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By Root 879 0

tent-like dress made out of macramé that she had clearly run up herself, and yet she was so proud of it! She had no idea how ridiculous she looked, thought Irene, and of course that strange son of hers insisted on wearing a rainbowcoloured coat that his mother had obviously made out of . . . where on Earth had she got the material? It looked like one of those flags that they flew outside gay bars. Perhaps the silly woman had seized upon it at a gay jumble sale somewhere. What an idea! That boy, Merlin, must be so embarrassed by his mother, thought Irene. Some mothers, she reflected, are very insensitive. She turned to Bertie as they entered the flat. “Bertie,” she said, “we must fix up a costume for you for the play. Did Miss Harmony say what you should wear?”

Bertie stood quite still. The whole business of the play was enough of a minefield without his mother getting further 200 Lederhosen

involved. He would have to avert this, he thought. He started to explain. “We aren’t using costumes at the moment, Mummy,” he said. “Miss Harmony says that we are just going to read through the play. I don’t think you need bother about a costume.”

“But I must,” said Irene. “They always expect the mummies to make costumes. So I’ll make you one, Bertie.”

Bertie sighed. But then it occurred to him that Captain von Trapp probably wore a rather smart naval uniform. He would like to have such a uniform, with brass buttons down the front and one of those caps with an anchor on it.

“That’s a good idea, Mummy,” he said. “Why not start making it now, so that it’s ready for when I need to take it to school?”

Irene was receptive to the suggestion. “Would you like me to do that?” she asked. “Well, why not? Daddy’s not coming back until a bit later, so we have plenty of time. Now then, let me think. Yes, I know what I’ll do.”

“A Captain’s outfit,” said Bertie brightly. “Is that what you’re thinking of?”

“Oh no,” said Irene. “None of that. You know that I’m none too keen on uniforms. I think that it should be something Austrian. Yes, Captain von Trapp should wear something quintessentially Austrian.”

Bertie was quiet. He was trying to remember what he had seen in a book he had which showed national dress of the world. What did the Austrians wear?

Irene answered Bertie’s unspoken question. “Lederhosen, Bertie! That’s what Captain von Trapp would wear.”

Bertie’s voice was small. “Lederhosen, Mummy?”

“Yes,” said Irene. “Lederhosen, Bertie, are worn by people in southern Germany and in Austria. They’re trousers that go up the front like this – a bit like dungarees, come to think of it –

but they have short legs so that your knees show. And they’re made of leather, of course. That’s why they’re called Lederhosen.”

Bertie said nothing. His only hope, he thought, of averting this humiliation was an absence of leather. But again it was as Lederhosen 201

if Irene had anticipated his thoughts. “Leather is a problem, of course,” she said. “I have no idea where one would buy it, and it would probably be terribly expensive.”

“Oh dear,” said Bertie quickly. “But thank you, anyway, Mummy.”

“However,” said Irene. “Mummy has had an idea. Yet another one. You know that old chair which Daddy has? The one I’ve been meaning to get re-covered one of these days? The one where he sits and reads the paper?”

Bertie knew the old leather chair, but did not have the time to say so, as the doorbell sounded. Muttering something about not expecting anybody, Irene crossed the hallway and opened the door. A heavily-built man, out of breath from the effort of walking up the stairs, stood on the landing.

“Mrs Pollock?”

Irene nodded. She did not recognise the man, and she did not like the way that his glance shot into the hall behind her. Stewart had told her to use the chain when opening the door, but she never did. Perhaps . . .

“Bertie!” the man suddenly exclaimed. “So there you are, son!”

Irene gave a start as Bertie suddenly materialised from behind her. “Mr O’Connor!” he said.

The mention of the name made Irene freeze. So this was that man from Glasgow, Fatty