The Old Devils

       Apart from a couple of bulging black sacks by the window and a frock and suit or so the bedroom was in order, centring on Rhiannon's wonderful old Victorian marble-stand dressing-table with the heavy oval freestanding mirror and a tall jug, itself painted with rose-buds, holding roses from the garden. Here she combed out her hair, telling herself as always how lucky she had been in this department, thick as ever, easy to manage, even now only needing a little touching up. She was still at it when Rosemary came in.

       'What's that on your legs, Mum?'

       'Sheer Genius. I mean that's what it's called, I noticed particularly. Max Factor. I got it for my face but it turned out too dark. Honey Touch it says as well. I suppose that's a colour, is it?'

       'All right, but what's it doing on your legs?'

       'Well, it was that or stockings, and the weather's too nice for stockings, I thought.'

       'You realize they don't match your hands?'

       'Yes of course I do, but men don't think of things like that. Not as a rule.'

       Rosemary gave up the matter. During its discussion she had been sorting out the drier and now she began to wield it on her mother's hair, no great test of skill or devotion but pursued steadily enough. As she worked away with blower and comb she glanced round the room, taking particular notice of the female garments on display, but before she could say anything the door was barged aside and Nelly the puppy came running unskilfully in. She seemed not so much thankful at having found the two women as indulgently gratified by the joy and relief her arrival must bring them. After a quick circuit for form's sake she went straight under the bed, starting to growl furiously somewhere in the alto register.

       'I should have shut her in downstairs,' said Rosemary.

       'She's all right. She's got to learn her way round the house.'

       'Wouldn't it be better if she learnt that after she's trained?'

       'Well, it's all part of the training, learning not to go when she's up here.'

       Rosemary leaned over to see what the now emerged puppy was doing. 'You know she's got your slipper, do you?'

       'That's all right,' said· Rhiannon after checking that the Dorothy slippers were safely on her feet. 'She can have that one.'

       'You can't just let her chew away at anything she happens to fancy. That's no way to train her.'

       'It'll sort itself out.' Rhiannon considered telling her daughter that she might feel differently about such questions when she had had a couple of children of her own, but let it go. 'You can't watch them all the time. Right, that's fine, dear, thank you. I like it a little bit damp.'

       'What, er, what outfit were you proposing to wear for this jaunt, Mum?'

       'I thought the blue denim suit - yes, there.'

       'M'm.' The accompanying nod was non-committal. 'What else?'

       'There's a white cotton sports-shirt with long sleeves that come down out of the cuffs of the jacket. Then if it gets hot I can take the jacket off and roll the sleeves up. Only when he can't see my legs, of course.'

       'Hey!' shouted Rosemary at Nelly, who in full view was carelessly lowering her hindquarters towards the carpet. 'Oogh! Urhh!' she added, scooping the puppy up and hurrying her out of the room.

       'Don't forget to tell her - '

       'I know, Mum, I know.'

       Left alone, Rhiannon sat pushing her hair into place at the mirror. She wished very much she could look forward wholeheartedly to the coming excursion. The way Malcolm had sounded over the telephone when he invited her originally, and still more so his manner as he confirmed the arrangement at the Club the previous evening, had puzzled her, troubled her, nothing to do with his old awkwardness which had never been a problem. No, there was something, perhaps the way he had kept pausing as he talked, that had suggested to her that there might be going to be more to this half-day outing than met the eye. Still sitting, she crossed fingers on both hands.

       The sound of her daughter's voice from below, duly raised in tones of unreserved triumph and admiration, got her moving again. By the time Rosemary came back to the bedroom she was in pants and bra at the dressing-table mirror putting on foundation.

       'Just you think yourself lucky she didn't drop that lot up here is all I can say.'

       'I will, I do. Thank you, dear.'

       'Right, well now let's just take a look at this, this _suit__ we've heard so much about, shall we? Tell me, you like it yourself, do you?'

       'Well, I feel nice in it.'

       'M'm.' Rosemary accepted the point. 'Any ideas about shoes at a1l?'

       'I thought these,' - lace-ups in the same or much the same blue denim.

       There was a bit of a hiccup over the shirt, with an alternative in frilled terracotta silk considered and briefly tried on, but in the end everything went through all right and, after a final squirt of Christmas-present cologne, Rhiannon trooped off downstairs carrying her linen-look sand-coloured shoulder-bag. She wore no jewellery, just her wedding ring.

       In the kitchen again Rosemary made coffee and the contents of the bag were gone over in a comparatively relaxed spirit. Compact, spare handkerchief, purse with window showing essential telephone numbers on card, toothbrush - all passed in lenient silence. But then 'What's _this__ for God's sake?' asked Rosemary, sounding at the end of her tether.

       'Plastic mac. Rolled up.'

       'I'm not blind, you know. _Honestly__, Mum. _Christ__. Why haven't you got an umbrella?'

       'I keep losing them. Leaving them in places.'

       'There are ones that fold which you clearly haven't seen, and go in your bag and don't cost the earth.'

       'Well, I haven't got one.'

       'M'm. I suppose there's a hat to match, is there?'

       'No, there's a hood attached to the collar that hangs over my eyes. I'll wear it all through lunch if you don't look out.'

       Rosemary peered into the bag. 'Funny, I can't find any wellies here.'

       'You wait, I'll fetch Dad's galoshes in a minute.'

       'I'd better get you my umbrella.'

       'No, I'll lose it. And there's no need to treat me as if I'm fourteen years old.'

       'Oh yes there is, because that's all you are. When I was that age you were much older, but now you've gone back. You are fourteen years old. Aren't you?'

       'M'm,' whined Rhiannon, cringing and trotting her feet on the floor.

       The telephone rang. Rosemary was there first and asked who was calling. With a face of stone she passed her mother the handset. 'Gwen.'

       'Hallo Gwen.'

       'Rhiannon dear, this is old _Gwen__.' These words and the way they were spoken were enough to banish expectation that any sort of genuine apology or voicing of regret might be at hand. 'Thank you for a super party. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, in fact it rather seems a bit too thoroughly towards the end and got sort of carried away. Over the top I believe you're supposed to call it nowadays. I hope it wasn't too embarrassing for you.'

       'That's all right.'

       'I'm afraid I do tend to get ever so slightly cross with poor dear Alun from time to time over, well what the hell is it over, I suppose you'd have to call it _Wales__ I'm sorry to say. The thing is that, you know, according to me there's a touch of the stage Welshman about him, he says so himself, fair play, but perhaps it's more than a touch - still, and he thinks I'm a dried-up schoolmarm. Well, there we are, and it's all right until I drink too fast because I'm having a good time and Alun says something to do with I don't know what and then I find I've - '