There's Gotta Be A Morning After

39

There’s Gotta Be A Morning After

    Having got home at really a very reasonable hour, considering it had been a bloody Carrano hooley, Ralph woke up reasonably early. For the first time in several weeks, not with the loss of his delicious peach of a twin on his mind, but with the thought of a different lady altogether. He got slowly out of bed, meditating ways and means. The simplest thing would be to ring her up and say: “Phoebe, I never got up the twin,” but could he get the words out before she slammed the receiver down? Probably not, no. And would she be mollified if the message did get across? Um... Well, quite frankly, he thought she would be, yes, but from that to admitting it to herself was a long, long step. And Ralph realized quite clearly and sourly that Phoebe was not going to take that step in a hurry.

    Of course, it was all highly unfair, her own track record was about as blameless as his; in fact, if you looked at the way she’d let him believe, right up to practically the actual bloody minute the bloody Yank stepped off his bloody jumbo, that it was him she fancied—well, him and Weintraub, but— Yeah, well, there was no point in mulling all that over, for one thing he’d already mulled it a million times and for another thing, if one let oneself slip into that sort of accusatory, not to say self-exculpatory behaviour, the relationship would go down the recriminatory tubes before it got off the ground. So to speak. Ralph bit his lip, stopped mentally accusing Phoebe of everything under the sun, and went back to meditating ways and means.

    By the time he was in his jogging shorts, jogging singlet and Reeboks and jogging down the drive he was still meditating ways and means. Which no doubt was indicative of something. As was also the fact that he didn’t notice until he was halfway down the drive that with the maroon satin jogging shorts he’d absent-mindedly put on the singlet with the navy stripe instead of the one with the maroon stripe. Not to say the fact that he couldn’t be blowed going back to change. Unfortunately there was no-one around but Miss McLintock’s dachshund to notice this and draw the obvious conclusion, that Ralph was A Changed Man, or at least bloody serious about doing something serious about Miss Fothergill.

    Ralph didn’t neglect to lift a lip at the walking turd in passing but the little dog, being far better-mannered, didn’t lift his back. Or possibly it wasn’t manners, possibly he just never was in a disgruntled mood, having long since had the op. Somehow or another this thought brought to mind the dreaded figures FIVE-FIVE yet again, and Ralph went back to meditating ways and means…

    By the time he’d gone a good way up the old Waikaukau road and, possibly to punish himself, had run up to the top of a low hill, he’d got as far as wondering what he wanted from Phoebe. No, well, really wanted. Domesticity? Would they be any good at that? Ralph knew he wasn’t. He also knew there was a distinct chance (a) that he might project onto Phoebe, once she was under his roof, the sort of feelings he’d had towards Aud during—well, during all but the first year of their marriage, ugh; and (b) that he might give her Hell because she wasn’t the excellent housekeeper that Aud, with all her faults, undoubtedly was. Oh, bugger.

    Um—well, find a reliable Mrs Mop to take care of the more practical aspects of the housekeeping? That would certainly help. However, bearing in mind this was Godzone, there was no way they’d ever find anything approaching a decent cook. And most certainly not one that was willing to live in and provide at least two meals a day. Not even for immense largesse. Um... Well, he could cook, and when they entertained more than a couple of couples there were always caterers. Not good caterers, true, but... Or L’Oie Qui Rit; and let’s just hope old Madame doesn’t drop dead before I do, thought Ralph, staring unseeingly out over the Woollaston-ish hills towards the golf course. Only, he thought, making a face, would Phoebe let him cook? Yes, it was true she’d let him puddle around in her kitchen back in those halcyon days when she’d occasionally let him do her, but that, Ralph was very well aware, was a very different kettle of fish from resigning the standard female stereotypical culinary reins entirely. Just how much, under that breezy, free-thinking manner of hers, of a standard female stereotypical female was Miss F?

    ... Was he being a bit previous? Well, yes. Only he might as well at least be clear about what he wanted. And he was bloody fed up with... Well, with the bachelor-boy life, and the flat and bloody Willow Grove and— And, he supposed, thought Ralph sourly, making another face at the Woollaston-ish hills, at being in a position where he fell all too easily into mawkishly goopy states over unattainable luscious peaches of red-haired twins.

    Well... Supposing he got as far as being allowed to ask, would Phoebe even want to share a domicile with him? Frankly, Ralph had no idea. None at all. Well though he’d fondly believed, until this instant, he knew her. How lowering. To both the self-esteem and the spirits, he discovered.

    And, after all, there was no such thing in life as a happy ending. The most he and Phoebe could hope for together would be, well, the sort of relationship those dreary suburban couples at Polly’s last night had. God: did he really want that? On the other hand, he wasn’t a dreamy-eyed kid any more, and let’s face it: what else was there?

     Ralph scowled at the hills. What would those dreary suburban couples be doing this morning? he wondered idly. Not out and about in mismatched trendy jogging gear, that was for sure. Well, Tom and Jemima were no doubt feeding the offspring, billing and cooing over its head as they did so, while Tom audibly planned a busy Sundee of visits to Mitre 10 and replumbing the basement, or whatever the fuck, and Jemima smiled serenely and thought of something else entirely. The only thing you could say of that relationship, thought Tom’s brother sourly, was that at least neither of them was taken in by the other. Or by themselves! he thought with a reluctant smile.

    But they were young, souls, while the middle-aged... Ralph sighed. On this particular morning he had a fair idea that the middle-aged set would be indulging the hangover to end all hangovers and in any intervals left by that, nagging its spouse to death. Pleasant thought. And, apart from the hangover motif, not markedly different from what it’d be doing any other Sunday morning: even pleasanter thought.

    Ah, but should he attain the delightful Miss Fothergill, would he ever need to behave in the way those middle-class, middle-aged idiots had last night—and, consequently, in the way they undoubtedly were this morning? Now, there was a thought! On the other hand there was also the thought that all marriages ended up that way. Either a barrage of nagging or a barrage of silence. Well, name one that hadn’t.

    … Yes, but it generally took a few years to get that bad, and after all, did he have that many years left? Ralph bit his lip. Probably not, no. Did he, then, wish to spend the declining ones with the robust Phoebe? Well, it’d be damn good for the first couple of years or so, yeah. Only then... Well, Jesus, who knew! Could be hit by a bus crossing bloody Remuera Road tomorrow! He scowled, sat down on the scruffy grass, and continued to scowl in the general direction of the golf course. Suburban domesticity... Did he want it, could he hack it, could he make it bearable for Phoebe (quite a thought, that), could the pair of them make any sort of a life together, given their two personalities...?

    After a while he found he was actually taking a serious look at some of those bloody suburban couples that had been at Polly’s bloody party, Jesus! But as he didn’t seem to be able to stop, he got on with it.

    It was true the egregious Coggins wasn’t entirely brainless, though he did manage to give a damn good impression of it, and his nosy little helpmeet was bright enough, but— Well, very different personalities from him and Phoebe. Still, they were making a go of it—couldn’t be easy, second time round for both of them, kids of different relationships in the house. But Coggins was so bloody easy-going! thought Ralph bitterly and admittedly not for the first time. How the fuck did you get to—well, not care if the house was falling down round your ears, your clothes looked as if you’d slept in ’em, your kids were filthy and your meals inedible? Probably you had to be born like it. ...Bloody Bill Michaels was bloody easy-going, too, when you came right down to it. And as for Jake— Ralph found abruptly he was so damn jealous of Jake Carrano for having Polly that he couldn’t think about their relationship at all.

    The Hayes-Fisher ménage? We-ell… On the one hand, Laura was damned bright. And had carved out a decent career for herself, even if one couldn’t personally stand pretty chocolate-box tops of delicious Carrano kiddies. But on the other hand, Jim Fisher was just so—once again—easy-going! Oh, fuck!

    Ralph tried not to, but he went on brooding about them all. He would probably not have been much comforted to know that they were all behaving pretty typically on this particular Sunday morning. Given the various shades of hangover.

    Tom, of course, had been up for hours. He hadn’t needed to go to Mitre 10 because he’d been yesterday morning. After a large breakfast of fruit salad, hot sausages and grilled tomatoes with wholemeal toast, which he’d forced their new boarder to join them in, ruthlessly shaking him awake in order to do so, he’d ruthlessly steered poor Damian Rosen outside and forced him into getting on with what he’d planned for today, to wit, building a proper garage to replace what Damian had thought was already a proper garage but had only been a make-shift garage until Tom got round to building a proper one. In a style which would fit with that of the house. And Damian could ignore anything Jemima said, she didn’t even know what a finial was.

    Jemima had volunteered to cook lunch. Tom wasn’t all that sure that she’d remember, but never mind, they could always remind her. He’d warned Damian it would be Namesake pancakes but Damian already knew all about these so he’d just beamed and said: “Good!”

    In the garden Tom hammered and sawed busily. Every so often he shouted at Damian as he handed him the wrong things, but Damian was used to this, now: he’d been boarding with them for a month.

    In the house Jemima did the breakfast dishes and played with Dirk for a while until he became somnolent. Then she changed him and put him to bed and, fully intending to do some vacuuming, wandered into her study and absent-mindedly opened a book...

    The younger set had also been up for hours. Well, Vicki had: in fact she’d got up at what had felt like the crack of dawn to the disgruntled Scott. Once up, she always refused to come back to bed, what was more. He moaned that it was Sunday but Vicki retorted pithily that she knew that and she was going up to Puriri to see Ginny, since Michaela didn’t have the phone on. And talk some sense into her. And if he didn’t want to come he could stay skulking in bed all day. She didn’t have to add “on a beautiful day like this” as Scott’s mother used to when he was in his teens, because it was right there in her tone. He moaned a bit but got up and duly accompanied her. Not even pointing out that as it was his car she’d had a fair cheek in proposing to set off for the Hibiscus Coast in it without him. Or that, since his flat was in Sandringham, it was gonna take about two hours to get there.

    Ralph’s hand shook—actually shook—as he picked up the phone. Phoebe’s fucking answering-machine was on. He hesitated, then didn’t leave a message. Mainly because he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t immediately enrage her. He hesitated; then, sighing a little, dialled a different number.

    … “Don’t thank me, I didn’t invite ya. And actually I didn’t invite bloody Phoebe Fothergill, either,” said Sir Jacob genially—and not quietly—into his portable phone. Certain persons present on his tropical patio cringed. “Eh? Yeah, ya can speak to ’er, if ya like,” he said in a mildly surprized tone. “Oy, no; hang on: Derry Dawlish didn’t go home with you, did ’e?” he said without much interest. “—Ralph hasn’t got Derry,” he reported, handing the phone over to his wife.

    “Hullo, Ralph,” said Polly limply. “Um—yes, we have lost him, actually.” She held the phone hurriedly away from her ear. They could hear Sir Ralph was laughing like a drain.—“Um, what?” she said weakly. “We’re on the patio. Um...” She looked round the patio.

    Bob and June were fast asleep on a pair of sun-loungers in the shade, snoring. In the pool Bill Coggins and Bill Michaels were bobbing up and down gently. Bill Michaels, being an engineer, had pointed out that plastic trays float, so they had one of those floating between them. Only with tumblers of fruit juice on it, however. Beside the pool Meg, Angie, and Keith Nicholls reclined on sun-loungers, more or less somnolently. On his sun-lounger, Sir Jacob had now disappeared under his panama hat.

    “Yes, I suppose there are, um, a few people here,” Polly admitted feebly. “Um, yes: it is a bit like the morning after that luau: fancy you remembering that,” she said very weakly indeed to the phone.

    “I was just thinking that!” said Meg pleasedly, the minute Polly had hung up.

    From under his panama hat Sir Jacob grunted: “Not as much of a bloody disaster, though.”

    “No?” said Keith eagerly, rousing to the extent of propping himself on one elbow on his sun-lounger and re-adjusting his borrowed sunnies.

    “Well, admittedly last night Phoebe Fothergill,” said Sir Jacob, removing the hat from his face but not bothering to sit up, “went off looking like a thundercloud, and Ralph wasn’t looking too happy either—not surprisingly,” he noted in a hard aside to his wife—“and Angie’s youngest boy was lookin’ like a week of wet Sundays,”—Angie gulped—“and poor young Euan wasn’t much better—why’d ya had to invite him, when ya knew Vicki was coming and Ginny wasn’t, I don’t know,” he added irritably to his wife—“and of course flamin’ Derry Dawlish has vanished entirely, but apart from them few minor points, no.”

    “A lot’s happened since that luau, actually,” said Polly thoughtfully, ignoring, to Keith’s disappointment, most of what her husband had just said.

    “Vicki’s latched onto that Scott Duguid nong, yeah,” agreed Jake, retiring under his panama.

    “True. But to strike a more optimistic note, Jemima and Darryl have had their babies.”

    “Yes!” agreed Meg pleasedly. “Oh—and got married,” she remembered.

    Keith choked.

    “Um... Dickon Fothergill’s got engaged,” offered Meg cautiously.

    “Not to Ginny—yeah,” rumbled Sir Jacob from under the hat.

    “Our Mark’s dumped Roberta for Vicki, and Vicki’s dumped Mark, and Roberta’s taken up with Hugh,” offered Angie, smiling at Keith. “That’s an optimistic note!”

    “You left out Hugh taking up with Michaela and dumping Michaela, didn’t you?” he said in confusion.—Angie gulped.—“Or have I got my dates wrong? When was this luau?’’

    “Two whole years ago, but the memory’s seared deep into Jake’s soul!” said Polly with a laugh.

    A slow grin spread over Keith’s face. “If I was to mention grog cellars—”

    Meg swallowed hard and Angie gulped: “I wouldn’t!”, but Lady Carrano only replied tranquilly: “Yes, that was the one, Keith.”

    “Bloody disaster,” rumbled the panama.

    “What else has happened?” said Meg quickly.

    There was a short silence. Finally Polly said feebly: “Connected with the luau, do you mean, Meg?”

    “Um—well…”

    Sir Jacob sat up suddenly, removing the panama. “I said at the time they were double trouble!” he reminded his wife. “And don’t tell me Ralph’s gonna go back to Phoebe: I dare say he might do, if she can force ’erself to have ’im, which in case you weren’t looking, didn’t look likely last night. But in case you can’t count, he’s the sixth poor bugger she’s treated like dirt in the space of two years!” He stalked off, looking terrible.

    “Male solidarity?” hazarded Angie after a dazed pause.

    Polly gave a smothered giggle. “Um—sort of!” she admitted.

    “Phoebe hasn’t had six, has she?” said Meg in confusion, counting on her fingers. “No, surely: even if you include the Dreaded Dougal.”

    “He didn’t mean her, Meg,” said Angie clearly, seeing Polly wasn’t about to.

    “What?” said Meg in confusion. “Who, then?”

    “Ginny, of course,” said Polly. “Jake always has maintained she’s more—um—disturbing to the opposite sex than Vicki. Well, count them!” she said, as Meg goggled at her.

    Meg began to count on her fingers. “Um—well, poor Adrian,” she said. “Um—Dickon Fothergill, I suppose.” The other ladies nodded. “Um—oh, that nice boy who was in the play, I’ve forgotten his name; Vicki said he’d have been very suitable.”

    “Stephen. Ideal husband material,” agreed Polly on a dry note. “That’s three, Meg.”

     Meg looked uneasily at Angie.

    Col’s mother sighed. “I have it on the expert authority of Barbara Michaels, B.A., that Col’s not only number four, he was number four ‘yonks ago’,” she said heavily.

    “We’ve always thought so,” said Polly mildly. Angie gave her a sour look.

    “Um—four,” said Meg uneasily.

    “Ralph Overdale makes five, by my reckoning,” said Angie. “Silly goop,” she noted.

    Meg sighed. “I suppose he meant Euan’s the sixth, poor boy. Only who could have told him—!”

    “Meg,” said Lady Carrano with a laugh in her voice, “don’t tell me that it hasn’t dawned by now that Jake doesn’t need to be told!”

    Meg goggled at her.

    “He noticed it for himself,” she said clearly. She got up gracefully while Meg’s jaw was still hitting her chest and, murmuring about changing for a swim, swayed off gracefully into the house.

    “It’s gotta be true, then!” said Keith, grinning.

    The two ladies jumped a foot, so quite clearly they’d forgotten he was there. Grinning, Keith got up. “Think I might have a swim, too.” He wandered off towards the changing rooms.

    “I suppose he’s right,” admitted Meg.

    “Eh?” groped Angie.

    “Not Dr Keith, you clot! No, Jake! I don’t mean just about Euan, either: I mean about Ginny. Being so—um—whatever she said,” finished Meg, rather red.

    “‘Disturbing to the opposite sex’,” quoted Angie drily.

    Meg gulped. “Um—yes, I suppose she is...”

    “Six suffering victims in the space of two years,” said Angie thoughtfully. “It may not be an Olympic record, but yes: I’d say it indicates she is pretty well disturbing to the opposite sex, mm.” She got up. “I won’t lay you odds on Col’s chances of success, Meg,” she said grimly, “because in case you haven’t noticed, I’m bloody pissed off with the stupid little sod. Especially if Barbara’s right and he’s fancied Ginny since that bloody luau and hasn’t done a thing about it except sit back and wait for her to drop into his lap!”

    Meg thought silently that he had done something, last winter, only if Angie didn’t know about it, she wasn’t going to tell her.

    Angie strode over to the pool. “OY!” she bellowed at her one. “Get out! We’re going home!”

    “But—”

    “GET OUT, BILL! YOU CAN COME HOME AND MOW THE BLOODY LAWN!” bellowed Angie.

    Meekly the Professor of Engineering got out. He didn’t even ask her what was up. He wasn’t that bloody dumb, ta.

    By six-thirty that evening the suburban couples were all indulging in pretty much the sort of activity that might have been envisaged, and that Ralph Overdale, now up at Kingfisher Bay sitting on the afterdeck of his Saucy Sal with a drink in his hand and a frown on his forehead, in fact was envisaging.

    By six-thirty Sir Jacob had said hopefully: “I feel like tea,” but his wife had rubbished that idea soundly. So he went back to his study and looked morosely at some reports that he should have looked at earlier only he’d felt too full, what with all that breakfast. Or, as his wife had just put it: “Those fifteen breakfasts you stuffed yourself with after all that barbecue food last night.”

    During the afternoon Meg had more or less successfully nagged Bill into mowing the front lawn, largely using as her weapon the fact that if it was good enough for a professor, it was good enough for him. And it’d help to sweat all that alcohol out of his system! He’d crept in for a cup of tea around four-ish, but by then Meg was deep in the Seventh-Form German proses she’d forgotten she had to return to their perpetrators on Monday morning, and one look at her face was more than enough. He went and made a cuppa himself. For both of them. What was more he washed up the mugs afterwards.

    Roger and Anne Wiseman turned up together getting on towards six-thirty and Anne, blushing slightly, offered to get the tea, if Meg would like her to? Meg had completely lost track of time, so, jumping slightly, she agreed to this hugely generous proposition, only warning her that there was nothing much in the fridge except eggplants. Anne went off kitchenwards giggling—poor deluded child. Meg just waited. After approximately five minutes she crept back and said in a small voice: “I’ve never cooked those eggy veges, Meg.”

    “Well, nor have I, really,” Meg admitted. “I usually seem to end up letting someone else do it. Um—well, if there’s any tomatoes or onions you can just sort of fry them all up together and add some water and let them bubble away— No?” she said, as Anne was shaking her head. “Oh. Well, um, pop on over. to Tom and Jemima’s,” she said weakly, “and ask Tom if he can let you have a recipe.”

    “Yes. Um—Tom?” she squeaked.

    “Mm,” said Meg with her head in a German prose. “Not Jemima.”

    Anne gave an uncertain giggle but as Meg didn’t react at all, she went.

    By this time Tom and Damian had more or less got the basic parts of the garage up and the roof on. Well, it was really a kitset but Tom had customized bits of it, he had explained. Jemima, who had come out to look at progress, had giggled loudly at this and said: “Yes! Finials!” but Tom had shouted at her so she’d gone away again.

    Tom was now looking in a considering way at the window frames and Damian was looking sadly at Tom and wondering if he knew it was teatime—well, past teatime, really, Grandma usually had hers on the table at six—but not liking to remind him.

    However, when Anne and Roger came over and asked him about recipes for eggplants he stopped looking at the window frames and got all keen on finding a really good recipe that would use only eggplants, two eggs, marg and stale bread, which according to Anne was all Meg had in the kitchen. He then shot across the road eagerly to superintend, only just remembering to shout over his shoulder to Damian to tell Mima Puddle-Duck where he was.

    Damian went slowly inside feeling very confused, wondering if Tom had meant that they were all going to eat at Number 9 or only that he was going to make Number 9’s tea before he made theirs.

    By six-thirty Ariadne Nicholls was still comatose, though now at home in her own bed rather than a palatial Carrano guest room, so Keith rang Roberta and Hugh. Though he did realize it wasn’t entirely the done thing to inflict yourself on your grown-up daughter and her fairly new boyfriend at around six-thirty of a Sunday evening expecting to be fed. But the fridge sported one plastic pot of alfalfa sprouts, or tasteless vegetarian nothing, one bowl of cold cooked lentils, and a hunk of tofu in a bowl of water. And the cupboard yielded half a loaf of kibbled rye bread which Keith hated and which his dentist wasn’t that fond of, either, considering what it, or its brother, had done to his front crown only three weeks back, and a jar of Ariadne’s homemade peanut butter which contained only peanuts, no added salt. There had been one emergency chocolate biscuit in Keith’s emergency chocolate biscuit jar, but he’d eaten that around five-ish, when desperate.

    Hugh answered the phone. Sniggering gently, he informed Keith that they were planning to have a large lettuce and tomato salad with chunks and chunks of really rare beef, off a huge hunk of meat that Ralph had got for them at his special butcher.—Gone mad and got for them, was the precise phrase.—Yes, of course with mustard, what did Keith think they were, unnatural? And pudding would be tinned peaches, but if Keith liked to pick up a carton of ice-cream and/or a bottle of cream from the dairy on his way...?

    Keith rushed out and got in the car.

    Ralph found his thoughts had veered round to what his erstwhile neighbours at Willow Grove, the delightful auburn-haired GeorgyHarris and bloody Adam McIntyre, were probably doing at this point in time. Scowling, he looked at his watch. A quarter of an hour had passed since he’d last looked at it. Which meant that they probably were. Before going out to have a nice civilized meal à deux. Within the limits of what EnZed offered in the way of civilization.

    At this point in time Ralph himself had several options open to him. None of which was in the least attractive. Firstly, he could get into the BMW right now and join the crowd of Sunday drivers crawling back towards town. This Sunday crowd had got exponentially thicker with every passing week of Ralph’s life and nowadays would definitely not thin out until around eight o’clock. Secondly, he could stay here on the boat and get pissed. Thirdly, he could wait until eightish and drive back home at a reasonable pace and make himself a neat little meal in his nice little flat. Fourthly, he could stay here and get pissed. Fifthly, he could take the BMW into Carter’s Bay and pick up fish and chips—or would they be closed by the time he got there? Quite possibly. Sixthly, he could drive the five minutes along to the Royal K and have a relatively edible meal there in comfort. Especially if he changed out of his designer jeans and into a pair of the silk slacks he kept on board for just such an emergency: the Royal K did not insist on black tie in the main dining-room, largely because that would have meant excluding most of the Japs and Yanks that kept the place on its feet. Ralph scowled. Or seventhly, of course, he could stay here and get pissed.

    After a few more minutes’ scowling he went below and picked up his portable phone and rang his younger brother’s number.

    “Hullo?” gasped Jemima.

    “It’s Ralph, but I imagine that isn’t causing you that flutter,” he said sourly.

    “Hullo, Ralph!” she gasped. “No, I thought it was Tom again, he’s over at Bill and Meg’s, he rang up and asked me to look for a special recipe book, only I can’t find it!” She panted.

    “They’ll be arranged alphabetically by author’s name,” said Ralph on a sour note.

    “Yes!” panted Jemima. “I mean, they are, only he’s just rearranged them by type of cooking, or something, and then by author, and I can’t find it!”

    “Ah. What is it?”

    “Something by a lady called Jane Something, only he’s got millions of those,” she said mournfully.

    “Mm, he would do. What’s the recipe for, did he say?”

    “Eggplants.” She paused. “Those purple things that Bill grows, Tom reckons that’s what they’re called.”

    “Ye-es… Oh, dear, did you think he might be having you on?”

    “Yes,” said Jemima simply.

    “Well, I’m very sorry to report that his limited mind hadn’t thought of that: they are eggplants, darling Jemima. Aubergines in French. And sometimes in English cookery books,” he added meanly.

    “Oh,” said Jemima. After a blank moment she said: “Would he file a book by an English lady with recipes for eggplants under English cooking, then?”

    “Don’t—ask—me!” gasped Ralph, going into a helpless paroxysm. When he’d more or less recovered from it he said weakly: “Darling Jemima, I think the pest must mean Jane Grigson’s Vegetable Book. Is that what he said?”

    “Um... I think so. There is a book by her called English Food, or something, only I can’t find any eggplant recipes in it.”

    “No,” he said limply. “Very likely not. The English regard ’em as a French perversion. Er—has he got a section on vegetables, darling? Or possibly on vegetarian cookery?”

    “Ooh, that’s a good idea!” she gasped. She rushed off, leaving him in suspenders.

    When she came back she said in a dubious voice: “I think I’ve found it.”

    “Mm?”

    “I don’t think Meg and Bill will have the ingredients for any of these recipes,” she explained.

    “I’m positive they won’t!” he gasped.

    “Did you send me on a wild goose chase on purpose?” she cried.

    “No! Truly. Ring him, darling, and check. –Hang on, before you do that,” he added hurriedly: “what have they been doing all day?”

    “Who?” said Jemima blankly. “Meg and Bill? They were round at Polly’s all morning.”

    “When they came back, then.”

    “Um—Bill’s been mowing the lawn. He looked awfully hot. I don’t know what Meg’s been doing. Um, I did hear her shouting at him, at one stage,” said Jemima, sounding bewildered.

    Ralph sniggered meanly. “And what have you been doing?” he asked sweetly.

    “Me? Um—nothing, much. Um, I made pancakes for lunch, that’s right. And I sorted out some screws for Tom only he said I did it all wrong.”—Ralph choked.—“I mostly read a book.”

    “What about?” he asked with a smile in his voice.

    “Urban vocabularies,” said Jemima on dubious note.

    “Christ,” he croaked. “They’ve invented the phrase?”

    “Yes. It is horrid, isn’t it? The French articles are on pop songs—their language, I mean—and graffiti, and the English ones are on West Indian dialects—in England, of course, not the West Indies,”—Ralph sniggered—”and the American ones are all on—”

    “Rap dialects,” said Ralph.

    “Well, yes. And subway graffiti. There’s one that tries to claim rap’s developing the status of a language.”

    “Funky chicken, not really?” he gasped.

    “Yes! –I don’t think that’s rap!” she choked.

    “No. How many of them are both about rap and about subway graffiti, darling?”

    “All the American ones, of course,” said Jemima in mild surprize that he needed to ask.

    Ralph had hysterics.

    When he was over them Jemima said with a smile in her voice: “Why not come over for tea, Ralph? I think Tom’ll probably take about an hour to make anything out of those eggplants, you’ll have stacks of time to get here.”

    “I’m up at the boat. With the traffic jam between here and Puriri it’ll take me more like two hours, I’m afraid,” said Ralph reluctantly.

    “I could ask him to wait for you.”

    He bit his lip. “No, don’t do that.”

    There was a short pause.

    “Are you okay?” said Jemima cautiously.

    “Thoroughly browned off,” he admitted, grimacing. “I’ve been trying to get hold of Phoebe all day, but she’s got her bloody machine on.”

    “Perhaps she’s busy: Meg says she’s decided to finish her Ph.D.”

    “What?” he croaked.

    “Yes. We think she might be a bit sick of St Ursie’s. Well, um—you know. Broadening her horizons a bit?” said Jemima dubiously. “She has published quite a few articles. We think she might want to get her teeth into something solid. More—well, more theoretical, perhaps.”

    “Yes, but she’s at the top, surely? Where can she go after St Ursie’s?” said Ralph limply.

    “I wondered that, too, but Tom says the obvious move would be into lecturing. Either at the university or the training college. He and John were talking about it the other day. They reckon there are two jobs coming up soon that she could apply for if she’s finished her Ph.D. Pretty high-up jobs—you know. All she needs is the paper qualification, really.”

    “Yes,” he said weakly. “I see. Of course, that would be the logical step.”

    “Yes.” Jemima hesitated. Then she said awkwardly: “There’s always Australia, too. Meg says she knows a lot of people  over there in educational circles.”

    “Yes. No doubt,” he said heavily.

    Jemima hesitated again. “Are you sure you won’t come to tea?”

    “No, thank you, darling, I couldn’t possibly make it until nine-ish. But thanks anyway. Oh, tell him just to shove the bloody things in a pan with some decent olive oil and garlic,” he added by the by, ringing off.

    Murmuring under her breath: “Olive oil and garlic, olive oil and garlic,” Jemima went obediently over the road, clutching Jane Grigson’s Vegetable Book to her bosom.

    Ralph went back on deck, sat down heavily in his padded deckchair, and poured himself a stiff one. Career moves? Shit. A Bad Sign. Well, showed she was restless, but— No. A Bad Sign.

    Ten-thirty of a balmy Sunday evening in early March. In Blossom Avenue, down at Number 3 John was already asleep, with a pillow on his head. Darryl was used to this habit by now: she just removed the pillow and lay down beside him. Although she had had a day of vigorous physical activity she was not particularly tired and in fact was more than back to her usual state of glowing health. Well, even through the pregnancy she had kept herself relentlessly fit, possibly a contributing factor in the baby’s being born within forty minutes of the first pains and necessitating John’s and Meg’s delivering it between them before even the ambulance arrived. But, although not admitting it to anyone else, Darryl had admitted to herself that it had been a bit of a strain, jogging five miles or so before breakfast when all you felt like was spewing your heart out and crawling back under the duvet. However, she was now fighting fit and more than ready to get her intellectual teeth into something really demanding. Well, she’d finish off the book, for a start, but preparing your thesis for publication wasn’t real work! Well, what about that paper she’d read for that thing down in Wellington, that had had a few good ideas in it, if she did say so herself...

    Darryl began to think about ideas for some really challenging research. In the intervals of thinking this she wondered about how she was going to get Il Nino to agree. Because he was pretty upset about the both of them going back to work fulltime this semester, even though, as their teaching schedules didn’t coincide, there would be large parts of the week when one or other of them could manage to be home with Boris.

    Some might have said that there Darryl went again and that this was pretty typical of the militant Dr Tuwhare, but those who knew her very well would have pointed out that in fact this train of thought indicated that Darryl had made great strides in the period since she’d come back from Europe and started living with John: back then it wouldn’t have occurred to her at all that she should get John’s agreement.

    Further up the road at Number 10 Blossom Avenue Jemima was also in bed, having just fed Dirk. Yawning her head off, so Tom was very pleased that he’d got her to agree to take six months’ maternity leave. When the six months were nearly up, he’d see... He was unaware of how Jemima had spent her time this afternoon, so busy had he been with his garage and his eggplant recipe, so he had no idea at all that, in between yawns, Jemima’s mind was of its own accord taking to pieces one of those idiot articles on urban vocabularies and relating it to her own observations of the local teen vernacular.

    Largely what they’d picked up from American TV shows, as far as she could see. Of course, if you wanted to do any solid work on that sort of thing, you’d have to research the TV shows in order to know what you were talking about, and could she stand it? ...How deep did it all go, anyway: did they drop the teen-talk once they grew up and started getting interested in mortgages and things, or did parts of it filter through to the adult vernacular? Well, it was worth thinking about, anyway, and she’d have plenty of time to think if she wasn’t working this semester. Michael O’Connell had a new expression, one she hadn’t heard him use before: “Egg-sull-lunt”, more or less. It was actually intended to express approval, but where had it come from? It was quite on the cards he wouldn’t know its origin, but if he could tell her where he himself had got it from, that really would be interesting!

    “What’s the joke?” said Tom mildly, remarking the smile on his beloved’s face as he got into bed.

    Jemima jumped. “Oh—nothing. Well, I was thinking about Michael.”

    “Twin?” he croaked.

    “Yes. His vernacular, really,” said Jemima serenely.

    Tom swallowed. “I see,” he said limply.

    Jemima yawned. “Don’t forget you promised Isabel you’d collect her for school tomorrow,” she said, snuggling down.

    “Eh? Cripes,” he said limply. This would mean a considerable detour. “So I did.”

    Jemima Puddle-Duck merely murmured, with another yawn: “I thought you might have, in the excitement of that eggy-puffy thing.”

    Tom didn’t correct this to “superb eggplant soufflé,” he just sat up and groggily reset the alarm to half an hour earlier than usual. The which meant they really had better lie right down and get some sleep, blow. On second thoughts, he noted resignedly, she already was. …The vernacular of M. O’Connell? Tom had a sort of feeling this might be the writing on the wall but on the whole, what with the maternity leave, he felt he didn’t need to think about it just yet.

    Over the road at Number 9 Meg was sitting up in bed consulting the diary, as she did every bloody night before a school day. Bill just shut his eyes and put a pillow on his face. She reminded him that some time this week he was supposed to take the station-waggon in to Greg Anderson in Puriri for its check-up but Bill didn’t even bother to correct this to something more appropriately macho, he just gave a sort of muffled groan from under the pillow.

    At the far end of Blossom Avenue all was quiet in the Butlers’ creosoted house. June was awake, however, thinking uneasily about Starsky’s winter uniform. There was no way he was ever going to get into last year’s flannel shorts again: they’d had to buy him a whole new summer uniform to start the school year in, he’d grown out of absolutely everything. Oh, dear, winter shorts were astronomically expensive! Why couldn’t the bloody schools let them wear jeans, for one thing they’d be warmer and for another thing they’d spare the populace the sight of the bigger boys’ horrible hairy legs, and for another thing their mothers might even be able to afford a winter coat for themselves once in a blue moon! ...Remember that huge fur thing Polly’s mother had had, that time? Oh, well, dream on. At least the shorts could be put away for Ivan: thank God they’d had all boys. Though a girl would be nice: little Katie Maureen Carrano was very sweet. What a pity you couldn’t order the sex you wanted…

    In the big house on the cliff top at Pohutukawa Bay Polly was already in bed. What with party all last night and guests until well into the afternoon today and the fact that she had a meeting with one of her doctoral students in at the City Campus at nine-thirty tomorrow. Jake was pottering, he’d pottered himself into his dressing-gown and off to the nursery suite and back, but that didn’t mean he’d potter himself actually into bed within the next five minutes. Polly lay down and closed her eyes. He’d pottered off again when the phone rang, so she had to answer it.

    “’Ullo?” she said groggily.

    “Polly? Darling, if you’re still looking for Derry Dawlish—”

    Polly sat up straight with a gasp.

     Ralph sniggered helplessly.

    “Are you drunk?” she said dangerously.

    “Yes!” he gasped helplessly. “Nevertheless I’ve found him!”

    Polly gulped. “Jake—” she croaked. Ralph was still sniggering: she cleared her throat and bellowed: “JAKE!”

    He shot out of the bathroom. “What?”

    “Ralph’s found Derry.”

    Jake’s jaw sagged. “Bugger me, I’d forgotten all about ’im.”

    “So had I,” admitted Polly. “Ralph? Look, stop LAUGHING!” she shouted into the phone. “Where is he? Is he all right?”

    “Have—you also—lost—a Japanese—nanny’s—help?” wheezed Ralph.

    “It’s her day off,” said Polly blankly.

    “Glad to hear it!” he wheezed. “Hate to think she might be doing it on your time!”

    “Doing what? Look, Ralph, where is Derry? And where in God’s name are you, come to that?”

    “Where is ’e?” said Jake without much interest.

    “I don’t know, but I can hear music in the background. –Horrible music,” she said loudly into the phone.

    “Mu-sack, darling! I’m at the Royal K!” he gasped.

    “The Royal Kingfisher? At Kingfisher Bay?” she groped.

    “Gimme that!” Jake wrenched the phone off her. “We’ve got it that you’re at the Royal K, Overdale: where’s Derry?” he said without preamble.

    “Here,” replied Ralph weakly. “Dining with your Japanese nanny’s help. I gather they spent the day—and possibly last night, too, I didn’t enquire too closely—at your bach. –Doing each other,” he clarified kindly.

    “Dawlish and Akiko?” he said numbly.

    “Yes. If you need further confirmation, does this sound sufficiently circumstantial?” said Ralph sweetly. “She’s calling him her ‘Big Ur-bear,’ and he’s calling her his ‘Geisha-san.’ –The sort of originality we might have expected from someone who’s currently making A Midsummer Night’s Dream as a mixture of colonial Victorian kitsch and Esther Williams Fifties fleshings,” he noted acidly.

    “Uh—yeah. Well, at least ’e hasn’t drowned, or something. Thanks for letting us know,” said Jake numbly.

    “My pleasure,” replied Ralph sweetly, ringing off.

    Jake hung up numbly. “Derry Dawlish and Akiko?” he croaked.

    Lady Carrano merely replied placidly: “Why not? –Have you stopped pottering?”

    “Eh? Oh. I was only— Never mind,” he said, getting into bed.

    “You needn’t bother, I’ve got an early meeting,” she noted calmly.

    Groaning, he desisted.

    … “Derry Dawlish and Akiko?” he said numbly, some ten minutes later.

    Lady Carrano didn’t answer. This was probably because she was asleep, he discovered after some cautious reconnoitring. Oh, well.

    Ralph got back to the Saucy Sal around twelve-thirty. Sufficiently drunk but not so out of touch that he imagined he could drive himself safely back home. He dropped his clothes on the floor and crawled into bed, intending to have a brood about Phoebe and her bloody thesis and her bloody career moves, but he must have drunk more than he’d thought, because he went out like a light.

    He woke at some goddawful hour next morning with the expected head, to hear loud male voices shouting nautical things to each other. After a few moments the mist cleared sufficiently for him to realize that one of them was a loud male American voice, Goddammit to Hell.

    He was sufficiently awake to register actual words, such as “Jimmy! Hey, where your ears, kid? I said left hand down a bit!” when it dawned on him that it was Monday bloody morning, Jesus God Almighty, and he had an op at The Mater! He didn’t even pause to go to the head, just leapt on the phone, and rang Matron. Thank Christ, they hadn’t prepped the poor bastard yet: what time was it, anyw— Oh. Nevertheless, Ralph knew he would not be at his glowing best this morning, even in three hours’ time and after a gallon of coffee. And the poor bastard deserved better than that. Making a face at the rather nice abstract on his cabin wall, he said: “Er—good. Er—look, Matron, I’m feeling a bit under the weather: touch of flu, I think. I think I’d better hand this one over to Mrs Brownloe—I’ll give her a ring.”

    Whether Matron saw through his feeble ruse and disapproved of it utterly was not, of course, apparent in her tone, as she agreed tranquilly that Mrs Brownloe knew all about the case and could certainly take over the operation. But Ralph had a fair idea. Grimacing, he rang Moira. She was only too delighted to take over from him—surprize, surprize—expressed audibly spurious hopes for his speedy recovery, and rang off, all agog, Ralph was in no doubt whatsoever, to rush along to the hospital and demonstrate to the entire staff that she was more than capable of doing his job for him. Ralph made a face and went off to the head to relieve his now bursting bladder.

    ... Jesus God Almighty!

    Though appearances perhaps belied it, this was, in fact, the very first time that Ralph Overdale in a long and successful career had had to cancel an op not because he was truly ill but merely because he’d got too bloody pissed the previous night to remember his professional responsibilities. Jesus God Almighty.

    Well, he’d have to bloody well take a pull, that was what, he thought grimly as he drove slowly and carefully back to Willow Grove. Turn over a fucking new leaf. Stop feeling so bloody sorry for himself. –And if he wanted Phoebe, get out there and bloody well do something constructive about getting her!

    He was so disturbed by the whole episode that it was not until he was crawling into bed that evening, still pretty bloody shaken, though he’d managed a full afternoon of appointments, grey silk suit, red rose in buttonhole, smoothly reassuring professional manner, et tout et tout, that it dawned on him just what precisely Sol Bloody Winkelmann had actually said to his cretinous young helper this morning.

    “Left hand down a bit”? No: an American from Fort Fucking Lauderdale? He couldn’t possibly— It must be a coincidence. Or maybe he hadn’t actually said— Yes, he had, though: we might be going senile but there is no need to lapse into actual Alzheimer’s, Ralph told himself sourly. Far more likely was the possibility, Ralph told himself sourly, that Phoebe had exposed the Yank to those bloody tapes of Jim Fisher’s, and by God, the bitch had! decided Ralph, leaping out of bed in a fury.

    “FUCK THE BLOODY BITCH!” he roared, hurling a pillow across the room.

    The only result of that was that he had to go and retrieve the pillow before he could hope to get a comfortable night.

    … Jesus God Almighty. Take him for all in all, what a hopeless utter cretin he’d been. If you wanted to spell it out, thought Ralph wearily, bashing the pillow into submission and turning his light out for the second time, (a) not to have seen right at the start that Phoebe was It, and not just another fling, and (b) not to have done his best to hang onto her like grim death once he’d got her into his bed. And (c) was— Well, (c) was to have behaved like an up-himself birk at Tom’s bloody wedding reception instead of denying the whole bloody thing, or something. And, actually, (d) was to have let himself be so seduced by the picture of himself seducing Ginny Austin that he’d committed the quite cretinous folly of letting five-foot-four of twenty-year-old lovely stay under his roof, and—and— Shit, to have been born at all!

    After some time of silent misery, during which, since there was no-one at all to see him do it, Ralph actually let several tears soak into his smart dark navy cotton pillowslip, he sat up and, sniffing, switched on the light again and picked up the phone. He had no expectation at all that her machine wouldn’t still be on, which was just as well, because it was.

    “Phoebe,” he said in a shaking voice: “I’m bloody sorry for all of it. Please ring me.”

    He found he couldn’t manage any more than that, so he hung up.

Next chapter:

https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/10/sol-and-morning-after.html