Blue Sparrows

By Stuart McArthur

INTRODUCTION

Young Billy Sparrow receives a letter from an Australian Lawyer stating he is the sole heir to his late aunts Will. The Will provides free airfares from England to Australia for Billy and one other family member. Billys irascible, booze loving, Uncle Fred is coerced into accompanying him. In Brisbane, Billy discovers that he must reside on the Queensland Gemfields for at least six months to be eligible for a very large amount of money and the Deeds to a Rustic property.

They travel to the dusty, rural town of Sapphire with Blue, their newly acquired, Gem-seeking dog, where they embark on a series of frequently hilarious and invariably drunken adventures. During their stay they experience true love, find valuable sapphires, make exceptional friends and suffer exceptional hangovers. The pair are left totally shocked when the time comes for Billy to collect his inheritance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: May 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514495780

Stuart McArthur

Stuart spent most of his childhood in Bridlington, England. He joined the royal navy as a boy seaman and served twelve rewarding years. He immigrated to Australia in 1971. Now retired, Stuart lives on the central Queensland gemfields and finds and carves sapphire as a part-time hobby.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A miserable wind roared in from the hostile crags of bonnie Scotland. Gunmetal clouds scuffled across the leaden sky bringing sheets of rain that whipped drunkenly along the bleak deserted streets. Gutters choked with leaves sagged atop the narrow rows of old stone cottages. Used facial tissues and castaway Football Pools coupons strangled rotting fences. The old village hand-pump, standing beside the ancient water trough, was clogged with hibernating frogs, and close by, the normally tranquil village pond tossed and turned in torment as a mating pair of homeless Scandinavian geese burrowed deep into the marsh grass that flayed along the pond's crumbling shoreline. In the distance, high above the ageing church steeple, the rust-eaten weathercock jerked back and forth in frenzied abandonment as the cracked tower bell grudgingly chimed seven t imes.

It was almost two-thirty in the tiny Yorkshire village of Nuffington as three men stood silently at the muddy graveside; their heads were lowered in a final act of respect to the dearly departed. The eldest of the three men hunched his shoulders in despair as the cold, irritating rain ran from the peak of his cloth cap, dribbled onto his face and mingled with another involuntary teardrop. The toes of his black leather boots were waterlogged and his coat pockets almost awash. The old man's name was Fredrick Sparrow. He took a deep breath and said to no one in particular, `I'll miss `er. She gave me a lot of happiness.'

The youngest of the trio had just celebrated his twenty-second birthday and according to many, he was in his prime. Billy Sparrow placed a strong arm around his uncle's shoulder. `We'll miss her too, Uncle Fred. But she'd have wanted you to get on with your life and not to fret.'

Uncle Fred glanced up into Billy's face that held the rosy glow of a weathered country life and visible effects of birthday celebrations consuming large quantities of alcohol the night before. He gave a slight nod, `I know, I know, and it's good of you to be here,' he managed to say.

`Our Billy's right, Fred,' said the third man, stamping his feet and pulling at the collar of his decrepit army greatcoat. Dark haired and slightly built, with care-worn, spikey features, Bert Sparrow was Uncle Fred's younger brother; a part of the family and in Fred's estimation, a pain in the backside -- well, most of the time.

`You can't go on being a miserable bugger,' Bert went on, `we've all got to go eventually.'

`I suppose so, but death seems so final,' sniffed Uncle Fred wiping his dripping nose on his soggy sleeve.

`Well it is,' Bert said philosophically. `I mean, she's not going to suddenly come back to life - at least I hope not. It would be an awful shock to her system to wake up and find she's been entombed in a special hand-hewn casket.' He tossed his soggy cigarette away and scratched his stubbly chin. `I've read about people it's happened to. Course, they've been the lucky ones, come too before the coffin was lowered. Screaming their bloody heads off and ripping their nails out clawing at the lining and the lid. It makes you wonder just how many poor sods wake up covered in six foot of packed soil?' And at that thought, an involuntarily shudder careened through Uncle Bert's body.

Billy tugged at Uncle Fred's coat sleeve. `Come on Uncle Fred, let's go on in and get dried off.'

`Yes,' Bert readily agreed, `I'm bloody soaked to the skin; soddin' weather.'

`You and Billy go on ahead; I'll be with you in a minute or two.'

`Right then,' nodded Bert. `I'll get Gladys to make us all a hot drink.'

`Mmmm,' mumbled Uncle Fred, vacantly.

They left Uncle Fred beside the grave and silently trudged back across the sodden lawn. Billy was gripped in the sensitive emotions of death; Uncle Bert cursed the dark grey clouds; the wind, the rain, the penetrating cold and his aching feet that always played-up when there was inclemency.

`You can both take your coats off before you come in, I've just mopped the kitchen floor!' snapped Gladys, Bert Sparrow's wife. She was a woman of small stature, yet she was quite stout and wore a flowered dress that blended with her chubby cheeks and pink fluffy slippers. Her permed grey hair frequently hidden by an old headscarf.

`All right, there's no need to get your knickers in a twist. You should have been with us, lending your support,' Bert chided.

`What! You've already embarrassed me enough. Calling out the ambulance and then when they got here, Fred demanding they try CPR and the kiss-of-life when it was quite obvious that she was dead - she hadn't drawn a single breath in over two hours. And, not only that, as I've already said, I reckon you're all mad standing out there in this weather moaning over the death of a mere ferret!'

Bert was annoyed by Gladys' lack of understanding, `She was more than a mere ferret to our Fred,' he said defensively.

`Well we know that, don't we?' sneered Gladys. `How many grown men would sleep with a ferret laid at the bottom of the bed? It's unnatural that's what it is, most unnatural.'

`No it's not,' Bert retaliated. `You never did understand, did you? - Fluffy Bum filled a gap in our Fred's life after that albino hare killed our Olive.'

`It was a white rabbit.'

`Same bloomin' thing. Why's she always got to be so literal? he mumbled.'

`And that's another thing.' Gladys snapped. "How many people would call their pet, Fluffy Bum?'

`Aw come on Gladys, it was Fred's way of showing his affection.'

Gladys sighed and shook her head. It's hopeless, she muttered to herself.

`I'm off upstairs to change into something dry,' Billy called from the hallway as Uncle Fred opened the back door and shuffled into the kitchen; water still dripping from his soggy coat and cap, his boots squelching with absorbed damp and a liberal dose of shoe polish.

Gladys hurried across to him. `Come on Fred, and let me help you off with your coat. Maybe you can get another pet, like a goldfish or a spotted mud puppy?'

Uncle Fred shook his head. `No. I don't think I'd like another pet. Nothing can take the place of me little Fluffy Bum.'

`Mmmm,' Bert snuffled, sliding his cold feet into his warm slippers.

Gladys shrugged and began to make four mugs of hot stewed coffee.

They had an early Tea, but the meal was a solemn affair. Billy pushed his empty plate away. `Let's all go for a drink. It'll cheer us all up.'

Uncle Fred nodded, `Aye, lad, that's a not a bad idea.'

`Well Bert and I won't be going,' declared Gladys. `There's a good movie on the television I want to watch, but you can bring us a bottle back with you.'

Bert didn't feel up to arguing. What was the point? he mused. Gladys always got her way in the end. He blamed Emmeline Pankhurst. She started this Women's Liberation. A typical Lancastrian; always making bloody trouble, just like them Manchester City football supporters, and besides that, he had spent most of his weekly allowance on fancy feathers for his fishing flies.

As Billy and Uncle Fred stepped out of the front door of 13 Beckside Lane, Billy patted his jacket pocket. `Bugger it, I forgot me wallet. You make your way to the pub, Uncle Fred. I'll catch you up in a couple of minutes.'

Uncle Fred nodded and shuffled away into the gloom of a typical autumn evening, strewn with cold winds and constant, penetrating rain.

In the Rann of Kutch there was a severe case of drought. The natives were restless and praying to Krishna for cold winds and penetrating rain.

Removing his over-coat, his knitted scarf and his cap from his wiry frame, Uncle Fred sat patiently waiting at a gnarled mahogany table in a corner of the Snug room of the White Rose Inn. He was wearing his brown surge suit; the elbows of his jacket had scuffed leather patches sown onto them and the matching waistcoat displayed a heavy gold fob-chain. The rain had dulled his polished brown brogues. His silver-grey hair was cropped close to his skull - a habit he had become accustomed to from his younger days in the torrid steel-works of Sheffield. His nose was a flushed magenta and it was slightly too large to balance the wrinkled face which reflected his bountiful years. The rims of his eyes appeared red and sore but the soft blue eyes sparkled with the clarity of eternal youth. Now and again they flashed toward the Snug room door - expectantly.

An empty glass rattled on a nearby table. A window rattled sharply upstairs, and as Uncle Fred checked his watch one more time, his teeth rattled in annoyance.

Billy hitched up his Duffel coat collar, bent his head against the elements and walked quickly up Beckside Lane. Turning into Church Street he pushed the pub door open with his shoulder, stepping hurriedly into the warmth of the Snug. A blast of icy wind swept in behind him, stirring the wispy plumes of tobacco and wood smoke that hung in the fetid air. Hidden by a basket of logs, a furtive field mouse shuddered and leaned closer to the open fire.

`Shut-the-bloody-door!' yelled Joe Sidebottom, the village blacksmith.

`Bloody `ell! Let me get inside first,' grumbled Billy, removing his coat and pushing the door shut with his boot.

Handsome and all of six foot tall, with curly brown medium length hair and a muscular physique, Billy cut a dashing figure in the village.

The blazing log fire crackled and spat in the open fireplace as Billy vigorously rubbed his hands together and approached Uncle Fred who had moved quickly to the bar.

`About time you turned up,' grumbled Uncle Fred. `I'll have a Watney's.'

Billy turned towards the bar. `Make that two, Sandy. And I'll have a meat pie.'

`You've just had your Tea!' Uncle Fred gaped.

`I'm still a bit hungry.'

`I reckon you've got worms.'

Sandy Huddleworth, the pub landlord smiled as he pulled slowly on the yellowing porcelain pump handle. Words of wisdom he chuckled to himself.

Uncle Fred carried his glass over to the corner table. Billy followed, and as he sat he nodded to the three men, at a small table, studying their dominoes.

`What have you been doing all this time?' muttered Uncle Fred.

`Why? You're not going anywhere, are you?'

`No, but it's valuable drinking time going to waste.'

`So why didn't you get yourself a drink while you were waiting for me?'

`Oh, I couldn't do that.'

`Why not?'

`I bought the last round of drinks the night before last, didn't I?'

Billy sighed and took a sip from his glass. He opened his mouth to reply then decided to remain silent. Instead, he took a bite of his meat pie and let his thoughts drift away to the balmy days of summer; and of bits of fluff lying in rampant hay-stacks.

Sandy walked over to the open fire and placed another log on the fading embers, temporarily disturbing the two senior citizens who were lolling comfortably in their chairs close to the warmth of the fire. Both men had their rickety legs stretched out in front of them. Their damp black leather boots gently steaming on the edge of the tiled hearth while the heated soles warmed their fallen arches. One of the men was staring vaguely into the spitting, crackling fire. The other had his eyes closed as if in sleep.

Occasionally one of them would stir to take a sip of his bitter ale. `Not a bad drop tonight, George,' wheezed Horace Redcup.

`Oh yes, Horace, 'tis that,' breathed George Boothwick, who was eighty-six years old -- only two years younger than Horace.

`Mind you, it should be at prices `e charges,' grumbled Horace indicating with his thumb at the retreating landlord.

`Oh yes, you're right there, Horace,' said George scratching his crotch.

Horace flicked a gnarled hand at the fat blue fly that had landed on his large pockmarked nose. `Course, things have changed somewhat; it used to be sixpence a pot before t'war.'

`Oh yes, it was that, Horace,' George nodded, wiping froth from his top lip.

`Which war was that then?' shouted Sandy. `The bloody Boer War?'

`Cheeky young bugger!' Horace shouted back.

`Oh yes, you're right there, Horace,' George agreed with a loud nod.

`Silly old sods,' muttered Sandy as he wiped the bar with a stained cloth.

Billy silently sipped at his drink.

Uncle Fred drank greedily. `I don't like this cold weather, it's unhealthy, that is unless you're a bloody eskimo,' he said. `Wouldn't it be nice to go to the Caribbean? There's plenty of sun there. I could get me arms and knees all tanned on them palm-fringed beaches.'

`I heard that in Jamaica they have seven different sorts of rum. Now that would be a great way to spend any winter.' Billy smiled at the thought.

`Aye, better than this rain and cold,' Uncle Fred sighed with frustration, `there's no wonder that them West Indians are always happily singing Banana-Boat songs in their spare time.'

`You'll just have to win the Football Pools, Uncle Fred.'

`I'm trying.'

`I know you're very trying,' Billy muttered to himself.

Uncle Fred nudged Billy in the ribs, pushing his empty glass to the centre of the table, `Stop daydreaming. I'll have another pot.'

`It's your turn,' said Billy.

Uncle Fred wiped his nose with his red-spotted handkerchief. It was an old handkerchief and had a tatty hole in one corner and coughed. `Can't.'

`Can't? Can't what?'

`Can't get `em in.'

`Why not?'

`I left me wallet at home.'

`Again?' Billy scowled. `Why didn't you go back for it? That's the second time you've forgotten it this week.'

`Yes, well. When you get old you do have a tendency to forget things.'

`Only when it's convenient,' Billy said with annoyance.

Billy picked up the glasses just as Uncle Fred began pushing his handkerchief back into his jacket pocket.

`Oh heck,' mumbled Uncle Fred.

`What's wrong?' Billy said, his eyes fixed firmly on the immobile hand.

`Nothing.'

`Yes there is. You've found your wallet, haven't you?'

`No. It's ....' Uncle Fred began withdrawing a crumpled envelope from his pocket. `. . . It's this,' he said, laying the envelope on the table and trying to smooth out the creases with a soggy beer mat.

Billy stared at the envelope, `What's that?'

`A letter for you. It's from Australia. Someone's left you some money and things.'

`You've read it!' Billy protested.

`I wouldn't do that!' he said indignantly.

`You've steamed it open. It's all damp at one end.'

`It fell into me shaving water, didn't it?' he said fiddling with his shirt collar.

`Well how do you know it's from Australia and that somebody's left me some money?' Billy argued.

Uncle Fred suddenly smiled. The smile illuminated his face and made his false teeth shine. `Nigel said it was from Australia because of the postmark, and he should know, being a postman and a fatalist.'

`Philatelist.'

`Clever bugger, same difference,' Uncle Fred muttered.

`All right,' Billy countered. `But what about the money?'

`Educated guess,' said Uncle Fred, rapidly twitching his eyebrows.

Billy studied the cover. `Well it's addressed to me all right. An Australian stamp and postmark on it too. But who's it from?'

`How the heck would I know?' grumbled Uncle Fred. `Maybe if you open it and read what's inside you might find out?'

Billy sat down and carefully opened the dampened end of the envelope. He removed a single piece of paper which he read very slowly.

`Well?' said Uncle Fred bubbling with curiosity as Billy finished reading. `What's it say then?'

Billy was speechless. He shrugged his shoulders silently.

`Pass it over here,' he said, snatching the letter from Billy's trembling hands. Uncle Fred quickly read it, and then carefully placed the letter on the table as if it were an ancient Egyptian parchment that would crumble into tiny fragments at any moment. His face had paled. His lower lip was trembling and his toes had turned cold.

Billy stared, rubbing his hands agitatedly and waiting for Uncle Fred to say something - anything! Yet there was only an eerie silence.

`I -- I can't believe it! A substantial amount of money! Someone's left you a substantial amount of money,' spluttered Uncle Fred eventually.

`Mmmm.'

`What do they mean? A substantial amount of money?'

Billy's throat was dry. `I don't know, but it sounds like quite a bit. But who is this Francis Alexandria Rothbottom?' he croaked.

`Never heard of the woman,' said Uncle Fred. `But who cares anyway? She's gone and snuffed it and left you a substantial amount of money. And, there's a block of land with a house on it and some chattels too!'

`Cottage,' said Billy vacantly swatting a geriatric cockroach from his plate that had been nibbling at the remaining crumbs of his pork pie.

The furtive field mouse pirouetted from behind the log basket and pounced on the stunned, elderly cockroach.

A smile of delirium washed across Uncle Fred's face. `Cottage, house, bloomin' castle! It doesn't make any difference? You're rich! Ooh, it's like winning the Pools,' he chuckled.

`Yes, unless it's some sort of a prank?'

`Prank? Some sort of a prank? Of course it isn't a bloody prank. Can't you see?' said Uncle Fred poking at the piece of paper.

`See what?'

`It must all be true, it's all typewritten and all on official paper.'

Billy had to agree. It did look official and it definitely had been sent from Australia. He couldn't for the life of him imagine someone, who he didn't know, sending such a thing as a mere prank. No. Uncle Fred must be right - the letter had to be genuine.

`I - I need a stiff drink,' Billy rasped.

`Me too. I'll have a double rum seeing on how you're rolling in money.'

`Two double rums?' Sandy replied in astonishment. `What have you done then, robbed the Church's Poor Box?'

`No,' chirped in Uncle Fred. `Billy's come into a fair whack of money, in fact he's Rich! - Drinks all round!' he shouted involuntarily.

`Here, hang on a minute,' Billy panicked. `I haven't got the money yet.'

`No problem. I'll put it on your slate,' said Sandy. `And I'll have a Cheri-Suisse. I've always wanted to try one of those. Oh, and I'll pour one for the wife.'

`What about one for your wife's Granddad?' Billy muttered sarcastically.

`No. But thanks all the same. The old bloke's dead. Died of an errr . . . brain drain I think it was? Back in `76, or was it `77?'

At the call of free drinks, old George Boothwick slid off his chair. His red rimmed eyes made a soft popping sound as his eyelids burst open. Horace Redcup's face turned a lighter shade of purple. His nose lustred and he began wheezing spasmodically. Joe Sidebottom, the blacksmith, spun on his stool and cast his lemon-squash aside, `I'll have a double Scotch seeing on how you're paying.'

Standing up too quickly Alex Simpson accidentally tipped over the domino table. The pieces skittered across the floor - One hit the fetid mouse on the head and it began choking on a ripe cockroach leg.

`So where did you get all this money from, Billy?' Dick Aldridge asked.

`Somebody left me it in their Will.'

`Yes, and he's got to go to Australia to get it,' said Uncle Fred.

`Australia!' blurted Joe Sidebottom almost spilling his glass of scotch. `You don't want to go there.'

`Why not?'

`Killer snakes, cannibals, aggressive kangaroos, rabid koalas and sharks!'

`Use t' use them in the Army,' interrupted Horace Redcup.

`What? Koalas?' said Uncle Fred.

`No-no, Cannon balls.'

`Senile old twit.'

`Some sharks are quite sexy, if you study their mating habits,' said Joe Sidebottom.

A hush fell. Hairy chests gasped. The furtive field mouse groaned. There's no wonder Mrs. Sidebottom worries about him, thought Sandy Huddleworth.

`Yes,' chirped in Charlie Duncan. `Especially the White-pointers.'

`Ah yes, the White-pointers,' nodded Joe Sidebottom dreamily.

`FANNY!' hollered Uncle Fred excitedly.

`No. It's definitely the White-pointers, Fred,' Joe insisted.

`No, no, Fanny! - Francis Parker! Your late Aunt Olive's sister.' Uncle Fred guzzled his double rum then continued, `She ran off with an Army Cook straight after the war.'

George Boothwick had taken his drink and regained his usual lolling position in his fireside chair. George wasn't listening to the conversation. His head was nodding as he was dunking his top set of Government Health Care teeth into his double brandy, savouring the taste of the Brandy, the coagulated toothpaste and remnants of shepherd's pie as he reflected on the good old days when you could shoot the Huns and get an honourable discharge.

`I never heard anybody mention her name before?' said Billy.

`No, you wouldn't have. Your Auntie Olive refused to mention her name again. And from that day on, she made me and all the family promise not to talk about Fanny ever again.'

Sandy Huddleworth tutted.

Alex Simpson crossed himself and muttered one Hail Mary.

Outside the White Rose, the fluffy grey racing pigeon `cooed'.

*     *     *

Billy sauntered into the kitchen yawning. He poured himself a mug of strong incubated tea, `Where's Auntie Gladys?'

`Gone over to Driffield to look around the car-boot sales with our Bert,' Uncle Fred sulked as he sprawled in a chair.

`What wrong with you then?' Billy asked. `Got a hang-over?'

`No. I only got one lousy number on me Pools coupon and I spent half the night trying to think of anyone I know who might expire in the near future and would leave me a heap of money. There's no one! I was born to be penniless; and to add to me misery, Leeds United lost again, four bloody nil -- useless buggers.'

`Did you tell Auntie Gladys about the letter?'

`No. I was busy checking me Pools.'

There was a knock on the back door. It was Mrs. Gloria Copeland, the neighbour from No.15. She scurried into the kitchen and placed a paper bag, containing a dozen freshly baked parkins, on the table. She was a widow and she was on her way to church. Gloria had large lungs and sang with the Baritones in the Nuffington Church Choir.

`There are your parkins, Frederick,' she said with a nymphomanic twinkle in her eyes. She could smell the musk of his armpits. She could feel the heat from his socks. She craved for Frederick's touch. The spine-tingling caress of puckered lips along her nape: his sunken chest warming her cold knees and his gums nibbling her lobes. Every night in the seclusion of her rigid bed, she fantasised these things -- and much, much more!

`It's Fred, Mrs. Copeland. Fred!' he said checking his watch.

`Gloria, Frederick. It's Gloria,' she replied feeling herself blushing and her inner thighs moisturising with wayward intent and the thoughts of obscene sex.

`Oh well,' Uncle Fred sighed, completely unaware of Gloria's innermost feelings. `Thanks for the buns; they'll go down well after a few beers.'

`You should both be escorting me to church. He's up there watching you know,' said Gloria glancing at the peeling ceiling as she molested her dog-eared book of psalms.

`Yes, he's watching me write down all the wrong numbers on me Pools coupon and having a bloody good laugh too.'

Gloria crossed herself. Billy crossed to the window. The rain had stopped but the agitated wind was still gushing from the Arctic wastes. Billy retrieved his Duffel coat from the peg behind the kitchen door. Nearly opening time, he smiled to himself. I'll get meself a couple of pickled onions and a bag of crisps for breakfast.

`Money is the root of all evil, Frederick.' Gloria declared philosophically.

`Well that's all right then, I must be a good bloke,' answered Uncle Fred. ``Course I haven't got any. Anyway, Billy and me will be glad to escort you part of the way to church, Mrs. Copeland. It's on the way to the pub.'

Gloria fluttered her eyes, `I just don't know what I'm going to do with you, Frederick Sparrow?'

Now't much, if I can help it, muttered Uncle Fred.

They stepped out onto the pavement. It was wet and damp, due to the unrelenting rain that had now stopped. Billy closed the front door. Gloria tucked her arm inside Uncle Fred's and snuggled up to him.

`Geroff me, you silly woman!' Uncle Fred snarled yanking his arm free and trotting quickly up the road.

Gloria hurried behind; trying to catch up with Uncle Fred while Billy smiled to himself and began to follow at a more leisurely pace.

Sitting in the Snug room drinking pots of Special, Uncle Fred looked over at Billy who had a stupid smile on his face; he was thinking of big-buxom-blondes lying on distant sun-kissed beaches wearing scanty bikinis and he thought of an Australian cottage, nestled beside a babbling waterfall and of a wishing well with a rose arbour...

`Hey,' Uncle Fred nudged Billy. `Where are you then?'

`Mmmm,' grinned Billy. `I was just thinking about Australia.'

`Oh yes?' nodded Uncle Fred. `And all them tanned lasses too, I'll bet?'

`Shut up and drink your beer,' Billy sniggered.

`So when are you going to go over there then?' asked Uncle Fred.

`I don't know? You read the letter; it says to give them a ring. I'll do it first thing in the morning.'

The Snug room door shot open and Beryl Pratley and Doreen Gilmott swept in, causing the stuffed barn owl, perched on the television set, to teeter.

`Shut-the-bloody-door!' yelled Joe Sidebottom who was reading a copy of the `Chihuahua Times'. A monthly publication issued free of charge to certified professional Chihuahua Judges and Joe had been certified for nearly three years.

`All right! All right! Let us get through the door,' came the sharp reply, and in annoyance Doreen Gilmott slammed the door shut with her new Paris red wellington boots. The girls marched straight over to the table occupied by Billy and Uncle Fred. Beryl Pratley slid onto the bench-seat alongside Billy, while much to her chagrin, Doreen Gilmott had to go and fetch a chair from another table. As she sat, she gave Beryl a poisonous glance and spat her chewing gum into the chipped ashtray.

`Hello Billy,' Beryl sighed resting her hand on Billy's. Her long purple eyelashes fluttered precociously. `I hear you're ever so rich now?' she cooed.

`Yes, that's right,' said Doreen leaning across the table.

Uncle Fred's eyes were glued to the swell of Doreen's overly exposed soft-white bosom. The hardened nipples were attempting to puncture through the flimsy material of her dress. Women with large