Ecolodge Management

23

Ecolodge Management

    Tuesday. Slightly before sparrow-fart. They’d eaten all the bread, so it’d be, uh… cornflakes or porridge. Didn’t Jan give the bunkhousers muesli? But there didn’t seem to be any, just jars and jars of flaming rolled oats. Well, porridge wasn’t bad if there was a bit of milk to put on it, but there was only enough for a couple of cuppas. The goats were practically dry. Could nip next-door and get some cows’ milk off Tim… Or take the waggon down the service station and grab some stuff pushing its use-by date: flaming Julia Roberts always put the old stuff at the front of the fridge, he’d seen her doing it with his own—

    “Aw, there you are,” he said feebly as Libby came in and ruddy Peter immediately bounced all over her. “Giddown! SIT!”

    He sat, that fear-of-God tone musta penetrated, all right. Thing was, would he make the connection and not do it next time? The bastard was nearly as tall as she was when he stretched out, and he’d put his front paws on her shoulders!

    “Don’t pat him, he’ll get encouraged,” he warned.

    “No,” said Libby weakly. “He doesn’t often do that.”

    “Glad to hear it. You fancy porridge?”

    “Mm, lovely!” she beamed.

    Right. Next question. “There’s some frozen goats’ milk, if ya fancy it with that?”

    “I think she was saving it for cheese. Um, no, not really,” said Libby weakly.

    “Makes two of us.” Bob scratched his head. “One of us could nip down the service station, get a carton of last week’s off Julia.”

    “The fresher stuff’ll be at the back of the fridge. I’ll go.”

    “No, that’s okay, I will; you can start the porridge, eh?”

    “I don’t know how to make it,” said Libby apologetically. “We never had it at home.”

    “Okay, I’ll do it. Wanna take the waggon?”

    “Um, no, I’ve never driven one, Bob, I’d better take Dad’s four-wheel-drive.” She turned for the door, next to which was this handy little board full of hooks for the ecolodge’s spare keys, all neatly labelled. Except that the hook labelled “4WD” was empty.

    “Sorry,” said Bob, scrabbling in his pockets. “Uh—Hell. ‘Garage’,” he read off the tag. He hung it on its hook. “Uh—bugger: ‘Dairy.’ It’s the spare, I’ve got one of me own,” he said sheepishly, hanging it on its hook. “‘Bunkhouse’—it’s a spare, too, had one cut for meself. Forgot to—uh, yeah. Um… shit, ‘Office’.” He stuck it on its hook, cringing. “It’s supposed to be kept locked when there’s guests in,” he explained sheepishly. “Um—‘S &—’ What?”

    “Sean and Molly,” said Libby tranquilly, inspecting the board.

    “Yeah,” said Bob limply, hanging it up. “Well, um— Hang on, ‘Room 6’, what’s that doing— Aw, yeah, Michelle said the basin’s cold tap was starting to drip, that’s right.” He hung it up. “Thing is,” he said, feeling in his pockets again, “Coral’s right, bugger her: I’m disorganised. –Know what ad hoc means?”

    “Mm,” said Libby, biting her lip.

    “Right, well, that’s me middle name. Next to ‘Clueless’ and ‘Computer illiterate’.”

    “Really? Mine’s ‘As Bad as Your Father’,” returned Libby calmly.

    Bob gulped. “Pete did once say yer mum was the Coral type, yeah,” he said feebly.

    “She is a bit, but not nearly as bright or efficient as Coral. –I’d say those were beans, not keys,” she said in a super-kind voice as he produced a handful of dried bean pods.

    “Yeah, hah, hah,” said Bob with a silly grin. “Hang on.” He fished out a giant bundle of keys and felt in that pocket again. “Ah!”

    “‘Four double-you dee’,” read Libby. “Good. Anything else we need?”

    “Not at ruddy Julia’s prices, no, ta!”

    “Okay; see ya later!” She vanished.

    Bob sat down suddenly.

    Still Tuesday. Nits that thought that the best way to get compost onto a new strawberry bed was to wheel barrowloads of the stuff down here and tip it on then discovered that the stuff wouldn’t spread itself. Bob shovelled away, sweating. He’d taken his jersey off, though it wasn’t a warm day.

    “Woof!”

    He was about to tell the ruddy pooch to shut up, when a voice from behind him said shyly: “Hard yacker.”

    He gasped and swung round.

    Libby went very pink, not least because she’d been watching his tall, lean figure at work with frank admiration—even though he hadn’t seen her watching. “Sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you. Um, Coral’s gone.”

    “Good!” he panted, leaning on his shovel.

    “Um, so, shall we go?”

    “Eh?”

    “To the supermarkets. It’s Tuesday, we said we would,” Libby remained him, going pinker than ever.

    “Oh! Right!”

    “You’d better put your jumper on. It’s not very warm today.”

    She herself was wearing a large and hideous old dark brown jersey that he was ninety-nine percent sure belonged to Jan. “Yeah.” He looked round vaguely for his. “Didn’t you bring any warm clothes?”

    “Um, well, I haven’t really got any, Bob. I’ve never really needed them, in our climate. I’ve got a raincoat but it’s not very warm, so I didn’t bring it.”

    “Look, it gets bloody cold round here, you’ll need some proper clothes!” he said loudly, looking round in vain for his jersey. “Blast, where the Hell did I put it?”

    “Get UP!” replied Libby loudly and crossly.

    He jumped and then realized she wasn’t addressing him.

    “He’s lying on it, the lazy brute!” she gasped, grabbing the Dalmatian by the collar and trying to drag him forcibly off Bob’s jersey. “Get UP, Peter!”

    Bob sighed. “Ya gotta say the magic word.”

    “Ice cream?” she said doubtfully.

    “Woof!”

    Trying not to laugh, he replied: “Nah, that only makes him excited. I might as well tell ya right here and now that I’m not about to make a tit of meself by saying it. But I will say this: when I couldn’t get the bugger to budge I rung up Tamsin and she told me exactly how ya gotta say it. W,A,L,K,I,E,S,” he spelled grimly.

    “Oh!” said Libby with a smothered giggle. “Yes; come on, Peter! Walkies!” she fluted in a sort of high, horrible coo.

    Sure enough, the ruddy pooch got off the jersey and panted eagerly, wagging his tail.

    “I s’pose you’ll say,” said Bob, accepting the jersey from her, “—ta—I s’pose you’ll say we gotta take him, now.”

    “It seems mean not to,” she murmured.

    “Yeah. Righto. He can go in the back and behave himself. Come on, then. I better have a shower, I think,” he said, heading towards the main building. “Wouldn’t be a cuppa going, I s’pose?”

    “Um, yes. Would you like one? I’ll put the kettle on,” said Libby quickly.

    Most blokes would fancy a cuppa after they’d been doing some bloody hard yacker for half the morning, yeah. Okay, she’d been working in the back rooms of ruddy libraries for twenty years, he wasn’t gonna point it out.

    When he came back from his shower she had a mug of instant coffee ready for him, but nothing to eat. Bob sat down limply at the old scrubbed kitchen table. Was there any way he could possibly put it tactfully? Uh—no. Bugger.

    “Had any more phone calls?” he asked nicely.

    Libby nodded. “Mm. Two. A booking for Labour weekend and two students for the bunkhouse for Easter. That’s good, that means it’ll be full!”

    “I hope you told them they were bloody lucky to get a booking this late in the game!”

    “Um, no.”

    “Well, they are. Trampers, are they?”

    “She didn’t say. Does it—does it matter?”

    “Well, no, except that it might give us some idea how many packed lunches we might haveta make.”

    She nodded seriously. “That’s a point.”

    Bob took a deep breath. “Talking of grub, at this stage of the morning yer traditional smoko’d probably include some Vegemite doorsteps, or a hunk of fruit-cake. Or both, if a bloke was really lucky.”

    “Are you hungry?” replied Libby uncertainly.

    He passed his hand through his short silvered curls. “I could go a hunk of Jan’s fruit-cake, yeah. Shovelling muck isn’t like sitting in front of a computer.”

    “No,” agreed Libby, going very red. “Sorry, I didn’t think. I see, it’s like in the Outback. The traditional female rôle when the male’s shovelling muck is to get the morning tea.”

    Bob sniffed. “Pretty much, yeah. Unless ya name’s Coral, of course.”

    “Or Germaine, I think!” said Libby with a sudden laugh, getting up. “It’s okay, I’ll get it. I’m sorry I didn’t think; I’ll know in future.”

    Bob just sat and watched with his mouth slightly open as she got down one of Jan’s cake tins, got a brand-new cake out, and cut into it. Dainty little library-lady slices, but still!

    “Ta,” he said, taking two—might as well go on like he’d started—sandwiching them together and taking a huge bite of the both of them. “That hits the spot,” he admitted, having swallowed.

    “Yes,” said Libby limply, going very pink as he smiled at her. “Good.”

    Bob ate cake hungrily. “I could go a refill of coffee, too—ta,” he said as she took the mug. “So who’s this Germaine, when she’s at home? –Ta,” he said as she handed him a fresh mug of coffee.

    “No-one,” said Libby weakly, sitting down again and watching him engulf four more slices of fruit-cake and the second mug of coffee. “Poor thing: she didn’t appreciate it.”

    “Eh?”

    “A life based on the traditional rôle models.”

    Bob’s azure eyes twinkled. “A man-hater, was she?”

    “Actually,” replied Libby seriously, “I think she must’ve been.”

    Still Tuesday. He’d stopped her forcibly from buying meat at the supermarket.

    “This is where ya wanna go,” he explained at Taupo Mastercut. “Dave’ll see us right.”

    “Yeah,” agreed Dave Murray, looking at Libby with undisguised interest. “This one of Pete’s daughters, then?”

    “Yes, Libby,” explained Bob.

    “Right,” he agreed. “Hullo, Libby, good to meet you.”

    “How are you, Dave?” replied Libby politely in her Australian vernacular, emphasising the “are”, as was customary.

    “Pretty good, ta!” returned Dave literally, beaming. “You the one that’s been in England, then?”

    “Um, no,” she said faintly, very flushed. Did the whole town know everything about them? “That’s my sister, Jayne. She’s not coming out after all, because she’s a got a terrible cold.”

    Dave sniffed slightly. “Be the weather,” he acknowledged. “The wife’s been making noises about an overseas trip but I said to her, ya won’t get me over to ruddy England if ya hogtie me! –Three sides of lamb, was it, Bob?”

    “Three sides?” gasped Libby in horror. “That’s far too much!”

    “Not if ya think about it, Libby. Well, what else can ruddy Janet cook reliably?” replied Bob seriously. “There’s Friday night, most of them’ll turn up in time for tea, and then Saturday, Sunday, Monday. Six people can make a leg of lamb look pretty sick and we’ll have twelve in the main building. I’ll make the moo do the chops as racks, but even so—yeah, three sides, ta, Dave.” He looked round the poncy modernised butcher’s shop that he could remember, when he was little, still having sawdust on the floor and a ruddy great wooden chopping block. “Cut up, if ya can manage that,” he said drily.

    “Yeah! I’ll do them out the back!” replied Dave huffily. “Not chops, then?”

    “Right: not chops. Rack of lamb, ta.”

    The butcher disappeared. After a moment Libby said in a small voice: “Who told him about Jayne being in England?”

    “Coulda been anyone, really. But his wife’s sister’s married to Janet’s ex’s brother.”

    She took a deep breath. “Right.”

    “It is a small town,” said Bob mildly.

    “Yeah, but I hadn’t realized it was that small!”

    “Yep. You wanna stay on, ya better get used to it. Well, ya got three choices, really. Conform, ignore them and enjoy being an outcast, or ignore them and suffer.”

    “That has dawned, thanks!” said Libby crossly.

    Probably had, with bloody Janet Barber in the offing—yeah. Bob shrugged.

    She came to when Dave refused payment for an enormous bag of bones for Peter, and thanked him nicely, but Bob could feel she was still mulling it over. But he didn’t take back what he’d said, or apologise for it, because it was true, and the sooner she got used to the idea, the better.

    Tuesday evening. That bulletin board in the kitchen—next to the keys, right—was covered in printouts from the ruddy computer. Uh—when ya looked closely it was just a schedule of the rooms over the long weekend, but she’d printed it in pieces or something— Don’t ask. Ouch, this here bit that she’d coloured in bright pink, real nasty colour, said “VEGETARIAN”.

    “Libby, these types in Room 2 aren’t vegetarians, are they?” he croaked as she came in with more sheets of paper.

    “Yes. That’s why I put chickpeas on the shopping list. I’ll make some hummous for them, I know how to do that. They won’t want roast veggies done in the fat from the roast: I’ll do stir-fries. Or Tamsin can: she does a nice stir-fry.”

    “Right.” He watched numbly as she pinned up more sheets of paper.

    “These are just timetables for the kitchen,” said Libby mildly.

    He was sure Jan had never done that. “Yeah?” he croaked.

    “To remind us when to get the joints out of the freezer and defrost some muffins and date loaves: that sort of stuff,” she explained.

    “Right,” said Bob feebly, not asking if there might be any tea in the offing because it was obvious there wasn’t. He gave Peter a bowl of water in the faint hope it might act as a hint but it didn’t. “Um, thought about tea?” he said feebly.

    Libby looked at her watch. “Heck, is it that late? Um, no. Well, um, what do you feel like?”

    After the shopping and what she apparently considered was lunch—ladylike sandwiches consisting of two slices of bread each with some thinly sliced ham, lettuce and ugh, cottage cheese between ’em, only slightly perked up by a bit of Jan’s homemade chutney—Bob had plucked up the courage to inspect the Taupo Shores Tallulah. Right, untouched by human hand since New Year’s, pretty much what he’d thought. She needed cleaning from top to toe: all them bloody white vinyl cushions needed scrubbing, and Pete’s flaming blue and white awning needed dismantling and soaking in bleach: why the fuck had the moron moored ’er so near those ruddy trees? The cabin needed scrubbing, too, it was full of dust and leaves. And he was pretty sure the engine could have done with stripping but as it did start up okay he decided to leave it. As for the deck—!

    Not surprisingly after all that hard yacker he felt like something bloody solid. One of them lamb roasts would just have hit the spot, actually. Why the Hell hadn’t he at least thought to bake some potatoes? No use putting them in now, they’d take ages. Likewise the kumaras he hadn’t thought of either. Bugger.

    “Something solid,” he admitted. “Well, there’s them sausages of Dave’s. You any good at cooking sausages?”

    “No, I—I never have them, really,” said Libby in a small voice. Ooh, heck. When the male was out scrubbing the boat, the female rôle was the preparation of a solid dinner, then!

    Bob sat down heavily at the kitchen table. “Okay, I’ll do them.”

     “Would—would you like a cup of coffee?” said Libby in a trembling voice.

    “No, actually I’d like a beer.”

    “It’s in the fridge in the passage. Hang on.”

    While she was out there he looked round the kitchen for that carton of fresh veges he’d brought in earlier, but it had disappeared. What the Hell?”

    “Ta,” he said as she handed him a can of DB Draught.

    “Is it the right brand?”

    “Yeah. Don’t bother with a glass,” he said as she opened the cupboard where the heavy glasses were stored. “Look, if this isn’t an indelicate question, where are those fresh veges I brought in earlier?”

    “In the fridge, of course.”

    He watched numbly as she opened one of the big fridges and produced them from the vegetable crisper. “Libby, those were straight out of the garden,” he croaked.

    “Yes.”

    “Then why did you put them in the fridge?” he croaked.

    “To keep them fresh, of course,” replied the Queenslander in surprise.

    Bob was conscious of a strong desire to clutch his head and scream. He took a deep breath. “This isn’t the Gold Coast,” he said heavily. “Ya don’t put lovely fresh veges that you’re gonna have for tea in the fridge—geddit? And ya don’t put potatoes in the fridge at all.”

    “But don’t they go green if you don’t store them out of the light?”

    He ran his hand over his face. “Yeah. Bung them in a paper bag in a cupboard, okay? Or in this case, leave them in that bit of newspaper I put in that carton.”

    “I see. Um, do you know how to cook turnip?” she asked, looking dubiously at the Swede.

    “Yeah. My idea was to mash it up with them carrots because Swede fresh out of the garden is really nice.”

    “Okay; I’ll peel them,” said Libby in huge relief there was something she could do.

    Bob just drank his beer and looked feebly at the silverbeet that a couple of hours back had been all fresh and frisky. Now it looked about as limp as he felt. Had she been adjusting the temperature of that ruddy fridge? He didn’t have the strength to look.

    “Whaddareya saving that bit for?” he said as she prepared to put half the Swede back into the permafrost.

    “Um, tomorrow?”

    Hadn’t it dawned that one of them was starving? “Do it all,” he ordered bluntly.

    “Okay,” said Libby meekly. “Um, just boiled?”

    Bob got up, sighing. “I won’t ask how you’d do carrots and Swede at home because I know what the answer is. They’re miles nicer steamed, and if we boil the spuds in the bottom of the steamer, that’s two for the price of one, see?”

    “Mm. Um, shall I peel the kumara, too?”

    “No, it might as well go back in the cold, ’cos personally I don’t fancy steamed or boiled kumara.”

    “You brought it in!” said Libby vigorously.

    “Yeah, ’cos I had this mad idea that one of us might do some nice baked veges for tea. Or even roasted, with a bit of olive oil, like Jan sometimes does ’em.”

    “I’m not a mind-reader,” said Libby, very flushed. “Just ask, if there’s anything you want me to do.”

    “Okay, I will; and don’t say ya didn’t tell me to.”

    Why would she say that, when she had told him to? Very flushed, Libby put the kumara back in the vegetable crisper.

    Bob just sat there and let her. It could sprout, or go mushy in the permafrost, or— Yeah.

    There was a choice of dry Colman’s mustard, the bloody hot sort, or some Froggy stuff. Libby put the Froggy stuff on the table and as he didn’t really like very hot mustard on snags… Mind you, Dave’s sausages were good, didn’t really need anything on them. And the veges were all right. No, well, the silverbeet would have been a lot better the way Jan did it: he thought it was olive oil she used, with garlic, or sometimes she did it the way Mum used to, with butter and nutmeg, but Libby didn’t volunteer, so as Clueless didn’t have the trick of it, either, that was that. The spuds were good: he dumped some butter on them.

    “Isn’t butter bad for your cholesterol count?” ventured Libby.

    “I haven’t been sitting in an office all day.”

    “No, that’s true. And rolled oats are said to counteract it,” she admitted.

    Uh—oh! The porridge at breakfast time! Jesus, it felt like a lifetime ago! “Right,” he said weakly.

    He opened a jar of Jan’s bottled peaches for pud, not waiting to see if she’d suggest anything and not asking what she wanted, and they had them with ice cream. To his surprise she didn’t mention cholesterol or tell him yoghurt’d be better for him. When they’d done the dishes, quite companionably, they went into Pete and Jan’s sitting-room, where there was just about room, in between Pete’s fishing gear, to watch the TV, so they did that. Then the phone rang. He grabbed it, just in case it was bad news. But it was only Jayne, ringing to see how things were going.

    First Libby said: “Good. Coral’s shown me how to use the computer for the accounts and the bookings and the wages: it’s really easy.”

    Then she said: “Um, well yes, very hard. Doing the garden and, um, the boat and stuff.” Him, that’d be.

    Then she said: “Um, all right.” All right what? It didn’t sound all right.

    Then she wailed: “It’s awful, Jayne, I don’t know the right things to do!” and burst into tears.

    Oh, shit.

    “Don’t bawl, Libby!” he said desperately. “You’re doing okay!”

    She was sobbing about something about potatoes into the phone. “Fuck the bloody potatoes! I don’t care!” said Bob loudly. “Ya haven’t done anything wrong!”

    Libby wiped her eyes desperately and said into the phone: “Sorry. I’m all right. Just a bit tired. I don’t know how on earth Jan ever managed, with the office work as well as all the hot meals and the morning tea and everything. …No, morning. ...Um, yes, only I haven’t had to do any afternoon tea yet. …Um, no, it was silly. It was my fault: I didn’t think. …I dunno. Shovelling. I think he said it was muck.”

    Bob’s ears had been pretty well burning anyway but now their owner felt as if they were gonna explode. “It doesn’t matter!” he hissed. “Ya didn’t do anything wrong!”

    “Um, yes, he is,” she said into the phone.

    Ouch, that was him! Maybe he oughta go away? Only there wasn’t really anywhere to go. Walk the pooch? He got up, whistled to him, and since he ignored him, grabbed his collar and hauled the bugger out forcibly.

    When they came back the sitting-room was empty. He hesitated, then didn’t tap on the bedroom door, and crept quietly away again.

    Wednesday. Slightly before sparrow-fart.

    “Uh—Libby,” he said feebly as she came into the kitchen, again in Jan’s old brown jersey and her jeans, “ya don’t really need to get up so early.”

    “That’s okay. Can I do anything?”

    Uh—there were trays and trays of cauliflower, cabbage and Brussels sprout seedlings behind the shed that needed to be planted out, but the beds weren’t ready yet. Well, most of the cabbage seedlings could go on the compost heap, he’d heard Jan slagging Pete off about the cabbage forest that no-one but the goats wanted to eat, but— Yeah. There was nothing like cauli straight out of the garden: be a Helluva pity to let them go to waste. The boat was now clean but the deck and most of the woodwork needed a fresh coat of polyurethane and he hadn’t seen any in the shed: he’d have to get into town—try old Steve Garber first, and if he didn’t stock marine-grade stuff then that place down near the boat harbour. As it didn’t look like rain he’d better get that done today. Then there were the trails: he hadn’t inspected them, yet, but judging by the huge growth of weeds that had sprung up in the vege garden and the orchard, not to mention all along the front drive, they’d need clearing for the guests. Most of that was hard yacker, she wouldn’t be up to it.

    “Um, well, there might be a bit of planting-out in a bit, but I haven’t dug the beds over yet. Um, if there’s anything you need in town I've gotta go in today, get some stuff to redo the woodwork on the boat.”

    “Is that a priority?” replied Libby dubiously.

    “Yeah. In our climate, if I don’t slap a coat of marine-grade polyurethane on ’er before it rains, the wood’ll start to rot. And she’s looking really shabby, won’t impress the guests like that.”

    “I see. Um, well, I do need some things. Is there anywhere in Taupo where I could buy a nice warm jumper?” she asked shyly.

    Cripes. Bob scratched his head.

    “Miller’s,” said a sepulchral voice from the doorway.

    “Shit! Must you do that?” he gasped, jumping.

    Michelle came in, grinning. “Yeah. –Hullo, Libby. Miller’s,” she repeated.

    “If ya want something fluffy that’ll set you back a packet—yeah,” he allowed.

    “Ignore him, Libby. All the ladies go there. Mum got a lovely lilac jersey there last year.”

    Michelle herself was as of this min’ clad in a huge knitted grey tent over a huge pair of navy serge bags that Bob would’ve bet his last cent had once been old Mick’s, her dad’s. About forty years back—yeah. However, Libby was smiling and nodding eagerly.

    “Okay, Miller’s it is. They’ll do you a nice line in polyester slacks, too,” he said drily.

    “Ignore him,” advised Michelle. “A nice pair of jersey-knit ones, that’s what ya need for good, for winter. And some fleecy-lined tracksuit pants for everyday.”

    And some serge bags for cleaning, eh? “Yeah. Can I ask what you’re doing here?” he said politely.

    “Ignore him, he thinks he’s funny,” Michelle advised Libby. “I brought those green tomatoes for ya—here,” she said, suddenly shoving the two enormous plastic bags she was carrying at her. “And I’ll do a bit more in the garden, since I’m here.”

    “Thank you, Michelle!” she gasped, staggering under the weight of the bags.

    “Give ’em here,” said Bob heavily, grabbing them. “These here on top’ll be Cox’s Orange tomatoes, will they?”

    “Just a few apples,” said Michelle comfortably. “You gonna get those cauliflower seedlings in soon?”

    “Uh—yeah, thought I’d dig over the b—”

    “I’ll do it,” she said, disappearing.

     “—after breakfast,” ended Bob limply.

    “Yes,” agreed Libby, filling the jug. “You need your breakfast first.”

    What with one thing and another he felt so weak that he just sat down and let her get on with it. Coming to when she put a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him.

    “Cripes. Ta, Libby! Uh—aren’t you having any?” he realized.

    “No,” said Libby, sitting down opposite him and taking a slice of toast. “I haven’t been doing lots of hard yacker, like you. –Jayne said you need a substantial breakfast if you're working outside,” she revealed, pinkening.

    Did she, indeed? Well, good for Jayne!

    “And she said that some people like fried green tomatoes. Um, I thought it was just the name of a silly film, but she said you really can eat them. Have you ever tried them?”

    “Nope,” said Bob indistinctly.

    “Well,” said Libby with a cautious look at the door, “I thought I could do some tomorrow, and if you hate them just say so and I’ll throw them out, ’cos they won’t have cost us anything, will they?”

    “Righto,” he agreed cheerfully.

    “Good,” said Libby with a relieved smile.

    When he’d finished she said: “Um, Bob, what time would you like morning tea?”

    Strewth. He scratched his head. “Dunno that I usually take a smoko any particular time… Aw, I geddit, easier if ya know when to make it, eh?”

    Libby nodded hard.

    “Well, uh—tennish?” he suggested weakly.

    “Okay.”

    “Um, I don’t usually wear me good watch in the garden, so ya better come and get us, okay?” he added feebly.

    “Yes, okay,” she said, nodding seriously.

    Crikey Dick. He whistled to the pooch and went out, trying not to shake his head madly.

    … Still Wednesday. Tennish. She fetched ’em for it. Cripes, she’d made Vegemite sandwiches—library-lady ones, yeah, but nevertheless—as well as slicing up more of the fruit-cake! Well, couldn’t be bad, eh?

    Still Wednesday. There was the small point that the simpering dame who managed Miller’s was Cloris Witherspoon’s cousin. Well, maybe they’d be so busy she wouldn’t spot it was him dropping Libby off, or maybe she wouldn’t be serving today—

    They weren’t and she was. Unfortunately it was next-door but one to ruddy Steve Garber’s and he found a parking spot right in front of it.

    “This is it,” he said with an uneasy eye on Christine Williams hovering between the horrible window display and the door. “I’ll just be two doors down at Taupo Hardw—”

    “Hullo, Bob!” she simpered, eyeing him up. “I thought that was your car!”

    She oughta know it: she’d seen it decanting her bloody cousin often enough back in the days when him and Coral hadn’t officially split up but were pretty much living separate lives and when Mal had moved out leaving the house to Cloris, the seventeen-year-old Jase, who was still at high school but woulda left if he coulda found a job in anything but the forestry that she was too la-de-de to let him do, and the three-year-old Kirsty that, rumour to the contrary, was not his, Bob’s. Which wasn’t to say she was poor old Mal’s, either. The bad feeling between Cloris and Jase over the forestry thing plus the fact that he was a seventeen-year-old boy meant that he usually refused to babysit, so Christine quite often did it. It meant she could work on her accounts for the shop in peace and quiet instead of having to put up with Bill Williams watching sports on TV.

    “Yeah,” he said briefly.

    “And who’s this?” she simpered, raising the plucked eyebrows very high. “One of the ecolodge’s guests, perhaps? Welcome to Taupo!” she cooed.

    Bitch. He’d take his dying oath she knew damn well who it was. “No, this is Libby McLeod, Pete’s daughter,” said Bob grimly. “Christine Williams: she runs this place, Libby.”

    “Oh, well!” simpered Christine, pretending to be flustered—nothing’d rock her, she was as tough as Coral. “Welcome to Taupo anyway, Libby! And how’s poor Jan?”

    “Miles better, thanks. She’s had a pacemaker put in. She—she seemed quite chirpy, I thought, didn’t you, Bob?”

    “That is good news! So you went up to see her together? That’s nice!” she cooed.

    “Something like that,” said Bob quickly before Libby could put her foot in it again by trying to explain. “I’ll see ya later, Libby. Don’t let Christine sucker you into buying anything lilac, eh? –I’ll just be along in Taupo Hardware & Electrical.”

    Smiling feebly—it musta dawned even on her, innocent though she was, that Christine Williams was one of the greatest bitches in Taupo—Libby led herself be led into Miller’s, a lamb to the slaughter.

    Quite some time later. Cripes. Even old Steve Garber’s eyes were on stalks, and no wonder!

    “Hullo, Steve,” said Libby faintly, coming up to them in a pink fine-knit jersey that lovingly outlined the bulges that that huge great brown thing of Jan’s had been helping Bob to ignore these past couple of days, and a pair of black slacks that lovingly outlined the hips and thighs.

    “Hullo, Libby, love,” croaked Steve. “Good to see ya.”

    “Christine thought I’d better wear these,” she said weakly to Bob. “I dunno that pink’s my colour. She talked me into it,” she explained redundantly.

    “Well, yeah, think that was why Michelle suggested the place, lovey,” admitted Bob feebly, reflecting that it was just as well it was pretty dim down the back of old Steve’s dump. Too late, he realised he’d called her “lovey.” He felt himself go very red, and shut up, swallowing.

    “Right: ya can say this for Christine, she knows what suits a lady!” beamed Steve, recovering himself. “Sold Verna a lovely black jersey last year—see, she was going on about how black doesn’t suit her, and her granny always used to wear black and it makes her feel like an old lady. But see, it’s a fluffy one, and she wears her big silver pin on it: looks great!”

    Verna Garber was sixty-seven if she was a day. “Good show,” said Bob feebly.

    “Of course black’d suit her, she’s got such a lovely pink and white complexion!” said Libby eagerly.

    “Well, yeah, always had a nice skin,” the old joker allowed complacently.

    “Um, actually she sold me a fluffy one, too,” admitted Libby, rummaging in the giant carry-bag with “Miller’s” on it she was clutching. She pulled something out and held it up under her chin. “What do you think?” she said glumly.

    It was pink, too. But whereas the fine knit she had on was quite a bright pink—not horrible, mind you, a really pretty shade—the large, fluffy one was a very pale pink. And very fluffy. Bob found he was only capable of swallowing, but good old Steve came out with: “It’s corker, love!” and a beaming smile. So he bought them motorised hedge-clippers off him after all. Well, heck, there was miles of hedge down the back of the orchard and they’d had so much rain the trails’d all be overhung with new growth— And while they might be marginally cheaper at Mitre 10, were those spotty young tits that worked there gonna tell Libby her fluffy pink jersey was corker?

    Back in the waggon she said dubiously: “I’ve never worn pink, really. Well, there were those orangey things Tamsin made me buy for the summer… but not pink.”

    Bob fastened his seatbelt, clearing his throat. If she’d look this way, she’d see how he felt about her in pink, wouldn’t she? “Ya look good. It suits ya,” he said hoarsely.

    “Oh. Thank you,” said Libby, turning about as pink as the jumper. “I did have a pink tee-shirt once…” Her voice faded out as she remembered what wearing it had resulted in.

    “Yeah?” He pulled out and made a U-ie. “That sounds nice. Tell ya what, you’d look good in pink jeans, too!”

    “Pink jeans?” said Libby dubiously. “Pink denim?”

    “Yeah. Dunno if they’d be wearing ’em these days, mind you!” said Bob with a laugh—tit that he was. “Back when I was a kid one of my girlfriends used to wear pale pink jeans—looked really great! Cherie. She was a well-built girl, too: looked a wee bit like you,” he added, tit that he was.

    Libby was now so flushed she felt as if her face was on fire. She managed to croak: “I—I think you mentioned a Cherie the other day. A—a wedding with grey top hats?”

    “Right: their Caitlin’s wedding. Cherie Martin, she is now. Cherie Morpeth that was. Used to go round with her when she was about sixteen.”

    Suddenly it all came back to Libby with a rush. It was an unusual name, that was why. Janet’s story: that was the girl whose mother had made her swot, so he’d taken up with a much older lady like that awful Desperate Housewives lady!

    “Her and the rest,” she said grimly.

    Bob’s jaw dropped. “Come off it, Libby, we were kids!” he said with an uneasy laugh.

    “Not all of you, the way I heard it,” she said grimly.

    It was all so long ago that at first all that came to mind was nubile Cherie Morpeth crammed into them tight pink jeans. And him getting into them. Only then she’d failed School Cert., so her mum had— Oh, shit. He steered numbly down the main drag, avoiding the clots pulling out from the kerb without either looking or signalling. Who the Hell could have told her— Oh. George Street—right? Sodding Janet Barber—right? Shit!

    “Look, I dunno what Janet mighta told ya—and I can’t imagine anybody else’d be interested at this late stage, so don’t bother to say it wasn’t her, the cow—but I was just a kid! Shit, if we were all held responsible for the dumb things we did when we were seventeen—!”

    “According to her, you were sixteen, but that doesn’t make it better,” said Libby grimly.

    “Uh—I can’t remember, but the point is, I’m not even the same person as I was back then! Nobody’s the same person they were in their teens, for Chrissakes, Libby!” he said desperately. No reply. “Well, are you?” he said desperately.

    “Pretty much, I think,” said Libby slowly. “I’ve still got the same standards as I did then.”

    Bob was very, very flushed. “Well, maybe you oughta loosen up a bit!” he said angrily.

    “I couldn’t loosen up to the extent of approving of a relationship between a teenage boy and a much older marred woman.”

    “Look, she threw herself at me, and I was just a randy kid! All boys think of nothing but sex at that age! I just—I just… let her,” ended Bob feebly.

    “Possibly you couldn’t help yourself—though it seems to me you could have said no, and it didn’t sound to me like it was only the once—but she could certainly have stopped herself.”

    He sighed. “I dare say. She was stuck at home with little kids, she was bored, she was marred to a tit— Personally I couldn’t see then and I can’t see now what’s wrong with some uncomplicated sex.” He glanced at her cautiously. She was frowning. “Okay, if you’re so pure, how about that married man you were mixed up with back in Oz?” he said furiously.

    “I—”

    “Yeah, and that bloke that answered the phone when I rang!” he added loudly.

    “When?” said Libby, gaping at him.

    “Last flaming weekend, that’s when!” said Bob angrily.

    “That was Jayne’s neighbour,” she said feebly. “I barely know him.”

    “Then why was he answering the bloody phone in the house you were living in?”

    “I was in the kitchen and there’s no extension in there. He just came over to help pack Jayne’s stuff,” she said numbly. “I wouldn’t— I mean, I know his wife!”

    “Right, that’s the criterion, is it?” said Bob nastily.

    There was a long silence. Her heard her swallow. “Um, maybe it is,” she said in a small voice. “Buh-but Terry told me—no, he let me believe, that’s worse—he let me believe that him and his wife didn’t get on and were just sticking together for the kids’ sake.”

    “Right, well, in my book that’s a bloody sight worse than a bored young housewife that’s stuck at home all day never seeing a soul except the kids or the supermarket assistants. When she was used to working in a nice, bright office with loads of people round her!”

    “Um, yes. Was she?” said Libby in a tiny voice.

    Bob sighed. “Yes, poor girl. Worked in the travel agent’s before she married that tit Ian Inglis. There were always people coming in and out, geddit? Right on the main drag, too. Bit different from flaming George Street and its mown verges and its view of other suburban boxes!”

    “Mm.” She swallowed. “I have always thought it must be a difficult adjustment, just staying home with the children, if you’ve been used to working.”

    “Yeah. Ya needn’t say it doesn’t excuse her, I get that, ta.”

    “No, but it—it does sort of explain it.”

    “Yeah. You wanna cut people a bit of slack,” said Bob on a tired note.

    Libby gnawed on her lip. “Mm. –Sorry,” she said abruptly. “You’ve been very good helping out with the ecolodge and, um, your life’s none of my business.”

    Bob drove down to the boat harbour in silence. He found a good pozzie with a lovely view of the water. Then he undid his seatbelt slowly.

    “Look, Libby, I dunno how to put this, so just—uh—lemme try to say it, eh?”

   “Mm,” agreed Libby, swallowing.

    He made a face at the water. “Standards are all well and good, and I’m not saying ya didn’t oughta have ’em—but, uh, most people aren’t all black and white. Heck, even Coral’s got her good points, though I couldn’t hack living with her. Well, you might think it was all my fault, lots of dames do—”

    “No,” said Libby quickly. “I can see she’d be a very demanding and—and exacting person to live with.”

    Yep, that and the no sex. “Yeah. Well, uh, see, maybe a nice library lady like you can’t see it, but people have got good and bad in them and most of them are pretty weak, when ya come right down to it, and, well, life isn’t that easy for most ordinary people, even if it looks okay on the surface. They all got worries, like the bloody mortgage and whether the firm’s gonna close down and put them out of a job and whether the kids are gonna need their teeth seen to, and then their old gran goes and their dad gets a bit of Alzheimer’s and shit, maybe they’re only in their forties, it’s a real shock to their systems, and one of the kids starts playing up—going round with the wrong types or taking drugs or underage drinking—and then their mum can’t cope and they have to put the dad in a home—see?”

    “Mm, I see. You mean life’s very stressful.”

    He passed a hand over his face. “Do I? Well, something like that. It’s hard, just living, is what I’m saying, and most ordinary people haven’t got anything in their lives to—to compensate for it. They spend megabucks on a stupid holiday where all they do is fight with their nearest and dearest, or they chuck a fortune away on a new car or a boat, and nothing gets better and all they’ve got at the end of it is another whacking great debt—see?”

    “Um, ye-es…”

    “See that lovely cruiser with the pale blue superstructure?”

    “Mm. Rainbow Girl,” read Libby, screwing up her eyes. “She’s beautiful.”

    “Yep. Belongs to Ed Short: he’s Mike’s cousin and he got ’er off him at a discount and as of this minute he’ll be stuck in his office trying to earn the shekels to pay for ’er. He’s an accountant, and Jan’d be able to tell you there’s only a limited amount of call for them round these here parts. His dad dropped dead on the golf course at sixty-three—well, he was fond of a drop as well as the golf, maybe it wasn’t all that surprising, but it was a bloody great shock, Ed was only thirty-eight. Then just after he’d signed the deal for the bloody boat they found out their eldest, Eileen, was up the spout at sixteen.”

    “You can have an ab—”

    “I know you can have an abortion, Libby, me point is that’s the sort of shit most people have to cope with!” cried Bob. “Can ya blame them for grabbing a bit of human comfort where they can?”

    “Um, no,” said Libby in a strangled voice. “I see. Sorry.”

    He stared out at the lake, and sighed. “You been sheltered from it all in that library of yours, see?”

    “Mm.”

    “Most of them are too dumb to escape into books the way you can, too,” he added. “It’s either life or the fucking TV, geddit?

    She gulped. “Yes.”

    “Yes,” said Bob tiredly. “Well, now I’ve shot me mouth off, don’t s’pose ya wanna come with me to get that marine-grade polyurethane, do ya?”

    “So Steve didn’t have it?”

    “Nah, run out. He doesn’t stock much.”

    Libby looked at him uncertainly. “I would like to come, I love the boating supplies place.”

    Bob blinked. “Okay—sure!”

    They did that. He made a real effort and didn’t take that lovely soft arm in its lovely pink jersey. He didn’t kid himself that the bloke behind the counter didn’t have a real keen look in his fishy eye as it rested on her, neither. Well, let’s face it, nothing like a female with good tits in a pink top for turning yer average red-blooded male on, eh?

    As they came out a newish silver Merc passed by with a loud toot of its horn and she jumped and gasped.

    “Mike Short in person,” said Bob on a grim note.

    “Was it? Why didn’t you wave?”

    He took her elbow, he couldn’t flaming well help himself. “Because he wasn’t hooting at me, love, he was hooting at you in that pink jersey, and let’s cut him a bit of slack for it, eh? S’pose he’s only human, like the rest of us!”

    They walked back to the car with Libby’s face as pink as the jersey, Bob’s fingers sinking into the flesh of her arm just above the elbow, and Bob’s prick making it very plain to anyone that might be passing exactly how he felt about her.

    This mighta been promising, in fact some tits had actually begun to wonder if it was, only they got back to find the ecolodge’s letterbox stuffed with mail, mainly bills, and this reminded her to ask who or what had paid for the hedge-trimmer, and— Yeah. Okay, if he didn’t let her “reimburse” him she was gonna ring Coral and get the number of his bank account out of her and— Yeah. For Chrissakes, one lousy hedge-trimmer? All right, the ecolodge could pay him back! Jesus!

    Wednesday afternoon. After some very hard yacker on the boat. Would she of made him some afternoon tea? Well, she’d seemed fairly cheerful at lunchtime, and, contrariwise, hadn’t been unbearably smug over winning the hedge-trimmer reimbursement do, so—

    “What are you doing here?” he groaned.

    “How many times do I have to say it, get that dog out of the KITCHEN!” retorted his ex.

    Sighing, Bob hauled the puzzled Peter outside and shut the back door on him.

    “The ecolodge could be closed down, hasn’t that sunk in YET?”

    “Yeah! Okay! –We’re not open,” he muttered. “All right, Coral, I get it! Whadda you want?”

    Coral looked down her nose. True, she was sitting at the kitchen table and he was standing up and he was over six foot, but she managed it, too right. “I merely came to see how Libby’s coping with the accounts and the bookings.” Before he could say “Okay,” she added: “And to remind both of you that a lot of the Easter clients’ll turn up on Thursday evening. Tomorrow,” she added pointedly.

    Bob had been expecting to see Neil and Tamsin tomorrow, but— Oh, shit.

    “I can see you need reminding,” she added nastily. “But Libby’s got it on the timetable, okay. Can’t you read?”

    “Them things?” he said, as she was glaring at the printouts. “Thought they were for her.”

    “NO!” she shouted. “What’s the matter with you, Bob? She can look up the computer! LOOK at them!”

    Miserably Bob looked at them. Uh—aw. Yeah. All of them except one lot in Room 5 and two beds in the bunkhouse would be turning up tomorrow. Blast, had he taken that into account when they’d bought that meat? He counted surreptitiously on his fingers.

    “What are you counting on your fingers for?”

    “Nothing,” he said miserably. “Where’s Libby?”

    “Printing out a revised version of the tours brochure for Fern Gully,” she replied grimly.

    Okay, she was doing that. He hadn’t known ya could: it was a kinda folded thing.

    “If you’re expecting your great stomach to be fed, don’t look at me,” she said grimly.

    “Wouldn’t dream of it,” replied Bob with a certain sour satisfaction. He went over to the bench and refilled the electric jug. Um… nip over to the permaculture nuts’, sorry, Taupo Organic Produce, and buy a couple of organic chooks for tomorrow? Or for the weekend, maybe: make a change from lamb, eh? Um, lessee, say ya jointed ’em, well, uh, down at Chickin Lickin’ ya did get the choice of four or eight bits if they cut it up for ya, but eight gave ya bloody mingy portions, so… Six? Um, two for the main building, plus the bunkhouse—

    “Stop counting on your fingers, are you a moron?”

    Apparently, yeah. Bob drooped over the bench with his back to her, waiting for the jug to boil.

    “You haven’t switched it on,” said Coral drily.

    Yes, he— Oh. It was one of the automatic ones that could switch itself off. Sheepishly Bob turned the jug’s switch on as opposed to the wall switch. Then he just got on with drooping miserably with his back to her.

    … “Chicken’d be really nice for a change,” said Libby kindly when at long last the dust had cleared and Coral had gone off to victimise Sean and Molly.

    “Mm. –Every time I try to calculate if we got enough meat it comes out different!” he said desperately.

    “Never mind. If there’s lots left over we can have it cold. There’s the lunches, too, I dunno that I’ve really calculated them in; have you?”

    “Uh… Well, there’s them two whole hams the Carranos sent,” he reminded her. “They’ll go down good if they’re anything like that cut piece they sent for us!”

    “Yes, but a bit of variation might be nice. Tell you what, I could ring up Bettany and ask her to keep some chooks aside for us and we can pick them up when we get the cream.”

    “Yeah—and the eggs, them scrawny things of Pete’s have stopped laying,” he reminded her.

    “Mm. Jan said something about boilers, I think she might’ve been meaning to wring their necks, but never mind, they’re not doing any harm just pottering and clucking, are they?”

    Pottering and clucking and eating their heads off. “No, right,” he said feebly, as the big brown eyes looked at him seriously. “Well, yeah, give the Throgmortons a bell, love.”

    Very flushed, Libby got up to do so.

    Uh—oops, called her “love”. It was that pink jersey, that was what!

    Smiling, Bob got up. “Gonna give that hedge-trimmer a whirl.”

    “Hullo, Bettany, it’s Libby McLeod here,” she said into the phone, smiling and nodding at him over it. Why that should make him feel all warm and happy was a mystery, but it did. Bob went out, whistling.

    “Oh, cripes, ya been out here all the time, eh?” he said as Peter got up, his tail wagging. “Okay, come on then, boy! Walkies!”

    Wednesday evening. The hedge-clippers were cleaned and oiled and hanging up neatly in the shed. Whistling, Bob went into the kitchen. “Hey, that smells g— What’s the matter?” he gasped.

    Libby was sitting at the table, crying. She lifted a tear-stained face. “I thought something had happened to you!” she gulped. “I duh-didn’t know where to start luh-hooking!”

    “Don’t bawl, nothing’s happened to me,” said Bob limply. She continued to sob. He went over to her and put a hand awkwardly on her shoulder. “Look, don’t bawl, I’m fine!”

    She was sobbing something about “leg.” Leg and “that hedge thingo.” What? Sighing, he pulled out a chair and sat down next to her. “Look,” he said, putting a hand on her hot, damp one: “I’m used to handling power tools.”

    “Power tuh—hools!” sobbed Libby in tones of horror and despair.

    Desperately Bob felt in his pocket for his hanky. Uh—shit. Green stains. He stumbled up, grabbed a handful of paper towels and shoved them at her. “Don’t cry,” he said, sinking limply back onto the chair. “I may not be too shit-hot at reading up fancy timetables or calculating how much meat an ecolodge full of clients is gonna need over a long weekend, but I do know what I’m doing in the garden, for Pete’s sake!”

    Libby blew her nose hard. “Mm,” she said, sniffing. “Sorry.”

    “I was down the trails,” he said lamely. “Lotta new growth down there, after the rain.”

    Libby blew her nose again. “Mm.”

    “Let’s hope none of them want the long trek, ’cos it looks pretty impenetrable over there. Might slash some of it back tomorrow, I suppose, but there’s a few other things I oughta be doing.”

    “Yes, and isn’t it Crown land?” she said, looking horrified.

    He shrugged. “Dare say.

    “Bob, aren’t there laws about not destroying the native vegetation?” said Libby fearfully.

    “Dunno. Are there, in Australia?”

    She nodded hard.

    “Uh-huh. This wouldn’t include farmers burning off on their own—” She was shaking her head. “Right,” he said drily. “Well, no-one’s ever objected when Pete’s cut it back a bit, before, but I’ll hold off. And, um, I went on a bit long. Sorry; I’ll watch the time in future.”

    “But you don’t like wearing your watch,” said Libby doubtfully.

    “Uh—no. It was Dad’s, and Granddad’s before that. Watch the sky, I mean.” He made a face. “I could see it was getting on, only I kept telling meself, just one more little bit. Um, not used to the idea there might be someone at home worrying about me, ya see.”

    “Mm. Well, I’m not used to the idea that a person might need morning and afternoon tea when they’ve been doing hard yacker, so that makes us quits!” said Libby with a sudden smile. “Bettany came over, she was really, really kind, and she gave me a chook for tonight and wouldn’t let me pay her, and she said she’s not much of a cook, either, but she’s given me some recipes that always work!”

    “Right: that’s what that great smell is, eh?” said Bob, grinning.

    “Yes: roast chicken with tarragon potatoes!” said Libby eagerly.

    You what? “Good-oh,” said Bob on a weak note.

    Thursday morning. Considerably before sparrow-fart. It wasn’t gonna go away, was it? So he had two choices: pull it, or get up, have a shower, and ignore it. Sighing, Bob attempted to get up but that weight on his feet wasn’t the duvet, it was the ruddy pooch! He gave him a bit of a kick and the bugger got the point, and got off, opening his great gob wide in a terrific yawn, and then, cheeky sod, got back on the stretcher and shut his eyes with a sort of huffing sound! All right for him, he’d been cut. Scowling, Bob huddled himself in his old dressing-gown and went over to Room 1, just opposite, and used its shower. Logically he might just as well have used the bed, too, only that woulda given good ole Michelle a real good excuse to clean the room, eh? And she was doing far too much as it was.

    … Bugger, it still wouldn’t go away! Oh, what the Hell, it was sheer bloody murder being cooped up under the same roof as Libby, and that pink jersey was just so— He gave in and had a wank.

    The Taupo Terminator turned up in person just as he was experimenting with the big industrial toaster that the chef from Fern Gully had kindly lent them—they had two, there’d been considerable strife over their supplies before they got rid of that first useless Pommy nong the Pommy bosses had put in as manager.

    “Jan always reckoned we didn’t need one of those,” she said, looking at it with interest.

    “Cripes,” replied Bob numbly as, just when he was thinking the thing was gonna burn it all up inside and was about to panic, it kinda flipped it out the top, done!

    “Hey, that’s nifty!”

    It was also far too much toast, ’specially as Libby wasn’t up yet. “Yeah. Fancy some toast, Michelle? There’s a fair bit here,” he said feebly.

    “Go on, ya talked me into it.” She went and put the jug on before he could move. “Want bacon and eggs?”

    Uh—hadn’t Libby been gonna do some of those green tomatoes? “Aw, go on; why not? Make enough for yourself as well. Um, ya could bung a few of them green tomatoes in, too.”

    “It’s your funeral,” replied Michelle amiably, getting on with it.

    “Um, I used Number 1’s bathroom,” he reported on a guilty note.

    “Don’t worry, I’m gonna check them all out!” she replied cheerfully. “Aw, and ya gotta call ’em ensuites for the guests.”

    “Don’t tell me Jan did her nut over something like that!”

    “Nah, ’course not, it was Janet. See, what she reckons, we gotta be fancier ’cos of Fern Gully showing us up.”

    “Yeah, but Michelle, they charge the suckers something like two thou’ a night for one double room!”

    “Mad, eh? But our ladies, they do call them ensuites: I’ve noticed,” she replied placidly.

    Okay, he’d only been calling them bathrooms all his life, but he’d try. “Right. Any more instructions for us, this morning?”

    “Yeah: I’d do something about them weeds on the front drive,” she replied instantly.

    Bob swallowed. He’d got so carried away down the fucking trails yesterday— “Yeah. Ta,” he said limply.

    “Pete’s got a wand,” she said helpfully.

    “Yeah.” Out on the front drive like a superannuated nana with ’is bloody wand… So be it.

    A bit later. Out on the front drive like a superannuated nana with ’is bloody wand.

    “Yoo-hoo! Bob, dear!”

    He swung round in horror but it was only that wife of Wal Briggs’s. “Hullo, Livia,” he said feebly, going up to the car.

    After the tender enquiries about Jan—Pete had rung last night so he was able to report she was good-oh—and the further tender enquiries about him and Libby—he left a fair amount of that out, including the bawling down the phone to her sister bit, and the pink jersey bit, and the earbashing the poor girl down the boat harbour bit, and the bawling in the kitchen because a certain tit stayed out too late playing with ’is bloody hedge-trimmer bit—she finally explained why she’d come. Brought some flowers and one or two things she thought they might do with.

    “Yeah. Um, Janet always does the flowers, I think’s the story,” he said uneasily.

    “Of course, Bob, dear! These are just some cut flowers for her! Now, let me see: I’ll take these baskets, and if you could just—”

    Cripes. Two huge hampers. Bob staggered after her.

    “I suppose really one should get used to using the new drive!” she trilled as they went down the back passage to the kitchen.

    “Eh? Aw. Yeah. The track down to Sean’s place: right.”

    “Not a track any more, silly one!” returned Livia with a giggle, how did old Wal stand it? Well, yeah, she was well-meaning, but crikey!

    “Yeah.” Which reminded him, someone was gonna have to see the guests’ cars didn’t block it, ’cos some tit had completely forgotten that quite some time back bloody Sean had said the parking spots oughta be marked out. Bugger.

    Livia spotted him and got it out of him, no sweat. –Which was a bloody stupid expression, because by the end of it he was wringing wet! She got on the blower and bawled Sean out. Right, him and his paint pot’d be here in two seconds flat.

    “He was only rearranging their crafts display. Too young to prioritise!” she trilled.

    Yeah, him and some others. Bob looked limply at the stuff she was whipping out of the hampers and onto the kitchen table. “Where did all this come from?”

    “This beautiful salmon mousse is from Aidan: he’d have been perfectly willing to come over, you know, the poor man hasn’t got enough to do. Though I do see it might be a lee-tle awkward with darling Libby here!”

    “Yeah,” said Bob, glancing at the open kitchen door in agony. “Can we not go into that again, Livia? –Ta.”

    “And this is— Oh, yes, cold duck. En gêlée, Bob, dear. Aspic, of course.”—Greek, she meant.—“It can go in the fridge, but you’ll need to serve it for lunch tomorrow. Now, put it on the board, dear!”

    “Eh? Aw. Yeah.” He stumbled over to the board and wrote “duck” on Libby’s lunch timetable for tomorrow.

    “The salmon’s for a starter for tonight. Just put ‘mousse’,” she ordered.

    He swallowed. How did ya spell it? Like a moose? He was pretty sure that was wrong. Miserably he wrote ‘Moose. Starter.’”

    “Now, let me see… These beautiful pâtés will keep perfectly in the fridge, so they can be eaten any time. I’d recommend the ones en croûte for lunch, they’re more substantial. The others will make lovely starters.”

    “Livia, where did these all come from?” said Bob numbly.

    “From Aidan, of course! Let me see… Yes: could you lift the big casserole out of this hamper, Bob? He described it as ‘just beef with a bit of red wine’, but I can promise you it’ll taste more like ambrosia!”

    Bob was past saying anything, really: he just put it in the fridge.

    As well as that there were two huge cakes: a chocolate cake and an orange cake: they’d be for the afternoon teas, and Vine was gonna send over a couple of fresh ones on Sunday; and three smaller casseroles. Vegetarian.

    Bob sagged. “Thank Christ! I mean, Libby’s gonna do this stuff she makes with chickpeas, and young Tamsin can do stir-fried veges, but for a whole weekend?”

    “Yes, well, non-vegetarianism is the norm, people have no right to expect their fads to be catered to in a non-specialist place,” said Livia severely, “but I do take your point, Bob, dear. Just put ‘vegetarian casserole’ on the schedule, dear. And Aidan will send some more on Saturday. –Well, that’s that!” she said brightly. “The rest are just a few tins that Wal and I thought you might like.”

    There were oodles of them! Not your ordinary Wattie’s tins, no: he didn’t recognise a thing! As bad as them tins of the Carranos’! Actually, these ones here were exactly like a couple of the Carranos’! “Livia, what is this muck?” he said desperately. “The Carranos sent some, too.”

    “Dolmades, Bob. Haven’t you had— No. Oh, my, that takes me back!” said Livia, suddenly sitting down, plump! on a kitchen chair. “It was terrible, Bob, darling: I was flatting with a very posh girl who thought she’d try acting after the deb bit: looking back, she only asked me to share because she knew that I knew my way around the Business! She insisted on going to a Greek restaurant, and the only thing I knew about Greece was that lovely Zorba film.”

    “Uh—right,” he said numbly.

    “Oh, dear, it’s brought it all back—Carlotta, she called herself. Masses of red hair. She thought I was so ignorant because I’d never had Greek food before and didn’t know the names of anything. She ordered dolmades for starters, you see. Cooked rice wrapped up in vine leaves—so much bother, and one really cannot understand why anybody would!”

    She was right, there. “Vine leaves?”

    “Mm. Supposed to be up-market. Some people like them,” said Livia dully. “Served cold.”

    Bob bit his lip. “Right; we’ll bung ’em on a dish and see if they fight over ’em, eh? Feel like a cuppa, Livia?”

    “I’d love one, darling! I feel sort of… drained,” said Livia limply. “When I look back: frightful snobby Carlotta, and if I’d stayed in Britain instead of coming out here and meeting dearest Wallace—”

    “Never mind, ya did come!” said Bob bracingly, hurriedly filling the jug.

    They were sipping the tea when bloody Janet turned up, looked superior. “Honestly, Bob, tea at this hour? –Good morning, Mrs Briggs, how lovely to see you!”

    Bob was taking a deep breath, about to blast the cow, but Livia quickly told her to call her Livia and told her about the stuff she’d brought, apologising for the flowers being “nothing very much” and explaining that she’d asked Bob for the tea, and just generally buttering her up like nobody’s biz. So much so that she merely said she supposed Bob did know that Sean was painting in the guests’ carpark, did he?—instead of really having a go. The flowers then got the nod as so lovely that she thought she’d put a few of the taller blooms—she actually called them that—on the big table in the restaurant! Looking superior, she put on one of her bloody aprons and sailed off to do so.

    “Livia,” said Bob hoarsely, “that’s Pete’s sacred kauri surface on that dining table, ya know.”

    “I dare say Janet will be careful: she’s very house-proud, isn’t she? But frankly, Bob, dear, if it does get a bit stained, does it matter? It really isn’t darling Pete’s worry any more, is it?”

    “No.” Bob might not of asked her before this morning, she was such a fancy dame, always tricked out in jewellery and stuff, but after the story of the Greek vine leaves and the horrible Carlotta, and the plain Bushell’s tea with milk and sugar she’d lapped up, and the references to what sounded like a pretty bloody ordinary time of it back in Pongo, he’d somehow revised his ideas about Livia Briggs a bit. Not to mention the fact that she must of got up bloody early to get over here from the other side of the lake when she had. So he said: “Um, Livia, what do you really think of that Andrew Barker type?”

    Brightening, Livia plunged into it. …Cripes. Well, sorting out the wheat from the chaff, he sounded like a really okay joker. The sort that’d stick to it if he did take on the ecolodge.

    “Darling Libby likes him, too!” she finished brightly.

    Bob jumped and tried to smile. “Mm.”

    “Is she in the office? –Then I’ll just pop in for a moment.”

    “Righto, Livia. And—and ta for everything.”

    “Darling, I didn’t do a thing! Little me can’t cook!” she trilled.

    No, but she could deal with bloody Janet Barber, and just generally make a bloke feel a bloody sight better about everything, recognised Bob, returning to the sweep and the clumps of grass and dandelion, and the flaming wand.

    Still Thursday. Smoko time. No, it wasn’t, bloody Janet was in the kit—

    “Come, in, you’re making a draught! And don’t dare to bring that dog—”

    Bob closed the door. “I’m not. Where’s Libby?”

    Janet looked down her nose. “In the office. There’s a lot of preparation to do, you know. We’ve finalised the meals for tomorrow and she’s printing the menus for the tables and the guests’ reservation slips for tomorrow’s lunch and dinner, and the booking slips for the minibus. If you do still want to drive it?”

    “Yes! What are you on about?”

    Janet looked superior and sniffed, so she wasn’t on about anything except driving him, Bob Kenny, bats, was she? Cow. “What are you making?” he said weakly.

    “Potato salad for tomorrow. And I’m just whipping up a couple of banana loaves for the morning and afternoon teas; of course it was very kind of Mr Vine to send over those lovely cakes, and I’m sure they’ll be appreciated,” she said with a titter, “but he doesn’t really understand what a real country afternoon tea is, does he?”

    Uh—looking back on that weekend he’d held the fort, no. “Yeah. Right, good on ya,” he said weakly. “Um, where did the bananas come from?”

    Janet looked superior. “The supermarket had them on special.”

    “Ya didn’t spend yer own money, didja?”

    “Don’t worry,” she said, looking down her nose. “Libby’s reimbursed me out of petty cash.”

    Right. Didn’t know there was any. “Yeah,” he said, opening the door again.

    “Now where are you off to?”

    “Uh—the next job?”

    “Don’t be ridiculous. Wash your hands and sit down, I’ll get you some morning tea,” said Janet heavily. “Not in the sink!” she screamed.

    “Sorry. Well—uh—well, where?”

    “In the bathroom,” said Janet caustically.

    “Yuh—um, not Pete and Jan’s bathroom?” he gulped.

    “Well, not in the guest bathrooms, thank you, Michelle’s just cleaned them!” she snapped.

    Re-cleaned, but that was par for the course. And, just incidentally, the only time Janet was on Michelle’s side— Forget it. He headed for Pete and Jan’s bathroom, not even bothering to point out the cow had forgotten to say “ensuite.”

    … Gee, it smelled good in here. Libby was using the ecolodge’s soap in the handbasin but that must be her own soap in the shower. Mm-mmm… Uh—yeah, get on with it, Kenny! What with her soap and the thought of her taking a shower in here and her dressing-gown on the bed in there, not to say the thought of her in the bed— He rinsed his hands and got out of it, the blood hammering in his veins.

    “Well, tell Libby tea’s up!” said Janet crossly the minute he stuck his nose back in the kitchen. “And shut that door after you!”

    Oh, boy. Was this gonna go on—? Well, all the time, actually, until Barker did take over.

    The office door was closed. He tapped cautiously.

    The reply was: “Woof!” so he went in. She was there: sitting at the computer.

    “Oh, it’s you!” she said in relief.

    “Geddown! Yes, good boy! –Don’t tell us Janet’s been having a go at you, too, Libby?”

    “No, at Michelle,” said Libby wanly.

    “Aw, cripes!” Bob sank onto the old desk chair.

    “Woof!” Peter came and laid his chin on his knees.

    “And at poor Peter,” added Libby sadly. “He sort of crept in here. How did Jan ever cope with her, Bob?”

    “I dunno, lovey. Well, she is the sort that’ll grab an ell if you give her an inch.”

    “I didn’t think I was giving her an inch,” said Libby wryly.

    “No. Well, just do ya best. And she won’t stay later than four-thirty on the dot, ya know.”

    “Are you sure?” she breathed.

    “Yeah. Aw: thinking of that day Jan had her attack? Nah, that was a one-off.”

    “Thank goodness!”

    “And so say all of us. In summer Jan sometimes used to ask her to come in at eight-thirty, but normally we’re safe up to nine and after four-thirty.”

    “Good. And she is very reliable.”

    “Yep; just a real pain in the arse. Come on, she’s getting us some morning tea. And my advice’d be, whatever it is, just shut up and be grateful.”

    “Too right!” she agreed with a sudden loud laugh, getting up. “No, Peter, stay! Good boy!”

    Bob followed her out, smiling—and quietly holding the pooch back with his foot. Hadn’t quite got “stay” yet. Not when his humans were doing something that might be interesting.

    It was lacy Vegemite-smear sandwiches, but Libby twinkled at him over hers and never mind bloody Janet was infesting the place, Bob felt all warm and happy.

    Thursday evening. Janet had gone but Neil was taking over from her. “‘Moose’?” he read out. “Honestly, Dad!” He collapsed in sniggers.

    “Shuddup or ya won’t get none. It’s one that Vine made, so it’ll be super-good.”

    “Dad, it’s M,O,U,S,S,E, it’s a French word!”

    “Up its. Are you gonna take the plates through or is this waiting of yours purely notional?”

    He gulped and took them through. Hah, hah, hah.

    Libby came in in her waiting outfit. Bob had kinda hoped she’d wear something really good, and it was. The skirt with the sparkly things on it that she’d had over summer, and good ole Christine Williams had sold ’er the top to go with it. Dark navy, skin-tight, showed every glorious line of ’em and, as the porch was chilly, the actual nipples, as well, earlier. Fluffy as all get out. Elbow-length sleeves, but real low over the tits and when she bent down ya saw the turquoise lacy bra. That was, if ya hadn’t actually passed out by then.

    “I got Neil with that ‘notional’ one,” he told her proudly.

    “Good!” Libby looked drily at the bench and its absence of Tamsin. The kid’s participation in the management of the ecolodge had turned out to be, as Libby herself had put it, purely notional. She’d arrived, all right—green as grass. Had her period, with bad cramps. She’d reckoned she could manage but she obviously couldn’t, and they’d put her to bed in the loft with a hottie on her tummy and a cup of some foul herb tea that she reckoned ’ud make her feel better. And two Panadols dissolved in it that Bob was quite sure would make her feel better. –Didn’t believe in “proprietary” painkillers, was the claim.

    “Well, we got through a whole day of Janet Barber, eh? I guess we can take anything!” he said with a grin.

    Libby laughed. “Yes! I guess we can, Bob!”

Next chapter:

https://summerseason-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/08/harmonic-vitality-and-othellos.html