Mother has always been an early riser, but I waited till eight before phoning, to make sure I didn't catch her at an awkward moment. When Mother Hen is riled, Mother Hen does not grant favours.
However she said she'd be delighted to put us up if we wanted to stay overnight, and I foresaw no problems with this in her four-bedroomed house.
"We've each packed a small overnight bag," Betty announced as she brought luggage to the hall for loading.
I was just admiring her neat denim trouser suit and well-prepared face, when Angela came gliding down the narrow staircase in a full-skirted grey and white dress, looking ten times prettier than her friend. I wondered how Mother would react to my strikingly different companions.
By half past eight we were heading for the motorway. As usual the traffic was congested around London, but once we'd cleared the M25 we bowled along merrily towards Oxford. From there we took the Cheltenham route, and reached Bourton-on-the-Water shortly before eleven.
"Just in time for coffee," I announced with some trepidation as I negotiated Mother's front gates and came to a standstill on the drive.
Hers is a large house built in buff-coloured Cotswold stone, far too big for a solitary widowed woman. I knew that before long I would be lectured again about wasting good money by renting a place of my own when I could still be living comfortably under Mother's wing. This time I would have witnesses who could judge both points of view. I'm always prepared to listen to reasoned argument, but I can't bear living with someone who gets on my nerves after the first hour of each day.
I'd taken care to prime both girls on what to expect from my outspoken matriarch, who could often be brutally tactless.
"Don't be surprised if you get asked personal questions," I warned them. "If you think lies will shut her up, then lie and I'll corroborate. Remember, I'm used to this woman. You're not."
Mother had been watching out for us, and came scurrying across the front lawn, looking like a cross between a disturbed buffalo and an energetic boarding-school matron, suitably preened for the occasion.
"Oh, Dickie, this is a lovely surprise," she declared. "And you've brought two new girl-friends with you, you lucky boy." She turned to Betty whom she instantly elected leader. "He'll be horribly outnumbered today, but we ladies shan't mind a bit, shall we. Come on in, all of you, the kettle's just boiled."
"That means it's been simmering since nine o'clock," I murmured to Angela. "By now the contents will be eighty percent limestone, so be warned - the coffee's likely to taste gritty. Mother, meet Betty and Angela. And try to remember the third one's called Richard."
"And how long have you all been friends?" she needed to know.
Betty proved to be one of a rare breed who knew instinctively how to handle Mother.
"Angela and I have known each other for decades," she volunteered, "and we both knew Richard before we went to America."
"So you're used to some of Dickie's funny little ways, then?"
"We're learning fast, Mrs. Bird," Betty confided. "And despite his shortcomings, he is rather a pet. At least, I think so."
"You'd better call me Mary," Mother declared. "He calls me the Old Hen, which is disgustingly rude, but I have to tolerate it. He's been doing it for thirty-odd years and I can't find a way to stop him."
Mother led us into the long lounge where her best china had been brought out for our arrival. Then a loud hiss of steam sent her scurrying to the kitchen with cries of "Lord have Mercy, there goes the milk!"
"Can we help?" Betty called after her.
"No problem," came a loud bellow. "Caught it in time. Good job I'm a nimble old bird. You sit still and make yourselves at home. Dickie, why don't you put on some music for your guests? That favourite record of yours would be nice, I haven't heard it for such a long time."
"That was a command," I sighed to the girls. "We'd best comply."
I went over to the music centre and found something suitable for background listening, though there was only a meagre selection consisting of the very items I'd chosen to leave behind.
"How many years have you lived here?" Angela enquired suddenly, her first words since we arrived.
When I told her I was born in the room directly above, both ladies raised their eyes to the ceiling as if some commemorative plaque should have been on display. I promised a guided tour as soon as they were ready.
"No hurry," said Betty with a smile. "It's very relaxing here with this lovely warm sun streaming in from outside."
"Soporific," Angela added. "Or maybe the jet-lag's still haunting us."
"Whatever it is," Betty decided, "I feel at peace here. It's lovely."
"Good," I said, though personally I found the house far from peaceful.
Mother Hen came striding in and poured four cups of very strong coffee, the kind that sets your teeth revolving in their sockets. The girls may noted the same sensation, but they sipped it politely and said nothing.
"I hope you like it thick," Mother barked, "I know Dickie does."
In other words, girls, if your coffee's unpleasant, blame it on my son. I added a substantial quantity of milk, changing its hue from sepia to Van Dyke brown, and as Betty did the same I caught a quizzical glance that suggested she could have made better coffee in a concrete mixer.
Meanwhile Mother provided an endless flow of conversation, typical of anyone who lives alone - six weeks of detailed news for me, months of stale gossip I was doomed to hear again, and a lifetime of anecdotes for the two girls, describing many best forgotten moments from my childhood. Most of it I found exceedingly embarrassing, but at least she kept my companions entertained, revealing that I once had a streak in my character that could euphemistically be described as boyish.
"I remember Dickie going up that tree," Mother prattled on, pointing to the front garden. "Do you remember, Dickie? He must have been five, and instead of going to the lavatory like a good little boy, he chose to try target practice on the passers-by ..."
So it went on. I was mortified, but heartened to see Angela smiling proudly at me. Soon, I thought, Mother Hen is going to stick her claws in with some awkward questions about how we first met.
"So," she boomed suddenly, "I presume you're going steady with one of these girls, Dickie? Which one is it?"
"And if not, why not?" Betty added for light relief.
I wanted to hide. "They're both equally charming ladies, Mother, but I haven't known either of them long enough to suggest such an arrangement."
"You're too slow, Dickie, that's your trouble - it always has been. By the time you've made your mind up, a dozen will have moved in ahead of you." She turned to the girls. "He's thirty-two, you know, and I really think he should be married and settled down by now. My husband and I were married at twenty-three, and things were much more formal then, not like nowadays - young people shacking up, left, right, and centre, with anyone who takes their fancy. That's no way to carry on."
In defence I said that when I did find someone I wanted to marry, I wouldn't rock the boat by being impetuous.
"Impetuous? You? I'll believe that when I see you standing at the altar, Dickie, not before. Anyone care for more coffee? I can soon reheat it in the microwave."
We all said how super it had been, but declined.
"So what were you planning to do today, Dickie? I think you ought to show your friends around the town." Before I could respond, she went on: "It's so pretty at this time of year. You'll find a charming little river called the Windrush - more of a stream, really - running right though the middle of Bourton. And you must see the model village. Dickie was always very keen on that when he was little."
"Are you planning to feed us here," I asked, "or shall we go out for lunch somewhere?"
"You don't want to do any more driving today, Dickie, surely."
"That depends," I said. "We may need to return home this evening."
"You're not going back to London tonight, Dickie. That's absurd. Of course you'll be staying here. We've got plenty of room if your guests don't mind sharing?"
Sharing? I was horrified. I had assured my friends there were four bedrooms. Now they would doubtless think I had conned them. Before they could voice any concern, I felt bound to say something on the girls' behalf.
"Maybe they'd prefer a little privacy, Mother. Perhaps one of them snores, who knows? If you're short of beds I'll happily sleep down here on the settee."
"You'll do no such thing," the woman confronted me dangerously. "Whatever next? I'm not having this room turned into a pigsty, thank you very much."
"We'll see how things work out later in the day," I suggested. "Meanwhile let's go for a stroll through the town. Are you coming too?"
I was merely being polite in asking, and I prayed she would decline.
"Provided you don't go far, Dickie. My legs aren't as young as they used to be."
Mother fetched her hat and coat and insisted on bringing an umbrella.
"There are storms forecast later," she said, "not that I see any sign of them. I sometimes wonder if those weather girls know what they're talking about half the time. They all look far too young."
We savoured the warm autumn sunshine, and wandered slowly down the road towards the centre of town. Angela remarked that she hadn't seen this area of the Cotswolds before, and seemed entranced by its gentle colouring and quiet rural charm. Betty sidled up to me and tugged at my arm, letting the others walk on while we pretended to admire an old thatched cottage.
"I'm not thrilled about sharing," she whispered. "What do you suggest?"
"Don't worry," I assured her, "we can just as easily go back tonight if you wish. I've no objections to night driving. You can both crash out in the car." An unfortunate choice of words, after little Jonathan's fatal accident. I hastily added that sharing might be a good way to end the rift.
"There's no rift, Richard. I'd just feel more at ease in a room of my own, that's all."
"I am sorry. There are plenty of hotels in Bourton, but Mother would wet her knickers if we suggested that. No, I'll gladly head for Betchworth again whenever you say the word, though I still don't understand why anyone needs to share - the house has four bedrooms. That's why I suggested you both came."
"Next time maybe you'll leave one of us behind. That'd suit me, as long as you pick the right girl. Our trips to Bourton could be the start of an on-going friendship."
The others had realised we were dawdling and stood waiting for us on the corner.
"Isn't this all charming," Betty said, to cover our delay. "It's like a picture postcard."
"Bourton's usually crammed full of people trying to take their own snaps," Mother added with a tone of disapproval. "They come down in coach loads during the summer season. Not so bad in term time, with all the children back in school where they belong."
"Oh, what darling little bridges," Angela exclaimed as we reached the river. "Oh, I do wish I'd brought my camera. Aren't you lucky, living down here."
"I'd be a lot luckier if my children lived nearby," Mother remarked, determined to be overheard. "Young people nowadays don't appreciate their parents. When I'm dead and gone, he'll be crying his eyes out because he hasn't got a Mum to come and visit any more. I hope you both appreciate your parents more than Dickie does."
"I lost my mother when I was very young," Angela informed her quietly, "and my father died just four weeks ago."
This stunned Mother into a welcome silence for at least three minutes.
"You might have warned me, Dickie," she hissed as Betty and Angela visited a souvenir shop. "I feel awful about what I said just now. That poor girl - you really should have told me."
"When?" I asked. "Did you expect me to explain in front of them? I don't think there's any harm done."
"But I may have upset her terribly. The pretty one, I mean."
"Then for the record, please note that the other one is divorced and her four-year-old son died last week. That's why I brought them both down to meet you. I thought a change of scene might do them good."
"I still want to know which one you prefer," Mother persisted. "Oh, I do hope it's not the divorced one, Dickie - you know your father's views on divorce. Does she have other children?"
"No, just the one. Then her marriage broke up."
The maternal tongue clicked disapprovingly. "Well, I really hope you're not thinking of marrying a divorced woman, Dickie. Your father would turn in his grave if he knew."
"Then you must turn all your charms onto Angela, Mother. Besides, it's early days yet."
"Huh! That's as may be." And if Mother ever understood what that meant, she never explained it to me.
The girls came out of the gift shop, and Mother Hen began work on Angela, chatting her up like a market salesman offering the bargain of a lifetime.
Betty noticed. "What do you suppose they're talking about?"
"I dread to think. Ruining my chances of a good friendship, although I doubt if much of it'll make sense to Angela. I just hope it's not further revelations about my deviant childhood."
"Did you really pee on people from your tree?"
"I hope it was made clear that I was only five. Besides, it was a long climb down to the toilet. I'm sure any enterprising chimp would have done the same."
"There!" she cried. "You've put your finger on it, Richard. I knew you reminded me of something. So what else did you get up to as a little boy? Are you an only child?"
I explained I was an only son with two sisters, both younger and both married.
"And is Mother Hen a granny?"
"Not yet. The girls can't afford families, they're too busy paying off mortgages - and that's another subject Mother holds strong views on. Man was born to earn the money, while it's a woman's duty to sit at home and have a succession of babies. That's how things were in her day, and that's how things should be now if the world conformed to Mother's philosophy."
"And where do your sisters live now?"
"One's in New York," I said, "the other's in Southern Ireland. Like me, they found the poor soul in front of us impossible to live with. The girls are both nurses, though the one in America can't do any nursing because of immigration laws. That makes her mad. There are so many people in the Big Apple crying out for the care she could offer, but she's not allowed to give it. Her husband's English, you see, working out there on a three year contract."
Betty nodded her understanding. "American work permits - the mighty green card, tell me about it! Though when I was there I was allowed to work, being the mother of a..."
We both fell silent. I didn't know whether to be chatty and lift Betty's spirits, or to be kind and risk upsetting her? Why do I never know what to say?
"I guess it doesn't do to ask questions about the past," I remarked.
"It just catches me unawares sometimes. But I'm all right." Betty pressed my hand to prove it. "And thanks for letting us tag along today, Richard, it's fun. Just what we all needed."
"And what's your initial impression of Mother Hen?"
"God! Richard, she'd make a formidable mother-in-law. I wouldn't want to find myself disagreeing with her on a subject I felt strongly about. But I'll admit I'm fascinated by some of the tales she tells of her little Dickie. Wince-wince! Come on, what else did you get up to as a lad?"
I mentioned my train set, remnants of which were still in the attic.
"Mother never goes up there," I said. "I've told her it's a mass of cobwebs, and she's terrified of spiders - though the excuse she'll give you is that her joints are stiff. And it is deplorably dusty - certainly not the showpiece I once intended. But if you're interested, I might smuggle you up for a quick peep. You could even sleep up there if you prefer."
"Thanks," she groaned. "Why don't you volunteer for that?"
"In that house, Betty, nobody volunteers. You are told. And we'd better ask what's happening about lunch. Do we want to eat out, or trot back home for a quick feed? Time to confer with Mother Hen."
To entertain Betty I make a loud clucking sound, and Mother wheeled round at once.
"You haven't done that for years, Dickie," she exclaimed, reluctantly amused by the nostalgia but frowning at my boisterous behaviour in a public place. Had it been the Sabbath, I would have been given stern reminders about God's dislike of frivolity.
"On the subject of food," I said as we congregated. "We might try a pub lunch, Mother, if you'll bury your pride for once. I could slip the landlord a fiver and smuggle you in under a blanket if you think anyone may be watching."
"Surely we can find somewhere nicer than a public house?" she exclaimed. "I can quickly prepare a meal at home."
Memories of coffee prompted Angela to admit she wasn't particularly hungry, to which Betty added her whole-hearted support.
"Then why don't we go and see the model village?" I suggested. "We can eat when we get home."
I might have known Mother would have other ideas.
"Wouldn't you rather see the model village tomorrow after church?"
I reminded her we hadn't yet agreed about staying overnight.
"Then what precisely is the deciding factor?" she demanded, rising to her full height and peering down like a Dickensian magistrate. "Either you have to get back to London for some appointment, or you don't. What do you need to make up your mind? A call from Buckingham Palace?"
"The truth is, Mother," I lied feebly, "I have a number of other jobs I ought to be doing this weekend."
"The real truth is you'll be sick of my company by tea time," she challenged me.
"Perhaps I can explain the problem," Angela chipped in. "I'm not very happy about sharing a bedroom with anyone else."
Mother cast cold scrutiny towards Betty, eyeing her with unnerving disapproval. "And why not? You'll surely share a room when you get married."
"But I don't intend to marry yet," Angela confronted her bravely, and Mother's accusing stare turned my way, as if I'd deliberately misled her.
"I think we might try sharing just this once," Betty volunteered, "if Angela doesn't mind. The trouble is I snore, and that keeps everyone else awake."
"You wouldn't keep me awake," Mother insisted. "You're welcome to share with me if that'll solve the problem."
Betty looked at Angela, trying to suppress inappropriate laughter. Angela looked first at Betty, then at me, and seemed on the point of bursting into tears.
"I'll readily share with either of them," I grinned, and we all stared at Mother who was horrified.
"Well, we needn't make an issue of it," she pronounced judgement. "If you decide to stay, Dickie can sleep downstairs."
"Now why didn't someone suggest that an hour ago?" I murmured.
In the model village, itself a miniature of Bourton-on-the-Water, Angela was intrigued by the tiny church from which came the strains of recorded organ music. Betty's fascination focussed on the scaled-down model of the model village, which contained, understandably, a model of the model of the model. She seemed even convinced that a tiny grain of concrete represented a fourth generation.
Eventually we all confessed to being hungry, and trudged back to the house against high winds. This time I walked beside Angela, leaving Betty to share the pleasure of Mother's company.
"I hope it's been an interesting outing," I said. "You've been very quiet. Is everything okay?"
"I'm still feeling very weary and a bit disorientated," she confided. "I've had several bad nights, and I'm full of self-doubt, wondering where my life is leading. I don't mean to be a drag."
"Hardly a drag. A slight dilemma, maybe, but we can handle that. You seem to get on well with Mother Hen. I saw you both chatting quite amiably."
"Yes." Angela gave a puzzled frown. "I'm curious though. What have you been telling her about me?"
"I haven't had time to tell her anything," I said. "But she does have a lively imagination, I did try to warn you."
"Oh, she's all right. But I've been thinking a lot today, about myself. I can't go on living under Betty's roof, not now. It'll be too big a strain for both of us."
"So what will you do?"
"I don't know, Richard, I really don't know. A lot depends on how much money comes out of the estate."
"Well, your friends won't let you down, Angie. You're welcome under my roof any time, provided you keep my offer a secret from the large lady."
"You are sweet, Richard, and very kind, but I feel suspended in a sort of sickening limbo at the moment. It's quite frightening too, not knowing what'll happen with the house, and so on. I obviously need to find some kind of a job, but I don't know how or what I'll be any good at. I couldn't bear the thought of working all day in an office."
"We'll find you something," I encouraged her. "Let's have another long chat one night, either on the phone or sitting in the dark, discussing what's best for you. I know what I'd like you to do, but we can talk about that later. And, don't feel depressed please, not on a nice day like this."
While Mother prepared what she called High Tea, I took Betty and Angela on a tour of the house. My own bedroom was much as I'd left it after previous visits.
"It definitely contains your personality," both girls decided. I think they were tactfully trying to say it was untidy.
I soon discovered that one of the four bedrooms was being extensively redecorated, and had a stern warning pinned to the door, forbidding entry over newly varnished floorboards. With some apprehension, I went on to show my guests the remaining spare room with its twin beds.
I turned to face them, resting a gentle hand on each girl's shoulder.
"Listen, gang," I said softly. "We know there was a problem last night, and I'm willing to pull the plug on this trip whenever either of you says she's had enough. Of course, we'll try not to be discourteous to Mother Hen. A silent exodus at three a.m. wouldn't go down too well. But we're intelligent adults and it's best we talk openly with those we feel close to. I don't believe honesty kills friendship, nor do I recommend friendships being founded on dishonesty. I realise I speak merely as a newcomer to this happy trio, but I claim we're all fond of each other in our various idiotic ways."
"You ought to go on stage," said Betty, her eyes glistening as she came again to entwine her arms around my neck. I extended an arm to include Angela, making it a cosy threesome.
"Anyone interested in sharing my darkest secret?" I whispered as we reached the landing.
They both looked at me with eager interest, and stood expectantly as I pulled down a ladder giving access to the loft. We each climbed, Angela following last because she was wearing a skirt. I have been trained to behave as a gentleman, despite my very human thoughts and basic desires.
Though my railway was no longer operational, there was still plenty to see once we got used to the gloom - four passenger trains and three freight trains, now derailed and covered in dust. The layout extended the full length of the house, long baseboards carrying many tracks at different heights, repeatedly crossing over and under one another with needless complexity so as to excite and delight the childish mind.
"If I could afford a house like the one in Little Bookham," I said, "I'd have room for this lot. But my flat doesn't allow for such luxuries."
"Didn't you get lonely up here," Angela asked, "playing in the dark all by yourself?"
"Don't be personal," said Betty. "Some men enjoy playing with themselves."
A loud and ridiculous clucking noise came from below, and to Angela's amusement I responded in similar vein.
"Fear not," I explained, "this isn't a mad house. Either food is ready, or we're expected to lend a hand."
We made our way down to the kitchen, and Angela, the first to arrive, felt it right to enthuse about my model railway.
"Oh, Richard, really!" scolded Mother, "you didn't take them up there? And dressed like that too?"
"They didn't get any dust on their clothes," I insisted.
"That isn't what I meant," she added with a scowl.
"You seemed keen enough to tell them all about my tree-climbing," I reminded her. "I decided to let them see a more worthy remnant of my childhood." I turned to the girls. "But I am still a little boy at heart, I hope that's clear."
"We trust you've grown out of some unsociable habits," Betty grinned.
"I bet you didn't tell them about everything you used to do in your attic," Mother added, much to my annoyance. "You know well enough what I mean - claiming you were up there playing with trains."
Betty seemed keen to hear more, but I quickly changed the subject.
"No-one wants to know about that, Mother. Can we be useful?"
"Yes, set the dining-room table. Let Dickie do that - he knows where everything is. One of your friends can cut the cheese up for me, and the other can make the tea - then we'll be just about ready to serve."
I set the table on my own, and tried to overhear what was being said in the kitchen about the darker side of my childhood. Was it a mistake to bring my friends here? And what would eventually be decided about sleeping quarters?
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