47
Catherine Ex Machina
Since Akiko hadn’t been planning to do anything at all on New Year’s Day she was quite pleased to receive an invitation from Catherine Kincaid to come to lunch. Would she like to come early? Alan and Dicky would be going riding in the morning.
“I can’t ur-ride ver-ree well, Catherine,” said Akiko uneasily. She had ridden the Carrano children’s ponies quite a bit back in the days when she’d been their nanny’s help, but that had only entailed sitting on the fat, placid things.
“Well, never mind. Come a bit early anyway, if you’d like to.”
There was certainly nothing else to do. Mrs Adler was once again up in Whangarei with her relations. Mitsuko and Col were now a definite couple and into the bargain seemed to have become absorbed in the Michaels family’s affairs, what with one of his sisters and her husband having come out from England and his brother and his new fiancée celebrating their engagement. Ken and Hilary Takagaki and their kiddies had gone down to Taranaki with friends to stay on the friends’ relations’ farm, and Uncle Inoue had taken Posy to Japan. Hopefully not in order to expose her to Grandmother. Almost everyone else seemed to be away. Akiko very much liked Catherine and she both liked and respected Alan. Added to which, she wasn’t at all averse to seeing Catherine’s baby. She accepted gratefully.
When she got there, there were two four-wheel-drives parked on the front sweep. One had the words: “Toetoe Bay Palomino Stud” on its door, so it must belong to Alan’s new venture. The other was unmarked, rather dusty, and blue. So at least she wasn’t the first guest: good. She got out, complete with her bottle of wine, locked the car carefully even though there was no need to, and went up to the smart black front door.
The front door was closed, and stuck to it with large amounts of Sellotape was a note which said: “AKIKO: Dear Akiko, Had to pop out. Please could you come round to the stables. On the right, at the back of the house. The new stud manager is there. He will look after you. Won’t be long. Catherine.”
This was rather odd, but perhaps she’d unexpectedly run out of sugar, or something, and popped over to the Fermours’. She was, though a lovely person, not very organised. Added to which, Akiko had had one or two very similar experiences when she had lived with the Carranos. Polly was usually very organised but when she wasn’t, things tended to go wrong in a very big way. Obediently Akiko went round the side of the house. She smiled: that must be the stable block, up the slope a bit, and in the paddock adjoining it there was a plump golden horse with a beautiful white tail and mane and the dearest little dark gold foal, all spindly legs! It looked very, very new. Akiko went cautiously over to the smart railed fence, smiling at the little foal, and forgetting that she was supposed to be looking for the new stud manager.
After quite some period of blissful contemplation she realised that a man had come out of the stables and was standing on the cliff top, in profile to her. He was hatless, in jeans and a checked shirt: a tall, wiry figure with a lean jaw and a head of short, bright gold curls. Akiko swallowed; he looked just like Charlton Heston! Well, the hair was yellower, but apart from that. He didn’t seem to have noticed her: he was looking out to sea. After some hesitation she made her way up to him.
“Hullo, Akiko,” he said mildly, turning his head.
Akiko gulped. The wine bottle she’d forgotten she was clutching fell from her hand and rolled a little way down the slope. “Kevin-ah?” she gasped.
“Yeah,” said Kevin Goode mildly. “How are you?”
“I am-ah ver-ree well! How are you?” she gasped.
“Oh, pretty good, ta. Pretty fit,” said Kevin with a twinkle in his eye.
“Yes! You lose-ah weight, I think!” she gasped.
“Yeah, got rid of all that flab,” he said with a slight grimace. “Been doing a lot of hard yacker, in Oz.”
“Yes,” said Akiko limply. He’d very obviously lost the beard, too, and cut his hair much shorter and— He looked wonderful!
“Admiring our palominos?” he said with a smile.
“Pardon?” replied Akiko limply.
“The horses. The mare and the foal. Sweet, eh?”
“Oh! Yes, ver-ee suh-weet. What his name?” said Akiko very, very limply indeed. It was five hundred, no, a thousand to one that he’d picked up some horrible Australian girl with a face like a horse, talking of horses, in fact he was probably married to some horrible Australian girl!
“Her. She’s a filly. Well, we had a bit of an argument over what to name her—she was born this Christmas. Alan brought the mare out while she was still in foal. Penny thought maybe all the Toetoe Bay Stud foals should have Maori names: ‘Hinemoa’ was her suggestion. Catherine thought ‘Mayli’ would be nice, since her baby turned out to be a boy and she didn’t need it for him. Alan thought that wouldn’t be suitable because the filly isn’t black. Dicky wanted ‘Buttercup’, like their Jersey cow.”
Akiko nodded numbly.
“I didn’t think any of those names were pretty enough,” he said on a dreamy note.
“No! She a ver-ree pretty littuh horse!” she gasped.
“Yeah. I thought ‘Akiko’ might be nice,” said Kevin placidly.
Akiko’s rosebud mouth opened but no sound came out of it.
“Well: little, pretty and dainty,” he said mildly.
Akiko had to swallow hard. “Kevin-ah, this all a big ur-joke, eh?” she said in a trembling voice.
“No; why would I want to joke about it?” he said mildly.
After a moment Akiko managed to croak: “You go away for ver-ree long time.”
“I’m glad to hear you thought so. Catherine tells me you don’t seem to have found a boyfriend,” he said mildly.
“How she know?” said Akiko, very, very faintly.
“Actually, I think she had a word with Mayli. And she knows Mrs Adler quite well, ya know. Think they swap recipes or something.”
She took a very deep breath. “So! Well-ah-come back, Kevin-ah! I suppose-ah you come-ah back with-ah nice Australian girl, eh? You will ur-find some change’, I think. Carter’s Bay getting quite develop’, now.”
“I dunno where you got this nice Australian girl idea from,” said Kevin mildly. “I’ve come back with a decent four-wheel-drive and a few dollars in the bank. And a few ideas straightened out,” he added on a dry note.
“Yes?” she said weakly. “So, now you he’p Alan?”
“Sort of. I’ve sold out my interest in Goode As Olde to Rab and Avon, and gone into the stud venture with Alan and Penny. Spent a fair time at a couple of studs in Australia and decided I really like the work, and the life.”
“Catherine’s note-ah say stud manager is-ah up here…”
“Yeah, that’s me,” he said mildly.
“Good,” said Akiko, very limply indeed.
Kevin walked past her, headed down the slope. Akiko just stared numbly.
“You dropped your bottle of wine,” he said mildly, picking it up.
“Thank-ah you,” said Akiko in a shaking voice.
“What’s up?” drawled Kevin, not sounding very disturbed.
A tear rolled down her oval cheek. “You shave off-ah beard!” she gulped.
“Yeah, got fed up with it. You didn’t like it, did ya?”
“No; I—hate!” she sobbed.
“I wouldn’t bawl about it, then,” said Kevin, very mildly indeed, coming up to her side. “Ya do realise Catherine’s glued to her kitchen window, down there, do ya?” he said without emphasis.
Brushing tears desperately away with the back of her hand, she gasped: “What?”
“Catherine’s watching us,” said Kevin mildly, taking her elbow.
“She come-ah back?” she groped.
“Don’t think she ever went anywhere. Anyway, we held off on naming the filly, in the end. Thought we’d better ask you if you fancied the idea.”
“Name littuh horse like-ah me?” she said faintly.
“Yes. If you’d like it. Mind you, there might be a condition or two attached.”
“What?” asked Akiko in a tiny voice.
Kevin’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, go on a few dates with me. See if you might like being my girlfriend, since I didn’t find any nice Australian girl. Whaddaya reckon?”
She swallowed. “Yes, please.”
“Yes, please what?” said Kevin, still with the twinkle in his eye.
Akiko missed the twinkle; she was staring hard at the ground. “Yes, please, Kevin-san,” she said in a tiny, tiny voice. “I ver-ree sorry I treat you mean.”
Kevin grinned. “I wouldn’t say you did that. I never stuck me neck out and told you I fancied you. But I’m glad you’re sorry.” He tucked her wine bottle under his arm and took her hand. “And you can drop the Kevin-san crap. Not that I don’t fancy it, actually. But you’re in New Zealand now, ya know.”
Akiko looked up at him, smiling. “Yes: righto.”
“‘Yes, righto, Kevin,’” corrected Kevin, poker-face.
She gave a smothered giggle and squeezed his hand. “Yes, righto, Kevin-ah!” she squeaked.
“Good. Come on, ya wanna pat little Akiko-horse?” he said mildly.
“I pat her?”
“Yeah. Very, very gently.”
They went over to the railings and, as Kevin enticed the mother over and the foal followed, Akiko patted her namesake very, very gently.
“That settles the name question, I think?” said Alan’s voice in Catherine’s ear.
She gasped, and drew back from the window.
“Well?” he said, grinning.
“Yes,” said Catherine firmly, nodding. “We can put up a nice house for them over the road. I think she’d like to be right by the sea. And it’ll be easy to drive in and out: that paddock’s nice and flat.”
“Er—certainly. If it works out.”
His wife eyed him tolerantly. “Why do you think he came back?”
“I see,” said Alan limply.
“You can take them for a ride before lunch.”
“Er—yes. Can she ride?”
“It doesn’t matter. Kevin can look after her.”
Alan glanced out of the window again. His lips twitched. “Apparently: yes.”
“Go on, Alan!”
Raising his eyebrows slightly, Alan went.
“Whew!” said Catherine to herself. “Well, that’s that! Now—”
By New Year’s Day Thomas had made three attempts to see Dorothy and had been rebuffed each time. He knew she wasn’t doing anything much at all with her holidays, because Anna had admitted as much. And, certainly, on the second of his attempts she had been observedly sitting on her balcony doing nothing. He had begun to feel somewhat desperate, when he’d received an unexpected lunch invitation from Catherine Kincaid. Now he sat limply at her kitchen table on a very muggy morning and watched while she got something out of the fridge. Not unnaturally, he’d assumed that Alan had told her to ask him over. But there was no sign of Alan, and it didn’t seem to be a party.
“It’s a sort of a cordial,” she said on an apologetic note, pouring. “But we sometimes put white wine in it. Would you like some?”
Numbly he let her add chilled white wine to what appeared to be lemon squash.
“Like it?” said Catherine, as an amazed expression came over his face.
“Delicious!” admitted Thomas with a smile.
“Good. I’m not allowed to have wine, I’m feeding Baby,” she said placidly, pouring herself a glass of the squash.
Possibly that explained the tightness of that pink and blue floral blouse, then. Though not why she was wearing it with a pair of baggy green cotton shorts. Thomas thought dazedly of that totally tasteful, nay, chaste office of Alan’s, and tried not to blink. “Uh—where’s Alan?” he ventured, clearing his throat.
Catherine smiled at him. “And where’s the party, you mean? I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’ve got you here on false pretences.”
“That had begun to dawn.” He took a piece of cake, since it was there. God: real Madeira cake, made with real butter!
“Alan’s out riding with Dicky.”
Thomas nodded silently. A large black and white cat was rubbing around his ankles: he assisted it onto his knee, since it was there.
Catherine took a deep breath. “Dorothy was very good to me when I really needed that work at the library. I’m very fond of her.”
“Er—yes. Shouldn’t you be having this conversation with her, in that case, Catherine?” he said politely.
“No,” she said, going very pink. “I thought I’d better ask you, because all those sillies that think they know it all could have got it wrong. Do you love her?”
Thomas bit his lip. “Yes,” he said, in a very low voice.
“Good. –Help yourself; I’ll just check on Baby,” she said, drifting out.
Thomas blew his nose hard and sat on in the Kincaids’ kitchen for a considerable while before she reappeared.
“Look,” he said cautiously, “I’ve had more or less this conversation with Beth, and though I appreciate the thought, there doesn’t seem to be to be anything an outsider can do about it, and on present showing there isn’t anything I can damned well do about it, either.”
Catherine began to set out foodstuffs on the bench. “You could ask her to marry you.”
“How? She’s been giving me the brush-off for months!”
“Just ask,” she said mildly. “You haven’t tried that, have you?”
“N— Uh—” Thomas thought it over, frowning. After a while he said uncertainly: “I suppose I asked her to live with me. Well, I was trying not to come on too strong, you see.”
“Mm.” She began slicing bread.
“Don’t tell me that’s home-made bread,” said Thomas dazedly.
“What? Oh—this. Yes. Alan likes it.”
“I’m damned sure he does!”
Catherine turned round and smiled at him. “We’ve compromised. He pays Mrs Manning to do most of the housework: she does a much better job than I ever did,” she noted dispassionately, “and that means I don’t have to have a nanny. And I have time to do some things like a bit of bread baking, ’specially in the long weekends, when Dicky doesn’t need school lunches, as well as looking after Baby Alec and doing some cakes for June Blake. He’s not taking advantage of me, you know.”
Thomas was now very red. “No. Sorry,” he croaked.
She eyed him with some amusement. “I don’t know why you all assume he does. Does he take advantage of his staff, at work?”
“No. He’s always been scrupulously just, as long as I’ve known him,” said Thomas limply.
“Yes,” she said serenely, turning back to her sandwiches.
Thomas gnawed on his lip, though at the same time mechanically stroking the cat, which seemed to have gone to sleep on his knee.
“She’s in her mid-fifties, I think,” said Catherine placidly.
“Dorothy? Uh—yes. Same age as me.”
“Yes. I just thought asking her to marry you might work better than asking her to live with you.”
After a moment Thomas said slowly: “I see what you mean. But—um—she’s damned liberated, you know.”
“Yes. Jenny—that’s my neighbour—she says she’s probably frightened of commitment, too.”
“Yes, well, there you are!”
Catherine turned round with a jar in her hand. “I’m not very good at explaining things. –Can you read what it says on this label?”
Limply Thomas held out his hand. She came and handed him the jar. The contents were brown, squashy, and definitely unpleasant-looking. “‘Don’t eat me’?” he suggested feebly.
“It’s chutney,” she explained placidly. “I bought it at the school fair. But I can’t remember which one it is.”
“Er… I’m sorry, but my best effort would be something about Fiji,” said Thomas lamely.
“Feijoa!” she cried pleasedly. “It’ll be one of Mrs Adler’s!”
“Er—is that a native plant?”
“I don’t think so. The flowers do look like pohutukawas, though.” Happily Catherine proceeded to remove the cellophane paper and then the disc of wax at the top of the jar. Thomas recoiled.
“Scented, isn’t it? It’s definitely feijoa,” she noted.
He watched feebly as she added it to the sandwiches.
“What I’m saying,” she said slowly, “is that maybe she wants you to show her that you want to make a commitment.”
“Uh—oh.”
He didn’t say anything else, so as she’d said what she had to say, Catherine just got on with making the sandwiches.
“Are you having a picnic?” asked Thomas feebly as she was then observed to wrap them in plastic and pack them into a large Tupperware container.
“Yes. Just on the other side of the hill. Up the back,” she explained. “I’ll just fetch Alec.”
Thomas just sat there limply, the cat still dozing on his knee, waiting for her.
“Catherine—” he said, beginning to get up, as she came back with the baby in a sling on her chest.
“No, stay there. Dorothy’ll be here in about a quarter of an hour; I told her later than I told you.”
Gulping, he collapsed back onto his chair. “Does Alan know about this?” he croaked.
“No,” said Alan’s wife placidly. “Not yet. I’m going to tell him now. If you fancy some lunch in a bit, just head round the side of the stables and then straight up the hill, and you’ll see us.”
“This’ll be after I’ve proposed, will it?” said Thomas wildly.
“Yes,” she said calmly, drifting out.
Thomas passed a hand through his curls. He felt too limp even to say “Jesus!” But the thought did flicker somewhere on the edge of his consciousness that Kincaid’s wife was, in her way, as much of a hard case as the man was himself.
It was a while since Dorothy had been down Toetoe Bay Road. Or Grey’s Beach Road, come to that. At the turnoff from the highway she blinked: the sign now actually said “Grey’s Beach Road”. And the road was actually graded and sealed. Well, the local equivalent: a six-foot strip of macadam over Hellishly rough road metal, the latter left on either side of the strip in yard-wide pseudo-verges before the ditches which formed the real verges. …Crikey: the old back road was similar, and at the turnoff to that was a brand-new AA sign that said “Old North Highway”. Had it ever been? Um—back in the days of bullock carts, possibly. All right, then: so be it: Old North Highway. Under it was another sign indicating “Toetoe Bay Stud 3 km”. How in Hell had he wangled that? Dorothy drove on dazedly… Another “Toetoe Bay Stud” notice: 2 km, this time. Dazedly she turned. …Ye gods and little fishes! Fermours’ place had sprouted not only a repainted gate, but a very large sign advertising “Fermours’ Family Farm Holidays: Dairy Dude Ranch.” True, the “Dairy Dude Ranch” was in smaller letters and thus appeared to be in some sort a sop to Cerberus or at least to his transatlantic cousins. Hadn’t there used to be a large battered sign, faded greyish white paint on old grey weathered wood, that said “Eggs”? Well, it wasn’t there no more. What was there was another professional-looking sign that said: “FREE RANGE EGGS. Organic Produce”, next to a second driveway, well fenced off from the rest of the property, leading up to a… Not a shed. Maybe it had started off as a shed but it was currently, though probably not big enough to function as one, the shape of the sort of barn that you only saw in Little Golden Books. Into the bargain painted the sort of dull red that you definitely only saw in Little Golden Books. True, no queues of health-conscious persons with the money to support the organic habit were as of this moment visibly queuing; but give them time. Dorothy drove past groggily, scarcely registering that something was very, very wrong with the surface beneath her wheels. …Oh, yes: macadam on top of road metal, doing its best to beat the bejasus out of her tyres, and no ruts.
Down at the end of the road Alan’s fences were still gleaming in purple and gold—well, cream, but she’d seen them before. What she hadn’t seen before was a brand-new gate just after the boundary fence, adorned with a large sign: “Toetoe Bay Palomino Stud Farm Pty Ltd.” This gate opened onto a long drive which wound its way up the boundary line. On the Fermours’ side it was edged with well-developed bush in and around a traditional barbed-wire fence. On the Toetoe Bay Farm side it was edged with very, very small saplings—poplars, and then more of the cream fencing. Um, wasn’t this formerly the paddock where Catherine had kept her cows? There were no cows in it at the moment. What was in it, right by the roadside, was a sign on a post: “Carter’s Bay & District Pony Club Pty Ltd.” Plus a phone number and an email address. No website, but give them time. Further down towards the beach the farm gate proper now bore a small notice: “Private Property.” Who was he kidding? Uh—bugger, he’d automated it, hadn’t he? Dorothy drew up at a nicely judged distance, to wit, just too far away to reach the— Sod it! Groaning, she got out, and pressed the button that operated the ruddy gate, if the owners had remembered to set it to do so. Not that there was any doubt Alan would have remembered. There was a sort of dull click so Dorothy hurriedly gave the gate a shove, and it swung open. She drove through and drew up at a well-judged distance, to wit, too far away to shut the bloody thing again, Groaning, she got out and closed it manually. Whether or not it wanted it.
… The thing was, you see, it was all psychological. He wasn’t keeping burglars out, he was discouraging casual visitors and Mormons that had thought they’d just drop in. The ploy might have been said to have been working, insofar as it was certainly discouraging her. Sighing, she parked near the verandah, got out, locked the car, unlocked the car, retrieved the bottle of wine that would undoubtedly be too down-market for Alan, locked the car, and finally got up onto the actual verandah. Hoping that someone would already have opened something alcoholic. Unfortunately there were no sounds of conviviality. Was she early? No, right on time. She lifted her hand to the knocker but the door suddenly opened and Thomas said mildly: “Hullo. If you’d driven through another two feet or so, that bloody gate of his would have closed automatically.”
“Regardless of any two-year-olds that happened to be standing in its path at the time, is this?” replied Dorothy coldly.
“Very probably. I don’t think he’s worked that out, yet. But I can almost guarantee,” said Thomas with an odd little smile, “that by the time it’s walking, Catherine will have pointed it out to him. Come on in.”
Limply Dorothy came in. He led her down to the kitchen. There were still no sounds of conviviality. The kitchen was empty except for a black and white cat sitting on a chair. “Where is everybody?’ she said lamely.
“Mm? Oh, outside somewhere. I was deputed to receive you. Um, no: sit down,” he said as she frowned and took a step towards the back door. “I’d like to talk to you.”
Any sane woman at this point would have walked straight out that back door. Dorothy K. Perkins sat down at the Kincaids’ well polyurethaned kauri table. Noting feebly: “None of these chairs match, have you noticed?”
“Yes. Alan is actually quite proud of the fact. One bentwood, one Windsor, one ladder-back and one solid Colonial Style-less. They’re all well varnished, though.”
“Stripped and polyurethaned,” corrected Dorothy with a sigh. “Sort of thing that Kevin Goode used to do and that Rab’s trying to claim people don’t want any more in the benighted Nineties.”
“What do they want?’
“The distressed look, apparently. –Don’t ask,” she said heavily. “What is it?”
Thomas blinked. “Oh! Not the distressed— No.” He picked up the cat and sat down slowly with it. “Um—how’s the flat?” he said on a lame note.
“Very noisy,” replied Dorothy grimly.
“I thought it might be. Morn till night, is it? Those tables he’s put on the pavement must be helping, too.”
Dorothy merely looked grim.
“Um, look, I won’t renew a casual invitation to come and live at my place, because I realise that was the wrong tack,” he said, clearing his throat. “But I will say, could you seriously consider coming to live with me? Um, and,” said Thomas The Tank Engine, swallowing, “marrying me.”
Dorothy’s ears rang. “What?” she said faintly.
“Marrying me,” repeated Thomas glumly.
After a moment Dorothy managed to croak: “You sound really keen and eager.”
“No, well, if I don’t it’s because I can’t think of any real argument in favour of it. Not one that might make you agree,” he admitted on a sour note.
There was a short silence. Eventually Dorothy managed to resume breathing and to utter: “What about the other arguments? The ones that you don’t think might make me agree. Are there any of them?”
“Yes,” he said, scowling at the table-top. “I’d like it. I think it’d make me very happy.”
“That’s it, is it?”
“No, well, I love you,” said Thomas lamely, “but I don’t imagine that’s going to make you agree.”
After a moment Dorothy said: “It might help, though.”
“Er—well, good,” he said uncertainly.
She chewed on her lip. “Look, I’ve been independent for years, I’m used to doing things my own way and, frankly, to having everything my own way. It’s not just a matter of the great romance, at our ages.”
“I do realise that,” said Thomas cautiously.
“Our lifestyles—no, to put it more accurately and less pretentiously, our little daily habits probably won’t even jell. And before you start, that is largely what counts, in any sort of relationship where two human beings have to share the same roof.”
“Mm.”
Dorothy took another of those deep breaths. “Look, just as a for-instance, what’s your normal morning routine?”
He blinked. “Heretofore, I wouldn’t have said I had a routine, Dorothy.”
“Everybody has a routine, especially at our ages, whatever their Sixties-formed consciousnesses might claim to the contrary. What’s yours?”
“Um, it varies a bit, according to the weather. Um, well, moving out here has—er, I suppose,” said Thomas, scratching his chin, “altered what I never used to think of as my routine. Well, currently I get up when I wake up, which could be any time between five-thirty and eleven-thirty. Then I take a dip in the Inlet. It’s not as athletic as it sounds: even at the far end of my jetty the water’s barely deep enough to swim. I don’t usually bother with clothes, although after an experience not long before Christmas of discovering two little boys and a red-headed little girl sitting in a runabout laughing their heads off as I came ashore, I do try to remember that the place is becoming more populated.”
“The Carrano kids,” said Dorothy succinctly.
“In that case I’ll stop worrying about whether they were traumatised under the delirious shrieks: he’s almost as hirsute as I am.”
Dorothy swallowed and could think of nothing to say.
Thomas smiled, very slightly. “After I’ve dried off I have breakfast. Is that exact enough? No. Um, well, usually I remember to take a towel down with me but not always. Either fetch towel or not, rub down, go into kitchen with towel round hips, put water in electric kettle, switch on, boil water, pour water over brown dust in large mug. Add one spoonful of sugar and stir. Drink result. If late for work, rush upstairs, dress, and shave in car while driving one-handed. If not, or if the weekend or the hols, eat breakfast or brunch. It varies depending on what there is. I suppose I quite often have toast,” he said on a dubious note.
“Y—uh—what about a shower?” said Dorothy feebly.
“The swim takes the place of it. The Inlet is actually very clean.”
“But it’s salty!”
“That’s right, it’s tidal. I don’t subscribe to the widely held Western theory that the body corrodes if exposed to salt water. Though it could explain all that brown on your distant relatives. Might this routine be expected to conflict with yours?”
“Not unless we’re fighting over the one remaining spoonful of brown dust and the one mug, no,” admitted Dorothy feebly.
“I’d let you bring all your crockery, Dorothy,” he said kindly.
“Hah, hah. Um, what about winter?”
“As I’m no masochist I take a hot shower. Usually after the boiled water on the brown dust—and the toast, which come to think of it is more likely in winter. Does this mean we’d be fighting over the shower?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my place has actually got several bathrooms. Barry can vouch for that, he got the pansy-looking blue one that weekend we listened to The Ring.”
“What? Oh, Wagner.”
“Mm. Um, the stereo gear’s all in the worksh—um, the family room,” amended Thomas weakly.
“I see. How many evenings a week do you immure yourself in there with it, Thomas?”
He opened his mouth. Then he closed it again. Then he admitted: “All right, there’d be some adjustments to be made.”
“Only if you envisage companionship as forming part of this relationship.”
“I do! Jesus, woman, I immure myself in the workshop seven nights a week because I haven’t anything better to do!” he cried.
Dorothy wasn’t all that upset, actually, to see him starting to get worked up. “Yes. Well, I admit I quite often bring work home; otherwise it tends to be a book, or the box if there’s anything worth watching. And sometimes when there isn’t.”
“Um, boredom?” said Thomas limply, as she was giving him an evil look.
“No, sometimes it’s just low tastes.”
He smiled weakly.
“When I was in my teens— No, it’s irrelevant.”
“It might not be,” he said cautiously.
“Well, we didn’t get a television until I was about nineteen, which come to think of it was about the earliest we could’ve, because that was about when it started out here. I was going to university by then but that didn’t stop me and Mum and old Mrs Halliwell from next-door who couldn’t afford a set, and Dawn, Roz and Joanne from across the road whose mum and dad didn’t believe in the monster—aged from thirteen down—all gluing ourselves religiously to Coronation Street. While,” she said pointedly, “Dad and Jack went out into the shed and got on with whatever male mystery it was went on out in the shed. Sharpening the motor-mower blade, that sort of stuff.”
“What about Kathleen?”
Dorothy blinked. “She’s ten years older than me; she was already married. But they had a set, yes, and she watched the thing, yes, and once or twice when a crisis was taking place—in Coronation Street, not in Kathleen’s matrimonial life—her and Mum did get together on the phone over it—and they were already down in Invercargill then, yeah. Apart from that it helped pad out these weekly letters nicely.”
“Er—oh: Kathleen’s weekly letters home! Of course!” he said, smiling.
“Mm. Actually hers home, and Mum’s to her, and mine to her, too,” she said drily. “I seem to recall that around that period we were deep into the eighteenth-century novelists and Hamlet, in English II, and—uh—oh, yes; Corneille, in French II, but I didn’t bother trying any of them on Kathleen. But the point is, I was as deeply into Coronation Street as any of them.”
“I see. Are you currently addicted to any soap opera?” he said politely.
“N— Um, if Heartbeat’s on, I usually watch it, whether or not it’s a repeat,” said Dorothy sheepishly.
“That sounds bearable.”
“It has got all the good songs. –It’s sort of Sixties. Totally ersatz: the very idea of allying one’s liberated, highly educated liberal-leftie, ex-med-student, nice middle-class self with a working-class boy that was, ye gods, a copper— Don’t get me started.”
“No, well, I won’t mind what you watch on the box.”
“I think the point I was trying to make, about five hours back,” admitted Dorothy with a sigh, “was that I don’t know that I fancy a relationship where the distaff side watches pabulum on the box while the male side lurks in the shed.”
“Could you give it up?” he said with a little smile.
“Probably not,” she admitted heavily. “Not without begrudging it forever and a day. Set in my ways, see?”
“Mm.” Thomas scratched his chin uneasily. “Look, do you even fancy the idea slightly?”
Dorothy took yet another deep breath. “Yes; why else do you think I’m bothering to discuss it?”
“That’s good!” he said with a laugh, brightening. –Brightening tremendously, oh, dear. She looked at him in some dismay.
‘It’s hormonal,” explained Thomas, grinning.
“I know. Um, look, I’m a creature of fairly regular habits. The mornings aren’t the half of it, nor the evenings, box or not. Well, look, after work I totter home, get round a slug of gin, and have tea around six-thirty.”
“Six-thirty?” he said, goggling.
“There you are.”
Thomas passed a hand through his curls. “I’m not usually hungry then.”
“You’re trained not to be. I’m trained to be, and ninety percent of the time, no, ninety-seven percent,” said Dorothy conscientiously, “I am. And, may I add, six-thirty’s late by the standards of my youth.”
“We could compromise. Um, well, totter home together, nice wee drinkies together, a little chat, shower and change, either head round to The Quays or sling something under the grill?”
“Subsequently dining at around eight-thirty. It’s all right for a treat, but my metabolism won’t take it on a regular basis,” said Dorothy flatly.
“You haven’t tried it!”
“No, because a mere two nights of it in a row incapacitates me for the rest of the week, upsets my digestion ’orribly, and makes me ratty as Hell for days.”
“Oh. Well, um, could we make it sevenish on the nights we don’t go out and eightish for The Quays?” he said on a plaintive note.
“Look, if you’re not taking this seriously—”
“But I am!”
Dorothy thought about it. “How often are you proposing eating out?
“Uh—I don’t know,” said Thomas limply.
“You’ve really thought it all out, haven’t you?”
“No, because I never thought you’d really be prepared to discuss it. Well, um, one or two nights a week? We could share the cooking, otherwise.”
“I’m not up for giant meals of singed steak every week,” said Dorothy flatly.
Thomas just looked limply at her.
“I can’t digest it any more. A reasonable amount of steak, once a week, yes. Apart from that I tend to eat lean cuisines or pre-packaged pasta for one, these days.”
“I quite often have fish,” said Thomas in a bewildered voice. Dorothy didn’t react and he continued lamely: “Grilled, or baked if it’s a large one. Not that I can cook, as such, but you just wrap it in foil and stick the whole thing in the oven. Do you like fish?”
“Well, yes, but actually I hate cooking it.”
He waited, but that seemed to be it. “So?” he said.
Dorothy bit her lip. “I’m not sure, Thomas,” she said, swallowing.
“This fellow,” said Thomas grimly, though he’d taken several vows never to do so over the past couple of years, “was a real shit, wasn’t he?”
“Who?”
“Whoever he was, that put you off men.”
“That was twenty years ago,” said Dorothy dazedly. “And in any case he wasn’t a real shit, I suppose. Just weak. Though he came on like God the Father, Steve McQueen and ruddy Sir Lancelot all rolled into one.”
“I’ve always thought Lancelot was damned weak,” he said cautiously.
“You’re right.” She shrugged.
“Um, what did Steve McQueen ever do to incur blame?”
“Eh? Oh; a contemporary reference. None of the other screen heroes of the time were anything like male, if you can cast your mind back. No, well, he looked a bit like him. It’s irrelevant.”
“It probably isn’t, but there probably isn’t all that much I can do about it, except demonstrate that I’m not him: I realise that’ll take time. Oh, and that I’m not married to someone else.”
Dorothy’s mouth tightened but she admitted grimly: “That’s a plus, yeah.”
“Well, what else can I do?” asked Thomas, swallowing. “You know there are no guarantees in life. Um, I’ll do my best to be what you want. There won’t be any other women. Um, well, if you decide you want me,” he admitted.
“Y— Oh. Sexually,” said Dorothy, going rather red.
“Yes. I don’t want a platonic relationship and, as I think you pointed out at one stage, I’ve never in fact had one. And—uh, look,” he said, grimacing, “you can take this as blackmail or whatever you like, but as it’s the truth, I’ll say it. If you don’t want me I’ll finish out this year for Alan, but then I’ll give it away. I’ve had offers from several places. Western Australia quite appeals. Warmer climate, pleasant lifestyle. Or I might go off to the States, see a bit of Jordana, since it appears she doesn’t want to come out here.”
“Yes, um, did you ask her?” said Dorothy faintly.
Thomas grimaced. “Yes. She laughed.”
“I’m sorry,” she said faintly.
“Not at the idea of joining me, at the idea that there could be anything approaching a challenging and fulfilling job in her line of country," he said tiredly.
“Mm.”
“Seeing as how she doesn’t want to work on some dreckish semi-heroic, semi-Classical ex-Hollywood epic.”
“Epics, I think. Almost entirely homosexual. One for the girls and one for the boys. Interesting phenomena, in their way.”
“God,” said Thomas dully.
“Would she come out for a holiday?” she asked cautiously.
“Yes. That isn’t the point, Dorothy,” he said tiredly, running his hand through his curls, and, since the cat was squirming, setting it carefully on the floor.
“Do you like cats?” asked Dorothy cautiously.
“No, I eat two before breakfast as a regular thing! Can we stick to the point?” he said loudly.
Dorothy gripped her hands together very tightly. “The thing is, I’m not sure if I can do it. I don’t mean the daily routines, I think we could work that out, since you do seem to recognise that there is something to work out. But the companionship and the sex,” she said, swallowing.
“I see. It’s a long time since you had to do either, is that it?”
“Yes,” said Dorothy hoarsely.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s take the sex, first. Did you like it, with the shit?”
“Yes: I’m not wholly unnatural, I’m just damned rusty!” she said crossly.
“In that case, you’ll like it with me. Rule out frigidity,” said Thomas kindly.
“I never imagined— Look, you macho idiot, I’m not a kid any more. What if I don’t have the stamina for it?”
“No forcing will take place.”
“No! Um, not that. We might be… sort of incompatible,” said Dorothy in a low voice.
“You mean I might want it more often than you do?”
“Or more often than I’m capable of it, yes.”
“My feeling is that we’re anticipating trouble. We-ell… I’m not as young I used to be, either. We’d just have to work it out. Bearing in mind that we both have to turn up at our place of employment five days a week.”
Dorothy eyed him suspiciously but he seemed genuine. “Mm.”
“As for the companionship… Most people can’t take me at all, even in small doses. Don’t bother to say that isn’t what you meant, I can see it’s a factor, if you can’t. We’d better each have a study. Um, we could have separate bedrooms, if you like. I do know one or two couples who’ve got it together later in life who’ve taken that option. I’m not sure how the Hell they work out their sex lives, but that’s their business. What I’m trying to say is, we won’t have to live in each other’s pockets. So long as we both say when we want to be alone, and, er, if possible, make a New Year’s resolution not to get huffy when the other one says it?”
“I suppose it is New Year’s,” said Dorothy feebly.
“Is that a Yes?”
She licked her lips nervously. “Um, well, could we try it out for the rest of the holidays?”
“Yes. Er, well, whose holidays, Dorothy? Yours, mine, or the legal scholastic holiday?”
“I suppose I mean while we’re both still on leave. I’ve got all of January off. What with accrued leave and annual— well, suffice it to say, the rest of the month. What about you?”
Thomas looked vague.
“Did you apply for any?” said Dorothy heavily.
“If you mean fill in a form, no. Does one have to?”
“Yes. So as the personnel bods can stop notifying you that you haven’t taken all that annual leave that’s accrued.”
“In that case I haven’t applied for any. I did sign a form for Beth, that’s right.”
“That’s good, since she’s gone down to the South Island for four weeks. Well, as Dean, no doubt you can approve your own form. I suggest you get into work soonest, find the form which undoubtedly came to you six weeks or so back, fill it in and tell Personnel you forgot to put it in the internal mail.”
“Fill it in retroactively? Can one do that?”
“Not and claim days for which you have already been paid, I wouldn’t think, no.”
“No, well, I’ll work something out. If it’s only me that has to approve it,” he said thoughtfully—Dorothy shut her eyes—“then it won’t matter which days I ostensibly claim so long as the numbers are right.”
“Something like that;” she sighed.
“So we’ve got a month to try it out?” he said hopefully.
“Mm.”
“Goody,” he said with his sidelong smile, getting up. “Can we go and try it out now?”
“No.” Dorothy stood up, grasping her bottle of wine firmly. “Because in case you’ve forgotten, Alan and Catherine are expecting us for lunch, in fact they’re presumably under the impression that you’re already here.”
“Then in that case,” said Thomas with a laugh in his voice, “can I try kissing you?”
“Oh, go on, then;” replied Dorothy in a bored voice.
Thomas The Tank Engine thereupon kissed her very thoroughly indeed. “So?” he said with a grin, after the obligatory panting for breath. “That bit was all right, was it?”
“You know it was, you sod,” said Dorothy weakly. “Stop fishing.”
“Four weeks’ trial, that it? Or does it count as an engagement?” he said, grinning, and pulling her against him again.
“I might answer that if you’d let me breathe.”
Thomas thereupon kissed her again, very thoroughly. “What?” he said mildly, pausing for breath.
“What what?” replied Dorothy, very ruffled.
“Are we engaged?”
“No! For Pete’s sake! This isn’t the ruddy nineteenth century!”
Thomas looked at her very flushed cheeks, and smiled. “Very well. Not engaged, just living in sin on a trial basis. –Well?”
“All right, then,” said Dorothy weakly.
Next chapter:
https://conquestofcartersbay.blogspot.com/2023/05/the-town-of-titipu.html
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