Free Dastardly Deeds by Ilsa Evans Page A

eighteenth birthday there. We’ve always wanted to go. Pay our respects.’
    ‘Oh, he was killed there?’ I looked at them both with sympathy.
    ‘That’s right,’ said Ashley. ‘But fortunately he’d just posted enough sperm home to father both our dads.’
    Nick spat beer across the table. A straight line of foam soaked into the tablecloth.
    ‘Very funny,’ I said disdainfully.
    ‘Well, think about it Nell. He was our
grandfather
.’
    ‘And for all I know, he might have impregnated half of Melbourne before he left. Seventeen-year-olds are like rabbits.’
    ‘Which would make my father about one hundred years old. He would have been past fifty when he fathered me.’
    ‘A reaction to the promiscuity of his own father. He wanted to be the opposite.’
    ‘She’s got you there,’ said Nick. He shot me an appreciative glance.
    ‘Why is the cloth wet?’ asked Enid grumpily. ‘Did someone spill my wine?’
    ‘You finished them yourself,’ I said, swallowing a smile.
    Right on cue, a wine waiter materialised to replenish our drinks. She was closely followed by the stocky waiter to collect orders for the meal. We all hurriedly make selections. Petra and Lew arrived in the middle of this, the latter immediately causing a fuss over the rearrangement of the table to accommodate his wheelchair. Petra gave Ashley a hug and was introduced to Nick.
    As everybody settled, I glanced across at Ashley and he gave me a broad wink. I raised an eyebrow.
Man flirts with woman on cruise. Sociologists baffled.
    The truth was that I was feeling seriously chuffed. When I was young, about the same age as my daughters were now, I had assumed that flirtation, and being obviously admired, was something that lost much of its allure as one aged. I was an idiot. It was as enjoyable, and ego-boosting, as it ever had been. Perhaps even more so. My ego
really
needed some boosting. Ashley could be infuriating beyond words, and sometimes our conversations were more joust-like than I would have preferred, but I never felt that I wasn’t at the centre of his attention. This trip, already quite amazingly wonderful, had just gained a whole new layer of interest.

Chapter 7
    Other things that make me grumpy are people who drive slow in the fast lane, politicians, speedos, 4WDs, health insurance, and that guy on
Game of Thrones
who skins everyone.
    Morning found us back on the same bus, with the same driver, and with Ali standing once more in the centre aisle speaking about olives. I was even wearing the same outfit as the previous day, except I had replaced the floral hat with plain black felt. There was still a lot of traffic in Canakkale, with a line of buses waiting for the ferry that would carry us over the Dardanelle Straits. As we drew closer, it became obvious that the ferry itself was huge, with room for about five buses closely parked in the hold. The Russos stood nearby waiting, all of them smiling except Griffin.
    Once aboard the ferry, we were allowed to sit upstairs, where we were surrounded by hawkers whose speciality appeared to be multi-coloured slippers. Tepid sunshine kept the weather mild, with even the breeze noncommittal. It had a tranquillity that suited my mood perfectly. This was due in no small part to the enjoyment of the previous evening. After dinner we had adjourned to the piano bar for drinks. Even Enid had joined us. The easy conversation had revealed several interesting pieces of information. For instance, Nick had a wife and a pigeon pair of children back home, Lew thought Scott was a poser and Donald a wet blanket, Enid had worked as a nurse for fifty-two years before retirement, and Ashley was quite definitely keen. On me.
    The ferry chugged smoothly into the port. Disembarking took a while and then the buses formed a convoy as they drove along the coast towards Gallipoli. The skill of the drivers was put to the test as the road narrowed; other buses had parked haphazardly along the verge. Our driver steered