Hard Times

Part III. Winds of Change

23

Hard Times

    That spring old Mrs Lambert died. Bryn and Michaela, who’d been the ones to find her, after Bryn had reminded Michaela that they hadn’t seen her for a couple of days, were very upset about it. Not that there was anything awful about old Mrs Lambert lying in her own bed. Roberta was less upset, partly because she hadn’t known Mrs Lambert as well as the other two had, and partly because she’d seen various laid-out corpses of her elderly Greek relatives in Wellington. Not to mention—which she tactfully didn’t—various corpses and pieces of corpses at Med. School. Bryn had once been heard to say that he didn’t see why anyone should get upset over dead bodies, they were just carrion, when all was said and done, and what was the difference between a dead mouse that Mrs Lambert’s cat had brought in, and a dead person? But he wasn’t heard to say it now.

    Mrs Lambert’s son and daughter-in-law, that Michaela had never laid eyes on in all the time she’d been living next-door to the old lady, flew over from Melbourne, hired themselves a car for the duration of their stay, and sorted out the flat. Not that there was much to sort out. They were about to sort out the cat, too, only Roberta quickly rescued her. Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate that the son wasn’t the executor of the will would not have been entirely easy to say: a local lawyer was, and his young assistant came round looking rather embarrassed and said to Michaela that of course they’d have to wait for probate (Michaela didn’t know what that meant), but the old lady had left her one or two specific items, and perhaps—

    The one or two specific items turned out to be the plate with the sweet doggies on it that Mrs Lambert had kept on her sitting-room mantelpiece and that Hugh had once noted formed part of her capital assets, an elaborate brass fire-screen in the shape of what was possibly meant to be a peacock’s tail, and her elderly motor-mower. The son and daughter-in-law tried to foist the even more elderly hand-mower onto Michaela instead, and she would have accepted it gratefully, but by this time Roberta and Bryn had had a talk with the young lawyer and so put a stop to that. As far as the plate and the fire-screen went, Bryn and Roberta unanimously agreed, it was a pity that the son hadn’t been the executor: these valuable assets would undoubtedly have vanished along with every other moveable item in the flat. They were very pleased about the motor-mower, until Michaela pointed out that fuel for motor-mowers cost money. Being Michaela, she pointed this out quite calmly and with no evidence of either blame or triumph in her voice at all; but nevertheless Roberta and Bryn felt considerably dashed.

    After a moment Roberta said in a very small voice: “Well, I’ll pay for Tibby ’s food.”

    “No, it can come out of the kitty,” said Michaela, not at all in the voice of one who considered herself to be making a pun.

    “Go into it, ya mean!” said Bryn in the voice of one who did.

    “Hah, hah,” said Roberta. “Um—no, it was me that said we’d take her, Michaela: I’ll pay for her food.”

    “How many saucerfuls of milk does she drink a week, do ya reckon?” said Bryn thoughtfully.

    Glaring, Roberta replied: “Why don’t you count them? –Anyway, I’ll get her a carton of her own, that’ll be easiest.”

    “How’ll she pour from it?” asked Bryn with interest.

    “SHUT UP!” she screamed.

    Bryn went rather red, and did shut up.

    “No, it can come out of the kitty, she doesn’t eat all that much. And anyway, if we have meat she can have the scraps,” said Michaela calmly.

    “Mm... Only we hardly ever do have meat,” said Roberta doubtfully. “Are you sure you don’t mind, Michaela?”

    “No. I mean, yes. I mean I don’t mind.”

    “What about you, Bryn?” said Roberta in a small voice.

    Sighing heavily, Bryn said: “I suppose I can always cash in me Post Office bond. No, of course I don’t mind, you twit!” he said loudly. “Heck, it’ll set us back about eighty cents a week each, by my reckoning!”

    “Ye-es... A bit more,” said Roberta dubiously.

    “All right, a dollar!” he replied crossly, marching out.

    “Do you think he doesn’t really want to?” said Roberta after a while.

    “No.”

    Roberta swallowed loudly.

    “I think I mean yes,” amended Michaela cautiously. “I mean, he doesn’t mind, he likes Tibby.”

    “Oh—good,” said Roberta weakly. “I sort of went and did it, without thinking it might affect the flat as a whole,” she explained in a small voice.

    “Mm,” agreed Michaela vaguely.

    Roberta swallowed again. “Um—is something up?” she croaked.

    “I don’t know. That lawyer reckons the Lamberts are gonna sell the flat.”

    “Ye-es... Well, Mrs Lambert did own it, I suppose it’s theirs now.”

    “Yes. Only what if it puts ideas into Mr Potter’s head?” said Michaela glumly.

    Mr Potter was their landlord. “Why should it?”

    “I dunno... Well, Hugh was saying that property round here’s going for a bomb, these days,” said Michaela glumly.

    Roberta and Bryn were out of charity with Hugh. They considered he’d been neglecting Michaela these last few months. Roberta was also out of charity with saturnine-looking older men in general: Charles Brownloe had more or less ignored her during the last few weeks of the winter term, and since the Third Term started she’d barely laid eyes on him. So Roberta just snorted loudly and rudely in response to this remark.

    “He knows about land prices and that sort of thing,” said Michaela in a vague voice.

    “He knows about chucking a fortune away on that stupid daughter’s ghastly wedding, you mean!” retorted Roberta fiercely.

    Since Bryn had bought last Saturday’s Herald in order to see what prices clapped-out Honda motorbikes were bringing these days, and since the Bidwell-Morton wedding had been plastered over four pages of the society section, Michaela could hardly deny this. The more so since it had been explained to her that the bride’s father pays by Roberta, Bryn, June, and even Pauline Nilsson, whom they’d bumped into at the supermarket on Saturday afternoon when she and Jemima were shopping together. In fact Pauline had been the first to explain it: at that stage it hadn’t dawned on Roberta and Bryn that Michaela didn’t know. It clearly hadn’t dawned on Jemima, either, because she’d got very upset and said that her father would never pay, he reckoned he could hardly afford to come over from Queensland for hers. Pauline had said comfortingly that they weren’t having a big do, were they, and anyway the groom’s father always paid for the drink. At which Jemima had got even more upset and pointed out that Tom’s father had been dead for years. The kind-hearted Pauline had immediately said she was sure that Ralph would take care of it, in that case. Jemima hadn’t appeared altogether comforted by this remark.

    Now Michaela merely replied calmly: “Yeah. Property and stuff as well, though.”

    “I wish we could buy it,” said Roberta glumly.

    “What?” asked Bryn, coming back.

    Roberta explained sadly: “Mrs Lambert’s flat. Well, the two flats, really.”

    “Capitalism run mad—has she been talking to your cousins?” Bryn asked genially.

    “I don’t think so. Hugh reckons the Lamberts’ll get a really good price for it.”

    Bryn picked up an apple from the crooked pot that Michaela had being going to biff out but that Roberta had salvaged for a fruit bowl. “So?”

    “That’s a windfall,” Michaela warned him. “Um—well, nothing, really.”

    Bryn looked narrowly at the apple but it didn’t appear to be riddled by wormholes, so he took a large bite out of it.

    “Michaela’s afraid Mr Potter might want to sell ours,” explained Roberta.

    Bryn made a face round his apple.

    Michaela suddenly burst into explanation. “Old Mr Potter—you know, his father—well, last time I was doing his lawns, he said Mr Potter wants to go on a trip to Europe. Well, Mrs Potter does, I think.”

    “Ugh,” said Roberta in a hollow voice.

    Bryn gulped down his mouthful of apple. “Cripes, we’ve had it, then,” he said in a doomed voice.

    Silence fell.

    Eventually Bryn said cautiously: “What about Hugh?”

    “What about him?” replied Michaela simply.

    Bryn went rather red but said with an assumption of ease: “Couldn’t you persuade him the block’d be a good investment?”

    “Bryn!” gasped Roberta in horror.

    “No,” said Michaela simply.

    “Be a nice little earner: two solid flats, not much upkeep, regular income—”

    “Shut UP, Bryn!” shouted Roberta.

    “Well, it would. Steady. You know: for his old age.”

    “Push off, cretin-head!” shouted Roberta.

    He eyed them uneasily and went over to the door. “Well, it would,” he said weakly.

    “Get OUT!” shouted Roberta.

    Bryn went out but stuck his head in again to say: “Much less upkeep than a wooden place, there’d be hardly any painting, with all this—”

    Roberta made a menacing rush at him.

    “—brick!” gasped Bryn, vanishing.

    “Moron,” muttered Roberta, retreating.

    “There are the windowsills, and the eaves,” said Michaela thoughtfully. “And the gates, only they’d be easy, they’re at ground level.”

    Roberta looked at her weakly. “Um—yeah.”

    “You weren’t there when we re-roofed Tom and Jemima’s place, were you?”

    “Help, that great two-storeyed place? You mean you got up on the roof?”

    “Yeah, me and Tom and Bob and Bill; and Tom’s other brother, not Ralph, I’ve forgotten his name; and the blokes from down the road, that’s right.”

    “Crikey,” said Roberta, gulping.

    “It is pretty high... These tiled roofs don’t need much upkeep.”

    “No,” Roberta agreed feebly.

    “Only I can’t see myself suggesting it to Hugh,” said Michaela.

    “Oh! No.” After a moment she said thoughtfully: “Maybe I could.”

    Michaela went very red but didn’t say anything.

    “Um, I won’t if you don’t want me to, of course,” Roberta added awkwardly.

    There was a short silence. “Um—no,” said Michaela hoarsely.

    Roberta looked at her dubiously. She was very flushed, and was staring at the floor. “All right, I won’t. Um—I’ve gotta go, I’m meeting Ginny: she reckons one of her cousins knows some people on The Hill that’ve got catmint in their garden.”

    “What?” said Michaela dully.

    Roberta edged towards the door. “You know—for Tibby. Ginny thinks we could plant a root of it, and maybe dry some, if there’s enough, and make a catmint mouse for her.”

    “Oh,” said Michaela dully. “Um—isn’t it the wrong season?”

    “They’ve got a very sheltered garden. See ya!” said Roberta, not looking at her. She went out quickly.

    Michaela went on staring at the floor.

    If it was true, as the Herald maintained, that the Bidwell-Morton wedding was the social event of the year, it was also certainly true, as Bryn pointed out in so many words in the middle of Cohen Cash ’n’ Carry in Puriri—just by the own-brand rolled oats, actually—that it had cost Hugh Morton a packet.

    Hugh had duly pointed out to Mitsy in so many words that when she got fed up with Murray Bidwell and decided to dump him a few years down the track, she needn’t come to him for the dough for a second round. Because as far as he was concerned, this lot was I,T, It! Over and done with. Finito. Mitsy had duly screamed at him that he was mean and horrible and run out of the sitting-room, slamming the door so hard that the industrial glass tiles forming the wall which divided it from the dining-room quivered in such a manner as to encourage a faint hope on Hugh’s breast that the whole bloody thing might actually collapse. Unfortunately, it didn’t.

    Caroline then remarked acidly that that was a fine performance. Hugh agreed smoothly to this and added that it was no more nor less than he’d expected from something that called itself Mitsy and had ordered its only father to give it a full set of solid silver cutlery for a wedding present.

    Caroline began gamely: “Her list—”

    “Fuck her bloody list!” roared Hugh.

    “There’s no need to use that sort of language, thank you!”

    “Isn’t there, just! Have you seen my bank statement lately?”

    “Don’t be coarse,” returned Caroline sourly.

    “That reminds me: where’s your Visa card?”

    “Why?” she returned defensively.

    “GIVE IT TO ME!” shouted Hugh.

    “No! What’s the matter with you, Hugh?”

    “The matter with me is that you seem to have spent my entire income for the last two years on one item from some place that calls itself ‘Fiona’s’. I don’t know what it is and I don’t want to hear what the thing was, just GIVE ME YOUR VISA CARD!” bellowed Hugh.

    Caroline opened her mouth. She looked at his contorted face and thought better of it. Sulkily she went and got her handbag. “Here,” she said sulkily, throwing her Visa card at him.

    Hugh picked it up from the sicky lilac carpet. He then discovered the near-impossibility of tearing a Visa card apart with the bare hands—however enraged the owner of the bare hands might be. Lips tight, he marched out to the kitchen. He came back with a pair of kitchen scissors. “Watch,” he said nastily.

    Caroline cried gamely: “I have to have a decent coat for the wedding!”

    Hugh ignored her. The pieces of the Visa card fluttered to the sicky lilac carpet.

    “I can get another one,” she said sulkily.

    Hugh returned to the thing he’d been sitting in. Nominally an armchair but its flat arms were so low you couldn’t put your elbows on them. “No, you can’t: that account’s in my name and I’ve just withdrawn the authority for you to use it,” he said with satisfaction.

    “You BASTARD!” shrieked Caroline. “I have to have a decent COAT! Beverly Bidwell—”

    “Fuck Beverly Bidwell and those dead possums she hides that clanking collection of bones that passes for her body in,” replied Hugh. He picked up his whisky glass.

    “Beverly’s very SMART’“ screamed Caroline.

    “She’s a bony bitch, if that’s what ya mean by—”

    “SHUT UP!” screamed Caroline.

    “No wonder Geoff Bidwell’s got a permanent second home in Meadowbank,” said Hugh on a sour note.

    Caroline’s jaw sagged. “What?”

    Hugh gave her a sardonic look.

    After a moment Caroline said: “I don’t believe it!”

    “All right, ask ya mate Bony Beverly how many nights a week he spends at home.”

    Caroline was very red. Hugh regarded this phenomenon with satisfaction.

    After quite some time she said faintly: “What about his father?”

    Hugh drained his whisky. “Well, according to old Sir Jerry Cohen—I don’t know how accurate his information is, of course, but he has known Paul Bidwell since their mutual cradles—old Paul goes in for very young lovelies.” He paused. “Not under the age of consent, I’ll give ya that. Just on it, from what old Jerry said.”

    “Rubbish!” gasped Caroline.

     Hugh shrugged.

    “He’s a deacon!” gasped Caroline.

    Hugh shrugged.

    “I don’t believe a word of it! It’s just—just filthy gossip from that awful club!”

    Hugh shrugged.

    “STOP THAT!” screamed Caroline.

    “All right, you explain to me why Deacon Paul hasn’t put the kybosh on Geoffy’s little goings-on long since, then. –Since it’s him that foots all Geoff and Beverly’s bills.”

    “Perhaps he doesn’t know,” said Caroline sulkily.

    Hugh made an incredulous noise.

    “I don’t believe it! Anyway, Beverly wouldn’t put up with it!”

    “Bony Beverly’s known all over town—or so your mutual mate that frightful Phyllis Harding woman was telling me at your daughter’s flaming engagement party—for knowing precisely which side her bread’s buttered on.”

    After a moment Caroline screamed: “Don’t be disgusting!”

    Hugh got up. “I’ll be as disgusting as I like—that is, if you expect me to pay for your daughter’s bloody wedding.”

    “She’s your daughter TOO!” screamed Caroline, suddenly bursting into tears.

    “If I didn’t know that you’d only brought yourself to do it with me in order to pay your conjugal dues,” said Hugh in a very nasty voice, going over to the door: “I’d take leave to seriously doubt that, Caroline.”

    The sobs stopped and there was an affronted gasp. “You filthy BASTARD!” screamed Caroline.

    Hugh went off to his own room with a little sneer twisting his lips. “Chance’d be a fine thing,” he muttered.

    “What in God’s name’s up with you?” said Ralph, finding him brooding in the club over a whisky a few days after this episode.

    “Where do I start? Caroline’s bloody million-dollar coat for the bloody wedding, Mitsy’s order for a solid silver canteen of cutlery to grace the Gloria Soame in fucking Pakuranga, The Lodge’s charge per capita for one dried-up cucumber sandwich—”

   Ralph subsided into the armchair next to his. “How glad I am that Audrey never produced any little Audrey-clones. Not that one wouldn’t be, on principle, but—”

    “Shut up,” said Hugh through his teeth.

    Ralph raised his eyebrows over his brandy. After a moment he said: “Should a quiet loan be required, dear soul—”

    “No,” said Hugh, swallowing and going very red. “I mean— Thanks, Ralph. But it isn’t that bad.”

    “One has pots,” murmured Ralph, tactfully not looking at him.

    “No, it’s okay,” said Hugh in a strangled voice. “I’m just a bit shell-shocked. I suppose. Got the bill for the actual dress a couple of days back. –Getting in before I go bankrupt over the ruddy caterer’s bill, I suppose. Do you know that dump expects you to pay in advance?”

    “This is a primitive colonial outpost, old mate,” sighed Ralph.

    “Yes, but— Oh, well. What’s the difference? Now or next year. At least it’s not me that’s paying for the Gloria Soame.”

    “Who is?” asked Ralph simply.

    Hugh shrugged. “Old Paul, I should think. Well, Geoff Bidwell hasn’t got a penny of his own.”

    Ralph sipped brandy reflectively. “Mm. One wonders what young Mitsy will do, stuck out in the wilds of Pakuranga all day—with or without the shiny Jap vehicle.”

    “God, I dunno! Same as she does now, I suppose. Though God knows what that is. Why she imagines life is going to suddenly and drastically improve due to Holy Matrimony with Murray Bidwell—!”

    “Does she?” he murmured.

    Hugh shrugged. “Apparently.”

    “Poor dear brainless child.”

    Hugh made a sour face. “Comes of an unadulterated diet of pulp romances and— What’s that thing Caroline watches in the afternoons?”

    Ralph rolled a horrified eye at him. “Don’t ask me!”

    “It’s an American soap opera: all the women are impeccably groomed, even in their aprons—in fact especially in their aprons—and all the men have had their teeth capped”—Ralph rolled his eyes frantically and ran the tip of his tongue over his front teeth—“and wear Gucci loafers and—uh—male leisure wear, American style. Cravats and stuff.”

    “How the Hell do you know?” said Ralph, trying not to laugh.

    Hugh replied glumly: “I had a frightful cold about two weeks back and packed it in after lunch one day. Came home and the pair of ’em were glued to it. Mitsy was lying on the floor in her tights waving her legs about, mind you, and Caroline was drinking prune juice and eating celery sticks”—Ralph winced—“but they were both glued to it.”

    Ralph broke down and had an awful sniggering fit.

   Hugh smiled a bit but he said: “Unfortunately Mitsy seems to have got it confused with real life.”

    “Mm. Well, one hesitates to say so, but there wouldn’t seem to be anything that can be done about that.”

    “No. Let’s hope she never finds out she’s wrong,” he said glumly.

    Ralph sipped brandy, debating whether or not to enquire further. Finally he put the glass down with a little sigh and said: “What else is wrong, Hugh?”

    Hugh’s lean face reddened. “Nothing. Well, isn’t that enough?”

    Ralph merely looked at him mildly.

    “Oh, Caroline and I have had another filthy row,” he said tiredly. “Not just over the bloody coat—but— Well, over everything, I suppose. Her attitude.” He shrugged. “My attitude.”

    After a moment Ralph murmured: “Attitudes to what, old boy?”

    “Life in general, I think,” said Hugh sourly. “No, well, specifically my attitude that as her mother Caroline ought to back me up in my last-ditch effort to persuade Mitsy not to tie herself up to a moron she doesn’t care tuppence for, for the sake of the flaming material advantages he can give her.”

    “Didn’t Caroline do virtually the same thing?” he murmured.

    Hugh opened his mouth angrily. Then he shut it again. “Yes, well, didn’t we both?” he said sourly. “All the more reason why she’d be keen to put Mitsy off, wouldn’t you think?”

    Ralph thought a dozen things, actually; some of them quite contradictory, too. One or two of them would have been really too cruel to voice—even though Audrey hadn’t had any girls he had few illusions about mother-and-daughter relationships. Finally he said: “So she wouldn’t back you up?”

    “No. She said it was a good match.”

    “God,” said Ralph faintly.

    “Though her main reason for refusing to support me seemed to be that all the wedding invitations have been sent out.”

    “Now that rings true,” said Ralph thoughtfully.

    Hugh sighed and set his empty glass down. “So I told her what I thought of her. In quite some detail.”

    “Ah. And did she retaliate?”

    “Oh, yeah. She informs me I can have a divorce right after the wedding, if I like. And that I needn’t think I’ll get the house.”

    “I trust you pointed out that wild horses wouldn’t force you into having the house?”

    “No, I said I’d sell it out from under her if it was the last thing I did,” admitted Hugh with a shamefaced grimace.

    “Tut, tut. Temper. So, er, where do things stand now?”

    “I don’t know. She hasn’t spoken to me since. She certainly hasn’t fed me,” he added on a bitter note.

    “Ah! Now that, in this remote colonial outpost, does constitute irreconcilable breakdown of marital relations!” said Ralph pleasedly.

    “Shut up,” returned Hugh with a sheepish grin. “No, actually, now I come to think of it, I think you’re right: I think that’s why she’s doing it,” he discovered.

    Ralph choked slightly. “How can you tell the difference, though, dear lad?”

    “What? Oh! Well, she does usually provide dinner of sorts. Not on Fridays, of course. Or Sundays.”

    “Some strange Anglican rite?” he murmured, raising the eyebrows very high.

    “No, you birk! No, Fridays because by the end of the week she’s always too exhausted, and Sundays because—uh—”

    “Because at the end of the weekend she’s always too exhausted?”

    “Not from anything she’s ever let me do, I can tell ya!” said Hugh bitterly.

    Ralph smiled slightly. “Audrey’s reasoning is very similar, I do assure you. My being a lazy lump is a strong factor, too, of course.”

    “And does her Sunday exhaustion have nothing to do with you, too?” asked Hugh sourly.

    Ralph got out his cigar case. “Oh, yes. Have a gorilla.”

    They both lit up scientifically.

    “Mm,” said Ralph, through his first mouthful of smoke. He expelled it carefully. “Yes, Hugh, old fellow, have I never explained? Our youngest is now—er—eighteen, I think. Something like that. That makes it eighteen years less nine months since Audrey has let me—er—put it in there.”

    Hugh choked, and removed his cigar hastily. “Even Caroline’s not— Well, it’s getting on for, um, seven years, now, I suppose, but— Christ, Ralph!”

    “She doesn’t like sex in any case, and she’s never liked it with me,” explained Ralph clearly. “Lowering to the morale, no?”

    “Yes,” agreed Hugh, lips thinning. “Extremely.”

    They smoked in silence for a while, staring in front of them.

    Then Ralph blew a smoke ring and said: “Not that one hasn’t managed to find consolation. Considerable consolation.”

    “You have—yeah,” said Hugh on a sour note.

    Ralph blew another ring. “What about Master Potter, dare one ask, dear lad?”

    Hugh replied glumly: “I bought her a heavy sweater about—when would it have been? Late June, I think; and you’d have thought— Oh, well. She finally took it, but it made me feel really wanted, I can tell you!”

    “Mm.” After a few moments he murmured: “Has it ever occurred that the master potter might be terrified of an emotional commitment?”

    “Yes, but for God’s sake, it was only a jumper!” said Hugh loudly and angrily.

    “Was it?” replied Ralph drily.

    “Look, don’t go all symbolic on me, I’ve had more than I can take for one week!”

    “Mm. –I feel rather sorry for your master potter, Hugh,” he discovered.

    “Look—” Hugh broke off. After all, Ralph had just offered him a substantial loan. He rubbed his hand wearily across his face and said: “I don’t know what I want, or—or if I— Well, I just don’t know, see? I can hardly say anything to her when I don’t know how I feel, it wouldn’t be fair!”

    “No.” Ralph agreed, looking thoughtfully at his cigar. “But in that case, large woolly jumpers can hardly be said to be fair, either; can they?”

    After a moment Hugh admitted sulkily: “No, I suppose not.”

    “Dare I say you cannot have it both ways, dear fellow? Not with a woman like the master potter, at all events.”

    “No. Well, all right, I won’t bloody well offer her another thing!” he said angrily.

    “I wouldn’t,” he agreed.

    Hugh’s cigar had gone out. He relit it, looking sulky. They smoked in silence.

    “When is the great event, dare I ask?” murmured Ralph.

    Shuddering, Hugh replied: “Next Saturday. And don’t imagine we won’t see you there, Audrey was round our place just other day, telling Caroline about whatever abortion she’s planning to wear.”

    “I’ll wear my dark glasses,” promised Ralph.

    “I think I’ll wear a bag over my head,” muttered Hugh. He looked up suddenly, and grinned. “Have to: so as not to be blinded by the glare from the fucking canteen of silver!”

    Ralph chuckled obligingly. He then offered Hugh dinner at The Golden Lamb. Hugh replied graciously that he might as well, it was that or starve.

    On their way out they were buttonholed by old Sir Jerry Cohen, who bashed Ralph genially on the back and asked him how that lad of his was getting on down at Polly Carrano’s dad’s farm. Ralph replied airily that he was no doubt discovering the virtues of hard work and early rising and that as far as he knew the Mitchells hadn’t sent him back yet. Sir Jerry then urged them to have one for the road on him but his nephew Philip Cohen came up and steered him gently away in the direction of what no-one present doubted for an instant would be the excellent hot dinner Belinda would have waiting for him.

    “Was that about what I thought it was about?” said Hugh weakly.

    “Is it the thought of the bill for all that shiny cutlery or merely the possibility of getting shut of Caroline that’s suddenly rendered you so obscure?” returned Ralph.

    “You can drop that. What old Jerry Cohen was saying.”

    “Ah.”—He met Hugh’s exasperated eye.—“Uh—yes. One of the offspring has decided to make agriculture his life’s work. Until he changes his mind, no doubt.”

    “On—was it Polly Carrano’s father’s farm?”

    “Even the delicious Lady C. presumably did not spring ready-formed from—”

    “All RIGHT! –How in God’s name did you talk him into it?”

    “Stopped paying his rent.”

    Hugh swallowed.

    “I admit he then tried to talk his mother into paying it, but as Audrey is even more tight-fisted than I—” He shrugged airily.

    After a moment Hugh said: “Didn’t you say he and his mates were squatting?”

    “What? Oh! No, no, not the vile Shane, my dear fellow: Andrew!”

    “Oh. I never knew he was interested in farming. Or isn’t he?”

    Ralph shrugged. “Time will tell.”

    Hugh eyed him cautiously and decided discretion was definitely the better part of valour.

    “We don’t have to stay,” he murmured as they came into The Golden Lamb and immediately spotted Phoebe Fothergill at a table for four over by the window.

    “I do, Audrey’s at some bloody Good Keen Girls’ get-together and there’s no edible food in the house.”

    “Well, it’s no skin off my nose,” said Hugh on a resigned note.

    “Disabuse yourself of the notion, dear boy, that I intend to go into a decline, or a sulk—or whatever it is you apparently envisage—merely at the sight of Phoebe eating roast lamb with the American Friend.”

    Hugh had only met Sol once. “So it is him.”

    “Mm. The one with the odd American garments; not the strangely obsolescent figure with the moustache.”

    “They’re not all that odd,” objected Hugh, taking another look at the American Friend’s clothes. It was very hard to put your finger on just what was different about them...

    “Dacron,” murmured Ralph. “Oh—good evening, Michel. I did ring for a table for one, but Mr Morton’s joining me. Can that be managed?”

    The maître d’ assured him, with much bowing and scraping, that it could, and led them to a table. Rather fortunately—or so Hugh felt—nowhere near Phoebe’s.

    “I don’t see how you can tell it’s Dacron at this distance,” he objected, once they were seated.

    “I dare say. –Don’t have a starter, they’re all vile,” warned Ralph.

    Hugh studied the menu for a while in silence. Then he said timidly: “Oysters?”

    “Tinned,” said Ralph on a musical note.

    “Oh. Uh—avocado?”

    “With tinned shrimp!”

    “Seafood cocktail?” said Hugh faintly.

    “May-on-naise,” lowed Ralph.

    “Gotcha,” he conceded.

    After Ralph had warned him against every main dish except the actual roast lamb, he said weakly: “I get it: it’s the cut.”

    “What? Oh, the Dacron! Yes, very true. And the colour. And the Dacron.”

    Hugh eyed Ralph’s own natty pin-stripes in silence.

    “A generation ago,” he sighed, “one would have worn morning dress to demonstrate one’s professional status. How I regret I was born too late for those elegant and leisured days.”

    “Not a generation, surely!” objected Hugh. “Even old Sir Bertie never went that far.”

    “Two, then.”

    “Ye-es... Well, before the War, probably. Who cares?”

    “I do,” said Ralph sadly.

    “Remember old Boat-Face at Med. School?”

    “There you are,” said Ralph simply.

    “I think of him every time I see that damned red rose in your buttonhole, Ralph,” explained Hugh simply.

    Ralph merely lifted his lapel and sniffed it pleasedly.

    “Miss Quimby thinks I ought to wear a pink carnation,” admitted Hugh.

    Ralph had a tremendous and—on the whole, Hugh decided sourly—unflattering sniggering fit. “Yes!” he gasped when he was over it. “We’ll both have the roast lamb, thanks, with the mashed potatoes,” he added to the waiter without waiting for Hugh to express a preference. “And send the wine waiter over, would you?”

    When Ralph had given due attention to rubbishing the wine list and had forced himself to order a bottle of something that he warned would undoubtedly be dire, Hugh said cautiously: “Is this American-Friend thing of Phoebe’s—um—definitive, then?”

    Ralph shrugged. “The dumping of yours truly apparently is. –The obsolescent moustachioed one and the blonde companion talking with her mouth full are very old and close chums of Phoebe’s, by the way.”

    “Oh,” said Hugh cautiously.

    Ralph raised his eyebrows very high. “One doesn’t suffer too much, dear boy.”

    “No, I heard you spent your usual delightful ten days or so at The Chateau this August,” admitted Hugh.

    Ralph winked very slowly. “Delightful, indeed. But the absence of luscious red-haired twins was remarked.”

    “Eh?”

    Sighing mournfully, Ralph explained.

    “I see. Was it one or both that you fancied, Ralph?”

    “Both, initially. Why not? A man must have his dreams. No, but then later, don’t you remember, at that bloody luau chez Carrano: they were both there.”

    “Uh—yeah.”

    “‘Uh, yeah,’ the man says! Hugh: where are your hormones?” he said deeply, leaning forward over the table.

    “Same place as anybody else’s, I imagine,” said Hugh grumpily. “Unlike old Paul Bidwell, however, I don’t happen to be into the Lolita type.”

    “Stale news, dear boy,” said Ralph calmly.

    “I dare say. –Caroline won’t believe it. Or she maintains she won’t.”

    “I thought you weren’t communicating?”

    “We’re not, this was before.”

    “Oh.”

    “And just in case you were about to say Is this germane, let me add right now, No, it probably isn’t,” said Hugh sourly.

    “How well you know me, Hugh,” he sighed.

    Hugh swallowed a smile. But after a minute his gaze sharpened and he said: “I thought I did. But what is all this about ‘later, at that bloody luau’?”

    Ralph had rather hoped he’d overlooked that. “Nothing, really. Just a fancy.”

    “Oh?”

    Pouting, Ralph said: “The bright one with the tits is rather— Well, never mind. Rather, that’s all.”

    “Rather too young to be your granddaughter?” suggested Hugh.

    “I’ve already had that from bloody Tom, thanks: don’t you start,” he replied sourly.

    Hugh didn’t really know Tom all that well, but he said weakly: “You didn’t tell him that you fancied this infant, did you?”

    Ralph shrugged. “General fancying of luscious twins was mentioned, as I recall. Whereupon the blasted sibling did sums.”

    “Oh.”

    At this point the wine waiter surfaced with Ralph’s bottle, so there was a pause. The dinner hadn’t yet surfaced but they embarked on the wine anyway.

    “You were joking, were you?” said Hugh dubiously, having got himself round his first glassful.

    “Er...”

    “About that red-headed kid.”

    “I’m not joking when I say I’d give ten years of my lite to get into her,” Ralph replied frankly.

    “Which ten years?” rejoined Hugh drily.

    “Uh—between seventy and eighty,” he admitted with a smile.

    “Yeah.”

    Ralph sipped, sighed, and said: “No, I do fancy her dead rotten. Brains as well as beauty. And all that S.A., that she doesn’t know she’s got and hasn’t a clue what to do with... Oh, deary me.”

    “Give her five years and she’ll be settled in darkest outer Birkdale with some boring idiot that’s just started up a suburban law practice or a nice little accounting business,” replied Hugh drily.

    Ralph looked sour. “No doubt.”

    Fortunately the food then arrived, so they were able to concentrate on eating.

    By the time they were sipping brandies Ralph judged Hugh was probably softened up enough for him to mention that rumour about his boat. If he ever could be. So he said: “By the way, old mate, wasn’t there a rumour to the effect that you were getting rid of Kittiwake?”

    Hugh replied sourly: “I never seem to get the time to take her out myself, and I don’t know anyone who enjoys sailing. So I thought I might as well stop paying those extortionate bloody fees at that fucking marina. Why? You thinking of replacing that floating casting-couch of yours?”

    “Please! Floating chambre du roi—yes. Floating boudoir, even—possibly. But there is nothing vulgarly Hollywoodish about my Saucy Sal.”

    “Well, are you?”

    “No, certainly not.” Ralph sipped Cognac. “Doesn’t the master potter sail?”

    There was a moment’s silence. Then Hugh admitted in a sheepish voice: “I’ve never asked her. Well, she’s always so busy in the weekends. I wish to God she worked when normal people do!”

    “She does. Or so I gather. At the sort of alienating task at which normal people do work normal hours. Only then in the weekends she—er—does her thing. Do I have that right?”

    Hugh only replied sourly: “Get choked, Ralph.”

    “I wouldn’t mind, if I can’t have my Twin,” he admitted, taking a huge gulp of Cognac.

    Hugh gave him a startled look. Ralph grimaced, shrugged, and said: “Have another?”

    “No. Shouldn’t one of us be remembering he has to drive? Or do you actually want to end up as one of those statistics your offsider Moira Whatsername was shouting about on the News the other day?”

    Ralph murmured: “Moira Brownloe has political ambitions... And every other sort of ambition. Oh, not sexual ones, dear boy, don’t look so startled: Moira isn’t into that at all.” He shuddered. “Thank God: what a terrifying thought! No, actually, one is not yet that depressed over—er—missing out on luscious twins, et al. You drive,” he finished, fishing out his keys.

    Hugh took them but said: “I’ve had too much. We’ll get a taxi.”

    “Very well, we’ll get a taxi,” he sighed.

    “I hope you haven’t got anything scheduled for eight o’clock tomorrow morning, Ralph.”

    “No, no. Only ‘Doctor’s Rounds’ at The Mater. –Why on earth do those bloody hens—whilst persisting in addressing one as ‘Mister’ in order to make the poor bloody patients feel dumb, mystified, or merely humble, or all three—persistently persist in referring to it as ‘Doctor’s’ rounds?”

    Hugh merely replied: “Don’t you mean ‘to them’?”

    “Very likely,” he sighed.

    On thinking it over, Hugh didn’t feel that Ralph had been quite on form that evening. His witty persiflage had been distinctly less witty than usual and rather less—whatever the adjective might be from persiflage. The Phoebe thing, probably. Well, it was a damn sight likelier than all that hankering-after-teenage-twins bit!

    He might not have been quite so persuaded of this last, however, if he’d known quite how assiduously Ralph was cultivating not only Tom and Jemima (to Tom’s expressed annoyance) but also the Carranos (to Sir Jacob’s expressed annoyance.) They being the only persons of Ginny Austin’s acquaintance whom he knew well enough to cultivate.

    On thinking it over, Ralph decided that poor old Hugh was so bloody down because of the bloody wedding: anno domini, and all that. Not to mention what the bloody thing must be costing him! He’d feel better once it was over and done with. Must ask him out on the boat or something, he thought: talk him into getting out on Kittiwake instead of pestering Master Potter every weekend. And if Caroline really did decide to dump him, he’d feel even betterer, in Ralph’s considered opinion.

    Brooding somewhat on this latter point Ralph even began seriously to contemplate the possibility of dumping Audrey. Well, almost seriously. For, once one did start to contemplate it, the awful question did rather raise its head: What For?

    “We could buy it!” cried Jemima excitedly.

    Bryn goggled at her. Roberta goggled at her. Even Michaela goggled at her. Ginny both goggled at her and said: “But you haven’t got any money, have you, Jemima?”

    “No, but we’re thinking of selling Tom’s old flat. Well, house, really. It’s two flats,” explained Jemima clearly. “Tom wants to pay Ralph back that money he lent us to buy the house.”

    “But didn’t you say there was an old lady living in it that makes plaited rag rugs?” asked Michaela.

    The rugs bit naturally explaining why Michaela had retained this piece of otherwise unnecessary bourgeois flotsam, Jemima was able to reply immediately: “Yes, Mrs Morton. She’s got the other flat. And one of the teachers from school has got Tom’s old one, but that’s only temporary. And Mrs Morton’s quite keen on moving up here.”

    “Why?” said Bryn simply. They were sitting companionably in Michaela’s dingy kitchen at Flat B, 7 Kapenga Avenue. Bryn investigated an apple but it was not only clearly one of the windfalls from last season, it was also very brown and wrinkled. He put it back neatly in the misshapen fruit bowl.

    “She likes it. She says it’s warmer than down there,” explained Jemima on an unconvinced note. “And she wants to be nearer Tom.”

    “Why?” said Bryn simply.

    Jemima explained calmly: “She’s only got one son, and he lives down in Bluff. –I think that’s what she said,” she added dubiously, just as Bryn was about to ask why. “Is there a place called Bluff?”

    Bryn gulped.

    “Game, set and match,” noted Roberta acidly. “Yes, there is, it’s right down the bottom of the South Island,” she explained kindly. “It’s where the oyster boats dock.”

    “I see. Um, what oyster boats?”

    “Bluff—oysters!” choked Ginny, falling all over the kitchen. Roberta and Bryn also fell all over the kitchen. Michaela displayed no emotion whatsoever.

    Jemima smiled resignedly. “I’m no good at geography. –Anyway, what do you think?”

    “Um—about Mrs Lambert’s flat, do you mean?” asked Michaela.

    Jemima nodded hard. “Yes; I’m sure Mrs Morton’d like it; and she’s a nice person, Michaela, she’d be all right as a neighbour.”

    “Has she got her own furniture?” asked Michaela after a moment’s brow-wrinkling.

    “Yes. She’s got lots of stuff, really.”

    “That’s all right, then,” said Michaela.

    “We could always lend her a fire-screen,” offered Bryn, looking hopefully into the fridge. It didn’t immediately offer any nourishment, so he closed it sadly. “What happened to that cheese?”

    “Tibby ate it,” replied Michaela indifferently.

    “All of it?” he cried indignantly.

    Tibby was on Jemima’s knee. Jemima stroked her and looked at her dubiously. Tibby just gave a slight purr—or it might have been a snore—and curled up tighter.

    “No, you ate most of it in that sandwich,” Roberta reminded him mildly.

    “Bugger,” he muttered.

    “Tibby’s a very old name,” said Jemima thoughtfully. “I think it’s in Shakespeare.”

    “Unlike ‘Bryn’,” said Roberta thoughtfully.

    “He’s not responsible for the sins of his parents!” said Ginny with a giggle.

    Bryn had opened his mouth to blast Roberta. Now he closed it and smiled sheepishly but gratefully at Ginny.

    “I’ll ask Tom,” decided Jemima.

    “Yes, but— You couldn’t afford both, could you?” asked Roberta awkwardly.

    “Um—no. Well, Tom’s idea is to pay Ralph half the money he gets for the house, and put the rest into a flat for Mrs M. I mean, we don’t have to be her landlords, but— Well, you know,” said Jemima, going very pink.

    “Yes,” agreed Michaela calmly. “I get it, you’d just buy Mrs Lambert’s old place.”

    “Yes, but Jemima, that doesn’t solve the problem!” said Roberta, leaning forward urgently from her position on the edge of the kitchen table. She wobbled slightly, and grabbed the table.

    Jemima looked blank.

    “It solves the problem of Mrs Lambert’s flat,” said Michaela seriously.

    Her two flatmates cried immediately: “Shut up, Michaela!” Fond though they both were of her, they’d discovered you had to do that sometimes or go right round the flaming twist. Or strangle her, possibly. Or both. In fact at moments like these—or, usually, just shortly after such moments—Roberta often found herself thinking uneasily that perhaps it was a good thing after all that Hugh Morton showed no signs of wishing to settle down domestically with Michaela. Because he’d probably either go mad or strangle her. Or both.

    “Their landlord’s going to sell this place, Jemima,” Ginny explained quickly.

    “What? Oh, no!” cried Jemima distressfully.

    “Yeah, he sent me a letter,” said Michaela glumly. She had been leaning against the sink bench. Now she went over to the built-in cupboards at the side of the room, and opened a drawer. “Here,” she said, handing a letter to Jemima.

    Jemima didn’t understand anything much about finance or business, except what little Tom had laboriously explained to her, but she read it obediently. She didn’t ask whether Mr Potter was within his rights to chuck them out, because it never occurred to her that he mightn’t be, or that there could be any question of rights at all. However, Roberta immediately explained all this to her, revealing that he was, Michaela didn’t have a lease.

    “What’ll you do?” asked Jemima sadly.

    “Look for somewhere else, I suppose,” said Michaela glumly.

    “There’s hardly anything for rent around here, Vicki’s been into that,” said Ginny, equally glum.

    “Yeah,” agreed Bryn sadly.

    Jemima discovered they were all looking at her hopefully. Even Roberta. In fact, especially Roberta. Oh, dear! “Um—well, I can’t ask Tom: he says we ought to pay Ralph back most of the capital before we commit ourselves to anything—um—definite,” she said, blushing.

    “How do you mean?” asked Bryn, for once genuinely puzzled.

    “Um—having a baby or anything,” said Jemima, now scarlet to the roots of the glossy black hair.

    “Oh,” he said, also going very red. After a moment he rallied sufficiently to say: “They don’t cost that much, though, do they?”

    “Not initially. Well, not if you don’t go overboard on fancy cradles and prams and stuff. Only then when they start to eat and need, um, shoes and clothes and things, they cost a lot. Meg says that’s why her and Bill can never afford to go on proper holidays or—um—buy fancy clothes or anything.”

    “Or move from Blossom Av’: yeah,” agreed Bryn, grinning.

    Jemima made a face at him. Bryn continued to grin, but said: “Yeah, that’s a point. I geddit: you want to pay off the capital so as not to be tied down to paying interest for the next eighteen years while the kids are growing up, and never clearing the debt.”

    “Yes,” agreed Roberta.

    “Ye-es... I think that’s what Tom said. I didn’t really understand,” murmured Jemima. “Um—Bryn?”

    “Yeah?”

    “No, it doesn’t matter, I’ll never understand,” decided Jemima sadly.

    Bryn explained eagerly anyway, but by the end of it even Michaela could see that Jemima didn’t understand.

    “Well, anyway, you couldn’t afford both the flats,” said Ginny kindly.

    “No,” agreed Jemima gratefully. “And we can’t buy this one instead, that’d leave Mrs M. stranded. And she’s why Tom didn’t want to sell the flats in the first place.”

    “I get it: to put the deposit on your new house,” agreed Bryn. “I was wondering about that,” he explained.

    “A lot of people do,” agreed Jemima simply.

    A period of brooding silence elapsed.

    “I’ve got it! Ask Jake,” decided Ginny at last.

    Michaela went very red.

    Roberta also went very red and said angrily to her friend: “Ask Polly, you mean! She’s already done miles too much for Michaela, haven’t you got any tact?”

    “No, Mum’s always telling me I’m totally lacking in it. –I’ll ask him,” said Ginny with determination, sounding for a moment remarkably like her twin.

    “No,” said Michaela in a strangled voice.

    Another silence fell.

    Finally Bryn mumbled, not looking at anyone: “It would be sensible.”

    “Michaela doesn’t want to be beholden, you insensitive hoon,” said Roberta in a hard voice.

    “She wouldn’t be, if we paid the same rent!” he cried indignantly.

    “I’ll ring Jake up now!” decided Ginny.

    “He’ll be at work,” warned Bryn.

    “I know.” Ginny heaved her canvas satchel onto her knee and fumbled in it. Finally she produced a small notebook. “It’s in here somewhere.”

    Bryn came and peered over her shoulder. “This is Greek to me!” he discovered with a choke of laughter.

    “Mm, I forgot my lecture pad one day,” explained Ginny vaguely. She turned over.

    Bryn read interestedly: “‘Two blocks of bitter chocolate...’ Hey, that sounds good!”

    Ginny replied without enthusiasm: “It’s the recipe for Aunty Vi’s famous dark chocolate cake, she made me write it down. Polly reckons it’s the beginning of the end when she does that, the next thing she’ll be giving you advice on where’s a good suburb to buy and ordering the christening mug.” They all giggled, even Jemima, and Ginny continued blithely: “You can copy it, if you like; only it costs an absolute fortune to make, it’s full of eggs and stuff. And anyway, it’s incomprehensible, how much chocolate is two blocks, for Heaven’s sake?”

    There was a short pause. Nobody knew, they all eventually admitted.

    “Give it to Adrian,” said Jemima finally.

    “I keep meaning to, only I always forget. Well, I only think about it when I happen to see this page,” explained Ginny. She turned over.

    “Addresses!” discovered Bryn finally. “Blow, all Taranaki and stuff.”

    “Yeah: Mum made me write them all down. ...I can’t find it,” reported Ginny sadly.

    Bryn took the notebook off her immediately. “Here!” he decided eventually. “It’s got a bit mixed up with some notes on planting catmint”—they all glanced at Tibby on Jemima’s knee and smiled—”only I think this must be it. Well, it says ‘Jake’s work’, and it’s a city number, so—”

    Ginny grabbed it off him, glaring. She marched over to the brand-new phone that Keith Nicholls had bullied Michaela into agreeing could be installed. He’d also—they couldn’t have said whether he’d bullied or conned her, though one or two of Michaela’s and Keith’s acquaintance, none of them present in the flat at this moment, had a fair idea that the word was “charmed” her—but however he’d done it, he’d got her to agree that he should pay the immense cost of having it installed. Now he and Ariadne could sleep at nights, knowing their ewe-lamb was only a phone-call away, he’d explained, poker-face. At this Roberta had shouted: “All right, Mister Clever, you can pay the bloody bills, too!”—only Michaela had looked so upset that she’d had to take it back.

    “Hullo, Jake, it’s Ginny here,” she said in a determined voice.

    They heard the deep voice rumble something in reply.

    “Oh—good. How are you?” said Ginny weakly.

    His reply must have been reassuring because she said weakly: “Good.”

    Then she didn’t say anything and after while the phone rumbled something; at which point she said in a strangled voice: “Um—yes, I’m still here. Um—I wanted to ask you something.”

    Jemima, alone of those present in the kitchen, had realized this might happen once Ginny actually contacted him, and she looked at her with terrific sympathy.

    Ginny said in a small voice: “Um—you know Michaela’s flat?” Presumably Jake replied in the affirmative because she said: “Yes. Um, her landlord’s selling it, he wants to go on a world trip or something. No, I think it’s his wife. Well, anyway, he’s selling it.” The phone then rumbled something that was apparently sympathetic because Ginny said, sounding very squashed: “Yes, isn’t it?” Then she didn’t say anything.

    “Go on!” hissed Bryn.—“You can’t stop now!” hissed Roberta.—Jemima just looked at her with terrific sympathy.

    “Um—well, I was just thinking,” said Ginny in a very squeaky voice: “it’d be an awfully good investment, wouldn’t it?”

    The phone then rumbled at length. The others all looked at Ginny nervously. At last she said in a very odd tone: “Yes. Thanks very much, Jake. –What? ...Oh. Yes, I’ll tell her. –What? ...Oh. Me and Roberta and Michaela and Bryn. And Jemima’s here, too. ...Um—yes, we would. Um—at least—I’ll ask them. ...Um, yes; um, thanks, Jake. ...Bye-bye.”

    “Well?” said Bryn eagerly as she hung up, looking dazed.

    Ginny just gulped.

    “Will he or won’t he?” demanded Roberta, more loudly than she’d intended.

    “Um—sort of.”

    “Sort of?” they all cried indignantly, even Michaela.

    “Um—he said he’d buy it for— No, that’s not right. He said the twins would buy it with—with their own money,” said Ginny in a tiny voice.

    “What?” said Roberta faintly, goggling. The others just goggled.

    Ginny went very red and said defensively: “Well, I think I’ve got it right! He said they needed to put their money into property because of—of their tax position.”

    “But— They’ll only be five in November, can children have—have tax? I mean, pay tax and—and all that?” quavered Jemima.

    “Yes,” said Bryn suddenly.

    They all looked at him blankly.

    “You know on your tax form: well, there’s a place where you have to say whether you’re a child,” he said illuminatingly. They all looked at him blankly, and he urged Michaela: “You know! When I filled in that tax form for you—you know!”

    “I never looked at it,” she said simply.

    “Michaela! He could have put anything on it!” cried Roberta in horror.

    “I know. Well, theoretically. Only I’d never have known if it was right or wrong, if I had looked at it.”

    “I suppose that’s true,” admitted Roberta in a shaken voice.

    “Well, there is,” concluded Bryn definitely. “That must be what it’s for. Rich kids like the Carrano kids.”

    “Yes,” agreed Ginny. “And he said they’d want to keep the rent at its present level for a while because of—um—that was their tax position, too, I think. Um, would that be right, Bryn?”

    “Yeah, definitely. –Crikey,” he added after a minute: “what must their income be, if they’re in that sort of tax bracket?”

    None of the rest of them was even capable of using the phrase “tax bracket”, so they all just looked at him in silent awe. When Roberta’s silent awe had got a bit pointed, he flushed, and said quickly: “So it is all right, then?”

    “Yes. Well, Jake said he’d come round after work to talk to us about it.”

    “Good,” he said.

    “And he said,” added Ginny, not meeting Michaela’s eye, “would we all like to come to tea at their place? Because it’s only him and Polly.”

    “Um, are you sure he meant me as well?” asked Bryn awkwardly.

    “What? Yes! What’s the matter with you, Bryn?”

    “I’ve never met Sir Jake,” he said, suddenly making a face.

     “He’s okay,” said Ginny kindly.

    “You’ve met Polly,” Michaela pointed out.

    “I know that,” he said, going very red. He looked at his watch, and got up.

    “Where are you going?” asked Roberta blankly.

    “To have a shower,” replied Bryn, scowling. He marched out.

     There was a flabbergasted silence in the kitchen.

    Eventually Roberta decided unkindly: “He’ll be in awe of dining at the mansion!”

    “No,” squeaked Ginny ecstatically: “it’s not that: he’s fallen for Polly!”

    She and Roberta went into gales of laughter. Jemima and Michaela watched them dubiously.

    After a while Michaela said: “I don’t reckon that’s true, about the rent. I mean why he wants to keep it down,” she explained unnecessarily.

    “I think it would be, Michaela: Jake’s awfully keen on things like not paying too much tax,” explained Jemima.

    “Yes, he is,” agreed Ginny.

    “Sounds like Mum,” said Roberta sourly.

    They looked at her in surprize. Going rather red, she muttered: “Well, she’s into stocks and shares and stuff. Always moaning about how much she has to pay in tax. Dad told her last year—was it last year? Anyway, not that long ago—that she’d do better to put her money into land. So she bought up a whole lot near the golf course.”

    “Down near where Jake’s building Willow Plains?” asked Ginny.

    “No! The far side of the golf course!” gasped Roberta ecstatically. “Dad reckons it’s smack, bang where they’re planning to build a motorway and she’ll never get more than the government valuation for it!”

    The technical details might not have been clear to all of them but the general import certainly was, and they all fell about the kitchen laughing, even Michaela.

    The upshot of this get-together was that a certain limited private company that went by the name of “Carrano Brothers Pty. Ltd.”—or, according to Polly, “Inky and Sticky & Co.”—did acquire the freehold of a small residential property in Kapenga Avenue, Puriri township. And Tom Overdale (Jemima having duly refused to have it in their joint names) did acquire the freehold of the small residential property next to it. And old Mrs Morton, though recognizing she’d miss the local supermarket and her corner dairy, moved into it very happily with all her possessions and her cat, who immediately started a feud of the silent, glaring sort with Tibby. Which both of them apparently enjoyed very much. Well, they certainly spent hours at a stretch silently glaring, immobile on the concrete drive in front of the flats, so they presumably enjoyed it. Bryn tried to tell everybody about territorialism on the strength of it, but only Mrs Morton was nice enough to actually listen. So everything in the garden might have been said to have been rosy. Only…

    “What the fuck’s this?” said Ralph, going very red as Tom handed him a slip of paper over after-dinner coffees at Number 10 Blossom Av’.

    “Exactly what it looks like,” replied Tom.

    “It isn’t all of it, because we had to buy the new flat for Mrs Morton,” explained Jemima, as Tom, now as red as his brother, didn’t elaborate. “With our love, Ralph,” she added huskily.

    Ralph was redder than ever. “I don’t need it, you pair of loons,” he said shortly, trying to force it back on Tom.

    “That isn’t the point!” said Tom suddenly, very loud.

    “What is?”

    “Look, for God’s sake, Ralph, take it!” he shouted.

    “It’s something to do with self-respect or standing on your own two feet,” explained Jemima with the utmost tranquillity. “I tried to tell him you didn’t need the money, Ralph, but he got all upset.”

    From the big couch—now magnificently re-upholstered by Tom’s own fair hands in trade-rates but still enormously expensive brown leather, the price of which he hadn’t let on to Jemima—Audrey said: “Take it, Ralph. It is your money, after all. And there’s that black gelding I was telling you about—”

    Ralph went a sort of puce colour and, stuffing the cheque roughly into his jacket pocket, said loudly and angrily to his wife: “You’ll never see a penny of this, so don’t bloody kid yourself!”

    “But—”

    “Shut up. I’m investing it, since these two idiots won’t see sense,” he said, turning his back on them all and marching over to the French windows. He twitched the heavy curtain aside and stared out into the damp gloom of Blossom Avenue on a chilly spring evening.

    Tom swallowed uncomfortably. “We are Hellishly grateful, Ralph, only— Well, we couldn’t go on hanging on to your dough,” he said uncomfortably.

    “All RIGHT!” shouted Ralph.

    Silence fell in Tom’s elegant sitting-room. –Now featuring his magnificent Chinese rug. Fortunately, as it was a soft terracotta with a black edging and black medallions, it didn’t clash with Michaela’s magnificent pot. In fact it set it off very well. However, certain people not a million miles from Blossom Av’ had already started thinking thoughts along the lines of: Weetbix-smeared toddlers puking and peeing on that?

    Finally Jemima said with a nervous laugh: “I think it’s the Protestant work ethic or something, Ralph!”

    “Shut up!” retorted Tom crossly.

    “I could always not bank it,” said Ralph drily, turning round.

    “I could always punch your fat face in,” returned his brother instantly.

    “Don’t be childish,” said Audrey impartially to the two of them. “Come and sit down, Jemima.” She patted the couch invitingly. “The sofa’s looking very smart: where did you have it done?”

    “Tom did it: it does look nice, doesn’t it?” agreed Jemima, obligingly sitting down.

    “What about some more coffee?” said Audrey to Tom.

    “Let him get it, if he’s so full of goodness to his fellow-man, or the milk of human kindness, or something,” said Tom irritably, sitting down in a battered armchair that he’d found in a junk shop down the Great South Road only recently, during one of his trips to help Mrs Morton pack. Not yet having been reupholstered, it assorted rather oddly with the couch, as Ralph hadn’t failed to point out. Being as what remained of its covering was a sort of vile mustard brocade. The grey army blanket over most of its surface did not help, however, as Ralph had not failed to point out.

    “All right, I will—you can’t make coffee for toffee,” said Ralph in a pointed voice, going over to the door.

    “Ooh! ‘Coffee for toffee!’ Two poets in the same family, can I bear it!” squeaked Jemima.

    Audrey gave a terrific snort of laughter. –Sounded just like her horse, her spouse noted sourly. And if she really imagined she was going to con any of this dough out of him—or any other dough—to throw away on another flaming steed, she had another ruddy think coming!

    “Very funny,” said Tom sourly.

    “Mm,” agreed Ralph, going out quickly before he could break down and laugh.

    In the kitchen, however, he found that far from laughing he was brooding over the coffee like— Well, he didn’t know like what. Why in God’s name should the fact of Tom’s paying back that ruddy loan make him feel so unutterably foul? After all, he’d fully expected he would pay it back: he had known Tom since his cradle. Protestant work ethic was right, and then some.

    Was it the fact that he’d no longer have any sort of hold over the pair of them? No, rubbish: he wasn’t yet that perverted, thank you! ...The fact that he’d no longer have a reason to come round here and inflict himself on the pair of them? Well, very probably. Almost possibly. But why should that make any difference? And if he had been using the loan as any sort of justification for coming and inflicting himself on them, wasn’t that pretty bloody low? Yes, quite. Well, had he? Ralph really didn’t think so—apart from what might be going on in the uncontrollable murky depths of the subconscious, for which he could hardly be held responsible. So what the fuck was up with him?

    After a considerable period of brooding he decided that he felt personally rejected because they didn’t want any part of his dough! Bloody funny, wasn’t it? Hah, hah. Because God knew, it was all he had to give them.

    When Jemima came in with a tray-load of cups and said: “Can I help?” he jumped a foot.

    “Oh—er, no. Well, I don’t know,” he said, reddening. “I was brooding, if truth be told.” He began bustling about rinsing the cups and setting them out again.

    Jemima watched silently for a little. Then she said: “I told Tom you’d be upset, but he’s so stubborn!”

    “Not to say proud as Lucifer,” agreed Ralph sourly.

    “Yes, isn’t he? He hates being beholden to anyone. Even me. I tried to tell him it was a hang-up, but he shouted at me, so I stopped,” said Jemima tranquilly.

    Ralph swallowed. “Don’t you mind?” he croaked.

    Jemima held her head on one side. “No, I don’t think I do. It’s just a part of him.”

    “You love him that much?” said Ralph with a sneer in his voice.

    Jemima frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s that. I think it’s more because I’m not interested in trying to change people. Well, I can’t stand it when he does nothing but super-duperize everything.—That’s June Butler’s word, it’s a good one, isn’t it? She says it’s what Ida’s done to her flat.—Only we’ve talked about that, and we both recognize it’s part of his anxiety-thing, and he’s really been a lot better lately. We both know we have to compromise a bit. I try not to nag him for being too organizing, and he tries not to nag me for resisting any kind of organization!” she explained, twinkling at him. “But apart from that—which I do accept as a part of his nature—I really don’t think I’ve got any urge to change him. It’s not a virtue, it’s just the way I’m made,” she ended.

    “You’re unique amongst women, then,” said Ralph, very sourly indeed.

    “Most women do seem to have very definite ideas about how they want things to be, don’t they?”—Ralph nodded, shuddering slightly.—”Yes. Only I never have had. I think Polly’s a bit like that, too, only I don’t know anybody else who is. Well, Michaela’s a very accepting person, of course.”

    “What, the master potter?” said Ralph faintly. “I’d have said the word was rejecting!”

    “She does tacitly reject all values that don’t appeal to her, isn’t it fascinating?” agreed Jemima, smiling at him. “I don’t think she even does it on purpose. But she never tries to force anybody into changing their own values, that’s what I meant.”

    “Yes,” he said limply.

    She came up close. “You are upset, aren’t you?” she said softly.

    “Yes,” said Ralph, suddenly passing a hand across his face.

    “I told Tom: I said it was like giving someone back a present. Oh, dear.”

    Ralph didn’t reply.

    Jemima put her hand timidly on his arm. “It doesn’t mean we’re rejecting you, Ralph,” she said awkwardly.

    “He is,” Ralph pointed out sourly.

    “Not entirely. He’s jealous of you, of course,” said Jemima composedly.

    Ralph goggled at her.

    “You’re the oldest. Sibling rivalry. Well, I read one book that said it was penis envy, but I don’t see how it can be: you’ve both got them. –What?”

    “Mine’s—bigger!” choked Ralph, breaking down and laughing like a drain. “Oh, dear,” he said, sighing, and wiping his hand across his eyes: “you’re a real tonic, little almost-sister-in-law! All right, then, his excuse is—uh—mixed sibling rivalry and penis envy. What’s your excuse?”

    “Me? Oh, for letting him give it back?” Jemima put her hand right over her mouth and nose. The big, slanted brown eyes sparkled at him over the hand.

    “What?”

    “Um,” said Jemima in a very muffled voice.

    “Go on,” said Ralph, twinkling.

    Jemima took her hand away and said in a gasp: “I think mine’s ‘Anything for a quiet life.’ I’m awfully sorry, Ralph!”

    Ralph went into another paroxysm. “So much for principles,” he noted, blowing his nose after it.

    “Mm.”

    Ralph poured coffee. Then he said: “Am I only imagining things, or is he particularly ratty over something else tonight?”

    “Yes. Meg reckon it’s the sofa.”

    “Oh?”

    “Well, I don’t know. Only Meg reckons that Bob Butler said that that much leather  must have cost a small fortune.”

    “Well, did it?”

    “I don’t know, Ralph,” said Jemima, twinkling at him.

    “You mean he— Oh, well, for God’s sake! That’ll be it! He’s got the jitters because he hasn’t told you!”

    “He’s had it for years and years, you know: it was one of the first things he bought when he started working. It seems to have become a sort of fetish.”

    “‘When I am married and happy, I will have my nice leather sofa in my nice bourgeois home’,” said Ralph thoughtfully. “How odd. –Many women would have told him to get rid of it, fetish or no fetish.

    “Bill reckons he only wanted this house because the front room’s big enough to hold the sofa.”

    “I’d say the egregious Bill for once isn’t far wrong. –Well?”

    “What?” said Jemima blankly.

    Ralph sighed. He set the sugar very carefully on his nicely laid tray and said heavily: “The—theory. Tom ratty because no tellee about muchee moolah chucked away on leather. Am I right?”

    “Oh! Yes, undoubtedly; I thought we’d agreed on that hours ago, Ralph!” said Jemima, giggling. She picked up the tray and walked out with it.

    Ralph raised his eyebrows. “Had we? I think I’d only agreed that thou art the perfect comforter, dear almost-sister-in-law,” he muttered.

    He followed her somewhat moodily, recognizing that she was very probably right about Tom’s reasons for repaying the loan. Up to—or down to, possibly—the penis envy. Setting aside, that was, such small and minor items as long-distant indelicate passes at stranded Mima Puddle-Ducks on ladders halfway up their fucking kauri staircases.

    Only why, then, did he still feel so unutterably foul?

    In fact, not only unutterably foul, but as if he was about to continue to feel unutterably foul for quite some considerable time.

Next chapter:

https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/10/getting-organized.html