Christmas Cheer

30

Christmas Cheer

    Mike Collingwood tasted sponge cake carefully, his handsome face expressionless. The four women watched him breathlessly.

    “This one’s definitely Molly’s,” he said at last. “Real vanilla.”

    Molly beamed and nodded.

    “What about the other two?” asked Catherine anxiously.

    He shook his head. “No difference, far’s I can tell. –Both excellent,” he added with a smile.

    “There!” cried old June Blake, clapping her hands.

    “What did I tell you?” agreed Molly, beaming.

    “See?” said Huia Henare to Catherine. “We said yours was just as good!”

    Catherine was very flushed. She looked excitedly at Mrs Blake.

    “I think that settles it, then, dear,” she said. “We’d love to have you join us.”

    Catherine nodded excitedly. So, for that matter, did Molly and Huia.

    Mike eyed them somewhat drily. Certainly Catherine was an excellent cook; and old June Blake’s cakes were just about the best in Puriri, no doubt of that. Teach her to use real vanilla and they’d be as good as Molly’s. But there was a Helluva difference between selling a couple of cakes a day to The Primrose Café, and the occasional one to The Blue Heron when they were very busy, and setting yourself up as a real commercial venture. Even when the said commercial venture was apparently going to be run from the kitchens of old June and the older Mrs Tonks. Even with the almost full-time help of Mrs Tonks’s granddaughter Hayley. True, her youngest, little Dana, was at Intermediate now, but— Oh, well. Good luck to them.

    “We can take a couple every day, Mike, eh?” urged Huia.

    “Certainly over the summer, yes.”

    “More than that, Mike!” urged Molly.

    “Well, let’s see… Okay, two sponges for the lunch trade, with strawberries and cream. One chocolate cake for ditto. No, hang on, make it two: we’ll take that banana thing off the menu, it hasn’t been popular. Can you manage one with raspberries? Okay. Um…” He rubbed his straight nose. “I think just one chocolate cake for dinner.” Molly objected loudly. So did Huia. “No; we may not be Revill’s, but the clients expect something fancier than just cake for dinner,” he said firmly.

    Molly had that sussed out, no sweat. Rapidly she explained how you could turn a perfectly ordinary chocolate cake into up-market gâteau: see, you sliced it up before it was iced and then you covered the individual— Etcetera. With some shaved chocolate on top! Giving all their trade secrets away: quite. Mike sighed, but conceded that it was fiddly and fairly time-consuming, and if June could guarantee the equivalent of two cakes done that way, he’d take them. That was six nights a week, he warned. Apparently this was no deterrent.

    After that they forced him to taste old June’s Christmas pudding, but he’d seen that coming some time back. Mike conceded it was excellent pudding—it wasn't: merely quite good; and agreed that this year they’d buy from June. It was certainly a thousand times better than anything you could buy commercially, and as he had refused categorically to allow Molly to make real ones and preserve them carefully in their pudding cloths, anointing them every so often with brandy and going to desperate lengths to keep them cool and aired in the muggy November weather, there was no other real choice.

    “Is there anyone in that crew,” he said to Molly with a sigh, as Catherine and old June then departed in June’s ancient Mini, “with anything even approaching commercial acumen?”

    “Yes: June,” she said calmly. “She’s got Janet to get her brother and some of his friends at Glen Osmonde to do the cake boxes: you know, they cut them out and stencil ‘June Blake Cakes’ on them in food dye. Matron says it’s really taking them out of themselves!”

    “Yeah,” he said limply. “Good show.” –And just who, he wondered glumly, was gonna inform Kincaid that his intended was now, in addition to regularly helping Molly in the kitchen here, working five hours a day for old June Blake making cakes?

    “Adrian Revill’s promised to take four plain sponges every night!” said Molly brightly.

    “Eh? Oh—good show,” he said with a forced smile. –Him, that was who. M. for Muggins Collingwood.

    Dorothy had warned Beth that Jack would try to talk her into promising to look after Murray after Christmas while he took off on his tramping holiday, so she was prepared. He bearded her in her office. Maybe he thought she wouldn’t be able to shut the door on him there? Well, something like that. Beth couldn’t define precisely what sort of blackmail it was, but she was quite sure that it was.

    First he asked her very nicely what she was doing over Christmas. Many people had already made this enquiry, so Beth, who had turned down at least half a dozen very kind invitations, was able to say without stumbling that she was going to put her feet up and do nothing. Adding that as she wasn’t a Christian she didn’t see the point of celebrating the festival. –This addendum had not been uttered to all of those who had made the enquiry, by any means, but in Beth’s opinion, Jack Perkins fully deserved it.

    “Huh? You’re not Jewish, are you?” he said feebly.

    “If it’s any of your business, no,” replied Beth grimly.

    “You’re not joining up with the Winkelmanns, then?” he said feebly.

    “They are Jewish,” replied Beth with tremendous satisfaction.

    Jack’s jaw sagged. After an appreciable pause he managed to say: “I suppose he is, yeah. She isn’t, though, is she?”

    “Why don’t you ask her?”

    “Don’t be like that, Beth!” he said with an uneasy laugh.

    “What are you doing for Christmas?” replied Beth grimly.

    “Well, having Dot over for a family Christmas, of course! Say, why not come to us, Beth?” he said eagerly.

    Reading this as merely a cunning ploy to soften her up with Christmas dinner before he asked her to look after his grandson, and not perceiving anything pathetic in the eagerness with which the suggestion was made, Beth replied flatly: “No, thanks.”

    “Well—uh—I guess you’ve got your cousin staying,” he muttered. “Bring her, too.”

    “Clara's having a Chinese Christmas,” said Beth with immense satisfaction. “With Professor Lee’s family.”

    “Oh,” said Jack numbly.

    “Was there anything you wanted?” said Beth politely. “Because I’m awfully busy.”

    “Uh—well, would you fancy coming for a drink after work?”

    “I don’t know when I’ll get away,” said Beth grimly.

    Jack flushed. “Oh. Well—look, Beth, I know it’s an imposition but if you’re not going away over New Year, how would you feel about house-sitting for me, and looking after Murray?”

    Even though she had been fully expecting this, Beth went very red. “No,” she said shortly.

    “But, look, if you don’t have any plans, why not? You’d have the run of the house—use the runabout—”

    “No, thanks.”

    “I wouldn’t expect you to do it for nothing,” he said hurriedly.

    Beth stood up. “Please go away before I lose my temper," she said in a shaking voice.

    Jack gulped. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— Gee, I thought you liked Murray!” he said on a plaintive note.

    “Go away,” said Beth grimly.

    What might have been the outcome of this interview if they’d been left to themselves Jack was never to know. Because at that point Thomas’s door opened and he said mildly: “Yes, go away. Alternatively, I could punch you in the mouth.”

    “He could, too: he used to do boxing!” said Beth loudly and aggressively.

    Very red, Jack shrugged, and went.

    Beth sat down again, her hands trembling.

    “Don’t bawl,” said Thomas mildly.

    “I’m not,” she said tightly.

    He looked at her dubiously, but said nothing more.

    The office Christmas party of Sir George Grey University pretty well lived up to the expectations of all who attended. Certainly the food was excellent, since they were having it at The Quays.

    Sammi had silently determined that, never mind what the staff thought, or the fact that Mother would inevitably get to hear of it and grill her, she’d sit by Armand for at least this one lunch. She ended up between Teddi Bates and a fat young man who was possibly one of Jack’s computer programmers: he did look very vaguely familiar.

    Armand was between Yvonne and a large forester—male. The male forester turned out to know a part of the country where Yvonne’s family had had a bach when she was a kiddie. Armand decided sourly that the precise subject was immaterial: they’d have found something to talk about across him, if the forester had been from Timbuctoo.

    Leigh ended up between the fortyish Merri from the typing pool and a very young new typist whom Merri was training up. For what, was not immediately apparent: unless it was in the wearing of elaborate satin blouses with unlikely droopy frills over the actual hands. Merri’s was white and the girl’s was a really revolting shade of not-quite-acid green, but they were otherwise identical. From his position wedged between these ladies he could just see Moana, way across at the far side of the crowded room. She was between Jack Perkins, who was ignoring her totally, being immersed in conversation with one of his electronics engineers on his other side, and Jane Vincent, who was merely eating, wearing that detached expression with which the staff at Sir G.G. had now had time to become acquainted.

    Dorothy had been determined to ignore bloody Thomas totally for the entire lunch, no matter how hard he tried to foist himself upon her: so of course she ended up between Kim the red-headed lady forester and an earnest type from Accounts who told them all about his new motor-mower. It was no consolation that Kim looked about as interested as she felt. Opposite them Angie Michaels and Hal Gorman appeared to be getting on famously and Dorothy had no doubt that they were. Why did some people have all the luck? She ate some duck with orange sauce morosely, not even noticing how wonderful it was, and tried not to count the minutes until she could decently get away.

    Clara had mildly been looking forward to being able to chat with Dr Chang, the newly arrived junior lecturer in Chinese: he and his wife were from Hong Kong. She found herself sandwiched in between a girl from Admin who spent the entire meal talking about their mutual boyfriends to the friend from the typing pool on her other side, and an accountant who spent the entire meal talking about cricket to the friend from the IT department on his other side. She couldn’t even see Dr Chang, let alone whether he’d brought his wife with him. And the food, though nice, was too fancy, really. Especially for lunch. She did not venture to express this thought: everybody else seemed to be having a great time.

    Gerhard had decided he would sit with Beth Martin. Clara had made it very clear she wasn’t interested, and Beth had that wonderful skin and hair, and quite a luscious figure. There was such a crowd there that he couldn’t even see her. When he did spot her she was wedged in behind a table in the lee of Thomas, talking nineteen to the dozen with his mouth full to a large, untidy man whom Gerhard didn't recognise. There was only a wall at Beth’s other side: he didn’t see how the Hell he could get near her. Damn. In fact, he didn’t see how the Hell she’d managed to wedge herself in there in the first place: it was the obscurest, most awkward position in the entire room. Gerhard retreated to a seat next to Sandra from the library staff and chatted to her nicely.

    Alan ate Adrian’s marvellous canard à l’orange which used a mixture of sweet and bitter oranges without noticing what it was, and made polite conversation to Ms Ng, the latest addition to the Asian Languages staff. She was undoubtedly more than sixteen years of age or she would never have got the job: nevertheless she both looked and sounded about sixteen. Her English was quite good, that wasn’t the point.

    In the pause before the dessert was served, the Takagaki sisters foregathered in the Ladies’ out of a desperate solidarity.

    “The food,” said Akiko to her sister in their own language, “is excellent, you must admit.”

    “No-one who had to sit between Uncle Inoue and Professor Armstrong could possibly be expected to notice the food!” retorted Mitsuko smartly.

    “How did you let it happen?” said Akiko weakly.

    “I didn’t! I just turned round and—and there he was!”

    “What about Hanae Armstrong?”

    “I don’t know,” admitted Mitsuko limply.

    Akiko collapsed in giggles.

    Mitsuko just waited until she was over them and noted: “If I had to choose, I’d rather be between them than between Juliette and Mayli.”

    Akiko smiled feebly. “Mayli’s okay.”

    “Yes, but I bet Juliette’s interrogating her about her boyfriends!” retorted Mitsuko quickly.

    “Hai. Well, she’s interrogating both of us,” admitted Akiko sadly.

    Mitsuko collapsed in giggles immediately.

    Of course very little work got done that afternoon and in fact considerate bosses such as Leigh told their staff they could pop off home at around four o’clock. Angie took the opportunity to write to Bill. Well, first she had a wee nap. Then she had a cup of coffee and wrote to Bill:

Dear Bill,

    Either you aren’t going to believe all this or you’re going to say you told me so, but I'm telling you anyway.

    Number 1, that clot Col’s got off with Mitsuko Takagaki. They had lunch with Akiko and Hal and me down at the Primrose Horror in Puriri on Saturday and then he took her off to his lair. Akiko and I are of the opinion that if she can’t see through him they fully deserve each other, but that doesn’t diminish the irritation factor, in case you’re not asking.

    Number 2, possibly not in this order, it’s definite that Hal fancies Janet Wilson. He went on about her for ages over lunch.

    Number 3 is that Akiko has apparently fallen for the Good Keen Man. Don’t say “Who?”, surely it’s not beyond the scope of even your engineering brain to grasp that she’s fallen for the concept, without specifically linking it to any one body. Hal is too much of a teddy bear for her (her expression, before you come down on me like a ton of bricks). What she likes is parts of Sol (Do NOT make the obvious remark, or if you do, don’t bother relaying it to me), parts of Jake, without that super-efficiency of his which even her Japanese super-efficiency apparently finds hard to take, plus a smattering of your gracious self. Poor deluded girl. However, she also requires, I quote, “very great intelligence”. I ask you! In the first place, wet wimps like Rab Perkins or Jimmy Burton or Kevin Goode are about the local level. And in the second place, now that Jake’s taken, I doubt there’s a man in the whole of NZ that combines the more bearable attributes of the GKM with intelligence, let alone very great intelligence. Poor little soul.

    Jack Perkins is still trying to blackmail some unfortunate moo into house-sitting his modernistic monstrosity up the Inlet and just incidentally looking after his grandson for two weeks. So far, no takers. Little Wallis almost gave in, but Noel McLeod’s announced he’s coming back for Christmas and she is to be home when he does so, so that’s that. Kate is still in Holland. This is what modern marriage is, apparently.

    By the way, Ma and Pa Potter-Purbright have just sent me a whopping great cheque for January’s rent of the house in advance, so I’ve put it into the joint account. When your eagle eye spots a whacking great sum that’s not your bloody salary, that will be what it will be.

    Also by the way, bloody Col suggested—

    Here Angie broke off, biting her lip. She really hadn’t meant to tell on the little blighter to Bill, Bill always had been bloody hard on him. Oh, well, too bad: if he wasn’t used to parental solidarity at his age, he’d have to lump it.

—suggested that I could cook him a nice roast duck followed by pavlova for Xmas dinner. But as he didn’t suggest he could pay for it all, I didn’t take up the offer. Akiko has taken pity on me and asked me to Xmas dinner with her and Mitsuko: old Mrs A.’s apparently run mad and left the pair of them to it in her kitchen. It’ll be different, that’s for sure.

    I obeyed orders, mein Führer, and asked Akiko why she didn’t go down to Hawke’s Bay with the Carranos for Nanny’s wedding, since she was her helper a few years back, but apparently I’m really not up with the play, because although she wasn't noticeably absent from work, she did nip down for the wedding itself: she flew down to Napier on the Friday evening, and Jake sent her back in the helicopter on the Sunday. And she didn’t ask for extra leave, even although Alan would have let her take it in advance, because she didn’t want to ask for any special privileges. I told you she had nice instincts. And don’t dare to say it’s only cultural! Mitsuko, on the other hand, did ask for leave in advance, but apparently Mayli relayed the dictum from on high that she could take it either in the first week of Jan., or for the wedding, but not both. So as she doesn’t know Nanny very well she opted for January. Leigh, before you ask, would have let her go like a shot. He’s as soft as butter. Well, certainly where perky little things in pale pink cotton-knit dresses are concerned. Yes, Bill, it was tight, and about as big as the things that yellow-haired doll of Barbara’s used to wear. The one your misguided sister Margaret gave her for her ninth birthday and that she named Haggy Maggy before we could stop her. If that doesn’t ring any bells, it was the one her and Col ritually slaughtered when they were into that Druids thing. With your good chisel, remember? Yes, I thought that might recall it to mind!

    That’s about it, as you can see it’s all go at Carter’s Bay. If Alan breathes fire and brimstone unremittingly at the builders until 1st Feb, maybe we’ll have something to move into. He will, Catherine Burchett’s still down at The Blue Heron and according to Leigh he’s icier than he ever was in his heyday.

    By the way, you needn’t worry about half-Japanese little grandkids, neither of the two idiots are serious, and as a matter of fact, I wish they were.

    Incidentally, the reason that I haven’t mentioned your eldest son is that he’s disappeared to Hawke’s Bay to his plutey girlfriend’s place and I haven’t heard a blind word from him since he went.

    I’m going to post this tomorrow but there’s no hope it’ll get to you before Xmas. And most people phone their relations on Xmas Day itself, but I will be home on Xmas Eve as promised, so if you don’t get through it won't be my fault.

    Try and write me a nice letter that’s not about engineering topics, Bill. I know they’re nearest to your heart, but try as I may I really can’t understand half of what you write. Tell me about George and Myra Andersen, they sound interesting. And if it isn’t too much to ask, could you describe their actual house rather than his computer?

Your resigned but loving,

Angie.

P.S. You won’t want to know, but Akiko’s promised to get us all real Japanese kimonos for The Mikado!

    The engineering brain, when this missive was received, was to ponder it for some time. Eventually ringing Angie up, in spite of the previous phone-call on Xmas Eve, at a reasonable hour her time (and a very unreasonable one, his) and telling her: “I do miss you, you clot, and don’t bawl down the phone. And I’ve written bloody Mark and Col a flea in the ear, selfish little sods. And look, get yourself a passport. I've worked it out: if I leave here a bit early we can meet up in Hawaii when you’ve got your mid-year break and have a decent holiday in the sun.”

    To which Angie, sniffling, was to reply: “It costs too much… Um, all right, I might.”

    Christmas Day duly rolled round. Rather like death and taxes, yes. Dorothy duly went off to Jack’s. Resisting the impulse to make a short detour down to Kingfisher Bay and make one last attempt to persuade Beth to join them. Or to stop off at Sol’s and talk him into making one last attempt to persuade Beth to join them. Actually she might have given in to this last impulse, but Jane was just going in as she passed, and much though she liked Jane, Dorothy really didn’t want to expose Beth’s idiocy in front of her. Well, stress it rather than expose it: she was in no doubt that Jane already knew about it.

    Jane waved to Dorothy and went on down the Winkelmanns’ rudimentary front path, shaking her head a little. Poor Dorothy. Would her resolution hold out or would she give in and let her brother shove his little responsibility onto her? Having more than been through it all in her time Jane also felt a certain amount of sympathy for Jack, true—but not nearly as much as she did for Dorothy.

    “I didn’t know you could crochet,” said Michaela in awe, ten minutes later, unfolding the afghan. “It’s lovely!”

    “I learned years back. It’s ages since I attempted anything on a larger scale than the odd creeper-suit or Linus blanket, though. Um—that’s what that is, I’m afraid,” she said apologetically as Sol opened a smaller parcel addressed to Grace.

    It was: both. The creeper-suit had been made plenty large so that Grace wouldn’t have grown out of it by the time the cooler weather came round. Sol duly thanked her but eyed the Linus blanket uneasily.

    “At her age, you put it on the floor for them,” said Jane helpfully. “Is it the wrong thing?”

    “No, it’s great,” he said uneasily.

    “It’s lovely, Jane. –Put it down for her, Sol,” urged Michaela.

    “Ye-ah…” Looking uneasy, Sol put the Linus blanket on the Winkelmanns’ well-polyurethaned chipboard floor. He picked up Grace. Before he could put her down, Bonzo the Dog shot out from under the bed, grabbed the brand-new Linus blanket, and shot out the open front door with it. “I knew that was gonna happen,” he said mournfully while Michaela and Jane were still gasping.

    “I’ll get it off him,” said Michaela with huge determination. “Stay here.” She thundered out.

    Sol looked uneasily at Jane. “Gee, I’m sorry, Jane. I should have corralled him first.”

    “Yes,” she said weakly. Outside, they could hear Michaela shouting: “Give it HERE!” and Bonzo the Dog growling horribly.

    After this had gone on for some time Sol dumped Grace on Jane, and prostrated himself before the bed, grunting. Jane stared.

    “Daddy,” said Grace helpfully.

    “Yes, Daddy’s gone potty. What on earth—? Oh,” said Jane limply, as he stood up, panting, with a hairy doormat in his fist.

    “Gonna try psychology!” he panted.

    “Dog-chology?” replied Jane, trying not to laugh.

    Winking, Sol went out.

    Jane waited. She heard him cooing: “Bonzo the Dog! Look what I got here! Lookee here, boy! Lovely ole doormat, huh?” And she heard Michaela say scornfully: “Huh! That isn’t gonna—”

    Then she heard a great snarling and yelping breaking out, the yelps mostly being from Sol, and Michaela collapsing in roars of laughter. Unable to stand it, she shot over to the door, even thought this might mean exposing Grace to a traumatic sight that would scar her for—

    Jane collapsed in roars of laughter. Sol was rolling on the grass, yelping, while Bonzo the Dog wrestled him furiously for the doormat. Michaela, though still laughing helplessly, was now in proud possession of a dampish-looking Linus blanket.

    “Bonzo,” pointed out Grace.

    “Yes!” she gasped helplessly. “Dog-chology! It worked!”

    “Yeah,” said Michaela, ceasing to laugh, and coming over to the door. “Come on, if we put it in Grace’s playpen it’ll be safe.”

    Limply Jane agreed and followed her in. Even though she probably should have pointed out that it had dog-lick all over it and might need a W,A,S,H before being put down— What the Hell, Grace wasn’t an infant any more.

    She immediately proved this by bursting into loud screams of: “NO! Mum-MY! Pi’ me UP! Mum-MY! Pi’ me UP!”

    Obligingly Michaela picked her up. “She’ll go on it when it’s just her and me,” she said placidly.

    “Mm. Um, you didn’t manage to persuade Beth to come today, did you?”

    “No. I think she wants to be on her own,” she said calmly. “Clara’s going to that Chinese professor’s place.”

    “Yes, I know,” Jane agreed. “Dr Chang and his wife are going, too. He's one of the new lecturers. Well, it’s good she’s making friends.”

    Sol had come in in time to hear the last of this exchange. “Clara? Yeah. The looks, and that friendly manner, they hide it: but ask me, she's even less capable of coping with—uh—wal, Life with a capital L, than what Beth is.”

    “Life with a small L, as well,” said Michaela mildly.

    “She’s right, you know,” he said to Jane. “Clara just ain’t a practical girl, at all.”

    “Mm. I’d say,” ventured Jane cautiously, “that she needs a certain period of calm in which to—well, just to get herself together again.”

    “Work out who she is?” he said raising an eyebrow.

    Jane gave him a dry look. “What percentage of the human race ever manages that, Sol? No, well, you know what I mean.”

    “Uh-huh. Well, Carter’s Bay’s calm enough, even with all this Sir G.G. crap going on,” he conceded.

    “He thinks she needs the right man,” said Michaela helpfully.

    Sol cringed, as Jane eyed him curiously.

    “It is Christmas,” she said eventually, “so I won’t ask you what possible candidates you’ve dredged up.”

    “Gee, thanks, Jane!” he said fervently. “Have a drink?”

    Grinning, Jane returned: “Thought you’d never ask.”

    Murray had opened his presents. Rab had opened his. Hard to tell which of them was more excited by the whole bit, actually. Dorothy had merely watched. Well, she had thanked Jack nicely upon being presented with (a) a fair-sized box containing a really good Cashmere “sweater” in a soft burnt orange shade, (b) a small flat box that contained a really nice necklet of the heavyish variety in what Dorothy was ninety-nine percent sure and counting was real gold with a real chunk of topaz set in it, and (c) a GIANT box that contained a full set of Corning ware because she’d once remarked glumly in his hearing over a mag of Shiva’s that you couldn’t even get the bloody stuff here… This did not mean that she was in the slightest bit softened in the matter of New Year baby-sitting of Murray for two solid weeks, however. The more so since her flat did not have enough storage space to store a full set of Corning ware. Whether or not it would go in the microwave as he was assuring her it would, thank you, Jack.

    Jack’s present to his only son was a key. Rab’s face was blank for about one fiftieth of a split second, then it lit up like—well, like all his Christmases had come at once. Which, if anyone was counting, it was fair to say they had, poor young bleeder.

    “Outside,” said Jack laconically.

    Rab shot out like a rocket.

    “A Lamborghini?” hazarded Dorothy faintly, closing her eyes.

    “Like your buddy Polly Carrano’s, you mean?” he replied snidely.

    Dorothy opened her eyes smartly. “Just because you failed signally to get anywhere near getting off with her at that Opening of Adrian’s, is no reason to befoul the air with that revolting Americanism. A woman, pace these modern genderless times, cannot be a ‘buddy.’ Nor a ‘mate’. Nor, incidentally, a ‘guy’, in case you guys weren’t looking,” she said sweetly.

    “Look, if that sweater’s the wrong colour I’ll send it right on back and Randi’ll change it for ya!” he said hurriedly.

    “Randi?” replied Dorothy very, very faintly.

    “Sure!” he retorted angrily.

    There was a short pause.

    “She’s like that,” said Jack sheepishly. “The odd divorce or so doesn’t seem to have made any difference. And it isn’t a Lamborghini, it’s a Golf.”

    “Eh?”

    Jack proved to his own satisfaction that they only had Volkswagen insides but these were the new improved Volkswagen insides, or some such macho crap. Dorothy didn’t listen. She did listen to the bits about being quite a stable little car, and Jack’s having made sure that whatever cars assembled in New Zealand or imported into New Zealand for the purpose of local use or whatever, might have had, this one had air-bags.

    “Thank God,” she said, sagging.

    “Yeah, well, it was that or letting the kid find himself an old Harley to rebuild and kill himself five seconds after he got it on the road,” said Jack heavily.

    Dorothy bit her lip. “Mm.”

    “And don’t ask me why, but he admires the things. I was under the impression that they were a European ladies’ town car, but let it pass.” He heaved himself up. “Come on.”

    They went outside and admired Rab’s pale fawn Golf. Murray was already in it, admiring it.

    “They come in that colour,” said Jack heavily.

    “I never breathed a word!”

    “No,” he conceded glumly.

    “And the jumper’s lovely,” said Dorothy with a sigh.

    “Good.”

    They stared blankly at Murray pretending to drive Rab’s Golf while Rab examined its engine tenderly.

    “I never—” Jack broke off, scowling.

    “Imagined it would hurt like Hell? Nor did I. Considering neither of us really knew the girl,” said Dorothy with a sigh.

    “No. Shit,” he said, blinking hard.

    Dorothy sighed again. “At least you’ve got Murray.”

    “Fatuous, Dot,” said Jack between his perfectly adjusted teeth.

    “Yeah. Sorry. Well, Murray’s nice for his own sake,” she offered.

    “That’s true,” he admitted glumly.

    Dorothy didn’t say anything more. Well, what could you say, really?

    “It was the cheapest stuff,” said Euan in an apologetic tone as Simone gasped at the sight of the enormous packages out on the first-floor balcony.

    “It’s a surprise!” screamed Anne-Louise from out on the balcony, jumping.

    “Yes, but Euan, we say we will not spend any monnay!” she gasped.

    “No, well, it's sort of a present for all of us. To use out there,” he said. “You know: for the house. They really weren’t dear. Anyway, I put them half of them on the plastic.”

    “Euan, one meust still pay, even when it’s on the plastic,” she said solemnly.

    Euan dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I know. Don't worry, you haven’t landed yourself with an improvident Kiwi nit. No, the thing is, Dad—um—gave me a cheque,” he said, clearing his throat. “Don’t think Mum knows,” he added hurriedly.

    “A—a cheque?” she faltered.

    “Yeah. Sorta house-warming present. Well, because we can’t get married until the divorce comes through,” he said awkwardly.

    “Oh, dear! Euan, per’aps we should ’ave gone to their place for Christmas after all?” she gasped.

    “No, it’ll take Mum some time to come round. Don’t worry: she was even worse when my brothers got engaged. Miles worse.”

    “Oh,” said Simone uncertainly.

    “Maman! Maman! Open it!” cried Pierre loudly, tugging at her hand and jumping.

    “Yes! Open it!” screamed Anne-Louise from the balcony.

    “Okay!” said Simone, laughing and giving in. “I open it right away, okay?”

    Euan’s present turned out to be a set of patio furniture. Balcony furniture, in their case, he explained solemnly. It was a plastic kitset, but pretty simple to get together—

    Numbly Simone watched the subsequent sweating and muttering not sufficiently under the breath as her very own Good Keen Man assembled his plastic kit-set sun-loungers, awninged swing, umbrella, and table. The plastic bits were fat white tubes, except for the table top, and the upholstered bits were broad green and white stripes. Not a very pretty green, if one was being captious. Very dark, tending towards the turquoise side of dark green.

    “They were a special offer,” he admitted, once the swearing had died down and Anne-Louise had kindly anointed the pinched finger. “There was a cheaper set, but it didn’t have the umbrella.”

    Simone nodded numbly. It was a huge umbrella: huge. With its own concrete stand that manifestly weighed a ton: Euan had turned an alarming shade of dark red as he manoeuvred it into place. She was very sure that she’d never be able to get the thing down, if—just as an example—a gale blew up. Simone had now discovered that New Zealand was very windy, whether or not this effect was produced, as many of the inhabitants of Carter’s Bay and environs claimed bitterly, by “that dratted El Nino”. Which Simone had been under the impression was written “Ulneeno”, and possibly a Polynesian word, until suddenly discovering it in the Star one evening.

    “The kids like the swing,” said Euan happily as Anne-Louise and Pierre clambered onto it and swung happily under its fringed awning.

    “Yes. It is not a toy?” said Simone cautiously.

    “No. Oh! See whatcha mean. No, it’s not a kids’ swing, it is an actual seat.”

    She nodded limply.

    “They’ll be just the thing for out here,” said Euan happily, getting onto a sun-lounger and stretching out at full length with his hands clasped behind his head.

    “I see,” said Simone limply, sitting down all of a heap on the adjacent one.

    “Mm?” he said, opening one eye.

    “I am seuch a fool! I did not understand that they were for—for to sunbathe!” said Simone with a laugh.

    “Yeah. Geddonit, Woman!” he ordered with a laugh.

    Smiling, Simone lay down at full length on her padded, striped sun-lounger, linked her hands behind her head, and sighed deeply.

    “I thought you said this was going to be a picnic?” said Leigh with a laugh in his voice.

    “Barbie, genuine Colonial barbie,” corrected Thomas sternly.

    “Don’t you mean genuine Australasian?”

    “Dinkum Australasian,” corrected Thomas sternly.

    Leigh gave in, and collapsed in sniggers.

    “Have some Guinness, it’ll fortify you.”

    “I hate Guinness, you fool,” said Leigh feebly, blowing his nose. “I will have some more of that single malt, though, thanks.”

    Groaning, Thomas the Tank Engine poured him a very small malt. Leigh wrenched the bottle off him and poured himself a decent one.

    “Didn’t you ask Inoue and Posy?” he said, having got himself round a good belt of it.

    “No. Lost my nerve,” admitted Thomas, grimacing.

    Leigh choked slightly but nodded.

    Thomas poked at the burnt offerings on his barbecue. “Not done yet.”

    “What is that?” said Leigh faintly.

    “Mm? Chicken. Oh: this? Sliced squid, you’ll—”

    “No,” moaned Leigh.

    “–like it,” said Thomas the Tank Engine ruthlessly, laying it on the barbecue next to the singeing chicken.

    “Couldn’t I just have one simple piece of steak and be done with it?” he sighed.

    “No.” Rapidly Thomas set out four large rounds of fresh pineapple, four cobs of sweetcorn still in their green jackets, and four—ye gods!—four green bananas, also in their jackets, on his barbecue.

    “Thomas, what are you doing?” moaned Leigh. “I thought this was going to be a dinkum Downunder barbie?”

    “No, this is a South Seas Christmas dinner,” he said with dignity.

    “Balls,” groaned Leigh.

    “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

    “Gone with the wind,” sighed Leigh, sitting down on one of the horribly dinkum wooden benches that had mysteriously appeared near Thomas’s bloody barbie. “Christ, couldn’t you at least have found some woodsmanly outdoor furniture with backs?”

    “Huh? Oh, Hell: your back,” realised Thomas.

    “My back: precisely.”

    “Um—sit on the grass. Lean against the bench.”

    Groaning, Leigh did so,

    “All right?” said Thomas anxiously.

    “I’ll let you know. But I warn you, if you let those green bananas anywhere near me, it will not be all right.”

    “They’re good solid starch,” he said unemotionally.

    Leigh sighed. He adjusted his very new Panama over his nose and sipped whisky slowly.

    After quite some time Thomas handed him a piled plate and sat down heavily beside him on the grass with his own plate. “Well?” he said after a certain period had passed.

    Leigh smiled reluctantly. “This actually tastes like real food!”

    “Told you,” said Thomas the Tank Engine smugly.

    “I’m excepting the green banana,” added Leigh with dignity.

    “Uh-huh. The sweetcorn?”

    “It’s wonderful,” said Leigh limply. “So’s the squid!”

    “See?” Thomas ate South Seas Christmas dinner hungrily, but after a bit Leigh found he was looking at him sideways.

    “What?”

    “Glad you came?” said Thomas cautiously.

    “Of course, you cretin!”

    “Not to Christmas dinner with me. Out here,” he said mildly.

    “What? Yes, of course!” said Leigh in amazement.

    “That’s good,” he said unemotionally,.

    Leigh gulped. “Aren’t you?” he said feebly,

    “Eh? Oh, Hell, yes.” Thomas plunged into an account of some geo-rubbish he had planned for these hols. Leigh didn’t listen, he already knew that the scientific parts of it would be beyond him and the sailorly parts of it would be simply incomprehensible. When it was over he said cautiously: “I wasn’t talking about work, actually, Thomas.”

    “Mm? –Sure you aren’t going to finish that banana?”

    “Quite sure.”

    Thomas engulfed it hungrily.

    “Um, what about Dorothy?” ventured Leigh very cautiously.

    “Eh?”

    “Well, um—” Leigh faltered to a stop.

    “What about Moana, for that matter?” returned Thomas calmly.

    Leigh stared at him. He’d been careful not to breathe a word of his deep-laid plot, or even suggest by so much as a glance or— Surely the bugger couldn’t have guessed! “What?” he croaked.

    Thomas pointed a chicken bone at him. “You. Moana,” he said thickly. He swallowed. “You and Moana. Getting it together,” he said clearly.

    “Me and— Rubbish!” gasped Leigh, turning all colours of the rainbow. “It—it isn't— I never for a moment— Rubbish!” he gasped.

    “Is it, just?” replied Thomas mildly, pouring himself a huge tankard of Guinness.

    Leigh watched limply as he washed down the remains of his South Seas Christmas dinner with it. “Look, Thomas, I’ve got absolutely no intentions in that direction,” he said feebly.

    “No? Pity.”

    “Look, she’s more your type than mine!” said Leigh desperately, breaking out in a sweat.

    “Balls,” said Thomas mildly, shaking the very last drops of the Guinness into the tankard and drinking them off thirstily. “Aah! –In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve turned over a new leaf. No more luscious long-legged lovelies. No more mistaken pick-ups. No more hospital administrators. This coming year I’m going to lay siege to bloody Dorothy and break down that resistance of hers or perish in the bloody attempt! –If you really wanna know,” he ended with his sidelong smile.

    “Yes,” said Leigh limply. “I do, actually. Good.”

    “Besides,” said Thomas, reaching out a long arm and capturing the malt, “it’s you Moana fancies, not me.”

    Leigh swallowed. “Nonsense,” he said feebly.

    “Wake up, Leigh,” replied Thomas very mildly, pouring generously for both of them. “To new leaves,” he said solemnly, raising his glass.

    “Er—yes,” Leigh agreed with a certain unease, raising his. “I’ll drink to those.”

    Martin had warned Sim that, whether or not Sammi was in a bullying mood, and whether or not she liked all the presents that everyone gave her, Mum would bawl. She did. Sim watched resignedly, reflecting that at least his own mother wasn’t quite that bad.

    Martin had also warned Sim that Sammi’s idea of Christmas presents would be putrid, so he was flabbergasted on being presented with a really great leather jacket. Martin got a wetsuit but Sim already knew he’d put in his order for that. He thanked Sammi shakily but she just shrugged and said: “Glad you like it.”

    Martin had into the bargain warned Sim that Sammi’s idea of Christmas dinner would be really putrid, but having eaten at her place before he was expecting that. He wasn’t entirely expecting the demarcation dispute that had apparently been going on for some time between Sammi and Mrs Wolfe over said dinner but on the whole he wasn’t surprised. Nor was he surprised by Sammi’s choice of Christmas music: a CD of bloody Vangelis. Mrs Wolfe took it off and put on a rival CD of oldee-timee Xmas carols sung by, or Sim Wynters was a Dutchman and had never been dragged regularly since his formative years to Covent Garden by an opera-loving father, the bloody Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Sammi ignored it but Sim wouldn’t have taken his oath that this wasn’t because she hadn’t realised that the disk had been changed.

    Christmas dinner eventually turned out to be a small roast turkey (Mrs Wolfe), a really revolting salad with those sicky-tasting Japanese leafy things that tickled your throat if you tried not to chew them (Sammi), plus roast potatoes (Mrs Wolfe), hot frozen peas with a small knob of marg on them (Sammi, under protest), real gravy (Mrs Wolfe), tinned cranberry jelly (Mrs Wolfe), and real home-made stuffing with the turkey: ooh, yum! (Mrs Wolfe, of course.) It was followed by a real Christmas pudding that Mrs Wolfe had brought out from England with her, plus WeightWatchers’ ice-cream (Guess Who) and a very light fruit salad of fresh paw-paw, fresh pineapple and Californian grapes. Mrs Wolfe insisted on adding cream to the boys’ helpings of this latter, ignoring the fact that Sammi had turned purple. No surprises there.

    Thanking God she’d had the sense to corner Clara Macdonald and ask her about Japanese gift-giving customs, Angie accepted the Takagaki girls’ beautifully-wrapped offerings with delight and presented her own, almost as beautifully wrapped and much, much gaudier offerings. Either Akiko and Mitsuko were over the moon to be presented with, respectively, a small, turned wood, lidded pot (putatively for keeping hair-ribbons in, and almost definitely genuine rimu) and one of Michaela Daniels’s nice pottery mugs, or they had the beautiful manners Angie had always thought they had. Never mind. She herself was overcome on opening the fine white knit short-sleeved jumper (not wool, thank God) from Akiko and the genuine Japanese sake bottle from Mitsuko.

    “Is no very much,” the latter said anxiously. “But-ah Akiko say, you wirr rike?”

    “It's lovely, Mitsuko!” beamed Angie. It was, too: very simple, just a couple of darkish blue splodges on a white background. How come the Japs managed this sort of thing with such graceful ease and yet produced such crass efforts as—well, downtown Tokyo, or red Honda squashed-looking sports cars came forcibly to mind.

    “Has it got sake in it?” asked Col hopefully.

    Mitsuko collapsed in the predictable giggles, gasping: “No! Is for pour-ah, on-lee! Sirry boy!”

    “Sirry man,” corrected Col solemnly.

    More giggles ensued, naturally.

    Dinner didn’t eventuate until around two-thirty but this didn’t really matter: for one thing Angie had got up at tennish, and for another thing Col presented the company with a large box of chocolates and a bottle of pale toffee-coloured rum.

    “I tell-ah her, no do roast-ah turkey,” explained Mitsuko, as Akiko staggered in eventually under her burnt offering.

    “No,” said Angie limply. “Um—did you?”

    “What in God’s name is it?” asked Col baldly.

    “Col!” cried his mother.

    “Genuine Japanese-ah tempura, but you do not-ah have to eat it!” snapped Akiko.

    “Tempura of what?” he drawled.

    “Col!” shouted Angie.

    “Eat with chop-ah stick,” said Akiko crossly, snatching away Col’s cutlery just as he was reaching for it. She said something pithy in Japanese to her sister, who had earlier—much earlier—set the table. Mitsuko merely smothered a giggle.

    “Tempura is of mixed-ah in-guh-redients,” said Akiko carefully to Angie.

    “Yes.” Angie was sure she could smell something burning out there in the kitchen. “What, dear? Oh; yes.”

    “This here is chook, real fuh-ree range!” said Akiko in a cross voice, not looking at Col.

    “Mm? Cooked chicken: lovely! –I see, it’s sort of deep fried,” said Angie limply.

    Col got up. “Fried Chicken Nippon-land. –Excuse me.” He dashed out.

    After a few moments he came back, accompanied by gusts of bluish smoke. “That Japanese oil ya left on Mrs Adler’s New Zealand stove didn’t quite burst into flames,” he drawled.

    Akiko gave a horrified gasp and rushed out.

    There was a short pause.

    “I tell-ah her—” began Mitsuko.

    “Yes. All right, dear,” said Angie limply.

    Akiko came back, looking very subdued. She bowed to Col. His jaw sagged. “Thank you very much-ah, Col,” she said humbly. “It would have been dis-ah-sterous to set Mrs Ad-uh-ler’s house on-ah fire on Christ-ah-mas Day.”

    “Uh—yeah. Think nothing of it, Akiko,” he said lamely.

    Akiko bowed again, not looking him in the— Of course! It was cultural; she’d lost face or something! realised Angie with a sort of awed horror, praying that her bloody offspring wouldn’t also realise it and commit the crowning folly of remarking on it.

    Somebody up there loved Angela Michaels today—or maybe it was because it was His birthday—but anyway, nothing happened except that Col tasted his Fried Chicken Nippon-land and pronounced it to be extra. Limply Angie tasted hers. Ooh! This crispy batter stuff was fantastic! With the chicken Akiko had done slices of broccoli, and slices of a strange white substance which could not possibly be turnip because it managed to taste like actual food. In the same batter. Presumably that was what you did, in Japan.

    After that she produced Mrs Adler’s best dinner plates with a sort of… green flax box?—possibly—on each, and set in this small green flax box some delicately beautiful portions of, ulp, raw fish, and small thingies which Angie couldn’t identify but by this time, what with Col having saved Mrs Adler’s house from burning down on Christmas Day and not having remarked on Akiko’s loss of face, and the rum, not to mention the warm sake which Mitsuko obligingly offered, bowing to both of them but not managing not to giggle as she did so, what with this, then, Angie didn’t really mind. It was all delicious, anyway.

    “Real Japanese food!” concluded Col with a laugh as Akiko put on an extraordinarily frightful CD of what must be real Japanese music and Mitsuko, bowing and giggling like anything, proffered more warm sake. “Thank you, Akiko; it was really great.”

    “My God, wasn’t it fabulous?” sighed Angie in agreement. “I’m never gonna bother cooking again; after food like that you realise all you’ve been doing all your life is ruining good ingredients.”

    “This is exaggerate, Angie,” reproved Akiko, all smiling and pleased.

    “No, it isn't,” groaned Angela Michaels, leaning back on Mrs Adler’s genuine Thirties plush sofa, replete.

    “I am so glad you rike,” she said modestly.

    Angie smiled and nodded, and allowed her eyes to close slowly. Reflecting as she did so that if only Col wasn’t an up-himself little sod, she’d award herself Akiko for a daughter-in-law on the spot. But as it was— No way, no decent girl deserved that. In fact, even giggly little Mitsuko didn’t. And bloody Mark was… worse…

    “What?” groaned Dorothy, arriving home around sevenish to a locked pub to find a large unshaven presence on its front doorstep.

    “Hullo,” said Thomas meekly.

    “What in God's name are you doing here? I thought Leigh was having Christmas dinner with you?”

    “He was. He did. He’s gone off to Juliette and Dave Macbeth’s for a very light tea.”

    Dorothy replied grimly, ignoring his superb use of the vernacular: “And?”

    “I just thought I’d come and see if you needed moral support,” said Thomas blandly.

    “No. Push off.”

    “Also, I’ve got some very interesting news.”

    “Push OFF!”

    “It’s about your little pal, Janet,” he warned.

    Dorothy gulped. “Oh. What?”

    Thomas looked pious. “I can’t possibly tell you out here on the doorstep.”

    “All right. Round the back,” she groaned.

    They went round the back. Dorothy unlocked the back door, reset Adrian’s sacred alarms, locked the back door again, wrenched Thomas out of Adrian’s sacred kitchen, and they went upstairs.

    She got a bottle of Évian out of the fridge and collapsed onto her Carrano-ized sofa with it without asking him what he wanted to drink, or if he wanted to drink. Thomas wandered into her little kitchen, looking vague. He wandered out again with her very last beer in his fist, still looking vague, but as that was only to be expected, Dorothy ignored it. “Go on,” she said heavily.

    “Mm?” he said, looking at her vaguely over the bottle. “Oh!” He sat down beside her, too close.

    Dorothy moved away pointedly. “Do not approach,” she warned grimly. “If for no other reason than that this is the most humid day for the last five thousand years.”

    “I suppose it is warmish, yes,” he agreed vaguely.

    “Tell me about Janet,” said Dorothy grimly.

    “Oh! Yes! Well, you see, I was marginally less drunk than Leigh, so I drove him over to Angie’s in his car—she’d been invited to the Macbeths’, too—in the hope that she might be less drunk than either of us.”

    “Yes?” said Dorothy grimly.

    “Hal was just getting home as we were about to set off again, so of course Angie asked him how his Christmas dinner at Janet’s had gone.”

    Dorothy’s jaw sagged ten feet.

    “Oh, you didn’t know?” he said airily.

    “Thomas, if you’re making this up, I’ll kill you!” she shouted.

    “No, of course I’m not making it up. I’m pretty sure Angie’s known for a while: thought she’d have told you,” he said mildly. “Well, anyway, there you are.”

    “WHERE?” she shouted.

    “Mm? Oh, sorry. He said they’d had a great time, there was only him and her, they did a couple of crayfish. –Jasus,” he said thoughtfully. “Rock lobster. –Sorry. Uh—well, he did them on the barbecue.”

    “She hasn’t got one,” said Dorothy limply.

    “No. We did get clarification on that one, because Leigh asked him if he knew where she’d got it and he then explained that it was his, and where he bought it. A real one, not a gas-driven one.”

    “YES!” she shouted terribly.

    “If they’re gas-fired, can they possibly be classed as barbecues? Wouldn’t they technically merely be grills that you happen to—”

    “YES!”

    “–use outside?” finished Thomas mildly.

    Dorothy groaned.

    “A good time was had by all. –Both,” he summed up.

    “Mm.”

    “He particularly mentioned that the cat had some of the crayfish. Significant?” He waggled the eyebrows at her.

    “Er—yes, it is, actually,” admitted Dorothy faintly.

    “Ah. Janet didn’t make Christmas pudding, they’d agreed they didn’t want anything too stodgy. She made what Hal described as ‘a dream of a white dessert, fluff like angels’ breath, topped with cream and blueberries.’” He eyed her sideways.

    “Pavlova,” she sighed.

    “Thought it must have been,” he agreed smugly.

    “Is that It?” she croaked.

    “The cat had some of the cream. Since it was Christmas.” He scratched his chin. “I can’t tell you whether he actually got up her—but I can tell you that to the expert eye he didn’t have that look. He did have the look of a chappie that wouldn’t half mind and thought on balance he was in there with a pretty good chance. –I noticed specially, ’cos I thought you’d like me to,” said Thomas the Tank Engine smugly.

    “Yeah. Ta,” said Dorothy numbly. “Look, I rang her yesterday arvo to try to make her change her mind about coming to Jack’s, frightful though all concerned admitted it was gonna be, and she never breathed a blind word! All she said was her and bloody Bobby had decided to stay home this year!”

    “I’d say that shows she was pretty serious, but they hadn’t yet done it,” he said seriously. “That is, if the cat is Bobby?”

    “What? Yes, of course, you moron!” said Dorothy heatedly.

    Thomas didn’t reply.

    “God,” said Dorothy numbly.

    “‘The times they are a-changing,’” said Thomas very, very mildly.

    Abruptly Dorothy stood up. “Get out.”

    “Huh?”

    “Thank you for telling me. Now just get out.”

    Thomas opened his mouth. He shut it again. “Very well,” he said mildly, going.

    A muggy December night had settled over Carter’s Bay and environs. In the old pub on the waterfront Adrian and Anna were sleeping in each other’s arms. In the boys’ room, Martin was flat on his back, snoring: they’d had to have a restorative brandy after the day at Sammi’s, and he wasn’t used to brandy. Sim didn’t actually like brandy so he’d had his with ginger ale. He was lying on his front, one arm dangling out of bed. Also snoring.

    Next to them, Wallis’s room was empty, the bed neatly made. A large fuzzy panda with a red bow round its neck adorned the foot of the bed. Adrian’s idea of a joke: as well as the red bow it had a blue fez laboriously made by hand out of cardboard, and the reference was to Wallis’s incautiously expressed wish to have “a neato little car like that” as they’d watched a grainy re-run of something very old and very British with Sid James and lots of busty girls in it, quite some weeks back.

    Dorothy was asleep in her fake antique four-poster, the smothering orange-ish candlewick bedspread flung onto the floor. A brandy bottle, empty, stood on the bedside table and Dorothy was snoring very loudly.

    At the other side of the building Leigh was in his pyjamas, but still awake. He was standing silently on his balcony, looking over towards Casa Meridionale. Not really thinking: he'd both eaten and drunk far too much to be capable of thought. He was, however, conscious of a warm sort of feeling.

    A couple of hundred yards away, peace had more or less descended on Casa Meridionale. Most of the trendies living in it in fact had spent Christmas Day with their non-trendy parents and were now sleeping off the results. Moana, pace Leigh’s warm feeling, wasn’t actually there: she’d spent Christmas Day at her Aunty Di’s place, observing, with silent annoyance, the women playing Kitchen while the men sat around drinking huge amounts of beer and letting relays of food be placed before them—though recognising that it was doubtless just the same in all the pakeha homes up and down the country. More or less in revenge she’d drunk far too much and then let Aunty Di put her to bed in the spare room. The spare room also featured Aunty Alice’s large twins, aged twelve, in the bunks, and Uncle Tama’s Wynn, aged thirteen, in the bed. Plus Uncle Tama’s Sean’s little Micky, aged three, perforce sharing his Aunty Wynn’s bed: all four of them snoring like the set of overfed little piglets they undoubtedly were; but actually, Moana was so stonkered that far from being kept awake by the snores she went out like a light the minute her head hit the pillow on the mattress on the floor squeezed in between the bunks and the bed.

    In one of the smaller apartments of the big white Mediterranean block, Armand was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. He had insisted that Simone bring the children to him for dinner that evening. Not having realised that they’d have had their Christmas dinner at lunchtime, according to the custom of the country. And not having realised, either, that since they’d been up since five and had refused point-blank to have afternoon naps, they’d be cranky as Hell. They had refused to touch any of the lovely little dinner he’d prepared with his own hands—Pierre, in fact, had demanded “cheerios” and burst into loud tears of rage and disappointment when told there weren’t any and to speak French—and then had had a loud fight over what they wanted to watch on TV. Subsequently bursting into tears of rage and disappointment when told to STOP THAT FIGHTING and that one did not watch the stupid New Zealand television on Christmas Day and here was a lovely video that Mémé had sent of her and Tante Vivienne and le cousin Gérard and la cousine Marthe in Mémé’s garden. In fact Anne-Louise had remembered enough French to scream: “Je hais le cousin Gérard! C’est un petit con!”

    Simone had originally suggested she should collect the children after dinner, but Armand had rejected the offer with lofty scorn. He’d had plenty of time to regret it. He had failed entirely to force Anne-Louise to take a bath, in fact to take her dress off: it was new, Maman had made it. Pierre had gone in the bath but only after being forcibly undressed and dumped in it. Screaming that it wasn’t a proper bath. It was a “shub” and Armand until this moment had been very pleased with it, it was just the right size for a children’s bath, whilst still allowing an adult to have a nice shower. He had reflected sourly that he could have taken that much nicer flat with the much better view, that only had an ordinary shower, after all.

    The children had eventually gone to bed in the spare room (Anne-Louise still in her dress). Neither of them had noticed the new wallpaper which Armand had had installed at immense expense; it had a pattern of blue boats, yellow-haired, blue-frocked dolls, and yellow teddies on it. After being put down, an exhausting exercise in itself, they had got out of their beds and had a stand-up fight on the nice new rug, blue with a red aeroplane on it, that Armand had trudged all over the city to find. He had had to go in and physically wrench them apart.

    It had been ten-thirty when they’d finally fallen asleep. Armand had tottered off to bed, not even noticing that it was much earlier than his usual bedtime.

    In the absence of Anne-Louise and Pierre, Simone and Euan had been enabled to have a light and very civilised supper with Annick in her motel unit at the Pink Manuka. Where Annick had managed to find such ingredients as fresh fennel and chicken livers, goodness only knew: but she had. Radis au beurre, foies de volaille in a wine sauce with small green beans, then the salad of fresh fennel (Euan had never had it before), then a slice of real Brie from the shop in the city that Simone had recommended, with the nearest thing to French bread, also from a shop in the city: Simone had relayed Janet’s trick of freezing it and Annick had adopted it enthusiastically. No pudding, just wonderful coffee.

    “That coffee’s gonna keep me awake, ya know,” Euan warned as they wandered down the hill, hand-in hand, and wandered slowly up to Karaka Grove.

    Simone giggled, squeezed his hand very hard, and said “Goody!”

    It had kept him awake and he was now proving it. Simone, it was fair to say, was co-operating enthusiastically in this operation.

    In the large, modernistic white house on the other side of Karaka Grove Norma Wolfe was snoring, flat on her back. There were tear stains on her cheeks. These had been provoked immediately merely by Martin’s having gone back to his own room at The Quays in preference to sleeping on the floor in Sammi’s second spare room, which didn’t contain a bed. An earlier and more serious bout, however, had been provoked by Martin’s declaration that he wasn’t going to university in the New Year, he was going to be a chef and Adrian had taken him on as a proper apprentice and he didn’t CARE what Dad thought! How was she ever going to break it to Gordon? It would not have occurred to Norma to ask if Martin could legally have signed his apprenticeship papers, but Sammi, who was pretty fed up with Mother’s carry-on over the dinner in her, Sammi’s, house, had told her free, gratis and for nothing that the age of majority in New Zealand was eighteen.

    Sammi had fully intended to think a few things out tonight, but in fact the day had so exhausted her that she had barely cast a passing thought in the direction of what Armand might be doing before sleep had overcome her.

    Further down the road, Hal was awake. He was watching a scratched video of The Day The Earth Stood Still. Since it was Christmas. He had a beer in his hand. Some might have said that this proved the leopard hadn’t entirely changed his spots since meeting Janet Wilson, but those who knew him really well would immediately have recognised that it was a tremendous step forward in the right direction from blenderfuls of Hal’s Special Orbiting Russian Juliuses.

    In Mrs Adler’s old bungalow in Gilbert Street, Mitsuko was fast asleep: she hadn't had the guts to ask Uncle Inoue to drop her off at Col’s flat after dinner at Ken and Hilary’s. Akiko was still awake. In fact, she was in the kitchen—once again spotless, and free of blue smoke. She had made herself a pot of green tea and was sipping it very slowly, staring into space. Silently reviewing the available talent of Puriri County.

    “Pooh,” she concluded aloud, scowling horribly.

    Over the road in her neat little pioneer cottage, Janet was fast asleep with a smile on her face. Bobby was also fast asleep, down by her feet: the prejudiced, such as Dorothy K. Perkins, might have said that his fat, fuzzy face wore a bloated smirk. Janet was having an almost blameless dream in which the Kindergarten Cop featured largely…

    Not far away, Station Road was quiet as the grave. Fiorella and Avon had long since gone out like lights. Kevin was in the sitting-room, snoring on the sofa with an old Aircel blanket over him; Dad’s booze usually did that to him, and Barry had no intention of trying to lug him home to the bus barn and get him into whatever he was using for a bed this week.

    Barry himself was wide awake. He was experimentally wearing the shorty pyjamas Chloe had given him for Christmas. She made Dad sleep in something very similar. They felt bloody peculiar. Maybe if you thought of them as just draughty shorts (no buttons on the fly), you’d be able to get to sleep in them. Dad had given him a box of monster cigars, he usually did. Barry wandered outside and sat down on the front step, smoking slowly. He had sort of intended to have a brood about Mrs Burchett, but funnily enough what he ended up thinking about was that Scandinavian bird young Adrian had had in tow this time last Christmas. Boy, what a pair of handfuls, eh? Bossy cow, though. Oh, well. He sighed a bit but drew in a medicinal lungful of real Havana. Wow, was that the real McCoy! …Well, put it like this: how many wives would let you wander outside at dead of night for a meaty cigar in peaceful Station Road in only your shorty jamas—the which incidentally proved that some blokes weren’t as well hung as other blokes, thought Barry, shifting uncomfortably and finally deciding what the Hell, and easing the fly open and more or less letting it all hang out. –Well, how many wives would let a bloke? …Though possibly there were some marriages where a bloke wouldn’t need to or want to, at this hour of a Christmas night. Yes, well, name one.

    Up Carter’s Inlet, Jane had thrown her sleeping-bag to the floor and was sleeping under a sheet. Dreaming of a garden full of incredibly luscious produce: giant tomatoes and forests of silverbeet and such-like, with nary a snail in sight. True, the garden also featured herself with a large spray-can of DDT (long since banned by the government) and Lysle in hand-made Italian sandals running like a scared rabbit; but then, one was scarcely responsible for the murky recesses of one’s consciousness, was one? As she would comfortingly tell herself on waking at the very point where he went down like a felled kauri under the DDT.

    Next-door in Sol’s Cove the Winkelmanns slept the sleep of the just. Sol, Grace and Bonzo the Dog were all snoring.

    Up in Left-Hand or Lone Pine Tree Cove Jack was awake. He’d just checked on Rab and Murray. Both sleeping the sleep of the innocent. He wandered out onto his huge deck and leaned on the railing, gazing unseeingly at the tranquil inlet under a scattering of stars and a sallow glow where the clouds obscured the moon, and sighed. We-ell… New Year’s resolutions, maybe? But Hell, what good were they in the face of goddamned Fate? Because you sure as Hell never knew what was round the corner: by God, this last year had proved that if it had done nothing else! …Jesus, and if one more kindly-disposed—make that ostensibly kindly-disposed—local cow suggested he ask Beth if she was free to look after Murray, he’d strangle her! …Jesus, where had he gone wrong? After quite some time a bitter tear stole down Jack’s cheek. He didn’t brush it away, he just let it drip.

Next chapter:

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