Free Chasing Men by Edwina Currie Page B

have a baby-sitter.’ Mrs McDonald’s speech was richly accented, and she spoke so low that it was hard to understand her.
    Hetty bent closer. ‘Are the children all right? D’you need me to pop down and –?’
    ‘No, they’ll be fine. They’re watching the telly and eating a Chinese takeaway. Bit of a treat for them. And they know where we are.’ Mrs McDonald smiled faintly.
    They were not – odd, exactly, Hetty reckoned. A mite out of place, maybe. The wife was about five feet four, dumpy, plain, with a careworn face. The husband was Hetty’s height and thin, his face shadowy. He might have been slightly younger than his spouse – under forty. He wore a cheap grey suit, a blue shirt and tie. Both, indeed, had dressed up, a compliment to her. Perhaps they were not asked out much.
    ‘Are you both from up north?’
    ‘We are. From Cathcart. Glasgow, that is.’
    ‘Have you been down here long?’ The conversation had a forced quality, but Mrs McDonald did not appear ill at ease. Her husband said nothing; his eyes darted, but his mind seemed partly elsewhere. The pair stood so close that they gave an impression of being joined at the hip, needing no contact with anyone else.
    ‘About three years. We’ve been married seven; the children were born in Scotland. We came down here for the work – my husband’s a lorry driver.’
    ‘Oh.’ Hetty felt puzzled. ‘Were there no openings for lorry drivers in Scotland?’
    ‘Long-distance. He couldn’t get home nights. But we’re getting used to London. Better now the children have lost their accents – they don’t get teased so at school.’
    ‘Well! If ever I can help …’ Hetty stopped. That was unwise. She did not intend to get stuck as a regular baby-sitter, not for complete strangers, though the children had been well behaved when she saw them.
    ‘Thank you for that, Mrs Clarkson, but we’re okay. We don’t go out often. This is quite a treat for us too.’
    On the other side of the room Sally was signalling for her attention. One of the men – Stuart? Ted? – was trying to chat her up, an approach clearly not to Sally’s taste. Hetty moved adroitly away from the quiet couple, as she had begun to dub them, but not before adding, ‘Enjoy yourselves. Food’s coming. And please call me Hetty.’
    Sally pursued her into the kitchen. With Doris’s help, Hetty transferred the hot pastries and dumplings to platters and thrust one into her daughter’s hands, along with a wad of napkins. ‘Go serve,’ she ordered. Sally pursed her lips and did as she was told.
    Doris’s eyes followed her in curiosity. ‘She’s not much like you, your daughter, isshe?’ she said.
    This was not the time for confidences; in any case, Hetty knew that her worries about Sally would have to be resolved with the girl herself, if at all, and with no one else. ‘Too darn like her father,’ she replied briskly. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. Had two glasses of wine. Goes to my head. Isn’t it awful?’
    ‘Have another.’ The old lady grinned. ‘You’re much more relaxed. Doing you good, it is.’ She peeped round the door. ‘Is that your mother? I’d like to meet her.’
    ‘Oh, yes. Excellent idea. Remiss of me. Wait.’ Hetty grabbed a second tray and sailed out into the room. Was it her imagination, or had the music changed? Madonna, maybe, or an imitator. Not one of her own. The noise level was higher, too: everyone, apart from the silent McDonalds, seemed lively and happy. The eats were vanishing fast – she should have bought more. Eight empty bottles already! Everyone would soon be pie-eyed. Oh, well, that was the objective.
    Her mother was leaning against a table edge, elegantly displaying her figure in a maroon Jean Muir dress and jacket. The Colonel was half bent over her and appeared to be whispering something entertaining in her ear. Hetty smiled sweetly, took her mother’s arm and led her towards the kitchen. ‘You planning to marry him,