertie out?”

“Don’t call her that.” He giggles. “You know she doesn’t like it!”

“Who doesn’t like it?” I reply innocently.

“I don’t like it,” says Isla as she enters the room. I stand to greet her. “Hello, Sandy.” I jump up from my chair, and her arms slide around my neck. “Don’t call my dog dirty,” she whispers as her fingers threaten to tweak my earlobe.

“Then do something about her stomach troubles.” I press a quick peck to her cheek. “Where is she anyway?”

“Do you need to ask?” Isla sends me an arch look. A look I’m told we’ve both perfected. “You know she’s swindling Dougal in the kitchen. And just how were you planning to kick the art teacher?”

“Your mother has ears like a bat,” I whisper to Hugh. “She was the same as a child. Always hearing things she shouldn’t.”

“She says all mothers have magic hearing,” Archie replies, bouncing into the room, strangely enough, along with a rubber bouncing ball. “Uncle Sandy?” his eyes follow the ball as it shoots up into the air, almost hitting the chandelier before he catches it adroitly on its descent. “Do you know Dylan Duffy is going to be in the new Batman movie?”