"One Of Our Blameless Dances"

34

“One Of Our Blameless Dances”

    Looking back on that summer—which he was to do rather often—Ralph Overdale was to decide it was all down to that bloody storm. If Ginny hadn’t got caught in it and he hadn’t given her a lift home none of it would have happened. Well, possibly the storm had not been the only causal factor: another factor had been his decision to get off his duff and drive to The Deli in Puriri instead of spending an entire Saturday brooding over the unattainableness of Phoebe in Tasmania, which was all that he’d felt like doing that afternoon. When he wasn’t brooding about coming up for FIVE-FIVE. Why that should be worse than five-zero, God knew. And it was still a fair way off. But it had seemed to hit him all of a sudden, out of the blue.

    Such minor points as Hugh and Roberta billing and cooing like two demented lovebirds in their love-nest next-door, and Tom and Jemima down the road a bit cooing over their bloody infant like a pair of besotted broody pigeons could have been in there, too. As could the fact that the delectable auburn-haired Georgy Harris, erstwhile co-tenant with Ther-Famous-Fillum-Star Adam McIntyre of Number 9 Willow Grove, Willow Plains, had very recently returned to these shores in a blaze of publicity on the bloody star’s arm to make the bloody film of A Midsummer Night’s Dream with him. Ralph had sourly admitted to himself that he’d more than fancied Georgy last year. You might have called it an inglorious chapter in the career of Overdale the Casanova of the South Seas, had you been that way inclined. Though “footnote” would have been more accurate. Sod it. Sod his age and sod all females!

    If the Puriri County Council had fulfilled its obligations with respect to the verges of Pukeko Drive more regularly, Ginny would have had quite a pleasant walk: she could have taken her sandals off and walked on the grass. But the grass in most places was three-foot hay. So she slogged on down the road. It was asphalted, but as usual with back roads, the asphalt ran in a narrow strip down the middle, for cars, leaving wide strips of roughly broken stones at the sides. The Council had begun putting in pavements and curbs, not to say gutters, along Pukeko Drive some time back, but this work hadn’t yet reached the upper purlieus beyond the intersection with Sir John Marshall Av’, where there were no houses at all. Of course this meant the road wasn’t heavily frequented, and Ginny walked on the right-hand side of the asphalt, keeping a wary look out for oncoming cars. But even asphalt was very hard on the feet when the feet were in brand-new high-heeled yellow sandals. Eventually she stopped and took the sandals off. Since there was no-one in sight she then hastily removed her tights. She trudged on flat-footed, keeping a wary eye out for stones at the same time as she kept a lookout for oncoming cars.

    The storm broke with a crash of thunder and a flash of sheet lightning when she was in sight of the top end of Coronation Road. Immediately the rain began to come down in torrents. Ginny got hurriedly into her raincoat: it was the super-thin, nifty sort that rolled up into a tiny package when not in use. Unfortunately this meant that on a warm day with a semi-tropical downpour on its outside and a sweating Ginny on its inside, its super-thin plastic clung to her in the most yucky, horrible way. She trudged on. The raincoat had a hood, so at least her hat wasn’t getting wet.

    The oncoming traffic began noticeably to thicken: drivers avoiding the usual crush down on the main north highway. Most of the time she was now stumbling over the stones at the right-hand edge of the asphalt and she had to stop and put on her shoes again.

    She had stumbled as far as Coronation Road when a large car pulled up on the opposite side of the road and a light tenor with a laugh in it called: “What the fuck are you doing out in this? Get in, I’ll take you home!”

    Ginny turned and scowled at Sir Ralph. “I’m nearly home!” she cried.

    “Balls. Get in anyway!” he shouted.

    Ginny was about to say something else but two Mitsubishis and a clapped-out Holden passed her, all their passengers looking at the scene with interest. Scowling, she clumped over the road. Ralph opened the front passenger door, so she clumped round and got in.

    “Take those bloody things off your feet, they must be killing you. What the fuck are you up to?”

    She edged her sandals off and did up her seatbelt, scowling. “Nothing. I’ve been to Ted and Felicity’s stupid wedding reception at The Blue Heron, if you must know,” she growled.

    He let in the clutch. “And where are the happy couple headed for the honeymoon?” he drawled.

    “Norfolk Island,” she said shortly.

    “Oh?”

    “They’re quite OLD!” shouted Ginny.

     Ralph’s shoulders shook silently.

    Sourly Ginny realized that that had been a puerile thing to say. And that his tone had been calculated to provoke her into saying something stupid. She scowled and said nothing.

    “Were you a bridesmaid?”

    “Why else would I be wearing a dumb two-piece and a dumb buttonhole?”

    “Oh… standard wedding gear? –This Ted is your brother, is that right?”

    “Yes,” she said sulkily.

    “Second time round, or so I am reliably informed. So I’ll concede that it’s on the cards that, though you might well be asked to be a bridesmaid on account of being his sister, you wouldn’t be required to wear green satin and flahs in the hair. If I’ve got the local social mores right.”

    “Look, it’s obvious Vicki’s told you all about it, so SHUT UP and STOP PRETENDING TO BE CLEVER!” shouted Ginny.

    “Well, yes, she tried. But I did my best not to listen.”

    Ginny just scowled.

    “When does she leave for Taranaki, again?”

    “Tomorrow. She’s flying down with Mum and Dad.”

    “Oh, good: that means you’ll be along to do me!”

    Ginny ignored this.

    “Where do you live?” he murmured.

    Ginny jumped a foot. “Um—just along here a bit. –I told you it wasn’t far,” she added in a grouchy voice.

    “Not in the car, no. –You haven’t remarked on the car,” he said sadly, slowing down. “Here?”

    Ginny goggled at him. He’d indicated a block of very smart brick flats with the new sort of roofs: rather dark and low. And the new sort of dark brick, come to that. “No! Further on, past that undeveloped bit.”

    Ralph drove on slowly.

    “It’s not another new car, is it?” she said weakly.

    “Yes: I had a sudden craving for maroon. Like it?”

    “No, it’s a piece of up-market consumerist junk, designed to become obsolescent in the shortest possible space of time whilst polluting the atmosphere as much as the laws of physics will allow in the meantime!” said Ginny loudly.

    “Ooh, very good. Almost eloquent. –Smacks of sour grapes, too,” he said thoughtfully.

    “I know you’ve worked for your money, so SHUT UP!”

    Ralph didn’t reply to this. “Along here?”

    “No. Further on.”

    “What, past this wilderness of gorse?”

    “It is not— Yes.”

    He drove on slowly. The road had a slight bend in it but as she didn’t holler stop he drove slowly past the bend. Nothing in sight on the right but a tumbledown, unpainted bach with a rusty roof.

    “This is it,” said Ginny with a sigh of unfeigned relief.

    “What?” he croaked.

    “Not all of us can afford new BMWs every six months,” she said nastily.

    Ralph pulled over dazedly. It had a front drive, of sorts: six yards or so of rutted mud; so he pulled onto it, wincing.

    “Thanks,” said Ginny sourly.

    “Just a minute,” he said, grabbing her arm. “You appear to be even wetter under that appalling plastic atrocity than you are outside it: I suggest you get straight under a hot shower.”

    “It’s too hot for hot showers,” she retorted, pouting.

    Ralph was quite comfortable in his navy and maroon flowered cotton shirt and his loose navy cotton trou’. “Mm. Well, a warm one.”

    “I’m all right,” she said, scowling.

    “Right: if that’s your attitude,” he said, promptly opening his door, “I’ll come in and bloody well make sure you have it. –Get out, you little idiot, and come on!” he added irritably. “Sitting around in damp clothes like that is a recipe for pneumonia!”

    She got out, muttering: “Pooh! I’m not even cold.”

    The front door, as Ralph had expected in a bach of this vintage, opened directly onto the main room. Ginny stripped off the plastic raincoat, shuddering, and immediately sneezed.

    “See?” he said.

    “All RIGHT! Shut UP!” she shouted.

    Ralph opened his mouth but at that moment the phone rang.

    “Hullo,” said Ginny sulkily into it. “Oh, it’s you. ...No, I’ve only just got home. ...I was helping Mike Collingwood to tidy up, if it’s any of your business, and he paid me twenty dollars!”—Ralph shook silently all over.—“Whaddaya mean, you’re not coming home?” she said in a high voice. “Oh. Well, okay, if you’ve got your suitcase, it would be easier... I know the plane goes at crack of dawn, Vicki, you’ve only told me a million times!” she shouted. “What? What’s it to me if Euan goes up to Sol’s tonight or tomorrow, he can spend the whole blimming summer up at Sol’s, I don’t care! Anyway, where did you see Sol? ...WHAT?” she gasped. “The bottle store? Well, if Felicity and Ted find out those stupid kids are drinking beer, you’re DEAD!” Here the phone quacked something agitated. “All right, then: Jenny’s dead, TOO! And GOODBYE!” She slammed the receiver down furiously. “They went to The Tavern and bought a whole lot of beer and they’re letting Sean and Damian and all those stupid kids drink!” she cried angrily.

    “So I gather. Who are Sean and Damian?” he asked politely.

    “My nephews. Ted’s kids. They’re only sixteen and seventeen.”

    “I see. Where is this drinking party taking place?’

    “At Anne’s place. That’s where they all went.”

    “For the disco: mm. Is there a responsible adult there?”

    “No: there’s stupid Jenny, and she’s pissed off because she’s busted up with stupid Col Michaels, and if anybody thinks she’s responsible, they’ve got another think coming: she was drinking spirits all afternoon!”

    “I see.”

    “It’s nothing to do with me!” said Ginny angrily.

    “Manifestly not,” he drawled. He strolled over to the divan and removed a hideous crocheted Thing from it. “Take that bloody jacket off, at least.”

    Ginny removed her bolero, scowling, and Ralph enveloped her in the Thing. “Well?” he said.

    She scowled. “I’m gonna ring Dad!” she said fiercely.

    “Er—mm. That is what a responsible adult would do, I feel,” he murmured.

    She gave him a look of loathing and picked up the phone. “Hi, Jake. It’s Ginny here,” she said. “Um—is Dad there? ...WHAT?” She looked up at Ralph desperately. “Jake says Dad passed out in his chair and they put him to bed half an hour ago!” she wailed.

    “Par for the course. I suggest you fall back on Sir Jacob. At least he’s adult,” he drawled.

    “Um—yeah. Um—sorry, Jake!” she gulped. “No, just someone who gave me a lift. Um, Vicki just rung me, she reckons they’re all drinking beer round at Anne’s and I just thought Dad oughta know they’re giving it to Sean and Damian!”

   The phone rumbled something.

    “No,” said Ginny miserably. “Well, Vicki said her and Euan were gonna stay the night, so they’ll be okay. Only I dunno about the others. …Um, Melanie and Roger and them. …Ta, Jake,” she said miserably. “Eh? Oh: yeah, it went off okay, didn’t it? …Um, yeah, I s’pose they will. …Yeah—see ya.” She hung up. “He’s gonna look after it.”

    “Splendid.”

    “He never said he’d stop Sean and Damian from drinking the beer, though.”

    “Well, no: if they’re sixteen and seventeen, that won’t be within the bounds of human capacity. But he’ll spoon the remains into a vehicle and drive ’em home, will he?”

    Ginny smiled reluctantly. “Yeah. Him or Bob, that’s his driver. And he’s gonna ring up Eric and Pauline about Melanie, and Bill Coggins about Roger.”

    “Good. You did the right thing, then,” he said drily.

    “Yes...” she said vaguely. “He said Ted and Felicity’ll be having tea on Norfolk Island,” she added on an odd note.

    “Unless the food from the reception’s given them a dose of summer sickness: undoubtedly.”

    Ginny gulped. “Yeah. Doesn’t it give you an odd feeling?”

    “Well, no,” he said apologetically. “I gather this is the first time one of your immediate family has visited the Grate Offshore?”

    “Mm. –You’re what they call a seasoned traveller, I suppose,” she said nastily.

    “Seasoned, certainly. You’d better pop into that shower, Red Fed. Er—is there a bathroom?”

    “Out the back,” said Ginny simply.—Ralph shuddered.—“Across the back porch, that’s all!” she said crossly.—He shuddered again.—“Um—I’d better get some clothes.” She vanished into the adjoining room.

    Ralph sat down and produced his thin gold case of cigarillos from the breast pocket of his shirt.

    Ginny came back and looked at him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

    “I’m going to have a smoke while you change. Then, since your flatmates have obviously deserted you, I’m going to take you home for a civilized chat, drink, CD or two and a light supper, should you fancy it after the delights of the wedding reception. Plus a video, should you care for that.”

    Ginny looked at him suspiciously. “What video?”

    “Well,” said Ralph in an apologetic voice, “I was dithering between Casablanca and Woman of the Dunes for tonight. With possibly Ninotcha for light relief; do you like Garbo?”

    “No.”

    “You’ll like her in this, it’s a comedy,” he said smoothly. “Well?”

    “Um, I saw Woman of the Dunes at the Lido a while back,” she admitted.

    “Yeah, their twenty-third re-run of it. And?”

    “Um—well, I do like Casablanca, only I’ve seen it twice this year, Polly’s got it on tape, and it was on at the University Film Society as well.”

    Ralph hesitated. Not that it would be pearls before swine, of course, but... Well, he’d be so horribly disappointed if she was disappointed! “Seen any Eisenstein?”

    Ginny’s eyes lit up. “I’ve seen Battleship Potemkin, isn’t it marvellous?”

    “Mm. Well, I’ve got his Alexander Nevsky: that’s even more marvellous. Would you fancy it?”

    She nodded hard.

    “Good. But on one condition.”

    “What?” she said nervously.

    Not that, kid, he thought with a mental groan. “That you let me tell you how to watch it.”

    Her face went very pink. Ralph watched her nervously. “No-one’s ever offered to teach me how to watch a film, before,” she said.

    Was this good or bad?

    “Thank you very much!” she beamed. “I’ll come!” She rushed off towards the nether regions.

    Ralph lit a cigarillo with fingers that shook a little. “Good God,” he muttered. “I seem inadvertently to have done the right thing. First time in—what? Three years or so? No, make it fifty-three.”

    He shrugged a little, and blew a smoke ring. Nevertheless his heart pounded furiously and the other physiological manifestation was very much present, too.

    Outside the thunder rolled off northwards, the sky was a leaden grey and the rain continued to come down in torrents. Ralph smoked slowly, trying not to look at the ugliness of the horrid little bach. He knew there was nothing in it: the kid wasn’t interested in him—or she didn’t know enough yet to know her hormones were telling her she ought to be interested, he thought on a sour note. She was only interested in widening her cultural and intellectual horizons. He removed the cigarillo and made a face. Well, if that was what she wanted from him at this juncture he could certainly do that for her. And he supposed he’d better be bloody careful not to suggest anything more. Let alone attempt to do anything more.

    Ginny didn’t pause to analyse why she had accepted Ralph’s invitation—and in particular why she had accepted it after having started off being very cross with him. She didn’t even get as far as admitting to herself that she felt bored and lonely because Twin and Euan had gone off to the silly kiddies’ disco. And because the wedding reception had been ghastly and she’d felt for every single minute of it that she didn’t fit in. She was quite hungry after her exertions at The Blue Heron helping Mike Collingwood clear up, and there was nothing in the flat except a couple of tins of spaghetti and half a jar of home-made muesli. And she was very keen to see more Eisenstein. And at least he wasn’t being stupid!

    She was, of course, very far from realising that Ralph was deliberating doing the elderly-uncle-after-the-op bit. And in spite of the experiments with Adrian, Dickon, and Stephen, she was far too inexperienced to recognize that he truly was a wolf. Because in the Taranaki backblocks, and even on the campuses of the university, wolves in wolves’ clothing were very, very thin on the ground indeed. Middle-class New Zealand males needed encouragement in order to pursue; indeed, there were those who would have said, as Phoebe Fothergill for one had, in her more jaundiced moments, that they were in fact incapable of pursuit and it was always the black widow that had to pursue her mate. And then consume him, quite.

    They ate at the plain glass table Ralph had reluctantly installed in the sitting-room. The little table fitted in unobtrusively enough in the tiny annexe which gave him a view of Hugh’s steps from its window. He’d drawn those curtains: no sense in asking for trouble. Ginny remarked that this little corner must have been designed as a dinette, and Ralph actually forbore to shudder. She had certainly regained her appetite, so it was just as well he’d decided to start with pawpaw, go on to smoked salmon omelette followed by salad, and finish with cheese, and blueberries and cream. In that order. She didn’t remark on this and Ralph speculated silently as to why. He let her have a quite reasonable local Riesling with the food—and didn’t let her drink any of it with the salad.

    They took their after-dinner coffee over to the fireplace and though it was still quite warm he lit a couple of logs before telling her a lot about how to appreciate Alexander Nevsky. Then they watched it and she was duly utterly absorbed and wholly entranced. Ralph sat through it in silence: he still enjoyed it but scarcely as much as he had down thirty-odd years ago, when he’d first seen it at a University Film Society showing. Yes, Virginia: he, too, had been young once. He was glad to see it still retained its power to captivate the young, however.

    Ginny was quite obviously emotionally drained afterwards and lay back on a sofa and just looked at him limply, smiling. Ralph wasn’t limp, in fact he hadn’t been what you could call limp all evening, but he smiled at her from the big chair in which out of some strange flash of nobility or the realization there was only so much human nerves could take he’d placed himself, and said: “Catharsis.”

    “Yes,” she said with a sigh. “It’s exactly that; I’ve never really felt it before.”

    “Your Greek teachers must be bloody bad.”

    “Pete, mostly. I suppose he’s not that good.”

    “Not Charles Brownloe?”

    “No.”

    She had an odd look on her face but he didn’t enquire further. He didn’t suggest Ninotchka, he didn’t think she was either of an age or a generation to appreciate the function of the farce after the tragedy and didn’t want to hear that he’d spoilt it for her. Besides. it was pretty bloody late. So he took her home.

    It was pouring again, and Ginny was in a daze, so Ralph didn’t bother to try to talk as they went. He got out with his brolly and escorted her to the front door, assuring her that he wanted to see her safely in. And ignoring the fact that she replied in astonishment: “I’ll be all right.”

    “It’s stuck, it does that in the rain!” she panted.

    Ralph gave the front door a bit of a push but it didn’t budge so he put his shoulder to it—his left, not his operating shoulder, moderation in all things—and that worked. Macho thing that he was. Ginny fumbled for the light switch.

    “Jesus Christ!” he gulped.

    “My books!” she screamed, making a bolt for the other room.

    Ralph stepped in cautiously, looking at a scene of puddled desolation. Whether it was that the roof had leaked, or a sheet of iron had come right off, he couldn’t tell. But there was water everywhere. A bit of the ceiling had actually given way. And yet more water was dripping from the ceiling’s remains.

    He picked his way over to the door of her room. It was barely a room, more a lean-to, and only contained a bed, a tallboy and a set of planks on bricks against the outer wall. Ginny was picking up books, tears streaming down her face. There was a large puddle in the middle of the bed. And another hole in the ceiling.

    “Ginny—sweetheart, don’t cry. I’ll replace the bloody books for you!” he said loudly.

    “My—books!” sobbed Ginny, frantically trying to pick them all up at once.

    “Yes. Look, we’ll take them out to the car: get them out of the wet. eh?”

    She nodded mutely. Ralph gave her his handkerchief. “Blow your nose. I know someone who knows how to salvage soaked books. I’ll give him a ring. Hurry up, I don’t think it’s too bloody safe in here, it’s a miracle we haven’t been electrocuted. Um—you haven’t got any pets that need rescuing or anything?”

    Ginny shook her head. “I’d have liked Tibby, but she’s settled in with Michaela.”

    “Mm. Got any bags we can put them in?”

    “What? Oh.” She scrabbled under the bed.

    He didn’t think he was capable of heaving up a suitcase full of books, so he let her put a few in it and took them out to the car in relays. She didn’t really have all that many, and some of them, he saw with a twisted smile, she must have had since her childhood. He’d have cheerfully abandoned the dump after that, but conscientiously reminded her about clothes. They were in the tallboy, and still dry. Ralph had fetched his torch from the car: he switched off the electricity at the mains with a shudder of relief.

    “I doubt if this can have happened overnight: I have a feeling your roof must always have leaked and the water’s been building up on the ceiling.”

    “Yes,” gulped Ginny.

    “Sodding penny-pinching landlord,” noted Ralph cheerfully. “Come on—let’s go.”

    They finally got to bed—she in the downstairs guestroom, alas—around four-thirty in the morning. Ginny didn’t even argue about whether she should stay. And it evidently didn’t dawn on her for an instant how much it was going to set him back to have her priceless collection of paperback Dorothy L. Sayerses, dog-eared Rosemary Sutcliffs, falling-apart A.A. Milnes, and second-hand university textbooks expertly freeze-dried and thawed.

    The morning probably dawned clear and sunny but Ralph didn’t wake up until nearly one. It was certainly clear and sunny by then. He stood behind his bedroom’s clear-varnished wooden Venetians staring out over a south-easterly view of bits of the Maureen Mitchell Memorial Reserve, blueish hills hiding the highway, and a distant section of Elizabeth Road, wondering what his next move should be. As he stared a small red M.G. came down Elizabeth Road headed towards him. Ouch. Please, God, no! I do believe in You! –This cry was answered: wherever Tom was heading for it wasn’t his place. Six Hail Marys, when I get round to it, Ralph promised the Deity.

    After he’d showered, shaved and dressed there was still no sign of her. He tiptoed cautiously downstairs and peeped in. Sleeping like a babe. Looked about twelve years old. He pulled a face and retreated noiselessly.

    There was a considerable amount of noise coming from the front drive so instead of getting breakfast or brunch or whatever the fuck, Ralph went out onto his front porch and stood between Virginia Tree and Victoria Tree, watching.

    Down near the bottom of the drive on his side, the right as you looked down, the very thin young jogging couple from 16 or 17, he’d forgotten which, were inserting themselves, their cropped heads, their tiny taut bums and their needle-sharp elbows, today in matching shiny black and lime or black and pink silk-look lee-zhure suits, into their shiny royal blue four-wheel-drive preparatory to dragging their bloody trailer-sailor away. Ralph had forgotten which was female and which was male and as from this distance you couldn’t tell, felt it scarcely mattered. Nearer, a taxi was drawn up outside Miss McLintock’s—his nearest neighbour on that side, though separated from him by a goodly stretch of greensward. She was getting into it in her good summer coat, the pink linen-look one, plus her travelling hat, complete with a barking cane basket. Oh, of course! The threatened trip to Honolulu! Three cheesing rows, and let’s hope the kennel finishes off the walking turd once and for all. The two girls who rented Number 13—on Miss McLintock’s other side and one of the smaller units (no downstairs bathroom, ugh)—were bidding her and the dachshund affectionate good-byes. Well, the rather sweet dark one was affectionate; the much more up-market blonde one was bored and barely polite, a state which seemed to be permanent in her. Over on the other side of the drive at Number 3 where her cousin lived (being a rising barrister he could afford to own Number 3, and did), her chunky younger sister was indulging in one of her commoner Sunday activities, to wit, cleaning Number 3’s Porsche. He was indulging in one of his Sunday activities: leaning on the railings of his front porch, watching the kid as she did it. Further up, next to Hugh’s, Mother Mayhew from Number 9, in a pink floral sundress, was ostensibly polishing the leaves of her rubber plant, whilst monitoring it all carefully.

    Take it for all in all, the only surprising thing about this scene, thought Ralph as the trailer-sailor was driven off, unfortunately missing the Porsche, was that bloody Quinn O’Donnell from Number 6 who was in some sort a professional acquaintance of his and Hugh’s was not on his front porch leaning on his railings gawping at the dark, sweet girl from Number 13.

    As he wandered over to his railings and leaned on them, a sour voice from his left said: “What the fuck was all that noise at your place last night?”

    “Helping out a friend,” said Ralph, turning reluctantly. Oh, frabjous day! Hugh was in his good summer coat and travelling hat! No, well, new Levi’s and good dark red and green silk shirt, but with some of the matched luggage he’d picked up in San Francisco. Calloo, callay! Must be today they were taking off for Taupo, then! He felt so good that he added carelessly: “Slight emergency case of wet books from last night’s storm.”

    “Oh,” the nong said blankly.

    “Hugh, if it had been your Woollaston that got wet,” said Ralph nastily and really quite unfairly, “would you thank me for standing there saying ‘Oh’?”

    “No. Hope you get ’em dried out okay,” the nong said, grinning like a—well, nong.

    Roberta appeared on the front porch, lugging another suitcase. Probably heavier than both of his put together: she was like that. Probably had his clothes in it, what was more, she was like that, too. Not wholly unlike her ma, in fact, but if that hadn’t dawned on Hugh, Ralph wasn’t gonna be the one-to enlighten him.

    “See, Hugh: I told you he hadn’t had a heart attack,” she noted calmly.

    “No, but hope springs eternal,” returned Ralph smoothly. “So it’s Ho, for the good side of Taupo, today, is it?”

    “Has it got a good side?” replied Roberta.

    “Yes, dear girl, it’s the side Hugh’s friends have holiday homes on,” he sighed.

    “Shut up,” said the nong, unable to stop the ear-to-ear smirk.—Ralph sighed.—“Um—we’ll be back around the end of January, like I said, Ralph. I’ll give you the keys. –Got everything, darling?”

    The mate chirped that it had and the male lovebird locked the wee nest.

    Ralph descended the steps to accept the keys, sort of a rain-dance thing: pointless physical activity of a ritualistic nature might ensure that Ginny wouldn’t appear on the steps in her nightie. As an afterthought he assisted Hugh to heave the bags into the four-wheel-drive. Hugh’s garage door was on the blink, was the reason they hadn’t gone through the flat.

    “We’ll be back around the end of January,” the male lovebird then chirped, poking its head out of the driver’s window. Like the wise thrush.

    “Yeah, yeah,” he sighed.

    “I’ll give you a bell,” it threatened.

    “Yeah, yeah,” he sighed.

    The mate then poked its head out of its window and chirped, nay, sang: “Only we’ll be going on up to the Bay of islands practically straight away, Ralph.”

    Ooh, so they would! Only for a fortnight but beggars couldn’t be choosers. And that made how long away from her studies? Yes, well. And too bad about any crushed bones from the holiday season’s usual bag: they wouldn’t be getting the services of Mr Morton this Exmas.

    “Yeah, yeah,” he sighed. “Enjoy, already.”

    “We will,” said the nong with that ear-to-ear smirk.

    By this time Ralph was just about at screaming point, so he said: “When did you say Keith and Ariadne were joining you, again?”

    But Roberta merely replied calmly: “They’re driving down on the twenty-third and staying over New Year’s,” and Hugh merely confirmed: “Yeah.” So he concluded they thoroughly deserved each other.

    “Good-bye, then,” he said pointedly.

    They merely beamed and cried: “Bye-ee!” and finally pushed off.

    Ralph hauled himself up his steep front steps on legs that shook.

    “You’ll miss your friends, Sir Ralph!” screeched Mother Mayhew from the front porch of Number 9.

    Ralph waved and smiled blindly, and tottered back inside. Two down (the mated pair counting as one, be it understood). And whether the vigilant Miss McLintock or Hugh and Roberta constituted more of a threat he couldn’t have said; and if only Ma Mayhew would shove off as threatened to “My daughter Wendy at Coffs Harbour”—wherever that was—the coast really would be clear. The rest of the inhabitants of up-market Willow Grove were too young and too up-market to give a stuff about their neighbours’ goings-on. Well, with the possible exception of Quinn from Number 6, and if he breathed a word Ralph had every intention of mentioning very clearly Miss Sweet, Dark, and Young-Enough-To-Be-His-Daughter from Number 13.

    For, quite evidently, Ralph had now made up his mind that Ginny was going to be his all summer. To put it more exactly, that she was going to stay in his guest suite for a certain period and that after some very gentle introduction to some of the finer things of life and a considerable amount of just plain spoiling he was gonna bloody well get her into his bed.

    And he’d start right now by making her a delicious brunch! He went off to the kitchen, whistling.

    Ginny at first was quite stunned and bewildered by her flat’s having been drowned out, but she perhaps would have got over this rather quickly and done something practical about it, had it not been for the fact that Euan had disappeared up to Sol Winkelmann’s. For some reason she was entirely thrown by this. A strange boy whom she didn’t know answered the number at Sol’s Boating & Marine Supplies and this also threw her. She didn’t have the number of the crafts boutique, so she couldn’t ring there. Sol’s boatyard not only didn’t have a phone, it didn’t have a name, it merely was. Michaela had had her phone cut off after Roberta moved in with Hugh, so Ginny couldn’t contact her. She was too flustered to think of trying to contact her through June Butler. She didn’t suggest getting in touch with the Carranos, so Ralph didn’t, either. Instead, he competently took over, phoned her landlord and tore a strip off him (aware that she was listening gratefully), arranged to have the electricity and phone cut off at the bach, arranged for her to leave a note there for Euan, picked up the rest of her clothes and some odds and ends of hers and her twin’s that looked worth salvaging, assisted her to load wet bedding into his car in order to use his laundry facilities, and locked the door on the dump.

    Eventually it did occur to Ginny to get hold of Polly and let her know what had happened but she didn’t do this. Her ostensible reasons were, firstly, that she didn’t want to batten off Polly and Jake and, secondly, that with a houseful of visitors after the wedding they’d be terribly busy. She knew she’d have to contact Mum and Dad at some stage but decided they wouldn’t panic if they didn’t hear from her for a few days, so she put off doing anything about that. It didn’t occur to her that with Ted’s Sean and Damian home for the holidays and with Ted and Felicity plus the Wiseman children due at the end of the week and Christmas less than a week after that her parents would be far too busy to spare her a thought, but it certainly did to Ralph.

    The morning Ralph dropped her off at the bach so as she could collect a few more bits and bobs she went round to Michaela’s, but it was locked and empty. Mrs Morton from next-door popped out and invited her in and told her that Michaela had found some new clay up at Carter’s Inlet and had decided to spend some time up there, living over the crafts boutique. And look: she (Mrs Morton) had enticed Tibby inside and she and her own Puss had settled down like Darby and Joan! Sure enough, they were lying entwined in an old basket-chair in the sun.

    Somehow the sight of Tibby faithlessly deserting Michaela’s flat for Mrs Morton’s, even though it was actually Michaela who had deserted her, gave Ginny a very hurt feeling and she didn’t stop to think that if Michaela’s flat was empty she could use it: she just said: “Oh,” with a feeling of desolation in her heart.

    Mrs Morton then informed her brightly that Michaela had had the most tremendous stroke of luck: that lovely Mrs Collingwood from The Blue Heron had been unable to book a family party for Christmas and the New Year and she’d put them onto Michaela just in case, and so Michaela was going to let the flat to them for four weeks and guess how much they were going to pay her! So that was that, in any case.

    Ginny didn’t mention to kindly Mrs Morton that she was homeless, she listened politely to Mrs Morton’s holiday plans for her grandson, Fergus, who was at last big enough to come up from Bluff all by himself on the plane and stay with his Grandma, finished her tea and cake, and went away.

    When she got back to Ralph’s she had a bath in his jacuzzi with some of his lemon verbena bath salts—she’d been shocked that he used these but that didn’t mean she didn’t adore them herself—whilst listening to a Bach CD turned up rather loud with the bathroom and bedroom doors open, since he was at work. Then she put on all clean clothes from the skin out and got herself a snack: rollmops, dolmades, two slices of dark rye bread, a piece of Edam cheese and a small bunch of black grapes. Then she put some pre-Baroque into the player and listened to it with concentration. When it was over she put it on again, turned down lower, and got out her swot.

    Ralph came home about three hours later, was evidently very pleased to see her, gave her a posy of small red rosebuds which according to him he’d only wanted an excuse to buy, told her she smelled nice, it couldn’t be lemon verbena, could it—Ginny giggled—and said if she fancied it, he could just fancy a plain old lamb chop for dinner. Ginny could just fancy it, too, especially if she didn’t have to cook it. (Though she didn’t say this.) There were several chops and they weren’t that plain the way Ralph cooked them, with a little rosemary and garlic, and accompanied by very lightly steamed summer squash, small carrots done in lemon juice and honey, and a drinkable Australian red. Small wonder that by the time they’d reached the coffee and liqueurs stage Ginny felt more than capable of telling him cheerfully about Michaela’s having let the flat so lucratively and less than interested in thinking about whether Polly really could put her up.

    Ralph had thought it all out very carefully and such scenes as this, filled with mild good cheer, cosy mateship and reasonable food (not yet the good French wines and his best Cognac, however) were destined to be followed by rather more intimate scenes with a lot more eye contact, accidental-on-purpose body contact and even longer, more deliciously intimate chats about anything and everything over the brandy in the long, warm evenings.

    Stage I might have been said to have been over on the day Ma Mayhew, who had very nearly set things back for good an’ all by winkling the whole story of the drowned bach out of the blushing and embarrassed Ginny—old bitch—at last pushed off on holiday. Because that evening Ralph took Ginny Christmas shopping.

    Ralph had a list. Ginny went into paroxysms over it. Naturally he didn’t reveal that he’d drawn it up with that in mind. It didn’t say things like “Aunty Vi—talcum powder”, which was the sort of thing Ginny’s and Vicki’s lists said, but instead things like: “Unspeakable offspring—electronic gear (3).”

    “What sort of electronic gear?” she gasped.

    Ralph shrugged. “Any. Expensive and covered in shiny knobs are the only criteria. Come on, hop in the car.”

    For the first time—the very first time—since she’d been there she looked down at herself and said: “Um—will these things do? Where are we going?”

    “Remmers and Parnell.”

    Ginny pinkened. “Oh.”

    “None of the painted tarts of Remmers and Parnell will look a twentieth as good as you in your jeans—come on,” he said in bored voice.

    She pinkened more. “Um—I’ll just put a clean top on!” She rushed off.

    Good, thought Ralph, sitting down to wait.

    When she came back the hair was out of its plait, brushed out in a shining flood but the sides pinned back neatly with a little green plastic bow. The clean top was a green singlet which didn’t quite match the bow but as she’d tucked it tightly into the jeans and as she wasn’t wearing a bra, what the Hell did he have to complain about? She’d pinned a silver butterfly brooch in between ’em and her belt was a silver-link thing that he’d seen her twin wearing. The high-heeled sandals were a slightly different shade of green again and Ralph would not have chosen the strawberry earrings, but what the heck. This year’s model and entirely edible with it. She’d do the new BMW proud.

    The thought did just cross his mind as they set off that Remuera and Parnell were the natural feeding-grounds of most of his more eminent professional colleagues and their wives, and of most of his and Audrey’s erstwhile joint acquaintance. Well, if that was how they fell—

    He knew Remmers shops rather well, so although the downtown area undoubtedly had larger, louder and flashier emporiums of electronic crap he didn’t bother trying to fight his way through them, he just went straight to the place he knew. He refrained both from triple-parking the car in the middle of the main road as was the local custom and from taking Ginny by the elbow as was not the local custom. She trotted along beside him happily. They’d got as far as the florist, where she admired the multicoloured carnations and strangely neat, strangely apricot roses, when one of his fellow butchers, complete with over-dieted, over-dyed and over-plucked wife, saluted him.

    “Hello, Jack—Hilary.”

    Hilary looked avidly at Ginny. “Ralph! My dear, such a long time! Des-o-lated to hear about you and Audrey!”—Looking avidly at Ginny.—”Christmas shopping, is it?”

    “Good Lord, no, did all that months ago. We’re just sussing out the toyshops.” He paused, not quite long enough for her or Jack to say something unsubtle enough to regret. “For something for my newest nephew.”

    She gave him a look of loathing and cooed: “Wise man! Wish we’d done the same! Well, must get on with it. By-ee!”—Looking avidly at Ginny.

    “See ya,” said Ralph laconically. “Ciao, Jack.”

    Jack leapt a foot, he’d been looking at Ginny with a slightly different sort of avidity. “Uh—yeah. See ya!” –Forced laugh. Hilary towed him off, speaking very fast and very low. Even Jack’s back looked anguished.

    “Typical pleasant suburban couple,” explained Ralph airily.

    “She’s very elegant,” said Ginny on a dubious note.

    “Eh? She’s a compound of whipcord and coiled steel, draped in Sidders boutique tat.”

    “I didn’t much like that dress, either,” admitted Ginny.

    “Good!” he said with feeling.

    They walked on.

    “You said that about toyshops on purpose, didn’t you?”

    “I admit the soft impeachment. Difficult to refrain, really, when she obviously took you for me latest Lolita.”

    “I’ve seen that film. It was totally non-shocking,” said Ginny mildly.

    “True, but that may have been due to the fact that that lumpish kid couldn’t act.”

    “Yes.”

    “Come on, electronic gear,” he said, smiling.

    They went into the shop. New Zealand shop-persons tended to ignore even Ralph Overdale (apart from those who served in the very few establishments where he allowed himself to be a regular customer) but whether this one, very unlikely, recognized the Gucci loafers or the watch, or because his boss’s eye was upon him, a young man actually came up to them and asked if he could help him. Not if he could help him, sir: if he could help him, period.

    “Possibly. I require three large pieces of trendy electronic gear. Shiny.”

    “With knobs on!” said Ginny with a giggle.

    “Shiny knobs,” Ralph corrected her sternly.

    Ginny went into a paroxysm.

    “What sort of gear?” he said blankly.

    Oh, well. Ralph finally persuaded him to sell them a portable TV, a thing that took appalling home movies that might be shown via the video player, and a ghetto-blaster. Shane would probably hock this last for pot but that was hardly Ralph’s concern. He used his Gold Card to spite the idiot.

    “Well, that was a sufficiently searing experience,” he noted as they hurried away from the blare from five thousand television sets.

    “Yes.” Ginny consulted the list. “Who shall we do next, Bob and Morag?”

    “Very well. Look for an interior decorating place of sufficient hideousness.”

     They found a place without much difficulty. “That’ll do,” said Ralph instantly.

    “Not everybody likes big china leopards,” she said, swallowing.

    “Um—well, a vase?”

    “At least we might not need a crane to get any of them in the car.”

    “True.” Ralph chose a shiny floral vase about three foot high. Then he decided he’d had enough of Remmers shops in the festive season and duly fetched the car, loaded all four pieces of junk into it, and drove away to Parnell.

    There was a new little antique shop in Parnell which he rather favoured. Ginny promptly became absorbed. The proprietor and the lady who helped out on busy evenings already knew Ralph, so they didn’t try to force anything on him. He rewarded them by asking the proprietor whether he had any nice Spode in today.

    “Too new,” he said instantly.

    “This is nice,” said Ginny helpfully.

    “Does it say ‘Spode’ on its bottom?” asked Ralph without hope.

    “No.”

    “Good, in that case it may be possible.” He took the little jug off her.

    The proprietor began to explain that the pattern was quite rare, you didn’t see much of that around, but Ralph told him to go and get the book. He went off to get the book, looking hopeful.

    The book verified what Ralph had seen for himself, that it was Spode, turn of the eighteenth century. At which stage the pattern had probably graced the tea-tables of the majority of the gentry, he didn’t for one moment believe it was as rare or unobtainable as the proprietor tried to tell him. In fact he was driven to say: “Yes, very nice, but it won’t go with my friend’s full dinner-set.”

    The proprietor tried to tell him it was a piece from a tea-set. Ralph looked at it again. “This isn’t a crack in the glaze, is it?” he said in horror.

    The proprietor assured him there were no cracks in the glaze, in fact he looked as if he was about to tell him there were no cracks in the glaze of anything in his entire shop, so indignant was he.

    Ginny noted detachedly: “Jake reckons the best trick is to soak them in Milton—you know: that stuff they use for babies’ bottles. It gets the grime out of the cracks and then they don’t show. He says it’s milder than bleach.”

    Ralph nodded. He took the little jug over to the ceiling light and stood directly under it, peering at it. “What do you think?” he said finally to Ginny.

    Ginny peered at it. “I think there might be a hairline crack, just there. Only in the glaze, though. Is this for Jake?”—Ralph nodded.—“He’ll spot it two seconds after you’ve given it to him.

    Ralph nodded again. “Adorable though it is. Never mind, it’ll do,” he said, giving the jug back to the proprietor.

    The proprietor nearly dropped it. “Yes, of course, Sir Ralph! A very good buy, if I may say—”

    “Yes. Got any decent little Chinese snuff bottles?”

    Not today, but he thought—

    “Just the jug, then,” said Ralph with a sigh: Polly Carrano liked little Chinese snuff bottles. Well, so did he, but it was Christmas, after all. On second thoughts he bought a candle-snuffer as well, since Ginny seemed entranced by them. And on second second thoughts he had a good look at their jewellery and found a nice string of coral twigs for Jemima, and three brooches: a pretty if inferior whitish cameo thing, a circlet of amethysts set in old gold, and a large and handsome piece of Victorian carved jet, also set in old gold. Ginny didn’t ask who they were for, so he didn’t have to lie.

    He was about to leave when he spotted It. The present. Hugh would love it!

    “You can’t!” gulped Ginny.

    “It won’t clash with anything in his bloody oatmeal front room,” said Ralph, lifting the white marble piece down tenderly from its shelf. It was a pair of necking doves, sheltered by an arch of possibly laurel leaves in the shape of a heart. Although the proprietor assured him honestly that it must once have had a glass dome over it, he bought it immediately.

    “I bet he won’t put it in his sitting-room!” said Ginny strongly as they exited.

    “I don’t care where he puts it: it’s the thought that counts,” he explained carefully.

    Ginny giggled ecstatically.

    At around this point the deluded Casanova of the South Seas began to have thoughts along the lines of really being about to crack it. “Look,” he said in a deluded voice: “here’s a shop full of musical toilet-roll holders, shall we try it? One of those’d be just right for Tom.”

    Unfortunately the gift shop didn’t have one that played Land Of Hope And Glory, so he had to settle for one that played The Vienna Woods.

    “How’s the list?” he asked in his deluded voice. Quite possibly with a goopy expression on his mug, too, if one was being strictly accurate, souls. As he said it he brushed casually against her warm upper-arm, casually trying to make contact with the warm, rounded tit on the far side of the upper-arm. Deluded bloody birk that he was.

    “Um... ‘Aud. Flashy and forgiving’,” read out Ginny, swallowing a giggle.

    “Joollery, I think,” he decided, pulling a face. “Tee-ow-oon.” Ginny didn’t react to this but he let it slip by, so deluded was he.

    They braved the lights, crowds and pulsing excitement of downtown while he nipped into a flashy jeweller’s, bought Aud a flashy hunk of junk, and nipped back.

    They drove home in companionable silence. During the drive he thought dirty thoughts and got as stiff as be-Jasus. Not that he intended doing anything precipitate. During the drive she apparently thought about wrapping-paper. Well, as their turnoff hove in sight, she gasped: “Heck, we forgot to get wrapping-paper!” On looking back Ralph was to decide that he should have taken this as an Awful Warning. At the time he merely decided on Saturdee morning, Puriri shops.

    It was the first summer that Ginny had spent without her twin. She hadn’t thought very much about the implications of this. Ralph had, however, given it some considerable—and some considerably sardonic—thought, and so he was neither surprized nor disconcerted by the events which immediately preceded Christmas. Ginny, on the other hand, was both.

    It started the very next day, on their way to Puriri shops. There was a card from Vicki, amongst others, in the bach’s letterbox.

    “Why’s she sending me a card?”

    “I have no idea. Except that your sister strikes me forcibly as the sort of young woman who does send greeting cards to persons related to her.”

    “Yes, but…”

    Ralph read it unashamedly over her shoulder. In addition to the customary festive salutations it said: “Euan reckons you were drowned out, hope everything is OK at the flat. Do you remember Jillian Duguid’s brother, Scott, the one that was in the Air Force? I bumped into him the other day, he’s left the Air Force. He’s working for the MOW as an engineer. He might come home for Xmas. How’s Felicity and Ted, I expect we’ll see them as soon as you get this. New Plymouth Hospital is OK. Scott reckons I could share his flat, so I might, it’s boring boarding. He’s thinking of transferring to Auckland next year. Love, Vicki. PS. Did I leave my silver earrings behind if so could you send them. PPS. Better send them to the farm not here, I might be at Scott’s.”

    “Par for the course, isn’t it?” he said.

    “Yes,” said Ginny, looking annoyed. She opened another envelope. “From Mum and Dad,” she said flatly.

    This card only said, after the customary festive salutations: “Love from Mum and Dad. Look after yourself, dear. Will write soon.”

    “They must be fairly busy,” he murmured.

    “Yes,” said Ginny shortly, opening another card.

    “Tasteful,” he noted. “If hardly seasonal.”

    “It’s a reproduction of Jake’s Watteau.”

    “Ah, of course.” This card said in chastely engraved gold lettering: “Season’s Greetings from Jake & Polly Carrano & family.” Underneath this someone had scrawled: “XXX from D, J & KM.”

    As she was just standing there scowling he took the other envelopes off her and opened them. Robins and holly from “Aunty Jan”. A Santa from (very wobbly and very large) “C o n n i e” and “Meg and Bill & family.” A pretty snowscape from “Aunty Maureen and Uncle Dave.” A different snowscape from “Aunty Mary and Uncle Ian Macdonald”. A Woollaston reproduction minus the customary festive salutations but with “Love from Roberta and Hugh” in an ill-formed scrawl. –Must be hers, Ralph knew his. A postcard from Norfolk Island with the message: “I expect we’ll be home before this will, but thought you might like to see they have genuine Norfolk pines here! Love, Felicity.”

    Ralph knew they were home. “Have they gone down to Taranaki, yet?” he murmured.

    “Um—yes. They got everything packed up on Thursday, so they went.”

    “Mm-hm.”

    They got back into the car but it was quite apparent that she wasn’t her usual self at all. Well, it had to happen: when little birds left the nest the parent birds did tend to forget they’d ever had ’em—until and unless they started producing grandchildren birds, of course.

    “Isn’t it better than being smothered in loving relatives for the duration?” he murmured as they approached the carpark.

    “What?” she said, going very red. “Yes, of course, don’t be stupid!”

    Ralph smiled. He wouldn’t be that, whatever else he might be; he could practically guarantee it.

    Shopping in Puriri on a Saturday tended to reinforce the effect of the mail, rather than otherwise. They bumped into not a few people whom they both knew. The first encounter was with a good-looking young couple. Ralph vaguely remembered the blond young man as a friend of Polly’s from the university. The dark-haired young woman did seem familiar, too—oh, yes: hadn’t they been at that bloody Exmas in July party? The product of the union was also with them, slung in a pouch on its father’s back, very down-market, though his Reeboks weren’t. They smiled, said things like “Last-minute Christmas shopping?” and passed on. Without having evidenced any overt surprize, shock or horror at seeing two unrelated adults of such disparate ages shopping together on a Saturday morning down Puriri shops. Ginny, very flushed, was silent. Ralph swallowed a laugh, but didn’t say a word.

    After that it was the two gays who ran the Chez Basil restaurant. As they were friends of Polly’s Ralph had met them socially several times. Basil confided breathlessly that they’d forgotten an entire clutch of Gary’s relations who’d sent them a hideous prezzie, so it was last-minute rushes, dears. Gary, the younger and blonder one, didn’t appear to feel it necessary to reinforce his sexual orientation by speaking Gay, so he just grinned and confirmed this. And reminded Ginny that, although he’d persuaded Baz to actually take a holiday this Christmas, they’d see her on the 13th of January for the washing-up. Ginny agreed fervently to this. Ralph could see the pair had their heads together in excited speculation before they’d gone five yards, but it didn’t appear to be precisely shocked speculation. His shoulders shook.

    Outside the greengrocer’s they bumped into the egregious Bill Coggins, whom Ralph never had been able to stand. Luckily his busybody of a wife wasn’t with him. The twins were, however, and so was the long streak of an elder son, and they were all looking mournfully at the pineapples. Bill greeted them morosely, and without preamble, with: “She’ll kill me if I buy one of these at these prices.”

    “Try the supermarkets,” drawled Ralph.

    “Nah: they’ve put their prices up for Christmas,” he sighed. “What are you types having for Christmas dinner?” he added morosely.

    Ralph replied calmly: “It’ll depend on whether it’s foully humid, as usual. Something cold, I think.”

    “Something cold like smoked salmon mousse,” noted Bill.

    “Yes,” agreed Ralph blandly. “We may start with caviar, of course. For a treat.”

    Bill groaned. “She’s making us have cold tongue,” he informed them.

    “Why?” asked Ginny.

    “She bought three of ’em on special last week at the supermarket, that’s why!” he replied with feeling.

    “Go over the road,” drawled Ralph.

    “She’s told us not to, on pain of death. Anyway, Tom reckons they’re only having cold ham, Jemima doesn’t fancy hot food in this hot weather,” sighed Bill.

    “Ho, ho, ho, and Merry Exmas,” noted Ralph. “Come on, Ginny, let’s buy a pineapple.”

    They went into the shop with Ginny giggling guiltily. As the Coggins family continued to cluster glumly outside the window with their noses pressed to the pane, Ralph bought two pineapples.

    “Here,” he said on his way out, forcing one on Coggins. “Proves my middle name isn’t really Scrooge.”

    “What’s this, a bribe?” replied Bill.

    In his delusion, Ralph returned smoothly: “Got it in one. Come on, Ginny, you’ll be late for your job at The Blue Heron.”

    Ginny didn’t say anything until they were in the car. Then she said in a small voice: “I bet he tells Meg the minute he gets home.”

    The deluded Casanova of the South Seas replied smoothly to that one: “Given that he didn’t appear interested, let alone surprized, I would doubt it. He may remember to do so some time today, I do grant you that. But on the other hand,” he said, letting the clutch in and backing out carefully amidst the swarms of sneakers, track-suits and shorts, “there isn’t anything to tell, is there?”

    “No,” she said in a small voice.

    Ralph refrained from smirking. But he did reflect that the encounter with the egregious Coggins hadn’t been as unfortunate as at the moment of laying eyes on him he had feared it might be. Deluded birk that he was.

    It wasn’t until the Monday that it really dawned on Ginny that she was about to spend Christmas with Ralph in his flat. The weekend had been so entirely pleasant and busy, what with buying a small tree and decorating it entirely with silver baubles (very extravagant, he’d bought them all new) and wrapping all his presents for him in the silver paper he’d bought and decorating them with the huge white and silver bows he’d chosen to go with the paper, and having three delicious little meals a day and listening to his CDs and watching his videos and reading his art and antiques books, and, on the Sunday afternoon, going up to Kingfisher Marina with him for a short sail in his boat...

    Round about the time it dawned on Ginny that she was about to spend Christmas with Ralph Overdale, Ralph’s delusion might have been said to have reached—well, not its height, no, souls, that, alas, came later, but one of its peaks. What fools these mortals be, eh? But, for God’s sake, wouldn’t any man have come to the same conclusion? Given the fact that— Well, Hell! The scene had been entirely propitious. Entirely. Any bloke would have thought—

    Yes, all right, he was the birk to end all birks.

    She started off by enquiring in a sort of strangled squeak over the breakfast table whether he had “work” today.

    Ralph set half a pink grapefruit before her. “Yes. Rounds at The Mater this morning, appointments all afternoon. And this evening I’ve been invited to a vile pre-Exmas dinner, suppose I’ll have to go. The host’s an old mate from Med. School days: can’t get out of it.”

    Ginny swallowed. “Mm. Um—what about tomorrow?”

    “Barring an emergency op, I’m free in the morning. Foul cocktail do later with a crowd of the bone-cutters and butchers, I’m afraid.”

    “I see,” she said in a small voice.

    Ralph took the coffee-pot off the heat and set it carefully on its mat. He sat down and picked up his napkin. “One of the typically boring up-market Exmas Eves my lifestyle tends to expose me to. in fact. Would you like to come?”

    She accepted, after a few squeaky noises. Not only did she accept, she asked him what she ought to wear.

    Ralph laughed. One of those knowing-older-man laughs, if the truth be told. Ugh, what a cretin. “Coffee?” he said in a knowing-older-man voice. He poured for both of them and took a piece of toast. “Wear anything, you must know that with your looks you could wear a potato sack and every other woman in the room’d turn grass-green with envy.”

    Ginny went scarlet, buttered a piece of toast blindly, and voiced several semi-articulate and unconvincing protests to which he replied appropriately.

    Privately Ralph considered that Ginny’s choice of garments for the cocktail party, though delicious, underlined the Lolita effect. But he wasn’t entirely averse to his bone-cutter friends seeing that on his arm. The top was new: a silver lurex knit, cross-over bust, sleeveless. Tight over the knockers: ooh-er. She had chosen the stretch jeans with the wee silver zips up the calves, and a belt of silver links. The top part of the hair was pulled up high in a big bow of some silver gauze stuff, then allowed to tumble down the back with the rest of the curls. She’d made up her eyes more than usual and was wearing more lipstick than usual. Ralph took this as a compliment—to such an extent that he almost managed to overlook the lilac fingernails and toenails that toned with the tiny enamelled pansies in the ears and round the slender wrist. He admired these last extravagantly and she pinkened and said she’d had them for ages. And the sandals were a pair of Vicki’s, she’d redone them with some silver paint, did he think they looked all right? Ralph would have thought anything looked all right on those delicate, pale feet with their slender ankles: they were, really, the loveliest feet he’d ever seen, and he barely refrained from telling her so. And the discovery that he could work up a new fetish at his age was not precisely unpleasing. Not precisely.

    He’d cleaned the car earlier and left it on the sweep. They went out to it with Ralph, the delusion now in full force, wearing a big smirk behind his shades and a big hard-on, and Ginny all innocently pleased and excited.

    At Lysle and Peg’s up-market Remmers mansion things did not look immediately promising and if Ralph by that time hadn’t been feeling so pleased with himself as to have become virtually purblind, he would probably have taken it as an Awful Warning and—um—well, changed tack, or something. The guests, who were not absolutely all medicos, but a motley assortment, since one of Lysle’s brothers was a judge and one of Peg’s worked for CohenCorp, whilst her sister was a Nactress, a friend of the unlamented Sylvia, were mostly in boring suits or boring tarty cocktail dresses.

    Sylvia was there, actually; possibly Peg had thought in her dim little way this might be doing Ralph a favour. She swanned up to him and did the all-over-him bit, but he remained stolidly unmoved. Hanging on tightly to Ginny’s arm just in case she felt like doing a bolt.

    However, when Sylvia so far lowered herself as to coo: “And who’s this? Darling, surely this isn’t the little girl who does your cleaning?” Ralph was very glad to see Ginny’s colour mount and to hear her clear young voice say steadily: “No, that was my sister, Vicki. My twin sister. We’re both doing housework at Willow Grove while we’re studying. She’s a student nurse and I’m doing Classics.”

    “Classics? Goodness,” said Sylvia numbly. “What can you and Ralph have in common, I wonder?” she added with a loud giggle—she was pretty drunk, a not uncommon state with Sylvia, of course.

    Ginny stared at her and said: “He did several years of Latin at university, didn’t you know? He’s very well-read.”

    At this point Ralph, so purblind and deluded was he, was practically purring, not to say practically pinning a medal on his own stupid chest. It would be some small consolation to him later that he probably hadn’t let it show too much.

    Sylvia gave a silly laugh and patted at her improbably yellow head. “Well, we never actually got round to reading anything together!” –Another drunken giggle.

    “Largely because Sylvia’s functionally illiterate,” noted Ralph in a bored voice. “Look,” he added meanly: “isn’t that Livia Wentworth over there? I thought she was very good in that part TVNZ promised to you, Sylvia, darling. Have a Merry Exmas. Come on, Ginny.” He drew her away.

    Possibly fortunately there was a sudden stir by the door just then, and There-Famous-Fillum-Star Adam McIntyre, looking very modest in cream silk slacks and a blue silk shirt, came in with Georgy Harris on his arm. Georgy was in jeans: dark Levi’s. With gold sandals, not very high-heeled. And a thin gold belt. And a white knit sleeveless top with an off-the-shoulder collar thing that showed her lovely pale shoulders and did not manage to conceal her very lovely tits: not as full as Ginny’s but in their way, just as nice. Her dark auburn curls were standing out in a great careless mass, and there were tiny gold keepers in her ears. Well, that made two of ’em in the room that looked like ladies, not tarts, and so Ralph informed his companion.

    Ginny went very pink, positively hugged his arm and said with a little breathless laugh: “Silly! –She does look nice, though.”

    Ralph five thousand, tarty local taste nil, thought the deluded one.

    “They look very happy, don’t you think?” ventured Ginny shyly.

    Alas, yes. “Alas, yes.” he said.

    She giggled but didn’t look either surprized or shocked, so she must have heard about his last summer’s Schwärm for the delightful Georgy. Well, so much the better, decided Ralph. swallowing yet another smirk. It would do little Red Fed no harm in the world, he reflected smugly, to realize he was not actually an elderly uncle what had had the op.

    Possibly, he was to think some time later, if he hadn’t been so bloody blinded by his own cleverness he might have realized at around this point that although Ginny didn’t see him as an elderly uncle that had had the op, she did see him as elderly, she didn’t see his late Schwärm for the delicious Georgy as anything but an elderly idiot’s vain crush, and even though the business over the Christmas mail and the subsequent encounters in Puriri had undoubtedly shocked her some way towards growing up, she still mentally put herself and Ralph Overdale in different compartments. Hers labelled “Young” and his labelled “Old”—geddit? God!

    Christmas Day dawned foully humid, but that was pretty much par for the course. Ralph woke to hear crashings and rattlings in his kitchen, which wasn’t par for the course. After a bit there was a tap on his door, so he said “Come in,” in a very sleepy voice and sat up groggily, blinking a bit.

    She came in with a tray, beaming. “Merry Exmas!”

    This wasn’t the first time a lady had brought Ralph breakfast in bed, though it was certainly the first Christmas in the last twenty-five years or so it had happened. But it was definitely the first time the lady had been clad in denim shorts and a persimmon-coloured halter top that made her look as if she had two ripe persimmons in there.

    “Merry Exmas,” he returned, somewhat weakly.

    Ginny positioned the tray carefully on his knees. What with the persimmons, he had much ado not to just sweep it aside and grab her.

    “I made the coffee like you said,” she said on an anxious note.

    “Good. It all looks delicious.”—There was a small bowl of fruit salad, and one of his best damask napkins wrapped round something that he hoped wasn’t toast.—“What’s this?”

    “Croissants.”

    “Good. Why not pop out and fetch yourself a cup?”

    “Um—ye-es... I thought you might like to be left alone. I could put some music on.”

    Ralph rolled his eyes. “Put some music on, by all means, and get yourself a cup.”

    “Righto!” she said with a giggle.

    She chose some Bach without being prompted, and came back with a cup.

    “Sit,” said Ralph, patting the place beside him.

    Ginny sat down with a sigh. “This is nice.”

    “Mm. Have you eaten?”

    She nodded. “Yes, I was starving.”

    “Been out yet?”

    She made a face. “Yes. It’s awfully sticky.”

    He was gonna have to drag it out of her, inch by inch, obviously. With a slight gesture in the direction of trying not to think of what the expression inevitably conjured up he said: “Any signs of life?”

    “Not really. Somebody’s playing Christmas carols. And I think those people down near the bottom of the drive were having another row.”

    “The Ill-Assorted Couple?” he said with a grin. The woman was forty-five-ish, the man twenty-five-ish. The flat was hers. The relationship was a continual source of prurient delight to Miss McLintock and Ma Mayhew.

    “Yeah. Oh, and I saw that lawyer from Number 3. The one with the Porsche,” she said without interest.

    Ralph was very pleased by this lack of interest: the Porsche owner was young. intelligent and good-looking. At this point he was either not awake enough, or possibly, it would dawn very much later, far too far up himself, to take the logical step of reflecting that a lack of interest in yuppie Porsche owners did not necessarily imply an interest in his elderly self: did it?

    “What in God’s name was he doing up at this hour?”

    “I think he was coming home, actually. He had a dinner-suit on, only without a tie.”

    “Figures. Was that it for the Exmas morning delights of Willow Grove?”

    “Yeah,” she said, grinning.

    Ralph poured her some coffee. “You’ll need this, then.”

    “Mm. Let’s just listen to the Bach.”

    He was duly silenced. They listened to the Bach while Ralph had his breakfast.

    “What shall we do next?” she said innocently.

    Ralph forbore, he really did, though it was a huge effort and he felt sort of drained. Actually he also felt deprived of speech for an appreciable instant. “Er—open prezzies? That acceptable?”

    “Yes. Well, at home we usually do it before breakfast; only I thought you wouldn’t like that,” she said with a twinkle, scrambling up.

    Ralph always liked it before breakfast, but he merely groaned: “You were so right.” He began to get up, and stopped. “Er—go away, or shut your eyes, or pass me that dressing-gown or something.”

    “Haven’t you got anything on?” she said in surprize, picking up his dressing-gown.

    “No,” he sighed.

    “Don’t you get chilly?” she said innocently.

    “No,” he sighed.

    “Oh. –Here.” She gave him his dressing-gown and modestly went out. Ralph sighed.

    She was duly overcome by the candle-snuffers and the three brooches, but he’d expected that. And by the very old Répertoire de la cuisine that he’d had for about as long as he’d owned the print in the entrance lobby.

    “Needs a good home,” he said briskly.

    Ginny was very pink. “Thanks,” she repeated hoarsely. She handed him a small present: wrapped in green paper with bright red Santas on it, adorned with red and green bows. Ralph had already pointed out this ruined the effect of his Totally Tasteful Trims but Ginny had pointed out it was supposed to.

    It was a book-shaped present so he said weakly: “Let me guess: a book?”

    “Yeah. Open it,” she said anxiously.

    Ralph girded his emotional loins and opened it. “Good Lord! Where did you find it?”

    “You said you hadn’t got it: it is the first edition,” she said anxiously.

    It was the first edition of the very first Book of New Zealand Verse. And he didn’t have it. There were umpteen other editions around, reprinted for generations of martyred English One students, but somehow he’d missed out on this one. It was, of course, worth very little, and the contents, of course, were largely unreadable, but that was scarcely the point.

    “Mm,” he said pleasedly, looking at it. There were generations of student names on the flyleaf, the last being “Virginia Austin.” “Oy, this is yours.”

    “Yes, well, the Répertoire de la cuisine was yours.”

    “Tit for tat. Thanks very much!” he said, grinning.

    “You don’t have to read it,” said Ginny with a twinkle in her eye.

    “For this, much thanks!” he gasped.

    There was a short pause. “What shall we do next?”

    Ralph forbore, yet again, and passed her a large silver-paper-wrapped box with a couple of tasteful white and silver bows on it. “Have a choc.”

    “I thought these were a present?”

    “Yes. A present for us. Well, it definitely wouldn’t be Exmas without chocolates to ruin the digestion.”

    “No.” Ginny opened it eagerly. “Ooh!”

    Ralph also took one, since it was Exmas. “What would you normally do after opening the prezzies?”

    “Eat the chocolates!” said Ginny with a laugh. “No, well, we usually go back to bed and read our books. Well, I always do. Vicki sometimes has a sleep.”

    “Or listens to her new tapes.”

    “Yes, but Mum makes her wear her earphones.” she said with a grin.

    “This programme is dependent on the fact of your all having risen at five, I presume?”

    “Yeah: ’course!”

    “Mm. Well, go back to bed and read your book, if you must.”

    “No, I’d rather stay up.” –Ralph bit his lip at this point.

     She was looking at the Répertoire wistfully so he groaned and said: “Look, siddown and read it! Don’t think I can face EnZed Lit, at this hour; I’ll shove things in the dishwasher.”

    “No, I—”

    “No, you won’t.” He got on with it.

    Ginny emerged from the Répertoire about an hour and a half later to say: “We could have a picnic.”

    “What? The humidity must be up around eighty percent.”

    “Yeah, it’s revolting,” she said cheerfully.

    “Youth, youth,” groaned Ralph. –Later he was to reflect that this was definitely a tactical error. On the other hand, would it have really made any difference if he hadn’t said it?

    “Well, all right, what does old age fancy?” she said crossly.

    Ralph was so busy not telling her that he didn’t even wonder whether that remark might possibly have been prompted by a feeling somewhere deep in Red Fed’s psyche and that possibly he should have Took Notice.

    “Change into something cool but relatively decent, champagne cocktails at the Royal Kingfisher, lunch in the air conditioning at the Royal Kingfisher.”

    Ginny goggled at him. “Wouldn’t you have to book?”

    “I have!” he shouted.

    She got up looking eager but said: “I thought you said the Royal Kingfisher was the epitome of putrid?”

    “Yes, but it has air con-dit-ion-ing,” said Ralph loudly and clearly.

    “Got it, got it,” she said, going off to dress, grinning.

    She wore the narrow, straw-coloured dress she’d worn to her brother’s wedding, without the jacket that went with it. With the strange mushroom-shaped Fifties-look hat, but as the hair was tumbling, nay cascading down her back from beneath it, he didn’t say a word. He pinned the white cameo brooch onto her shoulder, also managing not to say a word while he did it. He did just let his fingers brush a ripe persimmon, however, and she went very red. Ralph pretended he hadn’t noticed. You might say, he thought sourly later, why the fuck had he bothered?

    Up at Kingfisher Bay the Royal K featured a fair number of drunken Yanks in well-pressed Dacron and drunken Japs in well-pressed silk and bewildered smiles but Ralph had expected this. There weren’t any locals, and it would be fair to say he’d also expected that: Exmas was essentially a day for staying home with the family. Apart from that the air conditioning was functioning and the champagne was French and drinkable, if over-chilled, so really it all lived up to expectations. And Ginny had a lovely time, ordering the caviar to start with, followed by avocado and shrimp salad as a main course because she wasn’t really all that hungry. Ralph had caviar, on the Everest principle, followed by pan-fried orange roughy without the bloody raspberry and raspberry vinegar sauce or the bloody chips or the bloody veg because, to say truth, he was so damned horny that he wasn’t all that hungry, either.

    Both Christmas cake and Christmas pud (flaming) featured largely for afters, but neither of them fancied those. He had a brandy and a coffee and she had a helping of pavlova. Admittedly this was traditional for an EnZed Exmas, but Ralph looked at it weakly and said: “Doesn’t that give you a strange feeling of disorientation?”

    “No. Hot Christmas pudding when the humidity’s pushing ninety percent gives me a strange feeling of disorientation,” said Ginny, grinning.

    “This’ll be the first Exmas for twenty-one years you haven’t felt disoriented, then,” he noted.

   She laughed into his eyes and nodded the hat so really, take it for all in all, his day was made.

    By New Year’s Eve, what with the drives to art galleries and crafts shops, the odd picnic up the far reaches of Carter’s Inlet, the odd afternoon listening to more Bach or watching a video, her cookery lessons and the companionable strolls up the rutted old Waikaukau road, which oddly were possibly the most enjoyable aspect of that whole week, Ralph decided they were more than ready to move on. More than. Well, he bloody was.

    “Bloody Quinn from Number 6 has invited us to a bloody New Year’s Eve party: wanna go?” he said, strolling into her room without knocking.

    Ginny was sprawled on the bed, reading. In the persimmon halter and the denim shorts, ooh-er. “At his place?”

    “No: up at Kingfisher Marina. Semi-mutual acquaintances. I think he wants us as moral support in his campaign to win the favours of the little brunette from Number 13.” He looked at her sardonically. “Or possibly immoral support.”

    Ginny blushed. “Oh.”

    Ralph observed that the persimmons were rising and falling rapidly. Good. Not as immune to his aged self as she’d fancied she was, he informed his deluded aged self pleasedly. “We won’t go if you think you’d be bored to tears, darling,” he said casually.—She went redder than ever.—“It’ll be pretty much the same crowd as at that ghastly drinkies do of Peg and Lysle’s.”

    She demurred faintly but almost immediately gave in. Again asking him what to wear. Ralph went back upstairs with a smirk on his face. –On his deluded face: quite.

    He lent her his new sarong for the occasion: green with a sort of batik-y pattern in black, gold and silver. She seemed to have wrapped it round her hips twice, but even if it didn’t gape as much as he’d hoped the effect was still damned good. The high-heeled green sandals helped, too. She’d had the hair in a plait but Ralph said firmly: “With a crowning glory like yours, that plait’s a crime.” So she brushed it out. He didn’t comment on the fact that the green hoop earrings didn’t match either the sarong or the sandals, just took her elbow gently and led her off.

    The crowd was very much what you might have expected and in fact what he had expected. A trifle unfortunately it included Ralph’s old friends Murray and Jay, who also had an up-market beach house at Kingfisher Bay, and Jay gave him and Ginny a pretty sharp look, but mercifully refrained from saying anything. Peg and Lysle were also there but already pretty pissed so Peg just carolled: “Oh, hullo, dear! Nice to see you again!” on catching sight of Ginny. And Lysle just grinned and looked at her hungrily. Hilary and Jack were also present but as they were close friends of the host and hostess Ralph had been fully prepared for that. Hilary wasn’t too pissed to say she hoped they’d found something nice in the toy shops. By this time Ginny had had half a glass of fizz so she giggled and returned: “Not in Remmers, but we found a piece of mindless fluff without eyes in the Puriri toyshop, didn’t we, Ralph?” and this was sufficiently obscure to baffle Hilary. –Jack just grinned and looked at Ginny hungrily.

    Very probably Ginny would have hated every minute of this party had she not been escorted by Ralph. But being neither young nor stupid he did not make any of the usual mistakes of the young and stupid EnZed male at a drunken party with a young lovely, to wit: ignoring her presence as you conversed in a series of short, sharp shouts with your macho cobbers; leaving her flat as you headed off eagerly to join your macho cobbers’ huddle; getting pissed out of your tiny mind with your macho cobbers; and leaving her at the mercy of stray lecherous males as you caroused with your drunken macho cobbers. On the contrary, he stuck to her closer than even the usual crowd of macho cobbers were sticking to one another. And murmured asides into her ear at appropriate moments. And sniggered when she murmured asides into his ear. And saw to it she had enough to eat and enough (and not too much) to drink. And danced with her, rather close.

    All this worked, insofar as she appeared to enjoy herself. But of course it didn’t do anything actually to improve the company and on thinking it over very much later Ralph was to recognize this and realize that the whole thing had probably been a bloody tactical error. Everyone there was miles older than Ginny, except for the girl from Number 13 that bloody Quinn was chasing. Doubtless the do merely served to reinforce in Ginny the misguided conviction that he was far too old for her. Or to put it another way, it nicely underlined the fact that he was far too old for her.

    Naturally several people, including bloody Quinn, got pushed into the pool. Ralph couldn’t figure out whether Quinn was getting pissed in order to work up sufficient Dutch courage to make a heavy pass at the young dark girl or to drown his sorrows at her visible lack of enthusiasm about him, the party and the whole bit; but whichever it was it was pretty clear they’d have to take him home. What a bore. And indeed, shortly after Auld Lang Syne they loaded the silent and embarrassed little brunette and the wavering and damp Quinn into the back seat of the BMW and drove home. It took all three of them to lug bloody Quinn up his bloody front steps and into his bloody townhouse, but Ralph hadn’t expected it wouldn’t.

    “Come on; I don’t know about you, but I intend getting into the spa pool with a brandy. I feel as if I hadn’t had a party at all,” he grumbled, getting back into the car.

    Ginny got in beside him. “Um, no. Good idea.”

    Ralph had every intention of getting into his spa pool without any clothes on, he felt that pissed off! He’d sort of envisaged a cosy drive back home. just the two of them in a state of perfect amity and, er— Well, things might have taken their course.

    He drove into the garage, got out and headed for the back yard, shucking clothes as he went. He heard her gulp but didn’t look back. He put on a couple of token garden lights and got into the pool with a sigh.

    Ginny hovered at the back door. “Um, what about the brandy?”

    “Yes, please—angel!” said Ralph fervently. –The idea here was, souls, that treating her in an offhand, sophisticated manner as his equal would encourage her to— Yeah, well.

    Ginny went back inside.

    Ralph had a pretty fair idea of what she was feeling. But unfortunately for him, he hadn’t yet figured out that admitting to herself that she was sexually attracted to him was not necessarily going to convince young Red Fed that it was appropriate, or even desirable, for her to fall into his bed.

    Ginny had started off telling herself firmly she was indifferent to Ralph Overdale as a man: after all, he was pretty old and not handsome or anything. By the time she’d brought him his breakfast on Christmas morning she’d stopped telling herself this sort of thing and in fact the sight of his tanned and slightly hairy shoulders and the large, heart-shaped patch of black fur between his pectorals had given her a very funny feeling in her tummy. Though she’d told herself crossly that she didn’t know what she was feeling like that for: his figure wasn’t nearly as good as Adrian’s or even Stephen’s. By now, what with the proximity of the last few weeks and the fact that her hormones had always told her that she wanted him, the back view of him taking all his clothes off and getting into the pool had made her feel quite dizzy.

    She got the bottle of brandy and the correct glass and went back downstairs on legs that shook. “Here,” she said in a small voice.

    “Don’t stand there fully clad, you’re embarrassing me!” said Ralph with a laugh in his voice.

    “I’m not getting in the pool with nothing on!” said Ginny in a high, nervous voice.

    “I don’t intend to rape you, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” he returned acidly. “Give me the bloody brandy, for God’s sake.”

    She came over to him reluctantly. What with the dimness of the patio and the bubbling water he doubted if she could see the hard-on but didn’t much care if she could.

    “Ta. Why not put your togs on?” he sighed.

    And that, souls, was as far as he got.

    She turned puce, shouted: “I’m NOT getting in the pool with you like that!” and ran inside.

    Ralph took a hefty swallow of Cognac. Oh, bugger.

    Next day she was both sulky and shy, as was to be expected. But when he accidentally brushed against her she quivered all over; so all was very far from lost. He didn’t mention the previous evening, but quickly instituted more cosy drives, more cosy dinners. with quite a lot of talk about wine and food, and some prolonged and elaborate sessions in the kitchen that necessitated a terrific lot of accidental-on-purpose body contact.

    About three weeks went by in this manner, and Ralph began to wonder if he’d be able to stop himself from leaping on the kid. Because whatever the tactics might have been doing to her, they were sure as Hell getting him more than a trifle worked up. But so far there hadn’t—though there had been further hopeful signs—been a moment that was quite propitious. Ralph, to say truth, was enjoying the anticipation—though that was something that he wouldn’t admit to himself until much later.

    “Wasn’t that Sir Ralph’s number that you gave Mum and Dad?” said Vicki crossly, having tried and failed to get hold of her twin at it for three solid days.

    “Yes,” admitted Ginny grudgingly.

    “Well, where are you staying?” she cried angrily. “I’ve been trying and trying to get hold of you, and all that stupid machine ever says is that he’s not available! He never even answers it himself! I musta left a million messages on it!”

    “Yeah, and this is the fourth time I’ve rung the farm: you were never there! And I tried ringing some New Plymouth number that Dad gave me and you weren’t there either!” retorted Ginny indignantly.

    “Well, what number did he give ya?” asked Vicki aggrievedly.

    Ginny told her.

    “Oh. That was that place I was boarding, before.”

    “So I gathered. Eventually,” said Ginny in a hard voice.

    “I told you I might be at Scott’s!” cried Vicki.

    “Officially or unofficially?” said Ginny nastily.

    “What’s that supposed to mean?” she said in a sulky voice which immediately indicated to her twin that she’d understood perfectly well.

    “Mum and Dad are still under the impression that you’re living at that other dump.”

    “Yeah, well, Scott’s flat’s breaking up, so they had the phone cut off just before Christmas. –Well, it costs the earth!” she said defensively.

    “Yeah. Well, don’t go on at me, that’ s all.”

    There was a short silence. “Well, where are you?” demanded Vicki in a very high voice.

    “Here. At Ralph’s,” said Ginny coldly.

    “Heck, you’re not ringing up on his phone, are ya?” said her twin in a hollow voice.

    “Grow up, Vicki.”

    “Well, heck, Ginny, did he say ya could?”

    “YES!” shouted Ginny.

    “Oh,” said Vicki cautiously. “Um—well, where are you staying, then?”

    Very red, Ginny said grimly: “Here, of course.”

    “What?” gasped Vicki in horror.

    “I’m staying here, are you deaf?” said Ginny nastily to the phone.

    “Twin, have you let him talk you into something stupid?” she wailed.

    “No.”

    “I just hope not, for your sake! I told you about that ghastly dame he had there, that time, didn’t I?”

    “Yes, you did. Sylvia. We bumped into her at an awful up-market drinkies Exmas party,” said Ginny with considerable satisfaction. “She turned the brightest shade of jade green I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

    “You sound just like him!” gulped Vicki in dismay.

    “Do I? Good. It’s better than sounding just like you and the rest of the kiddies you hang out with. And if you’ve been ringing up to tell me you’re going flatting this year with that thicko Scott Duguid, good. Because I’m taking over Jenny’s old flat—you know, Basil and Gary’s granny flat.”

    “You’ll never be able to afford that!” gasped Vicki.

    “We’ll see. Anyway, I want a place of my own.”

    “Um... well, good,” said Vicki weakly. “Because I thought I would share Scott’s.”

    “Yeah,” agreed Ginny indifferently.

    Vicki swallowed. “We thought we might think about getting engaged,” she admitted.

    “Engaged? What about Euan?” said Ginny numbly.

    “There was nothing in that!” her twin replied scornfully.

    “He’s still here, ya know. I mean, he’s up at Sol’s, but he never applied for that job down in Wellington with Telecom.”

    “Didn’t he?” said Vicki indifferently. “I don’t think he’s got much ambition, actually.”

    “And Scott has?” said Ginny nastily.

    Vicki retorted crossly: “He’s got his head screwed on all right, if that’s what you mean! The MOW’s got a good career path, if you’ve got your qualifications, and Scott did those in the Air Force, he had it all planned, see?” She carried on at length.

    At the end of it Ginny said sourly: “He sounds the worthy bore to end all worthy bores. Well, good luck with it, if that’s what you want.”

    “He’s sensible and decent and he wants a decent, ordinary life!” cried Vicki angrily. “Which is more than can be said for that stuck-up, poncy Ralph Overdale!”

    “Very true,” said Ginny pleasedly.

    “Twin,” said Vicki in a trembling voice: “don’t go and do something dumb just because he’s got a lovely flat and—and super electronic gear and can afford to take you to classical concerts and fancy restaurants and stuff, will you?”

    “Well, I wouldn’t just because of that,” said Ginny in that thoughtful voice of hers. Vicki gritted her teeth. “If I did do it, it might because he’s the sort of man who appreciates classical music and good food, though.”

    “Twin, that’s not enough!” shouted Vicki.

    “Did I say it was? But at least Ralph’s not boring.”

    “You can’t!” gasped Vicki. “He’s awful! You can’t really want to get mixed up with him!”

    Ginny hadn’t really thought about whether she did or didn’t want to. Somewhere at the back of her mind she was aware she was deliberately avoiding thinking about it. Now she replied in the tone most calculated to infuriate her twin: “Well, maybe I don’t. But I certainly don’t want sensible and decent. And while we’re on the topic, I notice you never said you loved this poor Scott oik.”

    Vicki gasped indignantly: “Of course I—”

    But Ginny had rung off.

    Vicki hung up with a trembling hand and reported to Scott that Twin had gone mad. Scott had never known Ginny all that well but he’d always thought she was pretty mad. He agreed comfortably with every word Vicki said, not bothering to listen to more than ten percent of them.

    Ralph ambled up the passage with coffee, to find that Ginny had gone out onto the front steps and was sitting in the morning sun, hugging her knees. He came and sat beside her. “Have a nice exchange of sibling compliments?”

    “Something like that. It looks as if her and that dumb Scott type are gonna get engaged,” she said glumly.

    “Well, he or another,” replied Ralph lightly.

    “I suppose so,” admitted Ginny. “She reckons he’s sensible and decent.”

    “I’m so glad,” he said politely.

    “Yeah.” Ginny leaned her chin on her knees and gazed unseeingly at Miss McLintock’s dachshund waddling across the turning sweep. “How come some people see everything—life, if you like—in such cut-and-dried terms?”

    “Dunno.” Ralph poured coffee. “Nothing between the ears?” he suggested delicately, proffering a cup.

    Ginny sighed. “Ta. –I suppose it must be something like that. I can’t even imagine myself settled down to domesticity with a frilly apron!” she confessed on a desperate note.

    “No. Well, dare I say it? You do have plenty of time to develop that sort of, uh, ambition.”

    She stirred her coffee slowly. “I suppose so,” she said drearily. “I think Stephen Berry really wanted that,” she admitted. “I know he wasn’t really in love with me. he really wanted Georgy Harris: only if I’d been ready to settle for the suburban quarter-acre and the mortgage and frilly apron, he would have, I’m pretty sure.”

    “Brave girl,” said Ralph, patting her shoulder.

    Ginny smiled slowly. “Well, I did have an awful moment of almost letting myself be seduced by the idea—well, really, by the idea of never having to make another decision for myself. I think,” she confessed, frowning over it. Ralph waggled his eyebrows a bit and she made a face at him. “But it wasn’t very tempting, because I wasn’t in love with him. I didn’t even really fancy him; I suppose I slept with him out of—um—well, curiosity, mainly,” she admitted with a gulp.

    “Mm.” Ralph moved up closer. “Could this have been a contributing factor,” he said rather close to her ear: “in your not having enjoyed sex with him? –Poor, simple-minded fart that he must have been,” he noted affably.

    Ginny gulped, not denying that she hadn’t enjoyed sex with the luckless Stephen. “He wasn’t all that simple-minded. Well, a bit naïve, I suppose.”

    “A bit, mm,” he agreed drily.

    “Look, there’s Mannie: Miss McLintock must be back,” she noted.

    Ralph shuddered. “Yeah. –Push off, walking turds don’t drink coffee!” he added nastily as, perhaps hearing the sound of its name, the dachshund pottered over to them.

    “He’s rather sweet. Odd-looking, though,” said Ginny dispassionately.

    “Mm. –Look out.” he warned as a high-pitched voice then called: “Mannie! Mannie-Mannie-Mannie! Where are you-oo?”

    Miss McLintock emerged onto her front steps. “Man-nie! Oh, there you are, you ’aughty diddums! –Oh, good morning, Sir Ralph! Good morning, dear! How are you?”

    “Morning!” called Ralph briefly.

    “Hullo, Miss McLintock!” cried Ginny brazenly. “Isn’t it a lovely day? How was your holiday?”

    “Splendid, thank you, dear!” The spinster lady hurried down her steps on the pretence of retrieving the dog and, scooping him up in passing, came over to the foot of their steps. After telling them a terrific lot about the tourist delights of Hawaii she added: “So you’re still here, dear?” –Enormously artless.

    “Yes,” said Ginny with a lovely smile. “Still here.”

    Baffled, Miss McLintock began to retreat—literally as well as metaphorically. “That’s nice. dear. Well, must get on with it: a million and one things to do!” She retreated several more steps, rather rapidly. “Well, bye-bye for now!”

    “Bye-bye,” said Ralph stolidly.

    “See ya!” agreed Ginny cheerfully.

    Miss McLintock turned and made rapidly for the shelter of her own townhouse. “Naughty doggie. What were you doo-ing?” they heard her coo, before her front door mercifully closed.

    “Another one that thinks you’re me Lolita,” said Ralph casually.

    Ginny pinkened and avoided his eye, he was glad to see.

    “Was that just for the cameras?” he added curiously.

    “No: I just felt ‘Blow her, nosy old cow.’ So I sort of didn’t care.”

    “Good,” said Ralph, giving one of those deluded smiles.

    Life went on smoothly for a bit along those lines. Presumably Miss McLintock and Ma Mayhew, back from Coffs-Harbour-Wherever-That-Was, had got used to the idea of Ralph’s having a live-in Lolita, because neither of them dropped in to borrow a cup of sugar more than once a day on average. Ginny began to make noises about Enrolment Week, and possibly moving into Basil and Gary’s granny flat, but Ralph more or less ignored these. February was almost upon them and within the foreseeable future Hugh and Roberta would be back from the Bay of Islands, and for not particularly obscure reasons he felt he’d better bloody well have made a move before then. Also he felt if he didn’t bloody well make a move pretty soon he might burst.

    Then came a very humid day. Putridly dripping. The sort of day where you woke up and instantly wished you were dead—or immured in the Royal K’s air conditioning, a similar fate.

    She tapped on his door, not very early, stuck her head in and said: “Are you going for a”—gasp—“run?”

   Ralph had chucked all his bedding onto the floor at some stage during the night and was lying spread-eagled on his back, sweating. “Run? God, I can’t move,” he groaned.

    “No,” said Ginny faintly. “Sorry. I—”

    “They get like this in the morning, darling: male physiology,” he sighed.

    “Yes, um—”

    “Sweetheart,” said Ralph with his eyes closed: “could you possibly do me an immense favour and get me an ice-cold glass of orange juice?”

    “Yes—um—have you got a hangover?”

    “I can’t tell, yet, with the humidity at this level,” he moaned.

     “No. I’ll get you the juice.” She disappeared precipitately.

    Ralph opened his eyes for the express purpose of rolling them wildly.

    When she came back he hadn’t moved. “Bring it here and stop behaving like a blushing virgin,” he sighed.

    Very red and annoyed-looking, she came over to the bed with the juice.

    “Ugh, I’m dripping!” he said. He gulped orange juice. “How in God’s name do you manage to look so cool?”

    “I’m not.” Ginny began to edge towards the door. “I’m awfully hot: my clothes are sticking to me.”

    She was only wearing the persimmon halter and the denim shorts. “Are you edging away from me, or this old fellow?” he asked casually.

    “I’m not, I—” She broke off, gulping.

    “Male physiology, I told you: can’t help it,” said Ralph on a smug note.

    “Well, there’s no need to sound so pleased about it!” retorted Ginny crossly, marching out.

    Ralph laughed, finished his juice, and got out of bed.

    She was in the kitchen, making toast. He came up behind her and without further ado put his arms round her.

    “Don’t!” gasped Ginny in horror.

    He’d known she’d say that but he hadn’t known she’d mean it. However, she made it very bloody clear she did mean it, right down to bursting into violent tears and sobbing: “I don’t—want—to!”

    Ralph was abruptly furious with the silly little bitch. He knew bloody well she did want it, even if at the same time he was feeling ten times a fool. “Look, it won’t be rape,” he said on a nasty note.

    “No!” sobbed Ginny. “I—don’t—want—to!”

    “You might even like it,” he said on a nasty note.

    “I—don’t—want—to!”

    He had actually got that, yeah. “Look, Ginny, hadn’t you better start thinking about what the Hell you do want?” he said in a hard voice. “You’ve made it pretty clear that you don’t fancy settling down with a suburban bore like your twin’s one in order to lead the usual mindless suburban life your twin obviously fancies: what in God’s name do you imagine’s the alternative?”

    Ginny merely gulped and sniffed.

    “Well, I’ll tell you, free, gratis and for nothing: the alternative’s a nice roll in the hay with a bloke that might just be able to give you a bloody good time. And don’t imagine I’m flattering myself when I tell you that there aren’t too many of us around who are ready. willing and able to make sure you do actually have a good time!”

    Ginny just sniffed and gulped.

    “Not to mention,” said Ralph acidly: “being able to share a few mildly civilized tastes with you. Not to mention possibly introduce you to a few aspects of the mildly civilized life that you mightn’t yet have thought of for yourself.”

    “Shut UP!” she shouted suddenly. “If you imagine that I was staying here because— Well, I wasn’t! And I’ll move out right away!”

    “Don’t be a little fool,” he said tiredly.

    She looked at him mutinously. “I’m going right now.”

    Ralph shrugged. “Go.”

    With a fresh burst of tears, she rushed out of the kitchen and—presumably—downstairs to pack.

    Ralph went back into his bedroom and sat dispiritedly on the edge of the bed. Came on too strong? ...Maybe. But he was still bloody sure she wanted it. Was it the— Yes, by God. it must be the bloody age gap: sweet flaming Jesus, what a stupid little—

    No, on second thoughts, he was the stupid one: why the fuck had he imagined that mutual desire and mutual interests and mutual tastes, not to say exposure to his not uncomfortable lifestyle, would be enough to make little Red Fed overcome twenty-odd years of indoctrination by a clean-living Kiwi mum and dad and overlook the fact that there were thirty years between her delicious person and his elderly self? Oh... shit.

    He went back to bed and sulked for the rest of the day.

    He was to remain in a foul mood for some time. It wasn’t that he’d fancied himself irresistible— No, well, to be strictly honest, souls, there had been a bit of that in it, yeah. Well, damn the dim little bitch! In spite of thinking this many times over, he didn’t manage to persuade himself that Ginny was really dim. Brains as well as beauty, it formed a great measure of her attraction... Well, that and the tits.

    Jesus, why couldn’t he meet at least one willing and attractive female with two penn’orth of brain to bless herself with? Not to mention at least one or two tastes in common with his. At one stage he even got to the point of wondering whether to ring Phoebe. But he decided against it: the bitch had given him the brush-off once too often: why give her the satisfaction?

Next chapter:

https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/10/sols-christmas-part-1.html