11
A Very Odd Christmas
Sammi had greeted the news that Martin and Sim had been asked to spend Christmas Day with Kevin and Barry Goode with complete indifference. She herself was booked in at the Chateau, at Mount Ruapehu: it sounded a very pleasant hotel, and it would give her the opportunity to inspect the winter sports facilities. She was then going over to the thermal area around Rotorua. The boys would not have minded the chance to look at boiling mud-pools and geysers, too, but they were not offered it. However, when they revealed that they might have found a place to live in Carter’s Bay, Sammi did register interest. In that case, she’d give up both motel units straight away. And move straight into her house, whether or not the decorators had finished, when she came back from her holiday. The boys waited but she didn’t ask what sort of accommodation they’d found, let alone demand to inspect it. Martin and Sim tottered off limply. It seemed they’d got away with it.
The accommodation that Martin and Sim had found for themselves was in the old waterfront pub, with Adrian Revill. Adrian had bought it, with the help of a backer, and he had decided to do it up himself during the next year, living in it while he worked on it. He’d seen the boys chipping bricks just down the road and got talking, and one thing had led to another. Martin and Sim were thrilled to be offered free lodging in return for some hard yacker in their spare time. When Adrian had revealed he was a qualified chef their eyes had shone. Even though he’d pointed out that they’d have to have a kitty for food. He’d also pointed out that they’d have to work out exactly what the boys would do in return for accommodation—which would be pretty rough, he warned. Martin and Sim had agreed eagerly to everything. Adrian had retreated from the encounter asking himself dazedly if he could ever have been that young. Arithmetically speaking there were about eight years between himself and them. It felt like thirty.
Adrian had had to work on Christmas Eve and had got back from L’Oie Qui Rit very, very late. By the time that Sim and Martin had made themselves some singed toast for Christmas breakfast, and chickened out on using the coffee-pot Adrian had acquired in France and just had water, because there wasn’t any instant coffee, and had washed up their mugs and plates, there was still no sign of him, and it was getting on for the time at which they should be setting off for Barry’s.
“Give him a bit longer,” decided Martin, re-checking his watch.
“Okay.”
Silence fell in the now scrubbed but very basic kitchen of the tumbledown old pub.
“It doesn’t feel like Christmas,” offered Sim at last.
“No.” Martin stared at the view of grey concrete warehouse side through the still bleary window. “What would you be doing now, usually?”
“Um—not counting the time difference, do you mean?”
“What? I mean on Christmas morning, you idiot!”
“Um—fighting with Natalie and Isadora, probably. They usually try to pinch my presents. Um—well, not so much pinch: take them over.”
Martin nodded.
“What would you?”
Martin looked at his watch again. He wrinkled his nose. “Drinking Grandma McIntosh’s nauseating eggnog while we get the presents. Uncle Graham gives them out if we’re at their place and Dad gives them out if we’re at home. Then Aunty Moira sings. If we’re at their place she plays her horrible organ as well, and if we’re at home she just sings. Only usually we’re at their place,” he said heavily. “It puts you right off your Christmas dinner, I can tell you!”
Sim winced, nodding.
Silence fell.
When Adrian came into the kitchen they both jumped. Then they went very red, and scrambled awkwardly to their feet. Adrian was wearing the glamorous dressing-gown he’d got in France. That wasn’t what was disturbing them, they’d seen it before.
“This is Ingrid. She’s Swedish. –This is Martin and Sim.”
Manifestly she was Swedish. Very, very blonde, with one of those ultra-smooth tans that you only saw on Scandinavians, and about six foot tall; and dressed, very clearly, only in an old tee-shirt of Adrian’s. “Hi, there. Merry Christmas. I y’am on a working holiday,” she said in almost faultless English.
“Merry Christmas!” they gasped.
Ingrid then ascertained there was no coffee.
“Yes, there is,” said Adrian unemotionally, filling his pot.
“But I never drink real coffee! It has too much caffeine!”
“You’re out of luck, then,” he returned, unmoved.
Ingrid then ascertained there was no muesli.
“Can’t stand it. Not a ruddy Swiss dairy cow,” said Adrian unemotionally.
“But I always have muesli!”
“You’re out of luck again, then.”
She then ascertained there was only limp sliced white bread. “But I never eat white bread! It’s not good for one! It has no nutritional value!”
“True. It was all there was in Swadlings’ yesterday, though,” said Adrian unemotionally.
“But what shall I have for my breakfast?”
“You’ll have to starve,” said Adrian unemotionally, setting his coffee-pot on his single electric element.
Ingrid looked round crossly. She gasped. “But there is no cooker!”
“We say ‘stove’. Only Yanks say ‘cooker.’ –True, there isn’t.”
“But you tell me you are a chef!”
“I am a chef. You saw me yourself, doing me thing, last night, while you were washing up. –Well, doing the Scandinavian version of it,” he muttered. “We’ve ripped the stove out.”
“But how do you live, with no cooker and no food?”
“‘Stove’. I did tell you I’m doing the place up.”
“I take a shower,” she decided.
-The boys exchanged horrified glances.
“Don’t you want any coffee, then?” said Adrian mildly.
“No!” she snapped. “It’s too much caffeine!” She stomped over to the door.
“The shower doesn’t work,” said Adrian unemotionally.
Ingrid stopped. “What?”
“The shower doesn’t work. La douche ne marche pas.”
“So you tell me you do not VASH?” she screamed.
“Not all that much, no. We use the basin, upstairs. Or we take a dip in the sea. Go—for—a—swim,” he explained clearly.
“I know vot is a dip! You are impossible!” she stormed.
“Well, I’m sorry, Ingrid,” he said politely, “but I didn’t think I was giving you the wrong impression.”
“Um, the sea’s just over there,” said Sim timidly.
“Yes,” agreed Martin.
Ingrid swept them with a scorching glance and stomped out.
“She imagines she’s been roughing it, on this working holiday of hers,” explained Adrian unemotionally, as his coffee-pot hissed. He waited for a moment, then switched the element off. “Her father’s an endodontist, evidently they earn even more than orthodontists, and her mother’s a professor of English. Want coffee?”
“Yes, please,” they said limply. Not mentioning that Martin’s father was a professor of linguistics and Sim’s was a surgeon.
… “This is Ingrid. She’s Swedish. On a working holiday,” explained Adrian unemotionally, half an hour later. “–Barry Goode. It’s his house.”
“I y’am very pleased to meet you, Barry. Please may I take a shower in your bathroom?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Barry numbly. “Down the passage, last door on your left.”
They watched numbly as Ingrid’s Scandinavian butt, now in a pair of well-tailored khaki shorts, no doubt she imagined she was properly kitted out for Downunder, disappeared down Barry’s shabby passage.
“Oh—bugger,” recollected Barry. “Oy—INGRID!” he shouted.
Ingrid stopped, and turned. “What is it?” she cried.
“Uh—look, I’m sorry, but the bath’s full of water with bubble-bath in it!” he called.—“Fiorella,” he explained to Adrian and the boys.—“Wouldja mind not letting it out?” he called.
“That’s okay, I do not wish to take a bath!” called Ingrid.
“They have these giant, everything-separate Scandinavian bathrooms…” murmured Adrian.
“Yeah; they must do,” muttered Barry. “No, the shower’s over the bath!” he called.
“Yes? Oh. It is not separate? But I do not wish to take a shower in another person’s dirty bath water!”
“It’s my little niece, the bubble-bath was a Christmas present!” cried Barry, starting to get rather sweaty and desperate.
“Uh—sorry, Barry,” said Adrian feebly. “She’s a pain in the arse, but she’s never been taught no better.”
“I have been taught BETTER!” shouted Ingrid, turning purple with rage.
“No, you haven’t: you’ve been spoilt rotten from the cradle,” said Adrian unemotionally, pushing past Barry and going down the passage. There was a low-voiced colloquy. The word “clean” was heard several times. Then Ingrid said loudly: “Very well! But my mother will never believe this, it is worse than the English!” And vanished into the bathroom.
Adrian strolled back to them, looking dry. “She’s promised not to let the water out.”
“Goodness me!” said Barry in a silly high voice. “What could possibly compensate for having to put up with that sort of performance over a little kid’s bubble-bath?”
Adrian gave a dirty snigger. Martin and Sim, though very red, emitted strangled hoots.
“Yes, well, there were a couple of them in there what might help,” drawled Barry. “That your tee-shirt?” he added casually.
Considering that it had “Auckland Gram-ar Old B-ys First -leven” emblazoned on its faded navy front in giant chipped gold letters, that was a pretty good guess. Adrian, however, returned calmly: “No: old one of Dad’s. I was in the First Eleven, in my day, but I’m not into the alumni crappola.”—“Alumni crappola” very American indeed, in fact he sounded very like Ingrid as he said it. “Do ya want us to load anything up for the barbie, Barry?”
“Eh? Oh,” said Barry lamely. His eyes seemed unaccountably to have glued themselves to the door of the bathroom. “Yeah, ta. Come on down to the kitchen. Avon and Fiorella are just fetching Janet,” he added in a vague voice.
“Who?” said Adrian blankly.
Barry explained without interest: “A little dame from the Puriri Library that Avon picked up at the last school fair. She’s just bought a place up here: we helped her move into it.”
“You know, Adrian!” urged Martin. “Me and Sim helped!”
“We told you!” echoed Sim anxiously.
“Oh, yeah,” he recognised. “Who else is coming, then?”
“Nothing to rival them pair you brought, I can tell ya,” replied Barry crudely. “Um, well, Kev, of course. Think he’s asked Akiko. And Avon’s asked this French dame that we met at the airport. –I say ‘met’: we weren’t meeting her,” he explained laboriously. “Bumped into her, and gave her a lift up here. Dunno if she’ll come, though. She’s over in Kingfisher Bay: Euan Knox said he’d nip along and collect her, if she wants to come.”
“Oh, is he coming?” said Adrian without enthusiasm. Several years back there had been a certain rivalry between him and Euan Knox over a young woman. She hadn’t been interested in either of them, and in fact, having joined the Carrano Group as a management cadet, had gone off to its Tokyo office. Adrian didn’t dislike Euan, but perhaps understandably he wouldn’t have voted him flavour of the month.
“Yeah,” Barry confirmed. “There’s sausages and chops in that chillybin: you types wanna take it out to the van?”
“Where’s the beer?” returned Adrian.
“In the van, already.”
Adrian hefted the polystyrene hamper, grinning. “Glad to see you’ve got your priorities right!”
Martin and Sim smiled weakly.
The children woke very early on Christmas Day. Simone had bought their presents before she left France, so they had those and went back to bed with them. Simone’s own family went in for the more traditional Christmas Eve, featuring church, then a lot of eating and drinking and present-giving, but Simone didn’t feel it was a good idea to keep kids up until well past midnight. And once she was out of Maman’s orbit had never continued the custom. Armand disliked Christmas and everything to do with it intensely, so she hadn’t had to talk him out of Midnight Mass, thank goodness.
There were no presents for Simone. She went back to bed, too, rather intending to have a good cry, but unexpectedly fell asleep again.
Anne-Louise woke her some time later. “Maman! Maman!”
“They’re your brother’s presents: let him do what he likes with them,” said Simone groggily.
“No! There’s a man in our yard!” she hissed.
Simone sat up, blinking. “Hein?”
“There’s a man in our yard!” she hissed.
It was ten-thirty in the morning, it could hardly be a burglar. Unless New Zealand burglars were very, very cunning and, assuming that people would have gone to their relatives’ baches for Christmas, like Sheryl and Bryce, came sneaking round their homes— Simone shot out of bed. “Where? Show me!”
Anne-Louise led the way to the larger of the two small bedrooms, and stealthily raised the curtain that Sheryl’s mum had kindly donated: to help the kiddies get off, dear, with this stupid Summer Time the Government insists on these days.
“He’s still there,” said Pierre without interest.
“Idiot!” snapped his sister. “I suppose you’d just let him steal our stuff!”
“We haven’t got any stuff,” he said calmly.
There was a man, all right. Quite a tall man, wearing faded denim shorts, a tee-shirt and a floppy green canvas hat. He looked shabby enough to be a burglar, certainly. Simone peered at him dubiously. As she watched, he looked up at the house. She drew back with a gasp.
“OY!” he shouted.
“He can’t be a burglar,” noted Pierre, “or he wouldn’t be calling out.”
Simone approached the window cautiously again.
“HULLO!” he shouted.
“No, he can’t be a burglar,” said Simone in some relief. She opened the window and said cautiously: “‘Ullo?”
“Are you Simone?” he cried.
“Eugh—yes; ’oo are you?”
“WHAT?” he shouted. He was, of course, at ground level, and they were on the second floor.
Simone leaned out and shouted: “I h’am Simone Gautier! Do you—” Oh, dear, she’d forgotten the English word for chercher, how terrible! She stared at him with her mouth open.
“Avon Goode asked me to collect you! For the barbecue!” he cried.
“Mais— Mais quelle heure il est?” gasped Simone.
“Dix heures et demie,” said Anne-Louise officiously.
Pierre’s present had been a digital watch. “Mais non: dix heures quarante-deux!”
“Sss! Mais taisez-vous, les enfants!” hissed Simone, rumpling her hair. Oh, dear, this was dreadful! She leaned out again. “But h’eet ees not dhuh time!”
“Yeah. Gone ten-thirty!” he shouted, pointing to his watch.
“Que dit-il?” asked Anne-Louise.
“Qui’l est est dix heures et demie.”
“C’est ce que j’ai dit!” she said triumphantly.
“Oui— Mais— Attends!” cried Simone, sticking her head out again. “WAIT A MO’!” she shouted, in Sheryl’s very accents. “I COME!” She rushed downstairs, officiously accompanied by Anne-Louise.
“Don’t open the door!” hissed Anne-Louise in horror.
“What? He’s come to collect us for the barbie, petite imbécile!” Simone opened the front door. There was no sign of him. “’ULLO!” she shouted, peering.
The man suddenly appeared from the opposite side of the house. “Oh, there you are,” he said.
“Yes, ’ere I h’am,” agreed Simone limply. Even with the horrid droopy canvas hat he was terribly handsome: young and blond, with a heavy matte tan. The tee-shirt was loose but quite short and the sleeves had been roughly cut out of it, so it was easy to see he had excellent muscles. He was wearing rubber flip-flops on his feet but Simone had got used to seeing New Zealand men, even very respectable-looking men in Kingfisher Bay, wearing these, even with very expensive-looking leisure gear, so she didn’t stare.
“Euan Knox,” he said, holding out his hand.
For a moment Simone thought it was some strange form of greeting. Then she realised—
“Oh! That h’ees your name! ’Ullo, I am Simone Gautier. I am vairy pleased to meet you.”
Euan looked at slim little Simone with her brown hair all ruffled, in her skimpy little pink cotton nightie, and grinned. “I’m pleased to meet you, too, Simone,” he said, shaking hands.
Suddenly a scowling little girl appeared at Simone’s side. She said something in French.
“Eugh—oui. Parle anglais,” said Simone limply, “This ees my daughter, Anne-Louise.”
“Hullo, Anne-Louise,” he said, pronouncing it the English way.
Anne-Louise shrank.
“Shake hands with him!” snapped Simone in French.
Scowling, Anne-Louise held out her hand.
Euan shook it, grinning. “I’m Euan.”
“Il dit qu’il s’appelle Eu-an,” said Simone carefully, very glad to be informed which of the strange syllables was his forename.
“Why’s he here so early?” said Anne-Louise to her mother in French, withdrawing her hand and glaring at him.
“It isn’t really very early… I think the barbie must be a lunch.”
Euan watched them, unaware he was smiling. “So, dhuh barbie is a leunch?” she said to him.
“Eh?” he said, jumping. “Oh: lunch! Yeah, right! –Shit, didn’t Avon say?” he said numbly.
“I am not sure. I theenk that I did not ondairstand all of it.”
“Ya missed some of it, eh?” said Euan with his good-natured laugh. “I get it! Yeah, the barbie is lunch, and we’re going up the Inlet. Did she tell you that?”
“Eugh… she said Inlet.”
“Mm. Well, I’m here to collect you.”
“Yes… But I got a car,” said Simone, blissfully unaware that, although the verb did express the sense of “posséder”, it was not Standard English in that form.
Euan’s white, very even teeth flashed. “Do you, indeed?” he said in accents that wouldn’t have been inappropriate at one of his mum’s afternoon teas. “We’re not taking cars, though: we’re going—uh”—he had almost said “in the runabout,” she wouldn’t understand that—“by boat.”
“By boat?” echoed Simone numbly.
“Yeah. Up—the—Inlet,” he said slowly and clearly, turning and pointing to it.
Simone looked numbly at his positively god-like profile.
“By boat,” finished Euan, turning round with a smile and removing his hat. “C’n I come in and wait?”
“Comment? Oh: yes!” she gasped. His hair was very fair, almost colourless, and very short, but not a crew-cut, Simone hated those. “Please—”
“After you,” said Euan primly, shoving his hat in the back pocket of his abbreviated denim shorts.
Simone swallowed involuntarily, and led the way upstairs.
“We do not ’ave furniture,” she stated, showing him into the enormous living-room.
“No,” agreed Euan dazedly. “Nor ya do.”
“Come on in the kitchen,” said Simone comfortably in the accents of Sheryl Carew.
Blinking slightly, Euan came. They had a little metal-legged, red-Formica-topped table that was virtually an antique, and three chairs, two of which were covered in a red plastic, patterned in cream splashes, that matched the table-top. He sat down, smiling. “Has Kev Goode seen this table?”
“Eugh—that ees the othair brothair of Avon, yes? I ’ave not met ’im.”
“Well, if he offers you cash money for it, ask for twice as much,” said Euan, twinkling at her.
“Eugh—oh! But it ees not my table. It’s a lend,” she said solemnly.
Jesus, where was she getting her English from? Euan said weakly: “I see. I think you mean it’s a loan. Or preferably that you borrowed it.”
“Ah. Thank you. I borrowed it. It ees most ’elpful, when people correct my mistakes,” said Simone carefully. –She’d practised that. So far she hadn’t had to use it.
“Yes. I’ll go on correcting them, then, if you like.”
“Thank you, Euan,” said Simone with a beaming smile.
Euan blinked slightly. She had a long, narrow, elegant mouth, and that smile was about a million watts: positively model-like. In fact, with those facial bones and that slim figure, she could have passed for a model, any old day. Except that she was probably a bit short for it.
“I’ll just get changed, eh?” said Simone in the vernacular, grabbing her little girl’s hand.
“Uh—right,” said Euan weakly as they exited, the little girl starting to whinge in French and Simone shushing her. The cream plastic piping that edged the seat of the Fifties-style chair was a bit cracked—ow. He removed a portion of tan thigh and very blond hair from its clutch, smiling.
… Pierre gave a shout, and turned purple with excitement.
Euan had led them straight down to the beach, going down Karaka Grove, across Rata Boulevard, down Matai Close, into Kakapo Street, and thence to Kingfisher Parade, on the waterfront. He could have walked over the hill to fetch them: the little cove where the boat-repair business was situated was just beyond Kingfisher Bay, but he’d figured it would be easier for Simone and her kids not to have to climb the hill, so he’d come round in the runabout and pulled it straight up on the narrow silver strand. Artificial, like the rest of Kingfisher Bay: trucked in by Carrano Development. No-one had nicked the boat while he’d been up fetching them. In fact apart from a solitary seagull looking lost, they had the beach to themselves.
“Yeah: that’s the boat,” he agreed unemotionally. “Can you say ‘boat’?”
“Dis ‘boat’, Pierre!” urged Simone.
“Bôte,” said Pierre uncertainly.
“Very good!” said Euan with a laugh, suddenly seizing his hand. “Come on, then!”
Simone watched dazedly as the tall, broad-shouldered young man and the skinny little boy ran down to the water’s edge, hand-in-hand.
Anne-Louise began to whine, tugging at her hand: “Maman, I’m scared! I don’t want to go in a little boat!”
“Then you can stay behind and miss out on the barbie, ça m’est égal,” said Simone grimly, releasing her hand. “This is New Zealand, this is what one does here on Christmas Day.”
“Je hais la Nouvelle Zélande!” she whined.
“Tant pis. Moi, je me’en fous,” said Simone with a shrug. She walked on faster, leaving her behind.
Anne-Louise followed slowly, pouting, scuffing at the sand with the new patent shoes that she had insisted on wearing. They were a present from Armand’s mother and frankly Simone considered that the sooner they wore out, the better, so she hadn’t raised any objections, thus pretty effectively taking the wind out of Anne-Louise’s sails: though such had not been her intention.
“Is she scared of the water?” said Euan kindly as the little girl lagged behind.
Simone put her fourre-tout into the boat. “No. She—eugh—she seulks.”
“She’s sulking, eh? I see. For any particular reason?”
“No, I do not think,” said Simone with a sigh. “That is characteristic of Anne-Louise. Though dhuh reason is pair’aps that she h’ees jealous of ’er brothair’s present.” She urged Pierre to show Euan his new watch.
Beaming, Pierre displayed his skinny little wrist with the giant hunk of plastic and metal on it. “Regardez, monsieur!” he piped.
“Yeah. Great,” said Euan, nodding and smiling. He pointed at the watch and said carefully: “‘Watch’.”
“Ouatch,” agreed Pierre.
“Very good!” said Euan, laughing. “So Anne-Louise is jealous, eh?” he said to Simone.
“Oh—yes. –Thank you,” she said as he helped her into the boat. “But there h’ees no reason of h’it. She has a watch.”
“I see!” he said with another laugh, as he hoisted the excited Pierre into the little boat.
Simone reflected that he seemed a terribly good-natured young man. How old was he? she wondered fleetingly.
Anne-Louise had stopped, and was glaring at the boat. “I’ll get her,” said Euan. He went over to her, said: “Come on, Anne-Louise,” picked her up and had dumped her in the boat before she knew what was happening to her. “Now: life-jackets,” he said.
Somewhat thankfully Simone helped her children into small life-jackets.
“Mind you, it’s only about a metre deep except for the channel,” said Euan, handing her a life-jacket. “But we make it a rule that kids don’t come in boats without life-jackets.”
Simone thought this was very sensible. At the same time she could not help wondering who “we” were. “Yes.”
Anne-Louise was just pointing out crossly that the man wasn’t wearing one, when he put one on. “This is pour encourager les autres,” he said solemnly in execrable French.
“Mais oui!” gasped Simone. very startled. He could not be as—well, as uneducated, as he had seemed.
He was not yet in the boat, and she was waiting for him to get in, when he bent and shoved it out bodily.
“No, no, you must not! I can ’elp to push eet!” she gasped agitatedly.
“Rats.” Euan gave it a last shove, and clambered in.
“He’s getting me all wet!” wailed Anne-Louise, shrinking.
“Yes,” said Simone in English. “Thees h’ees a boat.”
“Bôte!” agreed Pierre, beaming. He pointed to his watch and said to his sister: “En anglais, c’est ouatch!”
Anne-Louise tossed her head and glared out over the water. Simone winced: the gesture was a favourite one of Armand’s mother. And his sister, come to think of it.
Euan started the outboard with a roar, they all jumped and gasped, and the little runabout took off in the obligatory plume of spray, Pierre and Simone squeaking and laughing, and Anne-Louise pouting horribly and making a great show of clinging to the side for dear life. Two out of three, reflected the good-natured Euan Knox. Well, you couldn’t have everything!
“Look: that lady has brought a hamper. We should have brought something to eat,” said Ingrid in a low voice to Martin, frowning, as, Barry’s ancient dinghy having been launched in style from the launching ramp at Kingfisher Bay, Janet’s hamper was lowered into it. “Adrian does not know how to do things correctly!”
“Um—no,” he muttered, squirming.
“He’s brought some beer,” ventured Sim.
Ingrid produced a terrific snort. “Beer!”
Adrian wandered along the trim boardwalk of the marina, smiling. “You types coming with me, or going with Barry?” When they got to Kingfisher Marina, Adrian had produced a key, unlocked the padlocks chaining up several little runabouts on the grass outside Sol’s Boating & Marine Supplies, which was closed for the public holiday, and liberated a boat. Subsequently unlocking the store and liberating several life-jackets.
“With you,” decided Martin and Sim.
“Of course I am coming with you, am I not your guest?” said Ingrid crossly. “And why have we brought only beer?”
“Well, you noticed we didn’t have a stove: I couldn’t make anything.”
“One at least brings salads and meats!”
“We haven’t got a fridge to keep the salads and meats in. Or maybe you missed that one?”
Scowling, Ingrid went down the short flight of steps and got into the little boat. The boys followed cautiously: they weren’t used to boats. To their astonishment Adrian then made them all put on life-jackets.
After a moment Avon came across to them. “I’ll come with you, it’s a bit crowded in Barry’s boat.”
“Okay,” agreed Adrian.
“What about your little girl?” croaked Martin.
“Janet’s looking after her,” said Avon calmly, getting in.
After a moment Sim said cautiously: “Is that other lady Japanese?”
“Yeah,” replied Avon succinctly.
There was a short but sufficiently baffled silence. Adrian’s beautiful mouth twitched.
“Sit by me, Avon,” ordered Ingrid. “I must apologise that we do not bring food for the barbecue.”
“That’s okay. I told Adrian we’d do it all. Anyway, he was working.”
“Other people,” replied Ingrid darkly, “are presumably also working, for yesterday, I believe, was not a public holiday? –No,” she answered herself grimly. “Yet they bring hampers of food.”
“We say ‘chillybins’, out here,” said Adrian unemotionally. “That the lot? Come on, then.” The outboard started with a roar, and they were off. The boys gasping and grinning and trying not to cling onto the sides for dear life, since nobody else was. In fact Ingrid was so unmoved you’d have said she was sitting in her own living-room.
During the trip the boys were torn between wanting but not daring to ask if they could steer, and listening to Ingrid’s ruthless and masterful interrogation of Avon on the subjects of Akiko and Janet. Eventually Sim said: “Are we nearly there?” A considerable amount of flat country and scrubby vegetation had been seen plus a few sandbanks decorated with wading birds, but no houses. To the right there was a view of the embryo Sir George Grey University, but it was now receding into the distance.
“Almost. –Hey!” cried Adrian. The boat swerved towards the left and the boys gasped, and clung onto the sides for dear life.
A lady could be observed in solitary splendour in a little cove, sitting on the scruffy grass, which here came right to the water’s edge, hugging her knees and staring dreamily into space. It was hard to tell how old she was, because she had a large sunhat on, but at first glance she did not look like a young lady.
“Who’s that?” asked Avon.
“It’s Jane!” said Adrian with a laugh. “Hey—JANE!” he bellowed.
The lady rose uncertainly, removed her sunglasses, and peered. She was certainly not young: she was tallish, skinny, grey-haired as far as could be seen for the sun-hat, and dressed in a faded grey sweatshirt and baggy khaki shorts that were as unlike Ingrid’s tailored ones as could possibly be imagined. The water was comparatively deep here and the runabout had very little draught: Adrian drew in almost to the bank. The sweatshirt was now observed to have had the major portion of its sleeves hacked out of it, and to sport the legend “Vic-oria Universi-y of Wel-ing-o-” in faded red lettering.
“Adrian!” she cried. “Hullo!”
“What are you doing up here on your tod?” asked Adrian, grinning broadly.
“Breathing and gloating. It’s mine, I’ve bought it!” she said, a smile illuminating her thin, slightly sunburnt face.
“Really?” he said with a laugh. “Ya know this is Next-Door Cove?”
“Yes: that very nice American man from the next cove’s already told me that.”
“Sol’s Cove,” agreed Adrian, poker-face.
They looked at each other and suddenly burst out laughing.
After that it took about two minutes to incorporate Jane into the party, load up her and her bottle of champagne—she confessed she’d already eaten the sandwiches—and set off again.
Of the odd company assembled that Christmas Day on the shores of Carter’s Inlet for a barbecue lunch, perhaps only Jane Vincent, who was, she calculated silently, the oldest of the group by more than ten years, was sufficiently detached from the proceedings to be able fully to appreciate their flavour.
Barry Goode, she thought, had something on his mind. And, amiable though he seemed, she had a suspicion that he didn’t entirely relish the role of paterfamilias into which his age and circumstances had thrust him. The little dark-haired creature who was his sister was as about as self-aware as her own tiny girl. And, reflected Jane drily, about as stubborn.
Kevin Goode seemed a nice young man, but he had clearly fallen in a bad way for the cute little Akiko and appeared to be suffering not only because she seemed extremely friendly with both the attractive Euan Knox and the glamorous Adrian Revill, but because she was treating him, Kevin, with friendly indifference. Jane didn’t know enough about Japanese girls or about this particular girl to be sure if the indifference was real or assumed: but she rather thought it was real. And judging by the quality of the watch, the simple little gold bangle, and the carefully casual clothes, not to mention her position with Sir George Grey, she was, Jane concluded, pretty well out of the class of an amiable golden-bearded fellow who ran a recycling place in Carter’s Bay, Puriri County. Poor Kevin.
The glamorous Ingrid seemed to be, in spite of her managing manner, almost entirely at a loss. It was partly, diagnosed Jane shrewdly, as the Swede tried to tell Euan and Kevin how to build a fire and got thoroughly ignored for her pains, that she was not getting the overt male adulation to which her wonderful looks had no doubt accustomed her, not to mention the male submission that ditto. And partly—whether it was the language barrier or the fact that she was about as self-aware as Avon—that she wasn’t grasping the nuances of the Kiwi “Good Keen Man” thing. And partly that she was simply homesick, poor child, and not admitting it.
One might have expected Simone, whose English was a lot less fluent than Ingrid’s, to be even more at a loss: but oddly, she didn’t seem to be. Jane didn’t think she understood all the conversation, by any means: but she smiled a lot. Especially when Euan was talking to her. Hmm. He seemed to be tempering the Good Keen Man thing when he spoke to her: hmm, again.
As for Adrian… Jane didn’t know him well enough to be quite sure what, exactly, he was up to. But she had grasped by now that he was highly intelligent and extremely self-aware. So when he did the Good Keen Man bit he must undoubtedly know he was doing it. So… Well, holding Ingrid at a distance? Interested physically but giving her tacitly to understand that that was as far as it went? Ye-es. That was possibly so. But possibly, also, giving her to understand that he neither liked being, nor needed to be bossed around. For a moment Jane considered the possibility that he was peeved because Ingrid expected him to prostrate himself before her beauty rather than prostrating herself before his. But no, she didn’t think it was that. True, he must have had scores of women, young and not so young, grovelling before those good looks, not just since he grew up, but all his life, if he’d been a pretty little boy—and Jane saw no reason to suppose otherwise. But he wasn’t the vain pretty-boy type, in spite of the looks: that sort of fawning, mindless admiration would, she thought, bore him out of his skull. The sad thing was, Ingrid was clearly a bright girl, and, Jane suspected shrewdly, from very much the sort of nice background that Adrian was himself. Well, Auckland Grammar, for God’s sake? And at that, Head Boy! But unless she got her act together pretty smartly and stopped patronising him and trying to boss him around—ouch, there she went again—Jane didn’t see any future in it.
The two young English lads were clearly pretty much at a loss, and very glad to have been taken under the Goode family’s wing. The older males, Jane was relieved to see, were treating them kindly enough, allowing them to learn how to build a fire properly, how to position the billy properly—help, billy tea, Jane hadn’t had that for years: even the Forest & Birders were all thermos-ed these days—how to wrap and bury the potatoes, kumaras and sweetcorn properly in the coals, and so forth. And also how to consume immoderate quantities of beer, but that was inevitable. At least some of it was light-beer.
Quiet little Janet seemed to have fallen for Barry Goode, but though he was nice enough to her, he didn’t seem at all aware of her as a female of the opposite gender. Oh, dear. Janet’s outfit didn’t help: a neat, loose blue-checked cotton blouse, worn outside the neat blue tapered slacks. Blue wasn’t particularly her colour. She had a wide-brimmed sun-hat in a plain straw, evidently quite new: it had a blue ribbon on it. If Jane ruled the world Janet would have got Barry: why not? He seemed a decent fellow, if dull.
At this point in Jane’s ruminations, Adrian came and threw himself down beside her, grinning. “Penny for ’em!”
“Isn’t it ten cents, these days? Um… actually I was thinking that it’s all rather sad.”
Adrian’s clever sherry-coloured eyes followed her gaze. Fiorella had just determinedly taken Janet’s hand and was tugging her away from Barry Goode’s vicinity and towards the water. Barry didn’t seem to have noticed. “That is, yeah.”
“Is he—um—”
“Word has it he fancies more generously endowed ladies.”
“Oh,” she said uncertainly, as Barry came abruptly to life, shouting: “Leave that!” as Ingrid attempted to do something to the fire.
“Not her. Well, technically speaking, her, too, of course: they’re probably the best pair in the country as of this moment. –He’s beneath her notice: too old, not enough hair on top, not got the looks, and not got the socio-economic position,” said Adrian with a curl of his well-modelled lip.
Jane had to swallow. “I sort of gathered that.”
“She can’t help being that up-herself: never been taught not to be,” he said detachedly.
“I rather gathered that, too.”
“I’m sure ya did,” he said with a glinting, sidelong smile.
Jane swallowed a sigh. Why wasn’t she gorgeous and twenty-odd as of this moment? Boy, Life was Unfair, eh?
“No, well, Barry’s hung up on a dame that lives over Toetoe Bay way, so the word goes,” he said in a cautious undertone.
“Oh?” she murmured.
Adrian grimaced slightly. “This dame’s living with some rich Pommy joker. Barry’s been doing the house up for them.” He glanced at her drily. “You might say, he’s also helping Janet to do up her house.”
“Mm, so I gather.”
“Yeah, well, he’s that type,” said Adrian with a tiny shrug.
“What type, Adrian?” replied Jane slyly.
He shrugged again. “Uxorious.”
“Mm,” said Jane neutrally.
“Paternalistic.”
“Mm.”
Adrian gave in and smiled. “Type that throws himself into frantic physical activity so as to be able to ignore anything that might be going on between his ears.”
“Pretty much a Good Keen Man, then?”
“Almost. If he stopped to think about it, he might even know he was doing it: he’s not dumb,” he said, idly watching as Barry got up, stomped over to the fire, told Ingrid off good and proper, and rearranged it properly. Ingrid was then observed to retreat down the beach, her back view emanating huffiness.
“Yes. –Adrian, I suppose you realise that that girl is homesick and almost completely phased by your refusal—what am I am saying, the refusal of all you damned Good Keen Men—to worship at the altar of her beauty?”
“Uh—well, the homesick bit hadn’t struck me forcibly, I admit.”
Jane sighed. “She is.”
“All right, go and comfort her, Granny,” he drawled.
“You rotten little—” Jane broke off. “By God, you’re shrewd,” she said limply.
“Didn’t need to be. So far you’ve very obviously avoided cooing over Fiorella, taking the French kids under your wing, taking those two inept Pommy kids under your wing, and helping Avon and Janet unpack food and generally fuss. You’ve equally avoided,” he said, investigating her back-pack, “telling Simone to use more sun-block.”
“I didn’t need to: everyone else was doing that.”
“Yeah.” Adrian handed her her tube of sunscreen. “Your nose could pass for Rudolph’s.”
“Ta,” said Jane feebly, not mentioning surrogate grandsons.
Adrian watched her anoint her nose, smiling a little. “If I have to go and placate a sulky little girl, I’d just as soon placate the other one.”
“Uh—oh.” Little Anne-Louise was sitting silently under Barry’s umbrella, scowling. Her mother and brother were happily splashing and shrieking in the shallows with Euan and the two English boys. “How long were you in France, again?”
“About a year.”
Jane sighed. “Then go and speak to the kid, for God’s sake.”
“Yeah. ‘Pourquoi tu boudes?’ That’ll go down really well.”
“What?”
“‘Whaddare ya sulking for?’” said Adrian in the vernacular, scrambling up. “Why not?”
Jane propped herself on an elbow and watched the subsequent scene with, it must be admitted, not all that much interest. Whatever he said to the kid worked. She allowed her hand to be taken and walked off down the beach with him, in Ingrid’s direction. Whatever he said to her worked, too. Well, she accompanied them over to some rock-pools on the far side of the little beach, apparently quite happily.
Jane lay back, sighing. She wouldn’t be a kid in her twenties again for a million dollars. Not even if it allowed her to build an actual dwelling on that five acres of hers at Next-Door Cove.
Eventually, as the little girl had become absorbed in playing in a small pool, and Adrian was just sitting on a rock, staring idly out at what she had already informed him was a flat, unexciting view, Ingrid said in a low voice: “Why are you treating me so cruelly?”
Adrian looked thoughtfully at the placid Inlet. “Was I? I didn’t meant to be cruel. If I’ve been putting you down, Ingrid, maybe it’s because I’ve got sick of your continual criticisms of every blessed thing you see.”
Ingrid’s jaw shook. “I say only what is true.”
“Yeah.”
After a moment she said huskily: “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“Yes. It’s not so much what you say, it’s the way you say it, Ingrid.”
“So, you want me to say nothing, like a good little girl?” she cried angrily.
“That’d be real restful,” he admitted.
“Well, I am not a good little girl, and I am not into female submission!”
“Nor am I. I’m not into male submission, either.”
“That is not—” Ingrid broke off.
“We could try forgetting about female submission and male submission and just try behaving like two equals,” he said detachedly. “According each other equal respect.”
Ingrid licked her lips. “Okay. But you will say I criticise your country!”
“I will if you do, yeah.”
“But I don’t mean to!” she said angrily.
“Okay, you don’t mean to. Go on, then.”
She looked around with a wan expression on her handsome face. “It’s all very different from Sweden. Please do not be offended, this is just an observation, not a criticism: it seems not so clean. And—and the people are… No, I think I mean just the men. They are…”
“Odd. Yes, It’s the local form of machismo.”
“But I would say, those Goodes men, they’re very soft!”
Adrian smiled. “Yes, of course they are. Knox is a bit the same way. That’s part of it. Confusing, isn’t it?”
She goggled at him. After a moment she said: “You agree they are odd?”
“Yes. Which doesn’t mean I don’t indulge in the oddness, myself.”
“Yes, but— You are not soft, at all,” she said in a shaken voice.
“No,” said Adrian drily. “Partly temperament, maybe partly the fact that I haven’t had it particularly soft since I left school. But then, Barry and Kev Goode have both had pretty hard lives.”
“They are parochial as well as soft,” she said shrewdly. “You are not that.”
“No. Well, Ingrid, that about sums up the local talent,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Odd, parochial, and soft. None of that means they’re gonna knuckle under to a gorgeous bird like you: because in case you haven’t spotted it, not knuckling under to gorgeous birds is part of the oddness.”
“I’ve spotted it,” she said, smiling feebly. “I don’t know how the women cope.”
“Well, largely by turning themselves into mums and ignoring the whole bit,” he admitted, sitting up and poking gingerly at a hole in the rock. “C’est quoi?” he said to Anne-Louise.
Anne-Louise explained scornfully it was an anemone.
Ingrid was looking back at the group that had reconvened under the umbrella. “So, these women, they will all turn themselves into mums and ignore the men?”
Adrian straightened. “Uh—you don’t need to take it that literally…” He looked dubiously at the group under the umbrella.
“The assertive little Avon?” said Ingrid uncertainly.
Blenching slightly, he admitted: “Well, in her own unique way—yeah. She already more or less does it.”
“Ah. But not the Japanese girl,” she stated.
He shuddered. “Not flaming half! Japanese women are the experts at it! Possibly the more overtly macho the society, the stronger in fact the women become? They completely rule the household in Japan. You wanna meet her Aunt Masako!”
“Oh. Yes, I see what you mean. That’s an interesting theory. Though one needs more supporting evidence,” she said seriously.
Adrian nodded, his eyes dancing.
“This is all a yoke, yes?” she said on a resigned note.
“No. Take that nice Janet. Sort that’s slated to be a devoted wife and mother, eh?”
“Ye-es… This doesn’t mean she will inevitably ignore the men.”
“Not quite, no. She’ll… slide into a strictly limited female rôle, given half a chance,” said Adrian, his clever eyes narrowed. “Giving all due deference to the husband publicly, but in fact making all the crucial decisions to do with their joint life herself. –No?”
“No. I think you are wrong about that one,” she stated firmly. “She will not ignore the husband. And she will allow him to participate in all decisions—even to take the lead. Though she will certainly be satisfied with a traditionally limited domestic rôle.”
“Yes,” said Adrian on an impatient note. “Don’t let’s do it to death, eh?”
“No, okay,” she agreed obligingly.—He blinked.—“In any case one needs more women, to form a reasonable sample.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll take ya down to Swadlings’ dairy tomorrow. –If it’s open,” he admitted.
“Surely everything will not be closed tomorrow also?” she cried.
Adrian shrugged.
“But—” Ingrid broke off. Adrian didn’t say anything. Eventually she said grimly: “You continually test me, that’s it, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is, mm.”
“Very well,” she said, reddening. “Your ways are different here. I should not assume that our ways are better. I apologise.”
“Thank you,” said Adrian politely.
Ingrid looked at him suspiciously.
“The zoo will be open tomorrow. We could go, if you like.”
“Ye-es… Thank you for the offer, but I do not care to see animals that are not free,” she said in a strangled voice.
Adrian smiled a little. She was trying to be good! “Nor do I, really. Anne-Louise, tu viens?” he said, scrambling up. “On va manger, tout de suite.” He led Ingrid off without looking to see if Anne-Louise was coming. After a few seconds she panted up alongside him. “You think of somewhere you’d like to go tomorrow, then, Ingrid,” he said kindly.
“I haven’t really had the time to read all my brochures,” she admitted. “The volcanoes are not near, I think?”
Auckland was built amongst a group of volcanic cones. “Uh—not the active ones, no. And you can’t rely on them actually being active when ya wanna go there, ya know.”
“I see.”
Adrian squeezed her arm into his. “The place is pretty dull and parochial, ya know. Um—if you like old trains and that sort of thing…”
Meekly Ingrid agreed she would like to go to this MOTAT place on Boxing Day. She began to tell him what they traditionally did in Sweden on Boxing Day but thought better of it.
Smiling a little, Adrian persuaded her to continue.
Ingrid continued happily, apparently unaware that she’d just knuckled under to an odd, parochial male from Downunder.
The Christmas dinner on the beach with Avon and her family and friends was the oddest Simone had ever had. But also the nicest: though she admitted to herself that the quality of the food had very little to do with this. The strange English sausages were not too bad: she nodded and smiled confusedly as Barry explained they were beef sausages, from the butcher in Puriri, not the supermarket. The chops were lamb: very fatty. Usually Pierre refused point-blank to eat meat with any vestige of fat on it, but he appeared not to notice the fat on the barbecued chops. Anne-Louise didn’t even point out that “les chopes” did not mean that, she was so busy eating sausage and chattering to the stunningly handsome Adrian. The hot vegetables were done in the coals. Anne-Louise didn’t even quote Armand on the subject of sweetcorn being fit only for African peasants and animals, she was so busy eating it.
There were also cold foods: Avon had brought three salads, all hermetically sealed in large plastic containers of the sort that Simone’s Maman favoured. The salads were not anything that Maman would have recognised as such. They were all carbohydrate-based. One consisted mainly of rice. Mixed in it were many bright green peas, small dice of carrot, and sweetcorn kernels. Also in the rice were sultanas and thin silvers of orange, complete with its skin. The dressing was very odd, but this was soon explained by Janet’s asking if it was one of those Paul Newman ones and Avon’s replying no, they were too dear, it was Praise. Simone didn’t recognise the brands but she got the point: salad dressings came in a bottle, from the supermarket, in New Zealand! Maman would have ten thousand fits! Also Armand. Hah, hah. Simone helped herself liberally to the rice salad to spite the both of them.
The next salad consisted mainly of wholemeal pasta. Brownish little curls. Ugh. This one had pieces of raw, unpeeled red capsicum mixed in it, together with… pineapple? Bon Dieu, chunks of pineapple! Simone let Avon spoon some onto her paper plate even though she could see it was all held together by a sort of thick, heavy substance that was very definitely not mayonnaise. She tasted it cautiously. Very sweet, but with an under-taste of vinegar.
Avon’s third salad was salade de carottes râpées. Simone recognised that. Even though it did have dried currants and little shreds of coconut.
Janet’s salads were different, but if one thought about it, not so different in kind. One was a potato salad. Simone had not hitherto thought that one would wish to eat cold potato. Peeled, cooked, and chopped into neat dice. With finely chopped parsley, finely chopped chives, and pieces of hard-boiled egg. This salad was slathered in a sticky white, vinegary but sweet substance. Different in taste from Avon’s, however. Janet’s second salad was at least recognisable as a salad. Chopped tomatoes and lettuce. But why had she put the dressing on it beforehand? The lettuce at the bottom of the square, hermetically sealed plastic container had gone quite limp. Pierre remarked on it, but fortunately only in French. Janet’s third and final salad contained ham. “Oui, du jambon,” agreed Simone feebly as Anne-Louise pointed it out. Also there was chopped celery, raw, and chopped raw apple. Plus sultanas and walnuts. It had the thin dressing of the sort that was not from Paul Newman. Simone took some anyway.
Janet had also brought “French bread”, which she explained shyly, in response to Avon’s cry of “Ja-net! You shouldn’t of!” she had picked up at The Deli in Puriri, it had been no bother, she’d had to go in to work yesterday in any case. She’d put it in the freezer overnight—Simone’s jaw dropped—to keep it fresh, it was one of her mother’s tricks. The company congratulated Janet on the freshness of her French bread. This bread looked like des baguettes and even felt like them until you bit into it. Then you found, alas, that inside the crust, which was leathery rather than crisp, was just dampish, soggy English white bread.
Adrian leaned forward a little from his position at Anne-Louise’s further side and explained in a low voice, in French, that all New Zealand bread was made from the local flour, which came from the local wheat. It was very different from the hard wheat of Europe. You couldn’t get anything resembling French baguettes in New Zealand, whatever they might call them. Simone had never thought about flour, let alone wheat, heretofore, as having such an impact on her daily existence. She goggled at him.
Adrian put some butter on his not-baguette. “Oui, c’est de la beurre. Mais attention: elle est toute remplie de sel, tu la trouveras déguelasse. Ici, c’est normal. Cependant pour la plupart des gens la margarine la remplace—on ne sait pas pourquoi, car c’est un pays producteur de lait et de crème.” He eyed her blandly, sat back, and ate his bread and salty butter.
Suddenly Ingrid, who had scarcely addressed a word to Simone as yet, leaned forward and said rapidly in accented but very fluent French: “He’s teasing you, Simone. When he sounds the most serious, is when he’s teasing the most. They do have unsalted butter, because he was using it last night at the restaurant.”
“Yes, but this is the usual butter,” said Adrian calmly in English.
Janet went very pink and said in a hasty, confused voice: “Oh, dear, I’m sorry, Simone: were you expecting Continental butter?”
“No,” said Adrian firmly. “That’s more like crème fraîche,” he said to Simone in English. “If you want beurre de Normandie, look for unsalted butter.”
“Unsalted butter,” repeated Simone dazedly. “Thank you, Adrian.”
“Mum always used to buy that for sponges,” ventured Janet.
“Yes. I use it for sponges, too, Janet,” said Adrian, smiling nicely.
Janet was overcome by the news that Adrian could bake a sponge, so several people, including Martin and Sim, who hadn’t uttered since the food was produced—Simone thought, not only because they were busy eating sausages and chops—reminded her loudly that he was a chef.
“Oh, yes,” she said limply. “That’s why you borrow all those 643s.”
“Uh-huh: cookbooks,” he agreed with a wink.
“But he has no cooker at the moment, so he could not bring any contribution,” said Ingrid in an anxious voice.
“That’s all right, we’ve got stacks,” said Avon serenely.
“Anyway, he brought beer,” said Barry comfortably, distributing some.
“It’s a bit like French beer, Simone,” put in Sim hoarsely, going very red.
“Yes: it is ur-right and-uh duh-ry,” agreed Akiko, raising a can and twinkling over it.
“Yes: Foster’s lager,” said Simone calmly. “Bryce and Sheryl ’ave this. Also Bryce has DB.”
Abruptly Adrian, Euan and Kevin collapsed in sniggers.
“H’I say something wrong?” said Simone anxiously.
“Um—no,” said Euan sheepishly, reddening. “Sorry.”
“No,” agreed Adrian, grinning. “You’ve grasped the fundamental cultural icons of Downunder! Mind you—”
“I really think that’s enough,” said Jane mildly at this point.
“Yes: Adrian, please stop!” said Ingrid loudly, going very red.
“Sorry,” he said to Simone. “DB Draught beer is very popular here. Some people do drink Foster’s lager, but it’s Australian.”
“Yes. H’I ondairstand what h’is a cultural icon.”
“Yeah,” said Euan, swallowing. “No-one expected you to have got to know Foster’s and DB so soon, you see.”
“H’I ondairstand that, also. Euan. Don’t apologise. I theenk that Sheryl and Bryce are vairy typical New Zealanders, possiblee?”
“Mm,” he said, swallowing hard. “They sound really nice. –They’ve been very kind to her,” he explained to the company.
“These are your neighbours, are they, Simone?” asked Barry. Fiorella clambered onto his knee: he jigged her automatically and said to her: “Eat ya sausage; good girl.”
Simone smiled gratefully at Barry and began to tell him about Sheryl, Bryce and little Billy.
The meal ended with Christmas cake, various, Mrs Adler’s, brought by Akiko, being voted unanimously the best, and New Zealand fizzy white wine. Jane Vincent, for one, was not surprised that Adrian Revill allowed Kevin Goode to talk him into telling Simone the local horror story about the court case brought against the Aussies for shipping their white fizzy wine over here under the label “champagne”. She was, however, just a trifle surprised that Euan Knox then firmly shut Adrian up and told Simone she didn’t have to drink it. She would have said it was too early for any Good Keen male to align himself against the peer group so obviously. Well—evidently not. And she was also rather surprised that instead of coming down hard on Adrian and Kevin, Barry Goode kept entirely aloof from the whole bit and, in fact, looked bored to tears throughout. We-ell… perhaps there was a bit more to him than met the eye? But Janet Wilson, pretty obviously, was not the girl to bring him out of his shell, she decided drily, as Janet and Avon made a terrific fuss over packing everything away neatly and making sure that Simone’s children did not go swimming again too soon after the meal. Given that the Inlet came up to about knee level even on Pierre unless one waded out determinedly for over thirty yards, there was no point at all in this fuss. Jane kept well out of it all—well out. She’d done all that, about seven hundred years ago.
After a drowsy afternoon, mostly spent under the sun umbrella, they eventually straggled back to the boats. Jane had left her hire car on the Inlet road, at the spot where her front gate would one day be. She let herself be dropped off without much regret. Even though what she had to look forward to was drinks and snacks with a clutch of permed, floral-frocked widows at Wenderholm. –Her own fault for being too feeble-minded to tell them to take a running jump: yeah. She went off to it, reflecting once again that in spite of Adrian’s male beauty and Euan’s wonderful matte tan and broad shoulders, she wouldn’t have her twenties over again for anything.
“I’ll see Simone and the kids home,” said Euan, as they debarked at Kingfisher Marina.
Barry yawned. “Okay. Just give us a hand to get these two idiots into Adrian’s heap, eh?”
Obligingly Euan assisted them to load up Martin and Sim. “Your brother’s pissed, too.”
Barry gave Kevin an exasperated look. “Yeah.”
“He may come with-ah us,” said Akiko firmly. “Kevin-ah!”—He jumped.—“I duh-rive ur-you home. Get in,” she said clearly.
Grinning sheepishly, Kevin folded his long legs into the back seat of Akiko’s little car, ignoring Janet’s offer to yield the front passenger seat to him.
“See ya,” said Barry mildly to Euan and his contingent.
“Thank you so much, Barrie,” said Simone, smothering a yawn. “Eet was so enjoyable.”
Barry eyed her dubiously. “Yeah. Something like that. Well, it occupied the day, eh?”
“Eugh—yes!” she said with a startled laugh.
And off they went, Pierre fast asleep on Euan’s shoulder and Anne-Louise clinging tightly to his hand.
When Simone unlocked her front door Euan simply walked in, went up the two flights of stairs and deposited Pierre in his little bed. Anne-Louise was yawning so much that she didn’t even object when Simone suggested she might like to take a nap, too.
“I’d put some lotion on them, even if ya did make them cover up,” he said.
“Some… Oh! Yes. To—eugh—soothe. Yes, I shall do h’it. Thank you for all, Euan,” said Simone carefully, leading him downstairs again.
Euan perceived she was very tired herself. Well—what with the strain of talking English all day, and the fresh air, not to mention the food and the grog— “That’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, about ten-thirty, for MOTAT, then.”
When Ingrid had mentioned the MOTAT scheme, somehow everyone had decided that since Barry and his lot intended going anyway to look at pioneer cottages, they might as well join up with them. Somehow everyone had just assumed that Simone and her kids would want to come, too. “Yes. Thank you, Euan.”
“No sweat.” Euan hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry if it was all a bit much,” he said gently. He waited a moment while this sank in.
“No,” said Simone, going very red. “Everyone was vairy kind.”
Yeah, sure. Kind, incomprehensible and hopelessly foreign. Euan didn’t know much about France or they way the French lived but he had been privileged in the past to have some meals at the hand of Monsieur Adrian, master-chef, and he knew that even the simplest French meal was totally different from anything they’d had today. What their picnics were like he had no idea, but he didn’t fancy that they had all that much in common with Barry and Avon Goode’s idea of a Christmas barbie. “If you’d rather not bother, we can forget about the MOTAT idea.”
“No, I would like h’eet!” gasped Simone.
“Okay, then. Get an early night, eh? ’Bye.”
“Good-bye, Euan. Thank you once more.”
Euan went off, smiling, wondering how long it’d be before this famous Sheryl and Bryce taught her that it was “Thanks again”.
Simone closed her front door slowly, yawning. She went upstairs slowly and drank a lot of Évian, straight out of the bottle. It was warmish: as yet they had no fridge. Sheryl, however, was threatening one for the moment they got back from Rotoiti. Simone wasn’t sure that Armand would consider a huge American-style combined fridge-freezer as tall as she was to be a necessity. Though Sheryl assured her that it was, in this climate. The telephone was not yet connected, though Sheryl had helped her make an application for it. So there was no fear of Armand ringing her. Yawning horribly, Simone gave in and, though it was barely dix-huit heures, went to bed. First conscientiously putting some sunburn lotion on the children as Euan had suggested.
Kevin’s behaviour at the Christmas picnic had merely confirmed Akiko’s first impression of him. She and Janet saw his unsteady form safely into his bus barn. Then Akiko set off for Gilbert Street, not allowing her real opinion to show in either her face or voice: Janet would have been shocked, and Janet was a really nice person, whom Akiko did not wish either to shock, or to form a low opinion of her, Akiko.
Politely she accepted Janet’s invitation to pop over after she’d had a shower: they could have a light supper and watch a film on TV. There was certainly nothing else to do: Mrs Adler was away, staying with her son and his family for the festive season. Akiko had in fact received several invitations for Christmas Day. She knew the Carranos very well, having been their Nanny’s help for some years, and they had urged her to come down to Polly’s parents’ farm with them. Akiko had refused, on the excuse of having to start work in the New Year. Then, her cousin Ken Takagaki and his wife Hilary had asked her to come to them for the day. Nothing would have induced Akiko to spend a whole day in the company of her Aunt Masako: fortunately she had had the Goodes’ invitation by that time, so she’d had an excuse to refuse. Akiko had not admitted to anybody, least of all to herself, that the reason she had been so adamant about staying on in Carter’s Bay for the holiday break was that she wanted to spend some time in Kevin Goode’s company without going so far as to make it an actual date.
The film was Scrooged. Politely Akiko let Janet explain it all to her and did not reveal (a) that she had seen it twice before or (b) that she had read the original, and in fact, quite a lot of Dickens.
“This is cosy, isn’t it?” said Janet happily over cups of milky tea and slices of Mrs Adler’s splendid Christmas cake.
“Very ur-cosy,” agreed Akiko, lying in her teeth.
Well, perhaps it would get better once the new university got going; perhaps she would meet some really interesting men? One, would do, thought Akiko drily.
“Go,” said Barry firmly as, in spite of the fact that she had now put her kid to bed and got herself all gussied up, Avon protested she didn’t want to leave Barry “all alone” on Christmas Day while she went off to some feeble-ized party that Jimmy Burton’s family were putting on. It would be Ma and Pa Burton, several generations of uncles and aunties, that dumb sister of Jimmy’s with her squabbling kids and turd of a husband, and that real drip of a Lance Burton with his moron of a girlfriend. Not to mention those dim little mates that Jimmy had been at school with. And, if they were really lucky, Grandpa Burton who was now stone-deaf and Grandma Burton who was now two bob short of the full shilling.
Avon let herself be persuaded and wobbled off on her desperately high platform soles.
Peace descended on Station Road. Barry didn’t chance his luck by peeping in on his niece, he just got a cold one out of the fridge, retreated to his saggy armchair, sat down heavily in it and sighed. Well, that was Christmas over for another year.
… Would there be any point in telling Avon that although he didn’t mind giving little Janet Wilson a hand with her cottage, she could stop trying to shove her down his throat, because she was not his type? Too short, not enough curves and, in spite of the ruddy B.A. that Avon kept shoving down his throat, not really very bright. No, on the whole there wouldn’t be. He’d just have to let it sink in gradually that he was not interested. Not—interested.
After a bit, since there was no-one there to criticise him for doing so, he turned on the radio and, wincing at the noise that then blared forth from the station Avon favoured, switched to the Concert Programme. Wonder of wonders, it wasn’t cricket, it was actual music. Vivaldi? Yes, it was. A bit pretty-pretty for his tastes, but better than the Nth re-run of bloody Carols From Kings, deodorised, sanitised and artistified out of all recognition to anything that once might have represented Merrie England. Barry sipped ice-cold DB, and sighed.
Bloody Hell! He sat bolt upright in his chair, choking, as the unmistakable sanctimonious tones of Captain Picard rent the suddenly Vivaldi-less air. What the fucking Hell? Oh. Words to go with the Musack, presumably for the culture-vultures that couldn’t hack their Vivaldi straight. He sighed, but sat through it. At least the bloke had a pleasant enough voice, if you could stop seeing him in them ruddy black and crimson pyjamas, which he, Barry Goode, personally couldn’t.
The music came back on again and Barry closed his eyes. Though reflecting as he did so that it was not the Concert Programme he’d grown up with, mate, not by a long ruddy chalk. Even if it had been cricket every time they’d promised you Mahler.
Simone woke up in the middle of the night, horribly disoriented. Then the light from the street lamps of Karaka Grove reminded her where she was. She was in New Zealand, and it was Christmas and Armand was on the other side of the world. Simone got out of bed and went over to the long windows giving onto the balcony. After a moment’s hesitation, she unlocked them and slid them back cautiously. She went out onto the balcony.
Everything was quiet and still. No lights showed in the settlement of Kingfisher Bay. Over on the point the Royal Kingfisher Hotel glimmered like a fairy palace, but no noise came from that direction. It must be very late.
Simone breathed deeply. The air was much fresher and cooler than it had been during the day, and had a slightly spicy smell. After some puzzling she realised it must be from the vegetation on the hillside. Simone leaned on her balcony wall and looked up at the hillside. “Là,” she said to herself, half under her breath. “Là-bas.”
She wandered back inside and went to sleep with the windows wide open, her mind filled with the comforting consciousness that Euan was just “over there”, on the other side of the hill.
Next chapter:
https://conquestofcartersbay.blogspot.com/2023/05/tactical-moves.html
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