Clara And The Good Keen Man

37

Clara And The Good Keen Man

    The Wagner had been really great. Admittedly Barry hadn’t felt all that much like a sustained period of hard yacker blasting pink muck off Rog Pinkerton’s house after it, but he’d ignored the disinclined feeling, and got on with it. By Sunday teatime he’d been ready to drop like a log in front of the TV with a can of DB and, since old Jacko seemed to have given up on the fish and chips and the Powers That Be hadn’t yet opened a ruddy McDonald’s anywhere closer than bloody Brown’s Bay, a meal of whatever happened to be in his cupboards. Flaming tinned spaghetti with those horrid little squashy bits of so-called sausage, most probably. In fact, now he came to think about it, undoubtedl— Bugger. Tonight was the night he was supposed to have tea with old Norm and Davina Parkinson. Not that they wouldn’t give him a ruddy good tea. Groaning, Barry dragged himself into the bathroom and took a shower. Somehow, and for a bloke what had been blasting pink muck off an Eighties eyesore on the Point since approximately Kingdom Come, this was odd, he found he was remembering that ruddy Ingrid girl that young Adrian had had in tow—was it two Christmases back? Well, more a mental picture than an actual memory, to be strictly accurate: standing in his slightly chipped bath—Fiorella had had a temper tantrum and hurled an environmentally friendly wooden toy at it, added to which some cretin had dropped a hammer in it when he was putting the shower nozzle in—standing in his slightly chipped bath, up to mid-calf—mid gorgeous calf, right—in Fiorella’s ruddy bubble bath. It wasn’t a mental picture that a sane bloke’d actually want to forget, true: but why now? For about two seconds Barry actually considered—since it was there—having a ruddy good wank; but on the whole, appearances to the contrary he didn’t have the ruddy energy. Then the flaming phone rang, so that was that.

    “’Lo?” he gasped, clutching a ragged towel, shivering. They had once had several quite good towels but what with his, Barry’s, dumb feeling that the least he could do was hand some of them on to his little sister when she cleared out and left him and his house in peace, and his, Barry’s, forgetting to do that load of washing that was sitting in the laundry waiting to be done, what with the excitement of the Wagner—

    Davina thought that, as Clara didn’t have transport, maybe he could give her a lift? “Clara?” echoed Barry stupidly. Clara Macdonald, of course! Barry didn’t think he’d known she was invited, actually. In fact he was bloody sure he hadn’t known she was invited because, technically gorgeous bird or not, if good old Davina had said to him in the first place she was, he woulda found some excuse to wriggle out of it. Because for one thing, gorgeous birds weren’t in the habit of giving ordinary blokes like him, Barry Goode, a second glance. And for another thing, what with that accent and those pretty little pieces of real jewellery and working at the new varsity and being Lady Carrano’s ruddy cousin into the bargain, not to mention all those up-market English relatives that according to May Swadling she did have, yeah, as if we couldn’ta guessed that for ourselves—what with all that, then, Barry was aware that she was very much out of his class, ta very much. And since he wasn’t into masochism he didn’t all that much fancy a solid evening at the Parkinsons’ having it all rammed home to him.

    “Um, yeah, sorry, Davina. Righto,” he said feebly as Davina asked him if he was there. He hung up feebly and looked at the phone. Good old Davina had ordered him—though putting it very nicely, of course—to ring the girl and tell her. Glumly Barry dialled. She was there, all right, and she accepted very nicely, all right, and Barry couldn’t for the life of him tell (a) whether she’d known he was invited and (b) whether she really wanted a lift with him or not.

    By now he was really chilled so he went back into the bathroom and turned the shower on again and got under it. “And you can get the Hell out of it,” he noted sourly to it as it stuck up under his nose, “because you and me aren’t in her class, old lad.”

    Strangely enough it didn’t take all that much notice of this remark but Barry, sighing, turned the water off and got out and dried himself anyway, ignoring it. The phrase “What fools these mortals be” came forcibly to mind but he almost managed to ignore that, too, as he scrubbed his nails within an inch of their lives, wondering why the flaming Christ blasting pink muck off Rog P.’s flaming walls should render the fingernails instantaneously pitch black, like what (if Mum’s word could be taken on such subjects, which Barry was in no doubt it could) any nice girl would have the shudders at seeing at a nice lady’s tea table. To say nothing of any closer contact, which, he reminded it sternly, wasn’t gonna happen in any case.

    Sighing, he finished the nails, finished dressing and went out and got into the rattly little old van and headed for Kingfisher Bay. Undoubtedly five thousand eyes from Kidstuff, the crafts boutique and Sol’s place were boring into him as he stood there ringing her bell but he almost managed to convince himself that they weren’t.

    “Hullo, Barry,” she said, smiling nicely. “It’s so good of you to offer me a lift.”

    “Yeah,” croaked Barry inanely. “I mean, I was going there anyway.” It wasn’t a particularly warm day and they weren’t headed for Lee Gla-more-ous Night-Clubbe in the big smoke, so she wasn’t wearing evening clobber, but it was good enough. He had sort of noticed that those long, skinny dresses that he remembered from yonks back were in again, only this time round they didn’t seem to be in those pretty little floral patterns, or those weird Indian patterns, they seemed to come in a choice of black, black, or black, or, if you were very daring or very cretinous, in a very dark leopard-skin print that looked totally, in Barry’s humble opinion, ridiculous. Clara’s long, skinny dress was different: a dark purple. Barry was aware the experts woulda called it something else; nevertheless. Violet? Anyway, it was dark. And unlike the thing his sister had been getting around in last weekend at Dad and Chloe’s, not to mention the thing that ruddy Chloe had been getting around in, it did have sleeves and it didn’t have a huge great scoop cut out of the bust, thus necessitating, in Avon’s case, the wearing of a lime-green tee-shirt under it (flaming ridiculous, right), and in Chloe’s the wearing of a more up-market skinny-rib knit, plus and in Avon’s case until Dad’s central heating cut in, a very ordinary heavy cardy over it. Not that sleeveless and a huge great scoop removed over the bust would have been bad, in Clara Macdonald’s case, mind you. And as it was, someone up there in Fashion Heaven deserved a medal or a laurel wreath or whatever it was they awarded to the gods of fashion in the raving Nineties: because this particular skinny style, Barry was aware, was actually designed to be worn by anorexic models weighing in at about six stone. Clara Macdonald had the sort of very curvaceous figure what had actually been remarked around these here parts of Puriri County on one, Lady Carrano. Or, yum. Curves in all the right places and you didn’t have to wonder what sex (if any) it was under the war paint, geddit? This particular skinny dress had a ruddy great slit up the side to, or Barry Goode wasn’t as eagle-eyed a bird-watcher as he had always believed, about a hand’s span above the knee. The right knee. And wouldn’t a bloke just like it to be his hand that— Er, yeah. He jumped slightly as it sunk in she was asking him if he thought she’d be warm enough in it.

    “Yuh— Uh, not in the van,” croaked Barry. “Norm and Davina have got central heating, though: you’ll be warm in the house.”

    She thought she’d better bring a coat, then. Very nicely she asked Barry up while she got it. She went first. Thank You, Lord. Thank you, Sir Jake Carrano, for decreeing this here staircase be put in. Thank you, Fate or whatever parsimonious nong at Carrano Development had designed this ruddy block for designing it in such a way that, with the best will in the world, Barry and his mates had had to make this new staircase that steep. He tottered into the sitting-room after her and sank onto a sofa while she got her coat and purse, barely noticing the smell of paint.

    “Um, been painting?” he croaked inanely as he followed her out.

    “No, Beth has. The kitchen cupboards,” said Clara on an apologetic note.

    “Eh? We only just put them in!”

    “Um, I know. Um, well,” said Clara, blushing, as she led the way downstairs, “she said she didn’t like the colour.”

    “Why in God’s name didn’t she say so when we were doing them? She coulda had any colour she wanted,” croaked Barry.

    Clara had reached the pavement. She turned and smiled at him. “I don’t know. Actually, between you and me, she’s been in rather a bad mood this weekend. I think she would have said that of any colour.”

    “I geddit. What colour did she choose, or don’t I dare to ask?”

    “She got it at Wrightson’s,” said Clara on an apologetic note, closing the door and attacking it with her key.

    “Ugh, that sicky blue they had on special? Yuck,” he said as she nodded. “Um, isn’t that a Yale lock?”

    “What?” she said blankly.

    Barry swallowed. Maybe they didn’t have them in Pongo? No, that was bats: of course they did—must do. “You don’t have to lock it from the outside,” he said, clearing his throat.

    “But—” Clara looked blankly at her key. “Oh, dear. I’ve been doing it wrong for months.”

    “Not to worry, so long as it’s closed it’s locked,” said Barry cheerfully—too cheerfully, he sounded like a ruddy cretin. Shit.

    “Oh,” said Clara obediently. “I see. Keys hate me, I’m afraid,” she said apologetically.

    “Well, they would do, if ya use them to lock a door that doesn’t need locking.”

    “Yes,” she said limply, putting the key in her bag.

    “Come on. Um, the van’s not too comfortable, I’m afraid,” said Barry cautiously, unlocking the passenger door. “Um, lemme help you up. Um, sorry, maybe I should have warned you,” he added lamely, eyeing her shoes. Not those ruddy clumpy things that Avon got round in, but pretty high-heeled.

    “No, that’s quite all right,” she said politely, nevertheless taking his arm. Barry helped her in, conscious of a desire to shake his head briskly. Uh—oh. Goddit. Not warning her was quite all right, see? Nice English manners, allee same like May had told the whole of Carter’s Bay. He closed her door as she thanked him nicely and went slowly round to his side.

    “Can I say something?” he said, starting up and driving off with due precautions as to morons in BMWs and Mercs roaring down towards them from Kaingaroa Way or Kowhai Boulevard, enormous tourist coaches thundering up behind them from the Royal K, or five thousand Porsches that had never heard of the speed limit. Actually there weren’t any of these in sight, but in Kingfisher Bay you never knew.

    “Yes, of course,” she murmured.

    “What it is, see, Clara,” said Barry on a grim note, “I don’t think we speak the same language. So if you can make allowances for me, just for this evening, that’d be good.”

    There was a considerable pause.

    “What do you mean?” she said in a very small voice. Not the sort of voice that Barry was accustomed to hear from the female members of his own family, by any manner of means, but it did ring strange bells. After a moment he realised she sounded bloody like Mrs Burch—Kincaid, and nearly drove into the landscaped bank to their left, ruddy stunted kowhais and all.

    “Um, sorry,” he said lamely.

    “I don’t understand,” she said, still in that small voice.

    “No. I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth. Only the thing is, May Swadling’s told the whole of Carter’s Bay about your nice English manners.”

    “What?” said poor Clara in bewilderment.

    “She tells everybody everything; whether it’s true or not, what’s more, ya musta noticed that!”

    “Yes, of course.”

    “The thing is, us Colonial yobs can’t always tell if you’re merely being polite or if you mean what you say,” said Barry glumly, wishing to God he’d never opened his flaming cretinous mouth.

    There was a considerable silence.

    “I have noticed,” said Clara Macdonald in her very English voice, “that the only New Zealanders who ever refer to themselves as ‘Colonial’ are highly intelligent, well-read people. And that they only do so ironically. But please forgive me if my nice English manners have prompted me to misinterpret that particular custom.”

    Gulping, Barry pulled into the side of the good macadamised road between Kingfisher Bay and the roundabout, and turned to face her. “I’m bloody sorry, Clara.”

    “So you ought to be!” she said strongly.

    Barry smiled feebly.

    Clara twinkled at him. “I don’t think I’m particularly hypocritical, but of course I was brought up to be polite. Though I don’t think I use manners at times when most New Zealanders wouldn’t. I think possibly it’s my phraseology that’s different.”

    “Yeah,” said Barry, smiling sheepishly. “Well, I think you are polite more often than we would be, if ya see what I mean.”

    “Mm. Is it terribly off-putting?”

    Barry went very red. “No. Wouldn’t say that.”

    Clara hesitated. Then she said honestly: “The sort of manners that Mummy and Grandma inculcated in me can be used deliberately to put someone off—or put them down; I am aware of that. Well, Mummy does it all the time, it’d be hard not to be aware of it.”

    “Yeah. Um, well, I don’t know many up-market English people but I had sorta gathered that.”

    “Mm. But I have made a conscious decision not to do it.”

    “May’s other observation must be right, then,” said Barry before he could stop himself. “Bugger,” he muttered, as she just looked at him calmly. “Sorry. Um, she said you were a very sweet girl—and I’m really sorry, and if you haven’t gathered by now that I’ve got a ruddy great chip on my shoulder, well, I’m telling ya! Shit!” he said violently.

    Clara stared thoughtfully in front of her. Then she said: “May was right about you, too, in that case.”

    Barry gulped.

    “She’s very acute,” said Clara calmly.

    “Yeah. No flies on May: right,” he muttered.

    There was a short and sufficiently, on Barry’s part, agonised pause. “What the Christ did she say?” he croaked.

    “I can’t do it verbatim, I’m no good at accents. And in any case, I could never manage that mixture of genuine innocence and good intentions, on the one hand, and love of gossip mixed with a certain prurience on the other.”

    Barry swallowed. “Boy, ya hit her on the head,” he muttered. “Well, go on, then, might as well know the worst.”

    “She told me about your background and your marriage and divorce, and how you’d given up the law to go into your uncle’s business. And of course about how you’d taken Avon and her little girl in.”

    “And?” said Barry, licking his lips.

    “As I say, I can’t do it verbatim. But I think the phrase was ‘a disappointed man.’”

    “Bullshit!” said Barry loudly. “I wouldn’t go back to law for a million dollars a year!”

    “No; she didn’t mean that. She meant personally: emotionally. Although she phrased it quite differently, what she meant to convey, I think, was that your experience of personal relationships had disillusioned you with—with regard to what that side of life might offer. And given you a low opinion of what you, yourself, had to offer in that sphere.”

    Barry was very red. He eventually managed to croak: “Ya mean, an inferiority complex as well as the chip on the shoulder—right. Were any specific names mentioned in that context?”

    “Well, yes: May isn’t the sort of person who talks in abstract terms. Though she made it quite clear what she meant. –I’m so sorry,” said Clara, biting her lip, as she read the expression on his face. “I see what you meant about us speaking different languages. She mentioned Catherine Kincaid.”

    “Yeah. She woulda done. –I suppose I’m not the sort of person who talks in abstract terms, either,” he admitted grimly.

    “Not habitually, as part of your everyday discourse, no,” agreed Clara calmly. “But of course you’re capable of it: that’s very clear.”

    “Uh—is it?” said Barry numbly.

    “Mm. Well, you said we speak different languages, not that you can’t understand a blind word I say!” said Clara, smothering a smile.

    There was a short pause.

    “Look, Pom,” said Barry Goode in rather a different tone, “you taking the Mick, here?”

    “Only a very, very little!” replied Clara with a tiny choke of laughter.

    “Yeah,” he said, grinning. “And would I be out of line if I said that that’s something you only do when you’re ruddy sure the other person will understand?”

    Clara nodded, twinkling at him. “Not merely understand what I’m doing: that they’ll understand I mean no harm by it. Well, when I’m sure that they’re on the same wavelength, I suppose.”

    “Yeah,” said Barry, starting the van up again. “I geddit. –You know Thomas Baranski, don’t you?”

    “Yes.”

    “He’d be on this wavelength of yours, would he?” said Barry neutrally.

    “Well, yes. That’s very largely cultural,” she said uncertainly.

    “Yeah.”

    “It’s not confined to the Pommy side, though,” said Clara drily.

    “No?” replied Barry cautiously, not looking at her.

    “No. I’d certainly be quite sure that whatever tone I took, Dorothy would be on the right wavelength. You like her, don’t you?”

    “Yeah. What makes you think I don’t like Thomas?”

    “Oh—well, I don’t know,” replied Clara, very disconcerted. “I—I suppose I’ve noticed that quite a few of the local people don’t care for him.”

    Barry sniffed slightly. “Not on his wavelength. –No, sorry!” he said with a laugh. “He’d be a bit much for most of them—yeah. Too much force of personality, and he doesn’t bother to hide it. And too damned bright, and he doesn’t bother to hide that, either! That goes down real well in these parts, I don’t think. You ever heard of the tall poppy syndrome?”

    “No.”

    Smiling, Barry allowed that it was a phrase that probably hadn’t crossed the Tasman from Australia and been absorbed into the local vernacular, no. But that nevertheless New Zealand culture was typified by it, too. He explained: “It’s merge into the local mediocrity or risk eternal banishment to the regions beyond the pale, here.”

    “Mowing the tall poppies down: yes,” said Clara, blinking. “Of course.”

    “Yeah. Thomas is typical: so bright they can’t stand it, and then, when he doesn’t give a shit about covering it up, they can’t stand that even more. But I do like him: very much. Well, in the first place, he knows one end of a hammer from the other: not like your average whingeing Pom,” said Barry, very dry.

    “No, quite,” agreed Clara calmly.

    “And in the second place—well, I can see he’s got charm, even if I am the wrong sex. And don’t bother to list his faults, I’m not blind. Besides, May’s already done that!” said Barry with a sudden laugh. “But I have to admit I’d probably like anyone that had introduced me to Wagner.”

    “Has he?”

    “Yeah.” Grinning happily, Barry explained.

    The explanation lasted quite some time, and they were some way down Peninsula Road before he ran dry.

    “I don’t care for The Ring, so much, but I’m very fond of Tristan and Isolde and Die Meistersinger,” she said placidly. “Daddy’s a great Wagner fan. He’s looking forward to being able to go over to Bayreuth now that he’s retired.”

    “Uh—yeah. Well, yeah, ya would; I suppose Europe’s not that big,” said Barry somewhat feebly.

    “No. I really prefer Mozart’s operas, I have to admit,” said Clara, smiling at him.

    “Yeah? Haven’t heard much of his opera stuff, myself. Well, you know: there’s no professional opera, here, you have to actually go out and buy the stuff deliberately. And if you don’t know what you like, how do you know what to buy? Uh—what’s up?” he asked uneasily.

    “Nothing,” said Clara, blinking a little. “Well, May said you were as honest as the day is long.”

    “Uh—ye-ah… Well, good to hear she thinks so. Um, can’t see how it’s relevant, Clara,” he said cautiously.

    “No, of course,” she said somewhat limply, smiling at him. “When I lived in England I went to the opera once or twice with a man who—um, well, he was pretentious. I eventually realised that he didn’t really enjoy the music, at all. Well, never mind him: he was a creep.”

    “You okay?” he said uncertainly. “Wanna check your face?”

    “No—really,” she said, smiling at him.

    Barry looked at her sideways. “You don’t wear much make-up, do you?”

    “Not very much. I’m lucky, I’ve got Daddy’s complexion!” said Clara with a little chuckle. “No, sorry. That side of the family, you see. Mummy’s rather pale and washed out; all the Thwaiteses are.”

    “Yeah. Polly Carrano’s your cousin, isn’t she? I’d say you’ve got her colouring.”

    “Yes, that’s right.”

    “Same hair and everything,” said Barry hoarsely, looking at the long, loose, golden-brown curls on her shoulders.

    “I suppose we are rather alike, in looks. Not so much in temperament, I don’t think. I would never,” said Clara, taking a deep breath, “be able to stand her sort of lifestyle.”

    “No? No hankering to be filthy rich, then?”

    “No. I’d hate all the formal entertaining and that sort of rubbish. And I’m not particularly interested in consumer goods. I just want to be ordinary,” said Clara on a wistful note.

    “I’d say you’ve come to the right country, then,” acknowledged Barry drily.

    “Yes. It’s rather peaceful,” she said with a sigh. They drove on for a little and she added: “Thank God Mummy and Daddy didn’t decide to retire out here!”

    “I see… They bully you, do they?”

    “Oh, only for my own good,” said Clara in hugely ironic tones.

    “Most families are like that. Well, Mum certainly was, all the time I was growing up. My trouble was, I let myself believe half the bullshit she gave out with. You know: nice profession, nice house, nice suburb, blah-blah. Dad’s okay, mind you: he stuck up for me when I chucked in the law. Well, he told me I was nuts and I’d never make me fortune as a jobbing builder, but if it was what I wanted, good luck to me!” admitted Barry with a laugh. “Here we go: down here.” He turned into the Parkinsons’ street. “This is it,” he noted neutrally, pulling up outside the expanses of cream weatherboarding. “Been here before?”

    “Yes,” admitted Clara.

    Barry grinned. “Talking of filthy rich. Well, old Norm’s not short of a few bob and if this is what they want, why not? Mind you, it’s bloody comfortable inside. Only thing is, there’s a bit too much of it!” he ended with a laugh.

    “Yes,” said Clara weakly, opening her door.

    “Hang on; I’ll help you out,” said Barry cheerfully. He hopped out, went round to her side and held out his arm. The subsequent process was, on his side at any rate, entirely enjoyable. Entirely. Crikey. Possibly it was only his overheated imagination but he thought she looked a bit shaky after it.

    “Old Davina’s probably glued to them lace curtains as we speak,” he noted conversationally.

    “Mm. And Norm.”

    “Nah, he’ll be in the shed, working on his models. Got past all that stage in his life, ya see. Not interested in emotional stuff any more.”

    “What rubbish: they’re the most devoted couple I’ve ever met,” said Clara with dignity, ignoring the fact that she was very flushed.

    “Uh-huh.” Barry looked at the blush thoughtfully. “Come on, we got approximately three hours of purgatory and roast lamb before Davina turns us loose into the night again.”

    “Um—yes!” said Clara with a nervous laugh. “Roast lamb?”

    “Yeah, don’t tell me ya haven’t encountered that manifestation of good ole Kiwi down-home— What?” he said, noticing a very odd expression on her face.

    “Grandma Thwaites always serves roast lamb to guests,” said Clara faintly.

    “We must have some common cultural ground after all,” replied Barry smoothly, holding out his hand. “Coming?”

    “Mm.” Clara took his hand uncertainly.

    Barry smiled a little. “May didn’t warn ya that the second-most favourite occupation of the Good Keen Man is taking the Mick?”

    “No,” she said faintly.

    “Well, being married to Jack Swadling, she probably thought you’da seen it for yourself.” Barry squeezed her hand gently.

    “Yes.” Clara looked at him doubtfully, not at all sure what to make of him. “Um, second-most? What’s the favourite one, then, Barry?”

    Barry’s eyes twinkled. “Well, tradition would have it, rugby, racing and beer, combined.”

    “Oh, yes?” said Clara politely.

    Barry squeezed her hand hard. “It isn’t. Remind me to give you a demonstration, some time.”

    At this Clara gulped, and then gave a loud giggle. And they went up the Parkinsons’ expensive cream-paved front path hand-in-hand, flushed and smiling.

    “Well, now!” said Davina with a smile as the sound of Barry’s rattly little old van departing died away in the quiet street.

    Norm merely grunted.

    “Don’t be like that, dear,” she said placidly.

    He sighed. “Look, I could see he was pretty struck, I’m not blind, and as far as I could tell she seemed to like him, but aren’t you reading too much into it, love?”

    “Well, of course I could be,” replied Davina calmly. “They’re both so nice, aren’t they? Of course I’d like to see them get together. You know, I thought of Barry almost the first time I met her. You remember, Norm: at the school fair, I told you about that. I could see she wasn’t interested in Mr Takagaki’s type at all. Not that it follows!” she admitted with a giggle.

    “No,” he agreed, smiling a little.

    “And of course it is a bit hard to tell, with those nice manners of hers—”

    “Ya mean those ones that May Swadling’s told the whole of the Bay about? Yeah,” agreed Norm on a sardonic note.

    “Stop it, Norm,” said Davina without conviction. “Um, well, yes. But I think she really likes him!”

    “Ye-ah… Well, you could be right. And I’m not saying that they haven’t got a thing in common. Barry’s quite bright, only most of the time he hides it. And she may be content to settle for his sort of life. Well, s’pose I mean a normal Kiwi lifestyle: quarter acre, two point seven kids, all that. I’m not knocking it, don’t get your feathers ruffled,” he added drily as his large, plump wife began to fluff herself up.

    “No,” she said on a sheepish note. “Of course not. Sorry, dear.”

    Norm Parkinson sighed. “But what about that family of hers? Will they stand for it?”

    Davina smiled a little. “Well, probably not, though I’m sure her mother and grandma want to see her settled down with a husband of her own. But the thing is, Norm, will they be able to do anything about it? Well, England’s an awfully long way away!”

    “A day’s flight by jumbo,” said Norm heavily.

    “Yes. But even if they come out here and try to stop it, the thing is, they don’t live here, do they? Why should she take any notice of them?”

    Norm had to swallow. Practical-minded woman, his wife. “Uh—yeah. Well, yeah, think you’re right. Only that isn’t the point, really. Is a girl like her right for poor old Barry? Well, let’s face it, love, he hasn’t had an easy life so far, has he? Wouldn’t want to see him get hitched to this English girl and then have her discover she can’t hack it out here after all.”

    Davina replied seriously: “I don’t think that’ll happen. I’d say she’s the type who’d commit herself seriously to a relationship. And Barry’s very much the same type: he’s completely straightforward and honest!”

    “He’s honest, all right,” allowed Norm, scratching his chin slowly. “Told you what Rog Pinkerton said about the quote he gave them for stripping the house, eh? And Sid Norton was telling me just the other day that Jake Carrano mentioned he told Dr Kincaid that horses don’t need stables out here, when he asked him for a quote!”

    “There you are, then.”

    “No, I’m not. Honest isn’t the same as straightforward. Wouldn’t call Barry that, at all. –Think about it,” he advised as Davina’s wide face went bright pink with indignation.

    “But— Oh.”

    “Thing is, can she take it?” said Norm slowly, scratching his chin. “Well, in the first place, can a nice English girl like her recognise it when she sees it, and in the second place, can she hack living with it? Now, don’t start, love, you’ve told me yourself that if you had to live with Jack Swadling you’d have taken an axe to the joker long since; and ya godda admit, Barry’s a bit the same way. Especially when he’s in a good mood,” he added firmly.

    Davina gulped. “Um—yes.”

    A thoughtful silence fell in the Parkinson’s large, ultra-comfortable pastel living-room.

    Eventually Davina said brightly: “Of course, I hardly know Jake Carrano,”—Norm grunted noncommittally—“and I don’t know her at all well, really; but I’d say he’s a bit the same way, don’t you think? And Clara’s really very like Polly Carrano!”

    “Ye-ah… In looks, maybe.”

    “No, dear; I mean, she likes that sort of thing in a man,” she said placidly.

    Norm looked dubious, but gave in. “Yeah. Well, if you say so, Davina. Well, let’s hope they can make a go of it, I’d like to see Barry settled down with a family of his own.”

    “Mm. Well, it’s early days yet!” she said brightly, heaving herself up.

    “Yeah. Now where ya going?”

    “Just to see if that naughty Puss is still outside,” replied Davina in a vague voice. She hurried out.

    Norm sat back in his large recliner chair, smiling to himself. The sound of Davina carolling: “Puss, Puss! Where are you, boy? Come on, fella! Puss, Puss!”—and her customary “Drat the animal!” could clearly be heard from the back regions. There was a short pause, and then a relieved: “There you are! Where have you been, you silly boy? It was only Barry and Clara, they wouldn’t hurt you! –Now, stop that, greedy guts, you’ve had your tea!” Norm grinned, and cocked an ear. “Oh, well, just a wee drink of milk, then,” his wife’s voice said on the customary weak note.

    When she came back into the living-room saying: “I suppose we’d better get off, dear, it’s rather late,” he got up, but asked in a neutral voice: “Do ya reckon Clara likes cats?”

    Davina eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”

    “Oh, nothing. Only, Barry was saying that time I bumped into him—when was it? Last week? No, that’s right: it was the other day, when I nipped down to Swadlings’ for more milk, because Someone had given the last of it to that animal; he was saying he’s thinking of getting a dog.”—Davina was still eyeing him suspiciously.—“Bull terrier, he thought.”

    “Yes, or a Rottweiler!” she retorted cordially. “Come on, beddy-byes, and don’t shut the door—”

    She always told him not to shut the door with the cat in here. “I’m likely to shut that animal in here with the good carpet,” agreed Norm placidly. He followed her out smiling a little, and considerately not pointing out that actually, though of course bull terriers hadn’t been mentioned, Barry had said he’d like a dog.

    … “Anyway,” said Davina firmly into the dark—Norm leapt ten feet, he’d been almost off, “English girls like dogs!”

    That was that, then, concluded the amiable Norm Parkinson, smiling to himself. Better order the wedding present.

    Naturally, after spending the past three hours aching to get her to himself, Barry couldn’t think of a blamed thing to say, now he did have her to himself. He drove in silence, feeling like a nana, though trying to tell himself that as she wasn’t saying anything, either, maybe it was sort of mutual? That or maybe she couldn’t wait to get shut of him.

    Eventually he said desperately: “So, how does Davina’s roast lamb rate?”

    “Excellent,” replied Clara in some relief that they weren’t going to sit like two bumps on a log for the entire drive. “She’s a wonderful cook, isn’t she?”

    “Yep, known for it, is Davina. That pudding was corker, too, wasn’t it?”

    “Yes,” said Clara with a sigh. “Wonderful. I wonder if there might be a class I could go to?”

    “What, to learn to cook like good ole Davina? No way! That Posy Baranski, she gets into town to some so-called cordon blue course, that’s where they teach ya how to muck up perfectly good food with yucky sauces; and the WEA, they run some classes down in Pohutukawa Bay at the Community Centre, they’ll teach ya how to muck up perfectly good food with coconut milk and chopped chilli so’s ya can call it, take ya pick, Thai or Indonesian or Malaysian; but really great home cooking is not taught in the New Zealand of the Nineties. And don’t get ya hopes up, they don’t learn it at their mothers’ knees any more, either: Davina’s generation’s the last that actually knows how to produce edible food from real ingredients. Sorry!”

    “In that case there’s no hope for me,” said Clara with a smile in her voice.

    “So you can’t cook?”

    “No, I’m a failure at that like everything else,” she said placidly.

    After a moment Barry replied on a weak note: “What?”

    “I’m a failure at cooking like everything else.”

    “Would this be,” said Barry cautiously, “according to your mum, your English grandma, your Japanese grandma, or all three?”

    “All three, of course!” replied Clara with a little laugh. “Um, no, well, Daddy and my brothers quite agree.”

    Barry flicked a glance at her. “This’d include the one that’s been divorced three times, would it?” –Davina had drawn Clara out about her family members over the roast lamb.

    “Of course. Well, he’s got a very successful career and in spite of his grumbles about alimony, he seems to have more than enough to come and go on. You know: shiny house, shiny car, shiny boat.”

    “Yeah. Some of us wouldn’t mind a shiny boat,” admitted Barry with a smothered sigh. “So you reckon your career’s not too successful, eh?”

    “Hanae certainly does. –My boss.”

    “Mm. She sounds a dead ringer for your Japanese grandma, actually,” said Barry cautiously.

    “Yes!” agreed Clara, with her little gurgle of laughter. “Either of them, actually!”

    “Out of the frying pan into the fire, then?”

    “Oh, definitely. But then, that’s me all over.”

    Barry glanced at her cautiously but didn’t agree or disagree. “What in particular’s wrong with your career, can I ask?”

    “According to Hanae, you mean? Well, I haven’t published, I haven’t published and I haven’t published. And in the fifteenth place, I’m too old to be doing this sort of junior lecturer-cum-liaison job. –This has nothing to do with the fact that she appointed me to do it and is actually quite pleased with the way I’m doing it, Barry,” explained Clara kindly.

    “Cripes. I’d get out of it!”

    “You would, yes. But I’m not the sort of person who can throw away a career, not even one I was pushed into it in the first place, and—and go into business on my own account,” said Clara on a wistful note.

    “Uh—no. I was a lot younger than I am now, when I chucked in the law. And I didn’t set myself up in business, ya know: went in with Uncle Vince and started at the bottom.”

    “Mm. Nevertheless. Besides, I haven’t any skills.”

    “Um—no. Sorry I said all that about the cooking,” said Barry awkwardly.

    “No, I’m sure it’s true,” she replied politely.

    “Yeah, but it didn’t need to be spelled out,” he admitted glumly. “Um… Well, my mum woulda taught you, like a shot. But she passed on, about eight years back. Mind you, that woulda been out of the frying-pan into the fire with a vengeance! Um, lessee. Chloe doesn’t cook—that’s Dad’s second,” he said. Clara nodded and he added: “Um—well, I’m sure Davina ’ud be glad to give you a bit of coaching. Her daughters-in-law aren’t interested, silly moos. That Melanie, the one that’s married to their eldest boy, she’s a dead loss: tells poor old Davina to her face her cooking’s old-fashioned and too full of cholesterol. Meanwhile feeding her own kids on muesli and bought school lunches because she’s too busy with her bloody career to cook for ’em, ya know? And Glenys, she’s the one they showed us the pics of in the skiing gear, well, she’s into health foods plus convenience, so the most she ever cooks is bought lentil burgers or an occasional piece of microwaved fish. Or that tofu muck, tastes like nothing.”

    “Mm!” squeaked Clara with a muffled burst of giggles.

    “Uh—sorry, forgot you lived in Japan for a while,” said Barry lamely.

    “That’s quite all right!” she gasped. “No, it is very, very bland, it’s what you do it with that makes the difference. But in spite of all my grandma’s efforts, I never learned to do anything with it! No, well, that isn’t quite correct,” she amended thoughtfully. “She’s the sort of woman, I don’t know if the type is common here but it certainly is in Britain as well as Japan, who condemns her female descendants bitterly for their domestic ineptitude, whilst never letting them so much as boil water in her kitchen.”

    “Yeah!” choked Barry ecstatically. “Ninety percent and counting of Mum’s generation! Davina ’ud be the exception,” he admitted. “They only had the one girl: Lucille. She’s the one who lives in Canada—not the pics in the skiing gear, funnily enough, the snaps of the last holiday in Bermuda! The husband’s bloody well off, some sort of medico. Lucille’s quite a decent type, and she can cook, or so rumour has it. Still swaps recipes with her mum!” he explained with a laugh. “Awful pity she hadda move so far away.”

    “Yes. Would Davina mind, if I asked her?” she said shyly.

    “Shit, no! she’d be pleased. Um, what’ll you practise on, though? I mean, have you and Beth got a proper stove yet?”

    “Well, no.”

    “I left a place for it and I told her, I could get Tim Green to wire it in right away because he owes me one, and he knew of a decent second-hand one going for a song: some trendy in Kingfisher Bay had it ripped out because it wasn’t the latest ceramic-topped la-de-da eye-level model. Only she couldn’t make up her mind.”

    “I know. Um, well, she didn’t say as much to me, but I did get the impression,” said Clara on a reluctant note, “that she wasn’t too terribly keen on the whole idea of the flat in the first place, Barry.”

    “Tell us about it,” he agreed heavily.

    Clara cleared her throat. “From what Polly told me, I think Thomas and Jake between them bullied her into it.”

    “Yeah, that did dawn, after the fortieth blank stare when I asked her what she wanted me to do with the kitchenette!” he said with feeling. “Um, sorry. Well, I coulda done it all on me ownsome, no sweat. Only mostly they tear a strip off you if you don’t ask them!”

    “Ladies that want houses built? I’m sure they do,” agreed Clara in amusement.

    “Mm.” Barry licked his lips. “‘Ve you ever thought about the sort of place you’d like to live in? If you had your druthers, that is.”

    “I don’t think I’m much good at—at envisaging anything in three dimensions,” replied Clara cautiously. “Um—I would quite like a little attic room with a dormer window.”

    “Uh—yeah. Oh, right, you’d get that style a fair bit in England, wouldn’t you? Not so common out here. Um, can get bloody hot up under the roof in summer, ya know.”

    “Mm… I’d like one of those patchwork cats,” said Clara in a dreamy voice.

    Barry swallowed.

    “I’m not sure if they’re a breed, exactly… There was a woman who lived in a cottage quite near Grandma and Grandpa Thwaites who had one. Grandma was feuding with her, so I never got to know her. But I used to look at her garden whenever I passed, and the cat was usually on the doorstep or sitting on a windowsill… And I know it’s silly, but I would like a four-poster bed with floating white curtains. Dorothy’s got one. It’s not an antique, she says you can buy modern ones.”

    “Uh—right,” said Barry groggily. “That it?”

    “Well… Lots of flowers and pretty vases,” said Clara apologetically. “I’ve never really envisaged myself as—as the sort of person who would settle down to a conventional relationship in a conventional house.”

    After quite some considerable time had passed, Barry managed to ask: “Why not?”

    “I don’t know,” she said on a doleful note, twisting her hands together in her lap. “Just—just general ineptitude, I suppose. I was never the sort of capable girl who automatically turns into the sort of capable woman who manages a nice house.”

    “You mean, who manages a bloke and his nice house, don’t you?” said Barry neutrally.

    “Yes, of course. And I suppose men have always seen that in me, really. Well, there was Brian, he was terribly suitable, and he did want me. But I wasn’t in love with him. Looking back, I think he wanted me because of my background and Daddy’s and Grandpa’s connections, not because of me. He didn’t have a clue who I was, as a person. –I know that these days, you don’t theoretically have to be married to own a house, but I just can’t see myself doing it, even if I ever managed to save enough money to buy one.”

    “Thought university salaries were pretty decent, even these days?” replied Barry noncommittally.

    “Yes. Buh-but I lost all my money, not that I’d managed to save very much, academic salaries in Britain aren’t very generous; and I was only just starting to make ends meet, really…”

    “Oh? Did you put it into shares or something?”

    “No. Tony Obrusky,” said Clara in a shaking voice, not consciously realising that for the very first time since she’d come out to New Zealand she had managed to refer to him by his name and not as the joking “Mr” Obrusky, “stole it all.”

    “What?” said Barry numbly.

    “He was a buh-boyfriend, and he—he forged people’s signatures on cheques.”

    “Go on,” he said evenly.

    Shakily Clara told him the whole story. Ending: “Daddy was terribly decent, he made me quite a substantial loan, so at least I didn’t end up with a load of debt. But I really feel I should pay him back, though he said I needn’t. But I’m starting again from scratch, you see. Not that I mind, I don’t really have very many needs. But I’m certainly not contemplating buying a house.”

    “No.”

    “But don’t feel sorry for me on that account, Barry,” said Clara gaily. “For as I say, I’ve never envisaged myself as the sort of person who might!”

    “No,” he said grimly.

    Clara peered at him uncertainly. “Is anything wrong?”

    “No. Well, I am experiencing a strong need to rush out and chop small bits very slowly off this Tony Whatsisname creep, then roasting the remaining bits very slowly over a very hot fire while they’re still twitching—yeah. I don’t think any normal bloke wouldn’t.”

    “No. I wanted to hit him,” admitted Clara in a small voice. “Mummy and Grandma were furious with me, of course; but Grandpa was terribly wild with him. He got in touch with a friend who used to be something very high up at Scotland Yard.”

    “Good for Grandpa!” said Barry with feeling.

    “Yes, well, it didn’t do much good, because the police had caught him anyway. But it was good of him to try.”

    “Mm.”

    “I—I’m afraid it’s typical of me,” said Clara in a tiny voice.

    “What, letting jerks like this Whatsisface take advantage of you?”

    “Mm.”

    “It’s not your fault. You’ve had a run of bad luck. No need to blame yourself.”

    “Mummy and both my grandmothers would dispute that opinion, Barry,” said Clara politely.

    Barry muttered under his breath. Adding aloud: “That type of real cow, pardon my French, always does. Just ignore them. Well, you’ve come this far, eh?” he added with a smile.

    “What? Oh! Escaped, yes!” said Clara, laughing suddenly. “Of course! No thanks to me, mind you.”

    “Never mind, you’re out of their orbit. Doesn’t matter how ya got here, eh? You can try a few different things, and bugger what they might think.”

    “Ye-es… Please don’t try to talk me into learning to do water-skiing,” said Clara politely.

    “Uh—wouldn’t dream of it.  What cretin—?”

    “It was one of the younger lecturers at work.”

    “This’d be a male cretin, right? Young and male?” said Barry, beginning to lose control of his mouth.

    “Mm.”

    “Offered to teach you himself, I bet.”

    “Mm,” she admitted, rolling her lips tightly together.

    “Well, all you can say of him is, his hormones must be in the right place, wherever his brains are!”

    “Yes!” squeaked Clara, going into a helpless giggling fit. “Oh, dear!” she gasped, mopping her eyes. “What an idiot! I mean, one look at me—”

    “And his hormones take over from his brains: yeah.”

    “No!” she gulped. “Um, no, all I meant was. anyone should be able to see I couldn’t water-ski to save my life.”

    “Right. Any of ‘em asked you to go bungey jumping with him yet?”

    “Not unless that’s the same as tramping, Barry?”

    “Hell, ya didn’t accept, didja? That means stumbling through dense bush bent double under a hiking pack twice the weight of an average human being.”

    “So I gathered!” squeaked Clara, going off in another fit.

    Barry grinned. ”You do realise this is one of our most sacred cultural icons we’re knocking, here? On a par with rugby, racing and beer?”

    “Mm,” said Clara. Abruptly she recalled what he’d said earlier about those three cultural icons. She swallowed. “Um—where are we?” she asked feebly as the rattly little old van drew up.

    “Uh—oh. Seem to have brought you back to me lair. I’m Helluva sorry,” said Barry lamely. “Wasn’t thinking.”

    “No, that’s quite all right.”

    “Uh—well, ya wanna come in for a coffee?” he said feebly.

    Clara hesitated. “Yes, but only if you mean it, Barry.”

    “Of course I mean it! Strewth, any of our amateur Freuds round this neck of the woods could tell ya if a bloke automatically brings a sheila back to his lair and then asks her to come in, he really means it!”

    “Yes. I—I mean, that apart. I mean, I know I’m not a very interesting person and as you said earlier, we don’t speak the suh-same language, and—”

    “Were you bored solid all evening?” demanded Barry baldly.

    “No. I like the Parkinsons.”

    “Me, too. In that case, does my unadulterated company bore you solid?”

    “No,” said Clara in a tiny voice. “I meant, possibly I bore you solid?” She cleared her throat. “Freud apart.”

    Barry was silent for a moment. Then he admitted: “That sort of question is almost impossible for a bloke with hormones to answer, Clara, if we’re being strictly honest, here. Which I sort of think we are, eh?”

    “Mm.”

    “Yeah. Good. I could say it’s just a coffee, doesn’t have to mean a thing. But since we’re being strictly honest, I won’t. Well, the thing is, you reckon you’re pretty bad at relationships, but my track record isn’t so shit-hot, either. –Don’t tell me May hasn’t told you the lot, I’d bet every cent I made out of those stables of Dr Kincaid’s that she has.”

    As he seemed to be waiting for an answer, Clara said faintly: “Yes.”

    “Yeah. Um—didn’t mean to get so heavy. Um, well, no, I suppose that’s a facet of my character, too. I mean, I suppose I tend to take things seriously.

    “Mm.”

    “May will have told you that,” recognised Barry drily. “Appearances to the contrary, eh?”

    “Yes. Manner to the contrary, I think—but, yes. I—I tend either to do the same thing or to—to get involved in very silly things that no-one could possibly envisage being serious for an instant. Or at least I did, when I was younger.”

    “Mm… Are you trying to say we might be bad for each other?”

    “No. I—I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” said Clara lamely. “I suppose I’m just nervous.”

    At this, Barry smiled just a little, and touched her knee fleetingly. “Yeah, me, too.

    “I’m not saying that this might develop into a relationship,” said Clara on an anxious note. “I just— The—the experience with Tony Obrusky has made me very wary about—about anything that possibly could become a relationship, I suppose is what I mean.”

    “Yeah. Scared of taking the first step, eh?” said Barry thoughtfully.

    “Yes. Even though it might not lead to anything,” she said, still on that anxious note.

    At about this point in time it dawned on the cretinous B. Goode brain that she was stressing the point that it needn’t become a relationship not because she didn’t want it to but because she was afraid that he, B. Goode, might run like the wind at the mere suggestion it might! Though it was a pitch-black night and the one lonely lamppost of Station Road wasn’t providing anything much at all, he suddenly felt as if a great light had been shed upon everything. Or as if the sun had come out, yep.

    “Yes, I get it, Clara,” he said carefully. “I suppose everybody that’s been hurt once is scared of anything that might look like commitment, eh?”

    Clara made a strangled noise of assent.

    Barry peered at her uncertainly.

    “I’m sorry!” she gasped, suddenly going into a spluttering fit. “Oh dear, how awful of me!” she gasped. “I’m really terribly sorry, Barry!”

    “Them were May Swadling’s very words, eh?” said Barry with heavy resignation.

    “Well, yes, I’m afraid they were.”

    He smiled. “Yeah, well, no flies on May, I think we already agreed on that, eh? Well, can ya face a coffee, no strings?”

    “Yes.”

    “All right, then. Hang on, I’ll help you out.”

    “Nearer,” said Clara as he came round to her door.

    Barry looked up at her.

    “It seems a long way down,” she murmured.

    “It is a fair way down, yes,” said Barry, looking her firmly in the eye. “Depending on the way you look at it.”

    Suddenly Clara flushed brightly. “It might be easier if you’d give me a little help, Barry. Or even if you’d give an inch. May was right about that, too!”

    Barry stepped up very close. “Ya mean she said I was as obstinate as bloody Avon and that it runs in the family?”

    What May had actually said was: “Of course, he’s a very hurt person, Barry. He won’t let anyone get near him. He’s afraid, you see. Mind you, he’s got a lovely personality: both those Goode brothers are quite gentle, really; not like that little sister of theirs. Personally I think it’s character, it’s not something that she’ll grow out of, and if I was Rab Perkins I’d think twice about taking that on for life. Not that the kids ever do, at their ages. The minted peas are much tastier, dear. No, well, I have to admit it, Barry can be quite stubborn, once he’s made his mind up: you know. That’s a small packet of minted peas, then, dear, and a carton of milk.”

    “It’s all rather mixed up with the virtues of minted peas, actually, Barry,” said Clara lightly. “But the difficulties of getting close to you were certainly mentioned.”

    “Depends whether a bloke wants to be got close to,” said Barry neutrally.

    “That was one of May’s conclusions, yes.”

    “And?”

    “I suppose you could just hold out your arms sort of halfway, without compromising yourself utterly.”

    “Yeah, and if I do that,” said Barry, not moving, “will you hold out yours?”

    Clara hesitated. She was very tempted to say something along the lines of “That’s the risk you run.” But somehow, whether or not it was May’s “He’s a very hurt person,” or not, she found she couldn’t. “Yes,” she said simply.

    Barry went very red and grasped her firmly round the waist. Clara bent down and put both hands on his shoulders. “I’m heavy,” she said faintly.

    “Bullshit.” Barry lifted her down bodily.

    There was a tiny silence. Barry was still holding her waist. “Thuh-thank you,” said Clara shakily.

    “I’m stronger than I look. It’s me honest working man’s life,” said Barry smoothly.

    “Um, yes,” agreed Clara nervously.

    “I can’t offer you fancy dinners and stuff. Well, it might run to the cheaper dining room at The Quays.”

    “I don’t— ”

    “I’m a pretty ordinary bloke. I’m just giving you fair warning, you see.”

    “I don’t even like fancy dinners or that sort of thing!” she cried indignantly.

    “No. Thing is, I don’t know if I can cope with this ruddy inferiority complex, or chip on the shoulder, whatever ya like to call it. It’s mainly the way you talk. I mean, your accent.”

    “I can’t help that,” said Clara, very flushed.

    “No. It says ‘up-market Pommy dame,’” explained Barry.

    “And if I said that yours says ‘average working Kiwi bloke’ and that you’ve more than demonstrated that you’re no such thing, what would you say to that?” cried Clara angrily.

    “I am. That’s the point. Ninety percent, anyway. Think you’d better tell me now if you can’t hack it.”

    “Well, I don’t know if I can or not, Barry, and if you won’t take the risk of letting us both find out, perhaps you’d better tell me!” cried Clara loudly, her cheeks flaming.

    “That,” said Barry Goode with precision, “makes it pretty damned clear just what ruddy May said. I won’t say ignore every syllable the moo utters. I will just say that her cultural conditioning inclines her to view life with a sort of pessimistic relish. Don’t think we need to share it, do we?”

    “Um, no,” said Clara uncertainly.

    Barry smiled. “No. Well, I’d probably say that even if me hormones weren’t standing up and dancing the flaming tarantella.”

    “Are they?” she faltered.

    “Yeah,” admitted Barry on a dry note. “What are yours doing?”

    “It’s more like a crazy tango,” admitted Clara huskily.

    Smiling just a little, Barry put his lips on hers…

    “Phew,” he said limply, releasing her. “Mind you, I knew it’d be good, the minute I set eyes on ya, but— Cripes. Mind you, the agony of wondering for hours if you’d ever let me mighta helped, too. Um, well, ya wanna risk that coffee?”

    “Yes,” said Clara in a tiny voice.

    Barry took her hand firmly and led her inside.

Next chapter:

https://conquestofcartersbay.blogspot.com/2023/05/how-beths-easter-got-worse.html