The Ever-Rolling Stream

46

The Ever-Rolling Stream

    Just on nine months had passed since the Christmas in July party at the Aitkens’ battered wooden house in Blossom Av’. Winter had blown itself out in the usual squally storms into the usual squally spring; the pussy-willows had flowered up the old Waikaukau road, and Carrano Development’s bulldozers had churned the bottom end of the old Waikaukau road into an unspeakable morass of yellow clay for months on end. Spring had blown itself out, summer had blown itself in, and the ruts at the bottom of the old Waikaukau road had hardened in the January sun and turned to choking dust under the blazing blue sky of February. The subdevelopments of Willow Reach and Willow Ridge had now completed Willow Plains. In their wake the gas reticulation had actually struggled that far. Elizabeth Road itself was now fully sealed, thus enabling the yuppies of Willow Plains in their Porsches to zip along it at a hundred K an hour—apart from the large stretches that had been dug up for the gas pipes and that were now in the process of being re-sealed. March had dawned blazing hot but had blown itself out in a rainstorm.

    It was now April, and whether or not the times they were a-changing as Meg and John had surmised that July, it was certainly true that more than a few things had happened in the intervening period to the participants in that Christmas in July party.

    For one thing, as it turned out June had been slightly pregnant at the point of the Santa-biscuit-making session (cause and effect, as Meg had later pointed out) and just a week ago had produced—in spite of the gloomy prognostications as to its sex from the entire population of Blossom Av’—a bouncing baby girl. Bob was in seventh heaven, even though she didn’t have red hair like Katie Maureen Carrano’s, and was going round offering cigars and saying: “Fourth time lucky, eh?” with a silly grin on his face. They couldn’t think what to call her and Bill was predicting she’d be “Bub” for the rest of her natural like a cousin of his who was forty-nine, but so far everyone had managed to ignore him pretty successfully.

    Back in September, Susan Harding had also had her baby: a boy. Alan hadn’t minded what it was called, which was just as well, because Phyllis had decided on “Jeremy” if it was a boy and Susan had decided on “John” if it was a boy. Sir John Harding hadn’t dared to argue with Phyllis but had silently been pretty chuffed when Susan had won that one. Pat Winkelmann hadn’t turned up for the birth, but that had been fully expected. Abe had sent a huge present from Scandinavia: a modern wardrobe made in a traditional old Scandinavian pattern from some sort of traditional Scandinavian wood, the chopping down of which had no doubt contributed to the destruction of the Scandinavian environment. He would have sent a matching cradle only Susan had already written to say that Tom and Jemima had given them a restored traditional cradle.

    By now Bill and Meg had made a few changes of their own. They had been sort of thanking about it back in July but it had been Phoebe’s announcement in September that she would be resigning from St Ursie’s at the end of the school year in order to complete her Ph.D. which had precipitated Meg’s decision. And it had been Meg’s that had precipitated Bill’s. Or, more accurately, Meg’s in combination with Tom’s, and also in combination with the fact that he’d suddenly decided he couldn’t take another minute, let alone another twenty years, arbitrating Beryl Swayne’s and Sue Macfarlane’s demarcation disputes over the use of the school hall at lunchtime. Added to which the station-waggon had run out of petrol in the middle of the Bridge. Not only humiliating, but expensive: there was a whacking great fine.

    Meg’s decision had been that she would apply for that job at Puriri High that various persons not excluding Twin Two had been urging her to apply for ever since it had been advertised in the Education Gazette. Andrew’s ostensible reason was that Mum’d like teaching mostly German better than teaching mostly French, but his real reasons, though no-one was enquiring too closely, were probably that he thought Meg would go easy on his German homework and that he’d get a ride to and from school every day.

    Tom’s decision had been that in view of the noises Mima Puddle-Duck had been making about returning to fulltime lecturing in the coming academic year he’d bloody well apply for the deputyship at Puriri Primary. Well, for God’s sake, it’d cut something like three hours’ travelling time off his day! And though he’d miss the glories of Standard Three-Oh at Maungakiekie Street Primary, he certainly wouldn’t miss the never-ending demarcation disputes between Beryl Swayne and Sue Macfarlane. Or Beryl Swayne’s stewed tea. Or Isabel Blakely’s daily reports on the progress of the soapies she followed, actually.

    Tom and Meg had both got these jobs. In Bill’s opinion, in Tom’s case because of the glowing reference he’d given him—the supreme sacrifice, ya coulda said. Well. that and the fact that Jemima Puddle-Duck had suggested he buy a suit to wear at the interview. Though where she’d got the idea from was anyone’s guess. Meg had got her job, which was technically that of Head of Modern Languages, on the strength of the glowing reference Phoebe had given her and it had nothing whatsoever to do—in Bill’s opinion—with the terrifyingly smart executive-type suit she’d blown six months of their joint hard-earned on. Or the fact that John had let her drive his Alpha to the interview.

    Bill had been in a very bad mood, of course, in the wake of these events, up until the day that Michael and Andrew came home all agog and reported that Puriri Primary’s Mr Young had dropped dead!

    Connie was now going to this institution of lower learning, Meg and Bill having duly made the discovery that though she’d loved going to Daddy’s school with Daddy it had made too long a day for her.

    “Why didn’t you tell us, ya tiny pinhead?” demanded Bill fiercely.

    “I never!” she wailed.

    “Never what?” asked Andrew feebly.

    “Cripes, ya don’t expect logic from her, do ya?” said his twin with a hoarse laugh.

    “She probably doesn’t know,” noted Roger laconically.

    “I do SO!” she shouted.

    “Know what?” said Bill cunningly,

    “You’re MEAN, Daddy!” she shouted, bursting into tears.

    Groaning, Bill picked her up and cuddled her. “Yeah, yeah. –Look, is this a bloody rumour?” he said over her sobbing head.

    “No.” replied Michael. “—I’m going up to Starksy’s.” He exited.

    Bill glared at Andrew. “Who told you? TWIN!’

    “Ole Fox-Face announced it at Assembly. They’re gonna have a—um—dunno. Not a funeral,” he offered.

    The veins on Bill’s forehead stood out alarmingly.

    “I think he means a memorial service,” said Roger laconically.

    “Yeah. In our hall,” said Andrew without interest.

    “Why?” asked Roger.

    “Um—dunno. Um—ole Fox-Face reckons everyone at school went to Puriri Primary or something,” he offered. “So we oughta have it together.”

    “That’s logical,” acknowledged Bill.

    “Your hall won’t hold all of Puriri Primary as well as all of Puriri High,” noted Roger detachedly.

    “Good. In that case me and Michael won’t go,” said Andrew, wandering out.

    Bill sighed heavily.

    “Sounds circumstantial,” noted Roger kindly. “Why don’t you apply for the job, Dad?”

    “Look—” he began heatedly. He broke off.

    “It’s a better school, and bigger: it’d be higher pay. You’d have Tom as your deputy, too.”

    Bill took a deep breath. “Listen, Connie,” he said grimly: “is it true that Mr Young’s dead?”

    “Dad, I don’t think she—”

    “Shut up. –Connie! Did they tell you at school that Mr Young’s dead?”

    No reply. Bill took another deep breath.

    “Connie,” said Roger kindly: “ole Mr Old, well, he’s dead, eh?”

    Her face brightened. “He’s all dead! I gotta notice!” she cried.

    Bill staggered, and set her down hurriedly. “Gawd,” he said to the first fruit of his loins.

    “It’s a matter of using the right keywords, Dad,” said Roger kindly, wandering out.

    “Where’s the notice, sweetheart?” said Bill limply.

    Connie was still wearing her schoolbag, presumably because none of Them had thought to remove it from her person. She scrabbled in it. “Notice!”

    Bill knew that the only reason the notice was in there was that Connie’s teacher would have stood over the lot of them and personally seen to it that the notices went into the bags, so he didn’t stagger. “Ta. Good girl.”

    Blimey O’Reilly, it was true! Well, admittedly old Young had been a thousand and two, he’d been headmaster in Rog’s day, but—

    Possibly because of the brand-new suit that Meg forced him to buy for the interview or possibly because, John Aitken’s theory, Maungakiekie Street Primary under Bill’s régime was the only school in the entire southern metropolitan area that hadn’t been burned down at least once in the last fifteen years, or possibly because, Roger’s theory, it was advertised at the wrong time of year, Bill got the job.

    Roger pointed out that this was highly unfair: Dick White should have got it, after all he’d been there for years, but Bill pointed out that the flaming Government might have taken a hatchet to the Department and replaced it with a senseless system of PTA participation that no-one in the country wanted least of all the parents, and buggered up the school year entirely by introducing semesters and mid-year breaks in flaming July that no-one wanted least of all the parents, but they weren’t yet so blind to the prejudices of Ye Grate New Zild Public that they were gonna go and appoint a bloke that was gay as headmaster of a primary school, for God’s sake! Poor old Dick. Bloody decent joker, too. Roger merely replied calmly that he knew that, Dad, and that was what he was saying: it was highly unfair.

    So Bill, Meg and Tom had all started their new jobs in Puriri at the beginning of February. And Jemima had gone back to full-time lecturing at the beginning of March. So far it was all working out splendidly. Bill, for instance, had so much admin he only got home a half-hour earlier than he used to.

    Jemima had such impossible hours that Tom, with Dirk in his sheepskin-lined child-restraint, spent every other afternoon between the hours of four and six-thirty driving into the City Campus in order to get her home before the 6.30 news was actually over, and alternate evenings driving her up to Puriri Campus after early tea in time for a seven o’clock language lab and then back to Puriri Campus to pick her up around eight-thirty because there was no bus at all at that time of night. Added to which there was always the possibility that muggers and rapists might be lurking round the campus in the dark. And since a fluffy child-restraint didn’t fit into an M.G. when you also had to fit a Mima Puddle-Duck into it, they’d had to mortgage their increased income for the next five years in order to buy a small used Japanese car with a back seat. Just as well Tom had got the garage up, because the M.G. spent a Helluva lot of its time in it, these days.

    Meg had about the same teaching load as at St Ursie’s, only, as Andrew had predicted, more German than French, which was a great relief. But as she’d found herself with all that spare time at end of the day, she had foolishly volunteered, in the first flush of enthusiasm, to supervise Detention one afternoon a week, to take German Club one afternoon a week, and to take Catch-Up German and French two afternoons a week for persons who had failed their exams miserably last year and discovered the workforce didn’t want them, or who wanted to get a qualification fifteen years after having left school without ever having thought it necessary to pass an exam. That left one afternoon a week, if anyone was counting. Which coincidentally was Connie’s Brownie afternoon. That had worked out well, hadn’t it?

    Well, it certainly had from Connie’s point of view: it being manifestly not worth going home before Brownies was due to finish, Meg would stay at school to get some marking done and, exhausted after this great effort, totter off with her to the delights of The Ice Cream Parlour or Georgie’s (The Primrose Café not being open that late) and there consume large ice creams or milkshakes or cream doughnuts. Obviously Meg couldn’t look after Connie on non-Brownie afternoons, not if she was supervising classes, so on those four afternoons Connie went along to Daddy’s. office. Nominally to “sit quietly.”

    Puriri Primary, after supporting approximately ten aeons of old Mr Young in his very old suit, was gradually getting accustomed to Mr Coggins in his grungy grey slacks and grungy grey or brown jumpers. And tie-less, short-sleeved shirts in summer. Well, if it wasn’t, too bad.

    Tom was enjoying his new job: he had Standard Fours. In the old days of course the Deputy Head would probably nave been forced to take Form Twos but as this year had marked the grand opening of Puriri & District Intermediate, the primary school had lost the Form Ones and Twos. If it hadn’t probably neither Tom nor Bill would have applied to teach there, because these days, in case no-one was looking, those kids were HUGE. Had something to do with the high-fibre bread, most probably. Bill had very kindly said that Tom could have a Standard Three if he liked, but Tom had got a bit bored with the Standard Three curriculum and was enjoying the change.

    Blossom Av’ itself had also seen a few changes. Not the actual road, of course: that was still rutted and muddy in autumn, winter and spring, and rutted and dusty in summer. And footpathless. But at Number 10 Tom had finished his giant retaining wall along the edge of the reserve. It looked most impressive. Especially as, in order to stop Dirk from falling into the ha-ha, he’d had to put a green plastic mesh fence all the way along its top. Hah, hah, as several people from over the road had not failed to remark.

    Numbers 3 and 9 had had facelifts. Or, to put it more accurately, Darryl and Meg,  with the willing and active co-operation of Jemima Overdale, not to say of the energetic Susan Harding, and the willing but necessarily less active co-operation of June Butler, had gone mad. Or, to put it more accurately still, Darryl had been to a political science conference in Australia towards the end of the academic year and had come home with a book on the shades of paint used on “Federation” houses. Once they’d figured what the Hell the Aussies meant by “Federation” and “milk paint,” this terminology not having crossed the Tasman, there had been no stopping them. Bill had kept right out of it. Well, he’d wielded a paintbrush when ordered to, but he’d steered well clear of the decision-making, ta. If they wanted to slather his house in something that wouldn’t poison Connie if she tried to lick it off, good: let ’em.

    Tom had at first taken a lofty stand but had been forced to abandon it by the sight of Jemima Puddle-Duck mounting a trestle in a pair of his overalls that were too long for her and already, as she mounted, unrolling. After that he’d tried to take over the entire thing, but Darryl had been able to stand up to him. So he had just helped.

    Number 3 was now a sort of dark cream. Had it not been for the elegant dark blue and soft terracotta touches round the windows that you didn’t notice from more than five yards away you would have taken it for one of those Maori houses you used to see standing in the middle of fields out in the wop-wops when Bill was a boy, but he had not, of course, dared to voice this racist and non-With-It thought. Well, only to Bob Butler and Sol Winkelmann, both of whom had bust themselves over it.

    Bill’s own gracious residence was a sort of yicky terracotta all over, with sort of yicky pale green windowsills and stuff, but Meg was happy. Whether or not this particular paint had been intended for the harsh Aussie sun, Bill would have wagered all of his increased salary that it’d be faded to glory this time next year, but sufficient unto the day. There had been a Helluva loft of yicky pale green left over, so the chook-house was now yicky pale green.

    At Number 3 there had been a Helluva lot of blue left over so John’s new pheasant-house was now a rapidly-fading dark blue. The pheasants were, according to John, food. Connie had already named them Bessie, Daisy and Buttercup (at whose prompting it was probably better not to enquire) and, a nice touch, some thought, Meriel after Darryl’s mother, Lady Tuwhare.

    Over the road at Number 10 Tom’s chooks had been a failure because Jemima didn’t really like their faces, so he’d got brown banties instead. Jemima had given them all names in H, largely because Tom had bet her she couldn’t think of six female names in H: Helena, Hermia, Hero, Heather, Horatia and Hermione. Tom had thought of calling the banty rooster Hereward or Hyperion, but had settled for Longinus. Both his brother Ralph and Sol Winkelmann when told, severally, of this choice, had gone into prolonged hysterics. So maybe it wasn’t so strange, after all, Tom’s friends and neighbours had concluded, that the both of them had fallen for Phoebe Fothergill: they clearly had more in common than met the eye.

    Blossom Av’ hadn’t seen much of Ralph and Phoebe, though Tom and Jemima had been favoured with gracious invitations to a view of how the other point nought, nought, nought one percent lived. Tom had reported round about Christmas that their roses were doing well, but Meg. who had entered a phase of prolonged anxiety about the new job, which hectic house painting was not curing, had informed him grimly that that was not a need-to-know. However, towards the end of February, after she’d started the new job and it had dawned, or such was Tom’s claim, that she wouldn’t be seeing Phoebe every working day forever more, she had attempted to probe Jemima as to how it was going, and if Ralph’s divorce had come through. Jemima had replied that she wasn’t sure if it actually had, only if it hadn’t it must be nearly through, because they’d had a wedding invitation for early May.

    Meg’s jaw dropped and she squawked: “Jemima, that was for Hugh and Roberta’s wedding!”

    Jemima replied with the utmost placidity that she knew. She hadn’t meant that, though: Ralph and Phoebe were getting married the week after, or was it the week before? Anyway, they were a week apart. And then Ralph and Phoebe were going to Bali for a fortnight. No, not a beach, she didn’t think: Ralph had said something about an excellent golf course in the highlands. Um, did Bali have highlands? Meg had quietly decided not to repeat any of this confusing intel to Bill. Or Roger.

    Jemima didn’t know what she was going to wear to the wedding but thought Tom would think of something and didn’t know what they were going to give them, and Tom had only suggested silly things. Meg refrained from further enquiry in that direction, but said on a wistful note: “Do you really think Phoebe’s happy, then?”

    To which Jemima replied simply: “Yes.”

    “It sounds all right,” Meg reported to June.

    June was in Bruce Smith’s hospital with Bub. Though due to come home in a couple of days’ time: Bruce didn’t keep his mums in very long, unless he thought they needed a good rest from their loving families. “Yes,” she agreed happily.

    Meg swallowed a sigh: June, of course, at the moment would agreed to anything.

    “What do you think about Phoebe, Meg?” the addled sprogging one then said.

    Meg’s jaw dropped.

    “For a name!” said June with a giggle.

    “Oh! Uh—foul. Why not call her Hermione like Jemima’s blessed banty and be done with it?”

    “Silly,” said June comfortably. “No, all right, Bob doesn’t like it, either. It was just a thought... Meriel’s a pretty name.”

    “Yeah, you could ask Lady Tuwhare to be godmother,” noted Meg snidely, eating one of June’s chocs. “Yum! Crikey! Who gave you these?”

    “Polly.”

    “Oh,” said Meg, satisfied.

    “Have another,” said June comfortably. “Seriously, what do you think of Meriel?”

    “It is pretty. Only everybody’d call her Muriel, poor little sprog.”

    “Ugh! Um... Polly knows a lady that’s called Melinda.”

    “That’s very pretty,” approved Meg.

    “Ye-es... I think so, too. Only people’d think it was meant to be Belinda. Don’t you think?”

    Meg considered it. “Not so much these days.”

    “Well, no. There’s a girl in Mason’s class called Kyla,” June eyed her sideways.

    “You mean Kylie,” said Meg confidently.

    June shook her head, grinning. “No. Kyla. K,Y,L,A,” she clarified.

    Meg swallowed. “They musta made it up.”

    “Probably. How did you choose Connie?” asked June wistfully.

    “We didn’t: she was wished on us. –No,” said Meg, grinning, as June gave an indignant cry of “Me-eg!”—“it was after Bill’s Grandma: Constance. It’s not too bad, I suppose. Only we’ve never called her by it.”

    June sighed. “I see.”

    “What about Ida?”

    “Ida’s told us not to: she’s always hated it herself!” said June with a laugh. “Only we thought we might have it as a middle name.”

    Meg nodded.

    “Grace?” suggested June after a pause.

    Meg handed the chocs. “Better not, Michaela’ll need it.”

    “She came in early this morning,” said June cautiously.

    “It’s not visiting hours in the mornings, is it?”

    June looked vague. “Bruce Smith was here: he said it was okay,”

    “You mean they let her in during Doctors’ Rounds?” gulped Meg.

    June looked vague. “Dunno. Anyway, he was here. He asked her how her foot was: you know, from that bit of glass she picked up in her sneaker. And before she could say anything,” she added, laughing, “he said he wouldn’t charge for asking!”

    “He’s nice,” agreed Meg, smiling. “How is the foot?”

    “Fine. It healed up in no time once he’d got the bit of glass out.”

    “How is she apart from that?” said Meg briskly.

    “Didn’t you see her the other day?”

    “No. Oh: if you mean the lithograph Bob asked her to drop off,” said Meg on a grim note, “she dropped it off, all right. Dratted Michael answered the front door and accepted the package and by the time I’d got it out of him that it was her, she’d headed for the hills on her bike.”

    June bit her lip.

    “June,” she asked fearfully, “has something gone wrong between her and Sol?”

    “We don’t think so.”

    Meg looked at her indignantly.

    “Well, we don’t know. But it seems to be okay. I mean, she seems to be seeing him quite regularly. Only I do mean ‘seeing’,” said June sadly. “It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. And it’s such a pity! Um—well, it’s different having your first when you’re well into your thirties.”

    Meg nodded glumly.

    June sighed. “She really likes Bub. It’ll be an awful waste if she doesn’t have any of her own. And Sol’s so good with kids.”

    “Yes; Bob was saying Starsky’s apparently planning to spend the whole of next week with him.”

    “The whole of next week?” echoed June in a fuddled voice.

    “It’s Easter, ya dill,” explained Meg clearly, grinning.

    June smiled sheepishly. “Oh. So it is.”

    “It’s the milk,” noted Meg airily.

    June smiled sheepishly.

    “Of course, some of us down at Number 9 did point out,” said Meg, eyeing her in some amusement, “that Bub’s mother might be expecting the poor wee sprog’s siblings to be at home to welcome her.”

    “Y— Um— You mean you pointed it out to Starsky?”

    “No, Bob.”

    “He didn’t say Starsky could go, did he?”

    “I don’t think any human force could stop him, June: Sol’s apparently gonna erect his A-frame. But Bob has ordered him to be home the actual day you bring Bub home, on pain of instant dismissal from the Butler clan. –There’s a better word than dismissal, but I’ve forgotten it.”

    “Excommunication.’

    Meg goggled at her.

    “Bob’s said it before.”

    “I was gonna say!” she agreed, laughing.

    “Yeah. I’d forgotten how fuzzy you get,” explained the sprogging one.

    “Too right,” agreed the mother of twins and a Connie.

    “Hang on…” June then said.

    Meg eyed her cautiously,

    June took a deep breath. “Look, you haven’t been cooking for those monsters, have you?”

    “No. Well, I haven’t had the time, what with Detention and Brownies and everything,” she admitted. “Um—well, Bill gets home earlier than me, so— It was only stew,” she added quickly. “He made a huge pot of it and we’ve been eating it for the past few days.”

    “Bob’s impossible!” said June crossly.

    “Well, he’s been working really hard on those new lithographs. –I hope Phoebe’ll like the one we’ve got them for a wedding present,” she added uneasily.

    “Are those the blue wishy-washy ones?” asked the artist’s wife.

    “Mm. Her flat was mostly fawns and oranges and creams. Only she did have blue in the passage. And there’s quite a bit of blue in the new house.”

    “He must like it. That sounds okay,” said the artist’s wife.

    “Yeah. –At least Roberta and the Dastardly Sir Hugh Haven’t invited us to theirs—ore problem the less!” said Meg cheerfully.

    “Yes. –Ooh: if it’s Easter next week. then it must be Vicki’s wedding this weekend, is that right?”

    “Yeah. We’re not honouring her with one of Bob’s lithographs, I can tell ya!” said Meg, grinning.

    “There’s a pixilated horror you could have. It’s for holding notelets. It’s got a toadstool and a letterbox.”

    “Gee, both! Does the letterbox say anything cute?”

    June grinned. “Post Here.’ Not brilliant, but considering I was nine months when I started it—!”

    “Quite! I wish I could say we’ll take it, only we’ve already got her something. She had a list. Three canisters: one says ‘Tea’ and one says ‘Coffee’ and the other—”

    “Says ‘Sugar,’” said June.

    “Good guess. But actually it says ‘Milo.’ Tom reckons it’ll be collectible in about thirty years.”

    June nodded. Then she added wistfully: “I do like Meriel.”

    “Uh—oh! Well, have it! Lady Tuwhare’ll probably volunteer to be godmother,” said Meg, laughing. “She’s been on at Darryl to have another, you know.”

    June nodded. “I think she might. She seemed pretty struck by Bub when she came in the other day.”

    “Knowing her, she’ll finish out the academic year and start it neatly just after she’s done her marking.”

    “Yeah,” agreed June with relish, “and its birthday’ll fall within five days of Boris’s, and she’ll regret it bitterly for the next eighteen years!”

    Meg sniggered so much she had to use one of June’s tissues to mop her eyes and then have another of June’s expensive chocs.

    “Meriel Butler,” said June thoughtfully.

    “Ye-es…”

    “Melinda Butler,” said June thoughtfully.

    Meg looked at her hopefully.

    “Actually, I like that better,” she decided.

    Meg nodded, beaming.

    “Melinda… Yes, it is pretty. And it’s a bit different. I’ll see what Bob thinks.”

    “Good.” Meg got up reluctantly. “I’d better go, I have to pick up Connie from Brownies.”

    “Yes. Um—Meg?”

    “Mm?”

    June looked at her plaintively. “Can’t you think of some way, um, to get Michaela and Sol—um—”

    “To do it,” finished Meg, sighing. “No.”

    June was rather pink. “I was going to say ‘together’. Um—think about it, Meg.”

    “I’ve been thinking about it for about a year, and I haven’t come up with a thing! We’ve had them to tea a couple of times, and I know Ida has,”—June nodded—”and Tom and Jemima have, and Susan and Alan Harding, of course—oh, and Susan’s sister—and nothing seems to work!”

    “No.”

    “Oh, heck,” said Meg, seeing her bottom lip was quivering. “Don’t bawl, June, it curdles the milk.”

    “Mm,” she said, sniffing. “I’m okay. Only I keep thinking about Michaela’s biological time bomb.”

    “Uh—yeah. Clock,” corrected Meg feebly.

    “Is it? Oh. Yes, I think you’re right. Clock.” June took a tissue and blew her nose.

    Meg took a deep breath. “I’ll ask Polly what she thinks. I’ll ring her this evening.”

    “Mm, good. And—and maybe Tom could help?”

    Meg swallowed a sigh. “I don’t think he can think of anything, either. But I’ll ask him—actually we’re having tea there tonight, so I can ask him then.”

    “Good. –Hang on: when you say ‘we’—”

    “He could hardly not ask Bob and the boys, when he was asking us,” said Meg hurriedly.

    June took a deep breath. “Has Bob been near the stove since I’ve been in here?”

    “We don’t mind. Actually, I think he’s been lonely without you.”

    June looked very slightly mollified. “Oh.”

    “He said,” reported Meg with a funny little smile, “that you’d never spent a night apart, except for the times you were having the kids, ever since you started living together when you were at Art School.”

    “No,” she agreed happily. “I suppose that’s right. –If you don’t count the first time we went to stay with Mum and she put us in separate rooms.’

    Meg gulped. “Sounds like Mother.”

    “Only Bob came into my room that night and simply stayed!” finished June, laughing.

    Meg grinned. “Good on him!” She pecked June’s cheek. “Don’t worry about Michaela, she’s looking miles happier than she was this time last year. It’s taken her a while to get over Sol’s thing with Akiko, that’s all. And I don’t think she was even properly over Hugh at the time, that couldn’t have helped.”

    “No. Thanks, Meg.”

    Meg smiled, bade her bye-bye, and went out still smiling. But in the passage she came over all all-overish and had to sit down hurriedly on a nice little sofa in an alcove with a view of the sea and blow her nose.

    “Penny for ’em,” said John with a grin, forcing a drink into Sol’s fist and sitting down heavily beside him on Tom’s magnificent leather sofa.

    “Huh? –Oh; thanks, John. Uh—well, I was just thinking of that first time Tom and Jemima had me round for tea,” he said slowly.

    It was a chilly evening: John looked thoughtfully into the fire.

    “You were there: I guess you may not remember, it wasn’t a momentous landmark in your life,” murmured Sol.

    “I remember,” he said calmly. “I couldn’t possibly forget: it was just before Darryl came back from France. That whole period was momentous for me: I think I could describe every damned minute of it: it’s engraved on my brain.”

    Sol looked at him sympathetically.

    “I still didn’t know whether she wanted me or not—even though she’d suggested we buy the house together,” explained John.

    Sol nodded sympathetically.

    “Yes,” said John with a sigh. “We had dinner upstairs, didn’t we? The kitchen was only half-done. And we played Trivial Pursuit afterwards.”

    Sol sipped Scotch on the rocks. “Uh-huh.”

    “Tom paired you with one of the O’Connell twins, I think,” murmured John.

    “Uh-huh. Andrew. Plus and Starsky as well.”

    “Mm.”

    Sol smiled. “You hadn’t forgotten that, had you? –No: don’t tell me: you was sparin’ me the memory of my humiliation!”

    “Something like that,” he murmured. “Michael was paired with Jemima: largely in order that her counter should get moved. I think.”

    “Yeah,” he said, grinning. “I recall I thought that, at the time.”

    John sipped neat whisky slowly. “Was it really a momentous landmark in your life?”

    Sol wrinkled his nose. “Yeah. Lookin’ back: yeah. Kids and ducks,” he said with a sigh. “Wal, somethin’ like that. It was seeing Tom and Jemima’s lifestyle, I guess, and—uh—well, Blossom Avenue in general, and... uh—”

    “Tom and Jemima,” said John placidly.

    “You said it. I just...” Sol looked into his whisky. “Wanted it for myself, I guess.”

    “Mm. So much so that it decided you to emigrate?”

    “Yeah, I think it did,” he admitted with a sigh. “Of course, on the surface of my consciousness—no, well, just under the surface, maybe—there were lots of other reasons. And for a long time I was sure that Phoebe was one of the main reasons. Only now I suppose I can see that—uh—that it wasn’t her, so much, but the idea that we could maybe have something like—well,” he said, sighing, “what Tom and Jemima had.”

    “Yes. –‘Had’ or ‘have’?”

    Sol looked at him with tremendous liking. “That first night, if anyone had ever suggested to me, not only that I’d end up liking the weirdo Limey just about the best of all of those present, but the idea that the weirdo Limey had the sharpest brain I was ever gonna come across—!”

    John had flushed a little behind the beard. “I’m flattered,” he said with a smile.

    Sol smiled back but added after a moment: “You’re right, of course. They’ve changed some, huh? Wal...,” he said slowly, looking at the Chinese rug, the sofa itself, the gleaming polyurethaned kauri floor and the satin-smooth, creamy walls lovingly plastered and sanded down and re-plastered and re-sanded over a period of six months or so: “their setting’s changed some, I guess. I don’t think Jemima could ever change fundamentally.”

    “In spite of all his misguided efforts,” noted John drily, sipping whisky.

    “Yeah. And the real weird thing is,” said Sol energetically, “he knows they’re misguided, John!”

    “Of course,” he said placidly.

    Sol swallowed. “Yeah. Well, if I’da walked into this here gracious dwelling like it is today, I guess I might never have decided to emigrate: no.”

    “No.”

    Sol waited a moment or two but naturally John Aitken did not ask him if he was happy with his decision. So he said with a sigh: “It ain’t that I’m unhappy with my decision.”

    “No.”

    “Only— Well, I’m planning on getting the A-frame up at Sol’s Cove over Easter.”

    John nodded.

    Sol sighed. “And it suddenly struck me, that though it sure enough is a great setting for kids and ducks, it’s miles from nowhere and I don’t got no kids nor ducks!”

    John sipped whisky. “No. Daisy’s chicks are coming along well: I could let you have a few. –I realize they’re not ducks,” he added apologetically.

    Sol choked slightly and didn’t bother to point out to John Aitken that that wasn’t what he’d meant. “Well, gee, thanks very much. I’d like that, John. Only you must let me pay you for them.”

    John replied placidly: “There’s no need. I wouldn’t be making a fortune out of them, in any event. There are very few people in the country who will pay good money for a pheasant, or so I’m reliably informed. Those that are interested get out and shoot their own, and those that don’t, don’t think they’re food.”

    Sol gulped.

    “—Alastair,” explained Sir Alastair Tuwhare’s son-in-law laconically.

    “That could explain why it sounded like a cross between Darryl and Tom,” he admitted shakily.

    “Yes!” said John with a sudden laugh. “My God, yes!”

    Sol grinned, and drained his whisky. He got up. “Fancy the other half?” he said, poker-face. Pronouncing it, as best he could, “hawf.”

    “Don’t mind if I do,” replied John, poker-face. He drained his tumbler and held it out.

    Sol poured Scotch, shaking slightly.

    “Aw-wuh!” whinged Starsky, some hours later. “It’s nilly Easter!”

    “It isn’t Easter yet,” replied Bob firmly. “And we’ve all got school tomorrow. Thanks for the tea, Tom.” He dragged his lot off.

    “Come on,” groaned Meg.

    As Connie had gone to sleep on Bill’s lap there wasn’t much he could say, really. He rose carefully and shambled in Meg’s wake. The twins didn’t shamble in Meg’s wake: she was pushing them bodily in front of her. No-one had suggested it was Roger’s bedtime but he ambled along with them as a matter of course.

    “And what are your plans for tomorrow?” said Tom brightly to their boarder.

    “Tom!” protested Jemima.

    But Damian merely sighed and said: “I better go to bed.” He rose, bade them good-night, endeavoured without result to get The Fiend to rise from his usual position, and went out, yawning.

    “He was up awfully early this morning,” noted Jemima.

    “Serve ’im right for not doing his swot earlier,” replied her spouse hard-heartedly.

    “He’s been working very hard. He’s an—an anxious personality,” retorted Jemima on an indignant note.

    “Most of ’em are, round about exams,” noted Darryl, yawning. “You got any more classes?” she said to Jemima.

    Jemima sighed. “Yes. Tutorials tomorrow afternoon.”

    “None of ’em’ll turn up,” she predicted.

    Jemima sighed. “Probably not.”

    “I’ve got a ten o’clock lecture tomorrow, and a tutorial after lunch, and bloody Hamish has called a staff meeting for after that,” Darryl reported sourly.

    “Mm. There was a time,” said John thoughtfully, “when he’d have been straining at the leash to get away for his Easter hols, too.”

    “Custom must have staled his pretty little wife’s charms, then,” noted Tom snidely.

    “It does that, I’m told, if one doesn’t watch out for it,” he said lugubriously.

    “Don’t be a birk! They’re going to his ruddy mother-in-law’s this year!” said his wife loudly.

    “Or there is that, of course,” he sighed.

    Darryl got up, groaning. “I’ll get Boris. –John’s got a nine o’clock with the M.A. class,” she explained.

    “More of them signed up for my course this year,” said John glumly.

    “Ain’t that good?” said Sol in confusion.

    “No, it means more marking.”

    “Oh, yeah,” he said weakly.

    Michaela had been sitting on the rug with The Fiend, apparently immune to the entire conversation. But when Tom and Jemima returned from seeing the Aitkens off she looked up and said: “Sean and Greg and me are putting in a path and a fountain tomorrow. For a lady on The Hill. I’ve forgotten her name.”

    “You haven’t forgotten her address, I hope?” said Tom politely.

    “Um—yes, I have, actually,” she said with her slow smile. “But it’s all right: I know the house when I see it.”

    “That’s a relief. I’d hate to think of the wrong house on The Hill getting a fountain.”

    Michaela got up, grinning. “Yeah. Thanks for the tea, it was super.”

    “Hold on, Michaela, I’ll give you a lift,” said Sol mildly.

    “No, that’s okay, I’ve got my bike.”

    Sol got up. “We can put the bike on the roof-rack.”

    “No, I’d rather ride.”

    The Overdales perceived that Sol had gone very red.

    “I want to think,” said Michaela.

    “I see,” he said in a strangled voice.

    “I had an idea about a pot,” she said vaguely.

    “Yeah. Sure. Wal, see you next week, huh?”

    “Yes.”

    Tom gave in and led her to the front door.

    Sol followed about two seconds after she’d gone. Tom and Jemima stood on the front porch and watched his lights turn left, not right towards Puriri, at the bottom of Blossom Av’.

    “Ouch,” muttered Tom.

    “Help, did Michaela go the other way?”

    “Yes. Well, she always does, doesn’t she?”

    “Mm. –I don’t think she meant anything by it,” ventured Jemima as they went indoors.

    “No. But that isn’t the point. is it?”

    “No,” she said in a hollow voice. “Poor Sol.”

    “Yep, the artistic temperament can certainly be hard to deal with,” said Tom in a vague voice. He went into the sitting-room and looked limply at the huge bulk of The Fiend. “Oy!” he said without hope. The Fiend ignored him.

    “He’ll want to go in the night,” remarked Jemima helpfully.

    “Yeah. True. You tell me how I’m gonna get him on his feet, Jemima,” he suggested.

    “Make a noise like a cat!” she squeaked.

    “Geddouda here.” said Tom weakly.

    “I’ll do it.”

    Tom just stood by limply and goggled as Jemima opened the door wide.

    “Come on, Fiend!” she cooed. He lifted an eyelid. “Nice drink of milk! Come on—kitchen!” cooed Jemima, taking a few steps in that direction. He rose slowly, stretching horribly, and trotted after her.

    “Gawd!” said Tom, subsiding onto his sofa. After a few minutes an Awful Thort struck him and he scrambled up and shot out.

    Jemima was in the kitchen by herself.

    “Oy, you didn’t—”

    “No. It’s easy: you just pick up his bowl and open the fridge, and then you go out to the back porch, and he follows you. But it seems awfully mean,” she said sadly.

    “How many times have you tried this trick?” he asked weakly.

    “Um—about three or four, I think. Well, he sneaks inside if I’ve been out to hang the washing up.”

    “And it hasn’t dawned yet that he’s not actually gonna get milk?”

    “N— Um—well, a couple of times I’ve given it to him, you see, because I thought if I did, he’d really be convinced that he was gonna... get it,” she finished weakly. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

    “These undreamt-of depths of depravity,” he explained limply.

    “l thought it was cunning?”

    “Something like that—yeah. What now? Leave him out?”

    “No, let’s go up and get ready for bed. Then he can come in again.”

    “You mean I can shiver me way downstairs and let him in in again!”

    Replying with dignity: “Fair’s fair. I got him to go out,” Jemima Puddle-Duck retreated to the doorway, switched the kitchen light off—leaving him in the dark—and disappeared.

    Muttering madly: “Matrimony!” Tom stumbled in her wake.

    “Left hand down a bit!” shouted Susan.

    Sol nigh to dropped his end of the gable. “Don’t say that sorta thing!” he called weakly.

    From her position safe at ground-level, Susan merely grinned up at them and waved.

    “SUSAN!” shouted Darryl crossly. “How is it?”

    “GOOD!” shouted Susan, waving.

    “Your end feel wedged?” panted Sol.

    “No!” panted Darryl.

    “No. –ALAN!” he screamed.

    Alan emerged from inside the embryo A-frame and peered up at them. “That’s not fixed!” he shouted.

    “Yeah!” gasped Sol. “Come on up and give us a hand!”

    Alan mounted the spare ladder obligingly. “Our sorting-shed’s an A-frame.”

    “Hasn’t got—window—in roof—though!” gasped Darryl.

    “No,” he said mildly. “Those instructions aren’t much good. Hang on.” He produced some huge nails from his hip-pocket and proceeded to nail Darryl’s end of the gable into place.

    “Alan, the gable’s roof ain’t never gonna fit over them nails!” gasped Sol.

    “Only temporary. –I’ll shift the ladder and come up on your side, Sol.”

    “Never think he was heir to one of the largest fortunes in the country, wouldja?” noted Darryl amiably as the heir to the Harding fortune suited the action to the word.

    “No,” agreed Sol weakly.

    Pretty soon, under Alan’s capable supervision, the little attic gable was all done and Sol and Darryl were down at ground-level again.

    “Goob,” noted Susan.

    “Are you eating?” retorted Darryl fiercely.

    Susan swallowed. “Yeah. John gave me a cake thingy. Think it’s an Italian thingy.”

    Breathing heavily, Darryl strode off in the direction of the tent where John was supervising the babies.

    “I guess it is just about time for lunch,” allowed Sol.

    Euan emerged from the interior of the A-frame. “Did someone mention lunch?”

    Susan swallowed again and licked her fingers. “Depends whether Darryl’s gonna let ’im live to make it.”

    “Oh—like that, is it? –We’ve done the windows,” he notified Sol.

    Sol’s A-frame wasn’t entirely an A-frame, it was kind of an adapted A-frame that the proprietor and salesman of the A-frame firm had assured Sol was far more popular these days, and far more flexible. The bottom section, with the straight walls that Euan and Michaela had just put the windows in, made the garage, and then in the A you could put in a floor and fit in the optional dormer window, and the top section could then be— Sol had given in. Even though of course there wasn’t a staircase included in the price. Nor even in the design, actually. The structure, you  could see now that it was erected, was not unlike the shape of the store at the marina, only that its stud, if you put that upper floor in, sure ’nuff would be lower, yup. Well, true, the ground floor was only intended to be a garage. At the moment it was destined to be Sol’s only floor. Various persons had suggested various propositions like building in a mezzanine, put the bed up there, but given the amount of head-room there’d be… Not to mention the cost. As for plumbing—he hadn’t even gotten round to thinking about that yet. Certainly the Puriri County Council required you to lodge a Plan ,but Sol’s plan had been purely notional. The proprietor of the A-frame business had made noises about optional verandahs and balconies but Sol had just smiled palely.

    Michaela appeared in the open front section of the A-frame where you could fit a standard roller-door provided you could pay for one, which Sol couldn’t, or wanted one, which Sol didn’t. “These kit sets are really quick, eh?”

    She was overlooking, noted Sol silently, the time it had taken to level and prepare the ground for the concrete floor, pour the concrete floor, and allow the concrete floor to cure.

    “Yeah,” agreed Euan, overlooking the time it had taken to get the concrete floor in. “Um—when I said we’d done the windows,” he added apologetically to Sol, “that’s minus glass, of course.”

    “Yeah, sure.”

    “They’re a bit small, but never mind, if you have a big window at the front you won’t need big side windows,” said Susan kindly.

    “Yes. What are you going to have at the front?” asked Michaela.

    “A hole,” explained Sol.

    Alan laughed happily.

    “That ain’t a joke, kid,” he explained grimly.

    “You could put a tarp over it,” said Michaela seriously.

    “I’m gonna have to!” he said with feeling.

    “Kevin Goode’s got a nice set of French doors,” offered Euan.

    “This wide?” retorted Sol.

    “Wider. When I say ‘set’, I mean set. From a house that had double French doors on both sides of its verandah.”

    “Oh,” he said weakly.

    “Both ‘sides’ of its verandah?” queried Susan.

    “You know what I mean. Verandah along two sides of the house.”

    “Oh, is that what ya mean!”

    Euan ignored this. “Well?” he said mildly to Sol.

    “Yeah. Great idea. Only trouble is, Kevin Goode usually requires cash money for that stuff out back in his recyclin’ yard.”

    “You said he takes credit cards,” Michaela reminded him.

    “Uh—yeah,” he said weakly. He rubbed his nose. “These French doors: they got small panes or large, Euan?”

    “Small. Very old-fashioned. The wood’s rimu, Kevin said.”

    “Sounds great! Shove it on the plastic, then, Sol,” advised Susan kindly.

    “I’d like to, all right, Susan, only the plastic’s a bit over-stretched.

    “Alan’ll get them for you,” she replied, unmoved.

    Sol went very red.

    “Yeah, come on, Alan, we’ll just have time to nip into Carter’s Bay before lunch.” said Euan, looking at his watch.

    “No—” began Sol.

    “Pay us back when ya can, ya nana,” said Susan comfortably.

    “Yes,” agreed Alan. “Can I get anything else? Anything for lunch? Milk?”

    “I’ll just check with John.” Susan strode off to the tent.

    “Just you mind you get a receipt,” said Sol feebly to Euan in his best parasite-voice.

    “Sure,” he said mildly.

    Sol sighed.

    “We’ll get the whole set. I think you can fit three in at the front,” said Alan. “Then the fourth could be a back door, or even an interior door.”

    “That’s a good idea!” said Euan pleasedly. “A glass interior door ’ud let some light through to the back room!”

    “Yes,” agreed Michaela seriously.

    “Mm-hm,” said Sol, not pointing out that he didn’t yet have the wherewithal to build in a dividing wall, so the downstairs section was destined to remain open-plan for the foreseeable future. Alan was looking at him enquiringly. “Uh—yeah: do that, thanks, Alan,” he said feebly.

    Alan nodded happily.

    ... “We’ve made really good progress,” said Darryl happily over lunch.

    “Yeah, those kit-sets are great,” agreed Euan. “John, what didja put in this sauce?” he added pleadingly.

    John had made Chiocciole al mascherone e noce, a recipe from his Italian relatives, which Darryl had kindly interpreted for those left panting in his wake as “Funny-looking pasta thingies with walnuts, all mixed up with the most fattening cream cheese he can find.” The cream cheese was only Philadelphia, but he knew someone with a walnut tree who now supplied him regularly. Darryl had forbidden him on pain of death to make the dish unless a day of hard yacker was involved, so he’d decided it would be ideal for today.

    “Only butter, cream cheese and a little Parmesan,” he explained. “And the walnuts, of course.”

    Euan sighed.

    “No herbs,” noted Susan with interest.

    “No veges or fibre, either,” noted Darryl. “I hope you’ve made a salad for after,” she added threateningly.

    “Of course,” he said placidly.

    “As well as the starter?” said Sol weakly.

     Since John was cooking over a camping-gas burner, he had brought the antipasto ready-made: a salad of preserved red and yellow peppers. Their capsicums had done really well last summer and he had made jars and jars of preserves. Euan had refused to believe that all he had done to the peppers subsequently was to add a little olive oil and chopped garlic, even though Susan had kindly explained that it was a dish John often made and it always tasted this good.

    “Yes,” John now said to Sol. “The Antipodean influence.”

    “What is it?” he asked with foreboding.

    “Lentils!” said Alan with a laugh.

    “Hah, hah,” returned Darryl immediately.

    “No: ceci.”

    “Chickpeas,” said his wife very loudly and slowly.

    “Oh, yes. I’ve got a mental block about that name,” explained John. “It’s a salad of chickpeas and green beans. The beans are just lightly cooked.”

    “Ours are over,” noted Susan.

    “Yes, these are the last of ours,” he agreed placidly.

    “Is that it?” demanded Darryl.

    “I cec— Chickpeas are full of protein. And green beans are fibrous, I think.”

     “It’ll be delicious!” said Susan with a laugh.

    “It sure will,” agreed Sol, smiling at John.

    “I’ve added a few black olives,” he said mildly.

    “Oh,” said Darryl. “Sounds all right,” she admitted. “Not everyone likes black olives, though,” she noted.

    “No. They could leave them.”

    “We like them.” said Susan. Alan nodded hard, with his mouth full.

    “So do I,” agreed Sol.

    “So do I,” agreed Michaela.

    “Me, too!” said Euan with a laugh.

    “There you are, then,” said John placidly.

    “Good,” agreed Darryl with equal placidity. “Don’t give Boris one if they’ve got stones in them, will you?”

    “I pitted them with the olive- and cherry-pitter Tom gave me for Christmas,” he returned.

    “What?” choked Euan.

    “It’s easy. Unless the olives are too squashy,” explained Darryl.

    “No— I mean— It’s not really a special instrument for—for just doing that, is it, John?” he said weakly.

    “Yes, of course.”

    Euan looked at him limply but John’s face was quite expressionless behind the curly dark beard.

    “Tom scours the trendy kitchen-ee shop-ees regularly in quest of strange implements,” explained Susan, smiling.

    “I wouldn’t have said an olive-pitter was strange,” objected John mildly.

    “Shut up, Il Nino,” ordered his wife, grinning broadly.

    John winked one very dark brown eye solemnly at Euan.

    “Uh—no!” he said with a sheepish laugh.

     Darryl sighed deeply. “Ta, John: it was extra,” she said, undoing the waist-fastener of her jeans.

    “Glad you liked it, darling. Come on, Boris: want more?” He spooned more chiocciole into Boris’s mouth and said something approving in Italian.

    Boris finished his mouthful but then cried: “Don’ wan’ any more!”

   “No, all right, sweetheart. Want ceci?” John wiped his mouth with his feeder.

    “Si, si: ceci!” he cried.

    “Gawd,” noted Darryl deeply, but her voice was drowned by the sniggers of the other persons present in the tent.

    When the salad had vanished, together with most of the remainder of the two bottles of wine John had produced as a matter of course, they had the tortiglione and the coffee. John managed to make the coffee on the camping-gas burner but by this time no-one present doubted he would.

    “I’ve died and gone to Heaven,” decided Euan, lying flat on his back in the mouth of the tent and gazing up at the scudding clouds.

    “Yeah: Il Nino’s meals often make you feel like that,” agreed Darryl fairly.

    “Absolutely!” said Susan.

    “Just don’t forget we’ve got work to do this afternoon,” Darryl added, yawning.

    “Sure, sure,” agreed Sol. He’d just kinda relax for a bit, and then…

    “OY!” said a loud voice.

    Sol sat up groggily. “Huh?”

    Darryl was standing over him with an implement in her hand. “Didn’t you say something about flashing?”

    “Uh—oh. Yeah. In the case it rains.”

    “Alan’ll do it,” said Susan placidly.

    Sol looked at her sideways. “Uh—no, I’ll give him a hand.”

    “If you’re wondering why I’m not volunteering,” she said with a sigh. “I’m pregnant. That doesn’t mean I’m incapable of getting up on a roof, but Alan had hysterics at the mere thought.”

    “That saves me the trouble, then,” he noted, scrambling up. “And congratulations, Susan: that’s great news. –Where is he?”

    “Up on the roof. Doing the FLASHING,” said Darryl clearly.

    “Oh. Wal, I’ll get on up there and congratulate him. –Come here,” he added.

    Susan came, looking grudging, and allowed him to peck her cheek.

    “Ta. –It’ll have to be another boy,” she said heavily.

    Sol couldn’t have been at his absolute peak, for whatever reason: he blinked at her and said: “Huh?”

    “So’s we can call it Jeremy!” she said, grinning.

    “Uh— Oh! For Phyllis! Yeah, sure! –Say, if it’s a girl you could call it Pat.”

    “That’ll do!” she grinned. “Get up on the roof, for God’s sake.”

    Darryl handed him the implement in a pointed manner, so Sol got.

    By around four forty-five the clouds had gathered and the flashing was done, and Darryl and Euan had just about finished the gib-boarding, so they decided to pack it in for the day. By around five-twenty Darryl and Euan had really finished the gib-boarding, so they did pack it in.

    John suggested they adjourn to Sol’s for afternoon tea, but after a few pithy words on the subjects of Italian siestas, the traffic jam on the highway, and Boris’s bedtime, Darryl towed him away. Allyson and Donald Freeman turned up and reminded Allyson’s sister kindly that their father and stepmother were expecting them for tea, so after a rapid search for Alan’s hammer, they all went, too.

    “Leaves us, I guess,” said Sol limply to Euan and Michaela. “Boy, we sure got a lot done, huh?”

    “Without Starsky’s help, what ‘s more,” noted Euan, grinning.

    “Yeah. Wal, when he comes up tomorrow he can—uh—”

    “Help you putty in the windows?” said Euan.

    “I’ve done that,” said Michaela.

    “Gee, have you, Michaela?” said Sol limply. “Thanks.”

    “They’re only little windows,” she pointed out.

    “Yeah. Uh—well,” said Sol, scratching his head, “seeing as how these here modern kitsets come complete with ready-painted fake clapboards, there ain’t even no painting he could do. I guess that leaves sanding the old paint off of the French doors, huh?”

    Euan grinned evilly. “Yeah. Fiddly as Hell. It’ll keep him quiet for hours!”

    “What I thought.” he acknowledged.

    “I was reading about a way of painting concrete floors,” said Michaela.

    “What in?” asked Euan weakly.

    “Anything. Houses, or flats, or offices. It’s a good thing to do if you’re converting a warehouse.”

    “Uh—yeah. What were you reading it in?”

    “Oh! A magazine of Sean’s.”

    “Wouldn’t it be Hellish cold and uncomfortable?” he said.

    “Yes. But it’s cheap,” said Michaela simply.

    “It’s an idea. Only I guess I’ll think about it,” said Sol weakly.

    “Yeah. Not much point in doing the floors before you’ve got the door in. We could measure up for the door-frame,” said Euan.

    Sol sagged. “I’m beat, tell ya the truth, Euan. Can we leave the measuring-up till tomorrow?”

    “Okay. I’ll get the tarp out of the Land Rover, we’ll fix it up over the hole. Could rain,” he said, squinting at the sky.

    “Yeah: great. Thanks, Euan,” said Sol, sitting down suddenly on the short, scruffy dry grass of Sol’s Cove.

    Michaela came and sat near him. After a moment she said: “The soil here’s very sandy.”

    “Huh? Oh: yeah.”

    “It’ll be hard to get a vege garden established.”

    “Mm? Oh: yeah.”

    “You’ll have to cart in loads of compost.”

    “Y— Oh. Michaela, I don’t think I’m gonna have time to do any gardening. What with the store, and everything. I mean, I do work, weekends.”

    Michaela thought about it. “I could do it for you.”

    “Sure, in between doing all your jobs for Sean Stacey and all your own gardening jobs and all your potting: yep.”

    Michaela was silent.

    Sol wanted to apologize but felt too tired to. Anyroad, Euan came back with the tarp so he got up and helped him to drape it, not without great difficulty, over the hole in the front of the A frame.

    Shortly after that, when Euan announced his intention of going into Puriri on his motorbike and Michaela accepted a lift on the back of the thing, he was too dead beat even to raise a protest.

    He just crawled on up to his apartment over the store and looked limply at the divider that shut off his kitchenette and decided maybe later: and went over to the divan and sat heavily on it. After a few seconds he lay down just for a moment...

Next chapter:

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