17
Surprises For Carter’s Bay
“You could’ve knocked me down with a feather!” admitted May Swadling happily.
Barry nodded politely: May’s weight always dissipated at such moments. He conceded cautiously: “I suppose Jack Perkins is as capable of reproducing his kind as the rest of humanity, May.”
May gave a loud giggle. “Yes, but they aren’t!” she hissed. –There was no need to hiss: the little corner shop was empty apart from themselves and the very small Bevan Finch, who should have been at school, and if it hadn’t been for the very happy memories of the one or two times he himself had actually got away with wagging it, Barry Goode would have asked him why he wasn’t.
“Eh?” he replied blankly.
“They aren’t his kind!” hissed May ecstatically.
Barry blinked. “Eh? Oh! Gotcha. So, what kind are they, May?”
May Swadling was too nice to say “hopeless”, though she had spotted it about two seconds after meeting Jack’s kids; she wasn’t slow when it came to sizing people up. “We-ell… I suppose they can’t help it, poor things. They must have been born— Well, not the Sixties,” she admitted reluctantly, counting on her fingers. “But you know: Flower Power and stuff.”
Barry winced. “Got it. Flower Power kids, eh?”
“Yes. Their mother dragged them off to India, just when the boy should have been settling in at secondary school!” she announced in tones of strong disapproval.
Barry winced again. “To an ashram, was it?”
May nodded hard. “That’s it, yes! I couldn’t think of the word. –No, those pink ones are three for five cents, Bevan,” she told him kindly as he tried to tell her he’d have five of those.
“Aw. Um…” Bevan relapsed into frowning contemplation.
“So, staying with him, are they?”
“Well, that’s it, you see, Barry: he hasn’t really got any room.”
“Uh—no, he wouldn’t have, eh? That’s one of the flats with no bathroom, too, isn’t it?”
May nodded. “He’s staying with Dorothy for the time being and they’re all using her bathroom; but of course it’s awkward.”
It would be, yeah. Given that there was no connecting door between any of the flats: they’d have to trail downstairs, outside, then up Dorothy’s stairs, use her shower, and go outside again in order to get back to Jack’s flat. Even if they used the back doors, which would be quicker than going through the two shops, it would still mean going outside in the bleakly damp, chilly winter weather after your nice hot shower! Barry grimaced.
“Dorothy was wondering if you knew of a place, Barry.”
Barry just betted she was. He scratched his head. “They’ve pulled down all those houses up past Mrs Adler’s, now. Unspeakable: mud to the armpits, Carrano Development’s trucks grinding past all day. Mrs A. and Janet have almost given up on cleaning their windows every Saturday morning.” He winked.
“Hah, hah,” said May tolerantly. “You could have one liquorice tube and one pink lolly, Bevan,” she offered kindly.
Looking very relieved, Bevan accepted this munificent offer, paid over the requisite sum, and shot out, chewing the liquorice tube.
“Heck, do they still make those pink things that taste like a cross between bath powder and icing sugar?” said Barry dreamily.
May gave a startled giggle. “Yes! Awful, aren’t they?”
“Uh-huh. Never could stand them, myself. Used to eat ’em, though. Oh—and Smokers. Remember Smokers, May?”
Giggling, May conceded she did, adding: “You can still get them, only we don’t stock them—well, not many people smoke these days, do they? And they’re really too horrible, Jack said he wouldn’t inflict them another generation of kids. –So can you think of any place for Jack Perkins’s kids?”
“Um—well, there are a couple of dumps in Station Road—further along from us, on the far side of the old tracks,” he explained.—May nodded, even though there were no tracks in Station Road any more and a stranger could not even have guessed that the ruts and grassy patches in amongst the other ruts and grassy patches of the vacant lots were where the railway line used to go.—“Carrano Development’s gonna pull them, down, too. Think it’s Phase Three of the complete takeover of Carter’s Bay,” admitted Barry.
“Ugh!” said May obligingly, with an obliging giggle.
“Wish they’d offer me megabucks for my dump,” he admitted with a sigh. “Though maybe they’re waiting till the noise of their bloody trucks grinding past all day drives me mad and I agree to let them have it for its market price.”
“Yeah! Or until you start washing your windows every Saturday morning and Kevin and Avon have you locked up!” said May brilliantly.
Grinning, Barry admitted: “Ya got me there, May. Um… Well, dunno who they oughta approach, really, if Carrano Development’s the legal owner of those houses. S’pose I could ask young Nev Thorogood in the Buttercup Meadows office.”
May nodded brightly and reminded him brightly that they’d moved to the shop next to Sprouts, now that the Wrightson’s building had been pulled down.
Barry sighed. “Yeah. Boy, was that a landmark.”
May giggled. “It was an eyesore, ya mean! –They’re gonna open up a much bigger branch,” she assured him.
Barry was sure they were. No flies on Wrightson’s. “Yeah. Well, I’ll ask Nev. I was gonna ring Dorothy, anyway.”
“Ooh, yes! How’s her new flat going?” asked May eagerly.
Barry looked wry. “Given that it’s been pouring for two months solid, and that bloody pub roof leaks like a sieve, not all that fast. All we need’s one fine day: Carrano Development’s providing the colour-steel all ready cut, at cost, don’t ask me how they put it through on their books,” he warned; “and if I get all the boys on the job and Kev and Adrian lend us a hand, we can—well, not the gutters, probably,” he admitted. “But we can get the roof itself done. Trouble is, predicting a fine day, so’s the blokes all know to turn up at the pub at crack of dawn, rather than at the other end of Puriri County entirely,” he explained kindly.
May nodded. “How’s the job at Willow Ridge going, Barry?”
Barry Goode didn’t swallow a sigh: even though he’d grown up in a suburb and not a small country town, it had been just the same: Mr Green the grocer knew everybody’s business and what he didn’t know Mrs Green made it her specific business to find out. Over the road at the dairy Mrs Spencer woulda known it all yesterday and in fact imparted it to ya over last night’s 8 O’Clock. May in fact probably knew that he had not had to tender for the job at Willow Ridge, which had been one of Carrano Development’s projects: he had been offered it. On a plate. After he’d accepted the job of doing up one of the flats in the old waterfront pub: yeah. It was true that Willow Ridge was actually completed and officially there was no more sub-contracting. But it was also true that as Mrs Watkins wanted the complete interior of her white-concrete-walled, “Mediterranean” look, two-storeyed townhouse done out in wood-grain panelling, it would not be a small job. The staircase wall alone could take a competent jobbing builder and his mates many happy hours. Mrs Watkins laid on Earl Grey tea, true, but once Jonno had been privily told to shut it and be grateful, most of them treated ya like dirt in these poncy new developments what Barry had only been trying to get a toe-hold in these last five years, he got the point and shut it. Barry didn’t know whether it was Jake Carrano’s direct influence or only filtered down, or whether Dr Kincaid had put in a good word for him. But whichever it was, it was clearly not a coincidence. True, it hadn’t made him actively pro-Carrano Development and their bloody trucks, but he wasn’t so naïve as to suppose it had been meant to. No: what it was meant to do, was to keep him more or less sweet about the complete takeover of Carter’s Bay.
“What’s up?” spotted May.
“Eh? Oh—nothing. Well, sometimes I wish I had the moral fibre to tell Carrano Development and all its works where to put their ruddy jobs,” Barry admitted glumly.
“Oh, pooh!” cried May cheerfully. “Hullo, dear, how are you today?” she said brightly as old Mrs Storey, towing one of the grandchildren, came in smelling strongly of wet raincoats. And slightly of wet Labrador, but Laddie was a good dog: he’d sat himself down outside.
“Hullo, Gladys, how are ya?” said Barry on a certain resigned note.
Sure enough, Gladys told him and May all about how she, Fred Storey, the kids and all the grandkids were. Literally and in great detail. Oh, well: they’d lived in Carter’s Bay for generations and were undoubtedly representative of a dying breed. Barry paid for his purchases and headed off towards the Buttercup Meadows office, looking resigned.
“Goodness! I wonder what’s up with him today!” said Mrs Storey brightly. “–No, Kieren: don’t touch.” Kieren’s small, sticky paw retreated from the packets of biscuits.
May looked significant. “I couldn’t say. But he’s finished that last job for Dr Kincaid.”
Mrs Storey nodded in complete understanding.
“Ooh, but that reminds me!” The big glass jar containing the bath-powder-flavoured pink things was still on the counter. May unscrewed it and awarded Kieren one, not asking his grandmother if it was all right. “Guess what! Little Dicky Burchett’s mother—his real mother, I mean—is coming out!”
“I’d forgotten she wasn’t his real mother,” admitted Mrs Storey. “Good gracious, May! How long is it?”
May didn’t know how long, either, but the two ladies had a lovely time, talking it all over. Such points as how he would take it (not Dicky) were lingered on lovingly.
Saskia Burchett’s years of devotion to her career had paid off, and she had just been appointed public relations manager of the Australian section of the merchant bank which she currently adorned. At the moment there was only one Australian office, based in Sydney, as the Australian banking regulations had only recently been relaxed to let foreigners in, but more were planned. Saskia felt the appointment, quite rightly, to be a real feather in her cap and was terribly pleased with herself. She had rung Catherine in a considerable state of euphoria. Which had not managed to sustain itself throughout the call.
For a start, man’s voice had answered.
“Who was that?” she demanded as her sister finally came on the line.
“What?” The vagueness, in spite of the echo and delay on the line to New Zealand, came right down the co-axial cable. Or possibly it was optical fibre these days, but it hadn’t improved the quality of communication.
“Catherine! That man that answered your phone! Who was it?”
“Alan, of course.”
This time the delay was not due to the wonders of modern technology. “What in God’s name do you mean?” said Saskia weakly. Even though Catherine had let her know the number when they got their phone last year, she had only rung them a handful of times: the charges were extortionate, and she knew that Catherine never had anything to say: it was as pointless ringing her from England as it had been from Sandringham in the days of the Auckland flat with Barb and Sue. Dicky never said anything much, either, but Saskia could more or less cope with this: she made bright remarks to which he answered “Um.” A man had certainly never answered Catherine’s phone up until now and it was the last thing Saskia had expected.
“Um—nothing. I mean, it was Alan.”
“You don’t mean Alan Kincaid?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What’s he doing there, answering your phone?” cried Saskia.
“Um—I suppose it’s his phone now.”
Saskia was used to this sort of dim remark, which Catherine had been coming out with all her life, so she replied briskly: “Rubbish. He may own the property, but the phone is a service: you pay for it, the service is yours. The phone itself probably still belongs to the Post Off— Telecom NZ, whatever they call themselves these days. Unless you bought it at a phone shop.”
“They don’t have phone shops!” said Catherine with a startled laugh.
“They do these d— Forget it. Why is he answering your phone?”
“It is his phone, he pays for it. People ring him up a lot. And he rings up England and places. He just dials, I don’t know how he can remember all those numbers.”
Because of the delay, Saskia’s shouted interruption of this speech did not actually reach Catherine until she’d finished. “What the Hell do you mean, he pays for it? Is he living with you?”
“Yes. Um—not that,” muttered Catherine.
“WHAT?” shouted her sister.
“Um—not living with,” said Catherine miserably. Wondering if, though he had politely closed the sitting-room door, Alan could hear her. She and Dicky could quite often hear his conversations when he was on the phone and they were in the sitting-room. Dicky often listened, in spite of being hissed at, but usually lost interest quickly. “Um—it is his house.”
“I thought he was letting you and Dicky stay on?” she cried.
“Yes.”
“Then— You are living with him!” cried Saskia accusingly.
“Only in the house.”
“Only— Do you mean you’re not sleeping with him?” said Saskia dazedly.
“No. I mean, I do mean that. I mean, I’m not.”
“Then why the Hell is he sharing a house with you?”
“I don’t know. I mean, he likes it here. He likes Buttercup and Daisy…” she said in a vague voice. “Um—he’s had it done up.”
“Dicky said you were having renovations. I thought that was for you!” cried Saskia. “I mean, that he—he was acting like a responsible landlord, or— Where’s he sleeping?”
“In Uncle Bob’s room. It looks quite good, now. He’s had all the floors stripped.”
“Stripped?”
“Yes. I think that’s the word. It is when you’re talking about sideboards and stuff. Um—all the varnish taken off. Sanded!” produced Catherine in relief.
“Look, never mind that. Are you trying to tell me that he’s had the house done up and he’s letting you and Dicky share it with him?”
“Ye-es.”
Catching the dubious note all the way from the other side of the world, Saskia said sharply: “What’s the catch?’
“Um—well, I do all the cooking, of course. He’s bought me some cookbooks, too.”
“I get it,” said Saskia grimly. “How much does he pay you for being his domestic slave, or don’t I dare ask?”
“I’m not! Um—well, we don’t pay any rent,” she said in a small voice.
“Catherine, you could charge a small fortune for being a live-in housekeeper, with your cooking!” shouted Saskia angrily.
“Not in New Zealand, I don’t think. Anyway, I’m a rotten housekeeper. I keep forgetting to do things, like dust. I mean, the other day I only polished half his chest of drawers; I can’t remember… I think Dicky came home from school, or something, when I was in the middle… Anyway, he said I was a hen.”
“What you mean is, you’re letting this piece of macho crap take shameless advantage of you! For nothing!”
“Not nothing. He buys things for Dicky. He takes us shopping.”
Saskia was about to say “So he bloody ought,” but Catherine added: “To the supermarkets and that. In his car.”
She took a deep breath. “I see. We’ll see about that later. Listen, what I’m ringing about is, I’m coming out to Australia to live.”
“You—you won’t take Dicky, will you?” faltered Catherine.
The idea had honestly never occurred to Saskia. “What? No, of course not! He’s yours now, isn’t he? I’ll be working in Sydney, anyway: he’d hate it there,” she said dismissively. “But I’m due a bit of leave— Well, I won’t spend it all in New Zealand in August!” she said with a laugh and a shudder. “But I might fit in a bit of skiing. And we’ll sort out Alan Bloody Kincaid when I get there. He can’t go on making you slave for him.”
“But I’d have to do the cooking and housework, anyway. And—um—I think he’s forgotten,” said Catherine in a low voice.
“Rubbish!”
“He has! Because at first he said we’d talk about it later, and then… He did make me give up my job at the library.”
“Oh, yes? So as you could slave for him full-time? Listen, I’ve got to go.” Saskia told Catherine a lot of incomprehensible things, very rapidly, about her new job, said she’d be in touch about when to expect her, and rang off.
Catherine looked dazedly round the passage. It still looked the same as ever. That was, it didn’t look the same as ever, it looked its new self: all shiny and nice, with its varnished kauri floorboards gleaming softly golden around the two Persian runners that Alan had bought. The walls were papered in a stylised floral all-over pattern that Catherine had thought might be a bit much; it was, according to Janet Wilson who had been to afternoon tea on a day when Alan was safely at work, based on Jacobean embroidery: dark blues and maroons and dim greens with touches of gold, on a dark cream ground. Alan had had the door surrounds in the passage picked out in a dark blue, which Catherine had thought was a very odd idea, but with the stripped and varnished panelled kauri doors and the matching wide skirtings, it looked good. Janet had said it was lovely. She had also approved of the ceiling, which Alan had had completely replaced, with new mouldings which he had said were ersatz but with which nevertheless he appeared very pleased. The basic ceiling was now a very pale blue, Catherine thought that was rather peculiar, and the mouldings were light cream, picked out with touches of dark blue, maroon, and gold. Alan had said since the wallpaper was far from authentic they might as well go the whole hog, but Catherine could see that in spite of this scornful note he was very proud of his hall. The little table which had always stood by Uncle Bob’s bed had been cleaned, stripped and revarnished in order to hold the phone. Kevin Goode had done it himself. It wasn’t just varnish: it was French polish. Janet had found a book in the library that explained that, but Catherine hadn’t been much the wiser. The table certainly looked nothing like what it had in Uncle Bob’s day, in fact it looked like something out of a museum.
Eventually she tottered back into the sitting-room.
“What is it?” said Alan in alarm, setting down his journal.
“That was Saskia… She’s coming out—to Australia. She’s got a job there.”
“And?”
“She—she reckons she isn’t gonna take Dicky,” said Catherine in a wavering voice.
Alan sprang up and assisted her into her chair. “Sit. –Damn the bloody woman,” he muttered half under his breath.
“She—she might want him, though,” said Catherine faintly.
“Balls. She hasn’t wanted him so far, has she?”
“No, but when she sees him she might change her mind!” she wailed, bursting into snorting sobs.
Alan swore to himself. He bent down awkwardly by Catherine’s chair and tried to put his arm round her shoulders. “Now, calm down. Stop bawling.” This had no effect. “Catherine, she won’t take one look at bloody Dicky and decide she wants him, she’ll take one look at him and thank her lucky stars she’s got you to look after him!” he said loudly.
Catherine sobbed harder than ever.
Muttering, Alan went and fetched the whisky. “Here,” he said, pouring her a generous slug. “Get this down you, for God’s sake, woman.”
She took it, shuddering and gulping, and managed to swallow some.
Alan rescued the glass and handed her his handkerchief. “Blow your nose. Did she give any indication at all of wanting Dicky?”
Catherine blew her nose hard. “No. Whisky’s your answer to everything, isn’t it?”
“What? No, it—” He took a deep breath. “It most certainly is to hysterical women.”
“You sounded quite Scottish, then,” said Catherine shakily. “She said she duh-didn’t want him, and he’d hate it in Sydney.”
“There you are, then; nothing to bawl about.”
“No,” she said, blowing her nose again.
Alan eyed her dubiously. “Are you all right?”
“No. I feel very sick. And sort of wobbly. I can see that logically you’re right, only it isn’t about logic.”
“He’s a very ordinary, rather ugly, scruffy little snot-nosed brat whom she hasn’t laid eyes on, or so I gather, since he was born, when she rejected him with loathing.”
“No, she was here for a bit after. And she did come home for a holiday… Um, ages ago.”
“And did she show any signs of wanting to have him live with her?”
“No. But she must be…” Catherine counted on her fingers. “I’ve lost track. About forty-two, I think. Maybe she’s gone all broody. They say ladies do.”
“Do not say ‘they say’, and do not refer to ‘ladies’,” replied Alan grimly. “Either would be bad enough but in combination they make you sound like a moron. A moron that’s had her head in the bloody women’s mags!” he added loudly.
Catherine sniffled. “Jenny Fermour lent me some.”
“She would. Drink some more whisky. I’m sorry you feel sick, but as you so rightly point out, logic has done all it can.”
Catherine smiled weakly. “Mm.” She sipped slowly. “Most little boys are ugly at his age.”
Alan went rather red. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know,” she said mildly.
He looked at her uncertainly. “Was that it?”
“Um—no. Um—she’s wild with you, Alan,” she said in a small voice.
“Me?”
“Mm. Um, well… She didn’t realise,” said Catherine with a gulp. “That—um—you’re living here, too.”
Alan eyed her drily. “I see. Do I gather that this sister of yours is a clone of your bloody daughter?”
“Don’t call her that. Um—well, yes. They are both… bossy,” she finished in a small voice.
“Bossy, hyper-critical, and narrow-minded?” said Alan, raising his eyebrows very high.
“Noelle’s only narrow-minded about me, I think.”
Alan gave a crack of scornful laughter. “Something like that, yes! Well?”
“Um—yes,” said Catherine, going very red. “At first she did think—um—you know. That we were actually living together. Only when I said I was just looking after the house for you, she wasn’t glad, she was wild.”
After a moment Alan said: “Would this wildness be at all mitigated by my writing out a large cheque for a year’s arrears of wages?”
“Y— It isn’t nearly a year! Um—she’s like that.”
“Most of them are.”
“I don’t need wages,” said Catherine, going scarlet.
“You need something, though.”
There was a short silence. Catherine stared at her knees. Alan looked blindly at the very nice Persian rug which he had had sent out from home. At the moment it had a black and white cat on it but Catherine had sworn blind (a) that she didn’t know where it had come from, (b) that she had no intention of keeping it, and (c) that it was a very clean cat. Its white waistcoat was certainly sparkling clean but to Alan it looked exactly like a cat that knew a sucker when it found one. At least it wasn’t female, so it wasn’t a pregnant cat that knew a sucker when it found one. Dicky, who had recently taken to reading cheap paperbacks of frightful puns, largely aloud, had named it King (first name) Peng-Cat (surname), so that was probably that.
“Marry me,” said Alan.
Catherine gaped at him.
“Marry me.” Alan eyed her blandly. “It’ll save me paying your wages: a long-established Scottish tradition.”
“You Scrooge!” she gasped.
“Mm. It would regularise the situation. For both of us.”
“Don’t be mad,” she said faintly.
“If you fancy it, there would be certain conditions.”
“Alan, this isn’t funny!”
“It isn’t meant to be. It’s bloody daft living in the same house and not sharing a bed.”
“You are a Scotch Scrooge!” she gasped, goggling at him.
“No, but I’m not a romantic idiot, either. Just listen. I’d like to go to bed with you, and without blowing my own trumpet, I think you’d enjoy sex with me. Then, we could become—well, an official couple. It would make things easier .”
“Yeah, for you and your blimmin’ job!”
“Certainly. On the financial side, I’d make you a very generous allowance.”
“People don’t pay their wives,” said Catherine, very faintly.
“Oh? Well, I’d suggest having a joint bank account: ‘people’ do; but in the first place I know you, you’d never spend anything, and in the second place the mere thought of my pristine accounts being buggered up by your demonstrated inability to keep track of more than five dollars for five minutes at a time—”
“I only put it on the windowsill!” shouted Catherine.
“Yes, for a month. I was convinced one of bloody Goode’s workmen had pinched it. People who understand money do not put fifty-dollar bills on the kitchen windowsill, Catherine,” he said kindly.
“I wouldn’t want to go near your blimmin’ bank account, anyway!”
“No. An allowance, then. If you consult Jenny Fermour’s mags they’ll probably tell you that it’s the norm for persons such as—er—the Princess of Wales.”
“No, they’d tell me it was the norm for Princess Di,” replied Catherine, glaring.
Alan’s eyes twinkled. “Yes. I haven’t got a Camilla P.-B., by the way, and I don’t want one. But I do want you.”
After a moment Catherine said: “What if I got pregnant?”
Alan’s jaw went all saggy. “Eh?” he croaked.
“Married la— people do.”
“Y— My darling girl, there are ways of preventing it; we’re not living in the nineteenth century, for God’s sake!”
“No, it only feels like it.”
Alan passed his hand over his forehead. “Yes, well, as I say, I’m not a romantic idiot. And you’re not a blushing virgin, so let’s at least try to discuss it rationally, shall we?”
“All right,” she said, nodding, but with a dubious look on her face.
“I see,” said Alan with a sigh. “Getting pregnant is a rational issue to you, is that it?”
Catherine nodded hard, not quite meeting his eye.
“Well, I— Oh.” Alan hadn’t thought about having children; in fact he hadn’t consciously thought about marrying Catherine. In fact, now that he did come to think of it, he rather thought his mind had been avoiding thinking the matter out for some months. “I honestly hadn’t thought about the possibility of starting a family.”
“No,” said Catherine faintly.
Alan looked at her, frowning. “Would you like to?”
“I don’t know,” said Catherine, tears starting to her eyes. “What if you got bored?”
Oh, Lor’, thought Alan. She had a point. He hesitated. Then he said: “Well, as you know, I do have a large capacity for boredom. But after all these months under the same roof with you, I haven’t become in the least bored. Not with Dicky, either. There are no guarantees in life, Catherine. And it’s too soon, really, to make that sort of decision, isn’t it? But I don’t think I would get bored with life with you, or with any children we had.”
“You would if they turned out like Noelle.”
“That’s very true,” replied Alan mildly.
Catherine bit her lip. “At least you’re honest about it. Um—it’s a pity you can’t have a practice.”
“The bed’s just through there, if you want some practice.”
“No!” she said crossly. “At married life and kids!”
“Yes, I think the rest of the human race would agree on that one: it is a pity. Um—well, living with you and Dicky has been sort of practice, hasn’t it?”
Catherine nodded slowly.
“Yes. I’m not sure about having children,” he admitted. “We’d have to think about it.”
“Mm,” said Catherine, watching his face fearfully.
“Well, I do like Dicky,” said Alan slowly.
“Mm.”
“Er—the idea of founding a dynasty is becoming more and more appealing as I contemplate it,” said Alan weakly.
“That isn’t funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. –God, with all the horrible examples of how other people’s children turn out all round us every day of our lives, why do human beings contemplate having kids at all?” he said wildly.
“Nature,” said Catherine succinctly.
“By God, it’s that, all right! Look, it is too soon to make that sort of decision, Catherine. But I promise we can think about it. You’ll have to think seriously about whether you’d want me as father to your kids.”
“Yes,” she said, looking puzzled.
“So—er—suppose we got married and thought about it for a few months? I mean, took precautions for a bit, and then decided.”
“Ye-es… They do have disposable nappies these days. But babies cry a lot. I don’t think you’d enjoy it, Alan.”
“No. And I suppose,” he said, frowning, “I’ve got no right to ask it of you, at your age. After all, you’ve had one, and brought up—well, half brought up—another. Um… Look, I can afford to get you any help in the house you need: nannies, and so forth.”
“Only people like the Carranos have nannies,” said Catherine limply, goggling at him.
Alan didn’t argue, or stress the point that he could afford it. “Well, help of some sort. We’ll talk about it all later. You need to decide whether the initial proposition appeals. Er—rights and duties?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
Catherine thought about it. “If we were actually married, you’d have to come to PTA meetings. Jenny sometimes takes me, but I never know what to say to people. And these days, most of the fathers go.”
“What sort of meetings?”
“PTA!” Alan continued to look blank, so Catherine said: “At Dicky’s school. The—the parents go. I’m not quite sure why. Um—well, they help with the school fair, of course. And sometimes they send a note to say that the parents are supposed to go and see the teacher, they never seem to think that not everybody has parents. Only when you get there they’re always busy talking to other people, or they just show you a drawing or a project or something, and he always shows me his projects anyway.”
“Catherine, if there’s anything at all involving Dicky that you want my help with, I’m more than ready to give it, I thought you knew that?”
“Yes, but that’s what I’m saying! They never seem to take into account that he hasn’t even got one parent, let alone two, and it always says things like ‘Tell your Dad’ or ‘Dear Mum’!”
“In future, hand anything that says ‘Tell your Dad’ on to me. Married or not,” he said grimly.
“What about the weekend things?”
“Yes. I’ll go if I can manage it.”
“Sometimes they want cars,” she said vaguely.
“Yes! All right!”
“Not for loads of wood, though, Alan.”
Alan blenched. “Er—no. Not the Jag. I’ve been thinking about a four-wheel-drive. Maybe you could learn to drive it?”
“No.”
He sighed but didn’t insist. “No, very well.”
“That isn’t a pre-thingy, is it?”
“Uh—a prerequisite?” She nodded hard, and he passed his hand over his forehead. “No. There aren’t any prerequisites, except the feeling that you might actually enjoy sharing my bed, Catherine.”
“What about the duties, though? I mean, that you’d want me to do,” she said glumly.
Alan licked his lips. “I think I would require you to come along to some very boring functions—yes.”
“I can’t,” she said, shrinking.
“You wouldn’t have to talk, merely wear a pretty dress and smile at bloody idiots that try to look down the front of it. You do that anyway, every time I take you for a meal at The Blue Heron or The Tavern,” he noted sourly. “Or are you claiming that there’s an essential difference between fellows in anoraks or ancient Oxford blazers who look down your bodice, and fellows in business suits or dinner jackets who ditto?”
“Not essential,” said Catherine limply.
“Good. The food won’t be as good as Molly Collingwood’s,” he warned.
“The food? Oh! At the boring functions. Um—no. –I’m sure people will expect me to talk to them!” she burst out.
“They will require only the most inane commonplaces,” said Alan firmly.
“But I can never think of them!”
“In that case, let them utter them, and smile nicely.”
Catherine said weakly: “Would there be a lot of them?
“About the same number as I trail out to now. You wouldn’t have to put up with the bloody business lunches. So it’d be about one dinner a fortnight.”
After a moment she said uneasily: “What about returning hospitality?”
“I might require you to cook a nice dinner for three or four couples including ourselves, perhaps once every six weeks. Would that be so dreadful?”
“Um—no-o… Um—what would we do with Dicky?”
“Give him a peanut butter sandwich and lock him in his room with his electronic gear,” said Alan, poker-face.
Catherine nodded. After a moment she said: “I’ve been thinking. Well, it wasn’t really my idea, it was something Mrs Swadling said.”
“Mm?”
“You—um—really ought to have some of your staff round. You know: for tea. –Dinner!”
Alan’s jaw had dropped. After all these months— And after she’d vetoed the whole idea so definitely, in fact without even appearing to think it over for an instant, when he’d first suggested it! After an appreciable pause he managed to say: “You are allowed to call it tea: I do understand that it’s your native usage.”
“Yes. –Don’t say ‘native’, Alan, people think it’s rude,” said Catherine faintly.
“Mm. Well, you and Mrs Swadling are right, so I ought. We could ease into it by inviting Dorothy and Leigh. You already know her, and he couldn’t intimidate anyone if he tried. Don’t you think you ought to marry me before we invite them?”
“No,” she said, blushing deeply. “You don’t love me. It’d be horrible.”
Alan reddened. “Thanks very much!”
Catherine said nothing, merely stared at her knees.
Alan got up, sighing. He knelt down beside her chair. She looked obstinately away from him. “Is it horrible now?”
“What? No!” she gasped, very startled.
“Then why would it be more horrible if we were married? I’d still be me, and you’d still be you.”
Catherine stared at him, her brow wrinkled.
“Well? Isn’t that true?”
“Yes,” she said faintly.
“We have been sharing a house for some months. Or is it just that you’re afraid the sex would be horrible?”
“No. Um, not for me. I think you’d be bored.”
Alan gave a startled laugh. “I can guarantee I wouldn’t be! Don’t you know anything?”
“No. –There you are, you see.”
He knelt up, took her arms gently, and buried his face in her bosom.
“Now I can’t think!” said Catherine in a high voice.
“Nor can I,” said Alan in a muffled voice into her bosom.
“Alan, it wouldn’t work. I love you and you don’t love me,” said Catherine shakily.
Alan looked up, smiling. “I’m not a romantic, darling; though I’m very glad, if you feel you can love me. I want you, and I want to live with you. If you can accept that, I think we could make a go of it.”
“I’ll—I’ll never be a lady,” said Catherine, her jaw trembling.
“Good. A lady is the last thing I want. And I don’t expect you to be a gracious hostess. Just cook us a lovely dinner, and be present!” he said with a laugh.
“This is just sex,” said Catherine faintly. “You’ll regret it.”
“If it was just sex, I’d just suggest sex, I’m not a bloody moron. We may both regret it; I don’t deny it. I’m not trying to hide anything from you, or make myself out to be anything I can’t be,” he said, frowning.
“I know. Lots of people can’t stand that. It’s one of the things I like about you,” she said faintly.
He was very glad to hear it. “So?”
Catherine swallowed. “What if we do it and then you find the sex is too boring?”
Alan’s eyes twinkled. “Well, I have the ideal management technique for this situation. It’s designed to safeguard both parties to a possible contract. I’ll only accept a provisional ‘Yes’— What are you looking round for? I’ll only accept a provisional ‘Yes’, until after I’ve tried out the sex. Then we’ll finalise contract— Don’t you dare!” he gasped as she managed to grab up a cushion.
Catherine bashed him round the head with it regardless.
Laughing, Alan wrenched it off her. “I’m taking that as a yes!” he warned, kneeling up and grabbing her very tight.
“You mean as a provisional yes!” she panted. “I never heard of such a thing!”
“Yes, you did, it’s me all over,” said Alan, kissing her very thoroughly.
Not entirely to his surprise, she responded fiercely.
“I thought so,” said Alan, grinning.
Catherine was very flushed. “Yes, well, you’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days!”
“Mm.” He put a hand under her chin. “Will you?”
“Um—I will go to bed with you,” said Catherine in a weak voice.
“And?”
“Well, if you still want to, um—yes, all right.”
Alan kissed her again.
“I still think you’re mad,” she said faintly.
“Yes. Come on. Oh—no; just wait here, I’ll go and warm the bloody bedroom up, it’ll be like Greenland’s icy mountains in there.” He hurried out, grinning.
When he came back she was surreptitiously blowing her nose.
Alan sat down in his big chair with a sigh. “Come and sit on my knee, and try not to bawl. We couldn’t have gone on as we were.”
“It was all right.”
“It was not! I’ve been as stiff as bejasus from morn till night, are you blind, woman?”
Catherine swallowed hard.
“Come here.” He patted his knee. She sat down slowly.
Alan immediately grabbed this evening’s tight, faded jumper and pulled it up, exposing the breasts in an ancient greyish woolly. He pulled this up, grinning. Under it was an ancient pinkish-greyish lacy bra. “I will insist on one thing,” he said in a vague voice, fumbling at the hooks at the back.
“What?”
“New underwear. So as I can have the pleasure of— Ah! Taking it off.” He eased the cups down, and the breasts up. “Glory hallelujah,” he said conversationally
Catherine gave a startled giggle.
Alan thereupon sucked one breast very hard.
“Oh, Alan,” she said in a faraway, high voice.
“Mm.” Alan guided her hand to his cock. “Go on,” he mumbled.
Catherine rubbed him timidly. Alan got very passionate indeed, kissed her wetly, nibbled her neck, and admitted, very flushed: “Look, I’m damned nearly coming. Come on into the bedroom, for God’s sake.”
Nodding, Catherine got up and accompanied him into his room. Alan had bought a large electric heater, but this, he now felt, was a mistake, it took forever to warm the room. He should have gone the whole hog, regardless of the customs of the country, and had central heating installed. “I’ll have central heating installed before next winter,” he vowed grimly, removing his clothes.
Catherine laughed feebly.
“What?”
“You’re right, you’re not romantic,” she said limply.
“No. Get into bed, woman, and I’ll prove it.”
Catherine had only got as far as removing her tracksuit pants and the jersey and spencer which had been half off her anyway. She took the dangling bra off and laid it slowly on the bedside chair.
“Those knickers could come off,” said Alan conversationally, peeling the bedclothes back and getting into bed.
“Yes. Um—what about precautions?”
“What? Oh.” He fumbled in his bedside cabinet.
“Is that what you keep in there?”
“Yes. Don’t tell me you haven’t looked?”
“No! It’s private!” she said crossly.
“Yes, well, talking of which, are those knickers glued to you?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “I just wanted to hear your native usage.”
Alan looked at her numbly as she removed the knickers. –Limp, greyish. “What?”
“We say ‘pants,’” said Catherine, stepping out of them.
“Mm. Come here.” He patted the sheet invitingly. “Damn, this bloody electric blanket takes forever to warm up.”
She hesitated.
“It will not electrocute you!” said Alan loudly.
“No.” Catherine got into bed beside him, looking very shy.
Alan propped himself on an elbow, grinning. “Just leave everything to me.”
“I’ll have to, I’ve never really done it before,” she said, very faintly.
“Mmm…” replied Alan vaguely, starting.
Quite some considerable time later, Catherine admitted in a muzzy voice: “I never knew.”
Alan had gathered that; Jenny Fermour’s women’s mags or not. Well, presumably the words didn’t mean anything if you’d never experienced the act. Acts. Not to mention the sensations. It would have been fair to say she had known nothing. Up to and including the fact that he was not having a heart attack when he came. Evidently Noelle’s father had been the sort that merely shoved it up there—regardless of whether the victim was prepared for it or not—thumped around uncomfortably for a few seconds, grunted, and flopped.
“Mm,” he said, kissing her very gently.
She blinked at him in a puzzled way.
“Er—yes,” said Alan, very politely. “Nice gents do recognise the presence of the lady they did it with, after they’ve done it.”
“That was what I was thinking,” she admitted faintly.
“Mm.” He pulled her against his side more comfortably, and sighed.
A period passed in peaceful silence. Blissful silence, on his part.
“I suppose it’s all those years of practice,” said Catherine thoughtfully.
“Mm,” agreed Alan cautiously. Nothing more seemed to be forthcoming: he found he didn’t have the guts to ask her if she was jealous. “Um—thirsty, darling?”
“Yes. I’ll—“
“No. Absolutely not. Nice gents absolutely forbid the ladies they’ve just done it with to trail out to the kitchen on frosty winter’s nights—or any other nights—and fetch refreshment for them after they’ve done it.”
“Hah, hah.”
“No, true!” he said, laughing, and getting out of bed. He pulled his dressing-gown on. “Cuppa tea?” he said in the vernacular.
“Yes, I could just fancy a nice cup of tea,” said Catherine with a sigh.
“Or something stronger?”
“Ugh, no.”
Raising his eyebrows only very slightly, Alan went out to the kitchen. Forgetting to ask her if she’d like Earl Grey or “ordinary”. She was apparently unaware that Twining’s English breakfast was very far from ordinary—he’d made her stop buying the goddawful local brand.
“It’s awfully late,” said Catherine feebly, having tasted the Earl Grey.
“Er—well, actually, darling, it’s not that much later than our usual supper time.”
“It is so! Hours and hours!”
“And?” he said, wondering whether she was proposing a retreat to her own bed.
“Well, I do love Earl Grey,” said Catherine apologetically, “only I’ll be up all night.”
“Oh! Mm. A judicious re-arranging of bedrooms might be in order, in that case. We could share yours, since it’s got the new ensuite. This room could be my study. In which case,” said Alan, narrowing his eyes, “I think I’ll put my desk under the front windows, and knock a hole in this east wall,”—he jerked his head at the wall behind them—“and have French doors put in.”
Catherine gave a muffled snigger.
“Go on,” he said resignedly.
“You’re doing this so as to get a study!” she squeaked, going off in strangled hysterics.
Alan rescued her cup hurriedly. And waited until she recovered. “Balls,” he said mildly. “Actually I’m doing it so as to soften you up,”—he gave her very soft thigh a quick squeeze under the bedclothes; Catherine squeaked—“to put another proposition to you.”
“What?” she said faintly. “I thought you—um—had to make more sperm?”
“I’m doing that as we speak. Did you think I’d let you off with only one sample?’
She gulped, and smiled weakly.
“Actually, I was thinking that we might contemplate building on.”
“Build on?” said Catherine in a bewildered voice.
“Yes. A couple of wings, maybe. Turn it into something more resembling—well, old Aunt Mary’s ‘station in New Zealand’!” he said with a faint laugh. “We’d use the existing house as the central area of the new place. It’d all be in the same style, darling,” he said reassuringly. Catherine looked at him limply. “But perhaps a guest wing? If we do decide to have kids, we’ll need a nursery wing and accommodation for the nanny, too. Then when the children are older they’ll have a bit of privacy to do their own thing, and we’ll have a bit of peace.”
“What about the guest wing? I—I mean, who would use it?”
“Mm? Oh, well, it would balance the house, you see. I’ve been reading up about Colonial architecture. I really like the eastern exposure, but it’s daft to have the bedrooms facing that way: we could turn your room into a morning room. Well, we can discuss it!” he said with a smile.
“Alan, it’d be too big for me. I’m not very efficient at looking after it as it is,” said Catherine faintly.
“Darling, you haven’t been listening! You’d have help in the house. Last time I was at the Carranos’ Polly mentioned some group at Carter’s Bay that does housework; you wouldn’t have to do any of the tedious stuff like the beds and the dusting or sweeping: just the cooking. Just the bits you enjoy, darling.”
Catherine looked at him limply.
“Wouldn’t you like that? You could be really creative! That boiled pudding you did with the lime was wonderful!” he said, laughing a little.
“Yes. That was in one of the books you gave me,” she said faintly.
“Mm. Darling, I know it would be—well, rather a different life from the way you live now, but I think you could enjoy it. You wouldn’t have to give up any of the things you enjoy.”
Catherine was silent for a moment. Then she said: “I quite enjoy being scruffy.”
Alan had realised that. “Mm. Well, when it’s just us at home, be scruffy: I don’t mind.” He smiled a little. “Not if scruffy includes those winter jumpers that have shrunk in the wash and the summer frocks that gap a bit over the bust.”
Catherine went very red and put her hand to her bosom.
“Yes!” said Alan, laughing. “Now, finish up your tea and let’s cuddle down.”
“I’ll have to go to the bathroom,” she reminded him faintly.
“Yes, of course. Shall we migrate to your room?”
“Um—it’ll be cold. Um—the thing is— Well, he won’t, of course. Only if Dicky did wake up he’d expect to find me—”
“Yes, of course, what a brute I am. Come on, then, we’ll migrate. We can share your bed, just for tonight. Move the double one in there tomorrow.” He hesitated. “Uh—if it won’t shock seven years’ growth out of Dicky to find me in your bed?”
“No, he’s too little to think anything of it.”
“Either that or he’s not as narrow-minded as his sister. Well, uh, cousin, I suppose. Not to mention his biological mother.”
“Yes,” said Catherine vaguely, starting to pull her jumper on.
Alan put his dressing-gown round her. “Stop arguing, I’ve got another. And thank God that regularising the situation will allow me to buy you a decent one, at last.”
“They’re all horrible,” she said detachedly. “Bright pink or bright turquoise padded nylon.” She went out on this note.
Alan swathed himself in his other dressing-gown, shaking his head madly.
… “What do you think?” he said to Dicky somewhat nervously over the breakfast table next morning.
“Will I still be a Burchett?”:
Alan blinked: the ten-year-old mind. “Er—yes, if you’d prefer it. If you wanted to change your name, then Catherine and I could think about formally adopting you, once we were married. –Signing papers and so forth.”
Dicky frowned over it. “I’ve got Burchett on my gumboots and stuff.”
Alan returned calmly: “Yes, I know. It would probably take a while to get the adoption formalities through: when we bought your next pair of gumboots we’d be at the stage of actually changing your name. If that’s what you want?”
“‘Richard Kincaid’,” said Dicky thoughtfully.
“Mm.”
“Then I’d be R. Kincaid, just like Uncle Bob.”
“Mm.”
“Dicky, it—it might feel odd,” said Catherine in a trembling voice.
“Nah! Gray Foster, well, his mum’s Mrs Quayle, ya see, and his sister, well, she’s Siobhan Quayle, only his real dad, he’s Mr Foster.”
“Yes?” said Alan.
“Half the time they call him Gray Quayle, and Mr Dickens, well, he didn’t know, ya see, and he said Gray oughta be good at basketball because Ian Quayle, he’s captain of the Puriri Cubs.”
“That’s the high-school basketball team, Alan,” said Catherine limply. “Ian Quayle’s not Gray’s real brother.”
“I see.”
Dicky was refreshing himself. He raised his head from his glass of milk with the usual gasping noises. And the usual white moustache. “Yeah. An’ Mrs Vasanji, she kept sending Mrs Quayle notes with ‘Mrs Foster’ on them!”
“Mrs Vasanji’s one of the teachers,” said Catherine.
“Yeah; Gray Foster, he’s in her class,” explained Dicky.
Alan nodded. “And you think that it would be equally awkward for you if you remained Dicky Burchett while Catherine became Catherine Kincaid?”
“Yeah. ’Cos you’d be my dad, really, wouldn’t you, Alan?”
Catherine looked nervously at Alan but he replied calmly: “To all intents and purposes, yes, Dicky.”
“I’d better be Dicky Kincaid,” he decided. “Only I’m not gonna wear a kilt!” he warned.
Alan gaped at him.
“I don’t think he means because you’re Scotch. Do you, Dicky?”
“Neh! Gray Foster, well, he hadda wear a dumb kilt when his mum got married.”
“I see: he must have been a—a— I’ve forgotten what they call them. Sort of like a bridesmaid, only a boy,” said Catherine limply to her intended.
“Pageboy. Don’t worry, Dicky, I’d go to the stake sooner than force any fellow to be a pageboy of any description whatsoever, let alone in a bloody kilt,” said Alan. Smiling, he told them all about his frightful experience, shared with one, Dougal McAllister, which hadn’t made it very much better, really, at a wedding when they were both aged eight. Dougal McAllister had been forced to be in it because it was his sister’s wedding and Alan had been forced to be in it by his aunt, who was a close friend of the bride’s mother, on the score of his being Dougal’s friend. The kilts had not been tartan, which would have been quite acceptable in Scotland. They had been pale blue.
“We’d better wait until Saskia gets here, I suppose,” he finished.
“Ooh, is she coming?” asked Dicky eagerly.
“Uh—yes,” admitted Alan somewhat lamely. “Sorry, Dicky, I should have mentioned it earlier. She’s actually going to settle in Sydney. She’ll be coming here for a holiday first.”
“What’s she gonna bring me, did she say?”
“No, she did not! Is that your only interest in the matter?”
Dicky apparently accepted this as a rhetorical question, for he merely responded: “Is she gonna bring her car out?”
“Not to New Zealand, I shouldn’t think.”
Dicky appeared to lose interest. “Is there any more toast, Mum?”
“Oh! Alan, you’ve eaten Dicky’s toast! I’ll make some more, Dicky,” she said, hurriedly putting slices in the toaster.
“I must have been extra-hungry this morning; I can’t think why,” said Alan blandly.
“No,” agreed Catherine limply, trying not to laugh.
Alan chuckled, got up, came over to her, put his arms round her tightly from behind and kissed her ear.
“Ugh, yuck,” said Dicky conversationally,
“You’ll have to get used to it, married folks do it all the time!” said Alan with a laugh. “Darling, it would be much more efficient to have the bloody toaster on the table; had that ever occurred?”
“No. I’ve always thought of toasters as things that sat on benches. Not that we ever had one, before.”
Alan knew that. She used to make toast under the uncertain grill of the old stove. It made excellent toast, much lighter and crisper than anything the toaster produced—provided you didn’t go into a daydream and let it burn. The pop-up toaster had the very great advantage of being immune to Catherine’s daydreams.
Alan removed the toaster to the table and made Catherine sit down. “I seem to have drunk the coffee, too. –Sit,” he said sternly. He got up and made more coffee, humming. King Peng-Cat came and rubbed round his legs so, although Dicky and Catherine both assured him the brute had been fed, Alan gave it more milk. Poor neutered beast that it was.
… “I won’t be able to make it back for lunch,” he said with a sigh, hugging Catherine very tight as he was about to depart for work.
“Um—no,” she said blankly.
Alan nibbled her ear. “Hell, I’d better stop, or I’ll never get to work at all. I’ll see you around the usual time, darling.”
“All right, Alan,” said Catherine, looking up at him in a bewildered way.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” he said mildly.
“Um—if you want me to.”
“Yes.” Alan kissed her very thoroughly indeed. “Now, if there’s any domestic emergency, darling, I may be at the site. But just ring Ms Coffi, okay?
“Yes,” said Catherine on a glum note.
“I’ve told you before: all you have to say is—”
“Yes, I know, but they always say ‘May I ask who’s calling?’” she cried.
“I’m glad to hear it. I’ve told them to put any calls from you or Dicky straight through to me, or to Ms Coffi if I’m out. For God’s sake ring, don’t leave it until I get home like you did with the bloody washing-machine hose.”
“I didn’t understand that it—”
“I know, darling, I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying, you can interrupt me at work any time.”
“Yes.”
Alan put his hand under her chin and kissed her again, this time very gently. “That is a very definitely a prerequisite.”
“All right, I promise,” said Catherine with a sigh.
“Good!” He hurried out, grinning.
Catherine went and looked glumly at the laundry doors. “Just don’t dare to go wrong today,” she said to the up-market hardware lurking behind them. “It’s hard enough deciding to marry him without having to ring up the office!”
May shot into the saddlery, panting. “Have you seen the BNZ?”
Penny had only just opened up; she was behind the counter, working on some crochet. She looked up in surprise. “No, what?”
“Bull—do—zers!” gasped May.
Penny leapt up. The two ladies rushed outside.
“The fish shop’s gone!” cried Penny wildly before May could point out the bulldozers.
May gasped.
Penny looked frantically from the huge hole where the fish shop and the featureless grey thing next to it had been, down to the menopause-pink bulk of the old BNZ. As she stared, a bulldozer, or perhaps it wasn’t technically a bulldozer, Penny had conscientiously read that Richard Scarry book to her boys but she still tended to get muddled, approached the giant main door. They watched numbly. The bulldozer went in through the door.
“See?”
Penny nodded feebly.
“I was so busy looking at the bulldozers that I never even noticed they’d knocked the fish shop down,” admitted May.
“No. And that thing next to it.”
“Well, it was no loss. I can’t even remember what it was, it’s been boarded up as long as I’ve lived here. But what about Vaughn and Nina Emery?”
Penny looked at her limply. “I saw Nina on Friday when I was collecting the boys from school, and she never breathed a word.”
“No,” agreed May numbly.
Penny swallowed. “Carrano Development offered them megabucks, I suppose. Did they actually own the building?”
“Um… I think Jack said that old Mr Emery, he was Vaughn’s granddad, he used to own it. He used to live in the flat above the shop. So I suppose they did.”
“Definitely megabucks, then,” said Penny grimly.
May nodded numbly.
“I’ll just grab my parka, I’m gonna find out exactly what they’re doing to the BNZ! It’s practically a historic building!” said Penny fiercely. “Hang on.” She rushed inside again.
… “They’re gutting it,” she reported angrily.
Tim scratched his head. “Ugh. Well, I s’pose leaving the shell’s better than nothing.”
“It’s got to stop! It was beautiful inside!” she shouted angrily.
“Um, not the pink carpet and that, Penny,” he said cautiously. “Or the blue walls.”
“The video place hadn’t changed its basic structure, Tim! It still had the lovely old ceilings!”
“Ye-ah. I suppose they couldn’t afford to remodel it. Um—well, I’m not arguing with you, hon’, only it can’t have been a protected building or anything, or they couldn’t have done it.”
Penny gave him a bitter look, and marched back to her counter.
As she’d forgotten to tell him the fish shop and its neighbour had vanished overnight, Tim got quite a shock when he wandered out at lunchtime.
“That was my bank,” said Adrian sourly.
Anna nodded obediently.
“Not that I don’t love our pub!” he said with a sheepish laugh.
“Mm. I wonder what they’re going to do with the bank?”
Adrian sighed. “Banking facilities would be nice.”
“Ye-es… Does the BNZ still own it, Adrian?”
“No, Jake Carrano owns it,” he admitted.
“In that case, once the population’s over whatever his market survey will’ve decreed it’s gotta be over,” noted Jacko dispassionately, “he’ll build a nice little bank and let it to the BNZ for sixty times what it woulda cost them to keep the old one open. Serve them bloody well right. –You get any further than the BNZ today?”
“No. Well, only round to Edward Street, but that rumour of genuine Sydney lace going begging was only a rumour. Why?”
Jacko scratched his whiskers. “Vaughn Emery’s sold his grandpa’s old place, lock stock and barrel, and they’ve pulled it down, and the warehouse next to it. That ole grey place. You can actually see the Inlet from the main road, now. Dunno if that’s the point or not. Couldn’t get any sense out of the blokes on site. Well, shouldn’t think Jake Carrano lets on to them what he’s up to any more than he lets on to you and me, eh?” He eyed Adrian drily. “Me, anyway.”
Ignoring this last, he replied weakly: “You don’t mean the fish and chips shop’s gone?”
“Help!” gasped Wallis.
“Yep. Could be a great commercial opportunity there for a smart bloke what nipped in quick. Something on the lines of a pie cart: doing fish and chips, though.”
“You’d need a licence,” said Adrian reluctantly.
“Ya would when they caught ya, yeah,” the old man conceded.
Adrian bit his lip. “Don’t tempt me. I don’t need any blots on my copybook at this point.”
“We could do it, Jacko!” urged Wallis.
“Ye-ah… Well, for a day or two, eh? I can jack up a couple of camping-gas burners.”
“We’d need a big wheeled cart. Covered,” said Wallis, narrowing her eyes. “Not that that I mind a bit of rain, only it’d spoil the fish and chips.”
“Yeah. We-ell… Could knock something up, easy enough. Um—well, I got some old pram wheels. Come to that, I can lay me hands on a couple of old bikes. Um—well, knock up a frame, shove a tarp over ’er, eh?”
“Yeah! Let’s do it!” she cried.
Jacko shrugged. “Righto. Come on, then.”
When Martin and Sim, who had been chipping bricks in the rain under a tarp in Gilbert Street, in the intervals of bludging morning tea, lunch and afternoon tea off Mrs Adler, burst in, panting, with the awful news, the unlicensed fish and chips cart venture was well under way.
Janet’s jaw dropped. “Marrying him?”
Anybody else would have been awarded a stiff gin, but that was strong licker. Quickly Dorothy poured her a very large sweet sherry. Harvey’s Bristol Cream; Dorothy had decided that her Sir G.G. Salary could afford it and never mind the fact that none of her sweet-sherry-drinking acquaintances would recognise it, if she was expected to share it, it was gonna be something she could get past the soft palate without actually gagging. Into which category neither the local so-called sherries nor the Aussie ones fell. And the only South African one she had ever been privileged to taste had been flavoured strongly with almonds, whether deliberately or not Dorothy neither knew nor cared.
“Ooh, this is nice!”
“Yeah,” acknowledged Dorothy, knocking back a gulp of her own on the strength of it.
Janet decided that if it was what Catherine wanted she was glad.
Dorothy didn’t point out the many, many caveats that obtained, she merely nodded feebly and poured them each another. Hurriedly urging a large slab of bought Madeira cake on Janet to sop it up. Sherry, though not of course strong licker, being guaranteed to go to the head, not to say the legs and the car-driving half of the brain, even more rapidly than gin did.
… Barry went as white as a sheet, so Kevin reflected grimly that it was just as well he’d decided to get on round there and tell the poor bugger himself. Forcibly sending Avon round to Janet’s for tea this evening. “Sorry,” he said shortly.
Barry was silent for a while. Then he said tightly: “Kincaid’s the bastard to end all bastards.”
“Yeah, I’d kinda got that impression,” agreed Kevin mildly
“He’s as cold as—” Barry broke off.
Kevin got up. “I thought you’d rather hear it from me than from Avon or May.”
“Eh? Oh—yeah. Ta,” said Barry dully.
Kevin bit his lip, hesitated, then went away without offering words of comfort or to get tea for them both or even to get a beer for them both. Shit—poor old sod. He hadn’t really realised he’d had it that bad for her.
… “Do ya know her?” demanded Avon keenly, jigging Fiorella on her knee.
Simone shook her head dubiously.
“Yes, ya do, Simone!” urged Sheryl. “She’s Dicky’s mum!”
“The mother of Dicky Burchett?” said Simone limply. “But Avon, he is such a cold man.”
“Right!” agreed Avon with feeling.
“Eugh—pair’aps she marries him to have—eugh—the securitay?”
The two New Zealanders looked at her blankly.
“I do not theenk,” said Simone, her hands shaking very slightly, “that thees would be dhuh good idea. One should not marry unless one truly loves the other person.”
“No,” agreed Sheryl, giving Avon a warning look and getting up hurriedly. “Let’s have another cuppa.”
The ladies had another cuppa and, it being that time of day, settled down to watch Oprah.
… “You’ll need this,” warned Dorothy, handing Dr Davis a stiff gin.
Jill sipped it slowly, wondering if Dorothy was about to break the news that she’d got herself engaged to the macho male marine geologist.
“It’s about the Iceman,” said Dorothy cautiously.
“Oh?” replied Jill, even more cautiously.
“He and Catherine Burchett are engaged,” said Dorothy baldly.
Jill gaped at her.
“Yes; one doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, frankly,” admitted Dorothy. She downed half her gin on the strength of it.
Jill nodded numbly.
“More gin?”
Numbly Jill let Dorothy top up her gin with more gin. “Does Polly know?” she croaked, patting herself on the chest. “–Is there any tonic in this G&T at all?”
“Sort of. It started off as a G and half T,” explained Dorothy, topping her own up. “Polly does know, she’s planning a bloody engagement party. If that doesn’t scare Catherine off, in my expert opinion nothing will.”
Jill nodded numbly.
Dorothy cleared her throat. “It may work out okay. I mean, she may have a humanising influence on him before—um—”
“Before he freezes her to death?” said Jill grimly. “Quite.”
Next chapter:
https://conquestofcartersbay.blogspot.com/2023/05/lets-go-to-hop.html
No comments:
Post a Comment