Four Fish, Two Chips, Pineapple Ring

27

Four Fish, Two Chips, Pineapple Ring

    Libby stood morosely in the swamping humidity of the Auckland International Airport. Why had she come? She was only gonna embarrass both of them: he wouldn’t want to see her and he certainly wouldn’t be expecting to see her, and it’d look as if she was throwing herself at him! And how could you say to a man who, if you thought about it, you scarcely knew, really: “Hullo, I’ve decided I want to try living with you”? Well, you couldn’t, obviously, and she’d been mad to come. Let alone to bring Peter, he must be wondering where she was and probably panicking out there in the car, only she hadn’t thought they’d let dogs inside the terminal building, so she hadn’t brought him over—and besides, she’d’ve had to get him through the carpark, it would’ve been awful if he’d got away from her and maybe got run over… But at least it wasn’t too hot, there was no danger of him dying of heat stroke in the closed car like sometimes happened in Australia—not only dogs, babies too, really dreadful…

    Those people weren’t off Bob’s plane, were they? Huge Polynesians, most of them laden up with giant splitting bags and cases—some of them were straw cases: were you even allowed to bring— And some of them had leis, maybe the New Zealand regulations about importing plant matter weren’t as strict as the Aussie ones, but surely you weren’t allowed to bring fl— Oh no: plastic ones. She looked round wildly but she couldn’t see a noticeboard or one of those awful muddling TV screens or anything: could they be off Bob’s plane? The lady and man next to her didn’t seem to be meeting anybody, they weren’t moving forward or craning their necks or anything, so after a moment she said: “Excuse me, this isn’t the plane from Sydney, is it?”

    “No, Rarotonga,” replied the man.

    “That’s right, dear; see all the Islanders?” added the lady kindly.

    Help, they were just like the retired couples that came to the ecolodge!

    “Yes. Thank you,” said Libby limply.

    After that they didn’t just stand there politely avoiding eye contact like people in a lift, so airport etiquette must be different, mustn’t it? Or perhaps only if you were over fifty and what Jan called “the granny and grandpa hormones”, that made you loquacious, had struck. According to her, Dad never used to be a blabbermouth but even he had succumbed to them. Come to think of it, he hadn’t talked so much that time she’d come over when she was eighteen, though they’d had a really lovely time… Yes, that must be it: granny and grandpa hormones. Meeting their son and his fiancée: he was working in Sydney, a systems analyst: they missed him, didn’t they, Mike? Yes, they did, but there was a lot more work in his line available over there and of course it offered you a very nice lifestyle. They hadn’t met her before: she sounded very nice, though, didn’t she, Mike? Yes; and she was a systems analyst too. Australian, but her grandparents were English, they’d come out in the Fifties, there were a lot of English immigrants then. Libby agreed innocently that yes, they’d mostly come on assisted passages as part of the immigration programme during the White Australia period, like most of the English and Dutch immigrants; and then realised that possibly Mike and Chris hadn’t wanted the assisted bit mentioned. Or possibly the White Australia policy, either. They were both very pale themselves, of course, and no doubt the sort that considered talking about that sort of thing not nayce, whilst at the same time not disapproving of the idea itself, in their heart of hearts. Just like most of the ecolodgers—quite. Thank God Andrew and Jayne only wanted her to take the cruises and help out with a little bit of waiting on when they were busy, because she honestly didn’t think she could have taken any more prolonged contact with the clients than that. Not and remained both sane and polite. Though it was hardly what you could call gainful employment.

    Fortunately the library back in the States still wanted her to catalogue their pamphlets and so forth for their local history collection: the lady who’d been on maternity leave had decided she didn’t want to come back after all and Rebekah Wyatt Holmes had worked out that instead of employing another fully qualified professional (who might well, just incidentally, offer her managerial self some competition), it would be more cost-effective to email scanned copies of the relevant parts of the items to Libby and let her email them the completed records. But it wouldn’t be cost-effective for the library to convert them. This meant that Libby had to find a program that would convert word-processed cataloguing into the correct MARC format that of course, like most big systems, the library’s system used, but Bruce had helped with that: he knew someone that was doing that kind of work and he’d found a pair of little programs that the Library of Congress had written to do just that. Convert the file one way and then convert it back so as you could open it in word processing and see it was working, geddit? He had warned Libby not to argue when Rebekah stated that as she was conversant with the relevant headings it would be much more cost-effective to use her rather than hire someone locally who would have the usual steep learning curve with all her work having to be checked by someone (Ms Wyatt Holmes, unsaid), so Libby hadn’t argued, though she hadn’t really felt that with only about six months on the job she was all that conversant with the terms, because the items tended to come in batches. You got a batch of pamphlets and assorted ephemera about, say, a very specific aspect of white colonial history, maybe the history of a particular business, and then a batch about an aspect of the Native American customs of the area, and then a batch about the development of the railroad, but in that period by no means all possible aspects of local history had been covered. But she’d meekly followed Bruce’s advice and the bosses had of course approved Ms Wyatt Holmes’s cogent, well argued, fully-costed twenty-page proposal with its Executive Summary. So all Libby had to do after that was buy a laptop. Fortunately Bruce had helped with that, too.

    “What?” she said, jumping. “Um, no, not a relative, exactly. Um, well, he’s my niece’s boyfriend’s father.” Mike and Chris were very interested to hear this and had to ask about Tamsin and Neil and were very interested to hear about Neil’s degree and that Libby’s sister (and Tamsin’s mother) was now helping to run an ecolodge at Taupo and told her a lot about their last trip down there and incidentally about their unfortunate experience in Rotorua: the motel had been very nice, they weren’t saying there was anything wrong with it as such, but some of the guests had had no idea of consideration at all. Noisy drinking parties until, would Libby believe it, three in the morning: terrible!

    “Um, yes, it is the risk you run with motels, isn’t it? The guests are all different ages,” she said faintly. “Um, at the ecolodge they mostly tend to be, um, around your ages, I suppose.” She now knew that Mike was still working, he was with the Auckland Regional Authority—this theoretically might have meant he was a bus-driver, but even Libby hadn’t assumed that, he was so obviously white-collar, and in fact he’d divulged that he was in Accounts Receivable—so she added carefully: “Or maybe retired people. The sort who prefer home cooking and a pleasant natural environment. No noisy motorboats or waterskiing.”

    “What about bungee jumping?” asked Mike immediately.

    How could you bungee jump off a very flat lake shore? Never mind, they were all mad, it went with the crisply ironed shorts and the knee-socks, didn’t it? “No, nothing like that, but some nice guided bush walks and a lake cruise, and some lovely tours to National Park to see the native flora.”

    “That does sound nice, Mike! –We thought an ecolodge might be—well, you know, dear. Extreme.”

    “Way-out,” agreed Mike. “Rock climbing and stuff.”

    “No, Taupo Shores definitely isn’t. Very homey,” said Libby firmly.

    They were very pleased to hear it and Chris made Mike make a note of the name in his pocket diary. Which he was carrying—yes. Even though it was the weekend, it was holiday time, and they were at the airport to meet their son. Oh, cripes.

    At long, long last, Mike said: “This’ll be it!” as more people started coming through; and the two of them pressed forward eagerly and so did the rest of the crowd. Libby hung back and let them get swept away from her, one could only hope it was forever. She couldn’t see Bob, what she could mostly see was people’s backs, and if she missed him then it probably meant it was meant.

    After a bit the crowd thinned slightly and people dispersed in small clumps, all talking their heads off, and there was still no sign of— Help, yes, there was! She hadn’t remembered he was so tall… Maybe he wouldn’t see her— Help, he’d seen her!

    Libby just stood there rooted to the spot as Bob deserted his piled trolley—surely that tower of luggage couldn’t all be his, had he gone mad in the shops over there?—and rushed up to her and put his arms round her!

    “Sorry, Libby, but can ya for Pete’s sake pretend to be me fiancée or something?” he hissed. “There’s this dame that’s sticking to me like glue!”

    Libby’s heart had done something really peculiar, kind of like a flip, but now it settled down and merely raced uncomfortably. “Yes,” she said in a stilted voice against his chest.

    “Sorry,” repeated Bob feebly, as he squashed her against him.

    She could feel he had an erection: was that for her or the dame? Crossly Libby hissed: “How long has she been sticking to you like glue?” Perforce into his chest, as he was still crushing her against him.

    “Years,” replied Bob glumly. “No, only feels like it. Since Sydney airport.”

    “Right, and you didn’t discourage her: I see.”

    “I did! I put me earplugs in and listened to some crap and watched some feebleized film and I pretended to be asleep for ages and nothing put her off!” he hissed desperately. “Just pretend I belong to you and she’ll sling ’er hook, see?”

    “All right,” said Libby, pulling away from him. She didn’t manage to smile but then in the circumstances would Coral have managed to smile? “I’ll be like Coral,” she said grimly.

    “Yeah. Will ya? That’d do it. Ta,” said Bob dazedly as, with a huge waft of really awful perfume, the dame was upon them.

    “Aw, there you are, Yvonne. This is Libby, me fiancée: didn’t think she’d make it to Auckland to meet me.”

    Libby gave Yvonne a good glare: in the first place she felt like it and in the second place she was very sure that Coral would have done so, in her place. “He has been away for months,” she said grimly. “And I had some business to attend to, as well. I hope that luggage isn’t all yours, Bob, because I’ve got Peter in the car.” –She hadn’t intended it, but it came out almost as if Peter was a child—well, good!

    “Have ya?” he said weakly. “Well, uh, better get out there and rescue him, eh? Only two of these bags are mine. Where’s Neil and Tamsin?” he added, starting to unload the trolley.

    “Down at the ecolodge. The professor’s told him his lake samples need backing up by another season’s lot.”

    “What? Ya not telling me he’s gonna be using the launch all this summer as well!”

    “I think so,” replied Libby, registering with a certain bitter glee that the yellow-haired, over-made up, scarlet-clawed Yvonne was starting to look really hacked off. Slinky black slacks, slinky black shiny low-cut top, overdone gold jewellery and all. Hah, hah. “But you’ll be driving the minibus most of the summer anyway, won’t you, dear?” she added grimly.

    That did it and once Bob had rescued his two bags Yvonne pushed off.

    “Ta,” said Bob, sagging.

    Libby took a deep breath. “What would’ve happened if no-one had managed to meet you, may I ask?”

    “That’s a pretty good imitation of Coral you’ve got there,” he replied glumly. “Ya know bloody well what would’ve happened. I didn’t even like the dame but that wouldn’t have stopped me.”

    “Yes,” said Libby flatly.

    “Look, I’m not a kid and I’ve got nothing in me life!” he said loudly and angrily.

    “I know; I realise that now, Bob. I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t kidding yourself.”

    “Uh—no,” he said feebly. “Uh—well, at one point I did try to kid meself that I could do without sex and hold out in case someone really nice wanted me, but it didn’t seem to work.”

    “No. Come on, Peter’s been shut in the car for ages.”

    He picked up his bags and accompanied her silently.

    “I hope he’s all right,” said Libby anxiously as Pete’s old 4WD hove in sight.

    All right? If the pooch was on form he’d be lying on the back seat snoring his head— He was. However, he woke up and got all excited when he saw Bob.

    “Hey, fella! Good boy!” he said, squatting to ruffle his ears. Peter licked his face enthusiastically. “That’s enough. Good boy,” he said, standing up. “Sit!” Cripes, he did.

    “Don’t tell me them two idiots have been keeping up his training,” he said weakly.

    “Dad and Jan?” replied Libby dubiously.

    “No! Neil and Tamsin!”

    “Um, no, he’s been down at the ecolodge with Dad and Jan; I thought you realized, Bob?”

    “No,” said Bob limply, passing his hand through his grizzled curls. “Neil said he’d take care of him, the blighter!”

    “Mm. I think that making sure he was with Dad was his way of taking care of him, actually.”

    Bob breathed heavily.

    “You went away,” she pointed out detachedly.

    “Yeah,” he agreed flatly. “Want me to drive?”

    “Not when you’re just off an overseas flight, don’t be silly. You can navigate.”

    Meekly Bob got into the front passenger’s seat, removing the wrapped parcel from it as he did so. “Now what are ya doing?” he said feebly as she didn’t get in, she fussed round with Peter.

    “Putting his dog restraint on him,”

    What? Incredulously Bob peered.

    “If you want to take him back you can have it in your car,” said Libby grimly, getting into the driver’s seat. “There’s no way I’m letting him go to you without one.”

    “Uh—right. Well, okay, if that’s the way it’s done these days,” said Bob feebly. “Um, ya left this parcel on the seat. Been buying books?”

    “No. I mean, it is a book, yes. It’s for you.”

    Feebly he opened it. “Thanks,” he said feebly, staring at a very nice, shiny-covered biography of the Duke of Wellington.

    “You haven’t got that one, have you?” said Libby.

    “Uh—no,” agreed Bob dazedly. “Where’d ya get it from?”

    “Amazon dot com,” replied Libby literally, starting the car. “They have a wonderful selection of books, but it can take months for them to get out here, so I arranged for it to be sent to a friend in California and he posted it to me airmail.”

    “He, who?” asked Bob disagreeably before he could stop himself.

    “Bruce. We did have a thing—he’s a lot younger me than me but as he wanted to and he’s very attractive, I let him,” replied Libby calmly. “It wasn’t serious. He’s a bit your type, actually.”

    Bob swallowed hard. “Meaning what, exactly?” he asked cautiously.

    “That likes sex,” replied Libby calmly.

    He gulped. “Right,” he croaked. “Um, does this imply I couldn’t be serious?”

    “No, I didn’t mean that.”

    Bob just sat back limply. Didn’t she? What the Hell did she mean, then, if anything? …Fairly limply: he’d got the most tremendous hard-on the moment he’d seen her and in spite of the lifelike imitation of Coral it hadn’t abated since.

    “Uh—well, thanks!” he said, coming to as they headed towards the main road. “I do like military biographies, especially of that period. I’ll pay you back, of course.”

    “It’s a Christmas present, you idiot,” said Libby heavily.

    It was January, actually. “Oh,” he said feebly. “Well, ta very much.”

    They were on the main road heading south and he’d checked the map for her when it struck him. “How did you know what sort of books I like?”

    Libby sighed. “Given that you’ve never so much as mentioned a book to me? Or to Jan: she didn’t have a clue what you liked to read or if you liked to read, in fact it’s been her impression for twenty-odd years that if you opened a book at all it was like Dad, to see how other jokers tie flies the wrong way. –I went round to your place and looked at your books.”

    After a moment Bob said: “I mentioned Hiawatha to you.”

    “Mm. I saw your Longfellow: that’s a lovely old edition. One Hiawatha dating from your childhood didn’t sort of suggest your adult tastes,” said Libby drily.

    “No. Well, ta,” he said feebly. “Didja—didja give everyone books for Christmas, then?”

    Libby opened and shut her mouth. Then she said limply: “Well, sort of. I bought Dad a lovely one about trout lakes when I was in America, though I do know he’s the sort of person that can’t see the point of looking at coffee-table books, ’specially when there’s a lake right on your doorstep. But he was quite interested, and he read the bits about the actual fish. And Jan heard a review on the radio of a new book about Bobby Kennedy, so I got that for her as well as a lovely coffee-table book with reproductions of nineteenth-century photos of Native Americans. And Jayne was really keen on reading up about Southwestern-style cooking—Tex-Mex, that sort of thing—so I got her a couple of nice recipe books. Though I don’t know that she’ll do any of the recipes for the ecolodge guests, they’re full of chilli and maize flour and so on. And a beautiful book of botanical drawings for Neil: aquatic plants. That was Amazon dot com, again: it took me ages to track down something I thought he’d really like.”

    Grimly Bob reflected that if the little bugger hadn’t pretended to like it he’d wring his bloody neck for him. “Did he?”

    “Yes, he was thrilled with it.”

    Bob relaxed. “Good. So who does that leave? Tamsin and Andrew?”

    “And Patty and Coral,” replied Libby serenely. She must have noticed the stunned silence because she added: “Coral is Neil’s mum, Bob: we couldn’t not invite her for Christmas dinner.”

    “Apparently not,” he croaked. “At the ecolodge, was this? With all the guests there?”

    “Mm.”

    “Ya mean she came instead of stocktaking?” he croaked.

    “Yes. You don’t give her credit for anything, do you?”

    Not much, no, and couldja blame him? “Well, all right, what books didja give ’em all?”

    She had given Andrew a nice practical book on gardening for New Zealand conditions. Bob tried to smile and not to wonder if it was the same as that ruddy thing of Sean’s. But not books for Tamsin and Coral, because they weren’t readers. A nice silk scarf for Coral—Jayne had helped her choose it—and a crock pot for Tamsin.

    “Eh?”

    “A slow cooker. She wanted it,” said Libby tranquilly. “It’s so as she can put something on to simmer in the morning and it’ll be ready for their tea when they get home.”

    “Right. Very practical,” he said feebly. “And Patty?”

    “Well, it was a bit extravagant, but she’s been very, very good to me. A big reference book on aromatic plants. Not just the botanical side, the perfumery and chemistry and so forth. It’s got lovely illustrations as well.”

    “Sounds like her thing.”

    “Mm, she was very pleased, and they’ve planted up huge beds of all sorts of herbs!”

    “Uh—right, at, um, what are they calling it, again?”

    “Taupo Harmonic Vitality.”

    “Yeah. So her and Vine’s kid, they’ve really hit it off, eh?”

    “Yes. David’s a lovely person,” said Libby, smiling. “Well, goodness knows if they’ll get huge numbers of clients, but they all seem really happy, and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?”

    “Well, yeah, so long as you can afford to eat,” replied Bob awkwardly.

    “Mm.”

    Silence fell. Bob couldn’t think of a blamed thing to say, and she was concentrating on her driving. After a bit he checked the map and made sure she was on the right road and knew where to go from here. He hadn’t slept much last night, maybe he oughta get a bit of shut-eye, only with the hard-on, was he gonna be able to?

    He opened his eyes with a jerk. “Shit! Did I doze off? Where are we?”

    “Just south of Hamilton,” replied Libby calmly. “I’ve just stopped for petrol.”

    “South of Hamilton?” he croaked.

    “Yes; you’ve been asleep for ages.”

    Nearly half the way, by his calculations! Shit.

    Libby got out a book of maps and laboriously checked the distances chart. “About a hundred and fifty K to go,” she announced.

    “Uh—yeah.” He peered out of the window in the gathering dusk. “Self-serve, is it? Lemme do it.”

    “No, that’s okay, I have to get out anyway, I need to go to the toilet.”

    It felt like she was still doing that imitation of Coral, frankly. “I could still get the petrol for you.”

    “Okay, thanks,” said Libby. “I hate these self-serve thingos, actually.”

    Then why hadn’t she said so in the first place? Trying not to roll his eyes madly, Bob got out. Women! Why was it ya could never second-guess ’em?

    “Are you hungry?” she said as she got back into the driver’s seat.

    Bob opened his mouth. Then he shut it again. Then he took a deep breath and said: “Before I give any indication whether I am or not, are you?”

    “No, but if you are we can stop somewhere.”

    “I’m not,” said Bob flatly.

    “Okay,” said Libby mildly, starting the car.

    It took about another two hours to get home. It was fair to say those were two of the longest hours of Bob Kenny’s existence. He couldn’t think of a flaming thing to say, the hard-on had come back, more excruciating than ever, he didn’t dare to offer to spell her at the driving in case she slapped him back again, and he still couldn’t figure out why the Hell she’d come to meet him—not to say, whether the actual meeting would have turned out any better if it hadn’t been for bloody lipsticked Yvonne Whatserface, though he had a fair idea that the answer to that was a lemon. True, there was the book, though if she’d also bought books for almost everybody else she knew, that meant less than nothing, didn’t it? Also true, she'd taken the trouble to find out what sort of stuff he liked to read, but then, she was the sort of person that would, eh? …Shit, in short.

    It was pretty dark by the time she drew up outside his rickety front gate. Pity it hadn't fallen right off its hinges in his absence: woulda given Miser Ron Reilly and that bloody wife of his something else to whinge about.

    The house was dark; he got out slowly, peering at his watch. “Thought you said Neil was down here?” he said feebly as Libby came round to the pavement and opened Peter’s door.

    “Yes, he is.”

    “Then where— Or is ’e helping out at the ecolodge?”

    “No. They’ve both been spending very long days on the lake and he’s been writing up the results in the evenings. Tamsin has been doing a bit of waitressing in the evenings, but there’s Patty as well, she’s got lots of spare time.”

    “Then where are they?” said Bob crossly, glaring at the darkened house.

    “Woof!”

    “Yeah, good boy,” he said, patting him automatically.

    “I’m trying to explain. They’re not staying here, they’re using the loft at the ecolodge.”

    “What?”

    “Yes, um, Patty doesn’t need it, she’s staying with David over at the Turpin pl— I mean at Taupo Harmonic Vitality.”

    “I told him to use the house!” said Bob loudly and angrily.

    “Yes, but they decided to give you your own space, once you’d said you were coming back. But anyway they’re not there, they’re stuck down in Turangi, that’s what I’m trying to say. It’s just bad timing, Bob. Um, Neil’s on a really tight schedule and he really needs to finish that area of the lake this week. There’s only about a day to go: they’ll probably get back tomorrow night.”

    “They still don’t need to use the loft!” he said angrily.

    “Well, the thing is, I think they’d rather be by themselves,” she said awkwardly. “Um, well, you probably don’t remember what it was like, but they’re a young couple in love.”

    “Probably don’t re— How flaming old do ya think I am?” he choked.

    “Well, you’re acting as if you don’t remember,” replied Libby calmly.

    Bob breathed heavily. “Okay. They want to be by themselves and they couldn’t have spared a couple of hours to get up here and see the old man; I geddit.”

    “A couple of hours to get here and another couple to get back, that’s at least four whole hours, not counting the time to actually sit down and chat, and they’ve got to get up at five.”

    “Yeah,” he said, thrusting his hand through his curls. “Right.”

    “Woof! Woof!”

    “Yeah, good boy! At least you’re pleased to see me,” he said glumly. “Uh—gimme that,” he said quickly, realising that Libby was hauling the larger of his bags out. “Well—ta, Libby. It was decent of you to meet me.”

    “Um, I’ve made some tea for you,” said Libby in a tiny voice.

    Bob gulped. “Have ya? Ta. Well—uh—come in and have some, then?”

    By this time Libby’s appetite had completely deserted her. Nothing had gone the way she’d hoped—well, she wasn’t too sure exactly what she’d hoped, but it had been something along the lines of the final scenes of every screen romance she’d ever seen, she now recognised sourly. Richard Gere standing up in his white chariot waving his umbrella; Bridget Jones in her thong throwing herself into Mr Darcy’s arms in the snow—as if: in real life she’d have frozen to death, the snow must have all been that spray-on stuff, but nevertheless; the same Mr Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet riding off in their open carriage, also in the snow, as if, after a white wedding, yet: didn’t the moronic producers know anything about the history of English costume at all— No, well, romantic. Hearts and flowers. Misty fade-out in each other’s arms. Boy, was she an idiot!

    “Um, thanks. Um, I’m not really hungry but I need to go to the toilet,” she said faintly.

    “You could do that, too,” said Bob, not really knowing what he was saying. He went up onto the sagging verandah and produced his front door key. After a certain period of wrestling with the lock, during which his ears got very red, he said: “Look, have you buggered up this lock?”

    “I don’t think so; I couldn’t get it open either,” admitted Libby. “The back door’s okay.”

    Muttering under his breath about his dill of a son, Bob went down the side path. The back door was very okay, in fact after turning the key the right way and getting nothing, he tried the handle, and gee, know what? Taking a deep breath, he managed to say nothing, and led the way inside.

    Funnily enough, though apparently she’d been making herself at home—well, to the extent of inspecting his books, and making him some tea for tonight—she hadn’t super-duperised the place. He took a cautious look in the sitting-room, but nope. Not a frilly cushion in sight. On the whole he couldn’t have said whether that was good or bad. Well, good that she wasn’t the sort that took a bloke over lock, stock and casseroles, filling your place with revolting frilly cushions, unasked, but bad that she apparently didn’t want to take him over, lock stock and— Yeah.

    She was in the bathroom, so he couldn’t have a shower. He mooched into the kitchen and sat down dully at the table. His brain didn’t seem to be functioning at all. Well, par for the course, when a bloke was this stiff, but— Well, Hell, what was she here for? She wasn’t giving him the eye or— Well, Hell!

    She came in and, not looking at him, went over to the fridge. Bob looked dully at a very nice display of bum in tight jeans as she bent over and got something out.

    “That a casserole?” he said dully as she straightened with it.

     “No, lasagna,” replied Libby. “It’s done, it only needs to be heated up. I hope it’s okay: it’s a recipe Jayne taught me. I did make it exactly like she showed me, but I’m afraid that’s no guarantee. Um, I’m not sure if I should take this foil off it or not. One time I made some—it wasn’t as big as this, it was only for me, but I made a double lot—I left the foil on and when I heated it up next day it went awfully soggy. So next time I took the foil off and the top dried out and the bits of pasta round the edges went all hard and horrible. Tamsin said I should use the microwave to reheat it, only this dish is the wrong shape for the microwave.” She paused and looked at him hopefully. “What would you do?”

    Bob thrust his hand through his curls. “Dunno. Bung the thing in the oven, who gives a fuck?”

    Reddening, Libby replied: “I think it might be better with the foil on, really.”

    “Look, just leave it!”

    She put the dish on the bench and turned round slowly. “Aren’t you hungry?”

    “N— Y— Never mind!” said Bob loudly, standing up. “Look, I can’t take this! Why are you bothering? And don’t tell me everyone else was busy or Neil’s down the far end of the lake or any of that crap!”

    Libby’s hands trembled slightly. “It’s true. They are. And—and nobody else seemed to care. Even Neil. He said you weren’t helpless. And Tamsin said you could take care of yourself. And—and even Dad said you were capable of getting yourself down to Taupo from the flaming airport, you’d got yourself up there all right. Throw the lasagna out if you like, I don’t care. It’ll be horrible anyway.”

    “Um, no. Sorry,” said Bob lamely. “Got all stirred up. I’ll just— I mean, well, put it in the oven with the foil on it’d be best, I think. Um, I’ll have a shower. And, um, couldja possibly make us a cuppa?”

    “Tea?” said Libby feebly. “Yes, if you like.”

    “Ta,” he said, vanishing.

    Numbly Libby turned the oven on and put the covered dish of lasagna in. Numbly she filled the electric jug. What was he on about? Did he want her to stay or not? And if he did—and she had to admit, the bulge in his jeans looked as if he did, it couldn’t be for the horrible scarlet-clawed lady this time—well, if he did, why didn’t he say something?

    Peter pressed hard against her legs as she made the tea. “Um, yeah, drinkies. Where did I put your bowls?”

    “Woof! Woof!”

    “By the back door: that’s right. Well, if he thought it was okay to feed you in the ecolodge’s kitchen I suppose it’s okay to feed you in his,” said Libby dubiously, bringing the bowls in. “Yes, good boy! You’ve been fed today; just a nice drink of water.”

    She was watching him lap and wondering what Bob used to wipe the kitchen floor with, and reflecting guiltily that Andrew’s remark that it would be more sensible to feed him outside in the fine weather had some merit to it, when it dawned: the only towel in the bathroom was a tiny hand-towel! Help!

    Libby rushed out to the linen cupboard in the passage, which she now knew held towers of towels, he must have inherited them from his parents, she couldn’t imagine Coral ever spending money on that many towels, grabbed a large bath towel and turned for the bathroom.

    She’d taken two steps towards it when Bob came out of it, stark naked.

    “I was getting you a towel!” she gasped, turning a deep beetroot shade.

    The passage light was on, so Bob couldn’t miss the blush. Even though he hadn’t managed to figure her out at all and had completely lost his nerve over the lasagna do, he had more than enough experience of women to realise that the bright red cheeks and the heaving tits didn’t just mean embarrassment.

    “That’s good,” he replied mildly, making no attempt to cover himself. “Ya wanna give it here, then?”

    Libby clutched the towel to her bosom, goggling at six-foot four of naked and very aroused male. He had the most gorgeous figure, even better than Aidan’s, no wonder all those ladies had chucked themselves—

    Bob smiled just a little. “It is for you, yeah. Ya didn’t think it was for that slag Yvonne, did ya?”

    “Yes!” gasped Libby, honest as ever.

    “No. Ya wanna give me a towel before it turns to ice and drops right off?”

    “Uh—yes, here!” she gasped, thrusting it at him.

     Bob took the towel and dried his genitals in a perfunctory manner.

    Libby came to with a jump as he began to towel his back, and gasped: “I’ll just—”

    “No, ya won’t,” he said, dropping the towel and giving up all pretence at drying himself off. “Cummere.” He reached out a long arm and pulled her against him. “Jesus,” he said in a shaken voice.

    “Bob, you’ll catch your death,” said Libby faintly into his chest.

    “No, I won’t, not a flaming tender plant,” he said into the tangled curls at her neck. “Sorry about that in the kitchen earlier. I do like lasagna. Lost me nerve. Well, um, thought flaming Yvonne Whatserface had blown it for me, actually.”

    “Mm.”

    “Yeah. Didn’t want her, not for real, I only want you. Have done since the first time I set eyes on you up at the ruddy airport, in that pants suit or whatever it was. The orange one.”

    Libby gulped. “What?”

    “Yeah. That first time ya come over from Australia: ya had those real cute sandals on, too, with them little wee straps round your ankles,” he said reminiscently. “Know what I wanted to do?”

    “No,” said Libby faintly.

    “Kneel down and kiss them little feet and ankles of yours all over, meanwhile undoing those ankle straps real, real slow, and then get your wee foot on my— Uh, never mind,” he said, gulping. “Sort of had a picture of it real clear in me mind—it wasn’t deliberate or anything.”

    Libby looked up at him blankly. “My feet are quite an average size.”

    “Right, about as long as me hand!” said Bob with a mad little laugh. “Well, dunno why, Libby; like I said, I just got a picture of it. Um, anyway,” he finished, swallowing hard, “do ya want me, or not? ’Cos if not, I gotta say it, I think I’ll push off for Oz for good: I can’t take any more.”

    “Um, what if it’s only sex?” asked Libby anxiously.

    “Could spend the next twenny years finding it out?” replied Bob, raising his eyebrows and pressing his dick into her belly.

    “No, seriously,” she said faintly.

    “Well, I dunno. Would that be bad? I can’t get you out of my mind and I’ve been going mad with frustration ever since I met you. Sounds all right to me, but then I’m only a bloke. I like you, too; didn’t like any of those other dames I let do me.”

    Libby looked up into his face with a frown. “Is that enough?”

    “It definitely is for me. Look, I could say I love you,” said Bob, going dark red, “but I said that to Coral, didn’t I, and the results were bloody disastrous. And I—I do love you, as far as I can tell, but who the Hell can tell?”

    “I certainly can’t. I thought I was in love with Terry at one stage, but maybe it was just that there was no-one else offering.”

    “The Aussie blokes must be mad!” replied Bob fiercely, hugging her.

    “Yes,” said Libby in a muffled voice into his chest. “I mean no, most of the ones that work in libraries are gay.”

    “The rest of ’em are mad, then. Can we go to bed, or have ya decided it’s not enough?” he said into the curls. “’Cos I don’t wanna prejudice your decision one way or the other, but frankly, this is bloody torture!”

    “It won’t solve anything,” she warned.

    “It will for me, I can tell ya!” returned Bob very loudly indeed.

    Libby gulped. “All right.”

    “All right what?” he said cautiously, holding her a little away from him and looking down at her.

    “All right, we could go to bed. But it might just be sex on my part, mind. You are very attractive,” admitted Libby, blushing richly.

    Not for the first time in her company Bob experienced a strong desire to shake his head madly, as of one with water in the ear. “Well, good,” he managed to croak. “Give us a kiss, eh?”

    He kissed her gingerly. Libby responded with equal caution.

    “I can do better than that,” he admitted, swallowing hard and releasing her, “but what with one thing and another, I might just come here in the ruddy passage if I start, so let’s go in the bedroom, eh?”

    “Mm,” said Libby, letting him take her hand, involuntarily glancing at his erection, turning beetroot all over again, and looking quickly away.

    Along with the water-in-the-ear thing and in spite of the towering prick, Bob was now possessed by a mad desire to laugh. “Hey, it is there to be looked at,” he said mildly, leading her into the bedroom,

    “Um, yes, um, is it?”  replied Libby faintly.

    “Amongst other things, yeah,” said Bob with a laugh in his voice. “And while we’re on the subject, if you’re expecting me to apologise for that time in the flaming ecolodge kitchen—”

    “No,” said Libby quickly.

    “I was just gonna say,” said Bob, hauling back the bedclothes—cripes, someone had made the bed!—“I was just gonna say, I do apologise for it being with her, but not for the thing itself.” He got onto the bed. “If ya can’t stand the fact that I’m made that way, ya better say so now.”

    “Um, no, I mean, don’t all men?” said Libby very, very faintly, beetroot once more.

    “Well, dunno. All I know is, not all dames will do it for ya. Uh, I don’t mean suck you right off,” he said, clearing his throat. “Might be not safe, eh? No, um, some of them won’t suck the tip at all.”

    “Not even if they know you want them to?” she said, staring at him.

    “No,” he agreed sourly.

    “That seems really mean, to me,” ventured Libby.

    “Yeah. So, um, if a bloke wanted it, wouldja?”

    “Yes, of course.”

    “That’s good,” he admitted feebly. “Um, sorry, probably sounds mad to you. But I had to ask.”

    “Yes,” said Libby slowly, beginning to undress. “I think I see, Bob. It was Coral, wasn’t it?”

    It was now Bob’s turn to turn beetroot. “Well, not only her, but since you ask, yes. Thought it wasn’t nice—I dunno!” he said with an impatient shrug.

    “Mm. It wasn’t just a power-play thing, was it?” asked Libby shyly, removing her jeans. “I mean, some ladies are into power plays: me and Bruce had a long talk about it once. He was only young but he knew an awful lot about relations between the sexes.”

    Bob was gaping at the bush that the lacy panties didn’t manage to hide. “Eh? Aw—coulda been partly that on Coral’s part, God knows our entire bloody marriage was a kind of power play to her. Gee, you’re fantastic down there, Libby.”

    “It keeps growing back,” she murmured, blushing madly. “I did have a sort of bikini line, but I haven’t done much swimming for a while.”

    “Yeah,” he said vaguely, unconsciously licking his lips. “Come over here.”

    Libby came timidly over to the bed in her tee-shirt and panties.

    At this point, reflected Bob muzzily, lying back and looking up at her, some dames would do something about the hard-on, especially considering what they’d just been discussing. He didn’t even bother to arch his back suggestively, ’cos it had dawned on him, thick though he manifestly was, that she wasn’t like all those other dames at all. “Okay: if I tell you to stop getting undressed and get up on the bed where I can get at you, you won’t take it as a power play, will you?”

    “No,” replied Libby simply. “Shall I?”

    “Yeah, come on, kneel over me, okay?”

    “Um, like this?” she gasped, managing to get a knee each side of his knees without actually having touched him at all.

    “It’ll do for a start,” said Bob weakly. “I won’t ask you to lie on top of me, I’m bloody nearly coming as it is, see? I might just get these down, though.” He bent forward and managed to ease the panties down. Then he persuaded her to edge forward a bit. Politely she edged forward to somewhere over his thighs. Well—at least it was near enough for him to slide a hand up her thigh, so he did that. The inner thigh: ooh, warm silk! Bob felt his ears go very, very red as she trembled and gasped.

    “Thought so,” he said, sliding the other hand up inside the other thigh, since it was there.

    “Oh, Bob; oh, Bob!” she gasped, shaking like a leaf.

    Bob hadn’t doubted it was gonna be good, but at this juncture it occurred that maybe it was gonna be really good. He slid his hand up a little further—

    “Oh, Bob!” she gasped. “Oh-oo-oo-oh-ooh,” she moaned.

    “Jesus, you’re wet, lovey! –Oh, cripes,” he muttered, biting his lip.

    Libby moaned and closed her eyes.

    Ooh, lovely— “Lemme!” he gasped, sliding down under her.

    “Oh, BOB!” she cried. “Oh, Bob; oh, Bob!”

    She was so flooded he was drinking her. Well, someone might of been kidding themselves back in the kitchen over that lasagna, but it hadn’t been him after all, had it? Panting, he pulled her right down so as she was almost sitting on his face, and just shut his eyes.

    “Gotta breathe!” He pushed her away, gasping for air. “Jesus, you’re wet down there, lovey!”

    Libby opened her eyes slowly. “Am I?” she said faintly.

    “Yes,” said Bob definitely. “And don’t tell me ya thought all dames got like that!”

    “Um, well, aren’t you s’posed to?”

    “I’ll say!” He slid his hands up under the tee-shirt that he’d unaccountably forgotten to remove, explaining kindly: “I dunno if you didn’t notice, in spite of all that staring I did, like when you were in your Christmas outfit with that soft bra, and on the boat that time in your skimpy top, but I am a tit-man. Just got side-tracked for a bit by something else I rather like! You could bend over a bit, now. –Ooh, nice,” he murmured, squeezing them. “Bend down a bit more, love, I’ll take the bloody bra off.”

    “Mm,” said Libby, blushing in spite of herself. Why was it so embarrassing having Bob Kenny play with her breasts and talk about them and get her bra off, when what he’d just been doing hadn’t felt embarrassing at all? “Don’t stare,” she said faintly as, after a fight with the hooks, he got the bra undone and hauled it and the tee-shirt over her head.

    “You gotta be joking!” replied Bob loudly, staring. Slowly he put a hand on each, closing his eyes…

    “Shit, I am nearly coming!” he gasped, hurriedly stopping.

    “Hah, hah!” replied Libby crossly.

    Bob bit his lip. “Um, I know it’s all a bit new between us, Libby. Didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just—well, heck! You must know what a turn-on you are.”

    “Not really,” said Libby in a small voice.

    He managed to squirm backwards a bit and sit up. “No, all right, sweetheart, ya don’t. Sorry: going too fast, eh? Can I just get these panties right off?” He slid them down and with a horrendous effort refrained from burying his face in them, ’cos he had an idea that that would’ve embarrassed her even more. “Okay, now just lie down and cuddle up, eh?”

    Libby lay down beside him and he pulled her very gently against him. “Sorry; I’m too excited, see? Just lemme give you a hug.” He got both arms round her and hugged her gently.

    “Hey,” he said into her neck, “ it was good what I done with me tongue, eh?”

    “Mm,” replied Libby in strangled tones.

    “Shall I give you a really polite kiss instead?”

    “Mm.”

    Smiling, Bob gave her a very gentle kiss.

    Libby kissed him back madly, pressing herself against him desperately, finally gasping as she came up for air: “Oh, Bob!”

    “Uh-huh. Ya liked the taste of it in the passage, eh?”

    “I thought it was just ordinary—well, nice, only then I—I kept wuh-wanting—”

    “Yeah, me too,” he admitted, very flushed. “It might or might not be not be love but it’s sex all right, eh?”

    “Mm!”

    “Mmm,” said Bob, starting in to kiss her again. This time she not only kissed him back madly, she wound her legs round him. So much so that he worked up the guts to squeeze a breast again. It wasn’t exactly the wrong move, ’cos she cried: “Oh, Bob!” Into the bargain thrusting her pelvis up towards him, cripes! It was the right move if she wanted him to go off like a rocket right now, yeah!

    “I better get down there again,” he said faintly.

    “I might come, though!” gasped Libby.

    “Okay, sweetie, it’s you or me, ’cos I’ll definitely come if ya get your tongue in me mouth and shove your belly at me again,” said Bob against her cheek.

    For answer she turned her mouth to his, hugged him fiercely and shoved her belly at him again, moaning slightly. Christ!

    “Hang on,” he croaked, managing to push her away and sit up. “Gotta use a condom,” he explained.

    “Have you got one?” asked Libby faintly.

    “Mm. Uh—shit, where are me jeans? Blast!” he muttered, thrusting a hand through his curls. “Hey, isn’t it funny that in the movies, one minute they’re writhing in distorted positions all over the screen, usually with the sheet placed so as ya can’t see anything interesting, and next minute—still with the sheet, mind you—he’s on top of her, or in the more daring shows she’s on top of him, in which case they usually do let ya see something a bit interesting, and nobody so much as breathes the word ‘condom’?”

    “Or even ‘protection’: exactly. I’ve come to the conclusion they’re all bilge and those would-be sexy ones are even sillier than the romantic ones. I think your jeans must be in the bathroom.”

    “Right. You hang on there, Libby, love—and if ya go off the boil a wee bit tell us, eh? And I’ll get ya back there again.” With that he trudged off to the bathroom, him and the hard-on: funnily enough all this hadn’t discouraged it at all.

    “Uh, Libby,” he said with a laugh in his voice, coming back to find her looking politely elsewhere, “it does actually encourage a bloke if the dame in his bed takes a gander at his erection.”

    “Not all of them,” replied Libby, looking round cautiously.

    “Eh?”

    “Yes: I once had a boyfriend—one of those dim ones the girls from the library used to meet at happy hour—that wouldn’t let me look at it at all: he always managed to have his underpants on or get quickly under the sheet with his underpants on: y’know?”

    “No, I don’t know! Must of been a weirdo.” Bob sat down on the edge of the bed. “Didn’t let ya watch ’im put one on, either, did ’e?”

    “No. I don’t know how he managed it, exactly, but somehow he always sort of turned right away.”

    “Was it a really small one: that the problem?”

    “No, I don’t think so. Well, it felt normal.”

    “Weird,” he concluded, pulling the thing on. “Boy, that felt normal!” he added, coughing slightly. “Okay, warm you up a bit more, eh?”

    “Yes, please,” she said politely.

    The sky-blue eyes twinkling, Bob lay down beside Libby McLeod, pulled her front completely against his front—cripes!—and began to warm her up. After a pretty short of space of time, during which there was a lot of tongue-tangling and a Helluva lot of panting on his part, not to mention a fair amount of tit-squeezing and bum-squeezing, it was really nice and squidgy, he slid a hand actually between the thighs, which not altogether to his astonishment she hadn’t immediately parted. And got a finger up there.

    “Oh!” she cried, winding her legs round his again.

    “Yeah,” said Bob, withdrawing the finger and sitting up. “If you’re not done to a turn now, lovey, I’m sorry, but I gotta get in there. One more stroke for good luck, eh?”

    “What?” said Libby in bewilderment. “Oh!” she gasped as he bent swiftly and stroked her with his tongue. “Oh, BOB!”

    “Yeah,” he said, propping himself on his elbows in the good old missionary position and lowering himself over her very slowly. Funnily enough Libby grabbed his back and pulled him fiercely against her. “Lemme at it, lovey,” he murmured, trying to get into position.

    For answer she put her legs right up, which was quite convenient, ’cos even though she was gripping him like a vice he managed to get his bum up and sort of wriggle and—

    “JESUS!” he shouted. “Oh, God; oh, JESUS, Libby!—Don’t move!” he gasped. “Mm, mm!” he gasped, covering her mouth with his. “Oh—oh-oo-oo-oh-ooh,” he moaned.

    “I can’t!” gasped Libby,

    “Do you after,” promised Bob indistinctly.

    “No: I can’t not—move!” she gasped, sliding up and down on him. “Oh! OH!” she shrieked. “Oh, BOB!” she shrieked, clawing at his back.

    Gasping for breath, Bob pumped into her. Christ! Jesus! “Uh—uh— Gonna come!” he gasped frantically. “Uh—uh—uh—uh—AAARGH!” he bellowed as she shrieked her head off and clenched like blazes, pumping it out of him as he was pouring it into her. “Uh—AAARGH!”

    Then he just collapsed on her soft curves for ages and ages…

    “Umf!” he managed to say as she drew a painful breath. He managed to roll off her, just, and to flop onto his back. He was gonna ask her if that was all right, even though he knew bloody well it was: never had it pumped out of him in that precise manner in his life before; only somehow he found he couldn’t make the words reach the mouth…

    “Bob!”

    Bob woke up a with a start. “Eh? Aw, shit, did I drop off? Whassup, lovey?”

    “I think the lasagna’s burning!” gasped Libby, turning a face of horror to him.

    “Aw, shit, ya could be right,” he recognised as the smell of singed something began to penetrate to his senses. “That or the oven’s burst into flames all by itself. Didja put it in it?”

    “Mm!” she gulped, nodding frantically.

    “Stay there,” said Bob, his shoulders beginning to shake. “Uh—Hell, didn’t manage to get rid of the bloody condom,” he realised. “Bugger, five’ll get ya ten it’ll fall off. –I’m not weird, this isn’t modesty,” he warned, covering his dick with his hand and scrambling for the bathroom.

    Behind him he heard her give a muffled giggle: well, couldn’t be bad, eh?

    God knew how long he’d been passed out for; anyway, the lasagna was singed to glory, all right. Okay, she’d had the oven on too hot into the bargain. He turned it off and opened the windows to let the fumes out.

    “Past saving,” he reported, going back into the bedroom.

    “Sorry. I completely forget about it.”

    “Don’t be mad, there’s two of us here,” said Bob mildly. “You hungry?”

    “Mm,” Libby admitted.

    “Right, well, while you were kindly making me the lasagna, ya didn’t get any groceries in, didja?”

    “There’s some bread and marg, and I got a fresh jar of Vegemite ’cos yours looked a bit dry.”

    “Vegemite doorsteps after the greatest fuck of me entire existence?”

    Libby went very red. “It was not.”

    “Yes, it was. Never actually felt that before. Kind of, me hose was in there pumping in you, only at the same time you were kind of squeezing it out of me,” he said thoughtfully, holding one hand up and making a squeezing, pulling motion. “Bit like milking old Daisy, now I come to think of it. Well, it’s all hydraulics, eh?” he said cheerfully.

    “Yes. I felt that,” said Libby numbly, staring at him.

    “What, that it was like milking?”

    “No. What you said about a hose. And—kind of pumping.”

    “Didja? Well good, there were two of us involved!” said Bob cheerfully. “Tell ya what, I’ll shoot out and get some fish and chips.” He went over to his chest of drawers.

    “Now?” said Libby dazedly.

    “If that alarm clock’s right, it’s not that late, the shop’ll still be open.”

    “Yes, I—I meant— Well, aren’t you going to have a shower first?” she said limply as he opened a drawer, found a clean tee-shirt and put it on.

    “Might wipe the old pecker down, if you insist,” said Bob cheerfully, looking in another drawer. “Gee, there are some,” he discovered, hauling out a pair of ancient, droopy underpants. “Uh—this all wrong, is it? In your socio-economic group they all take a shower before the fish and chips, do they? Regardless of the fact that he’ll be closing in twenny minutes?”

    “Mm. Sorry,” said Libby in a squashed voice. “And—and shut up about socio-economic groups, you’re the biggest fraud I’ve ever met! I’ve seen all those books of your!”

    Bob smiled a little. “Well, I do a bit of reading, but I am working-class, ya know, don’t kid yourself.”

    “So am I, you idiot, you’ve known Dad all your life! Do they do pineapple rings at your fish and chips shop?”

    She wasn’t, of course, but Bob didn’t chance his luck by arguing. “Yeah, ’course.”

    “Oh, good,” said Libby happily. “Could I have one, please?”

    “Have anything ya like. Sausage, for a change? Piece of fish?”

    “Just fish and a few chips and a pineapple ring. Thanks, Bob,” she said, smiling at him at last.

    Bob’s knees had gone all saggy. “Yeah. Well, no such thing as a few chips, but—yeah. Won’t be long! See ya!”

    Libby listened. He did go into the bathroom and she heard the water running briefly, but sure enough, he didn’t have a shower. It wasn’t a matter of hygiene, it was—well, modesty, really! How could anyone just walk out of—well, bed—and outside, and into a shop?

    “Okay, he’s different,” she said firmly to herself. “Well, Bruce rang up for that take-out delivery, that time—that’s a contradiction in terms, by the way—and answered the door in just his jeans, but that wasn’t outside.” She ruminated on it. “No, it was rude, though,” she decided. “Well, maybe it’s just men, then.”

    Funnily enough the fish and chips shop wasn’t empty at this time of night. Charlie Slocombe didn’t provide yer actual chairs but several bums were uncomfortably perched on the narrow bench fixed to the wall opposite the counter, waiting for their greasies, and another bum was bent to one of the big fridges as Bob went in.

    “Bob,” acknowledged Mr Slocombe with a sort of nod. “You’re back, eh?”

    “Yeah. Hi, Charlie.”

    “Australia, was it? See a bit of the country, didja?”

    “Fair bit, yeah. Dust and flies, mainly. Filthy Outback service station bogs. Weak beer.”

    Mr Slocombe sniffed. “That’d be right. Try Sydney, didja?”

    “Not for long. Don’t like big cities. Well, the harbour’s pretty, but the trains and buses are overcrowded like ya wouldn’t believe—the trains are filthy, too—and the pubs are either bloody fancy or real dives, kept expecting a knife between me shoulder blades.”

    The body that had been bent over at the fridge had come up to Bob’s elbow, revealing itself as young Ben Reilly, Miser Ron’s youngest son that ran the recycling yard for him. “What about King’s Cross?” he asked eagerly.

    “In between the tourists? Full of druggies and gays.”

    Ben’s face fell.

    “Right,” acknowledged Mr Slocombe. “They can keep it. The wife was making noises about a trip over there, but I said to her ya seen Auckland, what’s the diff’ between one big city and another? If we’re gonna spend all that dough let’s go somewhere warm, Gold Coast or Surfer’s.”

    “That’s the ticket,” agreed Bob. “Queensland’s bloody humid, mind, but ya won’t freeze your buns off there. And the beaches are pretty, only ya gotta remember there’s sharks.”

    “Might just as well stay at home,” Mr Slocombe concluded with a sniff. “Whadd’ll it be, then, Bob? Two pieces of fish, one chips?”

    “Not tonight, ta, Charlie. Make it three—no, four pieces of fish, double chips, and a pineapple ring, ta.”

    “Your Neil home again, is ’e?” returned Mr Slocombe cosily, putting four pieces of frozen, battered fish in a frying basket and removing another from the oil.

    “Nuh—well, ’e’s down here, yeah. Specifically down bloody Turangi dipping ’is whatsit in the lake as of this week, haven’t laid eyes on the little bugger.”

    “Tamsin said he’s on a very tight schedule!” put in Ben.

    “Yeah,” agreed Bob drily. “So I heard.”

    “They’re all the same,” noted Mr Slocombe, tipping fish and sausages into a pile, adding chips from another fryer, and after shaking salt liberally, wrapping them scientifically. “Three fish, five sausages, four chips!” he said loudly. Nobody responded to this cry, so he added loudly: “Oy! Mal!”

    “Is that mine?” replied one of the bodies on the ledge in a fuddled voice.

    “Yeah. Three fish, five sausages, four chips,” returned Mr Slocombe stolidly.

    “Uh—thought that was Rog’s?” he said in confusion.

    “Nah. His is four fish, five sausages, four chips,” replied the fish and chips shop proprietor stolidly.

    “Yeah,” confirmed another body on the ledge.

    Mal Witherspoon got up, yawning horribly. “Didn’ I order three pineapple rings?” he said in a fuddled voice, coming up to the counter.

    “Not from me,” replied Mr Slocombe stolidly. “Three fish, five sausages, four chips.”

    “Uh—aw. That’s right. She said they couldn’t have pineapple rings because they had all that bloody junk food during the film,” he recalled fuzzily.

    “Been to the flicks, Mal?” asked Bob kindly.

    Mal yawned widely again. “Yeah. She wanted to go. Don’t ask what it was like,” he adjured him: “I slept through the bloody thing. –How much is that, Charlie? –Shit,” he muttered at the bad news, hunting for his wallet.

    “Kids in the car, are they?” asked Bob kindly, as he produced a handful of notes and looked at them with loathing.

    “Eh? Nah. Dropped ’em off at home, she told ’em if they weren’t in their pyjamas in three minutes there’d be no fish and chips,” he said glumly.

    “Then did she make you come and get them?” asked young Ben with interest.

    “Got it in fourteen,” he grunted sourly. “That enough?” he said glumly, handing the money to Charlie.

    “Too much, unless ya wanted some Coke as well?”

    “Nah, she told ’em no Coke on top of all that junk food. –Ta,” he said morosely, accepting the change. “See ya,” he said to the company generally, departing with his enormous packet of greasies.

    “He’s living down Pukeko Street now,” said Ben helpfully to Bob.

    “Yeah. Are you buying that Coke or are ya just gonna stand there hugging it until it gets nice and warm?” asked Mr Slocombe pointedly.

    Jumping, Ben conceded he was gonna buy the Coke and handed over a twenty-dollar note. “Dad was saying your garden’s a disgrace,” he warned Bob helpfully.

    “Ya don’t say,” he returned drily.

    “Never seen you buying pineapple rings before,” was his next effort.

    “Ya don’t say,” repeated Bob, retiring to the bench and the seat just vacated by Mr Witherspoon.

    Ben went out with his Coke and his change, looking baffled.

    After a certain peaceful silence had reigned, apart from the faint, comfortable sound of frying, the gentleman referred to as Rog noted informatively: “Shacked up with that Sharon Beasley that helps her dad in the lawnmower shop. Miser Ron doesn’t know whether to cheer or boo. Well, old Beasley’s really pissed off because their Alan wouldn’t come into the business, so it’s odds-on he’ll leave it to young Sharon, so if Ben hangs onto ’er ’e’s onto a good thing, but on the other hand the girl’s got a stud in ’er nose and bottom lip as well as ’er ruddy navel and gets round in leathers and a bloody dog-collar!”

    “Goth, think they call it, these days,” offered the gentleman on his further side.

    “Right, goddit!” agreed Bob, grinning. “Sucks to Miser Ron, then!”

    The ice being broken, Rog added: “So ya didn’t think much of Australia, eh?”

    Rog Martin was, of course, the husband of Cherie Martin, née Morpeth, Bob’s teenage heartthrob. Before the episode with Mrs Valerie Inglis. He was an okay joker, seemed to’ve made Cherie very happy and as far as was known didn’t bear Bob any grudge—well, didn’t have anything to bear him a grudge over, did he? So Bob returned mildly: “Nah. Well, Sydney might be okay if ya stayed at a nice hotel. I liked Perth, mind you. Beautiful country over there. Mind you, get a bit north of the city and it’s red dust far as the eye can see. Lot of work for a bloke that doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, up in them parts. Mining, engineering, so forth. Nothing for the womenfolk, though.”

    “So ya got right over to Western Australia?” replied Mr Martin with interest.

    The gentleman at his other side leaned forward. “See the wildflowers, Bob?”

    This gentleman was Bill Hooper and as he was married to Linda Hooper he had every right to bear Bob a grudge, or would of if he’d known about those episodes in the orchards.

    “Nah, too busy working,” replied Bob mildly. “But I come back from Perth on the plane next to a retired couple that did, and he was practically a cot-case: brought on ’is hay-fever.”

    “I’ll tell Linda that,” replied Mr Hooper, sitting back apparently satisfied.

    And, Mr Slocombe announcing: “Four fish, five sausages, four chips,” Rog Martin paid for his huge packet of greasies and departed, with a valedictory: “See ya.”

    After a certain peaceful silence had reigned, apart from the faint, comfortable sound of frying, Bill noted: “Got relations from Levin staying.”

    That did explain Rog’s huge order, yes. “Right,” agreed Bob. And a peaceful silence reigned…

    “One fish, half a dozen oysters, one chips, six potato fritters,” announced Charlie.

    “That’s me,” said Mr Hooper on a resigned note.

    It seemed rather a lot for a couple well into their forties. Especially since Linda was the sort that watched her figure. Or maybe they had friends over? “Late supper, eh?” ventured Bob cautiously.

    Mr Hooper got up, sighing. “Yeah,” he said heavily. “We’ve been to the flicks, too. Chick-flick—don’t ask,” he warned. “Refused to eat anything but a mingy helping of carrot and cucumber salad for tea, so now she’s starving. Got a craving for flaming oysters. She’ll claim she doesn’t want the fritters, mind you, only then she’ll scoff the lot. –It’s her age,” she said heavily to Bob’s surprised look. “Worse than when she was having the bloody kids. And kindly don’t breathe the words ‘hot flushes’ or ‘mood swings’!”

    “Shit. Wasn’t gonna,” he said feebly.

    “You don’t know how lucky you are,” replied Mr Hooper bitterly, going over to the counter. “All right, tell me the bad news, Charlie. What? Flaming bloody Norah! All right, go on. I’ll probably see ya tomorrow. –See ya, Bob,” he added, exiting.

    Which left Charlie Slocombe behind the counter. He came slowly out from behind it, changed the sign on the door to “Closed” and shot the top bolt. “Do ya?” he asked, going back behind the counter.

    “Eh?” said Bob feebly.

    Charlie removed the remaining fryer from the oil, tapped it briskly, and removed four pieces of fish from it. He put a pineapple ring into it and lowered it into the oil again. “Do ya know how lucky you are?” he asked mildly.

    Bob looked over at the fryer, his sky-blue eyes twinkling. “Pretty much, I reckon, yeah.”

    “’Bout time,” he grunted, tipping a mound of chips onto a pile of paper. “Want salt?”

    “Um, only a little bit, ta, Charlie,” he said limply.

    Delicately Mr Slocombe sprinkled salt on the chips. “Pete McLeod was in last week,” he said thoughtfully.

    “Was ’e?” replied Bob weakly.

    Mr Slocombe sniffed very faintly. “Yeah. Him and Jan, they usually have half a dozen oysters, two fish, single chips. Unless it’s been a really hard winter, then they skip the oysters.”

    “Uh—oh! Financially, Charlie? Yeah, like the rest of us,” he acknowledged.

    “Right. Only this time, ’e wanted half a dozen oysters, three fish, double chips and a pineapple ring.”

    Bob swallowed.

    “His Libby, she’s been staying with them in their new place, see?”

    “Yes,” he said weakly.

    “He reckons she doesn’t like oysters, or he’d of got a dozen.” Mr Slocombe eyed him thoughtfully. Bob quailed. “Not the Linda Hooper sort,” finished the fish and chips shop proprietor blandly. “There ya go,” he said, rescuing the pineapple ring and wrapping the lot swiftly. “Four fish, two chips, pineapple ring.”

    “Ta,” said Bob very limply indeed, paying him. “See ya.”

    Mr Slocombe came out from behind his counter and went over to the door, shooting the bolt back and opening it a crack for Bob to slide out. “Watch yourself,” he advised stolidly.

    It might have been a phrase you heard all the time, but Bob was bloody sure the bugger meant every syllable of it! “Don’t worry, I am,” he said grimly.

    As the door closed behind him he heard Mr Slocombe give a very faint sniff.

    She was sitting up in bed with her tee-shirt on, reading, when he went in, his heart hammering painfully. She didn’t say he was ages so he said: “Sorry if it took forever. Hadda wait me turn.”

    “No, you were very quick,” she said, smiling at him.

    “Was I?” said Bob limply. “Felt like forever to me.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and unwrapped the greasies. “I better warn ya, just so as ya’ll be really put off, that Charlie Slocombe down the fish and chip shop knows exactly who fancies a pineapple ring with her greasies round these parts, plus he knows everybody’s business in the whole of Taupo.”

    “Does he gossip about it, though?” asked Libby, her eyes twinkling.

    “Well, no, but he isn’t above putting the needle in,” said Bob wryly.

    “I see! Ooh, it looks good!” she said, her eyes shining.

    “Yeah. Tuck in,”

    “Are you gonna sit there?” replied Libby, looking at him doubtfully.

    “Not if you want me in there beside you.”

    For answer she lifted the bedclothes at her side, smiling.

    Bob went very red, tore off his clothes and got in beside her. Ooh, wow, no panties! Thank Christ!

    “I had this kinda awful vision,” he admitted, taking a handful of greasies—“Mm! Goob!—thatcha might of run off.”

    “Did you? I had an awful picture of you taking off back to Australia,” replied Libby placidly.

    Bob choked on a chip. “Me? I’m not mad, ya know!” he gasped.

    “No. Good.”

    He swallowed. “Bugger. Told ’im just a bit of salt. Don’t think ’e understands the concept. Not too salty for you, are they?”

    “No, they’re fine. Try the fish.”

    Obediently Bob tried the fish. It was extraordinarily good, or maybe he was just in an extraordinarily good mood. He glanced over at the book she’d put down on the bedside cabinet, and smiled a little. One of his ancient Hornblower volumes that he’d long since outgrown. “Hey, ya coulda brung the TV in here, ya know,” he said kindly.

    “Isn’t it a great big one, though?”

    “Well—uh—” He looked at the delicate wrist and dainty wee hand stuffing chips into her gob and smiled slowly. “Be too heavy for you, anyway. Don’t forget to eat your pineapple ring before it goes cold.”

    “I’m saving it up while I savour the thought of it,” replied Libby with relish. “Didn’t you get something extra for yourself?”

    Well, no, ’cos Charlie didn’t customarily do just one oyster, and even though he’d made good money in Australia air fares weren’t that cheap. And though Andrew did want him to drive the minibus for the tours he wasn’t too pleased that he hadn’t been on deck throughout December, so goodness only knew if he’d offer him anything else at the ecolodge. Not that you could blame him.

    “Nah, didn’t need to, ’cos I’ve got something extra here, see?” he replied, squeezing her arm just above the elbow. Ooh, boy! Soft!

    “Mm,” said Libby, going very pink. “Not that.”

    “Well, thought that double chips might be too much for just the pair of us.”

    “I usually can’t get through a whole helping, but I’m very hungry,” she said placidly, munching.

    Bob leaned back on his pillows, smiling. Right. ’Course she was!

    “Hey, I could go another round,” he said on a sly note, as they were licking their fingers over the very last salty, crispy bits from the crumpled paper.

    “Surely not? I’m practically busting!” replied Libby in tones of horror. “You’ve had a whole bottle of beer, too!”

    Uh—most normal blokes could manage one beer on top of— Forget it. Worked too long in libraries, used to the white wine brigade. “Not of fish and chips, ya dill,” he replied, sliding a hand down her bare leg and up again onto that bare buttock. “Hey, this is good, eh?” he noted, palpating it.

    Libby gulped. “Um, yes. Um, I don’t know if I can.”

    “Mm-mm,” he said, snuggling his nose into that tempting upper-arm. Ooh, soft. Ooh, cripes, ooh, he was stiff! “I’ll make sure you enjoy it, pet, don’t worry.”

    “Um, yes,” said Libby, swallowing hard. “I— Bob, there’s something I have to say.”

    “Mm-mm?”

    “I don’t know how to put it.”

    Bob looked up. “Need to piss? That’s okay, love, I know all about women’s bladders. You go. Ya won’t hear me having a go at a girl that can’t hold her drink like a bloody bloke.”

    “It’s not— Well, yes, I do have to,” admitted Libby, turning purple. “But that is sort of it. You know too much about women. I had completely the wrong idea about you!”

    “Uh, think you had the right idea,” admitted Bob on a guilty note. “Can’t keep it in me pants, that’s the usual phrase, isn’t  it?”

    “Well, not from someone as mealy-mouthed as Janet, but that was the idea, yes,” admitted the honest Libby.

    He swallowed. “Sweetheart, ya not gonna tell me ya seriously took on board anything Janet Barber told you? Apart from the basic facts, I’ll grant ya them. But anything she said about blokes— I mean, Christ! If it was possible to perpetuate yer kind whilst being neuter, that’d be Janet! She can’t stand men, ya musta noticed! Sort that seems to think we’re dirty, just because we’ve got dicks. Well, and that what comes out of them’s dirty,” he added, wrinkling his nose. “Fair bit of that about, too. But she’s an extreme example of it.”

    “Yes,” said Libby, gulping. “That’s very graphic. Jan said practically the same thing, only without the rude bits.”

    Bob scratched his chin. “Not that rude, I would have thought, when it was you and me in this here bed with one tee-shirt between us.”

    “If you don’t be quiet I can’t say it!” replied Libby desperately.

    “Righto, I’ve shut up.” He looked at her expectantly.

    “Of course I didn’t— No, well, I was taking notice of what she said, actually, only I’ve stopped.”

    “Glad to hear it. So what’s up? Too many other bloody dames? I know my track record’s really bad but if I can do you on a regular basis I won’t want any other women, geddit?”

    “Yes. I’m glad to hear it. I thought it might be like that,” said Libby seriously.

    Bob sagged. Well, not all over, no. The rest of him sagged. “Then what’s up?” he said mildly. “What was this wrong idea ya had about me?”

    Libby swallowed hard. “Like I say, you know too much about women. Um, about sex, I suppose. I think you’re too sophisticated for me, Bob.”

    After a considerable period of dazed silence, Bob managed to croak: “What?”

    “Mm,” said Libby glumly. “It’s— I was very—very overcome.”

    This’d be overcome in a bad way, would it, not a good way? He hadn’t seen any sign of it—or felt it! “Libby, you’re not trying to claim you didn’t enjoy it?” he said cautiously.

    “No. I did. Well, um, only there were some embarrassing bits.”

    Were there, just? He’d take his dying oath they weren’t the bits when his tongue was up her, nor when his dick was in there, neither! Bob sat up straight, very flushed. “Which bits?”

    “It’s embarrassing having to say,” said Libby miserably. “Um, well, you—you knew perfectly well what I was feeling in the passage.”

    In the passage? Ten million years ago! He racked his brains. “Uh—like, I see this juicy dame that’s goggling at me prick and heaving the tits like anything same time as the prick’s telling her it wants to get up her loud and clear, and I realise that she’s flooding down below—that it?”

    “Ye-hes!” she wailed, bursting into tears.

    Boy, how tragic. Heroically managing not to laugh, Bob put his arms round her. “Calm down, ya silly moo,” he said mildly.

    Libby gulped and sniffled. “And then,” she said soggily, “you only kissed me a little bit and—and every other man I’ve ever known would have kissed me really hard! And you knew I was disappointed and—and deliberately did that other thing and—and held off the kissing!”

    “Uh, well, it wasn’t as deliberate as you seem to think,” said Bob feebly. “But yeah, I suppose I was using me experience and doing what I was pretty sure’d turn you on most: why’s that so bad?”

    “I don’t know,” said Libby, sniffling.

    “No,” he said heavily. “Me neither.” He reached over a long arm, opened one of the drawers of the bedside cabinet and grabbed a box of tissues. “Blow your nose, for Pete’s sake.”

    Libby blew her nose hard, not looking at him. “You come on so down-home, and then you know everything I’m going to feel or do before I—I even feel it!”

    “Uh—not quite. I know what I want ya to feel or do, yeah. Um, are we talking about lack of spontaneity or some such, Libby?” he groped. “Because look, it was either really bring you on while I held back meself or just shove it up there and go off with a bang: thought you realised that?”

    “Mm,” she said, sniffing hard and blowing her nose again. “I didn’t really at the time, but I can see it now.”

    “Then I can’t see what you’re complaining about,” said Bob feebly.

    “I’m not complaining, I just think you’re too sophisticated for me, and—and it’s really embarrassing for me, and even if— Well, I mean, I don’t think I can cope. And aren’t you going to get really bored?”

    “Uh—” Cripes, where could ya start? She was mad! He took a deep breath. “I’m not gonna get bored, you turn me on too much for that. And I’m not— Well, okay, call it sophisticated if ya like, never thought it was a word I’d hear applied to Bob (Mug) Kenny in me puff, ’specially not from a lady like you.”

    “You know perfectly well you are!” said Libby crossly, going very red.

    “All right, take it as a given. I’ve had enough experience, yeah, and I apply it, yeah. See, what I kinda thought the idea of sex was, both parties need to enjoy it and if a bloke hasn’t learnt by my age to give a lady a come the way she likes it, he oughta be shot. Well, first he oughta stop, and then he oughta be shot. See?”

    “Mm. I see. You were trying to make it nice.”

    Sweet flaming Jesus Christ Almighty! “YES! WASN’T it nice?” the driven man hollered.

    “Mm. Don’t shout,” said Libby in a tiny voice.

    Bob breathed heavily. “Okay, I’m not shouting. Ya want it simple, that it? “

    “I—I just don’t want to feel that I’m being manipulated and—and having you know everything!”

    “I can’t help knowing, lovey,” he said tiredly.

    “Mm. And to think I thought that Aidan— Never mind,” said Libby quickly.

    “Yeah. Do us a favour and don’t mention him again, will ya?”

    “Mm. I mean no, I won’t. Sorry.”

    Bob lay back against the pillows and thought about it. “You go and have that piss,” he said after a few moments. “I’m thinking about it.”

    “Yes,” said Libby in a tiny voice, vanishing.

    She did come back, after Bob had had time to work up a sweat thinking she’d thought better of the whole thing.

    “There you are. Turn that light off,” he said, switching a bedside lamp on.

    “Um, okay.”

    As she turned the main light off the hard glare of Bob Kenny’s sophisticated knowledge of women, sweet bleeding Jesus, ceased to glare down so viciously upon the pair of them. “Okay, hop back in,” he said mildly.

    Libby got in beside him, still in the tee-shirt, saying nothing. Bob didn’t ask if she’d washed down there, though a leering demon somewhere at the back of his mind was suggesting it. For one thing she’d only think it was his superior, sophisticated knowledge again and for another, she probably hadn’t, never mind the fling with poncy Vine or the other one, the library ponce, and never mind what young ponces she might of let get up her in California. And for another thing, he didn’t care, see? That was how sophisticated he was! Er… on second thoughts, scrub that!

    “Cuddle up,” he said, suiting the action to the word. “Mmm…” he sighed into her curls. “Okay, I’m gonna say this once and then we’re gonna forget the whole thing and get on with it. You can call it modesty or privacy or selfhood or whatever, Libby, but you’re over forty and you’ve been living on yer tod all yer life and I’ve invaded it—whatever it is, privacy or whatever—and you’ve found you have to share a bit of yourself with me. –Shut up,” he warned. “I do know more about you than you do, about the woman parts of you, that is, and if I second-guess you, well, that’s the way it is, see? You will get used to it, but it may take a bit of time. And if you need your space, that’s okay. too. Sleep in another room, if ya like; get on out of it for long walks with Peter; don’t have meals with me—I don't mind. But you will gradually get used to it.”

    “It isn’t a case of meals or space—”

    “It is psychologically, ya nit.” He reached right over her and turned the bloody lamp off. “Now it’s nice and dark and cosy, see, and you don’t need to feel shy.”

    At this, not to his surprise, Libby burst into snorting sobs all over him.

    Okay, he was a tit: he shoulda just dragged her into the bedroom, kissing her madly as he went and switching the light off as he passed it—quite a trick, that, talking of yer sophisticated whatsits—got ’er under the covers and fucked like crazy. She’d of understood that, and it wouldn’t of made her shy. Well, live and learn, eh?

    After he’d got her calmed down, he stroked her back and flanks very nicely and kissed her very nicely—warmly, ya know?—and then wriggled down under the covers and, never mind the lack of oxygen down there, did her with his tongue until she shrieked her head off in a belting come, clawing his shoulders to blazes—he was gonna have to remember to put some Dettol on them, her nails were short but ruddy sharp. Then he sat up, managed to breathe, hauled a condom on and fell on top of her without a by your leave and shoved it up— JESUS FLAMING CHRIST ALMIGHTY! And fucked like a buck rat and came like the ruddy Challenger taking off.

    Know what she said into the dark, cuddling up against his shoulder as he gasped for breath, afterwards?”

    “Thank you. Bob. That was really nice.”

    Yeah, well. What was that thing Neil claimed the computer science boys said? Not taking their own advice with the ruddy things, mind you. “Keep it simple, stupid.” KISS. Right. Great motto, that.

    He came back from disposing of the ruddy condom to find she was fast asleep. Bob got quietly in beside her, grinning. KISS. Yeah. When was keeping it simple not simple, because you’d manipulated the whole—?

    Yeah.

Next chapter:

https://summerseason-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/08/shining-big-sea-water.html