Ancestral Hazard

By Lucy Abelson

Heritage can be dangerous for the past does not always mix well with the present as journalist Impey Dalrymple finds. She introduces Natty Bell, her childhood playmate, now a celebrity television interviewer, to her new friend, an elderly widow Lady Olga Brancaster. The favours she hoped to do for her friends implode as spectres are unleashed. When Natty investigates, Olga's life starts to unravel. Scandals in her private life rock her social standing. Already her role as President of the prestigious traditional Bisley Heath Golf club is threatened by her feud with the current Lady Captain, dazzling star player Flick Challenger. When one finds the other battered in a bunker, the club plunges into a crisis. Whilst the club's most prominent member lies in hospital in a coma, first a handicapped child, then a much loved dog disappears. Caught in the fray, Impey is drawn into the role of sleuth. Using her knowledge of animal behaviour she has to suss out who are the real friends in her life and who are enemies

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucy Abelson
• Release date: Jul 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310724725

Lucy Abelson

Lucy Abelson was born in a small English village in the county of Norfolk. She grew up in Kent where her father ran a small tutorial establishment and her mother was a doctor. Since her parents met on the golf course playing mixed foursomes, the Wildernesse country club played a big part in family life for Lucy and her two brothers. Ever the embryo journalist, Lucy listened avidly to her parents discussions about the various issues and sometimes scandals that beset the local golf world.Lucy spent much of her time outside school in the children's corner of the Sevenoaks bookshop. There she won a general knowledge competition set by the bookshop. This led to a ceremony with the renowned children's author Noel Streatfield presenting the prizes. On hearing the ten year old wanted to be a "writer like you" when she grew up, the great author responded, to hoots of laughter from the assembled grown-ups, "this little girl wants to steal my job". The late Noel might be glad to know the adult Lucy writes mostly crime novels, specialising in the golf world.Her writing career started in her school days when she contributed to magazines. Rebelling against her intellectual family, she eschewed going to university because she had a fixation with writing about "real people" so she was delighted to start a career in magazine journalism writing on a variety of subjects from travel to celebrity interviews and general features. She progressed on to newspapers writing a finance for women column for the Sunday Telegraph from where she moved to the Sunday Express initially writing for the financial pages, specialising in interviews. After her third child was born handicapped, to look after her, Lucy gave up office work but accepted an offer to write a domestic column from home.Now her children are grown-up, Lucy has returned to her first ambition, to write fiction. She is now an enthusiastic amateur golfer and has spent some time as a referee, which together with her inherited experience of the game has put her in a good position to be a doyen of the golf novel.

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Ancestral Hazard

by

Lucy Abelson

First published in Great Britain by the Lone Hare Press

Copyright Lucy Abelson 2009

Smashwords Edition 2014

This book is fiction. All the characters in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Incidents that take place in real places are also imaginary. Any likeness to a living person is entirely co-incidental.

It is customary at this point for the publisher to include lavish praises of the author’s work from fellow writers and celebrities. Only you dear reader are about to enter the realm of Bisley Heath whose President, Lady Olga Brancaster, would frown on such exhibitionism. Hence The Lone Hare Press has decided the practice is not within the spirit of this book.

This book is dedicated to Katy Thompson, and all her extended family who are lifelong friends in my life’s story.

Golfe, it bewrayeth ye charactere

How golf bewrays the character! You may know a man for years, yet discover new traits in him on the links. Characteristics long buried beneath convention are suddenly resuscitated; foibles sedulously suppressed spring into existence; hereditary instincts lying dormant reveal themselves.

From The Mystery of Golf by Arnold Haultain

First published in 1908

Republished by Houghton Mifflin Company 2000

CHAPTERS

Prologue A Jackdaw’s Trophy

Chapter 1 Lunch in London

Chapter 2 A Hospital visit

Chapter 3 Captain meets Captain

Chapter 4 Tea with Lady Olga Brancaster

Chapter 5 Petrushka arrives

Chapter 6 A Dinner party

Chapter 7 The ‘Big Girls’ meet

Chapter 8 A Hospital admission

Chapter 9 Impey detects

Chapter 10 The Police call on Flick

Chapter 11 Wednesday at the Clubhouse

Chapter 12 Hector breaks out

Chapter 13 Albertine shows her mettle

Chapter 14 Jack helps out

Chapter 15 The Journalists convene

Chapter 16 A Ransom letter

Chapter 17 Impey calls on Dodger

Chapter 18 The Out of bounds family

Chapter 19 Hector in danger

Chapter 20 Petrushka plays at Bisley Heath

Chapter 21 Gerald’s woes

Chapter 22 Current Events on Television

Chapter 23 Someone returns

Chapter 24 Another disappearance

Chapter 25 Lunch at Badgers Lodge

Chapter 26 At home with Sam Wolfe

Chapter 27 Flick pays a debt

Chapter 28 Dodger picks a pocket

Chapter 29 Winner takes all

Chapter 30 All is revealed

Epilogue

Author Biography

Acknowledgements

The Bisley Heath series

Coming soon

Prologue

A Jackdaw’s trophy

One year before the main event

Sam struggled to remove her bra. She pulled her shirt out of her trousers before she put her hands up inside it to release the catch. Ooh, she gasped as she arched her back, these shirts are supposed to stretch.

It would be easier, Flick observed, to take the shirt off, but that was too uninhibited even for Sam. The diva was well-known enough to attract a little clump of spectators gathered a few yards away.

There was a muffled ping as she finally unhooked her bra. She waggled her arms out of her shirt sleeves to pull the straps off her shoulders. With her arms pinioned to her side, she wriggled like a clockwork toy inside her tight sports shirt to pull out the bra.

Bit cold for this, she shivered as she exposed a muscular midriff. When we did the striptease game in Australia, people were happy to play in bikinis.

Should have been all right here on Midsummer’s day, just bad luck it’s so breezy. Flick turned round. Her full lower lip dropped revealing the gap between her two front teeth as she gasped, Wow! That’s some upholstery.

On the grass between them, the vast cups of Sam’s silvery white bra glinted in the sunlight. Flick blinked. They looked as though they had diamonds sewn on them.

That’s some wind, Sam chuckled good-humouredly as it blew her bra down the yellow stony path. Then she cried, Oh shit!

A violent gust seized the garment which scuttled along the ground. Pulling down her shirt as she ran, her large bust flopping up and down, Sam chased after her escaping underwear.

Flick grabbed her golf trolley. With her own pushed ahead, she pulled Sam’s behind her down the path to the raised green mound of the next teeing ground. Don’t worry, she called. Someone’ll pick it up.

When Sam turned round, Flick gestured at some spectators who stood on the edge of the fairway in a respectful clump. A couple of men darted towards the bra as it gambolled along the grass.

Oh no! Like a choir, not quite in time or tune with each other, the exclamation echoed in various tones.

Before anyone could reach it, a black bird swooped down to pick up the spangled underwear. With the bra dangled from his beak like a trophy, the thief flew away, a gleam in his white ringed eyes.

Impey was in the lounge having coffee with Lady Olga Brancaster when the bird flew by the clubhouse.

Good Heavens! Exclaimed an elderly lady who sat at the table with them, What has that crow got in its beak?

It’s a jackdaw, said Impey, They’re terrible thieves; I think it’s stolen a bra. Look there it is over there now. She pointed to a large oak tree about twenty yards from the clubhouse where the bird perched on a branch. Something’s hanging from that bird’s beak. She dipped into her handbag to take out the powerful little binoculars she carried to use for birdwatching. With her head craned to the side she could see the jackdaw clearly. He’s definitely got a bra.

A brassière? Lady Olga’s eye brows lifted into her furrowed forehead. Why on earth’s he got that?

It sparkled, said Impey, jackdaws like things that shine.

Yes, you’re right, said the elderly lady, remember that poem about the Jackdaw of Rheims that stole the Cardinal’s turquoise ring?

It’s one thing to take off a bit of jewellery, but underwear’s quite a different matter. What on earth can be happening on the course? Lady Olga sniffed. Nigel, Nigel she clicked her fingers as she called across the room.

A tall thin man in beige cavalry twills and a sports jacket hastened to the table where Olga sat with her friends. She gestured at the picture window, That looks like a very raggle taggle society out there.

Nigel fingered the knot of his blue and gold striped tie as he shook his head, It’s a charity event.

The side of Lady Olga’s mouth puckered as she raised her left nostril. You mean to say you’ve let these people stray all over our course removing garments for free? I thought they were taking things off because they were hot, but now I’m told it’s underwear. I can’t see it myself. My eyes aren’t what they were, but Impey says a bird’s taken a brassière.

Nigel shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Unfortunately we were not informed until this week that one aspect of the competition was that ladies should remove a garment when they blobbed a hole.

That’s outrageous! Lady Olga’s deep voice rose in disgust. How could you allow such a thing?

Nigel clasped his long sinewy hands together. Once the ladies score a point, they’re allowed to replace something. Most of them have come with innocuous extras like arm bands which they shovel on and off. It is in aid of charity.

Charities are the excuse for far too many ridiculous exploits, said Lady Olga. Anyway, how can the club afford to give away the course?

That’s the point. Nigel undid his hands to slice the air with his right one. The competition’s being sponsored by a company which makes sports apparel.

Underwear I presume, said Olga.

Not exactly; they’re an off-shoot of a large Russian mining company. ‘Minerals for health and beauty’ is their slogan.

Sounds most dubious to me. Lady Olga’s left nostril lifted again.

Nigel shrugged. Beggars can’t be choosers. In these lean days we haven’t got people queuing up to join the club. For the first time in years we’ve got spaces in the ladies section which means we’re down on entrance fees.

We’ll have to see about that. Lady Olga turned to a friend at the table. You’d like to join wouldn’t you Pippa?

Well, I’m not sure, faltered a pretty lady with curly grey hair. She fingered a silver cross hanging from a chain round her neck, I don’t really know if....

Come on dear. We really must get the right sort of people in the club.

Impey smiled to herself as she kept her glasses trained on the oak tree. Now was perhaps not the right moment to tell them the jackdaw had abandoned his trophy. The bird was gone leaving the bra. It hung glittering from a high branch.

Chapter 1 Lunch in London

Impey lingered in the food hall. The luxurious sweet and savoury smells in her nostrils tickled memories. Guiltily she revelled at the sight of the duck and venison pie encasedbronzed crusty pastry, truffles and caviar, food she herself never ate. Even the creamy soft cheeses in their white coats and blue veined Stilton, available in the supermarket at home, looked more delicious here.

Those thin lemon biscuits, packaged in their cardboard columns with their familiar crest, which her mother bought as a treat after their Christmas visits, were the best she’d ever tasted. Her hands twitched on the clasp of her handbag. She’d like to buy some for old time’s sake, but there wasn’t time; she was already late.

Natty would be upset. She said it was ‘urgent’ they met, which was odd since she’d cancelled a couple of lunches they’d arranged earlier this year. Quite a surprise she chose this place too. Decadent; Natty’s usual condemnation ran in her ears. So why did she want to return to their mothers’ haunt, where they used to meet together each December when it was now July?

Impey hurried up the wide shiny wooden staircase to the Gallery restaurant, over-taking a short queue waiting at the entrance. Five minutes ago Natty had rung to say she was here. Strange she was nowhere in sight. Impey gazed round the large room. A posse of people shielded one of the nicest tables in a corner by a window where Natty’s mother had once been thrilled to spot the actor Dirk Bogarde.

Impey blinked. Surely there was the actor himself. A tall handsome man with shiny black hair swept high off his forehead stood by the table. No can’t be him; he’s dead. She craned her neck to look over the little group; there was Natty’s round head with her nut brown hair brushed back into its usual smooth globe of a chignon.

Excuse me. Impey squeezed through the small throng. In her plain stone-coloured cotton skirt and pale blue tee shirt, she felt the three women and one man looked askance at her, but Natty shooed them away with a wave of her little hand.

Ah! My friend’s arrived. She rose out of her chair to hug Impey and kissed her on both cheeks, before she turned to a waiter who bustled up with a crimson leather folder enclosing the wine list.

Whilst Impey sat down opposite her, Natty’s short slim tapered fingers flicked through the cream pages. We’ll have champagne; we want to celebrate.

The waiter was gone before Impey had time to say, Listen Natty, I’m awfully sorry but I can’t drink much. I’ve got to drive.

Really. That’s a shame. Why on earth did you bring a car?

I had to give a friend a lift.

Natty arched her beautifully plucked eyebrows at her, So who’s s this new friend who’s also made you late?

Someone with a lovely dog I take for walks. She didn’t want to mention Olga’s age. Natty would warn her against making a ‘mother substitute’.

Couldn’t she drive your car back?

Impey shook her head. Lady Olga Brancaster would not take over the wheel of anyone else’s car. The aged peeress only drove her own ancient Mini traveller.

Actually we’ll have half a bottle, Natty said when the waiter returned.

Ignoring her, the waiter uncorked the bottle he’d brought to pour champagne into both their glasses. This is with the compliments of that man over there. He gestured across the room at the Dirk Bogarde look-alike who’d stood by her table when Impey arrived.

With a gracious wave of her glass across the room at the handsome man with bouffant black hair, Natty acknowledged the gift.

‘Pigs tits’ Natty. Impey glanced at her friend’s admirer. Does every film star drop at your feet these days?

Actually he said he was a doctor, but in answer to your question, ‘no’. Natty groaned. I had a dreadful time with Albertine Fairclough, my last guest

You mean the millionairess, the one who runs the Recherché Detective Agency? Surely there could only be one Albertine, but Impey felt she had to check.

A name no one will forget, the way she plugged it on my show, said Natty through gritted teeth.

You can’t expect everyone to cry like that cabinet minister with the shop-lifting mistress or the banker who lost millions of other people’s money. Impey consoled her. Now was not the moment to admit she’d worked for Albertine.

It’s what I’m known for. Even if my guests don’t weep, they should have some feelings I can engage with. Albertine had about as much empathy as a .. a rat.

Impey picked a soft seeded brown roll out of the bread basket on the table. Actually rats do feel for each other. She broke off a piece of the roll whilst she wondered how Natty, who tapped into people’s souls in a television studio, didn’t realise affinity for others went back to one’s animal genes. There was a ghastly experiment when one rat was given an electric shock in full view of another rat, which they gave food to at the same time. After a couple of shots, the rat they fed didn’t want to eat. Cruel really, but it proves rats do empathise. She dropped the uneaten roll back on her side plate.

That shows Albertine has less sensitivity than a rodent. I can’t believe she’s socially acceptable and I’m not.

Nonsense. You’re much more popular than she is. Your programme’s watched by millions.

Quite, but she told me she’s going to join Bisley Heath.

My golf club?

Yeah. She said she’ll get in just like that.

I suppose she might. Her husband is an ex-captain with a lot of clout in the club, but she’d still have to go on the waiting list – people are on it for years.

Not any more according to Albertine. The ‘waiting list’ is a myth. In times of recession like now, golf clubs don’t have people champing to join.

Why should that worry you? Impey bit into her roll.

Because Bisley Heath has turned me down. I’ve had a two line letter saying the Ladies section is full and I’ll have to go on their mythical ‘waiting list’.

Never mind. Impey’s hand roughened by country life, patted Natty’s smooth one. Plenty of other good golf clubs must be crying out for new members.

Natty banged the table with her rounded little fist, But I want to join my partner’s, I mean my future husband’s club.

You’re marrying Francis! Impey’s blue eyes widened. For the eleven years Natty and Francis had lived together, they’d sworn they wouldn’t get married. Natty’s derision of matrimony had even exceeded her scorn for golf.

Natty nodded. That’s what we’re celebrating. She waggled the fourth finger of her left hand, on which shone a bright red ruby ring.

That’s wonderful. Impey tried to enthuse, although during her recent divorce, Natty’s disparagement of marriage had always been a comfort. Far more important than joining a golf club.

But the main reason I’m getting married, is to get into Bisley Heath.

Impey’s voice deepened. You’re tying the knot to get into a golf club?

I certainly am. Francis says the club’s constitution states wives must be accepted. Natty paused as the waiter arrived back to take their food order. What will you have to eat? Let’s have something really nice off the à la carte menu.

Impey stared at her. In the past when they’d come here she’d usually chosen the special Welsh Rarebit with bacon or some other luxury snack off the light menu.

Why don’t you have the John Dory?

Impey bit her bottom lip. The fish was one of the most expensive dishes. Though it meant she wouldn’t have to bother to cook tonight, she didn’t want to pay nearly twenty pounds for a main course.

As though she read her mind, Natty said, Come on, this is on me. I asked you to come here didn’t I? She snapped her menu folder shut before she handed it back to the waiter. Two John Dorys.

Is this on your expenses? Impey asked.

Never you mind; it’s the least I can do when I need your help. You’re the one person who can get me into Bisley Heath. They may have refused Natty Bell, but next time I apply, proposed by you, it’ll be as Mrs Gosset.

Impey was still protesting when their food arrived ten minutes later. You always said you couldn’t bear to be called ‘Gosset’ because it was akin to… She paused to lean sideways to let the waiter put her fish in front of her.

Oh Francis has got completely over being called ‘Gusset’ at school. In the golf world it’s a very okay name? One of his ancestral connections started Westward Ho, the earliest golf club in England.

Impey pushed a bit of fish on to her fork with her knife. You never told me he’d joined. With more than five hundred members it was not surprising she had not noticed Francis, although if he had won anything significant, she would have known.

I didn’t think you’d be interested. You’ve never got on with Francis particularly well. Anyway, I didn’t expect him to get so involved.

Impey chewed a piece of the succulent fish. She pictured Francis’s effete figure. Though slim, its softness suggested a lack of muscle tone. I didn’t think he liked ball games.

Not barbaric ones like rugby, but he’s become completely hooked on golf and the worst of it is, she lowered her voice, he’s taken up mixed golf.

Impey speared another piece of fish. Does that matter?

Of course it does. Girls keep ringing up to make golf dates with him. Often I’m alone on both Saturdays and Sundays because he’s out playing. Then he’ll have a drink with them afterwards. It’s even more infuriating when he comes home and tells me how wonderful they are at golf.

Impey looked at her friend’s beautiful smooth round face. I can’t think why you’re worried; you’ve always said golf was played by frumpy women.

Doesn’t stop them being randy. Natty delicately scraped a piece of John Dory on to her fork. Women without jobs have time to dream about men.

Most of the Bisley Heath girls will be thinking about hitting the ball, worrying about their swing.

The swing is a very sensual movement. I wish I’d realised earlier how golf developed one’s inner body rhythm. With the right pivot, players can look really sexy.

Impey wondered how to say nicely that most women golfers might prefer a stronger partner on the course than her friend’s fiancé. I don’t think you’re in danger of losing Francis.

Natty put her cutlery down on the table. She lifted up her small hands, palms forward. In the sex jungle singles are always on the prowl. One Bisley Heath woman’s been on the phone tweeting ‘Darling’ at Francis. Frankly it’s a bit much to be so familiar with someone else’s partner.

You should be used to it. The television world must be full of luvvies.

Natty picked up her knife which she shook. That’s precisely what I want a break from. I’m going to revel in the respectability of the golf world.

Impey gaped. What about Anemone? Isn’t my godchild glad her parents are getting married? Not that Impey was exactly a ‘godmother’ since Francis and Natty hadn’t christened Anemone. They’d given her a pagan nomination ceremony, in which they made Impey Anemone’s ‘auxiliary mother’.

She’s pleased. We’ve talked the matter over with her, and she says she’d like it.

She makes it sound like a case conference. A distant memory of playing ‘Mummies and Daddies’ with Natty floated into Impey’s mind; she was always the hunter-gatherer Daddy rushing round the garden with a knife in the belt of her trousers, whilst Natty, in a long skirt, stirred the cooking pot as Mummy.

Surely my being married must get me into the club. Natty’s brown eyes looked moist. They have to take some notice of their own rules, don’t they?

I suppose so. Spouses definitely have preference, but if you got in on the wife ticket, you’d be known as ‘Mrs. Gosset’.

That’s safer for me. Presenters like me have to guard their private lives. Come on Impey; you must know someone who’ll get me into Bisley Heath.

Impey pulled a face. As a matter of fact there is someone – the woman I gave a lift to London today – Lady Olga Brancaster is the President.

What? Because she’s a Lady? Natty wrinkled her retroussé nose.

Impey laughed. No. Although her husband’s a lord, she was created a ‘Dame’ for services to sport, only she prefers to be called ‘Lady’ because she says ‘Dames’ belong in pantomimes.

Natty’s lips turned down at the corners.

Don’t knock it. Her honour’s for bringing down barriers between the sexes in golf. People want her to go to Augusta to confront Hootie Johnson.

Augusta in America? Natty’s forehead wrinkled in a puzzled frown.

It’s where they hold the Masters, the most important golf tournament in the world. Impey half laughed, though she was slightly appalled anyone who aspired to play golf should be so ignorant of such a significant issue. Hootie Johnson, the president, refuses to admit women to the club, but Olga’s refused to meet him; she’s happy with the way things are here where she’s a legend in the golf world.

Perfect. When do you think she’d like to meet me? Natty leant down to pick up her brief case. She opened the clasp with a snap, delved into it and pulled out a midget computer diary, which she tapped with a frosted pink finger nail. Ah, there’s a window of opportunity here. I can give you some dates when I’m free.

Impey stared at her friend. She wondered how to explain Olga might not particularly want to meet her. The elderly lady who listened to radio four liked to reminisce about the days before there was television. Olga’s very busy herself with Nadfas, the fine arts society; the Women’s Institute and doing flowers for the church as well as her golf. She’s not the sort of person you can set up for a meeting.

How can I get to know her then?

Impey chewed her bottom lip. W…ell, you could come back to Surrey with me now. I left Olga in Wimbledon to shop. I’m picking her up at three thirty.

Natty shook her head. I’ve got two crucial meetings this afternoon. Then she sighed. Tell you what; if I got to one, I could cancel the other. Why don’t you take her out to tea in Wimbledon and keep her there for a couple of hours.

No. It wouldn’t work. Impey shook her head. Knowing you we might have to wait four hours rather than two.

Natty dropped her organiser back into her handbag. I’ll have to cancel them both then. Bit of a dowager, this friend of yours isn’t she, the way she has to call all the shots. Anything else I should be forewarned about her?

Impey nodded. Ye-ess. Don’t say you’re getting married to get into the club; in fact, don’t talk about ‘my partner’, or admit you have a child by a man you’re not yet married to.

Natty’s indignant protest that her life style was nothing to be ashamed of made Impey chuckle, ‘Pigs tits’ Natty – I’m only trying to help you. If you want to get on with her, avoid mentioning sex.

Natty raised a single eyebrow and fixed her right eye on Impey as though about to aim a missile. Has your new elderly friend got issues about matrimony, or does she have husband trouble?

The latter I believe. It’s not something we discuss. She doesn’t like heart to heart conversations; she calls it ‘gazing at your navel’. Impey hesitated, not liking to repeat unsavoury local gossip. I’ve never met Lord Brancaster but since people say he’s a disaster area you’re better off not to mention him.

They agreed that after lunch, they would fetch Impey’s car from the underground car park, then go on to Wimbledon to pick up Olga. Only when they reached the car park Natty’s phone failed to operate. This is absolutely hopeless. She trotted about the car park waving her tiny silver mobile in the air, trying to get a signal. I must get through to my producer. Are you sure your friend will help?

No. Impey opened the door of her tiny ancient Fiat. She pushed the front seat forward for Natty to get into the back, Of course not, but just at this moment, all I know is she’s the best person to try. Now are you coming or not?

Yes. Natty squeezed into the car’s backseat. As they say, it’s not what you know it’s who you know. All the way to Wimbledon village she was making or breaking engagements; she still had the phone clamped to her ear when Impey stopped the car outside the church in Church Street.

There on the pavement stood the old lady with shopping bags hanging off both her arms. An aged white bag hung on a long tattered strap over her shoulder.

Impey relieved her of her shopping, took it round to the back of the car and shut it in the boot whilst Lady Olga heaved her large body into the front seat. She seemed not to notice Impey’s other passenger in the back until seconds later, her phone tucked away, Natty delved into a discussion over her membership of Bisley Heath.

I would so love to help you. Lady Olga brayed breathlessly. Her large bosoms came dangerously near Impey’s elbow as she changed gear because she swivelled her plump torso round to look at Natty, sitting in the back. Now what do you play off?

As Impey expected, Natty had to admit she had played insufficient golf to have a handicap. It was amazing she didn’t realise this was a vital prerequisite to joining a top club like Bisley Heath.

I’ll do my best to get one as soon as possible. I do appreciate I must improve Lady Brancaster. Natty leant forward. Her chin almost touched Lady Olga’s shoulder.

Oh call me Ollie. Everyone does including my cleaner, the washing machine man, and the gardener, but I don’t mind. Makes me feel young.

Well Ollie, shouted Natty to make herself heard above the noise of a large lorry rumbling along beside them. Is there no way round the rule saying you must know someone three years before they can put you up for the club?

None really. Lady Olga sniffed as she shook her head. She plucked a white lace handkerchief from somewhere under the folds of her skirt to wipe her nose, although this year I have put up one or two good friends of close friends or their relations so I wasn’t exactly perjuring myself.

I wouldn’t want you to do that. Natty’s smooth chignon shook with her head. I’d have to establish some interesting connection with you....like...a long lost cousin, possibly…

Pretend you’re related to Olga? Come off it Natty.

That’s funny! Olga gave a deep throaty chuckle that made her fleshy chin which folded into her neck wobble rhythmically with the burr of the car’s engine. I do have some cousins I don’t know.

You’re bound to. Natty’s voice took on a soft, seductive tone. Everyone does. When I was on the ancestral programme we found relatives their families never knew existed.

An ancestral programme! Olga bounced in the front seat. How absolutely marvellous! Can your television company trace people’s ancestors?

We certainly could. Natty replied.

Could you really help me trace my mother’s family? Olga’s double chins wobbled with excitement.

Definitely. Natty’s little hand gave Olga’s vast shoulders a confident pat.

"How absolutely