14
Shortly After The Morning After
“What in God’s name’s up?” demanded Phoebe on the Monday, handing Meg a cup of coffee. Real coffee, the senior staff were having their morning tea in Phoebe’s study.
“U-u-uh,” groaned Meg.
“Tied one on last night, did we?” said Phoebe nastily.
Ellen Chong sniggered. So did Yvonne Simpkins. Betty Purvis, who was new, looked uncertain.
“No,” groaned Meg. “Saturday.” They looked at her with clinical interest. Except Betty, who looked embarrassed and stared into the shrubbery instead. Meg sipped coffee. “I don’t know why I feel so foul today: I was really sparking yesterday, I felt marvellous. When we finally got home”—Ellen and Yvonne rolled their eyes at each other—“I rushed round like a whirlwind, cleaned the sitting-room, baked three quiches and four pizzas and froze them, and made a whole week’s lunches for Bill and Connie.”
“What about the boys? Or do you just let them starve?” asked Yvonne airily. Ellen giggled.
“Clot! Their term hasn’t started! They’re all at secondary school, now!” replied Meg crossly. “Ugh, I feel totally foul.”
Phoebe passed a plate of small sandwiches. Very nice ones: hard-boiled egg, chives and lettuce with kibbled wheat bread, made by the fair hand of Louise Churton herself. Betty took one and Yvonne and Ellen each took two, but Meg just winced and shut her eyes.
“It’s a well-known syndrome,” said Phoebe.
“What is?” replied Ellen blankly. “Secondary schools starting a week later?”
Yvonne sniggered.
“No!—Idiot.—No, the second-day-after-the-binge syndrome.”
“A woman of your experience would know,” recognized Yvonne.
Ellen giggled. Betty went very red.
“Yeah,” said Phoebe mildly.
There was a short pause. Ellen and Yvonne eyed the cake and wished that Louise would come back and report that Margie Lomas, Head of the Infant School, was found, or lost forever, or something, so as they could get to the cake. And get on with the Senior Staff Meeting, of course.
Phoebe’s Senior Staff were a select bunch. The heads of the Infant School and the Junior School, the two Senior Mistresses from the Senior School (Meg, representing the Humanities side, and Ellen, representing the Science side) plus for political reasons the joint schools’ Head of Physical Education (Betty—a politic appointment: young, keen, and just bright enough), plus Louise to take notes. Phoebe had had a lot of experience on committees and that was as large as her Senior Staff was going to get. She didn’t actually have an oblong table for them to sit at but that didn’t matter: where Phoebe sat was the head of the table.
“Well, go on,” she said now.
“Go on, what?” replied Meg faintly.
“Tell us about the binge. Where and at whose place was it and at what hour did you quote ‘finally’ unquote return from it? And why?”
Meg groaned faintly.
“Must have been at the Carrano mansion,” decided Yvonne with huge irony. “They’ll have been celebrating his knighthood!”
Meg took a gulp of coffee. “Yes, it was. So what?”
Yvonne was just about to swallow a mouthful of coffee. She choked instead.
Louise had just come in. “Why is the Head of our Junior School choking to death?”
“Just discovered that all those rumours she’s been maliciously spreading round the staff-room about Meg and Bill socializing with the Carranos are founded in fact,” replied Phoebe.
“Oh,” said Louise. She sat down. “I knew that,” she said. She poured herself a cup of coffee.
Meg sipped hers mournfully. “I admit I ate and drank a Helluva lot. But I felt fine after it. So why do I feel so rotten today?”
“Yesterday your system was still full of alcohol,” explained Phoebe kindly. “Not to mention protein, if the Carranos’ hospitality was up to standard.”
“Protein? Um—yes, I suppose there was a lot of... There was a pig,” she said faintly. She shut her eyes.
“A pig?” squeaked Ellen Chong.
“Yes, you know: oink, oink. Fat pinkish animal. Used a lot in Chinese cookery, they tell me,” explained Yvonne. Ellen spluttered over her second sandwich. Betty went very red.
“Barbecued. If that’s what you call it. It was a luau,” said Meg glumly.
“Ooh, a luau, how exciting!” squeaked Yvonne.
“Was the mansion be-decked with leis?” asked Ellen breathlessly. Yvonne sniggered.
“Did they have Hawaiian flambeaux everywhere?” asked Louise breathlessly. Ellen and Yvonne sniggered.
“Have we lost our Infant Mistress forever?” asked Phoebe breathlessly.
Jumping, Louise said: “Uh—no. She’s just coming.”
“Good. In that case, Meg, you’ve just got time to tell us exactly how Hawaiian it was, precisely what Polly Carrano wore, and exactly what there was to eat.”
Betty eyed her nervously but Phoebe’s large, handsome face was expressionless. She eyed her new colleagues nervously but saw they were all—apart from Meg, of course—grinning. She began to relax somewhat.
Groaning, Meg said: “Do I have to?”
“Yes!” they all said but Betty. But Betty smiled.
Groaning, Meg said: “A white thing. Trezz glam. Long. Slit to the thigh. Strapless. Um—pinkish flowers on it here and there. And behind the ear.”
“Hibiscuses?” asked Louise keenly.
“No. Those other ones. Tropical.”
“Orchids,” suggested Yvonne.
“No, those other ones.”
“Roses,” said Phoebe mildly.
“No! Tropical!”
Fortunately Ellen then said: “Ooh, I know: frangipani!”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“I didn’t know they came in pink,” said Yvonne.
“Well, you learn something new every day!” Phoebe informed her pleasedly. She poured herself another coffee. “Go on, Meg: the food.”
Meg groaned.
“Go on!” they all said, even Betty.
“Um—there was masses of it. It was catered. Um... Jake did the pig.” She gulped.
“With his own fair be-knighted hand?” asked Yvonne breathlessly.
“No, with a whacking great barbecue fork,” replied Meg sourly.
“You asked for that,” noted Ellen. “What else, Meg?”
“Uh...” Groggily Meg recalled the grilled pineapple and the green bananas. The rest wasn’t tropical. Well, she supposed the crayfish was, sort of. It had a cold curried sauce, if you called that tropical. And there was a cold fish thingy: maybe it was. And the fruit salad was sort of tropical, it had paw-paw and mango and, um, grapes and thingies.
“Thingies?” asked Yvonne keenly.
“Kiwifruit,” decided Ellen.
“No, those Chinese thingies.”
Everyone looked hopefully at Ellen Chong, but she just looked blank.
“Kiwifruit are Chinese: Chinese gooseberries,” pointed out Louise.
“No. Whitish,” said Meg faintly, feeling her temples gingerly.
“Palm nuts?” suggested Ellen, brightening.
Before the silence of incomprehension could become too deafening, Phoebe said quickly: “Lychees.”
“Yes, I think so,” Meg agreed.
“It doesn’t sound all that Hawaiian,” decided Louise. “What about the flambeaux and things? –Flaming torches, Meg,” she prompted.
“There weren’t any.”
“There must have been some!” cried Yvonne. “How could it be a luau without Hawaiian flambeaux?” Suddenly Betty giggled loudly.
Meg replied glumly: “Don’t ask me, I didn’t have a clue what a luau was, anyway. But there were leis. In the pool and that.”
“See!” cried Ellen.
“And lots of orchids,” admitted Meg reluctantly. “In pots. Only she often has those.”
“Of course,” agreed Yvonne. Ellen sniggered.
Phoebe ate a sandwich. “Coloured lights?”
Scowling, Meg admitted: “A few, yeah. Well, we couldn’t stumble round in the dark, could we?”
“I get it!” cried Yvonne. “It—was on—the pat-i-o!”
“Where else?” agreed Phoebe mildly.
When the senior staff had finished sniggering—apart from Meg, of course—Yvonne added: “The grog will have flowed like water.”
“Well, look at her,” agreed Ellen.
“Rum,” said Meg gloomily. “Bill got locked in the indoor swimming pool. With Tom and Roger and, um, a couple of other people. I don’t know why Tom went with them, I think it was a macho fit. Jemima was pretty pissed off, I think.”
Phoebe eyed her thoughtfully but said: “Well, just so long as a good time was had by all.”
Meg groaned.
At this point Margie Lomas, Head of the Infant School, came in and said: “Why is Meg making that noise?”
“Hungover,” said Yvonne with great satisfaction.
Margie sat down. “Again? –Two sugars, please, Phoebe, I’ve just sustained a phone call from Lady Cohen.”
“Go on, tell us the worst,” replied Phoebe, handing her a cup.
Margie stirred vigorously. She sipped. “Ooh! That’s better. Wanted to know every last blimmin’ detail of the Infant School curriculum.”
Wincing, Phoebe said faintly, “Dare one ask why?”
Margie took the last sandwich. “Uh evh—”
“Please!” cried Phoebe, shuddering and closing her eyes. “Betty’s new here, remember: let’s let her down lightly!”
Margie grinned through the sandwich at Betty.
“Let me guess!” said Louise brightly. “Pauline Weintraub’s offspring!”
“I think she’s got it,” murmured Phoebe.
Swallowing, Margie gasped: “Yes! How did you—”
“By George, she’s got it!” cried Phoebe.
Betty broke down and had a helpless sniggering fit.
“It was inevitable,” pointed out Louise smugly.
“You don’t mean Pauline Nilsson’s little Belinda, do you?” gasped Meg.
“Got it in one,” replied Phoebe.
“She’s only just weaned!” gasped Meg.
“Can it ever be too early to put a gel’s name down for Saint Ursula’s?” enquired Louise primly.
“Yes: before it’s born,” replied Margie. “Remember that female? –You’ll remember, Phoebe. I forget her name—I think her hubby’s some high-up medico. Put the brat’s name down three times. Well, three separate brats.”
The rest of the staff were eyeing her in fascination. They hadn’t been there as long as Margie, Phoebe and Louise.
“I remember!” cried Louise. “She never did have a girl, did she?”
“She was here herself—before my time,” added Louise hurriedly. “Very sporty type. Won all the cups going, or so she told us.”
“Yes. That’s why she wanted the girls to come here,” said Margie. She eyed the uncut cake.
“Overdale!” cried Louise.
Phoebe had just picked up the cake knife. She dropped it on the coffee table.
“Eh?” said Meg, goggling.
“Lady Overdale, one presumes,” said Phoebe in an odd voice.
“Oh!” said Meg. “Big-White-Bone-Cutter’s wife! She’s not too bad, actually: she was at the do on Saturday.”
“Oh,” said Phoebe. She began slicing the cake.
“He’s a prick, though,” said Meg.
“Mm,” said Phoebe, slicing cake.
Meg eyed it with loathing. “For God’s sake don’t let that cake get anywhere near me. Are we gonna have this staff meeting, or not? Because I could be home flat on my back with a wet cloth on my head.”
“Yes,” said Phoebe, handing cake to the others. “Have you got your agendas?”
They did. Betty because she was new and hadn’t dared not to bring it, and the others because they weren’t new and hadn’t dared not to bring them.
They got on with the meeting. Betty was very, very glad that she’d decided that Phoebe hadn’t been joking when she’d said that if Betty was serious about wanting to reintroduce individual cups as well as team cups for sports events, she’d better do some reading up and justify it—if she could. And no, she wouldn’t have to go into University or Training Coll. to find some references, they had ERIC here. On CD-ROM.
“Well, that’s that,” said Yvonne when Phoebe’s own much more thorough and better backed up research on the subject of achieving, incentives, etcetera, had thoroughly routed the unfortunate Betty—she’d learn, she’d learn—and the meeting was over at last.
“Yeah, now we prepare for the invasion,” agreed Meg, grimacing.
“Huh! You’re all right!” replied Yvonne bitterly. Her Juniors came back tomorrow (naturally a day later than the state schools), but the Senior School wouldn’t be back until next week.
“Mm... Do you think the government’s ever going to get this semester thing sorted out properly?” asked Meg thoughtfully.
“No,” said Yvonne definitely.
“They’ve abolished the Department,” pointed out Meg. “Well, practically.”
“That is a step in the right direction,” conceded Yvonne. “See ya,” she said, departing in the direction of the Junior School.
Meg walked very slowly in the broiling February sun down to the bottom of the drive. She had admitted it to no-one, but she had a date for afternoon tea, today. Not that she intended eating anything, but nevertheless. With Jemima and the aforesaid Pauline Weintraub Nilsson, mother of Baby Belinda. And Pauline’s mum. In Remmers. And what’s more she didn’t have to meet them for another hour and a half, yet, so she was going to go and do a wee bit of shopping. In Remmers, see!
Meg hopped on a bus and was borne away to the plutey Remuera shops. Quite a short trip. As she went she stared out of the window at the up-market front gardens and tried to tell herself she had imagined the oddness of Phoebe’s reaction to the mention of Audrey, Lady Overdale, wife of Big White Bone-Cutter. Only she was quite sure she hadn’t. Could she grill Tom? Um, not actually, no. Not about his own brother. Jemima? Meg’s bloodshot blue eye brightened. She could definitely grill Jemima!
Over the cakes and coffee in the plutey tea shoppe at Remmers Helen Weintraub expressed great interest in the fact that Meg taught at St Ursie’s, and on the strength of it told her a lot about her own Melanie, who’d attended school there (Meg did remember her: blonde, round-faced, cheerful, plumpish, and distinctly non-academic) and Melanie’s inglorious past year as the worst student the typing school had ever had. Bar None.
“Where is Melanie, Mum?” asked Pauline. “I thought she might come, too.”
Helen sighed. “She said if I insisted on dragging her here for afternoon tea she was going to wear her black workman’s boots and that frightful black leather jacket she got from that awful boy.”
“Oh,” said Pauline understandingly.
“In this weather?” said Jemima faintly.
“It’s a stage,” replied Helen gloomily. She speared a piece of cream-laden sponge with her cake fork. “I’ve sent her up to the Coast—to see that woman you told me about, Jemima, that’s starting the nanny school.”
“Mum! All the way on the bus in this heat?” cried Pauline.
Huffing and puffing a bit, and, though she didn’t look in the least like a crêpey old toad, suddenly revealing her genetic heritage from old Sir Jerry Cohen, Meg noticed with interest, the large, blonde Helen replied: “Melanie won’t notice the heat, Pauline, you know what kids of that age are like.”
“But it’s stifling,” said Pauline. “We could have taken her up when we go home.”
“Nonsense! She could hardly burst in on this Mrs Prior at teatime! –Besides, it wouldn’t have got her safely occupied and out of our hair for a whole afternoon!” She chuckled richly.
“If she’s driving you mad, Mum, why not let her go flatting?” said Pauline kindly.
Helen sighed. There was absolutely no point in saying to Pauline “What if it was your little Belinda?” She’d look at her as if she’d gone gaga.
“Our neighbours, Darryl and John, are looking for another boarder,” put in Meg.
Helen rubbished “that dreadful old house” soundly. Meg didn’t even try to point out that John Aitken was a responsible person. He was, in his way, only— Well, Helen would only have to meet him, of course...
Under the tactful Mrs Prior’s gentle influence and over a delicious and sustaining afternoon tea the blonde, harum-scarum Melanie, unaware she was being kindly manipulated for her own good, concurred eagerly in all of Mrs Prior’s plans for the nanny school, collaborated eagerly in the choice of a uniform, and accompanied her kind hostess eagerly to see, first the old Pohutukawa Bay hall where the nanny school would be, and then the new Pohutukawa Bay Community Centre, where Play Group was held.
There she was introduced to Mrs Wiseman, the manageress of the Centre, whose second daughter, Anne, after a year trying the Polytech nursing course, was also enrolled for Nanny School. Melanie ended up eagerly accepting an invitation to tea at the Wisemans’. The gentle Margaret Prior bade her farewell and retreated, reflecting with a wry little smile that at the same age she herself would have been terrified at being invited to dine at a strange lady’s house with the lady’s houseful of almost grown-up children. It was just as well, decided Margaret, that we weren’t all alike! And Melanie was quite obviously going to make a splendid nanny.
After tea, when Mum was driving Melanie home—strangely, Alec had volunteered to accompany them, he must be getting some hormones at last, decided his older sister meanly—Jenny Wiseman said cautiously to Anne: “She seems all right.”
Anne sniffed. After a moment she said sourly: “Dumb.”
“Dumb!” cried Jenny unwisely. “Who was it who couldn’t hack the stupid first-year nursing course?”
“I could so!” cried Anne furiously. “I passed, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, just,” returned Jenny in a nasty voice.
“You think you’re so smart, just because you’re going to feebleized university and doing a stupid B.Com.!” screamed Anne, bounding to her feet. “Well, you aren’t, see! And if you imagine that that stupid Col Michaels has fallen for you, you’re wrong, see! I reckon he’s fallen for Ginny Austin, so there!”
“He has not! You’re a mean, rotten liar, Anne Wiseman!” screamed Jenny, bounding to her feet.
“Am I just? Well, you ask Mrs Blake, see, she was at the tennis club and she said to me was he her BOYFRIEND, see?” bellowed Anne.
“That’s a rotten lie!” shouted Jenny. “And anyway, what would she know, she’s just a stupid old woman!”
“Yeah, and you’re a stupid young woman!” cried Anne. “I reckon he’s just using you to get at her!”
Failing to recognize this as the splendid piece of reasoning on her sibling’s part that it actually was, Jenny shrieked: “What about you? I bet no boy’s ever looked at you in your life—and if he did he’d probably go BLIND!” And rushed out of the room.
At this Kenny Wiseman, who was only fifteen but old enough to be thoroughly fed up with his sisters, emerged from his Walkman long enough to say witheringly to his second sister: “Carrots.”
Instead of retaliating in kind, Anne, whose hair was admittedly red, though more of an auburn shade than Jenny’s ginger, burst into tears and rushed out of the room.
Ignoring a feeling of unease, Kenny immediately got up and switched on the television. 21 Jump Street. A re-run. He wasn’t allowed to watch it, Mum said it was merry-something nonsense. Jenny had interpreted this kindly as “worthless garbage” but Kenny had ignored her, a man had some pride, after all. He settled down to watch it. But he didn’t remove his Walkman. He was quite capable of listening to it and following 21 Jump Street at the same time.
Jenny, of course, was so upset because she had a sneaking feeling Anne was right. It wasn’t that she was in love with Col Michaels or anything stupid like that. Anyway, she was older than him. But he’d arranged to play against Ginny and Dickon, and then after a bit they’d swapped partners—well, Dickon was hopeless and Ginny wasn’t much better, whereas Col was quite good, so that was fair... Anyway, old Mrs Blake was a stupid old hag, who cared what she thought? Anyway, she was wrong, so there! Jenny threw herself face down on her bed and cried.
“Um—how was the first day back at school?” asked Jemima shyly.
Bill just lay there on the sofa with his feet up and his eyes shut and groaned.
“Oh,” said Jemima uncertainly. “Um—Tom sent me over to borrow your big wrench, if you’re not using it.”
Bill flapped a limp hand and sighed with his eyes shut: “Take it. Take anything. Take everything.”
At this Roger ceased to “bonk” in the best armchair and got up. “I know where it is. I’ll get it. What’s he want it for?”
Jemima cast a doubtful glance at Bill and said, as she followed Roger down the passage: “Um—he’s doing something to the tub in the laundry. He’s awfully cross with it.”
“Is it leaking?”
“I don’t know.”
They went into the kitchen.
“Hi, Meg,” said Jemima.
“Tom wants Dad’s big wrench, he’s fixing their tub,” explained Roger. “It is on the back porch, isn’t it?”
“Hollow laugh,” replied Meg.
Immediately recognizing this for agreement, Roger said cheerfully to Jemima: “I’ll find it! Hang on!” He went out the back door.
“Sit down,” said Meg, casually closing it after him, regardless of the fact that the ruddy humidity seemed to have increased since sunset, and that the temperature was remaining steady around twenty-six. “This could take all night.”
Jemima sat down but said nervously: “Maybe I’d better ring Tom, then. He’s in an awfully bad mood.”
“Unassociated with luaus and orthopaedic surgeons, of course,” said Meg airily.
Jemima went very red and didn’t reply.
Meg hadn’t really meant to say that, it had sort of slipped out. “You did agree to live with the poor sap,” she said after a few moments’ frantic wondering what the Hell to say.
“That makes him my keeper, I suppose!” retorted Jemima angrily.
“It probably does, in his simple male mind,” said Meg thoughtfully.
“Then he can unsimplify it!” retorted Jemima crossly, pouting.
“I don’t think he can. I mean, men are like that. Don’t ask me whether it’s their flaming hormones or their conditioning,” she said hurriedly as Jemima opened her mouth, “but I’ve thought about it a lot, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s inescapable. They get you into their caves, and as far as they’re concerned that’s It. You’re a chattel. No will of your own. No rights.”
Jemima glared. “While they’re free to play the field, of course!”
“Yes. Well, that probably is conditioning,” said Meg fairly. “But you can’t say he’s been doing that this past year, I’ve never seen a bloke so besotted.”
Jemima looked sulky.
“Not that it can do him any harm to see that other men fancy you. Or that you’re still capable of being attracted to other men. Might stop him from hiving off with a bunch of stupid macho males at the next wing-ding you’re invited to.”
“He did that because—” Jemima stopped.
“The call of the male peer-group was too strong?” said Meg acidly.
Jemima was about to make a nasty reply—well, nasty for Jemima—but Meg added bitterly: “Allee same like W. Coggins, Esq.!”
“Um—yes. It was pretty silly... Um, no, I don’t think it was that entirely, in Tom’s case,” admitted Jemima.
Meg hadn’t really thought so. “No,” she murmured.
Going very red, Jemima explained: “It was the first time we’d both been to Polly and Jake’s since—well, you know...”
“He didn’t have to get mixed up with Polly in the first place,” Meg pointed out in a hard voice.
There was a short silence in Meg’s humid kitchen. A mosquito winged in through one of the open windows. Meg swiped at it viciously.
“I think he did,” said Jemima in a low voice. “I don’t think people can really help that sort of thing.”
“Huh!”
“It’s a bit like me and Hugh on Saturday,” admitted Jemima in a low, trembling voice.
Meg’s eyes stood out on stalks. “How far did it go?”
Jemima gulped. “He just— I mean, we just...” She burst into tears.
Meg jumped up and came to put her arm round her shoulders. Her eyes were still on stalks, though.
“What did you do?” she asked cautiously as the sobs died away.
Jemima fumbled for a hanky. She blew her nose loudly. “We didn’t really do it. Not really. Well, you know.”
“I don’t think I do,” said Meg limply, collapsing onto her hard wooden chair again and goggling at her.
Very red, Jemima said: “He just—you know. With his finger. And—and I rubbed him a bit.”
Meg gulped. “Crikey.”
“There was nothing in it, really. We didn’t—you know.”
“Oh! Have a come? I suppose that’s something… But heck, he is practically a stranger, Jemima!” She laughed awkwardly.
“No, he isn’t, really. He’s told me a lot about himself, these past few months. I do like him. And he is awfully attractive, I’ve always felt that. Only I don’t love him, I love Tom!” declared Jemima, bursting into tears again.
“Yes,” said Meg feebly. This time she just sat there weakly while Jemima cried into the damp hanky.
Finally Jemima sniffed, and put the hanky away. “I won’t tell Tom,” she said definitely.
“I wouldn’t,” agreed Meg faintly. “Not if you want to see your next birthday, or even tomorrow.”
“Mm. He is awfully jealous... Only I just wish he wouldn’t get so cross, with it.”
“Mm... Passionately devoted jealousy’d be all right,” decided Meg judiciously.
Jemima bit her lip. “Yes.”
Their eyes met. They giggled guiltily.
Meg got up. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Ugh, no, thanks. Not in this humidity,” said Jemima, shuddering.
“That place in Remmers must’ve been air-conditioned,” decided Meg, looking in the fridge. “Um—there’s some of that foul home-brew muck Bill got off old Alec.”
“Ugh.”
“And some Raro. –No, there isn’t, the kids must have drunk it. I’ve given up wondering why the Hell they always put the empty jug back in the fridge. They all do it: Margie at school was saying her kids used to, too, when they still lived at home. I’ll make some more.”
Meg began to mix Raro, unaware that Jemima hated packet drinks but was too polite to say so.
“Yes, I think that café was air-conditioned,” decided Jemima. “It was nice and cool. –Helen’s nice, isn’t she? You think she’s going to be just—well, you know. A type, I suppose. But she isn’t.”
“No. She was funny about sending Melanie off for the day, wasn’t she?”
“Mm!” Jemima nodded pleasedly.
Meg looked at her Raro in a considering way. “Shall we have some passionfruit and orange in this? This one’s tangerine, it’s a bit weak.”
“All right,” agreed Jemima meekly.
Meg added more orange powder to the pale orange fluid in the big plastic jug. “That reminds me: when Helen was going on about Phoebe never being married and so on.”
“Mm?”
“Well, wasn’t she having a thing with that American? Susan’s uncle, or something?”
“Sol Winkelmann. He’s awfully nice. Yes, she was. Ralph said she met him down at Ruapehu.”
“Mm.” Meg stirred Raro briskly. “Has Tom said anything to you about Ralph and her?”
Jemima went very red. Meg looked at her with interest.
“Um—yes. Well, it was only... They got a bit silly on New Year’s Eve!” she gasped.
“Ah, hah.”
“Don’t tell anyone I told you!” gasped Jemima.
“Oh, I’m likely to, aren’t I?” replied Meg with heavy sarcasm. “First I’ll tell it in deepest confidence to ruddy Yvonne Simpkins and it’ll be all over the Junior School before the cat can lick its ear. Then I won’t even have to tell anyone in the Senior School, because what Yvonne knows today Ellen Chong hears about yesterday.”
“Yes. I’m sorry,” murmured Jemima.
Meg poured Raro into glasses and added ice blocks. “What about Hugh and Michaela?”
Jemima turned puce. “I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about her.”
“Well, he wouldn’t,” allowed Meg.
Hugh hadn’t worked up the courage to go back to Michaela’s on the Saturday evening. Besides, he wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to. Besides again, what if she wanted to and he couldn’t, after all that grog? He’d driven home very slowly, let himself in apparently unobserved of anyone, fallen into bed still unobserved, and slept like a log. When he woke up, which wasn’t nearly noon, Mitsy reported indifferently that Mummy was playing tennis, if he was interested. And, remarking that he looked awful and she supposed he was hungover, walked out.
Hugh debated ringing Michaela’s elderly neighbour, but... Finally, after a shower, two cups of black coffee, a shave, and another cup of black coffee, he got out the four-wheel-drive and headed for the Hibiscus Coast.
The sun shone, no doubt the birds twittered but Hugh couldn’t hear them over the noise of his trendy vehicle, no doubt the cicadas chirped but Hugh couldn’t hear them either, the humidity was down like a stifling damp blanket, though the open windows helped a bit, and everybody else in the entire city who possessed a wheeled vehicle was apparently heading for the Hibiscus Coast. God!
“Who the Hell are you?” he said to the tall, bronzed young man who opened Michaela’s front door. He could see he was bronzed, he was wearing a pair of swimming trunks.
“Bryn,” said the young man mildly. “You’re Hugh, eh?”
“Oh—Bryn,” replied Hugh, very feebly. They had met. “You’ve shaved off your moustache.”
“Yeah.” Bryn fingered his upper lip. “Whaddaya reckon?”
“Doesn’t match your chest any more,” replied Hugh, very drily.
Bryn looked down at himself in a startled way. “Uh—no.” He grinned sheepishly.
“Has term started, then?” asked Hugh without interest.
“No, it’s Enrolment next week.” Bryn had a large piece of bread in his hand. He recommenced gnawing it.
“Is Michaela in?”
“No,” said Bryn through the bread. He swallowed with evident difficulty. “Up the kiln.”
“Thanks.” Hugh departed.
Behind him Bryn said without emotion: “See ya.” And shut the front door.
… “There you are,” Hugh discovered weakly, having fought his way up the slope of bush at the rear of the kiln for what felt like hours.
Michaela straightened. “Yeah. Grab this.”
He grabbed the other end of a huge piece of lumber which she was apparently hauling out of the bush. “What’s it—for?” he panted.
“Fuel.”
“It’s a bit—big, isn’t it?” he panted.
“Yeah.” Michaela set her end down.
Panting, sweat pouring from every pore, Hugh dropped his. “Why choose a day like this to do this?” he gasped.
“What’s wrong with it?”
Hugh stood there dripping in his new pale grey cotton shorts, his brand-new pale grey sneakers that now had a horrible grassy smear on them, his brand-new dark red and dark green short-sleeved silk shirt that now had a huge and horrible smudge on it off the lumber and gasped: “It’s the most humid day we’ve had this summer, not to say in the last fucking five hundred years, and you stand there and ask me what’s wrong with it!”
“I suppose it is a bit humid. You don’t have to help. Anyway, I don’t think you should: what about your hands?”
“Oh, thanks for noticing!” he snapped. He was about to suck the one that was bleeding when Michaela cried: “Don’t!”
“Eh?” he said, staggering on the slope.
“You’ll poison yourself. This old log had toadstools and stuff growing round it, before.
“Then suppose we go back to the shed and you anoint me with iodine or mercurochrome or something before I get blood poisoning!” said Hugh very loudly.
“I’ve only got Dettol. Will that do?”
“YES!” he bellowed. “And before you say another word, when did you last have a tetanus booster?”
“What?”
“You can come into my flaming surgery tomorrow—no, Goddammit, you can come back this evening with me, and I’ll bloody give you one myself!” he shouted.
“Have you got drugs and that? I thought you were only a surgeon.”
“I have got a basic first-aid kit,” said Hugh through his teeth. “And it isn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that Miss Quimby could injure herself repotting a bloody cactus for her bloody desk!”
After a moment Michaela said: “Are you cross because I went home early last night?”
“YES!” shouted Hugh.
“I’m sorry. I did look for you but I couldn’t see you. And I don’t like those sort of does, I only went for the food.”
“I’m aware of that,” replied Hugh, lips thinning. “And for Christ’s sake don’t say ‘those sort’.”
“What?”
“Those sorts!” shouted Hugh. “Not ‘those sort’! ‘Those’ is plural, Goddammit!”
Michaela stared at him. “I’m not much good at grammar.”
“Evidently.” He began to march down towards the shed. After a few moments of tramping and heavy breathing he became aware that she was accompanying him.
“Aren’t you dying of heat-stroke in those heavy jeans?” he said abruptly.
“Um—no. Not really. I suppose I am hot. I hadn’t thought about it,” she replied vaguely.
“God Almighty! Are you utterly helpless?” shouted Hugh, standing stock-still.
Michaela went very red. “Why did you come, if I’m utterly helpless and don’t know about grammar and everything?”
“Don’t ask me,” he said, suddenly feeling immensely tired. He passed a hand over his hair. “Possibly to apologize for last night.”
There was a puzzled pause. “You didn’t do anything.”
He looked sour. “I accompanied a lady to the party, stuck my nose into something that was none of my business, got into a huff when told off by a lady artist, and promptly deserted the lady I’d accompanied. I’m sorry, Michaela.”
There was a long silence. Finally Michaela said hoarsely: “I’ve tried doing things the way other people want me to, and it doesn’t work.”
“No. I’m sorry. Take your clothes off for the entire New Zealand artistic community if you feel you must; I’ve got no right to say anything,” said Hugh dully.
“I don’t think the entire artistic community would be interested: lots of them are gay.”
Choking, Hugh conceded this. “You made a joke, Pink Pearl!” he congratulated her.
Michaela went very red. “Yes,” she said gruffly. “Come on, we’d better fix that hand.”
“Eh? Oh, Lord, yes!”
In the shed she bathed and anointed the hand carefully. “It isn’t too bad.”
“No.” He let her stick a piece of Elastoplast on it. “Where are the Butlers today?”
“They went to Ida’s. They often do on Sunday afternoon.”
“Mm.” Hugh stood very close to her. Michaela looked at him uncertainly. “Let’s do it, Pink Pearl,” he said huskily.
“Here?”
“As ever was. On that saggy old couch.” He nodded at it.
“Its springs are wonky.”
“Shall I be a gentleman and go underneath, then?” said Hugh, grinning.
“Um—if you like.”
“Come here,” he replied, pulling her gently against him. “Ooh... That’s better.” He kissed her softly. “Nice.”
“Yes... I thought you were really angry. I thought you wouldn’t want to do it any more.”
Hugh swallowed. “I want like Hell to do it. Kiss me, for God’s sake.”
Michaela kissed him strongly. Panting a little, he began to wrench at her clothes.
“Don’t bust the zip,’’ she said anxiously. “I’ve only got two pairs of jeans.”
Hugh stopped. “Look, let me buy you some clothes, for Pete’s sake!” he said loudly.
“No.”
“For God’s sake, Michaela, I’ve got pots of money sitting there in the ruddy bank: what good do you imagine it’ll do me if I drop dead tomorrow and the bloody kids and Caroline get down on it?” he shouted.
“It’s your money, it isn’t anything to do with me. And I don’t need any clothes.”
“You manifestly need clothes!” he retorted angrily.
There was a short silence. “If you only want to fight, I’d rather go and get that log. If I can dry it out this summer, it’ll—”
“NO!” he shouted. “Christ, do you have to be so bloody matter-of-fact all the time?”
“I’m sorry,” said Michaela dully.
“No.” Hugh swallowed. He rubbed a hand distractedly across his face. “It’s me—don’t apologize.”
There was a long pause. Then Michaela said: “You really only like ordinary ladies. I’m no good at all those things.”
“No, I— Please!” he said miserably. “I’ll try not to—to force you into moulds that don’t fit you. –That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I think so. I’ll try not to get angry with you.”
After a shaken moment Hugh said: “You get angry with me?”
“Mm.”
“I’ve never noticed... You mean, when you go very quiet? You’re angry then?”
“Mm. I do that, I don’t know why.”
He sagged limply. “God; I thought—I thought you were switching off, or— Jesus, it freezes me to death when you do that! I thought you were displaying total indifference, or— Christ!”
“No,” she replied simply.
Swallowing, he said: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it, frankly. I’m sorry I ever complicated your life, Pink Pearl. You were getting along okay without me, weren’t you?” He touched her face gently.
“Yes. I did try to explain, Hugh.”
Hugh felt very sick. “Yes. Would you—would you rather break it off, then?”
“No. I thought I said. I get used to people.”
Hugh held her very tight, grimacing over her shoulder. After a long time he said: “I wish to God I’d met you when I was twenty years younger.”
“You had all those ambitions,” replied Michaela seriously.
Sighing, he said: “Yes. I was a right young prick in those days. You’re right, of course: I’d never have glanced twice at a highly talented lady potter. Not unless her dad was something frightfully high-up in medical circles, looking for a partner.”
“Mm. I still can’t understand how you could do it.”
“Right young pricks find those sorts of things very easy to do. It never dawns on their limited minds that the rest of their ruddy lives may be involved.”
“Yes. ...You do say ‘those sorts’, don’t you? Everybody else says ‘those sort’. I don’t think it’s just me. I will try not to say it, Hugh.”
“Don’t,” he said hoarsely, his eyes filling with tears. “Don’t change anything about yourself to suit me, I’m a snob and a selfish bastard. If I had the guts of a louse I’d cut loose from bloody Caroline on the spot and—and come and make pots with you for the rest of me natural!” He gave a mad laugh. At the same time he was aware that he didn’t have a clue whether he meant a word of what he was saying. Nevertheless he had no real impulse to unsay it.
There was one of those pauses that she was so good at. Then she said: “You might get bored. I think orthopaedic surgery’s a lot more intellectual. With pots a lot of it’s... I think you’d say ‘feelings’, in English.”
“What would you say not in English?” he said weakly.
Michaela said something incredibly foreign.
“One of Toshiro’s?”
“No; Ito’s. He used to talk to me a lot more than Toshiro.”
“But you enjoyed being with Toshiro far, far more.”
“Yes,” she replied simply.
Hugh sighed into her neck. “Yeah.”
Michaela hugged him, not saying anything. When he eventually kissed her ear she said: “Haven’t you gone off?”
“Yes, but I could come back. Especially if you gave me a hunk of bread or something, I haven’t had anything to eat today,” he remembered.
“Oh. Um... I think there’s a bit of cheese, somewhere. And there was a big piece of cake, Bryn’s mother made it. Only I think Starsky and Ivan might have eaten it all.”
“Have a look,” said Hugh feebly.
Michaela had a look. There was a bit of cheese, and a very spotty banana, and a small portion of cake. Hugh didn’t remark on the fact that the cake looked as it someone had nibbled at it. He figured that the germs couldn’t kill him. And that if they did it wouldn’t be an entirely bad thing. Michaela kindly added a mug of water to these provisions. Hugh ate and drank in silence.
“Do you feel better?”
“Yeah.” He grinned at her. “I’d feel even betterer if you’d take all your clothes off.”
“All right.” Michaela took her clothes off. Hugh had to wince: although she wasn’t wearing anything underneath the cotton-knit black tee shirt (which was good), under the heavy jeans she had a pair of heavy washed-out navy bloomers.
“Did you get those at a second-hand shop?” he said feebly.
“Yes.”
“As a great favour, could I possibly buy you a few pairs of decent pants, at least?”
“All right. Thanks.”
“What size are you?”
“I don’t know.”
Hugh laughed weakly. “I’ll estimate it, then. Hop up on the couch.”
Michaela sat on the couch. The sun was now coming through the window above the couch, which proved it was... Well, afternoon, anyway. Hugh undressed slowly, smiling at her.
“Come on, encourage me,” he said, going over to the couch.
Michaela took him in her hand. “Like this?”
“Mm... No: suck it!” he said urgently.
Michaela did. Hugh got very encouraged indeed. “Shove over,” he said hoarsely. He squashed against her on the couch. “This is heaven!” he said with a laugh into her neck.”
“Yes. Your body always feels good,” she replied seriously, hugging him to her.
“Yours always feels indescribably wonderful!” returned Hugh with a laugh in his voice. He nibbled her neck a bit, and kissed her a bit. Then—since it was really so nice on the couch, with the sun streaming in—he decided to kiss her all over. First her front, then her back. Then he got really inspired.
“Michaela?”
“What?” said Michaela hoarsely, lying on her front.
“Let’s do it dog-fashion,” he said, trying to not to laugh.
Sure enough, she said blankly: “What?”
Hugh lay on top of her—which was very nice—different, really—and said in her ear: “Instead of you lying on your back with me squashing you, I kind of squash you from behind—see?”
“I’ve never done it that way round.”
“Ya don’t say!” he choked.
“You’re making me realize how awfully boring he was,” admitted Michaela with a smile in her voice.
“Good,” said Hugh into her neck. “Good, good, good. Well, if I give you a few instructions, do you think we could manage it?”
“Ye-es... Won’t my bottom get in the way?”
It was a sizeable bottom. Hugh knelt up and bit it gently on the strength of it. “If I find it prevents the insertion of the last glorious half-inch or so, I’ll turn you over immediately,” he promised.
“Okay.”
They tried it that way round. Michaela was astounded to find that, once she was kneeling up a bit, he could do it. Also he could get his finger round the front, which was—
“I’ll come if you do that!” she gasped.
“Ye-es…” groaned Hugh. “Damn, your bottom is in the way. No, don’t turn round, come like this!” He tickled her strongly on the strength of it and she yelled and pulsed all round him.
Hugh quite lost sight of the fact that he’d intended to be entirely in charge of this entire operation—the intention having something to do with the feeling he’d made an abject tit of himself, earlier—and turned her over and just fell on her, shoving it up there to the last glorious half-inch, yelling “GOD! YES!”
Hours and hours and hours later he stirred on the sagging old couch and said groggily: “That was glorious.”
“Mm,” said Michaela groggily.
After quite some time he managed to add: “I hope to God I wasn’t too rough—I got quite carried away, there!” He gave a nervous laugh.
“No. I liked it.”
“Thirsty?” he asked, smirking.
“Mm, I am a bit.”
“What would you like?” he said automatically.
“There’s only water,” replied Michaela in surprize.
Of course, of course. Grinning, Hugh hauled himself off the couch. He fetched them both drinks of water. In Toshiro’s superb mugs.
“Adam’s ale,” he noted, hefting his mug in a silent toast.
“What?”
Grinning, Hugh explained at length what Adam’s ale was. Then he cuddled up to her on the couch in the sun and told her a long and very boring story about when he’d been a young man and had gone on a camping trip...
Much later, he insisted on driving her into town to the surgery and giving her a tetanus shot. She wouldn’t have it in the arm, because she’d once had a bad reaction to an injection and her arm had swollen up and been very painful and prevented her working for nearly a week. After the shot Hugh was overtaken by a sort of all-overish feeling and knelt and parted her thighs gently and— Ooh! Mm-mm. In the surgery, how naughty! How delicious! When Michaela got very generous after that he lay down flat on the rug and let her do whatever she felt like to him. Even more delicious.
After that he drove her back to the Coast. On arriving at the flat they discovered that Bryn hadn’t yet eaten, either. So Hugh weakly gave him the keys to the four-wheel-drive and twenty dollars. Bryn fetched a huge quantity of fish and chips from the good fish and chips shop, the one up Sir John Marshall Av’, plus two enormous plastic containers of Coke, and still had a fistful of change to hand proudly to Hugh. They got through all the fish and chips, though Hugh had to admit that Michaela and Bryn managed more than he did. After that Bryn got his Scrabble set out and he and Hugh had a game, sitting on the saggy divan. Michaela just sat in the one saggy armchair, looking dreamily into space. Not reading, not knitting, not dozing. And certainly not watching television, since they didn’t have one. Hugh had never seen anyone spend an evening like that—every so often he had to look up and make sure she was still doing it. He lost heavily in the Scrabble game.
Then, as it was pretty late, he thought he’d better push off. Bryn showed no signs of politely absenting himself in order to let them have a fond farewell. But then Hugh on the whole hadn’t expected him to.
“Come out to the gate, Michaela,” he said with a laugh in his voice. Michaela accompanied him obediently.
At the gate Hugh kissed her tenderly. “This has been tone of the nicest days of my entire life!” he said, not altogether joking.
“Yes, it was good. The fish and chips were good, too.”
“Mm. Listen: could I provide dinner, this Tuesday?”
“Yes, if you like. –Bryn’ll be here.”
“Oh, yes. Of course he will. Well, I’ll feed him too, that’s no problem. Does he eat steak?”
“I think so. He eats meat,” she replied cautiously.
“Good.” He hugged her strongly. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“So will I,” she replied.
Hugh found he didn’t have the guts to say “Will you really?” Or even to think about if she really would. He just kissed her and drove away, humming.
Fortunately Roger had volunteered to accompany Jemima home with the big wrench and “help” Tom, so Meg didn’t have to think up an excuse for banishing him from the sitting-room.
“Um—Phoebe was awfully odd today...”
Bill put a cushion over his face.
Meg wrenched it off. “Just listen!” She took a deep breath. “Somebody mentioned Lady Overdale and she dropped the cake knife!”
Bill had a coughing fit.
“STOP THAT!” she shouted.
“Ask old Tom about filthy Remmers New Year’s Eve wing-dings in patio pools if ya want the real gen,” he said. “Gimme that!”
Meg held the cushion out of his reach. “No. Tell me.”
Sighing deeply. Bill gave her a very, very brief report.
“Oh. Um—well, I suppose...”
Bill elaborated in a bored voice: “Audrey was passed out. Snoring like a camel, I think was the phrase.”
“They were obviously all drunk... I think there must be more to it than that.”
Bill sighed heavily.
Meg threw the cushion at him and stomped back to the kitchen. There must be more to it! Well, would that sort of stupid thing in a patio pool—here Meg, all alone in her scruffy kitchen at Number 9 Blossom Avenue, blushed richly—would that be enough to make a person like Phoebe drop a cake knife...?
Meg’s suspicions weren’t far wrong. In fact they weren’t wrong at all. In fact they could have gone even further than they did and still not have been wrong. Whether the Austin twins had acted as some sort of catalyst or not in his case Ralph probably couldn’t have said. A vague glimmering of some such notion did just cross his mind as he prowled discontentedly round his own house on the Sunday afternoon, wilfully forgetting Audrey’s pointed suggestion that mowing the lawns would do his waistline a lot more good than splashing round in the swimming-pool like a drowning whale.
Audrey hadn’t come home with him this morning: she’d stayed on at the Carranos’ in order to spend the afternoon riding with Polly. This was not, however, a crucial factor in Ralph’s decision to ring Phoebe that afternoon. Possibly the generally unsatisfied feeling he’d been left with in the wake of the luau was, however. Not to say the general ambiance of lust and swimming-pools, which had brought back most forcibly the encounter with Phoebe at his New Year’s Eve party. Not to say the cold realization that Jemima was definitely not for him, that the twin with the tits was definitely not for him, and that if he wanted anything to be for him he’d better bloody well get on and do something about it. Before it was too late.
“Hullo, Phoebe, it’s Ralph,” he said. “I’ve had second thoughts about my second thoughts.”
Since it was now just over a month since New Year’s Eve, Phoebe was only able to reply: “Oh.”
“Was that an ‘Oh, how boring’ oh, an ‘Oh, I’ll have to think about this’ oh, or a ‘What is the fellow talking about’ oh?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. –That was an ‘Oh, I am disappointed’ oh.”
“I see,” said Phoebe, varying the theme slightly.
There was a short silence.
“Are you thinking about it?” he asked.
“Mm. What I’m mostly thinking is it’d be bloody silly, especially if you’re still driving that dratted BMW of yours.”
“Surely more than one BMW may sometimes be espied in the chastely tasteful environs of your delightful suburb?”
“Yes. Most of ’em don’t yell ‘RALPH 1’ from both ends, though.”
“I wanted ‘RALPH 69’, only they wouldn’t let me,” he said sadly.
Phoebe choked.
“Would you let me?” he asked wistfully.
“If I was letting you do anything at all, yes.”
“She’s so direct,” he sighed.
“I’ve never been able to see much point in not being, in such circumstances.”
“Oh, quite.”
“Though I have had complaints in the past.”
“The recent past?” he asked hopefully.
“No.”
“Bother.”
Phoebe smiled. “What did you have in mind, Ralph?”
“Ooh, do they let you say that sort of thing on the telephone?” he asked eagerly.
“Besides wasting my time with witty persiflage, that is,” added Phoebe drily.
“Were you busy?” asked Ralph sadly.
“Oh, no! I’ve only got five prospective parents with late applications to interview first thing tomorrow, followed by a Senior Staff Meeting at which I have to introduce our new Phys. Ed. mistress gently to the idea that the be-all and end-all of St Ursie’s is not actually to turn out muscular moustachioed lady wrestlers that’ll Take It Out For New Zillund in the next Olympics, followed in the afternoon by a very, very, very boring meeting of the Board of Governors at which I have to point out to John Westby yet again that if one has X number of dollars to spend one cannot spend X times 2 and remain in the black!”
“What exciting lives they lead,” he sighed. “Are you preparing for these thrilling events at this precise moment, may one ask?”
“I’m just printing out my spreadsheet now,” said Phoebe with a laugh in her voice.
“Urr, she can talk furrin!” noted Ralph in his best Zummerset.
“I think they probably called them balance sheets when you did bookkeeping in the Fourth Form, Ralph,” said Phoebe kindly. “Only when the computer does them they look pretty.”
“Westby’ll love that,” he discerned.
“Absolutely!”
“Well, since the computer’s done all this work for you, you’ll be free, won’t you?”
“As soon as I’ve checked the figures.”
“That would take about the time it’ll take me to get a taxi over there.”
“Yes; or half the time it’d take you to walk, mm.”
Ralph groaned. “It’s a very humid afternoon: what if I arrive at your flat in an exhausted condition?”
“Then we won’t have a very exciting time, will we? Never mind, I’ll be able to explain the spreadsheet to you—in fact, if you like,” said Phoebe, sounding all eager: “I’ll explain how to use the program! Then you’ll be able to do your own spreadsheets!”
“Coloured ones?”
“No—you’ll have to bring your own crayons if you want coloured ones.”
“I’ve got a much better idea.” He stopped.
“What?” said Phoebe weakly.
“I’ll drive over in the station-waggon.”
“Do that,” said Phoebe weakly.
“About twenty minutes—okay?”
“Can I bear the suspense?” replied Phoebe weakly.
Sniggering, Ralph hung up.
… “Very fetching,” he said weakly about half an hour later.
“What did you expect: a black lacy negligée?”
“Yes. With lashings of Why. Or possibly Arpay-eedge. All my mistresses greet me in black lacy negligées and French scent with their hair down,” said Ralph, pouting.
Casting a nervous glance up and down the steps at the side of her block, Phoebe replied: “For God’s sake come inside, you clot!”
She stood back—faded orangish tee-shirt, faded baggy blue shorts, untidily pinned-up hair and all—and Ralph came in.
“And to think I could have stayed up at the Carranos’ and watched Aud falling off Polly’s horses all afternoon!” he said, pouting dreadfully.
“Stop trying to impress me with your connections and come into the sitting-room: I’ve just about finished.”
Ralph came into the sitting-room. “Oh, God,” he said faintly.
The sitting-room floor was covered with papers. Quite neatly covered, they were all in tidy piles. But nevertheless covered with papers.
“Don’t move!” screamed Phoebe.
“Thanks, I’d love to sit down, but don’t bother about the drink just yet.”
“The wind’s getting up. Still bloody humid, though,” noted Phoebe, retrieving a few scattered pages with a grunt and putting them back on the correct piles. “There!”
“What’s the next move? Paperweights? Or is it a new game? How many adult bodies can squeeze onto one small sheet of paper before the music stops?”
“I’ve been sorting stuff out. There’s five years’ budget projections over there, five years’ accounts there, our investment analyst’s investment projections for the next five years here, Westby’s pet accountant’s counter-projections here, Belinda Cohen’s pet accountant’s counter-counter projections here—”
“Don’t go on, that’s quite boring enough.”
“Yes; and what’s more, none of it’s going to persuade Westby that we can’t simultaneously build a new gymnasium, mend the roof of the Old Block, and reap umpteen thousands a year in dividends.”
“Do I produce my cheque book now?”
“I’m not stopping you.”
“You’d accept it, too, wouldn’t you?” he said faintly.
“Certainly. St Ursula’s Roof Fund would be everlastingly grateful. You’d get an official letter of thanks. On Board of Governors’ notepaper.”
Ralph’s eyes went round and awestruck. “Signed by—?”
“Of course. He signs all their official communications.”
“Quick, quick!” he screeched, getting out his cheque book with a trembling hand.
Phoebe watched drily as he then proceeded to write a cheque.
“Take it. In celebration of the fact that Audrey never produced a girl,” he sighed.
She gulped.
“Imagine,” he sighed: “at this very moment they could both be falling off Polly Carrano’s horses. Onto their identical flat, broad bums.”
Phoebe felt her bum in fright.
“Not flat,” murmured Ralph.
“Must be because I’ve never fallen off a horse.”
“Mm. What further tortures does one have to endure round here before refreshment is offered?”
“Eh? What do you want?” said Phoebe vaguely, putting the cheque carefully on the mantelpiece and weighting it down with a small brass Buddha.
“A—drink,” he said very loudly and clearly. “As you have so justly remarked, the humidity has not abated.”
“You actually walked?”
“No; but I did forget the station-waggon isn’t air-conditioned.”
“Got windows, hasn’t it?” she said nastily. “Whatcha want air conditioning for? It’ll only turn ya soft!”
“Look, drop the Good Keen Girl bit, I get enough of that at home,” he sighed. “I require a large, cold beer. Now. Immediately. If not ten minutes ago.”
“The fridge is thataway,” replied Phoebe, flapping a hand at the door and squatting over a pile of papers.
Ralph went out in quest of the fridge. It was obviously the only way he was going to get a drink in that flat.
It was not, he decided some twenty minutes later, that the game of trying to see up Phoebe’s baggy shorts as she sat cross-legged on the floor had palled, exactly. Not to say palled. More sort of suggested other and better games that could also be played. As it were.
“Aren’t we ever gonna have sex?” he whinged.
“Eh? Sex? Who mentioned sex?” said Phoebe, grinning, but not looking up. “Work before sex. Sensible people make that a rule.”
“But I wanna go to be-yed,” he whinged.
“Well, you can: the bed’s through there. In the bedroom.”
“Ooh, can I really?” he squeaked.
Phoebe gave him an odd look. “It’s not that hard: walk into bedroom, peel back coverlet, insert manly form under—”
“Yes, but some ladies don’t let you!”
“Eh?”
“No, really,” he said, grinning. “Some sort of weird middle-class taboo, it must be: like not letting you look inside their handbags.”
“This is some very kinky sophisticated joke that a mere spinster schoolmarm couldn’t possibly hope to get,” decided Phoebe.
“No—honest! Getting into their bed without them’s a no-no. Don’t ask me why.”
Phoebe’s eyes narrowed. “Would these be the self-same ladies that wear black lace negligées and French scent and demand a towel under their bums in case you sully their peach satin sheets?”
“With my male exudations: oh, quite. Got it in one. Well done, that spinster schoolmarm.”
“I’ve heard about them,” she said, nodding sagely.
“Keep it that way,” he advised, strolling off to the bedroom.
Phoebe didn’t know quite what she’d expected when she went into the bedroom, but actually he was sitting up like Jacky with the sheet neatly tucked round him. Perky, in fact, was the only way you could have described the expression on his face.
“Happy?” she said weakly.
Ralph nodded, eyes very round, smiling with his mouth closed.
“Perky,” said Phoebe very faintly. “—I’ve gotta have a shower.”
“Pray do. Do you require assistance?”
“Uh—no.” For some strange reason she didn’t feel she could cope with that, at this juncture.
Ralph merely sighed: “Pity.” To her astonishment he didn’t come and nobble her in the shower.
Phoebe walked over to the big bed feeling ridiculously nervous.
“A sight like that does forcibly raise the question, Why in God’s name were clothes ever invented?” Ralph remarked.
“Thanks,” she said weakly.
“Get in.” He raised the sheet.
Phoebe got in beside him. “Probably it wasn’t so humid on the day they invented clothes.”
“No,” he agreed, grinning. “Gi’s a kiss.”
“On the understanding that this whole thing is bloody silly.”
“Now she starts setting conditions!” he exclaimed, rolling his eyes to High Heaven.
“Just be thankful I’m not asking for a towel under my bum.”
Ralph shuddered all over. “Please!” He smiled into her eyes. To his great surprise Phoebe went a bit pink. He put his hand under her chin and said: “Come on.”
Phoebe’s nostrils flared.
“Oh, like that, is it?” he said softly.
“Yes,” she said in a gritty voice.
Laughing a bit, Ralph kissed her.
... “Well, that was a pleasant way to spend a humid afternoon,” he murmured, quite some time later.
Phoebe made an inarticulate noise that could have signalled agreement.
Grinning, Ralph tweaked a tit. “Which bit didja like best?”
“This,” muttered Phoebe, putting her hand on it.
“Yeah, but more specifically?”
“All goob,” muttered Phoebe into his upper-arm.
“I’m so glad.”
“Mm.”
After a certain period of silence Phoebe yawned and said: “The sixty-nine bits were good.”
“Mm, especially your end.”
Choking slightly, Phoebe said: “Youse fuck good, too.”
“Graciously expressed. Though one was not at one’s peak, I do assure you.”
“Eh?”
“More like wildly excited at the thought of actually getting up you and praying to God I wouldn’t humiliate myself by exploding on the spot. As it were.”
“What?”
“I know you’ve never encountered this phenomenon before,” said Ralph, not altogether pleasedly, “but need you sound so incred—”
“Don’t be a flaming nong! I’d have said you were the most completely self-assured bloke I’ve ever had!”
“You would have said wrong, then.”
After a moment Phoebe said: “Well, it was lovely.”
Ralph kissed her nose gently. “I’m glad.”
“I was terrified I’d come like the clappers the minute you were in me, too,” she admitted.
Swallowing, Ralph returned: “This could not fail to gratify a bloke, I do assure you, my dear Phoebe.”
“For Christ’s sake don’t call me that, it makes you sound like Westby!”
“Sorry, sorry,” he whispered
Phoebe thought about it. “I never thought of it like that before. Perhaps I’ve been holding back too much, in the past… Of course, sometimes you want to. I mean you want to make it last.”
“Mm.”
“Want a drink?”
Jumping slightly, Ralph said: “I’ll get them. What would you like?”
“Something long, cold and alcoholic that a hop’s been waved at.”
“Not the local beer, then,” he noted, getting out of bed.
When he came back with the beers she smiled up at him from the pillows and somehow Ralph came over all all-overish. He put the drinks on the bedside table and got into bed again and held her very tightly. “It was lovely,” he said in her ear.
“Mm-mm!” agreed Phoebe, hugging him.
Ralph swallowed. “Kiss me?”
She kissed him eagerly. Ralph held her very tight. When she’d stopped he croaked: “For God’s sake put me out of my agony! Do I pass?”
“What?” said Phoebe blankly.
Very flushed, Ralph said loudly: “Do I pass? Am I gonna be allowed to do it again? Do I come up to the exacting standards set by such as N. Weintraub, S. Winkelmann, et al.? –Even if I am a bloody Gentile,” he noticed sourly.
“You’ve been snipped, though. –Yes, of course you do, that wasn’t a—a ruddy test, you idiot!”
“It felt like it,” he admitted, grimacing.
“Well, thanks!”
“No, I only meant... You were so damned off-hand when I got here, I started to wonder...”
“I was off-hand?” gasped Phoebe.
“Yes. Well. And the—uh—the absence of lacy black negligées and—er…” He shrugged, grimacing.
“I did say I was working,” said Phoebe limply.
“Mm. All right, I’m a tit.”
“A tender little plant, more like,” she said glumly. “How on earth could you imagine I’d let you get that far if I didn’t envisage going on with it?
“Insecure male ego?” Ralph raised his eyebrows.
“Must be. –Honestly!” She laughed suddenly.
“What?” He handed her a beer.
Grinning, Phoebe said: “It’s a wonder you managed to perform at all, what with the fear of premature ejaculation and the notion that you were buh-being tuh-tested!”
Ralph rescued the beer hurriedly. “Yeah, go on, laugh!”
“You were—so—good, you—idiot!” gasped Phoebe.
“Yeah, it was rather nice, wasn’t it?” he admitted, smiling slowly.
“Mm. Mm-mm.” She stroked his genitals gently. Then she stroked his belly. “You’ve lost a bit of weight this summer, haven’t you?”
Ralph smirked. He lay back against the pillows and gave Phoebe back her beer. He picked up his own and took a large gulp. “Yes. Been doing a fair amount of swimming. Got fed up with not being able to see me toes.”
“They’re quite nice toes,” she murmured, playing with them with her own quite nice toes.
Ralph smirked. He drank beer with his free arm round Phoebe and told her a lot about his swimming-pool, his squash club, the ops he’d done last year, the ops he had lined up for next month, the various tits of physicians, anaesthetists, theatre sisters, assistant surgeons et al. that he had to contend with at the various slaughter-houses he graced with his presence, the general and specific unsatisfactorinesses of all three of his sons, and, indeed, his life story.
It did fleetingly cross his mind, somewhat later, that perhaps Phoebe hadn’t really wanted to know all that. Never mind, she’d agreed—though with evident surprize at his being able to make such a date—to his coming round for dinner next Saturday. Whilst warning him she wasn’t much of a cook. Ralph had said not to worry, he’d bring a crayfish or something. Phoebe, wincing, had said: “Not in this humidity, thanks!” He had timidly suggested a couple of decent steaks. Phoebe had said all right, she knew how to cook those. Ralph had replied that this was possible, but unlikely, and in any case she wouldn’t get the chance. Phoebe—thank God—had just laughed cheerfully and told him the kitchen was all his.
Ralph drove home very late indeed that night. Whistling.
Next chapter:
https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/enrolment.html
No comments:
Post a Comment