9
The Festive Season. Part 2
“Go on,” said Tom eagerly to his Headmaster.
Term was over—at last, at last—and they were duly celebrating the fact. Bill poured slowly from the jug that contained the last of Tom’s Uncle Alec Overdale’s home-brew that he’d been saving for a Very Special Occasion.
“Now, mind you, young Rog didn’t seize all the implications.”—Tom snickered.—“But I gather it was pretty much like this.” He paused, and sipped.
Tom sipped, too. “Good,” he sighed. “He’s got another lot ready: drop in on your way back from Hamilton and collect a few.”
“You’re on!” replied his Headmaster. He sipped. “Ooh, nectar,” he groaned. “Uh—where the fuck was I?”
“Nowhere. Get on with it,” said Tom, grinning.
“Um, lessee. Well, first of all Rog sees a car pull up over your way and he gets all agitato. So he peers round the front curtains—yeah, them brown grungy ones as ever was,” he agreed as Tom glanced at them—“but he sees it’s only that nice pal of Jemima’s with that wee baby.”
“Uh…”
“Drives a little black Honda City.”
“Oh—Pauline Nilsson: yes, her Baby Belinda’s a dear wee thing.”
“Am I telling this story, or not?” demanded Bill sternly.
“You are, Oh Great White Pow-Wow Chief.”
Eyeing him warily, Bill proceeded: “So Rog knew it was okay at that stage and he went back to, uh—”
“‘Bonking’ in the best armchair,” finished Tom in the vernacular of Number 9 Blossom Av’.
“He’s ruined that chair, ya know. Meg reckoned we oughta get him a rocker at one stage, only he tried that one of her Mother’s, and didn’t like it.”
“Was that a digression, an interpolation, a circumlocution, a periphrasis or merely a piece of verbal wool-gathering, Oh Great White Pow-Wow Chief?”
“One o’ those, yeah,” replied Bill, unmoved. “Fortunately—Rog admits this himself—fortunately he remained in here rather than cloistering himself in his—um—cloister.”
“Cell, you twit.”
“Oh, yeah. Cell.” Bill took a draught. “Mmm... Then shortly thereafter, like about half an article in ’is computer mag on some incomprehensible aspect of Pascal, not lozenges, I don’t mean, it’s a computer thing—”
“Loz— That’s not the same word, you cretin!” shrieked Tom.
“We can’t all be ex-English leksherers with Ph.D.s, ya know,” leered Bill. “Doc-tor Overdale.”
“Yeah, all right: uncle. Pax. Or PASCAL, if you like.”
“Um—yeah. He hears another car, see.”
“Had his Walkman broken down?”
“NO!” shouted Bill. “He wasn’t wearing it, Mima Puddle-Duck asked him to keep an ear out for assorted Ralphs and Hughs, I told you that: are you DEAF?”
“I soon will be, at this rate,” he replied, rubbing an ear. “Yeah, all right: Rog hath sworn an oath of fealty to be ever on the alert to rush to Lady Jemima’s— Sorry.”
“Do you wanna tell this story yaself?” demanded his Headmaster heavily.
“No, I don’t know the details, Oh Great White Pow-Wow Chief,” he replied meekly. “Pray proceed.”
“Hang on.” Bill dug in his pocket. Tom watched with foreboding.
“First smoke-um heap big Season-of-High-Sun-in-Star-Topped-Pine-Tree Hokum Pipe!” Bill announced proudly.
Tom screamed faintly. He took a huge swallow of old Alec’s powerful nectar as a precautionary measure. “Well?” he demanded finally, coughing slightly.
“Well,” said Bill. He paused for a choking fit. “Um—ugh! Help!” He took a soothing draught. Then—oh, defilement—he put the object back in the mouth through which the A. Overdale nectar had just passed.
“Get—ON—with it!” hissed Tom.
“Uh—yeah. Rog heard another car. So he peers cautiously round the curtains. Ah-hah! What does he see?”
“Ralph’s poncy BMW, we’ve established that,” said Tom sourly.
“Nope, that was later. This one was the shiny red chariot of the Dastardly Sir Hugh!”
“This becomes strangely interesting,” noted Tom in an evil voice.
“Yeah; it gets good, too. So young Squire Roger—I blush to admit it—hesitates. To be, or not to be? Will a fair damsel complete with a Baby Belinda be sufficient protection for the lovely, chaste but scarce oft caught Lady Jemima?”
“You forgot the ‘forsooth’. And can it be ‘scarce oft’?”
“It can in my epic,” replied Bill firmly. “Yea or nay, the gallant Esquire doth ponder. Yea or nay.”—Tom glared.—“So it finally it dawns that it can’t do any harm to push on over there, so ’e goes.”
“And?”
“Discovered in her filmy bower, the lovely Lady Jemima doth—”
“BI-ILL!”
“Well, actually she opens the front door in her jeans. And what Rog described as ‘um, a blouse’, only he went pretty red, so—”
“That bloody broderie Anglaise thing,” Tom deduced unerringly.
“Mm,” agreed Bill drily. He sucked the Hokum Pipe.
“Look, if you seriously want another load of Alec’s grog you had better get—on—with—it.”
“I was only working out the best way to put it! Um—yeah, well, Jemima said her and Pauline and Baby Belinda were having a bit of a picnic. So she leads him into that front room that you reckon you’re gonna turn into a study for ’er, and there they are. Well, it hasn’t got any furniture, eh?”
“No. It gets the morning sun, she loves it,” he explained. “Well, go on, describe it!” he hollered.
“Eh? Oh—the scene!” said Bill. “Yeah. Well, she’d got a rug down in the sun and the baby was on it: a scarce-clad babe. –In its naps,” he explained quickly. “And Pauline had been favoured with a cushion—mumly status or something. So Jemima says: ‘Siddown Rog, we’re having a picnic.’ And Rog—being an athletic young squire—doth squat.” He eyed him cautiously but Tom was just smiling slightly. “Whereat the lithesome Jemima doth lower her lovely form. ‘Have an orange, Rog,” she doth quoth, “or a rye biscuit, they bee much good for thy colon.’“
“That’s apocryphal!” choked Tom.
“No, she really did, I think she was just a weensy-bit annoyed with the Dastardly Sir Hugh for spoiling their cosy girls’ get-together.”
“I see,” he said, grinning. “Pray continue.”
“Well, the young squire doth not refuse this simple but goodly fare. And after a bit the Dastardly Sir Hugh, who be-ith sitting on his bum on ye hard, hard floor, it be understood,”—Tom grinned evilly—“doth quoth: ‘Could it not be possible to afford me a cushion for these aged joints, oh fayre Lady Jemima?’”
“Did that ‘fayre’ have an E on the end of it?”
“’Course!” replied the narrator, greatly hurt.
“Pray proceed, Oh Great White Pow-Wow Chief, thy narrative doth greatly interest this poor listener.”
“Well, this is where it gets good, I must admit,” admitted Bill. “So Jemima ups and says: ‘No, ya can’t have a cushion, Hugh, Tom’d be very cross if I used the pretty cushions on the duh—’” He choked slightly.
“Dirty floor!” shrieked Tom.
“Quite!” gasped Bill. “So then Rog points out—not without a certayne malice, there be-ith few flies on ye young Esquire, he doth get it from his father, the noble Sir William—that Pauline’s got a cushion. Whereat the fayre Lady Jemima doth quoth: ‘Thee also shalt have a cushion, lads, when thee also art my olde friend, being a woman that have brought forth a goodly sprogge.’”
“She never!”
“Well, words to that effect, mm. Rog says he’ll wait until then, then: you know the tone, all silly grin; but Sir Hugh, to the great surprise of none of ye onlookers, doth get ye point. He tells Jemima he won’t take up any more of her time, wishes ’em a merry Yuletide, and slings ’is hook.”
“Good.”
“And so say all of us. So young Rog, carefully checking to see if the wicked red chariot of the Black Sir Hugh be-ith actually departed, there being few of ye aforesaid insects on ye goodly young squire, doth then quoth: ‘Well, that’s got rid of him; I’ll push off home, now: just put the signal in the window if you need me, Jemima.’ And goes forthwith.”
“That lad deserves a medal!”
“Well, she done most of it herself,” admitted Bill, grinning. “But he made a humble contribution, yeah.”
Tom reached for the jug. He poured. They drank deeply.
“Now comes story of Heap Big White Bone-Cutter, brother of Noble Tom-awatha,” warned Bill.
Choking slightly, Tom croaked: “Go on, then.”
“In the dim of twilight, White Bone-Cutter was espied—’ Bugger; I don’t think I can keep up this Red Indian talk. Anyway, it was round lunchtime, actually. Rog heard a car, and he just about had a fit, poor lad, but of course it was only Pauline, going. So he heaves a sigh of relief and pushes on out to the kitchen.”
Tom recited immediately:
“In the Food-Place did Young Big-Foot
Mighty Mish-mash perpetrate:
Wampum, beans and peanut butter,
All served up on grimy plate.”
Bill choked. “All right, you tell it!”
“Then to place of old men’s pow-pow—sorry, it seemed to scan—
“Then to place of old men’s pow-wow,
Noble Big-Foot doth repair,
Glances through the fateful spy-hole—”
“And by God, the Signal’s there!” cried Bill triumphantly.
“Uh—yeah,” gulped Tom.
“It’s quite easy when they don’t all gotta rhine!” discovered Bill gleefully.
“Yes, isn’t it?” he murmured.
Bill took a deep breath.
“Through the mire Young Big-Foot hastens,
Drawn by lovely Mima’s sign;
Thunders on the wooden portal…
“… Oh, shit,” he ended lamely.
“‘Lovely Mima, art thou fine?’” said Tom in a very dry voice indeed.
“Watch out!” his Headmaster warned, draining his glass. He took another deep breath. “In the lodge—good, eh?”
Tom made a rude noise.
“In the lodge sweet Mima trembles,
’Fore Bone-Cutter’s foulish leer;
Noble Big-Foot calls from outside,
‘Lovely Mima, art thou there?’”
“That’s a real narrative progression,” noted Tom. “From A to B and back to A again in one quick stanza.”
“Ooh, was that a stanza?”
“Yeah. Try for another. This time from A to B to C, preferably.”
Bill opened his mouth. He shut it again. “It’s a bloody sight harder than you’d think,” he grumbled.
“Well, what happened?”
“Eh? Oh! Well, the front door was open, ya see.”
“Then how could he be thundering on the portal, you flaming moron?”
“Was that my bit?”
“YES!” howled Tom.
Bill smirked. “Ooh, never knew I had it in m— Sorry. Um… Goddit!”
“Through the scarcely opened portal,
Proud young Big-Foot doth espy
Lovely Mima all bestricken,
Limp beneath the Foul One’s eye.”
“What?” said Tom dangerously.
Unfortunately Bill now had the bit between his teeth:
“Lovely Mima, Lovely Mima,
Limp beneath the Foul One’s eye,
Now what fate will soon befall her,
’Less the noble boy doth fly;
Fly to rescue lovely Mima,
Limp beneath the Cruel Eye,
Limp within Bone-Cutter’s clutches,
Now must Big-Foot do or Die!”
“I’ll flaming strangle you: what HAPPENED?” roared Tom.
“You’re disturbing me flow!” Bill protested.
“I’ll disturb more than your flow in a minute, you maundering moron: what—happened?”
“Well, Rog can hear Jemima squeaking, you see. So he goes in very quietly. And there she is, halfway up that ruddy staircase of yours on the flaming ladder.”—Tom blenched.—“Yeah,” said Bill with a certain satisfaction. “And ruddy Ralph’s standing there with both hands on the ladder.”
“And?”
“And he’s giggling like mad: musta been pissed, liquid lunch, I’d say—mind you, young Rog didn’t spot it—and he’s saying: ‘Come on, Mima Puddle-Duck, Ralphy’ll catch you: jump!’ And poor little Mima’s making these squeaking noises: ‘Don’t be silly, Ralph, let me down!’”
“I’ll kill the bugger!” choked Tom, bounding to his feet.
“No, ya won’t; well, ya can, for me: only Rog done a good one on ’im.”
“Well, what?” He subsided slowly, glaring at his Headmaster.
“He reckons Jemima’s safe for a minute or two, ya see: Ralph’s giggling so much he can hardly stand up straight, for a start. Of course it never dawns that all he has to do is stroll in and say ‘Hullo, folks’ to make the Great White Surgeon feel like the world’s biggest twat—well, he is only a kid.”
“What did he do?” responded Tom grimly.
“He rushes outside—it had been raining, remember?—and slathers handfuls of mud all over the BMW’s windscreen and bonnet. And rinses his hands under that tap you’ve providentially got down by your gate. Then he starts yelling at the top of his voice: ‘Leave that BMW alone, you kids!’ And belts up to the house: half the time he’s yelling ‘Leave that BMW alone!’—quite a feat, you ever tried yelling BMW?—and half the time it’s ‘Mr Overdale, Mr Overdale, come quick, some kids are throwing mud at your car!’” He beamed.
“Two medals!” said Tom fervently. “With gold oak leaves!”
“What I thought,” acknowledged Bill. “So Ralph shoots out, red as a turkey, spots the damage, and literally screams. –You ever heard ’im do that?”
“Once. When our brother Bob kneed him in the balls. That was over a dame, come to think of it: Bob musta been about eighteen, and so was she; I was only a kid, of course; and bloody Ralph was in his twenties.”
“Yeah, well, Rog’s coup makes two. And the good thing was, ole Ralphy never even suspected him! He just roars out he’ll kill the little buggers. Then he says will Rog help him wash it off—meaning will Rog do it while he supervises, Rog spotted that, no trouble. So he says no, he can’t, there’s just been an urgent phone-call at our place for Jemima, he was coming to get her when he spotted the kids. Then he gets a bit over-elaborate and says it was me ringing to say you’ve left some exam papers on ya desk, and maybe Jemima’s phone was off the hook or something but I couldn’t get through—fortunately Ralph doesn’t spot that one—and him and Jemima have to take ’em in to school right away, they’ll go down to Number 3 and borrow Darryl’s Vee-Dub! Well, Ralph’s so stirred up he doesn’t catch on, thank the Lord, and Jemima’s come outside by now, so Rog just grabs her hand, hauls her inside, and they grab the nearest pile of papers and skedaddle down to Number 3.”
“I see.”
Bill looked at him warily and added in a would-be casual voice: “Darryl was all for kicking ’im in his equipment, never mind cleaning the fucking BMW; only Jemima ups and says he wasn’t doing anything, only teasing. But Darryl says it’s sexual harassment. So she marches up there. Don’t ask me what she said to Master Ralph, but it can’t have been too pleasant, because he fucks off, mud and all. Forthwith, as it were.”
“Christ!” muttered Tom, mopping his forehead.
“Mm.” After a moment Bill said cautiously: “What did Jemima actually say?”
Tom sighed. He rubbed his nose. “Verbatim?”
“Well, if ya can.”
Tom sighed again. “‘Ralph was here at lunchtime, he was being awfully silly, I think he might have been drinking. Only it was all right: Roger came over practically straight away. He was only teasing, really. And we went down to Number 3 and Darryl told Ralph off, I think, and he went home.’”
“Mm.” Bill sucked his pipe. “Playing it down a bit?”
Tom sighed. “I suppose he didn’t really do anything, the shit. Only make the poor little soul shake in her shoes—mostly embarrassment, it would have been.”
“Yeah,” agreed Bill grimly.
“All the same, I think mud and a tongue-lashing from the Amazon from Number 3’s letting him off lightly,” decided Tom, grimacing.
Darryl Tuwhare was the Amazon type, all right. “Mm.” Bill sucked thoughtfully on the Hokum Pipe, not quite daring to admit that he wished he’d been privileged to hear her. Tom glared out of the window at the wild turnip field destined to become the nature reserve.
After some time Bill said thoughtfully: “One must ask oneself, is one perhaps making too much of a trivial episode?” He shot Tom a wary glance.
Tom’s mouth tightened. “Yes, well, I can see you were doing your best to play it down, Bill, and I appreciate the effort, but shit! Put yourself in poor little Mima’s place! I mean, for Chrissakes, he’s twice her age and twice her size!”
“Mm,” Bill agreed uncomfortably.
“According to Darryl,” added Tom, rather drily, “men can never imagine what it’s like to be a victim.”
The bronze Amazon in question was five-foot-eleven with shoulders on her like a navvy, and an expert at several forms of martial art. There was therefore possibly some excuse for Bill’s choking fit.
“Put yourself in Jemima’s place,” reiterated Tom sourly when the noise had died away.
“Uh, well, Darryl’s got a point: ruddy hard to actually do that. But it can’t have been too pleasant, no.”
Tom grunted.
After a considerable silence during which the Hokum Pipe went out, Bill said cautiously: “He is your brother.”
“And?”
“Well, I dare say he didn’t mean anything by it. Just a bit lit-up: you know,” he said uncomfortably.
“This excuses him, does it?”
“No.” Bill knocked the Hokum Pipe briskly in his ashtray. Nothing happened, so he poked inside it with a matchstick.
“All right, I’ll wait and see if the bugger apologizes!” said Tom abruptly.
“I would,” murmured Bill in agreement.
Tom got up. “He won’t, though.”
Bill merely returned: “You got any of your share of Alec’s home brew left?”
“No: funnily enough after Someone had come over from Number 9 on flimsy excuses looking thirsty a few hundred times—there it suddenly wasn’t!” he finished in a high, squeaky voice.
“Can you make it?” replied Bill.
“Yes. But why should I knock myself out for you? Make your own.”
“Meg says it requires strict hygiene,” he replied glumly.
Tom went over to the door. “Meg’s right.” His hand was on the doorknob but Bill said: “OY!”
“What?”
Bill blew scientifically into the bowl of the Hokum Pipe. “Don’t go rushing off doing anything bloody silly, will ya?”
Tom glared; Bill added mildly: “Give him a chance, anyway.”
“Like he gave Jemima?”
“This conversation seems to be going round in circles,” he noted.
Tom sighed. “All right: I’ll give it a few days. And then I’ll ring him up and tell him exactly where he gets off—not to mention what he can do with his fucking New Year’s Eve Party!” He marched out.
Bill could hear his footsteps stomping over the verandah and down the steps, so he gathered he was pretty pissed off, all right—it being bloody hard to stomp in rubber jandals.
But to everyone’s astonishment—not excluding his own—Ralph did apologize.
“What the fuck do you want?” Tom growled into the phone.
“To apologize for getting pissed and putting the wind up Jemima,” replied Ralph.
After a moment Tom said: “Oh, that’s what you were doing, was it?”
“I only— Well, there was absolutely nothing in it, dear boy: just teasing. God knows I wasn’t going to maroon her on her ladder forever or—or rape her when she got off it, or anything of that sort. Nothing at all, in fact.”
“Nothing at all?” shouted Tom.
“I wanted to lift her off the thing; all right!” said Ralph in an annoyed voice.
“Well, keep your bloody hands to yourself in future!” shouted Tom.
“I intend to. –Look, I’d had a liquid lunch with bloody John Westby and some idiot ENT friend of his from Puriri Hospital, a patient had died on me the night before, and if you must know the sordid details another one had died under me fucking knife on the fucking table the day before that—and I’m trying to APOLOGIZE, bugger it!”
Tom was silent a moment. Ralph rarely spoke of his work and when he did it was certainly not of his failures. “All right, I concede you had some excuse. And I suppose you’re only human, like the rest of us,” he said at last.
Ralph breathed a stealthy sigh of relief. “Yes. Well, it was damn silly... But there was nothing in it.”
Tom took a deep breath. “You victimized her, Ralph.”
Ralph was considerably annoyed at this remark: the more so because it was what the angry Amazon who’d confronted him on his brother’s doorstep had said. Amongst other things. However, he replied in tones of strangled restraint: “So I gather. I’m sorry.”
After a moment Tom said: “All right. I accept your apology. You’d better tell Jemima.”
“Will she— I mean, was she very upset?”
“Not particularly. Embarrassed by a dirty old man making a tit of himself, is about the level,” he replied with considerable satisfaction.
“I suppose I deserved that. Well, I’ll say I’m sorry nicely.”
“You’d better.” He went and got Jemima.
“Hullo, Ralph,” she said shyly.
Ralph went all funny as she spoke. He hadn’t expected not to but it was damned annoying all the same. Part simple lust, part crawling embarrassment, part God knew what.
“Jemima, I’m sorry about the other day. I’d had too much to drink over lunch, and— Well, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“That’s all right,” said Jemima shyly.
“No, it isn’t,” said Ralph, going very red. “I behaved like a pig, and I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” said Jemima simply.
“I never meant anything by it; you do believe me, don’t you?”
“Yes. Well, you didn’t do anything, really.”
“No,” he agreed in relief. “Uh—Tom does realize that, does he?”
“I think so. I told him you were just being silly.”
“Uh—yes,” muttered Ralph. “Look, are the two of you still coming over on New Year’s Eve? Audrey’s expecting you, you know.”
Jemima replied uncertainly: “Um, I think so.”
Then his brother’s voice said in his ear: “We’ll come if you’ll promise not to embarrass us by behaving like a raving tit all over Audrey’s dee-cor.”
With a thud of relief Ralph realised that he was getting over it. “The dee-cor isn’t exactly conducive, when one comes to think of it, dear boy. Oh, by the way, bring the Master Potter if you think she’d enjoy it.”
“She’d hate it. On the other hand it would be a free meal and free grog.”
“Put it to her in those terms, then. –And give our love to Alec.”
“Will do. Oh—do you want us to take anything down to him?”
“No, Audrey has been super-efficient as usual and posted everything to everybody in super-good time,” he sighed.
“Sometimes I think there might be some slight—very slight—excuse for you, Ralph,” noted his brother.
“There’s a first time for everything,” murmured Ralph.
“I dare say. But there’d better not be a second for some.”
“No. We’ll see you on New Year’s Eve, then. Stay the night, if you like.”
“We’ll have to, I fully intend to get down on your bubbly.”
“You’re welcome. –Do I proffer further humble apologies?”
“Don’t chance your luck,” said Tom very drily, ringing off.
“Hold this,” grunted Junior Winkelmann.
Sol held it.
“Now gimme—” Sol gave it him.—“How does that look?”
“Vile, wasn’t that the intention?”
Junior gave his uncle a very nasty look. “Is it STRAIGHT?” he hollered.
“Nope: that end there’s a good six inches lower than this end here; so what?”
Junior breathed very hard through his nose. He got slowly and carefully off of his ladder. He looked critically at his Christmas decorations...
“Hold this. SOL!”
“Okay, I’m holding it, now what?”
Junior grunted slightly; he couldn’t grunt too much, he now had a mouth full of thumbtacks.
Sol went on holding it. “Say, how does this grab you: take a glass—empty, you know, about uh—ten inches tall, wider at the top than at the bottom but with a good solid base on it. Take this in your right hand—or your left, I guess would do. Ain’t it jest cool and inviting? Mm-hm! Now, into this glass from a just-opened bottle of cold, frothin’, beck’nin’—”
Junior grunted urgently. Sol passed him the end of the five hundred yards of silver fuzz Junior was draping round the big family-room. Not the drawing-room, Pat had vetoed that, she’d just done it out in Restrained Taste.
“Ain’t a bit—uh—sameish?” said Sol at last as they surveyed the finished effort without enthusiasm. “Uh—colourless?”
“Nan wanted it all silver,” replied Junior glumly.
“Oh. Well, what about the tree? That ain’t silver.”
“It will be,” said Junior glumly. He produced a can of silver paint from his huge kitbag of Christmas equipment.
“Junior, you can’t spray it in here,” said Sol faintly—though something in him was crying out to him that Junior could, he could, oh please God, he could!
“Huh?”
“Have you ever sprayed anything?” said Sol heavily.
“Uh—sure. I guess.”
“What?”
“Uh... Well, gee, I’m sure I have! Uh... That cart I made for Little Abe!”
“Oh, yeah,” said Sol brightly: “that time you sprayed Ruthie’s front stoop bright red, I remember!”
“Oh—yeah,” said Junior sheepishly. He looked despondently at the tree. The Monster Tree. Needless to say, of Abe’s choosing. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to take it outside, huh? Do it—uh—in the yard.”
Abe’s grounds were extensive but it was hard to think of any part of them that could have been described as “yard”.
“Sure, you take it out in back!” said Sol breezily, “Say, if we’re real lucky maybe some of the paint’ll go on that creepy mermaid in the bra, and cover her right up!”
Junior ignored this. “How shall we set about it? Shall I go get—”
“We? Say, boy, ain’t you been list’nin’ to your old uncle? Man, you is gwine take it out in back; I is gwine take maself to Joe’s Bar and Grill. Now. If not five minutes since.”
Junior ignored this. “I know! That little cart that the garbage cans sit on! I’ll bring that up... Uh—yeah, I’ll bring that right round to the patio doors. Yes, that’s it!” He rushed off.
Sol shrugged. He looked at the tree. The Monster Tree. He looked at Junior’s spray-can. He looked at his watch. Then he walked out.
“How—could—he!” sobbed Ruthie.
Abe patted her back in a somewhat perfunctory way. Ruthie always broke down in this fashion shortly before Christmas Day. At least once. And many years, more than once.—Junior couldn’t pat her, one hand was swathed in a huge bandage with patches of mercurochrome (Jasmine’s cure-all) on it. The other held a tumbler of Cognac, which his father had forced on him for medicinal purposes. Abe’s hand that wasn’t patting Ruthie also held a Cognac, which Abe had forced on himself.
Pat came in, said crossly: “Get a move on, Abe, we’ll be late, you know what Flora Belle is since she got that dratted French cook!” and went out. If she had noticed the hiccupping Ruthie, the wounded Junior or the booze in Abe’s fist she gave no sign of it.
“Uh—yeah, I guess I better— Now, now, Ruthie, honey, it ain’t that bad.”
“It was so—mean—of him!” hiccupped Ruthie.
“Uh-huh,” said Abe, somewhat noncommittally.
“It isn’t his house, Ruthie, honey,” Junior pointed out uneasily. “I guess there’s no real reason he should take an interest—”
“Keep out of this, Junior!” flashed Ruthie. “You always make excuses for him!” She sniffed dolorously.
Abe ceased patting her in order to force a flag-like handkerchief into her hand. “That’s better, Ruthie, honey; now it ain’t that bad, most of that wasn’t blood, it was just—”
Before he could say “mercurochrome”—not that it would have been that easy three-quarters of the way through a very large Cognac—Ruthie wailed: “It just isn’t like Sol! I don’t know what’s come over him, these days!”
“The male menopause, isn’t it, honey?” said Junior in mild surprise. “Isn’t that what you said to me only the other—”
“Be QUIET, Junior!”
“Yeah, well, he sure has been in a funny mood just lately,” said Abe uneasily. “I guess it’s all this New Zealand business, huh? Now, you get Ruthie a brandy, Junior, I really gotta—” He gave Ruthie one last pat, and hurried out.
“Who’s—going—to spray—the tree—now?” hiccupped Ruthie.
“Uh—I guess... Well, maybe I could manage with my left—”
“You will NOT!” Ruthie trumpeted into Abe’s handkerchief.
Junior held out his glass to her. “Just take a sip, hon’; it’ll make you feel much—”
“Junior Winkelmann! Why are you trying to turn me into an alcoholic? Isn’t it bad enough with your poor father’s brother never with a glass out of his hand, and him trying to turn Abe the same way—and you know how that upsets Nan—without you getting in on the act as well?” cried Ruthie loudly.
“I wasn’t—”
“And as for trying to decorate the tree one-handed, I never heard such nonsense in all my born days!”
Junior looked uneasily round the big room. He looked uneasily at The Monster Tree. It just stood there in its monster tub, leering at him greenly. He looked uneasily at the collapsed garbage can cart out on the patio—still with his blood on it—and wondered if he should go get a shot, there was that poodle from three doors up the street that always—
“Huh?”
“I said, he did it on purpose to ruin everything!” she cried. “I don’t care if he is your uncle, Junior, it’s too much!”
“Uh—well, I guess he’s getting on, Ruthie, maybe he didn’t feel up to heaving garbage carts—”
“Stop it, Junior!” she hollered. “He’s fitter than you are! Stop making excuses for him!”
Junior looked round the room in a hunted way.
Ruthie snuffled. “Now it’s all ruined!”
Junior had been about to point out consolingly that the tree looked real nice, green. He thought better of it. “Uh—well, now, maybe we could get a man in to do it?”
“WHAT?” screamed Ruthie. “Are you crazy, Junior? It’s practically CHRISTMAS EVE!”
Old Mrs Lambert lurked behind her sitting-room curtains. A large station-waggon had drawn up outside, and the people were visiting Michaela! A pretty brown-haired lady and three dear little kiddies.
“I’ve got your Christmas present in the back of the waggon. I know it’s a bit early, but we’ll be down at the farm with Mum and Dad later. Would you like to come and help unload it?” said Polly.
Little dark-haired Davey began excitedly: “It’s a great big—”
But his mother cried desperately: “SHUT UP, DAVEY!”
“It’s a secret!” the tow-headed Johnny informed him scornfully.
“Big secwet!” agreed Katie Maureen.
“Yes. Though I have to admit,” Polly admitted, twinkling, “it won’t remain a secret for a second after you’ve seen it, even though we’ve got it all wrapped up. But I’ll give you the extra few minutes’ anticipation!”
Michaela followed them outside with a sinking feeling: what enormous, useless, expensive and quite probably time- and money-consuming object could it possibly be?
Polly opened the back of the station-waggon.
“See!” screamed the twins. “It’s a—”
“It’s just what I need!” cried Michaela, her voice almost drowned by the twins’ screams of “BI-EEKE!”
At this old Mrs Lambert burst outside, unable to contain herself any longer.
“Look, Mrs Lambert!” cried Michaela. “My cousins have given me a bike for Christmas!”
“Isn’t that splendid, dear!” she beamed. “—It’s just what she’s always needed!” she said to Polly.
“Yes,” said Polly with a little sigh. “I know.”
“Merry almost Christmas,” said Tom with a grin, handing Roger a large, flat package.
“We’ve got you a proper present, too, but this is an extra one,” explained Jemima. “From all of us!” She held tightly to Tom’s arm and beamed at Roger.
“Can I open it now?”
“Half a tick,” replied Tom. He strode over to the door, stuck his head round it and bellowed down Bill and Meg’s dingy passage: “OY! WHERE’S THAT GROG?”
“I’ve never had mead,” Jemima informed John and Darryl from Number 3.
“Me neither,” agreed Bob Butler.
“Nor’ve we. We’re fully expecting it to be foul,” admitted Darryl, grinning.
“Foul but alcoholic,” agreed John.
“You can open it when we’ve all got a glass in our fists,” Tom explained kindly to Roger, ignoring these witterings. “We could sit in that armchair,” he added with keen percipience.
“Could we?” returned Jemima.
“Mm, it looks the sort of armchair that two not-stout persons who were not averse to each other’s close proximity could occupy together.”
“The possessive was good; pity about the tautology,” murmured John.
Tom sat in the big armchair, grinning. Jemima squeezed in beside him, giggling. Was she the sort of woman who laughs at jokes at her husband’s expense for thirty years? Well, chance’d be a fine thing.
“Go on, Rog,” Tom said eventually, when the final verdict on the mead had been deferred for a bit. Bob was positive it wasn’t as bad as Polish Poison but, as June maintained, few things could be. Meg had noted it was pretty horrible but not as bad as Alec Overdale’s home brew, so they’d unanimously decided not to count her vote. Jemima had said Tom could finish hers, so they’d unanimously decided not to count her vote, either. Darryl had pronounced it drinkable but not as strong as that stuff her friend Sybil had once made. John had asked eagerly if there was any of that stuff left but Darryl had replied that that was the stuff he’d said tasted like mould and anyway there wasn’t.
Roger set his glass aside with some relief. He opened the large flat package carefully.
“Bob did the cover, isn’t it super?” said Jemima.
Roger looked dubiously at the cover of the large flat book that looked suspiciously like a big scrapbook from Woolie’s that someone had put a cover on. The cover featured an oval lozenge (or, as Bill had declared before they could stop him, Pascal) surrounded by a formal garland of, you saw if you looked very closely as Roger was now doing, onion flowers, wild turnip and oxalis. Beyond the garland and, indeed, all over the back cover were inscribed very odd objects indeed.
“The kids did the drawings, you see, and then Bob—um, I’m not sure, but anyway he did a print off them,” explained June.
Roger turned back to the front and re-read the inscription. It said “A GARLAND on The Glorious Defeat of Big White Bone-Cutter By THE NOBLE BIG-FOOT, Son of He Who Smokes Heap-Foul Hokum-Pipe Behind Chook House In Deepest Secret.”
This was not entirely illuminating, so he stared at the illustrations on the back again. “That’s a BMW,” he said at last.
“Michael did it,” explained Meg. “It’s quite good, isn’t it?”
“Twin can’t draw,” replied Roger blankly.
“Starsky helped him with the drawing bits,” explained June.
“Andrew musta done these Sopwith Camels, it’s all he can draw,” decided Roger. “Are these bombs, that they’re dropping on the BMW?”
“No: goat shit,” said Bill. “Wishful thinking. Well, poetic licence, ya see.”
“Artistic licence, you fool,” corrected Meg. “See, there’s the goat.”
“Bob drew most of that,” admitted June. “But Connie did the, um—”
“Poos,” said Meg resignedly.
A smile was hovering round Roger’s mouth. “Who’s this here that the goat and the Sopwith Camels are bombing?”
“Big White Bone-Cutter, of course,” replied Tom with immense satisfaction.
“Open it, Rog!” urged Meg.
Roger’s smile grew—rather uncertainly, but it grew. He opened it…
“Everybody wrote one,” explained Jemima, as he turned the pages uncertainly.
“Bob did all the, um, plates,” said Bill. “And the actual lettering, because none of us could—um—”
“Write,” said Meg.
“Letter,” he corrected, glaring.
“This one’s in Maori,” said Roger faintly.
Darryl smirked. “It’s a waiata.”
“I never knew you could write it,” he said in awe.
“She can’t, much,” returned John brutally. “She had to keep ringing her father and asking him what the word for such-and-such was, or if something-or-other was grammatical.”
“Oh,” said Roger weakly.
“Go on, read them!” urged Jemima. “Read the first one first! Bill wrote it, it’s really good!”
“It’ll put you fully in the picture,” explained Tom.
“Not unless he’s done Hiawatha at school, it won’t,” said John unkindly. “Have you?”
“Um—sort of. Well, bits. It’s dumb, eh?”
“Precisely, oh Son of He Who Smokes Heap-Foul Hokum-Pipe Behind Chook House In Deepest Secret,” agreed John.
Roger began to read, uncertainly at first. Pretty soon he was chuckling. Pretty soon people were bounding up and leaning over his shoulder, eagerly pointing out the good bits. Finally Meg roared: “Let him get on with it, for Pete’s sake!”
“You never wrote that,” said Roger at last, lowering the volume and goggling at his progenitor.
“I did, too!”
Jemima looked slightly embarrassed at this one, so Meg said kindly: “Tom helped him with the hard bits.”
“But most of the inspiration was his own,” allowed Tom.
Roger looked suspicious. He looked back at the book. “What about this portal bit?”
“Entirely my own!” said Bill in a deeply hurt voice.
“I thought so: Red Indian lodges don’t have portals.” Roger read over a bit. “The rhymes are good,” he admitted.
“Huh!” snorted Tom. “OW!” he cried as Jemima dug him in the ribs.
“He’s got this rotten rhyming dictionary,” said Bill, glaring at his Senior Master; “only—”
“Naturally,” put in John, twinkling behind the beard.
“Yeah, naturally,” agreed Bill sourly. “Only he never let on, ya see. And I kept ringing him up and asking him if he could think of rhymes for, um—”
“Such-and-such,” said John.
“‘Goat shit’,” said Meg. “Whether or not there was actually any in the mud to start with.”
“Words,” finished Bill, glaring.—Roger was now shaking visibly.—“And I thought he was real smart, ya see, and the mean bugger let me go on thinking—”
“I got—that!” gasped Roger.
“Anyone but a moron woulda guessed a poet’d have a rhyming dictionary,” said Darryl scornfully.
“His stuff doesn’t usually rhyme, though!” retorted Bill crossly.
“So?”
Bill glared at their Amazonian friend.
“Well, anyway, it’s really good, Dad,” said Roger.
“See!” Bill informed the assembled company.
“It is, too,” said Jemima loyally.
“Read Jemima’s,” Tom suggested. “It’s a sonnet—have ya done those?”
“‘A sonnet numbers fourteen lines, ’tis plain’; or was it ‘clear’?” replied Roger.
Tom muttered: “Plain: quatrain,” but everybody ignored him
“…fourteen. Ooh, so it does!” the brilliant boy discerned.
“It’s a very nice sonnet,” said John kindly. “Very Shakespearian.”
“Yeah, we did that one,” agreed Roger. “Most of the kids reckoned being a summer’s day’d be better, because they come round every year.”
“Puriri High one; Shakespeare nil,” noted Tom, grinning.
“Ssh, I’m reading! …Help, it’s got loads of rhymes,” he said to Jemima in awe.
Blushing, the poetess replied: “Yes. Well, I did use the rhyming dictionary.”
Bill refilled mead glasses as Roger read on. From time to time there were delighted chortles. Once or twice there was a cry of: “I know that one!” There was also, however, a fair amount of blank silence, as those who had got too clever for their own good Might Have Known, Bill noted with satisfaction. Waiata, indeed!
“Which one do you like best?” asked June kindly at last.
“Um—well, I think Dad’s one, really. And Jemima’s is awfully good, too,” he said, blushing.
“But?” prompted John with a smile.
“Um—well, I don’t know... Yours is good, John. We did that poem at school.”
“Is this my cue to cry ‘see?’” John asked the assembled company.
“All right, who wrote it?” said Bill instantly to the Noble Big-Foot.
“Um—I dunno. But it was about daffodils, eh?”
“Mm,” agreed John. “Mine’s a bit shorter.”
“Yeah.” Roger turned back to it and read aloud with pleasure:
“Fair avenue mud, we weep to see
You washed away so soon.”
June giggled loudly. “Go on!” she urged.
“That’s all,” replied Roger in mild surprize.
June collapsed in hysterics.
“Meg’s is good, too,” added Roger.
“Huh!” snorted Bill.
Roger read out the first verse in thoughtful tones:
“’Twas Tuesday, and the slithy Ralph,
Did gyre and gimble up Blossom Av:
All mimsy was the boring Hugh,
As Roger crossed the Av.”
“I thought it wasn’t a rhyme if you had two of ’em,” said Bill keenly.
“True, oh Great White Pow-Wow Chief,” sighed Tom.
“At least I didn’t keep ringing up Number 10 and asking them to think up rhymes for me!” said Meg indignantly.
“True, oh She Who is Chief Over Great White Pow-Wow Chief,” sighed Tom.
“Anyway, you’ve got lots of rhymes in the rest of it,” said Roger kindly. “And Ralphywocky’s a great title. Only I think I like Tom’s best, of the others,” he decided.
“Nyah, nah, na-na-nah!” sang Tom.
“Anybody can write like Lear,” said Bill, pouting.
“What about mine?” said June sadly.
Roger looked blank.
“It’s right at the end,” said Bill. “Hang on—” He got up and leaned over Roger’s shoulder. “These two pages have stuck together, you amateur book-maker,” he said rudely to Bob.
June’s poem was very short, and Bob had done a wonderful illustration. It was titled Ralph & Huqh.
Ralph and Hugh
Went up the hill,
To inflict themselves on Mima,
Hugh sat down
And hurt his bum,
And Ralph ended up with mud on his face.
Even though it didn’t rhyme or anything Roger had to admit that it was pretty nearly as good as Bill’s.
“He’ll treasure that for the rest of his life, you know, Bill,” said Meg, quite some time later. “Has Ralph worked out yet he did it?”
“We don’t think so. He doesn’t know much about teenage boys.”
“I thought he had kids of his own?” said the innocent Meg.
“Oh, he leaves all that to Audrey,” Tom assured her. “Not interested in kids. Doesn’t have a clue what makes ’em tick.”
“What is he interested in, outside food, grog and BMWs?” asked Bill, yawning.
“Well, not Audrey, for a start,” said Tom. “But then she isn’t interested in him, so I guess that’s fair. I dunno that he’s interested in anything, much. Does a bit of golf and skiing: they both combine exercise with contacts, ya see.”
“He has to work hard keeping up with his subject,” murmured Jemima.
Tom made a rude noise.
“He’ll’ve told ’er that,” noted Bill keenly.
“Well, I think it’s sad!” she said defiantly.
Tom sighed. “Come on, Mima Puddle-Duck.”
They went down the front steps of Number 9, Jemima bidding her hosts politely goodnight, and Tom pointing out rudely there was little point in this valediction, she’d be seeing them again in the morning—all too soon, if Bill caught the fragrant whiff of real coffee and real bacon...
“Whaddaya reckon?” yawned Bill, leaning heavily on the portal.
“What about?” replied Meg. “Oh, this Ralph rubbish? Nothing in it, he was a bit drunk and Tom’s suffering well and truly from the green-eyed—”
“No! Gawd, ya think you’ve got the little woman trained up, all keen and eager, ready to respond to the lightest touch on the rein—”
“You can drop that.”
“About them, you nana,” he said slowly and clearly.
“Oh: Tom and Jemima? It’s looking all right, isn’t it? I started to wonder, when he came down with this jealous fit—though mind you, with that Hugh creep as well as Ralph—and now I come to think of it,” she recalled keenly, “wasn’t that American—that thin one, not the one that married Susan’s mother, the other one—wasn’t he hanging round at one stage?”
Bill groaned faintly.
Ignoring this, Meg continued: “Actually, I think it’s done him a lot of good. I mean, at least it’s made him sit up and take notice a bit—he hasn’t just made her his chattel and immediately started ignoring her, like ninety percent of you lot do! And what’s more it’s taken his mind right off that ridiculous affaire he had with Polly!”
“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed. Clairvoyant, she was, ya see. He didn't bother to say yet again that there’d been nothing in it, the thing hadn’t been serious on ether side and if you asked him, old Tom at that point had not only had sex in his head, the ignorant who were not familiar with the phrase could just shut up, but had been reacting violently to Jemima giving him the cold shoulder.
Meg took a deep breath and hissed: “And at least he isn’t putting her down with every other breath like we were afraid of, at one stage!”
Tom and Jemima couldn’t possibly hear her, from this distance. Bill didn’t bother to say so. “Like some of us was afraid of at one stage.”
“Bullshit! I’ve never seen anything like the mood you were in—”
“All right! And that wasn’t because of that!”
“What was it because of, then?” rejoined Meg caustically. “Jealousy?”
Bill replied lugubriously: “Yeah. Wishing I could have me youth all over again.”
Instead of rubbishing this Meg merely replied drily: “There seems to be a fair bit of that going round, actually. Get inside, you great oaf.”
Yawning, Bill got.
Eagerly Ivan fell on the large present from Grandma, which looked as it if could be— Eagerly he tore the wrappings off. His face fell about ten feet and he burst into loud sobs. Through the sobs the assembled Butlers dimly perceived: “Wan’ed—a ’pu—ter!”
“What in God’s name put that into his head?” said Bob in bewilderment.
“The dratted television, probably. Well, it certainly wasn’t me, so you needn’t look at me like that!” returned June smartly.
“I thought he wanted a skateboard? IVAN! I THOUGHT YOU WANTED A SKATEBOARD?”
“Wann—ed com—pu—ter!” sobbed Ivan.
“It’s a lovely skateboard,” June pointed out.
“I WANT A COMPUTER!” screamed Ivan.
His parents looked at each other helplessly. As swift whacks on the seat of the pants were definitely O,U,T on Christmas Day—unless actual mayhem was involved, naturally—it was difficult to see how to respond appropriately. Besides, this particular situation had never arisen before: Starsky, a strong-minded lad, had his own interests and so far had proven indifferent to the bombardments to which even his idiosyncratic pre-pubic mind was continually subjected by every form of advertising medium known to Western civilization. And Mason was simply too little: the immediate attraction of whatever-it-was immediately wiped from the consciousness any notion of whatever it might have been that he might have fancied he fancied.
Finally June said loudly: “Well, you can’t HAVE a computer!” and, since this proved ineffective, Bob bellowed: “STOP THAT ROW!”
“Me, me!” urged Mason into the momentary lull. “Choose one for me, Dad!”
Obediently Bob picked up a Christmas present. As it was wrapped in brown paper laboriously decorated in black felt-tip by hand with a pattern of frolicking reindeer, and as it was in the shape of a pudding dish, they all knew what it was: the pudding dish that Michaela had made him. Nevertheless Mason unwrapped it with every appearance of excited anticipation, and greeted the emergent pudding dish with a cry of: “Look, Mum, it’s got my name on it!”
“Of course it has, you moron, you saw her make it!” said Starsky scornfully.
“That’ll do,” said Bob mildly.
“Well, open one of mine,” he retorted.
“No—STOP THAT NOISE, IVAN! No, it’s your mother’s turn.” He handed her a large shiny black box with a huge red bow on it.
“What on earth—?” she gasped. “Where have you been hiding this? I thought those tea-towels were my present?”
“Tea-towels!” he said with immense scorn.
June opened it slowly. It was a filmy pale-blue nightie and negligée set. “Ooh, it’s gorgeous, Bob!”
“Yuck,” said Starsky.
“Open one of mine!” urged Mason. “Dad! ME!”
“It must have cost a fortune!” breathed June.
“Nope, got it on sale,” lied Bob breezily.
June awarded Bob a smacking kiss. Starsky made noises as of one being violently ill. Mason jigged up and down, crying: “ME! ME! Open one of mine, Dad!” Ivan continued to sob convulsively... And it was still only six-fifteen a.m.
“It’s the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had!” said Jemima fervently.
Michaela and the elderly Alec Overdale grinned amiably. Tom laughed. He gave her a little hug. “Good!”
“What with genuine miniature bark boats,” added Michaela, grinning at Alec.
“And pudding plates with ‘Jemima’ on ’em,” he noted, grinning back.
“Or ‘Rover’, as the case may be,” murmured Tom. The very full black heap at Alec’s feet stirred ever so slightly. Its tail twitched. “That bugger’s stonkered,” he added.
“Yeah,” his uncle replied, unmoved.
“It was a very nice thought, making a bowl for Rover!” approved Jemima.
“I couldn’t think of anything else,” said Michaela simply.
Alec got out his pipe. “Where’d you go last Christmas?” he asked Michaela.
“I dunno,” she replied after some brow-wrinkling. “I was at home, I suppose.”
“Your parents’ place?”
“Ugh, no!”
“Didn’t you go to Bob and June’s?” asked Jemima in some surprize, as Alec began to fill his pipe slowly.
“No; they went to his mother’s place. She did ask me, but her flat’s pretty small.”
“She a widow?” asked Alec.
“Why?” said Tom blandly.
Everybody ignored him, and Michaela said to Alec: “Yes. Her husband died ages ago, before I even met Bob and June. She had a house somewhere in town but she sold it when Bob and June decided to settle at Waikaukau Junction, and moved up to Puriri.”
This was a long speech for Michaela. Tom eyed her in some amusement.
Alec lit his pipe. He sucked scientifically. “I geddit.”
Tom began in a high, excited voice: “It’s a lovely wee flat, Alec: a wee home unit. It’s got a microwave, and a ceramic stove-top, and a lovely little built-in laundry—”
Alec blew out a cloud of smoke. Instead of bothering to tell his nephew to drop it, or anything of that sort, he said neutrally: “Over in that top drawer”—he sketched a nod in the vague direction of a large battered sideboard—”you’ll find a box of those Hindenburgs that Ralph always—”
Tom bounded to his feet. “I thought you’d never offer!”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Jemima.
Alec removed his pipe. “Outside!” he said loudly to his nephew.
Jemima went very red and began in a flustered voice: “No, it’s all right—”
But Tom said mildly: “I was gonna.” He took himself and the cigar out to the verandah.
There was peace in Alec’s big, shabby sitting-room. Rover snored slightly. Alec contemplated nothing through a haze of pipe smoke. Jemima and Michaela just sat, digesting. They hadn’t quite finished their brandies so occasionally they took a little sip.
After some considerable period Alec muttered: “Did he say he was gonna make rissoles from the carcass, at one point?”
Giggling, Jemima explained: “The success of the roast goose has gone to his head, Alec!”
Through the cloud of pipe smoke Alec eyed her in some amusement. His lips twitched. For a moment he looked remarkably like his nephew. But he didn’t say anything.
Silence again. Rover twitched in his sleep. Michaela and Jemima digested and sipped. Alec smoked and contemplated nothing.
Eventually Michaela said thoughtfully: “That Christmas Dad gave me the chrysoprase was good. Well, the rock was. I think that was the Christmas Aunty Jan came up from Christchurch, and her and Mum had a frightful row... Yes, it was.”
Jemima looked at her sympathetically. Alec grunted slightly.
“I think this is the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had, too!” finished Michaela, beaming.
“Good,” said Jemima simply,
Out on the verandah steps Tom had heard every word—not surprising, since the sitting-room windows were pushed up as far as they would go in order to compensate slightly for the humidity of Ngaruawahia the Tropical Paradise of the South Pacific, the smell of roast goose, the smell of Alec’s pipe, and the smell of Rover. Abruptly his eyes filled with tears. His throat closed up and he actually had to remove the Hindenburg, and swallow.
Little Abe was sulking because he hadn’t got the radio-controlled toy powerboat he’d wanted for Christmas but a radio-controlled different powerboat model entirely. Bobby was in a furious temper because Grandpa Abe had given him a sled and he didn’t WANT a sled! The whole family had been under the impression that it was Bobby’s life’s ambition to own a sled: he’d spent the entire year trying to take over the sled acquired by his sibling last Christmas.
Junior was sulking because he was fed up with the boys playing up (yet again), because he’d had too much to eat and drink (yet again), because Ruthie had reproached him on the score of his drinking, and because he’d just caught his wounded hand a nasty knock on Bobby’s huge sled which was taking up an inordinate amount of the family-room even though it was propped up on its end. He stared glumly at the television without seeing it.
Ruthie was sulking because Junior had failed to control the boys (like he always did), because Junior had had too much alcohol (like he always did, Christmas and birthdays), and because both sons had greeted the extremely smart new snow-suits she’d chosen for them with sick noises. (Nothing to do with the fact they were in Florida, as the Junior Winkelmanns regularly went to a winter resort in January, but rather more to do with Ruthie’s taste and Ruthie’s total ignorance of, not to say blindness to, what kids were currently wearing.) She stared fixedly at the television without seeing it.
Abe wasn’t sulking, he was too full of a mixture of eggnog (urged on him by Ruthie), straight Scotch, and Cognac to be capable of sulking. He stared blearily at the television, now and then chuckling in a confused fashion.
Pat was sulking terrifically, because Abe was very full of eggnog, Scotch, and Cognac, and because huge Christmas dinners comprising gigantic haunches of roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, gravy, chestnuts, and honey-baked sweet potatoes (the American contribution) nauseated her. Especially when they were followed, as this one had been, by pumpkin pie, pecan pie and ice cream. She was also sulking because Ruthie had turned the TV on without asking her, so as the boys could watch some frightful American version of A Christmas Carol. More fundamentally, she was still sulking because Junior had never got to spray the Christmas tree silver and her colour scheme for the room was ruined. And, even more fundamentally, Sol had a pretty damn good idea, she was sulking because family Christmases bored her solid and she’d much have preferred to be at some up-market resort knocking back whatever it was the patrons of such up-market resorts did knock back at the season of good cheer. Eggnog, Scotch, and Cognac, most probably. She was refusing to so much as glance in the direction of the television.
Sol wasn’t actually sulking but he sure as Hell was bored. Shit, he could be watching Scrooged back home in his own chair with his feet up, slowly going to sleep! With no sister-in-law or niece-in-law to glare at him when he refilled the glass which could be standing at his elbow, neither. He stared glumly at the television and started a count-down in his head: Ten, nine... The object being, which would win, his will-power or Abe’s drinks cabinet? If he got to zero he’d award himself a triple bourbon but if the drinks cabinet won it’d only be a double. Seven, six...
All in all, it was a typical Christmas night chez Winkelmann. Sol told himself, in the intervals of counting down, that it was stupid to suppose Christmas in New Zealand would be any better. Stupid. Very stupid. Shucks, it was plumb crazy!
... Only it couldn’t be worse. Could it? Uh-uh. Nup. Not worse. As bad, maybe. Maybe. ... He could call Phoebe. No, he couldn’t, what a dumb idea, you had to book a Christmas call in advance. He could call her tomorrow. No, he couldn’t: what was the point, when he didn’t know how he felt, himself... She was an extremely competent woman. Person. No, woman: let’s not beat about the bush, Sol, you’re shit-scared she’d manage the Hell out of ya. Yee-up, sure am. Sure am. ... Couldn’t be worse than this, though. Could it?
Sol got up. “Ruthie, honey, you want another eggnog?”
Eggnog at Christmas of course wasn’t alcohol. Ruthie jerked her eyes away from Scrooged and replied: “Oh! Well, just a little one, I guess couldn’t do any harm! Thank you, Sol!” –This was extra-bright because it was her father-in-law’s brother that was doing the offering and not her husband, but Junior didn’t notice. Well, it woulda been hard to: he’d gone to sleep.
After many years of practice Sol had the technique down to a fine art. Blocking Ruthie’s view of the drinks cabinet with his slender person he poured a hefty belt of Scotch into her glass. Then he filled it up with eggnog. Eggnog that already had Scotch in it. What else?
... Well, could it be worse than this? Bill Murray’s cab drove right through the other vehicle! Ruthie and the kids screamed and laughed. Junior woke with a jerk but immediately fell asleep again. Abe smiled vaguely. Pat’s lips tightened.
Well, could it?
Next chapter:
https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/ring-out-old.html
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