Certain Conclusions

21

Certain Conclusions

    “Ring ’er up an’ ask ’er, if you’re that interested,” said Bill, yawning horribly, as for the five millionth time in the past week Meg wondered aloud if Phoebe really had been meeting that American at the airport last Friday and if so—and she was pretty sure she must’ve been, mind you, hadn’t Jemima said that Susan had said it was that week he was due to arrive?—if so, whether it was—you know: all right. Bill had already expressed such opinions as: Coulda been anybody she was meeting; coulda been that brother of hers that lived down New Plymouth or somewhere; and: Who cared; which was why he wasn’t bothering to, now.

    “Don’t be stupid!” she snapped back.

    Bill yawned again.

    “Get dressed: we’ll be late for the restaurant!” said Meg crossly.

    Bill hurried out.

    Alone in the sitting-room, Meg fidgeted. That dark blue Sanderson linen with the cream and yellow roses she’d chosen for the new loose covers was a bit trad, really... Well, the house was old-fashioned, it wouldn’t clash... Tom was right: that big chair that Roger always bonked in really ought to be covered in vinyl, it was much harder wearing—only it was cold to sit on, and not comfortable, Roger would hate it. And there was enough of the linen to do one of the three big chairs. Well, say she had the couch and Roger’s chair done, then those two other armchairs... Blow. Nothing went with blue, much, when you came to think of it. Well, the linen did have a bit of fawn in it, maybe, as Tom had suggested, she could have those two chairs done in a plain fawn linen. Of course, they were different styles, but... Mm.

    She could ring Laura, Laura would probably know if— Bugger. She wouldn’t ring her, Laura would think she was prying into Phoebe’s personal business. Which of course she was. But she only wanted— Well, it wasn’t vulgar curiosity, she wanted to know if Phoebe was—well, happy! Yuck, that sounded soppy, she couldn’t possibly say that to Laura…

    Since it was Saturday night and there was nowhere to eat up Carter’s Inlet except the ghastly up-market Royal Kingfisher Hotel on the point in Kingfisher Bay, and nowhere to eat at Carter’s Bay except the ghastly, though admittedly not up-market pub, and since Sol, having spent most of the week putting up shelves and painting and so on in his little shop, was heartily sick of the fish and chips provided by the fish and chips shop at Carter’s Bay, and so was Phoebe, and since Sol was booked in at The Blue Heron Motel anyway, Meg was destined shortly to be enlightened; and her knees were destined to go extremely weak.

    “Help!” she gulped, gripping Bill’s manly arm in a vice-like grasp as they came into The Blue Heron Restaurant and immediately spotted Sol and Phoebe over by the window.

    “Ow! Leggo!” he gasped.

    “Look!” hissed Meg.

    Bill looked. So did Darryl and John, who were with them.

    “Now we face the ticklish social dilemma: do we join them, or not?” murmured John.

    “Not!” Meg and Darryl replied with one voice.

    At this point Mike Collingwood, who’d been settling a large party at a distant table, came over to them and said with a smile: “Hullo, Darryl; hullo, John: nice to see you again. Would you like your usual table?”

    “No, we’ve got these two with us tonight,” said Darryl.

    “Mm,” agreed Mike, lips twitching.

    “Our usual table can seat four,” John pointed out mildly. “How are you, Mike?”

    Mike assured him he was fine, and so was Molly, and she’d done her special chicken pie tonight. He and John would have plunged straight into a gastronomic discussion, only Darryl said loudly: “Come on, then!” and forged ahead into the restaurant.

    “Come on,” said Meg weakly.

    They followed Darryl to a table which was, rather fortunately in Meg’s opinion, at a considerable distance from Phoebe’s and Sol’s.

    After the prolonged gastronomic discussion—during which Darryl vetoed everything John suggested she eat—Meg said to Bill in a very weak voice: “She hasn’t noticed us.”

    “Eh? Aw—hasn’t she? Must be blind.” He looked hard at Darryl’s scarlet knit top. Meg recognized it, she’d had it for a while—actually, she recalled, hoping very much that John didn’t know this, it was one that André, her French lover—you couldn't possibly have called him a boyfriend, at his age—had bought for her just before she went off to France with him. It was the sort of cross-over scarlet top that you might expect a besotted and apparently inhibition-free Frenchman considerably Darryl’s elder to have bought for the well-endowed Darryl, thought Meg, eyeing it sourly and fully enjoying the realisation of her own sexism, ageism, and general prejudice.

    After a while she said: “Can you have clothes-ism?”

    “Yes,” said Bill immediately.

    “Is this apropos of anything in particular?” asked John.

    “That white thing Phoebe’s got on,” said Meg glumly. “And that thing of yours,” she added to Darryl before she could stop herself.

    “Eh? Had it for ages,” said Darryl, squinting down at herself. “Uh—didn’t André buy it?” she said vaguely to John.

    Meg cringed but John replied calmly: “He must have done. Someone with an eye for colour and line bought it.”

    “Line? Don’t you mean mass?” said Bill brilliantly.

    When John had finished choking Meg pursued relentlessly: “Anyway, look at that thing of Phoebe’s!”

    They looked obediently. It was white, cut similarly to Darryl’s, and included some sparkly things.

    “Yeah. Shoulder pads,” said Darryl briefly. “Come on, John, make up your mind, I’m dying for a drink!”

    “It’ll have to be Campari and soda, I’ve taught the barman how to make that,” he decided. “Well, who’s drinking what?”

    “I know what I want, only I dunno what it is,” explained Bill sadly.

    “Describe it,” said John. A laugh lurked behind the curly beard.

    Bill began to describe it. After a bit certain people cried “Stop!”

    “Well?” he said expectantly.

    “Could be anything, really,” noted Darryl fairly.

    “Green?” suggested John in a strangled voice.

    “Yes! I said that!” he retorted huffily.

    “Decided yet?” asked Mike, coming up to their table again.

    “Meg?” said John.

    Pinkening, Meg said in a small voice: “Um—I think I’ll have one of those thingies you said, John.”

    John must have understood this, because he immediately said to Mike: “That’ll be three Campari and sodas, then, thanks, Mike, and a crème de menthe frappée for Mr Coggins.”

    Swallowing, Mike replied: “Right. I’ll tell Geoff.” He tottered off to the tiny bar.

    … “This is like that muck I won in that bloody raffle at school!” discovered Bill indignantly.

    John had been waiting for him to discover this. He collapsed in a sniggering fit.

    “We had most of that on ice cream,” explained Meg. “It was too strong to drink. Well, sort of too sweet and too strong,” she amended dubiously.

    “Yeah. It was quite alcoholic, though,” remembered Bill. He sucked vigorously at his crème de menthe frappée through its tiny pink straw.

    John went on sniggering.

    … Bill looked up from his chicken pie. “That’s her,” he noted.

    “Who?” said Meg blankly.

    “Feluhsh’ty Wisheman,” he said through his chicken pie. Swallowing loudly, he said: “Didn’t ya reckon you wanted to meet her or something? Well, that’s her.”

    “Oh, Anne’s mother!” said Meg, peering. “I have met her, you idi—” She choked.

    “What?” asked John kindly, as it was obvious the other two weren’t going to.

    “Isn’t that Polly’s cousin she’s with?” gasped Meg.

    John looked blankly at the thin man accompanying Felicity Wiseman. He looked apologetically at Meg.

    “Bill!” said Meg crossly. “We met them at the shops, yesterday! It is him, isn’t it?”

    Bill looked up groggily. “Uh—dunno.” He inadvertently met Meg’s eye. “What, that type that was with Polly in Forrest’s yesterday?”

    “Yes!”

    “Uh… dunno,” decided Bill. He stared at Felicity and her escort.

    “Stop staring,” said Meg limply. She was having the other chicken dish: sort of little bits in cream sauce, all wrapped up in very thin pancakes. It was yummy, but she betted it’d be even harder to make than the chicken pie. She ate a bit and then said: “He’s the Austin twins’ brother. I’m absolutely sure it’s him. His name’s— Um, I’ve forgotten. I thought he seemed very nice.”

    Bill swallowed. “Austin,” he said definitely. “I remember ’im, now. I thought ’e seemed as if he’d rather be almost anywhere than in bloody Forrest Furnishings in the Arcade, now I come to think of it.”

    “His mother thought he ought to look at some rugs for his house: he doesn’t live with them, he’s got his own house,” Meg explained clearly to Darryl and John.

    Darryl actually stopped eating for a moment to goggle at her.

    “Must be one of those odd colonial customs you find in the Antipodes,” drawled John.

    “No!” said Meg crossly, glaring. “He’s Ginny and Vicki’s brother! He helps his father run the family farm but he’s got his own house!”

    “Definitely one of those odd colonial customs you find in the Antipodes,” decided Darryl drily.

    “You know what I mean,” said Meg, glaring.

    “He’s certainly old enough—in terms of Antipodean social norms, that is—to have his own house,” noted John.

    Darryl glanced over at Ted and Felicity smiling at each other across their little table. “Let’s hope for Felicity’s sake he hasn’t got a wee wifey in this house of his,” she said, very dry.

    Meg gulped a bit. “No. He’s divorced,” she said weakly.

    “Good,” decided John, looking over at Ted and Felicity with a smile.

    Darryl forked a piece of turnip out of her chicken pie. “This is turnip,” she said to John in an accusing voice.

    “Mm,” he agreed.

    “Well, how come it tastes so good?” she demanded aggrievedly.

    “Sautéed in a mixture of butter and olive oil.”

    “Oh, right. You better have a go at the recipe, eh?” she suggested.

    It was a recipe that John had given Molly Collingwood in the first place. Meg knew this. She stared at them.

    “Very well,” agreed John mildly.

    Meg sagged in her chair. She looked limply at the remains of her chicken crêpes.

    “Don’t you want that?” said Bill hopefully.

    “Yes!” Meg ate her chicken crêpes up hungrily. Bill watched sadly.

    John had finished his chicken pie. He got up.

    “Where are you off to?” demanded Darryl.

    “I thought I’d go and say hullo to Felicity,” he replied mildly.

    Darryl turned a very strange colour and replied hoarsely: “Do that, if ya don’t wanna live to see forty!” –So that was how these liberated women in liberated modern relationships did it! noted Meg groggily.

    “Or I could always stay here,” said John hurriedly, sitting down.

    There was a short silence.

    “Um—John, could I have another glass of wine, please?” said Meg. It came out much squeakier than she’d intended it to. Much squeakier.

    John poured for her. After a moment Meg met his eye. Behind the curly beard his face was perfectly straight as he winked at her.

    “Ta,” she said limply. She drank the wine very fast and concentrated on not meeting anyone’s eye at all.

    “They seem to be enjoying themselves,” noted Phoebe with a smile.

    “Now that the agony of trying not to stare at us has eased: yeah,” Sol agreed.

    “Or now that Meg’s kicked Bill really hard in the shins: mm.”

    “Did she? Can you see his shins from there?”

    “No: I deduced it from their actions: Meg’s slight body jerked sharply on her chair—as if she might have moved her leg suddenly; and Bill jumped about two feet where he sat and yelped ‘Ow’,” replied Phoebe, trying not to grin.

    “Ye-ah... Well, could mean she kicked his shin, uh-huh.”—Phoebe eyed him suspiciously.—“Or could mean there’s a real hairy, mean-natured little dawg under that there table,” he drawled.

    “One of the two, yes!” she choked.

    Grinning, he said: “When did this activity take place, hon’?”

    “What? Oh! Uh—round about the time we’d just finished toasting each other with the last of our champagne,” admitted Phoebe.

    “Gee; and I was deluding myself that round about then you had eyes for no-one but me,” he sighed.

    Little smiles came and went round Phoebe’s mouth but she replied sedately: “It was just after that.”

    “Uh-huh.” Sol glanced over at the table of Blossom Avenue personalities again and said: “Would the handsome brown lady be a Maori, honey?”

    “Yes,” she said weakly. “I know her slightly through the Women’s Movement: Darryl Tuwhare. I thought you’d met them?”

    Sol shook his head. “Uh-uh. I met him; but she was in Europe, I guess.”

    “Oh. I believe she was studying over there last year, mm.”

    “Boy, it seems like half a lifetime ago,” he murmured, staring idly at Darryl and John.

    Phoebe swallowed. “Yes.”

    He didn’t appear to notice anything. After a moment he said: “She reminds me of someone...”

    She reminded Phoebe vividly of Sir Alistair Tuwhare, but obviously Sol couldn’t have met him. Unless through the Cohens?

    “I know: that famous opera singer, now what is her—” He caught Phoebe’s eye. “Dame Kiri Te Kanawa,” he said sheepishly.

    “Fancy,” replied Phoebe caustically.

    “You woulda got the broadcast of the Royal Wedding out here, I gu— Sorry!” he grinned.

    “Did you do anything in those semi-tropical Florida nights of yours but glue yourself to the bloody box, Winkelmann? –All right, don’t answer that,” she sighed.

    Grinning, Sol said: “Ruthie’s got this real cute album of the Royal Wedding. She cut out all the pictures she could find of Charles and Di, ya s—”

    “Uncle,” said Phoebe in a hollow voice.

    Sniggering, he replied: “Nope, she calls me Sol.”

    “Will—you—drop—it?” she choked.

    Grinning, he said: “I’ve dropped it. You want dessert?”

    “Can Meg and Co. stand it?”

    “Huh?”

    “The suspense of us sitting here eating another course while we pretend not to realize they’re there,” explained Phoebe.

    Grinning, he said: “Could put ’em out of their misery?”

    “I didn’t know Americans said that... Oh, all right, then: come on.” They got up.

    “See?” said Bill immediately. “Toleja they musta seen us.”

    “You did not! –Hi, Phoebe,” said Meg in a weak voice.

    Phoebe noted with a certain pleasure that Meg had gone very pink. She didn’t think it was all annoyance with Bill, either. After introductions all round, Phoebe and Sol accepted John’s invitation to join them for pudding. Mike hurried up to help them with extra chairs and after a certain amount of whingeing from Bill they all sat down rather close together.

    Meg waited for an embarrassed silence to fall but instead John said to Sol: “What are you doing out here, anyway?”

    Since Meg was now squashed up against Bill it was extremely easy, at this, for her to let her hand fall on his thigh in such a fashion that her fingers and thumb just about met right through the flesh. Bill took a sizzling breath through his teeth but the manoeuvre had clearly worked, because he only said in a weak voice: “Yeah, what are ya?”

    Sol explained tranquilly about his boating-supplies store up at Kingfisher Bay and described how he’d spent the week painting it and putting up shelves. Phoebe explained that the place was filthy: evidently whatever it was that had been there previously had failed and the proprietors had simply walked out. Sol added that the upper storey was even worse, but he thought he’d do the store out first before tackling the living quarters. “It’s—well, would you call it an attic, hon’?” he said dubiously. “One big room. But there’s a big window; most of the front wall’s window.”

    “Must be a shop,” noted Darryl two seconds before Bill could.

    “No: the upstairs. Say, do you folks call that the first floor or the second?”

    “First,” replied John definitely.

    “He wasn’t asking you, ya Pommy git,” said the Dame Kiri look-alike calmly. “We do call it first, though, allee same like the Brits,” she explained to Sol.

    “Thanks, Darryl: that’s real clear,” he replied gratefully.

    Phoebe gave a snort of laughter, so at that John, whose mouth had been twitching behind the beard for some little time, gave in completely and laughed like a drain.

    Meg didn’t laugh. She was rather pink. “Um—is there a bathroom, Sol?” she asked weakly.

    Kindly Sol explained that he planned to put one in, but there was a john, it was downstairs, to the rear of the store.

    “He said it, see?” said Bill immediately.

    “Mm,” said Meg unhappily.

    Sol’s eyes twinkled but he said primly: “Now that’d be what you folks call a toilet, huh?”

    “Only us ignorant colonials,” explained Darryl kindly. “Up-market Poms like this one,”—she awarded John a tolerant glance—“call it a lavatory.”

    “Aw, shucks: not a loo?” said Sol sadly.

    John rubbed his nose. “My ex-wife always did,” he admitted.—Meg didn’t fail to note, here, that Darryl gave him a wary look and said nothing.—“I think that proves your thesis, Sol.”

    Sol broke down and had a sniggering fit.

    “Trumped,” noted Phoebe with grim satisfaction.

    After that there was clearly nothing for it but to give in and have pudding. John chose the Black Bottom Pie; so did Sol after John had assured him there was nothing ersatz about it, Meg and Phoebe had pavlova with kiwifruit on it, Darryl had flambéed bananas, and Bill had a slice of Black Bottom Pie, a slice of pavlova, and a flambéed banana.

    “Well?” said Phoebe some time later.

    Sol was removing his shoes and socks. He went on removing his shoes and socks. Then he sat up straight on the edge of the motel’s large bed and said: “They seem like two real nice couples, honey pie.”

    “Yes,” she agreed limply.

    “Makes you feel—” He broke off.

    “What?” said Phoebe hoarsely—though she had a pretty good idea.

    “Jealous, I guess.”

    “Mm.” After a moment she said: “I don’t think, from what Meg’s said, that John and Darryl have been together very long.”

    “No,” he agreed.

    Phoebe swallowed. “Meg and Bill have— Well, their little Connie’s five, now: I suppose they’ve been together for about seven years.”

    “Those cute twins aren’t his?” he said in some surprize.

    “No, her first husband’s. He was a bastard. –Still is, I suppose.”

    “Uh-huh. So it’s second time round for both of them, huh?”

    “What? Oh—yes. I don’t know anything about Bill’s first wife.” She paused. “They’re not actually married, but you know what I mean.”

    “Mm.”

    After a moment Phoebe said: “Kids and ducks.”

    “Huh? Oh—sure!” Sol smiled at her.

    She swallowed. “I suppose if it’s lasted seven years—and neither of them are kids...”

    “Sure! They’re real well suited, I’d say.”

    “Yes.”

    Sol eyed her cautiously. He didn’t ask what the matter was, because he had a pretty fair idea. And he didn’t want to rush into anything on a wave of sentiment about kids and ducks and associated matters. Well, no, he did: but he didn’t want Phoebe to do so and then regret it. After a moment he said: “I guess if that floor’s dried we could varnish the counter tomorrow, huh?”

    “Oh—yes,” said Phoebe with an effort. “Uh—no, hang on: I’ve got school on Monday. I think I’ll have to go home tomorrow, Sol.”

    “Sure. You better take your car, huh? I’ll get a hire car.”

    “All right,” said Phoebe, a trifle dully.

    Sol removed his clothes and put his terry-cloth robe on. He looked at her rather uncertainly and said: “Do you think John and Darryl will come give me a hand tomorrow, like they promised?”

    “Threatened, you mean. I should say there’s no doubt of it.” Phoebe had been sitting in the wooden-armed easy chair. She got up and said: “Do you want to have your shower first?”

    “Nup. I want us to take our shower together. You think that could be arranged?”

    She smiled slowly. “I’ll put it at the top of my agenda!”

    “Do that,” he said, grinning. He came and put his arms round her gently. “No, don’t do that,” he murmured.

    “Eh?”

    “Staying on for that darned coffee and liqueur John insisted on well nigh killed me,” he explained in her ear. “All I could think was how much I wanted to do it.”

    “Don’t you mean ‘gosh-darned’ and ‘well nigh to killt me’?” replied Phoebe with a chuckle.

    “Mm,” he said into her ear. “Sure ’nuff do!”

    “Don’t do that,” said Phoebe in a very weak voice as he put his tongue in her ear.

    “Huh?” he replied in horror.

    “It well nigh to killt me, too!” admitted Phoebe.

    Grinning all over his thin face, Sol propelled her in the general direction of the shower.

    “That looked all right,” said Darryl thoughtfully as they drove carefully home to Blossom Avenue. –John hadn’t actually had all that much to drink, so he was driving.

    “Which one?” he murmured.

    “Both. Well, I meant Sol Thing and Phoebe Fothergill—but Felicity and that brother of Ginny’s seemed to be getting on really well, didn’t you think?”

    “Something like that.”

    “Well, it’s better than spending half her time with Dick White!” said Darryl strongly.

    John’s lips twitched. “Better for what, darling?”

    “Sex, of course,” she replied simply.

    “Yes!” he gasped.

    “Stop laughing,” said Darryl mildly.

    John was whooping. so much he had to draw into the side of Elizabeth Road.

    After a moment Darryl said, for once not sounding very sure of herself: “If we went on home, we could do it.”

    John swallowed. “Yes.”

    “Well, stir ya stumps!”

    He swallowed again. “Kiss me first.”

    “Now?”

    “No, yesterday!” he shouted.

    “Sorry,” she growled.

    “No: I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to shout. The road’s quite empty, nobody’ll see us: Bill and Meg went the other way.”

    “That wasn’t—” Darryl broke off. “Go on, then,” she said hoarsely.

    John put his large hand under her determined chin. “Darling,” he said. He kissed her very gently. After a moment Darryl made a choked noise and flung an arm round his neck, hiding her face in his shoulder.

    “What is it?” he murmured.

    “Nothing. Sorry.”

    “It’s all right,” he murmured.

    Darryl muttered something.

    “What?”

    “I love you, dammit, John!” she shouted.

    John—though he had had every intention of never doing any such thing—replied through his teeth: “More than the blasted Frog?”

    “Yes. –YES!” she shouted.

    At this John kissed her very fiercely indeed. Darryl kissed him back with equal enthusiasm.

    Then there was a short pause while John panted a bit.

    “I never said it to him,” she said abruptly. “Not even in French.”

    “Good.”

    “He was Helluva good in bed; and I liked him—we got on good together: you know; only I never— Well, it isn’t the same.”

    “No,” he agreed shakily.

    “Jemima was saying they’re thinking of having a kid,” she said abruptly.

    John swallowed loudly.

    “Could we?” said Darryl hoarsely.

    “Yes.”

    “Really?” she croaked. “I know you’ve got those two already by your ex; so if you don’t want any more—”

    “Yes. I love you and I want us to have children together, Darryl,” he said into the cloud of black curls.

    At this the liberated Dr Tuwhare hugged him so tightly she almost strangled him, and burst into tears on his shoulder.

    John was so damned relieved he burst into tears, too.

    In the front of the ute Ted turned towards Felicity. Since Felicity was now feeling about seventeen years old and nervous with it, she swallowed noisily.

    “Kiss me?” he said.

    Felicity just held her face up. Ted put his mouth gently on hers.

    After a moment she put both arms round him. Ted put both his arms round her and went on kissing her for quite some time.

    Felicity now knew he was a fairly conventional man—not that that hadn’t been pretty clear from the word “go”—so by the time he paused for breath she was wondering frantically whether she ought to ask him in or whether he’d think she was being too forward or something on a first date. She was also wondering whether she ought to put her hand on his cock, which was where she was dying to put her hand, only she was pretty sure that on a first date after only one kiss that’d shock the living daylights out of—

    Ted took her right hand and put it on his cock.

    “Oh—Ted!” gasped Felicity, falling against his shoulder.

    “Crikey, that’s good,” he said in a shaken voice.

    “Yes,” she croaked.

    Ted’s right hand fumbled at her breast. Felicity held her face up again.

    “Mm,” he said, kissing her and slipping his hand inside the bodice of her dress.—Felicity sent up a short but fervent message of thanks that she’d worn the green dress that Anne had recommended.—“Nice,” he said.

    “Yes,” she sighed, stroking him gently.

    After a bit more kissing he put his face down on her chest. Felicity’s legs trembled. “Lovely,” he said in a muffled vice.

    Felicity swallowed. “Yes,” she whispered.

    He didn’t say anything else but his hand came round her back and fumbled at the catch of her bra. After a moment she said in a strangled voice: “It’s a bit stiff.”

    “Yeah,” he said uncertainly.

    Swallowing, Felicity said: “Would you like to come inside? Um—the kids’ll be in bed.”

    “Yes—ta,” he replied.

    They got out. Ted locked the ute carefully. Felicity waited for him by the gate. He didn’t say anything but he put his arm round her shoulders as they went up the path.

    Inside, to Felicity’s huge relief, the sitting-room was deserted. She’d got rid of Alec, though she wasn’t about to admit this to Ted quite yet, by letting him stay the night at Greg and Pam Anderson’s. The Anderson boys were all a lot older than Alec, but he got on well with the two youngest, and Greg and Pam were an extremely easy-going couple, so— And Anne and Kenny, she verified with a quick peep in their rooms, were out like lights.

    “Out like lights,” she reported, going back into the sitting-room.

    “Good,” said Ted. Then he went very red.

    “Um, would you like a cup of coffee?” said Felicity in a strangled voice.

    “Uh—not really,” he said uncomfortably.

    “Nor would I. That stuff at The Blue Heron was strong, wasn’t it?”

    “Mm.” There was short pause. “Not nearly as bad as Polly’s: crikey Dick, I’ve never tasted anything like it! They have it pitch black, and— Well, I reckon a spoon could stand up straight in it,” he finished weakly.

    “Yes,” said Felicity, smiling inanely. She could see that something else was certainly standing up straight, so that was all right, but she was blessed if she could see what her next move should be. Something that wouldn’t give him the idea she wanted to put him off but that wouldn’t—well—scare him off...

    “Um—sit down, Ted,” she said feebly.

    He sat down on the sofa. Felicity put the heater on. Then she came and sat on the sofa, too, but not very close.

    “They’re very cosmopolitan, aren’t they?” she said abruptly.

    “Eh? Oh—Polly and Jake?”—Felicity nodded.—“I’ll say,” he said glumly.

    “They’re nice, though. I don’t know them very well, though I’ve had a bit to do with them, because of them turning their old house into the Community Centre; and I know Polly a bit from the tennis club.”

    “Yeah. They’re okay.”

    “Mm.”

    After a minute he added jerkily: “Got quite a good marriage, ya know. I mean—Well, they went through a rocky patch a bit back—well, what marriage doesn’t, eh?”—Felicity nodded silently.—“Only they seem to be okay, now. He’s a lot older than her, of course.”

    “Yes,” she murmured.

    Ted swallowed. “She always has been a bit of a flirt—but there’s nothing in it, ya know!”

    Puriri opinion was about equally divided on the subject of the Carranos. One side maintained that He Let Her Get Away With Murder; if pressed, this side, which on the whole was pretty mealy-mouthed, would admit that She was too keen on men but that He put up with it because she was half his age. The other half maintained that One Of These Days She’d Go Too Far; this side, if pressed (it was pretty mealy-mouthed, too), would explain that He didn’t know what was going on under his nose but he was asking for it, going away on all those business trips. Felicity was one of the very few inhabitants of Puriri County to maintain it was none of her business. Though, not being an angel or a saint, she was very interested to hear Polly’s cousin’s opinion.

    “No, of course not,” she murmured.

    Ted swallowed again. “She won’t let him drive himself home from work, ya know.”

    “Oh,” she said blankly. “Oh—do you mean she doesn’t like him to drive all that way after a long day at work?”

    “Yeah. So that bloke Bob usually drives him.”

    “Mm. And that was Polly’s idea?”

    “Yeah.” The bony hands twisted together on his knees. After a moment he said bitterly: “Catch ruddy Adele caring if I drove meself under a truck!”

    “What? Oh—your ex-wife?”

    “Yeah.”

    After a moment’s hesitation Felicity said uncertainly: “She must have cared about you once.”

    “Dunno. I thought so at one time. Never been able to figure out why the Hell she married me at all. Started nagging me about moving to town two days after we got back from our honeymoon.”

    Felicity swallowed. “What?” she said faintly.

    “Yeah.”

    Silence fell—horrified, on Felicity’s part. Finally she said limply: “I think lots of women believe they can change a man. You know.”

    “Yeah. Well, they can’t!”

    “Especially very young women,” said Felicity, hoping to God he wouldn’t think that was some kind of a hint.

    “Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “Well, she was only twenty-one. We both were.”

    “Mm... My parents married very young, too. Dad was in the Navy during the war. He wanted to sign on again—you know, as a regular—but Mum wouldn’t let him.” She hesitated. “They were never very happy; I’ve often wondered—well, if it would have worked out better if she’d let him do what he wanted.”

    “Mm. –Not easy, being a Navy wife.”

    “No.”

    “What did he do?”

    “Insurance.”

    “Oh.”

   After a moment Felicity said hoarsely: “I suppose I had the opposite problem to you.”

     Swallowing, Ted replied: “How’s that, then?”

    “Well, I was all set to do the home-body thing—you know,” she said weakly, wishing she hadn’t put it like that. “Only Bri was a bit of a rover. Well, his idea of married life was to sell the house, load me and the kids up in a caravan, and set off round the world.”

    After a moment Ted said cautiously: “Literally?”

    “Yes. We did do one trip: all round Australia, when Jenny was a baby. –You haven’t met her: she’s the eldest. It was quite fun, really,” she added dully. “Only coping with one kid was bad enough when we were on the move all the time. I couldn’t manage with three.”

    “No.”

    “And then I got pregnant again with Kenny—and—and he said it was the last straw,” revealed Felicity hoarsely, not meaning to have said any such thing. “And walked out on us.”

    “Bastard,” he said in a hard voice.

    “Mm. Oh, well,” she said with a sigh. “Water under the bridge.”

    “Yeah.” There was a short silence. “So you’ve got two girls and two boys, then?”

    “Yes. Jenny’s twenty-two, now. –I must be older than you, I think!” she added .with a mad little laugh.

    “I’m thirty-eight,” said Ted simply.

    Felicity had had Jenny when she was nineteen, but— “I’m forty-one,” she said hoarsely.

    “Nothing in it,” he said simply.

    Swallowing, she croaked: “No. –You probably wouldn’t say that, though, if it was you that had turned forty.”

    “Doesn’t mean anything, does it?” he replied dubiously. “Just another number.”

    “It is to a man,” she replied bitterly.

    Ted rubbed his slender nose. “Wouldn’t say that, necessarily. Mate of mine, he turned forty a bit back.” He paused. “Knew ’im at school: known him for years.”

    “Yes?” said Felicity uncertainly.

    “We-ell...” he said dubiously. “Went off the rails: you know.”

    “What did he do?” asked Felicity, expecting the worst.

    Ted gave a very faint sniff. Anyone acquainted with the Austin men would immediately have been suspicious, but Felicity just looked at him with her eyes wide.

    “Bought ’imself a flaming cowboy hat and a purple silk shirt.”

    There was a short silence. Felicity looked at him cautiously.

   “’Is wife reckoned she was gonna have to watch him like a hawk: it’d be ruddy guitar lessons, next.”

    Felicity gaped, gasped, and went into a gale of laughter.

    “That’s better,” he said mildly, grinning from ear to ear. “What about another kiss, eh?”

    “Yes!” gasped Felicity, hauling out her hanky and blowing her nose fiercely. “Oh, dear: you really had me going, there!”

    “Mm,” he agreed, looking at her expectantly.

    Felicity went very red, but held up her face and said: “Go on, then.”

    Ted kissed her very gently. Then he got much closer and kissed her much harder, hugging her tight. Then he said in her ear: “I was beginning to wonder if fortyish townee mums of four did this sorta thing.”

    Felicity replied with spirit: “I was just about convinced that thirtyish country cousins never did!”

    “Better show you you’re wrong, eh?” he said mildly.

    “I might take some convincing,” she said. Then she went very red and wondered frantically if he’d think that that was a bit—

    But to her enormous relief Ted merely laughed and said: “Good!”

    Then he began to convince her.

    “What do you think?” said Meg hopefully, sitting up in bed.

    Bill was perched on the end of the bed in his singlet, examining his thigh. “Ugh. I think I’m gonna have a huge great bruise here, that’s what I think: what didja wanna pinch me like that for, ya mean cow?”

    Meg replied in a hard voice: “It had something to do with the way you keep opening that cavern in your face and shoving that huge great foot of yours—”

    “Yeah, yeah. You coulda given me a hint! Ugh, I think the skin’s broken.”

    Meg glanced at it briefly. “Rubbish.”

    Bill sighed. He lowered his leg but just sat there at the foot of the bed looking at it sadly.

    Meg was eventually driven to say: “Are you coming to bed?”

    “Is that an offer?” replied Bill without any great signs of eagerness.

    “Not after all that pav,” replied Meg sourly, putting her hand on her middle.

    Bill looked at her in alarm. “Look, if you’re gonna chuck up, just say so now, and I’ll go and bunk with Rog.”

    “Me? It wasn’t me that had three puddings!”

    “Not three whole ones. Anyway, are you?”

    “No. But for all I care, you can go and bunk with Rog!”

    “Whassup?” he replied simply.

    “Nothing,” said Meg, pouting.

    “I thought they looked okay. –Phoebe and the Yank, I mean.”

    “Yes!” she replied crossly.

    “Uh—well, what’s up, then?”

    Meg wriggled down in bed, looking sulky. “Nothing.”

    Bill sighed. He got up very slowly and walked over to turn the light out.

    “Put some pyjamas on, for God’s sake!” said Meg loudly.

    “There aren’t any.”

    “What’s that supposed to mean?”

    “Only that Rog and Damian seem to’ve got down on me last two pairs.”

    “Your pyjamas’d be miles too big for them,” said Meg uncertainly.

    “Well, somebody has! Or do ya reckon it was Connie, or a duck?”

    “No!” said Meg with a stifled giggle. “Um—did you look in the drier, Bill?”

    “Yeah. And two seconds after I’d done that I looked in the washing-machine and found all that washing I’d forgotten to put in the drier earlier.”

    “Clot,” said Meg amiably.

    “Yeah.” Bill looked at her uncertainly.

    “You can’t just sleep in your singlet,” she said weakly.

    Bill immediately removed his singlet.

    “You’ll get cold,” said Meg weakly.

    He waggled his eyebrows at her.

    “Stop that,” said Meg weakly. “And for Heaven’s sake turn that light out and get into bed!”

    Panting eagerly, Bill did so.

    “Cut it out,” said Meg weakly as cuddled up to her.

    “Have a look in ya diary,” he suggested.

    “What?”

    “Go on. It’s Sat’dee today.”

    Usually he went on at her because he reckoned that her looking at her diary last thing was off-putting. Weakly Meg picked up her diary. She opened it. She went very red.

    “Well?” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

    “Um—aren’t you too full?” –Bill had written against today’s date: “Heap big nosh-up at Lee Blue H. followed by good fuck with Bill.” Explicit, if not elegant.

    “Nah! Uh, well, why don’t you get on top?”

    “Then I’ll squash your stomach.”

    “Well, it’s either you squashing my three puds or me squashing your huge helping of pav. –No, hang on, I tell a lie!” he said excitedly. “We could—”

    “I don’t feel athletic,” said Meg hurriedly:

    “Nor do I, actually. I feel like having a Wee Meggums on top of me, actually.”

    “Clot,” said Meg in a strangled voice.

    Bill lay on his back. “Me spies tell me,” he said dreamily, peeling back the duvet, “that this way their tits kinda dangle on ya manly chest.”

    Gulping slightly and averting her glance with an effort, Meg said: “What spies?”

    “Actually I read it in a mag of Rog’s.”

    She gave an involuntary snort of laughter.

    Bill grinned, but said: “Come on, Meg: I dunno how much longer I can keep this up for!”

    Swallowing, Meg said: “Um—well, I could try. Um—let’s turn the lamp off.”

    “No.”

    “Um—well, we haven’t done it that way for ages...”

    “That’s partly why I want to leave the light on.”

    “Mm.”

    It had been a pretty strangled “Mm.” Bill looked at her cautiously. “You okay?”

    Very pink, Meg admitted hoarsely: “I don’t know why, but I want to do it awfully.”

    “Get on, then.”

    “Um—yes. Um—kneeling up?”

    “No, lie on me and kind of uh—edge down.”

    “That will squash your three puddings!”

    “Isn’t that what they’re for?”

    Meg gave a strangled snort. She edged towards him. Bill promptly grabbed her and wrestled her on top of him.

    “Ooh—good!” he panted, shoving her nightie up to her neck.

    “Yes,” said Meg breathlessly. “Ooh—darling!” she added.

    “Come on: do me,” he said.

    “Um—like this?” Meg edged down.

    “Yeah.—YES!” he yelled. “Christ, come on, Meg!”

    Meg obliged.

    Some time later she said shakily: “If the whole house—no, the whole street—isn’t awake, it won’t be your fault, will it?”

    “Nope!” he agreed smugly.

    There was a short pause. “It was awfully good, Bill,” said Meg shakily.

    “Yep!” he said smugly. “Christ, what are ya bawling for?” he added in horror.

    Meg wept on his shoulder. “Noth-ing!”

    “Well, don’t,” he said, hugging her a bit.

    Meg continued to bawl.

    “I thought it was good,” he said foggily.

    She felt under her pillow and found her hanky. “It was,” she agreed, blowing her nose. “It was just—well, if you want to know,” she said rather loudly: “I’ve been sort of having the feeling lately that it wasn’t going to be that good ever again!”

    Bill went very red. He reached over her, squashing her a bit, and turned the bedside lamp off. “Sorry,” he said into the dark.

    Sniffling a bit, Meg said: “It isn’t your fault. Well, not entirely. I mean, it’s uh—well, kids, and—uh—daily life.”

    “Yeah.”

    There was a short silence.

    “I often do want it,” said Meg loudly and aggressively, “only not always when you’re—um—”

    “Awake,” said Bill glumly.

    “Um—yes. Well, in the mood,” she said sadly.

    “I’m sorry. It’s been a bit… Well, all this business of switching over from terms to semesters, and— Well, you know. Thinking old Tom’d go potty—pottier—and start applying for applying for poncy jobs at real schools, once Jemima had agreed to live with him.”

    “Mm. He hasn’t said any more about that, has he?” she asked cautiously.

    “No, thank God. Mima Puddle-Duck seems to have talked him out of it, bless her.”

    “Good.”

    Silence. Then Bill said cautiously: “You could always wake me up and tell me, ya know. I mean, sometimes a bloke can get all encouraged-like if the dame his roving fancy has alighted on— You know.”

    “Ye-es... Well, I might,” replied Meg dubiously.

    In the dark Bill had gone very red. “For Christ’s sakes, promise ya will, Meg! I don’t want us to end up like your bloody parents, two years down the track!”

    Meg swallowed. “Yes, all right, I promise. –They were pretty foul rôle models, I suppose.”

    “Pretty foul!”

    “Mm. Well, Dad might have been all right if Mother, um—”

    “Had been someone else: yeah, quite.”

    Meg snuggled into his shoulder. “Mm.”

    “You do promise?”

    “Yes,” she said hoarsely.

    Then there was quite a long silence.

    “Wonder what was up with John and Darryl tonight?” he said.

    Meg jumped.

    “Uh—just wanting it, prolly,” he decided. “These young couples, ya know: get a bit edgy when their relationship’s at the stage where they’ve started to get a bit off-hand with each other and neither of ’em’s up to admitting they’re still as randy as Hell.”

    Meg opened her mouth. She closed it again. Finally she said: “Yes.”

    This time there was an even longer silence.

    “Do you think Phoebe’s really serious about that nice Sol?” she said.

    Bill yawned. “Hard to tell, really. Well, obviously she’s keen—but I dunno about serious.”

    “Ye-es... She has been on her own for ages.”

    Bill yawned again. “Yeah.”

    “It’d be an awfully big change to make, if they did decide to settle down together.”

    “Mm.”

    “And where would they live? I mean, she really does need to be reasonably close to School; and it’s an awfully long drive to Carter’s Inlet from town.”

    “Ye-ah... Well, perhaps that’s not what they want.”

    “Um—do you mean sort of just a weekendy thing?”

    “Yeah,” said Bill, yawning again. “And hols and that. –Go to sleep, eh?”

    “Mm. Well, I suppose that wouldn’t be bad...”

    “He looked as if it was suiting him pretty well at the moment,” said Bill drily.

    “Ye-es...” Meg yawned. “Oh, well, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

    “Mm. Go to sleep.”

    “Mm. Are you cold?”

    “No,” said Bill definitely, wriggling closer.

    Meg yawned. “Good. –It was lovely, Bill. Night-night.”

    Gulping a bit, Bill croaked: “Yeah. Night-night.”

Next chapter:

https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/10/christmas-in-july.html