Part V. Buttering The Edges
41
“Mixing Memory And Desire”
March had roared out like a lion, April had blown in on a three-day storm, and now the Easter break was upon them. It was drizzling but not cold, and Tom had planted out the spring cabbages, broccoli and spinach and sown a whole big bed of broad beans up the back, in spite of Bill’s protests that it was too early. He’d picked the last of the corn and the butter beans and had frozen the last of the green beans last weekend. Tomorrow he’d spray the stone-fruit trees, even though Bill had pointed out that it was a bit early: they hadn’t lost all of their leaves yet. And even though Jemima Puddle-Duck had pointed out that sprays ruined the environment. He also had every intention of planting out his strawberry bed, even though Bill said it was too early.
Ginny blew her nose hard.
“That was it, then, was it?” said Tom feebly.
“Yes,” she said, sniffling horribly.
“No wonder he wouldn’t come to tea with Michaela,” said Jemima faintly.
“How could he?” cried June angrily, very flushed. Bob shifted uncomfortably on Tom’s superb leather sofa.
Ginny blew her nose again but to everyone’s relief put her hanky away in her jeans pocket. “He’s an absolute pig.”
“Uh—look,” said Tom uneasily, aware that Jemima Puddle-Duck’s eye was upon him: “you have to take into account that Sol’s the sort of bloke, um, that’s been used to more or less getting it whenever he wanted it. Um—I mean,” he floundered: “he’s been a bachelor for years and—um... Me spies tell me he is attractive to women,” he ended lamely.
“That’s no excuse!” cried June angrily.
“No: he’s a selfish pig!” cried Ginny angrily.
“Look, there was nothing in it, for God’s sake!” said Tom desperately.
“WHAT?” shouted June furiously, very red. Bob coughed uneasily.
“Tom means it was only a physical thing,” said Jemima hurriedly. “Sol’s not really interested in Akiko and she’s not interested in him, I’m quite sure.”
“Jemima, that makes it worse, if anything!” cried June indignantly.
“Yes: if he really cared about Michaela, he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her,” said Ginny through trembling lips.
Jemima looked helplessly at her spouse.
“I don’t suppose,” said Tom wearily, “that he did mean to hurt her. Or that he had any notion that she’d come bursting in at the crucial moment.”
“No,” muttered Bob. June gave him an evil glare and he sank back into the sofa.
“You don’t even CARE!” shouted the twin furiously, bright red. “Men are all the same!”
Tom took his specs off and began to polish them. “I do care, Ginny. We’re all very fond of Michaela. But I don’t think this fling with Akiko needs to be taken as seriously as you and Michaela apparently believe.”
“You don’t understand! She trusted him! –First Hugh betrayed her, and Roberta as well,” she said in a low, trembling voice, “and now Sol and Akiko!”
“Michaela probably does see it like that, Tom,” said Jemima, biting her lip.
“Yes,” gulped June. “I think so.”
“That’s only a guess. She hasn’t said anything to you,” pointed out Bob morosely. June gave him a furious glare and he sank back into the sofa.
Tom polished his specs, sighing, and replaced them. “I can see what you mean, Ginny,” he said wearily, “and I have no doubt Michaela does see it as a betrayal. Well, her past experience of men would lead her to, I think we’d all have to admit that. But if you ever want her to be happy, I’d think twice, if I was you, about encouraging her to feel that Sol’s betrayed her. Because it seems to me that he’s the one bloke in the offing that could actually make her happy.”
“Yes,” agreed Jemima anxiously. “They’re very well suited to each other; I’ve always thought that.”
“I think so, too, Ginny,” said June nervously. –Bob sagged on the sofa.
Ginny bounced up. “How could Michaela ever be happy with a man like that? She’d never be able to trust him as long as she lived!”
Fruitless though it was to argue with an enraged person of that age and with that little experience of life, Tom offered valiantly: “Ginny, if he was living with her I’m very sure he’d never want to look at another woman.”
“He would! If he can do it now, he could do it any time! He’s a beast and a pig and as bad as YOUR BROTHER!” she shouted. With that she ran out into the passage.
Jemima looked anxiously at Tom and made to get up, but he shook his head and said: “Leave it.”
They waited. After a moment the front door slammed. Through the French windows they saw Ginny in her parka running down the front path.
“She’s not going to walk all the way into Puriri, is she?” said June faintly.
“Do her good, silly little thing,” said Tom grimly. “Work off that temper.”
“Tom—” protested Jemima weakly.
Tom sighed. “God knows, Winkelmann appears to have behaved like a bloody fool, but then aren’t we all bloody fools at some time or another? And as far as I can see, Ginny’s the worst possible influence for Michaela at this particular point in time. All the intransigence of youth to reinforce—er—Michaela’s own natural intransigence,” he finished with an apologetic glance at Michaela’s old friends.
“Yes,” agreed Jemima with a sigh.
“I’m surprised Michaela told her about it,” admitted June.
“Probably couldn’t help herself, poor bloody cow,” said Tom grimly.
“Yeah,” agreed Bob gratefully.
June swallowed. “Mm. Um, maybe I could talk to her,” she ventured.
“If you do, just mind you don’t take Ginny’s tack,” said Tom heavily.
“No-o...” June bit her lip. “Tom,” she faltered, “do you honestly think Sol would be right for her?”
Tom hesitated. Then he said: “I do, June, provided she can satisfy his physical needs. He’s obviously the type that needs sex. Would Michaela, uh…” He wrinkled his nose and sniffed a bit. “Well, just to be crassly sexist about it, would she give it to him whenever he wanted it?”
June was very red. She looked desperately at Bob.
Bob was also very red, but he said hoarsely: “I think so, Tom. She was bloody keen on The Pig, not to say ruddy Hugh Morton.”
Tom got up. “Good. And now that Ginny’s thoroughly ruined our nice afternoon tea, would anyone actually fancy afternoon tea?”
The Butlers looked at him gratefully.
“It’s ginger cake,” said Jemima helpfully.
“That’ll help the universal panacea go down!” said Bob with a sudden laugh.
Tom grinned. “Righto, then. –Oy, Morticia, are you capable of putting slices of tomato on water biscuits?”
Jemima got up, smiling. “That’s just about my level. If I don’t have to slice the tomato, of course!”
As she spoke there was a wail from upstairs. June sprang up. “I’ll go, Jemima!”
Jemima smiled at her. “Ta. If he doesn’t seem to want to go down again, he can come downstairs.”
June hurried out, beaming. Bob reflected there was no chance they wouldn’t see Master Overdale downstairs right smart. His host and hostess also went out. Bob sagged on the sofa. “Bloody Hell,” he noted conversationally to Damian’s Fiend, who had been quiescent on an old sheet spread out on Tom’s magnificent Chinese rug before the small fire all this while.
The Fiend emitted a slight sound which was halfway between a grunt and a snore, and thumped his huge tail once. Bob hurriedly moved a spindly occasional table out of range. He leaned back on the sofa and sighed. “He’s a bloody fool, all right.” There was a short silence. “Mind you, can hardly blame him... Well, not all that much.” The Fiend didn’t react. “He’s a bloody fool, all the same,” concluded Bob.
Ginny had got about halfway to Willow Plains when a dark green Alfa drew up beside her and John Aitken said kindly: “Hop in. Going home?”
It was still drizzling and she’d begun to realize what an awfully long walk it was to Puriri. So she said: “Thanks,” and got in.
John drove on in silence, looking very mild. He could feel Ginny glancing at him uneasily. Eventually he said: “Want to talk about it?”
“No! Men are horrible!” she gasped, bursting into tears.
John drew carefully into the side of the road. He put both arms round her and hugged her tight. “No, we’re not,” he said, very mildly, when the sobs had died down a bit. “We’re just human, weak, and fallible, like you. Only unfortunately the popular media seem determined to give young gels the idea that men ought to be bloody heroes or something, don’t they? Stronger both physically and mentally, and emotionally invulnerable.”
After a moment Ginny admitted in a squashed voice into his chest: “I suppose so.”
“Mm.” He looked down at her and hesitated. “What is it: Ralph Overdale again?” he said eventually.
“No,” gulped Ginny, turning very red. “How did you know?”
“Mm? Oh—something Bill said, I think,” he replied vaguely. “So what’s up?”
Ginny burst into tears again and revealed, amongst the sobs, the full extent of Sol’s perfidy.
“Poor Michaela,” said John when she’d finished.
She sniffed angrily. “Yes.”
John felt in his pockets but he didn’t have a handkerchief. He opened the glove compartment. “Have one of Darryl’s tissues,” he said with a wry inflection that Ginny didn’t get.
“Ta,” she gulped, blowing and sniffing.
“Its a Hell of a pity. Especially coming within a year of the Morton thing,” he said mildly.
“That’s what I said, only Tom and them wouldn’t believe me!” she cried.
“Oh?”
Ginny went very red. “I didn’t exactly mean— They won’t see that it’s serious, John!”
“What exactly do you mean, there?” he returned calmly.
She bit her lip and admitted sulkily: “They can see it’s serious for Michaela, only they won’t admit it’s—it’s a serious thing in itself.”
“No. Well, each of us has to make up his own mind about the relative importance of sexual morality,” said John in a detached voice. There was a short silence. “‘His or her’, if you’re conscientiously rejecting the English generic use of the masculine.”
Ginny swallowed. After a moment she said in a very small voice: “What if it was you and Darryl, though?”
John replied thoughtfully: “If it were Darryl sleeping with another man, I should undoubtedly feel as betrayed as Michaela does. I’d probably try and tell myself that mere physical aberrations of a temporary kind were immaterial, but I doubt if I’d manage to convince myself.”—Ginny looked at him speechlessly.—“Whereas if I were the transgressor... Mm,” he said. “Given that Darryl’s view is that physical fidelity is a necessary component of a long-term relationship, I imagine that she’d be very hurt indeed. I suppose I’d only do it if I was very sure that I wouldn’t be found out.”
There was a moment’s stunned silence.
“What?” she gasped.
John shrugged slightly. “The question doesn’t really arise. She’s an exhausting woman to live with, physically as well as mentally.”—Ginny went very red.—“But I’m not claiming to be any less fallible than the rest of mankind,” he said mildly.
“‘Mankind’ not in the generic sense?” said Ginny tightly.
“Oh, quite. Though I wouldn’t deny that women are equally fallible.”
Ginny breathed heavily, her mouth tight. John watched her with considerable sympathy but not without amusement.
Finally she said grimly: “He behaved like a selfish, uncontrolled beast. With absolutely no thought in mind but the pleasure of the moment.”
John said nothing, so she demanded grimly: “Well?”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong, but I’m not condemning him for it. I know you’re not prepared to believe me, but most of us are fallible in one way or another. Some of us only rip off the odd biro—I mean ball-point pen,” he amended hurriedly—“from work. Some of us sleep with our neighbours’ spouses. I suppose each of us has to decide where we draw the line.”
“It’s not FRIVOLOUS!” shouted Ginny.
“No. But if Michaela were my friend or cousin,” said John thoughtfully, “I hope, rather than brooding about Sol’s iniquities, that I’d be trying to think of something that would help her get over it.”
There was a short silence.
“You’re patronising me,” said Ginny sulkily.
“I suppose I am, yes. But it’s difficult not to, when I’m old enough to be your father. Besides, I spend all week trying conscientiously not to be patronisingly ageist towards my students: I suppose I tend to lapse a bit in the weekends.”
“That’s NOT FUNNY!” she shouted.
“No,” agreed John mildly.
Ginny scowled, looking very bitter. However, after a while she admitted: “I can’t think of any way to help her. She’s awfully miserable. She isn’t even potting. Well, I mean, she goes up to the shed but then she just sits there.”
“I see.”
She looked up at him hopefully.
“I can’t help you, Ginny. I’ve been trying to indicate that I’m no more infallible than you are. I’ve no idea what the right thing to help her might be.”
Ginny was about to shout at him again, but thought better of it. “Oh,” she said lamely.
“We could ask Darryl. She’s always full of decision in such life crises,” he offered mildly.
She gulped. “Um—no. Thanks all the same, John, only—”
“It doesn’t always produce the right decisions, does it? –No.”
“How can you be so detached about it?” she gasped.
“I’m not. I suppose it’s just my manner. Darryl often shouts at me when I get too bad,” he said musingly.
Ginny of course knew that, after boarding with them for several months. She was very red.
“Or perhaps it isn’t merely manner. I suppose fundamentally I don’t give a fuck about anything. Without Darryl to keep me on the straight and narrow I’d never be able to convince myself there was any purpose in life at all,” he murmured.
Ginny goggled at him. After a speechless moment she gasped: “We all have to give our own purpose to life, John!”
John smiled a little wryly. “Mm. You’re young and vigorous enough to be able to feel that. –Sorry to be ageist again.”
“But surely—”
“I’m just bloody lucky to have found Darryl when I did,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that, she’s fully aware of my psychological quirks. She’s bloody bright, you know.”
“Yes,” said Ginny faintly.
“And fortunately she’s got the sort of spiritual energy that doesn’t run out when the hair starts to grey and the flesh starts to sag,” he murmured. “Shall we go on?”
“What? Oh! Um—yes,” she agreed limply.
John started the car and they drove on.
They’d got all the way to the end of Elizabeth Road and he was waiting to turn onto the highway north of Kowhai Bay when she said: “Can’t you think of anything I could do, John?”
“Mm?”
“To help Michaela,” faltered Ginny.
“Oh. Um... I think every human being has to survive these crises in their own way, Ginny. Well, survive or not survive, I’m afraid. But I suppose...”
“Yes?” she said eagerly.
He swallowed a sigh. “I think I’d just try to listen if she wants to talk, and not force her to talk if she doesn’t want to.”
“Oh.”
John swung the car cross the highway. He drove along towards Kowhai Bay. Ginny stared out at the slate-grey sea to their left.
“Do you think she’d like to go to Japan?” she said abruptly.
“A distraction of that sort does sometimes help, they tell me. Though I have to admit that I came all the way out to New Zealand and found myself as hopeless when I got here as when I’d left. –Though mind you, I didn’t expect anything else,” he murmured.
“Um—no,” she said, chewing her lips.
“Go on, laugh,” he murmured.
“No!” said Ginny on a strangled gasp.
As she didn’t elaborate on her suggestion he asked mildly, as he passed the Kowhai Bay turnoff and began to descend The Hill into Puriri proper: “Does she have the chance of another trip to Japan?”
“Um—well, it’s just that I had a letter from David Shapiro, asking me if I’d like to go and stay with him at the end of the year. When exams are over.”
John knew she was sitting papers as well as writing a short thesis for her M.A.: he nodded. “Can you afford it, though, Ginny?”
“Um—no. Only he said he’d send me the ticket, and I could just contribute what I can. –I thought Michaela could go instead of me!” she burst out.
John hid a smile in the beard. He glanced at her with considerable affection, and didn’t point out that Michaela had had her chance at the Great Offshore when she wasn’t much older than Ginny was now, and it was surely Ginny’s turn. In fact, being John, he was aware that, although he could see there was considerable justification for feeling this, he wasn’t too sure that he did feel it.
“Do you think Michaela would want to go again?” he asked mildly.
She nodded hard. “Mm.”
“I see. Well,” he said slowly, “what I’m going to suggest may result in considerable embarrassment all round. And I think you’ll have a hard time persuading Michaela to agree to it. But I’d say that if you really believe that a trip to Japan is what she needs at this juncture, you’d better ask Jake to subsidize it. Because I can’t see Michaela ever agreeing to go in your place.”
There was a long silence. John drove down off The Hill and onto the flat. He drew into the centre lane and drove along slowly, waiting for his chance to turn into a side-street.
“I’m going to the Superette,” he said mildly.
“What? Oh! Righto, I’ll come, too. –You’re in the wrong lane!” she gasped, as, failing to make the turn at Seddon Street, he drove sedately on along the highway.
“Am I? Oh; sorry.”
After a moment Ginny said in a very squashed voice: “No. I am, John. Very sorry.”
“Mm?”
Blinking hard, Ginny said: “You weren’t patronising me, I see it now. You were treating me as if as if—as if I was an equal. I’m sorry: I suppose I was trying to push you into a sort of sort stereotyped male rôle. Father-figure, or something stupid.”
“Mm.”
They edged along in the inside lane. “There aren’t enough traffic lights,” said John. “Well, not for me,” he clarified apologetically.
“No,” agreed Ginny, smiling at him.
There was a short silence. “Does Michaela see men like that, do you think?” she said, wrinkling her brow.
“Even although I’ve absolutely no idea whether she does or not,” he said with a smile, “it’s possible. It’s not an uncommon syndrome, is it? And The Pig seems to have been a fairly standard example of an authoritarian male figure.”
“Yes,” Ginny agreed with a shudder.
“One that fundamentally didn’t give a shit about her,” he added thoughtfully. “Must have helped.”
“Well, exactly!” she cried. After a moment she said in a crestfallen voice: “Oh, dear.”
“Yes.” John slowed for the turn at Sir Harry Carter Avenue. “If I don’t turn here I’ve got one chance left,” he noted.
“You’d better, that’s Sergeant Baxter behind us,” said Ginny, wincing.
John glanced over his shoulder, and smiled. “So it is. –I like Sol Winkelmann very much,” he added.
Ginny scowled.
“So do Jemima and Tom,” he murmured.
“Yes. –Go!” she cried.
He swung across the north-bound lane and into Sir Harry Carter Avenue. “I hate having to cross the main road, but I like going along Elizabeth Road past the links. It’s a dilemma, isn’t it?”
“The golf course, you mean? You could go home that way,” said Ginny weakly.
“Yes. –Sorry: didn’t mean to say ‘links’, it just came out.”
“That’s all right. I realize you fall back into your native vernacular when you’re talking seriously. I’m quite flattered, really,” replied the twin politely.
John’s teeth flashed for a moment within the beard. “Mm. Um—what was I—? Oh, yes. I was going to add, but I couldn’t possibly go home the long way with Darryl’s hokey-pokey ice-cream in the back.”
“No,” admitted Ginny, smiling.
“I will ask Jake!” she said in a determined voice as they pulled up outside the Superette.
“I disclaim all responsibility if it doesn’t work out,” he said hurriedly.
“I realize that, John!” replied Ginny with a laugh, getting out.
Sergeant Baxter had also been going to the Superette. He had pulled in behind them. As John crossed the footpath he came up to his shoulder and said without emphasis: “Don’t they have turning lanes where you come from?”
“I’m not sure, Jim. I never did much driving in England,” replied John apologetically.
The policeman’s solid shoulders shook, but he said: “Yeah, well, out here they’re for turning in, not for changing your mind and bloody nearly causing an accident on the main highway.”
“Sorry. I did suggest that Darryl come instead of me, but she’s busy pouring the concrete slab for the garage.”
“Couldn’t you do that?” replied Sergeant Baxter without visible emotion.
John shook his head. “I’d do it wrong.”
“Don’t take any notice of him, Sergeant Baxter!” gasped Ginny. “Darryl isn’t pouring the concrete at all, she’d just preparing the ground. They’re having a big concrete truck come next week to do the pouring!”
“Well, there you are,” said John sadly. “Shows how much I know.”
Sergeant Baxter gave him a dry look.
“He was painting the verandah earlier,” admitted Ginny weakly.
“Looks like it,” agreed the sergeant, opening the door for her and glancing at John’s paint-spattered jeans.
“Oh! Thanks!” squeaked Ginny, going in. John’s lips twitched but he went in without passing any remarks about stereotypes.
“Get it finished, didja?” added the sergeant as they both headed for the freezers.
“Mm? Oh—yes, thanks.”
Sergeant Baxter sniffed slightly. “Take a while to dry, in this weather.”
“So Darryl tells me,” he said sadly.
The policeman ignored that one, and fished out a plastic container of chocolate ice-cream. “See any of that blue muck around?” he said on a glum note.
“Blue ice cream?” returned John, wincing.
”Yeah. The grandkids like it.”
“Oh.” John helped him look for blue ice-cream.
... “What is it?” he said in some amusement as they emerged from the Superette and Ginny just stood motionless by the car with her loaf of sliced wholegrain bread in one hand and her triple-header, choc-coated cone in the other, disregarding the fact that he’d unlocked the car door for her.
Ginny glanced cautiously over her shoulder, but Jim Baxter, complete with chocolate ice-cream, blue ice-cream, frozen peas, sliced wholegrain bread and a large bottle of Coke, was now getting into his car.
“It’s so—incongruous!” she gulped.
“What, life? Yes, isn’t it? –Don’t wave that cornet about: you’ll lose it.”
“Ooh, right!” Ginny got carefully into the car.
Since John also had a triple-header, choc-coated cornet they sat in the car eating for a while.
“Don’t tell Darryl I ate that, will you?” he said, smiling, as he finished it.
“Um—no. Um—I’m going home,” said Ginny shyly.
“Mm? Oh! Forgot you weren’t still living with us!” he said with a laugh. “Come on, then.” He headed for Pukeko Drive.
“Do you suppose that people like Sergeant Baxter and Mrs Baxter... um, live all of their lives on that level?” she ventured.
“No.”
Ginny gulped.
“However, I think that birth and death are the big crises in most people’s lives rather than the sort of emotional turmoil that Michaela’s going through. Though these days, I suppose one has to add divorce,” he added thoughtfully.
“Ye-es... You forgot love and marriage,” said Ginny dubiously.
“No, I didn’t.”
Ginny goggled at him.
John drove slowly along Pukeko Drive. “I can’t remember where to turn off for Michaela’s place,” he confessed.
“Oh! Coronation Road!” gasped Ginny.
“Oh—right.” He drove on slowly.
“Why didn’t you include love and marriage?” she said feebly.
“Well—this is just the J. Aitken version, mind,” he said, suddenly winking at her.
“Yes!” gasped Ginny.
“Love and marriage—and I’d concede that in this society they go together like a horse and carriage—love and marriage seem to me to be taken by the vast majority entirely for granted. You grow up, put on a business suit or high heels, as the case might be, meet someone—doesn’t matter who—and get married. You expect it, your partner expects it, your family and friends certainly expect it, it doesn’t surprize anyone and it therefore hardly constitutes an emotional crisis.”
“No-o... It’s a high point, though, surely?”
“Possibly the wedding day itself is—mm.”
Ginny thought of Felicity and Ted’s wedding, and winced. “Yes,” she said in a hollow voice.
John laughed a little. “Leaves the withers unwrung, though, on the whole.”
“I see...”
On the contrary, she was far too young to see—well, to grasp it affectively.
“I’ll ring Jake from Mrs Morton’s!” she hissed as she got out.
“Mm. Good luck,” he said on a wry note.
Ginny missed the wry note. She beamed at him and said: “Thanks for everything, John!” and ran up happily to Mrs Morton’s front door.
John drove home very slowly, forgetting he had ice cream in the back.
It had stopped drizzling and Darryl was carefully inspecting the patch she’d levelled for the garage floor when he got back. “Well?” she said immediately.
He gave her an edited version, leaning on the car and forgetting he had ice cream in the back. He looked at her drily at the end of it.
“You didn’t do too bad, Aitken!” she said with a laugh.
“I’m glad you think so, darling.”
“Look, Michaela’s gotta get through it herself,” she said heavily. “Japan or no Japan.”
“I know that, darling. I’m just not too sure it’s sunk into Ginny’s red head.”
“No. Well, it will when they get back from Japan and she sees that Michaela isn’t over it,” she said brutally.
John winced. “Yes.”
“Still—might help,” she conceded. “If anything can.”
There was a short digression while she discovered the shopping in the back, investigated it and told him he was a dreamy idiot. Fortunately the ice cream hadn’t melted, however.
“You think I did the right thing, then, encouraging Ginny in the Japan idea?” he said.
“Yeah, ’course,” said Darryl unemotionally.
“Just as well Tom rang me, then, wasn’t it?” he said blandly.
Darryl merely replied: “Don’t walk on that flaming verandah, ya great nana, the paint’s still wet.”
John ambled round to his back door, smiling within the beard.
The Easter break continued drizzly. Just enough to annoy. And to encourage boys to track mud through the house, of course. And sufficient to hamper Bob Butler’s efforts to put in a front path.
“A front path?” Tom gasped, staggering back dazzled at the sight of him pegging it out. June came outside at that and explained it was only going to be gravel: unlike Certain People at Number 3 they couldn’t afford to have huge great concrete trucks round, they didn’t have two university salaries coming in.
Tom scratched his head. “Yeah. Well, look, Sid Awatere’s brother-in-law’s got a concrete mixer we could borrow: it’d be a Helluva lot more sensible to get it all done at once, if you’re going to all the trouble of pegging out and levelling, Bob. Unless you want these brutes to ruin all your hard work,” he added pointedly, as Ivan and Mason thundered over the bit Bob had just levelled.
“GERROFF THAT!” he roared. “Um—well...” He glanced uneasily at June.
“Took no time at all to get our front path in, with the three of us at it. Give you a hand, eh?” offered Tom breezily.
“We haven’t got the cement and stuff,” said June in a small voice.
“Mitre 10’s just up the road,” replied Tom with a laugh. “Uh—well, I’ve got a couple of bags left over in the shed, Bob. You won’t need much, will ya? –That is the door that opens, is it?” he added cheerfully, looking at the scarlet-painted door to which Bob’s embryo path led.
“Yes!” said June crossly, hastily glancing to see that it was.
“Yeah. Well, I’ll give Sid a ring,” said Tom cheerfully.
Bob looked nervously at June but as she was looking nervously at him, felt emboldened to clear his throat and say weakly: “Yeah. Um—well, yeah. Thanks very much, Tom. If you’re sure?”
“Yes, um, you must have lots of things to do this week, yourself,” said June, nervously clearing her throat.
Tom rubbed his nose. “Well, I was gonna put another coat on the garage, only it’s not painting weather, is it? And I’ve got me strawberries in.”
“Bill reckons it’s too early,” said June feebly.
“He’s talking through that little hole in the back of his neck again,” explained Bill’s Senior Master kindly. “Where was I? Oh, yeah: the kiwifruit vines haven’t produced a huge harvest this year, so there’s nothing for me to spend hours on, harvesting.”
“No,” said June in a strangled voice. Tom’s kiwifruit trellis was huge but the actual vines were each about two feet high and sported about three leaves each.
“And actually,” admitted Tom sheepishly, “Mima Puddle-Duck’s in an unspeakably foul mood.”
“She was all right on—was that Saturday?” said June confusedly.
“Good Friday, if ya mean the arvo Ginny came round and ruined our afternoon tea,” said Bob glumly.
“Oh. Um—yeah.” She looked expectantly at Tom.
He wrinkled his nose. “Mm. Well, it’s had time to sink in. Now she’s convinced Michaela’s never gonna get over it.”
“Look, thanks!” said Bob loudly.
“Eh? Oh,” he said, looking at June’s face. “Sorry, June. No, well, she’s got her period, too, and—uh—we had a bit of a run-in,” he admitted sheepishly, “over whether Dirk needs a little brother or sister some time late January next.”
The Butlers tried terrifically hard not to do mental arithmetic but judging by the redness of her cheeks and his ears, didn’t succeed.
“Be that as it may,” said Tom with a grin, “shall I get hold of Sid?”
“Um—well, yeah, ta very much,” said Bob feebly.
Tom didn’t go in by the front door, that would have ruined Bob’s embryo path, he went round the back.
“Hullo,” he said in surprize. “What are you doing here?”
His Headmaster was sitting morosely in June and Bob’s kitchen-workroom. “Hullo,” he replied morosely. “Drinking funny tea.”
“I did tell you it was camomile!” said June hurriedly.
“So ya did,” he agreed morosely. “So ya did.”
“You can give us a hand to put Bob’s path in,” said Tom heartlessly, going out to the passage, to the phone.
“Eh?” said Bill dully.
“Tom’s gonna get hold of someone that’s got a brother-in-law that’s got a concrete mixer,” explained Bob limply.
“Oh,” he said dully.
“Who is Sid Awatere, anyway?” said Bob limply.
“Eh? Oh. Maungakiekie Street Primary PTA personality. Got a brother-in-law with a concrete mixer,” said Bill dully.
“That makes it very clear!” said June with a laugh.
Tom came back very soon and reported with a grin that Sid’s brother-in-law would bring it up straight away: preferable to hanging round the house being bawled out, waiting for the footy to start, as it was pouring where he was.
June then asking whether that meant that the footy was cancelled, several male persons present, none of whom either played or watched football, were enabled to roar at her: “NO! It’s only ten o’clock!”
“Isn’ it Tuesday?” added Bill in confusion. “Would there be footy on TV this arvo?”
“No, Easter Monday; and Yes, evidently,” replied his Senior Master with satisfaction.
“Hah, hah,” he noted morosely.
Tom gave up, sat down in the rocking-chair, first picking the white cat up carefully from it, and said, cradling the cat: “What the Hell’s up with you?”
“She’s in the foul mood to end all foul moods,” he reported.
“Ya put ya feet on ’er loose covers?”
“Very funny.”
Tom sighed. “Don’t tell me she’s brooding about Michaela’s discovery of Sol Winkelmann’s feet of clay, as well!”
“Eh? Nah. Well, not exactly. Didn’t help, though.”
“It’s um—a combination of things, I think,” ventured June uneasily.
Bob investigated a cake tin. “Yeah. –Have some of this. Cheer you up,” he suggested.
“Yes, let’s all have morning tea,” decided June.
Tom was inspecting the cake Bob had produced from the tin. “This smells wonderful. What is it, June?”
“Don’t ask her!” said Bob with a laugh. “Mum made it. Simmy cake or something. June got her this book of old pioneer recipes when we went down to Howick.”
“Simnel cake, you illiterate,” said Bill sourly.
They all stared at him and he said: “Sorry. Only she’s been in a foul mood for weeks. No, months. Well, since before the semester started, really. Thought having a break from school might help. Only it hasn’t.”
“Meg’s in a foul mood about something to do with school?” said Tom cautiously, as Bob began cutting up the simmy or possibly simnel cake and June began making a pot of real tea.
“Yeah,” he said, scowling.
Tom looked at him limply.
“Yeah, an’ I tell ya what,” he said viciously: “that’s down to bloody Sol Winkelmann, as well!”
“Oh—Phoebe!” said Tom with a little laugh.
“It’s not bloody funny when ya have to live with it!” said Bill with feeling.
“No. Um—she’s in a bad mood, is she?”
“I just TOLD— Oh: Phoebe. Yeah. Making all their lives Hell. Gone into a sort of manic streak. Giving them all these brochures and stuff. In-service training or some such garbage. Sent that Whassname on a course this week. The Phys. Ed. type.”
“Oh, yes: a basic literacy course,” agreed Tom, nodding.
“Something like that,” he said glumly. “And the latest is, she reckons Meg oughta go back to varsity and get her Master’s. –That Yvonne cow’s got one, didja know? M.Sc.”
“Doesn’t count.”
“Very funny.”
“Is St Ursie’s instituting a deputy headmistress-ship, or something?” asked Tom, les than half seriously, trying not to laugh.
“Yeah,” he said, sighing.
Tom gulped.
“I know Phoebe Fothergill’s always refused to have one in the past because of—um—arts versus science rivalries and—um—crap like that; but—”
“Not to mention because of not wishing to create any possible competition for her own fair self—yeah,” said Tom, goggling at him.
Bill shrugged. “Yeah. Only she reckons she wants to dump some of the administrative garbage on a deputy. And in the third term— I KNOW it’s not terms any more!” he shouted as Tom opened his mouth.
“I never said a word,” he whispered.
“She wants to take the second half of the second semester off and work on her Ph.D. full-time. And take long-service leave or something the first semester of next year and finish it off. And she reckons that if Meg’ll start her Master’s she’ll stand a better chance of getting the deputyship over this Yvonne dame and if she won’t, she won’t,” he said, glaring at him.
“Does Meg want the deputyship?” asked Tom politely.
Bill glared at him.
“It is more money,” murmured June.
“More money and piles of bloody paperwork: yeah!” said Tom’s Headmaster with considerable feeling.
“Mm. –She doesn’t really fancy it, Tom,” explained June.
“Understandable,” he agreed.
Bill sighed. “No. But she does fancy the extra cash. So she’s sort of dithering.”
“That would help to explain the foul mood,” agreed Tom.
Bill gave him a filthy look. “The fact that she’s scared shitless of telling Phoebe she doesn’t really want it helps to explain it even more, though!”
Tom went into a terrific sniggering fit.
“All right for some,” his Headmaster noted sourly when he was more or less over it. “I tell ya what, if that bloody Sol Winkelmann had never crossed the Pacific, some of us would be a lot better off!”
“Tom as well,” agreed June, handing round mugs and plates.
“Eh?” said Bill weakly.
June put the tray of tea on the coffee table and sat down, looking placid. “Come on, Bob, bring the cake over. –Jemima’s in a foul mood, too. Because of Michaela finding out about Sol and Akiko. That’s why he’s up here,” she explained. Redundantly: Tom’s Headmaster had already gone into a terrific sniggering fit.
“Yeah, well,” Tom conceded when he was mellowed by simmy or possibly simnel cake and a cup of ordinary tea: “Ralphy’s due to descend on us for dinner tonight, too: that could have helped Jemima’s bad mood along.”
“I’ll say,” agreed Bill, shuddering. He held out his mug for a refill, and asked, taking a third piece of cake: “What’s he done now that she’s wild about?”
“I think she’s still pissed off at him for making a pass at Ginny. Or possibly for not stirring his stumps and—er—pressing his suit with Miss F, of course.”
They looked at him blankly.
“Well, I don’t know! Only bloody Laura Hayes came over one day last week, and the two of ’em had a confab, and when I got home from a hard day’s slog with Standard Three-Oh, expecting at least that the table might be set and me slippers and me folded Star might be ready for me, she ups and informs me that Ralph’s a wanker and men are all wankers.”
They goggled at him.
“Well, who else would she ’a’ got it off but Laura?” he said loudly.
“That goes without saying, old mate,” said Bill understandingly.—Tom glared.—“Sir Ralphy will’ve blotted ’is copybook again, all right,” he decided.
“Yes,” croaked Bob.
“Yes: what did Jemima say he’d done, Tom?” asked June eagerly.
Tom gave her a bitter look. “She wouldn’t say, June. In my rôle as wanker, I apparently wasn’t fit to know it.”
“Oh, dear,” said June limply.
“Get half a litre of plonk into Ralphy and get ’im to spill ’is guts tonight!” prompted Bill eagerly.
Tom made a face. As matter of fact he did know the full sad story, but it would have been very unfair to poor bloody Ralph to spill the beans. Or, indeed, to impart the full details of just what tonight’s dinner was intended to accomplish.
He finished his tea and got up. “Come on: are we gonna finish levelling that path or not? –You can lend me the waggon, we’ll need to get those bags of cement up from my shed,” he informed his Headmaster heartlessly.
“Who, me?” said Bill faintly.
Bob got up too, grabbing an extra piece of cake as he did so. “Since you’re here: yeah. Why not?”
Groaning, Bill got up slowly. Then his eye brightened. He detained his host by the simple expedient of grabbing the arm of his glowing mustard jersey. (A mistake: the wool had been on special at the Puriri Emporium, famous for its good seconds, and hadn’t looked that bad in the skein. Even though it was new, June was letting him wear it for grubby weekend jobs.)
“Hey, tell ya what, Bob: dinner tonight with Big White Bone-Cutter’ll go down real good on top of a day’s hard yacker getting your front path in!”
Even though he was aware that June’s eye was upon him, Bob promptly collapsed in mean sniggers at Tom’s expense.
The problem with having Ralph to dinner, as Tom had endeavoured to explain to his spouse shortly before the confab with Laura had ruined T.M. Overdale’s domestic harmony, was that you could never think of anyone else to invite. Most of ’em couldn’t stand him, of course, and he couldn’t really stand anybody. Not unless they were terrifically nubile, willing and intelligent. Not necessarily in that order. Jemima had suggested he ask that other doctor, the one that had a flat near Ralph’s. Once Tom had worked out she didn’t mean Hugh Morton, he was able to point out he barely knew that joker to say “Hullo” to; besides, that’d leave them with two spare males. Jemima had weakly suggested Bob and Morag Overdale. Tom had pointed out feebly, when he was able to speak, that Morag was now and ever had been on Audrey’s side over the divorce. Jemima had then said that if they were asking Hugh and Roberta, perhaps they could ask Keith and Ariadne Nicholls? Tom had croaked: “Ralph plus Ariadne Nicholls?” and Jemima had screamed: “ALL RIGHT, THEN, DON’T!”, burst into tears, and run out of the room. All of which could, Tom was to realize on mature reflection, have been a contributing factor in the wanker accusations that would be flung around shortly afterwards.
After the confab with Laura and the subsequent wanker accusations not to say his failure to get any information out of Mima Puddle-Duck as to what Ralph had Done Now, he had been driven to ring his brother up and ask him what the fuck he’d Done Now.
“Nothing,” Ralph had replied sourly.
“Um—certain accusations in re wanking got flung around more or less in your direction after Jemima Puddle-Duck had a confab with Laura Hayes,” said Tom cautiously.
“Bloody cow,” replied Ralph.
“Er—I grant you that.”
There was a short pause.
“You must have done something to get you into Phoebe Fothergill’s bad books again!” suggested Tom desperately.
“Not again: still,” replied Ralph grimly.
“St— Oh,” he said limply.
Ralph returned through his teeth: “If you must have the sordid details, Phoebe appears to have heard the rumour that I got up the twin with the tits. I’ve been trying to get hold of her for the past month to tell her I didn’t, but she’s either got that bloody answering machine of hers on or she hangs up on me.”
“Ye-es... Don’t see that this would necessarily induce L.G. Hayes and then Mima Puddle-Duck to label all males but especially Overdale males wankers. Not of itself.”
“I’m coming to that, you cretin, will you just shut up and listen for once in your life!”
Tom listened, but didn’t hear anything. “I’m listening,” he said meekly.
Ralph took a deep breath. “Yes. Um—well, I suppose it was bloody stupid, but to tell you the truth I was pretty desperate.”—Tom here raised his eyebrows very high over his gold-rimmed specs and pulled a lugubrious face at his passage wainscoting.—“Um—you won’t remember, but the Easter before that fucking bastard Sol Winkelmann came out to settle here, Phoebe and I went to Sydney.”
“Mm?” said Tom cautiously.
Ralph swallowed again. “I thought— Well, I got Cook’s to make bookings at the Wentworth—we stayed there that time, you see—and to get me first-class tickets, and—um—sent her a bloody great bunch of red roses with the itinerary and one of the tickets.”
Tom shut his eyes for a moment. Any other female but Miss Fothergill—yes, very possibly. But Phoebe Fothergill when she was in a searingly filthy mood with him? Omigod.
“What happened, Ralph?” he managed to croak.
“What the fuck do you think happened? She sent the whole lot back.”
“Mm!” gulped Tom.
“Not only that,” said Ralph, his voice getting dangerously high: “the bitch had put the lot, roses and all, through a bloody paper-shredder!”
Tom gulped.
“Or maybe it was her flaming office guillotine, I dunno,” said Ralph dully, “only they were shredded to blazes. And they were beautiful roses. Dark red. Scented. Five dozen.”
“Twelve fives are— Sixty?” said Tom in a hollow voice.
“I was gonna ask the bitch to marry me!” he shouted furiously.
Tom gulped. “I’m Helluva sorry, Ralph. Um—I didn’t really think you felt that seriously about her.”
There was a considerable silence from the other end of the phone. “Nor did I,” admitted Ralph at last. “Not until just recently. Until— Oh, well. The bloody unfair thing is,” he added on an aggrieved note, “that I never even got up bloody Ginny Austin!”
“Uh—yeah,” said Tom weakly. “Does seem unfair, yeah.”
Ralph didn’t reply.
After a while Tom managed to point out: “I suppose if Phoebe does think you got up Ginny, she saw the ticket as—um—as the insult to end all insults.”
“I think that had dawned, yes,” replied Ralph grimly.
“Did you send it without a note or anything?”
“YES! I thought that it would make it more fucking romantic, if ya must have it!” he shouted.
Tom chewed on his lip. “Mm.”
“Go on, say it. Made it worse: taking her for granted, blah-blah.” He sighed. “You can’t tell me anything that I haven’t told myself. A million times over.”
“Yeah. Well,” said Tom weakly, “for what it’s worth, it’s gradually begun to dawn on me, over the last year or forty, that women don’t see these things in the simple-minded way us simple-minded male romantics do.”
Ralph drew an angry breath.
“I’m not kidding!” said Tom in alarm.
“Oh. Well, you’re probably right,” he said dully.
“Mm. Their minds are bloody tortuous. Bloody tortuous. And they always assume the worst.”
“Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Well, not if you’re a normal simple-minded male romantic you won’t, that’s what I’ve been trying to say.”
“Don’t belabour the point with a bludgeon, thanks, Tom,” said Ralph sourly.
Tom sighed. “No. Well—um, look, would you like me to try and speak to her?”
“What?” said Ralph faintly.
Tom went rather red but said: “Well, I might manage to scream: ‘Ralph never done the twin’ before she hangs up on me. Providing I don’t identify meself when she answers the phone.”
“If she answers the phone, you mean. Um... “
There was a long silence. Tom just waited.
Finally Ralph said in a strangled voice. “I don’t think it’ll do much good. But I’d be eternally grateful for anything you could do, Tom.”
Tom could hear the poor bastard was near to tears. He bit his lip but said airily: “All right, I’ll give it a go. And—uh—keep on hanging in there.”
“Yes. Thanks,” said Ralph in a strangled voice, abruptly hanging up.
Tom did try ringing Phoebe a couple of times, but the answering machine was always on, all right. So he decided he’d better do it in person.
“Hullo, Tom!” Louise had said pleasedly as he wandered into her office at around three-twenty on the Wednesday before the break, “How are you? And how’s Jemima?”
Tom had only met her a couple of times and he hadn’t expected she’d remember him. He endeavoured to respond appropriately. Louise then supposed he’d come to pick up Meg.
“Uh—no, not this time; came to verify that this is real carpet you’ve got on your office floor and not just a figment of my imagination after all.”
Louise giggled obligingly but looked at him expectantly.
“Actually, I’d like to see Phoebe, if she’s free,” he said weakly.
Well-trained secretary though she was, Louise’s jaw sagged. “Um—yes, she is. Um—”
“Give her a buzz,” said Tom genially, before she could rise and penetrate the inner sanctum to warn Phoebe there were Overdales in the offing.
“Yeah; righto,” said Louise feebly. She pressed the intercom button and said: “Um—Phoebe, you’ve got a visitor.”
There was a short silence.
“Yes?” said Phoebe’s voice.
“It’s Tom Overdale. I’ll just send him straight in, shall I?”
This time there was a longer silence.
“Yes, fine, Louise,” said Phoebe’s voice, sounding remarkably even.
Tom went in, ordering Louise over his shoulder to guard that carpet with her life. Louise giggled obligingly but he could feel her giving him an odd look, all the way down his spine.
“Hullo, Tom: how are you?” said Phoebe in a remarkably even voice, rising from behind her big desk and holding out her hand.
Tom took the bull by the horns and said as he held out his own: “This is undoubtedly genetically contaminated: sure you want to shake it?”
“Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way,” she replied, visibly taking a deep breath and shaking the hand firmly, “sit down.”
“Ladies first,” said Tom politely. Phoebe sat down, as he’d quite expected her to do, behind the barricade of her desk. Tom pulled up a visitor’s chair rather closer to the front of the desk than it had been and sat in it. “I could perch on the edge of your desk, thus forcing you to look up to my manly person and putting you at a psychological disadvantage from the outset,” he said kindly. “Only I won’t,” he said kindly.
“Is this a mere social call, or actually intended to drive me insane?” she returned grimly.
Tom wrinkled his nose. “Phoebe, whatever rumours you may have heard, Ralph did not get up the red-headed twin. I grant you he wanted to, I grant you he had her immured in that deadly dinky flat of his with that fell intent; nevertheless he did not do her. Dunno if that makes it better, though,” he added mildly.
To her fury, Phoebe felt her face flame. At the same time something inside her actually felt as if it trembled slightly. After quite some time she admitted: “It does make it a bit better, yes.”
“Mm. I thought it might. Human nature.”
Phoebe swallowed loudly. “Yes. Well, thanks for telling me.”
Tom put his head on one side. “It isn’t an Overdale plot, the whole of Puriri County knows he bombed. –Well, I say ‘knows’: most of ’em are laughing their heads off over it.”
Phoebe swallowed again. “I was wondering— Well, I’d just started to think it. You’re even sharper than he is, aren’t you?”
Tom rubbed his nose slowly. “We-ell... I hope I might not have been so simple-minded as to have sent you that ticket and those bloody roses without a word of explanation or apology, but I dunno that it’s a well-founded hope.”
“So he’s told you about that,” she said limply.
“I dragged it out of him, more accurately.”
“Oh.”
“He can be a louse, but he has his more bearable aspects. –Well, for God’s sake, five dozen red roses?”
She smiled reluctantly. “Mm.”
“Must have taken hours to chop ’em up like that,” he said conversationally.
Phoebe’s face was very red again. “I was furious with him for hours. More furious than I’ve ever been in my life, I think.”
“Yeah. Look, the stupid tripe-hound wasn’t taking you for granted, or casually tossing you a bauble in the belief you’d leap on it, or anything particularly macho. His feeble little male psyche saw it as a romantic gesture.”
“Oh,” said Phoebe weakly, swallowing.
“Mm. Well, like I said, one or two things about him are bearable. And he’s bloody generous to people he likes. Trouble is, he doesn’t like many people. But I wouldn’t claim his is an admirable nature. He’s certainly never practised anything like fidelity, let alone monogamy, in his life. But then,” said Tom blandly, “there are some of us that are capable of that, and some of us that aren’t, aren’t there?”
She nodded mutely.
“He is bloody good at his job, and takes it bloody seriously. –If that’s a recommendation?” he said, raising his eyebrows slightly.
Phoebe bit her lip. “I think you know that it is. It’s the sort of thing I do respect.”
“Mm.” Tom got up. “Look, I might as well say this, since I’ve got this far. Aren’t you blaming Ralph for letting certain cats out of bags that you’d been having guilt feelings about not having given Sol Winkelmann a glimpse of yourself?”
“How the Hell do you know that I didn’t—” Phoebe broke off.
Tom looked wry. “In the immortal words of the Grate Sleuth himself, I did not know, madam, you have just told me.”
Phoebe took a deep breath. “I see. Well, yes, no doubt you’re right. I’m also blaming him for causing poor old Nat quite a lot of unnecessary pain, too. –Don’t tell me I’ve got guilt feelings in that direction as well, I know that, thanks.”
“Yeah. –I must admit that I wouldn’t care to have my private life spread all over Ralph’s bloody golf club.”
“No,” she agreed grimly.
He hesitated, and then said: “I honestly think he only let on about your fling with him because he was bloody jealous of Weintraub and wanted to put him off.”
Phoebe licked her lips uneasily.
“He is the jealous type,” he added. “They tell me it’s damned hard to live with. On the other hand, it could be seen as quite flattering, I suppose, to have someone feel like that about you.”
“Mm.”
Tom hesitated. “Look, if you should feel like— I won’t go so far as to say like giving him a second chance; if you should feel like considering whether he’s worth being considered for a second chance, we’re having him to dinner on Easter Monday, with Hugh Morton and Roberta. Could you bear it?”
Phoebe grimaced. “Uh…”
“The first encounter will get exponentially worse the longer you put it off; until the mere idea of it becomes an insurmountable obst—”
“I know that, thanks!” she said loudly.
“I did refrain from mentioning falls from horses.”
“What? Uh—so you did. Look, is this going to be a formal sort of occasion?”
Somebody up there must have decided, all unbeknownst to him, that it was Overdale Day: because when he said, not having foggiest which way this particular cat should jump, that it was going to be pretty formal, actually: best bib an’ tucker, she looked immeasurably relieved and said All right, she’d take the plunge. And thanks, Tom.
Tom smiled feebly. He just about had the strength to stagger out onto Louise’s carpet. “If there’s a flagon or two in the offing, I require staying,” he croaked,
“Eh?”
Tom leant heavily on her desk. “Woman of decision, isn’t she?” he whispered.
Louise blenched. “Um—yes.”
Tom just hung onto the desk, breathing heavily.
“Um—would you like a cup of tea, Tom?” she ventured.
“Not here,” he whispered.
Louise gave a smothered giggle. “Oh! Well, come on down to the staffroom.”
Tom let her lead him tenderly down to St Ursie’s staffroom. Ye gods and little fishes! Chintz-covered armchairs! Well, I mean ter say, just armchairs! But chintz as well!
Fortunately by this time the staff had all vanished so he didn’t have to explain himself. “Don’t tell Meg I was here, will you?” he said as he consumed an unbroken, fresh, crisp shortbread bikky with yer actual sugar sprinkles on it.
“All right,” said Louise obligingly.
Tom smiled feebly at her. “Ta. You’re a brick. Look, I can’t tell you what it’s about, but—um—if I ever can, I promise I will!” he ended with a laugh.
“That’s all right,” said Louise kindly.
The minute he’d gone she shot back to her desk and looked feverishly through the latest volume of Who’s Who in New Zealand.
“Oppen-, Otter-, Owens—blast, hang on,” she muttered. “Got it! Overdale! Crikey, K.C.M.G. as well as F.R.C.S.? ...I bet it is, though!”
Tom hadn’t intended to reveal to Mima Puddle-Duck immediately who their new dinner guest would be but somehow or other, possibly because he felt totally drained, he had found himself telling her that evening. Her face fell about forty feet and she goggled at him in horror. What with that and bloody Laura bending her ear… Yeah.
Take it for all and all it wasn’t perhaps surprizing that a certain air of intransigenace towards wankers had been maintained in the T.M. Overdale household until the Easter Monday. The more so since, on Derry Dawlish’s ringing Tom on the Saturday in order to earbash him about singing for some future movie epic, Tom had casually also invited the famous director and partner to dinner. His explanation that, since the man had had the Early Music Group performing for his blessed Midsummer Night’s Dream Downunder and paid them ruddy well, he thought he owed him something, didn’t cut much ice, and nor did his suggestion that a couple of comparative strangers might help to ease the tension.
After the concreting session with Bill and Bob and the concrete mixer, not to mention the three Butler boys that had had to be beaten off it with sticks, he crept upstairs rather quietly in quest of her.
“How are you feeling, darling?” he said meekly from the bedroom doorway.
Jemima sat up on the bed, blinking. “Um, a lot better, actually,” she admitted. “Um—I had a gin!” she revealed with a laugh.
“Eh?” croaked Tom, hanging onto the door-surround.
Evidently Helen Weintraub—Tom tried not to blench—had rung with the latest about their Melanie’s adventures as a nanny in America, and recommended it for menstrual cramps.
“Good,” he said feebly.
“What have you been doing?” said Jemima, yawning, and looking at her watch in mild surprize.
Tom shuffled his feet but admitted what he’d been doing. “Think I’ll have a quick bath,” he added, edging over towards the ensuite.
“Aren’t you awfully tired?” she said weakly.
“’Course not!” he lied, going quickly into the ensuite.
After a moment Jemima followed him. “Ralph doesn’t like dogs, does he?”
“No, he doesn’t. But don’t ask me how we’re gonna keep The Fiend out of the front room tonight.
“What about Phoebe?” she said feebly.
“Doubt if she’ll even notice him.”
Jemima swallowed. “No. Um, what about Derry Dawlish, Tom?”
“Doesn’t strike me as the doggy type, no,” he admitted. “Don’t look like that, sweetheart. At least The Fiend won’t misbehave.”
“No, he’ll just lie there, immovably!” admitted Jemima with a giggle. “Never mind, he couldn’t have gone down to the Austins’ farm for the holidays with Damian and Roger, it would have been awful if he’d chased the sheep and Ted Austin had shot him. –I wonder who Derry will bring,” she then wondered.
The bath wasn’t nearly full—the water pressure wasn’t all that shit-hot in Puriri County—but Tom got in anyway. “No idea. Some tart,” he said indifferently. “Last rumour but one was he was doing the girl that’s playing Hermia in the film. Might bring her, I suppose.”
“No: the overseas actors have all gone home,” replied Mima Puddle-Duck, going over to the door. “I’ll set the table, shall I?”
“Mm, great, darling. Soup spoons,” he reminded her.
“Yes. And your grandmother’s best damask tablecloth,” said Jemima on a resigned note, going out.
Tom grinned. He shut his eyes—just for five minutes or so. Ooh, God, that was better...
“Oh, Ralph!” gasped Jemima, opening the front door. “We’re running awfully late, I’m afraid!”
“Not that late, I’m awfully early,” said Ralph, grinning. He kissed her cheek before she could step out of range and waved his hand at the truck that had pulled up behind his BMW. “Brought you a wee something!”
“What on earth...?” said Jemima limply, as he then shouted: “Bring them in, would you?” and two large young men began carting swathed shapes up their path.
“Dining chairs. Picked up a nice set just recently. Thought your dining-room could do with ’em, get rid of that clutter of mismatched kitchen chairs you’ve stuck in there.”
Jemima stood back numbly as he led the way inside.
“Eight?” she said feebly, when Ralph had unswathed the chairs.
“Certainly. Well, the dining table’s not small.”
“But Ralph—”
“But me no buts. Talking of which, where is my nephew?” he said genially.
“Upstairs. Asleep,” said Jemima on a bewildered note.
“I’ll pop up and inspect him in a moment. –That’s it, then, thanks,” he added to the moving men. “Cash, I suppose?”
“It’ll do, yeah,” agreed their leader, and Ralph then peeled off notes from the wad in his wallet.
“Tom won’t accept them,” she said feebly as the front door closed behind the men.
“I think he will, this time,” he murmured.
“Um—well, yes, perhaps he will,” admitted Jemima, swallowing. “Um—good luck, Ralph!” she added on a gasp.
He laughed lightly and drew her gently towards him. “Mm, you smell good,” he said, leaning his cheek on her hair.
After a moment Jemima said feebly: “Don’t you ever learn?” and pulled away from him.
“It’s physiological!” he said with a laugh.
“It’s something,” replied Jemima grimly.
“Where the fuck is he?” he said, as she fussed round the table.
“Picking things. He went to sleep in the bath,” admitted Jemima.
“Pick— You mean he’s in the garden?”
“Yes. Well, he might have gone over to Bill’s, he was muttering about eggplants.”
“You mean he’s not even changed?” said Ralph feebly.
“No. Though it’s probably possible to pick things in a dinner suit,” said Jemima drily. “Do you think these serviettes would look better in those water-lily shapes?”
“No,” said Ralph, shuddering slightly.
“That’s good, because I can’t do them!” she said with a laugh. “Is the table all right?”
“No. Where are your water glasses?”
“Tom said we were having wine,” replied Jemima blankly.
Muttering, Ralph headed for the kitchen.
... “What are you doing?” screamed Tom.
“Stirring your soup,” replied Ralph unemotionally. “I’ve checked the oven. I hope to God those birds aren’t as old as they look or we won’t be eating till midnight. And then we’ll be chewing till five,” he added nastily.
“Alec sent ’em up,” replied Tom. “They’ve been marinating for two and a half days.”
“Marinating in what?”
Tom sighed loudly.
“Wine,” said Jemima helpfully.
“Go away,” sighed her brother-in-law.
“Australian Shiraz,” said Tom patiently.
“I see. Dare I ask why you didn’t cut ’em up before you put ’em in it, Tom?”
“It’s the recipe,” said Jemima helpfully.
“Yeah, it’s the recipe, and if you can’t stand the heat, Ralph, get out of my kitchen!” Tom inspected the soup anxiously.
“We’re having little thingies for starters, Ralph,” explained Jemima helpfully. “Shall I put them on the table, Tom?”
“Eh? Uh—no.”
“Canapés?” said Ralph faintly.
“NO!” shouted his brother.
“They’re some sort of vegetable: they’re in the fridge,” said Jemima. “On little dishes.”
Ralph opened the fridge and peered. “Mushrooms?”
“They don’t look like mushrooms to me,” said Jemima.
“Leave them ALONE!” shouted Tom.
Ralph investigated further. “You’ve combined,” he said with a laugh in his voice, “Chinese mushrooms and artichokes, haven’t you?”
Tom glared.
“He’s soaked them in something,” said Jemima helpfully.
“Wait… Artichauts aux champignons chinois à la Grecque!” decided Ralph, breaking down in helpless sniggers.
“Yes,” agreed Tom grimly. “And get out of— On second thoughts,” he said as the Addams-Family doorbell boomed and his brother jumped, “answer that. And if it’s Phoebe, try not to come on too strong. In fact, don’t come on to her at all. Not in my house.”
“How many children did Lady Macbeth have?” wondered Ralph, wandering out.
“He’s in an awfully good mood,” said Jemima in a hollow voice.
Tom could see that he was also awfully nervous. As Mima Puddle-Duck was, as well, he didn’t say so. “Long may it last. –Though he’s bloody nearly as offensive when he’s in a good mood as he is when he’s in a stinking one.”
“Mm,” said Jemima, swallowing. “Tom, you haven’t changed.”
Tom was wearing an apron over an old grey jersey and his old green cords. “Uh—no. Well, I’ll creep upstairs when whoever that is, is immured in the sitting-room. And I hate to suggest it, but as the hostess, don’t you think you oughta take that apron off and go and say hullo?”
Jemima was all ready, in that she was in a long, tight, very plain scarlet velvet dress: scoop neck, only a hint of shoulder-pads, and long sleeves: Her shiny black hair was in a rippling flood down her back, held back with a silver hoop on the head. The tiny silver chains in the ears were probably redundant, but what male would object to them? “All right,” she said glumly.
She was back in under five minutes.
“The sherry’s in the front room, darling,” said Tom patiently. “Or does someone want water?”
“No! Derry’s brought Akiko!” she gulped.
“I suppose it’s better than bringing Ginny. –No, sorry! Uh—isn’t she supposed to be going back to Japan?”
“Yes: at the end of the week.”
Tom stirred his soup carefully and looked sideways at her.
Finally she said, biting her lip a bit: “Um, there can’t have been anything in it, after all, on Akiko’s side. If she’s going round with Derry Dawlish—well, I mean, she can’t be in love with Sol.”
Tom didn’t point out the logical flaw in her reasoning, he just agreed: “No. Look, can I trust you to stir this very gently while I nip upstairs and change?”
“What? Oh!” said Jemima, jumping. “Yes, righto.”
Tom swathed her in the apron again and gave her the wooden spoon. “Stir it very gently, and don’t touch any of the knobs,” he said loudly and very clearly.
“I know!” she replied huffily.
Sending up a silent prayer for mercy, Tom resigned his soup to her and ran upstairs.
Phoebe had, of course, changed her mind about fifty times since accepting Tom’s invitation. For one thing, the fact that Ralph hadn’t actually seduced young Ginny Austin was not a point in his favour, when you looked at it logically. Not when even his brother admitted he’d tried his best to do it. But she couldn’t manage to persuade herself of this: her initial gut reaction to Tom’s announcement had been a pretty reliable indicator of her true feeling about it. Phoebe knew she ought to despise herself for feeling like that but somehow couldn’t quite manage it. And somehow, feeling like that sort of led imperceptibly to the thought that you couldn’t really blame the poor sod for trying: after all it was two years, almost, since she’d given him the push—and pretty brutally, too; and he hadn’t had anyone permanent since then. Or even long-term. She was in no doubt that he’d have one or two short-term things, but…
There was, of course, the further point that he had behaved like a bastard over the entire two years. Or more. Well, for God’s sake, letting on to poor old Nat— But oddly enough Phoebe could no longer work herself up to feeling good and mad about that.
Certainly he’d behaved like an utter bastard that time on the bloody boat when he’d stranded her in the middle of Kingfisher Bloody Bay; Phoebe’s cheeks burned as she thought of it. After a certain period of simmering fury had passed she, became shamingly aware, however, that what she was mainly remembering about that time on the boat was the feel of his hand on her thigh: Hell’s teeth! At this point she got up and did some pacing round her sitting-room, though it would not have been true to say she was thinking as she paced. When her hormones had more or less stopped dancing the shimmy she was able to remind herself that, never mind if he could turn her on, she’d always known that—never mind that, he was a bastard. He was untrustworthy, underhand and a liar... And what was worse, he was fucking proud of it! Not say incredibly up himself. ...Okay: she’d ring Tom and say—uh—say she’d changed her mind.
At this point Phoebe was seized with a strong desire to bawl her eyes out. She fought it down grimly and endeavoured to look at things logically. Okay, say she did take up with Ralph again—here her hormones threatened to dance the shimmy again and she had to do some deep breathing. Yes, well, that aside, would it get either of them much forrarder? At this stage in her life did she need to be thinking of a casual relationship with a bastard who would very probably drop her like a hot potato the moment anything younger, more nubile, and quite possibly red-haired swam into his field of— Phoebe found she was chewing her lip again. No, well sod him: it was a point. Could he be trusted as far as she could throw him?
Once she’d calmed down a bit, she found that she didn’t actually know. How the Hell well did she know Ralph, anyway? ...Not all that well, when you came to think of it. She knew he was a snide bastard, she knew he was good in bed— Yes, ALL RIGHT! Apart from that, then, she knew he was a bloody gourmet, self-styled, and halfway to a flaming aesthete and... well, an all-round sensualist, actually. Phoebe frowned, and concentrated on the aesthete aspect. Could she stand any sort of prolonged exposure to that?
And anyway, what did he actually envisage? The odd dirty weekend together plus the odd evening when His Lordship wasn’t doing anything better? Give that one away: for God’s sake, might as well be doing it with a ruddy married man! ...Okay, well, what did she want? Cosy little nest—even supposing he’d agree, in the highest degree unlikely—with Ralph? Jesus. Phoebe tried to envisage it but found she couldn’t. There was just no way she could get a picture into her head of the two of them actually sharing living quarters. And besides, would their two schedules mesh? Well, he’d be out most of the day, she supposed, going rather red as she realized she didn’t even have any accurate idea of what his timetable was. When he had an operation, it was mostly in the mornings, wasn’t it? Then—uh—appointments in the afternoons? Well, that would probably work out... On the other hand, she usually brought home a fair bit of work in the evenings and weekends. It was impossible to imagine Ralph Overdale sitting back quietly with his slippers on, letting her get on with her work! And if she went on with her degree it would mean a lot more work at home: most evenings of the week, certainly, and probably a hefty slice of the weekends as well.
Yes, well, she was more or less mowing down the ten or fifteen years’ reading for her bibliography, or more accurately the checking to see what she might have missed over the last ten years since she’d last touched the bloody thing... Thank God they had ERIC on CD-ROM at St Ursie’s, she’d never have been able to get near the bloody players at varsity. Though the Training Coll facilities seemed under less pressure. No, well, even though she’d more or less caught up with the titles she ought to be reading, she hadn’t yet read them all. As for the actual writing... Well, she did have a fairly good idea of what she wanted her main points to be. But there was months and months of work in it, yet. Would Ralph put up with that? Phoebe couldn’t see it. What she could see was a vivid picture of the pathetic male-wanker act: interrupting her on feeble excuses such as making her cups of tea, or sneaking up on her and putting his arm round her, or going all whingey until she gave in and did what he wanted to do—that was, go to bed—in order to shut up the whingeing. Well, and also because of the bloody conditioned female response of giving in to a ruddy whingeing male wanker!
At this point Phoebe resumed striding round the sitting-room.
No, she couldn’t cope with that, she’d had a bit of it, off and on, with various feebleized male wankers that had infested her past, and the only result of it was that you built up a huge mountain, in fact a volcano, of bottled-up resentment against the wanker concerned. Then when you blew up at the bastard, usually over something quite insignificant, he went all hurt and self-righteous because you were blowing up at him over nothing at all! Thanks, but no thanks.
... All right, then: two separate adult establishments and a nice rational relationship between two adults who saw each other when both of them desired it? It was a great idea, in theory. Phoebe took a deep breath. In practice it usually worked out really lovely: he’d whinge that you were always busy when he wanted to see you—at the same time never making his gracious self available when you were free, of course—and you’d end up being the one that made all the compromises. Same result as the other scenario, in fact. Only it usually took a bit longer to get there.
Yes, well, face it: they were all pathetic wankers! Spoilt rotten from their flaming cradles! Any woman who wanted any sort of relationship with one of them had better face it: it was always the woman that had to make the compromises.
A lot of marching and scowling did nothing to mitigate this opinion. On the other hand it didn’t entirely chase away that trembling, excited, and thoroughly shaken feeling that Phoebe had been aware of at the back of all these terribly rational and clear-sighted ruminations.
Okay, she would ring Tom up, and say, uh...
Phoebe went over all of this unceasingly. She did not, of course, come to a conclusion as such. But she did end up not ringing Tom. And she did end up telling herself that at least if she got the first meeting over with, she might be able to see the bloody thing a bit more clearly. Well, make up her mind if she still wanted the bastard at all!
In her innermost being she still felt trembly, excited, and thoroughly shaken at the idea of seeing Ralph again. But she wasn’t quite ready to admit it to herself.
Next chapter:
https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/10/lilacs-out-of-dead-land.html
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