Widening Horizons

18

Widening Horizons

    Felicity Wiseman was pegging out the washing, even though it looked like rain. With the job at the Community Centre, she didn’t get all that much opportunity to do the washing, and had to grab the chance when she could. She could put it all in the drier, only— Well, the last electricity bill had been horrendous. She didn’t know whether it was Alec’s dratted computer, or Kenny staying up till all hours reading when he wasn’t supposed to, or Anne leaving the kitchen light on night after night, or Jenny’s interminable washing and drying of her dratted tennis gear: one wearing and the lot went into the machine... Come to think of it, Anne was just as bad these days with those little uniforms they wore for the nanny course. Well, at least it was encouraging her to be clean...

    “Um... Mu-um?”

    Felicity pushed a wisp back behind on ear, and sighed. “What?”

    Anne stood on one leg. “Um, can I borrow your green belt?”

    “Don’t do that, you look like a stork,” said Felicity automatically. “What on earth for?”

    Anne went very red. “I’m going over to Roger’s for lunch.”

    Her mother swallowed. “I see. Um, well, of course you can borrow that belt, dear, only... You’re not going to wear it with that top, are you?”

    Anne looked down at her tee-shirt. “What’s wrong with it?”

    It was a dull olive-green. She’d got it at that blasted second-hand shop at the back of Puriri shops, half the time it was loaded with army-surplus rubbish. Mind you, it was solid quality: Felicity quite often got shirts and shorts for the boys there; but…

    “The belt clashes with it,” she said weakly. “If you mean that bright green one.” It was almost a bright jade, but a bit greener than that, a lovely shade. Only not with that tee-shirt!

     Instead of blasting her with scorn Anne replied dubiously: “Does it?”

    “Mm. Maybe you could wear a different top.”

    “Which one?” said Anne, pouting.

    “Uh—well, just a minute, Anne, I’ll come and see what you’ve got.”

    “All right,” she conceded.

    Felicity began pegging up washing again. After a moment Anne began to help her.

    “There’s a hole in this sock of Kenny’s, Mum.”

    Felicity sighed. “There’s holes in all his socks. I’ve never known anybody go through school socks like that boy!”

    “Mm. Um—Mum?”

    “What?”

    “Do you think you could do my hair in one of those fancy plaits?”

    Felicity knew what she meant. Where the hair was plaited in, sort of from the top. It did look nice. Only they’d never done that in her day and she wasn’t much good at it. “Um—well, Jenny’s much better at it than I am: couldn’t you ask her?”

    Pouting, Anne replied: “She’s gone out.”

    “She isn’t umpiring again today, is she?”

    “Yeah. This afternoon.”

    Not pointing out it wasn’t afternoon, Felicity merely went on pegging up washing.

    “She rung up that awful Col Michaels, and then she went out on her bike.”

    “Oh. Uh—well, I’ll have a go at your hair, dear. Only I’m much good at it.”

    “Ta,” said Anne gruffly.

    They pegged up washing. Then Felicity said cautiously: “Anne: does Roger’s mother know you’re going round there?”

    “She’s not his mother!” replied Anne with terrific scorn.

    “Isn’t she? Um, well, Mrs Coggins, anyway,” said Felicity weakly.

    “Mu-um! She’s Mrs O’Connell!” cried Anne.

    “Oh. Oh, good grief, she’s not the mother of those O’Connell twins, is she?”

    “Yeah. They’re dumb.”

    “They’re holy terrors, more like. Well, as bad as Kenny and Alec were at that age,” allowed Felicity.

    “Yeah: rilly dumb.”

    Felicity sighed slightly.

    “Well, come on, Mum!” urged Anne, as the washing was now all flapping in the usual late-April minor gale.

    “Mm. Um, you didn’t answer me, Anne. Does Mrs O’Connell know you’re coming?”

    “Yeah, ’course!” replied Anne with terrific scorn.

    “Oh. Well, how are you getting there? Don’t they live miles out?’

    “On my bike, of course. It’s only Waikaukau Junction.”

    “Not on the main highway on a Sunday!” cried Felicity in horror.

    “It’s miles worse during the week in the rush hour.”

    “Yes, and it’s full of Sunday drivers on a Sunday!”

    After some thought Anne said: “I’ll go the back road, past the golf course.”

    Besides being a shocking road in its more distant parts, the golf course road was normally full of Sunday golfers on a Sunday. Also, you had to go right up past the Kowhai Bay turnoff along the main highway to get to it.

    “Um—no. I think I’d better drive you. It must be at least eight miles by that road. –I mean thirteen K,” she ended weakly.

    “Mu-um! I’ve been along there millions of times! I’m not weak, ya know!” said Anne scornfully.

    No, weak she certainly wasn’t. Never had been. Physically nor any other way.

    “Uh—no, I’d really rather drive you. Don’t worry, I won’t come in,” she added drily. “And you can give me a ring when you’re ready to come home.” She headed for the house.

    After a bit Anne said gruffly: “Ta.” Then she said: “It won’t be a nuisance, will it?”

    Trying not to stagger from the shock, Felicity replied lightly: “Of course not, silly!” She put her arm round the solid shoulders and said: “I’ll just be home, doing a bit of sewing.”

    “Oh. Good.”

    … “There,” said Felicity, about twenty minutes later—having ascertained during that period that Anne had had a shower this morning.

    Anne peered dubiously at herself in Felicity’s big mirror. “I don’t look soppy, do I?”

    Washed-out jeans with torn knees, huge bright pink rolled-down socks above the usual grungy sneakers, Felicity’s bright green belt and—huge sacrifice—Felicity’s old but still nice palest pink, short-sleeved Angora jumper.

    “No,” said Felicity weakly. “You don’t look soppy.”

    Anne plucked dubiously at the extremely moderate shoulder pads with which Felicity had modernized the jumper not all that long ago. “Do these look all right?”

    Felicity put her arm round her waist. “Yes. Very smart. Not overdone.”

    Anne swallowed. “Mm.”

    Felicity kissed her cheek. “You could borrow some of my scent, if you like.”

    Gulping, Anne said: “That’s soppy.”

    Felicity didn’t say anything.

    “Oh, all right,” said Anne gruffly.

    Felicity sprayed her lightly with the Yardley perfume that Mum had given her for Christmas. “Like it?”

    “Mm—it’s all right,” conceded Anne gruffly.

    “You can keep it, if you like, dear, it’s a bit light for me,” said Felicity, pretending to arrange things on the dressing-table.

    “Ooh, ta,” breathed Anne.

    “Um—there’s these little green earrings, I hardly ever wear them... “

    Anne whisked her gold keepers out.

     Five minutes later, when she draped her palest pink Angora shoulders in her khaki army-surplus bomber jacket for the trip to Waikaukau Junction, Felicity didn’t say a thing. Not a thing.

    “What are you doing?” asked Bill blankly.

    Meg plumped cushions madly. “Tidying the sitting-room,” she said grimly.

    “Eh?”

    “Those girls come from nice homes,” said Meg grimly.

    “What’s wrong with our home?”

    Meg straightened with a sigh. “Everything.”

    There was a short pause while they both surveyed the very old, saggy fawn suite, the very old, faded fawnish carpet, and the grungy brownish curtains. Not to mention the coffee table that Meg had got on sale at Forrest Furnishings umpteen years ago and that bloody Michael had taken several nicks out of with his Swiss Army knife.

    “That suite’ll be an antique, soon,” Bill pointed out with super-optimism.

    Sourly Meg returned: “It already is. Nobody has uncut moquette these days.”

    Another short pause.

    “Is that what it is?” said Bill weakly.

     Meg began plumping cushions again. “Yes.”

    “Uh—maybe we could get it re-covered?”

    Sighing, she said: “No, we couldn’t, Bill, that costs the earth. Phoebe had that suite in her office done recently and she said she could have bought a whole new suite for less.”

    “Why didn’t she?”

    “She likes the style,” said Meg on a mournful note.

    “Oh. Uh—well, I dunno where it all goes to, Meg.”

    Meg sighed again. “Yes, you do: it goes on the flaming mortgage. Not to mention the kids’ teeth.”

    “And shoes.”

    “And shoes,” she agreed.

    “Well—well, maybe we could afford—um—one of those cane suites, they’re not that dear.”

    “They’re not that sturdy, either. Anyway, we couldn’t, don’t forget Roger’ll be starting university next year.”

    “He’ll get Bursary this year, or I’ll know the reason why!” returned Roger’s progenitor fiercely.

    “Mm... But it’s only a pittance, Bill.”

    Bill knew this. He sighed.

    “If only the rates hadn’t gone up,” said Meg sadly.

    Bill returned nastily: “The rates went up because of that flaming new subdivision of Jake Carrano’s down the road! Not to say because of the fact that they’re gonna upgrade bloody Elizabeth Road on the strength of it! And if you hadn’t talked Polly into talking him out of building up here, we coulda sold this dump for a fortune and retired on the proceeds!”

    “Yes, to a nasty little town-house in Riverside Drive!”

    “Uh—no. They’re all around the quarter mill’ mark,” said Bill weakly. “But the principle’s the same, yeah.”

    After a moment Meg said in a small voice: “Are you really fed up with this place?”

    “NO, you nana!” he hollered. There was a short silence. “Are you?” he croaked.

    “No. Only sometimes I just feel... Well, that it’d be nice to do something to it.”

    “Um—we could buy a bit of wallpaper, I suppose...” The fawnish wallpaper had a sort of brownish-orangish pattern, but it was so washed-out and faded it didn’t make much difference, really. Bill quite liked it. Only he always did like fawnish things, he recognized gloomily. He took another look at their twelve-foot stud. “Well, wait till the sales, eh?”

    “Ye-es...” Meg stared at the wallpaper. “Or we could paint it cream, what do you think?”

    Bill thought it would show the dirt on the suite up real good. Admittedly Meg had given it a good going-over with some spray-on muck quite recently, but it was pretty well ingrained, hadn’t made much difference. “Uh—yeah.”

    Meg’s mouth firmed. Bill eyed it with foreboding. “Tom knows how to upholster.”

    “Meg, we can’t ask—”

    “No! He could give me lessons! Or at least put me onto someone who could. Don’t you think?”

    “No. He’d be over here doing it, you know what he is.”

    “Yes,” Meg admitted sadly. She stared at the suite. Bill stared at her with foreboding.

    Finally she said with great determination: “Loose covers!”—Bill swallowed.—“Ida Butler’s got those, she knows a woman who makes them for you! We could get some material quite cheap— I know, I’ll ask Tom, he knows all the good material shops! –Bill? What do you think?”

    Every instinct in him was crying out: “No, no: not loose covers!” He looked at her flushed, excited face and said very weakly: “All right. Loose covers. But I warn you,”—Meg looked at him nervously—“we may have to sell Fuzzbo in order to pay for ’em!”

    Meg went into a huge giggling fit.

    Bill smiled weakly. Loose covers! It was the beginning of the end...

    Over the road at Number 10 Blossom Av’ Tom and Jemima were doing up one of their spare bedrooms.

    “Is your sore toe impeding the movement of your right arm?” he asked kindly.

    “What? Oh—no...” Jemima stared blankly at the stretch of plaster she’d been supposed to be sanding down. “Could we have pale yellow in this room?”

    “Why not?” he agreed comfortably.

    “Um—wallpaper? Maybe yellow rosebuds?”

    “What about yellow ducks?” replied Tom, feeling the patch where he was about to slap on more plaster over the adjoining slabs of Gib board.

    He heard Jemima swallow. Then she said: “On the whole, that might not be a bad idea.”

    Tom turned round. His face had gone very red. “Do you mean that?

    “I don’t really know… Pauline’s Baby Belinda is nice, isn’t she? I’ve been thinking it over... I’ve been trying to imagine what it’d be like living without you, now I’ve got used to it.”

    He swallowed. “And?”

    Jemima frowned. “I can’t really imagine it… I think this is better.”

    “Good,” said Tom faintly.

    “Only I can’t imagine being a mother at all, Tom. I think I’d be awful at it.”

    “Well, I’m used to kids, darling. You’d grow into it, I think. I mean, it wouldn’t be like starting with a full-blown one of—uh—say, the twins’ age.”

    “That might be easier,” said Jemima glumly. “Pauline seems to know what it means when Belinda roars, and things. How do you get to know that sort of thing? Is it an instinct? ’Cos I don’t think I’ve got it.”

    “Practice, I think. And learning by example: she’s got lots of cousins and so on, hasn’t she?”

    “Ye-es... I was thinking. Suppose we did have a baby: what say we had one of the girsl from the nanny school to come and flat with us? I know we couldn’t afford a nanny, but while she was training? Then if I did something wrong there’d be someone around to help.”

    Tom was vividly envisaging a galumphing female teenager—something along the lines of Pauline’s young sister, Melanie Weintraub—in his perfect nest with Jemima Puddle-Duck. He’d bloody well go over the regs for paternity leave with a fine-tooth comb before he agreed to—

    He looked at Jemima’s face. “Um, yeah. That’s a distinct possibility”

    Her hands trembled a little. “Everybody’s out during the day, round here.”

    Tom slid his arm round her shoulders. “Mm. Well, we’d try and time it so as you had it—uh—well, just before the holidays, maybe? Let’s see...” He did mental arithmetic, muttering a little. “Um, maybe we could swing a full-time nanny for a few weeks, or a Karitane nurse, or something... I’d get a bit of leave, anyway.”

    “Yes. Just until I got used to it,” said Jemima in a shaking voice.

    Tom squeezed her shoulders. “Mm. Sure, sweetheart?”

    “No,” admitted Jemima honestly. “Only—only me and Pauline were at the shops the other day and—and we saw a little boy, Pauline said he was about two... “

    “Mm?”

    “Well, I kind of keep thinking,” admitted Jemima in a very small voice, “that it would be nice to have a little boy like that. Well—like you, I mean.”

    Tom’s lips trembled. He took off his specs. “Mm.” He sniffed. “I can’t guarantee its sex, mind you.”

    “No.” After a minute she said: “Well, Connie’s lovely, too.”

    Tom’s mouth twitched a bit. “So you have always maintained.”

    “Mm.” There was a short silence. “You’ll have to be awfully supportive, Tom,” said Jemima in a small voice. “It’s awfully scary.”

    Tom pressed his mouth to the black head. “I know. I will be. No more gallivanting. No macho huddles at Hawaiian luaus. No falling for heavily married ladies.”

    “You couldn’t help that,” said Jemima on a little sigh. “I do understand, now.”

    “Mm,” he said.

   They stood there in silence for a time, while Tom’s hugely sentimental mood gradually got overtaken by a much cruder feeling that they really oughta start doing something about it right now—before Jemima Puddle-Duck changed her mind.

    Then Jemima said: “Yellow ducks would be nice. I know yellow’s a traditionally sexless colour: I asked Helen.”

    Tom gulped. “Helen Weintraub? Pauline’s mum?”

    “Yes. I like her. She said to ask her anything.”

    Tom gulped again. “She’s certainly got enough energy to be surrogate grandmum to any number of stray infants.”

    “Mm. She said labour is awful, but the memory fades amazingly quickly. And she said we’d better see Dr Smith before we do anything. Because of my hips. Just to be sure: you know.”

    “All right, darling,” he croaked. “You are slender, but— Well, we’ll certainly talk to him.” After a moment he added: “Helen’s a pretty hefty woman, you know. I mean, not all women who produce healthy infants have hips like hers. Pauline’s pretty much your size.”

    “Yes,” agreed Jemima. She was silent a moment. Tom squeezed her a bit. Then she said: “I did ask Dr Smith—I mean Bruce, he said to call him that, he’s awfully nice. I did ask him about going off the Pill. He said not to in the middle of a packet, because it can upset your innards.”

    “Oh,” said Tom faintly to this highly technical piece of gynaecological intel.

    “And he said husbands can be there, these days.”

    “I should bloody well hope so!” said Tom loudly.

    Jemima smiled. “Then he said de factos were allowed, too!”

    “Well, he oughta know!” replied Tom sourly.

    “Mm.” Jemima smiled a little. “If it was leap year, Mr Overdale, I could say ‘Shall we get married?’“

    Tom’s lips trembled but he managed to say: “Ignore these traditionalist superstitions. It’s probably all tied up with keeping the gene pool pure by natural selection—natural male selection, naturally. We don’t wanna have anything to do with that sorta thing.”

    “No, it’s dirty!” agreed Jemima with a giggle.

    Tom pressed his lips to the silky head and waited.

    “Shall we?” said Jemima in a stifled voice.

    “Yes, please, Dr Anderson,” said Tom meekly.

    Keith Nicholls would have been only too willing to lend Roberta his car for a jaunt to the Art Gallery with her little red-haired mate—it was a change to see her getting out on a Sunday at all—but the bloody thing was in dock this weekend. And it would have been more than his life was worth to lend her Ariadne’s. Neither of them even bothered to suggest consulting Ariadne herself on the subject: in the first place they knew what the answer would be, and in the second place Ariadne was flat on her bed with a lot of ice wrapped in a facecloth on her head and half a ton of vitamins B and C inside her, feeling very, very sorry for herself.

    So the two girls went on the bus—having first worked out carefully just which bus to catch in order to give them a decent time at the gallery before catching the ferry back. The one ferry that did allow you to catch a bus that then more or less connected, with a wait of only about twenty minutes, with a bus up to the Hibiscus Coast. Ginny had never been on the ferry and Roberta had decided it was about time she did: it was one of the nicest things in the entire city.

    At first Ginny thought Roberta’s cousin’s sculptures—you couldn’t have called them statues—were really horrible. Only Roberta was looking at them with such careful attention that she didn’t like to say anything.

    There were quite a few other people in the Gallery and Ginny decided after watching for a while that they fell into three groups. There were the ones who walked through each room very fast, just glancing at things. They were in the majority. They all looked rather blank, and as if they didn’t know why they’d come. They were quite well dressed.

    Then there were the families with kids. Quite a lot of them. They nearly all had parkas or jumpers on but some of them had tracksuits. They also walked through fast, at least the parents did. The kids raced round screaming and yelling and fighting and not looking at anything. The parents occasionally snarled at them. Ginny did hear one kid try to ask its parents about the sculpture exhibition but they shut it up. Ginny couldn’t imagine why on earth the families had come. Especially since several of them had pushchairs that were difficult to manipulate amongst the sculptures. Some of the kids got up in the top gallery and started shouting, that was really awful. Ginny cringed but the parents didn’t seem to mind.

    Lastly, there were the interesting-looking ones. There were very few of these. Most of them had catalogues and they looked at things very carefully, and often stood in front of them for a long time. Most of them looked quite poor, at least they mostly wore very plain, dark clothes. They couldn’t all be students, although one or two obviously were. But some of them were quite old.

    Partly because Roberta had ranged herself very clearly with this last group—even to the clothes: she was wearing jeans and a black jumper, and carrying a heavy black duffel coat—and partly because the other two groups were so very awful, Ginny tried to look hard at the sculptures, too.

    After quite a while she forgot to look as if she was interested, and forgot to look round at all the other people. Finally she realized with a start she’d lost Roberta. She panicked a bit, but eventually found her looking at a very plain statue that wasn’t part of the exhibition. She came up to her and said: “I liked it.”

    “Mm.” Roberta went on looking at the statue.

    “Do you like this?” Ginny said shyly. It was very, very plain, and sort of—well, it was wider at the top than the bottom, and sort of flattish. Kind of standing up on end.

    “Mm. There was a row when they bought it. It’s worth about a hundred times more today than what they paid for it. Pack of jerks,” said Roberta in a vague voice.

    “Who?” said Ginny timidly.

    “The bloody Council, who else?”

    “Oh.”

    Roberta stroked the statue very slowly. Ginny went bright red and hissed: “Are you allowed to do that?”

    Roberta shrugged. “Who gives a stuff? If a statue says ‘touch me’, I touch it.”

    Ginny gulped.

    Roberta looked round at her and smiled. “Anyway, it doesn’t say ‘Don’t Touch’, does it?”

    Possibly it didn’t say that because no-one but Roberta had dreamed of touching it. “No,” she admitted.

    Roberta stroked it again. “Go on,” she prompted.

    Very red, Ginny copied her.

    They went on looking at the very plain statue. After a while Ginny said: “It sort of grows on you, doesn’t it?”

    “There’d be something wrong with you if it didn’t!” replied Roberta strongly. “It’s a Barbara Hepworth.”

    “Oh,” said Ginny humbly.

    On the Devonport ferry Ginny knelt up on the seat and leaned over the rail, watching the wake. “This is great!”

    “Yep,” agreed Roberta contentedly.

    “I’m glad I brought my parka. You were right, it is colder out here on the water.”

    “Mm.”

    Ginny continued to watch the wake. After quite some time she said: “I’ve never been on a boat before.”

    Weakly Roberta replied: “Not any sort of boat?”

    “No. You don’t get many boats on hill farms in Taranaki.”

    “You wouldn’t, no,” she agreed, smiling. “What about Wellington? Didn’t you ever go on the Cook Strait Ferry?”

    “No. Anyway, it’s not like this, is it? It’s a huge great ship.”

    Roberta looked back at the wharves they’d left behind them and objected mildly: “Not huge.”

    “No, but not like this.”

    “Right. This is built to human scale,” said Roberta with satisfaction.

    Ginny sighed deeply. “That’s it. It’s ... real!”

    The minor gale of late April blew fiercely. The ancient ferry chugged slowly across the green-grey harbour under a grey-blue sky full of racing clouds. Short wisps of hair were continually whipped out from behind Ginny’s and Roberta’s ears and across their faces. Every so often they stroked them back without realizing they were doing it. More wisps were continually pulled and teased from their plaits. Ginny and Roberta, without analysing it at all, were perfectly and completely happy.

    Tuesday evening having arrived, Ginny was, as promised, having tea with Adrian at Number 3 Blossom Avenue. Or rather, he was in the kitchen and she was in the siting-room with his landlord. “That’s pretty,” she said shyly. “What is it?”

    “Mm? Mozart,” replied John Aitken absently from inside his book. He looked up suddenly. “Così Fan’ Tutte—don’t you recognize it?”

    “No. I don’t know anything about music,” she replied, going very red. “Um—well, I know I don’t like the sort of stuff Vicki likes,” she added uneasily.

    John replied mildly: “What does she like?”

    “Um—well, pop music. But she’s really keen on musicals. You know: Phantom of the Opera, and, um, The Sound of Music. That sort of thing.”

    “God,” he said simply.

    Darryl came into the large, shabby front room carrying a bottle. “Is this the stuff?” she asked him.

    John looked at the bottle, and winced. “No. Go and put that back where you found it. I’m saving that to drink in ten years’ time. I said find a bottle of the drinkable red. Didn’t you learn anything in France?”

    Darryl replied amiably: “Not about wines. I admit André was always going on about them, before you ask. Only he went on about them too much: it all got garbled in me tiny feminine head.” She made a horrible face at him and stuck her tongue out. Ginny bit her lip.

    John merely returned placidly: “Evidently. Well, see if you can find a bottle of that stuff Maria sent us. Ba-ro-lo,” he said slowly.

    “Is that red?”

    “YES!” he howled.

    “Gotta ask, or you’ll never learn,” said Darryl, winking at Ginny. She went out, grinning.

    John said mildly: “I’ll start that record at the beginning again, if you like.”

    “No, it’s all right,” replied Ginny, going very pink.

    Silence fell in the big, shabby room. Ginny listened dreamily to Mozart, wished she could understand the words, and decided that it was like... Not icing, it was pretty but not sweet. It was like lots and lots of crystal, very clear and bright and sparkling. But not cheap or shallow. She didn’t dare to express this thought to John: he was nice, but he was a lecturer and very, very clever, and lots older than her. And English, he had a very up-market accent, she’d never met anybody before that talked like that.

    After some time Darryl came in again with a bottle. “Is this it?”

    “Mm? Oh—yes. Uh—didn’t you say your parents were coming?”

    “Yeah. They reckon they wanna see the film,” said Darryl glumly.

    John counted laboriously on his fingers. “You, me, Ginny, Adrian, Alistair, Meriel—better get another bottle,” he decided.

    Darryl immediately said to Ginny: “Do you drink?”

    Blushing, Ginny admitted: “Not really.”

    “One’ll do,” Darryl decided.

    “Balls,” John returned in a very mild voice. “She’s a skinflint,” he explained to Ginny. “You can start tonight,” he added. “Barolo isn’t a bad one to start with, actually.”

    To Ginny’s surprize Darryl didn’t object to this. She merely said: “Will it go with the nosh that Adrian’s whipping up, though? Ya know what Dad is.”

    “Perfectly,” replied John in his terribly English voice.

    Ginny and Darryl stared at him. After a moment, rather to Ginny’s relief, because she wouldn’t have dared to, Darryl said: “Perfectly what? Ya know perfectly well what Dad is, or this plonk will go perfectly with Adrian’s grub?”

    “Both.”

    Suddenly Ginny giggled loudly.

    John smiled slowly. “It’s nice to be appreciated,” he acknowledged.

    “Hah, hah,” said Darryl without emphasis. She went over to the door but paused and said to John: “Shouldn’t you open it?”

    “Mm,” he said with his nose in his book.

    “John!”

    Jumping, John said: “You open it, darling. I trust you.”

    Ginny looked very doubtfully at the militant Darryl. But she didn’t look cross: in fact, although it was hard to tell because of her bronzy skin, Ginny rather thought the colour had risen up her strong neck. She said in a funny voice: “All right,” and went out quickly.

    “Not used to public endearments,” explained John.

    Ginny gasped, and turned puce.

    John made a little face. It was hard to tell, because of the curly dark beard, but Ginny thought it was a wry little face. His voice was certainly wry as he said: “Or at least, not in English.”

    “Um—no,” muttered Ginny.

    “Which doesn’t mean she doesn’t like ’em,” he murmured. Ginny gulped.

    John returned to his book. Ginny tried to concentrate on the music but couldn’t. How old was Darryl? Not much older than her, really... She’d just finished her Ph.D. So—twenty-five or -six? And John was— She glanced at him cautiously. She couldn’t tell, but he must be well into his thirties. His hair was quite thin on top. He must be at least ten years older than Darryl. At least. How long had they been... They weren’t married, were they? No, she was pretty sure they weren’t. So how long had they been together? And—and did it take ages before you got used to it? To being called darling and all that... It sounded nice in John’s voice; actually it was a lovely voice. Or was it only a lovely accent? Ginny frowned, and couldn’t decide.

    The dinner was quite plain, really, and at first Ginny thought it was quite ordinary. The pâté was nice, but it wasn’t smooth like pâté usually was. Ginny thought that was wrong. Then as she ate some more she realized it tasted marvellous. It made all the shop-bought pâtés she’d ever tasted seem slimy and horrible by comparison. Especially that stuff that Mum bought at the delicatessen section of the big supermarket when she made Dad drive her into New Plymouth and that Dad called— Well, a very rude name. Eventually she said cautiously to Darryl: “Is this special pâté?”

    “Yeah. Pâté de campagne. It’s chunkier than most. Country-style, see? Hasn’t got truffles in it, either.”

    “Truffles!” said Lady Tuwhare scornfully.

    “Um—des truffes. That’s right, isn’t it, Adrian?” Darryl asked.

    Adrian replied with a little smile: “Yes. But this one has got brandy in it. Anything called ‘de campagne’ tends to be relatively coarse in texture, Ginny.”

    “I see. Did you make it yourself, Adrian?”

    “Yes: it’s easy.” He smiled at her.

    Darryl took another hunk. “He does most of it in the food-processor,” she said. “Only see these wee chunks of pork fat?” She pointed at them with her knife.

    “Yes,” agreed Ginny. Pork fat? No wonder it tasted—well, sort of rich.

    “Cuts ’em up by hand. Takes ages, even with ’is great big chopper.”

    “Rats,” said Adrian, going very red.

    “Old Madame’s idea. She’s a fanatic,” clarified Darryl.

    “And a good thing, too,” said Sir Alistair Tuwhare firmly.

    Glaring, Darryl replied: “I’m not saying it’s not a good thing, I’m just saying she is, see?”

    “She lets me make the pâté de campagne for the restaurant, now,” Adrian told Ginny. “She says I’ve got the knack.”

    Darryl swallowed her mouthful loudly. “What ’e means is,” she explained kindly, “her and that old uncle that helps her, they’ve got more sense than to stand for hours over a whacking great industrial-size food-processor, grinding up raw pig’s liver into a bloody soup.”

    “One approves the sentiment, while deploring its expression,” noted Meriel Tuwhare.

    “Shuddup, Mum, or ya won’t get invited again,” replied Darryl.

    Ginny gulped and glanced cautiously at Darryl’s mother, but Lady Tuwhare only replied: “Eat that fourth helping up quickly, Darryl, some of us would like to live to see the main course.”

    The main course was very plain, too. Ginny had expected something very elaborate: her cousin Karen had a cordon bleu cookery book and the pictures in it were incredibly fancy. But Adrian just set a small piece of meat and some potatoes on a heavy plain white dinner plate in front of each of them. The plates had a brownish rim—Ginny’s cousin Janet had a dinner-set of that, it was called stoneware, not that either of them knew what that meant. Ginny looked again. The small piece of meat was almost covered with a spoonful of gravy, which was swirled out in a very pretty way towards the side of the plate. Glancing round cautiously she saw that hers wasn’t an accident, they were all like that. On top of the gravy was a very pretty pattern of smallish pointed leaves: Ginny had seen a poster advertising marijuana—well, possibly really against it, but that hadn’t been its overall impression—and they looked remarkably like that. There was a wee bunch of these leaves sort of off to the side of the meat, too. The small potatoes—she had to have another look to confirm they were potatoes—were sort of oval in shape and after some thought she decided he must have peeled them into that shape. It seemed a funny thing to do. They looked sort of browny-yellow and crisp on the outside, so they must be roast. Well, probably. Didn’t fancy restaurants often deep-fry them, though? She wasn’t sure. They each had five of these small potatoes.

    Ginny squinted at John’s plate. Well, maybe John had six. She didn’t dare to squint at Sir Alistair’s: every time he caught her eye she went all fizzy and trembly inside. He was terrifically good-looking, even if he was old. But confusingly, he also looked very like Darryl!

    Sir Alistair was on Ginny’s right but not very close because it was a big table. Ginny thought that was just as well. She wondered why she hadn’t been put next to Adrian, but didn’t dare to ask. Adrian was on the other side of the table, between Darryl’s mother and Darryl, who was at—one end, Ginny wasn’t sure if it was the head or the foot. John was at the other end. He had explained that this was so as he could carve the roast, but it must have been a joke, because this meat wasn’t a roast.

    In the midst of her ruminations Sir Alistair leaned over and filled her wine glass. Ginny looked up and whispered: “Thank you.” He smiled at her. Ginny immediately went all fizzy and trembly and couldn’t think of a word to say to him. She picked the glass up quickly.

    “Like it?” he said, drinking some.

    Ginny sipped hers. “It’s a bit strong. I do quite like it.”

    “It should go reasonably well with the lamb. Though I wouldn’t have chosen Barolo, myself,” he said, glancing at John.

    “No, you’d have chosen my Nuits Saint Georges. Well, you’re not getting it, I’m saving it,” John replied calmly.

    “The first time I went to L’Oie Qui Rit,” said Darryl informatively to Ginny, “we had a cold leek thingy for a first course.”

    Ginny’s natural impulse was to say “Ugh!” Since she was a guest at a fancy dinner and people who knew about food were present, she restrained it. This was just as well, as Darryl then attempted to describe the cold leeks—with huge enthusiasm but, Ginny began to realize in a dazed sort of way, absolutely no capacity for expressing sensory impressions in words. Well, it was a hard thing to do.

    “That was very clear,” noted her mother, as Darryl ran down and buried her nose in her glass.

    “Reading between the lines,” said Sir Alistair, topping up Ginny’s glass and smiling at  her, “I’d say we’re going to have leeks.”

    They were. Adrian brought them in in a separate dish. According to him the leeks were “just braised.” They were hot, not cold, and they were small—Ginny had never had such small ones, Mum grew them sometimes but they never ate them when they were this small.

    Sir Alistair picked up his knife and fork. He cut a piece neatly off a potato.

    If Sir Alistair was starting it must be all right! With relief Ginny put her wine down and picked up her knife and fork.

    “Taste the meat, Ginny,” urged Sir Alistair.

    Very pink, Ginny did so. Ooh, yum, it was lovely! “This isn’t lamb, is it?” she said to Adrian. “It tastes wonderful.”

    Beaming, he replied: “Yeah.”

    “How did you cook it?” she gasped.

    “Just sautéed in butter. It’s a very tender cut.”

    “You must have done something special to it,” she said faintly.

    He smiled. “No.”

    “That’s what good cooking is,” explained Darryl kindly. “Good ingredients, not mucked up.”

    “There speaks the woman that chose Côtelettes Choiseul when Alistair took us to L’Oie Qui Rit on her birthday,” noted John, sighing.

    “It wasn’t that fancy!” retorted Darryl huffily. “Anyway, I bet I got my money’s worth out of the old dame!”

    “My money’s worth,” corrected Sir Alistair very mildly.

    “Yeah.” With a glare at him, Darryl explained: “He only had roast lamb. Pays a fortune for fancy Froggy food, and ends up eating roast lamb!”

    “Oh,” said Ginny faintly.

    “Madame’s Selle d’agneau is a classic,” Adrian pointed out. He sounded a bit huffy and Ginny looked at him nervously.

    But John replied: “Yes, but this Antipodean exemplar of hidebound gastronomic thinking would never recognize that, Adrian.”

    “Shut up,” said Darryl amiably. “Eat your dinner up.”

    “I’m making it last,” said John sadly. “There isn’t much, is there?”

    Ginny went very red but Adrian immediately replied, grinning: “You’ve already had one course before it, and there are three more to come.”

    “Three?” said Ginny dazedly.

    “Gone all posh,” explained Darryl gloomily. “You’ll see.”

    Ginny ate wonderful lamb that tasted better than any lamb she’d ever had, wonderful gravy that didn’t taste like gravy, it must be a special sauce, and extraordinarily delicious small potatoes, wondering—though not very hard, this course was too nice—what on earth the other courses could be. She noticed that Darryl ate the small bunch of leaves on her plate, but nobody else did. So she thankfully left hers, too.

    When she attempted to drink some of wine halfway through her leeks Sir Alistair put his hand on hers and stopped her! Ginny went bright red. And very trembly inside.

    “It won’t taste nice with these,” he said, crinkling his eyes up at her. “I’ll get you a glass of water, shall I?” He got up.

    “Thank you very much!” gasped Ginny.

    “Use my Évian,” said John as he went out.

    “Naturally,” he replied.

    Ginny knew what that was, because Polly and Jake had had some in their fridge and she and Vicki had been stunned to discover that people actually bought water. In New Zealand? Of course you probably would have to do it in Europe, because wasn’t their water undrinkable? But here!

    “It’s a waste of money,” said Darryl.

    “Yes, but it is my money. And it’s my one extravagance,” replied John.

    Ginny waited for Darryl to say it wasn’t his money, it was their joint money, but she didn’t.

    When Sir Alistair came back he had the bottle of Évian water and several tumblers on a tray. “In case anyone else should desire refreshment,” he said, putting it all on the table. “Who set this table, anyway?”

    “Me,” said Darryl through a mouthful of leeks.

    “Why did I ask?” he sighed. Lady Tuwhare gave a trill of laughter.

    Ginny decided that though they were both obviously awfully clever, and very attractive, too, she was glad they weren’t her parents. Dad was bad enough when he got in a teasing mood, but he wasn’t that bad! And Mum might boss you around and so on, but she never got at you. She could see that the Tuwhares were both very fond of their big, brown, handsome daughter—but she could also see that that didn’t stop them getting at her. It must have been very hard to live with, decided Ginny.

    Whether or not there was any direct connection between this sentiment and the fact that she rang Miriam up the next day she would have been hard put to it to say. Vicki had shown very little interest in the details of the dinner party—after meeting Darryl and John at the tennis club dance she’d declared they were “dead boring: stuck-up varsity types.” Ginny recognized quite clearly that this meant that Vicki hadn’t understood one word in ten of their conversation, was jealous of Darryl’s dress and looks, and was quite probably also jealous because she, Ginny, had understood them and had very much liked them.

    She could have rung Polly up but although she knew she’d be very sympathetic,  somehow Ginny didn’t want to show herself up for the ignorant little country girl that she was. And although she could have rung old Aunty Vi, who was only just down in the city, she’d scoff at the whole thing, she was like that. And Michaela and Roberta wouldn’t be interested.

    So Ginny rang Mum.

    Miriam Austin listened dazedly to a detailed description of the food, interrupted by a rapturous account of Lady Tuwhare’s clothes and style. After a while she said dazedly: “But isn’t she a Maori, dear?”

    “NO!” cried Ginny with huge scorn. She described the dainty blonde Meriel in minute detail. “It’s her husband that’s a Maori: he’s a famous judge!” she ended.

    “Oh,” said Miriam weakly.

    Ginny added in a voice that shook a little: “He’s ever so handsome, Mum.”

    Miriam belonged to a class and generation of pakeha New Zealanders that hadn’t learned to see Maoris as being handsome, so she just said limply: “Oh.”

    Ginny then told her a lot about both Sir Alistair’s and Darryl’s looks. Miriam felt a bit muddled at the end of it.

    “Yes,” she said weakly. “So—so the tea was very nice, was it?”

    “Yes—you oughta try cooking leeks like that, Mum!”

    “Mm,” said Miriam, envisaging quite precisely what Vince and Ted would say if presented with a few small braised leeks.

    Ginny took a deep breath. “And you know I told you before that Polly and Jake eat their salad all by itself?”

    “Mm.”

    “Well, they did, too!”

    “I see. Um—was it a nice salad? What did it have in it?” asked Miriam bravely.

    Vince came out into the passage at that moment and hissed: “She still going?” Miriam nodded weakly. Grinning, he bent down and put his ear to the receiver.

    “…and torn up lettuce, it wasn’t just ordinary lettuce, though—and little wee dandelion leaves!” said Ginny in a defiant voice.

    “WHAT?” hollered Vince.

    “They eat them in France all the time!” cried Ginny angrily. “Mum, tell Dad to get off the line!”

    “Get off the line,” said Miriam limply. Vince stuck his tongue out at her. He remained at her elbow.

    “Um—was it nice, Ginny?” she said weakly.

    “Yeah, lovely! Adrian said there weren’t enough dandelions to have a whole salad, so he mixed them up with the lettuce.” She paused. “It was a bit bitter, I suppose, but really nice. Unusual.”

    Vince made a horrible face. “Mm,” said Miriam.

    “And they have oil and vinegar dressing on their salad, just like Polly!” said Ginny on a triumphant note.

    “Your Aunty Maureen’s told me about Polly’s salads,” agreed Miriam feebly.

    Vince choked slightly.

    “Ssh!” she hissed. “Uh—well, go on, Ginny. What did you have for pudding?”

    “Um, not pudding next, cheese.”

    “Eh?” said Vince loudly, forcibly turning the receiver towards his mouth. “Thought them fancy Auckland nosh-shops gave ya that at the end of the meal?”

    “They don't in France, and Adrian said he hated it after the pudding, and Lady Tuwhare, she agreed with him!”

    Vince rolled his eyes madly and mouthed: “Lady?” but Miriam gave him a glare, and grabbed the receiver back. “Was it nice, dear?” she asked feebly.

    Apparently, yes, but it hadn’t been French cheese, but English. Blue vein. Vince made a sick face. Miriam tried to frown at him.

    “Well, I’m glad you liked it, Ginny, dear. So it was pudding next, was it?”

    Vince struck a poncy attitude, one hand on a hip, the other mysteriously laid flat across the top of his head, the head being tilted to one side. Miriam turned her back on him.

    Ginny described the syllabub rapturously but somewhat ineptly, not having understood the details of its preparation at all. “Adrian said it was a classic English recipe, but Madame approves of it,” she finished.

    “English?” repeated Miriam limply.

    “Yes. Well, John said that true English food is typified by meatless sausages and tasteless white bread fried in lard!” admitted Ginny with a giggle. “But Darryl told him to be quiet, we didn’t want to hear the horror stories of his formative years!”

    “Is he English?” asked Miriam, after an appreciable pause, during which Vince, having almost overbalanced during the preceding interchange, came to put his ear to the receiver again.

     “Yes! I said!” said Ginny crossly.

    “I’m sorry, dear, I must have got mixed up... Well, I’m glad you had a nice time.”

    Ginny revealed rapidly that they’d then had a quick coffee and gone to the Film Society, it hadn’t started until half-past eight, because of the people who had late language labs from seven to eight, so they were just in time. Miriam was about to say that was good, and ring off, because the call by now must have cost a small fortune—Ginny had naturally rung collect—but she plunged into an account of the film which, most confusingly indeed, seemed to have been all about food, too! Well, bread and bakeries.

    “In German?” she said weakly.

    “Yes. Subtitles, of course. John understood it, he sort of laughed—well, not exactly where the subtitles had the funny bits,” reported Ginny. “He’s awfully clever.”

    “Mm. Well, I’m glad you’re making friends, dear.”

    “Yeah.” She took a deep breath and plunged into a description of the sculpture exhibition. Miriam rolled her eyes helplessly at Vince. He merely winked.

    “I see. Who did you say you went with, dear?”

    “Mum! You’re not listening! Roberta!”

    “Oh, the girl that’s doing medicine?”

    “Yes,” said Ginny pleasedly.

    Miriam sagged all over Vince. Grinning, he put an arm round her waist, wrested the receiver off her, and said, not waiting to see if Ginny was still talking: “Oy, Twin: if that’s It you can hang up now, we’re gonna have to mortgage the farm to pay for this call as it is.”

    “Very funny,” said Ginny sourly.

    Vince pulled a face. “You are settling in, then?” he said. “Liking it, and all that?”

    “Yes, of course!” replied Ginny in amazement.

    “Good. Uh—getting plenty of work done in the intervals of these Froggy meals and Hun films?”

    “Yes, of course I am!” She immediately told him, at top speed, a huge amount about Erik Nilsson’s lectures on Middlemarch (that Vince had never heard of) and a huge amount about Professor Something’s lectures on something Latin that Vince had (a) never heard of and (b) didn’t much want to, now.

    “Good,” he said weakly.

    “And I got an A for my last Greek translation, did I tell you?”

    Mighta done, who knew? It was all lost in the general garbage. “Uh—no. Good show,” he managed.

    “I’ve gotta go, Dad, Dickon’s picking me up, we’re going in to the Main Library!” she gasped. “See ya!”

    “Bye-bye,” said Vince, hanging up and sagging limply all over Miriam.

    “What was all that about?” she said feebly.

    “Don’t ask me. Greek and stuff. What was yours all about?”

    “Um... Food, mainly. And some lady that’s married to a—a Maori judge, or something. Lady Tu—um, something, that she mentioned, Vince.”

    “Oh.” They looked at each other blankly.

    “She seems to be making friends,” decided Miriam weakly.

    “Yeah. Uh—who’s—uh—Dick?”

    “Dickon,” said Miriam weakly. “He’s a Doctor.”

    “Eh? Thought that was Vicki’s one?”

    “No—if you mean that Mark boy: he’s only a Med. student. Um, no, from what she said in her last letter, this Dickon seems to be a—well, you know. One of the lecturers,” she ended feebly.

    “WHAT?” he hollered, turning puce.

    “Now, calm down, Vince, he’s not one of her teachers, he teaches some sort of... um, science. Biology, or plants—well, mangroves or something.”—Vince goggled at her.—“He’s only young, I think: she said he’s just finished his Ph.D.”

    Vince grunted.

    “And this Roberta sounds like a very nice girl!”

    “Gotta be, her dad’s a doctor,” he said sourly.

    “Don’t be silly. Um, so’s her mother: Polly says they’re very well respected up there,” she finished weakly.

    “Ya ruddy sister Vi does, ya mean, Polly never said a thing like that in ’er life!” he spotted unerringly.

    “Um—well, I did ring Vi... Well, they are only kids, Vince, I wanted to be sure that— Well, you know!”

    “Mm.” He put his arm round her shoulders and drew her back into the sitting-room. “Well, who’s this Adrienne girl, then?”

    Miriam gulped. “Adrian. He’s a boy.”

    “Eh? Wasn’t it him that was doing all this salad muck, or did I get it wrong?”

    “Um—no. I mean, yes, it was... Polly knows his family, they’re very nice people. He’s learning to be a cook,” she finished in a very weak voice.

    Vince immediately released her, put a hand on his hip and took a couple of mincing steps across the sitting-room.

    “No, he isn’t,” said Miriam weakly. “I rang Polly and asked her.”

    Vince let out a roar of laughter.

    “Shut up!” she cried. “I just wanted to be—to be sure!”

    “Sure—of—what?” he gasped, wiping his eyes. “Strewth, she’d be a damn sight safer with ’im if ’e was!” He collapsed into his big chair, shaking slightly.

    Miriam glared. “And while were on the subject what was all that pantomime in the passage about? With your hand on your hip.”

    “Eh? Aw!” Grinning, he got up and demonstrated. “This? French.”

    “They can’t all be like that! And what’s that stupid business with your hand flat on top of your head?”

    “Beret, of course,” replied Vince blandly, sitting down again.

    Miriam gulped. She sat down and became very busy with her knitting.

    Vince buried himself in the paper. She was knitting, but he knew that didn’t necessarily mean he was safe.

    Sure enough, after a bit she said: “She is working: at her varsity stuff, then, is she?”

    “Seems to be,” he grunted. “Getting As, and that.”

    “Good.” There was a short pause. “Which is more than can be said for Vicki!” she said grimly.

    “Don’t start that again,” he grunted from behind the paper.

    “If she fails, we’re not subsidizing her for another year!” she said roundly.

    Vince returned drily: “If she fails, they’ll chuck her out: haven’t you read the regs?”

    “Um—no,” she said uncertainly. “ls that right, Vince?”

    “Yeah. Always have queues of kids trying to get into these nursing courses. Could always have another go—sign on at New Plymouth Hospital or somewhere,” he grunted.

    “Mm... Isn’t it all Polytech courses these days, though?”

    “Don’t ask me!”

     Miriam sighed. After a few moments she said: “These people that Ginny’s meeting...”

    “What about ’em?”

    “They—they all seem to be... Well, doctors and—and university people and—and Sirs and Ladies!” she ended loudly.

    Sighing, Vince lowered the paper. Sure enough, she was all pink and ruffled. “What did you expect?” he said heavily. “We send her to flaming university, who else is she gonna meet but university types?”

    “Yes, but all these Sirs and Ladies and—and that Maori man’s a judge, Vince!”

    “Just people, aren’t they?” he returned sourly. “Or do ya reckon they’ve got two heads, or something?”

    “No! But…”

    Sighing, he said: “You’re being silly, old girl. This judge type, he’s just someone’s dad, from what I could make out. And what’s so special about a boy that’s learning to be a cook, for God’s sake?”

    “Not special—no,” admitted Miriam unwillingly.

    Vince got up. “Ya can’t expect the Big Smoke to be the same as the Taranaki backblocks,” he pointed out mildly. He went over to the door. “I’ll make a cuppa.”

    “It’s barely half-past seven,” objected Miriam.

    “So?”

    He was about to go out but she cried: “Yes, and what’s Ginny doing, driving in to the Main Library with this Dickon at this hour?”

     Vince sagged against the door jamb. “Eh?”

    “You heard what she said!” she cried. “The Main Library’s in town, Vince! The big university library!”

    “Oh. Well—uh—prolly going in to—uh—do a bit of swot, eh?”

    There was a short pause. “In the evening?” she said feebly.

    “Why not?”

    “Well—uh—would the library even be open in the evenings?”

    They looked at each other blankly. “Well, I dunno,” he said finally. “Only why should she mention it, if it wasn’t true? And if she was going to the pictures or something, she’d of said.”

    “Mm.... Oh, dear.”

    Rolling his eyes, Vince replied: “Oh, dear, what?”

    “I don’t know,” admitted Miriam tiredly.

    Sighing a bit, he said: “They’ve gotta grow up, love. She seems to be doing okay. We knew that—that sending her to varsity was gonna change her, didn’t we?”

    Miriam fished agitatedly in her cardy pocket. Vince eyed her uneasily. “Yes, but not so soon!” she cried, and blew her nose fiercely.

    “Uh—no. Well, sounded just like her old self, though, eh?”

    Miriam blew her nose again. “No.”

    “Bullshit!” he said sturdily. “Wait for the time when she doesn’t ring you up and jabber nineteen to the dozen about God-knows-what: that’ll be the time to start worrying about her!”

    Sniffing, she agreed: “Mm.”

    On that Vince went out very quickly before it could get any worse.

    Two days later he said sourly to his son: “Well, if I can stand a week up at that poncy great palace of Polly’s, you can stand a flaming weekend!”

    Ted muttered something about ewes in possible trouble, but Vince treated that one with the scorn it thoroughly deserved.

    “—Anyway, according to ya mother, you’re coming. Ya need taking out of yaself,” he ended nastily.

    “Aw, look, Dad—”

    “Aw, look, Dad, nothing!” retorted Vince with huge satisfaction.

    “Who’ll feed Tip?” he whinged.

    Vince strolled away, yelling over his shoulder: “Shove ’im in the back of the flaming ute and bring ’im with ya, if you’re that particular!”

    He felt a bit better after that. Sharing the misery, ya could call it. And poor old Ted, his mother was right: stuck down on the farm year in, year out—not that anyone here was stopping him from taking a decent holiday, mind you! Do ’im good to get up to the Big Smoke and—uh—well, meet a few new people, or something! Broaden his ruddy horizons, or some such thing! Because if he knew Polly at all, and he had known her all her life, she’d have shoals of ’em lined up for poor old Ted: all smart as paint, slathered in make-up, hung round with clashing great ropes of necklaces and them dinner-plate earrings, scaring the poor sod silly!

    Vince retreated towards the homestead, sniggering gently. Yeah, misery certainly loved company, all right!

Next chapter:

https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/10/nuts-in-may.html