24
Getting Organized
Hugh was sitting at his desk in a patch of morning sun when the intercom buzzed sharply and Miss Quimby’s voice, in response to his “Yes, Miss Quimby?” said in congratulatory tones: “It’s Sir Ralph Overdale, Mr Morton.”
Groaning, Hugh said: “All right, Miss Quimby, put him through.”
There was a little silence. Then Miss Quimby said—sounding most uncertain of herself (for Miss Quimby: you wouldn’t have registered it as such in anybody else, of course): “No: he’s here, Mr Morton.”
“Eh? Good grief. Well, wheel him in, then.”
The door opened a few seconds after that and Miss Quimby announced: “Sir Ralph Overdale, Mr Morton.”
And Ralph came in, saying genially: “Thanks, Miss Quimby.”
Miss Quimby disappeared in quite a flutter (which you wouldn’t have registered as such in anybody else), and Hugh said weakly: “What the Christ are you doing here?”
“Lovely day for a stroll, dear boy—why not?” replied Ralph airily, wandering over and sniffing the roses on Hugh’s desk. “Mm—nice. Do you ask Miss Q. to order scented ones special-like, Hugh?”
“Yes,” said Hugh grumpily, going rather red.
Ralph smiled a little. “One of these days you’ll admit that you’re a sensualist, Hugh, and the roof’ll fall in.”
“It just about has, anyway: we’ve had to have the bloody thing replaced and the entire upstairs replastered,” replied Hugh sourly. “And before you mention separate titles, or strata titles, or any such thing, just DON’T! All right?”
“This will be what the foully smiling John C. was on about at the golf club the other day,” acknowledged Ralph. “Though naturally one did not actually listen.”
He sat down and, carefully hitching his immaculate charcoal-grey trousers, crossed his legs.
John C. was one of the bone-cutters resident on the top storey of the refurbished old house which sheltered Hugh and several other bone-cutters and palaeontologists, so Hugh merely replied: “That smile is foul, isn’t it? I bumped into one of his disaffected lady patients the other day in the front hall and she burst out with: ‘Is that man on something? I showed him my leg and all he did was smile and smile!’”
Ralph had a choking fit.
When he was over it, Hugh said sourly: “What have you come for, anyway?”
“Some of the excellent Miss Q.’s excellent coffee.”
Sighing, Hugh pressed the intercom and asked for it.
“It is a beautiful day,” added Ralph, waving his hand.
“Yeah. –Do you mean you really did walk?”
“Why not?” he returned airily.
Hugh goggled at him.
“Gets the digestive juices flowing,” said Ralph with an airy wave of his hand. “You wanna come to The Golden Lamb for lunch?”
“No,” said Hugh definitely.
“It is the least foul of the Parnell chop-houses, dear lad.”
“Yes, but I’m sick of it,” said Hugh.
“Well—er—that place in the same complex where one sits outside, foul pop music blares, and insects and little bits of stick drop off the pergola into the quiche?”
“Well... I suppose it’s not too hot.”
“The weather, or the quiche?”
“Both,” admitted Hugh with a grin.
“Uh... The Rose Garden Kiosk?” suggested Ralph desperately.
Hugh opened his mouth to blast him. Then he said slowly: “I haven’t been there in years... Christ, we used to go there for lunch every Sunday when Mitsy was about three... It seems like ten lifetimes ago,” he admitted.
“Shall we, then? It’ll be a choice between cold chicken and slimy imitation curry,” Ralph warned him.
“I don’t mind cold chicken,” said Hugh mildly.
“Done,” he returned calmly.
“Okay!” agreed Hugh with a laugh.
When they were sipping Miss Quimby’s excellent coffee (she never touched the stuff herself: Hugh had taught her to make it, though admittedly hers was now better than his own), Ralph eyed the scattered brochures on Hugh’s desk and drawled: “What is this, dear lad: trendy time-shares at Taupo or Kingfisher Bay?”
“No!” choked Hugh, taken unawares.
Ralph rose without haste, picked up a brochure, and sat down again with it. “‘Willow Grove &’—ampersand—‘Its Amenities,’” he read. “How very up-market. Chaste, even. Not a hint of the crass hard-sell about it. In fact not a hint of the sell about it: do they assume you’re already hooked if you’ve asked for their bloody brochure?”
“Presumably,” acknowledged Hugh.
Ralph raised his eyebrows. He stopped looking at Willow Plains Limited’s chaste dark green lettering on the brochure’s otherwise entirely white and, indeed, chaste cover, and opened it. “Service?” he said deeply.
“So they reckon.”
“In the Antipodes?” shrieked Ralph.
“Shut up, you bugger, Miss Quimby’ll think we’re human!” hissed Hugh, shaking with laughter.
“Impossible, dear boy, male Antipodean humans do not order impossibly strong black coffee and scented roses,” replied Ralph instantly.
Hugh choked.
“This ‘service’ will be a local lady from Pohutukawa Bay in a Nissan Sunny with two point-seven snot-nosed brats under five in the back seat,” decided Ralph.
“I thought it had dropped from two point-seven?”
“It probably has, up Puriri way. Never tell me you’re thinking of investing in one of these architectural abortions, Hugh?”
“They’re not that bad,” said Hugh grumpily.—Ralph goggled.—“Well, they’re semidetached, or whatever you call it. Only two in a block. Well, of the ones that they’ve built so far.”
“Et alors?”
“I think they’re quite well designed, really. Each one’s quite private.”
“Hugh, darling: one would be entirely surrounded by very young yuppies playing very loud, very nasty pop music or unspeakable pop musicals on their trendy CD players morning, noon and night!” he said impressively, leaning forward.
“In that case one would get the Puriri County Council Noise Officer to come down on them like a ton of bricks, they’ve got bloody strict noise controls up there!” replied Hugh irritably.
After a moment Ralph said: “You’ve been into it in detail, I see.”
“Uh—no. Actually, I read that in the local paper round some fish and chips that we had at Michaela’s one day,” said Hugh sheepishly. “It sort of struck a chord.”
After a moment Ralph said: “So you are seriously contemplating moving out on Caroline?”
“I’ve moved,” said Hugh.
Ralph stared.
Flushing a little, he said: “Last week. Well, it got worse after the bloody wedding, not better, and— Well, it was one flaming row after another—either that or the cold shoulder; and I finally asked myself what in God’s name I imagined I was getting out of it. And as the answer was nothing whatever, I walked out.”
“Mm. I see,” said Ralph thoughtfully. “Uh—where are you staying, dear lad?”
Since this was the Antipodes, Hugh wasn’t able to say “at the club”: it didn’t have residential accommodation, or any accommodation, it was only a convenient watering-hole for tired businessmen on their way home to their nice hot dinners. “At a motel near the airport,” he admitted.
Wincing, Ralph said: “Why in God’s name didn’t you come to us?”
“Didn’t want to drag you into it. Audrey seems to be on Caroline’s side.”
“Oh. She hasn’t said anything to me, but then I must admit that lately we’ve been communicating even less than usual. Well, usually it’s only ‘Pass the mustard’ or ‘There won’t be any tea, I’ve got a committee meeting’, or ‘Give me some money, Ralph’; but of very late weeks it has been rather less. Naught, actually.”
“Oh?” said Hugh cautiously.
“Yes. One has gathered that Aud is rather fed up with one.”
“Could this have anything to do with that bloody awful Sylvia woman being interviewed about that new TV thing she’s in and shooting her mouth off about you and her down the mountain last August?” wondered Hugh.
“At least the silly bitch said it was rejuvenating!” gasped Ralph, breaking down and laughing like a drain.
“Yeah. I pity the ex-husband: never heard such a poor review in all me puff!” gasped Hugh, collapsing in splutters.
“Mm,” said Ralph, blowing his nose. “One gathers that dear Sylvia was full of brandy at the time of the interview; we don’t normally get such—er—juicy items on EnZed Tee-Vee.”
“Yeah. What did Audrey actually say to you, Ralph? –No, don’t, none of my business,” he said quickly, going red.
“I don’t mind, dear boy. We were actually watching the idiot-box together, for once.”—Hugh gulped.—“Mm. And when the words ‘August’, ‘Ralph’, and ‘wonderful surgeon’ were mentioned in close conjunction,”—Hugh gulped—“poor Aud went a sort of greenish colour and yelped: ‘Is that YOU that awful woman’s talking about?’ Whereupon one had to reply: ‘It was I, I did it with me little hatchet: so what, you’re not interested in me flaming hatchet.’”
“Little hatchets!” said Hugh in a shaken voice. “Jesus, it’s a wonder she didn’t take a hatchet to you on the spot!”
Ralph raised his eyebrows. “Why? I wasn’t depriving her of anything. In fact she wouldn’t have it if it was all tied up with a ribbon bow. –What the Christ did the bloody woman expect?” he added irritably.
“Judging from my own experience, she expected you to be as sexless as she is.”
“Precisely.”
Hugh sighed. “Just as well I didn’t ask you if I could kip at your place for a bit.”
“Mm, you’re probably right. Though we could have been two bad boys together. Here, hang on!” His eye brightened. He picked up the chaste brochure again.
“Ralph, you couldn’t possibly!” said Hugh with a laugh in his voice.
“Why not, dear fellow? If you can?”
“Running your own household? Doing your own laundry and housework? Your own grocery shopping?” choked Hugh.
“No, no: these are service units, it says so here: ‘Ser-vice u-nits’,” he read.
“You’ve just said yourself it’ll be a young local mum,” pointed out Hugh, trying—but not very hard—not to laugh. “She won’t be willing to nip down to the local delicatessen and buy you a sliver of Gorgonzola and two slices of smoked salmon—even if she was capable of it, which believe you me, she won’t be.”
“True. Ah—is there a delicatessen?”
“There is right in Puriri. Quite a nice one. It closes at five o’clock. So does everything else. Though I admit it’s open all day Saturday. Well, until four-thirty, that apparently constitutes ‘all day’ in those northern climes.”
“One could manage, then.”
“Yeah, but you couldn’t!” returned his old friend rudely.
“Balls, dear boy,” murmured Ralph, reading the brochure. “HOW much?” he shrieked.
“Strata titles,” said Hugh airily.
“Shut up.” Ralph read with fierce concentration. “This would do, you know.”
“Crap. You’d have to get up at crack of dawn and drive for two hours to get to work.”
“A gross exaggeration. Besides, one would tell The Mater not to schedule one any ops before eleven, one has this power as a consultant,” he sighed.
Hugh made a face at him.
“In any case, it’d be a good investment,” decided Ralph briskly. “Especially if that motorway extension goes through.”
“Only if they put in an off-ramp in at Waikaukau Junction,” said Hugh meanly.
“I’m sure they will: I shall drop a hint in Jake Carrano’s ear,” decided Ralph smoothly.
Hugh choked.
“One would not, of course, pay this price,” murmured Ralph.
“How? It happens to be what they’re asking,” retorted Hugh nastily.
“Commercially naïve, Hugh,” he murmured.
“Well, how?” demanded Hugh angrily,
Raising his eyebrows, Ralph said: “One tells one’s reliable man— My God, don’t tell me you’re doing it yourself?”
“Uh—well, my lawyers’ll see to the actual paperwork-
“No, no, no,” sighed Ralph. “Leave it to me. Which one are you interested in?”
“Um—well, this one, I thought.”
Ralph looked at the plan narrowly. He sniffed slightly.
“What?” said Hugh defensively.
“Nothing.” He stood up. “Come along, dear boy.”
“Where to?” said Hugh feebly.
“The wilds of Waikaukau, where else, old mate: one does not purchase pigs in pokes, however—er—chaste.” He gave the brochure a nasty look but on second thoughts picked it up.
Hugh got up but said feebly: “I thought you’d decided on lunch at the Kiosk?”
“Lunch can wait.”
“Look, I can’t, I’ve got I’ve got an appointment at two-thirty.”
“Cancel it,” said Ralph, shrugging.
“No!”—Ralph raised his eyebrows at him.—“It’s a kid whose mum has to trail in all the way from Otara on the bus,” he said crossly.
Ralph raised his eyebrows again. “One had heard rumours to the effect that them as live in Otara—otherwise known as ‘They’, naturally—do not care about their kids’ bones?”
“Some of them do!” shouted Hugh angrily.
“Then I shall get you back in time, Hugh.”
“Not in my car, you won’t,” said Hugh with feeling as they went out.
“No: we’ll nip over to my place and grab the BMW,” replied Ralph calmly. “Is there anywhere to eat up that way?”
“Nothing that you’d consider,” replied Hugh nastily as they got into his ageing Jaguar, with Ralph naturally taking the driver’s seat.
“Keys, keys!” said Ralph, snapping his fingers. “Is there anywhere I wouldn’t consider?” he added in a bored voice as Hugh resignedly handed over his keys.
“Um—well, The Blue Heron Restaurant has very good food, actually.”
“But?”
“Bits of stick and insects from the pergola fall in the food!” admitted Hugh with a choke of laughter.
“The Blue Heron Restaurant it is, then. –Should we book?”
“Um—no, not in November, I wouldn’t think.”
“A Bad Sign,” noted Ralph detachedly, driving away.
They duly picked up the BMW, shot at immense speed up the northern motorway to its junction with the main north highway, and at scarcely reduced speed up the highway to the Waikaukau Junction turnoff. Ralph duly pointed out that that had taken only thirty-five minutes, including the time spent changing cars. Hugh duly pointed out that it wasn’t the middle of the rush hour and that Ralph had broken the speed limit the entire way. Ralph merely pointed out that this road had improved greatly, as they turned into what now did have a sign saying “Elizabeth Rd” and another sign saying “Willow Plains, 8 km”. They were both AA signs, but neither Hugh nor Ralph was in any doubt that the fell hand of Jake Carrano was in there somewhere.
“Christ!” gasped Ralph, as the good surface ended in a plethora of graders, front-end loaders, diggers and bulldozers just past the dairy factory and they were on the old surface again.
“Sucks,” replied Hugh.
“Well, at least it’s progress.”
“Yeah: progress that’ll shut down a week before Christmas and resume around January the 20th,” replied Hugh meanly.
“Nonsense, dear lad: not with Jake Carrano’s fingers in the pie.”
“You’re probably right,” acknowledged Hugh with a sigh.
“I get it!” he said loudly as they shot past the end of Blossom Avenue in a cloud of dust.
“What? Kidney trouble?” replied Ralph.
“No. And slow down, we’ll hit a bloody goat or a front-end loader or something at this rate! –No, it’s belatedly dawned why you’re so unbothered by the idea of having to graft for yourself: you’re gonna go and inflict yourself on poor Tom and Jemima at chow-time!”
“Rubbish. Though I admit the thought had occurred, if Jemima was bringing home loads of basic goods for them—her hours being so comparatively flexible—why should she not bring home the occasional slice of smoked salmon for one?”
“Because she can’t drive, you selfish birk!” yelled Hugh. “She’ll be forcing herself to lug home great bagfuls of stuff! Christ, you’re a selfish shit, Ralph!”
“I suppose it would never occur,” said Ralph, his nostrils flaring slightly, “that it had slipped my mind that my very-nearly-sister-in-law does not possess that near-universal skill?”
“Had it?” replied Hugh simply.
“YES, DAMMIT!” he shouted.
“I’m sorry, Ralph,” said Hugh after a moment or two. “Though on your form up till now—”
“All right: shut up,” said Ralph tiredly.
Hugh did. He glanced at his friend’s profile uncertainly and went on shutting up until they reached Willow Grove.
Only one unit was completed to the extent of actually having its door and window-frames painted, but nevertheless a keen-looking woman in a puce suit and Dame Edna specs immediately shot out of it, beaming a shark-like beam and waving a clipboard, so the fell hand of Jake Carrano was in there somewhere, all right. Undoubtedly the BMW helped. Not to say Ralph’s charcoal grey, double-breasted, draped tailoring.
Ralph rapidly extracted the details that were germane from the puce female and expertly got rid of her. He inspected all the sites from the bottom of the drive, plan in hand. Then he gave Hugh a cogent and pithy refutation of any argument he might have been about to put forward in favour of the unit he’d rather fancied. Raising such points as: it was exactly where cars would change gear in the driveway before driving up to the units further back; it was too near what would before long become the traffic of Elizabeth Road—early golfers, he added deeply before Hugh could get out a syllable; it was placed over a natural drain from the slope behind it: look: see? (Hugh saw: he nodded dumbly); and, while it was true that the main bedroom was artfully placed to get the morning sun the very second it rose, none of the other rooms would get any sun all day. Hugh was going to say that this was architecturally impossible but Ralph rapidly explained why it wasn’t.
“All right, then, which do you reckon?” he demanded crossly.
Ralph eyed the muddy ruts leading up what would no doubt one day reasonably soon be a drive and said: “One’s shoes or one’s springs?”
“Depends who you want to impress,” replied Hugh grumpily.
“Sacrifice the springs, she’s due to be traded in next January,” decided Ralph immediately. They got back in the BMW and bumped up the drive.
“This one—that is, these two,” said Ralph firmly.
“The top ones?” said Hugh faintly.
“Yes,” said Ralph firmly. “Nice and dry, well placed to get plenty of sun, but neither sitting-room faces due west—a point in our summers, dear boy,” he sighed, “easy access for the vehicles, and room enough for two—I presume you’ll want to retain that damned four-wheel-drive monstrosity—plus a decent-sized back yard each, a considerable point when one is thinking of re-selling.”
“And a considerable drawback when one is thinking of mowing,” said Hugh sourly.
“One gets someone in for that, dear soul,” he sighed.
“Out here?” said Hugh loudly, waving his hand at the completely deserted and silent landscape. –It wasn’t apparent, but the blokes from the site had pushed off to The Tavern in Puriri in search of lunch. They often didn’t, but they’d got a bit sick of the lady in the puce suit popping out and urging them to use her facilities for making tea: they didn’t fancy the gleam in the Dame Edna specs.
Ralph was unmoved. “Naturally. The presence of the market will attract the supply.”
“Huh!”
“All right: be like that. But I’ll have one of these,” said Ralph, looking up at them thoughtfully.
“They’re ten thousand more than the others!” protested Hugh.
“Of course they are, Hugh: these are the best sites,” said Ralph patiently.
“But—”
“One was about to beat them down ten thou’ for one of the others. At least, I was. So if we beat them down ten for these, you’ll only be paying what you were apparently prepared to pay in the first place.”
“Uh—yeah. –If,” he muttered. Ralph ignored him. “Well, shall we have a look at them?”
“Certainly.”
They approached the one on the right—set slightly further back than its semidetached neighbour—and mounted the outside concrete staircase that led up to the front door on the first floor, above the currently doorless garage.
“This isn’t a brilliant idea—imagine what these steps’d be like on a rainy night,” said Hugh.
“Hugh, dearest boy: there is an inside staircase from the garage,” sighed Ralph.
“No, there isn’t,” said Hugh in surprize.
“They haven’t built it yet,” said Ralph between his teeth.
“Oh. Um—be careful, Ralph, there’s no door.”
There wasn’t much floor, either, but Ralph picked his way carefully over what there was. “Yes—I think so,” he said eventually.
“I hate concrete walls,” said Hugh, looking at them dubiously.
“Under certain circumstances they may not be utterly loathsome. But one has the option of lining them—didn’t you hear a word that female said?”
“Not much, I was wondering where on God’s earth she found those glasses,” admitted Hugh with a grin.
“Well, one can buy these units in any one of the following states: unlined, like now—see?”—Hugh glared—“plastered and painted: lee rough-cast concrete look,”—Hugh glared—“lined but not wallpapered,”—“Oh,” said Hugh—“or lined and fully wallpapered throughout—a choice against which I would strongly advise!” he ended with a laugh in his voice.
“Why?”
“Why? It would be the developer’s choice, Hugh!” he gasped.
“Oh, I thought— Well, couldn’t you choose the actual paper?”
“Yes, and pay three times as much, at a conservative estimate, as if you had asked nice Mr Bloggs, the Puriri painter and decorator, to do it for you.”
“Thank you for explaining it so clearly, Ralph,” said Hugh. He picked his way over to the window. “I like this view,” he decided.
“Do you?” said Ralph in surprize.
“Mm. Sort of Woollaston-ish, isn’t it?”
That was precisely why Ralph thought it was foul. “Uh—true. Shall we look at the next-door unit, dear lad?”
“Hang on.”
Ralph hung on.
Hugh stared at the view. Northish to the Woollaston-ish hills that shut off the shallow valley from Puriri itself. “I’ve got a Woollaston: it’s in storage. I damn nearly sold it ten years back when Caroline crashed the bloody waggon and I found out the bitch hadn’t kept up the insurance payments: thank Christ I didn’t!”
“Indeed. It must be worth a mint.”
“Who cares?” said Hugh in a vague voice, staring at the view.
Ralph sighed. “Come on,” he said at last.
They went next-door. This unit was in the same state. Its sitting-room had a view south-eastish, to the much bluer line of low hills that shut off the valley from, eventually, the highway. Northish it had only a smaller window. This gave you a good view of next-door’s front steps, but Hugh didn’t remark on it, so Ralph didn’t point it out.
They went through to the back. The kitchen. And a hole in the passage which would be where a staircase would come up.
“What’s down there?” said Hugh, peering. “Oh—the garage, I suppose.”
“True: also the second bedroom, the second bathroom, and a space which might be used as the games room, supposing one were interested in, er, that sort of indoor game.” Ralph wandered back into the sitting-room and went through the master bedroom to its ensuite. All done except the floor-covering: progress.
“That’s ridiculous!” said Hugh loudly, following him.
“What? This pale green Aakronite?”
“No. Well, yeah. –No, two bathrooms in a tiny flat like this!”
“One for one—and one’s dear friend—and one for one’s guest. One’s guest will thus not have to stagger upstairs in the middle of the night for a pee.”
“Has that other one got two?”
“Yes. Look at the plan. They’re identical.”
“Eh?” said Hugh blankly, as he spread it out.
“Mirror images, more or less,” sighed Ralph. “Look: this bit sticking out at the back is that one’s main bedroom upstairs, and its games room downstairs. And this bit sticking out at the side is the main bedroom of this one!”
“Mm—I get it. Well, where are the downstairs bedrooms?”
Ralph was very tempted to say “downstairs”. He turned the plan around. “Here: underneath the sitting-room, see?”
“Mm. Um—here?”
“Ah... No, they’re not quite the same,” discovered Ralph. “Look, this one’s downstairs bedroom is at the back, off to the side of the garage, it must be under the kitchen. Mm: that’s right, facing southeast. And that one’s is under—um—there. See? Behind the garage: its windows must face west and north.”
“Mm. –I like that other one. Anyway, I think it’ll be warmer.”
It sitting-room’s main windows faced north: Ralph thought it would definitely be hotter in summer, yeah. And who cared about winter? He, personally, intended to install central heating and have it going all winter, he was too old to start mucking around with saving pennies over heating.
“I think I’ll go and look at that one again,” decided Hugh. He picked his way back to the door. “Though mind you, it’s too dear!” he added loudly.
Ralph sighed. He picked his way slowly back into the sitting-room of this one. Ye-es... Why not go all modern? Rough-cast white walls, he could hang that really decent rug up! ...Mm. He went into a brood.
The puce lady with the Dame Edna specs was terrifically excited when both the gentlemen from the BMW turned out to be interested in the flats! –Ralph had meanwhile impressed on Hugh that under no circumstances was he to make an offer. His, Ralph’s, man would get a valuer to have a bloody good look at foundations and find out about drainage, and his, Ralph’s, lawyer would go over the whole thing with a fine-tooth comb, and then they might just think about making an offer. Hugh had said uneasily that other people might put offers in but Ralph had rubbished this: it was the month before Christmas, the market was in a slump, and Willow Plains Limited was asking far too much for the bloody places. And on second thoughts, if offers were to be made, he, Ralph, was gonna offer ’em twenty under the asking price.
After fond farewells from the puce lady Ralph drove sedately away down Elizabeth Road. He got as far as the golf course about three K further on before it caught up with him and he had to pull in hurriedly and laugh himself silly.
“What?” cried Hugh exasperatedly.
“Puce—female—thought—gay!” gasped Ralph.
“What?” cried Hugh.
Ralph went on laughing himself silly. Finally he was able to gasp: “The puce female thought we were a pair of ageing queens looking for a wee palace together!”
“Well, you called me ‘dear boy’ about fifty times, and ‘Hugh, darling’ at least twice in front of the poor woman, what was she supposed to think?” said Hugh crossly. “Not to mention the five thousand times you said ‘one’.”
“Did I?” he gasped, wiping his eyes.
“Yes,” said Hugh sourly.
“One—apologizes—Hugh—darling!” gasped Ralph.
“Stop it. And for God’s sake don’t do it at The Blue Heron, the woman that runs it’s a decent soul and she won’t think you either sophisticated or amusing.”
“Aw, blow,” said Ralph, pouting.
“And get on with it, I’m starving.”
Ralph started the car but said uneasily: “Should I not have put you off that unit you fancied in the first place? We can go back, if you like.”
“Hell, no! No, I really like the one with the view of the Woollaston-ish hills. –Are you sure you prefer the other one?”
“Quite sure.”
“Oh. Well, good.”
“What’s the matter, then?” murmured Ralph.
Hugh shifted uncomfortably. Then: “I’m shit-scared someone else will get in before we can!” he burst out.
“This is always the problem when one is house-hunting, dear lad. The trick is to become detached from the whole procedure: it is but a game.”
“No, it isn’t: I liked that one!”
“Then put a conditional offer on it.”
“What?”
“Subject to appraisal by your valuer, to raising the cash, subject to anything you like. They won’t have had any other offers, they’ll jump at it.”
“Well, I might. –How can you possibly know they haven’t had any other offers?”
“The puce female was too keen.”
“Oh. Well, maybe she’s on commission or something.”
“Precisely,” said Ralph heavily.
“Oh. I get you. Yes, I think I might make a conditional offer.”
“Well, for God’s sake do it through my bloke,” said Ralph hurriedly.
“Yeah, okay. How much of a rake-off does he get?”
“He gets a certain percentage of what he saves you, Hugh. Hence his extra-keenness.”
“Oh. –Oh! I see!”
“Good,” sighed Ralph.
“Don’t be so flaming superior, some of us aren’t property wheelers and dealers, I haven’t even looked at properties since we bought that damned house.”
“It was quite a pleasant house, then,” recalled Ralph.
“It might have been. I’ve been living in Caroline’s bloody interior decorating for so long I’m damned if I can remember it.”
“Mm. Supposing you buy that unit, Hugh, will you really wallpaper it?”
“Dunno. Might just have plain painted walls.”
“Oatmeal?” murmured Ralph.
“Yes,” said Hugh simply. “Very pale oatmeal.”
Ralph sniggered slightly all the way up to the intersection with the highway. When they got there he was somewhat shaken to see just how far north of Puriri township they were.
“I keep trying to tell you: two hours to get to work,” said Hugh patiently.
“Rubbish! One will go the other way, naturally!”
“Look, before you plunge into investment, Ralph, ask your brother how long it takes him to get to work,” said Hugh uneasily.
“Nonsense!” said Ralph genially. “Besides, he works to Hell and gone out the other side of the city. –That reminds me, are you coming to the’’—he swallowed a smile—“dare I say it? W,E,D,D,I,N,G?”
Hugh had stopped listening to him and was staring out at the azure sea to his left. “What a beautiful day,” he murmured dreamily.
“Yes. Are you coming to Tom and Jemima’s WEDDING?” shouted Ralph.
“Not to the ceremony, but I’m coming to the reception,” said Hugh happily. “Aren’t you?”
Ralph grimaced. “Yes. To both.”
“What’s wrong with that? It won’t be anything like that circus of Mitsy’s, you know!”
“No,” Ralph agreed, shuddering. “Er—no; before that, I suppose I’ll have to inform Audrey that she can keep the bloody house and all the crap that she’s put in it, and move my traps out.”
“Come and share my motel,” said Hugh instantly, grinning all over his thin face.
“I think I’ll have to; one feels it would not be entirely tactful to move in with Tom and Jemima at this precise moment,” he sighed.
“No!” choked Hugh.
“There is the small point,” said Ralph, grimacing, “that Audrey is—at least I presume she still is—extremely keen to come to the bloody wedding.”
“Shit.”
“Well put.”
Hugh rubbed his nose reflectively. “Tell her afterwards?”
“I don’t know whether it’s the glorious day, or the influence of the Dame Edna spectacles of Willow Grove’s puce female, or what, but do you know, dear lad, I find I can’t stand another instant of stony-faced, silent domestic disapproval,” he sighed.
“I know what you mean,” said Hugh drily.
“I suppose I could suggest that we—er—turn up at the ceremony as if nothing was wrong,” he said, grimacing.
“Yeah. No-one’d notice anything, you usually dump her in two seconds flat at any do,” said Hugh unfeelingly.
“Mm. I might do that.”
“Go up that road. The quiche’ll be excellent,” said Hugh, as they swung into Sir John Marshall Avenue.
“Eh?”
“At The Blue Heron,” replied Hugh simply.
“Thank you for this intense interest in my domestic dilemma, Hugh.”
“I’m sorry. Only you always seem so damned capable of coping with everything yourself, Ralph: there doesn’t seem to be much point in my offering my advice, or anything,” he explained.
“I’m—asking—you,” said Ralph patiently.
“Oh. Sorry. Um—well, I’m no good at all that stuff, why do you think my own life’s such a bloody cock-up? Um… Well, yeah: tell her you’re off, but you won’t say anything to the family until after the wedding, if that’s what she wants.”
Ralph grimaced. “Mm. It sounds all right, put like that, but can one carry it off without—er—a slanging match, as it were?”
“Well, I couldn’t, that’s what I’ve been trying to explain. Did I tell you Caroline heaved a vase at me when I walked out? It hit that bloody wall of industrial tiles and shattered half a dozen of ’em—right in the middle.”
“They must be fake industrial tiles, then.”
“That’s what I thought,” replied Hugh pleasedly. “Churned out for the tasteless, trendy, up-market market!”
“Quite.”
There was a short silence.
“Blast it, I don’t know, Ralph, but that’s what I’d do in your shoes!” said Hugh loudly.
“Yeah. Okay, I will. Sod her: he’s my brother, I’m going to the wedding regardless. And if she wants us to turn up together, so be it.”
“That’s the stuff, old mate!” said Hugh heartily.
Ralph bit his lip. “You can drop that.”
“One approves your decision, Ralph, darling, though one would not have the decision to carry it through oneself!” squeaked Hugh.
“You bugger!”
“I thought we decided we weren’t, back there by the golf course?” murmured Hugh.
Choking, Ralph turned into Pukeko Drive. “Where to now’?”
“Eh? Oh: stop, you’re going the wrong way!”
Rolling his eyes, Ralph stopped and turned.
Molly Collingwood at The Blue Heron decided that they were two nice city gents, out for a little spree, and rather sweet, really, like two little boys let out of school early. She didn’t impart this theory to Mike, which was probably just as well, he might well have thrown up, and she didn’t invite Roberta, who was again at the switchboard and looking after the office, to look into the restaurant. Which was just as well: Roberta was most definitely out of charity with Hugh, he hadn’t been to see Michaela for ages, and even more of out of charity with saturnine older men in general, Charles Brownloe having first given her a stinker of an oral for Latin Two, and then virtually ignored her for what little had been left of the term.
Roberta, in fact, had decided grimly to forget all about her stupid crush on Charles and get on with her work and act as if he’d never existed. So she was going on with the job at The Blue Heron, working longer hours now that term was over and Molly’s summer clients had started filling the motel again. And had stunned her parents by announcing she was going to spend Christmas at Ginny’s and Vicki’s parents’ farm, she didn’t care what Grandfather or Uncle Ari said, they could go to Hell!
Keith and Ariadne, who hadn’t admitted to each other that they were missing her like crazy, hadn’t been planning to go down to Wellington to inflict her grandfather or Uncle Ari on her, they’d been planning a nice cosy Christmas at home, and Keith at least had been planning to take them to a nice restaurant in town, because after all Roberta was grown up and might as well start living like a civilized being and— Things of that nature.
And straight after Christmas Roberta was going to come back, because New Year’s was always one of Molly’s busiest times at the motel. And in the evenings she was going to wash dishes at the Chez Basil, upstairs in The Arcade—since Molly and Mike had reluctantly admitted they had their regulars, really, dear, but Vicki, who had been helping out there for some time, had said that Basil and Gary were desperate for someone reliable that would be here at New Year’s and for the rest of the summer holidays. And as an acquaintance of Michaela’s had landed the job of landscaping those new yuppie flats at Willow Plains, Roberta and Michaela were both going to put in some hours helping him.
Roberta didn’t reveal all of this to her parents, however: she was very angry with them. If she’d stopped to think about it, she might have realised she wasn’t angry with them at all, she was angry with Charles Brownloe in particular and life in general, but Keith and Ariadne copped it because they were in the way at the time.
Keith and Ariadne were also very angry, and had a flaming row, each accusing the other of having driven Roberta out of her home. Ariadne also accused Keith of encouraging her in her nonsense, which wasn’t very logical, but then Ariadne was feeling guiltier than he was. They then slammed off to their separate studies fully prepared to sulk for the five or six weeks that remained before Christmas. In fact Ariadne, who was usually extremely organized, in fact super-organized, entirely forgot to do anything about ordering a ham or a turkey. Keith didn’t know, but he wouldn’t have cared much: turkey was boring, Roberta wouldn’t be here to help him get through it, and Ariadne of course never let him have mustard on the ham.
Charles Brownloe also failed to organize himself for the Yuletide period. In fact, without stopping to wonder why, he let himself slip even deeper into the glum depression that had been creeping up on him for quite some time, and buried himself in his marking. He never spoke to Moira, but she didn’t notice, she’d decided to run for City Council next year, and besides was heading for an important international medical conference in February where she would present a paper. She announced that Charles would have to get all his own meals this summer: she was far too busy with her work; and retired to her study and her computer without waiting to see how he’d taken it.
Charles had barely noticed her. He just hunched glumly into his exam marking.
Ralph Overdale, on the other hand, became very organized indeed, announced to the startled Audrey that he was walking out, he’d had enough of living with a stone wall, and in case she was wondering he wasn’t referring to her behaviour over the past couple of months, he was referring to her behaviour over the last eighteen years and particularly in BED! Getting rather loud on the last word but managing quite well, on the whole. He then marched out in a state of magnificent composure, quite forgetting to tell her that she needn’t worry about the relations, he’d maintain the façade until after Tom’s wedding. So then he had to ring her up and tell her, but it was quite easy over the phone. When she bellowed at him that he was a hypocrite he merely replied coldly that her so-called married life had been lived in state of total hypocrisy, and hung up on her.
He was so pleased with himself, take it for all in all, and so very busy organizing the units for himself and Hugh, that he didn’t really pause at all to listen to that still, small voice at the back of his head which was saying something along the lines of this was all very well, dear soul, but what was it FOR? Or if he did for the few odd seconds, it was only to tell it irritably that whatever happened it couldn’t possibly be as bloody bad as it had been up till now.
Next chapter:
https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/10/wedding-bells.html
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