Alan's Christmas

31

Alan’s Christmas

    Alan had given quite a lot of thought to Christmas. The eventual game plan, he was aware, was not ideal. But it was the only thing he could bloody well think of! Well, apart from driving up to The Blue Heron at some suitable time like the witching hour and forcibly kidnapping Catherine. He had an idea that Mike might give him a hand, but he also had an idea that Molly wouldn’t let them.

    He drove down to Puriri at around six o’clock on Christmas Eve. Collingwood seemed to be on the watch for him: he certainly came out of the office and waved vigorously as Alan’s car approached.

    “What?” he said heavily, pulling up.

    “Uh—come into the office,” said Mike on an uneasy note.

    Grimly Alan came.

    Feebly Mike revealed the great June Blake cake-making venture to him.

    “I see,” said Alan tightly.

    “Um, well, the thing is, old June’s got no-one but bloody Cyril at home, and all he’s interested in is the bloody Tennis Club… Ya don’t wanna hear all that,” he recognised lamely.

    “No. How have they managed, so far?” he asked tightly.

    “Uh—well, all right, but it’s only been going about ten days. What I mean is, June and her obbos have been at it a while but Catherine’s only— Yeah. Um, well, she seems to be coping very well, Alan,” he said uneasily. “Gets herself round to June’s on time every day—well, it’s only a few blocks; gets herself back here in good time to help Molly with the lunches and dinners…”

    “Evening work?” he asked grimly.

    Mike swallowed. “Well, yeah: the baking for the next morning, ya see, but June comes and collects her for that and brings her back again.’

    “I’m glad to learn she isn’t altogether incapable,” he said grimly.

    Oh, cripes, thought Mike numbly. “Yeah. Just thought you’d better know,” he croaked, not wishing the bloke a Merry Christmas or anything fatuous like that, because it pretty clearly wasn’t gonna be.

    “Thank you, Mike,” he said grimly, walking out.

    “Hullo, Alan!” screamed Dicky wildly, opening the motel unit’s door to him. “I’m ready!”

    He manifestly wasn’t: there was no bag in evidence and he was barefoot, wearing a green cotton vest and a pair of old grey cotton shorts; but as this had entirely given the game away, Alan was forced to say to Catherine, who had appeared behind him looking bewildered: “Good evening, Catherine. Dicky and I are going to spend Christmas at home. Would you like to come with us?”

    Catherine’s lip wobbled and for an instant Alan was sure this was a Good Sign. Then she went very red and cried: “You manipulative, underhand thing!”

    “Well, yes,” said Alan mildly.

    “Don’t put on that tone with me! And you said ‘at home’ deliberately: don’t deny it!”

    “Yes, I did. On the other hand, it is our home. But if you want to claim that Christmas alone here is going to be preferable to spending it with me and Dicky, and Buttercup and Daisy—”

    “An’ Biggles!” he put in eagerly.

    “And Biggles,” agreed Alan calmly, “go right ahead and claim it. Just don’t expect us to believe it.”

    Very red and tearful, Catherine looked from Alan’s impassive face to Dicky. Dicky wasn’t impassive, but he did look pretty blank, and he didn’t look as if he was prepared to believe she was going to enjoy Christmas at The Blue Heron. Nevertheless she said defiantly, sticking her plump chin in the air: “I will not be alone! There’s loads of people here!”

    “Yeah, if ya count those honeymooners in Number Four an’ Five,” noted Dicky disparagingly. “They’re nongs, Alan,” he explained. “An’ ya know those ’wildered Japs in Number Six? Well, Mike reckons he’d give them a Christmas tree, only they might think it was something to eat!” He sniggered nastily.

    “Bewildered Japanese,” corrected Alan mildly, looking sideways at Catherine. “Yes.”

    “And old Miss Whatsit in Number Seven!” retorted Catherine crossly.

    “Nah, she’s dead. It’s her niece, this year. She come by herself,” Dicky explained to Alan. “She’s been bawling. –She’s old, too,” he explained.

    “Yes, well, that sounds enticing,” replied Alan coolly.

    Whether or not Dicky could have given the dictionary definition of the word, he got the point, and fell around the concrete forecourt on which this discussion was taking place, laughing horribly and clutching his tummy.

    “You can have your old room all to yourself,” said Alan calmly to his estranged fiancée.

    “Yeah: Alan, he’s got a spare bed in the study. It’s keen, now, Mum!” said Dicky eagerly. “He's got a new desk an’ everything! –What’s that word?” he demanded of Alan.

    “Ergonomic?”

    “Yes. Alan, he’s got an ergonomic workstation, an’ everything, now,” he explained to Catherine. “With a real office chair.”

    Catherine began limply: “I don’t—”

    “An’ Mr Goode, well, he’s gonna start building the stable right after Christmas!” he added eagerly.

    Alan perceived with a sort of swamping despair that this point seem to act as the last straw with Catherine: she went redder than ever, gasped: “What?” and cried: “Well, that does it! I’m not coming! And if you take him, he’s your responsibility!” And slid the door of the motel unit to with a rending thud.

    “Am I your responsibility, or are you mine?” said Alan thoughtfully into the resultant ringing silence. Silence except for what sounded like a Japanese row coming from the approximate direction of Number Six.

    “Don’t be funny, Alan!” choked Dicky ecstatically.

    Alan smiled wryly: he didn’t feel much like it. “Well, come along,” he said with an effort. “I suppose you can make do with what clothes you’ve got up at the farm.”

    “Yeah; it’s holidays, anyway,” said Dicky comfortably, getting into the car.

    “Yes.” Would Catherine kidnap him back if he left him for five minutes? On the whole Alan thought she might. He got into the car, and drove the few yards to the motel office.

    Dicky came in with him as a matter of course. Alan could have made the effort to prevent him but— Oh, well.

    Mike was still on duty at the counter.

    “Thanks, Mike," said Alan with difficulty.

    “That’s okay,” he said, looking sideways at Dicky.

    “Where’s Huia?” asked Dicky keenly.

    Mike sighed. “Shacked up with a new boyfriend up in Whangarei. Mrs Henare rang up about ten minutes ago, it having just occurred that possibly Huia hadn't informed her nominal employers of the fact.”

    “Shit, who’s gonna look after the office?” he cried shrilly. “You gotta go an’ do your maître d’ stuff, Mike!”

    Mike looked drily at Alan. “Catherine, apparently.”

    “Mum can’t work the credit-card thing!” said Dicky with scorn.

    “There isn’t anyone else,” replied Mike logically. “She can always nip through into the bar and ask Greg, if she needs to work it. But I don’t think she will: we’re full up, they’re all booked in for the next week at least, and even those bewildered Japs aren’t gonna try to put one minute tin of Nescaff on their ruddy American Express cards. –Oh, I dunno, though,” he said fairly.

    “I’ll get her!” decided Dicky determinedly,

    Alan grabbed him by the skinny shoulder just in time. “No. Mike will get her. Thanks again, Mike.”

    “Think nothing of it. Um—Merry Christmas, or something of the sort,” said Mike glumly.

    “Er—quite,” replied Alan limply.

    “So it’s Plan B, then?” said Mike, raising his neat eyebrows.

    “Yes. You can expect both Noelle and Saskia at around ten tomorrow morning.”

    “Ooh, is that Plan B?” gasped Dicky.

    “Yes. Come on. Say Merry Christmas to Mike.”

    “I already gave them their presents,” replied Dicky arcanely.

    “Nevertheless, it would be quite correct to wish Mike a Merry Christmas now, since you won’t see him tomorrow,” Alan returned stolidly.

    “I geddit. Merry Christmas, Mike. Hey, c’n I see Molly?”

    “Two minutes, if Alan agrees. She’s sweating blood over that damned chestnut stuffing. I told her, none of them’ll know what it is, let alone expect— Oh, well. May he?” he said to Alan. “If I chain him to me wrist for the entire period?”

    “Mm. Thanks,” said Alan.

    “You’ll look after the office, then?” suggested Mike, as Dicky came eagerly round the counter.

    “’Course he will! Come on!” cried Dicky.

    Grabbing him just in time, but not neglecting to raise a sardonic eyebrow at Alan, Mike disappeared out the back with him.

    Alan came slowly round to the serving side of the counter, leaned on it heavily, and sighed.

    Dicky, of course, was in a state of high excitement for the entire evening. Alan didn’t believe he hadn’t had his tea but he let him have another. In spite of claims to the contrary, he was manifestly too excited to eat very much. Then he had to inspect the tree which was taking up a large part of the sitting-room and correct Alan’s feeble attempts at decoration. Then he had to have a very full and detailed “real” explanation of how the “blinking” light on the long chain of Christmas tree lights actually worked. In the course of this explanation the bulb got screwed in and unscrewed again about seventeen times: apparently he was not prepared to take Alan’s word for a moment, and nor was he prepared to accept the evidence of his own eyes without sufficient statistical data to back it up very thoroughly. Oh, well: a budding scientist? Then he made Alan put out all the presents, over-riding Alan’s feeble protests that he’d thought that was usually done by the adults, after bedtime. In New Zealand you put the presents out first, see? This was apparently so as the children could then crawl round the tree for hours on end, trying to feel them through their fancy packaging. Even those that were not intended for them.

    “I bet I know what this one is, anyway!” he announced, having felt the present from Alan to Saskia for some time.

    “Oh?”

    “Fancy scent,” said Dicky firmly.

    “Er—no. Not a bad guess, though. Fancy bath powder. How on earth—?”

    Apparently Mr Tamehana, well, he— Alan just sat through it. “Yes. Well, in revenge, perhaps you could tell Shane—and Steve Tamehana, too, of course, if he'd like to know, or even if he wouldn’t like to know—that although fancy scent is of course highly suitable for one’s wife or girlfriend, one’s almost-sister-in-law, mother of one’s almost-adopted son, is considered to be too distant a relation for fancy scent to be appropriate.”

    “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “Fancy bath powder’s okay, though.”

    “Quite. Bed,” said Alan firmly, getting up.

    “Aw-wuh, Al-lun! Coulden I—”

    “No. It’s nearly eleven.”

    It was nearly twelve by the time Alan finally tottered back into the sitting-room. He turned the Christmas tree lights off: they appeared to be from South Korea and he wasn’t too sure about the quality of Korean wiring. On second thoughts he unplugged the damned things into the bargain, and, locking the house, tottered off to bed.

    Rousing about five minutes later to excited shrieks of: “Alan! Alan! Wake up! It’s Christmas Day! Alan!”

    It was five-thirty on Christmas Day, yes. Oh, well, at least he’d slept, which he hadn’t for an instant believed he would. Doing his best not to betray his astonishment at Dicky’s then asking permission to open his presents, he got groggily out of bed.

    They opened Dicky’s presents and Alan’s presents: Dicky had given him “a real hunting knife.” Alan blinked but thanked him sincerely: with a bit of judicious sharpening it would make a damn’ good fish-filleting knife, given that he didn’t intend to rush off into the wilds of Waikikamoocow after deer or pigs. He was just vetoing Dicky’s kindly offer of coffee, even though he claimed he knew how to use the Italian coffee-pot, when a bellowing noise from outside caused Dicky to remind him helpfully that he better milk Buttercup. ’Cos Mr Fermour, he wouldn’t come over on Christmas Day.

    “Oh, God,” said Alan numbly, tottering to his feet. “I’d forgotten.”

    “He said he’d do it in the evening, if ya like,” Dicky reminded him.

    “Yes. Christ.”

    “I know how!” he shrieked, jumping.

    Alan had now been taught by Catherine how to milk a cow by hand. He was aware that he didn’t have much of a knack for it, though. Oh, well. They went out into the paddock and got on with it.

    “It is Christmas,” conceded Dicky as they finally retreated from the paddock with an almost full bucket, leaving Biggles suckling eagerly.

    “Mm. Um—what about Daisy?” said Alan feebly.

    Apparently Alan didn’t know anything, ’cos she hadda have a calf, first: see! And Mr Fermour, he said—

    Alan listened patiently to a report on Gerry’s Fermour’s report on the readiness or otherwise of his young heifer for mating.

    “Yes. What I mean is, when does she have to have this—er—AB, Dicky?”

    “Um—dunno. Um, when Buttercup does, eh? Mr Fermour, he says—”

    Alan let a long, involved tale about the real bull that Mr Fermour’s dad had used to have more or less wash over him.

    “When Mum comes back, she’ll know!” finished Dicky consolingly as they reached the back door.

    Alan jumped. “What? Oh—mm.”

    “C’n King Peng-Cat have some?” said Dicky as the cat then came and rubbed firmly round their ankles, emitting a deafening rumble of purr.

    “Mm? Oh, Hell yes, poor brute.” Alan went inside and sat down heavily at his polyurethaned table. Coming to with a start to find Dicky very red-faced, grunting over the bucket.

    “Dicky, don’t try to pour— Hell,” he said as a small amount splashed into the cat’s saucer and a considerable amount ran over the polyurethaned kitchen floorboards. Which Mr Goode had discerned to be kauri like the rest of the house even though this was a lean-to: a term which managed to be both technical and pejorative, Alan had gathered. Apparently they built them to last back in those days. King Peng-Cat came eagerly to lap from the pool on the floor.

    Eventually the remains of the milk were mopped up, the mop had been very thoroughly rinsed and set out in the murky, humid grey day to dry, or at least air, and Dicky was deciding that since it was Christmas, he could have what he liked for breakfast. Sol, he had a waffle-iron! he informed Alan excitedly.

    “Er—oh: Sol Winkelmann? He’s an American,” said Alan dully. “Sorry, no waffle-irons.”

    “French toast?” he replied eagerly.

    Alan agreed. They had French toast the way Dicky liked it: well soaked in the egg and milk, but then very well cooked, until it reached the consistency of, erring on the generous side, balsa wood. Then slathered in ersatz maple syrup which Alan had, many moons ago, once made the mistake of letting him buy from the supermarket in Puriri “just to try.” At the same time making the even greater mistake of telling him that Americans and Canadians put it on pancakes but it would probably go equally well on that French toast stuff his mother made…

    Alan had one piece of leathery French toast, a small quantity of ersatz maple syrup, most of which he managed to leave on his plate, and a cup of very black coffee.

    Then Dicky, as threatened, got on his new bike and rode slowly round and round and round and round the house…

    “Hey, Alan! C’n I go up the Fermours’ place?”

    And show the Fermour boys his new bike: right. Alan looked groggily at his watch. God. Well, undoubtedly Jenny and Gerry would have been up long since, what with the cows, but since it was Christmas Day might they not, as he once thought Jenny had mentioned to him was their custom, have gone back to bed for a treat? He looked at Dicky’s face. “Oh, go on,” he groaned.

    The ecstatic Dicky vanished.

    Peace descended on Cold Comfort Farm…

    Mike lurked behind the curtains of their little sitting-room. If you put your cheek against the glass and really pee-eered, you could just see a piece of the forecourt near Catherine’s unit. Mike peered. “Looks like action,” he announced.

    Molly replied uncertainly: “You don’t just mean it’s those Japanese tourists again, asking her why the restaurant isn’t open?”

    “Ya mean why the office isn’t open and why the restaurant isn’t open,” he corrected. “No. Small car. Two small black-haired women looking frightfully determined: that circumstantial enough for ya?”

    Molly gave in, came up to his side, flattened her plump cheek against the glass, and pee-eered.

    … “I’ll get her,” announced Noelle grimly, getting out.

    Saskia ignored this and got out as a matter of course. Krish had been consigned to the back seat. He just lurked there.

    After Noelle, in her bossiest voice, had told her mother a string of lies about having decided to go somewhere really nice for Christmas dinner, ably backed up by Saskia, they got her into the car. In the back seat: Krish was duly ordered into the front. Saskia got into the back next to her sister. Krish didn’t ask where the handcuffs were, but he felt bloody like it. They set off.

    “But— Where are we going?” faltered Catherine as they shot past the old pub that stood all on its ownsome on the highway north of Kowhai Bay. Not that it wasn't handily placed, in its way, because just when you were telling yaself what a nong ya were not to have stopped in Puriri and tried to find The Tavern, which was not on the main drag or anything like it, there it was, Krish reflected glumly. Closed, of course: the pubs were always closed on Christmas Day.

    “Is that place still going?” asked Saskia incredulously, ignoring her sister.

    No-one else answered, so Krish muttered: “Yeah. Does a roaring trade on the weekends.” Saskia did not react so he added feebly: “You know: just when you were kicking yaself that ya didn’t stop for a beer in Puriri, there it is.” No-one reacted to this, so he added: “Um, and if you’re going the other way, it’s the first watering-hole between—um—here and—um, well, Whangarei, unless ya know to turn off at Carter’s Bay and find the old—”

    “Yes!” snapped his beloved.

    “–Carter’s Bay pub,” finished Krish glumly.

    In a very bright and determined voice, Noelle told her aunt all about the lovely new restaurant, well, two, really, because the more lunchy one, it had the courtyard, that had opened up in the old waterfront pub at Carter’s Bay. Saskia made appropriate replies, also in a brightly conversational tone that wouldn’t have deceived a child of two. Krish hunched into himself and stared blankly at the highway.

    “But— I thought we were going there?” faltered Catherine, as they shot past the turnoff to The Quays, and headed on up the highway towards the brand-new Carter’s Inlet bridge.

    No-one replied.

    “Where are we going?” cried Catherine on a note of anguish as they shot over the bridge.

    At this point they coulda been going out to Sir George Grey, or even for a picnic up the Inlet, or come to that, to Whangarei: nevertheless Noelle conceded in a steely voice: “Home. Or had you forgotten that you’re Dicky’s mum?”

    No-one pointed out that she wasn’t, technically. And that in fact Dicky’s biological mother was sitting there right next to her. The one with the key to the handcuffs in her pocket, right.

    “I’m not going!” wailed Catherine, bursting into tears.

    Everyone ignored her, though it was true to say that Krish’s ears went very red. Manifestly she was going, so what was there left to say?

    About halfway down Toetoe Bay Road she said in a trembling voice: “I’ll get out and run away when we get to the gate, so there!”

    Everybody ignored this, too. Though a sort of gleam might just have been discerned in Noelle’s eye, behind the sunglasses.

    “What’s he done to it?” she cried in anguish when they got to the gate. Or a gate.

    “Put a decent gate in at last,” replied Noelle coldly. Though still with that gleam in her eye.

    Catherine gaped at it. It was sort of a double gate: wooden, painted cream. Quite a heavy, workmanlike gate. Not unsuited to a farm gateway. The brand-new railed fence that was also painted cream looked rather more on the poncy side, however. Indeed, Krish pointed out: “That fence is new, too. Makes the old place look like a poncy horse paddock, eh? Sorta thing ya might expect to see—”

    “Shut up, Krish,” ordered his beloved.

    “Um, down round Clevedon, where they have the polo,” he finished feebly.

    “Shut up, for Heaven’s sake, Krish!”

    Ignoring this, Krish turned his head and smiled hopefully at Catherine. “The gate’s good, though. –Go on, No’,” he said to his girlfriend.

    Replying grimly—though still with that gleam, and a just discernible smirk around the mouth: “Don’t call me that,” Noelle pointed something at Alan’s brand-new cream gates. The gates swung inwards, Catherine gasped and flattened herself back in her seat, and Noelle drove rapidly through, noting brutally to her beloved: “I’m not stopping. If they don’t close, you can nip down after and do them.”

    Krish took the automatic thingy off her and pointed it scientifically. “They do, see?” he said pleasedly.

    Noelle sniffed slightly, but did not appear precisely annoyed.

    Krish smiled hopefully at Catherine. “Same thing like what they have on the automatic garages, really, Mrs B— Cripes,” he said numbly as she burst into loud tears.

    “Pre-empted,” Saskia explained to her niece with a loud sniff.

    Noelle shrugged slightly. “Yeah. –Mum!”

    Catherine sobbed harder than ever.

    “Mum! Stop bawling!” ordered Noelle loudly. “What’s Dicky gonna think? You’ll ruin his Christmas!”

    Through the tears, Catherine sobbed something like “Ruined al-rea-hud-dy.”

    “Balls,” said Saskia in a hard voice. “And if it is, it’s you that’s ruined it. You always were as obstinate as a pig. –She is, in her quiet way, you know,” she said to her niece and her niece’s boyfriend.

    “I know that!” replied Noelle scornfully.

    Krish said nothing. His ears turned red, though.

    “Why couldn’t you at least have compromised for Christmas Day?” added Saskia coldly to her sister.

    “You—didn't—even—want—him!” sobbed Catherine.

    “What?” she said blankly. “Oh—Dicky. No, that’s right, and since you volunteered to mother him, why don’t you assume the responsibilities that go with the job?”

    In the front, Krish cringed. Even the ears of Noelle herself turned red.

    “I am!” cried Catherine loudly.

    “Balls. Alan did the tree and everything. You've been sitting in that bloody motel sulking for months on end. It’s a wonder the poor little turd isn’t thoroughly traumatised.”

    “Don't call him a turd!” shouted Catherine. “He’s a dear little boy, and you’re an unnatural woman!”

    “Yes, and thank God for it,” replied Saskia coldly. “But if you’re claiming you’re not, why aren’t you in that house with him on Christmas Day, pretending for his sake you’re enjoying yourself?”

    Noelle drew up outside the front door on Alan’s brand-new pale cream pavers, and braked viciously. “Yeah,” she agreed with satisfaction.

    “He's changed the drive and everything!” cried Catherine furiously.

    “Yes, and about time, too,” returned Noelle brutally, undoing her seat-belt. “Get out," she ordered her mother briefly over her shoulder, getting out herself.

    Krish stumbled out numbly. Why in God’s name couldn’t it have been this Christmas that the whole family went down to Gran’s or something? Why in God’s name had he had to say he’d spend it with Noelle?

    “Get out, Catherine,” said Saskia in a hard voice.

    Sniffling, Catherine got out.

    “And blow your nose,” ordered her sister, handing her a pristine handkerchief.

    Catherine blew her nose. “What about food?” she said faintly.

    “It's all under control,” replied Noelle grimly, marching up to the front door and ringing the bell briskly. And not betraying by so much the flicker of a muscle the immense relief the remark had caused in her. Round at the back of the car, Krish, with his head in the boot, might have been observed to sag, however.

    “We never use the front door,” said Catherine faintly.

    “Never mind, don’t wanna lug this lot round the back, eh?” said Krish cheerfully. Catherine gaped at him as he grinned at her over an enormous carton.

    “Now, we’re not going to eat disgusting hot food in this weather,” Saskia warned her sister.

    Catherine was just beginning faintly: “But I never—” when the door opened and Dicky cried: “Hey, Noelle! Hey, Alan gimme a bike, ya wanna see it? It’s ace! It’s got gears, an’ everything! Alan, he reckons I can ride it to school once I’ve learned up the rules of the road! –Hey, Mum, Alan gimme a BIKE for Christmas!”

    The bike was immediately produced and admired by all: Krish, having put down his giant carton on the verandah, was even favoured with a short ride on it: down the drive and back, Dicky panting beside him all the way.

    Noelle then agreed, with a meaningful look at her aunt, that they’d love to say hullo to Buttercup and Daisy. And Biggles, of course. And there was something in the carton for Biggles. It turned out to be a salt-lick: Noelle had observed on an earlier visit that the cows needed a new one; but Dicky was thrilled anyway, and they all three went over to the paddock, even Saskia refraining from more than a slight wince and a pained glance at her suede sandals as they went.

    Krish was just hefting his carton again when Noelle screeched: “Leave that, Krish! Come—here!”

    He looked awkwardly at Catherine.

    “I see; it’s a plot,” she said faintly.

    “Uh—more or less, yeah. Uh—maybe ya better get it over with, eh?” he said kindly.

    “Maybe I better had,” agreed Catherine grimly. “Go on, then.”

    With a sheepish grin, he went.

    Catherine took a deep breath, and went in. “Super-duperised,” she said under her breath, going down the passage.

    The kitchen was basically spotless, in fact cleaner than it had ever been except for the first five minutes after Mr Goode had finished it, but there was a lot of surface mess. And no sign of Alan. “French toast?” muttered Catherine under her breath, inspecting the pan. She went slowly out again.

    The dining-room was empty. That was, the table was covered with a huge tablecloth that Catherine had never seen before in her life, she would have taken her oath it was damask, though actually she had no idea what damask was, and laden with cut glass, no, probably actual crystal, most of which Catherine had never seen before in her life; though the large water tumblers were identifiable, Alan's Aunt Elspeth had sent them out in a huge crate from Scotland, they had belonged to his grandfather and the set was completed by matching whisky tumblers, a water jug, and a decanter with its own silver necklace. The boughs of artificial pine and holly decorated with little fake Christmas bells and real red candles were probably local, though. Well, from the Puriri Emporium, most likely. Where the real linen serviettes in dark red and dark green had come from was anybody’s guess. The silverware was instantly identifiable as the set Alan had bought her last Christmas, so Catherine determinedly did not look at it. She had never seen the dining chairs before in her life but as they looked genuine and old and good, Alan had probably carried out his threat to get Aunt Elspeth to send out his father’s walnut dining suite from “home.”

    “‘Home’,” quoted Catherine under her breath with immense distaste. Giving in, she bent and peered at the table legs. Never seen them before in her— Yes, well, it was all of a piece, he was super-duperising the whole place, and if he wanted to, he bloody well could, it was his house, but he was not going to super-duperise her, and he was not going to turn her into one of those awful, smart ladies that let their husbands sleep with other ladies and didn’t even care!

    She went out, frowning, and went into the sitting-room. Good grief, the grandfather of all Christmas trees. He would. And he must have bought all those extra ornaments and those blinking lights specially, they’d never had them before, only the small collection of ornaments that had been scraped together from various sources: home-made ones that Uncle Bob’s housekeeper’s grand-kids had helped to make—wooden cotton-reels, painted with red, gold and silver paint, mostly; three pink and silver angels, largely cardboard, with bits of yellowed nylon and blackening glitter, that Noelle had made at school; two really beautiful fat silver balls delicately painted with blue and red stars that Saskia had removed bodily from Mum and Dad’s place when she went flatting, and that therefore must be almost as old as Catherine herself; half a dozen small multi-coloured baubles that Noelle had bought with her pocket money when she was eight; and three spidery wheel-shaped things that Janet Wilson had let Catherine take home with her after a bread-ornament-making class at the Puriri Library. Dicky had painted one silver and dipped it in red glitter and the other two red and dipped them in silver glitter and they looked quite magical. The fairy that normally adorned the tip of the tree was an old Barbie of Noelle’s that had got very bald. Catherine had donated it to the Library for Children’s Corner and had been stunned when Cynthia, the Children’s Librarian, had returned it to her with a new shiny silver wig, very thick and wavy, a new silver and white tulle dress, and new silver wings and wand.

    After quite some time of staring at Alan’s giant, indeed super and giant, Christmas tree with her mouth slightly open, Catherine said in a sort of muffled wail: “Where’s our fairy? ALAN!” she shouted angrily, running out into the passage. “Where ARE you? Where’s our fairy? What have you DONE with her? ALAN!”

    Alan had gone into the master bedroom with every intention of getting showered and changed after Dicky had gone to show the Fermours his bike, but had given in to the temptation just to close his eyes for forty winks. He came to slowly. Something about fairies?

    Ignoring the fact that at the sight of his sleeping face, coolly composed as usual, but the eyelids looking pale, delicate, and utterly non-masculine, her knees had gone very weak, Catherine cried loudly: “Where’s our FAIRY?”

    “At the bottom of the garden,” said Alan groggily. “Oh, hullo,” he said feebly, blinking. “It’s you.”

    “What do you MEAN, she’s at the bottom of the garden? Have you thrown her out?” shouted Catherine, bright red.

    “What is all this, darling?” said Alan foggily, struggling to a sitting position, and blinking at her.

    “Our FAIRY! She’s not on top of the tree. Where is she?”

    “Er— Oh.” Alan passed a hand over his bald pate. “I thought she might like to go on the mantelpiece, this year, darling, she’s the centre of the—er—centrepiece. Didn’t you look there?”

    “I looked on the tree, she’s supposed to go on the tree! You've spoiled ev-ev-every-thuh-hing!” wailed Catherine, tears trickling down her cheeks.

    “Mm,” said Alan tightly. “I had rather gathered I'd done that, yes.”

    Through the tears, Catherine sobbed: “What are you doing in our buh-hed? You said you’d sleep in the stuh-huh-hudy!”

    “What? Oh. You weren’t here. Sleeping in this bed makes me think of you.”

    Gulping and sniffing, Catherine stared at him. “Oh.”

    Alan passed her his handkerchief. “Here.”

    “You would!” she said fiercely.

    “What?”

    Catherine blew her nose fiercely. “Have a spotless handkerchief under your blimmin’ pillow! I suppose it was you that super-duperised the kitchen, too?”

    “I’m not helpless, you know,” said Alan feebly.

    “No!” she cried loudly. “That’s just it, isn't it! You’re not helpless, and you don’t need anybody, and you don’t need me!”

    Alan stood up, yawning in spite of himself. “Sorry. What with five hours’ sleep and the strain of having to milk Buttercup— I do need you, I’ve been trying to tell you for months I need you, and I don’t give a damn if you’re the world’s worst housekeeper, and to tell you the truth I wouldn’t give a damn if you couldn’t cook, either, I just need you! And if you want God’s honest truth, if you can’t bloody well forgive me for being an arrogant, selfish bastard, I’m chucking it in and going back to the UK, because I can’t bloody well stand it without you!”

    They stared at each other for a moment.

    “What about the job?” said Catherine faintly.

    “Damn the bloody job!” said Alan Kincaid loudly.

    Catherine’s jaw sagged. “I thought that was what was important to you: getting the job done, and—and stuff.”

    “No! I love you, you infuriating woman! I don't bloody care about anything else!”

    “I can’t be… super-duperised,” said Catherine very faintly.

    “I don't want to super-duperise you, Goddammit, Catherine: I fell in love with your bloody shrunken sweaters that are too tight across the tits and your frightful old cotton frocks that gape across the tits, for Christ’s sake!” he shouted.

    “Um—yes,” said Catherine uncertainly. “Did you? Help.”

    “No,” said Alan grimly, taking her hands and holding them very tightly in his: “it’s me that needs help. For God’s sake, help me, Catherine.”

    Catherine looked up at him uncertainly. “I don’t think I can forget about that awful lady.”

    “I’m not surprised,” said Alan grimly. “Can you live with the memory, though? Put it behind you, is what I mean.”

    “I don’t know.”

    “No. Um, look, could we go back to how we were, for a little, perhaps? Separate rooms, agonising though it might be?”

    “It’d be agonising for me, too!” she retorted crossly.

    Alan was rather glad to hear it. “Yes. Good,” he said hoarsely, squeezing her hands very hard. “So—just tell me what you want.”

    A tear stole down Catherine’s cheek. “I suppose I want you to be a good person,” she said dolefully.

    After a lifetime of not being good: yes. Quite. Alan's jaw hardened. “I can’t do it alone. I made a bloody bad fist of it when you let me go off by myself to Wairakei, didn’t I? I know the pundits prate about—er, being truly adult, and assuming responsibility for one’s acts, and so forth, but when it comes down to cases, it’s not that simple, is it?”

    “I’ve never felt truly adult,” said Catherine simply. “Other people look like it on the surface. I suppose some of them really are. Only then their marriage falls apart or it turns out he’s one of those AA gamblers or something, and you think maybe they were just pretending, too.”

    “Mm. Well, I’m very definitely just pretending,” said Alan drily. “In fact, as far as I can see, adult life, so-called, is just one great big pretence. Just—just come and pretend with me, could you?”

    “The thing is,” said Catherine slowly, licking her lips, “you need a lady to be a hostess and all that stuff.”

    “Yes. I’m not denying there’d have to be a bit of give and take. Er—I’d give up the awful ladies from the conferences and take you on shopping expeditions for super-duper dresses?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

    “Don’t be silly,” said Catherine faintly.

    “It would more or less be that, you know.”

    “Yes. Um—well…” She thought it over. Alan watched in trepidation. Nevertheless he was very much aware that she hadn’t pulled her hands out of his: had to be a Good Sign, didn’t it?

    “Would you choose the dresses for me?” she said at last.

    “Uh—is that a question that requires the answer ‘Yes’?” replied Alan feebly. He had discovered that she’d done some Latin at school. Her school must have been as odd as the bloody local universities. Well, her last year at school—just before the pregnancy, right—had included Latin plus elementary biology, plus something that called itself English and had apparently inculcated her with the notion that The Red Badge of Courage and Wuthering Heights between ’em represented the flower of the English novel.

    “Nonne choose a dress for me?” agreed Catherine. “That one I picked out was awful.”

    “The engagement one? Well, yes, pretty bad. The colour suited you, though. Well, certainly, I’d be glad to. Er—provided you let me take you to the boutiques where Polly Carrano shops,” he said with a twitch of the lips.

    “No! They’re all for thin ladies!” she cried in anguish.

    Alan didn’t think so, not if they knew which side their bread was buttered on. Though considering the quality of New Zealand commerce as observed thus far, very possibly they didn’t. “We’ll find some places that merely show the dresses on thin ladies and make the styles up to suit ladies of any figure at all that can pay for them,” he said soothingly.

    “Do you mean model frocks?” she gulped.

    Er—did he? What the Hell, if that was what she wanted to call them. “Yes, of course,” he said smoothly. “And very likely Polly can put us in touch with a good local dressmaker, too.”

    “I can’t ask her,” said Catherine very faintly, closing her eyes.

    “No. I’ll ask her,” said Alan mildly.

    “This isn’t a joke, Alan,” she said with her eyes shut.

    “No, I know. I don’t actually see these points as trivial,” he said mildly.

    Catherine opened her eyes and looked at him dubiously.

    “I understand that playing hostess for me is a big hurdle to you, and that wearing the right clothes is very much a part of that,” he said seriously.

    She nodded hard.

    “Do you understand that to keep me on the straight and narrow you will have to come with me on the occasional very boring business trip, conference jaunt, and so forth?” he asked anxiously.

    “Mm,” she said, nodding.

    “Not all of them, just the ones I—I ask you to come on,” said Alan hoarsely.

    “I see!”

    He’d thought she might; nevertheless he looked at her anxiously. “I can’t help—maybe it’s a facet of not being truly adult—but I can’t help feeling rejected when you reject the things that are intrinsic to my way of life. Telling myself you’re not rejecting me personally doesn’t help.”

    “No, I see.”

    “I don’t think I can change entirely,” said Alan, gnawing on his lip. “Not—not give up the job, opt for the simple life—that sort of thing.”

    “No, I know. You wouldn’t be you if you could.”

    “No. It’s all a question of do you want me as I am? Whether or not it should be a question of that.”

    “Mm. I don’t think it’s a question of whether I want you, Alan,” she said, looking at him seriously. “It’s a question of whether I can cope with it.”

    “In a nutshell,” agreed Alan, the nostrils flickering.

    “What if I try and—and I can’t?” said Catherine in a shaking voice.

    “There is no answer to that, except that some claim the essence of life is risk.”

    “Do you think so?”

    “I wouldn’t put it like that. If there is an essence to life, or at least to physical existence, I’d say it was change. That’s what time itself is, isn’t it? Or at least, the interface between time and the physical organism.”

    Catherine thought about it. “Yes. I’d agree. But maybe all my organism can cope with is just sitting in a corner and growing old and dying.”

    Alan felt rather sick, but he said steadily: “Yes, maybe it is. I won’t say at your age it damn well shouldn’t be; you know I find generalisations both boring and puerile. Especially moralistic generalisations.”

    “Mm,” she said, looking up at him nervously.

    “Just two things, Catherine,” said Alan, drawing a deep breath. “First, insufficient though it may be, Help.”

    “What’s the second?” she said, swallowing.

    “This, dammit,” said Alan grimly, pulling her against it.

    After quite some time Catherine said into his chest: “It could make me a baby, I suppose. That’d be a change.”

    “Mm,” agreed Alan into her untidy blonde curls.

    “Um… so long as you don’t act ashamed of me in front of—of all those thin ladies, I think I can. Well, I can try,” she said dubiously into his chest.

    “Mm,” agreed Alan into her curls. “I won’t act ashamed of you. –Did I, at that damned engagement party?” he added, holding her a little away from him and looking down at her searchingly.

    “No. Not at all.”

    “That’s good, because I wasn’t,” he said, drawing her back against it.

    “You didn’t like that dress, though,” she said faintly into his chest.

    “Aesthetically, no. Sexually, it was a Hell of a turn-on, both as to the way it dipped at the bust—whether or not it might have been meant to—and as to the way it showed every bloody line of your bum,” said Alan, getting both hands under said bum and squeezing it very tightly.

    “Ooh!” she gasped.

    “I'm very tempted to say,” said Alan into her ear, “isn’t this all that matters, in the end?”

    “Talking of puerile generalisations,” said Catherine breathlessly. “Ooh! –No, it’s the bits in between that are hard.”

    Alan Kincaid at this gave a very coarse laugh, shoved her faded cotton dress right up to her waist with the one hand, and with the other forced the piece of meat—how fortunate he was only in his dressing-gown, still—between her soft thighs. “This bit is, certainly!” he panted.

    “Yes. –They're out there,” said Catherine faintly.

    They weren’t, quite: this dress was hellishly tight around the bust, and he hadn't quite managed to get the buttons— “Huh? Oh, damn. So they are. All right, then, later?”

    “You know I can’t resist when you go all sexy,” she replied faintly.

    Alan decided he’d better not ask for an answer incorporating the actual word “Yes”: he’d chanced his luck far enough today. “I’ll take that for consent,” he said thickly, kissing her hungrily.

    Catherine responded eagerly. “I’ve missed your smell,” she said when he stopped for breath.

    “Good,” said Alan simply.

    Later parts of the day featured an argument between Noelle and Saskia as to whether the tinned pheasant Saskia had brought (en gêlée, according to herself) should or shouldn’t be eaten with the cranberry sauce, tinned, that Noelle had provided; the discovery that Krish had brought one of his mum’s pumpkin pies that Noelle had ordered him not to, they were “revolting, cold” (N. Burchett); the discovery that in spite of being told Saskia would provide the wine, Krish had brought a couple of bottles of local bubbly (in case she forgot); and incidentally the discovery that if you unearthed some of Catherine’s home-made lemon cordial and added a bottle of local bubbly and several bottles of soda water, it made a very acceptable drink for a humid summer’s day. Not to say the discovery that Master R. Burchett was more than capable of drinking his share of same and had in fact done so while the adults’ attention was on such matters as: getting himself round a third helping of the pavlova that Noelle had made with her own fair hands (Krish); condemning Krish for making a pig of himself over the pavlova when others hadn’t yet finished their first helping (Noelle); staring dreamily into space over her first helping of pavlova (Catherine); sneakily trying to get his hand not merely onto Catherine’s thigh but up her dress and onto the skin of said thigh without being noticed by any of the other adults at the table (Alan); and discovering her niece had disobeyed orders and that in spite of the edict against cholesterol there was real whipped cream on the pavlova (Saskia).

    They finally slung their hooks around fiveish, Krish predicting that the roads would be relatively empty and Noelle withering him utterly but nevertheless deciding they’d go.

    “Thanks,” said Alan, shaking Saskia’s hand.

    “That’s okay. Do me a favour and get her to a decent hairdresser,” replied Catherine’s sister, eyeing the bird’s-nest on her head with disfavour.

    “I’ll take it under advisement,” replied Alan smoothly.

    “Yes. –Catherine!” she shouted,

    Catherine came to with a jump. “Eh?”

    “I’m going. I’ll see you at Easter," she said briskly.

    “What?”

    “I told you! I’m driving down to Taupo tomorrow with the Rushbrooks!”

    “Oh,” said Catherine blankly.

    “I'll see you at Easter, all right?”

    “Oh, yes. That’s not for ages,” said Catherine blankly.

    “No. Take care.” Saskia pecked her cheek briefly, said cheerfully: “’Bye, Dicky!” And got into the car.

    “Good riddance,” said Catherine with a sigh as the gates obediently opened and closed, Noelle tooted her horn, and the car disappeared up the road. “How do they do that?”

    “Mm? Never mind!” said Alan with a laugh. “Come inside,” he said into her ear.

    “What about Dicky?” replied Catherine faintly.

    “I’m staying HERE!” he shouted fiercely,

    “Yes,” said Catherine, going very red. “We both are, Dicky.”

    “Are you gonna marry Alan?” he replied tersely.

    “Um—yes, I think so,” said Catherine faintly.

    “Yes!” said Alan with a laugh. “We won’t even wait for Easter!”

    “Nah, you don't wanna hang around at her beck an’ call,” agreed Dicky tersely.

    Alan goggled at Catherine. “Where in God’s name did he get that one from?”

    Catherine shook her head.

    “Let it pass. Dicky, why don't you watch TV for a while?” said Alan cunningly.

    “I was gonna ride my bike.”

    “It’ll still be here tomorrow. But do so, by all means.” Alan pulled Catherine into the passage. “Come on,” he said, getting a hand under each and shoving the door to with his foot.

    “Alan, we can’t! What about Dicky?” she hissed.

    “Mm-mm… Eh? Oh. Are you making me behave like a responsible adult?” said Alan with a grin.

    “Yes,” replied Catherine in a very, very weak voice.

    “I give him ten minutes to find his eyelids are so damned heavy he’s just about falling off that bike under the weight of them, and a further five minutes in front of the television, and then I’ll be up there like a ferret,” predicted Alan calmly.

    Catherine gave a strangled giggle.

    “That’s better.” He kissed her lingeringly.

    “Oh, help!” she gasped, pulling away from him. “I meant to ask you before!”

    “Now what?”

    “Have you fed the ducks and the chooks today, Alan?’

    “Uh—bloody Hell.”

    “You're hopeless!” she gasped, rushing down the passage.

    Alan followed slowly, grinning.

    After the ducks and chooks had been fed, and Alan had remembered they hadn't set eyes on Gerry, and Catherine had milked Buttercup, and Dicky had been discovered zonked out in front of the TV and duly bundled into his bed, they finally got to bed.

    Very shortly after that Alan demonstrated what a simultaneous orgasm was. Quick but simultaneous, he admitted, laughing.

    Catherine just panted.

    “Came like the clappers, didn’t you?” he said, picking up her hand and kissing it.

    “I wasn’t trying,” she reported dubiously.

    “Nor was I,” he agreed, yawning. “Serendipity? Happenstance? Good luck?”

    “I don’t think it was good judgement!”

    “No. Fancy a drink?” he murmured.

    “No, thanks,” she said, yawning.

    Two seconds after that she was fast asleep. Alan lay beside her, smiling up at the strange patterns the light of early evening was making on the bedroom ceiling.

Next chapter:

https://conquestofcartersbay.blogspot.com/2023/05/distant-thunder.html