The Colonel and His Daughter (8 page)

“No,” Sandra gasped and for a moment, Trudy thought she was going to have one of her fainting fits. “How can that be? You and the Colonel are such a perfect match. Made for each other you might say.”

“It would seem not,” Trudy muttered. “Come along, Roger.”

She got up from the stone and wiped moss from her behind before continuing her walk.

“We’re supposed to be talking about my father and Trudy,” Diana said as Bill stared unblinkingly at her across the flickering candle in the centre of the table.

“But all I can think about is you,” he said. “I’m sorry, Diana, I can’t do this. I can’t be here with you and talk about someone else when all I really want to do is talk about us.”

“There is no us, Bill, and please keep your voice down.”

“Why? I don’t care if people hear me. I love you. And what’s more I don’t care who knows it. And I thought you felt the same. Why did you cool towards me so suddenly, Diana? What happened to change things?”

“I don’t want to discuss it,” she said through clenched teeth.

The waiter came and took their order.

“Just because I’m driving and can’t drink doesn’t mean you have to abstain,” Bill said.

“I’m off alcohol,” she said.

Then she asked the waiter if he could guarantee the meal she was having contained no peanuts.

“You’re not allergic to nuts,” Bill said as the waiter hurried away.

“No, but . . . It doesn’t matter.”

She was just the same with dessert, turning down cheesecake and tiramisu and opting instead for a slice of apple pie.

Bill had done most of the talking, telling her of his plans for the pub and how he was going to take the under 10s football team he managed to Germany for a special match. Small talk. Very small talk.

He’d only briefly touched on the subject of Potts and Trudy, but apart from agreeing to give the pair of them a good talking to, they hadn’t come up with any ideas to get them back together. He was hoping to have to arrange another meeting for further discussions.

It was only when the waiter brought his coffee and her hot chocolate at the end of the meal that he fell silent. He watched her move her spoon round and round in the hot chocolate, loving her so much and yet wanting to grab her and shake some sense into her.

Instead, he decided to take a risk and say what was on his mind. If he was wrong . . .

“I love you, Diana,” he said. “And I love that you’re pregnant.”

She looked up and gave him a fierce glare.

“Who told you?”

“You did,” he said. “No wine, no coffee, nothing with soft cheese and your desire to avoid peanuts. I’m no detective, but my sister is exactly the same every time she’s expecting.”

She lowered her eyes so he wouldn’t see the spring of tears welling there.

“Marry me, Diana,” he said. “Let me spend the rest of my life proving how much I love you. I want to marry you with or without babies.”

It was all too much and the gentle weeping became a flood.

“I’m so emotional,” she cried. “I cry at the slightest thing. The doctor says it’s my hormones. Can you put up with that, Bill, because if you can, then my answer is yes.”

There was a cheer and all the other diners got to their feet and clapped. Diana looked round and saw several faces she recognised from the village. But worst of all she saw Dilys Parsons scribbling madly in a notebook.

“We should get home and tell Dad,” she said. “I want him to hear this from us. And I want to sort out what’s gone wrong between him and Trudy.”

“Nothing’s gone wrong,” Bill said. “They only pretended to call off the engagement in the hopes that you and I would get together to sort it out.”

Diana looked furious for a moment, then her face broke into a smile and she looked set to cry again.

“Hormones,” she squeaked, waving her hand at him. “A lot to answer for.”

Potts watched the familiar figure of Trudy hurrying past the end of his drive with Roger trailing along behind her, christening every tree and lamppost that he passed.

The Labrador hesitated at the end of the drive and looked up, one front paw raised as he sniffed the air.

Wellington let out a miserable little whimper.

“You miss them too, don’t you boy?”

Trudy was wearing those daft sunglasses, so he guessed she was going round in disguise again. When she glanced his way, he pretended not to see her and fiddled with his curtains. A cloud of dust fell down on him.

He stumped to his armchair, poured himself a stiff whisky, then turned on the television.

Five minutes later, Wellington let out an excited woof and Potts heard feet crunching up to the front door.

“Trudy,” he cried as he sped to answer it, but when he opened it only Blinking and that hypochondriac woman stood there, he in his vicarly garb and she in something he could only describe as coming straight out of a Hammer Horror movie.

It was all white and diaphanous.

“Oh,” he couldn’t conceal his disappointment. “It’s you. I thought . . .”

“What’s all this nonsense about you calling the engagement off?” Blinking demanded boldly.

“It’s not true is it?” Sandra asked. “Trudy’s got it wrong, hasn’t she?”

“No, she’s turned me down,” Potts sighed sadly.

“But it was you who called it off, wasn’t it?” Sandra said, looking up at Reggie for confirmation.

“It was the impression I got,” Blinking agreed. “The last time I saw eyes so red was . . . you’ll excuse me for saying, Sandra . . . when Sandra here went on a binge before her great nephew’s christening and fell in the font.”

“Eyes? Red?” Potts said, puzzled. “But she seemed so relieved. She said it was for the best.”

“Take it from one who knows,” Sandra said. “Trudy is heartbroken and you are the only one who can mend her.”

Long after they’d gone, Potts sat in the drawing room deep in thought. As darkness grew, he didn’t switch on a light and didn’t even notice the passage of time until a car’s headlights lit up the room.

The engine stopped, two doors slammed, then there was the sound of feet running – yes running – towards the front door.

His heart leapt. Trudy didn’t drive, but maybe someone had given her a lift.

He rose from his chair.

“Trudy?”

The front door flew open, the lights flashed on and Diana was in his arms and she was crying.

“What have you done to her?” he said giving Bill a ferocious glare.

“I proposed,” Bill said. “And she said yes.”

“Will you give me away, Dad?” Diana cried.

“What, and have a publican as a son in law?” Potts growled. “What do you take me for? Some kind of idiot? Of course I’ll give you away – be delighted to do it.”

He shook Bill by the hand. The man had a bone crushing grip, but Potts was pleased. A firm handshake was a sign of a strong character and Bill would need to be strong if he was going to marry Diana.

And not only that, he was making a fuss of Wellington, not minding that the dog was slobbering all over his smart black trousers.

“Welcome to the fold,” Potts said.

“Why were you sitting in the dark, Dad?” Diana said. “You and Trudy don’t have to pretend to have fallen out any more. Bill told me your cunning plan. So you can take that sad look off your face and stop pretending to be depressed.”

Potts took a deep breath. “Well, he didn’t tell you all of it,” he said. “Because he didn’t know the rest. You see, there never was going to be any wedding. You overhearing us talking . . . it was a misunderstanding.”

“But you were down on one knee . . .”

“I was picking her wedding ring up off the floor,” Potts said. “Then that ghastly Bernard Chumley showed up and we decided to keep up the pretence until he’d gone to stop him pestering Trudy.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” Diana cried.

“You seemed so happy about it,” he said. “And you’ve been crying such a lot. We didn’t want to add to your misery. We were waiting for the right moment.”

The finer details no longer mattered.

“Oh, Dad, you silly old goat,” Diana laughed. “I’ve been crying a lot because . . . well, it’s hormones you see. I’m going to have a baby. That is, Bill and I are going to have a baby. You are going to be a grandfather.”

Potts sank back in his chair to absorb the news. His eyes brimmed with tears. A grandfather? Well, he didn’t see that one coming!

“How wonderful,” he said. “I’m so pleased. On both counts.”

The words seemed inadequate to describe the joy brimming inside him.

“So what about Trudy?” Diana demanded.

He looked at his daughter and blinked rapidly.

“What about her?”

Diana and Bill just stared at him like a pair of mesmerised owls.

“What?” he puffed. “What?”

The following morning, Trudy opened her front door to find Sandra standing on the doorstep clutching an overnight bag.

Sandra had a reputation for foisting herself upon people and Trudy found herself blurting out, “I don’t have a spare bed . . .”

“Why would you?” Sandra said, struggling in and setting the bag down on the coffee table.

Roger ambled over and gave it a sniff, then realising there was nothing edible, slouched back to his chair.

Sandra opened it with a flourish.

“You’ve robbed Boots?” Trudy said and Sandra burst out laughing.

“Sit yourself down, Trudy,” she said. “I am going to give you the makeover to end all makeovers.”

She lifted out a pack of false eyelashes.

“But I don’t . . .”

“Sit,” Sandra instructed, giving Trudy the lightest of pushes.

Trudy fell back into the chair, watched as Sandra plugged in a set of curling tongs that looked like some kind of ancient torture device, then closed her eyes and thought of England.

Meanwhile Diana was ushering her father into the village hairdresser.

“It’s a woman’s place,” he protested. “It’s full of – well women! And I don’t need a haircut. I cut it myself and I don’t . . .”

He was pressed into a chair and before he could escape, the hairdresser had wrapped a cape around his shoulders.

“Could you give his eyebrows a trim, Katie?” Diana murmured. “They’re so bushy that last time the council were out slapping preservation orders on trees, he almost had one slapped on his head.”

“Don’t worry, Colonel,” Katie said. “I keep my grandad and all his chums neat and tidy.”

“Hear that, Dad?” Diana said. “You’re in safe hands.”

That afternoon, Trudy went to answer her door and was astounded to see the Colonel standing in the storm porch, a trail of clematis draped across his shoulders.

He looked as if he’d been scrubbed, polished and tidied up to within an inch of his life.

He stared at her, then peered closer.

“Like what you’ve done to your hair,” he said briskly. “Becomes you. And the face stuff. Not that you need it, but the late Mrs Potts used to call it gilding the lily.”

“Oh,” Trudy pressed her hand to her cheek. “This? Sandra did it. I’m not sure I like it.”

“Can I come in?” he asked sheepishly. “It’s just I’ve been pelted with dead roses and Mrs Barker from the dairy hissed at me as I passed as if I were a pantomime baddy. Not only that, I seem to have collected a following.”

He stepped aside and Trudy spotted several women clustered by her gate. They were booing softly and one of them shook her fist at Potts.

“Shame,” Marjorie’s voice tinkled.

“Cad,” Greta shouted.

“You’d best come in,” Trudy said.

She felt quite chuffed. She had no idea everyone in the village thought so highly of her that they felt the need to come to her defence like this.