An Evening At Blossom Avenue

2

An Evening at Blossom Avenue

    “Snap!” cried Jemima.

    “IDIOT!” roared her lover.

    There was no need for him to roar this: Jemima had covered herself with confusion and her mouth with her hand.

    “She’s got mixed up again,” said one of the little boys from over the road, on a resigned note. –The little boys from over the road were twins, and though they weren’t exactly alike, they were near as made no difference, so Sol hadn’t got ’em quite sorted out yet.

    The little boy’s friend, from somewhere further up the road, explained in tones of tolerant superiority: “She’s hopeless at games.”

    “Yes,” agreed Jemima in a squashed voice.

    The three little boys—they couldn’t have been a day over twelve, if that—looked down their noses at her.

    The even smaller girl who was the twins’ sister said immediately, in a very aggressive voice: “I LOVE Mima Puddle-Duck!” and climbed onto Jemima’s knee. Quite easy to do, they were all sitting on the huge bed in the finished bedroom. Very pretty indeed: mostly white with tiny touches of blue. A fittingly romantic setting for the lovely bridesmaid, in Sol’s opinion. Even had lacy cushions on the window-seat with tiny blue ribbons in ’em. Like something out of Seventeen magazine. No; to be more exact: like something out of Bride magazine. God damn it.

    “Everybody loves Mima Puddle-Duck,” said Tom, smiling, “but we’re not playing Snap.”

    “No,” admitted Jemima in a small voice.

    The large, bearded English fellow who was Susan’s landlord but also one of the inmates of the shabby old house further down the road where Susan and Alan were still living until they’d got their house up on their own land, said kindly: “Why don’t you make us all some drinks, Jemima?”

    “Um—yes. What would you like, John?”

    “What is there?” he replied simply.

    “Leave out the non-alcoholic ones,” murmured Tom, gathering up cards. Jemima looked sideways at this activity but said nothing.

    “Rum?” said John on a hopeful note.

    “Mum drunk that,” said one of the twins.

    “Yes, I think she did,” Jemima admitted. “Is that the one Meg likes, Tom?”

    “It’s alcoholic,” he conceded.

    “I WANNA DRINK!” bellowed the little girl.

    “Yes; in a minute, Connie. We’ll just see what everyone would like, then you can help me get them,” she said gently.

    “Mima Puddle-Duck, in case you were wondering, is also kind to dumb animals,” her lover said helpfully to Sol.

    “Mm-hm. Picks up stray snails and helps ’em home?”

    “How did you guess?” he said, grinning.

    “We found a EEL!” cried the little girl hoarsely.

    Tom winced. “Yes. Mima doesn’t want to talk about that, Connie,” he said firmly.

    “No,” said Jemima in a brave voice: “it’s all right.”

    “Gray big EEL!” she cried.

    “Yes,” said Jemima faintly.

    “It was dead!” said one of the twins scornfully.

    “Yeah. Dead as a doornail,” agreed his brother.

    “Dead as mutton,” contributed their friend and neighbour. Sol thought that Jemima had introduced him as “Starsky”. Jemima was, of course, the sort of young woman who introduces scruffy little boys in grimy jeans and—shiver, shiver—bare feet, possibly being genuinely under the illusion that they’re human beings. Only he wasn’t absolutely sure that that had been it. They were a long way from Hollywood, after all.

    “Yes,” said Tom firmly. “And that’s enough. Drop the subject.”

    “Anyway, it’s Gin Rummy, not Snap,” one of the twins said helpfully to Jemima.

    “I know,” she said, going red.

    “She meant to say gin,” the other twin explained to the gathering at large.

    Tom had finished sorting out her hand. “I don’t think so,” he murmured.

    “You know I’m no good at games,” she said mildly. “Um—there’s some whisky, John. I think.”

    “That’ll do!” he said, grinning behind the beard.

    “Would you like whisky, Sol?” she said shyly.

    “Sure—fine! Uh—what sort of whisky, Jemima?”

    “I thought there was only one,” replied Jemima simply.

    Tom whistled something that sounded like the appropriate phrase from American Pie.

    Grinning, Sol said: “Nope. There’s Scotch whisky, there’s Irish whiskey, there’s rye—”

    “And bourbon,” said a twin hoarsely.

    “Uh—yeah. We usually just call that bourbon.”

    “I thought that was the same as rye,” said the boy whose name was possibly Starsky.

    “Don’t say things like that, you’ve shocked the seven wits out of our American Friend,” said John, grinning.

    “Bourbon is made from a corn mash, son!” said Sol in a shocked voice.

    “Whereas rye is made from a rye mash,” drawled Tom.

    “I know!” cried Jemima: “And whisky’s made from barley!”

    They were just about to congratulate her when she added in terrible confusion: “Or do I mean oatmeal?”

    “That’s—the—porridge!” gasped John. He fell about on the bed, laughing.

    Tom and Sol also let out ecstatic yelps, what time the boys laughed in a puzzled but sycophantic manner.

    Jemima hugged Connie and said: “Come on, we’ll go and get them their silly old whisky, shall we?”

    “I wanna DRINK!”

    “Yes, you can have a lovely drink, Connie.”

    “CORDIAL! Real cordial!”

    “Um—yes,” said Jemima as they went out. “With ice blocks?”

    “Have no fear, she’ll find something alcoholic,” said Tom, removing his gold-rimmed spectacles. He wiped his eyes. “I’ve got her trained to that extent.”

    “I hope to God you’ve got her trained not to put ice in the whisky,” said John nervously.

    Tom winked at him. “Yep!”

    “Thank Christ!” he said, shuddering all over.

    “You Limeys,” sighed Sol, shaking his head.

    “Now,” said Tom slowly, very rapidly dealing a straight flush, “do I dare to tell her that Americans require ice in their drinks?” He looked sadly at the hand. “No-o... No, I’m afraid she’d get it mixed up and decide that English persons like ice in their drinks whereas Americans prefer theirs—”

    “Warm,” said Sol, shuddering.

    “Touché,” acknowledged John.

    Sol grinned but said to Tom: “Can you do that again?”

    “Any time.” He reshuffled the cards and dealt another.

    “What is it?” asked John with interest, looking at the cards.

    “Straight flush!” screamed the little boys scornfully.

    Sol shut his eyes briefly.

    When he opened them Tom was re-shuffling. “Straight flush,” he agreed mildly. “Now I’ll deal a full house.” He dealt again. “Full house.”

    “Far—out!” breathed the little boys.

    “Remind me never—but never—to play poker with you,” said Sol faintly.

    John scratched his beard. “Um, is that the same as strip poker?”

    Sol looked at him wildly.

    Tom replied in a strangled voice: “More or less. Only you leave your clothes on.”

    “In that case, what’ll you give me not to tell Jemima that you were cheating yesterday?”

    Tom removed his glasses and fell about on the bed laughing. Sol choked.

    “Was he?” cried the little boys wildly. “Were you, Tom?”

    At this Sol and John abruptly fell flat on the bed and laughed till they cried.

    … “Go on,” said Tom mildly, some time later.

    John sipped his second whisky. Judiciously he moved a checker.

    “HUH!” cried the little boys.

    “Can I move it back?” he said humbly.

    “NO!” screamed the little boys.

    Not surprisingly the game was over very soon after that.

    “Shee-ut,” said Sol in awe. “You’re the worst checker player, bar none, I’ve ever seen, John.”

    “Thank you,” he said modestly, but his voice was drowned by the little boys’ scornful screams of: “Not checkers! DRAUGHTS!”

    “Sure. He’s the worst at that, too.”

    The boys ignored that. They competed eagerly for the honour of playing Tom. Sol got up and left them to it. He went over to the window-seat where Jemima was perched in the westering sun, working at a tapestry frame.

    “Can I see?”

    Shyly she showed him the work. A garland of flowers, pinks and whites with blue ribbons on a fawn ground.

    “Gee, that’s pretty.”

    Jemima went very red and said hoarsely: “Thank you. It’s for the dressing-table stool.”

    “It’ll look real pretty. Give just a little touch of colour to the room, mm?”

    “Yes,” she said shyly.

    Shit, she was the sweetest thing! And bright with it, make no mistake. Taught linguistics, yet, at the university: had a Ph.D., and all. And as for that glorious fall of shiny black hair, and those tits... Today encased in a bright coral fuzzy thing, and encased was the word, looked as if she’d been poured into it. Did he choose ‘em specially for her—or for them, rather? Sol had a fair idea that he did.

    “Tom chose it, he’s got beautiful taste.”

    He jumped. “Uh— Oh, the tapestry? Did he, now?”

    “Yes. At a very nice shop. They have lovely tapestries. This is adapted from a Renaissance design, see?” She showed him the packet. Sol feigned an interest in it...

    Tom insisted on showing him round the house before it got dark. John didn’t seem to mind: in fact he was now sprawled on his hosts’ bed reading a book he’d picked up off of their bedside table. Sol had never actually observed a person do this in another person’s house. Well, he guessed his experience was pretty limited... Yup.

    The three boys were now playing a mean hand of poker, sitting on the floor, and little Connie had installed herself on the window-seat next to Jemima and was impeding her attempts to get on with her tapestry by playing “dollies” with her hair. Sol refrained from casting a glance of wistful envy at her, but it was an effort.

    “Boy,” he said slowly as they finished up back in the big front downstairs room: “you got your work cut out, here, Tom.”

    “Mm. Well, there’s the summer holidays coming up.”

    “Uh—sure.” –Tom was a schoolteacher, he knew that.

    “Over Christmas,” said Tom with a nasty grin.

    “Yeah,” agreed Sol weakly.

    Taking pity on the ignorant foreigner, Tom explained: “We’re in the process of changing from a term system to a semester one, but we still get about six weeks at Christmas.”

    “You’re gonna need it.” The room was empty, except for a huge couch swathed in a tarpaulin. It had large French windows facing onto what would one day no doubt be a drive—they were boarded up. The floor was bare boards, indescribably filthy, the elaborate ceiling was also filthy, and the fireplace surround had been ripped out.

   Tom explained that the floor in here was quite sound.

    “Uh-huh,” said Sol, looking at the ominously stained bit over by the French windows.

    “Except for that bit,” Tom allowed, grinning. “When I replace the weatherboards outside this room I’ll re-hang the doors and fix the floor.”

    “Uh-huh. Re-hang and re-glaze,” murmured Sol.

    “Mm.”

    “That should take up a few minutes of your Christmas vacation, yeah.”

    “I thought I might rip this right out,” explained Tom, going over to the sagging thing that sheltered the chimney breast.

    “What: the whole chimney?” said Sol faintly.

    “No-o... I’m hoping not to have to. I’ve been up in the roof: the pointing looks quite sound. If the bottom bit’s okay I might just leave the brickwork exposed: whaddaya reckon?”

    Sol swallowed.

    Smiling, Tom explained his plan: exposed old bricks of the chimney piece (it was a big room, but gee, that would sure dominate it, thought Sol numbly), polished floorboards, one huge Chinese rug, a really good one (Sol thought wild thoughts on the subject of academic salaries) and the big old couch, reupholstered in dark leather.

    “Your ship will’ve come in by then.”

    Tom grinned sheepishly. “Well, I’ve got the rug: it’s in storage; bought it years ago when I was a carefree bachelor and went on a trip to China; and I’ll cover the couch myself, of course.”

    “Of course.”

    “I’ve got a book that tells you how,” said Tom, his thin face stretched in an ear-to-ear grin.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “This’ll be in the intervals of finishing the kitchen and stripping the front hall and the staircase,” he explained, still grinning.

    “And fixing the roof,” noted Sol drily as they strolled out into the aforesaid front hall.

    “No, we’re going to do that at the end of next week,”

    “You and Jemima?” croaked Sol.

    “God, no!” Tom paused with his hand on the knob of the big newel post. It was an attractive staircase, all right: only why had some weirdo stained it that very, very dark brown in the distant past?

    “My brothers, and a couple of friends. Male friends!” he added with a snort of laughter.

    “I’m real relieved to hear that, Tom,” said Sol politely.

    They climbed the stairs sniggering gently.

    “Are you going to stay for tea, Starsky?” asked Jemima, some time later. It was dark, now: they’d drawn the curtains—mind you, they were only white muslin, the room must be losing heat like— Well, maybe electricity was cheap in New Zealand, thought Sol dubiously. To his relief they’d switched their great big heater on to “high”, so it wasn’t too bad, but he was glad he’d worn a heavy sweater under the tweed jacket he’d acquired on his second shivering day in the country. Boy, those travel brochures sure had been all wrong!

    “YEAH!” cried Starsky—Sol was now sure that that was the kid’s name: global village. “Can I?” he added.

    “Yes, if your mother says it’s all right. You’d better give her a ring.”

    Starsky scrambled up and dashed out. The phone was in the hall and they didn’t have an extension in the bedroom. Even the Cohens only had the one phone in the hall and one extension, on a long lead, so Belinda had told him, in their bedroom. Did the phone company charge an arm and a leg for putting in extensions, or was it a kind of weird tradition? Or both? Sol wondered vaguely.

    “What is for dinner?” asked John, emerging briefly from his book.

    “I don’t know,” said Jemima, smiling at him. “Tom only said it was going to be something extra-nice.”

    “Steamed silverbeet and boiled pumpkin. With saveloys,” said John. He retired into his book.

    Giggling, Jemima said to Sol: “Don’t take any notice of him!”

    “Gee, I’ll try not to, Jemima.”

    “Am I being anti-social again?” said John vaguely from inside his book.

    “Yes!” gasped Jemima, giggling madly.

    “Never mind,” he said, looking up at Sol and smiling: “it’ll be something for Sol to write in his journal tonight.”

    “Tonight did meet with a mad Englishman. Boiled silverbeet and pumpkin for dinner. Did not eat strange viands which these natives do call ‘saveloy’,” said Jemima promptly.

    After a stunned moment, Sol laughed himself silly. John was already laughing himself silly. The twins were still playing poker on the floor. They let all this wash over them.

    “Sausages!” cried the little girl from Jemima’s knee.

    “Mm,” Jemima agreed, hugging her tight—lucky kid. “Tom might do you a sausage if you ask him nicely.”

    Eagerly Connie clambered off her knee. One of the twins looked up and said: “It isn’t sausages, is it?”

    “I dare say he’ll do you sausages if that’s what you want.”

    “We had sausages yesterday,” said the twin sadly.

    “I like sausages!” cried the little girl aggressively.

    “Yeah. And boiled eggs. We know,” said the other twin heavily.

    “C’n Oi have a sau-sage?” she whined.

    “Come on, we’ll ask Tom, shall we?” Jemima got up and led her out.

    On the floor the twins embarked on an argument as to whether the way Tom sometimes did sausages—wrapped in bacon—was better than the way Starsky’s mum sometimes did sausages—with apples and stuff.

    “It must all seem very strange and foreign to you, Sol,” murmured John.

    Jumping, Sol admitted with a sheepish grin: “Yeah. Sausages ’ud be part of the staple diet here, would they?”

    “Only of the staple diet of the hoi polloi,” replied John expressionlessly.

    Sol gulped.

    “I don’t recommend them.”

    “No.”

    “Mind you, English sausages are far, far worse. They fall below the Common Market standards for meat content, did you know?”

    “No,” he said faintly.

    “Well below.” He retired into his book but looked up again briefly to say: “Legally, they’re not even allowed to call them sausages any more.”

    Sol gulped.

    … “Like it?” asked Tom, as they crammed round the scrubbed wooden table in the half-done-up kitchen.

    Sol looked up from the duck, beaming. “It’s real great, Tom!”

    “No, it isn’t!” cried the twin with the slightly thinner face. “It’s Ermyntrude!”

    “No, it isn’t, it’s Petunia!” cried the rounder-faced twin, grinning all over the face in question, as Tom, Jemima and John swallowed sniggers along with the duck.

    “Nah: Evangeline!” contributed Starsky, sniggering hoarsely.

    “It is NOT: stop it!” cried Jemima, ceasing to snigger and looking anxiously at Connie. “Tom bought it at a shop.”

    “No, I never: old Alec shot ’em.”

    “Oh. Well, anyway, it isn’t any of Meg’s ducks,” said Jemima firmly.

    “So does she give ’em names?” asked Sol weakly.

    “Yeah: and then she won’t let Dad wring their necks,” explained the rounder-faced twin scornfully.

    “Soppy,” said the other one briefly.

    “Well, they are nice,” Jemima admitted on a dubious note. “Nice faces.”

    “Yeah, that’s what ya said when Petunia pecked ya toe!” agreed the thinner twin scornfully.

    Tom and John choked.

    “No,” she admitted, blushing and smiling. “Well, it did hurt.”

    “She had a great big bruise, see, Sol. Dad said he’d take an axe to the bloody thing,” explained the thinner twin kindly.

    “What else would ya do with a duck?”

    The boys received this sally with howls of delighted laughter. Yeah, it had been on about their level, come to think of it.

    “Did you marinate them, Tom?” asked John, reverting to the culinary side.

    “Yes: in a claret. Quite a nice one—you’re drinking some of it,” he explained.

    “Mm-hm. And—uh—orange zest?”

    “I’ll give you the recipe, if you like,” said Tom on a resigned note.

    “Yes, please,” said John, grinning.

    “Is this one of your British traditions?” Sol asked Jemima feebly.

    “No. Well, Tom says men do make the best cooks.”

    “More organized,” explained the burly, untidy John with a wink. His hosts choked.

    “Back home, us guys only cook outdoors, on the barbecue. It’s more macho,” explained Sol, poker-face.

    “There’s a lot of that about out here, too,” agreed Jemima.

    When they’d all finished spluttering, Tom passed the Brussels sprouts again. Normally Sol just hated sprouts. He took some more eagerly. “I’d ask what you did to these, Tom, only I don’t know that I’m gonna understand the explanation.”

    “Well, in the first place they’re out of the garden. –Not the wilderness here,” he explained with a smile: “the garden back at my old flat.”

    “Right.”

    “Cabbage tastes wonderful straight out of the garden, too,” contributed Jemima.

    “Yes,” Tom agreed, smiling at her.

    “Go on,” prompted Sol, when it was obvious he’d gone into a sort of daze.

    “Eh? Oh—sorry. Um, well, I just chop them up a bit and sauter them very quickly in a little olive oil and garlic.”

    “Wog food,” said John in his very English voice with a grimace of distaste.

    Tom and Jemima choked. “John’s half—Italian!” she gasped.

     Sol smiled slowly.

    The dessert was also, as the twins and Starsky put it, “mighty”, “extra” and “ace”. The little girl didn’t attempt to describe it but she ate three helpings. So did John. Sol could only manage one, to his regret: he was that full of duck, fluffy mashed potato, carrots that didn’t taste like any carrots he’d ever encountered (“just glazed” hadn’t clarified the matter for him, neither) and miraculously edible sprouts.

    Jemima had described the dessert as “Tom’s ginger pudding.” Nope, she was wrong: Tom’s ginger ambrosia with real cream. Real farmyard cream.

    “If it’s possible to eat like this out here, how come everybody doesn’t?” asked Sol weakly, leaning back on the heaped pillows on his hosts’ big bed, sipping coffee. Wonderful coffee. At his age, it was undoubtedly gonna keep him awake, but it was worth it.

    “Inanition?” murmured John.

    “Sheer laziness, more like,” said Tom.

    “Not everybody’s got the time to have gardens and things!” declared Jemima, very pink.

    “No: and not everybody’s got old uncles in the country that send them braces of wild duck every other week,” murmured John.

    “True, oh King,” acknowledged Tom.

    “Besides, Tom’s a very good cook. Lots of people could take the same ingredients and ruin them,” Jemima pointed out.

    “That’s—true!” choked Tom.

    “But I admit it is possible to eat well here, Sol—even on a limited budget and without old uncles in the country,” conceded John.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “The reason why most of the population prefers ready-made packaged muck is, of course, one of the great mysteries of modern Western civilization,” he added mildly.

    “I think you’ve got something, there, John,” acknowledged Sol.

    “It’s a lot harder when you’ve got kids as well as a job and a house. Well, look at Meg,” said Jemima.

    “Mum’s a rotten cook!” said a scornful voice from the floor.

    Jemima jumped, and went very red.

    “Can we play Trivial Pursuit NOW?” demanded the other twin.

    Jemima looked at Tom.

    “You ever played?” he said to Sol.

    “It’s an awful general knowledge game. Tom and John are very good at it,” said Jemima.

    “Oh. Oh, say, is that like Trivia?”

    “Yes,” she said, looking warily at him.

    “I’ve never played. I think they only play that in the university towns, Stateside.”

    After a moment John—who was actually Dr Aitken and lectured in political science at the university—said to Dr Jemima Anderson, Ph.D.: “Ouch.” He shook his hand as if he’d burnt it.

    “Sol five, Blossom Avenue nil,” she agreed.

    “Jemima’s hopeless, she hasn’t got the killer instinct,” explained her lover kindly. “So—if we pair her and Michael together, and you and the other two boys?”

    “You rackon I’ll need that much help, huh?” he drawled.

    “He’ll be good on the entertainment ones!” noted Starsky gleefully.

    “Yeah!” breathed the thinner twin.

    “ME-EE!” wailed little Connie.

    She was only about five. Sol looked at her dubiously.

    “Yes, you can play,” said Jemima kindly. “Would you like to be Tom’s partner?”

    “YES! Play wiv Tom!” She clambered onto his knee.

    It quickly became apparent why Tom had paired Michael with Jemima: the kid more than possessed the killer instinct that she lacked. True, her general knowledge was quite good, but within half an hour she had neglected to move her counter at least five times (Michael had done it for her), taken a card from the wrong end of the box four times, and lost track of when it was their turn almost continuously. Michael’s knowledge couldn’t have been called general: it was confined almost entirely to the subjects of the internal combustion engine, more recent models containing the internal combustion engine, very recent TV series, and old re-runs of The Muppet Show. The two of them complemented each other rather well, except that neither of ’em knew beans about sports. But nor did anyone else: it was an Australian set and most of the sports questions were on Australian Rules Football. Up until right now Sol hadn’t known there was any such thing.

    Tom’s general knowledge, was, not to Sol’s surprise, excellent. His concentration never wavered, either, in spite of Connie on his knee.

    John’s general knowledge was wide, not to say eclectic, but curiously sporadic in nature. Mostly they skipped the Australian questions, which cropped up in all categories, but quite often John could answer the questions on obscure aspects of Australian history. Finally Sol asked him if Australian political history was his subject. No, British and European systems of local government were his subject. Sol gulped. John explained mildly that he’d been reading a bit of Australian history lately. Uh-huh.

    Sol’s own partners knew virtually nothing—though Starsky answered a real weird scientific one about clay, and Andrew, the thinner twin, answered one about planes of World War I that Sol couldn’t have answered to save his life. So it was pretty clear that Tom’s pairing ’em up with him hadn’t been a calculated insult, after all.

    They were well into their second game when a bell pealed. Sol jumped a foot: it was so quiet out here at Waikaukau Junction in the middle of the North Auckland countryside: there were only three other houses in sight from Jemima and Tom’s place. He hadn’t heard a car engine—or any sort of engine—since he arrived.

    “It’s our Addams family front doorbell,” said Tom apologetically. “I had to put in a really loud one: we had a quieter one at first but when Mima Puddle-Duck was concentrating on her work she never used to hear it.”

    “Yeah; Tom had to climb up—”

    “That’ll do,” said Tom, as Jemima went very red.

    Ignoring Tom, the twin continued eagerly: “—climb up the house one day!”

    “Yeah, he got the big ladder out!” revealed his brother.

    “Yeah, Jemima never even heard him until—”

    “That’ll DO!” said Tom, getting up. “With any luck,” he added evilly, going over to the door, “that’ll be Bill, come to take you lot home.”

    “Aw-WUH!” they protested.

    “And don’t touch anything!” he said loudly, going out.

    John immediately picked up the next card from the box. He read over the answers, chuckling evilly.

    “Stop CHEATING!” screamed the twins and Starsky.

    “I’m not; I’m just seeing what’s in store for Tom.”

    “Ooh, what?” they said eagerly.

    Sol had a helpless sniggering fit.

    “It isn’t Bill,” said Tom sadly, coming back.

    A tall woman with untidy dark auburn hair followed him into the room. Sol just sat there limply and looked at her. Admittedly John Aitken was wearing a shaggy, pulled, and badly darned heavy grey sweater over a tired-looking yellowish woollen shirt, with very, very old baggy grey flannels. Admittedly Tom was in aged green corduroys and a neatly darned but very limp fawn sweater. Admittedly the three boys were indescribable scruffs. (Though Jemima had by now forced a pair of warm socks on the blushing Starsky.) But the newcomer—!

    She was also wearing ancient grey flannels. Even older and baggier than John’s. With a plaid patch on one knee. A faded and torn plaid patch. Her top garments were, starting from the outside, an enormous greenish oilskin. Undoubtedly a man’s garment: she was a big woman but the oilskin was much, much too wide for her. Next was a grey denim shirt—a man’s shirt—with strange stains down its front. This was open. Under it was a heavy buttoned cardigan that had probably once been navy, only it had been washed so often that— Well, you could tell it had probably once been navy. It was very baggy and saggy. Under that there was a heavy plaid woollen shirt. A black tee-shirt showed coyly at the neck. Her feet were adorned by large yellow and black striped wool socks.

    She was, he realized shakily, probably only in her thirties, with a wide, frank, handsome face that he’d have taken a bet had never known make-up in its entire existence. Her skin was pale, with very pink cheeks—not an unpleasant combination by any means.

    “Michaela!” cried Jemima, bounding up delightedly. “Hi!”

    “I don’t have to go, do I?” said Starsky glumly before Michaela could answer.

    “Hullo, Jemima,” Michaela said in a shy voice. She smiled timidly.

    “Did Mum send you?” asked Starsky in doomed tones.

    “No,” she replied simply.

    “Ooh, good!” he gasped.

    “How are you, Michaela?” asked John, smiling at her.

    “Good, thanks. How are you?” she replied in agonised tones.

    It was by now apparent to Sol Winkelmann that—in spite of the upper-class Limey accent, which sure was off-putting just at first—John Aitken was an extremely easy-going man, so he was rather taken aback by Michaela’s evident shyness with him.

    “Come and sit down, Michaela,” said Jemima, patting the bed next to her invitingly.

    Michaela looked uncertain.

    “Give me your coat,” said Tom, coming to help her off with it.

    “Ta. Um—I brought that salt-glazed thing,” she said awkwardly to Jemima.

    “Ooh, lovely! Thanks, Michaela!”

    “I left it downstairs. It’ll be okay, I put plenty of sacking round it.’

    “I thought we’d better leave it wrapped up until we’ve got the front hall in some sort of decent order,” said Tom.

    Jemima’s face fell, but she nodded obediently.

    Michaela had been clutching a large package, which she’d transferred from one hand to the other as Tom removed her coat. Now she suddenly shoved it at Jemima, saying gruffly: “This is for you.”

    “For me?” said Jemima faintly, going very red as she took it.

    “Yes.” She stood back and, shuffling a bit, watched nervously as Jemima carefully unwrapped the grimy cloths which swathed it.

    “Oh!” she cried.

    John whistled.

    “Boy, oh, boy,” said Sol, under his breath.

    “It’s wonderful!” cried Jemima.

    It was a high-shouldered vase, about eighteen inches high, in a deep, glowing black glaze. The glaze didn’t quite reach to the foot: a patch of rough brown pottery showed. The glazed rim was also brown; just below it there was one raised brown spot about the size of a nickel. The pot was one of the most perfect things Sol had ever seen.

    Tom was very red. He croaked: “Are you sure, Michaela? We— I mean...”

    “It’s too good,” whispered Jemima. “We couldn’t possibly take it, Michaela.”

    “Yes. It’s for you,” Michaela replied in a strangled voice. She turned scarlet and added to Jemima: “I thought of you: that’s why it looks like that.”

    There was a little silence

    “When you made it?” said Tom softly.

    “Yes.”

    Hitherto Tom Overdale had struck Sol as a bit of a hard case, but now he perceived that he was blinking hard behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.

    Jemima’s big brown eyes had also filled with tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “It’s perfect.”

    John reached to touch the glaze gently with one finger. “Yes. –You realize you could probably ask whatever you liked for it if you wanted to sell it?” he said to the potter.

    “I don’t want to sell it,” Michaela replied simply.

    “Mm. Well, it is hard to put a price on perfection... Someone like Jake Carrano would probably pay you enough for it to feed you for the rest of the year, you know,” he said kindly.

    “Yes; are you sure, Michaela?” asked Jemima timidly, very pink again.

    “Yes.”

    Jemima swallowed. “Well, thank you very much. Where shall we put it, Tom?”

    “In the sitting-room, eventually, I think. But let’s put it where we can see it, for the moment. Um... “ He looked round the room.

    “On the mantelshelf?” suggested Sol.

    “Yes.” Tom strode over to the fireplace, which was blocked off by a white-painted board and occupied only by the big heater, and removed a pretty little carriage clock, a bunch of dried grasses in a dainty china jug, and a large brass frog. He took the vase gently from Jemima and positioned it carefully in the middle of the mantelshelf.

    “It makes my interior décor look damn silly, doesn’t it?” he said mildly.

    “It doesn’t go,” agreed Jemima. “Never mind, we’ll enjoy it for itself!”

    “Yeah. And we’ll design the sitting-room around it.”

    “Yes. Will that rug of yours go with it, Tom?”

    “I think so... If it doesn’t I’ll sell it and buy one that does!”

    “Good,” said Jemima simply. She smiled at Michaela and again invited her to sit down.

    This time Michaela sat but said awkwardly: “I don’t want to interrupt your game.”

    “That’s all right,” said Jemima.

    “Yes, she’s losing,” explained John, twinkling at her.

    Michaela gave an uncertain smile.

    “Have you had your tea?” Jemima asked her.

    “Uh—yes. More or less.”

    “Have some pudding,” offered Tom.

    “Um—well, if you’ve got any left... Thanks.”

    The twins and Starsky immediately clamoured for more but Tom squashed them. Connie didn’t clamour, she’d gone to sleep, covered with a fluffy shawl.

    Tom went over to the door. “While I’m getting it, someone could introduce her to our American Friend,” he said mildly, going out.

    “I’m sorry, Sol!” gasped Jemima.

    “That’s okay. Perfectly understandable, in the circumstances. –Hi, Michaela; I’m Sol Winkelmann,” he said, holding out his hand. Michaela shook it. By God, she had a grip on her like a stevedore!

    “Hullo; I’m Michaela Daniels,” she said in a polite voice that didn’t seem to match the grip or the clothes.

    Jemima then got very flustered attempting to explain to Michaela who Sol was.

    “Extended Jewish families,” drawled John.

    Starsky stared hard at Sol. “Are you a Jew?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Is it true Jews don’t eat pork?”

    “Most of ’em: yeah.”

    “Heck,” he breathed in horror.

    “Tiny retarded WASPs to the last man,” explained John briefly.

    “If ya don’t ask, ya cain’t learn,” drawled Sol.

    “Or you could put it like that, of course,” John agreed, twinkling at him.

    Michaela stayed through another round of Trivial Pursuit but refused firmly to play, explaining that she didn’t have any general knowledge. Sol wondered if this was true, but as she didn’t burst out with answers that others had failed to supply, concluded that maybe it was. Mind you, anyone that could create a pot like that sure didn’t need general knowledge! He wanted very much to ask her (a) if she’d make one for him, (b) if he could look at some more of her work, and (c) if she’d unwrap the salt-glazed pot she’d left in Tom and Jemima’s front hall, but couldn’t work up the nerve to do any of these things.

    “I’d better go,” she said at last. “Thanks for the pudding, it was delicious.”

    “Any time,” said Tom mildly. “Actually, why don’t you come to tea tomorrow?”

    Michaela went very red. “Um—thanks very much.”

    “Yes, and come to think of it, come at the end of next week as well, and you can help us re-roof the house,” he added.

    “All right. Any particular day?”

    “We’re gonna start on the Saturday.”

    “Okay,” she said mildly.

    “Tom!” protested Jemima.

    “Why not? Big strong girl like her.”

    “I don’t mind,” said Michaela.

    “We’d pay you for your time, of course,” said Jemima in a strangled voice.

    “Naturally,” agreed Tom.

    It was pretty plain to Sol that this was their way of endeavouring to pay for the wonderful pot. Judging by the wry expression that showed behind John’s curly beard it was plain to him, too. Michaela tried to refuse payment but was overborne. Finally she admitted to charging three dollars an hour for her gardening jobs. Tom and Jemima agreed quickly to this amount. Sol could only silently hope that he’d successfully concealed the immense horror and consternation the revelation had caused in him.

    She was at the door before he got up the courage to say: “Michaela, whereabouts is your pottery?”

    “Up the road,” she said uncertainly. “If you mean the kiln.”

    “At our place!” cried Starsky.

    “Yes: at the Butlers’,” she agreed.

    Flushing, Sol said: “Might I come look at some of your pieces, some time?”

    “Um—yeah. If you like,” she replied dubiously.

    “Would it be an imposition? I guess you mostly show through a dealer, huh?”

    Michaela just stared at him.

    “Or are you contracted to one gallery?”

    “No. Come any time,” she said abruptly.

    “Mum knows the prices!” cried Starsky eagerly.

    “Yes. If I’m not there, June or Bob’ll show you.”

    “Thanks,” said Sol numbly as Tom showed her out. When the door had closed behind them he just sagged limply. “Why in God’s name,” he managed to croak, “is she doing gardening at three dollars an hour when she can produce work like that?”

    “Christ knows,” replied John simply.

    “I know a gallery in Miami that’d pay just about anything to get its hands on a piece like that!”

    “I know one in Oxford that ditto,” agreed John drily. “I’ve written to Philip—my father—about it, actually.”

    Jemima had been forbidden to accompany Michaela down to the cold, draughty front hall. “Is she that good?” she said shyly. “I think her pots are wonderful, but I don’t know anything about pottery, really.”

    “Yes,” said John simply, before Sol could.

    “If the rest are anything like that standard—yes,” he agreed feebly.

    “Well, that’s one of her best, but yes,” said John.

    “They don’t all look like pots, though,” admitted Jemima dubiously.

    “Not functional,” agreed John drily.

    “So?” said Sol blankly.

    John shrugged.

    “I don’t often envy Abe his wealth, but…”

    “I’m sure you could afford one, Sol; I’ve got three,” said John mildly.

    “It’s not that. She oughta be set up with a proper agent, or—or a gallery of her own, even. I mean!”

    Cautiously Jemima murmured: “I don’t think the local galleries... She does sometimes sell things through that place in Puriri, doesn’t she, John?”

    John snorted. Jemima looked crushed.

    “What about the city galleries?” demanded Sol. “I mean, surely there must be some?”

    John sighed. “As far as we can make out—mind you, I’ve only met her recently, and I gather she won’t talk about herself or her work, much, isn’t that right, Jemima?”—Jemima nodded hard.—“Yes, well, I gather the art world here’s pretty much a little closed circle. Almost impossible to break into it, if you’re on the outside.”

    “But—work of that quality!” said Sol helplessly.

    “Quite.”

    After a moment Jemima ventured: “It’s not trendy, of course...”

    “Christ, no!” agreed John fervently.

    “I mean, all that brightly coloured stuff seems to be in, at the moment. You know: funny teapots.”—John winced.—“Yes, well...” said Jemima sadly.

    A glum silence fell.

    Michaela had refused Tom’s offer of a lift. She didn’t live with Starsky’s family at the far end of Blossom Avenue, but in Puriri township. She trudged steadily over the dark fields in her gumboots, not thinking. The night was cold and still. Occasionally a morepork hooted from a belt of macrocarpas. Michaela trudged steadily across country. She knew all the short-cuts, even in the dark.

    It was seven miles, even if you knew the short-cuts and went cross-country, from Waikaukau Junction to Puriri township. Michaela didn’t notice. She was used to it.

    When Tom returned from taking Sol back to the Cohens’, Jemima said hopefully: “Do you think he might be able to help Michaela?”

    “No,” said Tom definitely. He sat down on the edge of the bed and removed his socks. “Ooh, my feet are frozen.”

    “Have a shower,” suggested John mildly, looking up from his book.

    “Are you still here?”

    “He’s been keeping an eye on me,” said Jemima, smiling at him.

    John got up slowly. “Bill collected his lot. And Starsky went with them.”

    “And I thought you’d shoved ’em up the chimney,” said Tom sadly.

    “No, I forbore.” He hesitated. “I suppose it is just the Visiting American syndrome?”

    “Yeah,” said Tom sourly.

    “And it’s the brother that’s got the dough?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Bugger.”

    “Why don’t you get Maria on the job?” suggested Tom nastily.

    John smiled a little. His Italian mother was a very forceful personality. “She’d swap all her Gucci handbags for that pot, I can tell you! I wish to God she’d still been out here when I met Michaela.”

    “She’s very shy,” murmured Jemima.

    “Mm... Oh, hides herself away, you mean? Yes: I’d known Meg and Bill for, uh, must have been over a year, I suppose, before she even showed her nose around the place when I was there.” He frowned. “If I could take a photo of that pot and send it to Maria... And to Philip, come to think of it.”

    Tom looked dry. “Yes. You would then have to get her a permanent agent who could take on the full-time job of liaising between her and her Oxfordshire and Florentine outlets, keeping her up to some sort of timetable—almost impossible, I think she works entirely by instinct—arranging crating and shipping, and God knows what. And the eventual sums gained would have to be enough to—”

    “All right!” said John, flushing behind the beard.

    “—to support her, the agent, and the galleries,” ended Tom firmly.

    “I’ll think about it,” he threatened. “And I will write to Maria, it can’t hurt.” He went off on this promise.

    Jemima sighed. “Do you think it might work, Tom?”

    “No. Aitken hasn’t got enough go in him.”

    Jemima didn’t think so, either. She went very red.

    “Not to mention having his own life to lead. And before you start, much as I’d like to do something for her, I’ve got a living to earn, an old house to fix up—”

    “And me,” said Jemima in a small voice.

    “Well, you are earning an income at the moment, but—yes. One has to envisage—uh—eventualities,” he said, twinkling.

    “Yes,” said Jemima, now a glowing crimson.

    Tom smiled a little. “Mm.”

    “I still wish there was something we could do that would really help.”

    He swallowed a sigh. “We can at least help June and Bob Butler to see she doesn’t starve to death.”

    “Yes,” she agreed gratefully.

    When they were in their big, cosy bed with the light out she said: “Do you really think that that nice Sol won’t—won’t be able to help Michaela, Tom?”

    Tom sighed. “Darling, didn’t we say? It’s the Visiting American thing. He’ll get all keen, then he’ll go back home and forget all about an obscure female potter in a grubby little backwater in grubby little New Zealand.”

    “Mm.”

    He repressed another sigh. “Sweetheart, I think that in order to help Michaela—I mean really help her: put her on her feet financially, find her proper outlets and see she doesn’t absentmindedly starve herself to death while she’s working on her blessed pots—you’d have to make her your fulltime job. Become her manager, if you like to put it like that.”

    After a moment Jemima said in a very squeaky voice: “Yes.”

    Tom held her tight. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I don’t want to—to crush your hopes, but let’s face it. Sol Winkelmann’s a bright enough chap—quite interesting, in his way—but in many ways he’s pretty much a typical American.” He hesitated. “I mean—a boating-supplies store in Florida, for God’s sake? Can you see him giving up the American way of life—and all that that implies—to risk everything on Michaela’s talent?”

    “She is talented.”

    “And he is very American.”

    After a while Jemima said sadly: “No. You’re right.”

    Tom hugged her. He knew he was right. That didn’t actually make him feel much better.

Next chapter:

https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/phoebe-fothergills-problem.html