A Wild Affair

'I'm just tired,' Penny said, shrugging. 'He's been teething on and off for weeks, I never seem to get a full night's sleep. I sometimes wonder how many teeth he plans on having.' She watched with, a wry grimace as David opened his mouth, displaying his present collection of pearly white teeth, and closed it again sharply on the bowl of the spoon and all it contained. Mrs Stevens extracted the spoon with difficulty.

'You wicked little imp,' she told her grandson fondly, and he beamed with satisfaction, cheeks bulging. 'What you need is a holiday,' Mrs Stevens went on, looking at her daughter-in-law.

Penny groaned. 'Do I not? But Jim can't spare the time from the farm until late autumn.'

'Go on your own,' Mrs Stevens said. 'I'll look after the house and David for you, I'd love to.'

'I can't just dump him on you—you've no idea what a handful he can be!'

'Who hasn't?' Mrs Stevens retorted, looking offended. 'Anyone would think I'd never brought up one of my own. He can't be any worse than his father.'

'Oh, can't he?' Penny said gloomily. 'That's what you think. David is in a class of his own. He doesn't want to be a farmer, he wants to be a demolition expert. If he lives to grow up, that is. Yesterday he tried to eat the flex of my iron. I grabbed him just in time. You have to watch him twenty-four hours a day to make sure he doesn't kill himself.'

'He's tiring you out, and it shows,' her mother-in-law said, shaking her head in disapproval. 'You need a complete break for at least a week.'

'I wouldn't enjoy a holiday on my own,' Penny said. 'And I'd never persuade Jim to leave the farm in midsummer, you know that.'

'His father could manage without him,' said Mrs Stevens, but her voice somehow lacked conviction, and Penny gave her a wry look.

'If you decide to go and need someone to share the costs, I'd love to come,' said Quincy, and Penny looked round at her.

'Are you serious?'

'Of course. I could do with a holiday, myself.'

'Where would we go?' Penny thought aloud.

'Somewhere different and exciting,' Quincy said, and Penny made a face.

'Like Blackpool?'

Quincy grinned. 'Why not abroad? We could have a week in Paris.'

'Too expensive,' Penny said.

'Holland?'

'Too flat—I know I'd spend the whole week buying bulbs to bring back for my garden, anyway.'

'Why don't you get some brochures from the travel agency next time you're in town?' suggested Mrs Stevens.

'You're so practical, Mother Stevens,' Penny said, laughing, but her eyes had excitement in them and her face was lit up. The very idea of getting away from all her exhausting chores had lifted the weary dullness from her face.

A few days later, Penny rang while Quincy was busy measuring out the feeds for the animals being kept overnight, and said excitedly: 'I've got some brochures, want to come over and gloat?'

'Love to,' said Quincy. 'I'll have finished work around three. I'll drive over then—made any ginger cake lately?'

'Cupboard-lover,' grinned Penny, then gave a shriek slightly off telephone: 'David! Don't touch that vase!' There was an ear-splitting crash somewhere in the background followed by affronted bawls of dismay. Penny groaned. 'Too late! I'll have to go—see you later.' The phone clicked and Quincy put down the receiver, smiling. Poor Penny!

She drove over to the farm later that afternoon in tranquil golden sunshine, watching the undulating green curve of the land on the horizon, looking for all the world like some enormous Chinese dragon curled up asleep in the sun. A heat haze danced ahead of her on the road. Dark green elms dreamed in pastures, their shifting, nickering black shadows full of tiny midges. It was the sort of day Quincy remembered from childhood with a dreamlike intensity as coming every day in high summer, but which later experience told her came too rarely.

David was fast asleep in his pram in the garden, a green canopy shielding him from the sun, the white fringes of it fluttering in a breeze. His flushed face had a cherubic innocence, his sprawled body breathed peacefully.

Penny looked at him, grimacing at Quincy. As they went into the farmhouse, she said softly: 'To look at him now you'd never think he was a demon when he's awake. So far today he's poured a cup of milk into Jim's wellies, bitten the dog and smashed my favourite vase.'

'And now he's having a rest before he gets back to work,' Quincy said, laughing.

Penny shuddered. 'I'm glad somebody thinks it's funny—my sense of humour gets mislaid at times. I suppose one day I'll be able to laugh about it, but it took me half an hour to clear up the mess when he broke that vase. Broken glass flies everywhere, I'm still finding splinters of it in the carpet and I dare not put David down anywhere near the hall in case he finds one—he has a perfect genius for finding trouble.'