9
The Festive Season. Part 1
“Why not come down to Nelson with us?” said Louise brightly.
Phoebe gallantly repressed a wince: Nelson featured Cliff Churton’s old Mum who was practically gaga but refused to be put in a home, the harassed daughter who looked after her, the sister’s grouch of a husband, their three hulking and unruly teenagers, Cliff’s brother Roy who was on his second round at fifty-nine, his second wife, Rhonda, who was even more into the swinging-fifties thing than he was, if that were possible, and, last but very far from least, the gaga Mum’s frightful overfed, elderly long-haired retriever—and everything that usually accompanies overfed, elderly long-haired retrievers that three unruly teenagers regularly refuse to wash when ordered to.
“Thanks very much, Louise; but Laura and Jim have asked me over to their place.”
Louise managed not to sag with relief—she could hardly have not offered, after all you couldn’t let a single person be all alone at Christmas, but Cliff couldn’t stand Phoebe. “Oh, well; that’s good!”
She didn’t notice that Phoebe hadn’t said whether or not she’d accepted Laura’s and Jim’s invitation; and Phoebe carefully didn’t enlighten her on this point.
Meanwhile, much further north on the other side of the Harbour Bridge, persons who inhabited less desirable environments than the choice precincts of St Ursie’s were also making Christmas plans.
“No,” said Bill Coggins definitely.
“We’ve got to,” replied Meg in tones of deepest gloom: “we never went last year.”
“She never invited us last year!”
“Uh—no,” conceded Meg, momentarily put off her stroke. “But she has asked us this year, so we’ll have to go!”
“If you think I’m spending Christmas in that pristine polished prison of your Mother’s with our lot, you’ve got another think coming!”
“The twins weren’t too bad last time we were down there,” said Meg faintly.
Bill retorted with immense pleasure: “No: because last time we left Michael behind—remember? Spotty-faced Whatsisname from school asked him to stay at his place—remember?”
“Oh, yes,” said Meg weakly.
“Anyway, we’re not going.”
“We’ve got to, Bill: she’s asked us!” wailed Meg.
Meg rarely wailed—though mind you, when she did her Mother was usually in there somewhere. Groaning, Bill replied: “All right. What does she say, exactly? Just Christmas Day?”
“Um…” Meg looked through the letter again. Mother only lived in Hamilton, less than a hundred miles south of them, but she only used the telephone in emergencies, it cost too much, it was a toll-call all the way from Hamilton. “I don’t think so, Bill, she’s got something here about Ma Dawkins from down the road coming round on Boxing Day.”
“Eh?”
“I can’t read this word... Oh, ‘keen’, I think: ‘very keen to see dear little Connie.’”
“EH?”
“Ma Dawkins, not Mother, you twit,” returned Meg placidly. “Well, she is practically potty—Ma Dawkins, I mean.”
Roger at this point looked up from his Playboy to say: “So’s your Mother.”
“This is true,” noted Bill.
“Shut up,” said Meg without animus. She frowned over the letter. “I think she must mean for us to stay over Christmas and New Year’s, she’s got something here about bells.”
“Sure it isn’t belfries?” asked Bill. –Roger sniggered.
“Um... It isn’t clear whether she means she’s going to listen to the bells on New Year’s Eve or we all are.”
“Look,” said Bill grimly: “we’ll go down for the two days, but that’s it. We’ll come back late Boxing Day: the roads should be pretty clear. And with any luck Connie’ll chunder all over ’er bloody Axminster on Christmas Day, so we won’t even have to stay the night!”
Roger sniggered again.
“It is only for the once,” said Meg weakly.
Bill snorted. Roger said thoughtfully: “I could always say I’ve turned Jewish.”
“Yeah: ya mate Damian converted ya!” agreed Bill, sniggering.
“Yeah. That reminds me, I’ve gotta be back for New Year’s Eve anyway, I’m going to his place.”
There was a short silence. Damian Rosen had lived with his maternal grandparents since the death of his parents several years back. If they’d just been ordinary grandparents like anybody’s… Only they weren’t.
“Has Lady Cohen actually invited you, Roger?” asked Meg in a steely voice.
“Ring ’er up and ask ’er!” suggested Bill, sniggering.
Very red, Meg said loudly: “HAS SHE?”
“Um—yeah. Sort of.”
“What does that mean?” she cried.
“Um—well, Damian said she was gonna. You know.”
“No, I don’t!” cried Meg.
“He means she’s gonna send ’im a deckled-edged invitation. Engraved. Gold,” explained Bill kindly.
“Look, just keep out of it!” cried Meg.
At the same time Roger said mildly: “Yeah. She’s got a list.”
“The name of R. Coggins, Esquire, is of course at the top of this invitation list of Lady Cohen’s,” noted Bill.
“Is this a joke?” demanded Meg in such a steely voice that she didn’t even have to add that it had better not be.
“No: it’s a real party,” Roger replied mildly. “She said Damian could invite who he liked.”
Cautiously Bill asked: “Is this a teenage party, old mate?”
“Nah.”
Bill opened his mouth but Meg said quickly: “Is it more of a family party, Rog?”
“Yeah. No decent music.”
“Square,” decided Bill sadly. –Roger made a rude noise.
“Sixties drop-out,” said Meg witheringly to her helpmeet.
“Now, I’ve always wondered about that expression: does it mean you’ve dropped out from the Sixties, or you dropped out in the Sixties and’ve been a drop-out ever since, or what?”
“Or what,” said Roger definitely, retiring into his Playboy.
“You’ll have to have some decent clothes,” worried Meg.
“No,” said Roger definitely into his Playboy.
“Yes, you will, if it’s at the Cohens’!” Roger didn’t react, so Meg added desperately to Bill: “He’s barely got a rag to his back! Well, I mean, he can’t turn up to Lady Cohen’s on New Year’s Eve in jeans, can he?”
“Don’t ask m— Well, what’s Damian gonna wear?” he amended weakly. “—OY! ROG! What’s Damian gonna wear?”
“Stone-washed jeans and—”
“See?” said Bill. At the same time Meg cried: “Surely not!”
“Yes, he is. Stone-washed jeans and an old white tux of Grandpa’s.”
Since this was not the first time that R. Coggins, Esq., had referred to Sir Jerry Cohen as “Grandpa” in their hearing, Bill and Meg merely gulped a bit.
Bill then added, since Meg seemed incapable of speech: “Is this the Done Thing?”
“I dunno. But it’s what he’s gonna wear. With a real dress-shirt: you know, one of those old-fashioned ones with ruffles.”
Meg muttered something about Sixties drop-outs but Bill manfully ignored this and pursued: “That right? With a tie?”
“Um—dunno. He reckons he’s got one of those things you put round your waist.”
“A belt?”
“Hah, hah.”
“A girdle—a chastity girdle?” suggested Bill, eyes lighting up.
Roger ignored this.
“A cummerbund?” suggested Meg weakly.
“Um… yeah. I think so. You kinda wind it round.”
“Is it a red one, Rog?” she asked kindly.
“No: pink.”
After a moment’s stunned silence, during which Meg and Bill rolled their eyes at each other and tried to envisage Damian Rosen, who had in common with his maternal grandfather a considerable resemblance to a good-natured frog, though in Damian’s case a tall, skinny frog, in a white tuxedo with a pink cummerbund, Meg was able to whisper: “I didn’t think they came in pink.”
“It was his dad’s. He found it in an old suitcase. With all these huge ties and stuff.”
“Flares?” asked Bill eagerly.
“Yeah, there was a purple pair.” Possibly stimulated by the thought of these relics, Roger continued in a sudden burst of loquacity: “Damian was gonna wear them to the party, only his grandmother had a fit; so he said all right, then, he’d wear his new stone-washed jeans with the tux, that’d look ace.”
“The lesser of the two evils,” noted Bill keenly.
“I expect he’ll look—um—quite smart,” finished Meg, not very convincingly.
They looked at Roger, but he was now holding the Playboy up very close to his eye with both hands, as of one trying to decide whether that really was a fly-spot on the centrefold...
“Well, he’ll have to have some decent clothes, anyway!” decided Meg.
“How does she reach this conclusion?” asked Bill, rolling his eyes madly at the ceiling.
“One of those women’s things!” said Roger with a hoarse chuckle.
“For Heaven’s sake, pay attention!” cried Meg crossly. “Are—we—going—to get—Roger—some new—clothes?”
“No,” said Bill definitely.
Meg’s jaw dropped.
“Give ’im the money: let ’im get them himself. Not a kid any more,” said Bill briefly.
Roger didn’t look up but his ears turned very red.
“Yes, but Bill—”
“‘But me no buts, and uncle me no uncles. –Funny, that; I mean, you can understand the but bit, but how does the uncle fit in?”
“He was his uncle,” said Roger shortly, not looking up.
“Eh?” replied his progenitor weakly.
“We did it at school. He was his uncle. It’s Shakespeare.”
“Oh,” said Bill feebly.
This exchange had given Meg the chance to get her second wind—though whether Bill had introduced it precisely for that purpose would have been very difficult to tell. She was thus able to say: “But can he be trusted to buy anything sensible?”
“No,” said Bill briefly. “Not the point.”
“Bill, if he spends it all on a pair of gold-plated winkle-pickers, then—then he won’t have anything else to wear.”
“You started good,” noted Bill.
“You know what I mean!”
“Yeah. His funeral, eh?”
After a moment Meg, distinctly pinkish, pointed out: “Lady Cohen’s party.”
“Gone over to the Other Side, have we?” replied Bill with a nasty leer.
Now very red, Meg managed: “All right, then. How much will he need?”
“Us boys’ll sort all that out,” responded Bill loftily. “Why don’t you trot on out to the kitchen and make us a cuppa like a good Wee Meggums?”
“Because,” replied Meg with a certain grim satisfaction: “if we’re going down to Mother’s for Christmas I’m going to take Connie into Puriri and get her a decent dress to wear!”
“It’s har’ past two, shops’ll be closed,” replied Bill.
“No, they won’t: if you lived in the same world as the rest of us, you’d know they’re open all day on Saturdays now!”
“Capitalism rampant,” he noted mournfully. “—Hold on.”
“What?” said Meg, pausing by the door.
“Might as well come with ya. –Come on, Rog, you coming? Could suss out—um, what’s that place?”
“Rawhide Rendezvous!” said Roger eagerly.
Bill gulped. “Uh—don’t think the exchequer’ll stretch that far, old mate. Well—a belt, maybe. Wouldn’t run to boots, though. And don’t mention the word ‘jacket’, me nerves won’t stand it.”
“Oh,” he said, dashed. “Mind you, Jeans United have better denim gear,” he conceded.
“Yeah,” agreed Bill in some relief. “Oy, Meg: talking of the emporia of Puriri, the vast commercial hub of the north, where exactly were you thinking of going for this dress of Connie’s? Because the only place for kids’ clothes, barring that seconds place, is that kiddies’ bew-teek where all the grannies go. Well, not Connie’s specific granny, don’t fall around laughing, folks;”—nobody was, and they looked at him rather pointedly—“you know the place,” he finished weakly.
Meg’s mouth tightened. “Tricksie’s. They have beautiful clothes. And it’s time she knew what a decent dress was!”
She went out very quickly before they could wither her. She knew all the arguments. The ones relating to grubs, and mud, and tearing to shreds climbing trees five minutes after assumed, and— Those ones. And too bad!
Bill and Roger looked at each other limply. Finally Connie’s proud father said: “She’s not even five, yet!”
“It’s never too early to start brainwashing ’em,” replied Roger brilliantly.
“That’s what I was thinking!”
They could hardly get themselves out to the station-waggon, they sniggered so much at that one.
The Butlers were also preparing for the festive season.
“Come on!” urged Ivan.
“Give me that!” Bob wrenched the axe off him.
“AW-WUH! I can do it, it’s bay-sic—” Ivan carried on at length but everyone ignored him.
“I don’t like chopping down trees,” said June sadly.
“You could dig one up and plant it out after Christmas,” Michaela pointed out.
“It’d make a hole,” replied June uneasily.
Michaela goggled at her.
“In Jake Carrano’s field,” explained Bob, grinning.
“That didn’t worry you last year,” Michaela pointed out.
“It wasn’t his field then,” said June glumly.
“How’s he gonna know it was us?” asked Starsky with cold logic.
“His spies are everywhere,” replied Bob.
“Not up here,” Michaela said mildly.
“They could be,” said Ivan.
“Where?” asked Starsky with withering scorn.
“There’s lots of places! Up in the macrocarpas; um… up behind the twins’ place! Um…”
Before Ivan could detail all the possible places round Blossom Avenue and environs where spies could conceivably be lurking, Bob yelled: “Shut up, you tiny twerp!”
There was an astonished silence.
“There are no spies round here, not even Jake Carrano’s spies, that was a JOKE!” explained Bob loudly. Shouldering the axe and ordering Sergeant Starsky to bring that spade in case Jake Carrano’s spies weren’t down there today, he marched the troops away.
“See: Christmas tree thieves all over the place,” he pointed out when they got there.
Sure enough, in the scruffy paddock between Number 3 and Bill and Meg’s place a stocky male figure in worn jeans and a grimy tee-shirt could be observed, doubled over an agricultural implement at the foot of a decent-sized young example of Pinus radiata.
Michaela began: “That isn’t a—” but Bob and June marched into the field.
“He’s got some sense: brought the Land Rover right up,” noted Bob as the annual fortissimo Butler argument over Which Tree began.
“Don’t,” warned June. “We can’t afford to replace the springs.”
“Whereas we can afford to replace the skin of my palms?”
“No, it’ll grow again,” she replied placidly. “That’s a nice one.”
“Too small!” Bob and the boys cried.
“This one!” cried Mason, jumping up and down by a towering junior forest giant.
“NO!” they all roared. June—it was still relatively early in the piece—then explained kindly: “It’s too big to go in the house, Mason.”
“No, it isn’t!”
“It’s taller than the family-room, you nong!” Ivan withered him.
Mason pouted. He stared hard at his tree. It was not!
“This one!” cried Ivan.
“No, it’s hideous!” June gasped in horror.
“It is NOT!”
Starsky had raced up to the far end of the paddock. His voice could be heard dimly on the breeze, screaming: “This is the best one! Dad! Dad!”
“I’m not dragging that all that way!” screamed Bob in return.
“This one, Dad: this is a better one!” urged Ivan, finding another one and jumping up and down.
“It’s hideous,” moaned June.
“I think it’s got some sort of blight,” discerned Michaela with clinical interest.
“THIS—ONE!” screeched Starsky, finding another one.
“NO!” bellowed Bob.
“This one, this one, look, Dad!” squeaked Mason, jumping up and down.
It was minute. Mi-nute. Weeny. Weeny, weeny, weeny. “It’s very sweet, dear,” said June in a feeble voice.
After a considerable period during which no progress was made, Michaela picked up the spade she’d brought and went over to the bent male figure. The two very small boys who were with him immediately cried: “Michaela! Michaela! Look at our Christmas tree!” but June and Bob in another part of the paddock were too engrossed in bitter argument over whether this particular specimen of Pinus radiata would look better with its topknot lopped off (yes, according to Bob) to register this and ponder on its implications.
“Gidday,” the digger grunted, ceasing to dig.
“Hi,” responded Michaela mildly. “Need a hand?”
“Yeah—ta.”
Michaela went round to the opposite side of the tree and fell to forthwith.
When they’d loaded it onto the Land Rover she waved them goodbye and returned to her friends.
“Is this the one?” she said mildly.
“No,” said June, pouting.
“No,” agreed Starsky and Ivan, scowling.
“Yes!” squeaked Mason.
“Yes,” confirmed Bob, “and for God’s sake let’s get on with it in case any of Jake Carrano’s ruddy spies do turn up: we must have been here for hours!”
“Don’t worry, they won’t,” said Michaela mildly.
Bob had started in to dig, but here he stopped, gasping: “Christ, this thing’s got roots on it like a great-grandfather! –How the Hell do you know they won’t?”
“Because that was him.”
“Eh?” he panted, goggling at her.
Michaela waved vaguely in the general direction in which the Land Rover had vanished. “That was him: Jake Carrano.”
Under Jemima’s grave, dark gaze Tom shuffled his feet a bit. He rubbed his nose. “Uh—take Michaela down to old Alec’s with us?”
Jemima nodded hard. “Yes.”
“She might be too busy, sweetheart,” he said dubiously. “Potting up a storm, or something. Still, we could ask her, can’t hurt.”
“Alec wouldn’t mind, would he?”
“Alec?” replied Alec’s nephew in astonishment.
“All right then, I’ll ask her, shall I?”
“Yeah. Only warn her we’ll have to be back for that bloody wing-ding at Ralph’s on New Year’s Eve.”
Jemima’s face fell. “Ugh, yes. It’ll be all posh ladies in awful tarty dresses with loads of make-up talking about their new beauty treatments and how their sons are doing at St Ethelred’s.”
“Not to mention their daughters at St Ursie’s.”
“No, they never seem to talk about their daughters’ progress at school; I think it’s because girls just grow up and get married to yuppies.”
Grinning, Tom elaborated: “That turn into Ralphs and Hughs who can buy them houses in Remmers and Parnell with BMWs to match?”
“Yes; and then they spend all the rest of their lives complaining about them.”
“The men or the women?” said Tom faintly.
“Well, both, really, I suppose,” said Jemima. “Only I meant the men complaining about the women.”
“Do they?”
“Well, Ralph and Hugh do.”
“Do they, just?” he said grimly.
“Yes, of course. Ralph’s told me a lot about him and Audrey,” continued Jemima serenely. “I feel sorry for both of them.”
“Oh, really? I feel they deserve each other.”
“I know; that’s why he never tells you things.”
Tom took a deep breath. “Just fly the plane, Doris, fly the plane,” he said in a strong and very fake American accent.
Obediently Jemima began planting out lettuces again.
Tom was weeding the tomatoes. The bloody things were so spindly that they were probably relying on the weeds to prop them up, mind you. Whereas over the road Bill’s tomatoes were flourishing like—well, almost like his flaming silverbeet, did the ruddy man deliberately manure the stuff, or what? Yeah, probably, so as he could then complain about the silverbeet forest his garden had turned into.
“Shall we bring something?” murmured Jemima.
He jumped. “Eh? Oh, down to Alec’s! Yes, ’course. Bring the lot, really,” he admitted. “What would you fancy for Christmas dinner, sweetheart?”
“Um—well, I don’t mind, Tom. Something that Alec’d like.”
“Eat anything. Known ’im eat cold baked beans brightened up with a dollop of marmalade for Christmas dinner before this.”
“Ugh, he couldn’t have! You’re exaggerating, Tom!”
“No, true.”
Jemima looked up at him uncertainly. “Was it out in the bush?” she asked finally.
“No, it was in his ruddy house!”
“Oh.”
Tom leaned on his hoe, grinning. “Goose?”
“Can you get it?”
“Yeah. Well, if you know the right shop. Or would you prefer ham? Real ham on the bone?”
“I do like that... I suppose it’ll be pretty hot down there, won’t it?”
“Ngaruawahia, the Tropical Paradise of the South Pacific,” he agreed. “Well, pretty warm, yeah. About the same as here, really.”
Jemima threw a leaf at him. “I only meant would cold meat be better?”
“Nah. Alec belongs to the school that believes it isn’t a real Christmas dinner unless it’s steaming hot and you eat yourself into such a state of bloated satiety that you can hardly rise from the festive board.”
“This would be in the intervals of eating cold baked beans with marmalade, would it?”
“That’s right,” he agreed mildly. “Okay, goose, then. And don’t you dare to start feeling sorry for it!”
Smiling, Jemima returned: “I’ll be all right if I don’t have to meet it first.”
As usual, the advent of the festive season in Florida had resulted in Sol’s martyring himself by going shopping with Ruthie. Why? Well, partly because no-one else was offering. And even more so because he was a sucker—yup.
“This one?” suggested Ruthie dubiously.
Why was she looking at shirts, for Chrissakes? Abe had millions of shirts already—no, billions. And Junior had millions. Mostly what Ruthie, Ruthie’s mother, he (Sol) and his (Sol’s) mother had given him for Christmas and birthdays. Mind you, Pat was in on the act, too, now: she’d given him a very nice shirt last Christmas, pale blue silk. Nicer than any of the other shirts he owned if you were being strictly honest; but that didn’t mean Junior wore it much. What he mostly wore was drip-dry white shirts to the office and plain white tee-shirts for leisure wear. Sometimes if the weather was cooler he’d wear the latter with a tracksuit. Black with white stripes down the sides of the legs and arms. Very conservative tastes, you could say Junior Winkelmann had.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, that’s real smart, Ruthie.” Yaller? Yaller with junior Winkelmann’s complexion? Yo, boy.
“What about this one for Grandpa Abe?” she said next.
“Uh—didn’t you give him a shirt last year, Ruthie?”
Ruthie’s amiable face fell about a foot. Yo, boy. “Did I? Oh, dear, I think I did, too, it’s so hard to keep track... Well, whatever shall I give him, then, Sol?”
“Well, now, I was noticing last time I was out on the boat with him that he needs a new picnic basket. Jasmine packed a real nice lunch, you know?”—Yup, it sure had been: chicken sandwiches, heavy on the mayo, a hunk of pound cake, and—though not in the picnic basket, in their own chilled container—two six-packs of Bud. Yup, real nice.—”Only that ole picnic basket sure has gotten shabby, I guess it dates back to Edie’s day, huh?”
Even Sol couldn’t have said whether this last had just come out because he was bored, whether it had been deliberately intended to fluster Ruthie, whether it had been deliberately intended to divert Ruthie from the shirt theme, or what. The store was crammed elbow-to-elbow, Ruthie had been talking incessantly ever since he’d picked her up two hours since, and very, very loud Christmas carols were being broadcast, featuring not only the expected scooping in Silent Night but Silent Night off-key. A large children’s choir, off-key. And ho, ho, ho to you, too!
“Oh, dear, does it really, Sol? Well, in that case maybe he wouldn’t want to have it replaced; only you know what Grandpa Abe is, he’s so kind and considerate, he’d never…” Several instances, quite possibly apocryphal, of Abe’s self-sacrificing kindness and consideration in the past were cited.
“I don’t guess he’s that sentimental about Edie’s stuff, Ruthie; if he was he’d never have let Pat do up the house, would he?”
“Oh, but that’s different, Sol!” Ruthie explained in tremendous detail—tre-men-dous detail—why that was different. Either she was convinced Sol wouldn’t grasp the point without the detail, or she was enjoying the sound of her own voice, or— No, maybe she just never paused to think. Well, quite evidently she never paused to think: how could anyone think with all that noise coming out their mouth? Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas.
“Uh-huh. Well, just as you think, Ruthie honey, I guess you know better about all this emotional stuff than me, huh?”
Swallowing this without a blink, Ruthie returned earnestly: “Well, of course I wouldn’t want to be sexist about it, Sol,”—gee, had she been going to classes again?—“but of course a woman’s instincts are sometimes a more reliable guide...” Blah, blah. Sol wondered idly during this whether he should suggest a new robe. This would only work if Ruthie knew that Pat was giving Abe a new robe, of course...
The Shapiro sisters had insisted that Jemima come Christmas shopping with them. Given that they were Sir Jerry Cohen’s granddaughters, their ideal venue for this expedition had turned out to be Remuera. Jemima had just looked. Occasionally, when asked, she had timidly volunteered her opinion. The whole expedition having proven far more exhausting than any of them had anticipated, especially for Allyson, who had had her baby and was now a nursing mother, they had adjourned to a café. Air-conditioned, this being Remmers. The Shapiro sisters had piled their plates but Jemima had merely ordered a cup of coffee. Susan had then decided that Allyson needed to keep her fluid intake up and gone off the counter for refills.
“Here,” she said kindly. “I got you this, figured you’d need it after she’d ear-bashed you.” She handed Jemima a cup of cappuccino and a strawberry tart.
“Oh—” began Jemima, very flustered.
“My treat,” said Susan firmly, avoiding her eye. “If you’re not hungry, the milch cow here’ll eat it for you.”
“I’m hungry all the time,” said Allyson simply.
“Yes of course, with the baby,” said Jemima kindly.
Susan grimaced. “Yeah; sorry,” she growled. “Only Alan’s been on at me again to have one.”
Allyson big hazel eyes widened. “Don’t you want to?” she gasped.
“Not until I’ve finished my law degree and we’ve got the orchard off the ground,” said Susan firmly. “Right: drink that coffee up, Jemima, and then bend your mind to it! If you two reckon books will be all right for yours—”
“A nice architecture book,” agreed Allyson, beaming at Jemima, who’d suggested it, as her Donald was an architect.
“Yeah, we’ve agreed on that,” said Susan heavily. “Just concentrate on what the Hell I can give Alan! Given that he’s already got everything that opens and shuts, thanks to the ruddy Harding fortune. Well, what his mother hasn’t chucked away with both hands,” she amended drily.
“We should have asked Grandma,” decided Allyson.
“Why, in God’s name?” croaked Susan.
“Because Grandpa’s rich: she must have the same problem,” explained Allyson simply.
Susan goggled at her, but Jemima said on a dry note: “Well, you can ask her now: she’s just come in.”
“Very funny,” growled Susan; but Allyson looked round and gasped: “Ooh, help!”
“Hullo, darlings!” cried the small powder-blue figure, bustling up to them. “—No, no, sit down, Jemima, dear! –Why didn’t you tell me you were coming over this afternoon?
“Um—we thought we’d be awfully busy shopping,” said Susan gruffly, going very red.
“But Allyson got a bit tired, so we came in here for—for some refreshments,” said Jemima, rather weakly.
“And a rest,” agreed Susan thankfully.
“Are you all right, Allyson, dear?” cried Belinda.
“Yes, I’m fine, thanks, Grandma,” replied Allyson composedly, being now over her shock.
Apologising nicely to the group at it, Lady Cohen kidnapped a chair from the adjoining table and sat down beside her. She began to interrogate Allyson narrowly as to her state of health and her baby’s, breaking off briefly to order Susan to get a chair for her Aunty Helen, she was just getting them their afternoon tea, she’d be here in a minute.
By the time the interrogation of Allyson was over and Belinda Cohen had started on Susan, Mrs Weintraub had joined them. Like her mother, she was a fair-haired woman, and she was also in blue, but in her case it was a dark navy silk with tiny white spots, not powder-blue. It was very smart: short-sleeved, with very square shoulders and a lowish neckline with a smart white collar. Its cut was rather loose and plain: very sensible, as Mrs Weintraub was a very large lady, decided Jemima with approval. Her shoes were wonderful: peep-toes, navy and white, with heels that were just a nice height. Partly because she was big she was rather intimidating, but Jemima, having known her since her own undergraduate days, which had coincided with Helen’s daughter Pauline’s undergraduate days, liked her much better than she did Lady Cohen; and greeted her with pleasure.
“Pyjamas?” suggested Helen some time later. Her own Nat rarely wore his; but naturally she did not reveal this to either her mother or the girls.
“He’s got millions of pairs,” revealed Susan glumly. “More than a human being could get through in a normal lifetime.”
“Wait on,” said Jemima slowly. They all looked at her hopefully, even Belinda Cohen. In fact Belinda, who after all was an old lady, was beginning to look rather tired. “I think we’ve been looking at it from the wrong angle. I mean, we’ve been thinking of all the—the usual things.”
“Ye-es...” said Helen dubiously.
“I think I see what you mean!” said Belinda, brightening. “Instead of what would suit him! Did you have anything in particular in mind, Jemima, dear?”
“Um, well... I don’t know if you’d like it, Susan,” she said shyly. “We were talking about dogs one day, and Alan said he’d always wanted one.”
Susan hit the side of her own head viciously with her palm. “I’m the world’s greatest nana!” she declared.
“You said it,” agreed her sibling with satisfaction.
“A puppy?” murmured Lady Cohen. “They’re a lot of trouble, dear...”
“Mm. And they need house-training,” noted Helen drily.
“That wouldn’t matter in that old house of Darryl and John’s,” said Allyson. “You could probably have it house-trained by the time you move into your new house!”
“That’d be a plus,” Susan acknowledged, grinning.
“Did Alan say what sort of dog he likes, Jemima?” asked Helen.
“Um—black-and-tans; is that a breed, Mrs Weintraub?” she asked doubtfully.
“Call me Helen, dear.” While Jemima was still recovering from the shock she added: “I don’t think it’s a breed, exactly; they’re more sort of mongrels, or crossbreds, or something. But I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to get one.”
“There’s a nice pet shop—now, let me see... Not far from the Greenlane turnoff, I think,” murmured Lady Cohen.
“Very nice,” agreed Helen drily. “It won’t have black-and-tans, Mum, you’re dreaming. Apricot poodles’d be more in its line! Isn’t there one up your way, Susan?”
“Uh—no, I don’t think so. I suppose it’s because Puriri’s the blue-rinse belt,” said Susan sadly.
But Jemima cried: “I know!”
Everybody stared at her. Flushing, she said: “There’s a super one near Tom’s old flat. It has wonderful parrots: cockatoos. Only they’re very expensive, Tom says we...” Her voice trailed off. The assembled generations of Sir Jerry Cohen’s family were looking at her very kindly. “Anyway, they do have black-and-tan puppies, quite often,” she finished gamely.
“We could go there this afternoon!” cried Allyson.
“Not if all we’ve got to guide us are Jemima’s instructions, we couldn’t,” said Susan grimly.
“I’ve got a map in the car,” offered Helen.
“That won’t do any good, Aunty Helen, it’s Lombard Street to a China orange she doesn’t know the name of the street!”
“Um—no,” admitted Jemima. “It’s on one of the main roads...”
“We could ring Tom at school,” said Allyson.
“Yes, but it might be a bit hard to get hold of him; the secretary goes home early,” murmured Jemima.
Helen got up, saying firmly: “I’m sure that won’t be a problem; come on, Jemima: we’ll use my car-phone, it’ll be simpler than trying to find an unvandalized public phone.”
“Ask them here, dear, I’m sure they won’t mind,” said Belinda.
While the younger generation was still writhing in embarrassment, Helen replied shortly: “Yes, they will, Mum, things aren’t like they were in your day,”—and towed Jemima away.
… “There!” she said with satisfaction, hanging up. “I think we can find that without any trouble. I think we’d better send Allyson home: she can go with Mum in the Rolls, I’ll just give Jimmy a ring,” she decided.
“Lady Cohen is looking a bit tired, I thought,” Jemima agreed shyly.
Helen sniffed. “She’ll never admit to feeling her age, of course!”
“Um—no,” murmured Jemima.
Helen punched buttons briskly. “She’s over seventy, you know,” she said in a sour voice.
“Is she really?” Jemima started to add she was very well preserved, but knew that wasn’t the right phrase to use to a person’s daughter, and stopped. “She doesn’t look it,” she murmured feebly.
Helen grunted noncommittally. “Oh, there you are, Jimmy, what on earth were you up to?” she said crossly into the phone. “Never mind! ... No, of course we’re all right, but I want you to come and pick up Mum, she’s looking a bit tired. We’ve bumped into Susan and Allyson and a friend, so you can drop Allyson off, too, I think she’s had enough trailing around the shops for one day. ... What? Good Heavens! I dare say she’ll let you see the baby if you want to, he’s not the Crown Jewels, you know! Now listen—” She told him precisely where they were they were and added in a very steely voice indeed that they’d see him in ten minutes. “Dratted gay,” she said crossly to Jemima, ringing off.
Jemima had met Lady Cohen’s driver and general factotum, and he was rather awful: one of those gays that kind of exaggerated it, poor thing. But quite obviously well-meaning. “Mm...” she murmured.
Helen locked the car and began marching back towards the café. “My Melanie’s picked up a frightful one at those stupid typing classes of hers.” She told Jemima rather a lot about the seventeen-year-old Melanie and her complete indecision and apparent indifference about a career choice.
“She’s good with little kids,” offered Jemima shyly. “She was very good with our neighbour’s little girl that time she came over to see Susan.”
“I dare say, but how can she make a career out of that?” demanded Helen in exasperation. “And don’t suggest kindergarten teaching, even kindergarten teachers have to pass exams these days, and Melanie barely scraped through a couple of School Cert. subjects last year!”
“Um—well, I was wondering about—um, well, you mightn’t like the idea,” she said, reddening.
“I’m grasping at straws,” replied Helen heavily. “Even that dratted course has finished for the year, you know. She’s either moping round the house like a week of wet Sundays or going off to horrible dives in town with that gay!”
“Mm. Well, a friend of mine,” said Jemima, blushing as she usually did when she referred to Polly—not merely because of her being married to Jake Carrano but more because of her rôle as a former complication in Tom Overdale’s emotional life—”um, well, she knows someone who’s thinking of starting a proper nanny school out here. You know, an English nanny school.”
“Really?” gasped Helen. “It’d suit Melanie down to the ground! Though I suppose there wouldn’t be that many openings, out here.”
“No, but the lady that wants to start it, she’s English herself, and she said that New Zealand girls do make very good nannies, but they’d get much better jobs overseas if they had some proper training,” explained Jemima. “You know, in America and England.”
Helen decided that it sounded just the thing for Melanie!
They went back into the posh Remuera coffee bar feeling very pleased with each other.
Caroline Morton shrugged. “Do what you like, I don’t give a damn where you spend Christmas.”
“Good, I will!” retorted Hugh.
Mitsy Morton (who had steadfastly resisted for the last five of her twenty-one years her father’s acid insistence that “Mitsy” was not a name, and so would presumably remain Mitsy forever) cried: “But you’ve got to come down to Taupo, Daddy! The Bidwells are expecting you!”
“I don’t give a damn if they are,” he replied.
“Don’t imagine you’ll be missed,” his wife put in nastily.
“I don’t,” returned Hugh.
Ignoring this exchange—it was doubtful if, after twenty-one years of it she was even conscious of it—Mitsy insisted: “But it’ll create such a bad impression, Daddy!”
“So what? I’m not after old Bidwell’s dough. If he wants me to fix some whey-faced descendant’s arm or leg I’ll fix it—free, at the public hospital: you can tell him that from me.”
“That’s not funny, Dad!” screamed Mitsy.
“Nor is old Paul Bidwell,” replied Hugh. “And by the way, you’re forgetting the flash finishing-school bit again: you said ‘Dad’. How common.” He went out before his daughter could think of a reply.
“He’s got to come, Mummy!” she said desperately to her mother.
Caroline shrugged again. “I can’t make him, Mitsy. Beside, if he does come he’ll only be a wet blanket the entire time.”
“But it’ll create such a bad impression!” she cried.
Her mother raised her eyebrows. “Two months ago you were going round saying that young Murray Bidwell was the most boring creep that ever lived; has he undergone a metamorphosis, or have I got it wrong?”
“I don’t care!” shouted Mitsy. “He’s as rich as anything! And I’m sick of living on that mingy allowance!”
Caroline’s mouth tightened slightly. After a moment she said coldly: “Don’t marry for money, Mitsy, you’ll regret it all your life if you do.”
Mitsy’s mouth sagged open.
Caroline had been arranging flowers on the dining table. She picked up a few odd leaves and went over to the door. “And if you imagine that your father’d lift a finger to help you to a loveless marriage with that frightful Bidwell boy, then you must be even stupider than I’ve always supposed!” She went out.
Mitsy burst into a storm of tears in which incredulity, shock, and sheer rage at not getting her own way were about equally mingled.
Next part of Chapter 9:
https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-festive-season-part-2.html
No comments:
Post a Comment