13
Double Trouble. Part 2
“Phew!” said Polly, drawing up a cane chair next to the cabal and collapsing into it.
The three ladies hadn’t failed to notice who her last dance partner had been. “Worn out by all that cradle-snatching?” inquired Laura drily.
“Just about! Isn’t he a dreamboat?” replied Polly, puffing but enthusiastic. She beamed and waved at Adrian Revill.
Laura had gulped. Grinning, Angie said: “What did you expect?”
“Um—a bridling disclaimer, I think,” she admitted sheepishly.
“This isn’t the woman who’s painting you, is it?” Angie asked Polly in horror.
“Never mind, Laura, Jake’ll like it. Just remember to put in the great big eyes and the curls,” said Meg. “Where in God’s name is he, anyway? Bill’s disappeared, too.”
“Yeah: so’s mine,” said Angie heavily.
“I haven’t seen Jim for ages, either, come to think of it,” admitted Laura.
Polly sighed. “They’re all probably down cellar. Jake’s been working up to a binge for some time: not so much a grogging binge, but a macho binge. You know.”
“It’s interesting to know millionaires do it, too,” noted Laura.
“Would it be it interesting to know that millionaires’ wives find it rather hard to take? Because I could tell you that, too!”
“I thought you didn’t mind,” said Meg.
Polly sighed. “I don’t, when he doesn’t overdo it. But I haven’t set eyes on him for hours! And he is supposed to be the dratted host!”
“I suppose nothing could have happened to them?” said Meg uneasily. “Um, could they have got locked into the cellar?”
Polly made a face. “I think I’d better check it.” She got up, looking resigned.
“We’ll all come,” decided Laura happily. “Come on!”
Michaela strode at an easy pace down the overgrown old back road that eventually let you out onto Pohutukawa Bay Road just before it reached the highway. The back road wasn’t used, it had virtually no surface left, but Michaela didn’t mind. She liked its funny mixture of new growth, bits of old asphalt and a few clay-ey ruts—not good clay. It was one of her secret things.
She’d looked for Hugh but hadn’t been able to find him, so she’d said goodbye and thank you for the party to Polly, and gone.
After a while she began to hum. She had been told innumerable times, mostly by her mother and her teachers at school, that she had no voice, but that didn’t worry her. Soon she was singing. She had no idea what the tune was: she had had no musical education at all, and she didn’t even own a radio: she was vaguely aware that the tune was one she’d. heard tonight at Polly’s.
“Lah, la-la la-lah, hum-hum, hm-mmm,” sang Michaela loudly to the tune of Norwegian Wood, alone in in the warm night.
“This is the kitchen,” noticed Angie brilliantly, as Polly looked unavailingly for the cellar keys. “Can’t you find them?”
“No.”
“Maybe it means they’re down there!” said Meg brightly.
“No, Jake’s got his own keys. It’s the spare set that should be in here. We’ll have to use the outside basement door,” decided Polly.
Eagerly the ladies followed her out.
Meanwhile, Mark Michaels and Vicki Austin were sitting on the front stairs, kissing.
Mark knew it was silly: she wasn’t too bright, he’d take a bet she’d find it a damned hard struggle to get through the first-year nursing course; and Roberta Nicholls, who was a Med. School student like him, was really the sort of girl he ought to be... Well, his own sort of background, really, her father was a specialist, an ENT man... Somehow this didn’t count.
“Where are we?” demanded Meg wildly.
“We’ve come across the basse-cour—”
“I got that!”
Polly pursued inexorably: “Skirting the secondary kitchen garden, the main drying green, the dustbins with their very own trailer in their very own hangar, the motor-mower’s very own hangar, the hangar for the fuel for the motor-mower, the tank for the oil for the central-heating unit in its hang—”
“Yeah, all right, he’s a raving loony as well as a macho millionaire! Where’s the CELLAR?” cried Meg in exasperation.
“Soon, soon,” replied Polly soothingly.
Derek Prior was now very drunk indeed. He had concealed this successfully from almost everybody, however—and certainly from his wife, mainly by the expedient of avoiding her like the plague. Now he was walking very carefully down a passage, having been to the loo at its far end and relieved himself of some of his liquid intake—though not of the alcohol, which was circulating cheerfully in his bloodstream. He rounded a corner very carefully.
“Well, well, well!” Quickly he cornered the pretty little girl against a wall. He knew she was one of Polly’s cousins, he wasn’t that drunk. And he was aware Jake would strangle him if he really tried anything, he wasn’t that drunk, either. Indeed, it would have been impossible to be that drunk without passing out.
“What about a friendly kiss?” he leered, pushing his face very close to hers. He was that drunk.
“No!” gasped Ginny, shrinking against the wall.
“Aw, go on! Don’t be mean!” he leered.
“No! I don’t want to! Go away!” gasped Ginny.
Derek’s face had got very close to hers. He breathed alcohol fumes all over her. Ginny twisted her face away. “Would it hurt? Why should a pretty little girl like you be so mean?” he said on a whingey note that Ginny, if she hadn’t been in a panic, would unhesitatingly have condemned as sickening.
“No! Stop it! Leave me alone!”
“Don’t be mean, prettikins! Just a wee kissy-wissy!”
Whether he would actually have grabbed a kiss, neither of them ever knew, because at that moment a well-modulated tenor with a tremble of anger in it drawled: “You’ve got a choice, matey: leave the kid alone, or get my boot up your backside!”
Derek gasped, and swung round, very red.
“Push off, or you’ll get it anyway,” added Ralph, nostrils flaring in distaste.
“I was only—”
“Oh, we know what you were only.” Ralph’s mouth tightened and his fists clenched.
Unaware that the country’s highest paid cardio-thoracic surgeon would probably only have risked his precious hands in order to save his own life, and possibly not then, Derek slunk off.
“Thank you!” gasped Ginny, very white.
“Any time. Are you okay?”
“Yes!” she gulped, shuddering.
“He was drunk: pretty ineffectual, you know,” said Ralph, with a twist of the lips. “He wouldn’t really have hurt you—wouldn’t have been capable of it.”
“He tried—to kiss—me!” gasped Ginny, suddenly bursting into tears.
Ralph perceived that she was even younger and more inexperienced than he had imagined. And his imagination was pretty reliable, usually. “Come on, it’s okay: all over now,” he said kindly, putting a hand on her shoulder.
Ralph Overdale was about ten years older than Derek Prior, and more than looked it, because of the receded hairline. Not to mention the manner. And Ginny was used to older men as father figures: Vince Austin, in his seventies, Uncle Dave Mitchell, ditto, and Uncle Harry Field, getting on that way. Not to mention Jake Carrano, who, though he didn’t look it, was actually a fair bit older than Ralph Overdale, and certainly had a very avuncular manner. And Ralph had just rescued her from a nasty fate. Which of these factors might have been the deciding one, Ralph could never afterwards determine; but, whichever it might have been, Ginny, shuddering and sobbing, suddenly threw herself against his chest.
Rescuing innocent little maidens from mildly lecherous drunks at parties doesn’t usually change the leopard’s spots. Not instantly, at any rate, Ralph reflected sardonically as he held her gently. She was, of course, the twin with the luscious tits. Thank You, God, I believe in You after all.
“Come on, it’s okay,” he said at last, as the sobs abated. “Cheer up, he was a creep, but he’s gone. He wouldn’t have really tried anything on, I know that type.”
“Mm,” said Ginny doubtfully, looking up at him.
“All piss and wind,” said Ralph, pulling a face.
“Oh!” she gasped, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle.
“That’s better,” he said, twinkling. “Creeps like that are a built-in hazard of these sorts of party, you know.”
“Yes. Ugh!” Ginny shuddered.
“You’ll have to get used to handling pathetic types like him: you’re in the big city, now,” he drawled with faint malice. At the same time he was aware that he hadn’t released her, that the tits really were luscious—they were just brushing his chest, now—and that he was ready to take her, right here and now.
Ginny pouted. After a moment she said crossly: “I don’t want to get used to it! And I don’t see why I should, either: why should I have to modify my behaviour patterns because of beasts like him that can’t behave decently and refuse to modify theirs?”
Rather taken aback, Ralph didn’t say anything. Modify her— Cor! Must’ve been reading books, or something. Women’s mags? He was conscious of a fleeting wish that it hadn’t been that.
Ginny stepped back and took a deep breath. “I think men are horrible!”
“Thanks.”
“Not you!” she gasped, turning scarlet. “I’m sorry—and thank you very much for rescuing me, Mr— I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” she finished in a small voice, redder than ever.
“Ralph Overdale.”
“Mr Overdale.”
“No, not ‘Mr Overdale’,” said Ralph, grimacing sourly.
“Oh,” said Ginny, blushing again. “I’m sorry: are you one of Polly’s friends from the University? Are you a Doctor?”
Ralph began to lose control of his mouth. “How can I explain? On the one hand, I am a doctor in that I practise a form of medicine and—er—have a doctorate. On the other hand, I’m not a Doctor.”
“Then— No, you can’t be a surgeon, you just said you weren’t a Mister!” said Ginny, terribly confused.
At least she knew the proper address to surgeons. Alone of her generation, doubtless. Oh, peerless twin. “I could have meant to call me Ralph,” he drawled. “But actually I meant that the correct form of address would be ‘Sir Ralph.’” He grimaced.
“Oh. Sorry!” she gulped.
“So am I,” agreed Ralph.
After a minute Ginny said uncertainly: “It is a form of—of recognition of what you’ve done for the country, I suppose.”
“Though your republican principles don’t permit you to actually approve of it?” he said, raising the eyebrows very high:
Ginny was thrown into confusion—though she noticed the split infinitive. “How do you know that?” she asked uncertainly.
Smiling a little, Ralph replied: “I had exactly the same principles at your age. They wear off, with age and the acquisition of consumables. And a twin who knows to address a surgeon as ‘Mister’ must surely have read enough books to have acquired some vaguely reactionary ideas.”
“Ye-es...” She peeped at him. It was quite entrancing, but Ralph didn’t for a moment think she was doing it on purpose, though from observed behaviour he wouldn’t have put it past the other twin. “I might have got it out of a Barbara Cartland, though!”
Ralph gave a shout of laughter. “Would Barbara Cartland know?” he managed.
“She must do, she’s related to the Queen by marriage, Sir Ralph,” replied Ginny naughtily.
“Yes!” he gasped. “And for God’s sake don’t call me Sir Ralph, it makes me feel like something out of a Barbara Cartland!”
Ginny laughed but said: “Aren’t you used to it, though?”
“No,” said Ralph, grimacing. “It was this Year’s New Year’s Hons.”
“Oh. Jake was in that. Polly hates being a Lady.”
“Audrey loves it,” he replied gloomily. “That’s why I bloody well accepted it.”
“Is it?” she replied seriously. “Didn’t you want the public recognition? Or don’t you approve of this government?”
Ralph was about to lie smoothly. Not to say in a frayghtfully sophisticated manner. He looked into the wide grey-green eyes and hesitated. At the same he experienced a renewed surge of lust. Fighting down the impulse to get his hands on her, he said slowly: “I suppose, to be honest, I did want it—the recognition, anyway. And I don’t approve of the government: next thing they’ll be dismantling the bloody public health system: they’ve sold off everything that might have provided the revenue to support it. But… Oh, damn it: it’s the sort of recognition that seems to be given to any Tom, Dick and Harry these days! Present the city with a bloody sports stadium and they’d make you a life peer!”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?” said Ralph nastily. He was honest enough to admit to himself that he was considerably annoyed at having given himself away to the pretty little thing.
“Yes, I agree with you about the government: they’ve certainly lost sight of the idea of the nationalization of the means of production, distribution and exchange, if they’d ever heard of it in the first place—I don’t know why they bother to call themselves a Labour Party at all; and yes, I think you’re right that all it takes is a large public endowment to get an honour, these days; and yes,”—Ralph would have cried “uncle” at this point but he was frankly fascinated—“I do think that succeeding in sport is the great golden calf that this country has gone mad over to the exclusion of all other considerations. Including sportsmanship and the concept of excellence as such, if you want to know!”
After a moment Ralph said: “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t have to be dumb because I’m a girl, you know!” retorted Ginny crossly.
“No. –Would it be terribly rude to ask where on earth you read about the means of production, distribution and exchange?”
“Yes.”
Ralph went very red. His lips thinned. “I see.”
“It’s the turn of phrase: it’s very patronising.”
“What?” he said, gaping.
“You said: ‘Where on earth.’ If you’d just said where had I read it, it wouldn’t have been rude.”
“Thus do we betray our subconscious assumptions,” he sighed. “I apologize. Will you tell me where you read about it?”
“In Maurice Black’s book on the history of the New Zealand labour movement.”
“Red Feds Under the Bed?”
“Yes. It’s a silly title, isn’t it? I almost didn’t read it because of that. Only I was glad I did.”
“Mm. He writes damned well, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. His style’s readable, without being…” Ginny hesitated.
“Vulgarisateur?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Um... It means writing in order to spread intellectual notions amongst the populace at large in a style that they will understand.”
“Populist?”
“More or less: yes.” He eyed her cautiously.
“Yes: that’s it. He writes excellent English,” said Ginny with satisfaction.
Ralph threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter.
“What’s funny about that?”
“Your—rabid—élitism—Madam—Red Fed!” he gasped.
“Yes. Mum says I’m an intellectual snob.”
“No, no: one must maintain certain standards!” gasped Ralph.
“I think so.” She eyed him thoughtfully.
“Go on,” he prompted, grinning.
“Well, I can’t see that being an intellectual snob is basically incompatible with socialist principles.”
“Tell that—to—Tony—Benn!” gasped Ralph, tears in his eves.
“Who?”
Grinning, Ralph said: “Red Fed, ya got a lot to learn. Come on back to the party and I’ll tell you who Tony Benn is. Then you’ll need a stiff drink.” He took her arm.
“I don’t drink,” said Ginny, pinkening.
“Then a stiff cocoa,” he replied mildly.
She gave a surprised giggle and they returned to the party, smiling.
“Push!” panted Polly.
They all pushed the bar on what was possibly the outside basement door.
“No—UP!” panted Polly.
They all pushed.
“UP, Meg!” screamed Polly.
“Oh.” Meg endeavoured to push the heavy bar up, rather than pushing against it. As she was a little woman, it didn’t make much difference.
“Stop!” panted Polly.
They all stopped.
“It’s not budging,” pointed out Angie.
“No, and I don’t think it’s going to,” Polly admitted. “We never go in this way, it’s kind of an emergency entrance.”
“Well, now what?” said Meg.
“Find a man,” said Laura drily.
Polly leaned against the door, laughing weakly. “Oh, dear! Yes, we’d better! Bob Grey’s got the emergency keys to the whole house. If they are locked in and we don’t rescue them tonight, we’ll never hear the last of it.”
“Where is this Bob?” asked Laura cautiously.
“I think he might have gone to bed. His flat’s round the other side of the house. On the far side of the garage.”
“Which,” said Meg with a certain satisfaction, “is beyond the terrace where she had the dancing. As far away from where we are now as is geoglaphi— Pardon me! Geographically possible.”
“Yes,” said Polly weakly. “Shall we go back, or on?”
“On, for God’s sake,” said Laura. “I can’t take another ruddy hangar tonight!”
They forged on, giggling weakly.
“I’m not sure if I... I don’t usually have rum,” said Jemima dubiously. “I think I have had a rum punch, once. Oh, and a rum toddy. Or was it whisky?”
Adrian Revill took what several and possibly though not inevitably better men before him had perceived to be the only way with Dr J. Anderson, M.A., Ph.D. He stopped asking and poured her a very large rum, added half as much pineapple juice, an ice block and a maraschino cherry on a stick—Food by Flury’s barman had gone home, but he’d left a little stock of provisions—and handed it to her.
Jemima sipped. “Mm, this is nice! Not sour.”
“No,” said Adrian simply. He drank mineral water thirstily.
“Why don’t you have one?”
Adrian winked. “Gotta be sober if I’m gonna jump-start Tom’s M.G.!”
Jemima giggled nervously.
“Drink that up: I’m gonna put on that old Beatles record again!” said Adrian happily.
Jemima drank her very rummy drink obediently.
“Come on, one more dance!” he said.
Jemima got up obediently. “Where is everybody?”
“Who cares?” He pulled her against him. Mm, not bad at all...
“Where are you lot off to?” asked Audrey, encountering a bathing party composed of young people—notably the Austin twins—plus her husband, in the front hall.
“Beach. Swim,” said Ralph simply. “Come too, Aud?”
“Well, all right. Hang on, I'll get my togs.”
They all hung on politely while Lady Overdale went off to find her togs. Ralph couldn’t have said if he was relieved that she’d saved him from himself, or not.
“Eh?” said the middle-aged Bob Grey, with a funny look on his face.
“The cellar—the spare keys have disappeared,” repeated Polly.
“And we think Jake might have got locked in. With our husbands,” explained Meg.
Bob’s funny look increased. “Hang on, I’ll get my pants.”
The ladies hung on. Bob reappeared, zipping his jeans. “I’ve got the spare keys.”
“What?” said Polly limply.
“Yeah; well, I caught that young imp, Roger, mucking round with his mate in Jake’s study: looking at the computers, I think.”—Polly winced; Meg shut her eyes.—“So I turfed ’em out and locked it. Then I thought of the cellar and— Well, better safe than sorry. So I grabbed the spare keys and nipped down there. That bloody combination door of his wasn’t locked, so I locked it.”
“Did you actually look in the cellar?” croaked Angie.
“Yeah!” he returned crossly. “Well, I stuck me head in and yelled out. And nobody answered. And the lights weren’t on: I thought he’d just forgotten to set that bloody lock, he’s done that before now. So I locked it.”
“Didn’t you go all the way in?” asked Polly.
“No,” said Bob uncertainly.
“They’re in there!” she said wildly.
“You can’t be sure—” began Laura.
“Yes. Jake’s got a new mania: saving electricity, he turns lights out wherever he g—” She had to stop, Meg, Laura and Angie were screaming with laughter.
“Shit. I told ’im ’is parsimony ’ud get ’im in the end,” said Bob weakly.
“He'll murder you!” gasped Polly, laughing helplessly.
“Say it was you,” suggested Bob, grinning feebly. “He’ll go easier on you.”
“Not Pygmalion likely! Come on, better get it over with.”
Limply they followed her.
The Austin twins were squealing and splashing and bobbing up and down. Another little red-head was squealing and splashing and bobbing up and down. The Michaels girl wasn’t squealing and splashing, she’d challenged Audrey to a swim across tiny Pohutukawa Bay and they were grimly churning across it in the moonlight. Ralph approved of the bobbing up and down bit, but the rest was getting damned boring. He finally gave up and retired to the rug. Audrey had thoughtfully brought some large towels, so he used one, removed his trunks politely under it, wound it round himself and sat down on the rug. Rather fortunately he’d had the forethought to grab a bottle before they left, so he unscrewed it.
Aah… Better. He took another swig. Aah! Much better.
“Go on!” urged Meg.
“I said, the key’s stuck!” grunted Bob, operating on the inside cellar door.
“It can’t be, he’s been up and down all day getting grog for the party,” objected Polly.
Very red in the face, Sir Jacob’s employee retorted: “Just shut up, Polly. If I say it’s stuck, it’s— Ouch! Hell!”
“Drill the bloody lock out,” suggested Laura.
Panting and glaring, Bob replied: “No: it’d set off the flaming electronic alarm system, there’d be cops and dogs and helicopters all over the show in five seconds flat! Still, if that’s what you want—"
“Ooh, yes, please!” she gasped, collapsing in sniggers.
“Are you silly moos all pissed?” he demanded wrathfully.
“I’m ash sober ash a judge,” said Meg virtuously.
“‘Here come de judge, here come de judge!’” chanted Laura.
Angie and Polly joined in. “‘Here come de judge, here come de—’”
“SHUT UP!” roared Bob.
Silence fell.
“How are we gonna hear anybody calling out with you lot making that bloody row?” he enquired heatedly.
“It doesn’t matter whether we hear them or not, that won’t help us to get the door unlocked,” returned Polly logically.
“And we don’t need any of ya varsity cold logic at this precise moment, ta very much!” he said loudly.
Meg choked. Angie winked at Laura. All three of them fell all over the basement passage, laughing themselves sick.
Should he go back? Couldn’t face the ruddy cliff track. Return to the briny? Didn’t have the energy. Ralph took another swig. Mm-mm... Must ask Carrano who his supplier is... Could ring Phoebe tomorrow? Yeah: could be given the brush-off by Phoebe, too. It’d be bloody stupid, anyway: home territory for both of them... How pissed had she actually been on fucking New Year’s Eve? Answer: not as pissed as thee, Ralph lad. True, true... One quick fumble in a pool does not a liaison make, he thought mournfully, staring at the sea in the moonlit night. She’d been hot, all right, but— Grog, New Year’s Eve, lee ambiance romanteek—no, cancel that, not with poor old Audrey’s dee-cor. Well, grog, New Year’s Eve, party spirit. Besides, had anybody else been available? Had she perhaps been making the best of what was on offer and been reduced, as it were, to mine genial host? A flattering thort.
Ralph began to tell over in his mind what had been available but, possibly partly because he deliberately hadn’t invited anybody male and likely to make himself available to Phoebe Fothergill, possibly partly not, all he could come up with was the thought of Jemima’s tits. Damn. Pouting, Ralph had recourse to the bottle again.
The sweating Bob had finally got the cellar door open.
“It’s another passage,” said Meg limply.
“Yes, of course, this is only the outer cellar door,” replied Polly calmly.
“He’s barmy!” declared Meg fervently.
“We know that, Meg,” replied Lady Carrano.
“It’s dark,” pointed out Angie weakly.
“’Is Lordship’ll be in there, all right,” acknowledged Bob sourly. “Double switch: he’ll’ve switched it off from in there.” He pressed a switch and a dim light came on in the passage beyond the first cellar door. Muttering about “skinflints” and “twenty-five bloody watts,” Bob forged ahead.
“That’s the outside door we couldn’t open,” said Polly, nodding at a huge cream-painted fortress-like affair in a side wall.
“I see! It lets you into the passage between the two doors! So as you can’t break into the house!” cried Meg.
“Yeah.” They went down the passage towards the next locked door. “Go on, Bob,” said Polly in a weak voice.
“Me?” he cried. “I’m not privy to ’is flaming combination!”
“But you re-set it,” said Polly feebly.
“I turned the key that re-sets the combination that His Master’s Brain has pre-programmed, yeah! Come on, Polly, it’s bloody nippy down here: what is it?”
“Um, I hardly ever come down here,” said Polly, going very red and avoiding his bright blue eye.
“God Almighty, she’s forgotten!” he hollered.
“I’ve been trying to remember, Bob,” she apologized.
“It’s the date of your WEDDING, you idiot!” he yelled.
The ladies uttered ecstatic shrieks and fell around the passage laughing themselves sick, while at intervals Bob bellowed above the noise: “THINK!” and Polly cried: “I forget!” and: “I’m sorry!” and: “I can’t THINK!”
The two dancing couples had temporarily swapped partners, just for a change.
“Hugh,” said Jemima thoughtfully.
“Mm-mm?” Some unseen hand had just dimmed the lights. They’d been pretty dim, anyway. They were even better, now. Good on you, unseen hand.
“Adrian said he’d jump-start Tom’s M.G. to drive us home. What does jump-start mean?”
A lesser man would undoubtedly have tried to explain. “They do it with wires,” he said simply. “Kind of linking the car up to another car with these long wires.”
“Oh.”
They danced very slowly, moving from point A to point A plus six inches.
“Shall we have another drink?” suggested Jemima.
“Why not?” agreed Hugh.
They strolled over to the bar. Jemima ate a cherry on a stick while Hugh made her a drink. He didn’t make himself a drink, he felt merry enough already. And he’d recently recollected he’d have to drive home. Or somewhere. Possibly not to Michaela’s: if the lady with whom you came to the party and with whom you had a slight disagreement in the course of said party vanishes from view early in the proceedings and some time later, according to your hostess, pushes off home without informing you of the fact, is it etiquette to turn up at her place some several hours later? Even if she isn’t a lady in the first place but a potter? On reflection, he didn’t know which would be bloodier: to turn up on Michaela’s doorstep and be greeted with what he was beginning to feel might be a justified annoyance, or to turn up on Michaela’s doorstep and be greeted with complete indifference. The latter, alas, was beginning to seem far, far more likely.
“Try it backwards,” suggested Laura.
Bob went very, very red.
“No, I mean it: if it’s six digits based on the secret date of their wedding, wouldn’t it be just like Your Master’s Brain to trick the burg-u-lars by reversing it?”
Bob opened his mouth. He shut it again. “You could have a point.”
“Try the tenth backwards, I’ve got a sort of feeling it was the tenth,” said Polly brightly.
Bob ignored her.
“Or was that the date I got pregnant? ... Um, February, March... No, I don’t think so,” she said, looking puzzled. “I think that was a Wednesday. Or was it a Tuesday? I think it was when we were still at the penthouse. You know, in town. Anyway, I know I had to try to remember both of them, because... Um, I’ve forgotten. Well, we were terribly busy trying to get it all done in time, of course.”
Laura choked.
“… Zero. Three. Zero. Two,” counted Bob grimly. “Blast!”
“Hang on,” said Polly.
Bob just looked at her limply.
“I think you might’ve been doing it wrong. You reversed the three elements of the number, but you didn’t reverse the digits.
“WHAT? All right! Get out of the WAY!” howled Bob.
Looking mildly surprized, Polly moved aside.
“...THREE, ZERO; ZERO, ONE!” said Bob, very loudly indeed.
The door swung open.
“That took you fucking long enough,” said Jake Carrano in a very nasty voice indeed.
The swimming party hadn’t been much fun, especially as Ginny had headed back to the house just when Dickon had been working up to suggesting a stroll along the little beach. Panting, he caught her up near the fence that separated the wilder part of the grounds from the big front lawn with the rose beds. “Wait!”
“Oh, it’s you,” she said without interest.
Flushing in the moonlight and the dim glow from the lamps along the cliff path, Dickon replied huskily: “Yes. I thought I’d come back to the house, too. Are you warm enough?”
“Yes. It’s a very warm night. Aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why shouldn’t I be?” she said in a cross voice. “Women have more subcutaneous fat than men, not less. Or didn’t you do any human biology in between the mangrove stuff?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean— Well, I did know that.”
“Then why say something that silly?”
“I was only being polite!” he cried.
“You were not, you were being sexist and patronising!” cried Ginny.
“I—” Dickon broke off. “Isn’t this rather childish?” he said with an effort at dignity.
“No, it’s sexist and stupid!” replied Ginny in a shaking voice. She marched on.
After a moment of tortured indecision Dickon hurried after her.
Sir Jacob was shouting: “What took you so fucking long?” And: “What’s the matter with the lot of you, can’t you work a simple combination?” And: “Are you all DRUNK, or WHAT?”
Bob was shouting: “Ask HER, she’s YOUR flaming wife!” And: “Why the fuck didn’t you tell ME the combination, not her, ya stupid sod?” And: “IT WASN’T ME THAT FORGOT THE DATE OF ME BLOODY WEDDING!”
Laura was shouting: “Jim! Wake up! JIM! Wake UP! Jim! JIM!”
Angie was shouting: “Shut UP! I don’t want to hear about your rotten ankle! You’re pissed! SHUT UP, BILL!”
Professor Michaels was shouting: “I am not! So are you! Anyway, I am NOT! It is NOT arthritis! Shut UP!”
Lady Carrano was laughing helplessly.
And Meg was wailing: “But they’re not all here! Where’s Bill? BILL! Where are you, you idiot? BILL!”
When suddenly the lights went out.
“Ooh!” gasped Adrian.
“Sorry!” gasped Mirry. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” he said with a grin in his voice. He pulled her very tightly against him.
Mirry gave a loud giggle.
Somewhere in the dark on the other side of the room Jemima had hurled herself against Hugh’s chest. She hadn’t had far to hurl herself, admittedly, but it was damned good all the same.
After an appreciable pause he said softly in her ear: “The lights must be on a time-switch.”
“Yes,” she agreed in a muffled voice into his shoulder. “It gave me a fright.”
Hugh nibbled her ear very, very gently. “Mm.”
“Don’t do that,” said Jemima weakly.
Hugh, alas, ignored her.
“What’s HAPPENED?” cried Meg wildly.
“It’s his fucking time-switch, it must be har’ past two!” shouted Bob.
“Jake, I can’t see you!” wailed Polly.
“I’m HERE! HERE, you nana!”
“It’s pitch dark!” gasped Angie.
“Hang on to me,” said her husband resignedly.
“Where are you?” she gasped.
“OW!” cried someone.
“Sorry!” panted Angie.
“Jake, I can’t see you!” wailed Polly.
“I feel dizzy!” wailed Meg.
“Hang on to me,” ordered Sir Jacob. “POL! Where are you? OW!”
“I’m sorry, Jake!” gasped Polly.
“I’m going to fall over!” wailed Meg.
“Sit down!” yelled Bob.
At the same time Sir Jacob yelled: “MEG! Give us your hand, for Pete’s sake!”
“OW!” cried someone.
“Sorry!” panted Meg.
“No, don’t— Bugger me, she’s let go!” said Bob’s voice crossly.
“Meg, for God’s sake hang onto SOMEONE!” shouted Sir Jacob.
There was a momentary panting and shuffling.
“I’ve got her!” said Bob loudly.
“Who are you?” said Meg’s voice shakily.
“I’m Bob, you ruddy idiot!’
“Oh: Bob,” said Meg, sounding hugely relieved. “Don’t let go, will you?”
“No,” agreed Bob sourly.
Silence fell in the absolute blackness of the cellar.
Ginny had gasped, and grabbed at Dickon.
Gulping, he said: “It’s all right, the lamps have gone out, that’s all. I think they must be on a time-switch.”
They approached the fence in the dim light of the moon.
“Stop!” he gasped.
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s a system of infra-red light beams on the lawn. Alarms. Um, maybe they won’t be on. I mean, they are having a party.”
Ginny swallowed. ”What actually happens if someone interrupts the beams?”
Miserably Dickon replied: “Huge spotlights come on all over the lawn and sirens go off and—um—the police come.”
“Help! What shall we do?” said Ginny, looking up at him helplessly.
Instead of feeling comforted by this evidence of feminine frailty in her, Dickon merely replied miserably: “I don’t know. They’re your cousins, what do you think we should do?”
Down on the beach Audrey yawned loudly.
“For God’s sake don’t go to sleep down here!” said Ralph in alarm. “I’ve no intention of giving myself a hernia hauling your weight up the cliff! And the alternative’s to stay and drown; still, if that’s your choice—”
“Shut up. Don’t talk rubbish,” she said, getting up and gathering up towels.
He shrugged, and got up. Take it for all in all, what a bloody wasted evening. Well, young Red Fed in wet togs was a sight for sore eyes. Only after a while one did get to the point of reflecting that satisfaction for more than just the eyes would be highly desirable. Well, for God’s sake, there was bloody Tom billing and cooing in his flaming nest with the incomparable Jemima, and sodding Hugh with his potter to fall back on whenever he had a mind to. The delightful Lady C. was, of course, most extremely desirable but also extremely under the eye of her bloody husband and not, let us admit it, in the slightest interested—extraordinary though this might seem—in our gracious self. Bugger. Could give the execrable Sylvia a ring? Ugh. Willing, able, but brainless—and tarty with it. Hell, that twin’s tits were— Hell and bugger.
“RALPH!” bellowed his wife. “Come ON!”
Ralph jumped, and came on. Scowling.
“Well, go on, yer Lordship,” said Bob nastily into the dead silence of the cellar. “What are we gonna do now?”
“I’ll just make my way out to the back passage and switch everything on again!” announced Sir Jacob airily.
“You do that, Jake,” agreed his henchman nastily. “And while you’re doing it, perhaps you wouldn’t mind pointing out which way is out?”
Immediately everybody started shouting: “That way!” “Behind us!” “This way!” “Straight ahead!”
“It’s all right!” cried Ginny, as they reached the middle of the lawn. “The alarms must be off for the party!”
They looked at each other and smiled.
“I was really scared,” she said.
“Me, too,” Dickon agreed.
“It would have been awfully humiliating. I mean, I’ve only been here since yesterday.”
“That’s quite a good excuse; but I see what you mean. It’s a bit early to blot your copybook.”
“Yes, exactly. Um, well, which way now?”
They looked dubiously at the dark house.
“The front door’s closed,” noted Dickon.
“Um—if you go past the corner of the house and right round the garage and everything, you come out opposite the patio.”
“Let’s try that.” He took her hand. They headed towards the garage. It was quite a walk. Dickon began to feel very warm and happy.
“I think I can see light,” said Bill Michaels thoughtfully.
“Rats!” replied Angie strongly.
“There aren’t rats, are there?” asked Meg in a trembling voice.
“NO!” several people replied scornfully.
“There’s rats in our creek,” said Meg in a trembling voice.
“There are no—rats—in my—cellars!” said Sir Jacob loudly and clearly.
“Where’s Bill?” replied Meg in a trembling voice.
“Don’t ask me, he went back to the party,” returned Jake in surprise.
Meg burst into noisy tears.
“Are you sure, Jake?” asked Angie.
“YES!” he roared.
“Don’t be cross,” said Polly nervously. “It was all an accident, Jake, Bob was only doing what he thought was best.”
There was a short silence. “Yeah. I know. Well, look, I’ll have another go at finding the fucking door. Hang on to me and don’t panic. All right?”
“Yes; only don’t pull my arm,” said Polly in a small voice.
“I wasn’t pulling your arm,” he said heavily: “you were resisting me, Pol. Now just relax and come towards me. Okay?”
“Ye-es... “
There was some panting and shuffling.
“Jesus Christ Almighty, are ya trying to give me a knee-trembler, woman?” he roared.
Several people choked.
“You said to come towards you!” she cried.
“Not like that!”
Several people choked again.
“Now follow me. FOLLOW me!”
“I am!”
More panting and shuffling.
“OW! Well, that’s one flaming wall. –Come HERE!”
“I AM!” shouted Polly.
More panting and shuffling.
Bob let out an anguished grunt.
“I’m sorry, Bob!” panted Polly.
“All right! Now we’re getting somewhere!” announced Sir Jacob with satisfaction.
“Although possibly in the wrong direction,” noted Bill Michaels.
Laura and Angie gave muffled squeaks.
“Shuddup,” ordered their host. “Now, listen, Pol. You grab hold of Bob with your other hand, right?”
“Here,” said Bob.
“Don’t let go!” wailed Meg.
“I’ve got you, I’m not letting go,” said Bob wearily. “I’m just grabbing Polly with my other hand—okay? –Uh; shit: sorry, Polly.”
“Have ya got ’er?” asked Jake tersely.
“Yes,” they both said.
“Good. Now—”
“JA-AKE!” she wailed.
“You’re all right! Bob’s got you!” he hollered.
“I feel dizzy!” she gasped. “Where are you, Jake?”
“I’m here. I’m just working me way along the— What the fuck’s this?”
“I dunno, but it sounds near me. And I’m sitting on that crate like I was when all the lights went out,” said Bill Michaels, very drily.
“Bugger. Must be the first wine rack... Yes, it is. All right, at least I know where I am. Soon be out of here, now!” stated Sir Jacob robustly.
The beach had been left to Mark Michaels and Vicki Austin, entwined on a blanket. Since Ginny had more or less ignored him steadily, Col Michaels had fallen back on the red-haired Jenny Wiseman, who was a local girl. She was a nice enough girl but she wasn’t as pretty as Ginny. The Carranos’ front door opened just as the two of them reached it, to reveal Ralph Overdale holding a torch.
“Thank God, an almost human form! I don’t know whether they’re having a power cut, or what, but none of the bloody lights are working. And bloody Audrey’s passed out; for God’s sake come and give me a hand!”
Lady Overdale, now in her dress, was discovered snoring on a sofa. Beside the sofa stood a bottle of gin and an empty glass.
“She does that,” said Ralph grimly. “Takes a really good snort and goes out like a light.”
They heaved, but Col dropped his end.
“Blast!” muttered Ralph.
“You’d better spend the night,” said Col awkwardly.
“So it would appear,” he replied acidly.
Suddenly the cellar lights came on.
“Thank God!” said Bob devoutly as Meg’s limpet-like grip released him.
“Jake must have found the switchboard,” said Polly, blinking and staring round dopily. “Ugh, I thought I was facing the other way.”
“So did I: ugh, my brain’s done a flip inside my head,” said Angie, holding her head and blinking.
“Where’s BILL?” cried Meg loudly.
Bob replied crossly: “Jake said, didn’t he? Pushed off ages ago, back to the party. Come on, for God’s sake, before he gets another bee in his bonnet and turns ’em all off again.”
“JIM! JIM! WAKE UP!” bellowed Laura.
“Hang on: I’ve got this crate,” said Bill Michaels.
“Leave that: you won’t need it to sit on any more,” said Angie tiredly. “We’ve got chairs at home: proper things for sitting on.”
“No, it’s a full crate,” he replied unemotionally.
“Tuck it under yer arm,” said Bob unkindly.
“JI-IM! Wake UP!” wailed Laura.
“You’re gonna have to give me a hand with him,” Bob pointed out nastily to the Professor of Engineering.
“You can collect the wine later, Bill,” said Polly kindly. “Come to think of it, where’s Hamish? And Tom, hasn’t he gone missing, too?”
Meg burst into tears. “What if they’ve guh-gone down the cliff and druh-drowned themselves?”
“I think Bill’s too sensible,” replied Polly soothingly, putting her arm round her. “I expect they’re all asleep somewhere.”
“Is the party over?” asked Jim Fisher sadly,
“YES! And GET UP!” screamed Laura.
“Why are we all in the cellar?” he replied, staggering up.
Laura breathed heavily through her nose.
“Come ON!” bellowed Bob.
“What if Bill’s back there?” wailed Meg.
Breathing heavily, Bob replied: “He’s not! Will you all GEDDOUDA HERE!”
Before anyone could move, from the far end of the now lighted passage a very angry voice yelled: “What the fuck are you all farting about in there for still? GEDDOUDAVIT!”
So they all got out of it.
They did finally locate the missing Bill Coggins, Tom Overdale, Polly’s cousin Hamish Macdonald, and the two boys Damian and Roger. In the big indoor pool adjacent to the gymnasium. Someone had locked them in. It was rather isolated from the rest of the house, and no-one had heard them yelling.
No-one apportioned blame, it was well past three o’clock. They just distributed themselves gratefully amongst the Carranos’ multiplicity of guest rooms, and went out like lights.
Though Sir Jacob did rumble: “Ya know what them two twins are, don’tcha?”
“Young?” replied Polly sourly. “Don’t potter, for Heaven’s sake, just get into bed!”
Ignoring her, he began to undress at his usual pace. “There is a word for it. Something that stirs up everything else.”
“Spoons?” she said blankly.
“No! Something chemical!”
“Uh—oh. I think you mean catalysts,” she said weakly. “Um, I don’t see it.”
“No? Well, in the first place Mark Michaels’s parents were under the impression that he had a nice Med. School girl lined up. And it was plain as the nose on your face that not only that Dickon type and young Col have got it bad for Ginny, so has bloody Ralph Overdale. –I’m not saying he’d do anything about it,” he added hurriedly. “But it’s more than that. It’s kinda rubbed off, if you know what I mean: sort of encouraged the rest of ’em. For instance, if that Hugh type and wee Jemima didn’t have a bit of nooky, my name’s not Jake Carrano. Likewise Mirry and young Adrian, by the looks on their faces.”
Polly swallowed. “Um, yeah.”
“There you are, see? Cata-whassnames.” He shrugged. “Well, like I said before. Double trouble.”
Next chapter:
https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/shortly-after-morning-after.html
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