17
Mix
’N’ Match
Ginny was reading Middlemarch. When someone pounded on the door and roared “HEY! TWIN! PHONE!” she jumped a foot.
“Ginny Austin speaking,” she said cautiously into the phone.
Somebody swallowed. Then the swallower said: “Hi, Ginny. It’s Dickon Fothergill here.”
Ginny sighed. “I only know one person called Dickon, it’s not a very common name, is it?”
Dickon went very red. He said in a humble voice: “I’m sorry.”
Ginny stood on one leg. Don’t keep apologising! she thought irritably.
Dickon swallowed again. “I just thought... Well, if you’re not doing anything tonight, there’s the tennis club dance. Would you like to go?”
Several thoughts occurred to Ginny, the main one—she was aware of its baseness—being that now she wouldn’t have to drag along with Vicki and Mark without a partner. The facts of Dickon’s having a car and not being extremely young—even if he was extremely callow—also were in there somewhere. She made an awful face. “Um—well, all right.”
“Oh—hi,” said Hugh rather awkwardly to Michaela’s new flatmate. “Going out?”
“Yes,” replied Roberta Nicholls, clutching at the towel round her head. “Come in.” She stood back for him, adding: “Michaela’s not here.”
Hugh came into the little sitting-room and said weakly: “Oh. Well, where is she?”
“Baby-sitting,” replied Roberta. “BRYN! Have you got my hair-drier?”
Bryn came in from the passage with a towel round his waist and another one on his head. “No. It’s busted, don’t you remember?”
“No!” said Roberta crossly. “Who busted it?”
Bryn shrugged. The lower towel slipped and he grabbed at it hastily. “Wasn’t me. Anyway, I took it in to Springer’s.”
“Oh—thanks,” said Roberta, disconcerted.
“I think it needs a new element, or something,” he said vaguely.
“More like got strands of hair wound round its operative parts,” said Hugh on a dry note. “The fan, for example.”
Roberta stared at him blankly. “It’s a hair-drier, not a fan.”
“What do you imagine blows the hot air at you?” replied Hugh.
“Um—well, I dunno.”
“A fan. Mitsy’s gets jammed up with hair round it regularly. Takes about two minutes with a Philip’s screwdriver to fix it.”
“‘Philip’s screwdriver’!” said Roberta on a scornful, bitter note. She strode out.
“What’s up with her?” said Hugh blankly.
Bryn shrugged. “Dunno.”
He was about to go but Hugh said: “Oy, hang on a mo’.”
Bryn hung on, clutching his towels.
“Where is Michaela baby-sitting?” asked Hugh loudly and clearly. “At the Butlers’?”
“No. Some other people. In Puriri somewhere. They pay quite good, she said.”
“Oh,” he said limply. “Thanks. –Go, go, you are dismissed,” he added drily.
“Heil Hitler,” replied Bryn amiably, going out.
“God!” said Hugh to himself.
Roberta came in again, looking cross. “I’ll have to use this rotten little heater.”
“Have you got any idea when Michaela’ll be back?”
“Um—I think they said very late. They’ve gone to some binge in town.”
“Bugger,” he said, sitting down limply.
“You shoulda rung her,” said Roberta, turning on the heater. She sat down on the divan, in front of it, whipped the towel off, and let down floods of rippling black silk.
“How’s the swot?” asked Hugh weakly.
“All right,” replied Roberta sourly from within the hair. “Apart from the Latin.”
“Eh?”
She sat up suddenly, looking very flushed, and swept the hair back. “I said, apart from the Latin.”
“I thought that little red-headed kid was helping you?”
“Yeah, only she can’t tell my brain to think in Latin, that’s the problem.”
“Perhaps you need more practice.”
“Perhaps I need a brain transplant,” replied Roberta glumly. “Bloody Brownloe had me on the mat the last day before the break.”
“Lucky Brownloe,” said Hugh drily.
“Don’t be a clot! I’m not hung up on old Brownloe!” cried Roberta. “I’m hung up on bloody Cicero, if you must have it, and I’m never gonna be any good at him!” She gave a sudden angry sob.
Hugh’s lips twitched but he transferred himself from the hard old Windsor chair on which he’d been perching to the divan, and put his arm round her wide shoulders. “Come on, don’t cry. Cicero’ll wait. It may not feel like it now, but you’ve got the rest of your life to plug away at the Latin.”
Roberta gave an angry sniff. “You sound like bloody Dad!”
“Yes, well, I’m probably considerably older than bloody Dad,” replied Hugh at his driest. “So perhaps it’s not surprising. Don’t bawl, you’ll make your face all splodgy for your boyfriend.”
“What boyfriend?” said Roberta blankly, staring at him.
“Uh—aren’t you going out with—”
“No, I’m going out with a stupid girl who’s supposed to have rung me, and she hasn’t!” replied Roberta crossly.
Bryn had come in again, this time in slacks and a shirt. “Maybe ole Ma Lambert’s dropped off.”
“Yeah, I’d better go and see,” said Roberta resignedly.
“Hang on!” objected Hugh, getting up hurriedly. “It’s a chilly night, you can’t go outside with your hair all damp!” He felt it anxiously. To his surprize the girl blushed and looked away. “There’s another half-hour’s drying in that.”
“Rats,” she muttered.
“I’ll go,” said Bryn with a groan.
“No, you’re wetter than she is,” said Hugh, lips twitching. Bryn eyed him suspiciously but didn’t say anything. “Has this girl got a phone number, Roberta?”
“No, she’s in a flat without—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Hugh went next-door and interrogated old Mrs Lambert, who was quite awake and assured him anxiously that there hadn’t been any message for dear Roberta, she’d been listening out specially. Hugh could see that the poor old duck had her TV turned right down. It would be far better all round if Michaela would just let him pay for a phone, but she was so damned bloody-minded! He was thanking Mrs Lambert profusely when the phone did ring. It was the girl in question, but she was ringing to say she couldn’t manage to pick Roberta up.
“That friend of yours can’t make it,” he reported. “Something about her boyfriend picking her up on his motorbike. –Some friend.”
Roberta sighed. “She’s like that. She’s not really a friend. And it was all her idea to go to this rotten dance. Oh, well. I can do some swot instead.”
Bryn came in tying his tie and said: “Has that Bettina creep stood you up again?”
“Yes,” said Roberta, sighing.
“I toleja she would,” he replied unemotionally. “She just makes use of you—”
“Shut UP and get OUT!” said Hugh loudly.
Looking mildly surprized, Bryn replied: “You don’t have to stand up for her, she can stick up for herself. Only she knows I’m right.”
“Yes, he is,” said Roberta glumly. “Bettina’s always been like that.”
“Then why keep on letting her take advantage of you?” said Hugh, a trifle dazedly.
Bryn snorted, and went out. They heard the front door slam.
“Because I’m an idiot,” said Roberta gloomily.
He touched her shoulder gently. “A nice idiot. Only nice people let shits like this Bettina make use of them.”
Roberta gulped. Her wide mouth quivered a little.
“Look, let me take you to this dance or whatever it is,” he said kindly.
Roberta bit her lip. “Can you dance?” she said in a strangled voice, going very red.
Hugh hadn’t meant take her in that sense, he’d meant drive her. He was about to say so, when he looked at the flushed young face and thought better of it. “Mm, I can stumble round the floor a bit. So long as it isn’t that—uh—break-dancing stuff?”
Suddenly she grinned. “No! It’s the Puriri tennis club hop, it’s mostly over-sixties!”
“Good. My generation. Go and get dressed.”
“What? Oh!” Roberta looked down at her fawn candlewick dressing-gown. “Yeah. Well, the nosh’ll be good, anyway, you’ll get a really good feed.”
“Good,” said Hugh mildly.
“That one,” suggested Bill Coggins mildly.
“Nah!” replied Roger and Damian as one man.
They were not playing any version of Abe Winkelmann’s and Ralph Overdale’s almost-favourite game—not because Bill was too pure to but rather because he was aware that the boys both were. He’d merely been trying to suggest suitable partners for them. Both of them, one of them, didn’t matter, if they’d just go and DANCE, instead of looming at his elbow like a couple of gloomy spectres at the feast!
“That one’s pretty,” he said in a tired voice as a blonde, plumpish girl in a strange black outfit—mind you, most of the outfits of the under-twenties of any sex were bloody strange—came in and looked around her uncertainly.
“That’s Melanie!” retorted Damian with huge scorn. “She’s my cousin!”
“Good,” said Meg in a very firm voice, coming back from the Ladies’, where her declared intention had been to titivate.—Didn’t look any different from what she had before she went, noted Bill automatically.—“She can join up with us. You can dance with her, Roger. Come on, Damian, you can introduce me properly, I’m sure she won’t remember me.” She grabbed his arm and towed him off.
Bill glanced sideways at the first fruit of his loins. Roger was a glowing tomato shade. Could mean anything, really...
“Why in God’s name did we come?” moaned Keith Nicholls.
“Shut up. It’ll do you good: you never get any exercise on the courts, so you can get some at their dances,” replied Ariadne in a hard voice. She looked round the crowded room. “Good, there’s Bruce and Catherine.”
“I’m not gonna talk shop all night!” protested Keith in alarm as she dragged him in the direction of her partner and his de facto.
“No, you’re going to dance all night,” Ariadne replied in a steely voice.
“It appears to be on again,” noted Col Michaels drily as Mark and Vicki came in, Mark looking somewhat anxious and uxorious and Vicki in a sparkling mood, tossing her head and laughing.
“I think she likes him better than any of the others,” murmured Jenny Wiseman, looking doubtfully at Vicki’s dress: a tight, ruched, gold slipper-satin creation with square shoulders and long tight sleeves. It was a bit overdone for a tennis club hop... Glamorous, though.
“She likes his car better,” corrected Col sourly.
“Mm... I haven’t seen her wearing that dress before. Even if I threw away half my salary on clothes I wouldn’t look as glamorous as her,” said Jenny sadly.
“And the other half on make-up.”
“Do you think she’s overdone it a bit?”
“No. A lot,” he said, grinning at her. “Mum would say it makes her look cheap.”
“Oh,” said Jenny cautiously.
“Mind you, she’s still living in the Fifties. Come on, wanna dance? Mind you, it’s something from the Fifties.”
“Okay,” Jenny agreed with a weak grin.
They got up and danced.
“Where’s the grub?” whinged Bill.
“Shut up,” replied Meg smartly. “You have to dance before you get grub.”
“Well, where’s Polly?”
“Not here yet: can you see anything that looks like a Paris creation?”
“Uh… Prolly not. Dunno, really.”
“Cretin,” said Meg amiably.
After a few moments staring around the floor Bill noticed: “There’s the Mel Gibson of Puriri County.” He waved, and Adrian came up to them, grinning.
“You look smart,” Meg greeted him.
“Ta,” he said, sitting down.
“We’re saving that chair for Polly,” Bill warned him.
“Good,” he said simply. “I’ll keep it warm for her.”
Bill turned a very strange colour and had to swallow. Meg said quickly in a high voice: “Is that a new jacket, Adrian?”
“Nope! Can’t afford new jackets on an apprentice cook’s wages. It’s an absolutely ancient one of John’s. He can’t get into it any more.”
“No,” said Meg faintly, goggling at it. “Are you telling us John Aitken was once thin?”
“Musta been!”
“I remember them,” said Bill, looking critically at the cream silk creation that adorned Adrian’s perfect body. “Nehru jacket, eh?”
“That’s what John reckons,” he agreed.
He was wearing it open over a bright scarlet shirt. Bill and Meg both recognized that, it had belonged to his brother, Timothy, in the days when he’d been living at Number 3, and there was a huge great burn in the middle of the back where he’d left the iron face-down while he shot outside to catch Number 3’s goat before it could reach Bill’s silverbeet. So it was obvious that Adrian didn’t intend to take the jacket off tonight. He was also wearing his dark green silk cummerbund, and—
“Is that a cravat?” asked Bill uncertainly.
Adrian replied composedly: “No, it’s a silk scarf Darryl got in Paris. She said I could borrow it because she never gets much use out of it. It’s nice, eh?”
Bill and Meg stared at the dark green and white patterned silk scarf. After a while Meg said limply: “Am I seeing things or does that squiggle say YSL?”
Adrian squinted down at it. “Uh—yeah. Think so.”
Meg gulped.
“Nuts,” said Bill simply.
“Mm. Also very generous,” agreed Meg in a hollow voice.
Adrian merely grinned and said: “They’re coming, too. They should be here any minute. Only first they had an argument over John’s blazer and then when I left they were having an argument over whose car to take.”
“What about John’s blazer?” asked Meg keenly.
Adrian’s perfect mouth twitched a little but he replied seriously: “He was afraid people would think he was putting on side if he wore it, but Darryl reckons there’s nobody in the whole of Puriri County that’d recognize an Oxford blazer.”
“Not that old navy thing?” said Bill faintly.
“Yes. Darryl took it to the dry-cleaners last week. It looks really good, you wouldn’t recognize it. It must be awfully good quality material.”
Bill and Meg agreed faintly that it must be. It was quite some time before Bill rallied sufficiently to say: “Did he actually use the expression ‘putting on side’?”
Adrian replied with a mocking lock in his eye: “Yeah. Ya don’t think I’d have thought of it for meself, do ya?”
“Number 3 Blossom Av’ fifteen, Number 9 love,” noted Meg in a faraway voice.
The groaning Keith Nicholls had been dragged off to dance by his wife’s business partner’s de facto. Initially he had balked, but Ariadne had warned him he had approximately two seconds to get out on the floor, or she’d dance with him herself.
Ariadne promptly plunged into shop-talk with Bruce Smith, the said partner in the Puriri Medical Centre.
“What we need round here,” concluded Bruce with a sigh, “is a really good nursing-home.”
Ariadne returned airily: “A little bird told me that Lady Carrano’ll be here tonight.”
Bruce was a lanky, brown-haired, rather uncoordinated-looking man, whose pleasant face normally wore a very mild expression. The expression changed to horror and he went very red. “We can’t possibly! I mean, Sir Jake’s already endowed the hospital’s paediatric wing!”
“So?”
“Thanks!” panted Meg, collapsing onto her chair.
Adrian sat down again, grinning. “Any time, Meg.”
“You missed a sight for sore eyes,” grinned Bill.
“Eh?” replied Meg, fanning herself with her hand.
“Rog. Actually asked a gur-rul to dance.”
“What?” gasped Meg, sitting bolt upright. “Who?”
“Um... There they are. Over there, with Damian and his cousin.”
Meg peered. “That’s Anne Wiseman! I told you he was keen on her, Bill!”
Adrian followed her gaze. “Hasn’t she got beautiful hair? A true auburn.”—Meg gulped. Bill’s eyes bulged.—“Her tennis is rotten, though,” he added calmly.
“What?” said Bill faintly.
“Her sister’s the ladies’ champion: Jenny Wiseman. That’s her, over there with Col Michaels.”
“Oh,” said Bill faintly.
“More gingery,” added Adrian in a terrifically neutral voice.
Bill drew a deep breath. “All right, just for that you can go and get ’em in!”
“Righto,” said Adrian amiably. He stood up and collected glasses.
When he was more or less out of earshot Meg leaned forward and said fiercely: “That is positively the last round that poor boy pays for tonight, Bill Coggins!”
“Eh? Aw. Righto.” His eyes wandered back to Roger and Damian and the two girls with whom they were now laughing and chatting, apparently quite at ease. “Odd, isn’t it, the way kids these days get themselves up for dances.”
“You mean instead of fluorescent socks and white tuxedos?” Meg replied nastily.
“Nope. Young Col’s wearing those.”—Meg swallowed. He was, too!—“No. Um—it’s the combinations, more than anything.”
Meg replied in an effort at scorn: “It’s the style!”
“It’s the something,” Bill agreed.
There was a short silence. Then Meg admitted: “I must say I don’t see how Roger can possibly dance in those sneakers.”
“Those Not-Reeboks, ya mean.”
Meg smiled. “Mm.” Roger’s sneakers were new. They had cost a fortune but they were not Reeboks because Bill had tactfully pointed out that Reeboks cost several fortunes and with the same money he could buy three pairs of jeans and a pair of Not-Reeboks that were just as smart. Roger hadn’t bought three pairs of jeans, he’d bought one pair, black ones, which he was now wearing, and a new shirt. Black. Which he was now wearing. And a new tie, one of those very, very, very narrow ones. White satin. He was wearing it, too. He’d had his old blue denim jacket on, earlier, but had removed it on arrival, so evidently it wasn’t part of the Outfit.
“The Lone Ranger,” murmured Meg.
“Zorro,” agreed Bill. “Adrian’s right about that girl’s hair. Lovely, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Meg in a shaken voice.
Grinning, Bill said: “Isn’t it good now Rog is growing up? A whole new field for perving is opening up before our very eyes!”
“Shut up,” said Meg weakly, trying not to laugh.
“They can do it,” noted Roger sourly, as Col and Jenny revolved in a waltz.
“That Michaels bloke? He went to Queen’s,” returned Damian sourly.
“Most people can’t dance like that,” said Melanie sensibly. “I reckon we could manage it.”
“Did you learn to waltz at St Ursie’s?” Anne Wiseman asked her.
“Yeah. They taught us all that old-time stuff. It was real boring. You know: the tango and all that garbage.”
“Mum can do that,” admitted Anne.
“Can you waltz?” asked Roger hoarsely.
“Um—a bit,” admitted Anne.
“Um—you wanna try?” he croaked.
“Righto,” said Anne, grinning at him.
They stumbled cautiously onto the floor. After a while Roger croaked: “Your hair looks super.”
Anne swallowed. He was only a boy, really. He was still at school. “Um—thanks. Um—I like your shirt, it looks cool with that tie.”
Meanwhile the giggling Melanie was informing her cousin he was chicken.
“We couldn’t do worse than them,” admitted Damian, grinning. “Oh, all right—come on!”
Adrian had refilled their glasses: beer for him and Bill and white wine for Meg. Though he did report there was champagne tonight—to drink, not to raffle. But it cost three times as much as the other wine.
“This is all right,” said Meg bravely, sipping it. “What is it, Adrian?”
“Chateau Cardboard,” he replied automatically.
“Never mind, Little Woman, when our rich friend arrives she can buy us all champagne,” Bill comforted her.
Meg glared but before she could say anything Adrian said: “Here’s John and Darryl: he might buy some, he likes it.”
“Yeah, it’s alcoholic,” muttered Bill, glancing up. “Christ!” he gasped, choking on his beer. “Now I see what that Froggy saw in her!”
“Don’t you dare mention him in front of John,” said Meg, but very weakly.
Perhaps it was only Meg’s imagination, but she thought there was a momentary hush as Darryl sailed towards them on John’s blue-blazered arm.
“Gidday,” she said, grinning amiably.
“Don’t say gidday in that dress,” whispered Meg.
“No, you’re a lady tonight,” agreed Bill, with his eye on stalks.
The tall bronze goddess in the narrow gold knit creation replied amiably, doubling a well-shaped hand into a fist: “You askin’ for a knuckle sandwich, Coggins?”
“All this macho stuff is over-compensation for the fact that she’s the handsomest woman in the room,” explained John mildly. He pushed a chair behind her bum and said: “Sit.”
“You look wonderful,” said Meg faintly. “Did you get that dress in France last year?”
“Nope. Mum bought it for me at a boutique in Remmers,” replied Darryl.
“It has to be worn without underclothes,” explained John.
“I can see that,” said Meg faintly. Bill swallowed loudly.
“Well, who’s for grog?” said Darryl cheerfully.
She started to get up again, but John gripped her arm in a large paw and said: “For God’s sake, sit, I’m already squirming with embarrassment in my blazer, do you want the whole of Puriri to point the finger at me?”
“There’s champagne,” croaked Meg.
“Local fizz,” murmured John.
“No: Dom Pérignon,” said Adrian.
“What?” he croaked.
“Old Cyril Blake said he got it from the Community Centre.”
“He couldn’t have, they’ve only got a beer licence!” objected Bill.
“Oh. Uh—well, through the Community Centre, was what he said.”
“Via Jake Carrano,” said Darryl, very drily indeed.
“How do you know that?” croaked Meg.
“Do you know Felicity Wiseman? She manages the Centre. She told me at Aerobics the other day. I must say, I’d like to see how they put it through on their books.”
Meg swallowed.
“WELL?” Darryl then demanded.
Jumping, John squeaked: “Yes, dear! Of course, dear! –Don’t panic, all, I’ll get a bottle.” He ambled off, grinning amiably.
“Hullo, Felicity, dear!” beamed the comfortable, middle-aged June Blake. “You made it, then!”
Felicity Wiseman perceived with the sort of resignation that was not an unfamiliar sensation to pro-June and contra-Cyril Blake members of the Puriri & District Lawn Tennis Club that the Club Secretary had got poor June on the door again.
“Hi, June: yes, it’s only basketball up at the Community Centre tonight, so they don’t need me, thank goodness. Are my horrible offspring here?”
Protesting that they weren’t horrible, Mrs Blake reported that dear Jenny was here, she’d given her a hand with the sandwiches, earlier, she was such a helpful girl; and dear little Anne was here, too, she was looking so sweet tonight!
Optimistically interpreting this to mean that dratted Anne was wearing a dress and might just possibly have washed her hair, Felicity said resignedly: “Not Alec?”
“Um... Well, I haven’t seen him, dear.”
Sighing, Alec’s mother said: “He’s chickened out again, I knew he would!”
June protested that he was very young, still. Felicity didn’t point out that he was never going to grow up at all at this rate: though she had a distinct feeling she’d be saying it to Alec before he was very much older. She paid for her entrance ticket, bought a ticket for the late supper, received June’s assurances that there was a really good crowd here tonight with every appearance of belief, and went on gloomily into the clubhouse.
“God!” gulped Meg.
Bill looked round quickly. “Ooh!” he squeaked.
Polly waved. Bill waved back eagerly. Meg waved back limply.
“Ooh, boy!” he said. “Pink!”
“Shocking-pink,” agreed Meg in a hollow voice. “Skin-tight shocking-pink. Velvet,” she added as an afterthought.
“’S got a blouse over it,” objected Bill.
“It’s got an entirely see-through white gauze over-blouse, yes,” agreed Meg grimly.
“White gauze with teeny-weeny-weeny lace flowers on it,” noted Bill keenly as Polly came up to them, smiling. “Paris?” he greeted her.
“No, New York. Do you like it, Bill?” she twinkled.
“Too right! Turn round, is the back as— Ooh, goody!” he squeaked. “Even less of it!”
“If that were possible,” said Meg grimly. “Have a seat, Polly.”
“Do you think it’s too much?” she asked doubtfully, not sitting down.
“Nope: too little!” chuckled Bill.
“Short skirts are in,” she said doubtfully.
“For those as has got the knees for ’em, yeah,” agreed Bill. “And you’ve got ’em!” he assured her.
“It’s not too much, Polly, it’s lovely,” admitted Meg heavily. “Only couldn’t you have worn sackcloth and ashes, for once?”
“I haven’t got any,” said Polly, smiling. She smoothed a hand under the tight pink velvet bum and sat.
“Coulda borrowed Meg’s,” noted Bill.
“I’ve had this awful blue rag for four years!” burst out Meg.
Polly went very red.
“Yeah, and you’ve never had the guts yet to wear it without a bra,” noted Bill. “You are embarrassing our rich friend, tiny feminine feather-head.”
“It’s all right, I understand,” said Polly in a strangled voice.
Sighing, Meg said: “Yes. She was poor once, herself. –The really rotten thing is, if I did wear it without a bra, he wouldn’t even notice,” she said bitterly to Polly.
“Have you tried it?”
“Uh—no,” replied Meg, taken aback.
“I’d try it,” Lady Carrano recommended on a dry note.
“Hi, Adrian,” said Melanie timidly, coming up to their table. “How are you?”
Adrian replied nicely but without visible interest: “Hi, Melanie. Howsit?”
“Sit down, Melanie,” said Meg kindly.
Bill immediately offered her a drink, but Meg felt forced to say: “Hang on, Bill. How old are you, dear?” she asked, feeling at least five hundred and two and a right managing moo with it.
“Eighteen: same as Damian,” said Bill briskly.
Meg goggled at him.
“My birthday’s in May,” said Melanie in a strangled voice.
Before Meg could ask which birthday, Bill had poured.
“It’s nice!” discovered Melanie, beaming over her glass.
“Not bad,” agreed Adrian. “Not good, either.”
“Isn’t it?” she said respectfully.
Meg and Bill listened in a sort of daze as Mel Gibson told the round-eyed Melanie a terrific lot about what constituted vintage champagne and how you told a good vintage. Well, he did work for that old French dame at that poncy restaurant in the Big Smoke, and she had sent him on all those courses, but…
Most unfortunately, certain people at their table considered, a flushed and laughing Polly came up just as he was finishing, saying: “I’ve just had the most strenuous tango with old Cyril Blake: he’s a devil when he gets going, is our Cyril! You’re gonna have to carry me through this whatever-it-is, Adrian!”
Adrian, several people noticed gloomily, had gone very pink and got up very quickly. As it were. “It’s a slow one: you could just lean on me,” he said, grinning.
“I’ll have to!”
Adrian put his arm round her waist and off they went.
“Isn’t Lady Carrano beautiful?” breathed Melanie, all pink and starry-eyed.
Deluded child. “Something like that,” Meg agreed, taking a deep breath.
“Here’s Twin at last!” cried Vicki.
“Isn’t that usage somewhat pejorative?” drawled Col. Jenny Wiseman noticed, however, that he had flushed a little. She felt a bit sick and clenched her hands tightly in her lap.
Ginny was wearing the sort of outfit that Jenny would never have dared to. Well, she wouldn’t have dared to wear one like Vicki’s, either, but then she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Only… Ginny had tiny purple suede boots on, for a start, with a pair of lace-pattern tights. Also purple. Then a very short black mini-skirt. And a wide lilac belt, demonstrating beyond any doubt that, never mind that Ginny was an absolute duffer at tennis, her waist was narrower than Jenny’s own. The pale green top, Jenny thought sourly, was really quite ordinary, one of those cross-over jersey-knit things. Ordinary though it was it demonstrated beyond any possibility of mistake that Ginny’s figure was much more curvaceous than Jenny’s own slender sportsperson’s person. Unexpectedly she felt tears prickle in her eyes and had to blink and swallow hard. And nothing could compete with that hair, she’d just brushed it back… It isn’t fair! thought Jenny miserably. Why does mine just sort of—of stick up and—and—look so boring? Even beastly Anne’s looked marvellous, since she’d actually washed it and brushed it out for once. Only Ginny’s was even prettier: it had more curl in it...
“Twin, why didn’t you do your hair up, the way I said?” demanded Vicki as Ginny and Dickon came up to their table.
“I tried. Only the clips kept falling out: it’s too slippery,” explained Ginny. She pushed some of it back behind her ear with a nervous laugh and said: “Hi!”
“You’d better hurry up and nab Lady Carrano, Bruce,” said Ariadne uneasily. “They’re putting out the food already.”
Bruce Smith looked at his watch. “No hurry. Only first supper.”
“What?”
Grinning broadly, Bruce and Catherine, his de facto, began to explain very slowly and carefully to the goggling Keith and Ariadne that there were always two suppers at the tennis club does, and the first one, included in the price, was cold. But the second one, usually pretty late, was hot. And you had to buy tickets for that, it was one of Cyril Blake’s pet ideas for raising cash. Go on, there was Mrs Blake, she’d sell them some. No, they wouldn’t have run out, what would be the point of charging extra for the late supper if they were going to run out of tickets?
Keith staggered off groggily in pursuit of June Blake. When he caught up with her he was duly punished for his lack of foresight or local knowledge or whatever it was by her remembering exactly who he was and enquiring just what dear Roberta was up to these days.
“And here she is!” she cried.
Keith staggered. In fact he just about dropped in his tracks. He was only slightly consoled by seeing that on the far side of the room Roberta’s proud mother had just spilled a glass of non-alcoholic punch on her good black taffeta evening skirt.
“Look at that incredibly beautiful girl: she must be Greek,” breathed Polly.
Ginny looked up quickly. “She is—it’s Roberta!” she cried. She waved madly. Looking shy, Roberta waved back, smiling awkwardly.
“She’s like a Classical goddess!” breathed Polly. “Is she doing a B.A., Ginny?”
“No, medicine. But she’s in my Second-Year Latin class. She likes Cicero.”
“Not to mention old Charles Brownloe, apparently!” put in Dickon with a nervous laugh.
“No, it’s only Cicero!” said Ginny crossly, going very red.
“Charles isn’t all that old,” said Polly absently. “He’d be very attractive if he’d ever take the time to look around him.”
Ginny went redder than ever.
Col had been taking this in with considerable interest. But all he now said was: “Come on, Polly, this is the Twist, it’s time for that lesson you promised me, we'll just fit it in before tucker-time!”
She giggled. “It is not the Twist!” However, she allowed Col to pull her onto the dance floor and start the lesson.
After a while she said: “Isn’t that Hugh Morton that’s dancing with Ginny’s friend Roberta?”
“You noticed,” agreed Col in a friendly voice. “Who is kidnapping whom?” he suggested blandly.
“These are asparagus rolls,” explained John carefully, “and these are smoked-fish rolls.”
“Cold?” said Bill dubiously, looking at the rolled-up bread thingywhatsits.
“Yes; I thought you’d been to these wing-dings, hooleys, or knees-ups before?”
“Yeah. And while we’re out of earshot, how did you manage to get Darryl to this one?”
John looked bland. “We quite often come. Combines a good nosh-up with supporting a worthwhile local charity.”
Incredulously Bill croaked: “Tennis courts for Puriri’s middle classes?”
John winked. “No. Healthy exercise for me.”
“I can’t dance, I’m weighed down by curried-egg sandwiches,” moaned Keith.
“Rubbish.” Ariadne propelled him onto the floor. “Who on earth is that man with Roberta?” she said the minute they were out there.
Sighing heavily, Keith replied: “You oughta know. He’s a mate of your mate Moira’s mate Ralph Whatsit. Forgotten his name. Uh… orthy.”
“WHAT?”
“Ssh!” hissed Keith, but there was no need to, the noise of what according to Bruce were the Puriri Prancers (though Keith was almost sure this was apocryphal) was drowning out even louder voices than Ariadne’s.
“Hugh Morton!” gasped Ariadne.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Keith, he’s a married man! What’s he doing with Roberta?”
Keith found he was very seriously annoyed. Whether with Roberta, Hugh Morton or Ariadne it was very difficult to tell. His lips thinned. After a moment he managed to say: “The usual, I would imagine.”
“I’m going over there!” she declared in a martial voice.
“She is an adult,” said Keith faintly.
Ariadne’s jaw firmed. “An idiot, you mean.” She marched off the dance floor. Keith followed, perforce.
Hugh and Roberta hadn’t danced much. After an initial period of shyness on both parts they’d somehow got talking about books and films, and had discovered they had many tastes in common. Roberta had confessed her amazement at finding a specialist who actually read anything outside his subject. Hugh had laughed, then, and admitted he’d read a bit of Cicero in his time. After that they’d got on splendidly, and were chatting away happily.
“Hullo, Mum! Hullo, Dad!” she said, beaming. “You two can really do this old-time stuff, you oughta come to these hops more often!”
“Where did you get that dress from, Roberta?” was all that Ariadne managed in answer to this. Keith didn’t manage anything.
“Mu-um! This is that old dress I had when I was in the Seventh Form!”
Ariadne goggled at it. It was a sort of dusky terracotta.
“Michaela dyed it: it looks good, eh? It used to be cream, really icky.”
“Oh,” said Ariadne faintly.
Roberta got up. “And see this scarf?”
It was a large black silk one with a long, knotted fringe. Tied very tightly round her hips so that the skirt sort of frothed out from under it.
“What about it?” said Ariadne weakly.
“Great-Aunty Calliope gave it to me, ages ago, remember? I was just gonna, um, you know, put it over my arms, only Hugh said he’d seen them like this!” She beamed again. “Oh—this is Hugh!”
Hugh had already got up; he wasn’t experienced in the field but he knew a pair of enraged parents when he saw them. From what Roberta from time to time had let slip about the pair of them, it was about time, in his considered opinion. Did they want to push her into the arms of some elderly creep like bloody Moira Brownloe’s neglected hubby? Because they seemed to have been going the right way about it. The girl had virtually no self-confidence at all. Let alone any confidence in her effect as a woman.
“Hugh Morton: I’m a friend of Roberta’s landlady,” he said.
“He’s in orthy,” said Roberta informatively.
“We know,” replied Ariadne in a remarkably grim voice. “Is Michaela here?”
“Nope, she’s baby-sitting. And rotten Bettina stood me up, so Hugh took pity on me.” She grinned blithely.
“It was very decent of you, Morton,” said Keith quickly, hurriedly shoving out his hand.
“My pleasure,” returned Hugh drily, shaking.
“Did you have any of the club sandwiches, Dad? They were good,” said Roberta.
“Uh—yeah, they were, eh?”
Ariadne had shaken hands with Hugh during this exchange but without looking as if she was enjoying it. “Why didn’t the two of you join us, Roberta?”
Roberta made a face. “Thought you and Bruce’d be talking shop.”
Keith gave a crack of laughter.
“Stop it, Keith! We weren’t— Well, not all the time,” she ended weakly. “Anyway, what on earth have you two been talking about?” she added in a would-be bright voice.
“Books, films: culture, all that; Cicero,” said Hugh with a little smile.
“Oh, dear, I hope she hasn’t been boring you silly, Mr Morton,” said Ariadne, changing tack.
“Hugh,” he amended mildly. “No, I enjoyed it. Most of my acquaintances tend to talk nothing but medical shop.”
“Well—uh, come and join us now,” she said weakly.
“No, we were just going to go over and talk to Ginny,” Roberta objected.
“Who?”
“I’ve told you about her a million times, Mum!”
“She’s the one that’s good at Latin, isn’t she?” said Keith, aware of Morton’s distinctly sardonic eye on the pair of them.
“Yes, of course,” said Roberta impatiently. “Look, that’s her, over there—with the long red hair.” She waved at the large group on the other side of the room.
“At—at Lady Carrano’s table?” faltered Ariadne.
“Eh? Yeah, I suppose so. Polly’s all right, she’s her cousin, or something. Well, she’s Michaela’s cousin, too.”
“What?” croaked Ariadne. “You’ve never told me that, Roberta!”
Suddenly Roberta gave her a dry look. “Well, I might have, if you were ever interested.”
Ariadne went very red, and glared.
“Anyway, I’m not into the snob bit,” finished Roberta definitely. “Come on, Hugh.”
“Um—we’ll come too, I’d like to meet Ginny,” said Ariadne unconvincingly.
“Why don’t you girls go together?” said Hugh with a little smile.
“Yeah, go on,” agreed Keith, sagging with relief.
Roberta forged off without waiting to see if her mother was accompanying her.
“Ariadne’s gonna ask Lady Carrano for umpteen thou’ to build a flaming old folks’ home,” Keith explained feebly.
“I thought it might be something like that.”
They eyed each other cautiously.
“I’m not into seducing the young and unfledged,” said Hugh drily.
“No!” gulped Keith, going very red.
“That girl needs friends of her own age: you oughta encourage her to see a bit more of Ginny, she seems a nice little kid.”
“Yes,” said Keith, very weakly.
Morton then said to him in a very dry voice indeed: “I speak as a father whose own female offspring is about to become engaged to a little prick she doesn’t give a shit about, apparently on the score that he can afford a house in Pakuranga with a double garage and his and hers shiny new Jap vehicles to put in it.”
“I see.”
“Do you smoke?”
“Uh—not really.”
“Nor do I,” agreed Morton, immediately producing a cigar case.
Keith’s eyes lit up, but he said: “Ariadne’ll kill me.”
“We’d better go outside, then, I can’t stand the sight of blood.”
Sniggering, they went outside.
“Ah! Raffles!” spotted Bill keenly as the usual gaggle of sweating pensioners rolled out The Wheel. “Polly always buys us loads of tickets,” he told his new friend.
“Really?” Ariadne giggled. “Do they ever win, though?”
“Well, nothing that you’d actually want.” He refilled her glass. “Not a bottle of champers, or a chook. Didn’ we once win a bottle of bubble-bath?” he said to Meg.
Meg was feeling very mellow, very mellow indeed. She held out her glass automatically. “Um—was that us?”
Bill frowned portentously. “Adrian won a bottle of bubbly, once,” he remembered, pouring.
“Yeah,” Adrian agreed, grinning tolerantly.
“We drank it for ’im,” added Bill.
Ariadne giggled again. Bill refilled her glass on the strength of it. Giggling, she said: “Does your crowd always drink this mush—much?”
“Nah! We haven’t gorra crowd! Uh: have we?” he said to John.
“No. Absolutely not. And most definitely not a hard-drinking crowd.”
Darryl wrested the bottle off Bill. “Can’t call fizz hard liquor.”
“That’s right!” agreed Ariadne. She burped. “Ooh—pardon! ’S the bubbles.”
“Lit-tle bub-bles!” sang Bill suddenly. “Uh—no, that’s wrong.”
“‘And the question is, At who?’” sang Meg.
“Yeah: that’s it. But what were they?”
Before anyone could clear up this mystery—or alternatively tell Bill and Meg to shut up—the mike emitted the gut-wrenching, ear-shattering moan that was usual on these occasions, and boomed in the greatly magnified accents of old Cyril Blake: “Layee-dees and Gentlemennuh!”
And Polly sank back into her seat, panting, waving half a roll of tickets.
… “Ooh, look! The Greens have won something!” spotted Meg.
Sure enough, Polly’s housekeeper, Daphne Green, was urging her spouse to his feet. They watched with enjoyment as the red-faced Tim Green slunk up to the platform, to receive a much be-ribboned bottle of bubble-bath and the applause of the assembled multitude. And as an unknown male voice called: “Speech!”
… “Layee-dees and Gentlemennuh—” A blushing, giggling, plump woman of sixty or so jounced up to receive a bottle of champagne.
… “Layee-dees and Gentlemennuh, the lucky number is—”
“I haven’t drunk so much since I was at Med School!” said Ariadne brightly, giggling.
Roberta groaned.
“Come on, Roberta, the lady with the raffle tickets is over there,” said Ginny quickly.
“I haven’t got any money,” Roberta admitted as they headed off.
“Nor’ve I. Um—let’s go to the Ladies’, then.”
They went to the Ladies’.
“Layee-dees and Gentlemennuh—”
“That’s you, Roger!” squeaked the red-headed Anne Wiseman.
Roger was now with Anne, Felicity and Alec, who had turned up after all, and a mate of Alec’s—who was okay, Roger knew him from School. Plus Mr White, Roger remembered him from Primary School. He wasn’t bad for a teacher.
“Um—fifteen. Ooh, heck, it is. Ooh, heck, what is it?”
Dick White, grinning all over his round, cheerful face, said: “A fuzzy elephant. Pink and green. Go on, Roger, be a man!”
Smiling weakly, Roger got up. Ooh, heck, it was, too!
He stumbled blindly back to his seat, aware that somewhere in the hinterland familiar voices were variously cat-calling, cheering, and calling for a speech. He’d kill Dad when he got home! And Meg! And John and Darryl! And Damian, in fact if Damian didn’t look out he’d never ask him over again!
“What’ll you do with it?” asked Anne in awe.
Felicity and Dick wouldn’t have dared: they just sat there, feeling sort of—stupefied, really.
“Give it to my little sister, I suppose. She’s a bit big for it. But she might like it on her bed.”
Immensely interested, Anne immediately launched into an interrogation on the subject of his little sister.
Felicity and Dick just looked weakly at each other.
“Mum’s being awful,” said Roberta glumly, when they’d been, and were washing their hands.
Ginny was used to the country-town hops down home. “She’s okay. I’ve seen worse.”
“She hardly ever drinks.” Roberta looked at her sadly. “You probably don’t believe me.”
Apart from the fact that Roberta had immediately struck Ginny as one of the most straightforward, truthful people she’d ever met, and everything since then had confirmed the impression, she had encountered that syndrome before. So she merely said: “Yes, I do. She isn’t used to it, is she? My old Aunty Vi’s the same: she goes all silly when Dad gives her a couple of sherries.”
Roberta looked at her gratefully.
“Your hair looks really good like that,” volunteered Ginny.
Roberta flushed. “Does it? It was Hugh’s idea.”
“You oughta wear it loose more often.” Ginny applied a bit of lipstick and made a face at the result. “Ugh.”
There was a short silence. Then Roberta said diffidently: “Hugh’s nice, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. I think he ought to ditch that wife, she sounds a dead loss, and marry Michaela, don’t you?”
“Um, yes, I do,” admitted Roberta. “But would Michaela want to get married?”
Ginny goggled at her.
Roberta suddenly realized with a little shock how much younger than her her red-headed friend was. Not just in years, but... “Not everybody wants to get married, or even live together,” she said. “Some people just have relationships.”
Ginny didn’t think she knew anybody like that. “Ye-es...”
“Especially artists. One of my cousins is a sculptor: he’s got a permanent girlfriend, but they live in separate houses.”
“Heck.” After a minute she said: “Maybe they can’t get married. You know, maybe she can’t get a divorce, or something.”
“No, she’s never been married. She’s an artist, too: she mostly does illustrations for children’s books. She doesn’t want to marry him or live with him, she likes her independence. Sometimes she just packs her stuff up and goes off hitching.”
Ginny swallowed. “Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t do it myself, I think it’s taking stupid risks. But she’s hitched all the way across Australia.”
“Help,” said Ginny in awe.
“Mm. When she goes away Gray just gets on with it. Half the time I don’t think he even notices when she’s gone.”
“Oh.” After a moment Ginny asked: “Is he Greek?”
“No, the other side: Gray Nicholls.” Ginny didn’t say anything, so Roberta realized she hadn’t heard of him. She said: “He’s got an exhibition on in town at the moment, we could go if you like.”
“Um—yes. Okay. –I don’t know anything about sculpture, really.”
Roberta wasn’t surprized. “We could go tomorrow.”
“Yeah, great! Um—what sort of sculpture does he do? Marble?”
Roberta had stuck her head out of the Ladies’. Down the corridor floated the sounds of: “Layee-dees and Gentlemennuh, the lucky number is—” Wincing, she withdrew her head, and said: “No. Scrap-iron. He’s into welding.”
Ginny’s father and brother sometimes did that. In the big shed. With a blow-torch. She and Vicki weren’t allowed to stare at the flame. “Welding?” she said feebly.
“Yeah. It’s a technique that lots of modern sculptors use. You’ll see.”
Ginny nodded humbly.
“Good,” said Darryl briskly: “they’re starting the reels. Come on, John, you can do these.”
John replied in a plaintive voice: “Reeling and writhing and fainting in—”
“Yeah. Geddup.”
John got up.
“Come on, Bill,” said Meg.
Bill was doing sums. “I reckon,” he said to Polly, “if you bought fifty-three tickets at a dollar each, then that box of crystallized fruit that Vicki’s ticket won musta cost, um...”
“Fifty-three dollars!” said Polly with a giggle. Vicki just giggled.
“Come ON, Bill!” cried Meg.
Groaning, Bill got up. “Don’t touch that,” he warned Polly.
She looked with distaste at the crumpled pink paper serviette with green ball-point ink all over it. “I wouldn’t dream of it, it looks catching.”
Suddenly Dickon, who hadn’t spoken for quite some time, went very red and said loudly: “Would you like to dance, Polly?”
“Yes, I’d love to, I adore a reel.”
They took the floor with Dickon a glowing crimson and Polly smiling serenely.
“Can you reel, writhe or faint in coils?” Col said to Jenny.
Jenny had been very pleased to see Ginny disappear with Roberta and not come back. She hadn’t been very pleased by the way Col’s eyes had kept sliding towards the door ever since. “Sort of,” she said in a grumpy voice.
“Come on, then!” He got up, grinning. “Let’s sort of!”
Jenny smiled reluctantly. “Oh—all right.” They joined a set.
“Would you like to, Melanie?” said Adrian kindly.
Melanie turned puce and nodded convulsively. “Yes!” she gasped, scrambling up.
Adrian got up gracefully and took her hand. He led her puce form into a set.
Mark Michaels wouldn’t have let Vicki drag him into this boring group but for the fact that it contained Lady Carrano, who was an excellent contact. He didn’t like reels, and was just about to say did Vicki really want to dance this one when she said brightly: “Come on, Damian, let’s dance: have you got any Scotch blood?”
“No!” he gasped, scrambling up, a glowing tomato shade.
“Never mind, I’ve got lots! I just love reels!” said Vicki with a loud giggle. She pulled him into a set.
Mark’s mouth tightened. He looked uncertainly at Dr Nicholls. She just sat there, smiling and smiling. Mark got up abruptly and went off to the Gents’.
Outside on the clubhouse’s rickety wooden porch Keith winced. ‘‘What in God’s name’s that?”
“Sounds like an eightsome reel: haven’t danced one of those since... Shit, my cousin’s twenty-first, it musta been,” Hugh remembered. “I was about seventeen.”
“I danced one at a cousin’s daughter’s wedding about eighteen months ago,” said Keith. “With my old Aunty Val, fifteen stone if she weighs an ounce.”
Hugh pitched his cigar stub into a stunted hibiscus. “Did Roberta participate?”
“No, I don’t think she can do an eightsome reel.”
There was a short silence.
“All right,” said Keith sourly: “I’ll go back into that sweaty Hell-hole and embarrass the child horribly by dragging her into a bloody reel!”
“I would,” said Hugh mildly.
Keith sighed. “Can I at least wait until this one’s over?”
“I’ll let ya do that,” allowed Hugh.
The reels had brightened Meg up no end. She handed Bill a glass of non-alcoholic punch.
Bill drank thirstily. He gasped and shuddered. “God! This stuff could kill me!”
“No such luck,” said Roger, coming up with his fuzzy elephant. “Can you look after this for me, Meg?”
“Righto.” She placed it carefully on an empty chair.
“It’s for Connie. You won’t lose it, will you?”
“No: he can just sit there, he’ll be fine! What’s his name?” she asked brightly.
Roger looked at her doubtfully. “I thought Connie could give it a name.”
“Well, he’ll be right here when you want him, Rog!”
“Yes.” He looked at her doubtfully again. Meg smiled brightly. “Um—where’s Melanie?” he asked.
“You can’t have ’er: Adrian’s got ’er,” Bill informed him.
Reddening, Roger said: “No, I didn’t mean— Erik’s here, he’s come to collect her.”
“Par’y pooper,” muttered Bill.
“Erik Nilsson? Oh, of course, he must be her brother-in-law!” recollected Meg brightly.
Roger looked uneasily at his elephant. “Yeah. Where is she?”
“She’s dancing, see?”
Roger peered. “Oh—yeah. Well, I’ll tell Erik. I expect he won’t mind waiting until this dance has finished.”
“Ask him over here: the more the merrier!” said Bill, waving a hand at their nest of tables, which was now occupied by themselves, the blankly smiling Ariadne Nicholls, and Roger’s elephant.
Roger swallowed. “Um—yeah.” He ambled off.
“Dumbo,” said Meg thoughtfully.
“We’ve always known that,” Bill pointed out.
“No! The elephant! –He doesn’t look like a Dumbo, though.”
Bill glanced at it tolerantly. “Fuzzbo.”
Meg had a terrific giggling fit. Ariadne joined in—though it was doubtful if she knew why she was doing it.
Somehow Hugh had found himself dancing with a handsome redheaded woman he didn’t know from Adam. Well, Eve. It seemed she ran the local communality centre. She was very interested to hear he was an orthopaedic surgeon (a fact he had not actually volunteered) and told him a lot about her Kenny’s rotten ankle. From what Hugh could make out, which what with the heat and the noise wasn’t much, it sounded like a tendon problem, if anything, but he didn’t volunteer that.
Back at her table they were joined by a round-faced, genial fellow in possibly his mid-thirties—and also possibly gay, though Hugh couldn’t have said how he knew—and a large, genial, elderly Maori woman: Mrs Tonks. Shortly the group was further augmented by Mrs Tonks’s middle-aged daughter and son-in-law, Sergeant Jim Baxter (as he was in civvies it wasn’t apparent what sort of a sergeant he was), and by their daughter Hayley and son-in-law (Hugh never did get his name; he was in cost-accounting: he got that, because he told him all about it). Soon the group was further augmented by an elderly florid couple who were apparently neighbours of Mrs Tonks’s and very keen on bowls. Why were they at a tennis club dance, then? Hugh wondered dazedly. Jim Baxter was also very keen on bowls. They talked bowls eagerly. Mrs Tonks, her daughter, and the daughter’s daughter talked recipes. The florid female neighbour of Mrs Tonks gave up on bowls and joined in the recipes conversation. Sort of over and behind these conversations the gayish, genial mid-thirties bloke and the handsome red-haired woman began to talk about bikes, and regulations pertaining to bikes, and kids these days, and the traffic these days...
The Grand Old Duke Of York struck up. A gleam lit up in old Mrs Tonks’s eye. Hugh sent up a short, swift prayer, but oddly enough it wasn’t answered. Old Mrs Tonks led him firmly into the dance. She smelled strongly of mothballs, peppermints, and apple-blossom bath powder. She proceeded to dance him up and dance him down vigorously. All in all, it was an intoxicating experience.
“That was fun!” gasped Ginny.
“Yes,” agreed Adrian. His heart hammered wildly, and not only because of the exertion of The Grand Old Duke of York.
“What are they doing now?” she asked uncertainly, as tribes of sweating pensioners began dragging trestle tables onto the middle of the floor, and the band, red, hot and streaming, staggered off towards the back regions.
“Hot supper. I suppose you haven’t been to any of their does before?”
Ginny shook her head. The hair swayed and glittered.
Adrian swallowed. “They always have a hot supper. After that they might have a sing-song, or a few more raffles. Then they usually have a couple of slow dances, and the last waltz.” He swallowed again. “Um—will you dance one of the slow dances with me?”
“If you like,” replied Ginny in an indifferent voice.
“Good. Let’s sit down,” said Adrian hoarsely.
“Okay.”
He propelled her gently towards a couple of chairs that were nowhere near the group they’d been with, and they sat down. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?” he asked hoarsely.
“Yes.”
“Um, well, would you like to go to the flicks or anything on Monday night?”
“No. I’m broke.”
Gulping, Adrian croaked: “I didn’t mean Dutch!”
After a minute Ginny said cautiously: “If you mean a date, I know you can’t afford to take girls out. So don’t be silly.”
Adrian was very red.
Ginny looked at him doubtfully. She liked him but she wasn’t the least in love with him. He was very handsome and all that, and he was nice—but he was too young! And boring, why were they all so boring? Why couldn’t she meet someone that was a bit older, and interesting! Like old Mr Shapiro, only younger! Only if she did, it’d probably distract her from her work, so maybe it was just as well she hadn’t. Adrian looked very upset, so she said kindly: “It’s the University Film Society on Tuesday, you could come to that, if you like.”
“On Puriri Campus? Great, I’ll come. What’s on?”
“Um, some German film, I think.”
“Fassbinder?” asked Adrian eagerly.
“I can’t remember.” She looked at him uncertainly. “Are you interested in films?”
“Yeah; only I can’t get to them, much, because of work. Timothy—that’s my brother—well, he belonged to the University Film Society last year, and I went with him a couple of times when it was my night off—” Adrian began to talk foreign films eagerly.
Ginny felt rather stunned. He was quite bright, really. And he did know a lot about films—well, a lot more than she did. When he stopped, and eagerly invited her to tea beforehand at his place, she accepted. Even though on Tuesdays it was usually roast lamb at the hostel.
Keith had sent Roberta to liberate Hugh from the energetic old Maori lady before he had a heart attack. They were now sitting with Lady Carrano, the stunning Maori girl who was Sir Alistair Tuwhare’s daughter, the burly, bearded Englishman who was apparently her live-in boyfriend—fleetingly Keith wondered if any of his daughter’s new acquaintances had anything like a normal, middle-class relationship; only maybe he was getting old, maybe this was the new norm—and the young fellow who’d been with Roberta’s little red-headed friend, earlier. Talking about Middle-East politics. The Englishman was by far the best informed, followed by the stunning girlfriend. After some time Keith gathered that they were both political scientists from the university. Oh, well, then: that figured. Keith’s daughter didn’t know much, but she knew more than he’d thought she did. Hugh Morton knew a Hell of a lot and had read a Hell of a lot and Keith, sourly, wasn’t all that surprized. Lady Carrano was also terrifically well informed, not to say frighteningly intelligent. Not to say gorgeous. Not to say—well, the wife of Sir Jake. How Ariadne had had the cheek—!
Keith tried not to look in the direction of his wife’s now torpid, gently snoring form. And not to wonder how in God’s name he was going to get her home, not to mention up the path when they got there—the Nicholls residence being on The Hill.
“I suppose you think this sort of food is impossibly bourgeois!” said Dickon in a high, cross voice, looking at the laden trestle tables.
Adrian replied calmly: “No. Most of it’s good homemade stuff. Some of these recipes could go straight into a classic colonial cookbook.”
Col gave a yelp of laughter; Ginny giggled. Dickon was very red.
“What about the bacon-and-egg pie, Adrian?” asked Jenny, smiling a bit.
“It’s very interesting. There are three definite varieties, have you noticed?”
“No,” said Jenny weakly.
“Solid but not greasy; solid and greasy; and just plain greasy,” drawled Col.
Ginny and Jenny both choked. Even Dickon smiled reluctantly.
But Adrian agreed calmly: “Yes, that’s quite right. The solid but not greasy crust shows the influence of Northern England, I think. It derives from the sort of pastry that’s used for classic raised pies.”
“What?” said Ginny, staring.
“Normally eaten cold, of course. Raised game pies, pork pies, ham and veal pies—you know. Raised pies with hot-water crusts have a long and honourable history in English cookery.”
“Cor,” said Col, shaking slightly.
“Fascinating,” noted Dickon sourly.
“Which would be correct for bacon-and-egg pie?” asked Jenny, frowning over it.
“I don’t think any of them would be. It’s not a traditional dish.”
“What? A-dri-an!” she cried.
When they’d all finished choking Dickon said on a weak note: “Well, what about that stuff over there? That sort of open pie thing. It’s kind of got scrambled eggs and minced bacon in it. With cheese.”
Adrian’s eyes twinkled. “Cross between a misconception about what quiche is, and an oven that was too hot!”
Bill had been standing close enough to overhear most of this culinary conversation. He retired to the far end of the trestle tables, to Polly’s side, and said quietly: “That poor kid has a bit of a hard time of it with all them snotty-nosed varsity students.” He paused. “Not to say snotty-nosed Doc-tor Fother-gill.”
“Who, Adrian?”—Bill nodded.—“Yes. Well, Dickon’s jealous of him, of course. But he’s very bright, you know. And he’s got quite a lot of character—well, he’s stood up to his parents putting pressure on him to give up cooking for well over a year, now, hasn’t he? He keeps his end up pretty well, I think!” Polly finished, smiling serenely at him. She spooned a huge helping of curried chicken onto his floppy paper plate.
Bill replied very, very faintly: “Ya could say that. –S’pose you’d know, really.”
Their eyes met. “I’ve noticed it once or twice,” agreed Polly drily.
Bill shook so much he had to dump his floppy paper plate on the trestle table before the chicken curry slid off it.
“Who is it?” asked Hugh limply as an elderly gent tottered up to the mike.
“Cas,” explained John smugly. “Often gives a turn after late supper, does Cas.”
“Who?” croaked Meg.
“Cor, you lot really don’t come to many of these hops, do you? It’s old Caswell Forrest—Jim Forrest’s Dad.”
“You know, Meg: Jim Forrest from Forrest Furnishings,” elucidated Polly.
Cas was a crooner. First he crooned Danny Boy. Then he crooned The White Cliffs of Dover. Then—by special request from the floor, to wit from Dr J. Aitken, M.A., Ph.D.—he crooned Pokarekare Ana.
“I’m confused,” confessed Meg, as Bill stumbled round the floor with her.
“So’m I,” he agreed. “Is this the last waltz?”
“What? No! It isn’t a waltz at all, you clot, is that what you’re trying to do?”
“No, I’m trying to press me hot, trembling body—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Anyway, what I’m confused about,” she said firmly—Bill groaned but she merely stepped lightly on his foot—“what I’m confused about is who’s matched up with who.”
“Whom.”
“Eh?” Meg’s lips moved silently. “Whom. –Possibly. Anyway, look at them!”
Cyril usually allowed the lights to be turned down from the usual five-billion-watt blaze for the last few dances, so Bill peered around uncertainly. “Uh...”
“Polly’s dancing with that Hugh Whatsit, for a start!” she hissed.
“The Dastardly Sir Hugh doth press ’er to his manly bazoom, true. So?”
“Well, didn’t he come with that nice Roberta that’s flatting with Michaela?”
“Nothing in that. Old enough to be ’er dad. Seems to be quite matey with ’er dad, in fact.”
“He is now,” replied Meg meaningfully.
Bill didn’t ask. She’d be bound to tell him at some stage, anyway.
“And Adrian’s dancing with Ginny!” she hissed.
Bill shook the spit out of his ear irritably. “Don’t do that! –So what? I thought that was what you wanted?”
“Not necessarily,” replied Meg with great dignity.
Bill rolled his eyes. He stood up very straight so as to keep his ear out of range.
“And Roberta and the Acolyte are dancing together.”
“Prolly earbashing ’er about ’is bloody mangroves.”
“That’s better than glooming over Ginny like he has been all evening! I reckon he’d do better if he just took a more cheerful attitude!”
Bill sighed. Took a more cheerful attitude about young Ginny not giving a shit for ’im: yeah. “Yeah. Prolly right.”
Silence. Well, relative silence, the Puriri Prancers were puffing and blowing and thumping like anything. Salmon jackets and all.
They shuffled a bit. “Whaddaya keep pulling away for?” he complained.
“I’m too hot!” replied Meg huffily.
“Well, I can’t even manage to get warmish, if ya keep on pulling away like that!”
Meg ignored that. They shuffled a bit.
“Who’s Roberta’s dad dancing with, can ya see?” he ventured.
Meg replied in a strangled voice: “Old Mrs Tonks.”
Bill shook helplessly for some time.
In the kitchen June Blake said earnestly to Felicity Wiseman: “You really didn’t have to come and help, dear, you should be out there dancing!”
Felicity went on drying plates. “I don’t mind giving a hand, June: the more of us there are to help, the sooner it’s done, eh?”
“Ye-es...” June put a bunch of soapy plastic plates on the bench to drain. Felicity began to dry them, as June launched into a long, involved speech which was pretty clearly intended to drive her into the arms of nice Dick White. There was absolutely no point in telling dear old June that Dick White was gay. If she’d ever heard the expression, which Felicity doubted, she’d not only be shocked, but she wouldn’t believe it for a moment: Dick White couldn’t be gay: he was such a lovely man!
She dried dishes moodily. That was that nice oval platter of Kamala Singh’s. Kamala hadn’t come tonight but she’d contributed “a plate”, she was the sort of person who did that sort of thing... Indians were lucky, they had arranged marriages: they looked on marriage more as a—a partnership for life, a sort of business arrangement, really; it was sensible, rather than all this romantic nonsense that westerners went in for. Felicity was aware that Kamala and Richpal Singh were very fond of each other. She didn’t really know if it had been an arranged marriage, but...
Well, she was over forty, now, she supposed she’d better make up her mind to it: there wasn’t going to be anybody else for her, at her age! And she would go on that management course! Never mind that it’d be full of yuppies and horrible young businesswomen in suits, all very slim and fit-looking and never having to diet to keep on looking that way... Why had she eaten all that pizza, it was fatal at her age!
“Uh—sorry: what was that, June?”
“It’s the last waltz, dear,” repeated June, her pleasant face crumpled in a sort of hopeful anxiety. “Wouldn’t you like to go back for it?”
Yeah, back about twenty-five years! It wasn’t as if— Well, on the rare occasions she did meet an interesting man, naturally he was always married! “No: let’s get this lot done, eh?” she said with forced cheer.
June wasn’t deceived for an instant. “All right, dear.”
… “Aren’t they wonderful?” murmured Jenny, smiling, as old Mrs Tonks and the even older Mr Potter whirled by in the last waltz, turning and reversing and doing God-knew-what like Fred and Ginger. Not Astaire and Rogers: like Marcello Mastroianni and Whatsername in that Italian film, thought Col sourly.
“Wonderful. Or something,” he agreed.
Jenny didn’t answer. They waltzed on.
“We could go now, if you like. Miss the jam in the carpark,” she said at last.
“What for? More bloody uncomfortable contortions in the back of my car? I wish you had a flat.”
“Well, you haven’t, either. I don’t know that I could leave home: Mum needs my board.”
“She might not if she didn’t have your mouth to feed,” said Col grumpily.
“Maybe… I don’t think I could afford a flat. I mean, I’ve only got a cadetship, the pay isn’t very high. And I’ve got to pay for all my courses and so on.”
“What say we share a flat, then?”
Jenny swallowed. “Just us?”
“Dunno. See how we go. Might get someone else in. Depends on the rent, really.”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” agreed Jenny in a low voice. “Um—well, do you think we could find something up here? Mum does rely on me a lot.”
“Do you know of anywhere?”
“Um—well, yes, I do know of someone with a granny flat. It’s very small, but... They haven’t got a granny, they’re gay. Would you mind?”
“I wouldn’t mind if they were flaming zombied gay werewolves, so long as the rent was okay. How much is it?”
“I dunno. I could find out.”
Col hid his face in her slender neck. “Do that,” he growled.
Jenny’s heart beat very, very fast. At the same time she was aware that it wasn’t a wholly sensible move, because she cared about him a lot more than he cared about her. But she knew she wasn’t strong enough to say no. “All right,” she whispered.
Outside under one of the old pohutukawa trees Roger Coggins and Anne Wiseman looked at each other uncertainly.
“They’re doing the last waltz,” she said.
“Yeah.” Roger swallowed. “Can I kiss you?” he said.
“Um—yes. If you like.” Anne held her face up.
Roger put his lips on hers. Anne opened her mouth a wee bit. After a while his tongue touched hers. Anne felt all funny. After a bit he moved his tongue. Anne moved hers a bit. Then he stopped.
“Was that all right?” he said.
“Yes,” said Anne.
There was a short silence. “I suppose you’ve done it a lot. With older boys,” he said.
“Kissing, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Um—a bit.”
“Oh.”
There was a short but sufficiently agonized silence. Then Roger said: “Um—I suppose we’d better go back.”
“Um—yes. Um—you could do it again, if you like.”
Roger didn’t say anything but he stepped up very close and put his lips on hers. This time Anne put her hands on his waist, she wasn’t quite sure why. He put his tongue in her mouth and wiggled it just a little bit. Anne did it to him and felt very, very funny. Then he pressed up very close and she could feel his dick against her. He went on moving his tongue, not very hard, most boys did it much harder. Anne decided this was much, much nicer. Then he stopped and sort of sighed and hugged her very, very tight. Anne could hear his heart beating like mad. It was very odd, really, hearing another human being’s heart against you like that—even though she knew all about the circulatory system, she’d done it last year in the nursing course. Then he let go of her and sort of sighed.
Anne said: “That was really good.”
Roger didn’t say anything but he took her hand.
“I suppose we’d better go back,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
Anne held his hand very tight and they went back inside.
“I’m not very good at waltzing!” gasped Roberta.
Hugh’s lips twitched. “Never mind. Just relax. Follow me.”
“Follow you?” she said uncertainly.
“You know: push-me, pull-you style. In this case, I push and pull, and you let me.”
“Oh.”
He could feel she was endeavouring to let him, so he didn’t say anything more. After a few moments she said: “Did you see that film?”
Hugh’s lips twitched again. She sounded quite incredulous. “Yeah. Took Mitsy to it. Back in the days when she was almost human.”
They waltzed on… “That’s better,” murmured Hugh.
Roberta immediately stepped on his foot. “Sorry!” she gasped.
Laughing a little, he said: “Don’t mention it!”
Roberta bit her lip. He pulled her a little closer and said: “It’s all right, silly. Listen, what say we follow your dad home? Give him a hand to get Ariadne to bed.”
Roberta replied with huge relief: “Thanks, Hugh! I was wondering how on earth he was gonna manage. I suppose I could’ve gone with them, only Mum’s turning my old room into a guest room, it’s full of paint and wallpaper and stuff.”
Hugh wasn’t surprized. But he was surprized at the furious surge of anger that filled him. “That’s okay,” he said, as mildly as he could.
Felicity, Alec and Anne had all long since gone to bed when Jenny came home. Felicity wasn’t asleep: she heard Jenny close the front door very quietly and tiptoe down the passage. The footsteps paused; then she tapped softly.
“Come in,” said Felicity, and Jenny came in, looking nervous. “Were you out with Col, dear?”
Jenny nodded.
Felicity bit her lip. “Jenny, I don’t want to interfere, but—um—well, I had a word with Polly Carrano and she and her husband have both noticed that Col—um—does seem to admire Ginny Austin.”
“He doesn’t!” she hissed. “And we’re going to look for a flat together, so there! And it was his idea!”
Felicity swallowed. Oh, dear. Why couldn’t they stay three years old all their lives, when all you had to worry about was things like pulling electric jugs full of boiling water over themselves, or opening the garden gate and walking under a bus, or coming down with the croup or the measles... “Are you sure about this, dear?”
“Yes!” Jenny went out, very red, without saying good-night.
Hugh drew up outside Michaela’s flat in silence. He was excruciatingly aware that he wanted very much to kiss Roberta. Must be the effect of the grog, or something. Well, dammit, admittedly she was a lovely girl, but she was less than half his age and—and Michaela’s flatmate, dammit!
Roberta wanted very much for Hugh kiss her goodnight but she knew he wouldn’t. Anyway, you shouldn’t think things like that about your friend’s boyfriend! And even if you never even noticed how old he was when you were talking to him he was Dad’s age. More, probably. “Thanks for helping with Mum,” she said gruffly.
“My pleasure,” replied Hugh with a smile in his voice. He looked at her sideways. There was a short pause.
Roberta opened her door. “Good-night. Thanks again,” she said shyly, getting out.
He waited until she was safely inside and then drove hurriedly away. Shit! Hormones. Well, hormones, grog, the steamy precincts of the bloody tennis club— Yeah.
Roberta made her mind a perfect blank as she got ready for bed, but once she was in bed with the light off the mind insisted on thinking. It was not only ridiculous to imagine she fancied Hugh Morton, it was—it was dishonourable! It wasn’t a word she would have used aloud, but all the same she felt very strongly that it was the word she meant. She wouldn’t think about him any more: he was Michaela’s boyfriend and with a bit of luck he’d leave that wife of his and live with Michaela.
… What it was, he was one of those dark, lean, sort of—um—sardonic-looking men, a bit like Prof Brownloe, and that must be why she sort of fancied him!
… He was awfully nice, he was intelligent, he could be really amusing company when he was relaxed, he was interested in art, he— He was very like Prof. Brownloe, and he was Michaela’s boyfriend!
“Well?” said Bill in a rude voice as they undressed. “Still confused?”
“Not about how much you had to drink! Just as well you let Roger drive!” retorted Meg.
“Ditto, Brother Smut.”
Meg bit her lip. “I haven’t heard that expression in years!”
“No? Ya hear it all the time round Maungakiekie Street Primary,” Bill assured her. “Youse St Ursie’s types are too refayned for yer own good, that’s your trouble.”
“I dare say.” Meg got into bed. “Are those boys still talking?”
“Ay suppose they can exchange a few words on retiring,” Bill replied in refayned accents.
Yawning, Meg said: “Go and put the fear of God into them, for Heaven’s sake, or they’ll be jabbering all night!”
Bill went.
When he came back she said: “Put the ruddy light out.”
“I am!” Bill put the light out. “For God’s sake turn your bedside lamp on, I can’t see a thing,” he whinged.
“I can’t. The bulb’s gone. Someone was supposed to get some more bulbs at the Superette last week, and forgot—remember?”
“No.” Bill stumbled his way into bed in the dark.
“Ow!” cried Meg.
“Can’t see a thing!” he sniggered.
“You can cut that out, I’m too tired.” To prove it, she gave a cracking yawn.
Bill groaned. He lay on his back in the dark. “Well, are ya confused, or have ya worked it all out, Miss Marple?”
“Don’t call me that!” After a minute she admitted: “Well, no. Not really... I’m sure Adrian really is keen on Ginny.”
“This would explain why he danced the last waltz with old Mrs Potter. Deaf as a post an’ all as she is.”
Meg swallowed.
“Ginny didn’t seem too keen on Dickon, eh?” Bill admitted. “Poor old Acolyte.”
There was a short silence. Then Meg said dubiously: “Do you think Col Michaels really is keen on that nice Jenny Wiseman?”
“Nope. Getting it where ’e can.”
“Bill Coggins!” she gasped.
“You asked for me considered manly opinion, and that’s it.”
Meg gulped.
“Felicity Wiseman’s a nice woman.” he said thoughtfully.
“I never knew you knew her,” she said dazedly.
“Met her at the tennis club once or twice. On those occasions when I was forced to drag the twins along,” he pointed out. “Needs a bloke. Going to waste,” he added tersely.
Meg swallowed.
She was almost asleep when an awful thought hit her like a bolt from the blue. “Bill!” she gasped.
Bill had also been almost asleep. He leapt about ten feet. “What?”
“I forgot all about Roger’s elephant!” she gasped.
“Fuzzbo? Is that all?” Meg was about to reply, he could feel she was all tensed up, but he added mildly: “I corralled him. He’s in the back seat of the waggon.”
Meg relaxed. “Oh. Thanks, Bill,” she said meekly.
Bill lay awake grinning for at least two seconds after that.
Next chapter:
https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/10/widening-horizons.html
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