Free I Conquer Britain by Dyan Sheldon Page B

front of the house. To tell the truth, I didn’t hear the BMW, what I heard were the dogs. One second the only sounds were the occasional muffled grunt or thud from Robert above me or a car passing by, and the next it sounded like somebody had opened the gates of Hell and let out the hounds.
    I came out of the pose and went to the window.
    Caroline was standing on the sidewalk by the passenger’s door holding her flowery umbrella, while two brown and white spaniels hurled themselves against her, barking hysterically like she had fresh meat in her pockets.
    I’d thought I had a pretty good idea of what Caroline’s mother was like. I figured she was going to be one of those sweet, frail, dithery old English ladies like Miss Marple (but probably not a crack detective). You know, in the grey skirt and pastel blouse and an old straw hat with a flower on it. The kind who’s always forgetting where she put her knitting. I leaned forward as Caroline opened the door to see how good a guess I’d made.
    I wasn’t even close. (Lesson for Today: Don’t get fooled by stereotypes!)
    “Oh, for God’s sake, Caroline!” She barked louder than the dogs. “How can I possibly get out when you’re blocking my way?”
    Caroline took a step backwards, and moved the umbrella forwards. “I’m so sorry, Mum. I was only trying to—”
    “And get that bloody umbrella away from me. You’re going to poke my eye out.”
    “I’m sorry,” bleated Caroline. “But you’ll get wet.”
    “It’s water,” roared her mother. “Not acid. If you want to be useful see that the boys don’t knock me down.”
    Pinning the umbrella under her arm, Caroline grabbed hold of the dogs and hauled them back from the car to let her mother out.
    Caroline’s mother (otherwise known as Poor Old Mum) probably didn’t even know what sweet and frail meant. She was built like a silo. And forget the grey skirt and pastel blouse and straw hat malarkey. She was wearing an electric-blue pants suit, matching turban and enough gold jewellery to sink a rowboat. She looked more like some eccentric Queen than Miss Marple. (One who’s always giving orders and lopping off people’s heads.)
    “Drake! Raleigh!” she bellowed as she heaved herself out of the car on her walking stick. “Settle down!”
    The dogs had been yanking Caroline in all directions, but they immediately dropped to the ground. They knew their master’s voice when they heard it.
    “You have to let them know you’re boss,” snapped Poor Old Mum. And she marched past Caroline, who was struggling with the dogs and the umbrella again and trying to lock the car at the same time, and up the path pretty spryly for someone whose back was wracked with incredible pain.
    I didn’t know if I should just go downstairs and introduce myself or wait to be called. I opened the door to my room while I was thinking about it. I could hear Poor Old Mum in the kitchen. She had a voice that was loud enough to call the pigs in five counties, and that wasn’t even when she was shouting. That was when she was just having a conversation.
    “Of course I’m not going to say anything,” she was bellowing. “What do I care if she looks like Morticia Addams?”
    In comparison, Caroline’s voice was like the rustle of leaves in the next yard, but I figured that whatever she was saying the words “I’m so sorry” were probably involved.
    “Are you implying
I’m
not diplomatic?” boomed Poor Old Mum. “Have you forgotten that my Uncle Farquah was in the Foreign Office? Diplomacy is in my blood.”
    Rustle … rustle … rustle … rustle…
    “You do exaggerate, don’t you, Caroline? It was all a silly misunderstanding. And he certainly didn’t start a war. It was nothing more than a border skirmish.”
    I decided to go down, but I only got as far as the bottom of the stairs when Hell’s spaniels came charging out of the kitchen, barking like police dogs trying to tell you that there’s a little kid down the