33
Summer Showers
“Hey, Michaela,” Sol greeted her mildly.
Michaela was unloading the kiln. She straightened slowly, and turned. “Hi.”
“Sa-ay,” he breathed. He came up close and peered at the pot she was holding. “Gee, that’s too good for the crafts boutique, Michaela!” he grinned.
“Just as well it isn’t for it, then,” she replied with her slow smile.
“Oh? A special order?”
“Sort of. It’s a wedding present.”
Sol had to swallow. Wasn’t it a mite soon for Hugh and Roberta to be thinking of— Even though the two of ’em did smell like orange blossom from a range of fifty yards. And sure Michaela had a generous heart, but wasn’t that carrying coals of fire just a bit too far? “Who for?” he said weakly.
She pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear and said: “Ted and Felicity. You know: he’s Ginny and Vicki’s brother.”
“Oh, sure: he’d be your cousin, of course. Boy, I sure hope they appreciate it.”
“Felicity likes the ones Polly bought from me,” she said shyly.
“Well, that’s a hopeful sign!” he beamed.
“Yes,” she said, smiling.
Sol was aware that even after the time they’d spent this last winter working on the crafts boutique together she was still very shy of him, and very—well, he rather thought it wasn’t just unsure about their friendship, he rather thought she didn’t trust him as far as she coulda thrown him. Him and the rest of humanity, but the male half of it in particular.
He smiled back and said nicely: “They’ll be living on the farm, huh?”
“Yes. He’s got his own house, of course; it’s the manager’s house, really. Well, Ted does really manage the place now, Uncle Vince doesn’t do all that much these days. Felicity says it’s basically a nice house, an old bungalow style, and in very good order, only it does need redecorating.”
“Uh-huh.”
She frowned slightly. “I’m not too sure what a bungalow style is, actually.”
“Me, neither,” he replied simply.
There was a short silence.
“I suppose it costs an awful lot of money to redecorate a whole house, even if you do most of it yourself,” she offered.
“Sure does. Well, I mean, look at what doing up the two stores set me back, huh?”
“Yes.” Michaela smiled her slow smile. “Inky and Sticky & Co. helped with the boutique, though,” she reminded him.
Sol concealed a wince. Sure, Sir Jerry Cohen had a half-interest in the business and had encouraged the crafts venture—urged on by his granddaughters—but that didn’t mean that he, Sol, had been able to fund his half of the boutique fully. Luckily for him Polly Carrano had been real keen. Also luckily for him, the freehold of the little block was now owned, not by Kingfisher Development, but by the private limited company set up by Jake for the twins. “The Carrano boys’ company? Yeah, sure!” he said nicely. “Polly’s name for it’s real amusing, huh?”
“Mm,” she agreed, nodding.
He took the large bowl very carefully out of her hands and set it in the padded barrow. “Come on, let’s see what else you’ve got in this load, huh?”
“Those brown things. They have turned out okay, but they are, um, very brown.”
“Yeah, well, after the inquiries we got about that other one, I guess that’s what people want, huh?”
“Yes.” Michaela unloaded a selection of porous-looking brown pots, their sole decoration being an occasional sooty streak. This looked haphazard but Sol knew that each streak had taken agonizing hours of decision. He took a straight-sided one off of her and held it up approvingly.
“Yeah. This’ll look great in the boutique with that dried branch in it, huh?”
“Yes. And that big one can have the dried flax.”
“Yeah... Say, Michaela?”
“What?” she said, bending to the kiln again.
Sol looked at the broad butt in its faded jeans with affection, and had much ado not to put his hand on it. His own jeans had begun to feel quite tight and he wriggled a bit and said: “You ever noticed that flax head has a kinda—uh—smell to it?”
“Yes. Nothing else smells like that.” She hauled out a huge platter.
“Sa-ay!” He squatted to admire it.
Michaela smiled into his eyes. “Turned out okay, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah. Boy, I’d like to keep this one,” he muttered.
“You have to get over that sort of feeling when you’re a working artist,” she said seriously.
“Mm.” It had kinda—moon craters? Whatever—across its rough brown surface. Sol ran his fingers over them and said: “Yeah. I guess it’s keep this one or eat for a month, huh?”
“Yeah.” Michaela stood up with it, grunting a bit. He got up quickly and grabbed some loose sacks and helped her to adjust the platter in the barrow.
“Ta,” she said.
He leaned on the barrow and looked at Michaela in her grimy greyish tee-shirt and ancient faded jeans and at the gathering clouds in the grey sky and at the tea-tree scrub and other undergrowth in the dull-green leaf of New Zealand natives in their full summer foliage and was shaken by a wave of feeling so strong that he could have cried out. He swallowed and said: “I’d say that flax head smells kinda like beeswax.”
Her wide brow wrinkled in thought. “Yes, it does a bit. Only like itself, too. I like it.”
“Yup, me too. Milly Watson reckons it’s shedding seeds like crazy on the carpet, though.” –Mrs Watson was the middle-aged local woman who was now managing the crafts boutique for him. It had been hard to find someone suitable, and she was the best of a bad bunch.
Michaela looked at him seriously and said: “They’re very black and shiny.”
Sol’s eyes filled with tears and he swallowed again and said: “They sure are. About the shiniest black natural things I’ve ever seen, I guess.”
“Yes. Ralph Overdale’s got a piece of black glass in his rock collection, it’s almost as shiny.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I like flax seeds better.”
“Mm,” said Sol, sniffing a bit. “Say, you reckon it’s gonna rain?”
Michaela glanced at the sky. “Yes. It’s quite humid, isn’t it? It’s often like this in December. Warm and humid and then it rains.”
“Yeah. I guess,” he said, looking foolish, “I didn’t really notice last December all that much.”
“No,” she agreed simply.
Sol bit his lip. He went on helping her unload the kiln in silence. When everything was out and either in the barrow or carefully stacked on her heavy wooden racks he said hoarsely: “Michaela: you know Phoebe’s off to Tasmania this Christmas?”
“Yes. Meg said she knows a lady there. I think they did their teacher-training together.”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “She asked me to go with her.”
“It costs quite a lot to go to Tasmania,” she said seriously.
“Yeah. That wasn’t why I refused, though.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah.” He chewed on his lip some and said: “I refused partly because she made an ultimatum of it.”
Michaela frowned over it. “You mean she said you had to do it or else?”
“Uh-huh. Tasmania for two weeks over Christmas or else she’d dump me.”
“Euan could help with the boating-supplies store over Christmas, he isn’t going away. And Akiko and Milly and me can easily manage the boutique between us.”
“Yeah. I didn’t refuse because I thought I couldn’t manage to get away; I guess I refused because it was an ultimatum.”
Michaela frowned dubiously.
“On the other hand…” Sol paused. “I don’t know if you can understand this, Michaela—Jesus, I don’t think I understand it myself, exactly—” He broke off and took a deep breath.
“What?” she said.
“I’m quite sure that Phoebe made it an ultimatum because she knew that if she put it like that—put it like an or else—I’d say no.”
“But why?” she said in bewilderment.
“Because she wanted me to say no: get it? She wanted to bust us up. And I guess she wanted the responsibility for us busting up to be mine.”
“But why would she want to bust up with you?” she cried.
That was very flattering: Sol’s heart beat furiously, but he replied steadily enough: “She doesn’t love me enough to want it to go on any longer, I guess that’s the bottom line.”
Michaela’s lips parted uncertainly. Sol’s heart hammered, but he just watched her. Finally she said in a small, bewildered voice: “I thought it was all settled.”
“Wa-al... Round about this time last year, so did I. I mean, there we were, a-scrubbin’ and a-paintin’ up a storm at the store, huh?” She nodded dumbly. Sol shrugged. “I guess that game palled, huh?”
“What—what do you mean?”
He sighed. “At first Phoebe thought she could take all this—uh—make-and-mend that’s the way I live: that’s the only way I can afford to live—ya know?”—She nodded.—“Yeah. And then she found she couldn’t take it on a permanent basis. She enjoyed it first off, sure: it was all new, it was fun, I guess—only then she found out that it didn’t stop or get better, or—” He shrugged. “See? At first it was like a new game, and then she discovered it wasn’t a game, that’s how I’m always gonna be living, and it just doesn’t suit her.”
“Ye-es... You won’t always be painting or decorating, though.”
“Nope. But there’ll always be a boat to be fixed, or—uh—a shelf to be put up, a leak in the roof—you get it? I mean, I’m a do-it-yourselfer from way back. Phoebe’s the sort of nice lady that calls in the carpenter to do all that.”
“Ye-es...” She looked at him apologetically. “It just doesn’t seem important enough to—to break up a relationship over.”
“No. Well, did turnin’ down his offers of—uh—” his lips twitched in spite of himself—“wool sweaters and free trips to the States seem important enough to break up with Hugh over?”
Michaela went very red and turned away from him.
Sol looked at her remorsefully. So she was still upset over the guy. Oh, Hell! Finally he managed to say: “It did to the two of you, I guess. Well, it’s like that with me and Phoebe. Maybe nobody outside the relationship would see it like that, only I guess it was her not being able to hack my lifestyle that did it, huh?”
“Yes,” she said in a stifled voice.
“Plus equally me not being able to hack hers. Well, gee, whenever I was in that apartment of hers it kinda felt as if there was a place for everything and everything was in its place, except there wasn’t a place for me!”
There was quite a long silence.
“Yes.” She turned round. “Aunty Miriam says it’s not a good idea to move into someone else’s place, not if they’ve been living there a long time.”—Sol looked at her blankly.—”That’s why she’s encouraging Ted to do up the whole house the way Felicity wants it.”
“Uh—oh! Your cousins!”
“Yes. –I’m sorry,” she said, going very red: “half the time people don’t see what I mean, when it all seems clear to me.”
Sol felt abruptly furious at being classed by her with “people.” He guessed it was as much himself he felt furious with as her, though. He clenched his fists. “Yeah,” he said shortly. “Well, you never talk about your family, much, I guess, Michaela.”
“No... She came to see me, she’s been staying with Vicki and Ginny... I suppose I don’t talk about them because they’re not very interesting,” she said slowly.
He took a deep breath. “No. Shall we get this lot down to the shed before it rains?”
Michaela smiled a little. “The rain won’t hurt them. We can if you like. Do you want to push or brake?”
“Uh—I think you’d better brake,” he said weakly.
“Okay.”
They wheeled the barrow carefully down to the shed, with Michaela being responsible for braking it on the steeper bits. They got a second load down before the storm burst over their heads.
“Whew!” he said, standing in the doorway of the shed as the skies opened and the rain actually seemed to spring up from the ground and hurl itself at them.
“It’s only a bit of a summer storm.”
He grabbed her arm as she was about to go out in it. “It’s only a downpour: if it won’t hurt them pots, leave ’em.”
“All right.”
“Shall we have a cup of tea?” he suggested.
“There isn’t any.”
“Yes, there is, I brought some. Here.” He had left a carrybag on the table on his way up to the kiln and now went over to it.
“This is yours,” she objected as he pushed a packet of teabags into her hand.
“Yeah, but we can use a couple, huh?” Sol replied peaceably.
“All right, then.”
He watched in silence as she boiled up her kettle on her one burner.
“Michaela,” he said as she poured hot water into her wonderful Japanese mugs.
“Mm?”
He sighed, took his mug, and sat down on the ancient creaky sofa with its broken springs. “Come set here. Whew, it sure is comin’ down out there, huh?”
“Yes.” Michaela sat down beside him and said in a shy voice: “We could have the door closed, if you’d rather.”
“Nope; I like it, just settin’, watching it beltin’ down like that.”
“Yes, so do I. What were you going to say?”
Sol went rather red and stared fixedly at the rain, cradling the mug between his hands. “I don’t know if you— Well, I don’t think I made it clear about me and Phoebe, back there.”
“Yes, you did. She said you had to go to Tasmania, because she knew you wouldn’t. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Only I think I might’ve implied that wanting to bust up was all her idea.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Did I?” he said.
“Ye-es...”
Sol smiled. He’d gotten used to that real weird way they drawled that “yee-uss,” of theirs now, real high-pitched and nasal. Even Phoebe did it when she wasn’t watching herself. “Uh—well, I didn’t mean to give you that impression. I’d have turned her down whether she’d put the trip as an ultimatum or not: I’ve known for months it was no good.”
“Oh.” Michaela tasted her tea. “Why didn’t you stop?”
Sol grimaced and didn’t look at her. He leaned his elbows heavily on his knees and glared at the rain.
“I’m sorry,” said Michaela. “I’m no good at— I didn’t mean to be nosy. You don’t have to say.”
He swallowed. “No, you’re not being nosy. I guess the reason is just so crude I didn’t want to admit it to you.”
“Crude?” she said in a wondering voice.
Sol said loudly, still not looking at her: “I didn’t stop because I wanted the sex, Michaela! –Boy, if that ain’t crude I dunno what is,” he added sourly.
“People are built like that. It’s nature,” she said slowly.
“It sure is,” he said through his teeth.
Michaela drank tea and watched him silently. After a while she said: “Your tea’s getting cold.”
“Huh? Oh!” Sol sat up with a sigh and drank tea. “Yeah,” he said, leaning back with eyes half-closed: “sure is a downpour, huh? I seen it come down like this in Florida, of course; gee, I remember one fishing trip I was on with good ole Gabe from the store—” He told her in immense detail about that trip. Such points as “snook” and “Spanish moss” and he rather thought “Florida Everglades”, and, indeed, “Never been so glad to see a Texaco sign in my life” entirely passed her by, but he didn’t bother to explain, he was just grateful for her silent presence.
“Yes,” she said seriously at the end of it. “I’ve heard about those swamps. They have alligators, don’t they?”
Sol shuddered. “Sure do. And warm rain like this is calculated to bring ’em out.”
“Yes. There aren’t any dangerous animals here. Or snakes.”
On the contrary, Sol had met a gen-yew-wine Noo Zealand snake, it lived up Willow Grove and called itself Ralph Overdale. But he merely replied: “No. Kinda reassuring, huh?”
“Yes. Though a possum can do a lot of damage. They’ve got big claws, it’s dangerous to pick them up.”
“Uh-huh. You want another cup?”
“No, thanks.”
“I think I will.”
When he’d refilled his mug he sat down again and said idly: “This old sofa could look okay if was done up. Does it belong to you, or June and Bob?”
“I don’t know, really. Bob was going to throw it out, only I rescued it.”
“That makes it yours,” he said firmly.
“Does it?”
“Yeah. Well, ask ’em, if you like. It’d take a fair bit of work. Tom knows about upholstery, huh?”
“Yes, he did their big sofa and the big armchair.”
“Yeah. Well, maybe he could show me how, or point me at the right book, huh?’
“Ye-es... This sofa gets stuff spilt on it, though. I mean, the shed’s pretty messy.”
“Uh-huh. Well, cover it in Naugahyde? Uh… think you’d say vinyl upholstery?”
“I couldn’t afford anything like that,” she said.
“Uh—no. Of course not. Just a thought. I like fixin’ things,” he said with a smile.
“Yes.” Michaela paused. “I have got something you could mend, if you know how.”
“What?” he said eagerly.
She got up and went over to the other side of the shed. “This,” she said, removing a plastic bucket and a board from the seat of an old bentwood chair.
Sol came and looked. It had one of those circular caned seats. And all the canework was broken and irreparably frayed. He whistled. “That’s a job for an expert.”
“That’s what Bob said. But Tom says there’s a book in the Puriri Library that tells you how. –You don’t have to,” she added quickly.
“No, I’d like to.” He examined the caning narrowly. “Boy, sure is intricate.”
“Yes.”
He looked up at her with a grin. “A challenge, huh? You know where this library is?”
“Um—you go up Sir John Marshall Av’ a bit, it’s in the civic centre complex.”
“Oh. I’ve never noticed it, is it a big place?”
“No-o... Do you mean like the big library in town?”
He knew now that about once every three months she made a trip into the city to visit the art gallery in the morning—it was free: if there was an exhibition for which you had to pay she didn’t go to it; and to look at the art books in the big public library in the afternoon—looking was free; borrowing, for those from Puriri County, was quite expensive. “Uh-huh.”
“No, not nearly as big. It’s all on one—um—level.”
“Well, I guess I’ll find it.”
“I could show you,” said Michaela, going very red. “I belong to it. It’s free if you live in Puriri County.”
Sol looked at his watch. “It’s four-fifteen: will it be open now?”
“Yes. Do you want to go now?”
“Could we?”
“Okay,” she said amiably, about to stride out into the rain.
Sol grabbed her arm. “Haven’t you got a coat?”
“Um—no.”
“Then we won’t go.”
“I’ll be all right, it’s only a bit of rain.”
He experienced an unworthy desire to see the way the “bit of rain”—still coming down in torrents—would plaster that tee-shirt of hers— Yeah, well. “No. You find something to put over yourself, huh?”
Michaela found a large, grubby piece of black plastic. Sol had to control the urge to forcibly exchange it for his own plastic raincoat. He slung the latter over his shoulders and they dashed down to the Land Rover.
“Hey!” screamed a hoarse voice as they were about to get in. “C’n I come?” Starsky dashed up to them barefoot and bareheaded, beaming.
“You don’t know where we’re going,” replied Michaela mildly.
Sol got in the car, chuckling. “Come on, honey, get in out of the rain.°
She went very red, but got in.
“Can I?” cried Starsky, jigging up and down.
“Yeah, but go ask your mom,” said Sol firmly.
He dashed off to the house.
“Boy, has that kid grown,” muttered Sol.
“Yes. He’s going to be tall, like Bob. In fact Ida says he’ll be taller than Bob.”‘
“Uh-huh. He’d be—what? Fourteen, now?”
“Yes.”
Sol sighed. “I remember that first night I met him—and you; at Tom and Jemima’s, you remember?”
“Yes.”
He noticed the blush and felt very glad. “Boy, it seems a lifetime ago.”
“Yes, I suppose it does. I hadn’t even met Hugh. And you were still living in America. –That was before we even put the new roof on Tom and Jemima’s place.”
“Huh? Oh—sure: they were talking about it, yeah... And Ralph was at the mountain, he hadda leave before the weekend to help with the roofing bee... Boy: if I hadn’t gone down that mountain, would I be here now?”
Silence.
Sol sighed, and glanced sideways at her.
Suddenly she said, very red: “Are you sorry you came out here?”
“No. Take it for all in all: no.”
There was another silence. He glanced cautiously at her again and said: “Are you sorry you met Hugh?”
Michaela swallowed. The large hands gripped each other hard in her lap. Finally she said hoarsely: “Yes. Very sorry.”
Sol felt a little sick. After a moment he ventured: “Weren’t there compensations?”
“Um—no-o...” she said doubtfully.
“Well, the sex was a compensation with Phoebe, I guess that’s what I mean.”
“Oh. It was good: he was good at it. Only now I haven’t got it. No, I don’t think it was a compensation.”
“No,” he said with a sigh.
“Mum says I can come, and she says wouldja like to come to tea, and couldja get a lettuce, and here’s the money!” panted Starsky, opening Michaela’s door and thrusting something into her hand.
“She already asked me to tea,” said Michaela numbly.
“Nah! Sol!” he panted, climbing into the back.
“Well, gee, I’d love to, Starsky, if there’ll be enough,” he said, starting up and turning cautiously in the sea of mud that usually developed outside the Butlers’ when it rained.
“Yeah, there’s loads, it’s roast pork!” he panted.
“I think Sol’s a Jew,” said Michaela, going very red.
“Yeah, but he eats pork!” Starsky returned with terrific scorn. “He told me that ages ago! Eh, Sol?”
Sol smiled weakly: “Yeah: that first night I met you at Tom and Jemima’s, huh?”
“Yeah. –He does, Michaela!” he urged. “Do you eat bacon as well, Sol?”
“Yup, sure do.”
“See!” gasped Starsky.
“Yes,” Michaela agreed. “Are you sure there’s enough for all of us, though, Starsky?”
“Yeah: it’s gi-normous, Mum got it on special at the supermarket, Dad said she’d gone mad, who did she think was feeding, the five thousand?”
At this Sol drew in abruptly to the side of muddy Blossom Avenue and laughed and laughed.
“What?” cried Starsky anxiously. “What?”
“Ooh!” said Michaela suddenly. Her face went very red and she put her hand over her mouth and goggled at Sol.
“Yeah!” he whooped.
“WHAT?” cried Starsky, almost bursting.
“The—five—thousand!” he gasped, tears oozing out of his eyes. “They—were—all—Jews!”
Michaela gave a whoop.
“That isn’t funny!” Starsky cried crossly.
Michaela and Sol screamed with laughter.
“That isn’t FUNNY!” the unfortunate lad shrieked, his voice cracking in the middle of “funny”.
Sol blew his nose and wiped his eyes, “Boy, do I feel better,” he said to Michaela. “Nothin’ like kids, huh?”
“No,” she agreed unsteadily.
—In the back Starsky muttered bitterly: “It wasn’t funny.”
“Boy, wait till I tell Bob!” he predicted.
“He won’t laugh!” said Starsky crossly.
Sol gave a whoop.
“He won’t LAUGH!” he shouted.
“He will lessen he’s gone suddenly deaf, kid. And you do that seatbelt up, huh, since I’ve taken the trouble to super-duperize the back of this here vehicle for such as you.”
Starsky did his seatbelt up. “Me?”
“Yeah. You and a few like you. And listen, if you were serious about wanting a holiday job, I sure could do with some guys that aren’t too squeamish about maggots and stuff like that.”
“Yeah!” he gasped. “I can do it, Sol! I’m not squeamish! Gee, tha-anks!”
“Da nada, kid. Only don’t bring that brother of yours, boy is he a danger to humanity.”
“Nah, he won’t want to, he’s a ning-nong!” declared Starsky, dismissing Ivan’s pretensions in a breath.
Sol drove on down Blossom Avenue. He’d gotten to Tom and Jemima’s when Michaela said seriously: “I think I’m squeamish about maggots.”
“Girls are,” said Starsky scornfully. “Mum’s really aw-ful: she—”
“That’ll do. I’ve seen grown men faint at the sight, honey, never you fret yourself,” said Sol genially.
“They musta been sissies!” said the voice from the back seat.
Sol looked at Michaela’s glowing cheeks, and smiled. “Uh-uh. Natural aversion, no-one cain’t help that. I once seen a heavyweight champion take one look at the worm on his hook and keel right over.”
“Champion of the world?” asked Starsky breathlessly.
“Yeah, sure,” he lied.
“Heck!”
Sol’s lips twitched. “Which way?” he asked, pulling up at the junction with Elizabeth Road.
Michaela came to with a jump. “Um—well, either way.”
“Go left: past the dairy factory, it’s easier for Puriri shops,” ordered Starsky.
“I’m asking this here lady,” said Sol very loudly, “which way she would care to go. Geddit?”
“She doesn’t care!”
“Do you?” he said.
“Um—well, I always like the back way,” admitted Michaela.
Sol turned right into Elizabeth Road.
“Well, I think it looks promising!” said June definitely, having first looked out her kitchen window to make sure the Land Rover hadn’t returned.
Bob groaned.
Meg groaned, too. She had only popped up to see if June could let her have a cup of sugar; at least, that had been her excuse, but they’d soon got it out of her that Bill had taken the boys to some dreadful macho film in town and Connie was over at Tom and Jemima’s, being stuffed like a Strasbourg goose in the intervals of “helping” give Baby Dirk his bath, so they’d urged her to stay. They’d only had to say “roast pork” once.
“Well, I do!” said June.
“Remember when he came out here that first time?” said Bob to Meg. “For a holiday.”
“Um...”
“Yes, ya do, Meg: her and Jemima had this crazy idea that he was gonna take Michaela over and find her a market or something.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember: they—”
“But he HAS!” cried June.
The Butlers’ kitchen-dining-workroom rang with silence.
“Crikey, I suppose he has,” said Bob limply. “Well, sort of.”
“She’s up at Kingfisher Bay every other weekend,” conceded Meg weakly.
“Yes, and she’s got millions of orders, and she’s given up doing the lawns for that horrible old Mr Pogsnort!” cried June.
“Mr Rupert-Price,” said Bob faintly. “Yeah. Mind you, that’s only one customer—”
“Bob, admit it, he HAS!” she cried.
“Uh—yeah. Well, the crafts boutique does seem to be doing bloody well. –So far,” he amended cautiously.
After a moment Meg said: “I told you Felicity Wiseman was trying to encourage the twins’ mother to sell some of her work commercially, didn’t I?”—They nodded: neither of them had met Miriam Austin but naturally they retained anything to do with craftspeople and their wares.—“Well, she took that beautiful afghan she made her up to the boutique to get a price for it—you know, to show Miriam it was worth something—and Sol took one look at and offered her three hundred dollars for it!”
“That means he reckons he can sell it for five,” said Bob immediately.
“Yes. Well, four hundred and fifty, maybe,” conceded Meg. “But I mean, if the boutique’s got that sort of customer—!”
“Yes. All those yen and American dollars, I suppose,” said June. “I don’t understand how money can be worth more one day and less the next.”
Neither did they, actually. They weren’t about to admit it, though.
Bob put his mug down and got up.
“Admit I’m right,” demanded June.
“I have. He’s found her a market. Good-oh. I won’t admit you and Jemima were right all along, though: I think that’d be going too far. And in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s commissioned a set of prints from me, and if I want a market I’d better get on with ’em. Not to mention that thing Polly wants for a wedding present.” He went out.
“I thought he’d done that?” said Meg.
June groaned. “He’s had five goes, ya mean.”
“Oh. Um, maybe he should have stuck to screen-printing instead of lithographs.”
June groaned.
“Maybe he can sell all the rejects to Sol!” Meg suggested.
June’s eye brightened. “Yes. Only don’t suggest it at this stage, Meg, he’s almost at the point of tearing them up. He gets like that. Give him a few days and then he’ll admit one of them might be worth salvaging.”
“I get it.”
June refreshed their mugs. The tea was stewed but neither of them remarked on it. She lifted the white cat onto her knee and said: “Anyway, what do you reckon about them?”
Meg took a deep breath. “Well, you know I said Phoebe was definitely going to Tasmania for the whole of Christmas and New Year’s?”
June nodded eagerly.
“Well—”
Around about the time that Starsky was clamouring for a fourth helping and Bob was pointing out there was pudding to come and anyway he couldn’t have another helping, that’d be his fourth, and adding that there was one story that said that if you ate enough pig you turned into one the next morning and Ivan was laughing hoarsely and urging him to let Starsky have another helping, then, so as they could see if it was true—about that point, then, in fact relatively early in a more civilized sort of evening, Phyllis, Lady Harding, cooed: “And I don’t know whether you two have met?” –flashing her horse-like teeth.
“Of course I know Phoebe. Darling, you’re looking ravishing,” purred Ralph at his most urbane.
Phoebe gave him a dry look. “Hullo, Ralph, you’re looking remarkably like a penguin.”
Phyllis gave a long whinny of laughter, cried: “Isn’t she naughty? I see you do know each other!” and mercifully left them.
Ralph preened in his dress suit and said: “Best bib an’ tucker, Phyllis assured me. One so seldom gets the chance.”
“That wasn’t you in best bib and tucker in the second row of the stalls at the gala opening of that foul musical last week, of course.”
Ralph’s mouth twitched. “Darling, I’m flattered you noticed.”
“Couldn’t help it, I was up in the gods with Yvonne with a bird’s-eye view of the bald spot.”
“Ooh, the unkindest cut of all,” he sighed. “Er—why, dearest?”
“She dragged me to the bloody thing: she likes musicals and she didn’t have anyone else to go with,” she sighed.
“And you didn’t have a better way to spend an evening: poor Phoebe!”
“I had several better ways; but I do have some sort of a sense of my social responsibilities towards my staff, Ralph,” she said drily.
“Then why the gods?”
“Yvonne booked the tickets, she’s as parsimonious as a church mouse. Then she refused to let me pay my whack, she’s also as proud as Lucifer.”
“Ah,” he mused. “Lucifer mus.”
Phoebe choked.
“The vestiges of a classical education are sometimes useful in social intercourse,” he mused. “Not often, I must admit. –You do look lovely, darling; was that acquired in Sydney?”
Phoebe glanced down at her long, metallic-look green gown and sighed. “Yes. For a small fortune. I’d forgotten that Phyllis Harding’s almost as keen on blue as the Q.M.”
Ralph looked round cautiously, but both Lady Harding and Lady Cohen were at the far side of the room, being terribly, terribly gracious to each other. “Never mind, darling, emphasizes the attributes wonderfully.”
Phoebe sighed again. “Not headmistressly enough, though: I’ve already had one or two odd looks.”
“Not from me, I do assure you: anything more calculated to drive the least tendency towards oddness out of those with a vestige of red corpuscles—!”
“Thanks, but unfortunately that’s the point,” she said drily.
“Would you call it lime-green?”
“Um—no, it’s a bit greener than that, I suppose.”
“Mm… Apple?”
“More or less.”
“Rather like that lovely severe shirt you had on at the airport last month!” he said brightly.
Phoebe replied unemotionally: “Same trip.”
Ralph wriggled a bit. “Different trip, darling. However, some of the reactions are the same.”
“Stop it,” she muttered.
He raised his eyebrows. “Rather start.”
“Yes, I suppose it was fun, really. I always enjoy a good musical,” Phoebe said loudly. “How are you, Sir Jerry?”
The old man beamed and shook hands, huffing and puffing a bit, and slapped Ralph on the back, and asked how that boy of his was getting on down at Polly’s dad’s farm—
Phoebe made good her escape. She figured Ralph deserved every bloody minute of it and then some. In fact if she could but think of a way to sic Sir John Harding onto him with one of his interminable sailing stories, she’d do it.
“I hope you don’t imagine that was tact,” said Bob faintly as the tail-lights of Sol's Land Rover disappeared and he, June and Meg returned inside.
Meg replied defiantly: “Well, I don’t suppose Bill will be back yet, he always gets suckered into taking them to McDonald’s or Pizza Hut or somewhere equally foul after the late pictures.”
“What about Connie?” returned Bob immediately.
Meg gulped. “Um, she’ll be spending the night with Tom and Jemima... I suppose.”
“Either that or you’ll find a sad little figure curled up on the verandah when ya get back, yeah.”
“Look, you don’t have to drive me, I only said that to let Sol and Michaela be alone!” shouted Meg.
“We know that, Meg. Don’t take any notice of Bob, he’s in a mood because he’s eaten too much,” said June pacifically.
“I am not!” Bob belched angrily. “Pardon,” he said crossly.
“Go and take some bicarbonate,” she said wearily.
“I don’t need—” Bob belched again. “All right, but it’ll only make me burp more!”
“Mm,” agreed June.
“Does it?” asked Meg with interest, as he disappeared.
“Well, shifts the wind, yeah. I always used to give him milk of magnesia when the kids were small, it worked like a charm, but he won’t let me buy it specially for him. Just as well, I suppose, it costs the earth these days.”
“Does it? What about that other stuff?”
“Sodium bicarb?”
“Um—yeah. The stuff he’s taking.”
“It’s only baking soda, a teaspoonful only costs about half a cent or something, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of it, Meg!” she gasped.
“No.”
“My mother always swore by it; so does Ida,” said June weakly.
“My Mother’s a cow, in case you haven’t noticed,” replied Meg on a grim note.
“Yeah, but even so! Didn’t your dad ever have wind?”
“Um, ye-ah… Well, he used to suck something, I dunno if that was for wind.”
June sighed. “Well, try baking soda on Bill, it’s good.”
“Ye-es... A teaspoonful?”
June explained in detail how to take it. Meg listened carefully. “And then they burp?” she said.
“Well, listen to him!” said June, as Bob came back musically into the main room.
Meg did. “Do you feel better?” she asked hopefully.
“Not much,” he said, sounding quite cheerful.
Meg decided silently she’d try it. Probably Bill would enjoy actually being encouraged to burp, at any rate. “I’ll go now,” she said. “Thanks for the tea, it was lovely.”
“Don’t be an idiot, I’ll drive you!” said Bob as she headed for the front door.
“No, I’ve got my gummies. And it’s not raining any more, it’s a lovely warm night.”
Bob protested, but Meg remained adamant. They watched dubiously as her little figure tramped off into the dark of upper Blossom Av’.
“You should have driven her!” said June crossly as Bob closed the door.
Bob belched loudly. “Nah: she wanted to walk.”
“She was only saying that!”
“It’s a nice night, and what harm can come to her up here?” He went back to the main room.
June hurried after him crossly. “Anything could happen!”
“Bullshit.”
“Um—a tramp or something.”
“We’ve lived here for over fifteen years and I’ve never laid eyes on a single tramp up here!” he said loudly.
“All right, a drunken yuppie from Willow Grove joy-riding in his horrible Porsche!”
“Porsches aren’t horrible. And even a pisshead wouldn’t risk his springs up here, are you nuts? Besides, wouldn’t get past number 10 before his suspension’d be shot to Hell!”
“Good,” said June grumpily.
A short silence.
“You should have driven her, Bob!”
“Rats!”
June sat down, looking sulky. Bob mooched about a bit.
“She only said she wanted to walk to let Sol and Michaela be alone,” June pointed out.
“No, she didn’t, she said I’d drive her to let them be alone. And he wasn’t fooled for a minute. And it won’t do any good, anyway!”
“Go after her,” said June uneasily, refusing this gambit.
“No, she’ll be all right.”
“What if she isn’t?”
Bob scowled.
“Go on,” she urged.
“Look, this is ridic— Oh, all right!” He slammed out.
... “Well?”
“Well, nothing, she was perfectly all right and she thought I’d fallen out of my tree!” Bob hurled the car keys at the table. They missed. “I’m going to bed,” he said grumpily. He went over to the door. “Are you coming?”
“No,” said June, scowling.
Bob marched out, not neglecting to bang the door. June waited for a bit. Then she got up and went very quietly to the big cupboard where she kept most of her baking things. There was a jar of it in the bathroom, of course, but— Here it was, thank goodness! June grabbed the packet of sodium bicarb, mixed a teaspoonful in a glass of warmish water, and drank it down, shuddering. Ugh! ...Ah. That was better!
“Thank you, Ralph,” said Phoebe politely as he drew up outside the flats at a relatively advanced hour.
“Yes, I’d love a coffee,” he replied immediately.
“You’d better go on into town and hunt one down, then, you certainly aren’t going to get it in these parts.”
“We are talking about coffee, are we?” he said with a laugh in his voice.
“Coffee or anything else,” replied Phoebe grimly.
Ralph put his hand lightly on hers before she could reach for the car door handle. “Stay a moment.”
“Why, in God’s name?”
“For me to ask you what in Christ you were doing at the Hardings’ tonight.”
Phoebe sighed. “The Harding girl has produced offspring, right?”
“Er...”
“Female offspring. The Queen Mother thought it’d be such a good idea to get its name down for our Junior School.”
“Presumably she hasn’t heard that John Harding’s living off his director’s fees and the third mortgage on that atrocity they live in.”
“What?” she said faintly.
“Mm; suppose she never listens to a thing old Jerry tells her. Or possibly he doesn’t bother any more. No, true as I sit here,” he said as Phoebe peered at him in the light from her street lamp. “The boy’s got most of what old Joe Harding left. Well, most of what’s left of it: I gather he tied up a few mill’ in a trust that Phyllis couldn’t get her claws on.”
“Susan’s Shapiro’s husband, you mean?” she said faintly.
“I have no idea. The one of whose, er, horticultural activities Phyllis complains unceasingly.”
“Yes. Alan Harding,” said Phoebe numbly. “Good Heavens. Are you sure, Ralph?”
“Certainly.”
“Then why in God’s name are they pigging it to Hell and gone in the muddy wilds of Puriri County?” she said numbly.
“Why in God’s name would anyone pig it to Hell and gone in the muddy wilds of Puriri County?” he returned smoothly. “You tell me, darling, I gather you’re the expert.”
Phoebe’s lips tightened and she opened the car door.
“Aw, can’t I even come in for a quick one?” he whinged, leaning across her and grabbing the door.
“No. And if you don’t want to be the victim of some rapid GBH, let go that door.”
“In a moment. First pander to my vulgar curiosity: has pigging it to Hell and gone in the wilds of Puriri County ceased to amuse you, dear one? Or am I suffering from a case of così è, se vi pare?”
“Yes. A fatal one, let’s hope.”
“Wishful thinking,” he murmured.
“Let go the bloody door, Ralph!”
“One of these days I’ll stop offering, Phoebe,” he warned, letting go the door and leaning back in his seat.
“Roll on the day,” said Phoebe between her teeth, getting out.
“The evening was such an appalling waste of that stunning dress, Phoebe; I can of lots of ways in which it could drastically and immediately improve,” he said as she bent down.
“So can I. One of them is if you push off. Good NIGHT!” said Phoebe, slamming the door.
Ralph immediately opened it and called: “Oy! What about this Tazzie rumour?”
Phoebe hurried off down her steps.
“I’ve got friends in Hobart!” he called warningly.
She didn’t answer but he thought he heard a strange sort of growling noise. One that might be produced from between the teeth of a headmistress about to lose her temper. He laughed softly, closed the car door, and drove away.
Bob was right: Meg’s cunning ploy hadn’t done much good. Michaela barely spoke on the way home.
Sol hadn’t expected her to, really. He didn’t speak much, either: for one thing he couldn’t think of any particular topic, and for another he had such a hard-on he could hardly think at all. Which was real stupid, he didn’t think Michaela was thinking of him in that way at all, it was obvious from what she’d said earlier in the day that she wasn’t over Hugh Morton.
There were no lights showing at her flat and he said cautiously: “Is Bryn still with you, Michaela?”
“No, he’s finished his degree, now.”
“I see. And—uh—you haven’t replaced Roberta?”
“No.”
He waited but she didn’t say anything more, so he asked: “Are you thinking of getting another student for next year?”
“I don’t know. I’ll see. Um, I might manage by myself for a bit,” she said in a very vague voice.
Sol had an idea the voice was vague partly because she hadn’t made up her mind about next year but more because she didn’t want him to pry into her personal affairs. So he just said mildly: “Uh-huh.”
“Thanks for the lift,” she said politely.
“Huh? Oh, it’s nothing!” he said, jumping. “It was a real nice evening, huh?”
“Yes. The roast pork was good.”
“Yeah. We’ll have it some weekend up my place, okay?”
“Yes, that’d be nice. –Would Akiko eat pork?”
“Yeah, Orientals eat it,” he assured her, though he wasn’t that sure about Japanese, actually.
“Good.”
She made to open the door but Sol reached across and said: “No: hold on, Michaela.”
“What?” she said obediently.
That Goddamn passivity! Sol bit his lip. “Look, I know this is too soon,” he said in a low voice. He paused, and bit his lip again.
“How do you mean?”
He rubbed his jaw and said: “This last winter, doing the shop up and all: you enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And—uh—well, our evenings together: you and me and Euan and Akiko—and even when they couldn’t come: that was okay, huh?”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t bored?”
“No.” She paused and then added: “I only get bored if I have to talk to people: you know.”
“Sure, polite social nothings, that bores me, too!” he said cheerfully.
“You’re good at it, though.”
“Uh—maybe. I guess I’m more extroverted than you, huh?”
“Um... Yes. If you mean you can talk to people and everything.”
“Yeah. Only when it was just you and me, you weren’t bored?”
“No: I said.” Sol was going to say something but she added: “It was only a couple of times.”
“Uh—yeah.” Did she mean he would bore the pants off of her if she saw much more of him? He grimaced and said: “I’m sorry, Michaela, you’ve lost me there. Would I be boring on a longer-term basis—is that what you mean?”
“No, I don’t think you’re boring at all,” she returned in tones of mild surprize.
Gee, goody. “Fine,” he said weakly. “I’m never bored with you, either. I guess I find you interesting and your work interesting.”
“I can’t talk, though.”
“Maybe; but what you do say is usually worth listening to,” he said with a little smile.
“Oh,” she said dubiously.
“Anyroad, chatterers bore me to tears. That little Vicki, now: well, I guess I shouldn’t bad-mouth your cousin, but there were times Euan brought her along with him when I was just about at screaming point, I tell ya!”
“Me, too.”
Sol gave a relieved little laugh. “Yeah!”
“Ginny’s all right: she only talks about interesting things.”
“Uh-huh. Ideas, or art, or music: you’re right. She’s a bright kid.”
“Yes.”
They seemed to have gotten off of the track, some. He sighed and said: “What I’m trying to say is, could you bear to see a mite more of me?”
“More?”
“Mm-hm.”
He could see in the light of the street lamps she was frowning. “I see you quite often, because of the boutique.”
“Yes. Not like that, Michaela,” he said gently.
Her hands clasped tightly together. “How do you mean?”
Sol said gently: “More like a man and woman. Get to know each other on a more personal basis. I mean, I like young Euan and little Akiko fine, but I’d rather spend time with you alone.” He hesitated. “Quality time, I guess.”
“We do spend time together,” she said in a low voice.
“Yes, but— You know. See if we could maybe take it further.”
“No, I don’t know!” she said loudly.
Sol put his hand very gently on hers and said: “On the basis where maybe you would let me kiss you good-night, Michaela.”
Michaela’s hands remained rigid beneath his. “I don’t want that,” she said in a tight voice.
“Don’t you like me?” he asked softly.
“Yes. But I don’t want any more of that.”
Sol bit his lip very hard. “I see.”
Michaela explained in a strangled voice: “I can’t do it any more. It never works out and I get all involved and then it interferes with my work.”
Sol didn’t think the Morton thing had noticeably interfered with her work, in fact she’d been turning out some good stuff these last few months. He didn’t say so, because he understood that that wasn’t entirely what she meant. “I see.”
“Can I go, now?” she said.
He took his hand away and said: “You can go whenever you want, Michaela, don’t ever feel that I’m keeping you against your will.”
Michaela’s mouth opened and shut. Then she said faintly: “People do.”
Sol pressed his lips very tightly together. Finally he said softly, as she still just sat there: “Honey, I’m not people. Only I don’t guess you can see that, just yet. I won’t bother you again, if you don’t want it. Only can we still be friends? Uh—I forget your New Zealand word. Buddies?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I think you’re nice. It’s me, I’m no good at all that.”
“I understand that. We’ll just be buddies.”
“Good mates,” she said faintly.
An extraordinary usage of the word, Sol noted dazedly. “Uh—sure. Good mates, if that’s what you want. You and me and little Akiko and young Euan this summer, just like it has been, mm?”
“Yes. And Starsky.”
Sol repressed a wince. “Sure. And Starsky! You wanna run on in now, Michaela?”
“Yes.” She fumbled at the door and Sol just sat there and let her.
“Good-night,” she said hoarsely, bending down.
“Good-night, mate,” he returned softly.
Michaela hurried up her path.
Sol waited until she was inside and a light came on. Then he drove all the way up to Kingfisher Bay, carefully as was his wont, thinking hard.
One of the things he thought was that he must take care not to become angry with her; he had an idea that was a trap Hugh Morton might have fallen into. Nope: if he wanted Michaela—and he was sure, now, that she was what he wanted—it was gonna have be slow and steady. Slow Sol, steady Sol, and Sol the “good mate.” Jesus!
Okay, if that was what it took, that was what it was gonna take.
Next chapter:
https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/10/one-of-our-blameless-dances.html
No comments:
Post a Comment