Long Weekend

25

Long Weekend

    Friday night. All the rooms full. Dinner according to Libby’s print-out. There was a choice—yeah. Vegetarian or non-vegetarian. Take it or leave it. Unfortunately they were all taking it. More or less. Libby and Tamsin were coping with the waiting. More or less.

    “We thought there might be tofu, y’know?” said Francis Grant sadly.

    Grimly Tamsin replied: “No, it’s just a vegetable stir-fry.”

    “Last night’s was lovely, Francis!” Danny Pearman reminded him quickly.

    “Yes, of course. We do understand your regular cook is sick,” he assured Tamsin nicely.

    “It’s the protein, you see,” Danny explained. “One has to monitor one’s protein intake when one’s a vegetarian, y’know?”

    “Yes. A friend’s supplying a soybean casserole tomorrow night,” said Tamsin grimly.

    “That sounds nice,” said Danny kindly. “We will need something solid, after the sixteen-K bush walk! Well, the vegetable stir-fry then, with the tagliatelle verde, thanks, dear.”

    … “No chicken?” said the elderly Mr Henderson sadly, looking at the menu.

    “Not tonight, no,” replied Libby limply. Didn’t they understand what “table d’hôte” meant, was that it? ’Cos half of them had asked if something might be on that wasn’t.

    “Don’t be silly, Len,” said Mrs Henderson cosily, giving Libby a cosy smile. “Poor Jan’s recuperating from her operation: they’re short-handed. The roast lamb’ll be lovely, dear.”

    “Yes. I only thought there might be chicken,” explained Mr Henderson sadly. “Bob said something about chicken.”

    “Um, yes. Um, I think he meant tomorrow,” offered Libby desperately.

    “See?” said Mrs Henderson comfortably. She nodded cosily at Libby. “The roast lamb for both of us then, dear.”

    … The middle-aged Mrs McIntosh glared at the menu. “We were expecting something quite different, from your website. Chicken à la Berry, wasn’t it?”

    Oh, shit! Most of the older ones had been so nice about it, too! “I’m afraid not. Our regular cook is recuperating from heart surgery,” said Tamsin grimly.

    “The notice in our room did say it’d be table d’hôte, dear,” put in Mr McIntosh uneasily.

    You’d have sworn the cow didn’t even hear him! “I suppose the roast lamb’ll have to do, then. If we wanted that we could have stayed at home,” she announced grimly.

    Then it was a great pity they hadn’t! Tamsin retreated quickly, simmering.

    … “Oh, dear, vegetable stir-fry again tonight?” said Cory Adams sadly, looking at the menu.

    That was what it said, so, yeah. With an effort Libby refrained from glaring. And she was ninety-nine percent sure his real name wasn’t Cory at all!

    “The hummous isn’t on,” noted his friend, Luke McAlister. Possibly his real name.

    “Then you should have it last night!” replied Cory sweetly.

    Libby took a deep breath but before she could repeat her intel that Jan was recuperating from surgery, which she was positive she’d told them last night, flaming Cory was saying that the ecolodge’s website said they specialised in a selection of vegetarian dishes!

    “The antipasto was vegetarian,” she said grimly.

    “Mostly,” replied Luke. “We’re pure, we don’t eat cheese. The website mentioned a dish with Brussels sprouts and mushrooms—organic.”

    “Um, sorry, it’s not on tonight,” replied Libby limply. It was stir-fried vegetables with green noodles on the side if you were vegetarian, roast lamb with roast veges if you were non, couldn’t they read? Now they were both pouting, for Heaven’s sake! How old were they? She’d have taken her dying oath that that yellow hair of Cory’s round the bald spot was tinted, and as for Luke’s shaven bristles, if he imagined they made him look a day under forty he was very much mistaken!

    She took their order for the stir-fry with the tagliatelle verde al oglio and went off to the next table, simmering.

    … “I’d better stay out here,” said Tamsin grimly as her aunt came into the kitchen, “’cos if one more of them asks me for tofu or chicken, I’m gonna tell them exactly where to put it!”

    “Oh, heck, did your lot, too?”

    “Yeah. Can’t they read?” she said fiercely.

    “Um, well, some of them can, that’s the trouble: they’ve been reading the website. I was gonna stay in the kitchen,” admitted Libby glumly.

    “Righto, then: you’re appointed waiter, Neil,” said his father instantly.

    “Ya don’t need to let them get to you,” explained Neil tolerantly.

    “Just you wait!” warned his girlfriend angrily.

    “Yes. You keep telling yourself you won’t, only then one more of them goes and says it. Or one more of the nice ones tells you roast lamb’ll be lovely, dear, and ya suddenly realise you’re gonna scream,” revealed Libby on a bitter note.

    “Yeah; me, too!” agreed Tamsin gratefully.

    “Thought you both reckoned you knew what the customers were like?” said Bob mildly.

    “Look, you get out there and cope with them, Mr Know-It-All!” snarled Libby.

    “I will, if you can cope with the roasts,” he replied equably.

    “Dad, she can’t even lift the bloody roasting pans,” said Neil tolerantly. “They’re both hungry, that’s all. –I said you should both of had something to eat earlier.”

    “Yeah, well, he’s not wrong,” said Bob to the two glaring faces. Normally ya didn’t notice the blood link between Libby and Tamsin, ’cos Libby was so much plumper—all over, of course, praise be, not just in the face—but boy, it was sure there tonight! “Siddown. Ya can both have some veges and meat—and I don’t wanna hear any crap about wrong sorta fat or practically vegetarian, thanks,” he said to Tamsin. “Young women need iron, as I think your body’s just proved, this weekend!”

    “Honestly, Dad,” said Neil on a tolerant note, as poor Tamsin’s face flamed.

    “Um, no, he’s right, Neil,” she said in a strangled voice. “I do eat meat, Bob.”

    “Not enough, though,” noted Libby.

    “I do! And talking of saturated fats, don’t give her any of that fat off the meat, Bob. I dunno why I thought New Zealand lamb might not be as fatty as ours! Dad used to make Mum do roast lamb, but she never buys it these days.”

    “What does she buy?” asked Neil in astonishment.

    “Beef, of course.”

    “It’s cheaper over there, Neil. Australia is a beef-producing country,” said Libby weakly.

    “Uh—yeah, s’pose it is. Cattle stations, eh?”

    “Right, and in case you can’t count, no-one’s taken the orders from that big tableful of bunkhousers, so get out there,” said his father.

    “Don’t get excited, I’m going,” he said easily. “Gimme ya notepad, then,” he said to his girlfriend.

    Tamsin was looking limply at the giant plateful of meat and veges Bob had dumped in front of her. Limply she gave him the notepad. Looking tolerant, Neil tore off the sheets containing orders and handed them to his father before going out through the swing-door to the restaurant.

    “All the bunkhousers are out there. I thought some of them of them might have gone into Taupo for takeaways,” said Libby faintly as Bob dumped a giant plateful of meat and veges in front of her.

    “Nah, the word will of gone round how good the tucker was last night, see?” he replied calmly.

    “Good in their terms, presumably!” said Tamsin crossly. “Not in those of those ruddy Auckland gays!”

    “Nor in those of the flaming middle-aged lot that spend all their spare time glued to their— Um, thanks, Bob,” said Libby feebly as Bob set a tumblerful of red in front of her with the advice: “Get it down yer.”

    “Glued to their?” he prompted, as she took a gulp of it.

    “Ooh, that’s better! –Computers. Bob, I can’t possibly eat all this!” admitted Libby, smiling at him over her piled plate.

    “Just do ya best.” He consulted their orders slips. “Cripes, just as well Vine rung up and told us to do them green noodles, eh?”

    Tamsin took a deep breath. “One of my flaming tables—”

    “Yeah, I can see that, lovey,” he said soothingly. “Never mind, it’s on, they can have it.”

    “Whab?” asked Libby through a mouthful of roast potato and gravy.

    Tamsin swallowed lamb and kumara. “Mm, yum! These New Zealand sweet potatoes are extra! –Eh? Aw. They wanted the tagliatelle with the roast meat but no roast veggies.”

    “Aw, gee, they’ll balance out that ruddy family at one of my tables, where the younger couple wanted the stir-fry plus some roast veggies!”

    “Is this the lot that’re crammed into Number 4?”

    “Yes, Mr and Mrs Black. The junior ones,” replied her aunt, forking up some meat.

    “Right. Wabbid the par’sh wan’?” asked Tamsin thickly.

    “’Ush uh or’n’ry— Shorry,” said Libby, swallowing a giant mouthful of roast potato, gravy and incredibly delicious roast lamb. “This lamb is fantastic! The parents just wanted the roast dinner. Not that you could call it ordinary!”

    “Nah: totally yummy,” agreed her niece.

    Bob grinned to himself as he got on with ladling out helpings of green noodles. One of the things that Jan hadn’t told them about handling your staff was, pretty obviously, get some solid nosh down the workers before they hadda be exposed for too long to the bloody customers!

    … The dishwasher was chugging, the kitchen was clean and neat and the still-tolerant Neil and the yawning Tamsin had been packed off to the loft. Bob opened one of the fridges. “Fuck,” he muttered, closing it again.

    “It’s the bunkhousers,” said a voice from the doorway.

    Jumping, he gasped: “Are you still up?”

    “Yes,” said Libby, coming in swaddled in a big old parka of Pete’s. “I’ve just taken Peter for his walk.”

    “Uh—ta,” said Bob limply. “Forgot about him. And I won’t ask why Tamsin didn’t do it.”

    “She’s exhausted. Equal opportunity in the workplace is all very well, but it takes no account whatsoever of the physiological differences between men and women,” said Libby on a grim note.

    “Always thought that,” admitted Bob. “Only I kinda had the impression ya weren’t allowed to say so, these days. –Mind you, it never seemed to hit Coral like that.”

    “Then she was lucky,” said Libby simply. “Is there anything left?”

    “Eh? Oh—not of the lamb, no, Libby. One cold roast potato: fancy it? Okay, I’ll have it,” he said as she shuddered and shook her head. Libby watched in horror as he sprinkled a little salt on the cold roast potato straight out of the fridge, and ate it.

    “Bugger, that means I oughta wash the plate,” he admitted.

    “Leave it,” she said, yawning.

    “If I leave it, it’ll still be there tomorrow, won’t it?” he said heavily, bunging it in the sink. “Blow, shouldn’t run hot water on a chilled plate.” He ran cold water on it and gradually eased the hot into it…

    “All right, what’s the bad news?” he said, turning round to find she was looking at her print-outs on the wall.

    “The really bad news is that you’ve got the Rotorua tour on tomorrow, Bob,” admitted Libby. “How are we gonna manage without you?”

    “Neil can do the tour,” decided Bob unilaterally. “What else?”

    “Um, so far we’ve got ten bookings for the lunchtime cruise on the Tallulah Tub.”

    “Ten? That can’t be right! Unless they’re flaming bunkhousers?”

    “No—well, only two of them. Four of them are from Fern Gully and two from The Southern Stars Motel.”

    “Thought we decided not to send The Southern Stars a brochure this time round?”

    Libby bit her lip. “They had some of the old ones.”

    “Never thought of that,” he admitted. “Uh—Libby, can ya manage steering the thing and dishing out the lunches?”

    “No, so what I’ll do, see, I’ll just stop for a bit,” she said cheerfully.

    Bob scratched his head. “Could Tamsin go with ya, give you a bit of a hand?”

    “No, ’cos she’s taking a party of six down the Rewarewa Trail.”

    “They changed their minds? Doing the short one instead? In that case Sean—”

     She swallowed. “Um, no, Bob. This is another six, Sean’s still got his lot for the long trail. Um, four are from The Southern Stars and two are ours: Mrs Taylor and Mrs Tichborne. Room 5.”

    Bob winced. Two very merry divorcées: they’d already managed to give him the eye, once as he was helping unload their bags when they arrived this morning, once as he served them before-lunch drinks in the main lounge before hurriedly rounding up bloody Neil to take over from him, and once as he served them before-dinner drinks in the main lounge before hurriedly rounding up bloody Neil— Yeah. Oh, and one of them, didn’t know which, had found him taking a breather outside mid-afternoon and leered all over him as she asked him about the local tourist attractions. He hadn’t got the impression she was all that interested in Rotorua’s geysers and mud pools, though the mention of thermal baths had elicited a loud giggle, a certain amount of wriggling, and the remark: “Ooh, that sounds like fun! Depending on the company, of course!” Bob hadn’t told her flatly that they made ya wear a bathing-suit, because he didn’t want the smart answer to that one, ta. Or that the minerals were pretty much guaranteed to ruin a decent bathing-suit, because ditto.

    “What?” said Libby uncertainly, looking at his face.

    “Uh—nothing. Well, ’nother brochure we shoulda told The Southern Stars was out of date, eh? Well, cripes, Libby, how many packed lunches is that gonna be?”

    “Um, Rotorua eight, including Neil, ten for the Tallulah—”

    “Eleven, there’s you as well,” he interrupted heavily.

    “Heck. Okay, eleven—how many is that?”

    “Nineteen,” said Bob grimly. “Six for the Rewarewa trail plus Tamsin—twenny-six. And six for the long trail plus Sean. Good one: thirty-flaming-three. Which leaves how many bunkhousers that aren’t going on any of these expeditions and want a packed lunch?”

    “Um, I haven’t checked their box, yet,” admitted Libby in a small voice. “I’ll do it now.”

    It was in the dining-room, on a little table over by the French windows that also held a selection of brochures and spare menus. Bob just sat down limply at the kitchen table and let her.

    She came back looking chastened. “One girl was just shoving hers in when I collected them.”

    “And?”

    “Dad should never have doubled the number of bunks to nab the ones that want cheap accommodation for the ski season,” said Libby miserably. “There only used to be six. Um, sorry, Bob. Eight.”

    “EIGHT?” he shouted terribly. “That makes FORTY-ONE!”

    “Mm. How—how on earth did we manage to miscalculate so badly, Bob?” she faltered.

    “Uh—well, Fern Gully must be full, and, uh—dunno,” he admitted glumly. “Ruddy Southern Stars, I suppose. Well, there’s plenty of bread, but ya want the really bad news?”

    “No fillings?” gulped Libby,

    Bob looked wry. “They can have Vegemite, at a pinch. Nah: the sliced bread’s still frozen, unless you remembered to look at that list of reminders ya got up there and take it out of the freezer?”

    “No!” she gulped.

    “That makes two of us. Well, that’s the thing about lists, eh? Ya gotta remember to look at them,” he said ruefully, scratching his chin. “I’ll get ’em out now, but… Well, the Rewarewa Trail lot don’t take off until elevenish: they can be last.”

    Libby nodded hard.

    “Uh… Shit. The bunkhousers that’re going tramping’ll want theirs ready at crack of dawn.”

    “Mm. Isn’t there any sliced bread out?”

    “No.” He sat back looking wry as she inspected the contents of the fridges, discovering that the answer was a lemon. After he’d got out twice as much bread as she’d put out, reminding her that there’d be toast for the bunkhousers’ breakfasts as well, that was pretty much it. Gee, so much for forward planning, eh?

    “See you at sparrow-fart tomorrow, then,” he said, smothering a yawn.

    “Mm. Goodnight, Bob. And—and thanks for all your hard work.”

    “Rats, you been working just as hard as me. G’nigh— Hang on! Where’s that ruddy pooch sleeping?”

    “He won’t go in with Tamsin,” said Libby in a small voice. “On my bed.”

    The creature had a huge fancy basket that had come all the way over from Australia air-freight— Oh, forget it. “Right. Lucky blighter.”

    “Goodnight!” she gasped, turning bright red and disappearing precipitately.

    Bob raised his eyebrows slightly. Couldn’t be bad, eh?

    He was getting into the sleeping-bag on his stretcher in the office when it dawned that that bunkhouser had been putting a lunch order in the box when Libby had grabbed it, so what was the betting said bunkhouser had come in through the bloody French doors? Sighing, he dragged himself off there. Right. Unlocked. He locked them, at which point it dawned that Someone hadn’t set the fucking alarms. Jesus! How had Jan and Pete ever remembered to remember everything? Uh—so to speak.

    After that he just crawled into his sleeping-bag and passed out.

    Saturday morning. Shortly after sparrow-fart.

    “What’s all this?” croaked Neil, goggling at the production line in the kitchen.

    “Production line,” replied his father briefly.

    “For the packed lunches, Neil,” explained Libby, smiling at him. “Bob designed it: isn’t he clever?”

    “Yuh—uh—how many packed lunches?” he croaked, managing to ignore the “clever” bit.

    “Forty-one and don’t dare speak,” warned his father.

    “No. I mean, can I help?” he croaked.

    “Yeah. Go down that end of the table and give them one apple each—this explains why Pete had an apple carton to write airport notices on,” he noted by the way—“and then pack them in them five million Tupperware boxes that me and Libby were silly enough to snigger over when we found ’em in one of Jan’s cupboards, couple of lifetimes back.”

    “Yeah.” Numbly Neil went down the end of the table and got on with it. After quite some time he croaked: “Um, didn’t Jan use to give some of them potato salad and cold chicken?”

    “Sod that,” replied his father simply.

    Swallowing, Neil got on with packing forty-one picnic lunches of Vegemite and mousetrap doorsteps.

    “How many’s that?” said Bob at last, as the sliced cheese in his production line ran out.

    Laboriously Neil counted. “Twenty-five,” he admitted weakly.

    “Just as well there’s half a fridge full of Tasty out the passage, eh? Well, go on, grab some, or have ya lost the use of ya legs?”

    Not pointing out that (a) Libby was nearer the passage door than he was or (b) he hadn’t had any breakfast yet, Neil hurried out to the passage.

    “I suppose we could give them some cake,” admitted Libby after a moment.

    Bob looked at his watch. “Well, yeah, except no-one’s set the tables in the restaurant for breakfast yet, and the tramping lot’ll be lining up for it in about ten secs. See, I’m not opposed to it in principle—well, me name’s not Janet Barber,” he noted snidely—“but there’s the time factor. Not just the slicing, the wrapping in fucking little bits of Gladwrap that wrap themselves around everything but—”

    “I’ll do it,” said Neil heavily, coming back in with two more kilo packets of cheese. “The Tasty’s run out: this is Mild,” he noted, handing it to his father.

    “Okay, soap and Vegemite sandwiches,” said Bob. He went over to the bench, removed the plastic packets with a carving-knife and scientifically sliced the cold cheese with the large meat-slicing machine that was now occupying pride of place on the said bench.

    “Cripes. Never knew they had one of those,” said Neil in some awe.

    “Found it in a cupboard. Stripped it, gave it a bit of oil, reset the flaming blade so as it’ll do something a bit thicker than a gnat’s whisker, and Bob’s yer uncle—so to speak.”

    “Yeah, hah, hah,” said Neil feebly over Libby’s giggles.

    “I think Jan might have used it for shaved ham,” she ventured.

    “Shaved something—yeah,” granted Bob. “Don’t think they knew how to reset it.”

    “Dad’s quite good with machinery, though.”

    “He’d’ve hadda look at it, first,” replied Bob drily. “Well, get on with it!”

    “Ooh! Sorry!” Quickly Libby recommenced sandwiching cheese slices between the slices of bread that Bob had spread with marg and Vegemite, cutting them in two, and passing them down to the line to Neil.

    “This would work better with an extra body to do the Vegemite after I’ve done the marg,” noted Bob idly.

    “She’s got the shits,” replied Neil tiredly. “Told ’er to stop drinking that ruddy herb muck, but she ignored me. –It’s sour as buggery,” he explained.

    “Uh-huh. Welcome to the real world, Neil,” said his father kindly.

    “Would this be a world full of intransigent women of the other sex?” asked Libby mildly.

    Bob, his son was not displeased to see, choked.

    “Nah,” he explained tolerantly. “Dad just means a world of female innards of the other sex; only funnily enough, I have had a few girlfriends before this, it’s not a completely closed book to me.”

    “No,” said Libby, smiling at him. “Actually I think that women do necessarily live in closer touch with their bodily functions than men do.”

    “Yeah. With luck ya might meet one that doesn’t spend all ’er time talking about them, too,” noted Bob. “That or go the other way completely, like your flaming m—”

    “Knock it off, Dad.”

    “Mm. We can’t all be balanced personalities, Bob,” said Libby kindly.

    Bob gave the little smile a suspicious look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

    “Just that you’re pretty anchored psychologically, Dad,” explained Neil tolerantly. “That’ll be the pinger,” he noted tolerantly as an oven pinger went off nosily.

    Shaking his head as of one with water in the ear, Bob looked at his watch. “It’s telling me to unlock that flaming French door and let the bunkhouse lot in,” he admitted. “Pity it couldn’t of gone off ten minutes back and reminded me to set the tables, eh?”

    “Stay there!” said Neil loudly. “I’ll look after it. Just get those lunches done!” With this he vanished through the swing door to the restaurant.

    Bob went on spreading marg and Vegemite on sliced bread but after a moment he said: “Don’t mind my ignorance, but I gotta ask this. Would being a balanced personality be as good as ‘pretty anchored psychologically,’ or is there something wrong with both—”

    At this point Libby broke down in helpless giggles, gasping: “Stop that! You understood every syllable, don’t pretend you didn’t!”

    He smiled slowly. “Well, most of ’em, yeah. Nothing much to do in the winter evenings round these parts except read them books he brings home from the Big Sm—”

    “Stop it!”

    Bob stopped, his eyes twinkling.

   … “They’ve eaten all their bread,” reported Neil feebly, about half an hour later.

    “What, the bunkhouse lot? Okay, that’s their lot,” replied his father grimly.

    “Dad, they’re not all there yet!”

    “Stalemate,” noted Libby drily.

    “Worse than that!” retorted Neil with feeling.

    “Okay, Neil, you suggest an alternative to toast for the other guests and we’ll give the bunkhousers their bread,” said his father grimly.

    Neil glared.

    “How many of them are in there?” asked Libby quickly.

    “Ten.”

    “The ones that aren’t there must be the two that are coming on the Tallulah,” she deduced. “We can’t tell them there’s no bread for them, that’s not fair.”

    “The fact is there isn’t any,” replied Bob flatly.

    “Offer ’em bacon and eggs?” suggested Neil feebly.

    “With one slice of bread each,” said Bob grimly. “Looks as if we’ll have to, eh? Unless the other guests don’t want muffins. Which reminds me—” He took a packet of English muffins out of the microwave and shoved another in. The muffins had been in the freezer, too.

    “Um, they’re still hungry, though, Dad. The ones in there, I mean.”

    “Too bad, that was their lot. They can fill on up ruddy muesli.”

    “What about porridge?” ventured Libby.

    “I’m not making porridge for ten, ta very much!”

    “You’ll have to tell the poor things it’s muesli or nothing, then, Neil,” said Libby sympathetically.

    “Actually I won’t need to, they’ve started in on it,” he admitted.

    “Then why are you in here, Neil?” demanded his father.

    Neil looked limply from him to Libby. “Thought you should know,” he said feebly.

    “Um, the thing is, the nice ones, from the rooms, I mean, probably won’t ring the bell when they want breakfast,” explained Libby.

    “Eh?”

    “Um, yes, um, they don’t,” she said limply.

    “Ya mean I’ve gotta go in there and hang round waiting for them?” he croaked.

    “So as you can wait on them, yes,” replied Libby with a lurking twinkle.

    “Go on, get,” ordered Bob.

    Failing to raise a tolerant smile, Neil got.

    “Them lunches done?”

    Libby jumped. “Yes, I think so, Bob!” she gasped.

    “Okay, I’ll divvy ’em up. Where does bloody Janet keep her sticky labels?” he said heavily.

    “Um, there was method in her madness, Bob.”

    “That’s dawned, ta. Where are they?”

    “I dunno,” she admitted limply. “In one of the drawers, I s’pose.”

    Taking a deep breath, Bob began looking in all the kitchen drawers… Aw, gee, the ruddy things were in the last one he looked in, fancy that.

    “Oy, what are you up to?” he said, realising that Libby was at the stove.

    “Making Neil some breakfast, poor boy.”

    “Well, while you’re chucking bacon and eggs his way—Tamsin’ll have a go at you about ’is cholesterol, ya know, if she catches you—you can ruddy well chuck some my way, too: I haven’t had any breakfast either!” he said loudly.

    “I thought you were too busy,” replied Libby mildly.

    Breathing heavily, Bob sat down at the table and began laboriously re-counting and labelling Tupperware lunch boxes.

    “If Neil’s cholesterol count doesn’t need bacon and eggs, yours certainly—”

    “Will ya for Chrissakes make me some breakfast?” the driven man howled.

    “Mm. Sorry,” replied Libby, biting her lip.

    Jesus! Why was Neil a poor boy and the ruddy bunkhousers poor things that deserved better than muesli and he wasn’t a poor anything?

    They did have time to start in on their platefuls, yes. Then the door opened. Not Janet, no: wasn’t yet eight-thirty. Though come to think of it, could it ’a’ been worse if it hadda been?

    “What are you eating?” gasped Tamsin.

    “Pro’in. I nee’ i’,” replied Neil with his mouth full of bacon and egg.

    “Yes, he’s in a state of nervous collapse: two minutes after Mr and Mrs Black, Senior, came in and sat down looking meek and didn’t wave at him for service, Mr Pearman and Mr Grant, that are booked to go on the Rimu Trail, came in and did exactly the same!” said Libby with a giggle. “I’d warned him about the nice ones but he didn’t realise it extended to the nice gay ones! And when he took the older Blacks’ breakfast out he realized that Mr and Mrs Black, Junior, and the Hendersons had come in while he was in here and were just sitting there meekly waiting for him!”

    “Aunty Libby, you’re talking crap,” said Tamsin grimly. “That doesn’t justify him eating all that saturated fat and salt!”

    “Thought it was cholesterol?” offered Bob mildly.

    “No! Saturated fats, and they send your cholesterol count sky-high! And at your age you shouldn’t even be touching that muck!” she snapped.

    “He gets lots of exercise,” said Libby mildly.

    “Right,” he agreed. “And while we’re on the subject of crap, Tamsin, how are the shits?”

    Tamsin, two other persons present in the kitchen were not displeased to see, went very, very red. “Do you have to tell everyone everything?” she snapped at her boyfriend.

    “Not everyone, my dad and your aunty,” he said mildly. “Siddown. If your insides have settled down there’s muffins or bacon and eggs. No bread. And don’t ask for wholemeal muffins, ta, the bog isn’t that near.”

    “Don’t be mean, Neil, you don’t know what it’s like,” said Libby quickly.

    “No, but I know what it’s like as an observer, and that’s no bowl of cherries, either!” he said on a cheerful note, wiping up his last smears of egg yolk and bacon grease with a piece of toasted muffin and sitting back with a sigh. “Ta, Libby, that really hit the spot.”

    “While you idiots are congratulating yourselves on early coronaries,” said Tamsin grimly, “who’s looking after the restaurant?”

    “Thought you could check that out,” replied Neil cheerfully. “Unless ya need to change yer panties again?”

    “Shut UP!” she screamed, bursting into violent tears and rushing out.

    “Tit,” said Bob to the fruit of his loins.

    “I only— Bugger,” he muttered.

    “Wrong time of the month for her to take a joke, see? Not that she strikes me as the sort to take a joke at any t—”

    “Will ya SHUT UP, Dad?”

    “Um, she hasn’t got much sense of humour, actually,” admitted Libby uneasily. “But she’s usually quite a cheerful girl. Um, if she did have to change her underpants, Neil, I don’t think you should have said that.”

    “Twice,” he admitted glumly. “First time I made the mistake of saying those ruddy tampons couldn’t be too efficient, only it wasn’t that, it was the shits, ya see. Um, well, ya reckon I should go after her, or not?”

    “It won’t get better if ya don’t,” replied his father.

    “Thought I might leave ’er to cool off.”

    “I wouldn’t. And I tell ya what,” he said as Neil got up, looking glum, “in your shoes, old mate, I would grovel.”

    “Yeah.” He went out, looking glum.

    Bob sighed. “I’ll toss ya for who goes in there to see if any more of them are waiting meekly at their tables not ringing their bloody bells,” he offered heavily.

    “I’ll do it,” said Libby quickly, vanishing.

    Bob looked at the immense piles of dirty breakfast dishes that had got themselves as far as the tabletop or the bench and not made it over to the dishwasher, and sighed again.

    Round about nine o’clock it did get worse, yeah.

    “I could have done the lunches! Why on earth didn’t you wait for me?”

    Bob took a deep breath. “There were forty-one today, Janet.”

    “That’s far too many, Bob, you’ve been letting them get away with murder,” she replied, looking down her nose.

    He took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

    Briskly Janet trotted over to the dishwasher. “I could have done these dishes! Why on earth didn’t you leave them for me?”

    Taking a deep breath, Bob went out.

    “Honestly!” said Janet to Libby with a titter. “Some of them are as temperamental as girls, aren’t they?”

    “It’s been a rough morning, Janet,” said Libby weakly. “Ten of the bunkhousers ate up all their bread before the last two had turned up.”

    Janet looked down her nose. “You don’t want to let them get away with murder, Libby. Jan wouldn’t have stood for that for an instant. Now, let me see: how many have you got for the launch trip, dear?”

    “Um—” Funnily enough she’d completely forgotten. “It’s nearly full. Hang on.” Under Janet’s kindly, superior eye she tottered over to the bulletin board. “Um—oh, yeah. Ten. And me. Eleven lunches. We’ve done them.”

    Janet wasn’t listening, she was inspecting the contents of a Tupperware container. “Cheese and Vegemite? Tt, tt, tt! You should have waited for me, dear; Jan always gives them something nice if they go on the cruise.”

    Libby took a deep breath. “Janet, we had to do forty-one lunches.”

    “You should have waited for me, dear. Let me see… Yes, what about some potato salad? See, here it is!” She got it out of the fridge.

    Potato salad’d go real good with cheese and Vegemite sandwiches but at this point Libby caved in. Who cared? And it was a big lake, plenty of room for any number of dinky little Tupperware potfuls of potato salad. No, okay, Janet, she hadn’t realised those pots that looked like little tumblers with tops, kind of eggcup-shaped, were for the potato salad and blah, blah, blah… Aw, right: two spoons to dish the muck out, eh? Hygienic, yeah. And how long would doing that for forty-one have taken? Needless to say the contents of all eleven Tupperware lunchboxes had to be repacked to accommodate the tumblerfuls of potato salad, in fact the sandwiches had to be rewrapped as well, but who gave a rat’s ass?

    “I’ll just check the computer, there might be some emails,” she said faintly.

    “Righto, dear!” replied Janet brightly. “I’ll hold the fort here!”

    Taking a deep breath, Libby went out.

    Still Saturday morning, though it felt like Friday of next week. Bob clipped the vegetation over at the far side of the guests’ carpark fiercely. After quite some time he became aware of a silent, solid presence on the edge of his field of vision. He lowered the clippers, and turned. “Hullo again, Michelle.”

    “Hullo,” replied Mrs Callaghan amiably. “Has Janet been telling you where ya get off?”

    “Y—well, not as such,” he admitted honestly. “She’s been doing her thing, though.”

    “Yeah. I saw her car was here,” she returned stolidly.

    Right, that explained why she hadn’t been into the kitchen since seven ack emma.

    “Hey, there’s wetas in those bushes,” she offered, eyeing his immense heaps of clippings.

    “Yeah, but they’re more scared of me than I am of them.”

    Unmoved by this witty sally, Mrs Callaghan replied: “Yeah, only one time, Pete, he clipped that lot back and a lady, she found a weta in her ensuite.”

    “Right: the screams were heard over at Gisborne, were they?”

    Unmoved by this witty sally, Mrs Callaghan replied: “That’d be about right, yeah.”

    Bob swallowed. “Yeah. All right, I’ll stop.” He looked at the results of his labours thus far. “Uh—done a fair amount of damage here, anyway,” he admitted feebly.

    “It’ll grow back, most of it’s that ruddy choko vine gone mad again. Didja know one of the machines was on?”

    “Uh—no.” Surely Janet hadn’t muscled in on her territory to that ext— Oh! “If it’s got a couple of pairs of panties in it, it’ll of been Tamsin, Michelle.”

    “Pants and towels and some jeans. And a pair of pyjamas, I think.”

    Uh—poor little kid. “Yeah. Tamsin. Got her period. Had a bit of an accident.”

    “Heck, I could’ve done them for her, Bob!”

    The tone was as unlike Janet’s “I could have’s” as you could possibly imagine. “Mm. Never mind,” he said, smiling at her. “Just about finished, have ya?”

    “Not quite, those two ladies are still in Room 5.”

    The divorcées. Bob winced slightly. “Right: doing the 5-K trail later.”

    “I’ll wait for them, then,” she said comfortably. “Did Neil take the Rotorua lot?”

    “Yep. Uh—you wanna brave the kitchen, grab a cuppa?”

    “No,” replied Mrs Callaghan stolidly.

    Shit! No, well, he shared them sentiments, but it was only Saturday, they had two full days of it to go, since Janet had self-sacrificingly volunteered to work on the Sunday. “Uh—bum a cuppa off Molly down at their place?” he suggested weakly.

    “I will if you will.”

    They did that. She’d made a batch of muffins—the sweet sort that were more like cupcakes, not the “English muffin” sort that came in packets and got eaten for breakfast if you were a millionaire or, conversely, had run out of bread apart from several loaves of frozen-solid unsliced stuff. So since she’d managed to stop Sean from taking the lot down the Rimu Trail with him and since, being Molly, she hadn’t stuffed them with bran but only added a wee bit of wholemeal flour and a handful of sultanas, they had them. Yum! Why did people bother with ruddy expensive blueberries? Gratefully Bob accepted her offer of some batches for the guests’ afternoon teas. For today as well as tomorrow, ’cos today Libby’s cruise lot were sure to get back in time to demand some, and tomorrow all the ones that had done the treks or tours today and hadn’t opted to go for a drive all arvo would most probably— Yeah. Ta, Molly. Great!

    They even managed to finish their muffins and first mugs of tea before the bell in the crafts boutique rang loudly, too.

    “Well?” said Bob after Molly had hurried out and Michelle had done a recce.

    “Couple of retirees, like you reckoned. But it’s not a silver Mazda, it’s a silver Mitsubishi.”

    Bob shook silently for some time, aware that she was eyeing him tolerantly but unable to stop.

    Midday Saturday. The Room 1 lot (Mr and Mrs Henderson) were on the Tallulah cruise. Room 2’s lot (the aggressive Mrs McIntosh and her meek spouse) had gone to Rotorua with Neil, and good luck to ’im. The fortyish gays from Auckland in Room 3 had driven off in their shiny 4WD that looked as if its fourth gear had never been engaged since it left the factory. All four of the Blacks from Room 4 were with Neil and the McIntoshes on the Rotorua tour, and good luck to ’em. The merry divorcées from Room 5 had gone down the Rewarewa Trail as scheduled, which probably proved there was a God. Or it might if He’d drown them at the end of it, yeah. And the other two fortyish Auckland gays from Room 6 were off down the ten-mile Rimu Trail with Sean. Laced fawn suede safari boots and all. And as the bunkhousers were all out, two with Libby, two with Sean, and the rest tramping across National Park with their packed lunches, the bloody restaurant should be empt—

    “Where have you been?” snapped Janet. “The phone’s going mad and there’s people in the restaurant and I can’t do it all on my own!”

    “Uh, sorry, Janet,” croaked Bob. “Where’s Tamsin?”

    “She’s doing the Rewarewa Trail!”

    Oh, cripes, so she was. “Shit. I’m sorry. Been working outside. Um, Libby’s cruise lot taken off, have they?”

    “Yes! It’s lunchtime!” she snapped.

    “Yeah,” said Bob weakly. “Sorry. Wasn’t wearing me watch. Um, well, we didn’t take any bookings for lunch today, Janet.”

    “They’ve rung up since!” she snapped. “And two couples just turned up!”

    Probably thought it was a restaurant. “Yeah. Okay. Well, um…” He edged over to the bulletin board but gee, since Libby had believed they weren’t taking bookings there was nothing up there about what needed doing for lunch today. “Is there anything?” he said feebly.

    “There’s that nice ham that Lady Carrano sent, and I’ve made some potato salad, of course.”

    “Good on ya, Janet,” he said weakly.

    “And I suppose we can open some of those tins of Mrs Briggs’s.”

    “Think we’ll have to.” He mooched over to the cupboard where he’d stowed the stuff. There wasn’t as much of it as— Aw. No. They’d served some of it for first courses: what was it Libby had called them? Antipasta? Something like that.

    “Well, um… This?” he said weakly.

    Janet bustled over officiously. She recoiled. “Ugh! Is that Greek?”

    It was all Greek to him. Not saying it, Bob examined the tin morosely. “Yeah. Um… here. Grilled aubergine.”

    “Eggplants. They won’t be as nice as Jan’s,” she predicted grimly.

    Probably not, no. Bob opened a fridge. “Uh—think Livia said this was for lunch,” he conceded, hauling out a longish thing that sort of looked like a pie only different. “Uh, think she said it was a pâté?”

    Officiously Janet investigated and conceded it was. What dear Jan called en croûte.

    Something like that. He fossicked again. No joy. Hang on: the fridge in the passage. He went out there and found the remaining vegetarian casserole from Vine, the other two having vanished like dew in the morning yesterday lunchtime, which was why they hadn’t been able to serve ’em last night for dinner. Janet investigated it and conceded they could have it, but was it supposed to be eaten hot or cold?

    “Well, uh… Beans, eh?” he offered. Gingerly he tasted it. “Tastes all right. It’ll go good cold with your potato salad.”

    Janet tasted it. “This has got wine in it!”

    “Look, if it was bean salad it’d have vinegar in it: what’s the diff? They’re having it,” said Bob grimly. “Where’s that fancy mustard? They can have a choice of it or some of Jan’s bonzer chutney with the ham and count themselves bloody lucky! And what’s more we’ll put it all on the big table and tell them it’s a buffet.”

    “They’ll eat it all!” she gasped in horror.

    “That’s what it’s for,” said Bob grimly. “It’s food.”

    “No: the ham!” she gasped.

    Uh—she had a point. “Look, I’ll carve some, and if they want more they can work up the guts to carve it for themselves. In which case they’ll deserve it.”

    They set it all on the kitchen table and looked at it...

    “Heck,” concluded Bob feebly.

    “I know! Hang on!”

    He just watched limply as she got out different plates, and sliced the pâté up into real mingy slices and divided it between two, no, cripes, three plates, and spooned the bean casserole out of Vine’s fancy ceramic thing and into three of Jan’s pottery bowls, and rushed outside for parsley, and spread the stuff out of Livia’s tins around on these kind of oblong china platter things that he’d had a sort of idea were biscuit plates, possibly because his old gran had had a similar one that she always put biscuits on, and dotted everything with little bunches of parsley and, just when he was concluding that was It, then, divvied up the potato salad amongst three more of Jan’s pottery bowls—

    “Cripes. You’re a genius, Janet. It looks like a real spread, now!”

    She smirked like anything, of course, but for once it was justified. And once the chutney had come out of its jar and gone into three fancy little glass dishes, each with a nice spoon, unquote, they took it all out there. Aw, gee, just as they were setting out the last of it Cory Adams and Luke McAlister, one of the gay pairs from Auckland, that they’d been under the impression would be gone in their car all day, came in looking hungry. Hadn’t spotted anything on their drive that looked like it might serve food—not actual food, Bob! (Giggle.) Right, goddit. Uh—well, there wasn’t a lunch wine list as such but there was a wine list, yeah. Limply he grabbed one off the now depleted little table by the French doors. Bugger, he’d have to remember to tell Libby to print out some more: where the Hell had— Shit, and menus for tonight. Maybe she’d remember to do them for herself. But would the wine list even be in the computer? It was no use asking Janet. He gave the gays the wine list and tottered out to the kitchen, where he wrote “WINE LISTS” in the slot for preparations for tonight’s dinner in the faint hope that one of them might remember to look at it…

    Saturday night. Libby did have a print-out for the dinner. It said “Roast chicken; Roast veg; Veg stir-fry.” See, her computer hadn’t been able to do anything about the fact that she’d been out most of the day on the Tallulah and Tamsin had been out most of the day down the Rewarewa Trail—it was the speed the ecolodgers walked at, not the length of the trail, plus the time it took the ecolodgers to eat a packet of Vegemite and cheese sandwiches, a piece of cake and an apple. Oh, billy tea, eh, Tamsin? Yeah, quite a few of them voted for that, and what Pete usually did, see, if he couldn’t be blowed making the muck, was tell them there were fire restrictions in force. The poor little kid had come back looking exhausted and her nose even looked a bit sunburnt—it had been a lovely sunny day, for them that had had time to notice it—so what with that and the memory of the fiasco this morning Bob didn’t enquire kindly after her innards, he just said remorsefully: “Sorry, Tamsin. Shoulda passed that tip on before ya set off—sorry. Um, well, Jan had another tip. Ya gotta kind of think of them like sheep, not people, see? Um… what did she say? Um, not sympathise with ’em? Um, don’t think that was it, quite. Some word like sympathise.”

    She brightened. “Don’t empathise with them! I get it!”

    Yeah, well, goodoh; so long as one of them did. There was no use telling her aunt not to sympathise with the buggers, so he didn’t even bother to think about it.

    She went over to the bulletin board. “Ooh, heck, is this all there is?”

    Well, no, ’cos very, very fortunately Vine had done some more cooking for them. Vegetarian. Nut-balls in a greenish sauce, looked poisonous but it was supposed to be based on something Jan did, plus a reputedly Middle Eastern cooked carrot salad—which pretty much meant that if you wanted a starter your paid yer money and took yer choice, ’cos there was very little left in the fridges or the cupboards—and two vegetarian casseroles for mains. He hadn’t brought it over himself, he’d sent a lady. Really nice; looked a bit like Libby, actually. Same sort of figure. Masses of untidy brown curls. She disclaimed all responsibility—in so many words—for what was inside the casserole dishes and Tupperware pots, and good on ’er. Bob wasn’t too sure exactly why, after asking kindly after Jan, she asked if they’d heard from Pete’s Patty, over in California, but he told her what he knew, which was pretty much that all the officious moos in New Zealand had contacted the poor girl and told her not to rush over here when Jan had the heart attack, so, just like Libby, she hadn’t done. The lady looked grim but nodded understandingly and somehow Bob found himself explaining: “Not the managing kind. Quite a shy girl.” At which she’d suddenly given him a brilliant smile, which certainly helped to explain what Vine saw in her—well, that plus the tits and the bum, yeah—and said: “Glad to hear you think so! Well, if you need any more help this weekend, just ring the McLintock house and I’ll make sure he hops to it!” Which sort of did help to explain (a) why Vine had dumped Libby and (b) why he’d taken up with her instead—yeah. Even if he probably couldn’t see it himself.

    Bob then asked Janet if she knew who that lady was and was duly punished by being told, but his basic opinion remained unchanged, judge or not. And Vine was a lawyer, too: they’d be on the same wavelength as far as that side of it went.

    As expected, Janet inspected Vine’s offerings and sniffed, but conceded they’d have to do. Unilaterally Bob decided it’d be tinned peaches and ice cream for pud, and be buggered to them. Uh—okay, Jan’s lovely bottled peaches, Janet. Eh? All right, find the ones with last year’s date on them, Jesus! Organic cream? How could cream not be— Oh, from the permaculture nuts? But that’d mean someone’d have to— Janet was already heading over there.

    So by the time all the tours were in, they were all set, weren’t they? The mixture as before, down to the last bunkhouser. Except that some cretin then went and admitted he’d let a couple from The Southern Stars book! They’d rung up and he’d grabbed the phone ’cos Janet had already gone home and Libby was having a shower and— Jesus, Neil! Sorry, Dad. Um, yeah, he was gonna help with the waiting. Sorry, Dad.

    Bob took a deep breath. “All right. But listen: there’s stacks of bottled peaches and ice cream, but don’t dare to ask for cream, the guests have gotta come first.”

    Neil eyed him tolerantly. “I’m not a kid, Dad. And I’d offer them a choice, if I was you.”

    Bob made the mistake of asking a choice of what and was duly told. Jan’s bottled plums and some nice plain yoghurt. Because not everybody wanted to load their bodies up with cholesterol, and there was no roughage in those peaches, Dad. Holding up a jar of bottled plums in their skins to illustrate his point. The goats were DRY, Neil, there was NO YOG— Neil had got some on his way back from Rotorua. And the Throgmortons would be very glad to give their guests a guided tour of Taupo Organic Produce tomorrow.

    Bob just sat down limply.

    “What?” said the fruit of his loins defensively as the silence lengthened.

    “Look at the timetable for tomorrow. Is there any mention or even a faint indication of tours of flaming Taupo Org—“

    “No, but Bettany said you oughta contacted her before, they’d be only too happy to offer regular tours over the long weekends.”

    Bob gave up. “Just give us a beer, for the love of Mike.”

    Looking superior, Neil fetched his tired old has-been of a dad a beer.

    The rest of the night was pretty much the mixture as before, except that Libby managed to wait on the buggers without losing her cool and the roast chicken ran out long before the workers got to eat, as those who could do simple arithmetic might have worked out it would. Well, there were twenty-eight bodies out there in the restaurant and by dint of twisting Janet’s arm Bob had managed to get five chickens roasted, but even though some of them were vegetarians— Yeah.

    The four of them ended up having slabs of sliced ham with the odd roast potato, the final spoonfuls of the vegetarian casserole that had the tofu in it—Bob left that one to the kids—and a fresh vege stir-fry. Carrots, leeks, a bit of silverbeet, and chokos. Surprisingly edible. Just as well, ’cos the flaming choko vine had completely covered an old shed, rampaged up a tree and was making its way along the vegetation at the back of the guests’ carpark, in fact Michelle had been right and a good part of what Bob had slashed down this morning was choko vine, if ya wanted to get technical.

    At the last minute, when all the dishes were done, the bar was closed, the lounge was empty and the alarms were on, it dawned that no-one had fed poor old Peter today!

    “Woof! Woof!”

    “This is hopeless,” muttered Bob, letting him into the back porch.

    Libby appeared from Pete and Jan’s sitting-room in her new winter dressing-gown. Ooh! Pink, cuddly!

    “Does he want to come inside?”

    “No, he wants to be fed, poor bugger! Look, we gotta work something out, Libby!”

    “I think Tamsin must just have assumed you were looking after him.”

    “He is her dog.”

    “Yes, but you’ve sort of got a routine, haven’t you?”

    “Not enough of a one,” he admitted ruefully, ruffling the poor mutt’s ears. “Yeah. Come on, Peter— Oh, fuck. Ya not allowed in the kitchen, fella: five thousand health inspectors could suddenly arrive in the middle of the flaming night in the middle of nowhere to catch spotty dogs in Taupo Shores Ecolodge’s kitch—”

    Libby was opening the kitchen door and letting the pooch in.

    “Yeah,” said Bob with a silly grin, following them. “Sorry. Coral had a go, ya see. Or was it two? Well, possibly three.” He opened a fridge. “Shit. Empty. Thought I got out a bone—”

    “Woof! Woof!”

    “Uh, come to think of it, that was a couple of days back,” he said sheepishly, closing it again. “Have to be a ti— Flaming bloody Norah!”

    “Don’t say we’ve run out of tinned dog food!”

    “No, I won’t say that,” said Bob limply, opening the cupboard where some of the tins Tamsin had provided were stored. Serried ranks, was the expression. “What I will say is, take a dekko at that meal timetable of yours and tell us what the fuck we’re supposed to be defrosting for tomorrow’s meals, wouldja?”

    Biting her lip, Libby went over to the bulletin board. “Sorry,” she said in a small voice.

    “Yeah? –There ya go, fella!” said Bob, operating on a tin.

    “Roast lamb,” she admitted.

    “Right.” He hauled the joints out of the freezer. Peter completely ignored this procedure: the things were frozen so solid they probably didn’t even smell like meat. “I suppose the microwave can finish defrosting these, at a pinch.”

    “Mm. We probably should have taken them out this morning.”

    “Well, yeah, but what with forty-one ruddy lunches and Tamsin having the shits—”

    “It’s not her fault!” she snapped.

    “No. What it is, Libby,” said Bob, leaning a hand on the old kitchen table, “you and me, we’re not cut out to run a ruddy ecolodge.”

    “No,” said Libby, swallowing. “I dunno what I am cut out for, actually.”

    He could have made a suggestion. Bob found he had to clear his throat. “Well, uh, didja like them library jobs of yours?”

    “No.”

    That was quite a relief to hear. “Right. Like any of what we’ve been doing?”

    “I love taking the boat out,” said Libby in a small voice, “but that isn’t a career, is it?”

    Bob made a face and said before he could stop himself: “What the Hell do ya want a career for?”

    “So as not to be a parasite,” replied Libby grimly. She went over to the ranks of cupboards, opened the one that Jan kept her assortment of teas in, and got out a packet. Bob gaped as she filled the electric jug.

    “Libby,” he managed to croak, “that’s that herbal tea muck that gave Tamsin the shits! Whaddaya wanna drink that for?’

    “What do you think?” retorted Libby fiercely, very flushed.

    “Uh—oh, cripes!” Unable to stop himself, Bob collapsed in helpless sniggers.

    “Shut UP!” she shouted. “It’s NORMAL! Everybody gets it, it’s only crusty old men like YOU that don’t understand! Stop LAUGHING!”

    Limply Bob stopped laughing. “Sorry,” he said faintly. “It was just—”

    “Get out!” she snarled.

    “I didn’t mean to la—I’m going! Come on, Peter, quick walkies, eh?”

    “Woof! Woof!”

    Boy, wasn’t it simple being a dog? Specially one that had been cut. He went out with him, reflecting sadly that that pink dressing-gown that had been threatening to leap on him and force him to tear it off them tits had been giving out entirely the wrong signals. Yeah.

    Sunday was a variation on the mixture as before. Down to Libby not putting in an appearance first thing because guess what? Bob wasn’t all that sorry not to have to be alone with her in the kitchen at crack of dawn, actually. ’Cos what could he have said? “Sorry”, and got his head bitten off again? Yeah. Janet turned up for the day as threatened, just as well, ’cos huge numbers of them rolled up for afternoon tea and her scones were more than needed. Luckily Vine sent two giant cakes over, too. Cooking up a storm for a mate of Livia’s today, was he? All the more decent of him to bother with the cakes, then. Doing his best to ignore Janet opening the cake tins and sniffing slightly, Bob asked the nice judge lady to pass on his thanks. To which she replied with a grin that she would, but it was nothing, and Aidan needed something to do.

    Amazingly enough nothing went wrong all day, if you didn’t count Libby not addressing a word to him, Bob (Mug) Kenny, and he even remembered to feed and walk Peter, and finally crawled into his blameless sleeping-bag on his stretcher feeling, if not pleased with himself, then at least relieved that they’d got through another day without an actual disaster…

    The screams could have been heard over at Gisborne.

    Bob woke up with a gasp, fell off the stretcher, his legs tangled in the sleeping-bag, managed to struggle upright, hauled the sleeping-bag, one of the sort with only a small opening at the top, down as far as his shins, taking his pyjama bottoms with it, and was about to rush to the rescue when the office door burst open and a curvaceous female form in a black lacy nightie hurled itself at him and burst into tears on his shoulder.

    “Shit!” gasped Bob, standing there with his pyjamas round his shins and Mrs Adrienne Tichborne plastered to his, alas, now highly interested prick. Why did it do that? Jesus! Barely knew the woman, had barely exchanged two words— Jesus!

    “What the Hell’s up?” he croaked. Unfortunate choice of words—yep.

    “Huge—insect! Legs!” she sobbed, shuddering all over him. Bob felt the sweat break out all along his hairline, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the insect, neither.

    “A spider?” he said feebly.

    “No! Huge! Spiny!” she wailed, with a fresh burst of tears.

    Uh—oh. Oh, shit, good old Michelle had warned him, hadn’t she? “It’ll be a weta. Don’t cry,” he said feebly.

    “A what?” replied Mrs Tichborne blearily, peering into his face from far too close.

    It being impossible to edge away from a person who’s grabbed you with both arms and is standing on a piece of the sleeping-bag that’s wrapped round your feet and ankles, Bob didn’t. “A weta. Big insect. Yellowish. They live in the bush,” he said lamely. “Haven’t you ever seen one before?”

    Mrs Tichborne shuddered all over him again. “No! You’re not trying to claim they’re normal, are you?” she gasped.

    “Well, yeah. Native. Wetas,” said Bob feebly. “Uh—s’pose ya don’t see ’em in the cities.”

    “I’ve never even heard of them!”

    That was the twenty-first century for you, presumably.

    “It’s all right, I’ll get rid of it for you. –It’s okay,” he said to the four inquisitive faces that were now peering at him from the doorway. “She’s seen a weta, that’s all.”

    One of the faces went: “Ugh!” and backed off, so one of them Auckland gays knew what wetas were, all right.

    “They’re harmless,” said Bob heavily. “Look, I’m sorry, everybody. Couldja just go back to bed? Unless you wanna get rid of the thing for her, Mr McIntosh?” he added unkindly as the fourth face failed to disappear.

    There came an annoyed hoot from the hinterland of: “Kenneth! Let the man handle it, it’s his job!” and Mr McIntosh vanished.

    That left Bob, his prick and Mrs Tichborne, still plastered to it.

    “Uh, just lemme find me pants and I’ll be with you in two twos,” he said feebly.

    “Um, yes!” she said with a smothered giggle. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry. Are you sure they’re normal?”

    Them and some other things. “Well, yeah, but they usually just stay quietly in the bush.”

    “Mm. Then I’ll let you find your pants, Bob!” said Mrs Tichborne, very flushed. She went out to the passage, considerately pulling the door to.

    Oh, heck. She wasn’t half bad, unfortunately. Tall, well curved. Mid-forties, maybe? More than old enough to know what it was all about, and he’d take his dying oath had had a bit in her time. He pulled his jeans on and did manage to get ’em done up, just. He didn’t think he was imagining the dame’s sideways look and smothered giggle as he went out to the passage.

    “All right, where was it?” he said heavily as she just pointed to the door of Number 5 and stood back.

    “On the French door. On the glass,” said Mrs Tichborne, shuddering.

    Did she mean inside? Oh well. It was light already and the heavy curtains were drawn back. He looked cautiously behind them. Yep, that was a weta, all right, on the glass behind the right-hand curtain. Inside, what was more.

    “It must have been there all night!” shuddered Mrs Tichborne.

    “Unless you opened the door this morning,” replied Bob temperately. “Didja?”

    “Julie did,” she admitted. “She’s gone for her run.”

    Right: Mrs Taylor, the other one, was a jogger. Didn’t mean she didn’t have a gleam in her eye, though. “Yeah. Well, mighta come in then.”

    “Aren’t you going to kill it?” prompted Mrs Tichborne in a fearful voice.

    What? “It’s a harmless insect. Part of our unique native fauna, it is.”

    “It’s huge!” replied Mrs Tichborne, shuddering.

    Well, yeah. Wetas weren’t small. This one was about six inches long with its legs bent up, like what wetas’ legs did, dark yellowish, shiny, and, as she’d said, spiny. Well, quite spiny for a weta, there were several sorts.

    “They’re related to grasshoppers, they’re harmless,” he repeated. “Might try to bite you if you stuck your finger under its nippers, not claiming it wouldn’t, but that doesn’t justify killing it.” He opened the French doors wide.

    “What are you going to do?” shuddered Mrs Tichborne.

    “Flick it away, of course.”

    “But it’ll come inside again!” she wailed.

    Yeah, it might, and it still wouldn’t hurt her! Crikey Dick! “Look, grab us a glass or something: I’ll see if I can get it into it.”

    She fetched him the tumbler from the ensuite. Bob looked drily from it to the insect. No way, José. Look, this was silly! He flicked it lightly with his finger and it hopped off the windowpane and disappeared into the hinterland.

    “Has it gone?” she gasped.

    “Yeah. Gone back to the bush.” He shut the doors firmly. “Sorry, Mrs Tichborne,” he said kindly. “I was clipping the undergrowth the other day, musta disturbed it then. –Probably destroyed its home, poor bloody thing,” he added less kindly.

    “I had no idea we had insects like that in this country, I thought our bush was safe!” she said aggrievedly.

    It was safe, the silly moo, wetas were harmless grasshoppers! Jesus! Bob took a deep breath but before he could move or speak she’d sat down on the bed and burst into tears again. Oh, shit.

    He looked round desperately, failed to see any restoratives, and desperately opened the little room fridge. –Pete and Jan had held out against these for a whole ten years but with the incessant stream of enquiries as to why the rooms didn’t have them they’d given up attempting to say this wasn’t a motel, and given in. Old Steve Garber had given them a really good deal on the things—well, so he ought: six at a pop? Of course the result was mounds more paperwork keeping track of who’d drunk what, not to say all the bother of checking up on the buggers before they paid their bill and got out of— Yeah. He grabbed a miniature brandy and since the tumbler was there, weta-less, dumped some in it. “Get this down ya, Mrs Tichborne.”

    She gulped some down, sniffled, and said: “Ta. Sorry. –Adrienne.”

    “Adrienne,” agreed Bob weakly. “Um, that’ll be on the house, not on your bill: don’t let us charge ya for it, okay? They really are completely harmless. Think of them like big grasshoppers.”

    “Mm. I don’t much like insects anyway,” she admitted, smiling feebly.

    “No. Well, most people don’t fancy wetas. ’Specially not at this hour.”

    “Julie decided to go for a really long run this morning.”

    “Right.” He knew he ought to get out of there right smart, but somehow the message hadn’t reached his legs, not to say the rest of his anatomy. “So you’re not a jogger, eh?”

    “No, I’m not into outdoor sports,” replied Mrs Tichborne, definitely cheering up.

    Bob smiled weakly.

    “More indoor sports, if you get my drift!” she said with a smothered giggle, looking at his jeans.

    “Uh—yeah,” he admitted weakly, standing up. Unfortunately this gave her a really good view of just how interested he was, but he couldn’t help that, could he? “Uh—well—”

    “Will you please keep that noise down and let us get back to sleep!”

    They both jumped, and looked at each other guiltily.

    “I think that was Mrs McIntosh,” she whispered.

    Bob nodded, wincing. “You all right now?” he muttered.

    “Yes, but I’m wide awake. Would there be a cup of coffee going, Bob?”

    Giving in, he nodded, and pausing only for him to grab a jumper while Mrs Tichborne shrouded herself in a large fuzzy pale blue dressing-gown, they adjourned to the kitchen. Just her, him and his prick. He knew she knew it, of course, and just to make sure he knew it she kept looking at it and smiling, but shit! What else could he of done? Had a row in the corridor outside all the guests’ rooms? And after all, what could she do in the ecolodge kitchen in practically broad daylight?

    What she could do, he found, as he turned round from the bench saying innocently, birk that he was: “There. It’ll take a while to boil, why don’tcha sit— Cripes!” –What she could do was plaster herself to him again, the dressing-gown open over the lacy black nightie, and grope him!

    “You aren’t gonna pretend you’re not interested, I hope?” she said with a giggle.

    It being impossible to edge away from a person who’s grabbed you with both arms and has jammed you between her fairly substantial person and a kitchen bench, Bob didn’t. “Ssh!” he hissed frantically—and stupidly, yeah.

    Giggling, Mrs Tichborne slid his zip down. Since he of course had just pulled the jeans on over the natural him she didn’t have any trouble in grabbing it and—

    “Christ!” he gasped.

    “Nice?” She looked up at him invitingly, pressing herself to his chest, and what with that and the rubbing Bob found he was kissing her. Then he found he was getting his hands up inside that floaty black nightie and onto them not-bad tits. She had two of them, what was more. “Jesus!” he gasped. “This is good!”

    Mrs Tichborne kissed him more enthusiastically than ever and breathed into his ear: “Want me to do something really nice for you?”

    “Yuh—Yeah!” he gasped as her tongue somehow found its way into the ear.

    Sniggering slightly, Mrs Tichborne bent and—

    “Jee-sus!” gasped Bob, doing his best not to yell. Boy, did she know what it was all about or— “Yeah, do that, lovey!” he gasped.

    She was bent over obligingly and he’d managed to get his hands kind of under her arms and onto each of them tits and was groaning a bit when, gee, the kitchen door opened and in came Michelle in her daggy old cleaning gear and Libby in her pink dressing-gown.

    Possibly not the worst moment of his life, no, but it came close. Ruddy close. He could only concede, after Libby had gasped, turned scarlet and rushed out, and bloody Mrs Tichborne, rather flushed but otherwise pretty much unphased, had given a loud giggle and said: “Sorry, Bob! Better luck next time!” and vanished to her room, that Michelle was spot-on. ’Cos what she said was:

    “Idiot. Whatcha wanna do it in here for?”

Next chapter:

https://summerseason-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/08/a-tale-of-two-lakes.html