Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

'Because . . . because ... I asked Mrs Beatty to look after Friday and I knew you didn't approve but now she's gone and everything is okay.'

'Ah!' said my mother, satisfied at last. I breathed a sigh of relief. I'd got away with it.

'Goodness!' said Hamlet, pointing. 'Isn't that a gorilla in the garden?'

All eyes swivelled outside, where Melanie had stopped in mid-stride over the sweet Williams. She paused for a moment, gave an embarrassed smile and waved her hand in greeting.

'Where?' said my mother. 'All I can see is an unusually hairy woman tiptoeing through my sweet Williams.'

'That's Mrs Bradshaw,' I murmured, casting an angry glance at Hamlet. 'She's been doing some childcare for me.'

'Well, don't let her wander around the garden, Thursday – ask her in!'

Mum put down her shopping and filled the kettle. 'Poor Mrs Bradshaw must think us dreadfully inhospitable – do you suppose she'd fancy a slice of Battenberg?'

Hamlet and Emma stared at me and I shrugged. I beckoned Melanie into the house and introduced her to my mother.

'Pleased to meet you,' said Melanie, 'you have a very lovely grandchild.'

'Thank you,' my mother replied, as though the effort had been entirely hers. 'I do my best.'

'I've just come back from Trafalgar,' I said, turning to Lady Hamilton. 'Dad's restored your husband and he said he'd pick you up at eight thirty tomorrow.'

'Oh!' she said, with not quite as much enthusiasm as I had hoped. 'That's . . . that's wonderful news.'

'Yes,' added Hamlet more sullenly, 'wonderful news.'

They looked at one another.

'I'd better go and pack,' said Emma.

'Yes,' replied Hamlet, 'I'll help you.'

And they both left the kitchen.

'What's wrong with them?' asked Melanie, helping herself to a slice of the proffered cake and sitting down on one of the chairs, which creaked ominously.

'Lovesick,' I replied. And I think they genuinely were.

'So, Mrs Bradshaw,' began my mother, settling into business mode, 'I have recently become an agent for some beauty products, many of which are completely unsuitable for people who are bald – if you get my meaning.'

'Ooooh!' exclaimed Melame, leaning closer. She did have a problem with facial hair – hard not to, being a gorilla – and had never had the benefit of talking to a cosmetics consultant. Mum would probably end up trying to sell her some Tupperware, too.

I went upstairs, where Hamlet and Emma were arguing. She seemed to be saying that her 'dear Admiral' needed her more than anything, and Hamlet said that she should come and live with him at Elsinore and 'to hell with Ophelia'. Emma replied that this really wasn't practical and then Hamlet made an extremely long and intractable speech which I think meant that nothing in the real world was simple or slick and he lamented the day he ever left his play, and that he was sure Ophelia had discussed country matters with Horatio when his back was turned. Then Emma got confused and thought he was impugning her Horatio, and when he explained that it was his friend Horatio she changed her mind and said she would come with him to Elsinore, but then Hamlet thought perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all and he made another long speech until even Emma got bored and she crept downstairs for a beer and returned before he'd even noticed she had gone. After a while he just talked himself to a standstill without having made any decision – which was just as well as there wasn't a play for him to return to.

I was just pondering whether finding a cloned Shakespeare was actually going to be possible when I heard a tiny wail. I went back downstairs to find Friday blinking at me from the door to the living room, looking tousled and a little sleepy.

'Sleep well, little man?'

'Sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit,' he replied, which I took to mean: 'I have slept very well and now require a snack to see me through the next two hours.'

I walked back into the kitchen, something niggling away at my mind. Something that Mum had said. Something that Stiggins had said. Or maybe Emma? I made Friday a chocolate-spread sandwich, which he proceeded to smear about his face.

'I think you'll find I have just the colour for you,' said my mother, finding a shade of grey varnish that suited Melanie's black fur. 'Goodness – what strong nails!'

'I don't dig as much as I used to,' replied Melanie with an air of nostalgia. Trafford doesn't like it. He thinks it makes the neighbours talk.'

My heart missed a beat and I shouted out, quite spontaneously: