Winter Blues

19

Winter Blues

    “I’ll just have a word with your aunty, I think,” said Bruce Smith cheerfully. Bruce was Puriri’s most popular G.P. Most of Puriri County called him Bruce. He was a tallish, gangly, untidy-looking man in his early forties. He didn’t look in the least like a doctor—perhaps that was one of the secrets of his success. He didn’t sound much like one, either, and he was in the habit of explaining things to his patients: perhaps those were the other secrets.

    Shiva Perkins nodded obediently and accepted Bruce’s suggestion that she might like to wait just outside with Murray—“just outside” being not a waiting-room full of sniffles but a convenient sort of lobby affair around which the doctors’ offices were situated. Bruce in person saw Shiva and Murray settled outside on a comfortable sofa and got Trudi, one of his nurses, to get Shiva a cup of tea and Murray a glass of orange juice. Adding by the way that he wouldn’t mind a cup himself: did Dorothy fancy one? Dorothy did, so Trudi, saying amiably: “Righto, then,” hurried off to get them. –It all looked very, very casual at Bruce’s surgery but Dorothy, who had known him for some years, rather more socially than medically, since she was rarely ill, was aware that very little about it was.

    “All right, what’s she got?” she said grimly, the moment the door was firmly closed on Shiva, Murray and the lobby.

    Bruce rubbed his chin. “Siddown, Dorothy. I’m not sure.”

    Dorothy did sit but retorted grimly: “All right, is this ‘not sure’ serious?”

    “It really is too soon to tell. We’ll have to do a lot of tests—blood tests, mainly. I think she may be anaemic.”

    “And?”

    Bruce sat down and fiddled with his jellybean jar. “The little boy’s as fit as a flea—lovely little chap, isn’t he? We’ll run a few tests on him, but the British National Health Service seems to have taken care of him okay.”

    “Yes. I think Shiva’s stepfather saw to that.”

    “Mm.” Bruce looked thoughtfully at his jellybeans. “Think it could be the liver. Might do a biopsy. Noticed how yellow she is?”

    “Um—I suppose she is. All us Perkinses are a bit sallow, though. Well, not Rab: the boy’s got a skin like a bloody rose, takes after his mother. But the rest of us are.”

    “Yes. Have you got Maori blood?”

    “Uh—yeah,” said Dorothy limply. “Dad’s side.”

    “Mm.” Bruce fiddled with his jellybean jar again.

    “So far I’ve guessed cancer of the liver, sickle-cell anaemia, and any number of unnamed but frightful Indian diseases. So you might as well tell me, Bruce.”

    “I’ll read up on sickle-cell. Don’t think it’s that, though. Um… cancer of the liver’s very unlikely in a person of her age.”

    “Hydatids?” said Dorothy, going very white as a bogie of her childhood suddenly came back to haunt her.

    “I’m not ruling it out. I suppose it’s possible… You need the cycle, though: it only flourishes in countries where dogs are given raw offal. And typically where there are a lot of sheep about, like here. Don’t think you’d get much raw sheep offal in India—though I’m not denying the parasite may be endemic there, too. But it does appear they lived in a largely Hindu area, most of the populace would have been vegetarians.”

    “Yes. Um—some bloody Indian disease, then?

    “There is a form of…” Bruce broke off, frowning. “I suppose amoebic dysentery’s about the closest thing to it.”

    “I thought that tended to take you off in a short, sharp burst?”

    “Not in this form. I’ve never seen it. Know a bloke who’s treated it successfully, though—beautiful woman. She recovered, but it was rather a sad story: once she was well again, she—uh—reversed all the decisions she’d made when she had it: busted up her marriage— Oh, well. Most of us don’t cope all that well, even when we’re up to par.”

    “Thanks, Bruce, that’s a cheery tale.” After a moment Dorothy added: “What about AIDS?”

    “We’ll test for that, too.” He rubbed his nose. “It’s too soon to say anything definite, Dorothy. She needs plenty of rest, no stress, no caffeine, no alcohol or cigarettes. A bland diet—little and often, bit like you would for an ulcer.”

    “Could it be that?”

    “She doesn’t present the symptoms. At the moment my guess would be a severe form of amoebic dysentery at some stage in her career—she seems to have been more or less continually sick all the time they were in India, poor girl—which caused some scarring of the liver. And which she may still be carrying. Can be very difficult to get rid of. Possibly a bout of hepatitis, as well. Look, I don’t want to scare you—”

    “I’m already scared,” said Dorothy grimly.

    “Yes, I know. I don’t think she needs to know this, but it could be cirrhosis of the liver. It’s not only the result of alcoholism, can be caused by extensive scarring of the liver tissue due to—well, more or less what she’s had: severe amoebic dysentery, hepatitis… Ta, Trudi,” he said as Trudi came in with two cups of tea, with biscuits in the saucers. He waited until she’d gone out before adding: “Don’t rush off and get your blessed library pals to search MEDLINE, there’s a good girl. There’s no cure. In layman’s terms, the liver just fails—slowly at first, then rapidly. We’ll hope it isn’t that, but I think you do need to be aware it might be.”

    “Yes,” said Dorothy tightly. “What about not in layman’s terms?”

    Evincing no surprise, Bruce fetched a heavy volume from his shelves. “Here. Quite interesting,” he said detachedly.

    Dorothy read it carefully. “Yes. Thanks. –The poor bloody kid’s never had a life at all!” she said violently.

    “She’s twenty-four, isn’t she? I’d say she’s managed to cram a fair bit into those twenty-four years, sick or not.”

    “God, your doting lady patients that think you’re wonderful don’t know the flaming half of it, Bruce!” replied Dorothy bitterly.

    Bruce’s clever brown eyes were watchful, but he said only: “You can’t go into medicine without the necessary detachment somewhere in your make-up, Dorothy. I don’t always let it show, that’s all. Horses for courses. Or would you prefer to borrow me hanky?”

    “Polly Carrano’s reported on your carefully thought-out series of clean-hanky pockets versus dirty-hanky pockets, thanks. I’ll spare your laundry bill.”

    “It’s the practice’s laundry bill,” he murmured.

    “Yeah, I’m sure.” Dorothy sighed, and drank her tea.

    Jack went a sickly sort of green shade. “That bloody Nancy!” he choked. “I’ll kill the bitch!”

    “Calm down. In the first place, Bruce isn’t sure—though I have to say it, Jack, when Bruce Smith gives you a cuppa and tells you he isn’t sure, it’s any other G.P.’s firm diagnosis backed up by specialists.”

    “I’d gathered that.”

    “Yes. But these things happen; it isn’t anyone’s fault, not even Nancy’s. Well, look at Rab, he’s had the same experiences as Shiva, and he’s fit as a fiddle.”

    “We hope. I suppose we’d better have him checked out, too,” he said sourly.

    “It would be sensible. But he certainly looks a healthy specimen.”

    “Yes. What about Murray?”

    “Bruce says there’s nothing wrong with him at all.”

    Jack nodded, his mouth tight.

    “Bruce didn’t think that telling Shiva would be a very good idea,” said Dorothy cautiously.

    “But—” Jack broke off. “No,” he said slowly. “You prate about the right to know, etcetera, don’t you? Until it comes down to cases.”

    “Yes. I don’t think the girl has any suspicion she might really be ill. If she had—well, knowing for sure might set her mind at rest. We’d better wait and see.”

    “Yes. I suppose I shouldn’t have sent them off to live in that bloody dump,” he muttered.

    “Well, you haven’t got room to swing a cat.”

    “I could have bought a house as an interim measure.”

    “Well, yes. But they are young adults, Jack: I think they’re happier on their own.”

    Jack sighed.

    “I thought we might institute—well, not the sort of gruesome routine that featured in our day.”

    “Eh?”

    “Not enforced Sundays at Grandma and Grandpa’s,” said Dorothy on a dry note.

    “Jesus, yes: weren’t they vile? Of course I never realised for years that Mum and Grandma cordially loathed each other.”

    “Right.”

    “Uh—oh, I get it. Yes, well, have them over to my shack—uh—couple of nights a week, maybe? Feed them a couple of nights, regular, anyroad.”

    “Yes. You can have Saturday and I’ll do Sunday. I really need to unwind on Saturdays.”

    “Yes.” After a minute he added awkwardly: “Thanks, Dot.”

    “That’s okay. Um… Jack, you should probably write to Nancy,” she added cautiously.

    “Jesus, for what? She’s done her best to ruin the poor kid’s health! She’d fly over in a panic, scaring the Hell out of the kid— No. Let’s wait. If this G.P. of yours says it’s fatal, I’ll try contacting Nancy. I think Rab has got an address for her, I guess that’s a plus.”

    “Yes, all right.”

    There was a pause. “Rab is an adult,” said Dorothy cautiously.

    Jack passed his hand over his face. “Not yet. Not until we know. –How good is this damned G.P. of yours?”

    “The best. Polly Carrano goes to him for herself and her kids.”

    “Oh,” he said limply.

    “It is. Well, no-one seriously thought Bruce’d be wrong,” said Dorothy grimly. “Blast!” She blew her nose hard.

    Janet had asked Dorothy to afternoon tea. She hadn’t needed to ask about Shiva, Dorothy had just burst out with it. She had been sitting in her neat little armchair but now she got up and came to sit beside Dorothy on the neat little sofa, smartly re-covered in a yellow, white and blue check linen about which Janet had been doubtful but which went perfectly with the pattern of small yellow rosebuds on the sitting-room walls. And didn’t look “too soppy,” in Avon’s words. She squeezed Dorothy’s hand.

    Not surprisingly, Dorothy then burst into snorting sobs. “Sorry,” she said at last, blowing her nose hard.

    Janet gave her her own clean hanky. “That’s all right. I understand.”

    Dorothy wiped her eyes on Janet’s hanky, which smelled of lavender: Janet’s tallboy and dressing-table drawers were all stuffed with lavender bags, mostly home-made, some of them presents, home-made or not, from like-minded friends, and into the bargain lined with lavender-scented drawer liners.

    “Why is it always the women that have to bear the brunt?” she said on a dry note. “–Sorry, Janet, I didn’t meant to dump it on you.”

    “That’s all right,” said Janet again. “I suppose society sees that as the woman’s rôle.”

    “Uh—yeah,” agreed Dorothy feebly.

    “And most men aren’t very good at that sort of thing, are they? Would you like a glass of sherry?” she said, greatly daring.

    “No, thanks,” replied Dorothy, blowing her nose one last time and putting Janet’s hanky up her sleeve. “What I’d really like is another cuppa, if it isn’t too much bother.”

    Of course it wasn’t, and Janet leapt up and got it. Because the cottage was so very tiny, Dorothy could hear her quite clearly in the kitchen, saying to Bobby: “You don’t need any more milk, you big, bad dreedy-duts! We-ell… just a wee drop, then. Just a wee drop, Bobby! We mustn’t drink it all, Dorothy has to have some in her tea! …That’s a good boy.” It was probably only Dorothy’s imagination, though, that made her think she could hear the creature slurping it up.

    “So what’s Dr Smith’s prognosis?” asked Janet, returning with the tea.

    “Ta,” said Dorothy, accepting a cup and managing not to blink. “He’s told us to keep her warm and unstressed, give her lots of milk products, feed her little and often. But it’s very far advanced. She is anaemic, but he’s not going to do anything much about that. He’s prescribed some vitamins, but I think they’re just as a placebo.”

    Janet nodded seriously.

    Dorothy grimaced. “He thinks she’ll probably go this spring.”

    Janet’s nice eyes slowly filled with tears. “Dorothy, how awful,” she whispered.

    “Yeah,” said Dorothy with a sigh. “Poor damned kid.”

    “Dorothy, what’ll happen to little Murray?” she gasped.

    “Dunno. Uh—reading between the lines, he doesn’t seem to have seen all that much of Shiva. Rab says he cried for ages when bloody Nancy pushed off to California: she was the one he saw most of, Shiva was working in the nearest town and only used to come home for weekends. Bruce thinks he shouldn’t take it too badly. But as to who’s going to look after him…” She made a sour face. “I’m firmly not volunteering. Possibly society will say I ought to—”

    Janet squeezed her hand. “No. You’d be awful at it. People ought to stick to the things they can do.”

    “Thanks,” said Dorothy with a sigh.

    “He’s got an uncle and a grandfather,” said Janet, very firm.

    “Yes,” said Dorothy weakly. “So he has.”

    Janet thought about it. “The best thing would be for Rab to get married,” she announced.

    “Uh—yeah.”

    “But in the meantime… Well, Jack’s got lots of money, hasn’t he?” she said, blushing.

    “Rolling in it, in spite of the bite Randi took for the girls.”

    “He could afford to have someone really nice come in and look after him after school. But it might be better for Murray if him and Rab and Jack all live together.”

    “I suppose so.”

    “Then it wouldn’t matter which one of them took him, in the end.”

    “Yes,” said Dorothy limply. “You’re right.”

    The row echoed all the way down the corridor. The two Ornithological Research Fellows, who had ventured down to the first floor to ask Ms Coffi who they should ask about filling in the series of Costings A25-6/CFP(a), Expense Claims (Advances) A25-6/EFP(a) and (b), and Expense Claims A25-6/EFC(a) forms that had suddenly appeared in their in-trays, got halfway to her door, exchanged horrified glances, and fled.

    “We’ll do that another day!” gasped Moana as they hurried up the stairs.

    “Yeah!” gasped Jane in full agreement. “What if Mayli told us to ask her? All the forms with ‘A’ on them are her Admin forms, I’m positive!”

    Moana nodded feelingly. “I thought her and Armand were like that,” she said feebly, crossing her first two fingers, as they headed down the corridor to their offices.

    Jane nodded, her eyes bulging.

    “He was shouting in French,” croaked Moana.

    Jane nodded, her eyes bulging.

    “Help, what can it have been about?”

    “Dunno,” replied Jane happily. “Good, wasn't it?”

    “Uh—well, yeah!” she said with a guilty laugh. “Terrifying at the same time, though, Jane.”

    Jane nodded. “I’d have said Sammi and Armand were both too cold to lose it like that.”

    “Well, exactly!”

    Jane thought about it. “I’ll ask Dorothy later on,” she decided.

    “She’s been a funny mood lately, too,” said Moana uneasily.

    “Yes, well, asking her about this will prove it, one way or another. Um—if you want my opinion, only I don’t blame you if you don’t, that Expense Claims (Advances) form is a pre-claim form that you have to fill in if you intend claiming expenses in advance.”

    “Ye-es… Yes, but there’s two of them, Jane, an (a) and a (b)!” she cried.

    “That was my best shot,” replied Jane firmly, going into her office.

    Sammi had decided to make a pre-emptive strike. “I apologise for the noise earlier, Alan.”

    “Thank you. Please sit down, Sammi.”

    Sammi sat, looking red and cross.

    “What’s the matter? Can’t you get along with Gautier, after all?”

    Sammi had been about to explain, quite clearly and definitely, that she could not get along with Armand. Alan’s frontal attack gave her pause. “I suppose it isn’t that, really.”

    “No? Would you care for a coffee?” He knew that Sammi normally was very careful about her caffeine intake, and did not approve of the strength at which Mayli made his coffee.

    “Yes, I would, actually,” admitted Sammi with a sigh. “Thanks.”

    Alan pressed his intercom button and asked Ms Coffi to bring them.

    “We were too loud, and I won’t let it happen again.”

    “Thank you,” he said mildly. The coffee would not be long in coming: in the interval he asked Sammi how her garden was doing, in this wet weather, and mentioned that Toetoe Bay Farm was just about waterlogged, and he wished he’d had a proper paved drive put in, instead of the loads of gravel that the New Zealand soil seemed to absorb naturally. As the coffee came in he urged her to tell him what had happened.

    “It’s not so much this particular contretemps as the underlying root cause. Well, this time round, he was supposed to report to me on the progress of the programming for the new accountability procedures, but he didn’t. I freely admit, that made me mad enough: I do require my subordinates to report when asked, even if they have nothing new to report. Then I found that the reason he was behind with the job was that Jack Perkins had had an idea for making the programming more efficient: Armand’s been spending hours of his time on that.”

    “I see.”

    “The real problem is,” admitted Sammi with a sigh, having sipped, “that the chain of command isn’t clearly defined, with regard to Armand’s position.”

    “No,” said Alan thoughtfully. “That was wrong of us: we should have sorted it out when we remodelled the chair of engineering. I apologise, Sammi.”

    “Uh—thank you,” said Sammi, the wind now entirely taken out of her sails.

    “If we make his programming functions responsible to Jack, and his administrative functions responsible to you, that puts him in rather an anomalous position, doesn’t it?”

    “Yes. Well, actually, it puts him more or less where he is unofficially now, I’d say, and he’s certainly not handling that.”

    “Quite.”

    There was a short pause. Alan was hoping that Sammi would volunteer something, but she didn’t. Well, presumably they had reached either the limits of her capabilities or the limit at which she considered her responsibilities to end and his to begin. Alan did not like people who jumped in boots and all, pouring forth unsolicited and unconsidered suggestions. On the other hand, he had no particular admiration for the sort of caution that would not offer a suggestion if it perceived that its superior should be carrying the can. And he had no intention of employing anyone in a senior position who was incapable of realising that he himself would never put his senior staff in the position of being ultimately responsible for any cans of his.

    “I’d like to hear your views,” he said neutrally.

    Sammi replied promptly: “I’m not altogether sure whether the problem is Armand himself, or whether anyone we put in the same situation would find it equally difficult to cope with.”

    “Mm.” Alan rubbed his chin slowly. “Shall we base our discussion on the assumption that the old adage ‘No man can serve two masters’ is not merely folklore but has considerable psychological truth?”

    Sammi Wolfe did not point out that the two were not, as Alan’s turn of phrase implied, necessarily incompatible. Nor did she suggest that the essence of folklore was its psychological truth. Nor that Alan’s phrase as a phrase was not entirely felicitous. Alan swallowed a sigh: he missed Inoue. He was in Japan again: his wife was not very well. –Come to think of it, Inoue’s absence was very probably a contributing factor in Ms Wolfe’s present irritability.

    “Yes, all right,” she said with some relief. “I think you’re right. It is an impossible position. Um… I suppose it’s a question of whether we see Systems as being a function of the university itself, or merely of the IT services, isn’t it?”

    Whilst fully appreciating the fact that this speech put Perkins firmly in his place, Alan replied without a tremor: “Yes.” He hesitated, but did not give in to the temptation to say that one could also ask whether IT services were merely a function of the university Administration.

    “I really think that Armand’s position might sit better within the IT services area, Alan,” said Sammi with a certain reluctance.

    Alan was, frankly, rather surprised. He’d have thought she was the type to hang on to all outposts of her empire, at whatever cost in imperial forces and expenditure. “Well, yes, I incline to agree. We could, in fact, redefine his position within the IT area as Applications Manager. For Admin applications, the IT services would be required to report progress to you, just as they’re required to report library services progress to Dorothy. I think joint progress-monitoring sessions would be in order, in fact. And just by the by, it certainly sounds as if we need more programmers.”

    “I think so, yes. Bob Cummins seems to me to be very much overworked, and not functioning efficiently, though of course it’s not my area,” said Sammi in a terrifically neutral voice that wouldn’t have deceived a child of two,

    “No, quite. I think Jack is making progress in appointing a deputy: that should take care of some of the glitches. I’ll have a word with him, I think: sound him out. And then we’d better have a meeting. Let’s see… Three o’clock this afternoon?”—Sammi agreed gratefully.—“Yes. And if we’re all agreed, then I’ll speak to Gautier. I don’t like to shift my more senior positions around willy-nilly without consultation.”

    “No, of course not.” Sammi got up. “Thanks, Alan.”

    “That’s quite all right, it’s what I’m here for,” he said mildly.

    Sammi smiled brilliantly and went out looking quite happy, regardless of the fact that a large slice of her empire was about to vanish.

    Alan wandered over to his window and looked thoughtfully down at the wet view of Carter’s Bay’s main road. A large truck was parked outside Swadlings’: probably the driver was inside buying a pie. And possibly conning May Swadling into making him a cup of tea: Alan’s spies had now informed him that she did that without charge. No wonder there was so much good will in the community towards Swadlings’.

    Well, Sammi Wolfe had made the right decision, administratively speaking: it made far more sense for Gautier, whose background and training had very little in common with Sammi’s, and whose job was far more IT than Admin, to work for Jack. But for her to give up such a slice of her empire so easily… Well, there were three possible reasons. One, she really did see that it was the most efficient solution. Two, she’d seize any chance to get rid of Gautier, never mind if it meant giving up the position as well. Three, she had chickened out on the idea of managing the position when it was clearly posing such problems. Hmm… A combination of two and three was also possible, of course.

    Eventually he rang for Mayli. “Sit down, Mayli,” he said when she came in, notebook poised. Alan and Mayli had come to an agreement that while they both preferred the more formal style of address in public, when they were working alone together he would call her Mayli. She still called him Dr Kincaid, though. It had not occurred to Alan that most New Zealand secretaries would immediately have assumed they could call him Alan.

    Mayli sat down, looking politely expectant.

    “You won’t need your book. I need…” Alan frowned over it. “Your frank and considered opinion. What you say will not go further than this office.”

    “Yes, Dr Kincaid?”

    “I need to know what you think of the relationship between Sammi Wolfe and Armand Gautier. Doubtless you heard that row, earlier. I’m not thinking of sacking either of them, and nothing you say will affect my decisions about them. But… I need to know.”

    “I see,” said Mayli.

    Alan gave her a sharp glance: did he only fancy he saw a certain calculating look in those very dark eyes?

    “I don’t know either of them very well, Dr Kincaid.”

    “No. Never mind: go on, please.”

    “I think that they’re very alike. I do know he isn’t used to working for a woman and I think that may have been the cause of some friction. But for some time they have been getting on very well—working very well together, I'd say.”

    “Yes, so would I.”

    Mayli said without preamble or excuse: “My feeling is that they are very much attracted to each other, but neither of them are admitting it to themselves. She wouldn’t find it proper to indulge in any sort of relationship with a subordinate, and he would see it as overstepping the bounds of his position. Added to which, I don’t think he’s the sort of man who would easily be unfaithful to his wife. Even though it isn’t a happy marriage.”

    “Yes, well, I had had suspicions along those lines,” said Alan, a trifle limply.

    “Yes. I don’t think any of the staff have, though.”

    “No-o… Dorothy?”

    “I wasn’t including her,” said Mayli simply.

    Alan’s mouth twitched, just a little. “No, of course not. Well, thank you very much for that, Mayli. Er—it isn’t fair to ask you this, and please don’t reply if you don’t think you can: but in your opinion would any feeling Sammi Wolfe might have toward Gautier affect her decision, one way or another, about retaining his position within her area of responsibility?”

    He fancied he saw that calculating gleam again for an instant. Then she said with her usual composure: “I don’t mind replying, Dr Kincaid. But I honestly can’t give you an answer; I really don’t know. If she wanted the relationship enough… No, I can’t say. I don’t know her well enough.”

    “No. Thank you very much, Mayli, you’ve been a great help.”

    Mayli nodded composedly, said if that was all, then—? and went out, her usual composed self.

    Alan frowned and drummed his fingers on his desk. There had been, thinking it over, something really odd about Ms Coffi’s attitude. Really odd. Nothing in what she had said, but… He had not imagined that look in her eye. After a few moments he looked at his watch, looked at his diary, and dialled Dorothy’s extension. Unfortunately he didn’t have the time to go down to The Blue Heron but if she would fancy lunch at the Royal Kingfisher, he would really like to talk to her. Dorothy accepted.

    … “My opinion of Mayli?” she said numbly over the hot toddies which Alan had forced them to disgorge as apéritifs.

    “Mm.”

    Dorothy blinked madly. “Cool as a cucumber. Bit of a dark horse? –Sorry, Alan,” she said as he choked.

    “No! She is!” he gasped, patting himself on the chest.

    “Mm. Uh—well, me extensive spy network tells me she’s the sole support of an invalid mum, down in Mt Albert. Oh: you won’t know where that is. Um, loosely defined, it’s one of the outer suburbs of the inner city suburbs. Not far outside the Grammar Zone; in fact there’s a Mt Albert Grammar. Jack would have gone to it if he hadn’t got that scholarship to King’s.”

    “Mmm… That’s a fair amount of driving every day, isn’t it?”

    “Me spies would agree with you, in fact they do agree with you. I personally haven’t been able to get a thing out of the girl. Did she tell you she had a widowed invalid mum?”

    “Not exactly. When she was interviewed she was asked if she had any domestic responsibilities that might make demands on her time: she explained quite freely that her mother has multiple sclerosis and is in a wheelchair.”

    “God,” said Dorothy, grimacing.

    “Yes. I would have told you, but she asked us not to speak of it.”

    Dorothy admitted weakly: “Yes, I can see that, come to think of it. She wouldn’t want to be clucked over—not the type.”

    “No.”

    She finished her toddy slowly. “Is the mum technically a widow?”

    “Er—I don’t know. Mayli is certainly her sole support.”

    “I see.”

    The soup then arrived: Alan had already warned her about the Royal K’s idea of pumpkin soup, so Dorothy was able to take the posy floating on the swirl of cream on top of it without a blink. She removed it carefully with her spoon. The soup itself was entirely indifferent. Dorothy drank it up anyway: it wasn’t every day by any means that Alan Kincaid shouted her to lunch in the Royal K’s main dining-room, even if it was in order to torture the facts about his secretary out of her.

    “Is anything wrong?” she said cautiously as the soup was cleared away. “Mayli isn’t showing signs of strain, is she?”

    “No.” Alan stared blankly across the dining room. Dorothy merely waited. Finally he said: “I thought there was something odd… Possibly she didn’t like my asking her opinion of Sammi Wolfe and Armand Gautier.”

    “Oh?”

    “Possibly she was merely anxious to give me the answer I was looking for… I don’t know, Dorothy. I just thought she had a really odd look in her eye. I have never asked her anything personal about the other members of the staff before, but— I really don’t think that was it.”

    “Oh,” said Dorothy blankly. “Um—well, I’ve never noticed anything that could be described as an odd look in her eye.”

    “No. I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly than that.”

    “Um…” Dorothy cleared her throat.

    “Go on; I can take it,” said Alan drily.

    “Yes, well, it wasn’t the look of a secretary who resented her boss putting her on the spot, was it?”

    “She spoke very frankly. I don’t think it was.”

    “Or the look of a secretary who simply dislikes her boss?”

    “Do you think she dislikes me? I find if they dislike one they generally perform very badly—with or without consciously intending it, depending on their intelligence level,” he said coolly.

    “That’s my experience, too,” she agreed.

    Alan smiled, just a little. “I find it hard to believe you’ve ever had an employee who disliked you, Dorothy.”

    “Thanks very much,” she said, rather taken aback. “But I think we’ve all had ’em, in our time. Mine were mostly lazy little sods who thought their jobs were gonna be sinecures and who resented the fact that I forced them to work. And I did once have the really frightful experience of having to take over a library full of lazy, middle-aged married moos who’d had it all their own way for fifteen years with a male boss who didn’t have the guts to stand up to them. They all loathed me without exception.”

    At this point there was an interruption: a woman on the far side of the room in a bright blue hat who Dorothy had been afraid was Phyllis, Lady Harding, in fact was. She only knew Dorothy through Polly, and at that their acquaintance was of the slightest; nevertheless she came up to them and waxed extremely gracious, not to say extremely coy, until Dorothy was forced to introduce Alan…

    “Do you play bridge?” she burst out desperately as Phyllis at last swanned off.

    “Yes; I’m very good at it,” he said calmly.

    Dorothy nodded limply. Alan had told Phyllis Harding, with the coolest smile imaginable this side of absolute zero, that he was a duffer at card games. Phyllis had been so disappointed: they were always looking for a four, someone who could really give her and Joan and Perry a game, because dear John was hopeless and Joan’s hubby wasn’t much better!

    “Polly hates cards but she tells me that Phyllis is really good, if you were looking for a game,” she said cautiously.

    “The woman looks and sounds like a demented parrot and apart from the bridge, I’d imagine her brain is very much on that level: no, thanks.”

    Dorothy grinned, and conceded he had a point.

    “I ought to warn you,” she said over the lamb chops smothered in what claimed to be a cranberry-based sauce: it’d be some of that juice the Yanks had attempted to flood the market with last summer: “Polly is actually rather fond of Phyllis.”

    “Thank you, Dorothy; I’ll watch my tongue, then. I don’t want to make any more faux pas in that direction.” Coolly Alan told Dorothy of his frightful failure to recognise Dr P.M. Mitchell in Lady Carrano, corporate wife. Dorothy laughed so much she had to stop eating lamb chops in cranberry juice and blow her nose.

    “He’s not all bad,” she reported to Jane Vincent and Beth Martin that evening over a much more down-market, but much, much higher quality meal, to wit, fish and chips from Jacko’s cart.

    “He’s still terrifying, though,” said Beth frankly.

    “Yeah,” agreed Jane.

    “Mm. Damned attractive, though,” admitted Dorothy somewhat reluctantly. “Polly’s expert opinion was right, as usual.”

    “Did she say he was dishy?” asked Jane, smiling.

    “The technical terms were dishy and sexy, I think. –Ooh, Jacko’s given me a scallop!” she discovered.

    “Me, too. He must really like you, Dorothy, he was charging Norm Parkinson two-fifty each for half a dozen, yesterday. Claiming they were out of season,” said Jane with a twinkle.

    “Are they out of season?” said Dorothy blankly.

    “Dunno. Ask Beth, she’s the marine expert.”

    They looked at Beth.

    “Um—it depends how you define their season. I mean, breeding season or fishing season?”

    “Fishing, I suppose,” said Dorothy.

    “I don’t know anything about fishing,” replied Beth firmly, but with a twinkle in her eye.

    Dorothy and Jane spluttered and had to revive themselves with copious draughts of the pinkish fizzy substance Dorothy had provided.

    Jane then read the label. “Help, are they still issuing this?”

    “Cold Duck? You may well say, an icy blast from the past, but this is the current vintage, actually. It’s the second generation or something.”

    “Next question: why?” she croaked.

    “The craving came upon me in the middle of the hop. Added to which I went down to Puriri and then discovered I'd left it too late to go to the bank, and the bloody Tavern’s bottle-shop wouldn’t take the plastic.”

    “Oh, right!” said Jane cheerfully. Adding as she chewed very fresh scallop, deep-fried in batter: “This is about the most glorious thing I’ve ever eaten.”

    “Definitely,” agreed Beth, having discovered a scallop in amongst her chips, too. She didn’t think Mr Te Hana knew who she was, even. Perhaps it was because she’d been with Dorothy and Jane.

    “Anyway, Alan’s not all bad. Um… has Mayli ever talked to either of you about herself?” said Dorothy causally.

    “No,” said Jane.

    “No. Well, we sometimes chat about cars—she’s interested in vintage cars, she loves Jack’s Caddy,” said Beth, pinkening. “I don’t know anything, really, but she knows a lot. But she never talks about herself.”

    “No. The girl’s an oyster,” said Dorothy heavily.

    “He’s given me one!” discovered Jane with a laugh.

    “What, an oyster? You lucky sod,” said Dorothy with simple envy. “Must be because you’re a mate of Adrian’s. Or did you admire the launch?”

    “Both,” said Jane placidly, eating it. “Mmm…”

    They were eating at Beth’s gracious residence, since Dorothy’s was as of this moment occupied by Jack, hammering. They could hear him right through his flat and the wall separating it from Dorothy’s. Dorothy finished her chips, drained her glass, and got up with a sigh. “I’d better go. He’ll paint it white if I don’t stop him.”

    “Would this be wrong?” said Jane with a twinkle in her eye.

    “It’s a lovely knotty-pine fake four-poster, what I’ve had a secret hankering for all me life, too right it’d be wrong! I intend forcing him to stain it mahogany and put six coats of polyurethane varnish on it so as it looks like a real fake-mahogany four-poster.”

    “Did you get rid of your old bedstead?” asked Jane.

    “No. Oh—sorry: no, it’s not going begging, Jane. Jack’s painted it white, that’s why I’ve gotta dash next-door and stop him.”

    “But I thought he had a bed?” said Beth in confusion.

    “He’s made that into a bed for Murray by the simple expedient of buying lengths of aluminium tubing and painting them bright red, and if you didn’t hear the bloody racket he made when he was putting that together, you must be deaf! –I’m going. Drink the rest of that plonk, my craving’s over for another sixteen years.” She rushed out.

    After a certain period had passed in musing silence, Jane said slowly: “Something’s up.”

    “Mm. She’s been very—very edgy, for a while now. Febrile?”

    Jane grimaced and nodded.

    “Um—it might just be Thomas,” said Beth, blushing.

    “Ye-es… I’d have said relations had improved there, actually.”

    “Yes, I thought so, too. Um—actually, Jane, don’t repeat it, will you,” said Beth, this time blushing very brightly, “but Adrian and Anna think there might be something wrong with Shiva.”

    “Adrian said as much to me,” she admitted with a sigh.

    Beth looked at her fearfully.

    “I wouldn’t ask Dorothy about it, she’s not the sort of person that likes to exchange girlish secrets.”

    “No, I realise that,” said Beth humbly.

    Jane’s thin face reddened. “I’m sorry, Beth, that was bloody patronising.”

    “No, it was honest,” said Beth mildly.

    After a moment Jane said: “I do try not to do the ‘advice to the young from your grandmother’ bit.”

    “I know. Don’t worry, you don’t do it.”

    “Good. I am a grandmother, you know,” she said with a sigh.

    “Mm,” said Beth, nodding hard.

    Jane sighed again. “You’re never really free of them, once you’ve had them.”

    “No,” she murmured.

    “As Jack Perkins seems to be discovering.”

    “Yes. When they first came he didn’t take much notice of them, really. But now, he’s… Well, Murray is a dear little boy.”

    Jane sighed. “Yeah. But if his mum’s got something serious it would certainly explain the change of heart.”

    “Mm.”

    Jane poured the dregs of the Cold Duck carefully into their two glasses. They ate and drank in companionable silence.

    “That was bloody odd, the way Dorothy was going on about Mayli,” said Jane at last.

    “Yes. I wonder why?”

    Jane rubbed her nose. “Dunno. Um… well, I thought it was vaguely connected with the lunch with Alan, but looking back I can’t see why.”

    “No,” she admitted. “Nor can I.”

    Jane crumpled up her chip papers. “Personally I don’t find anything strange in Mayli not wanting to spend all her tea breaks and lunch-hours exchanging girlish secrets and knitting tips with Juliette and Yvonne. And nor does Dorothy, so it can’t be that.”

    “No. I suppose it is a bit odd,” she ventured shyly. “I mean, everybody else talks about themselves and their families, to some extent!”

    “Mm…” said Jane thoughtfully.

    “This is it, I suppose,” said Monica Revill with distaste.

    “Yes. Well, must be, it’s scruffy enough. And the other place—which I admit was equally scruffy—was serving beer. –Oh: yes, look, dear, there’s your pot-plant in the window.”

    Monica peered. So it was.

    “Don’t tell me he’s been watering it,” said Cameron heavily.

    “Um—well, he must have been, Cameron, it looks healthy enough!”

    “Remember what a struggle it was to get him to mow the bloody lawn?” he said dreamily.

    His wife replied acidly: “You mean in the short period between puberty and the point at which he went off to work for that frightful old woman?”

    “Ancient history, Monica,” said Cameron with a sigh. “Come on, we’re here, we might as well get it over with.”

    “We should have told him we were coming,” said Monica uneasily.

    Cameron thought so, too, now that they’d actually got here. However, he replied robustly: “Balls! He is our son, for God’s sake!” And got out of the car.

    Monica got out slowly. “It’s freezing,” she grumbled.

    “Yes, well, it’s the waterfront.” Cameron rang the bell. The brass bell-push was surprisingly well polished—gleaming, even. The frightful old front door was, however, in shocking repair. Shocking. No paint left, and one panel had been replaced with a piece of galvanised iron. He swallowed a sigh.

    After three pushings of the bell they became aware that a hoarse young voice was crying: “I say! Hullo! I say!” In a very up-market English accent indeed.

    Cameron stepped back onto the pavement and looked up. “YES?” he bellowed.

    A dark-haired boy was leaning over the balcony. “I say! I’m frightfully sorry: we can’t open the front door!” he cried.

    “Who on earth is that?” hissed Monica irritably.

    “No idea,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “I’m NOT SURPRISED!” he bellowed.

    “NO! We’ve been VARNISHING!” cried the boy.

    At this, another thin-faced figure with equally short dark hair appeared next to him. “Not the door: the FLOOR!”

    “That’s a girl!” hissed Monica. “Who is she?”

    “Yes! Ssh!” he hissed. “Is there a BACK DOOR?” he shouted.

    “We’re NOT OPEN!” cried the girl. “Try the pub!”

    “Jesus,” muttered Cameron under his breath.

    “We’re looking for ADRIAN!” screamed Monica.

    The boy leaned right over the balcony. “Go round to the back! That way!” he cried, flapping his hand.

    “RIGHT!” shouted the girl.

    “She means her right,” decided Cameron heavily. “Come on.”

    … “Ugh!” cried Monica, recoiling.

    Cameron, being a male, was bit more used to the back regions of old country pubs. Actually, as soon as you got out of the immediate metropolitan region they were like this. In fact he’d been to the dead ringer of this one over in… Helensville, had it been? Well, possibly it was tarted up these days, that was over twenty years back. “That’s the old gents’,” he said helpfully.

    Monica shuddered and averted her eyes.

    “Think they’ve removed the actual bog.”

    “Don’t look, and don’t touch anything!” she ordered.

    She must be disturbed: she hadn’t told him not to say “bog”. Cameron sighed, and said without hope: “The backs of old country pubs are always like this, dear. At least this one doesn’t—” He broke off.

    “Yes?” said Monica acidly.

    “Stink,” said Cameron feebly, hammering on the back door.

    It was opened almost immediately by a very old Maori man. One of the scruffiest objects Cameron had seen in a long time. He was chewing. “Yeah?” he said stolidly, continuing to chew.

    “This Adrian’s pub?” said Cameron before his wife could open her great mouth and put her great foot in it.

    “More or less, yeah. Come in.” He stepped back a little, still chewing, and jerked his head in what could have been interpreted as an inviting gesture by the broad-minded.

    A plump, untidy-looking fair girl in jeans and a plastic apron which the Revills instantly recognised as one that Adrian’s misguided brother had given him some years back for Christmas was standing at the large, gleaming, industrial-size stove, stirring.

    “My God, how much did that stove set him back?” croaked Cameron, forgetting certain vows he had privately taken about tact and not criticising the boy: he was grown up now.

    “I don’t know. You need a proper stove, in the trade,” said the fair girl.

    She couldn’t be Adrian’s, surely? She looked… Well, she looked normal, he supposed. Nothing like the string of stunners he’d had in tow any time these past eight years or so. Or, looking back, since puberty, really, though you could say this for the kid, he never had been a vain boy.

    Monica looked wildly round the kitchen. “This is ridiculous!” she said loudly.

    “We think he’s done it up quite nicely. It is a working kitchen,” said the girl.

    Ignoring her, Monica said fiercely to Cameron: “Look at all the copperware! My God, that stuff costs a fortune at Smith and Caughey: he’s going to be in debt to that bloody Carrano man until he’s ninety!”

    “He didn’t get it at Smith and Bloody Caughey’s: he’s not flaming daft,” said the old Maori.

    Monica and Cameron had momentarily forgotten he was there: they jumped.

    “It’s all industrial,” said the girl vaguely.

    “Neh. Half of it he got in France,” corrected the old man.

    “Yes,” she said, stirring. “Can I help you?” she said politely to Monica and Cameron.

    “We’re looking for Adrian. Where is he? And may I ask why you’re cooking on his stove, dear?” said Monica, not managing to cover the acid.

    “She isn’t cooking,” said the old man.

    “No, I’m just stirring,” said the girl politely. “Adrian told me to stir; I can’t cook.”

    “Ya done them cheesy things he taught ya okay,” said the old man. “They were good. Crocks, does he call them?”

    “Oh—yes. He says our cheese is actually better for those. –I’m sorry, he’s just nipped out,” she said to Monica and Cameron.

    Cameron had now decided she looked nice. Not a stunner, but pretty, with that lovely long, thick, fair hair. And those pink cheeks. He came up to her side, smiling. “We’re his parents. S’pose we should have let him know we were coming.”

    “Rubbish, Cameron,” said Monica briskly. “We’ll just wait for him in the sitting-room. Through here, is it, dear?”

    “There isn’t a sitting-room,” said the girl, going very pink.

    “No. And ya can’t come through into the lounge bar, we just put a last coat of varnish on the hall floor,” said the old man.

    “Then where do you sit?” said Monica grimly.

    “Dunno. Uh—s’pose we’ll probably go upstairs and sit on their bed,” he said, jerking his head at the girl. “Well, the TV’s up there, might as well, eh?” he said to her.

    “Yes. But the others were going to watch that gloomy old Japanese film of Sim’s,” she warned him.

    “Eh? Aw. Blow. Yeah. Well, if ya wanna watch a blurred old Japanese thing that Sim taped off the English TV, ya welcome to,” he said to Monica and Cameron.

    “What blurred old Japanese thing?” asked Cameron with interest.

    “Some black and white thing. Blokes coming back after the War. Think they all end up with the—” He broke off, eyeing Monica warily.

    “Don’t go on,” she said grimly.

    “I wasn’t gonna, Missus!” he said hurriedly.

    “You could just stay in here in the warm, if you like,” said the girl timidly.

    “Just a minute. When you said ‘their’ bed, whose did you mean?” said Monica grimly to the old man.

    “Eh? Anna and Adrian’s, of course. Hers and his,” he said, jerking his head at the girl.

    “Yes. I’m Anna,” she said, blushing.

    “Anna? Whatever happened to that lovely Ingrid?” said Monica in a blank voice.

    “Monica, that’ll do,” warned Cameron.

    “So! You’re Anna!” said Monica very brightly. “And how long have you known Adrian, dear?”

    “Not long. A few weeks, I suppose.”

    “Weeks!” said Monica loudly.

    “Now, look, Monica, it’s none of our—”

    Ignoring Cameron, Monica said: “Anna, dear, far be it from me to criticise the conduct of you young people—goodness knows, we were the love generation, weren’t we, Cameron?”—Cameron’s jaw sagged.—“But I hope you do know what Adrian’s like? We understand him, of course—”

    “Monica, that’ll do!” said Cameron loudly.

    “And while he's young, he wants to experiment: he doesn’t know yet what type will suit him. You young people should enjoy yourselves while you can. But he is fickle, dear, there’s no disguising it.”

    “What she means is, he’s shown no signs of wanting to marry Heather Michaelson from down the road whose dad’s in the right sort of law firm and whose mum’s a cousin of bloody Phyllis Harding’s!” said Cameron very loudly. “Just drop it, Monica!”

    “Don’t be silly , dear, Heather isn’t interested in Adrian.”

    “Not since he’s gone into the restaurant business, no. Though if she thought she could winkle him out of it, she would be. –Ignore every word Monica says, Anna.”

    “It isn’t serious, anyway, Mrs Revill, said Anna in a strangled voice. “It’s juh-just convenient.”

    “Balls,” noted Jacko mildly. “He’s had a few birds round the place, but he never asked one to move in with him before.”

    “That’s right. More like asking them to sling their hooks—which I seem to remember occurred in the case of the ghastly Ingrid. –She was ghastly,” Cameron explained to Anna. “We’ll go and find somewhere to sit out of your way.” He grabbed Monica’s arm. “Come on, you’ve done enough damage here.”

    “Go upstairs,” said Jacko, ambling over to the door and opening it for them. “Couple of the rooms have got heaters in ’em.”

    “Thanks,” said Cameron grimly, propelling the protesting Monica out.

    “No wonder he doesn’t see much of them,” said Jacko detachedly, not bothering to lower his voice.

    Anna nodded, blinking.

    Jacko closed the door. “Don’t bawl. Easy to see what type she is. Nothing’s too good for the blue-eyed boy, eh? Adrian was telling me she was even worse over Timothy, if ya can imagine it. Be because ’e’s the eldest. Kicked up a terrific stink when he took up with Carol.”

    “His wife? I thought she liked her?” said Anna, staring.

    Jacko sniffed. “Yeah, well, after she found she was one of old Sir Jerry Cohen’s grandkids and had a whacking great trust fund: yeah. Kicked up a Helluva stink when she first found out about it, though.”

    “Oh,” said Anna numbly.

    Jacko sucked his teeth reflectively. “Yeah. –That Ingrid was a cow. Swedish. Thought she was too good for ’im.”

    “Oh.” Anna stirred soup blindly.

    Jacko merely sat down and chewed, his face expressionless.

    When Adrian hurried in five minutes later, panting: “Is that Mum and Dad’s car out there?” the old man merely responded with a grunt.

    Adrian looked uneasily at Anna. “Has Mum been bitchy to you?”

    “Not really,” she said in a tiny voice.

    He reddened. “Why do you think I got out of it the minute I left school?”

    “She—she has got your best interests at heart,” said Anna in a trembling voice.

    “Yeah, regardless of what I might want to do with my life. Don’t let’s go over it, nothing she can say or do will have any influence on me, Anna.”

    “No,” said Anna, smiling a shaky smile. “But—but I’m sure she is fond of you.”

    “Mm.” Adrian came and peered over her shoulder. “The soup looks okay—good. She’s fond of me in the way most parents are fond of their kids: without in the least being able to stop and see what I might want or prefer, let alone what I’m like or who I am. I think she decided when I was born that I was gonna go into law like her brother. Personally I wouldn’t think any new-born infant could look like a lawyer, but that’s Mum all over. I’ll get rid of them.”

    “They probably want to stay for lunch, Adrian. It is lunchtime.”

    “Bugger that!”

    “They are ya parents,” said Jacko neutrally.

    “I’m not into the extended family bit—” Adrian broke off, very red. “Sorry, Jacko. You’re right. All right, I’ll go and tell them that if they can manage to treat me and my friends like fellow human beings, they can stay to lunch. Okay?”

    Jacko just grunted, but Anna said: “Yes,” in a shaky voice.

    “Where are they?”

    “Upstairs. Prolly not watching that bloody Jap video of Sim’s,” said Jacko detachedly. “We gonna have that beer, or not?”

    “Eh? Oh,” said Adrian lamely, setting it down on the kitchen table. “Um—no. Mum’s convinced that one drinks chilled white with soup. It’s not worth arguing about.”

    “Okay,” he said amiably, ambling over to the fridge.

    Adrian went out.

    “Um—what about plates?” said Anna faintly.

    “We got two extra pudding plates?”

    “No.”

    Jacko scratched his head. He chose a bottle from the fridge and read out the statement on its label very slowly. “That okay?”

    “Don’t ask me!” said Anna with a sudden laugh.

    Jacko’s lips twitched, but all he said was: “Sim and Martin’ll eat their soup out of anything. Better give his mum and dad the decent plates.”

    “Yes,” agreed Anna gratefully.

    Monica was very, very gracious over the soup, even though there was nowhere to eat except perched on the bed, with the plates balanced on their knees. She didn’t fail to interrogate Wallis, Martin and Sim narrowly about their parentage and backgrounds, but as not the most captious upper-middle-class matron could have found anything to which to object in their replies, didn’t.

    After lunch Adrian got them out of harm’s way by letting them inspect the two embryo upstairs flats. Monica was pleased to approve.

    He didn’t escape scot-free, of course: she had to know how much he’d spent on the stove and the kitchen equipment, but was flattened on stating that of course he should have taken over L’Oie Qui Rit’s equipment by Adrian’s replying: “Madame took her favourite pieces with her, but the big Sydney and Melbourne hotels wiped the floor with the rest of us at the auction for the batterie de cuisine.”

    She ended up announcing graciously that Adrian must bring Anna to afternoon tea some time—though she didn’t guarantee that her cooking would be up to Adrian’s standards!—and exiting with a gracious smile all round.

    “Oh, dear,” said Anna, blowing her nose.

    “Bad as Mum,” said Martin kindly.

    “Is she?” she said wanly, smiling weakly at him.

    Out at the car Adrian said grimly: “Don’t come again, if you’re gonna have a go at Anna.”

    “Adrian! Really!”

    “You asked for that,” said Cameron, getting into the car without holding her door from her.

    Monica got in, scowling.

    Adrian bent down to her window. “I won’t say, why can’t you be supportive, because I realise it’s not in your nature. But I will say, if it comes to a choice between you and Anna, it’ll be Anna.”

    “You’ve know the girl a few weeks!” shouted Monica, turning puce.

    “Yes. I just thought it needed saying,” Adrian replied calmly.

    “That’ll do,” said Cameron mildly. “She is your mother.”

    “I don’t think that gives her the right to treat my friends unkindly. I should have thought that even you could see that Anna isn’t the sort that can stand up to bullying.”

    “How dare you!” gasped Monica, still bright puce.

    “He’s right,” said Cameron suddenly, frowning. “You were bloody cruel to the girl, Monica. I realise it’s a bit of a shock to find your son living with a girl we’ve never met, or even heard of,”—he gave Adrian a hard look—“but there was no need to take it out on her.”

    “No. If I’d thought you’d be decent to her, I’d have brought her over for afternoon tea long since,” said Adrian neutrally.

    “That’ll do, I think, old man,” said his father hurriedly. “Just remember you’ve got quite a lot of your mother in you, eh?”

    “Yeah. All right. Sorry, Mum. I realise you were upset. I should have told you about her.”

    “Yes, you should,” said Monica, blowing her nose angrily.

    “I thought— Um, I chickened out,” said Adrian lamely.

    “Yeah, we realise that. Look, if it’s all right with you, I might come over and give you a hand with the painting and stuff,” said Cameron.

    Adrian flushed. “Thanks, Dad.”

    “Give me a ring. We’ll decide when it’d suit,” said Cameron, starting the car. “And for God’s sake, get the phone in!”

    “I applied months back, Dad.”

    “Yeah. All right. See ya.”

    “See ya,” said Adrian stolidly as the car drove off.

    “You might have been a little more supportive, Cameron!”

    “Of whom?”

    Monica was silent, very flushed. Then she said: “He never even kissed me!”

    “No, well, who can blame him? I grant you he was in the wrong: if he’s at all serious about this girl he should have brought her over, or at least told us of her existence. But he is an adult: if you want to keep on reasonable terms with him, you’ll have to accept him for what he is.”

    “For what he is? He’s our son!” she cried.

    “Yeah. Give him another twenty-eight years or so and he’ll understand what you’re on about,” said Cameron heavily.

    “But— Oh.”

    “Remember the first time I had you round to tea?”

    “That was entirely different! Your mother was expecting me!”

    “Yeah, too right.”

    There was a strange silence.

    “Oh, dear. I should never have worn that mini-skirt, of course. But everyone was wearing them…”

    Cameron’s shoulders shook. “Yeah. Poor old Mum. You had that weird white lipstick, too, remember?”

    “Not white. Um—very pale pink,” she said limply.

    Cameron sniggered. “What with that and the eyeliner! Were pandas mentioned to your actual face? I can’t remember.”

    “Pandas? Oh—good grief,” said Monica limply. “Did she really?”

    “Yeah. Interminably. Poor old Dad stood it for a long as he could and then escaped to the shed.”

    Monica bit her lip. “Mm.”

    Cameron drove in silence for a while. Then he said: “If you want to be on good terms with your grandkids—what am I saying? If you want to see them, then you’d better bloody make up your mind to put up with Adrian’s choice of a partner in life. Because believe you me, I’m not springing for trips to Perth every year to see Stephanie’s lot. Nor yet ruddy Ottawa to see Timothy’s.

    “He was very lucky to get that post with the High Commission—”

    “Yeah. And it probably won’t be for ever, no. So?”

    Monica licked her lips. “So you do think Adrian’s serious about that girl?”

    “Anna. An—na,” said Cameron loudly and clearly.

    “All right! Anna.”

    “Um… I think there’s every possibility that he is, yes. She’s very different from the usual glamorous bints that we’ve come to expect in that quarter.”

    “Don’t use that word,” said Monica tiredly.

    “Well, at least Anna isn’t one! I’d say she’s a thoroughly nice girl. The sort that would be more than happy to give you grandkids.”

    Monica frowned.

    “Granted she’ll never be a gracious Grammar Zone hostess. So what? Adrian clearly doesn’t want that sort of life. If you want to see anything of him and your grandkids, bite on the bullet.”

    “You’re being ridiculous. It’s—it’s far too soon to talk about their children.”

    Cameron could hear the lack of conviction. He merely replied mildly: “Yeah, well, her or another.”

    “Yes,” she said dully.

    Cameron drove on in silence. Usually she screamed at him, when they were up this way, to take the coast road south of Puriri: it was so much prettier, and much safer than the motorway. This time she didn’t even notice when he turned straight into Sir John Marshall Avenue and headed up to Pukeko Drive and thence the Puriri on-ramp. In fact he could probably have taken the motorway all the way from Carter’s Bay and avoided Puriri entirely: probably she wouldn’t even have noticed his usual fumbling attempts to find the bloody roundabout. Well, poor old Mon’.

    As they shot past the Brown’s Bay off-ramp he began to whistle, unaware he was doing it. “Hey, there, Georgy girl…”

    As they shot past the complex nexus of underpasses and overpasses and clover leaves that marked the Takapuna off-ramp and the traffic thickened, Monica said: “Remember that dear little yellow all-in-oney he had?”

    “Eh?”

    “When he was two. Your Aunty Noelene knitted it. Wool wasn’t practical, of course, and toddlers are so hard on their things… I kept it for best.”

    Cameron didn’t have a clue what she was talking about or even which of the boys she was talking about, come to that: he merely agreed with her.

    “Of course, it’s all washable stretch-towelling jumpsuits these days,” she said with a sigh.

     Was it? “Mm.”

    “I suppose… Well, every kiddy needs something to wear for best, after all! Your Aunty Noelene gave me the pattern, I do remember that, because I knitted one for Gail Langley’s little Gavin, in blue. It was really hard: all knitted in one piece. You know, like a sock! I really hate these plastic needles that are all you can get these days… I’m absolutely sure I’ve still got the pattern! I put it away very carefully.”

    “Mm.”

    “I’ll have a look for it when we get home!” she said determinedly.

    Cameron didn’t argue. Even though it was quite on the cards that Adrian would not marry Anna, after all. For God’s sake, he’d known the girl a few weeks. It was a bit soon to be counting the yellow all-in-oney-ed offspring before they—

    “What are you doing?” she screamed.

    Cameron pulled in shakily to the verge of the Bridge motorway and stopped, a highly illegal operation even though there was a wide gravelled space between the motorway and the mangroves in which to do so, and laughed until the tears oozed out of his eyes and he had to blow his nose hard. “Adrian’s offspring. Fluffy yellow all-in-oneys.” He swallowed. “Counting them before they’re hatched,” he said weakly.

    “Very funny, Cameron,” said Monica. But very, very feebly.

    Grinning, Cameron patted her knee and started up again. “We’ll have a nice cuppa when we get home, eh? And then I might just give Jack Stirling a ring: get him to hunt out the plans for that verandah furniture he made for Josh’s place, eh?”

    “What? Oh, yes! Yes, that was really lovely: lovely old-fashioned designs: I think they were adapted from an old Australian mail-order catalogue, weren’t they? But not too kitschy, they'd be just right for Adrian’s…” Monica’s voice trailed off

    “You’re right,” said Cameron placidly. “They were Australian designs. There wouldn’t be so much call for a cradle to match your verandah swing, over here. But they do get decent summers up at Carter’s Bay.”

    After quite some time Monica said in a very feeble voice indeed: “Josh and Dana Stirling’s little Chris loves his.”

    “That’s just what I was thinking,” said Cameron placidly.

    Monica bit her lip, and then gave a sheepish laugh. “Oh, dear! We are a pair!”

    Cameron patted her knee again. “It’s the granny and grandpa hormones. They strike, when your offspring get to the age of producing offspring.”

    “I suppose they do,” admitted Monica.

    “Is there anything I can do?” said Beth timidly from the head of Dorothy’s circular staircase.

    “Ndo. Ta,” said Dorothy thickly. “Add don’d cubb ady closer, I’b sure idd’s catchigg.”

    “Um—if you need any shopping done, I can easily nip in to Swadlings’.”

    “Radds. ’S pourigg,” said Dorothy thickly.

    “Um—have you got any lemons?

    “Ndo. Habb you?”

    “No, but I can easily—”

    “Abs’y dott,” said Dorothy thickly, sneezing. “’Scuse be.”

    “Um—I brought you some Panadol, anyway,” said Beth, producing it from behind her back.

    “Ta. Angel. –Hell!” said Dorothy, sneezing violently just as the phone rang.

    “I’ll get it,” said Beth in some relief that there was something she could do.

    It was Rab, wanting to know if Aunty Dorothy could possibly take Murray, because Shiva wasn’t feeling too good, and he had to go to a job interview.

    “Um—well, Dorothy’s got an awful cold. I could mind him, if you like,” said Beth shyly.

    Murray’s uncle expressed fervent thanks, said he’d drop him off in fifteen minutes, then, and rang off.

    “Ta,” said Dorothy limply, as Beth reported. “You dow addythigg aboud seven-year-o’ds?”

    “No, but we’ll manage. You try and have a sleep. I’ll come in again at lunchtime.”

    “Thaggs, bud I won’d be huggry,” said Dorothy definitely.

    “No; I’ll bring you in a nice big jug of cordial.”

    “I hade cordial. Don’d bother,” said Dorothy, sneezing again.

    “You’ll like mine. I make it myself from scratch. If you haven’t got a temperature you can have it jazzed up with some of Sol’s perry.”

    “I have, budd we’ll iggdore id. Ta.”

    “That’s okay.” Beth went over to the staircase but before she could go down it Dorothy said: “Do be a favour add keeb Ida off be?”

    Beth turned, smiling. “It’s all right: she hasn’t come in today: her husband’s got it, too.”

    “One bercy,” she muttered, closing her eyes. And not asking why the fuck Jack couldn’t look after his own grandchild on a pouring wet, freezing cold Saturday with half the populace down with the bot. –Why was Rab having a job interview on a Saturday? Oh, forget it, forget it: there’d be some frightfully reasonable macho explanation.

    Like the half of the populace that wasn’t home with the bot, Jack had been spending his Saturday morning fighting his way round the Puriri supermarkets. He staggered in through the empty boutique; he did try not to do so on Ida’s busy days, but there was nowhere to park the car in back, unless one drove onto the grass, and he didn’t fancy getting the Caddy bogged down, thanks.

    Upstairs there was the most wonderful mixed smell of—citrus?—something sweet and fruity, anyroad, and something very savoury. And there was Beth Martin, sitting on his borrowed rug (one of Dot’s: Habitat crossed with fake Southwest), playing with Murray.

    “Hello, Grandpa!” shouted the little boy, scrambling up and rushing to hug Jack’s knees.

    “Hi, Murray. Hi, Beth,” said Jack limply. “Don’t get up,” he added hurriedly as she made to scramble to her feet.

    “I’m sorry: we had to come in here. My roof’s sprung a leak.”

    “The rain came in, Grandpa!” cried Murray.

    Jack dumped the shopping on the floor and picked him up. “Did it, now?”

    “Aye, and Beth’s hoose was a’ wet,” he said solemnly.

    Jack kissed his round brown cheek, who gave a damn if it was sissy, or whatever the Scottish vernacular might be. “Uh-huh? That sounds bad.”

    “It’s not too bad,” Beth explained, “but I was bit scared, because it was running down the wall near the plug. I was afraid it might electrocute us if I turned the heater on.”

    Jack winced. “Right.”

    “So we came over here. I asked Sol if he thought that’d be okay.”—Jack blinked, but nodded.—“He said he thought it would.”

    “Sure it’s okay. Did you ask Sol to take a look at your roof?”

    “No, he offered,” she said, turning pink.

    “Uh-huh. –Dot’s cold worse, is it?’

    “Yes. Dreadful,” said Beth solemnly.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “So I said I’d look after Murray. Rab had to go to a job interview and Shiva’s lying down.

    “Mummy’s tired,” said Murray solemnly.

    Jack swallowed a sigh. Poor little scrap. And if it was this goddamned difficult looking after him now, how the Hell were they gonna manage once Shiva went? Get Beth Martin to come camp permanently on his floor? He looked at Beth, with her round cheeks very pink and her thick auburn waves ruffled, and thought involuntarily he wouldn’t half mind that. If so be as she could be persuaded out of that depressing navy sweater and into something a bit prettier. Not to say more feminine.

    “Thanks very much, Beth,” he said, smiling at her.

    “I’ve made some soup for lunch. I hope it was all right to use your stove.”

    It wasn’t exactly a stove, it was a halogen four-burner cook-top which cost The Earth out here but what the Hell: at his time of life he wasn’t prepared to spend his life scrubbing old-fashioned hot plates—or, worse, the cast-iron tops of old-fashioned gas cookers: they’d had what he reckoned was the original EnZed gas stove back when him and Nancy had first— Yeah, like before Shiva was born or thought of, right. Jack came to with a jump and found Beth was looking at him anxiously, very red.

    “Huh? Oh! Yeah, sure. It is my grandson you’re looking after. Use anything. Sol give you the verdict on your roof, yet?”

    “Yes,” said Beth, scrambling up quickly, redder than ever. “Him and Mr Higgins are gonna fix it. They’re in there now.”

    “Lame Higgins? The plumber? He came?” croaked Jack.

    “No, it was a coincidence. He was buying something from Sol. He knows all about roofs.”

    “They’re like gold,” said Jack in a half-whisper. “Honey, get right on over and go down on bended knees to him!”

    “Yes! I mean, I did!” she gasped, all flustered. “You sounded just like Sol, then!”

    Very belatedly Jack realised he'd called her “honey”. Oh, well, what the Hell: might suggest to her, and porcine forms might soar through the ether, too, that he thought of her as something more than a handy neighbour to baby-sit the descendants. “I guess I been too long Stateside, huh?” he drawled. “That soup smells good.”

    “It’s a guid broth, Grandpa,” corrected Murray solemnly.

    “Is that what it is? Good, I sure love a good broth!” said Jack with a laugh, kissing his round cheek again.

    “I'm no a babby, ye ken,” he said with dignity.

    “He tolerates extraneous embraces only because you’re his grandfather,” said Beth in the same solemn tones.

    “Yeah!” agreed Jack with a startled laugh, taken thoroughly unawares. “I guess that’s it!” He set the little boy down. “You wanna grab some of this shopping, Murray? We’ll unpack it, okay? And then have our broth.”

    “Aye. And mebbe we could watch the television,” he said hopefully.

    “Uh—well, if there are any kids’ programmes on, sure.”

    “I said he’d better ask you,” ventured Beth.

    “Uh—yeah. Well, I don’t know anything about what kids’ programmes they have here, Beth.”

    “Some of the same ones you have in America, I think. But I don’t think they have them at lunchtime on a Saturday, I think it's all sports, isn’t it?”

    “Uh-huh. I guess it's never too soon to indoctrinate ’em.”

    “Rubbish,” she said firmly. “If you don't think it's something he should watch, just say so.”

    “Uh—yeah. Okay,” said Jack limply, tottering through to his rudimentary kitchenette. Sink bench, two faucets, his cook-top, his iceb—fridge, and his microwave. There were two cupboards: they were both under the sink, he guessed their primary function was to hide the plumbing, because they sure weren’t either convenient or commodious. “This broth sure does smell great!” he said with a laugh. “And what’s this other stuff, Beth?”

    “Beth can make cordial!” cried the little boy.

    “Cordial?”

    “It really is,” she said shyly, coming up to his side. “Sally, my flatmate in Christchurch, she found the recipe in a book of old pioneer recipes a friend lent her. I mean, it was a modern book, but they were genuine old recipes. It's just a fruit syrup, really. You bottle it, you see, and then you water it down when you want to drink it. I thought Dorothy might like some.”

    “I guess we all would. And what’s the soup?”

    “Bean. I cooked the beans the other day. It’s easy, you just fry up a bit of onion and add the cooked beans and few herbs, and cook it up till the beans go mushy. Or if you’ve got a food-processor you put it through that!” she said with a smile.

    “You musta done more than that! It smells real great, Beth!”

    “No. Um—it’s got a bit of thyme in it. They’re pinto beans, they make good soup. And beans are full of protein.”

    “Mm-hm.” Protein and roughage. Nancy used to be real keen on ’em. In salads and burgers, mainly, though: he couldn’t recall any soup. And certainly nothing that smelled like this.

    They ended up sitting round Jack’s small table very cosily, he and Beth with a glass of red wine to go with their soup and a couple of the crusty white rolls he'd bought in Puriri. And Murray with a roll and a glass of cordial to go with his.

    “You sure are a great cook,” said Jack with a sigh, leaning back in his old wooden chair (one of Kevin Goode’s), and sipping a glass of the cordial.

    “No! That’s all I can do, really!” gasped Beth in horror.

    “Bean soup and cordial?” said Jack with a smile.

    “Yes. Well, more or less. Um… there’s a pumpkin curry recipe,” she said with a sideways look at Murray, “that I’m quite good at. And I can cook scones. I quite often used to do them for the flat. And bread and butter custard. Apart from those I only do stir-fries—not real recipes,” she said, smiling.

    “You’re streets ahead of me. I only do hamburgers, singed steaks, and franks.”

    “Grandpa does franks,” explained Murray.

    “There is an art to it, mind,” said Jack, twinkling at her. “They burst if you boil them up too long.”

    “What are franks?”

    “Och, Beth!” cried Murray. You’da never known he hadn't known, either, a month back. “Thin wee sausages!”

    “Yep. Hot-dogs?” drawled Jack.

    “ Oh. American hot-dogs.” said Beth limply. “Of course. Sol does those, too.”

    “Yeah, mainstay of the diet, Stateside. I’ll take Dot some of that cordial, shall I?”

    “Yes. Um—she might want some perry in it,” said Beth, blushing. “It’s in that bottle.”

    “You’re wasting Sol’s perry on Dot with a cold?”

    “She’s miserable, poor thing,” she murmured.

    “Okay,” he said heavily, getting up. “Stay there, and don’t dare to touch a dish, the least I can do is the washing-up, when you’ve made us this great lunch. –Oh: the TV guide’s over there, see what’s on, huh?”

    When he came back they were both on the rug again and the TV was on. “Ben-Hur?” croaked Jack. “It ain’t even Easter!”

    Beth looked up, smiling. “No! Do they screen it at Easter in America, too?”

    “Relentlessly. Randi and the girls always watched it. Randi, I kid you not, was hung up on Chuck Heston. Watch him in anything. Our second wedding anniversary, her mom took the baby, and we went to a real nice ski lodge. Had a great dinner, danced a bit, went upstairs to our room all moony, Randi switches on the TV to get the news summary, and before you can scream ‘Moses in the bulrushes’, she's glued to it. –It wasn’t that, it was a disaster movie. One of the many. Well, don't ask me, but he was in it.” Jack sank down into his big chair. “Only just started, huh?”

    “Yes. I wonder why they cast him?” she said dreamily. “He doesn’t look in the least Jewish.”

    “I think that’s why. Like all them pics of a blond, blue-eyed Jesus we were shown in Sunday School.”

    “Ooh, yes!”

    “Uh—at least one of those present ain’t gonna understand more’n two minutes of this, Beth,” he noted cautiously.

    “Never mind, it’s square and it’s coloured and it flickers!”

    “So we gotta watch it, huh? –Now, who was she?”

    “His mother? I don’t know. She does look sort of familiar… Don’t they get lep— um, L,E,P,R,O,S,Y?”

    “Ugh, yeah, I’d forgotten that. Think there’s a miracle cure or some such.”

    “Maybe Murray can just watch the chariot race,” said Beth comfortably.

    “Uh-huh. …Was he in it?” discovered Jack.

    “Yes! He’s the Roman he beats in the race!”

    “Oh, yeah. –Jesus, is the guy meant to have a real thing for Ben-Hur?”

    “I thought I was imagining that,” Beth admitted.

    “Uh-uh.” He watched it for a bit. “Tell ya what, I reckon the producers never intended it, but the actor’s playing it that way deliberately!”

    “Ooh, yes,” agreed Beth in awe.

    Jack settled back, smiling.

    By three o’clock Murray was fast asleep, but Beth was glued to it. Jack didn’t much care, one way or the other, though he was quite looking forward, in a sick sort of way, to the L,E,P,R,O,S,Y. He got up and made coffee.

    “Ta…” she said absently, still glued to it.

    Jack sat down again, smiling. Murray’s head was in her lap. It sure was the most domestic scene you could have imagined. And what was real odd about it was, even though they had now discovered that most of ’em couldn’t act, the backgrounds looked horribly fake and the colour looked as it if some Hollywood whizz-kid of the Nineties had digitally re-colorised it (gulp), he wasn’t even bored! Even though there were probably fifteen useful things he coulda been doing and at least three productive things he shoulda been doing, instead.

Next chapter:

https://conquestofcartersbay.blogspot.com/2023/05/it-rained-and-it-rained-and-it-rained.html