Melon Soup

39

Melon Soup

    “I dunno if I can make it to rehearsal, what with Jack’s little do,” admitted Dorothy, after she’d told Baranski the whole story and he had foisted strong liquor upon her.

    Thomas eyed her drily. “Well, I concede you won’t make it to rehearsal if you don’t want to give Beth her chance with your brother—no.”

    Dorothy was speechless with indignation.

    “Well?” he drawled.

    “I’ve been trying to throw them tog—”

    “No, you haven’t, Dotty, dear,” he drawled.

    “Look—”

    “Name one thing you’ve done to throw them together.”

    Dorothy glared speechlessly.

    “If you really want to throw them together, come to rehearsal this afternoon. –Admit I’m right, you’ve never done a blind thing to encourage Jack and Beth to get together.”

    “Only because I couldn’t think of a blind thing!”

    “Throwing nice little dinners for nice little foursomes, two of them being him and her,” said Thomas dreamily. “Getting four nice tickets for the theatre, two of them being for him and her. Arranging nice little courtyard lunches for four—”

    “All right! One would have worked, yeah. Then she’d have run like the wind at every successive invitation. And just by the by, who would make up the fourth in these nice little foursomes?” asked Dorothy nastily.

    “Anyone,” he said airily. “Angie Michaels. Akiko. Leigh.”

    Dorothy ignored this entirely and immersed herself in her drink.

    “Talking of which, you don’t happen to know what Leigh’s up to this weekend, do you?”

    “Uh—no. Haven’t seen him, actually.”

    Thomas shrugged. “Oh, well. He’ll either be back in time for rehearsal, or he won’t. Talking of rehearsal, have you decided?”

    Dorothy was rather red. “Yes. I’ll check with the hospital. But as he was going on about his ruddy medical insurance, I suppose he’s okay. And I would never for an instant stand in Beth’s way!”

    “Not consciously, perhaps not. Well, good, I’m looking forward to seeing you in your Katisha gear,” he murmured.

    “Huh! You’ll see me in what Akiko assures me is an under-kimono—lime green, vile enough, I grant you; but so far she’s offered Penny three perfectly outrageous outer garments and the woman’s vetoed them all. The words ‘not impressive enough’ might have been mentioned, but what she meant was not hideous enough, and even though the Japanese may be the masters of polite circumlocution, if the bloody woman doesn’t come out and say what she wants, the poor girl’s never going to provide it! No skin off my nose, I admit: I’m just the body. She’s vetoed the wigs, too, but Akiko’s got her mum on the job, there, so something really atrocious is no doubt slated to appear. It hasn’t yet, so it’ll be my own silver wig,” finished Dorothy nastily.

    “Finish up that gin and we’ll get some nice solid nosh into you,” replied Thomas calmly. He shoved back his chair noisily and got up, holding out his arm.

    Somewhat weakly Dorothy reflected she could let him stand there like a drying shag. But as he was manifestly in a good new suit— Oh, dear. Reminding herself feebly of Polly Carrano’s dictum that if the macho rubbish didn’t impress you Nature turned on the little-boy thing, which immediately made your female hormones go all weak at the knees, Dorothy rose to her feet, weak knees and all, and took the proffered arm.

    “Well?” said Martin in the kitchen, smiling, as his chef returned from an inspection of Revill’s lunch clientèle.

    Adrian replied drily: “Well, we seem to be doing quite well out of the fact that Penny’s scheduled this blessed rehearsal for this arvo. Half of them are out there recruiting their f—” He stopped, Martin was choking already. “Forces,” he finished limply.

    Anna was superintending The Quays’ lesser dining-room today; she reported, smiling: “Yes! There’s more in the other dining-room! And you’ll never guess who’s just come in!”

    “Tim Bergen?” suggested Martin brilliantly.

    Anna collapsed in sniggers, though gasping: “No! Silly!”

    “We’re gonna have to give that dining-room a name, ya realise that?” noted Adrian by the by. “Go on, love: who?”

    “Barry Goode—”

    Simultaneously Martin and Adrian collapsed in helpless sniggers.

    Jacko was as usual sitting at the big scrubbed table, chopping. He had merely listened stolidly to the interchange. Now he noted calmly: “Wait for it.”

    “Eh?” said Adrian feebly, blowing his nose.

    “Barry wouldn’t come here by himself, flamin’ rehearsal or not. I’m not on about ya prices, before you start.”

    “No, he’s quite right!” beamed Anna. “Just guess!”

    “A bird?” said Martin dubiously.

    Anna nodded hard.

    The great male brains concentrated. Anna watched them hopefully, all pink and smiling. Jacko watched them sardonically.

    “I give up,” admitted Martin.

    “Deirdre Carpenter?” ventured Adrian feebly.

    “Rave on,” replied Anna amiably.

    “She’s not his type!” Martin informed his boss scornfully.

    “Flat as a pancake,” noted Jacko unemotionally.

    “Yeah!” he agreed with a hoarse guffaw.

    “Right, well, that’s narrowed it down!” said Adrian determinedly, rubbing his hands. “Um—cripes,” he said feebly. “Um… hang on. No, can’t be Beth, she’s at the hospital with Jack Perkins.”

    “Beth!” retorted Anna with terrific scorn.

    Martin sniggered. “Not his type,” he said kindly.

    “No. Um… Wait on.” Adrian counted on his fingers. “I’m never gonna live this down if I guess wrong, am I?” he said sadly.

    “No, Chef, you’re not,” agreed Martin pleasedly.

    “He’s been watching that Pommy stuff on TV again,” explained Jacko kindly if redundantly.

    “Yeah.” Adrian cleared his throat. “All right: in for a penny, in for a pound. Clara Macdonald?”

    “YES!” cried the generous-hearted Anna ecstatically, clapping her hands. “Well done, Adrian!”

    “Yeah, guessed it without hardly even trying,” noted Jacko meanly.

    “You never guessed at all!” returned Adrian hotly.

    “Didn’t have to. I was round that way this morning. Had a couple of decent-sized fish, thought Mrs Adler might like one—”

    “She’s away,” said Martin instantly.

    “Yeah. But Janet Wilson, she bought one. Nice big snapper. Dunno if she knows what to do with it or not,” he said thoughtfully.

    Martin opened his mouth but on second thoughts thought very much better of it.

    “Yeah,” agreed Jacko drily. “Then I went on round to Barry’s, he never seems to get out in that boat of his, these days. She was in his kitchen, making some toast in his dressing-gown, so that sorta proved it.”

    “You might have let on!” said Adrian indignantly.

    “Yeah, I might of, only when I got here Someone seemed to be real keen on getting them veges chopped,” he returned stolidly.

    “Serves ya right, Chef,” noted Martin.

    “Well, I’m very glad to hear it,” said Adrian feebly.

    “Yes. They’d like to try Martin’s beef and potato pies,” said Anna. “They said it was the weather for something nice and hot and filling.”

    “See?” said Martin pleasedly.

    “Yeah,” agreed Adrian, smiling weakly.

    “They gonna have something from the buffet, or do they want firsts, Anna?” asked Martin.

    “Barry would like the new pumpkin soup. But Clara didn’t think she could manage it, she’ll just have—”

    “The smoked salmon,” said Adrian resignedly. It was terribly popular with their lady clients and really, what with having planeloads of it carted up from the South Island, he should be charging more for it. But if he did that, would their lady clients order it at all? Cleft stick, really.

    “No; she’s not into cleft sticks sprinkled with trendy watercress, Adrian,” said Anna kindly. At the table, Jacko gave a mean cackle; Martin, dishing out soup, smiled to himself. “She just wants a slice of melon.”

    “One melon slice coming up,” agreed Martin, grinning. “Any takers in Revill’s for the melon soup?” he asked Adrian, poker-face.

    “Yes,” he said, glaring.

    “One!” diagnosed Martin, giggling madly.

    “Who?” asked Anna firmly, setting the pumpkin soup on her tray and looking admiringly at the swirl of cream which Martin had pulled into a trendy pattern with a fork.

    Adrian sighed. “Baranski. He said, ‘Ooh, is this John Evelyn’s melon soup?’”

    “Crumbs,” croaked Martin, his jaw dropping.

    “Good thing we didn’t have that bet that no-one in the entire country’d recognise it, isn’t it?” conceded Adrian dully. “If you ask me, he only ordered it to give himself the pleasure of saying that. And then Dorothy said ‘Wot?’ but that didn’t stop him in his tracks, unfortunately.”

    “She’ll be worrying over Jack,” murmured Anna. “Ta, Martin, that looks very pretty,” she said as he set a plate of melon on her tray. “My Table Four want three of your meat and potato pies and one grilled fish for their mains.”

    “Isn’t anyone eating anything from the cold buffet?” demanded Adrian angrily.

    “Not really, no. It’s the weather,” said Anna frankly. She picked up her tray and went out.

    Martin had collapsed in sniggers.

    “Get on with it!” shouted his Chef angrily.

    “We’ll just have to find some nice, clean students that’ll work for peanuts waiting in the other dining-room in the cooler weather,” returned Martin kindly.

    Muttering about overheads, Adrian buried himself in his vol-au-vents.

    “I could get round to Goode as Olde, give young Avon a hand, and send Sim back, if ya like,” ventured Jacko after a moment.

    Adrian went very red. “Ta very much, Jacko. If you wouldn’t mind?”

    “Nope. Can ya put me up some lunch, though?”

    “Yes, of course! What would you like?” he said eagerly.

    Unemotionally Jacko replied: “One of them meat and potato pies of Martin’s ’ud hit the spot, ta.”

    Biting his lip, Adrian produced a Tupperware container and put a pie into it. “You wouldn’t fancy a nice thermos of iced melon soup to go with this, would you?”

    “No, ta. And it is stinking out the fridge, ya know, Glad-wrap or not. I could probably manage a roast potato—ta.” Jacko picked up the Tupperware container. “Can I take your heap? Looks like rain.”

    “Oh—yeah.” Hurriedly Adrian gave him the car keys. Jacko wandered out, his wrinkled old face expressionless.

    After a moment Adrian said on a guilty note to his apprentice: “Have I been—um—taking the poor old sod for granted, or something?”

    “Anna did say something like that, a bit earlier,” Martin admitted.

    “Mm,” he said, biting his lip. “It’s the overheads,” he muttered.

    “Yeah. We’re gonna have to compromise, Adrian,” he said uneasily.

    “No!”

    “Not on the ingredients,” said Martin hurriedly. “Just on the choices.”

    “Yes,” said Adrian, biting his lip. “You’re right. –Sorry I shouted. Um, yeah. Well, old Madame was right, damn her for a know-it-all French bitch. In fact every word the mean-minded, penny-pinching old hag ever said to me was spot-on! No wonder she never spent a bloody cent on paint! What I mean is, L’Oie Qui Rit was dark fawn all over. Last done up in 1957, if rumour had it right.”

    “Crumbs. People wouldn’t go for that, these days.”

    “No,” said Adrian with a sigh. “They apparently don’t go for John Evelyn’s melon soup or his Grand Salad as a cold buffet, either. Well, if ruddy sliced smoked salmon on a bed of cress is what they want, so be it. But I’m putting the price up from tomorrow!”

    “Good. –We could turn that melon soup into an ice,” said Martin thoughtfully. Adrian’s jaw sagged. “Why not?” said his apprentice cheerfully. “Offer it in the lunchy room, of course, not Revill’s.”

    “Uh—oh, damn it! Yes! Get the ice cream maker out, Martin, we’ll get it started!”

    Cheerfully Martin got the ice cream maker out and poured John Evelyn’s melon soup into it. Just in time Adrian remembered to grab enough back for Thomas’s first course before he set it going.

    In Revill’s the more affluent members of Penny Bergen’s cast, such as the Mikado and his daughter-in-law elect, Pooh Bah complete with Mrs Mulford and the eldest son, who was being cheered up on account of his recent divorce, and one of the front-row chorus ladies complete with a genuine gentleman of Japan, ordered Adrian’s choicer dishes, pointed out to one another that there was old so-and-so, and, in the case of some, argued over who was going to drive this afternoon. In spite of the uncertain weather and the fact that the Easter break was a popular time for the more affluent to hive off to their baches in Taupo, or even up to Fiji or Rarotonga, the restaurant was fairly full. After a while Adrian came in and removed a small card which said “Reserved” from a table for two, but before very long at all two bright-haired, smartly pant-suited American widows from the Royal K came in and occupied it.

    In the unnamed lunchy dining-room the less affluent or more modest or those who had resigned themselves to the inevitable and brought the kids with them ignored John Evelyn’s Grand Salad and ordered vast quantities of Martin’s meat and potato pies. There was considerable to-ing and fro-ing in this room—not, alas, to the cold buffet, but between the tables, as the lunchers discovered friends and fellow members of the cast of The Mikado, and, in the case of some, actual relations.

    Polly grabbed the tail of Sir Jacob’s jacket just in time. “Sit down!”

    “But that’s ya cousin Clara with—”

    “Yes! I see them! We all see them! Sit down!” she hissed.

    “But that’s that builder joker—”

    “Yes! Ssh! Leave them alone! Order some wine, for God’s sake,” she said with a sigh.

    “Thought I was driving?”

    “I’ll drive,” she said grimly.

    Cheering up immediately, Sir Jacob waved vigorously at Anna and asked for the wine list. After ten years of marriage Polly was able to ignore the fact that he then demanded to see Adrian and the good wine list. She refused to taste the product of the consultation, but after ten years of marriage he wasn’t surprised. He gave her a little lecture on the general qualities to be expected of Coonawarra reds and the specific robustness of this particular vintage, but Polly just ate up her grilled fish hungrily, smiling vaguely and nodding from time to time.

    “Where IS he?” shouted Penny terribly. There was no sign of her assistant producer and mainstay of the male chorus.

    “No idea,” replied Thomas blandly, not bothering to say he was not responsible for Leigh.

    Penny stomped around the school prefab breathing fire and brimstone. The assembled cast—part-cast—of The Mikado huddled into its parkas and jumpers and more or less ignored her.

    “Let Barry do Leigh’s mainstay-of-the-chorus thing as well as his own bits,” suggested Thomas in a frightfully helpful voice.

    “Shut up!” screamed Penny. “And get into your costume, this is a dress rehearsal!”

    Looking vague, Thomas began to undress. Some of the males huddled into parkas and jumpers came to, and began to snigger. Some of the females came to and brightened visibly.

    “Thomas, this isn’t Rodney of The Remove. Go behind a bloody screen,” said Dorothy hurriedly, as Penny’s face, already verging towards your mottled maroons, turned deep purple.

    “Mm? Oh. I’m only putting my dressing-gown on,” explained Thomas. He was down to his vest and trousers; he ceased disrobing and produced a garment from his hold-all. Everyone watched numbly as he put it on. It was a dressing-gown, all right. Quite nice: deep crimson silk, with a black-fringed sash. “My object all sublime, I shall succeed in time,” he explained amiably, “in obtaining an actual costume. Have you ever noticed that the syntax of that song is actually—”

    “SHUT UP!” bellowed Penny. “And STOP FARTING AROUND!”

    “—incorrect,” finished Thomas, unmoved. “Rather unlike W.S. Gilbert, actually.”

    “And the rest of you, get DRESSED!” she bellowed.

    The rest of them reluctantly shuffled off to put on what Japanese garments they had, which on the whole were few. Dorothy unashamedly put her lime-green under-kimono on over her European garments and then unashamedly put her parka back on over it. Several of the braver souls followed suit.

    … “Where ARE they?” shouted Penny, after her cast had more or less shuffled into position for inspection and it was revealed that with the exception of the Mikado, Katisha and Pooh Bah she had no principals.

    “Jack’s in hospital: broken his leg and given his head a nasty knock, I’ve been trying to tell you for some—” Dorothy paused: Penny was giving every indication that she was about to throw a fit on top of the hyperventilating. No, apparently she wasn’t. “For some time.”

    “What about the show?” she gulped.

    “I think he’ll be on deck for that, Penny; the show’s not till after mid-year break, is it?”

    “Um—yeah. Sorry, Dorothy, how is he?” she said feebly.

    Once Dorothy had issued her health bulletin to half the population of Carter’s Bay Thomas was able to add helpfully: “Anna’s coming; they had a crowd at the restaurant today but she’ll be along as soon as she possibly can.”

    Penny looked at her watch in a frustrated way. “But what’ll I— I can’t start the Three Little Maids without her, and I can’t do the first scene without Jack—”

    “We could do our bits,” suggested Ben Mulford the butcher calmly. He winked at Thomas. “Bonzer lunch, wasn’t it?”

    “You can’t do your bits without Sol!” shouted Penny. “Where IS he?”

    No-one knew.

    Penny rounded on Barry. “Did you— BARRY!” she bellowed. Barry jumped, and looked round, though not removing his arm from Clara’s shoulders. “Did you give Sol a notice?”

    “Uh—no. Hang on, wasn’t Tim gonna do the Kingfisher Bay side?”

    “I’ll kill him!” she vowed. “Tim! Tim!” she shouted. “TIM!” she bellowed terribly.

    The assembled part-cast of The Mikado watched interestedly as the Bergens embarked on a matrimonial row. The upshot of which was that Tim thought he’d given Sol a notice. He was sure he’d given one to Ida Grey. A safe bet, Ida was already here, in fact she’d been one of the first to arrive. Penny immediately ascertained that he’d given it to her on bumping into her in Sprouts at lunchtime, not at the crafts boutique in Kingfisher Bay. After further shouting Deirdre Carpenter volunteered to find a phone. As it was pretty obvious she wasn’t going to be needed at the piano for a while, Penny let her.

    “All right,” she said grimly. “We’ll take costume notes. Line up. Line up!” she screamed. “LINE UP!” she bellowed.

    Everybody more or less lined up.

    It was then revealed—formally revealed, perhaps was the phrase, as Thomas noted in Dorothy’s ear—that half of the female chorus were in their Japanese schoolgirl outfits (minus wigs) and half of them were in their kimonos (also minus wigs, except for Mitsuko). They were all, however, as Angie Michaels pointed out proudly, in possession of a panama hat. In which Angie herself had written their names with indelible ink.

    “Yes. Good,” said Penny, very weakly indeed. Most of the ones in kimonos were wearing their panamas.

    “Mitsuko looks good, eh?” said Col Michaels proudly. “Takes hours to get into the full gear, ya know.”

    Mitsuko was in full meiko make-up. “Yes. Very nice, dear,” said Penny very weakly.

    “Thank-ah you, Pennee. You like this ur-wig?” said Mitsuko carefully.

    It was gigantic. Gigantic. And of course terrifically elaborate.

    “Lovely,” said Penny weakly.

    Col began breezily: “Takes hours to comb and set—”

    “Get back into line,” ordered Penny evilly.

    Col was not actually a member of the cast of The Mikado. Grinning, he lounged over to stand with Tim Bergen. “This the doghouse?” he asked politely.

    Most of the male chorus collapsed in sniggers immediately.

    Ignoring them, Penny marched grimly up and down the female lines. Finally she decided that everyone could get into their schoolgirl costumes. Except Mitsuko, she added hurriedly. Those who hadn’t yet made their schoolgirl costumes looked very, very vague. They would take full notes on the costumes, threatened Penny, turning her back on her female chorus.

    “Did she notice that she’s missing one actual Japanese first-line chorus girl?” muttered Dorothy into Thomas’s ear.

    “No, I think that that part of her neural net was currently devoted entirely to working out how to have Mitsuko appear in full meiko gear less than ten minutes after she’s had her in a shortish blue checked dress under a black sateen apron,” he replied cordially.

    “Blue gingham,” corrected Dorothy limply. “Yeah.”

    Penny was now making the discovery that even though all of the male chorus had claimed to own suitable rubber jandals, no-one was wearing them.

    “It’s too cold,” explained one wimp.

    Penny withered him with the merest glance, and several of the less stout-hearted then produced their rubber jandals from their pockets or holdalls or backpacks, and put them on.

    Penny then wanted to know where their wigs were.

    “I’m wearing mine,” said Ben Mulford helpfully.

    “Shut up, you’re not in the chorus!” she snarled. “YOU!” she shouted.

    Hal Gorman leapt ten feet where he stood. “Yeah?” he said meekly.

    “Where’s your WIG?”

    “You said maybe I could wear one of those kinda winged Japanese helmets, Penny.”

    “That was BEFORE!” she shouted.

    “Huh? Oh. Sorry, Penny, guess it was. Hey, Janet—” Hal stopped wandering off in the direction of Janet and got back into line.

    “Was that definite, about his helmet? I mean, about not wearing it,” said Janet timidly.

    “YES!” shouted their producer terribly.

    “Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Penny, we must have got mixed up.”

    Penny’s bosom heaved but she turned back to her ragged, semi-wigged, peripherally jandalled male chorus. Rapidly she condemned most of the wigs offered for inspection. The cast watched breathlessly as she gradually worked her way down the line to the bold gentleman of Japan whose head sported a glowing orange topknot. “Yes,” she approved. “Dye it black.” He nodded it meekly. The cast sagged in disappointment.

    At the very end of the line was a small Oriental gentleman in an impeccable kimono of heavy grey silk. Most of those present were aware that he was only here because he’d driven Posy Baranski. Penny stopped in front of him.

    “Please, bow,” whispered Thomas agonisedly.

    “You look all right,” Penny was allowing grudgingly. “Is that a real kimono?”

    “Certainly,” he replied with the utmost composure.

    “Can you sing?” she demanded.

    “Not in English, I’m afraid,” he replied politely.

    “Blow. All right, you can stand in the front row. Learn up the words, and open and shut your mouth in the right places,” ordered Penny.

    “I already know most of the words, Mrs Bergen,” he replied politely.

    “Good,” replied Penny, unmoved.

    Thomas gulped.

    “Was that with malice aforethought?” muttered Dorothy.

    “Uh—I’m damned if I know,” he admitted feebly.

    They stared narrowly at Inoue but his face was, of course, unreadable.

    “Five to one,” decided Thomas. “—My God, she can’t be going to inspect those panamas again!”

    “Something like that,” agreed Dorothy heavily.

    “Let’s sit down.”

    Brazenly they retired to a row of chairs by the wall. Ben Mulford immediately joined them. Noting as he did so: “Doesn’t look as if we’re gonna get round to any singing, today.”

    “No. –Go on,” prompted Thomas, digging Dorothy in the ribs with a hefty elbow.

    “Will you stop battering me to death if I do? Oh, all right.” Resignedly Katisha produced her usual bag of Minties, and shared them with the Mikado and Pooh Bah.

    Things continued in the same vein. Penny was only very, very slightly mollified when Deirdre reappeared with both Anna and Sol in tow. Anna was in her Japanese schoolgirl’s costume, but this rated merely a grunt. Her hair was in two neat plaits, very schoolgirlish, but this was wrong: Penny shouted: “NO! You’ve LEFT school! And you’re gonna have a WIG! Ak— Where’s Akiko?” she gasped.

     Thomas looked at the ceiling. “‘All other things to their destruction run,’” he quoted dreamily.

    In that Penny then decided that they’d just run through the first chorus and then, as Avon still hadn’t turned up, they’d rehearse Thomas’s and Dorothy’s bits—yes, next! she snarled—he was more or less right about that. Dorothy didn’t point out that she recalled with perfect clarity the next line of that poem. Mind you, she wouldn’t have bet even one Mintie that he didn’t also remember it and had quoted it a- purpose. Not even half a Mintie, actually.

    “How did it go?” asked Lady Carrano’s voice with a laugh in it.

    The phone had rung ere Dorothy’s foot was scarce across her own bloody threshold. “What?” she panted.

    “The rehearsal, of course,” said Polly primly. “STOP THAT!” she shouted. “Sorry. Kids fighting. We’re at Whangarei,” she explained.

    “Eh?”

    “You end up there if you’re dumb enough to point the car northwards for a nice Sunday drive— I KNOW it’s Monday!” she noted, not to Dorothy. “Don’t you lot understand figures of speech? And LEAVE YOUR BROTHER ALONE! –Sorry. Jake’s just failed to find a fish and chips shop and decreed that we’ll head home instead of feeding their ugly faces. He’s driving, he’s got over the amount of Coonawarra red he ingested at lunchtime. How was rehearsal?”

    “You mean that racket’s actually going on in the car?” replied Dorothy very, very weakly.

    “Yes. –SHUT UP! –Tell them to shut up,” she said, not to Dorothy.

    There was the sound of Sir Jake telling his offspring to shut their ugly mugs or he’d dust their bottoms for the lot of them. The background noise decreased slightly in volume and Dorothy said feebly: “The rehearsal was pretty much as you might have expected. Disastrous, is probably the best word.”

    “Yes,” said Thomas clearly from behind her.

    “Ooh, who was that?” said Polly with a gurgle.

    “Who do you think?” replied Dorothy feebly.

    “Jake wants to know if you had a nice lunch.”

    “Yes, I can hear him asking. It was very nice, thanks. Edible; not too fancy. STOP THAT!” she shouted. “Um, sorry, Polly. He’s battering me with his bloody elbow,” she explained weakly.

    “The Hooded Elbow of Pohutukawa Bay does that all the time. It has something to do,” said Polly in a very prim voice, “with thinking you’re their property. Well, we could let the two of them indulge in foodie chat,” she noted affably.

    “Not on my ph— Crumbs; it’s working!” gasped Dorothy, almost dropping the receiver.

    “Yes. Jake’s theory is that the phone men arrange their schedules so as they can’t possibly do the work any time but on a holiday weekend, thereby forcing their employers to pay them megabucks—triple time, or something.”

    “The cows that answer when you ring Faults ’ud be in on this scheme, would they?”

    “Yes. They’re all their wives and girlfriends,” responded Polly calmly. “Who turned up for rehearsal? Barry and Clara?”

    “Um, well, we did notice they were together, yes,” said Dorothy feebly. “He’s a very decent bloke, you know. Not as brainless as he lets people assume, either.”

    “Well, good! I hardly know him—and of course I don’t really know her, either; but they looked very happy at lunchtime. –They were in the lunchy room, too!” she explained with a laugh.

    “I see. –What?” she said as she was prompted to go on. “Oh, the rehearsal? Um, well, to tell you the truth, what was mainly of interest was who didn’t turn up. Well, Avon didn’t: she’s far more interested in Goode as Olde than in amateur G&S productions, these days. Sol almost didn’t, but it turned out that was only because that moron Tim Bergen forgot to deliver his notice. And you know about Jack. Um, Beth didn’t come: she spent the afternoon with him.” She then admitted she’d rung the hospital a little earlier and the report was very good, in fact they’d let her speak to Jack himself and he’d had a meal and was feeling much better. Yes, she said limply as Polly then conveyed Sir Jacob’s deduction: she had used Adrian’s mobile phone, actually. Brand-new and almost unique in these here parts though it was—apart from Jack’s, of course.

    “I’ll tell her,” said Thomas loudly as Dorothy was then seen to hesitate.

    “NO! –It’s trying to force me to surrender the phone. Possibly in the belief that I’m too coy to mention to its face that its Pommy mate didn’t turn up, and that we eventually worked out, after careful inspection of the female chorus line, that Moana Curtis wasn’t present, either.”

    “Mm. Was Gerhard Sachs?” asked Polly in a terribly off-hand voice.

    “What? N— Well, he did say he’d be in it, but Penny’s classed him as a sort of baritone and put him in the back row.” She paused to allow Lady Carrano to shout about German early music and to let Sir Jacob join in. “You know that, and I know that, and quite possibly most of Kowhai Bay, I’ll concede that; but Penny Bergen is convinced she is Right, R,I,G,H,T, about anything you care to mention. And we all had the impression that Gerhard didn’t care enough to contradict her. Um, surely you weren’t implying that Gerhard and Moana—? No. Good. Well, there’s certainly been no sign of Leigh all weekend. Let’s hope they have gone off together. –THERE IS NO GROG!” she shouted as it ambled over to the sideboard.

    “Nor there is. I’ll pop down and buy a bottle,” said Thomas amiably, disappearing.

    Dorothy sagged. “Yes,” she admitted feebly as Polly asked her if he’d gone. “Only momentarily, I’m afraid.”

    “Goody. Are you?” she asked immediately.

    “NO!” shouted Dorothy terribly.

    “Oops,” replied Polly insouciantly.

    “Look, just be content with Clara having got herself fixed up with Barry Goode. Oh, and Beth apparently admitting to herself that she does care if Jack lives or dies; isn’t that enough for one weekend?”

    “Long weekend. No.”

    Dorothy sighed. “It’s more than enough for me. What with Jack’s little do— It’s all right, Polly,” she said as Polly apologised hastily. “No, but that was right on top of the Mayli thing, and I’ve really had more than enough on my plate without thinking about—” She broke off: he was back, beaming and panting and waving a bottle at her.

    “Is he back?” asked Polly’s voice with a smile in it.

    “Mm. There’s pink,” said Dorothy, not to Polly, as Baranski began muttering arcanely about mixers. “Sorry, Polly. Um, well, if you want to hear about the Mayli thing, I’d better sit down. –Ta,” she said feebly as Thomas shoved a chair under her bum. “Yes,” she said as Polly enquired sweetly if he was being uxorious. “Uh—Hell. Where do I start?”

    “Let me,” offered Thomas.

    Dorothy was about to refuse hotly when she recollected several things, one of which was that he’d worked it all out with his toy computer and another of which was that it was much easier to consume large amounts out of someone else’s bottle if one was not at the time supposed to be telling a third party a long and involved story on the phone. She handed him the receiver, poured herself a long one of whatever it was, and collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh.

    Thomas already had a drink in his fist. He chatted happily to Lady Carrano, sipping it, for quite some time. “She’s far brighter than you think,” he reported pleasedly, hanging up at very long last.

    “Than some of you thought,” replied Dorothy nastily. “Yes.”

    “She’s invited us to din-dins on Friday,” he reported pleasedly.

    Dorothy winced.

    “It’ll take away the taste of Alan’s Deans’ Meeting,” he said soothingly.

    “Yeah. Did she specify black tie?” she groaned.

    “No. Jeans and watching out for Jake’s barbecue fork were mentioned.”

    “Oh, well, that’s not so bad. Now volunteer to drive.”

    “Whatever you prefer,” he said mildly.

    “I’d prefer you not to get drunk, actually, Thomas!” retorted Dorothy smartly.

    “Oh, goody,” he said with his sidelong smile.

    Dorothy went very red. “Shut up. Not that.”

    “Have another Armagnac,” he murmured.

    “Is that what it is? All right: ta. –I’m exhausted,” she admitted with a sigh. “Ta,” she groaned as he handed her a refill.

    Thomas sat down beside her on the sofa. “Hungry?”

    “Not really.”

    “No.” He patted her knee. “Drink that up; then you’d better go to bed.”

    “Uh—I ought to ring Mayli,” said Dorothy guiltily. “And Akiko: she never made it to rehearsal, I hope to God everything’s—”

    “I’d say she knew that the thing’d run on till God knows when and decided to make sure of meeting old Mrs A. off her bus,” he said calmly.

    Dorothy gulped, not least because of the use of the local dialect. “Um—yeah. Still…”

    “I will ring her. Is there a bath in that cramped apology for a bathroom of yours? I forget.”

    “No, a shower. Why?” said Dorothy, yawning.

    “I was going to say, have a nice warm bath. A shower wouldn’t have at all the same effect, you were potty not to have a bath put in, at your age. You’d better come and live with me. –Not now, cretin! Later. When you’ve had time to think about it.” Thomas heaved himself up and picked up the phone. “I’ll ring Akiko, okay? In fact I’ll ring both of them. And when I’ve found out there’s nothing to panic about, you can get off to beddy-byes. All right?”

    Dorothy began to lodge a weak objection but yawned in the middle of it.

    Thomas duly rang Mrs Adler’s number, discovered that Mitsuko was home and that Akiko was at this precise moment meeting Mrs Adler’s bus, rang the hospital and discovered that Jack had had his tea and was asleep, rang Jack’s place and discovered that Beth was there and apparently feeding Rab, Avon and Fiorella as well as herself and Murray, and rang Mayli. He hung up with an odd expression on his face.

    “Is she okay?” asked Dorothy in alarm.

    “Perfectly.”

    “What’s up?”

    “Nothing. That was Kitty.”

    “And?”

    “She and Wendy and Joe have just had their tea. Uh—Mayli’s not there.”

    “Then how do you know she’s all right?” asked Dorothy in alarm, starting up.

    “Sit. Better still, go to bed. She is all right, but she’s not home. Um, she’s with Gerhard,” said Thomas, clearing his throat.

    “What?”

    “Mm. Well, don’t look at me. I was under the impression they’d barely exchanged two words. No, well four words, one being ‘Yes’, another being ‘No’, and the third and fourth being ‘Dr Sachs’.”

    “Well, quite!”

    Thomas shrugged. “According to Kitty, she headed off to Toetoe Bay with the avowed intention of speaking to Dr Kincaid. Kitty didn’t know about what.”

    After she’d scraped her jaw up off the floor, Dorothy managed to croak: “Without having let on to Akiko she was going to, right?”

    “Yes.”

    “Is that IT?” she bellowed.

    “I’m afraid so, yes.”

    “Sorry, Thomas,” she muttered, scowling.

    “I could ring Alan and involve the two of us in the bloody thing again,” he noted conversationally.

    “Er—no,” said Dorothy in a very weak voice indeed. “Don’t.”

    “Good, I won’t. Get off to bed.”

    “Uh—well, all right, yeah. Good-night, then. Um, thanks for everything,” she said awkwardly.

    “If you stand there any longer you run the risk of having me kiss you,” he noted conversationally.

    Smiling feebly, Dorothy took herself off to bed.

    Thomas the Tank Engine, whistling under his breath, let himself out of her flat, checked to see the Yale lock had caught, and ambled along to Leigh’s front door. Having ascertained that Leigh wasn’t back, he ambled down to the side bar, allowed Wallis to give him one light beer, and drank it, leaning on the bar and favouring Wallis with his undiluted opinion of Penny Bergen’s musicality. Though he did not let it become apparent, this act was not unrelated to the fact that at rehearsal this afternoon Penny had told Wallis she was a nit with cloth ears. Having reduced Wallis to an ecstatic, shaking, puce-faced jelly, he ambled off to his Jag, and drove home, singing loudly. “My object all sublime—”

Next chapter:

https://conquestofcartersbay.blogspot.com/2023/05/no-guarantees.html